Brand of the Hunted

by John Glasby

  Neil’s eyes searched along the apparently deserted street for any sign of life. There were some. Men who sat on the boardwalks, in the shade of the single-storey buildings, their legs up on the wooden staging on the edge of the street, their hats pulled well down over their eyes. A handful of horses stood lazily in front of one of the saloons, tethered to the hitching post, their heads dropping in the sullen, oppressive heat.

  Slowly the two men rode along the main street, eyes alert. It was not so much the look as the actual feel of possible danger that sent little warning currents surging through Neil’s body. There was no doubt that they were exciting some curiosity from the people there. It was quite usual for folks to stare at him and he did not find it in the least disconcerting, but now he guessed that most of them were staring at the giant of a man who rode beside him, the hair and jutting beard making him look even more huge than he really was.

  The wide brim of Neil’s border hat extended well from the crown on all sides, keeping the heat off his face and the glare of sunlight out of his eyes. He sat the sorrel quite relaxed, but although he scarcely seemed to move his head, it might have been noticed that his eyes were never still, that they flickered continually from side to side, taking in everything, missing nothing.

  There was only one two-storey building in the whole town, the hotel which stood halfway along the street, a wide gallery around three sides of it. A tall man stood on the gallery, his legs spread wide as if bracing himself against some sudden lurch of the building which might pitch him down into the street below. He gave the two men a swiftly appraising glance, then turned sharply on his heel and vanished from sight. Probably, thought Neil tightly, going to warn someone of their arrival in town. There was bound to be someone anxious to know when they got there. Here, in Twin Creeks, it was possible that he would be recognised and he did not doubt that his name and reputation were well known to most of the people here.

  He gigged his mount again, then motioned towards the nearby saloon. Jackson nodded, licked his lips, turned his mount, reined in, in front of the hitching rail. He slid easily from the saddle, then fell in with Neil as they went inside, away from the heat.

  The saloon was almost deserted. A couple of men were seated at one of the tables near the windows. Four more were playing cards at the far end of the room, but that was all. Neil made his way towards the bar, eyed the bartender through narrowed eyes. He did not recognise the man, doubted if the other knew his identity, but the same might not go for any of the men at the tables.

  ‘Whisky for both of us,’ he said. ‘Leave the bottle. It’s thirsty work riding out there.’

  The bartender brought the bottle up from beneath the bar, set it in front of Neil, then placed the couple of glasses beside it. His eyes were narrowed a little and he seemed plainly puzzled. ‘You been riding the trail long?’ he inquired.

  ‘Long enough to work up a thirst,’ Neil told him casually. He threw the whisky back. It burned his throat a little but washed some of the dry dust out of his mouth and sent a wave of warmth through his stomach. ‘Where could we eat in this town?’

  ‘If you ain’t too particular about the food, I reckon I could fry you up something. Potatoes and beans and some bacon.’

  ‘That’ll go down fine,’ said Jackson. He poured himself another drink and held the glass in his hands for a long moment staring down at the amber liquid in it. None of the men in the saloon had stirred since their entry, and Neil guessed that they had not recognised him, were not concerned with a couple of strangers who came riding into town.

  ‘There’s a room through the back if you’d care to go inside,’ said the man behind the bar. ‘I’ll have the meal ready for you in ten minutes.’

  They moved into the other room. There was a plate at one of the tables with a slice of steak on it, cut through in the middle, with a cup of coffee, half-finished, beside it, steam still rising from it. Neil eyed it sharply, but gave no sign to the bartender that he had noticed. Not until the other had pulled the heavy curtains back over the opening did he catch a tight hold of Jackson’s wrist, motion him to silence, saying in a hoarse whisper:

  ‘There’s something wrong here. Somebody was inside this room a couple of minutes ago, must’ve seen us come in. He’s slipped out now, whoever he was, maybe to warn the sheriff.’

  ‘More of Sherman’s work? You said that he ran this town — and the law here.’

  ‘Could be. Maybe they figure that with us out of the way, the train won’t be able to go on. Maybe they reckon it might turn back, or even stay here.’

  He swung his eyes to the curtains over the entrance. A load of buckshot through there and it would mean the end of Jackson and himself. Swiftly he cast his eyes about for another way out, knew that there had to be one, because the man who had been in there a couple of minutes before had clearly slipped out without them seeing him. Then his gaze lit on the door at the far end of the room, a door almost completely hidden by the wooden cases that had been carefully piled in front of it. Very cleverly done, he thought, some of the anger beginning to rise in his stomach. His hands tightened savagely as he pushed back his chair and rose swiftly to his feet.

  This play had been deliberately engineered by either Sherman or the sheriff here in Twin Creeks. By now they would be heading for the saloon. There would be some charge trumped up against Jackson and himself, and before they knew what had happened, they would find themselves locked up in the jail here. Then they would either be lynched by the mob, deliberately stirred up by Sherman, or shot in the back trying to make a break. Any chance they had of getting back to the waiting wagon train would be gone. He pressed his lips together into a hard, tight line across the middle of his features.

  Outside, beyond the curtain that blocked off all sight of what was happening inside the saloon itself, he heard someone talking in a low voice. Then there were other voices, the sound of men moving into the saloon. Turning, he gave Jackson a quick glance full of meaning, saw the other reach down to check the guns in his holsters, then give a quick nod to indicate that he understood perfectly what was in Neil’s mind. A second later Neil reached out and jerked the heavy curtain aside, stepping forward into the saloon.

  There was a small knot of men just inside the door. He recognised Sherman, a curious expression on his face. Behind him was a short, stout man with a hard face and the star of a sheriff pinned to his shirt. Sherman was in the act of speaking to the sheriff when Neil moved into the room, eyes taking in every detail of the saloon, from the man in the white apron standing tensely at the back of the bar, to the two groups of men still seated at the tables. Even as his gaze flicked over them, they pushed back their chairs and moved away into the far corner of the room. Evidently these men were not part of the deal, wanted nothing of the gunfight which they sensed was in the offing, getting out of the line of fire.

  ‘Looks to me as though you’re trying to find somebody, Sherman,’ said Neil, in a steady, even tone.

  For a moment he saw that he had taken the rancher off his guard, that the other was a little unsure of himself, saw the flicker of uncertainty at the back of his eyes. Then Sherman nodded sharply, back on balance once more, dangerous, tricky. He said thinly: ‘That’s right, Roberts, I warned you back on the trail that you and the wagons you were leading were trespassing on my land. The sheriff here is to see that the law is carried out.’

  ‘The law?’ There was a note of deliberate sarcasm in Neil’s tone now and he moved forward a couple of steps away from the heavy curtain, aware of the huge figure of Jackson at his back.

  ‘That’s right.’ The portly figure of the sheriff stepped forward, a little hesitantly. He eyed Neil a trifle nervously. ‘You ain’t allowed to go driving a wagon train across that land. You were warned by Mister Sherman, yet it seems you went ahead in spite of that. The law says that the wagons, and all goods that they contain, may be confiscated and taken over by the person who had been wronged. In this case, I reckon that’s Mister Sherman. In addition,
it says that you and the leader of that train can be arrested and charged with — ’

  ‘Save your breath, Sheriff,’ snapped Neil harshly. ‘I ain’t ever heard of those laws and neither has anybody else. The Government has given settlers the right of access to the trails that lead to California, and there ain’t nobody who can dispute that. If anybody else says different, then I reckon he’s just been bribed by Sherman here.’

  ‘Now see here,’ began the other harshly. There was a filming of sweat on his flabby features now and Neil could see him glancing towards Sherman as though seeking advice, waiting for the other to back up what he said. ‘I’m the elected sheriff in Twin Creeks. If you try to resist arrest, then I’ll have to take you in the hard way. Are you coming peaceable, or not?’

  Neil shook his head very slowly. ‘You ain’t got no right to arrest us, Sheriff, and you know it.’ His smile was thin and deliberately menacing, and it never touched his eyes.

  Sherman said harshly: ‘You’re only making things worse for yourselves, you know. There are plenty of us to take you in, more men out in the street. Why not see sense and realise when you’re licked?’ In spite of his words, there was a look of angry defiance in his eyes.

  Neil thinned his lips. His fingers were spread wide stiff, like the branches of a tree, hovering only a little way above the twin guns in his belt. He knew that the eyes of every man in the room were on him at that moment, wondering what he intended to do. He knew that the sheriff wasn’t too happy about the thought of trying to take him in, even with those men backing him up.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bartender edging sideways a little, trying to make the movement as slow and as unobtrusive as he could. He could guess at the reason for the other’s actions and he knew that the showdown would come within a minute or two. There would be a shotgun somewhere behind that counter and that once the bartender had his hands on it, he would use it. But first, the other would wait to see what move Sherman intended to make. The blast of a shotgun could make a terrible mess in that confined space and the other would not want to use it unless as a last resort.

  Neil grinned at the Sheriff’s discomfiture. ‘Seems like that man of yours at the back of the bar is tired of livin’. Reckon you ought to warn him that he’ll be dead before he can lift that gun out.’

  This was more or less what Neil had expected, and yet he knew that Sherman was still hesitating. Maybe the other had figured that if he brought along enough men there would be little chance of the two men making a fight of it. That could be the reason he had come himself, to see that nothing went wrong. Perhaps he was even now beginning to regret that decision. He would know of Neil’s reputation and would have realised that if lead did start to fly there, he was right in the middle of it — and such a thought, such personal danger, would not be to his liking. He preferred to send his own hired killers out to do the dirty work for him, to risk their lives, but never his own.

  ‘Thinking about it, Sherman?’ put in Neil softly. ‘I reckon that you’d better make up your mind pretty quick if you’re going to back up your words or stand on one side and let us pass. Because I’m going to count up to five and at the end of that time either shuck your gunbelts or go for your guns. The choice is up to you.’

  The rancher glared at him truculently but did not reply right away. Neil saw him run his tongue around his dry lips, then flicker his gaze towards the man standing behind the bar, his hands still in sight on top of the polished bar where Neil could see them. Neil put a hard stare at Sherman, then let his glance slide to the sheriff. The other pulled out a red handkerchief and mopped at his streaming brows. Almost as if it had been a signal, Sherman leapt back, throwing his body to one side, his hands streaking for the guns at his belt.

  It was a good draw, a fast draw, but it could not match that of the man who faced him. Even as Sherman threw himself to one side, striking the floor and rolling a little way towards the door, the bullet struck him high in the shoulder, and he uttered a shrill yell of pain, the gun dropping from his nerveless fingers. The other men went for their guns, clawing for them, reacting just as Neil had expected. The initial action had startled these men. For an instant they were motionless. Neil shot now without hesitation. He knew who these men were, knew that they were low-born killers, men like those who had deliberately sent that herd stampeding on to a defenceless wagon train, killing Tom Vance and making a widow of his wife. Two of the men were driven back as the bullets slammed into their chests, their faces relaxing into expressions of frozen amazement, their bodies knocking against those of the men standing behind, sending them off balance, spoiling their aim. A bullet hummed very close to Neil’s head, smashed the mirror at the back of the bar into a thousand gleaming fragments.

  He caught a glimpse of the bartender leaning to one side, reaching for the shotgun, determined to join in the fray. Then the other suddenly stiffened, seemed to jerk up on to his toes as if reaching instead for the ceiling over his head. His body slumped forward as Jackson spun and drilled him neatly through the head, sending him jerking over the bar, where he lay sprawled with his arms dangling limply in front of him.

  Quite clearly Sherman had expected his men to gun down the two men who faced him. Only this was one time when it wasn’t going to work. The guns that spoke and roared in that saloon were handled by one of the fastest men in the west, and Jackson was not too far behind when it came to handling his long-barrelled weapons.

  The blood began to pound through his ears and along his veins as he thumbed back on the twin hammers, sending bullet after bullet crashing into the men in front of him. They flopped to the floor of the saloon. One man tried to crawl away, still reaching for the gun which had been knocked spinning from his fingers. Without any mercy in his mind at all, Neil shot him down. Now there were only two men left on their feet facing Neil and Jackson. One man stumbled forward, clutching at his stomach as Jackson fired. The other suddenly let go his guns, stepped back a couple of paces and lifted his hands over his head. His face lost colour, became like putty and his eyes took on a startled look of fear.

  Neil said easily: ‘Just stay right there, nice and easy, mister.’

  He saw the man’s adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed thickly, still keeping his hands lifted. On the floor, Sherman pushed himself on to his knees. Blood flowed from the wound in his shoulder, staining the perfect whiteness of his silk shirt. He pressed his fingers tightly over it, but the redness continued to dribble between them and he gritted his teeth with the sudden pain of it, lips pressed tightly together, eyes narrowed to mere slits, as he glared at Neil, then turned his eyes slowly to look at the men who lay beside him.

  The fear in his eyes faded slowly, to be replaced by a look of anger, a crafty look that Neil noticed at once. Then there was hatred there, a vitriolic hatred which Neil could not recall having seen in any man’s eyes before.

  ‘Reckon you overplayed your hand,’ he said softly. ‘Seems like you might be needin’ a new sheriff around here, too. The last one made the mistake of trying to draw when the odds were stacked against him.’ Neil went forward and poked at the short, fat figure on the floor with the toe of his boot. But the sheriff did not move and there was a vacant look in the eyes that stared up at the ceiling, a dead and empty look.

  He could see Sherman’s thoughts through the rapidly changing expression on the rancher’s features. Incredulous disbelief, then the raw and naked fury again as he realised that his men had been killed, shot down by two men who were past craftsmen with a gun. His face was white. Through tight lips, he said harshly and with a savage emphasis: ‘I told you when we met the last time that I’d kill you, Roberts. I still mean that.’ The words were flat, emotionless things in contrast to the anger written on his chalk-white face. He was still trembling with rage. ‘I’ll hunt down that wagon train with every man I can lay my hands on, I’ll burn it to ashes and destroy every man, woman and child who rides with it. I don’t care whether it happens tomorrow or whether I
have to follow you all the way to California. I’ll finish you, Roberts, and everybody with you.’

  ‘Better get on your feet and move outa here before I lose my patience and plug you,’ said Neil with a faint snarl. ‘I ain’t forgotten what happened when that herd was stampeded against the wagons. I’ll never forget that. And I want you to remember this. The next time I see you, whether you’ve got a gun or not, whether you’re wounded or not, I’ll shoot you down like the polecat you are.’

  Slowly, painfully, the other pushed himself to his feet. He moved over the sprawled bodies on the floor, passed the man who stood with his hands raised in the air, said harshly: ‘Stop looking like a goddamned fool, Henson. If he meant to shoot you down he’d have done it before now.’

  Reluctantly, keeping his gaze fixed on the gun in Neil’s hand, the other lowered his arms, then turned and followed the rancher out of the saloon. The batwing doors swung shut behind them. Neil walked to the door, stared out into the hot, dusty street that ran the full length of the township of Twin Creeks. There was that odd tightness back in his mind now as he dropped the gun back into its pouch. There would be no more warnings on either side. The lines were drawn as far as Sherman and the wagon train were concerned, and the fight was in deadly earnest now. But that was the way it had to be and, inwardly, he knew that it was the way he preferred to have it. Now he knew where he stood, knew that once Jackson got back and told the others what had happened, he would have every man in the train behind him, ready to fight if they had to, because now they would know exactly what they were up against. The chips were down and this was the only way they could ever hope to win.

  Sherman walked slowly across the street, the other gunman close on his heels. In front of the glass-panelled door of the sheriff’s office directly opposite the saloon they paused, held conversation for several minutes, sometimes pausing to glance back in the direction of the saloon. They were too far away for Neil to be able to pick out any of their conversation, but he guessed that they would soon ride out of town and pick up any other gunslammers that Sherman had on his ranch. Then they would come a-riding after the train. With the humiliation of having been shown up in front of people from the town, and thirsting for revenge, the other would not wait long before making his play.