Benedict and Brazos 25

by E. Jefferson Clay

  The man grinned wider as he reverse-butted the sawn off with a quick motion. In desperation, Brazos tried to lunge erect. The last he knew was the stock of the Winchester exploding against his head.

  Chapter Eight – Shootout at Red Feather Springs

  KEEF HURBLE SAID, “I tell you, we’ve got to go take a look, Duke. He’s been down there twenty minutes.”

  Tight white lines showed at the corners of Benedict’s mouth as he scanned the silent barricades of stone that surrounded Red Feather Springs. “No,” he said.

  The wagon master swore. “Glory be, man, I thought he was your good pard! Don’t you even care that he might be in trouble down there?”

  Duke Benedict cared. But he wasn’t going to be stampeded into doing what Hurble and the others obviously thought was the natural thing. If Johnny Reb had landed in trouble, then it was no ordinary brand of trouble. It would take somebody of rare ability to get the jump on the trail wise Texan ...

  Benedict turned his head at the sound of steps to see Libby Blue approaching with Gloria la Rue and a worried looking Big Rosie. He noted that Libby, in her vivid green dress, looked totally relaxed despite the fact that everybody in the train had guessed by now that something had happened to big Hank Brazos.

  “I’m on the third decade already, Mr. Benedict,” Big Rosie panted. “But it still doesn’t seem to be workin’ I’m afraid.”

  “Decade?” he frowned.

  The Irishwoman tugged a hefty set of wooden beads from the slash pocket of her voluminous skirt. “Decades of the rosary, you heathen. Glory be, when I see that Texas boyo back safe and sound, I’m for thinkin’ I’d best be rippin’ off a few decades for you in your pagan ignorance.”

  In spite of himself, Benedict smiled, then he turned sharply at Keef Hurble’s whispered, “What’s that?”

  Every eye focused on the squat, broken butte that loomed behind the basalt columns below. Though the light was dying fast now, they clearly made out the figure of a man there, but it was several seconds before they realized it was Hank Brazos.

  Benedict’s jaws locked tight and his eyes glittered with a hard shine as he saw the yellow ropes that bound the Texan’s powerful arms behind him. Then a hissed breath escaped his clenched teeth when a tall figure loomed up at Brazos’ shoulder.

  “Ketchell!”

  Libby Blue had spoken. She didn’t look so nonchalant now, Duke saw with one sharp glance. Libby Blue had gone totally pale.

  “Ketchell did you say, Miss Libby?” Keef Hurble gasped. “You ... you don’t mean Kain Ketchell, that feller that busted out of Starkwater, do you?”

  “That’s who she means, I’m afraid to—” Benedict began, breaking off as a deep voice bellowed up from the springs:

  “Ho, the train! This is Kain Ketchell! You with the fancy vest—what’s your handle?”

  “Benedict,” Duke called back. “And I’m warning you, Ketchell, if any harm comes to my part—”

  “Shut up and listen, Benedict,” the killer’s booming voice cut him off. “I’m holdin’ top cards so I do any warnin’ that’s to be done.” Ketchell paused and pushed his rifle against the motionless Brazos’ chest. “This hick won’t tell me what I want to know, Benedict, but I reckon I can figure out things well enough myself. You and him are travelin’ with the train just to keep watch on that female Judas. Well, you’re gonna have to make a decision, dude. I want her and I reckon you want him. I’m offerin’ a swap, him for Libby. If you turn thumbs down, I’ll blast him and still get to her, one way or another.”

  A shocked sound rose from those grouped around Benedict, even Big Rosie expressing horror at the thought of turning Libby Blue over to a killer.

  “Mother of mercy,” Rosie breathed. “We’ll just have to stand here and let him murder me darlin’ Henry before our very eyes!”

  “Not necessarily,” Benedict murmured.

  They gaped at him incredulously, none more so than ashen-faced Libby Blue.

  “Duke!” she breathed in horror. “You’re not ... you’re not considering Ketchell’s offer, are you?”

  “Of course he isn’t, my dear,” Keef Hurble assured her, putting a fatherly arm about her shoulders. “Hell, you’ve scared the poor girl half to death, Duke. Better explain what you really mean so’s to put her at her ease.”

  Benedict didn’t seem to hear, and they couldn’t believe their ears as he cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Ten minutes, Ketchell. Give me ten minutes and I’ll send her to you!”

  The cocoon of rocky indifference that Hank Brazos had surrounded himself with shattered and fell away in the deep, silence that followed Benedict’s shout. The Texan had been prepared to die, but he hadn’t been prepared for this. He turned glazed eyes on Ketchell as the killer laughed.

  “Seems to me I hardly ever guess wrong about folks, Brazos. Watchin’ that wagon train pluggin’ along, I got the feelin’ you and Benedict were real good pards. When I felt sure of that, I figured out how I might get you to hand over Libby without havin’ to shoot up everythin’ that breathed. I mean, a girl’s just a girl, but a good pard is a friend, and they’re hard to come by.”

  Brazos shook his head and was on the verge of denouncing Duke Benedict when rationality returned and he realized what was happening. Benedict was playing for time. Had he given a straight-out refusal to Ketchell, the killer would have gunned him down immediately and there would have been no room for negotiation. Obviously Benedict wanted time to try and come up with a counter. His chances of doing so had to be fearfully slim, yet Brazos was comforted by the knowledge that he would be trying. He was also more than a little ashamed that he should have thought the worst of the Yank, even for a few moments.

  Shrugging with feigned indifference, Brazos lowered his rump to the rock and crossed his legs. “Like you say, killer, a gal’s just a gal.”

  Ketchell studied Brazos keenly as he hunkered down a few feet away, leaning on the sawn off. “No regrets that little Libby’s gonna cash in, big feller?”

  “Reckon not.”

  “You mean you never fell for her—not even a little?”

  “Gals ain’t that important to me.”

  “Or tellin’ the truth either, huh?”

  “How’s that?”

  Ketchell cast a glance across at the wagon train before replying. “Everybody falls for Libby, Texan, even me.” The killer’s mouth twisted. “She was the first and the last one. Oh, I’d had my share of women and then some, but she was the first one I ever let get under my skin. And was that a mistake! I always figured I was mean enough, but Libby could give me lessons any day. Yeah, I guess she’s the only person I know, man or woman, who’s got no feelin’s at all. She’d cut her own mother’s throat, that bitch.” Ketchell smiled almost admiringly. But then his broad face turned cold. “Of course, her bein’ that way never bothered me that much. It was when she double-crossed me that she signed her death warrant.”

  “That sounds like a whole heap of buffalo dust to me, Ketchell.”

  Ketchell laughed mockingly. “Just another gal, eh, Texan? You didn’t have me fooled for a second. I knew you’d have to be sweet on Libby; your dude pard, too, I’m bettin’. Only thing is, he looks smarter than you. He knows damn well that if he turns me down now, it’ll be only a matter of time before I hit again, and next time I’ll be after him.” He tapped his temple. “I’m never wrong about people, Brazos.”

  Hank Brazos badly wanted to tell Ketchell that he was totally wrong about Duke Benedict if he believed for a moment that he would sacrifice an innocent young woman. But he bit the words back and concentrated on trying to loosen his bonds as the slow minutes dragged on.

  The ropes didn’t give a fraction. Finally giving up, Brazos glanced across at his captor just as Ketchell half smiled and started to rise.

  Switching his attention to the train, Brazos felt a chill touch his flesh. In the half light, a slender figure was walking purposefully down the slope from the Conestogas. A green dress and s
houlder-length black hair stirred in the evening wind.

  Libby Blue!

  Fargo lowered the field glasses and put thumb and forefinger to his eyes. “I can’t see any more, Rogan,” he protested. “Gettin’ too damned dark.”

  “Here, gimme a look,” St. John said impatiently. Reefing the binoculars from Fargo’s gloved hands, he lifted them to his eyes and aimed them at the distant springs.

  Nobody was much surprised when St. John lowered the glasses with a curse. He hadn’t been able to see even the wagons. It was because his sight, hearing and reflexes were no longer as reliable as they had been that the notorious manhunter had felt the need to hire a hawk-eyed young gun packer like Fargo.

  “All right,” St. John said gruffly. “What did you see afore it got too gloomy?”

  A cigarette dangled from Fargo’s lips. He dragged a match to life along his thigh and set the weed alight before replying, “Nothin’ more than before. The two men on the broken butte, the wagon drawn up along the slope, nothin’ happenin’.”

  “Did you recognize Ketchell?” St. John pressed.

  “Not for certain.”

  Hands locked behind his back, Rogan St. John started pacing to and fro before the horses. Having finally brought the wagon train into sight just before sundown, the bounty hunter band had taken up lookout positions here on a mesquite-studded saddle to watch the travelers make camp. Todd Essex, who had visited the train at Chad City, had identified the big man they saw walking down to Red Feather Springs as Brazos, the Texan. Guessing that the man was merely inspecting the water to make sure it was safe before letting the animals drink, St. John had spent an impatient twenty minutes waiting; then Fargo had spotted the two figures climbing the broken butte. In the fading light it had been impossible to see too much, yet Fargo seemed sure that one of the men was Brazos, and that the man with him was holding a weapon on him.

  Was the second man Ketchell?

  This was what St. John had to decide now as he paced. If it wasn’t Ketchell and they revealed themselves, then they could blow their chances of trapping their ten-thousandfugitive. But did St. John dare gamble that it wasn’t their man?’ Ketchell’s only interest in the Tarbuck train would be Libby Blue, and if the outlaw was moving in for the kill over there now, he wouldn’t waste much time exacting his revenge before riding off ...

  “I reckon we ought to move in,” Fargo said suddenly as St. John pondered.

  Though rarely guilty of accepting advice from any man, St. John found himself undecided enough to do so now.

  With a brisk nod, he strode to his horse, fitted foot to stirrup and mounted up.

  “No talkin’, no noise,” he ordered as they started off. “On this one we’ve got to be extra-cautious.”

  The warning was hardly necessary. When a man was hunting somebody like Kain Ketchell, extra-cautious was the only way to be.

  The corset was killing him.

  Benedict didn’t mind the shoulder-length wig that Gloria la Rue had dug up out of her theatrical trunk, and Libby’s dress, though tight at the shoulders, was comfortable enough. But Big Rosie’s corsets, worn double to pinch his thirty-two inch waist into an hour glass twenty-five inches, was pure torture. Had he not been walking across a hundred yards of open sand with the very real possibility of a bullet between the eyes at any second, he was quite certain he would have found the discomfort intolerable.

  The bullet didn’t come in the first fifty yards nor the second. Being an inveterate gambler, Duke Benedict had been prepared to bet that Ketchell wouldn’t cut Libby Blue down without a few final words. It looked as if the gamble was going to pay off, but the fact that Libby’s dress was soaked with nervous sweat before Benedict reached the first basalt stones was proof that the gambling man had never played for such high stakes.

  Above the rim of the broken butte a broad face stared down. Though the sun had gone down quite some time ago now, the evening was still filled with a lingering, golden light. Yet Benedict was relieved that he couldn’t see Ketchell clearly, for this meant the outlaw couldn’t see him as more than long black hair and a wasp-waisted silhouette.

  “Come on up, baby!” the deep voice floated down. “I’ve got somethin’ for you.”

  Giving no sign he’d heard, Benedict moved into the rocks and began to climb. His right hand was in the slit he’d cut in the green dress. He had something for Kain Ketchell—a Peacemaker .45.

  Loose stones shifted beneath his feet. He had left his boots behind to reduce his height. He felt a sharp edge slice through his sock, but paid no attention to the pain. His face was turned up now, the Peacemaker pressed into the folds of the dress. Another ten paces and still no sign of Ketchell. The rim was less than thirty feet above him now. What would Brazos be doing? Would he guess it was a trick, or would he believe he’d sent Libby Blue out to her death? With the thick-witted Texan you could never be sure. The one thing Benedict could be sure of was that Brazos would try to go over the edge as soon as the shooting started. That would be the Reb’s sole chance of survival.

  Where was Ketchell?

  Benedict finally halted. He dare not call out. Slow seconds dragged by and sweat coursed down his strained face. Then the voice:

  “Come on, baby!”

  He lifted the big Colt, then deliberately kicked a loose stone. It clattered noisily to the shale-littered base of the butte. Ketchell called again, and again Benedict didn’t answer.

  Next moment the head appeared, but not where Benedict had expected—directly above, but well off to the right. Reacting with the lightning reflexes of the born gunman, Benedict swung his six-shooter and fired. Kain Ketchell spun, cried out and vanished. The next moment Benedict was leaping to one side as two hundred and twenty pounds of Texan came plunging over the rim almost directly overhead and fell towards him.

  Benedict cursed as Brazos’ hurtling bulk crashed against his thigh and sent him flying. But the contact saved his life, for at that moment Ketchell bobbed into sight again and pumped two shots into the spot where Benedict had been standing a split-second before.

  Sliding down feet-first with Brazos tumbling and rolling ahead, Benedict twisted and fired without aiming. The shot and the great billow of dust succeeded in affecting Ketchell’s aim with his next shot. Before he was ready to trigger again, Benedict, still sliding, had rested his gun on his upraised left forearm and was taking aim.

  The Colt and the sawn off rifle went off together. Benedict felt a sharp stab of pain in his left shoulder as his Peacemaker jerked back against the crotch of his hand. Instinct caused him to slew aside, then he grimaced as a volley of rifle bullets came churning down.

  Suddenly Benedict’s scrabbling feet found nothing but air. He whirled, saw the fissure beneath him, then plunged into it as a screaming bullet came so close it plucked a lock of hair from his head. Air rushed past him and he clutched at a rocky outcropping. Then he hit solid earth with an impact that belted the breath from his body. He rolled onto his back and gasped with relief on seeing that the fissure lip had cut off the butte top and the rifleman from sight.

  He closed his eyes, fighting for breath, wondering if he’d broken any bones. Then his eyes snapped wide at a rustle of sound. His Colt jerked up, then angled down as Brazos’ dust-coated head and shoulders wriggled into sight around the base of a blue boulder less than ten feet to his right.

  “Yank,” the Texan panted, “are you all right?”

  “Nothing that six months in bed won’t cure,” Benedict replied, the sight of Johnny Reb all in one piece and still breathing setting the adrenalin pumping through him again.

  Ignoring the pain of his creased shoulder now, Benedict came up in a crouch and crossed to Brazos to work on the ropes. His fingers moved with desperate speed as a loosened pebble from above tumbled over the fissure edge and struck beneath his feet.

  Finally the ropes fell free, and as Brazos began to massage the circulation back into his hands, Benedict ripped the dress away and plucked his second Peacemaker
from his belt. Handing Brazos the fully loaded weapon, Benedict began thumbing shells from his belt. Another pebble dropped. Brazos moved back behind the blue boulder and looked over the gunsights. Sweat splashed down on Benedict’s Colt as he slammed the chamber closed. He was moving for a cleft in the opposite side of the fissure, ready to let Kain Ketchell come to them, when he heard the sound.

  From somewhere to the west, came the steady beat of hoofs.

  The stalking killer was close enough to his quarry to hear their labored breathing when he too heard the approaching horses. With blood coursing freely from a bullet hole in his left shoulder, Ketchell continued to stare down at the fissure with a crazed glitter in his eyes and the killing sawn off in his hands. Then, with the hoofbeats growing louder, he mouthed a bitter curse, slewed away and sprinted around the base of the butte towards the sound of the oncoming horses.

  The killer’s heels dug in deep when he saw the great cloud of butter-colored dust rising against the dusk sky, then the line of dark riders at its base.

  At almost the same instant, the bounty hunters saw him.

  “Ketchell?” Todd Essex bellowed. He wasn’t certain. It could well be Kain Ketchell standing there in the half light, but having already gunned down a United States marshal in error, the manhunters were anxious to be sure.

  Their caution cost them dearly, for Kain Ketchell had one great advantage over all who shared this Dead Horse Desert twilight with him, and that was the knowledge that every man was his enemy. And there was only one way to deal with your enemy if your name happened to be Kain Ketchell ...

  The deep, booming roar of the repeater thundered over the wagons where fearful onlookers crouched, then echoed amongst the gaunt basalt columns and sent dust drifts in the air of the fissure where Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos stood side by side.

  Joe Trower, Duane Bick and Zeke Denver fell and died before a single bounty-hunter gun could answer Ketchell’s fire.