They reached Agua Verde mid-morning. The port town, built around the harbor and running back into low hills, was a noisy place. Angel brought them in through the outskirts, keeping to isolated side streets until she halted at the side of a warehouse off the harbor. She slid off the horse and handed the reins to Brand.
‘I will walk from here to the cantina where I work. It would look strange if I arrived on a horse If you come looking for me it is easy to find on the harbor front. You remember my directions?’
Brand nodded. He dismounted and went to where she stood. He took her arm and pulled her close, kissing her quickly, feeling the easy press of her body against his.
‘You be careful,’ he said.
‘Angel is always careful. Hombre, I will be all right. You watch out for Han and his men.’
He nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Angel. If things go right I may come looking for you.’
‘I would like that, Jason Brand,’ she said.
He watched her go. He did hope he might get a chance to see her again, but knowing the way his life ran that might not happen, and right now he had enough to keep him busy.
He led the pair of horses down a side alley and tethered them to a fence post. If someone didn’t steal them he might have a ride when he got back. He had decided against riding into Agua Verde on horses he had taken from Han’s men because they might be recognized. He was going to have to go in on foot, playing it by ear until he got a line on Han and his base. He figured it wouldn’t be too hard. There couldn’t be that many Chinese in the Mexican town of Agua Verde.
As it turned out it took Brand very little time to make contact with Han’s men. And oddly it was not with his Chinese. It happened very quickly, not the way he had expected, nor wanted, but he had no say in the matter. He was making his way through the maze of back streets, heading in the general direction of the harbor when he gained company.
He didn’t see the man until it was too late. A tall figure moved up alongside him and Brand felt something hard jab into his left side. He glanced around and looked into the hard face a lean man clad in a tan colored suit. Pale, cold eyes regarded Brand with unconcealed hostility.
‘Turn into this alley, Brand,’ Hardface said. He added force to his order by increasing the pressure of the gun barrel in Brand’s side. ‘Walk naturally, mate.’
The British accent confirmed Brand’s familiarity with the man’s face. He had been on board The Gulf Queen. It looked like Han had his people already covering the streets of Agua Verde.
As they entered the alley another man stepped into view. He was sandy haired, his bony face pale and pockmarked.
‘Seems you have been something of a bastard,’ Hardface said. He glanced at his partner and smiled. ‘Mr. Han takes it personal like when you go round shooting his boys. He’s a very aggressive Chinaman. Hates interference in his business. So that means you are in big trouble.’ Hardface moved round so he was facing Brand. ‘Sammy, take matey’s guns before he gets any ideas. These bloody Yanks are all trigger happy.’
Sammy leaned across and slid Brand’s Colt from his belt, fingers groping for the butt of the holstered Smith & Wesson. For a fraction of a second his shoulder moved between Brand and Hardface. Brand lunged forward, catching Sammy in the chest. Pushing hard he drove Sammy bodily into Hardface and in the confusion of them trying to separate Brand snatched the Smith & Wesson from its holster. He lashed out, the heavy barrel clouting Sammy under the jaw, putting everything he had into the brutal blow. Bone crunched. Sammy gave a scream of agony. Brand pushed by him, ignoring the threat of Hardface’s own revolver. He thrust forward and up, hearing Hardface’s weapon explode with sound. Then he was on the man, ramming his knee into Hardface’s groin, ripping a howl of pain from the man. Coming to his full height Brand swung a bunched left and punched the man across the chin, spinning him round. Hardface hit the wall, bounced off and walked directly into the glittering arc of metal as Brand struck out with the Smith & Wesson again. He caught Hardface across the side of the skull, pitching the man face down on the street. A flurry of movement in the corner of his eye brought him face to face with the injured Sammy. His left hand was clamped around his shattered, bleeding jaw, his right fumbling under his jacket for his own holstered revolver. For a moment they eyed each other, then Sammy, despite being caught unready, continued to drag his weapon free, tearing the lining of his jacket in the process. As the weapon began its move to line up on him Brand leveled the .44 and put two bullets into Sammy’s body. At close range the slugs blew out close to Sammy’s backbone. He gave a choked cry as he was tumbled to the ground in a bloody heap...and even as Sammy was falling Brand heard gunfire. One bullet missed, the second burned across his right side. The shots had come from Hardface, on his knees by the wall, one hand pressed against the adobe to support himself, his bloody face twisted in a scowl of anger as he tried for a third shot. He failed to make it. Brand fired first, his shots precise and unhurried. He placed his .44 slugs in Hardface’s chest, directly over the heart, kicking the tall man backwards. Hardface hit the ground, body arching like a drawn bow in response to the impact of the bullets. He held himself in that position for long seconds before he dropped to the ground and finally lay still.
Brand leaned against the wall. He felt weary and more than a little sick. The bullet graze burned his side. He was trembling, reaction to the sudden violent outburst and despite the hot sun he felt cold. He was also becoming angry. A slow mood of resentment towards the faceless man who seemed almost fanatical in his determination to Brand killed. He had only been on Mexican soil for a short time yet he had been forced to spend most of it running for his life and killing to hang on to it. He had a feeling too, that it wasn’t about to end yet.
He became aware of a babble of voices. When he looked round the end of the ally was blocked by a gaping and noisy crowd of onlookers. At least there was one thing that was the same everywhere he went. The ability of violence and death to gather a crowd. They came to look, to stare, to absorb the sight and the smell of death.
Over the buzz of the crowd Brand heard louder, harsher voices. Snapping out orders. He picked out the odd word and phrase in Spanish. He also caught a sight of uniformed figures pushing through the throng.
Gray uniforms.
The Rurales.
The Mexican law force. Not always Brand’s favorite people. He’d had run ins with them before and not always cordial meetings.
Brand let the Smith & Wesson slip from his fingers. Then he did the same with his Colt. He kicked both weapons away and stood passive, offering no resistance when the three armed, gray uniformed Mexicans broke through the crowd to confront him.
They surveyed the scene, discussing the implications between themselves. Brand remained where he was. No point in attracting more trouble.
Rifles were pointed at him. The man in charge, a burly Sergeant, waved a pistol at Brand.
‘You will come with us,’ he said. His English was clear, but heavily accented. ‘This matter is to be resolved. Until then you will be locked up. You understand?’
‘Yes.’
There was little else he could do at this point in time.
He was escorted through the crowd and along the streets of Agua Verde, and half an hour later he was locked in a cell at the Rurales headquarters.
His time in the cell became swiftly uncomfortable. The sergeant who had escorted him there seemed to have an aversion to gringo prisoners. Brand found himself wondering who had upset the man and what they had done to create such animosity.
When the door was opened to the cell the Sergeant, a large, scowling figure wearing a drooping Zapata moustache started to grin. He handed the ring of keys to one of the other men then turned, without warning and caught Brand off-guard. Heavy hands grabbed Brand’s clothing and he was hurled bodily into the cell, unable to stop himself from slamming into the stone wall on the other side. The Sergeant followed him in, to cries of encouragement from his men and started to pummel Brand in the body. He was muttering ceaselessly.
Brand was about to fight back when caution stayed his hand. He realized this was exactly what the Sergeant wanted him to do. One blow from Brand, witnessed by the other Rurales, would back up the Sergeant’s claim that he had been attacked and was merely defending himself. So despite his desire to return the favor Brand covered his body as well as he could and took his punishment. It lasted until the Mexican had exhausted his rage and stood back, breathing heavily, still muttering and angry because the gringo had refused to take the bait. He walked out of the cell, slamming the door and locking it.
Brand slumped down on the edge of the crude, filthy cot, his arms wrapped around his bruised and aching body. He gingerly sucked air into his lungs, feeling the strain the action placed on his sore ribs. Movement caught his eye and he looked across at the cell door. There was a viewing slit set in the door and he could see a pair of eyes studying him. He knew it was the Sergeant, sizing up his victim, most probably for the next session. Brand stared the man out. The slit was closed with a bang.
Brand leaned back against the grubby wall, feeling the chill of the cold stone through his shirt. There was a barred window high over his head and he could hear the sounds of the street beyond. Normal sounds. Voices raised in conversation. The sudden sweet sound of a young woman’s laughter. He smiled, wondering what, or who, had given her such pleasure.
So, he thought, this is your world turning about and kicking you in the teeth.
He knew that sooner or later he would get out of this situation. He always did. The hard times were expected in his line of work, and he would have been a damn fool not to expect them to occur. The only thing was that just lately he seemed to be getting his own and everyone else’s share. He wondered how long his body could go on accepting this harsh treatment. When would it just curl up and quit on him? Jason Brand didn’t consider himself an indestructible individual. He had proved that the many times he had bled over the years. Bullets and knives had all taken their toll, and he saw a future where one day, someday, that special bullet would wing its way towards him – and for once his luck would desert him and it would all be over.
Any man, whether he admitted it or not, liked to feel he was immortal. That he would go on forever, untouched by age, or frailty, or simple illness. Those things only happened to other people. Not to himself. Somehow he would keep on going, shrugging off the specter of death. It was a dream, nothing more than a fantasy conjured up in the mind of the young when they really did believe life was never ending. That time when old age and death was so far away it didn’t register.
Jason Brand had known sudden death and the pain of loss at an early age. That had been when his family had been wiped out by a roving band of Kwahadi Comanche on a murder raid out from Texas, who had crossed into New Mexico and had come across the ranch where the Brand family lived. In the ensuing melee Jason Brand’s father and mother had been slaughtered. His sister had been taken captive by the leader of the band, and later during her captivity had been murdered by the same warrior, Three Finger.
Brand had been the only survivor.
He had stayed alive because of a burning need for vengeance against the Comanche and the three white ranch hands who had run out and left his family to fend for themselves.
Two days before the massacre that made the boy shed his youth and become a man full grown, Jason Brand had celebrated his 18th birthday.
Those fiery days and the weeks that followed had formed his character, and his eventual survival had burned within him until it turned him like treated steel. He learned early in life about the whispers of betrayal, the need for self-dependency and caution in everything. He had learned hard and fast, taking heed of the lessons, and using them to guide his adult life. He understood pain and he accepted it. He took his pleasures when they offered themselves, the same as food and water, always aware he might be denied any or all of them at any time.
It might have turned him into a walking dead man, cold and without feelings. He often maintained a grim exterior, when it suited his purpose, but there was a man of warmth and loyalty inside the tough veneer. Those who knew him well would have trusted themselves on his word alone, because he was a man of honor – a trait that some might find hard to accept. Brand did not outwardly display his emotions because he felt he had no need to. He owed nothing to any man, unless that man proved himself worthy, and then he would have ridden a thousand miles to offer his help to that person.
He came into his world of violence and pain because fate seemed determined to make him tread that path. He had tried on more than one occasion to remove himself from it, but each time events drew him back. In time he realized there was no escape. His fast gun. His predilection towards the violent land he walked had been hard earned and came with a price. It was a curse that cloaked him like a black shroud. He could never escape it. He bent to its demands and looked to his future with the clear eyed gaze of someone who saw, understood and fully accepted his destiny.
And there were not many who could say that.
The Rurales Sergeant knew nothing of this, and that was why when he looked at the gaunt face of his gringo prisoner he saw only the enemy. One who had to be defeated. He was mistaken. No matter what he did to Brand he would never, ever, defeat him. Jason Brand understood his life and the manner in which it ran, so he was able to take anything the Sergeant threw his way and swallow it whole.
In the next two hours the Sergeant came to the cell three more times.
Each time he did his best to humiliate his prisoner. To make him suffer in the hope he would strike back. Each time he failed and that made him angrier. On the third visit he brought with him a short black leather whip. He had used the whip many times and it had never let him down. Men who sank to their knees with the bloody flesh of their bodies hanging in livid strips, were very prone to capitulation. Brand simply stood and faced his tormentor, hands at his sides as the Sergeant slashed the gleaming whip back and forth, each time getting closer. He was about to administer the first lash when a hard voice cut through the silence of the cell.
‘Explain what exactly is going on here, Sergeant. Tell me because I would like to hear your excuses for this outrage.’
The Sergeant turned to see the immaculately uniformed figure of his commander. The young Major, who had only been transferred to Agua Verde a short while ago, was standing in the door of the cell. Calm and poised, he waited while the Sergeant tried to come up with a good excuse.
‘I thought not,’ the Major said. ‘I was told when I came here to watch out for your treatment of prisoners. Why this unit had the worst record for deaths among them. Now I can see for myself. I have been watching you for a while, gathering my evidence. Today you have given me what I need to complete my investigation.’
The Major stepped into the cell. He took the whip from the hand of the Sergeant, studying it carefully before handing it to his own Sergeant.
‘In the morning, private, you will be transferred to the interior division. You will report to Major Uvalde, who I understand, is even stricter than I could ever hope to be. He runs a very disciplined troop patrolling the western mountain territory. If I ever see your face in Agua Verde again, this matter will be brought to the attention of the disciplinary division and I will make it my personal business to see you pay the fullest price for your transgressions. Now get out of my sight.’
The Major waited until they were alone before he turned to Brand.
‘Whatever your crime, this was unwarranted. Please accept my apologies. I will return later and we will discuss your case.’
He turned and left, the cell door closing behind him. Brand stood and stared at it for a while, then sat down on the edge of the cot, shaking his head at the sudden turn of events.
One minute he was getting himself ready for a hard time. The next a Major of the Rurales was apologizing for the treatment he had received.
What next?
A full pardon and the freedom of Agua Verde?
In the event Brand wasn’t far off. He didn’t get the freedom of the town – but a complete stranger showed up and got his release from the jail.