Benedict and Brazos 18

by E. Jefferson Clay

  He shook his head. No, not this time. He would leave with the gold or he wouldn’t leave at all. But how?

  Then it came to him, swiftly and surely, the way brilliant ideas always came. He stared north in the direction of the canyon. It was chancy, but it could work. It had to work . ...

  He swung around to face Stonehill and he talked fast. “I’m goin’ down by the river, Rack. The gold is cached at the old Mormon mission about twenty miles downstream. I’ll get a boat over at the timber camp. They say you can’t boat it down the Lizard, but I’m goin’ to find out if it’s so or not. If I get there, I’ll get there fast. That’ll give me time to get the gold out and loaded up. I’ll manhandle the buckboard down to the river and meet up with you and the boys there.”

  “Me and the boys?” Stonehill said. “How’ll we get there?”

  “Ride, of course. You and the men push on through the Blue Rocks—just the way I meant to go myself. Benedict and Brazos will follow you while I’m gettin’ to the gold. They’re still a good way back, so you should be able to keep about an hour ahead of ’em until you meet up with me. We’ll load the gold onto the boat and let the river take us south around the foothills. The country’s just about impassable down there by horseback, and the river’s mighty fast. They won’t even know how we’ve gone, and even if they did, they couldn’t hope to run us down. The river runs a hundred miles, all the way to Durant. We’ll grab mounts and a wagon there, then push south. Got it?”

  Rack Stonehill wasn’t sure. He started to speak, but Rangle cut him off:

  “You’ve got it,” he rapped. “Let’s go, Ruby baby.”

  Stonehill watched slack-jawed as Rangle ran to his horse, jerked his rifle from the saddle scabbard, then grabbed the girl’s hand and started off. Rangle was careful to pick his way across hard, stony ground, dodging the sandy spots. Moments later they were swallowed by the trees.

  “You shouldn’t have let him go that way, Rack,” redheaded Ward Bishop protested. “If you ask me, that’s the last we’ll see of that bastard—and his gold. Why didn’t you—?”

  “Why didn’t you?” Stonehill flared. “I didn’t notice you pipin’ up.”

  Bishop stood reproved. He’d been too scared to voice the opinion that Bo Rangle might not be trusted out of sight. They had all been too scared.

  “Do we go along with the plan, Rack?” Jack Clanton asked after a moment’s silence.

  It was the moment of decision for Rack Stonehill. They could cut and run now, the first real chance they’d had with Rangle gone. But they’d come so far and had been through so much that it seemed crazy to quit now with the gold so close.

  “We go along with it,” he decided, and trotted for his horse.

  The logging crew boss grinned at them, sprays of crowfoot wrinkles fanning from the corners of his deep-socketed eyes.

  “You must be jokin’, mister,” he said to the tall, green-eyed man with the rifle. He glanced at the girl at Rangle’s side, then went on. “That there is about the wildest stretch of white water in this corner of the territory.”

  But Bo Rangle wasn’t joking. Inclining his head at the row of timber boats tethered to the jetty nearby, he fished money from the pocket of his buckskin jacket. “How much for the biggest one?”

  The foreman frowned, realizing he was serious. From across the river came the steady ring of axes. Then the cry of “Timber!” came running down the breeze, followed by the splintering crash of a ponderosa pine hitting the earth with shuddering force.

  “I tell you it’s crazy, mister,” Casey Lincoln insisted. “I got men here who ain’t scared of old Scratch hisself, but you couldn’t pay ’em enough to boat down there.”

  Rangle fanned a fistful of money. “How much?”

  Lincoln’s frown deepened. He was a man accustomed to giving orders, not taking them. But he was also a sterling judge of character, and running Rangle up and down with his eyes and studying that cruel, long-boned face, he suddenly sensed the danger coming off this man. As he hesitated, Rangle angled his rifle up. It could have been an accidental motion, but Casey Lincoln had a hunch it wasn’t. This pilgrim, he decided, had the look of a lobo about him.

  “All right,” Casey said. “If you want to kill yourselves, I’ll take a hundred dollars.”

  Rangle counted the money into Casey’s palm and then he strode for the jetty where a powerful young man with curly black hair was fitting a new rudder to one of the boats.

  “They’re takin’ the big boat, Leo,” Casey called. “Untie it for ’em, will you?”

  Leo Butler frowned, then walked across to the boat. “Want me to row you across?” he asked, smiling at the girl.

  “We ain’t goin’ across,” Rangle grunted, helping Ruby into the heavy-planked keel boat. “We’re headin’ downriver.”

  The young lumberjack gaped. “Downriver? But—”

  “Yeah, we know—it’s crazy.” Standing in the stern, Rangle thrust against the jetty with the oar and the boat glided away.

  Butler stood scratching the back of his head as he watched the tall figure work the vessel around to face downstream. The boat picked up momentum as Rangle plied the oar. Then the tall man rested against the rudder as the full force of the current carried them swiftly towards the white water that boiled into the yawning jaws of the canyon.

  “Who the hell was that?” the tall man asked as Lincoln walked onto the jetty.

  Casey Lincoln shook his head. “Your guess is as good as mine, boy. But he looked like an owlhoot to me. My policy with that breed is to give ’em what they want.”

  Butler nodded and they stood in silence watching the swiftly receding craft approach the mouth of the canyon. Above the sound of the river, neither heard the horseman draw up and step down by the engine shed. Brady Monk stood by his horse for a moment staring downriver, then he strode onto the jetty.

  Monk propped as the men turned at the sound of his steps. He’d been so preoccupied with watching Rangle that he hadn’t taken much notice of the younger man. But he recognized him now. Monk had been involved in a ruckus with Butler and a friend at Whisky Bob’s in Devil’s Fork three weeks ago, and Butler’s big-mouthed friend had ended up with a bullet in his belly.

  “You!” Butler said. “What the hell are you doin’ here, Monk?”

  Monk paused, rested his hand on his gun butt, then started forward again. Always an intimidating sight, Monk looked even more so with his bloodied shoulder, four-day growth of black whiskers and a thick coating of trail dust.

  “Howdy, Butler,” Monk grunted. His gaze went to Casey Lincoln. “I want a boat, mister.”

  “Hell, I just sold one that I couldn’t spare,” Lincoln protested. “I can’t—”

  “I’m not buyin’, I’m takin’. Step aside, all of you!”

  “By Judas, you’ve got a brass-bound nerve, Monk!” Leo Butler clipped out. “Casey, this is the bastard who killed Tom Hudson in Devil’s Fork.”

  “Correct,” Monk growled. “He had a big mouth and he got in my way, just like you’re doin’ right now, Butler.” He jerked his head. “Move!”

  “Do like he says, Leo,” Casey Lincoln said quietly, stepping to one side.

  But Butler stood his ground, big fists bunched at his sides. “You ain’t bluffin’ me, Monk. You can’t just sashay in here and take what you want thataway. I won’t—”

  He broke off as Monk whipped out his gun and lunged at him. Butler threw up his arms and the Colt barrel deflected from his forearms and caught him a glancing blow across the temple. Butler hit the planking and Monk stepped over him, housing his gun. The outlaw crouched to untie the hawser holding the boat he’d selected. With blood running from his scalp, Butler pushed himself to arm’s length off the jetty. Then his eye fell on the boat hook lying nearby. He snatched it up, then lunged to his feet, swinging the hook like a club.

  “Leo, don’t!” Lincoln shouted.

  Monk ducked instinctively at the cry and the sweeping hook missed his head by a fracti
on. Butler staggered, then caught his glance and made to strike again. Monk’s lips skinned back from his teeth as his Colt came into his fist with lightning speed and belched fire.

  Butler fell back, hands clasped to his chest where bright blood bubbled. Monk swung the smoking cutter towards Lincoln, but the foreman stood gaping at the dead man, frozen with shock.

  “Thanks, pard,” Monk grinned as he leaped into the boat. “You saved my life.”

  Chapter Ten

  White Water

  The sound of the distant shot brought them to a sudden halt a half mile beyond the outlaws’ campsite. Benedict and Brazos exchanged a glance as they listened intently, but the sound wasn’t repeated.

  “Where’d that come from?” asked Nick Beecher.

  Benedict pointed north, then turned to Brazos. “I think we’d better take a look, Johnny Reb.”

  Brazos hesitated. He didn’t want to lose time. The tracks of the six horses led clearly into the hills and the sign was fresh.

  Sensing his indecision, Benedict said, “It won’t take long to check it out.”

  “All right,” Brazos grunted. “We’ll scout the campsite for sign. If there ain’t no tracks leadin’ away, then we’ll know that the shot ain’t connected with Rangle.”

  “Good enough,” Benedict replied and kicked his horse into a lope.

  Reaching the campsite, Brazos dismounted and began quartering the terrain on the northern side with the hound, while Benedict rode into the timber. Five minutes passed before Benedict reappeared and beckoned the Texan across. Brazos followed him into the trees for a short distance, then pointed to a boot-print in the soft earth at the base of a tree. Brazos dropped to one knee, then glanced up.

  “It’s the girl,” he said. He came erect and scouted deeper into the trees. Thirty yards on, he found two sets of prints, the small boot of the girl and the bigger ones of a man. The man’s right foot turned in slightly. “Paydirt, Yank,” Brazos called. “Rangle and the girl left the others and came through here on foot.”

  “What the devil for?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  While Benedict rode back to collect the others, Brazos followed the sign. He was a half-mile into the timber by the time Benedict joined him, by which time he’d made another discovery. A rider leading a second horse had come down off the towering red cliff a hundred yards south, and he’d followed Rangle and Ruby Ballard.

  Guns drawn, Benedict and Brazos led the way through the timber and came out at the lumber camp ten minutes later where a knot of check-shirted men stood grouped around the bunkhouse. The lumberjacks showed alarm as they came riding in, mistaking them for outlaws. But when Benedict explained who they were and what they were doing, old Casey Lincoln told them what had happened to the big, curly-headed lumberjack who lay dead on the bunkhouse porch.

  Grim-faced, Benedict and Brazos walked onto the jetty and stared down-river.

  “The old feller reckons it’s mighty dangerous down there,” Brazos said.

  “If it’s not too dangerous for Rangle and Monk,” Benedict replied, looking at the boats now, “it’s not too dangerous for us.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Brazos frowned. “Why do you reckon they split up?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But one thing is certain. If Rangle went down this river, then that’s where the gold is.”

  “And we’re wastin’ time. What sort of a hand are you with boats, Benedict?”

  “I rowed at Harvard.”

  “Somehow I get the feelin’ that that ain’t gonna be much help.”

  Casey Lincoln did his best to try and talk them out of it when he learned that they too meant to take a boat down the river, but to no avail. Benedict paid cash money for the boat, then added more money to secure the services of four of Lincoln’s men to follow them down-river on their horses, while Brazos loaded Tara, Chalkey, Bullpup and Beecher into the boat. Five minutes later, they were hanging on tight as the current whipped them swiftly towards the towering walls of Lizard River Canyon.

  “I’m as brave as ever,” Peter Chalkey said, face white with terror as they went plunging down the first sickening dip. “Maybe even braver. Ride, fight or sail—it don’t just seem fair that a man should be tops at everythin’.”

  The little man’s words were all but lost in the roar of the river. With Brazos and Nick Beecher hanging on grimly to the tiller, and Benedict standing lookout in the prow, they cut under a jutting shelf of stone, arrowed between two thrusting spears of rock that rose from the water like hungry dragon’s teeth, then shot through to quieter water.

  Benedict threw a glance back over his shoulder at Tara and Chalkey, huddled together in the belly of the craft directly behind him, then he looked ahead again.

  The sound of the water deepened. There was a bend ahead and the river seemed to be straining to get there. Rocky ramparts rose on either side. Lizard River Canyon was in deep shadow here, and that avenue of brilliant blue sky far above looked remote.

  The keel boat took the turn and the river broadened. A few shafts of sunlight were cutting down now, turning the spray to gold. On either side the water was bubbling and ruffling.

  Benedict looked for the best way through. The main current went into a V and looked to be straight as far as he could see.

  “A little right!” Benedict shouted, and Brazos and Beecher worked the rudder. “Too far!” Benedict bellowed and they swung back, skimming over the top of a huge blue boulder, then rolling in the grip of the surge.

  They were sucked into the main rapids so suddenly that Brazos was thrown off-balance as the tiller jerked. Cursing with rare Texan fluency as he slipped on the wet boards, the big man took purchase on Beecher’s leg to haul himself erect and grabbed hold of the tiller again.

  “Just in time. Right!” Benedict roared and they slewed right. They heard the keel crunch on stone, but they hung straight in the current, trembling, creaking past the deadly, hidden rocks until the white water lapsed and riffled out into dark green.

  Benedict drew his sleeve across his streaming face and glanced back to see how the others were faring. Tara Killane met his gaze and half-smiled, her courage sending a stab of regret through him. What a waste! A girl with as much as she had, obsessed with nothing more than hatred for a man like Rangle ...

  Looking like a drowned rat in his voluminous coat, Chalkey was shaking his head, lips working. Benedict couldn’t hear what the man was saying, but he felt he could guess. Chalkey would be telling the river gods that if this was the best they could do, they might as well forget about throwing fear into the lion heart of Peter the Great.

  Beecher was resting against the gunwales while Brazos worked the tiller. Benedict found himself staring speculatively at the Texan who stood, barrel chest unbuttoned to the elements and rocky jaw set in that determined line he knew so well. At that moment he was acutely aware of the countless times they’d faced danger together, and he remembered that not once had Johnny Reb let him down in an emergency.

  Then Brazos caught his eye and shouted, “This ain’t Harvard, Benedict—keep your goddamn eyes on where we’re goin’!”

  Benedict grinned and looked ahead. The easy going lasted a quarter mile before the boat rounded another bend. Here the walls narrowed sharply again and the way head was a seething wall of spray. The boat picked up speed. Dashing spray from his eyes, Benedict watched half-seen boulders go flashing by and felt the timbers groan in protest beneath his feet. Suddenly a towering stone tooth loomed ahead, rushing at him with frightening speed.

  “Left!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, then he flung himself low.

  Powerful hands jerked the tiller. The boat turned left, and for a hanging moment it seemed they had missed the rock. Then came the low, tearing crunch of rock biting into wood. The boat shot high and almost stood on its nose. The tiller was plucked from Brazos’ hands, and, swinging, caught Nick Beecher in the chest. Brazos had a fleeting glimpse of a horrified face and then Nick Beecher was
gone.

  The river seemed to growl hungrily. Brazos stared back into the foaming boil, then staggered as the flying tiller caught him across the shoulder. He fell across Bullpup, and man and dog lay winded for a long moment before Benedict’s shout jerked Brazos to his feet again.

  “Right!” Benedict bellowed and Brazos sent the boat to the right. “Left! Easy now ... right a little—hold!”

  So it went on. Water poured in through the deep gash down the starboard side, but there was no chance of the wooden boat sinking. The danger lay in the extra weight of water which caused the craft to sit lower, rendering it more vulnerable to the rocks. Several times the craft shuddered and groaned over boulders that threatened to tear it apart, but each time the force of the current saved them, whipping them on to the next brief calm, the next set of rapids.

  Hank Brazos was a man of uncommon physical power, but by the time the river began to broaden again, the big man’s strength was almost spent. Slumping against the gunwales, sucking in great draughts of air, he stared up at the sky. A hawk circled in the deep blue, the trailing edge of his wings standing out sharply against a patch of white cloud.

  The river grew quieter. There were no rapids here and they were riding through rocky banks and tall, mournful-looking pines. Chalkey and Tara moved to the lee side, away from the gash in the flank, and Benedict peered ahead.

  A half-mile farther on they went down some small rapids, feeble little things after the hell they’d been through. Then, with the rapids behind and travelling through broad, deep water, Benedict suddenly pointed to the right bank. There was a long, low shelf there amongst drooping willows, and under the shelf was the wreckage of a boat.

  Lurching against the motion of the craft, Benedict came down to the stern and picked up his rifle. They watched the region around the wrecked boat intently, but saw no sign of life.

  “That’s about the same size boat as ours, Yank,” Brazos panted. “Lincoln said Rangle took a big boat, so that must be Monk’s.”