Brand 10

by Neil Hunter

  Only now his wearing of the badge had become a mockery. McCoy was doing something for himself. In truth he was no longer an official Ranger. He had been dismissed from the Rangers after being caught out not only thieving, but also because he had betrayed the Ranger code and used his position to sell information. Although he had been forced to hand over his Texas Ranger badge, McCoy was still wearing one he had obtained for his personal use some years back. He still wore the badge because for the time being it would allow him to operate as if he was still part of the law force. By the time his deception was discovered he hoped to be a long way from Texas. Free and clear and with a sizable amount of money in his pocket.

  Moving on McCoy drew the makings out of his shirt pocket and rolled a cigarette. He pulled a match and struck it with his thumb nail, lit the strong tobacco and drew deeply. He nudged the chestnut’s sides and the horse moved off again.

  ‘Brand, I heard about you,’ McCoy said. ‘Well, son, I’m coming and there ain’t a damn thing you can do about it.’

  THE CHASE

  Chapter Six

  The isolated settlement of Blanco, Texas, lived up – or down depending on personal views – to its reputation. There was no kind of law in Blanco. It had its own rules and anyone visiting the place stuck to them. Those rules were pretty far-ranging in that a man stayed within them, or paid the price, which in Blanco’s rule book was high. The place was a haven for those who strayed away from what would have been expected in a civilized society. Yet Blanco maintained its status within its own boundaries and tolerated outsiders as long as they didn’t try to force themselves on the situation. Leave Blanco to its own business and any stranger would be safe unless he stepped out of line.

  The town was a straggle of buildings either side of a main street that comprised dusty ruts and an uneven line. Buildings were untidy and poorly constructed. It wasn’t so much that the constructions were false-fronted, more than the building a were false-built. A mix of timber and adobe. Places to eat. Drink. Sleep if you weren’t too fussy about cleanliness, or infestation. Which most of those passing through, whether for business or pleasure, weren’t. A man on the owlhoot, or seeking temporary rest where it wouldn’t cost too much, would choose Blanco because it asked no questions and made no judgments.

  Blanco offered safety in numbers. Gave a modicum of protection to the lost and lonely, and perhaps a little relief in a life that had taken a turn for the worse.

  As Brand took his horse along the street, picking up the sound of voices coming from saloons and eating houses, he could understand the attraction of Blanco for the solitary rider. The security, albeit, brief and not without risk would be welcome to someone needing company. He spent time enough himself on lonely trails, moving from place to place in the course of his business. The need for the sound of a human voice, the presence of another person, they were welcome distraction and not to be passed by.

  He saw the crudely painted, garish sign that told him he had found The Blanco Palace. A wry smile edged his lips as he looked the place over. It was a long way from anything resembling a palace. A two-story, timber structure with windows either side of the batwing doors on the ground floor. Despite it only being mid-morning the noise coming from the saloon suggested business started early. Brand hitched Lady to the rail alongside other horses. With his dusty clothes and unshaven face he would pass as normal. He slipped the loop off the holstered Colt and made his way to the entrance, feeling the boardwalk move underfoot.

  As he pushed through the batwings the noise and the ambience seemed to reach out and wrap itself around him. As did the smell of unwashed bodies, tobacco smoke and fried food rose in his nostrils. Brand let the doors close behind him as he scanned the saloon. Most of the tables were occupied. Customers were drinking, others eating. At one end of the long bar a large, steaming urn provided coffee, while a couple of aproned men served drinks. From an open door next to the bar the smell of cooking meat filled the air. The whole place seethed with humanity. A staircase led to the upper floor where unpainted doors led to a number of rooms. The Blanco Palace might not have much else going for it but what it did offer it did with a certain enthusiasm.

  No one turned to stare at Brand as he eased his way across the sawdusted floor. He made his way to the bar, spotting a gap in the line of men bellied up to it. It took him a minute or two before he caught the eye of one the aproned tenders.

  ‘Beer?’ Brand said.

  The man took a glass and turned to one of the heavy casks mounted on a sawhorse behind him. Brand watch as the man opened the spigot and allowed amber liquid to fill the glass. He brought the foam-topped glass and slid it across to Brand. He slid coins across the bar and picked up the glass. The beer was warm but it went down Brand’s dry throat easily.

  ‘Look like you needed that,’ the bartender said.

  ‘Long ride,’ Brand said.

  ‘New in Blanco?’

  ‘Got in a couple of minutes ago.’ Brand glanced around the saloon. ‘Lively crowd you got.’

  The bartender smiled. ‘Hell, you should see ’em when they really open up.’ He was a lean, pale faced man, losing his hair. ‘Passing through, or going to stay a while?’

  ‘Haven’t made up my mind yet.’ Brand pointed at the open door where the cooking smell was coming from. ‘The food as good as it smells?’

  ‘Way to find out is to try it.’

  Brand sank half the glass of beer. ‘Can I get a steak with all the trimmings?’

  ‘You can have what you want as long as you pay for it.’

  It had just come to Brand that he was hungry and staying around The Blanco Palace would allow him to do some quiet observing. He asked the price of a meal, paid for it and took his beer with him to an empty table. It was near the back wall and allowed him a clear view of the saloon.

  A half dozen women were drifting in and out of the tables, stopping to talk to customers, some of them taking a seat and having drinks bought for them. Brand saw a couple lead men upstairs and vanish into the rooms. The saloon offered more than a drink and food.

  He was still nursing his beer when a shadow slid across his table. When he glanced up he saw smiling face looking down at him. The girl, which she was, had a powdered face and chestnut hair. Still attractive though Brand wondered how long she would retain her youthful appearance. The thin dress she wore revealed almost as much as it covered.

  ‘Company?’

  Brand was about to say no, but changed his mind. Saloon girls, apart from their expected functions, were a good source of information. They spent their time in and around the customers and had a habit of picking up information.

  ‘Why not,’ he said.

  The girl slipped easily onto the chair next to his. He caught a whiff of the cheap perfume she was wearing.

  ‘I got food coming,’ he said, ‘but we can talk while I eat.’

  ‘I’m Lydia. What do I call you?’

  Brand had worked on a name to use while he was in Blanco. Assuming an identity was a simple enough way of hiding who he really was. He couldn’t conceal his looks, apart from being unshaven, so that was something he had to take a chance on.

  ‘Jack Boyd.’

  ‘Will Jack Boyd buy me a drink?’

  Brand took money from his pocket and slid it across the table.

  ‘Whatever you want and I’ll have another beer.’

  Lydia scooped up the money. ‘Don’t rush away, Jack.’

  She made her way to the bar and Brand took his time looking over the busy saloon again. At a table in the center of the floor he spotted a man who seemed to be showing some interest. When he saw Brand looking his way the man averted his eyes.

  Okay, friend, Brand decided, you had your look. Now let’s see if anything comes of it.

  Brand’s food arrived, with Lydia not far behind. She placed their drinks on the table, casting her gaze over the steak and trimmings.

  ‘Hope you have a good appetite,’ she said.

  Brand tac
kled the food, finding the steak tender and juicy. He caught a glimpse of Lydia watching him, a smile on her face.

  ‘I like to see a man enjoying his food,’ she said. She raised her glass and took a sip, frowning slightly.

  ‘Drink not so good?’

  ‘I still don’t have much of a taste for liquor.’

  ‘How long you been here in Blanco?’

  ‘Does it show that much?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘A girl has to earn a living.’

  ‘How did you end up in Blanco?’

  ‘I fell for a man who decided he didn’t want to work for a living. He figured that stealing was a fast way to earn money. Trouble was he didn’t do it very well. So we ran out of money and just drifted, down the social ladder the further we went. We ended up here and then he got himself shot by someone faster when he got caught cheating. I had no money to travel further so here I am.’ She studied him. ‘Now you ask a lot of questions, Jack Boyd.’

  ‘I guess so. Here’s another one. The feller in the bright blue shirt over to the table across from us. You know him?’

  Lydia took a cautious glance, then looked back at Brand.

  ‘Stay away from him, Jack. That’s Lige Costigan. Pay him enough and he’d shoot the President himself. Everybody in Blanco knows to stay away from Meers. He runs with a bad crowd.’ She reached out and gripped Brand’s wrist. ‘Hey, are you listening to me? Don’t cross Costigan.’

  Brand finished his meal and sat back. He saw that Costigan kept looking his way, then leaning forward to speak with the two men sitting at the table. As Brand drained his beer he saw Costigan’s two companions push back their chairs and make their way out of the saloon. Costigan sat back, rolling himself a cigarette, a faint smile on his face, as if he had a secret he was keeping to himself.

  ‘I need to check something out,’ he said to Lydia.

  ‘Remember what I said.’

  ‘I will.’

  Brand walked casually out the saloon, pausing as he pushed his way through the swing doors. He had left Lady at the hitch post. Now she was gone. He cast around and saw in the distance the two men who had left the saloon. They were already clear of the edge of Blanco, leading Lady by the reins and heading for a ragged bunch of outbuildings and a sagging stable. Brand stepped off the walk and made his way along the street.

  He saw one of the men lead Lady into the stable. The other man vanished from sight inside a shack, leaving the area deserted. He wondered what the men were playing at, obviously following some order Meers had given them. Brand slipped the Colt from his holster and thumbed in a sixth cartridge before he dropped it back. His instinct was nudging him towards thinking he was going to need every bullet he had. If this was a game Costigan had initiated Brand had no intention of coming out the loser.

  The whole thing had the smell of a setup and a pretty amateurish one. Taking a man’s horse was bound and determined to get a result. It had. Only Brand was no tenderfoot liable to go blundering in without assessing the odds.

  When he got to within thirty feet of the shack, with the stable another fifteen away, Brand slowed his walk. He caught a hurried glimpse of someone moving from a side door of the stable and easing into the shadows behind the shack. If this was a setup it was pretty blatant.

  Chapter Seven

  Brand had a feeling of disquiet as he closed in on the shack. On the fringes of his hearing were the normal sounds coming from Blanco’s main street, now a distance behind him. Too far away to be fully heard but making an impression on his senses. His right hand hovered over the butt of his holstered Colt. He stared around the edges of the shack, eyes probing the area, searching. He trusted his senses. Allowed them to dictate his intentions, but right now he couldn’t decide whether this was instinct or overriding caution. His fingers had started to curl around the Colt. Gripping the butt to lift the weapon.

  And then he picked up the soft, dry creak of a hinge, his eyes flickering in the direction of the shack’s closed door. He caught movement. Slight, but enough to draw his full attention. The door eased open a few inches. Slowly and followed by the blued metal of a shotgun’s double-barrels poking into view. In that same moment Brand saw a shadow emerge from the far corner of the shack and start to enlarge as the owner stepped forward. The hot near-silence was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of the shotgun’s double hammers being cocked. The sound threw a chill over him; there was something cold and alarming at the prospect of being hit by a shotgun charge; Brand had witnessed the effects from such a weapon and he understood the imagery that sprang to mind. The door began to swing wider. His suspicion of being set up was proving correct and Brand knew his time was running out fast. Too damn fast. And he had two to deal with now. The shotgunner was closest…

  So deal with him first and hope the other man didn’t have a shotgun as well.

  Brand moved fast, the Colt slipping from the holster in a smooth and easy motion, hammer already eased back as he drew. He dropped to a semi-crouch, turning the muzzle towards the ever-widening door and judged where the hidden shooter would be standing behind the flimsy wooden wall. He saw the shotgun muzzle poke further into view, starting to angle in his direction.

  And out the corner of his eye he saw the distant shadow of the second shooter merging into the shape of a man holding a handgun. Even as that was registering that Brand was triggering the Colt, placing his opening shot into the shack wall and close to the doorframe. He followed with three more. Close-spaced and fired as he held back the trigger and heeled the hammer. The hard roll of shots sounded loud. Brand saw wood splinters explode from the wall as his .45 slugs pounded the timber. Holes appeared. The door was pushed back as the shotgunner fell into view, bloody holes in his body. His heavy bulk hitting the door and sliding along it, his weapon dropping from loose fingers…

  …and by then Brand had dropped into a lower crouch, seeing the man with the handgun stepping clear of the shack’s corner, the muzzle of his revolver already on target.

  The thunder of a shot came from behind Brand. Close enough to ring in his ears and he swore he felt the breath of it passing. It hit the would-be-shooter high in the chest, on the left. The power of the shot twisted the man around as a gout of bloody debris blew out his back on his way down. The man hit the ground on his front, face slamming into the surface with force enough to crush his nose and dislocate his jaw. The sound of the shot was still fading as Brand turned his head and saw the dark outline of the shooter through the cloud of powder smoke wreathed around him. The smoke came from the barrel of a big .44 caliber Walker Dragoon Colt the man held in a sinewy fist.

  ‘Came close,’ the man said.

  Brand eyed the lean, dark clad figure, noting the gleaming badge pinned to his shirt and the twin holsters around his waist. He was shucking empty casings from his Colt as he took all this in, quickly reloading the.45.

  ‘Grateful you showed up when you did,’ he said. ‘These boys play rough.’

  The man stroked fingers through the generous moustache adorning his upper lip.

  ‘Warren J. McCoy,’ he said. He spoke as if the name meant something. ‘And you’d be Jason Brand.’

  ‘Hell of a way to get introduced. Grateful you showed up when you did,’ he said. ‘These boys play rough.’

  ‘We need to talk about this.’

  ‘After I deal with something first.’

  He collected Lady from the stable and led her back along the dusty, rutted street. He was heading back to the saloon where Buck Meers had spoken to his partners before sending them to draw Brand out.

  McCoy fell in behind him. Not crowding Brand but indicating his presence.

  As he walked in the direction of the saloon he wasn’t slow to notice the lack of interest in the shooting. Blanco was living up to its reputation as a no-nonsense place where gunfire was the norm and not likely to interest anyone. The population might eventually stir into action if the place became too quiet.

  Brand settled Lady at the hi
tch rail outside The Blanco Palace, stepping up on the boardwalk. Brand moved by a loose group of men by the entrance. Their glances were not entirely friendly but that was as far as it went.

  He pushed through the swing doors and into the saloon. It was still as noisy. Still crowded. Lige Costigan still sat at the same table, only now he was facing the door, and when he saw Brand the anticipation on his face turned to surprise. He had been expecting his friends – not the man they had gone to ambush.

  Costigan rose, kicking his chair back, his right hand dropping to the weapon holstered on his hip. The space between Costigan and Brand cleared, leaving a clear path as they faced off. No more than a few seconds had passed. The saloon was suddenly silent. Brand kept moving forward, no hesitation as he drew the Colt, cocked and fired in a single motion, Costigan’s slower action leaving his own revolver still only half-drawn. The .45 slug hit him in the right shoulder, shattering the collar bone. The impact spun Costigan round in a half circle. He got caught up in a chair and went to the floor in a clumsy fall.

  Brand moved to stand over him, reaching down to snatch the man’s revolver from the holster and tuck it in his belt. He grasped hold of Costigan’s blue shirt and rolled the man over onto his back. He ignore the ragged moans coming from Costigan.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Costigan said through clenched teeth.

  He clamped his left hand over the wound in his shoulder, blood quickly seeping between his fingers. His face had already turned pale and sweat glistened on his flesh.