But he would not wait to see it. He got to his feet and gathered his weapons. Jane noted his departure with a fleeting glance that lasted no more than a heartbeat. He meant nothing to her. He had been a pawn, one discarded without a thought when the real move had been made.
With his weapons in hand, he paused. For a reason he did not understand, he felt that something had changed. He had been alone for months now. Yet he had always known that one day, Fate would intervene to put an end to his drifting. Now he felt her presence in the room. He did not yet know what plans she had for him, but he was sure they would be revealed to him soon. Then he would have to decide which path to take: one that brought him back into the lives of other people, or one that would see him turn his back on the world and continue his aimless, lonely wandering, perhaps for ever.
At that moment, he did not know which of those two paths he would choose.
It was early evening by the time Jack was ready to leave town. He considered it to have been a day well spent. He had been fed, and his horse, a fine bay mare that he had stolen many months before from the Confederate army, had been given the best care he could afford and would be stronger for it. He had collected the animal, and now it was time to move on. He did not have the funds to pay for both him and the mare to be lodged overnight, and so he would spend another night sleeping outdoors with nothing but his horse and his weapons for company.
He heaved himself into the saddle, sighing as the weight of his full belly shifted uncomfortably. Once seated, he swept his long coat back, then settled his pork pie hat on his head before taking a moment to make sure everything was just so, his hand patting across his weapons in a familiar routine. He lived on the fringes of society, and there were plenty of folk who would not hesitate to make him fight to keep what he owned.
Experience told him never to take his safety for granted. That particular lesson had been learned many years before on the Grand Trunk Road on a journey from Bombay to Delhi. The Gujar tribesmen who had attacked the dak gharry he had been travelling in had caught him unprepared, the ambush almost claiming his life and that of the young lady he had been escorting home. He had survived thanks to the timely arrival of the British cavalry, and from that moment on he had faced every day with his weapons loaded and primed.
He had been a soldier all his adult life. Most of those years had been spent at war. It had taken time to find a path to the life he had hungered for, and still more time to become the true soldier he had longed to be. Yet at the end, he had discovered that he had been deluding himself. He was no warrior, and most certainly no great hero. He was a man with a gun and a sword, a killer for sure, but only because he had been granted the one thing that a soldier needed more than anything else – luck. And one day, he knew that luck would run out.
It had taken him a long time to fully understand that. Once he had believed that it had been his talent for war that had kept him alive. Where some men shirked the fight, he had sought it out, sustaining his ambition in the bloody chaos of battle. Then he had learned the truth. He was alive due to blind fortune and the actions of others. Had circumstances been different, his body would have been left as food for the worms long ago. For a reason he could not hope to understand, he had survived when so many others had died.
He shivered. The same feeling that had come over him in the dining room made itself known to him again. Something had changed. The notion made him uncomfortable, perhaps even frightened him. He could handle his self-enforced solitude, even finding moments of genuine contentment in the simple life he now lived. He steered clear of conflict, drifting through the days with no aim other than to do what it took to survive. He avoided uncomfortable thoughts, forcing his mind to live in the present without acknowledging his past. Memories were shackled and locked away so that they could no longer cause pain. People he had once cared for were forgotten, or at least ignored. He paid no heed to the part of his soul that wanted more. It was the coward’s path, he knew that, but it suited him just fine.
The War Between the States had been going on for close to two years now. He had done his best to keep well away from it, his time spent with both armies now behind him. He had come across a few soldiers, even this far away from the main areas of conflict, and so he had heard something of the great battles that had taken place, but which appeared to have brought the war no closer to a conclusion.
There had been a second fight at the Bull Run River, the armies of North and South wrestling for control of the strategic railroad junction at Manassas. Once again the Union forces had been driven back, and there had been talk of a Confederate invasion of the North that would swiftly put an end to the war. That prospect had vanished a few weeks later, following a hard-fought battle at a place called Antietam, near Sharpsburg, in far-away Maryland. The Confederate army had withdrawn into Virginia, where they had beaten back a Union force at a place called Fredericksburg. In the west, the Union Army had pushed steadily southward, beating General Bragg’s forces and gaining control of much of Tennessee.
As much as he tried to avoid the war, he was still drawn to the tales of the conflict in which he had fought, yet he did not choose sides. The fate of the country in which he existed no longer meant anything to him. He cared only for staying alive and staying alone. Now, with that aim firmly in mind, he eased his horse into motion and began to head out of town. As ever, it was something of a relief to leave the world of people behind. He was beginning to wonder if the strange sensation that had first come over him in the dining saloon was simply his imagination playing him false.
Then a girl screamed.
His revolver was in his hand in a second. The scream was not one of terror; he had heard enough of those to be certain of that. Yet it was still enough to capture his attention. He saw its source almost immediately, the flash of white undergarments bright in the fading light. The girl who had spoken to him in the dining saloon – Jane – was halfway out of a door that led on to a balcony on the upper storey of a handsome Creole town house, one in a line of identical buildings that pressed close to the turnpike. There was a brief struggle before she kicked her way free, then scrambled across the balcony. Without pause, she vaulted over the wrought-iron railings and on to the one next door, her dress held in her hand.
He saw her destination immediately. Another balcony door was open in a house further down the row. Waiting there was her brother, who was waving her over. The sight made Jack smile. He was witnessing the end of their game after all. His smile widened when he looked back to the door the girl had just exited to see the flushed face of Sinclair, the man who had worn the grey suit but who now stood naked in the doorway that led on to the balcony.
‘You goddam bitch!’ Sinclair took a single pace on to the balcony, where he stayed for long enough to shout the insult before disappearing back inside.
Jack waited where he was, watching Jane’s progress. He wondered what it was she had taken from Sinclair; what it was that had inspired this game of bait and hook. He hoped it was worth the risk. Yet the girl was in no real danger, clambering easily across the balconies of the houses that separated her from her brother. Vaulting the last set of railings, she slipped inside his door, which was slammed shut the moment she was lost from sight.
Jack made no effort to move. If he were being honest with himself, he was rather enjoying the show. He did not have to wait long for the next act to begin, as the siblings’ door opened for a second time and the pair came out one after the other. He saw that Jane had thrown on some clothes, and both now carried knapsacks. Neither showed any fear as they climbed over the railings of the balcony before lowering themselves down and dropping to the ground below. They landed no more than a dozen yards from where he sat in the saddle, an interested spectator to the evening’s spectacle.
The girl bounded to her feet. She took a moment to brush the dirt from her hands, then she looked up at Jack and flashed him a momentary smile.
‘Come on!’ Her brother saw the pause.
&nbs
p; She needed no further urging and turned to run after him, the two moving fast.
‘Stop!’ The shout came hard on their heels as a red-faced Sinclair burst out of the town house’s front door no more than thirty seconds after the siblings had started to run. Two men came with him, both armed with revolvers. ‘Stop them,’ Sinclair snapped.
Both raised their weapons. The first shots rang out, the loud cracks echoing off the tall buildings that lined the street.
To Jack’s ear, the sound was dreadfully familiar. It stirred memories of bloodshed, ones that he tried hard to contain. He distracted himself by watching the pair as they made their break for freedom. They were running fast, and he saw at once that they were already far out of range. None of the bullets were coming close.
‘Hold your bloody fire!’ He could not rein back the command. Angry faces turned his way.
‘Shut your goddam mouth.’ One of the men, a heavyset fellow with florid jowls, emphasised the message by firing off another shot.
Jack shook his head at the belligerence. ‘Save your damn powder, you dolt. You won’t hit them from there.’ He offered the advice with a shake of his head.
‘Do as he says.’ It was Sinclair who echoed Jack’s instruction. He stepped past the man, pushing down his raised arm, his eyes fixed on Jack. ‘I saw you talking to that girl. Do you know her?’
‘Never seen her before.’ Jack gave the reply in a clipped voice. He looked Sinclair over more carefully now that he was closer. There was a dusting of grey in the man’s moustache, and at his temples. Some of his hair stood to attention at the back of his head, the errant strands at odds with the glistening mass that still lay slicked against his skull.
‘I don’t think I believe you.’ Sinclair ran a hand back over his scalp, smoothing his hair into place. From his tone, it was clear that the girl had ruffled more than just his locks.
‘I don’t give a fuck what you think, chum.’ Jack’s tone was unaltered.
Sinclair held his gaze a moment longer, but said nothing more before he turned on his heel and walked briskly back inside the house.
Jack sat where he was as Sinclair’s men followed their master inside. Aside from the whiff of powder in the air, it was as if nothing had happened. The young pair had taken whatever it was they had come for. The show was over.
He kicked back his heels, easing his mare into a walk. Whatever had happened was not his concern. Nothing was any more.
He rode out of town without so much as a backwards glance, heading back to the wilds, and back to being alone.
Jack tore open a cartridge, then sprinkled the powder over the damp wood he had gathered, before striking a lucifer and setting the whole thing on fire. The powder went up with a flash, and he sat back, waiting to see if the flames would catch. It was an inefficient way to start a fire, but he had long accepted the fact that he was no woodsman.
He would need more cartridges before long. He had a full packet left for his revolver, and a single load of sixteen for his Henry repeater. The repeating rifle fired copper rimfire cartridges that were quite unlike the paper cartridges used by a revolver or a musket, and he had no idea where he would be able to find more, the weapon so rare and unusual that he had yet to see another man carrying one, in any of the states he had crossed. Until he located some of the unique ammunition, he would have to be careful, the last of his rounds saved for when they were really needed.
The flames caught, and he lay back, his task complete. He had stopped to make camp only when he could no longer clearly see the way ahead. He was not far from the turnpike, but the site he had chosen was well screened from the sight of any other travellers, the small clearing surrounded by tall oak trees and thick underbrush. There was a shallow stream a hundred yards away, and enough wood for his fire, even if it was all a little damp. He had no idea how far he had come from the town, and he did not care. Distance meant little to a man with no destination in mind.
He rested his head on the ground and stared up at the stars. They looked back at him, serene and unconcerned. The stars were his one true companion; a rare constant in a life that had seen too much change. He let the sight of them fill his mind, his eyes tracing patterns across the brightest of them. There was no thought of sleep. Closing his eyes would bring the nightmares that he knew would do nothing but torment. Sleep had long brought with it the faces of the dead. There were too many of those hidden in his memory. Men he had killed, and those he had watched die. People he had allowed to come close, only to lose them, alongside those he had spurned. They came in great legions, these faces that defined the years since he had first stolen an identity that was not his, and not one brought with it anything but pain.
A sound disturbed him. He listened carefully, locating the source then waiting for a repeat of the soft scuffle that had alerted him. It came almost immediately, followed quickly by another, and then another. He might be no woodsman, but he could tell the difference between an animal and the one creature that he tried to avoid at all costs.
He sat up and reached for his revolver, which had been kept loaded for just such an eventuality as this. There was no fear. Not yet. But he could feel it stirring deep in his belly. It was not far away.
He pulled the revolver carefully from its holster. The weight of the weapon was comforting, and as his fingers brushed across the ivory grips, the touch of the smooth surface was reassuring and familiar. The beautiful weapon had not always been his. He had taken it from one man before losing it to another. He had only reclaimed it when that man had been killed, and the touch of that memory shifted something in his mind. It was a memory of fear.
He scanned the gloom, searching for the source of the noise that had disturbed him. The flames of the fire cast an eerie, flickering light, so that shadows moved of their own accord. But still he saw the two figures easily enough.
‘Stay right there.’ He gave the command without hesitation. The pair halted immediately. If they had hoped to make a stealthy approach, then they had been disappointed.
He raised the revolver, aiming at the closer of the two shadows, and eased back the hammer with his thumb, the clicking sound it made loud, clear and purposeful in the quiet of the night.
There was silence then. He could almost hear them breathing.
‘Are you going to shoot?’ The question came at him from the first shadow. There was no fear in it.
‘That depends.’ Jack’s voice caught in his throat, and he coughed gently. ‘Should I?’
‘We don’t mean you no harm, mister.’
Jack held the revolver steady. He had his target now, the outline of the man just about visible. If he fired, he would not miss. Yet for a reason he did not fully understand, he felt no sense of danger. There was something familiar in the voice. It did not take him long to place it, for it was one he had heard only a short time before.
‘I won’t shoot you, Adam. You and your sister can go on your way in peace.’ He glanced at the second shadow, which had yet to speak. The siblings from the dining room had disturbed his solitude for a second time. ‘But I will shoot you if you stand there long enough.’ He made a short, sharp movement with the revolver. ‘So move along now, take it nice and easy and be on your way.’
The command was greeted with silence. Neither figure moved. Eventually Adam spoke again.
‘You know us?’
‘I saw you playing your game with Sinclair today.’
‘Are you the major?’ The second figure spoke for the first time. It was the girl. She sounded as calm as her brother.
Jack grunted softly as his identification was confirmed, but there was little satisfaction to be gained from it. The conversation was already too long for his liking. He contemplated shooting to drive them away, but the thought vanished quickly. He did not have ammunition to waste.
‘Could we share your fire, sir?’ Jane spoke again. Her shadow took a step closer. ‘It gets cold at night, and we ain’t got much of anything with us. We left in kind of a hurry an
d all.’
Jack lowered his revolver. ‘You can come on out. I won’t shoot.’ The words emerged of their own accord even before the thought was fully formed. He wondered why that might be.
The pair came forward slowly.
‘But if you try anything, I’ll kill you, you hear me?’ he warned.
As they approached, he looked them over. The boy was just as he remembered, but the girl had changed her clothing. She was dressed as a man, with a wide-brimmed hat, high black boots, dark trousers that fitted snugly to her legs, and a grey shirt worn underneath a heavy brown jacket with fringes across the front.
‘You too, girl. Don’t think I won’t.’ He wondered if they knew it was no empty threat. He had killed more people than he could remember, some in the heat of battle, some in cold blood. He would likely have to kill again before his own body was left to rot in the earth.
‘Yes, sir.’
Both gave the meek reply. Jack smiled. He could already sense they were playing another game. He knew he should send them on their way. Shoot at them too, if need be. But he had not liked the man called Sinclair, and so he would let them sleep by his fire. It was his prerogative after all. Even the lonely could choose whom they allowed near.
‘Well, if you’re not going to jump me, you might as well sit yourselves down.’ Jack slipped his revolver back into its leather holster, which he placed deliberately on the ground to his right. He looked Adam dead in the eye as he moved his hand away from the weapon, making sure the lad understood that it was still in easy reach.
The pair looked at one another, then eased their small knapsacks from their backs before sitting down. Both watched Jack warily the whole time.
‘Have you got any tea?’ Jack fired the question at them.
‘Tea?’ Adam repeated. He laid his revolver on the ground as he sat. Like Jack, he kept it close to his right hand.
The Lost Outlaw Page 4
