THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Still the bullets came. He could do nothing but hide away, the rate of fire forcing him back. He heard the sound of boots on the landing, but there was no chance for him to look out, the volume of covering fire simply too great.

  In moments, he knew, the man rushing across the landing would attack him. It would be a desperate struggle, one that he would likely lose. He was in no state to fight hand to hand. His only hope lay in shooting before the man spotted him, but in the almost empty room there was nowhere to hide. If he remained where he was, he was doomed.

  He did the only thing he could think of. Even as he heard heavy boots thumping across the landing, he threw himself to the floor, dragging the man he had bludgeoned unconscious halfway across the front of his body, hiding himself from view. He kept his arms free and aimed the carbine at the doorway.

  There was a moment’s pause. The firing stopped, the storm of bullets cut off abruptly. Jack heard a whimper from the man with the knife buried in his throat. Then a body loomed into the doorway, carbine held out ready to gun down anyone foolish enough to be waiting for him.

  Jack spotted the flash of surprise in the man’s expression as he saw no one there. There was time for him to look down at the bodies lying on the floor before Jack shot him.

  The bullet took the man between the eyes. He crumpled instantly, his body collapsing. There was a final soft sigh, then he was silent.

  Jack forced himself up. His head swam as he found his feet and he staggered forward like a drunk. Yet there was no time to waste. He dropped the now empty carbine and with clumsy hands grabbed at the weapon dropped by his latest attacker, scooping it up at the second attempt then stepping around the body of the man who had brought it to him.

  This time he did not pause at the doorway. Instead he lurched onto the landing, moving as quickly as he could. His shoulder thumped into the wall as he turned at the head of the stairs. Then he was rushing downwards, his legs like jelly and threatening to give way at any moment.

  He cried out then. It was no war cry; more the whimper of a desperate man fighting for his life.

  Pinter was waiting for him, and he rushed at Jack the moment his feet left the last step. Jack saw him coming. He raised the carbine, but he was slow, his movements clumsy, and Pinter was on him before he could fire, a strange-looking rifle lashing out the moment he was close enough. The sweeping blow smashed into the barrel of Jack’s carbine, knocking it from his hands.

  Pinter’s lips were pulled back from his teeth and he snarled like an animal. He lashed out again, using his rifle as a club. Jack saw the blow coming, but he could do nothing to get out of its way. The rifle hit him hard, the force of the blow knocking him sideways so that he staggered across the room, his feet dancing on the floorboards as they fought to keep him upright.

  Pinter came at him again without pause, hammering the rifle butt at him for a third time, catching him a glancing blow on the arm and knocking him to the floor. He hit the floorboards hard, his teeth snapping together. The world turned to grey and shadows rushed forward to take him into the darkness.

  Pinter was on him before he could do anything more than twist onto his back. Even as his vision faded he saw the Confederate officer loom above him. He tried to twist away, but his body was not responding. Pinter thumped down, straddling his body and crushing his chest.

  Jack fought back. He could barely see, but he lashed out, battering his fists at the man beating him with such ease. Pinter sneered and swatted his arms away. He still held his rifle, and now he pressed it down, forcing it across Jack’s throat.

  Jack managed to get a single hand under the barrel before Pinter could stop him. He pushed up with the last of his strength, but still his throat was half crushed, and he couldn’t breathe. He flailed away at Pinter with his free hand, but his fist bounced harmlessly off the man’s flesh.

  Frantically he scrabbled at Pinter’s clothing, a final, desperate notion surging through him. Even as everything started to fade to black, the fingers on his right hand searched for the small pocket knife he vaguely remembered seeing attached to Pinter’s belt.

  ‘Time to die, you dirty son of a bitch.’ Pinter leaned down with his full weight. Jack’s left hand was pushing back with all his strength, but still the Confederate was choking him to death.

  Jack’s fingers locked on the small knife. The air was gone from his lungs and his actions were awkward, but he managed to free the weapon, and as the darkness rushed to claim him, he punched the small blade into Pinter’s side.

  The Confederate officer howled. Some of the pressure released from Jack’s throat and he stabbed again, thrashing his body wildly as he rammed the blade home with as much force as he could muster. He kept going, the blows coming one after the other, gouging at Pinter’s side.

  Pinter twisted away. The rifle lifted from Jack’s throat and air rushed into his tortured lungs. He gasped down a breath, fighting to stay alive, then bucked his body. It was enough to shift Pinter’s weight, and so he bucked again, throwing to one side the man who had come so close to killing him.

  He lurched upwards, gasping and choking down air as he moved. Pinter fell, his left side smothered in blood from the dozen or more puncture wounds. Jack went after him, sobbing and wheezing as he hauled air into his lungs.

  Pinter hit the floor on his back and Jack was on him in a heartbeat. It was his turn to be on top, and he pushed his knees forward, trapping Pinter’s arms. The officer’s eyes widened in terror as Jack rammed the blade into his chest.

  ‘No!’

  The dreadful wail came again as Jack clasped both hands to the knife’s hilt, then leaned his full weight behind it, driving it deep, twisting the blade as he thrust it home.

  Pinter was babbling and whimpering now, a series of pathetic mewling noises that finished with a final drawn-out sob as the knife tore through the muscles of his heart.

  Jack rolled off his corpse. He was utterly spent. He could not move, so he simply lay next to the body of the man he had just killed. He did not think on what he had done. There was no notion of triumph. No roar of victory. There was just pain.

  Jack did not know how long he lay there next to Pinter’s corpse, but it was already getting dark when he finally summoned the will to rise from the bloodstained floorboards. He moved gingerly, letting his body adjust to each new position before moving to the next.

  Everything hurt. Every breath burned, and his chest rattled and wheezed with each lungful of air he drew in. He knew pain. He had been wounded more times than he could recall. Yet never had he felt so bad.

  The agony nearly drove him to his knees when he finally got to his feet. His legs buckled and he came close to falling. Somehow he found his balance and stood there swaying, sipping at the air and wondering how he could find the strength to move on.

  He looked down at Pinter. There was enough light filtering in through the building’s windows for him to see the man’s staring eyes. He tried to summon an emotion at the sight. Four men had been sent after him. He had killed them all. All had been from the same Confederate unit that had hanged Rose from a tree. He tasted a morsel of revenge. It was sweet and he wanted more.

  Moving like some monster from a nightmare, he crossed the room then went up the stairs, his hand pressed hard against the wall to help him balance. It took him several long minutes to reach the landing, but time no longer meant much to him and he did not try to move any quicker. He was grateful to be able to move at all.

  Still in no hurry, he searched the three bodies carefully. He took a single carbine, the weapon so heavy that he had to drag its butt across the floorboards. The three corpses had little else of use save for a wooden block of lucifers and another small pocket knife. He stopped long enough to retrieve his knapsack and satchel of supplies before he started work on freeing his bowie knife. It took a while, but finally he managed to wrench it from the Confederate’s throat. The man had died at some point after Jack had left the room, but he still emitted a strange groan when the kn
ife came out of the dreadful rent in his flesh.

  Jack went back downstairs with the same care and speed as he had ascended. He could not breathe well and his whole body was sheeted in sweat, even though he felt as cold as ice.

  He stayed in the downstairs room only long enough to find the odd-looking rifle that Pinter had used to create the storm of covering fire. He did not bother to look at it, his mind too fuddled to contemplate the workings of the unfamiliar weapon. But despite his state, he knew he had to take it. He would need it.

  Outside, the five horses hitched to the rail at the front of the house greeted him noisily. He knew they needed attention, but like everything else, it would have to wait. They would have to endure, just as he was.

  He worked carefully, making sure he searched every saddlebag for anything of use. Each saddle had a canteen of water strapped to it, and he took them all, pausing long enough to drain one half dry, the warm, brackish water it contained drunk with relish. The saddlebags yielded little in the way of food; just a handful of hardtack biscuits and a pouch of dried peas. They carried more in the way of ammunition, and he took a dozen packets of cartridges for the carbine and every box of rounds he could find for Pinter’s rifle, stashing it all in a single set of saddlebags.

  He knew he needed to plan his next move, but his mind was empty of every thought and it took all his willpower just to stay on his feet. He did not have the strength to re-saddle his horse, so he slung the saddlebags on the back of one of the animals left by the men he had killed. He was about to unhitch it when he paused, a single thought penetrating the murk that shrouded his thinking.

  Even in his befuddled state he knew this new notion made sense, yet still he baulked at it. It would take all his failing strength just to put distance between himself and the farmhouse. Yet the idea refused to die. He looked down at the bloodstained clothing he still wore. It was poor quality and fitted him badly. But it was not its shabby appearance that had given him the notion to find an alternative. He knew he would need something more if he were to succeed, something that would allow him to move around the Confederate army with freedom.

  He sighed, his hands dropping the reins he had been about to untie, then turned and tottered back inside, boots dragging in the dirt, arms and legs jerking in strange, juddering movements.

  The house smelt of death. He plodded his way to where Pinter lay staring at the wooden ceiling. Blood still oozed from the wide tear in his flesh, but it did not stop Jack from stooping low and beginning to strip the corpse of its uniform.

  It took a while, but eventually he freed the officer’s jacket. He did not try to remove the blood that stained it; that could wait. The boots and trousers took longer to liberate, but he stuck to the task.

  He took his time going outside for a second time. Every step was a trial now, his body begging him to stop. When he finally reached the horse he had chosen to take, he was swaying on his feet. Clumsy fingers took an age to unhitch the animal, and he nearly fell when the beast, finally freed, tossed its head.

  He turned and began to trudge away from the farmhouse, leading the horse, Pinter’s uniform bundled awkwardly under one arm. A bloodied grey jacket was not much of a disguise, but he knew the power of the insignia of rank. It would not be the first time he had masqueraded as an officer, and the idea of doing so again pleased him far more than it should. He was going back to a role he knew well, one that would help him on his self-imposed mission.

  As he ground out the painful steps, he thought only of the moment when he would find Lyle and kill him. It was a good image, the kind that could sustain a man when he was fit to drop. He pictured Lyle at his mercy, the moment of the man’s death at hand. His lips moved as he trudged on, repeating a single word over and over. Lyle would die with Rose’s name in his ears. It would be the last thing he heard in this life, and Jack could only hope it would be the first he heard when he descended into the next.

  The fire caught and Jack finally lay back, a soft groan escaping his lips as he let his head rest on the warm earth. He had no idea how long he had travelled that particular day. Time had passed, he knew that much, but he had barely any sense of it. After the fight with Pinter, he had paid little attention to anything much at all, his faculties shutting down as the sickness held him in its remorseless grip.

  He did know he had headed west. The days had blurred together so that he could no longer tally how long it had been since he had left behind the bodies of the four men sent to capture him. For much of the time he had been going steadily uphill, his days spent moving up slopes covered with thick swathes of woodland. He had passed well clear of the few remote farmsteads he had seen along the way, skirting away from the people who lived there. He had ridden on, barely aware of his surroundings, a single, fleeting glimpse of a white-tailed deer his only connection to another living being. He had paused to let his horse take a short rest or to allow them both to drink from the creeks that flowed downhill. Otherwise he kept moving, stopping only when it became too dark to see a way ahead.

  That day he had halted when he had found himself in a clearing. It was no more than a dozen yards wide, but it offered enough room for him to build a simple fire that he could lie beside, and that was good enough.

  It had taken an age to start the fire. A torn cartridge had finally got the meagre scraps of wood to burn, but he knew they would not last very long. His care of his stolen mount was as cursory as his fire-building. He had managed to remove the saddle and the tackle, but anything more was beyond him. The horse would suffer, but at that moment Jack could do nothing more than lie down and finally let his tormented body rest.

  Yet even in his sickened state, he could not find the oblivion he craved. For a reason he did not understand, he could not close his eyes. Instead he stared up at the canopy of trees as if in some sort of trance, his eyes wide open yet not really seeing anything at all.

  He coughed, the spasm feeling like it was tearing something important deep in his lungs. He sipped at the air when the bout had passed, pulling it in carefully lest it cause another painful attack. He knew that he had a fever. His skin tingled, and he was cold yet somehow still layered in sweat. He shivered, despite the heat generated by the fast-burning fire at his side.

  He wondered if he would die should his eyes close. The notion bothered him. He did not fear death; it was too familiar to alarm him. In many ways he would welcome its arrival. It would, at the very least, release him from the torment of his abused and battered flesh.

  Yet the idea of dying irked him. He was not ready to go. There was too much still to be done. The thought of death brought Lyle’s face into his mind’s eye. He could see the man with utmost clarity despite the short nature of their bitter acquaintance. Every detail was clear and Jack was certain he would recognise him no matter how long it took to track him down.

  The thought settled. He would find Lyle. The man would be brought to account for killing Rose.

  He tried to conjure a picture of Rose to replace that of the Confederate officer, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not form anything more than a fleeting image of her, the detail of her features somehow lost to him in the weeks since her death. He focused on her eyes, trying to recreate the fire that burned deep inside them and which had captivated him from the start. He failed, her face shrouded in a mist that he could not burn away no matter how hard he tried.

  He hated himself then. Perhaps this was fate’s way of telling him that his quest was destined to fail. He had not known Rose for long. Perhaps it was idiotic to feel such attachment to her. He could hear fate mocking him for the choices he was making, the laughter as clear as the crackle of burning wood. And he knew why he was being treated so piteously.

  For underneath it all was a single uncomfortable and bitter truth. He was not searching for Lyle to avenge Rose, or to bring justice to a world that would never care. He was hunting him down simply for the purpose it gave to his own life. For without that, he had nothing. Without Rose, he had no on
e.

  Frustrated and angry, he forced his thoughts towards forming some sort of a plan for the days ahead. The little food he had left would not last long. He had some vague idea of dressing in the Confederate officer’s uniform that he had stashed deep in his saddlebags and attempting to buy supplies with the money he had found in one of Pinter’s pockets. Yet to do that, he would need some kind of plausible cover story, and he had failed to conjure even a single coherent notion of what that could be, his mind unable to maintain any sort of concentration. So he just lay there and stared at nothing, refusing to acknowledge the images that flooded into his mind, until, finally, his eyes closed.

  Jack awoke with a start.

  ‘Whoa, lie easy there, boy. Don’t you move a single goddam muscle.’

  He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus. It took several long moments for him to recognise what was in front of him. The barrel of a gun was no more than an inch from his nose.

  ‘So who the hell might you be, boy? And what in the name of all that is goddam holy are you doing on my land?’

  Jack could see little of the man behind the gun. He got the impression of a thin patch of grey hair above a scruffy beard. The man’s jaw worked from side to side like a cow chewing the cud, juddering and jerking as it moved.

  ‘Are you deaf, boy?’ The barrel of the gun jerked. ‘Answer my goddam question, or so help me God, I’ll put a bullet right between your goddam eyes.’

  ‘No.’

  Jack’s lips were gummed together and his mouth was dry, and the word came out as a croak. It did little to appease the gun-wielding greybeard, who turned his head and spat out a great jet of dark liquid.

  ‘Shit.’