Brazos reached him first and lifted his grizzled head.
“Why, Brand?” the Texan asked. “That’s what’s got me chasin’ my tail. Why’d you get mixed up in a dirty business like this?”
Brand’s eyelids fluttered. “Facin’ retirement, nothin’ in the bank ... nothin’ to show for all the years ... nothin’ …”
Benedict and Brazos exchanged a glance. Then Benedict dropped to one knee on the other side of the dying man.
“You were a good lawman once,” Benedict said gently. “The record shows it. Now let the record read that you wiped the slate clean before you died by telling us the truth. Did the Combine have Channing and Clanton killed?”
Brand seemed to find difficulty in focusing his eyes on Benedict’s handsome face. A thin trickle of blood coursed from his lips. “I was a fool,” he breathed. “I was a damn fool to think I could change from what I’d been to ...” He broke off as deep coughing wracked his body. When he was able to speak again, he was much weaker. “Yes,” he panted, and they could barely hear him. “It was Garroway, Hawkin and James. It was Garroway who got my co-operation ... he knew of my financial situation, my bitterness. He told me they were gonna kill Clanton, how they would do it, that they planned to fix the blame on Lane. They ... they offered me a thousand dollars, then gave me another thousand to buy Trogg’s testimony. If ... if it means anything, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since Lane was found guilty.”
“The killers, Brand,” Brazos said urgently. “Who did the killin’?”
Milt Brand stared at him and went on staring. There was no death rattle, no final twitch, but the lawman was dead. Benedict reached out to close his staring eyes and Brazos slowly lowered his head to the floor.
“I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t heard it from his own lips,” a gray-faced Calvin said unevenly. “Who’d have believed that a man like the marshal with his fine record would ...” He broke off, only then becoming aware of the crowd on the porch that had been drawn by the shot. “Get away from here, you men!” he shouted, striding to the door. He waved his hands angrily. “Go on, git! This here ain’t no circus!”
Unaccustomed to anger from the lethargic Calvin, the towners backed away—with one exception. Storekeeper Josh Tubman came through the mob, clutching an envelope.
“Sheriff,” the storekeeper panted. “Are the hangman and Brazos in there? A feller gave me this note for ’em a couple of minutes back on Federal Street—said it was a matter of life or death.”
Calvin snatched the envelope from the man’s hand, waved him away, then stepped back inside, closing the door behind him. He stared down at the dead man on the floor as he handed the envelope to Benedict, who ripped it open, scanned the contents and paled.
“Who’s it from, Yank?” Brazos asked.
Benedict slowly lifted his eyes from the note, then muttered, “Excuse us for a moment, Sheriff,” and he led the way into the cell block, Brazos following.
“They’ve kidnapped the Whitney girl,” Benedict said. “And that’s not all.”
Chapter Eleven – Blood Justice
“WHAT TIME IS it, Hogan?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
“Gettin’ close to the deadline.”
“Relax, Ritter. You’re strung up tighter’n a guitar string. It’s gonna go off like clockwork—ain’t that right, Raven?”
“Sure,” purred Raven, stroking Belinda’s hair. “It’ll go off smooth as silk, on account of they’re the hero breed. That’s so, ain’t it beautiful? The phony hangman you been hanging around with is pure hero, and the Texan likely figures he’s all the knights of the round table rolled into one.” He laughed softly when the girl refused to reply. “Sure they’re heroes. As soon as I woke up to what they were doin’ here, I knew that. Then all I had to do was pick you up and I’d have them eatin’ out of my hand like a pair of tame blue jays.” He turned her head so he could see her face. “How do you want me to handle it, sweetheart? Quick or slow?” He traced a line down her cheek with his finger. “That’s to show what I think of you, bright-eyes—I wouldn’t offer that concession to anybody else.”
Belinda Whitney pressed her lips together and stared fixedly at the wall of the luxuriously appointed private lounge in the bordello. The room had a door leading to the main corridor and another that opened into Merle’s kitchen. The corridor door was locked and the key was in the lock. There was a single window just above the side balcony, covered by a blind and heavy drapes.
Hogan lay sprawled on a sofa, his big, seamed face glinting in the light coming from two copper-shaded lamps. His six-gun was on a cushion beside him, and he was sucking on a cigarette that had been soaked in loco weed juice. The killer’s eyes were bright with the drug. Hogan was a good killer, but he needed weed to function at his best.
Jim Crow Ritter sat on a chair in the corner near the kitchen door. The ’breed was nervous. Raven had unwisely told them of Duke Benedict’s record as a gunfighter, and back-shooting Ritter wasn’t convinced it was going to be as simple as Raven and Hogan claimed. Ritter had drunk half a bottle of whisky after they had grabbed the girl at the hotel, but the liquor had no noticeable effect. The half-breed would be glad when it was over and done with.
Raven was seated on the plush lounge, his knees resting against Belinda Whitney’s shoulders. The girl sat on the deep blue carpet between his boots, her arms around her drawn-up knees. She wore a sea-green skirt and a vivid crimson blouse. The girl was outwardly calm, but inwardly frozen with fear. Belinda’s abduction from the hotel by Ritter and Hogan had been terrifying enough, but it wasn’t until they removed the blindfold here in this strange room and she’d looked into the sick white face of Raven that true terror had struck her.
She shivered now as his cold fingers slid down the side of her neck. “Just sit back and enjoy it, bright-eyes,” the terrifying voice whispered. His hand moved lightly over her breast. “You’re built real nice, you know that?”
“Better take it easy with her, Raven,” Sam Hogan warned. “You know what Merle’s like where other women are concerned.”
“It’s all right,” Raven said, running his fingers through her hair now. “Merle’s downstairs waitin’ to show our guests up.”
Belinda went on staring at the wall. No one looked at the kitchen door. If they had, they wouldn’t have seen the shadow move away from the tiny spyhole. In the kitchen in her stockinged feet, Merle Bronson leaned against the stove, her hands pressed against her abdomen, biting down bile. Only a woman of her passionately jealous nature could have sensed something in the way Raven had looked at the Whitney girl earlier; and only a one-man woman who had been faithful to the one man for so long could have felt such murderous fury as she realized her love for Raven was a one-way affair.
A clock chimed, bringing Merle alert. She was supposed to be waiting downstairs for the two men to show up so she could guide them up to the slaughter. She had left her post ten minutes ago to spy on Raven from her kitchen.
Moving as though in a dream, she went into the hallway and put on her shoes. Heading for the stair head, she paused at the door of the lounge. Raven was laughing, the sound muffled as if he laughed into a mass of shimmering red hair.
Merle Bronson shuddered just once, then was composed. Gracefully and slowly, she descended the stairs and didn’t look back.
A soft knock sounded on the door.
Raven looked at the wall clock. Midnight.
“That you, Merle?” he called.
“Yes.”
“They with you?”
“Yes.”
“Everything in order?”
“Just as it should be.”
Raven rose, slipping a hand under Belinda’s arm and lifting her with him. With his left hand against the curve of her stomach, he stood behind her facing the door while he drew his deadly gun with his free hand.
He nodded to Hogan. Six-gun sprouting from a hairy fist, Hogan crossed to the door, paused to make sure Ritter had pulled hi
s Colt, then turned the key. Opening the door an inch, he saw Merle Bronson standing there in the corridor with the tall figure of Benedict behind her.
Hogan opened the door another inch. “Where’s the Texan?”
“Ran out of nerve,” Benedict said scornfully. “A yard wide and yellow clean through.”
Hogan looked back at Raven. “Brazos ain’t with him.”
“Who cares?” Raven breathed. “It’s the butcher we want, not the block. You got his guns, Merle?”
“Yes,” she said. “And I searched him.”
“Good work, Merle. All right, Hogan, let the hero in.”
Hogan beckoned, but Benedict paused, waiting until Merle Bronson had moved towards the kitchen door. Then he tugged down the lapels of his coat, adjusted his four-in-hand tie, and stepped into the room.
He coughed, then the window shattered. Raven whirled in that direction and Benedict’s right hand streaked for the gun snuggled under his armpit. The Peacemaker came free before Sam Hogan could blink and before Jim Crow Ritter could lift his gun; also before Raven could bring his Colt to bear on the window drape that was bulging inward under a driving impact from outside.
Benedict fired and Sam Hogan was belted back as if by a giant fist. As the killer fell, Ritter squeezed trigger. Benedict fell into a crouch and returned his fire. Raven swung towards him behind the living shield of the girl, his face a mask of insane rage.
Lead stitched across Ritter’s chest, crimson spurting from the holes as he slammed into the wall, his mouth wide open in a silent scream. Raven’s Colt muzzle spewed red and Benedict felt hot lead whisper past his cheek. Unable to return the fire for fear of hitting the girl, Benedict hurled himself to one side as the killer’s finger whitened on the trigger again.
Then Brazos came tearing through the flapping drapes. Raven started to whirl, but the giant Texan hit him from behind. The tremendous impact of the tackle jolted the girl free of the killer’s grasp. Belinda staggered forward and was claimed by Benedict as she fell. Raven’s gun spun high, but somehow he managed to twist with the suppleness of a reptile the moment before he and Brazos hit the floor. Brazos cursed as he felt him tear free, then he grunted as a flashing boot smashed against the side of his face.
Benedict fired just as Raven exploded to his feet. But the girl hampered his arm and the slug hit the killer in the shoulder instead of the head. An animal sound tearing from his lips, Raven staggered, but he had the kitchen door open before Benedict could fire again. The killer lunged through, then stopped.
His head still ringing from the brutal kick, Brazos didn’t hear that strange thudding sound that coincided with the badman’s abrupt halt. But he did see the woman’s face beyond Raven’s head, so contorted that he didn’t realize immediately it was Merle Bronson. His view blocked by the open door, Benedict was unwilling to release the sobbing girl to see what was going on. He was holding Belinda tightly when Raven backed into the room.
Benedict and Brazos were about to fire when they saw the meat cleaver. The instrument Merle used to cut up her meat was embedded in the killer’s forehead. Swung with great force, the cleaver had split the killer’s skull like a melon. Belinda screamed with horror as Raven turned slowly and fell, and Duke Benedict was happy to close his eyes as he held her close. Even Hank Brazos, born and bred in Comanche country where you became accustomed to the bloodier facts of life at an early age, found he couldn’t look.
The only one who looked at Raven was Merle Bronson. And she was smiling.
They were soaking up the sun on the gallery of the Frontier Hotel late the following afternoon, when the four horsemen rode out of the Big Horn Mountains east of Spearhead. The riders paused briefly, then set out to cover the last two miles to town.
Neither Duke Benedict nor Hank Brazos was aware of the appearance of the cloud of dust on the trail as they sat in rockers on the hotel gallery. Like every other man, woman and child in Federal Street, they were more interested in the sight of Dusty Lane strolling arm in arm down the main stem with luscious Chastity Brown.
Dusty Lane was swaggering as he walked and soaking up the adulation of the crowd. It wasn’t every day that a man returned from the dead in Spearhead County. Added to this, there was an enormous air of relief among the citizens of Spearhead today, putting them in the mood to acclaim all heroes. Before sunrise, Sheriff Calvin, supported by Benedict, Brazos and a thirty-strong posse, had rounded up Kell Hawkin and Hardy James, each of whom had confessed to complicity in the Combine conspiracy. Calvin and the posse were out west now to arrest Garroway.
Benedict, a little glum because of the departure of Belinda Whitney on the mid-afternoon stage, watched the approaching couple for several seconds before a puzzling thought hit home. “Where’s Trogg?” he asked.
Brazos looked down at his dog. “Gone, Yank.”
“Gone where?”
“Just gone. Took off this mornin’ like a skunk with its tail afire.”
“He left Chastity? Why? I thought he’d rather die than do that.”
“Funny you should say that.”
“I’m not following you, Texan.”
Brazos looked at Dusty and Chastity, who’d drawn level now, walking like royalty. The Texan sighed. “I guess I owe it to you to be honest, Benedict. You see, it boils down to the simple fact that Dusty kinda told Trogg he’d blow his head off if he ever saw him around town again. I reckon Jubal believed him.”
Benedict grinned, amazed. “You mean Trogg let Lane bluff him that easily?”
“It wasn’t a bluff. I was there. Dusty had his gun shoved up against Trogg’s skull. He was gonna pull the trigger.”
Benedict’s smile faded. “Just a minute. Are you saying that this noble comrade-in-arms of yours who, by your own admission, might steal a little but couldn’t hurt a cat—he was going to shoot a man down in cold blood?”
Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Brazos nodded, then he braced himself, ready to accept the inevitable explosion. Everything they had done in this bloody chapter of violence that had claimed so many lives had been prompted by Brazos’ fierce belief in Dusty Lane’s inability to commit murder. It had been a severe shock to his rugged system to discover that good old Dusty had changed plenty since the days of the Texas Brigade. He could hardly expect this knowledge to charm Benedict.
It didn’t. Benedict was drawing in a deep breath preparatory to administering the tongue lashing to end all tongue lashings when Elroy Smart rode into sight around the Blacksmith Street corner.
Elroy Smart had changed in six days. Not only had he shed a great many pounds, but the crucible of privation had hardened him. He looked taller somehow, grim and black of jaw, with a vengeful glitter in his eyes as his gaze raked the walks. With him were three Capital City marshals who had been sent out to search for the hangman after he’d failed to wire back confirmation of the hanging on Monday morning, as governmental regulations stipulated. The lawmen, who had sighted the hangman’s signal fire at Dead Horse Canyon at daybreak, were looking every bit as grim as Smart. They had been shocked by the story the hangman had related, and like Elroy Smart himself were scanning the crowd now for a certain tall gunfighter and a barrel-chested Texan.
The two men who slipped unnoticed from the porch and trotted for Blundell’s Livery Stables didn’t know for certain that Elroy Smart would press charges, no matter what they had achieved here in Spearhead. But they had no intention of waiting to find out.
They didn’t relax until their mounts had climbed the long slow rise to Boothill, where they paused to look back. All was peaceful behind them.
After a long minute, Brazos threw a glance at his saddle partner. Benedict was half smiling as he stared down at the town, and Brazos felt a great weight slip off his shoulders.
Benedict stopped grinning when he became aware of Brazos’ scrutiny. “Well, don’t just sit there like a fool,” he snapped. “Break the trail for Sundown City.”
Hank Brazos beamed. Sundown City. They were still riding to
gether.
Hank Brazos winked down at his dog and gigged his horse into a lope, then he lifted the harmonica that he wore on a cord around his neck. Sometimes his playing was average, and at times it was bad enough to set coyotes howling. But for some reason, really pretty music drifted sweetly behind them in the scented evening air. Before they had gone half a mile, Duke Benedict found himself beating time on his saddle pommel as they headed south.
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
Cry Riot!
Fools’ Frontier
Benedict and Brazos 20 Page 11
