Benedict and Brazos 6

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “Where’s the rest of ’em?” Larry O’Rourke said as he counted the horsemen and looked in vain for more in the hoof-kicked dust beyond them. “There’s only three of ’em.”

  “Likely that’s all that Foley Kingston believes he needs,” Brian Hoolihan said. “That’s his two new guns he’s bringin’ in with him. Benedict and Brazos.”

  “By glory he’ll be findin’ out he’s needin’ more than jist them two murderin’ divils to get through these gates,” declared Old Billy Murphy. Leaning on his crutch by the closed gates, Murphy was still in the dark suit he’d worn to his son’s funeral earlier that morning. The defiant words that came from his shrunken mouth seemed strangely at odds with his feeble, crippled body, but there was determination enough in his blazing eyes ... and more than a hint of madness.

  “Now just be takin’ it easy, Billy,” said the quiet voice of Shamus Delaney. “We won’t gain a thing today by getting over-excited.”

  Old Billy glared defiance at the speaker. Stoop shouldered Delaney stood with a handful of men Paddy Clancy had dubbed “the Shakies” because they refused to support some of the hard-line measures in the strike he’d called. Delaney had once held a lot of influence in Spargo, but it had dwindled sharply since Clancy seized the reins.

  “Take it easy while me darlin’ boy is molderin’ in his grave, Delaney?” shouted Billy Murphy. “Is that what you’re wantin’?”

  “Shut your loud old mouth!”

  Murphy whirled angrily, then wilted and fell petulantly silent when he realized it was Clancy himself who’d spoken. The biggest man in the bunch by almost a full head, Clancy was standing with O’Rourke at the rear of the group by the fence. Bare-headed in the blazing sun, with his thick mane of curls gleaming like beaten bronze, Clancy looked sober and grim.

  A snort of disgust shook Murphy. It seemed they were all jumpy but him. He was damned if he could understand why Clancy had forbidden any of them to bring guns along. Clancy had said that Kingston would have no excuse for introducing gunplay if they were unarmed. Murphy thought that was crazy. There were thirty of them here today. If they’d brought guns, they’d be a hell of a lot more than a match for Benedict and Brazos.

  When the riders were less than fifty yards away, a hot breeze came up and sent dust snatching at the skirt of a woman further down the street as she hurried to her house and went inside, closing the door behind her.

  Foley Kingston rode in the lead on his white thoroughbred stallion. Duke Benedict was a little behind and to Kingston’s left. The wind ruffled the sleeves of his white shirt and tugged at the four-in-hand tie. From the shadow of his low-crowned hat, clear gray eyes took in the men. Bullpup preceded Hank Brazos on his spotted appaloosa to Kingston’s right. Even though the horse was a barrel-chested eighteen hands, its rider looked almost too big for it.

  Another ten yards and then Clancy’s voice sounded, sudden and loud:

  “That’s far enough, Kingston!”

  The horsemen kept coming. The miners shuffled uneasily, looking over their shoulders at Clancy. Clancy waited a handful of seconds, then said, “All right, lads, turn them around.”

  The miners surged forward. Kingston checked his horse and Benedict and Brazos drew abreast and reined in. Nobody saw Benedict draw, but suddenly one of his big Colts was angled at the miners. There was a milling moment of uncertainty, then they came to a halt with ten feet separating them from the naked gun.

  “So it’s guns and bullets against flesh and blood and empty hands, is it?” Paddy Clancy shouted contemptuously. “I suppose this is what you call a fair shake, Kingston, you yellow-livered cur!”

  “That’s tellin’ ’im, Clancy lad!” shrieked Old Billy Murphy, his red-veined face flushed with excitement. He shook a trembling fist. “We’re not afraid of your dirty hired guns, Kingston! You’ll have to kill us to get through here!”

  “You’re acting like fools,” Kingston said calmly. “You have been doing that all along, but I’ve finally reached the end of my patience.” He pointed over their heads at the mine gates. “That is my personal property in there and I don’t intend to permit you riff-raff to—”

  “Riff-raff?” echoed a thick-muscled miner with a snarl. “By Judas, boys, are we goin’ to stand for that?”

  “You’ll stand for it, mister,” Benedict said softly, moving the gun to cover the man. “You will also stand aside. Mr. Kingston is coming through.”

  Indecision flickered in the miners’ eyes as they stared up at the expressionless face behind the gun. There was no telling if Benedict was bluffing or not. He might be, but they couldn’t be sure.

  A touch of spur sent Benedict’s horse forward. “Come on, move aside!”

  The miners went back a step, then stood fast at a word from Clancy. Forced to rein in, Benedict cocked his Colt but still they wouldn’t open up.

  Then suddenly Brazos was out of his saddle and approaching the miners with an easy grin on his battle-scarred face. “Back off, boys. You know you’ll have to in the long run, so it might as well be now.”

  It might have worked, for Brazos with his empty hands, powerful frame and easy-going, man-to-man approach was something more akin to the simple, rough-hewn Irish laborers than the handsome Benedict with his fancy waistcoat and gun. But just as it seemed they might give way, Old Billy Murphy pushed through them with a drunken curse and poked at Brazos with his crutch.

  Acting instinctively, Brazos pushed the crutch aside. Murphy staggered, hit his stump as he fell and shrieked. There was a rumble of anger and then buck-toothed Cliff Moran lunged forward and took a smack at Brazos’ jaw.

  Brazos’ right fist blurred and Moran went down like a poled steer. Another man rushed in, presented his face to a jolting left and reeled back with flailing arms, dripping crimson from a mashed nose. As a third attacker buckled at the knees to an almost casual right cross to the jaw, Brazos was beginning to enjoy it.

  Then Paddy Clancy joined the lists. Clancy had been determined to stand back and give orders as befitted a leader, but the sound of thumping fists was a siren song he couldn’t resist; so, leaping over Billy Murphy who was still cursing and groaning on the ground, he bore down on Brazos like a runaway locomotive.

  Turning to meet the charge, Brazos knew immediately that massive, iron-ribbed Clancy was a worthy adversary. So did Benedict, who jerked on the reins to bring his horse in close, and then as Clancy rushed by, clipped him hard across the skull with his gun barrel.

  It was a blow that would have knocked a normal man bowlegged. All it did to Clancy was throw him off stride. But that was enough for Brazos. Before Clancy could get his balance the big Texan lunged forward and sledged a pounding right to the jaw that sent Clancy staggering back into Benedict’s horse where Benedict cold-cocked him with the six-gun, knocking him to his knees.

  Spinning the gun on his finger, Benedict triggered at the sky. “All right, that will do it,” he said with authority as the crash of the shot rolled away.

  After a hanging moment of uncertainty, the blue-denimed ranks opened up. Benedict motioned Kingston through to the gates, then backed his horse and picked up Brazos’ appaloosa. Brazos made an offer to help Clancy off his knees, but the stunned giant knocked his outstretched hand violently aside. Brazos shrugged, took his reins from Benedict in silence and went on with Bullpup as Kingston swung the gates open.

  Only then did Benedict house his gun. He leaned forward in his saddle, his crossed arms on the saddlehorn. “No hard feelings, gentlemen. Now, why don’t you all stroll down to the saloon and have a nice cold beer? You can tell the barkeep I’ll be good for the first round.”

  The miners had been off balance from the moment Clancy had gone down, but the sudden transformation in Benedict from cold-eyed menace to amiable friendliness took what little steam they might have had left right out of them.

  Confused and crestfallen, they helped their companions to their feet and in a sullen, silent blue mass, began to slowly move off.

  “Magn
ificent,” Kingston exulted as Benedict joined him in the gateway. “You handled them brilliantly, Duke. And you, too, Hank.” He laughed. “Did you see the look on Clancy’s face when he went down? He couldn’t believe it.”

  Benedict glanced at Brazos, then both stared after the miners. Walking unaided now, Clancy was glaring back over his shoulder at them and even at that distance they could feel the impact of the giant’s hatred. Both felt it might be a little early in the day to start laughing at big Paddy Clancy.

  Chapter Four – Clancy

  Half an hour after the break-in, six of Kingston’s Regulators under Art Shadie arrived at the Motherlode packing enough artillery to equip a small revolution. They took up vantage points around the mine in case the miners decided to try to re-take the place. As Benedict and Foley Kingston inspected the offices and installations for signs of damage, Brazos sat on his spurs in the shade of the porch overhang of the main office building. A cigarette dangling from his lips, Brazos playfully tossed pebbles at a drowsing Bullpup.

  “Everything seems in order,” Brazos heard Kingston say to Benedict as the two emerged from the steep-roofed wagon house and walked towards a towering ore crusher. “Lucky for them, too.”

  He didn’t catch Benedict’s response, mainly because he wasn’t much interested, and secondly because he had just sighted a man approaching down the road towards the gates. A man dressed in a miner’s blue denim.

  Uncoiling lazily to his feet, Brazos stretched powerful arms and looked across at Shadie and his men. They were too busy gabbing about the victory to notice the solitary walker, and Kingston and Benedict were out of sight beyond the crushing machine. Brazos stepped out into the brutal sun and, with Bullpup trailing, slouched across to the gates to see what the fellow wanted.

  Brazos recognized the miner as one of Clancy’s men, a quiet-looking joker of about fifty who Brazos recalled trying to pacify the others when the trouble broke out.

  “Forget somethin’, friend?” Brazos said with a half grin as the man trudged up.

  The miner answered the Texan’s smile a little wearily and moved into the shade beside him to mop at his face with a dark blue bandanna.

  “Not really, young feller,” he said in a pleasantly soft voice.. “You’re Brazos, aren’t you? Delaney’s my name, Shamus Delaney.”

  Before Brazos could answer, Shadie’s men spotted the miner and started to raise hell. Turning from the hips, Brazos shouted back to them to shut up, then he grinned at Delaney again.

  “Boys are a little jumpy, Shamus. Somethin’ we can do for you?”

  “I came back to see if I mightn’t have a little talk with Mr. Kingston. Here he comes now.”

  Foley Kingston certainly was coming. Outstripping Benedict, the big man was striding towards them, his face red and angry in the shade of his broad-brimmed white hat.

  “Delaney!” he barked. “What do you think you’re doing here?”

  “He’s come to parley,” Brazos said.

  “Indeed I have, Mr. Kingston,” Delaney said. “I’m not sure if it’s the time or place but—”

  “You’re damned right it’s not,” Kingston snorted. “We just got rid of you law-breaking troublemakers and we don’t want you showing your faces around here again.”

  “Perhaps we could hear what Mr. Delaney has to say, Foley,” Benedict suggested.

  The Irishman shot a grateful look at Benedict and said, “Mr. Kingston, I just wanted to be sayin’ that after what happened here today, maybe it’s time we tried sittin’ down and talkin’ things over again. I think you know that I’ve never really supported Clancy and his friends, and I’m thinkin’ we might all be lucky that nobody got killed here today. Don’t you think now might be a good time to talk before the whole thing gets out of hand?”

  The proposal sounded reasonable to Brazos and Benedict—but not to Foley Kingston.

  “I’ve no intention of talking with you, Delaney,” he said coldly. “The time for talking is past and now you and your rebellious friends can just sit back and reap what you have sown.”

  “But, Mr. Kingston—”

  “That’s all, Delaney. Now move on or I’ll have you moved.”

  Delaney looked at Benedict and Brazos, seemed about to say something more, then turned and trudged off down the glaring stretch of road.

  “I don’t understand it, Foley,” Duke Benedict said after a long silence. “He seemed as if he genuinely wanted to talk.”

  “They’re as crafty as coyotes, those Irish, Duke,” Kingston said. “Not one of them is to be trusted, believe me.” His smile returned. “But let’s not worry about Delaney and his ilk at the moment. This is a special day of achievement and we’re all going to enjoy it. I’m going to the office in town, but before I do I want your assurance that you’ll come up to the house this evening.” Kingston’s winning smile flashed at Brazos. “I’m going to put on a victory supper, Hank, and I’ve told Duke I insist on you two attending.”

  Brazos looked at Benedict who said quietly, “We’ll be there, Foley.”

  “Good, good,” Kingston replied. Then as he turned to go, “And tonight you’ll definitely meet my wife, boys. I’m certain you’ll find that quite a treat. I know Rhea is going to be as happy about our victory as I am.”

  Standing on either side of the gateway, neither man spoke until Kingston had ridden out with Regulators Hasty and Miller and was dusting towards town. Then Brazos said:

  “I don’t figure it, Yank. Kingston acts like he don’t give a damn whether them miners come back to work or not. How the hell’s he expect to get this outfit goin’ again if he won’t even talk to ’em?”

  There was no reply from Benedict. He was thinking hard about Foley Kingston. He was aware, far more sharply than at any time before, that Foley hadn’t completely leveled with him about the set-up in Spargo. Foley was holding a few cards back in this game which, as dealer, he likely had a right to do. But Benedict hoped one of the cards wasn’t a joker.

  “There, pet, does that feel better?”

  “Much better, Mother,” Clancy said. “Now I’ll—”

  “Now don’t start fidgetin’, you big lump. I haven’t put the bandage around your head yet.”

  “It’s all right, Mother.”

  “Sure and who knows what’s best for ye, son, you or your mother?”

  “You do, Mother, but—”

  “Then shut your great gapin’ gob and let me be for gettin’ on with it,” Mother Clancy snapped in a characteristically swift switch from solicitude to bossiness. “Do ye think a body’s got nothin’ better to be doin’ than patchin’ up your bumps and bruises all day long?”

  With a sigh of resignation, Clancy fell silent and let the skinny woman get on with the job of strapping up his big hard head where Duke Benedict’s six-gun barrel had made violent contact an hour back. There was a two-inch split in the hairline that had bled a little, but he’d had fifty times worse and laughed about it, though there was no telling his mother that. She treated him like an overgrown child all the time, and doubly so at times like this.

  Soon Mother Clancy’s brisk wrinkled little hands finished their task and she stood back from the stool her son sat on in the middle of the tiny kitchen to admire her handiwork. Seated, Clancy was a fraction taller than his mother standing. She was barely over five feet tall, a skinny, wrinkled, fiercely energetic little Irishwoman in a black grannie dress and high-button boots. A clay pipe jutted from her jaw. Her face was like intricately wrinkled parchment with two black nails driven into it for eyes, and her gray hair was pulled severely back in a bun. Though she wouldn’t weigh a hundred pounds pulled from a lake, Mother Clancy had the authority of a field gun and there were few men in town who hadn’t trembled under the caustic lick of her Killarney tongue at one time or another—and that went double for Clancy.

  “All right,” she said, “now tell me how you got it cracked.”

  Clancy rose and had to bend his bandaged head to protect it from a ceiling that h
ad been built to accommodate men of normal size.

  “I told ye, Mother, I fell over in the street.”

  “Ye great lyin’ spalpeen! You’re thinkin’ a body’s so old and squinty she can’t be tellin’ a pistol-whippin’ when she sees one? Who hit ye—and why?”

  “I fell over and that’s the truth.”

  “I should wash your mouth out,” the woman snapped, but her old face sagged with worry as she turned to her stove. She had heard rumors—a word here, a snippet there, but that was all. What did she understand about strikes and suchlike? But she was aware that her son was deeply involved in a dangerous situation and she prayed every night on the beads that he would not come to real harm.

  She was fixing coffee for him when a knock sounded on the door. Clancy opened the door to O’Rourke who had a message from uptown: Ace Beauford wanted to see Clancy.

  “All right,” Clancy said quickly, “I’ll be comin’. Wait out at the gate. You know how mother is about ye.”

  “What’s that gaspin’, hackin’ little Orangeman want with ye?” Mother Clancy snapped as the door closed.

  “Well, he just come to remind me the lads are havin’ a meetin’ at the hotel to—”

  “Liar! I heard him say somethin’ about Beauford. What does that black-eyed divil always be wantin’ with ye these days? Ye know I’ve got no time for him.”

  Clancy threw up his hands in exasperation. “Blast it all, half the time you’re sayin’ you’re deaf as a post, but you hear more’n a jackrabbit I’m thinkin’.”

  “I hear enough and see enough to know that you’re lettin’ yourself be dragged down to somethin’ way over your head in this misbegotten town of trouble.”

  For once Mother Clancy was off the mark. It was her darling son who was in the forefront of the trouble in Spargo—dragging down a lot of other men who were as much in awe of his crushing fists as he was of his mother’s waspish tongue.