Benedict and Brazos 18 by E. Jefferson Clay

Author:E. Jefferson Clay
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: revenge, american civil war, action heroes, piccadilly publishing, craig johnson, western fiction ebook, colt 45 and winchester rifle, cowboy series
Publisher: Piccadilly

It was late afternoon when the outlaws reached the scatter of ugly unpainted buildings that was Devil’s Fork. Exhaustion marked every hard face as they came in past the horse corrals on the edge of town, but the big sign hanging over the split-log saloon that announced BEER 5c—WHISKY 10c, lifted their spirits. Last night’s violence was behind them; they would wash away the lingering taste at Whisky Bob’s Saloon.

The arrival of the outlaws brought Devil’s Fork to life, and soon Whisky Bob’s was doing boom business as the towners drifted in to join in the fun.

And fun it was. By nature, these were men not given to mourning for dead companions. Death was always your saddle partner on the owlhoot. They’d lost five men last night, four in the clash with Benedict and Brazos, another when they’d fought the Sioux. But they were still alive, there was liquor close at hand, and tomorrow loomed uncertainly. So they would live tonight.

The sun slid down past the windows and the noisy hum in Whisky Bob’s grew to a roar. Somebody threw a bottle through a window and laughed drunkenly. Big Jack Clanton rolled out of his chair and fell asleep, snoring on the floor. Ward Bishop got into a brawl with a local, whipped him good and booted him into the street to the accompaniment of cheers. Bob Checker won twenty dollars on the wheel, promptly lost thirty back, then retired upstairs with a tarnished blonde and a bottle of redeye. Rack Stonehill, slow to get started, finally began to feel the beneficial effects of Whisky Bob’s booze, and he started to boast to an impressed audience at the bar how he’d gunned down two Sioux bucks out in the wilds. On the strength of this, Indian-hating Whisky Bob treated him to a bottle on the house.

But Bo Rangle sat alone at a corner table. Before dark, he’d gone next door to the store and purchased ammunition and supplies. He planned to leave town around midnight to strike northwest into the badlands. The others would be coming with him, drunk or sober. In truth, he wouldn’t have minded getting riotously drunk himself, but he drank little. It wasn’t over yet. Until it was, Bo Rangle was staying sober.

It was just on dark when the batwings pushed open and five men and a girl came in. Rangle looked up idly, then froze, his jaw clicking open in disbelief.

Brady Monk!

Brady Monk’s dark eyes swept over the room, then focused on the tall man at the table. He smiled coldly. “Well, it’s a small world sure enough. Hiya, Bo, boy!”

Rangle didn’t answer, his right hand dropping to his gun butt as the party threaded its way through the tables towards him. It was three months since he’d seen Brady Monk, his old lieutenant from the days of Rangle’s Raiders. The last he’d seen of Monk and the others, they’d been hemmed in by the soldiers in that pass in the Whiplock Mountains where he’d left them to die.

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