“Leave Barlow be,” Martin warned. “He’s got a right to his say.”
Brazos started to his feet, but Benedict waved him down and faced Martin. “You’re wrong, Hardcastle,” Benedict said softly, his handsome face cold. “This is a time for men to have their say, not loud-mouthed boys.”
The two men faced each other and the atmosphere in the room was charged with tension. Unexpectedly, it was the rugged Hardcastle who backed away.
“I suppose you’re right at that,” he growled, sending a hard look at his brother. “Hush up, Bar.”
“Judas!” Barlow said furiously, then he slumped onto a chair, muttering.
Benedict moved to the desk and stood facing the room. “I’ve been listening to all that’s been said,” he said quietly, “and I think it’s time we tried to take stock of the situation calmly. I can see Ethan’s point in wanting the kid jailed, but as the sheriff said, there are too many men on both spreads with blood on their hands. The way I see it, it’s too late to fret about punishment and retribution. The only logical step is to try and bury the past and start with a clean slate. In other words, gentlemen, make peace.”
It seemed a forlorn hope. But Duke Benedict was no ordinary man. Brazos had often heard the Yank speak with the fluency of a Baptist preacher, but he’d never heard him as forceful, persuasive and reasonable as he was during the hour that followed. He saw Kilraine lose his belligerent stare, saw Martin Hardcastle stroke his jaw thoughtfully and occasionally nod in agreement with a point Benedict made. Finally, with a look of wonder on his rugged face, Brazos saw Martin Hardcastle actually shake hands with Kilraine and agree to try a truce.
Though a simple man by nature, Hank Brazos wasn’t naive. He knew that the armistice between the two cattlemen would die at the first hostile move. But with him and Benedict on hand to keep the Golden Hoof in line, the first wrong move was unlikely to come from that side of the fence, and somehow he believed that Martin Hardcastle would make a wholehearted effort to see that the peace wasn’t broken by the Shotgun crowd. Hardcastle had come within a hair’s breadth of losing his young brother last night and it was plain he’d been shaken.
Maybe it would work. If so, it was Benedict they would have to thank.
The crowd that had been waiting expectantly outside the jailhouse for two hours looked puzzled as the men filed quietly from the doorway to stand on the porch. There was a moment of disbelief when the sheriff announced that a truce had been reached, then a cowboy flung his hat high and yipped in leather-lunged approval.
Brazos chuckled as they pushed their way through the mob. “Reckon after all that high-falutin’ palaverin’ you ought to be able to take a drink, Yank.”
“I was about to suggest that very thing,” Benedict said.
They exchanged a glance that spoke volumes. The underlying note of friction between them over the past few days had been banished by dangers shared and a sense of accomplishment in what had been achieved in Barney Vint’s office. This would be one drink they would truly enjoy.
It was just after nine the following morning when Ethan Kilraine, Tracy and Hank Brazos came onto the front gallery of the Golden Hoof ranch house. A surrey was drawn up before the steps with cowboy Biff Briggs standing beside the horse. Kilraine spoke to his daughter, then went down the steps to talk to Briggs.
Hank Brazos looked unhappy as he gazed down at the girl. Tracy was dressed in a tailored blue travelling outfit. She carried a small bag over her arm and her small boot tapped the gallery floorboards restlessly.
“I still don’t figure it, Tracy,” Brazos said, thumbs hooked in his shell belt and his hat perched precariously on the back of his head. “This is the first time in months that you can look forward to a bit of peace and quiet hereabouts—and you’re takin’ off on some fool shoppin’ expedition down south.”
“Please, Hank, we’ve been through all that.” Tracy’s voice was tight, and her expression tense. In all the good cheer and optimism circulating around headquarters this morning, Ethan’s daughter was a small, lovely island of reserve.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?” Brazos said. “Benedict could easily handle things here for a few days now that we’ve straightened things out with the Shotgun crowd. I’d sure admire to escort you down to Carrington.”
She turned to him and touched his arm. “That’s very sweet, Hank. But Biff will look after me.”
Brazos took off his hat. “Well, I guess this is goodbye for the time bein’ then, Tracy?”
She took his big hand. As she did, Duke Benedict appeared at the far end of the gallery. Suddenly the girl stood on her toes and kissed Brazos on the mouth. “Goodbye, sweet Hank. Take care.”
He stood watching in awe as Tracy’s father handed her up into the surrey. Biff Briggs climbed up beside the girl and untied the lines from the whip socket. Ethan squeezed his daughter’s hand, then she waved to Benedict as he came along the gallery to join the Texan. Suddenly the surrey was wheeling away, bright wheels glinting in the sunlight.
Brazos lifted a hand to his lips, and was still looking a little dazed as the rancher climbed the steps.
“I never will understand that girl,” Kilraine sighed. “But then that’s women, I suppose, eh, boys?”
“Indeed it is, Ethan,” murmured Benedict, leaning against a stanchion. “Mystery, thy name is woman ... Wouldn’t you say so, Johnny Reb?”
“Huh?” said Brazos, coming out of the clouds. “What was that?”
“Never mind.” Benedict smiled and looked at the cattleman. “Well, Ethan, what does it feel like to be at peace with the world?”
“Better than you can imagine, Duke. Are you boys riding the boundaries today?”
“Yes, we plan to move out shortly, Ethan. Why?”
“I was wondering if I might go with you. On your advice I’ve kept away from the border in case somebody decided to take a shot at me, but now that things are quiet, I’d like to have a look around the mountains.”
“I think that would be safe enough,” Benedict said. “What do you say, Reb?”
Brazos’ eyes were following the tiny dot of the surrey. “Huh?”
“You don’t seem to be with us, Hank,” Kilraine said.
“He’s not, but it will pass,” said Benedict. “I think you should come with us, Ethan. The ride will do you good.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Kilraine said, heading for the door. “I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”
Brazos slowly grew aware of the silence and turned to see Benedict studying him pensively. The Texan grinned.
“Great sort of a day, ain’t it, Yank?”
“Passable.”
“She’s a wonderful little girl, that. I’m gonna miss her around the place.”
“I rather gathered that.”
Brazos looked at him intently. “You ain’t sore, are you, Benedict? I mean on account of Tracy and me hittin’ it off so good?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Can’t put my finger on it. But you ... well, you act kinda different when she’s about—like she bothers you some.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“Mebbe. But I notice that you always do what you’re doin’ now when we get to talkin’ about Tracy.”
“What’s that?”
“Fiddle with that lucky coin of yours. What is it anyway, Yank?”
Benedict hadn’t realized that he was turning his double eagle over and over in his fingers. He put the coin away quickly and straightened.
“Just a gold piece,” he said. “Do you want a hand to ready the horses?”
Brazos grinned as he went down the steps. “Not today, Yank. Today I feel so bushy-tailed there just ain’t no way I’m gonna get to burn up all my oats.”
He strode across the yard in the bright sunshine, his heavy shoulders straining against the thin material of his shirt. A piercing whistle brought Bullpup from the chicken run where he’d been exercising the Golden Hoof’s Rhod
e Island Reds. Watching him, Duke Benedict’s gray eyes turned sober.
“Out of your depth, Johnny Reb,” he murmured. Then a proverb from the Old Testament came to his mind: “Woman ... she has cast down many wounded; yea, many strong have been slain by her …”
“A thousand dollars, Martin?” banker Hoke Jodie said soberly. “That’s quite a sum.”
“I need it, Hoke,” said Martin Hardcastle. “I’ve got extra hands on for the roundup. There’s a lot of overhead at the moment.”
“But I thought the Shotgun was doing well—despite, shall we say, the recent unpleasantness?”
“It is—extra well. But that big fire we had out there at the end of summer set us back. Chewed up all my west and south grass and cost me plenty in fencing.”
“Ah, yes, I’d forgotten about the fire.” Hoke Jodie shuffled the papers on his desk. The manager of Sunsmoke’s National Deposit Bank was a portly little man with chubby cheeks and a fat nose. Everything about Hoke Jodie was fat, but when it came to dishing out dollars he always thought lean.
“Perhaps five hundred, Martin?” he suggested.
Looking out of place in the neat, prissy little office in his rough range clothes and his big hat on his knee, the young cattleman scowled.
“If five would do it I’d have asked for five, Hoke. Look, you know I’m good for it. The cattle boats will be up at the end of next week and I’ve got some real good stock this fall. With prices as they are, I expect to clear a couple of thousand at least”
“I’m sure you will, Martin.”
“Then why the hedgin’?”
Jodie placed fat fingers tip to tip on the sterile blotter before him. “I suppose I should be frank, Martin?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“Well, of course your standing is excellent ... always has been. But a banker must be careful, you realize. With all this gunplay and killing ... well, Martin, I have to think of what my position would be if, er, anything unfortunate were to happen to you.”
“Haven’t you heard? Kilraine and me shook hands five days ago.”
“Yes, I’ve heard. And I’m impressed by the manner in which you have both adhered to the truce. But is the peace permanent, Martin? Now, that is the big question.”
“If the truce gets broken, it won’t be by a Shotgun man. Anyhow, even if something did happen to me, Barlow would be there to take over.”
Jodie’s face closed. “I doubt if that would be very satisfactory.”
Anger glinted in Martin Hardcastle’s eyes. “I don’t want to hear any bad words about the kid, Jodie. You gonna give me the money I need or aren’t you?”
Of course Hoke Jodie was going to give him the money. The banker had been only trying to get away with an advance of five hundred instead of a thousand. He certainly wasn’t going to risk losing the custom of his second biggest client over a few dollars.
Somewhat mollified after the business had been completed, Martin Hardcastle put on a grin as he went to the door.
“I’ll square up after the cattle boats come, Hoke.”
The banker wore a pessimistic look. “I just hope your troubles are over with the Golden Hoof—permanently.”
Martin Hardcastle was smiling broadly as he left the bank. He knew that Jodie’s expressed wishes concerning the range war were genuine. Everybody, in fact, seemed to be hoping that the violence was over at long last. And none hoped for it more fervently than the boss of the Shotgun Ranch himself. No matter what the Golden Hoof men might believe, Martin Hardcastle had never wanted the war, and now he meant to go on doing everything in his power to perpetuate the truce.
Chapter Seven
Murder on a Moonlit Night
Benedict headed for Sunsmoke.
He rode at a steady pace through darkness now that the midnight moon had been swallowed by cloud. On either side of the Golden Hoof trail, great pines and gnarled and ancient cedars reared up, moaning and whispering in the wind.
Above the soft clop of the black’s hoofs he could hear the faint gurgle of the distant Whiplock River. He heard the beat of a screech owl’s wings, then turned to see its phantom passage in the gloom.
It was Saturday night in Box Butte County. Five miles ahead, there would be bright lights, music, good whisky and the energetic ruckus kicked up by cowboys in town for the Saturday night blowout. Back at the Golden Hoof there were also bright lights and good music. Tracy Kilraine had arrived back from the south yesterday morning, and her father had decided to give the girl a small welcome home party. Benedict had been invited, along with Brazos and others from the spread. He had dined with the Kilraines and stayed for only a few dances before saddling up and hitting the trail to town.
He supposed Brazos would be annoyed that he’d gone and he was certain that Tracy Kilraine would be furious. Earlier today, when he’d suggested to the girl that he might give the evening a miss, she’d been so upset that he’d been forced to alter his decision.
In the end, it had been the spectacle of Brazos and the girl together that had soured him, so he’d elected to head for town. The sight of Johnny Reb and Tracy Kilraine together gave him an itch he couldn’t scratch and he was hoping that whisky and feminine company at the Wagon Wheel might be a cure.
The trees began to fall away when the trail straightened near the fork of Monument Rock. With the moon peering through the clouds, he could see the towering outline of the rock about a mile ahead. At Monument Rock, the Golden Hoof and Shotgun trails merged and became the main single trail into Sunsmoke from the south. In the early days of the range war, before a toss of his double-headed coin had brought him here with Brazos, Monument Rock had been the scene of a few gun clashes between the spreads. But Monument Rock looked peaceful tonight.
Despite the fact that Benedict sometimes regretted that he and Brazos had decided to let themselves become drawn into the Shotgun-Golden Hoof conflict, he felt considerable pride in the part they’d played in achieving the truce. If they’d killed Barlow Hardcastle in the Whetstones that night, or if they hadn’t had the foresight to bring Martin and Kilraine together for a parley in Sunsmoke, then there was no doubt in his mind that the events of last Saturday night would have whipped the feud to white heat. Lives had been saved over the past week and in the depths of his brain, where his conscience lived, Duke Benedict kept his own debit and credit accounts. Killing a man—any man—was a debit in red. The only way he’d been able to cancel his debts was by offsetting them with the tally of lives saved. They’d killed two rustlers since coming to Box Butte County, but in doing so had secured a week’s peace in which not a single shot had been fired. He felt assured that the ‘books’ were now in the black.
The horse whickered at the sudden sound of a jackrabbit in a trailside thicket, and Benedict patted the animal’s silky neck to calm it. The moon was fully visible now, with the stiff wind pushing the clouds into the south-west. To the right of the trail, tall bluestem grass pastures stirred like ocean waves. Beyond the pastureland the country rose gradually towards the benchlands, and far on the horizon’s rim he could see a faint wink of light. That would be Hardcase, the old ghost town that had once been Box Butte’s biggest community before the copper seams had played out and cattle had come to boost Sunsmoke. He’d ridden through Hardcase two days back with Brazos, and they’d met a wizened-up little man who was Hardcase’s sole remaining citizen. That must be his light, and Duke Benedict let his imagination picture what it must be like to be an old man living alone in a dead town with only the ghosts of the past for company ... sitting alone by your lamp on a Saturday night, listening to the wind in the shutters and watching tumbleweeds roll by ...
He looked ahead. Monument Rock was close now. The moonlight was strengthening. He could make out the sharp-edged shape of the landmark now, and beyond it the yellow ribbon of the town trail.
Two horsemen were coming along the trail now from the direction of Sunsmoke.
It was only simple caution that prompted him to check the bl
ack by a live oak while he studied the distant riders. The ranches might be at peace, but the bloodshed was too recent in memory to warrant a man taking unnecessary risks.
The black stamped a forehoof and jingled its bridle harness, anxious to get going. Benedict spoke to the animal, then drew out his silver cigar case. He was feeling in his pockets for matches when he saw a red flash suddenly leap from the darkness of the rock.
Even before the deep-throated roar of the shot reached his ears, Benedict knew that what he’d seen was a drygulcher’s shot. One of the riders was plucked from the saddle by the bullet.
Cold rage ripped through Benedict as he drove the horse forward. The cigar in his hand fell unlit, to be replaced by a white-handled six-gun. The surviving horseman had jumped down and was firing at Monument Rock. No lead answered, and a split second later a rider burst into sight from the moonlight, skimmed across the trail and went racing off across the bluestem flats.
Benedict hesitated for a moment before jerking the black’s head and cutting into the deep grass. The man lying back there on the trail was beyond all help, of that he was sure. And if he couldn’t help him, then the next best thing was to try and nail the bushwhacker.
Benedict’s low-crowned hat blew off and hung by its throat strap. He’d covered some fifty racing yards before the fleeing killer grew aware of him cutting across the pasture. He was well out of gun range and Benedict made no attempt to open up. The killer lashed his horse with leather and the gray stretched out with the grass brushing against its belly.
Benedict housed his Colt and bent low over the black’s neck. The man ahead was forking good horseflesh. Benedict heeled the black lightly and the blood horse responded. Benedict’s mount wasn’t over-fast, but it had been bred to stay.
It turned out to be staying that counted. For some twenty minutes the killer’s gray continued to increase the gap that separated them. Then they came to the benchlands and the gap slowly narrowed. The gray had used up its first good burst of getaway speed, and now the rider was using the lash unsparingly. Benedict came on inexorably, as the chase took him towards the old ghost town.
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