Benedict and Brazos 3

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “Well, I haven’t quite decided,” Benedict said, standing by the great marble hearth, coffee cup in hand. “So far, I haven’t come up with a great deal that means anything. I’m wondering if you gentlemen know of anything I might have overlooked, something that could possibly give me the lead I’m searching for.”

  Kendrick sighed. “Well, Benedict, I’m afraid I’ve told you all I can. What about you, Juan?”

  “I too can add nothing to what Señor Benedict already knows,” said the ramrod.

  Benedict said, “In the short time I’ve been here, Romero, I’ve seen enough to know that you’re a very proficient ranch foreman, with your finger on the pulse of everything that goes on here at Antigua. Are you sure you haven’t seen or heard something that might offer just one clue as to how these cattle have simply vanished?”

  The Mexican foreman shook his dark head.

  “I have puzzled over the matter until my head aches, Señor. With my men I have combed every inch of the ranchero, but each time it is the same. Nothing.”

  Benedict sighed.

  “Well in that case, I suppose I might as well concentrate my attention on the one slender lead I had when I left Summit.”

  “What is that, Duke?” Brenda asked.

  “This man Salazar, the man who killed Boyd Larsen. It seems reasonable to assume Salazar is connected with the rustlers, and I have learned that the man frequents Candelaria from time to time. I shall most likely visit there tomorrow and take a look around.”

  “Might lead to somethin’,” Kendrick agreed. “It’s a real pest-hole that place.”

  “It’s also a very dangerous place I believe, Duke,” warned Brenda, lovely in a floor-sweeping black gown cut daringly low at the bodice. “It’s a Mexican town and the only Americans you’ll find there are badmen or drunks. You’ll have to be very careful.”

  “Don’t worry, I intend to be, Brenda.”

  It was some time after that the silent Juan Romero excused himself briefly and left the room. On the front gallery, the ramrod paused in the brilliant moonlight, his eyes playing over the headquarters. It was after eleven and all was still. A dim light burned in the stables and from far to the east came the solitary sound of a coyote.

  The ramrod’s face was pale in the silvery light as he went down the wide stone steps and headed for his room which jutted off the north end of the main bunkhouse. As he walked, he glanced up several times at the wooded knoll that lay a mile to the north of the ranch house above the trail to town. He went quietly up the steps, opened the door and disappeared inside.

  Something moved in the black shadows of the main barn fifty yards down the slope. A cigarette end burned red and threw a brief glow over Hank Brazos’ face as he drew deep.

  The blue eyes watched Romero’s room. The light went on, dim behind the curtains. Then the curtains were opened for several seconds, closed, opened again, then closed a final time.

  The window went dark. Brazos shielded his cigarette in his hand and moved back deeper into the shadows as the door opened. Romero stood on the stoop, his head turning from side to side as he looked about him, then went quickly up the moonlit yard and disappeared back into the house.

  Brazos came slowly out of the shadows, shoulders looking enormous in the moonlight. His saddle brown face wore an expression that was almost painful, but which only signified that he was puzzled. After some time he resumed the restless prowling about that had been interrupted at Romero’s appearance. He never could sleep when he had something on his mind. And now he had even more to puzzle him than before.

  Somewhere deep in the great house, a clock tolled the solemn hour of midnight.

  Benedict rose to take his leave. “A most pleasant evening, Nathan.” A handsome smile for Brenda. “And very pleasant company.” He nodded to solemn Romero. “Cheer up, Juan, we’ll get to the bottom of this rustling business yet.”

  “Best of luck in Candelaria,” said Romero.

  “Brenda will show you out, Benedict,” Kendrick said. “I got to rest this leg of mine. Juan, you stay on a minute, will you? I want to talk to you about that sick bull.”

  Benedict was frowning thoughtfully as they crossed the moon-washed gallery to stand at the top of the steps.

  “Romero seems to be in a surly mood tonight, Brenda,” he said, looking back along the hallway. “You any idea why?”

  The girl turned her face away.

  “Juan has a lot on his mind at the moment, that is all. He ... he feels badly about the loss of the cattle.”

  “Yes, I suppose he would at that.” He took her hand. “Well, Brenda, thanks again for a charming evening.”

  He kissed her hand and their eyes met and locked. Benedict began to draw her towards him. She resisted, but not convincingly. He knew he was acting rashly, that tough old Kendrick would likely toss him off Antigua and have him fired from Southwest, if he thought he had designs on his daughter. But he’d never considered the consequences where a woman was concerned before and he wasn’t about to start now.

  Brenda suddenly pulled away at a sound from inside. It was only a door opening, but it broke the spell.

  “Good night, Duke,” she whispered and ran inside.

  Benedict smiled ruefully and felt for a Havana. Maybe it was just as well, he philosophized, heading for the stables. He had enough to occupy him at the moment without the threat of Kendrick coming looking for him with a bullwhip. Even so, it was hard to get her out of his mind, that expensive womanly smell, the intelligent brilliance of lovely brown eyes ...

  The stables were dim. He turned up the night light, then came whirling around in a lightning twist with a six-gun in his fist at the sound of a step.

  Brazos grinned as he emerged from a stall, chewing a straw.

  “Well, one thing, Yank, you ain’t slowin’ up none.”

  Benedict looked annoyed as he put away the gun that had come out as fast, and maybe faster, than Hank Brazos had ever seen a man draw.

  “That’s one way of dying young,” he snapped. “What the devil are you doing, skulking about anyway?”

  Brazos leant his shoulder against a stanchion, big hands hooked in his shell belt.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Is that any reason for giving a man a start like that?”

  “Never meant to. I was just hangin’ about in here so’s nobody’d see me talking to you.”

  Swinging his saddle onto his black, Benedict said, “What’s on your mind?”

  “I ain’t dead sure,” Brazos rubbed his rock of a jaw. “Say, Yank, what do you make of Romero?”

  “Why ... why he’s moody, proud I guess, and from all reports, a good ramrod. Why?”

  “Somethin’ not right about that joker.” He told Benedict what he’d witnessed an hour back. “What do you make of that, Yank?”

  Duke Benedict wasn’t sure. The window business sounded like some sort of a signal. But why would Romero want to be signaling in the middle of the night? And to whom?

  “Maybe it’s just something to do with the sentries,” he decided, swinging up.

  “Could be, but I got a kind of hunch somethin’s cookin’. Better keep sharp.”

  “I always keep sharp. Well, I’ll be seeing you in a few days, Reb. You can reach me in Candelaria if anything breaks.”

  Brazos just grunted, and Benedict rode out, leaving him standing there, still leaning against the post. The hoofs of the horse beat loud in the midnight stillness, as he crossed the yard, passed through the gate, then cantered along the trail.

  He didn’t put too much store by Brazos’ warning, as the Reb got more hunches than a Gila monster got flies. Even so, he did keep sharp.

  And it was only because he was doubly vigilant, that he saw the flicker of movement in the high rocks over the trail as he rode up the first hill. It wasn’t much—just something moving up there that could have been a badger foraging or the breeze stirring a shrub.

  Only it was the wrong kind of terrain for badgers and the
night was as still as a grave.

  Benedict fisted a gun, slewed his horse suddenly off the trail and spurred him up the steep slope that led to the crest. He heard a startled gasp, glimpsed the moving shape of a sombrero, then ducked as moonlight starred on steel.

  Something hummed overhead like a deadly insect. He thought it was a bullet, but there was no crash of a shot, no blossom of gun flame. He shot a glance behind him as he flung from the saddle and saw the throwing knife strike sparks from a stone, kick left and bounce down the steep drop to the trail. A gun in each hand then, he sped up the ridge in a crouch.

  Reaching the nest of rocks where the ambusher had waited, he glimpsed a fast shadow disappearing into a second, isolated cluster of tumbled stones thirty feet away. Benedict squeezed off a shot and was rewarded by a cry of pain, then gun flame blossoming like some vivid desert flower in the gloom as the drygulcher answered back.

  Benedict crouched behind a boulder to reload. He stayed down as bullets smashed against the stones, then he heard a hammer click on an empty. He bobbed up and drove two deadly accurate shots into the rocks.

  He waited.

  The drygulcher was just as patient as he, but not as smart. A full minute passed, and then drifting up from the ranch house came the sound of galloping hooves.

  A muffled curse came from the Mexican’s position. He hadn’t selected the ridge from the point of view of defense, but only for attack. Open land stretched away on all sides of his rock nest—save for the side where Benedict was waiting.

  Suddenly he burst from cover with explosive speed. A gun flared in the charging man’s hand and Benedict threw himself violently aside as lead screamed almost too close. Benedict triggered, the figure lurched and screamed, caught his balance and hurled himself over Benedict’s rock, with a mad-dog snarl.

  Rearing back, Benedict let him have both barrels. The ambusher’s momentum kept him sailing clean overhead, and Benedict recognized the savage face just before he turned over in the air, hit an outcrop of stone hard on the way down, then pitched onto the trail.

  Salazar.

  Eight – Fire in the Blood

  Benedict was in no hurry to move. That had been damned close. Still sprawled on the stones, he reloaded his guns and turned his head as Juan Romero and Hank Brazos came galloping up the rise in the trail with more horsemen straggling out from the headquarters behind.

  Romero reached the dead man first. He swung down, turned him over on his back, and in the brilliant moonlight, the watching Benedict clearly saw his expression of shocked disbelief.

  Brazos went up to meet Benedict as he climbed down to the trail.

  “Goddamit, Yank, I always said you was harder to kill than a rattler.” He said softly, “What happened? This greaser son-of-a-bitch try to jump you?”

  Benedict nodded, watching Romero below. “That’s right. You recognize him of course?”

  Brazos gave the bullet-shattered body a contemptuous glance. “Sure, it’s Salazar. What do you make of it, Yank?”

  Duke Benedict wasn’t sure what he made of it. Then he had a thought. Salazar likely had a horse cached close by. Maybe if he could find the horse and backtrack Salazar, he might learn where he’d come from, which could be the first step towards learning why he’d come.

  “I’ll keep in touch,” he said before heading for his horse. “And you’d better sleep with one eye open until you hear from me.”

  Brazos grunted and walked back down the hill to join Romero as Benedict swung up and rode over the crest of the ridge. He rode directly to a stand of elms two hundred yards west of the ridge-top in a grassy hollow. It was the obvious place to cache a horse, and sure enough there was a saddled mustang there, tethered to a tree.

  He set the animal loose, then followed the sign Salazar had made coming in. He was no tracker, but a child could have followed the clear hoof prints under the brilliant moonlight. Salazar obviously hadn’t been worried about being pursued after finishing his job.

  His thoughts focused on Juan Romero as he followed the sign swiftly through the low hills, with cattle looking stupidly after him. The suspicion was hard in his mind that Romero had been signaling up to the waiting Salazar earlier. And Brazos was plainly doubtful about the man— yet it still didn’t add up. Romero was a clever man with a well-paid and responsible job on Rancho Antigua and years of devoted service to Kendrick behind him. What could he possibly have to do with either Salazar or the mystery that hung over Rancho Antigua? It didn’t even begin to make sense, and he was forced to the conclusion that there were unknown, but innocent reasons behind the ramrod’s animosity towards he and Brazos.

  He estimated he’d ridden some five miles by the time the tracks led him to a timbered draw, where a horse whinnied at his approach. Using spurs, he put the black to a zigzagging gallop and crouched in the saddle. He reached the trees without drawing fire. He swung down, and with Colts drawn, waited.

  “Pancho! Is that you?”

  Benedict’s eyes widened fractionally. A woman’s voice. “Pancho?”

  He moved stealthily towards the voice. He came to a clearing where a saddled pony stood with pricked ears. Moving a little closer, he saw the girl standing with her back to him. He lowered his guns and stepped from the trees.

  “Buenos noches, Señorita.”

  She spun with a startled cry and a spill of raven hair. Her eyes were black pools of animal alertness as she stared at him.

  “Who are you?” Her voice was a whisper.

  “Well, I’m not Salazar.”

  The brief fear was gone from her face to be replaced by something dangerous as she moved slowly towards him.

  “You ... you are the hombre he was to kill?” Her voice rose. “Where is he?”

  Benedict drew an appreciative breath, for although heavy-featured, she was quite beautiful. She was Mexican with long legs, olive skin and enormous, wild eyes. She was bare-footed and a light blouse only just managed to contain the full breasts that were heaving with the force of her emotion. She looked as dangerous as a mountain cat as she glared at him from blazing eyes.

  “Where is he? What have you done to Salazar?”

  “I killed him.”

  She leapt at him with a shriek, nails raking at his face. He side-stepped, housed his guns and seized her wrists as she twisted and came after him. She writhed violently and slammed a knee at his groin. He hipped aside, then bore down hard on her wrists.

  “Relax, little one, relax.”

  “You killed my man!” she screamed. “I keel you.”

  “Your man?” he challenged, conscious of the heavy scent of hot-bodied young woman rising up from her as she writhed against him. “That’s not so, little one. He wasn’t a man—he was just a murderous dog.”

  The girl got a hand free and slashed at his cheek. He grappled with her again and they wrestled about the clearing in tense and hard-breathing silence, watched by the curious horse.

  Then it didn’t seem to be combat any more, but some sort of violent, sinuous dance. The wild girl got a hand free again but didn’t scratch. The hand seized Benedict’s hair at the back, pulling and twisting at it but somehow seeming to draw his head slowly towards her.

  Benedict’s taunting smile gave way to a different, burning look as he stared down into her liquid eyes, at the small, white clenched teeth. He bent her backwards. She didn’t resist. He drew her hard against him. Her lips looked swollen and her throat was corded. He could feel the hardness of her nipples right through his coat.

  “Hombre!” she cried suddenly, and they sank down together on the cushioning grass.

  Dawn came to New Mexico with the night sky dying and coyotes calling from the purple hills. Smoke and river mist lay over the squalid Spanish town set at the base of a rearing bluff. From the southern end of the town a rusty water cart rumbled on its way to the river, stirring up the day’s first dust.

  On a balcony, a woman stood facing the rising sun, combing her hair with a big wooden comb and on her face was a lo
ok of seeing nothing. The ritual of a new day was under way.

  From out of the trees came the two riders, the dew wet grass moving heavily under the hooves. They drew rein and the girl extended a hand.

  “Candelaria.”

  Benedict nodded silently. It was a town like so many other Spanish towns along the border, though looking more squalid and decayed than the general run.

  Like just about every Mexican town in that part of the country, Candelaria was built around a large plaza. The plaza was dominated by a small church with a ridiculously tall spire, and even it looked as if it were rotting into the ash-colored dust. He smiled wryly when the girl spoke again.

  “Candelaria ... that means candle of the road. It is pretty is it not?”

  A pretty name for one hell of an ugly looking place, Benedict thought. But being a gentleman all he said was, “Quite.” Then, “Does Salazar have kinfolk here?”

  “No, like me, he was alone.”

  “Friends?”

  The girl gave him a guarded look. “Si.”

  Benedict nodded, took out his cigar case and lit the day’s first Havana and studied the girl.

  Her name was Chata Escobar and she lived in Candelaria. It was when she’d revealed this, that he’d decided to accompany her home, as he’d intended visiting the town that day in any case. Chata had had no objections, the contrary in fact. She said she had a little cottage all her own and he was welcome to stay there for just as long as he liked.

  Benedict had no delusions about hot-blooded Chata, nor did he mistrust her. If there was one subject on which the gambling man considered himself an expert, it was women. He felt he understood Chata. The girl was an orphan in a hard case town. He had killed Salazar, he’d made love to her, now he was her protector. It was jungle law, but this was a primitive country.

  “What are you thinking?” the girl said, catching his gaze.

  Benedict ashed his cigar with a flick of the thumb. “Why, I was thinking that you might tell me why Salazar tried to kill me.”