by Neil Hunter
Ule, grinning with self-importance, freed the ropes securing McCord to his saddle. He took hold of McCord’s coat and hauled him roughly off the horse. McCord’s legs were stiff from the long ride and he almost fell. Ule pulled him upright and pushed him towards the veranda steps.
‘Easy with him, Cleve,’ Hawkins said. ‘We wouldn’t want to hurt him.’
‘Yeah?’ Ule said. ‘Left to me I’d lay a gun barrel across his damn skull.’
‘It isn’t up to you,’ Hawkins said. ‘Not much point in bringing him all the way here just to crack his skull. Well, not right away…’
McCord was taken inside the house, under the guns of his escorts and pushed into a large room containing little in the way of furnishings. He was pushed into a leather armchair facing the main window. Early light brightened the room, showing the scant furnishings. A large desk stood in front of the window.
A silent figure stood near the stone fireplace, one hand resting on the butt of a holstered pistol. A tall, wide-shouldered man who looked as hard as his build suggested. He was dressed in somber black, his oddly pale face impassive as he stared across the room at McCord.
‘This is Mr. Treece,’ Hawkins said. ‘He doesn’t say much. Just stands and watches. Right now he’ll be watching you, Frank. Very closely, so don’t try any reckless moves.’ He turned to the men who had escorted McCord from Washington. ‘You know where the kitchen is. Go fix yourselves food and drink. And someone bring a cup of coffee for our guest.’
Hawkins leaned against the edge of the desk, fingers hooked in his belt. A faint smile edged his lips.
‘I recall having to face you across your desk, Frank, while you gave your orders. You always did enjoy being the big man.’
‘That the way you see it?’
‘Damn right. Mr. Frank McCord, the high and mighty mucky-muck. Do this, go there, follow my rules. Well, I got sick to my stomach having to run around for you.’
‘So you decided to run things your own way. Bribes. Stealing. Turning yourself into no more than the kind of cheap criminal you were supposed to be chasing.’
Hawkins laughed, the sound harsh and edged with bitterness.
‘Cheap? No, Frank, I’m better than that. Smarter. You think bringing you here is for some kind of revenge? Well, hell, I guess that comes in somewhere but it’s not the main reason. Frank, you’re here because I’m going to use you to help me to get my hands on the biggest payoff any one of us will ever see.’
‘There’s no quick solution to this, Frank,’ Hawkins said. ‘No sending one of your men out to deal with it. You are on your own. That little band of paid killers you command can’t help you. With no one in charge they’ll be running around like headless chickens. By God, this is priceless. No rescue for you, mister. No last minute reprieve.’
McCord didn’t respond. He saw no profit in challenging Hawkins. The man was enjoying his moment, and maybe he had the right. He was in charge of the situation. Crowing over his achievement. Basking in his success.
I’ll be damned if I’m going to let him make me angry.
The door opened and Lem Kyle came in, carrying a wooden tray. It held a steaming pot and a couple of mugs. He placed it on the desk and stood back.
‘He behaving?’ he said.
‘He’s playing the silent martyr,’ Hawkins said. He poured coffee and handed McCord a mug. ‘Go ahead, Frank. It isn’t poisoned.’
McCord took the mug and tasted the strong brew.
‘Our friend just showed up,’ Lem Kyle said.
‘Nice timing. I was getting bored trying to make conversation with Frank. Maybe she’ll have better luck.’
Lem Kyle turned and walked out, moving to one side as a figure stepped into the room.
An attractive woman in her early thirties. Dressed in a dark riding habit that emphasized her blonde hair. She held a gray Stetson in her left hand. A braided leather quirt in her right, tapping it restlessly against her thigh.
Her name was Beth Arling.
‘I hope you’re not going to give us any trouble, Mr. McCord. It wouldn’t give me any pleasure to have to turn Mr. Treece loose on you.’
‘Should I know you?’ McCord said.
Arling smiled. ‘Not particularly, but you will.’ She glanced at Treece. ‘Take him upstairs. Make sure he’s secure until we’re ready to have our little talk with him.’
Treece stepped forward, impassive, still resting his hand on his holstered pistol. He took McCord’s arm and made him stand. McCord allowed himself to be led from the room. Treece took him across the hall and up the stairs. He opened a door and pushed McCord into a small, dark room. It was clear of any kind of furnishings. When Treece closed the door and locked it McCord found himself in near darkness. The shutters on the window had been closed and secured.
Nowhere to sit.
No light.
Isolated.
And with no idea what was going on. Frank McCord was used to facing puzzles in his capacity as head of his department. This time round he had no clue to even begin working out why he had been taken.
The presence of the blonde woman only added another strand to an already confusing puzzle.
McCord shuffled through the shadows until his outstretched hands touched one of the walls. He felt his way to a corner, put his back to it and slid to the floor. He made himself as comfortable as he could, folding his arms across his chest and made his first attempt at trying to figure out what was going on.
Ty Hawkins.
The woman.
There had to be a connection to bring them together.
McCord wanted the answer to that—and also why he was somehow involved.
The Present
Lucas Breck, the law in Cabot’s Creek, was in his early forties. A solid, earnest-face man. Average height, with a little flesh on his bones. He moved easily and Brand didn’t take him for a small town man playing at being the local law.
In the surprisingly neat office that served his business and also Cabot Creek’s marshal, Brand waited for Breck to continue the speech he had started when he had confronted him standing over the body. Cabot Creek’s lawman had managed to pull on a long oilskin before leaving his store. He had carried a Greener in his big hands, managing to make the shotgun appear smaller than it actually was. He hadn’t pointed the weapon directly at Brand. His confident stance warned Brand not to be fooled.
‘You know him?’ Breck said, peering down at the body.
‘Saw him for the first time in Nell’s Steakhouse. Him and his partner were eating when I went in. I was having my meal when they walked out. Didn’t pay ’em much mind at the time. Next I knew one of ’em threw a shot through the window. Slug hit the wall over my head. I took off after ’em. Laid a shot in the feller out there and followed. He braced me here in the street and we kind of went at it. Other feller forked his horse and took off before I could get a shot off…’
Breck stood and crossed to the stove where a coffee pot blew steam. He filled a pair of china mugs, handing one to Brand as he returned to sit behind his desk. Brand put down the towel he had been using to dry his hair and took the coffee.
‘Troubles me that you claim no knowledge of this feller yet he ups and starts shooting at you. Has to be a reason why. Don’t make sense otherwise. You agree?’
Brand nodded. He understood Breck’s point. He was asking the questions any competent lawman would.
‘There’s a reason. Might not make much sense unless I explain it.’
‘You tell it, friend. I don’t know that feller either so we got that in common at least. And anything that saves me from going out in that rain is purely welcome.’
Listening to the heavy drum of sound on the roof Brand had to agree. He drank from his mug, debating, and reached a decision. He was judging Breck to be an honest man. Without guile.
‘I need to send a telegram,’ Brand said.
An hour later Marshal Breck had his answers. He sat back rereading the buff paper he had deciphered hi
mself. Staring over the edge at Brand.
‘Last thing I would have imagined you to be was a lawman. You don’t look like one. Son, I seen better dressed cowhands.’
‘Idea was to stay in the background while I looked for the people who kidnapped my boss. Can’t say it’s worked out too well.’
‘Like you say. How’d they figure who you are?’
‘Could be they’re smarter than I figured.’
‘Mebbe this Hawkins feller put the word out.’
‘Too much a coincidence Hawkins being fired, then McCord being kidnapped,’ Brand said.
‘Getting his revenge?’
‘Crossed my mind.’
‘You figured why they took this McCord hombre?’
‘Been thinking on that too. Has to be more than the fact McCord fired Hawkins. If it was just to get some kind of revenge why not just shoot him. Would be simpler than all this that’s going on. Just saying.’
‘Have to admit that. Been to a lot of trouble just to take hold of your Mr. McCord.’
Breck eased out of his seat and crossed to the stove. He refilled his coffee, held out the pot for Brand.
‘Can’t see there being much but you got my help if you need it.’
‘Appreciate that, Marshal.’
‘Call me Lucas.’
‘Jason.’
There was more than a lingering confusion in Brand’s mind concerning McCord’s kidnap. He had already had to face down attacks from hostile guns. From men he didn’t know but who appeared ready to kill him. He was trying to make the connection.
It eluded him. But Ty Hawkins was in there somewhere.
Truth be told Brand was only concerned with getting McCord back alive and well at that moment. That was the important thing. He owed McCord a debt that was hard to ignore.
The man had walked into Brand’s life at a critical moment, with an offer that was to change everything.
McCord’s offer had come at a time in Brand’s life when he was, if not exactly lost, at least drifting. Dismissed from the US Marshal Service, Brand found he was existing in a vacuum. With his dismissal from the service he had found himself in the business of hiring out his gun for money. Not something he had planned for his life. At the time it filled the vacuum and he was more than proficient at his trade. Yet hadn’t he been doing just that when he wore a badge? Tracking men who had broken the law in various ways. The day he met Frank McCord heralded a big change for Brand. McCord had spelled it out in no uncertain terms. He headed a group within the Justice Department separate from the normal law operations. McCord was responsible to the President and the Attorney General and no one else. Rule books were dismissed. The men who worked for McCord did so with impunity, carrying out their assignments by their own hand, and reported to McCord alone. He gave them free rein, allowing them to make their own decisions. He backed them all the way, even if they stretched the rule of law. He was a hard man to work for, sometimes a difficult man, but he covered his anonymous operatives without hesitation. Tough, infuriating, yet there was a caring side to him that was seldom allowed to show through. Brand had clashed with him on more than one occasion. Despite their sometime differences, Brand had a great deal of respect for the man who had given him a second chance. Right now their roles were reversed and it was Brand’s turn to reach out and bring McCord back into the fold. Something he was willing to do without a moment of doubt, or hesitation.
He just hoped it was not too little and not too late.
Dressed in somber black, Cabot’s Creek’s undertaker stepped into the office, nodding at Brand as he placed a folded neckerchief on Breck’s desk.
‘Expected you might want to look at the possessions of that deceased man,’ he said.
Breck thanked him and the man left the office. The marshal opened the cloth and he and Brand examined the contents.
‘Not much for a man to leave behind,’ Breck said.
There was not a great deal. A little cash. Paper money and coins. Tobacco and rolling papers. A folded, creased document. Clasp knife. The remainders of a man’s life.
Brand picked up the paper and opened it. Read the handwritten details. Breck noticed his concentration.
‘What is it?’
Brand passed the sheet of paper to him.
‘You know it?’ Brand said.
‘Yeah. The old Crossley place. Been sitting empty since Vern Crossley died. Used to be a busy place but Vern allowed it to fall apart after his wife passed away. Good farm. Had some nice stock as well but Vern lost heart and his money ran out. Since he died the outfit kind of went under. Place has been empty since then. Couple of years now. Crew gone. No stock left. Just a house and a piece of land.’
‘So why would anyone rent it out for a month. Not enough time to bring the place back to life.’
Breck reread the written document, shook his head. ‘I never heard of Jerry Buckman. Stranger to me. Far as I recall no one from Cabot’s Creek.’
‘How far from town?’
‘Take almost a good day to ride out there. You thinking it might be worth a visit?’
‘Feller who tried to shoot me has the rental document in his pocket. Makes me curious if nothing else. Heading on the paper says Johansen Real Estate.’
‘Office is along the street. You think we should go see the man?’
Brand did, so he and Breck made their way along to the business premises. Asa Johansen was a tall, blond haired man in his thirties, curious to see the newcomer walking with Marshal Breck.
‘Good day, Marshal,’ Johansen said.
‘Time you started calling me Lucas. How long we known each other now?’
‘A good few years. But a man of your position should be respected.’
‘You see what I have to put up with?’
Breck showed the document to Johansen. The real realtor read it.
‘Yes, this comes from here.’
‘You made the deal on this?’ Brand said.
Johansen glanced at Brand. Looked him up and down.
‘Don’t be fooled by how he’s dressed, Asa. Mr. Brand is a lawman. He needs to know about the man who rented the Crossley place.’
‘Almost two weeks ago. His name was Buckman. He told me he was considering moving into the area. Needed a place to work from while he looked the range over and the Crossley place would be ideal. He offered a cash deal so I took it. Have I done something wrong?’
Brand shook his head. ‘No, Mr. Johansen, nothing wrong from where I’m standing.’
‘Glad to hear that.’
‘Asa, you heard gunfire a while ago?’
‘Yes.’ He paused, glancing between Brand and Breck. ‘Was it anything to do with this man Buckman?’
‘He’s dead. He attempted to shoot me earlier. He didn’t make it,’ Brand said. ‘I’m making connections between him and the investigation I’m working on.’
‘Hell, I hope I haven’t done anything unlawful.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Asa. Thanks for your cooperation. Let you know how this pans out later.’
They left the office and returned to the jail.
‘I have the feeling we kind of upset his day,’ Brand said.
‘He still got paid,’ Breck said, ‘so it isn’t all bad news.’
Brand crossed to look at the map pinned to the wall behind Breck’s desk.
‘Show me how to get to the Crossley place.’
‘If you ride out later you’ll make it by dawn tomorrow. I’d go with you but my authority only goes as far as the town limits.’
‘No problem, Lucas. I go where the job takes me.’
‘Well you got some fine country to ride through.’
‘Country doesn’t worry me,’ Brand said. ‘It’s the people in it who cause the problems.’
‘You sure this is going to work?’ Ty Hawkins said.
‘Time will tell,’ Beth Arling said. ‘Pieces are falling into place. We simply need to draw them together.’
‘Talk is easy.’
/>
Arling smiled, reaching out to stroke his cheek. ‘So tense, Mr. Hawkins. Take a little time to step back. It will allow you to see things a lot clearer.’
She crossed the room and helped herself to a tumbler of whisky.
The door opened and Treece came into the room. He nodded in Arling’s direction.
‘Consider the positive side,’ Arling said. ‘We have Frank McCord locked away. He is going to help us locate that cache of diamonds the army recovered following the demise of the late Luchino Trattori’s men. It was unfortunate Trattori suffered a similar fate. But not before he and I had concluded a successful financial deal. That money set me up in Nevada and the west coast. Getting our hands on those diamonds will give us even greater financial security.’
‘It’s not going to be that easy,’ Hawkins said.
‘It’s a challenge. I’ve been facing them since I was made an orphan child. I never look back and the possibility of failure is something I don’t believe in.’
‘No hurry,’ Treece said. ‘We let McCord think about it overnight. He can sleep on it. Come morning we can ask him again.’
Breck had not been wrong about the country Brand was riding through. Plenty of timber and grassland. Green and restful. A total difference to some of the sun-parched terrain he knew of further west. It made his ride restful. Brand appreciated it. His work for McCord took him to situations that were far from restful. Not that he complained. It was the life he had chosen, with the problems associated with it. Of the hard, very often violent kind. They came with the territory. Since he had been involved with Victoria Maitland he had experienced the other side of life. The calmer, saner kind of existence that he was learning to enjoy. With the appearance of Adam, his son, Brand’s life had become fuller. It made him look to the future and imagine what it might hold for him if he walked away from how he lived now.
Jason Brand had walked the dark streets for most of his life. From the day his family had been killed by raiding Comanches, his sister taken, Brand knew hardship. His struggle to rescue his sister had not ended well. She had died at the hands of the Comanche, Three Finger. It had been the start of the life Brand was to know and over the intervening years he had adapted to it. There were times he hated it, but no matter which way he turned it seemed he was destined never to escape. It hardened him. Pushed him to accept it and make the most of it. When events involved him he stayed with them, coping by utilizing the skills he had acquired and always came back when his duty called.