His face looking like something cut from iron, Hank Brazos halted with tendrils of gunsmoke writhing about his big frame. Benedict, blood staining his left arm, moved to stand beside Brazos, his pale, handsome face expressionless.
Bo Rangle’s tearing laugh sounded. “Kill me, you bastards, and the gold is lost forever!”
Duke Benedict stared at him, thinking of Tara and Chalkey, of dead outlaws and all the innocent who’d lost their lives because of a couple of boxes of Confederate gold.
“You keep it, Rangle,” he said softly.
And then he shot Bo Rangle between the eyes.
Rack Stonehill slowly lowered the field glasses. With the naked eye he’d been able to see that burying was going on across the river, but it had taken the glasses to identify the bloodied corpse that the big man in the purple shirt had just dumped into the last of four graves.
Three travel-stained henchmen stared at him expectantly. Stonehill sighed and passed the glasses to Jack Clanton.
“Rangle,” he said.
“Dead?” grunted Bishop.
“Yeah.”
“Any sign of the gold?” asked Clanton.
“No sign.”
“Mebbe they got it stashed?” Clanton said hopefully. “Mebbe, if we was to get over there and rub those jaspers out, we could ...” His voice faded when he saw Stonehill’s expression. “You don’t reckon that’s a good idea, Rack?”
“They killed Rangle,” Stonehill said woodenly.
Bishop stared at his leader and rubbed his stubbled face. “Yeah, they did, didn’t they?”
Clanton lowered the glasses. “Mebbe it ain’t such a great idea after all, eh, Rack?”
Stonehill sat staring bleakly across the river, thinking of all the good boys he’d lost since meeting Bo Rangle. He was reluctant to quit now, but on the other hand he didn’t like the idea of facing the two men who’d killed Bo Rangle ...
Suddenly Ward Bishop cocked his head. “I hear somethin’, Rack. Horses, I reckon.”
Suddenly alert, Rack Stonehill jumped to his feet. There was no mistaking the sound of hoofbeats coming from the east. He didn’t know who it could be and he didn’t want to know. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t be friends of Rack Stonehill. Now he had an excuse to ride out; now he wouldn’t have to admit to his henchmen that he would rather walk through fire than cross that river to wrangle over a cache of gold with Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos.
The outlaws rode off, and some five minutes later the horsemen came into sight. They were the lumberjacks Benedict had hired to bring their horses down from the timber camp.
They stood together in the deepening dusk watching the lumberjacks ride slowly through the timber, heading home. Then Brazos, smoking a Bull Durham cigarette, turned and gazed across the river at the mission. He stood with his weight on his left leg, hip out-thrust, his right thigh bound with a canvas bandage. Benedict, his left arm in a makeshift sling, lifted his gaze to take in the gliding flight of an eagle.
The evening was cold. A knifing breeze rustled in the brush and moaned in the pines overhead. Across the river, dust was blown across the four graves by the mission wall. One of the graves was not marked by a cross.
Benedict flicked his cigar butt away, then moved to his horse to adjust the cinches. Brazos watched him. They had spoken little during the long afternoon. The things that had happened here today had been too big for words.
At length Benedict turned to face his trail partner. “Well, I guess this is goodbye, Johnny Reb.”
“Reckon so.”
“We’ve had a few good times.”
“One or two. Which way are you headin’?”
“West ... after Monk.”
“Hope you catch up with him.”
“I will. What about you?”
Brazos lifted his big shoulders in a shrug. “Ain’t made up my mind.”
Benedict frowned. “You understand how it is, don’t you, Reb? We agreed to team up only until we caught Rangle.”
“Sure, I understand.” Brazos thrust out a big hand. “Stay lucky, Yank.”
“You, too, big man.”
Duke Benedict rode alone through the deepening dusk beside the river. It was strange, he thought, but he’d always expected to feel just fine when the day came to say goodbye to the overgrown Texan. There would be no more endless stories about Hank Brazos’ infernal father, no more being embarrassed in front of stylish friends by an illiterate Texan’s gaucheries—and no more snide remarks about his own “dude” ways. But he felt empty now, as if he’d lost something important.
“Reaction, Benedict,” he told himself firmly. He was emotionally drained after the showdown with Rangle, that was all. Tomorrow he’d be feeling more like his old self.
Then hoofbeats thudded behind him.
Benedict reined in, a frown cutting his brow as the ugly dog bounded around the corner of the trail, followed by Hank Brazos on his giant appaloosa.
“Well?” Benedict snapped as Brazos reined in.
Brazos rested his hands on the saddle pommel. “Been thinkin’, Yank.”
“Now that’s always a dangerous exercise for those not equipped for it. What about?”
“Monk’s a tough character.”
“I can handle him.”
“Mebbe.”
“No maybes about it.”
Brazos’ blue eyes twinkled. “This is wild country, Benedict. I ain’t never met a pilgrim so likely to get himself lost as soon as he gets out of sight of a town as you. So, I figured that maybe I oughta ride along with you and see you back to civilization.”
Benedict was silent for a long moment, strongly suspecting a Johnny Reb trick to keep them riding together for a while longer. But he couldn’t deny that he was no trailsman, nor that he might need backing when he ran Brady Monk to ground.
“All right,” Benedict clipped out. “But this is only temporary, you understand?”
Brazos grinned. “Sure.”
Benedict’s frown deepened. “Button up your shirt. You look like a derelict.”
“Whatever you say, Yank.” But Brazos went right on grinning, shirt unbuttoned.
Benedict kicked his horse forward and the Texan followed. They’d gone only a little way when Brazos put his harmonica to his lips and began to play. Benedict winced. He’d forgotten that foul instrument when he’d made a mental list of the things about Brazos that annoyed him most.
Yet, as they rode on, it seemed to him that perhaps Hank Brazos’ playing had improved a little. In fact, it almost sounded like music now.
He wasn’t aware of it, but after a time he started to hum along with “Sweet Nell”, the music keeping time with the drum of the hoofbeats that carried them west.
About the Author
E. Jefferson Clay was just one of many pseudonyms used by New South Wales-born Paul Wheelahan (1930-2018). Starting off as a comic-book writer/illustrator, Paul created The Panther and The Raven before moving on to a long and distinguished career as a western writer. Under the names Emerson Dodge, Brett McKinley, E. Jefferson Clay, Ben Jefferson and others, he penned more than 800 westerns and could, at his height, turn out a full-length western in just four days.
The son of a mounted policeman, Paul initially worked as a powder monkey on the Oaky River Dam project. By 1955, however, he was drawing Davy Crockett—Frontier Scout. In 1963 he began his long association with Australian publisher Cleveland Pty. Co. Ltd. As prolific as he was as a western writer, however, he also managed to write for TV, creating shows like Runaways and contributing scripts to perennial favorites like A Country Practice. At the time of his death, in December 2018, he was writing his autobiography, Never Ride Back … which was also the title of his very first western.
You can read more about Paul here.
The Benedict and Brazos Series by E. Jefferson Clay
Aces Wild
A Badge for Brazos
The Big Ranchero
Stage to Nowhere
Adios, Bandido
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Cry Riot!
Fools’ Frontier
A Six-Gun Says Goodbye
The Living Legend
Diablo Valley
Never Ride West
Shoot and Be Damned
Wardlock’s Legion
Kid Chaney’s Express
Madigan’s Last Stand
Bury the Losers
The Buzzard Breed
Bo Rangle’s Boothill
… And more to come every month!
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Benedict and Brazos 18 Page 12
