Benedict and Brazos 16: Bury the Losers

By E. Jefferson Clay

Trouble was brewing between the Shotgun Ranch and its rivals, the Golden Hoof – and though they wanted no part of a range war, Benedict and Brazos eventually had to choose sides.
There was just one problem.
As the bodies piled up, and the gunsmoke grew ever thicker, Benedict started to wonder if they’d thrown in with the right side. Brazos had no such doubts ... but by then, he’d fallen head-over-heels for the Golden Hoof owner’s beautiful daughter Tracy. And Tracy could do no wrong in his eyes ...
It was then that the unthinkable happened, and Benedict and Brazos found themselves on opposing sides. In the final showdown, they’d have to go against each other, toe to toe, gun to gun ...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Feb 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005455378

Book preview

The Home of Great Western Fiction!

Trouble was brewing between the Shotgun Ranch and its rivals, the Golden Hoof – and though they wanted no part of a range war, Benedict and Brazos eventually had to choose sides.

There was just one problem.

As the bodies piled up, and the gunsmoke grew ever thicker, Benedict started to wonder if they’d thrown in with the right side. Brazos had no such doubts … but by then, he’d fallen head-over-heels for the Golden Hoof owner’s beautiful daughter Tracy. And Tracy could do no wrong in his eyes …

It was then that the unthinkable happened, and Benedict and Brazos found themselves on opposing sides. In the final showdown, they’d have to go against each other, toe to toe, gun to gun …

BENEDICT AND BRAZOS 16: BURY THE LOSERS

By E. Jefferson Clay

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

© 2021 by Piccadilly Publishing

First Electronic Edition: January 2021

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.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

Series Editor: Ben Bridges

Text © Piccadilly Publishing

Chapter One

Toss of the Coin

Dust puffs eddied behind them in the crimson twilight as the two riders reined up and peered at the arrowed arms of the sign, one leaning south, the other jabbing north. Light’s too poor to read by, big Hank Brazos said, not prepared to admit that he couldn’t read. What’s she say?

Sunsmoke south, twenty miles, murmured Duke Benedict. Sandy Hollow north, fifteen.

I like the sound of Sandy Hollow, the giant Texan declared. Before he’d spent four years at bloody war and then long months on the trail of a renegade killer, he had been a simple Pecos River cowpoke. Sandy Hollow had the ring of a place where a man might be able to laze in the sun, sit talking about crops and cows for a few days, and never touch his gun except perhaps to clean it.

Sunsmoke appeals more to me. Duke Benedict was as badly in need of rest as his trail partner, but their tastes of relaxation couldn’t have been more different. Benedict was hungry for soft lights, good whisky and a pretty girl’s company. Sandy Hollow didn’t sound like that sort of town.

They argued a little, then they decided to flip a coin.

Heads, Sunsmoke, tails Sandy Hollow, Benedict announced, and before the other could object, a silver coin was spinning in the air.

Heads—Sunsmoke! Benedict declared, showing the coin in his palm.

Hank Brazos was too saddle-weary to question the validity of the toss, too dry in the throat to have to listen to a wordy lecture on the virtues of trust and honesty and all the rest of the claptrap Benedict would undoubtedly heap on him if he contested the point.

So he just shrugged and swung his appaloosa towards the south trail as a smiling Benedict slipped his double-headed silver eagle back into the slash pocket of his bed-of-flowers vest.

Duke Benedict had won again. The tall, dashing Harvard graduate, ex-Union captain and now a gambler, gunfighter and manhunter, liked to win. But, as they pushed south for Sunsmoke, there was a sound that could have been distant thunder—or perhaps the laughter of the dark gods who controlled the destiny of men. Before two weeks had run their bloody course, winner Duke Benedict would wonder if he had lost more than any man could afford ... on one flip of a coin ...

Hey, Lothar!

What?

Did you hear somethin’ just then?

Lothar Redford, runty, bitter-faced gun hand, newly arrived at the Golden Hoof Ranch, straightened and cocked his head. After a long moment, as the two ranch hands helping him guard the small Coyote Gulch herd watched nervously, Redford shook his head. I don’t hear nothin’.

Solly Green, the hook-nosed cowhand whose voice had first broken the silence, looked into the windy gloom beyond the darkened blobs of the sleeping beeves. His expression remained uncertain. I dunno ... he muttered.

Lothar Redford came down the grassy slope towards the pair, the light from the campfire glinting on the brass cartridges in his belt. What do you reckon you heard, Green? His tone was sharp. His status as a gun hand didn’t give Redford any official standing on the Golden Hoof, but he talked like a ramrod.

Green knotted bushy brows. Ain’t sure for certain, Lothar. But mebbe it sounded like a hoof knockin’ against a rock.

Lothar Redford sighed and said sarcastically, The only thing knockin’ about here, mister, is your knees.

Solly Green fixed a bleak stare on the gunman. Just on principle, the workhands on the big Golden Hoof disliked and distrusted the hard-mouthed gunslinger breed, even if Ethan Kinraine had hired men like Redford for their own protection during the range war with the rival Shotgun Ranch.

You sayin’ I’m hearin’ things now? Green said. You reckon I’m jumpy?

Redford met Green’s stare for a moment, then backed down a little. All I’m sayin’ is that settin’ around here ain’t doin’ nobody no good. Mebbe we better take a turn of the basin.

Solly Green and Toby Hackett exchanged a glance, then nodded in agreement. Maybe sitting around was playing on their nerves.

Will you come with us, Lothar? Hackett asked.

Lothar Redford made an impatient sound in his throat. He’d never had much respect for the cowpuncher breed, but their obvious tension on a night as quiet as this was beginning to wear on him.

All right, he said, checking his Colt. We’ll take a look on foot. Who knows? We might flush Solly’s spook.

Green glared at Redford’s back as the gunman walked off, then he and Hackett followed.

Damn little upstart! Green muttered, careful to keep his voice low. Don’t even know one end of a brandin’ iron from another and he gets around like he’s God Almighty.

They walked from the cookfire embers and the chuckwagon, then through the bedded herd. The wind hissing down through the gulch was cold against their faces.

He’s only doin’ his job, man, Hackett said mildly. Toby Hackett was an easy-going beanpole always ready to see the best in everybody. He don’t mean half of what he says.

Stepping over the summer-bleached buffalo grass, Redford heard the murmur of their voices and his upper lip curled in contempt. Frightened of their own shadows, he thought. No wonder the Golden Hoof Ranch had been coming off second best against the Shotgun. He wondered how they’d go in a really tight situation. Then Redford came to an abrupt stop, holding up his left hand, his Colt at the ready in his right. The cowhands halted behind him, eyes searching the gloom.

What is it, Redford? Hackett breathed.

Lothar Redford didn’t answer immediately, not certain if he had really heard something above the normal night sounds. Then, Take a look in them cottonwoods yonder, Toby. We’ll give you cover.

Hackett swallowed, but to show he was no coward, he moved off to the dark stand of timber and disappeared. A minute or so later he came back, grinning with relief.

Clean, Lothar. Ain’t nothin’ there.

Uh-huh. But Redford still wasn’t fully at ease. He inclined his head at the dark shape of a ridge some fifty yards ahead. C’mon. We’ll check the ridge, then work back down to the creek.

There was nothing at the ridge but wind-blown grass and the dark blob of sagebrush.

Redford was grinning as they headed for the creek. Funny how a couple of jumpy partners could get you going. Minutes back, he’d sensed something alien in the atmosphere, but now the feeling was gone. Of course, he hadn’t really expected trouble tonight, not when it was common knowledge that the Golden Hoof had hired Erskine Getty and himself to bolster the spread’s defenses. The Shotgun men were just a bunch of cowhands. They wouldn’t be fool enough to tangle with bona fide gun handlers.

He thought about his employer, Ethan Kilraine. The rancher was a hard man but a fair one. By now, of course, Ethan Kilraine and the Shotgun bosses, the Hardcastle brothers, must have realized that a range war was a lot easier to trigger off than stop. Not that Redford was anxious to see it halted quickly—not when he was collecting a hundred dollars a month just for keeping an eye on a few cows and some jumpy cowhands.

They reached the creek and Redford drew up to peer at the boulder-strewn bank on the far side. Hackett was staring back in the direction of the herd, and Solly Green had one hand pressed to his side, complaining about a stitch. At that moment a soft-nosed .44 slug smashed into the back of Green’s head. He was dead before