“Perhaps there is some feasible explanation of this ... this flagrant breach of office decorum,” Gordon said with as much dignity as he could muster, “but if there is, I don’t wish to hear it. Miss Mathews and Miss Hunter, I shall deal with you later. Now, if you will both be so good as to take your leave.”
“Mr. Gordon shore knows some big words, Yank,” Brazos observed. His brow creased. “What’s he sayin’?”
“I am saying,” Gordon snapped out, “that you men are to leave my office immediately.”
“But, sir ...” Benedict started to protest, but Gordon cut him off.
“Immediately I say sir, I have neither time nor patience to argue.”
“But, Mr. Gordon,” Miss Hunter got in, “Mr. Benedict and Mr. Brazos have come to see you about Mr. Larsen.”
Gordon stared.
“Is this true?”
“Shore is,” Brazos confirmed. “We seen your man get kilt in Sabinosa, mister.”
“It was us who carried Larsen’s body to the funeral parlor, Mr. Gordon,” Benedict told him. “Now, do we talk?”
“We most certainly do,” Henry Gordon replied, and the sober change in the man was remarkable as he stepped firmly to his door and swung it open. “After you, gentlemen. And Miss Mathews, I am not to be disturbed.”
It took Duke Benedict less than ten minutes to tell the story. He left nothing out, added nothing. Seated behind his big, highly polished desk, Gordon listened attentively to every word.
When Benedict was through, he shook his head sadly from side to side.
“So it was a deliberate killing you believe, Mr. Benedict? Not just a brawl?”
“Not from where I was standing,” Benedict said, and looked at Brazos.
“The Mex was out to nail Larsen,” Brazos confirmed. “Your man didn’t stand a prayer.”
Gordon nodded sadly. “I knew it had to be something like that. Boyd Larsen was one of the Southwest’s best men. He would never get involved in a barroom brawl.”
“I took the liberty of reading this in Sabinosa, Mr. Gordon,” Benedict said, producing Larsen’s diary. He opened the book and passed it across. “Would you read that last entry please?”
Gordon scanned the handwritten lines and gasped.
“Bo Rangle!”
“Bo Rangle,” Benedict confirmed, leaning forward. “And that’s what brings us here, Mr. Gordon. We’re interested in that desperado.”
“Mighty interested,” Brazos grunted.
Gordon met Benedict’s eyes that had suddenly grown cold. He glanced across at Hank Brazos and the big man’s face had set in hard lines and planes. Gordon nodded to himself. He understood. A renegade murderer such as Bo Rangle would have made a thousand bitter foes. These two formidable-looking men could well be amongst the marauder’s most dangerous enemies.
Things were beginning to add up for Gordon now. He’d sensed that men like these wouldn’t have made the long ride from Sabinosa just to express their sympathy for Larsen.
He said, “I take it then, gentlemen, that you have come to see me in the hope of gleaning further information on Rangle?”
“Possibly, Mr. Gordon,” Benedict said. “Now, what can you tell us?”
“Nothing.”
Their faces fell.
“Nothin’?” Brazos echoed.
Gordon shook his head. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I don’t know a thing about Bo Rangle or his movements.” He tapped the diary with his finger. “This, in fact, is the first time I’ve heard the man’s name mentioned in months, I suppose.”
Benedict and Brazos exchanged a glum glance. Brazos said, “Well, what about tellin’ us what Larsen was up to down at Rancho Antigua, Gordon? Mebbe from that we can add somethin’ up?”
“Well, there’s nothing secret and nothing particularly unusual about the investigation,” Gordon supplied. “Rancho Antigua is a client of ours. They’ve been losing cattle. Mr. Nathan Kendrick filed an insurance claim and it was only a formality for us to send Larsen down there to investigate and verify the cattle’s disappearance before payment was made.”
“Is that all there is to it?” said Benedict.
“Well, not exactly. Larsen reported back that though there seemed little doubt that the cattle were in fact missing, nobody seemed to be able to find out how or where they’d gone. Larsen was working on this aspect of the matter when I received his last and final report.”
A heavy silence enveloped the room. Over the transom, drifted the busy sounds of industry; the employees of Southwest Insurance were belatedly getting on with the morning’s work.
Finally Brazos moved to a window and looked out over the weathered walls and rooftops of Summit. “Well, what do you aim to do about Larsen, Gordon?”
Henry Gordon slumped a little in his chair. “I haven’t decided, to be perfectly honest. Larsen was one of our best and toughest field men. We’re very short of men of that stamp right at the moment, and the few we do have are all out investigating various claims. I’m very much afraid I shall have to wait until Johnston or Kilraine become available to send them down to Rancho Antigua to resume the investigation. It galls me to have to delay such a matter, for it’s quite obvious to me that Larsen had discovered something and was most probably killed because of it.”
“That is how it seems to add up,” Benedict said. He paused to take out a silver cigar case and select a Havana. He was very thoughtful as he said, “Tell me, Mr. Gordon, what are the qualifications needed to become a field man for Southwest Insurance?”
“Well, a man must be physically fit, intelligent, reliable, dedicated ...” Gordon looked at Benedict closely. “But why do you ask, Mr. Benedict?”
Benedict smiled around his cigar. “Why, that description Mr. Gordon just gave sounds almost like a rundown on us, wouldn’t you say, Reb?”
Brazos blinked, not understanding.
Neither did Henry Gordon until Benedict explained, “Mr. Gordon, we want to come to grips with Bo Rangle, and you want Boyd Larsen’s death investigated. Why don’t we combine forces?”
“Combine forces? I don’t understand.”
“Send us South as your new representative, sir.”
Negatives rose up in Henry Gordon but died before reaching his lips. Thoughtfully he looked from one man to the other. Despite looks, charm and education, Duke Benedict was quite obviously not a Southwest man—and his friend was quite impossible. But could he afford to be so particular? Whatever their shortcomings, he couldn’t deny they were a formidable looking pair ... perhaps they were exactly the type of investigators, who should be sent to continue the investigation of Rancho Antigua, more particularly if infamous Bo Rangle were somehow involved.
There were those who said that Henry Gordon was a stuffed-shirt, a slave to red tape, fussy, pedantic and pernickety in business matters, yet despite these things which were, in the main, true, he was also capable of swift decision when the occasion demanded. He made such a decision then, after just half a minute of deliberation.
“All right ... all right, Mr. Benedict sir, by heaven I do think you might be just the man I need. But I must warn you of the dangers involved. You won’t be handsomely paid and after what happened to Larsen, there is no guarantee that ...”
“You can skip all that, Mr. Gordon,” Benedict cut him off. “If it comes right down to cases I guess I’d rather live with danger than without it. Now let’s get down to business, shall we?”
They did just that, and by the time Miss Mathews came in thirty minutes later, Duke Benedict was a properly authorized and informed Insurance Inspector, equipped with the necessary papers and identification to enable him to act on behalf of Southwest Insurance in a matter of the investigation, firstly of the Rancho Antigua’s rustled beeves and secondly of the killing of field man Boyd Larsen.
“Yes, Miss Mathews, what is it?” Gordon said, as Benedict and Brazos made ready to leave.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr. Gordon,” the woman said, “but Miss Larsen is here.�
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Gordon’s face fell. Brazos asked, “Miss Larsen? She kin to Boyd Larsen?”
“His sister,” Gordon informed. “A lovely young woman, quite attached to her brother. Doubtless she has come for details of his death.” He spread his hands. “It will really be very difficult for me to talk to her. These sorts of things sound very impersonal when all you can give are the bare, hard facts.”
“Mebbe we could talk to her,” said Brazos.
They looked at him.
“Well,” he shrugged, “we seen it happen. Mebbe it would be easier on the little lady if we could tell her how it happened, how he died quick and got took care of proper, afterwards.”
“Why, that’s a very kind offer, Mr. Brazos,” Gordon said, “and I do believe it would help to ...”
“Now just a minute,” Benedict broke in. “Mr. Gordon is in a better position to do it, besides we’ve got to be moving.”
“Won’t take long,” Brazos argued. “And I reckon it’d mean a lot to the little gal to talk to someone who was there, Yank.”
“Well, I suppose it would be a Christian kindness,” Benedict decided. “You talk to the girl and I’ll go see to the horses and meet you out front in ten minutes.”
“Right,” Brazos grunted. He slouched out, kicked Bullpup awake, then followed Miss Mathews through to the waiting room to meet Miss Helen Larsen.
Three – Brazos Comes Calling
Brazos leant down and fed Bullpup a cream cake. It vanished without a trace and the hound licked his chops with a startlingly pink tongue, that had the texture of sandpaper. When Brazos looked up again, the girl was smiling for the first time.
“You like dogs, Miss Larsen?”
“Yes I do ... particularly yours Mr. Brazos. He has ... well, character.”
“Nobody’s ever said that about him afore, but I guess you’re right at that. Another cup of coffee?”
“No, thank you. But I really do feel much better now.”
The big man nodded, and poured himself another cup of black. They were seated by the window of the Silver Spoon Eatery almost opposite the offices of Southwest Insurance. It had been Brazos’ idea to leave the office which had to have painful associations for the girl, and the idea seemed to have been successful. The girl had been tearful at the office when he’d told her about Sabinosa, but coffee and a change of scene seemed to have lifted her spirits. She was a brave girl in Brazos’ book, pretty too, with shoulder-length blonde hair and the blue eyes and fine complexion of her Scandinavian stock.
“Mr. Brazos?”
“Yes, missy?”
“This man who killed my brother—Salazar you said his name was? What will happen to him now? Will he just ... well, get away with it?”
“I doubt it, missy. You see, me and my partner are takin’ up down south, where your brother left off. Gordon’s hired us to follow up your brother’s work on Rancho Antigua and see if we can’t run that Mex to ground too. As a matter of fact, me and my partner are headin’ south when we leave here. Seems that’s where this Salazar jasper hails from.”
The girl showed her surprise. “You an insurance investigator? I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Brazos, but you don’t—”
“Don’t seem to quite fit?” he grinned. “No, I reckon that’s true enough, but Benedict talked Gordon into puttin’ us on, and mebbe between us we can handle her.”
Helen Larsen studied the big man as he spoke. Her first impression of Hank Brazos had been that of a big, shambling, almost sleepy-looking man in dusty range garb, most likely an out-of-work cowboy or simple drifter. But the more she studied him the more she sensed that there was a deal more to him than that. There was a tremendous suggestion of latent power under his easy-going way, a lazy alertness in his brilliant blue eyes. She saw the way the heavy slabs of chest and shoulder muscle rippled under the purple shirt as he built himself a cigarette and noticed, too, the small white scar on his bronzed face that spoke of violence and danger.
The overall impression was that of a man who could do almost anything he set out to do, and that realization prompted her to say,
“Mr. Brazos, do you think you could do something for me?”
“Anything you say, missy.”
She leant forward, blue eyes intense. “Please try and bring Boyd’s killer to justice. Perhaps it won’t help—but will you try, if it’s at all possible?”
Hank Brazos’ sense of chivalry was touched. “Miss Larsen, you’ve got my word.”
She touched his hand in gratitude, then looked up sharply as a tall, dark-haired man strode into the eatery and crossed to their table.
Brazos grinned and got to his feet. “Oh, sorry, Yank, clean forgot all about you. Er, this here is Miss Helen Larsen.”
The girl acknowledged the introduction, but seemed totally immune to Benedict’s polished charm, and actually took Brazos’ arm as they quit the eatery and headed across to the hitch rack where the horses were waiting. Helen Larsen was a lovely young woman, Benedict decided, but obviously had no taste at all.
“Adios, Miss Helen,” Brazos said with a salute as they mounted up. “You’ll be hearin’ from me.”
“What was all that about?” Benedict demanded as they rode out.
Brazos turned in the saddle and waved to the slim, erect figure on the insurance office porch as they swung out of the main street.
“Well?” Benedict pressed.
Brazos didn’t answer as they crossed the Concho River Bridge and struck south across the Apache Plains. This was just something between he and Boyd Larsen’s sister. Whichever way things went down in Spanish Valley, he was going to see Salazar the killer either dead or in chains. He’d given his word.
Lash Fallon said, “Shut up that whistlin’, Mex. You reckon I want to listen to that all day?”
Leaning lazily against the two-rail fence on a hilltop beside the main trail into Rancho Antigua where the two hands were standing morning lookout, little Manuelita Orlando shrugged with the eloquence of his race.
“It helps to pass the time.”
“Fifty goddam hands on the goddam place, and I got to draw you,” mouthed Fallon. A tall, high-shouldered man with a hawk nose and bright red hair, Lash Fallon was foul-tempered by nature and his mood this morning even more acid than usual. On Rancho Antigua, standing lookout was rated just a cut above mucking out stables, and it wasn’t improved by sharing the chore with a greaser. Fallon didn’t like Mexicans. He particularly didn’t like whistling Mexicans.
“Tobacco?” Orlando suggested, proffering his pouch in an attempt to coax Fallon out of his sour mood.
“Go to hell,” Fallon snapped back and moved some distance away along the fence, pointedly taking out his own packet of Bull Durham.
Orlando shrugged indifferently, built a corn shuck cigarette, lit it and let his eyes play over the familiar green vastness of Rancho Antigua.
It was springtime in Spanish Valley and the whole land seemed to blossom in the morning sunlight. There was April grass underfoot, with April sunlight dappling through aspens and cottonwoods onto the sleek red backs of cattle strung out along the gentle slopes of the hills, and crickets and cicadas vied for supremacy with the lowing of cows with new calves.
Just visible to the south, the Rancho Antigua’s headquarters stood on a broad flat hilltop, with the undulating rangeland spread all around. The main homestead, a massive structure, which had been built by the former Mexican owner of the Antigua, faced the east with a five-acre orchard directly behind it. Apart from the house itself which boasted twenty rooms, there was a raft of other buildings, bunkhouses, barns, stables, harness shacks, corn sheds, cook house, corrals. If a stranger were to ride up without knowledge of where he was, one glance at the Antigua headquarters would be all he’d need to know he had to be on one of the most prosperous spreads in southeastern New Mexico.
Manuelita Orlando never got tired of the scenery from up here. Orlando’s father had worked the Antigua before him, and his father before him. The litt
le Mex was illiterate, owned no land of his own and never would own any, yet this was his home as much as it was the Kendricks’. Orlando knew every acre of the Antigua, from the towering ramparts of the Bucksaws to the south, to the main ranch gate some six miles north of the hill, and only a couple of miles south of Arroyo. He knew it and loved it and couldn’t understand why Fallon seemed disgusted and offended by everything that met his eyes this fine sunny morning.
He didn’t attempt to find out however, for Fallon’s violent nature was well known on Antigua, particularly to the Mexican hands on the ranch.
It was almost time for the noon meal, the little vaquero decided, looking up at the sun as he turned his back on the headquarters and looked the other way along the main trail leading out. Maybe after meat and coffee, Fallon would be in a better mood and feel like talking. Talking helped to pass the time on sentry guard.
The Mexican realized he’d been watching the progress of the solitary rider coming along the trail for some time before it suddenly dawned on him that he wasn’t a Rancho Antigua man.
There was no hurry or alarm about Orlando as he strolled up the fence to tell Fallon. A man coming in broad daylight was hardly suspicious.
Lash Fallon had other ideas about that. “The boss never said he was expectin’ nobody today,” he growled, narrowed eyes focused on the approaching horseman. “C’mon, we’ll turn him ’round.”
Orlando felt a twinge of apprehension as he forked his cayuse with the careless grace of the born horseman and followed Fallon’s broad back down the slope. He’d seldom seen Fallon in such a violent mood. He could smell trouble.
Hank Brazos caught a whiff of it too, as the two riders came swiftly down through the lush hillside grass towards the trail. After he and Benedict had decided he should try and get himself a job on the big ranchero in nearby Arroyo that morning, they’d asked around some and had learned that the Antigua was leery of strangers, following the recent heavy rustling raids. He didn’t want to get on the wrong side before he got started, so he reined in under a trailside cottonwood, kept his hands well away from his gun and put on an amiable grin as the cowboy and the vaquero cut the trail fifty yards ahead, then rode towards him.
Benedict and Brazos 3 Page 3
