Brand 10

by Neil Hunter

  ‘You judge me?’ For the first time a flicker of emotion showed in McCoy’s eyes. ‘Forgotten how I saved your life back in Blanco?’

  ‘Only reason you did was because it suited your plan. Wasn’t because you felt any obligation.’

  ‘They say every good deed has a way of turning back on you…’

  On the edge of Brand’s vision he saw McCoy’s thumbs lift slightly and he knew the man was about to draw. As his hands went back his thumbs would reach his gun hammers first, drawing them back to cock the Dragoons even as he cleared leather. It was a smart move, intended to give the shooter an advantage over a slower draw, only Brand had seen the action and he knew well enough to stay ahead.

  His right hand fell, his own move seeming unhurried, but there was a deadly intent in his response. In his mind was a recollection of something the department armorer, Whitehead, had told him when Brand had first met him. About accuracy in placing his shot being more important than displaying too much speed. Brand had held that belief and it had proved its worth on more than one occasion.

  McCoy had to lift the not inconsiderable weight of the big pistols. Bringing them up on line despite clearing his holsters quickly. The nearly five pound drag of those massive weapons had to have a slowing effect, marginal as it was, and it became the difference.

  Brand brought his Peacemaker on line. Held for a beat. Arm extended and his finger curled against the slight trigger pull. The Colt hammered out its sound. Spat a sliver of flame. The.45 caliber lead slug hit McCoy chest high and cored in deep. Brand put a second shot into the man and this was into the heart.

  McCoy took a faltering step back, his face registering shock, his body arching in response to what had happened. The left hand pistol thundered as his finger reflectively jerked the trigger. The big slug tore against his leg as he began to fall, slamming to the ground heavily.

  ‘Jesus,’ Quinlan said, ‘he meant to kill you.’

  He was outside the jail, staring at McCoy’s body. Brand turned, catching hold of the man’s sleeve.

  ‘We don’t get off this street that could still happen.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Move, damnit,’ Brand growled. ‘Ain’t as if I don’t like you, but I figure catching a bullet on your behalf is way beyond doing my duty.’

  He pushed Quinlan forward, back inside the jail. Just as they reached the door Fry showed himself, cradling a Greener shotgun in his arms. The moment they were through the door Fry slammed it shut, turning to eye his visitors.

  ‘Damndest thing I seen in a long time,’ he said. ‘The telling about W.J. McCoy had him as fast with those Walkers.’

  Brand was shucking the used cartridges from the Colt and replacing them.

  ‘Isn’t the speed,’ he said, ‘it’s where you put your bullets.’

  ‘Well I seen it,’ Fry went on, ‘and damned if I barely believe it.’

  ‘What about Morgan?’ Brand asked.

  Fry shook his head.

  Brand glanced across at Quinlan. ‘You still want those documents?’

  ‘It’s what I came for.’

  Fry, realizing Brand’s intentions, said, ‘He left town. Bodine. He was in that fancy black buggy he owns. All lettered with the name of the stud. Not something a body could miss. Just before you braced McCoy. Had Jay Bledsoe at his side, and three black clad fellers who come in on the morning train were riding alongside.’

  ‘Which way did they go?’

  ‘I’d say they were heading for Bodine’s horse ranch few miles out of town.’

  ‘He got more guns out there?’

  ‘Only the hands he pays to tend his stock. They’re no gun fighters.’

  ‘That still leaves four who are,’ Quinlan said.

  ‘Nobody ever said this job was going to be easy,’ Brand said. ‘I was told to get that evidence back. If Bodine has it it’ll be close.’

  He took up the rifle he had left in Fry’s office and checked it was fully loaded.

  ‘You can’t just ride out there and ask for it back.’ Fry said.

  ‘Who said anything about asking?’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Now…

  ‘You hear that?’

  Bledsoe eased back on the reins, turning his head.

  ‘Hear what?’ Bodine asked.

  ‘Gunfire is what,’ Bart Conlan said. He had reined in his horse alongside the buggy. ‘From town.’

  Bodie managed a slight smirk. ‘This is Texas. Redigo is a cow town. What do you expect?’

  ‘Couple of shots from a Walker. Dragoon. Little while later two shots from a .45. And one more from a Walker.’

  ‘You can tell that from this distance?’

  ‘Guns are my business. Mr. Bodine. Day I can’t tell the difference is when I put mine away.’

  ‘McCoy carries .44 Walkers,’ Bledsoe said.

  ‘So McCoy bracing Brand?,’ Bodine said. ‘I recall we’ve been expecting that.’

  Conlan glanced at his partners.

  ‘Ernst go and find out what happened.’

  Bodine said, ‘If the chance shows itself deal with Brand. I’m tired of hearing his damn name.’

  Conlan gave a slight nod and Sunderman reined about and picked up the way back to Redigo.

  ‘Might just be our chance,’ he said.

  They continued on their journey and reached the ranch a while later.

  It was a well maintained, impressive sight. Corrals and a big Dutch barn. Outbuildings, with a long bunkhouse for the crew. A cook house stood nearby. Horses were roaming the corrals and Bodine’s crew went about their business. The whole place displayed a sense of purpose.

  Standing across the hard-packed yard was the large ranch house itself. An imposing three story structure that combined stone and timber. A railed gallery ran around the second floor. The timber sections were painted in a deep maroon with white trim. The house exuded wealth. A status symbol for Bodine’s position.

  ‘Pretty nice place,’ Conlan said.

  Bodine led the way inside, with Bledsoe close, Conlan and Dorn following behind. A Mexican dressed in pristine whites appeared, taking Bodine’s hat.

  ‘In the study, Mateo. Coffee.’

  The Mexican nodded and padded away as Bodine led his guests through a wide door into the room beyond. A large window looked out over the ranch yard. Bodine crossed and took his place behind his large desk, a wave of his hand indicating everyone could sit. As usual Bledsoe sat in a chair close to his employer. Saying nothing. Simply observing.

  ‘What do you believe your man will find in town?’ Bodine asked.

  Conlan shrugged.

  It was Bledsoe who unexpectedly broke the silence.

  ‘I’d say a surprise,’ he said with conviction.

  ~*~

  Sunderman rode in to find Redigo going about its business with little regard to what had taken place only a short time ago. He took his horse to the hitch rail outside one of the larger saloons and dismounted. He stepped up on the walk and took a slow look around. He gave himself time to cover the whole of the street until he was convinced he wasn’t about to find any answers there. Turning he pushed through the batwings and went inside.

  The interior was cooler than on the street. Sunderman took off his Derby and ran a hand through his hair. Sleeved the beads of sweat from his brow. His appearance drew marginal interest. The half full saloon was too busy with its own concerns.

  Conlan moved to the long, polished bar and caught the eye of one of the bartenders.

  ‘What would you like?’

  ‘Beer.’

  Sunderman observed the crowd behind him through the wide mirror on the wall behind the bar. He waited until the beer was placed in front of him. Dropped money on the bar. He picked it up and took a taste. It eased the dryness in his throat.

  ‘New in town?’

  Sunderman looked up from his glass.

  ‘Came in on the morning train. On my way to Bodine’s place. Looking for work. He’s been asking aroun
d for a bookkeeper.’

  ‘Could do worse. Bodine’s a big man around here.’

  ‘Don’t say.’

  ‘If you come in on the train you must have heard the shootin’ earlier.’

  Sunderman nodded. ‘Heard from my hotel room. What happened?’

  ‘Man in the jail was shot. Then a couple fellers got into some kind of ruckus. Had them a drawdown.’

  ‘Anyone hurt bad?’

  ‘Bad as it can get. One feller got himself killed.’

  ‘That bad, huh. Local?’

  ‘No. Way I heard the deceased was a feller name of McCoy.’

  ‘What about t’other man?’

  ‘He come out without a scratch from what I heard.’

  Sunderman listened, taking it all in as he supped his beer. The bartender, like many of his kind, was the fount of all local knowledge. As well as serving drinks he absorbed and passed out information. Almost as good as a local newspaper - but without bias.

  ‘And I missed it,’ Sunderman said. ‘This feller who didn’t get shot – he a local?’

  ‘Newcomer too. From what I heard he got into a scrape earlier and put a couple of local misfits down who tried to rob him. Busted a cap and blew a feller’s head apart. That’s the story I heard. Somebody saw this shooter and another feller visiting the jail with the town lawman, Ben Fry. Odd thing was, from what I heard, they were being real sociable with each other. Other man was a stranger in town as well.’

  ‘And there I was thinking Redigo was a quiet town.’

  The bartender chuckled, said, ‘Never be all that peaceable being a cow town and all. But she’s been busier than normal last day or so.’

  Sunderman finished his beer. He squared his hat and took a final glance around the saloon.

  ‘Obliged,’ he said and made his way outside.

  He paused, gazing along the street in the direction of the jail.

  He was convinced now that the man involved in the shootings had to be Jason Brand. Seemed a logical conclusion with the man seemingly talking freely to the local law.

  In the company of a second newcomer to Redigo.

  The name came into Sunderman’s mind without any kind of encouragement.

  Henry Quinlan.

  Sunderman shook his head. Could they be that lucky? Having Quinlan show up on Brand’s heels.

  Well, he thought, they would no doubt find the answer to that soon enough.

  He moved along the boardwalk, one hand slipping beneath his duster to grasp the sling-hanging shotgun. His fingers stroked the smooth metal, eased down to the silky wood of the stock. A thin smile edged his lips as he felt the cool silkiness of the wood.

  Brand.

  Quinlan.

  The town lawman.

  A nice neat threesome. He gripped the shotgun, the closest thing to pleasure coursing through his body. Sunderman had a thing about anyone who represented the law. Put simply he didn’t like them. Most of his adult life he had clashed with the law in one form or another. They had put him in jail twice. Bad places where worse things happened. Sunderman never forgot those things. His fingers closed against the shotgun. Time for a reckoning. Time for him to make his play.

  Chapter Fourteen

  ‘I’ve had a prisoner die in the cells from natural causes,’ Fry said. ‘Never had one shot through the damn window.’

  Morgan had been taken away by the undertaker a little while ago but Fry was still unnerved by what had happened. McCoy’s body had also been moved from the street.

  Fry was standing at one of the office windows. Looking along the street.

  ‘You want to take a look here,’ he said

  Brand joined him ‘What am I looking at?’

  ‘Feller standing outside the Lucky Lady. Long black duster. Derby hat.’

  ‘I see him.’

  ‘Tell me I’m wrong but he looks like one of the three who came in on the morning train. They were met by one of Bodine’s men and he led them to the hotel where Bodine has a permanent suite. Last seen they were riding alongside Bodine’s buggy when he left town. All three of them wore those dusters and Derby hats. No law against that but just something about them don’t sit right.’

  Brand watched the man move along the boardwalk. Even at a distance the deliberate way the man was treading the boardwalk, his gaze fixed directly on the jail, advertised his intention.

  ‘Son of a bitch,’ Brand said softly.

  The man suddenly pulled his black duster open and exposed the sling-hung twin barreled shotgun. He pulled it around and held it in plain sight.

  ‘I know you’re in there, Brand. Show yourself, mister,’ he said.’

  Quinlan said, ‘He’s coming on. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Oblige the man,’ he said. ‘Not much room in here to hide. And I don’t like what scatter guns can do.’

  He lifted the latch and pulled the jail door wide. He laid the rifle down, not wanting to be encumbered by it. He pulled the Colt and held it tight against his stomach.

  ‘Don’t be…’

  His words were lost as Brand moved forward, through the door and across the boardwalk, increasing his pace as he reached the edge. A fleeting thought ran through his mind as he left the walk, of Kito and his punishing training sessions. His determination to drill into Brand the means of surviving confrontations. The way to move. To fall without injuring himself. Those moves were not something Brand used a great deal, but the repetitive practice came to mind as he launched himself clear of the boardwalk, the dusty surface of the street coming up to meet him. He threw out his left hand and let it guide him into a shoulder roll.

  As you fall, make shoulder roll, let it absorb the impact so you do not harm yourself.

  The man’s soft voice seemed to follow as Brand felt the ground slide beneath him, executing a smooth follow through, coming up on one knee, his gun hand clearing his chest.

  Dust billowed up around Brand.

  As he turned his body, the Colt following he caught a glimpse of the black-clad man, swinging his own form around on the boardwalk. The long duster flew back like a rippling cloak, as Conlan pulled the shotgun around and fired.

  Brand felt the impact as the burst hit the ground feet away, raising chunks of dirt. He felt the hot sting as stray shot caught the outer flesh of his left thigh. Then he heard the hard boom of the shot, the deep, throaty sound loud in his ears.

  By this time he had the pistol on target, hammer already back. He tracked in on Conlan’s lean body, eased back on the trigger and felt the Colt buck as it fired.

  The .45 slug hit Conlan in the chest and he took a faltering step back, face registering surprise. Even so he jerked the shotgun back at Brand. Too slow as Brand cocked and fired again and a third time. Conlan was turned sideways on, stumbling across the boardwalk and thumped against the wall. His legs gave and he slithered down, the redundant shotgun discharging its second load into the walk. Conlan hunched over, his head wedged against the wall. Blood was dripping from his chest.

  As Fry stepped out from the jail, gun in his hand, Quinlan close behind, Brand pushed to his feet, his Colt still held on Conlan. He sensed movement along the street as onlookers began to gather. Brand ignored them. As long as none of them were dressed in black dusters and wearing Derby hats he didn’t give a damn.

  ‘That was some fancy move,’ Fry said.

  Brand concentrated on reloading his Colt, carefully thumbing in fresh cartridges, pretending he didn’t notice the slight tremble in his hands.

  Son of a bitch, it never got any easier.

  Fry stood over the body. He moved the shotgun aside with his foot.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said, ‘you see that? His Derby never came off,.

  ‘You’re bleeding,’ Quinlan said.

  Brand glanced down and saw the patch of blood on his pants where the stray shot had hit. Now he could feel the fiery sting from the wound.

  ‘That’s getting to be normal for this job.’

  ‘Let’s get
you to my office,’ Fry said.

  He sent someone to tell the undertaker what had happened. Quinlan followed close behind as they moved along the street.

  ‘I reckon I’ve brought nothing but problems with me,’ he said.

  Brand looked over his shoulder. ‘You expecting Bodine and his bunch to go down easy?’

  ‘I didn’t want all this.’

  ‘None of us want it,’ Brand said, ‘but it’s what we’ve got.’

  The doctor showed up minutes later. He dropped his bag on Fry’s desk and stood over Brand.

  ‘Good thing I don’t have any other patients,’ he said dryly. ‘Leg this time.’

  ‘You don’t miss a thing, doc,’ Fry said.

  ‘I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence, Mr. Brand, because you’ll be running out of body parts. Now would you kindly let down your pants.’

  Holman took three lead shot out of Brand’s thigh. They hadn’t penetrated too deep but it was an uncomfortable experience as the doctor used steel tweezers to work the pellets out. He cleaned the holes with antiseptic that stung as much as the wounds. After he had bound the leg and washed his hand he took a mug of coffee from Fry.

  ‘It appears to me we have an ongoing problem here. From what you’ve been telling me Elias Bodine has a lot to answer for.’

  Brand had pulled on his remaining pair of pants from his saddlebags. He glanced up from buckling on his gunbelt.

  ‘Bodine paying for his misdemeanors is top of my list, Doc.’

  ‘Should I stock up on my medical supplies?’

  ‘The way things are you might well just do that.’

  ‘And telling you to go easy on that leg for a while?’

  Brand picked up his rifle. ‘Thanks for the concern, doc. Much appreciated.’

  Holman sighed, understanding. He took his bag and left the office.

  ‘We leaving now?’ Quinlan said.

  ‘We?’

  ‘Mr. Brand, Bodine is anxious to meet me. I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.’

  Fry had picked himself a rifle from the wall rack. He passed it to Quinlan, then took a second for himself.

  ‘Somebody has to watch your back, Mr. Brand. I wouldn’t feel right not doing that.’