Benedict and Brazos 17

by E. Jefferson Clay

  More whisky on the vest.

  “Have a care, fellow.”

  Benedict didn’t speak loudly, but his voice carried. Black-bearded Pete Slade turned, the gap-toothed grin fading from his hairy face.

  “You say somethin’, dude?”

  The “dude” didn’t bother Benedict any. What bothered him were the two stains on his bed-of-flowers vest.

  “I merely suggested that you be a little more careful,” he replied in a neutral tone. “You made me spill my drink.”

  The sudden silence in the room seemed to emphasize the sounds of blacksmith Jobe Hood’s big working boots as he moved up to his partner. Both men stared at the stranger, as if aware for the first time that something strange had emerged from the woodwork.

  Without taking his eyes from Benedict, Pete Slade nudged Hood in the ribs. “You hear that, Jobe? I made him spill his drink.”

  “Jumped-up Judas, but that’s a terrible thing to do to a man!” The blacksmith grinned, flexing the mighty sinews developed through years at the forge. “If I was you, Pete, I’d rush outside and hang myself.”

  “Hell, that’s what I’m gonna do, Jobe. But first, the least I can do is buy him another drink. What’ve you been drinkin’, stranger? Buttermilk? Hey, Rube,” he called to the barkeep, “one large buttermilk and be double quick about it.”

  Benedict turned to go. As he did, town drunk Barney Vint tried to take advantage of his tormentor’s distraction, and snatched at the glass of whisky in the blacksmith’s hand. Hood brushed him away. Perhaps he’d only meant to push Vint off, but the little man got tangled up in his own feet and fell heavily, striking his head hard against the leg of the overturned table.

  Benedict turned slowly. He looked down at the stunned drunk, then at the watching, expectant faces of the crowd, finally at the brutish, bullying faces of Slade and Hood.

  Duke Benedict shot his cuffs and straightened his tie. Had Hank Brazos been there, he would have recognized the gestures as a prelude to violence. But to his audience in the Seven Sisters, it only looked like he was tidying up a little, and everybody in the saloon was taken by surprise when he spoke in a voice that had ice in it:

  “Pick that man up, you cretinous pair of vermin!”

  “Cretinous” was a new word to Pete Slade and Jobe Hood. But “vermin” they understood only too well. With a foul curse from Slade and an anticipatory grin from Hood, they came at him like a well-drilled team. They were going to fill that fancy, whisky-stained vest with broken ribs at least.

  Their ambitions were short-lived. The last thing Benedict had wanted was to get involved. But now that he was involved, he would do his best to finish it quickly.

  The beautifully timed straight left that spread Jobe Hood’s nose halfway across his face in a burst of crimson drew an astonished gasp from the spectators, and the whistling right that drove deep into Slade’s meaty belly drew a gasp of pure agony. Moving with bewildering speed backed by a natural boxer’s skill, Benedict gave them no chance to recover from the surprise of his lightning attack. Two stunning punches knocked Slade face down to the floor, then Benedict stepped over him to rip Jobe Hood’s bloody head back with a vicious left hook.

  The handful of violent seconds that followed would always be remembered by big Jobe Hood. The man who’d never been whipped in a free-for-all found himself being driven back along the length of the bar before the onslaught of a fighting machine. Fists snapped off a tooth, beat a sharp and agonizing tattoo on his iron ribs, closed his right eye drum-tight and ruthlessly completed the destruction of his nose. In a daze, he threw up his hands before his battered face.

  Slamming the bleeding hulk hard against the wall with the palm of his left hand, Benedict was drawing his right fist back to throw the finisher when he realized his man was helpless. Slowly the fierce cold light left his gray eyes and he lowered his right fist. It was one thing to whip a man, another to maim him.

  Panting a little, he reached out and drew the trembling hands down from Hood’s face. With his one good eye, through a wash of blood, Hood stared at him like a terrified child.

  “Go and help that old man to his feet, black “ Benedict began, but he broke off when the door opened to his right and a handsome dark-headed woman came through.

  “What the devil is going on down here?” the woman demanded angrily, then she stopped dead when she saw Benedict. Her eyes widened in disbelief and a hand flew to her breast.

  “Duke Benedict!”

  Benedict’s incredulous stare matched hers. “Amy ... as I live and breathe!”

  His white smile flashing, Benedict threw out his arms. Amy started towards him with a little cry—and Jobe Hood saw his chance.

  Only a beautiful woman could have distracted Duke Benedict’s attention at such a moment. He didn’t see the punch the blacksmith threw at him. His head filled with shooting stars, then Benedict faintly heard Amy scream and dimly realized he was going down.

  The blacksmith swung again, the barroom swirled crazily for a moment, then there was only blackness.

  Chapter Two

  Jailhouse Blues

  “Are you sure you feel all right now, Duke?”

  “I’m fine, Amy,” he insisted, and he wasn’t lying. There was a vague discoloration down the right side of his lean jaw where Jobe Hood’s two blows had connected, but an iron constitution, a glass of fine whisky, and Amy’s tender care had quickly dispelled the after-effects of the knockout. He could even see the humor in it now, sitting here on the Seven Sisters’ upper balcony watching the sun set over Galloway. According to Amy, the blacksmith had done a certain amount of crowing and strutting after knocking Benedict down, but he’d headed for the batwings at high speed the moment Benedict started to come around, his partner immediately behind him.

  “It’s marvelous to see you again, Duke.” Amy’s voice was gentle in the soft evening air.

  “I can only repeat that, Amy,” he replied, turning towards her. “But why are you in Nevada? It’s a long way from Colorado.”

  “I went from Colorado to Texas during the war, then to New Mexico and finally I wound up here—as if you care.”

  “Care? Amy, would you believe that when I saw the name on this place, I came in to drink a toast to your memory? And suddenly in the middle of the fun and games downstairs, there you were.” He paused. “You’re more beautiful than ever, Amy.”

  She smiled. “Let’s have none of your routine flattery, Duke Benedict. You can save that for your little doxies.”

  He looked wounded. “Amy, how could you? Do you think I’m the kind who goes around flattering just anybody?”

  “Of course. You were a great one for that in Colorado, and it’s only too obvious that you haven’t changed.”

  His innocent pose slipped. He smiled, almost boyishly. “Damn it, you remember me too well, don’t you, Amy?”

  She looked at him, and there were a lot of old memories, both good and bad, in her sea-green eyes. “I should,” she said softly. Then she, too, smiled. “I just can’t get over it, Benedict, your showing up this way after all those years. I was upstairs getting ready for the night when I heard the disturbance, hurried down, and there you were ... in trouble as usual.”

  His smiled turned crooked. “It’s hard for the leopard to change his spots, Amy.”

  She didn’t answer his smile, but she studied him soberly. “You still look as good as ever, Benedict—better if anything.” She glanced obliquely at her thirty-year-old face in the dark glass of the window behind her, then added in puzzlement. “Damn it, how do you do it? You must have found the secret of eternal youth or something.”

  To her surprise, Benedict frowned. “You’re forgetting things, Amy. I don’t mind strangers commenting on my looks if they must. But not my friends. You know I don’t give a damn about my face. It’s life that counts, not looks. That’s how it always was with me and that’s the way it still is.”

  She reached out, her slender fingers resting white against the dark s
leeve of his coat. Her eyes played over the classically sculpted face. “Of course, I remember, Benedict. I’m just a little envious, that’s all. Now tell me, what have you been doing all these years? I want to know everything.” He sipped his whisky, stretched his long legs and began to talk about himself in a way he could have only to an old friend and lover. He told her about the war, the campaigns in the wilderness and the slash through the South with Sherman. He talked about mutual friends he’d encountered from Colorado, even touching lightly on some of the women, for Amy was the sort of honest person you could level with.

  But though he made a casual mention of Hank Brazos, he made no allusion to that bloody day at Coon Ridge, Georgia, when forces led by Union captain Duke Benedict and Rebel sergeant Hank Brazos had fought to a bloody standstill over a wagonload of Confederate gold. Nor did he tell her how the gold had been plucked from them by the marauder Bo Rangle, nor how he and Brazos had teamed up after the war to hunt down Rangle and the gold that a hundred and fifty brave men had died for. That Georgia day, when he’d seen half his men wiped out by the Rebels and the survivors butchered by the infamous Rangle’s Raiders, was still something he found himself unable to talk about, even after almost a year.

  So he made his four years of war sound pretty much like a light-hearted romp, punctuated by the odd skirmish and leavened by a number of ridiculous situations. If Amy Miles knew he was glossing over five years with a veneer of offhanded nonchalance, she gave no sign. He finished his story with a smile and a shrug.

  “Just about what you’d expect, I guess, Amy? Knowing me as you do?”

  “Just about,” she smiled. “Somehow I knew you wouldn’t change, Benedict. And I just remembered, while you were talking, that I read something about you in a magazine a couple of months ago that brought it all back to me. It was—”

  “Not that imbecilic article that pimply pipsqueak from Santa Fe wrote about me in that hack Wild West Journal, I hope? Amy, that fellow was a fool.”

  “I don’t think so, Benedict. I think he had you down just about right. How did that paragraph go now? Oh yes, I remember ... ‘Duke Benedict, dashing, handsome and apparently fearless, the embodiment of the free spirit of the New West, a genius with guns and cards, accepted expert on old whisky and young women.’ See, I thought it so accurate that I committed it to memory.”

  “You talk far too much, Amy.”

  “I always, did, remember?”

  “Indeed I do.” He lifted the bottle from the little table at his side. “And I remember that you shared my taste for good whisky, Amy, and this is excellent. Another little drink?”

  Yes, Amy would have another little drink. And so would he. The last of the sunset burned out in the west and the gentle purple of dusk came stealing over the rooftops of Galloway as they sat drinking a little and talking a lot. There were old days to resurrect; the days in Arroyo where they’d met and had for two months shared a tempestuous love affair marked by stormy brawls and memorable reconciliations. Then Benedict’s growing restlessness and Amy’s increasing possessiveness had driven them apart. But there was no bitterness left. They were able to talk and laugh like old friends.

  It was a rare hour of peace and pleasure for Duke Benedict the manhunter, an unexpected sanctuary from the violence and danger that had come to dominate his life far more strongly than “young women and old whisky” ever had, or likely ever would again. But it couldn’t last. You only stole moments like this when you followed the way of life Benedict did.

  They had just risen from their chairs and were standing by the balcony discussing the night that stretched invitingly ahead, when there was a disturbance in the street below. Men were moving out into Sunset from the walks and staring west along the main street where three horsemen had come into view.

  Benedict watched without much interest—until he recognized the huge dog padding ahead of the lead rider. Next he identified the unmistakable figure of Hank Brazos, and moments later he saw the street-light glinting on the stars on the two men behind him.

  Duke Benedict rarely used indelicate language in the company of a lady, but he let an exasperated hard word slip then. He immediately apologized and Amy looked at him curiously.

  “What’s wrong, Duke? Do you know that man Frank Holloway is bringing in?”

  He sighed as he picked up his hat. “Unfortunately, yes. That large gentleman is my partner, Hank Brazos.”

  The woman peered down intently to watch the three horsemen dismount before the jailhouse. Deputy Andy Warren made to take the prisoner by the elbow, but was brushed away with what looked like a casual flick of the arm, but which sent the lanky deputy staggering. The prisoner glowered about him and Amy caught a glimpse of a rugged sun-bronzed face and a faded purple shirt unbuttoned to the waist to reveal a great barrel of a chest. The three vanished under the porch overhang and she turned back to Benedict, plainly astonished.

  “That man is your partner, Benedict?” she asked wonderingly, and when he nodded glumly, added, “But he looks so different from what I expected. I mean—”

  “You mean you find it hard to believe that I’m riding the trails with somebody who looks like he has thrived on hard tack and slept under trees most of his life and loved it, Amy?” He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder. “Well, lovely lady, if it helps any, which I am quite sure it won’t, there are many times when I find it hard to believe myself.” He sighed and put on his hat. “As much as I’d dearly love to stay on, Amy, I’m afraid you will have to excuse me while I see what—”

  “Of course. I understand, Duke.” She moved close to him touched a hand to his cheek. “Will I see you again tonight?”

  His arms went around her and their lips met for a long, sweet moment. Then he reluctantly broke away and turned for the door. “I hope so, Amy.”

  She blew him a kiss. “I’ll be waiting.”

  He smiled ruefully, but his expression hardened as he walked down the corridor, heading for the stairs. That Texan had better have a good reason for fouling up one of the best days he’d had in a year. He had better have a hell of a good reason.

  The deputy had lit the smoky lantern that hung by a chain from the ceiling of the corridor between the cells. There were four cells in the block, eight-by-eight cubbyholes with only a narrow bunk in each. Two cells stood empty.

  Two others were occupied by a scowling Texan on one side and a glowering trail hound on the other.

  So far, no charge had been laid against Bullpup, even though the hound had perpetrated a minor assault on the person of Deputy Andy Warren. It was after the dog nipped the deputy’s backside while they were ushering his master into the cell that the sheriff had decided he would be safer under lock and key for the time being. It was Bullpup’s first hitch in a calaboose, and he wasn’t taking it gracefully. As for Hank Brazos, though he wasn’t exactly a stranger to steel bars and stone walls, he was a long way from accepting the situation philosophically.

  “You’d better start talkin’ and talkin’ fast, Benedict,” the big man growled. “My patience with this pair of clabber-footed clowns is beginnin’ to wear mighty thin.” He gestured at Holloway and Warren who stood shoulder to shoulder in the corridor, watching Benedict warily. “Tell ’em I ain’t no cow thief.”

  A picture of lazy grace as he leaned against the cell door puffing on a cigar, Benedict said quietly, “I’ve already done that, Johnny Reb, but they don’t seem prepared to accept my word.”

  “And why should we?” Andy Warren said truculently, massaging his rump. “We don’t know you from nobody, Benedict. For all we know, you could be in cahoots with this rustler.”

  “I’ll do the talking if you don’t mind, Andy,” said Holloway, a slim, neat man with a drooping brown moustache. He nodded at Benedict. “The night before last, thirty head of cattle were rustled from the Rocking T Ranch in the Misty Mountains. It being our responsibility to take care of such things, the deputy and I went scouring the mountains for the stock. We didn’t find them, b
ut we cut their sign over by Cross Hollow last night. Not half a mile from the tracks, we spotted this Texan’s campfire. We braced him and he pulled a gun on us. We disarmed him, and the best story he could come up with was that he was hunting a man named Bo Rangle. Now, we might be small-time lawmen, Mr. Benedict, but we’ve had experience with cattle rustlers and as far as we’re concerned this man adds up to just that.”

  Brazos gaped. “You mean that’s all you had to go on when you jumped me? Just the fact that I happened to be up there when them beeves got stolen? Hell, no wonder they wouldn’t tell me nothin’. You ain’t got enough to get a man convicted of spittin’ on the sidewalk, let alone land him with rustlin’.”

  “We’ve got enough,” the sheriff insisted. “We’ll keep our eyes and ears open to see if we can’t pick up some more about those cows. But even if we don’t, you’ll still find yourself facing the judge in a couple of days, Texan.”

  “Yeah, and he’s a Kansan like myself, Brazos,” Warren chimed in. “You know what Kansans think of Texans, I reckon?”

  “Now just let’s calm down a little, gentlemen,” Benedict put in as Brazos made ready to shoot a retort at the deputy. “I believe this business has gone quite far enough. And I agree completely with my partner, Sheriff Holloway. Your so-called evidence is as fragile as moon-dust. Apart from that, I was with Brazos in Rebo City three days ago, and whether you choose to believe it or not, we are hunting Bo Rangle. Which can be proved. All you have to do is contact City Marshal Shad Gurden in Rebo City. We conferred with him just before we left to determine if he’d heard anything of Bo Rangle. That was two days before you arrested Brazos, Sheriff. And knowing the country between here and Rebo City, as I’m sure you must, you will immediately realize that Brazos would have had time for nothing else but travel to reach the place where you arrested him.”