Brand 8

by Neil Hunter

  It might have turned him into a walking dead man, cold and without feelings. He often maintained a grim exterior, when it suited his purpose, but there was a man of warmth and loyalty inside the tough veneer. Those who knew him well would have trusted themselves on his word alone, because he was a man of honor – a trait that some might find hard to accept. Brand did not outwardly display his emotions because he felt he had no need to. He owed nothing to any man, unless that man proved himself worthy, and then he would have ridden a thousand miles to offer his help to that person.

  He came into his world of violence and pain because fate seemed determined to make him tread that path. He had tried on more than one occasion to remove himself from it, but each time events drew him back. In time he realized there was no escape. His fast gun. His predilection towards the violent land he walked had been hard earned and came with a price. It was a curse that cloaked him like a black shroud. He could never escape it. He bent to its demands and looked to his future with the clear eyed gaze of someone who saw, understood and fully accepted his destiny.

  And there were not many who could say that.

  The Rurales Sergeant knew nothing of this, and that was why when he looked at the gaunt face of his gringo prisoner he saw only the enemy. One who had to be defeated. He was mistaken. No matter what he did to Brand he would never, ever, defeat him. Jason Brand understood his life and the manner in which it ran, so he was able to take anything the Sergeant threw his way and swallow it whole.

  In the next two hours the Sergeant came to the cell three more times.

  Each time he did his best to humiliate his prisoner. To make him suffer in the hope he would strike back. Each time he failed and that made him angrier. On the third visit he brought with him a short black leather whip. He had used the whip many times and it had never let him down. Men who sank to their knees with the bloody flesh of their bodies hanging in livid strips, were very prone to capitulation. Brand simply stood and faced his tormentor, hands at his sides as the Sergeant slashed the gleaming whip back and forth, each time getting closer. He was about to administer the first lash when a hard voice cut through the silence of the cell.

  ‘Explain what exactly is going on here, Sergeant. Tell me because I would like to hear your excuses for this outrage.’

  The Sergeant turned to see the immaculately uniformed figure of his commander. The young Major, who had only been transferred to Agua Verde a short while ago, was standing in the door of the cell. Calm and poised, he waited while the Sergeant tried to come up with a good excuse.

  ‘I thought not,’ the Major said. ‘I was told when I came here to watch out for your treatment of prisoners. Why this unit had the worst record for deaths among them. Now I can see for myself. I have been watching you for a while, gathering my evidence. Today you have given me what I need to complete my investigation.’

  The Major stepped into the cell. He took the whip from the hand of the Sergeant, studying it carefully before handing it to his own Sergeant.

  ‘In the morning, private, you will be transferred to the interior division. You will report to Major Uvalde, who I understand, is even stricter than I could ever hope to be. He runs a very disciplined troop patrolling the western mountain territory. If I ever see your face in Agua Verde again, this matter will be brought to the attention of the disciplinary division and I will make it my personal business to see you pay the fullest price for your transgressions. Now get out of my sight.’

  The Major waited until they were alone before he turned to Brand.

  ‘Whatever your crime, this was unwarranted. Please accept my apologies. I will return later and we will discuss your case.’

  He turned and left, the cell door closing behind him. Brand stood and stared at it for a while, then sat down on the edge of the cot, shaking his head at the sudden turn of events.

  One minute he was getting himself ready for a hard time. The next a Major of the Rurales was apologizing for the treatment he had received.

  What next?

  A full pardon and the freedom of Agua Verde?

  In the event Brand wasn’t far off. He didn’t get the freedom of the town – but a complete stranger showed up and got his release from the jail.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘I will ask one more time, señor. What is your business in Mexico? And especially Agua Verde? More importantly why did you kill those men?’

  ‘You mean the ones who were doing their best to kill me?’ Brand leaned forward on the edge of the low cot. ‘Or has that been conveniently forgotten?’

  The uniformed officer considered what Brand had just said.

  ‘I have only your word you acted in self-defense. The dead cannot make their story known. You understand this places the burden of proof on yourself. And I know nothing about you except you are a stranger in Agua Verde. Put yourself in my position, señor. What would you do?’

  Brand had to give the man that one. He wasn’t about to push his luck with this one. He was unusually polite for a member of the Rurales. The Mexican law force had a reputation that went before it. They were known to be tough, often ruthless, and their attitude was one of indifference to anyone brought before them, especially gringos This Major Ruiz, young and correct in his manner, was different, and Brand had no intention of making him angry. Ruiz had already proved his worth by stopping Brand from receiving a savage whipping from the cell block Sergeant. That had gone a long way towards convincing him all Rurales officers were not the same.

  It had been nothing more than bad luck that had involved Brand with the two hardcases working for Han, and a continuation of the same black streak delivering him into the hands of the Rurales. It was as if he had been dealt bad cards from the start of the game. Nothing had gone right for him. Brand was used to setbacks but he’d had more than his fair share this time out. Maybe he was getting soft. Losing his edge. He shook away the thoughts. Allowing himself to wallow in self-pity was not his way. He was still on form. Tired perhaps from all that had happened. And now this endless questioning from a man young enough to be fresh from training school.

  Brand sighed, reining in his feelings, and did what he could to answer the Major’s questions without giving too much away.

  Later, alone in his dingy cell, he lay staring up at the sunlight streaming through the bars of the window. Dust motes floated lazily in the yellow shafts. Black flies buzzed in and out of the window. His presence attracted them and Brand swatted them away impatiently. He sat up, running a hand through his thick hair. He slid his hands down across his face, feeling the rough whiskers there. He needed a shave. And a bath, then a change of clothing. He wasn’t going to place any bets when that might happen.

  He pushed to his feet and began to pace the cell, using the movement to ease the stiffness from his body. He was still walking back and forth when he heard footsteps approaching the cell. He heard voices too, one the unmistakable Spanish accented English of Major Ruiz. A bolt was snapped back and the heavy door swung open to admit two men.

  The first was Major Ruiz.

  Behind him was a tall, fair-haired man the same height as Brand and could even have been his age. He wore an expensive light gray suit, a white shirt and a neatly knotted, thin dark tie. As he moved into the cell his gaze met Brand’s and there was a moment in which the two men sized each other up.

  ‘Sorry I’ve taken so long to get to you, Brand,’ the man said in an unmistakable British accent. ‘And I apologise for you having to be stuck here in this place. It serves a purpose but in your case it’s less than suitable.’

  ‘If that means you’ve come to get me out I’ll agree.’

  ‘That I have.’

  ‘I don’t know who the hell you are but you’re a welcome sight.’

  ‘Hunt. Captain Richard Hunt.’

  Brand took the offered hand, feeling the latent strength in the man’s grip. He judged Hunt to be a capable, reliable man. The kind who would be welcome in a tight corner.

  Hunt turned to
Ruiz.

  ‘Major, your cooperation in this matter will be noted and passed both to your superiors and the British Consul.’

  Major Ruiz inclined his head.

  ‘Glad to be of help, Captain. If you learn more about this man, Han, please inform me.’ He turned to Brand. ‘Señor Brand, my apologies for any inconvenience. I was unaware of your position in this matter.’

  ‘You were doing your job, Major. No fault to be found there.’

  Brand held out his hand and shook the Mexican’s.

  ‘Come on, Brand,’ Hunt said briskly. ‘I have a carriage waiting outside. We’ll collect your belongings on the way.’

  As he stepped out of the building Brand drew breath. The warm air held a tang of the sea. He paused for a moment to wait for Hunt. When he appeared he was carrying Brand’s Colt and the Smith & Wesson. He passed them over.

  ‘You might need these,’ he said.

  A carriage and pair waited for them. Brand and Hunt climbed in. As they settled in the soft seats the carriage moved off. Brand tried to relax, but found himself studying the man sitting across from him. Hunt’s clothing might have been fashionable but the man was no fop. He played the game well, hiding his toughness beneath a casual veneer. Brand was a good judge of character. He prided himself on knowing his man, whether friend or enemy. In his line of work making a mistake could easily lose him his life. If that happened nothing else mattered one way or another.

  ‘If you don’t mind, me saying so,’ Hunt remarked, ‘you look bloody awful.’

  ‘Not been one of my better days,’ Brand said. He was becoming increasingly curious about Richard Hunt. The vague thought flickered through his mind that perhaps Hunt was one of Han’s employees; he dismissed the suspicion even as he conjured it up; Hunt was too perfectly in character, and head and shoulders above the sort who would sell himself to a man like Han. Despite that Brand still wanted to know who his companion was.

  ‘I’ve heard a lot about you,’ Hunt said. He leaned forward, a faint smile on his tanned face. ‘How is Mr. McCord?’

  Brand became instantly alert. He hadn’t been expecting such a conversation opener. For a second he was lost for words. Hunt had no such problem.

  ‘The last time I was in Washington McCord and I had a chat about the Debenham affair. You were up in Montana working on that assignment at the time. A strange business. I’d met Lord Debenham a few times and when the complete facts came to light it was something of a shook.’

  ‘You knew his daughter too?’ Brand asked.

  ‘Sarah?’ Hunt nodded. He hesitated for a moment. ‘A lovely girl. Terrible the way she died. I know she was helping you but I have no way of knowing how close you were.’

  ‘Close enough that it mattered,’ Brand replied. He didn’t like dragging up the past. Especially when it concerned such a personal part of his own life. The feeling he’d had for Sarah Debenham hadn’t died with her and it hurt when he allowed it to touch him.

  For a time both men were silent. Brand stared out at the passing scenery. He saw little detail. The only thing he did register was that they seemed to be leaving Agua Verde behind, heading into the country.

  ‘I have a hacienda a few miles out,’ Hunt explained. ‘The British Government rented it for my stay.’

  ‘And how long’s that going to be for?’

  Hunt shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘That depends on what you have to tell me concerning a certain Chinese gentleman by the name of Kwo Han.’

  ‘Seems to me you already know a hell of lot I don’t,’ Brand said. He wondered just what Hunt was liable to come out with next.

  ‘I have facts, but only from my side of the table. It seems that we can help each other.’

  A short time later the carriage turned up a short drive and came to a halt outside the hacienda. The stone structure had been overlaid with plaster that had been painted a brilliant white, and the window, shutters, doors, and other woodwork had been done in a deep red. The house was surrounded by thick shrubbery and dotted with trees.

  As the carriage stopped the front door of the house opened and a muscular black man stepped outside. He was dressed in a pair of canvas trousers and a cotton shirt, and he carried a huge old Dragoon Colt tucked under his belt. He stood watching as Brand and Hunt climbed down out of the carriage.

  ‘He the feller, Cap’n?’ he asked, his bright eyes studying Brand closely. His accent was odd to Brand’s ears. A soft, rolling cadence Brand hadn’t come across before.

  ‘This is Mr. Jason Brand,’ Hunt said. ‘He is, as we might say, in the same line of business we are.’

  ‘Welcome aboard, Mr. Brand.’

  ‘This disreputable character is known by one and all as Rumboy,’ Hunt said. ‘It’s a title he’s acquired for his uncontrollable affliction to the wretched stuff be drinks. Stay round him long enough and you’ll see what I mean. A habit he acquired back home in Jamaica. Apart from that he’s a fair hand in a roughhouse and a pretty good shot with that blasted cannon he carts around with him.’

  ‘I could have done with you a while back,’ Brand said.

  ‘From what I hear, boss, you done pretty good on your own. Those two boys you fixed up were bad fellers.’

  ‘Look, we can talk later,’ Hunt suggested. ‘I think our guest would prefer to clean up, have a meal, and then get some sleep. Rumboy, get the help organised. Plenty of hot water for a bath. I’ll find a razor and some clean clothes. Does the idea appeal, Mr. Brand?’

  It did appeal. Brand couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed taking a bath so much. The sheer luxury of washing away the sweat and grime from his body, followed by the removal of the itchy beard from his face, did wonders for his moral. He cleaned the bullet burn on his shoulder and side and treated them with cooling salve Rumboy had supplied at Brand’s request. And then there was the almost sensual pleasure of getting dressed in clean, fresh clothing. Hunt had provided underclothing, a pair of dark trousers and a white cotton shirt, clean socks as well. As Brand finished off brushing his dark hair Rumboy appeared in the door of the bedroom. He had Brand’s boots, cleaned and highly polished.

  ‘Now you lookin’ better, boss,’ the Jamaican said. He placed Brand’s boots beside the bed. ‘You go ‘head and get some sleep, Cap’n say. I come back and wake you in time for dinner tonight.’

  ‘Thanks, Rumboy.’

  The Jamaican left, closing the door behind him. Brand turned towards the bed. He stretched out on it, and couldn’t help comparing its comfort with that of the crude cot in the Rurales’ cell. He closed his eyes and slept. His last thought before he blanked out was about his assignment and the man he was looking for.

  His name was Kwo Han, the son of a poor dock-worker, who had learned at an early age that a man had one chance in life to make good. Watching his father struggle through each day, breaking his back and his spirit to earn enough to keep food in the mouths of his family had taught the young Kwo Han another lesson. That physical toil made no man rich or powerful. Not in the streets of Shanghai. There was money to be made in other ways. By trickery. By deceit. And by plain and simple stealing. Kwo Han learned these facts with ease and quickly turned his talents to good use. By the time he was ten years old he was an accomplished pick-pocket. He had also tried his hand at burglary, and had already gathered himself an ample reserve of money and other valuables. In his sixteenth year, yearning for greater glory, Kwo Han was presented with a rare opportunity. He was approached by a courier of the Shanghai Tong, the elite of China’s underworld organisations. The Tongs, secretive criminal societies, were feared and respected by both sides of the law. They had their own rules to govern the behaviour of their members, and any Tong recruit learned these rules before anything else. To go against the Tong meant suffering and death. For Kwo Han the terrors threatened by the Tongs meant nothing. He knew that once he was admitted nothing could stand in his way. His assumption proved to be correct. In his first five years with the Tong he advanced rapidly. Initially he was given
work as a courier but an incident involving members of a rival Tong revealed the violent talents of the young Kwo Han. His reward was promotion to the ranks of the Tong assassins. He was given instruction in the use of the traditional Tong weapons and rigorous training in the martial arts. Kwo Han became a deadly and efficient killer of men. Time after time be proved his worth and his loyalty to the Tong. In his mid-twenties he had progressed through the lower ranks of the society to become a respected and feared Tong Master, one who no longer took orders, but one who gave them, and accepted no excuses for failure. His need for power and his desire to extend the reach of the Tong beyond the shores of China turned his eyes towards the great American continent. Kwo Han realised the potential presenting itself. He saw the countless thousands pouring into the vast, rich lands and he knew that there was a future for his organisation in the New World. San Francisco and the Barbary Coast were ready-made breeding grounds for the criminally orientated, and the Tong of Kwo Han quickly established itself. Gambling, prostitution, the distribution and promotion of opium addiction. These were only a few of the Tong’s dealings. It was also involved in the control of Chinese labor, the supply of goods to Chinese owned stores. Additionally there was the fleet of fast clipper ships and passenger-cargo ships plying the numerous trade routes; as well as the normal and legitimate cargo there were items carried which never showed on the loading manifests: drugs, illicit liquor, guns, a varied selection of goods shipped without the knowledge of the authorities to avoid heavy tax and duty payments; gold and silver bullion, stolen in one country and sold in another where the exchange rate was much higher; and there was the human cargo, for although slavery had been officially abolished by the greater nations, there were those who still practised the degrading business.

  Black men and women were shipped like so much livestock to the ancient and isolated ports along the coast of North Africa - and not only black slaves, for the robed and feudal Arabs had taken a liking to the pleasures of the fairer skinned; young and beautiful white women brought a high price, as they had and still did in China.