Benedict and Brazos 19

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Chapter Ten – To Be A Man

  From his room, Lonnie Claiborne heard his father leave the house for his nightly discussion with ramrod Buck Morrow concerning next day’s work on the ranch. Lonnie slipped his hand inside his jacket and drew out the Banker’s Special. His father had confiscated the weapon the night of the Foundation Day ball, but Lonnie had found the key to the drawer in the study and retrieved the gun the following day. The old holster he had filched from the bunkhouse was a trifle stiff and bulky, but he liked the feel of it against his side. He replaced the gun, dropped his hands, jerked it free again, then whirled at a sound. Emma stood in the doorway, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Lonnie Claiborne,” she cried, “where on earth did you get that?”

  “Now, Emma.” He smiled, putting the gun away and straightening his shoulders. “This is no time for talking.” He lifted his chin proudly. “I’m going to town.”

  “What for, Lonnie?”

  “Why, to help Hank, Duke and the marshal, of course.”

  “Lonnie, you can’t—you mustn’t. There could be trouble in Resurrection with Troy Ridge.”

  “There just could be,” he said. “And if there is, I’ll be in it.”

  “For God’s sake, no, Lonnie! You could get hurt or—”

  “I know what I’m doing, Emma,” he said. “And I’m ready to take any risks, just like Hank and Duke. I’m going to show the old man once and for all that I’m not the weakling he thinks I am.”

  Tears came to the girl’s eyes and Lonnie was forced to look away.

  “Lonnie, I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you. If you love me, don’t—”

  “Stop it, Emma, stop it!” the boy cried. “I’ve got to grow up some time and this is the night.” He touched her arm, and for a moment the wild look in his eyes softened. Then he murmured, “Don’t fret about me,” and was gone, taking the stairs two and three at a time.

  The town clock was chiming ten o’clock as the three men made their quiet way to the tarpaper shack on the eastern side of town. It had been fully dark when they arrived in Resurrection to make their unobtrusive way through the back streets to the law office for a long conference with Chad Madison. Later they had gone out to the Holloways’ camp by the windmill, where Harbin had satisfied himself that despite the Holloways’ slanted version of events, the weight of evidence against Troy Ridge was approaching the conclusive stage. But little light had yet been shed on events preceding Billy Holloway’s death, and that was one loose end the marshal wanted tidied up before going to the Can Can.

  The marshal hoped Joe Creek might prove to be the man to tie up those loose ends.

  Chinks of light showed through the cracks in the walls as they trod through the weed-choked yard. Creek’s customary place of residence was the Can Can, but Madison had learned from Doc Hanson that Ridge’s wounded henchman was holed up in a shack at the fringe of Resurrection’s poorest section. Madison had the feeling like a lot of others in town did at the moment, that Joe Creek was finding Troy Ridge’s company a little too rich for his blood.

  They didn’t knock. Benedict opened the door and led the way into the one-room shack. Joe Creek sat at a table on which was a candle that had been rammed into the neck of a bottle. His left arm was in a dirty sling, and his black eyes stared up at them in bewilderment and fear.

  “Relax, Creek,” Benedict drawled as the man started to rise. “This is merely a social visit. Or at least it will be if you co-operate.”

  Creek stared up at Harbin as the big marshal removed his hat and placed it on the table. “What ... what the hell do you want?” he got out with a pathetic attempt at defiance.

  “The truth, mister,” Harbin replied, drawing out a chair as Benedict and Brazos moved to stand against the wall. “I believe Troy Ridge was seen giving free drinks to Billy Holloway the night of the ball, just before Billy started that ruckus with the Claibornes. I believe you and Monty Huck were with him.”

  “I ... I don’t get it,” Creek panted. “What’s all this about? If you’re lookin’ for somebody to nail, Harbin, these two jaspers here are the ones you—”

  “Don’t waste my time, Creek,” Harbin said, the candlelight putting a yellow slick on his hard face. “I have testimony that proves you and Huck tried to gun Benedict down out near Shiloh yesterday, but I haven’t made up my mind whether to charge you with attempted murder as yet. That will most likely depend on what you can tell me about Ridge and Billy Holloway. Mr. Benedict and Mr. Brazos here seem to feel that Ridge talked Holloway into something at the ball, and I think maybe they’re right. Race Holloway confirms that you three jaspers were drinking with Billy at the dance. Now I want to know what was said.”

  “You’re ... you’re fixin’ to arrest Troy?”

  “Yeah. Do I have to arrest you, too, Creek? You’re small fish, but I don’t mind netting you if I have to. Come on, man, I don’t have all night. Did Ridge incite Billy Holloway to make trouble with the Claibornes at the ball?”

  Joe Creek trembled as if suddenly cold. The man’s wound wasn’t serious, but it was painful and it had kept him awake throughout last night. He was haggard, sick and scared.

  “I don’t owe Troy nothin’,” he said suddenly. “I could’ve got killed like Monty out there yesterday, but he didn’t give a damn.”

  “The ball, Creek,” Harbin put in. “What happened at the ball?”

  Creek slowly lifted his eyes. “Troy got the kid all stirred up,” he confessed. “Holloway was spoilin’ for trouble and Troy kept naggin’ at him, talkin’ about how Claiborne killed his father and brother during the war. I guess ... I guess Troy was hopin’ that Billy would start somethin’ that’d draw his brothers in, and then mebbe Claiborne would be killed.” His eyes flicked up at Benedict. “Only it didn’t work out that way.”

  The marshal’s eyes were bright as he leaned back in his chair and took out his foul-smelling pipe.

  “Keep talking, Creek.”

  Lonnie Claiborne stood in the shadowy doorway of the City Billiard Parlor and tipped the whisky bottle to his lips. He shuddered as the liquor burned his throat, but he sighed deeply as the warmth of it spread through him. He shoved the bottle back in his hip pocket and patted the bulge of the gun under his arm. He felt good; ready for anything.

  The slim youth left the doorway and prowled along the Keeno Street walk. Everything was new and different tonight, the unaccustomed freedom, the unfamiliar sensation of whisky inside him, the weight of the gun against his side. He felt like he’d been chained all his life and had finally broken free to taste all that he’d been denied. He had the weird but good feeling that his brain was detached, that he was standing to one side watching Lonnie Claiborne stake his claim to manhood.

  He was ready for what he’d come to town to do. But where the devil was Troy Ridge? And just as important, where were Benedict, Brazos and the big marshal?

  Confident as he felt, he knew he couldn’t go into the Can Can after Ridge. Too many people there, and too many things could go wrong. He wanted to catch Ridge on the street. But he’d been in town almost two hours now, hanging around the Can Can without a glimpse of the saloonkeeper and he was getting impatient.

  He suddenly stepped into the darkened maw of an alleyway as he glimpsed a familiar figure up ahead. Standing in the darkness, he watched Chad Madison go by, then he giggled and reached for the bottle. Old Chad would sure be surprised if he knew what was brewing right under his nose. They would all be surprised when they realized what Lonnie Claiborne could do ... most of all the old man ...

  Corking the bottle after taking a drink, Lonnie entered the world of his imagination. He could envisage his father’s face when he told him. The colonel would be surprised at first, but when the realization hit him that he had himself a real son and not a milksop, he would be proud. Why, he might even put his arm around Lonnie’s shoulders and tell him he was a real Claiborne after all ...

  The youngster’s broad smile faded as Emma’s face
entered his mind. He shook his head and the face faded. He didn’t want to think about Emma tonight. She belonged to another part of him that had nothing to do with the man’s business that had brought him to Resurrection. Time to get on with it. Maybe Ridge was up at the Buckaroo.

  Passersby stared at the slender, hot-eyed youth as Lonnie made his jaunty way along the walk in the direction of the Buckaroo Saloon. Resurrection didn’t see much of Lonnie Claiborne, and he was never seen in town alone. Rumor had it that Stanton Claiborne had a hard and fast rule that Lonnie was never to visit town without at least two ranch hands with him to make certain he kept out of trouble.

  A man walking past bumped Lonnie slightly and the youth cursed him. The man stopped and turned in surprise and Lonnie swung to face him, his hand going inside his jacket.

  “Who the hell do you think you’re bumping, jaybird?” the boy said.

  The man looked at Lonnie’s twisted face and strange eyes and continued on his way, walking quickly.

  Lonnie Claiborne laughed to himself, feeling a new sureness run through him. He had called that fool and he’d backed water. That would have opened the old man’s eyes!

  His high mood lasted until he’d checked out the Buckaroo through the windows and saw no sign of Troy Ridge. Then uncertainty began to nag. What if Ridge had got wind of what was brewing and skipped town? Or what if Benedict and Brazos were throwing a loop on the man his father hated so much, claiming the glory and leaving Lonnie standing on the sidelines again, like always?

  With the light from the slatted doors cutting tiger-striped shadows across his body, he jerked out the bottle again and tipped it to his mouth, but only half a shot trickled down his throat. He glared at the empty bottle, then flung it across Keeno Street. He laughed as the bottle smashed against a wall. Then he passed an unsteady hand over his face. His lower lip was trembling and his legs were beginning to shake. Worse, he felt the start of that throbbing headache that always made him remember those terrible men in blue, the glitter of the steel bayonet in the great house, the woman in the beautiful dress, the huge soldier swinging the rifle butt at his head. Now that soldier and all the others had the lean, dark-eyed face of Troy Ridge, the man his father had said he wanted dead.

  Wanted dead ...

  Lonnie moved slowly away, not certain where he was going, nor whether he was walking upright like his father or rolling like a drunk. He was dimly aware of lights, of passing faces, of the slow passage of minutes like heavy wingbeats in the night. And then came a sound that penetrated the fog that seemed to have enshrouded him—the clear, hard crash of a shot.

  Lonnie blinked and realized he was standing across the street from the Can Can. The shot had come from inside the saloon.

  Chapter Eleven – Born to Lose

  Brazos’ iron grip smashed Troy Ridge’s gun arm brutally across the edge of his desk. The smoking Navy Colt spilled from Ridge’s fingers onto the rich carpet and a gasp of agony burst from the man’s lips. But then, demonstrating the same speed with which he’d snaked the gun from his pocket and blasted a bullet inches from Harbin’s face, Ridge twisted and brought up a slashing knee into the Texan’s groin. He followed with a hook to the jaw that had Brazos seeing shooting stars.

  But Brazos retained his grip on that right arm, slewed his hips to block another upswinging knee, then belted his left forearm across the saloonkeeper’s jaw.

  Ridge’s eyes glassed and he slumped across the desk. The office door burst open and bouncer Pecos Doyle lunged in with his riot gun in his hands. Benedict’s right foot shot out and Doyle tripped to the floor, gasping with pain as fast-moving Tom Harbin reefed the sawn-off shotgun from his hands. Reversing the ugly weapon, the marshal faced the cluster of bouncers, dealers and barkeeps crowding the doorway.

  “Back off!” the lawman ordered. “I’m Marshal Harbin from Sodaville and I’m arresting Troy Ridge on charges of inciting riot and murder. Any man attempting to hinder me runs the risk of being shot, arrested, or both.”

  The marshal with the shotgun in his hands made a formidable sight, but it was the chilling glimpse of the tall, cold faced Benedict and the hulking Brazos dragging the semiconscious Ridge off the desk that robbed Ridge’s employees of their nerve. They backed slowly away from the open door.

  Beyond them, startled drinkers craned their necks for a glimpse of what was taking place in the office.

  Resting the sawn-off shotgun in the crook of his arm, Harbin turned to look at Ridge. The marshal was impressed but didn’t show it. Troy Ridge had been sitting at his desk sipping whisky from a crystal glass when they had burst through the door leading from the alley, and it had taken courage and swift reflexes for the man to get the gun out and working so fast. Yet even more impressive had been the way Hank Brazos had claimed his man and disarmed him.

  “Did you hear what I just said, Ridge?” the marshal asked.

  Troy Ridge spat blood. “You’re a fool, Harbin. You can’t arrest me without arresting the whole damned town. I did no more than twenty or thirty others did.”

  “I think different.” Harbin nodded to Brazos. “All right, we’ll get him across to the law office and charge him.”

  A hush came over the Can Can as the four men headed for the batwings. Harbin lifted the shotgun when the doors swung in, but he lowered the weapon when the sheriff entered. Taking the scene in at a glance, Madison held the doors open and they moved onto the porch and started across the street.

  Where Lonnie Claiborne was waiting.

  The boy crouched in the darkened doorway of the bakery two doors from the jailhouse, unnoticed by the five men crossing Keeno, and unseen by the crowd that moved swiftly to the windows and doorway of the Can Can. The whole scene was a blur in the boy’s eyes except for the crystal-clear figure of Troy Ridge. The figures of Benedict and Brazos on either side of the captive were dimmer.

  He was too late.

  They had captured Ridge, and now there would be a trial and a judge. Troy Ridge would be sent to prison for five years as the marshal had said, maybe a little more. But he would live. The man who had caused so much trouble—the man his father had said he wanted dead—would live.

  Lonnie’s unsteady hand closed over the butt of the Banker’s Special. The weapon felt warm and heavy and just right in his grip. The gun slid from the leather. Now his hand was rock-steady, and he realized it wasn’t too late after all. It would be once they had Troy Ridge under lock and key, but he wasn’t there yet. He was walking towards him across Keeno Street, the rotten, Yankee carpetbagger!

  The group was halfway across the street now, Harbin striding ahead with Madison, Benedict eyeing a group of spectators, Brazos turning to glance back at the Can Can. Troy Ridge pulled his free hand across his bloody mouth, then spun—as if smashed by a giant hand as the roar of the shot came.

  For a horrified moment, even Benedict and Brazos were too stunned to react. And in that moment the slim figure burst from the shadows of the bakery porch and stood grinning in the bright glow of the street light, then he started to run.

  A curse breaking from his lips, Harbin had the shotgun trained on the bounding figure, but Benedict leaped forward to hit the barrel down.

  “No, Marshal,” he roared above the boom as the shotgun sent its pellets into the dust. “That’s Lonnie.”

  “Lonnie!”

  The name, choked from Harbin’s mouth, was echoed by Brazos and Benedict as they sprinted after the flashing figure, and was taken up by the watchers in the street.

  “Lonnie!” Brazos roared as the fleeing boy ran around the Blayney Street corner. “Lonnie!”

  The night was filled with his name and he ran like the wind, not seeming to touch the ground. He laughed as he hit the saddle of his fleet-footed paint pony. He ripped the lines free and dug with his spurs.

  “Lonnie!” the whole world was crying his name as he stormed away. And the wind carried back the sound of his wild laughter as the night and the wind and the darkness engulfed him.

 
Emma lay still in her bed for several moments, wondering what it was that had awakened her. Emma had gone to sleep on top of her bed, still dressed. She remembered looking at her clock before stretching out to rest while waiting for Lonnie to come home. It had been a little after eleven. She was astonished to see now that it was past two in the morning.

  Swinging her feet to the floor, she brushed back an errant strand of blonde hair, then went still. Angry voices drifted up from the gallery, and she realized it was the shouting that had awakened her. She heard her father’s voice, angrier than she had ever heard it, then Lonnie’s screaming response.

  She rushed across the room and out to the balcony. There was no moon tonight, but the house lights were blazing downstairs. By their glow she saw her brother lunge from the gallery and fling himself onto the saddle of his pony. She cried his name but he didn’t hear. Lonnie was crying and shouting all at once and she heard her father calling for him to come back.

  “I’ll never come back, you bastard!” Lonnie screamed, then the pony galloped down the carriageway, kicking up gravel and dust.

  Emma flew down the stairs and ran across the great entrance room where wide-eyed servants stood gaping in their night attire.

  Her father stood on the gallery in his robe, leaning heavily on his cane and staring into the night.

  “Father!” she cried. “What’s wrong?”

  Claiborne turned slowly and shock jolted through Emma when she saw his face. He was staring at her as if he didn’t recognize her. He seemed to have aged ten years.

  “Father,” she said fearfully, clutching his arm, “what happened?”

  Claiborne’s fixed stare came slowly back into focus. “He’s insane!” he breathed. “I always knew it, but—”