Brand 10

by Neil Hunter

  Chapter Fifteen

  Ralph Dorn was pacing across the ranch yard when Conlan came out of the house. He was carrying his shotgun in the crook of his arm and he faced Conlan with a nervous expression on his face.

  ‘Why’s it taking Ernst so long to get back from town? Been hours now. All he had to do was take a look around.’

  ‘Taking his sweet time is all,’ Conlan said. His tone said different.

  ‘No,’ Dorn said. ‘He wouldn’t do that. Hell, Bart, you know Ernst. He doesn’t waste time. I say he should have been back before this.’

  ‘Nothing we can do about that now. We’re being paid to look out for Bodine. He’s here. So are we.’

  ‘And where is everyone? This spread is like a ghost town. All I seen is that feller in the cook shack. Thought this was a working ranch.’

  ‘That’s where the crew is. Out working the range. Bodine’s orders. It’s what they do. Ease off, Ralph.’ Conlan grinned. ‘Take a lesson from those horses in the corral over there. Stay nice and loose.’

  Conlan went back inside the house.

  Dorn shook his head, turned and moved across the yard, his eyes sweeping back and forth as he checked the area. He didn’t care what Conlan said. He felt uneasy. Apart from the sound of the horse milling around in the corral and the gentle rustle of the leaves on the cottonwoods that edged the far side of the yard the place was too quiet. Dorn liked at least some kind of noise from activity. This place had the subdued atmosphere of a graveyard.

  He reached the barn. Paused and turned on his heels as he saw movement out by the trees. Or thought he saw movement. Damned trees with their swaying branches and leaves. They cast shadows that interwove and played tricks. Trouble was the longer he stared Dorn couldn’t make out real from false. In the end he turned away. Now he needed a drink. It was hot out in the open, with the heat of the sun bearing down on him. A thought crossed his mind. Maybe that was why Sunderman hadn’t got back yet. He was in a saloon back in Redigo having himself a beer. Or two beers. Taking his time before he made the dusty ride out to Bodine’s place. He might even be spending some time with one of the girls in the saloon. Sunderman liked the ladies. Figured himself some kind of Romeo. A grin formed on Dorn’s lips.

  Yeah, that could be it. Sunderman was dallying with some girl. Buying her favors and hoping to…

  That couldn’t be right. It was definitely not right. Or fair. Not with Dorn having to spend his time walking around in the heat, almost parched ’cause he needed a drink himself. He cast around and spotted the pump that was positioned near the cook shack. He made his way over. The cast iron pump fed a small stone basin. Dorn let his shotgun dangle by its sling as he took off his hat and placed it on the lip of the basin, then began to work the pump handle. The pump was well maintained and worked smoothly. After a few pumps cool water began to issue from the wide mouth of the pump. Dorn leaned over and took a mouthful. At least the water was cool and tasted fresh out of the ground. He slaked his thirst, then ducked his head under the stream and let the water splash over his hair and face. Satisfied he stood upright, shaking his head to get rid of the excess water like a dog just out of a rainstorm. He used both hands to slick back his hair and reached for his hat.

  That was when he saw the horse and rider coming into sight from beyond the trees. It was moving at a walk.

  Dorn crossed the yard.

  He had recognized the horse as the tall gray Sunderman had been riding.

  And he recognized the rider…it was his partner…but there was something wrong.

  Sunderman was sitting upright, head down on his chest, his only movement a gently sway from side to side.

  Dorn gripped the shotgun as he crossed the yard.

  ‘Jesus…’

  It was Ernst Sunderman. No doubt there. But he was dead as any man could be with three bloody bullet holes in his chest, wrists tied to the saddle horn and his boots to the stirrups. When he got close enough to the horse Dorn was able to look up at Sunderman’s face. His eyes were still open, showing a glassy stare and his face had a deathly, near gray cast to it. Sunderman’s slack jaw had let his tongue bulge between his teeth.

  ‘Bart,’ Dorn yelled out. ‘Get yourself back out here. And be quick about it.’

  When Conlan saw Sunderman he stood silently, fists at his sides clenching and unclenching. He didn’t say anything for a while. He had taken off his duster and Derby hat while in the house but still carried his slung shotgun and had his holstered Colt around his waist.

  ‘All he had to do was look and listen,’ he said eventually. ‘What the hell did he do to make this happen?’

  ‘Whoever did for him wanted us to know,’ Dorn said. ‘Could be they’re out there watching right now. Ernst didn’t make it all the way from town like this. Somebody roped him to his saddle and pointed him here.’

  ‘How many do you figure?’

  ‘This man Brand for certain. Maybe Quinlan. He’ll want his documents back.’

  ‘Just two? Not a posse?’

  ‘Uh-huh. They’ll do this on their own. Not bring in a noisy bunch of riders.’

  Conlan turned and made his way to the porch. The house main door stood ajar, with the dark shape of Jay Bledsoe standing back.

  ‘Not going quite as well as you expected,’ he said, glancing beyond Conlan to where the motionless horse and its dead rider stood. ‘Bodine isn’t going to be happy.’

  ‘Well that shakes me up all to hell. You just go and tell him we have things under control.’

  Bledsoe failed to hold back a cold smile. ‘Yeah. I can see that.’

  He turned away and moved back inside the house, pushing the door shut as he dismissed Conlan.

  Conlan flicked his shotgun into place, easing back the hammers until they locked in position.

  ‘Ralph, go check around the back of the house. Make sure they haven’t snuck in that way.’

  Dorn nodded. ‘No cover back there ,’ he said. ‘All flat ground.’

  ‘Check it anyway.’

  Dorn vanished around the side of the house, leaving Conlan on his own. He stared at the dead man on the horse. Had to give it to the man Brand. A nice move to send in Sunderman’s corpse as a quiet reminder he was around. If Conlan had been the superstitious kind it could have unnerved him. But he wasn’t and it didn’t. He turned his attention to the line of cottonwoods, branches moving in the warm breeze that had sprung up. The breeze also stirred up the yard’s dry dust, sending a thin swirl of it into view. Like Dorn had been caught up in the ripple of shadows in amongst the trees Conlan stepped forward a few paces, wanting to make sure they were only shadows.

  He had almost convinced himself there was nothing when he picked out a flash of color in amongst the shadows.

  Something red. Like man’s shirt.

  ‘Goddamn it,’ he mouthed. ‘Dorn – get the hell back here.’

  He swung the shotgun on line, tripping one trigger, then turned about and stepped behind the bulk of Sunderman’s horse. He moved the length of the horse, aimed and loosed off the second barrel. He broke the action and plucked out the smoking shells, fishing fresh loads from his shirt pocket and dropped them in place. Reloaded he crouched, peering around the nervous horse’s flanks.

  Where the hell was Dorn?

  The man appeared, clearing the corner of the ranch house.

  ‘The trees,’ Conlan yelled. ‘They’re in the goddam trees.’

  And that was when it all happened…

  Fry was able to direct them to the ranch by way of a route that kept them out of sight and a quarter mile from the outfit they tethered their horses and completed the approach on foot. Brand led the horse that carried Sunderman’s body, now roped into place to keep him in the saddle. He wanted to use the horse and rider as a distraction while he, Fry and Quinlan moved in unobserved. They quartered in the deep stand of cottonwoods that fringed the ranch yard and checked the area.

  There was a single man on watch. Black clad in a long duster, Derby hat
on his head and a cut-down shotgun in his hands.

  ‘Looks to be one of those who arrived on the train,’ Fry said. ‘If they’re here I’m certain sure Bodine is in the house.’

  Brand finished securing the ropes holding Sunderman on the horse’s back.

  ‘We need to spread apart. If things get heated we’ll have guns firing our way.’

  ‘Good thought,’ Quinlan said.

  ‘Fry,’ Brand said. ‘Before we move take off that badge you’re wearing.’

  ‘Sunlight hits that metal it’ll be like a damn signal. It’ll make you an easy target.’

  Fry glanced down at the burnished badge pinned to his shirt. ‘Never thought of that.’

  He unpinned the badge and put into one of his pockets.

  ‘Let’s do this,’ Brand said.

  He led the horse and its silent rider to the edge of the cottonwood stand to where the beaten tail led down into the ranch yard. He draped the reins over the animal’s neck, then gave it a solid whack on the rump and set it forward. The horse cantered in the direction of the yard, its interest caught by the corralled horses moving about restlessly.

  From where he stood in the shadows of the timber Brand saw the armed man spot the horse. Heard him call out to the house. He watched as a second man came outside. Both men stared at the horse and its dead rider.

  The distraction allowed Brand and his partners to move, spacing themselves out. The distraction didn’t last for long. One of the men moved around the ranch house to check the rear of the property.

  The remaining man, coat and hat less, moved forward, scanning the trees, and his relaxed stance altered as he spotted something.

  He yelled out to his partner, then triggered his shotgun, the blast peppering the trunks of the cottonwoods.

  Quinlan gave a startled cry as lead shot clipped his left arm. Fragments of cloth blew from his sleeve, followed by bloody flesh. He dropped to his knees, clamping a hand to his arm a fraction of a second before a second blast came from the shooter.

  ‘Stay down,’ Brand yelled.

  Out the corner of his eye he saw the second shotgunner move back into view from the side of the house. As he broke cover Brand saw the man’s weapon lift as he kept coming. Brand brought the Winchester to his shoulder, sighting quickly. He triggered a shot and saw a spurt of dust rise from the shotgunner’s torso. The man paused but kept coming, his shotgun raised. They fired together. Brand felt the hot sting of the shot across his left side. The jolt only served to force Brand’s hand. He had already levered another round into the rifle’s breech and he triggered the shot, placing the .44-40 slug into the gunner’s midsection, then followed with a close spaced double burst from the Winchester that put the shooter down hard.

  As Brand moved to engage, Fry stepped by him, his gaze centered on the man who had fired at Quinlan. With his shotgun empty the man realized he had no time to reload, so he cast the weapon aside and drew his holstered Colt with a smooth action, turning the weapon at Fry as Redigo’s lawman came on.

  Both men fired. The crash of shots was followed by more. The hard sounds echoed even as follow-up shots came.

  Fry twisted under the impact of a .45 slug that cracked a couple of ribs. He pressed a hand over the wound and raised his pistol again.

  Conlan, the lawman’s target, saw Dorn go down from Brand’s Winchester, then felt a slug thump into his left side chest from Fry’s gun. He pulled himself upright, drawing his muzzle on Fry for another shot. It never came. Brand had angled his Winchester around and he pumped a fast trio of .44-40 slugs into the man. Conlan slipped to his knees so that Fry’s already committed shot ripped into and through his neck. Blood began to bubble from a severed artery as Conlan dropped.

  ‘The house,’ Quinlan said. ‘Bodine.’

  He broke into a run, passing Brand and Fry, his pistol in his hand, ignoring Brand’s warning to hold back. He made directly for the front door, his determination to confront Bodine swamping any thoughts of safety.

  ‘Quinlan, back away,’ Brand yelled. He let his rifle slip to the ground and drew his Colt.

  Quinlan was deaf to any warnings. He reached the verandah steps. As he did the house door swung open and Jay Bledsoe filled the frame, his Colt in his hand. The bodyguard fired without hesitation, dropping the hammer on two bullets. The close range shots slammed into Quinlan and kicked him back off the steps, his own weapon flying unused from his hand.

  Brand and Fry leveled their weapons and fired almost as one. Bledsoe jerked under the multiple impact of .45 caliber slugs, his body slamming against the doorframe. He tried to bring his weapon back on line again. Brand aimed and fired again, putting his shot into Bledsoe’s chest and the man pitched face down on the porch in a slack heap.

  ‘Help him,’ Brand said to Fry.

  He went up to the door and stepped inside. He paused in the hall. Picked up noise to his left and moved to the close door. He booted it open, sending the door swinging wide. It crashed back, one hinge tearing free.

  The room beyond was dominated by a large oak desk and chairs. Walls adorned with bookshelves and hunting trophies. Rifles and shotguns in a glass fronted cabinet. It was a room that displayed the dominance of the man who resided there.

  Elias Bodine had abandoned any pretense of his power as he made an abortive attempt at burning the sheaf of documents piled on the floor at his feet. He held an oil lamp in one hand, struggling to loosen the filler cap. His face glistened with sweat as he fumbled with the metal cap. He turned to stare at Brand.

  ‘I can’t let you take them,’ he said. ‘Too many people could be hurt…’

  ‘Too many already have been hurt,’ Brand said.

  The dead at the scene of the robbery. Killed because they were simply in the way.

  Henry Quinlan and Ben Fry.

  Too many damaged to conceal the crimes of Elias Bodine and his partners.

  There was no way the man was going to escape from that.

  The Colt’s hammer snapped back.

  The shot was loud thunder in the room.

  Brand slumped in one of the chairs, blood soaking through his shirt, the pistol suddenly heavy in his hand.

  He barely noticed when Fry appeared in the doorway. The lawman’s shirt was sodden with his own blood. He leaned against the door frame. He saw the document’s on the floor. Bodine’s body stretched out across the boards, the back of his skull open and ragged where Brand’s slug had shattered it.

  ‘Quinlan didn’t make it,’ he said quietly. ‘Hell of a price to pay for a pile of papers. Washington had better make good use of them.’

  ‘They will.’ Brand said. ‘I’ll make sure they do…’

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the couple of weeks that followed there was a flurry of activity. Despite the Justice Department attempting to contain the details in the evidence Henry Quinlan had compiled, news got out and people named by the witnesses made attempts to distance themselves from the consequences. Arrests followed. Two of the accused committed suicide. Others tried to flee from custody. The information Quinlan had gathered was detailed. Meticulous. And his powers of persuasion brought witnesses forward ready to talk and point the finger. There were attempts to silence those talking, but in the end, the truth came out and the courts wielded their power and handed down heavy verdicts.

  Henry Quinlan’s family was informed of his death and the important part he had played in the downfall of the people involved. No amount of praise was going to bring Quinlan back, but his relatives were made aware of his courageous sacrifice.

  Ben Fry recovered from his wounds and resumed his duties as marshal of Redigo.

  Likewise Jason Brand returned to Washington and made his report to Frank McCord, who rewarded him with a couple of weeks rest before returning him to duty. Brand figured he had come out of it all with an easy result.

  There had been some minor upset with the Texas Rangers when McCord informed them McCoy had been, dealt with, as he put it. The fuss was more to do
with the fact Brand had done their job for them. The Rangers had a proud tradition of dealing with Ranger problems by themselves. McCoy turning his back on the force had not gone down too well, but they had to admit he had done them a service by ridding them of a man who had broken the Ranger code.

  Brand had received a letter from Adam, informing him that his son and Virginia Maitland would be returning to America in a few weeks. That was the best news he could have had.

  On his return to Washington Brand had made a visit to Handy where he spoke to Hicks and Toby Books. It was a closure of sorts for them to know that the men who had staged the train robbery had been dealt with. After his visit Brand met up with Jake Converse. The stable owner was happy to see Brand. And pleased to see Lady was unharmed. Something in Brand’s manner suggested there was more to his visit. An hour later, money having changed hands, Brand left the stable as the new owner of the paint. Converse had made a big thing of how he favored the horse and wouldn’t want to lose her, but he was in the end a businessmen and following a protracted haggling session both men got what they wanted. Converse hurried off to the bank with his money and Brand went to the depot to arrange for his and Lady’s passage on the first train out of Handy.

  Brand had a long ride ahead of him. Enough time to consider that now he had two females on his hands. One might have had four legs and an attitude, but he figured between them they were going to keep him well occupied with their individual demands.

  Settling in his seat as the train pulled out of Handy, with Lady secure in the livery coach, it came to him that the near future was going to be a busy time – and added to that he still had Frank McCord to keep him on his toes…

  THE KILLING DAYS

  JASON BRAND 10

  By Neil Hunter

  Copyright © 2016 by Neil Hunter

  First Smashwords Edition: February 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.