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  Ex-army scout Jason Brand was lured by a wad of banknotes to find the kidnapped daughter of Morgan Dorsey, one of the legendary names in New Mexico. Katherine had vanished from home, leaving no tracks, and there was no indication as to who had been involved – just a ransom note demanding half a million dollars for her release. Brand started out by asking questions in town, and then followed a strong hunch – but many bullets were to fly before he found Katherine.

  JASON BRAND 1: GUN FOR HIRE

  Copyright © Michael R. Linaker 1978

  Cover image © 2012 by Westworld Designs

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: July 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.

  ISBN 9781476471730

  Chapter One

  The wad of banknotes sat on the table between Linus Jordan and the man he knew as Jason Brand. There were 500 dollars in the stack of notes. More money than Jordan had ever owned at one time in his life. He knew he’d never be able to earn that kind of money — not unless he became very lucky, or a man like Brand. Jordan didn’t like Brand. He also didn’t like what Brand did, but he had to admit that the man could demand the kind of money that lay on the table because he had talents few others could ever hope to possess.

  Brand had ignored the money. He had also ignored Linus Jordan and Jordan’s partner. The day had been passing quietly enough and Brand was as close to being relaxed as he could ever hope to be. Now though, his mood had been shattered and Brand was starting to become edgy. He didn’t show it as he poured himself another drink.

  “Mister, did you hear what I said?” Jordan repeated. He was beginning to feel foolish. He wasn’t use to being ignored. Men who worked for the Dorsey brand were usually treated with respect, whether they were ramrod or wrangler, and it touched a tender spot to be treated like a common greasy-sacker.

  Behind Jordan the man who had ridden in with him, Saul Hussler, moved slightly to one side, his belt leather creaking as he eased the short-barreled Colt .45 in its holster.

  Without raising his head Brand said, “Tell that pissant to stand still. If he touches that gun again I’m liable to put a bullet through his gut.”

  Jordan spun round. “Saul, wait for me outside.”

  “Hell no!” Hussler snapped, color flooding his broad face. “I don’t take orders from him.”

  Brand’s chair scraped as he stood up. He was taller than either Jordan or Hussler. A lean, solid-bodied man with broad shoulders. When he moved there was an impression of casual ease.

  As if nothing he did created any effort.

  Beneath the brim of his stained, well-worn hat his face was taut, the brown flesh drawn tightly over strong bones. The eyes were pale blue, cold now as they settled on Hussler and staying on him as Brand stepped around the chair he’d just risen from.

  Hussler watched him come, uncertain what to do. He was normally a man full of his own capabilities, overbearing and a bully. Now he drew into himself, holding back. He could see that Brand’s right hand was close to the dark butt of the Colt he wore. A flicker of fear grew in Hussler as the other stepped closer. Something in the way Brand moved, his look of determination had an unsettling effect on him.

  Whatever Hussler had expected he was not ready for what actually happened. As Brand came to within a few feet his leisurely pace vanished.

  His right fist sledged up and round, clubbing Hussler across the jaw. The sound of the blow was loud in the silent saloon. The blow rocked Hussler back on his heels, anger and confusion crowding his thoughts. Yet even before Hussler had recovered from the blow Brand struck again, a sharp punch to the other’s stomach.

  Hussler gasped, making a half-hearted attempt at shouldering Brand aside, but the taller man avoided the contact and caught hold of Hussler’s shirt.

  He pulled hard, drawing Hussler off balance. He spun him round and shoved him across the floor and out through the doorway. Hussler skidded across the boardwalk and stumbled to his knees in the street.

  Linus Jordan watched in silence.

  He didn’t have any sympathy for Hussler. The man was too much of a loudmouth. Prone to acting first and thinking later. Jordan had seen Hussler’s downfall coming for a long time. Maybe this was the start of it.

  If Hussler was foolish enough to carry on pushing Brand he was liable to end up dead. Jordan glanced up as Brand returned to the table. As he sat down Brand reached out to tap the money.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “Morgan Dorsey wants to see you. The money is to buy some of your time.”

  “If I say no?”

  Jordan smiled. “Morgan Dorsey isn’t Saul. Then again maybe you never heard of Dorsey.”

  “I’ve heard. Names and big reputations don’t do a deal for me.”

  Jordan held back a snort of frustration.

  He’d been told that Jason Brand was a hard man to deal with. He knew by the man’s indifference that there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing him.

  “Brand, all I am on this is a messenger boy. I’ve worked for Dorsey for over six years. He’s been good to me and I’ll do anything I can to help him out of a tight spot. But this job needs more than I can give him. That’s why he wants you.” Jordan paused. “Morgan would rawhide me if he heard me say it — but he needs help real bad, Brand, and damn it to hell you’re the only man around who can give him that help.”

  Brand thumbed the wad of notes, his eyes still on Linus Jordan, and for a moment Jordan was certain he was going to hand it back.

  “Hell of a price to pay just to talk to a man,” Brand said. He picked up the money and walked out of the saloon.

  By the time Jordan stepped outside Brand was already on his horse and halfway down the street. Jordan stood and watched him go, and it was only then that he realized the palms of his hands were sweating. What the hell was it about Brand that made a man feel so damned uncomfortable? Jordan couldn’t put his finger on it but he was glad his contact with the man was over for the present at least. He saw with a sense of relief that Brand was riding west, and the Dorsey spread lay in that general direction.

  Looking around for Hussler he spotted the man’s horse outside one of the town’s cantinas further along the street. He didn’t relish the idea of rejoining Hussler. The man would be in a foul mood. As Jordan headed that way he couldn’t help but smile as he recalled the surprised expression on Hussler’s face when Brand had thrown him out of the saloon.

  Beyond town the land was bare and sun-bleached. This corner of New Mexico was close to the border and given much to desert land. There were tracts of grassland wherever water was to be found. In the drier parts the vegetation consisted mainly of mesquite and cholla, with ironwood thickets; it was harsh, tough vegetation entirely suitable for the land that nurtured it.

  Jason Brand rode slowly, not pushing the sturdy chestnut. The heat was stifling and it was asking for trouble to force the pace. Brand let the animal dictate their rate of travel, doing nothing more than guiding it in the direction he needed to go. He knew that the Dorsey spread began about an hour’s ride from town, and once he was on Dors
ey range there would be another hour’s travel before he reached the centre of Dorsey’s empire.

  Empire was the word for it. Morgan Dorsey was one of the legendary names in this part of the southwest. He had put down his roots when the land still belonged to the Apache. He’d fought the Indians and anyone else who got in his way. And while fighting and building his empire he had raised his family. But Dorsey had paid a high price for his land empire. Over the years he’d lost his wife and both his sons. A few years back he had remarried — but once again had been dogged by bad luck. His second wife, a much younger woman, had taken up with Dorsey’s brother Luke, and the pair had run out on Morgan Dorsey.

  Fate had stepped in and the eloping pair had died together in a hotel fire in Tucson. Dorsey had been left alone again with the sole survivor of his family — his daughter from his first marriage. Katherine, a dark-haired beauty in her mid-twenties.

  During the whole of his ride out to the Dorsey spread Brand never once let his mind dwell on the reason for his summons. He found little point in wasting time trying to guess. He would know soon enough once he met Morgan Dorsey.

  Despite his apparent lack of interest back in town Brand was glad of the chance for some possible action.

  He had been taking it too easy since he’d brought in the outlaw named Shileen and collected the bounty money. Shileen had taken a lot of catching. Brand had chased him halfway across Sonora before the final gunfight in the plaza of a dusty little village.

  Even then, with Shileen’s body roped down over the back of his own horse, Brand had been forced to outrun a bunch of Rurales who had taken exception to his presence. It had taken him two days to shake them off before he could break for the river.

  Then a quick ride to Concho where he had handed over the stiffened and blackened corpse to the town marshal.

  Three days later the bounty had been paid and Brand had sat back, intent on taking things easy for a while. And so he had, until poker, whisky and women had eaten away most of his money.

  Brand reached the single span railroad line that was Morgan Dorsey’s own spur-line. He knew now that he was on Dorsey range. The spur-line curved off to the northeast to join up with the main track some thirty miles away. The days of long cattle drives were over now.

  Men like Dorsey raised their herds, then loaded them into boxcars and sat back while their beef was transported across country to the eastern stockyards.

  It was quicker, neater and cheaper.

  Guaranteeing that the cattle arrived in more or less perfect condition.

  The terrain began to change around Brand. He was moving into lush grassland. Dotted around the landscape were tall windmills that drove the pumps for lifting water from beneath the ground. The water was piped to the cattle and also used to feed the grassland itself. Dorsey had chosen well the day he’d put down his marker. He had seen the potential in the vast tract of land and had decided from day one that it was his.

  A regular trail appeared. It ran parallel with the rail-line and led Brand to the ranch complex itself. As with everything else it was impressive.

  Brand rode by the pens first. He spotted a half-dozen boxcars at the end of the spur-line. They were painted maroon and white and bore Dorsey’s name and brand on the sides. Beyond stood the barns and storehouses. Vast stables complete with their own corrals.

  Beside the stables was an open shed under which stood an assortment of wagons and buggies. Brand rode by the long bunkhouses, cook-shack and the mess-hall. And further on, separated from the rest of the spread by the low hill on which it stood, was the main house itself.

  Three stories high. A huge, rambling affair with a veranda running all the way around the ground floor. On the second floor was an open balcony.

  As Brand reined in at the house a slender Mexican, clad in spotless white cottons came out of the front door and took charge of his horse. Slapping the dust from his clothes Brand made his way to the front door. A second Mexican appeared, inclining his head in Brand’s direction.

  “Senor Dorsey is expecting you. Please come this way.”

  Brand followed him, his boots making solid sounds on the hardwood floor.

  The Mexican led him into the library. It was a large, book-lined room, with high windows at the far end that looked out over wide, empty grassland.

  Beneath Brand’s boots now lay a thick carpet that muffled his steps. The Mexican gestured towards the window end of the room then withdrew, closing the heavy door behind him.

  Near the windows stood a huge oak desk. Behind the desk, seated in a large leather swivel chair sat Morgan Dorsey.

  He was a large man, his black hair starting to go gray around the edges. His craggy face was burned a deep brown and the lines etched into it were like knife cuts. He watched Brand closely.

  “So you’re the one they kicked out of the US Marshals office.”

  Dorsey stood up and walked around the desk, leaning his hip against the edge. He folded his arms across his powerful chest.

  “From what I heard you were one of their best men.”

  Brand didn’t speak. It wasn’t a subject he liked to talk about. It had been almost a year now, but time hadn’t lessened the bitterness, and he had no desire to have it all dragged up again.

  “You don’t want to talk about it?”

  Dorsey nodded as if he had some understanding of Brand’s feelings.

  “I just figured you’d want more for 500 dollars,” Brand said.

  Dorsey picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and handed it to Brand. It was plain white paper, a cheap grade, and on it written in ink was a short but cryptic message.

  DORSEY — WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER.

  IF YOU WANT HER BACK IT WILL

  COST YOU 500,000 DOLLARS. WE

  WILL BE IN TOUCH.

  A kidnapping!

  Brand glanced at the ransom figure again. A half-million dollars. Somebody was aiming high. Almost too high.

  Five hundred thousand dollars was a very definite amount to choose. Brand wondered if it had any particular significance. He took another look at the message. There was little to be learned from its tone. It didn’t indicate the kind of people the kidnappers were.

  Apart from the fact that they could spell. Which didn’t give much away. The handwriting itself was firm and bold. He guessed it had been written by an educated hand.

  “Recognize the handwriting?” he asked Dorsey, but the man shook his head. “When did this all happen?”

  “Katherine disappeared from her bed sometime on Sunday night. Her maid found the note early on Monday morning when she went in to wake my daughter.”

  And now it was late Tuesday. A lot of time had gone by. It wasn’t going to help.

  “Anyone hear or see anything out of the ordinary?”

  “No.”

  Brand dropped the note back on the desk. “What did you have in mind for me?”

  For a moment Dorsey stared at Brand as if he had two heads. Then he drew a big hand across his face.

  “I want you to find my daughter, Brand, get her away from these bastards if she’s still alive. I don’t care how you do it.”

  “The ransom? You going to pay it?”

  “Hell, yes,” Dorsey snapped. “Look, Brand, I’m not a fool. But I have to try every way I can to get Katherine back. Paying the money doesn’t guarantee that they’ll send her home. They could just ask for more money. That’s why I want you looking for her as well.”

  “Any suspects?”

  Dorsey gave a cold grin. “Walk out that door, Brand, and I’ll show you at least a half dozen men on this spread who hate my guts. And they work for me.”

  “Enough to kidnap your daughter?”

  “Hard to tell, but I wouldn’t have thought so. Thinking on though — how do you measure how bad a man hates you?”

  Brand looked out of the window. He watched men moving back and forth, going about their daily tasks. Were any of them involved in the kidnapping? It was just like Dorsey had said
— how can you tell by just looking at a man?

  He had to accept that someone working for Dorsey could be in on the crime. He wouldn’t find out by staring out the window.

  “Well?” Dorsey asked, impatience tingling his voice.

  Brand faced him squarely. “For ten thousand dollars I’ll do what’s needed.”

  “You charge high, Brand.”

  “Damn right I do, Dorsey. You want the job done right I’ll do it. But I don’t put myself on the line for coffee money.”

  “Agreed,” Dorsey said. He crossed the library and poured himself a drink. “You want one?”

  Brand shook his head. “Any reason why you haven’t brought in the law?”

  “I want action. Fast action. The law works to the rule book. You should know that better than most.” Dorsey wagged a finger in Brand’s direction. “Tell me if I’m wrong — but I reckon I’m close to the truth when I said rules and regulations were what tripped you up.”

  “We’re not talking about me,” Brand replied sharply. “Dorsey, you bought my time to talk about your daughter, not to pick my brains about something that is my business, and stays that way.”

  Dorsey emptied his glass, unruffled by Brand’s hard words.

  “I wanted you because you’re the best there is. You can work a lot faster than any law agency because there isn’t a thing to hold you back. You also know the country around here better than most. A man doesn’t scout for the army for six years and not gain a knowledge of the territory. And I like your way of getting things done. This kidnapping needs those skills.”

  Dorsey crossed to the window and stared out.

  “All that out there is mine, Brand. I’ve worked damned hard for it. It’s made me a wealthy man. But not an acre of that rangeland is worth a damn if I lose my daughter. I’ve lost both my sons and two wives. Katherine is all I have left and I want her back, Brand. I don’t give a damn how many men you have to kill to do it either.”

  “I’ll try to get your daughter back, Dorsey,” Brand said. “Just one thing. If I kill it’s because there isn’t any other choice. I won’t be doing it because you expect it. I’ll be in touch.”