Benedict and Brazos 18

by E. Jefferson Clay

“Well, if you pilgrims don’t beat all,” Rangle drawled. “When we agreed to go ridin’ together, I figured I’d lit onto a bunch of middlin’ tough hombres to back my play. Instead I find myself saddled with a pack of rough, tough hellions who get jumpy when a man just polishes his gun.” The green eyes drilled at Jack Clanton whose big, beefy face was turning red with embarrassment now. “I am readin’ it right, aren’t I, Clanton?”

  “Hell, Bo,” the giant said uncomfortably, “all I meant was that I never seen no need for anybody to be foolin’ with a hogleg just now.”

  “I don’t like bein’ told what to do, Clanton. I thought you’d know that by now ... but of course you’re kind of slow catchin’ on to anythin’, aren’t you?”

  Rack Stonehill rose from where he’d been squatting on his haunches supervising the operation on South, facing the black-garbed Rangle squarely.

  “Don’t ride Jack, Bo,” he said, his voice heavy with the hard ring of authority. “He doesn’t rightly know how to take it. Besides, there’s no need for it.”

  A tiny red glint appeared deep in Rangle’s eyes. Rack Stonehill wasn’t tall but he was broad of shoulder. He was still in his twenties though a somber cast to his dark face made him seem older. His hair was black and short-cropped, his eyes unfathomable pools of ink. In his trail-stained gray shirt, faded red bandanna and gun rig, he looked as tough as horsehide, and right at the moment, proddy.

  Rangle tilted his head back and hooked his thumbs in his gunbelt. “We’ve got a long way to go, Rack,” he said softly. “It sure don’t encourage me any to see my trail partners gettin’ jumpy before we’re properly started.”

  Stonehill’s face tightened. “Jumpy’s not a good word, Bo. I’ve only known you for a week, but some of these boys, includin’ Jack, have been with me for years. We’ve been dodging posses, riding the owlhoot and living in the shadow of the rope a long time, and none of my boys has showed yellow once. I guess I’ll have to ask you to take that back.”

  A thick silence fell as Rangle studied Stonehill intently, his eyes hooded. There could be little doubt about it; this was some sort of a test of strength between Bo Rangle and Rack Stonehill. Rangle flicked his eyes at the others. He wasn’t nervous, he’d rather live in a hollow log than own to that. But he was a little wary ...

  He had met Rack Stonehill in the Whiplock Mountains in Wyoming a week ago on his way north to Utah. It had been a timely meeting, for Rangle had been in need of good men to help him recover the gold he’d cached far across Arapahoe Valley, and pickings had been lean for Stonehill for too long. It had only taken the mention of Bo Rangle’s much publicized two hundred thousand dollars in gold to guarantee Stonehill’s interest in the job. They’d agreed on Stonehill’s cut and had set out for the north country. So far so good. Stonehill’s men held Rangle in something akin to awe because of his infamous name, while Rangle in turn found the bunch exactly the kind he might need to ensure the success of his dangerous undertaking.

  But that had been before Whetstone. Rangle had assured the outlaws that though killing Brazos and Benedict was a necessary precaution, it was an undertaking that could be handled smoothly and efficiently with minimal risk to life and limb. Instead, the gang had lost three men in Whetstone, the death of the girl had shaken the outlaws badly, and now with friction rearing its ugly head, Rack Stonehill was obviously bent on exercising his authority.

  Bo Rangle didn’t like that. Since the day he’d first set his crimson foot on the outlaw trail, many dead men ago, Rangle had been a leader. He’d been head man of a notorious band of outlaws in Kansas before the war, and during the war his marauder band at full strength had numbered one hundred and fifty men. But, since then, principally due to the relentless pursuit of Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos, Rangle had seen his once invincible band hunted, hounded and decimated until the army ambush in Wyoming a month ago that had left him alone with nothing but past glories to reflect upon—and two hundred thousand in gold hidden north in Arapahoe Valley.

  It had been during the weeks when he’d slowly recovered from wounds received in the army ambush under the tender care of Tara Killane, that Rangle had decided the gold would have to be reclaimed. Regardless of the dangers, he would recover his gold, then say goodbye to the West and make his way to sunny Mexico. He’d been prepared to make almost any sacrifice to achieve his ends, even going so far as to offer Stonehill twenty thousand in gold to help him reclaim the treasure. He’d even offered up his mistress as a sacrifice on the altar of his greed. But having another man challenge his authority was something that went so strongly against the grain of his makeup that he found himself baulking ...

  But could he afford to clash with Stonehill? Rangle sucked in a deep breath as he pictured what lay ahead. Endless badland miles, savage Indian tribes, winter drawing on, uncertainty. Maybe the army was still patrolling the country in anticipation of his return. And if the outlaws and hellions who made the badlands home, heard about his return, they would surely put two and two together, guess why he’d come back and try to run him down with the gold. He’d eliminated Brazos and Benedict, true, but to imagine he could handle the rest of the task alone would be foolhardy. He stared into Stonehill’s black eyes and realized the bitter truth. He was going to have to back-water.

  “All right, Rack,” he smiled. “I guess I was actin’ a little ornery.” He moved across to Clanton and patted him on the shoulder. “No hard feelin’s, Jack?”

  Clanton’s dull face creased in a big smile. “Hell, no, Bo. Guess we’re all a little edgy, huh?”

  “I guess we are.” Rangle winked at Stonehill. “Still pards, Rack?”

  “Sure, Bo,” Stonehill replied, but there was no answering smile.

  Rangle’s lip curled as he turned and walked to the horses. They all thought Stonehill had won the test of strength, but they were going to learn differently before this turkey shoot was over. Once they got their hands on the gold and brought it safely away from Arapahoe Valley, tough Rack Stonehill was going to find out how much it cost to stand against Bo Rangle.

  As Rangle walked out of earshot, Ward Bishop put the finishing touches to his rough surgery and got to his feet.

  “How’s she feel now, Chaney?” he asked.

  As tough a waddy as had ever ridden the owlhoot, runty Chaney South got to his feet and put his weight on his wounded leg.

  “Well, I mightn’t be doin’ any cartwheels for a spell,” he said, “but I’ll make it right enough.”

  “Sure you will, boy.” Bishop grinned and turned to Stonehill. “Well, I reckon we’re ready to push on, Rack.”

  Rack Stonehill didn’t hear him. The outlaw leader was watching Bo Rangle’s shadowy figure and doing some heavy thinking. Until tonight, Stonehill had believed that the stories he’d heard about Bo Rangle were exaggerated, the way such things often were in the West. But now that he’d had the chance to see Bo Rangle in action, he was beginning to sense that, though twenty thousand in gold was the biggest pot he’d ever played for, it could well turn out to be the riskiest game of his outlaw career.

  From here on, Rack Stonehill promised himself, he was going to be keeping one sharp eye on the trail and the other on his new partner ...

  The murmur of voices in the street faded as Benedict emerged from the Frontier Hotel. For a man who’d been within minutes of suffocation in a smoke-filled cellar less than eight hours earlier, Benedict was looking remarkably chipper as he moved into the pale autumn sunlight. He’d shaved, bathed, and was decked out in a fresh rig. With five hours’ sleep, a hearty breakfast and two large whiskies under his belt, he looked pretty much like the handsome, flashy figure who’d walked through the batwings of the Big Horn last night, except for red-rimmed eyes and a slight paleness.

  With all eyes on him, Benedict halted at the top of the steps, glanced across the street at the ruins of the saloon, then nodded to Brazos. The big Texan stood at the hitchrail in his shotgun chaps and faded purple shirt. His head was swathed in white bandaging and a
Bull Durham cigarette dangled from his lips. Behind Brazos, their horses stood saddled and ready for the trail.

  Benedict nodded to himself. It was no more or no less than he’d expected. Rangle had shown up here last night with fifteen outlaws and had come within an ace of killing them both, but Brazos was ready, even impatient, to head out after them. There were times when he had grave doubts about Johnny Reb’s intelligence, manners and politics, but the one thing he could never doubt was his courage.

  And what about Whetstone’s courage? he asked himself as he gave his attention to the towners. Last night, as he’d sat washing the acrid taste of the smoke from his throat with straight bourbon, in the hotel parlor, there had been a lot of talk about mustering a posse and going after those responsible for the attack on the Big Horn. To hear them talk, a man would think that every man-jack of them was ready to ride to the gates of hell in the name of vengeance. Or at least it might have sounded that way to a man less cynical than Duke Benedict. But Benedict knew the towner breed only too well. He’d often seen their courage evaporate in the cold light of day, but that didn’t mean he was ready to give up on them just yet. Rangle had a big bunch with him. Judging by the reports, he would have left Whetstone with at least ten riders. That represented heavy odds, even by his and Brazos’ standards.

  Benedict selected a cigar, set it between his teeth and felt for his pocket flint.

  “Well, gentlemen,” he said quietly, “who rides with us after Bo Rangle?”

  There was a heavy silence, just as he’d expected. Then somebody coughed and a small, dapper figure stepped forward. “You can count me in, Benedict.”

  The volunteer was Doc Skine, the consumptive ex-gunfighter. As Benedict stared at the little man in surprise, Skine was seized by a sudden violent bout of coughing. When the man pressed his kerchief to his lips, Benedict frowned across at Brazos, who shook his head. Nodding in agreement, Benedict waited for Skine to stop coughing, then said:

  “I appreciate the offer, Skine, but I’m afraid this is a job that will test the fittest. No offence, but you’re not a well man.”

  Skine put his kerchief away and drew himself proudly erect. “I’ll concede that, Benedict, but I believe I can sit a saddle as long as the healthiest man you’re gonna find here. Apart from that, I’m good with a gun and I’m willing. You’ll find both those qualities mighty scarce, I’m thinking.”

  Benedict looked a question at Brazos, who stroked his jaw thoughtfully for a moment and then said:

  “He could be right, Yank.” Brazos’ eyes played over the others. “We ain’t exactly gettin’ stampeded with volunteers, you’ll notice.”

  Benedict shook his head. “But we could be on the trail for a week, maybe longer.”

  Skine met his gaze levelly. “I won’t hold you back, Benedict. If I do, I expect to be left behind.”

  “That sounds fair enough,” Brazos said.

  “Perhaps,” Benedict said dubiously. “But why, Doc? What makes you so anxious to ride with us?”

  “I have my reasons,” said Doc Skine, and the finality in his tone said they would have to be content with that.

  “Very well,” Benedict conceded reluctantly. “Anybody else?”

  “Danged right!” came the ready reply, and a ripple of mirth swept through the crowd as a wisp of a man strutted forth with his ridiculous long coat flapping around his sorry pants.

  Benedict felt his jaw fall open as he studied the tiny man beside whom Doc Skine looked rugged. “Who the devil are you?’

  “Peter Chalkey at your service, mister,” the diminutive volunteer informed proudly. “I’m the littlest feller in the Misties and the oldest. Wouldn’t be surprised if I was the smartest, too. I know I’m the sassiest.”

  “Peter the Great we call him hereabouts, Mr. Benedict,” the hotelkeeper supplied. “To hear him tell it, he’s the greatest hand at just about everythin’, though about the only thing I could guarantee is that he sure is one great braggart.”

  “As good as I ever was, Mr. Benedict,” the runt assured him, paying no attention to the hotelkeeper. “Better mebbe,” he added hopefully.

  “Sorry,” Benedict said tersely. He had to draw the line somewhere.

  “But you don’t understand,” protested Peter the Great. “I’ve got to go with you, for Horatio’s sake.”

  “Horatio? Who’s Horatio?”

  “Why, my cat, of course. Greatest mouser in Utah, randiest old tom in the mountains, the best—”

  “Let me get this straight,” Benedict broke in. “You want to ride with a posse after Rangle because of a cat?”

  Peter the Great assured him that this was so. Then, before Benedict could reply, Brazos spoke up.

  “Can you handle horses, little feller?”

  It was a superfluous question; Peter Chalkey was delighted to inform all within hearing that when it came to horses, he took a back seat to no man in the entire United States. But Benedict didn’t believe him and said as much. The little man’s face fell and he looked appealingly at Brazos.

  The Texan grinned. “What have we got to lose, Yank? He looks chipper enough. And, like Doc says, we ain’t in a position to be that choosy.”

  “You’re a great help, Johnny Reb,” Benedict said with heavy irony. Then, looking at the little man again, he sighed in defeat. “All right, damn it. Have you got a horse?”

  “Have I got a horse?” Chalkey beamed. “Only the fastest, best-lookin’—”

  “All right, all right,” Benedict cut him off. Then, displaying some apprehension as to what might come out of the woodwork next, he said, “Any more volunteers?”

  The eyes of the onlookers that had been twinkling with amusement suddenly dropped under Benedict’s searching gaze, until there were only two left with their heads up. Both big, rough-looking men, they stood at the back of the crowd in battered hats and tattered clothes.

  “You two?” Benedict asked.

  “Depends,” grunted the man with the black spade beard.

  “On what?”

  The two came around the crowd to stand in the street near Brazos. They wore heavy gun rigs, and the man with the ginger hair and thick moustache carried a big Henry .50-.50 rifle.

  “Nick Beecher,” the redhead identified himself. “And my pard here is Reb Cody. We could be interested in ridin’ with you if it was worth our while, Benedict. Is it true that this Rangle jasper is supposed to have a big cache of gold somewhere hereabouts?”

  “Yes,” Benedict said.

  “You figurin’ you might run that cache down?” black-bearded Cody asked.

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then I reckon we’ll ride along with you.”

  “Well, you look likely enough,” Benedict observed. “But you had better be clear about one thing. If we do come across Rangle’s gold, it belongs to Brazos and me.”

  “But if we was to help you run him down, you’d be willin’ to throw a little dinero our way, wouldn’t you?” Beecher asked.

  Benedict looked a question at Brazos.

  The big Texan nodded. “All right with me if it suits you, Yank.”

  Benedict hesitated for a moment, studying the pair. Beecher and Cody had hardcase written all over them. But wasn’t that exactly the kind of man they might need?

  “Very well,” he said finally. “Five hundred each if we find Rangle’s gold. The same goes for you and Peter, Doc. Now, anybody else interested in making some easy money?”

  “I’m not interested in the gold, Duke,” a soft voice said from the hotel doorway. “But I want to go with you.”

  Something tight and cold crept into Duke Benedict’s face as Tara Killane stepped onto the porch. Last night, after they’d taken refuge in the Big Horn cellar, with death seemingly inevitable, the girl had confessed everything. She was Bo Rangle’s girl. She’d been sent into Whetstone last night to distract him and she’d done a fine job. If the killers had taken Brazos out silently, Rangle would have walked into that upstairs room and blasted Benedict
out of the bed. As it was, the crash of shots from the hotel had alerted him to danger, and he’d been at the door with a Colt in each fist when five outlaws had come charging up the stairs to finish him off. Looking at the girl now, he felt the chill of ice in his veins.

  “I make it a personal rule never to let a woman make a fool of me twice, Miss Killane.”

  “Don’t you think you could trust me after what Bo did to me last night?” she countered. Her lovely face turned cold. “I want him dead even more than you do. I could help you kill him. You need me, Duke.”

  “That’s foolishness.”

  “It’s nothing of the kind, Duke. I’ve been with Bo on and off ever since the end of the war. I was there when he came through the valley with the gold, though I wasn’t with him when he hid it. But I know Bo better than anyone does. I know how he thinks, what he’s likely to do in any given situation, and I even know some of the places where he camped on the first trip. Can you afford not to take me with you?”

  Her words carried the sure ring of logic, and Benedict frowned at her, feeling his resolve begin to weaken. He knew of course that he couldn’t trust her. But that was a small factor compared with the possibility that she might be a big help in tracking Rangle down. And that, his inner voice told him, was all he had ever been interested in. He wanted Rangle, wanted him so much that he could taste it. If he could overlook the damage done to his pride by this wild, beautiful girl, he had to concede that she could be of more value on the hunt than the rest of his rag-tag posse put together ...

  “Very well, Tara,” he decided. “But if you try to cross us, I’ll kill you. I hope you believe that?”

  “I believe you. But you won’t have to kill me, Duke.” Her mouth twisted. “All I want is to see Bo dead. I never thought he’d turn on me ... never.”

  Benedict nodded, then he turned to Brazos. Together they made another appeal for volunteers, but the well was dry. Fifteen minutes later, they rode from Whetstone on the trail of Bo Rangle with Bullpup, two hardcases, a broken-down gunfighter, the town’s fool, and the girl who had been murderous Bo Rangle’s mistress.