Benedict and Brazos 24

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “We ain’t just moanin’,” Obie Quent said. “We—”

  “I got the chair right now, Obie,” Jerome barked. “You’ve all had your say and now it’s my turn. So you reckon the Deacon’s an odd bird. All right, I’ll go along with that. I don’t really figger him myself, and that sidekick of his gives me the cold shivers. But what would it matter if James had two heads and a sister in the army, providin’ he’s got the dinero and the guts to back us! Goddamn it all, he couldn’t have done any more than he has already. He’s done everythin’ to get us started, and all he expects from us is that we stand up to Haggerty and the cowmen if they try and get in our way. That’s all. Now, if there’s any man here who ain’t got the sand in his craw to do what James expects, then I say he ain’t got no business bein’ here in the first place.”

  Jerome broke off and waited for a response. But none was forthcoming. The timbermen all looked a little sheepish now, even the outspoken Obie Quent.

  “All right,” Jerome continued in a quiet voice. “I guess we needed that to clear the air some.” He spread out his big, calloused hands. “Now, I’m not a fool, boys. I know you’re all kind of concerned about what we might come up against tomorrow. But I can tell you what the Deacon told me this afternoon when he was out here—that we could be stronger than we think tomorrow.”

  Obie Quint’s eyes widened. “What did he mean by that, Brent?”

  “Don’t rightly know, Obie,” Jerome said. “But I took it that he meant he’s gonna provide us with some backin’.”

  “Hell, man!” Quent grinned. “Why didn’t you tell us this before?”

  “On account of I wanted to make certain I had a bunch of men and not a pack of weak sisters in back of me first,” Brent Jerome snapped. Then he smiled as he looked around at their weathered faces. “And I guess I have at that, ain’t I?”

  Heads nodded all around. Faced with a question like that, what else could they do but agree?

  “The Lord is the Love,

  The Lord is the Light,

  Oh, sweet Lord, take me to Thy home ...”

  There wasn’t much harmony in the singing, but it was fervent and it was loud. Clear-eyed ladies stretched their thin lips wide to sing the praises of the Lord, and a scattering of saloon angels with gin on their breath matched them stanza for stanza.

  The church was packed to overflowing.

  Rawhide had been starved of spiritual food for too long, and Deacon James had fired the imagination of the small, hard core of true believers and an unexpected number of the curious who had seen James on the streets and had listened to his booming voice.

  The true believers occupied the front pews. The remainder of the church was occupied by a broad cross-section of the community, ranging from dead-beat drunks to the portly mayor of Rawhide. And about them all, whether day laborer, businessman, child or dance hall girl, was an air of eager anticipation.

  The Deacon sat alone in the tiny anteroom in his somber black suit waiting for the singing to finish. He was keyed up for the occasion, ready to give his best. He had a genuine hatred for sin, though Deacon James’ concept of sin was often somewhat unique. Others might believe that the execution of a killer was just, but Deacon James could—depending on who was hanged—regard it as a heinous crime that warranted monstrous punishment ...

  Finally the church fell quiet and Whitey Cassidy mounted the dais to deliver his well-rehearsed introduction. Applause shook the old timbers as James strode out, shooting his cuffs as if intent on coming to grips with Satan personally.

  “Brothers and sisters, the theme tonight is sin!” he boomed without preamble, then he proceeded to give sin the most savage mauling it had received in Rawhide’s history.

  The crowd soaked it up. He talked without pause for a full hour, and even the most hardened were shaken. With fluent words and passionate imagery, he painted their sins in flaming colors, then came to a thunderous conclusion on what every sinner could expect if he didn’t change his ways. And quickly.

  “Hades,” he intoned, his face streaked with sweat, his big hands clenched at his sides. “I leave you tonight, my brethren, with this grim reward for every sinner to reflect upon—ever to be in hell, never to be in heaven with the Lord. Ever to be eaten by flames, gnawed by vermin, tormented with blazing spikes. Never to be free of these agonies! The mind filled for all eternity with despair and darkness. Never to escape, ever to curse and revile your sins and the monstrous demons that persecute you—from the mightiest among you to the least.”

  He paused, and the congregation waited in silence. Then he filled his lungs with air and shouted:

  “Oh, what a dreadful punishment! An eon of grief and agony without even the balm of hope that one day you might, just for one blessed second, gaze upon the blazing countenance of the Divine Savior. To wallow and writhe in torture that knows no end, a torment that eternally devours the spirit while it racks the flesh; an eternity, every instant of which is in itself an eternity of regret. Such, my brethren, is the punishment decreed for those who would sin, by an almighty and everlastingly merciful God.”

  Long seconds passed before they realized he was through. Then the applause came up at him like a warm wave. Deacon James basked in it, holding his arms high, moving his hands to all in a blessing. In that heady moment they were all his. They believed his every word because they wanted to believe ... but Deacon James was not quite through.

  “Go with God, my dear people,” he announced when the hubbub finally died down. “But before you go, there is a matter that I must bring to your attention ... a matter concerning a possible sin and injustice that may be committed right here within this fair county before the next day is done.”

  The congregation gasped. More sin?

  “You must all know of my interest in the lumber workers from the hills, brothers and sisters,” James declared. “Many of you may think it strange that a man of my calling should concern himself with such mundane matters. But I am no simpering sycophant who depends on the charity of others for sustenance. I believe a preacher man should be a man first and a preacher second, and any man worthy of that proud title earns his own daily bread.”

  He gave them a few moments to absorb that, then he continued. “I also believe that every man has the right to earn his living in his own way, and in interesting myself in the matter of the timbermen, I saw an opportunity to right a wrong as well as seek some small financial gain. Those men are entitled to cut and sell their timber, brethren, and the cattlemen of this county have no right to deny them this right. I am fully aware that sympathies here lie with the cattlemen against the timber-cutters, but my sympathies lie with the man who is in the right and so I am demanding—not asking—that you do the same.”

  A murmur swept through the throng, for James was right when he said that sentiment in this cattle town lay with the cowmen. James waited for them to quieten, then he lifted his hands.

  “Tomorrow the lumbermen begin work at Bay River. I believe that those who have no right to do so shall attempt to hinder them. The lumbermen are few, the cattlemen many. The lumbermen need support tomorrow, brethren, and again I demand—not ask—that you furnish that support.”

  “What do you mean, Deacon?” Whitey Cassidy called on cue.

  “I simply mean that I want every man here who calls himself a man, to make his way out to Ray River in the morning to help make it clear to the cattlemen that the ordinary, God-fearing man in the street here does not condone their violent ways.” He paused. “Any man who fails to do this out of cowardice or vested interests, shall have to answer to his Creator on the terrible day of judgment.”

  Nobody spoke until the anteroom door closed behind his tall back. Then the church erupted with a great murmur of voices and a shuffling of feet as the dazed crowd made its way into the night.

  The Deacon lowered himself to a hard chair and sat listening to the uproar. His left hand rested on the Bible on the tiny bureau, his right on his gun. He sat unmoving for long minut
es, lost in a trance until Cassidy tapped on the door and came in.

  James looked up, his eyes glazed. “Well?”

  “You were better than you’ve ever been, Deacon,” Cassidy panted, his eyes bright with excitement. “You had them shakin’ and shiverin’ like—”

  “Never mind that. What are they saying about tomorrow?”

  “There’s a lot sayin’ as how you’re right about the timbermen, Deacon. Sure, some of ’em are gonna cool down before mornin’, but I’ll bet my gun that plenty will be headin’ out there.”

  The ghost of a smile touched at James’ lips. His fingers stroked the worn leather of the Bible.

  “Then it has begun, Whitey,” he said softly. “The harvest has begun.”

  Midnight tolled its solemn chimes across the rooftops of Rawhide as Duke Benedict climbed the stairs, smoking his last cigar of the day. Around him the big house was quiet. His father had retired an hour earlier and the servants’ quarters were in darkness. Though weary from the long day, Duke Benedict had sat up in the study, sipping brandy and hoping Lanning and Brazos would arrive.

  Now he felt so tired that he didn’t care if they showed up at all.

  By the glow of the dim nightlight, the hallway stretched before him. He trod on expensive carpet. Handsome paintings adorned the walls. Often, camping out with Hank Brazos, he had thought about living in a home like this and enjoying all the creature comforts that he’d been reared to expect as his right. But Otto Lanning’s house was already losing its charm. He realized he had lived too free for too long. He had come to accept uncertainty and danger as the norm, and an atmosphere of ease and comfort was like a too-tight collar.

  He didn’t light the lamp on entering his room. The faint glow of the streetlight was sufficient for him to make out the furniture. Slipping out of his coat, he kicked off his boots and padded across to the windows to look out.

  “About time, Duke.”

  Benedict whirled at the voice, his hand going instinctively to his hip. He swore when he realized he wasn’t wearing his Colts, then he swore again when he realized whose voice it was that came from the direction of the bed.

  “Sharon! What the hell—?”

  “Honestly, Duke Benedict, such language! I’m sure your father would be shocked.”

  He approached the big double bed warily. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he could make out her face and her pale arms and shoulders.

  He swore again. “How the devil did you get in here, Sharon? What in the name of all that’s holy are you doing in my bed?”

  Sharon sat up, holding the coverings over her breasts. Her white teeth showed in a smile as she patted the bed beside her.

  “Don’t be such an old fuddy duddy, Duke,” she purred. “You—”

  “Judas priest, Sharon, if—!”

  “Hush,” she admonished. “Your father, Duke, remember? If you awaken him with your shouting and he should come in, how on earth would you explain?”

  “You’re crazy!” he whispered.

  “I’m lonesome, Duke,” she countered. She reached out to take his hand and then she drew him down beside her; he was too stunned to resist. She stroked his neck.

  “I’m lonesome and you’re lonesome, Duke. That’s one thing we have in common. And we’re both young and we both love life. That’s another. And it’s a lovely, romantic night, Otto is away, and it’s a long time until morning. Why, Duke, you’re trembling. Surely you’re not afraid? Not the fearless Duke Benedict?”

  Benedict passed a hand across his forehead. He was trembling, but it had nothing to do with fear. Sharon Lanning was a warm and lovely young woman, and warm and lovely young women had long been his weakness.

  But this was no time to surrender as he had so often and happily in the past, he told himself firmly. Then he tried to rise, but slim hands held him fast.

  “No, Duke Benedict,” Sharon said in a husky, breathy voice. “I’ve been waiting for this from the moment I clapped eyes on you.” Her fingers stroked his face and played havoc with his will power. “Otto is a fine man, but he’s a cold fish. I’m different, and so are you. He won’t be back until tomorrow, Duke ...”

  “No,” he protested, but weaker now. “It’s not right, damn it!”

  “You sound like your father. He expects too much of you, Duke. But wouldn’t it be awful if he found out that you had been deceiving him all along?”

  He stared into her face. Was she blackmailing him? Would she go to his father with the truth if he didn’t play her game?

  “Sharon—”

  “Duke,” she murmured, and as she linked her arms around his neck, the coverlet slipped from her body.

  Benedict’s arms went about her and he knew he had lost again as she pressed his face to her swollen breasts.

  Chapter Nine – Dying Day

  THE FRONT PORCH of the Rawhide Hotel reminded Brazos of a casualty clearing station during the war. There were wounded men everywhere, and white-faced women were bustling about with bandages and water bowls. As Brazos checked his appaloosa in the street, Doc Murphy, in a bloody leather apron, appeared in the hotel doorway and shouted:

  “Next!”

  Four stunned horsemen watched as two women hauled a man with a bloody leg to his feet and helped him inside. All around them, Trail Street was a bustle of noise and confusion under the noon sun. As a man trotted past heading for the hotel, Brazos found his voice.

  “Hey you!” he shouted. “What the tarnal’s happening here?”

  The towner halted and came slowly back. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Clancy,” a white-faced Lanning snapped. “If we knew we wouldn’t be asking. What happened?”

  Clancy Muldoon shook his head. “Bad business, Mr. Lanning. The lumberjacks started cuttin’ out along the Ray River this mornin’. A bunch of the boys rode out to see they got a fair shake. Haggerty and a whole passel of cowhands showed up, and there was gunplay. Three fellers were shot dead and nine or ten wounded. They say it was hell out there.”

  Brazos stared at the man with glassy eyes. Then he turned his head to see a tall figure striding down the street towards them.

  Duke Benedict looked mean enough to spit.

  Deputy Sheriff George Cash lifted the battered coffee pot from the jailhouse stove and filled the rows of battered tin mugs lining the desk. Then he passed mugs to Benedict, Brazos, Lanning and the sheriff. They tasted the beverage, and Duke Benedict grimaced.

  “Just grounds, I’m afeared, Mr. Benedict,” the deputy apologized. “I was on my way to the store to get some fresh when the fellers started arrivin’ back from the river.”

  “It’s all right, Deputy,” Benedict said. He took out his cigars and looked across at Brazos who sat in the deeply recessed window. “I’m sorry I was a little short with you, Johnny Reb. I realize now that you would have shown up sooner had it been possible.”

  “That’s all right,” Brazos drawled. “This sort of caper would put any man’s temper on a short leash.”

  It was an hour since their arrival from the mountains. Reports from Ray River were still coming in, and they felt they had a fair grasp of what had happened. Following the short, bloody clash, the cattlemen had retired to Haggerty’s ranch, and the lumberjacks had come into Rawhide to confer with Deacon James. Some ten minutes earlier, the deputy had left the hotel to report that young Tom Hendry, wounded in the battle, had died. Four men were dead ... and every man in town was looking for a scapegoat.

  “Perhaps it was my fault,” Benedict said after another heavy silence. “Perhaps I should have refused to offer my opinion until you got back, Otto.”

  Lanning shook his head firmly. “You had no option but to do what you were asked, Duke. I would have done the same thing.” He stared at the sheriff. “It’s the duty of attorneys to clarify the law, but it’s the duty of others to see that it is upheld.”

  “What more could I do, Mr. Lanning?” Sheriff Wheeler asked wretchedly. He lifted his slin
ged right arm. “I rode out there when I heard what was goin’ on, and I stopped a slug for my pains.”

  “Who started the shootin’, Sheriff?” Brazos asked.

  “Don’t reckon nobody rightly knows, Hank,” the lawman sighed. “It was all mighty confused out there, and I reckon it was plain that gunplay just had to break out.”

  “Had it begun when the towners arrived?” Benedict wanted to know.

  Wheeler shook his head. “No, Haggerty and his riders were there in force, and I think mebbe they had the ’jacks bluffed by their numbers. But when the citizens rode in, why, I reckon they got their dander up and figgered they had a chance.”

  “James,” Benedict said bitterly. “The man had no right telling the people they should go out there this morning. Surely he must have known the risk?”

  “Who can figure that pilgrim out at all?” the deputy grumbled. “Everybody seems to think he’s Christmas come early, but to me he’s just as loco as that Whitey who tags along every place he goes.” He looked at Wheeler. “He was there at Boothill when I got up this mornin’, Sheriff, and he was still there when I went back home for breakfast.”

  “What’s this about the cemetery?” Benedict asked sharply.

  “George lives opposite Boothill, Mr. Benedict,” Wheeler said. “He’s seen James hangin’ about there every day since he came to Rawhide.”

  “Mebbe we better go have a talk with this here preacher man, Benedict?” Brazos suggested. “I mean, the mood folks are in, this business that started out at the river mightn’t be over yet. We don’t want nobody stokin’ the furnaces any more, and it seems to me like that was what he was doin’ last night when he told them folks at the church they oughta go out to the Ray River this mornin’.”

  Benedict was thinking that over when the sound of footsteps on the jailhouse porch heralded the arrival of his father. Benedict got up quickly when he saw his father’s flushed face.

  “Father,” he said, “you look upset. What is it?”