Benedict and Brazos 26

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “If you say so, gorgeous,” she dimpled, running her fingers through his black hair. “But if you ask little Angie, all this here jawing about that there killer of yours is just one big waste of time.” She tapped herself where the red spangled dress barely kept her decent and added: “Nobody knows this town and the people in it better than me and I’m telling you again there’s no feller in Babylon who looks like that dopey picture you’re toting.” She jutted a curvy hip at Brazos. “See you real soon, Mister Moe-lester.”

  “You know, Johnny Reb,” Benedict said as he watched her weave away through the thinning crowd, “I think what I admire most about that girl is her air of virginal innocence.” He placed a hand over his heart. “It gets me right here every time I look at her.”

  “Are you goin’ to be serious for one goddamn minute?”

  “Serious, Reb? Why, what’s on your mind?”

  Brazos told him. He’d spent the day hunting for clues on Billy Quinn without success and knew that Benedict had been similarly occupied until the past hour. He was beginning to feel disheartened; he believed it was time they decided whether it was worthwhile staying on in Babylon any longer.

  Duke’s face was sober as he torched a Havana into life and moved his chair a little so he could watch the big poker game near the bar.

  He said, “We’re sure not making much headway the way we’re going, Reb, but I still have this hunch we’re prospecting the right claim. After all, we’d have heard by now if there’d been a sighting of Billy Quinn in any other town but so far there’s been nothing. So I reckon we should concentrate on those gents who haven’t long been in Babylon. Quinn murdered the Smith family three months ago so our man couldn’t have been here any longer than that. That should narrow down the field, don’t you agree?”

  “Sounds like a damn good idea.”

  Both men turned quickly as a shout came from the nearby poker table, followed by a gunshot.

  Slade Slattery was on his feet, gun in hand. He had just fired a shot into the ceiling. The shot produced the silence he needed. Across the table from him, one of the card-players cowered. Slattery snarled:

  “Goddamn tinhorn!”

  Then a quiet voice sounded from the batwings, “Slade, let it go.”

  Every head turned to see Tom Sudden coming in. Slattery booted his chair over with a crash and stabbed an accusing finger at the card-dealer.

  “This son of a bitch has cleaned me for over a hundred bucks, Tom. Nobody’s got that much luck!”

  “I said let it go.”

  Defiance burnt in Slattery’s eyes, then he thrust his gun back in the holster with an angry snarl. Rod Crowdy grabbed him by the arm and, righting his chair, thrust him back into it.

  Nero Nash signaled the piano player and the music started up again. The dealer got up warily, stepped back from the table, then scuttled away. Slattery watched him go with smoldering eyes, then slid down in his chair and muttered darkly. Sudden walked to the bar.

  Then the batwings opened again and Sheriff Murdock and Deputy Stacey strode in.

  “Who fired that gun?” the sheriff demanded.

  “No harm done, Sheriff,” Nero Nash called. “Gunshot in the ceiling. Just horseplay.”

  “Horse-feathers! I just called a son of a bitch a son of a bitch!” Slattery snapped, twisting in his chair. “What do you aim to do about it?”

  For the second time in a minute, the piano tinkled and died away. At Slattery’s side, Rod Crowdy looked apprehensive, but opposite, Tarp Hilder and Jack Weston looked almost eager. All four ex-convicts had been arrested and put away by this tall man in the low-crowned black hat and they had returned together to even the scores—when Sudden gave the word. Their bright eyes and hard faces showed that they might be ready to do so right now.

  As the silence deepened, Duke Benedict brushed back the panel of his coat and placed his hand on his right hand Colt. The action wasn’t wasted on Brazos, who followed suit. If powder burned under the bright lights of the Longhorn Saloon, they would be obliged to back the man in the right, who happened to be Bourne Murdock.

  The sheriff suddenly started towards Slattery, but stopped dead when Sudden stepped forward. Murdock had his hand close to his gun, and as Sudden halted, the question flashed into every mind: Would this be it—would this be the expected showdown between the two men?

  Then Sudden surprised them all. He said, “One more word and I’ll knock your damned head off, Slattery!”

  Slade Slattery went red and his eyes blazed. But he didn’t speak.

  Sudden turned back to Murdock, his face stony. “No trouble, Sheriff.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  “Judge and jury, don’t you mean? That’s how you operate, isn’t it?”

  “Still singing that song?”

  “You know it.”

  Another heavy silence fell as the men faced each other across the sawdust-covered floor.

  Then Stacey Murdock spoke quietly. “It’s been quite a time since we arrested anybody just for shootin’ off a wild gun—or his mouth—huh, Bourne?”

  The message was plain. As subtly as he knew how, Stacey Murdock was urging his brother not to force the issue.

  Bourne Murdock said after a time, “Any more trouble here, Mr. Nash, and I’ll close you down for the night.” With a curt nod to Sudden he led the way out.

  As the saloon began to breathe again, Brazos reached for his beer, Benedict examined the tip of the cigar that he’d allowed to burn out, then cocked an eloquent eyebrow.

  “The dogs of war, Johnny Reb. They were almost let slip just then.”

  Brazos drained his glass, sleeved his mouth, belched gently. “But they weren’t, Benedict. And by the time they are, with luck we’ll be long gone.”

  “Who’s going any place?”

  Angie was back.

  “You and I, my pretty,” Benedict smiled, getting up and slipping an arm around her waist.

  “Where, gorgeous?”

  Benedict bent his dark head and whispered in her ear.

  “Why, Mr. Benedict!” the girl protested delightedly. Then trailing her fingers through Brazos’ tawny locks, she turned and headed for the stairs. Always slow to catch onto such things, Brazos didn’t get the drift until she paused halfway up and crooked a finger at Benedict, who reached for his hat.

  Brazos started to protest, but Benedict placed a hand on his brawny shoulder.

  “Hear this, Johnny Reb,” he said. “I slept and dreamed that life was Beauty ... I woke and found that life was Duty.”

  “What the who-hell has that got to do with you ...” another blush “... with you a-goin’ upstairs with that—that painted lady?”

  “Duty,” Benedict answered dramatically. “Angie, by her own admission knows this town as well as anybody, my friend. Who knows what she may reveal under stress?”

  “Heck! Do you aim to torture her?”

  “Deliciously,” replied Benedict and was gone, mounting the stairs and vanishing with Angie’s naked, powdered arm slung around his waist.

  Hank Brazos shook his head sadly as he hefted his glass and headed for the bar. It sure enough seemed a long way back to those easy-going cowboy days under the pure clean sky of Texas. “Babylon,” he mused, vaguely remembering the scriptures. “They named this goddamned hot-bed of sin just about right ...”

  “Another one, Hank?” the barkeep asked cheerily.

  “Keep ’em comin’.”

  Thank the good Lord there was nothing sinful about drinking beer.

  There were three buzzards in the dead tree that marked the sharp bend in Bad Blood Creek on the Box 40 border. The tree stood like a petrified sentry, its whitened branches reaching up to the sky.

  Suddenly the topmost buzzard emitted a squawk and took off as riders suddenly appeared below. Its companions followed.

  It was late morning and Sudden’s men were on their way back to Babylon from the Box Star Ranch. Sudden had had them up and mounted before dawn. He’d ho
ped to learn something at the spread from where he was said to have rustled cattle.

  Exercise and fresh air was about all they had got from the journey. Rancher Sam Carey had been nervous but cooperative, though he had been unable to shed any new light on the three-year-old rustling. The facts remained the same; thirty steers had been driven off the Box Star and later a posse comprising five ranch hands and two Murdock deputies had picked up the tracks and followed them to the old Sudden place at Peppercorn Hill.

  Now, on the way back from the fruitless visit, Sudden stopped his horse and, dismounting, went to the stream.

  He drank sparingly while his companions lapped up the cool water greedily. He was the only one without a hangover to drown, though he wasn’t at all sure he mightn’t have one come tomorrow. Tonight might be the night to get drunk and finally admit to himself that his hopes of the past three years had come to nothing. He’d always intended to return to Babylon, uncover proof that Bourne Murdock had framed him, have him brought to trial, convicted and taken off in disgrace to the State Penitentiary, leaving Sudden with a clean record and free to resume his courtship of Tara.

  So much for hope.

  Of the five hands who had ridden with that posse, only Abe Martin remained in the county and Martin wasn’t talking. That left Virgil and Stacey Murdock and he had a better chance, he figured, of getting sweet apples from that dead tree over there than getting anything from them.

  “Good water, Tom,” Slattery remarked as they went back to the horses. Slattery had been friendly this morning, no doubt suffering pangs of remorse over last night. But Slattery wouldn’t stay repentant long, Sudden knew. His partners had all been willing to work towards bringing the hated Murdock to trial, but now that hope was fading they were beginning to get impatient.

  Hank Brazos hooked his thumbs in his shell belt and slouched down Front Street. No slave to fickle fashion, he was rigged out as usual in leather shotgun chaps, scuffed boots, faded purple shirt unbuttoned to receive the kiss of the noon sun, and battered Stetson perched on the back of his head. Bullpup broke trail through stout matrons with shopping baskets and clerks in high boots heading for the saloons for a lunchtime beer.

  One of the latter let out a startled squawk when a heavy hand dropped on his skinny shoulder, and turned to confront an unexpected question.

  “How long you been livin’ in this town, sonny?”

  “Why, since I was thirteen.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “My father’s Cleaver Brown the storekeeper, Mr. Brazos,” the man said, pointing across the street at Brown’s store.

  Brazos couldn’t read for beans, but he knew numbers.

  The date 1852 was on the store’s false front. He scowled and grunted, “On your way, sonny, sorry to trouble you.”

  “Not at all,” the young man assured him, then hurried off as though afraid that Brazos might start frothing at the mouth any moment.

  Brazos kicked a can, walked on. He could feel the nails in the plank walk through the sole of his right boot. He was doing it alone. High noon and not a sign of that high-rolling Benedict.

  Stopping off at the Nugget for a quick beer, he was sallying back into the sun when the postal clerk hailed him from the next porch. The man was waving an envelope.

  “Letter for you and Mr. Benedict just come in on the noon stage, Hank,” he called.

  Brazos took delivery of the letter, turned it over in his hands.

  “Postmarked Archangel,” the clerk said eagerly. “Could be from that marshal you’re workin’ for.” Everybody in Babylon knew their business by this time.

  “Is that a fact?”

  “Well, aren’t you goin’ to read it?”

  “Later, mebbe.”

  The clerk saw the way Brazos was looking at the letter and understanding hit him. “Can’t read, huh?”

  “Readin’s not everythin’, sonny.”

  “I reckon folks that don’t teach their kids to read ought to be shot. Didn’t they even care?” The little clerk felt strongly about few things but illiteracy was up there near the top.

  Hank Brazos just smiled to himself as he walked off, recalling old Joe Brazos, his pa. Joe had always been too busy to worry about sending a kid to school. Busy riding freights, working as a slushy in railroad cookshacks, stumbling and crashing down in whisky-fogged alleys, collapsing on coal piles, dropping his yellow teeth one by one in the gutters of the west until, it was said, a westbound loco chewed him up, leaving only boots and hat to identify him. No, old Joe never had time to worry about any schools ...

  He was saved the embarrassment of going upstairs to knock on doors, when on entering the cool, gloomy barroom of the Longhorn Saloon, he sighted Benedict standing at the foot of the stairs, talking to Nero Nash.

  The Yank was shaved and polished and wore a red flower in his buttonhole. Brazos was willing to bet a whole dime there were no holes in his boot soles.

  Glancing up, Benedict excused himself to the saloon-keeper and came across to the bar, looking pensive.

  “Couldn’t sleep, huh?” Brazos growled.

  Benedict didn’t bite. He was glancing back at Nero Nash as the fat man went through to his office. “Some town this, Reb. I’m not certain, but I’ve a strong suspicion friend Nero was just sounding me out for a gun job ...”

  “The hell you say!”

  “Well, he was only hinting. Coming out with things like, ‘There are easier ways to earn money than hunting a mass-killer.’”

  “Speakin’ of which,” Brazos interrupted, remembering what had brought him here. He tugged the letter from his belt and handed it over. “Just come in from Archangel.”

  Ripping the envelope open, Benedict eagerly scanned the contents. “Good news, Reb. Marshal Jackson has found out two important things about our man. One, Quinn is now known to have visited Babylon several years ago, which would support our theory that he was heading here all along, and two, he once posed as a doctor for several months in Montana. The marshal says he is believed to know a lot about medicine.”

  “Well, they only got two docs in this town, and they’re both over thirty, Yank. But they got four or five young fellers workin’ at Doc Doolin’s hospital on Elm.”

  “Then that’s our first stop. Let’s go.”

  A sleepy voice floated downstairs as they headed for the batwings. “Bye, handsome.”

  Benedict paused to blow a kiss to scantily-clad Angie, then led the way out. Brazos’ stare was heavy with reproof. “Find out anythin’?” he asked with heavy sarcasm.

  “Angie snores.”

  “Dadburn it, Benedict, sometimes I reckon you act lower’n a toad in a deep well. Hell, if I had my druthers, I reckon I’d rather see you take up with a respectable married woman than a saloon floozie. At least Mrs. Murdock is a fine, upstandin’ lady.”

  “Fact of life, Texan ... one never gets the opportunity to ‘take up’ with women like Tara, no matter how one might yearn to. And speaking of the unattainable ...”

  Tara Murdock was approaching along the street with her long free stride that Duke Benedict found more attractive than four aces dealt pat. Her chestnut hair tumbled loose and shining on her shoulders, and though she carried a wicker shopping basket over her arm, she looked nothing at all like a typical Babylon matron out doing the day’s marketing.

  “Hello, Duke, Hank,” she greeted them, dimpling. “I must say you’re both looking very cheerful this afternoon.”

  “With good reason, fair lady,” Benedict smiled—sickeningly, Brazos thought. He handed her the letter. “News just in from the East that may expedite our work.”

  “Ex-ped-ite ...” Brazos worried as the woman scanned the letter.

  Benedict sketched a sign in the air. “Do not expedite other than in the spittoon.”

  He expected that gem to draw an appreciative smile from Tara, but it didn’t. Instead she appeared very grave as she handed him back the letter.

  “That’s very good news, Duke.”


  “We’re goin’ around to check everybody at the hospital, ma’am,” Brazos told her. “If there’s any young feller workin’ there who’s been here less than three months, he’d best not be totin’ no scars on his back.”

  “Scars?”

  “From the whipping Quinn took in Colorado, Tara,” Benedict supplied. “I told you about that.” Then he exclaimed, “Are you all right, Tara? You look pale.”

  “Of course I’m all right,” she smiled. “I’m just concerned about the danger to you if you do find this man.”

  “Nice of you to fret, ma’am,” said Brazos. “But if you got any sympathy to spare, save it for Quinn.”

  “Yes ... yes I suppose so. Well, I really must be running. Goodbye Hank, Duke. Good luck.”

  Watching her go, Benedict shook his head ruefully. “‘She walks in beauty as the night ...’” Then he turned and sighed. “Well, back to mundane matters, Reb.”

  “Judas, there you go again with them ten dollar words. What in sweet Lucifer is mundane?”

  “Why, the day after Sundane, naturally.”

  Tara Murdock spent the remainder of the day nervously pacing the floor of the front room of her house on Joshua Street. Supper wasn’t ready for her husband when he walked in at six that evening and when he asked why, she revealed that she had been too upset to think about housework. Bourne Murdock was immediately solicitous. What had upset her?

  He had to drag it out of her. She hated to tell him—knowing the trouble it was bound to cause—but she finally decided it was her duty to do so.

  Duke Benedict had come to the house uninvited during the afternoon. He had tried to force his attentions on her but she had resisted and finally succeeded in escaping across to Addie’s.

  She was appalled, she told him breathlessly, to realize she had misread Benedict’s character. She had honestly thought he was a gentleman.

  Bourne Murdock stared at her, unmoving. Then he turned away without a word.

  Chapter Nine – The Big Lie

  THE WAITRESS AT the Midtown Diner cocked her pencil over her notepad and asked: