Branded

BRANDED

by

Scottie Barrett

© copyright April 2004, Wendie Hensley & Debbie Elfman
Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright April 2004
New Concepts Publishing
5202 Humphreys Rd.
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

New Mexico Territory, 1874….

"That was the easiest thousand we've ever made. And all for the price of a bullet."

"We? Hell if I'm taking any credit for that ugly mess. That prize is all yours." Slade grabbed a chair and spun it around to straddle it. "They've gussied him up and propped his casket in the tack shop window. I had to push my way through the crowds getting here."

"Ain’t that somethin’?" Bonner took a slug of beer and backhand wiped the suds, but not the smile, from his face.

"Taking an unholy pride in your handiwork again, Bonner?" Slade picked up the cards Bonner tossed his way and attempted to focus his bleary eyes. The cards were nearly as thin as tissue and as transparent. "You should have waited for me."

"Seeing how you were cozying up to that bottle of Johnnie Walker last night, I didn't much think you'd be worth a damn this morning," Bonner said, the smile still flickering at the corners of his mouth. "Besides, Purdy insulted poor Meg over there," he inclined his head toward the barmaid clearing glasses from a nearby table. "Ain't that right, darlin'?"

The woman gave him a vague smile, and Slade was certain Poor Meg had never laid eyes on Silas Purdy. Least not while he was alive.

"You know those Purdy boys play dirty. The bastard's gun was jimmied. He was thumbing the hammer. Got off four shots before I'd even felt the itch in my finger."

Slade knew his partner wasn't exaggerating. He'd surveyed the alley. The exterior wall of the emporium had been riddled with holes. Evidently, Purdy's technique was to fire fast and furiously, thinking that at least one shot was sure to find its target.

Bonner smoothed his mustache with his thumb and forefinger. "Payments the same," he said with a shrug. "Though if you ask me, there ought to be a premium for killing a Purdy. Those vermin seem to breed out of thin air. Do away with one Purdy, and another is sure to pop up."

Slade acknowledged his friend's statement with a grim nod. With a flick of his wrist, he discarded two of his cards. He studied the new ones dealt him before anteing a handful of coins.

"You gotta admit, it was time to finish this. After we botched this job in Arizona, Silas got himself another two weeks of freedom. Which, I might add, was your fault. I can't believe I let you talk me into allowing him a night with his whore. Let him be, you said. He'll still be there in the morning." Bonner gave a snorting laugh. "I doubt you've ever stayed an entire night with a woman in your life, Dalton."

"There's never been a need to." Dalton slapped down his pitiful pair.

Bonner threw back his head and let loose a ridiculous howl. Behind him, Dalton heard the clash and clatter of glasses, followed by the startled waitress’s cry of frustration. Something told him, Meg would be more than glad to see the swinging doors hitting their backsides on the way out.

"Lone wolf every step of the way," Bonner said.

Lone was the way Slade liked it. Besides, it was what he deserved. If Bonner hadn’t convinced him that bounty hunters traveling together could track outlaws more efficiently and reap profits faster, there would never have been a partnership.

"Sometimes I wonder, Dalton, if you were born heartless."

"Hell no. I earned it."

Bonner splayed his cards on the table with a satisfied smirk. "Looks like I've whooped your sorry ass again, Dalton." He sat forward and swept the coins into his hat before gulping down his whiskey chaser.

"Awful slick tonight, Nate. You sure you're not dealing from the bottom?"

Bonner grinned. "I may have to buy me a little piece of that later tonight."

Slade followed his gaze to the mirror on the back wall. Slinking down the stairs from Miss Lydia Sterling's School of Charm and Etiquette was a young woman in a clinging red dress. She sidled up next to the two weary women draped over the counter, obviously longtime pupils of Miss Sterling's. They looked about as enticing to fondle as the saguaro cactuses they'd passed on their way south.

Slade had to agree, this new addition did have some charm. Looking expectantly in their direction, she pouted her cherry-colored lips, flipped her hair back over her shoulders and squeezed her small breasts together with her arms as she leaned on the counter, hoping to create the illusion of cleavage. She obviously saw them as potential customers.

"Dalton, don't you go favoring her with one of those pretty-boy smiles. Otherwise, she'll be thinkin' of you the whole time she's beddin' me." Bonner acknowledged her with a gallant tip of his hat.

Slade found it impossible to suppress a lopsided smile.

"Yeah, you can grin. You've never had to pay for it."

The smile faded on Slade's lips. He experienced the familiar taste of bitter regret. He'd paid for his pleasures, all right. Not with money but with his father's life.

"Sorry. I have a big mouth."

It'd been a mistake to share the story with Bonner. All the fault of too much drink. He'd been nearly sweating liquor the night he'd chosen to unburden himself. "You sure as hell do."

"But you can't deny, you are fortunate with women." Bonner sifted his fingers through the coins in his hat. "Damn unfortunate with cards, though." He gave a regretful shake of his head. "Those scales aren't balanced. Not by a long shot. But it gives me some satisfaction."

Slade was sorely tempted to prove him wrong. To mentally track the cards as he was apt to do in a serious game. Bonner's gloating was making him regret throwing money away on the last deal. Luck had placed a trio of queens in his hand. And stupidity, he reminded himself, had tossed one of them away. It'd become a matter of habit to lose to his partner. With a widowed mother and two unmarried sisters, Bonner's obligations were heavier than his own.

Like Bonner, Slade sent the bulk of his pay home to his family. Though, he doubted they had much need for it. From the moment his father had hired on Dixon Emory, the Dalton ranch had shown an enviable profit. Slade wondered if loyal old Dix was still being courted by the neighboring cattlemen.

Slade stacked the cards. The frayed edges made shuffling a chore. With cards like these, any self-respecting gambler would have the deck memorized after one pass.

Squinting through the cigarette smoke, Slade took a quick survey of the room.

"What's with you tonight anyway, Dalton? You're actin' kinda edgy."

"Just tuckered out from the ride down here, I suppose." Truth was, he was getting that feeling again, as if the hairs at the nape of his neck were crawling. This talent for sensing trouble was more of a curse than a blessing. Slade rubbed his neck.

"Just an itch, right?" Bonner asked the familiar question, and Slade answered with his usual doubtful shrug. "You don't really think any of his kin followed him here?"

"You'd better hope not. I don't think they'd take kindly to their dead brother displayed like cheap wares for the whole town to gawk at." Slade traced a pattern in the sweat beading on his beer glass. "They haven't been particularly pleased with us since we delivered Jared to the posse."

"Maybe the only thing warming my bed tonight will be ol' blue lightning, here." Bonner patted the pearl handle of his six-shooter. "Probably worrying over nothin’. I doubt they'd be able to track us, considering Jared was the smart one. And that ain't sayin' much."

"We both know Jared's a slippery son-of-a-bitch, and we never actually saw him swing. If he is still alive, he'll track us to hell if he has to." Slade pushed the brim of his hat up and glanced around. "'Course, we may already be there."

The stench of stale beer clung to the steamy moisture in the dank watering hole. The floor was a filthy mixture of dirt, manure, and anything else a man might casually scrape from the bottom of his boot while perched atop a rickety barstool.

"You know something, Bonner, I've been thinking of heading home."

"Home?" Bonner sat forward looking sincerely puzzled. His eyes opened wide as the true meaning dawned on him. "You don't mean home to Colorado?" Dumbstruck, Bonner stared in silence for a long moment before settling back into his chair with a grin. He waved his hands around the saloon. "And give up all this?"

"The bounty-chasing business is getting old. I'm tired of following worthless leads. And tired of trackin' two-bit losers, who are usually better off in jail than they are out. And I'm especially tired of having to jump at every shadow, wondering if it belongs to some revenge hungry loon, packing more artillery than he knows what to do with." As if on cue, several loud and deliberate boot heels pounded wood-planks outside the saloon's swinging doors, causing both men to straighten up and reach for their guns. They relaxed back simultaneously, Bonner with an audible sigh, as the footsteps retreated.

"This hasty decision wouldn't have anything to do with not wanting your brother to get his hand's on that ranch."

"There is that," Slade admitted.

"To Colorado. To miles and piles of cow chips," Bonner toasted and slung back another shot.

"Why don't you come back with me? Sure as hell could use another hand."

"Tried that once. Punching cattle. Now mind you, I thought I put in a fair day for a first-timer. Wasn't even sundown before my employer told me to roll my bed. But I appreciate the offer."

A whisper of air stirred Slade's hair. His body reacted quicker than his head. On instinct, he'd kicked the chair clear and drawn his gun.

"Christ, Dalton, you're more skittery than a green horse," Bonner said, but followed suit.

Observing the unholstered guns, the bar patrons reluctantly left their drinks to take cover behind and under furniture.

Slade jerked his head in the direction of the rear door, and Bonner covered it.

"I just noticed somethin' about these Purdy boys," Bonner commented as the first brother emerged from the narrow doorway.

The man was big and awkward, with the face of a horse. Moving like molasses, he was just choosing his target when Slade fired, sending him slamming to the ground. "What's that, Bonner?"

"Ain't none of them very purty."

When the hinges on the barroom doors creaked, they swivelled in unison. A pair of automatons, who had been at this business for far too long. They glimpsed the barrel of a rifle and pelted the doors with fire. The louvers blew apart, leaving a gaping hole. They could see their assailant gripping his bloody shooting arm as he turned tail and ran.

"That was damn close." The moment Bonner relaxed his weapon, a bullet ripped through his body. The mortal wound in his chest didn't stop him from returning the favor. He whipped his gun around. The barmaid flew back, shattering the mirror, and sending bottles crashing.

Bonner's knees buckled, and he made a useless grab for the table, before collapsing to the floor. Slade crouched beside his friend and pressed the heel of his hand against the wound to staunch the flow of blood, knowing full well, it was futile.

"I guess, she gathered, I wouldn't be spending my winnings on her," Bonner rasped.

Slade managed a weak smile. "Homely as they may be, those Purdys never lack for females."

It's always the unexpected, Slade was to think later, that gets you in the end.

On the dirt trail to town, Slade, smitten with remorse, twisted around in the saddle to take another look at the Lazy Heart Ranch. His father's pride and joy. His gloved hand tightened on the reins as a surge of anger flooded him again. He had returned home to find the herd had thinned to several hundred scraggy head of cattle. Even loyal old Dix had given it up for hopeless and moved on.

To top it off, the house needed a new roof. And what was left of the cook shed would only serve for firewood. He supposed, he should be grateful the house was still standing. And to think, he'd actually worried about forfeiting ownership of it.

He'd lost days convincing the parson that Bonner deserved a decent burial in the town's only cemetery. An unimpressive plot of desert planted with weather beaten crosses. To the parson's way of thinking, a bounty hunter ranked somewhere near the bottom. A notch or two lower than a snake. In the end, it had taken a pocketful of silver and Bonner's horse to secure a plot. Dalton was sure the money would never find its way into the collection plate.

Unfortunately, the searing heat had made carting him back to his family's homestead near the Purgatory River an impossibility. In truth, the Purgatory River was a more fitting place for Bonner. Like Slade, he had a few sins to answer to. Slade experienced that same hollow sensation in his gut, remembering how Bonner's mother had taken the news so calmly. Even offering him lemonade, before sliding to the floor in a dead faint.

Delivering Bonner's earnings had cost Slade a week he couldn't afford. He'd missed the deadline set in his father's will to claim the ranch. He’d fully expected to find Grady strutting around as Lazy Heart's new owner. With the pitiful state the property was in, Slade almost wished his little brother had acted true to character.