“Duke?” Woodcock whispered hoarsely. “Is that you?”
“Of course it’s me,” came the terse reply and then Duke Benedict re-appeared from the alleyway. Two minutes had passed since they reached the yard, two nervous, anxious minutes for Arnold Woodcock while Benedict left him there to take a look around.
“No sign of Hank?” Woodcock asked.
“Not a damned sign. I went all the way to the saloon. There’s a big crowd and some of them are still fighting. I couldn’t get a good look in, but I’m certain he’s not there.”
“But he’s gotta be there! Mebbe he got clonked on the head.”
“That overgrown Texan has few attributes that I’ve found cause to admire,” Benedict declared, impatient, concern and annoyance putting a cutting edge to his voice, “and the hardness of his head is one of them. You can’t knock him out with a mallet. I know because I’ve seen men try.”
“Well, if he ain’t at the Red Dog, where is he?”
The gambling man fingered his temple, brows knit hard in thought as he scoured the moonlight and shadows as though expecting something massive and purple-shirted to show up at any second. “Perhaps there was something I overlooked and he remembered ... something that perhaps I should have taken care of but didn’t ...”
He stepped back into the alleyway, again leaving Woodcock alone. It was quiet in the yard of Jackson’s barn, so quiet that Arnold could hear his teeth chattering. He needed a drink, so he checked out the saddlebags on the horses. Finding no liquor, he made his tentative way to the yard entrance and gave a sigh of relief when he saw Benedict’s tall figure pacing a short distance along the alleyway.
“Duke!”
Benedict halted, then turned and came back to him. “Yes, what is it?”
“You don't happen to have a drink on you, do you?”
“To Hades with your booze, Woodcock! What’s wrong with you, thinking of drinking at a time like this?” Benedict gestured in the direction of the central block. “Don’t you understand? Something has gone wrong!”
Setting his ferocious desire for alcoholic stimulant aside for the moment, Woodcock studied the tall man, then said curiously, “You know, I don’t figure you, Duke. The way I’ve heard you talk to Hank—and about him at times—I got the idea that you just kinda suffered him to tag along with you. But you’re really worried about that big feller, ain’t you? You must hold him a whole lot higher than you let on.”
“What a load of unmitigated hogswill!” Benedict rapped. “All I’m concerned about is—”
Footsteps sounded somewhere close.
Moving swiftly, Benedict seized Woodcock and bundled him into the yard of Jackson’s barn. And not a moment too soon. Two men crossed the open lot between the barn yard and the next house some eighty feet away. They were towners talking about the fight as they hurried along.
Woodcock sucked in his breath. “We gotta get out of here, Benedict!” he whispered urgently. “We gotta go right now!”
“We’re not leaving without Brazos.”
“To hell with Brazos!” Woodcock’s voice was getting shrill. “All I’m worryin’ about is my neck!” He started towards the horses. “I ain’t waitin’ around here no longer, Duke. I’m goin’!”
“That’s up to you, Arnold.”
Woodcock propped. “You mean you’d let me go?”
“Certainly, if you want to run out on your friends,” Benedict said icily. “But of course you realize that by doing so you’d be breaking your agreement with us. We all went into this together, but if we don’t stick together ...” He let his voice trail away.
“What happens if we split?”
Benedict shrugged his tailored shoulders in the deep gloom of the dappled tree shadows. “You’ll merely forfeit your share of the profits.”
Woodcock came back across the yard, the avarice in him over-riding everything else. “Forfeit my cut? After all I’ve been through? After sweatin’ in the shadow of the noose for nigh on two days and ?”
“Then I take it that you don’t want to surrender your cut?”
“No, by Judas, I don’t!”
“All right, then shut up and stay put,” Benedict ordered, his voice steely with authority now. He reached out to take Woodcock’s shoulder in a painful grip and looked the man straight in the eye. “I’m going out to find Brazos, Woodcock, and find him I will. Either we all leave or none do. Now—is that straight in your thick skull?”
Woodcock wilted. He’d always been in awe of stronger men, and this wasn’t the first time he’d sensed that beneath Benedict’s clothes and educated manner lurked one of the strongest men he’d ever come up against.
His head bobbed. “I’ll be here, Duke.”
He really meant it. He would sweat it out until Benedict got back with Brazos. This was partly because of the money, but it was mainly due to fear. He hadn’t really meant to take off on his own; he’d simply been trying to bluff Benedict into joining him. Arnold Woodcock felt anything but safe here in this dark and quiet yard after Benedict disappeared, but his imagination painted an all too vivid picture of how he’d feel going it alone. He had to have Benedict or Brazos, preferably both, hard at his elbows. They might be a pair of tough customers and they might have treated him a little harshly at times, but he wasn’t about to deny that when riding with them he felt safe.
A dragging minute passed and the quiet began to get to him. He went back to the horses, fumbled through the bags and bedrolls, but failed to find a drop of booze. He rubbed his sweating palms against his thighs. Brazos’ big appaloosa rolled an unfriendly eye at him. The whole world seemed unfriendly, alien, threatening.
If only he didn’t need a drink so badly ...
Another dreadful minute passed and desperation drove Woodcock to quit the yard and pace up and down in the alley.
He drew up to look longingly down the laneway. Front Street and the nearest saloon were so near, yet so far. From further down the street came the tinkle of a saloon piano.
There was whisky in that music. He could smell it. It was an aroma that wafted to him on the air, blending with the strains of “Sweet Nell”. It drifted all the way down his parched throat to do weird and tormenting things to his insides. They shouldn’t have left him without a drink, he told himself self-pityingly. They knew he had to have it to keep his nerve up. If he had a slug now, just one big slug, he’d be all right for awhile.
Did he dare go down there to Front Street with his hat pulled down over his nose and his collar turned up around his ears and try to buy a bottle of rye? A tremor ran through him at the sheer daring of the thought. He knew deep down it was crazy. But then craving overpowered him and he hurried down the alleyway flanking the bank, stepping as cautiously as a dog in snake country. Then a sudden voice from a gateway caused him to jump.
“Turk!”
A man emerged from the back yard of the bank. Tall and lean, he wore a thonged-down cutaway gun rig and an astonished expression.
“Turk, what the hell are you doing in town?” this total stranger demanded. “I thought you were gonna wait at the lake until we got back.”
Woodcock’s throat was so dry it hurt. He wanted to run but his feet were rooted to the ground.
The tall man with the sharp eyes was peering at him intently now. “Say, Turk, are you all right?”
“Sure, I’m all right,” he got out, surprised that he could speak at all. Then, realizing that something more was expected of him, he said, “How’s everythin’ goin’?”
“Okay, Turk,” the tall man jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Hogger and Shorty are in there checking out the doors. Come on in. I’ll bet they’ll be just as surprised to see you as I am.”
Woodcock let himself be guided into the gloom of the bank’s back yard. He knew he was walking but he couldn’t feel the ground under his feet. Hogger and Shorty. Hogger Smith and Shorty Gilpin—he’d seen their names and the name Barton Frank, reputedly the fastest gun of the Jory bunch, in the newspapers. This tall man with the hatchet jaw and piercing eyes had to be Barton Frank. “Hogger! Shorty!” the man called.
As two figures emerged from the shadows, Woodcock didn’t even wonder how this incredible, impossible situation had arisen. All he knew was that he was paralyzed with terror. Surely these three, Jory’s henchmen, wouldn’t be taken in as had Gulliver and the others?
“Well, I’ll be damned!” exclaimed the runty, muscular fellow whom he immediately knew was Shorty Gilpin. “It’s Turk! What’re you doin’ here, Turk?”
Standing there, feeling as if his feet had taken root, Woodcock felt just a little of his terror leave him. Gilpin was curious, but there had been great respect in his voice and not a sign of suspicion.
The big, burly fellow who had to be Hogger Smith was just as respectful as he said, “Anythin’ wrong, Turk?”
Turk! The three of them were fooled. Now he could feel the ground beneath his feet. Even his heartbeat slowed down somewhat.
“Can’t a man change his mind?” he asked as gruffly as he knew how.
“Sure, sure you can, Turk,” Barton Frank said quickly. “If the boss can’t change his mind when he likes, what sort of a boss is he?” Then, peering intently at him, he added, “You sure you feel all right, Turk?”
Woodcock summoned up one of the scowls he’d practiced out at the Kaw River. “Of course I’m all right. Why the hell shouldn’t I be all right?”
Barton Frank scratched his chin. “I don’t know, Turk. It’s just that your voice sounds a bit funny, is all.”
Woodcock’s only hope now was to go on bluffing it out. “I got a cold comin’ on,” he declared. He coughed. “Who’s got a drink?”
“I got my flask, Turk,” said Frank. “You want a shot?”
“I reckon,” grunted Woodcock casually, though every fiber in his body was screaming for alcoholic sustenance.
Barton Frank took out a leather-covered flask, unscrewed the cap and passed it across. Woodcock’s hands shook as he lifted the flask to his lips and drank. He sneezed violently.
“Hey, you are catching a cold,” Barton Frank said sympathetically, reaching for the flask.
Warding off the hand, Woodcock drank again and felt warm confidence flowing through him. He was actually beginning to feel a little like Turk Jory as he finally lowered the flask.
“I’ll hang on to this,” he said gruffly.
It was then, just as Woodcock was lifting the bottle to his lips again, that a gunshot sounded on Front Street, followed by a wild shout of alarm.
“Goddamn but this is a noisy town!” complained Shorty Gilpin. “They were brawlin’ when we rode in. Now it sounds like they got to shootin’ at each other.”
“Shut up, Shorty,” Barton Frank said and cocked his head. “What’s that they’re saying? What’s the fool hollering about?”
Nobody knew yet, though Woodcock could hazard a guess.
Then, clearly above the growing rumble of sound from the vicinity of the jailhouse, they clearly heard one word:
“Jailbreak!”
Barton Frank swore. “Damn it, I was going to mosey down there and try to get a look at that joker they’re holding just as soon as—” He broke off, his eyes widening as he stared at Woodcock. “Say, Turk, maybe this is what you tipped. Remember you saying back in the Doomsdays that you wouldn’t be surprised if this fellow escaped and accidentally got a bullet in the back?”
Woodcock nodded. “So?”
“Let’s chew it over later, huh?” suggested Hogger Smith, showing visible signs of alarm. “This town’s beginnin’ to stir like an ant’s nest. Hadn’t we better be headin’ out, Turk?”
Arnold Woodcock, still feeling the diminishing effects of his terror and the increasing effects of the whisky, couldn’t for the life of him see how he could get away from these men without immediately arousing their suspicions. And if he couldn’t leave them, the only thing to do was leave with them. At least it would get him out of town. And with that racket from the main street, getting out of town was all that mattered right now.
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, feeling a twinge of power as the three spun and led the way across the yard into the alley onto the eastern side where horses stood cached beyond the fence.
“Where’s your prad, Turk?” Hogger Smith asked as the three started to mount.
Woodcock thought of his horse back in the yard of Jackson’s barn. He also thought of the possibility that Benedict and Brazos might be back there and what would happen if he showed up with these three. Gunplay for sure.
“Hurt himself on the way in,” he said gruffly, striding towards Frank’s horse. “I’ll double with you, Bart.”
They rode swiftly away, following the back streets until they were on the edge of town. By then, Arnold had managed to finish off Barton Frank’s flask and was feeling braver by the minute. He still wasn’t thinking with complete clarity but his brain was sharp enough for him to realize that Turk Jory was at this place Frank had called Papoose Lake, which meant that Papoose Lake was the last place in the world for Arnold Woodcock to be.
“Hold hard,” he said with his new-won authority as they topped a ridge that cut them from sight of the town behind. “I’m changin’ my mind about the lake. There’s an old farmhouse I know of out on the Kaw River that’ll suit us better to my way of thinkin’.” He pointed south. “That way.”
“But, boss, we got gear stashed at the lake,” Shorty Gilpin pointed out.
“Who’s givin’ the orders around here, Shorty?” Woodcock challenged, his stomach rolling at his own daring.
“Why, you are, boss.”
“All right. Then we’ll head for the Kaw River and figure out the details and suchlike later,” growled Woodcock. Jerking the head of Barton Frank’s horse around, he pointed it south and used his heels.
Woodcock licked his lips as the two others fell in behind and followed across the moonlit flats. Without the whisky he couldn’t possibly have done it. But somehow he’d survived the most desperate moments of his life. He’d chosen the old ranch house at Kaw River with the idea that ultimately Benedict and Brazos would come looking for him there.
It was at least an outside chance. In the meantime he would go on masquerading as Turk Jory. He hoped these bad men were carrying more liquor. With liquor and luck he might see the night through.
It seemed that half the male population of Perona had flocked to the Red Dog Saloon to either witness or participate in the brawl, giving Benedict no chance to search the place thoroughly. After a quick reconnoiter of the area surrounding the saloon and jailhouse, he’d fought his way through the milling bunch around the batwings, only to be hit with a flying bottle.
Dazed, angry, but more concerned about time slipping by than anything else, he went back to the porch. Dabbing at the slight cut on his temple, he looked at the jailhouse. The lights were still blazing. He hadn’t seen Brazos inside the Red Dog, but he had caught a glimpse of the deputy, up to his armpits in brawlers. Where in the name of God was that overgrown Texan?
A towner, making a belated arrival at the scene of action, saw him standing there and said excitedly, “What’s goin’ on, Mr. Benedict?”
“I’d be the last one to know,” snapped the gambling man and started off along Front Street with a long swinging stride.
He would go back to check at Jackson’s barn again. If Brazos wasn’t there ...
Then what?
He grappled with the problem as he walked. One thing was certain—he wasn’t going to leave Johnny Reb here on his own. But he certainly couldn’t have Woodcock hanging around any longer. He would send Woodcock out of town to wait for them.
He had cut down a side street and was close to his destination when he heard a gunshot and then shouting coming from the jailhouse. He propped and turned as somebody rushed out the back door of the law office swinging a lantern.
The escape had been discovered.
Breaking into a trot, Benedict swung into the tree-shadowed yard. “Reb!” he called softly, eyes raking the moonlight and shadows. “Woodcock!”
There was no answer. He was alone with three saddled horses.
He ran back to Front Street and saw the crowd pouring out of the Red Dog and coming towards the jailhouse. He stood indecisively for a moment on the porch of the bakery shop, then trotted in the direction of the Red Dog. He paused as he reached the Gay Lady Saloon to peer over the window curtain. He didn’t expect to see Brazos in there, but it wouldn’t have surprised him to see that drunken idiot Woodcock risking life and limb for a glass of rye.
But all had left the Gay Lady for the jailhouse except the barkeep, Monroe Wintergreen and old Shep Beckett. Shep was on a high stool dangling his legs, and singing, “Lettin’ them fellers fight, lettin’ them jailbirds bust right out of the calaboose ... lettin’ ’em all do just what they want ...”
Benedict’s swift steps carried him on to the Red Dog. Even from outside the saloon looked a shambles. Both windows were broken, one batwing hung on its hinges and a bow-legged cowboy with a stream of blood running from his nose leaned on the other.
“Where the fire?” he mouthed thickly at Benedict’s dim shape.
The man was blocking Benedict’s way. He took a handful of collar, another of belt buckle, and shot the cowboy all the way off the porch, then he stepped through the doorway.
It was apparent at first glance that the only ones who hadn’t rushed out at the sound of the alarm being raised from the jailhouse were those incapable of movement. The Red Dog looked like a battlefield. Broken furniture was strewn wall to wall. Two of the four overhead lights had been broken and the bar no longer existed. The room was dim with smoke and dust, and there was an overpowering stench of liquor from the broken bottles. Through the haze, Benedict saw the groggy owner, Dan Kirshner, leaning on his bar.
“Mr. Kirshner,” he said, “have you seen my associate, Mr. Brazos?”
With one eye totally closed and a lump on his jaw the size of a hen’s egg, it was a considerable feat for Dan Kirshner to summon up an expression of bitter loathing, but he managed it. “That madman!” he gasped. He made a wild gesture that encompassed the entire ruin. “It was him that started this. And why? Why, I ask you?” He staggered forward and tapped Benedict on the chest. “Because he wanted his dog to drink at the bar. Have you ever heard the beat of that, Mr. Benedict?” He reared backwards, pointing a finger at the ceiling. “That associate of yours as you call him, Mr. Benedict, isn’t fit to be—”
“Very interesting, Mr. Kirshner, I’m sure. But do you know where he is?”
“I wish I did,” the saloonkeeper said fervently, turning and reaching unsteadily for one of the few bottles that had escaped destruction. “I surely wish I did ... just so I could get one good shot at him.”
Leaving the saloonkeeper alone with his bottle of bitterness, Benedict picked his way through the shambles. He shook his head in wonder when he saw the huge piano that had gone right through a wall and now lay at a sharp angle, half in the Red Dog and half in the alleyway outside. No two ways about it, the citizens of Perona must have been spoiling for a decent all-in dustup for a long time.
Reaching the back rooms, Benedict checked them out. He was in the barroom again when he saw the dog. Bullpup hadn’t been over there by the piano when he’d come through, but that was unmistakably him there now, sniffing at what looked like a leg, and a big, dusty boot protruding from beneath the much abused musical instrument.
That boot looked familiar.
Benedict threw a battered table aside, dodged the haymaker of a member of the walking wounded who thought the fight was still on, then he dropped to one knee beside the piano and peered through the hole.
“Reb?”
“Benedict?” came Brazos’ muffled voice.
Benedict forced his way out through the gaping hole, dropped to the ground outside and peered under the piano. Brazos’ face stared back at him.
“Sorry, Yank. Damn thing run me down like a Texas longhorn just as I was about to haul my freight.” His voice took on a note of shame. “I think I was even knocked out for a spell …”
Benedict rose and went to the end of the piano. He turned his back to it, squatted on his haunches, hooked his fingers under the edge, called, “Ready!” and then heaved. The piano came up slowly, then the big Texan rolled out from under and staggered to his feet.
Benedict dropped the piano. “I’ve heard of people getting run down by trains and stagecoaches and even by bath chairs,” he said testily, adjusting the angle of his hat as Bullpup came prancing joyfully down the piano top to bounce into Brazos’ arms and lick his face. “But run down by a piano?” Having got that out of his system, Benedict said in an easier tone, “You okay?”
Tossing Bullpup to the ground, Brazos thumped his chest and started scouting around for his hat. “Takes more than a runaway piano to dent a Brazos,” he grunted as he retrieved his hat from under the piano. He jammed the hat on his head and said, “Judgin’ from all the racket I heard as I came to, it’s time we were gone, Yank.”
It was high time. Front Street was aboil with shouting men, bobbing lanterns and drifting clouds of boot-kicked dust.
Working away from the noise and confusion, Benedict and Brazos made the alley and then cut west. Brazos was limping a little, but was able to keep pace with the swift-footed Benedict, testifying to his iron stamina. Benedict didn’t tell him that Woodcock had been missing when he called at Jackson’s barn some five minutes back; he was hoping that when they got there, a trembling Arnold would be with the horses.
But only the horses were there.
“Damned idiot!” Brazos said with feeling as he went searching through the shadows. “Where would he have got to, Yank? His horse is still here, so that means—”
“That means he’s still in town,” Benedict said grimly. “We’d better find him before Gulliver does.”