It was late by the time Brand got back to Concho. He stabled his horse and made his way to the small, dusty hotel where he had a room on the first floor. The room was cramped but reasonably cool and it overlooked the street. Brand stripped down to his pants and had a quick wash before he turned in. It would be dawn in a few hours and he knew he was going to need the sleep he could get in before daylight.
He found sleep reluctant to take him. Dorsey’s probing into his US Marshal days had rekindled memories Brand had been trying to erase from his mind. He felt the resentment coming back and realized that time was not healing the old wounds. He still felt bitter. Still felt he had been dealt an unjust hand. Hadn’t he given four long years of his life to the damn job? Four years wearing that badge. Riding all over the country. Risking his life against every kind of perverted killer. He’d lost count of the times he’d completed an assignment with someone else’s lead inside him. The weeks spent recovering, leaving him covered with scars he would carry to his grave. And for what? The money? He could make more in an hour playing poker than a whole month of Marshal duty would net him. It certainly hadn’t been for the money.
Brand knew the real reason well enough.
It had been a need to fill his life.
To plunge himself into dangerous and challenging situations. A need to crowd his mind so full he wouldn’t have the chance of recalling that time in his life when his world had been shattered. The woman he loved destroyed by a vengeful man with a knife. Becoming a Marshal had allowed him the opportunity to throw himself into the job. And he had done just that. Brand had become totally involved, refusing to let himself become bored. It had got so he lived for nothing else, wrongly or rightly. He craved the atmosphere that was part of the job. When he was on assignment he was alive, devoting himself to the matter at hand. Nothing deterred him. Nothing was allowed to distract him.
The strategy worked, overshadowing the bad memories — but it became the catalyst of his problems. The last to admit it, Brand had become too obsessed. The job took over. He lost his compassion. His ability to analyze each situation on its own merits. His critics had accused him of becoming trigger-happy. A killer with a badge.
Damn them all to hell!
He could still see their faces as they sat behind that long table on the day of his final review. Those pious bastards who had ended his career as a Marshal.
They had looked long and hard at his record, completely ignoring the list of successes. The completed assignments. The convictions. All they had been interested in were the minus points against his name. By the time they had finished Brand had come out sounding worse than any of the killers he’d brought in. He had taken as much as he could, almost laughing in their faces it when they had spoken of his brutality if towards the men he went after. His overuse of violence and his disregard of human life. He had asked what the hell they expected him to use against violent men? Did they expect him to show kindness and understanding to a savage killer who had so little respect for life that he had slaughtered a whole family simply because it was the easiest sway of silencing them? Had any of them the slightest knowledge of what being a Marshal meant? Brand had known the answer before he had asked it.
None of them did. They were all chair-bound officials who followed the written regulations set down before them. The Department of Justice had been receiving reports of Marshals usurping their power, working for their own ends and dispensing the wrong style of justice. The order had gone out.
Clean up the US Marshals image.
And do it fast. Brand knew there were bad Marshals. So there were also bad judges and bad politicians. He also knew the good ones outweighed the minority of bad ones. The good ones who carried on day after day, risking everything because they believed in what they were doing. Brand had always thought of himself as that kind of Marshal. Now that didn’t seem to matter. Fate had pointed the finger and he had been chosen as the scapegoat.
It had been doubly unfortunate that he had been on suspension over the shooting of a Senator’s son.
That had come about during an assignment in Santa Fe where Brand was looking into a series of rape attacks on young women. The women had also been badly beaten during each attack.
From the moment he had arrived in Santa Fe Brand had found a wall of silence placed in front of him, thwarting his enquiries. Not one of the victims would talk to him and Brand had quickly got the feeling the assignment stank. Then another attack took place.
This time Brand had reached the girl before anyone could talk to her. She had given him clear and detailed descriptions of her assailants. From that moment the case had moved swiftly and Brand had his suspects spotted in a couple of days. They turned out to be the sons of well to do members of Santa Fe society — and one of them was the youngest son of an influential US Senator. The upshot of the whole affair had been a bloody fight when Brand had cornered the suspects.
During the fight the Senator’s son had produced a knife, almost succeeding in cutting Brand’s throat. In a desperate effort to save his own life Brand had been forced to shoot the young man, killing him. Brand’s suspension from duty had come after allegations had been made to the effect that he had shot the Senator’s son without due reason.
The knife had never been found. Brand figured it had been neatly lost. His suspicions were confirmed later at the trial when the case of rape and assault had been dismissed for lack of evidence, despite the girl’s story. Brand had been witness to political influence at work, hushing up the whole affair. Wheels within wheels had turned and justice had been shoved into a dark corner.
Two weeks on from the trial Brand’s suspension had become a dishonorable discharge from the US Marshals office, and he knew damn well that he had been thrown out to appease certain quarters of unease.
Bitter and angry Brand had drifted for a while. When his cash reserve had been almost exhausted he had offered his knowledge and skill for sale, becoming a freelance gun for hire. It hadn’t been his choice but it had been all he knew.
Brand sat up suddenly, his mind whirling from the dark and bitter memories that refused to fade away.
He realized he wasn’t going to get much sleep the way things were going.
He rolled off the bed and crossed to the window. A faint breeze drifted into the room. Brand gazed down on Concho’s empty street. There was a pale moon up, bathing the town in a cold light.
Brand couldn’t relax. He spotted the yellow light spilling from a saloon along the street. Maybe a drink would help, he thought, dismissing the small voice that was telling him he’d been drinking too much of late.
He turned from the window just as the door of his room flew open with a crash, slamming back against the inside wall. As he came about, body tense, he saw three shadowed figures coming at him. The one in the lead, stocky and wide in the shoulders, slammed into Brand and drove him back across the room. Brand gasped as pain wrenched at his spine. The man who had jumped him was slamming blow after blow to Brand’s body. Aware that he had to do something before the other two reached him, Brand drove a hard fist into his attacker’s face. He heard something snap in the man’s cheek. The sound was followed by the man’s yell of pain. Blood gleamed on the man’s cheek. The rain of blows slackened as the man stepped back. Brand pushed away from the wall, jerking up his right knee. It caught the dazed man between his thighs, drawing a shrill scream of agony. Keeping his momentum Brand lunged forward, pushing the injured man in front of him until he collided with his two partners. One of them stumbled, falling to one side and Brand lashed out with a booted foot. The hard tip cracked against the man’s jaw, snapping his head back. Arching his body round Brand faced the third man.
He sensed a fist coming at him from the shadows. The fist missed his face, but slammed against the side of his neck. Brand went down to his knees, then kept on going down, rolling to gain himself some clear space. He was stopped by the wall. Lurching to his feet he turned in time to catch a heavy punch over his ribs. The soft explosion of pain generated his anger. He leaned away from the next blow, driving his own fist into the dark oval of the man’s face. He felt his knuckles crush flesh and scrape against teeth.
From the far side of the room a man swore. Brand threw a quick glance in that direction. He saw the shadowed figure coming at him, holding aloft the rickety chair that had stood against the wall. Brand lunged forward, trying to get underneath the raised chair. He almost made it. Then his foot slipped and he went down on one knee. Before he could regain his balance the chair crashed down across his shoulders.
Brand hit the floor on his face.
Ignoring the pain he turned his body to one side and kicked out with both booted feet at one of the moving figures.
The man yelled wildly as Brand’s heels cracked against his knees. Getting his feet under him Brand rose from the floor. He was still straightening up when a well-timed punch clipped his jaw, bouncing him off the wall.
Brand leaned back against the wall, sucking air into his starved lungs. Even that momentary respite was terminated abruptly. Hands snatched for Brand’s throat, fingers digging into the flesh.
Brand pulled his body to the side, breaking the man’s grip, then clamped his hands on the man’s shoulders. With a concentrated effort Brand slammed the man face first against the wall. The man slipped to the floor with a hoarse groan, leaving a dark smear of blood on the faded paper.
Something glinted in the pale light coming through the open window.
Brand turned fully. He made out the dark bulk of the attacker and the knife glittering coldly in one hand. The man moved slowly, his actions almost clumsy. Brand knew he wasn’t facing an experienced knife lighter. Not that it made the situation any less lethal. A knife was dangerous in any man’s hand.
And maybe more so in the possession of an unskilled user. Brand dropped to a crouch, hands forward and open, waiting his chance. The man uttered a low oath, then lunged forward, slashing at Brand’s stomach. Brand eased his body away. He felt the tip of the knife catch his side. Then he grabbed hold of the man’s knife-wrist, lifting and turning it hard, bending the limb against the natural angle of the bone. He heard the man grunt, saw the knife slip from slack fingers. Brand used his free hand to drive in a couple of hard blows to the man’s exposed body, over his ribs. As the man sagged away from him Brand twisted round, going for the end of the bed, his right hand reaching out to where his Colt .45 Peacemaker lay in its holster, draped over the bedpost.
Brand’s fingers curled around the worn butt, dragging the heavy weapon free. He straightened up, dogging back the hammer. In that instant a gun blasted at him from the other side of the room. Orange flame shone briefly, the bullet missing Brand by a hair’s breadth. Behind Brand the tall water jug resting on the bureau shattered, spewing pieces of china across the room. Dropping to one knee Brand returned fire. He heard a gasp and saw the dark shape slump against the wall.
A second gun fired. The bullet creased the side of Brand’s head. He felt a surge of warm blood wash down his face. The room began to blur. Brand clung to the bedpost in order to stay on his feet. He heard the thump of running feet. In the open doorway, illuminated by the lamp in the passage, he saw the three men as they stumbled from the room. And for a second, caught in the yellow glare, Brand saw a face he knew.
Saul Hussler.
Brand made to follow them but his legs failed him. Dazed and weakened by the bullet crease Brand fell against the wall.
“Damn!”
He fought against the weakness, aware that his attackers were getting away. He dragged his protesting body to the window. As he swayed across the sill, almost falling through before he wedged himself in place, he saw the three burst from the boardwalk, spilling out onto the street. They were making for the three horses tethered at the hitch rail.
Brand lifted the heavy Colt, triggering close spaced shots that were way off target.
Down below the wounded man was being hoisted into his saddle by the others. Then they flung themselves into leather, reining about wildly before spurring the animals up the street.
In desperation Brand fired again. The bullet struck just ahead of the racing horses. One of the animals reared in panic, spilling its rider to the ground.
Before the man could get to his feet and reach it the startled horse bolted down the street, leaving him stranded.
The man hesitated for a moment, then ran forward and was dragged bodily onto the back of his partner’s horse.
And then they were gone, thundering out of Concho before anyone had time to reach the street to investigate the shooting.
By this time Brand had moved away from the window. He could hear noise outside his room as the hotel’s occupants reacted to the din.
He could hear them moving about and knew they would be figuring out which room it had all taken place in. Angry he crossed the room and kicked the door shut with a crash.
Lighting the lamp he peered at himself in the mirror. He looked a mess. His face was bruised and cut, streaked with blood. There was a nasty, raw wound across the side of his head, just below the hairline, where the bullet had caught him. Down one side of his body there was a darkening bruise. His shoulders burned where the chair had struck him. He turned to the bureau, then remembered that the water jug had been smashed. So he couldn’t even clean himself up.
Brand pulled on his shirt. He strapped on his gunbelt, reloading the Colt before he put it away.
Snatching up his hat he opened the door and left the room. The passage was crowded. Brand ignored the stares and the questions, his wild expression persuading the questioners that it would not be wise to press the point. Leaving the hotel Brand paused on the verandah. He still felt unsteady but he had something to do that wouldn’t wait.
The night air was sharp and fresh.
It helped to clear his head, though it didn’t do a thing for the pounding ache inside his skull. Brand paced the length of the street until he spotted what he was looking for.
The runaway horse had found a convenient water trough. It raised its head at Brand’s approach then returned to its drinking. It carried on as Brand examined it. The saddlebags were empty except for a grubby shirt and half-chewed wedge of tobacco. There was a badly rolled blanket behind the saddle. Nothing else.
Brand checked the animal for an identifying mark. He found a brand on its left hip.
QL.
He didn’t recognize the mark. Lifting the reins he led the horse down to the Concho livery stable. The old timer who ran the place was in his cramped office, a mug of steaming coffee on his desk, his nose deep in a copy of the local newspaper. He glanced up as Brand led the horse inside the livery.
“Thought you already had a horse stabled here?”
Brand nodded. “Somebody appears to have lost this one.”
The old man came out of his office to look the horse over. He peered at Brand. “Looks like you lost something yourself.”
“I fell out of bed,” Brand said dryly.
“I’ll bet,” the old man said. He chuckled. “But whose bed?”
Brand pointed out the QL on the horse’s hip. “You recognize that?”
The old man nodded. “Jake Thoroughgood’s mark. He runs the livery over to Quatero.”
Brand knew Quatero. It was a rundown spot near the border. Nothing much to look at, Quatero had its share of roughnecks and border jumpers. It also boasted a fair sprinkling of cheap guns for hire. Thinking on made Brand realize it was the sort of place Saul Hussler might go to pick himself up some muscle.
Leaving the horse at the livery Brand returned to his hotel. He rousted out the night clerk and got himself a fresh jug of water. Back in his room he locked the door, stripped off and had a wash.
He tossed the facts he had back and forth in his mind. He was certain now that Saul Hussler was in on the kidnap.
If not why the attack? It was unlikely it had been in return for Brand throwing him out of the saloon. Possible but not probable. Hussler had not ridden to Quatero and back in the last few hours to hire a couple of guns. The town lay a good day and a half away. The two gun hands had been hired well before Brand had even entered the picture.
It was all speculation, Brand admitted, but he preferred to deal in facts and the way they added up told him there was more to Saul Hussler than a bad temper.
He decided he had enough to justify a ride to Quatero. There was no telling what he might pick up. He hadn’t forgotten the town’s close proximity to the border. The country there was wild and desolate. The kind of territory where it would be easy to hide someone. A place where there weren’t too many people around to ask awkward questions.
Brand turned in. He stayed fully dressed, his gun close at hand. He didn’t expect a repeat attack, but it paid to be cautious. He knew of a few men who had made the mistake of relaxing at the wrong time. They hadn’t been allowed the luxury of a second chance. Brand had no intention of ending up that way himself.
He lay for a while, his mind still full of thoughts, yet when he pushed them aside this time he found that sleep came easily.