“Judas priest!” breathed Clay Nash as he read the report Chief of Detectives James Hume, had handed him. “What the hell did they figure they were playing at?”
Hume waved out the match flame he had just used to light his cigar and stared at his top operative through a pall of smoke. “By all counts they were drunk as skunks. Thought it was one big joke.”
“Some joke!” growled Nash, tossing the papers onto the desk. “One dead, four injured, wrecked stagecoach, loss of luggage, stolen express box.”
Hume nodded slowly. “And it doesn’t end there. The passengers are suing the company.” His voice hardened and his cold eyes pinched down. “Claim they weren’t given the protection they had the right to expect.”
“Link Somers,” Nash said slowly, nodding. “Yeah. Kind of a bad showing on his part.”
“He’s been fired at Tucson but it don’t alter things. He was there to protect the strongbox and the passengers. He did neither; didn’t lift a hand.”
Nash frowned. “Find it hard to savvy, when he had such a good rep.”
“That was the trouble. He figured that run was beneath him; not enough in it; not worth riskin’ his neck to save the few dollars in the strongbox; figured the passengers were just ‘ordinary’ and could look after themselves.”
Nash’s mouth tightened. There was no sympathy in his tone when he spoke. “Man like that’s better out of the company. Only thinkin’ of himself. Anyone identified these cowpokes who did it?”
Hume frowned. “That’s the funny part. Most folks knew they were the bunch that drove in a herd of beef but no one knows where they’re from. Cattle agent says there were several brands on the steers. They said they were from Triangle H but no one’s heard of it and it ain’t in the Brand Register.”
“Don’t mean much. Plenty of ranches don’t get into the Register.”
“Sure, Clay, I want all stops out on this one. The money, of course, don’t matter. What does is that the old Mexican, Hernandes, is dead, even if he did die of a heart attack. And we’re bein’ sued to hell and gone like I said.” His gaze sharpened as he added quietly, “Except by Hernandes’ daughter.”
Clay Nash stiffened, paused in the process of rolling a cigarette. “She ain’t?”
Hume shook his head. “Merida Hernandes. Lives in Flatrock. Claimed the body but no mention of a writ.”
Nash continued rolling the smoke. “Queer. Maybe she’s got enough money of her own.”
“Nope. Don’t have much at all. She could sure use any compensation, I understand. Look into that aspect, Clay, but give the tracking-down of these hombres top priority. You need any help, just holler. You’ll get all you need on this one.”
Nash fired up his cigarette, standing and reaching for his flat-crowned hat on the edge of Hume’s desk. He was a six-footer, and then some, maybe only an inch or so more, but, with his lean muscularity and a kind of narrow face, hawk like, a shock of brown hair, tousled, he looked even taller. His shoulders were broad, straight across, like he had a board under his denim shirt, and his waist was lean, belly flat and iron-hard, hips narrow and legs long and solid. He wore a single gun, the cutaway holster rig hanging from a separate lug of leather that had been sewn onto the cartridge belt, letting the holster hang down a few inches below his waist so that the gun butt was about level with the inside of his wrist when he walked. The base of the holster had a couple of split-end rawhide thongs dangling from it but they were not tied around his thigh at the moment.
He looked a dangerous man, even in his casual range clothes. Something about the cold grey eyes maybe, the square set of the iron jaw. His face wasn’t normally as severe as it was right now, but then he didn’t get assignments as grim as this one all the time either. It wasn’t on a grand scale, by any means, but maybe it was the very fact that it was the result of nothing more than a drunken prank that made him so determined to nail these men.
One thing Clay Nash couldn’t abide and that was stupidity, and the hold-up of the Tucson-Tombstone stage and its subsequent events was the stupidest prank Nash had heard of in a long time. Sure, cowpokes got drunk and did crazy things; they endangered lives at times, but mainly their own, or those of their pards; they kept it among themselves. They might get into a brawl and smash up a store or bar or someone else’s property, but once they had sobered up, they made good.
The thing was, there was no way these men could make good on this one, not with the old Mexican dead and everyone else humiliated; why, the young girl was still on drugs to keep her quietened down after the experience. The widow woman, quite a handsome type when she had gotten on board the stage, was now scarred for life; a wood splinter had ripped open her face, narrowly missing her left eye. The soldier’s wife had suffered a badly broken leg, fractured in two places, and when it knitted, it would always be two inches shorter than the other. The cowboy had come out of it with only superficial lacerations and bruises; the drummer got a bumped arm and nose; the driver had caved-in ribs and a smashed hand and, naturally, Nash thought bitterly, Link Somers walked away with hardly a scratch—his worst injury was a deep cut over his right eye, and he had had concussion for a day or so but was fine now, banged up some, but getting around under his own steam.
Yeah, the whole deal galled the hell out of Nash. He aimed to nail all these hombres and he would see that Link Somers did his share to help whether he wanted to or not.
“Be in touch, Jim,” Nash said, reaching across the desk to shake hands with his boss. “Guess you’ve got me a seat on the stage to Tucson?”
Hume nodded briefly. “Leaves at seven tonight, Clay.” He held Nash’s hand a moment as the operative made to withdraw, looking levelly into his eyes. “I meant it when I said all stops out on this, Clay. Story gets around and it can do the company more harm than a big robbery from one of our expresses.”
Nash nodded. “I savvy, Jim. And that’s the way I aim to work this one: all stops out.” He started to turn away and then spun back. “You know what riles me most, apart from Link Somers not doin’ his job? That old Mexican dying the way he did. Without that damn prank, he might well have gotten to see his daughter in Flatrock. Instead, he dies in terror, dressed like a clown for the amusement of some drunken trail bums!”
He pulled his lips tightly across his teeth, shook his head then spun and walked out of the office.
~*~
The first man Nash looked up when he got to Tucson was Marshal Lew Tanner. And for all the help the lawman gave him he might just as well not have bothered.
It was plain to Nash that Tanner resented him coming in here, to his town, and conducting an investigation on behalf of Wells Fargo. Besides, as it turned out, Tanner was a shortsighted man in his outlook and he didn’t like Mexicans. He would deny both things, of course, but they were true nevertheless, as Nash found out.
“No, I can’t help you, Nash,” Tanner told the Wells Fargo operative right off. “Dunno who the cowpokes were.” He squinted at Nash. “Not sure that I’d tell you even if I did.”
“How come?”
Tanner ran a thumb along his longhorn moustache and shrugged. “I reckon I could handle any investigation myself without some private company sendin’ in a man.”
Nash sighed. It wasn’t the first time he had run up against such narrow-minded resentment. “It was a company coach that was robbed; people were hurt; one killed. The live ones are suin’ Wells Fargo. They got every right to carry out their own investigation.” He gave Tanner a cold look. “And every need to, looks like.”
Tanner bristled. “Don’t sass me, mister!”
“Then get off your butt and help me find out who those idiots were!”
Tanner resented that tone strongly and he stood up fast, glaring across the desk at the unflinching Nash, frowning a little as he ran up against Nash’s cold gaze. He tightened his mouth and then slowly sat down again, swinging his legs up onto a corner of the desk, taking a sack of tobacco and papers from a shirt pocket. He began to roll a cigarette, concentrating on the job, not looking at the towering Wells Fargo man.
“All this goddamn fuss over a lousy old Mex who likely wouldn’t have lived through the journey anyway!”
“There’s more to it than that and you know it, Tanner! And whether he might’ve lived or not makes no never mind now; the man’s dead. Same as it makes no never mind whether he was Mexican, Indian, Chinese or negro ... he was a man!”
Tanner shrugged, licked his cigarette paper and rolled the cigarette into shape. “You have it your way. Fact is, Nash, I still can’t help you.” He dug out a vesta, scratched it alight across his desk top and applied the flame to the end of the cigarette, turning his head to blow the plume of smoke up into Nash’s hard face. “Them cowpokes were just havin’ fun. They got a mite rough in town and I threw them out. What they did outside the town is strictly no concern of mine. You could see the county sheriff. That’s his territory.”
Nash glared down at the man, knowing it was all he could expect out of him. “I’d like you to try to throw me out of town, Tanner,” he gritted.
The marshal gave him a sharp look, then shrugged and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes and smoking slowly. Nash muttered a curse and strode angrily out of the law office. He went into the Wells Fargo depot next door and walked straight past the protesting clerks and opened the door of the agent’s office. Enright looked up quickly, from where he crouched in front of one of the famous green-painted safes with the gilt framing and the words WELLS FARGO & CO. engraved in the metal. He started to slam the door swiftly and Nash caught a glimpse of money and papers inside the safe. He held up a hand briefly.
“Relax, Enright ... Clay Nash from head office. We met in Denver once, long time back.”
Enright stood up slowly, frowning, then his face straightened as he recalled Nash. He strode across the office, right hand outstretched. The two men shook hands briefly.
“Hell, am I glad to see you, Clay!” Enright said. “This damn business has me over a barrel.”
“All of us.” Nash jerked a thumb towards the wall nearest the law office. “Marshal was no help at all.”
“Tanner? No, he wouldn’t be. Won’t take any interest in what happens one step outside the edge of town.” He turned back to the safe opened it and brought out a small bundle of notes and papers. He slapped them down onto the desk top and looked at Nash’s quizzical face. “Just came through the post. It’s the money and papers that were in that strongbox that was stolen.”
Nash looked at him sharply, then examined the bundle. “They returned it to you?”
Enright nodded. “All accounted for. They must’ve kept the strongbox. Souvenir, I guess.”
“Guess the prank’s over as far as they’re concerned so they sent back what they don’t want. If ever they’re caught, they figure they can’t be charged with robbery.”
“Don’t work that easy, does it?”
Nash shook his head. “No, plenty of other charges. Armed hold-up and so on. Manslaughter, if not plain murder. Looks to me like these fellers mightn’t know about the old Mex dyin’ or even the stage crashin’. They wouldn’t even risk sendin’ back the money if they did. They’d just lie low and keep quiet.”
Enright nodded slowly. “Makes sense. Driver said the whole bunch rode off after they got the stage started down the grade. They could’ve been up and over the ridge and out of sight and sound by the time the old Mex got hit with his heart attack and the stage crashed. Yeah, Clay, I think you’re right; they don’t even know yet what they done. They think they had some innocent fun, makin’ clowns out of the passengers and that’s it.”
“Well, I aim to see they find out different. You got anywhere with tryin’ to find out who they were?”
Enright shook his head. “Nope. Driver recognized ’em as the bunch Tanner tossed out but that’s all.”
“How about Link Somers?”
Enright’s face hardened and muscles along his jaw knotted. “That snake! I fired him right off. Threw him out on his ear. I was near mad enough to kill him!”
Nash frowned. “You didn’t question him first?”
“Er—no, I reckon I didn’t, Clay. I was so goddamn mad at him, never even thought of it. Hell, sorry. I could’ve missed somethin’ there.”
“Forget it. I’ll see him. He still around Tucson?”
The depot agent nodded. “Got a room at the Crystal Slipper Saloon, on Henderson.”
“I’ll find him.” Nash paused as he started to turn and pointed to the bundle of money and papers that had been returned. “What about the wrapper they came in?”
Enright frowned, puzzled. “Wrapper? Just plain brown paper with the agency’s name printed on it.”
“You said it came through the post. Where from?”
“Oh, now I get it. I did look at the postmark. Flatrock, I think. Yeah, sure of it. Flatrock. Think it means somethin’?”
“Mebbe. Likely not. They likely don’t come from around there; probably rode in specially to post it. But it wouldn’t be too far away. Let’s take a look at the map.”
They walked across to the roller map of the state near the side window and Enright pulled it down and looped the string over a nail. He helped Nash locate Flatrock and then Nash studied the scale of the map and the general locality around Flatrock.
“Hell. Plenty of ranches around there, looks like, and I guess this map ain’t even up to date. But there’re a few other small towns within a day or so’s ride of Flatrock. Here we got Little Rapids; and over here Signal; north there’s Pinon Ridge, Slattery’s Creek, Hopkins, Whitedome, Redlynch. Could’ve come in from any one of those places.” He sighed. “That’s the way it goes, I guess. Mebbe Link Somers’ll help me out.”
Enright put a warning hand on Nash’s forearm. “Wouldn’t count on it, Clay. And watch him. He’s tough. And right now he don’t have much love for Wells Fargo.”
Nash’s face was hard. “Feeling’s mutual.”
~*~
The Crystal Slipper was combination saloon and whorehouse with maybe more of the income being derived from the latter than the saloon part. It was just on the edge of Tucson’s Red Light District; half a block further down Henderson and it would have been right in it.
Nash had to wave aside three painted women who accosted him between the batwings and the bar where he ordered a beer and whisky. As the barkeep poured, he gestured to the bottle.
“Have one yourself,” Nash invited, pushing some money across the counter.
The man looked at him suspiciously, then shook his head and corked the bottle. “You smell like law to me, mister.”
Nash looked him squarely and coldly in the eye. “You want to keep on smellin’ and not have to breathe through your mouth, you’ll have that drink and a little talk.”
The man, big, beefy, used to handling tough customers straightened, gave Nash a cold stare and turned and walked away down the bar. Nash let him go, downed his whisky and drained his beer. He rapped the heavy glass base on the counter top, signaling the barkeep for a refill. The man sighed and ambled back, began to draw the beer. He set down the frothing glass and uncorked the whisky bottle again. Nash was looking around the ornate room.
“Got a pard named Dakota Haines,” he said conversationally. The barkeep sloshed whisky into the shot glass. “Carries a sawn-off twelve-gauge shotgun on a dog clip swivel on his belt. Mean as a rattler when he’s riled. When he cuts loose with that sawn-off, place looks like a slaughter house when he’s through.”
“Are you through,” asked the barkeep. “If you are, that’ll be fifty cents.”
Nash started to dig out the money but held it in his fingers and didn’t place it on the counter top. “Dakota had a pard who got himself killed in a stage robbery and he wanted to find the men who did it. Got a lead to a place somethin’ like this, run by a lady callin’ herself ‘Madame Mustang’. Ever heard of her?”
The barkeep was very still now, his face deadpan, but his nostrils were a little white and pinched and Nash could hear his breath hissing in and out.
“Yeah, Madame Mustang’s. ‘For the wildest ride in the West.’ That’s what she used to have on the sign over her door. Think they might’ve saved it from the fire—not sure.”
The barkeep asked hoarsely, “What fire?”
“The one Dakota started when she wouldn’t tell him what he wanted to know. He cut loose with that sawn-off. Blew the place apart. Chandeliers, imported porcelain, drapes, smashed up Italian marble, French furniture. Just like a bonfire pile.” Nash laid the fifty cents on the bar, tossed down the whisky and lifted the beer towards his lips. “Yeah, tough man, Dakota. I learnt a lot from him, though I keep my sawn-off in a saddle scabbard. Prefer a six-gun as a sidearm. You look kind of white, mister.”
The barkeep ran his tongue over dry lips. “Okay, okay. I get your meanin’.”
“No meanin’, friend,” Nash said innocently. “Just makin’ polite conversation.”
“Sure, sure!” growled the barkeep. “Look, I only manage this place. Ain’t been here long and I don’t want no trouble. Who you lookin’ for?”
Nash smiled faintly, but there was no mirth in it. “Link Somers.”
“Aw hell, why didn’t you say so right off? No skin off my nose what happens to that sidewinder. He’s in room eleven. But he’s got a gal with him right now, I think.”
Nash said nothing. He drained his beer and then walked over to the stairs and went up them easily, flexing the fingers of his right hand, shaking the arm from the elbow, loosening muscles and tendons. The barkeep sighed and muttered a tight-lipped curse. He hoped they wouldn’t damage the room much.
Room eleven was at the end of a short hall. Nash walked right up to the door, put an ear against the panel. He could hear low murmurings from inside, the creak of bedsprings, a girl’s brief laugh ending in a sharp, indrawn breath and followed by a low moan. He stepped back, drew his six-gun then kicked at the door at the level of the lock. It splintered away and the door crashed open as he lunged in and saw the naked girl on the bed with Link Somers, staring at him in shocked surprise.
Somers blinked and started to speak but Nash lunged across the room, clipped him lightly with the gun barrel and sent him sprawling. The girl screamed and Nash rounded on her, lifted her bodily, carried her to the door and threw her unceremoniously out into the hall. She hit the worn carpet with a thud and a groan and he swung back, saw her pile of clothing on a chair and flung it out after her. By that time, Somers was staggering upright, one hand instinctively buttoning his trousers, blood oozing from one side of his mouth. He threw himself towards the chair where his gun rig hung.
Nash rammed a boot between his legs and he tripped and fell, but he rolled and came up in a crouch, pulled on the rug where Nash stood and yanked the Wells Fargo agent’s legs right out from under him. Nash went down hard, his Colt flying from his hand. Somers hurled himself on top of him, fists sledging and hammering brutally.
Nash turned his head as the first set of hard knuckles rammed against his jaw. He felt the fist skid off and take some of his skin with it. He managed to dodge the next blow and heard Somers curse as his knuckles slammed into the floor. Nash lifted his head and butted the ex-shotgun guard in the face. Somers jerked his head back, blood spurting from his nostrils. Nash followed through, rammed the top of his head under the man’s jaw, thrust with hands and feet and literally lifted Somers into the air, hurling him aside. The man bounced onto the bed and started to come up onto his feet right away, using the spring from the mattress as an aid. Nash used it in another way: he slugged Somers with a down-driving fist and with the momentum from the mattress lifting him up, the blow had twice the force when it landed.
Somers went down hard, bounced again, and Nash slammed two blows into his body. He slid onto his knees, falling off the bed. Nash moved in but, still on his knees and dazed, fighting by pure instinct, Somers hooked two low blows into Nash’s belly. The Wells Fargo agent gagged as he doubled over and Somers rammed a shoulder into his face, knocking him back. Nash stumbled and started to go down. He reached out with a hand against the floor and Somers took a wide, arcing kick to knock the supporting arm away. He missed and stumbled. Nash thrust up, landed a looping blow against the man’s temple and sent him sprawling.
Somers landed near Nash’s gun and he made a dive for it, hand reaching for the butt. Nash lunged after him and stomped down with his boot, crushing the man’s hand against the gun butt. Somers yelled, heaved himself forward and used his shoulder behind Nash’s knee to send the agent sprawling: Then, on all fours, Somers made his dive for the doorway out into the hall. The girl had long gone but one or two of her garments were strewn around the floor. Outside the room, Somers staggered to his feet and Nash hurled himself headlong through the doorway, arms going out to grab Somers around the hips.
They crashed to the floor of the hall with a thud and rolled and kicked and punched and elbowed down the length of the hall. They broke apart near the head of the stairs, staggering back, bloody, clothes ripped, oblivious to anything else, including the crowd that had gathered at the foot of the stairs. Nash slammed back against the wall with a jar and Somers groped towards him, a fist cocked. Nash let the blow come, wrenched his head aside at the last moment so that Somers’ hand smashed into the wall. The man howled with pain, clasped his hand against him, and Nash stepped out, hooked a ramming blow into his ribs, followed with another to the same place and sent Somers staggering back against the balcony rail. Nash grabbed his shirtfront, pulled the man in close and snapped a knee up into his crotch. Somers gagged sickly and slowly began to crumple. Nash kneed him again and held the man upright. He shook him, teeth rattling in his bloodied mouth.
“I want some information out of you!” Nash panted, forcing the words between his teeth. “I want to know who those cowpokes were that held up the stage!”
Somers lifted his blood-streaked face, eyes partly glazed with pain. He spat in Nash’s face. The agent yanked him forward and dragged him to the top of the stairs, then heaved him down. The crowd scattered as Somers gave a yell and then he hit the seventh step down with a thud, somersaulted and crashed and clattered and bounced all the way down to sprawl in an unconscious heap at the bottom. Nash stumbled awkwardly back into the room and scooped up his hat and his dropped six-gun. He held onto the railing as he went down the stairs to where the crowd had gathered around Somers.
“Pour some water over him,” he ordered hoarsely and the barkeep brought the slop bowl from under the bar and dashed it into Somers’ face. The man groaned and sat up, spluttering. Nash grabbed his hair and savagely yanked his head back. He thrust his gun barrel between the man’s staring eyes.
“Talk!” he snapped.
Somers was scared. He was shaking badly and croaked in his effort to speak. His mouth worked and he kept licking at his split lips. Then he nodded jerkily and Nash eased up on the pressure a little.
“Only know that Matt Hansen runs the Triangle H,” Somers told him hoarsely, his words barely audible. “Somewheres back of Signal. That’s all I know.”
Nash looked down at him steadily, coldly. “It better be, mister.”
He shoved Somers’ head away angrily and the man sagged down, groaning sickly, sucking down deep breaths. Nash holstered his gun and mopped at his bleeding face with his kerchief. He saw Marshal Lew Tanner just pushing through to the front of the crowd. The lawman looked first at Nash, then at the battered Somers, then back to Nash.
The Wells Fargo man put a chill gaze on him. “You gonna run me out?” There was almost an invitation in his voice.
Lew Tanner held his gaze a moment longer, then looked away, shaking his head briefly. “I reckon you’ll be leavin’ right soon anyway,” he muttered.
“When I’m ready,” Nash told him.
Tanner nodded. “Sure.”
Nash waited a little longer but Tanner said nothing more, just stood over the moaning Somers and finally nudged the battered man with a boot toe.
“You be gone by sundown, Somers,” the marshal said, then hurried out through the crowd.