Benedict and Brazos 6

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “You fret too much,” he told her, rolling the sleeves of his plaid shirt up above his mighty biceps as he went out. “I know what I’m doin’.”

  “That’s what your drunken sot of a father used to say,” she called after him from the doorway. “Until the night they brought him home on a door. Now ye don’t be gettin’ into any more bother and don’t be sneakin’ in late, hear?”

  Clancy scowled murderously as he strode through the gate and tramped down poverty-stricken Bonanza Street with O’Rourke trotting at his heels. He was so used to his mother’s tirades that he didn’t notice them half the time, but he hated her calling him down within earshot of anybody.

  They’d gone fifty yards before he noticed O’Rourke was grinning.

  “What are ye smilin’ at, ye fool?” he growled.

  “Don’t be gettin’ home late,” O’Rourke mimicked. “And don’t be gettin’ into trouble.”

  O’Rourke should have known better. Hardly breaking stride, Clancy clapped him to the side of the head, knocking him sideways. Eyes rolling, O’Rourke crashed into Buck Jackson’s fragile front fence which collapsed about him with a great clatter as he went down.

  Alerted by the crash, people came running out to see what was going on. Clancy paid them no heed. Arms swinging, big boots covering five feet at a stride, he went on until he reached the Delaney house, where Shamus Delaney and his dark-haired daughter stood on their front porch staring at him.

  Clancy stopped at the fence. His ferocious intimidating stare, which just about everybody but his mother was familiar with in Spargo, stabbed accusingly at Delaney.

  “So, Delaney, they’re tellin’ me you went back to the mine today on your own after I said you weren’t to. Is it the truth?”

  Delaney came down his path, but his slender, pretty daughter remained on the verandah.

  “Sure, I went back, Clancy,” he said in his soft brogue. “I thought I might be able to talk with Foley Kingston.”

  “But he wouldn’t listen, would he?”

  “No ... no, he wouldn’t.”

  “Then next time you might follow my orders.” Clancy poked Delaney in the chest with an iron finger and prodded him back a step. “In fact, next time, if you don’t, I might take it personal and feel I got to crack a few of your old chicken bones. Understand me, Delaney?”

  Pale-faced, Delaney said, “I was only tryin’ to—”

  “Don’t try anything,” Clancy warned, and with a cold stare at the girl, strode off.

  Tricia Delaney hurried down to her father and took his arm. “Oh, Dad, did he hurt you?”

  “Of course not, me darlin’.” He patted her hand. “Clancy’s just a little worked up over what happened at the mine is all. He means no harm.”

  “He does and you know it, Dad,” the girl said. “I could just see by his face how angry he is about what’s happened. What do you think he’ll do about those men, Brazos and Benedict?”

  Delaney sighed. “It’s hard to say what he’ll do, Tricia.”

  “But we know he’ll be doing something.”

  Delaney suddenly felt the full weight of his years. “Aye, he’ll be doing something, child. Never was one to take somethin’ lyin’ down was Clancy ...”

  “A toast,” said a beaming Foley Kingston from the head of the great dining table. He twirled the wine glass in his fingers and grinned boyishly. “Forgive the immodesty, but I’m proposing this toast to me—yes, to me—for having the good sense to ask my friend Duke for assistance, without which today’s success could certainly not have been achieved.”

  Benedict and Brazos lifted their glasses, but Rhea Kingston left her glass on the table. Rhea, breathtakingly beautiful in a figure-hugging white evening dress with diamonds glittering at wrists and throat, stared across the table at Benedict.

  Rhea Kingston was intrigued. She had agreed to dine with her husband and his two guests tonight only because Foley had insisted. He had painted a glowing picture of Duke Benedict, but she’d still expected him to be a cold-eyed killer with the stamp of his trade all over him. Instead she found herself confronted by a gentleman of style, wit and charm who was probably the most handsome man she had ever met.

  “I do believe it is my turn now, Foley,” Benedict said, getting to his feet. Gray eyes smiling, he lifted his glass to Rhea. “A toast, gentlemen, to the rarest of all God’s creatures, a truly beautiful woman.”

  Rhea was angry with herself for blushing. Foley beamed proudly, but Cole Kingston frowned. As for Brazos, he was thinking it would be a lot more comfortable down town at the Lucky Cuss or the Silver King with his fist around a beer instead of listening to all this hoopla and watching Benedict and Kingston’s luscious wife devour each other with their eyes.

  “Beautifully put, Duke, beautifully put,” Kingston said as they resumed their seats. “And now, before I bring the musicians in to entertain us, I have some serious announcements to make.”

  “Don’t you think you’ve talked enough for one night, Foley?” Rhea said in her husky voice.

  “Patience, my dear,” Kingston said. “I’m sure this will interest you, too.” Kingston made a tent with his fingers and looked at Brazos and Benedict. “Gentlemen, I could tell today that you were puzzled when I showed no interest in talking with Shamus Delaney after we got the better of them at the Motherlode. Right?”

  They nodded together, and Rhea Kingston looked curious.

  “Very well,” Foley continued, “I think the time has come to explain, and I’m sure that what I have to tell you will clarify a great number of things in your minds. The fact of the matter is, I have no interest in negotiating with Delaney, Clancy or anybody else, for I don’t intend that the miners will return to work in my mine except on my terms. I have other plans.”

  “Strike-breakers?”

  It was Cole Kingston who spoke. They glanced sharply at him, then back to Kingston who was smiling.

  “Exactly, Cole. Strike-breakers.” Kingston turned to his wife. “You recall the other evening when Shadie returned from the south and you were curious, my dear? Well, he had been to Granite to see a labor dealer named Heck Lafe. Lafe told Shadie he could let me have a hundred Mexican laborers to work the Motherlode—at only one dollar a day per man. I wired Lafe to stand by with the Mexicans. Now, thanks to Duke, and Hank, too, of course, I can send for them. What do you think of that?”

  Rhea Kingston looked as if she didn’t know quite what to think of it, but Benedict found words quickly.

  “Won’t bringing in cheap labor antagonize the strikers, Foley? Isn’t there another way?”

  “No, Duke,” said Kingston, looking every inch the man with the big stick now as he slapped the table top. “I’ve been convinced from the start that the strikers are out to ruin me and it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to be bullied or blackmailed by a bunch of illiterate shanty Irish. They’ve had their fun and now it’s my turn.”

  Benedict glanced at Brazos who looked as if he were having trouble following Kingston’s words. Cole Kingston seemed apprehensive. Rhea was now staring at Foley with an intent expression that was unreadable. Benedict was frowning as he turned his gaze back to Kingston.

  “Foley, what you do here is your business, I suppose, but something just struck me. There has to be big trouble here in Spargo if you try to bring cheap labor in. Is that why you really sent for me? To have me on hand when that particular trouble breaks?”

  “Exactly, Duke, and I make no apologies. Of course, if you don’t agree with what I’m doing, you’re free to pull out. You’re under no obligation to ride for me. I trust you understand that?”

  Benedict had to smile at the subtle use of the word obligation. He was obliged right enough, and Kingston was reminding him of it. Because Foley had dragged him unconscious from the path of a Rebel cavalry charge at Bull Run, he was expected to stand at Foley’s shoulder here in Spargo. Obligation was the word.

  “I understand, Foley,” he murmured, the soft candlelight gleaming o
n his black hair as he bent his head and took out his cigar case. “I’m still with you.”

  “Fine,” Kingston beamed, “fine.” He glanced around the table. “Well, my news seems to have had a sobering effect, though I’m not sure why. Cole, go tell the boys to bring their instruments in, will you? What we need here is some music and some more wine. Come on, everybody, cheer up—this is a celebration, not a wake.”

  Chapter Five – Poverty Street

  “There’s not a man among ye!” Old Billy Murphy told the drinkers lining the bar of the Lucky Cuss Saloon. He tried to make a contemptuous gesture and almost fell, for he was very drunk. “Ye let a pair of gunnies walk right over the top of ye, then ye go runnin’ off with your tails betwixt your legs.”

  None of the men at the bar had been at the gates of the Motherlode earlier that day, but that didn’t worry Billy.

  “It’s enough to make a decent man want to be sick,” Billy went on. “Two men—two men made ye run—a big oaf of a clown and a fancy-mouthed dandy in a whorehouse vest.”

  “You’d show ’im if you was of a mind, wouldn’t you, Billy?” a hatchet-faced cowboy called out derisively. “You’d cut Benedict right down to size if you just had the time, wouldn’t you?”

  “I would only for this,” Billy said, raising his crutch. “I’d shame all of ye ...”

  His voice trailed off and his stare went blank, whisky and pain and rage overcoming him so that he couldn’t recall what he’d been so angry about, even when he bent to his drink and the butt of Tommy’s rusty old Colt stuck into his ribs.

  “Fancy-mouthed dandy,” he muttered, and wished he could remember who he meant.

  Brazos turned at Bullpup’s growl to see Cole Kingston coming along the lamp lit gallery.

  “Make a fine couple dancing, don’t they, Hank?” the young man said with a nod at the window.

  Brazos looked through the window and saw Rhea and Benedict moving gracefully across the floor to the strains of a Spanish love song. It was some time after nine, and it seemed to Brazos they’d been dancing for a hell of a long time. He’d quickly become bored and had quit the room to get some air. But Foley Kingston didn’t look bored. He was clapping time to the music, smiling at the dancers and taking down one drink after another.

  “I’ve seen worse I guess,” Brazos grunted. He twirled his hat by the throat strap for a minute then turned his back on the brightly lit room. “This ain’t really my speed, kid. I’m headin’ back to the hotel. Say goodnight to the folks for me, will you?”

  “Sure.” The young man smiled engagingly as Brazos moved to go. “Say, I wonder if you’d mind doing something for me, Hank?”

  “What’s that?”

  “You haven’t met Miss Tricia Delaney yet, have you?”

  “Reckon not. She kin to Shamus Delaney, the pilgrim we was talkin’ to at the mine today?”

  “His daughter. They live on Bonanza Street, next to an old bakery. I don’t like asking you to do this, Hank, but I was supposed to see Miss Delaney tonight, only Dad decided to have this evening for you and Duke, and I haven’t been able to get a message to her that I can’t come. I’d go myself but Dad might notice me missing.”

  “Say no more, Cole, it’s good as done.”

  “Thanks, Hank.” Kingston glanced back at the house. “And don’t mention this to anybody, eh? You see, Tricia and I were planning to get married. Then all the trouble started with the miners and Dad ordered me not to see her again because she’s Shamus’ daughter. You understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good ... Come on, I’ll walk to the gate with you.” The sounds of the music faded behind them as they strolled towards the wrought-iron gates that were emblazoned with a scrolled K. The night’s full moon etched the yard’s pines and cottonwoods darkly against the sky.

  Brazos had a hunch that Cole Kingston hadn’t said all he had to say. Then, when the young man halted at the gates, Brazos learned he’d guessed right.

  “How long do you and Duke plan to stay on?” Cole asked.

  Brazos shrugged. “As long as it takes, I reckon. Why?

  “Well, I—I guess I wouldn’t say this if I didn’t feel you were both good men, but ... well, I wish you’d pull out. Now.”

  “Why?”

  Cole gestured at the house with one hand and the town with the other. “Because this whole thing’s a dirty mess, Hank. There’s no wrongs and rights here in Spargo. There’s faults on both sides and things are going to get worse than ever when news of the strike-breakers gets around.”

  Brazos hazed a grin. “You’re not sayin’ your pappy’s at fault here, are you, Cole?”

  “I’m not saying anything more than what I’ve said—that you and Benedict should ride out, Hank, before it’s too late.”

  “Sorry, kid. Benedict’s here to do a job of work for your pappy and I’m helpin’ him do it. But thanks, anyway.”

  Cole Kingston sighed as he watched the heavy-shouldered Texan walk down the moonlit trail with his ugly dog trotting before him. Cole looked at the moon and thought of nights when he and Tricia Delaney had strolled arm-in-arm down Johnny Street. But that was before the air of Spargo became infected with the poison stink of hate and violence.

  “I’m not made of glass, Duke.”

  “Pardon?”

  Rhea Kingston’s slanted green eyes glittered challengingly. “I mean you can hold me a little closer without fear of my breaking.”

  Benedict glanced at Kingston as he whirled Rhea past the corner where the three Mexican musicians played.

  Rhea laughed. “Foley doesn’t care. He’s not the jealous kind. Besides, you’re his friend.” She moved closer and he felt the pressure of her magnificent body against him. “See? It doesn’t hurt, does it?”

  That wasn’t exactly true, Benedict mused as he glanced down at the deep, mysterious cleft between her breasts, but he felt it would be less painful all around if they maintained a discreet distance between them.

  Rhea pouted prettily when he moved her away from him. From then on, Benedict tried hard to keep his eyes from straying further south than Rhea Kingston’s lovely chin.

  Bonanza Street was a narrow lane with houses lined on each side like rabbit hutches. Down here it was hessian at the windows, potholes in the street and patches in the pants. The odor that hung over Bonanza Street was the smell of poverty, a scent Hank Brazos recalled from his threadbare Texas childhood.

  He found the Delaney house without any trouble. As he went up the short path to the front door, he noted the neatness of the yard and the porch.

  Darkly attractive Tricia Delaney answered the door. She startled Hank by inviting him in for a cup of coffee after he delivered Cole Kingston’s message.

  Turning his battered hat in his hands, Brazos grinned ruefully in the weak yellow oil light drifting from the hall. “I reckon you didn’t get my name, Missy. I’m Hank Brazos and I’m workin’ for—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Brazos,” she said in a voice that had just a touch of Irish in it. “You and Mr. Benedict were pointed out to me on the street this morning. You’re still welcome.”

  She stepped aside and gestured down the hall, but Brazos stood there uncertainly. Then a voice called, “Who is it, honey?” and Shamus Delaney appeared with a pipe in his mouth.

  “This is Mr. Brazos, Father,” the girl said with a smile. “I believe you two have already met. Mr. Brazos has just brought a message down from Cole that he can’t see me tonight, but he doesn’t seem to want to come in for a cup of coffee in return for his kindness.”

  “What’s the matter, son?” Delaney said. “Don’t you like coffee?”

  Brazos shuffled his feet. “Why, I guess I like coffee better’n just about anythin’, but—”

  “Son,” the Irishman cut him off, “I’m not for holdin’ any grudge about what happened at the Motherlode today if you’re not. The truth is, I was never in favor of us takin’ over the mine in the first place and I’m damned glad Mr. Kingston to
ok it back. Now will you share our hospitality?”

  “I surely will,” Brazos grinned. “Bullpup, set and wait.”

  “Oh, no,” Tricia Delaney said, then she reached down and patted Bullpup’s head. She further surprised Brazos by smiling when Bullpup licked at her hand with a fat pink tongue that had the texture of sandpaper. “He’s such a beautiful, manly dog. Let him come in and I’ll give him something to eat.”

  If there was one certain way of getting on the friendly side of Hank Brazos it was by making a fuss over his dog, an animal so ugly he’d been known to cause full-scale panic amongst womenfolk just by making an appearance. “I thank you kindly, Missy.” Brazos smiled and entered the parlor.

  He was still there an hour later with four cups of good black coffee and about a dozen fat sourdough biscuits in him. Shamus and Tricia Delaney, drawn out by Brazos’ questions, proved to be mines of information as well as gracious hosts.

  Brazos learned that Paddy Clancy bossed the miners, not because he was popular, but because he could lick any three good men with his fists and was ready to prove it at the drop of a challenge. At first, Delaney was unofficial leader of the miners, but then Clancy took over, started the strike and kept it going. Delaney made it clear that, though most of the strikers disliked and feared Clancy, they supported the idea of the strike because the Motherlode, due to years of improper maintenance, was a deathtrap for miners.

  When Brazos asked how the men could strike for so long and still eat, Delaney said there was an “angel” in Spargo who helped pay the miners’ food bills at the store. Delaney didn’t know the identity of this philanthropist nor the reason for his generosity, but he had a strong suspicion that it was Ace Beauford, owner of the Silver King Saloon and close friend of Clancy.

  Mental agility not being his long suit, Brazos found the situation perplexing. But Delaney had more for him to think about. The Irishman, supported by his daughter who sat off to one side feeding Bullpup left-overs, insisted that none of the rank-and-file miners had any knowledge of the ambush attempt by Billy Murphy’s son, though Delaney conceded that Paddy Clancy’s hand could be in it somewhere.