Benedict and Brazos 16

by E. Jefferson Clay

  Tracy Kilraine studied her father in silence for a long moment, then she motioned for Sam Fieldman to leave. When the ramrod had gone, she went to the desk and sat down, clasping her hands before her.

  “Father,” she began quietly, “I love the Golden Hoof because you taught me to love it, and I’ve always done everything I could to help it grow. I’ve tried to look after you and I take pride in what we’ve built together. But, if you want to stand back and see what we’ve built over the years destroyed, then ...” Her voice trailed away.

  Pain showed in the cattleman’s face. “Honey, if you think I’m ready to let the Golden Hoof fail, then you’ve never been more wrong in your life.”

  “Then do what you have to do to protect it, Father!” She rose swiftly, moving around the desk on long, slender legs. “The men Sam mentioned sound like the very kind we need to force the Shotgun to see that to continue the war is pointless. I don’t want more killing, Father, I want to put an end to it. But we can’t do that through weakness, only through strength. If that reasoning is wrong, then tell me how?’

  Not for the first time in his life, Ethan Kilraine felt himself giving ground to his daughter. Sometimes Tracy frightened him with the way she could come to decisions that he himself shrank from. And her arguments always seemed logical, strong and reasonable. He stood looking at her, searching his mind for the argument that would destroy hers, but he failed. Perhaps ... perhaps if they were to hire two really proficient gunmen, it would bring an end to the blood feud that was growing more virulent with every passing week.

  “Very well, Tracy,” he finally said with a sigh. “I’ll send Sam to talk with those fellows. But—”

  “He already has.”

  Kilraine blinked. “I don’t understand.”

  “Sam feared they might have come here to work for the Shotgun. But when he approached them, they told him they had merely come to Sunsmoke by chance. So he sounded them out about working for us, and they said no.”

  Kilraine was annoyed at Fieldman taking so much upon himself. But at the same time he felt relieved. He said, “Well, that seems to put an end to it.”

  The girl smiled, showing small, perfectly even white teeth. Then she laughed as she threw her head back and thrust out one hip in an exaggerated provocative pose. “Not necessarily, Father ... not if I were to use my fatal charms.”

  Kilraine had to laugh. “I’ll wager you could, too, missy.”

  She sobered and then, moving to him, placed her hands on his shoulders. “We need these men, Father. The Golden Hoof needs them. Shall we invite them to visit us, say tomorrow?”

  His smile turned rueful. “If I refuse, you’ll pester and badger me until I give in, won’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  Chapter Two

  No Guns for Hire

  Sheriff Barney Vint had a bulldog. He was the biggest dog in Box Butte County, a surly beast with a corrugated forehead, mean red eyes and a foul disposition. Ruffy had all the cats, most of the women and at least half the male population of Sunsmoke bluffed, and his glowering passage down Cottonwood Street commanded more respect than his master had ever been able to engender.

  Yet, fearsome as was his reputation, old Ruffy was skulking in the cell annex with his tail between his legs as the two tall men sat in the front office talking with the sheriff. Vint’s dog was peering around the corner with one wide eye, watching the monster named Bullpup noisily lap up the contents of his sacred supper dish.

  Hank Brazos’ battle-scarred trail hound ignored the sheriff’s dog as he leisurely demolished the sheriff’s leftovers and cracked big bones expertly in his jaws. Bullpup accepted Ruffy’s cowardly deference as nothing more than his due for he had proved himself against wolves, mountain lions, gunmen and uncounted dogs, some of which were lucky to be still living. Ruffy was mean and foul-tempered, but he wasn’t stupid. He didn’t want any part of Hank Brazos’ dog—but he would certainly give the cats something to think about later tonight, just to regain some of his self-esteem.

  For a time, the only sound in the office was the deliberate crunching of Bullpup’s molars as slack-jawed Barney Vint thought hard. Finally the lawman shook his head and said:

  “Sorry, ain’t been no feller name of Rangle hereabouts, gents. I never forget a name.”

  They hadn’t really expected to get a lead on the man they were hunting here in Sunsmoke, but with the trail of their quarry gone cold, they couldn’t afford to pass up even a faint possibility.

  Their hunt for Bo Rangle, killer, renegade and traitor, dated back to the dying days of the Civil War. On a blood-soaked stretch of earth in Georgia, Confederate and Union troops had fought a pitched battle over a shipment of Confederate gold, only to have the gold snatched away by the infamous Rangle’s Raiders. Rebel Sergeant Hank Brazos and Federal Captain Duke Benedict were the sole survivors of one hundred and fifty men. Chance had brought them together at war’s end, and now they hunted Bo Rangle and the gold so many brave men had died for.

  The trail partners didn’t press the subject of Bo Rangle. If the killer had been within a hundred miles, Sunsmoke would certainly have been aware of it. Also, they didn’t want to make the sheriff nervous, which they considered a distinct possibility if the man got the idea they were about to kill somebody. The main reason for their visit was to make themselves known to the John Law and to assure him they were just passing through and were searching for nothing more than peace and quiet. They’d deemed the visit necessary after realizing they were regarded in Sunsmoke as new recruits in the Golden Hoof-Shotgun Ranch range war.

  The “gunfighter” tag was not new, but it was one they didn’t relish. Though neither had ever hired out his gun, they had the look and cut of gun handlers; in addition, the story of their run-in with the Hole in the Wall gang had preceded them from Boot. Three killers had died in that shootout in Boot, and that sort of news had a way of travelling fast.

  There was silence again as Barney Vint studied them from under bushy brows. Finally he asked what was uppermost in his mind.

  “You fellers aim to be stayin’ on long in Sunsmoke?”

  “Not long,” Benedict supplied, the diffused light from the desk lamp etching his classic features. “We came here to rest a little, but it would seem our choice left something to be desired.”

  Big Hank Brazos stirred in his chair and growled, “You can say that again. Do you fellers fun it like this hereabouts all the time, Vint?”

  “Fun it?” the badge packer asked, not understanding.

  “He’s referring to the dead men Sam Fieldman brought in this afternoon,” Benedict supplied.

  Barney’s Vint’s seamed face seemed to fall. “Oh ... that.” He sighed gustily and scratched his lean belly. “No, we don’t have much of that sort of thing around here. Leastways, we never used to until the last couple of months. I guess you’ve heard about the range war?”

  They nodded in unison. The war between the two big ranches was almost the sole topic of conversation in Sunsmoke. It had interfered with Brazos’ drinking and had impeded Benedict’s attempt to charm a saloon girl at the Wagon Wheel—the girl had lost a cousin in the war three weeks back at Samson’s Canyon.

  “Hear tell both sides have been soundin’ you two out,” Vint went on. “But you ain’t interested, are you?”

  “No.”

  Brazos looked up sharply at the tone of Benedict’s voice. Always, after a killing, Benedict withdrew into a shell of reserve, as if he’d locked a door through which nobody could get through. At such times, Brazos, the simpler man, craved company, beer, music and laughter. But Benedict kept his own counsel and went looking for a girl to help him forget. Brazos was wary of these somber moods of Benedict’s, for when they were present there was always the fear that Benedict would turn to him with his cold look and say, “I’ve had my fill of this business, Johnny Reb. I’m through.”

  Hank Brazos wasn’t a contemplative man, but whenever his thoughts followed along these lines, he
couldn’t help but wonder why the possibility of Benedict’s quitting the partnership should bother him. They were men from entirely different worlds: the illiterate son of a Texas sodbuster and the highly educated son of a rich Boston banker. They rode together on a common quest but were prone to disagree on just about everything from Federal politics to how a steak should be fried. Benedict liked to carve him up with his acid tongue and Brazos never lost a chance to show his superiority in feats of strength, trailsmanship or plain country-bred horse-sense. It was one of the unlikeliest partnerships in the west, yet somewhere along the line big Hank Brazos had developed a grudging liking for the best fighting man he’d ever met, and the possibility of Benedict sickening of the long hunt for Rangle disturbed him now as it always did.

  “It’s as hot as the insides of a dragon in here, Yank,” he said, suddenly getting to his feet and seeming to dwarf the room with his bulk. “Let’s go have a few more drinks.”

  Benedict looked pensively at the lawman, then turned to regard Brazos’ saddle-bronzed young face. When Benedict smiled, Brazos knew he was beginning to come out of it.

  “All right, Johnny Reb.” Benedict put on his hat with a flourish. “Let’s do that.”

  They said goodnight to the sheriff and headed for the door. Bullpup got up to follow, and Ruffy, mistaking exit for retreat, barked. Bullpup propped, rolled his yellow eyes, and a rumbling like the sound of a buzz saw sounded from his barrel chest. Ruffy vanished with a whimper. A smile seemed to work the great dog’s jaws as he looked at Vint, then he swaggered out to follow his master towards the welcoming lights of the Wagon Wheel Saloon.

  The Wagon Wheel was doing good business in the early evening hour, catering to the impressive thirsts of cowboys in from the range along with the more modest requirements of the towners who were relaxing between work and the evening meal at home.

  It was a typical frontier saloon, featuring a long bar with a brass rail, gambling tables, a piano, four painted percentage girls, bad whisky and big oil lamps hanging on chains. The lamps gave the big, cheaply furnished barroom the touch of opulence it lacked by daylight.

  The saloon was Sunsmoke’s biggest, attracting most of the local and passing trade. To the long bar of the Wagon Wheel came drummers, men in fringed buckskins with the light of vast distances in their eyes, trappers, wolvers, trail herders, cattle buyers and surveyors for the government. These colorful types were present that evening along with an eager young newshound from the Sunsmoke Sentinel. Everybody wanted to hear details of the clash with the Hole in the Wall outlaws, but to listen to Hank Brazos, they could have formed the idea that it had been nothing more than a casual skirmish.

  It was the Texan’s habit to downgrade incidents like the one in Boot, but Benedict felt obliged to set matters straight, mainly because it had been Brazos and not he who had lowered the boom on the badmen.

  The Hole in the Wall gang, Benedict told his absorbed audience, had taken him captive and occupied Boot’s Daybreak saloon. The idea was to draw Brazos in, kill him and then shoot Benedict. But it didn’t work out that way. Brazos had appeared on the main street right on cue. Three killers loafed on the gallery of the Daybreak Saloon, and Blayney Bick called to Brazos to step down and parley.

  Instead, Brazos had hauled iron and used his spurs.

  His big appaloosa had leaped forward at the touch of steel and charged headlong for the Daybreak Saloon as Brazos’ gun sent lead across the street.

  “He’s gone loco!” Blayney Bick had roared. And he’d died with those words.

  Then the giant Texan and his wild-eyed horse had come through the saloon doors. Benedict had flattened one bad man in the confusion, had taken his gun and gave another a bullet between the eyes. In the meantime, Brazos gunned down four outlaws. The others had surrendered.

  The Wagon Wheel audience lapped it up. The newspaperman, true to his calling, demanded more details—until Brazos drawled that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d thrown an annoying reporter through a window.

  Finally left alone, they were enjoying their drinks when Brazos glanced up and saw two men approaching. They were both young and dark-headed, obviously brothers. The older and bigger of the two, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, was dressed in a pea-green jacket, denim pants and range boots. The younger man was smaller, slim-hipped and flashily dressed. He had a narrow face and something in his eyes that was wild.

  The Hardcastle brothers introduced themselves. Having already received an overture concerning employment only that afternoon, the newcomers to Sunsmoke sensed immediately what had brought Martin and Barlow Hardcastle to the Wagon Wheel. But they were due for a surprise when, after a drink and some small talk, Martin Hardcastle revealed that he and his brother merely wanted a guarantee that the “gunfighters” would keep out of the conflict.

  “Well, I reckon we can help you there,” said Brazos, toying with the harmonica he wore on a rawhide thong around his neck. “We’re here to rest up, drink a little booze and spell our mounts. Right, Yank?”

  “Correct.” Benedict flicked ash from his cigar onto the head of Bullpup, dozing on the floor after lapping up a dish of beer. The great hound flicked a scarred ear, opened one eye to give Benedict a look of yellow hatred, then drifted off again.

  Martin Hardcastle smiled in relief and looked at his brother. “Well, that’s a load off our minds, Barlow.”

  Barlow Hardcastle just shrugged. Obviously, he wasn’t much taken with Brazos and Benedict. They’d heard, amongst the welter of gossip concerning the Golden Hoof-Shotgun feud, that young Barlow had personally accounted for two Kilraine riders over the past weeks. Looking at the boy, they could believe it. He had trouble written in his eyes.

  The meeting might have passed uneventfully if Martin Hardcastle hadn’t insisted on buying them a drink. Inevitably the conversation touched on the range war. Barlow claimed that the Golden Hoof had started the war and was keeping it going. Hank Brazos sniffed and drawled:

  “Funny thing, but I always figgered it took two to make a fight.”

  Barlow scowled at him. “Only a yeller dog will walk away from a ruckus that somebody else starts, Texan.”

  Brazos’ craggy face frowned. “Do you call that bushwhacking last night a ruckus?”

  Benedict jerked his attention from the undulating hips of a passing percentage girl and shot Brazos a warning look. But Brazos seemed not to notice, and Martin Hardcastle spoke up forcefully:

  “We had nothin’ to do with that raid, Hank. We were as surprised as anybody else when we heard about it.”

  Brazos shrugged his heavy shoulders and lifted his drink. “He doesn’t believe us, Marty,” Barlow said thinly. Then, aggressively, “I thought you pilgrims didn’t aim to take sides.”

  “You’re talking a little loud, don’t you think, mister?” Duke Benedict said softly.

  The younger Hardcastle flushed, but before he could reply his brother got to his feet and said, “Mr. Benedict is right, Barlow. Anyhow, we didn’t come here to wrangle.” He picked up his hat. “Thanks for the drink, gents. Come on, Bar, we’ve got to see Miller before we head home.”

  Benedict and Brazos watched the brothers as they walked to the batwings. Barlow Hardcastle paused at the batwings, then flashed a hot-eyed glance back at them before following his brother out.

  “Hot-head!” Benedict murmured.

  “A young and mouthy hot-head,” Brazos added. “You see the way he was lookin’ us over, Yank? It was like he was tryin’ to figure out if we’re really any good.”

  “I saw. However, it’s no concern of ours one way or the other. Another drink?”

  Brazos grinned broadly. “Don’t see how one more is gonna hurt, Yank.”

  So they had another drink. And another and another. Then a bouncy little blonde named Jenny came out to sing, and later she joined them at their table. Benedict turned on his charm, and it wasn’t too long before Jenny was all over him. Brazos, mellowed by drink, took up his harmonica to play some jaunty so
ngs of Texas. Customers gathered around, a cowhand bought Bullpup another dish of beer, and a rousing party was underway when Sam Fieldman arrived to invite the newcomers to visit the Golden Hoof the next night.

  Their immediate reaction was negative. Then the ramrod produced a formal invitation. It came on a printed card that bore the Golden Hoof letterhead and was written in a flowing copperplate hand. The hand was Miss Tracy Kilraine’s, and the subtle scent of perfume that Benedict’s educated nose immediately identified as expensive, was also hers. Miss Kilraine wrote that she and her father would be honored to have Messrs. Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict as their guests at a small dinner party at the Golden Hoof headquarters at eight the following night. Dress was optional.

  It was the optional dress that captured Benedict’s attention. It implied an appreciation for the finer things of life. Back home in Boston, the Benedicts dressed for dinner every evening. Dress optional ... It suggested that the Kilraines were people of breeding and refinement—and Benedict found himself envisioning sparkling crystal, fine silverware and the murmur of polished conversation as he sat tapping the invitation card on the tabletop.

  But Brazos was unimpressed. “Tell ’em thanks ... but no, thanks,” he declared emphatically, and promptly launched into “Yellow Rose of Texas” on the harmonica.

  But Benedict’s curiosity was piqued, so while Brazos entertained the locals, he quietly pumped Fieldman and Jenny Haines about the Kilraines. To hear the ramrod tell it, Ethan Kilraine was the whitest man in Montana and his daughter unquestionably the reigning beauty of Box Butte County. Benedict wasn’t prepared to put too much stock in the latter claim, for he well knew how lonesome cowhands were apt to endow any female who wasn’t toothless and sway-backed with impossible attributes. Then Jenny got onto the subject. According to her, Tracy Kilraine was arrogant, snobbish, wanton—and her looks weren’t anything to rave about at all. Which made Benedict wonder, especially when he saw jealousy in Jenny’s eyes.