by Neil Hunter
The name didn’t mean anything to Brandy but there might be a connection. It was the fact that a freight business was involved that interested Brand.
“This Apex got anything to do with supplying the spur line Lord Debenham’s company is involved with?”
The Marshal nodded. “Believe they do handle some business for the railroad. Apex does a lot of hauling across the territory.”
“So what about the other two who were with this Quincey?”
“One man. By the time we got there we only found the two dead ones. The third man — you said you laid a gun barrel across his face — he was long gone.”
“Damn! You recognize the other dead man?”
“No. That bullet you put in him — took him fair and square in the face.”
“Marshal, who runs Apex?”
“Feller named Cody Ballard.” The Marshal frowned. “You got reason to ask questions about Apex?”
“Like I said, Marshal, just curious.”
The Marshal sat back, nodding to himself. He had a feeling that Brand’s interest went deeper that plain curiosity.
“You need that statement now, Marshal?” Brand was asking.
“I reckon not. Clear cut self-defense. Ain’t no need to chase it down the pike.”
Brand didn’t argue, even though he doubted the truth of the Marshal’s reasoning. The lawman was dropping further investigations into the matter, and from Brand’s position that was welcome. He had enough to do without being bothered with local law and all the red tape that went with it. On the other hand he wondered who was behind the Marshal’s change of heart.
Brand could only come up with one name — Frank McCord. It had to be McCord. It was his way. McCord would have locked the President himself away if he thought he was in the way of an investigation.
Leaving the Marshal’s office Brand walked downtown. He was going to have a look at Apex. It might turn out to be a waste of time but at the moment it was his only lead.
Apex Supply and Merchandising turned out to be the most distant of the businesses located at the far end of Miles City. There was a wagon yard, stables, corrals. A pair of vast, towering warehouses took up most of the fenced-in site.
Brand studied the layout for a while before he crossed the wagon yard. The site appeared to be deserted. A few horses milled about restlessly in one of the dusty corrals. Brand saw no other movement. The place was too quiet. He didn’t like it. Something was going on. Brand unbuttoned his jacket, easing the skirt away from the butt of his holstered Colt.
He reached the closest warehouse without attracting any attention. The main doors were closed. He found a smaller access door unlocked and slipped inside. He stood with his back to the door, allowing his eyes to adjust to the interior before he checked the place out.
The place was stacked with crates and barrels and sacks. They filled every available foot of space, with narrow gaps between giving access to the warehouse. Brand made his way along the first row, his eyes searching for markings, company names. Anything that might connect Apex with Banner Land and Cattle, or Banner Lumber. He found nothing as he moved from row to row, and he was starting to feel he was wasting his time, when he saw a large stack of objects covered by canvas sheets. He crossed over and lifted one sheet. He experienced no surprise when the stacked crates he exposed had the name Banner Lumber Company stenciled on them.
He stared at the crates. So he had found a pile of crates belonging to Banner. So? Maybe Apex did ship stuff for the company, and maybe the contents were perfectly legitimate. On the other maybe they weren’t. He was curious as to why the crates had been covered. Were they being protected? Or hidden?
The questions needed answering.
But they were going to have to wait.
He turned away from the crates, his body twisting to face the other way, hands reaching out to grab the arm and hand wielding a short iron bar that swept down at his skull. Brand jerked the arm, pulling the man off balance, and slammed a hard knee up into the exposed groin, The man screamed, his body bending double. As Brand let go the arm the man slumped to the ground and Brand booted him across the side of the head, driving him to the floor. Brand caught a moving shape rushing in at him. A heavy body slammed into him, driving him back against the stacked crates. Powerful hands sought his throat, caught and held, steel-hard fingers digging into his flesh. Brand drove a savage punch into the man’s left side. He felt a rib crack, heard the man’s grunt of pain. The fingers around his throat loosened and Brand pulled free. He eased to the side, and before the man could respond Brand drove hard, swift blows into his ribs again, forcing the groaning man to his knees.
“Nicely done, Brand.”
The voice came from a patch of shadow off to Brand’s right. He turned in that direction, his hand moving toward his holstered gun.
“Don’t!” the voice warned. “There are two guns on you right now. Just lift your hands away from your body.”
Brand watched them come forward. Three of them, and one was the man Brand had slugged with his gun during the previous evening’s struggle. The man’s face was badly bruised, with a long, deep gash across one cheek.
“I didn’t figure to meet up with you again so damn soon,” the man said through swollen lips.
“Wasn’t last night’s beating enough for you?” Brand asked.
The man would have lunged at Brand if a hand had not restrained him.
“Ease off, Billy, you’ll get your chance.”
The speaker was tall, lean and blonde. His face wore a hungry, almost wolfish expression. Small, cold eyes examined Brand.
“They say you’re a pushy bastard, Brand. And handy with that gun you carry. It lost you your Marshal’s badge so I hear.”
Brand didn’t answer. He was thinking ahead. If they knew who he was they would most likely know he was bound to bring them trouble. It went with the territory — or in Brand’s case with his reputation. These people had proved their potential for violence, and Brand knew damn well that they would show it again. He was in their way and they’d have need to be rid of him.
Behind him Brand could hear one of the men he’d floored starting to get up. The man was breathing hard, coughing harshly as he made it to his feet. His boots scraped the floor behind Brand as he stumbled.
“Ryker, take his gun,” the blonde man said, and from behind him a huge figure shambled into view.
There was only one word to apply to the man named Ryker — huge. He towered above Brand. He was broad too, exceptionally so. His massive shoulders flowed into long, muscular arms that terminated in the largest hands Brand had ever seen. Ryker’s wide, heavy boned face registered total blandness.
Rocking slightly on his toes Brand waited until Ryker was almost on him. In that moment the huge bulk of the body blocked Brand off from the other two men. Turning suddenly Brand reached out for the man who had only just climbed to his feet. He caught hold of a sleeve and also the front of the man’s shirt, jerking the dazed figure to him. As the man’s body closed in on him Brand turned again, away from the startled figure, still keeping his grip on the shirt. His action, combined with the accelerated forward motion of his surprised victim, pulled the man over Brand’s shoulder. Brand had put all of his own strength into the throw, and not for the first time he was able to acknowledge the usefulness of the technique taught to him by the man called Kito. That thought was foremost in his mind as he felt the man’s body arch over his shoulder and slam heavily into the approaching Ryker.
Brand saw the moment of impact. Saw Ryker halt, then stumble back, and knew he had no more than a few seconds. He turned and ran for the closest stack of crates, rounding the end of the stack just ahead of a gunshot. The bullet clipped the edge of a crate, spewing a hail of wood splinters that stung the back of his neck. With the echo of the shot rattling in his ears Brand kept on moving, snatching his own gun free, thumb dogging back the hammer. As he reached a gap in the line of crates, with the door of the warehouse ahead of him, an armed figure blocked his
way. The man triggered a loose shot that nicked the inside of Brand’s left arm. In a reflex action he swung his Colt up and round, returning the shot. His intended target jerked back out of sight, Brand not knowing if he’d scored a hit. He didn’t wait to find out. He kept on the move, aware of the sounds behind him. He felt the heel of one boot rock over as he hit a patch of rough floor. Brand stumbled and fell throwing out his left hand to break his fall. As he hit the floor he heard a gunshot close by and felt the wind of the passing bullet. Then he was rolling, his shoulder absorbing the impact. He twisted his body towards the source of the shot. He spotted a running figure. A face he recognized. The man named Billy. The man seemed determined to push his need for revenge. The gun in Billy’s hand was lining up for another shot. Brand decided Billy had used up his chances. He thrust his Colt forward, triggering quickly, feeling the weapon slap his palm as it fired. The bullet caught Billy in the chest, angling upwards and shattering his ribs on its way to his heart. Billy arched over onto his back, kicking wildly as he fell.
Brand scrambled to his feet. The warehouse door was only yards away now, and he lunged for it, feeling his breath burn his lungs. Blood pounded in his head. He expected a bullet to hammer in between his shoulders with each step he took. Nothing happened. Brand hit the door at a dead run, slamming it open as he went through. His momentum carried him for yards before he was able to control his wild flight.
The open yard lay before him.
Brand paused for a fleeting moment, his mind racing. Where did he go? He gaze swept the area, noting the flatness of the empty yard, the lack of cover. He knew his pursuers would appear any second. They were out to kill him, but Brand had no intention of making it easy for them. He wasn’t going to reach cover before they showed and he had no intention of showing them his back.
He turned to face the warehouse door, the Colt ready in his hand, and when they ran out through the door he opened fire.
The first to go down was the man who had attacked him with the iron bar. As he burst into the open he saw Brand — but too late. Brand’s shot caught him in the throat, driving him back against the warehouse wall. Brand eased back the hammer as Ryker lumbered into view. His massive hand made the revolver he held look insignificant. For his size Ryker was fast, though not fast enough up against Jason Brand. Ryker’s shot came a second after Brand’s, going wild as Brand’s bullet opened a bloody, ragged gash in his side. Ryker roared like a wounded bear, clamping a hand over the wet patch staining his shirt. He stumbled back inside the warehouse, dragging the door shut.
Silence fell across the yard. Pale wreaths of gun smoke drifted in the air. The man Brand had shot first was down on the ground, not moving. No sound came from the warehouse.
Brand backed off. He didn’t want to prolong the conflict. He still kept an eye on the warehouse as he made his way across the deserted yard.
He thought about the blonde man. The name Cody Ballard came to mind. Was the blonde Ballard himself? He seemed to have been in charge of matters. And if so, how involved was he, because Brand was sure the man had some connection with the reason he was on this assignment. He had a feeling he would find out soon enough.
He reached the perimeter fence. No one had come out of the warehouse after him. Maybe they’d had second thoughts.
Brand decided to make his way back into town. He needed to ask a few questions about Apex Supply and Merchandising, and the best place to ask those questions was Charlie Brown’s place. The quality of Charlie’s stew was second only to the information traded in the saloon.
As he walked back up into town Brand fished a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around his gashed left hand.
Miles City was still thronged with celebrating ranch crews. Brand realized that the shooting at the warehouse had probably gone unnoticed. When the celebrations were over and the crowds left, Miles City was going to become a very quiet town.
He had to shove his way through the crowd in Charlie Brown’s saloon. Charlie himself was serving behind the bar. He nodded when Brand appeared and indicated he wanted to speak to him in Charlie’s office. Brand followed him through the saloon and waited until Charlie closed the office door behind them.
“You messed the suit up,” Charlie remarked, turning from the door. “You want a drink?”
“Just information, Charlie.”
“Doesn’t come out of a bottle like whisky,” Charlie said.
“If it’s worth knowing it’ll have reached you.” Brand sat down. “Apex Supply and Merchandising, Charlie. What do you know about them?”
“Nothing good,” Charlie offered. “It’s a tough outfit. Feller who runs it has a hard reputation. Cody Ballard. From what I hear he walks pretty close to the line, but he does a lot of business around the Territory. He’s smart and he knows the right people. You tangled with him?”
“He tall, blonde and lean?”
Charlie nodded. “With a face like a hungry wolf.”
“Then I’ve tangled with him.”
Charlie grinned. “I admire your consistency, Jason. You still got that talent for walking into trouble.”
“It’s something I’ve been working at a long time, Charlie.”
“Like last night?”
Brand was reminded of the violence that had erupted out of the darkness. The sudden appearance of the three men and the swift, uncompromising brutality of the brief encounter. As with most violent conflicts it had been over swiftly. But in that short time it had been utterly final for some. There was nothing more final than death — and nothing as cruel than sudden, violent death. The thought often crossed Brand’s mind that one day he might face his own mortality. It could happen to him just as easily as he visited it on others. He knew it, and accepted it.
“Charlie, you know of any connection between Apex and the Banner Lumber Company?”
“I know Apex freights supplies up to the line camp.” Charlie eyed Brand closely. “Rumor has it there’s been trouble at the railhead.”
“That right, Charlie?” Brand remarked.
“The hell with you,” Charlie grinned. “I bet you don’t even tell yourself what you’re up to.”
Brand stood up. “Thanks for the words, Charlie.”
Leaving the saloon Brand returned to his hotel. In his room he locked the door. Tossing his hat on the bed Brand stripped to the waist. He poured water in the hand basin and washed the dust from his face and body. He noticed a bruise forming above his right eye. He toweled himself dry and found a clean shirt to wear.
He was standing by the open window, buttoning the shirt, when a nagging thought pushed to the front of his mind. It was something he hadn’t had time to consider until this moment, but now it was forcing itself to be heard. It must have been obvious to Frank McCord when he assigned Brand that his cover wasn’t going to last too long. Too many people in Miles City knew Jason Brand and his reputation. His face was known by people on both sides of the law. McCord must have known that. So why had he gone to all the bother of building such an elaborate story? The hell of it was, Brand realized, that even Richard Debenham had not been completely taken in. Brand had suspected the British Lord hadn’t been fooled. A wry smile touched his lips. Even Sarah had questioned his identity. She had seen through him with comparative ease. The smile faded and Brand’s face hardened. Damn McCord! What was he playing at? Brand began to get the feeling McCord was using him. But for what? He moved to the bed and sat on the edge while he took out his Colt, ejecting the spent cartridge cases. The trouble with McCord was that he had no scruples when it came to getting the damn job done.
And what about Raven?
Where was the man? In Miles City or waiting it out until Debenham left the town and ventured into open country?
Brand finished loading the Colt and snapped the loading-gate shut with a show of impatience. Waiting never came easy to him. And it was part of the problem with this assignment. Before he could act he had to wait for the opposition to show its hand. The hard part was ant
icipating that move and being there to stop it. It wasn’t in Brand’s nature to sit back and let trouble come to him. He preferred to be ahead of the game if possible. But this assignment couldn’t be worked like that. There were too many unanswered questions. Too many dark corners for Brand’s peace of mind. He jammed the Colt back into his holster and stood up.
Where did he go from here?
He crossed to the window again and stared down at the busy street. He realized there was only one way he could go. That was to follow through with the plan of action he’d been using since arriving in Miles City. Stay close to Debenham and keep his eyes and ears open. Tomorrow they would leave for the railhead and the source of the problems that had brought Debenham out here to Montana. Maybe up there Brand might be able to get some answers to the questions crowding his mind.
He was about to move away from the window when he spotted a familiar figure on the other side of the street. It was Cody Ballard. The Apex owner seemed to be in a hurry. Brand got the impression that Ballard was heading for the hotel. For a fleeting moment he wondered if the man was coming to see him.
Whatever the reason might have been Brand never found out. No one did. Cody Ballard was halfway across the street when a single gunshot rang out. Loud enough to drown the noise of the street itself. It had come from a heavy caliber rifle, and the bullet, accurately placed, blew the top of Ballard’s head off in a gout of blood and shattered bone. The driving impact of the projectile picked Ballard off his feet and tossed him back across the street as easily as the wind picks up a scrap of paper.
Before Ballard’s body hit the ground Brand, his Colt in his hand, was out of his room and heading downstairs.
He didn’t know why Ballard had been killed. But he did know who had done it.
Raven!
Brand had just witnessed a very professional kill. As far as he was concerned it stated one thing very clearly.
Raven was in town.
In Miles City.
And Lord Richard Debenham was on his own right now. Totally unprotected.
