One went straight to the wooden dresser and grabbed two bottles of whiskey, then swept up as many glasses as he could hold in a single hand. He dumped them carelessly on the simple table and began to fill each glass in turn, without bothering to lift the bottle, so that a river of spilled whiskey ran across the wood. Eager hands grabbed glasses, the contents tossed quickly down throats before the now empty vessels were slammed back on to the plank of wood for an immediate refill.
Jack watched the men carefully. All were older than him, with grey in both their beards and their hair – if they had any, that was. None looked friendly. They all noted his presence, but not one of them acknowledged him or changed their manner. A few greeted Kat with a curt nod or a smile, but there was nothing more, no leers or propositions or ribald comments. Their reaction made it clear that she was part of the gang, yet there was something more in the guarded expressions being sent her way, as if she were somehow a danger, too.
He noted the thought, then studied the members of the gang more closely. He saw two men in the grey uniform jackets of the Confederate army, and another in the dark blue of the Union. A tall, cadaverous fellow in a black morning suit hung on the periphery of the group, sipping at his whiskey with his little finger cocked at an odd angle. At his side was a man dressed completely in brown animal skins, his strange attire completed with a thick fur hat perched precariously on the back of his head. The rest wore dull, workmanlike clothes, many with simple waistcoats. They sported wide-brimmed hats, and most had bandanas around their necks. To a man they wore high boots with pointed toes and heavy spurs attached to the heel. All were armed with a six-shot revolver on their right side, and many wore a long bowie knife in a leather sheath attached to their belt. These were hard men, with faces to match.
‘What we got here then?’ One of their number spied the repeating rifle leaning against the trestle. The man, a broad-shouldered fellow with a thin smear of brown hair across his scalp and several days’ worth of stubble on his face, took a moment to stare at Jack before lifting the weapon.
‘Would you look at this beauty, fellas?’ He held it in both hands as he inspected it ‘Why, I ain’t ever seen one of these fancy repeaters before.’ He looked back at Jack. ‘Where did you get a rifle like this from, friend?’
Jack noted the man’s use of the word, but there was nothing friendly in his tone. ‘Give it back and I’ll tell you.’ He kept his voice even as he made the demand.
‘I asked you a simple-ass question, nothing more.’ The man cocked his head at an angle as he contemplated Jack. ‘You’re new around here, so I’ll give you another chance to show a little more respect.’ He spoke slowly, his voice full of challenge. ‘Where did you get it?’
Jack forced a long breath into his lungs. There was only one way a conversation like this could end, and it wasn’t with handshakes and cries for drinks all round. He took a moment to study the man holding his rifle. He was lean and well muscled despite his age. It would not be an easy fight if it came to it.
‘Give it back.’ He held the man’s gaze as he repeated his demand. There could be no hint of weakness in front of men such as these, no matter what it cost.
The man ignored the request, instead making a play of admiring the rifle, turning it around in his hands so that he could look at the underside. ‘Did you steal it?’
Again Jack held back a reply.
‘Uh huh.’ The man smiled, interpreting Jack’s silence as a confession of guilt. ‘I figured. A worthless varmint like you don’t go getting a rifle like this all by hisself.’ He made a play of looking Jack up and down as he spoke. The smile turned into a sneer. ‘You’d have to be a man of means to get yourself this here weapon. And you? Why, you don’t look like much to me, not like much at all. You look like you ain’t got yourself much more than a pocket full of goddam goober peas.’
Jack brushed aside the judgement. ‘I’ll ask you one last time, friend.’ He wrapped the man’s choice of word in iron. ‘Give it back.’
‘And who might you be to tell me what to do?’ The words were spoken softly.
‘I’m the man who’ll kill you if you don’t give me back my rifle pretty damn fucking sharpish.’
The threat made the man smile once again. He turned his head to look at his companions, who were watching the confrontation. Most were smiling. Only Kat was not, but she said nothing as his eyes met hers.
‘Isn’t that the darnedest thing? This son of a bitch is threatening me.’
Jack stayed silent as the man played to the crowd. For a moment he contemplated drawing his sword, but the notion died a rapid death. Men armed with six-shooters surrounded him. He would be gunned down before he could aim even a single blow. Whatever was to come would have to be done the old-fashioned way.
He noticed Adam return, yet the lad whose life he had saved showed no sign of intervening. Instead he hung back, his expression guarded. There was no hope of any aid, so Jack kept his eyes fixed on the man holding his repeater. He knew how to deal with men like this. He knew what he had to do.
The man turned back to face him, a leering smile on his face. It was still fixed in place when Jack punched him full on the mouth. It was a fine blow, and it snapped the man’s head back, crushing his lips against his teeth so that blood started to flow.
Jack stepped forward to snatch his repeater from the man’s grip. Not for the first time, he wished he had ammunition to spare.
The room had erupted as the gang saw the first punch thrown. It was a feral sound, the men whooping and cheering as the fight they had seen coming began.
‘I’ll break your goddam neck for that.’ The man held the back of his hand against his bloodied lips and inspected what he saw. Then he attacked.
He punched hard, his right hand reaching for Jack’s face. But Jack had seen it coming and swayed back, letting the fist flash past in front of his nose. The second punch came hard on the heels of the first, a low, rising blow that started down by the man’s left hip. Again Jack saw it coming and stepped past it before ramming the brass-capped hilt of his rifle into the man’s gut. It was well placed and it drove every scrap of air from the man’s lungs. Before he could react, Jack snapped his head forward, smashing his forehead into the man’s nose with enough force to rock him back on his heels.
The noise in the room intensified. Hands reached out to steady the bloodied man. There was no notion of anyone else joining the fight. In these hard lands, men fought alone.
Jack braced himself, ready to fight on. He had no choice. He had to stand his ground.
His opponent stood still for a second, his head hanging down as he drew in a few deep breaths. Then he lifted his head and came at Jack in a rush.
Jack ducked a shoulder and drove back at his adversary. The connection was brutal, but Jack was larger and heavier, and he knocked the man from his feet and sent him tumbling to the floor.
To his credit, the man did not stay down. He pushed himself up, but Jack had already recovered his balance, and he swung the rifle’s butt, catching the man on the upper arm with enough force to knock him back down.
The anger was starting to flow. Yet Jack remained in control. He knew what he was doing. The example had to be set, and for a moment, he was almost glad that the man now struggling back to his feet had summoned the confrontation.
‘I thought you wanted my rifle?’ he mocked. ‘Well, here it is. Come and fucking get it.’
The man regained his footing, then came at Jack for a third time. He bellowed as he charged, the bestial sound loud enough to encourage the men watching the fight to roar in encouragement.
Jack smiled. It was almost too easy. Despite being knocked down twice, the man was quick, yet still Jack managed to sidestep the rush. He swung the rifle again as he moved, bringing it around in a wickedly fast arc so that the butt slammed into the man’s side. It hit him hard, spinning him around so that he faced Jack, who took a single step forward, then bludgeoned the barrel of the rifle directly into his assailan
t’s balls.
The man crumpled. His mouth opened as he doubled over, but no sound came out. He stood there, his hands clutching at his groin for several long moments before the first wail came from his lips.
‘Anyone else want to try me?’ Jack turned to address the crowd. ‘Any of you other pricks want to take this rifle of mine?’ He fired the words at the faces that stared back at him, gesturing with the weapon. ‘No one?’
Not one man answered. The room that had been filled with cheers and roars had fallen silent.
‘What the hell is going on here?’ The question came from a man standing in the doorway. It was asked in a mild, conversational tone.
Jack turned. ‘I’m teaching that fuckwit some manners.’ He spoke with the same snap in his tone as he had used when challenging the other men to fight.
The new arrival did not reply. As he walked into the room, the men moved out of his way, their heads bowed like errant schoolboys suddenly taken to task by their master.
Jack stood his ground. From the men’s reaction, there was no doubt that he now faced their leader. There was no hiding their fear of this man, yet to Jack’s quick glance he looked nothing special. He was dressed shabbily, in well-worn brown trousers, a tired grey shirt and a brown jacket that was so old, large areas of the fabric had been worn to a faded black. On his head he wore a wide-brimmed tan hat pulled low.
‘And who might you be, friend?’
Jack heard nothing dangerous in the man’s tone. If he was concerned to see one of his men handled roughly then not a trace of it showed.
‘His name is Jack Lark, and he saved me and Adam from some of Sinclair’s goons.’ It was Kat who answered the question that had been left to linger in the room like a bad smell. She alone showed no fear of the man. ‘I’ll vouch for him, Brannigan. Without him I’d be dead. Adam too.’
‘So why the hell are we setting on him?’
‘Because Wade is too damn dumb to do anything else.’ Kat offered the damning verdict on the man who had attacked Jack. For his part, Wade hung back, head bowed and hands clasped to his balls while the blood from his crushed nose dripped on to the floor.
‘Wade, why are you so damn stupid?’ Brannigan removed his hat and tossed it casually on to the table, then came to stand in front of the man.
‘That fellow disrespected me.’ Wade made his defence in a voice laced with pain and fear.
‘Oh he did, did he? Did he hurt your feelings?’
Wade said nothing. In the silence that followed the question, the only sound was the slow drip of his blood on to the floor.
‘You really are one dumb son of a bitch.’ Brannigan shook his head.
Jack did not see the blow coming. Brannigan’s fist moved quicker than the eye could track, and he drove it hard and fast into Wade’s gut. Wade grunted once, then doubled over again, puking out a thin stream of whiskey and blood that splattered noisily on to the floor. Brannigan did not let him recover. Moving quickly, he grabbed the man by the back of the neck and dragged him forcibly to the door. Once there, he threw him hard, so that he sprawled on to the porch.
Discipline delivered, he turned and strode back inside, the jangling sound made by his heavy spurs loud in the quiet that had followed Wade’s ejection.
Jack stood tall, and got his first proper look at the man he now knew was Brannigan, the gang’s leader. He was a good six inches taller than Jack, and older, his face weathered by the sun and the wind so that it was lined and tanned. On his right hip he wore the inevitable revolver in a battered and scuffed holster. He had close-cropped sandy hair and a thin beard of the same colour covering hollow cheeks. He looked as lean and as tough as if he had been fabricated from iron. But what really captured Jack’s attention was his eyes. They were deep set, and the pale blue of winter’s ice.
Brannigan’s presence dominated the room. He poured himself a measure of whiskey from one of the bottles that had been left on the table. No one else was drinking any longer.
‘Did you get the information?’ He fired the question at Kat, but his attention was fully focused on the stranger who had beaten one of his men.
‘Yes.’ Kat’s chin lifted as she answered.
‘So where are they?’
‘They’ve got a camp about ten miles south of here. But they’re not going to attack us any time soon. They don’t see the point of dragging the wagons all the way down to the border by themselves. They figure to trail us south then ambush us further down the trail.’
‘Where?’
‘South of the sands.’
Brannigan grunted as he absorbed the news. ‘They figure they can take the wagons from us?’
‘Sinclair thinks it’ll be easy.’
‘Well, he’ll be disappointed. We’re not all as dumb as Wade.’ Brannigan’s expression was unaltered as he made the jibe. A few of his men muttered in agreement, and one even managed a half-strangled laugh. The sound died a slow death.
‘So who is this fellow?’ he continued. ‘Did you find yourself a stray dog?’
‘Like I said, he saved us from Sinclair’s men. If he hadn’t showed up, Adam and I’d both be dead, and you would know damn all about Sinclair’s plans.’ Kat took a few steps forward to stand at Jack’s side. ‘He’s English.’ She made the statement as if it offered proof of her tale.
‘Is he now?’ Brannigan was not impressed. He contemplated Jack for several long moments, then turned to pick up the whiskey bottle. ‘Why is no one drinking?’ he asked, then began to fill the glasses on the table. ‘Come on, fellas, you know I hate drinking alone.’
The men were quick to obey, grabbing the glasses and throwing the liquor down their necks as quickly as they could before reaching out for more.
Brannigan emptied the bottle, then threw it behind the bar, the sound of it smashing loud enough to startle a good number of the men and make them flinch.
‘So this fellow saved you all on his lonesome?’ He took a full glass, then turned to face Jack.
‘He killed three of Sinclair’s goons. He’s a good man, Brannigan. He knows how to fight, too.’ Kat maintained her steadfast defence of Jack.
‘Looks to me like he’s lost his fair share of fights.’ There was no hint of a smile as the remark was made.
Jack kept his expression even. The reference to his scar meant nothing.
‘So why would you do that? Why would you help them?’ This time Brannigan addressed Jack directly.
‘It was an unfair fight. I figured I’d even the odds a little,’ Jack answered warily.
‘Are you some sort of hero?’
‘No.’
‘Then why do it?’
Jack shrugged. ‘I do what I want.’ He didn’t like the tone of the questioning. Yet he wanted – no, he corrected himself, he needed employment. So he swallowed his pride and met the cold stare that searched his own.
‘Do you now?’ Brannigan clearly did not like the answer. ‘I reckon that makes you dangerous, Mister Lark.’ The verdict was given in the same flat tone.
‘Maybe.’ Jack matched his own tone to that of the man asking the question.
‘So are you an outlaw? Got yourself a bounty on your head?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not a talkative fellow, are you, Jack?’ Brannigan’s tone was scornful.
Jack said nothing. He was not sure where the conversation was going.
Brannigan nodded, as if the silence pleased him more than Jack’s previous curt answers. ‘You know who I am?’
‘No.’ Jack watched the other man’s expression closely, but he was proving impossible to read. He tried to gauge Brannigan’s age. His skin was tanned and weathered, but the lines there were not yet sunken and drawn deep. There was a thin scar under one eye and another high on the opposite temple, but neither was as large or as prominent as the one on Jack’s own face. He guessed Brannigan to be in his mid to late forties, or perhaps a touch older. Both of them had seen enough of life to know what lived in their own souls.
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‘Good. That means you will make up your own mind about me, and I kind of like that.’ Brannigan downed his whiskey, then carefully placed the empty glass on the bar. ‘So why are you here, Jack? You expect some kind of reward for saving two of mine?’
‘I want employment.’ For once, Jack was not lying, or present under false pretences. He was who he was, nothing more and nothing less.
Brannigan contemplated the answer, then turned on his heel to face his men. ‘Out you go, fellas. I need to talk to our new friend here.’
The men did not need to be told twice. They left quickly and quietly, the contrast with their noisy and boisterous arrival stark. Kat went with them, leaving Jack and Brannigan alone.
‘So you fought in the war up north?’ Brannigan asked when the last of his men had filed outside. He rested his weight easily on one hip, his right hand falling naturally to his revolver.
‘Yes.’
‘And you fought for the South?’ Brannigan nodded towards Jack’s attire. ‘If I ain’t mistaken, that’s the jacket of one of their majors.’
‘It is.’ Jack kept a weather eye on Brannigan’s right hand. He noted the way the man had used the word ‘their’ when talking of the Confederate army. He sensed something had changed. The conversation had become more serious. More dangerous.
‘Why did you leave the army?’
‘Because.’ Jack let his own right hand rest easily on the hilt of his revolver. He would draw his gun and start shooting the moment Brannigan’s fingers so much as twitched.
Brannigan contemplated the answer. His eyes never left Jack’s. ‘I don’t need officers. I need men who do what they’re damn well told.’ His tone was mild. Yet there was still steel reinforcing the words.
‘Fine by me.’
‘You don’t want to be in charge?’
‘No.’
‘You sure about that, Jack? I can smell it on you, just as easily as I can smell that there whiskey.’
‘Then you’re mistaken.’
The Lost Outlaw Page 7
