Brand 7

by Neil Hunter

  Niana seemed to sense his mood. She moved close beside him, reaching out to touch his face.

  ‘What troubles Brand?’

  He pointed towards the distant cliff.

  ‘Come morning I’m going to climb that damn thing.’ He smiled. ‘That is what troubles Brand.’

  ‘Can it be done?’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  She leaned her warm young body against his. Kissing him with her customary hunger.

  ‘Then tonight you should rest well.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘But not yet,’ she added, smiling gently as she began to shed her clothing.

  Her warmth stirred him and he pulled her close. Niana stared into his eyes. What was it that aroused her so much each time she touched him? She recalled their first meeting outside Nante’s hut, remembering that she had not liked him then. Yet now his very touch made her yearn for him, her body reacting strongly to his demands.

  They made love with a passion. She found her need for him was tinged with desperation, because she could not forget he would be leaving her in the morning. Then he would go looking for Benito, and though his skills would be a match for Benito’s warriors she knew he was not invincible. He could die as easily as any man.

  As she lay beside him, the warmth of their coupling still strong, she traced the line of the scars that marked his naked body. He was one who lived with violence, existed in a world that had little time for pleasure or peace. Brand had accepted his role, living for the moment, and taking what he could from each snatched fragment of time. She felt him stir against her and she drew him closer. She did not want him to go, but she would have no say in the matter. Once his path had been chosen he followed it faithfully. There was no turning back. He would stay with his decision, never accepting the thought of defeat. It was a mark of his pride that he stayed the course. A man like Brand had that and maybe nothing else. It marked him as different from other men, placing him apart. A lonely place to be but for Brand the only place. In that respect he was like the Apache. A warrior was only a warrior as long as he kept face. If he lost that he was nothing.

  Niana lifted her head and gazed over his naked shoulder. The dark rise of the great cliff rose in the distance. It seemed to have a life of its own, a brooding, seemingly invincible enemy. And an enemy that might claim his life so easily. A moment of dread filled her mind.

  What could he do — one man — against Benito and his warriors?

  Only at this moment did she consider that coming here alone had been a mistake. Crook and Sieber had been wrong in allowing one man to take on a mission that needed the strength of many. It was not fair that he should be expected to face Benito alone. Yet even as the thought passed through her mind, she knew there was nothing she could do to change things. Nor could she even speak of her fears. No matter how she felt, those thoughts would stay within her. It was not for a woman to interfere in the ways of a man, no matter how she felt about him. That was the Apache way, and Niana was enough of a woman to know her place. She lay against him, holding him tightly, wondering if this would be the last time they would be together.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Stay here as long as it’s safe,’ Brand said. ‘No telling how long I might be gone. I don’t want you hanging on if things start to go wrong.’ He glanced up from reloading the big Colt he had just cleaned and checked. ‘Promise, Niana. I don’t want you sitting here until it snows. If you have to leave tie my pony so he can’t run. I might just make it back.’

  ‘Do not speak so, Brand. You will come back. I feel it in my heart.’

  ‘Well, you go right on feeling that way. It might just bring me some luck.’

  Brand holstered the Colt, slipping the hammer loop into place. He didn’t want to risk the chance of the gun slipping out of the holster while he was scaling the cliff. He picked up his mug and drained it. The sun was well up and it was time he started out. There was no telling how long it was going to take him to make the climb.

  He got to his feet and went to Niana, kissed her, then turned away and moved out of the rocks. It was a good quarter-mile to the base of the cliff. He recalled Niana telling him that Benito kept a constant guard at the top of the trail leading into the hideout. He stayed under cover as best he was able, lucky that the terrain was rough, full of fissures choked with brush, scattered boulders and trees. It took him more than an hour to reach the base of the cliff.

  He leaned against a handy slab of rock and stared up at the towering cliff. What the hell had he let himself in for? Up close the rock face was not as sheer and smooth as distance had made it appear. Even so it did look a great deal higher from where he stood. He was glad now that he hadn’t bothered to bring along anything liable to interfere with his climbing. He took his time picking a place to start. A few hundred yards along he found what he was looking for.

  A wide fissure in the face of the cliff. It was a great crack that snaked its way up the towering wall of rock. At the foot of the cliff lay a jumble of tumbled rock and debris that had spilled from the fissure at the time of its creation. Brand studied it for a time. It looked to be the best chance he was going to get.

  He clambered over the pile of rocks at the base and moved into the shadow of the fissure. The first part of the climb would be comparatively easy as the lower section of the fissure was composed of a long, steep slope.

  He was staring up the weathered rock, his mind absently acknowledging the utter silence of the place, when his ears caught the merest whisper of sound off to his left. Brand’s eyes moved in that direction quicker than his body, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of a darting shadow lunging at him. Then he turned, meeting head on the half-naked figure of a leaping Apache.

  He reached for the wrist of the hand holding a thick-bladed knife.

  The Apache’s stocky body slammed into him and they crashed to the ground. The Apache’s free hand clawed at Brand’s throat, fingers digging into his flesh. Brand knew he couldn’t hold off the knife and deal with the hand around his throat at the same time. He swung up his legs, scissoring his thighs around the Apache’s body, squeezing hard against the man’s ribs. He felt his hand slipping on the Apache’s sweating flesh, saw the knife starting to drop towards his chest. He put all he had into the grip he had around the Apache’s body and was rewarded with a the crack of bone.

  The Apache grunted in pain as ribs caved in. His grip on Brand’s throat slackened a little. Brand slashed his left hand across his body, knocking the Apache’s hand from his throat, then drove it back, hand bunched into a hard fist. He felt the Apache’s mouth cave in under the blow. Hot blood sprayed from split lips. Brand reached across and closed his fingers around the wrist of the knife hand. Then he arched his whole body and rolled the Apache off him.

  The Apache reacted quickly, letting his body slide away, getting his feet under him. Brand hung on to the wrist and let the Apache haul him upright. The moment he regained his feet he lashed out with his left foot, the toe of his boot driving up between the Apache’s thighs. The Apache’s mouth opened in a silent scream of pain, his legs buckling. Brand stepped in close, twisting the Apache’s wrist.

  He kept on twisting even after he felt resistance. Bone snapped and the Apache dropped the knife. Brand bent to snatch it up and drove a shoulder into the Indian’s chest, slamming him back against the rocks. As he began to straighten the Apache launched himself off the rock, still full of fight despite his injuries. It was no effort on Brand’s part to push the knife forward and let the Apache impale himself on his own blade. The knife went in up to the hilt, a spurt of warm blood covering Brand’s hand. He let go of the knife and the Apache curled up at his feet.

  Brand slumped back and sat against a chunk of rock. He was sweating, his chest heaving from the exertion of the struggle. He ached in a number of places. He saw that the Apache had stopped moving now.

  Where the hell had this one come from? And were there more in the area?

  He took a
quick look round and found an answer to his question.

  In the shade of some rocks close by he found the Apache’s gear. There was also the skinned carcass of a deer. The Apache had been out hunting and had spotted Brand. He realized how close it had been. If he hadn’t picked up the faint sound of the buck’s approach . . . Brand corrected himself; there was no point in worrying over what might have been. What did matter was his survival.

  He collected the Apache’s belongings and hid them down a deep crevice in the rock, along with the deer carcass. He moved the body and pushed it into the crevice too. Then he tumbled some loose rock on top to hide the evidence. There was no telling how soon the Apache might be missed. If others came looking for him it was going to make Brand’s approach to the hideout that much harder. If they did show they would find him — Brand didn’t fool himself on that score. Good as he was the Apache were the masters. Hiding the body might allow him some extra time, and that was something he needed if he was going to scale that damned cliff. It was a pity about the blood spilled on the rocks, but there was nothing he could do about that.

  Time was against him now. Brand started his climb, working his way up the first section of the slope, moving as fast as he dared, yet he was having to pause more than once while he figured out his next move. There was no way he could achieve the climb in a straight line. The mass of rock was composed of varied shapes and sizes, some as big as houses, and he had to move around these before he could carry on with his ascent.

  He had to quit worrying about how he was doing time wise. He simply concentrated on climbing. Moving upwards, knowing too that he had a hell of a way to go, and this was the easy part.

  It began to get warm. The sun penetrated the fissure and the heat began to build. Sweat poured off Brand. His shirt clung to his back, sodden with his sweat. His limbs ached. He wasn’t used to this kind of exertion. He was putting strain on muscles he seldom used in his normal life. His narrow-toed, high-heeled boots didn’t make things any easier. They had been designed to keep a man’s foot in his stirrup, not for climbing mountains. After a time Brand quit thinking about the reasons he shouldn’t be doing this and concentrated on just climbing.

  He reached the place where the initial slope tapered off and found himself faced by a scarred, fissured rock face that, while not vertical, wasn’t far off it. He leaned his back against the hot rock and studied the way ahead, or, to be exact, above. He figured he had to have been a little crazy to have chosen this way into Benito’s hideout. As he sleeved sweat from his face he caught sight of his hand, it was scratched and bloody. So was his other hand. Brand grunted with annoyance. He pushed away from the rock and reached for the first handhold.

  Now he simply climbed, looking neither up nor down. He put all he had into moving slowly up the rock face, his concentration on the next hand or foothold.

  He was no more than a tiny speck on that sun-bleached spread of rock, albeit a living thing with only a single thought in his mind — to reach the top. He ignored the heat and the sweat, the bloody flesh of his hands and even the throbbing ache in every muscle he possessed. He had only one worry. A single, nagging thought that centered on Niana. He was worried about her and hoped she was all right.

  A knob of rock gave way under one boot. He felt his body fall away from the rock face and he was sure he was going to fall. But then his right hand snatched at a thin ledge of rock, fingers clamping tight to the projection. His arm muscles begged for relief as he hung suspended by one hand. It seemed an eternity before he was able to regain his former hold and he refused to move for some time. He was trembling violently, stomach churning. Sweat ran down into his eyes, stinging.

  He began to climb again. Slowly. He became aware of a stinging sensation down one side of his face and realized he must have banged it when he slipped. The pain was something to concentrate on — and at first he failed to notice the rock face starting to curve away from him. When he did he realized that he was nearing the top. The fact failed to impress him. He was close to exhaustion. When the rock eventually became level beneath him he crawled on his stomach, away from the sheer drop.

  He sought out a shallow crevice, out of the sun’s glare and also away from unfriendly eyes. He had reached the top and for now that had to be enough. He needed to rest. He was in no fit state to face anyone at the moment, let alone someone like Benito and his band of Apaches — or the mystery white man. They were all going to have to wait a little longer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Brand slept fitfully through the rest of the day, not daring to let himself go too deeply under. He needed to rest but at the same time he had to stay reasonably alert to be aware of any potential danger. He decided to move once it was dark. He had no idea yet what he was up against and figured that darkness would at least give him a degree of cover while he assessed the odds.

  The sun set slowly, gradually sinking out of sight in a flaring spread of dying light that seemed to set the land on fire. A violent setting for a violent land. Brand eased himself stiffly out of cover, stretching his aching body, then moved off along the wide, rocky rim of the basin that concealed Benito’s camp. Glancing over the inner edge of the rim he saw that the sides of the basin curved downwards in a series of long slopes; a lot easier way to get down than the way he had come up.

  There was a time before the moon rose when he found himself moving in almost total darkness. Below him, across the basin, nestled against the lower slopes of the far side, he saw the old Indian rock houses, illuminated by a number of glowing fires, the weathered stone softened by the flickering orange flames. He saw, too, that many of the window slots showed light: oil-lamps throwing yellow beams into the outer darkness.

  Brand began to move down the inner slopes. His progress was hampered by the fact that the slopes held numerous stretches of loose shale. These he had to move around, not daring to cross them in case he started a slide. The sound of moving shale would carry far in the night silence.

  The moon rose almost in the same instant that Brand reached the basin floor. It flooded the area with its pale, bluish light. Brand dropped behind the closest cover and stayed there, the night air cooling the sweat on his face. He took out the Colt, gripping the butt firmly and feeling better for having it in his hand.

  Yard by yard Brand crossed the wide basin, moving himself closer to the Apache campsite with every step. He could hear sounds now; voices of men and women; the restless sound of corralled horses and ponies. Mingled smells reached his nostrils too; wood-smoke; the drifting aroma of cooked meat. Brand felt his stomach rebel against the lack of food.

  And then he was close enough to be able to see everything he needed. He crossed a shallow stream of cold, clear water, and burrowed deep into a clump of thick brush on the far bank. Directly across from where he crouched the lighted windows and doorways of the old Indian dwellings beckoned. Below them on the flat earth were the cook fires around which he could make out the figures of the Apache women busy with their chores. To the right of him was the large corral, holding a good-sized herd of horses and ponies. Close by the corral he spotted a couple of freight wagons — evidence of the presence of whites. The way off to his left would be the way out, leading to the narrow trail by which the Apaches came and went. He recalled Niana telling him how narrow that trail was. If that were so, whoever had brought in the wagons certainly knew their business.

  Brand studied the dwellings. If Benito was here, which would be his resting place? There would be no trouble recognizing Benito. The Apache’s face was well known to Brand from the times their paths had crossed. Benito would be older now, but Brand would know him — and he also knew what he was going to have to do. Talking to a man like Benito was simply a waste of time and energy. The Apache had gone beyond reason. His treatment of Nante had proved that. Benito had to be removed, without thought. With no conscious hesitation.

  In a word, Benito had to be killed.

  And what about this white renegade? Brand hadn’t given him much
thought. But the time was fast approaching when he would have to acknowledge the man’s existence. The renegade posed as much of a threat as Benito did. Brand had little feeling for a man who openly encouraged the deaths of his own kind, urging the Apaches on to make their bloody killing sprees again and again. He tried to understand why a man would do such a thing. It was beyond him for the moment. Perhaps the renegade was as crazy as Benito. Two madmen for the price of one.

  It came to Brand that he was not doing this for any price.

  He was doing it because a dying old man had asked him. Nante, his friend, whom Brand had been unable to refuse. He had at first thought it was out of loyalty but now he wasn’t so sure. He’d been craving to get back into action back at Sarita’s place. He had been too long away from it. His restless inactivity had been challenged on this assignment. Brand had wanted action — and he was getting it.

  He heard a rustle of sound. A dark figure approached the stream. A young Apache girl was carrying a clay pot. She crouched beside the stream and filled the pot. She was no more than ten feet from where Brand hid. He watched her closely, seeking any sign that she might be aware of his presence. The girl lifted the dripping pot and turned back to the main camp, her sturdy body moving freely under the thin buckskin dress she wore.

  The sight of the dripping clay pot reminded him how thirsty he was and he turned to bend over the stream, scooping water to his lips. As he straightened he heard someone else approaching. Not an Apache. He was hearing the rap of hard-soled leather boots, not soft moccasins. He eased back into the brush, picking out the slim shape moving his way. He lifted the Colt, but the figure moved on by and paused at the edge of the stream.

  The newcomer was a woman. A white woman too. Maybe a prisoner? He doubted that. She was moving around too freely. The only other explanation was that she was with the white renegade. Brand saw an opportunity presenting itself. He waited a while longer to see what the woman was doing and saw her strip off the thin white blouse she was wearing. As she knelt at the stream’s edge, scooping up cool water to wash herself, moonlight gleamed against her white skin, outlining the full shape of her dark-tipped breasts. It seemed a shame to disturb her, Brand thought wryly as he moved to close in on her. The woman had chosen a spot where the brush screened her from the camp, and Brand was grateful for that. It would conceal him as well. He came up behind her as she stood up, letting the warmth of the night air dry her. Her hands were reaching for the buttons of her dark skirt when Brand let the muzzle of the Colt touch her naked back.