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  “What was his name?” Mosehan asked.

  During his Army service, circumstances had compelled the major to have three men hanged; but he was certain each had been guilty of the crimes with which they were charged!

  “Joe Benedict,” the man replied.

  “Benedict?” Mosehan repeated, frowning in puzzlement. “I’ve never even met anybody called ‘Benedict’.”

  “Liar!” the man shouted and grabbed for his gun.

  Instead of trying to unfasten and open the flap of the Cavalry pattern holster, the major sent his right hand upward and across to the left. Passing beneath his unbuttoned jacket, it made a grasping and twisting motion. Then it emerged, holding a short barrelled Merwin & Hulbert Army Pocket revolver.

  Confident that he had an unbeatable edge with his open topped fast draw rig, the man was startled by the unanticipated reaction from his intended victim. It caused him to hesitate for a vitally important instant in his otherwise rapidly flowing draw. When he resumed the movement of his right hand, such was his sense of haste, he over compensated. Although his Colt came clear and roared, the bullet missed its mark.

  Showing no sign of being deterred or disconcerted by the lead passing so close he felt its wind on his cheek, Mosehan lined up the weapon he had produced. Thumbing back the hammer with the deft ease of long practice, as was required by the single action mechanism, he squeezed the trigger when satisfied with his instinctive chest high alignment. Flame and smoke erupted from the muzzle. Shot between the eyes, in testimony to his ability, the man twirled and, letting fall the Peacemaker, sprawled face downward on to the ground.

  “By the gunsmith’s, Major!” yelled a husky yet carrying masculine voice which sounded familiar. “Get down!”

  Without waiting to find out whether he was correct in his assumption over the identity of the speaker, seeing a man carrying a Winchester rifle coming from the alley between the gunsmith’s shop and another building, Mosehan carried out the advice. He realized, however, he was still in considerable danger regardless of the warning. Something over thirty yards separated them; a distance giving a shoulder arm a distinct advantage over a handgun, particularly a model with a barrel reduced to a length of three and five-sixteenths inches as an aid to concealment rather than range. While he was also carrying a Peacemaker which could have been more suitable to his needs, there would not be sufficient time allowed for him to draw and bring it into use.

  Even as the major was drawing his unpalatable conclusions and starting to roll in the hope of taking at least partial shelter behind the lifeless man, he heard three shots. They had the deep bark of a heavy caliber revolver, not the sharper crack emitted by a rifle, and came from somewhere near the source of the voice which delivered the warning. Although none of the bullets took effect, as far as he could see, they caused the would-be attacker to have a change of mind. Spinning on his heel without offering to raise the rifle, he darted back in the direction from which he had come.

  Rising and scanning the remainder of the plaza, Mosehan sought for any more companions of the man he had been compelled to kill. Satisfied there were none, he turned toward the hotel.

  “You show up at the damnedest time, Pete,” the major greeted, looking at the rescuer who was crossing the sidewalk carrying a smoking Remington New Model of 1874 Army revolver in his right fist. “Care to come with me after that jasper with the rifle?”

  “He had a hoss down the alley and’s already fogging out on it,” replied the man who had intervened, his accent that of a New Yorker born in the already notorious East Side region. “Mine’s down to the livery barn and that bay of yours doesn’t look up to no fast chasing.”

  Regardless of a voice indicating he had been born and raised in the largest Eastern city, the speaker did not look in any way out of place in a small range country town. His multi-colored, tight rolled bandana, open necked tartan shirt, Levi’s and boots were such as any working cowhand might wear. An off white Mexican sombrero dangled by its barbiquejo chinstrap on his shoulders, exposing a head of close cropped black hair. Swarthy in pigmentation, his rugged face had a disciplined strength relieved by the suggestion of a sense of humor. Of medium height, he had a barrel of a chest set on bulky hips and slightly bowed legs. As he was speaking, he returned the Remington to its cross draw holster. This was on the left side of a gunbelt which, although secured by a buckle similar to that of Mosehan’s rig, had been made with the needs of a western gun fighter in mind and not those of a cavalry soldier.

  “You’re right about that,” the major conceded, replacing the Merwin & Hulbert in the spring retention “half breed” shoulder holster from which it had come.

  “Looks like leaving the Army hasn’t stopped you finding trouble, major,” Peter Glendon remarked, joining the man who had been his commanding officer on the street.

  “It found me,” Mosehan corrected. “Only I’ll be damned if I know why. Do you recollect anybody called ‘Joe Benedict’ while we were serving together, Pete?”

  “I can’t bring any such to mind,” Glendon confessed, after thinking for a few seconds, oblivious of the crowd who were gathering.

  “That jasper said I had his brother hanged,” Mosehan explained, indicating the body with a jerk of his thumb. “But none of the three were called ‘Joe Benedict’.”

  “No,” the stocky man agreed. “The two you arrested for raping and killing that Navajo girl were Buckton and Weighill and that snow-bird2 who murdered the old prospector on the Yellowstone afore we tracked him down was called Joel Benskill. But we never had no doings with a feller called Benedict.”

  “And, unless he was using another name, I haven’t come across one since I took over at the Hashknife,” Mosehan declared. “Comes to a point, I haven’t had anybody hanged since those three either and every one of them was guilty.”

  “There’s no god-damned doubt about that,” Glendon confirmed, then gave a derisive sniff and continued, “Here come the local John Laws, on time as usual.”

  Glancing in the same direction as his former sergeant, Mosehan studied the two local enforcers of law and order who were pushing with scant courtesy through the onlookers. Both appeared to be in their early twenties and, being a shrewd judge of character, he was not impressed by what he saw even without the indication of disapproval displayed by Glendon.

  Slightly the taller of the two, Jackson Martin clearly regarded himself as the leader. His surly features were set in a frown augmented by the moustache he cultivated to make him appear older. Longish black hair shown from beneath his round topped black hat. He wore a black cutaway coat, floral patterned vest, white shirt and black string tie. Striped trousers were tucked into the legs of his riding boots. Looking so glossy it might have been patent leather, his gunbelt carried two rosewood handled Colt Civilian Peacemakers in its fast draw holsters. A sawed off shotgun rested upon his bent right arm and the badge of a deputy sheriff glinted under the left lapel of the jacket.

  No better looking, with a similar hirsute appendage on his top lip, Alfred “Leftie Alf” Dubs was brown haired and two years younger. His attire was much the same as that worn by Martin, but of cheaper material, and his Colts had plain walnut grips. Unlike his companion, he displayed his badge of office in plain view and was carrying his sawed off shotgun with his near hand grasping the wrist of its butt.

  “What’s happened here?” Martin demanded, halting and eyeing the two men arrogantly, his accent Mid-Western and suggesting a good education.

  “That man tried to kill me,” Mosehan replied quietly, nodding to the body. “And I stopped him.”

  “It looks that way,” Martin admitted and something of his arrogance left in the presence of a man he sensed could not be browbeaten by virtue of his civic authority. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” the major declared. “That’s the damnedest thing about it. He claimed I’d had his brother hanged, but the name he gave doesn’t come to mind.”

  “You hanged so many men you can’t
remember them all?” challenged Dubs, in a voice suggesting he came from the same region as his companion, albeit his origins were lower on the social scale.

  “I said I’d had hanged, not that I’d hanged them,” Mosehan corrected coldly. “There’s a difference. Anyways, whoever he was, he had a feller backing him. Sergeant Glendon here cut in and that one ran away down the alley.”

  “Why didn’t you take out after him?” Dubs wanted to know, being less susceptible to atmosphere than the other deputy.

  “We thought your superior would prefer for us to stay here until he’d heard what happened,” the major explained with a studied politeness which his former sergeant recognized as a danger sign. “Is he coming?”

  “I’m in charge of the sheriff’s office here and double as town marshal!” Martin announced stiffly, emphasizing the first word. “Go and look for the one who ran away, Leftie.”

  “Sure, Jackson!” Dubs assented, but with more reluctance than cheerful acceptance of an order.

  “Now was it me going after a feller,” Glendon commented dryly. “I’d want to know what he looked like.”

  “What did he look like?” Martin growled, as the other deputy stopped his intended departure, hearing chuckles from the onlookers.

  “Tallish, with a high crowned white hat, and black vest,” the stocky man supplied. “Took off on a roan hoss, but I didn’t see which way he turned when he got to the end of the alley over there.”

  “You best go ask around if anybody did see, Leftie!” Martin ordered, his sallow face reddening. Showing no sign of knowing Glendon was present, he turned his gaze to the major and asked authoritatively, “Who are you?”

  “Bertram Mosehan,” was the quiet reply.

  “Mose—!” the taller deputy began. Then, being aware of the influential people who employed the man he was questioning, he adopted a more polite attitude. “I don’t think there’s anything to keep you here, Major Mosehan, it was a clear case of self defense.”

  “Thank you,” Mosehan answered, with just a trace of irony. “I’ll be here for a few days, probably, in case you need me for anything.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Martin promised and looked around. “Hey, some of you fellers carry the body to the undertaker’s parlor for me.”

  “Do you mind if I drop by at your office to look through the wanted dodgers?” the major asked, as the instruction was being obeyed by members of the crowd. “I’d like to find out who he is.”

  “I’ll do that for you,” Martin offered.

  “Thanks,” Mosehan answered. “I reckon I owe you a drink for cutting in the way you did, Pete.”

  “Which I’ve never been known to refuse since I was big enough to pick up a beer stein,” Glendon assented.

  “Who are those two knobheads?” Mosehan inquired, as he and his former sergeant crossed the sidewalk to enter the hotel.

  “Names are Martin and Dubs,” the stocky man replied. “Figure they’re wild, woolly and so full of fleas they’ve never been curried below the knees.”

  “I got the notion you don’t cotton to them.”

  “I’ve met snow-birds and sheep herders I’m better took with.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Way they act, particularly Martin, they must reckon to be another couple of Wyatt Earps,” Glendon snorted.

  “Do they?” Mosehan said dryly. “I’ve heard tell there are people who say one Wyatt Earp is way too many.”

  “And I’m one of them,” Glendon claimed. “Don’t know if you know it, Major, but I’m ramrodding the Cross Bar Cross out of town a ways. Soon’s they come in here after the old deputy retired, Martin and his bunkie showed they was figuring to pull some of those Kansas fighting pimp games on the local cowhands. I sort of talked them out of the notion, ’specially where my crew was concerned.”

  “That’s why they looked like they wished you weren’t there,” Mosehan decided with a grin, remembering how effectively his former sergeant could handle either a rough-house brawl or a gun. Having entered and crossed the bar room while they were talking and coming to a halt at the counter, he went on, “Name your poison, Pete.”

  “Bourbon, happen that’s all right with you, Major, I’ve got sort of high-toned tastes since I was made foreman,” the stocky man replied and, after the order had been given to the bartender, continued, “Are you in town for the cattle sales?”

  “That’s why my bosses said I should let on I’d come here,” Mosehan answered.

  “Excuse me,” a voice said, before the explanation could be completed. “Are you Major Bertram Mosehan?”

  Turning from the counter, the two cattlemen looked the speaker up and down. Clad in a somber black suit, white shirt with a collar which appeared to endanger his prominent adam’s apple by its stiffness, a black cravat and blunt toed boots, he was balding, middle-sized, slender and had an obsequious demeanor. Although his attire was of a somewhat better quality than was usually the case, he reminded them of business clerks they had come across who a lifetime of yielding to the wishes of those higher in the office hierarchy had left—although neither knew, much less expressed, the term—suffering from a marked inferiority complex.

  “I am,” Mosehan confirmed.

  “His Hon—Mr. Jervis is in his room and would like you to join him as soon as it is convenient,” the newcomer announced, something in his manner implying the invitation should be accepted immediately even if not convenient.

  “I don’t think you and I have met,” the major hinted.

  “We haven’t, sir,” the man admitted. “My name is Erroll Madden.”

  “Will our business take long, Mr. Madden?” Mosehan asked.

  “Possibly, sir,” the man replied vaguely. “I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “In that case,” Mosehan said, suspecting Madden had the type of mentality which would refuse to offer further information unless it could be done so in the guise of conferring a favor. It was a point of view which he had come across many times throughout his military career and he had never regarded it favorably. However, past experiences had taught him how to cope with such a mind and, giving a well simulated shrug of disinterest, he went on, “I’ll go and bed down my horse before I see him.”

  “His—He did stress the urgency of the situation,” Madden protested.

  “I’ll see to your hoss for you, major,” Glendon offered, despite knowing what his former commanding officer was up to. “I want to go take a look at mine, I left him getting shod.”

  “That’s good of you, Pete,” Mosehan praised, being intrigued by the possibility of learning why he had been instructed to make the journey from the Hashknife ranch, and coming to a conclusion from the way in which the miserable looking man referred to “Mr. Jervis.” However, although for once he was willing to forego attending to his horse—knowing it would be in good hands—he could not resist continuing, “I’ll come and fetch my bedroll, then see if I can get a room.”

  “There is a room booked for you already,” Madden claimed, showing agitation over the possibility of a delay. “And a bellboy will take your—bedroll—to it for you.”

  “By cracky, why didn’t I think of that?” Mosehan ejaculated. “Can you give the bedroll to him before you go, Pete?”

  “Sure.”

  “Gracias!”

  “Es nada,” the stocky ranch foreman replied amiably. “And when you get through, maybe we can get together in here to bend an elbow a couple or so times in memory of the boys of good old Company A?”

  “I’d like nothing more than that,” Mosehan affirmed, with genuine warmth although this left his voice as he concluded, “All right, Mr. Madden, let’s go and see Mr. Jervis.”

  Chapter 6

  I NEED GOOD MEN TO BACK ME

  “WELL, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT, PETE?” Major Bertram Mosehan asked, as his former sergeant crossed to meet him when he entered the bar room of the Pima County Hotel some ninety minutes after having left it with Erroll Madden. “‘Mr. Jervis’
turns out to be the Governor of Arizona Territory and he wants me to become a peace officer.”

  “Doesn’t he know you’re pretty well fixed already and on something a whole heap safer ’n’ better paid than that?” Peter Glendon inquired, showing no discernible emotion over the information, although his erstwhile commanding officer could tell he found it most interesting.

  “Seems my bosses recommended me and are holding open my position at the Hashknife outfit until I get through,” Mosehan replied, glancing around the room to find it had acquired many more customers in his absence. However, as had been the case when he was passing through Marana on his way to the rendezvous with “Mr. Jervis,” he saw nobody other than Glendon with whom he was acquainted. “Let’s find somewhere we can talk this out, Pete, unless you’ve anything needing to be done.”

  “I don’t have,” the stocky foreman of the Cross Bar Cross ranch asserted and made a gesture with his right hand. “We’ll use that table over by the window.”

  “How about those fellers who’re at it?”

  “They ride for my outfit. Likely they’ll take pity on their poor old ramrod and let me have it for just the two of us.”

  “Seems you haven’t changed a bit, Pete,” Mosehan claimed, a few seconds later, as he took a seat at the table by the window and watched the cowhands who had occupied it making their way to the bar.

  “I sure haven’t,” Glendon agreed. “It’s all done by kindness.”

  “And saying they’ll wind up on k.p.?”1 the major suggested.

  “Not since I left the Cavalry,” the former sergeant replied, also grinning. “Now all I do is tell them I need somebody to ride the blister end of a shovel.”

  “I never asked how you came to be on hand just when I needed it, Pete,” Mosehan remarked, noticing Madden looking at him through the door from the lobby and then turn to disappear in the direction of the front entrance to the hotel. “How was it?”

  “I was sitting here with the boys when I saw you coming across the plaza,” Glendon explained, signalling for one of the waiters. “So I headed on out to say, ‘howdy.’ Only you looked a mite busy when I got to the front door and I figured to keep watch in case you needed backing. Seemed like you did when I saw that yahoo with the rifle, so I concluded I’d best cut in.”