by Neil Hunter
‘Don’t bother, lady, you haven’t the time,’ he said firmly.
He heard her involuntary gasp, the sound forming into a single word as she turned to face him.
‘ Brand!’
He found himself staring into the face of Lucilla St Clair. For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. She had cropped her long blonde hair down to a boyish cut that clung softly to the contours of her head. The face was the same. Bright, exciting eyes, full, soft lips curving now into a pouting smile. Now she faced him he recalled the ripe, full breasts and for a moment he was back on that train, in her private compartment, with Lucilla standing naked before him, offering herself to him. He hadn’t taken up her offer then. He doubted if she would make the same mistake again.
He raised the Colt and leveled it at her lovely face.
‘Don’t be fooled,’ he said. ‘I’ll use this if I have to. If you don’t believe me, Lucilla, you just go ahead and let out that yell you’re working up to.’
She stared at him, anger making her features hard, but she knew he was not one to make idle threats.
‘Do you mind if I get dressed? Or do you need longer?’
Brand couldn’t help grinning, his teeth white against his dark face.
‘Seems to me the last time we were in this position you couldn’t wait to get your clothes off.’
‘You bastard!’ she spat. ‘But I suppose we all make mistakes.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
The words came out automatically. Brand was doing some quick thinking. If Lucilla was here it was more than likely he would run into another old acquaintance. The last time he’d seen him was when they had been fighting over Brand’s attempt to stop Beauregard St Clair from assassinating President Cleveland.
‘So how is Mr. Royce?’ he asked.
Lucilla glanced up from buttoning her blouse, her eyes flashing with unconcealed rage.
‘He’ll be pleased to see you, Brand. And even more pleased when he gets to kill you.’
Brand believed her. There was enough venom in her tone to have dropped him in his tracks if words had been able to kill. He figured she must have hated him badly. Not only had he destroyed her father’s organization, killing him in the process, but Brand had made it impossible for her to return to the great St Clair mansion and its adjoining estates. He had utterly changed her life.
‘I don’t aim to give him the chance,’ Brand said. ‘That murdering son of a bitch has got as long to live as it takes me to find him. I made the mistake of letting him get away alive last time. Because of that he was able to work up this unholy mess. Seems fitting I should put him out of his misery.’
‘You haven’t a chance, Brand. You managed to get in here but you won’t get out. Once Benito finds you’re here there’ll be twenty Apaches gunning for you. Plus Parker and me.’
‘Such talk from a Southern belle,’ Brand said softly, and then he slapped her across the face with his open left hand, hard enough to make her head rock. ‘Understand me, Lucilla. If I didn’t actually need you right this minute I’d like as not be cutting that pretty white throat. But I do need you for a while, and you had better listen hard and do what I say first time round. A forty-five caliber bullet would make a hell of a mess of that face.’
He let the words sink in. He wanted Lucilla to realize he was in earnest over what he had said — which he was.
‘What do you want from me?’
‘Show me where the weapons are stored. Then I want to see Benito and Parker. He got any help?’
‘Six hired guns.’
‘I’m one of them for now. Understand?’
She nodded. ‘What if we run into them?’
‘You just show me where those damn guns are stored. I’ll do the worrying for the both of us. Don’t do anything silly, Lucilla. You might just walk away alive if you play your cards right.’
Her face turned ugly as she drew on the memories of their last confrontation.
‘Did you give my father the same choice before you killed him?’
‘As much of a chance as Sarah got.’ His words were cold and devoid of emotion. Inside he was reliving the way Sarah Debenham had died and the fact that he had been unable to prevent her death. There was a fraction of a second when his control almost slipped. The Colt jerked in his hand as his fingers tightened around the butt and he could have pulled the trigger just as easily.
Lucilla saw the madness in his eyes.
She realized the frailty of her position and she reacted out of instinct. She took a step back, her hands thrown up as if to ward off some unseen blow.
‘Jason, no! For God’s sake don’t!’
Her protest snapped him out of his mood and he moved towards her.
Even though he lowered his gun Lucilla saw his move as a continuation of the threat. She opened her mouth to scream and Brand knew there was no way she was going to help him now. As far as she was concerned he was going to hurt her, maybe even kill her, and her thoughts were directed towards her own survival. Before she could utter a sound Brand hit her, clipping her alongside one smooth brow with the barrel of the Colt. She fell away from him, body limp, half-sliding into the stream before he reached her. As he dragged her deeper into the brush Brand tore angrily at her skirt until he had enough material to tie her hands behind her back, tether her ankles and gag her.
He peered through the brush, searching the camp layout. How was he going to find the arms cache now? He knew the answer before his mind had fully compiled the question. He would do what he had done so many times before, and would probably do again … providing he was still alive.
He stretched out in the densest part of the brush and just studied what was going on in the camp. His gaze moved from left to right, seeking to pick out any detail that might provide him with the information he wanted.
Behind him Lucilla stirred. Brand didn’t worry. She wasn’t going anywhere, or raising any alarm. He’d tied and gagged her tightly enough to keep her from bothering him. But that situation might change at any moment. There was going to come a time when Lucia’s absence became apparent. When that happened Brand didn’t want to be sitting around doing nothing.
He focused his attention on the spot where the two freight wagons stood.
Maybe the weapons were nearby, maybe still inside the wagons. It was a slim chance but worth investigating. He had nothing else to go on and had to start somewhere.
Easing out of the brush he crouched low and waded into the stream. Its meandering course took it down beyond the corral and the parked wagons. Though the brush edging the stream didn’t offer a continuous line of cover there was enough to give him a good chance to move undetected. He moved slowly, pausing often when shadowy figures passed close to the stream. His luck held. There were no more visits to the stream by any of the camp’s occupiers.
By the time he drew level with the corral, close in near the rising wall of rock where the Indian dwellings had been carved out, Brand was sweating and it wasn’t from the chill that was starting to drive away the lingering heat of day. He paused to wipe the sweat from his gun hand and moved out of the water. He crouched beside a thick corral corner post. Away from the lights coming from the rock dwellings and the camp-fires, this area was bathed in deep shadows.
The wagons were on the far side of the corral and Brand worked his way around to them. He moved slowly, not wanting to disturb the milling horse and pony herds penned inside the corral. It wouldn’t take much to alarm them. The last thing he wanted was a whole herd setting up a racket.
When he reached the first wagon Brand checked beneath the canvas that was draped over the sides. It was empty and so was the second wagon when he had a look in that one. Brand peered beyond the wagons in the direction of the rock face and the houses cut from it. Maybe the weapons were in there.
He stepped around the end of the wagon and came to a dead stop, face to face with a lean figure wearing grubby Levis and a flannel shirt.
One of Royce’
s men?
‘That you, Sam?’ the man asked, stepping forward. A match flared as the man struck it against the iron rim of one of the wagon wheels. He raised the match to light the thin cigar dangling from a corner of his mouth. In the brief glare of the match he saw Brand’s face. ‘Hey! You ain’t Sam…’
Brand lunged forward. His left hand grabbed the man’s shirtfront, yanking him off balance, swinging him round and slamming him against the side of the wagon. The back of the man’s skull rapped sharply into contact with the hard wood, the cigar jumping from his lips. Brand rammed the muzzle of his Colt against the side of the man’s face, letting him hear the hammer click back.
‘You get one chance, friend,’ he said quickly. ‘Your choice. Either stay alive, or die.’
In the semi-light the man’s eyes gleamed in panic. Brand could almost smell the fear oozing from every pore.
‘Hell, mister, keep ahold on to that damn hammer.’
Brand pressed harder into soft flesh.
‘Friend, I’ve got a weak thumb, so don’t take too long.’
‘Easy! Jesus Christ, easy.’ The man was visibly scared. ‘What the hell is it you want?’
‘Where are the guns stored?’
The man jerked a thumb in the direction of the rock dwellings.
‘In there. Behind those wooden doors.’
Brand had the information he needed. He slipped the man’s revolver from his holster.
‘You got any more matches?’ he asked.
The man frowned, then nodded. He fumbled in his shirt pocket and produced four wooden matches. Brand pocketed them.
‘Grateful, friend,’ Brand said, then slammed the barrel of his Colt across the side of the man’s skull. The man stumbled to his knees and Brand hit him twice more before he went flat out.
Brand reached the place where the weapons were kept without meeting anyone else. The newly rigged wooden doors opened easily and without any sound on their leather hinges. Brand slipped inside and took a quick look round. It was becoming a familiar sight. The stacked cases of rifles. Boxes of ammunition and casks of black powder. It had been the same at Bigelow’s, and at the cache of arms Beauregard St. Clair had concealed in the swamps bordering his estate. Brand didn’t waste time. He followed the same procedure as previously. He broke open a couple of casks of black powder and spread the contents of one over the remaining casks. He used the second cask to lay a thick trail of powder back outside, tossing the cask back through the door. He had a match in his fingers when a thought came to him. He turned and made his way back to the corral, dropping the bar gate. He moved to the rear of the milling animals, took out his Colt and triggered a couple of shots.
The horses and ponies burst free from the confines of the corral, spreading as they cleared the gate. Dust boiled up in thick clouds and the thunder of hoofs mingled with the shrill sounds of frightened animals. The free animals began to drive towards the main camp.
Brand returned to his black powder. He struck a match and as it flared he dropped it on to the heap of powder he’d built up at the end of his trail. The powder hissed and crackled. It flared suddenly, a tongue of fire that began to snake its way towards the entrance to the weapons store. The moment the powder ignited Brand turned and ran back for the empty corral, throwing himself down on the ground.
The flame vanished into the store. Silence followed and remained. Brand swore, wondering if his trick was going to work this time. It had always been effective before. He raised his head and stared at the dark entrance to the store.
The explosion made the ground beneath him shake. The interior of the store was abruptly filled with flame and smoke. As the force of the explosion spread outwards, through the entrance, there was a rush of hot wind, debris and dust filling the air. That was followed by a fierce gout of flame. It reached out, writhing and twisting, and set alight the closest of the wagons. The heat reached as far as the corral, stinging Brand’s flesh as he rolled away, scrambling to his feet as the flame died.
He could hear men shouting from the general direction of the campsite. Horse and ponies were still chasing around in every direction. Brand couldn’t see much due to the swirling clouds of dust, but he knew as sure as he was standing on his own two feet that he was going to have visitors any second.
A figure materialized from the dust. A white man. Broad and long-haired. He was naked to the waist and carried a revolver in his left hand. As he emerged from the dust his attention was caught by the tall, dark figure standing by the corral and he knew he was facing a stranger. The man didn’t hesitate. He kept coming forward, raising his gun and sending a shot towards Brand.
The heavy bullet clipped Brand’s left side, drawing blood. Brand’s reaction was automatic. He triggered a pair of shots at the man, stopping him in his tracks for a split second before the impact of the .45s kicked him back off his feet. He went into the dirt and stayed there. Brand made his way towards the stream. He was fully committed now and there was only one way out of the mess he’d started. He had to get to Benito and Parker Royce. If he could deal with them he might still walk away from this place.
He hit the water and moved upstream, making for the place where he had left Lucilla. There was still a great deal of confusion. Voices yelling. Asking quetions — some angry, others just confused. In the background he could hear the horses and ponies. As he neared where he had left Lucilla a wild-eyed horse broke through the brush and splashed across the stream into the darkness beyond.
Brand saw that Lucilla had gone the moment he stepped out of the water. She could not have freed herself so it meant someone had found her. By now Royce would know Brand was in the camp somewhere. And so would Benito.
Damn!
Lucilla had been right — any minute now he would have the whole bunch of them after him.
He took out the Colt he’d acquired earlier, and with a gun in each hand he eased into the thick brush. A nervous knot of horses were milling around just beyond the brush. In the center of the camp most of the cook fires had been stamped down, leaving spirals of smoke to drift around the area. Brand saw there weren’t many people about. They would have gathered at the explosion site, but once his presence had been acknowledged they would all start to move back, searching.
He slipped out of the brush, skirting the bunched horses, and crossed the open ground until he was able to hug the stone wall beneath the rock dwellings. Carved steps led up to the various levels, stone galleries running along the front of each row of dwellings.
He went up the first set of steps. Somewhere up ahead he needed to find himself a place to hide. Benito’s band of Apaches would be scouring the area in a short time. Brand wanted to be hidden by then. He just hoped that his luck held and they didn’t guess he had remained close to home. He was counting on them figuring he was somewhere out in the darkness — away from the camp — not in its very center.
Chapter Thirteen
Bright sunlight shone directly into Brand’s eyes. He turned away from the glare, easing his stiffened body. He was sluggish with sleep, realizing he had rested longer than he’d intended. As his senses cleared he became aware of activity below him. He crawled to the edge of the broad ledge and looked down on the Apache camp.
A group of mounted, armed Apaches were engaged in an agitated conversation with a single Apache who stood his ground before them. Even from his perch high above the camp Brand recognized the man he had come to find.
Benito.
And he also knew the tall man standing nearby. It was Parker Royce. His hired guns stood a little way off, looking more than a little nervous in the face of the restless Apaches. Watching them Brand wished he had a good rifle in his hands. The range was too much for a handgun. With a rifle he could have put down both Benito and Royce. He realized he was considering a cold-blooded kill and the realization surprised him. He could kill, and often had without too much provocation, but he was no out-and-out back shooter — even though he could have done it without effort in the case
of Benito and Royce.
He had little time to reflect on the matter. The confrontation seemed to be over. The mounted Apaches turned their ponies away and cut off across the basin. As they cleared the stream they broke into pairs, riding in different directions. They would search the basin from end to end and they would not miss a trick. They would find his tracks. The place where he’d entered the basin. But they wouldn’t find which way he’d gone after the explosion the previous night. The marks of his passing were long gone, wiped out by the trampling herd he had freed from the corral.
Last night he had almost given up hope of finding a place to hide. When at last he had reached the higher level of the cliff dwellings he prowled silently along the galleries, and with each passing minute his tension increased. Maybe he had been wrong walking into the heart of the Apache stronghold. Maybe he would have done better out in the basin, taking his chances in the rough terrain. Out there he might have found better cover, but he would have lessened his chances of getting close to Benito and Royce. He realized he was getting jumpy, seeing demons where none existed.
The uppermost gallery came to an end and he searched the shadows. There seemed nowhere to go now he had reached the upper levels. The only way now would be to go back down. But that was impossible. Benito’s Apaches had stoked up the fires, driving the shadows from the area immediately in front of the cliff dwellings.
