Meanwhile, at the abandoned farmhouse five miles south of Perona on the banks of the Kaw River where Brazos and Arnold Woodcock were awaiting Benedict’s return from town, a small crisis was approaching. They had kept Woodcock primed on rye whisky and talk of big money during the long trip down from Hatch, but the whisky had run out and with it had gone the limited courage of Turk Jory’s look-alike. In fact, Arnold was coming down with a devastating case of cold feet.
“I don’t see what you’ve got to be so scared about, Arnie,” Brazos said from the shade of the rickety back porch as he watched the runty Woodcock pace nervously in the yard. “You’ll only be in the calaboose a short spell. As soon as the Yank and me get our hands on the bounty money, we’ll be springin’ you and then we’ll be off through the tall and uncut like our tail was afire.”
“What if you can’t spring me?”
“Of course we can spring you.”
“How? How’re you gonna do it?”
Brazos frowned and patted Bullpup’s ugly head. “Well, I don’t know exactly how,” he had to concede. Then, brightening, “That’s Duke Benedict’s department. He’s got the head for that kind of thing. He’ll have her all figgered out, you just wait and see.”
Standing before the porch, Woodcock looked anything but reassured. “What if you don’t get me out?” he demanded shrilly. “What if they lynch me? You know anything about Turk Jory, Hank? I mean, really? They hate him down here in Diablo Valley somethin’ fierce. I know, on account of I read everything ever printed about that polecat—hopin’ to read that they finally nailed him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he ain’t lifted cows off every spread in the valley in his time. And he’s hit the stages more times than you can count. Also—”
“Now you’re just gettin’ yourself all steamed up over nothin’,” Brazos said, getting to his feet. But because Woodcock’s words had aroused a few heavy doubts in his own mind, he decided it might be a good idea if they did something to occupy themselves while they waited. He tugged a battered deck of cards from his pocket and put on a grin. “Come on, we’ll play a little draw, Arnie.”
“I don’t want to play cards. I want a drink. Hell, how I want a drink!”
Brazos wouldn’t have said no to a big slug himself right then, but as there was none available cards had to be the next best thing.
He finally talked Woodcock into a game, but only by agreeing to play against their cuts from the bounty. After an hour had gone by, he was wondering if he shouldn’t have let Woodcock go on worrying. He was down forty dollars on paper as Benedict rode in, his special deputy’s star glinting on his chest.
Benedict’s return cheered Brazos and probably saved him some money. But it had a much different effect on Woodcock, and this showed plainly by the time Benedict had got through telling them how things had gone in town.
Woodcock gulped a few times. “You mean it’s all set?” he asked glumly. “No hitches?”
“Not a hitch, Arnold,” smiled Benedict, tapping his star. “We’ll rest up tonight and ride into Perona in the morning. By tomorrow night, perhaps the next day at the latest, we’ll have the money in our pockets.”
“No!” the little man blurted in sudden fright. “No, I ain’t goin’ through with it!” He jumped down from the porch and shouted wildly, “I was a fool to let you talk me into this crazy scheme. It’s all right for you two jokers, but it’ll be me they’ll hang if somethin’ goes wrong.”
Surprised by the sudden outburst, Benedict looked questioningly at Brazos. The Texan said heavily:
“He’s been chewin’ his tail all afternoon, Yank. I don’t reckon we’re gonna be able to talk him into it.”
“Ridiculous,” Benedict said briskly. Putting on his winning smile for Woodcock, he leaned his hands on the rickety railing. “Cash money, Arnold.”
That had been enough to bring Woodcock out of his occasional fits of second thoughts on the trail, but it didn’t work this time. Arnold Woodcock might be as poor as a pack-rat and greedy as a gopher, but it would take more than the prospect of money to soothe him now.
“Not for five thousand, Benedict!” he shouted defiantly. “Not for—” He broke off as Benedict took something from his coat pocket. Warm amber glinted in the late afternoon light. Defiance fled from Woodcock’s face to be replaced by lip-licking desire. “What’s that you got there, Duke? Is that a bottle?”
Benedict jerked out the cork and, as Woodcock came rushing forward, he pressed the bottle of rye into his outstretched hand.
Benedict and Brazos had known from the jump that Arnold was a raving alcoholic who broke his back for months on end so he could afford periodic booze-ups, but even they weren’t prepared for the way Turk Jory’s double hit that bottle of rye. Woodcock lowered the level by a good two inches at the first gulp, almost choked to death, wiped his eyes, then tipped the bottle up and sent another huge slug after the first. Then they found themselves gaping in astonishment as Woodcock lowered the half-empty bottle and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Not bad, not bad at all,” Arnold declared. But this was no longer the runty little Woodcock. He seemed to grow taller, more robust, straighter in the back. He took a few arrogant little steps up and down the yard, belched shatteringly and took another swig. His chest expanded as he stood before them, feet wide-planted, oozing self confidence.
“I’ve tasted better, Benedict,” he stated. “Now, what was it you were tellin’ us about this fat son of a bitch sheriff?” Two surprised men exchanged a glance. Then Brazos said hesitantly:
“You mean ... you mean you still want to go through with it now, Arnold?”
Arnold Woodcock’s bulging green eyes glittered with assurance. “For cash money, Brazos, I’d put on horns and a tail and go tell the devil where God lives. Damn right I’m goin’ through with it. Don’t you know when you’re bein’ ribbed, you overgrown Texas brush-popper?” Arnold shook his red head wonderingly. “Some fellers are real dumb!”
“Spoken like a man, Arnold,” Benedict said, grinning in relief.
“Turk.”
“What?”
Woodcock thumped his inflated chest. “Turk Jory, cardsharp. You better get into the habit of callin’ me Turk from here on in, otherwise you just could make a slip-up when it counts.”
“All right,” Benedict said. “Whatever you say—Turk.”
“Well, I’ll be damned and double damned,” Brazos said fervently as Woodcock swaggered across the yard in the direction of the river. “You know, Yank, with that rotgut inside him, I think the little varmint believes he is Jory.”
“All to the good,” Benedict murmured. “Fortunately, I had the foresight to bring back a good supply of whisky. Arnold Woodcock is going to be nicely pickled and brave when we turn him over to Gulliver.”
“Yeah, but how’re we gonna spring him?”
Benedict examined the nails on his left hand. “I’m working on that.”
Brazos blinked. “You mean you haven’t figgered it out yet?”
“Well, not in detail. But it shouldn’t prove difficult, I can assure you. It is, after all, only a two-man law office, and, as we shall be the heroes of Perona by this time tomorrow night, we’ll be able to come and go as we please. So, don’t worry.”
Brazos scratched his belly and sighed, “Where’s the rest of that booze? In your saddlebags?”
“Yes. Why?”
Brazos slouched down the steps and headed for the horse. “Now I need a drink, that’s why.”
Benedict shook his head as he watched the giant Texan unbuckle the saddlebag. Hank Brazos was the best man you could have at your side when lead and fists were flying thick, he mused, but he lacked imagination and cunning. Fortunately Duke Benedict had both, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that these qualities would carry them through to triumph.
Ever since cowpuncher Greg Davidson had fallen down drunk in front of several matrons of the Perona Christian Ladies’ Society on their way to morning coffee at the Temperance Club, there had been an ordinance in town forbidding the saloons to open until noon.
As a consequence, there were invariably thirsty crowds of parched citizens waiting on the porches of the Days of Glory, the Red Dog and the Gay Lady as noon approached.
This day, Wednesday, was no different than any other, except that more customers were waiting, for it was the hottest day of the summer. Al Stock swore he’d seen a lizard die of thirst on the south end of town.
As the City Hall clock started to chime out the hour, the doors of the Days of Glory swung open and a stream of drinkers filed in and took their positions at the bar. The air was immediately filled with impatient shouts for service. Minutes later, the familiar chant of crazy old Shep Beckett drifted in from the hot street:
“Lettin’ them tumbleweeds roll. Lettin’ them birds fly. Lettin’ them old coyotes howl all night long ... I just don’t give a damn ...”
“How about lettin’ them old bank managers let that old money just roll out of them vaults, Shep?” yelled gunsmith Matt Baylor who erroneously fancied himself to be something of a wit.
Some actually laughed, for it was a bit early in the day to expect real gems.
“Let them bankers let the money roll out,” Shep sang obligingly. “Let old Turk Jory go to jail. I ain’t gonna lift a finger.”
They had been hearing old Shep for so long in Perona that many didn’t really listen to what he said. Shep letting it all go was as familiar as the barking of the town dogs. Which was why it took several seconds for someone to realize that Shep had said something they’d never heard from him before. It was almost as if an old dog had suddenly started to chirp like a bird.
“Let Turk Jory go to jail?” echoed saloonkeeper Wayne Grasnick, pausing in the pouring of a beer to stare at the open window. “Where the devil did the old fool pick that one up?”
“Let Turk Jory go to jail!” Shep repeated, happy that he was attracting an audience. “Let ’em throw him in the state pen and toss away the key, for it surely makes no never-mind to me.”
The saloon was suddenly filled with a strange silence that was broken in a moment by the sound of walking horses. Suddenly from somewhere further along the main stem, a man gave an excited but unintelligible cry.
Matt Baylor was the first to reach the window. “What the hell are you carryin’ on about, Shep—?” he began, then broke off as if somebody had whipped a clamp around his windpipe. The gunsmith stood there, frozen, then he got out a strangled gasp, and, “Good Lord!”
That was more than enough to start a rush for the doors. Clutching mugs and glasses in their fists, the customers poured onto the porch to gape incredulously at the approaching horsemen.
There were three riders abreast. The flanking horsemen were the two strangers who’d brought Charlie Littlehorse in about a month ago. The two looked pretty impressive, the giant Brazos astride his huge appaloosa and Benedict, immaculate and handsome in a gambler’s suit with his big white-handled guns buckled around his narrow hips. But the man who claimed every disbelieving eye was the one in the middle. He had his arms tied behind him and his bare head shone like fire in the sun. He stared at the townsmen with contempt in his bulging green eyes.
It was the same face that stared at the citizens of Perona every time they entered the post office, the jailhouse or the City Hall—the face of Turk Jory, the Scourge of Diablo Valley!
Sheriff Gulliver was still trembling, even when he had the Scourge of Diablo Valley securely locked in a cell. With Benedict and Brazos standing behind him, the lawman peered owlishly through the bars at the prisoner, then jumped back as “Jory” grinned and made a sudden movement towards the door.
Arnold Woodcock, filled to the gills with liquid courage, laughed. “Still as yeller as ever, eh, Gulliver?”
Benedict and Brazos were proud of their Arnold. Even with all the rye whisky, they hadn’t been sure how he would shape up once they hit town. There had been an ugly moment when the crowd had came charging after them down Front Street, yelling for Jory’s blood. But Arnold, enjoying his role to the full, had thrown a scare into the mob by turning on them, and now he was doing a masterful job of frightening Gulliver.
“It’s all right, Sheriff,” Brazos said quietly, patting the sheriff’s hammy shoulder. “He can’t do you no harm now.”
Drawing confidence from their presence, but making sure he kept well clear of the bars, Gulliver panted, “By Judas, that’s so, ain’t it? He—he’s really locked in tight, ain’t he? You hear that, Jory? You’re mine, joker! I got you at last!”
Woodcock growled menacingly. “Get this fat pig outa my sight, you bounty hunter skunks, or I might get to spit clear through him.”
“Better give him time to settle in, Sheriff,” Benedict said solicitously, moving Gulliver towards the front office. “Besides, I believe we have business to discuss.”
Still wearing the same disbelieving look he’d had on his face for the last five minutes, Gulliver let himself be led away. “You mean the bounty money?”
“That’s just what I mean,” Benedict replied. Winking at Brazos over his shoulder, he pushed the fat sheriff through to the front office.
“Nice work, Arnold,” Brazos said when he was alone with Woodcock.
“Turk is the name, boy!”
“All right, Turk.” Brazos moved to the door, slipping the big bottle of rye from inside his shirt. “Here, Turk, get this out of sight and—” He broke off at a sudden upsurge in the sounds from the crowd outside. “Sounds like they’re gettin’ stirred up again,” he muttered. “Mebbe I’d better go see if I can quieten ’em down some.”
Until that moment, Woodcock had been going just fine, but the sudden realization that he was going to be left alone sobered him a little. With a not-so-cocky glance towards the front office, he said, “There ain’t no chance of ’em gettin’ in at me, is there, Hank?”
“No chance,” Brazos assured him. “Now you just take it easy, Arnie, and we’ll have you out of here in no time.”
Passing through to the front office with Bullpup at his heels, Brazos found Deputy Barney Rudkin standing by a front window peering anxiously out at the throng, while Benedict and Gulliver stood arguing by the desk.
“What’s the trouble, Yank?”
Benedict, looking testy, said, “The good sheriff just informs me that he has to have authorization from the Marshals’ Office in Haggerstown before he pays out the bounty, and that it might not come through until tomorrow, perhaps later.”
“The hell with that,” Brazos growled. “You got your man, Sheriff. You’re not gonna try and buffalo us again, are you? Pay us and let’s get it done with.”
“I’d sure as hell like to, boys,” Gulliver replied, and for once he was being honest. “But it’s regulations. Any bounty over five hundred, I got to get wired authority from Haggerstown to pay out first. But don’t fret, boys, you’ll have your money in a day or so. You got my word.”
“Hey, Sheriff!” Rudkin called from the window. “You better have a word out front. They’re gettin’ steamed up some.”
Gulliver grunted and headed for the door. A wash of sound flooded in as Rudkin opened the door and the two lawmen stepped outside to face the crowd.
“What do you reckon, Yank?” Brazos said. “You think he might be tryin’ to gyp us again?”
“I doubt it,” Benedict replied. “I suppose with a bounty payment of this size, it’s reasonable to expect that he needs some sort of authorization.”
“But if it drags out, what about Arnold?”
“He’ll just have to sweat it out.” Benedict frowned as the sound of the crowd drowned out Gulliver’s voice ordering them to disperse. “Come on, we’d better help him settle them down. The last thing we want is a lynching.”
Gulliver was sweating and gesticulating as the two tall men appeared behind him on the gallery. The crowd, yelling for Jory, suddenly changed its tune and began applauding the men responsible for the “bad man’s” capture.
“Thank you, gents!” Benedict shouted, holding his hands up for silence. “Now, we understand how excited you are about this, but I know you don’t want to take the law into your own hands. We’ve got Jory and we’ll leave him to a judge and jury, won’t we?”
“No, by hell we won’t!” shouted a red-faced towner. “We’ll take the skunk out and string him up.”
They started to surge forward and Brazos hauled his gun and fired it into the air. “Simmer down!” he bellowed, and was getting ready to trigger again when the assembled citizens of Perona showed their true mettle and backed away as quickly as they had started forward. They didn’t really want to bust open the jail; they’d just felt that something like this was expected of them. They actually looked relieved to find the big Texan blocking their way with a menacing six-gun in his fist.
“Brazos is right, boys,” panted Wayne Grasnick. Then, turning to face them he shouted, “Hell, what are we gettin’ all steamed up about anyway? This ain’t a day to go carryin’ on like this. This is a day to celebrate, ain’t it?”
“Of course it is!” Benedict called. Then, with his winning smile, he said, “Now all of you just stroll across to the Days of Glory, gents, and Brazos and I shall be along presently to tell you just how we snared Jory. Now off you go!”
Properly off the boil by now, the crowd began to move away until just the four men were left on the gallery. Swabbing at his sweating face, Gulliver said, “Thanks for the support, gents. And, incidentally, Duke, how did you catch that varmint?”
Benedict immediately launched into a fanciful story of how they’d got a tip that Jory was visiting a girl friend over Wildcat way. After rounding it off with an assurance to Gulliver that ‘Jory’ had admitted to them that his gang was out of the county and would therefore pose no threat as they had done once before, he and Brazos headed for the Days of Glory Saloon.
It wasn’t much of a surprise to learn that their money was no good at the saloon. Everybody wanted to buy the captors of wild Turk Jory a drink and hear the story of his capture. And that long list definitely included Jim Chester. Jim Chester was owner, editor, advertising manager and star reporter of the Perona Gazette, and being a man with an eye for color, he found himself just as interested in Jory’s captors as he was in the wild bad man himself. So much so, in fact, that Jim was moved to sit up all night, first writing his account of how Benedict and Brazos had captured Turk Jory, and then printing a special edition of his paper which would carry the best story he had ever written to the furthest corners of Diablo County.