Benedict and Brazos 29 Read online

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  There was trouble in Fortitude Valley. Someone had set up a lumber camp smack in the middle of cattle country. And to make matters worse, the lumbermen drafted in to work the axes and saws, and float the timber down to the sawmill, were paroled convicts! If they made a go of the chance they’d been given, they could win their freedom. But the Fortitude Valley Cattlemen’s Association had other ideas about that.

  Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict were hired to keep the peace between the two opposing factions, but that was easier said than done. Unwittingly, they landed themselves right in the middle of an all-out war in which neither side intended to go down without a fight … and their weapons ranged from red-hot lead to sweaty, unstable dynamite!

  BENEDICT AND BRAZOS 29: DESPERADOES ON THE LOOSE

  By E. Jefferson Clay

  First published by Cleveland Publishing Co. Pty Ltd, New South Wales, Australia

  © 2019 by Piccadilly Publishing

  This electronic edition published 2022

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by means (electronic, digital, optical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book / Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Visit www.piccadillypublishing.org to read more about our books

  Chapter One – The Parolees

  “SMOKE, DUKE?”

  “Go to hell!”

  “A shot of whisky, mebbe?”

  “Cut a vein!”

  Hank Brazos was not a quitter, but he gave up at that. Shrugging wide shoulders, he sauntered across the campsite towards the rimrock, leaving Duke Benedict to brood alone. After all, the rugged young Texan rationalized, it had been an honest mistake. Next time he’d know not to risk their entire funds trying to fill an open-end straight. A man would expect Benedict to make the best of things, instead of carrying on as though he expected the job of honest work they’d taken to rebuild a stake, to prove fatal.

  The moment he reached the rim, with fleecy clouds outlining his looming frame, Brazos sighted something that banished everything else from his mind. A drama was being enacted directly below. Six horsemen crowded the trail beneath the rimrock, and the one with the six-gun rammed against the young jasper’s head looked mean enough to use it.

  Sizing up the situation at a glance, Brazos drew his gun, turned and beckoned urgently. “Hey, Yank!” he whispered. “Over here!”

  Benedict scowled. “What is it?”

  “Trouble.”

  Six feet of gambling man uncoiled swiftly, and there wasn’t a trace of rancor showing in his face as Benedict hurried towards him. Brazos nodded in satisfaction as he checked his .45. Nothing like the scent of action to jolt Duke Benedict out of a lousy mood.

  Coe Chiplin’s eyes were deadly slits as he swung to the ground and thumbed back the hammer of his Peacemaker.

  “Last chance, Harvey,” he said in his whispery voice. “Take back what you said.”

  Mace Harvey, youngest of the six-man bunch whose last address had been the Utah Territorial Penitentiary, shook his fair head stubbornly and also dismounted, followed by the others.

  “You’ve been acting like you want to wreck our play before we get rightly started. It’s nothing but the truth, Chiplin. Even if I took back what I said it wouldn’t change that fact,” Harvey said.

  “You’ll take it back, kid! That and what you said about me hazin’ Barlow and Littlejohn.”

  “Reckon not.”

  Harvey’s tone was firm. Chiplin had been giving everybody a hard time since they quit the pen and young Harvey had finally checked him hard. Chiplin’s angry reaction to being braced hardly surprised anybody, but the gun he produced certainly did.

  They weren’t supposed to have guns. A breach like that, or any breach at all, could land them back behind the stone walls of Territorial Prison. None was more acutely aware of this than Jesse Pracey as he made to intervene.

  “Harvey, Chiplin!” he pleaded, a burly man of forty-five with close-cropped hair, in a prison-issue suit. “Quit this right now or you’ll both go on report.”

  “The voice of the trusty!” sneered Chiplin, his malice spraying in all directions now. “Back off, yeller-guts!”

  Yellow-guts. A taunt like that could be counted on to goad just about any man into retaliation, yet Pracey just shrugged the insult aside the way he’d had to do countless times in the human jungle of Territorial Prison. They had called him worse than that, those men who believed him a coward; he could take anything Chiplin might dish out.

  “If you mean to use that thing, then use it, Chiplin,” he said, almost as though he didn’t give a damn one way or the other. “Otherwise, put it up and let’s get on to Fortitude Valley before dark.”

  “Fortitude Valley!” whispered Hank Brazos, drawing up behind a nearby jackpine, following their swift, stealthy descent through the heavy timber. “They’re headin’ for the same place as us, Yank.”

  “If they get there,” Benedict answered. He inclined his head towards the tall man with the six-gun in his fist. “It seems that gent has backed himself into a corner. I doubt that he wants to shoot now it’s gone this far, but his vanity will demand he do so.”

  Brazos’ honest brow corrugated. Analysis of human behavior might be Benedict’s interest, but it wasn’t his. When he encountered somebody in deep trouble he was inclined to wade right in and ask questions later. He did so now. With open space surrounding the six men there was no way they could work closer without being seen and risking gunplay. But as Benedict had his sneak two-shot as a reserve weapon when things got tricky, so Brazos had his trail hound. And when he whispered urgently, “Git the gun!” Bullpup didn’t hesitate. Darting from the trees and making full use of the tall grass cover, the Texan’s big, spotted dog sped unerringly for the target, then leapt up to lock his jaws around Chiplin’s gun arm before the convicts were even aware of his presence.

  The rest was easy. With the gun in the grass and the dog’s swinging weight threatening to haul the startled Chiplin down, Benedict and Brazos leaped from cover, brandishing guns.

  “All right, Bullpup, leave hold!” Brazos shouted and the dog instantly obeyed. Benedict swung twin Peacemakers authoritatively and gave his lazy smile.

  “Very well, gentlemen, let’s have some hush while we determine the pros and cons of this little contretemps.”

  It seemed a reasonable request considering they had all the artillery. At least five of the men grouped around saw it that way, and lifted their hands. But Chiplin, always a hard man to impress, mouthed something vicious and flung himself at the dropped six-gun in the grass, his speed of reflex something to marvel at.

  Benedict’s right hand Colt kicked back against the fork of his thumb as he triggered. One shot was all it took. The slug passed so close under Chiplin’s chin that he felt the hot air whip of its passage. Frozen in mid-stride, the man stared malevolently back over his shoulder at Benedict as Brazos slouched forward to retrieve the dropped six-gun.

  The Texan’s easy grin drew some of the tension out of the situation. “You can lower your paws now, neighbors, but keep ’em out where we can see ’em.” He winked at Chiplin. “Most especially you, mister.”

  “Sons of bitche
s!” Chiplin panted, massaging his wrist. “Who the hell are you anyway? Road-agents?”

  “Looks like we got ourselves a real, high country timber wolf here, Yank,” Brazos said amiably, lowering his Colt. “No, we’re not thieves, jasper, just a couple of peace-lovin’ fellers who are kind of curious to know just what kind of fightin’ varmint we’ve gone and bagged...”

  His voice faded as he looked them over. Up close he realized all wore their hair close-cropped and all were dressed in rough, ill-fitting clothes. He stared at their boots. Big, heavy, hobnailed. He’d seen boots like that before. He glanced sharply across at Benedict, saw the understanding reach his face in the same instant.

  “Plumb curious,” he added. Then his blue eyes sought out the senior man and he nodded. “You top hand?”

  “In a sense.”

  “Then make sense, neighbor. Start talkin’.”

  “My name’s Jesse Pracey,” the burly rider supplied quietly. “My partners,” he indicated each man as he spoke, “Barlow, Littlejohn, Parlee, Harvey... and Chiplin.”

  “Partners you say?” Benedict queried. “Even Mr. Chiplin?”

  “That was just a difference of opinion,” Pracey replied.

  “Remind me to be someplace else if you ever get to real ruckusin’,” Brazos said ironically. “Where you from, Pracey?”

  “I reckon you’ve already figured that out,” said Pracey, leaning against his horse. “We’re all from Territorial Prison. We were released last week. I have the papers here to prove it if you want to see them.”

  “Shucks, I’ll always take a man’s word,” said Brazos.

  “You’ll always buy to open-ended straights too,” Benedict reminded him, strolling up to Pracey’s horse. “I’ll take a glance at those papers, friend.”

  Silently, Jesse Pracey drew a bulging envelope from an inside pocket and placed it in Benedict’s outstretched hand. The ex-convict watched silently as Benedict scanned the various documents. They anticipated his surprise and it wasn’t long in coming.

  “Parole?” he queried, glancing up. “What does that mean?”

  “Guess that word hasn’t travelled this far west yet, mister,” Pracey answered quietly. “Well, parole means a prisoner can be given release ahead of his time, on good behavior. If he gives no trouble, his freedom gets to be permanent. If not, he goes back inside with an extra sentence tacked on.”

  “A creditable idea in theory, I suppose,” Benedict murmured, looking them over. He glanced at the documents again before handing them back. “Strange that I haven’t heard of it before though.”

  “Not so strange, Mr. Benedict,” said the husky voiced Barlow. “On account we’re the first parolees west of the Mississippi.”

  “Parolees?” Benedict said. “Now that has a certain ring to it. And tell me, Pracey, what do you and your ‘parolees’ propose to do in Fortitude Valley?”

  “We’re to be employed as loggers on Whetstone Ranch,” Pracey supplied. “They chose us because we’ve all had logging experience...” His voice faded as Brazos and Benedict exchanged a sharp look. “Something wrong?”

  “Not wrong, but highly coincidental,” Benedict answered. “For Mr. Brazos and myself are en route to the Whetstone to take up positions as security men for the Fortitude Valley Lumber Company on behalf of the railroad.”

  “Well, I’ll be!” Pracey smiled. “We heard the company planned to hire troubleshooters to keep things running smoothly, but we didn’t know they’d actually hired anybody.” He subjected the partners to a searching scrutiny, then added, “I guess—going on what we’ve seen—they picked the right sort of men for the job.”

  “Gun packers!” said Coe Chiplin disgustedly. He spat in the grass. “If I’d known the company was fixin’ to bring in that back-shootin’ breed to look out for us, I’d have stayed in the pen.”

  “For a man who professes such an aversion to gunfighters—which we aren’t,” Benedict said, “your behavior earlier seems contradictory to say the least, Chiplin.”

  “That was nothing, Mr. Benedict,” Pracey reiterated. “We’ve been under a lot of strain since we were released, with so much depending on making a go of it. Nothing really...”

  “How come Chiplin’s the only rooster with a gun, Pracey?” Brazos asked.

  “We’re... we’re forbidden to carry weapons under the terms of our paroles,” Pracey admitted. He looked at Chiplin. “What made you pack that Colt, Coe?”

  “Maybe I had a hunch we might get jumped by an overgrown Texan and a tinhorn dude who smell like gun sharks,” came the uncompromising reply.

  “Yes sir, real high country timber wolf,” Hank Brazos confirmed as Benedict let Chiplin feel the weight of his eyes. “Well, like you say sometimes, Yank, all’s well that ends well. Could be a kind of good omen we’ve met up with these boys we’ll be workin’ with, don’t you figure? Say, Pracey, we got our horses stashed up on the rimrock yonder. Hold up while we get ’em and we’ll ride on into Medicine Lodge with you. That suit?”

  “Suits just fine, big feller,” Jesse Pracey replied, sounding as though he meant it. “Glad to have you along.”

  “Glad to have you along!” Chiplin mimicked. “There’s just no end to your crawlin’, is there, Pracey? You crawled to the bulls, the warden, the parole officers and now a pair of gun packers. You make me sick to my stomach.”

  “Don’t pay Coe any mind,” Pracey said, though they could tell Chiplin’s words had stung. “He’s still riled up. He’s not always like this.”

  “That’s comforting to know,” Benedict murmured as they turned away, “For if there’s one breed I detest even more than the kind who’ll pull a gun on an unarmed man, it’s one who makes a habit of running off at the mouth.”

  Coe Chiplin didn’t respond to that, but catching the look he shot after them as they walked away. Hank Brazos sensed that even before reaching Fortitude Valley, they had made one formidable enemy. And the irony was that the enemy was one of those men they had been hired to protect.

  The sun was low as they rode back to join the ex-convicts. Brazos took the lead and they followed him in single file along a trail which wound around the base of a towering rock formation. It was dull purple, with ridges of black lava. The travelling was easy for a mile until the trail began to climb to where the wind blew stronger and the timber thickened.

  This was the margin of the jackpine country, the line separating mountain timber from the desert country of Northwestern Nevada.

  The wooded hills lifted in thousand foot terraces to meet the gigantic upthrust of the rim, topped by the lush Red Lake Flats and the snow-white teeth of the Cascade Mountains dominating the wide valley opening up below.

  Hank Brazos drank in the vast new vista appreciatively as they started the long ride down to the valley floor in the deepening dusk, yet his thoughts were on other things. He kept glancing back over his shoulder at the line of riders behind, and finally let his appaloosa slow to enable Benedict to draw abreast on his tall black.

  “Been thinkin’, Yank...”

  “You have?” No rancor in Benedict now. Peace in their turbulent partnership seemed restored, for the time being, at least.

  “Goin’ on what the railroad fellers told us, what kind of town do you figure Medicine Lodge’ll be?”

  “The same as most northwestern towns I’d imagine: hard-working, conservative, ambitious and insular. Why do you ask?”

  Brazos’ brow corrugated the way it mostly did when he was obliged to think hard. Finally he said, “How do you reckon any upstandin’ town’ll take to a bunch of patrollers?”

  “Parolees.”

  “Yeah, them. How’s Medicine Lodge and the valley goin’ to like Pracey’s bunch?”

  “Simple. It won’t.”

  Brazos stroked his heavy jaw thoughtfully. The last light was fading from the western sky; it was growing dark and cold in Fortitude Valley. “Could be we’re in for a livelier time up here than we reckoned on, Yank,” he hazarded at length.
br />   “I’d say, Johnny Reb, that’s more like a gold-plated certainty.”

  Chapter Two – Quit the Valley

  THE ROUTINE HAD been carefully rehearsed, but what was lost through lack of spontaneity was more than compensated for by the mob’s bellowing enthusiasm.

  “What country is Fortitude Valley?” Solway Booth chanted.

  “Cattle country!” the crowd chorused back. “What’s it always been?”

  “Cattle country!”

  “What will it always be?”

  “Cattle country!”

  “And what kind of country ain’t it?”

  “Lumber country!”

  “Who don’t we want here on our valley?”

  “Lumbermen!”

  “And what kind of lumbermen don’t we want most?”

  “Jailbird lumbermen!”

  As this full-throated roar of response trembled the blazing brands which brilliantly lit the central block where the big crowd had gathered, a scuffle broke out by the store. Rancher Lennon Wells who’d first thrown the valley into turmoil when he let the lumbermen start felling his trees, suddenly found himself under attack from two drunken cowpunchers from Cloverleaf Ranch. A tall, rangy man with good shoulders, Wells was giving a good account of himself when Sheriff Jim Shepherd shouldered his way through the excited throng and broke it up.

  Almost immediately, another fist fight started on the far side of the porch of the American House Hotel, this time between a lumberjack employed by the Fortitude Valley Lumber Company and the town drunk, Mitch Latty. Rum-sodden Mitch didn’t have any strong affiliations with either faction in the valley feud, but he dearly loved a good ruckus.

  He picked the wrong man in husky Ike Jackson, who stood him off with a straight left and right cross, then knocked Mitch flat with a beautiful left hook.

  The result was unpopular with the mob and a bunch of cowboys started stamping up and down waving their brands and changing: