by Neil Hunter
Times were he looked at his life and saw no change ahead. The pain and the brutality seemed his to bear. The gun on his hip always reminded him. That piece of metal that often seemed to be the curse that kept him coming back for more.
Yet when he thought about Victoria, his feelings for her, he knew he had an alternative. A different side to his life. One that did not need a smoking gun in his hand. It would allow him to live a quieter way. With Victoria and Adam at his side he might define his existence. Cast off the dark shadows and...
It was the alternative that worried him. What the hell would he do in Victoria’s world? He was not made for the gentler life. It would stifle him. Somewhere along the line he was going to have to reach the decision that might alter his future drastically. It was not something he was looking forward to.
So he pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind as he rode in the direction of the Crossley spread. Hoping he was not wasting his time...
Darkness dropped faster than Brand had anticipated and he decided to take a break. This was unknown territory and he chose caution over everything else. He made camp in a sheltered spot, settling Lady and feeding her from the sack of food he had strapped behind his saddle. There was water close by so his horse was able to drink without wandering too far. He draped the reins across Lady’s neck, knowing the animal wouldn’t wander. It was something he had been training her over the past months and Lady had responded, knowing it was expected she would stay close.
He didn’t make a fire in case its glow might be seen. He had some slices of cold beef, wrapped and in his saddlebags. That and fresh water satisfied him. He also denied himself a smoke, aware how far the smell of burning tobacco could carry.
He spread his blankets, rested his head on the saddle he had removed from Lady, and stretched out, allowing his thoughts wander as he inwardly reviewed McCord’s disappearance.
Frank McCord played his cards close to his chest, the man only telling his operatives what he thought they needed to know. The Attorney General now on charge of the department appeared to work by the same set of rules. He had told Brand about McCord’s kidnap and instructed him to look into it. Nothing more.
Ty Hawkins was the only name mentioned. From Brand’s view what had happened seemed to be an extreme way of Hawkins getting back at McCord because he had been dismissed due to his disloyalty to the Justice Department. Brand understood the crime but found Hawkins hitting back with such intensity more than a little over the top.
He felt sure there was more to it. But that was for later. Right now his priority was getting McCord back. Reasons why could wait until McCord was free and clear. The more he thought on it Brand was convinced there was a deeper reason to McCord’s kidnap than simply Ty Hawkins getting even.
What that reason was he would have to find out when he reached McCord and asked him.
The morning still held the chill of the long night. Mist still lingered in hollows, pale … almost sinister. In a couple of hours the day would warm up. Brand shrugged off his blankets and rolled them up. He finished the beef slices, washed the meat down with water, moving around to ease the kinks out of his stiff body.
Maybe I’m getting too old for this kind of life, he thought.
He mounted up and eased Lady forward. By his reckoning he should be getting close to the Crossley property. He held Lady to the trees, not wanting to expose himself to anyone who might be watching.
The first indication he was nearing his destination came when he saw a ragged fence line. Beyond it what might have been a planted field now looked overgrown and untended. Further on he made out the lines of the house. A two-story structure. Again showing signs of neglect. Near the house were a couple of barns. A stable fronted by a corral with a sagging, weed-infested pole fence. Brand spotted a thin curl of smoke rising from a chimney.
He secured Lady to a low branch, took his rifle and checked it and his handgun.
There was a stand of timber that ran up close to the property fence and he stayed within the trees so he could get close. He was about to move forward when he caught a flicker of movement nearby and stayed where he was, picking out a pair of riders moving towards his place of concealment.
Sam Lubin pulled rein, twisting in his saddle to check on his partner. Whitey Bartok, a big man running to fat, was yards behind. He looked as if he might even be asleep. Head down. Broad shoulders slumped. It was entirely possible. Bartok had a short attention span when he was bored. And Bartok was the first to admit their patrol, circling the isolated house, was not the most riveting. The area was as quiet as it had been all night. Deserted. Which led to tedium, and in Bartok’s case moments of near drowsiness. But – and it was the most important consideration – Lubin and his partner were being well paid to do the job. Lubin had no intention of losing out on the upcoming payday. He didn’t want to upset their employer. Beth Arling was a capable woman and it was obvious she would brook no falling down on the job. Apart from her own forceful personality she had the man called Treece at her side. The big, silent man was a looming presence. Treece had barely spoken more than a few terse words since showing up at Arling’s side. He spoke to Arling. The rest of the time he stood around in silence. Bartok had admitted to himself he was nervous in the man’s presence, and Whitey Bartok was a hard-edged individual himself. He was no slouch when it came to the need of drawing his gun. It was how he had made his rep. He had gone up against equally hard opponents and survived. Yet faced by the grim-faced, silent Treece, Bartok experienced unease. He couldn’t explain why. It just was. Treece made him unsettled. Simple as that. That and Arling’s intimidating manner made for a strange partnership. If it wasn’t for the promised payout when it was all over…
‘Hey, Whitey, you still with us?’
His saddle partner roused himself, raising his shaggy head and shaking off the drowsiness. He glanced around, eyes wide as he focused on their surroundings.
‘Don’t need to shout,’ he said.
Lubin managed a bleak smile. ‘You was close to falling out the saddle.’
‘No. I was just takin’ a moment. Damn your eyes, Sam, you know I wouldn’t fall down on the job.’
‘Wrong choice of words there, partner. Falling down is pretty close to what you was like to do.’
Bartok grumbled. He closed up so he was alongside Lubin. He unhooked his canteen and took a swallow.
‘This damned place is too quiet. Gives me the shivers. Won’t be sorry when this job is done.’
‘When we get paid you can go find the rowdiest saloon in town and hooraw till your lungs burst. Until then we do what the Arling woman tells us.’
‘That’s another thing, Sam. I don’t take to bein’ ordered about by a female. Ain’t in the natural order of things. Women should do what a man tells them.’
‘Well, Whitey, you want to tell her that? Just make sure that Treece hombre ain’t around when you do.’
Bartok’s protest faded. Then he hawked and spat. ‘I ain’t afeared of that son of a bitch. I could take him.’
‘You reckon? I’d pay good money to see that.’
Bartok dragged off his hat and scrubbed a hand through his tangled hair. He considered his earlier words.
‘Reckon I could take him…you think so, Sam…?’
‘Mebbe, mebbe not. But don’t you go makin’ trouble for us. We do what the woman wants an’ get paid, so we can move on. She’s holding the cash, friend, so far as I care she can do all the bossin’ around she wants. You hear now? I ain’t foolin’. Good money at the end of this so we don’t mess it up.’
Bartok grudgingly accepted what Lubin said. Like it or not, Arling held the purse strings. He was a simple man but could make a smart decision when the facts were offered to him. He figured he could hold down the job so he and Lubin could walk away with their pockets lined with money.
He let his thoughts wander to the money. It would be good to have some to hand. Things had been quiet on the cash front for a while. Both Lubin and Bartok
had been close to having none. They were both work-shy for the most part, dismissing anything they considered menial. Gun work was their stock in trade yet even that had been thin on the ground until Beth Arling came to them with her offer.
What the hell, Bartok decided, Lubin was right. They could put up with things until payday.
Still allowing mercenary thoughts occupy him, Lubin missed the shadow of movement in the trees to his right. By the time it registered enough to alert him Lubin was caught flat-footed. He dropped a hand to the Remington he wore on his left hip, butt forward.
‘Touch that piece and you get the first bullet,’ Brand said
The oiled click of a hammer going all the way back told Lubin he had little choice. He turned his head and saw a tall man in range clothes stepping out of the brush. He held a Colt .45 aimed at Lubin. There was a second weapon in his left hand, centered on Bartok.
‘Mister, you can’t smoke us both,’ Lubin said, his tone sharp.
‘I’ll get at least one of you. Your choice to go first. I’ll let you decide.’
Bartok hipped around in the saddle.
‘I want to know who the hell you. Comin’ out of nowhere and putting us under the gun. We done something wrong?’
‘Kidnapping. Murder. Good enough for a start?’
‘Sonofabitch,’ Lubin said. ‘He knows.’
‘Knows what? Two fellers ridin’ peaceable and he jumps us. Don’t mean a damn thing.’ Bartok leaned over in his saddle. ‘I don’t see no kidnap victim. No dead body.’
‘Man you took is in that house back yonder, I’m figuring. Dead coach driver is back in Washington.’
‘The hell you say. Anyhows you can’t see McCord. They got him locked away upstairs out of sight...’
The moment he spoke Lubin realized his slip. He tried to make up for that by going for his butt-forward Remington from his holster. He got as far as gripping the wood handles before Brand’s right-hand Colt snapped out a heavy shot, smoke and flame showing at the muzzle. The solid impact of the lead toppled Lubin sideways from the saddle, his right boot catching in the stirrup and leaving him hanging face down.
‘You…’ Bartok said and snatched at his own pistol as he twisted from his horse’s back, on the far side from Brand.
Brand swung his guns around to cover the man, peering under the nervous horse, and snapping off a shot the scored its rump. The horse shrilled in pain, bolting instantly and Brand found himself facing Bartok who was bringing his own Colt around, face taut with anger.
They fired together, Brand triggering both of his guns. Bartok’s slug ripped through the loose folds of Brand’s shirt just above his waist. His own brace of shots found a target, slamming into Bartok’s chest and tossing him back in an awkward twist. He lit on his back, weapon spilling from his fingers. He stared up at the man who had brought him down.
‘That was some move,’ Lubin said. His voice was surprisingly steady. He watched as Brand shucked out empty casings and replaced them. When he spoke again his voice had lowered. ‘You know this feller McCord?’
‘Work for him.’
‘You put yourself in harm’s way for him?’
‘He’s my friend,’ Brand said.
It was the only explanation he gave as put away his weapons. He turned away to pick up the gun Bartok had dropped. He stepped up to Lubin’s horse and freed the dead man’s boot from the stirrup. Lubin’s shirt front and face were streaked with blood. Brand slid the Remington from Lubin’s holster. It was an unnecessary move. The dead man wasn’t about to use it, but Brand felt a degree of comfort removing it. Glancing back to where Bartok lay he could see the man was dead too.
Brand walked back to where he had tied his own horse deep in the timber and brush. He put the two handguns in his saddlebags, then led Lady by her reins as he started toward the distant house, wondering if the sound of his shots had reached it.
He had his job to do, opposition or not, and as always once Brand had set himself on the trail he never stepped back. In truth it was the way his life had moved from the day when the band of Quahadi Comanche had attacked the Brand home, killing his father and mother, taking his sister captive and putting the eighteen year old boy onto the bloody path that led him to becoming the man he now was…
He breakfasted, on the morning of the day he had decided to ride out, in the hotel dining room. Later he would see Jenny and tell her he was leaving. Then he could settle his bill and go. His mind was occupied with such thoughts as he returned to his room, opening the door and stepping inside before he realized he had locked it earlier.
“Come in, Brand. After all it is your room.”
Brand closed the door. His right hand was curled close to the butt of his Colt while he inspected the man standing at the window. Tall, broad-shouldered and dressed in a dark suit, with a white shirt. His boots were highly polished. Brand judged him to be in his mid-forties. His thick hair was silver-gray, the face brown and the eyes steady and keenly alert.
“Should I know you?” Brand asked.
He was curious now that he had decided the man presented no threat.
“No. On the other hand I know all about you, Mr. Jason Brand.”
“It appears you have the advantage.”
The other smiled. “The name’s McCord. Frank McCord.”
The name didn’t mean a thing to Brand. He tossed his hat on the bed and crossed over to the wardrobe to start packing his gear.
“All right, Mr. McCord, spit it out.”
“You’ve taken some finding,” McCord said. “I missed you after the Dorsey affair. Didn’t pick up your trail until a few days back. From what I hear Adobe will never be the same again.”
“I guess all this is leading up to something?” Brand faced McCord. “I’m leaving Yuma today, so quit fiddle-footing and tell me what’s on your mind.”
“I’ve got a job for you, Brand.”
“I didn’t figure you were trading beaver pelts. Right now I don’t feel like taking anything on. Look me up in a month or so and maybe we can talk.”
McCord reached into his coat and took out a small leather folder. He opened it and held it out for Brand to see. Pinned inside the folder was a gold and blue badge in the shape of a shield.
Engraved on the shield were the words Justice Department-Special Agent.
“Very nice,” Brand said. “I never heard of you.”
“No reason you should,” McCord said. He put the badge away. “Outside of Washington we don’t exist. All our people work undercover and on their own.”
“How do I come into this?”
“I want you to join us.”
Brand smiled mirthlessly. “If you know all about me you’ll know I was thrown out of the US Marshals office.”
“I know about that, Brand. It doesn’t concern me. We choose people by our own selection process. If a man fits our needs we go for him and forget the past. And you fill our needs, Brand. Hell, man, you’re too good a lawman to waste your time playing bounty hunter. There’s a place for you in my department, and believe me you’ll get all the damned action you want. Out in the field you run things your way as long as you get results. I’ll yell bloody murder if I think you’ve gone too far. But I’ll expect you to give your best every minute of the day and night. And you had better, mister, because you will be paid well for doing it.”
“Do I get a chance to think about it?” Brand said.
He was interested —but wary. He had no intention of becoming tied up with another outfit that might turn on him one day and throw him out into the cold. It had happened once to him and the experience still left a bitter taste in his mouth.
“If you’re worrying about getting kicked in the teeth again—don’t,” McCord said. “I don’t work that way. The assignments we handle are the kind that call for direct, tough solutions and we go out expecting trouble. There won’t be anyone around to start shouting if you have to play dirty.”
The offer was becoming more appealing with every pass
ing moment.
It was hard to resist. It was, after all, the sort of work that drew Brand like a moth to a flame. He was being tempted.
“Who would I be responsible to?”
“Me as head of the department. There is just one more man. The ultimate authority.”
McCord handed Brand a folded sheet of thick paper. Brand read what was written on the paper—it was the very same offer McCord had made to him.
“The man would like to meet you,” McCord said.
Brand ran his gaze down the letter, reaching the signature at the bottom.
The signature and the official seal of the President of the United States.
“Makes it kind of hard for a man to refuse,” Brand said.
“Are you going to?” McCord said.
“I haven’t decided yet,” Brand said.
Even as he spoke he knew what his answer would be. What it had to be.
In his mind he had decided, making his choice and committing himself to walking the only road that lay open to a man such as himself ...
Treece had brought McCord from the room above and hustled him in to where the others waited.
‘Mr. McCord,’ Arling said. ‘You’ve had time rest and think about matters.’
‘Think about what? I don’t know you people…except Hawkins over there. So explain why you’ve brought me here because I have no idea what you want.’
Beth Arling showed her most disarming smile. ‘What we want? Why it’s quite simple. We want those diamonds you have. The ones recovered by the Army and given into your care.’
‘Diamonds? What diamonds?’
‘Don’t try and fool us, McCord,’ Hawkins said. ‘I found the letter from the Attorney General instructing you to take charge of them. Leaving you to deal with the matter.’
