Benedict and Brazos 2

by E. Jefferson Clay

  A quiver like the fluttering wave of a goodbye hand went over Heck Harmer from head to foot. Beetson was still smiling as before, yet his smile was now as chill as the bottom of a thousand-foot shaft in mid-winter, his eyes harder than anything Heck Harmer’s leathery hands had ever prised from the grudging bowels of the earth.

  “So long, Heck, old pard,” Beetson said softly. “You might as well be runnin’ along now.”

  Harmer would have been enraged at the way he’d been tricked had he not been so deathly afraid. His heart thudding furiously in his bony chest, he stepped down off the verandah and started to back away. The four of them moved silently forward to line up together along the edge of the gallery. Now they were all smiling, for Beetson had shot his men a wink and they knew what had to be done.

  “No!” Harmer finally gasped out as Beetson reached lazily for his gun. He lifted his hand. “No ... no ...”

  His heels struck an old fence post lying in the grass. He fell heavily and as he struggled to his hands and knees he looked back to see that all four had pulled iron now. With a strangled cry he threw himself flat, clawing at the damp earth. He waited for the crash of gunfire that didn’t come. He lifted his head from the weeds and saw them smiling. A great rage filled him; the rage of a man that had lost every hand in life and now knew he was losing the last one. He leapt to his feet and advanced towards them shaking in his fury, cursing them, damning them, ranting against a state of affairs that he himself had helped create, and was now reaping the bitter fruit ...

  Beetson leveled his big blue gun full in Harmer’s face as his maddened rush brought him in close. He pulled the trigger and the hammer clicked harmlessly. Harmer propped and before the look of surprise faded from his face the ramrod laughed softly and sent a shot smashing through the wide open mouth.

  Instantly the other guns chimed in thunderously. The four Colts blended in a chaotic chorus of death as Harmer’s shuddering, lurching figure was belted back by the iron blows, to finally fall, a torn and bloody carcass in the rank grass still wet with the morning dew.

  “He’ll make good pickin’s for the mud crabs,” Curly Beetson grinned, reloading his hot gun. “Throw the old buzzard in the crick.”

  Five – Main Street Fury

  Deputy Olan Pike slammed through the law-office door so fast he made Hank Brazos spill his coffee.

  “Miners!” gulped Pike.

  The new Sheriff of Harmony carefully set his can of coffee on the stove-top, lowered his boots to the floor and scowled at Pike.

  “Don’t never bust in like that again, Deppity. I was kinda dozin’.”

  “Well, you better git wakeful,” said Pike, “on account town’s full of brawlin’ miners and Dutch Amy says you’re to clear Front Street.”

  Hank Brazos unwound himself to his full height. He looked sleepy but slightly peeved, like a rattlesnake disturbed from hibernation.

  “Dutch Amy says—what?”

  “For you to clear Front Street.”

  “That’s what I kinda thought you said. Horse face, no woman tells me what to do. Not even Dutch Amy.”

  Olan Pike stared at him in disbelief.

  “You aimin’ to bite th’ hand that feeds yuh already?”

  Brazos said, “The town pays me, horse face.”

  “Yeah?” jeered Pike. “I got news for you, Brazos—” He suddenly quit talking. Brazos had him by the shirt front.

  Gently he raised Pike up close, so Pike’s toes were trailing.

  Brazos said, “I got some news, too. Like, I’m sheriff now and when I figger it’s time to clear the street, I clear it.”

  He tossed Pike away, bouncing him off the wall. At that moment, the glass of the front window smashed and a rock tumbled across the floor.

  From outside came a yell, “Where are yuh, Sheriff?” and another voice hollered: “We’ve come to take a look at Harmony’s new stooge!”

  Hank Brazos hitched at his gunbelts and strolled to the door and Olan Pike made a dive for the rifle-rack. Without turning his head, Brazos said:

  “No call for gunplay!”

  He threw open the street door and stepped out.

  A crowd of about thirty miners from Whipple Creek milled around, jamming boardwalk and street. Up front, a young rooster who’d outgrown his coveralls, hefted a rock, ready to throw. An older man reached out and slapped the rock from the boy’s hand.

  “Hesh up,” the old man rapped. Then raising his voice. “All of you hesh up.” He turned to the big man filling the doorway. “You the new sheriff?”

  “That there’s Mick Briskin,” Pike hissed behind Brazos’ back. “He’s their leader. Don’t trust ’im.”

  Brazos meant to make his own decisions about who to trust and who not to. He moved out to the edge of the gallery, his very size and nonchalance having a quietening effect on the mob.

  “I’m Brazos, old man. What’s the circus about?”

  “My boys are steamed up, but I don’t want no trouble,” Briskin replied. “I come to report a man of mine missin’ is all, but my boys have got to drinkin’ and fearin’ you’re only a stooge of Dutch Amy’s and—”

  “Who’s this feller that’s missin’?”

  “Heck Harmer’s his name and—”

  Briskin’s voice was drowned by a booming shout from further along the street.

  “All right, big boy, do your stuff and kick that riffraff out of town.”

  Dutch Amy couldn’t have timed her bull bellow from the Rawhide’s upper gallery worse. The men had been about ready to cool off and Brazos had been about ready to listen to them—but Dutch’s intervention set a match to the flash pan. Suddenly the miners weren’t in two minds about the sheriff any longer. With that one bellowed order, Dutch Amy had confirmed what nine out of ten of them had been at least halfway sure of anyway: he was in her pocket.

  Brazos turned to shoot a hard scowl of annoyance towards the saloon, and as he did a rock flew from the miners’ ranks and clipped the side of his head.

  He stumbled back hurt, clutching at his gun. The miners smelt his weakness like a ravening wolf pack smells blood and came for him with a rush.

  Briskin could have stopped them, but didn't. Hank Brazos might as well find out now as later that protecting the rich, the crooked and the corrupt was no sinecure in Harmony. Let them pound him under and be damned to him.

  Brazos had other ideas. Regaining his balance just as the first man got to him, he lashed out savagely with his six-gun. The blow split the miner’s forehead from nose to hairline, belting him back into the man behind him and flattening his nose with his skull.

  An iron fist caught Brazos on the cheekbone. A backhanded swipe with his gun barrel took his attacker in the mouth. He bobbed low as a steel-ribbed barrel of a man came in like a runaway locomotive. Brazos’ big shoulder caught the man in the belt buckle. He heaved upwards. His boost and the miner’s momentum launched the man into a twelve-foot arc through the air that terminated with the man hitting the street with his face and all but vanishing in a great cloud of yellow dust.

  Evading another charging bulk Brazos leapt at Briskin. Again the gun flashed and the miners’ leader spun on his heels as the steel barrel cracked a slab of jutting bone over his right eye. Another thump and Briskin had measured his length in the street.

  Suddenly the brief fight was over. Big, dumb and violent children in the main, the miners wouldn’t have had enough to feed themselves without Mick Briskin to tell them how. They certainly didn’t have enough nerve to keep going with Mick down and out.

  They’d seen enough.

  All except Kit Jills. A wild young hothead and not the brightest man at Whipple Creek, young Jills was out for score and liquored up. Stationed at the rear of the mob, his mind inflamed by the violence, he saw his chance to deal Dutch Amy a body blow and cover himself with glory in one stroke. Sure, Brazos was big but a bullet didn’t care how big a man was ...

  Brazos didn’t even see the towhead reaching for the gun inside his s
hirt. His vision was still blurred as Jills came clear from behind the protection of his companions. The gun snaked out silently and then as Jills moved to get the sheriff in his sight, a hard voice sounded across the street.

  “Drop that gun, mister!”

  “Yank!”

  The astonished cry came from Brazos, who even though he couldn’t pick out the tall, immaculately garbed figure clearly, would know that voice in a thousand.

  “Yank, what ... ?”

  His voice was swallowed by the blast of Kit Jills’ Colt as he slammed a wild shot at the tall stranger he mistook for a dude. Benedict didn’t hesitate. Riding in unnoticed five minutes back he’d watched the whole thing and had been almost able to smell the threat of gunsmoke in the air even if Brazos didn’t. With blinding speed he came clear and fired once. The bullet killed Kit Jills where he stood, with unerring accuracy at sixty feet. The young miner turned slowly, curved in the middle and fell without a sound.

  Brazos was lunging into the crowd even as Jills was falling. He smashed young Tudd Bell to the ground in a steam-rolling tackle and it wasn’t until he hauled the man to his feet and slapped him violently across the side of the head that the miners realized that Bell had also hauled iron. The Colt spilled in the dust. Brazos shoved the dazed miner away, bent and retrieved the gun then turned as Benedict came striding long-legged across the street.

  “Nice timin’, Yank,” Brazos panted. Then, with Bell’s Colt still in his fist he turned to the miners whose faces showed the grayness of shock and fear by the yellow street light. “Fun’s fun,” he said quietly, “but this is somethin’ else.” He angled his head at Briskin who had regained his feet with the aid of one of his men. “So you just come in to report a man missin’, eh, Briskin?”

  “It got out of hand,” Briskin conceded. “But we never knew Jills was packin’ iron, Brazos,” his eyes cut to bloody-mouthed Tudd Bell. “Nor him neither.”

  “Sounds as if he might be talking the truth, Reb,” Benedict said at Brazos’ elbow, studying Briskin intently from beneath his low-crowned black hat.

  Brazos looked at Tudd Bell. “What’s your story, kid?”

  Bell showed a brief defiance, then wilted under the hard blue stare. “Me and Kit just figgered we ought to tote a couple of hoglegs along in case things went sour.” His youthful face turned sick as he forced himself to look at his dead friend. “I never knew he was goin’ to try and plug you though, but when he come clear well I figgered it was up to me to back his play.”

  Mick Briskin took two strides forward and the hard back of his work-calloused hand smashed across Bell’s face spilling him to the ground. The old man stared down at him bleakly for a moment then turned haggard-faced back to Brazos. “All right, what comes next?”

  Brazos thrust the gun in his belt and jerked his thumb east. “You mount up and git gone, old man, that’s what comes next.”

  Briskin’s eyes widened in astonishment. “You ain’t ... you ain’t arrestin’ us?”

  “Not this time,” Brazos decided, “on account I reckon you’ve paid heavy enough for actin’ like idjuts.” A big thick finger prodded Briskin heavily in the chest. “But don’t pull a stunt like this again, old man, or I’ll see to it you won’t see daylight again. Compre?”

  No, Mick Briskin didn’t understand. None of them did yet they weren’t about to argue with him. To a man, they fully expected to reap the town’s wrath for what had happened. But if the brand-new badge packer wanted them to get gone, then by Judas they weren’t going to waste any time in case he changed his mind.

  It wasn’t until they’d loaded the dead man on his horse, filled leather and were making dust down Main that Duke Benedict finally took his hand off the butt of his right hand Colt.

  “Well, what the hell was that all about?” He had to know. “And what’s that you’ve got pinned to your shirt?”

  Brazos managed a small smile, no mean feat considering the way his face felt.

  Before he could reply, the pungent whiff of a vast unwashed body hit them and Brazos buckled at the knees as a hand crashed down on his shoulder.

  “Purty a bit of work as I’ve ever seed, big boy. You shore enough showed them hollow gutted sons-of-bitches who’s wearin’ the goddamn star hereabouts. Come across to the saloon, you can drink your fill on Dutch Amy tonight by Judas!”

  “This is Dutch Amy,” Brazos informed Benedict who looked as if he didn’t know whether to go for his gun, sweep off his hat or call for the dog catcher. “My pard, Duke Benedict, Dutch.”

  “My great pleasure, ma’am,” Benedict said, bowing and trying not to inhale.

  “Say, you’re kinda cute, Benedict,” Dutch said with a lascivious grin. “And good with a gun, too.” She made an expansive gesture. “What the hell—free booze for both of you.”

  “I’m overwhelmed,” Benedict assured her. “But perhaps later, dear lady. I have things to discuss with my, er, partner.”

  Dutch Amy giggled, a sound as musical as a goat on a tin roof. “My dear lady!” she chortled, giving Benedict a playful nudge that almost knocked him on his well-tailored backside. “Oh boy, there’s free liquor at the Rawhide for you any old time, handsome.” She winked at Brazos as she turned to go. “Now you make sure you bring him along, big boy.”

  “I think she likes you, Yank,” Brazos grinned as the leviathan plowed back across the street flanked by Chet Corbett and a peeved-looking Pretty Boy Tyler. “Maybe she figgers you’re her type.”

  “Unbelievable,” Benedict muttered, replacing his hat. Then he turned his back on Dutch Amy and flicked his finger off Brazos’ badge. “All right, let’s hear it.”

  “It’s a long story, Yank, I’ll tell it to you inside.” He snapped his fingers at Olan Pike who was still wearing the dazed look of somebody who’d seen more action in a handful of minutes than he’d seen in the past six months. “Put on some coffee, horse face. Lots of coffee.”

  Six – One Kind of Law

  “With virtue and quietness, one may surely conquer the world.”

  “Eh?”

  “A good thought for when you’re waiting to be hanged,” explained Benedict, flipping the butt of his Havana into the cuspidor. He cocked an eyebrow. “What I’m saying in plain words, is that I’m astonished.”

  Brazos grinned. “Yeah, well I reckon so you ought to be, Yank.”

  It was fifteen minutes and several cups of coffee later. The pair sat at the spur-scarred desk illuminated by a throbbing old oil lamp. They were alone, Brazos having sent Pike out before giving Benedict a full account of what had transpired since he’d ridden into Harmony the day before.

  His face almost excessively handsome in the greasy yellow light, Duke Benedict chuckled appreciatively and said, “Just imagine them making you sheriff. Damnit but when Jesse Rickey told us they were desperate for a lawman here, he wasn’t joking.”

  Brazos scowled. Sometimes Benedict’s superiority pierced his thick hide and this was one of those times.

  “I don’t see anythin’ all that funny about it, tinhorn. Seems to me I’ve been handlin’ things okay, like them there miners for instance.”

  “Oh, sure,” Benedict was ready to concede, “as far as the thumping was concerned. But I’ve got a feeling you’d be the late sheriff of Harmony if I hadn’t bought in when that jasper went for iron.”

  Brazos could hardly deny that. His face clouded. “Fool kid ...” His gaze hardened then as he looked across the table. “Anyhow talkin’ about you arrivin’, why the pluperfect didn’t you arrive last night like we planned?”

  A faraway look came to Duke Benedict’s fine gray eyes as he reflected on how difficult it had been to tear himself away even as late as he had.

  Then coming back to reality; “Er, my shoulder you know, it turned out it was a little worse than we thought at first. Anyway that’s not important. What is important, is we’ve landed the badge. Maybe while you’re busy sheriffing, I can pick up some loose change plying my old trade. This is a gambling tow
n, I take it?”

  “Shore is. Dutch Amy’s got a big game goin’ in the Green Room atop the Rawhide. I took a look-see up there today and it seems to be there’s plenty of money changin’ hands up there.”

  Benedict rubbed his hands. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Yeah, well I wouldn’t be too sure about that,” opined Brazos with some satisfaction. “There’s a tinhorn dude hereabouts that I reckon just might have your number, Yank.”

  Professional pride brought Benedict up stiffly. “The hell you say. I keep myself in good cigars on cardsharks who think they’re world-beaters.”

  “Yeah, well I don’t know about Doc Christian bein’ a world-beater, but I reckon he’d beat more than would—”

  “Did you say Doc Christian? A cold-eyed little pilgrim, with a red moustache?”

  “Shore, that’s him right enough. You know him?”

  Benedict’s face turned reflective again but there was no warmth in his eyes as there had been when he’d been thinking about Betty Rickey. “Yeah,” he said softly, “I know him right enough. I played against him on a Mississippi riverboat once before the War. He’s a mean one with a six-gun and you’re right about his card-playin’, too. Doc Christian’s good.”

  Benedict got up.

  “Well, I guess I’ll check in at the hotel, then take myself a look about.” He sketched a salute in front of his hat, then striking a match to his cigar, started out.

  “See you around,” Brazos grunted, following him to the door.

  Benedict glanced back and saw him rubbing the star on his sleeve. He frowned, paused then came back. “You’re not taking that thing seriously are you?” he demanded.

  “Don’t be loco, Benedict. All this star means to me is a hundred bucks a month.”

  Benedict looked at him thoughtfully for another couple of minutes then went off again. Brazos watched him go out of sight, shot a hard look at a couple of young men who were staring across the street at him with something akin to awe, then turned back inside for more coffee. He wasn’t conscious of doing so, but as he walked across to the little stove he was still putting a shine on that tarnished silver star with his sleeve.