Brand 5 Read online

  Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!

  Eighteen-year-old Jason Brand is set on vengeance after the death of his parents at the hands of Comanche raiders. His sister is captured and murdered and when Brand is caught he escapes, taking his revenge on the Indian responsible. Soon Brand is caught up in a world of violence as he searches for the white men who betrayed his family. What happens next moulds him into the man who now wears the badge of the Justice Department.

  DAY OF THE GUN

  BRAND 5

  By Neil Hunter

  First Published in 2000 by F. A. Thorpe Limited

  Copyright © 2000 by Neil Hunter

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: October 2013

  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..

  Cover image © 2013 by Westworld Designs

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  Prologue

  The band of Comanches rode up out of the south, crossing the Texas-New Mexico border just east of the Pecos River. There were more than two-dozen of them, and everyone was a seasoned warrior painted for war. They were Kwahadi Comanche, the fighting men of the Llano Estacado — the warriors who proudly bore the title of Lords of the Plains. Of all the Comanche tribes the Kwahadi were the most feared. They were fighters from birth to death. With them war was life, and they had proved their superiority for a hundred years. They had fought the Spanish, were constantly at war with the Mexicans. And they had driven the Apaches out of Texas, up into the mountain fastness of New Mexico.

  Now their mortal enemy was the white invader. They fought this new foe as they had fought all others. Without mercy, sweeping down on their chosen victims without warning and killing any who stood in their path. Often they took prisoners, these being mainly women.

  This particular raiding party had already cut a bloody trail of terror across Texas, and now they were heading back to their wilderness retreat on the Llano Estacado. It was more by chance than deliberate intent that they crossed over into New Mexico. Their line of travel would take them east across this corner of the territory and eventually back into Texas. The maps drawn by the whites, with borders dividing up the land, meant nothing to the Comanche; they had been here long before the mapmakers and as far as they were concerned all this land belonged to the Kwahadi. They rode wherever they desired and anyone who stood in their way would surely die!

  Just before noon on that hot Summer day in 1870 a Kwahadi scout rejoined the main party and spoke with the leader. He was a famed warmonger named Three Finger. His name had come about following a raid against a Mexican village many years back. During the raid, the Comanche, then called Tall Bear, had been set upon by a Mexican armed with an axe. Even though Tall Bear had finally killed the Mexican, the Comanche had received a bad hand wound. Tall Bear had lost both outer fingers from his left hand. Despite the severity of his wound and the loss of blood, Tall Bear had carried on fighting, slaying many more Mexicans before the raid ended. His bravery had become legend in the villages of the Kwahadi, and Tall Bear had been renamed Three Finger. As if to prove he was still as much a warrior as any ten-fingered man, Three Finger became a fighter of outstanding ability, moving up through the ranks to become a war chief.

  Listening now to the information brought by his scout Three Finger saw the chance of another raid. Only a few miles from where they rested lay an isolated ranch. The scout had seen four men tending a herd of cattle, two women and a younger man at the ranch itself. It was perfect for a raid. The scout had also spotted a corral holding a good number of horses. Three Finger grunted his approval at that point. Horses justified a raid more than anything. The horse had given the Comanches their mobility, raising them far above any other of the plains tribes. There were also the women. These he would take as captives. White women could be used for many things. To be used in trading with the Comancheros. As workers in the village. And to satisfy his hunger for female flesh. Three Finger had taken many white women. He liked the way they fought when he took them, and the hatred in their eyes only made his conquest that much sweeter.

  As Three Finger’s scout finished his report a ripple of interest ran through the rest of the raiding party. Three Finger sensed their expectancy. He had no need to ask if they were ready for a fight.

  They moved out. A line of deadly fighting warriors, each and every one of them armed. Although they were armed with bows and lances, the majority of them carried new repeating rifles.

  Ahead lay the place of the whites. When they reached it the interlopers would feel the fury of the Kwahadi. It was spoken in the camps that when the Lords of the Plains struck the very earth itself would tremble…

  Chapter One

  He was crossing the yard, making for the house when he heard the sound of a hard-run horse. He turned and saw his father driving the grey mare across the shallow creek beyond the corral. The moment he spotted the foam-flecked animal he knew something was wrong. His father was not the kind of man to drive a horse so hard without good reason. He ran forward to meet his father as the grey thundered into the yard, but his father was already hurling himself from the saddle, snatching his rifle from the saddle-sheath.

  ‘Get the rifle out the house, boy!’ his father yelled. ‘Don’t ask, just do it!’

  He knew then that it was bad trouble. He turned and ran for the house, sensing his father close behind.

  Before either of them reached the house the door opened. His mother stepped outside, her face marked by uncertainty. At her heels was his sister, Liz.

  ‘Back inside,’ his father ordered. ‘Comanche!’

  He saw Liz’s face pale, saw her eyes widen with alarm, a choked off scream bursting from her lips as she flung out an arm, pointing beyond the creek.

  Over his shoulder he saw them as they drove across the creek, water foaming upward in a silver spray. They reached the near bank and came up the slope, the hooves of their ponies trampling the dry yellow grass growing near the creek. Pale dust spumed up from the ground as the Kwahadi raiding party swept up the slope and turned in towards the house.

  In the seconds before they hit he heard his mother’s voice, louder than usual, maybe even a little frantic.

  ‘Where are the hands, Henry?’

  And he caught his father’s hurled reply, bitterness edging his words: ‘Gone! All three of ’em! Took one look and they ran out on me, damn their eyes!’

  There was no more time for talk. The yard was full of wheeling ponies and yelling, screaming, wild faced Indians.

  His father’s rifle fired, spitting flame and smoke, and a stocky, pockmarked Comanche was driven from his horse as the .44 caliber bullet tore into his head. The Kwahadi hit the ground face down, the back of his skull a mess of shattered bone and pulped brains.

  A painted pony slammed into him and he fell, the breath driven from his body. He twisted and rolled violently, trying to avoid the pounding hooves of milling ponies. Around him all was confusion and noise. The smell of horses and sweat. The dry taste of yellow dust boiling up from the ground. He struggled to get to his feet, wondering how he was still alive, and also angry and wanting to hit back.

  Then he heard the high, drawn out scream. The sound froze him
and he turned, seeking the source of the sound.

  He looked into face of his mother, saw the agony etched deep into her eyes as she struggled to free herself from the Comanche lance driven through her body, pinning her to the door of the house.

  He heard himself scream her name. He ran towards her, but something struck him a savage blow across the back of the head and he pitched onto his knees. He could feel hot blood streaming down his face. In another moment of horror he saw his father on the ground, writhing about, his body ripped and torn from the blades of stabbing lances driving into his flesh.

  Out of the well of noise he heard his sister call his name. He pushed to his feet, searching for her, ignoring the threat from the crowding Comanches.

  He saw his sister being dragged on to the back of one of the ponies. Her blue checked dress had been shredded, her exposed flesh bruised and bloody. He tried to reach her, but a wheeling pony blocked his path.

  As Liz was pulled, screaming, across the neck of her captor’s horse the Indian turned to stare into the face of her brother. For a few seconds the two held their collective gaze, and then Three Finger, for it was he, uttered a curt command in his own tongue.

  He heard the Comanche’s words, and though he didn’t understand the language he knew what was meant. Knowing that his chance for survival was slim he determined to at least make some attempt to fight back. He had spotted his father’s rifle on the ground. Ducking low under the belly of the closest horse he snatched up the rifle, working the lever as he turned and fired up into the face of a howling Comanche. The dark features disintegrated into a bloody pulp.

  Before he could fire again something struck him in the side. It felt as if he had been kicked by a mule. And then the pain followed, exploding inside him with numbing intensity. The pain was greater than any he had experienced before. He was unable to cry out. Paralysis gripped him, the rifle slipping from his fingers as he slumped to the ground. Weak and suddenly very cold he was unable to resist. With a great effort he raised his head, staring about him. Something struck him in the face. He felt his flesh tear, lips splitting. Blood filled his mouth. He felt himself being lifted from the ground, dragged bodily across the yard to where he was slammed up against the side of the house. The impact increased the pain and this time he was able to scream out his agony.

  Without warning the ground opened up and swallowed him. Everything went away. The pain. The noise. All feeling left him. He didn’t know whether he was standing or lying down. As it was he didn’t care one way or another. His pain had gone and that was all that mattered.

  Silence enveloped him, cocooning him like a great smothering blanket. His breathing became shallow, and though he wasn’t aware he passed out many times. A long period of time drifted by before he registered any senses at all.

  He opened his eyes once, staring about, but he was surrounded by darkness. For a terrifying moment he thought he was blind, then he realized it was night. He knew he needed to move. To find some kind of cover. He was too weak. The pain began again shortly after and he passed out.

  He lay through the rest of that night and the following day until the afternoon. When he did open his eyes he found he was able to survey the bleak scene of death around him. His mother still hung from the long, feathered lance pinning her to the door of the house, the front of her dress dark with crusted blood. The butchered body of his father lay only yards away. He saw too that the bodies had been attacked by carrion and when he managed to turn his head, sensing he was being watched, he saw five, scrawny-necked, bloated buzzards perched in an ugly line on the top rail of the corral. Glinting, beady eyes were fixed on him. He knew they were waiting for him to die. They would wait patiently, not moving until it was safe for them to swoop down and rip at his flesh with beak and talon.

  But that wouldn’t happen if he had anything to do with it!

  The Comanches had left him for dead, but he was still alive. It was going to take more than a bunch of skinny buzzards to finish him. Hell, he was alive, wasn’t he? And he intended staying that way. He was weak, badly hurt, but he was going to get away from this place, even if he had to crawl on his hands and knees. He had to. There were things he had to do. He had to find Liz. Get her away from the Comanches. After that he was going after the three hands who had run out on his father. He wouldn’t rest until he’d settled with those yellow dogs. He had their names and faces planted deep in his mind. He wouldn’t forget them — or forgive.

  First though he needed to move on. Away from the ranch in case the Comanches came back. They were known for their inconsistency. Doing exactly the opposite of what everyone thought they were bound to do. So the safest thing was to remove himself from the area. He also needed to find a place he could get his wounds seen to. The nearest spread lay a good day’s horse ride away. He had no horse and he was far from being in good shape. But he had no choice. The only way out meant he was going to have to walk.

  Sitting up, clenching his teeth against the recurring pain, he heard the sudden movement of the startled buzzards. One took flight, wings flapping dryly. It hovered for a while then settled back on the corral rail with its companions. He watched the buzzards through slitted eyes. If only he had a gun! He could have dropped the whole sorry bunch of them. But the Comanches would have taken every gun they could find, along with everything else they could get their hands on. He swore softly as he scanned the empty corral. It had taken a long time to build up the string of horses the Indians had taken.

  Conscious of the pain in his side, and the ease with which he could start it bleeding again, he dragged himself across the dusty earth until he was able to put his back against the wall of the house. Slowly, painfully, he pushed himself up the wall until he was on his feet. Breathing hard, sweat pouring from him, he stood swaying unsteadily. He realized how weak he was. How much blood he’d lost. Despite all that he knew he had to stay upright, and carry on with the things he had to do before moving on.

  He moved to the door of the house and found himself faced with a task that brought tears to his eyes. Grasping the shaft of the lance pinning his mother’s body to the door he worked it loose. It came free suddenly. He was unable to stop the body slipping heavily to the ground. Averting his eyes he shoved open the door and went inside.

  The Comanches had got in through the windows and had done a thorough job of ransacking the interior. Clothing and personal belongings lay everywhere. Furniture had been overturned and smashed. The wooden cabinet that had held the delicate china cherished by his mother had been thrown to the floor. The china cups and plates were smashed. He stood and surveyed the scene for a long time, imprinting it all on his mind. Then he moved, searching for any food the Indians might have missed. He did find a slab of cold beef at the back of the pantry. There was half a loaf of bread too, and he found water in the wooden cask his mother had kept in the kitchen. Searching the floor he found a tin mug to fill.

  Taking the food and water he slumped in his father’s armchair after setting it upright. He wolfed down the meat and bread, washing it down with water. Afterwards he located a couple of blankets and pulled them around him, returning to the armchair. He was feeling tired. He decided to rest for a while before he moved on. Only for a little while, he kept telling himself.

  He closed his eyes, but all he managed to do was conjure up vivid images of the Comanche attack. His mother’s cruel death and the savage end to his father’s life. And he kept hearing his sister, pleading for help as she was dragged on the back of the Comanche pony. They were pictures he was going to see again and again. Even if he found the three men who had run out on his father and settled with them, the images would haunt him still. First, though, before anything else, he had to find Liz. He had to get her away from her Comanche captors. Nothing else mattered until he achieved that. Only then could he track down the three. When he did he would kill them — without a second thought. They were responsible for what had happened to his family. He could never forget that — or forgive it.
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br />   He slid into a deep and restless sleep that was full of shadowed dreams. There was also an awareness that because he had survived thus far there was no guarantee he would remain alive. In the days that were to come it would be his desire for retribution that would keep him going. He had too much to do to allow himself to be beaten.

  In later years he would look back on this time with detachment. There would still be feeling, but time would lessen the bitterness. Now he was hurt in body and mind. He was alone and full of vengeful thoughts.

  He was young and the death of his family had shocked him. He would eventually accept the fact. He had already learned that this was a land that dealt out unsubtle harshness without warning. Neither was he a total stranger to violent death. His grandfather, no stranger to the land, had been trapped by hostile Apaches. Though he had killed a number of his attackers he had finally been taken prisoner. The Apaches, acknowledged masters of torture, had kept him alive for days before abandoning him. The old man had still been alive when he had been found. The memory of what he had seen remained for a long time. It taught him they lived in violent times, in a place where it was wise to grow up quickly. He had only been eleven years old when he had witnessed his first gunfight, his young eyes unable to avoid the brutal bloodiness of a man being torn apart by gunfire, his ears registering the ugly sounds of a dying human being.

  Two days before the Comanches had ridden in and slaughtered his family, he had celebrated his eighteenth birthday. The whole family had gathered round the table for a special meal his mother had prepared. His father had presented him with a silver pocket watch. Now all that was from a different world. One apart from the world in which he existed. His past lay far behind him, and he would put the distant memories aside. Death had robbed him of his family and his compassion. He was a boy become a man. Delivered by violence and left to survive in a savage land.