by Neil Hunter
His name was Jason Brand.
Chapter Two
Heat enveloped him like a smothering blanket. Brand opened his eyes, instantly aware of the nagging pain in his side. There was a sickening pounding inside his head that threatened to split his skull wide open. He sat up, realizing how weak he was. The inside of the house pulsed with trapped heat, the very air almost too heavy to breath. He felt restricted, suffocated. He dragged himself out of the armchair and tried to stand. The moment he placed weight on his legs they gave way, pitching him to the floor where he lay trembling, frightened by his own weakness. Cold, clammy sweat broke out on his body as a thought flashed through his fevered mind.
What would he do if the Comanches came back and found him like this?
He knew the answer. There wouldn’t be a damn thing he could do.
It was that thought that spurred him into action. Taking his time he sat up again. He waited for a while before trying to stand a second time, using the arm of the chair to support himself. On his feet he felt the room spin. Moving with agonizing slowness he groped his way to the closest wall and rested there until the giddy sensation went away. He raised a hand to brush away the rivulets of sweat coursing down his face. His fingers touched the ragged gash and the swelling in his cheek, and he remembered the brutal blow when one of the Comanches had hit him.
Brand eased away from the wall, measuring each step he took. At the back of his mind was a remembrance of something. He crossed the room, making for a heavy wooden chest pushed against the far wall. Reaching it he dropped to his knees and raised the lid. Inside was an assortment of objects. Books, old magazines, leather straps, a jumble of oddments his father had kept, always meaning to mend this and that, but never finding the time for any of them. Brand searched through the jumble, hoping that the Comanches had overlooked this unlikely place.
His fingers closed around a cloth-wrapped bundle that lay at the bottom of the chest. He unwrapped the cloth and sat for a time staring down at the oiled, wood-butted Colt revolver in his hands. It was an old gun his father had picked up years ago and never used. Made in 1849 it had a 4-inch octagonal barrel, a hard kick and made more smoke than a brush fire. But at least it was a weapon, something he could use if the need arose.
Brand got up and went to the shelf where his father had kept his gun tackle. The Comanches had cleared the shelf, scattering a deal of stuff on the floor in their haste. He searched around and found enough powder and shot to load four of the Colt’s chambers. When he had finished he pushed the revolver under his belt, on the left side with the butt forward where he could reach it quickly.
He found a discarded canteen on the floor, taking it to fill at the well in the yard. There was no food he could salvage. He was going to have to survive on what he already had inside him. It was good distance to the Grainger place. He was going to have to make it on a single canteen of water.
He turned from the well, the dripping canteen in his hand, and stood for a long time just looking at the bodies of his mother and father. They had been a close family, maybe too close. The way they had died had left him devoid of any feelings except for a burning rage that screamed for vengeance. For a kind of bloody, brutal primeval justice. He conjured up an image of the three men who had deserted his family — three men who had lived while his parents had died and his sister had been taken captive by the Kwahadi. But he would find them and he would settle with them. They wouldn’t be doing any more running after he had found them.
As gently as he could he dragged first his mother and then his father inside the house, laying them together in the centre of the room. He covered them with a blanket. He found the large tin can of coal oil that was kept near the stove and splashed the liquid around the room and over the blanket covering the bodies. Then he poured a trail to the door. Using the flint from the kitchen he struck sparks that ignited a bunch of dry straw that he tossed onto the oil trail. It lit with a soft sound, the line of fire leaping into the house. The dry timbers of the roof and floors caught quickly and the spreading heat forced Brand back from the door.
He stood watching, his face, colored by the leaping flames, an expressionless mask. Only when the flames had died and the house was a skeleton of blackened timbers and heat-cracked adobe did he move. Wreaths of acrid smoke drifted about him, driven by the dry wind coming out of the south. Brand sank to his knees in the ash and dust, leaning forward on his arms, head dropping. He felt cold and empty, his very being as gutted as the fire ravaged house. Around him the daylight was fading, shadows stealing across the barren land. Night’s darkness covered him and in the solitude of that lonely place he wept silent tears for what had been, and for what could never be the same again.
It was near to midnight when he walked away from the place, never once looking back. The night was cold, in stark contrast to the heat of day, but the chill helped to keep him awake. He had decided to walk as far as he could during the hours of darkness. It was wiser than moving by day when the sun’s heat would suck him dry. His way was well lit by a full moon. It cast a silvery sheen across the wide land. Even without he would have found his way. He knew the country well. He had been born here and had spent his life in the territory. His knowledge of the land and its moods would help him in his search for both the Kwahadi and for the three men who had deserted his father.
He walked slowly, but with a steady pace. He was aware of the nagging hurt in his side and knew that he would need to nurse the wound until it healed. He was still weak and that angered him. He was young and up until this time he had always had an excess of energy. To suddenly find himself reduced to such a weakened condition went against his nature. But he had the sense to realize that if he wanted to recover he was bound to have to restrict himself.
As dawn broke Brand topped a dusty ridge, pausing for the first time since leaving the spread. He slumped to the ground, grateful for the rough comfort it offered. He took a small swallow from the canteen. He used more of the water to rinse his face, watching the rose-colored dawn spreading across the land. It drove the black shadows out of the vaulted terrain, cleansing the ravines and dry creek beds. Glowing rocks took on their natural coloring. Vegetation emerged from the misty paleness.
Brand climbed reluctantly to his feet, pushing away the tiredness that was nudging at his mind. There would be time to sleep later. Now he still had a couple of hours before it became too hot to stay out in the open. He walked on, still heading east. The land lay empty around him, yet he moved with a singular purpose, knowing the way he was going.
He saw nothing that moved. Heard no sound save his own. He could have been the only man alive in the whole of the world. But he knew otherwise. The land deceived. Let a man think one thing while something else existed to show him he was wrong. Brand was not alone. His instincts told him so, and he had learned a long time ago to trust those inner feelings. They were as important to a man as his breathing. Somewhere, out of sight and sound, were the Kwahadi. They hadn’t quit the territory yet, and as long as they did stay in the area they represented danger. His hand instinctively reached to touch the butt of the Colt in his belt. He had yet to use the gun in anger. Touching it gave him comfort. In the years ahead — though he was unaware of it now — he was going to find that he would become dependent on a gun. Perhaps to a degree that was bad for him. Yet Brand, like others of his kind, would find that his way was already marked out for him. His destiny was secured and there was little he could do to change it.
The sun was high now, the heat becoming unbearable. Brand’s head began to ache and he called himself seven kinds of a fool for not finding time to pick up a hat before he left the spread. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt. He began to search for a place where he could rest and get out of the heat. He found it in a dry wash, where the overhang of the bank had fallen away, leaving a shallow cave. He made sure the place was clean of snakes that might have sought shelter for the same reason. Satisfied that it was clear he smoothed out the sandy dirt and lay down in t
he shade, using the canteen for a pillow. The Colt lay in his right hand, finger on the trigger, his thumb against the hammer.
He remained there through the long day. As the heat finally began to subside and night approached he decided to move on. A drink from the canteen was his only refreshment. He knew he would need to watch his supply. There was little chance of replenishing it before he reached the Graingers. The same applied to food. Even if he spotted anything worth hunting he couldn’t take the chance of a shot being overheard by roving hostiles.
He walked as if in a dream. There was no conscious use of energy. He simply walked, willing himself to ignore the discomfort of his wound and the sharpening chill in the night air. The long hours slid by without count. Towards midnight a wind began to blow, stirring the dust and rattling the dry brush. It slapped at Brand, tugging at his clothing until he responded to his exposed position.
He was crossing a wide, flat plain, and quickly came to realize he was going to find himself in trouble. He could feel the wind building up. A storm was coming. Brand new these storms. They came out of nowhere, the winds sweeping in with savage fury, driving dust before them in choking, blinding clouds . . . and almost as the thought crossed his mind he felt the first stinging dust-particles on his face. He put his head down, narrowing his eyes against the eddying dust the wind was throwing at his unprotected body. The wind was pushing against him now with the irresistible force only the elements possess.
Brand tried to keep on his original course, but after a few minutes he knew he had lost his way. The dust, combined with the darkness, had turned the world into a blank, swirling emptiness. He stumbled on for a while, quickly realizing that he wasn’t going to get very far. It was entirely possible he had about-turned and was retracing his earlier steps.
He sensed rather than saw the dark mass rising before him. Groping his way towards it he put out a hand. Rough stone touched his fingers. It was a jagged up thrust of rock. Brand pushed forward thankfully. He worked his way into the jumbled stand of rock, seeking a place out of reach of the wind. He finally found what he was looking for, sliding himself into a narrow, dark crevice. Here he would be able to lie and listen to the drone of the wind and the hiss of the drifting dust. He stayed alert for as long as he could, but exhaustion gradually overcame him, and he drifted into a restless half-sleep. His last coherent thought was of this dark, desolate place, and he wondered if there was any other as lonely.
He woke to utter silence. It encompassed the hot land completely. He lay for a time, aware that he was getting weaker. He had to find food soon. When he sat up he felt nauseous. Leaning against the earth bank he felt the heat strike him and the bright sun hurt his eyes. Overhead the sky was open, blue, and cloudless. The wind had gone, leaving the air still and heavy.
He worked his way out of the rocks, staring about as he tried to get his bearings. He worked out his position by the placement of the sun in the empty sky, and realized that he had not wandered too far off course.
Before he moved off he allowed himself a drink, splashing a little into the palm of his hand to dampen his face. Back home there had been plenty of water, what with the deep well and the creek nearby…remembrance brought other, grimmer memories flooding back. He stifled the images savagely. The last thing he needed now was to see the bloody horror of it all again. It was a thing of the past. There would be a time to bring it all back. When he had those deserters in his sights! Now he needed to survive. To stay alive. Nothing else mattered right now. If he didn’t survive then nothing else would matter anyway.
He walked on. Slowly. Unsteadily, but with a stubborn determination that wouldn’t allow thoughts of quitting to even enter his mind. There was a terrible sureness in the way he moved. Up slopes. Over ridges. Across empty plains. If something stood in his way he climbed it, or walked around it. Nothing stopped him. Nothing held him back.
And through it all he held his line of travel.
East.
Always moving to the east.
Chapter Three
A hot wind drifted over the silent land, driving pale wreaths of fine dust before it. It rattled against the bleached posts of the corral that stood just beyond the low cabin, leaving a pearly whiteness on the worn leather boots of the man bound to one of the corral corner posts. The still body was riddled with arrows, long-dried blood crusting the torn clothing. Some yards from the corral, face down in the dust, lay the naked body of a pale-haired girl of around twenty. The white flesh was cruelly bruised and mutilated. A third body, that of an older woman, lay in a crumpled heap close to the cabin itself. A single rifle bullet had taken away one side of the woman’s skull.
Jason Brand walked in from the wilderness and stood in the midst of the bleak scene for a long time. He didn’t need to check closely to know that the three people were dead. The Kwahadi had beaten him again. They had reached here long before him, and had wiped out the Graingers. He had walked a long way for nothing.
As he stood there despite his exhaustion and utter weariness, he felt a raging anger growing inside him. His bitter disappointment was overcome by a terrible need for vengeance. It became a hunger, a desperate yearning. He wanted to strike back. To satisfy the craving that seemed to be eating at his very soul. Yet he knew he was going to have to curb that desire. Vengeance was still a long way out of his reach.
He turned his mind towards more practical things. Maybe the Kwahadi had overlooked some of the Graingers’ food. Maybe even weapons. It was a scant hope but worth pursuing.
Brand crossed the silent yard and went into the house. He stopped short as he reached the doorway. The interior was untouched. A moment of doubt troubled him. He drew the Colt, easing back the hammer as he searched the wide room. It took him no more than a few seconds to realize that he was alone. For reasons known only to themselves the Kwahadis had not looted the Grainger house. Brand didn’t waste time wondering why. He accepted the fact and left it at that. And he accepted too the fact that he felt no guilt as he helped himself to food from the Graingers’ store. He had known them well, but they were dead now, and regretting those deaths couldn’t be allowed to stop him from surviving himself. The only way he was going to stay alive was by utilizing everything he could lay his hands on.
When he had eaten his fill he stoked up the fire in the stove and put water on to boil. He was going to have to risk the chance of smoke being seen if the Indians were still close enough to spot it. He felt sure the Kwahadi were long gone — but he also knew he could be wrong. Even so he had to take the chance. He needed to cleanse the wound in his side as soon as he could. Before the nagging pain became worse and infection took a hold.
While the water heated Brand took a look around the cabin. In a far corner, resting on the top of a battered oak chest, he found a used but cared-for Henry repeating rifle. He recalled it was the one that Fred Grainger had always carried with him. Brand picked up the rifle and checked it over. It was fully loaded, oiled, and ready for use. It appeared that for once in his life Fred Grainger had been without his rifle when the Kwahadi had attacked. It was the kind of mistake a man made only once out here. He was never allowed a second try. Mistakes made in the territory were paid for in the worst possible way.
Brand heard the water start to bubble. He took the Henry with him as he crossed the room. He lifted the pan off the stove and put it on the long kitchen table, laying both his guns alongside. Then he stripped off his shirt. The fabric was stuck to the wound and he had to pull it free inch by inch, clenching his teeth against the pain. He was able to see the wound then. It was a wide-open gash, swollen now, the edges an angry purple-red color. He realized what that meant. The wound was starting to turn septic. The need to clean it was more urgent than ever.
He searched through the cupboards until he found the medicine chest. There were bandages and ointments. He also found a bottle of alcohol, the kind used for sterilizing with. He found a clean bed sheet and tore it into strips. He placed all his findings on the table. Then he we
nt looking for the razor Fred Grainger had used to shave with. When he found it he held the blade in the flames of the stove for a few seconds, then doused it with alcohol.
He knew what he had to do next and didn’t hesitate. He knew that if he did he would end up talking himself out of it. Taking a deep breath he laid the keen blade of the razor across the taut, swollen edges of the gash and cut into the discolored flesh. The sharp blade bit deeply, a pained moan driving past Brand’s lips as hot puss began to ooze thickly from the incisions. Ignoring the pain he picked up a wad of the torn sheet, soaked it in the boiled water and pressed it to the edges of the cuts, forcing out the infected puss until there was no more to come. The pain was terrible and he cried out even as he continued squeezing out the poison. He was forced to lean against the edge of the table to prevent himself from falling. Sweat poured down his face and body and he felt sickness rising in his stomach. Throwing aside the wad of cloth he picked up a fresh piece, soaking it and repeating the process until he felt sure he had got rid of all the puss. Another wad of cloth was soaked in the alcohol and pressed over the wound. This time the pain burned deep and he screamed. Sick and shivering as the reaction hit him Brand wrapped strips of the sheet round his body to hold the wad of cloth in place, his trembling fingers taking a long time to tie the final knots. On weak legs he crossed over to a bed against one wall and fell on to it. He dragged a blanket over him and gave in to the pull of sleep, his weary body relaxing for the first time in many hours. Yet even though he slept his fingers never once loosened their grip on the revolver he had picked up as he had moved away from the table.
He woke to darkness. For a time he lay still and listened. His ears searched for a sound. Any small noise that might indicate he was not alone. He heard nothing. Satisfied he sat up slowly, testing himself against the pain of his wound. He found there was little to be endured. He was still very sore and stiff, but the heavy pain had subsided. He did feel hungry and thirsty, and wondered if that was sign of recovery.