Benedict and Brazos 19

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “Tell me what happened!”

  Claiborne shook his head as though in a daze. “He killed Troy Ridge. He shot him down in cold blood in Resurrection. He—he came to lay it at my feet, like an offering. He thought I’d be proud ...”

  Emma Claiborne went still. She had seen the look of madness in her brother’s eyes, and she had heard him say, “I’m going to show the old man once and for all that I’m not the weakling he thinks I am.”

  The terrible shock of it passed slowly, then she looked up at her father with accusation in her eyes.

  “It was all your fault, Father.”

  “My fault? How—how dare you?’

  “Your fault,” she repeated tonelessly. “You said you wanted Troy Ridge dead.”

  “You foolish child! I meant dead on a gallows, not shot down like a dog in the street.”

  She turned away. “What will happen now, Father?”

  “They’ll hunt him down. He committed murder.”

  Emma bit her lip, hardly daring to ask what she knew she must. “And ... and what will they do to Lonnie when they catch him?”

  Claiborne turned slowly towards the doors, his expression a mixture of grief and dread. “You know that as well as I do ...”

  Emma stood there, listening to her father’s shuffling steps fading down the hall. Lights were showing in the bunkhouses now and men were running up the slope towards the house. She turned slowly, walked the length of the gallery, then walked across the dew-wet grass. She could smell water on the breeze blowing strongly off the Chad River, and she knew Lonnie would go there ...

  Emma Claiborne’s slim figure drifted into the night.

  Chapter Twelve – The Greatest Day of All

  The wind shifted just before dawn and carried the fog with it. With the approach of first light, the wind died altogether. A rooster crowed. It was quiet again, the dawn stillness in which the smallest sound seemed magnified tenfold; the stamp of horses, the creak of saddle leather.

  A mile south of the great house, Hank Brazos squatted on his haunches like an Indian with his untethered appaloosa standing obediently behind him in the thick grass. A cigarette dangled from the big Texan’s lips. He was absently scratching Bullpup’s ears. The dog was sniffing at the line of single horse tracks that stretched beyond them to curve back towards the timberline that marked the course of the Chad River.

  “Well?” growled the marshal from his saddle. The marshal was getting on in years and his eyesight wasn’t too good now.

  Brazos took his time answering. He dropped the cigarette in the grass, then came erect.

  “He rode across here, then turned and headed back for the river,” Brazos muttered reluctantly.

  The marshal showed his surprise. As they’d waited for first light to pick up Lonnie Claiborne’s trail, Harbin had envisaged his quarry putting miles between his fast pony and the Shiloh ranch.

  “You’re certain about that, Mr. Brazos?”

  “He’s never wrong on trail sign,” Benedict said. “I believe we’ll find Lonnie at the river.”

  “And I guess we know where, Yank,” Brazos said.

  “I guess we do at that.”

  Harbin frowned. “Look, if you fellows know something I don’t—”

  “Why don’t you just shut your flappin’ mouth, Marshal?” Brazos clipped out. “We said we’d run Lonnie down for you and we will. But don’t start bustin’ a gut about it. It ain’t Jesse James we’re huntin’, it’s a frightened kid.”

  The big lawman went pale. “A kid who murdered a man in cold—”

  “I don’t always agree with Brazos, Marshal,” Benedict said coldly. “But this time I do. Keep quiet and relax. You’ll get your pound of flesh.”

  Tom Harbin was a tough man, and fear wasn’t part of his makeup. But at that moment, with two sets of unfriendly eyes boring at him from either side, the big lawman felt a chill touch his flesh.

  “I ... I’m sorry, gents,” he said. “I guess I am bein’ a bit testy ... and I reckon I understand how you feel about that kid.”

  “You reckon?” Brazos said, fitting foot to stirrup and swinging up. “I have my doubts.” The Texan stared across the flats at the big house, then he nodded to Benedict. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Benedict kneed his horse forward. “We’ll handle it, Harbin. No matter what happens, Brazos and I will handle it.”

  Harbin nodded. “Whatever you say.”

  “Do you hear something, Emma?”

  “It’s just some cattle coming to drink, Lonnie.”

  “I thought I heard horses.”

  “No, Lonnie. It’s just cows ...”

  The boy hugged his knees. “I sure took care of that bluecoat, didn’t I, Emma? The one with the bayonet, I mean ...”

  “We weren’t talking about the soldier, Lonnie. The party, remember?”

  “Oh, yes. You were up to the part when Mama came down the stairs. Tell me what happened then, Emma. I—I remember it all, but I can always see it a lot clearer when you tell it.”

  Emma’s voice was soft and soothing as she told the familiar story. The deep, green pool in the Chad River was brightening as the light grew stronger. A magnolia blossom fell silently to the water. Somewhere downstream, a heron, startled by a sound, rose from the water and flew off, following the course of the river north.

  Emma sat on the smooth tree roots behind her brother, running her fingers through his hair as she spoke. On the sand beside her was the gun that had snuffed out Troy Ridge’s life. She had found Lonnie under the tree in the darkness, twirling the gun on his finger, but he’d refused to surrender it until she promised she’d tell him about the past. He had forgotten the gun by the time she’d recounted the story of the day of the race meeting in Memphis when his father had bet ten dollars on a horse for him and he’d won enough money to buy his mother a necklace.

  “Do you think we’ll have a fine party for our next birthday, Emma?”

  She was looking away. The horses were drawing closer.

  “Of course, Lonnie,” she said. And her fingers touched the cold butt of the gun.

  “And it will be just like always, with father in his white suit and Mama in the beautiful blue dress. Or was it a green dress, Emma?”

  “It was blue as you say, Lonnie.”

  He was smiling now and he looked just as he’d always looked to her, with no sign of that terrible madness in his eyes, none of the wildness that frightened her. He was happy. But men were coming for him. They would take him away and put him in a cell and then he’d face a judge who wouldn’t understand. And he’d be terrified because she wasn’t with him. He wouldn’t understand the awful thing he’d done, and she could see his blind terror when they dragged him out of his cell before the eyes of the mob to make him walk up those steep steps to the gallows that were tall and dark against the sky …

  Only she could help him. Only she could save him all the horror that he wouldn’t understand. Only she ...

  Emma lifted the gun and the tears blurred her eyes. She leaned forward and kissed the top of his head as he murmured:

  “I love you, too, Mama.”

  The gun shook in her hand, then the barrel touched his golden head and he thought she was kissing him again. He laughed softly and then she squeezed the trigger. Lonnie sighed and slipped down as if asleep.

  The roar of the shot rolled over their magic place, then faded until that green, quiet bend of the Chad River was more silent than it had ever been.

  The trial in Resurrection of the People vs. Emma Elizabeth Claiborne drew an immense crowd, as big as a holiday celebration, but with a totally different atmosphere. A strange change of mood had come over Resurrection since the death of Lonnie Claiborne, and the tongues of those who had been the most outspoken critics of Stanton Claiborne now sang a different song. The death of the cattleman’s son—and the manner of it—touched a chord of sympathy that the town hadn’t known it possessed.

  “Seems to me Claiborne took enough with
out them puttin’ little Emma up for trial,” Tanner the blacksmith said that morning while waiting for the courthouse doors to open, and those who heard the well-known Shiloh-hater’s words could only nod in agreement. Everybody knew the girl had shot Lonnie so they wouldn’t hang him, and by their rough-and-ready standards what the girl must have already suffered seemed enough without the torture of a trial.

  But a boy had been killed and the law had its duty. However, the law didn’t see this as an ordinary trial, for Judge Jacob Hardcastle had been brought in from St. Louis. Hardcastle was one of the most highly respected judges in Missouri, and his reputation extended throughout the West. The judge had served as a lieutenant-general in the Federal army, and those who believed this boded ill for Colonel Claiborne’s daughter didn’t know Judge Hardcastle.

  Sitting on the bench swinging a straw fan before his craggy, big-nosed face, Hardcastle conducted the trial with scrupulous fairness. Displaying patience that impressed all, he listened in turn to the testimony of Marshal Harbin, Duke Benedict, Hank Brazos, the Holloways, the colonel and his daughter, and everyone else connected with the events of the past violent week. It soon grew plain that Hardcastle was determined to understand every facet of Lonnie Claiborne’s death.

  The trial finished at noon the second day. Emma Elizabeth Claiborne had slain her brother, the jury found. There could be no other decision. But they asked for mercy.

  The judge took less than a minute to reach a decision. “The defendant is sentenced to one year’s penal servitude in the State Penitentiary,” the judge declared. Then, waiting until the hubbub died down, he added in a clear, firm voice. “Sentence suspended.”

  A great cheer beat against the walls of the old courthouse. Then, as Emma Claiborne rushed into her father’s arms, the two tall men seated with Harbin and Madison in the front row exchanged broad grins.

  “Not a bad judge, Benedict. For a Yank, that is.”

  “A most excellent judge by any standards, Johnny Reb.” Then the gavel cracked down again and Hardcastle leaned forward on black-sleeved elbows.

  “You have the right to know the reason for my leniency of sentence,” he told the crowd, “just as I have the obligation to make any finding clear. Having heard all that has been said here today, I find that the weight of blame in this sorry business cannot be levelled at Miss Claiborne, but rather at Resurrection as a whole.” The judge’s hand slapped down hard on the polished bench. “Hatred is the villain here, a hatred that should have died at Appomattox, but which has managed to flourish in some quarters of this State, particularly here in Winchester County.”

  There was a shuffling of feet and a clearing of throats as Hardcastle paused to sip water. Then all was silent as he went on.

  “If I had the power, I would level some kind of punishment against this entire community, but unfortunately I do not. I have tried a case and my job is done, so I must leave Resurrection. But what will happen? Men have died here, and hatreds have been hardened. Do I return to St. Louis and wait for word of the next spate of needless killings here? Do I?”

  After a long moment, Judge Hardcastle answered his own question.

  “No, I shall not. I shall leave this town at peace.” He leaned back in his chair. “Will Colonel Claiborne and Mrs. Holloway please approach the bench?”

  Necks craned as Claiborne rose slowly, looked down in puzzlement at his daughter, then pushed through the little gate that separated the gallery from the bench area. Seated between her two big sons, Ma Holloway stared hard at the judge, then got to her feet and followed Claiborne to the bench.

  Hardcastle studied them gravely, then he said, “This feud, Colonel Claiborne, has been between you and Resurrection. Yet I get the distinct impression that you, Mrs. Holloway, in the short time you have been here, have come to represent to many the colonel’s enemy. You suffered at his hands during the war, and you blame him for the loss of a son here in Resurrection. I don’t propose to enter into all the ramifications of this bloody business, for it is impossible in matters such as this to sheet blame home cleanly and clearly. But I shall say this. Mrs. Holloway, your hatred against the colonel is unjust. When your husband and son were slain in Virginia, it was by a soldier fighting for his country. I was responsible for the deaths of many men in the war and I fully understand its horrors.”

  Judge Hardcastle’s eyes left the woman’s pale face and fixed on Claiborne.

  “And you, sir, are just as guilty. You understood from the beginning that people here would resent you, yet you made no attempt to soften their animosity. In short, Colonel, you acted just as if the war were still being fought.” The judge leaned forward, his face stern. “The war is over,” he said firmly. “And now I instruct—no, I order you, to do what is in your power to undo the harm you’ve done. Here before me, you will shake hands with this woman and make a solemn vow to do nothing in the future that will cause further trouble.”

  The tension in the room seemed strong enough to lift the roof as Claiborne and Ma Holloway turned slowly to face each other. In the body of the court, Duke Benedict leaned forward in his chair, and a row behind him Race Holloway brushed his big hands against his knees as if to ease the tightness within him. The crowd waited, and nobody seemed to breathe in the sucked-out silence.

  Then Ma Holloway cleared her throat. “I ... I’m sorry about your son, Claiborne. I know what it’s like to lose a boy and not really understand why he had to be took.”

  The iron restraint left Claiborne’s lean features. He looked a totally different man from the arrogant Southern colonel they had come to know as he nodded gravely to the woman.

  “I too am sorry, madam. About both your sons ... and your husband ...” The colonel’s voice shook. “The war, you know ... a terrible thing ...”

  “A terrible thing, Colonel,” Ma Holloway agreed, extending her work-roughened hand.

  Claiborne took the hand in his right, then placed his left hand over it.

  “You have suffered much, madam. As have I. The war scarred us both, but I can’t deny that it was kinder to me than to you, for I at least am not poor.” He paused, then went on in a stronger voice, “I have a great deal of land, madam, with no son to bequeath it to after I’m gone. You have little, but you have two sons. Would you be affronted if I invited you to come to Shiloh, perhaps with a view to staying on and helping me run what has come to be too large a place for a man without a son?”

  The spectators were astonished to see tears in rugged Ma Holloway’s eyes, and none was more astonished than her sons.

  “I’d consider it an honor, Colonel,” she said. “And thank you.”

  Judge Hardcastle rose, and his clerk had never seen the judge smiling so broadly from the bench before as his gavel came down.

  “Clear the court!”

  One of her hands held Benedict’s and the other was clasped in Brazos’ big paw.

  “Dear Hank ... Duke ... do you really have to leave today?”

  “Afraid so, Emma,” Brazos said, grinning up at her from his chair “There’s a man down south who’s waitin’ for us to help him run some cattle across the Indian Nations. We’re kind of overdue.”

  She sighed in resignation, looking from one to the other in the dappled shade of the big cottonwood where the servants had set out a long table on the lawn. She was smiling, but they could see shadows under her eyes that only time would erase.

  “Well, you can at least stay for lunch, can’t you? I think the Holloways might still feel a little strange and your being here might make them more at ease with us.”

  “On one condition, Emma,” Benedict said.

  “And what’s that, Duke?”

  “This,” Benedict murmured. Drawing her down to him, he kissed her. It was a chaste kiss for Duke Benedict; the kiss a brother might have given a sister. She seemed to understand, and Emma touched his face and squeezed Brazos’ hand as Chad Madison called from the far end of the table.

  “Emma, Ma wants to know where this tablecl
oth came from.”

  They watched her walk towards Madison with her quick, light step, then they let their eyes drift across to the colonel. Claiborne sat erect and smiling, listening to something Race Holloway was saying. Sam Holloway stood to one side talking quietly with ramrod Buck Morrow, and beyond the laden tables that had been set up for the feast to welcome the Holloways to Shiloh, the sunlight glinted gold on the broad face of the Chad River.

  Brazos watched Emma bend to speak to Ma Holloway, fingering the beautifully woven tablecloth and smiling. Dressed in her Sunday best, Ma Holloway listened and nodded. It was obvious that she was enjoying it all, but she looked strangely out of place among all these trappings of luxury.

  Brazos’ expression was thoughtful as he took an iced cake from a plate and flipped it to Bullpup who caught it with a click of powerful jaws.

  “Reckon it’ll work out, Yank? The Holloways out here, I mean?”

  A picture of lazy grace in his bed-of-flowers vest and with the cigar burning in his hand, Benedict shrugged.

  “Who can be sure of things like that, Johnny Reb?”

  Brazos tried to catch the eye of the servant who came down from the mansion with a drink-laden tray. “I’d like to believe it will work out how they want it,” he said. “But they’ve got a lot of hurdles to go over.”

  “Well, cynic as I sometimes am, I really believe that the colonel and Ma Holloway buried the past for good in that courtroom.”

  “I don’t mean that. I’m thinkin’ about how different they are, like chalk and cheese almost.”

  “Stranger things have happened. For example, how does a gentleman of my distinguished background manage to tolerate the gaucheries of a nameless someone who doesn’t have the manners to carry grits to a bear—to use one of your sainted father’s rustic homilies.”

  It took a few moments for that to sink in. Then Brazos grinned. “Hey, yeah, Benedict, you got a point. Mebbe things will work out.”

  The servant arrived and they took their glasses and drank a toast to the future of the Holloways and the Claibornes on Shiloh. And to another partnership, just as unlikely, that had somehow managed to survive against the run of the odds.