by Neil Hunter
‘Lisa, how did the Comanches get you?’ he asked.
She turned on her side, peering at him through half-closed eyes.
‘My folks had a place along the Pecos. One day the Indians just rode in and killed them. They took me with them when they left.’
‘You got anywhere to go?’
‘My mother has a brother and his wife in El Paso. They have a store. I could go there.’
Brand slipped out of bed and pulled on the cotton pants.
Lisa watched him, aware of his mood. She had a feeling he needed to say something. She sat up, facing him, unmindful of her nakedness.
‘Where will you go?’
He turned to face her, knowing he had to tell her about the three men who had deserted his family. There was no reason forcing him to explain, but he wanted her to know.
‘There’s something I have to do,’ he said, and described what had happened at the Brand ranch.
Lisa listened in silence, and it was only when he had finished his explanation that he noticed the change in her manner.
‘Why don’t you go to the law? Or the Army? Let them handle it.’
He was unable to conceal his bitterness. His voice was bleak when he said: ‘What would they do, Lisa? Stick up a few wanted posters? I could get to be an old man waiting for something to happen.’
‘You could get to be a dead young man the way you’re acting!’ There was anger in her tone, and it showed in the flashing color of her eyes.
Brand snatched up the Henry rifle.
‘My family is dead. If those three bastards had stuck with us they might still be alive. I don’t figure to forget that. I still won’t even when those three are dead and buried!’
‘Somehow I don’t think you will, Jason.’ Lisa’s shoulders slumped. She had realized there was nothing she could do to alter the way he felt.
‘If I don’t do it, ain’t no one going to do it for me.’
‘Well I think you’re wrong, Jason. Terribly wrong. All you’re doing is living on bitterness. On hate. It’s no way to exist.’
‘The hell it ain’t! What else is there for me? I’ll tell you, Lisa. Nothing!’ His anger made him want to hurt her with words. ‘Just of late I’ve had a taste of hell. I didn’t choose it but it happened. Now I aim to pay some back to the ones who caused it.’
Lisa stared at him. She saw the violence in his eyes, the raw fury that lay so close to the surface. It was like looking at a total stranger. Someone who frightened her.
‘Haven’t you had enough violence? You can’t keep on this way. What about . . . us . . . last night . . . ’
His face was stony, eyes cold and hostile.
‘I don’t reckon I need to listen to you,’ he said and turned for the door. ‘What I do with my life is my own business.’ He paused with his hand on the door. ‘You should have left it alone, Lisa. Now it’s between us.’ Opening the door he said: ‘I’ll make the arrangements so we can ride for El Paso soon as we can.’
And then he was gone, the door shutting him from her sight. Lisa stared after him for a long time. She was angry with herself as much as with him. He had spoken the truth. This thing would always lie between them now. Spoiling their relationship. But she still felt she was right. His way would only lead him to more violence. A life based on the power of the gun. She gripped the sheet in frustration, feeling the thin material tear. Couldn’t he see? Didn’t he realize that his way would only take him along a dark path littered with the broken bodies of others with the same compulsion. He couldn’t see that. All that mattered to him was to revenge his dead family by searching for the three men who had deserted them.
She sank back on the bed, the memory of their passion drifting through her mind. Only a few hours ago it had been so different — she had held him and she had loved him. Yet as surely as the climax of their lovemaking had come and gone she had found him only to lose him forever.
Chapter Nine
El Paso and the awkward leave taking from Lisa lay far behind him. Brand had gone from her with mixed feelings taking control of his emotions. Now though, long weary days later, his whole being was occupied with his singular task. That of finding the three men who filled his thoughts. His search for his sister now over and her killer dead, he was able to devote himself to finding those men. The episode with Lisa had been a distraction, brought about by events he had been unable to control. That situation had been resolved, and Brand was determined that nothing else was going to stop him. Being with Lisa had shown him how easy it was to put things aside. He had wasted time, maybe more than he could afford, even though he knew it could not have been avoided. Now he was free of Lisa and he put her out of his mind. She had made it clear that she found his obsession with revenge repugnant. The trip to El Paso had been made more or less in silence. They didn’t seem to have anything more to say to one another. Lisa had turned cold towards him, though he had sensed she would have returned to their previous relationship if he had renounced his violent intentions. He could not have done that, and there was no way he could make her understand how he felt. No matter how he tried to see it from her viewpoint his thoughts always returned to his family. He could not forget how they had died. Nor could he rid himself of the shadows of the three men who had walked away and left his family to be slaughtered. Perhaps he was taking an eye-for-an-eye attitude. But he refused to ignore his responsibilities. He felt it was right, and he had no need to justify himself to anyone.
Brand reined in his horse with a savage pull on the leathers. He sat stiffly upright in the saddle, staring out across the dusty landscape. In the far distance a streak of dust whipped across the twilight sky. Shadows were lengthening, filling the scarred land with brooding patches of deep crimson. The somber mood matched his own feelings.
Damn!
Brand swept his hat from his head and drew a sleeve across his face. He could feel the gritty sweat that clung to skin that was dry and taut from long exposure to the sun. He spat, trying to get rid of the sour taste in his mouth. There were times when he hated this border country. But then he only had to sit and watch a sunset like tonight’s and the old feeling came back. It was an addiction that held him here. The southwest took hold of a man, engulfed him and he was lost. He could curse the land, hate it, fight it all of his life, but deep down inside there was a feeling for the place that never went away. It was hard to understand. It was a hell of piece of country. Wild and empty. Dry deserts, rocks and cactus. Little water most of the time.
So where was the magic?
He knew the answer to that.
In the vastness of a country that lay silent and sun bleached. The majestic curve of some lonely ridge sweeping up to meet the flawless blue of a cloudless sky. It was a land steeped in mystery. Of age-old wisdom. It was cruel and beautiful. Savage and ever changing. It made men out of boys, and cut down those who thought they were better than they were. A man soon found his measure in this land. If he found it too late he generally didn’t get to walk away. He would leave his bones in some forgotten place and the wind would take away the marks of his passing. It had the annoying habit of bringing out the best in a man — and the worst in others.
Swinging out of the saddle Brand led his horse to the shelter of a rocky overhang. He unsaddled, dumped his gear. He tethered the horse, then went through the routine of setting up his camp for the night. He scouted the area and found enough fuel for a small cook fire. He built a ring of stones and set his fire going, then searched for his coffee pot. He filled it from one of his two large canteens. He used a couple of flat stones to grind some coffee beans and tossed the result in the water. While the coffee brewed he cleared a place for his blankets.
Then he checked his guns, making sure no dust had filtered in to jam the working parts. It was too late finding out a gun didn’t work when it was time to use it. He was deep in Apache country now. Comanche and Kiowa were bad enough, but any man who lived in this part of the territory got to respect the Apache very quickly. T
he Apaches didn’t go in for all the fancy trappings of the plains Indians. The Apache was, first and foremost, a fighter. The best in the country. Left alone they were peaceable enough. But the Apaches hadn’t been left alone.
They had been pushed and cheated and pushed again, until they had swallowed enough. And then they fought back. Savagely. Maybe brutally. But it was the only way they knew, and they did it well. The Apache didn’t just live on the land. He was part of it. He used it to his benefit. He did not abuse it, because he believed he came from the land, was of the land and when he died he returned to the land. The white men who invaded never fully understood the concept, and that was why the Apaches ran rings round them.
The lid of the coffee pot bounced as the water boiled. Brand took it off and allowed it to brew. After a few minutes he poured some of the thick, dark liquid into a tin mug and sat back, chewing on some dried beef.
Beyond his small camp the darkness took hold. Dry dust rattled against brittle sage. A lizard darted out of the shadows, poised motionless in the orange glow of the fire, transfixed by the flames. It held its position for a time, eyes gleaming, then it turned swiftly, clawed feet raking up a spume of dust as it sped into the night.
Brand refilled his mug. He put his back to the rock, feeling the day’s heat still there. There was a growing heaviness in his eyes. Sleep forcing itself on him. He needed rest. Tomorrow he would reach Tucson. And find what? There was no way of telling. All he could do was hope that his guess had been correct, and he would find his men there. Unless he uncovered something else it was the only lead he had. A conversation he had overheard between the three. Something about revisiting Mollie’s Place in Tucson. The way they’d talked about the establishment it was clear they had been there before. So he might pick up some indication of their whereabouts.
Brand knew there were no guarantees. The three may have ridden clear of Tucson. They could have gone in any direction. Even way up north and over the border into Canada.
He stared off into the darkness, the mug of coffee cooling in his hand. He found he was repeating their names over and over in his mind.
Sam Hatch.
Del Cooper.
Joe Preedy.
It was the first time he had conjured up their names since the massacre of his family. Not that he needed names. He knew their faces as well as his own. He knew the way they moved. The way they handled themselves. Their images were burned deep in his mind, and he would recognize them wherever and whenever he met them.
It was likely they would know him too. As far as they knew he was as dead as the rest of his family. But they would know him the moment they laid eyes on him — and they would know what he would want from them. Brand wanted that. He wanted them to know who was holding the gun that killed them.
He tasted the coffee. It was cold. He tossed the liquid into the dirt. He climbed to his feet, wanting to check his horse before he turned in.
Later, wrapped in his blanket, he found his thoughts were drifting back to El Paso. He didn’t want to return to the place, but the thoughts persisted, and he finally gave in to them. Allowing them free rein might erase them, putting them out of his mind completely . . .
Lisa’s Aunt and Uncle had greeted her return with disbelief that turned rapidly to joy. They had given her up for dead, and her sudden appearance came as a miracle to them. It was plain to see how fond they were of her. Brand found out they had no children of their own and Lisa had become as close to them as to her own parents.
Despite Brand’s desire to ride on he had been persuaded to remain, and he had stayed for a couple of days. Lisa’s Uncle, a solid, steady man who possessed greater perception than might have been apparent, had noticed the distance between Brand and Lisa. He had eventually got the story from Lisa, and though he had sympathized, he also knew the way that Brand’s mind was working. Being a man born and bred in a self-sufficient society, where a man fought his own battles, Lisa’s Uncle knew there was no point trying to steer Brand away from his plan. He sensed the restless urge burning inside the younger man, and realized there was only one way it would be satisfied.
Unable to help in any other way, Lisa’s Uncle had offered practical help. He had outfitted Brand completely. Clothes, weapons, ammunition. Food and blankets. A sturdy chestnut that would carry a man a long way. And there had also been fifty dollars in gold.
Pride had brought an instant refusal from Brand. Lisa’s Uncle, expecting the same, had suggested the outfit was a sale on credit. Payable when Brand was able. This had been agreed on. No paper changed hands. There was no need. It was a debt that would be paid.
Brand had ridden out one morning, with Lisa’s Uncle the only one to see him go. Watching the solitary figure ride out along El Paso’s main street, Lisa’s Uncle had wondered what the hell was wrong with a world that forced a boy to become a man so quickly. Youth was brief enough at the best of times. It was a shame when it had to be cut off so abruptly . . .
Jason Brand woke with a jerk. He sat up, aware that it was already light. He stumbled out of his blanket. Raking through the ashes of his fire he unearthed a few glowing embers and rekindled the blaze. As the flames rose he placed his coffee pot over them. The morning still held a chill. It pierced his shirt, setting his side to aching again. The wound was healing well but it occasionally gave him sharp reminders of its presence.
He drank hot, bitter coffee with little enthusiasm and finished off another chunk of dried meat. After that he broke camp, saddled up and moved out.
Just on noon he sighted Tucson. The white adobe buildings reflected the glare of the sun, blurring at a distance. Heat waves shimmered before him across the flat baked plain between himself and the town.
San Cosme de Tucson as it had been named originally, had been founded in 1700 by Father Eusebio Francisco Kino, an energetic Jesuit who did a great deal to further Spanish exploration in the southwest. As well as founding Tucson, Father Kino and his Jesuit followers built a number of missions in the area — one of which, San Xavier del Bac, lay close to the town of Tucson. Over the years Tucson was added to, but it was not until 1845 that it became part of the United States, included in the Gadsden Purchase. Eighteen-seventy found Tucson still fairly isolated. A raw, lawless place where violence and death had become daily fare.
Jason Brand rode in with both eyes wide open and his Henry rifle laid across his saddle. Tucson, he decided after a swift appraisal, was a tough town. It held little appeal, and it was only his personal business that would keep him there.
He reined in before a saloon halfway along main street. Tying his horse he took his rifle and went inside. Brand paused to knock the dust from his clothes before he stepped over the threshold, giving his eyes chance to adjust to the gloomy interior. Inside he crossed to the bar, his boots thumping on the plank floor.
‘Beer,’ he said.
The bartender nodded. He was a tall, skinny man with pale, eager eyes, and he gave the impression he wanted to talk. Brand didn’t mind that. He needed someone who could give him information.
‘Passing through?’ the bartender asked, setting the glass of beer on the bar.
‘Maybe,’ Brand replied, tasting the beer. It was warm and had a bitter flavor. ‘Depends on whether I find who I’m looking for.’ He lowered the glass. ‘Heard tell they were headed in this direction.’
‘Maybe I know ’em.’
‘Sam Hatch. Del Cooper. Joe Preedy.’
The bartender’s throat moved as he swallowed.
‘You got hard friends, boy.’
‘It’s a hard world,’ Brand said. He glanced in the mirror behind the bar. There were only a few customers in the saloon. None seemed to be interested in Brand. He looked at the bartender again. ‘They in town?’
The bartender’s head bobbed quickly. ‘Could be,’ he said. ‘Molly’s Place more’n likely.’
‘Where?’
‘Far end of town. Two story building next to a Mex cantina.’
Brand finished his beer
and paid for it.
‘Hope you find your friends,’ the bartender called as Brand turned to go.
‘Never said they were friends,’ he told the man and left the saloon.
He took his horse and walked it down the street until he spotted Molly’s Place. The building was large and run down. The adobe was crumbling and pockmarked. The double doors were unpainted, bleached and splitting. As Brand tied his horse to the crowded hitch rail he heard the muted sound of a guitar and the voice of a girl singing a Mexican love song. The guitar wasn’t being played very well and the girl had a high, wailing quality to her voice.
The mingled odors of sweat, stale air and cigar smoke reached out to enfold Brand as he walked in. A raucous wall of noise rose out of the crowded room. Every table was occupied, every inch of the long bar supported a body. At the far end of the low-ceiling room a tiny platform served as a stage and on it sat the guitar player and the girl singer.
Brand scanned the mass of faces. None were recognizable. He moved into the room, threading his way between the tables. On the far side of the room a flight of stone steps led to the upper floor. Maybe his men were up there. If they were they had to come down sometime. Brand could wait. Let them come to him.
He spotted a vacated table. Taking the chair standing against the wall he sat down, propping the rifle up beside him. He loosened the Colt in its holster.
A shadow fell across the table. Brand stared up into the face of a fat, perspiring Mexican.
‘What you want?’
‘Beer. You got food?’
The man nodded. ‘Beans an’ chili. Some meat. Tortillas.’
Brand nodded. He was half hearted over the food but he had to eat. Now was as good a time as any. When the meal did arrive he ate it without pause, then shoved the dishes aside and sat nursing the glass of beer. And waited.
Chapter Ten
Time dragged. Customers came and went. They sat and drank, or joined one of the numerous card games going on. Some took the company of the Mexican girls circulating the room. There was a constant stream of couples going upstairs. The guitarist and the piano player had given up long ago, leaving the tiny stage unoccupied. A couple of times violence erupted. A tall man involved in a game of poker suddenly leapt to his feet and accused another of cheating. The two hurled curses at each other for a while, then fell to fighting. Nobody bothered them. A space was cleared, leaving the pair room to maneuver. The fight lasted no more than a couple of minutes. It ended with the antagonists on the dirty floor, exhausted and bloody. Willing hands dragged the pair to the door and they were pitched out onto the street amid roars of laughter. Later two more men started to argue over one of the girls. A knife was produced. There was a brief flurry, an agonized scream and one of the men lurched drunkenly toward the bar, clutching bloody hands to his stomach. He fell to his knees, drawing himself up in a tight ball, and even while he lay bleeding to death his killer was on his way upstairs with the girl who had been the cause of it all. Shortly a couple of Mexicans came in with a board, laid the dead man on it and carried him away.
