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  Marshal Jason Brand decides he is due a break, so he rides off to Mexico with a young woman named Sarita. But his peace is soon shattered by the old Apache, Nante, who asks Brand to bring in those of his people who have been enticed away to the Sierra Madre badlands by the renegade, Benito. Brand saddles up and sets off on the dangerous trail after Benito. When he finally reaches the Sierra Madre, there are surprises in store as he must face old enemies. Will he live long enough to fulfill his promise to Nante?

  LEGACY OF EVIL

  (BRAND 7)

  By Neil Hunter

  First published by Bladkompaniet in 1978

  Copyright © 1978, 2014 by Neil Hunter

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: May 2014

  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.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Chapter One

  Jason Brand stretched out a lazy hand and picked up the bottle of pulque. Raising it against the bright sunlight he saw it was almost empty. He put the bottle to his lips and drank, draining the last of the liquid. His thirst satisfied for the time being he turned the bottle upside down and watched the few remaining drops drip from the neck. The moment they hit the dry, dusty ground the drops were instantly absorbed. Brand sighed. The sound of a contented man. For the first time in years he could honestly admit to being totally satisfied with his lot. He leaned his broad shoulders against the sun-warmed adobe wall of the tiny hut. It was hot and quiet. So quiet he could hear the trickle of water in the narrow creek below the hut. Forcing himself to move he raised his head and watched the kneeling figure of the young Mexican woman washing clothes in the clear stream. Just seeing her there raised a warm stirring in his loins. In his fertile mind he could visualize the brown sleekness of her strong, lithe body. Full breasts and firm, supple thighs.

  On more than one occasion he admitted his luck had been in when he had gone looking for the girl called Sarita. It had been more than three months now since he had ridden away from that little town in Louisiana, leaving behind the memory of a beautiful young woman named Sarah and the silent cemetery where she lay. He hadn’t even been sure where he was heading, just as long as it took him away from that place. He had drifted, letting his instincts take him back to familiar territory. Days later, in a more rational frame of mind, he had turned up in that nameless town where he had once met a girl named Sarita.

  It seemed a lifetime ago. He’d been working for a man named Dorsey, trying to find the man’s kidnapped daughter, and Sarita had been a diversion along the way. She had asked him to come back to her, and though he had said he would, his world had become so hectic and involved that his promise had drifted into his memory. When he had asked for her he had been told that she had gone back to Sonora to look after her aged grandfather, somewhere below Agua Prieta. The old man had a run-down farm and he was getting too old to run it any longer. Sarita was his only living relative, so she had quit her job in the cantina and left for Sonora.

  Brand had hung around the town for a few days, then on an impulse he had taken the trail for Sonora. A week later, filthy and unshaven, he had ridden across the narrow creek and reined in before the tiny adobe. It wasn’t much of a farm. A few chickens. A couple of rutting pigs in a derelict pen. Nearby was a tethered goat. The animal had broken off from chewing at the grass to stare at him. Brand had noticed something else. Across from the hut, on the far side of the dusty yard, was a fresh grave with a crude wooden marker.

  He had caught a glimpse of movement inside the hut. Then she had stepped outside, a hand raised across her eyes to block out the bright sunlight as she stared up at him. Brand realized she didn’t recognize him. Not surprising. He’d lost some weight and he was filthy and unshaven.

  ‘Hello, Sarita,’ he had greeted as he climbed down off his horse.

  She’d come closer, peering at him, seeking the man beneath the whiskers and the layers of dirt, and then her face had brightened and she had thrown herself at him.

  ‘Brand? Is it you, hombre?’ She had scanned his face intently. ‘It is you! I knew some day you would come back to me.’

  She had kissed him. Fussed over him. Made him a meal and prepared him a hot bath. And that had been that.

  From that moment they had settled into a comfortable existence. The pace of life was slow and undemanding. There wasn’t a deal to do around the tiny farm. The grave Brand had seen was where Sarita’s grandfather lay buried. He had died only a week before Brand’s arrival, leaving Sarita alone, and for her own reasons she had decided to stay on and run the place herself. She had little reason to return to her former life. It had been pointless, with not much promise. Here on the farm she had at least some peace, and a little dignity in the work she did.

  And then like a miracle Jason Brand had ridden back into her life. For the first few days she never took her eyes off him, trying to convince herself that it was true. That he was really there and was not a dream. She watched him. Touched him. Secretly smiled to herself. He was back with her and she was happy. She had truly been blessed.

  Despite all these things there was a nagging doubt at the back of her mind. A doubt as to how permanent their situation was. He seemed content enough now. But how long would he remain so? She watched the brooding grimness ease from his face. Saw his eyes take on a new brightness. He had told her about the woman who had died, and Sarita could sense how he had felt about her. Sarita was not jealous. Only sad for the loss of the woman. She knew he was a man who needed his women like some men need drink. He was relaxed now, looking no further than the creek running beside the farm. But one day he would raise his gaze beyond that narrow boundary, seeing the jagged rise of the distant hills, and his longing for the wider world would return. She knew this in her heart. It saddened her because she knew she would not be able to do anything to stop him when that time came. All she could do was be happy with him now.

  Those thoughts were in Sarita’s mind as she finished folding the clothing she had just washed. She picked it up and turned away from the creek, walking back towards the hut. The hard ground was warm beneath her bare feet and she felt the sun burn pleasantly through her blouse. She could see Brand stretched out, his back against the wall of the adobe. As she neared him he raised the empty bottle.

  ‘It’s empty, woman,’ he said gently.

  Sarita brushed stray hair away from her face and smiled down at him.

  ‘Then perhaps you will have to go thirsty,’ she said and walked on by into the hut. She put down the clothing and reached for the last bottle on the shelf. She took it outside. Found he had gone from where she had left him. Glancing around she saw him by the rickety fence of the corral that held his horse and the farm’s pair of mules.

  ‘Hey, hombre,’ she called.

  Brand turned as she brought him the bottle. He watched her pull out the stopper.

  ‘You want this?’ she asked, leaning her supple body against his.

  He took the bottle from her and drank. He felt a warm glow build in his stomach. He couldn’t be certain what was causing it. The drink — or the inviting softness of her thrusting body.

  ‘Brand, it is very hot.’ Her voice was low and honey-sweet. ‘Inside it is shady and on the bed are cool sheets.’

  Bran
d lowered the bottle.

  ‘I have just realized you only want me for my body.’

  Sarita smiled, eyes bright with anticipation. ‘Si. But is it not a good reason?’

  ‘Best I’ve heard today, ma’am.’

  They turned back for the hut, and that was when Brand saw the two riders splashing across the creek. One was white, riding a slow mule. The other, lean and wiry, was an Apache. Young in years, but with a wisdom beyond his age showing in his glittering eyes. They were coming on slowly. Men not in any kind of a hurry, but men who knew exactly where they were heading.

  Brand felt the girl stiffen, fingers digging into his arm.

  ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘They’re friendly.’

  ‘You know them?’

  ‘One of them.’

  The pair of riders drew rein, one slightly behind the other, leaving Brand to confront an old acquaintance.

  They faced each other for a time, recalling events that had left scars on them both. Incidents that still left their marks.

  ‘You a hard feller to find, Jason.’

  Brand smiled and held out a hand. The fingers that closed over his were still strong. Still able to match his own powerful grasp.

  ‘Maybe because I didn’t want to be found, Al. That why they sent you? Nobody hides from you for long.’

  Al Sieber, Army Chief of Apache Scouts, working out of the San Carlos Indian Agency, eased his stocky body out of the saddle and stamped the stiffness from his joints. Brand hadn’t seen the German-born scout for a long time, yet from what he saw now Sieber hadn’t changed at all. The rounded, mustachioed face, brown as old saddle leather, bore the same bluff, good-natured expression as it always had. Sieber showed a pleasant personality that hid an inner toughness to match any. When Sieber was friendly it was fine. But when he was in a violent mood it was wise to stay well clear.

  Watching his old friend now Brand became aware of one thing — if Al Sieber had trailed him all the way down here to Sonora it hadn’t been for the ride. Sieber wanted him for something and it wasn’t to ask him the time of day.

  ‘Sarita, would you make us some coffee, please?’ Brand asked.

  The Mexican girl stared at him for a long moment, knowing deep inside that her fears were about to come true. The day she had been dreading had arrived. Brand would soon be leaving her. This man who had come looking for him would offer something Brand would be unable to refuse. It would be a call back to his old life. As day followed night it was certain Brand would go. He was a pistolero, a man of the gun, and it was the one thing he could never resist. The violence and the challenge were in his blood, and Jason Brand could no more turn his back on it than he could stop breathing. She had accepted this from the day he had arrived. They had both known it would have to end eventually. Brand would ride on and she would be alone again.

  ‘Si, I will make the coffee,’ she said and went into the hut.

  ‘Pretty little thing,’ Sieber said with genuine regret in his voice. ‘She’s going to miss you.’

  ‘Careful, Al, you came close to apologizing,’ Brand said. ‘Anyhow, what makes you think I’m leaving?’

  Sieber was gazing around as if he hadn’t heard.

  ‘Nice place you got here.’

  ‘Ain’t mine, Al. It belongs to the girl, and I asked you a question.’

  ‘Like I said. Nice place. For an old man to retire to.’

  ‘Horse shit isn’t your style, Al. You didn’t ride all the way from San Carlos to admire the scenery. And I ain’t about to sit out my days watching the sunsets.’

  Brand handed over the bottle and watched Sieber take a long swallow.

  ‘By damn, that’s a pretty good brew.’ Sieber wiped his lips and turned to his riding companion, who still sat his horse, watching silently. ‘Hey, Kid, take the animals to drink. I reckon we stay the night.’

  For the first time Brand took a good look at Sieber’s Apache companion. He looked to be around seventeen to eighteen years old, darkly good looking. He wore a dark-blue Army shirt with the stripes of a sergeant on the sleeve. At first glance he was just another Apache, one of the bucks who scouted for Al Sieber. But when Brand took a deeper look he saw there was more to this one. The Apache caught Brand’s gaze and held it. Staring into those dark bright eyes, Brand knew he was looking at an unusual Apache. What he didn’t know that day, nor did Al Sieber, was that they were in the presence of a young Apache destined to become a living legend. Within a year the Apache Kid — as he would become known throughout the South-west — embarked on his lone war against the Army, leading them across the vast territory as they vainly tried to capture him. Sometimes they came close, but during the eight years that was the span of the Kid’s epic battle against the US Cavalry, he was always one step ahead. He killed and destroyed as and when he wanted. Feared and respected he finally vanished. The legend had it that he died in some lonely mountain place. Others swore he’d gone over the border into the wilderness of the Mexican badlands. In time legend and fact became one, the edges blurred by the telling and retelling. The Apache Kid did vanish, and only one man knew the truth of the way it ended. But not on that hot day as the Kid turned his gaze away and led his pony and Sieber’s mule down to the creek. The story’s end was something for the future — it still had to have its beginnings.

  Brand returned to his spot against the adobe wall and sat down. He waited for Sieber to join him. The scout dropped to his heels in front of Brand and took another swallow from the bottle.

  ‘Old friend wants to see you pretty bad,’ Sieber said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  For the first time in weeks Brand thought about McCord, and the remembering conjured a picture of a quiet little cemetery in Louisiana. He reached out to snatch the bottle from Sieber and drank deeply.

  ‘Hit a raw nerve, did I, schichobe.’ Sieber failed to get a response and didn’t probe any deeper. Brand’s private thoughts were his own, and Sieber respected that in a man. So he let the moment pass, waiting until the hard look drifted from Brand’s eyes. ‘Name’s back at San Carlos. Hurt bad and dyin’. But swears he won’t let Yussen take him until he speaks to you.’

  This time Brand’s eyes settled on the scout’s face. The interest was showing now.

  Name!

  Brand had clashed with the old Apache many times over the years. The last time they had met had been during Brand’s pursuit of the half-breed Lobo. Nante had been taking his people into Mexico, trying to give them a chance to gather strength and rest before they continued their futile war against the Army. Brand had wondered whether he would ever see the old warrior again.

  It seemed he might. But what did Nante consider so important in his time before death?

  ‘What’s it all about, Al?’

  Sieber shrugged his wide shoulders.

  ‘The old feller won’t say. He just keep on asking for you.’

  ‘He bring his people in with him?’

  Sieber shook his head.

  ‘Came in with no more than three. They had their hands full keepin’ Nante alive. He was in a hell of a state. Cut to rags and carrying a few chunks of lead.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Way I figure maybe one of the young bucks took over and booted the old man out. Been a lot of pretty bad raids along the border of late. Worse than usual. An’ I hear tell ‘bout some white god come to lead the ’Pache to victory over the Army. Kind of talk that pulls in every bronco in the territory. Even got the Carlos Indians restless. Things are hotting up. Crook is getting close to sweet talkin’ Geronimo into surrender. Most other Apache bigwigs are watching and listening. Geronimo comes in we figure so will others . . . ’

  Sieber slammed a big fist against the ground. ‘If this bunch who threw Nante out keep on raiding the peace talks are going to blow to hell. Hell, Jason, you know how these things go out here. Only takes one bad incident to spoil it all. Cannot happen. This time I got a feeling the talks could stop all the killing.’

  ‘Anything in this wh
ite god talk?’

  Sieber shrugged.

  ‘You always hear this kind of nonsense. Some big muckey-muck out of the clouds leading the way to victory. Maybe some crazy buck got hisself smoked up on peyote and saw himself a vision. Jesus, you know how they are. Most likely it’s all big wind.’ Sieber dragged off his hat, scratching at his head. ‘Could be some white renegade stirring ’em up. Feeding ’em whiskey and trading guns.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

  ‘Jason, I figure Nante knows what’s going on. But ain’t about to tell anyone ’cept you, so come morning we saddle up and ride.’

  Brand stared over Sieber’s shoulder, watching the young Apache making camp beside the creek. Pale fingers of smoke rose into the sky from a small fire he’d already started. The smoke rose in a straight line. Not a breath of wind to disturb it. He realized he was going to miss this place. He had been getting into a routine. Too much of a routine. Thinking on he realized that Sieber had showed up just in time.

  Sarita came outside with tin mugs and a pot of coffee. She handed the mugs to Brand and Sieber and filled them. She indicated the Apache squatting by the creek.

  ‘Shall I take him some?’

  Sieber shook his head.

  ‘He sees to his own needs. No need to worry about the Kid.’

  His words would soon come back to haunt him.

  Brand caught Sarita’s eye.

  ‘In the morning I have to go,’ he said simply.

  Sarita regarded him silently. A faint, wistful smile curved her lips before she murmured: ‘Si.’ She said no more as she turned and went back inside the hut.

  ‘Nice coffee,’ Sieber offered in the silence that followed. There was no reply so he buried his face in his mug and carried on drinking.

  Down at the creek the young Apache sat and watched the clear flowing water. Though his face was turned toward the creek his eyes were seeing far distant horizons beyond high, solitary mountains that existed only in his mind. He dreamed dreams that had no meaning even to him at that time. He dwelled on events that had yet to take place. In his mind he saw the death of the Apache nation. The destruction of The People, and he was torn between the loyalty he had for his tribe and that which he had for the blue shirt he wore with its yellow stripes on the sleeve. He carried pride in his heart for the man named Sieber, the chief of scouts he served so faithfully. His confusion grew stronger the longer he pondered.