Benedict and Brazos 17

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Another half hour and Benedict’s nerves were beginning to twang from tension and impatience. Perhaps it was time to use up a little lead and energy in the hope that it might goad Moon into either quitting or coming down.

  He was bellying back to the corner of his cover with the rifle when he happened to glance across at Brazos’ dog. Bullpup had suddenly become very alert, and was peering at the west wall of the basin with his battle-scarred ears cocked. Sensing that Moon might be making his way down along the timber slopes over there, Benedict rose and was starting towards the western end of the boulder, when Bullpup suddenly took off.

  Astonished, Benedict shouted after the animal, but to no avail. The hound streaked across the basin. Two rifles began to stutter from the cliff and Benedict saw dust spurt a short distance ahead of the speeding dog. Moving swiftly, he went to the corner, threw up the rifle and sent four rolling shots towards the snipers’ ledge.

  His fire had the desired effect. The shooting broke off, and by the time it started up again, Bullpup had vanished into the moon-shadow of the trees.

  Benedict rolled his back to the rock again and started fingering fresh cartridges into the rifle from his shell belt. What had gotten into that fool dog? A coyote, he supposed. Brazos liked to boast that his hound could pick up the scent of a cat or a coyote a mile upwind. And that was on his off days. Benedict supposed a dog had to follow its natural instincts, but he couldn’t help but be a little disgruntled at Bullpup deserting him in the heat of battle.

  Cautiously he peered upwards. The shooting had stopped. He lifted the rifle and his finger was firming on the trigger when two shots rang out. He ducked back instinctively, but no lead screamed off stone. There was a momentary pause, followed by another two spranging shots, then a wild shout.

  Benedict lifted his head, senses straining. The basin’s echoes made it difficult to be sure, but it sounded as if those four shots had erupted, not from the snipers’ ledge but further along the rimrock to his right.

  What in hell was going on up there?

  Suddenly there was another stutter of gunfire with rifles cracking from different positions. But none of the bullets found their way into the moonlit basin. Hazarding another glance, Benedict thought he caught a glimpse of movement through the trees up on the rim a hundred yards west of Connie Moon’s ledge. A moment later he saw a stab of red bore flame lancing through dark pine trunks. Then there was a scream that was engulfed by the crump of another shot.

  Silence.

  Eyes raking shadows, trees and stone, Benedict waited. A half minute ticked by in pulsing silence before he heard the faint drum of hoofbeats from the southeast. The sounds faded quickly and were gone.

  Now his gaze focused on the timbered section where he’d seen that last gun flash to his right. Something was stirring up there now, moving eastward through the timber towards the ledge. A horseman. He had a momentary glimpse of a silhouette of horse and rider, then they vanished. Eventually movement stirred amongst the brush and rocks immediately behind the ledge where the riflemen had been positioned. He narrowed his eyes, but couldn’t determine what was happening, though he thought he saw something small run across the ledge, like a coyote—or a dog. Then the shadows stirred again and a powerful voice came rolling out over the basin:

  “Benedict ...?”

  He jerked erect, his eyes snapping wide in astonishment. That voice! Surely it couldn’t be ...?

  Then the rider appeared in clear sight on the ledge, outline of man and horse looking twelve feet high in the moonlight.

  It was Hank Brazos.

  The huge appaloosa tossed its head, mirroring the golden moon in the bright jewels of its eyes.

  Hank Brazos was grinning around the Bull Durham cigarette that dangled from a corner of his mouth. His thick, corn-colored hair spilled across his forehead from beneath the tipped back hat.

  “You fun it up like this every time you get off the leash on your lonesome, Benedict?”

  “Never mind the rustic drolleries, jailbird,” came the impatient response. “Just tell me how.”

  It was seldom that Brazos had his trail partner at a disadvantage, and he was enjoying his brief moment. Still grinning, he hunkered down beside his horse to scratch Bullpup’s ears. They’d met where the creek and the trail funneled down through the pass that notched the west rim of the little basin. There were still lingering wisps of cordite smoke drifting high and thin against the moon.

  Brazos took his cigarette from his lips, flicked off the ash, then settled back on his spurs.

  “I surely don’t like calabooses, Yank,” he drawled conversationally. “Never did, I reckon. But I guess I’d plumb forgot how much I—”

  “How?”

  The big Texan rose to his feet, rugged sun bronzed face turning sober now. “I busted out.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “Funny thing, but I never meant to. I was bound and determined to sweat it out, at least until you showed up ...” The big man’s face hardened. “But the deputy, well, he was just beggin’ for what he got ...”

  Benedict looked alarmed. “You didn’t kill him?”

  “Don’t be loco,” Brazos retorted, offended. “I wouldn’t beef a lawman, even one of his peculiar breed. No, I never killed him, just bent him around some. You see, just on dark tonight, Holloway went off to a meetin’, leavin’ Warren in charge. Well, that mouthy bastard had been needling me and bad-namin’ Texas every chance he got, and sure enough, Holloway wasn’t gone ten minutes before he came waltzin’ in with his big rattly teeth and started in again. I elected to pay him no mind and never said nothin’, just blew a little smoke through the bars at him and suchlike—you know, ignorin’ him.”

  “But he went too far?” Benedict guessed.

  “Correct. He said Sam Houston was a drunk.”

  “The ultimate crime.”

  “Huh?”

  “Never mind. What happened then?”

  “He got too close to the door.”

  “And?”

  “I kinda got hold of his shirt, then I kinda whanged his ugly head against the steel.”

  “That would have been some whang, I’d imagine.”

  “I was a little riled, I’ll allow. But all I wanted was to shut him up, and when he went down in a heap, he was so quiet you could hear your beard growin’. That was as far as I meant to go. But then I got to figurin’ that mebbe Holloway might get good and mad when he came back and found Horse-teeth layin’ there with his eyeballs rollin’. And then ... well, then I saw that Warren had the keys on his belt. So that’s when I started doin’ some heavy thinkin’. Ought I hang around and wait for Holloway to come back and maybe run the risk of Warren tryin’ to put a slug into me or somethin’? Or should I hightail it while the hightailin’ was good?” He grinned. “It didn’t take me long to make up my mind.”

  “I can imagine. Did you have any trouble getting away?”

  “Nary a hitch. They had my horse out back in the yard, and it was full dark by then. I just saddled up, moseyed on out through the back streets, then cut around for the mountains. I made it to Cross Hollow and picked up your sign as soon as the moon came up. I saw then that the freshest sign had you headin’ back east this way, so I just started along it, and then I heard that first shot. Naturally, knowin’ how good you are at scarin’ up trouble, I thought of you straight off, and I gave the horse a bit of a hurry-on.”

  He gestured to the steep slopes that climbed south from their position. “I rode up yonder, spotted you down there behind that rock, when I saw gun flashes comin’ from that ledge.” He shrugged. “The rest you know. I worked my way up along the rim and started shootin’. Winged one of ’em, too!” His brow furrowed. “Who were those two jaspers, Yank?”

  Benedict told him. He also told him about Connie Moon, about his visit to the Rocking T, and what he’d heard about Casey Cantrell. Brazos heard him out in absorbed silence, and when he was through he let out a gusty sigh.

  “Well, I�
�ll be damned! You sure enough have been busy, joker.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And you reckon Connie Moon was one of those pilgrims tryin’ to sack your saddle up there?”

  “I know one of them was Connie Moon. I’m guessing the other was his brother—Zeke, I think Maggie said his name was. The one you hit—what did he look like?”

  “Big, meaty.”

  “Zeke. The other one’s lean ...” Benedict rubbed his midsection. “Lean and tough.” He frowned, looked away, then spoke stiffly, the way he always did when he found himself beholden to someone. “I’m glad you showed up when you did, Texan.”

  That was as close as Benedict was ever likely to get to saying thanks, and Brazos accepted it with a terse, “You’d have done the same for me.” Then he went on, “Well, this is a whole new turkey shoot, I reckon, Yank. Like I say, I didn’t set out to bust out of that hoosegow, but seein’ as it was kinda forced on me, and here I am now free as a jaybird, I guess we might as well dust.”

  “To Perona Flats, do you mean?”

  “Hell, no. I mean leave. Skeedaddle.”

  “It that what you want?”

  “Hell, man, it’s what you want, too, ain’t it?”

  Benedict frowned as he moved off a short distance and stood looking back over the basin. Then he turned and came back slowly. Brazos could see he had something weighty on his mind. He waited.

  Finally Benedict said, “Johnny Reb, you know me well enough. You know I don’t believe in sticking my neck out for anybody unless there’s something in it for me.”

  “I know that’s what you always say,” drawled Brazos, who understood the complicated make-up of Duke Benedict better than that complex character realized. “But don’t beat around the berry bush, Benedict. If you’ve got somethin’ chewin’ on your liver, spit it out.”

  The gray eyes looked at him levelly. “Very well. I think we should see it through. I suggest that we ride to Perona Flats and see if we can’t get a line on the Rocking T cows, and if possible, return them to the ranch.”

  “Well, I’ll go hoppin’!” Brazos exclaimed in surprise. Then his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What’s the score, Benedict? The Dillon girl? I saw the old gleam in your beady eyes when you were talkin’ about her a minute back. Is that the deal? You want to show her what a true-blue gent you are?”

  “Only partly,” Benedict replied honestly. “Mainly, big man, it’s because, having met that girl, I simply can’t help but feel sympathetic towards her. She’s the right breed, Johnny Reb, and you’ll like her. Her father was killed, but instead of folding up and selling out as most girls would have in her position, she was determined to stay on and make a success of it. But it’s been uphill all the way. The ranch is poor country and it would be difficult to run it profitably even under ideal circumstances. As I’ve already told you, circumstances are far from that. There’s been the rustling, the attacks on her stock and property, and Darlington has been harassing her and trying to get her to sell. As if all that wasn’t enough, she has that Moon scoundrel pestering her—and I think you would have seen enough of him just now to realize how he shapes up.”

  Hank Brazos nodded thoughtfully. The picture Benedict had painted of Maggie Dillon and the Rocking T Ranch was vivid. Harboring a soft heart, he was sympathetic. He stood rubbing his rocky jaw, brushing Galloway and their unhappy experiences there from his thoughts and concentrating solely on the affairs of the Rocking T Ranch, which luck or destiny seemed to have inextricably woven in with their own.

  Finally he said pensively, “You know, Yank, it seems to me that things are goin’ on here, like you just been tellin’ me about, that don’t add up. You say the Rockin’ T is hard scrabble, poor stock?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then who’d want to thieve that sort of stuff when there’s good quality cattle to be had all over the low country?”

  “A good question, Reb. In fact, it’s one that’s been bothering me.”

  The Texan’s frown deepened. “And why would Darlington want to buy the outfit for more than it’s worth?”

  “Another good question, but, regrettably, also unanswerable at this stage.”

  Slabs of thick muscle coiled under the thin stuff of Brazos’ shirt as he folded his heavy arms and cocked an eyebrow. “You know what I’m thinkin’, Yank?”

  “What?”

  “I’m thinkin’ there’s a hell of a lot more goin’ on here than meets the eye.”

  Benedict smiled. “I rather thought you’d come to that conclusion sooner or later.” Then he sobered. “Well, Reb, what do we do? Do we pick up our chips and go home, or do we play another little hand?”

  “Could be tricky down south if this Cantrell is as ringy as they say,” Brazos said with a grin.

  “It almost certainly shall be,” Benedict replied.

  Hank Brazos suddenly looked sober. “I’m just wonderin’ …”

  “Wondering about what?”

  The Texan’s smile flashed on again. “I was wonderin’ what we’re doin’ standin’ here like a pair of old women gossiping when there’s a job of work to be done.”

  Duke Benedict laughed and strode for his horse. They didn’t speak as they set their mounts at a lope along the creek trail. But each man was aware that this was one of the good times. The trails they’d ridden had been long and hard, and more often than not the rugged, illiterate Texan and the cultivated scion of a wealthy Boston banking family had had a testy relationship. But right now, with dangers shared behind them and the prospect of more danger ahead, there wasn’t any other man either would have preferred to have at his shoulder as they rode through the night for Perona Flats.

  Chapter Seven

  Rough Night for Casey

  The run of the cards, as both Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos would have been prepared to concede before that night was through, was always unpredictable.

  When they’d split up at Rebo City with an agreement to meet in Galloway, the prospects of the immediate future looked simple enough. They had planned to meet, possibly rest for a day or so in Galloway, then push on to the next town or the next trail. But somebody had slipped a joker or two into the deck, with Brazos arrested on a trumped-up rustling charge, Benedict scouring the mountains for cattle thieves, a brutal clash with a wild man at the Rocking T, a jailbreak and a gun battle.

  So things had turned out when they hadn’t even been expecting trouble. Now, heading south to perhaps tangle with a bunch of rustlers that had the whole country scared, logic suggested that they should be doubly wary and expect the worst.

  But Casey Cantrell turned out to be a paper tiger—or at least he was that night.

  Things were free and easy in Perona Flats, Keogh County. A fetid collection of tarpaper shacks and clapboard hovels, set out on a broad alkali step on the fringe of the vast, ravine-cut flats, it had long been a haven for the country’s wanted and unwanted. To Perona Flats gravitated those who wouldn’t work, and those who couldn’t because their ugly faces ornamented truebills that told the world they were held responsible for crimes ranging from chicken theft to murder. Larceny had built Perona Flats far from the centers of law enforcement, and theft, graft, cheap whisky and a changing population of drunks, drifters and badmen kept it alive.

  They never held elections in Perona Flats, but had they done so, Casey Cantrell would have been an odds-on favorite for the position of mayor. The locals thought Casey gave the place a badly needed touch of class. An ex-train robber and ex-inmate of the state pen, Casey was a gabby, two-fisted badman who could talk like a backwoods evangelist, sing like a bird, and lift cows with a skill approaching artistry. Backed up by henchmen Boy Curry, Stash Varger and Heck Bragg, Cantrell plied his rustling trade throughout Keogh County and had grown fat and rich on the proceeds. Occasionally an irate bunch of cattlemen or a hard-nosed lawman would be stirred up sufficiently to try to nail Cantrell’s pelt to the wall, but their record of success was lamentable. If the rustler hunters showed up in force, Cantrell wou
ld merely vanish into the hills until they went away, and if they were foolish enough to arrive undermanned, the gang would meet them head-on, with violent results.

  It had been a long time since anybody had come hunting the badmen, and as a consequence Cantrell had grown complacent. These days, when Cantrell stole cattle, he would sit back with his boots up in Perona Flats and wait for the clients to come to him. He never waited long. His best clients were a crooked cattle buyer from Macqueen and the quartermaster officer from Fort Union who was happy to buy stolen cattle at a low price and pocket the difference. With these customers plus others who drifted in from time to time, merchandise moved smartly and the rustlers seldom had to hold their stock out at Kiowa Gulch longer than two or three days before they found a buyer.

  But the little herd grazing at the gulch at the moment was a different matter. The Rocking T cows were so poor that the Fort Union man had already come and gone without making an offer. Maybe, when they put on about thirty pounds apiece, he might be interested. Maybe.

  Casey Cantrell knew the Rocking T stuff was sub-standard, and he professed not to be concerned at the possibility of holding them at Kiowa Gulch until they fattened up on the good grass out there. Even so, he was pleased to see the big Texan who came lumbering into the Shotgun Saloon just after midnight that night with a fat bankroll, looking to buy some cattle for a rancher down on the border.

  The Texan was a rough one and no mistake. He looked as drunk as a fiddler’s cat when he clomped in, and he made heavy inroads on the bar’s whisky supplies while Cantrell sat in a far corner trying to make up his mind whether to do business or not.

  While he was waiting, the Texan started three fights. He lost one when he fell over and hit his head while shaping up to the flyweight Olan Price, scored a drawn decision when he and Ben Bradbury both punched one another lightly on the shoulder and called it quits, then won spectacularly when he kicked Butcher Brown through the front window. And it was lucky for Butcher that they didn’t run to glass in their windows at Perona Flats.