Benedict and Brazos 20

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Before the trial, Fenner had tried every way he knew to try and get Lane to reveal the whereabouts of the money, but without success. Only desperate hope had brought him back to the jailhouse today, but one look at Dusty Lane’s hard blue eyes told him it was hopeless.

  The little man spread his hands helplessly. “But, Dusty, what can I do? Do you expect me to buckle on a gun and come blastin’ in here to get you out? Or mebbe you expect me to fasten a rope to your window, tie it to a saddle and—”

  “I expect you to damn well help me beat this phony murder count,” Lane rapped. “And I don’t give a damn how. You just—”

  He broke off at the sound of voices from the front office. Seated by the archway, the deputy turned to peer into the office, then got up and disappeared. The two men in the cell-block stood listening to the voices. Judging by the sound of them, somebody was getting excited.

  “Go see what’s goin’ on, Fenner,” Lane said. “Mebbe I’m getting a reprieve from the governor. Mebbe they’ve caught the real killer. Judas, man, get a shake on, will you?”

  “Sure, Dusty, sure,” Fenner muttered, and he scuttled down the corridor. Lane craned his neck trying to see the office, failed, then fumed as he waited for what seemed a long time before Tim Fenner came back.

  Lane swallowed hard when he saw that Tim Fenner had turned a pasty shade of gray. Feeling his mouth turn dry, Lane had to swallow again before he could ask apprehensively, “Well, speak up, damn you! What’s goin’ on?”

  Fenner licked his lips. “He’s come, Dusty.”

  “Who?”

  “The hangman.”

  Chapter Four – Benedict Looks At The Cards

  THE WAITRESS WAS fascinated. She had never met a hangman in all her years of slinging hash at the Pork Chop Eatery, and she would never have dreamed he would be so handsome. She kept coming back to the table to check on whether they had enough salt and pepper, or if they would like a little more milk in their coffee, until Benedict was forced to call a halt.

  “Ma’am,” he said in the deep tone that he believed best suited the role he was playing, “my associate and I have some matters of urgent import to discuss. Would you be so kind as to grant us a little privacy?”

  The girl’s bottom lip dropped and she looked hurt. Then, because every woman, no matter if she were plain, sway-backed or windy, was a possible conquest for Duke Creighton Benedict the Third, he had to temper his stern words with a smile.

  “I’d much prefer your charming company, lovely lady, but you do understand, I’m sure?”

  The pout gave way to a buck-toothed smile, and she actually managed to blush. “Why, of course I understand, sir,” she said. “I’ll personally see to it that you aren’t further disturbed.”

  “Many thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, I’m sure.”

  He watched her walk away, rolling flaring hips. She was no great beauty, but he’d seen worse figures.

  Brazos reached for the salt. “Better wipe it off, hangman.”

  “What?”

  “The big smile. It doesn’t fit.”

  He hadn’t realized he was smiling. Sobering, Benedict glanced at his reflection in the window and assumed a frown. He was impressed by the stern, somber image that stared back at him. Divested of his double gun rig, bed-of-flowers vest and fancy tie, he felt he made a good hangman. At least they hadn’t queried his identity at the jailhouse, though he was prepared to concede that this was more than likely due to the fact that he was able to present Smart’s official credentials, and that the hangman was a stranger to Spearhead. But he was pleased with the success of his masquerade though he didn’t like some of the things that his role as Elroy Smart had brought to his attention.

  Brazos, who’d been impatiently waiting to hear how Benedict’s interview with Dusty had gone ever since they’d quit the law office, watched him pick up knife and fork. Then he said, “How was he, Yank?” The Texan hadn’t gone into the cells, for if Lane had revealed he knew Brazos, the John Laws might have wondered why an old friend of the condemned man was travelling as the assistant to the state hangman.

  “He looked fit,” Benedict replied around a mouthful of T-Bone. “Very fit, you could say. A formidable character, your friend, Dusty Lane, Reb. I’ve seen strong men come apart in the shadow of the noose, but not so Mr. Lane.”

  “Always was a gutty character, Dusty. You let him know the full set-up, did you?”

  “Of course. He was, to say the least, elated to hear that his stalwart sergeant from the good old days was leaving no stone unturned to assist him in his hour of need.” Benedict eyed the Texan. “He seems to have an exceptionally high regard for you.”

  “You find that confusin’, no doubt.”

  “Not necessarily,” Benedict murmured. Scoring points or exercising his sarcasm on Brazos was mostly a leisure time indulgence. Following his brief talk with the lawmen and the long one with Lane, he now had more important things to grapple with. Setting knife and fork aside, he lifted his coffee cup and said, “Did you question the sheriff concerning Clanton’s killing?”

  Brazos frowned. “I sure did. It’s mighty puzzlin’, Yank. Seems that everybody figgered Clanton would be gettin’ shot straight after Channin’ got gunned down for pointin’ the finger at the Combine, but after they fitted the murder to Dusty, seems more were ready to forget about the S.M.C.” He speared a slab of meat, then flicked it over the edge of the table. There was a click of powerful jaws followed by the sound of munching as Bullpup stretched out full length on the floor again. Brazos continued, “Just goin’ on what little we know, my bet would be that the Combine is behind it.”

  “What do you know about the Combine? I have a sketchy knowledge of the set-up, but what exactly is at the root of the difference between those gentlemen and the Arkansas Cattlemen’s Association?”

  “I can spell it all out for you right enough. But how come the big interest, Yank?”

  “You’ll know in good time.”

  Brazos shrugged. “Well, she’s a complicated story, but I’ll see if I can make her simple. You see, for years the big gun in the cattle business up here has been the A.C.A. The Association was born durin’ the war when things were bad and ranchers were goin’ broke while the dealers got fat and prime. Like you most probably know already, the Association was set up by three of the biggest cattlemen in Spearhead County—Bart Channin’, Vic Clanton—and Joshua Whitney from down along the Kingfisher River.”

  “And this Whitney is the sole survivor of the founding group?”

  “Keerect. Well, the Association set itself up to market cattle and make sure the growers got top dollar. And they did a mighty fine job of it. Even down in Texas their reputation is sky-high.”

  “And that’s saying something,” Benedict put in dryly.

  “Sure enough. It wasn’t long before everybody got to trust the A.C.A. and most ranchers up thisaway ended up sellin’ their stock through ’em. But then, early this spring, prices started droppin’, and suddenly this new outfit called the Spearhead Mississippi Combine was in business and lettin’ all the cattlemen know as how they could get ’em a better price than the A.C.A.”

  “And could they do it?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “Then where is the problem?”

  “Well, it boiled down to a straight-out matter of patriotism, Yank.”

  Benedict stopped chewing. “What the devil has patriotism to do with marketing cattle?”

  “In this case, plenty.” Brazos leaned forward on his elbows. “There’s three jokers behind the Combine: Hardy James, a rich cattle buyer from right here in Spearhead; Cleve Garroway, who bosses the Big G Ranch out in the blue grass country; and a shippin’ boss name of Hawkin. This Hawkin is the key. He’s been shippin’ around the Gulf Coast and all the way down to Panama for years, and it was him that landed the big beef contracts with Mexico and Panama. You see, Yank, the combine don’t sell to the east like the A.C.A. All their beef goes out of the count
ry.”

  Benedict frowned. “Perhaps I’m beginning to understand where the patriotism comes in. You obviously believe American meat should be sold in America.”

  “Me and a lot of other people. The east is starvin’ for beef; your North as much as my South. The price ain’t near as high as these foreign countries can afford right now, on account of the war knocked the stuffin’ out of everythin’ here, as you know. But it’s the principle, Yank, and I reckon it was the principle that made most of the cattlemen stick with the A.C.A. And there you’ve got your trouble. The Combine stands to make a fortune, but only if they can get the beef to ship. It’s plain they ain’t gonna be able to do that while the Association is still goin’ strong.”

  “You make out a pretty damning case against the Combine. Do you believe they might be deliberately setting out to destroy the A.C.A. by any means possible? Even murder?”

  Brazos sighed. “There you’ve got me, Yank. Things sure enough point to the Combine, but you just can’t go around taggin’ somebody a killer on account of he’d have good reason for it. I guess lots of people were doin’ that after Channin’ got killed, then Clanton. But like I say, you need more than just talk and suspicion to hang murder around somebody’s neck.”

  “I couldn’t agree more. Which brings us back to the subject of Mr. Dusty Lane.”

  “What about him?”

  Thrusting his plate aside, Benedict reached for his cigar case. “I asked you to explain the cattle feud to me in the hope that it might shed some light on Lane’s position. Unfortunately, as you suggest, hearsay isn’t a great deal to go on, which I suppose leaves Lane right where he started.”

  “Keep goin’,” Brazos urged when Benedict paused to light up. “I can tell you got more to get off your chest.”

  “Perceptive of you, Johnny Reb, very perceptive.” Benedict watched the match die in his fingers, dropped it into a saucer and then drew deep on the cigar. “It’s simple, Texan. I don’t think Lane is guilty.”

  Brazos’ eyes widened. “You mean it? But how do you come to …?”

  “Intuition mainly,” Benedict said. “Oh, I’m quite certain that Lane is a thief and a rogue, perhaps even a killer. But I do not believe he killed Clanton and Eastman. I could be wrong of course, but having spent a year in the Intelligence Corps interrogating prisoners, I believe I can tell when a man is lying nine times out of ten. And I’m certain Lane was telling the truth when he said he didn’t pull the trigger on those men.”

  Brazos couldn’t help but grin. “You know, Benedict, there are times when you really rile a man, but there are other times when you stand tall, damned if you don’t.”

  Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Benedict didn’t comment.

  But he knew how the Texan felt. They had wrangled and insulted each other for a year, but mostly when it came to an emergency they somehow managed to work together smoothly as a team.

  The waitress came in response to Benedict’s gesture. He ordered fresh coffee, waited until it was served, then said, “The next question of course is how do we go about extricating Lane. I must admit this looked like a formidable problem beforehand, but in the light of what I’ve just told you perhaps it isn’t quite so difficult.”

  “And what does all that mean?”

  “If he’s innocent, we shall have to prove it.”

  “How?”

  “The sheriff gave you the full story about the trial?”

  “I made sure he did.”

  “Then you will probably agree that the last nail in Lane’s coffin at the trial was metaphorically hammered in by the eye-witness testimony of the undertaker’s assistant.”

  “That and the cold-eyed marshal who reckons he saw Dusty runnin’ from the store.”

  “Marshal Brand.” Benedict nodded soberly. “I believe we’ll overlook him for the moment.”

  “Why?”

  “Does he look to you like the sort of man who would willingly submit to questioning about a murder case by a hangman and his assistant?”

  “Mebbe you got a point there, Yank. He sure enough don’t. Matter of fact, he looks like a John Law who would get a lot more fun out of stringin’ somebody up than settin’ him free, innocent or guilty.”

  “My reaction exactly. Which leaves the witness. And this assistant undertaker is no ordinary witness, Reb. In testifying against Dusty Lane, it seems he had an axe to grind.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You didn’t know that both Dusty and this key witness have been courting the same girl? A Miss Chastity Brown?”

  Eyes widening, Brazos shook his head. “No, by glory, I never knew, Yank.” He was silent for a moment, brows knit in concentration. Then he said slowly, “But if Dusty and this pilgrim were both chasin’ the same girl, Benedict, wouldn’t this have thrown some doubt on his say-so at the trial?”

  “Without the marshal’s story to back it up, doubtlessly. But obviously it didn’t turn out that way. They found Lane guilty, principally, I believe, on the strength of the eyewitness testimony.”

  Benedict waited for the significance of what he’d said to sink in. And it didn’t take long. Suddenly Brazos’ frown was replaced by a purposeful look.

  “Then that’s the pilgrim we got to see if we want to try and clear Dusty before rope time, Benedict!”

  “Precisely.”

  Brazos came erect and grabbed his hat. “Well, what are we waitin’ for? What’s this feller’s handle?”

  “Jubal, I believe,” Benedict said, also rising. He took a paper pad from his pocket and consulted notes he’d taken during his talk with Lane. He nodded. “Yes, that’s correct. Mr. Jubal Trogg.”

  Chapter Five – Judas Gold

  THE SILVER LADY was busy that night. It smelled of smoke and humanity and was noisy with rough laughter, women’s lilting voices and the spirited playing of an out-of-tune piano.

  When Chastity Brown decided she’d danced enough with a good-looking horse wrangler from the Double E Ranch and called on the pianist to play “Sweet Johnny Blue”, a hush descended on the place. Chastity, as everybody at the Silver Lady knew, was no great singer. However, when she sang she moved—and in the moving department she was in a class of her own.

  Blacksmith Billy LaRue swung the shade of a stair lamp onto the stage as the girl rippled up the steps. She moved sinuously into the light, her raven hair shining, her naked shoulders a tan flame above the silver smoke of her gown.

  She started to sing in a husky voice, and the men soaked it up. Chastity Brown was a big-lipped, lush-bodied girl of twenty-one, part white, part brown, and a dash of something that was pure excitement. She was Jubal Trogg’s woman and he was crazy about her.

  Fat, flushed and dressed for courting in a cheap brown suit and a lot of grease in his curly black hair, Jubal Trogg was watching his girl perform from his table near the back corridor, half smiling, half frowning, half proud and half resentful. Trogg loved to see Chastity enjoy herself, but he hated the way some of the men looked at her. He wanted to keep her all to himself, but at the same time he wanted to share her with the whole world. His feelings where Chastity was concerned were mixed up, exciting and confusing. She was the greatest thing that had ever happened to him, and there were times when he still couldn’t believe she preferred him to all the men who desired her.

  But Jubal could never figure out why Chastity always insisted that he bring her here on Saturday night; the thought would never have occurred to him that his lady love might feel more at home among the hot-eyed men and the thin-lipped girls of the Silver Lady than in the more sedate watering holes around town.

  Chastity’s performance had ended to riotous applause and she was dancing with the cowhand again.

  Trogg sighed, lifted his glass and drank. A door opened in the back, a step sounded in the kitchen, then there were heavy footsteps in the hallway.

  A man appeared in the doorway. At first he looked like a giant to Trogg, peering up at him through the drifting fog of tobacco smoke. But, focusing
his gaze, he realized that the new arrival was merely an exceptionally big man decked out in shotgun chaps, a battered cowboy Stetson at the back of his shabby blond head, and a faded purple shirt unbuttoned almost to the waist to reveal a broad, deep chest that looked as if it could have been molded from bronze.

  All kinds drifted into the Silver Lady from time to time, but this stranger was eye-catching enough to hold Trogg’s interest for several seconds. Suddenly he realized the man’s gaze had come to him—and stayed.

  Trogg blinked, then turned to see who was behind him, certain that the newcomer’s stare couldn’t possibly be directed at him. But there was nobody behind him, and when he turned back the young giant towered over his table.

  “You’re Jubal Trogg?” The man’s voice was thick with the drawl of Texas.

  “That’s so,” the fat man said after a pause, deciding the fellow looked harmless enough despite his size. “Somethin’ I can do for you, Mr. …?”

  “Brazos. Hank Brazos.” The Texan lowered himself into a chair that creaked in protest beneath his great weight. “And, yeah, mebbe there is somethin’ you can do for me, Jube. You’re in the plantin’ business, ain’t you?”

  “I am assistant undertaker and coroner,” Trogg replied stiffly, much in the tone of his employer.

  “That’s what I heard. Well, it could be that I can push a little business your way.”