Quatero nestled against the base of the rising foothills that formed the start of the Sierra Madre Plateau. No different to a hundred other border towns, Quatero’s only claim to fame was that it had become the center of local horse trading. Most of the ranches in the area were involved with horses in one way or another.
Brand rode in just on noon. It was a blazing hot day and he was thankful to have reached the town. The trip in had been uncomfortable, not just because of the heat and dust, but largely due to the fact that he was stiff and sore from the run in with the two night attackers.
He rode by the complex of corrals holding bunches of unbroken horses.
Halfway along the rutted main street he reined in alongside the Silver Queen Saloon. This wasn’t Brand’s first visit to Quatero and from past experience he knew that the Silver Queen was the only saloon worth frequenting.
The interior was shaded and cool. Brand let his eyes become accustomed to the gloom as he crossed to the bar and ordered a beer. It was brought to him in a glass rimmed with frost. The Silver Queen was the only saloon in town that hauled in ice to cool their beer. It made a pleasant change from having to drink beer that was flat and warm.
As he enjoyed his drink Brand looked the place over. There were few customers, though he knew the place would fill up very shortly now midday had been reached. There were no familiar faces in the place. Not that Brand had really expected to see Saul Hussler or any of his hired guns around.
He had a feeling he’d be seeing them again soon enough.
When he had finished his drink he wandered outside and led his horse up the street, heading for Thoroughgood’s livery. It was situated at the far end of town. As he approached the place Brand began to feel uneasy. The livery looked deserted. Too still and silent on a working day. The big doors were open but there was no movement. No sound. Brand tethered his horse and stepped inside.
Too damned quiet, he told himself.
As he walked down the center aisle between the rows of stalls his unease became stronger. Brand slipped the leather loop off the Colt’s hammer, easing the heavy gun in its holster.
Horses stirred restlessly in their stalls on either side, hooves chopping at the straw-covered earth.
Nothing else moved.
Brand found Thoroughgood in an empty stall at the far end of the stable.
The liveryman stared back at him from sightless eyes, his slack mouth gaping in a silent shout. Someone had taken one of Thoroughgood’s pitchforks and had driven it through his throat, pinning him to the boards at the rear of the stall. Thoroughgood had bled a lot before he had died and the packed earth of the stall was all churned up where his boot-heels had kicked away his life. Someone had wanted Thoroughgood out of the way, and Brand didn’t need to ask who. The horse left behind in Concho was bound to have brought Brand to Quatero.
Hussler had realized that and had decided to make sure Thoroughgood would remain silent when Brand did turn up.
The body was still warm. The blood spattering the earth at Thoroughgood’s feet hadn’t fully dried out. Brand figured the liveryman had been dead for no more than a few hours. It didn’t look as though anyone had been in the stable since Thoroughgood’s death so it was possible he might be able to pick up some tracks. Brand moved away from the stall, casting around the floor. There was a small door in the rear wall, leading outside. Brand noticed scuff marks in the dirt near this door. Stepping outside he picked up sign where three horses had stood.
The trail showed that the horses had been ridden away from the stable, out across country and heading south. It seemed likely these were the tracks left by Hussler and his partners. The kind of business they dealt in was more comfortable employing back door tactics.
Brand picked up his horse and swung into the saddle. He rode around to the rear of the livery, then cut off across country, following the tracks left by the three riders.
The trail did take him south. Brand didn’t force the pace. He wanted to follow Hussler, not confront him. The idea was to let Hussler take him to his final destination.
An hour before sunset Brand rode down off a low plateau and saw the bleached adobe structures that went to make up the isolated way station known as One Stop. There was the station itself, a corral and a small workshop and tack-shed. It was a lonely, dead kind of place, yet it served a purpose in that it provided fresh horses for the long haul stages that came by. Fresh teams were needed for the pull up into the high country beyond, and for that reason alone One Stop existed.
The trail Brand had been following led directly to One Stop. Brand couldn’t see any particular reason why.
And it made him suspicious. He rode in cautiously, searching the way ahead. On the surface One Stop appeared normal.
Brand found he didn’t believe that for one second.
A half dozen horses milled aimlessly around the main corral. In the dusty yard a skinny dog was indifferently stalking an equally bony chicken; neither creature was really putting much effort into the game.
Brand reined in outside the station.
Swinging out of the saddle he peered across the yard. Over the back of his horse he saw a figure step out from behind the tack-shed, a drawn gun in his hand.
Damn fool!
Concealed by his own horse Brand was able to pull his Colt before stepping into the open. He half-turned in the direction of the man.
The moment Brand moved away from his horse the man swung his gun into line. He was still dogging back the hammer when Brand fired from the hip, driving two bullets into him.
Twin puffs of dust rose from the man’s shirt. He stumbled back, slamming up against the wall of the tack-shed. His head arced back and hit the wall with a thump. A low wail burst from his lips as he slid sideways and tumbled to the ground. Blood began to dribble from his loose mouth.
The moment he’d fired Brand ran towards the station. It was only a matter of covering a few yards, yet before Brand reached the doorway he heard the crash of a shot. It came from behind him. The bullet whacked the wall just ahead of him, filling the air with adobe splinters. Brand dropped to a crouch, turning in the direction of the shot. A lean figure was coming across the yard, gun up and firing.
Brand straightened, ignoring the wild shots coming his way. He leveled the big Colt, aimed deliberately and fired.
Two of the three bullets hit and the running man went down, sprawling in a heap on the dusty ground.
A thin mist of dust drifted across the yard. In the corral the horses moved in frightened circles. The dog had abandoned its chicken stalk and crouched, whimpering against an upturned barrel.
Brand waited, hating the heavy silence. He could hear his own ragged, uneven breathing. He moved with deliberate slowness, closing in on his horse, soothing it with the touch of his hand on its flank. Slipping his Colt back into its holster he eased the rifle from its scabbard, working the lever to put a bullet in the breech.
Only then, with a fully loaded weapon in his hands, did he feel the tension start to drain away. Brand could feel sweat oozing from his palms, sticky against the wood grips of the rifle.
He let his gaze move back and forth across the yard, the buildings searching, probing. He saw nothing.
It was over, he accepted after a couple of long, taut minutes. He had trailed three men to One Stop, but only two of them had remained behind.
The third man — and he was sure that man would be Saul Hussler — had ridden on.
Brand heard a soft groan. He turned in the direction of the second man he’d shot. The man stirred as Brand neared him. His gun lay in the dust close by.
Picking it up Brand threw it across the yard. He turned his attention to the man. One of Brand’s bullets had ripped open the man’s left shoulder.
The other had taken him in the side.
The man peered at the rifle Brand was carrying. “You aiming to finish me?” he asked.
“I should, damnit, but you’re not worth the price of another bullet.”
“Don’t give me that crap,” the man said as he struggled to sit up. “Ain’t no difference between you and me, Brand, save the price we ask.”
Brand felt his anger start to rise, but checked it, because he knew the man was right.
The wounded man climbed to his feet. His face was pale and beaded with sweat. He glanced across to where his partner lay.
“He dead?”
“I reckon so.”
“Crazy thing is we’d finished what we’d been paid for. Only reason we waited for you to show was ‘cause Brinker wanted to get even. He was bound and determined to kill you. You hurt him bad with that rifle barrel you laid across his throat last night.”
Brand lowered the rifle. “You get paid for your trouble?”
“We got paid — but is it ever enough?” the man asked, bitterness edging his words. “They want their dirty work done for them but they expect it done for next to nothing.”
“You got a horse?” Brand asked.
“Behind the tack-shed.”
“Get on and ride out. Ride fast enough you might find a doctor before you bleed to death. I see your face again I’m going to shoot first and worry later.”
The gunman started across the yard, trailing blood. Brand made his way to the station. At the door he glanced over his shoulder. The gunman had reached his dead partner and was going through his pockets.
It was a little cooler inside. There was dust on the air. Long tables and benches took up space at one end of the room. Facing Brand was a makeshift bar with thick plank shelves at the back. The shelves were lined with bottles. As Brand bellied up to the bar a tall, skinny man peered through the narrow door that led to the rear of the station.
“Give me a whisky,” Brand said.
The man stepped out, picking up a bottle and a glass. When he poured his hands were shaking so much that whisky splashed over the rim of the glass.
“You ain’t expecting me to pay for the spillage, are you?” Brand asked.
“First one’s on the house,” the man said. His nervous eyes never left Brand’s face.
“You said it, friend.” Brand picked up the glass and tossed the whisky straight off.
A horse walked by the window.
The skinny man turned to watch the disappearance of the wounded gunman.
“There’s another one outside,” Brand said. “I were you I’d get him buried right quick, else the folk on the next stage are going to think this line’s a little hard on its passengers.”
The man tried to smile. He failed.
Instead he refilled Brand’s glass. This time he spilled even more.
“How long since the third one left?” Brand asked conversationally.
“About three hours,” the man blurted out. A look of relief crossed his face; he was glad to be rid of the information. “I . . . look, mister, they said they’d kill me if I tried to warn you. I got family out back. Kids and all.”
“Well you can tell that feller out there he was wrong,” Brand said. “Give you something to talk about while you’re burying him.”
Brand asked what the third man looked like. The skinny man described Saul Hussler. Brand nodded. He finished his drink and left, picking up Hussler’s trail without much difficulty. It was still heading south. Brand urged his horse to a faster pace. It would be dark soon.
The sun was already starting to set, bathing the land in a dull red wash of color.
Ahead — beyond the border — lay Mexico, and the vast emptiness of Chihuahua. Once across the border any protection Brand might have had, slight though it may have been, would vanish. The law in Mexico was kept by the Rurales. He’d had his brushes with the savage Mexican law force when he had been a Marshal, and since he’d been on his own. They were times he preferred to forget. The Rurales were a law unto themselves, often more feared by the people they were supposed to protect than any outlaw or bandit.
Brand made camp just above the border and turned in early. There was no telling what lay ahead. Out of past experience he had found that it paid to rest and eat whenever the opportunity presented itself.
His mind was full of the events of the past days. One thing was obvious. Whoever was behind the Kathy Dorsey kidnap he, or they, worked with single minded intent.
They were determined not to allow anything to spoil their chances for carrying through the scheme. But Brand had to admit that 500,000 dollars was worth some expense and effort.