by Neil Hunter
Lita stepped forward, placing a hand on his thigh, her fingers digging in. ‘You will come back?’
He smiled without humor. ‘I’ll come back.’
Lita watched him ride away. The wind was whipping the fine sand up in pale streams, curling it around horse and rider. The effect was eerie and Lita shivered.
And then a heavy gust of wind brought the full impact of the rain. Slanting sheets of it drove in across the open beach. Lita turned and ran for the shelter of the old mission. By the time she reached the cover of the thick walls Brand had gone from her sight. She found a dark corner and wrapped herself in her blanket, clutching the Henry rifle close. Listening to the sound of the storm building itself up she felt suddenly very alone and not a little scared. It had been a long time since she had experienced such a feeling. For the first time in many years she felt the need to say a prayer.
She also thought that she should say one for Jason Brand. If anyone needed the help of God it was he. But she also recalled what he had said about God having given up on him — and she wondered if maybe he had been right.
Chapter Thirteen
Thunder rumbled over the Gulf. Blue-white flickers of lightning lanced across the dark sky. The rain fell in a continuous silver curtain, turning the fine sand to a pale mud.
Brand reined in short of the village. He sat and studied it for a long time. It was little more than an untidy straggle of crude huts. And it looked deserted. Only one of the huts showed any light. Beyond the hut he could see horses huddled together in a flimsy corral. An open wagon stood beside the corral.
Leading his horse around the side of an empty hut Brand tethered it, then edged forward, making for the hut where he’d seen the light. As he got closer he was able to make out a drift of smoke coming from a pipe chimney. Hatch and Preedy? There was only one way to find out.
There was a single window in the hut. A glassless square through which a pale yellow light shone. Brand crossed the remaining few yards of open space, crouching as he neared the window.
He was so intent on reaching his objective that he failed to hear the faint sound behind him. But then the cold, hard tip of a gun barrel was thrust bruisingly against the side of his face.
‘Just stand, mister! Hands where I can see ’em!’
Brand did as he was told. He had been careless. He didn’t intend adding any more foolishness to his actions.
A hand plucked the Colt from his holster, and then the gun at his face was moved to jab him in the spine.
‘Go ahead. As you’re so anxious to see what’s goin’ on!’
Brand was pushed to the door of the hut. The man behind him yelled out and the door was opened. A harder push with the gun barrel and Brand was forced inside.
The hut was small and cramped. It was stifling inside. Mingled smells reached Brand’s nose. Stale air, sweat, wood smoke. The lingering scent of greasy food. A lamp stood on a crude table that also held bottles and left over food.
There were three men seated around the table, another standing to one side of the door. The man who had brought Brand inside edged into view, laying the Colt on the table.
Sam Hatch and Joe Preedy were at the table. As he stared at them Brand could feel his anger rising again. The urge came back. To attack them. To kill them. He held himself in check. He was in no position to do anything right now.
Hatch rose to his feet, a faint smile edging his lips.
‘Hell, Joe, you see who it is?’
Preedy dragged his stool around so he could get a clear look. He squinted at Brand for a moment.
‘Hell, this light ain’t too damn . . . ’ He fell silent, his mouth dropping open in surprise. ‘Well if that don’t beat the shit out the blanket!’ He pushed to his feet and moved in for a closer look. ‘Brand’s kid! How in hell did you end up here?’
‘Because it’s where you are,’ Brand said tightly, staring directly into Preedy’s face.
Joe Preedy’s gaze faltered after a few seconds. He began to look uncomfortable.
‘We saw those Comanches ride off from your place. There weren’t anyone left on their feet . . . ’
‘Joe — shut up!’
Sam Hatch elbowed Preedy aside. A grin spread across his face. He reminded Brand of a wolf’s head he’d once seen. Hatch’s lips were pulled back from his white teeth in a predatory snarl. His eyes, bright and hard, never once flickered from Brand’s face.
‘You’re gettin’ to be an old woman, Joe.’ Hatch was studying Brand closely. ‘You come gunnin’ for us, boy?’
‘I aim to kill you both,’ Brand said evenly.
Inside his emotions were boiling. He couldn’t forget what Joe Preedy had just said.
We saw those Comanches ride off!
They had stayed around long enough to watch what had happened. Had waited until Brand’s family had been slaughtered before riding away. While he and his family had struggled to live Hatch and Preedy and Cooper had sat in safety.
‘I reckon you would, given the chance,’ Hatch said. ‘Guess I’d likely feel the same if I were in your place. Mind I don’t figure to worry on it. I didn’t figure to risk my neck for your pappy’s two-cent outfit.’
‘That was the way Del Cooper felt,’ Brand told him. ‘He’s still dead.’
Hatch remained impassive. ‘Cooper dead.’ He laughed softly. ‘You kill him or something?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did you do? Shoot him in his sleep?’
‘I gave him a better chance than my folks got. Same with those two riding with him.’
‘Jenks and Reefer?’ Preedy rounded on Brand ‘All three?’
‘Seems the kid ain’t so green,’ Hatch remarked. ‘If he’s tellin’ the truth.’
‘Maybe he’s just lyin’ to scare us.’
Hatch grinned. ‘Well, hell, it’s workin’ on you, Joe.’
Color darkened Preedy’s face. ‘The hell it…’ He snatched at the gun holstered on his hip. ‘I’ll show you how . . . ’
Hatch reached out and gripped Preedy’s gun arm.
‘Back off, Joe. Wouldn’t be right killin’ him straight off now. Boy’s come a long way to see us. Reckon he deserves a chance to find out what we’ve been up to. Be an education.’
Preedy glared at him. After a few seconds he smiled. ‘Yeah! Damn right it will.’ He turned on Brand. ‘Boy, I reckon it will make your day.’
‘Brand, you’ll keep us company a while,’ Hatch said. He gestured at the man who had brought Brand inside. ‘Charly, find a rope and wrap him up good. I don’t want to wake up to him cuttin’ my damn throat.’
Charly prodded Brand with his gun again. He moved him to the far side of the hut. Preedy followed, keeping his gun on Brand while Charly went looking for a length of rope. He watched while Charly tied Brand securely.
‘Still don’t see how you could take out Coop,’ Preedy said eventually.
‘Takes a man with guts to understand,’ Brand said, and regretted his words instantly.
Preedy swore loud and long. He lashed out with his empty fist, catching Brand across the side of the face. The force of the blow slammed him up against the wall of the hut. Brand stumbled and went down on his knees. Preedy’s knee slammed into his side, sending Brand face down on the dirty floor.
‘Cut it out, Joe,’ Hatch called. ‘You’ll only make a mess all over the damn floor.’
Through the pain Brand could hear someone laughing. He tasted blood in his mouth and spat it out. He didn’t try to sit up immediately. It took him some time when he did. The action was made difficult because Charly had bound his hands behind him and it took some effort to get upright. He sat with his back to the wall. Joe Preedy had returned to his seat at the table. He glared at Brand when he saw he was sitting up. Brand ignored him. He didn’t want to attract Preedy’s attention again.
Outside the hut the storm was still audible. Rain lashed against the structure, making it creak. Despite the rain and wind Brand could hear the waves breaking against
the beach.
He thought about Lita. Was she safe? He felt she would be sensible and stay away from the village. He didn’t want her to get hurt.
He recalled another girl’s name —
Lisa.
Girls with similar names — but totally different characters.
Lita had understood his need for vengeance. There had been no questions in her eyes. Only a desire to help.
When he had told Lisa how he felt she had made her view plain. She had wanted nothing to do with him or his need to avenge his dead family. Her feelings had driven them apart. Had taken her away from him.
He heard voices raised in argument.
‘She ain’t goin’ to make it, Sam,’ Preedy insisted.
‘For Christ sake, sit down, Joe! Latimer ain’t let us down yet. He’ll bring Cuban Lady in soon as he can. He’ll probably ride out the storm and bring her in come morning.’
‘Easy to say,’ Preedy groaned. ‘Take a look at them damn waves! That boat ain’t goin’ to stay afloat in this weather.’
‘So what the hell you expecting me to do? Swim out and tow him in?’
Preedy returned to the table. He snatched up a bottle. When he found out it was empty he hurled it across the hut. It bounced off the wall but didn’t break.
‘Want another try, Joe?’ asked the man named Charly.
Preedy stared at him. ‘Go to hell!’
Charly laughed. Across the table Sam Hatch caught sight of Brand watching him, and grinned his wolfish grin again.
Everyone settled down. Brand tested the ropes securing his wrists and ankles. They had been tied by an expert. There was little chance of him breaking free, so he allowed himself to drift into sleep.
Outside the hut the storm raged on, turning the night dark and unsettled.
Brand came awake as someone nudged him roughly in the ribs. He opened his eyes and stared up into the unshaven face of the man called Charly.
‘Let’s move, boy.’
Brand realized his bound ankles had been freed. He struggled to his feet, staring around the hut. Daylight exposed the untidy mess that surrounded Brand.
Charly took his arm and pushed him through the open door. The others were already standing outside. The rain had stopped but a stiff wind drove along the beach. Brand shivered as it cut through his shirt.
He followed the gaze of the other men, staring out beyond the beach, into the early dawn grayness.
And saw a sailing ship riding the heavy waves out on the Gulf. The ship was a two-masted schooner around seventy feet long. Its original color had been blue and white. Now the paintwork was faded and peeling, the sides of the hull streaked with rust from the anchor chains and metal rails. The canvas sails were grey and patched. Brand could make out a number of lanterns glowing from where they hung along the ship’s superstructure.
Sam Hatch, a mug of steaming coffee in his hand, stood before Brand.
‘Boy, I can hear that mind of yours workin’ something fierce,’ he said. ‘Damned if you don’t figure it out before Cuban Lady drops anchor.’
Brand was already close to working it out. A chill message was flashing at the back of his mind. It merged with the image of a gun. A brand-new Henry rifle that he had taken from a dead Comanche named Three Finger. He had wondered at the time where the Indian had got his hands on such a weapon. Indians with new weapons meant someone had to be supplying them.
During the next couple of hours the wind dropped considerably. By mid-morning it had vanished completely, and the sun broke through as the clouds drifted away. As the waters of the Gulf settled the waiting schooner turned in towards the shore.
Hatch came out of the hut at Preedy’s call. He watched as the schooner coming in.
‘Charly, get Ed and Ben to hitch up that wagon. Latimer’s comin’ in to the bay.’
Hatch crossed to where Brand sat in the sand under the watchful eye of Joe Preedy. Pulling a knife Hatch sliced the ropes around Brand’s wrists.
‘C’mon, boy, it’s party time. Listen up now. Don’t you get any smart ideas. Plenty of guns just waitin’ on you doing something foolish.’
Brand glanced at Preedy, and he knew exactly what Hatch meant. He trailed along the beach in Hatch’s shadow, aware of Preedy close behind. Hatch himself had a rifle tucked under his arm.
Brand could feel his hands burning as the blood flowed through them. The pain gave him something to concentrate on. He knew that he would face death at the hands of these men sooner or later. They would play with him while it suited them. But once he became a burden they would dispose of him without a moment’s thought. He would have to wait for a chance to make a break. There was no way he was going to give in without a fight. That moment had not come yet.
Ahead of them lay a natural bay. The peaks of a line of rocks offshore snowed the breakwater. The schooner had already negotiated the rocks and had sailed in close to the beach. The shoreline dropped away sharply at this point and the water was deep close in to the beach. The schooner had dropped anchor. The sails were furled and the ship rode gently on the slight swell.
A small rowboat had been lowered and brought in to shore. Hatch stepped in and motioned for Brand to follow. Joe Preedy joined them and the crewman from the schooner rowed them out to the Cuban Lady.
A tall, broad-shouldered man leaned on the rail, grinning down at Hatch. He was large and powerful, his square face the color of old leather.
‘Joe figured you’d gone to the bottom last night and taken our cargo with you,’ Hatch said as he climbed on board the schooner.
‘I stayed where I was safest,’ Latimer said, watching Hatch and Preedy climb on board. His gaze settled on the tall, battered figure of Jason Brand. ‘Who the hell is this, Sam?’
‘You could say a guest. But he’ll be leaving us soon enough. Got something to show him first.’
‘Hatch, your boys arrived with the wagon,’ one of Latimer’s crew called.
The rowboat was sent back to shore to bring Hatch’s three men out to the schooner.
As soon as everyone was on board Hatch gave his orders.
‘AH right, Charly, let’s get to it. Sooner we load that cargo the sooner Latimer can be movin’ on.’
A cargo-hatch was opened. Two of Latimer’s crewmen climbed down into the hold. Brand watched silently as a number of long, narrow crates were passed up onto the open deck.
‘Joe, keep an eye on him,’ Hatch said. He leaned his rifle against the ship’s rail, picked up a short crowbar and prised the lid off one of the crates.
Brand edged forward. He felt the press of a gun barrel against his spine as Preedy made his presence known. He knew what he was going to see in the crate. At the back of his mind he had known for some time. Now he was going to confirm his suspicions. He also knew why Hatch had kept him alive so far.
Sam Hatch pushed aside the lid and reached into the crate. He pulled out a grease-covered rifle. The wolf’s grin was back as he held up the weapon for Brand to see.
‘Were you right, boy?’
Brand was staring at the brand new Henry repeater. It was exactly the same as the one he had taken from Three Finger.
‘Rifles. Ammunition. Black powder. A whole damn wagonload, boy!’ Joe Preedy’s voice was a cold sound of triumph. ‘We take it back over the border and right to the Comanches. They pay right well.’
‘Only reason we hired on to your pappy,’ Hatch said, ‘was because the Army was doin’ too much snooping. We figured to take a regular job for a spell. Lay low for a time. Let the fuss die down and then head back here. Course we didn’t figure those damned Comanche coming so far off their territory.’ He grinned again. ‘Hell, boy, it just didn’t seem right to get shot with the guns we’d sold to them Indians. Damn me, boy, I can see it’s got a funny side.’
Brand didn’t reply. It was taking all of his will power to hold himself back. He wanted to throw himself at Hatch, but the moment was not yet right. So he stayed his hand and waited.
Hatch turned awa
y to return the rifle to the crate and secure the lid. As he did Brand became aware that Preedy’s gun had shifted. It was no longer pressing against his spine. Out of the corner of his eye Brand saw that Preedy had moved a little to his right.
Brand saw his chance. It was slight, but it might be the only one he was going to get.
He twisted round, hands reaching out for Preedy’s gun. His fingers closed over the barrel. Before Preedy could react Brand jerked the rifle towards himself. Preedy was pulled off balance before he could let go of the weapon. He slammed against Sam Hatch and the pair went down hard.
Brand snatched up the rifle Hatch had leaned against the ship’s rail, his right hand working the lever. He knew that his time was short, so he broke into a run, along the schooner’s deck.
Behind him a gun blasted. The bullet ripped splinters from the deck planking at his feet.
A figure stepped out in front of him. It was a member of Latimer’s crew. He held a large, heavy revolver in his hand. Brand fired from the hip, driving a bullet through the man’s body. As the crewman stumbled aside Brand heard more shots from behind. Bullets snapped through the air around him.
Reaching the ship’s stern Brand dropped behind the cover of the rear hatch. He could see moving figures on the deck, still clustered around the open cargo hold. He raised the rifle and sent a couple of quick shots in that direction. A man yelled out, the sound followed by the thump of a body crashing to the deck. The bunched men scattered. Brand followed them with a hail of shots. He spotted one man crouched behind a number of wooden barrels lashed to the deck. He laid a cluster of shots into one of the barrels, sending the man in search of a safer place to hide.
‘Hatch, you settle this quick. That son of a bitch is shooting up my crew and ruining my cargo!’
‘A barrel of oil?’ Hatch laughed. ‘Hell, Latimer, I’ll pay for that myself.’
Brand watched the pale liquid pumping out of the ragged holes his bullets had made in the barrel. It was oil. Lamp oil! And it was spreading across the deck in an expanding pool. An idea came to him. He recalled the lanterns he’d seen strung along the schooner’s side. Glancing round he saw one of the lanterns dangling from a hook near the stern. Leaning back he was able to lift it free. He pulled it to him, feeling the heat rising from it. He set it down on the deck and opened it.
