Branded

by Eric Red

  The air was thin up here.

  It was the top of the world.

  Their hats felt like they touched the sky.

  To the west, a staggering mountain range of towering granite peaks reared high above them into the heavens, mighty summits disappearing into the low-hanging cloud bank. The crags were laden with a billion tons of snow, the sheer size and scale of the mountains to the west was daunting to behold. This was the direction they now faced. In the shadow of the mountains lay a frozen lake to the south. North was impassable steep wilderness with a stretch of the mighty Snake River traversing through it below tall cliffs. The territory was inhospitable and unfriendly but what wasn’t obscured behind the driving sheets of winter snow was truly breathtaking to behold.

  Bess whistled at the view.

  Emmett looked worried by it.

  Noose reached over from his saddle, plucking a piece of torn cloth from a branch. Emmett looked at the cloth, then looked at Noose and nodded. It was material from Abraham Quaid’s coat. The bounty hunter looked at both marshals, pointing his finger out at the mountains above.

  That’s the way he went.

  The Brander had to have gone either west or south. If the three were going to ride farther, hump their horses up cliffs and ridges and gorges, the going would be treacherous—no trail up here, just a steep uphill climb to where you couldn’t ride anymore and man or horse could go no farther. Noose, Bess, and Emmett all exchanged glances with the same intuition.

  This was the end of the trail.

  It had to be.

  The Brander could ride no farther.

  Here was where they would take him down or he would take them down.

  They spurred their horses into motion.

  The three rode in, each hoping three would ride out.

  Overhead, the gray clouds dumped heavy snow. Winds had picked up, the swirling snow obscuring visibility. Blizzard conditions.

  It was all uphill from here.

  * * *

  “We need to split up,” Noose said.

  “Too much ground to cover,” Bess agreed.

  The trio of manhunters had pulled their horses together into a tight grouping and were conferring from their saddles. An hour after they rode into Destiny, the vast terrain had overwhelmed them—there were just too many places The Brander could be. They needed to divide up their manpower to search a broader area and cast a wider net in order to improve their odds of apprehension.

  None of them liked splitting up the team. It had been the three of them the whole ride so far. There was safety in numbers. They were a pack, now about to become lone wolves and lone wolves were easy targets. Bess had a lump in her throat and saw emotion in eyes of Noose and Emmett, too; only now parting ways did each realize the sense of security their companionship provided each of them. You knew what you had only when it was gone.

  But they had a job to do.

  “Whoever spots Quaid fire two shots in the air,” Emmett said. It would pinpoint direction for the others to ride in for backup.

  “Sounds like a plan.” Noose nodded.

  “Then we’re agreed,” Bess said. “Joe, which direction you want to take?”

  Noose cast his formidable gaze up at the snow-covered slope above leading into the mountains and pondered, not for long. “Brander’s trail indicates that’s probably where he went. Likeliest chance of encountering Quaid is up that way, I’d say. If only one of us is gonna meet up with him, it ought to be me. I’ll take the west.”

  “Okay, I’ll take the lake.” From her saddle. Bess turned her head south toward the heavily iced-over body of water. “In case he backtracks.”

  “That leaves north for me,” said Emmett. “Good chance as any he went that way. He’s so unpredictable. Could be anywhere. Remember that. And I will, too.”

  They ungrouped their horses, readying to split off in three points of the compass.

  “Keep eyes in the back of your head,” Marshal Bess cautioned. “Brander gave us enough trouble while we were all together. Now we’re each on our own, so just be careful.”

  The men nodded.

  She smiled. “If either of you boys get killed I’ll kick your ass.”

  Grins all around.

  As Noose started to ride off, Emmett called his name.

  “Noose.”

  He looked back.

  “Don’t kill him.”

  “Reckon that’s up to the old man, now, ain’t it?”

  As Joe Noose cantered up the hill gripping his rifle, Emmett Ford had a calculating expression viewing his departure. Marshal Bess’s horse was already halfway to the tree line of the lake, he saw. After another cunning glance up at the bounty hunter riding up the hill, Emmett spurred his horse and, as decided, rode north.

  Then he changed direction.

  CHAPTER 29

  The frozen lake was one gigantic sheet of ice, Marshal Bess observed, patrolling the shoreline on her mare. It looked so thick you could ride a horse on it, she thought, but wouldn’t want to try.

  With a flip of her reins with her wrists, she steered her Appaloosa closer to the pine trees as they rode the perimeter of the lake, giving her more cover.

  Never knew who might be watching.

  Riding next to the forested rows of conifers kept the snow off her, because it was really coming down in sheets of damp white flakes and had started to sleet.

  She rested the stock of her loaded and cocked Winchester on her hip, barrel pointing upward, in one glove. The reins she loosely held in the other. Her keen blue eyes made a steady scan right and left, taking in her rugged surroundings.

  Detected no movement.

  The frigid air felt like inhaling ice that froze her lungs every time she drew breath. Her wool scarf over her mouth and nose did little to filter it. She exhaled heavily into the scarf so the warmth of her breath warmed the cloth on her face and it helped a bit. The bitter dank cold cut through her layers of heavy clothing and chilled her to the bone. Temperatures she guessed were twenty or thirty below zero.

  The marshal circled the frozen lake, keeping a sharp lookout for The Brander. Farther on she rode, aware each step of her horse took her farther from her friends into she knew not what.

  The sense of oppressive vastness and utter isolation way out here in the Far West upper elevations bore down on Bess. The lady marshal was no stranger to the wilderness, having grown up in the rural mountains of Hoback twenty miles from civilization—but she had never felt so completely cut off and on her own as she now experienced in the remoteness of this place. It was like being on the moon. If you got injured out here or your horse broke its leg you’d freeze to death and nobody would come to help you and if you died, they’d never find you. A bleak thought. God, it was lonesome.

  She’d been listening for the two gunshots.

  Hadn’t heard any.

  Joe and Emmett hadn’t run into The Brander.

  Unless they did and . . .

  Riding on nearing the far shore, Marshal Bess saw on that side of the lake fifty yards from the ice was the rock wall of a ridge spiked with forest.

  It was so quiet, a dead silence save the breathy whooshes of wind swaying the branches and steady clop of her Appaloosa’s hooves. Then suddenly she thought she heard something. Halting her horse, Bess sat very still and listened for any sound.

  Heard a horse whinn-eey.

  The rattle of something metallic. A bridle, a rifle, it was hard to tell. It had an echo.

  Looking for the source of the sounds drew the marshal’s gaze to the other side of the lake.

  She squinted to see that there was a cave at the base of the ridge.

  Inside, she saw movement.

  A man.

  More men.

  Something bigger. A horse. More horses.

  Happening upon these interlopers broke the inertia—the solitude of the last half hour got her thinking too much—and Bess was grateful to have something to do. Her adrenaline began pumping as she shifted into action
mode, and she wasn’t cold anymore. Stealthfully the marshal dismounted—in one quick motion she slid out of the saddle and landed in a crouch, dodging behind a boulder and there took cover, a two-hand grip on her rifle. She meant business but needed to see what, if anything, she was up against.

  She knew what it wasn’t: The Brander. He had no accomplices.

  It was a camp.

  Hold your fire, she told herself.

  Peering around the boulder she saw her position gave her a good vantage on the cave. Luckily, the view of the cavern entrance showed what was inside . . . six men, seven horses. The shadowy figures were masked by the darkness of the cavern, so Bess couldn’t tell if she recognized any of them or not.

  Hold your fire.

  It could be trappers, hunters, anybody.

  Metal glinted.

  Guns.

  Ammo.

  These men were not hunters.

  Milling around in the cave, the men looked to be loading firearms with fresh ammo or cleaning guns. It was hard to see, but the marshal knew from their body language and movements these boys were preparing for armed engagement.

  Who were they?

  What were they doing out here?

  She saw one of the men come to the cave entrance and step into the light, and on his coat metal gleamed in the sun.

  A deputy badge.

  The sheriff ’s men from the town of Consequence.

  Bess counted six.

  Wondered where the seventh was when she felt the cold hard round muzzle of a pistol press against the back of her neck, making her hair stand on end. She recognized the voice the moment he spoke.

  “We meet again.”

  “Reckon we do.”

  It was that shady sheriff from the town.

  “I’ll take that Winchester, little lady.”

  “I’m federal U.S. Marshal Bess Sugarland.”

  “I’ll still take the Winchester.”

  Grabbing the rifle, Sheriff Bull Conrad yanked it from her grip and tossed it behind him, keeping Bess covered with his Colt. She was still on one knee facing away from him and didn’t turn, not moving a muscle but not backing down an inch.

  “I am on an active manhunt and you are interfering. Cease and desist or I will arrest you.”

  “Those, too.”

  Conrad leaned in. Pulling her Colt Peacemakers out of her holsters, he stuffed the heavy revolvers in two of the many pockets of his weathered leather duster. It took him seconds to disarm her.

  “I’m getting up.”

  “Easy.”

  She rose and turned to face him, her eyes steel. “You are now under arrest.”

  “Wrong, lady, it is me who is arresting you.”

  “My federal authority as a marshal supersedes yours, Sheriff, you damn well know it. I’m arresting you for threatening a federal officer, interfering with Marshal business, and obstructing a murder investigation and manhunt.”

  Chuckling, Sheriff Conrad’s eyes twinkled with laughter as his mustached face broke into a big old grin. “Why don’t you and I just each whip it out and decide this by seeing whose is bigger? Oh, wait . . .” His toothy grin broadened. “Looks like I win.”

  “You are an asshole.”

  “You are my prisoner.”

  “And you’re making a big mistake.”

  “Any more guns on you I need to know about?”

  She looked at him defiantly.

  He shrugged. “I can frisk you. Or my men can frisk you. They’ll give you a proper cavity search. I know you ain’t no U.S. Marshal but you are a lady, so respecting your modesty here, ma’am, tell me the truth and come clean about any other weapons so we won’t have to feel you up.”

  “A Marlin rifle in the saddle scabbard. That’s it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Those Colt pistols are my daddy’s guns and I want ’em back.”

  Covering Bess with his revolver, Conrad reached to his belt and pulled off a heavy set of iron handcuffs. He tossed them to her. She caught the shackles. “Put ’em on.”

  “You can’t do this. I’m a federal U.S. Marshal.”

  “Just because you keep saying you are don’t make it so, just like having the badge don’t make you a lawman. Look at my men. They all have badges. So what does that tell you? Cuff yourself, sister, or I’ll do it for you.”

  Holding his gaze fiercely the entire time, Bess didn’t look at the handcuffs once as, after fumbling with the shackles, she clumsily closed the cuffs around her wrists with a clank.

  He gave her shoulder a rough shove and started her walking along the shore in the direction of his camp at the cave a few hundred paces away. “Start walking.” The sheriff was right behind her, poking her in the spine with the barrel of his rifle to prod her along. “Faster.”

  “State your business, Sheriff. What are your intentions?”

  “I’m taking you to the cave over there where we’re going to go in and have us a friendly little chat. You and me, we have a lot to talk about. It can go easy or hard, either way; how this goes is up to you. But whether you choose to cooperate or don’t, know this: in the end I will get it out of you. You will tell me what I want to know and you will give me what I want.”

  She was simply scared shitless. Marshal Bess did not know what to make of Sheriff Conrad and couldn’t figure him out at all. What he wanted, what he was capable of, she had no clue. The only thing quite clear about Bull Conrad was he was a very bad man and a truly dangerous individual who, if she had to guess, was capable of anything. He jabbed the huge rifle in her back, not gently.

  “Walk. Let’s go, little lady, whoever the hell you are.”

  Space closed between them and the cave.

  Joe Noose, where are you when I need you?

  Her best friend wasn’t coming to her rescue this time.

  Marshal Bess Sugarland knew she was on her own, completely and utterly, facing mortal danger. Her survival was in her own hands and it was up to her to save herself. To do that she needed to keep her wits about her. She bombarded her captor with questions in the time they had alone together walking along the icy lake.

  “What the hell are you and your men doing out here?”

  “We’ve been chasing you. Caught up. Got you. We’ll get the other two.”

  “I know why you followed us.”

  “Of course you do.” Not the retort she expected, but okay.

  “You’re after The Brander,” she said. “You want the five-thousand-dollar bounty on his head. Figured we’d lead you to him. Once we pointed him out to you, the scheme was to get the jump on us, killing The Brander first then claiming the body to collect the reward. How am I doing so far?”

  Conrad said nothing, giving her another jab in the back.

  “Maybe you figured on shooting us after we shot The Brander, letting us do all the work, then you boys steal the body and turn it in for the reward. Not a bad plan. Nobody would ever find our bodies out here in all this desolation.”

  He said nothing.

  “Which is why you followed us out here. You think I don’t know how you bounty killers operate?” Her laugh was a snort.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  Marshal Bess gave Sheriff Conrad the side-eye and saw the baffled and confused expression on his hard face was genuine. She had read this all wrong. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  “If you aren’t after The Brander, then . . .”

  She didn’t finish her sentence. Force-marched at gunpoint past the frozen lake the rest of the way, Bess saw they had reached the mouth of the cave. The six deputies inside had stopped what they were doing and, noticing her with sparked interest, began to converge like bats waking up inside the cavern. Bess stopped and faced Conrad, and now she finished her sentence.

  “Why are you coming after us?”

  A dangerous look appeared on the sheriff ’s face as with a deadly glare, he gestured with
the barrel of his Henry rifle for her to get in the cave and then spoke. “Because you have something of mine.”

  His eyes went dead.

  “I want it back.”

  CHAPTER 30

  The Brander recognizes the face.

  When the snow clears for an instant, the features of the massive man climbing toward him become distinct; the fiend catches only the quickest glimpse before the snow obscures the figure, but it is enough.

  That face out of the past, so long ago, is one and the same.

  It is the boy who they branded so long ago, grown to manhood. He recognizes Joe Noose, but does not know his name, for the man had no name way back then. He named himself when he was sixteen, but The Brander doesn’t know this. He just knows the face. It is the one face he will always remember. The fiend has not seen him for a long, long time.

  The boy was the first time his branding iron tasted flesh—the birth of the brand; its mark burned into the boy’s chest begat all the branding slayings to come.

  But once marked with the brand, the boy had been left alive. They let him go. That had been a mistake. Letting him live had broken rules as yet unwritten back then but later to become law to the fiend: Branding means death to all whose flesh bears the mark.

  From that day forward, The Brander marks with the Q only those whom he executes—a mortal contract sealed with the imprint of red-hot metal. The symbol is a death notice, burned into flesh. A sigil of doom. The brand sends a message. It is a signature. For all the world to see, the Q on a corpse means the victim was an evil man in life executed for his misdeeds. Branding means death. No exceptions. If one of the branded survives, the mark means nothing and all the other brandings become meaningless.

  Not killing that boy had been a mistake, The Brander acknowledges. The brand had never tasted flesh before. It was the first time; mistakes happen. But it is time to correct that mistake.

  The record must be clean.

  Journeying here into the high elevations, The Brander came to kill one man; the last victim before his work is done. Now the fiend realizes there are two men he must kill. A last loose end must be tied up. Then the fiend can rest; the brand will cool as The Brander himself ends, disintegrating into nothingness to become no more, his soul scattering like snowflakes in the blizzard howling around him now.