Benedict and Brazos 28 Page 3

  “Billy?”

  Billy paused. “Yeah, man?”

  “Can we measure it again?”

  Billy swabbed sweat from his eyes. They’d measured but a short time ago, but he wasn’t about to refuse his friend’s request. Each time they had measured the digging depth, Coley seemed to take heart and find renewed energy.

  Billy took from his waist the knotted length of rags and string they used for a measuring gauge. Billy pulled it taut to the tunnel face and by feel alone made his calculations. Seven feet. The same as their last measurement.

  “How far now, Billy?” Voices down there reverberated hollowly as in an empty cathedral.

  “Seven feet six, Coley.”

  “That far, huh?”

  “That far, pard.”

  “Reckon we can take a spell, huh?”

  “In a minute, Coley,” Billy said, groping for his digging tool again. “Found me a rock I want to get around first. You take a breather if you want, though.”

  He heard Coley grunt as he sat down. “Been thinkin’, Billy boy ...”

  Billy scraped at the face. “What about?”

  “About when I used to go huntin’ with my Uncle Buck along the Beaver in the Nations when I was no bigger’n a tadpole. Uncle Buck and me used to catch critters with deadfalls, you know, traps made out of logs. We’d rig up a whole mess of ’em along the Beaver in the woods, balancin’ heavy logs and trimmin’ triggers and notches so they wouldn’t slip. Been wonderin’ how many critters we squashed underneath them logs when they set off the triggers. Pine martens, weasels, badgers—even deer once or twice. Seems that was a terrible way to kill any livin’ thing, Billy ... dyin’ in the dark with the whole world crushin’ down on you ... the whole ... damned world ...”

  Billy stopped digging. Coley was as tough as bootheels, yet there was an edge of hysteria in his voice now as he spoke. Billy couldn’t blame him, for constantly in his own mind as he dug, was the fear that what they were doing might bring down a million tons of rock and rubble on their heads.

  ‘We grope for the wall like the blind, and we grope as if we had no eyes; we stumble at noon day as in the night: we are in desolate places as dead men.’

  That was Isaiah. Billy’s ma had always been dragging him off to scripture lessons when he was a kid, and he remembered that passage word for word when fate brought him to this black pit in the earth’s bowels. It kept coursing through his mind, working on him the way Coley’s memories of old, cruel hunting days were working on him.

  They’d better be careful they didn’t crack up. That would be the finish, for certain.

  “Let’s make a light and take a breather, Coley,” he said, backing out of the tunnel.

  “Won’t that use up more air, like you said, Billy?”

  “Air ain’t what I’m worried about right at the moment, pard. C’mon, strike a match and we’ll get that piece of my shirt burnin’ for a spell again. We’ve earned a little light, man.”

  There was a stir of movement, the rattle of matches, then a scraping sound and a burst of light ... warm, blessed light. Instantly their faces leaped from the darkness, highlighted softly by the flickering flame. They were the faces of two young strangers who, for a brief time, had been known to the citizens of Larrabee as Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos.

  Chapter Three – The Manhunters

  HOTELKEEPER KANE BEAUMONT had a bulldog. Sport was the biggest dog in Larrabee, a surly brute with a corrugated forehead, evil red eyes and the disposition of a Kiowa medicine man. Sport had all the cats, most of the women and at least half the male population of Larrabee cowed, and his swaggering progress down Federation Street any day commanded more respect than anybody outside of the sheriff and his father, the mine-owner, Senator Dusang.

  Yet, fearsome as was his reputation, there was big Sport skulking under the Colorado Star’s front porch with his stubby tail tucked between his legs as Hank Brazos sat alone in a cane-backed rocker in the night. Beaumont’s hound was peering up through the porch cracks with fearful eyes, watching a monster named Bullpup noisily demolish the contents of his sacred supper dish.

  Hank Brazos’ battle-scarred trail hound ignored the hotelkeeper’s skulking dog as he slurped up the leftovers and cracked big bones expertly between iron teeth. Bullpup accepted Sport’s total subjection as nothing more than his due, for he had proven himself against wolves, mountain lions, gunmen and an uncounted number of dogs, some of which were lucky to be still living. Sport was mean and vicious, but he wasn’t stupid. After one brief, bloody encounter, he didn’t want any part of Brazos’ dog—but he would certainly give Monroe’s cats a workout later, just to regain some of his self-esteem.

  Mostly the Texan was amused at his hound’s carryings-on, but under this late Larrabee moon, he wasn’t even aware of him as he sat staring along the street at the darkened hulk of the Drover’s House Saloon, thinking hard.

  Life was getting complicated, the Texan mused. Times like these he was prone to think back to simple saddle days on the great plains of Texas when he had been one of the huskiest, happiest and least complicated cowboys in the Lone Star State. Those were the days before the four years of hell and death they called the War Between the States ... before he teamed up with an old Yankee enemy from the battlefields at war’s end to hunt down marauder Bo Rangle ... long before he found himself seated alone under a lonesome Colorado moon in a town that gave him an itch where he couldn’t seem to scratch ...

  Brazos sighed and got to his feet. Memories faded. There was no turning back, he knew. A man couldn’t even go as far back as yesterday, much less to the good old days.

  And deep down, so deep that he wouldn’t even admit it to himself, he knew that they had been good old days ... but deadly dull. One thing a man could say for riding the trails with Duke Benedict, life was almost never dull.

  Which brought his roving blue gaze back to the gloomy outline of the Drover’s House Saloon. What the hell was taking Benedict so long? he asked himself, then immediately reddened. Ask a dumb question and you get a dumb answer, he reproved himself. Then, snapping his fingers at Bullpup he set off down the empty main street, the sounds of his heavy steps carrying faintly to the room above the Drover’s House barroom where golden moonlight angled softly through the open window ...

  Duke Benedict lifted his head at the sounds from below, but a naked arm sliding warmly around his neck prevented him from sitting up.

  “And just where do you think you’re goin’, handsome?” a husky feminine voice purred.

  “Why, just to see who’s around at a time like this, fair lady.”

  “Shucks! I do declare that’s just an excuse ... that you are getting tired of me already.”

  She was only fishing for compliments, worldly-wise Benedict knew, but he found himself strangely reluctant to oblige. This was damned hard work, he told himself aggrievedly, reaching for his cigar case on the night table by the bed. It was all very well for the Reb to say, “You better follow up that lead on Fanny McGuire, Yank, you being such a none-such wonder with the womenfolk and all.” That overgrown Texan, whose idea of a passionate night out was to walk some schoolmarm home from a social and shake hands for goodnight, just didn’t understand how taxing it could be on a man to pretend to be interested in a dumb girl for the sake of a little information. And that went double for a girl of pretty Fanny’s rather strenuous appetites.

  He only hoped Brazos appreciated what he had to go through if and when lusty Fanny told him what she was supposed to know about the fake ‘Benedict and Brazos’.

  It was Brazos who’d picked up the lead on the last person seen with the fake ‘Benedict and Brazos’ the night of the great mine robbery.

  It hadn’t seemed a lot to go on. But as their investigation of the mine theft, posing as drifters interested in the reward money, seemed to be getting nowhere, they had decided it was worth following up.

  And now, here was Duke Benedict, a little weary, drawing on an expensive cigar in a saloon girl’s satin-sheeted bed, and none the wiser than he’d been at sundown—at least in terms of information on mine robbers.

  “Sweetie, baby?”

  “Yes, fair lady?” His tone was distant but polite.

  “Can I have a drag of your cigar?”

  That did it. It was only a small thing, but enough to use up the last of his patience. If he was going to have a perfectly good cigar tasting of rice-powder and gin, then he wanted information in exchange. He stated this bluntly and Fanny sat up, looking hurt. “Are we back to that silly old story about me and those fellers you’re interested in, handsome?”

  “Damned right.”

  She smiled. “What’s it worth if I tell you, honey?”

  “A cigar all to yourself?”

  “Oh, you are a great feller for the jokes, handsome.” Her golden head shook. “But, I’m not about to tell you what you want for any old cigar. You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “What if I promise not to break your back if you talk up?”

  That set Fanny off into peals of laughter that carried faintly to the Herculean figure propping up a porch support on the Union Street corner. “Oh, handsome,” she spluttered, “your sense of humor just makes me fall apart.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you could hold yourself together long enough to tell me what I want to know ... sweetheart.”

  “What’s it worth?” demanded Fanny, who could be a tough trader.

  Benedict sighed. “I’ll stay with you another hour.”

  “Two.”

  “One hour and a half.”

  “Done.” She ran her fingers down his powerful chest. “Glory be, you’re all man, mister.”

  “I sincerely trust so. Now—about those two men, sweetheart.”

  “Well, it was real late, about two in the morning, and I got up to close the window on account it was blowing real hard. I just happened to look out on the street and I seen three men walking towards the hotel. I recognized the bounty hunters right off on account I’d been drinking with them till midnight. But I had to look twice to make sure I wasn’t mistaken about who they were with. But it was her right enough. Miss Ruth Gordon. Imagine that, handsome? Our mousy little schoolmarm gettin’ around Federation Street with two bounty hunters at two in the mornin’. And it was those two who robbed the Ophir that night.” Her moist lips were close to his ear. “You’re the only one I’ve told, handsome. Account of I love you like crazy ...”

  Benedict carefully put aside his half-smoked cigar. He was prepared to take everything Fanny told him with a large grain of salt. But he was also a man of his word. He proceeded to give faithful Fanny her reward.

  And tomorrow, he would go back to school.

  Senator Dalton Dusang jabbed left and right with his silver-topped cane to clear a path for himself through the stamping mill doorway.

  “Out of my way, boys!” The senator was only a small man but his big voice was obeyed unquestioningly at the Ophir Mine.

  Inside, he glanced about with quick eyes. He was going to Larrabee that morning, but first he had to reassure himself that everything was operating smoothly at the mill. He watched the ore-crusher for a time and checked an ore sample his foreman, Barlowe, brought for his inspection. Output had fallen at the Ophir and the robbery could not have come at a worse time. But Dusang’s puckered face showed no sign that he was worried.

  He threw out a few orders and strode outside. The Senator, whose title was now purely honorary, didn’t stand any higher than a pony’s shoulder. Five feet one inch in his boots, he was a caustic little martinet of a man who nevertheless carried himself with considerable dignity.

  Dusang had quit politics for gold-mining during the early days of the Colorado rushes. They said he’d been a wild man in his youth and that some of his early business ventures had been touched with violence and dishonesty. But as the same charges could be laid against practically every successful man in Colorado Territory, few bothered raking over those old stories to the Senator’s detriment. Indeed, such stories only seemed to add to a highly colorful career.

  From orphan in New York’s Hell’s Kitchen to U.S. Senator and wealthy mine owner. That was the Senator’s record and he had cause to be proud of it. But pride wasn’t the same as happiness, and it was hard for a man of Dusang’s arrogance, greed and aggression to resign himself to a normal life.

  The woman who’d done her best to keep her husband, if not actually bubbling with joy, then at least satisfied with his life, met him at the oaken doors of the mansion with his freshly brushed beaver hat and a smile that had been called upon to turn aside a lot of wrath over the years.

  “The carriage is ready out back, Senator,” she said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dusang,” he said, fitting the hat to his head. Formality was the keynote at the Ophir homestead. Husband and wife never addressed each other in public other than as Senator and Mrs. Dusang. He stepped into the hallway to admire his reflection in an ornate wall mirror, then strode to the rear with the woman trailing after him, chattering.

  “Yes, I’ll remember that, Mrs. Dusang,” he muttered absently. “Of course, I’ll remind the bank ... yes, you may be assured I’ll pass on your condolences to the storekeeper’s widow ... yes ...”

  “And you won’t be too severe on dear Reade, will you, Senator?”

  Dusang propped. She’d slipped that one in on him. He turned with a frown.

  “I don’t remember saying I had plans to visit your son, madam.” He was always her son when things weren’t going well, and they had seldom gone worse than of late. Of course things had been strained ever since young Reade Dusang rebelled against his father’s iron rule and took the post of sheriff of Larrabee. But since the fifteen-thousand-dollar robbery at the Ophir, which the sheriff had failed to prevent or to solve, relations between father and son had deteriorated even further.

  Senator Dalton Dusang regarded his only offspring as an impressive and capable young man whose one great fault was an overwhelming pride that wouldn’t permit him to show his father proper respect. In Reade Dusang’s eyes, his father was the man who could have lavished luxury on him as befitted the son of one of the county’s wealthiest citizens, but instead had insisted on rearing him in a Spartan atmosphere and trying to hammer all the virtues of thrift, self-discipline and respect for the almighty dollar into his rebellious hide.

  Now the rift was widening, and the Senator sometimes had to remind himself that the man wearing the star in Larrabee was indeed his son, not some fool lawman who had let thieves rob him of fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of gold.

  Mrs. Dusang’s hands fumbled nervously as she straightened his cravat. “Of course you’ll be seeing him, Senator,” she said. “You always do, even if it’s only to criticize him. But you will be gentle with Reade, won’t you?”

  “One o’clock, Mrs. Dusang.”

  “Beg pardon, Senator?”

  “I shall be home at one precisely for lunch,” he snapped and strode out to the waiting carriage. Foolish woman, he fumed. Never had understood the problems of rearing a son capable of taking over when he was gone. Too soft, and always had been.

  Leaning back against the soft cushions as the pair of matched bays responded to the driver’s command and pranced towards the gates, the Senator’s brooding eye fell on the building that stood directly behind the stamping mill.

  The building was a squat rectangle, fashioned from granite, with an iron roof. There was one window and one door, both heavily barred. A man with a rifle stood by the door and another in back by the window. Inside was a big, almost bare room with a desk, chair, and a black monster of a Farnham Brothers safe. The safe contained less than a hundred dollars’ worth of hard-gleaned dust at the moment. This time last week, it had held fifteen thousand dollars’ worth.

  Dusang paid no attention now as the driver halted, waiting for the guards to swing the heavy gates open. The little man sat with arms folded across his chest, frowning down at the polished tips of his boots, deep in unpleasant thoughts.

  He still couldn’t fathom that robbery. He’d always believed his security impregnable, as indeed it had proven itself to be for more than ten years. Yet last week thieves had got past the enclosure fence, overpowered his guards, broken into the blockhouse, then cracked his safe and got away with the booty as though it were child’s play.

  The little man shook his head. Of course there had been talk of an inside job, but he’d been unable to accept that, despite the evidence that suggested the thieves had known exactly what they were doing and how to go about it from the start. It was too big a pill for a proud man to swallow to believe that any of his employees would rob him, that any would dare.

  The names Benedict and Brazos turned over in his mind, as the carriage rolled towards town on the best springs money could buy. Yes, it had been that pair all right. And when they were captured, he would make it his business to find out how they were able to plan and execute such a perfect robbery without inside help. He would do that before he saw them hanged.

  If they were captured ...

  That thought was a goad and he leaned forward to tap his driver’s shoulder with his cane and said:

  “First call at the law office, Passlow!”

  “Yes, Senator.”

  Dusang leaned back against his cushions, and again found himself thinking of Sheriff Dusang, not as his son, but simply as lawman of Larrabee. A lawman who had better have some fresh information on the robbers if he hoped to hold onto his job much longer ...

  Chapter Four – Larrabee Lawman

  THE SHERIFF HAD just returned to his office after his first patrol of the town when the carriage swung in to the hitchrail out front.

  Reade Dusang rose slowly from his chair, stubbing out his cigarette. In physique and appearance the sheriff of Larrabee had taken after his mother. He was above average height and carried himself with a ramrod arrogance. His shoulders were broad, his features regular, with a peevish mouth above which sprouted a pencil-line moustache. He wore his dark hair brushed straight back from his forehead and the overall impression was of a hard and humorless young man with the overall tendency towards flashiness and perhaps more than his share of resentment against a world he believed had somehow sold him short.