Brand 4 Page 3

  “You see the man in the dark-blue uniform?” Sarah said. “With the black curly hair and waxed mustache? That’s the Marquis De Mores. The woman is his wife Medora. Her father is Von Hoffman a rich New York banker. The Marquis is French. He runs cattle, sheep, and even built his own town, called Medora, over on the Little Missouri.”

  Brand recalled the man’s name. De Mores was a reckless adventurer. He had a head full of schemes, most of which came to nothing.

  Antoine-Amedee-Marie-Vincent Mance de Vallambrosa became well known for his spectacular failures. In the three years he stayed in the Territories he tried his hand at every venture going. He built a huge chateau employing twenty servants. A vast slaughterhouse and a refrigerator-car company. He opened stores in New York to sell the beef he produced. At one point he started up a stage line to run the 225 miles from Medora to Deadwood. Eventually he returned to his native France, got himself involved in politics, and then died at the hands of Arab murderers in North Africa.

  “Over there is Granville Stuart. They do say he’s done awful things to try and stop the cattle rustlers in the area.”

  Stuart, a grim, no-nonsense cattleman, was the official patriarch of the northern ranges. When rustling and horse stealing and sheep-herding became overly prevalent, he formed his own group of vigilantes. This bunch of deadly riders were merciless when it came to dealing with what they termed outlaws and outcasts. They had no hesitation when it came to punishing their captives, and many a lone figure had been left slowly swinging from the end of a rope. A warning to others who might have been tempted to ride a crooked trail. Yet tonight Granville Stuart was acting out his other role as devoted father and husband. Alongside Stuart was his wife Aubony — a full-blooded Shoshone. The unlikely pair had made a perfect marriage, and with them were offspring of their union. Stuart’s two daughters, attractive half-Indian girls, spent the evening dancing with uniformed officers from Fort Keogh.

  There were others too, names that would eventually go down in history as being instrumental in founding the cattle empires. Pierre Wibaux. John Clay. Conrad Kohrs. Moreton Frewen — who found fame in the end as another failure. It was said of him that he once bought the same herd of cattle twice. Having sold him the cattle, the seller drove them out of sight behind a hill, then drove them in again from the other side and sold them to Frewen as a second herd.

  While Brand acknowledged Sarah’s introductions to various people, his attention was directed towards Lord Debenham. He was relieved to have finally located the man. It was not going to be easy keeping a close eye on the Britisher. Debenham was the kind of man who enjoyed socializing, and he was circulating constantly. Right now he was in deep conversation with one of the Orschel brothers, who ran the Orschel Brothers Clothing Store along the street. It was an emporium that stocked every single item essential for survival on the frontier.

  Brand’s mind was elsewhere too. He kept thinking about the man in Charlie Brown’s saloon. Who had sent him to pick a deliberate fight? Brand still had no doubts as to it having been forced on him. But why? He could only assume that someone had recognized him, and had figured he was with Lord Debenham for reasons other than as a supposed observer from the Department of the Interior. His face was not unknown in this part of the country and he had been up here on more than one occasion as a US Marshal. If he had been spotted and tagged as a bodyguard to Debenham, then whoever was out to get the British Lord might have decided to remove any protection first, leaving Debenham open to attack. And that could mean Raven himself. Brand wanted answers to his questions. He realized he was going to have to be patient.

  He spent the long evening silently and unobtrusively watching Debenham’s every move, taking note of each and every person who went near and spoke to him. The hours slid by in a noisy haze. The orchestra played, the gathered guests danced and ate and drank. Brand found that Sarah had abandoned him and was dancing with all the young men, obviously enjoying herself. Watching her from time to time he became aware he was feeling jealous. The way they held her, smiled at her, looked at her lithe young body. His feelings were totally out of order, he knew, but that didn’t ease them. He had no claim to her. In fact he hardly knew her, yet he didn’t like the way other men paid close attention to her. He was forced to admit a growing desire for her. It was something he couldn’t control, or deny. It was frustrating and he was angry at his inability to resist.

  It was close on eleven-thirty when he became aware of someone at his elbow. Brand glanced round to find Sarah standing there, smiling at him. She looked radiant. Flushed and bright eyed. And she was staring at him with a fixed expression.

  “I have brought you a drink, Jason,” she said, holding out a glass.

  “Thanks,” he said, taking the proffered drink.

  “And I wish you would start calling me by my name,” she said suddenly.

  “Thanks for the drink, Sarah.”

  She studied him closely. “Tell me something. Why do you never let father out of your sight?”

  The question came at him cold and direct. Brand stalled, draining his glass to give himself time to digest what she’d said. “What do you mean?”

  “Jason, I’m not stupid. And I have very good eyesight. From the moment we came in here tonight you’ve done nothing but watch my father. You move when he does, stop when he stops. And you scrutinize everyone who goes near him. Why? And don’t tell me it’s part of your job to observe my father’s moves.”

  Brand sighed. There was no allowing for human nature. Who would have thought Sarah had been observing him observing her father. Obviously she had. So what did he do now? She wasn’t going to be content with his bogus identity being used as an excuse. She was too sharp to accept that.

  She was an intelligent, sensible young woman. The question was whether he dared take the chance and tell her the real reason why he was here? Would she go running to her father and tell him? The possibility existed, but Brand figured it to be remote. If he laid it out for her she was bound to grasp the seriousness of the situation and realize she might endanger her father if she told him. On the other hand if he did tell her, she might prove a useful ally. She might be able to identify people in contact with her father. She would also be another pair of eyes. Brand was reluctant to involve her too much. That would put her life at risk. But she did have the right to know her father was in danger. However he handled it he was taking a chance. It was his decision though. McCord was a long way away and when Brand was on an assignment he was responsible for his own actions.

  “When this is all over,” he said, stalling for time, “I’ll tell you.”

  “Promise?”

  He nodded. “Yeah.”

  Sarah didn’t ask any more questions. Brand was grateful for that at least. The time was moving on towards midnight and the end of the ball. It was no more than twenty-minutes later when the gathering began to break up. Brand watched Sarah cross over to where her father was standing. She had a brief word with him before giving him a quick kiss.

  “Goodnight, Jason,” she said as she passed him on the way out.

  He smiled his response, then joined Debenham.

  “A pleasant evening, sir.”

  Debenham agreed. “Excellent. And now a brisk walk before bed. Like to join me, Mr. Brand?”

  Brand accepted and followed Debenham out of the hotel. He had been expecting the man to do something like this. Debenham was a man of rituals. A ride before breakfast and a walk before retiring. Brand wondered if the man called Raven knew about these habits. If he did, and Brand was sure he had the knowledge, Debenham could be walking right to his own death. As he followed the Britisher out along the street Brand touched the gun holstered beneath his jacket and wondered if maybe tonight he might have to use it against more than just a practice target. He had yet to use the weapon in anger. Brand had faith in Whitehead’s weapons skill — but it wasn’t faith that stopped a determined assailant. Only bullets did that. Brand could anticipate how well a gun might perfor
m but he was aware a real-life situation would be the ultimate test.

  He thought about the time Whitehead had given him the gun. It was, or it had been, a standard Colt .45. The skilled armorer had cut the barrel down to two inches, removed the ejector sleeve and rod, and had also removed the fore section of the trigger-guard. Finally Whitehead had shaved down the cedar butt-grips almost to the metal.

  “It’ll fit this shoulder-holster,” he told Brand. “I know you can get hideaway guns built for the job, but I’ve always wanted to adapt a .45 to my own specification. Like to try it?”

  Brand took off his jacket and slipped into the shoulder-harness. Whitehead placed the Colt in the holster, adjusting the rig’s hang until Brand felt comfortable. Replacing his jacket Brand walked around, getting the feel of the harness and weapon. The weight was noticeable without being awkward. He drew the gun a few times, quickly adapting to the balance and feel of the weapon. He did find the cutaway trigger-guard made for easy access. After practicing for a time he found he was able to draw, cock and fire in one easy motion.

  “She’ll kick a mite and the range will be reduced,” Whitehead said as he took the Colt from Brand to thumb .45 bullets into the cylinder. “But it’ll do a lot of damage close up.”

  Brand replaced the loaded gun in the holster. He faced the targets down range until he felt relaxed, then thrust his hand under his jacket. As the muzzle of the short barrel lined up on the targets Brand fired. The Colt kicked heavily, flashing a lance of flame and powder smoke.

  “Low and to the left,” Whitehead said.

  Brand tried again, this time compensating for the deficiency. He scored a direct hit in the centre of the target.

  “Better!” Whitehead said.

  Brand repeated the draw, firing until the gun was empty. He flipped open the loading gate and emptied the chambers one by one, the brass casings ringing sharply on the hard floor.

  “Any thoughts?” Whitehead asked as he returned with the target.

  Brand studied the shredded card. He shook his head. “Nothing much. It handles pretty well even with that hard recoil. Nothing a shooter couldn’t control.”

  Whitehead took the weapon. “I’ll have it ready for you before you head out. If you want to take it of course.” “Fine,” Brand said. “In that case can you make the trigger pull a touch more positive.”

  Whitehead did just that and Brand wore the gun the day he left to meet Debenham at his Washington hotel. He was still wearing it as he accompanied the Britisher along the street.

  Although the ball had finished the rest of Miles City was warming up. The main street was crowded with yelling, singing, celebrating cowboys. Their intention was to have a good time before the long, hard days ahead. The saloons blazed with light and the rafters shook with the noise. Liquor, in all its many forms, flowed in an unending stream. The gambling tables fairly rattled with the flick of cards and the click of dice. Miles City’s ladies of easy virtue found they were overrun with clients. like always they took it in their stride and prospered. They were hardheaded businesswoman and took no nonsense from anyone.

  As they wandered down the busy street Lord Richard Debenham said: “I admire their enthusiasm for life, Mr. Brand.”

  “Man who doesn’t get too much time to enjoy himself — he tends to make the most of any opportunity.”

  “You talk as if you’ve experienced that life yourself.”

  “I’ve pushed my share of cattle in my time.”

  “This part of the country?”

  Brand smiled to himself. Debenham was still probing, obviously not satisfied in his own mind concerning Brand’s background.

  “Once worked for an outfit down on the Yellowstone. Good while back though. Spent most of my time down in the southwest. New Mexico. Arizona.”

  “You move around, Mr. Brand.”

  “I go where it takes me.”

  They had reached the far end of town. Brand started to get uneasy. It was too quiet. There was little lamplight in this area. Too many shadows around the dark buildings that were deserted at this time of night.

  Brand eased his jacket open, slipping a hand inside to let his fingers close around the grips of the holstered Colt, his thumb stroking the hammer.

  And almost in that instant three figures stepped out of an alley Brand and Debenham were passing. Brand caught a quick glimpse of faces. One he recognized. It was the big man who had picked a fight with him in Charlie Brown’s place. The three split up, advancing in the general direction of Brand and Debenham. Without breaking his stride Brand slammed his full weight into the British Lord’s back, sending him sprawling.

  “What the devil . . . !”

  Debenham’s yell was cut off as he hit the ground.

  Before that happened Brand had the Colt out and had stepped forward to meet the three head on. The big man was in the lead. Even in the gloom Brand could see the badly swollen features. He could also see the long barreled Colt the big man was holding. It swung round in Brand’s direction. Brand dropped to a crouch, angling his own weapon up, and triggered two fast shots. The bullets were aimed at the big man’s wide torso, ripping a pained yell from him. He twisted sideways, his bulk slamming into the side of the closest building. Blood began to pulse from a ragged wound in his chest. Following through from firing Brand came face to face with one of the other men. He clubbed the Colt across the angry face. Bone snapped and flesh split, spurting blood. In the second it took to turn away from the falling man Brand lost sight of the third member of the group. He became aware of his presence seconds too late. There was something clenched in the man’s fist. It whacked Brand across the side of the head, drawing blood that coursed freely down his face. Brand staggered off-balance, crashing against the wall of a building. He tripped over the body of the big man. As he fell to his knees he saw the third man turning in his direction, a gun glinting in his fist. Brand reacted with instinctive speed, his Colt snaking around and up. He triggered and the man screamed as the bullet took him in the face, shattering his upper jaw before it angled up into his brain. The top of the man’s skull burst apart in a bloody spray. The man’s finger pulled down on the trigger of his own gun, sending a bullet at Brand that cut through clothing and burned a raw gash across his left side.

  Rolling on his side Brand lurched to his feet, a hand pressed to his side. He could feel blood seeping through his fingers. He leaned against the building and went through the motions of reloading the Colt. He peered into the surrounding darkness, still alert, his eyes searching.

  “For man supposed to observe you do a hell of a lot of participating,” Debenham observed.

  Brand looked across at him. Debenham seemed unaffected by the sudden, violent incident. He flicked dust from his jacket as he watched Brand checking the downed men.

  “What were they after, do you think?”

  “The big feller figured me and him had something to settle,” Brand said shortly.

  “Since when?” Debenham stood over the dead man.

  “We had a run in this morning at Charlie Brown’s place. He lost.”

  “It would appear his run of bad luck stayed with him.”

  Brand eased the Colt’s hammer down and put it away. “We’d better get back to the hotel.” he said.

  “Can you make it?”

  Brand became aware of the throbbing ache in his head and the stinging gash in his side. Both wounds were still bleeding.

  “I’ll make it.”

  “Shouldn’t we inform the law?” Debenham asked.

  “I’ll see to that. No need for you to get involved, sir.”

  Debenham shook his head. “But I am involved. If you hadn’t acted as quickly as you did I might be dead myself.”

  I had figured that for myself, your Lordship, Brand thought. Damn right I had!

  They stopped off at the Marshal’s office on the way back to the hotel. Debenham took over, using his name and influence to great effect. The story was told in a few minutes, Debenham almost reachi
ng the point where he instructed the lawman what he should do. It was arranged for the bodies to be moved and for Brand and Debenham to give full statements the following morning. Leaving the office they carried on up the street to the Maqueen House. The lobby was practically deserted at the late hour and they reached the upper floor without meeting anyone.

  “You sure you don’t want a doctor to look at you?”

  “I’ll be fine, sir,” Brand said. “A night’s sleep can work wonders.”

  They parted at the door of Debenham’s room. As the British Lord’s door closed behind him Brand carried on along the hall to his own room. He let himself in, slipping out of his jacket and dropping it on the chair beside the window. He eased the shoulder harness off and draped the rig over the bedpost near his pillow. Although there was some illumination filtering in through the window Brand decided to light the lamp. He needed to take a close look at the wounds he’d picked up. He crossed to the lamp and picked up the box of matches, striking one.

  “Don’t light it, Jason.”

  A faint smile curled his lips. Brand blew out the match. He moved back to the bed, making out the sleek form beneath the sheets on the far side.

  “Lady Sarah, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting too long.”

  He heard her soft, throaty laugh. She raised herself, light from the window catching one side of her face, illuminating one bare shoulder and arm.

  “Oh, I can be very patient. Especially when I’m waiting for something I really want.”

  Brand unbuttoned his shirt, feeling the material pull against the wound in his side. As he moved away from the bed the street light exposed the blood streaking the side of his face. Sarah gave a shocked gasp, quickly pushing aside the sheets and slipping out of bed. She came around to where he stood. Brand had a quick impression of long, supple legs. A smooth, flat stomach and full, well-shaped breasts.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  Brand slipped the shirt free and she saw the ragged gash in his side.