Brand 10

by Neil Hunter

  ‘Vince?’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  Brand stepped in close and took away the man’s rifle and handgun.

  ‘Not about to leave me a chance.’

  ‘Game’s over. You lose, friend.’

  Brand leaned over and took hold of Mennard’s shirt. He dragged the man over to the base of a tree and propped him in a sitting position. Mennard made a hurt sound, staring up at Brand with undisguised hostility.

  ‘Now what do we do?’

  ‘I could look at your wounds. Looks like a bad chest hit. Not much I can do.’

  ‘Hell, that don’t sound promising.’

  ‘I’m not in the promising business.’

  Mennard pressed his hand to his bleeding side. He could feel warm blood seeping between his fingers. He knew he was hit bad and he was too far away from anything resembling help.

  ‘It looks bad,’ he said. ‘Now I suppose you’ll tell me I got what was coming to me.’

  ‘Sounds like you already know that.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Mennard said, ‘I’d hate to get on your bad side.’

  Brand moved through the brush to where the coffee pot was still steaming on the fire. He filled a tin cup and brought it back to hand to Mennard.

  ‘I been drinking this stuff the last couple of days,’ Mennard said. ‘Decided I’d had enough, but right now it’s welcome.’

  Brand pulled a thin cigar from his pocket, lit it and handed it to Mennard. The man drew heavily, letting smoke dribble from his lips.

  ‘Having a hard time figuring you, mister. First you shoot me and now you’re handing me all the comforts of home.’

  Brand brought himself a cup of coffee and hunkered down.

  ‘This where I tell you all my secrets?’ Mennard asked.

  ‘Tell me if I miss anything,’ Brand said. ‘You waited for the train to stop at Handy. Shot down a bunch of people and took what you came for. I’m guessing you and your partner were waiting here to pick off anyone chasing after you and giving the rest of your bunch time to move on.’

  Mennard said, ‘And I’m figuring you know what was in that case we took.’

  ‘Reasonable assumption.’

  ‘If Vince hadn’t been so loose with that trigger there might have been a different outcome.’

  ‘We’ll never know.’

  Mennard drained his coffee, held the cup out to Brand. He refilled it.

  ‘I need to know,’ he said. ‘You the law, or a bounty man?’

  ‘Not doing this for a reward.’

  ‘Can’t decide whether that’s better than taking a slug from a bounty man.’

  ‘In the end it’s a piece of lead is all.’

  Mennard started to groan from the pain. He managed to empty his coffee cup then let it drop from his fingers. He leaned his head back against the tree and stared up at the blue sky through the canopy formed by the canopy of branches.

  ‘Look at that…’ he said, his voice strangely gentle ‘Nary a cloud in sight…a grand day…’

  His eyes stayed wide open as his last breath came. The cigar in his hand drifted smoke.

  ~*~

  Brand cleared the trees and went to find Lady. The paint was no more than a few yards away. Contentedly cropping at a patch of grass. She raised her head at Brand’s approach, waiting while he gathered the reins and led her back to the trees. He tied the reins to a low branch, stroking the animal and praising her.

  Then he went back to where the bodies lay, moving on to where their horses stood. He stripped off saddles and removed the bridles and all the other trappings. He shooed the horses out of the trees and after a little hesitation they cantered away.

  ‘Hey, don’t you go getting any ideas, Lady,’ he said.

  The paint eyed him stoically, then went back to cropping the grass.

  Brand stamped out the small cook fire, then went through the saddlebags and found little except some extra ammunition that he took and loaded into his own bags. He covered the bodies with the blankets, picked up the pair of handguns and packed them in his possibles bag, extra weapons were always handy. He had no use for the rifles so he propped them against the tree where Mennard’s body rested. He had neither the time or the inclination to bury the bodies.

  Brand leaned forward and stroked the paint’s neck.

  ‘Time we moved on.’

  The sound of approaching, hard-ridden horses reached him. He guessed two of them. Coming his way. Friends of the pair he had just faced down? Here to relieve the watchers? Most likely having heard shooting. Bad timing for Brand them showing up now. The reason didn’t really matter. Something told Brand the newcomers hadn’t showed up to offer him the hand of friendship.

  He mounted Lady and swung the paint out of the trees. As he moved into the open he saw a pair of riders cutting in his direction, bearing down on him. The thud of hooves mingled with the raised voice of one of the riders as he yanked a rifle from his saddle sheath.

  Brand heard the shot. It missed by inches, the rider’s aim off target because he was firing from a moving horse. Sawing Lady’s reins about Brand moved her aside, the rifleman starting to line up for a second shot. Before he could do that his partner made his own move with the rope he had in his hands. He handled it with consummate skill, the coiled straightening out as he cast his throw. The loop settled over Brand’s shoulders. He raised his arms to prevent it dropping further down his body, at the same time tightening Lady’s reins to bring her to stop. Though the paint responded quickly, pulling herself to a halt, the rope tautened and Brand was dragged from the saddle. He felt himself falling and twisted his body, landing on his front. The impact was hard. Jolting him and knocking breath from his lungs. Dust billowed up from under his body. He fought against the momentary inaction, knowing that the rifleman would be making another play.

  A rush of movement caught his attention. Brand swung his head around and caught a blurred image. The rifleman had left his saddle and was closing in fast. Brand saw a long shape in the man’s hands. His rifle. It swung down at him. Brand threw up his arm to ward off the blow. It struck hard and drew a gasp from him. Pain burned along his arm. He heard the man mumble a curse. The rifle was pulled back for another strike.

  Not again, Brand thought. The hell with this…

  He let himself roll on his back. Swung out his left leg and hooked his booted foot around his attacker’s ankle, then struck out with his own right foot. The blow was delivered with every ounce of force Brand could muster, the hard heel of his boot slamming into the man’s knee. The knee collapsed, bone shattered, the leg bending against the ruined joint. A harsh scream burst from the man’s lips as his limb gave way and he went down. On his hands and knees his face came level with Brand’s and received the full force of Brand’s follow up kick. The crunch of the man’s nose was followed by a flowering of blood. The man’s head twisted to the side and he hit the ground moaning.

  The rope around Brand began to tighten as it was pulled hard. He rolled on his left side and saw the source of the rope. A man on horseback, looping the trailing rope around his saddle horn, ready to drag Brand. Brand snatched his Colt free and took a fast shot at the rider. The shot went wild. So did his second as he was jerked around, but his third tore a furrow in the horse’s left foreleg. The animal squealed and pulled sideways. The rider went for his own gun, letting go the rope, and returned a hasty shot that kicked up dirt feet short of Brand’s prone body. It was the last mistake the man ever made. Letting go of the rope allowed it to slacken enough for Brand to set his aim. He triggered two more shots, fighting to keep his gun on target, and saw the rider fall back in his saddle, the .45 caliber slugs thumping into his chest. As the noose loosened from his shoulder Brand pushed to his knees, sensing movement behind him. He swiveled his body and saw the bloody faced man half risen, despite his crippled leg and chest wounds, pulling his own revolver free. Brand didn’t take time to think. He swept the Colt around, hammer already back, and put his last shot into the crimson mask o
nly feet away. The big lead slug punched in between the man’s eyes and blew out the back of his skull in a messy spray. The man went over, raising dust as his body kicked out his final moments.

  Sucking air into his lungs Brand pushed to his feet, his fingers already working to punch out empty shell casings and reload the Colt. A noise alerted him but it was only Lady making herself known to him as she moved close.

  ‘Not always about you,’ Brand said, moving to stroke the paint’s neck. Lady pushed her head against him. ‘But hell, I know what you mean.’

  He checked the chest shot man. He had slipped quietly from the saddle and lay on his back, staring up as Brand stood over him. The front of his dark shirt was wet with blood that was pulsing from the bullet wounds. A thin trickle ran from the corner of his slack mouth. Brand crouched beside him and felt the man’s eyes turn to fix on him. He could hear the ragged sound of the man’s labored breathing.

  ‘Hell’s teeth, son, you done turned that around on us.’

  He was gray haired, his gaunt face lined and creased as old leather. His clothing hung loosely on his skinny frame. Not a young man – and now not likely to get older – Brand figuring him to be desperate enough to take gun money.

  ‘You made the choice when you took somebody’s money.’

  ‘Ain’t about to be spending it now…hell’s fire I should have stayed pushing cows…’

  The man fell into a harsh coughing fit, bringing up more blood that coursed down his chin and dripped onto his shirt. He clutched at his chest.

  Brand waited until the coughing ceased and the man settled.

  ‘You feel like telling me who paid you?’

  ‘It don’t make any never mind now,’ the man said. ‘Big boss is a feller called Elias Bodine. Gang boss is Costigan. Made it sound all important we put anyone following us in the ground.’ He managed a crooked smile. ‘Looks as if I’ll be there first.’

  Elias Bodine.

  It would be interesting to meet him face-to-face. Brand corrected himself. He would be meeting Bodine

  ‘You hear where this man hangs his hat?’

  ‘Did pick up mention of Redigo is all.’ He fumbled inside his blood soaked shirt and pulled out a thick wad of banknotes. Held it up so Brand could see where one of his slugs had pierced the cash. Blood had turned the wad sodden. ‘If you catch up with him,’ the man whispered, ‘tell him I ain’t giving him his blood money back.’

  The hand dropped. The wad of money spilled across his chest, simply soaking up more of the dead man’s blood.

  Brand’s left arm was starting to burn from being struck. He flexed his fingers. Moved his limb. At least it wasn’t broken. He stood and crossed to where the other man lay.

  ‘Let me get my hand on a gun, you sonofabitch, and I’ll finish you.’

  The man was hunched over, dripping blood from his crushed nose and favoring the leg Brand had smashed. He was in no condition to do anything. In his pained state he had even forgotten about the revolver on his hip. Brand bent over and slid it from the holster, throwing into the brush. He did the same with the fallen rifle.

  ‘You’d leave a man with no damn gun?’

  ‘I’m getting tired of you people making a fuss after you try to kill me. You expecting me to shake your hand?’

  The man bent lower, cupping his bleeding face.

  ‘It damn’-well hurts.’

  ‘Think of it as a lesson you learned the hard way.’

  Without warning the man swept up his left hand. He had pulled a knife from inside his shirt and he lunged forward, sweeping the blade in at Brand’s body. Brand arched his body away, the blade missing him by inches. The man grunted with the effort, making another sweep. This time Brand set himself and launched his booted foot in a roundhouse kick that caught the man across the side of his face, snapping his head back. The man uttered a low sigh, falling back, all effort gone from his body. He lay motionless, his neck twisted awkwardly and it didn’t take too much guessing his neck was broken.

  Brand tuned away, cleared the trees and went to find Lady. She raised her head at Brand’s approach, waiting while he gathered the reins and led her back to the trees. He tied the reins to a low branch, stroking the animal and praising her.

  Then he went back to where the bodies lay, moving on to where their horses stood. He repeated what he had done with the first pair of mounts, stripping off saddles and removing the bridles and all the other trappings. He shooed the horses out of the trees and after a little hesitation they moved away.

  ‘Hey, don’t you go getting any ideas, Lady,’ he said.

  The paint eyed him stoically, then went back to cropping the grass. Brand loosened the reins and eased into the saddle. He turned the paint and found the trace left by the men he was trailing. In the scattering of hoof prints he made out the impression of the split shoe. He was still following the right trail.

  Brand leaned forward a stroked the paint’s neck.

  ‘You did me a favor back there, Lady. Much obliged.’

  The sky was shading over as daylight faded. Brand was going to need a place to sit out the night. He decided to keep riding for a while yet. Time left to choose a spot. Come morning he would pick up the trail again. The men he was trailing had been paid well to deter any pursuit. It made him realize the people behind the operation were bound and determined to remain undisturbed. Four men were dead and he had barely got into his stride.

  If that was the way they wanted to play, Brand was just as set on stopping them. He accepted the way it was going to be. It did nothing to put him off. It was his job. Why he was here. And he refused to even consider backing down.

  Chapter Five

  His name was Warren J. McCoy, forty odd years old and for eighteen of those years he had been a Texas Ranger, one of the small, elite band of lawmen who upheld the law in the vast region. It was a thankless task. Ill-paid and a Ranger was expected to provide his own clothing and spent much of his life in the saddle, crossing the trackless and hostile territory in pursuit of outlaws. Indians and as many types of criminals he could shake a stick at. A Ranger had to be determined, single-minded and content with his own company, and not expect too much in the way of praise at the end of it all.

  McCoy was Texas born and bred. He hailed originally from Waco, though since his teen years when he left home and joined his first cattle drive, he had never been back home. Over the next long years he worked a number of jobs, but always at the forefront of his mind McCoy had a yearning to be a lawman. In his twenties he became a deputy in a small Texas town and he knew the moment he pinned on a badge he had found his true home. Over the next few years he had a number of posts as a lawman, never once having to draw his guns. At the first chance he got he applied for and eventually was accepted as a Texas Rangers. Whatever he might have been expecting, the truth was far from it.

  On his first assignment, riding with a pair of experienced men, he got a taste of what wearing the badge could offer. That had been when a simple arrest had blown up into a bloody conflict. One of the men with him had been cut down with a shotgun blast that killed him outright and the second Ranger sustained a shoulder wound. McCoy had remained utterly calm throughout the whole affair. It never even crossed his mind he might be at risk. He saw what was happening and simply reacted. He had drawn one of the massive Walker Colts he carried and had put two .44 caliber slugs into the shooter, putting the man down in a heartbeat. In the aftermath McCoy had tended to his wounded colleague before riding back to the Ranger station with him, and with two dead men over their saddles.

  With his credentials accepted McCoy made his name known within the ranks of the Rangers. He had a simple set of rules that saw him through any situation he had to face.

  Give a man a choice. Surrender without a fight, or face the big pistols McCoy carried. He never asked twice and backing down wasn’t in his makeup. McCoy’s natural skill with his pair of Walker Colts became legendary. He carried no other type of handgun, just a Winchester 44-40 rifl
e in a sheath on his saddle. Despite the pistols’ size and weight, some nine and a half pounds, he handled the weapons with ease and alarming accuracy. Men had challenged him that the black powder and ball loading must have caused him problems, slowing his recharging and holding him back. McCoy had counted that both pistols loaded gave him twelve shots and that was enough to see him through any gunfight. His Ranger record proved his point. Over the long years McCoy’s reputation preceded him and though a number of outlaws challenged him, and lost, others were all too ready to throw down their guns and raise their arms in the presence of Warren J. McCoy – Texas Ranger.

  On that day the lean, hollow cheeked man, thick, drooping mustache almost white and standing out against his brown skin, rode out of Handy and picked up the trail left by Jason Brand. They were near enough a day old but that made little difference to McCoy. Tracking was a big part of his job, so following Brand’s trail was almost too easy.

  He sat his big chestnut mare easy in his heavy Texas saddle, staring at the world from beneath the wide, curled brim of his black hat. He might have given the impression of indifference, yet in truth he missed nothing as he trailed casually from town, leaving Marshal Hicks staring after him.

  ‘Hard one to figure out,’ Toby Books said.

  ‘That is one hard man,’ Hicks said. ‘I heard about Warren J. McCoy. Never lost a man he went after and brought in a lot over their saddles.’

  ‘You see those pistols he’s wearing? Biggest damn things I ever did see.’

  ‘Walker Dragoon Colts. Forty-four caliber. Story goes if he has to draw them anyone facing him is a dead man.’

  ‘Well,’ Books said, ‘I hope Mr. Brand sees him coming.

  Hicks gave a chuckle. ‘Don’t you worry about Brand. He can handle someone like McCoy if he needs to.’

  ~*~

  A few miles out of Handy, McCoy drew rein, slipping off the long black coat he was wearing. He folded the garment and tucked it under his blanket roll. The day was turning hotter than he had anticipated. Under the coat he wore a dark gray shirt and a neat, black string tie. He wore the double gun rig over black pants that were pulled across the high boots and spurs. Each holster, holding one of the large Dragoon Colts, was crafted in black leather and had rawhide thongs dangling ready to be tied down if needed. Over the left side pocket of his shirt McCoy wore the distinctive Texas Ranger silver badge – the star inside a circle – was so well known in the state that sometimes that was all it took to subdue a suspect.