“What’ll it be, honey?”
“Steak,” growled Brazos, weary at the end of another fruitless day.
“Gotcha, honey. And you, sweetheart?”
“I shall start with soup, of course,” said Benedict, “then have some Columbia River Salmon, oysters, a dish of Westphalia ham followed by Coq au vin, aux Champignons and for dessert, English plum pudding with sweet sauce.”
“Huh?”
“Steak.”
“Gotcha.”
Brazos took a piece of bread and flipped it to Bullpup who caught it with a click of gleaming teeth. Then he leant back and started rolling a cigarette, the chair protesting under his weight. Benedict finished examining his reflection in the window, straightened his cravat, then turned his attention to his companion.
“Cheer up, Johnny Reb. So we came up empty. Tomorrow—as the cliche goes—is another day.”
“Yeah.”
“Things always look darkest before the dawn.”
“If you got any more of them clee-shays, keep ’em to yourself until we’ve ate.”
“Silence is golden.”
Before Brazos could reply, Bullpup’s growl filled the room and his hackles were rising even before the door opened.
Sheriff Bourne Murdock stood there with the darkness behind him. The lawman’s face was pale and there was grim purpose in the way he came striding between the tables directly towards them. Alerted by the lawman’s expression, Brazos and Benedict started to their feet, but only Brazos made it. Benedict was only halfway up when Murdock reached him and smashed him to the floor with a blow to the face.
Brazos lunged, lightning fast for a man so big. But Murdock was quicker, backing up a step and whipping out his Colt.
“Back up!”
Brazos froze, “Have you gone loco, Murdock? What the hell do you mean bustin’ in here and sluggin’ a man thataway?”
“Ask him,” Murdock snarled, indicating Benedict who was getting up groggily, massaging his jaw. “Ask your damned, woman-molesting friend.”
Benedict stopped rubbing his chin. “What did you call me?”
“You heard. Now get your hat, mister, I’m taking you in.”
“Hold hard, Murdock,” Benedict said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Me neither,” Brazos insisted.
Murdock ground out the words. “You attacked my wife this afternoon, Benedict. Only for this badge on my coat I’d be tempted to gun you here and now.”
Brazos laughed. “You’re loco, Murdock. Benedict was with me all afternoon.”
“You’ll talk yourself into a cell too, Brazos,” Murdock warned. His eyes cut back to the stunned Benedict. “I got it direct from Tara herself.”
“Tara told you ... that I attacked her ...?”
“Right. So let’s go.”
Benedict didn’t move. The room was totally silent save for the brisk sizzling of two large steaks in the skillet. The cook and the waitress stood poised, ready to dive through the rear door if shooting started.
There was an ominous click as Murdock thumbed the hammer back. “Last warning, Benedict.”
“You’re not arresting me, Sheriff,” Benedict said with icy calm. “This whole thing is a farce—a goddamn lie—”
“Are you calling my wife a liar now?” Murdock broke in. That was when Brazos saw his chance. He flicked a finger at the glowering Bullpup and the eager hound leapt, snatching at the Colt with teeth that could crush bone. As Murdock roared and struggled, Benedict and Brazos both came clear and Brazos leapt forward to ram his gun’s foresight into the lawman’s ribs.
“Drop the gun, Sheriff!” he ordered.
Bullpup saved Murdock the burden of making a decision by reefing the Colt from his slackening grip as his master had trained him to do. As the hound backed up with the weapon clutched triumphantly in his teeth, Brazos withdrew his six-shooter. Murdock stared at them stonily.
“You’re in bigger trouble than ever now,” he said. “Resisting arrest and assaulting a lawman in the execution of his duty.”
“Who’ll arrest us, Murdock?” Benedict challenged, coldly angry now. “You and your brothers? How many do you think would survive?”
Murdock’s mouth worked. “Gunfighters!” he spat, but before he could go on, Benedict spoke again.
“It’s a trumped-up charge, Sheriff. It never happened, but I can see you’ll never believe that.”
“That’s one thing you’re right about.”
“You want satisfaction?”
“That’s a gunfighter’s word. I’m going to arrest you.”
“If you try that, they might have to bury all four of you, Murdock. Settle for satisfaction.”
Some of the wildness left Murdock’s eyes at that. “What kind of satisfaction?”
“You believe your wife has suffered an affront at my hands. I say it’s a lie. I refuse to go to prison on a trumped-up charge, so there’s only one alternative.”
“Which is?”
“A duel. You and me, lawman. That way, the most who can die numbers two.”
“That’s loco, Benedict,” Brazos protested.
“Of course,” Benedict agreed. “But it’s the only logical solution. Correct, Sheriff?”
It was a long, thick moment before Murdock finally nodded. “All right, Benedict ... all right. When and where?”
“Daybreak. Front Street.”
“I’ll be there.”
Brazos went to Bullpup and took the six-gun. He made to empty the weapon, but thought better of it and handed it silently to the sheriff, butt first. Murdock took the .45 and drove it into his holster. He strode out without a word, tall in the doorway before he disappeared.
The diners gaped as they watched Benedict right his chair and Brazos sleeve sweat from his forehead. Everyone seemed to have lost his appetite with the exception of Benedict who, after tugging down his lapels and smoothing back his hair, turned to the frozen staff of two and said in a perfectly calm voice:
“I believe the steaks are done.”
His voice unlocked the tension and Hank Brazos shook a finger. “Yank, you’re not goin’ through any damned duel—”
“Later.”
Just the one, softly spoken word, but Hank Brazos knew his partner well enough to know he really meant it.
The Sudden bunch heard the big news that was sweeping Babylon like a prairie fire in the back room of the Nugget Saloon. In common with everybody else, they refused to believe it at first for the whole story about Duke Benedict attacking the sheriff’s wife resulting in a duel at dawn seemed wildly improbable. But then the banker who had been present at the Midtown Diner during the whole scene arrived at the Nugget to settle his nerves with a large whisky, and was able to confirm it.
Crowdy, Slattery, Hilder, Weston and Cimarron were jubilant as the six returned to their private room, for they believed that the slick-moving Benedict would win the day. The only glum face was Sudden’s. Tom Sudden had convinced himself that Bourne Murdock was his. It was he who had suffered most at Murdock’s hands and regarded it as his right to exact vengeance when the time came. He didn’t want to stand by at daybreak and perhaps see Benedict gun his man down in Front Street.
“That’s loco thinkin’, Tom,” Slattery argued when he expressed this.
“It’s how I feel,” Sudden said stubbornly.
Slattery placed an arm around his shoulders. “Tom boy, look at it this way. You’re still crazy about Murdock’s wife, we all know that. And we all know that after we’d evened the score with that lawdog bastard, you’ll be settin’ your cap at Tara again. But don’t it stand to reason that she mightn’t have anythin’ to do with you if you was to kill Murdock personal?”
Sudden stared into Slattery’s wolf-like face. “Why—damn it, Slade, that does make sense. I hate to leave Murdock to somebody else, but—”
“But it’s like somebody up there is helpin’ us along,” Slattery finished for him. “Right, boys?”
&nbs
p; The ‘boys’ all voiced noisy agreement and a new bottle was opened to celebrate their best luck since hitting town.
While out in the bar, Buck Joley was offering odds on the outcome of the duel as though it were a sporting contest. Duke Benedict was favorite, by a mile.
The late night was quiet, clear as blown glass, clear and cold. The glittering stars gave the only pale light for the two tall men crouched under the Joshua trees in back of the Murdock headquarters. Hank Brazos didn’t mind the cold or the inactivity; it was the craving for a cigarette that bothered him most.
“What time is it, Yank?” he whispered.
Benedict consulted his pocket watch. “One-thirty.”
“Beginnin’ to have second thoughts?”
“No,” Benedict replied, returning his attention to the houses.
“What if nothin’ happens? What if Tara don’t do nothin’ tonight that might explain why she lied about you? You still aim to face Murdock?”
“Of course not. I don’t kill lawmen.”
“Well what do we do?”
“Quit. That’s why I proposed a dawn duel, to give us all night to see if Tara’s big lie—which was obviously meant to get me killed or jailed—can be connected with our manhunt. But if we fail, then we’ll just have to concede defeat, fold our tents and steal away.”
Brazos nodded in agreement and it became quiet again. It remained that way for a full, bone-chilling hour until their long vigil was finally rewarded by a stir of movement in the doorway of Bourne Murdock’s house. They watched motionless as a slender figure, heavily robed against the cold, moved into clear sight near Virgil Murdock’s house.
The light was strengthening as the moon rose. The girl’s chestnut hair gleamed like fire. It was Tara for sure.
Watching the woman as she glanced this way and that before heading down the street, Benedict felt his mouth turn dry. “Why did you make up such a monstrous lie, Tara? You must have had a strong reason ...”
Tara Murdock hurried off towards the distant creek. Now their patience had borne fruit, Benedict found himself reluctant to follow her, fearful perhaps of what they might find out.
However, no such delicate reservations bothered his partner. “C’mon, Yank, get up on your hind legs and let’s get movin’. And follow my lead, huh?”
Nodding, Benedict rose and followed Brazos’ massive, but cat-footed shape through the trees. When it came to work of this nature, Brazos was the expert, and for the next ten minutes he ducked when the Texan said ‘duck,’ took cover with the other man, let Brazos decide when they should hurry, when they should remain motionless until their quarry drew out of sight. It was by this means that they remained undetected and finally came within sight of Wheelahan’s Mill.
The abandoned old ruin stood on the bank in a deep bend in Bad Blood Creek ringed by jackpines in which they were able to take good cover. The mill sat squat and solid with a thin creek mist ghosting about its old walls, the empty windows black and deep like the eye sockets of a skull. Bats squawked and fluttered in the ragged roof. It was a daunting place by night, a place of chill and dark shadows and rustlings that were hard to identify.
The atmosphere didn’t seem to bother Tara Murdock. They glimpsed her through the trees, approaching the mass of old stone as though she was on familiar ground.
Suddenly Brazos touched Benedict’s shoulder and pointed. Following his line, Benedict stared at a yawning window for several seconds before he made out the shape of somebody’s head and shoulders in the gloom.
“Meetin’ somebody,” Brazos murmured.
Benedict watched intently as Tara vanished into the building. They could see movement within now, but nothing more. Time ticked by and they were getting chilled again. Finally convinced that nobody else was going to show up, Benedict turned to Brazos.
“Do you think you can get in there without being sighted and find out who is with her?”
“I can do it.”
“Then ...”
Benedict broke off. Tara and the man had stepped from the mill to move slowly across the yard. Benedict had perfect eyesight but couldn’t boast the hawkish accuracy of Brazos’ vision. He nudged the Texan impatiently. “Who is it, damn it?” Though there was something familiar about the figure, even Brazos was unable to put a name to him at that distance. The man was tall, slender, obviously young. He wore dark clothing and a dark Stetson that completely shadowed his face. Brazos couldn’t be certain, but he thought he was sporting some kind of a beard.
Benedict whispered, “I said who the devil is it?”
Brazos glanced at him sharply. The Yank was as tight as a guitar string, he realized. He wondered if Tara Murdock meant more to Benedict than he’d guessed.
“Can’t tell, Yank,” he grunted. “But he could be Quinn’s age and build.”
“Impossible. What business could Tara have with a butcher like Quinn?”
“Only one way to find out, I reckon.”
Benedict nodded slowly, reluctantly. “All right, but be damned careful. If it chances to be Quinn, he’s killed often enough to be an expert.”
Brazos nodded and they started stealthily through the timber together. No verbal sniping and no lame jokes now. The chips were down. If that easy-moving young pilgrim strolling in the moonlight with Tara Murdock did turn out to be Billy Quinn ...
But by the time they reached the edge of the timberline, close enough to see the couple more clearly, they realized, with a conflicting blend of relief and disappointment, that they had guessed wrong.
The young man in the Stetson hat and goatee beard was apothecary Bob Walker.
Walker and the woman turned their backs to them, facing the chilly shifting surface of the creek as they talked. Brazos looked a question at Benedict who nodded. Yes, they would still reveal themselves. He still had to learn why Tara had lied about him, and what brought her to this nocturnal rendezvous with Walker.
They stepped out and started forward without a sound. Hank Brazos had learned how to move soundlessly from an ancient, one-eyed Comanche chieftain in Texas, and Duke Benedict had picked up many tricks from him.
They were within ten feet of the couple when Tara turned and saw them. For a moment the woman looked at them in disbelief as they showed plainly in the moonlight. Then she gave a strangled scream and Walker whirled. The apothecary had no trouble in taking in the situation, and as he swung, his right hand blurred and palmed the Colt on his hip.
Walker was faster than any honest apothecary had any right to be, but the team of Benedict and Brazos was faster still. Demonstrating the matchless draw of the true pistolero Duke Benedict had two gleaming gun muzzles yawning at Walker before the man’s six-gun could clear leather. The fearsome speed of that two-handed draw and the lethal threat of the twin muzzles caused Walker to hesitate for a vital fraction, and in that blink of time, Brazos lunged forward to bring down his fist on the apothecary’s upswinging arm with brutal force.
Tara gasped as Walker’s Colt spun into the grass. Then it was Brazos’ turn to gasp as Walker punched him in the jaw. It was an incredibly hard punch for a man of Walker’s weight, and though there was no chance of the giant Texan going down, he was driven back a pace before he could regain his balance. Whirling, Walker leapt for his fallen gun, but Benedict checked him with a kick in the crotch.
“Cut it, Walker!” he rapped as the man buckled and cursed. “You’re acting like a crazy man!”
Next instant, Walker was lunging up at him, hands clawing at his face, his features twisted in a mask of fury. His strength was incredible and he seemed to have no fear of the guns. Cursing, Benedict stumbled, then slashed the man across the temple. Walker reeled into Brazos who tried to pin his arms and got a pistoning elbow in the belly for his trouble.
Again Walker burst free, snarling like a maddened beast. But Benedict was ready this time. Balancing himself as the apothecary flung himself towards him, he hefted his right-hand Peacemaker carefully and swung from the hips.
“No!”
The cry came from Tara as the Peacemaker smashed into Walker’s head and dropped him like a poleaxed steer. It was a blow to stun any man, but incredibly Walker struggled to his hands and knees and started clawing at Benedict’s legs. Again the six-gun rose in a glittering arc, swept down. Walker rolled onto his back, arms outflung and bearded face to the stars, unconscious at last.
The silence that followed was only broken by a deal of heavy breathing as Benedict and Brazos exchanged a wondering glance in acknowledgment of a man who’d fought with the strength of ten ... or the strength of a crazy man ...
That thought came again to Duke Benedict and he suddenly stopped panting. Crazy man. Apothecary. A man with medical knowledge. Right size and build ...
He pointed with his gun barrel at the unconscious figure. “His back, Johnny Reb ... take a look at his back.”
Suspicion had hold of Hank Brazos as well by now, and he was none too delicate in how he went about his work. Rolling Walker onto his belly, he seized the collar of his jacket with both hands, then ripped down with all his strength. Coat, shirt and undershirt parted like tissue paper to reveal a slender, tapered back that was marked for life with the livid scars of a terrible whipping.
Benedict and Brazos spoke together:
“Billy Quinn!”
Chapter Ten – Killer Caught
“I REFUSE TO believe it,” Tara Murdock said again. “Bob a killer? It’s impossible.”
Brazos finished trussing up the still unconscious Quinn. He’d taken off the man’s belt and used it to secure his hands behind his back. Quinn’s eyelids fluttered. He was coming out of it. Brazos ran his heavy hand through the man’s dark hair and held it out, palm upwards towards the woman. His hand was smudged with black.
“Dye,” he grunted. “The beard, too, I guess.”
“I still won’t believe it!”
“It’s Billy Quinn, all right,” said Benedict brusquely, dabbing at his neck where the man had drawn blood with raking nails. “Now you’d better start explaining things, lady.”
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