Brand 1: Gun for Hire

The town was called Adobe. It had been around for almost twenty-five years, basing its existence and prosperity on the surrounding cattle country. The wild and harsh Arizona territory might not have seemed a hospitable host to any form of life, but despite the heat, the scant vegetation and the often acute shortage of water, the herds of cattle that roamed the ranges thrived and multiplied. As the outlying ranches grew so did Adobe, beginning as nothing more than a trading post and slowly developing.

The demands of the cowhands from the various ranches soon added saloons and gambling houses, and early on a couple of brothels. Then someone built a livery stable, followed by a barber shop. Next a stage began to call. The owners of the line built a depot. With the arrival of more people came the need for eating houses, even a hotel.

In 1865, the year of the town’s 10^th anniversary, Adobe’s bank opened for business. 1873 saw the opening of a Wells and Fargo Stage, Freight and Security office. Wells and Fargo also bought out the local stage-line and established a fully operational swing-station, building corrals and a second livery stable. By the mid—80’s Adobe was a well established town. It had its own resident judge, a stone courthouse and jail, and a fulltime lawman.

His name was Willard Beal. He was thirty-five years old. A tall, broad shouldered man who always wore a black suit and a white shirt. Beal kept the law in Adobe with a firm hand. He had a reputation for being hard but fair. When it came to using his gun he had a simple rule; if a man comes at you with a gun in his hand treat him like a potential killer and act accordingly. More than one self-styled fast gun had tried to add Willard Beal’s name to his list of kills.

Despite his past record, and his ability to handle situations, Beal was still a man at the end of the day. He was as mortal as the next and a bullet was liable to injure him just the same. Beal found this out one day in mid-summer. It would be the first time he ever stopped a bullet. It also turned out to be the last time . . .

It began like any other day in Adobe. Like countless days in the past. But before this particular one was over Adobe was to know violence and terror — and there would be fresh graves in the cemetery.

Beal and his deputies had completed their morning routine. It was close on ten. The town was simmering beneath a blazing sun. By noon the temperature would be even higher. The town lay on a wide, near flat plain, with the foothills of the Gila Bend Mountains to the north. The heat, dropping out of a cloudless sky, was caught by the hard surface of the land and radiated back. Adobe sweltered slowly and went about its business. The townspeople had learned long ago that the only way to exist in this climate was by taking matters at a steady pace. Only fools and madmen rushed about.

Beal was taking a slow walk back to his office for coffee when he heard the distant cry go up.

Beal turned on his heel, glancing back along the street. He saw the smoke just beginning to drift out over the rooftops at the far end of town. As he turned to retrace his steps he caught sight of his two deputies.

“George, get on over to Hardy’s place and see he gets that fire wagon out fast!”

Seeing his deputy hoof it across to Vern Hardy’s blacksmith shop, Beal carried on towards the source of the tire. The town was coming to life around him. People were crowding the boardwalks, craning their necks to get a better look. Others were heading down to the livery. As Beal neared the place he saw flames leaping out of the livery’s open doors. The shrill scream of frightened horses filled the air.

As he drew level with the alley running up the side of the stable Beal saw movement. He paused and saw a man’s stooped figure by the wall. The man was leaning against the side of the stable, head down, arms drawn round his body. He looked as if he might be hurt. Maybe he’s been inside the stable, Beal thought. He moved towards the man.

The man responded to Beal’s question. But not the way the lawman had expected. And a split-second before that response Beal got a feeling something wasn’t right about the situation. Instinct took over and Beal reached for his gun.

The stooped figure suddenly straightened up. There was a cocked .45 caliber Colt in his right hand, and the muzzle was aimed at Beal. The barrel was only inches from Beal’s shirt. The lawman felt fear claw at his gut when he saw the gun. He caught a brief glimpse of the man’s face grinning at him.

Beal was slammed across the alley by the impact of the heavy bullet. He hit the far wall, his body already reacting to the stunning force of the bullet that had torn its way through his chest and out between his shoulders, taking part of one lung with it. There was a pulpy hole in his back where the projectile had emerged. As Beal slumped against the wall the Colt fired a second time, this bullet adding to the damage of the first. Beal flopped loosely in the dirt a terrible weakness sweeping over him. Sound filled his ears and he found it hard to breathe. The taste of blood filled his mouth. Pain began to wash over him, increasing rapidly. He wished it would stop. When it did he slid into the enveloping blackness gratefully, unaware that he was dying.

By the time he was found it was too late to do anything but think about burying him.

With the majority of the town down at Clover’s livery the staff of Adobe’s bank found they were without customers.

That was until six armed men forced their way into the bank, closing and locking the doors behind them.

“Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt!”

The order was given by a tall, heavy-built man in his late thirties. He was dark-haired, with pale blue eyes, and he might have been handsome if it hadn’t been for the livid scar running down the left side of his face.

Frank Pearson, one of the tellers, took one look at the scar and recognized the man who owned it.

“It’s Ben Wyatt,” he exclaimed to no one in particular.

Wyatt turned in Pearson’s direction. His tanned face, unshaven and gaunt, was made to look almost evil because of that long dead-white scar running from temple to jaw-line. “Know me, do you, boy?” he asked, his tone friendly.

“Who doesn’t?” Pearson grinned in sudden bravado.

Wyatt returned the grin. He was still grinning as he shot the young teller. Pearson crashed to the floor with two bullets in his chest and blood all over his suit.

“Now the rest of you tend your business,” Wyatt demanded harshly. “All you have to do is hand out the money. We’ll just collect it.”

Close to Wyatt stood his younger brother, Al. If Ben Wyatt was known for his brutality, his younger brother was renowned for his instability. There were many who said that Al Wyatt was crazy. It might have been true. He was certainly abnormal. Al had a strange, sinister quality to his character that put the rest of the Wyatt bunch on their guard when he was about. Al was mistrusted by them all. They only tolerated him because he was Ben’s brother, and the bunch was loyal to Ben Wyatt. They were aware that Ben always sided with his younger brother, granting him every whim. No one could explain why Ben had this unswerving devotion for his brother, because there were even times when Al would turn on Ben too, cursing and raging at him until his mood ebbed away. Yet each time this happened Ben would take all without a murmur.

“Hey, Ben, you sure straightened him out,” Al said, giggling to himself.

He peered down at Pearson’s prone figure. Then a shot rang out. “He was still wriggling, Ben. He ain’t anymore.”

One of the young female tellers began to scream. Ben Wyatt strode over to her. Without warning he struck her across the face with the barrel of his gun. The screaming ceased as the girl fell back against the counter, clutching a slim white hand to her face. Blood began to trickle through her fingers, dripping on to the crisp starched blouse she was wearing.

“Anybody else even looks the wrong way,” Ben Wyatt yelled, “and I’ll drop the whole damn lot of you! Now get those bags filled.”

There was no more trouble. The tellers fell to stuffing the saddlebags provided with every banknote they could find. While this went on Ben Wyatt paced the floor. He was feeling restless. Uneasy. Being cooped up inside the bank didn’t settle well with him. He had a thing about confining spaces. Deep inside he was getting a feeling something wasn’t right. He didn’t know why he was feeling that way — but it was growing stronger with each passing second, and his instincts were telling him to get the hell out of Adobe. And fast.

“Ben. We’re set!”

Jake Sutter had been with Wyatt for a long time. Sutter, a tall, lean gray-eyed Texan had built his reputation as a cold, deadly killer who could do things with his bone-handled Colt most others said was impossible. The ones who could confirm his skill were all dead. Now he carried a pair of bulging saddlebags over his shoulder.

“You look like a man with a bad case of the runs, Ben.”

His tone was light, but concerned. He knew Ben Wyatt well — and could recognize when the man was worried about something.

“Sooner we get out of this town the better I’ll like it, Jake.” Wyatt stared out at their tethered horses. “Hell! It’s starting to fall apart.”

He crossed to the door and yanked it open.

“Let’s go, boys,” he yelled, stepping out on to the boardwalk, his gun up and ready.

The rest of the bunch filed from the bank. For a moment they paused, staring. The town lay oddly silent and deserted. It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Al Wyatt’s shrill voice split the silence.

“Hey, Ben, we went and scared the damn town away!”

“Shut up, you sorry excuse for an asshole,” Jake Sutter said tautly. He was developing the same feeling Ben Wyatt had admitted to. The job was going wrong. And they were right in the middle of a hostile town.

Al, his face stiff with anger, rounded on Sutter. “Ben,” he whined, “you hear what he . . . “

“Keep quiet, Al,” Ben snapped.

The first shot came then. Fired from across the street by someone too nervous to hold back any longer. The bullet whacked the bank’s stone facing and howled off into the blue.

“Throw down your weapons! There’s no way out!”

The command reached the outlaws clearly, coming from the shadows of an alley across from the bank.

Jake Sutter heard Ben Wyatt’s sharp hiss of anger.

“Ben, you feel like quitting?” he asked.

“Oh sure,” Wyatt remarked dryly.

Then he yelled out: “Head out, boys, and scatter! Every man for himself!”

They broke away from the bank frontage, guns up and firing. Return fire came from the concealed men across the street. The air was split by the multiple explosions. Bullets crisscrossed the street. They gouged the dirt. Ripped splinters from the boardwalk and whacked the stone wall of the bank. Some struck the big, gilded main window, shattering it.

In the confusion of those first seconds Ben Wyatt saw one of his men go down, then a second, bodies twisting and spouting blood. The rain of bullets tore them to bloody rags. There was no time to stop and help.

The tethered horses were milling about in panic, jostling each other. The noise and the yelling, maybe even the smell of blood was adding to their agitation.

Wyatt grabbed the reins of his own horse. Out the corner of his eye he saw Al already in his saddle, firing wildly in all directions. Next to him was Sutter. The tall Texan, cool as ever, seemed oblivious to the gunfire as he dropped his loaded saddlebags over his saddle. Dragging himself aboard his own mount Ben Wyatt was aware of the sick feeling in his stomach again, and cursed his own weakness.

He pulled the horse’s head round and sent it along the street, laying low across its neck.

There seemed to be a hundred guns firing at them from all directions. The air was thick with flying lead.

Ben Wyatt thundered down the dusty street. He could hear horses close by. The thud of hooves mingled with the steady crash of gunfire.

What a godawful mess!

His horse took a bullet. A spray of hot blood arced up as the stricken animal screamed in agony. Wyatt felt it going down and he kicked his feet free of the stirrups, flinging himself clear. He hit hard, his face and shoulder scraping along in the gritty dust. Stunned by the fall he lay helpless, dust clogging his eyes and throat.

He knew he had to get up. They would be on him in seconds if he stayed where he was. He raised his head. Blood was spilling from his torn chin. Wyatt got his hands under him, shoving off the ground. He picked up the sound of pounding boots behind him somewhere and clawed for his gun. His holster was empty, then he remembered he had been holding the gun when his horse fell. The horse. His rifle . . . in the scabbard . . .

“Touch it and you’re dead!”

Ben Wyatt froze, his fingers inches from the rifle’s stock. The tone of the voice was enough to convince him not to try for the rifle. With his anger mounting Wyatt straightened up, his hands held well away from his body.

He turned and found himself face to face with a slim, fair-haired young man wearing a Deputy badge on his shirt.

There was a rifle in his hands, aimed at Wyatt’s chest.

“Boy, you keep a tight hold of that piece, ‘cause if I see it shake just once I’ll take it and shove it up your ass barrel-end first.”

A second man joined the deputy.

He was thin and unshaven, carrying a single- barrel shotgun. “Talks big, don’t he, Rick?”

“He won’t when Judge Rice puts a rope ‘round his neck,” Rick said.

“I’ll tell you something, boy,” Wyatt said, relaxing a little. “I been close to a noose a number of times, and I’m still here. So don’t crow too loud. I ain’t dead yet.”

The skinny man laughed. “If you think your gang’s going to come and get you, Wyatt, don’t hold your breath. They’re clear out of town and still going. Be the last we’ll see of them.”

Ben Wyatt didn’t say a word. He wouldn’t have expected his men to do anything else under the circumstances.

They would ride all right. Just far enough to lose any pursuit, and once they were safe Jake Sutter would hole them up while he figured out a rescue plan. The tall Texan had a smart head on his shoulders and he knew how to use it.

The shooting had died down now.

The street was suddenly alive with people, most of whom had come to stare at Ben Wyatt. This would be a day to remember. It would become part of Adobe’s history. The day Ben Wyatt’s gang raided the bank and killed Willard Beal and one of the tellers. What would be remembered even longer would be the capture of Wyatt himself. One of the Southwest’s worst outlaws. The man the law had been after for years. And now Adobe had him. Their prisoner. To be tried and hanged and buried in Adobe. Rick, the young deputy, prodded Wyatt with his rifle.

“Jail’s behind you. Let’s go. And walk easy, ‘cause I got every reason in the world to blow you apart.”

Wyatt smiled coldly at him. “After all I done for you, boy? Just no gratitude left in the world. Hell, didn’t I arrange for the marshal to get killed for you? Left the way clear so you can step into his job?”

“Bastard!” The word exploded from Rick’s mouth. He lashed out with the rifle and clouted Wyatt across the side of the head, driving him to his knees.

Rick turned to the skinny man. “Charley, go down to Judge Rice’s and ask him to step over to the jail.”

Charley nodded and hurried away.

“On your feet, Wyatt, and move.”

Ben Wyatt stood up, swaying a little. He raised his head to stare at Rick.

There was pure hate in his eyes. Blood was running down his battered face, dripping onto his dirty shirt. Sweat gleamed on his skin and in that moment he seemed more animal than man.

Despite the fact that he was holding a loaded gun on the outlaw, Rick had a moment of extreme unease. He realized that having Ben Wyatt locked away in a cell wasn’t going to bring an end to this affair. The man was going to bring trouble to Adobe. And it was going to reach out and touch a lot of people ...