Brazos

By Cameron Judd

He brings the Old West to vivid new life in his action-packed stories of heroism, adventure, and excitement. With over one million of his books in print, Cameron Judd powerfully depicts, as no other writer can, the struggles of a generation of Americans on a harsh and beautiful frontier.

Jed Keller came to Texas to repay a debt to his sister, killed in a fire at her ranch. But from his first day in the godforsaken little town of Cade, Jed faced mystery surrounding his sister's death, and a battle between vigilantes and a gang of cattle thieves. Somewhere in the violence Jed saw a chance to build a new life. But to do it, he had to unravel the legend of the night riders called the Old Boys, hunt down a stone-cold killer, and destroy the one man who know what really happened to Jed's sister in the blood-soaked hill country by the rolling Brazos River...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Jan 15, 2000
• ISBN: 9781466825598

Cameron Judd

Cameron Judd writes with power and authority, and captures the spirit and adventure of America’s frontier in his fast-paced, exciting novels. Not since Louis L’Amour’s Sackett series has a writer brought to life the struggles, tragedies, and triumphs of our early pioneers with such respect and dignity. The author of more than forty books, Judd is one of today’s foremost writers of the Old West. He lives with his wife and family in Chuckey, Tennessee.

Book preview

1

The first man stood alone in the late winter dusk. Before him were two graves that still bore the indentations of the shovels that had dug and filled them many days before.

The graves were marked with wood crosses and lay near the place the house had stood. The house itself was now nothing but a pile of thoroughly burned, stinking timber. The fire must have raged every bit as hot as the folks in nearby Cade had declared, for the ground for several yards all around was blackened even yet, the chimney had crumbled to a rubble heap from the heat, and two nearby outbuildings had also burned to the ground. The little cookhouse and adjacent bunkhouse stood on the other side of a narrow grove of trees, out of sight and far enough away that they had been spared destruction.

Hat in hand, the mackinawed man stood by Magart Broadmore’s final resting place and wondered morbidly how anyone had managed to find any human remains worthy of burial after such a conflagration.

He was a tall man in his forties, broad-shouldered and long-legged. Unlike his smooth-pated father, who had balded in his twenties, he had managed so far to keep every bit of the thick shock of hair that curled behind his ears, despite all his efforts to comb it straight. It was gray at the temples, but the rest remained black as nightshade. If not for his thoroughly weather-creased face, he might have passed for a man ten years younger than he was.

Usually he was calm and stoic. But today he was deeply shaken, and glad to be alone where no one could see the dampness and redness of his eyes. He had come to the Brazos country expecting to find a long-estranged sister. He had not come expecting to find her and her husband dead, and their ranch abandoned.

His moistened eyes shifted to the other grave, the one closest to the ruins of the house, the one marked F. R. BROADMORE—b. 1842, d. 1875. His lip curled in distaste that approached hatred. He harbored no grief for this grave’s occupant. Folly Broadmore had been a sorry soul in life, and death did nothing to make the thought of him any more tolerable. The man was born no good and had lived up to his heritage. Gambler, cheat, sometime swindler, full-time loser. That was Folly Broadmore.

Too bad they were already buried when I got here, the man thought. I never would have let them bury Magart beside him. It ain’t right that she has to lie beside a man like him, even if he was her husband.

He turned away, eyes sweeping the rolling Brazos country. He dug a hand under his coat and into his pocket to fetch out his tobacco and papers. Within a few seconds he had rolled a perfect cigarette, or quirly, as he would have called it. Snapping a phosphorus-and-sulfur match off the match block in his pocket, he struck flame on his boot heel and lit the tobacco. The smoke of it was raw against his throat, but it soothed him.

The sun, swollen and orange, was nestling its lower edge against the western horizon. The wind rose higher, carrying the scent of river and town through the chill-sharpened air. The man sniffed. Funny thing, he mused, how that lousy town seemed to have its own distinct scent, like a living thing. He could pick it out from here, a full two miles away. It was a conglomerate smell of humans, horses, dogs, pigs, cattle, timber, chimney smoke, tobacco, whiskey, and all the thousand other things that went into the mix of the ugly little farrago that had grown up in the shadow of equally ugly Fort Cade.

The man tossed down the quirly and crushed it under his heel. Putting foot to stirrup, he swung into his gelding’s saddle and rode slowly by the light of the sunset back toward Cade. There was only one thing to do at a time like this: Get as drunk as possible, and stay that way as long as he could.

*   *   *

The second man wasn’t as tall as the first, but every bit as lean, perhaps leaner. His hair was wispy, thinning on the crown of his head, and its color was that of wet sand. His skin was fair, more freckled and windburnt than tan.

He was crouched in the brush beside a curving stream that snaked between two low hills wooded with oak. Above him hung an orange and violet sunset. He held a battered carbine, already levered and cocked, and his heart thumped like a hammer. A little rivulet of blood stained his calf, coming from a superficial bullet wound suffered while he rode full tilt away from the three horsemen who had pursued him.

He hadn’t recognized any of the three and hoped they hadn’t recognized him. Who were they? Ranchers, cowboys … or range detectives? He hoped not the latter, though the possibility was there. Local ranchers were getting weary of losing stock, and drastic measures, such as hired range guards, could not be too long in coming.

He shifted his posture and winced at the pain of his wound. Glancing at it, he wondered how deep it was. The pain of it was certainly noticeable, though there was not the dull throb of a deep puncture. It had been a grazing shot, nothing more. But he would have to get rid of these bloodied trousers, for a bloodstained and bullet-torn fabric would generate some uncomfortable questions back in Cade.

He crouched where he was for the next half hour. Finally, when it was almost fully dark, he stood, grinning broadly. No pursuers had appeared; they must have gone past on the far side of the rise. He spoke to the black horse that searched for early forage behind him, down by the water and out of sight of any potential watchers from the rolling countryside beyond the oak stand. Horse, I think we shook ’em.

He examined his wound; as he had thought, it was superficial. It had already quit bleeding on its own. The sting was gone now, leaving only a slight ache. Limping a little, he got the horse, mounted, and rode out of the thicket, heading east toward his big ranch house.

Cheerful though he was at evading capture, the experience had sobered him. He would have to be more careful in the future. He had too much going for him here in Cade to be careless. Too many plans, too many ambitions, too much to lose—and lose it all he would, if ever he was pegged as a stock thief. From here on out, he decided, he would have to leave the actual act of stock theft to his associates in crime. From now on he would play his role strictly in the background, carefully hiding the vital secret of his involvement. This would be especially important after the election was over and he was firmly ensconced in the county sheriff’s office over in Cade.

On his way back to his big stone house, the man rode across the Broadmore spread. He paused there, looking toward the black rubble heap of the house. There was just enough light for him to make out the two crosses on the graves. He eyed them a moment, then rode on.

2

Two Days Later

Paco the Mex saw his beloved one drawing near. He stirred where he lay, eyes closed, and smiled. Bellina, he whispered worshipfully. Bellina of the mysterious darkness, Bellina of eyes and hair black as midnight, Bellina of brown skin as cool to Paco’s touch as the bottle of whiskey that had given her the only reality she now possessed.

"Paco … hermoso, fuerte…" Her voice was musical and sweet, soothing to hear, even if only in his imagination.

Only when Paco was drunk did Bellina come to him, and as far as he was concerned, that provided the best of many good reasons to get drunk as frequently as possible. When he was sober, all life had to offer was the squalor of this town: its dirt, poverty, heat, danger, and a populace that looked down on him and made him look down on himself. When he was drunk, things were better. Intoxication gave Paco the only two luxuries he had known for many years: escape from ugly reality, and Bellina, a lover made of memories and dreams.

Yet now, as Bellina reached out to caress him, her touch was not a phantom’s, but solid, human. A thrill shivered through Paco. She was real! She was alive! Bellina, bella Bellina… He smiled broadly, reaching out to her as he opened his eyes.

Paco’s body jerked upward and suddenly he was looking into a stubbled male anglo face that was certainly not that of his imagined lover. The Mexican’s lip curled back over a wide gap where front teeth had been in the days when he was young and handsome and had loved a real-life Bellina, now many years in her grave. A gargling, panicked sound bubbled up from his throat.

Bellina, eh? the anglo said. His eyes were red and his breath heavy with whiskey. Paco was face upward, his liquorg-weakened legs, all one and a half of them, sprawled out. He had removed his whittled peg leg for comfort’s sake before settling down to drink; now it lay beside him. His torso was pulled half upright as the anglo held him by the collar of his ragged coat. "I’m a long way from being any Bellina, amigo. You’re the one they call Paco the Mex?"

"Si, si—I am Paco. Misericordia, señor, mercy…"

They tell me you’re a cheap thief and beggar, Paco. That right?

"No, señor—no lo quiera Dios! I am no thief. I beg you, let me go!"

You’re a pitiful excuse even for what you are, Paco. The smell of you alone is enough to make a man sick. You think any sweet Bellina would have anything to do with a skunk like you? Do you?

"No, señor. No. I am a wretch, señor. Por favor, don’t hurt me!"

Hurt you? Why would I want to hurt you? Of course, if you decide to be uncooperative…

"What do you want of me, señor?"

I want you to tell me what you know about the death of Magart Broadmore.

Paco suddenly recognized the man who held him. His tongue swiped out; his eyes grew wide, making the brown-black pupils stand out against the background of the surrounding bloodshot whites. Keller! he said. You are Keller!

That’s right, Paco. I am Keller, and before she married, Magart Broadmore was named Keller too. She was my sister, Paco. I came here to find her, and what I found instead was her grave. Now I hear whispers in the saloons that you know more about how she died than what the local rag wrote.

No! I know nothing!

Only a dead man knows nothing, Paco, and if you don’t talk, dead you’ll be. Tell me what you know about Magart Broadmore’s death!

The fire, she died in a fire, she and her husband!

Keller swore and shook the Mexican. Tell me what I don’t already know! Tell me the truth!

"Señor, por favor, I know nothing more! I swear it before God, before the blessed Virgin! I know nothing!"

That’s not what I hear, Paco. They tell me you talk too much when you’re drunk. They tell me you say it wasn’t the accident it was claimed to be!

"Please, Señor Keller, believe me—if I knew anything, I would tell you!"

Keller’s face became hard and ugly. He was driven by liquor and fury, a state he was unaccustomed to, and therefore could hardly control. His lips tightened to a line. You’re a liar, Paco. A liar and a scoundrel. And letting you keep on breathing is a waste of good air.

Keller drew his pistol and thrust it into Paco’s face. He was thumbing back the hammer when he suddenly froze, realizing the horrible thing he was about to do. God help me, have I sunk so low as to murder a man in an alley?

Paco wrenched free and screamed in terror as he fell back, spreading his arms behind him to catch himself. In so doing, he chanced to put his fingers around the peg leg. He grabbed it, swung it up, and clubbed Keller soundly in the side of the head. The pistol went off in Keller’s hand, splattering a harsh powder burn across the left side of Paco’s face but sending the slug into the ground beside him.

The Mexican hit Keller again, knocking him aside, then leaped to his single foot. Still yelling frightfully, he began hopping away, peg leg in hand. He bounced off around the corner of the stable behind which the encounter had occurred. Keller was on his knees, grimacing and slightly dizzy from being clouted. He picked up his pistol and held it limply. God, I almost murdered a man! he murmured to himself. He gingerly touched his head where Paco had struck him and found blood on his fingers when he took them away.

Keller stood waveringly, pistol dangling in hand, and heard footfalls on the side of the building opposite where Paco had just run. He turned as two wide-eyed men with identical deputy badges and almost identical faces emerged to face him. One already had his pistol drawn; the other drew his as soon as he saw Keller standing there with weapon in hand.

Drop that pistol! Drop it! the first man ordered. Keller had seen these lawmen before and knew they were the Polk twins, Homer and Haman, look-alike brothers who helped the county sheriff ride herd on the town of Cade and its surrounding environs. Which was Homer and which was Haman, he didn’t know.

Keller stooped and laid the pistol on the ground. Standing, he lifted his hands. A thin trickle of blood edged down under his collar.

Who were you shooting at? the lead Polk demanded, pistol still trained on Keller.

Nobody, Keller said. His anger had drained out, replaced by shame and desperation. He wanted badly to turn and run.

That’s a lie. I heard yelling.

That was me, Keller said, groping for an out. I saw a snake, yelled, and shot at it. Snakes scare me bad.

I heard Paco the Mex’s voice back here, the second Polk said. And I don’t think no snake clouted you in the skull.

Look, men, I’m a longtime peace officer myself, and this looks to me like a situation you ought to just let drop, Keller said, flashing what he hoped was a disarming grin.

I reckon you would think that way, the first Polk said. He squinted. Hey, you’re that Keller fellow, ain’t you? Brother of poor old Magart Broadmore?

I am. How do you know me?

Polk cleared his throat, looking ill at ease. The sheriff said you were in town. I’m sorry about what happened to your sister, Mr. Keller. I feel sorry for you and all. But I can’t let you go until we know what was going on back here.

Another man came around behind the Polks. Haman, Paco the Mex just hopped all the way down the street with one side of his face burnt red, yelling he’d been shot at. He looked drunk, but he was hopping like a dang jackrabbit.

"So that was Paco I heard yelling back here! Haman Polk declared. You lied to us, Mr. Keller. Come on. Let’s go see Sheriff Cooke."

Wait a minute … did you say Cooke?

Yeah. Till Cooke. He says he knows you. Planned to look you up while you were in town. It looks like we’ll be saving him the trouble. Now come on, get moving.

Keller walked all the way to the sheriff’s office with Haman Polk’s pistol trained on the small of his back, his hands uplifted to shoulder level, and a stunned expression on his face. Till Cooke was the law in Cade? He hadn’t known that. It was the first good thing he had heard since arriving here.

Or maybe it wasn’t so good. How would Till Cooke react to learning that a man he had trained in the ways of the law had fallen to the point of beating on peg-legged Mexicans in back