Chapter Three – Tara
DUKE BENEDICT HAD never been an early riser and his first morning in Babylon was no exception. The sun was well up and the honest citizens of Babylon had several fruitful hours’ labor under their belts by the time he stirred in his big brass bed at the Santa Fe Hotel and lay listening to the morning sounds.
Birds chittered in the big trees outside his window and from along the street came the clear ringing of the blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. He heard a stage roll out along Front Street and from the hallway came the rustle of a maid at work.
Stretching his long arms, Benedict brushed his hand against his double gun rig hanging on the bedpost and found himself wondering idly just how long it was since he’d slept without a six-gun within reach. It would have been before the war. Back home in Boston where the most dangerous thing that the scion of a wealthy banking family was ever likely to do was to get caught in the wrong bedroom. That seemed an eternity ago, looking back over the years from the vantage point of a killer’s trail in a Wyoming frontier town, yet despite the dead men, the scars, and danger that had become a way of life, he knew he didn’t regret any of it. For as some men are born to love money, a woman, their country or a dream, Marmaduke Creighton Benedict the Third loved life. And life had never had any zest and tang for him unless it was spiced with danger, and more often than not, the pungent stink of gunpowder.
Benedict swung his feet to the floor and went to the window, a tall and slender man with the natural grace of a boxer. From the window he could see a section of Front Street, the backyards of several stores and the roof of the jailhouse. Beyond the rooftops in the back street was a white mound of buffalo bones some fifteen feet high. They would eventually be shipped east for conversion into fertilizer, but not until the buffalo-hide industry began to die. In the meantime, those sun-whitened mounds marked every shipping point the buffalo hunters used.
Dressing, he wondered how the bones would eventually be shipped out; by mule freighter or by train. During his lengthy card game at the Longhorn Saloon last night, during which he had won forty dollars and learned quite a deal about life in sunny Babylon, he’d discovered that the railroad, whether it would or would not pass through Babylon, was a subject of lively interest, second only to nervous speculation concerning Mr. Tom Sudden. The way Benedict understood it, the businessmen of the town under the leadership of saloonkeeper Nero Nash were making vigorous efforts to get the Wyoming and Western Railroad through Babylon, while the conservative faction led by Sheriff Murdock and his deputies was totally opposed to it.
Being a gambling man by nature, Benedict would be prepared to risk a few dollars that Bourne Murdock would end up getting his way. The sheriff of Babylon had impressed him as a man who wouldn’t lose too often.
Fully dressed now, with the exception of coat, hat and gun rig, Benedict rubbed his chin bristle and decided to enjoy the luxury of taking a shave at the barbershop next door to the hotel. The barber would have to be good to warrant his custom, for Duke Benedict was meticulously neat. Many men, Hank Brazos included, regarded him as a dandy and a dude, a fact that bothered him not at all. In truth he liked to cultivate that image when it pleased him, for it often led gamblers and enemies into mistaking him for the real article, an error they frequently came to regret.
His last chore before leaving his room was one that occupied him every day of his life. Strapping the double gun rig about his hips, he stood before the window and practiced the two-handed draw for several minutes until reflexes, muscles, sinews and nerves were operating the only way that ever satisfied him, and that was to perfection. It was here, in these daily practice sessions, whether in comfortable hotel rooms, in rain-soaked campsites, or on the sunbaked trails, that the reckless, gambling man’s pose was set aside and Benedict the real man showed through. When somebody walked so tall, he had to be good with a Colt to survive, and Duke Benedict walked taller than most.
The session over, Benedict finished dressing and stepped out, moving so silently that he startled the plump maid who was busy polishing the banister railings.
Benedict doffed his hat and gave her his best smile, no more able to ignore a member of the opposite sex than a black bear could a honey hive.
“Good morning, my dear,” he said amiably. “A lovely morning, is it not?”
The maid blushed and patted at her mousy hair. Downstairs they had already told her that two “really cute” customers had checked in last night, but she hadn’t anticipated that they might come this “cute.”
“Oh ... good mornin’, sir,” she managed to get out. “Mr. Benedict, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. And your name is ... Aphrodite, perhaps?”
“Huh? Oh no, my name’s Mabel, sir.”
“Call me Duke.”
“Duke. What a lovely name ...” She blushed. “I have a message for you, Mr... er, I mean Duke.”
“Let me guess, dear Mabel. From a Mr. Brazos?”
“Yes, sir. He said to tell you that if you got up before the sun burnt your eyes out, he’d be eatin’ at the Mid-Town Diner around eleven.”
“That message definitely has the Brazos stamp to it. What time did he give you this message, Mabel?”
“Before daylight, Duke. Your friend is a sure-fire early riser, ain’t he?”
“He has all the virtues of a bucolic bumpkin, Mabel.”
“Huh?”
“What I really meant to say, my dear,” he said, taking a folded paper from his inside pocket and snapping it open, “is have you seen this man?”
Mabel’s eyes widened as she studied the smiling likeness of the young man who had gunned down seven innocent people in Trailtown. Her reaction was predictable. “Ooh, ain’t he nice-lookin’ though?” Then she shook her head. “I’m sorry, Duke, I ain’t never seen that feller in my life.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Certain sure. What’s he done?”
“Well at the moment, his major crime seems to be that he’s proving too smart for me by half. Well, back to duty for both of us, dear Mabel,” he smiled, and chucking her under the chin, went down the stairs two at a time, leaving Mabel in no shape to finish her dusting.
When Benedict reached the lobby, he strolled past the loungers and saw to his left a red-and-white striped pole and a glass door that opened into the barber shop. The black-and-gold lettered sign proclaimed Luigi’s Tonsorial Parlor. Benedict crossed to the barbershop and pushed through the glass door.
A dark-skinned man staring out onto the street through the big front window turned and smiled. His luxurious black moustache was magnificently waxed. When Benedict walked to the rack that held the shaving mugs and placed his own there, the barber took it, read the name, and his eyes widened.
“Señor Benedict? You are the friend of the big one?”
“Regrettably yes.” He made to take the chair, then paused. The barber’s hands were shaking. He smiled, “Relax, Luigi. We’re not outlaws, no matter what you may have heard. Now let’s get on with it.”
“Ees a relief to know,” the barber said, flicking a snowy sheet around him. “Of course you no look like the outlaw, but the sheriff he ...”
“And trim the sideburns, Luigi.”
“Si,” the barber replied, and took the hint. The customer wasn’t in the mood for conversation at the moment, so he worked up a fine lather and got on with the job in hand.
Benedict watched the street. Towners were passing to and fro and he watched a freighter laden with lumber roll by. He recognized men who had backed up the lawmen yesterday morning when the Murdocks had set up their welcoming committee. Most looked like ordinary, hard-working citizens who would look more at home behind a desk than a rifle. This morning they looked relaxed and normal, but they’d been frightened men yesterday when they believed he and Brazos might be the vanguard of the Sudden bunch.
The towners had proven willing to tell him anything he wanted to know about Tom Sudden last night, though he’d had to question them
closely before anybody was prepared to reveal that Bourne Murdock had married Sudden’s girl after the hardcase was sent off to the State Penitentiary. He’d gathered that Mrs. Bourne Murdock and her earlier association with Sudden was a touchy subject. And having met the Murdocks, he could understand why.
He was actually thinking about Babylon’s peace officers when he saw two black-garbed figures walk into sight along the opposite walk. Tall and gangling Virgil Murdock touched his sober dark hat to a plump matron and Deputy Stacey Murdock pulled up for a stern word with a cowboy whose horse was kicking and snapping at the tie rack outside the Nugget Saloon.
Benedict’s eyes narrowed as the lawmen proceeded on their way, and Luigi, noting his concentration, was moved to break his silence.
“Good men, Señor Benedict. You must forgive what happen yesterday. The Murdocks, ees their job to watch out for all in Babylon. They think you badmen, they must find out for certain sure.”
“Just how good are they, Luigi?”
The barber was only too happy to tell him. Having plied razor and scissors in Babylon since it was little more than just an untidy place on the trail, the worthy Luigi was able to draw a vivid picture of the bad old days when men were getting shot down in Front Street as regular as clockwork and Babylon resembled its biblical namesake. Then he went on to reveal how the leading citizens of town had finally banded together and hired Bourne Murdock, who with his brothers had finally stamped out lawlessness and turned Babylon into the respectable community it was today.
“Some men, Señor Benedict,” he concluded as he put the finishing touches with a dab of rosewater, “will tell you that today the Murdocks are too strict, that they stand in the way of the progress. But these people, they forget what it was like when the guns go boom in the street every day and you spend much of the time under the chairs.” He flicked the sheet away, stepped back, thrust a finger at the ceiling. “But Luigi, he remember and he say that it ees due only to the Murdocks that these days are gone and they no come back. That will be one quarter, Señor Benedict.”
Benedict smiled as he put on his coat. “I’ll be in about this time each morning, Luigi.”
“Bueno. And for how long you theenk thees will be, señor?”
“For as long as it takes. I guess Brazos showed you the picture of the man we’re looking for?”
“Si. Ees not in Babylon, Señor Benedict. So sorry.”
“We’ll see, amigo,” he replied and went out into the warm sunlight.
Breakfast was calling, but as it was still short of eleven, he elected to put in a little legwork first. There was no sign of Brazos but knowing the Johnny Reb, he guessed he would be checking out the places he felt most comfortable in, the blacksmiths, liveries, cattle pens and such. Benedict reckoned to work some of the business establishments.
He drew a flock of negatives and curious looks at the general store, the gunsmith’s and the dry goods emporium. A loafer outside one store showed a flicker of interest for a moment when he studied the true bill on Billy Quinn, but finally shook his head, declaring that something about the man had merely reminded him of somebody he’d known once.
By now, Benedict was convinced that if Quinn were indeed here in Babylon, he was cleverly disguised. Marshal Jackson had warned him in Archangel that their records suggested that Quinn had killed before the Trailtown bloodbath, but always the description of the killer had been different, pointing to a man who was expert in the art of disguise. It was this talent, backed up by a ferocity of nature that was remarkable even in the violent West, that had enabled Billy Quinn to elude the law so long and to run up such an impressive bounty on his head. Benedict was beginning to wonder if the killer might not be proving too elusive even for Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos.
Standing there in the shade, deciding on his next port of call, Benedict’s tall figure attracted considerable attention. The citizens of Babylon were normally stolid, polite people given to treating newcomers with reserve. But times were anything but normal. There had been a deal of friction in town concerning the matter of the railroad, and then the news of Tom Sudden’s release had thrown the community into turmoil.
As with the railroad dispute, opinions were divided on the subject of Tom Sudden. For all his wild ways, Sudden had been a popular figure throughout Teton Sioux Valley, though there were few who believed that Bourne Murdock had framed him because of their rivalry over the Clanton girl. Babylon generally believed that Tom Sudden must have stolen those cows as charged, but universally believed the threat Sudden had made from the dock that he would come back “to even scores.”
Babylon regarded proud Tom Sudden’s return as inevitable as tomorrow’s sunrise. Sudden had grown up in the valley, his parents were buried in the town cemetery. His friends were here and Sudden had never been known to make a threat he didn’t carry out. Yes, green-eyed Tom would come back, and there could well be such trouble as Babylon hadn’t seen since the bad old days. And the big question the townsmen asked themselves earlier as the giant Texan came prowling by with his ‘wanted’ dodger and his battle-scarred trail-hound, was the same one they were asking each other now as they sized up this swashbuckling figure with the fancy vest and the white-handled Peacemakers. Were they really bounty hunters as they said? Or were they killers sent ahead by wild Tom for some sinister reason of his own?
Though there was nothing he enjoyed more than being the center of attention, Benedict’s preoccupation with his thoughts kept him unaware of the interest he was causing until a familiar voice sounded, close behind.
“There’s a city ordinance against loiterin’, mister.”
He turned sharply. Deputies Virgil and Stacey Murdock stood facing him with their hands behind their backs, jackets buttoned up tightly across their hard flat bellies. There was nothing wasted in their lean, cold, country-bred faces, their eyes as bleak as the Missouri Breaks where they’d been born and raised.
Benedict gave the law the benefit of his very best smile. “Why, good morning to you, officers, and a fine morning it is, too.”
“Move along,” Stacey Murdock cut in with a jerk of his chin. “We don’t fancy havin’ our sidewalks cluttered up by the likes of you.”
“The sheriff sent a letter off to Shakespeare,” tall Virgil chimed in while Benedict struggled to hold onto his smile. “Their sheriff will wire Archangel from the telegraph there. We should get a reply in a couple of days.”
“Splendid, splendid,” Benedict replied. “I’m sure everything will be a lot easier after our credentials have been checked.”
“Where’d you pick up that there fancy talk, mister?” Stacey Murdock wanted to know.
“Why, Harvard I guess.”
“Who’s Harvard?”
Benedict’s eyes twinkled. “You know, Deputy, you really should try and get to know my partner better. You have more in common with Brazos than you realize.”
“Like what?” growled Stacey Murdock, not recognizing sarcasm when it hit him in the face.
“Like a direct and manly approach that I must perforce admire,” Benedict replied mockingly. “And now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll heed your admonition to move on and get about my business.”
“If that business is showin’ that dodger and quizzin’ folks about Quinn, I can tell you you’re annoyin’ ’em, Benedict,” said Virgil.
Benedict paused, a hint of steel in his gray eyes. “Well now, that’s too bad, Deputies. But I’m sure the inconvenience we’re causing your people is small in comparison with that suffered by the seven innocent people whom Quinn slaughtered in Trailtown.” He sketched a salute. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Stacey Murdock’s flat cheeks burnt. “Was that dude mockin’ at us, Virge?”
“Ain’t sure,” Virgil replied, watching Benedict disappear into the apothecary’s. “Mebbe.”
“I surely can’t abide that fancy-pants breed.”
“Don’t let him get to you, Stacey. He won’t last long. His kind never do.”
>
They stared in through the apothecary’s big front window as they went by. Standing just inside, Benedict gave them a cheery wave that snapped their eyes front, before returning his attention to the shop.
The front section of the drugstore was taken up by a collection of little white tables and wire chairs, behind which was a heavy marble bar where a pimply youth dispensed sodas. Two girls sipping frothy pink drinks at one of the tables studied Benedict boldly, then whispered animatedly behind their hands as he walked through to the rear where the apothecary presided over his realm of pills, cough elixirs, liver stimulants, nerve depressants, sure-fire cures for constipation and enough potions and powders to cater to the hypochondria of half a State.
“Mr. Benedict,” said the tall, well-made young man with black hair, trim goatee beard and gleaming pince-nez. He smiled at Benedict’s surprise. “You’ve been pointed out to me several times already this morning,” he explained. “I haven’t seen such excitement in Babylon in months.”
“Well, I suppose that is both good and bad, Mr... .?”
“Walker. Bob Walker.”
“Mr. Walker.” He produced the true bill. “I wonder if you’ve seen this man?”
“Sorry,” Walker said after a moment. He handed the paper back.
“Don’t be, Mr. Walker,” Benedict sighed. “For with all the negatives I’m drawing this morning, I’m beginning to wonder if, as a certain benighted Texan of my acquaintance might phrase it—I’m ‘dropping my bucket down a dry well’.”
The apothecary looked him up and down. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Mr. Benedict, you don’t look like a bounty hunter to me.”
“And what does a bounty hunter look like?”
“Oh you know ... cold-eyed, cold-blooded men.”
“You don’t think much of bounty hunters?”
“Well, nothing personal of course, but they do have a bad reputation.”
“You’d get along well with my partner, Mr. Walker,” Benedict remarked dryly. “He doesn’t think much of our profession either.”
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