by Neil Hunter
The lantern was still lit!
He turned the wheel that raised the wick. When the flame reached its peak he closed the lantern again. Peering round the hatch he judged the distance to the pool of oil, then hurled the lantern. It turned over and over, then hit the deck in the centre of the oil, glass shattering.
Nothing happened. Brand stared at the lantern. Had the flame gone out?
‘Somebody get rid of that damn lamp!’ Hatch yelled, realizing the threat it presented.
Almost immediately Joe Preedy broke cover and ran to the spot where the lantern lay.
Brand shot his legs from under him. Screaming loudly Preedy crashed to the deck, blood streaming from his shattered limbs.
And then the oil ignited. There was a soft sound, almost like a deep sigh. Then a flare of blue flame that turned quickly to an orange-yellow.
Preedy screamed again as his oil-soaked clothing burst into flame. He rolled back and forth, trying to extinguish the fire. Somehow he lurched to his feet. He stumbled across the deck, beating at his clothing as his flesh turned black. His mouth was open in a continuous scream of agony.
Brand lifted the rifle and drove a single bullet into Preedy’s head. The impact slammed Preedy to the deck like a bundle of burning rags.
‘Jesus, the barrels!’
Brand’s head came round at the sound of Latimer’s voice. He saw where the burning oil had worked its way back to the leaking barrel and was already devouring the wood. If that barrel burst and exploded it would undoubtedly set off the others.
Brand didn’t know if that would happen, or if it did how long he had left.
He didn’t hesitate. Pushing to his feet he turned to the stern of the schooner. Before he had taken two steps the first barrel exploded.
Chapter Fourteen
Flaming oil spewed across the deck of Cuban Lady. Moments later the other barrels exploded. The heavy thump of the blast was followed by a solid wave of heat swelling out from the rising ball of flame. Paintwork blistered and wood scorched. The deck of the schooner became obscured by the boiling lash of fire. It spilled down hatchways, filling the lower deck with flame that attacked the woodwork.
And more of the blazing oil found its way into the open cargo hold.
The tail end of the blast caught Jason Brand as he reached the stern rail. He felt his clothing begin to scorch as the force of the explosion picked him up and tossed him over the stern.
He hit the water and went under. Kicking for the surface he located himself and struck out clumsily for the beach. The water around him was littered with debris and patches of burning oil. He reached the shore and got his feet under, hauling himself out of the water. As he stood upright he realized he was still carrying the rifle. He walked up the beach, his ears aching from the blast.
He thought he heard someone shout. He turned to look.
Cuban Lady was listing badly. The schooner was ablaze from end to end. A pall of black smoke curled up from the flames. Showers of bright sparks soared skywards, then fell hissing into the water.
And then the black powder and ammunition in the hold exploded. The terrible force of the blast ripped the schooner open. The ship seemed to lift out of the water for long seconds as the explosion pushed its sides out. A writhing ball of incandescent flame belched forth. The stricken ship began to roll.
Debris was falling from the smoke-filled sky. Something caught Brand alongside the head, dazing him. He felt blood running down his face.
As the muted rumble of the explosion faded Cuban Lady began to sink quickly, bow first. The gutted schooner slid beneath the churning water. Air rushed to the surface Debris bobbed on the swirling surface. All that remained of the schooner were a few feet of the mainmast.
And there were bodies too. They floated gently on the swell, nothing more now than additional debris.
Brand sat down suddenly. He was trembling violently and he felt a sickness rising. His body was reacting to the terrible beating it had received from the explosion. He bent over, retching. A little while later he raised his head, realizing how quiet it had become. The awful silence, he knew, was the sound of death. He shuddered. Was this how it was supposed to feel? His moment of triumph? Now his enemies were dead. His family avenged.
And he was alive. Alone, unmoved by it all. But alive.
Brand wasn’t sure this was the way it should have been. Perhaps, after all, Lisa had been right. Too much hate and killing — maybe it did make him as cold and unfeeling as the murderers he had just dispatched.
He pushed the thoughts aside and climbed to his feet. He forced himself to think of Lita. She would still be waiting for him. He walked away from the bay. Back towards the village.
He returned to where he had left his horse. Something moved just ahead of him. He began to lift the rifle before he recognized Lita. She ran towards him, dark hair flying, eyes moist with tears.
‘I thought you were dead,’ she cried. ‘When I heard that great explosion I was sure.’
He reached for her, felt her handclasp his, and then she drew back. The smile left her face.
‘Behind you!’ she screamed.
Brand turned about, bringing up the rifle.
And saw Sam Hatch moving towards him.
The man was a walking corpse. His clothing was in tatters, bloodstained and scorched. His flesh was blackened and split, the hair burned from his head. His left arm dangled at his side, useless and bloody, white bone showing through the raw flesh. He left behind a trail of blood in the sand with every step. Yet even now he wore that wolf’s grin, his shriveled lips drawn back in a snarl of defiance.
‘This time!’ he said hoarsely and began to raise the revolver clutched in the burned fingers of his right hand.
They both fired in the same instant.
Brand felt the slap of Hatch’s bullet as it lodged in his left arm. He almost fell, but grimly held the rifle level.
His own shot took Hatch in the chest. The man stopped in his tracks, rocking slightly. With great effort he cocked the revolver again, bringing the muzzle round to line up on Brand.
The rifle fired again.
A harsh groan burst from Hatch’s throat. He threw his arms wide, the revolver firing into the sky. Brand’s bullet had caught him under the chin, driving up through his skull to shear off the top of his head as it emerged. The sand around Hatch became dappled with red, and Hatch himself toppled over onto his back, his body seeming to shrivel as it struck the ground.
Lita reached Brand, supporting his weakened body.
‘Can you stand?’
‘Hell, it’s the only way I’m going to get out of here!’
She led him to his horse, helping him into the saddle.
‘We must find somewhere so you can rest. To heal your wounds.’
Brand nodded.
‘Querida, is it now ended?’ she asked.
He had to stare at her. Then he smiled a cold, bleak smile.
‘Ended? ¿Quien sabe?’ Something made him add: ‘Hell, maybe it’s just beginning.’
Lita didn’t really understand what he meant, but she saw a man who appeared to have found the way he would have to walk through life. She was sorry. Mainly because she knew that he would soon leave her, and because she realized he was going to ride a lonely road.
They left the village and its dead. Brand didn’t know where Lita was taking him. He didn’t care. Later he would wonder what he might do with himself. He belonged to no one. He had no place to call home.
He was empty.
Alone.
But he was alive.
He had Lita and she would care for him. Worry for him. She would share all she had, because that was her way. Yet even in companionship he would still be alone. With her but separate. And come the day he would ride on and leave her.
He was learning that life was a bitch. It showed a man one set of rules to follow, then slapped him down with another. It seemed the only way he would survive was by being meaner than the next man and
making up his own rules.
They rode out across the empty land. They were tiny figures against the vast landscape, going through the motions of existence. Here they fought and struggled. Won and lost. Through it all the land was indifferent. The land survived. It always had and always would. Man came and went. Made his mark and died, but the land remained. Men were born from the land, ran their course and returned to the land in the end. It gave and it took back what was its own. Man had no say in that. The land was master. The land was life itself…
Epilogue
New Mexico – 1886
Lady Sarah Debenham shaded her eyes against the glare of the sun as she watched Jason Brand’s tall figure coming down the dusty slope. He still walked slowly as his body recovered from the bullet wound he had received during his struggle with the killer named Raven. It was over two months since that desperate confrontation with the hired assassin on the train. Raven’s bullet had gone in deep, and the doctor who had removed it had made it clear Brand needed a long rest. Even Frank McCord hadn’t been able to argue that point. Sarah had known some people in Galveston and she and Brand had gone there as soon as he was able to travel. Brand had gained strength quickly. His scarred body seemed to possess rapid healing powers. Once on his feet he had become restless, bored with the idle pace of life they were leading. Though he was still not fully recovered he had one day announced they were going on a trip. Days later, after a long train ride, they had arrived at a small town in New Mexico.
Sarah had noticed how withdrawn he had become on their arrival. He appeared preoccupied with some deep thoughts. The day after their arrival he had rented two horses, bought supplies, and they had ridden out to this silent and desolate place.
Brand hadn’t said where they were going, or why, and Sarah had instinctively known that he wanted her to wait for his explanation.
The simple wooden marker set on the top of a low hill explained it all. He had told her the story then, pointing out the barely-visible remains of the house below the hill. His family wasn’t actually buried beneath the marker. It had been over five years after the Comanche attack when he had returned to the site of the massacre. And their visit now was his first since then.
Sarah began to understand a little more about him. The story he told made her realize why he had become such a solitary figure. Even though they had become close, physically as well as mentally, Sarah had become aware of a detachment that prevented him getting too close. It had puzzled her before, but now she was able to understand a little better.
His family had been very close. After they had been taken from him in such a brutal way he had never allowed himself to get too attached to anyone. Not until he had married years later. Even that had ended in tragedy, his young wife dying in a terrible way. Since then Brand had refused to fall into the trap again. The knowledge hurt Sarah at first, but she took it as a challenge and she had too much spirit to quit.
Brand was unable to explain what had drawn him back to the place. He had just felt a need to return, and he had wanted Sarah along as well. He hadn’t planned to explain the background to his family tragedy. It had simply happened. But telling Sarah had been important to him.
So much had happened since that violent day. So many desperate years had slipped by. He had lost so much when his family died. A loss he could never hope to replace. Coming back had been a final attempt to recapture that which had been so wastefully destroyed. He found he was able to remember how they all looked. How they had sounded. He regretted that he had been unable to know them longer. But he did have his memories. He would always have those — and right now it was important to him.
‘You ready to go?’ Brand asked as he rejoined Sarah.
‘If you are.’
He nodded. ‘I’m ready,’ he said and helped her mount up.
‘Jason. Thank you for bringing me.’
He settled in his own saddle. For a moment he looked beyond her, to the marker on the hill. When he turned back to her there was a gentleness in his eyes she had never seen before.
‘Thanks for coming.’
He turned his horse away then, Sarah following him.
With their departure the silence returned, and it was as if they had never been. A wind blew in from the empty land. It stirred the dry brush and dusted the remains of what had been the walls of a house long ago. The wind curved up the low hill, rattling dust against the bleached wooden marker set in the earth. Then the wind drifted on, losing itself in the vastness of the wide land, leaving no trace of its passing.
Nothing had changed.
Nothing ever did…
READ MORE IN THE BRAND SERIES
By NEIL HUNTER
1: DAY OF THE SAVAGE
2: HARDCASE
3: LOBO
4: HIGH COUNTRY KILL
All Available from PICCADILLY PUBLISHING
Piccadilly Publishing
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