The sheriff of Concho had his own ideas about what had happened but he received no help from Jason Brand.
The sheriff, a heavy, balding man in his late thirties, was bored with the routine that his office offered him.
There was little to do in a place like Concho, and the lawman, who realized that his ambition to became a remembered name was long dead, needed something to liven up his dreary life.
He sat on the far side of his desk watching Brand. The sheriff, one Clyde Reckitt, eased back in his chair. He felt uneasy in the presence of this man Brand. He knew Brand’s reputation and he didn’t want to cross swords with him. There was something about the man that raised the hairs on the back of Reckitt’s neck. It was a mixture of things, he reckoned. The relaxed indifference that stood Brand apart from other men. He was self-sufficient. Independent. Hard, and with a smell of violence about him that warned others not to push him too far. Reckitt had the feeling that he was reaching that point with Brand. He decided to ease off. His earlier questioning about the attack he gained nothing.
Brand had been cooperative, but he hadn’t given Reckitt one useful piece of information.
“You sure you didn’t recognize any of them?” Reckitt asked once more.
“I was too damn busy trying to stay alive.” Brand stirred restlessly. He’d put up with the sheriff’s probing for long enough. The only reason he’d called into the office was to keep the peace. Reckitt wanted to do his damn duty, though, and Brand was running out of patience. Even so he knew there was no point in antagonizing the man.
It was wiser to have a local lawman on his side than have him against.
“How’s the head?” Reckitt asked suddenly, changing the mood.
“Fresh air’ll clear it,” Brand said. He turned for the door. “If I think of anything I’ll let you know.”
Reckitt followed him to the door.
“You staying around Concho?”
“Hard to say. Might take a ride.”
Brand hesitated on the boardwalk.
“Any reason you ask?”
Reckitt felt as if he’d been pinned naked to the wall. He went cold, fumbling for his next words. “I . . . er . . . no reason.”
“See you, sheriff.”
Brand returned to the hotel. He went straight to his room to pack. Downstairs he paid his bill and walked to the livery to collect his horse. He wanted to be away from Concho now. Reckitt’s pushing had started to crowd him. The sooner he put some distance between himself and the town the better he’d feel. Saddling his big chestnut he slung on his saddlebags and roll. Sliding his .44-40 Winchester into the scabbard he led the horse outside. Mounting up he rode out of town without a backward glance.
Concho fell behind him as he put the rested chestnut on the trail that would take him to Quatero. He rode at a steady pace, allowing the horse to choose its ground.
The morning slid by without incident.
Noon came and went, the ball of the sun describing its tumbling arc westward. The afternoon heat shimmered around Brand. He felt dried out, despite sweating. His head had stopped aching but the stifling heat did little to ease his brooding anger.
A pale desert strip faded at his back.
Brand found he was riding into a wide, sun-bright canyon that cut through a range of low hills. The canyon floor was littered with tumbled rocks. Here and there were clumps of shriveled mesquite. Brand began to tense up as he entered the canyon. He wasn’t sure why at first. So he kept riding deeper into the canyon, his eyes searching the way ahead and to either side.
It was, he decided, just the kind of place where . . .
The shot crashed out in the same moment the thought of an ambush filled Brand’s conscious mind. He felt the bullet burn across the top of his left shoulder. He didn’t hesitate. Freeing his feet from the stirrups he threw himself from the saddle. He struck on his right shoulder, letting the force of his fall take him forward. As he thrust his body towards a outcrop of crumbling rock he heard a second shot. The bullet whacked the ground inches from his face, showering him with stinging grit. Brand twisted his body around the outcrop, his left foot jerking as a third shot clipped the heel of his boot. He slammed against the rock, fingers curling around the Colt’s butt as he yanked it free, thumb easing back the hammer. He scanned the slope above him. Spotted movement as the ambusher aimed and fired again.
Stone chips flew into Brand’s face.
Blinking furiously Brand shoved the Colt forward, touching the trigger. The Colt recoiled as it fired, the bullet falling well short of the target. The ambusher returned fire, still unable to get to Brand because of the covering rock.
As he drew deeper behind the outcrop Brand caught movement some yards to the right of the ambusher.
Two of them!
That changed things. If he remained where he was they’d have him boxed in for certain. So it was no use sitting and waiting for that to happen.
He rolled out from behind the rock, scrambling to his feet, the Colt up and ready as he moved.
His sudden, unexpected move caught his ambushers off guard. They hadn’t anticipated such a move. They were slow to react. By the time they did respond Brand was halfway across the canyon floor, well within the range of his handgun.
The man on Brand’s right raised up to get a clear shot.
Brand fired first, triggering two fast shots that merged into one. He heard the ambusher cry out. There was a clatter of disturbed rocks as the man fell forward. He crashed face down on the slope, slithering in a loose sprawl to the bottom.
Even while the first ambusher was still falling Brand spun round, the Colt .45 muzzle tracking the second man as he came out from cover, firing wildly. Brand felt the wind from one bullet as it passed. Then he was leveling the Colt, gripping the wrist of his gun-hand with his left hand. He held his aim for a clear time, then touched the trigger. The ambusher twisted off to the side, his coat flying open, arms pumping the air. Dust puffed from his vest as Brand’s bullet took him in the chest. He took an awkward, off-balance lunge, then toppled to his knees. Blood flowered across his chest as he struggled to aim the rifle, pain and rage distorting his face. Brand fired again. And again. The ambusher doubled over, blood bubbling from the wounds in his lean body.
As the racket of the shots drifted away Brand stood his ground, thumbing fresh loads into his Colt. Only when the weapon was primed and ready did he cross over to look at the men who had just tried to kill him.
The second ambusher was closest.
And dead.
Brand noticed the badly bruised face and recalled the man he had smashed against the wall of his room. He crossed to where the other one lay. Only the man’s eyes moved, watching Brand with unconcealed hate.
The two shots Brand had put into him had gone through him, leaving his body torn and bleeding.
“I should have finished you last night,” the man said softly but with great relish. “All I did was catch one of your bullets.”
Brand recalled the man he’d shot off his horse on Concho’s main street.
“So now you’ve stopped a couple more. Maybe you ought to quit and find a new line of work.”
Brand put away his Colt; he wasn’t going to need it.
“Where did Hussler go? On to Quatero?”
“Who the hell is Hussler?” The ambusher started to cough, blood seeping from the comer of his mouth. “I never heard of him.”
“You lie about as bad as you shoot a gun,” Brand said.
“You go to hell, Brand.”
“You’ll be there before me, friend.”
The man began to cough again. His body bent double. His hands clawed at the bloody wounds. After a while he stopped coughing and lay still. When Brand checked him he found the man was dead.
Brand retrieved his horse. His shoulder was starting to burn. He used some water from his canteen and wet the raw gash. He used a clean kerchief, folded into a pad, to cover the wound under his shirt. It would have to do until he reached Quatero.
Mounting up he rode through the canyon and out onto the open plain.
He didn’t look back at the still figures lying on the sun-bright slope. He only looked ahead. He wasn’t concerned with the dead. Only the living bothered him.
He reached a small settlement, close to the border, just after dark. Quatero lay a good distance away yet and Brand had no notions about riding through the night. He was tired and edgy and the bullet burn in his shoulder was still hurting.
He trailed the chestnut along the dusty, littered street. It wasn’t much of a place. Just a collection of bleached adobe buildings set down in the middle of nowhere. Brand knew of a hundred other places identical in every respect. Even down to the skinny dogs running wild and the lingering smell of decay.
He found a livery stable and settled his horse. Taking his saddlebags and the rifle he walked back along the rutted street until he located the local doctor’s office. Inside he had the doctor clean and bandage the bullet graze on his shoulder. He paid the medic and left, walking the street until he located the most promising cantina.
The place hadn’t filled up yet. It was too early, he decided. As he sat down the owner came across to the table. He was a large, soft faced Mexican. His black hair kept sliding into his eyes.
“You have ridden far, senor?”
“Far enough to get me a thirst,” Brand said. He ordered whisky and asked for food to be brought. The whisky arrived quickly. The food was promised shortly. Brand opened the bottle and filled his glass. The whisky wasn’t the best he’d ever tasted but it was passable and the amount he’d spilled hadn’t burned through the top of the table. Brand leaned back and let the weariness creep through his bones. The quiet cantina had a soothing atmosphere. Somewhere down the street a guitar began playing. Brand started to unwind. There was still a lot of anger bubbling away inside. It was going to take some kind of miracle to settle that down. One thing he was certain of. He was on the right trail.
Somewhere along his way he was going to find answers to the riddle of Morgan Dorsey’s missing daughter.
He realized someone was standing beside his table. Brand raised his head.
He found himself looking straight into the face of a beautiful Mexican girl. It was the only word to describe her. She smiled at him as she placed his food on the table. Shining black hair half concealed her face before she pushed it aside. Deep brown eyes gazed at Brand and she allowed the tip of her tongue to stroke the pouting fullness of her lower lip. As she straightened up from the table Brand found his eyes wandering to the gentle swell of her full breasts where they moved restlessly under the loose white blouse she wore.
“There is meat with beans and chilli. Tortillas too,” the girl said. She gave him a warm smile. “Would you like coffee, senor?”
“Black with plenty of sugar,” Brand said. The girl nodded. He watched her walk away, the strong, lithe body swaying gently beneath her thin skirt.
Brand concentrated on the meal.
There was plenty of it, pleasantly well cooked for a change. Often the food served in cantinas was over-spiced and undercooked. The girl returned with his coffee just as he finished.
“That was good,” he said. “You cook it?”
“Si,” she nodded. “You wish for some more?”
“No. I’ve had all the food I need.”
A playful smile curved her lush mouth.
“You live here?” Brand asked.
“I have a small adobe across the street.”
“Anything to do in this place at night?”
The girl shook her head. “It can be very lonely if you are a stranger.”
Brand placed his coffee on the table. “Lucky I met you, then.”
The girl’s eyes mirrored her thoughts, and they matched those belonging to Jason Brand.
“What do they call you?” he asked.
“Sarita,” she told him, turning away from the table and vanishing into the kitchen at the rear of the cantina.
Brand sat nursing his coffee, turning her name over in his mind.
Sarita.
It suited her. He smiled to himself.
The evening might not be as dull as he first expected. The girl could offer a pleasant diversion. Brand finished his coffee and turned back to his whisky bottle.
As the evening wore on the cantina filled up. Brand was the only American present and he received one or two sullen stares. When he returned the glances the offending faces were quickly averted. There was a look about him that spoke of pistolero, a man of the gun, and to these ordinary people it was wise to leave such a person alone.
Lamps were lit against the darkness.
The cantina was full of talking, laughing Mexicans. The air was warm and reeked of cigar smoke. Brand sat back and soaked it up, catching sight of Sarita from time to time as she weaved in and out of the crowd. It was plain to see she was popular with the customers.
The sound of her laughter rose above the din. Her friendly smile brightening the shadows.
Well into the evening she brought him a fresh pot of coffee.
“In half an hour we close,” she said, “I will be waiting for you.” Before she moved away she described where he would find her adobe.
When the cantina closed Brand drifted outside with the rest of the customers. He took a slow walk down to the livery and checked that his horse was settled. Satisfied that the old Mexican who ran the place knew what he was doing, Brand turned about and retraced his steps. Nearing Sarita’s hut he saw that the narrow street was empty. A full moon hung over the settlement. It bathed the street in pale, cold light leaving the shadows deep and black. Moving on Brand turned towards the adobe — and that was when he heard a soft footstep behind him. He spun round, swinging his loaded saddlebags and caught the first attacker across the side of the head. The man grunted, stunned and off balance. Brand let go of the bags, lashing out with his rifle as a second man came at him. He felt the barrel thump against the man’s raised arm.
Then a hard object struck him a brutal blow above his left eye. Blood poured down his face. Sleeving it from his eyes Brand backed off to give himself time. But his attackers weren’t about to allow him any. They came at him in a rush, one of them slamming into Brand’s side, the other raining wild blows at his face and body. Brand went down under the concentrated attack. His attackers drove at him with their boots and Brand felt his body explode with pain in a dozen different places. He knew that if he didn’t do something fast he might never get up again. Drawing himself into a tight ball he rolled away from the crippling boots, and the moment he was clear he shoved himself up off the ground. As he regained his feet he heard one of the men closing in. Brand twisted, meeting the attack head on. He rammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, winding him. As the attacker stopped dead in his tracks Brand kicked his feet from under him, dumping him on the ground. The man hit hard, tried to climb upright again.
Brand swung his rifle, clubbing the man across the throat, leaving him gagging and struggling for breath.
“Bastard!”
The second attacker’s curse gave his position away. Brand turned on his heel and saw the glint of moonlight on the gun in the man’s hand. Continuing his turnabout Brand lashed out with the rifle again, using it like a club. It whacked the man across the face with a meaty smack. Blood gleamed darkly in the chill moonlight. The attacker flopped face down in the dust and lay still.
The silence closed in around Brand.
He stood, head bowed, his chest heaving with the effort he’d expended.
He was afire with pain. Blood still streamed down the side of his face, dripping from his chin to drop into the dust at his feet. He picked up his saddlebags, feeling the earth move. He waited for the sensation to go away before he continued on to Sarita’s hut. It seemed to take an eternity. When he reached the adobe he leaned against the wall and banged on the door with the butt of his rifle.
Sarita opened the door, took one look at his condition and reached out to help him. Brand took a step forward and his legs went from under him. He fell face down just inside the door and didn’t feel a thing when he hit the floor.