The Lost Outlaw

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Brannigan will have to watch himself then.’ Jack spoke quietly. His attention was focused on the good folk of Brownsville, who were being drawn to the spectacle of the wagon train’s arrival. He moved his hand so that it rested easily on the hilt of his holstered revolver. A few children ran alongside the train, earning themselves a curse, or even a flick of a whip from one of the more bad-tempered drivers when they ventured too close to the animals hauling the heavily laden wagons. Hard-eyed men stood in the shade of the nearest buildings, assessing the worth of the cotton and the calibre of the men who guarded it. There were few women about, and most of those he saw peered out from behind dust-streaked windows, as if too frightened to be outside.

  ‘Do you trust him yet?’

  ‘No.’ Jack’s answer was emphatic.

  ‘He fought off an ambush. He protected the wagons. Does that not prove that he does what he is paid to do?’

  ‘He won because I was there.’ Jack grinned as he let his arrogance show. ‘I saved his hide.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Without me he’d be dead, and you’d be looking for someone else to guard your precious wagons.’

  ‘Would that person be you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you not up to the job?’

  ‘No.’ Any good humour Jack felt evaporated as he gave the blunt and honest answer. Once he had considered himself a leader, an officer; a man who stood up and took charge when everyone else cowered or hid. Now he knew himself better. He knew the fear that hid deep inside his heart. He was not the man he had believed himself to be.

  ‘I think you’re wrong.’ Vaughan watched him closely. ‘I think you are born to lead men, even those as rough and ready as we have here.’

  ‘Then it’s you who are wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps, though I am not often wrong.’ It was Vaughan’s turn to reveal a trace of arrogance. ‘I think I am coming to know you, Jack. One day I may have to stake my very life on that opinion.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Jack felt something close to anger, aware that Vaughan was trying to entangle him in some scheme. He had a sensation akin to fingers closing around his throat, the contact as light and delicate as a whore’s touch, and just as fleeting.

  ‘You’ll see. If there’s any justice in this world, then I shall not have cause to call on you. But something tells me that one day I will need your help.’

  ‘There is no justice in this world.’ Jack gave the cold answer in a frozen tone.

  ‘You don’t believe in justice?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you did.’ Vaughan’s eyes narrowed. ‘Once at least, if not perhaps now. I can see it in you.’

  ‘Then you need some damn spectacles,’ Jack growled. He did not like the direction the conversation had taken. Introspection was not one of his favourite pastimes, least of all when initiated by a comparative stranger.

  Vaughan laughed. ‘Perhaps I do, Jack. Perhaps I do. But we need justice in this world. I think you know that as well as I, perhaps better.’

  ‘You should be talking to Brannigan, not me.’ Jack sought to deflect the conversation.

  ‘You think Brannigan does not understand justice?’

  ‘Ask that Sinclair fellow.’

  ‘You don’t think he deserved to be left like that?’

  Jack did not answer immediately. He thought back to the way Sinclair had been left. Brannigan’s treatment of his adversary had been cruel, he knew that, and he felt a certain pride at having ended it. But Sinclair’s corpse had still been left tied to the wagon’s wheel, the gruesome sight a warning to any of his men who might return. Jack supposed it made no difference if the man had been left alive or dead, the warning, and the outcome, the same.

  ‘No,’ he said finally. ‘He was as good as dead. He had lost. That’s enough for anyone, I would say.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Vaughan did not conduct a defence. ‘But perhaps Brannigan knows what he is doing.’

  ‘Perhaps. But he could have put Sinclair in a hole in the ground. I think his men would still have understood the message well enough.’

  ‘Is that what you would have done, Jack? Do you always bury the men you have killed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that’s war. I’m a soldier. It’s different for us.’ Jack heard the snap in his answer, so he forced himself to pause and take a breath. He had felt a moment’s pride at his declaration; one that he did not deserve to feel. He had left his pride behind on the blood-soaked field at Shiloh.

  Vaughan was watching him closely. ‘I happen to agree with you. Soldiers are a different breed. They should not be held to the same account.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because they do things we cannot comprehend. They are witness to the foulest depredations of man, and yet we expect them to hold on to their humanity, and to live amongst us as if they are normal men.’

  ‘Have you fought?’ Jack heard something underscoring Vaughan’s words.

  ‘I was at Manassas.’

  ‘Where?’ Jack fired the question back. He had fought for the Union at the same battle, which the Northern forces had called Bull Run.

  ‘I was late to arrive. I came with Jackson from the Shenandoah Valley. We arrived in time to hold the hill on the eastern flank.’

  Jack drew in a sharp breath as the memories of that day flooded through him. He had served in the 1st Boston Volunteer Militia. Along with dozens of other Union regiments, they had been ordered to flank the Confederate position that was lined up on the bank of the Bull Run River, not far from the strategic railroad junction at Manassas. They had fought hard, suffering badly against the brave Confederate soldiers, who stubbornly held their ground against superior Union numbers.

  The flanking attack had pushed on through the long hours of that burning-hot day. Finally they had forced the Confederate defenders back. Jack had been in the blue-coated ranks when they had advanced for the last time. That advance had been on the point of success when thousands of Confederate reinforcements had arrived to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. The 1st Boston had been broken and, like the rest of the Union army, forced to retreat. Now Jack rode alongside one of the men who had stood on the same ground, but on the opposite side; one of the men who had secured the Confederate army their first victory. One of the men who perhaps had killed those he had come to think of as friends.

  ‘I was too late to see much fighting.’ Vaughan spoke almost reverentially. ‘I take it from your reaction that you were there too.’

  Jack nodded.

  ‘It was a hard day. We buried the dead the next day. I have never seen so many bodies.’

  ‘I have.’ Jack’s voice was cold. ‘After Solferino.’ He said nothing more for a moment.

  ‘I have not fought since.’ Vaughan filled the silence. ‘I came home a few months later.’

  ‘Were you injured?’

  ‘Not that you would be able to see.’

  Jack frowned. It was an odd answer.

  ‘And now here I am.’ Vaughan kept talking. ‘And so, it appears, are my former brothers in arms.’

  Jack looked ahead. For the first time he saw the mounted soldiers waiting a hundred yards ahead of the column.

  The Confederate army had arrived.

  The cavalrymen blocked the trail. There were perhaps as many as forty riders present. All were dressed in grey flannel shirts and trousers, and tall black boots with oversized spurs. Each man wore a large black felt hat decorated with the lone star of Texas on the front. It was a uniform of sorts, but the men were rough and dirty-looking, as if they had been wearing the same clothes for months.

  One man at the front of the group carried a flag that Jack had not seen before. It was based on the familiar Confederate national flag, with the usual three bars of the same size, the top and bottom ones red and the middle one white. Instead of being decorated with small stars representing the states that formed the Confederacy, the blue canton in
the top left corner was decorated with a five-pointed red star that was itself embellished with eleven smaller white stars, two on each point of the main star and one large one in the centre. On the white bar was a shield containing a single star and the word ‘Texas’.

  All the men were armed with carbines or shotguns. From what Jack could see, the weapons were clean and well cared for. The Confederate cavalrymen clearly knew what was important. Some carried six-shooters, mainly Colt Navy revolvers, whilst nearly all had a bowie knife attached to their belt. A few sported a lasso attached to the saddle, and he saw at least half a dozen armed with an Indian tomahawk. They might look a scruffy bunch, but they were as well armed as any cavalry squadron he had ever come across, and he was sure they would be more than a match for Brannigan’s men in any kind of fight.

  ‘Do you know them?’ he asked Vaughan as they both tapped back their heels and forced their horses into a trot. Already the train was coming to a halt as the group of cavalrymen manoeuvred into position to block its route a few hundred yards ahead of the lead wagon. Jack and Vaughan were not the only ones riding forward. Jack looked back to see Brannigan, Adam and Kat coming up the far side of the wagon train. They had been well to the rear, so he and Vaughan would be left alone to greet the newcomers.

  ‘I do indeed.’ Vaughan sounded slightly breathless as he answered Jack’s question. ‘They are stationed here to guard the crossing into Mexico.’

  Jack did his best to run his eye over the men blocking their way.

  ‘Dawson, you dog!’ To Jack’s surprise, it was Vaughan who shouted out in greeting.

  A man at the head of the column looked back at him and waved. Jack supposed he had to be some kind of officer, but he looked as dishevelled as his men and bore no obvious markers of rank.

  ‘You sure took your goddam time getting here.’ Dawson made the wry remark in lieu of a greeting.

  ‘We were delayed.’ Vaughan gave the answer as they came to the head of the stationary wagon train. ‘Where were your men when we needed them, Captain? I thought your orders were to protect people like us.’

  ‘We heard you had some trouble,’ Dawson countered with an easy smile. ‘We figured you and Brannigan would be fine without our help. Looks like we were right, too.’

  ‘You might not have said that if it were not for my new friend here.’ Vaughan gestured towards Jack.

  ‘Well, I’m sure glad you had help.’ The Confederate captain nodded at Jack. ‘Who might you be, friend?’

  ‘Jack Lark. Pleased to meet you.’ Jack nodded curtly as he looked Dawson over. The man sat easily in the saddle, leaning forward with his left forearm resting on the pommel, his hat tipped back to reveal a sweaty mop of dark brown hair. Like nearly all the men who lived in these unforgiving borderlands, he was as lean as a whippet, with hard blue eyes and skin that had been tanned and weathered by the sun.

  ‘You found an Englishman all the way out here, Vaughan?’ Dawson guffawed as he identified Jack’s accent.

  ‘Where a leaf moves, underneath you will find an Englishman. At least that is what the Farsi say, is it not, Jack?’ Vaughan smiled at Jack as he showed off his knowledge.

  ‘They have that right, whoever the hell they are.’ Dawson looked over Vaughan’s shoulder as the others arrived. ‘Why there you are, Brannigan, I was wondering where you were hiding.’

  ‘Dawson.’ Brannigan did not bother with anything more polite. ‘What has brought you here?’

  ‘Just doing my job, nothing more.’ Dawson’s expression betrayed that there was no love lost between the two men. ‘We need to make sure you have the right permits this time.’

  Brannigan reined in his horse, then sat as still as a statue as he glared at the Confederate officer.

  ‘That was a misunderstanding and well you know it.’ It was Vaughan who added a dose of conviviality to the atmosphere, which had quickly turned hostile. ‘This time I assure you that all is in order. Dare I suggest that we go somewhere a little more comfortable to look at the paperwork?’

  ‘This’ll do well enough.’ Dawson did not move.

  ‘Very well, if you insist.’ Vaughan did not seem the least bit put out by Dawson’s recalcitrance. He tapped back his heels, then walked his horse forward until he was within arm’s reach of the officer. He reined in, then fished into a saddlebag and, after a moment’s rummaging, produced a thin wad of papers. ‘Everything is in order, I vouch for it.’

  ‘You would say that.’ Dawson sat upright as he took hold of the papers, which he did not so much as glance at before he turned and held them out to one of his men, who had ridden forward to take them. ‘Is that all you’ve got for me?’ He looked at Vaughan with disapproval.

  ‘Ah.’ Vaughan purred at Dawson’s reaction, as if he had been waiting for it. ‘Of course not.’ He fished into the same saddlebag, this time producing a thick wedge of grey banknotes held together with twine. ‘A little something for your trouble.’ He tossed the bundle casually to Dawson.

  ‘Greybacks?’ Dawson caught the stack of Confederate dollars and considered it, his face betraying his disapproval. ‘Is that all you think me and my boys are worth?’ He turned the bundle of notes back and forth in his hand before shoving it deep in his own saddlebag.

  ‘It is the currency of the Confederacy. You are a Confederate officer. I really don’t see a problem.’ Vaughan could not help a sly smile as he replied in an urbane tone.

  ‘It’s got about the same value as horseshit down here, as well you know.’ There was the first sign of annoyance in Dawson’s tone. ‘And we sure have got ourselves one hell of a lot of goddam horses.’

  ‘You expect something more?’ It was Brannigan who answered. ‘You already have the permits signed by Quartermaster Hart himself. We have paid you and your men for your trouble. I would say our business here is done.’

  Dawson stared back at Brannigan. He did not reply immediately. The only sound that broke the silence was that of Dawson’s men shifting in their saddles as they understood the change in the tone of the conversation, and prepared for any order their commander might give.

  ‘Have you got yourself a problem there, Brannigan?’ When Dawson spoke, his tone was openly belligerent.

  ‘Not if you move aside, I don’t.’ Brannigan’s words came out deadpan.

  ‘We’ll move aside when our job here is done.’ Dawson’s expression revealed nothing.

  ‘It is done.’

  ‘It’s done when I say it’s done and not before.’ The officer sat up straight in his saddle. ‘You challenging my authority here?’

  ‘You have what was agreed. Now step aside.’ Brannigan’s words came out wrapped in iron.

  ‘I’ll step aside when I’m good and goddam well ready.’ Dawson’s hand slipped towards the revolver on his hip.

  Jack watched the exchange with interest. The pair reminded him of two bull mastiffs before a dog fight. They were watching one another, wondering when they would be slipped free of the leash and given the order to tear the other’s throat out.

  ‘Now, gentlemen, please.’ Vaughan spoke with surprising force. ‘There really is no need for this.’ He slipped a hand into the saddlebag that had already produced the papers and the Confederate dollars. ‘I am sure we can sort this out in good humour.’

  He pulled out a small oilcloth sack closed with a thick leather strap. He weighed the sack in his hand for a moment, listening as it chinked gently. Only when he was happy with its weight did he toss it casually towards Dawson, who snatched it from the air with aplomb.

  ‘Thank you kindly.’ The Confederate officer nodded his approval, then turned to pass the sack to one of his men. ‘Specie is the only true currency in these parts. I’m glad one of you fellas knows what you’re about.’

  Dawson glanced at Brannigan and flashed a humourless smile. ‘Now that that is out of the way, why don’t you all come with us? Get yourselves out of the goddam sun for a while.’

  ‘That is very kind of you, Dawson,’ Vaughan replie
d with forced bonhomie. ‘I rather think Brannigan and his men will need to stay with the wagons, but I am sure Jack here would enjoy the chance to share in some conversation.’

  ‘Well then, it sounds like we got ourselves a plan.’ Dawson nodded briefly at Jack before he turned his attention to Kat and Adam, who had sat silent behind Brannigan during the short confrontation. ‘It’s good to see you, Kat. Perhaps you’d care to accompany these good gentlemen here. Adam, you can come too, if you like.’

  ‘That is kind.’ Kat smiled her thanks.

  ‘I need them to do some work.’ Brannigan spoke before she could say anything further. ‘I can spare those two, for a while anyways.’ He nodded dismissively towards Jack and Vaughan.

  ‘Why that sure is mighty generous of you, Brannigan.’ Dawson beamed at the wagon master. ‘I thank you for your consideration.’

  ‘It is good of you, Brannigan.’ It was Vaughan’s turn to step into the conversation. ‘If you can spare us for a little while, then it might be useful to hear what Captain Dawson can tell us of what lies ahead on the trail.’

  ‘Call it what you will.’ Brannigan was not in the least mollified by Vaughan’s smooth answer. ‘Just be back before nightfall.’

  ‘We will indeed.’ Vaughan nodded his thanks, then turned to smile at Jack. ‘It seems we have been given some time off for good behaviour,’ he murmured.

  The Confederate cavalrymen turned their horses around, and Jack kicked back his heels to follow as they rode back the way they had come. For his part, he was pleased to accept the Confederate captain’s invitation. It might present the opportunity of some better conversation than Brannigan and his men offered, and there was always the chance that Dawson might just have some tea.

  Jack rode into the Confederate encampment and immediately felt a sense of returning home. The cavalrymen had clearly been in Brownsville for an extended period. Most of their camp had been given over to wooden huts, the men stationed on the border building themselves some comfortable quarters. The huts were roughly made but snug, with bunk beds and trestle tables with benches. There was a sense of permanence to the place, but as he dismounted, he noticed that a good half of the huts, perhaps more, were empty.