THE REBEL KILLER

by Paul Fraser Collard

  Yet lessons had been learned. He was not the man he had once believed himself to be. So he kicked back his heels and rode on by. With not an officer in sight, the men turned and ran.

  The ground to Jack’s front opened up and he pushed the mare into a canter. He could feel the animal struggling, but he did not care. He kicked repeatedly, forcing it to keep going. It picked up speed, and finally he spotted what appeared to be a farm track in the distance.

  It was then that he saw the Confederate cavalry for the first time.

  The men were riding directly towards him. There were no more than twenty of them in total. An officer with a bright shock of grey-white hair led them, and he spotted Jack and Martha in the same instant that Jack saw him.

  Jack recognised the officer at once. For months, his life had been devoted to finding this man. Now he saw Major Nathan Lyle and felt nothing but fear.

  The two men stared at one another. They had once fought sabre to sabre. No man forgot the face of one who tried to kill him.

  Jack did not wait to see if the cavalrymen would change course. Instead he turned the mare around. He did not care that he now headed back towards the chaos of what might prove to be an entire army in retreat. He thought only of fleeing from the man he had once sworn to kill.

  His horse was game. It stretched its neck and started to run. He could feel the power in the body beneath him as the mare raced away. Shouts came from behind him. Lyle had identified the man who had once tried to kill him. Now he gave chase, the hunted turned hunter.

  The ground raced past underneath the hooves of Jack’s horse. They galloped back the way they had come, flashing past groups of Confederate soldiers, the men paying them no heed as they ran from the Union forces that had somehow snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Jack heard the roar of battle even over the drumming of his horse’s hooves on the ground, but it meant nothing. He cared only for speed.

  He risked a glance over his shoulder. He could see the pack of cavalrymen in the distance. They were giving chase, but it was clear that they were too far away. In a matter of minutes he would lose sight of them completely. Then he could think about slowing the mare and finding a new route away from the ever-changing tide of battle. He felt relief surge through him. It was Lyle’s turn to be thwarted as his quarry escaped.

  He opened his mouth, thinking to tell Martha that they would soon be safe.

  And then the mare stumbled.

  The mare tried to run on, but her gait had changed dramatically. Now she lurched and staggered where once she had thundered across the ground. Her right foreleg buckled under the strain of every step, and she slowed.

  Jack heard the shouts from behind him. Lyle and his men had seen the mare stumble. The chase was over before it had barely begun.

  It was the second time Jack had been pursued by these men. The first time he had been on foot. Then he had run, and he had fought, refusing to give in, his body and mind fuelled by rage. Now there was a different emotion surging through him. Now there was just fear, and it consumed him.

  The mare hobbled on, still obedient to her master’s commands, yet it was a futile effort. There would be no escape that day.

  Jack pulled back on the reins, bringing the animal to a stop. He looked at his hands, wondering at the way they now shook. The sensation was like nothing he had felt before. Ice ran through his veins, whilst his stomach churned, his guts twisting themselves into knots and his bowels threatening to void. Then there was the urge to run, to howl or to cry. His emotions ran wild, uncontrollable and raw.

  ‘Hold that whoreson there, boys!’ The man who led the gaggle of cavalrymen bawled out the order.

  Jack choked down fear. He forced himself to breathe, then slowly turned his horse around. It moved awkwardly, gimping on its right foreleg, but it did as it was told. It left Jack facing the man he had chased for hundreds of miles.

  Lyle pulled up. He looked exactly as Jack remembered him, the image he had carried for all these months proving to be flawless. The heavy beard was the same, as was the wild and unkempt hair. Lyle’s uniform was filthy, with mud, sweat, rain and blood staining the grey fabric.

  Jack’s eyes took it all in, just as they saw the revolver with the ivory grips that had once been his own in a holster on Lyle’s hip. He had almost forgotten the weapon existed. It was a beautiful gun, the best a rich woman could purchase as a gift for a future husband. Once Jack had hungered after it, almost as much as he had hungered after the woman who had given the gift. Now he looked at it and felt nothing, the flame of that old desire extinguished by the coldness of the fear that now surged through him.

  Lyle’s men swarmed around them. Most pointed revolvers or carbines at the stranded pair, fingers held close to triggers.

  ‘Get down.’ Lyle had ridden forward so that he was no more than half a dozen yards from Jack and Martha. He looked over his shoulder as he gave the order, checking his surroundings, alert to any danger. They were in the middle of a grassy slope, with woodland to the east and west and open ground to both north and south. The view to the south was open, the grassland sloping away downhill for several hundred yards. To the north, it sloped upwards before turning sharply downhill and creating a patch of dead ground just under a hundred yards distant. The dead ground was the danger. Union troops could approach unseen, the only warning the Confederate cavalrymen would get of their arrival likely to be the first shots fired in their direction.

  Jack thought about disobeying Lyle’s order. For a fleeting moment, the urge to fight pushed away his fear. His hand twitched towards the sword on his hip before the thought was fully formed. It stopped short. The fear returned, swamping the heat of fury with a wash of icy terror.

  He moved slowly and carefully, easing his body sideways, the action made difficult by Martha’s closeness. He hit the ground hard and his knees buckled. For a moment he thought he would fall in an ignominious heap, but somehow his legs held him up. Martha followed him down. She edged towards him.

  ‘Take the whoreson’s sword,’ Lyle snapped, before twisting in the saddle to stare towards the dead ground. He knew where danger lay. It was not with the man who had once tried to kill him.

  Jack looked at the dirt in front of his boots. One of Lyle’s men slid from the saddle, then scampered over. Rough hands pulled his sabre from its scabbard. At no point did Jack look at the man stripping him of his pride.

  ‘And the other one.’ Lyle ordered the same man to take Martha’s weapons.

  Jack’s gaze did not leave the dirt. The overnight rain had turned the ground to muddy slurry. A single stone stuck up from the ground. It pointed towards the heavens like an ancient fossilised finger. He focused his gaze on it as he fought the fear that consumed him.

  ‘Major Lyle?’ The man sent to collect the weapons called for his commander’s attention.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Sir, this one . . .’ the man paused before continuing, ‘this one’s a goddam woman!’

  Lyle tapped his heels back to ride closer to where Jack stood. ‘You brought a woman to battle, whoreson?’ He sounded incredulous.

  Jack choked down the fear. He felt the need to puke and spew out the noxious cocktail that had stolen his courage. It took everything he had to look up and meet Lyle’s baleful gaze.

  ‘She came to fight.’

  Lyle’s eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, she did, huh?’

  ‘Let her go. She’s on your side.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Lyle shook his head, then glanced north again. When he looked back at Jack, there was a crease of a smile on his face. ‘Now then, whoreson, I don’t think we’ve got long. There’s Yankees not far over yonder, and I reckon they’ll be coming this way any minute.’ He sat easily in his saddle as he loomed over Jack. ‘You tried to kill me back at Donelson. I want to know why.’

  Jack closed his eyes. The fear was fighting for control of his soul. He could not speak.

  ‘Look at me, you son of a bitch,’ Lyle spat the words, ‘or s
o help me, I’ll shoot you where you stand.’

  Jack’s eyes snapped open. ‘You tried that before. You failed.’

  Lyle rocked back in the saddle as if he had been slapped. He looked at Jack then, searching his face.

  ‘Major?’

  One of his men called across, but Lyle silenced him by raising a hand. ‘I know you.’ He spoke softly, as if to himself. ‘I know you, whoreson, don’t I?’ He repeated the words, louder this time. Then he laughed.

  Jack lifted his chin. He felt something stir. It was not fury. It was not the soul-rending madness that threw him into battle. It was something else. Something new. Something sharp and clear and cold.

  Lyle stopped laughing. ‘It was after Manassas. You were running with a black bitch.’ The memory was coming back to him, and he whooped as more of it arrived. ‘You shot me! With this very gun.’ He slapped the revolver in its holster. ‘You came all this way. Now why would you bother to do that?’

  Jack was barely listening to Lyle. He wanted to turn to Martha, to look at her one last time, but he didn’t. Instead he strained his hearing. He could hear something.

  ‘You hurt me that day, you remember that, whoreson?’ Lyle asked the question mildly, as if chiding Jack for knocking his shoulder in a busy thoroughfare. ‘Not as bad as that black bitch did, of course, but I’ve still got the scar from that bullet of yours.’

  ‘You killed her.’ Jack spoke the words without emotion. It was as if everything had gone still both around him and inside him.

  ‘Killed her?’ Lyle sounded affronted. ‘Hell, I wish I had. That bitch of yours escaped, but not before she gave me this.’ He lifted his chin and pointed to a thick scar. ‘She tried to slit my goddam throat.’ He shook his head. ‘You thought I killed her? Hell, I would’ve done if she’d given me the goddam chance. But like the fool I am, I wanted to take my comforts. So we left you to bleed out where you were and I took that bitch of yours into the woods. I got her ready easy enough, stripped her as bare as the day she was born, but before I could make a start, she stuck me with that little knife of hers. She made off too, left me with my gizzard slit and my pecker hanging out.’ He chuckled at the memory. ‘I should’ve just killed you both and been done with it.’

  Jack absorbed the revelation, refusing to let it take hold of his thoughts. There would be a time for that. A time that would only come when Lyle was lying cold in the ground.

  ‘So that’s what all this is about?’ Lyle fired the question at him. ‘You came after me for revenge?’

  Jack ignored him. The sound he had been listening for was louder now. The men around him heard it too.

  ‘Major Lyle?’

  ‘Be quiet.’ Lyle had eyes only for Jack. ‘You chased me down because you thought I killed that black bitch of yours.’ He sneered as he spoke. ‘She’s been free all this time, yet here you are, chasing my tail.’ He shook his head again. ‘You’ve just wasted your life, whoreson, you understand that?’ He cackled, displaying his contempt for Jack’s actions.

  ‘Boys.’ He rocked back in his saddle as he brought the one-sided conversation to a close. ‘We’ll decide what to do with the woman later on,’ he pulled on his reins, preparing to move, ‘but do me a favour and shoot that merry little fucker right where he stands.’

  The men around Lyle did not need a second command. At least a dozen of them raised their weapons, every barrel pointed directly at Jack.

  Then the bullets started to fly.

  Bullets snapped through the air before any of Lyle’s men could open fire. As one, every head turned, the cavalrymen alive to the sudden arrival of danger. More bullets snickered past, hot on the heels of the first. One of Lyle’s men hollered as a round hit him in the shoulder. A heartbeat later and another gave an odd cough, then tumbled from the saddle.

  ‘Return fire, goddammit!’ Lyle reacted first. He pulled his horse’s head around so that he could face the threat that had burst out of the dead ground to the north, then snatched the Colt from its holster and fired, snapping off shots at the Northerners who had come to ruin his fun.

  The Union cavalry kept firing even as they charged. The fire was wild, but the storm of bullets took down the man who had been disarming Martha. He hit the ground, his carbine falling next to his body.

  Jack saw the men in blue uniforms and started to run. There was no burning desire to fight or desperate need for revenge. There was no fear. No courage. There was nothing in his soul save ice.

  Lyle’s men were no raw recruits. Even with bullets whipping around their ears, they fought back, returning fire, then raking back their spurs and charging at the Union cavalry. They were outnumbered, but still they threw themselves at the enemy.

  Jack pumped his legs hard. Pain, exhaustion and fear were forgotten as he concentrated everything he had on Lyle.

  He closed quickly. Lyle never saw him coming. The Confederate officer emptied his revolver at the horde of men coming against him. As soon as the last bullet was fired, he thrust the Colt back into its holster and felt for the handle of the sword hanging on long slings at his side.

  Jack grabbed Lyle’s hand before it could pull the blade more than an inch from the scabbard. Lyle’s head whipped around, his eyes meeting Jack’s for a single moment before Jack grabbed his boot and pushed upwards with all his strength.

  Lyle tried to resist, but Jack had the advantage of surprise. He grunted with the strain as he lifted Lyle’s leg up, then pushed hard to topple him from the saddle.

  ‘Martha, lie down!’ He shouted the order, then darted around the horse to see Lyle sprawled in the dirt, his revolver thrown from the open holster.

  Lyle scrabbled across the ground, snatching the Colt up from where it had fallen. He was still half on his knees when Jack reached him. For a big man, he moved fast. He lunged at Jack, using the revolver as a cudgel, forcing Jack to dance to one side to avoid the blow. It gave Lyle a moment’s grace. He lumbered to his feet, then put his head down and charged at Jack whilst he was still off balance, crashing into him with enough force to send them both flying.

  Jack hit the ground on his back with bone-jarring force, Lyle half on top of him. Yet even as the air rushed from his lungs, he twisted around and lashed out, smashing his left hand into the side of the Confederate officer’s head. The blow rocked Lyle around and Jack pushed hard, twisting him onto his back.

  Before Lyle could react, Jack straddled him and punched down, driving his right fist into the centre of Lyle’s face, pulping his nose.

  Yet Lyle knew how to fight. Even as the blood started to flow, he threw the revolver to one side, then reached up and took Jack’s throat in both hands. He spat out a cry of triumph as he dug his fingers deep into the soft flesh under Jack’s chin.

  Jack punched again, smacking his left fist into Lyle’s face, but the blow lacked its full force. The pain was brutal. Lyle’s fingers were like claws, and Jack choked as his windpipe was crushed. Desperately he thrust his hands towards Lyle’s face. They slid across the blood pouring from Lyle’s nose until they found his eyes. Without hesitation, he dug his fingers in, driving his nails into Lyle’s eye sockets with cruel precision.

  Lyle’s cry turned to one of pain. He bucked underneath Jack, his body convulsing in agony, and let go of Jack’s throat. Jack felt his weight shift as Lyle writhed beneath him. He did not fight it, but went with it, using the momentum to slide to one side then roll away from the man he fought. The moment he was free, he levered himself up, and was on his feet in an instant. There was time to see Lyle’s blood-streaked face as he lumbered to his own feet. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them gouged and bleeding from where Jack’s nails had dug deep.

  ‘I’m going to kill you.’ Lyle had breath to hiss the threat before he charged.

  Jack saw what was coming. Once he would have skipped aside, using his speed to keep him from harm. But he was older now. He no longer had the agility of his youth. But he had experience.

  Lyle threw himself forward. Jack hauled
down a deep breath and braced for the impact. When it came, the contact was violent, the thump of Lyle’s head into his chest like being kicked by a mule. But he did not fight it, and he went backwards fast, grabbing hold of Lyle’s hair as he back-pedalled.

  His balance failed and he started to fall. But he saw the nape of Lyle’s neck exposed, and so he clasped both hands together then brought them down on the top bones of his opponent’s spine with every ounce of strength he had left.

  It was a brutal blow. Lyle’s legs buckled and he went down, still grasping Jack around the midriff. Jack had no choice but to go down with him, but this time he was prepared for the impact and he tensed, bracing himself. When it came, it hurt him badly, but he fought his way from beneath Lyle’s body and staggered to his feet.

  Lyle was slower. The blow to the top of his spine had stolen his strength, and he lay face down in the dirt for long enough for Jack to drop down onto his back.

  Jack sucked down a breath, then grabbed a handful of Lyle’s hair and pulled his head up from the dirt. The body beneath him tensed, but before Lyle could move, Jack slammed his face down into the ground. There was a sickening crunch before he hauled Lyle’s head back up and drove it down once more.

  ‘This is for me, you hear that, you fucking bastard?’ Jack shouted the words as he smashed Lyle’s face into the ground over and over again. He did not pause even as he felt the body beneath him go still. ‘It’s not for Rose.’ He kept going, slamming Lyle’s face into the ground repeatedly. It was heavy now, but he did not care. ‘It’s for me. You hear that, you bastard! It’s for me!’

  At last he let go of Lyle’s hair. Every muscle trembled in the aftermath of the vicious fight, and the emotions surged through him, but he did not cry out. He rode the wild, searing tempest in silence, then looked up. Lyle’s men were galloping for the rear, the short, sharp fight with the Union cavalry now over. One of them rode straight at Jack, sword drawn and tip pointed at his breast. There was no time to dodge. All he could do was sit on Lyle’s body and stare at the blade that would surely rip through his chest.