“That is a good question, Sheriff Sparger,” Duke Benedict replied broodingly, subjecting his hulking trail partner to a steady scrutiny. It was true of course that an illiterate ex-cowpuncher and ex-Confederate sergeant was no proper associate for the scion of a wealthy Boston banking family who had graduated in law from Harvard and distinguished himself as a captain in the Union army. This was indisputable, Duke Benedict considered. But so too was what he seldom dwelt upon, the fact that Brazos was about the best fighting man Duke Benedict had ever known, maybe the only man he’d met who wouldn’t let you down when Old Man Death breathed his sulphurous breath in your face ...
This was how Duke Benedict’s thinking ran at that moment, but of course he gave no hint of it as he waved a negligent hand and drawled, “No man of conscience could possibly desert a loco Texan and let him loose on an unsuspecting West, Hurble.” He sat down on his bunk, leaned back and set his cigar between his teeth with an air of finality. “Sorry, Hurble.”
It was quiet in the cell-block after a scowling sheriff and a disappointed Hurble had left. Very quiet.
Then Brazos said, “Glad you elected to stick, Yank. Seems to me we always do best in tandem, even if we don’t always match strides.”
“Yeah,” was all Benedict would say. He wasn’t thinking of partnerships, durable or otherwise right then—he was thinking of a girl with chestnut hair and violet eyes, and he was wondering how a genuine connoisseur of beauty like himself was going to survive without at least one more glimpse of lovely Libby Blue ...
Chapter Four – The Tarbuck Train
DUKE BENEDICT BROODED about the girl with the violet eyes through the long night, and he was still at it next morning when an impressed Sheriff Sparger came in with the news that Federal Marshal Clanton Nash was on his way to see Benedict.
Meeting Nash again cheered Benedict considerably, for they had worked successfully on a cattle rustling investigation in Nevada a year earlier, and prior to that they had been fellow officers in Virginia during the Wilderness Campaign.
Though a little surprised to find Benedict behind bars, Nash’s greeting was warm, and after they had moved through the standard pleasantries, Benedict was not at all surprised to discover that it was work, not pleasure, that had brought the marshal to Chad City.
A year ago, Clanton Nash had been hard on the trail of the rustler king, Fess Moreno. Today he was hunting Kain Ketchell.
Benedict was impressed, for though well occupied with his own problems over the past twenty-four hours, he had heard about the massacre in distant Chimney Cliff. But what had brought the marshal to Chad City? Did he have a lead on Ketchell?
“Perhaps so, Duke,” replied Nash, a heavy-set man with a drooping brown moustache and dark, intelligent eyes. “I’ve been tailing Ketchell’s old girlfriend. She showed up here yesterday afternoon to join the Tarbuck train. Name’s Libby Blue.”
It was quite impossible, both Benedict and the intently listening Hank Brazos decided. A lovely, sweet-faced young angel of a girl like that mixed up with a man who had slain three guards to break out of Starkwater Penitentiary, and had then butchered eight of his former henchmen the following night in Chimney Cliff? Ridiculous!
But it wasn’t. Clanton Nash had all the facts. Libby Blue and Kain Ketchell had kept company for several months in Colorado last year prior to Ketchell’s capture and arrest. Whether or not the girl had known at the time who or what her lover was, Nash didn’t know. What he did know was that Libby Blue had finally conspired with Ketchell’s segundo, Bo Wainright, to turn Ketchell in to the law, and that subsequently Ketchell had vowed to square accounts with everybody who had taken part in his arrest and conviction for larceny.
Stunned, Brazos and Benedict exchanged a glance, then returned their attention to Clanton Nash as he continued.
He was not positive that Ketchell would come after Libby Blue, he explained, but it was a strong hunch. During a three-month spell in solitary confinement at Starkwater for bashing a guard, Ketchell had scratched three names on his cell wall with his fingernail: WAINRIGHT, LIBBY, MARTELL. Martell was the prosecuting attorney who had secured Ketchell’s conviction. It had been Martell’s last case as an attorney before standing for the office of Territorial Governor, which he had won. Now installed as governor in Capital City, Martell, along with Libby Blue, was considered a possible target for the blood-crazed Ketchell. For beneath those three names, the killer had scratched the word DEATH. With Bo Wainright and his entire seven man bunch already in their graves, how could any sane-thinking peace officer believe other than that Martell and Libby Blue would escape Ketchell’s attention?
Sparger brought in coffee at that point. Benedict lit a cigar while Brazos built a cigarette, the marshal plumping for a pipe that fogged up the entire jailhouse.
Then, with the coffee finished, Nash went on. His hunch that Ketchell would pursue his former sweetheart was not one that was shared by Nash’s superiors in Whiplock. The chief marshal believed that Ketchell had left the State following the Chimney Cliff assassinations, and the lawman had then assigned the bulk of his men to the border regions. But Nash, who knew Ketchell personally, had insisted that vengeance would prove more important to the man than escape. He had finally persuaded his superior to post two special marshal guards at the governor’s palace in the Capital, and to grant him permission to keep watch on Libby Blue.
Nash had been disappointed to discover that the girl was traveling. He had hoped to stake out her house in Albert Town in the hope that Ketchell would ultimately go there. Now his problem was greatly magnified. Libby Blue was ready to leave for Tarbuck in the morning. Did she know about Ketchell’s escape? Nash couldn’t be sure. If she did know, she certainly didn’t seem too concerned. She was unaware that Nash was trailing her as yet. The marshal was in two minds whether to reveal himself to the girl and try to persuade her to return to Albert Town to play decoy for him, or to follow the Tarbuck train in the hope that Ketchell would show up.
It was at this stage that Brazos expressed his repugnance at the idea of Nash using a young girl as a lure for a mass killer. Nash conceded that if there were another way out of it, he wouldn’t consider the ploy for a moment. But desperate situations called for desperate measures, he reasoned convincingly. Kain Ketchell was the most savage and merciless killer he had encountered during twenty years behind a badge. If Ketchell wasn’t caught quickly, he might kill many more people. Always vicious, Ketchell seemed to have worsened in prison. It was a hard thing to say, but Nash admitted that if it came down to a choice between the life of one girl and possibly dozens of others, he was prepared to risk Libby Blue’s life.
This was when the question posed itself in Duke Benedict’s sharp brain. Was he prepared to risk her life? If not, what could he do about it?
The answer came swiftly, the way it usually did when Benedict seriously applied the weight of his intelligence to a given problem. Swiftly—and like some of the best solutions to big problems—simply. He and Brazos could travel with the Tarbuck train as bodyguards for Libby Blue. Brazos was such an expert in trailsmanship that it was unlikely any killer would get close to the train without his knowledge. And even if the killer did reach the train, they were both top six-gun hands, with Benedict possibly one of the West’s best. With them traveling with the train, Clanton Nash could ride well behind to minimize the risk of Ketchell sighting and recognizing him, but close enough to be brought up by prearranged signal when needed.
Bart Sparger and Clanton Nash were deeply impressed, but Hank Brazos was not. It wasn’t the danger that bothered the Texan—he was still appalled by the idea of Libby Blue acting the role of a living, breathing target for a killer’s gun.
“There’s got to be another way, Benedict,” Brazos protested. “If the marshal’s hunch is right and Ketchell does show, all we’ve got to do is make one slip and that lovely little lady is dead.”
“I’m aware of that,” Benedict replied. “And the best I can suggest is that we see
to it that we don’t make any mistakes.” He crossed to the bars of Brazos’ cell. “What do you say, big man? You willing to try your hand?”
He had Brazos now and knew it. For big Hank Brazos was ever ready to do just about anything to help a damsel in distress. And if Kain Ketchell was planning to even scores with his ex-sweetheart, as Marshal Clanton Nash believed, then no damsel was more in distress than Libby Blue.
“There ain’t no other way, Yank?” Brazos asked.
“None.”
“Then I’m with you.”
“Good man, Reb. I knew I could count on you.”
A word of gratitude from Duke Benedict was rare enough to cheer Brazos at any time. Following a lengthy discussion about the assignment with Sparger and Nash, Hank Brazos was beginning to feel not only a great deal more confident about the chore they were undertaking, but he sensed that it might not prove nearly as hazardous as he’d first imagined.
But reality struck the next day when, saddling his appaloosa in the misty morning light at the bustling wagon camp, a mighty hand clapped his shoulder and a great voice thickened with County Kildaire, potato soup and Irish coffee welcomed him back.
“Faith be, me strappin’ darlin’, but it’s not the wild savages or the desert I’ll be fearin’ now you’re back, but losin’ me girlish heart before I’ve had the chance to reach Tarbuck and find out what sort of a miserable weed is waitin’ for me to give meself to in holy matrimony.” Then a nudge and a wicked giggle. “And before we’re gettin’ there, me brave Texas boyo, you’ll be showin’ your Rosie your muscles now, won’t you?”
Hank Brazos’ big hands were less than steady as he swung up and rode away from the remuda. Before him in the thinning morning mist stretched Eagle Valley, deceptively lovely and cool looking in the pearly light ... but there was also Big Rosie Moriarty.
It was going to be a long journey to Tarbuck in the Winding Stair Mountains after all.
Then he caught a glimpse of Benedict helping Libby Blue up into the wagon she would be sharing with some nine others on the way across, and immediately his trembling stopped.
Squaring his huge shoulders, Brazos touched the appaloosa with his heels, and with Bullpup padding alongside, he headed for the vanguard of the train to break trail.
Keef Hurble had decided the Texan shaped up as the best outdoorsman on his payroll, and he’d appointed him trail blazer and scout for the expedition that would go down in Dakota history as the Tarbuck Woman Train.
A crowd of several hundred had assembled out at the campground to witness the departure of the brides’ train for distant, woman-starved Tarbuck. In the early stages, as Benedict and Brazos did their best to help get the train under way, everything looked chaotic, but they were soon to realize that Keef Hurble had everything surprisingly well under control.
There were six eight-mule Conestoga wagons in the train, each wagon averaging ten women and their personal effects. There were eight men in all, four other drivers along with Brazos, Benedict and Hurble, and one bad-tempered cook named Hambone.
Apart from the prairie schooners, there was a grub wagon, a string of spare saddlers and mules, and a trailer attached to the lead wagon that was the sleeping quarters for Hurble and his stern-lipped wife, Agatha. Mrs. Hurble had decided to accompany her husband on the bride-transporting expedition only to make sure that he didn’t forget he was a married man. The girls were all excited now that the big journey was about to begin, and most of them were clamoring to travel on the Conestoga that Benedict had been asked to drive on the first leg. Big Rosie was a notable exception. She insisted on being in the lead wagon, for there she would be closest to Brazos.
Confident and beaming as they started off, Keef Hurble predicted they would make Tarbuck in seven days, barring unforeseen circumstances and acts of God.
Both Brazos and Benedict felt themselves caught up in the general mood of excitement as the train finally rumbled west, with the noise, dust and confusion of Chad City slipping away behind. It was a perfect day, with great white clouds drifting lazily across a sky of the deepest blue. Suddenly it was good to have the breeze in your face and the prospect of the unknown ahead, regardless of the serious business that saw them journeying westward with Keef Hurble’s train.
Driving the second wagon behind Hurble’s, Benedict puffed at a long black Cuban cigarillo and held the leathers casually in a right hand protected by a black kid glove. It was one thing to undertake something like this for an old friend and a beautiful young girl, but it was another to run the risk of getting blisters or callouses on one’s card-dealing equipment. His girls, exhausted by the last minute hustle and bustle and the mounting heat, were quiet behind him now and he was able to think.
Seven days, he reflected. Seven days to Tarbuck if all went well ... a lot of days and a lot of miles, particularly if Nash’s theory about Kain Ketchell proved true.
Leaning against the canvas canopy, Benedict stared back at the dust raised by the wagon train. He figured Clanton Nash would still be busy in Chad City getting off wires to his office in Whiplock concerning his movements, and collecting the latest news on Ketchell before setting out.
With his eyes on the way ahead again, Benedict reflected on what he knew about Kain Ketchell. He was thirty-five years of age, three parts American and a quarter Comanche, big, gun-quick and cunning. He’d served a five-year stretch in Yuma for attempted murder when still a youth, then had acquired an outlaw record in half a dozen States until he’d been arrested in Colorado last year and sentenced to life for grand larceny.
It was strange, he thought. Until yesterday the name Kain Ketchell had been just another in the backlog of his memory, linked with others like the Youngers, the James boys, Quantrill and Bo Rangle. Now there was something immediate and personal about the name Ketchell and he found himself studying the way ahead intently, wondering if somewhere out there was a tall man with a sawn-off Winchester and a hate too big to harness, riding steadily and remorselessly towards a rendezvous with death and vengeance.
Flipping his cigar butt away, Benedict looked ahead to see Hank Brazos riding beside the Hurble wagon. Keef had called the Texan back to discuss something, and now Big Rosie leaned from the backflaps, smiling and simpering at the Texan.
They reached Celinda River, where they stopped to eat. Both Brazos and Benedict were busy for some time attending the mules and horses with the other men, then they helped fill the water barrels for the long, dry stretches ahead. The women had finished their meal and were walking about the wagons stretching their limbs when the trail partners sat near Benedict’s wagon for coffee and a plate of Hambone’s beans and beef.
As they ate, Brazos noticed Benedict occasionally frown as he flexed his shoulders. Brazos grinned and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
“Feelin’ a few you never knew you had, Yank?”
Benedict looked up. “Pardon?”
“Muscles. It’s tougher work buckin’ eight jackasses and a wagon than dealin’ poker or blackjack, huh?”
Benedict gave Brazos a hard look. As always, the tougher things got physically, the better big Brazos seemed to look. The Texan thrived on hard going. On the other hand, Benedict was strictly a silk shirt and satin sheets man who felt uncomfortable when more than a few miles from a saloon.
Benedict was searching for a remark to wipe the smirk from Brazos’ face when a shadow fell between them and a girl’s voice said, “Mr. Benedict and Mr. Brazos, may I join you for a moment?”
They rose together, Brazos sweeping off his hat and Benedict giving a small bow.
“Miss Blue,” Benedict said with his best smile. “This is indeed a pleasure.”
“A pleasure? It’s an honor,” Brazos corrected.
Miss Libby Blue smiled. “I must say I can’t remember when I last encountered such courtesy. Now which is which, gentlemen? I haven’t had time to get your names straight yet. I think you must be Duke Benedict, because all the girls have been saying you’re the handsome o
ne. And of course you must be Hank Brazos, because you’re the one with the marvelous physique and eyes almost the same color as mine.”
If Libby Blue thought she could turn a couple of worldly-wise veterans of the trails into a pair of devoted admirers with a little flattery ... she was dead right.
“I insist that you call me Duke, Miss Blue,” Benedict said, exuding charm. “Please sit down.”
She accepted the offer and it was a first-name basis in no time at all. The minutes sped by as fast-talking Benedict and slow-thinking Brazos got better acquainted with the lovely creature who was the real reason behind their presence on the wagon train, and in turn Libby Blue seemed delighted to be sharing their company.
Despite the ample competition afforded by the other girls, Libby made all pale by comparison as she sat there on the camp stool in her vivid red shirt, tailored trousers, button-up boots and fluttering floral scarf. She sat there gracefully, her long legs tucked beneath her, her hands linked around one knee. So perfect and polished did she seem that the same question hit the minds of her companions almost simultaneously: Surely it wasn’t necessary for somebody like this to become a mail-order bride in order to attract a husband?
Libby Blue smiled gaily when she caught the drift of his hesitant hints concerning her prospects in Tarbuck.
“Oh, I’m not looking for a husband,” she said. “It’s simply that I have business in Tarbuck, and it’s such a remote and difficult place to get to that I thought I’d see if Mr. Hurble would be kind enough to let me travel with his girls.”
Hank Brazos looked relieved, and Benedict’s face mirrored the same feeling. It was good to know that Libby didn’t have a rich husband-to-be waiting for her in Tarbuck. Yet, as the girl turned to talk with Brazos, he found himself wondering about the man who had played such a big part in her young life—Kain Ketchell. The longer he thought about it, the deeper grew the crease between his dark brows. It just didn’t add up—a girl like this and a mad-dog killer. How could a sweet girl like this keep company with a Ketchell without realizing what he was?
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