by Neil Hunter
Chapter Seven
HALFWAY down the stairs Brand paused, turned abruptly and made his way back to his floor. He walked down the corridor, to the door that led to the fire-stairs at the rear of the hotel. He stepped outside and checked the area at the rear of the building. As he had already suspected the back lot was deserted.
Raven had already gone.
There was no lingering doubt in Brand’s mind. He knew who had killed Cody Ballard. Only Raven would have had the nerve to carry out an assassination on a street in the centre of a crowded town — and from the roof of the Maqueen House too.
Brand decided that Richard Debenham was as safe now as he ever could be. Raven would not attempt another killing so soon after the first. The hired killer would be on his way to a prearranged hideout, where he would stay out of sight until the fuss over Ballard’s murder had died down.
Reaching the bottom of the outside stairs Brand searched the ground along the rear of the hotel. It took him long minutes before he located the place where Raven had come down off the roof on a rope. There were faint scuff-marks on the wall, similar marks in the earth at the base of the wall. Brand followed the tracks away from the hotel, into the scrub and thickets. He didn’t expect the trail to lead him far. Raven was too smart to leave clear tracks going any distance. Within twenty-yards the tracks vanished. Brand cast around for a while, but he knew he was wasting time. Raven had made his kill and now he had gone to ground until it was time for the next.
Returning to the hotel Brand made his way back to his room. The town marshal was there waiting for him.
Closing the room door Brand went to the window. The street was still crowded with spectators, even though the body had been taken away. It was one of those curiously repellent traits of the human animal. The need to stand and stare at violent death and the aftermath. Brand could never understand what drew the onlookers. If they had been involved in as much violence and death as he had the fascination would have left them by now.
“You’d think they’d have enough to keep them busy with the living. What do they expect to see after a man’s had his head blown wide open?”
The marshal rolled the brim of his hat between his fingers; he looked nervous. Awkward being in the same room as Jason Brand. When he had spoken to Brand earlier, in the familiar surroundings of his own office, the feeling had not been so strong. Here in Brand’s room the marshal’s unease scared him a little. He had carried a badge for a good few years, but he didn’t consider himself anything more than an adequate lawman. He knew his limitations. And he hadn’t made himself a reputation with a fast gun, or by being hard. He had simply enforced the law as the books had laid it out. He had got by on doggedness and stolid determination. During his long years he had come to recognize the born gunmen. The natural killers. The men who walked with the shadow of violence at their heels. He treated those men for what they were, according them a respectful deference; it wasn’t always for the same reason; many of those who lived by the gun were individuals of extreme moods, touchy about their role in life; some were no better than animals on two legs, men who achieved personal satisfaction, be it sexual or mental, via the act of killing. They were all men to be treated with caution because that was the sanest way to treat them, and any man who went out of his way to antagonize them was either a fool or a man tired of living.
Jason Brand was a man who commanded respect. He was hard, yet he had no need to make his hardness apparent, because he wore it casually, avoiding drawing attention to himself. But it didn’t take a wise man to observe the latent violence there beneath the thin outer shell. The ever-present tension. The swift reaction to any given situation. An awareness of sound and sight that others might easily miss. Brand lived by his wits, by his skill in being able to outthink and outwit those who stood against him. It was not a way of life the marshal would have chosen — but then he wasn’t Jason Brand.
Brand turned from the window. He knew why the marshal was there in his room, and he had no desire to manufacture any more problems for himself by getting on the wrong side of the Miles City lawman.
“After I left your office I took a walk down to Apex. Had a look round. Ballard and his crew jumped me and we set to settling it. I had to kill a couple of his people to get clear.”
“So who killed Ballard?” the marshal asked directly.
“Brand faced the man. “Wasn’t me. Not my style. If I’d wanted to settle anything with Ballard I would have faced him on the street. You’re looking for a man called Raven.”
“The gun for hire Raven?” The marshal’s reaction was positive.
“The same.”
“What the hell is he doing in Miles City? I wouldn’t have thought killing Cody Ballard warranted bringing in a top gun like Raven.”
“To be honest, marshal, I’ve been wondering about that myself. Raven wasn’t hired to kill Ballard. He has a bigger target.”
The marshal cold eyed Brand. “I won’t say I understand what this is all about, Brand. All I know is I got the word down from Washington not to step on your toes. I’ll stay out of your way, but don’t expect me to like it. I figure I’m entitled to know what’s going on in my town.”
“Marshal, as soon as I’m able I’ll explain. I’ll be out of town in the morning. Got a couple of things to do before I go. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“All right, Brand, we’ll leave it for now.”
As he reached the door it burst open to admit the young desk clerk. He was red-faced and short of breath.
“Harvey, what’s your problem?” the marshal asked.
“You’re wanted, Marshal,” Harvey rattled. There’s one hell of a fire . . . real bad ...”
“Where?”
“Down at Apex. The whole place is alight. Both warehouses. Going up like they was soaked in oil.”
The marshal glanced at Brand as he hurried out of the room. Brand didn’t follow him. He’d seen burning buildings before. If the blaze had been started deliberately, which it most certainly had, then no one was going to be able to put it out.
Ballard dead — murdered. Now his place of business was being destroyed. Someone was making certain there were no places left for Brand to go and ask his questions.
He was curious as to who might be at the back of all the incidents. He pulled on his jacket and went downstairs. As he crossed the lobby he saw Sarah coming in from the street.
“What’s been going on this morning?” she asked. “I’ve just got back from the rail depot, and I learn a man has been shot to death and now two warehouses are in flames.”
“Just local problems,” Brand told her.
“Not when Cody Ballard and Apex are involved. Jason, Ballard’s Apex company did a lot of freighting for my father.”
“So I’ve found out. Doesn’t have to tie in with your father though.”
“I’m sure it does, Jason. I believe you know more than you’re willing to say.”
“All I know is that Ballard was involved somewhere along the line. I haven’t figured out the why yet.”
“Did you speak to Ballard before he was shot?”
Brand nodded. “You might say we had an exchange of views.”
Sarah glared at him. “I’m sure you’re not telling me everything. Damn you, Jason!”
“Damning me? Sarah, you’re too late. That was done a long time ago.”
He left her fuming and stepped outside. Downtown he could see the dense cloud of smoke rising from the Apex site. He watched the smoke with a feeling of regret. Anything the contents of the Apex warehouses might have told him was gone now. All the loose ends were being tidied up. Brand walked along the crowded street. It was time he checked on Debenham.
He reached the Civic Centre and went inside, his boots making sharp sounds on the polished wood floor. He made his way to the conference room that housed the cattlemens’ meeting. The double doors were closed and Brand could hear the murmur of voices from inside. Brand eased the handle and cracked the door
enough so he could view the interior.
The members of the Montana Stock-growers Association were seated around a huge oak table, the top of which was littered with papers and unrolled maps and charts. The air over the table was thick with cigar and pipe smoke, and to Brand’s ears it seemed as if every man in the room was trying to air his own particular viewpoint at the same time.
It didn’t take Brand long to spot Richard Debenham. The Britisher seemed to be the only one not doing any talking. He sat back in his seat, a faint smile on his handsome face as the rest of the cattlemen harangued and heckled each other over incidental points. Next to Debenham sat Granville Stuart. He suddenly thrust to his feet, gesturing for calm, and the actions got him precisely nothing. For once it looked as if he was no going to get the final word.
Satisfied that Debenham was in no danger for the time being Brand left the building.
He decided to return to the hotel and pack his gear for morning. Debenham wanted to make an early start. The hotel lobby was deserted, most people still watching the Apex fire. Brand made his way upstairs to his room and went in.
As he stepped through the door he caught a glimpse of a dark shape rushing at him. He tried to avoid it. He was a fraction too slow. Something hard clouted him across the side of his head and blood streamed down his face, soaking into the collar of his shirt. Stumbling into the room, clawing for his holstered gun, Brand felt a hand snatch at his hair. His head was yanked up and a fist drove into his face. Brand rocked under the blow, tasting blood.
He heard the rush of sudden movement on his left, twisting in that direction. He made out the shape of a man’s body and lashed out with both fists. Somewhere he made contact, heard the man gasp in pain.
“For god’s sake hold the sonofabitch!” a man yelled.
On the final syllable a smashing blow sledged across the back of Brand’s neck. He flopped forward on his knees, aware of his senses blurring. He tried to stand up before blackness engulfed him. Pain flared in his side and he knew he’d been kicked. The force drove him to the floor.
“Now! Now! Hit the bastard, Jake!”
Brand sensed a further blow coming but he wasn’t certain from which direction. Again he tried to stand up, trying to avoid more punishment. This time the blow was shattering. In the split second before he blacked out it felt like his skull had exploded. A blinding flash of brilliant light burned behind his eyes — and then everything left him.
Chapter Eight
BRAND came out of the darkness to find he was tied hand and foot, on the back of a moving horse. As his senses cleared he was able to take notice of his surroundings.
Rugged brush-choked hills lay on all sides. At a guess Brand judged he was well to the north of Miles City. He glanced skywards. Late afternoon. Which meant he had been unconscious for a few hours.
He turned his head and stared at the rider on his right. It was the man named Ryker. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped around Ryker’s left arm. The big man grinned coldly when he saw Brand was looking his way.
“Had me worried for a while,” Ryker said. “Got to figuring maybe Jake had gone and hit you too hard.”
Someone laughed off to Brand’s left.
He followed the sound and recognized one of the men he had fought with back at the Apex warehouse. He didn’t pay too much attention to the man called Jake. Brand’s interest was taken up by the rider tied to the saddle of a fourth horse.
It was Sarah.
Her eyes held his stare for a moment, then slid away. Brand saw a dark bruise on her face. A streak of blood smeared around her soft lips.
“Ryker, what’s she doing here?”
“You know how it gets up here come nights,” Ryker said. “Mind that ain’t the only reason she’s along.”
“What is?”
“Shit, Brand, don’t pretend you ain’t figured it out. It’s her pappy we want. He’ll come runnin’ when he finds her gone.”
“Jason, I don’t understand any of this,” Sarah said.
“Maybe Mister Ryker will oblige,” Brand said, challenging Ryker with a hard stare. The big man simply grinned and turned away.
Brand tried to work out their position. As luck would have it this was an area he knew only sketchily. It was wild, rolling country. A vast tract of land that ran from timbered hills to open plain. In between lay miles of twisted ravines, dense thickets and steep-sided gorges. It was good country to hide in. Just as handy for losing things. Especially people! Brand wondered about their destination.
It was beginning to look as if he might find out who was behind all that had happened since he’d arrived in Miles City. He was doing it the hard way, but it was why he was here. And sometimes the hard way was the only option open. Brand found he was thinking about Richard Debenham — and of a man called Raven. The hired killer would have the field to himself now. Debenham was going to have to fend for himself. Brand wished now that he’d told the Britisher about Raven. At least the man would have been prepared. His concern didn’t last. There wasn’t a damn thing he could for Debenham right now, so he concentrated on his and Sarah’s position.
His priority was getting them out of the mess they were in. He was angry at allowing himself to be taken so easily. Regret wouldn’t get him free, he decided, and at least they were both still alive. Somewhere along the line, when they outlived their usefulness, both he and Sarah would become superfluous. Before that time came Brand had to get them both away. He was going to have to wait for his moment, and when it came he would have to grab it with both hands. Until then he was along for the ride. Any time he had left he would use to build up his strength. The pounding he’d taken had left him weak. By the state of his shirt and jacket he’d lost some blood. Both Ryker and Jake had paid him back in full. But they hadn’t killed him — which meant they’d had orders not to — otherwise he would be a dead man already.
They rode on, moving higher all the time. There was no definite trail to follow, but Ryker plainly knew where he was going. Brand noticed the sun starting to drift towards the distant horizon. Time was slipping away quickly. He guessed it would be dark in another hour. Darkness might offer him a chance for escape. He tested the ropes around his wrists. They were tight. He was going to need time to loosen them.
A while later they rode into a narrow canyon. High, sheer walls rose on either side. The canyon floor was littered with rocks and tangled thickets. Ryker moved into the lead. From the sure way he negotiated the debris it was obvious he’d been here before. They rode the canyon trail for over a half hour, and by the time they reached the far end long black shadows struck the ground at their passing.
The canyon opened out on the upper slope of a curving hill. Below them lay a collection of derelict buildings. As they put their horses on the down slope Brand noticed a number of shored-up holes. There was a rusted conveyor-belt, grass sprouting around the iron structure. The place had been a mine a long time back.
Ryker led them along the rutted trail that led up to the abandoned buildings. Despite the deepening gloom Brand saw that wagon-tracks marking the ground were fresh. Some of the buildings showed signs of recent repairs. When they passed a large storage shed Brand saw a padlock holding the doors secure. The padlock was new.
They drew rein in front of a long, porch-fronted building that would have been the former mine’s administration centre. The pale gleam of lamplight showed through dusty windows. Curls of smoke rose from the chimney.
“Down,” Ryker said. His tone was brisk. He held his revolver in one big, scarred hand, the barrel tipped down at the ground, but there was no mistaking his violent mood.
Brand slid clumsily out of the saddle, leaning against the horse while he gained his balance. He still felt weak. Ryker didn’t allow him any breathing space, he reached out and grabbed the front of Brand’s shirt, pulling him away from the horse. He pushed Brand towards the steps leading up to the building’s porch. Brand stumbled, struggling to stay on his feet. He lost the battle and pitched face
down on the ground. He lay spitting dust and silently fuming. He fought back the anger. He was in no position to hit back. He rolled on his side and fought himself into a sitting position. It didn’t help his mood to hear Ryker’s laughter behind him.
“Come on, tough hombre, on your damn feet!” Ryker yelled. He lunged forward, heavy boots kicking up grey dust. He caught hold of Brand’s jacket and hauled him upright, spinning him round. “Aw, look, Jake, he went and got the suit all dusty,” he said with a grin. Then his mouth went tight, the flesh around his lips turning white. Without warning he punched Brand across the side of the jaw.
Brand staggered back. His boot heel caught against the porch step and he sprawled across them. Blood was trickling down his chin and more filled his mouth from a gash in his lip.
“He still ain’t too steady,” Jake said. He stood watching Brand, his left hand gripping Sarah’s arm.
Ryker didn’t speak. He was watching as Brand climbed awkwardly to his feet. He had seen the look in Brand’s eyes, and he knew that if Brand could get to him he would have a fight on his hands.
Before anything could be taken further a door opened and a man stepped onto the porch. He was dark and squat. His shoulders were wide, his arms thick, but his torso and legs were short. The solid head was large and hairless, his mobile eyes small and bright. He strode to the edge of the porch and scanned the tight group with interest.
“You have them both?” he asked. His voice was deep, his words tinged with a Latin inflection.
“Damn right, Mister Calvado.”
“Senor Calvado!” the man advised. He spoke like man used to dealing with those he considered inferior.
Ryker, prodding Brand up the steps, appeared to have overlooked the rebuke. But as he ushered Brand across the porch he muttered softly: “Up your ass, Calvado!”
What had been the mine company’s main office was now living quarters. There were a number of low cots against one wall. A table held food and drink. An open valise of clothing rested on a chair.
The man named Calvado stood in the centre of the room as Brand and Sarah were brought in. Brand didn’t fail to notice the anticipatory gleam that filled Calvado’s eyes when he saw Sarah. His gaze lingered on the torn front of her dress. Pale lamplight gleamed on the exposed upper curve of one breast.