Benedict and Brazos 24

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Lanning shook his head. “Hank, the more I think about it, the more certain I am that Duke has merely found himself in a situation where he might have to settle down and do some hard slogging. And he doesn’t like it. You told me yourself how he hates work.”

  “Never mind shootin’ my own slugs back at me, Otto. And maybe I am wrong about him bein’ in big trouble. But even if it’s like you say, and it’s just law work he’s up against, it’s up to you to help him out on account of we both know he ain’t no full-blown attorney.”

  “How’s that, Hank?” Draper put in sharply. “You’re sayin’ Benedict ain’t what he says?”

  Brazos cursed softly. He hadn’t meant to let that slip out. But it was too late to retract now.

  “Well, he almost made it, Jeb,” Brazos said reluctantly. “We don’t want this to get about mind, but Benedict had to put up a front for his stiff-necked old man. And when it comes right down to cases, it ain’t much of a lie.”

  “Reckon not,” Draper agreed. “But if he ain’t no attorney, what is he then?”

  “Well, pretty much the same as me, I guess ...”

  “You mean a drifter? Hires his gun and suchlike?”

  “Well ... when he’s got to, mebbe. But this ain’t got nothin’ to do with what we’re talkin’ about, though before I get back to that I want you and Jobe here to give me your word to keep your mouths shut. Compre?”

  “I ain’t the gabby kind, Mr. Brazos,” Storey said.

  “Hell, me neither,” Draper said.

  Brazos turned back to Lanning and was surprised to see the man smiling. “Somethin’ funny, Otto?”

  “Yes, you are, Hank. Back in town, you were calling Duke all sorts of hard names because he didn’t want to know you in front of his father, and you couldn’t wait to get up here away from him. But now, as soon as he crooks his finger, you’re ready to come running. Doesn’t that strike you as being funny?”

  Hank Brazos fell silent, looking inward. It was true that at times he and Duke Benedict might act more like enemies than friends; it was true too that Benedict had treated him shabbily in Rawhide. But what Otto Lanning couldn’t hope to understand was how he and flash Duke Benedict had stood shoulder-to-shoulder through more desperate showdowns than he cared to remember, and not once had Henry Houston Brazos’ trail partner failed him when it counted. Friendship might mean different things to different people, but to a man like Brazos it meant somebody with the guts, gun speed and loyalty to stick when things were really bad. And whatever shortcoming Benedict might have, he had proven himself to be that kind of man.

  “Touched a nerve, Hank?” Lanning prodded.

  “Not really,” Brazos said quietly. “You could have a point or two there, Otto, but it don’t mean nothin’, ’cause we’re ridin’ back to town at first light.”

  “Are you giving the orders now?” Lanning said in his best courtroom manner.

  “If you force my hand ... yeah, I am,” Brazos replied with a subtle change of inflection that revealed some of the steel behind his easy-going facade. “I’d be happy to go back alone, Lanning. But the Yank said he wants both of us, so that’s how it’s gonna be.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Lanning breathed. He stared at Brazos, searching for a hint of bluff or weakness, but the Texan’s expression was implacable. Finally he shrugged and spread out his hands. “Well, if you feel that strongly about it, Hank, I suppose I have no option but to capitulate.”

  “That means you’ll come?”

  Lanning managed a smile. “Yes, that’s what it means.”

  “Reckoned I could depend on you,” Brazos said. “We’ll pull out at dawn. In the meantime, let’s see about cookin’ up this here haunch of venison. Jeb, hustle up some more wood.”

  He had to call out twice more before it registered, for Jeb Draper was very deep in thought.

  There were no sounds in the room but the rhythmic slap of palm on walnut handle, then a hiss as the gun cleared soft leather, and the click of the hammer on an empty chamber. The sequence of sounds had been going on for a full half hour. In his austere hotel room, with its narrow bed, bureau, wash basin and single chair that had a Bible on it, Deacon James was practicing with his gun.

  James stood in the center of the room, coat and vest removed, facing the door. He dropped the Colt into the holster, shifted his hand away, then sent it flashing down.

  Hand and black gun merged and the hammer clicked down in almost the same instant that the palm slapped the walnut handle. The draw was a thing of perfection, machine-like in its flowing consistency. To the eye of a layman, it may have appeared completely faultless, but to James, who knew the gun business well, there were deficiencies. Today he seemed to be yawing just a fraction to the left before he pulled the trigger, and he labored at eliminating this defect for another ten minutes before bringing the day’s session to an end.

  It was twilight, the period between supper and the time he would leave for his first meeting at the church. He had neglected his gun work a little during the journey north from Arizona, but had worked religiously with the Colt each day since his arrival. Directly after supper, he had prayed, then he had turned to the gun. It was a pleasant way to spend a twilight hour, with the day’s labors behind, the night’s meeting to look forward to, and with the sleepy murmur of birds in the big cottonwood outside his window.

  Bible and Colt. He might be distracted at times, but he always came back to them. They were the rocks that supported the flawed clay that was Deacon James.

  He fingered six bullets from a saucer on the bureau and fed them into his Colt. Then he picked up his black vest. He was buttoning it when knuckles rapped on the door.

  “Enter!”

  Whitey Cassidy came in and lowered himself to the straight-backed chair by the window. “I saw Benedict like you said, Deacon,” Cassidy breathed. “Haggerty must have figgered sundown was late enough to wait, too.”

  “Haggerty was there?”

  “At the law office with Benedict and Wheeler,” Cassidy said. His rare smile showed. “Left in a hurry, Deacon. Benedict told him that we’ve got the legal right to go ahead and start cuttin’. Jerome’s gone out to get things rollin’.”

  James went very still for a moment. Then he moved to the window, the corners of his wide mouth lifting fractionally. “So Benedict realized he couldn’t wait until Lanning returned?”

  “Yeah, Deacon. Of course, without Haggerty yappin’ at him, and then me showin’ up to start naggin’ for an answer, I reckon he’d have let it ride a little longer. But I guess he just got fed up and figgered there wasn’t much point in waitin’. Found in our favor, just like you said he would, Deacon. Sometimes I swear you must be able to read folks’ minds.”

  “A flattering observation, but not true, Whitey. I didn’t know which way the attorney would decide; I merely felt the odds were in our favor.” James stroked his hard, cleanshaven jaw, his gaunt face looking like something stamped from bronze in the dying light. “Naturally Haggerty was furious?”

  “He was spittin’. He never said much, but I reckon you can be sure him and his friends will be out there along the Ray in strength in the mornin’, Deacon.”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “How many ’jacks will Jerome have with him when he moves down to start cuttin’ tomorrow, Deacon?”

  “There were fifteen men at the camp when I visited there this afternoon. Jerome was expecting another two from Pawnee tonight.”

  “Mightn’t be enough if the fur starts to fly.”

  “You and me, Deacon?” Whitey’s face was eager. He licked his lips and his eyes held a cold, hard shine.

  “Not this time.”

  Cassidy pouted. “I want to be there.”

  “I said no.”

  “Judas, damn it, I—!”

  “Language, sir, language,” James broke in. “We don’t use the name of the great betrayer, brother.”

  “I’m itchin’,” Cassidy shot back, his face taking on that
wild, dangerous look that James knew so well. He uncoiled to his feet and started moving about the room like a nervous cat. “I haven’t used my gun in weeks. I’ve been ridin’ and talkin’ and day-dreamin’ and sweepin’ churches. I want somethin’ for my belly and I ain’t talkin’ about food. If there’s gonna be blood out there along the river in the mornin’, then I want to see it and—”

  “Silence!” James shouted. “You’re in church. Anywhere I am is church. You will listen to me!”

  “No!” Cassidy retorted, but he refused to meet James’ hypnotic eyes. “I won’t listen on account of I’m goin’ out there to—”

  “Get down on your knees!” James ordered. “Admit your vanity. Down on your knees and seek penance for your pride!”

  Cassidy screwed up his face and looked down. But finally his gaze came up. The moment he met James’ eyes the stiffening seemed to leave the man and he dropped to his knees, trembling.

  “I’m sorry, Lord,” Cassidy whispered. “Forgive me ... make me clean …”

  “Purify him!” James boomed, looking upward. “Free his poor mind of weakness! Help him know the master who guides his foolish steps through this vale of tears!”

  Whitey Cassidy shuddered. James was the only living man who could control him. Before he’d met James, Cassidy had been a murderous, half-crazed ghost of the West who lived like a wild beast in the hills, touching civilization but briefly and always with violent results. He had been killing men the night he first met the Deacon. James had calmed his vicious mood with prayer that night and had established over his erratic mind a control that had never faltered. Until that night, Whitey Cassidy had been nothing more than a twisted brain, a lightning gun. He’d had a strong but ill-defined interest in mysticism and religion. In James he’d met a man who was his equal with a Colt, but, more important, a man who could control him. He had become the Deacon’s deadly slave, but James had never let himself become complacent concerning the hold he exerted over the albino. Loyal as he undoubtedly was, Cassidy was still half mad, and when a violent urge to kill came over him, prayer and authority were the only weapons that could calm him. The Deacon gave him a good dose of both now before finally letting him get to his feet.

  Cassidy looked like a meek boy who had soaked in the river of repentance so long it had bleached all the color out of him.

  “Peace, Deacon,” he whispered. “All is peace.”

  “Peace before God’s wrath,” James intoned. “Get my coat.”

  Cassidy got James’ coat. It was time to leave for the church.

  Chapter Eight – The Deacon’s Way

  “I VISITED THE banker this afternoon, Duke,” Mr. Benedict said during supper—”

  “You did, Father?” Duke’s tone was polite but vague. He had a lot on his mind tonight.

  “Yes. I had to tidy up a small matter concerning the funds I had deposited to cover my expenses here.” Benedict senior dabbed fastidiously at his lips with a snowy napkin. “Extremely civil fellow. Made quite a fuss of me as a matter of fact. Even went so far as to invite me to supper.”

  “You declined?”

  “Well, of course, my boy. I mean, small-town bankers aren’t really our kind of people socially, are they?”

  He really was one of the greatest snobs east or west of the Mississippi, Duke Benedict reflected as he surveyed his father’s immaculate silver hair, faultless dinner suit and perfectly clipped moustache. His father really believed there was a small, exclusive class born to rule in both business and social realms, and that Marmaduke Creighton the Second was one of that rarified breed’s most illustrious lights.

  It was lucky that Benedict knew his father was a warm and honest man behind his facade, otherwise he might tend to give even him a royal pain in the backside at times ...

  “You look pensive, my boy,” the older man observed after a silence. “Concerned about the step you were forced to take in the lumber dispute tonight, are you?”

  “Not really,” Benedict lied. “More coffee, Father?”

  “Thank you, my boy.” Mr. Benedict watched as he poured from a silver pot, his expression turning thoughtful. Duke thought he was going to discuss the Ray River case some more, but he was wrong.

  “Duke,” the older man said, leaning back in his chair, “how is it that you didn’t mention the Draper case to me?” Instantly on the alert, Duke parried. “The Draper case, Father?”

  “Yes. I heard a most remarkable story today about you and that fellow Brazos. I was told that you and he opened fire on a pair of bank thieves, saved the bank a considerable amount of money, and then the two of you defended this Draper fellow who seemed to be involved in the robbery.”

  “Well, every man has the right to a proper defense, Father. I—”

  “No, I’m not concerned with that aspect of the matter, for you are an attorney after all. But this business about gunplay in the main street—is it true?”

  Duke took out his cigar case, thinking fast. He had deliberately refrained from telling his father about the bank holdup because of his abhorrence of violence in all forms. Obviously he couldn’t deny his involvement now that his father had heard about it, so the only avenue was to try and play it down.

  “We ... er, did play a small role in the matter, Father,” he said from behind a cloud of smoke. “But I’m sure you know how people tend to exaggerate such things. Who told you about this?”

  “Sharon. We spend a great deal of time together when you’re at the office.”

  Duke was fully on guard now, for he had been having trouble with Otto’s handsome wife. There could be no doubt now that Sharon Lanning’s interest in him went much deeper than courtesy to a friend of her husband’s. Though he had managed to keep her at arms’ length, he felt she was beginning to get a little impatient with his reticence. He knew that the capricious Sharon was not above exerting subtle pressures to bring him around to a more friendly attitude towards her, but it jolted him to think she would dare go as far as to expose him to his father. He knew about the fury of a woman scorned, but that would surely be hitting below the belt.

  “Women do tend to talk too much and to exaggerate, Father,” Duke said. “What else have you been discussing?”

  “Oh, many things, my boy, many things.” Mr. Benedict frowned. “This Brazos fellow, Duke. He’s a chance acquaintance, you say?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Hmm.”

  “What does that mean, Father?”

  “Oh, there was something else I heard at the bank. I was told that the reason you defended this Draper person was because he was in the war with Brazos, and that Brazos used his influence with you to obtain your services at the trial. It struck me as curious that a chance acquaintance would have any influence to exert, Duke.”

  “It ... it wasn’t really like that, Father. I simply felt Draper was innocent, and I acted accordingly.”

  “Well, that is a relief. I mean, one judges a man by his friends, and I’d certainly hate to believe you regarded that rough diamond amongst yours.” Mr. Benedict smiled. “But of course I do you a disservice by questioning you so closely, Duke. And now that you have set my mind at rest, I shall say no more about it. Tell me, how do you think things will work out concerning the timber case?”

  Duke had to confess that he didn’t really know. He had stalled Haggerty and James as long as he’d been able to, in the hope that Lanning would get back to take over, but he’d finally been pressured into declaring that he believed there was no legal reason to prevent the lumberman going ahead. That had been over an hour ago now, and Lanning and Brazos still hadn’t arrived.

  Where the hell were they?

  He was still discussing the matter when Sharon Lanning came in. She looked even prettier than usual in a low-cut gown with frills at wrist and throat. She sat down beside him, and in no time at all he felt her stockinged foot moving up and down his ankle.

  They had better get back from their damned hunting trip pretty damned soon, he told h
imself grimly.

  For more than one reason.

  “Obie,” Brent Jerome growled, “you are a boil on the heel of opportunity.”

  “The hell I am,” retorted brawny timber-cutter Obie Quent. “I’m as keen to open up the river leases as you are, Brent.”

  “You don’t act keen,” Jerome said. “All this talk about James ...”

  Quent glanced around at the faces of the lumberjacks assembled in Jerome’s rough shack in the Jimcrack Hills, then brought his attention back to Jerome.

  “Look, Brent,” he reasoned, “I ain’t sayin’ as how the Deacon ain’t exactly on the level—it’s just that every time I think about him, I get an itch where I can’t scratch. Goddamn it, Brent, the feller is just too durned open-handed to suit me. I mean, first he forks out a big bundle of money at the Land Office for the lease, then he hires himself an attorney, and next he’s payin’ all of us a week’s money in advance before we cut a stick. And then he gets a wagonload of rifles delivered out here today in case we run into trouble tomorrow. It all just don’t set right with me, Brent. Nobody’s that generous.”

  “He could have somethin’ there, Brent,” Cass Tolliver said thoughtfully. Tolliver was the boss of a five-strong team of timber-cutters who had just arrived from Coreyville. The squat lumberjack frowned hard. “I guess I was surprised when I heard you was goin’ into business with a preacher man in the first place. And now, with all this stuff about the money and the guns, well ...”

  “Damned if you bunch of big, rough, two-fisted ’jacks don’t beat all!” Brent Jerome snorted sarcastically. “Here we’ve all been scratchin’ around in the rough country for months tryin’ to live on scrub pine and hickory on account of we never had the money or the backin’ to cock a snoot at the cattlemen. And now, when somebody shows up, beggin’ us to reach out and grab what we got legal right to, all you heroes can do is fret about workin’ for a preacher man. Seems to me you ought to be offerin’ up prayers of thanks that a pilgrim like that happened along instead of moanin’ about him.”