‘You still here?’ Brannigan barked.
‘Untie me,’ Jack stammered.
‘You’ll be just fine as you are.’
Jack swallowed with difficulty. His mind was beginning to work once again. He was starting to understand that he was not going to die. At least not right at that moment.
‘Go on now.’ Brannigan snapped the command. ‘If you don’t want to go, I can still end it here and now.’
‘No,’ Jack spat. He could feel something shifting deep inside him. The fear was being beaten back and a sense of determination was starting to build, fuelled by shame. He had stood and waited for his death with passive acceptance. He did not know why.
‘That’s better.’ Brannigan grinned. ‘Now, I can’t promise you that my Mexican friends won’t come after you. I don’t hold no sway with them. But I can give you a head start.’
‘I’ll come back.’ The words rasped as they left Jack’s mouth. It hurt to speak, but some things just had to be said. ‘I’ll come back. I’ll find you. I’ll kill you.’
‘You’re sure welcome to try.’ Brannigan laughed off the threat. ‘But if I were you, I’d concentrate my efforts on staying alive for the rest of the goddam day first.’
He shook his head as he contemplated Jack one last time.
Jack returned his stare. Then he summoned the strength he would need and began to walk.
Every inch of Jack’s body hurt. The soles of his feet were the worst. After the first mile, he was leaving a trail of bloody footprints behind him, the rocks and thorns underfoot shredding the soft skin so that every step had become agony. Then there was the thirst. He could feel his lips splitting as the sun roasted the flesh dry, and his mouth was on fire. Water dominated his thoughts; at least those that penetrated the heavy pounding that reverberated around his skull as if a battalion of French drummers was beating out a pas de charge for him alone.
He kept moving. He could feel blisters starting to rise on the right side of his body as his skin was scorched. But at least the pain told him he was heading in the right direction. If he went north, he would be heading back towards Texas and American soil. He had no idea how long it would take him to get there, or if indeed he had the strength to cover that many miles, but it was all the plan he could summon.
As he put one bloody foot in front of the other, he thought of what he would do next. Revenge had sustained him before. Once he had crossed hundreds of miles to exact retribution from the man who had thrown his life into the balance. Yet this was different. He was not going to chase Brannigan down for some half-formed notion of avenging himself. He was doing it for someone else. He was doing it for Fate.
He would find Brannigan, and he would bring the man to justice. It was why Fate had led him south and to a place in Brannigan’s gang. She wanted him there. She wanted him to deliver her justice.
He was to be her weapon and he would not let her down.
He saw the Ángeles the first time he fell.
There were dozens of them. All were mounted, and they were following the bloody trail he had left. He did not know why they were bothering. He could not see an outcome that did not finish with him falling into the dirt, where his struggle to survive would come to an end, his lonely death followed by his body being eaten by any animal that came along, until there was nothing left but sun-bleached bones. His pace had slowed in the last hours, so that he tottered along like an old man. He had stopped more times than he could count. Not once had he let himself sit, but on every occasion he had been forced to fight the urge to lie down and let the sun bake him to a lifeless husk.
He did not really understand what had kept him on his feet. The desire to kill Brannigan had sustained him for the first part of the day. The knowledge that he had been chosen as Fate’s vengeance had lent strength to a body that was on its last legs. Yet such imaginings could only last so long. Now he was upright out of sheer bloody-mindedness. He would not give in again.
So he ground out the miles. Exhaustion and dehydration dogged every step, his life turned into a living hell. Somehow he kept going, fighting against his failing flesh, determination and pure grit keeping him on his feet for one more step, for one more minute, for one more hour.
Then he had fallen for the first time.
With his hands still tied behind him, there was no way to break his fall, and he hit the ground face first. His vision greyed, but this time he did not black out. He lay there, pain and fatigue swamping him.
That was when he saw the mounted Ángeles on his trail.
He almost cried out as he pushed himself first to his knees, then to his feet. It hurt to move, to breathe, to swallow, to carry on living, but he forced himself to move.
He ran then. It was not much, just an awkward lumbering gait that was all he could manage. He focused everything he had on putting one foot in front of the other. The futility of his actions bit at his heels, forcing him on. There was no outrunning a mounted pursuit, not even in the best boots or on the strongest legs. Yet he would run for as long as he could. Then this time he would fight.
As he ran, he looked for a place to hide, or at least to screen himself from view for long enough to change direction without being seen. Yet there was nothing and nowhere, just the same sparse, desolate landscape stretching for miles in every direction.
There was nothing to do save to keep going for as long as his battered, desiccated husk of a body could go on.
Jack was nearly delirious when he fell for a second time. This time he hit hard, his head bouncing up from the ground like it was on a spring. The darkness came for him almost immediately. It surged up, consuming and ravenous. The temptation to succumb was almost more than he could bear. But something had changed inside him. He felt strength stir deep down in his belly, a sensation that had not been there before, not even during the assault on the Great Redoubt on the slopes of the Alma River, or in the bloody confines of the breach at Delhi. It was as if there was a fire in his gut that sparked him back into life.
He rolled on to his side, and then on to his scuffed and grazed knees. The pain flared but barely registered. He was beyond such things now. With a great lurch, he got to his feet. Then he was moving again.
He laughed then. He did not know why, but something in that moment was inordinately funny. Perhaps it was a fleeting image of himself, this bloodied, filthy madman who ran naked across the bleak plain. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that he would surely soon be on his way to hell. Whichever it was, he ran on, cackling to himself like a Bedlam lunatic, even as he stumbled and almost fell for what would most likely have been the final time.
And then he saw them.
He stopped laughing. At first he believed he was deluding himself. He knew that he was falling apart, his mind breaking as the pain, thirst and fatigue consumed him. But somewhere deep inside, a small vestige of sanity remained alive. That part of him knew he was delirious, but it had not cared, not until that moment. Not until he saw the two men on picket duty.
He did not stop or cry out. Instead he kept moving forward, even as his addled brain tried to work out if his eyes were playing him false, or if he truly did see two men in grey jackets and wide-brimmed black hats with the lone star of Texas on their front.
‘Hey!’
One of the figures shouted at him. It was enough to make him laugh out loud again.
‘You there!’
Jack saw the men raise weapons, and he laughed all the louder. The idea that he had cheated death in the merciless scrubland only to be gunned down by an overeager sentry was somehow inordinately funny.
‘Stop right there, or I swear I’ll shoot.’
Jack slowed his pace and glanced over his shoulder. There was no sign of his pursuit. He could only suppose the bandoleros had seen the same cavalrymen he had and kept away.
He kept moving forward. Again he laughed, the idea that anyone could see him as a threat preposterous.
‘I said stop right there!’ The sentry repeated the co
mmand.
This time, Jack did as he was told. He staggered to a halt, and did his best to stand still.
‘Raise your arms!’
Jack’s laughter intensified. He threw back his head and whooped at the sky. Then the blackness came, and he fell.
‘Hey, you waking up or what?’
Jack’s eyes opened, but the light was too much and he could not see. Yet at that moment, something as trivial as blindness did not matter. For the first thing he felt was a pair of strong hands cradling the back of his head. Then he felt water on his lips.
Nothing had ever tasted so glorious. The warm, brackish liquid filled his mouth and he swallowed, dragging it over the raw flesh inside his mouth and throat. More came and he gulped it down. It was more intoxicating than the strongest arrack. He drank and drank, drowning himself in the beautiful sensation of water cascading down his throat. He could feel it running through his body and settling heavy in his stomach.
‘Ease up there, Jack. You can have more in a minute.’ A familiar voice ordered Jack to stop.
Jack still could not see. He blinked, trying to clear his vision. Only as the light became less intense did he recognise the man who was holding his head.
‘Sweet Lord of mercy, I thought you were dead for a moment back then.’ Captain Dawson was squatted down on his haunches as he peered at Jack.
‘Are you sure I’m alive?’ Jack coughed and spluttered as he spoke for the first time in what felt like forever.
‘Ha! You don’t look it.’ Dawson shook his head.
Jack looked down. His eyes took in his own naked body. Every scrap of flesh was crusted with blood and grime.
‘Can you sit?’ Dawson asked.
Jack nodded, and did his best to struggle up. He made it with Dawson’s assistance. It was only then that he realised his arms were no longer tied behind him.
‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ He could not hold back the oath. His arms had been numb for so many hours. Now they were on fire, and even moving them an inch set off a spasm of white-hot pain that was nearly enough to make him faint away.
‘Take it easy,’ Dawson advised, then handed over a canteen. ‘Here.’
The pain was forgotten in an instant. Raising the canteen to his lips hurt like the devil, but his need for water overrode the need to protect himself from more pain, and he drank in long, desperate gulps.
Canteen emptied, he took in his surroundings. Dawson and his men had bivouacked on a section of rocky ground several feet lower than the surrounding terrain. They were gathered around what looked to be a natural spring, the water bubbling up from a small pile of rocks. Several men were busy refilling dozens of canteens, whilst others had lit a fire and were brewing the inevitable pots of coffee. Jack had been around American soldiers for long enough to know they were fuelled by coffee just as the British redcoats were sustained by tea. Those not at work collecting or heating water were tending to the patrol’s horses.
The ground around them was uneven and broken. The thorny bushes and patches of prickly pear cactus were higher here, in some places as tall as a man. Dawson had chosen the spot well, his men nearly completely screened from view. It was a good place to rest up for a while, and Jack felt a surge of relief as he realised he was safe.
‘So what the hell happened to you?’ Dawson was still squatting down next to him. His brow was furrowed as he contemplated the naked man who had run into his camp.
Jack held up the empty canteen. ‘Can I have some more water?’
‘No.’ The refusal was given in a firm tone. ‘Not until you tell me where to find either Brannigan or Vaughan.’
Jack saw the set of Dawson’s jaw. The Confederate cavalry officer reminded him of Brannigan. Both had the same ruthless determination to get what they wanted.
‘Then you’d better know the way to hell.’
‘They’re dead?’
‘Vaughan is. Brannigan killed him.’
‘The double-crossing son of a bitch.’ Dawson scowled as he absorbed the news. ‘When did that happen?’
‘On the way back to Brownsville.’
‘Then what?’
‘We turned south.’ Jack had to lick his lips. They were still raw and painful. He craved more water, but he knew Dawson would not be satisfied until he had the bare bones of his tale. ‘We had to. To avoid you.’
‘What the hell do you mean?’
‘That plan of yours. You and Vaughan.’ Jack searched through a mind as lumpy as yesterday’s porridge, trying to remember Brannigan and Kat’s claims about Vaughan’s collusion with the Confederate officer now sitting in front of him. ‘You were going to take the guns as soon as we got to Brownsville.’
‘The hell I was. General Bee would string me up from the nearest tree if I tried something as goddam dumb as that.’ Dawson’s reaction was immediate. ‘Who told you that nonsense?’
‘They both did.’
‘Shit.’ Dawson turned his head and spat. ‘It’s a pack of lies. There was no plan. They fed you a huge pile of horseshit, my friend.’
Jack’s addled wits were trying to keep up. ‘So why are you here?’
‘We knew the wagon train had gone missing. Those rifles make it one hell of a valuable cargo, one that Bee badly needs. So we’ve come to find it.’ Dawson rocked back on his heels and shook his head. ‘I knew Brannigan would be up to his neck in this.’
‘And you’re allowed to be all the way down here?’ Jack asked a question of his own.
Dawson smiled wolfishly, revealing his fine white teeth. ‘Bee agreed an accord with López, the governor here, that allows us to do whatever we like. Besides, I don’t see anyone around to stop me. We’re here to find the guns. When we’ve done that, we’ll be on our way.’
‘Brannigan’s already sold them.’
Dawson’s brow furrowed as he absorbed the bad news. ‘Do you know who bought them?’
‘Santiago.’
‘Son of a gun.’ Dawson winced at the news.
‘That’s not all.’ Jack opened his mouth to say more, but at first no words came. Instead, his mind replayed the moment Brannigan’s men were slaughtered. He heard their screams over the gunfire, and the heart-wrenching pleas for mercy that followed. ‘He killed them. He killed them all.’
‘What?’ Dawson leaned forward.
Jack looked up. ‘Brannigan had all his men killed save for three of us. Adam survived, as did one other man. Brannigan shot them both this morning.’
‘But he let you go?’
‘He owed me. I saved his life back in Texas.’
Dawson held Jack’s gaze for a moment longer, then looked away. Neither of them spoke for some time.
‘Where does a man like Santiago get enough money to buy a whole wagon train’s worth of guns?’ Jack broke the silence with the question.
‘From the French. Santiago ain’t picky. That son of a bitch will rob anyone. The French are pouring gold into Mexico as they fight the goddam Mexicans. Rumour has it that Santiago captured one of their convoys that had enough specie to pay their army for months. Hellfire and damnation.’ Dawson cursed as he realised the enormity of the transaction Brannigan had undertaken. ‘Now they’re going to be armed with the best goddam rifles you English can make.’
‘So take them back.’ Jack sat up a little straighter. Either the pain was fading or he was becoming accustomed to it. Either way, he was feeling stronger.
‘You know where they are?’
‘I know where they were this morning.’
‘Can you show me?’
Jack nodded. He reckoned he could find his way back to the hacienda where he had been held overnight.
‘Then we’d better find you some clothes.’
Jack ignored the comment. ‘I’ll need a carbine, a revolver too.’
‘You can have my spare. Hell, I’ll give you the uniform off my own goddam back if you can show me where those guns are.’
‘I can show you.’ Jack looked Dawson dead in the eye. ‘But there’s
a hell of a lot of Santiago’s men with them.’
‘How many?’
‘Two hundred, maybe more.’
‘Shit.’ Dawson turned his head as he absorbed the news.
‘How many men have you got with you?’ Jack asked.
‘Thirty-six.’ Dawson looked back at him, a smile on his face. ‘You like the odds?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I’ve known better.’
‘And I’ve known worse. But if we hit them hard and fast, it should be enough. Men like Santiago’s don’t hang around long.’
‘And if they do?’
‘Then we’ll have ourselves one hell of a fight.’ Dawson grinned at the thought.
‘Sounds like we have a plan.’
The officer’s smile broadened. ‘We sure do.’
Jack saw the determination in Dawson’s eyes. It was a good sign. For the first time, he felt his dislike of the man shift a little. The similarity to Brannigan was still there, but Dawson had something else, something totally lacking in the wagon master: a sense of duty and a willingness to do the right thing. For Jack, that was enough.
He held out his empty canteen. ‘Now that that’s sorted, be a good fellow and fetch me some more bloody water.’
Dawson laughed. ‘Yes, sir.’ He knuckled his head, then reached out to take the canteen and turned to toss it to one of his men with an order to refill it.
Jack sat where he was. He would not move until he had drunk his fill. Only then would he find the strength to get to his feet, and start the task of finding what he would need if he were going to ride with Dawson and his men when they attacked Brannigan and Santiago’s camp.
Jack rode on his borrowed mare, one of the half-dozen remounts Dawson’s column had brought with them, fighting the urge to fidget. Everything felt strange, from the animal beneath him to the clothes on his back and the weapons he carried. But he had to admit it was better than crossing the scrubland in nothing more than his bare skin. Dawson had been true to his word. Jack wore the Confederate captain’s spare revolver in a holster on his right hip, a serviceable Remington like the one Kat carried. He was also armed with a double-barrelled shotgun borrowed from one of Dawson’s sergeants.
The Lost Outlaw Page 25