Benedict and Brazos 20

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Though Benedict watched closely as the hulking Texan treated the black’s leg with an array of liniments and ointments that he carried in his battered leather possibles bag, he didn’t see deft fingers remove the thumbnail-sized stone embedded in the frog of the hoof. Nor did he see the sly glance Brazos gave his scarred monster of a hound, which seemed to be able to sense what was going on. All he saw, after an hour had passed, was Brazos leading the black around in a wide circle. Five hundred dollars’ worth of pure-blood horse was suddenly apparently fit enough to run all the way to Canada.

  “Well, he bounced back a lot quicker than I figgered, Yank,” Brazos grinned, slapping the black’s rump. “Amazin’ how they can fool you sometimes, ain’t it?”

  It was surely a triumph to savor. However before finis could be written to the affair of Dusty Lane, Hank Brazos would have cause to wonder if he’d lost or won.

  Chapter Two – Red Sun

  LATE AFTERNOON’S LONG shadows, stretched down Federal Street, fell on a mountainous bulk clad in a greasy black suit and sporting a towering black topper. The soles of J. Repose Buckhout’s shoes squeaked painfully, sounding like tiny live things were being crushed beneath the burden of his three hundred pounds.

  Buckhout, Spearhead’s coroner and undertaker, had seen his business take a turn for the better following the violent events that three days ago had rocked Spearhead and he was a happy man as he turned into the jailhouse doorway.

  Sheriff Jobe Calvin, a weary, somewhat seedy looking fellow of fifty, eyed the undertaker with a mixture of interest and repugnance.

  “Something I can do for you, Mr. Buckhout?”

  “Has he arrived yet, Sheriff?” Buckhout asked coming into the office, holding up his belly with his ham like hands. Between his fat cheeks, mottled by drink and a heart condition aggravated by gross overeating, his fleshy nose hung over a small moist mouth. “Mr. Smart, I mean.”

  Calvin spat and hit the spittoon ten feet away in the corner. The sheriff was a much better spitter than he was a lawman. He was honest enough, and he tried hard, but he simply wasn’t up to handling a savage double murder and an execution, and the strains of his office were showing clearly tonight.

  “No, he hasn’t got here yet,” the sheriff informed, getting to his feet and rubbing the back of his neck. “He should arrive tomorrow. You want to see Lane, I take it, Mr. Buckhout?”

  Buckhout nodded gravely. He’d already collected a fee for performing his coroner’s duties on Sam Eastman and Vic Clanton, and he’d handled the funerals of both men. He was also on a fifty dollar guarantee from the council to bury Lane after the hanging on Monday morning. “That is correct, Sheriff,” he said in his professional voice. “I shall be working on his casket tomorrow so I want to—”

  The undertaker broke off as boots sounded on the jailhouse porch. Then two men came in. There was an almost comical contrast in the appearance of Jubal Trogg and City Marshal Milt Brand. Buckhout’s junior partner in Buckhout and Company, Dignified Funerals, Jubal Trogg was short and rotund with round brown eyes, big white teeth and a way of walking that made him seem to bounce. The aging lawman was tall and lean with thin lips and a grayness about him that went beyond his sparse gray hair and drooping moustache and was part of the man’s character.

  “Evenin’, Mr. Buckhout,” Trogg beamed before giving Sheriff Calvin a nod of his curly black head. “I was with Chastity eatin’ pork fries and chittlin’s when I recollected you was plannin’ to visit the office and measure Dusty up, so I figgered I might as well come along and see if there was anything I could do. Met the marshal here headin’ this way, Mr. Buckhout. The marshal seems concerned about Mr. Smart.”

  “Is that so, Marshal?” Buckhout said with concern.

  The marshal shrugged as he sat against the edge of the desk and fingered his hat back from his forehead. “I was talking to Bill Travers the mail rider at the Golden Gate a spell back,” Brand informed them in his dry, flat voice. “He said he saw some tracks of unshod ponies in the Big Horns today. As far as I know, Mr. Smart will be travelling through the Big Horns by South Pass, and he’ll be travelling alone.”

  “This is most disturbing, Marshal,” Buckhout said. He looked from one lawman to the other. “Perhaps, under the circumstances, somebody should ride out to meet Mr. Smart and escort him in.”

  But there were no takers. Jobe Calvin did very little riding these days, and Brand was strictly a city marshal.

  “I might have some doubts about his safety,” Brand said, “but I’m damned if I’ll ride out there. “Matter of fact, I wouldn’t ride to the end of the street for a hangman.”

  Calvin nodded in agreement. Elroy Smart had never been called upon to perform his grisly duties in Spearhead before, but the man was unpopular in town sight unseen. There was something grisly about a hangman that alienated even those sworn to uphold the law.

  The undertaker sighed. “In that case, I suppose we’d just better hope for the best. Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I have a duty to perform.”

  “You ... want me to come in with you, sir?” Jubal Trogg asked, sounding nervous. Fat Jubal hadn’t always been this conscientious about his work, but things had changed recently. Two days ago, Jubal had astonished his employer by making a firm offer to buy him out, showing him hard cash to prove he was serious. Buckhout had insisted on taking time to think it over, and since then Trogg had been buzzing around him continually, as if he hoped his presence might help the undertaker decide to sell.

  Even so, Buckhout was surprised that Jubal should show up here at the law office, considering that Jubal’s eye-witness account of the double killing had convicted Lane. He must really want the business badly, the undertaker reflected, to risk coming near Lane. It was the girl, of course. She was pushy, and no mistake. Buckhout licked his lips at the thought of Chastity Brown. She was a lush, hot-eyed little piece and what she saw in a bumbling fool like Jubal Trogg he just couldn’t comprehend.

  “I don’t think it would be a good idea to let Lane see you, Trogg,” Buckhout murmured. He puckered his lips. “Under the circumstances.”

  Trogg looked so relieved that the sheriff had to grin. “Weight off your mind, eh, Jube?”

  “Do you think I’m afraid of Lane, Sheriff?” the little man said, thrusting out his jaw.

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I assure you, Sheriff—”

  But Trogg’s declaration of courage was interrupted by Dusty Lane’s bellowing voice from the cell-block. “Who’s out there? Is that you, Trogg, you lyin’, dirty-mouthed bastard? By Judas, you’ve got your nerve showing up here. Send him in, Calvin!”

  Jubal Trogg made fast time to the door. “Just remembered somethin’ I got to do for Chastity, Mr. Buckhout,” he panted, and was gone.

  “Wonder what that somethin’ could be?” the sheriff mused, wearing the certain look most men assume when their conversation touched on Trogg’s swivel-hipped young woman. Then he turned back to the undertaker. “Well, you might as well get on with what you came to do, Mr. Buckhout. Do you want me to go in with you?”

  “Thanks, but I can manage alone, Sheriff,” Buckhout murmured, and he turned into the archway that led to the cells.

  As befitted a big, bustling town, Spearhead’s jailhouse was spacious and strongly built. It boasted six cells, only two of which were occupied this sultry summer night. One eight-by-eight housed the condemned killer and the other was temporarily occupied by hairy, whisky-drinking Billy Dunn, who made it to the jailhouse at least once a month for his drunken escapades. This time is was for trying to ride Gus Hanline’s sway-backed mule through the Big Dipper Saloon. Feeling better by the hour as the effects of his latest joust with John Barleycorn faded, Billy greeted the undertaker’s solemn face with a cackle.

  “Here he is, Dusty boy. Here’s your good old pard, Heavy Belly Buckhout.”

  Wishing for a moment it was Dunn he’d come to measure, Buckhout turned his back on the drunk and stared through the bars of the cel
l opposite. Dusty Lane, lolling on his bunk, greeted him with a mocking smile.

  “The little weed was too yeller to come in, huh?” he grinned. “I guess that don’t surprise me none.” The condemned man leaned back and scratched his belly. “Well, what can I do for you, Heavy Belly, old son?”

  Buckhout cleared his throat.

  “I wonder if you would be so good as to pass me out your coat, Dusty?”

  “Sure thing, Heavy Belly.” The prisoner took his leather coat down from a wall peg and pushed it through the bars. He grinned broadly as Buckhout took out a tape measure and ran it across the back of the jacket.

  “Coat’s a little snug, Heavy Belly,” he said, “so allow for that when you’re runnin’ up the box, will you? Never could stand nothin’ too tight across the shoulders.”

  That sent Billy Dunn into a paroxysm of laughter. Billy had been locked up with some odd characters during twenty years of heavy boozing, but Dusty Lane was easily the most entertaining of all.

  “Shut up that brayin’, Billy!” the sheriff called from the front, and the drunk’s stubbled jaws shut like a trap. Jobe Calvin was prone to kicking people around the cells when they didn’t behave while enjoying the law’s hospitality. Billy Dunn had had a sample and he didn’t want more. Buckhout finished measuring the jacket and passed it back through the bars. Then, after making estimates of Dusty Lane’s height and weight and tabulating them on a dog-eared pad with a stub of pencil, the undertaker took a long look at the first man to be convicted of murder in Spearhead in over two years.

  Dusty Clinton Lane, was a barrel-chested man of medium height. He had thinning fair hair, merry blue eyes, and a huge grin. Well known around the county as a hell-raiser, and rumored to be a cow rustler and a bandit, Lane had been arrested in the street outside Eastman’s Store ten minutes after the double killing. Lane had vociferously protested his innocence, and many a towner, Buckhout included, had wondered how a man of such a genial disposition could suddenly turn bloody killer. There were still many in town who had grave doubts about the man’s guilt, despite Jubal Trogg’s testimony and the fact that Marshal Milt Brand himself had seen the killer running from Eastman’s store directly after the shooting. When asked by the judge what he had been doing hiding in a disused barn a hundred yards from the store, Lane had told the court he’d been summoned to Supply Street that night by a mysterious message. The judge hadn’t believed him and neither had the jury. Buckhout had also scorned Lane’s feeble defense at the time, but it was hard to meet those blue eyes up close and still believe him to be a double murderer.

  “You got one of them foul-smellin’ cigars I saw you smokin’, Buckhout?” Lane asked as the fat man finished his chore.

  Buckhout took a cigar from a silver case and passed it through the bars. He even struck a light for Lane, who sucked the weed to life and then leaned casually against the bars.

  “Thanks a heap, Heavy Belly. Tell me, has he shown up yet?”

  Dusty Lane held an imaginary noose at the side of his jaw and suddenly he jerked up his hands. His head rolled to the side, then he poked out his tongue and made a gurgling sound in his throat.

  “No ... he hasn’t arrived yet,” Buckhout replied, and turned to go. He couldn’t take any more of this. Such contempt for death was sacrilege.

  Hank Brazos froze, one dusty boot poised above the ground. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe. Had he or hadn’t he heard a whisper of sound?

  Sprawled full length some six feet behind with a Peacemaker in either hand, Duke Benedict watched Brazos and waited. They hadn’t exchanged a word since a fusillade of gunshots and fierce, blood-curdling yells had drawn them to this gaunt and gloomy ridge from their campsite a mile down trail. Everything had been done by signs, and now Benedict was waiting for the sign that would tell him to either stop worrying or get ready for trouble.

  Brazos’ intent gaze moved slowly around. Dawn was just a gray smudge, but he could make out the bulk of a tree close by. Nothing stirred, but he seemed to catch the faintest hint of a stench that stirred ugly memories from his boyhood along the Red River. It was the smell of rank sweat mixed with the rancid animal fat Comanche bucks used in their hair.

  Too bad he hadn’t been able to bring Bullpup up from the camp. His battle-scarred trail hound would have been able to let him know what went on in double-quick time. But he’d had to tether the hound for Bullpup hated Comanches even more than he did and he’d have been sure to bark. Brazos couldn’t risk that. They had heard a white man’s voice five minutes back. If the red guts had captives and heard anything suspicious, they would cut all available white throats without hesitation.

  The seconds ticked by, then they both heard the stealthy, whispery brush of movement from beyond the tree.

  Brazos saw the Indian first, a dim red shadow wriggling towards a big nest of rocks thirty yards away. He lifted the Colt and his finger was beginning to press against the curve of the trigger when he heard the stomp of a horse off to his right. He turned his head—just as a lithe shape burst from the cover of a hackberry bush and came at him with a nerve-ripping shriek.

  Everything happened at once.

  Benedict’s right-hand Colt belched and the leaping savage fell to the ground and then bounded up again to come at Brazos. Brazos’ .45 bucked and the bullet burned into a contorted red face. Then the second Comanche was on him, bearing down on his gun hand. Strong fingers dug into his wrist tendons and the savage’s weight came down on him as he fell, the gun dropping from his hand. Snapping teeth sought his throat. He butted his head under a bony chin. The crack of impact sounded as loud as a pistol shot. They grappled and rolled. The Comanche was all muscle and sinew. Brazos kneed the Indian to the groin and all he drew was a deep-chested grunt. The strengthening light gleamed on steel and he twisted violently aside to dodge the flashing blade. He lashed out with his fist and hit nothing but air. The knife arm was lifting again when the Colt went off, so close that Brazos’ head rang with the report. Then the Comanche’s dead weight fell on him. He felt the spill of hot blood and heaved the limp body aside.

  “One I owe you, Benedict.”

  Benedict, pausing only long enough to thrust a Colt into the Texan’s fist, leaped forward to the cover of a deadfall log as a bowstring thrummed. Lips skinned back from clenched teeth, Benedict put two shots in the direction of the sound. Brazos’ Colt chimed in from behind and there was a shriek of agony. Together they converged on the humped shape of a gray boulder, then hugged the ground as a six-gun flamed. Brazos rolled off to one side and Benedict cut loose at the gun flash. The Comanche answered with a shot and Benedict felt lead whisper past his neck. He bounded up, slewed to one side and then fired again. There was the thud of a falling body. Another wild cry sounded, then came the swift pad of moccasined feet. A moment’s silence, then the sudden stutter of unshod pony hoofs ... and silence again.

  They waited, guns at the ready, ears keened for every faint sound. The light was strengthening rapidly now and they could make out the big nest of boulders clearly. It was from the boulders that the uncertain voice came: “Who’s out there?”

  “White men,” Benedict called back, dropping low in case his shout solicited redskin attention. “How many of you?”

  “One!” came the reply. “The Indians—are they ...?”

  “We nailed two and one skee-daddled,” Brazos supplied. “You know how many there were, joker?”

  “Three! At least that was all I saw!”

  “Only three. What do you reckon, Benedict?”

  “We’ll stay put until the sun is up.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Slow minutes passed. The stars still gleamed, but the pale wash of light in the east was rapidly challenging them as it grew and spread across the sky. Already birds were flitting about in the brush. The weak moon lost its light, and quite suddenly, marching across the sky in flaming glory were the peaks of the Big Horn Mountains, incandescent in the first rays of the still hidden sun. The peaks seemed t
o float in the sky, fantastic pyramids of flame. Then after magic minutes, the blood-red sun surged over the horizon and the floating peaks of fire became the iron walls of mountains.

  Benedict and Brazos rose together when they saw the pair of tethered Indian ponies down by the dogwood. With Benedict covering him, Brazos scouted the battle scene. There was nothing to be found but two dead Indians and blood splashes that marked the survivor’s progress to his horse.

  Brazos signaled that all was clear and they converged on the nest of stones. “It’s all right, friend,” Benedict called. “You can come out now.”

  A man emerged with a big, old-fashioned Henry repeater under his arm. He was a short man of perhaps forty-five, and though dusty and jaded looking, was unusually well dressed. He wore a sober dark suit, a high celluloid collar, a double-breasted vest and spats. A hard-hitter hat sat dead center on his head.

  “You all right, friend?” Benedict murmured, palming his six-gun into leather.

  “I ... I rather think so,” the stranger replied in a voice that had an educated ring to it. He looked nervously at the hulking Brazos, then he shuddered when he glimpsed the dead savages. “Hideous,” he said. “Only for my horse whickering, I would have slept on and ...” he shivered.

  Benedict and Brazos exchanged a glance, and Brazos said, “You’re all shook up, amigo. You got any liquor with you? Seems to me you need a good slug or two.”

  The fat men gestured vaguely at the nest of rocks. Brazos walked in while Benedict took the man by the arm and forced him to sit down on a stone slab.

  Running his eyes cursorily over the campsite, the Texan nodded in approval. The stranger had shown good horse sense in picking this place. If the redskins had flushed him in the open, he would have been dead in the first few seconds.

  Brazos dropped on one knee beside the man’s saddle and gear. There were two sets of saddlebags. He elected to check the better filled of the pair first for the whisky. He grunted when he flipped the flap open only to find the bag packed tight with rope. He was about to reach for the second bag when he frowned. There was something odd about the loop in that yellow rope.