“Mr. Cassidy,” Benedict murmured perfunctorily, but the best Cassidy could manage in response was a faint inclination of the head.
“Mr. Cassidy is with Mr. James, sir,” Miss Clanton informed Benedict. She drew her eyes from the seated man and said, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Benedict?”
An odd thought ran through Benedict’s mind. For the first time since he had taken them off, he felt vulnerable without his Colts.
“Er, yes, there is, Miss Clanton,” he said, determined to sound as brisk as possible. “Do we have files on Mr. Jerome and Mr. James?”
There was nothing on James, but Brent Jerome ran to one of the largest files in the cabinet. A cursory inspection of the papers showed Benedict that all the documents had to do with timber leases and claims, as might be expected with a logging contractor. He stood scanning the file for a minute; then, with a parting glance at Whitey Cassidy, he went back inside and took his place behind his desk.
Brent Jerome’s vile black cigar prompted Benedict to get up again to open the window a little wider. The logger had barn-door shoulders and a thick, muscular column of a neck. He made an arresting figure in his vivid plaid shirt and caulked boots, yet Benedict found his attention focused on the other man as he returned to his chair. He wondered if he had ever encountered a more commanding presence than Deacon James.
“Well, gentlemen?” he smiled, thrusting a brass ashtray at Jerome to save the rug, “what can I do for you?”
James did the talking while Jerome scowled. The purpose of their visit, James explained, was to re-open the investigation into the timber lease situation along the Ray River.
Benedict’s perplexity must have shown as he stared at James, for the tall man in somber black explained his interest without being asked:
“I am a businessman as well as a preacher, Mr. Benedict. I visited Mr. Jerome at his camp in the Jimcrack Hills today while I was out there inspecting the Ray River timber, and we decided there was a possibility of us forming a partnership. That is, providing the legal aspects are satisfactory.”
“Of course,” Benedict smiled. Noticing James’ skinned knuckles, he suddenly recalled that a client had told him a story of a fight at the Red Dog Saloon the previous night in which a “man of the cloth” had been featured. Had that man been Deacon James? he wondered. He certainly looked as if he was no stranger to trouble.
Benedict spoke to Jerome. “You have been in touch with Mr. Lanning concerning this matter, have you not, Mr. Jerome?”
“Keerect.” Jerome tugged his stogie from his teeth and spat at the cuspidor with force but not accuracy. He set the cigar in his mouth again and stuck his heavy jaw out aggressively. “Never got much satisfaction though Benedict. If you ask me, Lanning was scared of Haggerty and his scum.”
“Haggerty?” Benedict said. “Are you referring to Myron Haggerty from the Ray River Ranch?”
“That’s the party. Scum.”
“There has been some bitterness between the lumber and cattle interests here in the past, so I am told, Mr. Benedict,” James put in. “As a matter of fact, Mr. Jerome still seems to be under the impression that it will prove impossible to obtain felling rights on Ray River because of conflicting interests. I would appreciate your opinion on this.”
“Well, to be perfectly frank, Mr. James,” Benedict said, “I’m quite new here myself. But I’m quite sure that if there is a legal basis for the claim, we can ascertain this easily enough, and you should find yourselves free to proceed with your venture without any undue fuss.”
“Hah!” Brent Jerome snorted.
Chapter Six – To Work For the Lord
THE LOGGER’S SKEPTICISM was recalled by Duke Benedict several hours later as he wearily pushed aside the pile of lawbooks on his desk. Otto’s file on Jerome had revealed that Lanning had already done extensive investigation into the timber rights on the Ray River earlier that year. Following up the leads in the lawbooks, Benedict felt reasonably sure that, regardless of the cattlemen’s attitude, the loggers had the right to cut timber on their land, providing they filed for rights legally. Surely Otto must have given Jerome some indication of this in the past, he thought. But if that were the case, why should Brent Jerome seem so certain his claim would fail?
Maybe, he decided, he would drop in at the jailhouse on his way home and talk the matter over with Sheriff Wheeler. It was past nine o’clock and he was hungry, but he was anxious to follow this assignment through. It was the first major chore he had been confronted with since taking over, and he wanted to make a success of it.
He found the badge packer dozing at his desk, but Clint Wheeler sat up smartly when Benedict explained the reason for his visit.
“That there James is still interested in Ray River then,” the lawman said. “Consarn it all, I thought I’d talked him out of that.”
“Why would you do that, Sheriff?”
“You mean you ain’t heard of the trouble we had when them fellers started cuttin’ timber afore?”
“Well, I recollect hearing something, but …”
“Real bad,” Wheeler growled, moving about the office with his hands in his hip pockets. “Gunplay, fights right here in town, killin’s. You see, this is cattle country, Mr. Benedict, and the cattlemen don’t want their land tore up with machines and stripped of the natural timber.”
“I suppose that is understandable, Sheriff Wheeler. But timber is in great demand at the moment now that the railroads are pushing west. And there is another very important consideration as well.”
Wheeler stopped pacing. “Oh? And what is that?”
“It’s quite possible that the timbermen have legal right to cut timber virtually where they wish. This matter of timber, water and mining rights was thrashed out comprehensively during the last session of Congress. It was felt in Washington that progress, particularly in the West, was being retarded by people with title to land standing in the way of others who want to mine it, or in this case, cut the timber. The attitude the Land Office seems to take now is that title to a piece of land means just that and nothing more. A man is entitled to live on the land and raise his crops and stock it, but he can’t prevent access to others who may want to make use of the natural resources.”
“Whew! You sure enough got a way with them ten-dollar words, Mr. Benedict. And it seems to me like you’ve done your homework. But I still don’t know if—”
The sound of hoofbeats carried in from the street. Wheeler walked to the door and looked out. Horsemen were coming down Trail Street, heading in the direction of the Silver Dollar. Suddenly they changed direction to ride across.
“Mr. Benedict,” the lawman said from the corner of his mouth, “by the look of things, James and Jerome ain’t kept their proposition secret.” Then he lifted his voice and called, “Evenin’, Mr. Haggerty. What brings you to town on a week-night?”
“I reckon you can guess, Clint Wheeler,” a harsh voice answered. Boots sounded on the porch and Myron Haggerty thrust past the sheriff, then propped when he saw Benedict.
“Well, the attorney,” he said. “Now this is what I call well met. Hang around, Benedict, on account of I could be needin’ your services.”
“You’ve met Mr. Haggerty, Mr. Benedict?” Wheeler asked.
Benedict glanced past the lawman at the dim shapes of the cowpunchers crowding the porch, then he turned back to Haggerty. “A pleasure, Mr. Haggerty,” he said.
“Yeah.” Haggerty threw his hat on the desk. He was a short, rumpled looking man with a pot belly and a red complexion. Benedict had heard that Myron Haggerty was one of the most affluent men in Clearwater County, but he certainly didn’t look it. But he did look both tough and angry, and his voice was a threatening rumble as he spoke to Wheeler:
“You’ve heard this hog swill about somebody fixin’ to start cuttin’ along the Ray again, Sheriff?” Wheeler nodded and the rancher went on, “Yeah, figgered you would have. That bastard Jerome again, I hear tell, and some damn holy-roller
. Is that so?”
“Deacon James,” Wheeler said. “Yeah, reckon as how it is so, Mr. Haggerty.”
“Well, what are you gonna do about it?”
“Me?”
“I’m not talkin’ to the wall, man. Of course I mean you! You’re the peace-keeper hereabouts. It’s your duty to see that everythin’ goes along straight and smooth. I want you to take Jerome and this Bible-basher aside and tell ’em nice and quiet and friendly that we’re gonna run off any stinkin’ logger that sets foot on our land out there, and we ain’t gonna be none too gentle as to how we go about it. I reckon Jerome knows that already, but this preacher likely don’t know what he’s lettin’ himself in for.”
The sheriff sighed and walked to the desk to take up pipe and tobacco.
“I’m afraid he does know, Mr. Haggerty,” he said as he tamped shag-cut into the bowl of his old briar.
The cattleman’s bushy eyebrows jumped towards his hairline.
“You sure about this?” he barked.
“Sure, I’m sure, on account of I told him myself just last night.”
“Well, I’ll be damned! Yet he still went out there to the Jimcracks today to look up Jerome, even though he knew the score?”
“Guess he did.”
“The man must be an idiot then.” Haggerty glanced at the silent Benedict. “A lot of these religious cranks are a little touched, it seems to me.”
“Could be a little that way, Mr. Haggerty,” Wheeler drawled, striking a match on his thigh. He gazed steadily over the flame. “But he’s also one very tough man by the cut of his jib, and I hear tell he’s tolerably well-heeled.”
“I don’t give a damn what he is,” Haggerty rapped back. “But it sounds to me like you might be a bit leery of him, Sheriff. Would that be the case?”
“Before you go any further, Haggerty,” Benedict said quietly, “there is something you should know. I was visited this afternoon by Jerome and Deacon James. They have retained my services to investigate the legalities involved in re-opening the timber operations at Ray River.”
The cattleman’s jaw fell open. Then he shut it with an audible snap and started across the room, hands on hips. “What did you tell ’em?” he barked.
“I haven’t given them a conclusive opinion as yet. But I did spend several hours perusing Mr. Lanning’s notes on the case, as well as bringing myself up to date on the latest developments on such matters in the world of law. I think it’s quite possible that we shall find there is nothing to prevent these men from going ahead with their plans, providing they file legal claim and can meet the heavy expenses involved in setting up such an operation.”
“What sort of fancy-mouthed camp-lawyer’s double-talk is this?” a voice rumbled from the porch and a tall young man with Haggerty’s bull jaw and yellow-flecked eyes pushed into the room. “Don’t know about you, Dad,” he said to Haggerty while staring challengingly at Benedict, “but it sounds to me like this dude is siding with Jerome already.”
“This is Jake Haggerty, Mr. Benedict,” Wheeler sighed. Then he added, “You’d better keep out of this, Jake. Your dad’s temper ain’t never been nothin’ to write home about, and I reckon he can do without any stirrin’ up from the sidelines from you.”
“You bet I can,” Myron snapped. “Shut up, Jake. And you shut up, too, Clint. I want to get this straight from this here—”
“Don’t tell me to shut up, Mr. Haggerty,” Wheeler protested, reddening. “I don’t have to take that sort of talk from any man.”
“You’ll take it from me when I’m standing here with everything I’ve built up at stake because of some preacher man and a low-life lumberjack,” the cattleman shouted angrily. “I rode in here tonight to get to the bottom of this and—”
“Stop shouting, Haggerty!”
Everybody stared at Benedict, and even the blustering rancher was impressed by the authority the “attorney” exhibited as he spoke again:
“I have only a sketchy idea of the trouble that occurred here between the cattlemen and the loggers,” Benedict said calmly. “But having already met Jerome—and now you, Mr. Haggerty, I can well understand why things got out of hand. I’ve never seen a difficult situation resolved by shouting and display of bad temper, and I don’t expect to see it here.” He paused for effect, then went on, “You can’t fight progress, Mr. Haggerty. If the law says they can cut timber on your acres, then nothing can stop them.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Benedict,” Jake Haggerty said sharply.
“Dead wrong,” his father said. “We’ll do somethin’ about it right enough, if it comes to that. And it’s beginning to look like it all depends on you, mister, don’t it?”
Duke Benedict nodded soberly. It did indeed look that way. Glancing from father to son, he was no longer at all sure that it was a responsibility he wanted now. But of course, there could be no backing out, he told himself firmly. He’d made a deal with Otto, and he would keep up his end, regardless.
“I haven’t reached a decision on the matter, Mr. Haggerty,” Benedict said. “I just gave you my opinion. But when I do come to a decision, then I shall be obliged to be fair and impartial. You appreciate that, of course.”
“You’re green here, Benedict,” Haggerty shot back. “You don’t know nothin’ yet. If you go back to them notes of Lanning’s you mentioned before, you’ll likely see as how he was draggin’ his feet when Jerome and his backers were lookin’ for a decision the first time. Lanning ain’t no weaklin’, mister, but he never wanted no part of that sort of ruckus. If you’ve got any sense, you’ll either find against them pilgrims or keep your long nose out of it. Somethin’ like this could split this here whole county, lawyer man, unless it’s nipped in the bud. You would be doin’ yourself, Lanning, and the whole goldurned county one hell of a big favor if you told Jerome and this James jasper to go fry.”
“In chicken fat,” young Jake put in, obviously talking for the benefit of the cowpunchers crowded in the doorway.
“Sorry,” Benedict said without hesitation. “I can’t do that. All I can promise is that I shall be impartial.” He picked up his hat and moved for the door. “Now, if there is nothing else, gentlemen ...?”
“You sure talk mighty iron-mouthed and ringy for a book lawyer, mister,” Myron Haggerty said. “Seems to me that somethin’ about you just don’t hit me right.”
“On the other hand, you are just about exactly what I expected, Mr. Haggerty,” Benedict murmured, and then, leaving the cattleman to figure out whether he had been insulted or not, he shouldered through the taut-faced cowhands and started along Trail Street.
But instead of heading home, Benedict returned to the office. Having met both parties in the Ray River case, he had decided that a quick decision on the matter might be imperative. He was now ready to follow it through as far as he was able, even if it meant sweating over the law books all night.
It didn’t take all night. By eleven o’clock, Benedict was almost certain that the law, as it stood at that point of time, was on the side of James and Jerome. By midnight, having exhausted every text and pamphlet Otto had on the subject, the last remaining shreds of uncertainty were gone.
The hush of a July night lay over Rawhide as Duke Benedict closed the office door behind him and stood on the porch to light a cigar. The dark, silent town seemed asleep under the peaceful stars.
But behind the shuttered doors of the Silver Dollar Saloon, the atmosphere was anything but peaceful. At around nine o’clock, Myron Haggerty had sent his slab-shouldered son along to the attorney’s office to see how Lanning’s locum was making out with his investigations. Benedict’s response had seemed none too reassuring, and as a result Myron Haggerty had decided to call a cattle man’s meeting at the Silver Dollar then and there.
Though it had been too late at night to round up the ranchers, the Haggerty men had mustered a good attendance of cattle buyers, beef agents and others directly connected with the cattle industry. The purpose of the meetin
g was to determine how much support Haggerty could get in the event the unthinkable happened and the sound of falling timber was heard once again along the Ray River.
They were still at it when Benedict came down the echoing street. He paused in front of the saloon with his shadow thrown long and black before him. Voices drifted out, thick with liquor and anger. He couldn’t make out what was being said, but he felt he could guess closely enough. Haggerty had made his views plain at the law office, and Duke Benedict had had some experience with cattlemen and how they reacted when they felt themselves threatened.
Smoke wisped over Benedict’s shoulder as he moved on. A foraging yellow dog padded by. A window opened and closed at the hotel and then the night was quiet again.
Benedict halted when he reached Peach Street. He peered along the street at the bulk of the Lanning house. He was tired, yet he felt no inclination towards rest. Setting the cigar between his teeth, he slipped his hands into the slash pockets of his dark pants and walked slowly on, his dark brows creased in thought.
He was almost past the general store when he sighted light spilling from the windows of the tiny church that stood off Leabon’s Lane. He stopped, then turned down the lane, approaching the building through thick summer grass.
Halting in the shadows of the store’s high fence, he looked through the open church doors to see Whitey Cassidy carrying a small bench from one side of the aisle to the other. He heard James’ deep voice. Cassidy nodded, set the bench down, then moved out of Benedict’s line of vision.
Benedict left the shadows and walked up to the placard that had been tacked to the church’s notice board. It announced that a meeting of the Gospel Church, to be addressed by Deacon James, would be held the following night. The faithful were invited to bring their friends. The preacher’s topic would be sin.
Duke raised a hand to the back of his neck and began to scratch. Had Hank Brazos been there, he would have interpreted the gesture as an indication that Benedict was puzzled about something. And he would have been correct. During his travels since the war, Benedict had encountered preacher men by the score, ranging from dignified clerics with formal theological educations behind them, to wild-eyed faith-healers who would bite the heads off live rattlers to demonstrate the courage they derived from the Lord.
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