Benedict and Brazos 19

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “Well, now, that is interesting, Monty, very interesting.”

  “That’s what I figured, boss.”

  “Monty, ask Mr. Holloway to join me. And have Harry send over a bottle.”

  “Right away, Troy.”

  Billy Holloway managed to convey both pleasure and suspicion when he was invited to the saloonkeeper’s table, but it took only a brimming glass of bourbon and a little smooth talk from Ridge to put him at his ease. Ridge then adroitly steered the conversation around to Stanton Claiborne, making it quite plain from the start that he had no love for the boss of Shiloh.

  Leaning across the table, glass in hand and his eyes pale in his red, chapped face, Holloway’s drink-loosened tongue held nothing back. Two years ago, while his brothers Race and Sam had been off fighting in the war, an advance regiment led by Stanton Claiborne had driven into the Blue Ridge Mountains on a search for supplies. They came to the Holloway farm and the Holloways produced guns. Billy’s father and brother were shot dead within seconds.

  Billy Holloway would dearly love to settle that particular account.

  A small pulse of excitement was beating inside Ridge as he refilled Holloway’s glass. Holloway had revealed he had two strapping brothers who shared his hatred for Stanton Claiborne. Surely this was a stroke of good fortune that a smart man could turn to his advantage.

  During the next ten minutes, Troy Ridge dripped his poison into Billy Holloway’s receptive ear. He told him of the hatred the man had engendered in Resurrection, of the county’s resentment of his high-and-mighty ways. He told him things that were true and others that were lies. Holloway believed it all because he wanted to believe.

  Then the batwings pushed open and a larger, more formidable version of young Billy halted just inside the doors, his pale blue eyes raking the room.

  “Hey, there’s Race now, Troy,” Billy beamed. He banged his shot glass on the table. “Hey, Race, over here!”

  Impressive, Troy Ridge thought, watching the tall, wide shouldered Race thread his way through the tables. Dangerous, too, if he was any judge. Billy Holloway was like a fox, quick-moving and impetuous. But big Race had the wolf look about him.

  Race Holloway didn’t seem overly impressed as introductions were made, and he dismissed Ridge’s offer of a drink with a curt wave of the hand.

  “I didn’t come here to booze,” he growled. “Where you been, Billy? Me and Sam have been lookin’ all over.”

  “Been here all the time, Race,” Billy replied. “Come on, take a chair, man. Me and Troy here have been talkin’ about Claiborne. You ain’t gonna believe what I been hearin’.”

  Race Holloway fixed Ridge in his stare as he lowered his wedge-shaped torso into a chair. “I guess I’ve already heard most of it,” he said. Then he nodded. “Hear tell you and Claiborne got a feud goin’, mister.”

  “You might call it that,” Ridge replied. “I hate Claiborne and all he stands for. I gather you feel pretty much the same way?”

  Small white creases appeared in Holloway’s cheeks as he compressed his lips. He screwed his strong hands together on the table, the thick knuckles standing out.

  “We got cause, saloonkeeper,” he said flatly.

  “So Billy tells me. It must be hard for men like you, coming to a place like this and learning that the man who did you so much hurt—a man who rode with the side that lost the war—is living in luxury and lording it over everybody while you have so little.”

  “It comes hard,” Race agreed.

  Billy and Ridge exchanged a glance, then the younger man said, “You seem kinda low, Race. When we was headin’ into town today, you looked like somebody who couldn’t wait to come face-to-face with Claiborne. But now you seem kinda played out.”

  “Mebbe that’s ’cause me and Sam have been doin’ a lot of listenin’ while you’ve been talkin’, kid,” Race Holloway said.

  “I’ve been—”

  He broke off as a big red face showed above the half doors. Lifting a powerful arm, he beckoned, and Sam Holloway came over to the table. Shaking hands with the man, Ridge was conscious of the giant’s great strength, and at the same time he noted the dreamy, distant look in Sam Holloway’s eyes.

  “Where you been, Billy?” Sam said as he sat down.

  “Right here, Sam.” Billy nudged Race’s arm. “Come on, Race, you was sayin’?”

  Race shrugged his wide shoulders. “I was sayin’ I never figured Claiborne was set up as strong as he is. After gettin’ whupped in the war, I figured that like most other Southerners he’d be hard up and scratchin’.” He looked levelly at Ridge. “It’s a fact that Claiborne runs around twenty men out there, ain’t it, mister?”

  “That’s so. But they’re just cowhands.”

  “It’s a lot of cowhands.”

  “I don’t get it,” Billy said, puzzled. “Race, we owe that bastard. You gonna set there and tell me we’re gonna kiss his boots just ’cause he’s got a passel of men backin’ him? Judas, man, I saw you whup a roomful of cowhands on your lonesome and then go lookin’ for more.”

  “There’s more’n just cowhands out there at Shiloh,” Race said. “Ain’t that so, Ridge?”

  “I’m not sure I know what you—”

  “I’m talkin’ about gunfighters,” Race broke in. “Me and Sam heard about two gunnies that brung a killer in from Shiloh under a canvas sheet on Sunday. We hear you tried to stop ’em comin’ in here and they walked all over you. Ain’t that so?”

  Now Ridge understood. He stroked his thin moustache and frowned. “Well, it’s true in essence, yes. But two men aren’t—”

  “What’d that feller tell us at the Buckaroo, Sam?” Race said over Ridge’s voice. “That gabby cracker with the eyeglasses?”

  “Said he reads everythin’ ever wrote about gun sharks,” Sam said heavily. “Said he’s read that this jaybird Benedict’s got a reputation ten miles long.” The giant shook his shaggy head slowly, looking at his younger brother. “That breed’s poison, Billy boy. Ain’t got no guts standin’ agin a man fair, but put a hogleg in their fist and they’re a country mile too stringy a mouthful for plain folks like us to chew on.” The big man swore softly. “Shoulda known that Claiborne would be backed up by that kind.”

  “I think you’re putting too much importance on this, gentlemen,” Ridge said quickly. “The two men are passing through.”

  “What’s your game, Ridge?” Race Holloway growled. “We know you got it in for Claiborne, but you’re talkin’ like a man figurin’ to try and get somebody else to do his fightin’ for him.”

  A warning bell rang in Troy Ridge’s head. “You’re mistaken, Race,” he said calmly. “I’m not trying to get anybody to do anything. It just seemed to me that we have a common interest.”

  Race got to his feet. “I ain’t sayin’ as how we’re backin’ off or how we ain’t, mister, but whichever way it goes we Holloways don’t need no fancy-dan gamblin’ dude to prod us along.” He picked up his hat. “C’mon, we’re goin’ back to Ma.”

  “My regards to your mother,” Ridge called after them as Race started for the door, propelling the reluctant Billy before him with big Sam bringing up the rear.

  Drawing no more response than a cold over-the-shoulder stare from Race, Ridge splashed whisky into his glass and then leaned back, his lean face thoughtful.

  A tough breed, the Holloways. Proud, stiff-necked and mean. He wouldn’t like them for enemies, and he doubted if they would add up to much as friends. They were the clannish kind, sticking together and shutting everybody else out. But they did have a common cause. The trick was how to take advantage of it.

  Fingering his moustache, Ridge considered them one at a time. Big Sam was probably too dumb to be of much use, and he was plainly dominated by Race, who would be worth ten good men if you could get him on your side.

  Billy?

  Ridge nodded. Billy Holloway, wild, hot-headed and gullible, was the weak link. Billy had said that the family meant to attend the Founda
tion Day ball tomorrow night. Maybe between now and then, Ridge could work on the kid and stir something up that would set flint sparks to the tinder ...

  He nodded to himself again, half-smiled, and lifted his glass to his lips. He would figure something out. There were no insurmountable barriers to a clever man who wanted something badly enough, and few wanted anything as badly as Troy Ridge did the wealth, power and prestige that ownership of the great Shiloh ranch could give him.

  There were few occasions in Resurrection when its hardworking citizens had the opportunity to dress up, get together and forget the bills and the hard times and the empty pockets even briefly. The annual Foundation Day ball was one such function, and no one with the admission fee was prepared to pass it up.

  Throughout the day, people streamed in from the outlying spreads and the neighboring towns of Dustbowl, Colt City and Sodaville. They came by coach, buckboard, carts, gigs, buggies, wagons and surreys. They also arrived by horse, mule and burro, and a few of the more rugged breed walked.

  Excitement ran high through the long, hot day, and it mounted as evening approached. The hotel and rooming houses were booked out. Private homes, overflowing with friends and relatives, were noisy with talk and laughter and children. At the saloons, the menfolk set about the important business of priming themselves for the night ahead while their women went through the age-old routine of primping, pressing and prettying up that was standard for such occasions. The walks of Keeno Street drummed to bootheels, and everyone agreed that this ball was bound to be the best ever.

  To add a little leavening to the excitement, there was much talk of the Holloways and Stanton Claiborne. There wasn’t a person in town who hadn’t heard about the enmity between them, and all knew that the Holloways had stopped over in Resurrection only to meet the man whose path had crossed with theirs so tragically during the war. Nobody expected any real trouble to arise from the anticipated meeting. It was also common knowledge that the Claibornes would be accompanied by Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos. The presence of that dangerous pair, the wise heads insisted, backed up by Sheriff Chad Madison, was almost a gold-plated guarantee that nobody would be foolish enough to try and even old scores tonight.

  The late afternoon scene at the Shiloh was little different than it was anywhere else. There was any amount of shaving and boot-polishing. In the bunkhouses there were frantic hunts for flashy bandannas and gaudy shirts not needed since the last big occasion, and there was the inevitable consumption of liquor to put the cowhands in the right frame of mind.

  Up at the great house, things were a little more orderly, though Emma was seen flying up and down stairs, and Lonnie tried on five shirts before deciding on the pearl-button blue that he’d put on first. Duke Benedict, always a fastidious dresser, brushed down his outfit and worked his leather with great care.

  Hank Brazos’ preparations were more perfunctory. His habitual concession to a social occasion was to don a clean purple shirt, give a perfunctory rub-up to boots and gun rig, shave, run a comb through his thick blond thatch, then rub a little silver polish on the harmonica he wore slung around his neck on a rawhide cord. The result, he told himself as he studied his image in the full-length mirror in the great parlor, was stylish.

  As was to be expected, Claiborne kept himself aloof from the excitement. The rancher dressed early and then worked on the ranch books in the library. The previous day, after a hand had brought in the news concerning the Holloway family, Brazos and Benedict had sought Claiborne out to ask if it would be wise to go to the ball. Claiborne’s response had been terse; they would attend the ball as planned. He was well aware of the antagonistic gulf separating Shiloh from the people of Resurrection, and he didn’t propose to pour oil on those coals by failing to attend the one function of the year at which the people of the county got together and forgot about differences, at least for the night.

  This made sense to Brazos and Benedict, and they shared Claiborne’s opinion that whatever grudge the Holloways might believe they had against the rancher, it had no foundation in reason. Hundreds of thousands had died in the war. If every citizen sought redress for injuries sustained during the course of the conflict, America would be forever at war.

  However, Benedict and Brazos decided that at no time would either be far from Stanton Claiborne’s side tonight.

  The ball was scheduled to commence at eight o’clock, but long before that crowds approached the town hall, festooned with bunting and flowers for the big occasion. When the Shiloh party arrived at nine, the hall was crowded, with dancers overflowing onto the surrounding lawns which were lit by colored lanterns hanging from the trees.

  Sheriff Chad Madison was there to conduct guests to the official table that was reserved for the mayor, the town councilors, several of the town’s most prominent citizens, including Troy Ridge, and six of the county’s biggest ranchers.

  The gay atmosphere seemed to dampen at Claiborne’s arrival, but the young blades were quick to note that Emma Claiborne looked almost too pretty to be true in a splendid creation of silk and gossamer. Then there was Benedict in his hundred-dollar suit and fifty-dollar Prince Albert vest, sending a flurry through the ranks of the single girls as well as more than a few of the respectable married women.

  But the young sheriff, fully aware of the tension in the big room, was quick to get the speeches underway immediately after the Shiloh party’s arrival, and by the time the dancing got underway again, the gay mood had returned. Claiborne was an unpopular man in Resurrection, but they were here to enjoy themselves tonight, and soon all were concentrating on doing just that.

  With music belting out from the enthusiastic if less than professional town band, straight-backed cowhands danced energetically with their girls while businessmen in sober suits twirled more sedately with their wives. Emma began the first dance with Chad Madison, but after one turn of the hall somebody cut in, and from then on she had a change of partners frequently. Lonnie, despite his father’s disapproving stare, danced with a girl from the Can Can, and Benedict was hauled onto the floor by the mayor’s stout wife who fluttered her fifty-year-old eyelashes at him and said he was the handsomest man in the county. In response, Benedict assured her she was a dream, and he gave the good lady a kiss on the forehead that she would dream about for many years.

  The Holloways arrived at around ten, their appearance prompting sour notes and missed beats from the band. The dancing went on, but all necks craned to watch as Ma Holloway, dressed in sober gray, moved slowly towards the chairs at the right of the official table, flanked by her unsmiling sons. Unnoticed, Benedict left his partner from the Buckaroo Saloon and made his way to the rear of the official table where Brazos stood with his arms folded across his barrel chest. Stanton Claiborne flicked a glance at the new arrivals, then returned gravely to his conversation with the mayor, though the mayor seemed not to hear a word.

  Ma Holloway was staring at Claiborne with black, unblinking eyes that had the bright, enameled look of a snake’s.

  The dance finally ended. Ma Holloway spoke to Race, then rose and approached the table. Chad Madison started forward, but Duke Benedict placed a hand on the lawman’s arm, then moved in front of the table before Claiborne. With the hall hushing around them, the woman and her big son hesitated, staring at Benedict, then they started forward again.

  “Mrs. Holloway and Mr. Race Holloway, I believe,” Benedict said with a smile. “A great pleasure, I assure you. Allow me to introduce myself. Duke Benedict at your service.” He gestured at the grim-faced Claiborne. “I believe you already know the colonel?”

  It was a bold gambit designed to take the heat out of a potentially dangerous situation, and probably only a man of Benedict’s style could have pulled it off. The Holloways stopped, thrown off-balance, and in that taut moment Claiborne rose and bowed gravely.

  “Madam,” he said politely. “Sir.”

  Ma Holloway’s eyes cut from Claiborne to Benedict and back again, but Benedict didn’t meet her g
aze. He was staring at Race, letting him feel the weight of his eyes, transmitting a silent warning that was impossible to mistake. He knew the warning had registered when Holloway dropped his washed-out blue eyes to take in the double gun rig. Then Ma Holloway spoke;

  “So, Colonel Claiborne, I see you’re backed up by killers—just like when you murdered my husband and son.”

  Claiborne frowned. “The war is over, Mrs. Holloway.”

  “Long over,” Benedict said, his voice carrying to every corner of the room. Then he turned and signaled to the bandsmen. “A little music if you please, gentlemen. Something vigorous, for I’ve noted that as yet no one has collapsed from fatigue. Until that happens, this dance must be classified as a failure.”

  The music continued, and Sheriff Madison, realizing what Benedict was trying to do, immediately reached for the closest woman and began to dance. Another couple got up at the back of the hall, and then, urged on by a smiling, gesticulating Benedict, others joined in until the floor was crowded and the grim-faced woman and her tight-lipped son found themselves encircled.

  A long moment passed before Race Holloway turned and spoke to his mother. The woman sent a bitter, resentful glance at Benedict, then she turned and walked back to her chair.

  Behind Claiborne’s chair, Hank Brazos started to breathe easily again. Unfolding his big arms, he wasn’t surprised at all to see that his palms were a little sweaty. It had been close.

  The festivities picked up momentum after that, and gradually the revelers dismissed what had happened from their minds and concentrated on the prime business of the night, having a good time. The dancers spun, bottles clinked against glasses, the bright colors of the girls’ dresses formed shimmering patterns under the lights. Later the colonel rose to dance with his daughter, Benedict did a stately waltz with Jenny from the Can Can, and then Brazos and the blacksmith’s wife gave a spirited demonstration of what the Texan said was called the Frog Hollow Stomp.