Brand 10 Read online

  CONTENTS

  About THE KILLING DAYS

  Copyright

  Prologue

  THE HUNT

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  THE CHASE

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  THE SHOWDOWN

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  More on Neil Hunter

  Vital documentation that would help bring a number of crooked Washington politicians and influential businessmen to book was stolen during a violent train robbery. Jason Brand was ordered to get it back – and to bring in the gang responsible. But from the minute he hit the trail, he became a target.

  In the killing days that follow, Brand meets violence with violence and leaves a trail of bodies in his wake. But someone’s determined to stop him at any price … and as the spent shell-cases continue piling up, he slowly begins to unravel the complicated deceptions that stand in his way – even to exposing one man he mistakenly believes is on his side!

  In the bullet-riddled climax, Brand was going to do his job and no one was going to stop him. But it was going to be a close-run thing. And this time Brand might not walk away from it.

  Prologue

  It began when Frank McCord sent for Brand and came directly to the point, which was his way. He saw no profit in wasted effort, so the minute Brand joined him in his office introductions were made and McCord went straight to the reason he had sent for Brand.

  ‘This is Senator Howard Beauchamp. One of the few men who understands and supports our existence. He’s here because the President has made it clear he wants our help on an important matter.’

  Beauchamp held out a hand and Brand took it. The senator had a strong grip. It went with his solid appearance. A stern but good-looking man in his early fifties. An imposing, well-dressed man. Beauchamp held Brand’s inquiring stare. The senator had a slight smile on his lips as he stared back.

  ‘Now we have each other’s measure, Mr. Brand, I have the feeling we will get along.’

  Brand relaxed as he sat back, facing the Senator in front of McCord’s desk. There was something about Beauchamp he found interesting.

  ‘The Senator has a problem requiring our expertise,’ McCord said.

  Never heard it called expertise, Brand thought. He did not voice his thought.

  ‘This has been going on for some weeks,’ Beauchamp said. ‘It began with what I can only describe as rumors began to reach my ears. Isolated items that when added up peaked my interest – and my suspicions. Enough for me to set one of my investigators on to the matter. Good man I’ve come to trust. Name of Henry Quinlan. Works best on his own. Keeps things close so not to arouse any unwanted attention. Quinlan spent a few weeks on the matter, reporting only to me.’

  The senator held out a picture of the man called Quinlan. It was an official photograph taken from the file Beauchamp had with him. Quinlan looked to be a good-looking man in his mid-thirties. A thin mustache adorned his lip and his thick head of dark hair gave the appearance of being unruly.

  Beauchamp paused to take a drink from the half-filled tumbler of water in front of him. He glanced at McCord and gestured for him to step in.

  ‘Quinlan’s initial investigation showed the presence of extreme corruption involving both businessmen and members of government. Individual conspiracy together with illegal dealings. Hidden fraud that is resulting in government contracts with the gained money being shared between those involved. People in high positions manipulating large amounts of money. Favors being offered and bribes taking place. Quinlan obtained names from people who knew about these dealings but were unable to do anything because, simply, they realized they couldn’t trust those in higher authority in case they were part of the conspiracy.’

  ‘Sounds as if these people have tight control of the situation,’ Brand said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Beauchamp said. ‘It’s difficult to point the finger when you can’t be sure the one you’re confiding in isn’t part of the deal.’

  McCord said, ‘Henry Quinlan’s investigation began to explore a number of possibilities. He employed his expertise to convince those with individual knowledge to write down what they knew. He gathered his evidence and had it legally notarized. He gathered this evidence from a number of sources and once he had what he considered enough for the Senator to use, he arranged for it to be sent to Washington.’

  ‘I received a telegram from him saying he was sending the evidence by train, protected by a two-man team of Pinkerton detectives,’ Beauchamp said. ‘He did this because he told me he felt he was being watched. His idea was to draw anyone following him away.’

  The pause in Beauchamp’s speech warned Brand of a problem.

  ‘Anything else you can tell us, Senator.’

  ‘All I can tell you now is that Quinlan appears to have vanished. The Pinkerton men sent a message they felt they were vulnerable riding the train and they were going to leave it and pick up a couple of horses on the next stop. Place called Handy, Texas. The Pinkertons have been ordered to stay at Handy until you arrive and assist. It’s a precaution as we can’t be sure who to trust.

  ‘Getting to Handy isn’t as easy as crossing the street,’ Brand said.

  Beauchamp said, ‘Fastest way would be by rail.’ He caught the skeptical look in Brand’s eyes. ‘Not by a regular service. Frank, may I make use of your telegraph?’

  McCord led the senator out of the office. Brand was left alone to wonder just what the hell they were up to. The pair were gone for over forty minutes until McCord came back on his own.

  ‘You fancy a fast train ride?’ He didn’t wait for Brand to answer. ‘Gather what you need from your quarters. Beauchamp is offering you a ride to the rail depot. Take in what he tells you and then make the most of the next hours. I’ll let the law in Handy know you’re coming. He’ll be expecting you. May I suggest, Brand, that you maintain a strict silence on details of the matter. The senator hasn’t said it in so many words, but I suspect there may be those who could be working against him.’

  Brand didn’t ask any questions. He knew McCord well enough not to raise any kind of objections. He made his way to his room, packed his gear and weapons. Ten minutes later he was seated beside the senator in the man’s private carriage and wondering just what he was letting himself in for.

  By the time they arrived at the Washington rail depot Brand had been given chapter and verse on the senator’s accomplishments since he and McCord had deserted Brand.

  Beauchamp’s influence, couple with the free use of his relationship with the President, had got things moving with unexpected speed. A powerful steam locomotive, a ten wheel, gleaming black machine, sat on a spur line. It had a single coach attached to the tender. It sat waiting for its single passenger, smoke coiling from the stack and steam hissing from its valves. Beauchamp had a conversation with the engineer and his fireman, nodding and shaking hands with them before he rejoined Brand.

  ‘If it can be done this is the crew and the locomotive. We are basing the length of the journey on average speed and stops only for taking on water and fuel. The engineer, Jenks, understand the urgency and he has estimated the distance to be in the region of 1300 miles. He says he’s aiming for fifty hours at the outside, less if he can keep up the pace.’

  ‘I like his optimism,’ Brand said.

  ‘Telegrams have been sent to clear tracks of any trains that might get in your way. It’s going to take a deal of organiz
ing, but once it was stressed the requests came from the President himself there were only minimal objections.’

  Brand raised a hand to the engineer as the man hauled himself up into the locomotive. He would be in hands of the two men operating the train once it moved off. He walked to the steps of the coach, sensing Beauchamp close behind.

  He handed Brand an envelope. ‘Expense money. You may need it. Be embarrassing if you didn’t have any.’

  ‘You need receipts?’

  Beauchamp gave a hearty laugh. ‘No, I don’t think that will be necessary. Now I have every confidence in you,’ the senator said. ‘So it seems does Frank.’

  ‘Nice to be well thought of,’ Brand said.

  ‘It’s important that information is brought to Washington. We have to weed out this corruption before it seriously damages public confidence in the government. Henry Quinlan has made great efforts to gather these witness statements. It must not be wasted.’

  ‘If McCord is sure I can help we can all sleep easier tonight,’ Brand said.

  Beauchamp managed a slight smile. ‘Do I detect a sense of cynicism there, Mr. Brand?’

  Brand stepped up onto the coach. He dropped his gear on the platform and glanced down at the senator.

  ‘Ask McCord how I feel,’ he said. ‘He seems to know me pretty well.’

  THE HUNT

  Chapter One

  There were four riders. Sitting motionless on the approach to the rail depot at Handy, Texas. The day was blisteringly hot. Heat waves shimmered in the air. When the object of their interest appeared, rolling along the tracks and heading for the depot, the riders moved. They closed in on the isolated depot, taking their time, so that as the locomotive and its three cars slowed, the riders came from behind the wooden building and reined in. Pale fingers of dust followed in their wake, hanging in the still air. Steam billowed from the locomotive as it stopped. The cars shuddered, couplings clanging as they came to rest. The fireman climbed over the tender and reached up for the nozzle of the water chute. He swung the chute into position and started to fill the locomotive’s tank. The engineer leaned out the cab window, dragging off his stained cap. He was sweating. There was little escape from the heat. At the rear of the train the conductor stepped down from the baggage car and wandered over to the depot office to talk to the manager. He barely had time to open his mouth before one of the four riders appeared at his side. The man was wielding a large revolver and he held it so both men could see it.

  ‘Son, their ain’t any kind of money on this train,’ the conductor said. ‘If that’s what you came for I opine you will be disappointed.’

  The man waggled the barrel of his revolver in the direction of the telegraph key. ‘You - yank out them wires,’ he said.

  The manager did as he was told. He watched as the man leaned in through the window, took hold of the wires and pulled hard until the other end tore free from the junction box on the wall.

  ‘Wouldn’t want you affixin’ them back in a hurry,’ he said. ‘You got any guns in there?’

  ‘In the drawer.’

  ‘Hand her over.’

  The man took the short-barreled pistol and tucked it behind his gunbelt.

  ‘I don’t have one,’ the conductor admitted.

  The man opened the conductor’s uniform coat and checked for himself. ‘Just to make sure,’ he said.

  He leaned back and gave a loud whistle. It brought his three companions into view. They reined in next to the idling train. Two dismounted and climbed into the passenger car. The fourth man remained in the saddle, holding the reins, a long-barreled Henry rifle trained loosely on the loco’s driver and fireman.

  The depot manager was looking nervous and the man with the gun noticed this.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Someone might show up from town.’

  ‘You expecting anyone?’

  ‘Not especially but sometimes the marshal walks out to check things.’

  The town stood less than few hundred yards from the depot. A straggle of buildings. Corrals and cattle pens. The gunman glanced in the direction of the town. He could see figures moving about but there was nothing to suggest anything out of the ordinary.

  ‘If he’s got any sense he’ll be sitting somewhere cool,’ he said.

  The pair who had climbed on board the train appeared, stepping down to the ground and returning to their horses. One of them held up a leather case. It looked like a doctor’s medical case, only larger.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  ‘You got it?’ the gunman asked, stepping away from the conductor.

  ‘We got it.’

  The incident might have ended there if the depot manager had stayed his hand. But he was a proud man, dedicated to his job and though he hadn’t shown it outwardly, he was angry at what these four men were doing. In all his years as manager of the rail depot nothing like this had ever happened and he was not going to let anyone say Clem Dobson had failed in his duty.

  He had not been entirely truthful about the armament he had in his office. Handing over the revolver he had allowed his gaze to flicker to the stubby Greener resting on wooden pegs over the top of the window frame. Double cut down barrels, loaded with 12 gauge shells, the shotgun was within easy reach.

  As the gunman let his gaze flicker in the direction of his mounted partners Dobson reached for the Greener, snatching it free and angling the black muzzles in the direction the man. It was a reckless move, doomed to failure, because Dobson had to the ear back the hammers before he could fire, and the gunman was a shade faster. His pleasant smile faded as he moved the muzzle of the already cocked Colt, eased back on the trigger and put a big .45 caliber lead slug into Dobson’s chest.

  The solid slam of the slug kicked Dobson away from the window. He uttered a single cry of pain as the slug burned into this body, snapping rib bones and tearing into his heart. His right thumb slipped off the single hammer he had pulled back and his finger curled around the trigger in a reflex action. The Greener boomed, a gout of flame and smoke issuing from the barrel as it discharged its load. The full force of the shot hit the conductor in the face, blasting it away in an instant. The conductor’s head blew apart like an overripe melon.

  Before the conductor’s near decapitated body hit the platform, the rider holding the rifle opened fire. He shot the loco’s engineer where he leaned out of the cab, then turned his weapon on the fireman as the man scrambled for cover. Two .44-40 rifle slugs hit him between the shoulders. He stumbled and fell, dropping from the water tank and hit the ground hard.

  ‘Goddam it,’ the man with the leather case yelled. ‘Let’s move, let’s move, before that hick town lawdog wakes up.’

  The man on the ground ran to his horse and hauled himself into the saddle. The four riders reined about, cut across the tracks and sent their horses off to the west, out across the wide expanse of the Texas Panhandle country.

  ~*~

  By the time the town Marshal Earl Hicks, arrived at the depot he found a scene of utter chaos. Four dead outside the train. When he took himself, pale faced and sweating, nothing at all to do with the heat, inside the train he found two more dead men. Both these men were found in the private Pullman coach that sat between the passenger coach and the baggage car. They had both been savagely knifed and had their throats cut. The surviving passengers from the single coach were expectantly shocked.

  Marshal Hicks ran a quiet town. Little happened in Handy. The only time it came close to being rowdy was when the hands from the outlying ranches came in at the end of each month to spend their pay. The rest of the time Handy was just another Texas town going about its everyday business, serving those very same ranches. Earl Hicks had taken on the post of marshal five years earlier, after serving the original lawman as deputy for ten years. Hicks knew his job and would have been the first to admit it was easy pickings. The previous marshal had steered Handy through the tough years and on retirement he had handed over to Earl Hicks.

  ‘T
ake care of my town now, Earl. I done tamed her down so all you got to do is make sure she don't get stirred up again. Don't you mess up, son, else I'll have to come back and kick your ass.’

  Hicks was never certain whether his old boss had been joking, or meant what he said. In the event Handy caused him no kind of problem. It was a small town a long ways from anywhere and nothing of any consequence happened there.

  Until today.

  It was an unqualified mess. The one thing Hicks hated more than anything was a mess. He stood with his hat in his hand, wiping the back of his sweating neck with his already sodden neckerchief, staring at the dead and wondering just what the hell he was supposed to do.

  ‘Earl? Hey, Earl, what should we do?’

  It was his deputy, a lanky youngster called Toby Books. His normally healthy pallor had turned a grayish white and he was trying not to retch.

  Hicks cleared his throat, realizing this was his problem. It was what he was paid to deal with.

  ‘Yeah, all right, Toby. I want you to get back to town. Fix it with Bernstein to get down here with his wagon and move the bodies to his parlor. While you’re up there have Doc Gillard come take a look at them first.’

  Glad to have an excuse to leave Books caught up his waiting horse and headed back to town, leaving Hicks to deal with the agitated passengers. The marshal was reprieved briefly when Harvey Stoner showed up. Stoner was the relief depot manager. After looking at the dead Stoner vanished inside the depot to check out the telegraph. He opined it would take him a couple of hours to get the wires reconnected.

  ‘You get that done soon as, Harvey. I need to get the word out what’s happened here.’

  With that task under way Hicks went to speak to the passengers. He had decided all he could do was have them taken into town and housed in Handy’s hotel until arrangements could be made to send them on their way.

  It was about to become a long day.