THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘He’s dead?’ Martha had not moved.

  ‘I don’t know. Fuck it.’ His clumsy cold fingers dropped a cartridge. A great hammering started up as the men outside tried to batter a way in. The bar he had dropped was there to hold the door shut against the wind. It would not last long against men determined to force a way in.

  ‘Oh my Lord.’ Martha stood there, her hands covering her mouth.

  ‘Shit.’ Jack was loading as fast as he could. Behind him he heard wood splintering. ‘Get out of fucking sight!’ He snapped the order, then dropped another cartridge and rammed the box into his pocket.

  The door splintered, then slammed open, smacking against the wall and letting in a great blast of cold air.

  Jack pivoted the brass tab so that the opening closed, then cranked the rifle’s action. He lifted it in one smooth motion, settling it against his shoulder.

  A man rushed into the open doorway.

  Jack saw a pair of pale eyes above cheeks covered with a boyish beard. He heard the lad yell, a war cry that turned to a shriek of terror as he saw what awaited him.

  Jack fired. The bullet tore through beard and bone. Momentum made the younger man stagger forward before he fell face first at Jack’s feet.

  Jack kept the rifle pulled tight into his shoulder. He fired a second round into the body writhing at his feet, then cranked the handle and fired a third. The lad jerked like a floundering fish, but Jack was already swinging the rifle back up, the butt never once moving from his shoulder.

  One of the older men rushed the door. He was slower than the young lad. Jack shot at him but missed, the bullet close enough to make the man’s clothing twitch. It was enough to turn him around and have him diving for cover outside. Jack cranked the rifle’s mechanism, then fired again. This time the bullet struck, hitting the man deep in the gut with enough force to spin him around so that he hit the snow on his back.

  Jack had seen enough. He lowered the rifle, darted forward to kick the man’s legs out of the way then slammed the door shut. This time there was no bar to hold it shut, the wood splintered and broken.

  Martha had not moved, despite his order, so he grabbed her by the elbow and frogmarched her to the cabin’s bedroom. He could see the tears on her face, a silent stream that ran down both cheeks. She said nothing as he led her away. She did not rave or scream. Instead she was silent, her jaw clenched tight.

  ‘Stay here.’ Jack pushed her towards the far side of the room. ‘Get down on the floor and don’t bloody move.’ The commands came out one after the other, staccato and without emotion.

  He turned away. Outside he could hear two men shouting and another voice crying for aid. He was still outnumbered. He was still trapped.

  ‘Jack.’ Martha called to him as he stalked back into the main room.

  He turned.

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Stay here.’ Jack’s tone was glacial. Deeply buried emotions were raging through him now. The arrival of the four men had awakened the part of him that had been hibernating. The fight was his spring and he was coming alive.

  Martha opened her mouth to say something more. Whatever she saw reflected in his gaze was enough to make her think better of it, and she closed her mouth and slunk down, hiding behind the bed in which Jack had spent so long recovering.

  The voices outside had fallen silent. Whatever plan they had formulated was now ready.

  Jack did not care to think what it might be. It was time to reawaken the part of him that thrilled to the smell of blood and powder smoke.

  It was time to fight.

  The young lad lying inside the cabin was still alive despite the bullets Jack had pumped into him. He looked up as Jack marched back through the room. His hands were smothered with blood from clawing at the great tears in his own flesh; still more was in his mouth and dribbling out from his lips like red wine from a drunk. He tried to speak as Jack came close, but he choked on the blood, the words drowned and lost for ever.

  Jack ignored the pathetic sobs and gurgles. There was no room for pity or for mercy. Not when the fight was on.

  He crouched, then moved forward, taking up position behind the door. There he paused to fish out the packet of ammunition he had crammed into his pocket and reload the rifle, replacing the rounds he had fired. He would need every single one.

  The boy bleeding to a slow death scrabbled at Jack’s leg with bloodied fingers. They left marks on his borrowed trousers before he reached down and knocked the hand away.

  He stood, then sucked down one long, deep breath. He had no plan save to charge out and start shooting.

  He reached out with his left hand and grabbed hold of the door. This time he glanced down at the dying lad. Two wide eyes stared back at him. There was no disguising the boy’s fear. Jack looked away in disgust.

  There was time for one last calming breath, then he tightened his grip on the door, ready to throw it open and rush outside.

  He had moved it no more than a fraction of an inch before there was a shout, then a single shot, the bullet burying itself deep in the door and making it shudder.

  ‘Shit.’ Jack could not help flinching as the bullet struck. He held the door still, reluctant to move it another inch.

  ‘Come out with your hands up,’ the voice of the big man called. ‘We’ll let you and the woman go. Just come on out, boy. Nice and easy.’

  Jack winced. The voice came from close by, and it was clear that the leader and his one surviving companion had the door well covered. He paid the man’s claim no heed. There would be no easy escape from this squalid fight in the snow. He was utterly certain that if he stepped outside, even with his hands up, he would be shot down. Yet the cabin had only one door, and the windows were cut small in the sides and offered no way out to anyone other than a small child. He and Martha were trapped like eels in a barrel.

  ‘Shit.’ He swore again, and crouched down, his mind whirring.

  ‘Come on out, boy. We ain’t going to hurt you. Let us look after our friends. They’ll die if we leave ’em much longer, and that ain’t Christian.’

  Jack ignored the voice, just as he ignored the plea in the eyes of the lad lying at his feet.

  ‘I’ll give you another minute.’ The voice came again. ‘I won’t have it said that I didn’t give you a choice. You do what’s right, boy, ’cause this is your last chance. If you want that woman in there to get away with her hide intact, then you’ll do as I goddam say.’

  Jack heard the growing anger in the big man’s voice as he was ignored. He was pleased. Anger clouded a man’s judgement. It would help him when he put his desperate plan into action.

  He looked down at the lad lying in a pool of his own blood. The younger man was still alive, but Jack knew he could not last much longer.

  He leant forward. ‘Sorry, chum.’ He whispered the apology into the lad’s ear. ‘I need you.’

  ‘Are you ready?’

  Jack smiled at Martha in reassurance. He had not wanted to summon her from her hiding place, but there was no other way for him to open the door. Not now that his arms were full.

  ‘Throw it open, then get out of sight.’ He gave his last instructions. They were followed by a gasp as he struggled to hold the weight of the lad’s body.

  ‘You sure about this, Jack?’ Martha was looking at him as if he were mad.

  ‘No.’ Jack gave the single-word answer, then grappled with the burden that twitched and squirmed in his grip. He had his left arm wrapped firmly around the dying boy’s chest to hold their two bodies close. He could feel the heat of the lad’s blood on his front, soaking into his clothes. His right hand held the rifle. It was an awkward embrace and he was struggling to keep them bound together.

  ‘Go on now,’ he hissed. ‘Before I drop the bastard.’

  Martha hesitated only for a second, then reached forward, her body already half turned away. She snatched at the door and threw it open. At once, Jack thrust the dying man in front of him and stormed outside.r />
  Both men left outside fired. Bullets immediately hit the body screening Jack, the wet, slapping sound they made as they ripped into the lad like a butcher slamming hunks of meat on a granite counter. The body jerked as it was hit with enough force to tear it from Jack’s grasp. Yet it had served its purpose.

  The rifle was pulled tight into Jack’s shoulder even as the dying boy fell face down in the snow. He fired immediately, snapping off a shot at the first shadowy form he saw. He strode forward, past the body of the other man he had shot down, cranking the rifle’s mechanism then firing again. He caught glimpses of both men left fighting. They were lying in the snow behind tree stumps no more than twenty-five yards from the cabin. He shot fast, cranking and firing, thinking only to cow the two men with violence. He saw spurts of snow thrown into the air as his bullets created a storm around his targets, then he ran, dashing for the pile of logs.

  As soon as he reached them, he crouched down, the cold air rasping in his lungs as he hauled it in. He reloaded, fingers nimble, the act more familiar. This time he did not drop a single cartridge.

  He heard sounds of movement, both men rushing through the snow now that the bullets had stopped zipping past their ears. A heartbeat later and bullets lashed against the woodpile, splinters showering over him.

  He dropped the last cartridge into the magazine, the rifle now fully loaded. This was the moment of truth. To move now was to risk death. Every instinct begged him to stay where he was. To stay safe. To keep out of the line of fire. Yet he had to move if he were to fight, if he were to beat the men who had killed Garrison. It was the moment when some men cowered and hid, while others stood up and did what had to be done.

  More bullets tore into the stacked logs. He had heard enough now to place the direction of the shots. Both men were firing revolvers, the distinctive sound telling Jack what he would face. He took one more breath, holding it deep in his lungs.

  Then he moved.

  He burst from behind the logs, legs powerful and strong; sickness forgotten. He ran hard, ignoring the shots that flayed the air around him. He covered the ground in great loping strides that took him away from the entrance to the cabin. More bullets came for him, the air punched repeatedly as they seared past. He kept moving, determined to draw the men away from Martha’s hiding place.

  The shots stopped. He heard the men moving, forced to chase after him if they were to keep him in range of their handguns. He darted past the broken-down cart, then broke right and ran for another dozen yards. His boots scrabbled for purchase on the snow-slick ground, then he slid down onto his side and skidded to a breathless halt behind one of the barrels that littered the ground around the cabin. Like the others it was filled with scum-covered black water topped with ice. It was foul-smelling and streaked with mould, but it would be enough to stop a bullet.

  As soon as he reached cover, he was up on his knees, rifle aimed back the way he had come. He fired the instant the weapon was level, hammering bullets at the two figures he could see chasing after him, driving both men into cover. He took a breath, then fired three more shots, all counted with care, all aimed, and all sending up fountains of snow near where he had seen one of the men go to ground.

  Then he paused. Revolvers typically fired six bullets. If they believed that that was what he was armed with, they would be expecting him to be reloading now.

  One of the men stood. It was not the big man, the leader, but one of the grey-haired pack dogs. He emerged from behind a fallen tree trunk, thirty yards from where Jack waited, running hard, his arms pumping. The snow was deep near the fallen tree and undisturbed since the week of the great blizzard, and it began to slow him.

  Jack adjusted his aim. The rifle in his arms tracked the runner, the end of the barrel held still. Then he fired.

  The first bullet struck the snow six inches in front of the running man. He tried to alter his path, but he had taken no more than a single step before Jack fired again.

  The second bullet hit him in the side of the neck. Blood erupted from the gruesome wound, bright red against the virgin snow. The man stopped, dropped his revolver, then clamped both hands around the dreadful tear in his flesh.

  The third bullet arrived a moment later, striking him in the chest. The fourth hit as he crumpled to the ground, driving deep into his gut. He landed on the snow and lay still. He had not cried out as the bullets ripped through him. Now he died in silence as the snow-shrouded wood absorbed the retort of the final bullet.

  Jack ducked down behind the barrel, his left hand already digging for the ammunition in his pocket. He snuffled the air as he reloaded, the familiar taint of spent powder lingering. Around him the silence pressed in. There was no sound, save the rasp of his own breathing.

  He dropped fresh cartridges into the magazine, burning his fingers on the red-hot barrel. They were the last, the box now empty. Rifle reloaded, he paused, straining his hearing. He heard nothing. He stayed in his cover, every sense reaching out as he tried to place the big man. Yet there was nothing except an uneasy silence.

  He risked a glance around the barrel.

  Four men had brought death and violence to the remote cabin. Three were now dead.

  But the fourth had disappeared.

  Jack counted off ten more seconds, then forced himself to move.

  He flinched as he scrambled to his feet, expecting to be shot at any moment. He broke from cover, dashing back the way he had come, heading for the broken-down wagon. No bullets came for him.

  He slid to a halt. His heart hammered deep in his chest and his breath came in little more than shallow gasps that caused great clouds of condensed air to form around his face. Still nothing. No sounds of movement, no shots, just the eerie silence of the snow-smothered woodland.

  ‘Shit.’ He hissed the word, then risked a quick glance around the front of the wagon. He saw nothing and no one.

  His eyes lingered on the body of the old man that he could see a few dozen yards in front of the cabin. Garrison lay where he had fallen. The snow around him was stained black with his blood.

  ‘Jack!’

  He froze. Martha was shouting for him.

  ‘Jack!’

  The call came again.

  He risked another glance around the wagon. This time he heard the sound of movement, but still he could see nothing.

  ‘You there, retard?’ The big man’s voice rang out loud and clear in the chill air. ‘You come on out. You hear me?’

  Jack peered around the wagon once more. The big man was stepping out of the cabin’s shadow. He had Martha clamped to his front, a knife held to her neck.

  ‘Leave your rifle and come out!’ he shouted again, voice pitched higher, the strain obvious.

  Jack’s mind raced. The big man was a fool. He should have come out shooting, using Martha as a shield just as Jack himself had used the dying man. Instead he had chosen to take a hostage. Jack’s mind stilled. The man had made the wrong choice.

  He forced the coldness into his being. He could not allow Martha’s fate to matter, just as he had to convince himself that her father’s death meant nothing to him. He held his emotions tight, refusing to let them sway him. He told himself he was a soldier; a killer; a man with nothing but the desire for revenge filling his soul. That revenge was all that mattered. No one and nothing could be allowed to get in its way. If the moment came, he knew he would have to act without compassion. If need be, he would make himself kill them both.

  Yet there was something he could do. He could offer a distraction. He rose to his feet, numb from more than just the cold. He still held the rifle.

  The big man saw him immediately.

  ‘Put that down, or so help me I’ll slit her open.’ He jerked the knife, pressing it closer to Martha’s neck.

  Jack did not obey. He found his balance, feet a shoulder-width apart. The big man and his captive were no more than thirty yards away. He had a clear shot.

  He looked at Martha. There was no fear in her eyes, even w
ith a blade at her throat. There was just simmering anger. And hate.

  Her hand was moving. It crept across her belly with infinite caution. Jack caught the flash of a blade. He saw what she intended and could only admire her for it. If the big man noticed what she was doing, Jack did not doubt that he would kill her without a qualm. Yet he could not allow himself to intervene. He had to be prepared for however the scene played out, so he pushed his fear for her away and held himself ready to start shooting.

  ‘Let her go.’ He held the rifle vertically, his fingers clearly well away from the trigger. But he could swing it down and be firing in the span of a single heartbeat.

  The big man laughed at the demand. ‘No. That’s not how this goes. If you’d seen what we’ve seen, if you’d been through what we’ve been through, then you’d know we’re way past doing what an ugly son of a bitch like you tells us.’ He paused and looked around him ‘And you killed my boys.’ His voice vibrated. He shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘I ain’t about to let that go.’

  Jack watched the progress of Martha’s knife. He forced himself to feel detached from what was to come. Martha was not his kin. She was not his concern. If she fought, her fate was in her own hands. His fingers tensed. He was ready, no matter what.

  ‘You know what you’ve done?’ The big man pushed Martha forward, almost dislodging the knife from her hand. ‘You know what those boys suffered before today?’ Great tears began to stream down his face. ‘They fought for this land. They stood against those Yankee sons of bitches, and they fought, you hear me, retard, they fought for people like you.’ He took another step, cruel in his mastery of the woman in his arms. ‘And now you’ve killed them, you dirty son of a bitch. You killed my boys.’

  Jack cared nothing for the passion in the words. He had been through more than the big man and his dead companions could ever know. He had lived in darkness, and he knew the evil shadows that lurked there better than any. These men’s suffering meant nothing.

  ‘You think you’re special?’ He spat out the words. He would try to give Martha her chance. ‘You think you’re the only one who ever suffered?’