by Neil Hunter
He climbed off the bed and groped his way across the room, recalling that he had seen a lamp on the table. Finding it he raised the glass, then went to the stove and lit a sliver of wood. As flame rose behind the lamp glass Brand found himself staring around the room. Lit by the soft glow from the lamp it brought back a memory of his own home — as it had once been. The memory angered him and he pushed the image aside.
Stoking up the stove he put on a pot of coffee. While it boiled he removed the bandage from his wound and fashioned a fresh one. This time he made sure the strips of cloth were snug tight. Once he left the Grainger place he wasn’t going to be able to put on a fresh bandage every few hours. Hunting for a fresh shirt he found a couple in a clothes chest. They were freshly washed and ironed, something Emily Grainger must have done shortly before . . .
He snatched up one of the shirts and put it on, fingers fumbling with the buttons. No matter how he tried to ignore past events they kept on crowding him. Reminding him of what had happened. The Grainger place was too much like his former home. There were too many familiar memories here.
The coffee brewed and he poured himself a cup. The coffee was scalding and strong. He drew a chair against the wall, sitting where he could see the door. He was never able to understand why he did such a thing. But he sat on that chair, drinking cup after cup of hot black coffee until the darkness slid away and the light of day edged into the room.
Full light was on him before he moved. He got up stiffly, picking up the Henry rifle and headed for the door. He knocked up the latch, hooking the edge of the door with his boot. The door swung inwards, creaking softly. Before it was fully open Brand had eased to one side, away from the opening.
A sudden hissing sound broke the stillness. It terminated with the solid thump of a Kwahadi war lance driving its tip into the wooden doorpost.
Burning rage drove all reason from Jason Brand’s mind as he stared at the quivering lance. The only thing he saw was his mother, pinned to the door of their home by a similar weapon, her bloody body writhing in silent agony. In a split second it all came back to him, and this time he refused to push it aside. The terror and pain, the thunder of Indian ponies, blood and dust clogging his mouth and throat, his inability to offer any kind of help . . .
But this time it was different. This time he could do something. And did.
He stepped into the doorframe, the Henry rifle lifting, the lever clicking as he worked a round into the chamber, the muzzle seeking a target as Brand faced his enemies.
There were four mounted Kwahadis in the yard. One was in the act of sliding down off his animal and Brand’s first shot caught him in the side. The impact of the bullet spun the Indian away from the pony. The Comanche hit the ground, writhing in pain, blood coursing from the jagged wound. Brand drove a second shot into him and saw the Indian’s skull burst apart.
The other Kwahadi broke from their motionless pose. Ponies wheeled and dust flew up in yellow clouds. Brand broke away from the door, the Henry spitting flame and smoke as he triggered shot after shot. He saw a second Indian go down, clutching a shattered hip. Brand turned on his heel to meet the rushing attack of a squat, broad-faced Comanche who drove his pony straight at him. The Kwahadi brave hung low over his pony’s back, wielding a heavy war club that was bound in rawhide. Brand swept the Henry round, lifting the muzzle. He was too late. The Kwahadi hauled his pony to a snorting, plunging halt, dust boiling up in choking clouds. Brand sensed the war club driving down at him and tried to pull aside. He didn’t make it. The ball of the club clouted him across the side of the head. He was driven to his knees, blood streaming down his face. He tried to get up but his strength had gone. He couldn’t feel anger. Only a sense of loss. He’d been given a second chance and he had wasted it. This time he was sure that the Kwahadi would finish him off once and for all. The thought was still spinning around inside his skull when the war club caught him across the back of the skull and he was slammed face down in the dust. There was brief pain, then silence . . . then nothing . . .
Chapter Four
The fact he was still alive did little to console Jason Brand. When the Comanches took a prisoner it generally meant that the unfortunate individual was being kept alive so he could be subjected to long and agonizing torture. This was something the Comanches were past masters at. The art of inflicting terrible mutilation to the human body while keeping the victim alive had been developed over many years of practice. Brand figured this could be his fate. Why else would the Kwahadi have kept him alive? A dozen reasons sprang to mind but he dismissed them all. He was grasping at straws. Trying to convince himself that his captors wanted him for some special reason. In the end cold fact pushed aside meaningless speculation.
He had come round to find he was astride a Comanche pony. Tied in place by rawhide strips that bit cruelly into his flesh. There was no telling how long they had been on the move. When Brand began to look around he saw that more Kwahadi Comanche had joined the party. Now there were more than a dozen. As soon as they saw he was awake they edged their ponies nearer to his, paying him close attention. From time to time a warrior would ride by and deliver a vicious blow to Brand’s face or body with whatever he had in his hand. Many of the Indians carried short rawhide quirts, which they used to draw more speed from their ponies. Wielded by an expert these whips were capable of landing a savage blow. In a short time Brand’s face was crisscrossed with angry, bleeding cuts. His body ached from countless blows from the end of rifle barrels, or the butt end of a Comanche lance. He took it all in stony silence, aware that the Comanches were testing him. Seeing if they could push him to the limit.
To hell with the miserable bastards!
Brand had no intention of letting them break him. He hadn’t expected to come out of the fight back at the Graingers’ place alive. But he had, and that meant he still had a chance to survive. His position wasn’t too good right now. He was going to have to be patient and wait for the right moment. If the slightest opportunity presented itself he was going to take it. And given the chance he would take as many Kwahadi with him as he could manage. He had come very close to death twice already, and when a man reached that level he had to figure the odds were starting to move his way.
They rode for two more days. During the times when the war party made camp Brand was dragged from the back of his pony and thrown to the ground. He was given neither food or water, and at dawn he was hauled to his feet and tied on the pony again.
As far as he could judge they were still moving eastwards. Back into Texas.
He guessed they were making for some Comanche stronghold on the edge of the Llano Estacado. A thought came to him. If that was so then maybe he might still find Elizabeth. That small thought lodged in his mind and he began to anticipate their arrival. It was a small hope but at least it was something for him to hold on to.
Early morning of the third day found them in rugged country broken by low hills. The terrain was barren save for tough clumps of dusty brush. The weather held promise of another hot, dry day. The Kwahadi rode with purpose now. It was plain they knew exactly where they were going. The unmarked trail they followed led them into the entrance of a shallow canyon. As they pushed the ponies deeper in the walls rose around them. The trail wound round bends and twists in the canyon floor. The sound of their passing was muffled by the thick yellow dust that layered the earth. The confined air between the hot walls of the canyon was heavy and stifling.
A hour’s ride into the canyon and the war party drew rein. Every warrior began to paint his face and body. They adorned their bodies with colorful ornaments taken from rawhide pouches carried around their waists. Brand watched with detached interest. He had heard about this ritual. It was all part of the game of war. Each warrior would carefully rehearse his part in the tales of the battles they had fought, emphasizing his own particular courageous deed. The war party would ride into camp as victorious warriors, and their tales would be told and retold around the fires for many nights
to come.
Eventually the party rode on. The Comanches began to talk and laugh among themselves, anticipating the welcome they would receive. During this time Brand was almost forgotten, but only to the extent that the relentless rain of blows to his battered body ceased.
The canyon opened out on a wide slope that led down to a flat stretch of land with a creek meandering through it. Dotted along the banks of the creek were trees and grass that added a dash of color to the otherwise drab surroundings.
The encampment was large. Brand counted more than thirty lodges. There were even corrals for the large pony herd. Smoke from numerous fires drifted lazily into the blue, cloudless sky. Comanche men and women milled around the fires and lodges. Naked children ran in laughing groups, with yapping dogs at their heels. When the camp became aware of the returning war party everyone turned out to meet them. Bedlam erupted, with the air full of shouting and cheering. The returning warriors replied with laughter and wild boasts of incredible conquests.
For Brand the arrival meant a return to hostility from the encampment. Bitter scowls on dark faces. Fists raised in anger. A gauntlet of brutal blows from clenched fists and slashing sticks.
The sting from a stone thrown by a boy of less than ten years old.
The war party drew rein before a large, elaborately decorated lodge. The crowd of followers held back, allowing the warriors their moment of glory. The noise faded and a hushed silence descended. Somewhere on the far side of the camp a lone dog barked defiantly and a horse gave vent to its feelings.
A knot of figures emerged from the lodge, standing apart as they came into the open. Their manner marked them as leaders. Some were old men. Elders of the tribe. They received the returning warriors, faces impassive, eyes missing nothing. Brand scanned the faces of the reception party and realized that the Comanche who had taken his sister was not present. He had assumed the Kwahadi to be a high-ranking Comanche. If so where was he? The thought came to Brand that Liz’s captor might not even be in this particular encampment. There was nothing he could do about it now.
His attention was drawn to the group outside the lodge. There were raised voices. A hand was thrust in Brand’s direction and one of the Kwahadi who had ridden with the war party made no attempt at concealing his anger at what was being said. A sharp command was given. A Kwahadi walked across to Brand. A knife was produced, the blade flashing in the bright daylight. It sliced apart the thongs binding Brand. Without warning the warrior grabbed Brand’s shirt and hauled him off the pony, dumping him heavily on the ground where he lay stunned. Though the rawhide holding him on the pony had been cut, his hands were still bound behind his back. Brand struggled to climb to his feet, refusing to lie at the feet of the Kwahadi.
He faced the group outside the lodge until one of the men moved towards him. Halting a few feet away the Comanche began to speak in slow, accented English.
‘They want to kill you,’ he said.
‘Should I let them?’
‘Be damned if I’ll say yes.’
The Comanche allowed a thin smile to curl his broad lips. ‘I have been told you are a hard man to kill.’
‘Man’s a fool if he dies easy.’
‘There is much anger against you because you have killed Kwahadi warriors.’
‘They didn’t leave me much choice. It was me or them.’
‘They have allowed you to live this far because you have shown courage. Twice you have faced the Comanche and twice you have not died.’
‘I still don’t intend dying given the chance.’
‘How are you called?’
‘Brand.’
The Comanche nodded. ‘We will talk again, Brand. I am Quanah Parker.’
Brand watched him return to the lodge. So this was Quanah Parker. The half-breed who was fast becoming a renowned leader among the Comanches. Born in 1845, Quanah was the son of a white woman, Cynthia Ann Parker, a captive of the Comanche. Physically Quanah showed no trace of his white inheritance. In looks he was a classic Comanche, his dark skinned face broad, with high, prominent cheekbones, yet he had the mental ability to be able to view matters from both red and white sides of the fence. Though he didn’t know it then, Brand was to find himself closely involved with the Comanche at another time and place.
There was more talk amongst the group outside the lodge as Brand’s fate was discussed. He stood and waited. Finally a couple of Kwahadi warriors came across and led Brand away. They took him to where an open lean-to had been constructed alongside one of the large corrals holding the encampment ponies. Pushed towards the lean-to Brand’s hands were released and he was left alone.
He squatted in the dust under the lean-to, at least partially shaded from the glare of the sun. He rubbed his wrists as they began to burn with the return of circulating blood. He watched the activity in the camp, and though no one appeared to be paying him particular attention, he knew he was being watched. Maybe he wasn’t physically bound but he wasn’t free either. If he tried to escape he would be shot down before he’d gone ten feet.
For now he relaxed, trying to rest. He needed to build up his strength, because sooner or later he was going to escape. When he was ready and on his terms.
It must have been close on noon when he saw the girl for the first time. He glanced up and found himself watching her as she approached the lean-to. It took him a few seconds to realize she was not a Comanche. Though her skin was deeply browned by the sun her hair was fair beneath the dirt that darkened it, and her eyes were a startling blue. Brand found he was unable to tear his gaze from her, and he felt a warm stirring in the pit of his stomach as he accepted the fact that the girl was completely naked. She was young. Around his own age and the lithe, long-legged body was firmly developed. The taut, high breasts were tipped by pale nipples, and he couldn’t avoid noticing the fair hair framing the junction of her thighs.
The girl, oblivious to her nakedness, knelt in the dust in front of him. She was holding a couple of clay bowls. She placed them on the ground and began to get up.
‘Wait!’ Brand’s tone was urgent. ‘I have to talk to you.’
The girl raised her eyes to stare at him. Despite the crude cutting of her short hair and the bruised, grubby face, Brand could see she was attractive. Not beautiful by any means, but striking. Her eyes were what held the attention. Blue and clear, they mirrored the intelligence lurking inside her head. The way those eyes were regarding Brand almost had him squirming.
‘We have to be careful,’ she said quickly, glancing back over her shoulder. ‘If Three Finger sees me talking to you anything could happen.’
‘Three Finger? Who’s he?’
The girl smiled, bitterness flooding her eyes. ‘You’ll soon find out. He doesn’t allow anyone to talk to his women.’ She sank back on her heels and regarded him soberly. ‘Still, we should be safe enough for a while. Three Finger has a new woman. She’ll keep him occupied for a time.’
Brand stiffened. The girl noticed his agitation.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked.
‘This new girl? Did you see her?’
‘Yes. He rode in with her yesterday. She was fighting him all the time.’ Resignation darkened her gaze. ‘She’ll learn not to fight in the end. It does no good.’
‘Was she young? Dark haired and pretty?’
‘I’d call her beautiful. But she was young and dark haired.’
‘Wearing a blue check dress?’
‘Yes. Blue check. What there was left of it.’
A surge of relief rose in Brand. It seemed Liz could well be here after all. But how was she? The girl had suggested that captives of Three Finger were in for a hard time. Brand’s anger rose. Could he be so close to Liz, yet still be too late to help her?
‘Hey!’The girl’s voice reached him.
‘Sorry.’
‘Who is she?’
‘My sister,’ Brand said. ‘The Comanches hit our place a few days back. Killed my folks and took Liz off with them. They left m
e for dead but I made it to a neighbor’s spread. Only the Comanche had been there too. Killed everyone on the place. While I was resting up the Comanche came back. I made a fight of it and got at least one ‘fore they whacked me over the head. When I came round we were on our way here.’
The girl was silent, as if her mind was reliving memories of her own. She reached out and laid a slim brown hand on Brand’s arm for a moment. It was a gesture that replaced words. It expressed the bond between them. They were both victims of the savagery and destruction that shadowed the land,
‘How long you been here?’
‘Almost six months,’ the girl said.
‘Any others?’
She shook her head. ‘Twice they’ve brought white men in. They keep them alive for a long time before they let them die. At first I couldn’t believe what they were doing to other humans. But then I saw those men and they were still alive. Hard to believe even when you see it.’ For a few seconds the blue eyes clouded over. ‘Surprising what you can get used to in order to stay alive.’
Her tone was bitter, and Brand was aware she had been through a bad time.
‘Why don’t they let you have any clothes?’ he asked.
The shadows left her face and she actually grinned at him.
‘My own fault,’ she explained. ‘When they first brought me here my own clothes were in tatters. It was the first time I’d ever been exposed in front of anyone. I was more concerned with retaining my modesty than anything else. The fact my life was in danger didn’t occur to me. I made so much fuss the women took me aside and stripped me completely. These people can be cruel, but they also have a strong sense of humor. I was paraded through the camp in front of everyone and then left alone. It took me two days to realize I had to get my priorities right. Survival before modesty. It’s surprising how quickly you can adjust. It doesn’t bother me at all now. During the day it keeps me cool. Since I stopped making a fool of myself I’ve been allowed a blanket to cover me at night when I sleep. So I’m surviving.’