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Back East, Duke Benedict’s wealthy family believed he was a prominent lawyer who moved among the wild west’s rich and the famous. So when his father proposed to pay him a visit in the rough-and-ready town of Rawhide, Duke had to think fast. It would kill his old man to discover that Duke was in reality a footloose gambler, womanizer and slick-as-lightning gunfighter.
And so the pretence began.
Duke Benedict took over the practice of his lawyer friend Otto Lanning, and his partner, Hank Brazos, took Lanning up into the hills to enjoy a little hunting.
Too bad all hell chose exactly that moment to break loose.
A mysterious preacher came to town with a whispering albino gunman in tow, their plan to set the good folks of Rawhide against each other until the town tore itself apart. Only then would the preacher have his revenge for something that had happened in the recent past.
With Duke’s hands tied as he pretended to be little more than an attorney, and Brazos off in the high country playing nursemaid to his friend, it looked as if Rawhide was wide open … for destruction!
BENEDICT AND BRAZOS 24: THE GLORY HUNTERS
By E. Jefferson Clay
First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia
© 2021 by Piccadilly Publishing
First electronic edition: September 2021
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One – Trial Day in Rawhide
“MAKE WAY FOR the judge!”
The onlookers caught lounging in the double doorway of the Rawhide courthouse barely had time to shift in response to the clerk’s shout before Judge Conroy plowed through them and made his way to the bench.
The judge’s stage from Parker City had thrown a wheel at Bodie’s Crossing, resulting in a two-hour delay. The holdup had done nothing to improve the temperament of the judge who was known the length and breadth of southeastern Utah as “Cranky” Conroy. There was testiness in every inch of Conroy’s skinny, black-garbed frame as he took his position behind the bench and eyed the assembly sourly.
“Where’s the sheriff?” he demanded.
“Here, Judge.” Portly Sheriff Clint Wheeler got up from his seat beside the prisoner.
Conroy snorted. “And that there is this Draper fellow?”
“Yeah, Judge. Jeb Draper, charged with takin’ part in the bank robbery yesterday.”
“Hah!” The judge sounded as if the prospect of dealing with a bank bandit was just what he needed. He snapped his fingers and his runty little clerk jerked like a puppet on a string and came forward with the judge’s black valise.
Conroy took the valise, opened it and withdrew a notebook and a Colt .45.
Picking up the gun, which was never loaded, but which served as a fine gavel, Conroy banged it down and cried, “This here court in the town of Rawhide, the county of Clearwater, is now in session!”
There was a general scraping of chairs and a clearing of throats. Those who had seats leaned forward in eager anticipation of the fireworks to come. Those on their feet packed the room wall to wall. It was a hot noon in Rawhide and most of the audience had been there since nine. During the morning, some of the thirstier among them had ducked across to the Silver Dollar from time to time, but they had flocked back when the stage had rolled into the depot.
There was always a good turn-out for a trial in Rawhide, but there was a bigger than usual attendance today to see Jeb Draper get his just deserts. Admittedly the other two bandits who had taken part in the attempted robbery had been driven off empty-handed by a pair of newcomers to Rawhide, Benedict and Brazos, and there had been little damage done other than that banker Tim Nolan had been obliged to take to his bed with shock. But Rawhide was indignant because Draper had been living there long enough to be considered a local, and the general opinion was that only a Judas would try and steal from his own.
They hoped Cranky Conroy threw the book at him and the good judge looked ready to do just that as he went through the formalities.
“You’re the arresting officer, Sheriff?” Conroy barked.
“Yes, Judge.
“Prosecuting attorney?”
“Here, Judge.”
The man who rose to bob his head to the bench was attorney Otto Lanning, regarded as the best legal man in Clearwater County.
“Does the defendant have representation?” Conroy asked.
A ripple of amusement ran through the throng. Where would lay about Jeb Draper get the money to hire counsel? In any case, Jeb was as guilty as hell, so it would be a waste of time for him to worry about an attorney even if he could afford one.
But, even though Cranky Conroy was seen to smile at his own question, there were no smiles on the front bench of the gallery where Rawhide’s newest heroes sat side by side. Hank Brazos, the giant Texan, looked uncommonly sober as he nudged his trail partner in the ribs, while tall and dashing Duke Benedict appeared acutely uncomfortable.
“Go on, Benedict!” Brazos whispered. “Get up on your hind legs and start talkin’.”
“For the last time, Johnny Reb, I tell you—”
“He’s my old pard from the army, Yank,” Brazos cut him off. “And he’s innocent. Now if that ain’t enough for you to—”
Brazos broke off as he realized the room had fallen quiet. The judge stared down from his high bench, his red-rimmed eyes gleaming behind his pince-nez.
“Might I be so bold as to enquire as to the reason for this most unseemly behavior in a court of law?” Conroy growled in his most intimidating tones.
“If it please the judge,” fat Sheriff Wheeler said, rising. “This here is Mr. Benedict and Mr. Brazos.”
Conroy blinked. “The gentlemen who bested the bandits yesterday, Sheriff?”
“Right, Judge.”
Conroy smiled broadly. “Well, in that case, it would ill behoove me to reprove. But of course, gentlemen, you appreciate that the business of the court must proceed without undue delay?”
He smiled in anticipation at Benedict and Brazos, but Brazos just scowled all the harder, then he prodded Benedict in the ribs again and spoke from the corner of his mouth.
“Gatlin’.”
That single name was a big shot for Hank Brazos to fire, but he felt that desperate measures were called for. Three months earlier, in Colorado Territory, a wealthy associate of Benedict’s named Rory Gatling had been abducted by an outlaw band and held for ransom. With Benedict laid up with a gunshot wound, Brazos, assisted only by his ugly dog with the apt name Bullpup, had tracked the kidnappers down, rescued Rory Gatling unharmed, and saved Gatling’s family five thousand dollars in ransom money.
Benedict had tended to overdo his thanks at the time. Brazos had been nonchalant then, but there was nothing nonchalant about him here today in the Rawhide courthouse. It was payoff time and he was calling Benedict on the debt.
The room quietened as Duke Benedict came slowly to his feet. Necks craned. Many had not yet had
a good look at the pair whose timely arrival had saved the Rawhide Deposit Bank seven thousand dollars, and there were any number of “Oohs” and “Ahhs” of appreciation from the female members of the audience as Benedict tugged down the lapels of his tailored broadcloth coat. Benedict stared frostily at the man in the dock, then apologetically at attorney Otto Lanning, and then reluctantly up at the man behind the bench.
“Sir?” Conroy’s voice was warm and friendly. It was a rare event indeed when the leathery old judge had the opportunity to meet private citizens who had displayed both the courage and the sense of decency to act so heroically on the law’s behalf. The judge leaned forward and spread out his hands, a kindly father figure now as he added, “There is something you wish to say, Mr. Benedict?”
Benedict cleared his throat. “Yes, there is, Judge.”
“Then say it, son, say it.”
“I ... I ...” Benedict began. But his voice faded. He glanced down at Brazos who stared up at him with eyes as cold as ice chips. Benedict sucked in a deep breath and got it over with quickly, “I wish to act as Mr. Draper’s defense counsel if it so please the court.”
In the uproar following Benedict’s announcement, Jeb Draper stood in the dock with his jaw hanging open. Yesterday, at almost exactly the same time of day, he had been standing at a hitchrack in Trail Street with his mouth tightly closed and his hands full of bridle reins ...
It was high noon in Rawhide when Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos had ridden into town. The streets had been hot and quiet. With long miles behind them, the big Texan and the handsome gambling man had headed directly for the Silver Dollar Saloon to slake their considerable thirsts before Benedict set out to look up his old friend from his Harvard days, attorney Otto Lanning.
As they drew level with the Rawhide Deposit Bank, they heard a noise from within, as if something heavy had been dropped hard. Benedict had paid no attention, totally preoccupied with thoughts of bourbon whisky and the long-awaited reunion with his old friend. Hank Brazos had stared across at the imposing bank building with a frown, but he too had been dust-dry and saddle-weary, and his eyes had drifted back to the inviting facade of the Silver Dollar when it happened.
The only warning of trouble Trail Street got was a wild yell from the bank. Next moment, the Rawhide Deposit’s doors burst open and two lean men with bandannas drawn up over their faces rushed out onto the plank walk, blasting their six-guns at the sky.
Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos had been in the saddle ever since first light. They hadn’t eaten since the previous day, and this was the first time either had ever clapped eyes on Rawhide. Even so, they drew their six-guns while every other man on the street dived wildly for cover, and it was their warning bullets that suddenly started to chop the air above the bandits’ heads as the pair headed for their horses at a run.
The bandits whirled and triggered back. That was a mistake, for Hank Brazos was an expert gun hand, and his partner was talented enough to be classified as one of the West’s fastest. Taking lightning aim, Benedict drilled a shot at the bandit toting the canvas sack. The slug slammed through the outlaw’s shoulder. The sack fell and the man spun, then sprinted desperately for the horses that were being held by a tall man in a battered brown Stetson who stood in front of the blacksmith’s. As the second bandit dashed after the first, blasting wildly over his shoulder, Brazos put one slug between his flying feet and was aiming to hit with his next shot when the frightened face of the man holding the horses jumped at him from the past.
“Hold it, Yank!” Brazos bellowed as Benedict made to fire again. “That there is my old pard, Jeb Draper!”
“Some friends you have!” Benedict gritted, then he ducked as lead howled close.
The two bandits filled their saddles now and reefed away from the hitchrail. Unable to try for stopping shots for fear of hitting Draper, who was struggling to mount his rearing horse, Brazos sent a volley of lead into the false fronts above the horsemen’s heads and called on them to surrender. But they lashed their mounts away from Draper and spurred them down the next alley.
The air of Trail Street was thick with gun smoke, hoof-kicked dust, and the shouts of frightened towners as Brazos and Benedict heeled back to give chase. Suddenly the third horse burst away from the hitchrail. In his panic, Jeb Draper started straight across the street and only expert horsemanship by Benedict and Brazos prevented a collision. As they slewed their horses to tail-sitting stops, Draper’s mount reared in fright, then shot off one way with its rider going the other.
As Brazos jumped down to assist the groggy Draper to his feet, Benedict kicked his horse on for a short distance to peer down the alleyway the bandits had taken. There was no sign of them now, and Benedict, not being the professional hero type that Hank Brazos liked to play, saw no point in going after them. They had saved the money and wounded one, which wasn’t bad for two strangers who had just happened by, he told himself as he cut back for the two figures in the dust. Added to that, they had taken one of the outlaws alive.
Or so he thought until a short time later, when Jeb Draper looked him squarely in the eye and said:
“I never had no inklin’ of what they was up to, Mr. Benedict. All I was doin’ was holdin’ their horses. Honest.”
That was the sum total of Jeb Draper’s defense. It was—as just about every man in Rawhide who knew Draper as a footloose, shifty no-good agreed—about the weakest lie any man in big trouble had ever tried to hide behind.
Sheriff Wheeler shared this view and had freely predicted that Draper would draw five years. Otto Lanning was in full accord, and though stunned in the courtroom by the announcement of Benedict’s advocacy on the accused’s behalf, he still believed the fifty-dollar fee for the successful prosecution of Jeb Draper would be as easy as any he had earned. Even the judge had arrived at the courthouse convinced of Draper’s guilt, and in truth so had everyone in Rawhide except Jeb Draper himself and Hank Brazos.
Now all Duke Benedict had to do was convince everybody, including himself, of Draper’s innocence.
It was plainly a Herculean task to which Duke Benedict brought the considerable weapons of three years of law at Harvard University, backed by one of the most fluent tongues in the West. He hadn’t been talking five minutes before the first seeds of doubt began to take hold in the minds of his audience. Was it possible that Draper was innocent after all?
Benedict didn’t miss one trick in confusing the minds of his listeners, and he was helped by the circumstances surrounding the attempted robbery. No one had seen Draper do anything but hold the bandits’ horses. Benedict hammered at this, and when Lanning argued that “even an idiot” would have realized just who and what Draper’s “clients” were as they rushed from the bank, Benedict submitted that Draper’s attempt to escape with the bandits had been motivated by fear.
Hanging the entire defense on circumstantial evidence, Benedict paced for a full hour quoting from American Law, Plato, the Bible and Shakespeare, to support his case until he suddenly broke off abruptly to summon a character witness on Jeb Draper’s behalf. Would Mr. Henry Brazos kindly take the stand?
Brazos’ evidence on Draper’s behalf virtually clinched it. To hear the big Texan tell it, his old army pard from the days of the Texas Brigade was built of the stuff of which legends are made. Before he was through, more than one cynic was wondering how a soldier as brave and noble as Jeb Draper could have missed out on receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor.
When Judge Conroy summed up from the bench in the late afternoon he admitted grave doubts concerning Draper’s innocence. But how could any judge seriously question the conviction of two men of such obviously high character and quality as Mr. Benedict and Mr. Brazos? If they doubted Draper’s guilt, then surely a reason for doubt existed. And when there was doubt, the accused must be given its benefit. The jury didn’t even bother to retire. Their verdict was not guilty.
Brazos and Draper seemed in danger of doing themselves injury as they thumped each
other’s backs and pranced around the dock area in the noise and confusion that followed the verdict. Brazos insisted on shaking hands with a somewhat bewildered looking Judge Conroy, then the big Texan hurried across to the sheriff and Lanning to offer his condolences. Though looking a little peeved by the outcome, both the attorney and the lawman seemed ready to accept their defeat graciously. It wasn’t until the beaming Brazos got back to Benedict that he encountered real resentment.
“Benedict,” he grinned hugely, “there are times when I reckon you ain’t a bad varmint to ride the trail with, then there’s other times when I wonder how in the name of all that’s holy I ever got myself tied up with such a high-steppin’ glory hunter. But today, by Judas, I’m here to tell you that you’ll do me for a feller to ride the river with.”
“Grateful, are you, Johnny Reb?” Benedict was surprisingly calm.
“That ain’t a big enough word. I reckon—”
“You’d like to show me how grateful, would you?”
“You bet I—”
“Then I’ll tell you how. Get out of my sight and stay out until I’ve had the chance to convince Otto that he and I are still friends, and that I am not in the practice of abusing my capabilities and qualifications in the defense of hardcases who any man with half an eye can see belongs behind bars. Is that too much to ask?”
Brazos had paled. “Hell, if that’s the way you feel about it, Ben—”
“That’s how I feel. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a friendship to try and repair.” Benedict started in the direction of Lanning, then turned for a parting shot. “A genuine friendship. Do you know the kind, Brazos? I very much doubt it, sir, I doubt it very much indeed.”
Hank Brazos’ craggy, sun-bronzed young face wore a brooding expression as he made his slow way through the crowd for the doors with a triumphant Jeb Draper. Having ridden the trails of the West with Duke Benedict ever since the end of the War Between the States a year ago, the big Texan had had ample opportunity to sample the caustic Benedict tongue. It was true that the oddly matched pair, an ex-Confederate sergeant and an ex-Union captain, had probably wrangled more than any other six men, but there had been a bitterness in Duke Benedict’s parting remarks just now, something that went beyond the normal limits of their day-to-day conflict. Also, the Yank still believed Draper to be guilty, and this raised an unwelcome cloud of doubt in Hank Brazos’ mind.
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