Benedict and Brazos 20

by E. Jefferson Clay

  He smiled and touched her bare arm. “You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, Merle baby. Honest.”

  Some of the tension went out of her at that. “Do you really mean that?”

  “You know it.”

  “Prove it.”

  “How …?” he began, then caught on. His smile widened and he slipped his arm around her slender waist. “Whatever you say, baby,” he whispered, leading her towards the doorway. “Just whatever you say ...”

  Climbing stiffly to his feet, Elroy Smart moved onto the shelf of stone fronting his cave and scratched his belly. The hangman was still rotund, but not nearly as much as he had been. His pants were beginning to hang and his shirt was getting floppy. His stomach rumbled, not with hunger, but resentfully. He fingered his mid-section tenderly as his eyes played over the gaunt stone walls and the tops of the barely visible trees swaying in a breeze he couldn’t even feel down here in his accursed stone prison.

  Resentment stirred in the hangman’s breast and grew stronger. It was the third day. Three days of living on spring water, dried meat and stale bread. Three days of being afraid to light a fire for fear of attracting renegades, and of keeping silent for the same reason. Three days of loneliness, of fear and solitude for a man whose only crime had been ... what? There had been no crime. Perhaps, if there had been, he might have been able to endure his punishment more stoically. But what had he ever done other than his duty? What sin had he committed to warrant such treatment?

  He simply refused to believe this could be retribution for springing the trap under twenty-seven convicted killers. It was nothing but massive injustice, and by God and by Judas he wasn’t going to tolerate it a moment longer!

  He was going to light a fire. If he didn’t have hot food and coffee tonight, he doubted if he would see another sunrise.

  Feeling braver by the minute, the hangman collected an armful of dried sticks, brought them to the cavern mouth, and in minutes had a merry blaze going. Filling a pot at the spring, he thrust it over the flames and was reaching for the jerky when the pebble came clattering down from above to bounce off the hard stone not six feet away.

  “No!”

  The hangman vanished, crawling to the very rear of the cave, his heart in his mouth, scarcely daring to breathe. Frozen with fear, he watched the flames begin to die, and the evening shadows deepening into darkness across his tiny canyon.

  Sixty feet above, the curious coyote that had been drawn by the smell of the smoke backed away from the cliff edge, then sped off to hunt as the first bright stars winked into life over the Big Horn Mountains.

  The same bright stars that glowed above Elroy Smart’s mountain prison gave a silver sheen to the plain, white-painted head marker that identified the grave of Dusty Lane.

  J. Repose Buckhout had been in a terse mood when he did the lettering.

  CLINTON LANE HANGED FOR MURDER 21st August, 1866

  The hunched-up figure seated on the adjoining tombstone shook his head and looked miserable.

  “It was a lousy thing to do, Dusty,” big-nosed Tim Fenner said bitterly. “Goin’ off like that and not even tellin’ me where you stashed the dinero. I call that dirty mean all the way down.” He picked up a clod of dirt and tossed it on the fresh mound of torn clay. “Did you think you could take it with you? Now you’re dead and gone and I ain’t got the price of a damn drink. You think that was fair, Dusty, you cheap, no-good chiseler?”

  There was more in the same vein as the moon rose to bathe the cemetery in its cool, metallic light. A little wind started up and stirred the line of dogwood trees that had been planted along the east side of Boothill. A mile west, the bright lights of Spearhead glittered in the night. The saloons were doing big business tonight, catering to the big crowds that had turned up to see the hanging. Yet, despite all the free-spending people in town, unlucky Tim had only been able to mooch two drinks before setting out for the cemetery to tell his old “pard” what he really thought of him.

  “It wasn’t as if I never wanted to help you dodge the rope, Dusty,” he insisted, still going strong after thirty minutes. “I did. And I would have only ... well, only that hangman looked so damned proddy. And as for that overgrown Texan and his dog ...” Fenner’s voice faded, then picked up again. “You shoulda known I’d help if I could, Dusty. You shouldn’t have took it out on me by croakin’ without so much as a word about—”

  He broke off in mid-sentence. Somebody was riding down the town trail towards the cemetery.

  Fenner rose and moved to the shadows of a peppercorn tree, expecting the rider to go by. But he didn’t. Instead he swung in at the cemetery gate, stepped down, tethered his horse and the spare he was leading, then came forward.

  It was the Texan, Brazos. And he was toting a shovel.

  Fenner’s skinny chest shuddered breathlessly as he backed deeper into the screen of trees. Owl-eyed and barely breathing, he watched the giant Texan make his way directly to Lane’s grave, where he dropped to one knee and called something that sounded for all the world like, “You all right, Dusty?”

  Fenner felt appalled and sickened. What in heaven’s name was going on here?

  It didn’t take long to find out. Stripping off his shirt to reveal the muscles of a circus strongman, the Texan set to work with the shovel.

  He was digging down to the coffin!

  Fenner felt his knees give away. He slumped in the gloom, staring out at the toiling figure with glassy eyes, wondering if they had slipped something into his last drink. Or had this man Brazos gone loco? They said all Texans were at least a little crazy ...

  Suddenly the stunned look left his eyes as he noticed for the first time the length of pipe. It seemed to rise from the buried coffin, and must have been concealed under the marker which the Texan had tossed aside. Rising to a crouch, Fenner watched with sharper interest. Then he heard the sharp sound of metal striking wood.

  Brazos dropped from sight in the hole. Fenner heard his voice again, but couldn’t hear what was said. Then the shovel shot up clay for a minute or more until Brazos flung it aside and disappeared again.

  Fenner inched forward. He heard the creak of timber and voices. Then the Texan’s head and shoulders appeared above the uneven line of the soil heap, followed by another head.

  It was Dusty. A living, breathing Dusty Lane!

  Tim Fenner stood there bent half-double, watching the grinning pair climb from the hole, trying desperately to guess the how and the why of it. Maybe, the how was plain enough, staring at that pipe which Brazos had placed atop the clay heap before opening the coffin. If they had buried Dusty alive, then he would have been able to get plenty of air through a pipe that size. But why? Why had they buried Dusty when he wasn’t dead? And how had they hanged him this morning if he—

  There was a sharp crack beneath him. He hadn’t realized he’d been moving back into deeper shadow as he worked his stunned brain. Two heads jerked in his direction and the Texan said:

  “There’s somebody there!”

  “And maybe I know who,” Lane rapped, starting to run. “Let’s get him!”

  Fenner whirled to run and crashed into the stout trunk of a tree. Reeling back, blinded by tears, he swore fearfully and got his feet working again. He went crashing through low-hanging branches, and covered what he thought to be a fleet-footed thirty yards before Brazos ran him down.

  “Fenner!” Brazos panted, holding him inches off the ground by a handful of shirt. “What the hell are you doin’ here?”

  “Let me down!” Fenner panted, threshing about wildly. “I never meant nothin’. I was just ...” He broke off as Brazos dropped him back to his feet. Then Dusty Lane ranged up beside the Texan. For a man who had spent twelve hours six feet under, Dusty seemed chipper enough. But he was hardly friendly.

  Fenner managed a smile. “Hello, Dusty. It’s ... it’s sure good to see you’re alive and well.”

  “Good to see you too, old son,” Dusty Lane smiled, stepping up to him. Then, without a
word of warning, he punched him in the mouth with all his strength, knocking him senseless to the ground.

  Chapter Eight – Touch Of Steel

  BRAZOS WATCHED ALMOST indifferently as Fenner struggled back to consciousness. It was hard to feel sorry for Fenner, even sprawled there on the clay by the graveside where Brazos had placed him after Dusty’s unexpected haymaker. Slinking, furtive, bad smelling and big-mouthed, ugly Tim was one of those people you just couldn’t take to, no matter what.

  But even if he might have been a little short on sympathy, Hank Brazos was still curious. “Why, Dusty?” he asked, climbing back down into the grave to replace the coffin lid.

  “He had it comin’, Sarge,” Lane said laconically, watching Fenner struggle to a sitting position. He touched the man with the toe of his boot. “Didn’t you, old son?”

  Fenner nodded without looking up and Lane turned back to Brazos who was reaching for his shovel. “He sat here for thirty minutes before you showed up, callin’ my dead bones every dirty name he could lay his tongue to, Sarge.” He grinned crookedly. “Never knew I was down there wide awake with both ears open, did you, Tim boy?”

  “I never meant what I said, Dusty,” Fenner insisted. “It was just on account of I needed the money so bad that I—’

  “What money is that?” Brazos asked, pausing in his work.

  “Just a bit of dough we made between us, Sarge,” Lane said off-handedly.

  The Texan’s blue eyes cut from one man to the other. “Honest money or the other kind?” he asked. “Maybe, knowin’ you, I can guess already, Dusty.”

  “I never did lie to you, so I reckon it’s too late to start now—especially after what you and Duke done for me today, Sarge,” Lane said. Then he shrugged. “Sure, you guessed it right. Me and Tim pulled a little job.” Then his face took on an intent look. “But that don’t make me a killer. You’ve got to believe that.”

  “Reckon I do at that,” Brazos said, working the shovel again as he refilled the grave. “Not that it matters much one way or the other now, I guess, Dusty. You’re alive, we pulled it off, and you’re free to drift where you please now, innocent or guilty. And I reckon you’ll be takin’ your old pard here along now ... just to make sure he don’t open his mouth about a dead man that wasn’t dead at all, huh?”

  “Some pard,” Lane said sourly, but he seemed to be thinking about something else.

  “Ain’t you gonna tell me how you done it, or why, Dusty?” Fenner whined, rubbing his tender jaw. “And how come you keep callin’ this feller Sarge?”

  “On account of he was my sergeant in the Texas Brigade, of course,” Lane supplied, still with a preoccupied look about him. “As for the how, well, a neat little collar the Sarge and his pard fixed up, plus some good play-actin’ on my part, an air pipe down to the coffin, and you’ve got it. Simple, eh, Sarge?”

  “When you say it quick, mebbe,” Brazos grinned. He rested for a moment on the spade handle. “Your horse is gettin’ fidgety, Dusty. Don’t want to hurry you along none, but it might be best if you don’t waste too much time. Luck’s gone our way so far, but we don’t want to run the risk of somebody sightin’ you.”

  Dusty Lane came slowly erect to flick his half-smoked cigarette aside. “There’s been a change in plans, Sarge,” he said slowly. “I ain’t leavin’.”

  “What?”

  “I want my name cleared, Sarge. I want to prove my innocence so I can walk free again and go callin’ on my gal that that dirty little Trogg tried to steal off me. Maybe I ain’t much good, Sarge, but I don’t see why I should wear the stripe of somebody else’s crime all my life.”

  “But damn it all, Dusty, the Yank and me got things to do and places to go. I just about had to break his arm to get him here in the first place, and we both took more risks here already than six men should with faking hangin’s, bribin’ undertakers, and generally playin’ fast and loose with the law. You can’t expect—”

  “I know I can’t expect nothin’, Sarge,” Lane cut him off, staring directly into his eyes. “I was just hopin’ that an old pard from Gettysburg might help me, that’s all.”

  Hank Brazos met Lane’s level stare for a long moment in total silence. Gettysburg. He’d been through a lot of battles with Dusty Lane—Chickamauga, Bull Run, Cold Harbor, Bryce’s’ Crossing. But Dusty had mentioned Gettysburg, the place where the wild young cavalryman had saved Brazos’ life.

  Coincidence? He knew it couldn’t be. In a subtle way, Dusty was reminding him of that old debt. Another man might have felt the debt was paid by what he’d done for Dusty Lane today, but Hank Brazos didn’t think that way. If Dusty still felt he owed him something, then he was honor-bound to try and pay him out.

  “Maybe I could try it with the Yank, Dusty,” Brazos said finally. “I don’t like my chances of talkin’ him into stayin’ here, but I’ll try.”

  “Knew I could count on you, Sarge.” Lane clapped the Texan on the shoulder, then turned scornfully to Tim Fenner. “Now that’s what I call a pard. See the difference between you and the real article?”

  Tim Fenner sent up a grin at the young giant, not because he’d suddenly been made aware of the virtues of true friendship, but simply out of gratitude. Thanks to Hank Brazos, Dusty was still alive. And while Dusty was alive, Tim Fenner still had some chance of getting his hands on the holdup money. Maybe ugly Tim didn’t have much faith in friendship, but he thanked God that he still believed in hard cash.

  “No!” Duke Benedict said, adjusting the angle of his hat.

  “But, Yank—”

  “You’re wasting your breath.”

  “I owe this feller, Benedict.”

  “And I, my rustic friend, am totally disinterested. Now take my advice and return to Boothill and instruct your friends to start riding. In the meantime, I intend sitting down to the finest meal I can buy, after which I shall have myself a glass or two of bourbon at the Golden Gate before repairing to the gaming tables. And what will be my objective at the games of chance, Mr. Hangman’s Assistant? One guess.”

  “I’m damned if—”

  “My objective of course will be to try and recover some of the five hundred dollars I had to pay that cretinous undertaker to falsify the death certificate for your verminous old army buddy.” Benedict reached out, flipped at the harmonica the Texan wore on a rawhide thong around his neck, and started down the hotel steps. “I intend leaving town at first light if you wish to accompany me,” he called back over his shoulder, then he strode away, leaving Hank Brazos looking crestfallen.

  It was easy to dismiss the ridiculous request from his mind, and Benedict’s thoughts were already centered on the meal he planned to order at the Pork Chop Eatery as he strode past the City Barber Shop. He’d bathed and shaved at nightfall. Then he’d debated with himself on whether it would now be safe to don one of his fancy vests, deciding against it and settling for the somber dark one. But with his jaunty step, highly polished black boots and freshly pressed suit, he was still a flamboyant figure on Federal Street, certainly the flashiest hangman Spearhead was ever likely to see.

  On the Blacksmith Street corner he paused to check his appearance in the darkened window of the laundry adjacent to the brightly lit bordello. Satisfied, he took out a cigar, set it alight and was starting off when he glanced up to see a couple of Merle Bronson’s girls watching him from a window. Accustomed to quick interest from the gentle sex, he was puzzled by their sober faces and silence until he remembered who he was supposed to be. It seemed that even hard-hearted hookers drew the line at a hangman.

  He smiled around his Cuban, heading for the eatery. It would be different in the next town. He was going to cut a swathe a mile wide in Sundown City to make up for Spearhead. He hadn’t liked this place from the moment he’d ridden in, and he liked it even less now. Just about everybody he’d encountered here seemed sly, dishonest, hostile or corrupt. A down-at-the-heels sheriff, the unfriendliest marshal in a month’s ride, the scheming Trogg, the grasping Buck
hout. He shook his head firmly. No, Spearhead was definitely not his kind of town.

  A moment later he saw the girl. She was stunning in the bright green travelling suit, button-up boots and flowered neckerchief as she emerged from the Arkansas Hotel and walked towards him. He knew he was staring as he slowed; he couldn’t help it. She was tall and long-legged, and the way she carried herself reminded him of some of the really great beauties he’d met. Instinctively he swept off his hat and bowed from the waist as she passed. For a moment he thought the superb lips were going to smile, but then she was gone with a toss of her head.

  A passing towner flinched as Benedict’s hand closed over his arm. “That girl with the red hair, friend?” he demanded. “Who is she?”

  “Miss Belinda Whitney from down south,” the man supplied, broke free and scuttled away.

  “Whitney,” he murmured to himself. Where had he heard that name before? Then it hit him. Joshua Whitney of the Arkansas Cattlemen’s Association. The third and only surviving member of the founding trio ...

  He was turning to resume his walk to the eatery when he saw her cross the square of dusty grass that the sheriff liked to call a lawn, and then mount the jailhouse steps.

  Benedict halted, stroking his clean-shaven jaw. Now what business could a beautiful creature like Belinda Whitney have with the law? Seeing that she was Joshua Whitney’s daughter, might it not be likely that her visit had some connection with the cattleman?

  Was he as hungry as he had been? Perhaps not. Maybe he had a few minutes to spare to stroll back to the jailhouse and possibly find out what had brought the girl to Spearhead. He certainly didn’t have time for idle flirtations, but a damsel in distress was a different matter.