“Nope. Is it important?”
Benedict stroked his clean-shaven jaw. “Possibly, possibly not. I’m not too impressed with our comrade in arms, Reb, even though Fallon seems prepared to trust him.”
“The marshal’s a desperate man,” Brazos opined. “He’s got to trust him.”
Benedict nodded, glancing westward. Some five miles from Drum on that side, a towering butte rose from the cactus-studded slopes of the Burning Hills. The butte marked Wolftail Canyon where Marshal Fallon was waiting for news of the governor’s wife. One way or another, Benedict, Brazos and Holly hoped to have something on Rachel Arnell’s whereabouts by tonight, or next morning at the latest.
“Have you seen or heard anything that might offer a clue about the woman yet, Johnny Reb?” he asked.
“Not a thing. But I notice these hardnoses seem to be watchin’ us kind of close. Seems to me, that’s either on account they’re just the curious kind, or else they got somethin’ hid they don’t want us to find.”
“My thoughts precisely. Perhaps Rachel Arnell is hidden here after all, Reb, in Drum.”
“If she is, we might have a hard time locatin’ her. I was loafin’ down by the barn a spell back and that McGuire jasper come along and told me to stay around where I’d be easy seen.”
“I can see it sticking out a mile,” Benedict said after a pause.
“See what?”
“A situation crying out for a generous expenditure of the famed Benedict charm.”
Brazos’ response was predictable. “Huh?”
“I’m going to make them realize what a splendid fellow I am and thereby ensure that come tonight, I may be granted a little room to move,” he smiled. He clapped Brazos on the shoulder as he turned to go. “Stay sharp, Johnny Reb. Report immediately if anything shows up.”
Brazos turned his big head and spat. Danged officers. Once a man got to be an officer, he thought and acted like one the rest of his life. He didn’t need Mr. High-Stepping Benedict to tell him what to do. If anybody was liable to lose sight of just how important and dangerous their job was here, it would be Benedict when he got in amongst the cards or the women.
But Brazos’ fears proved to be unfounded. The women of Drum were such a sleazy lot that they offered no distraction to fastidious Duke Benedict, and while he did spend the remainder of the day playing poker and winning handsomely at Quinn’s, he never lost sight of the main objective. Throughout the game, he asked subtle, probing questions of his fellow players, though failed to find out anything at all that he didn’t already know about Rachel Arnell.
The gun packers had plainly been ordered not to discuss the kidnapping with Holly’s ‘recruits’ until they’d proven themselves. And once he was quite certain of this, Benedict was once again forced to consider the uncomfortable question of just how much weight Holly did pull in Drum.
Holly sat in on the poker game around dusk, but it wasn’t until Benedict and Brazos went to supper at the diner, that Holly was able to join them for their first private conversation since their arrival.
By this time, Brazos and Benedict expected that Holly might have at least picked up a hint as to where the hostage was being held, but in this they were disappointed.
“I asked Shacklock point-blank where they’re holdin’ the woman,” Holly informed them, “but the bastard wouldn’t tell.” He looked hungrily at the lump of steak that Brazos was forking into his mouth. He was forced to take his meals in private because of his disfigurement. Then the cold eyes swung to Benedict. “It’s plain as paint now, Benedict. Shacklock don’t trust me since I went missin’.”
“Just where were you for that week?” Benedict wanted to know.
“Mindin’ my own goddamn business is where.”
Brazos and Benedict exchanged glances. Holly sounded riled, they thought. And they were right.
The gunfighter stared moodily through the dusty window at the lights of the saloon opposite.
“There might have to be a change of plans,” he said after a heavy silence.
“What kinda change?” Brazos asked.
Holly took out his Colt and started spinning it on his finger.
“The idea, before they kidnapped the governor’s wife, was for me to nail Shacklock personal and sell the pack out to Fallon,” he said bluntly. “That was how I was goin’ to buy amnesty. I didn’t hatch this kidnappin’ idea, had nothin’ to do with it, as a matter of fact. Yet now I find myself saddled with the job of tryin’ to rescue this jade for Fallon, when if it comes right down to cases, what they still want is Shacklock.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” Benedict frowned.
The spinning Colt caught the light. Holly wielded the weapon with the practiced skill of a circus trick shooter.
“Shacklock is Drum,” he said. “Leastways what it’s become.” He aimed the six-gun at an imaginary target and clicked the hammer on an empty chamber. “One slug and Shacklock’s dead and gone and the whole shebang here will fall apart at the seams. That was the original idea, and damned if it still doesn’t measure up as best to me.”
Benedict stopped eating.
“Let me make sure I’ve got this, mister,” he said. “You’re suggesting we forget about Rachel Arnell and just wipe out Shacklock and anybody else that happens to get in our way?”
“You catch on fast, Benedict. So what’s another female more or less? It’s sure not enough to get killed over, and from the proddy way Kain’s actin’ towards me since I got back, there’s a hell of a good chance of that happenin’, seems to me.”
“Why you dirty, no-good—” Brazos began angrily, but Benedict silenced him by kicking him under the table.
He said, “The answer’s no, mister. We’re going to find Rachel Arnell, and if she’s here in Drum, we’re going to get her out alive.”
The big blue-barreled gun had swung so that it was trained directly on Benedict’s heart. Above the mask that glinted like pewter in the lamp glow, Holly’s eyes held the bright, enameled look of a snake’s.
“So you’re bossin’ this three-man outfit now, dude?” he said softly.
“I didn’t say that,” Benedict replied, keeping his eyes on the face and away from that yawning gun muzzle. “I’m just saying we’ll stick by the original plan. We owe Fallon that.”
“Still sounds like you’re fixin’ to take over, to me,” Holly persisted. “I don’t like that, Benedict. Matter of fact, if you want to know the truth, I don’t damn well like you or that fancy accent or them tinhorn gambler clothes, neither.”
“Better put that hogleg away now, jasper,” said Brazos.
“Who’s askin’ you to horn in, Texas?” Holly snarled.
“The gun I got in my fist pointin’ at your navel says I don’t need to be asked.”
Holly stiffened. He’d been so intent on Benedict that he hadn’t seen the Texan slip his hands beneath the table. Yet he still thought Brazos might be bluffing, until something tapped his knee. Something hard.
“Now!” Brazos growled, his craggy, sun-bronzed young face deadly serious.
Though only the upper half of Holly’s face was visible, his emotions showed plainly enough. Anger filled the cold eyes, followed by uncertainty, and finally resignation.
His long-barreled Colt went back into the holster.
“No need to get tetchy, Texas,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair. “I was only foolin’.”
There was a click as Brazos let his six-gun off the cock. “Yeah? Well I wasn’t.”
Holly’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. “We’re not doin’ so well, are we? No smell of the woman, and now squallin’ amongst ourselves.”
“No harm done,” Benedict said, forking meat into his mouth and chewing steadily. “Just so long as we know where we stand.”
“All right,” Holly finally conceded. “I’ll give it until tomorrow. But if there’s still nothin’ on the woman by then, we’re goin’ to have to change our plans.” The cold eyes cut to Brazos. “You’re
ridin’ out to see the marshal later tonight. You tell him just how things are, and what I say, d’you hear?”
Brazos frowned. “Tell me, mister, you weren’t an officer durin’ the war, were you? You talk like one at times.”
Holly rose quickly. “I let you win a small hand, Texan,” he whispered. “But don’t let it go to your head. You let that tongue run away with you and you’re goin’ to wind up leanin’ on a bullet.”
“He means it, Reb,” Benedict said quietly as the door banged shut on the departing gunfighter’s slender back. “Don’t sell that one short.”
Brazos swallowed noisily, belched. “Pass the ketchup, Yank.”
Benedict shook his head. Trying to instill caution in a Texan was like trying to teach tatting to a buffalo bull. He passed the ketchup in silence, then leant back to light a cigar and ponder on where he might hide a hostage if he were calling the shots in Drum.
Chapter Six – Gun in the Back
LATER, THE MARSHAL realized it had been careless to smoke.
He usually didn’t use tobacco much but had become a heavy smoker since the day Rachel Arnell had been kidnapped. Throughout the long day which he’d spent restlessly prowling Wolftail Canyon in the searing heat, his pipe had seldom been out of his mouth. There had been no danger in that. It was only when night came down that the flare of a match and the tiny, cherry red dot of the pipe bowl could be seen at any great distance.
Even so, Fallon had thought himself safe enough. The canyon was well away from the beaten trails through the Burning Hills, and deep and steep-sided enough to afford concealment. He foresaw no reason why anybody should travel this way heading to or from Drum, unless he came up across the desert from the Eternals, which he considered unlikely.
So the lawman smoked his briar pipe as he sweated out the night hours until Hank Brazos would arrive with his report from Drum, and his first intimation that he was no longer alone came far too late when a gun muzzle touched the back of his neck and a deep voice sounded in his ear.
“Don’t move or I’ll shoot!”
Shock bolted through Fallon’s tall frame, yet he made no attempt either to swing on the gunman or reach for his own weapon, for that deep voice carried conviction.
A hand plucked Fallon’s Colt from his holster and he heard the man back up.
“All right, mister,” the voice said. “Turn around, real slow.”
Fallon turned. The man standing before him under the cold stars was as tall as himself, but built like a lumberjack.
He wore a dark blue shirt and pants with a wide-crowned black hat angled across his forehead. The light gleamed on broad cheekbones and a face that could have been molded from bronze.
Slowly but surely, Fallon’s infallible memory began ticking over until those formidable features and a name clicked together. The marshal’s mouth opened in astonishment.
“Flint!”
The man with the gun peered closer, and recognition hit his eyes. “By glory, it’s Fallon! I saw you in Capital City once, Marshal, but you didn’t see me. What the tarnal are you doin’ here ... ?” Flint’s voice faded and his gaze flickered eastward in the direction of Drum. “Or can I guess?”
“My business here is no concern of yours, Caleb Flint,” Fallon said firmly. He had recovered from his surprise and was making a desperate bid to regain control of the situation. “Now, if you’ll just hand me back my gun, maybe we can talk this over sensibly.”
The ghost of a smile touched Caleb Flint’s broad mouth. “Nervy, Marshal,” he murmured. “But then you always had a name for guts.” Then the smile vanished. “But you’re not callin’ any shots here, mister. I’m holdin’ top cards and you’re about to tell me quick just what you’re doin’ here.”
Fallon let a held breath go. “How did you come up on me this way, gunfighter?”
“I was comin’ in quiet and cautious from the south,” Flint supplied. “When I was runnin’ things in Drum, I sometimes posted lookouts out here in bad times. I never expected Shacklock to be that careful, but I elected to check around, just in case. Satisfied?”
“Slow and cautious, you say? Does that mean you were coming in without your murderous friends being aware of it?”
“No friends!” Flint rapped, and again Fallon was made aware of the enormous strength of this man’s personality. “I quit Drum and the trade two years ago, in case your information isn’t up to date, Fallon.”
Fallon nodded. “I know more about this nest of butchers than you may think, Flint. Yes, I’m aware that you vanished two years ago. Directly after that bloodbath in Dodge City, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. And—it doesn’t matter a damn one way or another, but that was none of my doin’, Fallon.”
“You’ll be surprised to learn that I believe you, gunfighter. I investigated that affair personally and discovered exactly what happened, including your attempt to punish the man responsible.”
“Holly!” Flint’s voice was like a rasp, the big gun in his fist seemed to shake.
“You were badly wounded in that gunfight, Flint,” the marshal said curiously. “Everybody believed you’d crawled away to die. Where have you been for those two years?”
“At peace.”
“Your—”
“Doubt it if you please, lawman, but it’s the truth. Trouble is, I’ve learned a man can’t hide forever ... ” Flint brought himself up short. “But how the hell did we get onto me again? You’re the one who should be doin’ the talkin’. So what are you doin’ here five miles from Drum in the dead of night, Fallon? Plannin’ an attack?”
Fallon studied him narrowly. “Surely you know why I’m here?”
“How could I? I’ve been lost two years, Marshal. I’d still be lost only ... but never mind that. What’s your business, Fallon. Make it quick.”
The marshal started filling his pipe, playing for time. His mind raced. He could lie, but sensed Caleb Flint would see through any lies. Or he could make a try for that Colt. Less than six feet separated them, and despite his authority, Flint seemed preoccupied. It might only be a slender chance, but a chance ...
Fallon’s pipe dropped to the ground. He bent to retrieve it, then launched himself forward in a high-powered dive.
In the space of a handful of seconds, Caleb Flint graphically demonstrated why he had been king of the heap in the roaring days of Drum, all the others merely followers. Evading Fallon’s charge with a sway of the hips, he clipped the marshal over the head with the Colt barrel as casually as a man would swat a fly. Fallon hit the hard ground with his face, dimly felt powerful hands reef him to his feet. His head throbbed and Flint’s granite face swam into his vision.
“You’re usin’ up your luck and my patience like a spendthrift at a fire sale, Fallon,” the gunfighter grated. “Now I’m here to kill a man and if I got to kill you too, then I’ll do it. I got to get into Drum to do a job of work, mister, and if you’ve got law dogs or militiamen clutterin’ up the landscape, then I got to know about it.” The big gun touched Fallon’s corded throat. “You got three seconds.”
“Kill a man?” Fallon panted. “Who?”
“The man I tried to kill two years ago.”
“Holly.” Fallon shook his throbbing head. “But you can’t, Flint. If Holly dies, then the game’s over ... everything will be lost.”
Confusion twisted Caleb Flint’s features. “You’re ramblin’, lawman. Make yourself plain.”
Levering himself onto a boulder, Marshal Fallon rested his throbbing head in his hands and proceeded to do just that. What did he have to lose now? In a thick, weary voice he told the gunfighter everything, beginning with Holly’s first overtures to betray Drum and earn a pardon, followed by the kidnapping of Rachel Arnell, the decision to keep the news from the public, his recruitment of Benedict and Brazos and the journey across the badlands. Everything. In a desperate hope to enlist Flint’s sympathy, he was even moved to tell the man of his personal relationship with Rachel Arnell, something he’d
never spoken of to any man before Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos, and then, as now, only through desperate necessity.
Strangely enough, it was only this last confession that produced any reaction from Caleb Flint. At first.
“Love, Fallon?” the big man sneered. “You mean you still believe in that stuff?”
Fallon lifted his haggard face. “It’s one of the few things I do believe in, Flint. That and the law—and perhaps the innate decency of even a man like you ... ” He lurched to his feet, no pride left in his hard gray face now, just a desperate hope. “You could help me, Flint. You could help me save that innocent woman’s life. You’re perhaps the best gun hand of them all, and you showed in Dodge that you’re a man with a conscience. Help me and my friends, Flint, and I swear to God that I’ll see you repaid a hundred times over. I could get you anything you want, a pardon, a respectable job, money if that’s what you want. Anything.”
“There’s only one thing I want, Marshal.”
“Name it.”
“Holly.”
“You’d rather kill than help save a woman like Rachel Arnell?”
“You said it.”
“You hate Holly that much ... because of what happened in Dodge?”
“More than that. But yeah, I hate him that much.” Flint’s mouth twisted. “And hate’s real, Fallon. It’s not all rainbows and fiddle music like your love-talk. It mightn’t be much to keep a man goin’, but it’s better than nothin’.”
The marshal passed a slow hand across his face. Caleb Flint was a rock and he was dashing himself against it with the futility of a lost bird. He was losing, and defeat and despair were a cold leaden weight in the pit of his guts.
“All right, killer,” he said bitterly. “Do it, and get it over with.”
Flint shook his head. “Not so fast, Marshal. You’re worth more to me alive than dead.”
Fallon stared at him. “What do you mean?”
“It was goin’ to be hard, Fallon, my gettin’ into Drum past the lookouts, killin’ Holly, then gettin’ out alive. Maybe it would have been impossible. But meetin’ up with you is a stroke of luck. You said this Brazos pilgrim is goin’ to try and get out here around midnight to let you know how they’re makin’ out?”
Benedict and Brazos 27 Page 5
