Benedict and Brazos 24

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Mr. Benedict took out a silk handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “I was on my way up here to see you when I passed the saloon, Duke,” he panted. “I heard a great commotion and felt obligated to see what was going on. So I went to the doors and I saw this James fellow. He was addressing the lumberjacks in what I interpreted as an inflammatory way. He was insisting on what he termed justice. I rather fear they are on their way up here to insist that the sheriff arrest Myron Haggerty on a charge of murder.”

  Wheeler went white. “Arrest Haggerty? Good God, man, we can’t do that!”

  “Better tell that to James, Sheriff,” Brazos said grimly, peering out the window. “On account of he’s headin’ this way right now with a bunch of ’jacks in back of him!”

  The Deacon’s big voice boomed down the dusty street. “Well, Sheriff Wheeler?”

  Standing on the jailhouse porch, Wheeler swabbed the sweat of tension from his pale face with the back of a shaking hand.

  “I can’t arrest Myron Haggerty, Deacon,” Wheeler panted. “For one thing, we don’t know who started the trouble, and for another Mr. Haggerty has some thirty men out there ready to back him up. Even if I could muster a posse, which I doubt, there would only be another bloodbath.”

  “So you refuse to do your duty?” James accused. “Well, admit it, sir, so that we may seek elsewhere for justice.”

  Wheeler started to stammer, but he fell silent when Benedict placed a hand on his arm.

  “It’s all right, Sheriff,” Benedict said quietly. “I shall handle this.”

  “Duke!” Mr. Benedict gasped. “This is no concern of yours. Those men look violent. You mustn’t—”

  “There won’t be any violence, Father,” Benedict declared. Then he drew Brazos aside and said softly, “I’m going to try and handle this fellow peaceably, Johnny Reb. I want you to stay out of it.”

  “What if it comes to shootin’, Yank?” Brazos asked. “James and Cassidy look like they—”

  “What is this shillyshally?” James shouted from the street. “If you have something to say, Benedict, say it and be done with it!”

  “There won’t be any shooting, Brazos,” Benedict whispered. “I’m not armed, so they won’t dare draw against me. But no matter what, you stay out of it—and keep your hand away from your gun. I’ve smelled gunfighter on this pair from the beginning and they look more the part than ever right now. I feel they’re out of your class, Johnny Reb, so give me your word that you won’t buy in.”

  “Judas, Yank—!”

  “Your word.”

  “I hope the hell you know what you’re doin’. All right, damn it, you got my word that I’ll keep out of it.”

  “Good man,” Benedict murmured, then he stepped down to the street.

  Standing with his boots wide-planted in the dust, Deacon James raised his chin as he watched Benedict come towards him. The panels of James’ black coat were drawn back to reveal the butts of the big nickel-plated six-guns on his hips. A short distance behind, Whitey Cassidy smiled, the only color in his face his pink albino eyes.

  Benedict walked up to James and halted. The hot wind fluttered his four-in-hand tie as he stared into the preacher’s face. It was very quiet in Trail Street.

  “Well, Mr. Benedict?” Deacon James demanded. “Are you now the self-appointed spokesman for the cowardly forces of law and order here?”

  Benedict kept his tone reasonable as he replied, “Deacon, you are a man of the cloth. Surely you can see that what is needed here is not a course of action that can cause only more trouble, but some common sense.”

  “Common sense!” James sneered. “Those are the weak words of men without the courage to fight for justice! There has been a great wrong committed here today, Attorney, and if more blood must be spilled to see it absolved, then so be it.” James gestured at the line of check-shirted lumberjacks strung across the street behind him. “These men have been wronged, Benedict, time and time again. Now, they demand that an end be put to the wrongs. They demand that—”

  “They demand, Preacher?” Benedict broke in. “Or do you? What’s your game? You call yourself a preacher, but no preacher would willingly be party to something that would be as bloody as what you’re proposing. What are you really, Deacon? Are you just another killer?”

  James’ eyes blazed. “The words of a man without the courage to wear a gun! Do you know my opinion of a man who goes unarmed, Benedict? I classify each such man as a gutless, hollowed-out abomination in the sight of man and God!”

  Benedict went white. His hands touched his empty hips. He turned his head to stare at his father, hungry for the feel of a six-gun in his hand, but fighting against it with all his strength.

  Suddenly Brazos lifted a hand and shouted, “Look out, Yank!”

  Benedict whirled just in time to see James’ huge fist driving at his face. He tried to duck, but a flash of fire exploded in his head and he fell, his last sensation the taste of dust against his lips.

  A crimson light glowed in the sea of darkness that surrounded him. The light faded and a great buzzing filled his ears, then Duke Benedict jerked painfully back to consciousness. His head came up and a hand pressed against his shoulder. Brazos’ voice seemed to come from a great distance:

  “Take it easy, Yank. Mr. Benedict, hand me that glass, will you?”

  Duke came erect. He was seated in a chair at a saloon table. He recognized the chandelier of the Silver Dollar. Then Brazos put a glass to his lips. Benedict drank and fiery whisky coursed down his throat, hit his stomach and spread warm, and strengthening.

  Benedict looked around. At least a hundred men were in the saloon, and they were all staring at him. Tenderly he touched his jaw. It didn’t feel broken, and he was surprised. He couldn’t remember being hit harder.

  Then full recollection came back with a jolt and he stared up at his father who stood looking down at him anxiously.

  “James!” Benedict said. “What happened after he hit me?”

  “Well, I kept my word,” Brazos growled, “but it wasn’t easy. He never paid me no attention when I walked out to tote you away. He was too busy talkin’ to everybody about gettin’ a posse together, and ridin’ out to nail Haggerty.”

  “Have they gone?” Benedict asked tersely.

  “No, Duke,” his father supplied. “But only because the mail rider came in with the news that Haggerty and the cattlemen are preparing to come to Rawhide.” The older man’s face looked grim. “It seems that Myron Haggerty is determined to have it out as well, Duke. James is busy now arranging a ‘welcome.’ I very much fear that we will see many more dead men before tonight.”

  Benedict put his face in his hands. He could hear Brazos and his father talking, but he closed his mind to their voices and forced his sluggish brain to work. It wasn’t easy, considering the way he felt, but he kept at it, and slowly his thoughts began to take shape.

  His masquerade had gone far enough.

  He had done everything possible to maintain a facade of respectability for his father’s sake, but destiny seemed determined that he would fail. With dead men in Rawhide and the threat of more killing to come, Duke Benedict, gunfighter, couldn’t fill the role of Duke Benedict, attorney-at-law, any longer. There was a devil stoking the furnaces in Rawhide, and the devil’s name was Deacon Jones.

  Without James, Benedict was certain that reason would prevail, even at this late stage. But James was committed to bloodshed and he was dragging everybody along with him.

  Deacon James was a killer. He knew that now. He had looked into the man’s eyes there on the street and had seen in them the gleam of the gunslinger. There had been no fear in Deacon James; his was the arrogance of every fast gun Duke Benedict had ever faced. James was committed to some bloody purpose here in Rawhide. What was behind it, Benedict couldn’t even begin to guess. All he knew with certainty was that more blood would flow if James wasn’t stopped.

  Duke Benedict would have to buckle on his guns.

  Ye
s, he would put on his guns and go against Deacon James, and then his father would know him for what he really was. It was a high price to pay—but how could he live with himself if he didn’t intervene?

  Benedict’s face was haggard when he finally looked up. Brazos stood at the bar talking soberly with the sheriff. There was no sign of Benedict’s father. Duke turned to look at Jeb Draper who was helping himself to the whisky Brazos had left on the table.

  Draper grinned. “Feelin’ better after your little snooze, Mr. Benedict?”

  “Where is my father, Draper?”

  “Him and Lanning went out to check on the street.” Draper sniffed. “Brazos is fixin’ to go against James, though I don’t like his chances of interestin’ Wheeler in the idea much. Yeller, that lawman, clean through.”

  The man’s words jarred. “And what about you, Draper?” Duke asked caustically. “You wouldn’t be afraid, would you?”

  Draper scowled. “You don’t think much of me, do you. Mr. Benedict?”

  “Not much.”

  “Think you’re so far above a feller like me that you couldn’t even see me with field glasses, huh?”

  Benedict frowned. “Is there some point to this discussion, Draper? I don’t like you because Brazos thinks highly of you and I believe you’ve taken advantage of his trusting nature. I believe you were in that bank job up to your neck, but you were able to convince Brazos that you were innocent. I don’t like men who make fools of my friends.”

  Draper moved closer, still grinning. “You’re smart, Mr. Benedict, real smart. And I don’t mind admittin’ you’re right. Sure, I was in on the bank job. I was only gonna get a small cut for handling the horses, but I was in it like you figured. But no need to get all excited, Mr. Benedict, on account of you won’t be tellin’ the sarge or nobody else about what I just said.”

  “The hell I won’t!”

  “You won’t. If you did, I’d have to let it slip to your daddy that you ain’t what you seem.” Draper’s smile was smug as Benedict stiffened. “Sure, I know all about your little game, Mr. Benedict. Brazos let it slip, up in the mountains. But don’t worry, I ain’t gonna breathe a word ... providin’ you make it worth my while to keep my mouth shut, that is.”

  Duke Benedict’s left hand flashed out to grasp Draper’s shirtfront, then his right bunched into a fist and he swung hard.

  Jeb Draper got out a startled yell just before the fist crashed against his jaw. Benedict let him drop to the floor and got up dusting his hands as Brazos strode across from the bar.

  “What the tarnal was that about, Benedict?” Brazos asked.

  Benedict told him. Brazos’ jaw fell open as he stared down at Draper who looked as if he would be asleep for some time.

  “Why, that double-dealin’ son of a—!”

  “That’s about the size of it, Johnny Reb. I guess friend Jeb has changed a little since you rode together.”

  “Reckon so. Well, one thing is for sure, Yank. I don’t aim to let him talk to your old man. I’ll truss him up and stash him some place until after this turkey shoot is over, and then I’ll boot him so far out of town that—”

  Benedict shook his head. “There won’t be any need for that, Brazos. I’ll have to go against Deacon James. I can’t keep up the pretense any longer.”

  Before Brazos could reply, the batwings opened and Mr. Benedict and Otto Lanning hurried in. Their report was a grim one: James now had upwards of thirty men waiting in the street for Haggerty. Lanning was sweating, but Benedict senior seemed strangely grave. Brazos and Benedict stood amazed as they learned why.

  “I’ve come to a decision, Duke,” Mr. Benedict said quietly. “It’s one of the hardest decisions of my life, and one that flies in the face of everything I have always believed in. But what I have seen here today has convinced me that my philosophy concerning violence is unsound when confronted by an actual life-and-death situation. I have seen men suffer violent death for the first time in my life, and I know there will be more. And all because of one man. Those men out there in the street are sheep, Duke, led along by the nose by Deacon James. You attempted reason, but that man is far beyond reason. I ... I never thought I would see the day when I would say this, Duke, but I feel there is no other course of action than to take up arms and see if this murderous drama can be ended. I ... I know this is a lot to ask of you, Duke, but I hope that you and Hank will support me.”

  Brazos was surprised, but Duke was astounded. “You’re asking us to go against James, Father?” he breathed. “You?”

  “With the deepest misgivings, yet with the certainty that there is no alternative—yes, my boy, I am.”

  “Well, in that case,” Hank Brazos said, poker-faced, “I guess we can’t let your father down, eh, Duke?”

  “I ... I guess not,” Duke murmured, feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Then he smiled. “Very well, Father, Brazos and I shall do as you ask. But only on the condition that we be allowed to handle James and Cassidy alone.”

  “But, Duke, they are dangerous men!”

  “I hope not too dangerous,” Duke said. “We’ll soon know.” He turned to the men at the bar. “Would somebody oblige me with a brace of Colts?”

  “I’m astonished over Duke’s calmness,” Mr. Benedict said to Brazos as they watched Duke buckle on a set of guns.

  “Me, too,” Brazos grunted. He started forward then, almost tripping over the recumbent Draper. “Otto,” he said, “truss this bird up and stash him some place real quiet for me. No time to explain now, but take care of it, will you?”

  Lanning nodded and then Brazos joined Benedict. Mr. Benedict started after them, but Duke waved him back.

  “It’s all right, Father,” Duke called as they headed for the batwings. “Really it is.”

  They stepped onto the porch and paused, looking along the street. Deacon James and Whitey Cassidy stood in a group of lumberjacks on the hotel porch. Brazos and Benedict exchanged a glance. Each knew what was expected of him; each knew that this could be the last time they might walk a street together.

  Then they stepped down, and their boots made sucking noises in the deep dust as they started towards the hotel.

  Chapter Ten – Hate’s Harvest

  THE BLAZING SUN cut deep pits and hollows in Deacon James’ gaunt face as he stood on the hotel porch, staring west. In the eyes of the loggers and towners who lined the gallery with their rifles, he looked as big a man as they had ever seen. With his guns, his flowing hair and burning eyes, he dominated all. He looked invincible, they thought, and it was only this air of invincibility that held them there. The riflemen had good cause to hate Myron Haggerty, but more than hatred had been required to persuade them to make a stand against the cattlemen. They had needed the leadership of a man of exceptional strength, and in Deacon James, they had such a man.

  It was Whitey Cassidy, pacing up and down in the street and flexing the fingers of his gun hand, who sighted the two tall men approaching from the saloon. The albino propped.

  “Deacon! Take a look at this.”

  James turned and stiffened. Benedict and Brazos walked steadily, the sunlight glinting on their cartridge belts. Benedict, though nearly as tall as the Texan, looked almost slight against Brazos’ massive bulk. There was no hesitancy about either man.

  A flicker of uncertainty crossed Deacon James’ face, but it vanished as Brent Jerome spoke:

  “I don’t like the cut of this, Deacon. Those jaspers look like they mean business.”

  A sneer rode James’ features. “Your yellow streak is showing, Jerome.” Then he waved a hand. “But your fear is unwarranted, for this small problem is well within our scope.” He walked into the street. “Whitey!”

  Whitey Cassidy came eagerly to his side. Less than fifty yards separated them from the approaching pair. James lifted his chin and tossed his mane like a stallion at the scent of battle. From behind a score of windows, pale faces watched. It seemed that all Rawhide had gone silent; it wa
s as if the town held its breath.

  Brazos and Benedict came on. When they were some thirty feet from James and the albino they halted. Benedict’s gray eyes were fixed on James, Brazos watched Cassidy.

  “Yes?” James’ deep voice was laced with arrogant contempt.

  “I tried to reason with you earlier, James,” Benedict said calmly. “You wouldn’t listen. Maybe you’ll listen to me now.”

  “Why?”

  “To avoid bloodshed.”

  “Bloodshed!” Cassidy hissed. “What’s wrong with a little bloodshed in a good cause, Benedict?”

  “Be silent, Whitey!” James ordered. “Proceed, Benedict. And be as frank as you wish. Then after you’ve been frank, I shall give you time to pray.”

  “I’m not an attorney, James,” Benedict said. “I’m what is sometimes described as a man of many parts. One of those parts is gunfighter. I don’t know how good you are with your Colts, Deacon, but in all modesty I must confess that I’m more than good enough. I want you to believe this. If you do, then we can talk like equals and perhaps we can prevent this bloody business from going any further.”

  “A gunfighter?” James said. “Well, that may be so, but you still sound like an attorney to me, brother. And as for this bloody business you speak of, well, I regret to have to tell you that nothing can stop it.” His voice rose sharply. “You see, Benedict, this bloody business was not of my instigation. I am merely concluding, in the cause of righteous vengeance and in the name of the Lord, what others began. No force on earth can divert me from my appointed course, for my cause is righteous, and righteousness shall prevail.”

  Benedict’s eyes narrowed. “What is this cause, James? All that has happened here in Rawhide is of your doing. You came here and deliberately set out to incite violence. How could this be a just cause for any man, much less someone who claims to be a man of God?”

  “I’m not obliged to tell you anything, Benedict,” was James’ grating reply. “However, rather than send a fool into eternity with his curiosity unsatisfied, I will be kind.” The man’s big head lifted and his black eyes flashed. “A month ago, in this place, a man was hanged. No ... not a man, just a boy. A boy alone and friendless in a strange land, who, because he was alone, died at the hands of the people of this town. That boy died on the gallows in terror, Benedict, and his one small consolation in his fateful hour would have been the knowledge that his death would be avenged. Rory Calem was the boy’s name. I have long worn the name men have given me, but my true name is James Calem. That boy was my young brother.”