‘I haven’t got any.’ Ammunition for his repeating rifle was not the only commodity Jack desperately needed. He was sick of coffee.
‘We don’t have anything save what you see,’ Jane answered. ‘You saw us leave.’ She laughed gently at the memory, as if feeling foolish, but Jack saw no trace of humour in her eyes. She was watching him closely and warily.
‘So what you doing here, Jack Lark?’ She spoke again. ‘Will you tell us what a man all the way from England is doing here in Louisiana?’
Jack noted that she had remembered his name. He had been nothing but a minor distraction in the game she and her brother had been playing, yet still she had remembered. It was an indication of the sharpness of her mind, one that he would be wise to heed.
‘Have you been in the fighting?’ Adam probed for an answer.
Jack noticed the way the two of them worked in tandem. It spoke of a long partnership. Again he wondered why they were really there.
‘It’s none of your business.’ He gave the answer gruffly.
‘Are you a deserter?’ It was the girl’s turn now.
‘No.’ Jack kept moving his gaze between them. Watching them both. ‘Why are you here?’ he countered.
‘We’re looking for our father.’ Adam started the tale. ‘He—’
‘Stow it,’ Jack interrupted him. ‘I heard that line of horseshit before, and I didn’t believe a single word of it the first time.’
The pair exchanged a look, then fell silent.
Jack missed nothing. He saw the exchange of understanding. ‘What are your names?’
‘My name’s Jane Tucker. This is my brother, Adam,’ the girl replied immediately.
Jack shook his head slowly, then smiled. ‘I know that’s what you told that Sinclair fellow back in town. I figured since you’re sharing my fire you might want to tell me your real names.’ He watched her closely as he spoke, the flickering light of the flames playing across her face.
‘My name is Adam Tucker and this is my sister, Jane,’ the lad insisted. There was a touch of tension in his voice.
Jack laughed and shook his head. He had been an impostor for years now, and knew how to carry it off. You needed complete belief in who you were pretending to be. The boy wasn’t good enough. The girl was better, but he had still noticed the way her accent dropped on occasion. They both needed more practice if they were ever going to be as good as him.
‘So be it. I won’t ask again. Just like I won’t ask why you were setting up that oily prick back in town. Though I hope you got whatever it was you wanted, because I don’t think he’ll take kindly to you going back any time soon.’ He noticed the way Jane’s eyes narrowed at his wry comments. Was there something there in her gaze? Approval, perhaps? Or surprise?
‘I don’t rightly know what you mean,’ Adam answered. There was sharpness to the words now.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Jack sighed. He had had enough of questions. They could keep their secrets, just as he would keep his.
‘Jack, you look awful tired.’ Jane leaned forward as she spoke. ‘You can rest. We won’t do nothing, I promise.’
Jack grunted at the comment. It was a fair observation. He was tired. But it was a tiredness that not even a month’s worth of sleep could end. It was buried so deep in his bones now that he did not believe he would ever come fully back to life.
He looked at them both in turn. ‘I’m going to close my eyes in a bit.’ He spoke slowly and clearly, making sure his every word was understood. ‘I’ll be holding this revolver the whole time. You try anything, and I’ll come up shooting, you hear me? And I warn you now, I’m a very light sleeper, and a very, very good shot.’
‘We hear you, Jack,’ Jane answered with a half-smile. ‘We won’t bother you none.’
Jack focused his attention on her. She might have been pretending to be someone else, and he had heard many lies come from her mouth that day. Yet this time, he believed she was telling the truth.
‘Thank you for letting us share your fire.’ She held his gaze.
Jack stared back. He knew he should look away, but for a moment, all he could think about was how attractive her youth was to him. There was such life in her eyes; a glimpse of a spirit that had yet to be worn down by the years. It was almost as appealing to him as the perfect symmetry of her flawless face and the shape of her slim figure. He wondered what it was like to feel that alive, to live without the grey murk of past suffering shrouding your vision of the world.
He looked away, then lay down and pulled a blanket over his body. He felt the coldness in his soul. It had been a mistake to allow the pair to stay. They had reminded him of a life he could never again possess. He would have done better to drive them away.
Life was easier when he was alone.
Jack woke up with a start. He was surrounded by shadows. They fluttered past, tantalisingly out of view, flickering and fleeting, teasing him with their closeness, until they merged into the gloom of the last moments of the night. They were replaced by the empty quiet of the pre-dawn.
His fire had gone out. Morning was still far off, but there was enough light filtering through the murky greyness to allow him to see that the two people who had shared his fire had gone. He scanned around his meagre camp. Nothing was missing. The pair had left, but they had taken nothing of his with them, just as they had promised.
He eased himself to his feet, moving gingerly so as not to jar his back, which ached as badly that morning as it did every morning. The persistent ache in the pit of his spine was a reminder of a childhood humping barrels of gin, followed by a decade of soldiering. Like the scars on his face and skin, his body carried his memories for him.
He emptied his bladder against a tree then began to gather his things. It did not take long. It was only when he had everything ready that he understood the emotion that he was experiencing. It had been a long time since he had felt disappointed. His life had been pared down to the bare bones, his only desire to be left alone. Now he had allowed people into his life, even if just for a few hours, and he felt their loss keenly. It was a reminder, a warning even, that he was better off keeping away from the world.
Jack rode along with his head comfortably empty. It was not always like this. Often his own mind betrayed him, releasing memories that would torment him. He would ride to the accompaniment of echoes of gunfire, his ears ringing to the screams of the dead. Some of the memories that haunted him were so vivid he could even smell the acrid tang of powder smoke in the air, alongside the reek of blood and mangled flesh. He would travel without noticing his surroundings, the past more alive, more real even, than the present. He would awake from these long spells drained and shaking, his body sheeted in sweat. He could do nothing to ease the discomfort, save to carry on and keep moving until another day had been completed and another night approached.
As he rode, his eyes were never still, as if he somehow expected his bitter memories to come back to life, his world once again returned to the horror of the battlefield. Yet there was little danger that he could see that day. All was peaceful. He had passed a great lake and now moved through a wide swathe of woodland, his eyes drinking in the warm greens and earthy browns that dominated the landscape. He saw little sign of cultivation, aside from some evidence of logging. Thus far, this part of Louisiana was almost devoid of people, and the land was left to lie in peace to slumber through the seasons, untouched and unsullied by the lives of man.
The crisp, cool morning air wrapped itself around him. For once, he was having a good day, and he felt almost at peace. He put it down to the belly’s worth of food he had consumed the previous day, his body more content now that it had more than gristle and hardtack to sustain it.
A gunshot snapped out, shattering the peace, the sound angry and overly loud.
It was followed almost immediately by another, and then another, the flurry of shots urgent and demanding his attention.
He heard the first shouts then; men’s voices rising in a
nger. Commands were barked, though the words didn’t carry clearly to where he brought his mare to a stop. More shouts followed as the gunfire continued, the sounds half-drowned by the roar of many guns firing at once.
He gripped his reins in his left hand whilst his right drew his revolver. He held the pose, listening to the whip crack of bullets, mapping out where they were coming from. He was on a small rise that gave him a good view ahead. A wood stretched across his path, the trees – they looked to him to be oaks – widely spaced and the ground in between filled with thick clumps of tangled shrubs and bushes.
He could place three groups amongst the trees; as far as he could tell, there were no more than that. Two of them were firing revolvers, the distinctive sound easy enough to identify. The third group were holding their fire, but instead were moving fast, the blur of their bodies creating dark shadows amidst the trees.
Only when he was sure he knew where the shots were coming from did he ease his mare into motion and turn its head around. There was no question of his getting involved. The fight – or skirmish, or battle, or whatever it was – was no concern of his. There was no reason for him to carry on in the same direction. He could just as well turn back, then head towards a different point on the compass a few hours later.
It was as he began to turn that he saw more movement. He paused. Another of the three groups was on the move now. Two figures were running fast. He recognised them immediately. The pair of siblings who had shared his campfire clearly had a knack of finding trouble. Or creating it.
He was close enough to see them both twist and flinch as they ran. They skidded to a halt behind a fallen tree trunk. Both were on their knees instantly, their arms rising as they aimed their weapons back the way they had come. They fired in tandem, the crack of the shots reaching Jack’s ears a few moments later. Both fired a second shot before the lad ducked down and began to reload whilst his sister slowed her rate of fire to cover them both and buy him time.
Jack had seen enough. He could only assume that Sinclair had caught up with them. He did not know why they were causing so much trouble, or why Sinclair felt the need to chase them down, and he did not want to. He kicked back his heels, starting the mare into motion again. He thought only of riding away.
He watched the third group as his horse took its first steps. They were still on the move. He saw that there were three of them, all men, and all held handguns of some sort. They moved slowly, manoeuvring carefully through the widely spaced trees. It did not take a military genius to know that they were planning to attack the pair from the rear.
Jack assessed the distance. The three gunmen would be in position to open fire in no more than a few minutes. There was little chance of either Jane or Adam spotting them, the pair fully engaged with the men to their front. Adam had now reloaded, and was on his knees, firing off aimed shots, whilst his sister reloaded her own revolver. Fire came against them almost constantly, the bullets cracking into the fallen tree trunk they sheltered behind or whipping past their heads. Yet the range for both sides was long, and it would be a lucky shot that found a mark in flesh.
That would surely change. When the three men in the third group were in position, they would have a clear shot. Then it would be as easy as knifing eels in a barrel. In a matter of minutes, the young pair who had shared his campfire would be dead.
It would be easy for him to intervene. He was no more than two hundred yards away from the fight. Thus far, none of the three groups had spotted his presence. He could ram back his heels and charge at the third group. Shooting from horseback was not so easy, but he had done it before. Even if he hit no one, his unexpected appearance would be enough to drive the three men to ground and warn the siblings of the danger. If he rode away, their young lives would come to a bloody and premature end.
The power of life and death was in his hands.
Jack did not move. The men in the third group advanced cautiously. They were dangerously close now, and on the edge of the effective range of their revolvers. If he were going to intervene, there was no time left to delay.
The temptation to fight was strong. He could feel a pressure building in his skull and in his chest, fear and desire mixing together to produce that peculiar, volatile cocktail that was more intoxicating than the strongest arrack or the most beautiful woman. The opportunity to reveal his talent was here, and it was ready to be seized.
Yet still he hesitated. He had promised himself that his days as a soldier were done. He had stared at the great mountains of dead that had filled the villages of Lombardy after the wholesale slaughter at Solferino, and gazed upon the piles of mutilated flesh scattered around the field hospitals at Shiloh. He knew that one day it would be his body left to rot amidst such a foul heap. So he had vowed that he would no longer allow himself to take his place on the fields of battle, where human butchery was committed in the name of some lofty strategic aim. He was a wolf now, not a sheep, and like a wolf he would fight when he wanted to, when he needed to, and not simply when he was told to. But still the lure of the battlefield was there, lingering in the darkness and never quite relaxing its grip on his heart. And he knew what he was, and what he could be.
He watched the pair fighting for their lives. Both were up and shooting before they ducked down to hide from the inevitable return shots. They fought well, both clearly capable, keeping up an almost constant fire that was holding their adversaries at bay. Yet as good as they were, their skills would not save them, not against another foe they had not yet seen.
Two of the men in the third group were creeping forward, whilst the third covered them. Jack could only approve of their action. It was the sensible option. In battle, the surest way to win a fight was to turn your enemy’s flank. That tactic applied just as much to the skirmish he was watching, even though it was between just a handful of combatants.
He sat still, watching the two men as they took up their positions. He picked out the detail of their clothing. One wore a red shirt, the colour bright against the background of tangled greenery. The other was in grey, his flannel shirt open to the navel to reveal a dirty white undershirt. Both wore dark hats pulled low. He wondered if they were the same two men he had rebuked for wasting ammunition. The notion gave them an identity. It made them people, rather than a faceless foe.
He glanced across at Jane and Adam. Both were firing, their attention riveted on the men to their front. Neither showed any sign that they were aware of the danger behind them.
And so he made his choice.
He kicked back his heels, urging his mount into motion.
The mare increased its speed, hooves thumping into the ground as the animal stretched its neck and eased into a gallop. The rhythm of the impacts was mesmerising. It resonated through Jack’s body, awakening parts that had lain dormant. Emotions stirred, excitement and fear swirling through him as he came truly alive for the first time in so long.
He raised his right arm, taking aim. The revolver jerked from side to side, his actions made clumsy by the motion of his horse. For a moment, he considered holstering the revolver and drawing the repeating rifle from its sheath next to the saddle. Yet he hesitated, unwilling to waste what little ammunition he had left. The distance closed quickly, the range reducing with every passing second. It was enough to settle his mind. The revolver would do the job well enough so long as he got close. He paused, settling himself, holding his hand steady so that his first target covered the end of the barrel.
There was a moment to reflect, a moment to doubt the sanity of his actions. Then he opened fire.
The first bullet missed, as did the second, the shots snapping through the air before burying themselves in the tangled foliage behind the pair of gunmen. The third took the foremost of the two in the side of the chest. The man crumpled with barely a cry.
Heads turned as a new player came into the game. The man in the grey shirt twisted on the spot as his companion died at his feet. There was time to see the sudden terror in his eyes befo
re Jack shot him in the gut a heartbeat later. The man dropped his revolver to clutch both hands to the gaping hole in his stomach. He stood there, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes staring back at the rider who had shot him. Then he fell.
Jack paid him no heed. He turned his revolver towards the third gunman in the group. This man was no fool. He had seen the rider arrive to spoil their plan and had lingered long enough to see his two companions gunned down. Now he took to his toes, lumbering into motion as he tried to escape his fate.
It was too easy. Jack pulled hard on the reins, forcing his mare to the right, the action instinctive. He fired a moment later. The fifth bullet in his revolver stung the air beside the fleeing gunman’s head. It came close enough to make the man stumble, and he dropped to his knees for a few seconds, then scrambled up and ran on.
The delay let Jack close the distance. He had a single round left. Yet he knew he would not miss again. He fired, then pulled back hard on the reins, forcing the bit deep into the mare’s mouth and bringing her to a noisy halt. He did not bother to watch as the third gunman fell face down, a bullet buried deep in the pit of his spine.
Jack held his ground. His mare quivered and trembled beneath him, breathing noisily. For his part, he felt the thrill of the fight subside, the intoxicating emotions it had released now spent. They were replaced by an icy calm. He had likely killed three men, yet he was as composed as he had been when he had been riding alone. He felt the coldness in his veins, savouring its touch. But just for a moment he had been his true self. And it had felt glorious.
The fight had ended with Jack’s sixth bullet. The group of gunmen that had been engaging Adam and Jane had run as soon as the odds had changed against them. It would have been as if the fight had never taken place were it not for the pitiful cries coming from one of the men Jack had shot down.
He rode towards the pair of siblings, who had stayed in position behind the fallen tree. Both were reloading. He watched them closely as he approached. It was clear that they knew what they were doing, both going through the routine with practised ease.
The Lost Outlaw Page 5