Benedict and Brazos 16

by E. Jefferson Clay

  It was when he realized the killer was making for the ghost town that Benedict elected to try a shot. Aiming above the speeding figure ahead, he squeezed off a shot and saw a spurt of dust a few feet from the gray’s heels. He lifted the gun and triggered again.

  He thought the man ahead jerked in the saddle, but he couldn’t be certain. He didn’t get the chance to fire again, for his quarry had swung around a leaning shed and disappeared.

  The ancient false fronts threw the beat of the black’s hoofbeats back at Benedict as he thundered into the deserted town and followed the flitting shape ahead. The killer went pounding across the rickety old bridge flung across the creek that split the ghost town in half. Benedict had a bad moment when the black almost lost his footing on the rotted timbers of the bridge, but the horse recovered and they went plunging on into what had once been the seedy, industrial section of Hardcase.

  The dark streets suddenly rang with thunder. Bullets ricocheted off a stone wall. Then Benedict made out the stationary figures of the horse and rider. Gun flame blossomed and he felt a bullet tug at the panel of his coat as he jerked trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty. Cursing, he reined up, holstered the weapon and jerked out his left hand gun. The killer kicked his mount away, blasted back over his shoulder and went plunging down a narrow street. Benedict galloped the black recklessly into the street mouth and triggered the moment he saw his quarry outlined against the moonlight. The gray horse whinnied and fell. The rider rolled, got to his feet and dashed from sight.

  When Benedict reached the corner where the dead horse lay, there was no sign of his man. Then he was ducking low as gun flame burst from the dark bulk of a narrow hotel set back from the street. Vaulting from the saddle, he cleared a canting fence at a bound, dropped low and snaked towards the hotel. A bullet whined close but the deep gloom was his protection. He heard fast-running steps, then came silence.

  Head cocked as he reloaded, Benedict listened intently. After a while there came the creak of a floorboard from deep within the hotel.

  Light steps led him to the side doorway where an ancient sign said: Rooms Fifty Cents. The door creaked open to the touch of his gun muzzle and he went through fast. In the blackness, he flattened himself against a wall with his Peacemakers at the ready. Then he heard a rustling sound above him and he walked slowly towards a dimly outlined stairway.

  Keeping to the inside of each step where the wood would be the most solid, Benedict climbed to the landing. Moonlight slanted in through shuttered windows and dusty drapes flapped in the wind. He saw something glistening on the floor. Blood.

  “Give yourself up, killer!” he shouted. “You’re wounded and don’t stand a chance!”

  A six-gun spoke, frighteningly close. Benedict threw himself flat and saw a dark shape on the roof beyond the window at the head of the stairs. He fired twice and rotting woodwork burst from the window frame. Lead buzzed past his cheek, then his Colt answered with thunderous authority and through the storm of its voice came a jagged scream and the stutter of boots. He reached the window in time to see the man go backwards over the roof parapet, both hands at his chest, locked teeth set in a terrible grimace of agony.

  A half minute later, Benedict was kneeling by the dead man’s side. The killer had fallen in a patch of moonlight, arms and legs out flung, eyes staring. Benedict fingered the eyelids shut, then studied his victim. Young, a sly, ugly face, coal-black hair, a dark dash of moustache. In his deep chest were two neat holes an inch apart over the heart.

  Benedict’s nerves were twanging. He took the time to get a cigar going before searching the corpse. There was a letter in the breast pocket addressed to Trogg Denver, Frontier Hotel, Carrington. He checked the dead man’s .38. The Initials T.D. were etched in the baseplate.

  Trogg Denver was, he decided, a killer for hire.

  The dead man was carrying thirty dollars in cash, a clasp knife, a tin of cigars, and a plug of chewing tobacco. There was a soft leather wallet in his boot-top.

  Benedict’s thumb snapped the catch on the wallet and he spilled the contents into his palm. Moonlight glowed on a pearl necklace.

  His first thought was that the necklace must be the proceeds of a robbery. He came erect and held the necklace out before him. The pearls were graded perfectly from the smallest at the neck clasp to the biggest in the center. They were obviously pearls of the highest quality. Had he seen them before? He wasn’t sure.

  He brought the pearls closer to study them, and it was then that he caught the faint odor of perfume. It was all that was needed to trigger his memory. The scent was the same that had clung so seductively to the written invitation he and Brazos had received from Golden Hoof Ranch.

  Now he knew.

  The last time he’d seen this string of pearls they had been encircling the slender neck of Tracy Kilraine.

  It was almost one in the morning when cowboy Brick Gunther got Barlow Hardcastle’s body home to the Shotgun Ranch headquarters—and just after two when fifteen Shotgun riders, Martin Hardcastle at their head, hit the nightriders of the Golden Hoof’s west border.

  The Golden Hoof lost two men and had two wounded in that fierce, brief clash. The Shotgun Ranch sustained no fatalities, but wounded Golden Hoof nighthawk Ringo Platt was able to get clear and carry the news of the shattering of the peace back to Kilraine and Brazos.

  The welcome home party for Tracy was drawing to a close when the cowboy came staggering in. Within five minutes, Hank Brazos and every available hand were in the saddle and thundering west.

  At this stage, nobody on the Golden Hoof knew of the death of Barlow Hardcastle at Monument Rock. All they knew was that the Shotgun had broken the truce and that when last seen, Martin Hardcastle had been heading for the roundup center at the Five Mile.

  The new battle began at the Five Mile. Martin Hardcastle turned with relish to meet the challenge of the Golden Hoof force that came sweeping through the bulk of stampeding cattle.

  Martin Hardcastle was not a sane man that night. His brother had been brutally murdered and he’d decided that only the Golden Hoof could be responsible. Hardcastle felt he had been lulled into a sense of false security by a treacherous, scheming foe, and the cost of his trust had been his kid brother’s life.

  Hank Brazos was there with his lethal gun and his iron leadership, assets that enabled the Golden Hoof hands to stand off the first savage Shotgun attack and then force the enemy to fight defensively. Skirmish lines were drawn up, with the Hardcastle forces holding the line of the creek and the Golden Hoof men behind the huge cow corrals. The Five Mile rocked to the snarl of guns and cordite smoke eddied and gusted in ghostly trails above the battleground and, many miles north, Duke Benedict rode into Sunsmoke with a dead man draped over the back of his horse.

  The moment Benedict learned the identity of Trogg Denver’s victim, his mind leaped to the inevitable consequences. Delaying only as long as it took to get Sheriff Barney Vint mounted up and to rope the killer’s corpse onto a fresh horse, he put Sunsmoke behind him and drummed for the Golden Hoof.

  As they passed Monument Rock where Barlow Hardcastle had died, they heard the first, distant stutter of gunfire like angry thunder in the night. Following the trail, they cut off at Ribagult Crossing and climbed the hills for the Five Mile.

  Lady Luck chose to give them a small smile when she brought them face to face with Smiley Dunn in the woods. The Shotgun wrangler had been shot twice at the Five Mile and was bleeding badly, but he was able to give them an account of the battle. After applying first aid to the cowhand’s wounds, Benedict convinced Dunn that Denver, and not a Golden Hoof man, had been responsible for Barlow’s death. Dunn was sufficiently impressed by Benedict’s sincerity, supported by the killer’s corpse, to forego his visit to the Sunsmoke medic for the time being and return to the Five Mile to pass the news on to Martin Hardcastle.

  Dunn’s report was astounding enough to force Martin Hardcastle to agree to a cease-fire while Benedict produced his evidence. De
spite the killing fury that still gripped him, Hardcastle quickly sensed that Benedict’s story was true. Brick Gunther had told Martin that a rider had pursued the drygulcher from Monument Rock. Benedict had brought the killer’s gun back with his body from the ghost town. Denver’s gun was unusual, a Smith and Wesson .38. Gunther had picked up two .38 shells at the ambush site when he’d combed Monument Rock to make certain the killer Benedict pursued had been alone.

  With the grim-faced cowboys on both sides still holding their skirmish lines, Martin Hardcastle was prepared to accept that his brother’s killer had not been a Golden Hoof rider. But the Shotgun boss wasn’t about to give the Golden Hoof a clean slate. Benedict himself had described Denver as a gun-for-hire. If somebody had hired Denver to murder his brother, he pointed out with grim logic, who else should he suspect of paying the blood-money but someone from the Golden Hoof?

  Now, as Benedict searched his mind for a convincing reply to Hardcastle’s logic, Hank Brazos came up with the obvious counter. If the Golden Hoof had hired Trogg Denver why had Benedict risked his neck to hunt him down and kill him?

  The savage light in vengeful Martin Hardcastle’s dark eyes faded at that. He stood staring at Benedict and Brazos for a long while, then he shoved his gun away. They saw his face grow haggard with grief and regret as he turned slowly to stare out across the battle scene. Then, walking like an old man, he trudged to the creek where the Shotgun horses were tied. He swung up and started for home.

  Uncertain, wondering, the Shotgun men stared after his slump-shouldered figure, then they looked across at the three men standing by the tank stand in the fading moonlight.

  “It’s all over!” Hank Brazos called out. “Go on home ... it was all a mistake!” He stood with his hands on his hips watching as the Shotgun men walked, some limping, to their horses. Then the Golden Hoof hands came cautiously from the cover of the cow corrals.

  The Texan’s blue eyes were bitter when he finally turned to Benedict. “Some mistake, eh, Yank?”

  Benedict nodded. “I hope it was all a mistake,” he murmured. He was watching Blaney Macduff and Murch Moran carrying shot-up Nelson Charles towards the water trough, but his eyes were distant. His right hand was in the pocket of his broadcloth coat, his fingers moving over a string of pearls.

  Chapter Eight

  The Tigress Strikes

  The next morning pale sunlight came through the bare trees outside the Golden Hoof ranch house, and the wind blew at the branches, causing their shadows to flick across the pearl necklace that lay on Ethan Kilraine’s desk. The cattleman closed his red-rimmed eyes, then opened them again and nodded.

  “Yes, these are Tracy’s pearls. I gave them to her on her twenty-first birthday. But how did they come into your possession, Duke?”

  Benedict was watching the girl intently. Tracy stood before the desk, fingertips touching the leading edge, looking at the pearls. She didn’t turn a hair when he said:

  “They were on Denver when I killed him at Hardcase.”

  “That’s loco, Benedict,” Brazos declared. “How would a low-life like that get hold of somethin’ belongin’ to Tracy?”

  “I thought she might be able to shed some light on that,” Benedict answered. “Can you, Tracy?”

  Tracy Kilraine turned away from the desk and faced Benedict levelly. “Of course I can tell you how that man came by my pearls—or at least how I think he came by them. But before I do, I’m rather curious about what might be going on in your mind, Duke. You called us here this morning and you produced those pearls with the air of a magician drawing a rabbit from a hat. I’m sure I don’t understand why you should make so much of this. Would you like to enlighten me?”

  A trace of uncertainty came to Benedict’s face. He glanced at Brazos who was looking totally confused, then he brought his gaze back to the girl.

  “You don’t think I should be astonished to find something valuable belonging to you on the person of a killer, Tracy?”

  “Astonished, yes, but I sense more behind your manner than mere astonishment. Am I right or wrong?”

  Thrown on the defensive by the girl’s poise, Benedict frowned at the pearls. “You’re wrong, Tracy,” he lied.

  She smiled brightly. “Well, that’s a relief.” Then turning to her puzzled father, she said, “These pearls and the lovely little ring of mother’s were stolen from my hotel room in Carrington, Father.” She shrugged. “Obviously this Trogg Denver was the thief. I believe Duke said he came from Carrington, didn’t he?”

  “That’s so, honey,” the rancher said. “But I don’t understand. You didn’t mention that your room had been robbed when you returned home on Friday.”

  “Of course I didn’t. With all the problems you’ve been having lately, it wasn’t going to cheer you up to hear that I’d lost an expensive string of pearls and the ring you gave to mother.”

  Kilraine smiled in relief. “I should have known there would be a perfectly simple explanation for this.” He moved to his daughter’s side and placed an arm about her shoulders. “You’re a very considerate girl, Tracy ... always thinking of me.” He glanced at Benedict. “Well, Duke? Satisfied?”

  Benedict hesitated for just a moment, then murmured, “Of course.”

  The girl stepped across to where Benedict stood by the window and said seriously, “I can understand why you were surprised to find those pearls on Trogg Denver last night, Duke. It would have been impossible for you to feel otherwise. But now that we’ve cleared the air, I want to say how much I admire you for the way you went after poor Barlow’s killer, and how you were able to stop the fighting at the Five Mile.”

  Benedict nodded and looked out the window. Across the yard he could see a couple of the hands helping Ringo Platt down from a buckboard. Platt had just returned from Sunsmoke and a session with the doctor. Ringo was one of the lucky ones. A total of nine men had died last night.

  “You look very tired, Duke,” Tracy said sympathetically. “Why don’t you come and have some breakfast, then turn in.” She smiled at Brazos. “You, too, Hank.”

  Brazos had been studying Benedict speculatively. Catching his look, Benedict said, “Why don’t you and your father go ahead of us, Tracy? Brazos and I have a couple of things to talk over.”

  “Very well,” the girl smiled. “But don’t be too long.”

  Kilraine followed his daughter to the door, then paused to look back. “In case I didn’t put it into so many words,” he said soberly, “I want to say thanks, too, boys. I don’t know what we’d have done without you last night, I surely don’t ...”

  It was silent in the study after the door closed behind Kilraine and his daughter. Benedict selected a cigar and set it alight. When he finally glanced up, he wasn’t at all surprised to find Brazos’ hard blue eyes drilling at him.

  “Well, out with it, Johnny Reb,” Benedict said. “What’s eating at your liver?”

  Brazos had been leaning against a bookshelf, one hand hooked in his shell belt. Now he straightened and came slowly across to the window. He looked very big and formidable as he stood before Benedict, dappled sunlight playing over his craggy face and barrel chest.

  “Just one thing Yank,” he said quietly. “What were you thinkin’ about them pearls?”

  Benedict met his eyes but found he couldn’t hold the Texan’s stare. In the wake of Tracy’s explanation, the dark suspicions that had nagged at him suddenly seemed trite and unworthy. He felt guilty now for even having entertained the thought that Tracy Kilraine might have hired Trogg Denver to kill Barlow Hardcastle, paying for his services with a string of pearls. He felt doubly guilty because he knew that Brazos guessed what had been going on in his mind …

  He straightened, forcing himself to meet the Texan’s blue eyes again. “Does it really matter what I thought?” he asked quietly.

  “It does to me.”

  “I’ll just say this: whatever I’d been thinking before, I’m not thinking it now.”

  For a bad minute, he
thought Brazos might make an issue of it. He was relieved when the Texan finally nodded his head and said:

  “Good enough, Yank. Let’s go eat.”

  “Just one more thing, Reb.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why don’t we pull out?”

  “You know we can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “For a dozen plain reasons. But mainly on account of I gave Tracy my word that we’d stay on until after the cattle boats leave. That’s only a few more days, Yank. If all is peaceful by then, I reckon I’ll be ready to haul my freight.”

  “I have a feeling we should go now.”

  Brazos grinned. “You know your trouble?”

  “What?”

  “You need a bellyful of hot grub. My pappy always said that a man with an empty belly ain’t never—”

  “Spare me,” Benedict cut him off. Then he managed a tight smile. “All right, Johnny Reb, perhaps you’re right at that. Let’s join Ethan and Tracy.”

  They walked from the room together. The rich smell of hot bacon assailed their nostrils as they headed for the breakfast room, and Duke Benedict was surprised to realize that, despite all the violent death and suspicion that had shadowed the past twelve hours, he was hungry.

  Tracy Kilraine entered her room and locked the door behind her.

  The room was her sanctuary on the Golden Hoof, the only place where she could be totally alone and undisturbed. It was a big room on the first floor of the great house with windows commanding a sweeping view of the ranch all the way to the Whetstones. When she was younger, she would sit by the window for hours, watching the work and bustle in the corrals, taking a dreamy interest in the activities of the birds, the changing colors of the seasons. But now it was a place she came to to nurse her hatred and to plan the next step in her deliberate march towards vengeance.