Brand 10

by Neil Hunter

  Around his slim hips Bledsoe wore a black leather belt and holster. It rode high on his hip, the supple leather holster holding a short-barreled Colt’s Peacemaker, nickel plated, with grained walnut grips. Before having the revolver plated Bledsoe had asked for the front sight to be removed and the barrel made smooth. It was no affectation. Bledsoe had witnessed more than one man shot down because a snagging front sight had slowed a quick draw and given an opponent that split second advantage. Her didn’t cast himself as a fast-draw expert. Simply a man who pulled his gun and took his moment to aim, rather than fire before he had a sound target. Nor did he ascribe to the posturing and bravado of others who liked their moment of glory, especially if they had an audience. Jay Bledsoe, once he had committed himself to a shootout, drew his gun and placed his shot, taking no pleasure in the act. Those who knew him as well as any could understood his manner and gave him the respect his skill offered him.

  ‘Tell me what you mean,’ Bodine said.

  ‘Our doughty ex-Ranger has sold his soul for money,’ Bledsoe explained. ‘He did it because he was close to coming up to retirement from the Rangers and when he did he’d be just another unemployed man with a gun, years of experience tracking criminals, and little to show for all those dedicated years as a lawman. He’d be destined to walk away from the Rangers with nothing but the clothes he wears, his guns and his horse. Not much to show for all those years. McCoy is no fool. He doesn’t want to end his time as a penniless drifter. Which is why he took your offer. One last hunt that will hand him a sizeable amount of money. Enough for him to spend his final years in relative comfort.’

  Bodine stood and crossed the room, helping himself to a tumbler of whisky. He showed the bottle to Bledsoe, who shook his head.

  ‘You should know by now, Mr. Bodine. I never drink when I’m working.’ He offered a thin smile. ‘Oh, it might not look as if I’m working right now, but I am. Looking after you. I just make it look easy.’

  ‘So…McCoy?’

  ‘Right now he’s staying close to Brand, because Brand is tracking the ones who carried out the robbery. And we don’t know that Brand might also have other things on his mind.’

  ‘Quinlan?’

  ‘Our intrepid investigator. The man who compiled the documents that have you and all those other members of your little group. We both know if those documents he collected get into the hands of Senator Beauchamp, Washington is going to have a field day hauling you all in for conspiracy. Fraud. Blackmail. Crooked dealings on government contracts…’ Bledsoe said. ‘Oh…and a few cases of murder. Have I missed anything?’

  Bodine swallowed his whisky and poured a second.

  ‘Just confirm, Bledsoe, you are working on my side? Just then you sounded like a prosecutor outlining his case.’

  ‘I’m on your side, Mr. Bodine. Simply pointing out the parameters of what we’re facing.’

  Bodine made a sound deep in his throat. ‘Comforting that you actually said what we’re facing. Not just what I’m facing.’

  ‘Mr. Bodine, you pay, I play. You have my word.’

  Chapter Ten

  The more Brand thought about it the stronger his suspicion became. There was nothing tangible he could put his finger on but he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling where McCoy was concerned. He tried to push the thoughts out of his mind. All he succeeded in doing was making them persist. He realized that if he let them grow he was going to lose sight of why he was here in Redigo.

  He stood at the hotel room’s window, fastening his shirt, watching the traffic moving back and forth and concentrated on the matter at hand.

  He needed to find Henry Quinlan. The man was an important piece of the puzzle. The one that could connect Brand to the people behind this whole affair. If Quinlan had come here because he had some plan to get his hands back on the case of documents, things could turn nasty very quickly.

  He finished dressing, pulling on the shoulder holster and slipping the adapted Colt into place. He strapped on his regular revolver, checking the full load before settling the weapon. The dark suit jacket concealed the shoulder rig. Brand set the wide brimmed hat, left the room and locked the door. Downstairs he handed his key over, then strolled along the boardwalk in the direction of the telegraph office, which was at the far end of the street.

  ‘I was waiting for my assistant to come back,’ the operator said. ‘Got a couple of messages for you, Mr. Brand.’

  He passed over the envelopes and Brand stood by the window as he read them. Both were from McCord and they confirmed Brand’s concerns.

  McCoy is dangerous.

  The second message simply added further information. Senator Eugene Beauchamp has found the man who gave out the information about the Pinkertons. He worked in Beauchamp’s employ. He was paid to leak the whereabouts of the two detectives. McCoy’s name came up again. Contact with Ranger’s shows McCoy has no morals when it comes to killing anyone who gets in his way. If you come in contact handle it. McCord.

  ‘Any replies Mr. Brand?’

  Brand shook his head. ‘Not yet. Thanks.’

  He left the office and paused to light a fresh cigar. He felt a dry wind drifting along the street, raising pale dust.

  He failed to prevent McCoy’s name from intruding on his thoughts.

  Knowing what he did about the man raised doubts in Brand’s mind.

  What was McCoy up to?

  His current evasiveness couldn’t be good.

  Come to think about it Brand realized he hadn’t seen the man for a while. McCoy had said something about doing some local checking of his own and Brand had no hold on the man to stop him doing that.

  He just wondered just what the man was up to.

  McCoy.

  Now Bodine.

  Quinlan.

  All connected. He needed to bring those connections together.

  That, though he had no idea, was going to happen very quickly and he would be standing right in the middle of it all.

  Chapter Eleven

  The alley was dark and littered with trash. It gave off a sour smell. The two men waiting in the shadows were congratulating themselves on having fallen lucky, being offered a large amount of cash for a few minutes work. Half had already been paid. They would claim the rest when their victim was dead. They had been waiting for the man they knew as Brand to leave the telegraph office. He had been well described to them, so when the tall figure appeared they had no trouble identifying him.

  ‘Going to be easy,’ the one called Morgan said.

  ‘Big feller,’ Brandt said.

  Morgan chuckled. ‘He’ll have further to fall then.’

  They pressed against the wall, waiting. Watching Brand as he moved in their direction.

  ‘Soon as he gets level you grab his arm and pull him in the alley.’

  Brandt nodded. He was the bigger of the two, broad across his shoulders.

  They heard the steady sound of footsteps. Brand’s shadow fell across the mouth of the alley. Morgan stepped back to give his partner room. As Brand crossed the opening Brandt lunged, big hands reaching to grab at Brand’s shirt. He got a solid grip, braced himself and yanked Brand sideways, dragging him off the boardwalk and into the alley.

  ‘Yeah,’ Morgan breathed, ‘here’s something for you, bucko.’

  The hickory club, Morgan’s favorite weapon, swung around, clouting Brand across the back of his head. The brim of his hat cushioned some of the force, but there was still enough to make him stumble.

  Morgan grunted. Swung the club a second time with increased force. It slammed across the side of Brand’s head and he went down to the ground.

  Morgan stepped back, the wooden club still clutched in his hand.

  ‘Didn’t think he was going down.’

  His partner, Brandt, grinned. ‘Well he did, so let’s make sure he don’t get up again.’

  ‘Yeah. Sooner we get her done sooner we can get our hands on the rest of that money.’

  ‘Be nice to h
ave some for a change.’

  ‘Hey, maybe this son of a bitch has some in his pockets.’

  ‘Well, he ain’t going to be needing it where he’s going.’

  ‘Just turn him over.’

  Brandt bent over the motionless figure sprawled on the ground. He caught hold of Brand’s coat and heaved him over, ready to start using his club again..

  He saw the open eyes staring up at him. The bright streak of blood coursing down the face. And then he saw the round, black muzzle of the cut-down Colt in Brand’s fist, the weapon jutting forward. Brandt started a yell that didn’t come. There was a bright flash. A stunning blow as the .45 caliber slug struck, tearing in through his face and angling up into his brain. Brandt fell back, unaware of the large chunk of skull separating as the mushrooming slug exited in a burst of red and gray.

  Morgan saw the moment and felt a sickness in his stomach. The grisly sight etched in his mind and it held him motionless. It was that paralysis that was his undoing. He failed to see Brand’s hand move. Failed to see the Colt move and find a second target. The pistol fired and the slug thudded into Morgan’s left thigh. Pain followed seconds later. A terrible burst of agony as the lead slug cleaved flesh and shattered bone. Morgan went down, a shocked gasp bursting from his lips. He let go the club and clutched at his crippled limb, feeling blood starting to bubble from the wound. Then he was on the ground, experiencing pain worse than anything he had ever known.

  Brand climbed slowly to his feet, left hand reaching up to press against his head.

  Damn but it hurt.

  He stood there, swaying slightly as his sense realigned themselves. If Morgan’s blow had been a few inches higher, contacting with the his skull, the outcome would have been different. Brand had taken blows to his skull on other occasions – too many – and they invariably produced drastic results. Not that he wasn’t suffering from this particular hit and the clout to the side of his face had left a nasty, stinging gash that was bleeding freely. But at least he was back on his feet.

  He picked up a harsh, hurt sound. It came from Morgan, writhing about in the dust, hugging his damaged leg.

  Brand crouched beside the man, Morgan’s eyes fixing on him.

  ‘No more money,’ Brand said. ‘You don’t get paid if you mess up.’

  Morgan’s yellow teeth were clenched tight against the pain.

  ‘You’re getting in someone’s way,’ he managed to say.

  ‘I figured that. Hate to think you did this for no good reason.’

  ‘He won’t give up.’

  ‘At least we have that in common. Who is he?’

  ‘The hell with you. I ain’t saying.’

  ‘Could be a wrong move on your part, if your employer decides leaving you alive is a risk.’

  ‘The hell with you. I’ll take my chance in jail.’

  There was a scuffle of sound from the mouth of the ally. The shooting had attracted attention and curiosity was rising. Brand stood, still holding the Colt as he turned to face the growing crowd and heard the less than discreet remarks.

  ‘Ain’t that Lex Morgan?

  ‘If it is the other must be Brandt. They went around like they was roped together.’

  ‘No surprise they got themselves shot.’

  ‘Hell it’s been waiting to happen.’

  ‘Mister, you know you’re bleeding?

  Brand touched fingers to the gash.

  A figure pushed his way through the onlookers, a lean, pleasant faced man, eyes taking in the scene. He wore plain clothes and a wide-brimmed low-crown hat. When he saw the gun in Brand’s hand and instinctively touched the butt of his own holstered gun. Light reflected on the star pinned to his shirt. He squared up to Brand.

  ‘You plan on using that again?’

  ‘Wasn’t planning to use it at all until this pair forced my hand. Marshal…?’

  ‘Ben Fry’s the name and we need to talk about what happened here. Down at my office.’

  Brand put away the cut-down Colt and stood waiting while Fry asked for someone to fetch a doctor and the undertaker.

  ‘Tell Doc Holman I’d like him to step down to the office when he’s done here. Could a couple of you people escort Morgan to the jail. Doc can see to him in a cell.’

  Two men moved forward and hoisted the protesting Morgan to his feet.

  ‘Put him in a cell,’ Fry told them. ‘Be there shortly..

  He stood looking down at the dead man, shaking his head.

  ‘So who are you?’ he said.

  ‘Jason Brand.’

  ‘Follow me, Mr. Brand.’

  They trailed along the street, Brand drawing curious glances as his bloody face was seen, but Fry kept moving until they reached the stone-built jailhouse. Fry pushed open the thick wooden door, Brand following. By this time Morgan had been secured in one of the jail’s empty cells. The men who had brought him left as soon as Fry appeared.

  The main office was larger than most, the floor planked. The windows flanking the door had glass in them as well as sturdy iron bars. A desk was angled in the corner facing the door, with a filled gun rack on the solid wall. A couple of high backed wooden chairs were ranged loosely in front of the desk and Brand smelled the aroma of coffee coming from the enamel pot perched atop the stove in the far corner. A barred door led through to the cells in back where Morgan now resided, making noise until Fry told him to quit, then rejoined Brand. Fry took off his hat and hung it on a wooden peg on the wall over his desk. He gestured at one of the chairs.

  ‘I suggest you sit before you fall down.’

  Brand decided that was a helpful suggestion and took one of the chairs. If he had been forced to own up he would have admitted to feeling dizzy.

  It was he noticed another occupant. The man was seated in a chair on the far side of the office. He neither moved or spoke, even when Brand glanced his way. At first Brand figured the man to be Fry’s deputy but on closer inspection he realized he knew the face. Unshaven now, but that didn’t hide the man’s identity. From the photograph Senator Beauchamp had furnished.

  Henry Quinlan.

  The Senator’s man. Who had initiated the investigation into Elias Bodine’s activities.

  ‘Quinlan,’ Brand said. ‘I’ve been looking for you a while.’

  ‘You know him?’ asked Fry.

  ‘Only by reputation. Senator Beauchamp’s missed you and I’ve been trailing across Texas and running into all kinds of opposition. Friend, you really stirred up a hornet’s nest.’

  Quinlan stared at the blood running down Brand’s face.

  ‘That because of me?’

  ‘Most likely.’

  Fry crossed to the stove and poured coffee into china mugs, handing one to Brand and Quinlan. He sat in the swivel seat behind the desk.

  ‘Let me tell you a story,’ Fry said. ‘About a man who works from the Justice Department based in Washington. Been following a trail after a train robbery back in Handy. He’s been following that trail and it’s brought him here to Redigo. And as soon as he hits town a couple of local misfits attack him. All that seems to tie in with what Mr. Quinlan told me when he showed up in my office. Tell me if I missed something.’

  ‘You’re doing fine. I take it you’ve had contact with my home office?’ Brand said.

  Fry leaned forward and picked up a couple of buff telegram messages. He slid them across the desk for Brand to read. The messages were from Frank McCord.

  ‘Man doesn’t waste words,’ Fry said. ‘Straight to the point.’

  ‘That’s the man.’

  ‘You’ve met the Senator?’ Quinlan said.

  ‘The Senator knows my boss. Went to him with the whole story. My boss called me in and here we are.’

  Brand ran through what had taken place since leaving Washington and making his hectic train ride to Handy. Fry and Quinlan listened without interruption.

  ‘Pretty well ties up with what your Mr. McCord told me,’ Fry added. ‘Doesn’t give much away, but expects a deal
.’

  ‘He does.’

  ‘Redigo can be a rough town. What with all the passing business. The trail crews and the railhead. I’m sure you know how these Texas cow towns run. Takes a lot of hard work keeping things peaceable.’

  ‘I’ve been in towns like this before,’ Brand said. ‘No mean feat keeping the lid on.’

  Fry sighed. ‘Was pretty quiet until you hit town.’

  He said it in a light tone and Brand caught the faint smile on his lips.

  ‘Problems seem to be following me close on this,’ he said.

  ‘And those problems brought you here to Redigo? Looking for someone?’

  ‘Man called Elias Bodine.’

  ‘Bodine? He wanted for something?’

  Quinlan said, ‘Bodine is the top dog behind this whole thing. It’s because of him I’ve been chasing my tail all over. The evidence he stole from those Pinkerton men will implicate him and his partners in all kinds of criminal activities. People are already dead because of the attempts to conceal that evidence.’

  Fry held up a hand. ‘You need to give me a moment to take this in. Friend, you know who Bodine is? The man is wealthy. Powerful. And he has a lot of important people he can also call friends. You sure about what you’re saying?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,’ Quinlan said.

  The marshal shook his head as if it was almost too hard to take in. He drained his coffee, stood and crossed to refill his mug.

  ‘Bodine has interests in a number of enterprises in town,’ he said. ‘He has a horse ranch about four miles away. Hell of a place. Runs horse herds. A stud business. Man has a big reputation hereabouts. Contributes money to local causes. Is on real friendly terms with the local judge. Spends money as if it’s going out of fashion. Paid for a new bell for the church.’ He paused for breath. ‘And now you ride into town and tell me he’s a damned crook – excuse my French – but that’s what it boils down to. Now don’t get me wrong, Brand, Quinlan, but you got to admit it’s a lot to swallow.’

  ‘I’d be cautious myself considering what’s just happened.’