“Five thousand dollars?” Benedict said sharply, remembering the scrawny cattle and dried-out pastures he’d seen on his way in. “Is that what Darlington is offering? I can’t—”
He broke off as Bullpup’s warning bark sounded from the porch. Mustang got up quickly, went to the door and stared out. “Consarn it all,” he said angrily. “It’s your damned gentleman caller again, Maggie.”
“Oh, no,” the girl groaned, and her slim shoulders slumped.
Intrigued, Benedict rose and walked onto the porch behind Mustang who had picked up his shotgun. A rider was coming across the yard, scattering the chickens. He was a tall, vicious-faced young man with shoulder-length blond hair sitting astride a wall-eyed monster of a Cheyenne gelding. He was decked out garishly in striped trousers that looked sizes too large for him, a gaudy pink shirt and an enormous kerchief that fluttered almost to his waist. All in all, he was one of the most eye-catching, and somehow chilling sights, Benedict had encountered in a long time.
“Who is he, Mustang?” Benedict asked as the girl appeared in the doorway behind them.
“Moon!” Moore spat the word like a curse. “Connie Moon from up over the ridge. No good ... none of ’em is any good.”
There wasn’t time to ask any more, for the rider had come to a halt near the hitchrack. Benedict moved to one side of the door and watched Connie Moon who was running his eyes over his black horse. Then Moon stared at him with bleak, frosty-eyed intensity. Benedict held his stare for a long moment, then Moon’s eyes shifted to the girl.
He smiled. Or at least Benedict took it for a smile. He had the sharp white teeth of a wolf.
“Evenin’, Maggie.” His voice was laced heavily with the slurred vowel sounds of the South. A cracker.
“Hello, Connie,” Maggie Dillon’s voice was formal. “Do you want something?”
The question seemed to displease Connie Moon. “Nah, I don’t want nothin’ in particular. Just came down to see you, is all.” He looked down at himself, fingered the dazzling kerchief. “You like my rig-out, Maggie? Got all chided up specially for you.”
The girl moved past Benedict. “You ... you look very nice, Connie. But I’m afraid I’m just not in the mood for company tonight.”
Connie Moon went very still in the saddle. His eyes seemed to sink back into his head. His lips pulled to a slit as his eyes played from the girl to Benedict, then the muscles of his clenched jaw knotted. Finally he spoke, his voice thin and sour:
“You sayin’ you ain’t in the mood for company or you got all the company you need, Maggie? Who’s this fancy tinhorn anyway? I ain’t never seen him before.”
“He’s a friend—Mr. Duke Benedict,” Maggie replied, her voice not quite even. “Now please, Connie, I’m too tired and worried to ...” Her voice faded.
“You heard Maggie, Moon,” Mustang said, trying to sound tough but somehow not quite making it. “You’d better hustle along.”
Moon moved his ugly horse a little closer to the porch. “No, sir, I ain’t movin’ along. Not until I find out what’s goin’ on here, and what this here pretty varmint is doin’ here with my gal.”
“I’m not your girl!” Maggie flared. “How many times do I have to tell you that, Connie Moon? And I do wish you’d stop coming around here pestering me!”
Something mean passed over Connie Moon’s eyes. His face was flushed and his eyes held a hard shine. As he started to swing down, Mustang lifted the shotgun. Moon’s voice cut at him:
“You put that fool thing down, old man, or I’ll take it off you and shove it right down your dirty old neck. I’ve come a-callin’, and by Judas, callin’ is what I’m gonna do.”
The shotgun lowered in trembling hands. Mustang Moon was afraid of this hellion, and Benedict could understand why. Danger radiated from Connie Moon like heat from a branding iron. Benedict glanced at Maggie and the fear in the girl’s face sent a cold current running through him. Until now, he’d been content to stand back and watch, not anxious to butt in on a situation where intervention might be unwelcome. But that look on Maggie Dillon’s face told him it was time to buy in.
He said, “You’d better get back in that saddle, fellow.”
“What’d you say?” Moon had his feet planted wide, and his right hand was close to his gun butt.
“Please, Mr. Benedict,” Maggie cried, “we don’t want you getting involved in our troubles.”
“He’s already involved up to his eyeballs,” Moon snapped, holding his menacing stance. He beckoned with his left hand. “Bring yourself forward, high stepper. I wanta get a good look at the man who’s been gettin’ in under my neck.”
Benedict sighed. He didn’t want to tangle with this maverick, but Connie Moon’s big mouth was making it hard to keep cool. If there was a peaceful way out of this prickly situation, he still meant to try and find it as he moved to the edge of the porch, put on a smile and spread his hands.
“Look, Moon, you have everything all wrong. I just stopped off here on a business matter. Now I don’t want any trouble and neither does Miss Dillon. So, don’t you think it would be best all around if you just mounted up and headed home?”
A more perceptive eye than Connie Moon’s might have realized that Benedict was more formidable an adversary than he’d seemed at first glance. But perception had never been one of the mountain man’s strong points, and right now, even Moon’s elemental judgment was clouded by anger and suspicion. Connie Moon had ridden down from Tennessee Hill convinced that his bath, shave and gaudy rig would open all doors, but instead he found Maggie Dillon as unreceptive as ever—and with a slick-talking stranger on her doorstep. Connie was itching to vent his venom on somebody, and Benedict seemed a good choice.
“I’ve got a better idea, dude,” Connie spat. “You mount up, and you head for home. Right now.”
Benedict adjusted one shirt cuff, then the other. “You’re pushing, Moon. That’s not sensible.”
“Does that mean you ain’t goin’?”
“Indeed it does.”
“Then I’ll goddamn send you,” Connie Moon snarled, and he slashed at his hip.
Maggie Dillon cried out and Benedict’s right hand blurred. Then Connie Moon stared disbelievingly down the barrel of a Peacemaker, his own Colt not halfway out of leather.
“That’s one mistake, Moon,” Benedict murmured. “You don’t get two.” His voice suddenly grew cold. “Ride out!”
Moon’s hand slid away from his gun butt. Still bent forward, he looked smaller than he was. “So!” he breathed. “A gun-shark! Is this what you’ve taken up with, Maggie? A dirty gunfighter?”
“There must be something wrong with your hearing, Moon,” Benedict said coldly, moving down the steps. “Back up and mount.”
Connie Moon straightened from his crouch but made no attempt to back off. He rolled saliva in his mouth and spat between Benedict’s black boots.
“That’s my opinion of gutless bastards who ain’t nothin without a fistful of gun, Benedict. Never met one of your breed yet that wasn’t yeller a yard wide without his irons.” His lip twisted with contempt. “You don’t impress me none with your circus tricks, dude ... not one damn little bit. Without that hogleg, I’d eat you whole.”
Before Benedict could reply, Maggie Dillon came rushing down the steps. “For God’s sake, Connie Moon, haven’t you caused enough trouble? Go away. Please ... just go away, won’t you?”
Moon’s blue eyes stabbed at the girl and all the man’s savage nature jumped naked and ugly into his face. “You’re gonna be sorry for this, Maggie,” he mouthed. “You’re gonna end up bein’ real sorry—you two-timin’ little bitch!”
The wild man flinched as Benedict lunged at him, ramming the Colt barrel under his jutting jaw. A slim hand plucked Moon’s Colt from the holster and flipped it aside. Then Benedict housed his gun and deliberately he slapped Moon hard across the face, sending his shoulder-length hair tossing.
“Apologize, Moon!”
Connie Moon di
dn’t apologize. Instead, he cursed and lashed out—exactly as Benedict had hoped he would. No longer cool and impersonal now, Benedict wanted to teach this man a lesson on how to treat a lady, and at the same time he’d give Connie Moon cause to think twice before he brought his dirty mouth back to the Rocking T. He slipped past Connie’s haymaker and filled Moon’s mouth with his fist.
It was a good punch. Benedict felt the solid jolt of contact right through his shoulder and into his back. He stepped forward to follow Moon as he went back. But Connie Moon didn’t budge an inch. There was a blur of fist and Benedict gasped as pain ripped through his ribs. Instinctively he dropped his guard and Moon let fly with a left hook that was meant to take Benedict’s head off at the neck. Only superb reflexes enabled Benedict to get out of the way of the whistling punch. Then he slewed to the side as Moon lowered his head and butted, mountain-man style.
Benedict kneed into the groin as Moon lunged past. If it was going to be no holds barred, then he had a vast repertoire of dirty tricks. The knee to the crotch took some of the vinegar out of Connie Moon. But he was doubly dangerous now as he whirled, feinted a haymaker at the head, then slammed his boot into Benedict’s belly.
The force of the kick sent Benedict staggering back into the hitchrack. His back smashed hard against the rail and he heard it crack. Who was giving who a lesson? This wasn’t going according to the script. He shook his head, then dropped to his haunches as Moon leaped at him with the agility of a cat. Connie Moon hit the railing with his face and cried out. Benedict’s horse reared back in fright and snapped its reins. Benedict came up from under the dazed mountain man and lifted him high above his head. Arms and legs flailing, Moon described an enormous arc and crashed across the steps.
Benedict knew that would have been enough for an ordinary man. But there was nothing ordinary about Connie Moon. The man was struggling to rise even before Benedict could get to him. But, all fighting heart and muscle as he undoubtedly was, Connie Moon never made it to his feet; Benedict saw to that. A stunning overhand right exploded against Moon’s face. He clawed at Benedict’s groin and took a knee in the face. Then Benedict grasped the flamboyant neckerchief with his left hand and reefed Connie Moon towards him as his right fist streaked down. There was a sickening thump and Connie Moon slumped unconscious, his cheek laid open to the bone.
Breath tearing in his lungs, Benedict stepped back. His heart was going like a triphammer and his vision was tinged with crimson. He was pleased when Maggie Dillon came rushing up to him, for he badly needed someone to lean on.
“Oh, Mr. Benedict,” the girl cried. “Are you hurt?”
“No, Miss Maggie,” he lied. Even in that uncertain moment, with his arm around the girl’s shoulders, he was aware that Maggie Dillon was more pleasant to lean upon than most people. “A vigorous opponent, but predictable.” He winced then as a hand landed on his shoulder.
“Never saw nothin’ like that, laddy buck,” Mustang Moore said admiringly. “Great day in the mornin’ but you’re a regular wonder with them fists of yours!”
The “regular wonder” at that moment felt like a wreck, Benedict mused as he reluctantly let go of the girl. He staggered a little then quickly came erect, fingering his tumbled black hair back from his brow.
“Give me a hand, Mustang,” he panted, bending over the unconscious figure on the steps. “I think we’ve all seen enough of Mr. Moon for one night.”
It took only a few minutes to tote Moon across to his horse, heave him into the saddle and lash him in place. Then Mustang gave the gelding a cut across the hindquarters with a rope’s end to send the horse plunging across the yard.
Benedict stood watching the horse gallop from sight before turning back to the girl. He was recovering fast now, though he was going to have sore ribs for at least a few days. But he was feeling chipper enough to muster up a smile as he said:
“Sorry about that, Maggie, but it was inevitable.”
“Sorry?” the girl said. “Good heavens, I should be apologizing to you, Mr. Benedict, for letting you get involved in my private problems.”
“Well, who can tell? Perhaps after that little set-to, Mr. Moon might no longer present a problem.”
“Perhaps not for us,” she said. “But the Moons are terrible men, Mr. Benedict. And, because of us, you’ve made an enemy here tonight. I feel I should warn you that Connie might make an attempt to get back at you. You will be careful, won’t you?”
Benedict assured her that he would, then he turned to call to Mustang, who had retrieved his horse. “Bring it over here, will you, Mustang? I’m afraid I have to be on my way.”
The girl touched his arm. “You can’t possibly leave now, Mr. Benedict, not after that terrible fight. You must at least let me see to your injuries first, and I really think you should stay for supper. Perhaps then you’ll be strong enough to ride.”
Benedict started to protest. He was thinking about Brazos in the hoosegow—and that long ride to Perona Flats. But then he broke off. The girl was right. He was badly played out and hadn’t eaten anything but jerky since leaving Galloway. An hour’s rest here and a solid meal would set him up and likely save him more time in the long run.
He put on a grin. “Well, if you insist, Maggie ...”
“I absolutely do!”
“All right. I’ll accept your very kind offer—on one condition.”
“And what is that?”
“That you call me Duke.”
She smiled then, and he was amazed at how young and pretty she looked.
“Very well ... Duke.” She reached out and took his arm in a way that was both shy and firm. “Do you like son-of-a-gun stew, Duke?”
“My favorite dish, Maggie.”
Chapter Six
A Fine Night to Break Jail
The moon had just risen from the ranges, pouring its silver light across the mountain basin. The black horse moved at an easy lope along the narrow ribbon of trail, while Bullpup, showing the effects of one helping of stew too many back at the ranch house, lagged a little behind.
The trees were beginning to thin out as Benedict approached Sweet Creek, which traversed the basin from east to west. The passing trees soared against the stars, and light streaked where the wind turned the leaves. Ahead, beyond the timber, the trail followed the course of the stream for several hundred yards until it was cut off from sight beyond an enormous black boulder that was shaped like a hard-hitter hat.
Cigar smoke drifted over Benedict’s shoulder as he left the last of the trees and dusted towards the creek. His hour’s rest at the Rocking T had somehow become two, but he could feel the full benefit of the fine meal, two glasses of whisky and pleasant company. According to Mustang Moore, he should be able to make Perona Flats in around three hours. That would bring him to the town some time before midnight—just about the right time for a man looking for stolen cattle. If Casey Cantrell was as successful and cocky as Mustang described him, then he mightn’t have rushed things in getting rid of the cattle. If so ...
The shot came without warning. One instant Benedict was sitting erect in his saddle, and the next the hard, flat slam of the rifle sent him crouching low. The black plunged, startled by the shot, then leaped forward at the unfamiliar sting of a spur. The rifle cracked again as Benedict went careening for the cover of the hat-shaped boulder fifty yards ahead. He heard the bullet whine from gravel and saw another rip a jagged white scar in the boulder the second before he plunged behind it.
Dragging the black to a hock-burning halt, Benedict snatched the Winchester from the saddle scabbard and leaped down. Bullpup, jolted out of his after-supper lethargy by the sound of gunfire, had reached the boulder level with the horse. The big dog barked in defiance as another shot powdered the crown of the rock and howled away with a banshee wail. Benedict cut to the left corner of the rock, dropped flat and peered at the rock wall a hundred yards distant. A small puff of white smoke gusted from a ledge. The bullet hit the rock and the sound of the shot cam
e a split-second later. There were two rifles up there!
No matter how many times a man was fired at, there was a chilling kick to it that Benedict could feel in his stomach. He waited until his heartbeat had slowed, then he lifted the Winchester, froze the sights on the ledge and squeezed trigger.
His answer was a volley of lead, followed by a wild shout:
“You’re gonna need more’n fool luck this time, Benedict!”
There couldn’t be two voices like that in the Misty Mountains. Connie Moon was up there.
Moving back from the rock edge, Benedict sat with his back to the stone and assessed his position. He’d been lucky the boulder had been there, but that was about as far as his luck went. There was nothing but the little stream and open grass country around him. It was a couple of hundred yards back to the trees and roughly the same distance from the cutback pass on the western side of the basin. He didn’t dare risk a runout with the moon getting brighter by the minute, and expending lead on the sniper’s position was pointless. He was pinned down.
Time passed. Every half minute or so, a shot would crack and lead would rip stone or earth. Connie Moon’s braying voice taunted him, trying to tempt him into showing himself. Benedict stayed put. He didn’t know what Moon’s game was. Maybe he was just out to harass him, in which event Benedict saw no option but to let the hellion have his pleasure. But if Moon was serious and wanted him dead, then sooner or later he was going to have to get his hide down here. When and if that happened, Benedict would be ready and waiting.
The knowledge that he was playing it the only smart way sustained Benedict for a while. But after an hour of it, the situation began to lose its charm. The sky was cloudless, and it was going to be almost as bright as day down here in the basin for hours to come. How long did Moon intend to keep it up? Until it was dark?
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