But amongst that motley collection of shams and true believers, Duke Benedict had never encountered a preacher man who also had the look of a gunfighter. Deacon James was the first.
Duke Benedict knew about gunfighters. There were places in Colorado, Texas and Kansas where people would tell you that he himself was one of the fastest men to buckle on a brace of Colts, particularly during the relentless hunt for Bo Rangle, when Benedict had found himself pitted against many a lethal six-gun practitioner. In time, he got so he could recognize the breed on sight. There were many things that set gunslingers apart from ordinary men. There was a sureness in everything they did, an economy of movement, and a certain something in the eye that was different. He had sensed this quality instantly in the albino, Cassidy. Yet, though all the signs were there in the Deacon as well, he kept thinking he must be wrong. Somehow his mind baulked at the idea of a man of God belonging to the crimson breed of professional killers.
But was Deacon James’ character really that important? If it hadn’t been for the timber business, the answer would have been an immediate no. Benedict’s interest in Rawhide was minimal. To him, the town simply represented an effective backdrop against which Duke Benedict, “attorney-at-law”, might be shown to best effect for his father’s benefit. But, unfortunately, James and Haggerty had dragged him into their conflict, and whether he liked it or not the weight of responsibility now rested on his shoulders. He had been forced into a position where a decision was necessary, but before announcing his decision, he felt he had to be familiar with the elements involved. He thought he understood the bull-headed Haggerty well enough—his kind was simple and dangerous. But a preacher cum businessman cum possible gunfighter was something else again, a radical element.
Organ music drifted from the church. The player was using the soft pedal and the music was quiet and sweet in the night. Benedict hesitated a minute before walking up to the entrance.
James was at the organ. He sat with his back to the doors, his head thrown back as his fingers moved over the keys. Cassidy sat close by, looking at the tiny altar with a glassy stare that indicated either boredom or spiritual rapture.
Absorbed in the spectacle these strangely matched men presented, Benedict stood motionless. James finished his rendition of Son Of Abraham and launched into We Will Gather At The River. Cassidy leaned back to make himself more comfortable in his pew, and as he did so, he caught a glimpse of the tall figure in the doorway through the corner of his eye.
The result was unexpected. Cassidy’s right hand blurred and the muzzle of a six-gun stared at Benedict over the back of the pew. Instantly James came out of the chair, his hand sweeping up to be filled with Colt.
“Relax, gentlemen!” Benedict called, alarmed. “It’s Duke Benedict!”
“What the hell are you doin’ sneakin’ up on a man thataway, Benedict?” Cassidy challenged in his whispery voice. “A man can get himself shot up doin’ that!”
“That will be enough, Whitey,” James said, holstering his six-gun. He put on a smile then. “You must forgive our nervousness, Mr. Benedict. But the hour is late, we have been working hard, and we are very much aware that Mr. Haggerty is in town.”
“You’re expecting trouble from that quarter?” Benedict asked.
James halted before him, looking sober. “Not exactly expecting, Brother Benedict,” he said. “But we’re quite prepared to meet trouble should it eventuate.”
Prepared, and possibly anxious? Benedict wondered. He glanced across at Cassidy. The man had finally put his gun away but he was still staring at Benedict with a cold and hostile eye. He returned his attention to James as the man spoke again:
“The good sheriff informed me that you have been busy investigating the matter that took me to your office today, Mr. Benedict.”
“That is correct,” Benedict said. “As a matter of fact, I have just finished.”
“You were able to reach a decision?” James asked.
“I’m afraid I’m going to need more expert advice before I announce my decision,” Benedict told James, and then he turned to go.
“In that event, I shall pray that your decision is the right one,” James said.
Liveryman Tom Wallace was annoyed to be roused from his slumber at almost one in the morning, but he calmed down quickly when Benedict spoke. He had to contact Otto Lanning quickly, he told the man, and as Wallace had helped outfit the hunting party, he felt he was the one who could help him. Wallace did know exactly where Lanning had gone, didn’t he?
“Sure, Mr. Benedict. They went up to the Pioneer Mountain after elk and bear.”
“How far is that?”
“Only about three or four hours’ ride.”
“Can you send somebody up there for me? I want to get a message to Mr. Lanning.”
“Well, there’s my hired hand, Jobe Storey. I reckon I could spare him if I had to, but—”
He broke off as Benedict produced a wad of bills. “Would twenty dollars cover it, Mr. Wallace?”
“Hell, that’s too much, Mr. Benedict.”
“Not if your man does his job well, Mr. Wallace. I want him in the saddle inside of thirty minutes. He’s to ride to their camp and inform Mr. Lanning that something important has come up that requires his presence here in town.” He paused a moment, then added, “And he had better tell Mr. Brazos that he may be needed as well.”
Wallace looked at Benedict gravely, then he turned and walked off between the stalls to roust out his hired hand who slept in a saddle-lined room in back.
“Jobe’s a good horse hand, Mr. Benedict,” Wallace said when he came back. “And he just told me he knows where your friends are campin’ up there, so he shouldn’t have much trouble gettin’ ’em back.”
“Thank you,” Benedict said, drawing deeply on his cigar.
The liveryman studied him from under grizzled brows. Then he asked, “Trouble, Mr. Benedict?”
In his mind’s eye, Duke Benedict saw Myron Haggerty’s thick, red face and then the gaunt, sunken-eyed countenance of Deacon James. And he felt again that sensation he had experienced earlier—that there was something going on here under the surface that went far beyond conflict over a timber lease ...
“Yes, Mr. Wallace,” Benedict said finally. “I rather believe you could call it that ...”
Chapter Seven – The Hunters
THE STATELY COTTONWOOD threw a pool of shade across the ridge. Stretched out in the grass as they studied the mountain landscape were the hunters.
It was their second day in the Pioneers and the hunting had been good. Last night Brazos had taken Lanning to a watering hole several miles from camp. The attorney had shot a medium-sized bear and Brazos had picked off a turkey.
But you couldn’t eat brown bear, and the wild turkey had been tough and stringy. So this morning they were hunting as much for meat as for pleasure. Hank Brazos had a hankering for venison for supper, and his huntsman’s instincts told him they would get deer here providing they were quiet and patient.
Brazos had quickly taken charge of the expedition, not because he was the bossy type, but because it became quickly obvious to all that he knew most about the outdoors. Draper and Lanning were the towner breed. Having witnessed some of Otto’s errors in trailsmanship and camping, Brazos had wondered just how the attorney would have made out up here without an old stager like himself to steer him right. But what Lanning lacked in skill he more than made up for in energy and enthusiasm. The attorney was like a kid let loose on his summer vacation. He derived maximum pleasure out of everything, and his enjoyment was a pleasant thing to see.
Draper was different. Jeb had slowed up over the years, Brazos realized. In the days of the Texas Brigade, lean Jeb had been a quick mover and a hard worker, but had let himself go since war’s end. Jeb hadn’t admitted as much, but Brazos had the impression that he had spent most of the last year hanging around saloons. He was out of condition, but Brazos reckoned he would be in tolerably good shape by the time t
hey got back to Rawhide. They still had another five days to go.
He was going to enjoy every minute, Brazos told himself as he returned his attention to the terrain below. The main reason he had elected to accompany Lanning was because of the way Benedict had started acting as soon as his father showed up ... like he was royalty or something, and Hank Brazos was just a heavy-footed yokel. He still felt miffed about that, and of course he wouldn’t rest until he seized the first opportunity to trim the Yank down to size again. However, it was hard to feel anything but good up here in the wild country with free days stretching invitingly ahead and nothing more serious to worry about than whether you would have stringy turkey or delicate venison for supper. How long had it been since he had relaxed like this? he mused. Too damn long ...
Sprawled in the shadows at his master’s side, Bullpup suddenly pricked his scarred ears and watched the flight of a soaring eagle. Brazos followed the bird until it glided from sight, and he was about to turn to speak to Lanning when another flicker of movement caught his eye. He returned his attention to the lower country. Watching intently, he saw a small herd of deer emerge from the trees.
“Heads up,” he hissed, and Lanning reached across with his rifle to prod the dozing Draper awake.
The deer were led by a big stag. As the herd halted, the stag moved alone into the open. For some minutes the animal stood looking over the stream, the grass sweeps, and up at the ridge where the three men lay motionless in the shade. Finally satisfied, the stag began to pick its way towards the edge of a narrow ravine. Four smaller males, three does and a calf followed.
Every few yards one or more of the herd would pause, look about, and then briefly nuzzle at the grass before moving on.
“Now?” Lanning asked eagerly.
“Not yet,” Brazos murmured. “They’re in rifle range, but with luck they’ll come closer yet. Jeb, let Otto have the first shot.”
“He’s welcome,” Draper grinned. “Right now, the only kind of shot I feel like is the kind that comes in a glass—with a pint of beer for a chaser.”
Brazos now saw the first signs of uneasiness developing with the deer. Every now and again an animal would stiffen with a flick of the ears, then its head would lift and turn from side to side, sniffing. It could only be instinct that was putting them on their guard, for the steady breeze was blowing the man-scent directly away from them.
But despite their mounting nervousness, the animals continued to graze deeper into gun-range, until Brazos turned his big head and nodded to Lanning. It was still a long shot, but Lanning had already proven himself a good hand with a rifle. Brazos lifted his own rifle to signify that he would shoot only if the attorney missed. Lanning then set the stock of his rifle against his cheek.
Across the ravine, a fat doe had climbed high on the shaly rock. A young buck followed and halted behind her, offering the riflemen two fine targets.
Lanning selected the doe and his face took on an intense look of concentration as he stared over his sights. Finally the deer moved broadside on, her plump body gray against the rock background.
Lanning let the breath run out of him, held the sights steady, then gently squeezed the trigger.
“Missed,” he said bitterly as the shot boomed hard and flat up against the stone ramparts. The doe stood stock-still while the others milled about in alarm, uncertain of the direction from which the sound of the rifle had come.
Brazos watched intently as the herd started off. He was lifting his rifle to take aim on the doe when the animal suddenly faltered, then fell without a kick.
“Nice shootin’, Otto,” Brazos grinned, getting to his feet as the herd vanished down the ravine. “Let’s go see what you got.”
What they had was a fine haul of prime deer meat. With expert strokes of his Bowie, Brazos gutted the animal and then swiftly trimmed the plump hindquarters.
They climbed slowly back up the ridge, rested briefly on the summit, then made their way back towards the draw where the horses were cached. A shadow floated across the grass ahead. Looking up, they saw a buzzard making its slow, deliberate way towards the ravine, drawn by the smell of blood. It was a huge bird with a bald orange head and neck, a yellow comb, black collar and white body.
Turning to watch the predator, Brazos sighted the bear. It was a big one standing motionless on a rocky point far across the valley. Brazos halted and pointed.
“Judas, we ain’t the only ones out huntin’, Sarge!” Draper exclaimed. “That’s a big one.”
“Big enough,” Brazos said. He looked at Lanning. “Well, what do you say, Otto? In the mood to bag somethin’ to put on your wall?”
The question was superfluous. Inside of five minutes they were in their saddles and riding swiftly across the valley.
The bear hunt took all day, but the quarry proved too swift and smart. Finally three weary but contented hunters made their way back through the dusk to camp. They had finally lost the bear in a deep gorge, but Brazos guessed the animal was unlikely to move far overnight. That was all the encouragement Otto needed to announce that they would rise at first light and resume the hunt.
But the bear was destined to live another day, for as they climbed the last slope before the campsite, Bullpup suddenly stopped and pricked his ears, a deep growl rising from his chest.
“What is it, Sarge?” Draper asked, eyes stabbing through the gloom.
“Can’t be dead sure,” Brazos said, raising his rifle. “But I’d say we’ve got company.”
“Mr. Lanning?” a voice called from the gloom, and they saw the silhouette of a man. “It’s me, Mr. Lanning—Jobe Storey!”
“Trouble?” Otto Lanning said. “What sort of trouble?”
“Well, Mr. Benedict didn’t exactly say, Mr. Lanning,” replied big-nosed Jobe Storey as he watched Brazos get the fire going. “But at a guess I’d reckon it was this here business about the loggin’ out at Ray River.”
“What logging?” the attorney asked. “Nobody’s been cutting timber out there in months.”
The liveryman’s hired hand told what he knew of the matter.
Otto Lanning looked disgusted. “Wouldn’t you know it?” he said bitterly as Brazos handed him a mug of freshly brewed coffee. “First confounded vacation I get in years and then something like this has to blow up.”
“It mightn’t be about the timber, Lanning,” Draper drawled. “I mean, Benedict never said straight out it was, did he, Jobe?”
Storey shook his head. “Just said he wanted Mr. Lanning and Mr. Brazos to come back to town pronto.”
“He mentioned me too?” Brazos asked.
“That’s so.” Storey hunkered back on his heels. “Paid up twenty dollars to get the message out in a hurry. I kicked old Bess all the way out, then I had to sit around ten or twelve hours waitin’ for you three to show.”
“Don’t much like the sound of this, Otto,” Brazos said soberly, “Mebbe we’d better be makin’ tracks.”
“Tonight?” Draper said. “Hell, you’ve got to be jokin’, Sarge. We’re played out, our horses are worse, and that trail is rough enough by daylight without tryin’ it at night.”
Brazos couldn’t deny it. But neither could he deny the tingle of apprehension he experienced as he stared down at Jobe Storey. He said, “You’re sure for certain he said he wanted me to come in as well as Otto, Storey?”
“I already told you he did, Mr. Brazos,” Storey replied. “Don’t you believe me or somethin’?”
“No, I believe you, I reckon …” Brazos looked at Lanning. “It’s kind of perplexin’ though. By the sound of it, the Yank struck somethin’ at the office that he can’t handle, Otto. But what would he want me for if that’s all it was?”
Lanning frowned thoughtfully into the fire. “Know what I think?” he asked finally.
“What?” Brazos and Draper said in unison.
“I think it’s just an excuse to drag me back to town. I wouldn’t be surprised if Duke isn’t fed up with the office already an
d is itching to get back to the saloons. It’s possible that his father has gone home and—”
“No, his father is still in town, Mr. Lanning,” Storey cut in.
“Well, I still believe I have put my finger on the key to it,” Lanning said. He smiled. “You know, Duke was always a tricky one. You should know that, Hank. He always had a knack of getting what he wanted, one way or the other. And I’m not forgetting that it was my idea to go hunting. I suspect that Duke resented my leaving him to handle everything, and this could simply be his way of tricking me back so I’ll have to take over the work while he can just play at his role until his father leaves.”
“Could be,” Brazos mused aloud. “But somehow I don’t reckon it is. I’ll allow Benedict is mighty talented when it comes to lookin’ out for number one and getting everybody else to jump, but this could be somethin’ big he’s come up against, Otto. I got a feelin’ it is.”
“Big?” Lanning replied, relaxing to a more comfortable position. His eyes twinkled at the Texan. “Could be, I suppose, Hank. But nothing is as big as that bear we’re going after in the morning, right?”
Brazos stared hard, annoyed because Lanning seemed bent on taking the matter lightly. But then his mood eased a little. He had earlier compared the attorney with a boy let loose on his vacation, and now Lanning was reacting like a kid threatened with his vacation being cut short. But even though he understood Lanning’s frame of mind, it didn’t mean he was prepared to agree with him.
“We got to get back to Rawhide, Otto,” Brazos declared flatly.
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