“I’ll wait until that’s proved to me.” Benedict drew his right-hand Colt and spun the cylinders on his forearm to test the mechanism. “If he’s up there, we’ll try and take him alive, Reb.”
“Mebbe it’d be better off all around if we killed him.”
Benedict’s eyes softened a little. “Did you stop thinking about the gold, big man?”
Brazos shrugged. “Mebbe. I got me a feelin’ about this trail, Benedict. I got a feelin’ somethin’s goin’ to end out here. I wouldn’t like that to mean you and me facin’ each other with guns over a stack of gold coin.”
“You’re getting a little ahead, aren’t you? Let’s worry about Rangle first. We can think about the gold later.”
“That makes sense, I guess.”
Benedict trotted his horse back towards the others. Brazos hesitated before following, his own words of moments ago conjuring up a question he’d never squarely faced before. If he had his way, would he rather have two hundred thousand dollars in gold or Duke Benedict riding the trails with him?
He dismissed the thought with a frown and kicked his horse around. But he knew the problem would return.
Bo Rangle wondered if he’d ever known a night so dark. But, as he sat hunched on the slope of the hill with Stonehill and his men squatted silently around him, watching the distant flicker of the fire, he knew it wasn’t just the darkness that hung heavy upon him. Something lurked in the night air that pressed so coldly against his skin, and its name was Death.
The feeling had deepened as they’d waited, watching to see if the trap would work. In his mind’s eye, Rangle could see moving shadows approaching the “camp” where they’d carefully placed brush under blankets to look like sleeping men. His imagination could picture hulking Brazos and flashy Benedict working their way closer, guns ready. It was a good trap, and nothing had happened to suggest that it wouldn’t work as planned. So why the clammy feeling along his flesh? Why did he keep twisting his head and cocking his ear, as if listening for ghostly voices on the chill breath of the night wind?
There! What was that?
His finger tightened on the trigger of his .45 as he stared into the darkness past the heavy-shouldered silhouette that was Stonehill. He waited. There it was again, a soft rustling in the grass. He started to his feet, then stopped as a tumbleweed rolled by. He hunkered down again, feeling foolish. A tumbleweed. What had he expected? A scout from the Fort Such cavalry?
He forced himself to relax. If these hellions got the idea that their new leader had the jumps, they might start getting brave ideas.
The fire was burning brightly out there on the face of the plains. He calculated that an hour had passed since full darkness came. Soon, he reassured himself, it was going to work.
He took his hand from his gun butt and wiped it down his shirt. He was cold, but his hand was sweating. His hand suddenly froze. There had been a sound. From somewhere behind, a man had coughed.
Chapter Six
When Old Friends Meet
“God, I’m sorry! I couldn’t help …” Doc Skine whispered, breaking off as Hank Brazos’ big hand clapped over his mouth.
Sprawled in the grass ten feet from Skine and Brazos, Benedict waited, holding his breath. Doc Skine’s cough had sounded as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence as they belly-crawled up the hill. But perhaps it hadn’t really been that loud.
Drawing his big hand slowly back from Skine, every sense intensely alert, Brazos was desperately hoping the same thing. And then he heard it—the sound of leather brushing against stone beyond the crest.
They were up there.
“Rangle!” he shouted. “We’ve got you surrounded! Show with your hands up!”
His answer was a shot and gun flame, orange in the darkness. Benedict’s Colt roared back, a man screamed, and suddenly the dimly-visible crest line was alive with moving shapes.
In the space of a heartbeat, an eruption of violent sound engulfed the darkened hill—the roar of guns, hoarse shouts, then the jagged scream of a mortally wounded man that sawed down the spine like a whipsaw blade.
The dying man was outlaw Hud York; Benedict’s slug had driven through his chest and smashed his backbone. Gus Page ran behind the fallen York with a belching Colt, then he ran into the combined fire of Brazos, Benedict, Doc Skine, Beecher and Cody. Shot through and through, Page was flung backwards, his hurtling body narrowly missing the lean figure with the six-gun in each hand who was shouting, “Attack! Attack!”
For Benedict and Brazos, that savage voice sent memories triggering back to the crimson day on Pea Ridge when the gray flood of Rangle’s Raiders had come bursting from the trees to engulf the fighting men of both North and South in an avalanche of blood and steel. On that terrible day, there had been fifty triumphant marauders responding to the fighting cry, “Rangle! Rangle! Rangle!” as they killed and spurred dying men into the mud. But tonight, on this nameless hill in Arapahoe Valley, Rangle only had a handful of men to respond to his order to kill.
Even so, the outlaws fought fiercely. More afraid of Rangle than they were of the enemy, they came over the ridge in a panther rush.
To those who survived, the terrible minute that followed would always be remembered as an insane chaos of storming guns, screaming men, terror and sudden death. Surging figures lurched this way and that, guns flared crimson in the gloom, and men fell, their screams lost in the totality of deafening sound.
Finally Rangle’s voice shouted again, but it wasn’t the voice of the Rangle who’d ordered them into the attack. “Make for the horses!” he bellowed, and then he was gone, flitting down the northern slope of the hill like a ghostly shadow.
Rack Stonehill responded swiftly, shouldering a man aside and plunging after the new leader. Others followed.
Knocked flying off his feet by a driving bulk, Hank Brazos rolled. He was coming erect when another outlaw suddenly loomed over him. Brazos hesitated for a second, trying to identify the figure as friend or foe. Then a six-gun exploded at almost point-blank range and his Colt was smashed from his grasp by the slug. He kicked out wildly and the outlaw stumbled, then crashed on top of him. Brazos seized the man’s gun arm and then a knee drove into his groin. He gasped. The outlaw jerked his arm free and the Colt rammed up against Brazos’ throat. Suddenly a slight figure exploded from nowhere to grapple with the outlaw. The gun went off and Brazos felt the hot breath of the slug against his cheek. Then two writhing men rolled away, and he heard Doc Skine’s cough, followed by the muffled sound of a shot.
Scrabbling for the Colt, Brazos saw another figure loom. He got to his feet and dived, taking the man in a flying tackle. The momentum carried them ten feet before they hit, spilling over and over, down the slope in a wild tangle of arms and legs. Brazos’ huge hands closed on a throat, and he was driving the thumbs in when he realized who his adversary was.
“Judas, Yank!” he panted, releasing his grip. “That was close.”
“Close enough,” Benedict gasped, and only when they rolled apart did Brazos realize that Benedict had had the muzzle of his Colt rammed into his belly. Benedict jumped to his feet. “Come on, let’s get back into it.”
They rushed up the slope together, only to find that the battle was over. The outlaws were gone and they heard the drumbeat of receding hooves and the fading sound of hoarse shouts.
“No belly for an even fight, that bastard,” Brazos panted. “He never did have.” Then he called, “Doc? Beecher? Cody? It’s us!”
Figures stirred in the gloom to their right. “Here!” called the voice of Nick Beecher.
Then came Cody’s nasal whine, “Damn it, I stopped one in the shoulder.”
“Where’s Skine?” Benedict asked.
They found the little gunfighter moments later, locked in death with the outlaw who had come so close to killing Brazos. Skine and the badman had shot each other up close. Doc Skine lay sprawled on his back across the outlaw, face smiling in death.
“He wanted to prove h
e was still a man,” Benedict said quietly.
“He did it,” Brazos said hoarsely. “Thanks, Doc.”
Suddenly they lifted their heads as guns erupted again a long way across the flats. They saw the red lances of gun flame, heard wild shouts, and then, chillingly, came an Indian war cry.
“Jumped up Judas!” Brazos breathed. “The Sioux!”
“They must have heard the shooting and decided to come and investigate,” Benedict guessed, standing tense and tall at Brazos’ side. He watched the vivid gun flashes for a moment longer, then said, “What do you reckon, Johnny Reb? Should we buy in?”
Brazos considered the question, then he shook his head. “It’d take us ten minutes to get back to Peter and the horses, and by then I reckon it’ll be over, one way or another. Besides, it’s too damn dark for this sort of caper. Reckon we got no choice but to get back to the others and just lie low until sunup.”
“I guess you’re right ...” Benedict studied the gun flashes. They’d been erupting from the one point moments back, but now they were strung out in a long line. “It looks as if Rangle’s trying to outride them.”
“And you can bet he’ll make it,” Brazos grunted, bending to lift little Doc Skine in his arms. “He always makes it.”
Benedict nodded. That grim truth had been proved many times in the past, and now here on this hill of death. No matter how many men died, Bo Rangle always escaped.
Brazos lay lizard-still on the crest of a switchback ridge with Bullpup sprawled at his side. Smoke from the cigarette dangling from the big Texan’s lips curled away through the protective screen of broomsedge in slow blue tendrils. The sun had just risen over Arapahoe Valley, but the breeze hadn’t lifted as yet. There was the glisten of dew on the broomsedge, and the smell of sage was strong and tangy, mingling with the good tobacco smell.
A quarter mile south of Brazos’ position, his companions waited in a deep arroyo with the horses. Following their return from the hill last night, the party had ridden back some two miles to gain the sanctuary of the broken country, a prudent move that had suggested itself when they’d seen the flare of Indian torches on the bloody hill where the dead men lay.
He was watching the Indians now, a war party of thirteen riding slowly westward across the broad flats. Three of the horses dragged a travois, on each of which was a body. Through the field glasses, Brazos saw that one of the shrouded bodies had a feathered head-dress lying on its chest, indicating that the dead warrior was an important man, perhaps even a chief.
The minutes ticked by. The sun warmed his broad back and Bullpup dozed. The Indian party wound around the base of a distant ridge, then slowly drifted from sight into the swelling hills beyond.
Brazos waited another five minutes before nudging the hound awake, then he bellied back from the crest, rose and strode back to camp.
Benedict saw him coming and strolled out to meet him. Brazos looked exactly like a man who’d spent a rough night in the wilds, but Benedict, typically, appeared almost dapper. The gambling man had given himself a cold-water shave after taking care of the burying of Doc Skine. While Brazos was on the ridge, he’d brushed his clothes and shined his boots and gun belt. Brazos was the breed who always felt he was ahead of the game if he had food in his belly and a place to lay his weary head, but with Benedict the good life was synonymous with good grooming. Brazos knew from experience that if it ever came to a choice between a shave and a feed for Benedict, he would take the shave every time.
They met by a sturdy live oak and Brazos told Benedict what he’d seen.
“Sounds promising,” Benedict said. “With the Sioux gone, it should be safe to ride up there and pick up Rangle’s trail again.”
Brazos grunted. “Mebbe, mebbe not. Like I said, it looked to me like one of them dead bucks was somebody important. If it was, then the Sioux will be lookin’ for revenge, and nobody’s got a taste for that like they have.”
“But we can’t just sit around here indefinitely, waiting until we’re sure it’s safe to ride. Rangle already has seven or eight hours’ head start.”
“Better to sit around than run into a war party on the prod. It’s open country up there, Yank, and there’s no way we can cross it without bein’ sighted.”
The two men fell into silence, each busy with his own thoughts.
The sun was climbing the sky, spilling its golden warmth across the land. It was difficult to relate a golden morning like this with the murderous violence of the night that had just passed.
Brazos looked across at the camp. Reb Cody was seated on a boulder picking at the bandage Tara Killane had put around his shoulder. It was a bad wound and it seemed to have taken most of the vitality out of the hardcase. Red-headed Beecher stood near the horses, smoking and cleaning his six-gun. A tiny figure in his ridiculous greatcoat, Peter the Great was scouting around for flowers to put on Doc Skine’s grave. The little man had cried while Benedict said the words over the grave at first light. The others still thought Chalkey a fool, but not Brazos. He’d always had a soft spot for the Chalkeys of the world.
His eyes drifted across to the spring. Tara Killane stood by the water, drying her face with a towel. She turned slowly to glance in their direction with the sun striking lights from her hair. Then she slung the towel over her shoulder and moved back towards the camp. She walked like a queen, Brazos thought. Then he thought of something else, something the girl had said before leaving Whetstone. He snapped his fingers.
“Maybe ...” he murmured, half to himself.
“Maybe what?” Benedict prompted.
“The girl, Yank. Remember how she told us that she might be of some help? She said she knew some of the places Rangle had stopped off at when they were up here before. Could be that she could guess where he might head now. Then we could bypass them redskins and pick up his trail farther on.”
“The eternal optimist,” Benedict said cynically.
“Wouldn’t hurt none to try her out.”
Benedict frowned, then shrugged. What did they have to lose?
Tara was grooming her horse when they reached the camp. She smiled at Brazos, but her nod to Benedict went unacknowledged.
Brazos didn’t waste any time. She knew the country. Did she have any idea where Rangle might be going?
Tara gave the sorrel a few more strokes, then leaned her hand against the animal’s back and frowned. “There is a place,” she said finally. “A tiny trading outpost named Devil’s Fork. Do you know it?”
“We heard of it the last time we were here,” Benedict said. “About fifty miles northeast of here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” The girl turned to face them squarely. “We picked up supplies there once. There’s a saloon, a blacksmith’s and a store. Perhaps, after last night, Bo will be in need of horses and whisky. But I’m only guessing. There are other places I know of, but Devil’s Fork is the only one I can think of where Bo might be tempted to stay for a while ... if he went there.”
Benedict and Brazos drew aside to confer. It was a long shot, they agreed after some discussion, but perhaps it was time to play long shots. The alternative to acting upon the girl’s suggestion held little appeal, Brazos holding firm to the belief that they would have to wait at least until nightfall before risking a ride west along the flats to search for Rangle’s sign.
Agreement was finally reached. They would make for Devil’s Fork. Benedict gave the order to saddle up, and fifteen minutes later Brazos led them away from the arroyo, striking northeast for a mile before circling a belt of timber, then angling north.
Brazos predicted that, barring bad weather, Sioux war parties and unforeseen acts of God, they should raise Devil’s Fork sometime after the next sunrise.
It was late afternoon when the outlaws reached the scatter of ugly unpainted buildings that was Devil’s Fork. Exhaustion marked every hard face as they came in past the horse corrals on the edge of town, but the big sign hanging over the split-log saloon that announced BEER 5c—WHISKY 10c
, lifted their spirits. Last night’s violence was behind them; they would wash away the lingering taste at Whisky Bob’s Saloon.
The arrival of the outlaws brought Devil’s Fork to life, and soon Whisky Bob’s was doing boom business as the towners drifted in to join in the fun.
And fun it was. By nature, these were men not given to mourning for dead companions. Death was always your saddle partner on the owlhoot. They’d lost five men last night, four in the clash with Benedict and Brazos, another when they’d fought the Sioux. But they were still alive, there was liquor close at hand, and tomorrow loomed uncertainly. So they would live tonight.
The sun slid down past the windows and the noisy hum in Whisky Bob’s grew to a roar. Somebody threw a bottle through a window and laughed drunkenly. Big Jack Clanton rolled out of his chair and fell asleep, snoring on the floor. Ward Bishop got into a brawl with a local, whipped him good and booted him into the street to the accompaniment of cheers. Bob Checker won twenty dollars on the wheel, promptly lost thirty back, then retired upstairs with a tarnished blonde and a bottle of redeye. Rack Stonehill, slow to get started, finally began to feel the beneficial effects of Whisky Bob’s booze, and he started to boast to an impressed audience at the bar how he’d gunned down two Sioux bucks out in the wilds. On the strength of this, Indian-hating Whisky Bob treated him to a bottle on the house.
But Bo Rangle sat alone at a corner table. Before dark, he’d gone next door to the store and purchased ammunition and supplies. He planned to leave town around midnight to strike northwest into the badlands. The others would be coming with him, drunk or sober. In truth, he wouldn’t have minded getting riotously drunk himself, but he drank little. It wasn’t over yet. Until it was, Bo Rangle was staying sober.
It was just on dark when the batwings pushed open and five men and a girl came in. Rangle looked up idly, then froze, his jaw clicking open in disbelief.
Benedict and Brazos 18 Page 6
