THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  He sucked down a breath of freezing air, forcing thoughts of war from his mind, then swung the axe. It hummed as it slipped through the air, smacking into the log with a great thump, splitting the wood into two neat halves. It was an action he had repeated a hundred times that day already. It was his fifth morning of chopping wood. He worked slowly, taking his time and feeling the strength returning to his limbs. His arms and back ached abominably. Yet there was pleasure in the simple work, and satisfaction to be found in the strain in muscles that were still weaker than he could ever remember.

  Garrison walked past every once in a while, greeting Jack’s slow efforts with a grunt that might have been approval but which was more likely a remark on his lack of productivity. Jack did not care. He was sweating hard, the heat of his body a wonderful contrast to the chill on his skin from the cold winter air. The sky above his head was bright and clear, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt something other than the blackness of grief and despair.

  He swung the axe again, his breath condensing around his face, but missed, the axe taking the corner off the log rather than splitting it into two equal pieces. The sight displeased him far more than it should have, and he paused, taking a moment to stand the log back upright then leaning on the axe, sipping down breaths of the glacial air.

  All was still. Snow shrouded the mountain woodland, smothering any sounds and leaving it unnaturally quiet. Only the occasional roar of snow falling from a tree broke the eerie silence. It was a time for animals to burrow deep and wait out the cold. And for humans to chop wood.

  Jack took a bigger breath, forcing the cold air deep into his lungs. The action still caused a moment’s flare of pain, his ribs protesting as he stretched them. He was feeling better, yet his situation still pricked at his conscience. He was wearing clothes that were not his, Martha raiding her husband’s chest for items that almost fitted him. He was eating food that was not his, in a cabin that belonged to a man who had once hoped to trade him in for a handful of Confederate dollars. He was living on charity. He did not need Martha’s father to chivvy him along and force him to his feet. The day he would leave could not come quickly enough.

  ‘You call that chopping wood, boy?’

  Jack looked up sharply. He had not heard Garrison approach. The old woodsman could move so quietly that he made not a single sound.

  ‘What do you call it then, old man?’ He swung the axe again, harder this time. The wood split in two, the axe hitting it with such force that both halves jumped off the tree stump.

  ‘Old man indeed.’ Garrison huffed, then came closer. ‘I whipped your skinny behind easily enough the first time I tried, boy. Don’t make me do it again.’

  ‘I was sick then.’ Jack bent down to toss the two halves of log into the heap he had been building that morning. The week sheltering from the blizzard had depleted their stocks. If they wanted to be warm, then many more logs would have to be split.

  ‘Sick or not, I still put you on your goddam ass,’ Garrison growled. He was leaning on his musket as he watched Jack at work. He was a man comfortable in his place in the world and confident of his ability to stay there.

  ‘What’s all this talk of fighting?’ Martha interrupted the bravado. She was wearing a simple black dress with a white collar. Its hem was damp and lined with snow and her sleeves had been rolled up to reveal a pair of lean, muscled forearms. She was carrying a pail of water in each hand and both arms showed the strain of the load. Yet she marched across the snow-slicked ground easily enough and even had a moment to smile at Jack. ‘You feeling good there, Jack?’

  Jack nodded. Martha was a hard worker who was as tough as her surroundings. He had never once heard her complain, no matter how cold and dark it had become, or how much her father bawled her out. He liked her for it.

  ‘Thank you.’ He stopped what he was doing and spoke clearly. It was overdue. ‘Thank you both.’

  ‘For what?’ The words came out in between breaths as Martha ploughed on with her load.

  ‘For keeping me alive.’

  Martha stopped. She was breathing hard and her breath hung in a cloud in front of her face. ‘It was our pleasure, Jack.’

  Jack turned to look at Garrison. The old man had not moved and showed no sign of doing so. He stared at Jack, holding his gaze. He did not say a word in acknowledgement of Jack’s thanks.

  Jack shivered, whether from the cold or from something else, he did not know. Deep in the old man’s eyes he saw something shift.

  ‘Well, boy.’ A thin smile played across Garrison’s face. ‘You’ve been about as much use as a blunt goddam axe around here, but I never did expect much from a shit-weasel Yankee.’

  Jack ignored the abuse. He kept his eyes locked on the old man. His expression was saying something different to his mouth.

  ‘You still planning on leaving us, Jack?’ Martha put down the pails of water and looked across at him. The frigid air did not bother her.

  ‘Soon as you tell me I won’t die of the cold,’ Jack answered seriously. There had been no more talk of a bounty. The idea had faded away like snow from boots placed near a stove. Nor had there been any talk of the war between the states. It was winter. Survival was all. Everything else could wait until the land had thawed and life began again.

  ‘Hell, it’d be high summer if we wait for that.’ Garrison chuckled at the idea. ‘You’d be like a child in these mountains, boy. Got about as much chance as surviving in them too.’

  Martha smiled at the teasing. She knew her father. ‘It’ll be another month, Jack, maybe two, before you’re ready and all. Specially if you’re set on heading all the way over to Nashville. You ain’t got your strength back yet. Not properly.’

  Jack heard the truth in the words. He could feel the cold sinking into his bones now that he had stopped working. Aches were becoming pains and his body was already weakening. The thought of raising the axe again did not fill him with joy.

  ‘You still going to find that man, the one who killed Rose?’ Martha asked bluntly. There were few secrets left between them. The week of the blizzard had taken care of that.

  Jack nodded. ‘I’ll find him.’

  ‘And you’ll kill him for what he did?’ There was no trace of censure in Martha’s voice. She was very different from her father in so many ways, yet she had inherited a fair measure of his toughness.

  Jack nodded again.

  ‘Why?’

  To Jack’s surprise, it was Garrison who asked the question. He had said little when Jack had told them his long and sorry tale. He had been interested in Jack’s stories of faraway wars in the Crimea and Persia, and he had listened intently when he talked of the bitter struggle at Delhi. But he had offered nothing when Jack had spoken of his determination to find Rose’s killer.

  ‘Revenge,’ Jack answered truthfully. There was no dissembling with the people who had saved him. In truth, he found the blunt, simple nature of his current life a relief. He had nothing left to hide and no secrets to protect. He had told them everything.

  ‘That it?’

  ‘That’s all I have, old man.’

  ‘Well, it’s as stupid a goddam notion as I ever heard. You ain’t got a chance in hell of finding that man. You’ll just find yourself an empty grave.’

  Jack had no easy reply. The words were an echo from the past. He remembered his mother saying something similar. Yet here he was, still standing. Just.

  ‘You sound like you’re going to miss me,’ he teased.

  ‘I’ll miss you like a man misses a dose of the shits. You know they’re gone, but you sure as hell don’t want them back.’

  ‘You’ll have to chop your own wood.’

  ‘Amount you’re getting done, I could do it before I take my morning piss.’ Garrison could not help chuckling at his abuse. He paused, then became more serious again. ‘This is a big old country, boy. You really think you can find one man?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Jack replied honestly. ‘Maybe n
ot.’ He shrugged. ‘I’m still going to try.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘What you going to do after?’ Garrison shifted, easing his weight from one foot to the other. ‘If you find this man, and kill him, then what’re you going to do?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  Garrison shook his head slowly. ‘There ain’t no future in this, boy. No future at all. A man needs more than chasing and killing.’

  ‘I don’t have anything else.’

  ‘Then find something. Find it whilst you still can.’

  Garrison spoke with more passion than Jack had ever seen in the old man. The cold and the quiet, still air only served to emphasise the heat in the words.

  ‘I will. When he’s dead.’ Jack held onto the iron in his soul. It was the only thing binding him together.

  ‘Might be too late then, boy.’

  Jack smiled. He did not like being called boy, but it beat being called a shit-weasel. ‘You’d better be careful, old man. Sounds like you’re beginning to care about me.’

  Garrison’s mouth twisted, then he turned his head and spat. When he looked back at Jack, he was smiling. ‘Then we’d better get you on your way as soon as we can. I’m too old for all this shit.’

  Martha and Jack laughed at the look on the old man’s face, but their laughter stopped abruptly when a different sort of sound came from the woods to the south of the cabin.

  It was the sound of men on the move.

  Jack saw them first. They were little more than shadows, but there was no doubt they were coming their way.

  ‘Get inside, girl.’ Garrison spoke first. He stood up straighter, his musket held across his front. ‘Go on now.’ He added the extra command as he saw his daughter hesitate.

  Jack hefted the axe. All thoughts of the cold and the ache deep in his bones were forgotten.

  A motley collection of men came into sight. All four were on foot. A tall, beefy man with lank hair led them. He was unkempt and dirty, and his body was buried beneath a great brown blanket, but there was no hiding his size. The three others were shorter, and lean as whippets. They were all swathed in layers of drab-coloured blankets, their boots wrapped in rags and their heads covered with hats and sheets so that little of their bearded faces could be seen.

  ‘Martha.’ Garrison stopped his daughter as she reached the cabin door. ‘Get Jack’s fancy rifle.’ Then he turned to face the four men who had no business being there.

  Jack would have had to be a fool not to feel the tension that rippled through the icy air. The arrival of the four men could only mean one thing.

  Trouble.

  ‘How can I help you boys?’ Garrison called out to the group the moment they stepped out from the treeline. He held his musket ready.

  Jack balanced the axe in both hands, then walked to stand at the older man’s shoulder. He could sense that violence was only a short way off. The four men would want something. Whatever that might be, he was sure Garrison could not afford to give it away. He would have to fight to hold on to what was his.

  The big man stepped forward whilst his companions hung back. He was carrying a black pistol in his great maw of a right hand.

  ‘What you got here, old man?’

  Jack watched carefully. The pistol was half covered by the end of the blanket that swathed the big man’s right arm. He held it with practised ease.

  ‘Just my home, son, there’s nothing much here. Just enough for us.’ Garrison spoke slowly and clearly, making sure nothing was misunderstood.

  The big man smiled. He had few teeth. ‘And who’s that ugly son of a gun holding that there axe?’

  Garrison turned to look at Jack, his expression neutral. ‘Why, that’s young Jack. He’s my boy.’ He looked back at the big man. ‘He can’t speak or hear nothing. He’s just one big dumb son of a bitch who don’t know what day of the goddam week it is.’ He glanced back at Jack then slowly shook his head. ‘Disappointment to a man, his only son standing there with the brain of a fucking two-year-old.’

  The big man looked Jack over. ‘That right? He don’t understand us?’

  ‘Not a goddam thing.’ Garrison glanced at Jack again. ‘Ain’t that right, you shit-for-brains son of a bitch?’

  Jack kept his expression neutral, playing his part as he stared back at the men who had brought danger to this remote corner of the woods. He did his best to look like a fool, even as he ran his eyes over the group. The big man was the most dangerous, his size and bearing marking him out as the leader. The rest looked worn out. Two were old, their faces half covered with unkempt and matted beards and what little skin was left bared to the bitter winter air blackened with grime. One was much younger, barely more than a boy to Jack’s eyes, his face coated with soft downy fuzz rather than a full beard. Their blankets were crusted with dirt, and what clothing he could see was filthy. There was no hint of a uniform in their worn, raggedy appearance and only the muskets they carried gave any hint that they might once have been soldiers. But even from a distance Jack could see the rust on the ironwork, and he doubted they would fire. He grinned like a fool. The last time he had been faced with four men he had been alone. They had all died at his hand.

  ‘Now then, boys, I reckon it’s best for us all if you go on your way. Ain’t nothing here for you except maybe some water, if that’s what you need.’ Garrison sounded anything but welcoming. He took a few paces forward, placing himself in front of the group’s leader.

  Jack’s arms were protesting at holding the axe. Yet he forced them still, not willing to show even a moment’s weakness. Garrison was the same. He stood no more than ten yards in front of the big man, yet it was as if he had not a care in the world. To Jack’s eyes the old man seemed small, frail even, when compared to the much bigger and younger man. It was as brave a display as any he had seen.

  The big man stared back at Garrison for several long moments before he removed his hat, which he held awkwardly in front of him.

  ‘No sir, we can’t do that. We need someplace to stay so we can get out of this damned cold for a bit, and we need to find ourselves something to eat.’ He sounded almost apologetic. ‘We’re sure starving.’

  ‘Ain’t nothing here for you boys except some water.’ Garrison repeated his earlier answer, his tone even and calm. ‘Best for us all if you just move along now.’

  The big man nodded, as if he agreed with everything Garrison said. But he did not move so much as a single inch. ‘Who’s that girl we saw?’

  Jack forgot his aches and pains. He saw a different kind of hunger in the man’s eyes and it sent fire fizzing through every vein in his body.

  ‘She ain’t nothing to concern you.’ Garrison’s tone had changed, the words growled and the warning clear.

  The big man’s meaty fingers toyed with his hat. He looked once at Jack, his tongue flicking out to lick his lips. Then he nodded and put his hat back on his head before turning to glance back at his companions.

  There was a pause, lasting no more than the span of one or two heartbeats. Then the man turned on a sixpence, moving with a speed that belied his bulk, his revolver aimed at Garrison, the muzzle held stock still.

  Garrison did not move, but Jack saw the old man straighten his spine as he faced the threat. He had been given no chance to fight back.

  ‘We need food, we need shelter and we need a little comfort. I’m right sorry, old man, but I reckon we just found ourselves all three.’

  He fired twice in quick succession.

  Jack saw Garrison’s clothing twitch as both bullets hit him squarely in the centre of his chest. Then he fell without a cry.

  He was dead before his body hit the ground.

  Jack moved fast, acting on instinct as a bullet smacked into the snow-covered ground no more than a yard from his feet. Another shot followed, and he felt the snap in the air as the bullet seared past.

  He dived behind the woodpile, then scrabbled across the ground, working his way to the fa
r side. He could feel his body coming to life, the feeling of being shot at just as he remembered.

  He paused at the edge of the woodpile, sucking down a breath of air. He could hear the sound of boots scuffing through snow, but now was not the time to hesitate and try to place his new enemy. It was time to act.

  He dragged down another breath, then broke from cover. A bullet came for him immediately. It gouged a great splinter from a log that spat upwards and caught him on the cheek. But it did not slow him and he darted forward, bursting through the cabin door.

  ‘Martha!’ he yelled even as he turned and dropped the locking bar across the door. A bullet smacked into the stout timber with a loud thump, but for the moment he was safe.

  ‘Here!’ Martha rushed forward. She had not been idle and she threw him his rifle.

  Jack snatched the weapon from the air. He could hear shouts outside, the four men on the move. He was certain they would try to mount some sort of attack. Rifle in hand, he strode across the room, taking up a position with a clear shot of the door.

  ‘You got me some cartridges?’ He snapped the question.

  ‘Here.’ She tossed him a box.

  Jack caught it, then tore it open.

  ‘Where’s Pa?’

  ‘They shot him down. Now get out of sight.’ Jack had no time for niceties. He held the rifle upside down in his left hand whilst his right pushed the brass tab underneath the barrel to the top until it pivoted to the left, opening the chamber that ran along under the barrel. Then he started to drop cartridges down into the tubular magazine.