Benedict and Brazos 10: Diablo Valley

By E. Jefferson Clay

As usual, Duke Benedict and Hank Brazos were low on funds ... until they ran into a drunken miner by the name of Arnie Woodcock. Arnie bore such an uncanny resemblance to a wanted outlaw called Turk Jory that it gave Benedict an idea. Suppose they were to turn Arnie in and claim the reward on Jory’s head? They could then bust Arnie out of jail, quit the territory and split the money three ways.
What could possibly go wrong?
In short – everything.
Nobody figured on the real Turk Jory showing up to take a look at the man who was to hang in his place.
Nobody figured that he would use the hanging as a diversion while he hit the local bank.
And nobody figured that Benedict and Brazos could still come out of the whole sorry mess as heroes!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piccadilly
• Release date: Mar 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215649589

Book preview

One – Bounty on a Bad Man

With a mug of beer in hand and a tolerably pretty girl at his side, big Hank Brazos was at peace with his world as he watched the barroom fight.

Pretty to watch, ain’t he, Lulubelle? he drawled as a flashing straight left to the nose drew crimson.

Your friend Mr. Benedict, you mean?

Well, I sure enough don’t mean that hard-mouthed bounty hunter!

The eyes of Lulubelle, tarnished flower of Wildcat’s Panhandle Saloon, fluttered admiringly towards the taller, handsomer and obviously superior, of the two combatants. He ain’t just pretty, big boy, she cooed, he’s beautiful!

At that moment, the face Lulubelle admired so much came into jolting contact with a left hook. Duke Benedict, one-time boxing champion at Harvard University, danced back, more surprised than hurt. Until then he’d been content to give the hatchet-faced fight-picking bounty hunter a lesson in boxing. The punch that got through his guard suggested it might be time to bring the brawl to a close.

Jim Turp had exactly the same idea as he charged the elusive figure of Benedict, throwing a haymaker from the floor. The punch missed by a foot and Turp ate yet another pistoning straight left. Turp spat blood and shouted, He’s still mine, goddamn it! I’ve earned him!

Benedict was as mystified by the bounty hunter’s declaration as he’d been by the harsh words that had led to the fight. He had no way of knowing that Turp had been tracking horse-thief Charlie Littlehorse for several weeks, and the trail had led him here to Wildcat tonight. Nor did he know that

Turp, sighting him with Brazos amongst the Panhandle’s down-at-heel clientele, had immediately guessed them to be rival bounty hunters who’d beaten him to Littlehorse’s bailiwick. Hence the harsh words that had been meant to scare the two strangers off.

The burly bounty hunter stopped advancing at a right cross to the forehead. He reeled against the bar and then a right rip caught him in the belly. He jackknifed into a vicious uppercut that sent him spinning along the bar, then he slid off to the floor and didn’t move a muscle.

What happened next happened fast.

With Jim Turp sprawled in the sawdust, Benedict turned away—just as Lulubelle ran to give him the victor’s kiss. At that same moment the batwings burst open and a man with a big sorrel face and a massive mane of jet-black hair lumbered into the saloon. In the new arrival’s hand was a six-gun that he pointed at Duke Benedict.

You bounty hunter son of a bitch! the man with the burnished copper face bellowed. Freeze or you’re dead mutton!

Duke Benedict could only stand staring down the muzzle of the gun that looked as big as a cannon.

Not so Hank Brazos. Though he’d often felt like putting a little lead through his arrogant, overbearing trail partner’s fine hide, Brazos wasn’t about to stand by and watch him gunned down. For a big man Texan Hank Brazos could move with bewildering speed. So could his ugly dog, Bullpup.

It was Bullpup who reached the mark first, clamping his big jaws onto the gunman’s calf. The fellow roared like a sinner in torment, then Brazos hit him like a torpedo. There was an incredible crash as the two men, the dog and a table hit the far wall together, followed by the sound of two thumping right hooks, a groan and the clatter of an unfired Colt hitting the floor.

All right, you can let go now, Brazos panted as he came erect. The ugly hound obediently released the chap-protected calf he’d been chewing on. Brazos felt for the mouth organ he wore slung on a rawhide thong around his neck and examined it for damage. Only then did he look at the wild man he’d flattened.

He appeared to be about thirty years of age and was decked out in a gaudy red and yellow checked shirt, leather chaps and a fancy gun rig.

Brazos turned to find a dozen faces staring at him in awe. He frowned, glanced at Benedict, then cut his gaze to little Lulubelle who was gaping down at the unconscious wild man with her hand to her mouth.

It’s all right, little lady, Brazos said. He ain’t really hurt. He’ll be bouncin’ around like a two-year-old lad in ten minutes or ... He paused to stare down at the egg-shaped lump rising on a copper-skinned forehead. Make that half an hour or so.

You don’t understand, Lulubelle gasped. You don’t know who he is.

It didn’t take Brazos and Benedict long to find out, for they had any number of willing informants. He was Charlie Littlehorse, Wildcat’s most infamous son. Though cattle rustling and outfoxing posses were listed among Charlie’s skills, his real talent was for horse stealing. Show Charlie a horse ranch, an old buffalo hunter told Benedict and Brazos with a mixture of awe and pride, and very soon the rancher would have a row of empty corrals. Charlie, according to the locals, had stolen bloodstock as far south as Kansas and as far north as Canada. It was Charlie’s boast that there wasn’t a horse he couldn’t steal in all of Wyoming, and not a posse that could run him down afterwards.

At one time Hank Brazos and gambling man Duke Benedict might have been impressed to learn they’d crossed swords with a character of such notoriety, but that would have been a long time ago ... before the War Between the States in which each had fought all the way, Benedict in the blue, Brazos in Confederate gray. They were less than impressed now, though curious to know what had triggered off Charlie Littlehorse’s dramatic entrance.

They had to wait until Turp regained consciousness to discover that.

Turp, the professional bounty hunter, explained. He had tracked Charlie Littlehorse to his home ground and had mistaken Benedict and Brazos as rival bounty hunters after his prize. Apparently, while the fun and games were on at the saloon, Charlie had heard that bounty hunters had shown up. Being a direct sort of bad man, he’d chosen to meet the trouble head-on.

I guess when he saw me on the deck, he natcherly figgered you was the bounty hunter, Benedict, Turp added, shame-faced. Bounty hunters were a notoriously tough breed, and obviously ugly Turp felt he had let the side down.

Benedict and Brazos exchanged a disinterested glance. But then Jim Turp sighed gustily, tenderly fingered his swollen features and said:

Well, there goes five hundred iron men down the drain!

Suddenly Hank Brazos and Duke Benedict were anything but bored.

Benedict said quietly, Did you say something about five hundred dollars, Mr. Turp?

Turp nodded glumly. That’s what he’s worth, gents ... and I guess I’ve gotta say you’ve earned it … The bounty hunter frowned at their expressions. You mean to say you didn’t know?

How could they know, having just ridden into Diablo Valley, Wyoming, late that afternoon searching for a lead on the man they hunted? They hadn’t had time to see the wanted dodgers and learn that, alive or preferably dead, Charlie Littlehorse was one of Wildcat’s most valuable citizens.

It was very quiet in the Panhandle Saloon as Duke Benedict drew his gaze from Jim Turp and directed it at the peaceful figure of the horse thief before moving it to the big man standing at his shoulder.

Johnny Reb, he said, are we thinking in concert?

They were. Brazos was thinking how far five hundred dollars might take them in the hunt for Bo Rangle ...

Their long search for Bo Rangle dated back to the dying days of the Civil War, when Confederate and Union troops had fought a bloody battle for a shipment of Confederate gold, only to have the gold snatched away by the infamous Rangle’s Raiders. Rebel sergeant Hank Brazos and Union captain Duke Benedict were the sole survivors of one hundred and fifty men. Chance had brought them together at war’s end and now they hunted Rangle and the gold brave men had died for.

But the trail had grown cold and it had been lack of funds and not a lead that had brought them to unlovely Wildcat on the eastern rim of Diablo Valley. They had even considered work; five hundred dollars would put an end to that ugly subject. And it seemed the money was theirs for the taking, if they chose to lay claim to Charlie Littlehorse.

The two turned to look at the unconscious bad man with fresh interest. In their time together, they’d punched cows, hired their guns, worn lawmen’s stars in hell towns and had ridden shotgun on stage lines. But they had never gone the bounty hunter route, mainly because of an aversion for back shooters who made their living from human scalps.

But this was different. Big Charlie Littlehorse had dealt them in on the game by bracing them. Now all they had to do was truss him up, toss him over a horse, and take him to wherever it was that he was worth such a sum.

Reckon I ought to go fetch a rope off my horse, Yank? Brazos said after he’d juggled with his conscience for a moment.

Indeed I do, replied Benedict, who had far fewer problems with his conscience than his towering partner.

Better make it an extra strong rope, son, suggested a towner.

Five hundred dollars, lamented Jim Turp.

Isn’t he absolutely gorgeous? Lulubelle sighed to a friend as Duke Benedict lit a cigar.

Get a move on, Reb, Benedict said for the benefit of Lulubelle, and Brazos mumbled something vulgar under his breath as he headed for the door with Bullpup trailing at his heels.

Some four minutes later, Charlie Littlehorse regained consciousness as he was being thrown over a saddle in front of the Panhandle Saloon, his hands trussed up with rope.

Instinctively, Charlie lashed out at Brazos with his boots. Brazos spat out