The corporal had the decency to offer a half-smile. ‘Well then, Jack. Me and the boys here, we was wondering what the hell you did wrong to get yourself caught up in this fine old fandango.’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘We got time. It looks like we’ll be riding a whiles. The captain, when he says we ain’t stopping, he sure as hell means we ain’t stopping.’
Jack glanced at the three faces looking his way. ‘Tell me your names first.’
‘My name is Hennessey. That mean-looking son of a bitch over there is Moore. He’s from Tennessee, so you can’t trust a goddam thing he says. He’s got a wife and five little ones waiting back home—’
‘Six,’ Moore interrupted.
‘He’s got six little ones waiting back home,’ Hennessey made the correction smoothly, ‘so it’s kinda important we see he gets there. And the baby-faced one yonder is Trooper Mills.’ Hennessey waved an arm at a much younger man riding at the rear of the small group. ‘He’s a good Texas boy from Grayson County. He joined up with his big brother, but the Yankees killed him, God rest his soul.’
‘He’s with the Lord now,’ Mills said earnestly. ‘With my ma’s little ones that died ’fore they was old enough to stand up all by themselves.’ He spoke slowly, as if each word had to be prepared and checked before it was released to the world.
Jack looked at both men in turn, nodding as they were introduced. ‘What about you, Hennessey? Where are you from?’
‘I’m from a tiny little place ’bout twenty mile north of Brownsville.’
‘Anyone waiting for you to get back there?’
‘No, sir. There’s no one out there with my name on ’em. Least, not that I know of!’ Hennessey laughed at his own jest. ‘What ’bout you, Jack? You got yourself anyone?’
‘No.’
‘Because of that scar of yours?’
‘Maybe.’ Jack was non-committal. He had never had cause to blame the scar on his face for his lack of a woman in his life. There had been enough of them along the way.
‘You going to tell us where you got it?’
‘I got it in India. Outside Delhi.’
‘Now where the hell in the world is that?’
Jack grunted at Hennessey’s lack of geographical knowledge. ‘It’s a bloody long way away from here.’
‘So how did you get there, wherever there might be?’
‘I was escorting a young lady home.’
Hennessey grinned. ‘Now that’s just the kinda tale we was hoping you might have.’
Jack laughed. It felt good to be with these men. They were his kind of people. They were soldiers. And he knew how to lead soldiers, if he chose to.
‘Well . . .’ he drew out the word, ‘that is one of the interesting bits, I’ll admit that. But if you want the whole thing, then I’d better start at the beginning.’ He looked at the three men, smiling as he saw that he had their complete attention.
And then he began to tell his tale.
By late morning, the temperature was ferocious. The sun pounded down, merciless and scorching. Jack rode along in something close to torpor, his mind wrapped in a heat-induced haze. The tinder-dry scrub stretched away to the horizon, the arid landscape desolate and empty save for the same tangled thorn bushes and smattering of prickly pear cactus that he had long tired of seeing. It made for a forlorn environment, as if this parched and lifeless expanse was an area that God had forgotten when creating the world.
The sun cooked the riders in their grey flannel shirts, and Jack could feel his exposed skin burning as the relentless rays scorched across it. His borrowed horse was suffering just as much as he was, if not more so. The poor animal was sheeted in sweat, with great globules of foam coated around its mouth. Yet like its rider, it would be given no respite. Jack pulled his borrowed wide-brimmed hat down on his head and wrapped his mouth as best he could in the bandana he wore around his neck. There was nothing for it but to ride on, every tortuous step taking the battered column closer to the Rio Grande and to safety.
The wounded suffered most of all. The air in their wagon was like that in an oven, and they were forced to lie there and endure as best they could, their wounds bound with dressings made from old blankets and torn shirts, their pain eased with water and whiskey. Their survival, just like that of the men riding the exhausted horses, depended on the column reaching Matamoros.
Jack rode near the heavily loaded wagon carrying the rifles. His tale had entertained the three men flanking him for a while. Hennessey and Moore had asked a few questions, laughing when they were meant to laugh and probing when they thought Jack had left something out. The young trooper called Mills had hung rapt on every word, the Englishman’s story holding his attention for mile upon mile. But not even the tales of faraway lands and distant battles could hold sway for ever in such difficult and tortuous conditions, and not one of the group had spoken for over an hour.
Jack reached for one of his two canteens. This one was still half full, whilst the other had yet to be opened; even so, he hesitated, and let his hand fall back into his lap. He could endure a little longer. He had no idea when they would next be able to refill their canteens, and so he husbanded his supply of water carefully, as did the rest of Dawson’s men.
He sat back in the saddle, stretching his spine. He could not imagine a time when he would be free of pain. His body ached from top to tail, his damaged feet burning in his borrowed boots and his back hurting like the devil himself was standing on his shoulders stabbing the pit of his spine with his fiery trident. Yet there was no respite in sight. The small column would ride on through the day and the night. Their sole objective was to reach the Rio Grande.
At that moment, it seemed impossibly far away.
Then the first gunshot snapped out, and any hopes of riding to safety were dashed.
The Ángeles burst out of a ravine no more than four hundred yards from the head of the column. They came in one great rush at least a hundred strong, every one of the armed bandoleros on foot. Those at the front opened fire. The range was long, too long, but the zip of Minié bullets stung the air around the two men Dawson had sent to scout ahead of the main column. Neither man needed more warning; both immediately turned their horses around and galloped back towards the wagons.
Dawson and his men had been fortunate. The dead ground that had hidden the ambushers from view was a good distance away from the trail. Had it been any closer, the column would have ridden straight into the ambush. As it was, they had been given a few, crucial, moments’ warning.
‘Turn the wagons around!’ Dawson was riding at the head of the main column. He issued his order within seconds of the first bullets being fired. ‘Sergeant Willis!’ he bellowed at his senior non-commissioned officer. ‘Go with them.’
Then he jabbed back his spurs and rode forward to meet the pair of scouts.
‘You two, back to the main column.’
‘We going to charge ’em, Captain?’ one of the pair shouted as they slowed their headlong gallop.
Dawson gathered his reins, his head turning from side to side as he judged distances. ‘Join the others. Tell them to form line.’
The two men rode off to do as their officer ordered. More shots snapped out, but the range was still long and not one came close.
Jack rode forward. Like Dawson, his eyes roved around what had become a battlefield, looking for ground they could use, or which could be used against them, and assessing the distance between the two forces.
‘We can’t charge them,’ he called over to Dawson. ‘We’re outnumbered, and those are Enfields they’re shooting.’ He had recognised the weapons being used against them by sound alone; it was distinctive, and quite different from that of a smoothbore musket. ‘They’ll cut us down before we get close enough.’
‘I know, goddammit.’ Dawson was already riding back towards his men.
‘We can head over there.’ Jack stood in his stirrups and pointed. He had spotted some broken ground to t
he east of the trail they had been following.
‘Are you mad?’ Dawson looked in the direction Jack indicated for no more than a few moments before he dismissed the idea. ‘There’s no way in hell we can get through that.’
‘We’ve got to go somewhere.’ Jack’s mind was racing. ‘They don’t want to fight us here. They’re on foot. They must know they cannot catch us if we ride away. They just want to turn us around and send us back the way we came.’
‘Why?’ Dawson was stressed, his voice rising as he snapped the single word.
‘They must have men behind us too. None of those bastards over there are mounted. And I don’t see Brannigan, do you?’
‘No. Goddammit.’ Dawson held his horse back as he looked around. Behind them, the three wagons had turned, and his men had formed line, just as he had ordered.
‘They want to hit us from both sides. If we ride back that way,’ Jack pointed back down the trail, ‘then as sure as eggs is eggs they’ll spring another ambush.’
‘Speak clearly, goddammit.’ Dawson spat out the words in frustration.
‘There will be more of them behind us,’ Jack fired back. ‘Fight those bastards in front and you’ll be caught between the two groups. You won’t stand a chance.’
‘So what are you thinking?’ Dawson spoke fast. They did not have long. Already the Ángeles were closing fast. In a matter of minutes, the column would be in the effective range of their Enfields. There was no time for a debate.
‘Head that way.’ Jack pointed at the broken ground again. ‘It’ll be slow going, but we’ll get through before those bastards can catch us. That’ll fuck their plan right up, and maybe we can find a place where we can set up an ambush of our own.’
Dawson looked dubious. ‘You had better be right.’
‘We don’t have much of a bloody choice. Go back the way we’ve come and we’re royally fucked.’ Jack twisted in the saddle. The Ángeles were close. ‘Now make up your fucking mind, before those bastards make it up for you,’ he snapped.
Dawson paused for no more than a heartbeat.
‘Let’s do it.’
They would gamble their lives on Jack’s plan.
The column left the trail and rode towards the broken ground Jack had spotted. Away from the hard, compacted trail, their progress slowed instantly. The mule teams struggled to get the wagons going on the softer ground, and the troopers given the task of driving them cursed as they whipped the beasts cruelly in an attempt to make them move faster.
Half of Dawson’s men rode ahead, whilst the rest formed a rear guard behind the wagons. Jack went with the scouts, whilst Dawson stayed with the men who might have to fight to keep the Ángeles at bay long enough for the wagons to get away.
The ground was worse than he had thought. It was broken by dozens of thin ravines and gullies. Between the ravines were boulders great and small, and acres of rubble and loose footing that would be almost impassable for the wagons.
‘Shit.’ Jack surveyed the scene.
‘That way.’ Corporal Hennessey rode at Jack’s shoulder. He pointed out a narrow path that led around one of the large clumps of boulders.
‘You think they can get through there?’
‘Sure they can.’ Hennessey’s reply was certain.
‘Fine. Go back and show them the way.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Hennessey obeyed without question.
Jack felt something pleasing in being addressed as ‘sir’. It had been a long time.
‘You men, follow me.’ He shouted the order at the other men who were with him. He did not wait to see if they would obey as he rode forward, following the path Hennessey had spotted.
The corporal was correct. The path was wide enough, and the going was better than anywhere else. But the heavily laden wagons would still not be able to advance at anything other than a slow walk, with the mounted riders barely able to go much faster. Even on foot, the Ángeles would surely catch the column before they had gone much more than half a mile.
Something would need to be done to slow the chasing pack.
Five hundred yards further on, Jack saw exactly what he had been looking for. One of the many gullies was wider and deeper than the others. It was not perfect, but it was low down and well to the left of the trail. It would suffice.
He raised a hand, halting his small command.
‘Moore!’ He summoned one of the two men he could name.
‘Sir?’ Moore replied without hesitation.
‘Ride back. Tell Captain Dawson I’ve found a place to hide. Tell him to ride past us. We’ll wait here, then give those Ángeles a bloody nose. Have you got that?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Moore snapped the reply, already turning his horse’s head around before he raked back his heels to force it into motion.
Jack watched him go, then turned to lead his men off the path and down into the gully. It was time to plan an ambush.
The wagons and the rest of the column came past at little more than a crawl. Every man had plenty of time to look down at the dozen men waiting in the dead ground.
Jack sat at the head of the small group he had brought into the gully. It was hard not to feel some sense of jealousy as the rest of the Texan troopers rode past. The eleven men with him were about to ambush ten times their number. They had two advantages. They had surprise, and they were mounted. The success of the ambush, and indeed their survival, depended on hitting the Ángeles hard and fast. Even then, victory was not guaranteed. Yet something had to be attempted. If nothing was done, the wagons would be caught and the column shot down by the chasing Ángeles and their stolen Enfield rifles.
‘Keep it quiet.’ Jack hissed the command at two men who were carrying out a whispered conversation. He was pleased to see he was obeyed without question.
The last of Dawson’s column went past. The trail behind them was empty.
Jack and his men sat in their saddles in silence. Waiting.
He could feel their tension as if it were a physical thing. The atmosphere was strained, like the air on a summer’s day before a thunderstorm. It was the time for a man to feel fear. It was not an easy thing, to sit there and wait for an enemy to approach. If the Texans were spotted, they would make easy targets for the well-armed Ángeles. In the confined space of the gully, it would be as easy as knifing eels in a barrel. It would be another massacre.
‘Quiet.’ Jack was forced to hiss the command as one of the troopers cocked his shotgun, the sound of both hammers clicking into position impossibly loud.
In the silence that followed, he heard the sounds of men on the move. The Ángeles were noisy. They came on fast, shouting at one another, dozens of pairs of feet thumping into the rocky ground, the sounds combining so that it sounded like a single gigantic creature was advancing on the men waiting in the gully.
The first Ángeles rushed past. Not one of them looked down into the gully.
Jack held his breath and counted. He let at least twenty men pass. It would be enough.
‘Charge!’
He bellowed the command he had been holding for this moment, the word releasing the tension that had been building inside him. Then he kicked back his heels, ramming the spurs into his horse’s flanks, not caring that he was cruel. Nothing mattered now. Not now that it was time to kill.
Jack’s men burst out of the gully. There was time for a few of the Ángeles to turn and stare as the ambush was released. Then the leading Texans opened fire.
Shotgun blasts cut bandoleros down in mid stride, whilst those troopers armed with revolvers fired fast, picking their targets with care. At least a dozen Ángeles went down in the first salvo, their cries of surprise turned into shrieks of pain.
Jack rode hard, saving his shotgun’s load. His mount scrabbled out of the gully and he turned its head to the right, riding it back down the trail.
The Ángeles scattered as the ambush was released. Yet there were too many of them to clear the trail completely. Jack charged forward, ignoring the men wh
o dived out of his way, or who fell to the aimed shots coming from the troopers behind him.
Two Ángeles ran towards him. They shouted a war cry as they raised their rifles, both barrels aimed squarely at Jack.
He paid the threat no heed. He pulled hard on his reins, bringing the mare to a noisy halt, dust kicked high into the air as its hooves dragged across the ground. The shotgun was heavy, but he held it aimed at the two men. He fired the moment the barrel was up, arm braced for the strong recoil.
The two Ángeles were close enough for the spread of shot to tear through them both. At such close range, the effect was dreadful. The tightly packed buckshot ripped them to shreds, each man hit multiple times. Both crumpled to the ground, bodies jumbled together, arms and legs bent at impossible angles, blood smothering the thirsty soil.
Jack rammed the shotgun into a holster next to the saddle then drew the borrowed Remington. He paid the men he had slain no heed, searching only for his next target, for the next man he would kill.
He had plenty to choose from. Ángeles were running in every direction. Dozens already lay dead or dying.
He rushed the mare forward, forcing it back down the trail. Even as its hooves scrabbled at the broken ground, he drew a bead on a running Ángeles. He fired, watching his bullet strike the fleeing man in the back. Then he twisted around in the saddle, firing at bandoleros running towards him. Two more fell, their despairing cries barely audible over the gunshots and screams that surrounded them.
He rode on, firing another pair of shots at Ángeles running as if the hounds of hell were on their tail. Both bullets missed, but they added impetus to the rout.
Not all the Ángeles were fleeing, though. A few of the braver ones were taking up positions to return fire. First one, then another bullet scorched past Jack, whilst a third spat up a fountain of dust as it struck the ground not more than a yard from his horse’s hooves.
‘That’s enough!’ He gave the order as he saw fewer and fewer bandoleros in range of his Remington. The ambush had killed nearly twenty of them and wounded as many more. The rest had scattered to the wind. It would take time for them to regroup. But the return fire was getting heavier, with more shots following the first few. If the Texans lingered, they would surely start to take casualties.
The Lost Outlaw Page 28