“Will you stow them ten-dollar words, Benedict? I want to know how the hell we get Stacey if and when we catch the stage.”
“Why, we hold it up, of course,” was the airy reply as Benedict strolled away. “What else?”
Hank Brazos lifted a hand, then let it drop, shaking his head from side to side. And then the ghost of a smile touched the corners of his wide mouth. Riding with flashy, arrogant, sharp-tongued and insufferably superior Marmaduke Creighton Benedict the Third could be a downright painful business for a simple Texas cowboy. But, as he braved the rain again to fetch his dog and the horses, Hank Brazos had to admit that life on the trail with Benedict, though often difficult, was never dull.
“Hold it up,” he said aloud as big raindrops pattered on his hat brim. “What else?”
Chapter Two – Afraid of Nothing
WITH DAWN CAME an easing of the storms that had been lashing the Dakota countryside. Old Man Winter, steadily losing strength in the Whetstone Mountains, was nevertheless still able to invest the high country air with a biting chill as the high blue Concord of the Dakota-Western Stage Line lumbered down from the high ridges and rolled towards Raglan Pass.
“See the pass yet, Tom?” hunch-shouldered driver Solomon Burk shouted above the raw slap of the wind.
From the humped, miserable heap of mackinaw, floppy brown hat and wind-blown beard that was gun guard Tom Rush came a muffled reply:
“I ain’t openin’ my goddamn eyes until we get through the pass on account of I don’t want ’em frost bit.”
Solomon Burk snorted his contempt for youthful, weak-livered, part-time gun guards in general and the hapless Rush in particular as he swung the six little mustang mules around a hairpin bend and let them stretch out on the open trail that lay ahead. These young fellows just didn’t have what it took, he mused. Big as a brick backhouse was young Rush, but he went to water just because of a little rain and cold. He should have been with me when I was running supplies into the mining town of Tarbuck over the mighty Winding Stair Mountains last winter, Solomon reflected with grim pride. Then he would have had something to moan about.
When the trail was firm, Burk could be relied on to get the stage into Chad City dead on eight o’clock. But they were going to be just a little late this morning because of the rain, though judging by the blue sky already showing in the east, a good day would be coming up. If the wind held and dried the trail out some, Solomon reckoned they shouldn’t be more than ten or fifteen minutes late. Not bad considering the conditions.
Thirty minutes later, the Concord rolled from the stone jaws of mighty Raglan Pass. Then, as if on signal, the sun burst through the thinning cloud layer, spreading gold across the vast patches of plains country below.
True to his threat, Rush didn’t open his eyes until now. Then he grinned. “Purty country down there, Sol. You can have your mountains.”
Burk rolled a quid of tobacco in his jaws and spat over the side. “Too soft, you young varmints,” he said dourly. “That’s the trouble with young’uns today—too blamed soft.”
The gun guard smiled tolerantly. “You could be right at that, Sol.”
“’Course I’m right.” Solomon slammed his fist against his chest, building up to his most popular topic: the incredible toughness and raw courage of Solomon Thurston Burk. “Shoulda been around when my pappy took us west in ’forty-nine, young feller. Lived like dogs—yeah, and ate ’em more’n once. Worked like a man in the diggin’s at ten years of age, went grizzly huntin’ at fifteen and was lickin’ my weight in hardcases at eighteen. And you bellyache about a little rain.”
Rush glanced at the wizened little man curiously. As a relief guard who only got to travel up to Chad City or down to Sunsmoke when the regular man was ill, young Tom didn’t know whether old Sol was really as tough as he made out, or was, like a lot of old-timers with short memories, full of hot air and hog swill.
“You really ain’t afraid of nothin’, Sol?”
Burk snorted at the very idea. “Nothin’ on this here earth, sonny buck. Mebbe there’s somethin’ that’s gonna scare me in the next world, but not here.”
Impressed, Rush unhuddled a little to let the sun get at his cramped body. He watched the landscape move by for several miles until, in the far distance, came his first glimpse of the rooftops of Chad City.
“How long since you was up to Chad last, Sol?” Rush asked.
“Last week. Why?”
“Heard there’s a wagon train gettin’ ready to cart a load of miners’ brides across Eagle Valley to Tarbuck. Thought mebbe I might see if there’s a job goin’. You see anything of that outfit when you was up last?”
Another snort. Even better than hunting grizzlies or thrashing his weight in hardcases, Sol Burk was a champion snorter. “I seen it, or at least the start of it,” he said derisively. “Shippin’ a wagon train load of females across some of the worst country in Dakota just when the deserts are startin’ to hot up? Stupidest thing I ever heard of. As for thinkin’ of goin’ to work ridin’ herd on a bunch of giddy women, I reckon I’d rather stand up in bed nights.”
“Scares you, huh, Sol?” Rush said with a sly grin. “Goldurn your impertinence, you young whelp!” snarled back the driver whose sense of humor had apparently been ground out of him when eating dog on the long way west to California. “I just told you I ain’t afraid of nothin’—ahhh!”
The exclamation was torn from the driver’s open mouth as two horsemen appeared in the center of the trail less than fifty yards ahead.
Startled by fire-eating Sol’s obvious alarm, young Rush took a quick look ahead and didn’t like what he saw. One rider was tall and handsome and dressed like a gambling man or a gunfighter with a brace of white-handled six-guns. His companion was a giant astride an outsized appaloosa. A battle-scarred trail hound stood between the two horses watching the oncoming stage with his lips skinned back from powerful teeth. Both men were smiling, but somehow it wasn’t reassuring. Riders almost never used the stage route over the mountains through Raglan Pass, invariably preferring the quicker, easier route through Shadow Canyon.
“Hold it there, pards!” called the big man in the purple shirt, his manner friendly. “Got time for a little spell?”
Rush instinctively looked to rough-and-tough Sol for guidance. But Sol leaned back on the lines, his face totally white and his bottom jaw trembling, looking for all the world like a man in a yellow funk.
The gun guard shook his shoulder. “Sol, what’s wrong?” The only response from Burk was a sound like a strangling chicken and then Rush knew the awful truth—
Solomon was scared out of his wits.
With a curse, Rush realized it was up to him to make a decision. He made it quickly as he swung up his shotgun, at the same time lashing out with his boot to kick off the brake that the driver had thrown on. But before his foot made contact, the sound of a shot cracked out. Suddenly finding himself staring into three six-gun muzzles, young Tom Rush saw he had no chance.
“I hope afore I get as tough as you I catch somethin’ fatal, Sol,” Tom said disgustedly, then he threw his shotgun down and slowly lifted his hands.
“Stand and deliver!” Duke Benedict ordered.
“Deliver what?” gasped the driver. “We ain’t carryin’ nothin’ but one passenger—Stacey Claydell.”
“We’ll take him,” Brazos declared, cocking his gun. “Don’t want to go away empty-handed.”
Sol Burk went goggle-eyed and Tom Rush shook his head.
“You’re fixin’ to steal a passenger?” the guard exclaimed.
“If his name is Claydell, we surely are, friend,” Duke Benedict replied as he kneed his black up beside the coach. “Claydell,” he shouted, “come on out!”
A trembling hand opened the door and shaking legs carried Stacey Claydell down the steps. An impressive figure in his natural habitat of a plush gambling hall, the tall, sharp-faced Stacey Claydell looked about as unimpressive as a double-dealing poker shark could a
s he stared up at Benedict’s twin Peacemakers.
“I didn’t cheat you, Benedict,” Claydell cried. “It wasn’t me who rung in the crooked deck. It was—”
“If it wasn’t you, how did you know about it?” Benedict said with crushing logic.
Claydell’s legs shook even more violently as he realized that his mouth may have dug his own grave. A splendid cheat with ice-cold nerve, Claydell had always had one grievous fault for a man who followed his precarious and dangerous profession, and that was an absolute terror of guns. He tried to keep his eyes on Benedict’s handsome face, but his gaze kept dropping back to the Colts. Each time this happened, Stacey Claydell turned another shade paler.
Benedict stared down at the man with mounting disgust and a hint of uncertainty now. His objective in catching up with slick-fingered Stacey had originally been to reimburse himself to the extent of his losses from the man’s billfold, then escort him back to Durant and see him jailed. But now, watching his man sweat and realizing that the polished, self-assured Claydell of Durant was just a facade to conceal a frightened little small-timer, Benedict suddenly found himself wondering if all the effort was worth it.
“What’s holdin’ you up?” Brazos asked from out front. Holding up a stage had proved a novel experience for the Texan, but now the thrill was beginning to wear thin. He wanted to be on the move.
Benedict’s glance swept back to his partner, flicked up at the sky-clutching stage crew, then returned to Claydell.
“A man owes it to every honest gambler in Dakota to see you behind bars, Claydell,” Benedict said contemptuously. “But ...” He hesitated a moment, then came to a decision. “I may regret this ... but hand over my two hundred and we’ll call it quits.”
Stacey Claydell couldn’t believe his good fortune—and, peering over the rock rim some hundred yards from the trail at the same moment, Sheriff Bart Sparger could scarcely believe his eyes and ears.
A stage holdup in law-abiding Chad City county? Such a thing had not been heard of since they hanged the Bick Gang three years ago.
But to the sheriff and the eight-man posse strung out on either side of him along that rocky rim, there could be little doubt that a holdup was what they were witnessing. And for the Chad City lawman whose private and professional life flipped disconcertingly between what Sparger termed either black eyes or feathers in his cap, this was undoubtedly a great stroke of luck and a potential feather in his cap. The weary sheriff and his posse men had been on their slow way back to town following an unsuccessful night-long hunt for a horse thief, when they had heard a shot from the direction of the stage trail. Sparger had been forced to get tough with his sleepy men before they agreed to follow him up to the rim to take a look. But not one of them was looking sleepy now as the lawman lifted his Colt and triggered at the sky.
“Reach, outlaws!” he bellowed above the slam of the shot. “This is the law!”
For a second, Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict froze. But only for a second, for behind each man was the four years of shot and shell they called the Civil War, followed by a thousand miles of danger-laced trails on their hunt for the infamous Bo Rangle, Civil War renegade. They were veterans of many dangerous situations, and their reactions after that first hanging second came simultaneously.
They used their spurs and rode like hell.
The sheriff didn’t hesitate. With a wild Rebel yell that he had learned from a Texan inmate of his cells last winter, Bart Sparger let loose with a noisy but totally ineffective storm of shots, then led his squad over the rim and down the long, timbered slope.
“Go get ’em, Sheriff!” Solomon Burk bellowed, jumping up and down on his high seat as the horsemen, making a brave sight, went streaming by. “We’ll be right behind you, me and young Tom here. We might even be in at the kill!”
Watching cynically as Burk made a great show of trying to release the brake while tightening it all the time, young Tom Rush was moved to remark, “You kill me, Sol, you surely do ...”
The trail led down sharply from the holdup site, and Benedict and Brazos followed it at a gallop with Bullpup the hound dog leading the black and appaloosa towards the flat country. On either side, sharp hills hunched their shoulders at the sky. In familiar country, the trail wise Brazos would have chosen to take to the hills, but with a posse hard behind, he dared not take the risk of entering a box draw. Their only hope lay in the way ahead—and somewhere, not too many miles ahead, lay Chad City.
Two miles later, the last of the foothills fell behind. They swept down to the broad flat country where the timber thinned out, giving way to big granite boulders that stood high above the early summer grass.
They galloped along a broad, straight stretch of trail bordered by a sea of red flowers, then rode through a great stand of cottonwoods where blackbirds rose in a flock, shrieking at being disturbed.
As they emerged from the timber, they glimpsed the rooftops of Chad City across the low hills dead ahead.
Duke Benedict shot a sharp, questioning glance at his trail partner as they thundered on. Though the gambling man considered himself the brains of the partnership, he inevitably deferred to the canny Texan in situations such as this. With his trailsmanship, outdoor craft and sheer native cunning, Hank Brazos was streets ahead of the city-bred Benedict when it came to a question of what road to take or what hill not to climb.
But, accustomed as he was to making snap decisions at such moments, Hank Brazos was uncommonly slow to do so now. For the position, as the Texan saw it from the back of his racing appaloosa, could scarcely have been worse. Their horses were leg-weary and sluggish after the night-long ride from Sunsmoke, and the posse was gaining on them slowly but surely. If they kept to the open country, the hunters must ultimately run them down, whereas to go highballing into a town with a posse hard on their heels could be inviting even swifter disaster.
Then, as they crested a low knoll beside a mirror lake, he saw the canvas tops of prairie schooners looming above the low trees some half mile to their right. He saw horses through the trees and people, lots of people.
Brazos’ brain raced. If they were to try and hide in town, they could be virtually certain that the citizens would give them away. But would travelers share the same sense of duty? Maybe so. But there was the slightest chance they might offer sanctuary, and he suddenly decided to take it.
Benedict made no attempt to question the decision as Brazos gestured and led the way through the waving grass towards the wagon camp. A long shot, perhaps, he mused, figuring the Texan’s strategy. But no gambler worth his salt baulked at a long shot when every other option was closed.
As they erupted from the shielding jack pines to bring the wagon camp into clear sight, a scream split the air. Jerking their heads in the direction of the cry, they saw first a little stream, then a half-dozen or so women bathing in its limpid water—naked!
Brazos blushed and looked away, but Benedict craned his neck for a better look as they charged on towards the six great Conestogas drawn up in a wide semi-circle in an open field, surrounded by horses and women.
The whole damn place looked to be thick with females! What sort of wagon outfit was this? It wasn’t the sort that welcomed unannounced intruders, they sensed, as a towering bearded figure came striding from the remuda toting a long-barreled rifle.
“Hold!” the bearded man bellowed, and the riders slewed their lathered horses to a tail-sitting halt before him.
“What the devil do you jaspers think you’re—?”
“No time for light conversation, friend,” Benedict cut him off urgently, shooting a quick glance over his shoulder. “The point is, we’re in a small fix and wonder if we could seek sanctuary amongst you good people until the, er, posse loses interest.”
“Posse?” the tall man echoed. “You’re outlaws?”
“No,” Brazos said quickly. “It’s all a mistake, mister, and we can explain later. But can you hide us in the wagons? You could run our horses in with yours, tell a
couple of white lies, and it would sure save us some grief.”
The women had drawn closer now. Some were plain, some pretty, and all were curious. Most were looking Benedict up and down with undisguised interest as the bearded man suddenly grinned and asked eagerly:
“Can you drive wagons, boys?”
They gaped in unison. “Drive?” Brazos asked. “What the blue hell has that got to do with—”
“Never mind, never mind,” the man cut him off sharply as hoofbeats sounded from the trees. “That’s somethin’ we can discuss later. Come on, lads, jump down and be right smart about it. Of course we’ll give you hidin’ room. Girls, some of you get their horses across to the remuda and peel the saddles off ’em. The rest of you get the lads into wagons and out of sight! Pronto!”
There were few contenders for the task of spiriting the mounts away but no shortage of volunteers to conceal Duke Benedict. The gambling man found himself surrounded by a dozen eager females as he was bundled towards a wagon, a modest two latching themselves onto Brazos to start him towards another.
Brazos and his escorts were hurrying past a seemingly empty wagon and heading for the next in line when a brawny arm shot out from the canvas flaps and an astonished Texan found himself briefly walking on air. Screwing his startled head around, he was confronted by a female of truly heroic proportions. Or at least he believed her to be a woman. With that high complexion, massive shoulders and vast breast, she could have been some new, strange breed of humankind that a simple Texas cowpoke hadn’t encountered before.
Then one of his escorts protested, “Oh, Rosie, he’s ours.”
“Nonsense, me darlin’s,” came the response in an Irish brogue as thick as a Tipperary fog. “It’s with Rosie he’ll be shelterin’ from danger. You two little minxes hurry along and help the others with the Christmas box in the fancy vest.” Brawny hands grasped Brazos’ shirtfront and hauled him up. “This one is mine to be sure.”
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