Benedict and Brazos 5 Page 2

  Benedict finally asked him straight out if he knew anything of their quarry. Stayaway frowned, shook his head.

  “Bo Rangle ... nope, sorry gents.” He studied his hosts as they exchanged a disappointed glance. Then he said, “You fellers huntin’ this jasper?”

  “That’s right,” Benedict said.

  “Bounty hunters?”

  “No,” Brazos said. “We’re just after him is all.”

  Stayaway’s bright little button eyes ran over his hosts uneasily.

  “Anythin’ wrong?” Brazos asked, noting the change.

  The desert rat stood and looked a little nervously at his mule which had wandered in from the brush.

  “Nothin’ wrong, gents. I ... I just reckon it’s time I was pushin’ on.” He grinned tightly. “Never like to overstay me welcome, y’know.”

  Benedict and Brazos were relieved, for the code of the trail might have forced them to invite the pungent little drifter to stop over until morning. Benedict poured Stayaway another mug of coffee, and Brazos fed the mule some red corn nubbins from his hat.

  As ugly gray Martha munched away, Brazos noticed that the animal was suffering from pack calluses. “Goddammit, that’s no way to look after an animal,” he sternly chided, going to his saddle bags to fetch a bottle of greasy liniment. “Mules have got feelin’s too, you know.”

  The nervousness seemed to run out of Stayaway Jones as he stood watching Hank Brazos expertly apply the liniment. “It’s real nice of you,” he said. “Real nice. If I got one true friend in the world, it’s Martha, and I thank you for seein’ to her.”

  He blinked up at Brazos as he finished his chore and then he passed him Martha’s catch rope. Suddenly he started to talk at tearaway speed, blurting out the whole bloody story of what he’d seen happen downstream that very morning.

  Brazos and Benedict heard him out in a sober silence not unclouded by doubt. When he was through, Benedict said:

  “You say it was Rurales who killed these men? Rurales this side of the Rio?”

  Stayaway Jones spat contemptuously. “Rurales is just what they call themselves, sonny. They’s nothin’ but a dirty bunch of thievin’ killers workin’ fer a Mex butcher in Martinoro name o’ Tarrega.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us about this afore, Stayaway?” Brazos asked.

  “Mainly on account I mostly find it pays not to try an’ do somethin’ fer folks ... they never thank you none. But ... but you fellers treated me good, so I figgered the least I could do was tell you them polecats is about.” He looped the mule’s rope over his arm. “Their sign showed they was headin’ north, big feller. This way. Could be a smart idee for you and your pard to saddle up and move on ... jest in case.”

  He lifted a hand as he turned away. “Well, so long, fellers. Vaya con Dios, like they say across the Rio.”

  “Do you believe him?” Brazos said, holding his nose again as man and mule moved into the face of the wind.

  Benedict nodded. “I believe I do. I’ve heard about those scavenging packs of so-called Rurales before.”

  “So’ve I.” Brazos gave a grin as Bullpup swaggered back into camp with feathers around his jaws. Then the big man was serious again as his eyes played over the darkness beyond the fire. “Well, I dunno about you, Yank, but I ain’t of any mind to hightail from any bunch of Mex bandidos callin’ theirselves Rurales.”

  “My sentiments exactly.” Benedict looked thoughtfully at the fire. “You know, if the Rurales are about, it’s quite possible they’ve already seen our fire.”

  Brazos grunted in agreement, drew his gun and rolled the chamber along a powerful arm. The blue eyes were hard as they met Benedict’s.

  “What was it they taught us in the war, Yank? Always best to pick the battleground yourself than let the other jasper do it?”

  “Precisely,” Duke Benedict replied softly. His gaze swept over the campsite, the dim, silent trees, the black shadows. “Let’s get busy, shall we?”

  Two – Die in Darkness

  Nothing is as dark as a starless Texas night. On this night, the wind would suddenly rise, then shift uncertainly over the Riata Creek camp, whispering in the trees and rippling over the water.

  One finger of wind dipped out of the darkness and raised a gust of powdery ash from the fire and dusted it across the two still, blanket-shrouded shapes spread on the ground. It stirred the manes of the horses, then it fell and died and the night was hushed again, but not still. Not quite, for the dull thud of a rawhide-booted hoof striking rock sounded from somewhere beyond the frail perimeter of the firelight.

  The appaloosa tossed his head, the campfire reflected in the moist jewels of his eyes as he stared in the direction of the faint sound. The pair of blanket-shrouded mounds didn’t stir. The appaloosa stamped nervously. Now there was nothing to be heard but the faint burbling of the water then the whirring beat of wings as an owl sped overhead, hunting.

  Silence followed, then the vagrant wind started up again and, seemingly driven by its strength, three gray-clad figures ghosted out of the shadows into the light.

  The Mexicans wore no spurs, made no sound as they entered the camp. Firelight gleamed on naked gun-barrels and burnished brown faces with a soft yellow sheen. The fire popped and they stopped, dark eyes stabbing at the sleeping figures. The blankets remained motionless and the intruders moved forward again until they could feel the warmth of the flames.

  Hernandez halted them with a silent gesture and looked across at the tethered horses. His eyes glittered. Quality horseflesh, the very best. The saddles too were good, the sort of saddles one seldom saw around Martinoro.

  Licking thin lips, the tall Rurale turned back to the sleeping figures. Hunkering down by the nearest with his heavy six-gun pointing steadily at the battered hat that concealed the sleeper’s head, he spoke softly.

  “Señor gringo.”

  No response.

  Hernandez spoke louder. “Awaken, gringos, you have company!”

  Neither blanket stirred.

  Uncertainty clouded Hernandez’ face as he uncoiled to his feet. Gun cocked, he poked a blanket with his toe. There was a dry sound of rattling sticks. Shooting a bewildered look at his henchmen, Hernandez bent and ripped the blanket away.

  Beneath was a pile of brush and twigs arranged to resemble a sleeping man; the “sleeper’s” head was a rock.

  The Rurales’ eyes rolled bright and sick in their sockets as they swung to stare at the second bedroll. Now they could see more than before. This one too was a dummy.

  “You gentlemen looking for us?”

  The voice came hard and cartridge-clear from a clump of rocks on the east side of the camp. The Mexicans whirled, juggled guns, seeking a target.

  “Drop the guns!” Hank Brazos’ shout drifted from behind a deadfall log where he lay sprawled in the darkness with Bullpup at his side. “I said drop ’em, Mexes, we got you cold!”

  The big man’s command carried enough authority to make Morelli spill his Colt, had enough to knot Hernandez’ lean face with desperate indecision ... but it did nothing to Miguel Carrizo but galvanize him into fury.

  “No—don’t!” Duke Benedict shouted from behind twin guns when he saw what Carrizo meant to do.

  But there was no halting Carrizo. A vicious curse distorting his mouth, he cut loose with two shots that ripped at Brazos’ log. Scarlet gun flashes reached out for him from Benedict’s position. Carrizo’s left hand squeezed his chest and bright blood bubbled through his fingers. Somehow he got another shot away as Hernandez’ six-gun joined in and Morelli dived for his dropped Colt. .45 thunder rolled from the darkness. Skull bursting open, Carrizo went down in a wreath of gunsmoke.

  Hernandez couldn’t see Carrizo fall. He was leaping for the sanctuary of the darkness with gun flame spitting from his hand. A fusillade of bullets knocked him down. Pablo Morelli shrieked in terror, made to throw his gun away, changed his mind, punched off a shot and died in a thunderclap of Colts.

  The Rurale leader got to his hands and knees with his smoking gun in his fist. Hernandez had been hit deep and often, but his hand was a rock. Under cover of the fogging gunsmoke, he squeezed trigger and a lead wasp flicked Brazos’ blond thatch. Sparks streaked from the rocks and Hernandez fell on his face, kicking at the earth.

  Faces taut and grim, Brazos and Benedict emerged from cover. Hernandez’ convulsive threshing ceased as Brazos’ big boots came towards him. Brazos dropped to one knee and rolled the Rurale over with the snout of his gun.

  “He dead yet?” Benedict asked.

  “He ain’t alive.”

  “Fools!” Benedict said bitterly, dumping empty shells from his guns. “Why did they have to start shooting? A man with half an eye could see they didn’t stand a chance.”

  Brazos fingered his hair where Hernandez’ last bullet had streaked. He said, “Mebbe they got so used to havin’ things their own way hereabouts, that they forgot killin’ can be a two-way trail.”

  Duke Benedict rammed fresh cartridges into his guns with cold deliberation. “Well, they won’t forget it again—that is a gold-plated certainty.”

  With bleak eyes, Brazos moved slowly around the fire. The faces of the dead were yellow in the flame glow, mouths gaping, teeth snarling, jaws locked. He turned away from their sightless gazes and looked up at the sky. When he spoke his voice was not quite even. “Be light in a couple hours, Yank. We might as well ...”

  “Make dust?” Benedict finished. “Let’s do that.” He shook his head. “Fools!” Then he ripped his big saddle off the ground and strode towards the horses.

  They rode towards the Rio.

  They were strangers in strange country, but Hank Brazos’ sense of direction kept them dead on a south by south-east course as surely as if he’d had a compass set in the swell fork pommel of his saddle.

  The terrain slowly changed and grew rougher as the miles faded behind. Here, Trinity County was rugged rock-bench slopes, brushy hog-back ridges and deep-cut canyons. Occasionally there were tight little valleys dotted with piñon and gnarled old oaks.

  Cottonwoods, willows and junipers marked the watercourses.

  The morning was cloudy and overcast, but the sun forced its way through as they nooned on a high, rocky cedar-covered ridge and it blazed as they rode into the afternoon.

  In that part of Texas, the climate was mostly too wet or too dry, too hot or too cold. But that year’s good summer rains had made the ground shaggy with grass as far as the eye could see. Bee myrtle filled the air with its tangy fragrance, and red apples of prickly pear stood out against the tossing grass.

  Towards evening, the land opened out, spreading into wide, rolling shelves of grassland. The wind picked up, refreshing the weary horses. They rode through a stand of moaning live oaks, splashed across a little stream and reined in.

  Before them lay a buffalo wallow. It was a big one, several hundred yards across. A dozen buffalo were rolling in the dust, seeking relief from the heat and the insects. A muscular young bull with a cowbird sitting on its horn got to his feet and eyed the intruders suspiciously but showed no sign of fear. The others went on rolling and grunting, enjoying life from a buffalo’s point of view.

  “Never knowed the big shaggies got this far south,” Brazos observed, fixing a quirley. “Must be gettin’ drove down by the hide hunters.”

  “Possibly,” Duke Benedict said tersely. There had been little talk during the day; the slaughter at Riata Creek was still too fresh in their minds.

  Brazos pointed south past the wallow to where a low line of hills were turning softly purple in the gathering dusk.

  “We’ll circle around this here buffler waller, then cut straight for that notch in the hills. If I don’t miss my guess, we ought to be able to see the Rio Grande from up there.”

  Benedict didn’t argue. It was a little late in the day for that. Besides, he had too much respect for Brazos’ uncanny sense of direction. Gigging his horse forward, he led the way around the wallow.

  Darkness had fallen across the land by the time they reached the crest of the pass. Twinkling in the night on the river bluffs a few miles south were the welcoming lights of Martinoro, and beyond, the bright jewel stars of Old Mexico.

  “Why, hello, handsome.”

  Kitty Flynn must have welcomed a thousand customers to the Casa Grande Casino with that same routine greeting. Yet, as she spoke, the girl was aware that never before had it fitted so well. He was so good-looking it made her pulse beat a little quicker, and with the worldly Kitty that took some doing.

  Leaning relaxed and immaculate against the bar of Martinoro’s biggest saloon with a cigar in one hand and a glass of aguardiente in the other, Duke Benedict turned at the husky voice. He saw a tall, richly curved blonde in a low-cut, form-fitting dress and bright red shoes. She looked about thirty. Too many men and too much hard liquor had left their unmistakable stamp, Benedict reflected, but she was still a handsome woman.

  “Hello, Ma’am.”

  Kitty flashed a big smile. “My, my, and a real gent’s voice to go with all the rest. Tell me, handsome, you goin’ to buy little ole Kitty a drink?”

  “Well I’d certainly like to, Little Ole Kitty, but the truth of it is, I’m busy at the moment.”

  Her face fell. “Busy? You sure enough don’t look it.”

  “Ah, appearances can be deceptive, my dear. I am indeed busy. As the Bard once said: ‘Wisely and slow; they stumble that run fast’.”

  “Huh?”

  Benedict smiled. “It would be a pleasure to buy you a drink, Kitty. Later.”

  The girl put her hands on her hips and studied him keenly. Finally she smiled again and said, “Well, all right, handsome, nobody can say Kitty Flynn can’t take a hint. Maybe later, huh? When you’re not so—busy?”

  She turned away and slow-danced between the crowded tables with a sinuous roll of rounded hips. Benedict sipped his pale Mexican rum and watched as she joined a small, dapper-looking Mexican seated at a table in the far corner. Benedict had noted the man when he came in. His uniform jacket was similar to those worn by the three Rurales.

  Kitty sat down at the Mexican’s table and spoke to him briefly. Both looked across at him. The man lifted his glass in a courtly salute. Benedict returned the gesture and turned to the barkeep.

  “The man at the table with Kitty, my good fellow. Who is he?”

  The greasy bartender’s voice was respectful. “That is Captain Tarrega, Señor.”

  “Gracias.”

  Benedict looked across the room again. So this was Captain Tarrega of the Rurales—the man Stayaway Jones had mentioned. Benedict’s lip curled with contempt. It would always be hell-along-the-border while men of that stamp held the reins of power—butchery, theft and corruption under the guise of law.

  But Tarrega wasn’t his concern. As soon as Brazos returned from the store, they would be saying goodbye to Martinoro and following Bo Rangle’s dim trail again.

  Benedict bought another aguardiente and moved along the bar to take a professional interest in a game of blackjack. The long-nosed dealer glanced up, noted Benedict’s gambling man’s rigout and invited him to take a chair.

  “Gracias, Señor,” Benedict replied, “but for the moment I am content to watch.” He wouldn’t mind sitting in for a hand or two, but he liked to size a game up first.

  A minute later, he found himself smiling. The dealer was using a mirror ring so he could see the cards going out. The player in the tall black hat was marking cards with a sharpened coin, while another player might just be augmenting his hand from the hat in his lap.

  Concentrating on the run of the cards, and trying to see if there was anybody honest at the table, Benedict didn’t notice the man descending the stairway from the rooms above where some of the Casa Grande’s girls did their most rewarding work.

  The man was an American; a pock-faced fellow with a hawk nose and bitter black eyes. He was tall and lean with high shoulders. A heavy gunbelt was strapped tight around his narrow hips.

  He was halfway down the stairs before he saw Benedict. He stopped, eyes probing the smoke haze. The pocked face paled. His hand dropped to his gun butt, then he started back up the stairs. Reaching the gallery, he shot a last tight glance down at the tall man in black before turning away.

  “Some chilies perhaps, Señor?”

  Brazos hefted his sack of supplies. “Reckon not, amigo.”

  “You do not like chile con carne?”

  “Matter of fact I’m right partial to chile con carne, storekeeper, but I got a trail partner who’s kinda suspicious of Mex chow.”

  The little storekeeper shrugged philosophically. “It is sad when you encounter such a thing. But you are an Americano of taste, are you not?”

  “Well I dunno ’bout that. But I know I like tortillas and frijoles and such ’most as much as baked ham and rye hominy.”

  “And tamales. You like tamales?”

  “Amigo, you’re talkin’ to a pure-quill, tamale-eatin’ champeen.”

  “Uno momento then, Señor.”

  The storekeeper vanished in back, returning almost immediately bearing a cornmeal tube filled with spicy red meat.

  “The compliments of Jose Augustin, Señor.”

  Brazos took the tamale and chewed off half with one bite. He munched appreciatively. “Señor, this here is one fine tamale. I thank you kindly.”

  “You are welcome.”

  Brazos fingered the rest of the tamale into his mouth and slung his sack across his shoulders. “Well, got to be goin’. And thanks again, amigo.”

  “Vaya con Dios, Señor.”

  Snapping his fingers at Bullpup, the big man left the store. His appaloosa was racked out front, dozing in the late afternoon sun. Brazos roped the sack onto the saddle pommel, then he built a smoke, leaned back against the hitch rail and looked over at Martinoro.

  The Mexican town on the bluffs of the Rio Grande was a little bigger than those around Laredo that Brazos had known before the War Between the States. When riding in with Benedict an hour back, the town had looked solid and prosperous, but up close the signs of decay that marked most such places were at every hand. The mixing of American and Mexican building styles just didn’t seem to work out, he thought. Bring a passel of Americans into a place like this and things go downhill fast.