There was silence then, not one of the men in the hacienda making a sound.
Then the Ángeles opened fire.
The opening volley roared out.
The sound was dreadful. The fire came against every side of the building, Santiago ringing the hacienda with men. Shards of stone were spat through the loopholes, the defenders stationed nearby showered with razor-sharp fragments. Bullets impacted against the walls like some sort of deadly hail, the sound echoing throughout the space.
There was a pause. It lasted for the span of two dozen heartbeats. Then they fired again.
The shots came constantly after that, the Ángeles firing at their own speed. The hacienda echoed to the cracks of bullet on stone and the curses of men hit by splinters.
There was nothing to be done. None of them had a weapon with the same range and power as the Enfield rifles. They would have to bide their time and wait for the right moment to strike back.
Jack hunkered down behind the barricade. Bullet after bullet slammed into the haphazard arrangement of saddles and wood that blocked the entrance. He was close enough to feel the power of the Minié balls, the barricade vibrating as each bullet thumped home. There was an odd pulsating rhythm to the firing now. The sound was constant, yet it undulated, as some men fired together whilst others fired alone. It was the overture to battle, one that he had heard more times than he could remember. Other sounds would follow, just as an overture would give way to the first act. But for the moment, the screams of the dead and dying and the yells of men fighting for their lives were still in the future.
Jack and his men held their fire. They were crouched down now, faces turned away from the loopholes to avoid the shards of stone flung through them. On the upper level, the men lay flat on the ground, bullets zipping through the windows to crack into the far wall.
The shooting continued, each of the Ángeles firing at least half a dozen rounds as they flayed the hacienda with fire. Jack listened to the sound of the countless impacts and felt nothing but scorn. Long-range rifle fire would not shift the Texans from the building. It was a futile effort, one that would do nothing but waste precious ammunition. He understood why Santiago had ordered the volleys. Few things inspired men on the battlefield more than standing in a cloud of their own powder smoke flinging shot after shot at an enemy. Yet on this day, they could fire for an hour and still have no effect. At some point the Ángeles would have to suck up the courage to rush the building and take on the Texans face to face.
The shooting stopped.
Jack tensed. This was the moment.
There was a pause. Silence wrapped around them.
Then came the first shouts. Orders and cheers; war cries and jeers.
‘Hold your fire.’ Jack spoke for the first time in a long time, taking charge of the moment, not willing to leave it to the men outside alone. ‘Let the bastards get close.’
Outside, the cheers and yells came without pause now, the volume increasing. Underscoring it all was the start of a chant, a single word repeated over and over.
‘Shoot the fuckers in the gut.’ Jack spoke calmly, showing no sign of emotion. He did not know if the Texans needed the advice, or if they would heed it. They had been fighting this bitter war against the bandoleros since even before the struggle between the states had begun. They likely knew their job as well as he did, or better. Yet that did not mean they did not need to hear a calm voice reminding them of what to do, one that showed no fear in the face of the enemy, one that showed them that there was a man there to lead them.
The chanting increased in volume, and for the first time, Jack could finally pick out the single word that was being repeated over and over.
‘Santiago! Santiago!’
‘Wait until I give the command, then hit them with everything we’ve got.’ He had to raise his voice to be heard over the visceral chanting. The sound echoed around the hacienda, the bandoleros stationed at the back and sides picking it up and repeating it over and over.
‘Santiago! Santiago!’
There was nothing more for Jack to say. Around him the men held themselves ready. One of them murmured a psalm under his breath, the words barely audible over the voices of the bandoleros.
‘Our God shall come, and shall not keep silence . . .’
‘Santiago! Santiago!’
‘A fire shall devour before him, and it shall be very tempestuous round about him . . .’
‘Santiago! Santiago!’
‘He shall call the heavens from above, and to the earth, that he may judge his people.’
The chanting stopped. There was one last cheer, the feral roar of the mob as it was released.
‘Gather my saints together unto me; those that have made a covenant with me by sacrifice.’
The Ángeles charged.
The bandoleros came from every direction, Santiago committing every man to the attack. They shouted as they charged. It was no ordinary war cry, but something wilder. It rose in pitch as the Ángeles rushed forward, becoming unearthly as they shed their humanity and became the killers of men they would have to be.
‘Ready!’ Jack shouted the single word.
As one, the Texans stood up. Carbines and revolvers were aimed through windows and loopholes.
Jack peered through the gap in the barricade; the shotgun he would use when they rushed the doorway leaned against the wall, close at hand.
‘Hold your fire!’ he shouted. His men needed to hear him.
The Ángeles were moving fast now, feet pounding against the sun-baked ground, the noise building in volume as the charge came closer.
Jack watched as the distance closed with mesmerising speed. There was no order to the charge. They just came on anyhow, the men jumbled together. He could pick out faces as they rushed closer. He could see mouths moving as the Ángeles roared their unearthly war cry. He could see both fear and fury on faces twisted with emotion. He looked into the eyes of the men coming to kill him and felt nothing. No fear. No rage. No madness. He thought only of distance, his mind busy calculating feet and yards rather than dwelling on what was to come.
‘Ready!’ He judged the moment had arrived and held his breath, daring himself to hold on just a moment longer.
The Ángeles were close now, no more than forty feet from the hacienda.
Still he held back the command. Forty feet became thirty. The raucous noise of the war cry washed over the building, echoing off the stone walls and ringing in the ears of the twelve men who waited in silence.
Thirty feet became twenty.
‘Fire!’ Jack shouted the command.
The Texans fired as one.
The men on the upper level opened up with their carbines, aiming down into the mass of bodies. Every bullet hit.
Those at the loopholes fired the first round from their revolvers. Bullets scythed into the bandoleros’ ranks, knocking men down. The bodies of the fallen tripped those close behind them, spreading chaos amongst the tightly packed mob.
More shots came as the men on the upper level fired their second carbines, the bullets ripping into the heads and shoulders of the men below.
The men at the loopholes poured on the fire, shots blurring together as they discharged their revolvers as fast as they could.
Round after round punched into the Ángeles’ ranks. Men crumpled to the ground, flesh torn and blood pumping in the dry dirt beneath them. Screams came, louder even than the war cry.
Still the bandoleros came on. The dead and the dying were trampled as the rush continued, their comrades callous and uncaring as they carried the charge home. More men fell, the Texans at the loopholes emptying their revolvers into the mob. At such close range, it was impossible to miss.
Jack alone held his fire. He waited, watching the attackers as they charged, his mouth and nose filled with the familiar stink of powder smoke. Then he reached for the shotgun.
The Ángeles reached the walls of the hacienda. The first men shoved weapons through the loophol
es and fired, sending bullets ricocheting around inside. Two Texans were wounded in the first instant, their cries of surprise and pain lost in the storm of sound that filled the building.
Jack felt the barricade shudder as the men outside started to batter against it. It was time.
He thrust the shotgun’s barrel through the gap he had been looking through. He could hear the men outside. They were attacking the barricade with gusto, rifle butts hammering away, hands clawing at the rubble.
He fired.
The barrel of the shotgun was just inches from the men outside. At such close range the weapon was brutally effective. Two men were cut down, their stomachs ripped open as the swathe of shot eviscerated them both at the same moment.
It was not enough. The hammering continued apace even as the pair thrashed and died on the ground beyond the barricade.
‘To me!’ Jack summoned others to his side. The barricade was the weak spot and he had to defend it if he were to keep the Ángeles out.
Four men, one from each loophole, ran to his side. Each carried a loaded shotgun. The other men fought on, revolvers firing almost constantly as they tried to keep the bandoleros away from the openings.
‘Shoot the bastards!’ Jack stepped away from the barricade, letting one of the Texans reach the gap he had already fired through.
The man needed no more invitation. He stepped into the spot Jack had vacated, thrusting his own shotgun through the gap. He fired a moment later, discharging both barrels at once.
‘Next!’ Jack passed his own shotgun to the Texan backing away from the barricade. A second man stepped forward to take his place. A heartbeat later, another blast roared out.
‘You two, get all the shotguns reloaded,’ Jack ordered. They would need the firepower. Behind him the third man took his place at the barricade. He fired, then stepped away sharply.
‘You’re up.’ Jack snapped the instruction at the last of the four men who had rushed over to join him.
As the Texan stepped to the gap, shotgun ready, a bullet seared through the opening. It took the man in the chest, hitting him with enough power to knock him back.
For one dreadful moment, his head turned to stare at Jack. Then he fell, his chest sheeted with blood gushing from the fist-sized chasm that had been torn in his flesh.
Jack did not hesitate. He stepped forward to grab the fallen man’s shotgun, shoving the barrel into the gap and pulling the trigger. The weapon kicked in his hands as it spat out two more loads of buckshot. Screams followed as another man attacking the barricade was cut down.
Still the Ángeles would not give up. More ran forward, taking the place of the dead and the dying. They attacked the barricade with vigour spurred by fear.
With a cheer they managed to rip away one of the saddles, opening a great gap in the upper quarter of the barricade.
Light flooded into the hacienda, illuminating the swirls of powder smoke so that the place took on an unearthly feel, as if the sun had somehow managed to penetrate the depths of hell.
Jack reacted first. He snatched his loaded Remington from its holster. This time he could see his targets clearly. He aimed his first shot, snapping off a bullet at a heavily moustachioed face that loomed into view as another great chunk of barricade fell away. The bullet took the man in the face, shattering bone. He fell forward, revealing a great sea of faces as dozens of Ángeles swarmed around the barricade.
‘Shoot them down!’ Jack gave the order even as he fired again. It was impossible to miss. The revolver’s second bullet cut down an Ángel on the point of raising his rifle.
The Texans with him dropped their empty shotguns and stepped forward, revolvers in hand. The four men stood shoulder to shoulder, all firing fast. Their bullets tore into the tightly packed group of Ángeles.
Yet even as men screamed, the Mexicans fought back. Now with something to aim at, they drew weapons of their own that had been saved for this moment.
The man on Jack’s left screamed as a bullet tore through his neck. The sound was cut off almost instantly as blood filled his throat. He fell forward, hitting the dirt in front of Jack’s feet, legs thrashing and body writhing as he died.
Jack and the two men still with him kept firing, driving the Ángeles away from the barricade. Every bullet hit. Every bullet killed. The men stationed on the upper storey joined in, raining rounds down on to the heads of the men backing away from the building.
It was too much. The Ángeles had come so close to breaking into the hacienda, yet now they fled, leaving the bodies of the dead behind them.
Jack fired the last round from his Remington, the bullet cutting down a man as he turned to run. Around him, those Texans still standing lowered their weapons. Not one had the breath in his lungs to say even a single word.
Jack thrust the Remington into its holster, then bent forward to put his hands on his knees. He closed his eyes, sucking down breath after breath, hauling the superheated air into his lungs. It had been close. Too close. Yet somehow they had held.
‘Jack.’
Jack opened his eyes. The Texan called Moore was offering him a canteen. He took it gratefully and drank deeply, letting the water sluice away the dust and smoke from his mouth and throat. Only when he had drunk enough did he lower the canteen and hand it back. He made a mental note to thank Hennessey for having the forethought to get the canteens refilled before the Ángeles arrived. He could not begin to imagine how dreadful it would be at that moment if they had no water.
‘How do we look?’ He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.
‘We lost two men.’ Moore took a mouthful of water from the canteen. ‘Two more are hurt.’
‘Badly?’
‘Not enough to stop them fighting.’
‘Good.’ Jack looked around him. The two men who had died had been dragged to one side and laid neatly in a corner. He knew that his small command had been lucky, that the butcher’s bill could have been so much worse. Yet it was hard to feel any sense of satisfaction as he looked at the two bodies.
He blew out his cheeks. The Texans had known what they were doing. Once he would have dwelt on the matter, his mind tormenting him with thoughts of what might have been, and of what he might have done differently. Now he let the matter fall away. What was done was done. The two men were dead and nothing would bring them back.
He turned his attention to the living. There were six men still with him on the lower level, with Hennessey and his two men above. They were ten men against God alone knew how many.
‘You think they’ll skedaddle now?’ Moore asked.
‘You never know.’ Jack tried to sound hopeful. Brannigan might be paying Santiago, or the old man might be trying to wipe out the Texan patrol out of sheer spite. Whichever it was, the more bandoleros the Texans killed, the greater the chance the Mexicans would ride away. Hatred and money only went so far, and Santiago could surely not afford to lose too many men. If the Texans could hold out long enough, Jack was sure that Santiago would abandon the attack, no matter what Brannigan might want him to do.
It was not much of a hope, but it was all he could muster. He could feel the tiredness seeping into his bones. It would be a long time until any of them could rest.
‘Well, we sure gave them boys a bloody nose.’ Moore sounded satisfied. ‘That son of a bitch Santiago will remember this day.’
‘He will.’ Jack cocked an ear. He could hear the groans of men outside. Not every Ángel they had shot down had been killed. Many lay wounded, and now they suffered. That suffering would continue until the Texans either surrendered or were wiped out.
‘Make sure you and all the boys are reloaded. I don’t think it’ll be long before they try again.’ He nodded as he gave Moore the order and was pleased to see the Texan turn to relay it without question. It was almost enough to make him smile. He had been wrong to spend so much time wandering. Only here, amidst the shit and the blood and the pain and the fear, was he the man he was meant to be. It did not make h
im a hero. He was no indestructible warrior who could cheat death no matter the odds. He was just one man, a man who had no more chance of surviving than any other on the field of battle. But he was a soldier and he was a leader. And he was back where he belonged.
The Texans were given little respite. It had taken the Ángeles less than a dozen minutes to regroup, and now they opened fire once again.
‘Get down!’ Jack shouted.
The men needed little urging. All bent low and crouched by the walls, tucking in their arms and legs to make themselves as small a target as possible. Bullets cracked off the hacienda’s facade. Some zipped through the opening in the barricade before burying themselves in the far wall, or worse, ricocheting away in every direction.
This time the Ángeles fired slowly. Every shot was aimed, the bandoleros taking their time rather than just flaying the building with ineffective fire. More and more shots were flying inside, and the Texans flinched and cursed as deformed bullets and sharp splinters of stone flew this way and that.
‘What can you see, Hennessey?’ Jack called. He was hunkered down by the remains of the barricade, keeping himself busy, first reloading his Remington then doing the same with the shotguns.
‘Them sons of bitches are massing out front.’
‘Can you see Brannigan or Santiago?’
‘I see ’em both.’ Hennessey’s disdain was obvious.
‘What are they doing?’ Jack wanted to know more. He could not risk looking over the broken barricade. Its remains were being hit constantly now, the Ángeles making sure that none of the Texans could attempt to repair the weakened defence.
‘Having a goddam powwow.’
Jack pictured the scene outside easily enough. The first assault had been poorly planned, the two men leading the bandoleros relying on numbers alone to shift the defenders from the hacienda. Now they were about to try again, and this time the assault would be premeditated and planned.
It was how he would do it were the roles reversed. Keep up a constant fire to pin the defenders down whilst advancing the assault party. The covering fire would be kept going until the last minute. Then the main group would rush forward, every man directed to the pathetic barricade that barred entry to the building. Once that had fallen, the Texans would not stand a chance.
The Lost Outlaw Page 32