by Neil Hunter
Her initial hesitation quickly turned to eager exploration. Niana found growing pleasure in these new sensations. She was a willing pupil. One who adapted to the situation with increasing passion.
‘This is a good way,’ she announced some time later.
Brand didn’t speak. His lips were becoming decidedly numb. It was almost a relief when he felt Niana’s nimble fingers tugging at his belt buckle so she could loosen his pants, so she could reach his aching manhood. She held him firmly, the caressing proving she was not a beginner in this area. Her twisting and turning brought her beneath him and her spreading thighs told him better than words what she wanted. He entered her easily, his first thrust taking him deep inside her soft, moist flesh. Niana closed her taut thighs around him, gasping at the depth of his penetration. He felt her youthful body arching up off the ground, responding to the stimulation. He drew himself close, pushing hard. Almost too soon he felt her trembling in the throes of her release. His own came quickly and he clung to her, shuddering in the aftermath. As they sank into the closeness of their passion, feeling the strength draining from them, Brand hoped they might have another opportunity to experience what had just happened.
Niana turned her face to his, touching his cheek, her soft mouth searching for his.
‘Again, Brand,’ she said. ‘Again.’ Her mouth bent against his, hungry and demanding, and he wondered which would wear out first — her desire for this new experience, or his lips.
Chapter Eight
Brand took his time studying the tiny spread of buildings which comprised the nameless settlement where, according to Niana, the man named Rafe Bigelow ran things his way. It seemed, Brand decided, that Bigelow was the way and the light. Niana’s telling had the man down as a real hell-raiser. Brand figured he would decide for himself. He didn’t really give a damn who Bigelow thought he was.
In the time it had taken them to reach the place, with the border only a couple of miles away, he and Niana had ridden in a wide loop that took them east and then in a long curve that brought them in from the west. Brand didn’t want it to look as if they had ridden in from San Carlos, or had any connection with Hamner and Yorrick. He was well aware that his deception might not work and Bigelow would know who they were, but it was a chance he was going to have to take. Now he was here he wanted time to look it over; not that there was a great deal to see.
From their position on the low ridge Niana pointed out the various buildings. Brand’s main interest centered on the low, wood-and-adobe structure that made up Bigelow’s headquarters. It fronted as a store-cum-trading-post, the kind of enterprise that proliferated in the frontier country. In the sparsely populated territories, where a man might have to ride for days before he saw anything remotely resembling civilization, outfits like Bigelow’s could often be life-savers. Apart from the chance to talk to other human beings there would be the chance to stock up on food and other essentials.
According to the stories, Bigelow offered just that and more. If that was true Brand needed to locate the illegal goods. After he had, what then? Brand decided he would find a way around that problem when it showed.
He stood up, moved away from the ridge and returned to where the ponies waited. Niana followed him and hunkered down on her heels in the dust, her dark eyes studying him intently as Brand checked his weapons.
‘Wait here,’ he told her. ‘If things get rough I don’t want to be worrying about you all the time.’
‘Niana didn’t reply. From the back of his pony Brand glanced down at her. Her head was down and she appeared to be studying the dirt between her feet.
‘Could be someone down there who might recognize you. I need to get my foot in the door before some nervous type starts shooting. You understand?’
Her only response was a slight shrug. Brand grinned. He turned the pony about, pushing it up the slope and over the ridge. Silence closed around him as he rode down the far side. Dust feathered the air in his wake. In the heat haze Bigelow’s headquarters might have seemed to be deserted but Brand guessed he had been spotted once his pony reached the flats that took him in towards the place. In Bigelow’s line of work it didn’t pay to run a loose ship.
As he got closer he began to make out details. A weathered sign over the door read: TRADING POST. SUPPLIES. LIQUOR. At the side of the building he saw a smaller hut and a split-pole corral holding a bunch of dusty, listless horses. Barrels and packing-cases littered the rear of the building. When he looked beyond Bigelow’s building the rest of the settlement presented a similar picture; seedy and run-down; almost careless of its own existence.
Brand brought his pony to a halt at the hitching rail. As he slid off its back he spotted a lean figure lounging on a wooden bench close to the open door. Brand noticed the holstered gun the man carried. It was worn on his left hip, butt forward and it wasn’t there for show. It wasn’t a surprise. Bigelow would need insurance. As he moved in towards the door Brand saw that the lean man no longer lounged. He was on his feet, full attention on the new arrival.
Brand tied his pony and made for the open door. His rifle was in his left hand, leaving his other free if he needed the heavy Colt.
The lean man eased forward.
‘You got business here?’
‘You Bigelow?’
The man shook his head. Brand stepped around him.
‘Then we ain’t got business.’
‘I’ll decide that.’
Brand faced him, his stance relaxed.
‘I came to see Bigelow. Hired hands don’t interest me.’
A muscle twitched in the lean man’s jaw. Breath hissed through tight-clenched teeth. His right hand eased towards the smooth worn butt of the holstered revolver he carried.
Brand stepped in close, swinging the rifle he was holding. The hard stock cracked against the lean man’s jaw, splitting the flesh and spinning the man round. He was still moving when Brand struck again. This time he laid the stock hard behind the man’s ear. The gunman grunted, stunned by the blow. He fell to his knees, then sagged forward, trying to catch himself by throwing out his hands. His strength had drained away, he fell face down in the dust and lay still. Brand bent over the prone figure, took the man’s gun and tossed it towards the corral.
He turned then to carry on towards the door again.
And found it was completely blocked by a massive figure. The man was as tall as Brand but twice as wide. None of his bulk was made up of fat. It was all solid muscle.
‘Bigelow?’ Brand asked.
The large head nodded. ‘You want to see me?’
‘That’s right. I figure maybe we can do some business.’
Mentally Brand was warning himself to step carefully with Bigelow. The man looked as if he could handle himself.
‘That’s what I’m here for,’ Bigelow said, studying Brand as he spoke. ‘What kind of business?’
‘I’m selling,’ Brand said.
He saw the hard gleam in Bigelow’s cold eyes. Caution must have been the man’s middle name. Thinking about it Brand decided he would have been the same given Bigelow’s line of business.
‘What you peddling, mister?’
Brand held up his rifle.
‘These.’
‘Talk like that could get you a bullet in the back of the head, friend. Don’t you know the army ain’t partial to folk who deal in guns?’
Brand smiled. ‘I hear tell it doesn’t worry you much.’
‘Man shouldn’t believe everything he hears.’
‘I make up my own mind.’
Rafe Bigelow stepped back inside his store.
‘Let’s talk. Make sure we both know what we’re into.’
Brand followed him inside. The interior was dim after the sun-bright day, but not so dim that Brand could not see the two figures standing in the shadows to one side of the door. Bigelow nodded to them.
‘Go pick Delta up. Toss him in the trough. I pay him to do a job. Streak of piss couldn’t keep an old lady out.’<
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Brand trailed after Bigelow through the cluttered store. The store was crammed with pretty well everything anyone could ever need out here. There was even a crude bar set up against one wall, with shelves holding bottles, and a large oval mirror with a crack in it. Bigelow booted open a door and lumbered into a room that served as his office. He thrust his huge bulk into a large leather chair behind a scarred wooden desk and waved Brand into another seat.
‘Talk, friend, and make it good.’
Brand laid the rifle on the desk.
‘I been trading with the Apache on and off. Done a few deals with old Geronimo hisself. Trouble is business ain’t so good any more. Most of the tribes are for quittin’. Geronimo has it on his mind too. Told me a few days back when I showed him what I had. He’s been talking with Sieber and it looks like Geronimo has more or less made up his mind. Word is you got the market pretty well to yourself these days.’
‘What do they call you, friend?’
‘Jack Taylor,’ Brand said.
‘Well, Taylor, what you say might be true enough. Then again you might be feeding me a crock of shit. And I wouldn’t take kindly to that.’
Brand cuffed his hat back.
‘Bigelow, I don’t have all day to sit here playing guessing games. Let’s quit foolin’ around. We both know you trade whiskey and guns to the Apache. I got two cases of brand new Winchesters that got diverted from the warehouse they were heading for. There are four boxes of ammunition as well. If you want to deal let’s get on with it. If you don’t I’ll trail on over the border and find me some Mexicans. They’ll buy without all the questions.’
Rafe Bigelow placed his large hands on the desk top and leaned forward. His lips drew back to reveal a yellow-toothed smile.
‘I ain’t heard such a mouthful in a long time, Taylor. Talk like that must leave a powerful thirst. You want a drink?’
‘Yeah.’
Bigelow stood up and left the office. When he returned he carried a couple of clay jars.
‘You like pulque?’
‘About as much as I like Mexican ladies,’ Brand told him.
He took the jar Bigelow offered and tried the drink. It was a fair brew but not as smooth as the pulque Sarita had provided.
‘You got your merchandise handy?’ Bigelow asked, sleeving away the pulque that ran down his massive chin.
Brand grinned. ‘Do I look that simple? I got those rifles where I can get to ’em fast. But not until I got me a square deal.’
Bigelow laughed out loud. ‘Damned if we shouldn’t get on, Taylor. Ain’t neither one trusts the other. It’s the only way to do business.’
They finished the jars of pulque. Bigelow brought two more. While the big man drank greedily Brand took his time. He had no intention of getting drunk. He didn’t give a damn if Bigelow drank too much. The pulque was starting to loosen his tongue. When Bigelow saw that Brand was still on his first he grabbed the second jar he had brought for his guest and started on that one. They indulged in a round of small talk, then Brand slowly brought the conversation round to Bigelow’s cache of weapons.
‘Must be a hell of a job keepin’ ’em hidden from the army.’
Bigelow was half-slumped across the desk, grinning from ear to ear. He waved a loose hand in dismissal.
‘Those bastards in blue are so damn stupid they ain’t got an idea.’ He gave a snorting laugh. ‘Listen, Taylor, I’ve had me army boys right where you’re sitting and they didn’t realize they were on top of enough powder and shot to blow their asses clear to Sonora.’
Under the floor. A damned cellar. Brand kept his face impassive as he digested Bigelow’s words. He toyed with his jar of pulque, suddenly aware that Bigelow was staring at him hard. It was as if the man had realized what he had said and it had sobered him instantly. The big man cleared his throat and sat upright.
‘Maybe I’d better get one of the boys to ride out with you, Taylor. Take a look at those guns. I need to know I ain’t being sold a pile of junk. You figure I’m bein’ fair?’
‘I guess so.’
Brand stood up, watching Bigelow closely. The man didn’t wear a gun but that didn’t mean he was harmless.
Brand only had to take a look at the massive arms bulging with hard muscle, straining against the sleeves of his shirt, to remind him of Bigelow’s powerful physique.
‘Let’s go,’ Bigelow said, leading the way back to the main store.
Brand followed, playing along for the moment. He needed to know the odds against him. He had no way of knowing just how many men Bigelow had around the place apart from the three he had already seen.
Outside the store Brand saw Delta slumped on his bench. He was holding a bloody cloth against the side of his head. When he saw Brand he made an attempt to push to his feet, scowling with anger. Bigelow reached out and pushed him back down again.
‘Leave it, Delta. This ain’t the time.’
Delta sat down again, still scowling, his eyes fixed on Brand.
Bigelow called one of his men from inside the store.
‘Vern, you take a ride with Taylor.
He’s got some rifles for you to look at. I like to know what kind of deal I’m buying into. Right, Taylor?’
Brand nodded to the man named Vern as he stepped outside. Behind him was the second man Brand had noticed inside the store. He caught Brand’s stare, returning it with a hard look.
Bigelow turned his attention to this man.
‘Ryker, you stay here with Delta and me.’
Brand crossed to where his pony stood and Vern headed for the corral to pick up his own horse.
The man called Ryker muttered: ‘When the hell are Hamner and Yorrick gettin’ back? Leaves just the four of us.’
Brand heard his words and silently thanked Ryker. Just the four of them. Bigelow, Ryker, Vern and Delta. What Ryker didn’t know was that Hamner and Yorrick were not coming back.
Reaching his pony Brand started to pick up the reins. His move was stopped when he heard Ryker suddenly yell.
‘Goddam it! I knew I’d seen that face before. Just come to me. Bigelow, he ain’t anyone called Taylor. It’s the sonofabitch Hamner and Yorrick went after. Brand! Saw him once when he was a US marshal!’
In that split second Brand ducked under his pony’s neck, yanking his Colt free and dogging back the hammer. He dropped down on one knee, aiming beneath the pony’s stomach. He saw Bigelow’s huge form vanish back inside the store. Vern had already turned away from the corral, reaching for his holstered Colt. The one called Ryker had his gun in his hand, and Delta was pushing up off his bench like a striking rattler.
Brand’s first shot took Ryker, blasting a bloody hole in his chest. The force of the .45 caliber bullet spun Ryker round. He slammed into the adobe wall of the store, blood spraying in a wide arc from the ragged wound in his back where the bullet had emerged. As he started to go down he fell in front of Delta, causing the gunman to step back, giving Brand the moment of time he needed to shift his aim. Before he could fire Brand’s pony reared away from the hitch rail, slamming into Brand and knocking him to the ground. The incident saved Brand’s life. The fall took him away from Delta’s first shot. Spitting dust from his mouth Brand pushed his right arm forward, raised the barrel of his Colt and triggered two quick shots through Delta’s lean body. Delta fell back as if he had been kicked by a mule, arms waving helplessly, a look of surprise on his face. His legs went from under him and he crashed to the ground. He made soft grunting sounds as blood bubbled from his open mouth. He pawed at his torn chest, fingers trying to stem the spurts of blood erupting from the bullet wounds. The moment he had fired at Delta, seeing his shots find their target, Brand moved, rolling to a fresh position. As he came to rest he heard a shot and felt a bullet burn his left shoulder. Pushing to his feet Brand turned to face Vern, his already cocked gun leveling. He felt the familiar kick-back of the butt in his hand. Saw the bullet hit Vern low on the right side. Dust blossomed from Vern’s shirt, followed by
a spread of blood. Vern kept on coming and Brand had to put two more bullets into him before he went down for good. Vern’s final shot had scored across the back of Brand’s left hand and he dropped his rifle.
Brand wiped away the blood on the back of his hand and picked up his rifle. He levered a round into the chamber as he made for the door of the store. Delta was struggling to push up off the ground, coughing blood as he fought to control his gun hand. He looked up at Brand, spitting blood.
‘Sonofabitch,’ he said.
‘Got that right,’ Brand said and shot him through the head.
Brand took the time to reload his Colt, standing with his back to the adobe wall close by the open door. He preferred the Colt for close work.
Brand didn’t relish going inside the store after Bigelow but it needed to be done now. Bigelow was under threat. His life and his business were at risk and Brand didn’t see the man as one who would quit easy.
He waited, minutes slipping by. It was too quiet, Brand decided. What the hell was Bigelow up to? Impatience began to insist Brand did something. The bullet-grazes across his shoulder and hand were making their presence felt.
Brand made his decision.
If you ain’t coming out, Bigelow, I’ll have to come in.
He moved away from the wall, his attention focused on the open door. Then he registered the rippling hiss of sound behind him. He started to turn. He wasn’t fast enough. There was a sharp crack. Almost like a pistol shot. Pain engulfed his right hand. The pain was intense. Brand felt flesh tear, blood coursing through his fingers. He lost his grip on the Colt and it fell to the ground.
Brand turned about completely, coming face to face with Rafe Bigelow.
He saw too the eight-foot black bullwhip coiled in the dust at Bigelow’s feet. The sight of the long coil of the whip sent a cold shudder along Brand’s spine.
Bigelow’s arm jerked back and the long, oiled length of the whip curved behind him. Knowing he only had seconds left to him Brand turned, his eyes searching frantically for the Colt he had dropped. It lay no more than a couple of feet from him and he bent forward, reaching for the weapon, blood dripping from his hand. He had barely stroked the curve of the butt when he heard that sinister hissing sound again. The lash of the whip coiled around his right arm, drawing more burning pain as it sliced through his shirt and scored his flesh. Blood flowed and a groan slipped from Brand’s lips. He felt the sudden pull of the whip, snagged tight around his arm and he was twisted around to face Bigelow. The big man made a sharp movement and the whip uncoiled itself. Bigelow swept it back, then lashed out again. The black, splayed tip of the whip stung Brand’s cheek, opening a gash that streamed warm blood. Sharp pain lanced across Brand’s face.