by Neil Hunter
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
Jason Brand was summoned to Frank McCord’s office, where he was given his latest assignment. He was to protect Lord Richard Debenham, the part owner of a large British company involved in a joint American/British venture. McCord had reason to believe someone wanted Debenham dead ... and was willing to pay big money to get the job done. So Brand was to stay close to Debenham without letting him know his life was in jeopardy. It sounded simple ... but he knew it wasn’t going to be any such thing. And before the end of it he was proved pretty damn’ right.
HIGH COUNTRY KILL
JASON BRAND 4:
By Neil Hunter
First published in Great Britain by F A Thorpe
Copyright © 1978, 1998 by Neil Hunter
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: February 2013
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
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Published by Arrangement with the Author.
Chapter One
STANDING on the verandah of the Maqueen House Hotel Jason Brand watched the opening celebrations marking the start of the Montana Stockgrowers Association 1886 Convention. For the next couple of days Miles City, Montana Territory, would talk, eat, drink and sleep cattle, unaware at the time that this particular convention would go down in history. When the parades were over and the dust had settled, the local cattlemen — big and small — would meet in Miles City’s new Civic Centre. So modern that it even housed a large roller skating rink. There, along with representatives from the Northern Pacific Railroad and the St Paul stockyards, they would work out the details of what was to become one of the most extensive roundups in the history of the cattle industry. Due to the vastness of the ranges that spread out in all directions from Miles City, the huge herds belonging to the diverse number of ranches had run wild across the territory. They were lost in countless coulees, gulches, ravines and hidden bottomlands. Here they had continued to breed and multiply, until individual ranches found they were unable to make a count of their herds. The 1886 convention was to work out the complicated details of the greatest roundup the Montana Territory had ever witnessed.
The plan they were to work out would divide the rangeland into seventeen sections. Each section would be worked by a crew of between fifty to a hundred men. These crews would scour every foot of their appointed sections, gathering every head of cattle they could find. There would be a tally of all newborn calves. Then the doctoring of sick animals, followed by branding, castrating and dehorning.
Finally, each section would separate its gathered cattle into groups of a known brand. Here again the crews faced an enormous task. The Montana Stockgrowers Brand Book for 1886 listed no fewer than four thousand registered brands.
The combined crews of the Montana ranches faced a gigantic task. By the time it was all over they would have rounded up more than a million head of cattle, working for long weeks in rough country in scorching weather. Later in the year Montana would face a drought, while the year before it had been torrential rain flooding the land and turning the earth to a sea of red mud.
All that lay ahead. First would come the meetings, where the intricate details would be thrashed out. Before the planning came the celebrations. Starting with the parade that Jason Brand watched. It was led by the band from nearby Fort Keogh, the sweating soldiers blasting out a brassy sound that rose above the cheering and whooping from the gathered citizens of Miles City and the assembled crews of ranch hands from the territory’s spreads. Behind the band came local dignitaries and members of the Stockgrowers Association, along with their wives. They followed the band in a long line of carriages. Bringing up the rear came a boisterous and rowdy bunch of cowboys, their milling horses kicking up clouds of acrid dust.
Even Brand felt himself caught up in the excitement of the moment. He understood what it meant to the cheering cowboys. Once the roundup got under way they would have little time for celebrations. So they were determined to pack in a lot of living over the next few days.
In that area Miles City had plenty to offer. A man could gamble if he wanted. Or go to Turner’s Theatre where for five dollars he could have a bottle of doubtful wine and the company of a short-skirted hostess — who were dubbed box rustlers. If he fancied the girl more than the wine, Turner’s could offer the needed facilities. Or there was The Cottage Saloon. Or the establishment run by Charlie Brown, a place Brand knew well. It had been some time since he’d visited Miles City, but he recalled the pot of Mulligan Stew that Charlie kept simmering on a stove. It was always there. Winter or Summer, and free to any man who entered the place. Many an out-of-work cowhand had visited Charlie Brown’s saloon without the price of a drink, and had emerged some time later with his empty stomach full of the legendary stew. To any stranger Miles City might not present itself as much of a town at first sight with its false-fronted buildings and weather-beaten drabness. But Miles City, rough as it was, lived hard and didn’t worry overly much about fancy trappings.
Brand’s first good look at the town showed him that it hadn’t changed much during his absence. His journey in had been long and tiring. By the time Brand’s party had reached the Maqueen House the previous evening all they had wanted to do was turn in. Even Lord Richard Debenham, the man Brand was along to protect, was showing signs of wear. The trip from Washington had been enough to tax the most energetic. Brand himself, still wearied from his New Mexico assignment, found the journey endless. He turned away from the noisy parade and went back inside the hotel. The lobby was reasonably quiet after the racket outside. Brand glanced at the big clock on the wall above the desk. Lord Debenham was due down at any moment. Brand dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs that stood against the lobby wall. His position allowed him a clear view of the hotel entrance as well as the staircase leading to the first floor. He shifted uncomfortably in the restricting dark suit he was wearing, unbuttoning the jacket. Damn McCord and his insistence on formality! Most things Brand could put up with. Wearing a suit all day and every day wasn’t one of them. He glanced down to where his high-heeled, well-polished boots showed beneath the dark pants. At least he’d kept those. McCord couldn’t do a damn thing about the boots. Brand just couldn’t wear anything else. His feet wouldn’t adapt.
Brand dragged his attention back to the present. This was no time to be worrying over his damn boots. He pushed his thoughts further back, picking out names at random.
McCord.
Debenham.
The hired gun named Raven.
He shuffled the names, and the first one to intrude on his consciousness was Frank McCord’s . . .
. . . McCord had given Brand time to breath — just — before he had him in his office. He had gestured for Brand to sit down, then continued to study the sheaf of papers in his hand.
“Lord Richard Debenham,” McCord began, reminding Brand about the conversation they’d had on the train returning from New Mexico at the conclusion of Brand’s assignment involving the renegade half-breed called Lobo. “He’s part owner of one of the largest cattle-combines in Montana. A British company. They’ve invested a great deal of money in the northwest cattle business, and they employ a
lot of people. Fight now Debenham’s company is also involved in building a rail spur in the high country close to the Canadian border. Debenham’s also moving into the lumber industry. They aim to build their own mills, freight in the cut trees, process them and ship the timber out. Debenham has a way with operations like this. An impressive man. Full of energy and ideas. The British and American shareholders of the parent company have invested a massive amount of money in the new projects.”
“But—” Brand asked, knowing that something had to be wrong. If everything had been running right McCord’s department wouldn’t have been called in.
“In any operation of this size there’s a lot of money floating about. There are contracts being negotiated all the time. Supply of materials, machinery, men. That kind of situation always attracts anyone with an eye for a quick dollar, and it’s impossible to keep a check on every phase of the operation. Lately things have been going wrong at the railhead. Bad food. Poor construction materials. A lot of cheap cargo. But not according to the kind of money being paid out at the other end.”
“That why Debenham’s out here? To sort the mess out?”
McCord gave a distant, almost secretive smile before he answered. “Yes. Wants to get things settled.”
“Or get himself killed.”
“It could happen.”“Does Debenham know about Raven?”
McCord shook his head.
“Do we tell him?”
“No,” McCord said tightly. “Let him go his own way. You just stick with him, and take any action that’s necessary. There’s a great deal riding on this railroad construction. Washington wants it to run smoothly. They don’t want any unfortunate accidents taking place.”
“Somebody might get a red face.”
“Damn right!” McCord snapped. “And I don’t expect it to be me! It’s as simple as this, Brand. Washington wants Debenham kept alive and the trouble at the railhead stopped. Unfortunately politics come into it. Too much goodwill between the two governments to risk. Millions in investment money to lose. So Washington wants the problems sorting out.”
“If Debenham’s not supposed to know about the hired gun, how do I explain my presence?”
“It’s already been explained. Debenham is expecting an observer from the Department of the Interior to accompany him to Montana. He knows how governments work. He’ll accept you and your credentials. They’ll be ready before you leave.”
Brand stood up. “That it?”
“Do you need anything?”
“Only a good night’s sleep.”
“Get one,” McCord. As Brand turned to leave he added: “Whitehead wants to see you in the armory.”
Brand nodded. At the door he paused. “If there’s a hired gun waiting for Debenham somebody’s got the wind up. They have to figure he’s on the trail of whoever has sticky fingers. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas?”
McCord’s faint smile was edged with frost. “You want me to make it easy for you?”
“The day you do ... I quit!” Brand told him and left the office . . .
. . . the whipcrack report of a pistol shot reached Brand’s ears. Without conscious thought he reached under his jacket, fingers curling over the butt of the gun nestling under his left arm.
Then he heard the chorus of yells and whistles and realized it was all part of the town’s celebrations. He uncurled his fingers and leaned back in the chair. He’d have to watch himself or he’d be shooting at shadows next.
“Good morning, Jason!”
Brand glanced round at the sound of the voice, knowing who was standing before him. He pushed to his feet, taking off his hat. “Morning, Lady Debenham.”
Sarah Debenham, at twenty-five, was a beautiful, poised and coolly confident young woman. The bright, alert eyes studying Brand were large and blue, yet behind the outer gentleness there was an inner core of defiance that hinted at Sarah’s high-spirited willfulness. In the few days he’d known her Brand had discovered that Sarah Debenham was indeed her father’s daughter. She carried all the aristocratic bearing of her class and appeared capable of handling any situation that might arise. But Brand had seen beyond the veneer, suspecting that British reserve aside, there was a damn sight more than the so-called blue blood of Anglo-Saxon nobility flowing through her veins. Nor had he failed to notice the way she looked at him when she imagined he wasn’t aware. Sarah Debenham might be the daughter of a British Lord, allowing the title of Lady to be handed to her. Brand figured she was also a woman — right down to the tips of her noble toes.
He studied her now, approving of her choice of costume. She was clad in a pearl grey riding habit, complete with a ridiculously tiny hat and plume, perched on top of her fair hair. The habit was almost severe in its cut, but that only managed to compliment her lithe, long legged figure. The skirt fell easily over her sleek hips and the tight jacket hugged the contours of her full, high breasts.
“Do I pass your inspection?” she asked casually, aware that he had been deliberately studying her.
“No complaints,” he replied. “You might have difficulty riding a sidesaddle though.”
“If the need arises I can ride bareback,” she told him evenly. Brand knew that if she said so it would most likely be true.
She moved by him to stand at the door. The parade had moved on down the street, leaving only an echo of sound and a shifting pall of dust. Sarah glanced over her shoulder at Brand.
“They certainly know how to enjoy themselves.”
“It’s the way of life,” Brand said. “A man works hard, lives hard, so when he has the chance he plays hard too.”
She turned to stare at him. “And do you play hard, Jason Brand?” she asked gently, a faint gleam in her eyes.
“Depends on the game,” he told her.
A murmur of fresh laughter bubbled from her throat. “I will remember that.”
I’m damned sure you will, Brand thought.
Abruptly she changed the subject. “My father will be down in a moment. He asked if you’d like to come riding with us.”
At least she didn’t call him daddy. Brand had been dreading the initial confrontation with Debenham’s daughter. His preconceptions had been swept aside by Sarah’s appearance, and he had started to realize that the long train ride out from Washington wouldn’t be so bad after all. Sarah had helped to while away the hours. She had travelled extensively with her father. All over Europe. The Far East, including India and China, and of course the United States. She spoke fluent French, and had a working knowledge of half a dozen other languages. She was one of those young women who adapted well to any given situation, coping easily. Her confidence lent her an attractive air that drew Brand’s attention. He made a half-hearted attempt at remaining detached, but his natural curiosity won out, and he found he was being drawn to her.
“Isn’t he going to join the circus?” Brand asked dryly.
Sarah smiled at the suggestion. “Father will put in an appearance this afternoon, when the Association gets down to business. His image doesn’t lend itself to galloping down the street, yelling at the top of his voice.” Her smile widened. “I’d love to see him do it, though, and I’m sure he’d like to try.”
“And just what would father like to have a try at?”
Lord Richard Debenham crossed the lobby as he asked the question. A tall, lean, broad-shouldered man in his mid-forties. Suntanned and fair-haired, with the blue eyes he had passed to his daughter, he epitomized the legendary Englishman who travelled the world and left behind British Colonies, cornering the market in imperialism. At first glance Debenham might have appeared foppish. A born gentleman he might be, but Debenham was no fool. He could not have built his own business empire if he had been. Despite owning an ancestral home in England, that took a staff of twenty-five to run, the British Lord was well able to fight his own battles and to win.
“I’ll tell you later,” Sarah said.
“Did you sleep well, sir?” Brand asked.
; Debenham nodded. “I did. It’s the air. Fresh and clean. Marvelous!” He turned for the door. “You two ready?” he asked, and without waiting for a reply he strode off. A tall figure dressed in tan riding breeches and a brown leather jacket. He carried a well-worn United States Cavalry issue hat in one hand. Brand noticed Debenham’s gleaming leather boots and decided his own weren’t polished at all.
With Sarah following close Brand left the hotel and trailed after Debenham. The moment they stepped out on to the street Brand realized just how vulnerable the British Lord was. A concealed gunman could take his time and complete the job with a single, well-placed shot. He didn’t allow the possibility to throw him. With any assignment all he could do was assess the situation as it occurred and act accordingly. Killing a man was easy. Protecting a man from being killed was entirely different. The odds were on the side of the one attempting the kill. He set the rules and kept them to himself. Protecting someone marked for death was one of the most frustrating jobs to be given. It was akin to working in the dark. There was no telling when an attack might come. Or from where. There were a dozen places on the very street they were walking down a man could conceal himself. Being able to identify the man named Raven didn’t do much to ease the situation. The assassin could carry out his kill without ever showing his face. Brand was already beginning to doubt the wisdom of not telling Debenham his life was in jeopardy. From what he had already seen of the man Brand figured Debenham could have handled the problem.
They reached the livery without incident. Their horses, rested and groomed after the long train journey, stood saddled and waiting. Sarah’s long legged chestnut glanced round expectantly as they approached. The animal wore a neat sidesaddle on its back. He glanced at Sarah. She was smiling at him.
“Help me mount?” she asked.
Brand stepped forward, a faint smile edging his lips as he assisted her. As she settled on the chestnut, looking down at him Sarah’s eyes were sparkling with some inner mischief and Brand knew without a doubt that she knew exactly what was going through his own mind at that moment.
