Benedict and Brazos 27

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Benedict estimated that they had opened up a lead of a mile before he hipped around in the saddle to see the first horsemen pouring from Drum. It was a good lead, he reflected, but they were going to need every inch of it before they were through, for even now he could see that each rider emerging from the town was leading a remount. No slouches at the manhunting business were the gunmen of Drum.

  They met Hank Brazos a mile farther on, and after travelling with them for a time, the big Texan dropped back to slow the pursuers with some effective rifle fire while Benedict and Rachel Arnell sped on to Wolftail Canyon.

  Brazos had swiftly told Benedict of Caleb Flint and the situation at the canyon, but Benedict had no option but to rejoin Fallon and take his chances with the gunfighter.

  Fallon was overjoyed to see Rachel alive and well, though their reunion was inhibited severely by Flint’s granite presence and the awareness that the entire gun army of Drum was thundering across the plains towards them.

  Caleb Flint was furious when he realized his showdown with Holly would have to be deferred, though anger didn’t affect his common-sense. Even Flint could not withstand the combined might of Drum, they would have to all flee together. Within minutes, the one-time king of Drum was racing westward across the moonlit badlands with Benedict, Brazos, the marshal and the governor’s lady.

  With Kain Shacklock, Holly, and near three score killers following hard behind, out for blood.

  Waiting for the governor in the carpeted ante-room on the palace’s first floor, the plotters drank whisky and spoke in low voices.

  “I tell you he won’t resign and he won’t tell me what is going on, Jake,” Foley Whitney grated. “How many times do I have to tell you that? I can’t get anything out of the man anymore.”

  “You don’t think he suspects us, by any chance?”

  “I don’t know. I hope not. Damn it, man, I’m beginning to regret that I ever let you talk me into this whole, messy business.”

  “Nerve, Foley, nerve. Lose that and you lose everything.”

  “I’m not sure that we haven’t lost already. Why haven’t we heard from Shacklock?”

  “Because there’s no reason why we should just yet. Now settle down before the governor comes in, man. Pull yourself together.”

  Foley Whitney did his best, accepting a fat black cigar from the rancher and pouring them each a fresh drink.

  It was early evening in Capital City with bright stars in a clear sky. The wide land beyond the city was giving up its scents of sage and wild flowers before summer’s hardest heat came. A sweet night like this should have eased the troubles from a man’s bones, but it merely made the plotters’ seem worse.

  So long; so long for Arnell to hold out. They hadn’t planned on it lasting this long without resolution.

  Neither man spoke for some time. They afforded a strong contrast in appearance; Whitney a clerkish, dapper little man and Jake Larsen exactly the opposite.

  The boss of the big Anvil Ranch was a paunchy man with long thick legs that bent inwards at the knees as though his body was too heavy for them. Ruthlessness was the dominant expression in Larsen’s eyes, arrogant ruthlessness in dark eyes under bushy black brows. His gray hair was of senatorial length and his gray moustache seemed to hold his mouth in place, like twin hooks. Jake Larsen was what some people termed an empire builder.

  The wide range around Capital City was the hunting ground for men like Larsen, cattle country. The ranchers liked to have fingers in every pie, all the more so now as the railroad brought increasing prosperity. They could be called gamblers, profiteers of their time with few morals and little conscience. Through these ranks, Larsen had risen to become the biggest cattleman in the Territory, and once that objective had become reality, realized he now wanted to be the biggest man.

  Larsen had first conceived the infamous kidnapping plot with Kain Shacklock after failing miserably to even make a dent in Arnell’s popularity at the recent elections. He’d thought it a good method of bringing Wal Arnell to his knees at the time, still believed in it despite the nerve-testing delay and the governor’s disturbing secretiveness concerning the affair.

  But he would still win. He always had in the past; he would now.

  So he told himself, priming his confidence until the governor finally showed.

  The past two weeks had aged Governor Wal Arnell. Never robust after the crippling assassination attempt, he had lost weight that he could ill afford to spare and his lean features showed the ravages of sleeplessness and strain.

  Yet despite the physical erosions caused by his time of trial, the governor proved again that his resolve was, if anything, even firmer than ever. Whitney and Larsen had sought this audience in an attempt to persuade the governor to resign, or at least to acquaint them with whatever steps he was taking to recover his wife.

  Arnell resisted on both counts.

  The governor was polite as always, but quite firm. He would never resign, he reiterated, then repeated his assertion that he dare not run the risk of revealing his plans to save Mrs. Arnell for fear they might be leaked and forewarn the enemy.

  Whitney and Larsen didn’t give up easily, and they were exhausted men when they left the palace an hour later after having failed totally to shift the governor from his stubborn stance.

  Exhausted also, was Governor Arnell.

  Alone in the anteroom, Arnell slumped in his wheelchair like a man without the energy or will ever to move again. Every day had seemed a month long, and every day of waiting seemed more painful than the one before.

  He believed secretly now, that he’d made the wrong decision in agreeing to Marshal Fallon’s plan. It seemed more certain, with each passing day, that Fallon had failed. And failure could well mean that they would kill his wife as they had threatened. He didn’t know how he had been able to present a brave, confident face to Larsen and Whitney while feeling the fear of failure and loss gnawing at his vitals like a canker.

  Perhaps how he’d managed it, he thought darkly, was because of his mounting distrust of them both. They were too eager to have him resign ... yet it was hard to believe that men of such standing could be involved with killers and kidnappers ...

  The governor stirred at the sound of a knock. “Come!” he called, and was sitting erect when an aide came in to announce Colonel Claiborne.

  Despite his weariness, Arnell was delighted to see his father-in-law, greeting him warmly, and personally pouring two bourbons at the drinks cabinet.

  “No news, Wallace?”

  “I’m afraid not, Colonel.” Even though Arnell was Territorial governor, he still called Rachel’s father ‘Colonel.’ Claiborne was the sort of man who naturally drew respect, a silver-gray man of quietness and dignity, draped with the respect of years and a lifetime of wealth and position. A former Georgia plantation owner, Claiborne had served with great distinction in the army of the Confederacy, yet when hostilities were over, had done as much as any Northerner to help bind up the wounds. With his plantation in ruins at war’s end, Claiborne had shifted his family west to the Territory where his business abilities, backed by the support he engendered amongst the Southern immigrants, quickly saw him restore the family fortunes and become the Territory’s most eminent railroad tycoon. It had been the marriage between Northerner Arnell and the daughter of the most respected Southerner in the Territory that had given the Territory its first ever governor; the first man who could command sufficient support to enable Washington to withdraw martial law and bestow autonomy on the trouble-wracked Territory.

  Many cynics still insisted it had been a marriage of convenience. There had even been rumors that lovely Rachel Claiborne had given up her true love to wed the crippled Arnell, though these rumors had tended to fade in the light of the obvious devotion between the Territory’s first couple over the two years of their marriage.

  Claiborne looked at the governor soberly as he eased his long length into a leather chair. “You haven’t been getting any rest by the l
ooks of it, Wallace,” he observed in a voice as southern as mint julep. “That isn’t going to do Rachel or the Territory any good at all, you know.”

  A tired smile worked the governor’s lips. “I have been sleeping, Colonel,” he lied. “If I look tired tonight, it’s because I’ve just had a long meeting with Whitney and Larsen.”

  “I see,” was all Claiborne said, but there was a wealth of meaning in those words. It was only natural that two-fisted Jake Larsen and this man of culture and distinction should not hit it off, but the rift between the Territory’s two wealthiest men went far beyond their natural differences. The Colonel didn’t trust Jake Larsen and never had. He knew the man was ambitious and believed he would stop at nothing to achieve his own ends. On the day of his daughter’s kidnapping, the distraught Claiborne had even gone so far as to suggest to Arnell that Larsen could be involved.

  The governor had immediately dismissed the wild suggestion, though he didn’t feel nearly as adamant now. In the long, brooding hours of waiting, Arnell had considered all the people who had hated him, envied him and would like to see him brought down in a desperate attempt to pinpoint the Territorial elements who were backing Kain Shacklock. He had found that in doing so, he definitely could not dismiss Larsen, and this suspicion had been hardened by Larsen’s insistence that he agree to the kidnapper’s demands and resign.

  He said, “They urged me to quit again, Colonel.”

  “You refused, of course?”

  “Of course. Though it was even harder tonight than before.”

  “I can understand. But yours is still the only course of action.”

  “You really believe that, don’t you, Colonel? Even when it’s your own daughter whose life is at stake?”

  “I certainly do.”

  “You’d be prepared to sacrifice Rachel for the good of the Territory?”

  “It’s not quite as extreme as that, Wallace.” Claiborne set his glass aside and leaned forward, resting his hands on the silver handle of his cane. “I still believe that the threat to murder Rachel is a bluff, Wallace. We’re both certain that Shacklock is in cahoots with one of the aspirants for power here in the Capital, and I doubt if any of those people could seize and hold power with the murder of a girl to live down.”

  “They mightn’t. But what about Shacklock? He’d murder his own mother if the circumstances demanded it.”

  “Shacklock,” Claiborne said bitterly, leaning back and shaking his head. “An animal, as are all those Drum scoundrels. I agree that such a man’s actions aren’t predictable, and it’s caused me many a sleepless night, knowing Rachel is at his mercy. And I suppose you are aware, Wallace, that the rumors still persist that should this heinous plot succeed, Shacklock and that murderous Holly will be given top positions in the Capital by your successor—whoever he may be?”

  “Yes, Whitney was reminding me of that just this afternoon.” The governor sighed and shrugged. “But who knows, Colonel? Frightening as it may sound, perhaps granting those butchers amnesty and offering them respectability may be the only way of handling them. Certainly all other attempts to check them have failed.”

  Claiborne frowned. “I think you’re more tired than you realize, entertaining ideas like that, Wallace.”

  Arnell let that go and passed on to other things. He knew Claiborne’s uncompromising attitude towards Drum only too well. It was exactly the same as that of many other respectable citizens. No compromise. A bullet or a gallows rope for them all. But unfortunately, it was not their job to try and bring the killers to justice. Arnell had tried and failed more times than he cared to remember, and it had only been certainty of the opposition he would encounter from men like the Colonel that had prevented him proposing the idea of a general amnesty before.

  Time drifted by and the level of the whisky decanter fell. Like any Southern gentleman worthy of the name, the Colonel was a stern drinker, while Arnell found the smooth whisky and the old gentleman’s company relaxed him.

  It was almost midnight and Claiborne was preparing to leave when the aide came in again. The man forgot to knock, and Arnell was turning to remonstrate with him when he saw the yellow telegraph slip in his hand.

  “Governor!” the man blurted. “It just arrived. It’s from the marshal!”

  Snatching the slip from the man’s hand, Arnell read: WEED. 6 P.M. 26th.

  GOVERNOR.

  RACHEL RECOVERED SAFE AND WELL. UNDER CLOSE PURSUIT BY SHACKLOCK AND ENTIRE DRUM FORCE. TRYING TO REACH TALOGA TO MAKE A STAND. SEND MILITIAMEN BY TRAIN TO TALOGA IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT. IMMEDIATELY. SITUATION PERILOUS.

  FALLON.

  Excitedly, Arnell passed the wire to Claiborne, then swung his chair across to the west wall that was entirely covered by an enormous, multi-colored map of the Southwest Territory. The governor knew his kingdom like the back of his hand, and his eyes went instantly to the tiny dot in the Cherokee Badlands that represented Drum. His gaze moved down to the larger spot that was Weed, some fifty miles northwest of the outlaw town. Weed was marked more boldly on the map, not because it was any bigger, but simply because it boasted a telegraph office.

  Evidently Fallon had rescued his wife and made it as far as Weed to get the wire off to him, then had struck off for Taloga on the railroad eighty miles due west of Weed. Staring at the map, Arnell couldn’t understand why Fallon had not stayed on a northwest course from Weed in an attempt to reach Capital City, one hundred and fifty miles away, though it went without saying that the marshal would have had a damned strong reason for not attempting it.

  Situation perilous.

  Ominous words, but even they couldn’t dampen Arnell’s towering feeling of relief. Rachel was safe and well! That was all that mattered now.

  He swung his chair to see Claiborne and his aide staring at him expectantly.

  He didn’t disappoint them. “Have Captain Tor Henry marshal the men and send a rider to the depot to have a train prepared instantly, Rogers,” he rapped, feeling like a whole man again for the first time in ten days. “Then have Henry report to me for last-minute instructions. And remember, Rogers, not a word to anyone outside the Militia. We’ve played our cards close all this time and will continue to do so. Well, what are you waiting for, man? Get going!”

  “Yes, sir!” Rogers grinned with a salute, and went from the room at a run.

  “By glory, I knew he wouldn’t let me down,” Arnell exulted. “I knew if there was one man in the Territory I could count on, it was Tom Fallon.”

  He wheeled his chair to the window to stare down at the Militiamen’s barracks. For a moment, he could not understand why the clear, cold Territory night seemed to have become suddenly blurred in his sight.

  Chapter Nine – Buzzard Bait

  THE GUNFIGHTER GENE Street was coughing.

  He had been coughing for ten minutes now and showed no signs of letting up. The gunfighter pressed a yellow kerchief to his lips and it came away red.

  Shacklock had seen enough. Street wasn’t going to make it. The bullet he’d stopped in the ambush in the pass had hit a lung.

  “You want the slow way or the easy way, Gene?” he asked with brutal directness, brandishing his six-gun.

  The badman looked up from the patch of grass in the hollow where his companions had dragged him while the others drove the ambushers off with gunfire. Gene Street was an accomplished killer who had never shown a victim mercy in his life, but he was searching for mercy now in this sweating, sun-blasted pocket of Cherokee Badlands.

  “You ain’t gonna leave me, are you, Kain?” he pleaded.

  “Forget the sob-stuff, Street. You ain’t in any shape to ride a mile and we got a power of ridin’ to do.” Again the heavy six-gun moved in the leader’s big hand, reflecting sunlight. “How do you want it?”

  Gene Street coughed again and twisted his head to stare around at his companions, searching for some show of compassion. Instead he met only the hard and ruthless stares of strangers who had just lost three of their number to t
he ambush rifles of Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos—men who were impatient to get on with it and settle accounts the only way they knew.

  “Kain—if you could just get me onto my hoss, mebbe I could make it—”

  “You’re a dead man.” Shacklock’s voice was pitiless.

  “Please, Kain,” he begged, then coughed again.

  Kain Shacklock turned away impatiently, almost cannoning into the man with the silver face mask standing directly behind him.

  “Sorry, Holly,” he muttered. To all intents and purposes, Holly had been a prisoner amongst the Drum riders ever since the two men whom he had introduced to the gang had freed Rachel Arnell and escaped with Fallon. Even so, Holly was still treated with respect. In the ambush just over, which the gun packers had ridden into almost a day’s journey west of Weed, it had been Holly’s six-guns that had finally rooted Brazos and Benedict from their rock niches above and sent them racing off after Fallon, the woman and the unidentified horseman accompanying them. If Kain Shacklock could prove that Holly knew that Benedict and Brazos had been working with the law all along, he would have killed him on the spot, but in the meantime, even Kain Shacklock felt obliged to treat the man with respect.

  Sweat was coursing down Shacklock’s cruel, stubbled face as he moved past the silent Holly to stare at the dead men littering the floor of the pass. In retrospect, Shacklock knew he’d been careless, leading them into this nameless pass at a gallop after losing time back trailing to find out whether or not their quarry had left Weed.

  He had guessed wrong. He had only to gaze about him to be reminded how wrong. Three good men dead and Street dying—with the distant dust pall on the horizon demonstrating graphically how much distance the enemy had gained by their rearguard action. Brazos and Benedict had pinned them down for fifteen minutes to enable Fallon, Flint and the girl to open up a vital lead, then the two had hightailed after them without, as far as he knew, sustaining a scratch.