Brand 3 Page 2

  The Mexican frowned for a moment. Then he leered at Brand. “That one never loses interest, senor. But I thank you for your concern.”

  “Talking of women,” Brand said. “I heard there’s an American lady looking for a guide. She staying here?”

  The Mexican nodded. “Si. She is here in town. A very nice lady. She seeks her husband. He is lost in the San Andres somewhere. She wants a guide to take her there. But no one wants to go to that place. It is too dangerous. What good is money if a man is dead?”

  “What’s to be scared of?” Brand asked. “Most of the Apache have gone now.”

  The Mexican’s eyes stared wide and round at him. “Have you not heard of Lobo? The crazy one?”

  “The half-breed?” Brand shrugged with feigned indifference. “Hell, it’s only a name. He’s a man like the rest of us. But a bullet in him and he’ll bleed like me or you.”

  “Not that one, senor. He is different. Not even the Army can catch him. He is evil.El Diablo himself.” The Mexican paused from tucking in his shirt, leaning across the desk like some sweating conspirator. “I would not go into those mountains for 10,000 dollars. Not even for one as beautiful as Senora Corey.”

  “You got any idea where she is now?”

  “A little while ago she went over to the cafe” He pointed to a flat-roofed adobe across the street.

  “Hold on to this for me,” Brand said, passing his rifle to the Mexican. “I were you I’d get back to your cousin. She’s liable to grow old on you.”

  “No, senor, she will not get old. She is only seventeen. And she is not my cousin — she is my niece.”

  Brand took a slow walk across to the cafe. Pushing open the door he went inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell of the food. The odors of spiced meat and hot fat. The place hadn’t seen a breath of fresh air since the day before the roof was put on. The cafe was around half-full — only one table interested Brand.

  He didn’t need to look twice to realize that the dark-haired young woman sitting at the table furthest away from him was Elizabeth Henty. He made a mental note to remember that for the moment she was Elizabeth Corey. As he crossed the room he saw she wasn’t alone. A man was sitting at her table, while another stood at her elbow. From the expression on her face it was obvious she didn’t want their attention. Brand tensed up. If he pushed his way in there could easily be trouble. On the other hand he needed to get to her before anyone else took the offer she was holding out.

  He neared the table, and found he could hear what was being said . . .

  “... and it ain’t likely your old man’s still alive up there,” the seated man was saying. “So why waste all that time lookin’ for him? Sam and me, why we’d be tickled pink to have you come stay with us. Ain’t been a woman like you round here for a coon’s age. Right, Sam?”

  The other man nodded. “He’s right there, missy. And it’s right what he says about you chasin’ all over them mountains tryin’ to find a feller who’s most likely a pile of bones by now. Don’t figure him much of a man leavin’ a prime woman like you on her own. Real waste. Now Joe and me, we’re alive, and ready to give you plenty of what you’ve been missing since your old man upped and left.”

  Elizabeth Henty’s hand swept up off the table. She was holding a cup of coffee in the hand, and she threw it in Sam’s face. He gave a sharp squeal, stumbling away from the table, pawing at his stinging flesh.

  Joe kicked his chair back and rose to his feet.

  “Damn you, bitch!” he yelled. His hand lashed across her face.

  Brand reached him before he could hit her a second time. He caught Joe’s arm and spun the man round to face him. Off balance Joe was unable to defend himself. Brand rammed a hard fist into the soft belly, and when Joe doubled over Brand clubbed him across the back of the neck. Joe was slammed face down onto the floor, moaning softly. As Brand turned away he caught a glimpse of a moving shape coming at him. He tried to pull aside but Sam’s fist caught him across the jaw, knocking him back against the wall. Brand tasted blood in his mouth from a cut lip. Sam was coming in at him again. He had a thin-bladed knife in his right hand now. Brand recognized the killing rage in Sam’s bright eyes, the gleam of saliva flecking his lips. Brand watched the knife, then Sam’s eyes. He saw the flicker in the pupils as Sam made the mental decision to strike, and Brand was ready as the blade flashed in the light, slashing round in a deadly arc that was directed at his throat. Brand swayed to one side, grabbing for the wrist of the hand that held the knife. His fingers clamped on the wrist, his other hand gripping Sam’s arm higher up. Almost before he realized what he was doing Brand had turned in towards Sam’s body, pushing his shoulder against the man’s chest. He had kept hold of Sam’s wrist, twisting it and turning the arm over, then slipping his shoulder under the other’s rigid limb. Then he straightened up, pulling down on the wrist. Sam let out a shrill scream as he felt his arm being bent against the joint. Brand gave him no chance to free himself. He slammed his right elbow into Sam’s side with crippling force. A rib broke with a soft sound. The knife dropped from Sam’s fingers. Brand kicked it aside. Then he turned on Sam, driving his fist into the man’s face. Sam went backwards over the table, rolling heavily to the floor, blood spilling from his slack mouth.

  Bending to pick up his fallen hat Brand made a mental note to tell Kito that all those punishing unarmed combat lessons were paying off.

  He wiped blood from his lip as he crossed to where Elizabeth Henty stood. There was a livid red mark across the cheek where she had been hit. She had her eyes on Brand all the while. Looking at her he realized she was an attractive woman. He felt a warm stirring just staring at her and pushed the sensation aside. It still didn’t stop him from looking.

  He figured she was around twenty-five years old. Her thick, shining hair was very dark, as were her lustrous eyes, and she had an intense way of studying him that bordered on the unnerving. She had a wide, firm mouth, but the lips were full and pouted slightly. The body beneath the white shirt and dark skirt was strong and mature, yet still hinted at her youth.

  “You all right?” he asked, conscious he’d been staring too long.

  She nodded. “Yes. Thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if ... ”

  “Let’s forget about that. We should get you out of this place. We can’t talk here.”

  A dark eyebrow lifted. “Do we have things to talk about?”

  “I reckon so. Story is you’ve been looking for a guide to take you into the San Andres. Truth tells you haven’t found one. Now I need a job. I also know the mountains. By my reckoning I’d say we talk.”

  He led her out of the cafe and across to the hotel. The fat Mexican was leaning on the desk. He raised his head as they entered. Recognizing Brand he handed over the rifle.

  “That was quick,” Brand observed, nodding towards the back room.

  The Mexican shrugged. “I did not think you would be long. So I thought I would wait until you came back, senor.”

  Brand took the room key the Mexican handed him.

  “Now you can go back to her, hombre.”

  Brand trailed Elizabeth Henty up the narrow staircase. He checked the number scribbled on the greasy card tab tied to his key. He located the room and opened the door. Over his shoulder he sensed Elizabeth Henty waiting.

  “My room or yours?” he asked.

  A whisper of a smile touched her full lips. “I do hope no one heard that. We haven’t even been properly introduced.”

  “The name’s Brand, Mrs. Corey. Now we have that out of the way can we talk business?”

  “Are you always so impatient, Mr. Brand?”

  “No, ma’am. With certain things I take my time.”

  A faint flush of color darkened her cheeks. “You are no gentleman, Air Brand.”

  “No, ma’am, but I’m the best guide you’ll find in this territory. And I’m honest.”

  He held the door wide open for her. Elizabeth Henty swept into the room, her face ang
ry.

  “Shall I leave this open?” he asked, indicating the door.

  She glared at him. “Don’t be so ridiculous.”

  Brand closed the door. He checked the room out with a single glance. He had been in cleaner, more comfortable jail cells.

  Elizabeth Henty sat down on the only chair, her hands laid in her lap. Though she tried to hide the fact she was studying him intently.

  “Tell me if I have it right, ma’am,” Brand said. “You need someone to lead you into the San Andres? To look for your missing husband?”

  She nodded. “That’s correct. He’s been missing for two months. He had gone into the mountains to carry out a survey for the Government. It’s his work. He belongs to the Geological Survey Department.”

  “Was he alone?”

  Again she nodded. “Yes. George always works alone. It’s his way.”

  Brand let her tell the story, only interrupting with some minor query. He had to admit she could spin a pretty good yarn. He was almost ready to believe she did have a husband up in the mountains.

  “So why are you looking for him? Why doesn’t Washington do something?”

  She chewed at her lower lip, neat white teeth worrying the soft, pink flesh. “Oh, you have to understand the way the department works. They told me not to worry. Said George was always doing things like this on field trips. He goes off for weeks and no one knows where he is. Mr. Brand, I don’t care what Washington says. He wouldn’t have gone off like this without letting me know.” She stared at him, eyes wide open. “You see, we’ve only been married a few months. George promised he’d be back weeks ago. I just know something’s happened.”

  Brand wondered for a moment if she did this sort of thing for a living. There was almost a touch of the professional about the way she told her tale. Especially down to the part about the deserted young wife. He pulled himself back to the moment.

  “All right, Mrs. Corey, what’s the deal?”

  She fumbled in her bag. “I have five hundred dollars, Mr. Brand. That’s all. I’ve been advised that going into the San Andres Mountains can be dangerous. I’m willing to pay the whole amount. Is it enough? For supplies as well?”

  “There’ll be enough, ma’am.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Why do you want to help me. Mr. Brand?”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Everyone else has turned me down flat. They all say I’m foolish wanting to go up there. Yet you walk in and talk me into hiring you. Why?”

  “I’m an easy touch where ladies in distress are concerned.” Brand stroked his unshaven jaw. “And I’m flat broke, ma’am. I don’t even have money to pay for this damn room.”

  Elizabeth Henty drew a wad of banknotes from her bag and handed them to Brand. “Now you have money,” she said. She opened the door to leave. “By the way I am in room number four.”

  Brand held up the money. “I could take this and ride out.”

  “I realize that, Mr. Brand. I also know that you won’t. Now when do we leave?”

  “I’ll arrange the supplies later. We’ll get a good night’s sleep and leave first thing in the morning.”

  Chapter Three

  Brand purchased the supplies they would need. He walked his horse to the livery and made sure it was settled, fed and watered. Elizabeth’s horse was there too. He looked it over. They had a long ride ahead of them and he wanted to be sure her mount would be up to it. He need not have worried. Among her other talents Elizabeth Henty possessed the ability to pick sound horseflesh.

  He started back for the hotel. It was mid afternoon. The heat dropped from a cloudless sky. Gallego slumbered fitfully. The street was practically deserted. Brand felt the urge for a drink. He couldn’t be sure about the quality of the whisky in Gallego — but he was about to find out.

  There was a saloon a few doors down from the hotel. Brand made for it. He was halfway across the street when a lanky figure stepped out of the alley just ahead of him. The man held a rifle in his hands, and Brand recognized him. It was one of the pair from the cafe — the man called Joe. Brand could even see the dark bruise his punch had left on Joe’s face.

  “Let’s see you walk away this time, you son of a bitch!” Joe said, his voice trembling with anger.

  The rifle was already leveling on Brand, the muzzle abruptly jerking up towards Brand’s face. It was Joe’s mistake. The last one he ever made. He should have pulled the trigger the moment he had laid eyes on Brand, but his anger and his need to inform his intended victim what was going to happen, wasted precious seconds.

  In any gunfight fleeting moments of time could mean the difference between life and death.

  For the man called Joe his final seconds vanished in a flash of gunfire.

  Brand simply dropped below the muzzle of Joe’s rifle, his right hand snatching his Colt from its holster. Crouching he thrust the gun forward and pulled the trigger. The heavy .45 caliber bullet hit Joe in the chest, shattering one of his upper ribs, the impact of the lead projectile driving fragmented bone into his heart and lungs. Knocked off his feet by the bullet Joe struck the ground on his back, a single wail of pain erupting from his mouth.

  Before Joe had hit the ground Brand had turned, seeking the downed man’s partner. His instinct told him that Sam would be around to back his partner, and if the pair were playing true to form Sam would be lurking somewhere behind Brand. Still in a crouch, his Colt cocked and ready, Brand’s eyes scanned the shadowed boardwalk. He saw the furtive shape an instant before Sam opened fire. Brand saw the flicker of the muzzle flash, felt the burn of the bullet across his side. He snapped off a return shot and saw the figure stumble back, cursing wildly. Sam triggered again, his bullet gouging the earth behind Brand. A clatter of sound erupted as Sam collided with a stack of empty barrels on the boardwalk. Lurching away from the falling barrels Sam stepped off the boardwalk and used both hands to lift the massive Dragoon Colt he carried. Blood was already soaking through the front of his shirt. He took a faltering step in Brand’s direction, the long barrel of the Dragoon wavering as he eared back the hammer. His finger jerked on the trigger at the same time Brand fired. Sam’s bullet was way off target. The muzzle of the Dragoon flipped up under the recoil. And then Brand’s bullet cored into Sam’s skull. His head rocked back, a geyser of bright blood jetting from the entry hole. He did a slow turn, then pitched face down on the street, his limbs shuddering for a while.

  Jason Brand stood in the street, ejecting spent cartridge cases from his Colt. He reloaded the gun and ignored the gathering crowd. There were some hostile stares directed at him. It was as far as it went. Brand had shown what he was made of. There might have been friends of the dead men amongst the spectators, but none of them felt that friendship extended to bracing a man like Jason Brand.

  It was generally accepted that Sam and Joe had walked into the fight knowing the risks. It was a lamentable fact that there was a need for personal vengeance within frontier society. A desire to settle arguments, or imagined insults, with a drawn gun. Brand hated the need for mindless violence it bred, but it was the way, and as long as he was involved with that society he was forced to live by its rules. He would have been the first to admit he had been tainted by the violence he rubbed shoulders with. There were times when he was as guilty as the rest. Resorting to the simple, direct expedient of instant justice. He wasn’t proud of it — and his disgust often placed him in an intolerable position. In the end all his soul searching left him with the bleak acceptance of his fate. He knew he couldn’t walk away from it. No matter how many times he tried.

  Brand moved away from the crowd. Even the taste for drink had left him now. All he wanted was to return to his room and see to the aching wound in his side.

  “Hey, you!” The voice rang out above the noise of the crowd.

  Brand saw a large, red-haired man staring at him.

  “You want something?”

  The man cuffed his stained hat to the back of his head, “Damn right! Sam and Joe
are dead. You goin’ to leave ’em there?”

  Brand holstered his Colt. “No concern of mine. They came hunting me. Trouble was they weren’t up to it.”

  “Damn you, they need burying,” the redhead said.

  “They friends of yours?” Brand asked.

  The redhead glared at him. “Damn right they were!”

  “Then you bury them,” Brand told him and walked away.

  He tramped up to his room, slamming the door behind him. He tossed his hat across the room, unbuckled and removed his gunbelt. He dumped it on the bed. Stripping off his shirt he examined his side. The bullet had cut a ragged gouge over his ribs. The wound was sore and messy, but not serious. He crossed to the washstand and poured water into the chipped basin. As he put down the jug someone tapped on his door.

  “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. Elizabeth Henty. May I come in?”

  “Door’s not locked,” Brand said gruffly.

  She stepped in, closing the door behind her. Her dark hair was loose, flowing about her shoulders. She was wearing a thin cotton wrapper, tied at the waist by a thin cord.

  “I was going to take a rest. I went to the window to close the blind and I saw it all.” She moistened her dry lips. “They would have killed you. Shot you without a chance.”

  “It’s certain they weren’t going to buy me a drink.”

  She glanced at the wound. “Can I help?”

  He handed her a towel. Elizabeth moistened it in the basin. She began to clean the wound. Brand flinched as a surge of pain erupted.

  “I’m sorry,” Elizabeth whispered. Her face had paled.

  “It’s all right.”

  Brand found her closeness disturbing. He could smell her perfume. It was strong, heady. He could almost feel her body warmth as she leaned closer, intent on cleaning the wound. The cotton wrapper had loosened at the top, exposing the cleavage of her white breasts. It was impossible not to be aware of the way they moved as she breathed. He wondered if she was totally naked beneath the wrapper.