Benedict and Brazos 16

by E. Jefferson Clay

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong about that, Tracy. You brought us into this fight, and suddenly I’m beginning to wonder whether I’m riding on the right side of the fence.”

  He moved to pick up his hat. “I’m leaving, Tracy. If I can, I’ll get Brazos to go with me.”

  Color left Tracy Kilraine’s face. “You’re thinking of backing Martin?”

  “I’m thinking that I have a lot of thinking to do ...”

  Tracy moved swiftly to the door, put her back to it and spread her hands. “You’re not leaving, Duke,” she said. “I won’t let you.”

  Benedict halted before the girl and put on his hat, throwing the upper half of his face into shadow from which gray eyes gleamed hard.

  “Step aside, Tracy.”

  Tracy’s face seemed to crumple. It was incredible what her anger did to her; her mouth twisted and her eyes seemed to change from green to yellow. Then she threw her head back and screamed.

  “Hank! Father! Come quickly!”

  Benedict’s eyes snapped wide open. He stepped towards her, but she flung herself to the floor, her hands tearing at her dress as she fell. She screamed again, then the door burst open and Brazos lunged in.

  “What the blue-eyed Judas—?”

  “He struck me, Hank,” Tracy screamed. “He got angry when I tried to persuade him to stay, and he struck me!”

  Brazos’ right fist hooked out and connected against Benedict’s jaw. He fell to the floor, hat spinning off, hair disarrayed. Kilraine, framed in the doorway, emitted a shocked gasp. Benedict lay stunned for a moment, then he shook his head. Fierce fire filled his eyes as he looked up at the towering figure of the Texan. The next moment he exploded from the floor. His hand was filled with Colt and his face was white with fury as he rammed the muzzle of the gun into Brazos’ thick neck. The Texan didn’t move a muscle. Nobody spoke. A handful of agonized seconds dragged by in silence, then the gun slowly came down.

  The fury left Benedict’s eyes and his face turned haggard. “I never thought it would come to this, Johnny Reb.”

  Brazos seemed to have aged years in those electric seconds. “Me neither, Yank.”

  Benedict stared at Tracy who trembled convincingly in her father’s arms. He holstered his gun, stooped to retrieve his hat and walked slowly back to Brazos. Then he said:

  “I’m not about to tell you something you wouldn’t believe, Brazos, so I’ll just say this—we’ve stayed here too long, mister. What just happened proves it. Let’s ride out, Reb, and turn our backs on it. Are you with me?”

  It was a terrible moment for Hank Brazos. This was the man he’d ridden with and fought side by side with for a long time. This was the man who, despite his acid tongue and his arrogant ways, had never let him down once when it really counted. They’d fought before, but things had never come to this, and he felt the cruel bite of indecision.

  Then, before Brazos could speak, Tracy grasped his heavy muscular arm, the slim length of her body against him, gazing up at him with a tender, pleading, innocent look that promised so much ...

  Brazos looked across at Benedict, who saw his white, trapped look and understood it.

  “You’re making a mistake, Reb,” he said softly, then he headed for the door.

  “You’re leaving, Duke?” Kilraine said, looking sick.

  “I must.” Benedict paused. “I was ready to quit the county if you’d come with me, Reb. But I don’t believe I can now ... it wouldn’t be right ...”

  “He’s going to Hardcastle!” Tracy accused.

  Brazos said, “Is that so, Yank?”

  “If I do, it’ll only be because I want to see fair play.”

  “I’ll stay with the Golden Hoof, Yank.”

  “If that’s the way of it, then that’s the way of it,” Benedict said. Turning, he walked from the room and out of the house.

  It was a little after midnight when twenty heavily armed Golden Hoof riders led by Hank Brazos crossed the border of the Shotgun Ranch and headed for their mustering point at Jimcrack Flats. Brazos had given the men strict instructions before leaving. Their task was to stampede the Shotgun herd, not to see how many scalps they might claim. With the Shotgun herd scattered, Strom Jackson would have no option but to buy from the Golden Hoof tomorrow. Martin Hardcastle would be ruined, and this would be revenge enough.

  It was a Hank Brazos the cowboys didn’t know who took them in stealthily down through the ravines leading to the flats: a hard-faced, unsmiling man with iron in his eyes. They’d heard of the split with Benedict, but no man had dared raise the subject with the Texan. They would have preferred to have fast Duke Benedict riding with them tonight, but by the look of Brazos, he would adequately fill the gap Benedict had left if things went wrong on Jimcrack Flats.

  Things did go wrong, but not in the way any of them had anticipated. When they reached the muster site, they found it empty—not a solitary cow to be seen. A broad, hoof-marked trail from the flats pointed in the direction of Sunsmoke.

  “The bastards have gone!” a cowboy breathed as they sat their saddles staring about them at the empty corrals. “Somebody must have tipped ’em off.”

  “Yeah, and I got a good idea who,” Brazos said bitterly. “Come on, we’re headin’ home. Ain’t nothing to be done here tonight.”

  “I told you, Trogg,” Billy Denver said to the six-foot long mound of earth in Sunsmoke’s Boothill. “They always bring a feller bad luck, them skirts. Ain’t one of ’em born that any man could trust since the beginnin’ of time. I warned you, but you never would listen to me, would you, Trogg?”

  He’d come up on the River Princess with the cattle boats yesterday. He’d told somebody he was going to see his brother, but the passenger hadn’t been interested enough to stay and listen to any more. Billy Denver had that effect on people. He was a mean-eyed little fellow who men naturally shied away from. When he spoke, it was in a thin, complaining whine. He sniffed all the time and he smelled bad. As if that wasn’t enough, murderous Trogg Denver’s kid brother had been born with a deformed foot, necessitating the use of the single crutch that now lay at his side in the rank cemetery grass.

  They’d buried Trogg in the cheapest section of Boothill, as befitted a drygulcher who’d run out of luck. They hadn’t even given him a marker, and the cranky old gravedigger had had to direct Billy to the grave when he’d limped up from town this morning. Billy was thinking that when the whiskery old goat moved out of sight, he might filch a few flowers from that next grave and lay them on top of Trogg’s.

  There were tears in the ugly young man’s eyes as he sat there in the weak sunlight—proof that even the worst of men could engender some affection. Trogg had kicked him around and treated him like dirt most of the time, but he’d supported his brother from the profits of his murderous trade and he’d been the only kin ugly Billy had had in the world. Now Trogg was dead, all because he’d disregarded Billy’s advice and had gone to work for a female.

  Billy Denver hated women, mainly because he couldn’t even buy a girl with money. He hated nearly all things in a cruel and unfriendly world, but he hated women most. And he hated the woman who’d brought Trogg to this unmarked strip of dirt. If he only knew who she was, he’d ... He’d do what? His thin shoulders sagged. He wouldn’t do a damn thing if she were to appear now and steal his crutch. Trogg had always called him the biggest yellowbelly he’d ever known, and Trogg was always right. Except this time. Trogg had been wrong this time. Dead wrong.

  The gravedigger drifted out of sight and Billy snatched the flowers. The gravedigger came back quickly and offered Billy the choice between leaving or getting kicked over the fence.

  One foot stepping, one foot dragging, the cripple went slowly down the steep hill. Dust was drifting across the town from the big herd bedded down on the north side not far from the docks where the River Princess was berthed. Across the flats to the south-east, more dust billowed into the sky as another big herd headed for Sunsmoke.

  He supposed, du
lly, that this would be the Golden Hoof outfit. Bumming drinks around the saloons last night, he couldn’t help but overhear all the feverish talk. From what he’d retained, he gathered that everybody was expecting some kind of a showdown today when the two crews came together, though he wasn’t clear why. He didn’t give a damn if all the rich cattlemen in Montana got themselves shot up, but he supposed he’d be there at the marshalling yards with the rest, in case hell did break loose. Usually he was getting it in the neck. It would be nice to see somebody else on the receiving end for a change.

  Chapter Ten

  A Woman Scorned

  Duke Benedict emerged from the Sunsmoke Hotel and moved into Oregon Street. He glanced up at the noon sun that shone dimly through the clouds of dust coming from the herds. For a full minute he stood there in front of the hotel, the feeble light glinting dully on the brass shell casings of his belt. He adjusted his four-in-hand tie, his gray eyes moved over the street, encompassing everything. Then he lit a cigar and walked slowly in the direction of the river.

  Few of the stores or houses of business were open in Sunsmoke today. From windows and galleries, faces peered out at him as he went by. Tension was a live thing in the dusty air of Sunsmoke. The town was expecting the worst. It was already common knowledge that Martin Hardcastle had brought his herd in during the night for fear of Golden Hoof attack: everybody seemed to know there had been a rift between Benedict and big Hank Brazos. They were prophesying in the bars and saloons that this was the day when the blood feud between the two ranches might be resolved once and for all. Some were even tipping the possibility of a showdown between Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos.

  Neither of these grim possibilities—certainly not the latter—was going to be realized if Duke Benedict had anything to do with it. He’d averted a showdown last night by warning Hardcastle of the Golden Hoof’s intentions, and he would do his best to see that no powder burned today in Sunsmoke. He’d already been to see Strom Jackson the cattle buyer. Explaining the full ramifications of the tinder-box situation to the man, he’d extracted an assurance from him that he would take exactly the same number of cattle from each herd, regardless of quality. He had Hardcastle’s solemn assurance that none of his men would provoke trouble, and he felt certain that with Brazos heading the Golden Hoof they would be under strict orders, too. He and Johnny Reb might have had a falling out, but he was certain he could rely on Brazos not to permit anything to happen that would start the guns firing.

  There was some satisfaction in knowing he’d done all he could, but he was a long way from feeling complacent. There were too many variables in this set-up, too many aspects he had no way of controlling. And the most formidable of these, of course, was Tracy Kilraine. At the house last night, Tracy had revealed herself as a treacherous, self-willed girl with a bitter hatred for Hardcastle. With Brazos as her right hand and her father seemingly ready to let her call the tune, Tracy could be a big danger.

  Benedict had no way of knowing it then, but he had underestimated Tracy Kilraine badly. Following the failure of the raid on Shotgun last night, Brazos and Kilraine had sat up late discussing the situation, finally agreeing that it was too late now to crush Hardcastle the way they’d planned. They saw no option but to bring the herd in, do business with Strom Jackson—and concern themselves about the Shotgun later.

  But that didn’t suit Tracy Kilraine. The girl had conceived a plan to achieve their ends without one shot being fired.

  Kilraine had objected strenuously at first, for Tracy’s scheme would cost him several thousand dollars. But, confronted by the girl’s strong will and determination, he had had to finally concede that her plan would spell the end for Hardcastle, and that all things considered, a few thousand dollars was cheap.

  At first Hank Brazos, too, had objected. If they went to Jackson with Tracy’s offer and Jackson accepted, he’d argued, then surely Hardcastle would react, and perhaps violently. But Brazos quickly learned that Tracy found his reasoning no better than feeble. Was he suggesting that Martin Hardcastle would unleash a gun battle just because they had transacted a perfectly legitimate business deal with Jackson? She was prepared to concede that Hardcastle might be angry, but nothing more. Brazos, with Tracy reassuring him, finally gave in. They would do it her way. But Brazos would keep his eyes skinned and his fingers crossed until it was all over ...

  The crowd was getting restless. During the fifteen minutes since the Kilraines had stepped aboard the River Princess to confer with Strom Jackson, the mob gathered, in the vicinity of Fisherman’s Wharf had swollen to close to a hundred. The bulk of these had come down from the main street only after the Kilraines and Hank Brazos had been admitted to the paddle-steamer’s stateroom. Before that, they’d been too apprehensive to draw closer, for fear gunplay might erupt between the two cowboy factions. But, with the minutes ticking by without incident, their curiosity had drawn them down Wharf Street. They were still careful not to draw too close, but there was something fascinating about the tense atmosphere that they couldn’t resist. And speculation eddied through their ranks. What was taking the Kilraines so long with Jackson? Was it true that Jackson had agreed to buy a set number of beeves from both the Shotgun and Golden Hoof herds to avoid trouble? Was Duke Benedict aligning himself with Shotgun, and was it true that the Golden Hoof crew had ridden down on Jimcrack Flats last night to hit the Shotgun herd, only to find it gone?

  A lot of questions, with the one most frequently asked being the first: what was occupying the Kilraines so long with Jackson? The Shotgun herd was awaiting inspection on the north side of town and the Golden Hoof mob was strung out on the river flats to the south. The barges were waiting to be loaded and everybody was impatient. Why the delay?

  This was the question Barney Vint put to Duke Benedict when the badge packer made a belated appearance on the scene, preceded by his ugly dog who effectively cleared a path through the mob to where Benedict stood alone in the shade of a peppercorn tree.

  Benedict confessed he didn’t know what was happening, though his tight, watchful expression suggested strongly that he didn’t care much for the delay. Vint, caught between a strong desire to get away from there and a sense of duty to remain, stood rubbing his chin and looking at the steamer for several moments, then he moved down the left side of the wharf to where Martin Hardcastle and his hands stood smoking and waiting.

  Hardcastle shook his head silently when Vint posed the question, then he went on staring across the wharf at the Golden Hoof waddies who seemed just as puzzled by the nerve-wracking delay as they were. Moments later there was a sudden flurry of activity as Ruffy flushed a cat from under the wharf. The cat came out like a streak of ginger lightning with the sheriff’s hound in hot pursuit, zooming across the open space and vanishing through a crack in a fence. Ruffy tried to stop ten feet from the fence, but his momentum carried him forward and his ugly jaws crashed hard against the timber. A wave of laughter swept through the crowd, then broke off abruptly as if a switch had been thrown.

  Figures were emerging from the River Princess’ stateroom.

  Hank Brazos stepped onto the landing first, looking huge in his purple shirt and shotgun chaps. Bullpup was at his heels. The Texan halted, his feet planted wide. His blue eyes cut across a hundred feet directly to the tall, dark figure of Duke Benedict, held a moment, then drifted to the Shotgun crew.

  The Kilraines followed Brazos out, flanking Strom Jackson. Ethan Kilraine looked formidable as always, but there was a hint of nervousness in the way his eyes moved quickly over the scene. Tracy by contrast looked completely composed and was even smiling a little. Tall and slender in a tailored riding rig, she wore a gun belt strapped around her slender waist. Her bright auburn hair gleamed in the sunlight as she turned her head to speak to the cattle buyer. Jackson nodded, glanced at Brazos as if for reassurance, then stepped forward.

  Jackson didn’t have to call for silence. Every man in the crowd was straining his ears to hear what he had to say. Jackson clea
red his throat, fiddled with his tie, then turned to face Martin Hardcastle.

  “I’m afraid—” he began, but there seemed to be something caught in his throat. He coughed and went on, “I’m afraid we won’t be needing any of your stock today, Martin.”

  His words were a bombshell. A buzz swept through the crowd as Martin Hardcastle jerked his head to stare across at Duke Benedict. Then the tall rancher swung back to the group on the landing, his dark eyes glinting dangerously.

  “You’d better make yourself clear, Jackson.”

  Jackson again looked at Brazos in a way that wasn’t lost on Benedict before he replied, “I’m taking the Golden Hoof herd, Martin. All of it.”

  Shotgun hand Ben Bradbury mouthed an angry curse, dropped a hand towards his gun butt, then froze as Brazos’ finger stabbed at him.

  “Hear him out!” the Texan called with the clear ring of authority.

  “What’s there to hear?” Martin Hardcastle barked. “We had an agreement, Jackson. You told Benedict you would take an even number from both herds and—”

  “I said I’d buy an even number, Martin,” Jackson corrected, then he smiled as only a smart businessman can when a financial killing is in the offing. “Today I’m not buying at all. Ethan is giving me the entire Golden Hoof herd.”

  Silence.

  A small sound escaped the lips of Duke Benedict. So that was it! His gray eyes focused on Tracy Kilraine, and he knew instinctively that this had been her idea. It was expensive perhaps, but clever because it was common knowledge that Hardcastle was in the red with the bank and was counting on the sale money to get square. The Golden Hoof was solvent. Kilraine could give away cattle and still keep his head above water while Martin Hardcastle went under.

  The silence was broken as an angry murmur swept through the Shotgun ranks. The cowboys started surging forward, but Martin Hardcastle, his voice uneven, halted them.