Benedict and Brazos 3

by E. Jefferson Clay

  He rode out of Candelaria and took the trail for Rancho Antigua. And only when the little town was far behind did he turn in his saddle, and touching fingers to hat brim, murmured softly,

  “Adios, Chata.”

  Hank Brazos stood in the blazing sun under the towering cliffs on the narrow rocky bank on the southern side of Slave River whistling through his teeth.

  Bullpup didn’t appear.

  The big man swore to himself and started clambering over the rocks in the direction the dog had gone. Since swimming the appaloosa across to the cliff side of the river, Brazos had spent some twenty minutes fruitlessly searching for something, anything, that could have offered an exit for stolen cattle from Sweetwater Basin. So far all he’d found were rocks and more rocks, and now he seemed to have lost an ugly dog.

  “Bullpup!” he shouted, and the echoes bounced off the beetling cliffs above. “Here!”

  He waited. The dog didn’t appear.

  Growing a little concerned now, Brazos pushed on another fifty yards until suddenly the familiar ringing trail cry of the dog sounded muffled from somewhere ahead. Brazos grinned and quickened his pace. By the sound of it, Bullpup had found something.

  Moments later the dog ran into sight from behind a towering shelf of rock some fifty yards long that was split off from the cliff face as if by a giant knife. Between the shelf and the cliff, was a passage some ten feet wide. Thick in the air here was the unmistakable smell of cattle. The earth was torn by many hooves, and squarely behind the shelf, totally concealed from sight from the far bank, was a deep cleft in the wall of the cliffs.

  “Why you flea-bitten, kitchen-robbin’ old pot licker,” Brazos breathed as he stared into the dark crevice. “You danged well found it!”

  Bullpup wagged his stumpy tail proudly and they walked into the gloomy corridor of stone. They followed it some fifty yards until it opened into a high-walled canyon. The tracks of hundreds of cattle, old and new, stretched away before them along the canyon floor.

  “Remind me to find you a marrow bone when we get back to headquarters, ugly,” Brazos grinned, spun, and trotted back towards the river to get his horse.

  Making his way back along the narrow bank, Brazos could see how easy the whole thing could be for the rustlers. The stolen cattle would be swum across the Slave, driven up behind the shelf, through the cleft and into the canyon leaving behind nothing to warrant any rustler-hunting vaquero sparing this stretch of cliff face so much as a passing glance.

  It took some time to get the appaloosa along the rocks, but once he got back to the cleft where Bullpup waited, he was able to mount up and ride through to the canyon.

  Brazos whistled between his teeth in appreciation of the size and beauty of the secret canyon. The walls on either side were up to a thousand feet high, the canyon so narrow, that there would be parts where the sun never reached the bottom except at noon. Much of the canyon bottom was choked with a thick growth of brush on either side of the clear cattle track that stretched before him. There were clear, cold pools of water, supplied by small streams trickling down from a number of springs higher up the canyon. As he rode on the canyon widened and he saw deeper pools, shaded by little cottonwoods, aspen and an occasional fir.

  Where the sunlight touched the higher walls of the canyon, it turned the sandstone and limestone walls to beautiful colors, stained by water and streaked by salt.

  He followed the canyon for some three miles, winding deep into the heart of the Bucksaws. He halted only when he sighted a sentry’s silhouetted frame against the sky a long way ahead. The man hadn’t seen him yet, but by his vigilant posture, Brazos knew that he was alert and that there was no way of getting near him without being sighted.

  Hunkering down by a great boulder that bulked amongst a group of willows trailing over a still, cold pond, he built a cigarette and considered whether he should risk going on or heading back and making contact with Benedict. It was finally the approaching darkness that prompted him to take the latter course. He mounted up, retraced his path to the cavern, swam the Slave again, then pointed the appaloosa’s head for the homestead. Darkness engulfed him before he got clear of the basin and he figured it would be a couple of hours before the moon came up. He rode easy in the saddle, his mind busy with his momentous discovery. At last he knew how they’d been getting the cattle away; doubtless that secret canyon finally led into the badlands somewhere. But what he still didn’t know was who was behind it.

  Stars were beginning to show, point by point, in the night sky when he heard the sound of many hooves far off to the north. He stopped and stood in the stirrups but could see nothing. The horsemen pounded by in the blackness about a mile distant by the sound of it, then dropped suddenly out of earshot as they dipped down into Sweetwater Basin.

  Shrugging, he built a new cigarette and gigged the horse into a gallop and held him to it all the way back to the ranch house to find the place ablaze with lights and in a storm of confusion.

  “What the hell?” he breathed as he spun through the gate and across the main yard, almost running down a vaquero sprinting for the stables. He yelled at the man but he didn’t stop. He kept on, swinging down in front of the house just as the little Pancho Pino came running out. The little man gasped in fright when the iron hand seized him, then went limp with relief when he saw who it was.

  “Oh, Señor Brazos I thought ...”

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” he demanded.

  Pancho Pino made the Sign of the Cross on his chest. “Madre de Dios, Señor Brazos, bad theengs. Romero, he shoot the patron and flee with many of the men.”

  “Kendrick shot?”

  “Si, si.” Pino gestured down the hallway. “He ees in the house with Señorita Brenda and ... the insurance man.”

  “The Yank’s here?” said Brazos, then not waiting for an answer, ran down the hall and burst into the front room.

  Nathan Kendrick lay on a leather sofa, ashen-faced and naked to the waist. Duke Benedict was bent over him, bandaging up a bloody wound in his chest. White-faced servants were running around in confusion with bandages and hot water. Behind the sofa, Brenda stood with her hands pressed to her face, sobbing quietly.

  Relief showed in Benedict’s face when he looked up.

  “Nice timing, Reb.” Then, in response to Brazos’ quizzical glance at the others. “It’s all right. I’ve told them we’re working together now ...”

  “Just a minute,” Brazos cut in. “What’s goin’ on here, Yank?”

  “Not just now, Reb. First I want you to hustle out and see to it that all hands are fully armed and ready to ride. You attend to that while I finish patching Nathan up, then I’ll explain things.”

  Brazos grunted and disappeared. It took him some time to calm the excited vaqueros down and get them saddled, but a squad of thirty heavily-armed men were drawn up outside by the time he returned to the house where Benedict was just putting the finishing touches to Kendrick’s bandages.

  “All set, Reb?”

  “All set.” Brazos’ face creased with perplexity. “Yank, Pino tells me Romero plugged Mr. Kendrick. Is that so?”

  “It’s so right enough, Brazos,” the cattle king panted. “The dirty Judas Mex polecat tried to do me in— after bleedin’ me all these months.” He shot a bitter eye at his sobbing daughter. “Stole my cattle, my daughter, and then tried to take my life ... goddam his greaser eyes.”

  “Please, father, don’t,” the girl sobbed.

  Brazos looked in puzzlement from one to the other, and only then noticed the ugly Mexican stretched on bloody blankets in an adjoining room.

  “Who the hell’s that?”

  “His name’s Lino Estevan,” Benedict explained. “He and a few more like him tried to kill me in Candelaria. They didn’t have any luck, and with just a little persuasion, Señor Estevan revealed that he and his companions were associates of our friend Salazar, and up to their greasy scalps in the rustling.”

  Brazos was all ears. �
�Go on.”

  “A fantastic story, Reb. Romero, it seems, believes he has some right to the Rancho Antigua because Kendrick supposedly took it off his grandfather by force back in the days when land titles didn’t mean anything. According to Estevan, Romero came here, got a job and worked his way up to ramrod specifically to place himself in a position where he would one day be able to take over the ranch.”

  “Well I’ll be dogged.”

  “Yes indeed. Apparently Romero’s plan was to marry Brenda and ultimately come by the Antigua that way.”

  “You mean Romero and Miss Brenda are ...”

  Benedict nodded soberly, his eyes on the still crying girl. “Romantically involved, shall we say. But apparently Romero had to change his plans when he discovered that Kendrick would never permit his daughter to marry a Mex. That happened a few months ago, I believe, when Romero had Brenda discreetly sound the old man out on the possibility of her getting married.”

  “Yeah, Kendrick ain’t exactly got a high opinion of Mexes, I’ve noticed.”

  “That’s right. Well, when Romero realized this, he conceived the idea of rustling the Antigua. He planned to bleed it white and drive Kendrick to ruin and then buy him out for next to nothing. That was where Salazar came in. Romero made contact with Salazar and Estevan and a few others and put the proposition to them. Romero said he would tell them when and where to strike, how to get rid of the beeves and he could guarantee that they wouldn’t run into any danger.”

  “And Salazar jumped at the bait?”

  “Not right off. You see, traditionally, rustling from the Rancho Antigua has always been a fatal sort of a business. No, it wasn’t until Romero told Salazar about some secret canyon, only he knew about, leading out of Sweetwater Basin that would make the rustling easy, that ...”

  “I know the place on account I just come back from there.”

  Benedict’s eyes widened. “You found it? Damn, but that’s great, Reb, on account Estevan’s too far gone to sit a saddle now and we could have wasted all night looking for it. Damn good work.”

  Brazos tapped his temple modestly with his finger, then said, “Keep goin’, Yank, I’m followin’ most of it. So Salazar took on the job after he found out about the canyon?”

  “Yes he did. They ran off a small herd to start with, drove it off through the badlands and sold it down at Mescalero. But things didn’t really get under way in earnest until Bo Rangle showed up.”

  “Then he is in it?”

  “Up to his neck. You see, Rangle was kicked out of Texas by the law and he found his way here. He teamed up with Salazar and set about rustling Antigua stock in earnest, setting up headquarters in Romero’s secret canyon. They sold the beeves through a Mexican dealer named Lobato in Mescalero, though Estevan tells me that a certain Arrillaga pushed Lobato out and took over that end of the arrangements. Estevan has since heard a rumor that Arrillaga was killed by Rangle and Lobato is handling the cattle again.”

  “That sounds like Rangle.”

  “Indeed it does. And the deal suited both Rangle and Romero. Rangle had the beeves and he could keep whatever they brought, and at the same time, raids were weakening the Antigua. All Romero was interested in was breaking Kendrick so he could take over.”

  “Some story, Yank. And you say Rangle’s in that canyon?”

  “That’s right, and we’re goin’ to flush him out tonight. But to get on with the story, it seems everything went well until Larsen showed up and started sniffing about. Larsen bribed one of Estevan’s friends, Keechez, who told him about Rangle. That’s why they killed Larsen in Sabinosa that night, and they didn’t waste any time cutting Keechez’s throat and tossing him in the river. Then it was back to business as usual again until you and I appeared on the scene.”

  “Yeah, I reckon things are beginnin’ to add up now. Now I know why Romero was so proddy.”

  “That’s right. He sat back and watched as long as he could, but when it began to look tight, he hired Salazar to kill me. When I killed Salazar, Romero sent a man to Candelaria to tell Estevan and the others that I planned to visit over there. They were still digesting the news when I arrived with Salazar’s girlfriend. Well, as I told you, they tried to kill me then, but it didn’t pan out that way.”

  He exhaled blue cigar smoke at the ceiling, and went on.

  “I brought Estevan here to repeat the story he told me at Candelaria. Romero must have seen us coming, for he suddenly disappeared. Estevan had just told Kendrick what he’d told to me, when Romero came up from the bunkhouses with about ten of the vaqueros who’ve been in with him on the whole deal. Before we could stop him, Kendrick went charging out in a rage with a gun and Romero shot him. I gunned down two of Romero’s boys and when some of Kendrick’s loyal cowboys came in on my side, Romero saw the game was up and they high-tailed it. It’s my guess they’ve headed for the canyon.”

  “That’s no guess. A passel of riders passed me headin’ for the basin as I was comin’ in. Must have been Romero.”

  “That caps it then. All right, let’s get going. I hope you’re in fighting mood, Reb, on account, from my estimate, Romero and Rangle together would be able to saddle about thirty men. We’d have about that many here, but they’re vaqueros, not gunmen.”

  “Give me a smell of Bo Rangle and I’m a fightin’ fool any day of the week,” Brazos assured him. He looked at Nathan Kendrick, then turned accusing eyes on the girl.

  “I didn’t know about the rustling,” she protested. “I didn’t know what Juan was doing ... but I still love him.”

  Her words brought a curse to Nathan Kendrick’s lips and then he shuddered and went limp.

  Kneeling at the man’s side to feel his pulse, Benedict said, “He’ll pull through, but don’t leave his side until the medic gets here, Brenda.”

  “I’m not staying, I’m going with you,” the girl said rebelliously, rushing to the door. “I still don’t believe all those terrible things you said about Juan. I’ll want to see him and to stop you from killing him if I can. The women will take care of father.”

  Benedict shrugged as the girl ran out. “I suppose she has the right to come in a way. All right, Reb, let’s raise dust.”

  They left the house at a run and leapt astride their horses that the vaqueros were holding waiting for them. A brief glance at the long, heavily-armed and sober-faced squad of riders waiting for them, and then they were leading the way through the gate and thundering swiftly towards the rising moon.

  Ten – Battle of Ghost Canyon

  It was strangely cold in the place they called Ghost Canyon, and even the newly risen moon that climbed over the towering battlements of stone above the outlaws’ camp and drenched the rocky shelves before the caverns with metallic light, seemed chill and unfriendly.

  Below the stone shelves on which the men were gathered in dark and silent knots watching Bo Rangle, a little stream chattered and gurgled in the black caverns of moon shadow. Down there, porous rocks were never touched by the sun and slimy water seeped down to spread through dark moss. Sometimes Ghost Canyon could be a pretty place by day, but never by night.

  There were some thirty men on the ledges, a long string of saddled horses. Saddles and camping gear were strewn about and a large fire burned where Rangle’s riders had been roasting a hindquarter of beef when the Rancho Antigua men had come in a minute before. Never particularly friendly despite a common cause, the two ranks were even more markedly divided than ever now, with the Antigua men standing on one rock step up behind Juan Romero and the hard-bitten hellers of Rangle’s Raiders dotted across a lower ledge beyond their angry leader.

  Rangle’s men were mostly Americans, lean and dangerous-looking hellions with crossed ammunition belts strung across their chests and tied-down guns. The killer breed.

  Every man started just a little as Bo Rangle suddenly punched his palm with a sound like a muffled rifle shot.

  “Benedict and Brazos!” His voice shook with venom. He made the names sound
like an epithet. “Damn their eyes—aren’t I ever goin’ to be rid of that pair of scum?”

  “You know them?” Juan Romero showed his astonishment.

  Hatless in the moonlight, Bo Rangle turned a brutal, bitter face at the ramrod.

  “Know them? Of course I know them. They’ve been doggin’ my trail ever since the War. That’s what they’re doin’ down here goddammit, lookin’ for me.”

  Romero digested that startling piece of information as he watched the killer prowl to and fro like a caged cat. Then he brightened.

  “By the Virgin, this is even better, Rangle. Now you have as much reason as I, to ride against the Antigua.”

  Rangle stopped his tigerish pacing and halted before the wide-shouldered Mexican.

  “Join you against Antigua?” he said, puzzled. “What are you talkin’ about?” So far Romero had only told him of developments back at the ranch headquarters earlier that evening, not of the ramrod’s plans that he’d conceived during the ride out to the secret canyon.

  “Why, we must now ride together and destroy Kendrick and all his power,” Romero said logically. “Now, tonight, is the time to do it. With our combined forces it shall be easy, for the best fighters on the ranch are the loyal men here with me. Kendrick is wounded and …”

  “You’re loco, Mex.”

  Romero blinked. “I do not understand, Rangle.”

  Bo Rangle laughed, a tearing sound that bounced up off the lofty ramparts.

  “Then I’ll spell it out to you, ramrod. All I’m interested in is beeves, not settin’ you up on your goddam throne. I told you that from the jump. Well now, thanks to your bunglin’, the rustlin’s got to fold—and just when I had it all set up right in Mescalero too. You want to wipe Kendrick out, you wipe him out. Me? I’m haulin’ my freight with that herd down to Mescalero. After that I dunno. Maybe Mexico for a spell ... but one thing’s for sure, companero, I won’t be showin’ back here. I’m still short of the funds I’m goin’ to need to handle a big job I got in mind.”