Two heads nodded in unison. Nobody could remain in the Southwest Territory long without hearing about Drum, so called ‘outlaw capital of the West.’ Fame would scarcely be the word for Drum, but notoriety it possessed in plenty. The town was a stronghold of men on the run, men beyond the law, and as such was unique.
“What about Drum, Fallon?” Benedict asked.
The marshal took a deep breath, then spoke quickly. “That pesthole has long been a worry to me. Early in my career as Chief Marshal, I tried to eliminate that nest of outlaws and killers, but with only marginal success. The town’s like a fortress. Believe me, Drum’s a red-hot problem, as much politically as anything else.” He paused. “Four days ago, the Drum outlaws went further than they’ve ever dared go before. A bunch of them led by Kain Shacklock shot three militiamen and kidnapped Governor Arnell’s wife.”
Two shocked faces stared at Fallon across the Last Hope’s battered table.
“Kidnapped the governor’s lady?” Brazos breathed incredulously. “How come we ain’t heard about this, Marshal?”
“The news has been deliberately suppressed,” Fallon said. “There’s been a lot of political activity in Capital City lately, with various power groups in conflict. The governor felt, and I agreed, that releasing the news right away could bring about political upheaval and anarchy. It’s my job to rescue Rachel Arnell and return her to Capital City alive. The kidnappers are demanding Governor Arnell’s resignation—and my surrender.”
“They expect you to turn yourself over to them to save this woman?” Benedict asked.
“Correct. We believe that the Drum killers have made some sort of pact with the governor’s enemies in the Capital. It’s the only theory that makes sense. We reckon they agreed to kidnap the governor’s wife and use her as a lever to get Arnell to resign and put me in their hands. If it worked, they’d kill me, then their new man would take over Arnell’s chair and grant them a free pardon.”
“But surely they don’t expect you to throw away your own life, even for the governor’s lady?” Benedict asked.
“Yes, they do,” Fallon said quietly. “I want to infiltrate Drum and try and discover where Rachel Arnell is being held, then set her free. It would be impossible for any man in the Militia to attempt such a thing, they’re all too well known. It calls for a total stranger, somebody unknown to the killers, somebody strong enough to match those hellions.”
Benedict went very still. “Me?”
“Think about it, Benedict. You’re a newcomer to the Territory, you’re lightning with a Colt, you have brains and nerve. Nobody would stand as good a chance of success as you. I realized that the instant I heard you were in Mission.” Before Benedict could reply, Dixie Troop came across to their table with a provocative roll of rounded hips. The proprietress of the Last Hope Saloon took one look at Benedict’s absorbed face and, a tactful lady, decided now was not the time for badinage and strolled away again.
“You’re asking too damn much, Fallon,” Benedict said stonily.
“I’d be the first to admit that,” Fallon agreed, fishing into an inside pocket. “But before you turn me down, I’d like you to take a look at this.”
The photograph he presented was of a strikingly beautiful woman, mature yet devastatingly attractive. Watching Benedict’s profile as he studied the photograph, Brazos paid silent tribute to Marshal Fallon’s cleverness. The man must have known that Benedict’s big weakness had always been for a pretty face or a delicately turned ankle, and surely they didn’t come any lovelier than Governor Wallace Arnell’s young wife.
Benedict studied the picture for a long moment in silence. He was struck by Rachel Arnell’s loveliness, and at the same time angered by Fallon’s obviousness in showing him the picture this way, as though dangling a carrot before a stubborn jackass. Yet neither admiration nor annoyance were his dominant reactions as he continued to examine the picture; rather he found himself perplexed by a nagging feeling that he had seen the lovely lady before.
Then, hard lines showed in his lean face. He leant back in his chair and took out his silver cigar case.
“Sorry, but it didn’t work, Marshal. I’m too young to put my life on the line. You’ll have to get yourself somebody else.”
Fallon’s face showed his disappointment. “There’s nobody else.”
“Then you’ll have to figure another way of handling it yourself.”
“There’s no other way. I’ll have to turn myself over to them.”
Benedict’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Your life for the governor’s lady, Fallon? That’s somewhat beyond the call of duty, isn’t it?”
Fallon subjected him to a searching gaze. “Then you didn’t recognize her?”
Benedict’s face showed blank for a moment. Then he remembered. Georgia and the last year of the war. The 17th had been surrounded by the enemy one night and everybody had believed himself to be facing death, and even the taciturn Fallon had been moved to tell Benedict about the girl who was waiting for him back home, had shown him her photograph.
That girl, and the governor’s wife, were one and the same!
Fallon nodded when he saw understanding in Benedict’s eyes. “She married the better man, Benedict,” he said grimly. “But I still love her ... and somehow my enemies and the outlaws in Drum have found out. That’s why they’re so sure they’ll get what they want from me ... the governor’s resignation and my head on a platter. They know I won’t let her be killed. The only question that remains to be answered is—will you?”
Benedict struck a vesta against his boot-sole, the sound loud in the silence. It was time for Duke Benedict, the devil-may-care gambler and playboy to live up to his carefully cultivated image and tell Marshal Tom Fallon to go to hell. He wanted to tell him just that, wipe his hands of the whole affair, then get down to the really important business of getting to know Dixie Troop better.
But he didn’t. For the look in the eyes of Tom Fallon was that of a man in love, and love was one of the few things in life that cynical Duke Benedict still managed to believe in, even though he would rather have died than admit it.
“What do you say, Johnny Reb?” he asked, knowing full well what that stout protector of maidens in distress would say.
“I reckon it wouldn’t hurt to sort of talk it over and make certain sure we can’t help, Yank,” the Texan replied predictably.
Trapped, Benedict thought bitterly. Then picking up the picture again, he gave a sudden, reckless smile. “Where do we start, Fallon?”
The face of Chief Marshal Tom Fallon softened. With difficulty he cleared his throat.
“I’ll never forget this, Benedict. Nor will the Territory.”
“I won’t forget it either, I guess,” Benedict said flippantly. “I asked you—where do we start?”
“A lot further ahead than you might have figured from what I said, Benedict. I’ve got one ace up my sleeve, namely a man who’s willing to help us try and save Rachel. He’s one of Drum’s top gun hands who’s been negotiating secretly with me for some time for amnesty, a full pardon for his crimes. I’m due to meet him here any hour, and I’m hoping he’ll be able to get you into that hornets’ nest and out again alive. Both of you, if you’re with your friend, Brazos.”
“You know I am,” growled Hank Brazos, ready to brave hell and high water in the fair name of chivalry. He dropped a huge hand on Benedict’s shoulder. “Reckon as how this puts a different complexion on the whole turkey shoot, eh, Yank?”
Benedict would reserve his opinion on that. He’d seen too many ‘inside men’ come unstuck to place much faith in them, certainly nothing like the faith he had in his own nerve, his pearl-handled guns, and most of the time, Hank Brazos.
He said, “Who’s this killer you’re waiting on, Fallon?”
“His name’s Holly.”
Chapter Three – First Blood
THE GOVERNOR OF Southwest Territory, Wallace Arnell, sat in his wheelchair, from the waist up a fine figure of a man. His face sho
wed his weariness as he watched a petitioner leave his office. He passed a hand over his face.
Then the private door opened and his aide came in. Foley Whitney, small and sharp-eyed.
“Any more, Foley?” Arnell asked wearily, his hands resting on the armrests of his wheelchair.
“There are always more, Governor,” Whitney said, closing the door behind him. “But you look as if you’ve seen enough for one day.”
“It’s been a long day,” Arnell conceded. He studied Whitney hopefully. “Any news?”
“No, sir.”
The governor swung his wheelchair towards the window. Outside in the yard, the Territorial flag hung limply from its white pole in the breathless heat. Arnell’s face was haggard as he rolled slowly towards the window, the face of a man already saddled with countless concerns and now burdened by the most harrowing problem any man could be called upon to bear.
The kidnapping of the governor’s wife had sent Wal Arnell into a state of shock from which he was only just now beginning to emerge. Though twenty years older than Rachel, paralyzed from the waist down, and fully aware that theirs had been a highly successful marriage of convenience, Arnell loved his wife deeply. And he knew that at any moment word might come that his wife’s life had been snuffed out by those terrible men from Drum.
“He must succeed, Foley,” he said, knuckles whitening on the chair wheels. “Fallon can’t fail.”
“I still feel you did the wrong thing in letting Fallon try to save your wife on his own, Governor,” the aide said. “If you’d listened to me you’d have sent the Militia down there with orders to shoot everything on sight. That’s the only way.”
Arnell looked at his aide.
“There are innocent women and children in Drum, Foley,” he said with weary patience.
“I’d still send the Militia in with orders to kill everything, Governor.”
Yes, and have the more humane half of the Territory turn against me, Arnell thought, then he wondered if that was what lay behind Whitney’s suggestion. Was he trying to talk him into a course of action that might cause him to lose his slender edge of popularity and force him from office? Was Foley Whitney aligned with his enemies, as gossip had it?
Arnell passed his hand across his eyes. He must be overtired, he told himself, suspecting his own close aides now. He knew he should rest but dreaded having nothing to occupy his thoughts.
“I’m satisfied I’m handling the matter in the best way possible,” he said quietly. “Send the next petitioner in.”
“Sir,” the aide said stiffly, and strode out.
The governor shook his head sadly. If the worst happened to his wife, he doubted that he could continue. And it was believed by many thoughtful people, including some of the most influential statesmen in Washington, that this kindly but determined ex-Civil War general who had lost the use of his legs in an earlier attempt to remove him from office by assassination, was all that stood between the Southwest Territory and anarchy.
Holly was overdue.
Seated alone at a table of the Last Hope Saloon, Marshal Tom Fallon consulted his watch. Ten thirty. Holly was supposed to have arrived at dawn that morning.
The marshal shook his head like a tormented bull. Impatiently he beckoned to Rosie the serving girl who slouched across with a tray tucked under one plump arm and a thin black cigar dangling from red lips.
“Yeah?” Her manner was anything but friendly. Despite the railroad which brought a flicker of life twice weekly, Taloga was remote enough to be suspicious of strangers, particularly a stranger who wore a lawman’s star and the blue shirt of the Territorial Militia.
“Where’s Hank Brazos, do you know, Rosie?”
“Went walkin’ a spell back,” she said grudgingly. “Gettin’ restless, he said.”
“By himself?”
“Far as I know.”
The marshal frowned. He knew he wasn’t popular in hardcase Taloga amongst certain elements and believed this antipathy would spread to Benedict and Brazos by association. He’d warned them against wandering about alone at night, but of course they weren’t of the breed which took heed of warnings. His eyes went about the room. “What about Benedict?”
Rosie lifted her eyes ceilingward. “He’s upstairs with Dixie.”
“What are they doing?”
The girl rested one hand on a hip and cocked an eyebrow at him with a world-weary but eloquent expression on her face. The marshal reddened as he reached for his cup of cold coffee.
He supposed, all things considered, that it was a pretty dumb question.
“Duke?” Dixie’s voice sounded throaty in the gloom.
“Yes?” Benedict’s tone was distant. He stood by the window in the moonlight, naked torso taut and tapering. Muscles moved silkily in his arm as he lifted his cigar to his lips to send blue smoke fogging against the moonglow.
The woman patted the bed. “Please come back.”
“In a moment.”
A frown cut Dixie’s brows as she linked her hands about her long, updrawn legs. “You sound strange, Duke,” she observed, and when that drew no response, added: “You weren’t such a stranger a little time back, honey.”
Turning his dark head, Benedict looked across at her. In the dim light, Dixie Troop could have been any age, certainly her body was still girlish and very lovely. But Duke was in a reflective mood. While he and Brazos waited for the mysterious Holly, they’d had ample time to garner local knowledge of the Drum gun packers, and the locals, some of whom seemed to regard the outlaws as heroes, had painted a disturbing picture of a legion of murderous gunslingers reported to be of the number of fifty and more.
Duke Benedict would rather have died than admit to apprehension about a job of work, but fifty gunslingers did sound a little rich, even for his blood.
“You’re worried, aren’t you, Duke?” Dixie said after a moment.
“Worried?”
“About whatever it is you’re going to be doing with the marshal?”
“Who said I’d be doing anything with Marshal Fallon?”
“Why, nobody of course, but it’s as plain as the nose on your face. One day the marshal turns up out of nowhere, acting like a man with a date with a hangman, next day you and Hank step down off the Southbound to talk with him by the hour. I’m not so dumb as to figure you and the marshal are planning a coon hunt.”
He smiled, one half of his face in shadow, the other tinted silver by the moonlight.
“I don’t think you’re dumb, Dixie.”
She didn’t answer his smile. “Is it very dangerous, Duke?”
“Possibly.”
Her mouth turned down at the corners. “I knew it of course ... right from the moment you walked in. I’ve seen enough men walk through my doors to be able to pick right off the ones who’ll be trouble. Perhaps you can tell me something, Duke Benedict? Why is it that the handsomest ones always die quickest?”
“Not strictly accurate,” he said lightly, flicking his cigar out the window before moving towards her.
“You’re just about the handsomest,” she said, sounding almost angry. “And those guns of yours say you’re hunting trouble. Honest, if a girl had any sense she’d pick the dull, ugly ones every time.”
He laughed softly. “Now who’s acting strange?”
She made an impatient sound in her throat, but as she made to retort, his fingertips brushed her shoulder. Dixie shivered slightly, then took hold of his fingers. She carried them to her mouth, then pressed them to her firm, warm breasts.
An educated man with a ready quote to cover just about any given situation, Duke Benedict was aware of something that went, ‘Eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow you die ... ’ as he let himself be drawn down to the bed. Then he wasn’t thinking much about anything as her warm softness enveloped him. “My handsome, dangerous Duke ... ”
Not much of anything at all.
Wandering aimlessly down by the tracks where dusty cottonwoods grew, Hank Brazos li
fted the harmonica that hung by a rawhide strip around his neck and began to play a tune. The strains of Sweet Nell drifted across the steel ribbons that arrowed away north and south. Then he launched into Johnny In The Low Ground, followed by a Texas Brigade marching song, and a few samples of Stephen Foster’s haunting melodies.
Finally he slipped the instrument away inside his faded purple shirt and kicked at an empty can. Music usually did the trick when the big Texan was restless, but it didn’t really work tonight. Hank Brazos was a man who hated inactivity. He was always at his best when things were booming, and since midday, with Holly, the man from Drum, already overdue, things had begun to slow down noticeably. That afternoon he’d taken his horse and Bullpup out on the plains for some exercise, and had lately enjoyed a leisurely meal with Benedict and the marshal at the diner. Since then however, with Fallon brooding over endless cups of coffee in the Last Hope and Benedict upstairs doing the Lord alone knew what with long-legged Dixie, time had begun to really hang heavily on his hands.
He didn’t want to be roaming around a no-account railroad town in the middle of the night when right at that very moment, somewhere across the trackless badlands, the First Lady of the Territory could be praying out the last minutes of her life. It was true what Benedict said sometimes, he reflected as he turned into Sundown Street—waiting was always the hardest part.
It was only then that he realized he was being followed.
There were three of them and they were none too skilled in the art of trailing a man by stealth. Without even revealing that he was aware of them, Brazos picked out all three as they ducked in and out of cover behind him and was even able to identify one as Gobey Tanner, a big bragger from the Last Hope Saloon.
Brazos lifted his mouth organ and began to blow softly through it again as he continued on. He walked with his usual shambling grace, but inside he was aware of a familiar prickling sensation that the threat of danger always brought. He felt almost relieved that something was about to happen at last.
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