by Neil Hunter
The rising slopes seemed an eternity away. It was as if they were standing still, getting no closer. Brand expected the sound of a shot any second. He knew the pair behind would be within rifle-range soon.
He had only just registered the thought when the flat crack of a rifle shot sounded. He saw the bullet strike the hard earth off to his left, yards away. A second shot followed. This was even closer. Brand urged his pony on, lying forward across its neck, wishing he had the comfort of his saddle under him.
Out of the pall of dust left by Niana’s pony he saw the shape of the rocks marking the slopes of the foothills. Brand swung his pony into the maze of dun-colored rocks. He heard the whip crack of another rifle shot. The bullet whined off a nearby boulder, peppering his face with needles of stone. Brand kept on riding, pushing deeper into the rocks. Ahead of him he could see Niana weaving in and out of the rocks. Shots were following with regularity. Sooner or later one of those bullets was going to find a target.
Brand yanked his pony to a halt, pulling it behind a large boulder. He slid off its back, using precious seconds to familiarize himself with his surroundings. To his right lay a steep shale slope. He ran towards it, digging in his heels as he started up the loose side. Reaching the top he dropped flat, eyes scanning the area below him.
He saw movement at the edge of a high boulder. He waited until the movement resolved itself into the shape of a man on foot. A man with a rifle. Brand already had his own weapon to his shoulder. He picked his target, held, then fired twice. His first shot missed by a fraction. The second caught the man in the right shoulder, knocking him back a few steps. The hit man dropped his rifle, cursing loudly at the pain in his shoulder, then lost his footing and fell. He hit the ground hard, twisting over on to his stomach as he struggled to climb to his feet. His right arm hung loosely at his side, blood spreading across his shirt. The exit wound was large and ragged, bloody strips of flesh and splintered bone showing. As he tried to get up the man was reaching for his holstered gun. He found it and began to pull it from the holster, but Brand’s third shot crashed out and hit him in the lower back. The man skidded forward on his knees, then flopped face down on the ground.
Brand pushed to his feet and ran along the rim of the shale slope, seeking a fresh position. The downed man’s partner would be around somewhere, and unless he was deaf, dumb and blind, he would have Brand’s former position marked now.
And he had. A rifle blasted from below. The bullet sliced across Brand’s left side. He felt the red-hot burn of the wound and the sudden spurt of blood. He dropped to the ground, keeping below the rim of the slope, touching a hand to the place where the bullet had nicked him. As with most superficial wounds it was bleeding heavily. His hand came away wet and red and he wiped it against the leg of his pants.
It had fallen quiet. Brand lay still, listening. The sun burned the back of his neck. His mouth was dry and a chunk of rock was digging into his hip. He eased the offending stone from beneath his body and tossed it aside. He was starting to sweat, his shirt sticking to his back. He didn’t relish the idea of remaining where he was for too long. Once his body had given up its natural moisture he was going to feel it. Dehydration was not a pleasant thing. His only consolation was that his adversary would be in the same position.
He heard the sound then. Very faint. He might have missed it if his ears hadn’t been tuned for such a happening. Someone was on the move. It showed that his opponent didn’t have a great deal of patience. The sound repeated itself a few seconds later, the dry, whispered sound of boot leather scraping lightly over rough stone.
Brand didn’t move. He waited and listened and watched. He wanted his man in the right place before he made his move. This was the part of the game where there was only one chance. Waste it and you did not get another.
Four — maybe five — minutes dragged by. Brand’s rifle grew hot in his hands. Even though he wasn’t moving sweat was trickling down his face and he had to keep brushing it from his eyes.
Somewhere to his left a clumsy foot dislodged a stone. It rattled against other stones and started a minor and very brief slide of loose material. A thin smile touched Brand’s lips. He remained still, letting the other man come to him. All he had to do was move the muzzle of his rifle round to where his stalker would show. He figured another minute should do it. He was only seconds out. First came the tip of a hat, followed by a hand reaching to gain a final grip. Then a man’s head appeared. He wasn’t even looking in Brand’s direction. There was enough for Brand to recognize the man. It was one of the pair he had tangled with back at the reservation.
The one named Ed.
Unaware of Brand’s close presence Ed Hamner dragged himself to the rim of the slope. Once he was over the top he would have a better view. The man named Brand had to be close by. Hamner was positive he had hit Brand with his last shot. He didn’t think he had killed the man but he was certain he had wounded him. Something made him look back over his shoulder to where his partner lay. Hamner didn’t feel much in the way of pity for Yorrick. The man had always been the same. Always bulling in before he had weighed the odds. Hamner had always been telling him that one day his lack of caution would get him killed. Yorrick never got the message — until today, and now it was too late. Hamner shook his head. Yorrick wouldn’t make that mistake again.
Brand was thinking about mistakes at that very moment. He was thinking about the one Ed Hamner was making. The man had made his way up the slope carefully enough, but that one dislodged stone had been his undoing, and Brand would use that against him.
‘Hey, Ed,’ Brand said softly. He didn’t need to raise his voice because Ed was that close.
A cold chill rose in Hamner’s stomach. His muscles tensed as if a giant, icy hand had gripped him. He felt a cold, clammy sweat break out over his body. He knew without looking that he had been caught out. His assumption that Brand had been wounded and weakened had been a mistake, and he cursed himself for doing more or less what his partner had been guilty of. As he had climbed the slope he had congratulated himself on his smart move. He was going to sneak up and surprise Brand, finishing the man before he had a chance to retaliate. If it hadn’t been so serious Hamner might have seen the funny side. In his present situation humor was the last thing on his mind. He was thinking that he had been stupid to think he could outwit Brand. The man’s reputation was well known. He was a hard man, with a deadly skill, and he took no prisoners. Brand played for keeps, allowing nothing to stand in his way.
Knowing this Ed Hamner figured that if he was going to die, then at least he would go down trying.
He made his play, snatching his rifle round on Brand, and saw that the other had his own rifle already targeting him. Hamner let out a wild, despairing yell, still trying to bring his rifle on line.
Brand touched his trigger. His rifle kicked back as it slammed out its shot. The bullet hit Hamner full in the face, to punch through his skull and out the back. There was a burst of bloody bone and flesh. Hamner was pushed back by the force of the bullet. He arched over, falling back down the slope in a cloud of dust that trailed after him. He rolled to the bottom and lay still, dead before the last of the stones had rattled around his body.
Brand stood up. His side hurt wickedly. It was still bleeding, though not as much. He made his way back to where he had left his pony and unhooked his water skin. He took a drink, swilling his face with a little of the tepid water.
‘Niana, you can come out now,’ he said. ‘It’s all over.’
The Apache girl appeared instantly. She had her revolver in her hand and Brand was sure she had been ready to use it. There was an angry scowl on her face.
‘I have not been hiding,’ she snapped at him, eyes blazing. ‘I am Apache, granddaughter of Nante. Not a coward.’
Brand had to grin at her. It only made her more angry.
‘Let’s go look at our friends,’ he said. ‘See if we can learn anything from them.’
Chapter Seven
‘Jesus Christ, it hurts,’ Yorrick moaned through bloody lips. His face twisted in agony as Brand turned him over. He stared up at Brand, eyes filled with the pain of his wounds. ‘You son of a bitch. I should have killed you back at San Carlos when Ed laid you out with that stool.’
‘First lesson,’ Brand said. ‘Don’t waste your chances. You learned it too late, and it’s about to bury you.’
Yorrick cursed wildly. ‘Sonofabitch. Don’t figure on it being finished. Bigelow won’t let go now he has his teeth in you.’
Brand glanced at Niana.
‘Mean anything?’
‘I heard Nante speak of a man named Bigelow. A Pinda Lickoyi who sells guns to the Apache. A man who will do anything for money.’
Yorrick clutched Brand’s sleeve.
‘You might have a name, friend, but you ain’t got the man. Bigelow is smart. Damn smart.’
Brand knocked the hand aside.
‘He can’t be that smart. Not if he hired you and your partner. He should have gone for professionals.’
‘The hell with you ... ’ Yorrick stopped in mid-sentence, his eyes clouding over. A soft, rattling breath escaped his lips. Brand felt him go slack.
Brand pushed to his feet and crossed to his pony. He glanced at Niana.
‘You any idea where this Bigelow hangs out?’
‘A small town on the border. We can reach it in two days. Do you wish me to take you there?’
Brand picked up his pony’s trailing rein.
‘Yeah. I want to meet Mister Bigelow. I’ve got a feeling he’s likely to be out of business very soon.’
Niana was not quite sure what he meant, but she was sure it meant trouble for someone. As she mounted her pony and fell in behind Brand she thought of the dead men they were leaving behind, and she realized now why Nante had chosen this man. If anyone could stop Benito and the Pinda Lickoyi who were helping him, it was surely this tall, dark-haired man who said little but killed like an Apache. She was sure that this Jason Brand was one who knew Death as closely as any man knew himself. He was of that breed who walked a lonely trail through life. He had known much bitterness and suffering. It showed in his eyes. Yet she knew that beneath the flesh lay the real spirit of this man. He appeared cold and unfeeling but there was more to him than that.
They stayed with the foothills until dark. Niana knew her way around this part of the country, and as the sun slid below the horizon she brought them to a secluded place among the high rocks where an underground spring fed a wide rock-pool with fresh, cool water. There was even a little grass sprouting from the crevices between the bleached stones around the pool. Brand decided he was going to have to rethink his way around the territory. This was one water-source he had never seen before. He didn’t doubt that Niana probably knew of a fair number of these hidden places. Secret springs and pools known only to the Apache.
He picketed the ponies, then took his rifle and walked to a section of high ground. The land spread before him, a mottled green-and-brown blanket, now pooled with the deepening shadows of evening. He wondered if there was anyone else out there? Most likely Apaches, if anyone. Geronimo maybe? With Crook and Sieber on his trail? Sitting there, staring into the coming darkness, the thought came to him that it was all a crazy game. Life was slipping by for so many people and all they did was run around chasing each other from one end of the territory to the other.
And for what?
Was anything ever fully resolved by it all? The so-called victories by the whites over the Indians were all hollow. The Indians would be moved far from their natural surroundings to satisfy the whites and placed on some mangy, godforsaken piece of land not worth a cent, and there they were expected to live in peaceful contentment. The expectation was that they should be satisfied with their lot and grateful to the generosity of the white man. Brand had no illusions about his fellow man. A great many of them were grasping and greedy, interested in lining their own pockets and to hell with anyone else. Once they got their hands on Indian lands they fell to arguing among themselves over what should be done with it. In the end it all came down to those who had nothing trying to take it from those who had.
Brand pushed to his feet, easing the stiffness from his body. Damned if he wasn’t doing too much thinking. He turned back down the slope and saw the soft glow coming from a small fire Niana had lit. A gentle night breeze carried the smell of coffee and something that smelled pleasantly like bacon. Niana glanced up as he reached the fire. She did not speak. Brand hunkered down across the fire from her and watched as she filled a tin plate with thick slices of bacon and spiced beans. She passed it to him. As he began to eat she filled a mug with coffee and placed it at his side. Then she took her own food, standing up to move away.
‘You going somewhere?’ he asked.
‘It is not for the woman to eat with the warrior,’ she told him.
‘Is it done for her to obey his words?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then get yourself back here and don’t let me hear any more talk like that.’
Niana returned and sat cross-legged, regarding him with curious eyes. He stared back at her. In the wavering glow of the fire her features took on a coppery tone. Her hair showed blacker than before, framing her face and lending it a startling beauty that surprised and pleased him.
‘You are a strange one,’ she said suddenly. ‘I do not understand you.’
‘What’s there to understand. I’m a man doing his job. Nothing fancy about that, no different from a hundred others.’
Niana placed her plate on the ground. She shook her head.
‘With you it is different, Jason Brand. You cannot live any other way. For you there is nothing else. You could not become a farmer who lives off the land. Or a man who works in a store.’ She shook her dark head. ‘I know you could not do these things, Brand. They would kill you faster than any bullet.’
Brand drained his coffee and reached for the pot, burning his fingers on the hot metal.
Damn these women, he thought. Give one five minutes and she would take a man apart to see what made him tick. Even this Apache was the same. He filled his mug and slammed the pot back on the fire. He could feel Niana’s eyes on him and sensed the faint glow of amusement that sparkled in those dark pupils. The annoying thing was that she had been right on target.
‘Tell me about Benito and peyote.’
His question was a way of changing the subject as well as a chance to ask about something that had been chafing away at the back of his mind. ‘First I ever heard of peyote doing permanent harm.’
‘Peyote has been used for many years,’ Niana said. ‘It brings visions to those who use it. It makes them happy. They dream of good things and when the peyote wears off there is no harm. But it is different with Benito. My grandfather told me of the time Benito drank much bad whiskey. It made him very sick and he almost died. The whiskey did something to him here,’ she touched the side of her head. ‘When he took peyote after this it made him crazy. He would remain so for many days after. It was as if the Evil Spirits were inside his head making him do wild things. Now he takes peyote all the time and The People are afraid of him. They fear him but they also believe he is possessed and they dare not touch him.’
‘Well, the only spirit that ever got hold of me came out of a bottle,’ Brand said. ‘Seems to me it’s time we put the cork back on Benito’s magic potion.’
Niana frowned. ‘Sometimes you speak in a strange tongue, Jason Brand, and then I do not understand you.’
Brand took off his gun belt. He unrolled his blankets and laid them on the still-warm ground. His handgun and rifle were placed close by.
‘Niana, let’s sleep on it,’ he said.
He lay down and pulled his blanket over him. He watched as the stars began to show. Close by he could hear the sounds Niana made
as she took the plates and utensils down to the pool to wash them. Soon even those sounds ceased and it became very quiet. Brand was starting to drift off into sleep when a gentle hand touched his shoulder. He opened his eyes and in the faint glow from the fire he recognized Niana’s face.
‘The water is cold,’ she said softly. ‘And the fire is very small.’
Brand eased up on one elbow. He saw that Niana was naked. He reached out to touch her smooth shoulder. The brown flesh was cool and damp. His gaze dropped to the taut shape of her young breasts. The dark nipples were stiff from the cold water. Soft fingers of firelight played across the muscled smoothness of her torso and flat belly. At the junction of her strong thighs a dark triangle of hair showed, shadowed and mysterious.
Brand raised his blanket and Niana slid in beside him, pushing her firm body against his. He drew the blanket around them both, pulling her close. He felt the warm press of her thighs against his groin, became aware of his own swift response. He drew a firm hand across her shoulder and down to the swollen tip of one hard, warm breast. Her nipple was full and hard, and a soft sound bubbled from her throat as he caressed her. Nimble fingers loosened his shirt and eased it from his shoulders. Her tender touch explored his scarred, muscled body, touching the place where Hamner’s bullet had gouged his flesh, and she felt his involuntary shudder.
‘Why did you not tell me it pained you?’ she asked.
He kissed her cheek.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Damned if I can feel anything paining me at all.’
He searched for her mouth and felt her draw back. A wry smile curved his lips. Kissing would be something new to her. It was not really part of the Apache way.
‘Is this how the Pinda Lickoyi love?’ she asked.
‘We show affection by it.’
She pushed closer, her naked flesh warm and inviting.
‘Show me your way, Brand.’
