Hank Brazos was disgusted sometime later when he broke off for a beer and realized which way Benedict’s thoughts were drifting.
“There just ain’t no beat of you when you catch the scent of a prime woman, is there, Benedict?” he growled. “Look, we’re here to take our ease. You been gettin’ around with your jaw down on your shirt buttons ever since we tangled with them outlaws, and I know why. You’ve had your fill of gunnin’ for the time bein’. So have I. But now you’ve got the brass-bound nerve to sit there with a look in your eye like a bull moose whistlin’ up six strange cows, just ’cause some filly sends you an invite with pretty writin’ and perfume on it.” He tapped the table for emphasis. “Mister, there’s a dirty range war goin’ on here, and all we’ve got to do to stay out of it is to use our heads. And that’s just what we wouldn’t be doin’ if we was to go out there to the Golden Hoof. Never mind if the visit was as innocent as a wagonload of nuns. It’s what it’d look like that’d count. And to the Shotgun people and most everybody else it’d look like we were fixin’ to side with the Kilraines. Now you tell me that’s wrong and I’ll go hoppin’ to hell.”
It was, of course, right all the way down the line. But Duke Benedict was still trying to figure out how long it had been since he’d put his feet under a gentleman’s table. Now he said:
“Look at it this way. We’ve seen the Hardcastles here tonight, and we’ve told them we’re not interested in getting involved in their range war. Don’t you think it’s only fair to accord the Kilraines the same courtesy. I certainly don’t see why we should make fish of one and fowl of another.”
Deep creases appeared in Hank Brazos’ forehead. He knew he was being conned, but seldom could he defeat the Yank in a battle of wits. Benedict had gone to law school at Harvard. From what Brazos understood of it, Harvard was a place where they taught you how to prove black was white to honest, simple men.
While Brazos was laboriously pondering over the situation, Sam Fieldman helped cut a little more ground from under him.
“Seems from what I’ve seen of you tonight, Hank, you’re a man fond of a good time. Well, I reckon you’ll travel a long way before you’d enjoy yourself as much as you would out on the spread when the boss opens the doors. More chow than you can eat, music, dancin’ and good company. There are folks around here who’d give an arm to get invited out for an evening at the Golden Hoof, but they never get to make it. I’d sure hate to see you fellers pass up somethin’ that you ain’t likely to forget in years.”
The look Brazos gave the ramrod was full of distaste. “You know, if I didn’t know better, mister, I’d reckon you’ve been takin’ palaverin’ lessons from Benedict, danged if I wouldn’t.” He went on scowling for some time longer, then he heard his own treacherous voice ask, “Good grub, you say?”
“Mr. Kilraine has got a cook from the east,” Fieldman told him readily. “He can make bacon taste like prime veal. But his specialty is dessert. That man whips up better desserts than you’ll find any place west of the Big Muddy, I swear it. You like desserts, Hank?”
Brazos licked his lips, his eyes going misty. Like many a man accustomed to hard tack and plain food, he had a sweet tooth that was just about impossible to satisfy. Brazos was a top-class trail cook himself, but on the trail a man never got time to worry about dessert. His second stop whenever they hit a town—after the saloon—was invariably the pastry shop. He’d put away two pounds of cream buns only that afternoon. It had done something for the sweet tooth, but the idea of genuine, properly prepared dessert was enough to make his head spin.
“Peach melba, Fieldman?” Benedict asked slyly, sensing that Brazos was weakening. “Does the cook know how to make peach melba?”
“Like he invented it,” said the ramrod. “I could see to it that peach melba is on the menu, of course.”
Brazos was gone then and he knew it. So he threw up his hands in surrender and called for fresh drinks.
It turned out to be quite a night. Men who hadn’t danced since their wedding day were seen executing vigorous jigs on the bar top, and saloonkeeper Gilroy Sykes got so carried away that he gave a round of drinks on the house. Brazos whipped a muleskinner one-handed, and Benedict gave a display of trick shooting that finally attracted the attention of the sheriff. Barney Vint achieved some kind of peace and quiet for a time, but was unwise enough to stay on for a drink with the “repentant” Benedict. One drink became many, and the evening ended on a high note when Brazos and Benedict carried the yodeling lawman back to the jailhouse at two o’clock, leaving the Wagon Wheel’s remaining customers to put out the little fire that had started when the muleskinner swung on an oil lamp which proved unequal to the task of supporting his two hundred and fifty pounds.
Fifty-year-old Miss Henrietta Doolin, a spinster and Sunsmoke’s most determined moralist and founding member of the local temperance society, watched the colorful climax of the evening from her window and sniffed in high disgust. Miss Henrietta was completely unable to understand why men like Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos felt the need to play so hard at the end of a bloody trail. All Miss Henrietta saw were the weaving figures in the night, and her sense of decency was outraged.
But it was when she saw the dog that the good woman knew beyond doubt that depravity had reached an all-time low. There could be no question about it—the great spotted hound staggering towards the Sunsmoke Hotel was a victim of the demon drink.
Miss Henrietta looked skywards, hands clasped before her, invoking the Almighty to bear witness to all this degradation.
Chapter Three
Tracy
Brazos sat up in bed and winced as Benedict entered the hotel room. Clapping a hand to his forehead, the big Texan shut his eyes. But it didn’t help. Then, opening his eyes to see Benedict clean-shaven, immaculately dressed and groomed, he felt even worse.
“What’s the time?” he groaned, wincing afresh as Benedict opened the doors to the gallery to admit the bright morning sun.
“Nine o’clock,” Benedict said cheerfully. “Time for breakfast.”
Brazos put his feet on the floor and groaned again. “It don’t figure. You drank as much as I did last night. Why ain’t you sick, too?”
Leaning the point of his shoulder against the frame of the French windows, Benedict took a Havana from his silver cigar case while Brazos tried to pull his boots on.
“It isn’t the liquor that’s making you feel so bad,” he said. “It’s the chili con carne.”
“Chili con carne?” Brazos muttered. He was struggling into his faded purple shirt, thick slabs of muscle moving under the bronzed skin of chest and shoulders. “What chili con carne?”
“You insisted on seeing who could eat the most, you or the muleskinner.”
Brazos finger-combed his thick blond hair and searched around for his battered hat. He found Bullpup lying asleep on it in the corner. The hound growled in protest when he jerked the hat loose, then got to its feet to stare at them with the worst pair of bloodshot eyes in town. Brazos frowned as he sat the hat gingerly on his head, then he nodded.
“Yeah, now I recall.” He blinked. “Who won?”
“You did. Eight platefuls.”
“Eight? Jumped up Judas! And now you’re talkin’ about breakfast?”
“Of course. Nothing like a meal to set a man up after a heavy night. But I suggest we eat sparingly today in preparation for dinner at the Golden Hoof this evening.”
“Oh, yeah ... I forgot about that.” Brazos’ face went sober as he buckled on his gun rig, then his brow furrowed as he glanced at Benedict. “You sure that’s such a good idea, Yank? I mean, in the cold hard light of day?”
Benedict was toying with the invitation card as he moved towards the door. “Of course it’s still a good idea. The peach melba, remember?”
Brazos felt his stomach turn over. “Do me a favor, will you, Benedict? Don’t mention anything like that until at least high noon.”
Benedict, enjoying the rare spectacle
of the rugged Brazos reduced to the level of lesser men by over-indulgence, smiled broadly. “On one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“That you get a new shirt for tonight.”
Brazos stared uncomprehendingly down at a shirt that had served him faithfully since the Civil War generals had signed the peace. “A new shirt? What’s wrong with this one?”
Benedict sighed. “I don’t have enough time to give that the answer it warrants. But, to put it simply, I don’t believe Miss Kilraine would care for that particular monstrosity.”
“Humph!” Brazos grunted. “All right, mebbe I could use a new shirt. But this little lady had better be worth it.”
“I’m sure she will be,” Benedict murmured as he led the way downstairs.
In the ranch house dining room the big oak table was set for dinner. Candlelight gleamed on fine silver and expensive glassware as two maids put the finishing touches to the setting. Beautiful in a daringly low-cut green gown that was almost the exact color of her eyes, Tracy Kilraine was supervising the work, right down to the exact placement of the last finger bowl. She kept the maids busy until she was satisfied, then she dismissed them to the kitchen where the cook was sweating over his pots and pans.
Tracy moved, gracefully around the table, adjusting the placement of a knife here, the fold of a napkin there. She bent to smell the fragrance of a bowl of hyacinths, then straightened as her father entered the room.
“Excellent, honey,” he said, puffing on a big cigar. “Everything looks perfect.”
“Thank you, Father.” She moved to a mirror and touched up her hair. Then she said a little petulantly, “I’m sure I don’t understand why we had to go to all this fuss. Surely a pair of gunfighters wouldn’t know the difference between pate de foie gras and cucumber sandwiches?”
The rancher sat down in a heavy leather chair. Kilraine had been out on the range all day supervising the autumn roundup. The ranches in Box Butte County held two roundups annually. One in the spring and the second in the last weeks of autumn before the snows came. Each year a buyer from the south brought cattle boats down the Whiplock River to supply the army post at Fort Hook which lay a hundred miles south. Each year, the buyer purchased between five and seven hundred head of Box Butte stock to keep the post in fresh meat during the bitter winter months. The buyer was choosy and selected only the best beef, regardless of which ranch had produced them. Last year, the man had chosen more Shotgun cattle than Golden Hoof, and Kilraine, determined this wouldn’t be repeated this season, was supervising the roundup personally to guarantee the quality of the herd.
“You should know me by now, honey,” he said. “I’d rather not entertain at all if I can’t do it properly. Besides, from what Sam tells me, this Benedict fellow might be the sort of man who could tell the difference between pate de foie gras and cucumber sandwiches.”
Tracy wasn’t really listening. She was intent on her reflection in the mirror. She was a tall girl, slender and full breasted, with an excellent carriage acquired at a finishing school in the east. Her face was oval, with a softly tanned skin, large, slightly slanted eyes and a determined chin. Dressed as she was now in evening wear with jewelry on fingers and at wrists and throat, she looked beautiful and knew it.
Kilraine watched her proudly as she turned this way and that before the mirror, then he got up as voices sounded from the foyer. “That sounds like them now, my dear,” he said, and went out.
Tracy turned away from the mirror, moving to the center of the room ready to receive the guests. She still thought her father was making too much fuss over these men. It was true that the Golden Hoof needed gun hands badly, but it was a bit much expecting her to play formal hostess to them. When she’d persuaded Ethan to invite the men here, she had been quite prepared to use her charms to convince them to sign on with Golden Hoof. She well knew the power she held over men, and her limited experience with the gunfighter breed told her that subtleties and refinements were hardly necessary weapons to use on them. They were direct, violent men, the kind who would be more likely to respond to her beauty than to blandishments like fine food, wine and hospitality. Deep down, Tracy despised the gunslinger breed. She would have to make a conscious effort to conceal her true feelings throughout what was promising to be a rather tedious evening.
As footsteps and voices sounded down the corridor she adjusted the bracelet on her right wrist, then frowned. Martin Hardcastle had given her the bracelet before their breakup. For a moment, her expression was cold and tight, then she looked up with a forced smile as her father came in, followed by a man who filled the doorway.
“My dear, this is Mr. Hank Brazos. Mr. Brazos, my daughter Tracy.”
“Better make that Hank, Mr. Kilraine,” Brazos grinned. “Pleasured to make your acquaintance, Miss Tracy.”
The girl’s smile faded as she found herself staring at one of the most impressive men she’d ever met. She experienced a strange thrill at the sheer masculinity of the man who crossed to her, right hand extended. He was quite huge, big-shouldered, thick-armed and long-legged. He wore an obviously new purple shirt unbuttoned halfway to the waist, and a thonged-down Colt was buckled around his narrow hips. His face was youthful and strong, with small scars of violence showing through the deep tan. His eyes were a deep blue under a shock of thick fair hair, and he seemed to give off a clean smell of wind and sagebrush and the wide open spaces. To Tracy Kilraine, a difficult girl to impress, the man was one of the most striking physical specimens she’d known.
“A pleasure, Mr. Brazos,” she murmured, and her smile came back without effort.
“Hank.”
“Then you must call me Tracy. Tell me, Hank, where is your friend, Mr. Benedict?”
“He’s just having a word with Sam, Tracy,” said Kilraine. “Would you care for a drink, Hank?”
Brazos allowed that he could probably deal with a glass of something, and Tracy made a ceremony out of the act of pouring him a glass of madeira. Brazos smiled at her over the glass, then winced as he sampled the contents. The girl laughed understanding and said, “Perhaps you would prefer beer, Hank?”
Brazos looked as if he wasn’t too sure if beer was the sort of stuff a man drank in surroundings like this, but the rancher came to his rescue.
“Of course he would like a beer, Tracy. And I’ll have one with him.”
Tracy poured beer, and as Brazos accepted the bigger glass she noted how he looked at her—country boy shy, but definitely interested. She would have felt surprised if it had been otherwise, and the renewed proof of her attraction to men touched a well of bitterness deep within her. For Tracy Kilraine had learned early in life that she was a one-man woman, and no matter how much she might flirt or flatter, nothing could ever change it.
Then Sam Fieldman entered with a man in a black suit and a bed-of-flowers vest.
“Duke,” Kilraine murmured, “allow me to present my daughter …”
Benedict crossed to her, took her hand, bent and lightly touched his lips to her fingers. “An honor and a privilege. Miss Kilraine.”
Few people, her father included, had ever seen Tracy Kilraine at a loss for words, but she was now as she met the disturbing directness of Benedict’s level gray-eyed gaze. Standing by the table with one hip out-thrust, his eyes glinting with amusement, Hank Brazos drawled:
“Surprised, Tracy? Yeah, I figure you are that. Reckon you was expectin’ another rough diamond like me, huh?”
Whatever she might have expected, Duke Benedict would have had to be a surprise. In the minutes that followed, as they took their places around the table and the servants brought in the first course, the girl surrendered herself to the unabashed study of Brazos’ partner. He was unquestionably the most handsome man she’d ever seen, with a fine-featured, sharply sculptured face and unusually intense gray eyes that seemed to see everything at once. His clothes, looks and polished manners she imagined, suited a wealthy banker more than a gunfighter, but the heavy gun rig
and those eyes would have looked strange on any banker she’d ever met. And there was that particular carriage that only a man who’d come through the crucible of violence and physical courage could wear so naturally.
Once she had recovered from her initial surprise, Tracy played the part of hostess with a gay charm that surprised even her father. Certain of herself and the attraction she exerted over her guests, she was intelligent and witty. She told them about the Golden Hoof, and soon she had them telling her something of themselves, including their war experiences and their quest for Bo Rangle. She seemed to treat both with the same degree of friendliness, but her lingering gazes and sharpest quips were for Benedict. The Texan was stirringly masculine, but obviously Benedict was the one with the education, and she thrilled at the way he off-handedly quoted from the classics from time to time.
Their conversation continued to flow easily when they moved into the big drawing room where Fieldman and Getty and several of the married hands and their wives had arrived for dancing. The one subject studiously avoided was the range war. Kilraine started in on it once, but his daughter silenced him with a warning glance. Time enough for that later, Tracy told herself. If they were asked to ride for the Golden Hoof now, and refused, it would spoil the evening. And this was the kind of special evening she definitely didn’t wish spoiled.
With two of the hands supplying music from fiddle and piano, the dancing got under way. Tracy had learned to dance at finishing school and was able to follow any tune. She soon discovered to her surprise that Brazos was the best dancer in the room. The Texan had a lightness of foot and an inborn grace of movement that was astonishing in a man so big. When they danced together, the others stopped to watch, and all Tracy had to complain about was the way he held her, gingerly, as if afraid she might break.
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