Jason Brand’s anger was directed more at himself than at anything else. He had allowed himself to be taken like a damn tenderfoot straight off the stage, and that thought hurt a sight more than the crack on his head. He knew he was lucky to be alive. He could have walked straight into a bullet. The fact he was still alive puzzled him. The only explanation he could see was that the surviving killer had panicked, perhaps believing there were others following close on Brand’s heels and had simply hit him on his way out. Whatever the reason Brand considered he had got off easy.
It took him some time to recover from the heavy blow. When he had come round enough to be able to move Brand had made his cautious way to the shallow stream that ran close by the cabin, splashing water on his face. The clear water, chillingly cold, had stunned him, drawing a gasp from Brand. Despite that he plunged his head beneath the surface, feeling it sting as it came into contact with the gash in his scalp. When he had pulled his head up he saw the water running red with blood. His head ached wickedly. He ducked under the water again, then sank back, letting the pain subside. He could feel his body trembling and knew he was suffering from mild shock.
He stayed beside the stream for some time, content to rest and let his body recover. He felt detached from reality, not belonging, and it was confusing. He knew it was an after effect of the savage blow. He rested until he felt confident enough to climb to his feet and return to the cabin.
He saw the sprawled bodies of McAdam and the gunman and was reminded of the savagery that shadowed men wherever they went. They had a knack of bringing violence and death to any place they set foot. He was not slow in accepting he was often as guilty of being a perpetrator of that violence himself.
He stood at the cabin door, unable to tear his gaze from the ugly scene confronting him. In life Jenny McAdam had been young and attractive. The ruined thing hanging naked and bloodily mutilated bore little resemblance to its former, living self. Brand had seen his share of ugly things in his lifetime but the sight of Jenny McAdam, strung up like some abandoned carcass, brought a gut-wrenching sickness to him. He was trying, and failing, to understand the motivation behind a mind capable of doing such things to another human.
But you do know, his inner voice told him. It was all for a pile of gold. For a wagonload of cold, lifeless metal.
He went inside, pulling his knife and cut the ropes holding Jenny McAdam’s body to the beam. He carried her across to the low bunk that stood against one of the walls and placed her on it, drawing a blanket over her body. The effort left him weak and sweating and he felt himself swaying. He still needed to recover from that blow to his head.
Brand took some firewood and went back outside where he built a small fire. He located a pot and a tin with coffee in it. He filled the pot from the stream and placed it on some rocks he had laid in the fire. He stood watching the fire for a while, aware of something nagging at him. Finally he turned and went to the cabin, closing the door so he didn’t have to think about Jenny McAdam lying in there. While the coffee brewed Brand walked over to the man he had shot and searched his clothing. The man’s pockets gave him little. A pipe the man had smoked, the stem broken when he had fallen after Brand’s killing shot. In the same pocket was a wad of dark tobacco. The wrapper around it was in Spanish. There was some paper money and a few coins. There were no other items of identification.
Brand took his coffee and squatted beside the fire. His next priority was to pick up Harvey Ruger’s trail. The way it looked Ruger was on his way to pick up the gold. Brand felt sure of one thing. If Jenny McAdam had known the whereabouts of the hidden cache she would have given it to Ruger. There was no way she would have hung on to the knowledge after what had been done to her. Unfortunately divulging the secret had not saved her life.
Later, when he felt he could travel Brand dragged the bodies into the cover of the lean to and unsaddled and set free the horses. His thoughts dwelt briefly on Tom McAdam. The man had thrown away his life, out of his depth with the situation, responding with his emotions instead of his head. Brand didn’t spend too much time thinking about McAdam. He had been a man full grown and capable of making his own choices. He had chosen wrongly this time and had died for that choice.
It took Brand a couple of hours to pick up the faint trail left by the man who had ridden away from the cabin. Ruger, and it seemed likely it was he, was no fool when it came to hiding his tracks. Brand had to cut back and forth, searching and retracing his way when he lost the trail. It didn’t help that his head was still hurting, the ache deep and heavy. It ate at his nerves, pushing him to the edge of anger and that only weakened Brand’s concentration.
He noticed that the shadows were lengthening. The day was slipping away fast. Too fast. Brand swore forcibly. He was way behind his man and it didn’t look as if he was going to find Ruger’s trail that easy to cross.
He needed to find the man’s tracks. Sooner rather than later. Before Ruger lost him completely.