The Lost Outlaw

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘I can still beat people to death with it.’ Jack stared back at the gunsmith, expressionless.

  ‘I bet you could.’ The gunsmith’s face creased into a wide smile. ‘And looking at you, I reckon you’ve done that before too.’ He gave another bark of a laugh. ‘Have you got that rifle with you? I’d sure like to see it.’

  ‘No.’ Jack had left the repeater with the rest of his gear.

  ‘Well, I’ll have to console myself by taking a look at that gaudy Colt of yours.’ The gunsmith indicated the revolver in the holster on Jack’s right hip. ‘If I may?’

  Jack thought about refusing. But there was something about the man’s manner that he liked, so he slipped the weapon out of its holster and handed it over.

  ‘She’s a beauty,’ the gunsmith said admiringly. ‘A ’51 Navy Colt with custom ivory grips. Nicely polished, but no engraving on the barrel.’ He ran practised hands over the weapon. ‘Well cared for, too.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘But you’ve used it a lot. You don’t often see a gun with this much wear and tear.’ His eyes focused on the thick scar that was only partially covered by Jack’s beard. He made no remark of it, but the comparison between weapon and owner was clear.

  As he handed the revolver back, the gunsmith raised a finger, as if struck by a sudden thought. ‘You know, I have something here that might interest you.’

  He carefully tucked Brannigan’s list under a corner of his ledger, then disappeared into the lines of shelves. He came back carrying a single handgun, cradled in his hands like a newborn babe.

  ‘You’ll sure appreciate this, if you’ve got yourself a Henry.’ His voice was hushed and almost reverential.

  Jack had never felt much for most of his weapons. They were the tools of his trade, nothing more. The only exception had been the Colt that now sat in his holster, and his talwar, a thing of beauty that had been given to him by an Indian ruler as a reward for the saving of a life, and which he had lost in the chaos of Delhi. He would never see the sword’s like again, not in his lifetime. That thought, and the touch of its loss, made him feel a moment’s anger, so that he almost snatched the proffered weapon from the gunsmith’s hand.

  The first thing that struck him about it was its similarity to his Henry repeater. It had the same shape and feel, even though it was only the size of a large revolver, albeit with a longer barrel. There was a ring-lever mechanism around the trigger similar to the one on his repeating rifle, and a comparable magazine, with follower and spring underneath the barrel. Its frame was made from brass, with a flared handle with wooden grips and an octagonal barrel that he guessed was about eight inches long.

  ‘It’s a Volcanic Navy pistol, made in ’56 by the Volcanic Repeating Arms Company – that’s the same folk who would go on to produce your Henry.’ The gunsmith spoke in the hushed tones of a worshipper entering a cathedral. ‘She holds ten rounds and I promise you won’t find another gun with a faster rate of fire. She’s quicker to load than any revolver too.’

  Jack inspected the pistol, holding it in his left hand as he did in battle. It was a fine-looking weapon, but he could not imagine using it. It was heavy to the point of feeling clumsy, and he could not see how you could crank the ring lever without using both hands, something he could not afford to do in battle if he were holding his sabre in his right hand.

  ‘Does it fire the same ammunition as the Henry?’ he asked as he handed it back.

  ‘Similar, but not the same. She fires a rocket ball.’ The gunsmith paused, then reached into a pocket and produced a small conical bullet. ‘This is it. It’s been hollowed out, a bit like a Minié ball. There’s a pellet of priming compound in the base with the main powder charge inside. The whole thing is sealed with cork, here at the bottom, making it waterproof, unlike the paper cartridges you carry for those revolvers of yours.’ He twirled the bullet around in his fingers to show his small audience what he was talking about. ‘In here,’ he pointed a thick finger at the centre of the base, ‘is a small anvil. The firing pin on the gun’s hammer will hit it with enough force to fire the priming compound, which ignites the charge and shoots the whole thing out of the barrel.’ He paused again, then tossed the bullet to Jack.

  Jack snatched it out of the air and made a play of inspecting it. ‘If it all goes out the barrel, then it can’t be that powerful.’ He was thinking about the rimfire cartridge on his Henry. When that was fired, the empty casing remained in the weapon and was ejected when the ring lever was moved. The Volcanic pistol was different, in that the whole cartridge was fired down the barrel. That made for a heavy, unwieldy bullet, and he could not see how the small amount of charge inside it could generate enough power for it to be a killer.

  The gunsmith smiled and nodded. ‘You have that right. This thing ain’t going to gun a man down at a thousand yards. But you get this beauty up close and personal, and you’ve got yourself one hell of a weapon.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Jack sounded dubious. To his mind, it was still too clumsy for a weapon that was intended to replace his revolver.

  ‘Can I see it?’ Kat had stayed out of the conversation thus far. Now she reached for the Volcanic pistol.

  Jack handed it over. The weapon was not for him. He trusted his Colt. But he could see something in Kat’s eyes as she handled it. He recognised the spark of desire well enough.

  ‘How much ammunition have you got for it?’ He asked the question of the gunsmith, but kept his eyes on Kat, who was holding the weapon outstretched in her right hand so that she could sight down the barrel.

  ‘Five hundred rounds.’

  ‘There’s lucky,’ Jack said wryly.

  ‘I’ve got four hundred for your Henry, too. Four boxes of a hundred each.’

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t have any?’ Jack’s reply was sharp.

  ‘That’s when I was trying to buy the weapon from you.’ The honest answer was given without a trace of shame.

  ‘And now you’re selling.’ Jack could only smile as he recognised the change of tack.

  ‘You want to buy the Volcanic?’

  ‘No.’ Jack looked the gunsmith in the eye. ‘But I reckon she might.’

  ‘Who’s she, the cat’s goddam mother?’ Kat interjected. But the Volcanic pistol was clearly distracting her. She was now cranking the ring lever around the trigger and watching carefully as the bolt slid backwards and the cradle for the bullet moved up and down.

  ‘How much?’ Jack asked the pertinent question.

  ‘So you are buying.’ The gunsmith lifted his right hand, his fingers reaching out to toy with his moustache.

  ‘Maybe. Depends on your price.’

  ‘One hundred dollars.’ The answer was swift. ‘That’s for the pistol and its ammunition, plus the cartridges you need for your Henry.’

  Jack snorted. A hundred dollars was a fortune. A second-hand Colt could be had for ten, whilst a brand-new Remington revolver like the one Kat carried cost around fifteen. Prices would be higher here, but it was still an exorbitant amount.

  ‘It’s a good price. No one else can sell you the rounds you need.’

  ‘No one else will buy them. I don’t reckon there’s another Henry within five hundred miles of this place.’

  ‘Then I’ll hold on to them. Someone will want them. At my price.’

  ‘I’d rather go without.’

  ‘It’s your choice.’ The gunsmith smiled. The game was on. ‘But then that fancy-ass rifle of yours ain’t worth carrying, and you may as well sell it to me and get yourself something you can actually use. I’ll do you a good price on a Maynard carbine.’

  ‘I don’t want a Maynard.’ Jack looked the gunsmith in the eye. ‘Seventy-five dollars, for everything, and you throw in a holster and gun belt for the Volcanic.’

  ‘Done.’ The gunsmith reached out a hand. ‘You got yourself a deal.’

  Jack shook the man’s hand and even managed to smile. It was a small fortune, but it was also part of the money he had won from the wager with Brannigan. It was
dirty money, tainted with blood, and he was happy to be rid of it. Besides, he was not spending it on himself. He had long ago learned the value of giving a gift.

  He looked at Kat. ‘So you like that thing?’

  Kat made a face, as if she were unsure. ‘I saw what your Henry did in the fight with Sinclair’s fellows. That there Volcanic ain’t the same, I know that much, but it’s as close as I’m likely to be able to get down here. I could keep my Remington and put that on my other side.’ She patted her left hip to demonstrate what she meant. ‘Ten rounds out of that would sure give me options.’

  She looked at Jack. She might be playing it cool, but he could see the desire in her eyes. She wanted the Volcanic.

  ‘But I ain’t paying that much for it.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s yours. I’ll keep the cartridges for my Henry. You get the Volcanic and its ammunition. I’m sure chummy over there will find you a gun belt that fits you.’

  ‘What do you want in return?’ Kat spoke bluntly, looking Jack dead in the eye. She did not glance away or play coy.

  ‘Nothing.’

  She arched her eyebrows. ‘That the truth?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘You swear it?’

  ‘I swear.’ Jack was lying, but he was good at that. He liked Kat, and he knew he would not be able to resist asking her for something more than friendship. It just waited to be seen if he would be gelded for his trouble, or if she would accept him for what he was.

  ‘You sure about this, Jack?’

  ‘It’s Brannigan’s money.’ He found it easy to match Kat’s smile. ‘I didn’t exactly earn it.’

  ‘Then thank you. I’ll find a way to repay you.’

  ‘It’s fine, honestly. It’s my pleasure.’ He held Kat’s gaze. He did not mind spending the money. Money came and money went. It was not to be hoarded, or held fast for a rainy day that might never come. It was just another tool, like the weapons that he carried and the horse that he rode. It was a means to an end, nothing more.

  ‘Come on, I’ve got something I want to show you.’ Kat made the offer as they walked away from the gunsmith’s establishment. She was wearing the Volcanic on her lefthip, its long holster close to the length of her thigh. It had taken a while to find a small enough gun belt. The one she now wore had only been unearthed after much rummaging around by the gunsmith, who had had to bore new holes in the leather so that it fitted her.

  Neither spoke as they walked back through the town, then across the San Antonio River via a footbridge. It was only when their destination came into sight that Kat broke the silence.

  ‘Have you heard the story of this place?’

  ‘I’ve heard bugger all else all week from your bloody mates.’

  ‘They don’t have much in the way of conversation.’ She smiled at Jack’s exasperated tone. ‘But they’re good boys, every last one of ’em. If there’s trouble, you’ll be glad they’re there.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ Jack believed her. Brannigan’s men might not have much to say of interest, but they were a capable bunch who knew their trade.

  They walked on. Jack could just make out the top of a grand building over the walls that surrounded it. There was a gate in the south wall, and he could see a pair of bored sentries stationed outside, both wearing the pale grey of the Confederate army.

  Kat led them straight towards the gate. To Jack’s surprise, neither sentry bothered to challenge them, and he could only suppose that so many people came and went that the soldiers had long ago learned they were there for nothing more than decoration.

  They walked through into a large plaza that was a good couple of acres in size. Thick walls surrounded it, and there were two single-storey stone buildings along the flanks. At the far end stood the mission. It was a two-storey building made from white stone, with a raised scalloped section in the centre of the upper storey that to Jack’s eyes looked newer than the lower sections of the front facade. At its top flew the Stars and Bars flag of the Confederacy.

  The plaza was buzzing with activity. From what Jack could see, the whole place had been turned into some sort of supply depot. A long line of wooden tables stretched along one wall, and dozens of offices and storage rooms had been erected around the stone buildings. At least a dozen wagons were parked in two neat lines to one side of the great plaza, and he could see what looked to be a blacksmith’s forge tucked near one group of offices.

  It was only as they approached the mission that Jack could see the scars of the battle Brannigan’s men had talked of. There were pockmarks in the stone, and dozens of places where the walls had been patched with newer stone. He felt the fine hairs at the back of his neck tingle as he imagined the fighting that had taken place on the very spot on which he now stood.

  He knew what it was like to be involved in such a fight. He had stormed enemy strongholds, first in Persia, and then again at Delhi. He remembered the fear of running towards the walls, and the way he had seemed to be moving so slowly no matter how hard he strained every muscle for speed. He remembered the feeling of helplessness as the first bullets spat into the earth around his boots, the moment of fear when there was nothing to be done save to run forward and pray not to be hit.

  And he had been on the other side, mounting a desperate defence against the forces of a rebellious maharajah in the British cantonment at Bhundapur. He recalled the moment the maharajah’s troops had launched their final assault, and just for a moment, he caught a whiff of something burning. It stirred the memories, bringing them to life with startling clarity. The smell coming from the blacksmith’s forge turned into the taint of powder smoke, and he closed his eyes, seeing the defenders falling, men he had come to know and like dying as he stood with his small command, preparing to make their futile last stand.

  ‘Are you all right, Jack?’

  He opened his eyes to find Kat watching him closely. The memories swirled in his mind, refusing to disappear. He was back in the present, yet somehow still lost in the past. He felt the sun on his face, warming his skin, and he relished it, the heat forcing away the cold touch of death that had been released with the remembrance of his bitter history.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he replied, but his voice caught in his throat, betraying him.

  ‘Do you want to talk?’

  ‘No.’ This time the single word came out firmly. He meant it. He did not want to talk.

  ‘I wouldn’t have brought you here if I’d known it would upset you so.’ Kat reached out, her hand resting on Jack’s upper arm.

  Jack was aware that she was touching him, yet he could barely feel the placement of her fingers on his arm. He looked around, taking in the scene. There were many others nearby, bustling this way and that as they went about their business with purposeful steps. Yet somehow it felt as if they were the only ones present.

  The melancholy air of the place wrapped around him once again, chilling and cold despite the sun’s heat. He could almost see the ghosts then, the spirits that lived in this place of death, of suffering, making themselves known to him. They welcomed him into their world, recognising him as the killer he was. The faces of the dead started to flash past his eyes. They came in a great rush: people that he had loved and lost; those he had hated and killed. Others followed, some with names, then the legions he had slain in battle, their faces captured in perfect clarity at the moment of their death. They filled his mind so that he no longer saw the brightly sunlit plaza.

  Something soft pressed against his lips. It lingered there, tender and calming. He felt warm breath whisper across his skin, the promise of life and more bringing him back to the present in a rush, the faces that haunted him whipped away and replaced by that of Kat as she kissed him.

  He broke the kiss, pushing her from him. This was not the place. Not the time. He wanted her, he knew that, but not here, not when the dead surrounded him.

  ‘Jack?’ Her face revealed her confusion and concer
n.

  ‘Let’s go. Brannigan will wonder where we’ve got to.’ His tone was made harsh by the sudden rush of desire. He shivered. The memories left the cold buried deep inside him. Nothing, not even the touch of the woman in front of him, could warm him.

  Kat searched his face, her eyes flickering back and forth, before she smiled and took a pace backwards, her hands falling to her sides. She said nothing as she turned her back and began to walk towards the gate.

  Jack stood where he was, his eyes lingering on the woman he had pushed away. He sighed, wondering at his own sanity. Then he set off after her, knowing that the dead would come with him, just as they always did.

  Jack walked across the rocky outcrop until he found a place where he could see the lie of the land ahead. The train had stopped for the day, and the wagons had been arranged into a defensive circle that Brannigan’s men called a corral. The men themselves would not be allowed to rest. Some would be sent out immediately on picket duty, taking up sentry posts a few hundred yards away from the wagons to give warning should anyone approach. The rest would eat, then get what rest they could until it was their time for guard duty.

  He pulled out his field glasses from their leather case and scanned the ground ahead, searching for something other than the dun, drab colours of the sandy wasteland through which they now trudged. He sighed. There was nothing to look at, nothing but mile upon mile of sod bloody all.

  They had left San Antonio after two days of rest. The beginning of the journey had been spent travelling an undulating landscape dotted with fine oak trees and any number of creeks and streams. That pleasant rolling countryside had given way to a boundless prairie. There had been cattle feeding as far as the eye could see. It made for a dull ride, but the going for the wagons was good, and there was plenty of fodder for the animals.

  They had stopped at a place called King’s Ranch, the last major stop on the trail before they hit the infamous sands. There Brannigan had spent money like water to make sure his men would have all they would need. He had purchased dozens of hundred-pound boxes containing great hunks of bacon, which he had ordered to be filled with bran so that the fat on the meat would not melt away in the heat that was to come. They still had strips of beef from earlier in the journey, and more of it was bought to supplement the meat ration, along with salt, sugar, tobacco and butter. Then there was coarse flour in weighty sacks, along with crates of the inevitable hardtack, and as many sacks of coffee beans as they could fit into the spare space in the wagons. Alongside these rations were great blocks of desiccated vegetables, the foul-tasting rock-hard substance that could be boiled into something that almost resembled a vegetable soup, and which was universally hated by every man in the wagon train.