Benedict and Brazos 25

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Then came another question: Did Libby Blue know that Kain Ketchell was no longer locked away in the cage of stone and steel that was Starkwater Penitentiary? If she didn’t know, should they tell her?

  “A penny for your thoughts, Duke,” she said suddenly.

  Benedict gave a start, then recovered to say, “Oh, just day-dreaming, Libby.”

  At that point Hurble shouted for the train to move on. Benedict smiled and helped Libby to her feet.

  “Perhaps that isn’t exactly the truth,” he said. “I was wondering if you might like to travel in my wagon the rest of the way.”

  “Sorry,” Brazos said sharply. “Hurble says everybody’s to stay put now that he’s got things straightened out.”

  “Big Rosie didn’t stay where she was put,” Benedict argued.

  “That’s different,” Brazos grinned. “She can beat Keef at fist-fightin’.”

  Prepared to let it go at that for the time being, Benedict escorted Libby Blue back to Mick Potter’s wagon. Under the jealous stares of the other women, he and Brazos helped her up to the high seat, then made their way back to the front of the train.

  “She’s taken a fancy to me,” Benedict said. “I can always tell.”

  Brazos frowned darkly. “Buffalo dust! She’s quality, that little filly. She don’t get taken in by heel-clickin’ and hand-kissin’. Somethin’ solid is what she’s interested in.”

  “Well, nobody can deny that you’re that all right—solid granite, head to toe.”

  “I’d rather be that than a primpin’ dude with—”

  Brazos’ words were interrupted by a stern voice from Hurble’s wagon:

  “So! I see you’ve been makin’ the acquaintance of the article that’s got all the other big strong boyos actin’ like they’ve been nippin’ at the whisky barrel. Well, I must say I expected more of you than to be carryin’ on like a fool over a scrawny little thing that wouldn’t keep a midget warm at night. But I’ll be givin’ a word of warnin’—to both of ye. She’s trouble that Jezebel, what with her flutterin’ eyelashes and her shirt unbuttoned so you can see her hoojahs. You mark Rosie’s words—that article is no good.”

  “Better watch your step, Reb,” Benedict whispered, nudging Brazos in the ribs. “It’s perfectly obvious that Big Rosie has her sights set on you and doesn’t mean to stand for any rivalry. I suggest you play it straight with the dear lady. I can assure you that no harm will come to Libby.”

  “Why don’t you open a vein, Benedict?” Brazos growled as he strode towards his horse.

  Benedict chuckled to himself as he climbed onto the high seat and untied the reins from the whip socket. With such beautiful weather and the company of a girl like Libby, it was almost impossible to believe that the journey to Tarbuck could be anything but pleasant. His smile broadened at Hurble’s “Wagons, ho!” and then the train rolled ahead. “Libby,” he said to himself, rolling the name on his tongue. Her name was as pretty as she was. She was so pretty, in fact, that she had even entranced the straight-laced Johnny Reb. But of course Hank Brazos must realize that when it came to romance, there was room for only one winner.

  But astride his big appaloosa and seemingly unaware of Big Rosie’s disapproving looks as he turned to catch a glimpse of Libby, big Hank Brazos was determined that this time things would be the other way around. He was prepared to concede that when it came to women he usually let Duke Benedict grab the spotlight. But not this time. This time it would be different. Libby was too nice a girl for a womanizer like Benedict.

  “Hey!” a harsh voice intruded on his thoughts.

  Brazos blinked, then realized he’d let the appaloosa drift too close to Hurble’s wagon. He straightened the animal and smiled up at Rosie, who barked, “If you’re bein’ paid to scout, why ain’t you doin’ some scoutin’?”

  “Whatever you say, Rosie,” he laughed, then he kicked his horse ahead.

  Chapter Five – The Lawman and the Killer

  HIS SIX-GUN, SHOTGUN and Winchester rifle finally cleaned to his satisfaction, Marshal Clanton Nash holstered his Colt, slung the other weapons under his arm and walked across the yard to the jailhouse stables.

  His big dun gelding whickered a greeting as the lawman leaned the guns against the wall beside his warbag. He offered the animal a handful of corn. The horse scooped up the delicacy with its teeth then nibbled playfully at his hand, a sure sign that he was feeling chipper.

  Picking up a curry comb from the work bench, Nash entered the gelding’s stall and spent some ten minutes grooming him. It was late afternoon in Chad City and this was the first opportunity he’d had to get ready for the trail. The day had been spent sending and receiving wires. Chief Marshal Almond had been difficult once he got the full drift of Nash’s plan of operation. The chief marshal had been shocked at the idea of employing a pair of drifters for what obviously should have been work for trained peace officers. But a wire from Nash had finally persuaded his superior that in Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos they had as fine a pair of fighting men as one might find in the Dakota Territory, and Almond had finally given his permission to go ahead.

  There had been no further news on Kain Ketchell. However, following the Chimney Cliff slaughter, the federal government had increased the bounty money on the escapee from four thousand dollars to ten.

  The marshal thought idly about that ten thousand dollars as he set about saddling the dun. It was a great deal of money. Too bad federal officers were unable to claim bounties. With ten thousand he could buy his Martha that fine house on Whiplock’s South Hill she had always admired. But ten thousand dollars meant little to the marshal. His wife, his daughter and the law were the corner-stones of his hard but rewarding life. He wanted nothing more.

  It was dusk when he finished his preparations. Bart Sparger came down the back steps of the jailhouse as Nash led his gelding to the gate.

  “All set to go, Marshal?”

  “I guess so, Sheriff.”

  Sparger scratched the back of his neck. “I hope I’ve done the right thing ...”

  In the saddle now, the federal man frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I wired the county sheriff about what I’d done with Brazos and Benedict. Sheriff Fogerty didn’t reply, and that could be a bad sign.”

  Thinking of Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos out there in Eagle Valley, willing to take all sorts of risks in the hope of catching a deadly killer, Nash was unsympathetic.

  “Tough,” he grunted, and then he rode out.

  The moon climbed as he reached the valley border. He rode steadily into the strengthening yellow light.

  Nine men were grouped about the fire when Todd Essex rode up from the Chad City trail. The meeting place was a deep hollow among rocks and brush a mile from the tiny village of Doone. The path Essex had followed from the main trail to the hollow was invisible from the village itself, and the town couldn’t be seen from the hollow. They were not outlaws, these cruel-faced, hard-bitten men, nor were they here to discuss illegal business. They had assembled quietly at this secluded spot simply because in their line of work secrecy was a necessity.

  Rogan St. John stood by the small fire with a pannikin of Irish coffee in his fist as Essex threaded his way through the silent men towards the blaze.

  St. John was short and paunchy, with legs bowed to a horse collar shape. His face was the color of old tobacco and his tufted brows almost hid his eyes. A stranger might have identified him as a dirt farmer or perhaps an unsuccessful horse trader. But perhaps a man with more perception than average would have considered the ice-cold glint of his brow-shadowed eyes and sensed there was a lot more to the man.

  Rogan St. John owned a small farm back in the hills, and he’d been known to trade a horse from time to time. But St. John’s true profession, and the one that had made his a feared and hated name throughout Dakota Territory, was that of a bounty-hunter. At one time or another every man in this little rock hollow had hunted wanted men in Rogan St. John’s comp
any.

  The beetle brows lifted as Essex stepped into the fire glow. “Got any news for us, kid?” Todd Essex was a forty-year-old horse rancher from the Divide, but he was still “kid” to Rogan St. John, as were most of the others who followed the St. John banner.

  Essex squatted on his heels and said, “They’ve increased the bounty money, Rogan.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten thousand dollars!”

  A murmur swept through the group around the fire. Ten thousand dollars for a solitary fugitive was unheard of, and once the excitement died away, something akin to apprehension seemed to take its place.

  “Are you dead certain about that figure, Essex?” asked Joe Trower, a hill farmer from the Buscaderos. A lean, sour faced man of forty, Trower, like many of the others, had a criminal record. Prison had frightened the man into going straight, and bounty hunting had enabled him to kill without risking the rope in retaliation. Trower was a back-shooter. He didn’t relish anything that was even remotely like an even clash, and he was stunned to think that one man might be considered so dangerous by the government as to be worth ten thousand dollars.

  “It come through on the wires around four in the afternoon,” Essex said in his matter-of-fact way. “They ran off a placard at the newspaper office and stuck it on the street advertisin’ the new bounty. But I never saw nobody rushin’ about gettin’ ready to make a try for it.” His gaze lifted to Trower significantly. “They looked scared, Joe. Imagine that!”

  “Who wouldn’t be scared?” put in bullet-headed Jimmy Lee. “Ketchell killed eight in Chimney Cliff. Eight!”

  The man named Fargo moved so sharply that his spurs jangled. Somewhere in his middle twenties, tall, alley-cat lean and wearing yellow gloves and a blanket coat with buckskin patches, Fargo was on his first outing with the bounty-hunter band. New to this section of the country, he worked on St. John’s hard-scrabble spread. The few in the bunch who suspected that Fargo was nothing better than a killer were right. St. John had seen fit to take Fargo on after outlaw Manny Severn almost finished off St. John in an ambush on the Wyoming border. St. John considered Fargo a valuable if erratic employee. The gunman proved his value now as he hauled Trower and Jimmy Lee into line.

  “Eight?” he said in a voice that was like a file. “What’s so great about that? Any one of us could kill that many jokers if we were loco enough to jump into an eatery shootin’ off a repeater. I could likely kill even more if I put my mind to it.”

  “Fargo’s right,” hulking Zeke Denver decided. “Ain’t nothin’ special about Ketchell. He’s just another loco wolf to run. down. Eh, Rogan?”

  “Correct, kid.” St. John threw the dregs from his mug and tossed it aside. “And now that everybody’s had their turn on the soap box, let’s get back to work.” He nodded curtly to Essex. “What else? Did the girl go with the train to Tarbuck?”

  “Yeah, Rogan.”

  At that, Rogan St. John began stroking his jaw and pacing up and down, thinking hard. Back in his incredibly cluttered office on his ranch, St. John kept files on every outlaw in the northwest. There was an even more extensive file in his ugly head, and it was this vast knowledge of the men he hunted that was largely responsible for the bounty hunter’s remarkable success at his trade.

  St. John knew a great deal about Kain Ketchell; he had even heard through prison contacts of Ketchell’s vow to avenge himself on those he held responsible for his imprisonment. As a direct consequence of this knowledge, St. John had sent a man to check on Libby Blue immediately following news of the Chimney Cliff massacre. Alvin Page had tracked both the girl and a federal marshal to Chad City, and had reported back to the effect that Libby Blue planned to journey to Tarbuck with the wagon train.

  “Did Nash go with the train, too, Essex?” St. John asked.

  “Nope. Saw him at the telegraph office when I was leavin’.”

  St. John went on pacing. There were things here that didn’t quite add up. Surely Marshal Nash would be aware of Ketchell’s threat, and of the possibility that Ketchell might make a try for Libby en route to Tarbuck?

  Or had Nash some added information that had convinced him Ketchell wouldn’t come to Eagle Valley? He had to sit down to think about that one. Following the deaths of Bo Wainright and the rest of the old Ketchell gang, St. John had felt quite certain that Libby Blue would be next. The transcripts of Ketchell’s trial had been quite clear concerning the girl’s involvement in the outlaw’s arrest and capture. Apparently even Ketchell’s own friends had grown sick of his vicious excesses and had plotted to bring him down. Being treacherous and devious by nature, Rogan St. John could well understand that. What he couldn’t understand was why Marshal Clanton Nash hadn’t followed the luscious Libby to Eagle Valley.

  After thirty minutes, St. John decided he would sleep on it. This he did, and daybreak found him refreshed and convinced that his original hunch still held water. Rather than comb half of Dakota on the off-chance they might luck onto Ketchell’s trail, they would concentrate on the wagon train, follow it unseen, and hope that sooner or later Kain Ketchell would show up to even accounts with Libby Blue.

  Feeling better now that his decision had been made, St. John sent Denver and Page into Doone to pick up extra water canteens and supplies.

  Waiting for Page and Denver to return, they spent the time cleaning their guns.

  Albert Town was a long, rough street fronted by unpainted frame buildings and intersected by two cross streets. There was a general store, a saloon, a blacksmith’s, a bakery, a gold assay office that had been closed for a year, and a whitewashed church that had been closed even longer.

  The main street was quiet that night when the solitary horseman drifted into the rim of the lights. Man and horse were caked with the dust of long travel. The horse immediately slumped into a weary, head-hanging stance when the rider racked him in the deep gloom of a side alley, but the man moved off into the deeper darkness with a muscular litheness.

  The tall shadow ghosted towards the Stag Saloon and Dancing Hall, making no more noise than a passing cloud.

  The saloon was gloomy and stank of stale beer. Above the bar hung a vivid but unprofessional painting of a large, unclothed lady stuffing herself on purple grapes. The painting was flanked on either side by daguerreotypes of the two current presidential candidates, Grover Cleveland and James G. Blaine.

  The yellow eyes at the grimy east window flicked over the tatty girls and the drunken late customers, then vanished.

  Half a minute later, a tall man with a sawn-off repeating Winchester under his broad leather belt at the back, went up the rusted drainpipe near the kitchen to the second-floor balcony with the agility of a Kentucky possum. Chest heaving after his exertion, he padded along the balcony to a room where a blue light glowed dimly behind curtained French doors. There he stood as still as death, listening.

  Minutes passed. He showed no outward sign of impatience as he heard the man’s voice, thick with passion a short time ago, now carping and querulous when the dialogue turned to economic matters.

  “Two dollars, Bonnie? You only charged me a dollar-fifty last time!”

  “That was last year, Benny,” a bored woman’s voice answered. “You’re not exactly my most regular customer, you know.”

  “Two bucks still seems a hell of a lot.”

  “You got your money’s worth, lover boy. Now pay up and dust, for I’m surely tired.”

  The voices faded and there was the chink of coins, then the sound of a door opening and closing. Steps faded down the stairs and the old building creaked in the night as it settled. A corded brown hand turned the latch on the French doors and they swung silently inward.

  Bonnie Batt didn’t hear the faint creak of the doors. The man who stood framed in the doorway stared down at her unblinkingly. The girl lay on the mussed four-poster bed. A Turkish cigarette dangled from her red lips and she wore a transparent gown loosely belted at the waist. Though pretty in a hard way, she looked well ove
r thirty, but she was just twenty-three years of age. She was a year older than a girl she had befriended a year ago in Colorado. A girl named Libby Blue.

  Gazing wearily up at nothing through shifting clouds of pungent tobacco smoke, she suddenly sensed a presence and turned her head. A cry rose in her throat when she saw the towering, bright-eyed figure standing there, then choked off.

  She sat up slowly and cringed back against the brass bedhead, her dark eyes sick.

  Ketchell’s smile was as cold as sleet as he came into the room with the terrible pigeon-toted walk she had seen once in Colorado and had hoped never to see again. He propped a boot on a footstool and leaned an elbow on his knee. Then he said:

  “You’re a sensible girl not to holler, Bonnie, for if you did I’d have to cut your throat. Now, you’re plainly a busy little girl and I’m a busy man, so we won’t waste your time or mine. Where is she?”

  Somehow she got her voice working. “You mean Libby?”

  Kain Ketchell examined his fingernails. “You’re borin’ me already, Bonnie. Just like you bored me in Colorado when you and that dirty, stinkin’ double-crossin’ bitch used to get around in your fine gear makin’ out you’d never been cheap strumpets!”

  Bonnie’s red wound of a mouth worked again, but no sound came out. The man terrified her—just the way he breathed in and out through flared nostrils with his wide, cruel mouth clamped in a line as thin as a razor edge. When she had met Kain Ketchell first, she had thought him fascinating, magnetic. Then one day the veneer had been stripped away and she’d seen him as he really was. The mere thought of him had been enough to scare her ever since. Gulping air, she clutched the cold brass rungs of the bedstead and closed her eyes.