Benedict and Brazos 2

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Benedict peered in and saw a cowhand stretched on a bloodstained table in the middle of the room.

  “Who the hell is that, Doc?”

  “Pecos Burk off the Two-Bar.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He got shot.” Kelly shook his head. “Shot to hell.”

  “Who shot him?”

  “How in hell would I know?” Kelly returned irritably. “If I ask questions about every bullet-holed varmint who comes in here I’d never get time to operate on anybody. Hey, what are you doing?”

  What Benedict was doing was striding in to take a look at the dead cowpoke. Burk had been shot right enough, about four times by the look of it. The cowboy was a young man with a lumpy face, bristling red hair and any amount of blood.

  “I thought you were only interested in sending me clients, not what happens to them once they get here,” old Kelly said gruffly from the doorway. His voice was edged with the antipathy of the breed of man who tries to save life for the breed that so often takes it.

  Benedict took no exception to his words. “Another dust-up between the Two-Bar and the miners you figure, Doc?”

  “Look, Benedict, I just lost me a goddamn patient and I got two more waitin’ for me out here by the look of it. I’m tired and I’m mean so why don’t you go ask your fool questions someplace else?”

  Benedict frowned thoughtfully at the dead man, his gaze lingering at the work-calloused hands. He was anything but bored now.

  “All right, Doc, I think I’ll do that,” he said quietly. “Just one more thing. I saw Beetson and Wilson leaving as I arrived. Did they bring Burk in from the spread?”

  “Yes, they did. Now will you—”

  “Sure, sure,” Benedict said placatingly and stepped past Kelly into the next room to fire a question at Snipe Davis. “Who shot Pecos Burk?”

  “I never knew a thing about it, until right this minute,” the wounded cowboy replied honestly. “Hell, it must have happened late this afternoon, on account Pecos was as alive as you and me when I left the spread at three.”

  Without another word Benedict left the house and went up the street. He walked slowly, a fine line of concentration etched between his black brows as he applied his keen intelligence to the strange happenings of the night.

  Yet by the time he’d reached the central block, he didn’t seem to have made much headway. It was plain enough that Pecos Burk was just another victim in the miner-cowboy feud, but beyond that, there was little figuring out as to the why or the how.

  His thoughts were interrupted, when on approaching the Rawhide Saloon he saw Dutch Amy and Evans Maclaine push out through the batwings and go down three doors along the walk and disappear into the fire red brick building which was the agency office.

  Benedict strolled slowly along to the front of the office, lit a Havana and stood for some time staring at the tightly drawn shades. Until tonight he hadn’t given much of a damn about Dutch Amy, Evans Maclaine and California Nick. In just about every town you had those who pulled the strings and those whose strings got pulled. Dutch, California Nick and the rancher were obviously string pullers. For the first time now he found himself really puzzling as to just what sort of strings they were. How come California Nick seemed to have money to burn for instance? And now he came to think of it, how come he was recollecting that a lot of the Two-Bar cowboys he’d dealt cards with seemed to have hands like Pecos Burk? What about the eight or nine gunmen-bruisers Dutch Amy kept on the payroll too, when two would be enough to keep peace in the Rawhide. By now his curiosity was well and truly aroused.

  He turned at a heavy step and a familiar voice. “Shore must be the plushest assay agent in the West in a town that don’t have no pay dirt any more eh, Yank?”

  Benedict nodded. “Yeah, and that’s not the only thing that doesn’t add up in this here town, Reb. Come on, I’ll buy you a drink. We have some talking to do.”

  Indeed they did. But when they parted company an hour later with Brazos to return to the street and Benedict to head upstairs to the poker tables, they were no closer to solving the mysteries of Harmony and its violent deaths. They’d talked over everything they’d heard, seen and guessed at, without any of it really adding up.

  The adding up was to come later.

  Hank Brazos, his thumbs in his gunbelt and slouched down the street. It was the following evening and the sheriff of Harmony was in a heavy mood. He paid no attention to his surroundings, his brows knitted in deep thought.

  Life was getting complicated, he decided. He’d never felt like this in the old days, not even since he’d begun riding with Benedict. Everything seemed to have been straight-forward before Harmony. If he wanted a dollar he went to work for a few weeks. If he wanted a drink he drank and woke up sick as a dog the next day if he damned well liked. If he wanted a little fun all he had to do was pick up a saloon girl, or maybe pick up a saloon bouncer and hit him in the face with a table.

  Things were sure different now. Since coming to Harmony he’d been forced to think about things other than what to drink, who to cuddle and who to punch in the head. He’d begun to worry. He worried about women and kids maybe getting killed, about prospectors winding up shot full of holes, about a whole passel of things beyond the next meal, the next fight, the next girl.

  He stopped in front of the hotel and looked down at the badge on his shirt. That was the start of it all, of course. What a rube he was. Somebody had tossed him a tin star and suddenly he thought he was more than just a hell-raising drifter with a vague sniff of a fortune in stolen Confederate gold.

  Yet he couldn’t pull out, he knew that as he grunted to Bullpup and they started off again. He was damned if he’d pull out yet.

  “You’re liable to walk straight into a pine box getting around like that, saddle tramp.”

  The voice that broke into Brazos’ almost enjoyable bout of self-sympathy was heavily laced with alcohol and education. He halted and looked round to see Doc Christian leaning against the scarred trunk of the cottonwood that stood in front of the bank. Christian had his hands thrust in his pockets, his beaver hat was a little askew, and his normally immaculate air was frayed some.

  “Well, well,” said Brazos, coming up to him. “I never figgered the dandy gambler for a lush.”

  “One drink does not make a lush, my friend. And why don’t you go broil your face?”

  Brazos twisted a smoke and studied the gambler with some interest. Every time he crossed tracks with Christian in Harmony he found the man mocking, superior. A lot like Benedict in many ways, except there was a sourness in Christian that the Yank didn’t have. Even so, he didn’t really dislike the man. He’d never been able to hate a man with guts, and right from the jump he’d weighed the little gambler as a man with more than his share of that commodity. He’d watched Christian play cards, seen him handle other men. Christian had the kind of cool balance that could only stem from complete confidence in his own ability.

  “I figgered you’d be busy up in the Red Dog tryin’ to get square with Benedict.”

  “Well you figgered wrong, like always.”

  “What’s on your mind, tinhorn? You goin’ out of your way to git rowdy with me?”

  “Well it wouldn’t be very hard to do, would it? They’re saying around town that the only people you haven’t punched, kicked or pistol-whipped are those enjoying the last untroubled sleep on Boot Hill.”

  “You peeved on account I ain’t pulled your ugly nose yet, Doc? Gimme time.”

  Brazos was smiling when he said that. Christian was also smiling when he replied.

  “You’re dumb, saddle tramp. But I didn’t think you were that dumb.”

  “Well, I might be dumb but I’m not drunk, am I?”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meanin’ I don’t give a damn how fast you are. With all that rotgut you got inside of you tonight I could take that fancy gambler’s gun off you and wrap it around your ears and you know it.”

  For a moment
Doc Christian’s face was an icy mask, and then abruptly the look was gone and he was smiling.

  “You know, you’re right, saddle tramp.” He shook his head. “Funny, as a rule I never do crazy things like this. But then everything’s different today. I’m drunk, and I never got drunk before, either.”

  “Mebbe you best go home and sleep it off.”

  “Yes, perhaps I had.” The gambler straightened from the tree, staggered a little then lifted a finger. “Goodnight then, saddle tramp, and don’t forget what I said about that pine box. You can’t go walking about as if you’re asleep on your feet with half the miners and just about all of the Two-Bar cowboys just waiting for the chance to put a couple of holes in that thick hide of yours.”

  “Why, Doc,” Brazos grinned, “you sound like you wouldn’t want to see them do that.”

  “Maybe I wouldn’t.”

  Brazos scowled suspiciously. “You’re puttin’ me on, Christian. You’d laugh yourself sick if somebody cut me down.”

  Doc Christian seemed to have suddenly lost interest in the subject of Brazos’ welfare. He looked vaguely along the street with furrowed brow, and when he spoke again his voice was reflective.

  “Do I look like a loser to you, saddle tramp?”

  “Not all that much, Doc,” Brazos replied honestly. “Why?”

  The gambler’s narrow shoulders shrugged. “I’ve never seen myself that way either, but lately I’m beginning to wonder. One day I’m riding high in this town, in my own lonesome kind of way, the next you two are here. Then Benedict wins all my money and you win my girl.” He shook his head as if finding the whole thing difficult to believe. “For my money, that’s being a loser.”

  Brazos laughed aloud. “You’re drunker than a skunk, Christian. You know better’n me that cards are only luck; you could have got just as lucky as Benedict. As for Eleanor, well first place I guess she never was yours and second I know for sure I haven’t won her off of anybody. Kinda wish I had.”

  “She likes you,” Christian said, as if he really knew. “I don’t know why. She’s always had excellent taste before. But that’s the way it is. One winner. One loser.”

  As if suddenly feeling he’d said too much, Christian straightened his back, turned on his heel and went off on unsteady feet. Brazos watched him teeter away with a mixture of puzzlement and amusement. Funny, but Christian had always struck him as a real sharp rooster. Showed you how wrong you could get about a man. Christian didn’t know people worth a hill of beans if he thought Eleanor Barry was sweet on him, Hank Brazos.

  Christian disappeared into the hotel and Brazos continued on his way to the jailhouse. At least, talking to Doc had accomplished something, he reflected. It had jolted him out of his broody mood. It didn’t pay a man to think too much. Pa had always said that. The old man had never been guilty of thinking too much in all his life.

  Brazos grunted in approval to find Olan Pike sweeping the floor when he entered the office. He’d gotten Olan Pike house-broken. The first day Hank walked in there, the place had looked like a tomb. Now it was pleasant enough with polished woodwork, shining brass, everything in its place and a place for everything.

  He knew it was crazy, but sometimes, walking in off the street, it felt like home.

  “Coffee,” he grunted and sat down behind his desk.

  Olan Pike jumped to obey. Pike had been jumping plenty since they’d made him Brazos’ deputy. It was getting so he enjoyed it.

  Brazos tasted his coffee and grunted to show that it was passable. Pike remained standing beside the desk.

  “I don’t recall tellin’ you to quit sweepin’, horse face.”

  Pike grabbed up the broom and commenced to raise the dust again. There wasn’t much dust to raise. This was the third time he’d swept out today. Brazos grinned behind his coffee mug, watching him. He wasn’t really a bad kind of galoot, Pike. Except for having a face like a horse, and ears like a stagecoach with the doors open. Then he frowned at a thought and told Pike to stop sweeping and draw up a chair. He even went so far as to suggest Pike share the coffee with him. He waited until the astonished deputy had poured a canful from the pot on the stove.

  “What’s it all about, horse face?” he said abruptly.

  “What, Sheriff?”

  “The whole deal. What’s goin’ on in this here town?”

  “I dunno what you mean,” Pike muttered, suddenly uncomfortable.

  “In a gnat’s eye you don’t. Nobody tells me nothin’ here. Nobody knows nothin’. But it just struck me that you must know, Pike. You must know what’s behind the feud between the Two-Bar and the miners and why the cowboys are tryin’ to push the miners off?”

  “No, I don’t, Sheriff.”

  “And you must know that the Two-Bar Ranch carries about twice as many hands as it needs for a spread of that size. And how come Heck Harmer and Pecos Burk got done the way they did? And of course you can’t tell me how come California Nick got rich and fat in a minin’ town where there ain’t no minin’ anymore?”

  Olan Pike put his untasted coffee down on the desk and got to his feet. “I don’t know nothin’ about what you’ve just said, Sheriff,” he said with surprising conviction. “But I know this. Anybody who butts into things around here that don’t concern ’em ends up dead. That goes for anybody who opens his mouth out of turn, too.”

  Brazos sighed gustily. “All right, horse face,” he said after a minute of threatening silence, which didn’t do anything more to loosen the deputy’s tongue, “get back to your sweepin’.”

  Pike grabbed up his broom again. Brazos tilted his chair back, propped his boots up on the desk and took out the makings. He was taking his first badly needed draw, when for the second night running, the comparative quiet of Harmony was shattered by the ugly sound of gunfire.

  Ten – Crashout

  Young Stash Trotter had gasped his last by the time Brazos had tracked the trouble down to the Rawhide Saloon.

  They laid the tousled-headed miner out on the green felt of a pool table in back of the room. He’d been shot twice, once in the stomach, once in the chest.

  Brazos’ eyes took in everything as he came striding in with the bright lights glinting on his star, on the Colt in his fist. He saw the overturned card-table with the scattered chips, glasses, a broken bottle. He saw the angry-faced crowd of miners around the table, Dutch Amy and her bunch of gunslingers and bouncers standing at the bar; the fifteen or twenty Two-Bar cowboys standing near the rear wall looking ready for trouble.

  The remainder of the saloon’s clientele had moved away toward the front end of the room, their faces tensed with shock, ready to stampede out through the batwings at the first sign of more trouble.

  The atmosphere eased a little as Brazos shouldered his way through the louvered doors. Whether many still looked upon him as a good joke or not, the tough drifter they’d made sheriff of Harmony had forged a hard-won respect for himself.

  Brazos inspected the dead man. Trotter was not wearing a gun. Even in death, his young face was still flushed. Bending close, Brazos got the overpowering whiff of whiskey. Died drunk as a fool by the smell of it.

  He straightened, looking directly at the miners. Mick Briskin was among them, trembling with rage.

  “All right, old man, how did it happen?”

  “Accident.”

  It wasn’t Mick Briskin who’d replied to his question, but Dutch Amy. Leaving her men at the bar, she came swaggering across, chewing on her cold cigar. Before she could say more, Briskin yelled.

  “It weren’t no accident! It was murder!”

  The miners roared agreement. Brazos held his hands up for silence. “All right, old man. I’ll hear you first.”

  Briskin pointed to the dead man. “Stash was playin’ poker with her dirty dude gun-toter, Pretty Boy Tyler. Tyler cheated him. Stash got sore. They had a run-in and then Tyler shot him down like a prairie dog.”

  Brazos’ eyes flickered at pale-faced Pretty Boy Tyler standing at
the bar. Then Dutch Amy launched into her version.

  “There hain’t no cheatin’ in this joint. Trotter was drunk as a fool and makin’ trouble all night. He got into an argument with Pretty Boy, then tossed a whole glass of whiskey in his face.” Massive shoulders shrugged. “So he shot him.”

  Everybody wanted to talk at once. Brazos quickly silenced them, then had them talk one at a time. He listened to Tyler, then to another minor, then heard from one of the Two-Bar cowboys, finally questioning at random three of the towners. It took him some half hour, but by the time he was through he felt he had a pretty clear idea of how it had happened.

  The saloon was very quiet as he walked over to Pretty Boy Tyler and stuck out his hand. “Okay, hand over your gun Tyler,” he said grimly. “You’re under arrest.”

  A gasp went up from the crowded room. Nobody had expected this, Pretty Boy Tyler least of all. Dutch Amy’s pistolero put on a sickly grin. “You’ve got to be jokin’, Brazos.”

  “Bet your sweet life he is,” Dutch Amy thundered, recovering from her shock. “You better be jokin’, big boy.”

  “I’m takin’ Tyler in, Dutch. He put two bullets in Trotter and Trotter wasn’t even packin’ iron. That’s murder by my book.”

  “Who the blue Judas cares what is in your book?” Dutch Amy raged. “You ain’t takin’ him in for shootin’ no stinkin’ miner!”

  “Pardon me contradictin’ a lady, but you’re wrong. Hand over that gun, Tyler.”

  Dutch Amy used a hard word. “You big clown!” she yammered. “You think that bit of tin star we gave you means anythin’? By Judas, I’ll show you what it means!”

  She reached for Brazos’ star to rip it from his shirt. She didn’t make it. Something round and hard jammed into her big belly and pushed her back. She paled, staring down at the gun.

  “Maybe me bein’ sheriff is a joke to you, Dutch,” Brazos said quietly. “But I ain’t laughin’.”

  His gun-hand thrust her to one side. He snapped at Tyler.

  “Your last chance, Pretty Boy! Give it to me or I’ll take it.”