by Neil Hunter
St Clair turned and left them. Brand and Sarah followed the Negro up the stairs. They were on the first landing when a figure appeared before them.
‘Oh, Sarah, how can you ever forgive me!’
The accent was delightful. The owner was beautiful. A genuine daughter of the South, Brand decided. This was Lucilla St Clair. Brand’s gaze lingered on the slim but womanly body under the crisp white blouse and dark skirt. The hair that fell below the slender shoulders was as fine as silk and the color of spun gold. Brilliant, startlingly blue eyes focused on Brand, the soft pink lips forming into a faint, inquiring smile.
‘I’m sure you could be forgiven anything, Miss St Clair. Anything at all.’
Lucilla’s smile widened. ‘I do like your friend, Sarah.’
Sarah gave Brand a sideways glance that almost had physical impact, and he realized she was showing signs of jealousy. When she spoke she concealed her feelings.
‘Oh, everyone likes him,’ she said. ‘He has such a way with people. And it’s good to see you again, Lucilla.
Thank you for the invite.’
‘You don’t realize how good it is to have some fresh faces around this place. It does get a little lonely out here. Being so far from New Orleans doesn’t help.’
‘It is rather a long journey,’ Sarah agreed.
‘Shame on me,’ Lucilla gushed. ‘Here I am chattering away and you poor things must be dying to freshen up.’
Lucilla radiated charm as if it was sunshine, Brand realized, but underneath he suspected she was as tough as old hickory.
Shortly after Brand was closing the door of his room. He tossed his hat on the bed, stripped off his jacket and black tie, opening his shirt collar. Crossing the room he opened the louvered doors that allowed access to the balcony outside. It was rimmed by wrought iron railings. The darkness was falling fast now and a faint breeze drifted across the wide lawns flanking the house. Brand stayed on the balcony for a while. He was about to go back inside when he caught sight of a figure moving along the path at the east end of the house. It was the way the man moved that held Brand’s attention. He wasn’t out for an evening stroll. The man moved with a definite purpose, head turning right to left and back again as he checked the area. And he was carrying a rifle. The man was on patrol. He was a guard. An armed guard at that.
Brand watched the man a while longer. His curiosity was well aroused by what he had seen. Just what was so important it needed armed guards to keep it secure?
He was brought back into the room by a tap on the door that led to the attached bathroom. Brand opened the door and was confronted by the Negro servant Frederick.
‘Your bath is ready, sir.’
‘Thank you, Frederick.’
The bathroom was tiled and sumptuous. The water hot and scented. Brand stripped off his dusty clothing and lowered himself into the water. He wondered if Sarah was doing the same and decided his bathing would have been more enjoyable if she’d been with him. He found himself smiling at her reaction to his response to Lucilla St Clair. She must have expected some kind of reaction. Lucilla was the kind of woman who could have made a ninety-year-old man sit up and take notice. And Jason Brand was a long way off ninety.
He soaked for a good half hour. When he returned to his room, wrapped in a huge towel, he found that his luggage had been opened and his evening suit laid out on the bed. The white shirt with the frilled front, that Sarah had chosen for him was there, along with underclothes and socks. His boots had been polished until they gleamed.
Brand dressed leisurely. When he had finished he picked up the attaché case beside the bed. Unlocking it with the key on his watch chain he laid it on the bed, raising the lid. He took out his big .45 caliber Colt. Next he removed the Colt-special that Whitfield, the armorer had adapted for him. He had carried the weapon for the first time during the assignment that had taken him to Miles City, where he had met Sarah. The conclusion of that assignment had left Brand near death at the hands of the man named Raven. Brand checked that both weapons were fully loaded, then returned them to the case and locked it again.
When he made his way downstairs and was crossing the hall, Lucilla appeared. She had changed too. The blouse and skirt were gone, replaced by a slim fitting black dress that left little to the imagination. Her hair was piled on top of her head and a diamond pendant, suspended from a thin sliver chain, lay in the deep cleft between her full breasts.
‘Now you do look better,’ she said teasingly.
Brand took her offered arm and Lucilla led him to the dining room. Sarah was already seated at the long table. At its head sat Beauregard St Clair. There were two other men at the table. St Clair introduced them.
‘My sonWillard.’ The slender, blonde young man nodded briefly in Brand’s direction, looking away quickly. ‘And this is Parker Royce, my estate manager amongst other things.’
‘They tell me you’re something of an authority on guns, Mister Colter,’ Royce said evenly.
Brand sat down, glancing across at Royce. The man was smiling, but there was a hardness behind the outer mask. Royce had the look of a killer about him. There was controlled violence just below the surface.
‘Dare say I could work out one end from the other.’
Royce’s eyes glittered in the moment before he turned aside and said something to Sarah that brought a smile to her lips.
St Clair was a good host. The meal was an experience. They started with Green Turtle soup, followed by fresh salmon and green salad. There was choice of wild turkey or stuffed roast quail. Brand lost count of the accompanying dishes of vegetables and sauces. He ate sparingly, having learned long ago that heavy meals didn’t go together with the hectic requirements of his work.
Later the men retired to St Clair’s book lined study, leaving Lucilla and Sarah on their own. In the study the Senator produced fine brandy and cigars.
‘I’d hazard a guess that you find numerous markets for your weapons in Europe and Latin America, Mister Colter,’ he ventured.
‘There always seems to be something going on somewhere,’ Brand replied.
‘Does it pay well?’ Royce asked bluntly.
Brand looked at him through a wreath of cigar smoke. ‘I won’t starve, Mr. Royce.’
‘And where do you get your weapons from, Colter?’ Willard St Clair asked.
Brand eyes St Clair’s son. It had been a clumsy question, badly framed. From what he had seen of the man Brand judged Willard to be spoiled and with a sullen attitude. He didn’t like the young man very much.
‘Please don’t embarrass our guest,’ St Clair butted in quickly, frowning at his son.
‘I have my sources of supply,’ Brand said. ‘And like any good businessman I protect them.’
‘Of course, of course,’ Beauregard St Clair agreed. ‘I’d expect nothing less.’
From then on St Clair steered the conversation along mundane lines. There was no more mention of guns, but Brand had the feeling the matter would eventually be broached once more.
Parker Royce glanced at his watch some time later. He drained his brandy glass and stood up.
‘If you will excuse me, gentleman. I have things to attend to.’
St Clair nodded. ‘Go ahead, Parker.’
‘Busy man,’ Brand said as Royce left the study.
‘I couldn’t ask for better. Nothing that boy can’t turn his hand to.’
Brand tended to agree with that. He decided that Parker Royce would turn out to have a great deal of hidden talents.
‘More brandy, Mister Colter?’
Brand shook his head. ‘If you don’t mind, Senator, I’d like to retire. It’s been a long day.’
‘Of course, my boy, how thoughtless of me. Perhaps a ride before breakfast?’
‘That would be my pleasure, sir.’
He crossed the hall and made his way upstairs. The landing lay in deep shadow, the darkness broken by the soft glow of oil lamps. Brand reached his room without seeing anyone. He wondered
if Sarah had already gone to bed.
Inside his room he changed into black pants and shirt. Settling down on the bed he lit a cigar and sat back to wait until the rest of the house retired for the night.
Chapter Five
Brand closed the cover of his watch and returned it to the pocket of his coat draped over the back of a chair. It was well after two o’clock. He stood up and crossed the bedroom to lock the door. From the small bedside table he picked up the .45 caliber Colt and tucked it under his belt. Turning, he opened the doors and stepped out onto the balcony. The warm musk of the Louisiana night reached out to envelope him. He could hear the subdued racket of insects drifting out of the darkness. Brand stood for a while, allowing his eyes to become adjusted to the gloom. Luckily there was a pale moon overhead; he decided it could be just as much of a hazard as a help.
He waited for the guard he’d seen earlier. The man appeared a minute or so later, still pacing the same route.
Brand wasn’t sure if it was actually the same man. If it was he had a hell of a constitution. Brand studied the man’s route for a while, working out his timing. At the furthest point of his route it took the man just over three minutes before he returned. It wasn’t long but Brand figured it would give him enough time to get down to ground level from the balcony.
The moment the guard turned on his return trek Brand readied himself. As the dark figure walked out of view Brand swung himself over the balcony rail and started down. The St Clair mansion had been constructed from rough-hewn stone that provided plenty of hand and footholds. Even so it took Brand a good two minutes to reach the ground, and he was sweating by the time the descent was over. He also had a few skinned fingertips.
Brand eased the Colt from his belt. He pressed in close to the wall and ran towards the east wing of the mansion. The guard seemed to be concentrating his attention on that part of the building. Brand decided it would be as well to start looking there.
He was almost at the far end of the wall when the guard re-appeared. There was no chance to avoid a confrontation. The guard opened his mouth to yell, turning towards Brand’s lunging figure. The rifle flashed in the moonlight as it slashed at Brand’s body. Still moving forward Brand slapped it aside with his left arm, and by some stroke of luck it didn’t go off. Driving in close Brand slammed the barrel of his Colt into the guard’s face. He felt the solid impact. Heard the guard’s choked off cry. The man stumbled backwards, slumping against the wall, his face washed with a sudden rush of blood. Brand hit him again, this time across the skull, and the guard flopped to the ground.
Turning away Brand rounded the end of the mansion. He was breathing hard, angry too that trouble had reared its head so early in the game. He knew there was no use worrying over the incident. He was here to do a job, and no one had ever said it was going to be easy. The sooner he moved into his assignment the better he would like it. Playing Colter made him uncomfortable.
The moment he rounded the corner he found what he was looking for. A shallow ramp that led down to a pair of low wooden doors. A cellar entrance. A likely place to hide a consignment of stolen weapons. Maybe too likely, he found himself thinking. He could imagine Beauregard St Clair having a little more cunning than that. There was a chance that this was nothing more than a temporary cache. Just a holding place before they were moved to a secure hideaway. Brand decided he was wasting time debating the point. There was only one way to find out.
The thick, studded doors were secured by heavy chains and a padlock. Brand saw that the lock was fairly new and well oiled. The earth on the ramp bore deep rut marks of the kind left by a heavy-laden wagon. The cellar was frequently used for something.
An impulse sent Brand to where the unconscious guard lay. The man showed no signs of recovering yet. Brand searched the man’s pockets and found what he was looking for.
A key.
When Brand tried it in the lock it worked. Brand eased open the doors and slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. He found himself in total darkness, and somewhere off in the distance he heard a sound that caused the hairs to stand up on the back of his neck.
Soft scratching sounds accompanied by shrill squeaking.
Rats!
He didn’t like the creatures. Knew few people who did. He would have rather faced a man with a loaded gun than a rat in a dark cellar.
Gradually his eyes adjusted to the gloom and he began to make out dark shapes. Now he could see a rectangle of light and realized it was a small barred window. He began to move deeper into the cellar. The air was stale. Dusty but holding a touch of dampness. It made him think of the swampland that lay beyond the St Clair estate.
At regular intervals thick stone pillars rose from the floor to the low ceiling. They seemed to be supporting the very structure of the mansion itself. Brand wondered how far under the house the cellar extended.
He spotted a dark shape against one crumbling, mildewed wall. A heavy waterproof canvas lay over the shape. Tucking the Colt behind his belt Brand dragged the canvas clear. Even in the dim light he was able to identify the long wooden boxes that were stacked under the canvas. He recalled the list McCord had itemized. They were all here. The cased Gatling guns. Rifles. The Colt revolvers. Boxes of ammunition. He recovered the boxes.
A feeling of unease crept over Brand. He had found part of what he was looking for. Maybe he had found it too easily. Brand always figured if things went too well early in the assignment there was a hard fall waiting somewhere ahead. Damn, he thought. Maybe he was getting soft. Came with being off the job for too long.
He barely picked up the whisper of sound behind him. It was close. Just to his right. Brand leaned forward and to the left, twisting as he moved. He caught a glimpse of a tawny face in the light of a flickering torch. Broad nostrils flaring in anger above a thick lipped mouth. Tight curled mid-brown hair over a strong skull.
A Mulatto.
There was no more time for observation. The Mulatto, naked to the waist, lunged at Brand, the torch he was carrying thrust at his face. Brand felt the sting of heat dry the sweat on his flesh. He pulled away from the fire, slamming against the crates at his back. He couldn’t move further. There was only one way to go — so he took it. He kicked out, the toe of his boot catching the Mulatto across one knee. The blow was hard, drawing a gasp of pain from the man’s lips. He paused in mid-stride, giving Brand the opportunity to push away from the stacked crates and carry his attack forward. He ducked under the lash of the blazing torch, slamming a hard fist into the Mulatto’s taut belly. It was like striking a sandbag. The man had muscles like ridged iron. Brand hit him again, a third time. This time the Mulatto retreated a few steps. Then a knee came out of nowhere and smashed into Brand’s hip, spinning him back. Numbness caused him to stumble, go down on his knees. Throwing a quick glance in the Mulatto’s direction he saw the grinning man coming at him again. Brand clawed for the Colt tucked in his belt.
It wasn’t there!
The blazing torch was pushed at him again. Brand tried to pull away from the curling tongues of flame. He only partially avoided it. The tip of the torch caught his left shoulder, burning through the thin material of his shirt, searing the flesh. Brand gasped against the sudden pain. In desperation he let himself sink to the floor, under the Mulatto’s reach, hands clawing at the cellar floor for a weapon. Anything. His fingers located a chunk of crumbling stone. A fist-sized lump of loose masonry. Brand closed his fingers around the stone, looked up to see the Mulatto bending towards him. The man was still grinning, triumph in his eyes reflected in the glow of the torch. He was about to jab the torch at Brand’s face. Brand thrust up off the floor, swinging the chunk of stone at the grinning face. It struck with a sodden thud. Something crunched and the Mulatto’s face was suddenly wet with blood. A yell of pained surprise bubbled from his mashed lips. He dropped the torch and clutched at his ruined face. Brand drove up off the floor, going for the man in a savage rush. He clubbed him across the side of the head with the s
tone, then dropped it and used his fists. His telling blows knocked the Mulatto off balance. The man stumbled drunkenly, falling against the stacked crates. He hung there for long seconds until Brand’s powerful blows drove him to the cellar floor.
Brand snatched up the torch. Casting around he located his dropped Colt. He knew he had to get out of the cellar before anyone else showed up. He was angry at the way things were going because he was breaking his cover with every step he was taking.
He turned back towards the door he’d entered by, and was in time to see it swing open. Dark figures rushed into the cellar. The door was blocked as his way of escape. Brand turned aside, moving deeper into the cellar.
A gun fired behind him. The shot was loud in the confines of the cellar. The bullet slammed into a stone pillar. Crumbling stone spewed in a dusty shower. More shots followed, seeking Brand as he kept on moving. He could feel their passing through the darkness around him. He reached another of the stone pillars and put it between himself and the gunmen. Bullets slammed into the stone with deadly force. Brand suddenly realized he was still carrying the blazing torch. Swearing at his own stupidity he threw the torch as far away from him as he could. It landed yards away, still burning, and casting a wavering light out of the darkness.
Brand listened. It had gone quiet. His pursuers were still back there, in the shadows. Waiting. They wanted him to show himself. To give them a target. Brand had no intention of doing that. There was no way he was going to let himself be shot down out of hand. If they wanted to play a waiting game he was willing. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it, and he had the patience of an Apache when it came to this kind of thing.
The time stretched. Long, silent minutes.
Then Brand heard a faint sound off to his right. He glanced in the direction of the noise, pinpointing the spot. At first there was nothing. Then he saw a vague shape moving just beyond the glow of the discarded torch. The shape realized itself into a man with a raised handgun. He was edging round to Brand’s side of the pillar.