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  Jason Brand really had his work cut out for him when he was sent to track down a kill-crazy renegade half-breed called Lobo, who was riding roughshod over the territory. Part white and part Apache, Lobo didn’t belong to either society and had a grudge against the world. But his merciless one-man war was causing so much trouble that he was wanted not only by the whites but also the Apaches. That said, Brand realized the only way he was going to stop Lobo dead in his tracks was by enlisting a little help. So he went straight to the top, in the shape of the Apache leader Nante ...

  LOBO

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 1978 by Michael R. Linaker

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: November 2012

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading the book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Cover image © 2012 by Westworld Designs

  Chapter One

  The meeting had been set in a town called Rawdon. It sat at the base of a high bluff. A sun bleached collection of buildings that had long ago ceased being anything but functional. The town did serve a purpose. There were a number of large cattle outfits in the outlying territory, and three hours from the town was the unimpressive outpost of Fort Kellerman. Rawdon existed as a supply base for the ranches, a weekend provider of entertainment for the cowhands and off-duty soldiers from the fort.

  Colonel Alex Mundy, never a man to conceal his feelings, found Rawdon dirty and uncomfortable. It wasn’t that he was unused to the conditions of frontier life. Thirty years in the Army left a man with few illusions. In his time

  Mundy had experienced worse places than Rawdon, but he still objected to the town’s indifference. Fort Kellerman wasn’t one of the military’s showcases but at least those in occupation tried to keep the post in a reasonable state of repair. As he sat on the porch outside Rawdon’s only hotel, which some wit had named the Southwest Palace Hotel, he decided that it was an attitude of mind that made the difference. The Army instilled in its men the need for discipline. For order and upkeep. It was part of the military strategy, and it worked most of the time. Here in Rawdon there was no sense of pride. No sense of purpose. Rawdon lived for each day and spent each night adding up the profit.

  Mundy stretched his long legs. He was hot and sticky in the restricting closeness of his uniform. He ran a finger round the tight collar of his jacket, glancing across the dusty street at the saloon facing him. His escort from Kellerman was in there.

  A sergeant and two privates. Mundy wished he was with them. A glass of beer would have gone down very well. But that was impossible. He was a Colonel in the Army of the United States, and as such he could not allow himself the privilege of entering such a place. Alex Mundy was a stickler for protocol. He made hard rules for the men under his command and expected those rules to be obeyed to the letter. So he couldn’t go breaking them himself — which right at this particular moment in time was a hell of a way to have to run an Army.

  It hadn’t always been so. In his day Mundy had been a hell raiser. He’d done his share of drinking and womanizing along with the rest. But age and especially rank had forced these pleasures out of his life.

  He stood up and paced to the edge of the boardwalk, facing along the street, narrowing his eyes against the glare of the sun. God, it was damned hot! The heat was all-enveloping, the air stifling. Heat waves shimmered out on the salt flats beyond Rawdon’s east end. Mundy fished out his watch and glanced at it. Two minutes to noon. He wondered if Jason Brand was going to be late. It was almost three years since he’d seen Brand, but he doubted the man had changed his habits much. If that was true then Brand would be in Rawdon by noon.

  Closing the watch Mundy put it away. When he raised his head again Brand was riding in. Mundy watched him trail along the street and up to the hotel. The horse Brand rode was streaked with dust, and so was the dark suit he was wearing. Brand reined in at the hitching post and dismounted. He tied the horse, turned and stepped up onto the porch, one big hand held out to greet Mundy.

  “Been a long time, Jason.”

  “Too long,” Brand said. He tapped the gold braid on Mundy’s uniform, “Looks good on you, Alex.”

  Mundy smiled. “I was better off a Major. Since they gave me these I spend most of my time behind a desk.”

  “You’ve earned it.”

  “From what I hear you’ve been earning a reputation yourself.” Mundy led the way to the chairs that stood against the hotel front. “That was a rough deal you got when they threw you out of the US Marshal’s office.”

  Brand flicked dust from the front of his jacket. “Yeah!” he responded, his tone indicating to Mundy that there was nothing else to be said.

  “At least you’re with a good outfit now. McCord speaks well of you.”

  Brand glanced at him. “You know McCord?”

  “I’ve known Frank McCord for a long time. He’s a good man.”

  “He’s a mean son of a bitch,” Brand said shortly.

  “That too.” Mundy smiled. “Any man who can get you to wear a halfway decent suit can’t be all bad.”

  Brand ignored that remark. He hooked a chair to him and sat down.

  “Come on, Alex, I didn’t ride all this way just to listen to you making funny jokes about the way I dress.”

  Mundy settled himself, staring out along the empty street while he collected his thoughts.

  “What did McCord tell you?”

  “That you’ve got a problem with a half-breed who figures he’s going to wipe out all the whites and Apaches in the territory.”

  “That sums it up pretty well,” Mundy agreed. “His name — his given name — is Matthew Henty. The Apaches named him Lobo. Because he’s like a maverick wolf. They figure he’s crazy and I don’t think they’re far off the mark. He’s been running wild for the last twelve months. Killing anyone who crosses his path. Burning property. Butchering cattle and horses. Jason, he’s run the Army ragged. He can move faster than we can. By the time a patrol picks up on one of his raids he’s long gone. Has himself a hide-out in the mountains somewhere. Even the Apache can’t find him, and they want him as much as we do.”

  “McCord didn’t say, so maybe you can tell me. What’s his beef? Why is he so stirred up?”

  Mundy shrugged. “Quien sabe? As far as anyone can figure he has a grudge against the world because he’s a half-breed. Part white, part Apache. He doesn’t belong to either society. He’s a bitter man, all burned up with vengeance, and he’s causing a lot of suffering. Jason, I don’t give a damn about his problem. He isn’t the only half-breed in the territory. Others manage to get along. What makes him so different? All I do know is he’s killing too many innocent people along the way. He’s making our job intolerable. His killings are causing a deal of unrest. Both sides are starting to blame the other, and we’re in the middle trying to keep the peace. We can do without Lobo’s interference. I want him stopped, Jason, and you’re the man to do it.”

  “You sound like McCord. Between the pair of you I’m going to end up convinced.”

  “You know this territory better than most.”

  “Sounds as if Lobo
knows it too.”

  “I’ll give you that,” Mundy agreed.

  Brand took a thin cigar from his jacket and lit it.

  “McCord mentioned a lead.”

  “Lobo’s half-sister is in the area. She’s been trying to hire a guide to take her up into the mountains. Now she isn’t letting on who she really is, or the reason why she she’s here. Apparently she’s posing as a woman looking for her husband. Something about him being on a geological survey for the government. She’s calling herself Elizabeth Corey. That’s half true. Her real name is Elizabeth Henty. She and Lobo had the same father, different mothers.”

  “And you figure she’s looking for Lobo?” Brand considered for a moment. “Any particular reason she should want to find him?”

  Mundy shrugged. “Nothing definite. Their parents are all dead. Lobo is all the family she has. Maybe she wants him to give himself up.”

  “Not much of a future there,” Brand said. “He comes in he’ll hang.”

  “No question. Lobo has been offered amnesty three times. Last time they tried it Lobo sent the messenger back minus his hands and both eyes burned out.”

  “Sounds a nice feller.”

  “Jason, he needs to be stopped. For good. I don’t give a damn how you do it. If you can get him in your sights long enough for a clear shot finish him.”

  “Where’s the girl now?”

  “Two days’ ride from here. In Gallego. Still trying to hire a guide.”

  Brand knew Gallego. It was a flyblown town that straddled the border. A haven for any desperado riding the outlaw trail. Gallego owed no allegiance to any kind of law except the kind a man carried on his hip. If Elizabeth Henty was in Gallego looking for a guide, then she was getting desperate.

  Mundy stood up. “I wish I could give you more help.”

  “Don’t make it too easy, or McCord’s going to figure I’m being paid for doing nothing.”

  They shook hands before Brand returned to his waiting horse.

  “Don’t make it another three years,” Mundy said.

  Brand raised a hand. “Look after yourself, Alex.”

  He left Rawdon as he had entered it. Unnoticed for the most part, and only Alex Mundy knew why he’d been there. Once clear of town he turned his horse south, picking up the trail for Gallego.

  It felt good to be involved again. Not that he’d had much time for brooding since taking up McCord’s offer. That had been over a month ago, and during that time Brand had found himself at the centre of an intensive round of instruction at McCord’s headquarters outside Washington.

  The place was a white painted horse ranch set amongst green trees and lushgrassland. Behind the working facade of the ranch the real purpose of McCord’sdepartment was revealed. McCord had a small but dedicated staff and the most up to date organization his budget allowed. Brand found himself being impressed with each passing day. McCord expected every man to master his own particular talents, and to that end Brand spent long hours on the firing range located in the basement beneath the main house. Here he was shown and given the chance to use the very latest in weaponry, from the smallest handgun to the most powerful rifles being manufactured. The instructor, a stocky, grey-haired man named Whitehead, watched Brand’s technique and gave him a few discreet pointers. It was obvious that Whitehead knew his business and Brand took the man’s advice. It later proved to be more than sound.

  “And you can forget all that nonsense you hear about fast draw,’ Whitehead said one day. “I’ve seen enough to know it doesn’t mean a thing. Concentrate on putting your shot where it matters. Most of the speed men are in it for the glory. I’m not saying being fast isn’t important. Sure it is — but only up to a point. Hell, it doesn’t help being fast if you can’t hit anything when you get your gun out. The first bullet is the one that matters. Put that in the right place and your man will go down. Hit him off target and he’ll likely stay on his feet long enough to put one in you.” Whitehead stopped speaking suddenly, scowling at Brand. “What the hell am I telling you all this for? Damn little you need from me about handling a gun.”

  “When it comes to staying alive I’ll listen,” Brand had told him. He emptied the used casings from his Colt and handed it to Whitehead. “Be obliged if you’d check it over for me.”

  Whitehead had returned the gun the following day. It had been thoroughly cleaned and oiled. The action was smooth and easy, the trigger pull feather light.

  “See how she handles now. That pull is as light as it can be without she goes off every time you breath.”

  And then there had been Kito, a smiling, bland little man who had shown Brand a deadly form of unarmed combat from his native Japan. The first few sessions had left Brand badly bruised, and more than a little angry that this little man could render him helpless with a few swift moves. Kito, however, was a good teacher and Brand soon adjusted to the unfamiliar moves and actions. In the short time he was at the ranch he had many sessions with Kito, and by the time he left he had an insight into the Japanese way of fighting, becoming reasonably skilled in the use of a few throws and arm locks.

  During his time at the ranch Brand never once met any of the other field operatives, as McCord called them.

  “You won’t,” McCord told him in answer to Brand’s inevitable question. “Operatives stay unknown to each other. It’s a safeguard against possible threats to the security of the department. It’s the way I’ve always run things and it works. We don’t carry files on our operatives either. Once a man joins the department all the original paperwork we’ve built up is destroyed. In the unlikely event of anyone ever breaking in here — “ McCord had smiled “ — there wouldn’t be a thing for them to find.”

  “All in the family,” Brand had said.

  “I have one or two people in the military who deal through me. People I trust. No one else.”

  Brand’s grudging respect for McCord grew. The man was hard, sparing no one, least of all himself, but it was plain to see that he got results.

  “I have an assignment for you,” McCord said as he appeared beside Brand one morning on the firing range. “Get your gear together. Your train leaves in a couple of hours.”

  “Where to?”

  “New Mexico. Home ground for you, Brand. A meeting has been set for you in a town called Rawdon. An old friend of yours will be there to fill you in. One of my friends, too. Army man. Name of Alex Mundy. It seems he’s having a problem with a renegade half-breed called Lobo, and he’s asked for our help.”

  Chapter Two

  Brand rode into Gallego about mid morning. The dark suit had been exchanged for clothing more suited to his role as a guide. He hadn’t shaved since leaving Rawdon and the dark stubble on his face added to his appearance. He felt comfortable now, in the worn shirt and faded pants, and he acknowledged that it was going to take time to get used to the formal dress McCord insisted on when his operatives were in Washington. Brand dropped his hand to the holstered Colt riding on his thigh. Once he had strapped on the gunbelt he had felt really secure. As he put his horse along the dusty, rutted strip that served as Gallego’s main drag, he eased the hammer loop off, leaving the Colt clear if he needed it. Life was very cheap in a place like Gallego. He wasn’t looking for trouble. On the other hand it paid to be cautious. The people who frequented Gallego were generally the lowest of the low. Men who would pick a fight just for the hell of it. They were in Gallego because there was nowhere else for them to go. It was the final resting place before the grave for a lot of them. They had nothing to lose, nothing to fear, so they were willing to take the ultimate risk.

  He had smelled Gallego before he reached it. The stench of decay had filled his nostrils even across the flatland. Approaching the edge of town Brand had ridden by the deep pit where the town’s waste was thrown. A skinny dog had raised its scabby head to stare at him, growling with menace. Its red eyes followed him until he was well by. Then it returned to its task of unearthing some foul piece of rotting meat.

/>   Guiding his horse along the street, taking in the shambles that was Gallego, Brand wondered how such a place could exist. There was no plan to the place. The buildings appeared to have been constructed haphazardly. Simply constructed at a whim, with little concern as to the future. Perhaps because there never had been a true future for Gallego.

  It had been a long time since Brand had been to Gallego. His previous visit had been during his US Marshal days. It had been a short visit, at night. He had been looking for a man and he had found him in one of the sleazy cantinas. The drinking houses seemed to be the mainstay of Gallego’s economy. On the occasion of Brand’s visit Gallego’s noisy evening was shattered by a brief gunfight, during which time Brand’s quarry had escaped through a rear door. Brand had followed and it had taken him another day of hard pursuit before he caught up with the fugitive. Now Brand was back in Gallego, seeing it in daylight, and wishing the darkness would fall. From what he recalled there was only one hotel in Gallego; if it could be termed a hotel. The place turned out to be a sun bleached wooden building with just a ground floor and one above. If Elizabeth Henty was stopping over in Gallego, then she would be staying here. Brand took his horse to the hitching rail., dismounted, looped the rein over the rail., and took his rifle with him.

  The planks of the hotel porch creaked loudly as he walked over them. Brand went inside. The lobby was dim, the air warm and musty. At the desk Brand slapped the bell with the palm of his hand. After a minute a fat, wet-faced Mexican pushed his way through the beaded curtain that led to his quarters behind the desk. He was shoving the tail of his shirt into his pants. Before the curtain settled back in place Brand caught a quick glimpse of a low bed in the room beyond. On the bed was the naked form of a dark-haired Mexican girl. Her brown flesh glistened with sweat as she caught Brand’s eye and flashed her white teeth.

  “You want a room?” the fat Mexican asked.

  Brand managed a smile. “Yeah. Hurry it up and you can get back to your friend before she loses interest.”