Brand 6

by Neil Hunter

  Brand turned to the moaning survivor. The man was still on his knees, head hanging. Brand caught a handful of the man’s long, greasy hair and yanked his head up. The face was twisted in agony, tears streaming from the man’s eyes. He was dribbling like a hurt child. He gave a startled cry when Brand jammed the muzzle of the Colt hard against his cheek.

  ‘You feel that?’

  The man stared at him as if Brand wasn’t even speaking English. Brand slapped the side of his face with the Colt, just hard enough to hurt.

  ‘Feel it now?’ he asked.

  The man nodded. ‘I hurt,’ he moaned, clutching at his groin.

  ‘That’s because I kicked you in the balls, friend, and if I don’t get the answer I want I’m liable to shoot ‘em off. One by one. Understand?’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ the man mumbled.

  ‘He can’t help you,’ Brand said. ‘Only me.’

  It only took a look into Brand’s cold, empty eyes to convince the man.

  ‘Who hired you?’

  The man sighed. It wasn’t that hard a question. The job was over, so there was no point in getting hurt any more.

  ‘A young woman. She gave us your description and a big wad of money. Told us to wait around the depot. If you showed we was to wait our chance and do for you.’

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘Fair hair. A real looker. Smelled of money.’

  Lucilla St Clair.

  It appeared that the young woman was still looking out for her father’s interests.

  ‘Anyone with her?’

  The man shrugged. ‘If there was we didn’t see.’ He hesitated. ‘Hey, mister, what are you going to do?’

  Brand released him and straightened up. ‘I’m going to catch my train,’ he said.

  Anger shadowed the man’s face. ‘The hell with your damn train. What about me?’

  ‘You had your shot,’ Brand said coldly. ‘You missed.’

  The Colt’s barrel moved slightly, the hammer going back with a soft sound. The man on the ground twisted his head around, eyes wide with shock as he realized what was about to happen. That was as far as he got. The .45 crackled with sound and the man was flung over on his back with a bullet through his heart.

  Retrieving his Colt Special Brand walked away from the scene and continued on his way back to the depot. He dusted himself off as he approached the empty waiting room and settled down on a hard bench, facing the door, his aching back pressed against the wall. His train arrived five minutes behind schedule. Brand climbed on board and a Negro attendant showed him to the private apartment he’d booked. Brand locked his door, stripped off his coat and shirt and washed. The water was cold, but it took away the cobwebs that were threatening to dull his senses. As he dried himself he took a look in the mirror. There were fresh bruises down the side of his body, almost to the waist, and his face had looked better. He grinned at his reflection in the mirror. No damn wonder the attendant had kept giving him sidelong glances.

  Sitting on the edge of the apartment’s fixed bunk he reloaded both of his revolvers, then pulled his shirt back on and stretched out on the bunk, staring out of the window as the train eased away from New Orleans. There was a long ride ahead, with a change of locomotive at Atlanta. He felt the train picking up speed and saw the city lights fall behind, dimming in the enveloping darkness. Slipping the Colt special under his pillow Brand lay down and pulled the blankets over him. He needed sleep but it refused to come. His mind kept conjuring up images of Sarah. Inactivity allowed his mind to fix on her. He felt guilty for having involved her in the affair. It hadn’t been his intention. Her part was simply to gain him an introduction to St Clair. With his past record maybe he should have left her out. Life had a nasty habit of jumping the rails and going off along other tracks, mostly out of control. And when that did happen people got hurt — usually those who shouldn’t have been there in the first instance. He stirred restlessly, attempting to push the thoughts out of his mind and finally drifted into an exhausted sleep.

  He woke to a knocking on the apartment door. When he opened it he came face to face with the Negro attendant.

  ‘Morning, sir. You want some breakfast?’

  Brand nodded. He scrubbed a hand across his stubbled face.

  ‘Any chance of a razor?’

  ‘Leave it to me, sir.’ The attendant turned to go. ‘We make a stop in about ten minutes. Small town. Anything you need, sir?’

  Brand remembered his torn, soiled shirt. He picked up his coat and took out his wallet. Pulling out a number of bills he handed them to the waiting attendant.

  ‘Clean shirt. I’ll leave it to you. But get me the shaving gear first. Then bacon and eggs. Plenty of coffee. Hot, black and strong.’

  He was still shaving when the train eased into the small depot. A boy appeared on the platform, a bundle of newspapers under his arm. Brand lowered the window and called the boy over. He tossed him a coin and took the paper. It was a local edition. Thin and flimsy. Brand flung it on the bunk and carried on shaving.

  His breakfast arrived and the Negro attendant placed the tray on the drop down table. The smell of fried bacon and fresh coffee did wonders for Brand’s mood.

  ‘Here you are, sir,’ the attendant said, handing Brand a parcel that held a new shirt and string tie. He gave Brand the change.

  Brand thrust a couple of bills into the man’s hand as he was leaving.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Something else you could do for me.’ He described Lucilla St Clair to the man. ‘You seen her?’

  The Negro shook his head. ‘Don’t recall, but I’ll look out for her. If she’s on board I’ll let you know.’

  Brand put on the clean shirt and tie, then sat down to eat. The food was better than he’d expected. Even the coffee tasted good. The only things missing were a cigar and Sarah sitting across the table from him.

  The train eased out of the depot a few minutes later.

  He told himself to snap out of his somber mood. No matter what he felt about Sarah her fate was out of his hands at the moment. He would return to find her as soon as he could, but his priority now was Beauregard St Clair.

  As the train moved out of the depot Brand picked up the newspaper. He wasn’t sure why he’d bought the damn thing, or what it might tell him. Which would probably be not a thing. He didn’t even know the name of the town where the train had stopped until he checked the front page of the paper. He read it through twice without seeing anything that remotely interested him.

  What was taking St Clair to Washington?

  And when it came, out of the blue, Brand cursed himself for missing it.

  He was pouring himself the last of the coffee when he froze. Something he’d seen in the newspaper had finally registered. Something he had read and dismissed. He banged the pot down hurriedly and snatched up the paper again.

  He was a damned blind fool! The answer had been right in front of his eyes all the time and he’d missed it!

  Brand spread the newspaper out before him and re-read the short paragraph printed on the front page. Only a few lines of copy. Black words printed on crude paper. This time, though, they leapt out at him. The words screaming the message that meant a whole lot to Jason Brand right there and then.

  EDITORIAL

  It has been decided by The Town Council to retain our procedure of past years even though there has been talk of change. So the Town Band will march to the Church where the Reverend Claypool will deliver the April 14th tribute to the late and still lamented Abraham Lincoln, the then President of these United States, who was Foully Murdered on April 14th, 1865. ‘The Flesh May Be Dead And Decayed, But The Spirit Still Lives — And Will Continue To Live — His Sacrifice Will Never Be Forgotten, Nor Allowed To Perish.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  To the west of the tracks the jagged Appalachian mountains lay against a graying sky. A storm was brewing. At the depot on the edge of Atlanta a fresh locomotive was coupled to the front o
f the train and after an hour’s delay they moved off again. Before they had travelled a mile it began to rain.

  Brand’s compartment attendant reported no sighting of Lucilla St Clair. Brand was certain she was on board somewhere. He was sure of that, just as he was certain she would show herself before they reached Washington.

  In the event it wasn’t Lucilla herself who came. The door to Brand’s compartment opened and a man stepped inside. It was a considerable feat, seeing he was well over six feet six in height and almost as wide. He closed the door and leaned against it, a device far superior to any manmade lock.

  ‘You sure you got the right compartment?’ Brand asked.

  The man nodded. He looked to be all muscle, without an ounce of spare fat on him.

  ‘I’m sure, Mister Brand.’ He raised his right hand to reveal a massive revolver that must have been tailor made for his huge paw. The muzzle of the gun made Brand think of a small cannon. The big man smiled a friendly smile. ‘Let’s do this the easy way. Hand over both your guns and we’ll take a walk. There’s a lady wants to see you pretty bad.’

  Brand handed over his weapons and watched them vanish into a coat pocket large enough to hide a scattergun.

  ‘You’re the boss,’ Brand said.

  ‘Out the door and take a left.’

  They passed along the train, feeling the rocking of the coaches as they were buffeted by the heavy storm. Brand counted his way through four coaches before the muzzle of the hand cannon nudged him to a stop outside a compartment door.

  ‘Inside.’

  Brand shoved the door open and stepped into a Pullman compartment that reminded him of the one he’d had his meeting with McCord in. The door thudded shut behind him, a key turning in the lock.

  ‘How nice of you to join me, Jason.’

  There was no mistaking the silky tone of the voice. Brand watched as Lucilla St Clair rose from the velvet couch. Her fair hair was down and she wore a sheer gown that revealed every detail of her lush young body.

  ‘Hard to resist your kind of invitation,’ Brand observed, glancing at the man-mountain standing to one side and behind him.

  Lucilla laughed softly. ‘Elmo has such winning ways.’ She smiled at the big man, and Brand saw the devotion that shone in his eyes. ‘Elmo, bring our guest a drink. What would you like?’

  ‘Whisky.’

  ‘I should be angry with you. Blowing up daddy’s guns and all. I tell you, Jason, he’s awful mad at you.’

  Brand took the drink Elmo brought him and watched the large figure retreat to a corner of the compartment.

  ‘He sleep at the foot of your bed too?’

  She laughed again. The tone was light, her mood frivolous, but under it all she was hard as steel. As she moved the thin gown clung to her breasts, showing the rise of her nipples.

  ‘I guess you must be pretty annoyed with those poor bastards you hired back in New Orleans.’

  Her mood changed abruptly. ‘They should have killed you. I paid them good money.’

  ‘They won’t be needing it where they are now.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘You killed them? All three?’

  The whisky in Brand’s glass suddenly turned sour. God what a bitch she was!

  ‘I killed that damned brother of yours as well,’ he snapped, wanting to hurt her. ‘How about that for a laugh?’

  ‘Willard? Don’t expect me to lose any sleep over him. You did us all a favor there.’

  Brand flung aside the glass. He sensed Elmo starting to get up and waved the man back with his hand.

  ‘All right, Lucilla, let’s cut out the games. You only had me brought here because you found out your hired guns didn’t earn their pay. Figure to do it yourself? Make sure this time because it’s the only way you’ll stop me going after that crazy old man of yours. I know what he’s up to. But it won’t happen. I already sent a telegraph to Washington. By now the President will be under so much protection even his own mother wouldn’t recognize him.’

  He saw her lovely face harden. Even so he was too slow to avoid her hand as it struck out at him. The slap was hard, stinging his cheek. He responded without thinking, slapping her back and she stumbled away with a little cry. The sound brought Elmo up out of his chair.

  ‘No, Elmo! Leave him. I’ll tell you when,’ Lucilla said, touching her fingers to the red palm print on her cheek.

  Brand watched her, not trusting her for a second.

  She turned and crossed to a door. It stood part way open and Brand saw it was the sleeping compartment.

  ‘Come here,’ Lucilla said. ‘You may as well. You don’t have any other place to go.’

  Brand joined her. He saw Elmo watching him. The big man’s face was dark with anger.

  ‘Stay outside,’ Lucilla told him. ‘When he comes back out you can kill him.’ She eased the door shut and locked it.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Brand asked lightly. ‘Convert me to the Brotherhood?’

  ‘I took a liking to you the first time I saw you. It’s a pity we didn’t have the opportunity to get to know each other better.’

  ‘You figure now is the right time?’

  ‘Why not? Look on it as me granting you your last request.’

  ‘I might prefer a good cigar.’

  Lucilla’s eyes glazed with anger. She stiffened as she stared him out, realizing he had just as strong a will. Then she relaxed, and without hesitating she loosened the tie of the gown and shrugged it off. Despite his situation Brand was stirred by her beauty. No doubt about it, Lucilla was a flower of the South. He seized the moment to admire her sleek, creamy nakedness. His interest seemed to transmit itself to Lucilla and she shivered softly, the tips of her full breasts rising even as he watched, long thighs moving slightly as she swayed before him.

  ‘Still prefer that cigar?’ she asked gently.

  Brand smiled, moving towards her. ‘Hell no,’ he said.

  Lucilla leaned in closer, eyes half closing in anticipation, mouth curving moistly. And that was when Brand hit her. His right fist came up hard and fast, a short, clipping punch that caught her on the curve of her soft jaw. She fell back across the bed without a sound, sprawling in what might have been wanton desire, legs crookedly apart. Brand shook his head at the sight, thinking what might have been in any other situation. He snapped out of his daydream and rolled Lucilla across the bed. Using handy items of her own clothing he bound her hands and feet and gagged her, then draped the sheet over her delightful body.

  He quickly searched the compartment, looking for anything that might double as a weapon. What he needed was a damned arsenal. He had to settle for a six-inch, slim letter opener he found in Lucilla’s writing case, wondering if it would actually pierce the thick skin of the man waiting outside. He knew there was only one way to find out.

  He unlocked the door and eased it open a fraction. At first he was unable to spot Elmo, then he saw the man perched on a chair to the left of the door. He seemed to be staring off into space, but Brand wasn’t fooled. Elmo was going to be one tough hombre to handle.

  He threw the door open and went through quickly, turning in Elmo’s direction. As he closed on the man Brand drove his left foot up, the heel of his boot smashing into Elmo’s side with stunning force. He heard ribs crack as Elmo was driven off the chair. A pained roar exploded from Elmo’s throat as he hit the floor. Brand didn’t waste the opportunity. He threw himself across Elmo’s broad back, hooking an arm around the man’s thick, muscled neck, pulling Elmo’s head to one side. Then he drove the blade of the slim knife into the exposed flesh. Blood spurted and Elmo roared in pain, his huge body thrashing about as he tried to rid himself of the thing on his back. Brand coiled his legs around Elmo’s body, repeatedly stabbing the knife into Elmo’s corded neck, feeling flesh and sinew part under the blade. More blood, hot and thick, gushed across his hands, spurting onto his shirt. Elmo still struggled. The man’s strength was impressive. He rolled suddenly, arching his body, throwing Brand to the f
loor, his great weight slamming down across Brand. It was like being crushed under a great rock. Brand lost his grip on Elmo’s bloody neck and he knew he was in for trouble if the man recovered fully. The pair of them rose to their feet in the same moment, Brand backpedalling to get himself away from Elmo.

  Upright Elmo advanced slowly. Blood was coursing down his neck, soaking his shirt and coat. He held his head to one side, trying to ease the hurt.

  Brand let him come. He had no intention of allowing Elmo to chase him back and forth across the compartment.

  He held the knife in his right hand, slightly away from his body, waiting his chance.

  When Elmo did make his move his agility caught Brand off guard. He lunged forward, turning slightly, then looped a massive fist out of nowhere. It caught Brand across the side of the head and knocked him the length of the compartment. He slammed up against the wall with a solid crash, blacking out for a moment, and Elmo was on him in an instant. His hands clamped around Brand’s throat, fingers gripping like steel rods. Brand was unable to breathe, he felt himself lifted off the floor. His vision swam. When it cleared he was staring into Elmo’s grimacing face. Brand was close enough to see the blood still pulsing out of the jagged wounds in Elmo’s neck.

  How the hell was the man still able to move?

  Brand didn’t struggle, attempting to conserve his energy. The air in his lungs was all he had and wasting it by thrashing around wasn’t the wisest thing to do.

  That was when he remembered he was still holding the knife. Sticky with Elmo’s blood it clung to his palm and fingers. Knowing it was going to be his last chance Brand drew back his hand, hoping his aim was correct, then put everything he had in a single, desperate thrust, shoving the slim blade up and forward. He felt it cut through cloth and then flesh. For an instant it stuck, then sank in up to the hilt. A burst of hot blood gushed out from the wound. Brand yanked the knife out and stabbed again, this time ripping the blade upwards as it slid into Elmo’s soft flesh.