Clancy was his name and ruling the Spargo roost was his game. As wild a son as Mother Ireland had produced in many a long and hungry generation, he stood six feet four from his brass-heeled boots to the top of his great curly head. He dressed out at two hundred and fifty pounds of bone and muscle and fiery temperament and was the swaggering, bullying, blarneying boss of Spargo’s army of Irish miners. Sly and violent, crafty and hot-headed, he was the leader not because he was most gifted to lead, but because his iron fists had long since hammered down the last man who’d sought to contest his place at the top of the heap. Afraid of only one living person, a skinny little old woman he called mother, it was Clancy who’d brought the Spargo miners out on strike, and now he was committed to keeping them out, every ugly one of them, until Foley Kingston had given in to their demands. This was Patrick Michael Clancy. Himself.
“Which one is Benedict?” he asked in a peat-bog brogue to runty little Larry O’Rourke who stood with him on the corner watching the two tall men crossing Johnny Street for the Silver King. “The gombeen in the tinhorn suit or the great lump with the hound?”
“The one in the suit, Paddy,” supplied O’Rourke, who had gone to fetch Clancy when the two strangers had arrived at Egstrom’s with the dead men. “Didn’t I tell you he looked a bad one and all? You see the two guns he’s got hangin’ off his belt?”
“I see ’em, right enough.” Clancy smacked his palm with a giant fist. “I see ’em ...”
O’Rourke waited patiently for some ten seconds, then looked up expectantly. “Well, what are you waitin’ for, Clancy? Are you goin’ to be bustin’ his head in for him before he can slaughter any more brave boys?”
To O’Rourke’s surprise, Paddy Clancy shook his curly head slowly and deliberately as he stared at the doors the two men had vanished through. O’Rourke, a weasel-faced little man who played parasite pilot fish to Clancy’s shark, said innocently:
“Surely you’re not for lettin’ the man get away with the foul murder of poor Murphy now, Clancy?”
“‘Tweren’t murder.”
O’Rourke’s jaw fell open. “It weren’t?”
“The young idjut was for listenin’ too much to his old man,” Clancy explained. “Old Billy reckoned we oughta try and stop this Benedict before he got here, and Tommy, wantin’ to make a big man of himself, begged me to let him try.”
“And so you did, eh?”
“To be sure ... but I should have known better. Young Murphy was nivver much smarter than Old Billy ... and his brain is addled by hate and whisky. He wanted to be a hero and all he done was kill a cowboy and make an ugly corpse of himself.”
O’Rourke’s skinny shoulders slumped and he pulled out a kerchief and coughed into it. He wasn’t much surprised to hear the truth about Murphy; he’d always found him a poisonous little echo of his mad old man at best. But he was disappointed that Clancy wasn’t about to avenge Murphy’s death. Sickly, plagued by a hacking cough, unemployable, and not too long for this world, one of the few pleasures O’Rourke had left was tagging after Clancy and enjoying the violence that followed the giant like a shadow.
“So ... so you’re just goin’ to forget the whole terrible business, are ye, Clancy?” he said, making one last try.
“I’m not goin’ to go jumpin’ a man they’re sayin’ handles guns like me mother handles a set of rosary beads,” Clancy growled. “But I’m not goin’ to forget it neither.”
He hitched at his broad leather belt. “The high-steppin’ tenderfoot’ll bleed for what he’s done, make no mistake,” he concluded, and then he swaggered down the street to pay his last respects to Tommy Murphy. After that he’d confer long and earnestly with his secret partner, a man of money and power and sinister ambition who saw in Benedict’s arrival a threatening new element introduced into the life-or-death game they were playing with Foley Kingston.
Chapter Three – At the Motherlode
Hank Brazos was bored.
Seated uncomfortably on an expensive-looking settee that he wasn’t any too sure would support his weight, he’d smoked a cigarette through the hearty reunion of old comrades-in-arms, puffed silently through another as glorious deeds in the Union Army were relived, and had finished a tasteless third by the time Benedict told Kingston about their clash with the dry-gulcher and Kingston discussed his stalemate with the miners.
Now they were back to “glorious deeds” again.
Brazos scratched his navel, fiddled with his harmonica, then squinted out the big windows at Bullpup sprawled in the window light on the gallery. He wondered if he could take another cigarette.
The settee creaked alarmingly as he shifted his weight and scowled across the room at the two men standing before the cold hearth. He scowled anew as they matched fancy accents and used unpronounceable words, half of which he was sure they were making up as they went along.
He tried to be objective. Would he be less bored if Benedict and Kingston weren’t boasting about how they’d knocked the blue-eyed bejasus out of the Johnny Rebs with whom he, ex-Sergeant Hank Brazos, had served for four years? Would he be any more interested if they’d been on his side and were reliving heroic days of booting Yank backsides through Georgia instead of the other way around?
He doubted it. What really bothered him were the big words and the fine manners that back in Texas would be considered unmanly. He’d been riding with Benedict long enough to understand that this sort of carry-on was normal amongst the rich and the educated, but that didn’t help much. Benedict alone he’d learned to put up with, but two of the same breed together in one room hacking over the war from the Yank side of the fence, well, that was a little rich for his blood.
“Another drink, Hank?”
Suddenly he realized that Kingston was speaking to him. The interruption gave him a reason to get up from the settee which was threatening to cave in beneath him.
“Not right now,” he drawled, rolling his shoulders to take the stiffness out of them.
“Duke? You’ll have another?”
“A small one, Foley.”
Brazos’ scowl returned as he watched Kingston pour. He was dry enough, but he didn’t like what was being offered. Scotch, Kingston called it. Said it was whisky. Perhaps it was, but it sure wasn’t rye or bourbon or sourmash or any whisky he’d tasted before. He wondered if he ought to ask Kingston for a beer for Bullpup whose tongue was hanging out a foot. He decided against it as he moved across the room to lean against the wall by the windows and tug out his Bull Durham to roll a cigarette he didn’t really want. He could imagine Mr. Bigtime Kingston lifting his eyebrows and saying, “Beer? What is beer?”
Benedict and Kingston were talking about the miners again when the double oak doors opened and Cole Kingston returned to the room. Kingston had sent the young man out ten minutes before to bring Mrs. Kingston down to meet them. Kingston broke off with a frown when he saw that his son was alone.
“Where is Mrs. Kingston, Cole?”
“She said she’s not feeling well, Dad,” Cole replied, and even Brazos could tell he wasn’t speaking the truth.
“Nonsense,” Kingston said, “she’s the healthiest woman in Nevada.” He frowned. “You told her Mr. Benedict was here, didn’t you?”
“Sure, Dad.”
“What did she say?”
Cole looked uncomfortably at Benedict. “Rhea’s not in the best of moods today, Dad. Maybe I shouldn’t—”
“I want to know why she refuses to come down,” Kingston snapped. “What did she say to you?”
“Well ... well, she said she ... she had no interest in meeting paid killers. Sorry, Mr. Benedict.”
The room went quiet.
Foley Kingston banged down his glass. “Oh, she did, did she? Well, we’ll see about that.”
“Just a moment, Foley,” Benedict said as Kingston made for the door. “I can meet Mrs. Kingston another time, but what she said raises a point I’d like to clear up.”
Sensing what Benedict meant, Braz
os found he wasn’t bored any more as Kingston turned slowly back to the room and said quietly, “And what’s that, Duke?”
His thumbs hooked into the arm-holes of the bed-of-flowers vest that he’d put on over a tailored white silk shirt after his bath at the Spargo Hotel, Benedict replied, “Your wife has referred to me as a paid killer, Foley. Down at the funeral parlor, I had the same epithet directed at me more than once.” A frown creased his dark brows. “I don’t understand this. My profession, if I have one at present, is gambling. I’ve never hired my gun and never will ... something I believe you know. How did this story about me being a hired gun get started?”
Foley Kingston’s hard, handsome face broke into an apologetic grin. “I’m afraid I’m to blame for that, Duke.”
“I don’t understand.”
Kingston spread his hands, his gaze embracing Brazos as well as Benedict. “It’s a simple matter of distortion. Duke, when I heard you were in Hondo, I sent for you because I was in dire trouble and because I remembered you from the war as the best hand with a gun I’d ever seen. When I received your letter telling me you could come, I must admit that, to put a dampener on the spirits of my enemies here, I let it be known that a very formidable friend of mine was coming to Spargo to help protect my interests. And that was all I said, Duke, no more. But the miners in their ignorant, Irish way decided you were a notorious hired gun, and once the story got started there was no stopping it.”
“I see,” Benedict murmured. “But your wife, Foley? She seems to believe it, too.”
“Women, Duke,” Kingston said ruefully. “As I remember, you were something of an expert on the species. Who knows how or why they get anything into their heads?”
Smiling, Benedict nodded in acceptance of the explanation, then glanced at the big ornate clock over the mantel. “Well, I guess we’ll be going, Foley. It’s been something of an eventful day, and another is undoubtedly coming up tomorrow.”
“Eventful and I trust, peaceful, Duke.”
Realizing that he must have missed out on something said earlier, Brazos pushed himself off the wall as Benedict picked up his low-crowned black hat from a table.
“What’s on tomorrow, Yank?”
“Didn’t you hear us discussing it?” Benedict replied. “Foley wants me to help him gain access to his—”
“Gain what?” Brazos’ brow looked like a corrugated iron roof.
“Get into,” Benedict explained patiently. “Three weeks ago, the miners took over the Motherlode Mine to force Foley into meeting their demands. You’ll recall we saw a lot of miners loafing about the mine gate on our way in; well, they’re there to prevent Foley or his men getting to the mine for any reason. Obviously this can’t go on, and tomorrow, with my help, Foley intends to go in.”
Barrel chest gleaming in the lamplight through the gap in his unbuttoned purple shirt, Brazos scratched his neck and looked at Kingston. “Locked you outa your own mine? Sounds kinda illegal to me.”
“A lot that has happened here over the past months is illegal and worse, Hank,” Kingston declared. Then, with a thoughtful expression as his eyes played over Brazos’ Herculean physique, he added, “Will you be riding with us tomorrow, Hank? Duke introduced you as his trail partner but he didn’t make it clear if you would be assisting him.”
Benedict looked at Brazos. He hadn’t committed him because that wasn’t the way their partnership worked. They’d joined forces to hunt Bo Rangle and two hundred thousand in Confederate gold, nothing else. Whatever cropped up along the way was judged on its merits; there was no obligation for one to support the other if he didn’t want to.
Brazos knew the decision was up to him. If Benedict weren’t involved, he would most likely stay out of it. From what he could figure out, the trouble in Spargo was a conflict between one-eyed Kingston and a stubborn bunch of miners. There were probably faults aplenty on both sides.
But Benedict was involved, and because it could well be a dangerous situation at the Motherlode Mine when Kingston tried to force his way in tomorrow, Brazos declared that he would go along.
“I’m in,” Brazos said.
“Why, I certainly appreciate this, Hank,” Kingston beamed, patting him on the shoulder. “He’s got the look of a fighter or I’m no judge, eh, Duke?”
“He makes out,” was all Benedict was prepared to say.
The gambling man looked preoccupied as Foley and Cole Kingston showed them out, but it wasn’t until he spotted Art Shadie and a couple of Kingston’s “Regulators” loafing in the moon shadow at the far end of the long, pillared gallery that he was prompted to put into words something that had been puzzling him throughout the evening with Kingston.
“Foley,” he said, fitting his hat to his head at exactly the right angle, “it seems to me that you aren’t exactly short of trouble-shooters without Brazos and me.”
“Good boys,” Kingston said, inclining his head at the men, “and capable enough, but in a limited way. They’ve been able to look after things so far, but I wouldn’t have faith in them if things really got out of hand, you understand? They are tough and reliable, but they don’t have the brains and the class you have, Duke.”
“You’re expecting things to get worse’n they are now?” said Brazos, squatting down to scratch Bullpup’s ears as the dog came swaggering up to him.
“Let us say I believe in preparedness,” Kingston replied. “Now, Duke, are you sure you wish to stay at the hotel? I can put you up here with no trouble at all.”
Benedict declined the offer, explaining that they’d already booked into the Spargo House Hotel.
“Well, as you wish.” Kingston smiled. “Until tomorrow, gentlemen.”
Their boots crunched on the gravel drive as they headed for the big gates. They were silent, each occupied with his own thoughts as they passed through the gates and trod the broad trail that led to town. The night was still hot under a brilliant moon that washed the Bucksaws to the east in silver and fell upon the rooftops of Spargo. Even at night, the eternal dust fogged around the town, blurring its edges. But the dust didn’t seem to reach up here. It was a different world on Kingston Hill.
They’d travelled a hundred yards or so, walking in black pools of moon shadow, before Benedict glanced at the ox-shouldered figure beside him and realized Brazos was wearing his thoughtful look.
“Something on your mind?” Benedict asked.
“Could be.”
“Spill it then.”
“I’m thinkin’ about tomorrow.”
“What about it?”
“Could be kinda hairy.”
“Almost bound to be. But what about it?”
“You say you owe Kingston, Yank?”
“Yes. He saved my life at the first battle of Bull Run.”
“And you elected to come here to cancel out the debt?”
“That’s so. But I still don’t get what you’re driving at.”
“Then I’ll put it plain. Would you be ready to work for Kingston here if you never owed him?”
Benedict smiled knowingly. “You don’t like Foley. I thought I could read the signs.”
“It’s surprisin’ how few dudes who talk like furriners and get around makin’ out they’re better’n everybody else I do like, Benedict.”
“Never mind the heavy-footed sarcasm. You don’t like Kingston, do you?”
“That ain’t important, is it? I just come along for the pony ride here. What signifies is what you think of him now you’ve seen him again after a few years.”
“You’re asking me has he changed?” Benedict asked and Brazos nodded. “Well, as a matter of fact, he has. I enjoyed seeing him again and going over old times—”
“Like how you two whupped Robert E. Lee all by yourselves?”
“Yes, like that. But those days seemed very long ago, talking with Foley tonight. He’s become ... well, somewhat hard and calculating.” Benedict paused to watch a night bird sweep above them and then added, almost to himself, “Perha
ps ruthless as well …”
“In other words, you don’t like him much either?”
“You’re saying that, not me.” Benedict’s voice was testy now. “In any case, what’s the purpose of all this talk? Make your point if you have one.”
Brazos halted, hands on hips. “Okay, I will. The truth of it is, Yank, I don’t much like the set-up in this man’s town. The way I see it, you got a bunch of woolly headed miners bellyachin’ about their no-good boss on one hand, and on the other you got a hard-headed jasper like Kingston bellyachin’ about his no-good miners. The miners are bound and determined not to work the mine again until Kingston makes it safe, and Kingston ain’t going to back down to no bunch of miners no matter what.” He spread his hands. “Standoff. So who’s right and who’s wrong?”
“Well, the answer to that is probably neither and both.”
“Well, there you go ... it ain’t fittin’ to buy in on a ruckus where you don’t know who’s in the right.”
“Kingston’s right.”
“But you just said—”
“I owe Kingston,” Benedict snapped, moving off. “I owe him and this is my chance to cancel out an obligation. That makes him right.”
Brazos opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out, for, staring at Benedict’s tall, receding figure, he realized that he’d look on the whole thing just as Benedict did if he was in his boots. When you owed a man he had to be right, at least until you squared the account. It was part of the Code, and in the West the Code meant more to a man than the Bible. Or his life ...
“Here they come!”
The warning rippled through the ranks of the miners assembled before the gates of the Motherlode Mine. Eyes tightening, empty, work-roughened hands clenched into fists, they turned their heads to face the riders swinging into sight around the towering bulk of Clinton’s barn.
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