Benedict and Brazos 19

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “Benedict shot a man who was going to kill Lonnie,” Madison said stubbornly. “He had no other choice.”

  “No other choice but to murder a boy?” Ridge sneered. He waved at the Holloways. “Don’t tell me that, Sheriff—tell his grieving family.”

  The lawman’s face paled. “That’ll be enough, Troy. I order you to shut up, and I order you people to go back to town.”

  Ridge shook his head. “Sorry, Sheriff, but I know my rights. I have things to say that have needed saying for a long time.”

  “In that case you leave me no option. I’m going to arrest you, Troy, for disturbing the peace.”

  For a moment Ridge was impressed. But only for a moment. “You can’t arrest a man for speaking his mind, Madison. We have a thing called free speech in this man’s country, and by God I’m going to exercise it!”

  Madison reached for him. Ridge knocked the lawman’s hand violently aside. The sheriff staggered, then dropped his hand towards his gun. But a big man came behind him and fastened iron fingers over Madison’s right arm.

  “Leave the man say his piece, lawman,” Race Holloway growled. “Like he says, he’s got the right.”

  The sheriff struggled but Holloway held him fast. Somehow Madison got his elbow up and banged it into his chest. Holloway grunted, then reefed the lawman’s six-gun from his holster and flipped it to big Sam who caught the weapon deftly. Madison tried to push Race aside to go after his gun and Holloway punched him in the mouth, dropping him.

  “He’s got the right!” Holloway growled. He towered above the dazed lawman, feet spread wide, a thin trickle of red running from one knuckle. “Now why don’t you just mosey along ... Reb-lover.”

  Slowly, painfully, Chad Madison climbed to his feet. Faces he could no longer recognize as the friendly citizens of Resurrection surrounded him in a silent, staring circle. Chad Madison was not looking at a group of people he knew and understood, but at a single entity. A mob.

  No one spoke as the lawman retrieved his hat. Madison looked at Troy Ridge, at the stone-faced Holloways, then went back to Ridge.

  “You won’t get away with this, Troy,” he said thickly.

  “You’ve overstayed your welcome, Sheriff,” Ridge said, not bothering to try to conceal his feeling of triumph. “You have no friends here.”

  The sheriff’s boots sucked in the dust as he walked away, the towners opening a path for him to pass through. When he reached the leaning fence, he halted and looked back. Troy Ridge was talking again.

  “The fools,” Chad Madison muttered thickly, walking to his horse. “The crazy, blind fools ...”

  Chapter Eight – Spur of Hate

  It took Chad Madison thirty minutes to locate telegrapher Seth Grimes and get his wire away to the marshal’s office in Sodaville. Then he went to the livery and saddled his horse before leading it up the back streets towards the jailhouse.

  As he approached Keeno Street, he heard the hum of many voices washing out from the batwings of the Can Can. Tying the horse to the jailhouse fence, he walked along the alley and looked down the main street at the saloon, frowning.

  He turned his head at the sound of hurried steps and saw blacksmith Billy Tanner coming along the walk.

  “Where are you going at such a rate, Billy?”

  The burly smith was in too much of a hurry to stop. “Ain’t you heard, Sheriff? Troy Ridge is turnin’ on free likker at the saloon.”

  The lawman’s face was pale as he watched Tanner’s bulky figure cross the street and head for the Can Can. Even if Marshal Harbin was in Sodaville when the wire arrived, he wouldn’t be able to get to Resurrection until tomorrow.

  Chad Madison had the chilling feeling that tomorrow could be too late.

  There was urgency in the sheriff’s stride as he went back down the alley to his horse. He swung up, rode down the back street past the livery at a lope, then he kicked the animal into a run when he reached the trail to Shiloh Ranch.

  Hank Brazos rode his horse out of the Warbonnet Hills and crossed by the stone section marker of the Shiloh Ranch. The ranch house was in sight, a blob of white two miles across the grazeland.

  The big Texan rode swiftly. He felt the appaloosa’s shoulders pump beneath him as they went down a draw, then the horse hit full stride again when they hit level going. The big man sat relaxed in the saddle, but his face beneath the battered Stetson was grim, and his wide mouth was set in a hard line.

  The day looked deceptively peaceful, the whole land seeming to glow in the afternoon light. There was July grass underfoot and July sunlight dappling through aspen trees on the sleek red backs of cattle strung out along the slope of a gentle hill.

  But the peaceful atmosphere dimmed as the big horseman rode the last few hundred yards to Shiloh headquarters. Tense groups of cowhands stood around the bunkhouses and corrals.

  Dust boiled from the appaloosa’s hooves as the Texan slewed the horse to a halt before the verandah. Brazos came out of the saddle fast, knees bending to cushion the shock as his boots hit dirt.

  “They’re comin’ right enough,” he announced as he climbed the steps. “A bunch of about twenty. They were crossin’ Sweet Creek about ten minutes back.”

  “I knew it,” said Chad Madison. “I knew that as soon as they got full of liquor it wouldn’t be long.”

  Stanton Claiborne let the hiss of a held breath go. “It seems we have no option but to make a stand. Lonnie, kindly go and inform the men that I want them armed and mounted within ten minutes.”

  “You bet I will,” Lonnie said with a grin.

  “One moment, Lonnie.” Benedict turned to the rancher. “This isn’t the way, Colonel. If we go out there in force, it will make a showdown next to inevitable.”

  “Correct,” chimed in Brazos. He and Benedict were prone to disagree on practically everything under the sun when the going was good, but when the chips were down it was unique how their thinking seemed to run on parallel lines. The Texan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You got a likkered-up mob loaded for bear out there on the trail, Colonel. They ain’t certain sure just what they want to do other than raise hell. Send another mob out to face ’em and some galoot is bound to go off half-cocked and next thing you know you’re hirin’ gravediggers by the week.”

  “What the hell are we supposed to do?” Lonnie demanded. The boy had been in a high state of excitement ever since Madison had arrived with his warning of possible trouble. “Should we stand around like a bunch of fence posts and let those Yankees run over us?”

  “Forget that Yankee talk, Lonnie,” Benedict said. “Ridge alone is responsible for this mess and he doesn’t strike me as having any political loyalties worth a damn. The colonel thinks Ridge is using this business to get his hands on the Shiloh, and I agree with him. It’s the only thing that makes sense, and this North-South talk is nothing more than a smokescreen.”

  “I’ll bet my boots it’s more than that to the Holloways,” Lonnie argued.

  “Be quiet, boy,” Claiborne ordered. “But he has a point, Benedict. If we don’t fight, what can we do?”

  “Try and talk them out of it,” Benedict replied.

  “I doubt if you’ll be able to do that, Duke,” the sheriff put in. He glanced at Claiborne before continuing. “There’s been bad feeling between the town and the colonel for a long time and I figure they’re bound and determined to bring it to a head today.”

  “You could be right, Sheriff,” said Benedict. “But I’ve had some experience with mobs. I know that words can goad them into recklessness, but words can also stop them.” He glanced at Brazos. “Does that sound like sense to you, Texan?”

  “It surely does. But beatin’ around the berry bush ain’t gonna boil no beans, Yank. If we aim to brace them idjuts afore they get onto Shiloh dirt, we’d better be movin’ along,”

  “Agreed.” Benedict turned to Claiborne. “Do we have your permission to handle this our way, Colonel?”

  “You mean just the two of you? Good h
eavens, man, at least let the sheriff and me accompany you!”

  “Like the Yank says, Colonel,” Brazos broke in, “we’ve played this game before. No disrespect, but Benedict and me work better on our lonesome.”

  “Well, if you’re sure that—”

  “I think I should go along,” Madison interrupted. “This is my job, gentlemen.”

  “Again, with all due respect,” Benedict said, “it’s better our way, Sheriff. If things work out as I hope they will, then all will be well. If not, gunplay will be inevitable.”

  He didn’t have to explain further. He was telling Madison that he was no gunfighter and they were. Yet, despite his outward show of assurance, Benedict was by no means confident as he and Brazos headed for the stables.

  “A touchy situation, Johnny Reb. The Holloways will surely be spoiling for a fight, and Troy Ridge could prove a hard man to talk out of something he has plainly been hatching up for some time.” He shook his head. “A touchy situation indeed ...”

  Striding at his side with the appaloosa’s lines looped over an arm, Brazos studied his trail partner’s lean profile with narrowed eyes. He’d detected a note of uncertainty in Benedict’s tone that was out of character.

  “So, if they won’t listen to good sense, then mebbe we’ll just have to be ready to take Ridge, and mebbe big Race to boot,” Brazos said, probing to find how deep the other’s indecisiveness went.

  Benedict was silent as they passed a group of hands, and he didn’t speak until they reached the stables. “Reb, I don’t want it to come to that ...”

  Brazos rested a hand on his arm, halting in the stable doorway. “Seems to me you’re still chewin’ on last night, Yank. I shouldn’t have to tell an hombre like you that a man don’t walk into a tight situation frettin’ about whether he wants to burn powder if his hand is forced. That’s a sure-for-certain way of gettin’ your fancy pelt all holed up, no matter how good you might be with a gun. If you feel that way, you’d best let me do the talkin’.”

  A humorless smile worked over Benedict’s mouth. “No, talking is my strong suit. You’ve complained about that often enough.” Then he nodded. “But thanks for the advice anyway, Reb. I won’t let you down.”

  Brazos saw the familiar steely glint in Benedict’s eyes and knew that the moment’s uncertainty was past. “How’ll we play it?” he asked.

  “You recall the time in the New Mexico Breaks when we went out to parley with Red Wolf on behalf of General Howard?” Benedict said, as Brazos led his black from its stall. The big man nodded and he went on. “Well, we didn’t trust that Apache to honor a flag of truce so we took precautions.”

  “That we did,” Brazos grunted. Then, leaving Benedict to finish the saddling, he walked out to his horse to check his rifle.

  They rode in rough ranks along the yellow trail that wound into the Warbonnet Hills, and the martial note was sustained by the rifles most were carrying. The afternoon sun gleamed on faces flushed with whisky and emotion, and the breeze was blowing the hoof-lifted dust away behind them.

  Riding on one side of Ma Holloway’s cart—Race Holloway was on the other—Troy Ridge drew a bottle from his coat pocket, took a pull from it and then passed it to the man riding directly behind him, blacksmith Billy Tanner. Tanner drank greedily, lowering the level in the whisky bottle by a full inch before Slim Purdee snatched it away and lifted it to his lips. Spilled liquor splashed down Purdee’s shirtfront and he began to sing, waving the bottle.

  “Oh, we’ll hang Stanton Claiborne to a sour apple tree, Bury him a hundred feet deep, and set the black slaves free.”

  A few voices joined in on the parody of the Civil War marching song, but finally the singing broke off in a ragged yell as the trail began to slope upwards.

  The rag-tag army comprised the hard core of Claiborne haters from Resurrection; men who’d suffered at the rancher’s hands; men who wanted the satisfaction of bringing a really tall poppy down. The remainder, many of whom had talked as if ready to ride to hell and back at the saloon, had melted away when they realized Ridge really intended to ride on Shiloh. The group was not as big as Ridge had hoped, but those who had come were rough, hard men, many of them war veterans, and all were ready to do what had to be done to rid themselves of a Southerner whom they considered had stood too tall for too long.

  As the first horses topped the rise, Race Holloway lifted his right hand and called, “Ho!”

  They came to an untidy halt, and as the dust cleared they saw a rider ahead.

  “Benedict!” a black-bearded towner snarled, and started to lift his rifle.

  “No! Hold!” Ridge called.

  “What do you mean, hold?” Race growled. “That’s the dirty bastard who killed my brother.”

  “There’s something funny about this,” Ridge said, eyes scanning the area. “I know that dude thinks he’s hell-on-red-wheels, but he wouldn’t be fool enough to brace us alone. This could be a—”

  “Ridge!” Benedict’s clear voice rolled down the trail. “I’m coming over to parley!”

  Indecision gripped the ranks of the mob as Benedict started towards them. As he drew nearer, Troy Ridge pulled his horse back and spoke with bouncers Monty Huck and Joe Creek. The men nodded and the saloonkeeper moved his horse in front of his loyal henchmen, then took out his cigars.

  Benedict came down the road slowly, straight-backed in his dark suit, his gray hat tipped at an angle against the sun. The black’s hoofs danced in the dust. The light sheened on the double gun rig around the rider’s hips, but his hands were well clear of the white gun handles.

  Benedict passed a heavy blue boulder, gray on the crown from age and weather. Behind the boulder, the terrain rose steeply into three folding ridges. There was a heavy clump of brush on the top ridge, looking like a grounded green cloud. From deep within the brush, a pair of blue eyes stared down at the cavalcade, watching them over the sights of a Winchester .30. Red Wolf, the Apache renegade chieftain, had never known the sights of a hidden rifle were trained on his sorrel-colored chest that day in the New Mexico Breaks, and Hank Brazos was hoping this bunch would prove at least as sensible as a bunch of savages.

  “Far enough, Benedict!” Ridge barked when the rider had drawn to within fifty feet, and Benedict obligingly brought the black to a halt. “Just what do you think you’re playing at anyway?”

  “No games, Ridge,” Benedict said, fingering back his hat. “This is the real thing.” He nodded at the stony-faced woman in the cart. “Ma’am, I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Butcher!” the woman cried.

  “Worse than that, Ma,” Race said, his eyes cold. “A Yankee butcher!”

  “Let’s ride over the bastard!” shouted Tanner. Because of a disagreement with Claiborne, the blacksmith had lost out on all Shiloh work. His resentment was like a festering sore.

  Troy Ridge started to speak, but Benedict silenced him with a gesture, then directed his attention to the woman seated on the rough seat of the wagon beside the glowering Sam.

  “Madam,” he said, “I can understand your feelings at this moment, but I’m appealing to you as a mature woman and a mother to see reason. What you’re doing here is wrong and against the law. No good can come of it, and I urge you to turn around, go back to Resurrection ... and if you’re as sensible as I sense you are behind your hard talk and your resentment, you’ll continue west. You’ve shown yourself an exceptional woman to have come this far, and you still have two strapping sons. There is almost certainly a good life for you somewhere west, but you will find nothing but more grief here.”

  “What are you, Benedict?” Troy Ridge said heatedly. “A fancy-mouthed camp lawyer?”

  “I’m a man who saw one man die needlessly last night and doesn’t want to see any more blood spilled, Ridge,” was the sharp reply. “But if you want some more ‘camp lawyer’ material, as you so quaintly put it, let me advise you that you’re standing on the shakiest possible ground legally. Obstructing the law and inciting t
o riot could be proved against you already. Do you want to add more to that?”

  “By glory but he has a nerve,” Ridge said, looking around at the men behind him. “Here’s a gunfighter who killed a man in cold blood last night, going on about the law.”

  “I killed Billy Holloway to save Lonnie Claiborne’s life,” Benedict said. “The marshal from Sodaville is already on his way to Resurrection and I’m prepared to submit to any investigation, or go to trial if needs be to prove that I had no option but to shoot.” Benedict’s gray eyes glinted as he drew in a deep breath. “It’s up to you to determine whether or not I’m forced to kill again to protect innocent people who want nothing other than to be left alone.”

  The threat was delivered with such calm assurance that it had a sobering effect on the trouble-hunting bunch from Resurrection. And it didn’t leave Ma Holloway unmoved. The big woman brushed her wind-chapped hands against her knees several times, then glanced up at the wide-shouldered rider beside her. Race Holloway was stroking his jaw and staring at Benedict’s guns.

  Sensing his advantage, Benedict pressed on. “To get to Stanton Claiborne, you’ll have to go through me, Madam. You have one son dead and cold in his grave. Isn’t that enough for you, or are you prepared to risk losing more? If you are, then the name ‘mother’ does not rightly apply to you.”

  Something seemed to go out of the woman’s heavy body at that, leaving her shoulders slumped and a haggard look in her careworn face. She lifted a hand in a helpless gesture, then let it fall.

  “We were powerless against his killers before,” she said unevenly to her sons. “We …” She shook her head. “Sam, turn around. We’re goin’ back.”

  The color drained from Troy Ridge’s narrow face as big Sam Holloway slapped the lines and started to turn. “No, wait—”