‘Go! Go!’ Brannigan called out as he rode past. Half a dozen of his men were at his side, with more rushing to join him.
‘Get on!’ Jack urged his mount to follow, angry at his own hesitation. He had fought for long enough to know that uncertainty was more dangerous even than making the wrong decision. The horse responded to his command. It scrabbled in the muddy soil, then found its footing and powered away. He felt the strength in its body as its hooves thumped into the glutinous ground, the sound dulled yet still mesmerising, the rhythm increasing in tempo as the animal stretched its muscles and began to gallop.
There was something intoxicating in this moment. He felt it thrill through his body, the sensation thrumming through his veins. Yet he fought against it, holding it at bay. He was no longer the man who had charged with the Bombay Lights at Khoosh-Ab. The madness that had once propelled him to the fight was an enemy as real as the men with guns who had come to steal away the cotton. It had to be corralled and contained, just as he contained the other emotion that surged through him. For alongside the excitement was fear; fear that twisted his stomach into knots and sent an icy rush deep into his bowels.
Gunshots seared through the gloom. Jack glimpsed muzzle flashes as men from both sides began to fire. He pulled his mount’s reins, angling the animal to the north, acting on instinct, his first thought to flank the attackers. He kicked back his heels, then turned the willing mare off the trail, altering course so that he headed upriver. Gunshots came without pause now. With them came the first screams as men were hit.
He slowed his horse when he judged he had gone far enough, turning it towards the river and letting it pick its own path down the gentle slope and into a tight tangle of trees around a hundred yards away from the bridge. Flashes of lightning lit his path. He took his time, finding his way with care, holding his mare back when he could not see, and waiting for the next explosion of lightning to show him the way ahead. There had been times in the past when he had rushed into action, his desire to show what he could do overriding the need to remain in one piece. He had learned from those times, and so he let his mare walk, not willing to risk it shattering a limb or tumbling him from the saddle.
It took time to reach the riverbank. Once there, he paused to look across the gloomy battlefield. The rain hammered into the water, the sound of the thousands of impacts only adding to the noise. In the murk, it was hard to see more than a few yards. Yet he could make out enough to know that his plan had worked, and he was now well away to one side of the firefight.
The two sides were furiously engaged. Most of Brannigan’s men had stayed on the near side of the river, taking up positions close to the entrance to the bridge. Only Adam and the survivors from the advance guard were on the far bank. They had dismounted, and now clustered together in a desperate huddle in the midst of a thick clump of undergrowth and spindly saplings about twenty yards from the end of the bridge. Their ambushers were spread out on the same bank, and moving to surround them.
A great sheet of lightning cut across the sky, casting an eerie white light. A man died at that moment, a bullet taking him in the face. Yet for all the gunfire, few men were being hit. The range was long for revolvers, and in the poor light there was more noise than accurate shooting. Both sides fired fast, but neither was securing an advantage. The rain came down constantly, and more than one man suffered a misfire as the water worked its way into the weapon’s workings.
Jack brought his mare to a stand, keeping the animal away from the riverbank so that he was still screened by the trees that grew there. Only when the animal had become still did he raise the repeater and settle its brass-capped stock into his shoulder. He had just sixteen rounds. Each one would have to count.
He waited, slowing his breathing and steadying the rifle. He fired when the next bolt of lightning seared away the darkness, picking a target on the far side of the river in the split second of light. There was just enough time to see a man tumble from the saddle before the darkness returned.
He cranked the handle on the repeater, moving the bolt, ejecting the spent cartridge and bringing the next into the breech. He concentrated on his breathing, keeping it slow and rhythmical.
Another great flash of lightning lit the sky. He fired twice more, his rifle twitching from target to target in an instant. Both bullets hit.
He moved the moment darkness returned. He could just make out shouts and cries of alarm before a great peal of thunder rumbled across the sky. He paid the shouts no heed, concentrating his attention on the ground ahead. His horse moved slowly, so he kicked back his heels, forcing the animal to pick up a little speed. He would not risk staying in one spot for too long. He was being careful. He would not risk his life. Not yet.
The next lightning bolt let him pick his new position. In the few seconds that it lit the earth, he kicked hard, forcing his mare into a lurching canter. He reached a tree that was bent low, its branches almost touching the river, then came to another halt. The repeater was snug in his shoulder the moment the horse stopped.
He fired almost immediately, then cranked the handle on the rifle and fired again, aiming at shadowy figures on the far bank, hoping to spread confusion and fear as his bullets spat out from the darkness. More lightning came, so he fired again, this time sending a bullet spinning into a man’s spine.
He had now knocked four men from the saddle. Already some of the ambushers were turning in confusion as they tried to locate him. Return shots came across the river, the men on the far bank firing hopelessly into the shadows yards from where he was. Bullets flayed the heavy undergrowth, whining as they ricocheted from the trees. None came close.
He steadied his mare as the animal pawed nervously at the ground. In the next moment, lightning cut across the sky and he fired again, missing his target as the horse fretted and jerked beneath him.
He was closer to the ambushers now that he had moved, the river bending and narrowing upstream from the crossing. The man he had just shot at must have felt the passage of the spinning bullet as it zipped past his head, and he turned, looking across the river directly at Jack.
Jack knew he had been spotted. Yet he did not move. As darkness returned, he reached down to lay his hand on his mare’s neck, his voice soothing the animal. In the next flash of lightning, he saw that two men were picking their way down the far bank and into the shallow water at the river’s edge. They rode towards him, their horses splashing noisily and kicking spray into the sky, then rammed back their heels, gouging their spurs into the horses’ flanks and forcing the animals into the deeper water near the centre of the river. Both rode with right arms outstretched as they aimed revolvers his way.
‘Steady now, girl, steady.’ He spoke the words softly, patting the animal’s neck one last time. He took a moment to wipe the rain from his face, then sat straight in the saddle and raised the repeater.
Lightning flashed. He saw the two men riding in his direction, their horses forcing a path through the water. Both men fired the instant the light came. Jack felt the air near him punched as both bullets snapped past. He held the repeater tight, then fired as the last of the light died.
He cranked the handle, holding his pose, every muscle tight. He waited, breathing slowly, feeling the fear in his gut. It twisted deep in his belly, worming its way upward through his body.
The next flash came. One man was left charging towards him, a riderless horse at his side. The man fired twice. Both bullets came close enough for Jack to feel the snap in the air as they seared by. He held his breath, then fired just as the darkness reclaimed the earth.
Again he held his pose. He did not know if his aim had been true, yet he knew with certainty that if he had not found his target, the man coming against him would surely be close enough not to miss him for a third time.
The fear was taking hold now. He could feel it picking and gnawing at his courage. It urged him to move; to run, to do anything it took to get away. The feeling built until it was all he could do to h
old himself still.
Another great surge of lightning ripped away the darkness, and he gasped.
His aim had been true. Two horses with empty saddles came towards him. Two corpses floated downstream.
Jack lowered the rifle and sucked a deep breath into his lungs. Around him, the firefight continued without pause. A man on his side of the river cried out as he was hit, whilst another on the far bank shouted unintelligible commands. In the gloom, it was almost impossible to pick out an enemy.
The rain was coming down in solid sheets now. It worked its way into weapons, causing misfires and blockages. Men cursed as revolvers jammed and carbines refused to fire. Those with spare weapons drew them. Those without tried to clear the blockages, their oaths and frustrated curses adding to the mayhem.
Jack knew he had to move. Yet he could not make himself do anything other than sit there, the rain running down his face. He could see shadowy forms rushing back and forth on the far bank, guns spitting short gouts of flame in the darkness. As the lightning flashed, he saw more, the shadows given life for a few tantalising seconds before the gloom returned. Men died as he watched, their despairing cries underscoring the claps of thunder and the almost constant roar of gunfire.
On the far bank, a single ambusher broke from the fight, his desire to capture the sodden cotton failing to hold him to the cause. Jack could hear the man’s leader shouting, calling the deserter a coward and cursing him, yet nothing turned the man from his path. For his part, the leader stuck to the fight, rallying men to his side before turning to fire at the shadowy figures that huddled together on the opposite bank.
It was only then that Jack realised who was leading the ambushers. As a lightning bolt lit the gloom, he recognised the man wearing a pale grey suit that had been turned almost to black by the rain. Sinclair, the man Kat and Adam had played, had found a way to attack the wagon train after all.
The light died away. Even so, Jack lifted the repeater to his shoulder. He steadied it, holding Sinclair’s shadowy form in its sights, ignoring the rain and the rumble of yet more thunder. A single bullet would surely end the fight. If he shot Sinclair down, his men would inevitably run.
Lightning ripped through the darkness with a crack loud enough to wake the dead, yet this time Jack did not so much as flinch. There was time to twitch the barrel a tiny fraction to the right, filling the sight with Sinclair’s body, then he pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
‘Shit.’ He lowered the rifle and thrust it into the long holster attached to the saddle. He did not have to check to know that the weapon had jammed, the open groove under the barrel filled with rainwater or blocked by a scrap of dirt. The repeater was a fabulous weapon, one that could dominate a firefight. But only if it worked.
He hesitated. He knew what he should do to turn the firefight. But it would take courage – raw, passion-filled, courage. Courage he did not know if he possessed. And then the anger came. It was bitter and sharp, and he swallowed it only with difficulty. He did not like this man he had become. He had killed that day, gunning men down from his hiding places. They had died without knowing it was he who had taken their lives.
The thought shamed him. He had come searching for this moment. Now that it was here, he was skulking in the shadows. He was no longer acting like a soldier. He was acting like a cold-blooded murderer. A killer. A coward.
He was becoming a man he despised.
Jack sat and stared at the firefight in the rain. He saw what could be done to change the course of the skirmish. A brave man on a willing horse could scythe through the attackers’ flank, cutting men down before they even realised what had charged out of the darkness to spread death and confusion amongst their ranks. Yet to launch such an attack took a certain kind of madness; that brave man on his fast horse propelled into the action by the wild, searing fury of battle. Jack knew he was no longer that man, yet he could see no other way of turning the tide of this gloomy fight. Someone would have to put an end to it. And that someone had to be him.
He kicked back his heels, urging his horse into motion. As the mare obeyed, he drew his sabre from the scabbard on his left hip. Despite the damp, the steel still rasped against the leather. The sword’s weight felt good in his right hand, the balance of the blade familiar. Rain ran down its length, making the steel glisten in the white light cast by a bolt of lightning. The firefight was showing no sign of coming to a conclusion, the two sides seemingly content to blast away in the gloom. It was time for a proper soldier to show them how it was done.
He let his mare move slowly, giving her time to find her footing on the slippery mud of the riverbank. Another flash of lightning illuminated his path for a few seconds before it faded away, casting the world back into darkness. The rain still lashed down continuously, making it impossible to see more than a few yards.
He reached the bottom of the bank. Water surged around his horse’s hooves, the sound it made loud enough to be heard even over the rain. He kicked back his heels, forcing the mare into the channel. The animal responded to his command, plunging forward without hesitation.
Jack gasped as the water splashed against his legs, the touch of its cold fingers sending a chill running through him. He urged the animal on, praying that the lightning would hold off for a few moments longer. Gamely the mare pushed through the deeper water at the river’s heart, then picked up speed as the level fell. They were close to the far bank now, and Jack angled the horse’s head so that the animal splashed obliquely through the shallower water, taking him further upstream and away from the fight. There was no lightning to show him the way, the storm starting to lose its power.
As he rode, he heard Sinclair shouting at his men, urging them to close with the scouts Brannigan had sent forward, and who still held on to a small patch of ground on the far side of the river. Many of the ambushers responded, gathering their reins before kicking their own horses into motion. Led by Sinclair, they charged forward, closing the distance on Adam and the handful of men with him.
Jack saw what Sinclair intended, yet he did not allow it to turn him from his course. He kicked on, forcing the tiring mare through the last of the shallows, then urging her up the far bank and into a gap between two stands of trees some two to three hundred yards upstream from the bridge, pushing on through the last of the undergrowth until he was on flat open ground. Only then did he change direction so that he was heading back towards the bridge.
He rode past the first man he came across, paying him no heed. Without the lightning casting its eerie glow, no one in Sinclair’s gang would know that a stranger was now behind them.
Shots still snapped through the air. Adam and his party of scouts would be able to see the shadowy forms advancing towards them. To their credit, they held their ground. Those still with rounds in their weapons fired, yet it was no easy thing to hit a man on a fast-moving horse, and just a single attacker was knocked from the saddle as Sinclair led his men on their madcap charge.
Jack felt a stray bullet whistle past a few feet over his head. It fired the fear that he held contained in his belly, yet he pushed it down and rode on, keeping his eyes on Sinclair.
The attackers charged into the group of scouts. What had been a long-range firefight descended into chaos. More shots were fired. Men from both sides died as the range closed to just a few yards.
Brannigan had seen what Sinclair intended. As Adam and his scouts stood firm, he led more of his men across the bridge. They came on fast, hooves clattering on the wooden planks, guns blazing. Sinclair’s ambushers saw them coming. Many turned, their revolvers returning fire so that two men close to Brannigan were shot down, their bodies tumbling from the saddle before finding a watery grave in the river.
The distance closed quickly. Brannigan and his men charged forward, revolvers and bowie knives in hand as the firefight descended into a chaotic, swirling melee.
As Jack surveyed the confusion, he saw Kat for the first time. She was riding not far from Bran
nigan’s side, her Remington revolver firing fast. She was not shirking the fight, and he felt a moment’s fear for her safety. The emotion disappeared as quickly as it had arrived. She was not his concern.
He pushed on, kicking his mare without mercy to find more speed. He kept his body low in the saddle, the sabre in his right hand held out so that he was ready to attack any man who came close. He followed Sinclair through the melee, dodging past a horse that went down with a scream of agony as a bullet buried itself in its neck, its rider thrown hard then trampled under the hooves of another horse being driven into the fight.
Sinclair was now in the heart of the skirmish. Even as Jack watched, he pulled a dry revolver from a holster on his right hip, the weapon saved for this moment. He was no more than two yards from one of Brannigan’s men, and Jack saw him lift the revolver, then fire. The bullet struck Brannigan’s man full in the face.
‘Brannigan!’
Jack was close enough to hear Sinclair call to his adversary. The ambushers’ leader had chosen his path well. Brannigan was no more than ten yards away. He called the name again, then fired, knocking another of Brannigan’s men out of the saddle.
This time Brannigan heard the shout, and Jack saw his head whip around. It was clear that he had been caught unawares.
Sinclair raked back his heels. His horse responded, stretching its neck and powering forward. He held the dry revolver outstretched, the barrel stock still, the muzzle aimed squarely at Brannigan.
Jack knew what was to come. He stayed low and let his horse run, giving the animal its head. He was barely a dozen yards behind Sinclair.
One of Brannigan’s men rode across Sinclair’s path, forcing him to slow. A single gunshot followed, the bullet thumping into the man’s chest with enough force to knock him from the saddle, his shocked cry cut off abruptly as he hit the ground.
Sinclair shouted in triumph as he aimed at Brannigan once again. The shot was so easy a child could take it. Brannigan was powerless to defend himself, his own revolver emptied of rounds.
The Lost Outlaw Page 11
