by Neil Hunter
Brand pointed at Rankin. ‘You got that right.’
Kasner was already rolling up his sleeves and moving to wash his hands. ‘Then I need to deal with this man.’
‘His name is Rankin,’ Brand said. ‘Deputy US Marshal.’
‘Hec Rankin,’ Joanne said. ‘You have an assistant, Doctor Kasner?’
‘No. Why?’
Joanne stepped to the sink to wash her own hands.
‘I think you do now,’ Brand said. ‘And don’t waste your time arguing with her over it.’
He turned to leave, Adam close on his heels.
‘Jason,’ Joanne said, ‘be careful out there. All of you.’
Brand made his way back outside. It was getting brighter. The street was still clear—except for the tall figure of Bodie making his way towards them, with a badge-wearing man close at his side.
‘Doc’s seeing to Rankin,’ Brand said.
Bodie nodded. He jerked a finger at the lawman beside him.
‘Dan Conway. Town marshal. I told him what’s been happening.’
Conway was in his early forties. A solid looking man wearing a black suit and a white shirt. He had a wide-brimmed Stetson on his head. His boots looked as if they had been around for some time, thought the leather held a shine. Under his jacket he wore a .44-40 Colts Peacemaker with a long barrel in a high riding holster on his right hip. He held out a steady hand to grip Brand’s.
‘You’d be the Jason Brand used to carry a US Marshal badge?’
‘Yeah. Another life,’ Brand said. He indicated Adam. ‘This my boy. Adam Brand. Right now don’t ask. It’s complicated.’
‘Bodie told me your story,’ Conway said. He offered a tight smile. ‘If you’ve crossed paths with Nathanial Monk and his kin…’
‘Not the kind to back off easy.’
Conway nodded. ‘And Bodie, here, is going after the bounty on Thad Monk. Seems to me you fellers just don’t choose the easy life.’
‘Choose isn’t the word I’d go for,’ Bodie said.
Brand said, ‘You got a telegraph office?’
‘Over to the rail depot. You need to send something?’
‘Couple of messages.’
‘Give me time to rouse Harry Gilman and get the office open. You and Bodie want to wait in my office. I’ll have somebody take your horses over to the livery and look to them.’
‘I can stay with Joanne,’ Adam said. ‘Keep my eyes open.’
‘Not so sure about that.’
‘Pa, I won’t do anything stupid.’
‘Make sure you don’t,’ Brand said. ‘And have the doctor look at your head, boy.’
He watched as Adam stepped back inside the doctor’s office, closing the door behind him.
‘Glad all I got to concern myself with is my horse,’ Bodie remarked as he and Brand made their way up the street in the direction of Conway’s office.
Wishbone’s law office was like a hundred others Brand and Bodie had been in. A room holding a desk and a few chairs. Scuffed and creaking floorboards. Gun rack. Wanted posters pinned to the wall with thumbtacks. A blackened stove already throwing out heat, with an equally blackened coffee pot issuing steam.
‘Now that smells damn good,’ Bodie said.
A barred door opened onto the cells. To one side was a store room and a small room holding a low cot and clothes chest. Conway’s room. The sum total of the lawman’s life. Brand knew it well. He had worn badges in a number of town’s like Wishbone. The post of local lawman was far from romantic. The pay was small, the hours long, and there was little more to it than that. In most instances a thankless task. Often long on boring routine and sometimes downright dangerous.
Brand stood and surveyed the surroundings in silence.
‘Know what you’re thinking,’ Bodie said. ‘Lawman. Manhunter. We both must be missing something in life to put up with it.’
Brand rubbed a hand across his unshaven jaw, wincing when he touched the bruises he’d gained from his set to with Bodie.
‘All the glamour. The excitement. Chances to travel and meet new people. Get shot at. What’s not to like, Bodie?’
Bodie leaned against Conway’s paper strewn desk.
‘You got me there.’
There were tin mugs hanging from hooks on the wall near the stove. Brand took a couple and poured coffee, handing one to Bodie. They were sampling the coffee when the door opened and Conway came in.
Bodie raised his mug. ‘We helped ourselves.’
Conway took a mug and filled it. ‘Telegraph office will be open for business by the time you walk over.’
‘Obliged,’ Brand said.
Conway took his seat behind the desk. He leaned back in the creaking swivel chair. Threw his hat on the desk and studied Brand.
‘I have to ask,’ he said. ‘You say the boy with you is your son?’
Brand sensed Bodie showing interest. He might have known who Adam was but it hadn’t gone further than that yet. Brand told his story. Simply and brought the pair up to date.
‘And you never…’ Conway said.
Brand shook his head. ‘Met him on the train when I was leaving Washington. Didn’t know he existed until then.’
‘Must have been a hell of a surprise.’
Bodie choked off a low chuckle. ‘Not as much as if it had been a girl.’
The thought had never occurred to Brand until that moment.
‘Hell, you’re right about that.’ He drained his mug. ‘I’d better get over and send those telegrams. Bodie, you want to check on the patient.’
Conway said, ‘I’ll take a stroll through town. Folk will be starting to move around any time now.’
He reached for the gun rack and took down a 10 gauge Greener shotgun with cut-down barrels. He hung a small canvas bag holding extra shells around his neck.
They went their separate ways, Brand making his way up to the end of the street and through the business section, passing the cattle pens and corrals. The pens were empty. One of the corrals held a number of horses and a man was forking hay into the feeding troughs for them. He barely acknowledge as Brand walked by. He skirted one of the store huts and saw the telegraph office sited on the rail platform. As he walked closer the side door opened and a skinny, middle-aged man rushed out. When he saw Brand he waved his arms, signaling in alarm.
‘You the feller Marshal Conway said was comin’?’
Something told Brand he wasn’t about to receive good news.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong,’ the man said. His voice was high with agitation. ‘There ain’t no telegrams going out, that’s what’s wrong.’
Brand stepped up close. ‘Why?’
‘Because the line’s dead,’ Harry Gilman said. ‘It was fine when I closed up last night. Now there ain’t a peep out of it. Not a goddamn peep. You know what I think, mister, I think somebody went and cut the wire. Can’t see any other reason. Been no bad weather. Nothing to cause damage.’
Brand stepped back, scanning the area, searching for any movement that shouldn’t have been. He raised the Winchester, feeling a jolt of concern.
If the telegraph wire had been cut, isolating Wishbone, it was more than likely the Monks were behind it. And if that was so it meant they were around.
Here in town.
In Wishbone.
‘I’ll send out a repair crew,’ Gilman said. ‘Could take a while.
And then Brand heard the abrupt whip crack of a rifle firing. More shots followed.
Brand spun on his heel, ignoring Harry Gilman’s questions.
Damnit, he thought. They were here in town.
Close on that he felt a cold fist clutch at his chest.
Adam.
At that moment nothing else mattered.
If they had hurt his son…
He dug in his heels and took off at a dead run. Heading back towards the main street, and hoping he was not too late…
Chapter Twenty-One
>
It turned out to be a day to remember. When the town of Wishbone experienced its one and only, genuine gunfight, and as with most confrontations of its kind it was short, though decidedly not sweet. As the retelling had it and the facts were embellished, the legend grew each time it was related—yet even if it had been reported strictly it would have been enough…
…Brand found himself moving down the center of the street, eyes seeking movement in the alleys between buildings. He had slowed to a walk, wanting to be in control if he had to shoot.
He sensed a shadow of movement as Bodie stepped into view from the doctor’s office. One of the office’s window had been shot out. Across from Bodie a figure lay sprawled in the street, a bloody patch staining the back of his shirt. A ragged exit wound. The manhunter saw the expression on Brand’s face.
‘He wouldn’t back off,’ Bodie said. ‘Nobody hurt inside.’
Canby stepped into view. He approached them.
Bodie had been checking out the rooftops. He caught a glimpse of a dark figure showing himself above the false front of the saloon. Early sunlight gleamed on the barrel of a rifle.
‘Roof of the saloon behind you,’ he said. ‘Rifleman.’
Brand turned, caught a glimpse of the hiding man.
‘I see him,’ Brand said. ‘Let him show himself…’
‘You any good with that?’ Canby asked.
Brand didn’t say a word. He waited until the man moved to get a better shot. As soon as he did Brand brought the Winchester up in a smooth motion, held, squeezed the trigger. The crack of the 44-40 broke the silence. The distant figure slipped sideways, then flopped forward to hang over the edge of the saloon roof. His rifle dropped from his hands and spun to the street below.
‘Guess that answers my question,’ Canby said.
A figure burst into view from where he had been concealed behind crates and barrels stacked outside a dry goods store. He held a massive .44 caliber Walker Colt in his left hand, the muzzle belching thick black smoke as he triggered a shot. The sleeve of Canby’s jacket flapped as the ball passed through it. Wishbone’s lawmen turned at the waist, the Greener recoiling as he fired. The shot caught the shooter in the stomach, shredding clothing and flesh. The force of the shot shoved the man back, bouncing him off the solid wall of barrels and crates. He went down hard in a welter of bloody flesh, kicking away the remainder of his life on the sun-bleached boardwalk.
‘Damn,’ Canby said, ‘nothing I hate worse than a sneaky backshooter.’
‘Talking about backshooters,’ Bodie said. ‘There’s my man.’
He had seen more armed figures moving out from the cover of the big livery barn next to the cattle pens. He made out seven of them. All armed.
Led by Nathanial Monk.
Bodie’s attention was drawn to the broad shouldered, scar-faced figure of the man he had come searching for.
Thad Monk himself.
‘He’s mine,’ Bodie said.
‘You got to catch him first,’ Brand said.
‘Yeah? Well watch and learn, pilgrim. Watch and learn.’
~*~
‘Listen to me,’ Nathanial Monk called, his voice deep and loud on the quiet street. ‘Give me the girl and the lawman and we’ll leave peaceable like.’
‘Too late,’ Brand said. ‘They already told us about your damn mine. Killing them won’t change that. The telling is out now. You need to put down your weapons and surrender.’
‘The hell you say. Damn you, there needs to be a reckoning. A price to pay for those of our kin you bastards killed and wounded.’
‘I had a feeling he was going to reason things like that,’ Conway said. He was thumbing a fresh load into the Greener as he spoke. ‘There goes a quiet day in town.’
The first shot came from one of the Monk rifles. Fired in haste and well off target. The slug kicked up a spume of dust to one side of Bodie’s advance. He maintained his course, ignoring the opening shot, and breaking off to the left. His rifle snapped to his shoulder and he aimed briefly, but with enough accuracy to place his shot into the shoulder of the errant shooter. The impact pushed the man off balance and a second shot from Bodie hit him in the chest, kicking him backwards.
Brand picked up a tall, lean figure raising a worn, 1873 Trapdoor Springfield carbine. He didn’t hesitate. He brought the Winchester round and let go a shot from the 44-40, levering the next round into the breech before the first brass casing hit the ground. The distant figure let out a coarse grunt as the lead slugs hammered his chest. He fell back, finger jerking on the carbine’s trigger, sending the 45-70 caliber shot skywards.
Brand watched as the monks retreated. Backing to the cover of the barn. They hadn’t been expecting such fierce opposition. He saw them pull into the shadows of the building while they considered their next move. There was one certainty—the Monks would not be quitting anytime soon.
‘Keep them pinned,’ Brand said.
Brand skirted the corral. The man who had been forking out feed had already taken himself away from the scene. Brand pushed himself hard, angling around the rear corner of the barn and reaching the rear doors. He could hear the muffled sound of voices. The crackle of gunfire. Bodie was keeping the Monks well occupied.
Flat against the wide doors Brand used the end of the Winchester’s barrel to ease open a way in. The doors swung slowly apart.
Brand hoped his luck would hold long enough to let him get inside. That might have happened if one of the doors hadn’t issued a loud squeal of dry hinges.
‘Somebody comin’ through the back door,’ a man yelled.
‘Go deal with it, Turk,’ a deep voice ordered.
As the door swung wide, letting light fall across the straw littered floor inside, Brand saw a dark figure detach from the group at the front of the stable. A rifle snapped out a shot. Brand heard the thud as the slug hit the door on his left. In the brief moment before he moved he saw a bulky figure pounding in his direction, the man muttering as he triggered more hasty shots at Brand’s shape framed in the patch of light from the open door.
Even with all the noise Brand heard Turk’s rifle click on an empty breech. The man kept coming, stepping into light as he closed on the rear of the livery. Heavy shouldered, with a thick, dark beard, he laid a hand on the revolver tucked in his belt.
‘I remember you from the house,’ he said. ‘We had you locked up with those other two.’
‘Then you’ll know I don’t give in easy. I’d advise you to quit now. Before I put you down.’
The look in Turk’s eyes as he stared at the leveled rifle in Brand’s hand revealed his thoughts. He wanted to draw and fire. The need was strong. He licked at his lower lip, savoring the taste and the hunger in him was so clear. His face was shiny with sweat.
‘You killed them,’ he said. ‘They were kin. Can’t forget that.’
‘They pushed it,’ Brand said. ‘You’ve all been pushing. Couldn’t let it lay. They made their choices…same choice you have.’
‘Damn your eyes, you murderin’ son of a bitch.’
‘Right now,’ Brand said, ‘I can see it in your eyes. You figure to take me? Go ahead because I won’t walk away and show my back. Way I heard it that’s the way you Monks prefer to do business.
It was one jibe too far.
Turk uttered a wild, savage scream and went for his gun.
It was barely halfway drawn when Brand shot him.
Turk dropped to his knees, face registering the shock from the 44-40 slug that had burned its way into his body. He made another attempt at pulling his gun, so Brand put a second slug into him. The lead pellet struck directly over Turk’s heart and he toppled onto his back.
‘It’s over,’ Brand called out, taking cover behind a wooden stall. ‘You’re covered front and back. Give up.’
Nathanial Monk’s powerful voice yelled back.
‘I’d sooner die than surrender…’
Brand sighed.
This, he thought, is going to end
messily.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘I want that son of bitch bounty man,’ Thad Monk said.
‘Damn you, Thad,’ Nathanial Monk said. ‘You walk out there that man will put you down like the mad dog you are.’
‘I ain’t afeared of him. You think I got a yellow streak down my back?’
‘Seems I have to wonder about that. I never raised no son to shoot a woman in the back. Can’t pretend that didn’t happen, boy.’
‘I brung you money from that bank.’ Thad scowled. ‘Shootin’ that woman was an accident…’
‘So you say but it’s brought trouble to our door and family have died with that bounty man showing up. We was doin’ fine enough diggin’ out that gold.’
‘Ain’t right that Bodie sonofabitch trailin’ me. I aim to make him pay for that.’
‘Lord help me, boy, I got sons back home all shot up because you brought trouble on us.’
Thad jerked his handgun from the holster, muttering to himself as he thumbed in fresh loads. He had a second revolver pushed behind his belt and fresh loaded that.
‘Now step out of my way, old man, I got killing to do. Rightly don’t know why I waste my time listening to you. You figure I’m scared? Damn your eyes, I’ll let you see me kill me a bounty man, and then we can settle this.’
Thad glanced at the two surviving Monks flanking his father.
‘You want to do something? Go see who shot Turk down. I got better things to do.’
He stepped up and kicked the barn door open.
‘Got the guts, bounty man? Tired of you doggin’ me all over creation. Face to face, you bastard.’
He burst out through the swinging open barn door, a gun in each hand, hammers back and muzzles rising…
~*~
…the exchange had taken seconds, giving Brand the time to move along the barn floor, catching the action at the far end as Thad Monk pushed open the doors and stepped through.
He saw the shadowed pair of figures move away from the barn door, coming in his direction and he raised the Winchester.
A gunshot blasted. Flame and smoke.
Brand stepped forward, dropping to a low crouch, reducing his bulk. A second shot sounded. He felt the slug kick up dirt inches away. He tripped the rifle’s trigger, levered and fired again. Kept firing until the rifle clicked on empty.
