‘Because she does what you say? Because she flops on her back at your command?’
‘Shut your filthy goddam mouth,’ Brannigan warned.
‘Why? Are you going to kill me?’ The glib retort was immediate. ‘You know she’ll tire of you. You’re an old man to her, Brannigan. When she’s had enough of you pounding away at her with that dry old prick of yours, she’ll find herself someone else. Someone younger.’ He wanted to provoke the wagon master. He wanted anger. For angry men made mistakes more often than those who were calm and in control.
Brannigan took a pace towards him. ‘Shut your filthy mouth.’ He still held Jack’s sabre. Now the tip of it rose, as if he was planning to drive it into Jack’s breast.
‘Why? Because you know I’m right? Because—’
Jack never finished the sentence. Brannigan punched fast and hard with his free hand. Jack’s head exploded with pain as the fist smashed into his cheek with enough force to nearly knock him from his feet. He staggered, and only steadied when Brannigan reached out and grabbed him around the neck.
‘It ain’t like that between us.’ Brannigan craned Jack’s neck back so that he was rocked on to his heels. ‘I found her and her brother just after some sons of bitches had killed their parents. I took them in and kept them safe. So you shut that foul mouth of yours, or I swear I’ll kill you right here and now.’
Jack’s throat was half crushed as Brannigan’s fingers dug into his flesh. He could not have replied even if he’d wanted to.
‘You ever say anything like that again and I’ll kill you so slowly that you’ll beg me to end it.’ Brannigan’s face was contorted with fury as he made the vow. His grip tightened, his fingers like claws, then he let go, throwing Jack away from him, his expressionless mask slipping back into place.
Jack slumped against the wall, his hands pressed into the cold stone, fingers scrabbling for purchase to keep him upright as he gasped down fast breaths. Brannigan had turned away the moment he had let go, and now he walked to the doorway. He stood there for several long moments. When he turned back to face his prisoners, a thin-lipped smile was firmly in place.
‘Time for you to follow me, fellas. You can walk, or I’ll have my boys drag you. I sure don’t care which one of those it is.’
He looked down at the sabre in his hand, as if surprised to find himself still holding it. He contemplated the weapon one last time, then tossed it contemptuously aside before turning to amble out of the shed. The Tejanos supporting Brown followed. Two more waited outside, both armed with carbines.
Jack hesitated for a moment, then stepped outside into the chilly pre-dawn air. He would not allow himself to be dragged to his grave. Not when there was still strength left in his body. Not when he could still fight.
There were few people present to witness the three prisoners’ departure. Jack looked at the faces he did see, searching them for some shred of compassion, or some look or expression that would give him a glimmer of hope that someone would intercede on their behalf. He saw nothing but the cold, merciless features of men long used to cruel death. There was no hope to be found. Not there. Not that day.
He looked for Kat, too. Part of him wanted to believe she was not a party to everything that was about to happen. Yet he knew he was deluding himself. She had been the one person Brannigan had spared. To do that, he would surely have told her everything, just as he would most likely have told her his plans for the three men he had taken captive. It meant she knew Jack was going to die; yet she was not there to see it, let alone intervene. He would die believing she had played a part in his death.
But he found he did not blame her. She was nothing more than a pawn in Brannigan’s game. And she was doing what she had to do to survive. He had done the same. He had taken his place in Brannigan’s gang willingly, staying even after cold-blooded murder had been committed. Now he would pay the price for that folly.
The three prisoners and their guards walked away from the hacienda. Not one of the sad procession spoke. Brannigan led the way, followed by Brown and the two Tejanos holding him up. Adam and Jack came next, with the other two Tejanos and their carbines just behind. The captives were made to walk with their hands still bound tight behind their backs. One of the Tejanos had taken the necessary time to check the knots were still tight.
It was cold outside the shed. The cool air whispered over Jack’s naked skin, raising goose bumps across every inch so that he shivered. Rocks and sharp stones cut into the soles of his feet, yet he paid them no heed, just as he did his best to ignore the numbness in his shoulders and the burn of the rope on the raw, bloody skin of his wrists. He thought only of when he would run, of when he would try to cheat the fate that Brannigan had planned.
They walked for a good mile without pause. Twice Jack thought about making a break for it, but a glance over his shoulder revealed that the barrel of a loaded carbine was no more than a couple of feet away from the pit of his spine. If he ran, he died. And it would not be a quick death. It would be slow, every one of his final minutes agony. On the battlefield, men relied on one another to administer a clean and merciful end. It was the creed of the soldier, the final act of comradeship between brothers in arms. Yet this day he was quite alone. He could expect no mercy.
They walked on. There was nothing to see save for mile upon mile of the same drab-coloured scrub. Jack’s mind wandered. The colours reminded him of India, and the pale, dusty uniform he had worn during his ill-fated time as a lieutenant serving in Hodson’s Horse, an irregular unit of cavalry raised and commanded by William Raikes Hodson, a man Jack had come to despise. The memory stirred something in his mind. It was a reminder of a time when he had fought through every adversity he had faced, a time when he had refused to give in to Fate.
‘And here we are.’ Brannigan spoke every word slowly as he turned to face the men who had trailed so dutifully in his wake.
Jack’s mind snapped back to the present. They were in the middle of nowhere, the view of dusty scrub unchanged but for one thing. Behind Brannigan was a freshly dug ditch, the excavated dirt piled neatly to one side. The four bandoleros who had dug it waited patiently to one side, their shovels left on the mound of dirt, their hands now filled with brand-new Enfield rifle muskets.
He looked around him. The same bleak scene stretched away for miles in every direction. They were in a place where no one would ever find the bodies of the three men who now stood and stared at their own grave.
‘So this is where it ends.’ Brannigan looked at each of the three in turn. ‘You are the last men alive who know what I did. Now it’s time to put you in the ground so that no one comes after me.’ He gestured to the two Tejanos supporting Brown to bring him to the edge of the pit. They did as he commanded, then let go, hesitating for a moment to make sure Brown could stand before they walked away.
‘The authorities won’t give up. They’ll find out what happened here. They’ll find out what happened to Vaughan and to all the others you butchered.’ Jack found his tongue. The words rasped as he spoke them, his throat burning from where Brannigan had half strangled him. There was not a drop of moisture left anywhere in his throat, and his tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of his mouth. Yet he forced the words out. He needed Brannigan distracted.
‘The authorities!’ Brannigan laughed. ‘Hell, where do you think you are, Jack? Back in jolly old London? There ain’t no authorities down here. I got myself all the goddam authority I need right here.’ He patted his holstered revolver. ‘There ain’t no one going to care what happened to you all. As far as anyone knows, these Mexican boys ambushed the wagons and took the guns all by themselves.’
‘You think they’ll believe that?’
Brannigan shrugged. ‘It happens. We’ll just be listed as another missing wagon train. We won’t be the first. Or the last.’
Jack tried to summon the will to continue, but his mouth and throat were on fire. Now they had stopped walking, his head was pounding, the pain filling his
mind so that he was finding it impossible to think straight.
He looked around, trying to see where he could run. There were six guns covering the three men. Every one was held still. To move was to die.
He looked at Adam. The boy was the colour of whey. He had not made a sound since they had left the hacienda behind, but his face was twisted as he wept in silence and without tears.
Jack glanced at Brown. The man looked done in. He tottered at the edge of the freshly dug pit. Old blood caked his neck and shoulders, and there were thin streaks left across his bare skin from where it had run down his body. His prick had shrivelled with fear so that it was barely visible amidst his thick thatch of pubic hair.
Jack moved his gaze away from the pathetic sight. He saw that Brannigan was staring back at him. He searched the wagon master’s eyes, looking for a spark of humanity; for something that would reveal that a man lived behind the expressionless facade. He failed. He stared into the abyss of Brannigan’s baleful gaze and saw nothing but death.
‘You done lollygagging now, Jack?’ Brannigan turned on the spot, drawing his revolver as he did so. He fired a heartbeat later.
The bullet hit Brown in the side of the head. He crumpled without a sound, falling half in and half out of the pit, his ruined head coming down so that it lay on the dirt outside the hole, his body twisted at an impossible angle only the dead could make.
‘Get him in there.’ Brannigan gave the order to the Tejanos who had brought Brown to the grave.
The pair hurried to obey. They stepped forward, eager hands lifting Brown before tossing him forward so that his body fell fully into the pit. Task done, they moved away quickly, their hands bloody.
‘Who wants to be next?’ Brannigan addressed the question to his two remaining captives, the still smoking revolver held casually in his hand.
‘Don’t do it, Brannigan,’ Adam whispered, the words barely audible.
‘What’s that you say?’ Brannigan made a play of cocking his ear. ‘I can’t quite hear you.’
‘Don’t kill me.’ Adam whimpered. ‘Please don’t.’
‘Cat got your tongue, boy?’ Brannigan shouted. ‘Speak up now.’
‘Don’t kill me!’ Adam lifted his head and shrieked the plea, his whole body shaking. ‘I beg you.’
‘Now I can hear you.’ Brannigan smiled. ‘But I’m sorry, Adam, this is just the way it has to be. Dawson knows you. Of all people, you might be able to convince him to trust what you say.’ He turned to the Tejanos. ‘Him next.’
‘No!’ Jack gave the word in the voice of command he had first learned all those years ago in the Crimea. ‘Kill me, but let the boy live.’
‘You giving me orders, Jack?’ Brannigan had heard the snap in Jack’s tone, and he made a face of mock surprise. ‘You telling me what to do?’
‘You owe me, remember? So now pay me back. He’s just a boy. Let him live.’ Jack stood straight, ignoring the pain and the shame of his bare flesh. ‘Kill me and let him go.’
‘No.’ Brannigan’s answer was immediate. ‘Bring him up.’
The Tejanos did as they were told. The two without weapons each took one of Adam’s elbows, then led him to the edge of the pit.
Adam tried to fight them. He kicked at the ground and leaned back, pushing against his captors, so that it was a struggle to get him into place, but he stood no chance against the strength of the two men, and they dragged him forward until his feet rested against the lip of the grave.
‘Please, Brannigan,’ Adam begged. He turned his head, terror contorting his features so that he was barely recognisable.
‘I’m sorry.’ Brannigan’s tone was firm as he raised the revolver.
‘No.’ There was time for Adam to give a last wail before the gang leader pulled the trigger. The bullet hit him right in the centre of his forehead and he fell like a stone, his body toppling forward and into the pit, where it thumped into the dirt.
‘And then there was one.’ Brannigan did not look at the body he had just committed to the ground. Instead, he turned on the spot and looked squarely at Jack.
Jack braced himself. The fear came then, an unstoppable shudder that swirled up from his guts, surging through his chest and into his heart before rushing on to fill his head with a silent scream. Nothing had prepared him for the intensity of this moment; this moment of his death.
He fought it then. He rallied his mind, forcing it to stand firm against the unstoppable forces that assailed it. Everything he had been had led to this moment. Every battle, every fight had preserved his life only so that he would die here.
There would be nothing redeeming in this lonely death. He was not laying down his life for his mates, or even for his country. He would die because he was an inconvenience.
That knowledge shamed him. He had not taken an officer’s scarlet coat to die here. He had come so far, and he had changed so much from the naive, innocent young man who had embarked on the journey that had led him here. That his life should end in such a tawdry and insignificant manner seemed impossible. It was too sudden. Too simple. Too quick.
‘You want to kneel?’ Brannigan had raised his revolver. It twitched to one side, the barrel aimed squarely at Jack’s face.
Jack found he could not speak. He looked at Brannigan. Everything felt unreal, like he was in a dream. This could not be happening. Not now.
‘Take a step forward.’ Brannigan gave the command. ‘Save us the trouble of throwing you in.’
Jack did as he was told. He did not know why, and his meekness angered him. But he could see no other way. It did not matter if he tried to fight, or if he tried to run. There was no hope. There was no escape. There was just death.
‘Good man,’ Brannigan congratulated him. ‘You boys get on now. I’ll finish it. Jack ain’t going no place.’
Jack almost choked on the indignity as he stood there, submissive and servile. Yet he could do nothing else. His mind was numb, the enormity of his own death engulfing every thought. He finally faced oblivion, and he faced it like a mouse. There was to be no last fight. No final attempt to save himself.
He heard the shuffle of men moving away. He could feel the breeze washing across his skin, and there was warmth on his back as the first rays of the sun spread over the scrubland. It was his last chance to run. Brannigan had gifted him this moment, his dismissal of the Tejanos and bandoleros reducing the number of guns aimed at him. Yet he stayed where he was, transfixed by fear.
They waited for many minutes like that, Jack standing stock still, Brannigan’s revolver aimed squarely at his skull. The sounds of the men moving away faded. Then there was just silence.
‘Goodbye, Jack,’ Brannigan muttered.
Jack tensed. After so many minutes of quiet, the voice was too loud, too strident. It did not belong there. Not in the last seconds of Jack’s universe. He felt a moment’s anger then, a sudden urge to turn and confront the man who would kill him.
But he had left it too late. There was no time left.
Brannigan pulled the trigger. The last gunshot of Jack’s life roared out, splitting the silence asunder.
‘Get up, Jack. Come on now.’
Jack came back to the world. He had fallen when Brannigan’s revolver had fired, his legs failing him at the last. He had hit the bottom of the ditch face first, the brutal contact with the ground knocking him out. Now pain surged through his head and face. He could feel blood pumping from his nose and lips where they had been crushed by the impact with the earth. But when he reached out through his body, searching for the impact of a bullet, he found nothing.
‘Come on now. I ain’t got long.’ Brannigan snapped the command.
Jack slowly pushed himself up. It was not easy. He was lying face down with his hands bound tightly behind him. Somehow he managed to push his knees forward so that he could ease himself into an awkward crouch. With a lurch, he staggered to his feet and looked up.
Brannigan stood at the lip of the ditch, watching him. ‘You surpri
sed me, Jack. I swore you’d fight me.’
Jack had no capacity to speak. He could do nothing but stare.
‘You getting out of there?’ Brannigan gave a sickly smile, then turned to walk away, leaving Jack to look up at nothing but the sky.
For his part, Jack was struggling to keep up with what was going on. He stood there, every muscle shaking.
‘Get out of there, Jack, or so help me God I’ll shoot you after all.’
He heard the mockery in Brannigan’s tone. He did not doubt the threat. He took a cautious step forward. Brannigan’s bandoleros had worked hard, the pit a good three feet deep. He staggered to the edge, then bent his body forward on the ground above the lip. He pushed up and twisted, rolling himself on to the dusty soil above. He felt rocks catch his flesh, then he was out, and lying on the ground above. He took a deep breath, then wriggled on to his knees. It took everything he had to lever himself to his feet.
‘Boy, do you look like shit.’ Brannigan laughed as Jack finally stood in front of him.
Jack cared nothing for the abuse. He could feel the blood flowing across his lips and dribbling down his chin. His body was covered with dirt, and a hundred cuts and grazes. Yet he was alive.
‘I expect you’re wondering why I let you live.’ Brannigan spoke carefully, as if concerned that Jack would fail to understand the words. He holstered his revolver, watching Jack as he did so to make sure the gesture was understood.
‘You saved my life, and I told you I’d pay you back.’ Brannigan hooked his thumbs into his gun belt. ‘So here you go. I’m letting you live.’ He paused, waiting for some sort of reaction.
He did not get one. Jack could do nothing but stand and stare.
‘Cat got your tongue?’
Jack moved his tongue around his mouth, trying to summon the moisture to speak.
‘So be it.’ Brannigan raised an arm and pointed into the distance. ‘Off you go now.’
Jack turned his head with difficulty and looked where Brannigan was pointing. He saw nothing but more of the same drab scrubland.
The Lost Outlaw Page 24