Brand 3

by Neil Hunter

  Fighting back the pain in his skull Brand paused to lever another round into the Winchester’s breech. His fingers refused to work as fast as they might. He was still groggy from the blow to his head. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, Brand closed the lever. He raised his head, lifting the rifle.

  He was alone.

  Lobo had gone!

  Chapter Sixteen

  Lobo ran. He ran because he was hurt. Badly hurt and he needed somewhere to rest, time to look to his wounds. His shoulder, though painful, was the less serious. The second bullet fired by the man named Brand had lodged deep in his body, and though it had not touched a vital organ it had opened a wound that was bleeding steadily. His body burned with pain too. A searing, constant pain that raged inside. He could not fight while the pain lasted, so he had turned away, which was against his nature. Lobo might have been fanatical in his pursuit of vengeance, but he was not suicidal. There was no point in carrying on while he was at a disadvantage. That was foolishness. So he retreated, seeking a place to hide. So he could mend his damaged body and regain his strength.

  Things were going against him. The reversal had forced him to abandon his hideout in the San Andres and to come here to the Hatchet badlands. The discovery of his previous hideout had rendered it useless. He could never return to it. Lobo regretted that. But it was not essential. He could always find himself another retreat. Just as secret. That was for the future. First he had to recover from the wounds inflicted by the man name Brand. Lobo felt anger because he had failed to kill Brand. The man was more than a professional. He was a born killer. A natural hunter. A man close to Lobo in his way of life. Already they had come close to killing each other. Lobo knew his man now, so he was aware that for as long as he carried breath in his body Brand would keep coming after his quarry. It would not end until one of them was dead.

  He thrust forward through a thorny thicket, ignoring the pain of the barbs that clawed at his flesh. He had one object in mind. To get away from Brand. To find a good place to hide. He bitterly regretted having to abandon his pony. In his pack there was food and medicine from the spread he had raided. Disposing of the four people had been easy, especially the women. He had kept them alive until he had used them to satisfy his lust, and had killed them afterwards with casual ease. Now his supplies were far behind him, even his water. He would find more. He knew the country well. Had the locations of natural springs and water sources etched on his mind. He even knew where he could find food and vegetation he could use to make medicines. He had been forced into situations like this before. Having to exist off the land, pursued by his enemies. And he had survived every time. He would do it again, despite being hurt. Perhaps because he was hurt. At times like these he lived up to his name. Lobo. The wolf. At his best when he was cornered. Forced to fight to live.

  But first he would withdraw. The bullet he carried would bring him pain and the pain would make him weak. Before that happened he had to find his refuge. Somewhere that would provide protection. Lobo knew Brand was still behind him. Still searching. Despite his need for rest Lobo might yet have to face his adversary. If that happened Lobo would kill him. If he could avoid a fight now he would do so, resting and recovering. So the priority was a place to hide. If he collapsed out in the open Brand would find him and kill him. He knew enough about the man to accept that Brand would destroy him without hesitation. Brand would never forget that Lobo had killed the girl who called herself Elizabeth Henty. She had been a fool. Half-sister or not, she had been dead the moment she set foot in the San Andres. Lobo had learned long ago not to allow sentiment to affect his judgment. Emotions ruled many men’s’ hearts, and in times of danger a man who let himself be weakened by those emotions was half defeated before he went into conflict. Lobo had no ties. No loyalties to cloud his judgment. He depended upon no one but himself, and that way there could be no mistakes save his own. No risk to survival because of someone else. He existed for himself alone. Not for his dead Apache mother, or his dead white father; he had disowned both many years ago, hating them for the legacy they had bestowed on him. Half-breed! For that he could never forgive them. If circumstances had made it possible he would have killed them himself.

  In the shadow of a massive boulder he rested. His body pulsed with the pain of his wounds. The shoulder had stopped bleeding. But the wound in his side still wept. His constant running had only increased the flow. But he could not rest properly until he found some place to hide himself from the eyes of the world. He scanned the slopes and ridges around him, searching the shadowed places in the tangled brush. The man named Brand was somewhere close by. There was no doubt in the renegade’s mind. Brand would follow until one or both of them died. He was a worthy opponent. Lobo had learned a grudging respect for the man as an enemy. Brand was a survivor — and that was the secret. To survive whatever the cost, whatever the odds. To stay alive and carry on the fight. It was the code by which Lobo lived, and it had served him well all these years. It would serve him in the future.

  Lobo’s vigilance gained him nothing. There was no sound or sight of Brand. Yet Lobo knew as night followed day that Brand was out there. He would show himself when the time was right. And this time someone would die.

  When he was rested Lobo slipped away from his sheltering boulder and moved on. He found a narrow canyon that cut its dusty way into the rock. He ran to the entrance, his passing a mere whisper of sound. Hot sand sifted beneath his feet. Faint spirals of dust hung in the air after he had gone.

  It was even hotter in the canyon. The trapped air held the heat like a muffling blanket. Lobo felt it wrap around him. The sunlight bounced back off the rock, hurting his eyes. Under normal circumstances such things never bothered him, but in his weakened state his resistance had been reduced. He moved his dry lips, feeling the parched skin crack and bleed. He needed water. Pausing he gazed around the canyon. There would be water somewhere. It was simply a case of finding it. Not here in the main canyon, but in one of the smaller side-canyons. It was often in these isolated pockets that a man could find water, even grass and shade. There might even be food. The wildlife of the area would know of these secret water holes. A patient man might find all he needed in one of these places.

  It took him over two hours, but he finally located a likely side-canyon. It was narrow, full of twists and turns. Lobo followed it for more than a half-mile, and he was beginning to believe he had made a mistake. Then he saw patches of greenery and soon after a small spring bubbling out of a fissure. The water collected in a shallow pan, the overspill creating a narrow stream that meandered across the canyon floor. Lobo knelt at the spring to drink, taking care not to swallow too much. After drinking he splashed water over his face, opening his shirt to wet his body. The cool water felt good against his dry, sunburned flesh.

  Crouching by the spring he debated his next move. He had water. Now he needed a place to hide, close by yet well concealed. He searched the immediate area, locating a low cave that cut its way into the canyon wall. The entrance was narrow, low to the ground, with a lip just inside. The cave floor dropped away just beyond the lip. It provided protection that was easy to defend from inside. A mass of cat’s claw concealed part of the entrance. Lobo crawled inside to look round. It would do for his needs., he decided. He came outside again. From deep inside the cat’s claw, where the break would not be noticed, he snapped off a length of the bush. He retraced his steps back along the canyon, then returned once again to the cave, wiping away his tracks as he did so. He eased into the cave, having erased all his footprints, even those around the spring.

  Now all he could do was rest and wait. It was against his nature to allow weakness to rule his actions, but for once he had no choice. Now he was inactive he could feel the overwhelming nausea dulling his senses. The bullet inside him was still affecting him. He knew it had to come out soon, before it poisoned his whole body. He would do that himself, but first he needed to rest. Later he could build a fire and heat the blade of his knife
. . .

  Lobo let his body relax. He tried to detach himself from the pain, focusing his attention on the sun bright canyon. When Brand did come it would be along there. Lobo eased his Colt from its holster, drawing back the hammer. He laid the gun where he could easily reach it.

  Brand would have to come very close before he spotted the cave. At close range it would only take one shot — one well-placed bullet — and it would be all be over. Lobo smiled to himself. A cold and merciless smile.

  The wolf was not dead yet!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Brand lost the trail for a time. It made him angry because he was following a wounded man who had made attempt to cover his tracks. Here and there he found dark bloodstains. He wasn’t sure just how badly Lobo was hurt, but he had put two bullets in the half-breed and they had to count for something. On the other hand Lobo was not like ordinary men. He possessed a strength of will that would drag him to Hell and back before he even thought about quitting. Brand figured that Lobo would be looking for somewhere to hole up. A place where he could rest and regain some of the strength he had already lost. He had nothing with him in the way of supplies. His only weapons were his handgun and his knife. Lobo was in a desperate position. He would be feeling cornered. And like a wild animal he would put his back to the wall and fight.

  Tiring of casting about aimlessly Brand reined in and climbed down out of the saddle. His head still ached, the sun was scorching him and he was dry. He reached for his canteen and took a swallow of lukewarm water. Leading his horse he moved on. Still searching. Minutes later he spotted a faint footprint in the dust. Brand turned towards it. Ahead he picked out more tracks. They were still heading up into the mountains. Lobo was seeking the high ground, searching for some lofty, desolate place to hide.

  He came to the canyon an hour later. Something about the place told him this was where Lobo would go. When he reached the canyon mouth he saw that the tracks went in. Taking out his Colt Brand went into the canyon, feeling the reflected heat strike him. He walked the dusty, twisting canyon floor, studying Lobo’s tracks and trying to

  place himself in the half-breed’s mind. Imagining what Lobo was thinking.

  The answer came with startling clarity.

  Water!

  That would Lobo’s prime need.

  The renegade had nothing. He would need to find a place where there was water to drink and clean his wounds. And usually where there was water came other things. To provide food. There was also a need for somewhere for Lobo to hide.

  He spotted the side-canyon and the tracks leading into it. Securing his horse Brand stepped into the narrow canyon. He stood for a time., not wanting to move ahead until he had the feel of the place. It was well suited to Lobo’s needs. There were countless places for a man to hide. The sudden bends and twists put the odds in favor of anyone defending the place. Brand walked on, aware that an attack could come at any time.

  He was well into the canyon when the tracks he was following abruptly vanished. Brand realized he was getting close now. The only way those tracks could stop so completely was because they had been deliberately wiped away.

  Brand pressed in close to the side of the canyon., searching the way ahead. At first glance there didn’t appear to be anything different about this section. Just sand and rock. Motionless. Silent.

  He kept on going. The sand on the canyon floor was unmarked, save for a faint pattern of soft swirls breaking the surface. Brand had seen enough tracks wiped away with a length of leafy foliage to recognize the signs. He was in the right place. No doubt about it now.

  Sometime later his eye was caught by a small patch of green. Grass! Brand looked again and saw the sparkle of water bubbling out of the rock. A spring. That would be what Lobo would have been searching for. Brand eyed the canyon sides. They were far too steep to allow any climbing. So where was Lobo?

  Brand started to turn away, when he spotted a clump of cat’s claw growing against the base of the canyon wall. Something about it caught his attention. He felt certain he had seen a sliver of brightness behind the dusty foliage. It had been a brief nicker, over as fast as it had occurred, but there had been enough to catch his eye. He continued his turn, hoping he hadn’t made his observation noticeable. He wanted to see more, if there was something to see. Because under normal circumstances there shouldn’t have been anything to glitter in a desolate place like this. To Brand the flash of brightness brought to mind the brass cartridge cases filling the loops in Lobo’s bandolier.

  He walked on, the Colt at his side. His finger lay against the trigger, thumb resting lightly on the hammer. Brand allowed his gaze to wander, attempting to give the impression he was still looking. If he’d been correct he wanted to draw Lobo into making a move that might expose him.

  Nothing happened. Brand felt a trickle of sweat course down his back. It was possible he’d been wrong. But he had learned long ago to act on impulse. Going with his instincts. Right or wrong he made his choices — and lived with them.

  He kept moving. The mass of cat’s claw lay only yards ahead and to his left. Brand was in the open. He couldn’t have offered a better target.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught the same flicker of reflected light. It lasted no more than a second, vanished, then reappeared. This time it moved, seeming to push forward through the foliage.

  Brand threw himself to the right, hearing the blast of a gunshot. As he hit the ground, turning his body, he felt the closeness of the passing bullet. He was lying flat then, thrusting his Colt towards the place where the shot had come from. He triggered two quick shots then altered his position, the Colt cocked and ready for firing again. As he came to rest he saw the lithe form of Lobo sliding easily out of a narrow gap at the base of the canyon wall. The renegade had his own gun in his hand and it swept round to line up on Brand, spitting flame and smoke in a crash of sound. The bullet clipped the top of Brand’s left shoulder, burning the flesh. He ignored the pain, coming up on one knee, his Colt tracking in on the renegade as Lobo straightened up. Brand’s shot took him in the left hip, slamming him back against the canyon wall, blood flying in a scarlet spray. Lobo bared his teeth in a snarl of defiance, eyes wild with fury. He steadied himself against the rock, lifting his heavy Colt. Brand fired first, his Colt held two-handed. He put all three remaining .45 caliber bullets into Lobo’s chest. The impact kicked Lobo back. His mouth opened in a soundless scream of agony. He hung against the canyon wall, his shirt blossoming red. And then he fell face down, his spilled blood being quickly swallowed by the dry, thirsty sand.

  Brand walked to where the renegade lay. He picked up Lobo’s revolver and tucked it under his belt. He knelt beside the body and rolled it over. He could relax now. The half-breed renegade called Lobo was dead.

  “I hope you fry in hell, you son of a bitch,” he said softly, and meant every word. He was thinking about Elizabeth, who had died alone and helpless on a desolate mountain slope. And about all the others who had suffered at the hands of the embittered man who had been born Matthew Henty.

  He stood up, turning away and made his way back along the canyon to find his horse. Then he had to find Lobo’s pony so he could cart Lobo’s body back to Fort Kellerman. There was a job he had to do before he headed for the Army post. There were four people who needed a decent burial. He was going to ride back to that little spread near the Rio Grande and see to that first. Then he would take Lobo’s body to Kellerman and let Alex Mundy officially close the book on the renegade.

  And then? He figured a slow return to Washington. Take a break for some rest before McCord grabbed him for something else.

  He was wrong. McCord was waiting for him at Kellerman. He barely had time to say hello to Mundy before Frank McCord was heading him for the nearest rail depot and a train to Washington. Brand had time for a bath and shave at Kellerman made a visit to the post doctor to have his wounds cleaned and bandaged, and then he was on his way. Ill at ease in his crumpled suit and still tense from the l
ong trip back to Kellerman, Brand hunched in the corner of the private compartment and tried to pay attention to what McCord was saying.

  “You can write your report while you rest up,” he said.

  “I get to rest?”

  “Don’t take too long,” McCord went on. “You only have a few days.”

  “Days? Hell, McCord, I figured at least a week.”

  “No chance,” McCord said, obviously enjoying himself. “As soon as possible I want you ready for your next assignment.”