by Neil Hunter
Cruze pulled the makings from his shirt pocket and set to rolling a quirley. He scraped a match across the edge of the table and lit up.
‘That lady knows what she wants an’ ain’t about to quit,’ Hawkins said.
‘You got thoughts about what you’ll do with your money?’
‘Sure, but I ain’t about to get too fussed until I have it in my hands.’
Cruze shrugged. ‘Just makin’ talk is all.’
‘Yeah, right. Damn, I hope that hombre shows up before it gets dark. I like to see what I’m facing.’
Cruze raised his glass to drink, paused, and took a second look out the window.
‘I think you got your wish.’
‘Will you look at that,’ Hawkins said. ‘Bold as brass...’
He pushed his chair aside, sliding his pistol from its holster and checking the loads, adding a sixth cartridge as he made for the door, spinning the cylinder.
‘Hey...’
The bartender reached for the bungstarter he kept behind the counter.
‘Feller, I’d forget whatever you got in mind,’ Cruze said. ‘This ain’t your business.’
‘Doctor’s office?’ Brand said.
His tiredness was wearing away at his memory.
The man on the boardwalk looked from Brand to McCord’s huddled, blanket swathed figure.
‘Four doors along. Doc Lander,’ he said.
‘You need a hand there?’
‘I’m fine.’
Brand set Lady forward, tugging on the lead rope of McCord’s animal. He counted off the buildings until he spotted the shingle that announced the one he wanted. Brand drew rein and stepped down, eyes scanning the street as he did. He saw nothing to cause him any problems but figured he might have need to change his mind. Arling and her partners might have already reached Cabot’s Creek to lay in wait. It was conceivable they could be watching him right now, holding back because they didn’t want Frank McCord placed in any more danger. The Justice man was the key to what they wanted and they needed him alive.
Out of the saddle Brand helped McCord down, supporting him as he walked him to the doctor’s door, rapping on the window glass. The man himself appeared after a short delay, opening the door and taking in the scene with professional eyes. He stared at Brand through spectacles perched on the end of his nose.
‘I see you’ve had more trouble,’ he said.
‘He’s taken a bad beating,’ Brand said. ‘Maybe got busted ribs. Took some pretty hard blows to the head. Left him in a bad way. Pretty well out of it. His name is Frank McCord.’
Lander didn’t waste time on small talk. He simply took over and eased McCord inside. He noticed Brand’s preoccupation with the street.
‘There a problem out there?’
‘More than likely, doc. People around who want McCord for something he knows.’
‘They do this to him?’
Brand nodded. ‘And they haven’t given up yet.’
He had seen Hawkins and Cruze step out of the saloon, pausing on the boardwalk. Even from the distance Brand saw the gun in Hawkins’ hand.
‘I suggest you take McCord inside and lock the door.’
Lander draped McCord’s arm across his shoulder and moved further inside. When Brand moved outside the doctor shut the door and turned the key.
‘He’s a nervy son of a bitch,’ Cruze said.
‘McCord doesn’t employ the shy kind.’
Hawkins moved to the edge of the boardwalk. He sensed Jake Cruze stepping to his left. Heard the creak of a warped plank as the man stepped on it.
‘Give him up Brand,’ he said. ‘Ain’t worth you dyin’ for him.’
Brand stepped onto the street, feeling the rain-soaked dirt compress under his boots.
‘You hear me, Brand?’
There was no response. The man simply stood facing Hawkins. Almost relaxed, his right hand at his side near his holstered .45.
‘Will he deal?’ Cruze said.
Hawkins shook his head. ‘One thing I know for certain about Brand. He doesn’t make deals.’
Cruze moved to the edge of the boardwalk, face taut with anger.
‘He don’t talk either,’ he said. ‘Damn him to hell...’
He went for his gun, hand blurring with the speed of his draw.
The slam of a shot filled the empty silence.
Jake Cruze stepped back, still gripping his pistol, the barrel still inside the holster. He had felt the impact as Brand’s bullet hit him in the chest, and barely comprehending the man had outdrawn him...
The instant he fired Brand dropped to a crouch, stepping forward and to the side, bringing his Colt on line with Ty Hawkins as the man made his own play. The pistol at his side was already rising, hammer back. His finger stroked the light trigger. The muzzle flared as he fired.
Brand felt the bullet clip his left side. Felt the burn. Blood streamed from the wound, drenching his shirt.
Hawkins was on the street, moving forward, gun up for a second shot. He fired a moment too soon and his shot was wide.
‘...ruined everything, you bastard...’ he said.
Brand leveled his Colt, tripped the trigger and sent a bullet into Hawkins’s chest. No hesitation. No grandstand play. Simply one man shooting another. When Hawkins failed to go down Brand held back his trigger and used the heel the hammer, putting his remaining shots into Hawkins’s body, punching ragged holes. It was a deliberate act, expressing Brand’s feelings over McCord’s treatment by a man he had long trusted. This time Hawkins went down, his front bloody and torn. He slammed to the ground, pistol flying from his hand. He clawed at the dirt, body going into a short spasm. Then he stilled.
Brand ejected the spent shells and thumbed in fresh loads, pushing back the wave of sickness threatening to weaken him.
Lucas Breck came out of his store, shotgun in his hands. He saw Cruze and Hawkins down on the ground.
Brand was still on his feet but only just, hand pressed to his left side. Blood was streaming between his splayed fingers. He holstered his empty pistol and pulled out his reserve Colt.
As Breck approached him Brand’s head turned. Lifting his gun, he recognized Cabot’s Creek’s law and let the gun sag.
‘If this is going to happen every time you visit town,’ Breck said, ‘I’d as soon you quit calling.’
Brand pointed with his pistol. ‘Jake Cruze. Other one is Ty Hawkins. Feller who started all this. Woman called Beth Arling and Treece are in town somewhere. They were behind all this.’
‘You mean they haven’t quit?’
Brand nodded. ‘And not likely to. They got too much at stake to give up.’
‘McCord?’
‘Over to the doc’s. He went through a hard time while they had him. Busted ribs and maybe head injuries.’
‘What in hell is wrong with these people?
‘Called greed, Lucas. Plain and simple greed.’
‘Better get your side seen to. It’s still bleeding...’
Breck turned to glance across the street. He caught a glimpse of movement behind one of the hotel’s upper windows. Saw the muzzle of a rifle showing.
‘Down,’ he said, and pushed Brand aside as he lifted the shotgun and triggered the first barrel. The charge struck at the timber siding beside the window a second before the rifle fired. The .44-40 slug punched into his left thigh, turning Breck to the side. He slipped to the ground, finger discharging the second barrel. The charge plowed into the dirt.
Brand went to one knee, wrenching his body around and spotted the smoking muzzle of the rifle angling in his direction. He used both hands to steady his Colt as he ranged in on the shooter’s position and placed a pair of shots at the hazy shape framed in the window. The shape jerked back and Brand put two more shots into it before it disappeared.
As the echo of his shots trailed off Brand heard a woman scream. Less in pain, more in anger.
He walked in the direction of the hotel, reloading again as he went. He was stagge
ring by the time he went inside the hotel and up the stairs. It seemed as if it took forever and he was leaning against the inside wall, holding himself upright. Reaching the top he picked up the frenzied sound of a woman’s voice coming from a door on his left. He stood at the door, raised his right foot and smashed the door open. Splintered wood flew into the room.
Brand saw the man called Treece on his back near the window, his chest bloody.
Beth Arling was on her knees, bending over him. She raised her head when Brand appeared. Tears were streaming down her ashen face.
‘You killed him,’ she said. Her words were flat. Toneless.
Brand leaned against the splintered doorframe.
God, he was so tired.
Weary enough to miss the heavy black pistol in her left hand, hidden by her skirt. He only registered it when Arling lifted it and thrust it at him, pulling the trigger and placing a .45 bullet in him. He felt himself fall against the wall behind him. He felt little pain. Just a weariness that clawed at his very being and dragged him away from the light. An intense blackness engulfed him.
In the moments before he went under he felt sure he heard two bangs. Sounded like more shots, but he couldn’t be sure whether he had imagined them or not. There were more gunshots. Brand let go his weapon and allowed the darkness take him…
The time Brand spent in Cabot’s Creek was both frustrating and anxious. Not so much for himself but for McCord, who was taking time making a recovery. His physical injuries were healing well enough, but the effects of the beating he had taken to his head were slow in healing.
The man seemed to spend most of his time sleeping and even when he was awake his responses were subdued, his gaze flitting back and forth as he tried to make sense of what had happened. Times were he was lucid, other times drifting and not sure who he was or where he was.
Brand understood that. He had gone through the same after his own injury. He spent a great deal of time with McCord, doing his best to talk to the man. They both experienced a degree of frustration.
Marshal Breck, using a cane to support his leg, spent time passing messages to Washington as a go-between for Brand and the Attorney General.
As soon as Brand was able he got out of his own bed, nursing his side where Beth Arling’s slug had bruised his ribs and lodged in his side. When he was able to speak with Breck he learned it had been the town’s lawman who had fired the final shot of the set-to.
He had, despite his wound, followed Brand up the stairs and faced down Arling as she put a bullet in Brand, then turned her gun on Breck. He had little choice in the matter and placed a single shot between her eyes.
Doc Lander found himself with two more patients that day and Cabot Creek’s undertaker had coffins to fill.
The Attorney General arranged for Brand and McCord to be transported back to Washington by rail. They were housed in a private car with a doctor and nurse in attendance. Back in the city McCord was taken to hospital while Brand unloaded Lady and took a slow ride out to The Farm where he had been summoned. He found security had been upgraded and saw to Lady before making his painful way to McCord’s office. He found himself facing the Attorney General across McCord’s desk. He dropped into the same chair he’d used at the start of the whole affair.
‘The doctors tell me it could well be a few months before Frank is back behind this desk,’ the man said.
‘At least they’re offered some encouraging news.’
‘And I’m told you need a period of recovery yourself.’
‘I mend fast.’
‘Don’t raise objections, Brand. You are under medical care and as of now I’m giving you an order. First you go and visit that young woman—who by the way—has been giving me a hard time concerning you. And visit that son of yours. I’ve met him and it’s like seeing you all over again.’
‘Doesn’t seem I have much choice.’
‘On a personal note I want to thank you for what you did. Bringing Frank home alive means a great deal to me and I won’t forget it.’
‘McCord is my friend, sir. I’d miss him sitting behind that desk.’
‘That’s something else I have to tell you.’ The Attorney General stood and crossed to pour out a couple of glasses of whisky, handing one to Brand. ‘You may need this. I can’t have you simply dawdling around while everyone recovers. And I have enough matters to deal with. So as of now you will take over Frank’s position as head of the department until he returns.’ The man raised his glass. ‘Congratulations, Mr. Brand.’
After a few seconds of immobility Brand raised his own glass and swallowed the contents in one gulp.
‘I think you may need another,’ the Attorney General said.
Another, Brand thought. Hell, I may need the whole damn’ bottle…
About the Author
Although the bulk of Mike Linaker’s fiction has appeared in the action-adventure genre, where he regularly chronicled the adventures of Gold Eagle’s Mack Bolan, he remains one of Britain’s most accomplished western writers.
Mike’s main interest in adolescence was science fiction. “The western influence came from film and television,” he later explained. “One day I happened across a Fawcett Gold Medal western called Tough Hombre by Dudley Dean. Something about the cover just hooked me, and after I finished reading it I’d become a western fan in no uncertain terms.”
Mike’s first published western was Incident at Butler’s Station (1967), a neat variation on the “group of people under siege” theme, in this case a soldier, a band of outlaws en route to jail and a strong-willed woman, all of them trapped in a Wells Fargo way-station surrounded by Apaches. This book, and its successor, were both originally issued under the pseudonym “Richard Wyler”.
That second book was a pursuit story entitled Savage Journey (1967). The hero here is Luke Kennick, a former soldier whose last patrol was wiped out by marauding Comanches. Tensions rise when Kennick -- now a rancher - agrees to escort the Indian chief who led the ambush across country for trial. Kennick’s task is complicated when he finds and rescues a woman in the desert.
The “maverick lawman” theme surfaced in Mike’s Jason Brand series, written as “Neil Hunter” and originally published in Norway by Morgan Kane publisher Bladkompaniet. Brand is a former US Marshal turned gun-for-hire, and the series contains several of Mike’s most intriguing plots, such as in Devil’s Gold where - in its original form - a trail of Confederate gold leads Brand to Jamaica, where he locks horns with a Chinese renegade and teams up with a British secret agent!
However, probably his best-known western series to date is that featuring Bodie the Stalker, again written as “Neil Hunter”. Bodie is a bounty hunter, and with its violent and often intense plots, the series successfully recreates the mood of the old Spaghetti westerns.
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