Benedict and Brazos 25

by E. Jefferson Clay

  The Crying Shame was a long, gloomy room presided over by a long, gloomy barkeep named Delaware Smith. It was regarded with good reason as the worst watering place in town. But not to Duke Benedict. To him it was far and away the best, for today the other saloons were full of gaiety. The dark and broody atmosphere of the Crying Shame suited his mood to perfection.

  “Another rye whisky, Mr. Benedict?” the barkeep intoned.

  “Why not?” Benedict replied bravely. He detested rye whisky, but this was the day to drink it by the gallon.

  As he lifted his fresh glass, sipped and grimaced, the batwings banged open and Hank Brazos sauntered in slapping his barrel chest and aiming playful kicks at his dog. Kain Ketchell, Red Feather Springs, and all the death and danger were in the past as far as the Texan was concerned. The gay mood of Tarbuck was reaching him, but he adopted a sober look now as he approached the tall figure at the bar.

  “Shockin’ the way this here town is carryin’ on, ain’t it, Yank?” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “Delaware, you broken-down whisky waterer, set me up a large one. And a dish of beer for my dog.”

  Having already enjoyed the Texan’s custom earlier, the barman filled the order without hesitation. Smith even managed a grim smile, for Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos were definitely Tarbuck’s heroes today.

  Brazos sipped at his drink and leaned an elbow on the bar. “How’s the shoulder, Duke?”

  “Splendid.”

  “Your spirits?”

  “Without parallel.”

  The Texan frowned. “Yank, you’re gonna have to snap out of it. After all, you knew she had another feller waitin’ for her here; this—this—what’s his name?”

  “Winslow.”

  “Yeah, Winslow. Well, Libby told you she had this Winslow waitin’. Then, because she went waltzin’ off with him, you’re actin’ like she did you wrong.”

  “It’s not that simple,” Benedict murmured. “Delaware, tell my friend what you told me about Mr. Shad Winslow.”

  “Bad news, Hank,” the lugubrious barman droned. “He’s got a real bad name about Tarbuck, that feller. Been here a month and he ain’t worked. Drinks and plays cards—and he wounded a couple of boys in a gunfight at the Lucky Strike last week. Nobody can figure what he hangs about for. Ain’t no feller for a lady, that one.”

  “Get the idea?” Benedict said thinly. “Libby prefers a fellow like that to me.”

  “I think I’m beginnin’ to catch, on at last,” Brazos said. “It ain’t your heart that’s hurt—it’s that damn touchy pride of yours.”

  Benedict eyed Brazos icily. “What would you know about anything that has to do with affairs of the heart, you backwoods yokel?”

  Such was the force and venom of Benedict’s reaction that Brazos found himself taking a backward step. And at the same time he took another mental look at the Benedict-Libby Blue romance. Suddenly he sensed that Benedict was really serious about the girl. He scratched his head. Lady-killing Benedict serious? The idea was so staggering that the best the Texan could come up with was to buy his partner another drink.

  That rye was followed by many more. But noon found them still breasting the bar, totally sober. Despite his sympathy for Benedict’s situation, Hank Brazos was so relieved and light-hearted to find himself still breathing after one of the most hair-raising experiences in their partnership, that he couldn’t get drunk. And Benedict was too steeped in gloom to be able to accept the brief solace of oblivion.

  So they drank on. A little after noon, a noisy bunch of revelers that included Rosie and her giant came sweeping in to try and entice the “heroes” back to the Lucky Strike. They eventually left without them. Later the drivers and Keef Hurble came along for a few drinks, and Hurble extracted a half-promise from them to go back to Chad City as escorts of a gold shipment from the Sister Fan.

  At two o’clock they were still there, with the only member of their party showing signs of wear being Bullpup, snoring on the floor beside his empty beer dish.

  It was then that they noted the subtle yet definite change in the town’s tempo. There was still a great deal of noise coming from the main street, but it was a different kind of noise, not gay any longer but almost hysterical.

  Exchanging a puzzled frown, the two went out to the porch just as Keef Hurble came rushing towards the Crying Shame from the main street. They saw people milling about in confusion at the cross street, then they heard somebody cry for a posse.

  “What the devil is going on, Hurble?” Benedict asked testily, annoyed at being prised away from his joyless drinking.

  “There’s been a holdup at the bank, gents,” Hurble panted, lurching up the steps. “Somebody just found the staff all trussed up and the vault rifled. The manager says there were two thieves and they got away with the fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of dust they were gonna ship to Chad with us. Pulled the job under the cover of all the noise and excitement, they did ...” Hurble paused for breath, staring from one man to the other. “And that ain’t all, boys. They say it was a man and a gal who pulled the job. They were wearin’ masks—but the banker reckons it was that Shad Winslow character and ... and Libby Blue.” Benedict stiffened. “That’s ridiculous, man!” He went quickly towards the hitchrack. “Come along, Reb, we’ll organize a posse, pick up the scent and see if we can put a quick stop to this insane allegation that—”

  He broke off abruptly as an ugly sound drifted across the rooftops of Tarbuck. It came loud and clear from the direction of the great brooding cliffs that towered over the tiny community on the southern side and stilled for the moment, the pandemonium in Main Street. Though distant, the sounds were quite easily definable as the harsh stutter of gunshots.

  Brazos dragged his eyes down from the cliffs as Keef Hurble gasped out, “Fellers up on Main was reckonin’ as how the crooks would have took off into the mountains, boys ... says as how there’s more’n one Indian trail up there that’d take ’em through without much chance of bein’ run down. One joker was sayin’ as how he saw that Winslow feller ridin’ up around there a lot of late. Could be they took one of them tracks and ran into some kind of trouble ...”

  They didn’t stop to hear more. With Benedict bounding into the saddle of a blaze-faced bay mare, Brazos threw a leg across a sturdy black gelding and spun away from the rack, with Hurble just behind them. As they crossed the Diggings Street intersection, a straggle of riders from Main Street followed them towards the south trail at a gallop.

  Gaining the trail, the eagle-eyed Brazos had no difficulty in seeing the only two sets of fresh tracks leading out of town. Though Brazos was mounted on the stronger horse, Benedict forged ahead and stayed there as the going got steeper. The gambling man rode with hands and heels, using his mount hard. The Texan found this significant, guessing that at the back of Duke Benedict’s brain was the nagging doubt that perhaps Libby Blue was involved.

  They had climbed almost a mile from the main trail when they heard another shot. It came from so close ahead that Brazos instinctively sawed back on the reins to drag his horse to a halt. But Benedict went on. Drawing his right-hand gun, he galloped towards a section where the trail broadened into a wide curve before angling up sharply again. Brazos shouted after him, but when this drew no response he compressed his lips, hauled out his own Colt and touched his horse with steel.

  The moment Benedict topped out the rise to bring the broad shelf into full view, another six-gun bellowed from a nest of low boulders to his left. The mare stopped as if it had run into an invisible wall, then went in all legs at once. Kicking free of the irons, Benedict hit the ground with one shoulder and rolled for the cover of a deadfall log as Hank Brazos loomed behind to send lead storming towards the cluster of stones.

  Benedict saw the dead man as he gained cover. Shad Winslow lay on his back, partially obscured by his motionless horse, some thirty feet off the trail. A second dead horse was crumpled against the base of a mossy cliff where the trail began to rise. Though Benedict could
see no one amongst the scatter of boulders that lined the far side of the trail, he could hear two guns blasting at once now. Quickly pinpointing the gunpowder flashes, he homed his sights on the nearest and cut loose.

  Hanging down his horse’s offside, redskin style, Brazos fired under his horse’s neck, also concentrating on the closer gun that stormed from a brush-choked hollow beneath a canting yellow shelf of stone.

  The Colts argued for a handful of seconds, easing only when a cry more animal than human erupted from the base of that yellow stone.

  “Come on out!” Benedict roared, his smoking Colt pointing at the sky. “Both of you!”

  Again came the terrible formless snarl, followed by a rustle of movement. Through the brush screen a man rose from behind a boulder and began to stagger towards the second gunman’s position.

  “Hold, damn you!” Brazos shouted, but he held his fire when he saw the man had his back to him.

  Moments later the gunman lurched into clear sight. He sent a crazed stare back over his shoulder, then slewed towards the bullet-scarred stone shelf that shielded the second gun.

  The bleeding, shambling figure in tattered clothes was Kain Ketchell.

  Recognition of the ambusher made the question of back-shooting purely academic for Brazos and Benedict, who were training their sights on his wide back. Then the invisible gunman finally found the range. Smashed back by the driving impact of a bullet, Kain Ketchell hit the earth on his back, then rolled onto his stomach. They could see where the heavy, soft-nosed slug had exited through his back. Kain Ketchell should have been dead a dozen times over, but with something akin to awe they saw him twitch, then lift his dust-caked, stubbled face from the dirt and try to use his gun.

  “Bitch!” he croaked in a hideous voice. “I’ll—”

  Again the Colt roared and Ketchell slumped and didn’t move. Looking like a man who had aged ten years in as many seconds, Benedict called:

  “Libby?”

  She came slowly from behind the stones, smoking six-gun in hand, wounded, wild-eyed and defiant—yet still beautiful enough to make any man’s heart ache.

  “Duke ...” Her voice touched him, drew him up on one knee. “Duke ... it’s not how you might think. Shad made me do it. He—he forced me to take part in the robbery. He said he’d kill me.” There were tears in her eyes as she started across the trail. “You must believe me, Duke, you must!”

  “Where does Ketchell figure in this, Libby?” demanded Brazos, straightening in the saddle.

  Libby’s face twisted and she wasn’t nearly as lovely as she stared down at the bullet-riddled figure in the dust. “He was waiting here when Shad and I came along. He cut Shad down without warning and he wounded me. Before you arrived he was gloating, boasting how he survived his wounds and the desert. He told me that he reached the mountains here at noon, too weak to seek me out in town. He ... he was watching the town and wondering how he might get to me when he saw Shad and me riding out. He rode across from that shelf to cut us off, and ... oh, Duke, isn’t that enough?”

  “Of course it’s enough,” Benedict declared, coming erect and starting towards her. “You can—”

  “Hey, not so fast, Yank,” Brazos warned. “First you’d better have her drop that hogleg just in case she ain’t quite as innocent as she sounds.”

  But Benedict ignored Brazos and now Libby was coming forward to meet him, tears running down her cheeks, her red lips framing his name.

  Intent on the girl, and with his vision partially obscured by Benedict, Brazos didn’t see Kain Ketchell roll onto his side. Keef Hurble did, but his shouted warning came too late. Ketchell’s Colt went off with a deafening roar and Libby Blue’s back arched.

  Benedict and Brazos were angling for a shot at Ketchell, but Libby blocked their line of fire as she twisted and triggered. Ketchell’s body jumped. Libby advanced on him, firing as she walked, punctuating each shot with a curse, the sort of fearsome cursing that one might expect from a Kain Ketchell. Her bullets smashed the dead man’s face, blew his brains into the dust, tore a jagged hole in his throat.

  It still wasn’t enough for Libby Blue. Her gun clicking empty, she fell to her knees at Ketchell’s side and lifted his gun. Blood spilled from her mouth, but she was still trying to curse as she rammed the six-gun between the dead man’s teeth and jerked the trigger until the gun was empty. Twice more she clicked the trigger, then she fell slowly onto her back and stared at the sky with sightless eyes, ugly now, as ugly as Kain Ketchell had ever been.

  Staring at her lying there under the yellow sun, Duke Benedict knew that in his memory Libby Blue would never be lovely again.

  The bad memories were fading fast when Keef Hurble’s wagons rolled into Chad City ten days later. Having contracted to ride as guards on the gold shipment, Benedict and Brazos were content to collect their money from Hurble, shake hands and ride off.

  But Chad City had other ideas. The full story of the bounty hunters’ attack, Marshal Nash’s murder, and the dramatic details surrounding the deaths of Kane Ketchell and Libby Blue had received enormous publicity in the Dakota press. Not having harbored two genuine hero-celebrities before, Chad City had spared no expense to make their return memorable.

  There was bunting and flags and printed signs that said:

  WELCOME DUKE AND HANK.

  There was also a civic reception at the Town Hall, a glowing speech by the mayor, unlimited supplies of beer for Hank Brazos, and any number of pretty girls happy and willing to dance attention upon Duke Benedict and hang upon his every word.

  Quaffing a huge stein of beer, Hank Brazos was glad to see that the remote look Benedict had worn since that bloody hour in the Winding Stair Mountains had vanished. Benedict, never the modest type, found himself wallowing luxuriously in the role of hero and celebrity. Then, through all the gaiety intruded the dour voice of unwelcome reality.

  The voice belonged to Sheriff Bart Sparger. The sheriff was loath to bring it up at a time like this, but there was the matter of their release from prison. The county sheriff—he was sure Benedict understood what county sheriffs could be like—had not been happy with the way Sparger had handled the affair. County Sheriff Paul Fogerty had studied the business of the stagecoach incident and had decided that Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos still had a charge to answer.

  Benedict thought he was joking. But Bart Sparger was deadly serious. The moment Duke Benedict realized this, sheer indignation overcame him. He punched Chad City’s law so hard in the face that Sparger took three food-and-drink laden tables with him on his spectacular way to the floor.

  Deputy Biff Womack broke the shocked silence that followed with, “Just a minute, Mr. Benedict!” and reached for his hip.

  He was standing near Brazos at the time. Brazos didn’t know why Benedict had slugged the sheriff, but he felt like slamming Womack. So he did.

  A hectic ten minutes later they were on the trail putting tracks between themselves and the signs that said, WELCOME DUKE AND HANK.

  They had ridden into Chad City a few short weeks ago, broke, misunderstood, and in trouble with the law. Now they were leaving this fine, sunny morning, broke, misunderstood and in trouble with the law.

  But this didn’t unduly bother Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict. For they knew that the adventures they had shared here and the dangers they had faced together had strengthened an often uncertain partnership. Now each man was secure in the knowledge that their friendship would endure at least a little longer as their horses’ flying hoofs carried them north.

  About the Author

  E. Jefferson Clay was just one of many pseudonyms used by New South Wales-born Paul Wheelahan (1930-2018). Starting off as a comic-book writer/illustrator, Paul created The Panther and The Raven before moving on to a long and distinguished career as a western writer. Under the names Emerson Dodge, Brett McKinley, E. Jefferson Clay, Ben Jefferson and others, he penned more than 800 westerns and could, at his height, turn out a full-length western in just four days.
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  The son of a mounted policeman, Paul initially worked as a powder monkey on the Oaky River Dam project. By 1955, however, he was drawing Davy Crockett—Frontier Scout. In 1963 he began his long association with Australian publisher Cleveland Pty. Co. Ltd. As prolific as he was as a western writer, however, he also managed to write for TV, creating shows like Runaways and contributing scripts to perennial favorites like A Country Practice. At the time of his death, in December 2018, he was writing his autobiography, Never Ride Back … which was also the title of his very first western.

  You can read more about Paul here.

  The Benedict and Brazos Series by E. Jefferson Clay

  Aces Wild

  A Badge for Brazos

  The Big Ranchero

  Stage to Nowhere

  Adios, Bandido

  Cry Riot!

  Fools’ Frontier

  A Six-Gun Says Goodbye

  The Living Legend

  Diablo Valley

  Never Ride West

  Shoot and Be Damned

  Wardlock’s Legion

  Kid Chaney’s Express

  Madigan’s Last Stand

  Bury the Losers

  The Buzzard Breed

  Bo Rangle’s Boothill

  Echoes of Shiloh

  Born to Hang

  Fool With A Fast Gun

  Two Guns to Glory

  Gunhawks on the Loose

  The Glory Hunters

  Nobody Kills Like Ketchell

  … And more to come every month!

  But the adventure doesn’t end here …

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