by Neil Hunter
Brand made his way back to the sheriff’s office. Found Toomey bent over paperwork. The lawman glanced up as Brand stepped inside the office.
‘How is he?’
Brand told him. Also about the man who had died. When he mentioned the man’s name Toomey recognized it.
‘Bartlett was a gun for hire from what I heard. You figure he was part of what you’re looking into?’
‘That’s what I need to find out.’
‘Word of advice?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Don’t ride into Cabot’s Creek with your eyes closed,’ Toomey said, making Brand aware of his suit. ‘It’s a nice enough town but it has a few more like Bartlet hanging around. Kind of a place where a man could go and hire a bunch of guns if he had a need.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’
‘Brand, you walk easy in Cabot’s Creek. There’s an element only too willing to cause trouble.’ Toomey managed a thin smile. ‘I ain’t exactly painted a welcoming picture for you.’
‘Little chance of anything but in my line of work,’ Brand said. ‘How do I get to this place?’
Cabot’s Creek lay to the west. A day’s ride from Valmont, over a seemingly endless spread of lush countryside. He made camp out in the open the previous night. Here the land began a long, slow rise where the prairie gave way to an irregular spread of slopes, dotted with grassy areas and a few streams. There was a thin scattering of timber. Brand saw wildlife in the immediate area. Deer. Jackrabbits. Prairie dogs. Birds flew in and around the tree branches. It was terrain Brand was not overly familiar with.
Feeling the rise of land under Lady’s hooves Brand began to notice tracks, where horses had passed. Some fresher than others. The most recent showed a pair of riders.
Before leaving Valmont Brand had removed his suit and dressed in worn range clothes. A plain dark gray shirt and washed-out Levi’s over a pair of sound, well-worn boots. He carried his holstered Colt, a spare behind the belt, leaving the adapted revolver in his saddlebags. His Winchester went into the scabbard on Lady’s right side. A sweat-marked hat completed his outfit. In a sheath sewn inside his right boot went the slim-bladed knife he always carried as a final backup weapon. In his pockets he carried his money and there were a half dozen slim black cigars in his shirt pocket along with a wrap of matches.
Brand was as prepared as he could be to present himself as little more than a passing stranger while he checked the town out.
He came into Cabot’s Creek late morning of the next day, watching a lowering sky. Clouds were slipping closer to his position and Brand felt a chill of wind coming in from the north. He turned up the collar of his shirt, hunching his shoulders against the cold. Weather had a habit of changing quickly. He topped a swell in the land and on the wide sweep below he saw the cluster of buildings that comprised Cabot’s Creek. The winding gleam of the wide stream that gave the settlement its name caught his eye.
On his way in he had passed scattered groups of cattle. Farmland as well
Brand guided Lady in towards the town. It had a solid, settled look to it. Pleasant looking in its aspect. Brand noticed a few moving figures on the main street. Actually the only street, running from east to west. He took his horse along it, buildings on either side, his eyes seeking a stable. It was at the west end of town. He eased Lady to the weathered open timber doors and eased out of the saddle, stretching the stiffness from his body. Leading Lady inside he looked around the shadowed interior, seeing at least eight stalled animals.
Brand picked up a shuffling sound coming from his left. Turned and saw a thin old man in washed out overalls making his way towards him.
‘I’d say you got inside in good time,’ the man said. His voice was as thin as he was. Accompanied by a raspy sound of labored breathing he gave his opinion. ‘We’ll have a storm on us any time.’
‘It was starting to blow a while ago.’
The stablemen wheezed a chuckle. ‘Hell, son, when she blows around here she really blows. Sometimes get those damn northers. All the way from Canady they say. Sending us their wind and rain I reckon.’
He took a look at Lady, nodding to himself as he stroked her neck. Lady, sensing his affinity, pushed gently against his hand.
‘You made a friend,’ Brand said.
‘She got a name?’
‘Lady.’
‘Fits her,’ the old man said. ‘Nice color too. You stayin’ around a while?’
‘Not sure yet.’ Brand followed the man along the stable and watched him fussing over Lady. ‘There law in this town?’
‘You runnin’ from it?’
‘No. I just like to get a feel for a place. Know what I might be up against.’
The stableman nodded. ‘Name’s Benjie. Short for Benjamin but I ain’t heard that for a long time. You got a name?’
‘Dan Pierce,’ Brand said. ‘From New Mexico a long spell back.’
‘Well Mr. Pierce, we don’t have a fulltime lawman. Lucas Breck—he runs the hardware store up the street—he does it when the necessary calls him out. Which ain’t too often. He might not look much but Breck is no shrinking violet if you know what I mean.’
‘Obliged for the information. There a telegraph in town?’
Benjie gave a toothy grin. ‘Over to the hardware store. Breck’s the official agent for that too.’
‘Sounds as if he’s a busy man.’
‘That’s the honest truth. He tends to local business. Cattlemen and farmers. Town ain’t all that big but she’s growin’.’
‘There any place I can get a meal?’
‘Head back up the street. Café called Nell’s Steakhouse. Does a nice…well I guess you can figure that out for yourself. I’ll settle your horse down and feed her.’
The old man set to tending to Lady, leaving Brand to his business.
Brand turned and followed the old man’s directions, noting the day losing some light as the storm clouds advanced. He found the café and pushed open the door. There were eight tables, only two were occupied. Brand took one in the back, sitting quietly until the waitress came from behind the counter. She was middle-aged, a faded blue gingham dress and a starched apron covering her solid figure.
‘Looks like you got inside just before the rain,’ she said.
‘Yes, ma’am. I’d like a cup of coffee.’
‘Food?’
‘Feller at the stable said you serve steaks.’
The woman’s face showed a smile that eased some of the tiredness from his features.
‘Benjie always tells customers the same thing, he likes his little joke.’
‘I ain’t about to break with tradition. Big steak and whatever goes with it.’
‘I’ll fetch your coffee while the meat fries.’
‘Grateful, ma’am. I ain’t et a cooked meal in a while.’
Brand tried not to overplay his role as a passing visitor. He took off his hat and dropped it on one the empty chairs.
There was a single customer at one of the tables, bent over his food with the manner of a man too absorbed in his own business to concern himself with others. The other table had two diners. They were eating as well, but one had thrown a couple of long glances Brand’s way. He muttered something to his partner. This one shrugged his bony shoulders and did not turn around.
Brand sensed a feeling of hostility coming at him. He figured it would be wise to stay alert but not push anything until he had good reason.
As long as that’s as far as it goes, Brand decided, I won’t take it further.
Wind buffeted the café’s window. Made the door rattle. Then fat raindrops slapped at the glass.
Brand tasted more of his coffee, enjoying the hot taste. From behind the counter he heard the sizzle of meat in the pan. By this time he was starting to feel hungry.
The interested customer looked his way again and Brand forced back the urge to challenge the man.
‘Steak will be ready in a few minutes,’ the woman said. ‘You ready for
more coffee?’
Brand nodded and the women moved to stand in front of him, pouring from the pot she was holding. As she blocked him from view Brand dropped his right hand and slipped off the hammer loop holding his Colt down.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
A minute later the single diner paid his bill and left, hunching against the wind as he exited.
The rain on the windows increased, bouncing against the glass. The woman glanced over her shoulder.
‘When it rains around here it really rains,’ she said. ‘I seen it like this before. It’ll set all night.’ She smiled. ‘You can see why we have such a good crop of grass out of town.’
‘There a place I can get a room?’ Brand said.
‘Turn left out the door. Keep on along this side of the street. Boarding house a few doors up. Ain’t a grand place but what can you expect in this burg.’
‘Grateful, ma’am.’
Chairs scraped as the two men stood and walked out quickly, banging the door behind them.
‘Glad all my customers aren’t like that pair,’ the woman said. ‘Ain’t but said more’n a few words since they come in.’
‘Passin’ through?’
The woman shrugged. ‘Well, I ain’t ever seen ’em afore yesterday when they showed up. Saw ’em on the boardwalk opposite talkin’ to another pair of newcomers. They rode out an’ the others just sort of hung around. Like they was waitin’ for someone.’
Brand found himself wondering who that might be.
A voice from behind the counter called out.
‘That’s my old man. Your steak’s done.’
She vanished from sight, leaving Brand to wonder about the pair of men. He was still thinking about them when she came back, carrying a loaded plate.
‘Enjoy your meal,’ she said, placing a fork and knife on the table
Steak that was almost the side of a cow. Fried onions and browned potatoes. A couple of fried eggs. The kind of meal a hungry man could appreciate.
While Brand ate, the woman busied herself clearing the vacated tables. Went away and came back again.
Outside the rain, driven by the rising wind, kept right on attacking the glass.
‘I figure one day those storms are going to just break through that window.’
Brand had been near to finishing his meal when the peace was broken.
The woman was crossing the floor, plates in her hands, when one of the windows did break, shattering and scattering pieces of glass across the floor. The woman let out a loud scream, dropping the plates she was carrying. They hit the floor and broke.
The shattered window had broken but the damage hadn’t been caused by driven wind and rain.
Brand had heard the crack of a shot, saw the lance of flame from a gun muzzle. And he heard the thud of the bullet striking the wall behind and just over his head. Felt the prickle of wood splinters against his neck as he snatched out his gun coming up out of his chair, taking hold of the woman’s arm and moving her to the far wall before he headed for the door. He reached it and pulled it open, staring through the wind-driven rain along the street.
In the gloom of the rainstorm, shadows crisscrossing the street, he saw a moving figure heading away from the café. The figure was blurred, a wavering shape distorted by the rain. The gleam of a pistol in his hand.
Brand raised his own gun.
At the same moment the man paused, half-turning. He took a wild shot that burned the air inches away from Brand, who brought his own weapon into play, held in both hands to steady his aim. He returned fire, dogging back the hammer quickly to loose off a second shot. The bark of the .45 was almost drowned by the wind-driven downpour. Brand couldn’t be certain but he was sure he saw his target stumble, regain his balance and move on again, vanishing in the mist of rain.
‘Stay inside,’ he said to the woman. ‘Away from the window.’
He took off in pursuit of the fleeing shooter, spotting the limping figure, ignoring the downpour and the tug of the wind as he went off the boardwalk. Up ahead the shooter was still moving. Slowed because he had taken one of Brand’s bullets in his left leg and it was holding him back.
Brand splashed through the water collecting on the street, feeling the suck of mud on his boots. He sleeved rain from his face, brushed back his soaked hair.
Then he saw the man, closer now. The wound was hampering him. As Brand lessened the distance the man stumbled and caught himself against the wall of a building, throwing out his left hand to steady himself. He twisted his body and pulled his sagging gun on line, lining it on Brand’s approaching figure.
Hell no, Brand thought, you had your chance, you sonofabitch.
He leveled his Colt, acting more on impulse, and put two fast shots into the man. They struck his chest, rolling him along the side of the building before he pitched face down in the mud. His forgotten pistol flew from his grip.
Brand stayed where he was, scanning the way ahead. The man had a partner. The pair had left the café together.
So where was he?
Standing in the middle of the street Brand offered an easy target. He stared through the gloom. Saw no movement. Heard no sound above the wind and rain.
Until the bulky shape of horse and rider showed. Way ahead of Brand. Going in the opposite direction. He saw the shape disappear in the distance. Vanish from his sight.
Staying where he was Brand shucked the used hulls from his Colt and reloaded. He did it automatically, barely glancing down as he did. Only when he was fully armed again did he advance, taking cautious steps until he could stand over the man he had brought down. He rolled him onto his back. Recognized him as one of the pair from the café.
He stood, trying to make some kind of sense out of the sudden change of events. The attack he had just thwarted had come from men he didn’t know.
So what had brought it on?
Had they known who he was?
Were they involved with what had happened to McCord?
Brand considered the question that asked if his attackers knew Ty Hawkins. If they did it might go towards answering some of his questions. He regretted having killed the man at his feet, but only because he might have been a source of information. Able to give Brand the reason for the attempt on his life. The man’s partner had gone, leaving Brand with too many unanswered questions.
Shouts filtered through the hard rain.
Muffled.
Questioning.
Brand sensed people moving up behind him. He ignored the raised voices. Right then he didn’t have the patience to answer.
Earlier - McCord’s kidnapping.
Cleve Ule hipped around in the saddle, checking the back trail again. Dawn was already thinning the darkness. Given that he figured they were getting close to their destination. He wouldn’t be sorry when that happened. The long ride had been through a chill night and Cleve was ready for a meal and a chance to rest.
Across from him he made out the shadowed outlines of his two partners.
The heavy bulk of Lem Kyle, hunched over in his saddle, swathed in his thick buffalo coat.
Bringing up the rear was Stan Kyle, Lem’s brother. Youngest member of the group. A quick-to-anger individual who favored a matched pair of .45 caliber Peacemakers he was always cleaning whenever the chance arose. Slim to the point of emaciation, his face hollow-cheeked, a thin mustache adorning his upper lip.
And hemmed in by the trio was Frank McCord, silent and grim. The man they had taken from the coach in the early evening. Since being taken he had not uttered a word, sitting his horse in silence. Head covered by the hood that prevented him from identifying his surroundings, he had accepted his position and made no kind of struggle to break free. Ule held the rope that led McCord’s horse.
At this time they were pushing through a wide swath of timber, with a stretch of green pasture showing where the trees faded away. As they emerged they saw a half-mile distant their destination. The cluster of once well-maintained buildings of a farm. N
eglected fencing delineated the edge of the property and after they had ridden across the wide meadow and pushed through the side gate allowing access, they headed for the main house. Light showed behind the windows of the house. Once white and green, the windows were framed by shutters. Behind and to the sides were outbuildings. A large barn. Stables. A corral close by. All displaying neglect.
As they drew rein a man stepped out of the front door and stood on the wide, covered veranda, watching them.
‘Any problems?’ he said.
Ule shook his head. ‘Went fine.’
The man indicated the hood over McCord’s head and Ule yanked it off. McCord blinked his eyes against the light, stared down at the man on the verandah.
‘Morning, Frank,’ the man said. ‘Forgive me not addressing you how you expect. Only I don’t work for you any longer. Remember. You fired me from your precious department.’
His name was Ty Hawkins.
McCord found he was not all that surprised at seeing Hawkins. He had been trying to work out the reason behind his kidnap all through the long ride. Ty Hawkins’ name had come up a few times. He had not forgotten the man’s bitter reaction when McCord had dismissed him from the department. Being on the property, with enough of The Farm’s staff around, had offered Hawkins little chance to do more than make his anger verbal and in the end he had gathered his personal gear and ridden out, staying clear until his later nighttime visit when he had broken into McCord’s personal office.
Hawkins recollected his outburst when McCord had fired him. He had allowed his anger to spill over. He had been accused of betraying McCord’s trust and the man’s evidence was too strong for him to cover up. At the door, turning, Hawkins had offered his parting gift.
‘This ain’t over, McCord. I promise you that. No man makes me walk out like this. I’ll see you in Hell.’
McCord had stared at the man he had trusted as one of his operatives, only to have that trust betrayed. The sight of Hawkins saddened him more than it angered him.
‘Get him down off that horse and bring him inside,’ Hawkins said.