With the sounds of the Butcher’s noisy exit still ringing in his ears, Cantrell decided that the Texan, who gave his name as Bob Jackson, was legitimate client material. Unusual perhaps, but legitimate. He crossed to the bar, made himself known and talked terms. Money changed hands and ten minutes later the pair were riding from Perona Flats and headed due west.
Duke Benedict followed at a discreet distance. The hardcase they’d jumped on the edge of town, and whom they’d left neatly bound and gagged in a chicken house—had surrendered what knowledge he had of Cantrell and the Rocking T herd with just a little rough encouragement. But unfortunately the man hadn’t known where Cantrell cached his herds, hence Brazos’ masquerade as a cattle buyer.
Their hastily conceived plan—simple enough on paper—was to first get to the cows, then worry about retrieving their money. And simple was how it turned out, due entirely to the fact that Casey Cantrell had let himself grow too cock-sure and complacent for his own good.
In his early days in Perona Flats, Cantrell had insisted that Curry, Bragg and Varger all stand watch on the herds at Kiowa Gulch until they were turned over to the buyers. But in the months since they’d had nothing that even looked like trouble, so the badmen had started grumbling about riding herd at the gulch. Cantrell had finally conceded that two men would be sufficient to stand watch, and so the trio had been able to rotate their shifts.
But even one night off and two on had proven too irksome for romantic Boy Curry of late, and Boy had been bribing Varger and Bragg not to say anything to Casey, while he sneaked off nights from the gulch to visit his latest love, a two-hundred-pound widow woman who raised goats at Onion Knob.
Casey Cantrell was annoyed when he reached the gulch to find just Stash Varger riding the night watch, and he was enumerating dire reprisals for the absent Boy Curry when Brazos’ gun barrel came down on the crown of his balding head like a thunderbolt.
Having moved adroitly into position behind the unsuspecting Varger where he stood by his little campfire, Benedict acted swiftly as Cantrell left his saddle. The badman went down in a heap with a surprised look on his face and a rapidly rising lump above his right ear.
“Like takin’ candy from kids, Yank,” Brazos grinned, rising from Cantrell’s prostrate form with their money plus interest in his fist.
“Small-timers,” Benedict said with a sniff.
Even so, both knew they’d been lucky. Fully realizing it was risky to push their luck, they wasted no time in getting the cattle strung out from Kiowa Gulch, then they hazed them along at a run towards the distant mountains.
Their luck continued to hold. There was the dust of following riders visible two miles behind an hour later, when the moon fell into the mountains. After the brilliant moonlight, the night was black as pitch. At least it seemed that way to Duke Benedict. But not to Brazos. The Texan was outdoors born and bred. He knew cattle and he knew this country. Exhibiting sure instincts and a wildcat’s eyesight, he guided the little herd unerringly through the rugged mountains, until first light found them within sight of the rooftops of Galloway, landmark of Tennessee Hill. The country behind, as far as the eye could see, was empty.
They exchanged a smile. No doubt about it; there was no way of tipping which way Lady Luck would deal. They pushed on, riding through the strengthening silver light towards the Rocking T.
Erskine Getty was enjoying himself late that same afternoon in the Galloway law office.
“Of course you could always stand down, Frank,” he suggested, as he drilled into his hairy ears with the rounded end of a silver toothpick. “You could tell ’em you’ve got tired of lawin’ and don’t feel like runnin’ against me. That’d save you the humiliation of standin’ by watchin’ ’em cast their votes for me.”
Getty was a realtor with a gifted tongue. Fat and florid and invariably attired in loud checked suits, he was this year’s Republican candidate for the sheriff’s job, and he was acting like a man as good as secure behind scowling Frank Holloway’s desk.
“Don’t you have business to tend to, Erskine?” Holloway’s voice was dull and there were dark circles under his eyes. He looked like a man who wasn’t sleeping well. An acrimonious note crept into his tone as he added, “Or have all the suckers woken up to what a shifty trader you are at last?”
Erskine Getty took no offence. Ever since the jailbreak, he’d been tutoring himself in how to act like a winner. He rose smiling and picked up his derby hat. “Matter of fact, I do have some business now that you remind me, Frank. Shakin’ hands and kissin’ babies,” he beamed as he moved to the door. “Tough work this runnin’ for office, Sheriff, mighty tough.” He paused in the doorway to set his hat at just the right cocky angle. “Cheer up, Frank—it ain’t the end of the world. Who knows? Mebbe I’ll need somebody to keep an eye on my office while I’m seein’ to law and order.” He rubbed his pudgy hands together. “And collectin’ all them nice fat fines and fees. Keep smiling Sheriff.”
Frank Holloway leaned back in his chair and listened to the fat man’s receding footsteps. There were times like this when he almost wished he smoked and drank. Those little comforts seemed to sustain men in moments of stress. But Galloway’s peace officer was a man of sober, disciplined habits. He neither smoked, drank, nor chased after fancy women. He was decent and honest—with the exception of one recent moment of weakness.
The lawman reflected moodily on that blemish while listening to the sounds of Galloway in the afternoon. Of course, he told himself, he wouldn’t have dreamed of tampering with the machinery of the law had his stocks not been slumping so alarmingly following the rustling raids on the Rocking T. But with thirty head missing and with no inclination whatsoever to ride down to Perona Flats and see if Casey Cantrell had been up to his old tricks again, the big Texan he’d found at Cross Hollow had provided a temptation too strong to resist.
He sighed. Perhaps this was retribution for his sin. Jailing the “rustler” had definitely enhanced his chances at the polls, but Hank Brazos’ escape had sent his reputation plunging far below its previous level. Erskine Getty had just suggested that he could count himself lucky to get twenty percent of the vote, and he hated to admit that the fat man was probably right. A sheriff who couldn’t hold a prisoner securely wasn’t the sort of lawman Galloway wanted.
After a while, the Sheriff tried to busy himself with his bookwork but his concentration was bad. He got to his feet and went to the rifle rack. Warren was falling down on his job of keeping the weapons clean. He took the key from his belt to unlock the rack, and as he did so, swift-running boots sounded on the porch and then Andy Warren filled the doorway.
“Sheriff!” he shouted, wild-eyed. “They’re comin’ in!”
“Who’s coming in?”
“Benedict and Brazos.”
“What?”
“They just turned in from Coyote Street, Sheriff. What the hell will we do?”
Holloway didn’t know; he was too stunned to think. And while he was trying to make up his mind, he heard the sounds of horses drawing up outside. Warren yelped and rushed past him, the vicious swelling down his forehead standing out in dark contrast to the pallor of his skin. Holloway snapped a word at the deputy to steady him; then, looking more assured than he felt, he went to the door.
Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos were dismounting at the rack. Bullpup bounded onto the porch and gave Holloway a dirty look with his yellow eyes that showed he had neither forgotten nor forgiven his recent incarceration. A crowd had quickly gathered, and very conscious of how many voters were there watching him, Frank Holloway forced himself to speak firmly.
“So, you’ve decided to give yourself up, have you, mister?”
Looking not at all the way a repentant escapee should, Brazos led the way up the steps, crossed the porch with a heavy tread and gave the sheriff a hard poke in the brisket.
“We’ll talk inside, Holloway.”
“If you insist,” Holloway said, trying to hang on to his dignity.
“That we do,” Benedict murmured, and he banged the door shut behind them. Then he pointed a finger at Andy Warren who stood by the cell archway like a man rooted to the floorboards. “Sit!”
Warren sat, making a great clatter with his chair. Brazos bent a cold eye on the deputy before turning back to Holloway who had gone around his desk as if he found it necessary to have something between them.
“We found the Rockin’ T cows,” the Texan said without preamble.
Holloway swallowed. “You did? Where?”
“Perona Flats. Cantrell had them, just near where everybody seemed to figure they were—exceptin’ you. We ran ’em back to where they belonged.”
Holloway could feel his eyes widening. “You ... you took cattle back from Casey Cantrell?”
“It would appear that we have correctly estimated the good sheriff’s attitude towards our friend Cantrell, Reb,” Benedict said in his clipped voice. He came to stand by the desk and rested his fingertips on the spur-scarred surface. “Cantrell has you buffaloed, doesn’t he, Sheriff Holloway? There’s no point in denying it, man, it shows plainly enough. You suspected Cantrell, but because you fear him you chose to arrest an innocent man and lay false charges against him in an attempt to revive your election prospects. Correct, Sheriff Holloway—?”
Holloway tried to frame a denial but it wouldn’t work. His shoulders slumped and he lowered himself to his chair. In a way, he felt almost relieved that the truth was out. “What are you going to do?” he asked woodenly.
“That’s up to you,” said Brazos.
Holloway lifted his eyes. “How do you mean?”
“We’ve been talkin’ things over with Maggie Dillon and Mustang Moore. Them folks reckon you’re a tolerably good sheriff who’s at least a country mile ahead of this jasper that’s standin’ against you. And it could be that you are all right, too, Holloway, even if I don’t think much of what you tried to pull on me. Of course, me and Benedict could spill the truth about your little caper and you’d end up booted out of that chair and likely find yourself in a cell. But mebbe we don’t want to do that. Mebbe we reckon you rate another chance. Right, Yank?”
“Correct.” Benedict was tapping a cigar on his fingernail. “Brazos and I have to move on, Sheriff, possibly tomorrow. But we don’t relish the prospect of leaving unless we feel the Rocking T is given more attention by this office than it has obviously been getting recently. And that is where you come in, Sheriff. We’ve clipped Cantrell’s wings and recovered Maggie Dillon’s cattle, but it doesn’t end there. That girl has been having trouble, not only from rustlers, but from the Moons. She will certainly need more protection, and I believe the sheriff of this town should feel obligated to investigate and deal with any unlawful occurrence that takes place out there in the future. Do you agree, Sheriff?”
“Well ... well, I know they’ve been having all sorts of trouble out there, Mr. Benedict, and I—”
“Never mind the embellishments, Sheriff. Are you prepared to give your word that you will take it upon yourself to see that the girl is given a fair deal if you remain in office? If you do, we will spread it around that Brazos didn’t really escape at all. We will insist that you let him go to help me run down the real thief responsible for the rustling. That should make you appear rather far-sighted and prudent in the eyes of your voters, considering the success of our visit to Perona Flats. Of course, if you refuse, we shall have no option but to make the true facts public. Admittedly it would be our word against yours. But I rather seem to feel that, having recovered the Rocking T herd for Miss Dillon, people might be inclined to accept us as men whose word can be trusted. What do you think, Sheriff Holloway …?”
What Frank Holloway thought was that he was being offered another chance. “I’m beholden to you, gentlemen,” he said with dignity, getting to his feet. “I’ll ... I’ll admit I made a bad mistake. But I’ll surely try and make up for it. As for Maggie Dillon, well, you have my word that I’ll do all I can for her.”
Benedict looked at Brazos. “What do you think, Reb?”
The Texan was studying Holloway closely. “I reckon he means it, Yank.”
“Good enough,” Benedict said with an air of finality. “And now I think we’ve earned a little drink. Care to join us, Sheriff?”
“Well, I don’t drink,” the lawman confessed, reaching for his hat. “But maybe this calls for just a small glass.”
“I believe it does,” Benedict agreed, and headed for the door.
Brazos was following them out when he remembered the deputy. He propped, scowled back at the man in the chair, and Warren flinched. Then the Texan grinned.
“You’re invited, too, Kansan.”
The deputy gaped. “You mean you’d drink with me?”
“Why not?” Brazos smiled. “You couldn’t help being born on the wrong side of the border.” Then he gestured impatiently. “Come on, stir your stumps, Kansan, for I’m as dry as a powder house in Death Valley.”
The crowd that was assembled outside, waiting with bated breath for the sound of uproar, showed its astonishment as Duke Benedict and Frank Holloway emerged together and started off in the direction of the Seven Sisters. But astonishment changed to incredulity moments later when Hank Brazos and Andy Warren came out grinning to follow the others to the saloon.
The womenfolk were going to have to be content with speculation for the time being. But not the men. Suddenly there was a concerted rush for Amy Miles’ saloon, which did its best trade in years that afternoon while Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos recounted the astonishing story of the return of the Rocking T cattle—and the clever part the sheriff had played to make it possible.
Chapter Eight
Killing Time
Chubby cheeks glowing from her honest exertions over the stove and Benedict’s lavish compliments concerning the result of her culinary labors, Abigail Peabody sat beaming at the head of the table watching Benedict and Brazos do full justice to her cuisine.
“Best apple pie I ever ate, ma’am,” Brazos assured her around a bulging jawful. “And that comes from a feller from Texas, where every woman is practically reared with a skillet in her hand.”
“A dish for princes,” chimed in Benedict, who refused to be outdone in the field of flattery. He swallowed and gave the plump hostess the benefit of his widest smile. “Prepared by the hands of a princess.”
It was nearly too much for Mrs. Abigail Peabody. Mostly she found herself cooking for a bunch of roughnecks who wouldn’t know the difference between prime silverside and fillet of coyote. “Oh, Mr. Benedict,” she simpered, “you’re such a one with words. Isn’t he a sinful flatterer, Sadie?”
“Mortally sinful, Ma,” murmured Sadie, looking a little miffed because her mother was drawing most of the attention and compliments. The girl had gone to the trouble of setting her hair in red ribbons and putting on her most daringly low-cut blouse when she’d heard the two men would be there for supper. Benedict had kissed her hand and assured her she looked “good enough to eat”, while Brazos had blushed when he saw just how far the neckline of her blouse went down. But since then, nothing. She supposed it was true what they said; the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach.
“More coffee, gentlemen?” Abigail asked as Brazos shoved his plate away from him and suppressed a burp. They nodded and she turned to the fifth person at the table, surly, scowling Sandburr Sam. “Samuel, would you be so good as to fetch the pot?”
The man got up, slouched away for the pot, slouched back and dumped it down at Benedict’s elbow.
Benedict smiled up at the sullen face of the little prospector. “Would you mind pouring, old chap?” he smiled. For some reason he’d noted that Abigail’s boyfriend resented all the fuss being made of them, and it was part of his perverse nature to rub the flint a little harder whenever he saw a spark.
“You got two hands, Benedict.”
“Samuel!” Abigail admonished. “What manners! I’m sure I don’t know w
hat has gotten into you tonight.”
“Yeah, Sandburr,” Brazos said amiably, rubbing his belly. “You do seem kinda testy. You got the dreadfuls?”
“Ain’t nothin’ wrong with me,” Wilson muttered.
“Or your pouring arm, I trust,” Benedict said, still smiling. He tapped his cup.
Sandburr Sam’s first impression of Duke Benedict had been that he was a dude. He was acting like one tonight, with his flowery words and lofty table manners. But dudes didn’t get to take cattle from Casey Cantrell.
Sandburr poured coffee, reluctantly and a little sloppily. Abigail peered at him in puzzlement as he resumed his seat. She sighed.
“My word, but we are in a state tonight, aren’t we? Why don’t you tell us what’s bothering you, Samuel? You’re amongst friends.” She dimpled at Benedict. “We’re all friends here, aren’t we, Duke?”
“Warm friends, Abigail,” Benedict assured her, and Brazos almost felt queasy under the belt buckle at the sickening way he smiled at her.
But whatever it was that was bothering Sandburr Sam Wilson remained a mystery until later, when preparing to leave for Sunset Street, Brazos and Benedict mentioned casually that they would most likely be leaving Galloway the following day.
Abigail and Sadie immediately looked stricken. But not so Sandburr Sam. Suddenly he was smiling and friendly and busily recommending all sorts of likely places where they might pick up word on Bo Rangle—most of the places a long way from Galloway.
The change in the man was so marked that it immediately aroused Abigail’s suspicions. “Why, Samuel,” she chided, “a person would think you wanted Duke and Mr. Brazos to leave, the way you’re carrying on.”
“Yes, they would, wouldn’t they, Sam?” Benedict said pointedly, “In fact, somebody of even average perception might feel certain that you’re anxious to see us gone. Why should that be so, Sandburr?”
Suddenly everybody was peering suspiciously at the runty little prospector. Sandburr stopped grinning and looking downright uncomfortable.
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