The cowboy astride the long-legged bay had a hot, angry look to him, his right hand riding his gun butt. The Mexican looked tame enough he noted as they dragged their horses to a dusty halt before him.
“Howdy, gents. You Rancho Antigua boys?”
“What’s it to you, saddle bum?” snarled Fallon.
“Why, I figured if you was, you might direct me to the ranch house. Brazos is the name. Hank Brazos.”
“Si, we are of the Antigua,” the little Mexican supplied. “I am Manuelita Orlando, and my companero is Lash Fallon. You have business with the rancho, Señor Brazos?”
“Shut up! I’ll do the goddam talkin’, Mex,” Fallon snapped. The hot, red-rimmed eyes stared at Brazos. “All right saddle bum, turn that spotted jackass about and git the way you come.”
“Now take it easy, friend,” Brazos said. “I ain’t lookin’ for trouble ... jest want to see your boss man is all.”
Fallon moved his horse closer, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“You ain’t seein’ nobody. Our job’s to keep strangers offen the Antigua, and that’s exactly what we aim to do. Now dust!”
Brazos’ grin was getting hard to hold. Mr. Lash Fallon was beginning to rub his neck hair up the wrong way.
He managed to keep an edge out of his voice when he replied. “Friend, like I say, I’m not lookin’ for trouble. All I’m lookin’ for is a job.”
“There ain’t no jobs here for saddle bums.”
The grin finally gave up and faded away.
“Well, that’s too bad. But seein’ I come this far, I might as well talk to Mr. Kendrick anyway.”
“You’re seein’ nobody!” Fallon hissed, and it was plain to see his temper was out of control. “For the last time, damn you, get off the Antigua or I’ll kick you off.”
Hank Brazos went very still in the saddle. The blue eyes turned a deeper color, and to those who knew him well, that meant he was getting riled.
“You’ll kick me off, cowboy?”
“You’re damned right.”
“I’m gonna see you do it.”
A curse exploded through Fallon’s yellow teeth, the gun flashed.
Brazos was expecting it. With lightning speed his left hand lashed out and wrapped in an iron grip about Fallon’s wrist. Fallon snarled a curse that turned into a scream of agony as Brazos’ right hand swept over filled with gun and the barrel smashed across his arm, snapping it like a stick. Ashen with agony, Fallon grabbed at a knife in his belt.
Brazos swung again. The gun barrel caught the jutting slab of forehead over Fallon’s right eye, split it wide and spilled the man unconscious from the saddle.
Manuelita Orlando’s eyes threatened to bug from their sockets as the big blue barrel swung to him. His hands shot up so hard they dislodged his great sombrero which fell to the ground and rolled in a cartwheel around Fallon’s unconscious form.
Brazos held the gun on the Mex for a long moment, then spun it on his forefinger and plopped it back into the leather.
“I never come lookin’ for trouble, Manuelita. Your pard gave me no choice.”
“Si si, I understand.”
“You sure you do?”
“Si, si.”
“All right, drop your paws and give me a hand to get him across his saddle.”
Orlando was so shaken that he was of absolutely no use at all in getting Fallon up. Brazos handled the chore himself and when the unconscious wrangler was draped across his saddle, passed the lines to the Mexican and motioned him to mount up.
“All right, companero,” Brazos said, mounting up and snapping his fingers to Bullpup who’d obediently taken no part in the violence. “Now what say we ride in easy like and see Mr. Kendrick?”
Orlando moved, riding rigid in the saddle, not game to look back over his shoulder, not even daring to brush away the flies for fear the giant gringo might misunderstand.
But the Mexican had nothing to fear. Hank Brazos was a peaceable man by nature—until somebody got to rubbing him up the wrong way. To put the little Mex at his ease, he started to talk after they’d covered a mile.
“What sort of a pilgrim is your boss, Manuelita?”
Orlando stared at the big man and began to relax. That frightening look he’d seen on the big gringo’s face as he’d snapped Fallon’s arm was completely gone, to be replaced by a lazy grin.
He cleared his throat and said, “He ... he is a good man, Señor Brazos. Hard perhaps, but fair.”
“Been havin’ rustlin’ trouble I hear tell?”
“Si, si, mucho trabajo, much troubles.” Orlando glanced at Fallon’s limp form. “And now the patron has even more trouble.”
“You mean him?” Brazos said, jerking his thumb. “Heck, that’s just one man laid up for a spell, Manuelita. That can’t count much on a spread this size.”
“Ah, you do not understand, Señor Brazos. Fallon is the horse breaker on Ranchero Antigua, and there is much work to be done.”
Brazos pulled deeply on his cigarette and smiled to himself as they rode over a low hill and the great ranch house lay before them.
He’d just decided what job he was going to apply for on Rancho Antigua.
Four – Old Whisky and Young Women
The sun etched deep pits and hollows in Nathan Kendrick’s iron-jawed visage as he stood hatless by the horse corrals watching his men half carry Fallon away to the bunkhouse for repairs.
On the rancher’s right, stood the fat Mexican, Pancho Pino, and on his left, his top hand on Rancho Antigua, ramrod Juan Romero.
The three men waited until Fallon was out of sight. The man had been bleating so loud they hadn’t been able to hear Orlando when he’d attempted to give an explanation. Now without taking his eyes off Brazos who was sitting his saddle, twisting a cigarette into shape, Kendrick snapped his fingers at his vaquero and Orlando launched into a substantially accurate account of what had taken place out on the trail.
Throughout the story, the three men stood in the sun staring at Brazos, weighing him up with their eyes as he cracked a match on his thumbnail and set fire to his cigarette.
Nathan Kendrick looked the part, Brazos thought. He was big and craggy-faced and looked like it might have been a long time since anybody had ever said no to him. He walked with the aid of a stick, but Brazos couldn’t tell if his disability was permanent or temporary. He was dressed in a red and green checked shirt, brown twill trousers and a calf skin vest. He wore no gun and Brazos liked the stamp of the man right from the start.
He wasn’t so sure about Juan Romero however, and judging by the ramrod’s stormy scowl, it wasn’t exactly love at first sight as far as he was concerned either.
Brazos found the Mexican the most colorful and somehow the most interesting of his welcoming committee. Romero was tall for a Mexican, at least six feet one. He carried himself ramrod erect and the broad shoulders and slender hips belonged to a man in perfect physical condition. He was an impressive sight in tight-fitting black trousers flared at the cuffs, white, full-sleeved shirt and a short leather jacket. His long, olive-skinned face was good-looking and strong and there was about the man, an air of pride bordering on arrogance that reminded Brazos a little of the Yank. Juan Romero wore a single bone-handled Colt thonged low on his right hip and it didn’t look like an ornament.
“All right,” Nathan Kendrick growled when Orlando was through. “Now let’s hear your story, mister.”
Brazos exhaled a cloud of cigarette smoke and hooked his leg over the saddle pommel.
“Well, it was just about like your man says, Mr. Kendrick. Fallon was ridin’ prod. I seen that as soon as he rode up. I tried to talk peaceable to him, but he was just bound and determined to start a ruckus.”
“And you accommodated him?”
“Had no choice, Mr. Kendrick.”
“Did you have to split his face open as well as break his arm?” Romero challenged.
“I only done what I had to do. Like I told him, I didn’t ride out her
e lookin’ for trouble, just a job. And that’s the way she still stands.” Brazos looked at the rancher. “What d’you say, Mr. Kendrick?”
Nathan Kendrick didn’t say anything for a time, just stood leaning on his walking stick and stroking his big bull jaw. To Romero and the half-dozen homestead hands standing nearby, Kendrick looked his usual tough self, yet underneath the rancher was aware of a faint amusement. He didn’t normally find it funny when one of his employees got crippled, but there were extenuating circumstances in this particular case. One was that Lash Fallon was a mean, prickly varmint, long overdue for a thrashing. Another was that for some reason there was something about big Brazos he liked.
“You said you’re a horse breaker, mister. You a good one?” Kendrick suddenly said.
“Passable.”
“Uno momento, Señor Kendrick,” Romero protested. “You are not seriously considering hiring this man, are you?”
“Well, we’re shy a wrangler, Romero.”
Romero turned his broad back on Brazos and spoke softly to the rancher so the others couldn’t overhear. “Señor Kendrick, I do not like the look of this man. He has the look of a trouble-maker.”
“Well, I don’t rightly agree with that. But even if he was, you’re an expert at handlin’ trouble-makers, ain’t you, Romero?”
“I can handle any man, as well you know, patron. But do you not feel that at a time such as this, we have enough problems on the Antigua without adding to them by hiring riff-raff?”
“We need a wrangler,” Kendrick said stubbornly. He wasn’t too impressed with his foreman’s arguments. Romero was a fine ramrod, but he liked his authority to be undisputed. Big Brazos’ handling of Fallon might suggest he wouldn’t be an easy man to boss around.
“He might well be a spy for the rustlers,” Romero said, bringing in his last gun. “How are we to know when a man rides out of nowhere like this?”
“He don’t look like no rustler to me,” Kendrick opined, looking at Brazos. “What he looks like to me is he might be one hell of a good horse-breaker. And seein’ as we got horses to break, let’s see what he can do.”
Romero shrugged, bowing to his employer’s wishes. “As you wish,” he said stiffly, and turned back to Brazos. “Very well, señor, we are prepared to give you a trial.” He signaled to the men standing by the corrals. “Bring out El Fugitivo.”
Brazos swung down, looped the appaloosa’s lines over a corral post and pushed his hat onto the back of his head. Judging from Romero’s look and the rather surprised expressions on the vaqueros as they hopped off to do his bidding, he was willing to bet a good silver dollar that El Fugitivo was not a lady’s hack.
Kendrick and Pancho Pino went across to the corrals and took up vantage points. Men began to appear from all over as the word went around that the big stranger was going to take a crack at El Fugitivo. Brazos hunkered down in the shade of the well and scratched Bullpup’s ears. Squatting there, he wasn’t sighted by the girl who came down from the house until he spoke.
“Howdy, ma’am.”
The girl stopped and frowned. She was young and dark and wore a white blouse over full breasts, tight-fitting tan riding trousers and hand-tooled Mexican boots. She had a smooth heart-shaped face, a wide, flower-like mouth and long black lashes concealing dark brown eyes that didn’t look too friendly as she looked him over.
“Are you the person they’re putting on El Fugitivo?”
He got to his feet. “That’s me, ma’am. Hank Brazos. And you’d be Mr. Kendrick’s daughter I take it—Orlando mentioned you.”
“I have no wish to know who you are,” she snapped, starting off. Then she paused to say something that explained her antagonism. “I just saw what you did to Lash Fallon, Mr. Whatever-your-name is. I just hope El Fugitivo does as much damage to you.”
“Always on the cards I guess,” Brazos called after her, but didn’t realize how right he might be until the men arrived back with El Fugitivo some minutes later.
Slouching over to the corral fence and building himself a fresh smoke, Brazos ran the quivering, rolling-eyed stallion over with an expert eye. El Fugitivo looked a mean one and no mistake. At least seventeen hands high, he was a blood-red bay, the color the Mexicans call “Colorado.” He was long-legged, his head small and fine nostrilled, a thick, crested stallion’s neck, short back and powerful haunches.
“Never yet has a man ridden El Fugitivo,” runty, rotund little Pancho Pino spoke up at Brazos’ shoulder, and Brazos was prepared to believe it. The Mexican went on confidentially, “You are good horseman are you not, señor? Eef not Pancho Pino would advise you not to be too brave or you may end up dead.”
“Thanks, Pancho,” he grinned. Then the hostlers signaled that the horse was ready. He clambered to the top of the fence, jumped down, then walked across to them, trailing cigarette smoke over his shoulder.
El Fugitivo reared back as Brazos approached, his rolling eyes showing white, whistling and snorting. One vaquero had a tight-handed grip on the head harness at the stallion’s underjaw. Another had a fistful of ear, while a worried looking Manuelita Orlando stood by, waiting to help the rider mount.
Brazos paused in front of the stallion and stared him straight in the eye to show he wasn’t scared of him. El Fugitivo snorted and stamped his feet, and from the fence Juan Romero called sarcastically:
“This is a new way of breaking a wild horse, caballero?”
Brazos looked over his shoulder, scowled at Romero, then smiled at Kendrick’s daughter who just lifted her pretty nose a little higher in the air. Next second he was jumping clear as El Fugitivo jerked his head and savage teeth tore a sleeve clear out of his purple shirt.
“Anxious to get on with it, eh? Okay, then.” He pushed Orlando aside, put his foot in the stirrup and swung up. “Leave him loose!”
The vaqueros let the wild horse go and dashed for the fence. El Fugitivo trembled. He switched his tail once, then exploded around the corral in a dozen enormous straight-ahead bucks that jarred every bone in Hank Brazos’ body.
“He is no good, father,” Brenda Kendrick opined over the thump of hooves and savage snorting as man and horse flashed past. “He is too big and heavy to be a good wrangler.”
“Well, I don’t know,” Kendrick demurred, expert eyes following the action. “He’s still up there.”
A moment later Hank Brazos almost wasn’t, as El Fugitivo started whirling in a tight circle with incredible speed, ears laid back, teeth bared.
It was a trick the rider hadn’t encountered before, but he hung on. El Fugitivo squealed with rage and lightning fast, whipped his head around and bit a lump out of Brazos’ leather chaps. Brazos touched him with the spurs and he tucked his tail, dropped his head and took off again around the corral, pitching and twisting wilder than ever.
It was a ride to remember, and the cowboys cheered themselves hoarse as Brazos rocked in the saddle, loose and relaxed, seeming to anticipate the stallion’s every move.
El Fugitivo had plenty of moves. The horse pitched sideways, forward and in circles. He sunfished and he crawfished and every time he came down, it was with four legs as stiff as crowbars, hitting the ground so hard the ground shook far out beyond the corral fence.
For the first minute or so, the cheers were all for El Fugitivo, something of an equine hero on the Rancho Antigua. But as the contest of man against horse continued some of the applause switched to the rider, until suddenly little Pancho Pino threw his hat in the air and yelled:
“By the Virgin he has done it! He has ridden El Fugitivo!”
The Mexican was premature, but only a little. El Fugitivo still had a few gambits left, and he played them out as hard as he knew how. They didn’t come off and the stallion began to slow, then falter, and finally stopped altogether.
It was over.
Brazos patted the trembling neck and swung down. El Fugitivo didn’t move. He’d bucked himself to a standstill. He stood with his head down and his forefeet spraddled. He su
cked for air in great gasps. His sides heaved like a bellows and sweat coursed in little streams down the insides of his legs, dripping on the sand.
“A good horse with plenty sand,” was Brazos’ verdict, and the cowboys cheered wildly.
Brazos went to retrieve his hat, then turned to Kendrick’s group. Juan Romero was scowling, Brenda Kendrick had turned away in annoyance, but both Nathan and Pancho were smiling.
“Fine horsemanship, Señor Brazos,” Pino said as he crossed to the fence.
“As good as I’ve seen,” Kendrick agreed. “All right Juan, you can fix Brazos up with a feed and a place to sleep. Looks like we got ourselves a new wrangler.”
It was eleven in the morning by the time Benedict had transferred his gear from Arroyo’s flea-bag hotel to Garcia’s Rooming House. The hotel had been quite impossible and even though the rooming house didn’t seem to be much of an improvement, he had been prompted to apply for lodging there after a brief glimpse of a sloe-eyed Mexican girl at the yard pump of the house as he rode slowly by. A minute later he was signing the register under the warming gaze of those same sloe eyes, and displaying his very best smile.
Her name was Jana Garcia. She was the daughter of the proprietress who happened to be absent from Arroyo at the time, leaving Jana in charge. While she made pleasant small talk about the weather, Benedict noted that she was about twenty years of age, a little short of inches in height, but in no other respect. She was quite pretty in a smoldering, earthy way. She had the type of looks that would appeal to some men. Benedict was one of them.
Leaving his black horse in the care of the livery boy at the rooming house, he headed off down the main stem looking for the sheriff. He planned to give Brazos a day to settle in out at the Rancho Antigua, while he himself found out what he could about the spread and the cattle rustling in town before making his appearance at the Rancho.
He found Arroyo’s lawman on the front porch of the jailhouse leaning back leisurely in a cane chair with his spurred boots propped up on the railing. He was a nondescript little man of about fifty with three chins and a calculating eye. He introduced himself as Tom Bindale and shook hands lethargically without getting up. Benedict understood why Gordon had warned him the Arroyo law would be of little help in his investigation. Arroyo was a seedy little town and the sheriff, Tom Bindale, was about the seediest thing he’d encountered in it so far.
Benedict and Brazos 3 Page 4