by Neil Hunter
Brand pressed tight against the rock as a shadowed figure emerged from one of the houses. He watched the Apache woman descend to the lower level, and he knew he had to move. He couldn’t stay where he was all night without being discovered. He moved to the extreme limit of the gallery, eyes searching the rock face above the houses. And spotted a place he could use. With both his guns tucked away Brand stepped up on to the wall that edged the gallery, using it to give him access to the roof of the end building. There was a ledge some six feet deep cutting back into the rock face. He hauled himself up and rolled into the deep shadow. Brand stretched out on his makeshift bed. It was not going to be comfortable, but he wasn’t there for the fun of it.
From his position he had a clear view of the camp below. With daylight he would be able to see clear across the basin. Brand checked his weapons, laid one of the revolvers on the rock beside him, and after that he slept.
Now the time for sleep was over. The camp below him was almost deserted, save for the women and children and few aged Apache warriors. Benito and Royce stood together talking. Royce’s hired guns were scattered around the area. Brand wondered where Lucilla was. She wouldn’t be far away. He made a mental note to keep an eye out for her. After last night she would be in a killing mood. He had no illusions where she was concerned. When he had been searching for her father she had not hesitated in hiring men to kill him — the next logical step would be to do the job herself, and Brand found it easy to visualize her doing it.
He stared out across the basin. Most of the Apaches were out of sight, having ridden to the far side. Brand knew this was going to be his best chance — maybe his only chance to get at Benito. He knew the risks but it was part of the job. Putting his life on the line had become as normal as pulling on a clean pair of socks. He did it without conscious thought. In truth it wasn’t something he needed to spend too much time thinking about.
Brand swung himself over the ledge and dropped down to the gallery. He moved quickly, a Colt in each hand, his gaze alternating between Benito and Royce, and the distant Apaches.
He had reached the last but one level when a gaunt-faced Apache woman stepped out of a door just ahead of him. For long seconds she stared at him, her dark face blank of any expression. Beneath her tattered dress her body was thin. She looked half-starved. The frozen moment stretched, then Brand saw she was going to start yelling, and he wasn’t close enough to stop her.
‘Pinda Lickoyi!’ the woman screamed and there was nothing frail about her voice. It soared up and out, bouncing off the rock face, echoing across the basin.
Brand swore violently. His moment of surprise had gone. Already the men down below were reacting, starting to move. Brand had little time left to regain any advantage.
He ran past the Apache woman, reaching the end of the gallery, turning to move on to the last slope that would take him to ground-level. A gun cracked spitefully, the bullet chewing splinters of rock from the gallery wall, spitting them into his face.
Brand twisted his upper body, eyes searching for the shooter, and saw one of Royce’s gun hands. The gun in Brand’s left hand came up and he triggered a quick shot at the man. The bullet kicked up dirt close to the man’s boots and he took a step back, a fatal move. Instead of staying his ground and taking a second shot, he allowed precious seconds to slip away. Brand brought up his right-hand gun. This one was his own Colt, a weapon he knew as well as his own fingers. When he triggered two close shots he saw them both hit home, hammering into the target’s chest. The shots slammed the man to the ground where he lay kicking away the last moments of his life, blood pumping from his chest.
Brand didn’t stay to watch him fall. He knew he had hit the man and that was enough. He kept on moving. Bullets chipped at the rocks around him. One burned his left thigh, high up, and he felt warm blood start to flow. Brand caught sight of other figures running in his direction: the rest of Royce’s hired guns. He kept on moving, letting them come to him.
As they neared him, leaving themselves in the open, Brand stopped in his tracks, both revolvers rising to the firing position. He faced the advancing men, the guns in his hands firing again and again, smoke wreathing around his motionless figure as he brought down the gunmen in a short, violent few heartbeats. They stumbled, fell, bodies torn and bloody from the barrage of shots. One struggled to return fire but Brand was already bringing his left-hand gun around for a final shot that caught the gunman just above the left eye. The heavy .45 bullet cored in through the skull and blew out the back of the man’s head, jerking him off his knees, a red mist trailing after him as he crashed to the hard ground.
Benito and Royce had broken apart. Brand had glimpsed their move as he neared the end of the gallery. He didn’t want to give them time to get too far. He did not want a dragged-out affair. Benito’s Apaches would have heard the shooting and they would be on their way back, which gave Brand no damn time at all. As he trailed after Benito and Royce, Brand calmly reloaded his pair of Colts, one at a time, so that before he had to expose himself too much he had both weapons fully loaded.
He ignored the last steps, throwing himself forward, away from the protection of the gallery. The hard ground slammed against his left shoulder. Brand let his own weight carry him forward, rolling a couple of times as he picked up the sound of hard shots. Bullets furrowed the ground close by. Brand caught a blurred glimpse of Parker Royce, only yards away, saw the crazed gleam in the man’s eyes. Royce was shooting without pause, making no deliberate attempt to place his shots. They went wild.
Brand’s did not. He pushed out his right arm, held for a second then fired, the bullet catching Royce in the face. He heard Royce’s agonized scream and had a swift impression of the man falling, his hands cupped over his face: hands streaked with blood.
A gun fired. Something ripped through Brand’s left arm, impacting against flesh. Brand lurched to his knees, turning his body in the direction of the shot, and saw Benito, his face bitter and hateful.
Benito — the renegade — the one who had tortured and maimed Nante. Brand recognized Benito, yet at the same time he saw a stranger. This Benito had a twisted mask for a face. Bitterness shone in Benito’s dark-shadowed eyes. They were sunk deeply in his gaunt, lined face. The face of a madman who had gone far beyond reason. One who showed no mercy to others, whether they were white or Apache.
For a long moment the two faced each other. They both knew the outcome of this confrontation. There would only be one left to walk away.
Brand had no doubt in his mind who that would be — and he responded in the only way he knew.
His pair of Colts fired as one. He triggered two shots from each gun. Saw the stunning impact as the bullets tore into Benito’s body, dropping him to the ground. Benito dropped the rifle he had been cocking and stayed on his hands and knees, head down, blood dripping from the open wounds in his chest. At last he raised his head, spitting blood from his lips as he stared across at Brand.
‘It is not ended, Brand. You will not leave this place alive.’ Benito spat into the dust again. ‘Here you will die, Pinda Lickoyi!’
‘Not by your hand, you bastard,’ Brand said and raised his left-hand gun, placing the last four shots in its chamber into Benito’s skull. The Apache lurched away from him, crashing to the ground in a heap, his shattered skull spewing bloody gore across the hard earth.
Brand dropped the empty Colt from his left hand, seeing blood dripping from his fingers. His arm was starting to go numb. As he stood upright he picked up the sound of hoofs on the ground. He ignored the sound as he replaced the spent cartridges in his own Colt. Only when he had finished did he look up.
A semicircle of mounted and armed Apaches stared back at him. Behind them were the women and children of the camp. Brand glanced at the line of stern faces. He recognized many of the Apaches from Name’s old band. There had been times in the past when he had spoken with them, shared food and drink. It didn’t exactly make him a member of the Apache nation, but it gave
him a slight edge — maybe enough of one to keep him alive.
‘Benito is dead,’ he said. ‘The dying wish of Nante has been honored. Nante was put to the torture and another became leader in his place. Yet even though he lay dying Nante still thought as your leader. He saw that Benito would only lead you to destruction. Make widows of your women and orphans of your children. He knew me as friend of the Apache, which is true, and asked me to free you from Benito.’ Brand crossed to where Benito lay and rolled the body over with his foot. ‘This one spoke of spirit protection. He told you he could not be harmed. He lied. Benito had no spirits to aid him. He was driven only by hatred and this cowardly Pinda Lickoyi.’
Brand pointed to the curled-up figure of Parker Royce, motionless except for the pained shudders that racked his body.
Turning back to the silent Apache Brand asked:
‘Where is Che?’
‘I am here!’
The line of warriors parted to allow a rider to move into view. Brand watched the Apache as he slid from his pony to stand before him.
‘Che, you know me. I do not lie to the Apache.’ He watched for a change in the Apache’s face and saw nothing, ‘You were the one who found the trail of the one called Lobo for me. I made a promise I would seek him out and kill him. Did I keep that promise?’
Che’s dark head moved slightly.
‘The word is known that you killed the renegade.’
‘You trusted me then, Che. And you trusted Nante’s word also. Why did you turn on him like wolves when you should have heeded his counsel?’
The look in Che’s eyes told Brand that the Apache was unsure of his ground at that moment.
‘Benito promised us great things,’ Che said abruptly. ‘We are Apache. We are The People. Do we surrender like children who ask forgiveness? The Pinda Lickoyi has betrayed us too many times. Nante had grown old listening to their words and wanted a death in peace.’
‘Nante died as wise as he had ever been,’ Brand said. ‘He wanted that peace for his people. He had seen that the Apache had to stop fighting the Pinda Lickoyi before they were all destroyed. Before I left San Carlos I was visited by Geronimo. He spoke the words of Nante and will talk peace with Crook and Sieber. Che, I believe this time the peace will come. Even Cochise is beginning to think of talking for a surrender.’
‘This is true?’
Brand nodded.
‘Even the Apache can’t fight for ever, Che. Look at your women and children. They grow weaker and thinner as each day passes. And it won’t get better. Surrender doesn’t bring shame down on a man, Che, because it takes a sight more courage to quit than it does to fight on. Each time you lose a warrior it gets harder to replace him. It isn’t going to get better. Do you carry on the way you are? Hiding, running, moving camp until there are none of you left? This is not for the Apache. And not for the reason Benito wanted you to fight on.
‘Benito was like Lobo. Full of hate that blinded him to the truth. Just like Benito’s white friend. Che, I know this man. We are old enemies. When he gave you guns and whiskey and sent you to kill the Pinda Lickoyi it was not to help the Apache. It was for himself because he has a great hate for his own people. The woman too. Che, they have used the Apache for their own purposes.’
Che listened and considered Brand’s words. Then he turned and walked back to talk with his people. Brand watched. He was sweating and it wasn’t all from the heat.
He caught movement off to his left and saw Lucilla. She went to where Royce lay and knelt beside him. She sat him up, pulling his hands from his bloody face. Brand heard her gasp of dismay. Brand’s bullet had caught Royce in the left, lower jaw, tearing away most of the flesh and bone, leaving a raw, gaping wound. The spinning bullet had carried on to cleave Royce’s cheek and eye. Royce looked a mess. He had already lost a great deal of blood and it was still pouring from the wounds. It was more than likely that the man would die out here on this lonely mountain.
Che returned to confront Brand.
‘If it was left to some you would be dead,’ Che said. ‘But many know you as an honest man. They say you have always spoken the truth to the Apache. They want you to tell them what to do.’
‘Get them on the trail back to San Carlos. Talk to Crook and Sieber. Make peace and live.’
Che stared at him for a moment, his impassive brown face betraying none of his thoughts. He was about to turn away when Lucilla’s voice broke the silence.
‘Don’t listen to him. Benito is dead but you are still alive. Your hearts are still those of true Apaches. The whites are your enemies The Yankees who took your land are the ones who stole ours after the war. They must be killed. Destroy them and wipe them out.’ Lucilla’s voice rose to frantic shrillness. She jabbed a finger at Brand. ‘He is a Yankee lawman. He is not to be trusted. He will lead you into a trap that will kill you all.’
As she uttered the final condemnation Lucilla fumbled with the folds of her dress, pulling something into view. Something she thrust into Royce’s hand.
‘Now, Parker! Now!’ she screamed.
Brand saw Royce raise his arm, a revolver in his hand. There was no hesitation in Brand’s reaction. He pushed Che aside, out of the line of fire and his right hand brought up his Colt. The hammer was already locked back as he leveled the weapon and put two shots into Royce’s body, seeing it jerk as the heavy .45 caliber bullets punched bloody holes in Royce’s chest. Royce grunted under the impact. He fell back against Lucilla. The revolver in his hand went off, driving the bullet into the ground.
Brand held his weapon on Royce until he slipped away from Lucilla, falling face down to the ground.
And then he saw the twin patches of red staining Lucilla’s dress just under the left breast. The patches spread, merging into a single stain. Lucilla made a soft sound, looking directly at Brand.
‘Looks like you win after all, Mr. Brand,’ she whispered. She held his stare, blood running from the corner of her mouth. She slumped forward, and Brand barely caught her final words as she lay down.
‘Damn you to hell ... ’
Chapter Fourteen
Che sent one of the Apache women to tend Brand’s wound. He sat in impassive silence as she cut out the bullet lodged just beneath the skin. She carried out the task with skill and speed, giving him no chance to protest. While she bandaged the arm Brand watched the gathered Apaches. He would have given an arm and a leg to be able to hear what they were saying. He was too far away to pick up what they were discussing. Judging by the raised arms and waving fists it appeared to be a heated argument. A lot depended on the outcome, not least Brand’s own life. He was still alive by default. His fate had yet to be decided. The Apache woman finished binding his arm. Brand thanked her. She studied him for a moment, then turned and walked away.
Brand leaned his back against the warm rock, hat pulled down over his eyes. From where he sat he could see the dark stain on the ground where the spilled blood from Royce and Lucilla still showed. The bodies had been taken away but the image remained in his mind. The look on Lucilla’s face as she died. Still hating. Still ready to destroy. She had been a beautiful young woman and for that Brand was sorry she was dead. But she had involved herself in her father’s, and then Royce’s dirty affairs, right up to her neck. Where that was concerned he had no guilty feelings. Lucilla had dealt into a rough game. One that had no rules and did not recognize the difference between men and women when it came to dealing out losing hands.
Her father would have been proud of her, Brand decided. As far as he was concerned the whole damn family had been loco. Their wild schemes had caused widespread misery and suffering. As far as Brand was concerned the world was damn sight better off with them all out of the way.
None of it mattered a damn right now. None of it helped him in his current predicament.
He was alone, on the edge, and no amount of guessing was going to tell him the outcome. All he could do was hope he had talked fast enough to give the Apaches a basis to discuss
their own problems.
He sat and waited. At noon they were still talking. Brand glanced up as a shadow moved nearby. It was one of the Apache women. She held out a bowl of food and a mug of what turned out to be a vicious brew of coffee. The bowl was half-full of a greasy stew that was heavily spiced but not so much that Brand didn’t detect the taste of horsemeat. He was hungry enough not to give a damn. He had eaten horse before, but not often enough actually to become accustomed to it. He used his fingers to scoop up the stew, washing it down with the thick, gritty coffee.
Afterwards he felt around in his shirt pocket and found a crushed, part-smoked cigar. He still had a couple of matches left so he lit up and settled back.
And that was when he spotted three riders coming in along the trail that led into the basin from the cliff beyond. Two of the riders were Apache bucks. The third rider he recognized immediately.
It was Niana.
He stood up and watched them ride into camp. When they were near he walked out to meet them. Niana saw him and angled her pony towards him. The bucks cut off towards the corrals and Brand saw that one of them was leading his pony on a rope.
Niana slid from her pony. She ran her eyes over him, noting the fresh bruises, the torn and bloody shirt and the bandage around his left arm.
‘I have brought your rifle,’ she said, holding out the weapon for him to take.
Brand smiled wearily.
‘I could have done with this a while back,’ he told her.
Niana glanced around the camp.
‘It is done?’
‘It’s done.’
‘Benito? The Pinda Lickoyi who brought the guns? They are dead?’
He nodded.
‘You have killed them all?’
‘Yeah.’
Brand claimed credit for the deed, but there was no satisfaction. How could there be? How many had died since he had left San Carlos? He wouldn’t let himself figure out the total. It was done now. And it was over. He was content to let it rest.
