Two minutes later, the tall, dark-garbed figure of the hangman was to be seen seated on the jailhouse porch. He sat by the open window on the battered bench, his long legs crossed, and his hat tilted over his eyes. The voices of the girl and the sheriff carried clearly to the porch. She was Joshua Whitney’s daughter right enough, and he immediately gathered by the conversation that it was concern for her father—and the significance of the Clanton killing—that had brought the girl to Spearhead. Apparently cattleman Whitney was prepared to accept the fact that Clanton’s death had been a chance killing at the hands of a thief, namely Dusty Lane, and not part of a plot to systematically wipe out all members of the A.C.A. Belinda Whitney, however, didn’t seem so sure, and had taken it upon herself to visit Calvin for reassurance,
Benedict found himself frowning as he listened to Calvin’s dull, nasal voice telling the girl what she wanted to hear. Throughout the elaborate escapades of the past few days, Benedict had been concentrating solely on seeing to it that Brazos’ friend from the Texas Brigade eluded the noose. There had been little opportunity to think beyond that, but now a significant fact presented itself. If Lane was innocent, and this seemed certain now, then somebody else had killed Vic Clanton. And with this established, wasn’t it probable that the killings of Bart Channing and Vic Clanton were connected? If that added up, then it could well be that Miss Belinda Whitney had every reason to worry about her father’s safety.
He rose quickly when he saw a familiar figure coming along the far side of Federal Street. By the time Marshal Brand had crossed the main stem, Benedict was standing sober-faced and cigarless on the walk fifty feet from the jailhouse.
To his surprise, the leathery lawman half-smiled as he paused before him.
“Taking the air, Mr. Smart?”
“Indeed I am, Marshal,” Benedict intoned in his hangman’s voice. “You seem in good spirits tonight.”
“Cleaner air—that always makes a man feel better.”
“You are referring to the departure of Lane, I take it?”
“You take it right,” the lawman said. “Calvin in the office?”
“I believe so.”
“See you around then, Mr. Smart.” Brand started across the grass and then stopped. “When are you leaving town?”
“I’m not quite sure,” Benedict said, to his own surprise. What had he meant by that? Thirty minutes ago, he’d been intent on leaving at first light in the morning. Why the uncertainty now?
He sensed he already knew the answer to that when Belinda Whitney emerged from the law office to pause in the lighted doorway, talking to the men inside. There were things a man wouldn’t do for trouble-makers like Dusty Lane, or all the over-nourished Texans north of Red River. But a girl like that ... well, it was a whole new card game. And not only did she have a problem, Benedict reflected with some relish, but he happened to be one of the few men in a position to help her, mainly because he was virtually certain that Dusty Lane had not killed Vic Clanton.
The question was, would he help? The immediate answer was that he would be less than a gentleman if he didn’t.
The girl hesitated uncertainly upon reaching the sidewalk when she found herself confronting the same doffed hat and courteous bow she’d encountered outside the Arkansas Hotel.
“Miss Whitney?” Benedict said, before she could move on. “You are Miss Belinda Whitney, are you not?”
She frowned. “I am. Do I know you, sir?”
“Not as yet,” he conceded, not prepared to tell her he was the hangman yet, for fear of frightening her off. “But I do believe we have an interest in common.”
“Oh? And what might that be?”
“The safety of your father, Miss Whitney.”
The girl’s eyes widened. “My father? I don’t understand.”
“Then perhaps I could explain ... over a cup of coffee?” He put on his very best smile and drew on his considerable resources of charm. “There is no need to be apprehensive, Miss Whitney. I’m quite certain that, given a few minutes of your time, I can convince you that my sole interest is to assist you, and perhaps to be of even more valuable assistance to your father.”
She looked him up and down, and he saw something slowly change in her eyes. She was interested now. Still wary, of course, but definitely interested. He liked the way she lifted her chin and spoke firmly.
“I’m not apprehensive, sir, and I would be happy to discuss anything with you that may have a bearing on my father’s safety.”
Benedict gestured in the direction of the central block with his hat, then he fell in beside her. He breathed deeply. What was it the marshal had said about cleaner air? Right at that moment, for the first time since his arrival, the air of Spearhead smelled really good. Like perfume and scented hair blown by the wind ... all leavened by the subtle tang of excitement.
Fenner swore when he tipped the rye bottle to his lips, but he failed to gather as much as a drop. Swearing again, he lurched to his feet and hurled the bottle far out over the gulch. The bottle glittered briefly in the waning moonlight, then vanished with a burst of exploding glass among the rocks below.
“Hey, cut that racket!” a deep voice called from somewhere upslope.
Fenner made an obscene gesture, but he did so behind his back. With all his problems, the last thing he wanted was to tangle with big Hank Brazos.
It was Brazos who’d brought the whisky with him to console Dusty Lane, but most of it had ended up gurgling down Fenner’s throat. Lane had been too disappointed to drink much. Brazos was still prepared to help him try and clear himself, but both knew, without putting it into so many words, that without Benedict they were sunk.
“Let’s face it, Sarge,” Lane said now, sitting on a deadfall log with the Texan below the tree line that separated the gulch from Boothill. “Neither of us is cut out for head work. I’m saddled with that murderer tag and I’ll carry it to the grave.”
Brazos sighed gustily, watching Bullpup as the hound went sniffing after rodents in the tall grass. The Texan had been a little resentful of the new demands Lane had burdened him with earlier tonight, but now he was genuinely sorry that he couldn’t help. Maybe the whisky he’d drunk had made him a little sentimental, but sitting here watching the moon go down, he couldn’t help but think of the old days in the Army, and what a good, if hell-raising, comrade-in-arms Dusty Lane had been. He sighed again, and Lane sighed with him as they glumly watched Fenner make his clumsy, tangle-footed way back up the slope towards them. Then a shout sounded from the cemetery:
“Johnny Reb!”
Brazos was on his feet in an instant. “Yank?”
“One and the same!” came the reply through the trees. “Get yourself up here, Texan, and bring Lane with you if he’s there! I have news for you.”
“Yank?” Fenner muttered as Lane and Brazos started to climb swiftly towards the trees. “Who’s Yank?”
Benedict was standing by a head marker that was ornamented by an elaborate stone angel in full flight when Brazos and Lane emerged from the trees. He stood with his hat pushed back from his forehead, hands at his waist, and Brazos noted that his tall figure still looked odd without the double Peacemakers buckled around his hips. Benedict’s black horse was tethered by the gate, reflecting the dying moon in the moist jewels of its eyes.
With a nod to Brazos as they approached, Benedict grinned at Lane. “You’re looking considerably more robust than Lazarus did under similar circumstances, Dusty.”
The response of Dusty Lane, who knew no more about the New Testament than he did about respectability, was predictable:
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” Benedict said. Then he turned to Brazos. “When I couldn’t locate you in town, I assumed I’d find you out here.” He frowned when the Texan hiccupped. “Have you been drinking?”
“Not so you’d notice. What’s this here news?”
“I’ve changed my mind about Dusty here. I’ve decided to give him the benefit of my assistanc
e after all.”
Brazos blinked. “Does that mean you’re gonna try and clear his name?”
“Precisely.”
Dusty Lane whooped and Hank Brazos laughed. “Goldurn, I knew you wouldn’t just turn a man down flat, Benedict.” The Texan beamed. But then: “Just a minute. This is too powerful sudden a change of heart to ring true to me. How come, Benedict? If you’re plannin’ some kind of tricky—”
“Nothing tricky,” cut in Benedict, showing no resentment. He said frankly, “I’ve had the great pleasure to meet a Miss Belinda Whitney in town tonight and I—”
“Ah! Figgered there might be some gal in back of—”
Brazos’ voice trailed away and his eyes widened. “Did you say Whitney?”
“I did. She’s the daughter of Mr. Joshua Whitney of the Kingfisher Ranch who is sole surviving member of the Arkansas Cattlemen’s Association. And now that that is established, will you kindly be quiet while I acquaint you with what I’ve decided and why?”
“Sure thing, Yank,” Brazos said. He gestured impatiently at Tim Fenner who came weaving through the tombstones to stand gaping at the tall man in black. “Sit down and shut up, Fenner,” Brazos said before the man could utter a word. Then with a grin at Lane, he added, “The floor’s all yours, Yank.”
It took Benedict the space of a Cuban cigar to paint a word picture of the situation as he saw it. Working on the assumption that the deaths of Clanton and Channing were part of a conspiracy, and that the framing of Dusty Lane for the Clanton killing had been deliberately planned to distract attention from the plotters’ ultimate goal—the elimination of the entire A.C.A.—he believed it stood to reason that the conspirators had been present to witness yesterday’s “execution”.
The plotters had gone to so much trouble to frame Lane, he reasoned, that it was only natural they would want to make certain the man hanged on schedule. Therefore it was up to them to get a line on the killer or killers before they dispersed and went to ground, or worse still, set out to kill Whitney. In regard to this last possibility, he revealed that he and Belinda Whitney had sent her escort rider back south to the Kingfisher Ranch tonight to warn Whitney to be on the alert. However, Benedict didn’t feel that Whitney was in immediate danger. He reasoned that the conspirators would realize Whitney would be wary following the deaths of Channing and Clanton. It was his guess that they would wait a while for things to quiet down before striking again.
The finger of suspicion pointed towards the Spearhead Mississippi Combine, he said in answer to a question from Dusty Lane, but he had already had a look at Hawkin and James and he felt he knew the breed well. The Combine could be behind the killings, but it was odds-on that none of them had pulled a trigger personally. They would have hired others, and they’d probably covered their own tracks well. He believed the only logical course of action was to try and get a line on the killer or killers first, then hope they would lead to the men who paid the murder money.
Did anyone find fault with his reasoning so far?
Their heads shook. Everything he’d said made sense, even if it mightn’t have made the task confronting them look much easier.
Frowning hard as Benedict flicked his cigar butt away, Brazos said:
“Seems to me as how you and me are gonna need help tryin’ to get a lead on the killers if they’re still about, Yank. I mean, just about everybody in town is a stranger to us. Mebbe we ought to go to Sheriff Calvin and get him to—”
“I’m afraid we shall have to do it without Calvin’s assistance,” Benedict said. “We mustn’t overlook the fact that Brand lied about Dusty, suggesting that the man isn’t to be trusted. The same could apply to Calvin.”
Brazos shook his head. “That might make sense of a kind, but it sure enough don’t help us none. Dusty can’t go showin’ his nose about, so that just leaves you and me. And how long would it take for us to …?”
“Your arithmetic isn’t the best tonight, Johnny Reb,” Benedict smiled. “You just counted three. I believe there are four of us present.”
Fenner was drilling in his ear for wax and staring moodily up at the impassive face of the soaring stone angel when he suddenly realized they were staring at him. Slowly, Benedict’s last sentence soaked in, and a fast-sobering Tim Fenner jabbed his skinny chest with his forefinger.
“Me? Hell, count me out. I’m not sniffin’ around no dark alleys for no killers!”
“You are a local, Fenner,” Benedict said crisply. “You would know immediately who belonged here and who was strange. Furthermore, while Brazos and I shall have to tread carefully for fear of arousing suspicion, you could move freely. It seems to me that—”
“That’s far enough,” Fenner said, genuinely alarmed as he got to his feet. “You must think a man is six kinds of a fool to take part in a caper like that for nothin’.”
“For nothing?” Benedict said. “That raises an interesting point. Reb, I believe that while you were making your eloquent plea on friend Dusty’s behalf last evening, you mentioned something about a cache of money. Is that correct?”
“Yeah, I reckon I did.”
Benedict looked at Lane. “There is a cache?”
Lane shrugged. “No point in denyin’ it, I guess. Yeah, I got some money stashed.”
“How much?”
“Two grand.”
“Then I believe it would be worth at least half that much to secure Mr. Fenner’s services.”
Suddenly Tim Fenner wasn’t looking so indignant any more as the significance of what Benedict was saying sank in. He looked expectantly at Lane who frowned pensively for a long moment before nodding.
“All right, maybe Tim would be the best bet, hangman. You got a deal.”
“Splendid,” Benedict said, rubbing his hands and looking at the sky. “Well, it will be daylight in a couple of hours. We shall go to work immediately. Fenner, do your best to sober up as you make your way to town. I suggest you start your search in the seedy streets along the riverfront. Brazos, it might be best if you take a ride out and check on our portly friend in the Big Horns, just to make certain that he’s still with us. I believe I shall look up Jubal Trogg first to see if I can get anything more out of him, then I’ll quiz my way around the bars and hotels. Naturally, you shall have to remain out here, Lane. Any questions?”
Three heads shook and Benedict smiled nonchalantly, as if what he was proposing was no more involved or dangerous than a tea party. “Very well, gentlemen, let us get busy.”
Chastity Brown considered nine in the morning a little early for strangers to come knocking at her door, but she didn’t really mind the disturbance when she saw who her early morning caller was.
“Why, Mr. Smart, isn’t it?” she purred, not bothering to clutch the folds of her robe together any longer. Tousle-haired, she leaned against the doorframe of her small apartment on Blacksmith Street and the bodice of the robe opened to reveal one firm-looking brown breast. Her smoky brown eyes played up and down the tall figure in the sober black suit, and Chastity Brown smiled like a cat. “Something I can do for you, Mr. Smart?”
Duke Benedict removed his hat and cleared his throat. “I hope so, Miss Brown. I’m interested in locating Mr. Jubal Trogg. I’ve already been to his rooming house and place of business, but have been unable to find him. It was suggested to me that he might be here.”
The girl set one naked foot in front of the other, causing a slender brown leg to peep from the satin slit of the gown.
“I see, Mr. Smart,” she said in her silk-and-sugar voice. “And what makes you think Mr. Trogg would find something to interest him here?”
Benedict held her gaze. “Is he here, Miss Brown?”
“Chastity.”
“Chastity?”
“Sorry, but I haven’t laid eyes on Mr. Trogg since yesterday afternoon. You might try the gamblin’ hall. Sometimes that man gets a crazy need to go gamblin’, and then nothing will stop him—work, money, nothing.” Her eyes played over him again. “You
ever come down with any sort of crazy needs like that, Mr. Smart?”
“All the time, Chastity, all the time.” Regretfully Benedict replaced his hat and turned to go. “If you should hear anything of Mr. Trogg, would you let me know? I’ll be at the Frontier Hotel. You can leave a message.”
“I’ll do that small thing. And so sorry I couldn’t do anythin’ for you, Mr. Hangman, honey.”
“You goddamn shameless flirt, Chastity!” exploded Jubal Trogg as the girl closed the door and leaned against it. The fat man tugged away a silk stocking that had tangled around his neck when he’d taken refuge in the clothes closet. “And did you have to answer the door dressed like that?”
“And thank you so much for makin’ the bad man go away, Chastity,” the girl said mockingly.
Trogg ran shaky fingers through his curly black hair and moved to the window. “I’m sorry, honey,” he said. “It’s just that I’m jumpy this mornin’. I mean, what did that bastard want of me?”
“That’s a bastard? I do declare they’re gettin’ better lookin’ every day.” She rippled across the room to pick up a hairbrush, then sat before the vanity table brushing at her tawny hair as Trogg watched her with his hang-dog look. “Well, now that the big, bad hangman has gone away, hadn’t you best be gettin’ on to work? You’re hopin’ to close the deal with Buckhout today, aren’t you?”
He turned to the window again. “He’s havin’ second thoughts.”
She swung to face him. “You mean he mightn’t sell after all? Why the hell not?”
“I didn’t want to have to tell you, baby, because I know you’ve got your little heart set on my takin’ over at the parlor. But the old polecat seems to reckon he can smell a boom in business comin’, so he’s figgerin’ to hang on a spell longer.”
Trogg didn’t look at the girl as he spoke, which meant he missed out on a spectacular display of legs and cleavage. But he also missed the look of disgust that swept across Chastity Brown’s honey-colored face. Chastity had put in a lot of hard ground work with chubby Jubal Trogg since she’d decided his prospects might be the best of all her many suitors and admirers. She’d even spent a great deal of time with the man when she would have much preferred to be with the only man in Spearhead County who really made her tingle all over—blue-eyed, dashing Dusty Lane. It was Chastity who’d first planted the idea of buying Buckhout out in Jubal’s mind. She’d then talked him into accepting the thousand dollars for giving false evidence. She’d pushed and prodded him along—always with the ambition of becoming the respectable wife of a well-to-do businessman in mind. But suddenly she had the cold feeling that she had backed a loser.
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