Brand 8

by Neil Hunter

  The silence of the canyon was abruptly shattered by a woman’s scream. It was a high, agonized sound. The sound of someone in terrible pain.

  ‘Christ,’ McAdam said. ‘Jenny, I’m comin’, girl.’

  His action took Brand by surprise. He had no chance of stopping McAdam bursting into the open and running towards the cabin.

  ‘Leave her alone, you bastards.’

  Brand swore out of pure frustration. Damn McAdam. The man was asking for trouble. He was going to get himself...

  The sound of the shot drowned out McAdam’s yelling. The bullet hit him in the left shoulder and spun him round. For a split second he stared directly at Brand. Then three more shots rang out. The bullets ripped into McAdam, blowing out through his chest in bloody sprays. McAdam plunged face down on the ground.

  Brand had seen the dark shape of the shooter at the window of the cabin. Even as McAdam was falling Brand raised his rifle, aimed and fired at the figure behind the muzzle flashes. He saw the shooter jerk away from the window. Breaking cover Brand angled off towards the far end of the cabin, seeking the shelter of the lean to. He almost made it. With only a few yards to go he saw the cabin door swing open. There was a blurred impression of a tall, dark clad figure moving into the open.

  ‘I’ll see to him, Ruger,’ the man yelled as he moved forward.

  Brand took a dive to the ground. He grunted as his ill-timed move shocked the breath from his body when he landed. He kept himself moving, gasping for breath, rolling into the cover of the lean to. Behind him a gun went off and he felt the snap of the bullet tear his shirt. He found himself under the hooves of the horses and struggled to maintain control of his movements. As he dragged himself to a sitting position he saw the legs of the advancing gunman. Brand fired, missing by inches. The target paused, then darted to one side. The delay allowed Brand to gain his feet. He pushed by the nervous horses and with abrupt suddenness found himself face to face with the man who was trying to kill him.

  The man almost succeeded. He was quick to react. The heavy revolver in his hand swung in Brand’s direction, exploding with sound. The bullet seared a stinging line across the back of Brand’s gun hand. He ignored the pain, concentrating on his own shot, knowing it might be the only one he got. He had already spotted the bloody stain on the man’s shoulder. His shot through the cabin window had not been wasted. Touching the trigger Brand felt his rifle lift in recoil. His bullet knocked dust from the other man’s dark shirt. He saw the blossom of red appear over the man’s heart. The dark clad man stepped back. He paused and then sat down on the ground with an awkward motion. He seemed reluctant to give in but after a few seconds he fell over on his side, his head thumping heavily on the hard ground.

  Brand ran for the cabin. He knew there was a second man but his priority was the girl. As he neared the open door he leaned his rifle against the outside wall and eased his Colt from its holster. He could see inside the cabin – and the first thing he saw was the naked figure of a young woman suspended by her wrists from one of the roof beams. Brand got a swift impression of white flesh and a lot of blood. The woman’s face was turned in his direction, mouth opening as she began to scream again. Brand picked up a soft sound off to his left. He turned, trying to move away from the source of the sound. He was too slow. Something smashed across his skull. The blow sent him reeling and he slammed against the wall. Sickness welled up inside him and he tried to push himself clear of the wall. His strength had slipped away. Brand stumbled awkwardly, pain blossoming inside his skull. He could feel something wet streaming down the side of his face. Somewhere far off he could still hear the girl screaming. He wished the hell she would stop. A shadow danced in front of his eyes. He tried to focus on it. The shadow sprang into focus and Brand stared into the dark, angry face of a wild man, hair falling across a broad forehead. The features were strong, mouth wide open to show large square teeth in a snarl of rage. Brand had no time to react before he was struck a second blow. It drove down across his skull and Brand was sure it had smashed through the bone. The cabin flared with bright light that quickly faded into darkness. He felt himself falling. He never recalled when he hit the floor because his whole world closed down around him and he knew no more.

  Chapter Four

  Jason Brand’s anger was directed more at himself than at anything else. He had allowed himself to be taken like a damn tenderfoot straight off the stage, and that thought hurt a sight more than the crack on his head. He knew he was lucky to be alive. He could have walked straight into a bullet. The fact he was still alive puzzled him. The only explanation he could see was that the surviving killer had panicked, perhaps believing there were others following close on Brand’s heels and had simply hit him on his way out. Whatever the reason Brand considered he had got off easy.

  It took him some time to recover from the heavy blow. When he had come round enough to be able to move Brand had made his cautious way to the shallow stream that ran close by the cabin, splashing water on his face. The clear water, chillingly cold, had stunned him, drawing a gasp from Brand. Despite that he plunged his head beneath the surface, feeling it sting as it came into contact with the gash in his scalp. When he had pulled his head up he saw the water running red with blood. His head ached wickedly. He ducked under the water again, then sank back, letting the pain subside. He could feel his body trembling and knew he was suffering from mild shock.

  He stayed beside the stream for some time, content to rest and let his body recover. He felt detached from reality, not belonging, and it was confusing. He knew it was an after effect of the savage blow. He rested until he felt confident enough to climb to his feet and return to the cabin.

  He saw the sprawled bodies of McAdam and the gunman and was reminded of the savagery that shadowed men wherever they went. They had a knack of bringing violence and death to any place they set foot. He was not slow in accepting he was often as guilty of being a perpetrator of that violence himself.

  He stood at the cabin door, unable to tear his gaze from the ugly scene confronting him. In life Jenny McAdam had been young and attractive. The ruined thing hanging naked and bloodily mutilated bore little resemblance to its former, living self. Brand had seen his share of ugly things in his lifetime but the sight of Jenny McAdam, strung up like some abandoned carcass, brought a gut-wrenching sickness to him. He was trying, and failing, to understand the motivation behind a mind capable of doing such things to another human.

  But you do know, his inner voice told him. It was all for a pile of gold. For a wagonload of cold, lifeless metal.

  He went inside, pulling his knife and cut the ropes holding Jenny McAdam’s body to the beam. He carried her across to the low bunk that stood against one of the walls and placed her on it, drawing a blanket over her body. The effort left him weak and sweating and he felt himself swaying. He still needed to recover from that blow to his head.

  Brand took some firewood and went back outside where he built a small fire. He located a pot and a tin with coffee in it. He filled the pot from the stream and placed it on some rocks he had laid in the fire. He stood watching the fire for a while, aware of something nagging at him. Finally he turned and went to the cabin, closing the door so he didn’t have to think about Jenny McAdam lying in there. While the coffee brewed Brand walked over to the man he had shot and searched his clothing. The man’s pockets gave him little. A pipe the man had smoked, the stem broken when he had fallen after Brand’s killing shot. In the same pocket was a wad of dark tobacco. The wrapper around it was in Spanish. There was some paper money and a few coins. There were no other items of identification.

  Brand took his coffee and squatted beside the fire. His next priority was to pick up Harvey Ruger’s trail. The way it looked Ruger was on his way to pick up the gold. Brand felt sure of one thing. If Jenny McAdam had known the whereabouts of the hidden cache she would have given it to Ruger. There was no way she would have hung on to the knowledge after what had been done to her. Unfortunately divulgi
ng the secret had not saved her life.

  Later, when he felt he could travel Brand dragged the bodies into the cover of the lean to and unsaddled and set free the horses. His thoughts dwelt briefly on Tom McAdam. The man had thrown away his life, out of his depth with the situation, responding with his emotions instead of his head. Brand didn’t spend too much time thinking about McAdam. He had been a man full grown and capable of making his own choices. He had chosen wrongly this time and had died for that choice.

  It took Brand a couple of hours to pick up the faint trail left by the man who had ridden away from the cabin. Ruger, and it seemed likely it was he, was no fool when it came to hiding his tracks. Brand had to cut back and forth, searching and retracing his way when he lost the trail. It didn’t help that his head was still hurting, the ache deep and heavy. It ate at his nerves, pushing him to the edge of anger and that only weakened Brand’s concentration.

  He noticed that the shadows were lengthening. The day was slipping away fast. Too fast. Brand swore forcibly. He was way behind his man and it didn’t look as if he was going to find Ruger’s trail that easy to cross.

  He needed to find the man’s tracks. Sooner rather than later. Before Ruger lost him completely.

  Chapter Five

  Harvey Ruger tipped the canteen back, feeling the tepid water trickle down his parched throat. A large measure of whiskey would have suited him better but he knew he was going to have to be content with the water for now. The whiskey would come later. As would a great deal of other good things. He allowed himself a quick smile as he contemplated his bright future. As he lowered the canteen he found himself looking into the bland face of Sung Shan. He felt his stomach tense, a knot of apprehension forming there. Damned of it hadn’t happened again. That sensation of unease when he stared into the man’s eyes. Ruger did not trust Sung Shan – there was something about the man he found unsettling. Maybe it was that eternal watchfulness. The unconcealed caution in Sung’s cold, yellow eyes. Sung Shan was a man who spent his time watching others. Seemingly indifferent to everything around him. Ruger knew better and the knowledge brought him little comfort.

  ‘You are still uneasy because you did not make certain of killing that man,’ Shan said. His voice, as ever, was low, yet it still managed to convey menace.

  Ruger hooked his canteen from the saddle horn, gathering his reins.

  ‘He might still be dead,’ he said. ‘I hit that bastard hard.’

  ‘A moment’s caution is worth a lifetime of doubt.’

  ‘One thing I don’t need is any more of your Oriental wisdom,’ Ruger snapped.

  ‘Mr. Ruger, you would have done well to heed my advice. If Chu had been with you we would have obtained all the information we required much faster and with less effort.’

  Ruger glanced over Shan’s shoulder at the huge, powerful man he knew only as Chu. Shan’s constant companion. A silent, threatening figure, Chu reminded Ruger of the nightmares he had as a child. The one where he was pursued by a huge, hulking monster, ever silent and ever frightening. It was the only way he could describe Chu. The Chinese, with his massive bulk and squat, bald head, carried a puckered scar that ran down the left side of his face, pulling down the corner of his mouth in a permanent snarl. The drawn lips exposed Chu’s yellowed teeth.

  ‘I got what we needed,’ Ruger said defensively.

  ‘I hope so, Mr. Ruger. A great deal of time and money has already been expended on this venture. Failure now would only serve to upset and anger Master Han. That in turn would anger me.’

  ‘Now that’s what I like about you, Shan. Your undivided loyalty.’

  Sung Shan permitted himself a rare smile.

  ‘As long as we all understand each other,’ he said. ‘Shall we continue? In the hope that your information proves accurate.’

  ‘No worry there,’ Ruger said. ‘McAdam told his daughter exactly where he had moved the gold to. It was all in her head. Now it’s in mine.’

  ‘Let us hope you can remember it all in detail.’

  Ruger nodded. ‘Shan, I know this territory blindfold, and I know where the gold is now.’

  ‘Well let’s get to it,’ a voice grumbled, ‘cause it ain’t that much fun sittin’ out in this sun.’

  Ruger hunched around in his saddle and scowled at the speaker. He tried to figure out how he had let himself become involved with Marc Remo and his partner, Lex Dwyer. The trouble was he hadn’t had much choice in the matter. Remo and Dwyer were little more than second-rate gunmen, pushed into Ruger’s deal by his San Francisco contacts. They were the kind who would have been more at home along the Barbary Coast, in the bars and brothels along the waterfront. They didn’t like the job they had been given, but like Ruger they had little say in the matter. To make up for it they spent most of their time bitching about anything and everything. Ruger was looking forward to the time he would be able to part company with them.

  ‘Remo, all you have to do is drive the wagon. I give the orders. You ain’t paid to think.’

  ‘Hell, I ain’t no damn teamster,’ Remo grumbled. He snatched at the reins of the team pulling the heavy wagon.

  Dwyer, on the box beside him, leaned across and smiled at his partner.

  ‘Remo, that’s the first damn thing you said I agree with.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You are no damn good at drivin’ a wagon. I got the bruises on my ass to prove it.’

  Ruger yanked his horse around, driving his heels in hard. He pushed the animal up the steep slope, driving out every thought but the single, most vital one.

  Damn them all.

  He’d show the whole sorry bunch, by leading them straight to the gold, then he could have the laugh on them. He knew they didn’t fully trust his judgment. Sung Shan especially. The Chinese, with his soft manner and his barely concealed threats, tolerated Ruger because he had to. Let them all wait until he delivered the gold as promised. They would have to change their opinion of him then. The closer he got, the more excited Ruger became. He was unable to hold back his feelings. After all these years he was finally going to see that gold again. His gold. Two million dollars’ worth. His. After all the whole scheme had been his idea and he had made sure it was carried through to the letter. Then it had almost collapsed because McAdam had not died way back. Now, after all the time that had passed, Ruger would soon be back in control. This time McAdam was really dead, as were all the others, leaving Ruger in full command. Even after Kwo Han took his percentage for setting up the deal and Ruger had paid off his outstanding debts to the San Francisco people, he was still going to be a rich man. And richer still after he invested his portion in Kwo Han’s business venture.

  Reaching the top of the slope Ruger waited for the rest of the party. As Sung Shan drew his horse alongside Ruger pointed to the jagged rise of rocky hills ahead of them.

  ‘In there,’ he said. ‘In a couple of hours you’ll be loading that gold onto the wagon.’

  Sung Shan merely nodded. He glanced at Ruger’s sweating face.

  ‘Tell me, Ruger, does the gold really mean so much to you?’

  ‘You’ll never know just how much.’

  They moved on into the bleached, bare hills. There was no other sound save that of their passing. Pale coils of dust rose into the air as they traveled. The deeper they got into the rocky mass the closer the heat became. The very air formed a muffling blanket that seemed to hang overhead and smother them.

  Midday had come and gone when Ruger brought them to the bottom of a deep depression. A high rock wall sloped a couple of hundred feet above them. All around were tumbled masses of weathered rock. It was a desolate, barren place. Without water, or vegetation. Nothing lived here, save for a few lizards and snakes.

  Sung Shan watched with mild detachment as Ruger dismounted and began to move along the base of the rock wall. He clambered over, or crawled under boulders, his gaze fixed on the ground. He kept moving, searching, turning back and forth until he located himself. Sung Shan waited
patiently, content to simply wait where he was. He was not used to so much riding and was feeling slightly uncomfortable. He endured his discomfort, ignoring the constant grumbling coming from the two men on the wagon. They were disagreeable men, he decided. No more than trash. He shared Ruger’s views concerning the pair. The sooner they were out of the way the better he would feel. Shan would have favored the death of one of them to that of Brady, the man killed at the McAdam girl’s cabin. Brady had been with Sung Shan and Chu. Though he had not been Chinese Shan had approved of him. Brady had been a dependable man – though not good enough at the end.

  ‘Master Shan, he has found something,’ Chu said. He spoke in his own tongue, never having been able to conquer English.

  Shan gathered the reins of Ruger’s horse, trailing it behind his own as he rode to where Ruger was waving a hand. Once he had attracted Shan the American went back to moving rocks from a pile.

  ‘Chu, go and help him,’ Shan ordered.

  The large Chinese nodded. He stepped down from his horse and joined Ruger. Together they moved stone after stone until Shan was able to see a dark opening cutting into the rock face. Ruger straightened up, face glistening with sweat, grinning.

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘I see only a black hole, Mr. Ruger. Show me your gold and then I will have cause to be pleased.’

  Ruger turned back to his work, a soft curse on his lips. The hell with Shan. He put his anger into his effort, throwing more rocks and stones aside. Chu worked silently beside him. They continued working until they had completely exposed the cave entrance. Bending low Ruger went inside, coughing at the dust swirling in the hot air. He allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloom before he went in too far. As he stepped over the rough ground he saw the stack of wooden crates. Long and narrow, layered with dust and earth. He still recognized them for what they were. He strode up to the stack and pushed the uppermost crate to the floor. The brittle, dry wood burst apart. Ruger bent down and closed a fist around one of the objects that had spilled from the crate. He lifted it, sensing its solid weight. Ruger turned and made his way back outside, walking up to Shan’s horse.