by Eric Red
He saw a flash of glowing metal.
Felt the white-hot burning anguish explode through his tendons and flesh of his hand, looking down in horror as the pistol flew from his grip to see the branding iron pressed against the back of his glove, the glove erupting in fire. Then, as he swatted at the flames on his glove setting his hand aflame, trying desperately to pull the glove off, the tall thin black figure standing beside his horse swung the ax and buried it to the hilt in Lonny’s arm. Hot steaming blood splattered to the sickening sound of the steel hacking through cloth, flesh, and bone. A stunned Lonny Seed fell out of the saddle on the pony with his left arm half off. As he dropped five feet to the ground with a hard impact, gravity tore the hatchet from his bicep. He landed on his back on rock-hard frozen earth between the rows of steer hooves.
Screaming from the unbearable agony of his hacked arm, Lonny writhed and squirmed, trying to rise as a cowboy boot smashed down on his neck, the Mexican rowel of the spur slashing a spurting wound across his cheek with a savage twist of the heel.
“P-please . . .” the cowboy gagged, eyes bugging out as he stared up in the darkness at the shadow of his assailant towering above him, his dread, baleful gaze felt but not seen behind the long white hair.
Lonny recognized him.
“We killed you!” Seed choked.
“Yes. You did. And now it’s my turn to kill you. But first, I want the others. All the rest. And you’re going to tell me. Where are they?”
The horrible twisted claw missing three fingers in the glove held a blazing Q branding iron and now that mangled hand lifted it toward the felled cowboy’s face . . . the red-hot metal got closer and closer, the heat growing hotter and hotter as the glowing curlicue approached the unprotected skin of his cheek, through the coil the terrified man saw the glowing red light of the metal reflected on The Brander’s eyes, turning them demonic and gleaming.
“I don’t know!” Lonny Seed whimpered. “ I swear! Don’t burn me, mister!”
“ I want the gang!”
“It’s the law you want, mister! We paid them off !”
“Paid who off ?”
Lonny Seed gave him two names.
Then the fiend picked Lonny up by the hair, lifting him off the ground by a fistful of his grimy locks. His strength, fueled by psychosis, was incredible. The cowboy grabbed the glove holding his hair, screaming in agony feeling his own weight pull his hair out at the roots. The Brander lifted his victim’s head to face the huge black bull, whose nostrils snorted steam in the frigid air, so close the tortured Lonny could kiss it. Then the fiend rammed the cowboy’s face down onto the two-foot steer horn, driving the sharp tip clean through the man’s eyeball, skull eye socket, and into his brain. In the moonlight, shiny black-looking blood and glistening wet matter splattered the cow’s face and horns, and it mooed in irritation, blinking gore out of its globular eye. Tossing its head to and fro, the bull tried to shake the dead cowboy gored on its horn off, but the limp body was firmly impaled through the eye socket. The corpse just hung on the side of the longhorn’s big head, dead limbs flopping this way and that like a rag doll with each toss of the annoyed steer’s head.
The Brander was long gone by the time the angry bull finally shook its horn loose of the dead man by ramming him to a pulp against a fence post, then trampled him for good measure, and by the time folks came running, about the only recognizable part of what used to be a human being was the Q brand on his shoulder.
CHAPTER 17
The Brander sat by a campfire, reading by the light of the flames.
He had a list of names on a piece of paper.
He scratched the name Lonny Seed out.
Four other names had already been scratched out.
With his pen, the fiend added two new names to the list . . .
CHAPTER 18
Back in Jackson, Puzzleface wasn’t talking.
She hadn’t said a word for three days in her hospital bed at the clinic.
Deputy Sweet gave up trying to question her.
She wouldn’t give her name.
Wouldn’t answer any questions about why she was disguising herself as a man.
If she knew who had shot her, she wasn’t talking.
Doc Jane had cleaned and sewn up the wound, bandaged and splinted the arm, and expected the woman who called herself Puzzleface, whoever she was, to make a full recovery.
Who she was remained a mystery.
For Deputy Sweet, Puzzleface was the biggest thing to hit town since he became interim marshal but he wished Bess was here because he didn’t know what to do. This situation was above his pay grade. He was in charge, so he needed to figure it out. The lawman’s guard-dog instincts told him not to leave Puzzleface’s side. Whoever took a shot at her was still out there and might want to take another crack at her. So for the first three days Deputy Sweet lived at the clinic, carrying his loaded and cocked Winchester rifle and pistols on his person everywhere he went. Every few hours the deputy went out on patrols on Pearl Street, checking if the area was safe.
Twice while inside, he thought he spotted somebody through the window watching the clinic from across the street, but when he rushed outside fully armed, whoever he thought he saw was gone.
Doc Jane diligently ministered to the mystery woman’s needs, changing her bandages and cleaning her wound. Infection had not set in but the bullet, likely a .45, had punched a hole through a lot of her muscle and the woman was in great pain, sobbing frequently. The doctor gave her laudanum, which helped ease her suffering, but while the morphine solution made the patient loopy, it did not loosen her tongue. The female approach Doc Jane attempted to use to question her got no answers out of her.
Until on the fourth day right after breakfast when at last finally she spoke.
“Thank you for saving my life.”
The deputy and the doctor exchanged glad smiles and sat by her bed. “How ’bout you return the favor by answering some of my questions?” Sweet said.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just can’t.”
“Can you tell us your name at least?” Doc Jane asked gently.
“Rachel.”
“Rachel who?”
She smiled wanly, tight-lipped. It was all the name she was going to give and it would have to do.
“Is that your real name?”
She nodded.
“I’m here to protect you, Rachel.” Sweet placed his hand on hers securely.
The mystery woman grabbed his hand, desperately. “If you want to protect me then please, please, don’t tell anybody who I am, nobody can know I’m a lady. Please promise not to tell nobody I’m Puzzleface.”
Sweet looked at the frightened woman and every instinct told him the way to deal with her right now was not to push. Not generally good dealing with people, he somehow seemed to know how to deal with this one. “Just me and Doc Jane is the only people know you’re a lady, Rachel, and we’re gonna keep it our little secret. For now.”
“Thank you.”
“Get some rest.”
“A word?” Deputy Sweet showed Doc Jane into her kitchen out of earshot of their enigmatic patient. She made a cup of tea and they sat and drank while he explained his predicament. “Help me out, Doc. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I ain’t got the faintest who that woman is or why somebody’s trying to kill her. This is above my pay grade. I’m just a deputy. This is a job for Marshal Bess, and I don’t know if I got the experience to deal with this here situation.”
The lady doctor was a good listener; she knew the overwhelmed young lawman just needed to let off some steam. “How can I help, Nate?”
“I got the badge. Means it’s my job to protect Rachel but how the hell can I when I don’t know who’s trying to kill her or why, when I don’t even know who she is? I need a few clues, a place to start. You’re a doctor and you’re a woman. You understand people’s heads. Can you tell me anything about Rachel, who you think she mi
ght be, who might be after her?”
“I don’t know any more about her than you do, Nate. Except . . .” Her brow furrowed.
“Except what?”
“I know she has been beaten. After I asked you to leave the room when I took off Rachel’s clothes for the operation, I saw the marks on her. You didn’t see them and I saw no reason to bring it up until now. I’d say she suffered regular physical beatings in her past over a long period of time. And the scar on her face, of course.”
“Rachel ain’t no train robber. Ain’t no criminal of any kind. I agree she’s running from somebody and whoever it is probably gave her that scar. Somebody she’s scared enough of to disguise herself as a man so nobody finds out her true identity, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.”
“But I still don’t know who I’m looking for. It could be anybody in town. You think she had a husband who was beating her, so she ran away from him and he’s coming after her? And that’s who’s trying to kill her?”
“It might not be a husband. It could be a boyfriend. A father. A brother. A son even. Violent physical abuse against women by men is a plague out here in the West, Nate. Beatings can be fatal. Most of violence against women happens in their home. There’s no law on the books against husbands beating wives. None that gets enforced anyway. Wives are seen as legal property. A man kills a whore he gets the noose. A man kills his wife he gets away with murder.”
“No man got a right to lay a hand on a woman.” Sweet got emotional. “Just never understood why wives just don’t leave their husbands if they beat on ’em.”
“The stronger women leave, like Rachel, perhaps.” Doc Jane gestured to the next room where the patient was sleeping. “But so many are afraid to. Some women who have been abused develop what you might call battered-woman behavior. They won’t leave. They won’t tell anybody who beat them. They’re too scared to fight back, so they shut down. This silence and fear I’ve seen in so many of these poor victims, Rachel has it, too.”
“How do you explain Puzzleface?”
“I can’t.”
“She’s two people.”
“What are you going to do with both of them?” Doc Jane asked.
“Rachel can’t stay here. I’m going to move her over to the Jackson Hotel while she’s recovering. She can take her meals in her room and have housekeeping and all the amenities. I’ll post myself in the room next door where I can keep an eye on her. There’s always people around at the hotel, and less likely the shooter will try something with folks around, so I’d feel safer with her there. Hopefully she’ll start talking to me and give me a face and a name on who’s trying to kill her.”
The lawman got a very worried look from the physician. “Be careful, Nate. Right now you still don’t know who this killer is. Like you said, the person who shot Rachel could be anybody in town. What if they try to shoot her again at the hotel?”
“That’s exactly what I’m counting on, Doc.” Deputy Sweet checked the loads in his revolver and spun the cylinder closed with a ratcheting whir, giving Doc Jane a confident wink. “Because this time I’m gonna be there.”
* * *
Outside the clinic, the man stood across the street smoking a cigar, watching the place. He had been there on and off for the three days since the night he followed that deputy there with Rachel, keeping the clinic under regular surveillance. The woman he shot in the back was inside, still alive. But she couldn’t stay there forever. That lawman was protecting her but he’d have to move Rachel and then the man would get another shot at her.
His first bullet didn’t kill her but his next one would.
* * *
The suite on the second floor of the Jackson Hotel was very comfortable. The bill for the room and the room next door was being charged to the U.S. Marshals Service because the guest was under their federal protection. The luxurious suite was the best Jackson had to offer, as swank as it got in the late 1880s. It had a window overlooking Broadway and the quaint storefronts across on the other side, and another window looking out on the town square, but Sweet told Rachel to keep the pretty lace curtains closed at all times. The four-poster bed had a plush feather mattress, silk sheets, velvet blankets, and a fluffy duvet, with plenty of room for a lady to stretch out on. The walls were lovely lavender brocade wallpaper. A large armoire stood beside a full-length mirror and a cedar chest of drawers. The floors were thick oriental carpet. The deputy did a spot-check of the accommodations, room by room. A large adjoining bathroom with a deep tub and hot running water and a bidet. A small kitchen had a working stove with plenty of wood and a teapot. The deputy had booked the best room in the hotel for a week.
Sweet chuckled to himself, picturing the look on Marshal Bess’s face when she saw the expense account ledger receipts for the hotel charges. But there wasn’t anything she could say about it; she left him in charge and the expenses were his to authorize, although Nate bet Bess would dock part of his pay anyway. So be it. Puzzleface was worth it.
One last detail to check. The deputy unlocked the door in the wall that connected into the adjoining hotel room where Deputy Sweet was booked, close enough to Rachel to effectively execute his joint duties as bodyguard and marshal—if anybody came to break into her room, he’d hear them coming up the hall, and if somehow they got past him, he’d be through the connecting door and into her room, guns drawn, before they got near Rachel.
“I’ll be next door.” Sweet gestured reassuringly at the open door but Rachel just sat like a depressed lump on the bed.
“I’m afraid to go out.”
“You don’t have to go out. They’ll bring your meals right here.”
“How long?”
“Until I arrest this guy. It would be quicker if you told me who he was.”
Silence from her.
There was a knock on the door. Rachel whipped her head around with the look of a frightened deer. Sweet gave her a calm glance as he drew his Colt Navy revolver and went warily to the door. “Who is it?”
“Nate, it’s Jim Gardner. Brought Mr. Taylor’s belongings from the Miller Ranch like you asked me to.”
When Sweet reached for the doorknob, Rachel flew into a panic. Fearful she would be seen without her Puzzleface disguise, Rachel dashed madly around the room, desperately looking for a place to hide. The sight was comical and sad. Hurriedly Sweet stashed her into the bathroom, closing the door.
Then he opened the front door and took the luggage from the cowboy standing there. “Obliged, Jim.”
“Say hi to Bill for me, Nate.”
“Ol’ Puzzleface is around here someplace.” Sweet winked. He closed the door and set Puzzleface’s bags on the floor. “Safe to come out now.”
The bathroom door cracked and Rachel’s one big eye peered out. Seeing the coast was clear and it was just the two of them, she returned to the room. The woman had changed into a hotel robe.
Rachel plopped right back down on the bed and sunk into her depressed, defeated mind-set, the battered-woman mentality the doctor had spoken of. Rachel pulled her knees up to her nose, wrapped her elbows around her legs, and rocked back and forth, staring into space. “He’s gonna get me.”
“Nobody’s gonna get you, Rachel. I’m the law and I’m here and nobody’s getting past me.” Sweet pointed to the badge on his chest. “He’s not going to get you. Tell me his name and what he looks like and I’ll go out there and arrest him right now.” He rose and went to the window, pushed aside the lace curtain, and looked down at the street to see if anybody was watching the hotel. Didn’t look like it.
Rachel sat like a discarded rag doll at the end of the bed, staring passively at her hands in her lap. “He should get me. I deserve it. I deserve whatever he does to me.”
His eyes narrowing, Deputy Sweet threw her a sharp look across the room and somehow suddenly just knew. He sat beside her on the bed. “The man who shot you is your husband.”
Pain flashed in her eyes and he knew it was true.
�
�You ran away from your husband.”
She nodded.
Sweet was going to ask Rachel why she ran away but he already knew why. How badly her abusive husband beat and hurt her he could only guess, but him shooting her in the back showed what he was capable of. The deputy had seen other women in Rachel’s damaged mental state when the marshals broke up domestic disputes in the territory. As Nate recognized the battered-woman behavior in Rachel, she became less of a mystery. She had the beaten wives’ mental condition. The scourge of domestic violence against women was the dark side of the Old West, fanned by excesses of booze and violence, ugly acts of brutality by husbands and lovers too ignorant to know better against wives treated like property and defenseless girlfriends too afraid to fight back because they had nowhere else to go.
Nate Sweet knew the look so well.
He grew up with it.
His mother beaten by his drunken father on their farm to keep her dominated and submissive, using his belt and his fists, Nate’s mother covering her little boy with her body taking the blows instead.
His mom never did stand up to his brutal dad.
It was up to Nate to do that for her.
As he sat beside Rachel, Nate felt his old familiar fury at this poor woman’s abuse and with it came resolve.
This man would never hurt this woman again.
Sweet had the gun to make certain and the badge to make it legal.
The woman sitting next to him hated herself. “I was a bad wife. Whatever he’s gonna do to me, I got coming.”
“Don’t say that, Rachel.” He held her hand. “It ain’t true. No woman ever deserves to be hit. It’s wrong for any man to beat a woman. My father used to beat on my mother and I know.”
“He did?”
“Until I put a stop to it.”
Her eyes lit up. “What did you do?”
“When I was sixteen my mother got one beating too many. I took a sledgehammer and broke both my daddy’s kneecaps. My old man never walked again. Never hit my mother again, neither.”
