Brand 3 Page 5

  Somehow she reached the top of the slope and found herself at one end of a deep valley. Her way still lay to the east. On the highest slope of the San Andres, her father had told her, was where she might find Matthew. On a flat peak that overlooked the great White Sands Desert on the far side of the mountain range. On this peak there was a high rock face. A towering cliff, and in it there was an opening that led to a hidden basin. It was a place her father had discovered himself many years ago. The only other person he had shown it to had been Matthew.

  Elizabeth climbed back into the saddle and gently urged her horse across the valley floor. High overhead, near the dark peaks, she saw brilliant flashes of lightning spear into the dark sky. She felt the horse shudder, hesitate, and she was forced to hold the reins with a firm hand. Something made her look to the side. As lightning flashed again she felt sure she saw a horse and rider close by. For a moment she imagined it was Jason Brand. But that could not be. He was far below her, perhaps still trying to find her trail. So if there had been a rider — who was it?

  Thunder crashed, rolling away across the valley. In its wake she thought she heard a horse snort. Elizabeth reined in, peering through the mist of rain, and sensed a dark shape looming beside her. She instinctively reached for the rifle at her knee. A large hand slid from the gloom and grasped her wrist cruelly, forcing her to bite back a pained cry.

  “Easy now, sister! Ain’t no sinners needing redemption just now!”

  The voice was familiar. Too familiar. And when the next flash of lightning lit the area Elizabeth found herself staring into the grinning face of Preacher Jude.

  His booming laugh filled her ears.

  “It is providence that has brought us together, sister, and so we will stay now. You and I, and my companions, Brother Kimble and Brother Parrish.”

  With a burst of strength Elizabeth broke Jude’s grip. She snatched up her reins and tried to turn her horse aside. Jude was too fast for her. One hand grabbed her reins. The other swept across and struck her a heavy blow on the side of her head, pitching Elizabeth from the saddle. She hit the ground hard, the breath driven from her. As she lay on the wet, muddy earth she tasted blood in her mouth.

  “Learn your lesson and learn it quickly, Elizabeth Henty. Obey me or you will surely suffer.”

  Elizabeth heard Jude’s distant voice clearly. What registered more than anything else was the use of her real name. He knew who she was, and the knowledge frightened her.

  Rough hands dragged her to her feet. Jude appeared before her, his bearded face wet from the driving rain. Without a word he slapped her across the face, back and forth until her head swam and her flesh burned with pain. His blows were hard and she would have fallen if she had not been held upright.

  “Ease off, Preacher,” a voice called from the gloom. “Don’t mark her up too much. Nights up here get colder’n a witch’s tit, and this one will warm a man’s blanket right well.”

  The voice of the man holding Elizabeth broke in. “Hell, Kimble, she’ll warm more than a blanket.”

  Elizabeth’s anger blotted out her pain as she struggled against the hands holding her.

  “Damn you, let go! What is it you want?”

  “Sister, don’t play me for a fool,” Jude snapped. He thrust his dripping face close to hers. “You’re here looking for that half-breed brother of yours. And so am I!”

  A jolt of fear went through her. She stared at Jude’s angry face. His eyes burned into hers with an expression of ill disguised lust, and she was more frightened than she had ever been in her life.

  “You want to kill him!” she said, surprised at her own calmness.

  Jude smiled, relaxing a little as he straightened up. “Sister, you have seen the light.”

  “Why do you want him dead?”

  Behind her the man gripping her arms laughed. It was an ugly, unpleasant sound.

  “Tell her, Jude.”

  Lightning flickered above the high peaks. Wind drove fresh sheets of rain along the valley, lashing the figures grouped at the far end.

  “Because, sister, he’s worth 30,000 dollars to me,” Jude said.

  “Reward money? That’s why you’re here.” Elizabeth’s face hardened. “And you call him an animal.”

  Jude glared at her. “Do not anger me, sister. I have need of you now, but do not test my patience.”

  “If you think I’m going to lead you to him then you’ve made a big mistake, Jude.” Elizabeth lifted her head and looked Jude in the eye. “I came to help him. Don’t expect me to lead you to him so you can murder him.”

  Jude struck her without warning. This time his hand was bunched into a massive fist that caught her across the side of the face. The force of the blow drove her sideways, loosening the grip of the man holding her. Elizabeth crashed to the ground, a single cry of pain coming from her. She lay still and silent after that, fighting against the numbing pain that engulfed her face.

  “Heed my words, sister,” Jude yelled. “Do my bidding or face my wrath.”

  Strong fingers knotted in her hair, jerking her head up. Elizabeth stared into Jude’s face.

  “I will not be cheated out of my reward,” he snarled. His features were dark with emotion. “Sister, you will take me to where this Lobo hides himself, or I will surely destroy you!”

  Chapter Eight

  The storm ran its course, discharged its raw fury, and ended. By the middle of the morning it was as if there had never been a storm. The dark clouds rolled away and the sun burst forth, flooding the land with heat. The thirsty land sucked in the moisture and for a time the barren landscape was alive with greenery. The cycle was continuous, being repeated at intervals, going through the age-old patterns with total disregard for the machinations of man . . .

  Above the valley where Elizabeth Henty had run into Preacher Jude, on a narrow ledge that ran the length of the valley’s rim, squatted a motionless figure.

  He wore faded buckskins that clung to his muscled, powerful legs, knee-highn’deh b’keh, the traditional Apache moccasin boots, and a tight dark blue shirt stolen from the body of a soldier. Dark hair hung to his strong shoulders, held back from his face by a plain red headband. The face itself was burned dark by the sun. It was hard-featured, impassive, only the eyes moving as they scanned the terrain spread before him. They searched constantly for movement, any hint that there might be others on the mountain slopes. Around his lean waist was a gunbelt and holster. A Colt revolver lay in the holster. The gun belt’s loops were filled with .44-40 cartridges, the brass shell cases glinting in the sunlight. The bullets fitted both the Colt and the Winchester held in the watcher’s hands. There was also a bandolier of extra ammunition looped across his chest. More .44-40 loads. Close inspection of the bullets would have shown that the lead tip of each had been deeply marked with a cross; on impact these bullets would spread and expand, causing terrible, mushrooming wounds as they drove deep into human flesh. In a sheath attached to the gunbelt was a heavy bladed knife, its blade honed to razor sharpness.

  The watcher, apparently satisfied there were no other visitors, turned his attention back to the four riders. He had been following their progress for almost an hour as they moved out of the valley and up the next rise of slopes. He was aware that no one had ever reached this far into his domain before. Soon they would be within reach of his stronghold. Before that happened he would kill them — all of them — the woman too. He could do that any time he wanted. Curiosity stayed his hand for the time being. He could guess why the men had come. He knew about the rewards. The large amount of money waiting for anyone who could bring him in dead or alive. What intrigued him was the woman’s presence. Why was she here? Even at his distance from them he had realized the woman was being forced to go with the men. Yet before that she had been travelling on the mountain. He wondered who she was. The curiosity was short-lived. In the end she would die along with the men. Though he might use her for his own pleasure first. It had been a long time since he had been wit
h a woman — any woman. This one looked to be young and strong. There would be ample time for him to feed the urges that rose within him. And when he tired of her she could die.

  Now he rose to his full height. Tall for an Apache. Six feet. And though he wore traditional garb and his skin had been burned by the sun, there was a contrast in his features that revealed differences. The eyes were blue — pale and bitter. The facial bone structure was finer, slimmer than the classical Apache formation. Here was a man born of two races who walked a solitary path, belonging to neither white or red. In his makeup was a blend of opposing cultures, differing outlooks.

  To the young woman he had been watching — though he was as yet unaware of the connection — he was blood kin. A half-brother who she knew as Matthew. He had long since rejected any connection with his former name and identity, as he had with the Apache half of his personality. He owed no allegiance to either race. He was himself, a man alone, seeking no company, no friends. He was looked on as an outcast by white and Apache, so he took that path. He walked in no man’s shadow. Took no counsel save his own, and within those boundaries he was content. His overwhelming desire was for vengeance against anyone who came within his reach. Shunned by the world because of an accident of birth, where no guilt attached to himself, he had allowed his enforced loneliness to fester into bitterness, and now he saw all men as his enemies. They were to be destroyed. Eliminated, and he would pursue that cause until the day came when they killed him.

  He was Lobo.

  The striker of terror in the hearts of men. His name turned women pale when they were told of his horrendous deeds. Errant children were cautioned to behave lest Lobo came and took them in the dead of night. He came and went at will. Burnings looting., murdering. He knew a hundred trails that were not marked on maps. He knew every place there was water. Places to hide that even the Apache could not find. He had made the land his. It protected and fed him. Gave him water and shelter. He was as one with the land. An equals and he made it work for him.

  Silently now he moved along the narrow ledge, sure footed, his eyes never once leaving the distant figures. He moved with caution, without haste. There was no need to hurry. He knew exactly how long it would take to reach the far end of the ledge. It would place him directly above the spot where the riders would eventually pass. It was the only way out of the valley., and for Lobo the ideal place for an ambush. They would be in a narrow defile. A difficult place to traverse at the best of times. Once within the confines of the narrow place they would be unable to turn back. He would be able to kill the men and take the woman captive.

  He was close to the far end of the valley when he saw one of the three men break away from the group and head back down the valley. Lobo paused^ watching and wondering why this one was leaving. He raised his rifle, then held back. If he fired on this one it would warn the others. He saw no point in giving them any advantage. A shot would scatter them, making his task that much harder. He lowered the rifle and watched the lone rider tracking back along the valley floor. Better to let this one go free for now. He could concern himself with this rider later. For now he would follow his original plan and deal with the main group. Kill the men and take the girl.

  She might possibly be able to tell him where the lone rider had gone. In just under an hour the group would reach the defile and start to climb. Then he would have them under his gun. By that time the lone rider would be too far away to be able to help them.

  Lobo squatted and rested, his keen eyes narrowed against the sun’s glare as he followed the progress of the group below. His hand absently stroked the smooth, much-used barrel of the rifle. Soon, he thought, it would speak again for him, as it had done so many times before. It would carry out his need to destroy his enemies. He sat back against the rocky slope, a cold smile touching the corners of his hard mouth as he observed the three riders moving inexorably towards his waiting trap.

  Chapter Nine

  Brand kept moving despite the fury of the unexpected storm. The downpour washed away Elizabeth’s tracks, but luckily Brand knew the general direction she was going. He was spurred on by the fact that he had seen other tracks. And before the rain washed them away he realized they were trailing Elizabeth. The tracks had been made by shod horses, not the unshod ponies that the Apache preferred. And Nante had promised to take his people away from the mountains.

  The only other name Brand could think of was Preacher Jude. If it was Jude he had company — the tracks had indicated three riders.

  Brand drove his horse on up the wet slopes. The wind was pushing the rain hard. It slapped at his exposed face and clawed at his sodden clothes. Despite the downpour he kept moving, aware that time was important. Elizabeth had a good start on him. He angled east, knowing that this would be the direction she would take. He tried to put himself in her place, picking the kind of terrain she would take. His horse struggled and stumbled its way over rock and crumbling ridges, across slanting beds of loose talus. Overhead the sky remained dark and brooding, streaked with heavy cloud. The wind swirled down off the high peaks and lightning seared the gloom. Thunder rolled in, rumbling angrily before building to an ear-splitting crash.

  More than once Brand was forced to dismount and lead his horse across some awkward stretch. The higher he got the fiercer the storm became. He was cold and wet, his body aching from fighting the pull and drag of the wind. The skin of his face was chilled and raw, his eyes stinging.

  Finally though he felt a lessening in the storm’s force. The rain began to ease off and the wind dropped. The storm was blowing itself out. It was the only thing to be said in favor of these high country storms. They didn’t happen very often and when they did they exhausted themselves quickly. As the storm abated Brand was able to push his horse along at a faster rate. The sun broke through the dark clouds. It was a relief. No matter how clever man figured himself to be, he was left standing around worse than useless before the might of a storm. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do to halt or even slow the raw power of nature. At the end of the day man was a pretty weak species.

  As the storm faded and the hard beat of the sun spread across the land, Brand searched for any sign that might tell him who had passed this way. He saw nothing. He was expecting too much, too soon. It would probably be some time before he saw any fresh tracks. He contented himself with simply pushing forward. Gaining ground. This particular stretch of the mountain was the only access to the next slope. Elizabeth would have had no choice but to have come this way.

  An hour passed. Another half. Brand was high up now. Behind him the mountain fell away in a series of undulating slopes, ridged and cut in a mixture of brown and green. The clothes that had earlier been wet from the rain were now sweat soaked.

  He drew rein, took his canteen and drank. As he replaced the canteen, bending forward to hook it over the saddle horn he saw his horse’s ears flicker as they picked up a disturbance close by. It’s head arced to the right. Brand didn’t wait to see what had unsettled it. He slipped his feet from the stirrups and rolled out of the saddle, dropping down the horse’s left side. The crack of a rifle shot followed him down. He put out his left hand to break his fall, his right dragging the heavy Colt from its holster. Hitting the ground in a crouch he sprawled belly down, eyes searching for the source of the shot.

  Yards away a jumble of tumbled rock offered cover for a rifleman. It was the only likely spot he could see. Even as he scanned the area he was rewarded by a sudden movement. The tip of a rifle barrel poked out between two angled stones, then the tip of a hat.

  Show yourself, you son of a bitch, Brand begged.

  The rifleman remained out of sight. Probably waiting for Brand to move himself.

  Time dragged.

  Brand’s horse wandered across the empty slope.

  The sun burned through Brand’s shirt.

  He decided he’d done enough lying around, waiting, and gathered himself for a move. Pushing up off the ground he ran for the rocks. He expected
some kind of reaction from the rifleman. Nothing happened. He reached the rocks and flattened himself against the lower section, back to the sun baked boulders. He strained to hear any sound that would tell him where the rifleman was. For a second he wondered if the man had slipped away, but dismissed the notion because he would have seen him break clear. He was about to move again when he did pick up a soft scrape of sound. Boot leather against rough textured stone.

  The rifleman was changing position.

  Now he heard the ping of a rifle barrel touching stone. The man’s breathing. Closer than he had imagined. A shadow detached itself from the outline of the rocks, lengthening as the man leaned forward to get a better look. The shadow broke free from the rocks as the rifleman stepped into the open. Brand caught a swift impression of hard leanness, a thin face with small bright eyes.

  The rifleman’s head snapped round as he sensed Brand’s closeness. The lean body twisted violently as the man ducked in under Brand’s raised Colt. A boney shoulder slammed into Brand’s chest, pushing him back a step. He saw the man swinging the rifle club like. He turned, taking the blow across the back of his shoulders. Grunting with pain Brand lashed out with a booted foot, catching the rifleman in the groin. The man yelled in agony, stumbling awkwardly, his face white. He still tried to bring the rifle into play. Brand gave him no chance. He leveled the Colt and pulled the trigger. The rifleman spun away, driven by the force of the .45 caliber bullet. He fell over backwards, landing heavily on the ground. A harsh rattle burst from his throat, followed by a froth of blood.

  Brand kicked aside the dropped rifle. He crouched beside the man and removed his holstered handgun. As he did the small eyes focused on him.

  “Goddam!” the man muttered. “I ain’t walkin’ away from this one!”

  “You wrote the rules,” Brand said. He had noticed the steady stream of blood pulsing from the ragged chest wound. “Jude send you?”