Dead men kept their own counsel. And they didn't need money.
So, they'd waylaid him in the livery stable. Only Brandon managed to drag the fight out into the blazing light of day.
Moments before, when they jumped him, his eyes had not adjusted to the dark interior of the livery. The owner, Hal Dawson, conveniently absent, hadn't taken part in the ambush, but he hadn't stopped it, either. A shot of fire streaked through Brandon's side, a growl of anger and pain escaping him in a rush.
In the beginning, they'd all been friendly enough, even seemed honest. Up to the point, a scant hour earlier, when they'd paid him for a "job well done.” Getting rid of the Clayton Gang had not been easy. The Claytons had ridden in four weeks past and proceeded to take over the small community of Spring Branch, Indian Territory. They had appropriated anything – and anyone – they wanted, including the mayor's two daughters, and Arnold Smith's sister.
Smith had approached Brandon with an urgent plea for deliverance from the six thugs, and the promise of a lucrative reward upon satisfactory completion of the job. A thousand dollars had been the price they'd agreed upon; Smith's agreement being smooth and easy at the time – anything, he'd said, to get rid of the vermin in their town.
When Brandon had dispensed with the Claytons – four buried, one locked up, and one not expected to live out the week – he thought Smith still seemed ready to pay the price, with no hint of reticence.
Now, Brandon understood why. They planned to take back their money and bury him alongside the gang members they had so recently given back to the earth. A tidy resolution.
Only, they'd been a bit too eager, creating some warning for him when they came after him. A shushed whisper, an uneasy movement in the loft overhead, a misplaced furtive step on the straw behind him. He'd turned and reached for his gun, but his hand had been knocked aside by Arnold Smith's beefy grip, Smith's shout alerting the others that now was the time they'd been waiting for.
Brandon stood against an entire town full of cowards who devised this from the beginning. But he had their money, and he had plans for it. They were going to have to kill him to take it back. From the looks of things, and the twelve-to-one odds, they intended to do exactly that.
The years of rough living, of growing up wild, fighting for every blessed thing he'd ever gotten, stood him in good stead, now. These men meant to make an end of him, then convince one another their act had been justified.
His fist connected solidly with Arnold Smith's flat nose, smashing it even flatter. Blood flew, and Smith grunted, coming for him again. "Hold him!"
Three of Brandon's assailants had slunk away, nursing broken jaws and missing teeth, but too many of them remained for him to take on alone. The whip whistled again, and his shoulders tensed in expectation. The leather coiled at his waist and ripped across his flesh like a branding iron.
It called up memories he wanted to keep buried forever.
The whip found its mark again, this time across his neck and shoulders. Smith roared in pain as the backlash caught him on the cheek – but Brandon made no sound. His harsh training had been equal in both worlds, Comanche and Anglo. He clenched his teeth and bit back the groan.
As they converged on him, he was almost thankful. At least, they were finished with the whip. Now, it would only be a matter of time. Still, he fought as they tried to grasp his arms. They struggled for several minutes before subduing him, four of them holding his arms pinned behind his back, forcing him to stand.
Arnold Smith's florid features swam into his view, and he realized the red glow around Smith came from looking through a haze of his own blood.
"You understand, don't you, Gabriel?" Smith's voice was taut. "It's just business."
****
The sickening sounds of fists pounding flesh and bone drifted on the air as Allie Taylor rounded the corner of Main Street. She slowed Reya to a walk and rode past the church, noticing how deserted the town looked for this time of day.
She hadn't been to town for the past six weeks. The Claytons had made that impossible. But Eli Simmons, her nearest neighbor, stopped by yesterday crowing about the hired gun.
"He sure done what he got paid to do! Got rid of the Claytons! It's safe now, Miss Allie, for decent folk to go tend to their business again, thank the Good Lord!"