Benedict and Brazos 6

by E. Jefferson Clay

  It was then that Brazos steered the conversation around to the standoff between the strikers and Foley Kingston. Brazos understood Kingston’s angle, following disclosure of his plan to bring in cheap labor, but he couldn’t figure out why Clancy seemed so dead set against finding a solution.

  Delaney could throw no light on that, but, knowing Clancy, he said that gain had to be in it somewhere. “He might be big and foul-mouthed and hot-tempered, Hank,” he warned, adding a little whisky to his coffee, “but Paddy Clancy is no fool. There’s them who’ve thought he was and they’ve paid a heavy price for it.”

  Waving aside Tricia’s offer of a fifth coffee, Brazos rolled a cigarette and sat smoking in silence for some time, going over what Delaney had told him. Uppermost in his thoughts was the certainty of bloodshed in Spargo when Kingston brought in his strike-breakers from the south, and the fact that he and Benedict were going to be in the thick of it. Were the miners in the right? Had Kingston driven them to strike? Was Kingston wearing the black hat? And, most important, was the mine too dangerous to work or wasn’t it?

  He eventually put this question to Delaney who shrugged. “I suppose there’s only one way you could be knowin’ that for sure, Hank, and that’s to see for yourself.”

  Brazos pursed his lips thoughtfully for a moment. “Mebbe you’re right at that, Shamus. And mebbe that’s just what I’ll do.”

  Delaney studied his face, then shrugged. “Well, there’s nothin’ stoppin’ you takin’ a look, I suppose, though I doubt if Foley Kingston would want you sniffin about down there.”

  “Mebbe I won’t bother tellin’ him until I’ve had me a look-see.” Brazos glanced at the clock on the wall. It was eleven-thirty. “Mebbe I’ll mosey on down to the Motherlode now while I’m in the mood. Want to come along, Shamus?”

  “Me?”

  “Sure, why not? I could get Shadie or somebody there to take me down, but if things are as bad as you say, mebbe they’d make sure I didn’t see the bad parts.”

  Delaney looked at his daughter and she nodded her dark head. “Well, all right, why not? Sure, we’ll go along to the Motherlode together and you’ll see for yourself that things are just like I say.”

  Foley Kingston’s voice, thick with whisky and anger, drifted down the corridor and seeped under the door of the room where Duke Benedict was taking off his coat and loosening his four-in-hand tie.

  “Rhea, damn you, open your door!”

  If Rhea Kingston replied, Benedict didn’t hear it. He hung up his coat and was unbuckling his heavy double gun rig when Kingston’s voice sounded again:

  “All right, you cold bitch, sleep by yourself then! Who cares!”

  Benedict heard a door bang with an impact that rocked the house. He grinned without humor as he hung his gun rig on the bed post and unbuttoned his waistcoat. That was the risk you ran staying overnight with people: you were likely to hear and see more than you wanted to. He would have returned to the Spargo Hotel, but Foley had insisted that he stay, and Kingston had been too drunk to take a refusal without an argument.

  Benedict felt weary but not sleepy. In his shirtsleeves, he stretched out on the bed in the guest room and locked his hands behind his head. The evening had been pleasant enough, though Foley had drunk too much and Rhea had been a little indiscreet in flirting with him. She was certainly a looker. She had the loveliest pair of ... eyes ... he’d seen in too many months.

  He wondered where Brazos had got to. Cole had told him that Brazos had left around nine. Bored, no doubt. He’d probably gone off to a saloon to get a bellyful of beer and talk about the price of beef with cowboys. That would be more his speed.

  He got up to light a last cigar from the lamp, then turned it out. Angling bars of moonlight came through the French doors giving onto the upstairs balcony. Pacing the floor and smoking, he had the feeling sleep was going to prove elusive. Too many things to think about. Like what was going to happen when Foley brought in his strike-breakers.

  Time passed. His cigar was smoked out and he was stretched out on the bed again, staring at the ceiling, more wide awake than before. Out in the mountains, wolves were howling.

  Finally Benedict swung his boots to the floor and went onto the balcony, the night wind rippling his shirtsleeves. All around him the great house was quiet, and few lights burned down in Spargo.

  He drew back from the balustrade at a sound from below. Peering through the columns, he saw a cloaked figure hurry across the lawn. A cowl hood prevented him from seeing the night walker’s face, but when a gust of wind pressed the cloak’s dark folds against a richly curved figure, he had no trouble at all in recognizing Rhea Kingston.

  He straightened slowly as the woman disappeared in the direction of town. Was it any business of his if Rhea Kingston was sneaking to town at one in the morning?

  That raised a second question. Wasn’t anything and everything connected with Foley Kingston his business now that Kingston had hired his guns?

  Quickly he put on his coat, hat and gunbelt.

  Chapter Six – Ace in the Pack

  “Oh, darling, you know what that does to me.”

  His lips moved over her naked breasts. A low flame in a ruby glass filled the room with a misty crimson glow. It gleamed on the dark furniture, the heavy drapes that weren’t quite closed, the clock that showed two-fifteen, and the man and the woman on the bed.

  The man, stripped to the waist, had a lean body that put the lie to his silver hair. His face, both handsome and cruel, was softened now with desire.

  The woman was naked. Her arms were out flung beneath rich auburn hair that spread out like a dark fan around her head. Her eyes were closed as his lips caressed her large, pink-budded breasts. The dim light gleamed softly on the satiny skin of long legs and clung to dramatically rounded curves. Beautiful at any time, she was doubly so in that ruby light, both to her lover and to the man with his eye at the thin chink in the curtains.

  Suddenly the man stiffened, his head jerked up to stare at the drapes.

  “Ace,” the woman murmured, her voice dreamy and husky, “what is it?”

  “I thought I heard something,” he whispered, sliding his feet to the floor.

  She sat up as he took a small Derringer from the night table. “I didn’t hear anything, Ace.”

  “Maybe it was just my imagination,” he said softly, padding for the door. “But I’ll take a look just in case.”

  He jerked the door open and stepped onto the long wooden balcony that encircled the upstairs quarters at the back of the Silver King Saloon. The balcony was empty. Gun at the ready, he went to the railing and leaned over to peer into the black pits of moon shadow below.

  “Anybody there?” he called.

  No answer. He turned and frowned when he saw the chink in the drapes. A door opened two rooms down and Ace Beauford’s gunman bodyguard appeared, tousle-headed and with a Colt .45 in his fist.

  “That you singin’ out, Ace? What’s wrong?”

  “Just thought I heard somebody sneaking about,” Beauford replied. “But I guess I was wrong. Go back to bed, Holly.”

  The gunfighter twirled his six-gun on his finger, grinned and disappeared inside. Then the woman called to Beauford.

  “Coming, Rhea,” he replied, took a final glance about, then went in and closed the door behind him.

  Once more silence enveloped the Silver King. Two minutes passed, then a dark shape emerged from beneath the balcony and stood for a moment looking up at the window where a dim red light softly burned.

  Benedict turned and made his way silently along the alley flanking the saloon. Reaching Johnny Street, he paused to light his third cigar of that early Thursday before strolling off slowly, and more than a little thoughtfully, for Kingston Hill.

  Duke Benedict strolled through the slanting sunlight towards the Spargo House Hotel. He was decked out in his black broadcloth suit, hand-tooled dress boots and twenty-dollar hat. He doffed his hat to a passing matron who clucked and flushed an
d hurried on her way like a startled hen. Benedict looked rested and relaxed and in the pink of condition, despite the fact that he’d had less than four hours’ sleep.

  It was mid-morning and Johnny Street was busy with horsemen and wagons and men afoot. Groups of strikers from the Motherlode stood in the verandah shade along the far side of the street. There was a racket of catcalls and whistles as two sporting girls from Coyote Street promenaded past the freight depot and stopped to look in a store window. Somebody had told Benedict that business had fallen off alarmingly in Coyote Street since the Motherlode closed down. He supposed the girls would be as happy as anybody else when things got back to normal.

  Mrs. Daphne Hogg, the portly wife of mine host at the Spargo House, looked up from her ledger and beamed when she saw who had entered the hotel.

  “Good morning, Mr. Benedict.” She wagged a plump finger and added roguishly, “My, but you’re a bold one and no mistake, aren’t you?”

  Resting his hands on the desk, Benedict cocked an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  She pointed to the clock. “Ten o’clock in the morning and you just getting in. My, my.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, dear lady, but I spent the night with friends.”

  She giggled girlishly. “That’s what you tell me. Oh, Mr. Benedict, you must think I came down in the last shower. A fine looking man like you, staying with friends? Now, now …”

  “Of course you are right, my astute Mrs. Hogg,” he said with a wicked grin. “As they say: The way of the eagle is in the air, the way of the ship is on the sea, and the way of a man is with a maid.”

  “Oh, Mr. Benedict, you are bold.”

  “Indubitably,” murmured Benedict. And then, feeling he’d just about exhausted giddy Mrs. Hogg’s possibilities, asked, “Is Mr. Brazos abroad yet?”

  “Oh, yes, he is, out at the bath-house. He’s another naughty one, too.”

  Moving for the rear door, Benedict paused. “Oh, and why is that?”

  “He didn’t get in until three himself.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, that is curious.”

  The bath-house, a circular, red-painted wooden edifice with a tin roof, stood in the center of the hotel’s back yard. As Benedict stepped onto the plank walk that led to the door, he heard sounds of violence coming from the little building, and then someone shouted:

  “Come back, you flea-infested, pot-lickin’, camp-robbin’ Judas Iscariot son-of-a-bitch or I’ll goddamn split your crutch to Christmas!”

  This was followed by a growl, a great splash and more lurid cursing from Brazos.

  Unable to contain his curiosity any longer, Benedict opened the bath-house door and gaped. The walls of the twelve-foot wide bath-house were splattered with soap and the floor was covered with water. In the center of the room, Brazos, drenched to the skin and wearing a mask of froth, was kneeling by the stout wooden tub wrestling with a furiously struggling, fully lathered Bullpup who was in the tub, growling, wriggling and spluttering.

  There was just time for this to register with Benedict before the timbers shook with the blast of Brazos’ bellow.

  “Shut that motherless door, damn blast your eyes!”

  He tried, but too late. Bullpup had been given a heady glimpse of sunshine and wide open spaces. Bursting out of Brazos’ wildly clutching arms like a greased pig, Bullpup raced full tilt for the door roaring like a mad bull, and drove headlong into the closing gap in the door with desperate impact.

  The door was thumped open and the edge caught Benedict’s ear. Cursing, he drove his shoulder into the door, but the powerful hound was already halfway out. Bullpup’s head swung and iron molars clashed a hair’s breadth from Benedict’s pants leg. Benedict leapt back instinctively, and the dog surged through.

  “Cretin of a beast!” Benedict snarled and aimed a vicious kick that missed by a full yard as Bullpup, with the heady air of freedom in his lungs, streaked across the yard for the gate in a white blur of soapsuds. All Benedict’s wild kick caught was Hank Brazos’ shin as he came barreling through the bath-house doorway in Bullpup’s wake, cursing like a muleskinner. Arms flailing wildly, Brazos staggered ten yards across the yard, desperately fighting for balance before he tripped on a plank, crashed down, turned a complete somersault and came to rest on his broad wet back with his big boots sticking out through the gateway.

  Silence.

  Benedict tenderly touched his ear, then smiled at the half-dozen gaping faces that had come to stare from the back stoop.

  “Bathing the dog,” he explained. “Got away.”

  Still not looking too sure that all the commotion and cursing could possibly have come from simply giving a dog a bath, they watched as Brazos hauled himself to his feet, plastered with dirt. Then, shaking their heads, they went back inside.

  “Nice timin’, Benedict,” Brazos growled sarcastically as he came across the yard.

  “How the devil was I to know you were bathing the monster? As far as I recall, he hasn’t been washed in six months.”

  “On account of it takes me six months to work up the energy,” Brazos shot back. “Well, he’s good and gone now,” he added resignedly. “You eaten yet?”

  “Not really,” Benedict said, sober now as he took out a fresh Havana. “I was offered breakfast at Kingston’s, but I didn’t have the appetite.”

  Steam rising off him as he stood in the sun, Brazos looked at his trail partner closely. “You, too, eh? Funny, I was off my chow this mornin’.”

  “Impossible. Never been heard of.”

  Brazos let that pass. He was dead serious now. “Yank, I got a few things to tell you about last night.”

  “That’s a coincidence,” Benedict said, “for I have a thing or two to tell you about last night, too. Why don’t you get a fresh shirt on and meet me over at Mulligan’s eatery and we can compare notes?”

  “You got a deal.”

  Benedict knew the situation was serious when Brazos ordered only a cup of hot and black coffee despite the aromatic temptations of Mulligan’s eatery.

  Behind his long counter, Mulligan himself, decked out in a greasy apron and a cocked chef’s hat, was busily occupied knocking up a batch of son-of-a-gun stew—the sort of fare that mostly could lure a hearty cowboy trencherman like Brazos from the next county.

  Even Benedict, who considered son-of-a-gun stew not up to the standard demanded of his educated palate, found his mouth watering a little as the rich scent filled the air. But Brazos didn’t seem to notice, so Benedict found himself wondering what sort of calamity had occurred to put his partner off his food.

  “I took a look over the Motherlode last night,” Brazos said suddenly. “With Shamus Delaney.”

  “Not exactly my idea of an entertaining night. But so?”

  “So it stinks.”

  “You’ll have to elucidate.”

  “Eh?”

  “Explain ... exactly how does it stink?”

  “It’s a death trap, Yank. I don’t know a power about mines, but anybody could see that it needs re-timberin’ from backside to breakfast. I tell you I was damned glad to get back up out of there in one piece—and we was just lookin’ around.”

  Benedict was no longer conscious of the aromatic properties of son-of-a-gun stew. His lean face sober, he said, “You sure about this, Reb? I mean, you’re not just feeling sympathetic towards the miners, are you? You have a tendency to side with the have-nots against the haves, you know, and it’s quite obvious that you don’t care for Kingston.”

  “Mebbe Kingston ain’t my speed, but that don’t have nothin’ to do with this.” Brazos leaned on the table, big slabs of muscle rolling under his shirt. “Yank, do you know there was five accidents in the Motherlode in two months afore the miners quit? And that eleven men were killed and another half dozen crippled?”

  “No, I didn’t ...” Benedict’s fingers tapped on the oilcloth. After a thoughtful minute he said, “This is sobering. Reb, quite sobering.”

  “Sure it
is. Look, Yank, I understand as how you feel you gotta help Kingston on account of the past, and damn it all, I been ready to stand at your shoulder like I done yesterday. Kingston was your friend and needed your help, fair enough. But I dunno about you now. For my part I don’t have much stomach for ridin’ gun for Kingston—not since I know what’s been goin’ on down that mine, damned if I do.”

  Benedict was silent as he watched a freighter swing wide into Johnny Street. The mule team plodded past, almost invisible in the dust they kicked up, with a red-faced man in a cabbage tree hat trotting alongside the lead team and the driver standing and cracking his long whip from the wagon.

  Benedict’s manner was more decisive when he turned back to Brazos. “You’re not suggesting we switch horses, are you?”

  “Hell, no. I mean, you’re in Kingston’s debt ... it wouldn’t be fittin’ to turn against him.” Brazos fiddled with his coffee spoon. “I’m wonderin’ if mebbe we oughtn’t just up stakes.”

  “Quit?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. No ... I came here to square an account and I’m staying until I do.”

  “But what about the mine and them fellers?”

  “Reb, perhaps Kingston isn’t lily-white, but neither are the miners. You can’t tell me that big Clancy isn’t bad news—and don’t tell me it wasn’t the miners behind the bullet that killed Bowers.”

  Brazos nodded. “You got a point there. But Clancy ain’t really the miners’ leader, you know.”

  “He seems to think he is.”

  “He walks plenty tall, sure. But I found out from Delaney that most of the workers only go along with Clancy on account they’re too scared not to. Delaney hates his guts, and so do a power of others, he says. He reckons Clancy’s got only about thirty hot-head supporters out of over a hundred miners. Delaney says he might have come to terms with Kingston before this, only Clancy don’t seem to want to, no matter what.”