Brand 7

by Neil Hunter

  General George Crook, the man appointed to sort out the Apache problem in Arizona and New Mexico, might not have looked the part but he was more than capable. His record in the field was excellent, and he had a grasp of the situation that was the envy of many lesser men. Crook was also a humanist. He saw the Apache as people, not as the animals some would have them judged. He took time to understand their problems and he was a willing listener. Crook preferred his Apaches alive and on the reservation, rather than dead. Not that he couldn’t be a soldier when the need arose. When the time came he could hold his own against any odds. He had pursued raiding bands of Apaches into Mexico on more than one occasion and he was as expert in the field as he was at the conference table.

  ‘Heard you were here,’ Crook said. He crossed over to Brand and shook his hand. ‘I knew Seiber would find you.’ He slapped dust from his clothing as he crossed to a large clay olla and poured himself a cup of water. ‘You look a little frayed around the edges, Brand, but apart from that no different from the last time I saw you.’

  ‘Couple of years older, General.’

  Crook smiled. He peered at Brand from beneath bushy brows.

  ‘Did you get here in time?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good man. Nante’s a stubborn old devil. Wouldn’t tell us a blamed thing. Even Sieber couldn’t get a word out of him.’

  Crook eased himself into a chair and looked at Brand with an expectant expression.

  ‘Nante wanted me to go into Mexico and try to get his people to quit fighting. It was why they’d kicked him out. Some young buck named Benito has taken charge. Seems he’s backed by some white renegade. Nante was afraid his people would get themselves wiped out.’

  ‘A fair appraisal of the situation, I’d say.’ Crook pondered for a moment. ‘Did he tell you how to find this stronghold of his in the Sierra Madre?’

  ‘No, but he gave me a guide.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Niana.’

  Crook glanced at Sieber.

  ‘Nante’s granddaughter. The girl who’s been looking after him.’

  Crook nodded. Turned back to Brand.

  ‘Did you agree to go?’

  ‘Crazy as it sounds I said yes.’

  ‘Good man!’ Crook sprang from his chair. ‘I’m grateful, Brand. Time’s critical. We’re coming close to getting the top Apaches in for talks. There’s a chance to make an agreement this time. As usual they’re playing hard to get. Geronimo’s got us running all over the blasted territory. He’s testing me out. I think he’ll come in but he wants to see how committed I am. I’ll play his games if it’ll get him round the table talking. One of the stumbling-blocks is Nante’s old band. Small enough to make hit-and-run strikes. Well-armed and brutal in the extreme. They’re causing trouble all down the line. My resources are already overstretched so I can’t give you anything except all the supplies and equipment you need. And my profound thanks.’

  ‘That’ll do fine, General.’

  ‘By the way, how is Nante? Any better?’

  ‘He died a little while back, sir,’ Sieber said. ‘He stayed alive long enough to have his talk with Brand. Just like he said he would.’

  Crook shook his head. ‘I’m sorry about that. Nante was a real Apache. He should have had his time of peace.’

  ‘I reckon he’s got it, General,’ Brand said. ‘I figure Nante died at peace with himself and the world in general. He’d done his time and he was satisfied.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Crook said. ‘He deserved it.’

  They stood for a moment, silence filling the dusty room. From outside came the thud of hoofs, the jingle of harness, shouted commands. The moment was broken. Crook drained his cup of water and turned for the door, with Sieber close behind. Brand followed at a distance, preferring to be no more than an observer. He paused in the open doorway and watched the milling bunch of uniformed riders in the center of the compound. Part of Crook’s command, they were a troop of blue-shirted soldiers who looked as if they had been in the saddle for the best part of a week — which they probably had. Men and horses alike were coated with sweat-soaked dust. Weariness showed in every move they made. Jason Brand wouldn’t have traded places with them for $1,000 a month.

  He felt the need for a drink that was a lot stronger than coffee. He made his way towards the cluster of buildings that stood apart from the main reservation. It was nothing more than a tiny village; a rundown cantina, a store and what passed for a livery stable. The majority of establishments were run by Mexicans. The cantina gave the impression it might fall down at any moment. It was empty save for the barkeep, a fat Mexican who was sweating just standing still. The man’s eyes, small black marbles, were almost hidden by rolls of flabby skin.

  ‘Whiskey?’ the barkeep asked, making a weak attempt to swat a fly near his hand.

  ‘You got pulque?’

  Brand went and sat at one of the vacant tables, waiting to be served. He ran his gaze around the place. The grubby walls were streaked and peeling, the adobe turning soft and chalky. Even the air smelled moldy.

  The Mexican waddled from behind the bar, bringing a squat clay bottle and a cloudy glass. He placed them both on the table. Brand had been staring out through the window beside his table. He could see the reservation. Even the hut where he’d spoken to Nante. He found himself thinking about the Apache girl, Niana, who would be performing the age-old burial ritual for the dead grandfather.

  Brand picked up the bottle and poured himself some pulque. It was not as good as Sarita’s brew. He pushed the thoughts from his mind, trying to clear his mind for what lay ahead. He concentrated on the bottle and what it contained and didn’t break his concentration until he realized the bottle was empty. He ordered another.

  The cantina had a few more customers now, a number of Mexicans.

  And a pair of Americans. They caught Brand’s attention. There was something about them that made him look closer. The first thing he noticed was the way they wore their guns. Not like working cowhands. More the way he carried his own weapon: like the tool of their trade. The Mexicans would have called them pistoleros. Men of the gun.

  The pair were at the bar but facing his way, and Brand knew they were weighing him up.

  But why?

  Why should he be of any interest to them?

  Draining his glass Brand shoved to his feet. He knew he’d had a little too much pulque on an empty stomach. He was feeling reckless. Belligerent. Knowing didn’t stop him. He became aware of the two Americans’ reaction as he closed in on them, and felt the old burn of excitement rising.

  ‘You know me?’ he asked brusquely.

  His question took them off balance, and for a moment they were lost for words. One of them, tall and lean, with a honed edge to his brown face, recovered faster than his partner.

  ‘Hell you talkin’ about, mister?’ He was attempting to cover up the fact that he’d been caught out. ‘We just came in for a damn drink is all.’

  ‘So you say. Only I get the feeling you’ve been paying more attention to me than to what you got in them glasses. Now why should I wonder about that?’

  The second man found his voice.

  ‘What’s wrong with this hombre, Ed? He had too much to drink?’ He was even less convincing than his partner.

  Ed smiled without humor. He was like an actor who had suddenly forgotten his lines and had no one to prompt him. His gaze flickered towards the door, then back to Brand. He’d been working at a possible escape route and was fast realizing there wasn’t one. The only way out was the hard one.

  ‘Damn you!’ he yelled, his frustration boiling over into unthinking action.

  Brand saw the punch coming and easily side-stepped it. He felt the rush of air as Ed’s fist slid by his cheek. Brand leaned forward and drove a hard fist deep into the man’s flat belly. Ed grunted, falling forward against Brand, who shouldered him aside. As Ed stumbled Brand threw a hard backhand across the side of his face. The blow landed with a
solid whack and Brand felt flesh tear. Blood spurted as Ed went down on his knees.

  ‘Hey!’

  The challenge came from Ed’s partner. Brand turned to meet his attack and found he’d misjudged the man. Short, with broad shoulders, the man moved with surprising speed. His shoulder sledged into Brand’s chest, sending him backpedalling across the floor. The edge of a table stopped him, turning him slightly, so that the heavy punch thrown at his face scraped across the line of his jaw. The impact was still solid enough to jar his senses. Brand shook his head, trying to clear the mist in his eyes, moving to distance himself from his opponent. He caught the flurry of movement and threw up his arm to block the fist sweeping in at him. At the same time he kicked out with his right foot, swinging a brutal kick that thudded against the other’s side. Pain was expressed in a sharp yell as the impact of Brand’s kick spun the man back against the bar. It rocked under his bulk. Recovered enough to gain control of his movements again Brand followed the man and slammed both hands against the back of his attacker’s head. He put his full strength into slamming the stocky man face down on the bar top. A wet gurgle burst from his crushed mouth. Brand hauled him away from the bar and punched him hard. The man went down in a loose sprawl, bruised and bloody.

  A rustle of sound made Brand turn. Ed was back on his feet. He had a knife in his hand.

  ‘They never said you were that good.’

  The words were more to himself, but they confirmed to Brand that his earlier suspicion had been correct. The pair had not been in the cantina by accident. He still couldn’t figure out why — but he was starting to get the feeling it had something to do with his summons to San Carlos and Nante’s request.

  Ed made an ill-timed lunge, the knife curving in at Brand’s stomach. He eased aside, the knife slipping by, and grabbed Ed’s wrist before the man could recover. Pulling Ed in close Brand slid his other arm beneath Ed’s, then levered up against the joint. Ed gasped. Despite the pain he had the presence of mind to make use of his free hand. Jamming the palm under Brand’s jaw he shoved Brand’s head back.

  For a moment the pair swayed, each trying to gain the advantage. Brand felt himself being shoved against the edge of the bar, his spine crushed by Ed’s weight. He hooked his left foot behind Ed’s legs and put all he had into a forward thrust. Ed yelled out as he felt himself going back, losing his balance. The pair hit the floor hard, twisting and squirming. Somewhere in the struggle Ed lost his grip on the knife. Then he slammed a hard blow to Brand’s cheek, spinning him across the floor.

  As Brand scrambled to his feet, searching for Ed, he saw the man rushing forward. Ed had a heavy wooden stool in his hands and he was already halfway through a vicious swing. Brand tried to dodge out of the way but the edge of the stool caught him over the left eye. The blow drove Brand into the side of the bar. He bounced off and fell. He didn’t remember hitting the floor.

  Chapter Four

  ‘A reservation is there to promote peace and harmony,’ Al Sieber grumbled. He sat back, arms folded across his broad chest, watching Brand drain the mug of black coffee.

  ‘Pity the pair I tangled with didn’t have the same idea,’ Brand said.

  He raised his aching head and saw the room spin wildly. He wasn’t feeling too steady. There was a darkening bruise over his left eye where the stool had hit him.

  ‘Still don’t know who they were?’

  ‘No. But I’m damn sure they had something to do with Nante sending for me.’

  Brand stood up and crossed to where the pot bubbled on the stove. He poured himself another mug, staring out the window, then turned to glare at Sieber.

  ‘Let’s face it, Al. If there are white renegades involved with Benito they won’t want their game upsetting.’

  ‘This deal get queerer by the minute,’ Sieber vowed. ‘You goin’ to have plenty trouble. Not even started yet an’ already you got problems.’

  ‘Anyone see that pair leave?’

  ‘No. First we hear about is when you walk in dripping blood everywhere.’

  ‘I’ll be seeing them again, that’s for damn sure. Al, I aim to head out at first light. Right now I could do with some sleep. You got somewhere I can bunk?’

  Sieber nodded. ‘Sure thing. There’s room in back you can use. Don’t worry about supplies. I arrange everything.’

  ‘Thanks, Al. Tell Niana we leave in the morning.’

  Sieber showed him to a small room which was furnished with a low cot and a chair. When he was alone Brand unbuckled his gun belt and laid it on the chair, the butt of the heavy Colt turned in towards the cot so he could get to it fast if the need arose.

  The room had a square hole cut in the adobe that served as a window. Despite this the room was airless, the heat pressing in on him. Brand could feel his shirt sticking to his flesh so he peeled it off and lay down, closing his eyes. He tried to ignore the dull throb of pain inside his skull. He knew he’d been lucky. The blow from the stool could have resulted in something far more serious than a severe headache. What the hell was he getting himself into? No picnic, that was for sure. In the morning he was going to ride out for Mexico with an Apache girl, with little idea what he was going to find, or what he was going to do.

  Maybe he was starting to go a little crazy. After all, only a short few days back he’d been safe and happy, lazing away his days with Sarita on her little farm. Now he had walked open-eyed back into the world of violence he’d been trying to distance himself from. He’d very nearly caught a knife in the ribs already, and when that didn’t happen he’d taken a clout on the head with a damn bar stool. A man had to be half-way crazy to let himself in for that kind of treatment.

  Then he thought back to Sieber’s offer and the way he had fallen in with it right off. He had no one to blame except himself. He knew why. The smell of danger. The lure of excitement beckoning him had been too much to ignore. He’d known from the start that violent confrontation would be waiting somewhere along whatever trail he rode. And that was enough to reel him in. He just couldn’t resist.

  He rolled over on the cot, staring at the gun on the chair. And wasn’t that part of it all? The gun. The tool of his trade. The cold steel that set him apart from other men. Brand reached out and touched the smooth butt of the weapon, and in the same instant he silently cursed the power it had over him. Would there ever be a time when he’d be able to exist without it? Deep inside he knew the answer was no — he was as dependent on his gun as any alcoholic on his bottle of whiskey. The frustration he felt came from this knowledge and his inability to break free.

  He didn’t even consider putting it to the test because he knew he would fail. It was his weakness and he would never conquer it. He despised his frailty; hated what it had done to him; the hurt it brought him and those who surrounded him. He damned the curse of the gun and what it had done to his life. Wishing he could be free was not going to change a damn thing. He was, and would remain, a pistolero. The shadow of his curse would follow him to the grave. No matter how far he ran, when he looked over his shoulder the shadow would always be there.

  So why bother trying to fight it?

  Sleep came slowly. Brand tossed and turned in the confines of that stuffy room. Even when he did fall into a restless slumber his mind was alive with disturbing images, shadowy and menacing, that beckoned to him, refusing him the peace he wanted more than anything.

  He woke suddenly, aware that night had fallen, and he was filled with the knowledge that he was not alone.

  Brand reached for the Colt on the chair. As he pulled it from the holster, snapping back the hammer, he sat upright. The muzzle of the Colt settled on the pair of dark figures standing against the far wall.

  ‘You will not need the gun, Brand.’

  It was Niana. She moved to the side of the cot and Brand made out the soft oval of her face as she broke through a shaft of pale moonlight.

  ‘Will you promise not to give us away?’ she asked.

  Brand looked beyond her to the still
silent figure by the wall. Darkness masked the features but Brand knew without doubt he was looking at an Apache.

  ‘My word was always good enough for Nante.’

  Niana spoke gently in her own tongue and the waiting figure moved from the far side of the room as Brand stood to meet him. The Apache held himself erect, waiting. Brand studied the seamed, coppery face, the brittle eyes. There was something familiar about the man.

  ‘Geronimo risks much to come and speak with you,’ Niana said, her hand reaching out to grip Brand’s arm. ‘There is much danger here.’

  ‘He’ll be safe enough,’ Brand promised. He eyed the stocky figure and the realization came to him that he was face to face with the most wanted Apache in the South-west.

  Geronimo — the legendary leader of the Chiricahua Apaches. The man who had spread terror and destruction for years while the Army tried in vain to capture him. A brilliant tactician and a deadly fighter, Geronimo was both wise and wily. A man to be feared and respected. Jason Brand kept those thoughts in mind as he faced the Apache.

  ‘Nante, my friend, is dead,’ Geronimo said. ‘My heart is heavy. Nante was a good Apache. We fought together many times. Now there is one less voice to speak for The People’

  ‘He was my friend too and I know he wanted peace for the Apache. Is this what Geronimo wants also?’

  Geronimo’s features hardened for a moment.

  ‘It is hard to think of surrender. For many years we have fought and we have survived against the whites. Now the time is coming when the Apache must decide. Do we fight on and die. Or do we give ourselves over to the Pinda Lickoyi and hope he honors his promises. Many of our people want to keep fighting. But I have seen the women weep over their dead. And I have heard the children cry from hunger. Soon I will come and talk with Gray Fox.’

  ‘Crook is an honest man,’ Brand said. ‘He will not deceive you. Talk with him, Geronimo. Make a peace for your people and hope for the future. It won’t come easy. But it’s better than being dead.’