The man who had lent him the shotgun had told him something of its characteristics. It was a short-range weapon, and Jack had been warned that it was ineffective beyond much more than thirty or forty yards. But up close and personal, he had been assured it was dreadfully effective. It fired buckshot cartridges, of which Dawson’s men had plenty, and Jack had been given an ammunition pouch containing thirty cartridges along with a smaller pouch that held the percussion caps used to fire the main charge. The paper cartridges contained twelve individual pieces of shot, each one a smaller version of the musket ball fired by the smoothbore muskets Jack knew. Underneath the shot was a load of powder. A separate hammer and percussion cap fired each of the shotgun’s two barrels. When the trigger was pulled, either or both of the cocked hammers would strike the percussion cap, which would explode and fire the main charge contained in the cartridge. Jack had not used a shotgun before, but he had no reason to doubt the cavalryman’s word that it would be a brutal weapon in a close-contact battle.
Dawson’s men had also found him clothes to wear: a grey flannel shirt and a pair of pale blue trousers that had a gaping hole at one knee. On his feet were a pair of the pointed boots that all the Texans wore, and they had even found him a spare wide-brimmed hat. Jack had to admit he looked every inch the Texan cavalryman. In addition, they had found him two spare canteens, a blanket and a small pocketknife. Their generosity had been humbling.
The Confederate patrol rode fast and hard. Dawson had sent outriders to scout the way ahead, and the main column rode with flankers and a two-man rear guard. They had all taken time to load their weapons before the column had set off. Jack had seen that they carried a bewildering array of carbines, revolvers and shotguns; every man also had either a bowie knife or a tomahawk, whilst many had a lasso. They might be outnumbered, but they were well armed and ready to fight.
‘You good, Jack?’ Dawson rode close to Jack in the centre of the main column.
Jack nodded. He was in pain, but he would not admit it. Everything hurt, not least his feet, and both shoulders were aching like the devil. But he rode with a weapon in his hand, and that was enough to stave off the agony.
‘Are you sure we’re heading the right way?’ Dawson asked.
‘Yes.’ Jack was certain. After he had been released, he was reasonably sure that he had run north. All Dawson’s men had to do was to ride due south and they should find the ruined hacienda. He glanced at the officer. He could see the worry on his face. It was no small thing to command men so far from safety, and he could well understand the feelings that Dawson would surely be enduring. But no words could lessen the burden of command that he carried, so he did not even try.
They rode on. It was not long before the outriders came rushing back towards the main column. Dawson raised a hand to halt the column, then rode forward to meet his scouts. Jack rode with him.
‘It’s right where he said it was.’ The first man back, a sergeant, sang out the news as soon as he was close enough.
‘How many?’
‘Over a hundred. Maybe more.’ The sergeant looked at Jack as he delivered the information, as if the Englishman were somehow responsible for it.
Dawson glanced at Jack.
‘I told you.’ Jack turned back to the sergeant. ‘What about the wagons?’
‘They’re there.’
‘How many?’
‘Forty.’
Jack smiled. That was the whole wagon train. Dawson’s patrol was horribly outnumbered, but at least their quarry had not already ridden away. There was still a chance to recover the weapons and to bring Brannigan and Kat to justice.
‘Let’s do this.’ Dawson turned in the saddle and looked over his men.
‘What’s your plan?’ Jack asked the only question he wanted answered.
‘Plan?’ Dawson laughed as if the idea was preposterous ‘We don’t need a plan.’ He shook his head at Jack’s foolish question, then stood up in the saddle. ‘This is it, boys.’ He said nothing more as he sat back down and drew a shotgun of his own.
‘Ready?’ He looked towards Jack.
‘Yes.’ Jack checked that his borrowed Remington was loose in its holster as he gave the reply firmly. It was time to start fighting back.
The column rode in fast. Dawson had pulled his flankers in, but he had left five men back as a rear guard, ready to cover any withdrawal. The rest of the men rode two abreast.
Jack was towards the middle of the column. The rhythm of the fast advance surged through him. His borrowed mare stretched her legs, and he could feel her power beneath him. Her hooves thumped into the sun-baked ground, the drumming increasing in intensity as she picked up speed.
No orders were given. The men knew their job.
As the column galloped along the trail, Jack caught his first glimpse of the hacienda. The wagons were parked to the rear. Some were ready to leave, the mule teams already harnessed up. Others were being prepared, with most of the mules and horses still corralled to the far side of the hacienda. A good number of Santiago’s men were mounted as they prepared to escort the train away, but many walked around, some armed, others carrying water or other supplies. He saw no pickets. No sentries. No one to give warning.
The first man spied the cavalry. For a moment, he stood and gaped, then he dropped the sack he carried and shouted the first and only warning the Mexicans would get.
‘Charge!’ Dawson bellowed.
Every man gave his horse its head. The column surged forward, the pace increasing. Some men broke away, finding themselves a clear path ahead. Most stayed close together.
Jack could hear nothing save for the fast, staccato impact of hooves on hard ground and the roar of his own breath in his ears. He felt the thrill of the moment; fear mixing with exhilaration, fighting against the barriers he had constructed around it, desperate to escape its shackles. But he held all the emotions tight, emptying his mind so that he could fight without passion. He would no longer allow the madness of battle to control him. There was no room for rage, or some desperate desire for revenge. He thought only of what was to come. He was a weapon of war, honed for this moment, and he would fight with the cold, calculating mind of a killer.
Santiago’s men saw the Confederate cavalry hurtling towards them. Those carrying weapons opened fire.
The first shots rang out.
Jack heard a bullet buzz past, then another. Neither came close enough to trouble him.
The men at the head of the column galloped into the yard behind the hacienda. Shotguns fired, a succession of blasts tearing through the air. The first Ángeles died as the buckshot tore them apart.
More shots came against the Confederate column. Not one of them hit.
The column broke up as it swarmed around the hacienda. Some followed the leading riders across the yard, the space echoing to the blasts of shotguns and the screams of men cut down by the vicious storm of buckshot. Others broke to the front of the hacienda, searching for targets of their own.
Jack followed Dawson into the yard. The air was filled with the stink of powder smoke and the raw, acrid tang of fresh blood and torn flesh. Revolver shots rang out constantly.
He rode past the first bodies. The devastating effect of a shotgun blast at close range was evident, with several bodies torn apart, great chasms ripped in their chests. A few corpses lay headless, the ground around them smothered with a grotesque display of brain, blood and bone.
But the Texans were not having it all their own way. Santiago’s Ángeles were fighting back. Jack saw one of Dawson’s men pulled bodily from the saddle. At least four Mexicans swarmed over him the moment he lay prostrate on the ground, coming for him with long knives that gouged and sliced as they hacked him to pieces.
Jack kicked hard, raking his spurs back. The mare responded, straining already finely stretched muscles. He picked a path, hauling on the reins to steer past a corpse with its stomach laid open by a shotgun blast, riding towards the swarm of Mexicans surrounding the fallen tr
ooper.
He raised his shotgun only at the last moment, thumbing back both hammers then pulling the heavy trigger. Instantly the twin barrels erupted in an explosion of smoke and flame. The weapon’s recoil was brutal, and far, far stronger than he had expected, and the shotgun was torn from his grasp. Still the twenty-four pieces of shot tore into one of the men hacking at Dawson’s fallen trooper. At such close range, they split his flesh apart, blood and gore showering down like rain.
The three men left standing reacted immediately. As one they raised knives bloodied to the hilt and rushed towards Jack, faces contorted with the intoxicating mix of fear and fury that sustained a man in a fight as brutal as this.
Jack watched them coming for him. It was easy enough to see what they intended. Together they could throw him from the saddle with ease. Then he would be at their mercy.
Yet he was not defenceless. With the shotgun torn from his grasp, he drew his Remington. He still held the reins in his left hand, and now he hauled them back, dragging his horse’s head up so that it careered to a noisy halt. He fired a heartbeat later.
The first bullet hit one of the Ángeles in the chest. He crumpled, knife flying from his grip. The second hit the next man in the face flying at close to a thousand feet per second and dropping him in a heartbeat.
The third man stopped, his feet scrabbling as he tried to turn. Jack shot him down regardless, sending first one bullet then another into the Mexican’s flesh. He fell forward into the dust, his blood pumping from his body with every beat of his racing heart.
Jack felt nothing as he killed, just like a slaughterman felt nothing as he swung the poleaxe to fell a bullock. He was just plying his bloody trade.
He turned his mare’s head, swinging the animal around as he searched for a new target. The Ángeles had spread to the wind. Some had ridden away, and were already too far off for there to be any chance of catching them. Most were fleeing on foot, running in one great mass, spreading out into the scrubland that surrounded the hacienda.
They had left the wagons behind.
A dozen of Dawson’s men gave chase, their horses thundering after those still running. The slowest-moving bandoleros were slaughtered, the air filled with the sound of revolvers firing and the screams of the runaways as they were caught. At least a dozen died, but there were not enough cavalrymen to ride them all down. The majority of Santiago’s men would escape.
Yet not every Ángel had had the chance to run. Many of those on foot had made a break for the hacienda. Even as Jack looked for more men to kill, he saw at least four dash inside to join those already there.
‘In the bloody house!’ he shouted across to Dawson. He stretched out an arm to point at the ruined hacienda.
Dawson understood the danger. If he let men occupy the building, they could quickly turn it into a fortress.
‘Boys! With me!’ He shouted the order, summoning men out of the melee, then turned his horse towards the hacienda. Jack rode at his side, and together they made for the rear wall. This side of the building had no entrance; just four tiny square windows on its upper storey. The two men slewed their horses to a breathless halt.
‘There’s only one way to do this.’ Dawson hissed the words as they both dismounted. Anything else he said was lost in the short, sharp roar of rifles firing from over their heads.
‘Shit.’ Jack could not help flinching as the volley snapped out. He saw its effect a moment later. Two of Dawson’s men were down, one shot from the saddle, the other falling to the ground still atop his dying horse, which had taken a Minié ball in the neck.
‘Move!’ Dawson snapped the order, his jaw clenched tight. He grabbed Jack’s arm, leading him towards the front of the building.
Men unscathed by the volley dismounted and joined them. More were riding over when a second volley crashed out. Another horse and rider went down.
There was no time to delay. Dawson’s men might have routed the bandoleros and captured the wagons, but the fight was far from done.
‘Are you ready for this?’ Dawson turned to hiss the words at Jack.
The two men were crouched down to one side of the entrance to the hacienda. Jack could see the strain on Dawson’s face. Above their heads, more shots tore out from the building’s upper storey. He had no idea how many Ángeles had rushed into the building, but they were already starting to exact a dreadful toll on Dawson’s men. At least four bodies in grey shirts lay lifeless on the ground around the hacienda, with the same number of horses spewing their lifeblood into the dusty soil.
‘Yes.’ Jack gave the only reply he could. He reloaded his Remington quickly, pushing fresh cartridges into the empty chambers and ramming each one home with the loading lever attached to the barrel.
‘You’re good.’ Dawson gave his verdict as he reloaded his own revolver: a Navy Colt, similar to the one Jack had lost when he had been captured by Brannigan.
‘I should be, I’ve done this often enough.’ Jack pulled away from the wall and looked up. Four rifle barrels stuck out from inside. As he watched, they fired again, another volley flung at Dawson’s men still chasing down running Ángeles.
‘Well, now you get to do it again. We’re going to rush them. Hit them before they settle.’ Dawson snapped his Colt shut, all six chambers primed and loaded.
‘Wait.’ Jack was slower to load his unfamiliar weapon. He pushed in the last cartridge, then rammed it home before spinning the chamber to make sure all the cartridges were properly sited.
‘Pope! Hunter!’ Dawson looked around. ‘Find loaded shotguns. You’re in first.’ He snapped his orders.
The two men turned to shout to the men behind them. Around a dozen of Dawson’s men hugged the hacienda’s flanks. Most carried revolvers, but a few had shotguns, and now these were passed forward.
‘Here you go.’ The man behind Jack handed him one of the weapons. Another followed, which Jack passed on to Dawson. There were four of the shotguns in total, all now at the front of the group.
‘Ready?’ Dawson looked down the line.
Pope and Hunter did not delay. Both men got to their feet and took up position opposite the hacienda’s door.
‘Go!’ Dawson shouted the order just as another volley roared out overhead.
Pope stepped forward and smashed his boot into the door that barred the hacienda’s only entrance. The wood juddered but held.
‘Goddammit!’ He stumbled back. Yet he was not a man to be deterred, and he stepped forward again and hammered his boot against the door for a second time.
Again the door juddered, but this time something splintered, the sound of breaking wood coming back clearly.
Once more Pope lashed out a boot. This time the door gave way, and it flew inwards, crashing into the wall behind it.
‘Go!’ Dawson shouted the order.
Pope was unbalanced, so Hunter took the bit between his teeth and stepped into the open doorway, lifting his shotgun as he moved. He fired into the hacienda, blasting both barrels into the dark interior. The explosion of sound was terrific.
Yet it was not enough. A volley of rifle fire came back almost instantly. More than one Minié bullet tore into Hunter’s chest. At such close range, the heavy projectiles ripped him apart.
Bellowing a war cry, Pope stepped over Hunter’s corpse and fired his own shotgun. Again the sound of the blast was deafening. This time there was no answering volley. Pope lurched forward, throwing himself into the hacienda.
Jack was on his feet. He tried to follow Pope inside, but his boot slipped in Hunter’s blood and he fell back on to his backside. It let another one of Dawson’s men get ahead of him, the trooper darting inside after Pope had cleared the doorway.
A second Ángeles volley roared out.
Neither of Dawson’s troopers stood a chance. Both were cut down, their bodies shredded by the brutally powerful bullets. Jack clearly heard the splatter of blood on the hacienda’s dirt floor as he got back to his feet. There was no time to dwell on the slip t
hat had just saved his life, and he rushed inside, not once thinking to let others go first.
After the bright sunlight, the interior of the hacienda was filled with gloom and shadows. Yet there was no time to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, not if he wanted to live. He saw shadowy figures to his front, so he raised his shotgun and pulled the heavy trigger, arms braced for the recoil. The blast was terrific, yet this time he held on to the weapon. Screams followed, at least three men cut down by the explosion of buckshot.
‘Out of the way!’ Dawson had followed Jack inside and now bellowed the warning.
Jack barely had time to register it before another shotgun went off inches from his ear.
The sound deafened him. He reeled away, head and ears ringing.
More Texans followed their officer inside. Shots were fired, revolvers used at close range to kill. The hacienda was filled with the screams and shrieks of the wounded and dying, and those fighting for their lives.
Jack dropped the empty shotgun and drew his revolver. Yet he could not see a target in the vicious swirling melee erupting in front of him. It was like a chaotic brawl in a tavern, except here the men were using revolvers and bowie knives instead of fists and cudgels. The fighting was dreadful in both its violence and its immediacy. Men clawed and slashed at one another, killing and maiming. Fighting for the right to live; desperate not to die.
In front of his eyes, one of Dawson’s men went down with a thin dagger driven through his eye and into his brain. At his side, a bandolero died as a trooper tore out his throat with his bare hands.
‘Look out!’
Someone, Jack did not know who, bellowed a warning.
A bandolero came at him from the side. Jack only saw the blade at the last moment. He had just enough time to throw up his revolver in a desperate parry. The handgun caught the blade, throwing it to one side. Yet the impact tore the weapon from his grasp, the revolver falling to the floor.
The Lost Outlaw Page 26