Benedict and Brazos 6

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “’Night, Dad,” the boy said. He left his horse with Regulator Chick Hasty and climbed the broad marble steps. “Sorry I’m a little late. I, er, was held up.”

  “Never mind about that. Tell me, did you see any sign of Duke while you were downtown?”

  “Matter of fact I just left him, Dad. Why?”

  “Is he all right? I haven’t seen him all afternoon.”

  “Sure, he’s fine. Maybe a little shaken up after the sh—”

  “Where is he?”

  Cole Kingston sighed. He wished he could lie to his father, but he’d never learned the knack.

  “He’s at the Delaneys with Brazos.”

  “Delaney’s? What in heaven’s name is he doing there?” Cole shrugged. “Having supper.”

  Cole waited for awkward questions but they didn’t come. At that moment, Foley’s mind was occupied only with the fact that Benedict was breaking bread with the enemy. He didn’t like that one little bit.

  Leaving Cole looking wonderingly after him, Foley strode towards the stables shouting for Hasty not to unsaddle Cole’s horse.

  “You goin’ ridin’, boss?” the Regulator asked as he brought the horse back out.

  “Of course I’m going riding,” he snapped, taking the lines and swinging up.

  “Well, just half a minute and I’ll be with you, Mr. Kingston.”

  Riding with a bodyguard had become so customary with Kingston that he found himself sitting his saddle waiting patiently for Hasty. But then he realized that riding with a Regulator would amount to a show of fear. When he rode through town earlier he’d seen the miners, stunned and cowed, beaten in the wake of Clancy’s mighty fall at Brazos’ hands. Yes, today he’d tasted a heady victory and he meant to enjoy it to the full.

  He would ride alone down to Bonanza Street. That would show them all that Foley Kingston knew he was firmly back on top.

  Chapter Nine – Cancelled Debt

  Egstrom was alone at the funeral parlor knocking up a coffin for Holly Doone. About seven o’clock, old Billy Murphy appeared in the doorway. The rusty old gun was stuck in his belt and a rye bottle poked from a coat pocket. His crutch was under his arm and his empty trouser leg was sewed like a sack across the bottom.

  Something about the old man disturbed the undertaker. Perhaps it was the gun, or maybe it was because old Billy looked really crazy tonight.

  “Something you want, Billy?” Egstrom asked.

  Murphy crutched himself drunkenly across the room and stood staring down at Doone’s body. “Me boy. They done me boy in ...”

  Egstrom gaped. “Your boy, Billy? But that’s not Tommy. That’s Holly Doone.”

  “Murdered me only son in cold blood they did,” the old man mumbled. “They’ll have to pay,” he added, shaking his head and making for the door. “They’ll all have to pay ...”

  The undertaker went to the door and stared after Billy. “Crazy,” he said. “Really crazy now ...”

  Egstrom was right about that, but he didn’t know the extent of Billy’s madness—nor did anyone else. Nobody liked Old Billy enough to have noticed the rapid deterioration in his mental state over the past few days. Spargo had grown accustomed to his ranting and snorting and spouting out his hatred for Foley Kingston, and if he’d been talking a little wilder and drinking more than usual the last day or so, then they supposed he had a right, what with his son being killed. But after his son’s death had come two days of savage drinking. This, plus the violent incidents at the Silver King that day, had finally snapped a brain long weakened by alcohol, pain and hatred.

  Mainly it had been the defeat of Clancy that had done it. Of all the miners in Spargo, Clancy alone had the fury and the power that Murphy could look up to. In Murphy’s half world of near insanity, Clancy had always been his hope, the one man who might bring down Foley Kingston’s citadel. Clancy had been his rock, then Brazos had smashed the rock and something had gone in the old man’s head. He’d seen Benedict shoot Holly Doone, but the recollection had become clouded through a day of drinking and brooding in his old frame house out by the cemetery. At times he saw Benedict shooting Doone, then it was Benedict shooting his son. Later he thought it had been Foley Kingston with the blazing gun and in the end Kingston and Benedict were inextricably confused. But the identity of the victim became constant. Every time he saw it again in his mind, it was his son going down in front of the saloon.

  He turned into Chisum Street and made his way to a favorite spot, the gloomy porch of the old derelict hotel five doors down from Johnny Street. Lowering himself to the porch edge, he leaned his crutch against the wall and took out his bottle. The butt of the old gun stuck into his ribs and he straightened, then drank deep.

  “Not a man amongst ’em!” he muttered fiercely, and belched.

  People passed by but paid him no more attention than he did to them. And then, suddenly, a voice penetrated the fog around him:

  “Howdy, Mr. Kingston.”

  Kingston?

  Old Billy looked up sharply. A passer-by had halted nearby to greet a passing rider. The horseman passed a street light and he saw the arrogant, hated face of Foley Kingston.

  The bottle dropped unheeded from Murphy’s fist. He seized his crutch and came upright as Kingston rode slowly down Chisum towards Bonanza Street.

  Murphy knew that only fate could have brought Foley Kingston to him, tonight of all nights. Benedict, he realized with a crystal-clear insight as he crutched swiftly after the unsuspecting rider, was only the tool of the devil. It was Kingston who’d crushed and burned all the poor lads in the mine. Kingston was responsible for poor Tommy’s death. Poor Tommy ... whose rusty old .45 felt like an extension of his own vengeful arm as he jerked the gun from his belt.

  Brazos leaned back in his chair, patted his muscular midsection and smiled contentedly.

  “Well, Yank, I reckon if my ole pappy was here tonight, he’d say to me, ‘Son, if you’re dumb enough to let yourself get into ruckuses with an Irishman the size of a grizzly bear, then the best thing you can do for yourself afterwards is to wrap yourself around steak and potatoes dished up by Miss Tricia Delaney.’ You reckon he’d say that, Yank?”

  “Your father would say anything.” Benedict smiled as he turned to the girl. “But it really was a fine meal, Tricia.”

  “My pleasure, Duke. But you’re not leaving so early, are you?”

  Benedict had picked up his hat from the table. “I never like to overstay my welcome.”

  “Heck, there’s hardly any chance of that,” Shamus protested. “You’ve only been here an hour. Can’t you be for stayin’ and havin’ a little game of cribbage with me and Hank? Hey, you’re stayin’ on, ain’t you, Hank?”

  “Well, I dunno, Shamus, I—”

  “’Course you are,” Delaney decided for him. “You’re better off here playin’ cards with me than trailin’ your coat around town tonight. You’re not goin’ to get the rest and attention you can be gettin’ here.”

  “Well, if you put it that way, I guess I’ll stay on a little then,” Brazos said. “How about it, Yank?”

  “Thanks all the same, but I guess I’d better go see Foley now.” Benedict shook hands with Shamus and turned to Tricia. “Thanks again for the fine meal. See you later at the hotel most likely, Reb.”

  “Take it easy, Yank.”

  Leaving the house, Benedict paused at the gate to light a cigar, then strolled slowly towards Chisum Street. Bonanza Street was quiet except for a couple of urchins playing near the old bakery, a domestic argument going on across the street, and a horseman just turning into Bonanza around the Chisum Street corner.

  Benedict watched the rider absently, sensing that he’d seen the horse before. He felt relaxed as he puffed on his smoke, but he narrowed his eyes curiously as somebody came hobbling fast around the corner from Chisum Street. Suddenly everything jolted into sharp focus. The hobbling figure had a gun in his hand and was aiming it at the unsuspecting rider.

  And the ride
r was Foley Kingston!

  “Foley, look out!” Benedict shouted as he raked for a Colt.

  His gun was still snaking out of the holster when Murphy’s Colt exploded. From the corner of his eye he saw the horse going down and then he had the gunman in his sights. Recollection of Holly Doone going down under his gun earlier pulled his barrel a fraction off dead center as he squeezed the trigger. The gunman went down screaming, a bullet in the shoulder.

  Cursing under his breath, Benedict sprinted down the walk to snatch up the dropped gun of Billy Murphy who writhed on the ground. Then he spun on his heel and ran to Foley Kingston, slowing with a sigh of relief when he saw Kingston getting to his feet. The horse was dead, but Kingston was unharmed except for a shaking.

  “Duke,” Kingston panted as Benedict reached him. “What the hell happened? Who is that?”

  “Old Billy Murphy,” Benedict supplied as people came rushing from their homes to see what was happening. “You all right, Foley?”

  “Damned, murderous old goat,” Kingston said. “Yes, I’m all right, Duke. Is he done for?”

  “Wounded.”

  “Pity you didn’t kill him. I’ll have him shipped down to Granite to stand trial for this as soon as he’s fit to travel. You know I had no idea he was coming up behind me. Only for you, Duke ... by God, only for you I’d be a dead man right now.”

  That didn’t really register with Benedict just then. He’d only done what he would have done for anybody. And there was no time to think about it for Brazos and Delaney arrived at that moment and it was necessary to explain to everybody what had happened.

  It wasn’t until an hour later, over a large whisky at the Lucky Cuss Saloon with Brazos, that the significance of what Foley had said and what had happened hit Benedict.

  He’d saved Kingston’s life.

  For the first time since coming to Spargo, Duke Benedict felt he was breathing free air. Not from the start had he been happy riding with Foley, but he owed him.

  Now the debt was cancelled.

  Morning ...

  “But, Duke, surely you can’t be serious?”

  “I’ve never been more serious in my life, Foley. I’m leaving.”

  Foley Kingston shook his head in disbelief. Benedict had just told him of the decision he’d made last night in the bar-room of the Lucky Cuss Saloon.

  “But ... but I don’t understand, Duke. You’ve done so much for me. Why leave just when we’re getting on top?”

  “I’ve never liked this deal, Foley, any part of it,” Benedict said. “And after yesterday ...”

  “You mean the business with Holly Doone?”

  “Yes.”

  “But surely you can’t hold me responsible for that? I had nothing to do with it. What happened there was just an offshoot of the fight between Brazos and Clancy.”

  “Damn it, Foley, can’t you see? If it hadn’t been for you and Clancy fighting your stupid war, yesterday wouldn’t have happened. There would have been no fight, in fact Brazos and I wouldn’t have been here.”

  “Well, I’m sorry you feel this way,” Kingston said stiffly. “I thought you sympathized with my problems here.”

  “Not for a minute. Not with yours and not with the miners’. This affair could have been settled over a table between reasonable men. In my opinion, you’re as bad as Clancy.”

  Foley Kingston was white with anger now. “I never expected to hear this from a former comrade-in-arms.”

  “Foley, we fought to keep a country at peace. Men died fighting what you and Clancy have allowed to happen here in Spargo.”

  Kingston stiffened. His eyes went cold. “I think you’d better go. Go, damn you! I don’t need you anymore! Foley Kingston doesn’t need anyone!”

  “Foley, I really don’t think you’ve got anyone,” Benedict murmured, then he left.

  In his upstairs room at the Silver King Saloon, Ace Beauford poured a finger of bourbon from the decanter on the bureau, and downed it. His head ached and his hands were not quite steady as he pulled on a clean linen shirt and looked for a tie. He seldom drank much, but he’d tied one on yesterday after the brawl downstairs. The heat of noon didn’t help his hangover any.

  Tapping heels sounded on the verandah and one of his percentage girls appeared in the doorway, decked out in her Sunday best.

  “Aren’t you comin’ to the buryin’, Ace?”

  “No, I’m not. Beat it.”

  The girl disappeared. He poured another jolt of whisky and looked into the mirror. Black eyes stared back at him, reflecting his contempt. Why should he attend Holly Doone’s funeral? All Doone had done was make things awkward for him by getting himself killed.

  He finished dressing and went downstairs to the barroom. The shutters were closed against the glare. To his left, the bar was lined with men’s backs. They were miners and they were drinking in silence. Yesterday had been a bad day for them, too.

  He nodded to the barkeep and the dealers, made his way to his usual table to the right of the batwings and signaled to the bar for two fingers of whisky. Then he dealt himself a hand of solitaire. When the barman came over with his drink he didn’t look up. He frowned at the cards without thinking about them.

  Benedict and Brazos.

  Just the thought of them dried his mouth. He picked up his glass and sipped. Two jokers in the deck and it was the biggest game he’d ever played in his life. Could he have foreseen what effect their presence would have on his big plans? He didn’t see how. He’d thought himself cunning and ruthless enough to get rid of both, in time. If only Clancy had broken big Brazos’ goddamn back—that would have left only Benedict to concentrate on.

  If. He took another little drink, then lowered his glass as the doorway was filled by a bellowing Paddy Clancy.

  “Hey, you boozin’ bastards, anybody seen Beauford today?”

  “Here,” Beauford called, then looked puzzled as the giant swung his battered face towards him and approached with a jaunty step. Knowing Clancy’s vanity, he hadn’t expected the Irishman to show his face around town after his beating by Hank Brazos, yet here he was looking downright jaunty. It didn’t add up.

  “Ace,” Clancy said excitedly, “have you heard?”

  “Heard what?” Beauford asked sourly.

  “They’re leavin’.”

  “Who?”

  “Brazos and Benedict.”

  “What?”

  “It’s the sweet truth, St. Patrick strike me dead if it ain’t, Ace, me bucko,” the giant exulted, leaning across the table and squeezing his shoulder. “They’ve just been down Bonanza Street, sayin’ goodbye to Delaney, and I seen ’em ridin’ for the south trail meself with their bedrolls and all on their horses.”

  Beauford was incredulous. “But why? How come?”

  “Listen and I’ll tell ye, lad. I got it from Delaney himself. It seems that Benedict was only stayin’ on with Kingston because he owed him a big favor from the war. Accordin’ to Delaney, neither of ’em had much stomach for workin’ for Kingston all along, and last night, when Old Billy Murphy tried to murder Kingston and Benedict stopped him, Benedict decided he’d squared accounts with Kingston and told him he was leavin’.”

  “I can’t believe it.” Beauford’s voice trembled with suppressed excitement. “Just when things looked worst, just when Doone got shot and—”

  “I know, I know,” Clancy said. Then, leaning close: “You know what it is, o’ course, Ace—it’s destiny, that’s what. We’ve had a reprieve and we daren’t tempt fate again by shilly-shallyin’ another day.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Clancy’s eyes glittered. “I mean we strike, Beauford, today.” He lifted his huge hands before him and made fists of them. “I mean Kingston, man. We can’t be takin’ another chance now that good fortune has smiled on us. We’ve got to do what I’ve wanted to do all along—squash him. You see that, don’t you?”

  Beauford smiled. Clancy was right. They couldn’t afford to give Foley Kingston brea
thing space. With Benedict and Brazos pulling out, they had an unexpected opportunity that they dare not pass up.

  Clancy jerked his head towards the miners at the bar. “We got an army ready for us, Ace. Them. A bellyful of your whisky on the house, a dose of Paddy Clancy’s silver tongue—and I’ll be a surprised lad if we don’t have a full-scale riot on our hands. It wouldn’t even surprise me if the lads got so worked up by tonight that they marched on Kingston Hill.”

  Staring into the giant’s eyes, Beauford thought of Rhea Kingston with a sudden hot desire, and then he knew that his decision had been inevitable from the moment he’d set eyes on her.

  “Jake!” he called across to his head barkeep. “You can close the till. No miner’s dollar is any good here today.” He grinned broadly as the drinkers gaped at him in astonishment. “You heard right, boys. Line up and name your poison!”

  Chapter Ten – The Gathering Storm

  Ten miles south of Spargo, Cherry Creek cut in close to the hillside bank and ran a deep, clear green. On one side, the foothills curved up steeply towards the looming Bucksaws, but the trailside was lined with trees. Willows crowded a broad stretch of yellow sandy bank and sycamores with mottled white limbs arched out over a deep, quiet pool.

  Only ten miles, but it seemed like fifty to Duke Benedict as he finished off saddling the horses and then watched Brazos mix up a batch of sourdough biscuits.

  It had been Brazos’ idea to stop off and make early camp when they came to the deep bend in the creek. Benedict had wanted to put more distance between them and the town with its dust and hate and smell of death, but he knew it wasn’t how far you went but where you went that mattered.

  “Hungry?” Brazos grunted.

  “Somewhat,” Benedict said as he pulled out his cigar case.

  Brazos mixed flour, baking powder, salt and sourdough starter and worked it into a firm dough. Then he pinched off balls the size of walnuts, put them in the skillet that was greased with lard and set them in the fire. He inhaled deeply as the good smell of cooking biscuits rose, then squinted at Benedict who was staring absently across the creek.