There were also risks in leaving Brannigan’s employ. Not every wagon train was paid for by private individuals like Vaughan’s master, the plantation owner Trevathlon. Many were under the command of the Confederate quartermaster based in San Antonio, who was charged with taking the government’s share of cotton down to the willing buyers in Mexico. With the power of conscription at his disposal, the quartermaster, a Major Simeon Hart, was not the sort of employer any of the men would choose, the wages he paid just a fraction of what they could earn working for a private merchant. Major Hart was also in charge of issuing the export permits the private wagon trains would need if they were to be allowed to take their cotton south. That made him one of the most powerful men in these parts, and not one to be crossed.
Then there was Brannigan himself. Few of his men would risk leaving his employ for any amount of money. Jack had heard many a gruesome tale around the nightly campfires of what had happened to those who had tried to walk away from the gang. He was not naive enough to believe every last detail, the men just like soldiers in their inclination to embellish, but the stories all had one thing in common: those who left Brannigan did not live long to enjoy the experience. The men had relished recounting the many and various ways, all cruel and many vile, in which Brannigan had killed those who abandoned him. It left Jack in no doubt whatsoever that signing on to the gang was a lifelong commitment. The only uncertainty was quite how long that life would be.
He walked away from the main plaza, then turned on to Commerce Street, following the simple directions Brannigan had given him. San Antonio was not a large town. It boasted a cathedral with a fine bell tower, and a large fort called the Mission de Valero, which Brannigan’s men had referred to as the Alamo. As the wagon train had drawn closer to San Antonio, the men had regaled one another with tales of a great battle fought there between Texan rebels and the Mexican army commanded by Antonio Santa Anna. Jack did not believe all he was told, but the main thrust of the tale was that fewer than two hundred Texans had defended the Alamo against over two thousand Mexican soldiers for thirteen days before finally being defeated in a bloody battle that saw the Texans wiped out and hundreds of Mexicans killed.
‘Hey, Jack! Wait up.’
Jack heard his name being called. He recognised the voice at once, and smiled as he turned to see Kat striding towards him.
As he waited for her to catch up, he did his best not to stare. As ever, her hair was bound tightly behind her head and hidden under a wide-brimmed hat. At first glance, it would be easy to take her for a young man. She wore the same clothes as the other men, from the pointed boots that were shaped to slip easily into a stirrup, whilst the thick leather sides protected the wearer from snake bites and scorpion stings, to the brightly coloured bandana that was worn loose around the neck so that it could be pulled up to cover the mouth, and so prevent at least some of the dust and sand of the trail from being inhaled. Her brown trousers were well worn at the thigh, and around her waist was a thick leather belt with a holster containing a six-shot Remington revolver. She sported the brown jacket with fringing that he had first seen her wearing when she and Adam had come to his campfire, and underneath it a plain grey collarless shirt.
‘You got that list?’ She fired the question as she came close.
‘Right here.’
‘Least you can do something right.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Jack was immediately on the defensive.
‘Shooting Sinclair was a damn-fool move.’ Kat came to stand in front of him. She was tall enough not to have to crane her neck to look him dead in the eye.
‘Why?’
‘Because it ain’t what Brannigan wanted.’
‘And he always gets what he wants?’
‘Always.’
He grunted by way of response. He had not given the shooting of Sinclair much thought. Killing a man, even one who was dying, should have meant more, he knew that, but to him it was just another death, and a merciful one at that. It had not affected him in any way. The notion sat badly in his mind. He had given more thought to how to secure himself better rations than he had to the death of a man who had perished at his hand.
‘Next time, just do as he says.’ Kat lifted a hand to screen her eyes from the sun as she looked at Jack.
‘Like you do?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bollocks. You’d not be sporting that shiner if you were such a good girl.’
Kat scowled. The skin around her right eye was puffy and bruised from where Brannigan had belted her. ‘Call me “girl” again and I’ll give you a goddam shiner.’ She understood the strange word well enough to use it for herself.
Jack wanted to laugh at such a belligerent answer, but he held back, knowing it would likely do him no good at all.
‘So like I said, you need to do as he says. Otherwise there’ll be trouble.’ Kat repeated her advice.
‘No.’ His reply was not defiance, or a way of attempting to impress the young woman standing in front of him. It was the simple, blunt truth. He was his own man now. Nothing and no one would change that.
‘No?’ Kat shook her head at such a recalcitrant answer. ‘You think you know better?’
‘At times I do.’ He searched her eyes as he tried to assess her reaction. ‘Do you do what Brannigan says? No matter what you think and no matter how many times he clouts you around the head?’
‘Yes.’ Kat’s reply was stony.
‘So you’re just another damn lickspittle.’ He shook his head in disappointment. He had thought there might be more to her than that.
‘What the hell is that when it’s at home?’
‘You do whatever he says, as soon as he says it. No questions asked.’ He made no attempt to hide his displeasure as he gave the definition. ‘Am I right?’
‘Something like that.’ Kat’s brow furrowed. She clearly did not like the tone Jack had taken.
‘Does that include slipping into his bedroll whenever he wants you?’ The question came from his lips before it had time to form in his mind.
Kat’s right hand moved fast. The punch it delivered clipped Jack’s jaw with enough force to rock him back on his heels.
‘You got yourself a filthy goddam mind there, Jack.’ She glowered at him.
Jack raised a hand and used it to nurse his jaw. He had been slapped a few times in his life, but Kat’s punch hurt. He ran his tongue around his mouth. He was sure she had loosened a tooth.
‘So you’re not his woman?’
‘You want me to hit you again?’ She pulled back her arm.
‘All right, enough.’ He lifted both hands as if to ward her away. ‘I apologise. It was a damn-fool question.’ He borrowed her turn of phrase in an attempt to mollify her.
‘You got that right.’ Kat lowered her fist. ‘I ain’t no one’s woman, Jack. Don’t plan to be neither.’
‘What about Adam? The lad is besotted with you.’ Jack wanted to know the lie of the land, even if that meant getting another smack in the chops.
‘Adam?’ Kat looked astonished at the idea. ‘He’s no more than a boy.’
‘You stood up for him. Took a punch for him too.’
‘I’m just looking out for him. He’s too stupid to do that for hisself.’
‘Well, I reckon he’s taken quite a shine to you.’
‘If he has, which I doubt, then he’s as big a fool as you. I don’t plan to saddle myself with anyone – not Brannigan, not Adam, not anyone.’ There was a warning in her tone.
‘That must be hard. Out here.’ Jack had seen enough of the world to know the dangers Kat faced.
‘The boys know not to try anything now.’
‘Did one of them have a go?’ Jack heard what was left unsaid.
‘Once.’ A flicker of something that might have been a smile crossed Kat’s face.
‘And?’
‘That man ain’t here no more.’
‘You killed him?’
‘I gelded the son of a bi
tch.’
‘Jesus.’ Jack winced at the notion. ‘Did he live?’
‘For a bit. At least until Brannigan shot him.’
The answer went some way to explaining her loyalty to Brannigan. The gang leader allowed her to live the life she wanted without interference. That was a powerful thing. Jack was sure she would never admit to it, but he reckoned she knew that Brannigan protected her and gave her the opportunity to be something she could not be without his help.
‘It must be lonely.’
‘You would know.’ Kat’s retort was sharp. ‘You reckon I need a man to be happy? You think I need a baby in my belly and a man running my life to be complete?’
Jack sighed. He had set off a firecracker. Now all he could do was wait for the display to be over.
‘What about your family?’
‘I don’t have any family. Not any more.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘They were killed. Murdered by some goddam bushwhackers for little more than the clothes on their back. We didn’t have much worth stealing. My brother and I only survived because we hid ourselves away.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘Brannigan looked after both of us. Took us with him wherever he went. When we were old enough, we started to work for him. My damn fool of a brother was good at it too. Everyone said he would be a wagon master hisself one day. Then he went off and the Yankees put paid to all that.’
Jack noted the way Kat spoke in a dry, clipped tone, as if keeping the memory at arm’s length. He knew why she would do that; he had enough memories of his own. ‘Where did your brother die?’
‘Shiloh.’
The one-word answer resonated in Jack’s mind. He had been at the fight around Pittsburg Landing in Tennessee, and had seen enough to know that it had been a brutal and bloody battle.
‘I’m sorry.’ He spoke with utmost honesty.
‘I told him not to go.’ Kat looked away. ‘I told him what would happen.’
Jack could hear the emotion in her voice. For a moment, he saw behind the tough, capable exterior she maintained to keep the world away. It was like a hidden door opening to give a tantalising glimpse of what lay beyond.
‘You were right,’ he said.
‘That don’t matter none. Not now.’ Kat’s tone hardened. The door was slammed shut.
‘Is that why you look out for Adam? Because you miss your brother?’ Jack was connecting the dots.
‘No.’ The answer was immediate.
Jack smiled. He knew he was right, despite her denial. He was learning a lot. It appeared that Brannigan had a habit of collecting waifs and strays, and he wondered why that was. ‘So now you’re all alone. Save for your good chum Brannigan.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you have to do whatever he says.’
‘I tell you this, Jack: I live my own damn life. I don’t need some man telling me what to do, or where to go. Do you understand me?’
‘I understand.’
‘Good. I don’t want to have to punch you again. Next time, I’ll knock you on your goddam backside.’
Jack smiled. He knew she was more than capable of making good on her promise. ‘I apologise, ma’am, for any offence I may have caused.’ He put on an upper-class accent in parody of an English gentleman. He was relieved to see half a smile appear on Kat’s face.
‘I’m glad we understand each other,’ she said. ‘Now we’d better get on with that list of Brannigan’s. I don’t think he’ll take kindly to us standing around chattering away when there’s work to be done.’
Jack nodded in agreement. He was glad to see her anger had subsided. It had been an interesting conversation, one that was almost worth getting clouted for. He had learned much; not least that Kat was not with Brannigan. The idea set off a chain of thought that he knew he should curtail. Yet it was there, lingering in his mind like a furtive shadow that he suspected would slip into his thoughts much more often than it should.
The gunsmith was located in a side street not far from the main plaza. Jack and Kat were not the only customers, and they were forced to idle away a good twenty minutes outside as they waited for the two men in front of them to conclude their business.
The smell of the place hit Jack the moment he stepped over the threshold. The twin aromas of gun oil and powder were as familiar to him as the stink of gin and sweat had been in his youth. The shop had a long wooden display case facing the door, its glazed top allowing the customers to gaze down at an array of pistols and their accoutrements – or at least Jack believed that was its original purpose. Instead, the view was of dozens of half-opened packets of ammunition, a number of parts that could, with patience, be reassembled into revolvers, and three unrecognisable stuffed animals with raggedy fur, patches of bare, overly pink skin, and glass eyes that made them look as though they were lost in an opiate-induced daze.
Behind the counter were two long musket racks that boasted a single ancient smoothbore flintlock musket between them, and on the side wall were a series of shelves that were nearly bare save for a dozen cardboard ammunition boxes, all of which had already been opened. Jack’s hope of finding cartridges for his Henry repeater fell into his boots. Given what was on display, they would be lucky to be able to buy cartridges for their revolvers, let alone anything more.
‘Hold yourselves there. I’ll be out directly.’ A voice came from behind a curtain that Jack surmised screened off a back room. The thick Southern drawl reminded him of Kat’s mimicry when she had attempted to tease secrets from the unfortunate Sinclair.
They were left to kick their heels for five more minutes before the curtain was eased back and a man entered, taking up station behind the wooden display case and its sad array of items. He was short and stout, with a bald head and the fattest moustache that Jack had ever seen.
‘Now then, fellas, what can I get for you all today?’ The gunsmith smiled as he finally got around to dealing with his customers.
‘We’ve got a list for you.’ Jack spoke first, his tone making it abundantly clear that he thought he was wasting his time. ‘But we’ll just have whatever you’ve got.’
The gunsmith smiled as he took the list and perused it, his finger moving slowly from one item to the next.
‘Have you got anything on that list?’ Jack could not help trying to gee the man along.
‘One moment there, sir.’ The words were delivered slowly and deliberately.
For her part, Kat simply looked at Jack and smiled. Clearly she saw his impatience and it amused her.
‘You want all of this today?’ The gunsmith finally reached the end of the list and glanced up.
Jack made a play of looking around him, his eyes scanning the barren shelves. ‘We’ll just take whatever you have.’ He could not help sighing.
‘Oh, I have it all. I just need to know if you want it today or tomorrow.’ The gunsmith shot Jack a withering stare, then turned his attention to his companion. ‘It’s Kat, isn’t it?’
‘I wondered if you would remember me,’ Kat replied.
‘We don’t get many pretty girls down here. Least not ones that know their guns.’ The gunsmith gave another smile, then turned slowly and moved towards the curtain. ‘Come on now, come back here and let’s see what we got.’
Pulling a wry face at Jack, Kat moved around the counter and followed the man into the back room. Jack hesitated for a moment, wondering how much of a fool he had just made of himself, then stepped through the curtain after her. The sight that greeted him was enough to make him gasp.
The room was at least ten times larger than the one that faced the street. Sunlight streamed in from two enormous skylights that made up a good half of the ceiling. All four walls were lined with musket racks, and there was not a single space on any of them. Much of the floor was filled with shelving, each unit packed to capacity with wooden ammunition crates, and great stacks of the card packages that contained revolver cartridges in packets of six. Another smal
l series of racks stood in a long line at right angles to the shelving, each one holding a bewildering array of revolvers, many of which Jack did not recognise. Still more were laid out on a large dining table, which was where the gunsmith was now bent over, cross-referencing the list Jack had handed over against entries in a black leather-bound ledger.
Kat moved forward to stand at the gunsmith’s side. It was only then that she turned to raise both eyebrows at Jack in a silent rebuke for his doubts.
For his part, Jack walked reverentially to the nearest rack to run his hands over the first weapon he came to: a brand-new Springfield rifled musket that was identical to those carried by his former regiment at the first battle fought at the Bull Run River. He could feel the sheen of protective oil that had been put on by the factory, the touch of it, and its smell, bringing back the memories of the summer he had spent with the men from Boston.
‘Who is this last item for?’ The gunsmith had reached the final entry on the list.
Kat leaned forward. ‘That’s for him.’
The enigmatic answer was enough for the gunsmith to straighten up, then turn to face Jack. ‘Sir, have you really got yourself a Henry repeater?’
Jack nodded.
‘And you want six hundred rounds of rimfire cartridges?’
‘I’ll take more if you have them.’
The gunsmith barked a short laugh at the notion. ‘I take it you know how rare that rifle of yours is?’
‘I do.’ Jack’s Henry was a special weapon, one that he had yet to see anyone else carrying. He had taken it from a man sent to kill him, and he had no notion how that man had been able to get his hands on such an exceptional item.
‘Would you be of a mind to sell it?’
‘No.’
‘Not even if I tell you I ain’t got a single one of them fancy-ass rimfire cartridges?’
‘No.’
‘Not even if I tell you that there ain’t a single one of them fancy-ass rimfire cartridges anywhere in the whole of Texas?’
‘No.’
‘It ain’t no use to you with no ammunition.’
The Lost Outlaw Page 14
