He gave a little bow. “If you don’t mind, Miss Barry.”
“Of course not.” The girl smiled at Brazos and went out with her quick light step. The two men watched her go past the window and Benedict had to concede that taste or no taste, she was one hell of a fine-looking girl.
“Fine-lookin’ gal, ain’t she?” Brazos drawled.
Benedict scowled. He wasn’t flattered to find his and Hank Brazos’ thoughts following an identical line on anything.
“I’ve seen worse,” he said sternly. “What’s this I hear about last night? Did you go out to Whipple Creek?”
“Why, that I did, Yank.”
“Why?”
“Why’d I go out there?”
“Yes, dammit, why did you go out there?”
Brazos frowned as he got up and picked up his battered hat from the table. “I heard that missin’ feller Heck Harmer had turned up dead. I figgered I’d ride out and take a look.”
“And those proddy miners just let you come and go?” Benedict was curious despite himself.
“Well, I didn’t ride in blowin’ no bugles. And I reckon they’ve gotten to trust me some.” Brazos’ big head shook slowly. “Jupiter, they sure enough did a job on Harmer. Eight bullet-holes in him do you know, Yank?”
“Who shot him?”
Brazos shrugged. “Well, natcherly Briskin says the Two-Bar boys done it and that may be. All Briskin could tell me was that Harmer went off on his own around their lease out there on Willow Flats late one afternoon and that’s the last they saw of him alive. Sure is mighty mysterious.”
Benedict had lost any interest he’d had in the late lamented Heck Harmer. “Okay, you’ve told me what you were doing out there,” he said, trying to conceal his irritation. “But you still haven’t explained why.”
“I just figgered it was up to me, is all.”
Duke Benedict cursed softly under his breath, enlightenment suddenly dawning in his handsome face.
“By Taos, I should have realized what was happening when I saw you polishing that damned badge. It’s got to you, hasn’t it? You really think you are a lawman?”
“Shines purty, don’t it?” Brazos gave the badge a little rub with his sleeve.
Benedict looked in supplication at the ceiling. Then as if explaining something to a backward child he said, “Johnny Reb, that badge is a joke in Harmony. It belongs to Dutch Amy and her bunch. Wearing that star isn’t any different to wearing a new hat. Don’t you see that?”
Brazos kicked at something on the floor, scratched his belly, stuck out his bottom lip. “No, reckon I don’t.”
Benedict gave up. “All right, all right,” he said placatingly. “Forget about the badge and you can forget about the whole damned job too now.”
“Huh?”
Benedict produced the fat wallet from his inside coat pocket with an air of importance and passed it across. Brazos opened it and tugged out an inch-thick sheaf of bills. His eyes snapped wide with surprise, and Benedict laughed.
“Yeah, thought it would hit you like that.”
“But there’s hundreds of bucks here, Yank.”
“Five hundred and seventy dollars to be exact, roughly five hundred of it by courtesy of our mutual friend, Doc Christian.”
“You cleaned him?”
“I cleaned him good. I had a run of luck last night you wouldn't believe.” Benedict took the money back and fanned it up against his ear to listen to it, then put it away. “Well, that’s it, Reb, we’ve got our stake. Time to move.”
Brazos paced up and down a little, his face wearing his knotted, thinking look. He finally stopped at the table again and said, “Ain’t ready to move on just yet, Yank.”
Benedict frowned hard. “What?”
Brazos shrugged. “Mebbe this tin star they give me don’t mean much, Yank, but there’s somethin’ funny goin’ on around this man’s town and I want to get to knowin’ what it is afore we push on.”
“Goddamit who cares about this hick town?”
“I care.”
“You’re touched with the sun!”
“No, I’m serious, Yank. This here feud twixt the miners and the Two-Bar has got me so damned puzzled I don’t sleep good no more.”
“Why don’t you go talk with your friend Dutch if you’re so all-fired curious?” Benedict said with a mocking glitter. “She seems to have wind of everything that goes on here in town.”
“I tried her out this mornin’ but I didn’t get no place.”
“Yes, well. I’ve got news for you, Reb. The only place you’re getting is out. We’re hauling our freight.”
“I can’t do that, Yank,” Brazos said quietly. “I can feel things buildin’ up to a head here in Harmony and I aim to wear me this here star for just a couple more days until whatever’s comin’ breaks.”
“And what the hell do you think Bo Rangle will be doing while you’re playing lawman?” Benedict said angrily.
“Rangle can wait another couple days.”
“Maybe he can, but I can’t: I’m leaving.”
Brazos’ big head shook. “You’re bluffin’, Yank.”
“Oh? And what give you that idea?”
“Well, we got the idea Rangle’s likely holed up in the Osage Badlands. A man could drive a thousand head of beeves through that country, Yank, and a city slicker like you wouldn’t be able to read which way they went.” He smiled slyly. “You’ll need me up there, Yank ... just like I’ll need you down here.”
He had him by the short hair and Benedict knew it. The strongest reason why these two men of violently different personalities remained together as a team in their hunt for Bo Rangle and the Confederate gold, was the simple fact that they were complementary to one another. There were times they hated each other. But they stuck.
Benedict made one last try. “Look, you’re horning in on something that doesn’t concern you and which you know nothing about. This is a mean town, dammit! You realize you’re likely to wind up getting yourself killed?”
“I’m a hard man to kill, Yank.”
Benedict started to argue some more but changed his mind. When Brazos got that stubborn look about him there was no shifting him. “All right,” he said testily, “all right.” He held up three fingers. “I’ll give you three days to get sick of play-acting and then with or without you I’m heading north.”
With that he headed north out the door and strode off in the direction of the Rawhide Saloon and a badly needed Robbie Burns.
Brazos grinned to himself. It was only rarely he felt that he could get the better of Benedict and it was enjoyable.
He was still grinning when Eleanor Barry came back. Bullpup made no attempt to savage her. That dog had an instinctive talent for knowing who to nip and who not to nip Brazos always believed.
“What’s wrong with your friend?” the girl said, putting her parcels on the big table. “He passed me on the boardwalk with a face like a thunderclap.”
“Benedict gets ornery at times, Eleanor,” he said vaguely. He was finding it hard to recall what he’d argued with Benedict about as he looked down at her. It was hard, suddenly very hard, to think of anything except how incredibly pretty she was and how much he’d like to take her in his arms ...
As if reading his mind, the girl moved away from the table. “Well, shall we continue with our lesson?”
Brazos would have liked to, just for the pleasure of her company even though it sure was hard to rope and throw the alphabet. But other things were on his mind at the moment, like Front Street on pay day. “I’ll try to get around to it again in the mornin’.”
“Very well,” the girl said briskly, and then as he reached the door: “I’ll be finishing work at about eight tonight.”
Brazos propped, his eyes widening with surprise. “You mean …?”
“I mean you may escort me home this evening if you wish,” she said impersonally, yet betrayed herself when she blushed. “And now I really do have a lot of work to do.”
Brazos grinned happily and tipped his hat. He snapped his fingers at Bullpup and stepped out into the sun-stricken street.
His smile faded as he halted in the black pool of his own shadow and looked both ways along Front. He saw a silent knot of surly miners from Whipple Creek lounging in the shadows of the tree before the disused courthouse and down the other way, some half-dozen Two-Bar cowboys were jostling citizens on the walk as they made their way from the Rawhide to the Red Dog. He was conscious of the eyes of the street as he stood there alone under the sun. His nose twitched and he felt the old familiar tingling along the backs of his wrists that most often preceded trouble.
If the prospect bothered him he didn’t let it show. “C’mon, old-timer,” he said to the dog, “we’ll mosey down to the butcher’s and see if we can pick you up a shinbone.”
Bullpup’s vicious yellow eyes twinkled at the familiar word and together they went down the dead center of the street, giving way to neither man nor beast.
The hour between seven and eight was the quiet time on Front Street, the hour when the afternoon drum of boot heels on the sidewalks subsided briefly, before they would drum even more loudly than before.
It was the hour when the piano player and the percentage girls sat on the landings of the Rawhide and the Red Dog hoping to catch a breeze coming in off Whipple Creek. Faro dealers sat in their shirtsleeves before the lights of the saloons smoking and spitting and picking up the day’s gossip from the loafers who sat, smoked and spat along with them. The bright lights were lit in saloons, hotels and hash houses, while the stores and the banks and the business places went into darkness. It was the hour for Lars Lindgren to take his daily tub, and for Josh Kelly the storekeeper to have his customary two beers at the Red Dog and give Kitty Clare her daily pinch before going home to Mrs. Kelly who was cooking pork chops, black-eyed peas and marble gravy for supper.
A pleasant hour but over all too soon. The piano starts to tinkle from the Rawhide Saloon and answering music shortly wafts out from the Red Dog. The hash houses empty and the boardwalks begin to pound once more and a cowboy yips and gallops his horse down Main.
Another night under way in Harmony.
Hank Brazos locked the library door for Eleanor and passed her the keys. The girl was tempted to take his arm as they moved off, but restrained herself. She settled for stealing a cautious glance up at his big bronzed face and found herself thinking how strange it all was. When he’d followed her down Front Street that first morning, he’d represented to her all the harsh, violent qualities of the West she most despised. How quickly she’d come to realize that hiding behind that outrageous purple shirt and the homely face was a man of strength unlike any she’d ever met before. She knew that Harmony was divided in its opinion about Hank Brazos; they either feared him or laughed at him behind his back. She did neither. She simply felt she understood this strapping young giant who’d come stomping unceremoniously into her life, and knew she was going to miss him very much when he was gone.
That thought depressed her a little, but the mood faded after they had gone a half block. It was a sweet night, soft and velvety. It was noisy, of course, with the saloons going full blast and the men in from the ranches and Whipple Creek, yet still very pleasant to be abroad.
“Can you smell it?” Brazos asked her as they approached Frisco Street.
“Smell what?”
“Trouble startin’ in to burn.”
Eleanor looked about her. Only then did she become aware of the groups of miners from Whipple Creek lounging about on every hand. The miners watched them go by with sullen-eyed resentment. Few of them she knew even had the price of a drink, an obvious contrast to the pay night affluence of the cowboys.
“You’re expecting trouble?” she said and he nodded. “Between the miners and the cowboys?”
“Between the miners and anybody. Those boys sure pour mean milk on their mush of a mornin’. They got a hate on for everybody.” He was silent for a time, then added, “Wonder why they’re so ornery?”
“You’re asking me?”
His teeth showed in a smile. “Well, I’ve asked just about everybody else but nobody will tell me a danged thing in this town.” A pause, then, “Are you scared to talk like everybody else, Eleanor?”
“No, I don’t believe in being afraid, but I know a lot of people in Harmony are.”
“What are they afraid of?”
“Oh—I guess all the secrecy and the killings.”
“Like Heck Harmer, you mean?”
“Yes, like Harmer.” She looked up at him. “Were you able to find out anything about his death when you went out to Whipple Creek?”
“Not much, except that he was about the most shot-up prospector I ever did see.”
The girl shivered. “Who could have done such a thing? Two-Bar men, I suppose, though why on earth they’re always fighting I have no idea.” She looked around her at the passing buildings. “Harmony is a strange town, Hank, mysterious in many ways. It’s as if underneath a tolerably calm surface there’s some vicious battle being waged that nobody will even think about, let alone discuss. Have you noticed that?”
Brazos certainly had; it was the very thing about Harmony that was keeping him there.
Moving on they met a bunch of Two-Bar cowpokes coming out of the Greasy Spoon eatery. There was none of the customary horseplay and high spirits about them, traditional to a cowboy’s pay night. The men were sullen and silent. They scowled at Brazos as they passed. Several tipped their hats to Eleanor, but none smiled. They headed for Front Street, spurs jingling, rolling like sailors on their high-heeled boots.
“I see what you mean,” the girl said as they stopped at the gate of her lodging house on Peach Street. She frowned back towards Front Street. “Those Two-Bar boys are obviously spoiling for trouble.”
“Reckon they are, at that. Well, I better go make sure they don’t get into more trouble than they can handle.” He touched his hat brim. “Eleanor it shore was a pleasure to walk you home.”
“Good night, Hank,” she said, then to his astonishment stood on tiptoes and kissed him. “It was lovely having you walk me home.”
She’d gone inside and closed the door before he had a chance to recover. He stood there staring up at the little white house with a wondering smile on his lips.
The next moment the smile was gone and he was swinging away from the gate. Judging by the racket, a full scale riot had erupted on Front Street.
Nine – Dead Man’s Dust
Brazos made quick time getting back to Front, but even so, he found Benedict had beaten him to the scene of violence. Standing before a wild-eyed bunch of miners and cowboys with a smoking gun in his fist, the gambler greeted his running rival with a laconic grin.
“You can slow down on account it’s all over ... Sheriff.”
“What happened?” Brazos demanded. He could see a miner on the ground, a cowboy nursing a bloodied arm.
“They’ve been spoiling to tangle, Reb. From what I saw from the hotel gallery, a couple of words led to a punch or two, and then that cowboy nursing his wing creased a miner with a bullet and got himself cut for his trouble. I quieted them with a shot over their heads.”
Scowling, Brazos walked across to the wounded cowboy. He recognized him as Snipe Davis. Without any beg pardons, Brazos pulled his hand away from his arm and took a look at the deep gash.
“Who stuck you, cowboy?” He inclined his head at the miner with the bullet-creased arm who was still sitting on the ground with a knife in the dust close by. “Him?”
“Yeah,” Davis growled. “Dirty knifer.”
“And you plugged him?” suggested Benedict.
“You bet I did.”
“I oughta throw you both in the calaboose,” Brazos growled. “But you’ve both got what you’ve been askin’ for so I’ll let it go at that. Both of you get on up to Doc Kelly’s and get patched up. Then you can both get to hell out of town and stay out.”
�
��I’ll escort these rannies to the medic’s, Reb,” Benedict offered. “Just to make sure they don’t start another half a dozen ruckuses on their way.”
“Why,” Brazos grinned, “that’s a damned good idea. You wouldn’t make a bad deputy you know.” Then seriously, “Okay, do that, Yank, and while you’re about it I’ll set these pilgrims with trouble in mind on an early ride home.”
“My pleasure,” Benedict said dryly, wondering idly if perhaps he wouldn’t have been better off taking his chances in the Osage Badlands alone than running around Harmony playing honorary deputy to a bogus sheriff. He jerked his thumb at Davis and the miner. “All right, you characters, let’s go.”
The two wounded brawlers made no further protest. The hot blood of battle was cooling now and their wounds were beginning to hurt. They tromped off together in the direction of Kelly’s with Benedict keeping several paces behind them as if afraid of contamination.
Benedict was thoroughly bored with the whole business as they approached Kelly’s big house two blocks south. No man enjoyed a little violent action more than he, but only if he considered his adversaries worthy. The miners and the Two-Bar cowboys hardly added up to that.
With an exception or two, he corrected himself, when approaching the medic’s. He glimpsed a grim-faced Curly Beetson and Rusty Wilson come out Kelly’s gate and head off down the street. Benedict had played cards with both men one night up in the Green Room and though able to dismiss Wilson as a nothing, the beefy Beetson by looks and reputation was obviously a considerable cut above the rest.
He didn't even pause to wonder what the Two-Bar men had been doing at Kelly’s until they went inside to meet fat old Josh Kelly emerging from his surgery door wearing a bloody leather apron and a defeated expression.
“What’s wrong, Doc?” Benedict wanted to know. The fat cranky old medic with the handlebar moustaches and the pince-nez had checked his shoulder for him a couple of days back.
Kelly sighed and wiped his hands on a swab of cotton waste, inclining his head at the door. “Just lost one.”
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