by Neil Hunter
‘Kwo Han can’t do anything until his buyer arrives. My information is that Han’s customer won’t get to Agua Verde for at least four days. I even have a name and a description of the beggar. He’s a slippery Frenchman by the name of Christian Dupre. A very well-known dealer in stolen gold, silver, precious stones. He’s known to operate in Europe and more importantly London. London is a place where Han does a lot of business. As I was saying over dinner, Kwo Han is a man of varied talents.’
‘You figure we should lay low until Dupre arrives? Then make our move?’
‘Jason, we’re in this together. Right down the middle. We both agree on our course of action.’
‘Then, Richard, old chum, we wait.’
Hunt stood up. ‘Let’s go and see if we can find, something a little stronger than this blasted coffee.’
They moved back into the house. Hunt poured them a couple of stiff tumblers of mellow whiskey.
‘Does the title go with the job?’ Brand asked.
‘What? Oh, Captain, you mean?’ Hunt shook his head. ‘That’s a leftover from my Army days.’
‘Cavalry?’
‘Does it still show? But yes. Lancers, actually. Spent most of my time in India. Northwest Frontier mainly. Hindu Kush and the like. Bloody awful country to fight in, and made no easier when you’re up against those damn tribesmen. Fine fighters, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t suppose the idea was for it to be like a picnic. Even so I found myself in a few awkward corners. Lost some good friends too. You must know how it is.’
Brand knew how it was. He’d lost a few people he’d liked himself. They were gone and he was still alive. He sometimes wondered why that was. He was no different to any of them. Certainly no better. In some cases the ones who had died were fitter people to go on living than he was, but for some reason he’d been left behind to carry the memories. The bitter echoes of something gone and lost forever. He swallowed whiskey from the glass, hardly even aware of its taste as it went down.
Hell, yes, he knew how it was. Damn right he did.
‘Have you been in the Army, Jason?’
Brand brought himself back to reality. He digested Hunt’s question and shook his head. ‘Did some scouting for them in New Mexico against the Apache. Stuff like that.’
‘Is it true what I’ve heard about the Apache? That there’re few to touch them?’
‘Not much left to touch anymore,’ Brand said. ‘Apaches are just about finished. They ran a good race but there was too much against ’em. Damn fine people, though. If they’ d been left alone … ah, what the hell … it ain’t going to do anybody any good no matter what I say. The Apache was finished the first time he made a deal with the whites.’
‘You sound bitter about it. But I think I understand. You’ve obviously fought against the Apache yet you still find you have respect for them as a people.’
‘That’s what they are, damnit. A fine people too. I fought against ’em. I killed ’em. And I lived with them as well. Hell, they were no different to you or me. All they wanted was food to eat, a place to live, and a chance to see their young ones grow. Trouble was they just didn’t get that chance. Too many greedy folk who came and looked at the land and wanted it, and who said to hell with the Apaches. It was a wrong thing to do. It just started a damn war.’
The conversation stayed in the same vein throughout the evening. It was something new for Jason Brand. He was usually reluctant to talk over past history, finding little to be gained from dragging up the past. But Richard Hunt talked his language. He was a man who was involved in a similar existence and it created a bond between the two men. They were two experts in a business that dealt in hardship, violence and sudden death. Trite as it sounded even to Brand, the phrase did nevertheless sum up his job. He only had to look back over the events of his current assignment to justify it.
By midnight Brand had already gone beyond caring what business he was in. The rest he’d had earlier in the day hadn’t been enough to make up what he’d lost. The drink he’d consumed, which was far in excess of his normal intake, didn’t help. He felt himself slump back in the big leather armchair, his eyes heavy, his mind beginning to wander.
‘You look like a man who’s more than ready to turn in, old boy,’ Hunt said. His voice came from a long way off, muffled and seeming to hang in the air.
‘Rumboy, come and give me a hand with our American chum. I think he’s had too much of our Mexican fresh air.’
Brand didn’t remember going upstairs, or being put to bed. Sometime in the early hours of the morning he turned restlessly onto his side and opened his eyes. The room was dark and still. He lay for a moment, aware of the dull ache deep in his skull. He could taste the sour leftover from the drink in his mouth. Slightly disgusted with himself he jerked the blankets round his shoulders and went back to sleep.
The next time he opened his eyes it was morning, the sun streaming in through the open window of his room. Brand sat up slowly until he found his headache had gone. He was still left with the evil taste in his mouth. Pushing aside the blankets he saw that he was still dressed save for his boots. They were beside the bed so he dragged them on, stamping his feet into the tight leather. He crossed to the washstand and rinsed his face. After he’d dried himself he made his way downstairs. He caught the smell of fried bacon and realised he was hungry. Perhaps it was a reaction to all the drink he’d taken.
Hunt was already seated at the table when Brand entered the dining room. He glanced up and grinned at Brand. ‘Feeling better this morning?’
‘Had to get better,’ Brand said. ‘It couldn’t have got any worse.’
‘If it’s any consolation I had a rotten night myself.’ Hunt poured black coffee into a cup for Brand. ‘Once in a while it does no harm to relax.’
‘You two was so relaxed last night I thought you was goin’ to fall apart.’
Brand smiled at Rumboy’s appearance in the doorway. The Jamaican was beaming all over his face. He came into the room and placed a plate in front of Brand. There were a couple of fried eggs and some thick slices of fried bacon.
‘That all right, Mr. Brand?’
‘Thanks, Rumboy.’
‘Take your time, Jason,’ Hunt said. ‘If you want a horse to use later on Rumboy can fix you up.’
‘You sound like you’re going somewhere.’
Hunt nodded. ‘Yes. I’m going to do a little snooping around today. See if I can pick up anything about Kwo Han and his gold.’
‘Need any help?’ Brand asked.
‘No, but thanks, Jason. I know a number of people who, luckily for me, seem to pick up a fair amount of talk here and there. It’s surprising what you can get from a single source.’
‘I’ll see you later then. Might take a ride into town myself later. There’s someone I’d like to surprise.’
‘Your Angel?’
‘I told you about her did I?’
Hunt smiled. ‘You did that, old chum.’
After breakfast Brand wandered through the house until he located Rumboy. The Jamaican was sitting at a small table with Brand’s Colt and the Smith and Wesson stripped down. Rumboy glanced up at Brand’s appearance and indicated the guns.
‘Captain said you might be wanting to have these with you.’
Brand pointed to the Colt. ‘Only that one,’ he said. ‘Other one I took off one of Han’s boys. You can have it if you want.’
Rumboy shook his head. ‘No thanks, boss, I’ll keep the one I got.’ He tapped the butt of the big Dragoon he carried. ‘This old bird looked after me a long time and we know each other too well.’
It was the way Brand felt about the Colt. A gun he’d used often. That he carried with him most of the time. A weapon that had become so familiar to him using it was second nature. Closing his hand around the smooth-worn butt was like touching his own face. He knew its shape, its feel, its very being, and all without having to look.
‘Captain put these out for you,’ Rumboy said, pushing a box
of .45 calibre bullets across the table. He watched while Brand completed the cleaning and oiling of the Colt, then reassembled the gun. ‘Does it fire as good as it feels?’
Brand nodded. He thumbed brass-cased bullets into the Colt’s chambers and gave it a final wipe with a rag. ‘Hunt said something about a horse.’
‘Sure, boss.’ Rumboy got up. He dragged a squat, flat flask from his hip pocket, uncorked it and took a long swallow. ‘You want to try some?’
‘After last night? Hell, no.’
Hunt had left a dark jacket and a wide-brimmed white Panama hat for Brand to wear. Slipping on the jacket Brand felt something in the pocket. He pulled out a number of Mexican gold coins. It was obvious that Richard Hunt thought of everything. Tucking the Colt behind his belt Brand made his way through the house, emerging by a rear door into a paved area that led him to the stables. As he neared them Rumboy appeared, leading a frisky-looking gray horse.
‘This feller be just right for you, boss,’ the Jamaican said. He handed the reins to Brand and watched the American examine the horse.
‘What the hell is that?’ Brand asked finally.
Rumboy laughed. ‘You foolin’ me, boss? That’s the saddle. One of the Captain’s own.’
‘The hell it is.’
Brand stared at the slender, almost minute piece of leather strapped to the horse. Did they really expect him to sit on the damn thing? There wasn’t enough leather in it to make a pair of gloves. And no damned saddle horn at all.
Rumboy was grinning all over his broad face. ‘Maybe you better walk, boss,’ he said.
Brand grunted sorry. Like it or no, he was not going to let the damn thing beat him. If the British could ride around sitting on such things then so could he. He thrust his foot into the stirrup and pulled himself onto the gray’s back. The horse sidestepped nervously as it felt an unfamiliar hand on the reins. Brand took up the slack and pulled it under control. He made himself as comfortable as he could on the saddle.
‘You need me for any reason, Rumboy, I’ll be at a Angel’s cantina. You know it?’
‘Sure do, boss.’ Rumboy lifted his hand. ‘Hey, you watch out for any of the Chinaman’s boys.’
Brand took the gray away from the house and put it on the road that led towards Agua Verde. The day was bright, the sun hot on his face. He took time to look about him as he rode. There was no denying the natural beauty of Yucatan. All around him grew lush, thick greenery. There were any number of bright flowers as well. There were tall trees and graceful masses of soft tree ferns. Fruit seemed to grow in abundance and the dense forest just beyond the road held plenty of birdlife. Every now and then Brand caught sight of the sea, the blue water rolling in towards the shore. He saw the white surf, and suddenly he found he was reliving the terrifying time he’d spent in those waters himself. Tossed and thrown back and forth by the limitless strength of the inrushing water, his battered body no more than a chunk of driftwood to be played with until the sea tired of its game and cast him up onto the sand. From where he was now the water looked bright and blue and beckoning. It had looked and felt entirely different before. It was one of life’s tricks, he thought. There were two sides to everything. It all depended on which side of the fence you were standing at any one time.
He reached Agua Verde and located a stable where he could leave the gray. The place was run by a skinny Mexican who answered Brand’s questions, then directed him along the street. Wandering in the general direction shown to him Brand found himself on the waterfront after a few minutes. He strolled along the cluttered harbour, studying the various ships tied to the quayside. There were a couple of tall-masted schooners, an old island trader with its paint practically gone and its sails a patchwork of faded canvas. There were numerous small boats riding the midday swell. There was no sign of The Gulf Queen. White gulls swept back and forth across the sky, filling the already noisy air with their raucous cries.
Facing the harbour was a mix of buildings. There were warehouses, shipping-offices, sail makers, and taverns. Brand walked by a number of them before he found the one he wanted. Angel’s cantina was jammed in between the offices of a shipping company and a clothing store. Pushing open the door Brand stepped inside the cantina adjusting his eyes to the murky interior.
The place was half full. Most of the customers seemed to be sailors of various nationalities. Brand eased his way through the crush, managing to find an empty table in one corner of the room. He’d barely sat down when a girl appeared at his side.
‘Is Angel around?’ Brand asked in halting Spanish.
The girl, young and attractive, gave him an angry look. ‘Something wrong with me?’
Brand shook his head. ‘No. But I want to see Angel.’
‘You and half of Agua Verde,’ the girl muttered. ‘What does she have that makes her so popular?’
‘She doesn’t ask too many questions for a start,’ Brand snapped. ‘Now go and tell her she’ s wanted.’
He sat and waited. After a few minutes Angel pushed her way through the crowd of customers and stood at his table. It was plain that she hadn’t recognised him. The last time she’d seen him Brand had been dressed in rags, his face battered and covered by a matted beard.
‘You want a drink?’ she asked.
Brand shoved the Panama hat away from his face. ‘That’ll do for now,’ he said.
A smile spread across Angel’s face as she realized who he was. She leaned across the table and threw her arms round Brand’s neck, kissing him fiercely.
‘I heard there was some shooting,’ she said eventually, slipping onto a chair next to him. ‘Somebody said two men were killed. I tried to find out what happened but nobody would tell me anymore.’ She studied him gravely, a smile touching her mouth. ‘You look so grand now. All dressed up—’
‘And nowhere to go,’ Brand finished.
Angel put her hand on his, her face serious. ‘Are you all right? What about Kwo Han?’
‘His time’s coming.’
‘Have you found help?’
Brand nodded. ‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘And I was lucky you found me when you did. That was a time I needed help, and you gave it.’
‘I will be finished here soon. Then we can go talk somewhere. If you want.’
‘I want.’
For the next hour Brand sat nursing a bottle. He didn’t drink too much. He’d learned his lesson after the session with Hunt the previous night. While he waited for Angel he let his mind wander. Soon, he knew, things were going to start happening. Kwo Han had already revealed himself as a man not backward in getting things done, and from what Hunt had told him about the man, Han appeared to be involved in something far too big to be allowed to slip from their grasp. The man had a large consignment of gold on his hands. Too valuable to lose and at the same time difficult to move about. But if his means of hiding it were as efficient as his method of getting it out of New Mexico and all the way to Yucatan then he probably had no worries. By now, though, Kwo Han must have found out Brand’s connection with Hunt, and he would be undoubtedly making plans to safeguard himself. Brand would have given a lot to know what those plans were. Maybe Hunt had found something out. The Britisher plainly ran an organization with just as much efficiency as Kwo Han’s. If there was something to be learned Hunt would dig it out. Even so Brand found he was feeling slightly guilty at just sitting back, taking it easy while Hunt was out trying to pick up information. It didn’t sit right with him. Time off was one thing but not while another man might be putting his life on the line.
Angel noticed his brooding silence when she finally came to the table. She studied him for a minute, glancing at the barely touched bottle. ‘Don’t you like our Mexican liquor?’
Brand raised his glass and drained it. ‘Only reason I came here.’
‘The only one?’ Angel asked softly.
Standing up Brand took her arm and led her out of the cantina. Angel showed him the way to go and as they walked she again noticed his silent bro
oding.
‘Something is wrong? Tell me, hombre.’
He turned his head to look at her. ‘Tell the truth,’ he said stiffly, ‘I feel a damn fraud. Wastin’ time wandering round while the man I’m working with is out doing my job and maybe getting himself—’
‘If he had needed your help would he not have asked for it?’
He nodded. ‘I guess. But it still doesn’t feel right.’
‘Do not worry. You cannot fight the world on your own.’ She slipped a warm hand into his. ‘Spend a little time with Angel and then you can find your friend.’
She led him along a narrow backstreet just off the waterfront. In an old, crumbling stone wall was a heavy wooden door. Angel pushed it open and Brand followed her through into an overgrown courtyard. They crossed the open area to a flight of steps leading to the second floor of the weathered building. A black mongrel dog, stretched out in a patch of sunlight, lifted its scarred head and watched them go up the stairs. Angel took him along the roofed veranda. At the end she opened a door and took him into the single room she rented while she was in Agua Verde.
‘Not much but it is mine,’ she said, closing the door behind her. It wasn’t much. Just a medium sized room with a small stove in one corner, a bed pushed against the wall. There were a few other items dotted about the room, a pair of stools and a shelf on the wall by the stove holding a couple of cups and plates.
‘And a place in the country for weekends,’ Brand said.
Angel laughed softly. ‘The hut?’ She crossed to the small window and threw it open. ‘I was born there,’ she said. ‘When my mother and father died it became mine. Am I not wealthy, Jason Brand?’
He didn’t answer. Angel watched him and she could see the restlessness in his face. He was concerned about his friend. She knew it, and she also knew there was nothing she could do to make things any easier for him. Angel sighed. It was such a pity to have to let him go. Just when it seemed they might be able to spend a few pleasant hours together. But from what he had come to know of him Angel realised that with Brand his job came first. She went to where he stood and slipped her arms round his neck.
