Benedict and Brazos 2

by E. Jefferson Clay

  The only sound in the bar was Dutch Amy’s heavy breathing. After what seemed like years, Pretty Boy Tyler put the gun in Brazos’ hand. Brazos felt a sharp sense of relief, but he gave no sign of his feelings as he thrust the murder weapon in his belt and said harshly, “Walk, Tyler! I’m takin’ you in!”

  Nobody spoke as the two men headed for the batwings. It seemed that nobody breathed. Only when they had gone did voices rise—the miners were jubilant, the Two-Bar cowhands angry, the towners excited, and Dutch Amy’s bunch fit to be tied.

  The only one in the whole room it seemed who didn’t have anything to say was Dutch herself. But Dutch’s expression was far more eloquent than mere words as she stood there as if rooted to the floorboards for long minutes after Brazos had marched her gunslinger and sometime boyfriend out through the doors. And those who knew Dutch Amy best, gleaned from that volcanic scowl on her seamed visage that somebody around Hank Brazos’ size had better start sleeping with one eye open. Or maybe two.

  Boot heels rapped on the porch boards and Duke Benedict appeared in the jailhouse doorway.

  At the desk, Brazos eased forward the hammer of his six-shooter and slid the gun back in the holster. Benedict nodded approvingly as he came in to fill the room with the expensive aroma of a fine cigar.

  “At least that hogleg proves you know what you’ve let yourself in for.”

  “Don’t give me any smart talk, Yank, I hain’t in the mood.”

  His cigar angling from his teeth, Benedict set his hands on his hips and stared down at the big man at the desk for a long and reflective moment.

  “You really mean to try and make Dutch’s boyfriend stand trial?”

  “He killed Trotter in cold blood,” was Brazos’ growled reply to that. “The circuit judge is due on Tuesday. We’ll let him work it out.”

  Another silence, then Benedict said quietly. “I see. You realize of course that Dutch won’t just sit back and let Tyler go to trial?”

  “She won’t draw cards.”

  “Don’t wager on that. She’s as tough a party as you’re likely to run into in a day’s travel.”

  “You got Dutch wrong. Sure she’s hard and rough but she’s okay.”

  “Sure, like a rattler is.”

  Brazos said earnestly, “You’re runnin’ off at the mouth. Look, Tyler killed Trotter, I’ve locked Tyler up and if anybody tries to do anythin’ about it they’re goin’ to have fifty kinds of bad luck with me and that includes Dutch. It’s got to. Now that’s all there is and I ain’t in no mood to hash it over any further.”

  Duke Benedict didn’t spin on his heel and stride out like Brazos half expected. Instead he simply strolled across to a vacant chair, sat down, crossed his long legs, tilted his hat low over his eyes and puffed on his cigar. He offered no explanation to Brazos’ surprised glance, but he had just made up his mind that minute to stick around in case anything broke. Nobody held himself more aloof from the whole setup in Harmony than he, yet suddenly all the gambler’s cynicism seemed empty and shallow.

  For, sitting there behind the desk with Pretty Boy Tyler in his cells and a cocked six-gun ready to greet anybody who cared to amble through that door, Hank Brazos suddenly looked to the cynical Duke Benedict almost like a genuine sheriff.

  Dutch Amy’s wrath when she met with her partners in her gloomy office in back of the saloon at midnight, made previous tantrums seem insignificant by comparison.

  “We’re goin’ to tear that goddamn jail out by the roots!” she told them, banging her table so hard that it seemed the whole saloon shook. “Then we’re goin’ to take that bullet-headed son-of-a-bitch sheriff out of there, gouge out his eyes, cut out his tongue, soak him in hot pitch—”

  “Now hold hard, Dutch, hold hard,” Evans Maclaine admonished. “Me and Nick know as how you’re upset. But we can’t risk the whole thing just on account of one man. We don’t have to nail Brazos. Pretty Boy can escape.”

  “Gettin’ Pretty Boy out ain’t goin’ to get rid of Brazos,” Dutch broke in, her coarse, pock-marked face a greasy yellow in the lamplight. She thumped the desk with a big fist. “He’s crossed me that big jackass, and nobody gets away with that. We’re goin’ to take care of him and that high-rollin’ partner of his, too.”

  “Just take it steady, take it steady, Dutch,” Evans Maclaine insisted. “That’s just the point; we don’t want to get rid of either of those pilgrims yet.”

  Dutch looked as if she were about to boil over again. Before she could, California Nick put on his most agreeable expression, showed all his handsome teeth in a broad smile.

  “Dutch, we have to face facts. We gave this big hick the sheriff’s job so that he could keep order around town here and leave us free to get on with our business. Well, he’s done the job even better than we hoped and we’ve even had a bonus with Benedict backing our play. We’ve been able to bring pressure on the miners, and there’s every sign they’ve just about had a bellyful and are ready to pull out. Now that was the whole idea in our hiring Brazos, Dutch, and no matter what you say, it’s worked like a charm.”

  Maclaine took up the running. “Nick’s right, Dutch. Sure, we lost Pecos Burk the other night when those miners gunned him down to get square for Harmer, but that’s nothin’ like the trouble we was havin’ before. Them miners are scared of Brazos and those that ain’t are walkin’ on hair on account of Benedict who’s got ’em all well and truly bluffed.”

  Said Nick, “We can understand how you feel about Pretty Boy, but we can’t let feelings run things right now. We don’t want to rock the boat, Dutch. Another week or two and I believe we’ll have the miners out. After that we can fire Brazos, hang him or boil him in fat for all I care.”

  Dutch Amy slid further down in her chair, her face as petulant as a child’s. She knew they’d got together on this. All they were thinking of was the money. That’s all they ever thought of. They didn’t have any romance in their hearts. Not like her.

  Romantic soul as she undoubtedly was, Dutch also had her mercenary side that reared its ugly head when she thought about just how well things had been going for them over the past couple of weeks. They knew they had her when she asked them how the hell did they think they were going to spring Pretty Boy. California Nick was quick to explain.

  “We made Pike deputy so he could keep an eye on Brazos, Dutch. He’s had a pretty soft job, the way we see it. Maybe it’s about time he earned his keep.”

  It took a few moments for that to sink in. Interest flickered in Dutch Amy’s agate eyes. “Keep talkin’,” she rumbled.

  California Nick kept talking.

  The pale reflection staring back at Pretty Boy Tyler from his water pail, told him he looked about as bad as he felt. Never robust, he’d lost pounds in weight over the past two days. There were shadows under his eyes, hollows in his cheeks—and he wouldn’t have been surprised to find some brand new gray hairs in his fine dark and curly scalp.

  He was peering closer at his reflection to see if in fact there was any silver to be seen, when he heard Brazos leave the office. Rising quickly, he went to the barred door, listening. He heard the sheriff’s familiar footsteps recede along the walk. Pike was moving around, sweeping by the sound of it.

  “Olan!” he called. “Olan!”

  No reply. The sounds of sweeping continued. His face twitching, Tyler clutched the bars, resting his forehead against the cold steel. What was the good of hoping for anything from Pike? Pike seemed to have forgotten they’d worked together for six months. Pike was scared of Brazos. Everybody was scared of Brazos. Even Dutch. Why hadn’t she been to see him tonight? Was it possible that she was just going to let them take him away in the morning?

  That was hard to believe. Pretty Boy Tyler thought he knew Dutch. He despised her, but he hadn’t let that interfere with their romance which had paid off in hard cash and the softest job in Harmony. He thought he had Dutch eating out of his hand, crazy about him. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe all along Dutch had just bee
n using him when he thought he’d been using her ...

  The minutes went by on leaden feet and with every stroke of the clock, Tyler’s depression deepened. He paced his cell, restless, feverish. Time was fast running out. The man wasn’t without a certain cold courage, but the prospect of a trial and almost certain conviction was more than enough to send the cold tremors of terror clawing at his guts, threatening at any moment to reduce him to a babbling wreck, banging on the bars and screaming for mercy.

  He stopped pacing abruptly. Steps were coming down the corridor. He rushed for the door, seizing the bars.

  “Pike! Pike, did you see Dutch today like I told you? What did she say? What is she goin’ to do about me?”

  Olan Pike came up to the cell door. The deputy looked something less than his usually tough self. He sighed gustily.

  “Don’t go gettin’ yourself in a twist, Tyler. You’re gettin’ out.”

  Tyler’s eyes almost popped from his head. “You mean it, Olan? How? How?”

  “Keep it down, keep it down,” Pike said testily. The deputy was sweating despite the fact that it was a cool night. He looked nervously over his shoulder in the direction of the office, then unhitched a key ring from his belt.

  “There’s a saddled horse in the street out back. I’m goin’ to unlock your door, then the rear door. But before you go I want you to give me time to get the hell out of here. I don’t want to tangle with Brazos when he finds out you’ve gone.”

  Tyler grabbed Pike’s shoulders through the bars as he inserted the big black key in the lock.

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down, pard. I knew!”

  “Save it,” Pike said, breaking free of his grasp and going to the stout door that led to the backyard. “This is all Dutch’s idea.”

  “Meanin’ you’d let ’em hang me, Pike?”

  “It ain’t a matter of lettin’,” Pike explained, coming back looking even more nervous. “It’s what you can do and what you can’t. That Brazos—”

  “The hell with Brazos. C’mon, how do we work it?”

  Pike sighed. “Well, Brazos has quit the office for a spell, gone to visit with Miss Eleanor at the library. He figures if Dutch meant to make a play, she’d have done it by now. I calculate he ought to be gone half an hour or so. Now you can give me a minute or two to get gone then leave as quiet as you can. Get the horse, ride out by the back streets at a walk, then head for Spearfish. Dutch says to tell you she’ll visit you there as soon as she can.”

  Being more nervous than Tyler himself, Pike then turned and walked away. Tyler’s lip curled with a sneer. And he’d always thought Pike was tough! He was scared of Brazos, hollow scared.

  But he was just a little scared himself. And he wasn’t going to wait any couple of minutes. The moment he heard Pike go out the front door, he swung the cell door wide. His heart beating like a trip hammer, he rushed to the back door, opened it. The air of freedom was as sweet as wine on his face. He went to step out, then froze. No gun. Pike had forgotten to give him a gun! He had to have one. If he was spotted, a gun would be his only chance to shoot his way out.

  The sweat was cold on his body as he hurried down the corridor past the empty cells. A glance around the empty office showed the rifle rack chained and locked. He cursed, headed for the desk. Most likely that’s where Brazos had put his own six-gun ...

  He took a step towards the desk then stopped in his tracks. Somebody was shouting outside! They were calling Pike’s name. It sounded like Brazos!

  For a moment Tyler was incapable of movement. Veins sticking out on his forehead, his face glistening with sweat, he stood staring at the open doorway. He distinctly heard Brazos yell, “Pike! I thought I told you to watch the goddamn jail while I was gone!”

  He turned to the corridor. He couldn’t go without a gun. He dived back to the desk. He reefed open a drawer. He found his own gun atop a sheaf of papers. He snatched at it. His hand closed around the butt, and as he pulled it clear, Brazos appeared in the doorway.

  For a brief moment in eternity, nothing seemed to move. Neither the big man in the doorway nor the slender man at the desk with the gun in his fist. Not the pendulum of the wall clock, nor the papers on the desk that had been stirring in the breeze coming down the open corridor.

  But the frozen moment was only a shaved tip of time if it was even that. Brazos’ big hand blurred at his gun. The barrel of Tyler’s gun swung, spewed fire. The bullet raked Brazos’ ribs, sending a jolt of pain searing through him. He fired back, the voices of the Colts almost intolerable in the confines of the room. The bullet took Tyler in the chest, smashing him back into the wall.

  “Drop it or I’ll finish you, Tyler,” Brazos roared.

  Pretty Boy Tyler didn’t even hear. And even if he had, would have paid no heed. Sliding slowly down the wall, he fired again, the bullet tearing a lump of wood out of the doorframe a foot from Brazos’ head.

  Brazos’ gun spoke again with dreadful finality. The light rushed out of Tyler’s eyes. His gun clunked against the floorboards. He slid to a sitting position against the wall, staring sightlessly at the light.

  Brazos slowly lowered his hot gun. Dragging his eyes off the dead man, he walked through to the cells. The two unlocked doors told him their own story. Pike!

  Towners were pushing in the doorway as he walked slowly back to the office. He could figure out what had happened. Pike had just been waiting his chance to spring Tyler. He thought his chance had come when he’d gone to the library. But he hadn’t gone to walk Eleanor home, just to see her for a few minutes’ talk then return because of the need to stand watch on the prisoner.

  A dozen babbling towners began talking at once. He thrust them roughly out of his path and went out onto the gallery. His eyes were bitter, a cold rage gripped him hard. There was a lot of fun to be had in a good brawl. But he’d never yet got any fun out of killing anybody.

  He turned his head at a familiar voice. Benedict came striding through the towners, his right hand on his gun.

  “Are you okay, Reb? When I heard the shots I guessed what was going on.”

  “Shore, I’m fine,” he said quietly, and despite what had just happened, he couldn’t help but notice the true concern in Benedict’s voice. Was it possible that the Yank wasn’t as cynical and hard-shelled as he often seemed to be?

  Suddenly Benedict saw the blood on his shirt and in an instant the bossy Benedict he knew well was back again.

  “You’ve been hit!” he accused.

  “’Tain’t much.”

  “’Tain’t?” mocked Benedict, “with a bucket of blood spilling down your side?” Benedict seized him by the elbow and headed him across the street. “You need Doc Kelly!”

  Brazos didn’t protest. His side was hurting like hell now and he felt a little lightheaded. He let Benedict hustle him away from the dead man, from the gaping crowd.

  As they moved off he heard a man say in a hoarse, scared tone, “Somebody better go tell Dutch Amy.”

  “Yeah,” agreed another voice, just as apprehensive as the first. “Just so it ain’t me.”

  California Nick and Evans Maclaine exchanged a nervous glance at the sound of Dutch Amy’s tread on the stair. Though neither man was exactly the sensitive type, each was sharply aware that it was he who had talked Dutch into going along with the idea of breaking Pretty Boy Tyler out of prison. They’d been waiting in the Rawhide for an hour for Dutch to show up, and in that time they’d come to the mutual agreement that they had to have better ideas than the one that had ended in the crash of Hank Brazos’ gun two hours ago tonight.

  But when Dutch came in she was dry-eyed, swaggering, chomping on her cigar and giving off her customary odor of anti-soap, in short, exactly like the old Dutch.

  “Have a shot, Dutch?” Maclaine said, getting up and pulling out a chair for her.

  “Sure, why not?”

  Maclaine’s eyes met California Nick’s as he poured. They hadn’t expected this.

  Which only wen
t to prove that they didn’t know their partner as well as they thought. Dutch Amy had been plenty upset when they came and told her about Pretty Boy. And indeed she had shed a solitary tear when she’d gone across to the jailhouse and saw him sitting there where Brazos’ bullets had nailed him to the wall. Pretty Boy had been a nice looking man with a fine head of hair and good manners and they’d had good times together. She supposed she would miss him until somebody came along to take his place.

  But that was about as far as it went. The big thing in Dutch Amy’s small dark mind tonight wasn’t Tyler, but Hank Brazos and the real threat she suddenly felt he posed to her power. Tonight, Dutch was more preoccupied with planning one man’s death, than fretting over one already dead. She was a better hater than a lover.

  “You jokers was wrong about keepin’ Brazos on,” she told them flatly.

  They nodded repentantly in unison. Maclaine said, “We were and we’re sorry, Dutch.” A pause, then, “What now?”

  “We kill him.”

  The two men exchanged a hard glance of approval at that; they, too, had suddenly come to realize that big Hank Brazos was looming as a danger to their secret way of life. They looked back to Dutch and California Nick said quickly, “When Dutch?”

  “He’s likely expectin’ us to make a play,” she growled. “Him and that high-steppin’ Benedict. We’ll give ’em a couple days to go offen the boil, then hit ’em with all we got.”

  Evans Maclaine nodded in full approval. There was no doubt about Dutch, she had a good head on her shoulders, when it came to planning things, a lot better than his he wasn’t loath to admit. In fact, it was Dutch’s good head that had prompted him to take her into partnership when they’d made a certain important discovery out at the Willow Flats a little time back. Maclaine had the men to kick the miners off their lease out there and when that was done California Nick had the know-how to take best advantage of their discovery. But it had been Dutch who’d organized the whole campaign against the miners, and Dutch, who through force of personality and ability, had gradually assumed leadership of their dangerous little trio.