Brand 6

by Neil Hunter

  They still had Sarah with them!

  Willard was moving fast. Making no attempt to cover his trail. Which made it easier for Brand to follow. Willard plainly knew the bayou well.

  Brand knew where he would be heading. Back home. To tell his father what had happened. Willard would have heard the explosion. It wouldn’t take much intelligence to guess what had happened. Beauregard St Clair was not going to take the news of his arms cache being destroyed very well. He was going to have to do some drastic rethinking. To alter his plans — whatever they were. He would also have to convince his backers that the St Clair plan was still in operation, despite the loss of valuable weapons.

  So what would St Clair do next? He would have some kind of contingency plan set up. St Clair was that kind of man. Something to show he was still the man to lead the Brotherhood.

  Brand spurred his horse on. The sooner he reached the St Clair mansion the sooner he might find out what St Clair had planned next.

  And more importantly he would be where Sarah was.

  Chapter Eleven

  He left the horse some distance from the house, moving in on foot. As he neared the place he became aware of the silence. The St Clair mansion gave the appearance of being deserted. Then Brand spotted two horses, heads hanging from exhaustion, standing near the front entrance.

  He checked the Colt, making sure it was ready for use, then covered the final distance to the house at a run. Movement off to his right caught his eye. He turned, the revolver rising in his hand, but all he saw was a lace curtain blowing through an open window.

  The large front doors stood wide open. They seemed to be beckoning him to enter.

  Brand reached the doors and stepped through quickly, moving to one side the moment he was inside.

  In that instant a gun blasted at him from the landing on the first floor. Someone in the shadows at the top of the stairs. The bullet exploded plaster from the wall inches from his head. Splinters stung his flesh. Brand dropped to one knee and returned fire. His bullet whined off something hard. He picked up the sound of retreating footsteps. Brand broke away from the wall and went up the stairs two at a time. Reaching the landing he turned and cut off along the adjoining passage. He spotted a dark figure at the far end of the passage. The figure paused, turning, a dull gleam of light bouncing off the barrel of a raised gun. They fired together. Brand felt the burn of a bullet across the back of his hand. Blood began to flow almost immediately. With a reflex action Brand fired a second time, snapping off his shot almost without aiming, and saw the distant figure jerk to one side. Bounce off the wall. Despite the severe wound the man braced himself to return fire, hauling his heavy gun up with both hands. Extending his gun arm Brand fired twice more, hard hammered shots that caught the target in the side of the head. The man went down hard, his gun bouncing from his fingers as he struck the floor. He twisted over on his back, moaning in pain. Blood began to pool under his head. He shuddered for a short time, then became still.

  Flipping open the loading gate Brand ejected the spent cartridges and thumbed in fresh loads. He stayed put, ears and eyes straining to pick up anything that might tell him where Willard and Sarah were. They were close, he knew that.

  The silence stretched out. The house was too quiet. Brand could hear his own breathing. The soft rustle of his clothing each time he moved.

  His wait was short.

  From one of the rooms along the passage came a sudden crash. A heavy piece of furniture being overturned. A man cried out, and Brand recognized the shrill sound.

  Willard St Clair.

  There was no mistake. Brand headed along the passage, seeking the source of the sound.

  A door burst open and a familiar figure ran into the passage. It was Sarah. She saw him, eyes wide with a mix of pleasure and fright. Her mouth began to form a warning.

  From inside the room a gun fired, the heavy crash of sound filling the passage. Sarah cried out in terror as the bullet struck her between the shoulders. The force pushed her forward, knocking her off balance, and Brand watched in horror as Sarah tumbled to the floor, arms outstretched. Her face had become twisted in shock. The bullet burst out of her body in a shower of bloody debris, ripping through her left breast. Blood and shredded cloth spattered the wall. She struck the floor and rolled up against the base of the wall.

  As his shock evaporated Brand was overcome by a surge of bestial violence.

  The slim figure of Willard St Clair had appeared in the door of the room. He still clutched the smoking gun in his pale hand. He was part way through the door when Brand triggered the Colt, driving a bullet in Willard’s left shoulder. The powerful lead slug shattered bone, spinning Willard around in a half-circle. His face slammed into the doorframe as he twisted around. He bounced off the frame, stumbling to the floor, dazed and in pain, blood dribbling from his mouth. He slumped on his knees, the gun in his hand forgotten. Brand allowed him no time to remember. He reached Willard’s hunched figure, swinging the Colt in a smashing arc that struck the man’s gun hand, cracking bone and numbing his grip. Willard looked up into Brand’s taut, angry face, a whimper of terror bubbling from his throat as he recognized the look in Brand’s eyes. He tried to shrink away from the swinging gun, but it chopped up and down, each blow opening a fresh, bleeding gash. Scuttling backwards, like a retreating crab, Willard slithered across the floor. At one point he gained his feet, half rising before Brand’s blows sent him sprawling again. As Willard crashed to the floor again Brand cast aside the blood slick Colt and bent over the man. He hauled Willard to his feet and used his fists, beating the whimpering figure to a bloody, broken wreck. Only when his anger subsided did he stop, allowing Willard to curl up in a shuddering heap on the floor.

  Brand stood over the moaning figure, fists at his sides, his chest heaving from his exertions. He felt lost. Out of place in this great empty house.

  And then suddenly reality forced itself back into his conscious mind and he turned to where Sarah still lay. He turned her over gently, scared that he would find she was dead. But the faint movement of her chest told him otherwise. The front of her shirt was sodden with blood and he could hardly bear to look at the terrible wound. A thin trickle of blood stained the corner of her mouth. Without warning her eyes opened and she stared up at him.

  ‘He was waiting to shoot you,’ she said softly, as if it explained everything. ‘I had to do something.’ Her voice was so low he had to bend over her to hear.

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ he said. He was thinking how pale she looked. And there was so much damned blood.

  He heard a soft footstep close by. Turning, his anger growing again Brand checked himself as he recognized Frederick, the Negro who had welcomed them to the St Clair mansion on their arrival.

  ‘Frederick, the lady needs a doctor. Fast.’

  The Negro knelt beside Sarah. His dark, lined face was grave as he looked across at Brand.

  ‘Nearest one is at Blanchville. Doctor Tealer.’

  ‘How far?’

  ‘Take about an hour to get there, sir.’

  Brand pushed to his feet. ‘There a carriage around here?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Frederick said. He inclined his head in Willard’s direction.

  ‘Only be room for one in the carriage.’

  ‘He isn’t going to be needing a doctor,’ Brand said coldly.

  Frederick nodded in understanding. He stood up.

  ‘I’ll get the carriage.’ He turned away then glanced back at Brand. ‘The Senator and Mister Royce left a few hours ago. Far as I could tell they were making for New Orleans. That any help, sir?’

  ‘Could be, Frederick. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome, sir. If you can make the lady comfortable I’ll bring the carriage and drive her to Blanchville myself.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘The way I see it, sir, you have things to do, and you don’t have all that much time to do them.’

  ‘You could be right.’ As Frederick moved away Bran
d asked: ‘What about Lucilla? She still here?’

  ‘No, sir. She’s gone as well. Same time as her father.’

  While Frederick arranged the carriage Brand did what he could for Sarah. Feeling less than competent he tried to slow the bleeding and managed after a fashion. As he was doing this Sarah slipped into unconsciousness. Her condition worried him. More so because he was unable to do anything about it. When Frederick returned he had a young Negro girl with him. They had brought along blankets. Brand and Frederick carried Sarah downstairs and outside. A thick mattress of pillows had been arranged in the carriage. They placed Sarah inside, covered her with blankets, the girl climbing in beside her. Frederick took the seat and picked up the reins.

  ‘With the help of the Lord we’ll get her there, sir,’ the Negro said.

  Brand watched the carriage roll away down the long drive. He had a greater faith in Frederick than the Negro had in the Lord.

  Back in the house Brand climbed the stairs and made his way back to where he had left Willard. He scooped up his Colt and turned to where the young St Clair had dragged himself to his feet to stand slumped against the wall. He stared at Brand through a mask of blood and held his battered hands crossed over his stained shirt.

  ‘Just one question, you son of a bitch. Where’s your father gone? And don’t waste my time by lying.’

  Willard didn’t say a word. Brand hit him full in the mouth. Blood flew in a froth from Willard’s swollen lips.

  ‘I can keep this up longer than you can take it,’ Brand said.

  Willard took a wild swing at him. Brand weaved to one side, then punched Willard again, knocking him to his knees. Willard swayed drunkenly, trying to stand up. He fell back against the wall.

  ‘If that stupid bitch hadn’t got in my way I would have killed you! I hope she dies and goes to hell . . . ’

  Brand snapped up the Colt and fired a single shot. The bullet shattered Willard’s left kneecap. Bloody chunks of flesh hung from the ruined limb. Willard screamed and clutched his hands over the seething wound, blood seeping through his fingers.

  ‘No! I won’t tell you a damn thing.’ he yelled defiantly.

  Brand cocked the Colt again. ‘This is taking Southern honor too far, boy,’ he said.

  ‘Yankee trash!’

  The Colt kicked back as Brand fired again. Willard’s right leg jerked under the impact of the .45 caliber slug. Willard curled up in a ball, hugging himself to make the pain go away.

  The sound of the Colt’s hammer going back once more sounded loud in the silence.

  ‘For God’s sake, Brand,’ Willard pleaded.

  ‘Where’s your father?’

  Willard pushed himself into a semi-sitting position, leaving a trail of slick blood on the floor as he moved. He gazed up at Brand through eyes wide with pain.

  ‘Washington. Royce and my father have gone to Washington.’

  ‘Something for the Brotherhood?’

  Willard’s face hardened.

  ‘They have something to do. You won’t stop them.’ Willard’s battered face creased into a terrible smile. ‘They’ll show you all the Brotherhood is real.’

  ‘By doing what?’

  Willard began to laugh. High and hysterical, the sound bounced off the paneled walls. It made Brand shiver.

  ‘You’ll see on the fourteenth,’ Willard said. ‘April fourteenth. You won’t forget that day.’

  He was still laughing. An insane sound that rose until it blotted out everything else.

  And then the laughing stopped. Willard stared directly at Brand. He knew he had said too much. Even through his pain the realization sobered him.

  ‘Damn you,’ he said bitterly. A surge of pain racked his slender body and he clutched himself. ‘For pity’s sake, Brand, help me. I’m in bad pain. Give me something to stop it, man.’

  The smile on Jason Brand’s face was almost human.

  ‘I aim to, boy. I really do,’ he said, and put two bullets through Willard’s skull.

  Chapter Twelve

  He made his way through the silent house to the room he’d been using. Changing into clean clothes Brand strapped on the shoulder harness and checked that the Colt Special was loaded before he put it away. He buckled on his waist belt but found that the Colt he’d taken from the cache had too long a barrel for the holster. Making his way back downstairs he sought out St Clair’s study. Maybe he could find an extra handgun there.

  He kicked open the heavy door. It slammed back against the inner wall with a solid thump. The quietness unsettled him. Had everyone on the estate run off?

  Crossing the study he paused before the liquor cabinet, helping himself to a bottle of expensive bourbon. His long swallow burned its way to the pit of his stomach. He gasped, his eyes brimming with tears. The liquor made him cough. He’d been a fool to drink on an empty stomach. He threw the bottle across the room in an angry gesture. It smashed against the wall, glass exploding in an amber spray.

  Brand slumped behind St Clair’s big desk, methodically dragging open the drawers and dumping the contents out before him. He aimlessly sorted through the stuff, not even knowing what he was looking for. Papers fell to the floor. In his anger Brand became clumsier. He was wasting time. Achieving nothing, and his anger was because he could not erase the image of Sarah from his mind. Sarah hurt and in pain because he had dragged her into his world of violence and brutal treachery. His fault. All of it. He swept the top of the desk clear with a violent motion, sending everything across the floor. He sat for a moment, his eyes searching the room until he saw the glass fronted gun cabinet standing against one wall.

  He stood before the cabinet, staring at the racked guns, the pistols suspended from brass hooks. He didn’t open the doors. Simply smashed the thin glass with his clenched fist, reaching inside to take a cedar-handled Colt .45 off its hook. It was the same model as the one he’d lost. It was not brand new but it had been well cared for. The balance was perfect, the oiled action smooth and sure. He loaded the weapon and dropped it into his holster, then turned and strode out of the study and the house.

  He went to the stables. Picking out a horse he saddled up and rode away from the St Clair estate, locating the New Orleans road. He had a good ride ahead of him and even when he reached the place he had a long train journey to endure.

  Brand reviewed the information he had. St Clair and Royce had taken off for New Orleans. But that didn’t mean they would stay there. Brand had wrecked the arms cache, leaving the Brotherhood short on weapons. Unless they had other caches. Willard’s words rattled around in Brand’s head. His statement about the Brotherhood still being able to show their strength. Still being a force to be reckoned with. What had he meant?

  April the fourteenth?

  What was the significance of the date? Brand felt he should know.

  He reached New Orleans late. He located a livery stable and left the horse there. Then he searched out a telegraph office and sent a telegram to McCord, bringing him up to date. He also mentioned St Clair’s visit to Washington, hoping McCord might be able to figure out what the date meant.

  Making his way to the rail depot he bought a through ticket to Washington, then found he had three hours to wait. He also realized he was hungry. With no particular destination in mind he wandered around until he found a decent restaurant. He ordered a steak with all the trimmings and a pot of coffee. Despite lingering over the meal he found he still had almost two hours before train time.

  Brand retraced his steps to the depot. Nearing the depot he found himself walking along a narrow, littered street that bordered the freight yards. There was little light in this part of town. The air had a smoky, sooty tang to it, and in the distance he heard the mournful wail of a departing train. His boots crunched on the gravel that lay underfoot, the sound echoing behind him.

  Echoing!

  Echoing like hell! Not in an open space like this!

  Brand stopped, turning on his heels, hearing them coming on fast now he had s
ensed their closeness.

  He counted three of them. Dark shapes moving fast, and he knew they were out to stop him, one way or another. Brand’s right slid under his coat, bringing out the shoulder-holstered Colt. He barely had time to ease back the hammer before the lead man slammed into him. The assailant was big, solid, and the impact spun Brand backwards. He stumbled, losing his balance and dropped to his knees. There was a moment when he almost lost his grip on the Colt, but he caught his balance, steadied himself. The big man had pulled out a thick-bladed knife, cold steel gleaming in the pale light. Brand didn’t hesitate. He lifted the Colt and drove three fast shots into the man’s wide body. The target was lifted off his feet by the force of the heavy .45 caliber bullets. He arched over with a gurgle of sound, dark gouts of blood spurting from the wounds as he crashed to the hard ground.

  Movement off to Brand’s left registered in the corner of his eye. He twisted round. Too slow. Something smashed across the back of his neck, driving him face down in the dirt, flesh scraped from his cheek. A boot slammed into his side, flipping him over on his back. Brand gasped in pain, heard a man laugh in triumph. The Colt was booted from his hand. He didn’t try for his waist gun yet. No time. He was too busy rolling away from the flailing boots intent on kicking him to death. He had realized that these men were little more than street brawlers. Not professional assassins. A bullet in the back of the head would have been Brand’s first indication of professionals. Somebody had paid this trio to deal with him, but they hadn’t picked too well. Not that it made the pain any easier to bear. It only meant he had an edge over them.

  The moment he got a couple of clear seconds Brand gathered himself and pushed up off the ground. He was ready as the remaining pair closed in again, still grinning like the idiots they were. As they narrowed the gap Brand struck. The toe of his boot caught one directly between his legs, the force of the kick lifting the man off his feet. He staggered back, bellowing like a stricken bull, then dropped to his knees, clutching at his groin. The noise distracted the third one. As he paused, glancing at his hurt partner Brand sledged the edge of his left hand across the man’s throat. The crippling impact crushed every bone in the man’s throat and made it almost impossible to breath. He lost interest in the whole affair, clawing at his throat, eyes bulging. The last thing the man saw was the barrel of Brand’s Colt as it slid clear of the holster. The muzzle flickered with flame, the bullet slamming into the man’s skull. He toppled over backwards, dead before he hit the ground.