Benedict and Brazos 17

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “I’m lookin’ for you to stop actin’ like a blind coyote and makin’ our lives a misery just on account of a piece of skirt, that’s what I’m doin’.” Though Zeke Moon outweighed his brother by some fifty pounds, he never spoke up against Connie unless the old man was about. For, deep down, big Zeke was afraid of his vicious younger brother, but Connie never dared go too far when their father was with them.

  Connie started to reply, but the old man’s voice cut him off. “Quit your squawkin’ and get in here and eat!” he barked. He moved aside awkwardly on the crutch that substituted for the leg he’d lost in a hand-to-hand clash with a grizzly two years ago. His thick beard was like pure white wool in the reflected light.

  Connie climbed the steps and moved into the gloomy big room where the family ate, fought, and frequently slept off their drunks. The room stank of stale food, sweat, moonshine and some cutting pungency that might have been caused by something dead and decomposing under the house. Without removing his hat, Connie sat down at the long, unplaned table. Zeke slouched in and took his seat opposite while the old man propped to the big old-fashioned wood stove and started banging tin plates around.

  He served Zeke first. It was usually Connie, the apple of his eye, who got his food first. But he was punishing Connie for shooting off his mouth.

  Zeke Moon had the table manners of a hog. At mealtimes, he believed the sole purpose was to shove as much food into his mouth as quickly as possible. Big shoulders hunched, powerful jaws working furiously, and spitting bones from the corner of his mouth, he attacked his meat with a gusto that would have put a hog to shame. He scorned knife and fork, and whenever grease accumulated on his face, he wiped a filthy sleeve across it with practiced skill, never missing a chew or a swallow.

  Connie watched his brother moodily until his father dumped his plate before him. Connie stared at the contents, then glared up. “Chitlin’s?” he snarled. “How come I don’t get no fatback like Zeke?”

  “That’s all the fatback we got left. Anyways, chitlin’s stick to your ribs better.”

  “I had chitlin’s yesterday. And the day before.”

  “They’re good chitlin’s.”

  “They’s hogswill—and by Judas the hogs can have ’em!”

  The old man stood gaping as Connie snatched up his plate, strode to the door and flung plate, chittlings, black-eyed gravy and a slab of salt biscuit into the yard. There was a squeal and a grunt, then the sound of lusty chomping.

  “You gone loco?” Zeke yelled, swallowing enough to choke the biggest hog.

  Connie whirled, made a violent gesture at his brother with his fingers, then lunged out. They heard the thud of a kick, a hog’s squeal of pain, and then all was silent again.

  Zeke swabbed up his gravy with a lump of pone bread, rammed it into his mouth and belched. “Loco,” he repeated. “That feller is gettin’ to act more like a loon every day, I swear.”

  “You know what’s eatin’ him as well as I do,” old Moon growled. He leaned his crutch against the table and lowered himself into Connie’s chair. Absently, he ran his finger through a streak of gravy Connie had spilled and sucked noisily. He stared at the door. “We gotta help that boy get what he wants,” he mused. “That’s what we gotta do.”

  “What he wants?” Zeke said pointedly. “Or what you want, old man?”

  “And just what do you mean by that, big mouth?”

  “You know what I mean, Daddy.”

  Old Moon glowered at his son but he didn’t speak. He knew what Zeke was hinting at; since he’d lost his leg and times had started getting hard for the Moons of Tennessee Hill, old Moon had spent a lot of time trying to figure out ways to improve their lot. Feeling the onset of the years and infirmity, Moon had come down with a powerful hunger to shake themselves free of their hand-to-mouth existence on the side of a hill. He wanted to spend his declining years in comfort and leave something decent for his sons to fight over when he was gone.

  They’d tried rustling, but it didn’t work. They could steal cows easily enough, but they couldn’t unload them. When a rancher saw the Moons coming in with a bunch of hard-blowing beeves, he either opened up on sight or took to the hills until they went away. Of course, they were thieves, but they could never manage to pull off a decent job, and over any given period they made more money hunting and trapping than they could steal—and that meant just about enough to get by on.

  It wasn’t until the old man’s long-time enemy, Jake Dillon, from the nearby Rocking T Ranch, had died some months ago, that the mountain man had the first real flash of inspiration since he’d decided to pack up and quit Tennessee ten years ago. There was a handsome little filly down there trying to run that outfit with just the help of a hired hand. And of course she wouldn’t be able to handle it. What she needed was a handsome, strapping young husband about Connie’s size. And once the wedding bells stopped ringing, then she could hardly object to Connie bringing his poor crippled old pappy and his fine brother down to help out around the place, could she?

  The role of prospective bridegroom had failed to excite Connie at first. Connie, like Zeke, believed a woman was good for one thing only—and that one thing certainly wasn’t marriage. But the old man had badgered and nagged the boy into visiting the Rocking T a couple of times, and that was when luck began to run the old man’s way. Connie started to take a real shine to Maggie Dillon, and old Moon sat back, contented to wait for the wedding date to be set.

  But the course of true love, as both Connie and his father were quick to discover, had a distressing habit of not running smoothly. Maggie Dillon failed to respond to Connie’s ardor. Once, she failed so markedly that she drove Connie off the place with a charge of saltpeter in his backside.

  Such an experience would have dampened the romantic aspirations of most men. But not Connie Moon. After soaking his rear in brine for a week, he rode down to Rocking T and insisted on helping with the roundup, without pay. But neither then nor during any of his subsequent visits, had Maggie Dillon let him get within fifty yards of her, and unrequited love was changing Connie from a normal mountain hardcase into a vicious, foul-tempered man with whom it was getting impossible to live.

  Moon fingered up some more gravy. He just couldn’t understand it. Connie was a fine looking lad, sound in wind and limb, ready, willing and able to bestow the Moon name on that girl. What more did she want? He rubbed his forehead and set himself to thinking hard. There must be something he was overlooking. If the girl wasn’t responding to Connie’s suit, there had to be a reason for it ...

  He cast his mind all the way back to his courting days. He could dimly remember what a fine, strapping young specimen he’d been when he used to shine up his squirrel gun and tramp across Mulligan’s Ridge to visit with Rosie Magee. Of course that had been different. Rosie had taken to him like a puppy to a warm brick from the very day he beat up her old man who used to give her a whipping every Saturday night whether she deserved it or not. With them, it had been Rosie who was always talking about setting a date while he’d played hard to get. But he’d enjoyed the courtship nonetheless and he could still remember how good it felt tramping across the ridge with his squirrel gun and wearing his best coveralls and his fine crimson neckerchief. He—

  Old Moon blinked and stared owl-eyed at Zeke who was sprawled back in his chair, snoring after his gluttony. “Zeke!” the old man thundered.

  Zeke blinked sleepily at him. “What’s the matter? Your bladder actin’ up again?”

  The old man banged the flat of his hand down hard on the table. “That’s it!”

  “That’s what?”

  “Why he ain’t makin’ out with that uppity filly, of course. Judas, but we been livin’ rough for so long we plumb forgot what womenfolk are like. Goddamn!” he exclaimed with another bang on the table, then he turned his head and shouted, “Connie, get in here, pronto!”

  “Cut a vein!” came Connie’s reply from the rickety porch.

  “Mind your daddy!” M
oon shouted back, struggling to his feet. “I just figured out the answer to your courtin’ problem, boy.”

  That brought Connie. Moon inside fast. “What’s that you say, old man?”

  Old Moon stood by the table, his face flushed with excitement His disparaging gesture encompassed Connie’s greasy, blood-stained clothes.

  “Look at yourself, boy.”

  Connie looked. “What the hell’s wrong with me?”

  “You look like somethin’ dumped out by the boilin’ down works, that’s what’s wrong.” Moon hobbled across to his son and clapped a bony hand on his shoulder. “Boy, it’s all my fault. I can’t expect no striplin’ like you to understand them funny cattle they call women. But I was a man of the world once, and I surely should have remembered. They’s different, boy. They’s fussy and particular, and when a young jasper comes sparkin’, why, they expect him to dude up for it. And that’s what’s been gettin’ in that little filly’s craw. You been ridin’ down there to see her like you was goin’ in to b’ar rassle. You gettin’ what I’m drivin’ at?”

  Connie Moon’s eyes had been stretching wider and wider as his father spoke. Now he looked across at his brother and breathed, “By Judas—mebbe that’s it!”

  “’Course it’s it,” his father said jubilantly. “And now that we’ve been actin’ like fools for so long, let’s hurry up and rectify it. What we gotta do is pretty you up, boy. Zeke, fill every pot we got with water and set them to boilin’. Then go get them fancy pants of yours, them ones you wore last time you went to Galloway. I’ll get my good neckerchief, and Connie, you hunt up them Star boots you stole off that whisky drummer in Perona Flats.” Inspiration flooded the old man’s face. “And then get outa them stinkin’ clothes, on account of you’re gonna take a bath.”

  Until then, Connie had been caught up in his father’s enthusiasm. But now he jibbed. “A bath?” he said with something akin to horror. “Now you just hold on a minute, Daddy. You can’t be serious. You—”

  “You want to marry up with that gal or don’t you?”

  “Why sure, but—”

  “Then you’ll take a bath.”

  “There ain’t no other way?”

  “No other way.”

  Connie’s face turned haggard. “Then I guess a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  “Spoken like a real Moon,” the old man said proudly. “Zeke, stir your goddamn stumps, on account of your brother is a-goin’ courtin’. Hot water, mister, and plenty of it.”

  Chapter Five

  At the Rocking T

  Maggie Dillon said, “You can put your gun down now, Mustang. I’m sure Mr. Benedict doesn’t mean us any harm.”

  “On the contrary, Miss Dillon,” Benedict assured her, holding his hat to his chest as he sat his saddle before the Rocking T ranch house. “I entertain the hope that I might be of some small service to you.” He glanced at the leathery old ranch hand who’d greeted him over the twin barrels of a shotgun. “May I step down?”

  Mustang Moore didn’t answer immediately. He still looked a little suspicious, though Benedict was relieved to see that the shotgun was now angled at the ground. The old cowhand looked him up and down a couple of times more, then he glanced at the girl on the porch. Maggie Dillon nodded her dark head and Mustang Moore stepped back from the horse.

  “All right, Benedict,” he said quietly. “You can step down and state your business.”

  Saddle leather creaked as Benedict swung lightly to the ground. He was neither surprised nor annoyed by his shotgun welcome to the Rocking T. From what he’d heard of the ranch’s troubles, they had sound reason for being wary of anybody who might come riding up through the summer grass.

  Benedict twisted the lines around the rail of the tie-rack, his gaze sweeping over the unpainted house, the peeled pole corrals, the summer-dry sweep of grass beyond. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through dusty trees, dappling patterns on the red backs of a bunch of scrawny looking cattle. The organ-toned bellow of an over-solicitous cow admonishing her frisky, white-faced calf bounced back off the high cliffs behind the house. Benedict spoke to Bullpup as the hound started sniffing at Mustang Moore’s pants leg, then he moved towards the steps.

  He was pleased he’d taken the trouble to stop at a little stream a mile from the spread to freshen up and brush the dust from his garb. Maggie Dillon was an attractive young woman. A little work-worn perhaps, but her face had a pleasant heart shape and her figure looked good, even in a work shirt and Levi’s. Also, there was a level directness to her gaze that he found appealing.

  He propped a boot on the bottom step and rested his hat on his thigh. “A fine afternoon, Miss Dillon,” he smiled, his clear gray eyes appraising.

  She smiled. “Yes, it is. What brings you to the Rocking T, Mr. Benedict?”

  He told her in a few sentences. The girl’s face opened wide at first with surprise, then concern as she heard of Hank Brazos’ arrest for allegedly being involved in the rustling of her herd. He touched lightly on his unsuccessful search for the stolen cattle to the west, then concluded with:

  “So, having failed to pick up the rustlers’ trail, Miss Dillon, I decided to ride here on the chance you know something that might help me. I hope you don’t mind?”

  “Why, good heavens no, Mr. Benedict,” she said. “Please, won’t you come in and have some coffee? We can talk more comfortably inside.”

  Benedict started up the steps and Mustang Moore came behind him, swearing under his breath. “Danged fool lawman!” the hand said in response to Benedict’s questioning glance. “Your partner never had nothin’ to do with our cows and Frank Holloway knows it.”

  “You sound sure about that, Mustang,” Benedict replied, following the girl into the small, meticulously clean kitchen.

  “’Course I’m sure,” Moore said, leaning his shotgun against the wall and motioning Benedict to a chair by the table. “Casey Cantrell stole our cattle and everybody knows it, including Holloway.”

  Benedict frowned. “Casey Cantrell?”

  Mustang snorted as he sat down. “Rustler from down Perona Flats way. Runs with a mean bunch, all thieves. Been rustlin’ stock around Keogh County on and off for years. There ain’t any law down at Perona Flats, and nobody with nerve enough from the outside to try and bring Cantrell to book.” He nodded emphatically. “Yes, sir, it was Cantrell right enough, Benedict.”

  Benedict looked soberly at the girl standing at the stove. “You’re both quite certain of this?”

  “As certain as we can be,” Maggie Dillon replied. “You see, this isn’t the first time we’ve had cattle stolen. We’ve lost two herds in two months, and last time, Mustang actually saw Cantrell riding away.”

  “But if this is the case,” Benedict said in puzzlement, “why hasn’t Holloway done something about it, instead of arresting an innocent man?”

  “I just told you,” Mustang said. “Everybody’s scared of Cantrell, and that goes for Holloway, too. Cantrell’s got a gang down there, and they’re a mighty mean bunch. Holloway is a good enough town sheriff, but he ain’t no gunman and he ain’t no hero. Beats me why he had to go and arrest your pard, though.”

  Benedict had his own theory about that, and was willing to bet hard money that it was right. But why Holloway had arrested Brazos was of secondary importance at the moment. What was important was that it seemed the sheriff knew who’d run off the Rocking T herd.

  “How far is it to Perona Flats?” he asked as the girl set a mug of coffee before him.

  “About twenty miles south of Cross Hollow,” Moore supplied. “Why?”

  Benedict spooned sugar into his cup. “I believe I’ll take a ride down there.”

  The man and the girl stared at him. Then Maggie Dillon said, “You don’t seem to understand, Mr. Benedict. Those men are killers.”

  Benedict met her gaze. “I understand, Miss Dillon. But my partner’s freedom depends on my getting to the bottom of this business.” He picked up his mug. “So,
I’ll be going down there.”

  Something in the way he spoke caused Maggie Dillon and Mustang Moore to look at him closely, as if they were beginning to realize that there was tempered steel behind the smooth facade. After a long, silent moment, Mustang Moore nodded his gray head and said quietly:

  “Yeah, I reckon you will at that, mister.” He paused, then asked, “What are you, Benedict? Gunfighter?”

  “Of course not.” Benedict flashed his wide smile at them. “I’m just a drifter who at the moment is interested in recovering your cattle and perhaps bringing those responsible to book.” His sparkling eyes rested on the girl. “This is really excellent coffee, Miss Dillon.”

  The Benedict charm seldom failed, and it worked then. Soon the old man and the girl appeared perfectly relaxed in his company and they sat for some time talking quietly, mostly about the Rocking T and the troubles they’d had since Jake Dillon died.

  Those troubles were more numerous than Benedict knew. Apart from the rustling raids which had brought the Rocking T almost to ruin, there had been many seemingly unrelated incidents over the past months that had compounded their problems. A creek had been poisoned, cattle had been found shot dead, a stretch of south fence had been torn down twice. As if all that wasn’t enough, Maggie Dillon had been consistently badgered to sell the place to Lafe Darlington from Galloway.

  Benedict, who’d had Darlington pointed out to him by Amy Miles yesterday in Sunset Street, found himself intrigued by this unexpected piece of information. What would a saloonkeeper want with a ranch? he wanted to know.

  “That is a mystery to us, too, I’m afraid, Mr. Benedict,” Maggie said, and in that moment he thought she looked very tired. “When Darlington came to me with his first offer, just after father died, I thought he was joking. But I soon discovered he was in earnest. I told him then, and every time since, that I have no intention of selling out. But he keeps coming back, increasing his offer every time.”

  “Danged fool if you ask me,” Mustang snorted. “I mean, Maggie loves this here place just like I do. But we ain’t stupid about it. We know it ain’t worth more’n two or three thousand dollars at top ... nowhere near five.”