by Neil Hunter
As soon as he finished eating Brand decided to turn in. He accepted that Nante had been right. He did need more rest. But he also knew that he would not settle completely until he had settled with Lobo. He had a long, hard ride ahead of him. Through some rough country. But it was something he had to do.
“Nante, where is the woman?” he asked.
The Apache led him some way off. Elizabeth and Preacher Jude had been laid in a shallow depression and covered with rocks. Brand stared at the place for a time. He felt empty when he thought of Elizabeth. Her desire to help her half brother had cost her more than anyone should have needed to pay. Her offer of friendship had demanded a terrible price. Brand tried to recall her face. Her youthful beauty. But all he could remember was her final terrified scream.
“What did he do to her?” he asked.
Nante touched a brown finger to his stomach. He made a swift cutting motion, his finger moving up his chest. Then he repeated the gesture across his throat.
Brand’s stomach knotted. Violent death was never pretty. It was brutal and sickening. He was well aware what could be done to the human body by an expertly wielded knife. He’d seen it happen and it was an ugly, mean way to die. To imagine Elizabeth dying in such a manner was akin to having a nightmare while awake. He was unable to resist the image of her beautiful body, lying naked beside him. Her soft flesh pale and warm. And then he saw the image change and those gentle curves were splashed with bright blood, the flesh ripped and violated. Life itself draining out of the ugly wounds.
He turned away from the grave and returned to the campsite. Nante followed, sensing Brand’s despair.
“Ask and I will send warriors with you.”
Brand shook his head. “No. He’s mine, Nante. When I find him it’ll be for everyone he’s killed. White and Apache. But most of all it’ll be for me.
He lay under his blanket. His body was ready for more rest. He didn’t fight it. This time he wanted sleep to take him. If he hadn’t he would have lain awake all night, seeing Elizabeth, hearing that damned scream, and knowing he’d been unable to help her when she needed him most — and that was the worst thing of all to have to accept!
Chapter Fifteen
A chill wind slanted in from the north. The early dawn was grey, the sky heavy with cloud. The wind snatched at the flames of the fire with greedy fingers, whipping the smoke away in ragged scraps.
Brand finished strapping on his saddle and gear. He had helped himself to what food he could find in the store Lobo had been forced to abandon and filled his canteen from the nearby pool. He had also taken the opportunity to replenish his ammunition supply. The remainder of the supplies, weapons and ammunition had been loaded onto the spare horse by Nante’s warriors.
“This is for the times he has taken from The People,” Nante said. He gestured at his warriors and they rode off across the basin.
“When you find him, Brand, kill him well,’ Nante said.
“I aim to.” Brand swung up into his own saddle. He was unable to stop himself from looking across at Elizabeth’s grave.
“Only the living matter,” Nante said, “The dead are no more than shadows that vanish with the dawn.”
The old man was right. Brand had enough to occupy himself with. There was no point filling his mind with thoughts of Elizabeth’s death. Once he got close to Lobo he would need to think clearly, his mind free of obscure images.
With Nante alongside Brand rode across the basin. He led out along the narrow passage until they emerged on the empty plateau. The three Apaches were already halfway down the long slope. Brand urged his horse over the crest and felt its muscles bunch as it took the strain. Dust floated up behind Brand and Nante, caught by the breeze and whipped away. Loose stones rattled dryly under the hooves of the passing horses. At the bottom of the slope he turned his horse along the defile. Finally they reached the spread of the valley.
By this time full light was on them. The grayness had vanished and the wind was dropping. The heat of the day began to make itself known to them.
The night’s rest had done Brand some good. He found he could easily bear the headache that still lingered. Food in his stomach had quelled the earlier sickness. Though his body was stiff and awkward in the saddle he persevered.
The valley fell behind them and they came out on the high slope of the mountain. It was here that they parted company.
“I will listen for how it goes with you, Brand,” Nante said.
Brand nodded. He wondered if he would ever see the old warrior again. The time of the Apache was short. They would fight until the last possible moment, and though it would be a hard thing to do Brand was sure that the great leaders of the tribes would make their peace. When they did a long and proud reign would end, and a unique race of fighting men would be disarmed and put out to grass.
“Watch out for Army patrols near the border,” Brand said. “Make new trails for your people, Nante.”
He turned his horse west and pushed on. The young Apache named Che had found Lobo’s trail earlier and though it was faint, Brand was able to follow it. The renegade had a good lead, but he was wounded and he had quit his hideout without supplies. There were a few small outfits along the banks of the Rio Grande, and it was possible that Lobo might choose one of these isolated places to raid. He would be looking for food and ammunition, maybe even medical supplies.
He rode steadily, resisting the urge to push his horse. He had a long way to go so there was no point tiring the animal too soon. The high peaks slipped away behind him as he rode down out of the high country, through the tree line. He kept moving after dark and it was close to midnight when he made camp. He saw to his horse after tethering it close to the edge of a shallow, cold stream with thin grass sprouting along its edge. Building a small fire he heated water for coffee then warmed some beans and ate them with some beef jerky. He drank three mugs of hot, black coffee before turning in. He slept until dawn was already lighting the sky.
Around midmorning he found himself on a ridge looking down at the ribbon of water known as the Rio Grande. Nante’s thoughts were proving correct. The tracks Brand had been following west were now starting to ease to the south. Once beyond the river those tracks would curve harder south, heading for the foothills of the Hatchet Range. Brand rode down off the ridge and pushed on towards the river, his way taking him across the Mesilla Valley. He made the river crossing as darkness fell and camped on the west bank of the Grande.
He was saddled and riding again before dawn. As the day brightened around him he found he could make out the hazy peaks of the Hatchets far ahead.
Lobo’s tracks turned sharp south. The renegade was staying close to the river. Brand wondered why. He figured there might be a couple of reasons. The first seemed obvious — water — but Lobo knew the land well enough not to have to depend on the river for his supply. The second reason made more sense. Lobodid need food and ammunition. So he would be looking for some lonely outfit. A place where he could tend his wound and pick up the supplies he needed.
Brand came on the place just before noon. It was a small spread. A low adobe house and a small corral. A shallow feeder stream ran by the house, emptying into the Grande less than a half mile away. A hot breeze was keening across the dry., sun baked landscape as Brand rode in and surveyed the ugly scene of desolation spread out before him. This tiny place, with its stark house had been the beginning of a family’s dream — now it had become their nightmare.
A man’s body lay half submerged in the creek. He lay on his back, sightless eyes staring up into the sun. He had been shot three times in the chest. The wounds were big and ugly; the kind of wound caused by an expanding bullet; the kind Lobo used. Thick masses of black flies crawled in and around the wounds. Brand rode through the creek and on towards the house. He could see objects scattered on the yard. Smashed furniture and crockery. Torn clothing. Books ripped to shreds in a frenzy of needless violence. In the corral were two dead horses. The carcasses were bei
ng devoured by buzzards. The ugly birds were screeching at each other, greedy to the last despite their being ample meat for them all. Closer to the house Brand saw another body. Another man, younger than the one in the water. Brand dismounted and took his rifle as he walked to the house. Passing the body he saw that the man was naked to the waist, his torso slashed open from throat to stomach. Brand paused by the body and couldn’t help wondering if this was how Elizabeth had looked.
He halted at the open door to the house. The smell that reached him from the interior was heavy and sickly-sweet. It was a smell he knew only too well. There was only one room. It had been ransacked, torn apart. Worse though were the great splashes of blood that marked walls and floor. he found two more bodies — both women. They were almost naked, their clothing having been shredded from their bodies. One was around forty, the other no more than eighteen. Brand felt nausea rise up in his throat as he looked at them. They had been crudely butchered, their flesh hacked and slashed with cruel deliberation.
The sight brought dark memories flooding into Brand’s tired mind. The remembrance of someone else — another pretty girl who had died in such a way. Brand had been slowly erasing that particular image. The sight of his own wife, lying dead and silent, the victim of a brutal, vengeful man who had cut her to pieces. The killer had still been there when Brand had come home. And Brand, in a moment of madness, had fought with the man and put him under his own knife before he had died. It had been vengeance pure and simple, but it had not brought back Brand’s wife or eased his pain.
He went outside, leaning against the house wall as revulsion rose in his throat. He stayed where he was until the feeling passed. When he returned to his horse there was a sheen of cold sweat on his ashen face. He gathered the reins and climbed into the saddle. Leaning against the saddle horn he stared out across the land;, his gaze fixed on the distant mountains. Somewhere ahead of him was Lobo, maybe even knowing he was being followed. It was possible that what Brand had found here was a silent warning. A threat to make him aware of what he was letting himself in for. If it was, it had backfired, because it only made Brand more determined to stay on Lobo’s trail.
The tracks leading away from the spread were still clear. They were moving directly southwest. Lobo was making straight for the Hatchets. He had got what he wanted from the homestead. Now he would be going to ground, hoping to lose himself once he reached the mountain range.
Brand increased his pace now. He pushed his horse as fast as he dared. The terrain was dun colored, slightly undulating. A mix of desert and rock beds. It was desolate, burned out country. There were dusty, silent canyons, places that rarely echoed to the sound of a human voice. In the far distance, where the foothills of the Hatchet Range rose out of the flagrant, the dun coloring merged with the yellow, brown and pinks of the exposed rock strata. Higher up the slopes became hazy blue, soft against the coppery sky. There was little vegetation in evidence. Some cholla. A little ironwood and cat’s claw, with its hooked thorns and yellow blossoms. It was a primitive landscape, cruel by nature and as such it accepted violence as a natural extension of itself.
Brand rode without pause, through the crippling heat of the afternoon and into the night. The moon rose and bathed the land in a cold, ghostly light. Brand stopped once, in the early hours of the morning, to rest his horse while he chewed on a strip of jerky. He shared his water with his horse, making a mental note to watch out for a chance of refilling his canteen. Then he remounted, draping his blanket across his shoulders to keep out some of the chill that came along with the night wind. That same wind grew warm, then hot as daylight brightened the landscape around him. It burned his skin and threw sand in his face. He could hear it moaning softly as he rode by desolate canyons, where the soft, fine sand, drifting for endless years, had formed fantastic shapes against the crumbling cliffs.
The hours passed. Brand showed no outer signs of exhaustion. There would be time for sleep when his trail reached its end. Now he had too much on his mind. He was closing on the foothills, and this was the time when he could expect trouble to show itself. He held his rifle across his saddle now, his finger close to the trigger. Brand’s hat was pulled low across his face to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun.
He drew rein. For a long time he studied the tracks in the sand. They rose up a long, sun baked slope before him. He eased from the saddle. Taking the reins in his left hand he led his horse up the slope. Reaching the top he stood and scanned the landscape, searching the crumbling, broken slopes that rose in irregular steps. There was an unearthly silence to this terrain. It was evidence of a land with little growing on it. Virtually no plants. Utterly devoid of human presence. The land held its silence because it sustained no life.
Brand didn’t move on for a long time. Not until he was entirely satisfied. He carried on walking, grateful to be able to stretch his legs. He had been in the saddle for too long a time. He felt dirty and unshaven. His clothes were thick with caked dust and stale with sweat. It streaked his burned, battered face. The relentless sun hammered down on him. Even the ground underfoot was hot, the shifting sand burning through the soles of his boots.
Noon of another day. He knew he had to be close now. He had made good time travelling through the night. He squinted up at the rearing rock canyons and ravines that stretched before him. Somewhere within that maze of rock and sand was Lobo. Maybe the renegade had him in his sights even now. Brand doubted it. He knew that if Lobo got even half a chance at hitting Brand he’d take it.
He picked his way along a dried out watercourse strewn with tumbled rocks. The heat of the sun bounced off the hard ground and slapped back against him with a physical force. Brand pushed his way through a tangle of dead ironwood. As he pulled his horse clear a lizard darted out from beneath a rock. It ran in front of his horse, causing it to jerk back, eyes rolling. As Brand yanked down on the reins the animal gave a shrill whinny of protest.
And from somewhere up the slope ahead came an answering call from another horse. The sound touched Brand’s ears, and he reacted fast. Hauling in the slack reins he dragged his horse, still protesting, close in to the overhanging bank of the long dead river.
There was quick movement ahead. Stones rattled down the slope. The whiplash crack of a rifle shattered the silence with deafening clarity. The bullet slammed off the eroded stone edging the bank. It howled off into the sky, the clattering echo rippling outwards.
Brand levered a round into the Winchester’s breech. He looped the horse’s reins around an exposed root. Now’s the time, he thought. Lobo had made the first move. Instead of waiting he had taken a quick shot, wasting a bullet and exposing his position. Not that Brand cared. He wanted his man and he wasn’t going to worry over the way it had come about.
He eased away from where he had tethered the horse, moving yards from his original position. Only then did he show himself above the bank. It was so he could check the way ahead, trying to pinpoint Lobo’s exact position.
As Brand cleared the rim of the bank he saw movement on the rocky slope above him. He spotted a dark face, framed by long hair, the bright sun glinting on the brass cases of the bullets in the bandolier around Lobo’s neck. Without a pause Brand swung the Winchester to his shoulder. He caught the moving figure in his sights, held, led the figure for an instant. He touched the trigger, the rifle cracking loudly. Brand saw Lobo leap back, a splash of red appearing on his left shoulder. He knew he had made a good shot. Almost too late he saw the flash of sunlight on a rifle barrel as Lobo ranged in. The half-breed fired. The bullet struck rock inches away, driving stone chips into Brand’s face. He felt the sting as they gouged his flesh, felt the warm trickle of blood down his cheek. He pulled back from the bank, moving on, and when he looked out again Lobo had already changed his position. Brand caught a glimpse of his running figure heading for higher ground. He raised the rifle and snapped off hasty shots, seeing the bullets raise dirt around Lobo’s legs moments before the renegade rolled out of sight be
hind a crumbling shelf of rock.
Brand climbed over the rim of the bank and made for the slope. He wasn’t about to let Lobo vanish into the canyons ahead. There were too many good places where a man could hide and even lay an ambush. Brand wanted to keep Lobo out in the open as much as possible. Keep him on the move. Under pressure. He did not want to have to search for Lobo within the maze of vaulted, tortuous rocks.
He passed the spot where Lobo had stood. The renegade’s pony stood patiently waiting. Brand moved on up the slope, treading carefully as he crossed a loose patch of ground. In the moment he reached the top of the slope he caught a glimpse of movement off to the right. He dropped, hugging his rifle to him as he rolled across the rocky earth. He heard the crash of a rifle, felt the bullets whack the ground close by. There was a pause, followed by more shots. Brand felt a bullet burn across his back. He ignored the stinging sensation. Gathering his legs under him he pushed to his feet. As he moved he searched for Lobo.
He almost missed the half-breed when he did show.
Brand was level with a rising hump of smooth rock. He heard a faint whisper of sound. As his head came round he caught a glimpse of a taut, angry face, eyes wild with hate. Then a lunging figure flew through the air at him. Lobo smashed against Brand and they hit the ground locked together, twisting and turning, each seeking an advantage over the other. They came to rest against a squat boulder. For a moment they remained bound together, then Brand twisted free and rolled away. He pushed to his feet. Lobo was equally as swift. He arched up off the ground, snatching his knife free. Brand saw the gleaming blade and pushed back. He began to swing up the Winchester, but Lobo lunged forward and the tip of the knife blade sliced through Brand’s shirt and gouged the flesh beneath. He knew he wasn’t going to get the rifle in line for a shot as Lobo came in again, the pale blade cutting the air. Brand lashed out with the heavy rifle, the butt cracking down on Lobo’s knife hand. The knife spun from numbed fingers. Lobo kicked out, driving his foot into Brand’s ribs. The blow had enough force behind it to slam Brand back against a low rock. Lying there Brand saw Lobo almost on him. The renegade sledged a hard fist across the side of Brand’s neck, spilling him to the ground. Brand pulled his aching body away from Lobo’s slashing foot as the half-breed closed in. He had almost got clear when something solid halted further retreat. He had come to rest against a heavy boulder. As Brand drew his legs under him, starting to push erect, Lobo’s foot caught him across the mouth. The blow snapped his head back, blood bursting from split lips. The force of the blow slammed his head into the rock behind him, pain exploding in his skull. The agony was intense, like the pain he had felt back at Lobo’s hideout. Brand realized that if he didn’t get up now he never would. He arched his body away from the boulder, swinging the Winchester at Lobo’s legs. He felt the rifle connect with a solid impact. Lobo grunted. Brand struck again. Lobo fell back. On his feet Brand hauled the rifle round and as it leveled he snapped off a shot. The bullet hit Lobo in the left side, and this time it went in deep. Lobo roared in agony, turning away, seeking a way of escape.