Benedict and Brazos 17

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Sandburr Sam had better be at Broadman’s Bend; Benedict couldn’t go through that again.

  Chapter Ten

  Rogue’s Reckoning

  Sandburr Sam Wilson took one look at the muzzle of the six-gun trained on his skinny chest and gulped.

  “How, Benedict?” he croaked, rising from beside the campfire where he’d been frying the day’s first fish at Broadman’s Bend. “Did Abigail …?”

  “The how is unimportant, prospector,” clipped Benedict. “All that is important as far as you are concerned is that I know about the gold on the Rocking T. Now I want to know the rest.”

  Sandburr Sam Wilson was a frightened man. Fear had driven him from Galloway, and fear made it impossible for him to hold out now. Sandburr had had a bellyful of the whole lot of this. He just wanted it to be over.

  He told his story while Benedict helped himself to the fish. When Jake Dillon had given Wilson permission to fossick for gold on the Rocking T, he related, neither had expected him to find anything special. But when Sandburr struck that seam, gold fever took hold of him and he sat down to figure out how he could keep it from Dillon, and ultimately get his hands on it himself. With no funds and little business acumen, it soon became obvious that he was going to need help. So he’d gone to Lafe Darlington, who’d brought in Ed Tewksbury, the assay agent, who confirmed the worth of Sandburr’s strike. The trio had formed a partnership with the objective of acquiring ownership of the Rocking T and its fine fat seam of gold.

  The first move had been for Darlington to offer to buy the ranch. Dillon proved obstinate, and a month later the rancher was shot and killed. Darlington insisted he knew nothing about the murder, but Sandburr Sam was suspicious. However, he was in too deep and couldn’t back out. Then the girl had turned unexpectedly stubborn and the campaign to force her out had begun. Darlington, Hurd and Rife had conducted raids on the Rocking T, while Casey Cantrell was paid to rustle the outfit’s stock. That last rustling raid—the one in which Benedict and Brazos had become involved—had been calculated to bring the Rocking T to its knees. But when they retrieved the herd and returned it to the ranch, Darlington had felt he’d lost ground in his campaign and had decided to hit the spread again.

  Hurd’s death, followed by Darlington’s return to Galloway with the Cantrell gang, had convinced Sandburr that he’d had enough. He wanted the gold, but he wanted no part of killing. His plan in coming to Broadman’s Bend was to get away from Galloway until the situation was resolved. If things went against Darlington, he’d intended to leave town for good. If things went the other way, he reluctantly admitted, he’d planned to return and claim his share of the take.

  Benedict finished his meal, came erect and wiped his fingers with his kerchief. Now he knew it all. The next step was to free Hank Brazos and bring Lafe Darlington and his henchmen to book.

  But long before he got back to Galloway with slump shouldered Sandburr Sam that afternoon, he realized that the testimony of one broken-down prospector mightn’t be enough. Sandburr Sam was something of a joke around Galloway, while Darlington was one of the community’s most powerful citizens. To shove Sandburr Sam up against Darlington in a court of law could very well result in a win for Darlington, and Hank Brazos would still be saddled with a murder charge.

  Benedict needed something much stronger than Sandburr’s testimony. He needed proof positive. Before they raised the rooftops of Galloway, he believed he knew just how to go about getting it ...

  With big things on his mind now, and the night ahead looming uncertain and possibly dangerous before him, Sheriff Frank Holloway was too preoccupied to find anything significant in the fact that his giant prisoner was sweating and panting when he came in to check on him at sundown. It was hot, and Brazos had a right to sweat if he wanted to. As for the panting? Well, he supposed he’d be breathing hard himself if he was locked up facing a murder charge.

  But Brazos wasn’t so short of breath that he couldn’t talk. “Wasn’t that Benedict I heard gabbin’ out there with you a spell back, Holloway?” he growled.

  “That’s right.”

  “Then why’n hell didn’t he come in to see me?”

  “Said he didn’t want to. You want some coffee?”

  Brazos told him what to do with his coffee, his jailhouse, and his motherless stink hole of a town. Holloway shrugged and went away, and Hank Brazos stared bleak reality in the face. Benedict was backing out on him. The bastard was playing a game of his own, looking out for Number One, no doubt, and leaving him here to fry in his own fat.

  The hell he would!

  Brazos went back to the window and seized hold of the two central bars again. He’d been working on them for two hours. Muscles writhed powerfully beneath the purple shirt. His face contorted, sweat bursting from every pore, he commanded every ounce of his great strength.

  The steel was strong and the stone was stout, but slowly and surely they were beginning to give under his assault. Another hour, and with a little luck, he would be astride the appaloosa and making tracks.

  But before he threw a leg across his horse and said farewell to sunny Galloway, he was going to look up a certain tall Yankee. Yes, sir, no matter what else he didn’t do, he would surely do that ...

  They watched him through the peep-slot in Lafe Darlington’s back room. Casey Cantrell stood at the saloonkeeper’s side, with Ed Tewksbury between them. Seated around the office, Curry, Varger and Bragg were drinking whisky.

  Boy Curry looked up at the three backs and asked, “What’s he doin’ now?”

  What Duke Benedict was doing now was exactly what he’d been doing for the past hour—drinking hard at the long bar, like a man with no more ambition than to get himself as drunk as possible as quickly as he could.

  “It doesn’t figure,” Lafe Darlington muttered for about the tenth time as they turned away from the slot. “What’s he hitting the bottle for? Why isn’t he snooping around and raising hell and trying to get that Texan out of the hoosegow?” As before, nobody could come up with any sort of sensible explanation. It was mighty puzzling and just as disturbing. That gun-shark was acting out of character ...

  Knuckles sounded on the door and Ed Rife walked in. “He wants to see you, boss.”

  Darlington blinked. “Who does?”

  “Benedict.”

  Darlington and Cantrell exchanged a glance. Then, relaxing, Darlington shoved his cigar between his teeth and said quietly, “Show him in, Rife.”

  The bouncer went out. Moments later Benedict walked in, banging the door shut behind him. He looked pretty drunk as he stood there for a moment grinning at them. Then, without waiting to be offered a chair, he sat down at the desk and smiled at Darlington who was watching him with a mixture of wariness and puzzlement.

  “Time we had a little discussion, Darlington,” Benedict said amiably. “A business discussion.”

  “Is that so?” Darlington murmured through a thick cloud of cigar smoke. “What about?”

  Benedict’s face took on a sly look. “Not too fast, Darlington, not too fast. Only a dude gambler shows all his cards at once.”

  “I didn’t know you were carrying any cards in this game.”

  “Up my sleeves, Darlington, up my sleeves. Cards up the sleeves are like gold in the bank, I always say.”

  The word “gold” seemed to hang in the smoke-filled air of the room for a long moment. Suddenly Lafe Darlington wasn’t looking quite so poker-faced any more.

  “Gold did you say, Benedict?”

  “I did say that, didn’t I?” Benedict smiled. “Lovely word, isn’t it? Gold. Amazing what a man will do for it ...”

  “Look, Benedict, if you’ve got something on your mind that—”

  “As a matter of fact I have, Darlington,” Benedict broke in. “I have gold on my mind.” He paused. “Rocking T gold.”

  The silence in the room seemed to pulse as they watched Benedict fumble with his cigar case and select a Red Man. He finally got it alight after several
clumsy attempts, then Lafe Darlington spoke in a voice thick with menace:

  “You’re walking on thin ice, Benedict. You’d better start making yourself plain or your chances of leaving this room are gonna be mighty slim.”

  Benedict laughed. “No threats ... please, no threats, Darlington. You see, I’m not exactly a fool. I know about the gold and I know a great deal about what you’ve been doing to try to get your hands on it. Being a greedy man myself, I expect others to be difficult. So, if anything should happen to me, the full story will be revealed to the law.”

  Darlington’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell do you know, mister? And what do you want?”

  Benedict rose and swayed a little, still smiling. “Last question first, Lafe. An equal share. And don’t look so hostile, old chap, for you and I are surely brothers under the skin. You’re a man alert for the main chance, and so am I. But as for what I know ... well, I know a great deal, let me assure you. But there are one or two blank spots I would like to be enlightened about, before I take you fully into my confidence.”

  “I don’t trust this polecat, Lafe,” Casey Cantrell whispered. “If you ask me, you oughta—”

  “Let me handle this,” Darlington said sharply. He nodded. “All right, Benedict, let’s assume we might be able to work out some kind of a deal. What comes next?”

  “Just the blank spots, Lafe ... just the blank spots. You see, I know it was you who burned the Rocking T barn, just as I know that Cantrell has been raiding the ranch on your orders.”

  “How?”

  Benedict smiled. “Sandburr Sam.”

  “Why, that dirty little—!”

  “Small time, Lafe, small time. And Sam won’t upset the apple cart, I’ve taken good care of that. But now that you know I’m not just guessing, let’s get right down to cases. It’s necessary for me to know exactly who my partners are before committing myself.” He paused, then said softly, “You killed Jake Dillon, didn’t you?”

  Again Cantrell made to protest, but Darlington silenced him with a wave of his hand. “No point in beating around the bushes with him, Casey,” he growled. “It’s plain he knows the set-up, so we might as well see whether we can do a trade with him, or whether well have to kill him.” He nodded his big head. “Yeah, Dillon had to go, Benedict, so we took him.”

  “Ah, a man of direct action after my own heart,” drawled Benedict. “And the raids on the spread, the rustling of the cattle and suchlike ... you?”

  “Right.” Darlington moved to stand squarely before Benedict. “So now you know, mister. Now you know that I’m not a man who lets anything stand in my way when I’m out to get something.” He poked Benedict in the chest. “Anything. I want that gold, and I’ve killed to try and get it. And I’ll keep killing to hang onto my chances. Now, let’s hear what you—”

  Darlington broke off as the rear door burst open—and Sheriff Frank Holloway reeled in.

  Despite the fact that Benedict knew Holloway had been at the back door listening to everything that had been said in the office, having posted him there himself, he was as astonished as Darlington and his henchmen by Holloway’s abrupt appearance. The scheme which Benedict had conceived and implemented called for the lawman to eavesdrop on his discussions with Darlington for the purpose of obtaining evidence against the badmen, nothing more. Darlington certainly wasn’t supposed to reveal himself.

  And then he saw the reason for the sheriff’s unexpected entry; coming in behind Holloway with a gun in his fist was slab-faced Ed Rife.

  Rife growled, “Caught him listenin’ at the back door, Lafe.”

  Benedict knew in that split second that his plan had failed. And in the same instant he realized his desperate position. His hands went instinctively towards his hips, but he froze when Rife’s gun trained on his chest.

  “What’s he up to, boss?” Rife asked as he thrust the groggy Holloway into a chair.

  “A very interesting question, Ed,” Lafe Darlington breathed. Then, without a hint of warning, he smashed a fist into Benedict’s face, knocking him to the floor. The saloonkeeper’s face contorted with fury as he loomed over him, dragging a .38 from his shoulder holster. “Tried to outsmart Lafe Darlington, eh, dude? Well, by God, you just made the biggest and the last mistake of your life.,,

  The heavy gun glinted in the light and Benedict was staring into the face of death. Suddenly his boot lashed out and caught Darlington on the shin. The gun exploded and the bullet fanned Benedict’s cheek. The saloonkeeper jumped back and the .38 was homing in on him again when Benedict saw the huge figure fill the door.

  “Brazos!”

  Darlington whirled. It was Brazos indeed, gun in hand, craggy face puzzled—until he saw Benedict on the floor.

  Benedict didn’t wait to ask fool questions about how in God’s name the Texan had managed to do it again. In a moment the guns were going to erupt. It was a kill-or-be-killed situation.

  “It’s a showdown, Johnny Reb!” Benedict roared. And he slashed at his hip.

  The shout jolted every man in the room into instant, violent action. With Benedict almost clear, Lafe Darlington got the first shot away at the lurching Brazos. The bullet howled through the open doorway and Brazos’ Colt drove fire into Darlington’s belly.

  Benedict’s right-hand gun exploded a split second later, killing Casey Cantrell at point-blank range, the bullet ripping through the rustler’s heart.

  Brazos flinched as Ed Rife’s slug raked his ribs, then he triggered back. His bullet hit Rife in the chest in the instant that a slug from Benedict’s gun struck him in the back. Ed Rife went down.

  On his feet now, Benedict floored slow-drawing Boy Curry with a swipe of his gun barrel, then he drilled Heck Bragg through the arm before he could shoot, and ducked as Stash Varger cut loose from a crouch. Looming behind Varger, huge in the coiling gun smoke, Brazos smashed the butt of his Colt down on the rustler’s skull and the man lurched forward, crashed into Benedict, then went down to hit the floor on his back.

  The guns of Benedict and Brazos searched for targets. But the chaos was over. Three men were dead in the space of ten seconds. Curry and Varger were sprawled out unconscious, Heck Bragg was on the floor moaning and holding a bullet-shattered arm, and Ed Tewksbury was cowering in a corner.

  A white-faced Frank Holloway rose slowly from behind the chair where he’d taken cover. The sheriff stared around him in horror, then he said something the others didn’t catch. Benedict and Brazos’ eyes were locked, Benedict astonished, Brazos strangely expressionless.

  It was Benedict who spoke first. “Twice in two days you’ve saved my life, Johnny Reb. How the devil did you get—?”

  “Ripped the window out,” said Brazos, his flat voice matching his expression as he holstered and came forward. “Strolled around the front, took Warren’s gun off him, then batted him around some until he told me that you and Holloway were here. I was comin’ in the back way so’s nobody would spot me, and I saw Rife shovin’ Holloway through the door at the end of a gun.”

  Benedict shook his head in wonder. “Well, perhaps I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again. What would I do without you, Johnny Reb?”

  “You’re gonna get your chance to find out,” Brazos murmured.

  Then, with one smashing punch, the Texan knocked Benedict cold.

  It was two full days since the bloody showdown at the Double Eagle Saloon, but Duke Benedict was still acting miffed. He pointedly rubbed his bruised jaw as he sat in the barroom of the Seven Sisters Saloon listening to Brazos make another attempt to explain.

  “I tell you, Benedict, it was the hoosegow that did it. If I hadn’t been locked up in there the way I was, I wouldn’t have come down with the loco idea that you were throwin’ me to the wolves. You know how bein’ jailed can work on a man, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure he understands now, Hank,” smiled Amy Miles, sitting beside Benedict pouring coffee.

  “Of course he does,” said Maggie Dillon. Maggie had come to tow
n to attend the hearing at the courthouse that had resulted in Boy Curry, Stash Varger, Heck Bragg and Ed Tewksbury being shipped out to Rebo City to stand trial. Prettier than Benedict had seen her before, in a form-fitting green suit and white gloves, the girl reached out and touched his sleeve. “Tell Hank you understand, Duke. You can see how repentant he is.”

  “Sorry,” Benedict murmured, flicking the ash from his cigar and fixing a cold eye on the glum-faced Texan.

  “Oh, Duke,” Amy protested, “aren’t you being a little hard? After all, it was just one little punch.”

  “It wasn’t the punch that hurt,” Benedict said. “My mother used to hit me harder than that. It was the reason for the punch. This cretinous Texan actually believed that I had deserted him.”

  Brazos’ bronzed face was miserable. “You sure enough are a hard hater, ain’t you, Benedict?”

  “I surely am,” Benedict drawled. But he smiled inside. He wasn’t really angry at all. Despite the punch to his jaw, Johnny Reb had saved his life. But he was enjoying the big Texan’s uncertainty and discomfort, and was going to milk the situation to the last drop. It might be years before he had Hank Brazos in a situation like this and he was going to make the most of it.

  Benedict waved his hand casually. “Why don’t you take a stroll, Brazos? Get some fresh air, and perhaps you can find someone in the street who’ll be better off for a punch on the jaw or two.” He smiled at the girls. “We shall try and not miss your scintillating company too much, won’t we, lovely ladies?”

  The lovely ladies smiled, and Benedict leaned back in his chair, content. The days ahead promised to be pleasant at the Seven Sisters, visiting the Rocking T, and bouncing caustic recriminations off Brazos’ hard head at every opportunity.

  Shoulders slumping, Brazos climbed to his feet. He stood uncertainly at the table for a moment with Amy and Maggie looking up at him sympathetically. Then he sighed gustily and was turning towards the batwings when they burst open and Abigail Peabody entered.