The Lost Outlaw

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Shut your filthy mouth.’ Adam’s eyes had widened as Brannigan’s invective washed over him. Now they narrowed.

  ‘Say that again.’

  Adam was no coward. He met Brannigan’s gaze. ‘I said shut your filthy mouth,’ he repeated slowly.

  Brannigan absorbed the words, nodding calmly. He turned on his heel, as if about to walk away. Then he whirled back, his right fist rising fast.

  The blow smashed into the centre of Adam’s face. Blood flew as his nose was pulped. Brannigan’s left followed hard on the heels of the first punch, slamming into the boy’s gut with the force of a sledgehammer.

  Adam bent double as the breath was driven from his body. But Brannigan was not done. He reached out and grabbed the younger man by the hair, pulling him upright then hauling him forward.

  ‘Leave him alone!’ Kat came at him, her hands bunched into fists.

  Brannigan saw her coming. He swung his free hand hard and fast, slamming the back of it into the side of Kat’s face, bludgeoning her to the ground.

  ‘Keep out of this,’ he snarled. ‘This is between me and him, you hear me?’ He jerked his left hand, lifting and twisting Adam so that his bloodied face was almost touching his own. ‘Now then, boy, what did you just say to me?’

  Adam’s face was covered with blood, and more pumped from both nostrils to run down into his mouth. ‘I said shut your filthy mouth.’ He stumbled over the words, blood flung from his lips like spittle as he formed them. Yet he spoke clearly enough for them to be understood.

  ‘I thought that’s what you said.’ Brannigan’s eyes roved over Adam’s battered face. ‘You want to challenge me, boy? You want to take over?’

  ‘No.’ Adam kept his hands at his sides. He made no attempt to fight back.

  Brannigan’s eyes bored into him. ‘You sure about that?’ His right hand dropped to his revolver. He drew the weapon, then held it up, pressing it hard into Adam’s temple. ‘I said, are you sure ’bout that!’ He screamed the words into the younger man’s face, grinding the revolver’s barrel into Adam’s skin so that more blood snaked down the side of his face.

  ‘Yes!’ Adam shouted. ‘I’m sure.’ There was real fear in his eyes now. They rolled around in their sockets as they tried to watch both Brannigan and the revolver.

  ‘You think I should kill you?’ Brannigan pushed his face closer. ‘What say you to that, boy?’

  Adam’s resolve failed. Whatever reply he tried to form was lost as he whimpered in fear.

  ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Brannigan sneered. He pulled away suddenly, releasing his grip on Adam’s hair as he did so. Adam’s legs buckled as they took his full weight, and he fell at the gang leader’s feet.

  Brannigan did not so much as glance at him. Instead, he holstered his revolver, then turned to look at one of his men, who was lingering a few paces away.

  ‘Is he ready?’ His voice had returned to its usual dry, deadpan tone, as if nothing had happened. If he saw Kat get to her feet and walk over to Adam, he showed no sign of it.

  ‘Yes, Brannigan.’ The man could not hide his nervousness. ‘I tied him up, just like you told me.’

  ‘At least someone can do what I goddam tell them.’ Brannigan glanced over his shoulder. ‘Walk with me, Jack. I want to show you something.’

  Jack felt a stirring in his gut. He did not know if it was fear, or something else, something akin to loathing. Brannigan’s rage had shocked him. It had been feral and ferocious, two things that sat at odds with the quiet, taciturn manner that he had witnessed up to that point. He had learned much that day; not least that he had shackled himself to a man who possessed an uncontrollable temper.

  Yet despite his newly acquired knowledge, he still did as he was told, and followed Brannigan as he walked away from the fire and through a gap in the line of wagons that had been parked in a circle around the temporary encampment.

  Away from the fire, it was harder to see. Dusk was falling, and the last of the sun’s rays cast long shadows across the ground. But despite the failing light, Jack saw what Brannigan was leading him towards easily enough.

  Sinclair sat against a spare wagon wheel that had been propped up against a lone oak tree. At first Jack thought he was looking at a dead man, but as they approached, he saw a single eye open to look in their direction.

  It was only as they got closer that he saw the rope that had been hitched around Sinclair’s chest, tying him to the wheel.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ he demanded.

  ‘A warning.’

  He shook his head as he absorbed Brannigan’s answer. No effort had been made to ease Sinclair’s last hours on earth. His wounds had been left unbound. His fine grey suit was stained with blackened blood, and the gruesome fissures and tears Jack’s sword had rent in his flesh had been left open to the elements. That he was still alive was something of a miracle, but one that Jack had seen before. Some men went quickly, the wound that killed them barely visible. Others died hard, their body ruined and shredded so that it was impossible to believe they could linger for so long.

  Sinclair’s single open eye looked up at Jack from an ashen face cast into shadow by the sunset. The man was far beyond pleading for mercy, but Jack saw the appeal in the intense stare.

  ‘A warning for what?’ His mouth was dry.

  ‘To tell others what happens if they come after me.’ Brannigan spoke slowly, as if to a difficult child who had failed to grasp what they were being told.

  ‘You don’t need to do that.’ Jack turned his head, moving his tongue around in his mouth as he tried to summon up enough moisture to spit away the foul taste there. ‘They know.’

  ‘It don’t hurt to remind them.’

  ‘You think he’d treat you like that?’

  ‘No. He’d do far worse.’

  ‘Worse?’ Jack gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I don’t think there’s much worse than that.’

  ‘You don’t approve?’

  ‘No.’ He would not kowtow to this man.

  ‘Have you never done something bad then, Jack? Never done something like this?’

  ‘Oh, I’ve done bad things.’ Jack did not turn to look at Brannigan. He kept his eyes on Sinclair, holding the man’s agony-crazed stare. ‘But I’ve never been as cruel as this.’

  ‘Cruel? Is that what it is?’ Brannigan asked, as if genuinely intrigued. ‘Well, if it don’t suit you, then you go right ahead and put the son of a bitch out of his misery.’

  Jack heard the challenge in the words. He did not understand it, or know what the man hoped to achieve. Perhaps it was a warped test of character, and only Brannigan would know if Jack had passed or failed. Whatever the game was, he had no intention of playing along.

  He held Sinclair’s gaze for several long moments, then drew his revolver. He fired a single heartbeat later.

  The sound of the gunshot echoed around the great expanse of open ground in which they stood. Jack looked once at Brannigan, then turned and walked away, heading back to the fire and its warmth. Not once did he glance back at the body that now lolled against the ropes that bound it to the wagon wheel.

  To say the approach to San Antonio was busy was an understatement. Jack rode towards the long queue of wagons parked on the trail, and wondered how long it would be before they would make their way to the main plaza in the centre of the town. What had to be close to a hundred wagons were parked nose to tail in a semi-orderly queue that stretched back for over a mile. They might not have been moving, yet the noise of the stationary wagon trains was tremendous. From the shouts and oaths coming in a constant stream from the teamsters, to the brays and bellows of the animals they controlled, the cacophony was loud enough to be heard from several miles away.

  Jack used the delay to study the other trains waiting to enter the town. Most were smaller than the one Brannigan escorted, the majority made up of just ten to fifteen wagons. He had learned much about the workings of these trains. Each one was under the control of a single wagon master, a
cadre of hard-faced, dour men like Brannigan, who were charged with getting the precious cotton to its destination no matter what, or who, tried to stop them. Each was divided into two sections, commanded by men given the title of wagon captain, with another man, given the title of corporal, put in charge of the twenty to thirty spare draught animals that would be called into action when the wagons traversed the sands on their way to Brownsville, the last stop on the journey across Texan territory, a gruelling four-hundred-mile trek that would take four to six weeks.

  Yet that part of the journey was still in the future, and instead of dwelling on the difficulties and dangers that lay ahead, Jack studied the town of San Antonio. From what he could see, it didn’t look like much. Many of the nearby buildings appeared temporary, an array of wooden shacks and barns arranged in haphazard fashion along the main route into town. Alongside these ramshackle affairs were dozens upon dozens of great animal holding pens, each one filled to capacity with oxen, mules, horses and cattle. With so many animals came an earthy smell, the rich aroma of dung hanging like a low-lying cloud.

  Yet not all was so temporary in nature. In the distance, he could see the bell tower of a cathedral, the cross at the top a beacon calling to the hundreds of cattle drivers and wagon trains. Not that he suspected many of the men who worked the trail would be thinking of finding salvation for their soul.

  The men in Brannigan’s gang had spent nearly every evening for the past week lauding the virtues of San Antonio. It was the last major staging post on that long journey to the Rio Grande, and the town had grown fat on the cotton trade. Every day, wagon trains piled high with cotton arrived heading south, whilst others travelled north loaded with cargo bound for the Confederacy. San Antonio provided for them all. There were depots for the wagons, the men who worked in them able to repair a great variety of faults. There were suppliers of foodstuffs and animal feed, the demand for the produce pushing prices to eye-watering levels. Others supplied the draught animals that the heavily loaded wagons would need on their long journey to and from the Rio Grande.

  The debate over which animal was best at hauling the wagons had occupied a hundred hours on the journey to this point, and Jack had quickly tired of the endless back-and-forth. Some claimed oxen were best, the animals cheaper to purchase at two hundred dollars for eight, and strong enough to pull even the most heavily loaded wagon through anything but the thickest sand. Oxen also boasted one other advantage over mules, in that they could be eaten if the going got really tough. Yet Brannigan, and many other wagon masters, insisted on using mules. The animals were more expensive than oxen, at one hundred dollars each, and they required extra grain to be carried, as they needed a better diet. Yet nothing would dissuade their supporters from using them. As cantankerous and difficult as they could be, no other animal could endure like a mule, especially in the heat of southern Texas.

  Jack had ridden slowly along the side of the wagon train and had now reached the head of the column. Vaughan, Brannigan, Kat and a few of the older guards had gone ahead, leaving just a few men with the train to wait out the long afternoon.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  It was Adam who stopped him, his voice overly loud and full of challenge.

  ‘Just taking a look-see.’ Jack brought his mare to a stand, then turned to look at the younger man. Adam’s face showed the aftereffects of his one-sided fight with Brannigan. Both eyes were surrounded by red and purple bruises, the whites of one shot through with bright streaks of red. His nose was close to double its normal size and both nostrils were ringed with crusty scabs.

  Adam shifted in the saddle as he stared back. His revolver, a Colt, was in his hand. He was using the delay to practise drawing the weapon, completing the action by twirling the revolver around his finger before thrusting it back into its holster.

  ‘You need to stay in your place.’ He gave the order in a clipped voice.

  ‘Are you in charge here?’ Jack watched the boy toy with the revolver. It was an unnecessary conceit. It did not matter how fast a man could snatch his weapon out of its holster, or how fancy the tricks he could play with it. It was the ability to kill that counted. Adam could fiddle with this weapon as much as he liked. It would not make a difference when he came face to face with a man intent on killing him.

  ‘Just do as you’re told.’ Adam tried to sound bored of having to repeat himself, yet there was an unmistakable tremor of tension in his voice.

  Jack said nothing; merely sat and watched as Adam completed another round of his drill.

  ‘That’s not a toy.’ He tried to keep his voice light as he addressed the younger man.

  ‘You think I don’t know that?’ Adam scowled.

  ‘Is it loaded?’

  ‘Hell, yes.’

  ‘Then stop bloody playing with it.’

  ‘Playing with it! You think that’s what I’m doing?’

  ‘What do you call it?’

  ‘It’s none of your goddam business.’

  ‘It will be if you blow your bloody leg off.’ Jack heard the change in his own tone and drew in a sharp breath to stop himself saying anything more. He remembered what it was like to be Adam’s age; how impetuous and headstrong he had been. Advice counted for nothing, not when you knew it all. ‘What will Brannigan say if you shoot yourself?’ He changed tack.

  ‘I won’t shoot myself.’ The denial came back instantly. Yet Adam’s hand stilled.

  Jack noted the power of using Brannigan’s name. ‘You look up to him, don’t you?’

  ‘He’s a fine man. A fine leader, too.’ Adam sat straighter in the saddle.

  ‘Have you been with him long?’

  ‘All my life. All I remember, anyways.’ Adam’s hand rested on his revolver.

  ‘Is that why you let him treat you like shit?’ Jack wanted to know more, so he asked the deliberately barbed question.

  ‘He does not.’

  ‘He beat you pretty bad the other day.’

  ‘That was my own fault.’ Adam’s neck began to turn crimson.

  ‘That doesn’t mean he has to wallop you.’

  Adam shook his head. ‘I screwed up. Just like you did.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you! You told him to make the crossing. Hell, you even suggested sending men forward. It was you who got Weston and the other boys killed.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Brannigan made the call.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ The flush that had started low on Adam’s neck was rising so that it coloured his cheeks. ‘I figured you’d say that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack felt the first touch of anger and made an effort to rein it in.

  ‘Some fellas are like that.’

  ‘Like what?’ Jack knew he should shut up, but for some reason Adam always seemed able to get under his skin.

  ‘They take the coward’s way. “It’s not my fault.”’ Adam put on a wheedling tone. ‘“I didn’t do it.”’

  Jack barked a short laugh. There was nothing humorous in its tone. ‘You really are a stupid little shit.’

  ‘You care to say that again.’ Adam’s fingers curled around his revolver.

  Jack saw the movement. He sensed the boy wanted the confrontation to go on, maybe even to the point where there was a fight. He could not let that happen. Adam was still young. He would likely learn life’s lessons the hard way, just as Jack himself had done.

  ‘You need to mind your tongue, boy.’ He gave a last word of advice, then turned his mare’s head around and began the long ride back to the rear of the wagon train.

  As he rode away, he heard the telltale sound of a revolver being drawn.

  Jack stretched as he walked away from the main plaza. It was a relief to be on his feet, the six-hour wait to get into town leaving his back aching from the pit of his spine to the base of his neck. He sorely needed a chance to rest, and to sleep in a bed made from something more comfortable than his bedroll. Brannigan had hired rooms for them all in a boarding house that
he used every time he came to town, yet it would still be some time before Jack could seek the respite he craved, as the gang leader had tasked him with ordering the ammunition they would need for the next leg of their journey. The firefight with Sinclair’s gang of renegades had depleted much of their supply, and the list Jack had been given was long.

  Despite the chore he had been tasked with, it was a relief to be somewhere other than on the trail, and San Antonio promised to make for a lively stop. The town did not just cater to the needs of the wagons and the animals that dragged them. It also looked after the teamsters and outriders who came with the cotton. There were brothels, bars, hotels, boarding houses, every manner of store, and dozens of gambling houses where the men could throw away their pay in a bewildering choice of games of chance. The citizens of San Antonio had become adept at emptying the pockets of the men who found themselves in the town, and the wagon teams were willing accomplices in the fleecing, the harsh reality of life on the trail fuelling their desire for a day or two of pleasure before they returned to the dangerous task of escorting the trains on their long, brutal journeys.

  Despite the hardship of that work, every day men would fill the main plaza in the centre of town, trading themselves to the wagon masters and their captains. These men touted their skills and talents, holding out for the highest bidder for their services. It was a lucky wagon master indeed who arrived in San Antonio with a full complement of men, and so those looking for employment could demand a good wage. Many were Tejanos, Mexicans born in the new state of Texas. Others were deserters from one or other of the armies fighting the great War Between the States.

  Jack had heard several of Brannigan’s men talk of the temptation to jump wagon train in San Antonio and sign on for better money elsewhere. Yet as far as he could tell, not one of them was seriously contemplating doing so. Even here, on the frontier of the United States, men were fiercely loyal to their master. They reminded Jack of soldiers in that regard, their commitment to each other, and to Brannigan, worth as much as the wages they received.