by Neil Hunter
The Attorney General allowed a faint smile to curl his lips.
‘He gives you a hard time?’
‘Let’s say it’s not all roses.’
‘With McCord I’m not surprised. He expects his people to work hard and get results. From what he’s told me that’s what he gets from you.’
‘That almost sounds like praise.’
The Attorney General picked up a thin file from his desk and passed it across. When Brand opened it he found no more than two handwritten pages.
‘A week ago McCord fired one of his men. The details are in there. Ty Hawkins was one of McCord’s operatives. The man had fallen into deep debt over gambling. He had, it turned out, been blackmailing people in order to feed his gambling habit. To add to the problem he has a list of other operatives and staff at The Farm. It appears he had broken into McCord’s office. McCord discovered his files had been gone through. Frank suspects information may have been discovered. Some details of other agents.’
‘Day I was recruited McCord said there was little or no paperwork on our people. That changed?’
‘Then it was true. But not now. Frank had no choice. The order came directly from the President’s office. He had to compile a dossier on active members of the department. The President felt he needed to have that information. Frank had to obey the President’s request.’
‘I’m guess he’s regretting that request now,’ Brand said.
‘He realizes his mistake and wants to make up for it.’ The Attorney General cleared his throat. ‘With Frank having gone missing he’s given me carte blanche to resolve this. No questions asked.’
‘I have a question,’ Brand said. ‘Is there photographic evidence of myself and the others with that list?’
‘No. Just a brief biography of each man.’
‘That’s all I need to hear,’ Brand said. ‘Are we figuring McCord’s disappearance and his firing of Hawkins are tied together?’
‘Frank told me Hawkins threatened him when he dismissed him. Said McCord had made the biggest mistake in his life and he would soon find out why.’
‘I figure you’ll be telling me my next assignment is to go after this feller.’
The Attorney General nodded. ‘I already advised the President I would be putting you on the case as McCord’s best chance of coming out of this alive.’
‘I don’t know whether to thank you, or consider myself having a bad day.’
‘McCord never told me you had a modest side.’
‘You going to let me in on what this Hawkins feller did?’
‘When you joined McCord told you he would back you down the line if you stayed within his boundaries. You sail close to the wind on occasions, but get the job done. Hawkins didn’t. He started to overstep the line. To make things worse McCord began to hear he had been stepping well over that line. Took bribes. Handouts, and worked some shady deals. It got to the point where complaints were reaching the ears of certain parties who want to close down this department. You know our greatest ally is the President. He’s spoken to me on a couple of occasions about the complaints and made it clear he’s in a difficult position because of the things he’d heard.’
‘Hawkins made any demands?’
‘Not as such yet, but we can’t ignore the possibility. The President is keeping a close watch on the outcome. Unless we clean house we could all be out of a job. Hell, Brand, it’s more than that. Frank’s department has done everything it’s been asked of it. I’m damned if I’ll let one rotten apple spoil it for the rest. I expect, as does McCord, the best from my people because up until now they’ve been the best…’
‘That was almost a compliment.’
‘Well don’t hold your breath for another one. Just drop anything you might have and devote yourself to cleaning up this damned mess.’
‘You have anything I can use to make a start?’
‘I do…there’s man you need to meet…’
The staging point of Valmont was Brand’s starting point.
And Vern Winslow. That was all the Attorney General had for him.
The place existed alongside the twin steel rails of the railroad that cut across the Virginia landscape. A wind stirred the dust and made a soft sound as Brand stepped from the train and walked back down the warped platform where goods were being unloaded. He waited impatiently as the last car was opened and a ramp slid into place. Lady, his paint horse was led out, clattering down the ramp. The horse recognized his tall, black clad figure and turned in towards him, a soft sound coming from her. Brand took the reins, handed the handler a couple of dollars.
‘Nice pony,’ the man said.
‘She’ll do,’ Brand said.
Lady swung her head around to stare at him, lips curling.
‘Now, don’t you start getting all huffy with me,’ Brand warned.
He swung his saddlebags and possibles sack into position and secured them. His Winchester went into the saddle boot. Brand led the horse to the end of the platform and swung into the saddle.
The settlement was more of a staging post than a real town. It lay behind the station, its single street bisecting the buildings either side. Brand could feel the heat radiating from a cloudless sky. It was mid-morning and promising to be a warm day. Brand rode in along the street, observing the wagons waiting outside a large, unpainted feed store. There were a number of similar establishments and more than one general store. Valmont was there to supply the farms and cattle ranches that dotted the area. The business places outnumbered the houses. Most owners lived behind or above their premises. No one paid him much attention as he made his way towards the functional hotel about midway along the street.
The Valmont Hotel boasted ornately decorated windows set either side of the doors. Brand tied Lady to the hitch-rail, took his rifle and stepped up on the plank walkway. The wind tugged at his coat, dust following him inside the lobby. He crossed to the desk. Rapped his knuckles on the counter.
‘You ever get the feeling today is going to be just the same as yesterday?’
The question was posed by the woman who stepped out from the office behind the desk. Early thirties, slim and with an attractive face and piled up auburn hair. She regarded Brand through eyes that had experienced a great deal. She took her time, leaning forward slightly to get a better view of his tall figure, dark suit and travel-wrinkled shirt. The gunbelt and holster around his waist and the .45 caliber Colt, plus the rifle he carried, told her he was no salesman come to peddle his wares.
‘Should be a room booked for me. Name of Brand.’
The woman scanned the open register on the desk, nodding to herself.
‘And there you are, Mr. Brand. Booking’s open. You expecting to stay in Valmont for long?’
‘Hard to say at the moment. Maybe, mebbe not.’
She reached behind her and took a tagged key from the board, placing it in front of him.
‘Room three. Looks out over the main street. Not that there’s a lot to see. I won’t say it’s the best in the house ’cause all the rooms are the same.’
‘Be fine,’ Brand said.
‘My, then you must be easily satisfied, Mr. Brand.’
‘You have a town marshal?’
‘Are you expecting to break the law, Mr. Brand?’
‘I just like to be aware of my options.’
A slight smile edged her lips.
‘Billy Toomey is the resident marshal. Out the door and turn left. You’ll see his office on the other side of the street. Anything else I can help you with?’
‘The Ace of Clubs Saloon?’
‘Directly across from Toomey’s office. Can’t miss it. It’s the only one in Valmont.’
‘Handy for the marshal.’
‘Isn’t it. Are you anticipating problems, Mr. Brand?’
‘Anticipation is half the solution.’
Her smile widened. ‘It seems you may have read a book, Mr. Brand.’
‘Even finished a couple.’
&n
bsp; Her gentle laugh was a pleasant sound.
Brand took up his key and headed for the stairs. The room was better than expected. Basic in its amenities, but no worse than he had experienced before. He dropped his gear on the bed, tossed his hat and coat alongside. He tipped water from the jug on the nightstand and sluiced his face. The rasp of his unshaven jaw made a visit to the local barbershop a definite. As he dried his face, standing at the window, he watched the locals passing by. Valmont was a little town on the middle of nowhere. Brand hoped it remained as peaceful as it looked. Glancing down he saw Lady standing patiently at the rail. First thing was to get her stabled.
Dressed he left his room, the Winchester still on the bed. He had checked his pistol. Making sure it was secure in its holster. He slipped off the hammer loop. No point being too easygoing. The Colt Special that Whitehead, the armorer at The Farm, had created for him was still in his saddlebags for the time being. The desk was empty when he passed through. At the hitch rail he freed the reins, caught the attention of a passerby and asked for the livery. Leading Lady he headed for the establishment, took her inside, off saddled and arranged with the stableman to have her looked after, fed and watered.
The Ace of Clubs had a painted front and gold-leafed windows. Someone took pride in the place. When he stepped through the batwing-doors they swung on oiled hinges. Inside the saloon appeared well ordered. Long bar, a number of tables and chairs with a faro set up against the far wall. A pair of aproned figures stood behind the polished counter. Brand noticed a sprinkling of fresh sawdust on the floor and the brass spittoons had a healthy shine to them. At this time of day there was only a handful of customers. Brand crossed to the bar and ordered himself a beer.
All Brand knew about Vern Winslow was he had given McCord information on a number of occasions before and had always proved reliable. He was an unofficial dealer in information. Winslow worked on his own and from what Brand had learned, the man could dig out information when no one else could. So when he got his orders Brand had traveled to Valmont to meet the man because that was where Winslow had spotted his man .
Winslow had a seat facing the entrance—he was easily recognizable from the description Brand had been given. A lean, sandy-haired, handsome man sporting a drooping mustache beneath a nose that had been broken on more than one occasion. His clothes were plain and well-worn. Functional. There was a large beer glass on the table in front of him and he raised it briefly when Brand acknowledged him. Ordering a drink at the bar Brand picked up his beer, crossed the room and took a seat facing Winslow.
‘Hawkins was here yesterday,’ Winslow said. ‘He was gone when I woke up. Slipped away real smooth.’ He regarded Brand for a moment. ‘You’d know that him being one of you fellers. Your job to work soft and quiet.’
‘That’s what they tell me.’
Winslow swallowed half his beer. Wiped the back of his hand across his mustache.
‘Guess it don’t sit well what happened to McCord.’
‘It doesn’t.’
It made no difference how Brand felt. If the man he was looking for had chosen to move all he could do was try and pick up the trail.
‘There something special about this town?’ Brand said.
‘Only if you’re a farmer or a cattleman.’ Winslow toyed with his beer glass, picked it up and swallowed what was left.
‘Hawkins meet up with anyone?’
‘If he did it got by me. All I can tell you is he was here, then he wasn’t. Kind of sits in my craw he slipped away from me.’
‘Could he have spotted you?’
‘Mebbe.’ Winslow shrugged his shoulders in a resigned manner. ‘Never claimed to be perfect.’
Brand managed a bleak smile. ‘Happens to us all. So you heard what happened to McCord?’
Winslow nodded. ‘Had a telegram from your place. I’m guessing you’ve had no more news?’
‘No.’
They finished their beer.
‘First call is the telegraph office,’ Brand said. ‘I need to find out if there’s any news.’
The news from the Justice Department offered them no further information, but the reception they got when they stepped out was more than they had been expecting.
Winslow was a step behind as they left the telegraph office.
Brand only partially heard him. His concentration was focused on the trio of armed figures stepping out from an alley a few doors down from the saloon. There was no mistaking their intention, weapons rising as Brand and Winslow appeared. Shots thundered in the air, slugs missing them by fractions and thudding into the building just behind them. There was little time to do anything but turn around, Brand’s shoulder slamming into Winslow and pushing him aside. Brand felt a slug burn close as he sank to a crouch, clawing his Colt from leather, hammer clicking back as he brought the pistol on line. He leveled on a target and triggered a shot. Saw his slug hit home and knock a man backwards into his partners. In the confusion Brand aimed and fired again, a slug slamming into a second man’s chest. He fell back with a harsh grunt, dropping his weapon and gripping his body with both hands. Brand turned sideways on, thinning his outline, and turned his aim at the third attacker as the man began to pull back. Two-fisted he fired off a pair of shots that hammered the man’s chest and throat, dropping him where he stood.
Brand heard Winslow groan from where he lay on the street. He crouched beside the man and saw a mess of blood soaking Winslow’s shirt front. Winslow stared up at Brand, face pale, unable to speak.
People were gathering, recovering from the shock of the sudden violence.
‘Somebody go get help,’ Brand said. ‘You got a doctor here?’
‘Doc Statler,’ somebody said. ‘I’ll fetch him.’
Voices posed questions.
‘What happened?’
‘Who was shot?’
Brand ignored the questions. He was more concerned over Winslow and who had attacked them.
‘All right, everyone stand away. Give me room.’
The owner of the commanding voice was a solid, thick-bodied man in his early forties. A lined face and a heavy mustache, he regarded Brand with a suspicious attitude. He wore a holstered pistol on his left side and carried a double-barreled shotgun in his big hands. He looked from Brand to the attackers, then back to Winslow. He pushed back the high-crowned hat and let go a deep sigh.
‘Somebody better have a righteous explanation for this slaughter,’ he said. ‘This has turned my pleasant day around and I ain’t particularly happy about it.’
It was Brand’s introduction to Marshal Bill Toomey.
Winslow and one of the shooters, wounded but still alive, had been carried off to the town doctor’s office. The dead were now in the care of the local undertaker and Brand was seated across from Toomey in the man’s office. He held a mug of the coffee the lawman had offered and waited while Toomey fired up a long, thick cigar, blowing thick clouds of aromatic smoke towards the ceiling. Toomey had offered one of the cigars to Brand who took it for later use.
On Toomey’s desk lay a buff-colored telegram flimsy. It was the reply to Brand’s message to Washington, bringing him up to date with events and asking for a confirmation of Brand’s status. Toomey had read and re-read the message before visibly relaxing in front of Brand.
‘Justice Department, huh? You some kind of US Marshal?’
‘Something like that,’ Brand said.
Toomey realized he wasn’t about to get anything better so he quit.
‘I ain’t ever seen any of those fellers you tangled with. Dead, or alive. You know ’em.’
‘No.’
‘So why were they gunning for you? ‘
‘One of the questions I need an answer to.’
Toomey considered that. ‘This kind of thing happen often?’
‘Has been known.’
‘Comes with the job?’
Brand nodded, stood and crossed to the window. It gave him a clear view of the street. Right now it was the
only clear thing he could see. He was thinking about Hawkins and his earlier visit to Valmont.
To meet a contact?
A connection to something bigger?
Hawkins had stolen information from McCord. Was he attempting to sell it? To gain an advantage over McCord’s organization?
‘The name Hawkins mean anything?’ he said. ‘Ty Hawkins?’
Toomey shook his head. ‘Not a name I’m familiar with. This got to do with why you came to Valmont?’
‘Following up on a lead. Mind if I ask around town?’
‘Feel free,’ Toomey said. ‘Anything else I can do you just holler.’
‘Seems I already caused enough upset in town, so I’ll try and keep things peaceable.’
‘You do what you need to.’
‘I’ll go and see how Winslow is doing first.’
Doc Statler, a pleasant man in his thirties, led Brand through to the rear of his surgery. Winslow was stretched out on a medical couch, his shoulder partially bandaged. He stared at Brand through weary eyes, face pale and bloodless.
‘You always bring good things to the party?’ he said as he recognized his visitor.
‘Not by choice.’ Brand turned to Statler. ‘What’s the word, doc?’
‘He was lucky. Bullet didn’t break any bone. I managed to take it out without too much trouble. But it’s going to take time to heal.’
‘Anything he needs, doc. You’ll be covered.’
‘What he needs is rest,’ Statler said. ‘Starting now.’
Brand nodded. ‘What about the other feller?’
‘He didn’t fare so well. Died soon after we brought him in.’
‘Les Bartlet,’ Winslow said.
‘You know him?’
Winslow nodded. ‘Do now I had a look at his face. Part of a bunch from over Cabot Creek way. Go talk to Toomey. He can tell you about them.’
Winslow closed his eyes as if the effort of speaking tired him. Doc Statler touched Brand’s arm and they left Winslow, returning to the front office.
‘Like I said he needs rest.’
‘Thanks, doc.’