Brannigan’s men numbered thirty in total, and he worked them hard. From riding alongside the wagons to being sent out as advance and rear guards, the men charged with guarding the precious wagons were in the saddle from dawn to dusk. Even when the wagons were circled at the end of the day, they were kept hard at it standing on picket duty in shifts through the long, chilly night. At dawn, riders were sent ahead to scout the trail, whilst others were dispatched back the way they had come to check for anyone on their tail. Brannigan was nothing if not cautious.
Yet if the nights were long, the days were endless. Jack had quickly learned that the long wagon train had two speeds: slow and stop. Yet somehow the unwieldy column was expected to travel hundreds of miles, following the main overland route from Natchitoches, Louisiana, first to San Antonio, Texas, then on to King’s Ranch and Brownsville and over the Rio Grande into Mexico, where it would turn east and travel on to Matamoros. From there the cotton would be transferred to paddle steamers for the last leg of the journey through the shallows of the Rio Grande to Bagdad, then loaded on to freighters that would take it down to the deep-water port of Veracruz, where the European traders waited anxiously to buy every last scrap for the hungry mills thousands of miles across the Atlantic.
That the train moved at all was down solely to the expertise of the drivers. The men from Texas who drove the wagons were foul-mouthed and hard-drinking. Their days were spent fighting their animals, and the air around the column was filled with the curses and abuse they spat out constantly, and the crack of their whips. Yet for all their noise and bluster, Jack could only marvel at their skill. Driving the mules was as an art.
‘Stop dawdling, goddammit.’ Brannigan saw Jack stationary, and immediately bawled him out as he rode past on the far side of the nearest wagon.
Jack kicked back his heels and obeyed without question. Brannigan was a rigorous taskmaster, but he worked himself as hard as he worked his men, perhaps even harder. The man was tireless. The only time he allowed them to rest was at the stops along the trail. The names of the log houses, stone forts, missions, small towns and ranches where they had stopped meant little to Jack. Los Adaes, San Augustine, Nacogdoches, Alto, Crocket, Bastrop – they blurred together in his mind. That night they would stop at a place called San Marcos before pressing on to New Braunfels, and then San Antonio. There they would linger, the large Texan town one of the last places where they could make repairs and buy supplies for the last leg of the journey that would see them travel on to Brownsville and the Rio Grande.
Jack had learned that the last leg would be the hardest of all on their long journey. After a final stop at King’s Ranch, the wagon train would have to cross a one-hundred-and-twenty-mile-long strip of land that Brannigan’s men called ‘the sands’. They had relished the chance to tell Jack about the hardships that lay ahead in the sun-scorched and wind-ravaged wasteland: venomous rattlesnakes, savage packs of coyotes that would not hesitate to hunt down a man walking alone, deadly Texan tarantulas and scorpions, along with a few million fleas and ticks that were sure to bury themselves deep in his flesh to make his every waking moment a misery.
If the threat to life from the animals and insects that dwelt on the trail was not bad enough, every man he had spoken to believed they would have to fight if they were to get the cotton to Matamoros. That notion sat badly in Jack’s gut. He had not fought for months, save for the short skirmish with Sinclair’s men that had secured his place in Brannigan’s entourage. But that had been a one-sided affair. It had been a long time since he had been shot at, and he wondered how he would react now that he knew that it was just blind chance that decided whether he lived or died, his skill and experience of no consequence once the bullets started to fly in earnest. Would he still be able to fight? Or would he be paralysed with fear?
The question hung heavily in his mind, but he wanted to know the answer. He had come looking for one thing that he feared and loved in equal measure. Only time would tell if finding it would satisfy his desire, or if it would reveal him to be nothing more than a yellow-bellied coward.
Jack sat on the ground with his back against a wagon wheel, gnawing on the strip of thick, fatty bacon that he had been given for his dinner. It was so salty, he could already feel every scrap of moisture being sucked from his mouth. He paused to spit out a knuckle of fat, then began to chew again. The bacon was as tough as hemp, but he preferred it to the thin strips of sun-dried beef that was the alternative.
‘Say, are you the Englishman?’
Jack kept chewing as he looked up to see who had come to interrupt his dinner. The man who had asked the question peered down at him from behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles. ‘That’s me. Who’s asking?’
‘My name is Vaughan.’
Jack had heard the name from one of the other men guarding the wagons. Vaughan was ostensibly in charge of the whole wagon train. He was the man the plantation owners had trusted to handle the sale of their precious cotton, and who would be escorted back to Louisiana with the weapons he would buy with the proceeds. Jack had seen him around the train, but this was the first time they had spoken.
‘Do you have a moment?’ Vaughan asked, a friendly smile on his face. ‘I’d sure appreciate the chance to talk with you.’
Jack wiped a greasy hand on his trousers then used it to lever himself to his feet. He was weary from another long day in the saddle, but he could not help but be intrigued. Vaughan was the one other man of consequence in the wagon train besides Brannigan. A conversation with him would likely be interesting, and the truth of it was that Jack was thoroughly bored of the talks he had with the other men in Brannigan’s gang. The conversation tended to be limited to tall tales of their exploits with women, or an endless debate about the relative merits of oxen over mules for hauling wagons.
‘I’d be happy to.’ He gave his right hand another quick wipe on his trousers, then held it out. ‘Jack Lark.’
‘Benjamin Vaughan.’ The introduction was given with a slightly damp but firm handshake.
Now that he was standing, Jack towered over Vaughan. The man had to be little more than five feet tall. With his spectacles and a receding hairline that had left what little hair he had clinging precariously to his temples and the back of his head, he looked better suited to spending his days in a comfortable office rather than on a wagon train. He was even poorly dressed for life on the trail, in a fine green tailcoat, with grey trousers and a matching waistcoat over a white shirt. He wore shoes rather than boots, and he even sported a cravat around his neck that was held in place with a pin topped with a single fat pearl. It would have been a fine-looking ensemble were it not for the layer of dust that had been ground deep into the fibres of the coat, and the stains and rents that were scattered across the trousers.
‘I’ve been wanting to speak with you ever since Brannigan told me you had joined us,’ Vaughan began.
‘Well, here I am.’ Jack lifted his strip of bacon to his lips to tear off another mouthful, then thought better of it. Vaughan reminded him of another life, one where gentlemen ate properly and did not attempt conversation with their mouths filled with fat. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of the plain waistcoat he now wore in place of his stolen Confederate major’s jacket and wrapped the bacon before putting it away. The delay in its eating would not spoil its taste.
‘Kat tells me you are from England.’
‘I am.’ Jack was oddly pleased that Kat had remembered that detail.
‘And from your accent, I would say you are from London.’
‘Yes.’
Vaughan grinned. ‘I knew it. I was there once. Back in fifty-five, long before all this nonsense started.’
‘You didn’t want to stay?’
‘Not for a damn second. The place terrified me! Half the time you couldn’t see more than five damn feet in front of you. And somehow that was the best thing about it, the place was so goddam awful!’ Vaughan chortled at his own jest. ‘When that fog sets in, why,
you can’t even see your own hand in front of your face.’
Jack smiled. The Londoners called the fog that Vaughan described ‘the particular’. It was as ghastly as Vaughan recalled, but it had its uses. Jack had lost count of the times he had been able to hide in it from someone.
‘No, give me good old Texas any day of the week. Call me old-fashioned, but I want to be able to see what’s about to kill me.’ Again Vaughan laughed at his own words. ‘So what brings an Englishman all the way over here?’
Jack did not answer. He was tired of the question. ‘Is that why you wanted to find me? To ask me that?’ There was pepper in his reply.
‘I’m just making conversation.’ Vaughan waved away Jack’s churlish response.
‘So why are you here?’ Jack turned the tables. ‘It doesn’t appear to be your kind of place.’
‘I don’t want to be, I promise you that.’ Vaughan shrugged at Jack’s question. ‘But when your master tells you to do something, you thank him for the opportunity and jump to it.’
‘Who’s your master?’
‘Fellow named Trevathlon. Owns one of the biggest plantations in Louisiana. You might have heard of him.’
‘No.’
‘Well, there’s no saying no to a man like that. Especially when he’s married to your sister.’
‘So this Trevathlon fellow trusts you?’
‘He sure does.’
‘He must do. Seeing as how he’s expecting you to return with his rhino.’
‘Rhino?’
‘His money.’
‘I forgot you London folk talk funny. Yes, he trusts me. Just like he trusts Brannigan.’
Jack frowned. He could understand Trevathlon trusting his wife’s brother. But Brannigan was a different matter. Men like him were loyal to money, nothing more. ‘Why does he trust Brannigan?’
‘Don’t you?’ Vaughan grinned as he fired back a question of his own.
‘I don’t know him.’
‘Yet you work for him.’
Jack could not help smiling at the fast retort. Vaughan might look like a mouse, but his mind was sharp.
‘For now.’
‘An enigmatic answer.’ Vaughan appeared to be delighted by it. ‘You don’t know what to make of him, am I correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you are not alone.’ Vaughan’s smile faded. ‘He terrifies me, that much I do know.’ He reached out and held on to Jack’s sleeve, pulling him closer. ‘Don’t let his appearance fool you. He might dress like a beggar, but Brannigan is a rich man. He is also the most dangerous man I have ever met. I urge you to treat him with the utmost caution.’ Warning delivered, he let go of Jack’s sleeve, then stood back. ‘But my master trusts him, and so I find myself here.’
‘What has Brannigan done to earn such trust?’ Jack repeated his earlier question, which Vaughan had neatly avoided.
‘They’ve worked together before. This isn’t the first wagon train Trevathlon has sent this way. Brannigan has never let him down, and has always returned with the rhino.’ Vaughan smiled as he took Jack’s word for his own. ‘And let me tell you, that weren’t so easy. A wagon train like this,’ he gestured around them, ‘sure attracts a whole lot of attention. Brannigan always gets it through, no matter how many darn renegades try to take it.’
Jack absorbed the knowledge. He needed to know more about the man who had hired him. That Brannigan had a solid track record spoke well of his character. Perhaps he was a better man than Jack had first thought. Yet there was another nugget of information in Vaughan’s words, one that he wanted to probe.
‘So you think the wagon train is in danger?’
‘Son, these wagons are worth a king’s ransom.’ Vaughan nodded at his words, clearly proud of the enterprise of which he was in charge. ‘A man could live a dozen lifetimes on the amount of money we’ll get for just selling the cotton. Then those guns we’ll buy, well, they’re worth twice as much again once we get them up here and sell them to whichever general wants them the most.’
Jack shook his head. It seemed odd that something that looked as innocuous as cotton could hold such value. He changed course and walked over to the nearest wagon, pulling back the corner of the tarpaulin so that he could see one of the great bales that were the cause of such peril. It did not look like much. He reached forward and ran his fingers over the coarse fibres. If Vaughan was correct, it seemed likely that men would fight and die for the stuff.
‘How will we know if someone is coming for the cotton?’ he asked.
‘Well, son, seeing as how we’re in the middle of nowhere, the only sons of bitches we’re going to see are the dangerous ones. You spot something coming our way, you start goddam shooting.’
Jack smiled at the pithy warning. Vaughan made it sound simple. That notion appealed. He had allowed his life to become complicated in the past. He had let other people in, and they had caused him nothing but trouble and pain. Now that he had ventured back into the wider world, he would keep his existence pared down to the bare essentials. He would do as he was told, and if someone came to take the cotton, he would fight. Simple.
‘So Brannigan tells me you know how to handle a gun,’ Vaughan said.
‘I do.’
‘Have you killed a man before?’
‘More than one.’
‘Ah, yes, you were a soldier. You fought for Queen and country, isn’t that what you English fellows say?’
Jack grunted. The soldiers he had known had fought more for their mates, and out of sheer bloody-mindedness, than for any such lofty ideals. Many had taken the red coat out of desperation, the life of a soldier, as brutal and unforgiving as it was, an improvement on the miserable existence they would have endured in the civilian world.
‘The boys are already betting on you.’ Vaughan raised both eyebrows as he made the statement.
‘To do what?’
‘To die.’
‘Nice.’ Jack smiled. The comment appealed to his liking for gallows humour. ‘Why?’
‘They say any fool who thinks they need to wear a goddam sword doesn’t know shit.’
‘You think they’re right?’
‘Partly.’
‘Which part?’ Jack saw that Vaughan too was smiling.
‘About the sword. They’re right about that.’ Vaughan looked more serious. ‘But I think they’re wrong to discount you so quickly.’
‘Thank you for the vote of confidence.’
Vaughan waved away Jack’s words. ‘Don’t thank me. But you may have cause to if you stay with us.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jack sensed the conversation had changed. Vaughan was bringing it around to the real reason he had sought Jack out.
‘You’re new here. You’ve yet to learn our secrets.’ Vaughan paused to glance around, as if someone might have crept up to eavesdrop on the conversation.
‘And you’re going to tell me them now?’ Jack did not bother to hide his scepticism.
‘No. That would rather spoil the fun.’
‘Fun? Is that what it is?’ Jack was tiring of the conversation. He did not want a part in whatever game Vaughan was playing.
‘Of course. Life without intrigue would be dull. But I will say this, if you will allow me.’ Vaughan leaned closer. ‘Trust no one here,’ he whispered. ‘And I mean no one. Not even me.’
He pulled back, then offered Jack a tight-lipped smile. ‘I enjoyed our conversation, Jack. I would urge you to consider all I have said, but I rather get the impression you are your own man and will do exactly as you please.’ He turned on his heel and walked away.
For his part, Jack stood where he was. Vaughan had been quite correct. He would do as he pleased. Yet he still could not help wondering what the man had been attempting to achieve with the one-sided conversation. No matter what Vaughan had intended, and no matter how much Jack might wish that it were not so, the seed of intrigue had been firmly planted in his mind. It would take effort on his part to make sure that it did not
root and take flower. But one thing was clear. He might have wanted his life to be pared back to the bare bones, but he was back in the world of people. And so nothing would ever be simple.
Jack rode behind the wagon train in the rear guard. It was not a bad place to be, provided your horse had the sense to step around the copious amount of mule shit that littered the trail like slime from a snail.
Another day was drawing to a close. They would sleep in the open, just as they had every day, his bed a rug spread on the ground. He did not mind it. He was finding the life of a wagon guard pretty much to his liking. There was contentment to be found in the simple work, and he was always exhausted at the day’s end, so that he fell into a deep sleep that was not disturbed by nightmares, at least not often. He would not admit it, but he was almost enjoying himself. Life was becoming routine. It had purpose. He had purpose.
Ahead, he saw Brannigan ride to one side and on to a knot of higher ground that would give a good view of the way ahead. Adam followed him. The young man spent a lot of time with Brannigan. From what Jack had seen, it was clear that he hero-worshipped the man, even going so far as to model himself on him. Brannigan’s taciturn manner did not sit as well on Adam as it did on the older man.
Eager to break the tedium, Jack left his place with the rear guard to follow the two men on to the knoll. Brannigan ignored him, while Adam flashed him a glare that made it clear his presence was not welcome.
‘Good afternoon, Adam.’ He made a point of speaking to the younger man, knowing it would only deepen the lad’s scowl. ‘Problems?’
‘You should stay with the wagons.’ Adam’s reply was typically abrupt.
‘And you should learn some fucking manners.’ Jack could only grin as he saw Adam’s scowl intensify, just as he had predicted. He brought his mare to a stand, then reached down to pull his field glasses from their leather case. He cared for them with the same diligence he applied to looking after his weapons. Like most things he owned, they were not his. They had been stolen from an officer’s bivouac at Fort Donelson in far-off Tennessee, shortly before it had fallen to the Union army. Jack had not been there to witness the surrender of thousands of Confederate soldiers that had ended the fighting, as he had made good his escape along with several hundred other men who had followed the hard-riding cavalry leader Bedford Forrest out of the fort the previous night.
The Lost Outlaw Page 9