Brotherhood of Evil

by William W. Johnstone

  “I’m riding to Big Rock?” Cal asked.

  “That’s right,” Smoke said. “Actually, now that I think about it, you and Pearlie are both going.”

  “Dadgum it,” Pearlie said. “I wanted to shoot some of those fellers.”

  “You’ll get your chance,” Smoke assured him. “Getting word to Monte is an important job. I’m sending two riders because at least one of you has got to get through and bring those reinforcements back.”

  “All right,” Pearlie said with grudging acceptance. “We’ll make it. You can count on that.”

  “I am,” Smoke told him.

  “And there’s a chance the ball won’t start until we get back here, right?”

  “A good chance. That’s the way it’ll be if everything goes according to plan.” Smoke looked up at the stars and gauged the time. “It’ll be a little while before dawn by the time you get back. That’ll be a good time to hit them.”

  Matt suggested, “Why don’t you wait until then to ride down and surrender?”

  “I’ll wait awhile,” Smoke said, “but I want to have a chance to talk to Trask and find out what’s behind all this before hell starts to pop.”

  “Still sounds plumb loco to me,” Preacher said, “but I know once you’ve got your mind made up, there ain’t no changin’ it. Pearlie, you and the boy rattle your hocks on back to Big Rock and fetch Monte. Don’t lollygag none.”

  “No chance of that.” Pearlie turned his horse toward town. “Come on, kid.”

  He and Cal rode away, vanishing in the night.

  Once they were gone, Matt said, “So Smoke, what do Preacher and I do while you’re down there having your little parley with Trask?”

  “You’ll wait here. The two of you will lead the attack when the others get back. Even with reinforcements, you’ll be outnumbered, so you’ll have to hit them hard and fast if you’re going to have any chance of winning.”

  “We can do that,” Preacher said. “Ain’t gonna be easy waitin’ up here until dawn, though.”

  “Smoke’s got the harder job,” Matt said. “Staying alive until then.”

  Smoke chuckled at that.

  The stars wheeled through the ebony sky overhead as the three men waited, talking quietly among themselves. The conversation was of little consequence. Preacher explained how he had run into Isaac Herschkowitz and decided to take on the role of a traveling peddler and tinker. Mostly, though, it was the sort of talk a family would share while sitting around enjoying each other’s company.

  Finally, Smoke lifted a hand in farewell and nudged his horse into motion.

  As he started down the slope, Preacher called after him, “Wonder what you’re gonna find down there.”

  So did Smoke, but he still didn’t have any answers. Major Pike might have known what Trask’s goal was, but Pike was dead.

  Actually, the only thing Smoke was sure of was that whatever awaited him at Sugarloaf, it wouldn’t be anything good.

  Chapter 62

  Jonas Trask was asleep, his slumber haunted by nightmares of the war as usual, when someone pounded on the door of the room he had claimed as his own. He cried out, lost for a second on seas of blood, then struggled to wakefulness and sat up in bed. He ran his fingers through his tangled hair.

  The darkened window told him it was still night. Whoever was out there in the hall had better have a good reason for disturbing him, he thought. “What is it?”

  “Hate to bother you, Doctor,” came the voice of one of his men, “but, uh, something’s happened. You need to come see.”

  Trask got out of bed and stomped to the door. He was dressed in shirt, vest, and trousers, although he had taken off his boots before stretching out. He jerked the door open and snapped at the unshaven, clearly nervous outlaw who stood there. “Don’t be mysterious. Tell me what this is about.”

  “Smoke Jensen just rode in and surrendered.”

  The words struck Trask like a physical blow. The news was what he had wanted all along, of course. Getting his hands on the legendary Smoke Jensen had been his goal for a long time, ever since he had first postulated his theory. But a part of him had been doubtful that it would ever happen.

  “You’re sure it’s Jensen?” he asked when he’d recovered enough from his shock to speak again.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen pictures of him in the illustrated magazines. It’s Jensen, all right.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Sitting on his horse in front of the house with a dozen men around him, holding guns on him.”

  “Get more men,” Trask ordered curtly. “A dozen might not be enough where Smoke Jensen is concerned. I’ll be down in a moment.”

  The gunman nodded and turned away.

  Trask put his boots on, then went to the dresser and lit the lamp. He buttoned his shirt collar, picked up a string tie, and fastened it around his neck. He ran his fingers through his hair again to get it in some semblance of order.

  It was a momentous occasion. He wanted to dignify it by looking presentable.

  He didn’t put on his gun belt before he left the room. He wasn’t going to need a weapon, he thought. He was fairly proficient with a revolver, but more than anything else he was a man of science and reason. Those were his true weapons.

  He smiled as he went down the stairs, knowing that he was going to meet his destiny.

  The biggest danger in riding in like Smoke had done was trigger-happy guards. It was why he had identified himself as quickly and as loudly as possible. He wanted all the outlaws around to know that he was the man Trask was after, and that they needed to keep him alive.

  It had worked. He was sitting his saddle in front of the house—his house, he thought as he tamped down the fires of anger burning inside him—and waited for the man who had brought hell to Sugarloaf.

  A tall, lean figure with a shock of dark hair stepped out onto the porch. He was well-dressed, although his clothes were a little rumpled as if he had slept in them. His eyes blazed with the fires of madness as he gazed intently at Smoke. “It really is you,” the man said by way of greeting. “You’re Smoke Jensen.”

  “That’s right. And I reckon you’re Jonas Trask.”

  “Doctor Jonas Trask,” the man corrected.

  Smoke shrugged slightly as if the title didn’t mean anything to him. In truth, it didn’t. No man responsible for so much death and destruction deserved to be called Doctor as far as he was concerned.

  “You have my wife,” Smoke said harshly. He knew that wasn’t true but wanted Trask to think he believed Sally’s life was in danger. It would make Trask more likely to believe Smoke’s surrender was real.

  “She has not been harmed,” Trask said. “You have my word on that. I wish her no ill will, and I regret any inconvenience we’ve caused the lady. I had to ensure, though, that you would accept my invitation.”

  “Invitation?” Smoke repeated. “Is that what you call it? Seems to me more like you declared war on this whole part of the country.”

  “Not at all. You have to understand. The mission in which I’m engaged will change the course of medical history. It will change the world. Some small . . . sacrifices . . . are necessary for progress to take place. They always have been.”

  Smoke still wore his gun. Even though he was surrounded by gun-swift killers, he knew he could have his Colt out and put a bullet in Trask’s brain before any of them could stop him. For a second, he considered doing just that, to make certain whatever evil scheme Trask had in mind would never come about.

  He discarded the idea. He wasn’t ready to die yet, not when he still had plans of his own to put into action. “What is it you want?” he asked in a hard, flat voice.

  “Why don’t you come in?” Trask suggested. “I’d like to explain everything to you.” He smiled. “I realize I’m inviting you into your own house. I don’t mean to insult you by doing that. It’s just the situation.”

  “All right.” Smoke started to swing down from the saddle.

>   Trask held up a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, but I have to insist that you hand over your gun first. You see, I’ve studied your life as a pistoleer with great interest, Mr. Jensen. I know you’re quite possibly the fastest man with a gun who has ever lived.”

  Smoke didn’t like being unarmed, but he had known all along that was a possibility. He held up both hands, then reached across with his left to take the Colt from its holster. One of Trask’s men stepped forward and snatched the gun out of his fingers.

  “Thank you,” Trask said. “Now, please come in.”

  Smoke dismounted. With more than a dozen guns still trained on him, he climbed the steps to the porch. Several of Trask’s hired killers were up there, too, flanking the so-called doctor. They kept Smoke covered as he followed Trask inside.

  They went to the parlor, where Trask lit a lamp. As the yellow glow filled the room, Smoke caught his breath at the sight of a man who had been standing in the darkness. The man was tall, with arms and shoulders that appeared massively powerful. His eyes were open, but like the rest of his features, they were utterly devoid of expression.

  Trask noticed Smoke’s reaction. “Don’t mind Dan. He’s my servant.”

  “He was just standing here in the dark.”

  “Yes, Dan doesn’t require sleep anymore. One of the unexpected effects of his involvement in my project.”

  That made no sense to Smoke, but he supposed if he waited, Trask might explain it. In the meantime, he didn’t look at the big man called Dan. As Preacher would have put it, the sight of those empty eyes gave him the fantods.

  Several of the outlaws followed them into the parlor. Trask said, “I’d send these men away so that we could discuss this matter in private, Mr. Jensen, but I’m afraid I can’t run the risk of you doing something foolish. I don’t expect you to understand—yet—the great honor I’m about to bestow on you.”

  “I want to see my wife,” Smoke said. That seemed like something a prisoner in his situation would demand.

  Trask shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s not possible, but I give you my word, on my sacred oath as a physician, that she is unharmed. Perhaps you’ll see her later.”

  Trask was lying and Smoke knew it. Trask didn’t have Sally, and even if he did, he had no intention of letting Smoke see her. All he cared about was his damned project, whatever it was.

  “Could I offer you something to drink?” Trask went on.

  “I don’t want anything to drink,” Smoke snapped. “I just want to know what the hell this is all about. What’s so important about me that you’d go to all this trouble just to get your hands on me?”

  Trask smiled. “Well . . . to tell the truth, it’s not actually you that I want to get my hands on, Mr. Jensen. It’s your brain.”

  Chapter 63

  Smoke’s blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins. He could tell that Trask meant that bizarre statement literally. “What in blazes are you talking about?”

  “I need your brain, Mr. Jensen,” Trask said. “To study. To serve as the basis for a surgical procedure that will change the world.” He extended both index fingers and gestured with them as he went on in an eager voice, like a professor warming to his subject. “You see, you have a unique ability. You can draw and fire a gun with greater speed and accuracy than anyone else in the world. The secret to that ability lies in your brain. I’m convinced that the same secret can be found in the brains of a great many men. All I need is the key to unlock it. When I have that key, which I’ll learn from studying you, I’ll be able to perform delicate surgeries on the brains of other men and give them that same ability.”

  Smoke’s thoughts whirled crazily inside his head. He said slowly, “Hold on a minute. You’re saying you want to see how my brain is built, so you can whittle on the brains of other men and make them the same as mine?”

  A pleased grin spread across Trask’s face. “Exactly! I’m so glad you’re able to grasp my theory. I was afraid it might be beyond your capabilities.”

  “Even if you were able to do that . . . what good does it do you?”

  “Why, it should be obvious,” Trask replied with a little shake of his head. “Slowly but surely, I’ll create an army of men who are as good with a gun as you are. Men who will have no thoughts of their own but will obey my every command.” He turned his head to look at the massive, stolid Dan. “I’ve mastered that part of the procedure already. It took a while, but Dan here is the culmination of that area of study. Now you’ll provide what I need to complete the project.”

  Smoke saw that Trask’s men were glancing at each other nervously. He had a hunch they had never heard the scope of the doctor’s mad scheme explained in such detail before. It appeared they didn’t like what they were hearing.

  “Just what is it you plan to do with that army of yours, Doctor?” Smoke asked.

  “Why do I have to do anything with them, Mr. Jensen? Isn’t it enough to create one of the greatest scientific and medical achievements of all time? Why, this process could unlock all sorts of capabilities in the human brain! It could transform the world!” Trask shrugged. “Of course, to properly fund such continuing research will require a great deal of money, so I was thinking perhaps I could take over an area here in the Southwest—Colorado, Utah, and New Mexico and Arizona Territories, say—and use their natural resources to further my work.”

  “In other words, you’ll have the biggest, deadliest outlaw gang of all time.”

  Trask spread his hands. “If you want to put it in such crass terms . . .”

  One of the gunmen said, “Hold on a minute, Doc. You’re gonna do this brain stuff to us? Make us where we can’t think no more, like Lonesome Dan?”

  “Anyone who undergoes my procedure will be a volunteer and will have his family suitably compensated,” Trask replied curtly. “Unless, of course, there aren’t enough volunteers. Then I’ll take whatever steps are necessary.”

  Smoke smiled grimly. “That means he’s going to start carving on your brains, boys, whether you like it or not.”

  “Nobody’s cuttin’ on my brain,” a second man said. He started backing toward the door.

  Trask held up his hands and tried to sound mollifying. “Don’t jump to conclusions. No one will die from my procedure. I give you my word about that. The only one who’ll die is . . .” His head swung around so he could look at Smoke. “I’m afraid that in order to properly study your brain, Mr. Jensen, I’ll have to remove it from your skull and perform an extensive dissection of it. There’s no way for you to survive that. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I,” Smoke said. “I’m sorry somebody as pure-dee loco as you ever got loose to cause so much trouble.”

  Trask’s face hardened. Clearly he didn’t like being accused of being insane. He looked at the three outlaws. “Five hundred dollars to each of you if you’ll take Mr. Jensen to the operating room.” To clarify, he added, “What used to be the dining room.”

  The gunmen forgot their misgivings for the moment. The promise of five hundred dollars was enough to accomplish that. Instead of backing away, they moved toward Smoke.

  Smoke glanced at the window. The curtains had enough of a gap between them for him to see that the sky outside had started to turn gray. It wouldn’t be long until dawn. Pearlie and Cal ought to be back from Big Rock with Monte Carson and the other men, and Preacher and Matt ought to be leading the attack on the ranch any time.

  If they didn’t, Smoke was just going to have to outfight the outlaws, whether he was unarmed and outnumbered or not. There was no way he was going to let them put him on some operating table so Trask could take a scalpel and start cutting his head open....

  Outside, the pre-dawn gloom suddenly erupted in gunfire.

  The racket made the three outlaws whirl toward the window. Smoke reacted instantly, too, and dove at the gunmen. He crashed into the closest one and closed his right hand around the cylinder of the man’s Colt. His left fist slammed against the outlaw’s jaw. As the man sag
ged, Smoke wrenched the gun out of his grip.

  The other two men were swinging around toward him again. Their guns came up.

  Trask shrieked, “Don’t shoot him in the head!”

  Smoke flipped the gun up and caught the butt in midair. It roared and bucked against his palm as he triggered it. Flame gouted from the muzzle and almost touched the shirtfront of an outlaw as the slug punched into his chest. He toppled backward over a chair.

  The third man got a shot off. Smoke felt the bullet pluck at his shirt as he fired again. His slug left a red-rimmed black hole in the center of the outlaw’s forehead as it bored on into the man’s brain. His knees folded up and dropped him to the floor.

  The man whose gun Smoke had taken tried to struggle to his feet. A swipe of the Colt’s barrel put him down, out cold, leaving Smoke alone with Trask and Dan.

  Although the shots might bring other men on the run. From the sounds of the ruckus outside, the rest of Trask’s hired killers had their hands full.

  Trask appeared to be unarmed. He extended his hands toward Smoke “Why are you doing this? Don’t you understand I’m offering you the chance to be part of something wonderful? You’ll be more famous for helping me change the course of history, Mr. Jensen, than you ever will be as a gunman!”

  “I don’t want to be famous,” Smoke said. “I just want to be left alone to live my life. And if that means putting a crazy man where he belongs—”

  “Don’t call me crazy!” Trask screamed. “I’m not crazy! I’m the most brilliant medical mind that’s ever lived!”

  Smoke kept one eye on the door and the other on Trask. “Sorry, Doctor, it’s over—”

  “No, it’s not!” Trask pointed at Smoke. “Kill him, Dan! But don’t hurt his brain!”

  Chapter 64

  During the fight between Smoke and the outlaws, Lonesome Dan had stood motionless and expressionless, seemingly paying no attention to what was going on around him, but at Trask’s command, he lurched into motion. With surprising speed, he launched himself at Smoke.