Benedict and Brazos 3

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “And no doubt you’re just as good a hand with your fists and a gun.” Scorn rode the girl’s mouth. “I know your kind only too well, Mr. Brazos, brawling, shiftless ...”

  The girl broke off suddenly at the sound of drumming hooves. The three turned to see a rider scorching in across the graze from the south-east.

  “That’s Garcia,” said Romero. “I sent him out to check the herds on the east graze. Something’s wrong!”

  Brazos and the ramrod vaulted the corral fence and hurried across to the yard gate together as the lathered rider came drumming up the slope.

  “Juan! Juan!” the man was shouting. “They have struck again! This time the whole herd!”

  It took them a minute or more to get the full story from the excited vaquero. He had ridden out to inspect the east herd as instructed, only to find the graze land empty. Thinking the cattle must have broken down the fences, he’d ridden the fence until he’d found where the wires had been cut. He’d followed the tracks for several miles to the Slave River at Sweetwater Basin, found nothing and had then ridden back to the house.

  Nathan Kendrick had joined the group around the gate by the time the vaquero was through. The cattle king’s face was choleric. “Three hundred head of my best beeves!” he raged. “Goddam it all, Romero, what are you waitin’ for? Get every man mounted up and get out there. And don’t come back without them this time, hear?”

  Romero shouted orders, sending men flying off in every direction. Brazos turned to trot towards the porch corrals, but Romero called after him.

  “Where are you going, Brazos?”

  Brazos stopped. “Why, to get my hoss, of course.”

  “You will remain here at the ranch house,” Romero snapped. “We do not need you.”

  Brazos came tramping back and appealed to Kendrick. “Look, Mr. Kendrick, I don’t know what your ramrod’s got agin’ me, but I can tell you I take some pride in my sign-readin’. I reckon I could be of plenty help huntin’ down them beeves.”

  Juan Romero stopped twenty feet away, turned. “I don’t want him with me, Mr. Kendrick,” he said. “You know why.”

  “Romero’s got an idea you might be tangled up with the rustlers,” Kendrick explained to Brazos without hesitation. Then he shook his head. “But I don’t figure it that way.” He paused for a moment longer, then said, “You sure you’re a good sign-reader?”

  “Tolerable.” Then with a cut at Romero. “Leastways I reckon I’ll tell you where your cattle went, which is more than’s happened the last few times by the way I hear it told.”

  “All right,” Kendrick decided, “go saddle up.”

  Brazos got his appaloosa and a minute later rode out with Romero at the head of a dozen men. Conscious of the ramrod’s eyes upon him, Brazos glanced at him once and if ever he’d seen hate in a man’s face, he saw it then. He was puzzled, but didn’t dwell on the matter long. He was trying to figure out just what was going on, for he remembered that Benedict had told him that the previously stolen herds from Rancho Antigua had also vanished somewhere around Sweetwater Basin.

  It was going to be mighty interesting to take a good close look at that basin.

  “Who did you say wants to see me?” Nathan Kendrick barked.

  “Please, father,” Brenda admonished. “I’m well aware you have a lot on your mind at the moment, but surely that’s no reason to lose your manners.”

  Nathan Kendrick stood reproved. Rising from his desk where he’d been going through the dreary routine of calculating what the latest rustling was likely to cost him in hard dollars and cents, he went to his daughter and put his arm around her slim shoulders.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Really.”

  Her smile was forgiving. “I understand, father.”

  He moved away, slapping at his leg, broken in a riding accident a month ago.

  “It’s just that I feel so damned useless, Brenda, on account of this. Only for my goddam leg, I could be out with Romero and the boys lookin’ for them rustlers.” He turned and looked at her grimly. “You know somethin’, honey?”

  “What, father?”

  “I got me a powerful hunch this is goin’ to be just like before and the times before that as far as my beeves are concerned. I reckon they’re goin’ to come ridin’ back in wore out and empty-handed to tell me they vanished just like the rest did.”

  “It’s not like you to be discouraged, father.”

  Kendrick sighed. “Mebbe I’m just gettin’ old, honey ... too old.” He frowned in concentration. “Now who was it you said was waitin’ to see me?”

  “Mr. Benedict from Southwest Insurance.”

  “Benedict? That was the feller Henry Gordon wrote me about, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, father.” The girl was smiling and Nathan Kendrick wondered why. “Shall I show him in, father?”

  “Ah, you might as well. Don’t feel much like gabbin’ to dry-as-dust insurance pilgrims today, but then again, maybe his arrival’s timely at that, on account if my hunch about them beeves is right, I’ll be filin’ claim on his company again, right soon.” He waved a weary hand. “Bring him in, Brenda.”

  Brenda went out. She paused in the hallway to primp at her hair in the mirror, then hurried through to the foyer where the visitor was waiting.

  “Ah, Miss Kendrick, is your father ready to see me now?”

  Brenda Kendrick felt a stab of annoyance at the way his very voice made her somehow tingle. A young woman as lovely as Brenda in a man’s country received more than her share of flattery and attention from every eligible male she encountered, and considered that she’d long since ceased to be impressed by the male species in general, if not in particular. It was a long time, perhaps too long, since a man had excited her on sight, yet that was undoubtedly what had happened to her on the Antigua today. An ordinary morning with more than its ordinary share of problems, and then suddenly this tall, incredibly good-looking man was standing on the stoop with his hat in his hands and smiling at her in a way she hadn’t been smiled at in too long, and a voice that established beyond doubt that he was a gentleman.

  “Yes,” she replied, trying to be brisk and efficient and sensing she sounded neither. “Will you come this way, please.”

  Kendrick was standing staring broodingly out the window as they entered the study. He turned when Brenda spoke. “Father, this is Mr. Benedict from Southwest. Mr. Benedict, my father.”

  Kendrick’s craggy brows went up in surprise as he shook hands with his visitor. This dapper fellow in the broadcloth suit and the twin, pearl-handled six-guns was hardly what he’d expected stuffy Henry Gordon to send him.

  “I’ll take your hat, Mr. Benedict,” Brenda offered, and as Benedict turned to the girl with a smile, Nathan Kendrick saw the way she looked at him and understood her smile earlier. Brenda was attracted by the man; he knew her too well not to know the signs. And seeing his daughter in the company of this dashing young man, the cattle baron was suddenly realizing that Brenda didn’t get to meet men of this type often enough. He tried to think how long it had been since he’d seen her with any man who could even remotely be termed a suitable prospect for her hand and found he couldn’t. Seemed Brenda never even got to town any more, and all there was out here on the Antigua was Mexes, and in Nathan Kendrick’s books, they just didn’t count.

  “I’ll make some coffee, father,” Brenda said, and taking Benedict’s hat, went out with a smile.

  “A very charming girl your daughter, if I may say so, Mr. Kendrick,” Benedict said.

  “Reckon she is at that.”

  Benedict took his silver cigar case from his pocket. “A Havana?”

  Nathan Kendrick dearly loved a good cigar. He selected one and Benedict lit it for him, then produced his billfold and extracted his Southwest papers.

  “My credentials, Mr. Kendrick.”

  Kendrick examined the papers briefly, grunted, then passed them back with a frown.

  “Anything wrong, Mr. Kendrick?”


  “Not with your papers, Benedict. But seein’ ’em just reminded me of the day Larsen came into this very room and showed me his papers just like that.” He shook his big head. “He was a kinda solemn feller and he drove me loco with all his questions, but I liked him. Hard to believe he was done in.”

  “I didn’t know him personally, but I believe he was a good man and didn’t deserve to get done that way.”

  “You Southwest fellers figure him gettin’ killed had somethin’ to do with what he was workin’ on down here?”

  “That’s how it looks.”

  “Hmm,” Kendrick said, looking him up and down again. “Mebbe now I can understand why they sent a feller like you.”

  “How is that, Mr. Kendrick?”

  “Well, you dress up kinda flash and you got yourself a fancy Eastern accent there, Benedict, but I got me a feelin’ you don’t pack them irons of yours just for ornament.” His brows lifted. “You a gunfighter?”

  “No,” Benedict replied truthfully. “Let’s just say I’m a man who doesn’t have much stomach for rustling or murder and let it go at that, shall we?”

  “Okay by me. Well, Benedict, did my daughter tell you what happened here last night?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “We got hit again.”

  “Rustled?”

  “Three hundred head of primes. My ramrod and a passel of my boys are out huntin’ ’em right this minute, but I got me a sinkin’ feelin’ in the pit of my stomach they ain’t goin’ to find ’em.”

  Benedict whistled softly through his teeth. “Three hundred head! It would seem my arrival is rather timely, Mr. Kendrick.”

  “Dirty, stinkin’ thieves,” Kendrick said bitterly, limping to his desk and flinging himself into his big chair. “There was a time we wouldn’t lose one cow in a whole year, now every goddam time I turn around it seems there’s a herd missin’.”

  Benedict strolled across the room and dashed his cigar out the open window. He stood there with his brows creased in thought for a moment, then turned to the desk.

  “Mr. Kendrick, I rode out to see you this morning to talk over the claims you have made against my company and also to discuss the matter of Boyd Larsen’s death. But in view of what you have just told me, I think we should postpone that discussion and concentrate on this latest rustling incident.”

  “Suits me,” said Kendrick.

  Benedict turned from the windows where he’d been watching vaqueros at work at the corrals.

  “Mr. Kendrick, I’d like to inspect the scene of the rustling, and also this Sweetwater Basin. Have you somebody who could show me the way out?”

  At that moment light steps sounded in the hallway, the clink of crockery. Benedict went to the door, opened it, and Brenda came in carrying a tray and a silver coffee service. She smiled at Benedict again as she placed the tray on a big oaken table.

  “Thanks, honey,” said Kendrick. “Say, are any of the house boys still around?”

  “Why no, father, you sent them all out with Juan. Why?”

  “Well, Mr. Benedict wanted to ride out to the basin and take a look around, but it looks as if he’ll have to wait until some of the boys come in from the range. That is, unless you’re a good trailsman, Mr. Benedict? If you are, I could give you directions how to ...”

  “I think I’d prefer somebody to show me around, Mr. Kendrick.”

  “I could show you the way, Mr. Benedict.”

  Both men looked at the girl. Kendrick suddenly grinned. “Why hell, of course she could, Benedict. Nobody knows the Antigua better than Brenda. And besides, it’ll do you good, honey. You’ve been around the house too much lately and lookin’ kinda peaked I’ve noticed.”

  If Kendrick expected to get any argument about his choice of guide from Benedict, he was as wrong as he could be. “Why, that’s more than kind of you, Miss Brenda. I hope it’s not an inconvenience to you.”

  “Not at all,” the girl assured him, and her father was astonished to see the hint of color in her cheeks as she headed for the door. “I’ll saddle my horse and meet you out front in five minutes.”

  “Takes about an hour to get out to the basin from here,” Kendrick explained. He limped across to the big front window and beckoned Benedict across. He pointed southeast to where a jagged ridge of mountains chopped into the brassy New Mexico sky. “Them ridges are the Bucksaws. They border the basin on the south side. The basin itself is about eight miles long, best grazin’ land on the Antigua. The Slave River runs right through the basin—you know, the same river that winds around Arroyo?”

  Benedict knew that particular stretch of river quite well, having spent half the previous moonlight night on its lush green banks at Arroyo.

  “Do you have any theories on how your cattle might have disappeared, Mr. Kendrick?”

  “Make that Nathan. No, Benedict, it’s a mystery to me. Of course when any stock disappears in these parts, you immediately think about the badlands that lie south of the Bucksaws and stretch all the way across the Mexican border. But I’ve had Romero and the boys go over that country a dozen times and they ain’t found hide nor hair of a track.”

  “I was talking to Sheriff Bindale and others in town yesterday, Nathan. The general idea seems to be that the cattle you’ve lost just seem to have been, well, swallowed up. Surely this is not the case?”

  Nathan Kendrick scowled mightily. “I know it sounds crazy, even to me, but that’s just about the size of it.” He brightened a little. “Anyway, you seem a tolerably smart young feller. Maybe you can come up with somethin’.”

  “Let’s hope so. You say all your men went out with your ramrod?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You employ expert sign-readers of course?”

  “Well, I figured they were expert until I started losin’ beeves. But we got a new hand just signed on ridin’ with Romero today. Says he’s good. Mebbe he’ll bring ’em some luck.”

  Benedict nodded to himself. That’s what he’d been fishing to find out. If Brazos was out there, then the best sign-reader he’d ever struck was hunting Antigua’s stolen stock.

  There was a short silence, then Kendrick said abruptly, “Are you married, Benedict?”

  Benedict looked at the older man in surprise. “Married? Why ... why no, I’m not. But why do you ask?”

  “Oh I guess I’m just a curious old cuss by nature,” Kendrick said easily. “Always like to find out as much about folks I come into contact with as I can.” He stared out the window again. “Well, there’s Brenda comin’ up with her paint. You’d better get out there pronto as she ain’t exactly a patient gal.” He chuckled. “Kinda like me in that way, I guess.”

  Benedict crossed the room, paused with his hand on the porcelain knob. “What time do you want her home, Nathan?”

  “Well, I don’t like her out on the range late. Anyway, there’s cloud buildin’ up from the south. Looks like there won’t be no moon tonight so I reckon you’ll all be comin’ in at dark. So that’ll do.” He touched his hand to his forehead. “Best of luck, Benedict.”

  Benedict nodded and went out. He picked up his hat from the hallstand and walked through to the front yard. Brenda was sitting her little paint pony near the hitch rack where his black horse was tied. From the big window Kendrick watched them mount up. The two exchanged smiles, then rode off side by side out through the big gate and headed across the rangeland.

  The cattle king stroked his bull jaw and nodded thoughtfully to himself, watching them go. In one way he hoped Benedict might get to the bottom of things quickly, but on the other hand it mightn’t be such a bad thing if the fellow was obliged to hang around for a spell.

  He hadn’t seen his daughter in such agreeable spirits in longer than he cared to remember.

  Six – The Vanishing Herd

  Romero threw the dregs of his coffee on the fire.

  “All right, let us get on with it.”

  The horsemen were weary after six solid hours in the saddle, but ther
e was no argument. To the simple men of Rancho Antigua, Nathan Kendrick was God and Juan Romero was His deputy.

  The towering ramparts of the Bucksaws were throwing huge shadows across Slave River and Sweetwater Basin as the riders swung up. A vaquero emptied the coffee pot over the little fire they’d built on the river bluffs, then stamped out the ashes. Clouds were banking up over the badlands and creeping slowly across the sky towards the afternoon sun.

  “I theenk I have blisters on my backside for a month,” lamented Pancho Pino who was strictly a homestead vaquero.

  “You have blisters?” said self-pitying Manuelita Orlando, another bunkhouse cowboy. “By the Blessed Virgin of Guadeloupe, I have blisters on my blisters.”

  “One theeng is good,” Pino comforted them both as the cavalcade got under way. “See how the clouds come. A leetle while back I hear Señor Brazos remark that we will be unable to follow the sign tonight.”

  “Does that mean that we go back to the ranchero?”

  “Perhaps.” Pino frowned back over his shoulder. “Ay, look, he does not come weeth us.”

  The two men reined in and looked back. Hank Brazos, who hadn’t taken the ten-minute break for coffee, was still walking up and down examining the prints of the rustled cattle, where they’d come out of the river, for about the twentieth time.

  Some distance ahead, Juan Romero swore as he turned and saw the two men halted, and only then spotted Brazos farther back.

  “Hold hard!” he shouted to his riders, then cantering back a short distance, yelled: “Hey, cowboy!”

  Brazos looked up but made no move to mount up. His horse stood under a tree and Bullpup had gone to sleep beneath him.

  Romero swore in Spanish and heeled back down to the river, jerking his horse to a tail-sitting stop.

  “What do you think you are doing, hombre?”

  “Readin’ sign.”

  “Then might I point out to you that the sign leads east as any man with half an eye could see.”

  “Oh, ain’t no doubt at all about that,” Brazos agreed with a puzzled frown that had not been absent from his face for the past twenty minutes. “But there’s somethin’ wrong with this here sign, Romero.”