Benedict and Brazos 1

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “No more for him,” Brazos decided firmly. “He’s had enough.”

  Charlie Bird shuffled off to the bar, shaking his head, wonderingly. It was a long time since he’d witnessed such impressive consumption of liquor by man or beast. And though both his clients were now showing inevitable signs of what they’d taken aboard, it seemed that they still weren’t ready to quit.

  Charlie Bird and the dozen seedy denizens of the Shotgun could have been forgiven for getting the idea that Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict were just a couple of drunks, but that was not the case. Certainly both men were stern drinkers, yet it was the uniqueness of the situation, the unexpectedness of their reunion, which seemed to demand something large and liquid in the way of celebration.

  Heedless of the interest they aroused among Charlie Bird and his customers, Benedict and Brazos went on reminiscing and soon Bird came back with more drinks.

  This time, the glowering Bullpup, incensed at not getting his tin dish refilled, took a short-tempered snap at the barkeep’s heels.

  “That’s some dog you’ve got there, Reb,” Benedict observed as Charlie Bird demonstrated a remarkable agility in reaching the sanctuary of his bar.

  “Sure is,” Brazos agreed proudly and the dog seemed to puff up, as if aware that they were talking about him.

  The hound which Hank Brazos had managed to keep with him during the two years he’d served in the Army and in his months of drifting ever since Appomattox, was nothing if not eye-catching. Part bulldog, part wolf and part heaven alone knew what, it weighed well over a hundred pounds with a head like a buffalo’s. It was a dirty brown color with a few white splotches, one blue eye, one brown and a mouth big enough to let in full grown cats. It sat on its haunches now at Brazos’ side wearing a look of self-satisfaction after taking a taste of Charlie Bird. Its pink mouth was wide open as it panted in the heat. Occasionally it licked its lips with a big red tongue, smacking on the taste of the beer.

  “Almost seems human when he looks you in the eye,” Benedict observed, taking a slender Havana from his expensive gold cigar case.

  “Oh, he’s smart enough when he wants to be,” Brazos conceded, and nudged the great head affectionately with the toe of his boot as he recalled how Bullpup’s sharpness had saved his bacon that afternoon. Then, lifting his beer, he frowned thoughtfully. “Speakin’ of dogs, Yank, you ever crossed trails with Bo Rangle since you got out of the Army?”

  Duke Benedict’s face sharpened at the question. Suspicion leapt immediately into his eyes. “What makes you ask that?”

  Seeing the sudden change of mood, Brazos lowered his glass and frowned in puzzlement.

  “I say somethin’ wrong, Yank?”

  Duke Benedict studied the rugged brown face across the table for a moment, then felt that brief stab of suspicion begin to fade. No, he reassured himself, Big Brazos couldn’t have any idea of why he was here. Brains obviously weren’t his specialty. He’d had ample chance to get to know the man now. Back at Pea Ridge, Georgia, seemingly an eternity ago now, all he’d known about this big Reb sergeant, was that he was the best fighting man he’d ever come across. During the hours of their reunion here in the Shotgun, however, he’d come to realize that but for what had happened, this big drifter was about the last person he’d ever sit down to share a convivial drink with. Hank Brazos was rough, illiterate, uncouth, not a Benedict man by any means. But harmless enough, Benedict decided, touching a match to the end of his cigar and putting on the friendly smile once again.

  “Why, Rangle’s still around,” he said easily in answer to the question. “He turned outlaw like a lot of those marauders after the War. He’s wanted all over by the law.”

  Brazos nodded thoughtfully. “Sure would like to meet up with that there varmint one bright sunny day you know, Benedict.”

  “Wouldn’t mind it myself, I guess.”

  Brazos took another sip of his drink. “You know what was in that there box we lost up there that day on Pea Ridge, do you?”

  Benedict nodded, and a hard cold glint came into his eyes.

  “Yes... two hundred thousand dollars in Confederate gold.”

  Brazos grinned. “We figgered you were after it.”

  “Didn’t know a thing about it. We were out looking for trouble that day, we sighted you and seeing we outnumbered you we attacked.”

  Benedict puffed a reflective cloud of blue smoke at the overhead light. “Two hundred thousand!” he said softly and shook his head. “I’ll allow when I heard about it later I was set back some. I guess if I’d known about that gold that day I’d have fought even harder.”

  “You’d have been goin’ some to do that, but I reckon I know how you felt. Two hundred thousand iron men ain’t somethin’ you come across every day. I’d reckon at that time the North could’ve put that gold to mighty good use.”

  Benedict cocked an elegant eyebrow, and the clipped Eastern accent was just a little slurred. “The North?” A cold smile. “Why certainly I suppose they could have put it to good use—if I’d been fool enough to turn it over.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t have?”

  “Do I look a fool?”

  “You’d have kept the gold for yourself?”

  “Two hundred grand? I should smile I would have. Who wouldn’t have?”

  “Well... me for one, Yank.”

  Benedict made a gesture of disbelief. “Hogswill, Reb, I can’t swallow that. Say our positions had been reversed that day and it was you who came across a fortune in Federal gold. You mean to say you’d have turned it over to Jeff Davis? Like hell you would.”

  “Sure I would. I ain’t no thief.”

  For the second time in five minutes, Duke Benedict’s eyes stabbed suspiciously at his companion. The professional gambler could read a man’s face like he could read a deck of cards. He searched for signs that Brazos was putting him on, but saw nothing but truth in Hank Brazos’ rugged young face, found only honesty in the guileless blue eyes that looked back levelly at him from beneath the unruly thatch of straw-colored hair.

  Duke Benedict felt irritation begin to rise within him. The polished adventurer with the worldly cynicism forged by years of gambling, gunfighting, soldiering and looking out for Number One, could never figure an honest man. To be dumb and illiterate was bad enough, but to be honest to boot was just too many marks against a man regardless of Pea Ridge or anything else.

  Brazos sensed the beginning of a rift, but before it could be widened any further, they were interrupted by the arrival of Mayor Carbrook and Deputy Sam Fink.

  The mayor, who had just been brought back to town from his little part-time spread out beyond the river, was looking for Brazos and lost no time in getting straight down to business. He’d already heard all about the shoot-out at Morgan’s Rock and had inspected Floren’s remains on the way to the saloon. Now he wanted a first-hand account from Brazos himself.

  Brazos obliged laconically and mellowed somewhat by booze he made the clash sound more like a casual roughhouse than the deadly clash it had been.

  The mayor heard him out, then explained the position in Daybreak. The Town Council of Daybreak had hired a bounty-hunter named Surprising Smith to assist in running out the notorious Ben Sprod who had been plaguing the valley for too long. Now they knew Sprod’s bunch was close about, the town had got up a posse. Would the two gents care to join?

  The offer was declined without thanks. Brazos had already seen more than enough of Ben Sprod, he explained, around a couple of impressive whisky-belches, and Benedict assured Mr. Mayor that tempting as the prospect of good healthy exercise in the open air undoubtedly was, he’d rather stay around Johnny Street and whistle at girls when the wind was blowing petticoats around.

  Some of Benedict’s affability had been restored by the time the two men tromped out, looking disappointed. Signaling for another round, he said, “This town’s got plenty problems you know, Reb. And not just Sprod, either.”

  “How come, Yank?”


  Duke Benedict smiled. The situation he’d discovered in Daybreak was just the sort calculated to touch his funny-bone.

  Leaning forward he said, “Did you happen to notice that big new brick building two blocks down the main stem on your way into town today, Reb?”

  “Why yeah, matter of fact I did. Struck me as kinda curious now I recall. Didn’t look like no bank or hotel or saloon like I ever seen. What is it?”

  “Daybreak’s brand new bordello.”

  “Well I’ll be dogged,” Brazos chuckled appreciatively. “They sure do things in a big way hereabouts. But where’s the problems come in, Benedict?”

  “Well, as you might guess, there are people around town who aren’t exactly tickled at having the biggest sporting house in two hundred miles thrown up on their main stem. As a matter of fact there’s talk of a real ruckus breaking out tomorrow night when Belle Shilleen opens the new house for business. A bunch of worthy ladies known as the Christian Ladies of Daybreak have sworn to stop the opening, matter of fact.”

  “A ruckus you say? Don’t sound like much of a ruckus twixt a bunch of fat ladies and a passel of sportin’ gals.”

  “I’m not so sure. There’s bad blood between Belle and some of the town, while the C.L.O.D. ladies have been busy drumming up support to try to stop the opening. Belle seems to think they really mean business.”

  “Belle? You sound like you know this little lady personal, Yank.”

  “And why not? Say, you’re not pure as well as honest, are you?”

  “Pure as whitewashed snow,” Brazos grinned. Then, “But who needs whorehouses?”

  “A good whorehouse can be a home away from home—wonder who said that? Anyway, that’s no never-mind, Reb. What say we treat ourselves to a change of scenery?”

  “Hey, hold hard a minute. You ain’t proposin’ we go—”

  “No, not Belle’s,” Benedict anticipated with a laugh, getting up. One slight stagger and then he was steady on his feet. “I mean to the Bird Cage. This place is beginning to bore me.”

  “Suits me,” Brazos said readily. He came erect and followed Benedict to the doors with Bullpup lurching alcoholically at his heels. “But I thought you said the liquor was poor up there.”

  “There are other attractions in the world besides whisky.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a certain little lady,” Benedict confided, pushing out through the doors. “Just met her today, Reb, and she’s really something. You’ll like her. Honey Smith is her name.” His grin faded a notch as he added, “Mrs. Honey Smith.”

  “Widow woman, huh?”

  “Not so you’d notice. No, she’s got a husband right enough—Mr. Surprising Smith—who right now should be off with the posse after Sprod’s bunch. I hope.”

  “The bounty-hunter Carbrook spoke about?” Brazos grinned admiringly. “Say, you just don’t give a damn, do you, Yank?”

  “Not a blue-eyed damn.”

  “Tell me, what’s so surprisin’ about this varmint anyway?”

  Benedict concentrated on that as they picked their way down the rickety steps.

  “Well, Honey declares he picked up that handle by surprising so many badmen on the dodge, just when they thought they were in the clear. But me, I entertain the belief that the surprising thing about him, is that such an ugly, mean-eyed little rooster could have landed himself such a good-looking wife.”

  They laughed together at that and moved along the street. The fresh air was hardly sobering and they needed a fair width of street as they walked.

  It had turned chilly since sundown and some quality in the air did not hold the dust, so that the air was crystal clear in Johnny Street. A big bunch of men had gathered out in front of the jailhouse, leaning against the buildings or perched up on the hitch rail where a number of horses were tied. The posse hadn’t left yet after all. They looked like they weren’t in a hurry. Conversation faded as Benedict and the big drifter who’d gunned Buck Floren went by with the great dog swaggering along behind.

  “I’ll back Sprod,” was Brazos’ comment after he’d had a good look at them.

  “No takers,” grinned Benedict as they mounted the gallery of the Bird Cage Saloon and walked through the heavy slabs of yellow lamplight slanting through the windows. A split second later both were diving low and clawing for their six-guns, as without a hint of warning, the Bird Cage shuddered to its foundations with a crashing storm of gunfire from the other side of the batwing doors.

  Five – Allies Again

  Together, they lifted cautious heads. No hot lead came snarling from the saloon. They got to their feet, six-guns glinting in the yellow light splashing from the windows. Nothing happened. No shouts of alarm, no more shots.

  They went to the batwings, looked in. No scene of blood and chaos greeted their eyes. Instead, they saw a group of drinkers interestedly examining a playing card nailed to a wall beam. The playing card was shot full of holes, and across the room, refilling a smoking gun and smirking with self-satisfaction under the admiring gaze of the crowd and his bright-eyed wife, stood Surprising Smith. The bounty-hunter had generously agreed to give the locals a little exhibition of his gun skill while they waited on Mayor Carbrook, and in so doing had just about scared the pants off two innocent passers-by.

  Brazos swore, motioned to Bullpup to stay put and pushed into the room. Benedict followed the broad back through the batwings, even more peeved than Brazos. And the sight of pretty little Honey Smith batting her admiring eyelashes up at her mean-faced little pipsqueak gunman husband didn’t improve his mood at all. Well if they wanted to see. shooting...

  “Step aside!” he yelled suddenly to the group around the upright, and barely giving them time to get clear, grabbed out both white-handled guns and cut loose.

  It all happened so quickly that half the saloon was taken by surprise. With the guns sounding like cannons, men dived for cover, girls shrieked, and Hank Brazos hunched his shoulders and pulled his battered hat defensively down around his ears.

  It was well for those in the vicinity of the upright that they ducked for cover, for though five bullets chopped the card, the bourbon exacted its heavy toll and the other seven bullets found various targets including two bottles, the piano. Flash Jimmy Chadwick’s hard-hitter hat, and Harp Moody’s pet pussy cat.

  A shocked silence engulfed the room. Duke Benedict shook his head critically. “Drawing a little to the left,” he decided finally with the air of the true professional. “I’ll have to watch that.”

  A fractured wire in the piano twanged and the saloon came to life. White-faced men rose from the floor plastered in sawdust and cigarette butts. Flash Jimmy Chadwick poked a finger through a neat round hole in his hard-hitter and rolled his eyes heavenward, lips moving in a silent prayer of gratitude. A considerate customer draped a canvas faro table cover over what was left of Moody’s cat, while Moody himself advanced ominously up the bar-room towards Kansas’ answer to Wild Bill Hickok.

  With heavy tread, bouncers Beecher and Quade followed, while up on his high perch, Joe Crook cocked both hammers of his scattergun.

  His eyes focused on Benedict, who was giving Honey Smith his best profile as he went about reloading his guns, Moody counted all the way up to ten, then put on a phony admiring smile.

  “Benedict, that sure was some shootin’.”

  Benedict beamed. He was even drunker than Brazos, who was having a little trouble holding himself up against the bar and announcing proudly if somewhat inaccurately to a couple of shaken barflies, that ‘old’ Duke Benedict was his very own personal old Army buddy.

  “I’m a shooting fool,” Benedict confided proudly. “You certainly are,” Moody agreed right from the heart. “Say, mind if I take a look at those guns of yours? I’d admire to see ’em close.”

  “You’re close enough,” Benedict smiled, and was about to holster when Joe Crook rasped:

  “Give!”

  For the second time that day, Benedict found himself starin
g up at those two big barrels. He sighed.

  “Now take it easy, Moody ”

  “Give!” It was Moody’s turn to snap. Benedict sighed again, then reluctantly passed his guns across.

  Harp Moody stepped back two paces, thrust the Colts in his belt and growled:

  “All right, boys, throw the bum out. And this time, really throw him.”

  Benedict yelled a protest at Moody’s order, then cursed as two steely pairs of hands took hold of his person and turned him violently towards the door.

  “Hey, just a blue-eyed minute!” bellowed Brazos, lurching forward. “Get your hands off my old buddy, you jaspers!”

  Beecher obeyed promptly, but only to have his hands free to belt the big drifter on the point of the jaw. Brazos grinned happily and retaliated with a smashing right cross that lifted the burly Beecher a clear six inches off the sawdust and sent him rocketing back into Quade and Benedict, all three going down in a chaotic heap of arms, legs and broken furniture.

  Delighted with the results of his handiwork, Brazos spat on his palms, rubbed them together briskly and challenged the entire room.

  “Step right up, boys! One at a time or all at once, it makes no never-mind to me!”

  There had been times, quite a few times in fact when Hank Brazos had issued a challenge such as that and found no takers. There had been saloons full of hardcases in other towns who’d taken one look at those shoulders, the great fists and the eager expression on the broad, battle-scarred young face and decided to stick to drinking.

  This was not one of those times. The presence of Surprising Smith and the awareness that Benedict and his sidekick were drunk, put boldness into faint hearts. They came at Brazos in a rush.

  A mite surprised, Brazos managed to shake loose four of Burk Spanger’s teeth and balloon the ear of another before being bowled over by sheer weight of numbers. Somehow he fought his way back to his feet. The room was whirling about him, a sea of faces, bobbing lights, and he suddenly realized Benedict was beside him. Shoulder to shoulder they waded in, and for one wild moment it looked as though they were holding back the tide. Then Benedict went down and out, and Brazos reeled as a bottle caromed off his hard head.