Jack had been very interested to discover that Brannigan had also bought small sacks of antiscorbutic powder, which the cook would mix with water and essence of lemon to produce a drink that would prevent his men from developing scurvy. Few enjoyed it save for Vaughan, who claimed it to be more suited to his palate than the raw, rough whiskey that was purchased in large quantities and packed away with as much care as Brannigan’s men could bestow.
At King’s Ranch, Brannigan had also signed up four Tejanos. The men did not look like much, to Jack’s eyes at least. All were a little ragged around the edges, their clothing weather-beaten, as though they had been on the trail for months on end without any respite. Jack had tried to speak to them just the once, but he had been rewarded with nothing more than a grunt and a look of disdain for his trouble. Since the moment they joined the gang, the Tejanos had kept themselves to themselves, even eating away from the rest of the group.
Not one of the Texans minded. Jack had overheard enough comments to know that the men of Brannigan’s gang looked down on the Tejanos. It reminded him of the way the Hindus and Muslims had treated each other in India. The gulf between the two groups was simply too great for anyone to cross, their differences a chasm so deep and so wide that it would take more than a few well-meant comments to bridge. But for all their natural dislike and animosity, Brannigan’s men were still happy to see the Tejanos at work, and they made up for some of the losses the wagon train had suffered at the hands of Sinclair’s gang.
After King’s Ranch, the wagon train had left the prairie behind. They now followed a trail through the wide, flat expanse known as the sands, a vast wasteland that was little more than one great sea of sand, broken only by a smattering of mesquite trees, prickly pear cactus, salt licks and rat ranches, the large molehills made from sticks and mud by the thousands of rats that called the place home. The sand covered Jack’s clothing and worked its way into every nook, crease and crevice on his body. He could taste it in everything he ate, and he could sense it sticking in his throat after everything that he drank. When the wagon train stopped for the night, he was forced to spend hours cleaning his weapons to remove the grains that stuck to their every working part, knowing that they would be back there the next day, and the day after, and the day after that.
So far, the pernicious sand was the only enemy he had faced. None of the threats Brannigan had warned of had tried to interfere with their progress. Jack had talked with the other men. They all believed the wagon train would make it to Brownsville without any interference. They were certain that the tale of Sinclair’s death would have spread far and wide. It would be a brave – or foolhardy – bandolero who would risk taking on Brannigan and his well-armed killers.
Jack lowered his field glasses then pulled out his canteen. He took no more than a mouthful of the warm, brackish water, then shook the canteen, listening to the sound of the liquid sloshing around inside. This far out, water was a precious resource, but he had learned in the violent heat of the Indian mofussil and the depths of the Persian desert to take care of his supplies. He would not run out before they were allowed a refill from the precious barrels that held the only water they would find as they traversed the sands.
The rocky outcrop he had chosen for his vantage point was crowned with a large mesquite tree that was at least fifty feet tall. The tough mesquites, with their vicious three-inch thorns, were one of the few living things that could survive in the sands, and they dotted the landscape, either standing alone or in forlorn huddles. Any near the trail were decorated with cotton snagged from the endless wagon trains that passed, the white fibres sticking out like spring blossom. The crooked trees also offered the men an emergency source of food: the seedpods they produced could be chewed raw or boiled until they were soft.
He lifted his field glasses again, then slowly panned around, taking in the great expanse of nothingness. He heard the soft scuff of footsteps as someone approached, but he did not let them interrupt his survey, and kept moving, scanning the landscape at his own speed.
‘Brannigan wants you.’
Jack recognised the voice behind the summons easily enough. ‘I’ll be there directly.’ He said nothing more as he finished his circle. Only then did he lower his glasses to look down at the man who had come to interrupt him.
‘You need to go now.’ Adam stood at the bottom of the outcrop. His face was flushed from the scorching heat.
‘I’ll be there directly.’ Jack snapped the reply. Adam’s enmity was wearing. The young man still hero-worshipped Brannigan, despite the beating he had received, aping his actions and manner in every way possible. Jack he despised.
‘Don’t you ever do what you’re told?’
‘It depends who’s telling me.’
Jack put his field glasses back into their case, then started to clamber carefully down, checking the ground around his boots as he went. He had been warned about the rattlesnakes that infested the sands, but he had doubted the dreadful tales the men told of their dangerous nature right up until he had seen his first one. There was something in the rattle from the reptile’s tail that had quite terrified him. Even seeing one of Brannigan’s men grab the snake around the neck then sever its head with a bowie knife had done nothing to shift his new-found fear.
‘Goddam Englishman.’ Adam sneered, then turned away.
‘What’s your bloody problem, boy?’ Jack gave his tongue free rein. He was hot and tired. The searing heat of the sands eroded everyone’s temper, and at that moment, Adam’s antagonism pushed his over the edge.
‘You, you’re my goddam problem.’ Adam turned sharply on his heel. As ever, his hand fell to the revolver in its holster.
‘You need to take that needle out of your balls, boy.’ Jack scrambled down the last of the rocks and came to stand no more than six yards in front of Adam. ‘And you need to learn to grow the fuck up.’
‘And you need to stop telling everyone what to damn well do.’ Adam took an angry pace forward. ‘We’re all sick of hearing your whiny English voice.’
‘Is that so?’ Jack turned his head to look away into the desert. He knew he should keep his temper in check. Nothing good could come of this confrontation. He held the pose, sucking his anger down. Only when he believed he had it under control did he turn back and start to walk towards the wagons.
‘You don’t like hearing the truth, huh?’ Adam was doing his best to nettle Jack. Jack ignored him. ‘That’s it, keep on walking. Get back to your bedroll. You need some rest before you go back to licking Brannigan’s ass.’
Jack stopped and held up a hand. ‘That’s enough, boy.’
‘It’s time it was said.’
Jack turned. He did not want the confrontation, but he would not avoid it. It had been coming for a while.
He took a few paces to one side, so that the sun was behind him and shining directly into Adam’s face. ‘So are you going to tell me what’s bothering you, boy?’
‘You.’
He pulled a face at such a poor answer. ‘Come on, you can do better than that.’
Adam half sneered, half smiled as he got the quarrel he wanted. ‘You like telling everyone what’s what. It ain’t so much fun hearing it.’
‘And you’re the big man who’s going to tell me?’
‘Mebbe.’
‘Go on then.’ Jack’s temper was fraying. He stalked forward, closing the gap between him and the younger man.
Adam did not hesitate. His revolver was in his hand in a heartbeat, the muzzle aimed towards Jack.
‘Are you going to shoot me?’ Jack kept walking. He did not look at the revolver once. Instead he kept his gaze on Adam’s eyes. ‘You want to shoot me down, then here I am.’ He spread his hands as he closed the distance between them. ‘There ain’t no one around to see it.’ When he was just a yard away, he stopped. ‘You want to kill me, then pull that fucking trigger.’
Adam’s face contorted, his lips curling as if Jack was force-feeding him a turd.
> ‘Killing a man up close and personal ain’t easy, is it, boy?’ Jack took a deliberate step forward so that the muzzle of Adam’s revolver was against his breastbone. ‘You want me dead? Then all you’ve got to do is pull that trigger.’ He pressed forward, pushed the gun backwards. He held himself there for several long seconds; then, without warning, he snatched the revolver from Adam’s hand.
‘Seems you don’t have the balls for killing.’ His face was barely an inch from Adam’s. ‘I’ve seen you. You’ve got all the fancy tricks. Spinning that gun around your finger like it’s a bloody toy. And I’ve seen you in a fight. You’re good, I’ll give you that. Brave, too. But it’s easy when your enemy is far enough away that you can’t see who it is you’re shooting at. It’s different when the man you want to kill is in your bloody face. When you can see his eyes. When you can see his soul.’
He had said enough. He reached out and pushed Adam in the chest with enough force to send the younger man staggering backwards. Then he turned on a sixpence and walked away, tossing the revolver into the dirt as he did so.
‘You draw a gun on me again and I’ll kill you.’ He fired the warning without turning, confident that the lesson had been delivered. It had been needed. The lad was a fool who would get himself killed if he didn’t wise up fast. Jack did not want to see that happen. Adam was still young. There was still time for him to learn.
Brownsville, Texas
Jack was heartily relieved when the wagon train rolled into Brownsville. It had been more than five weeks since they had left San Antonio, and after the best part of four hundred miles on the trail, the little Texan town looked a veritable Babylon. The simple houses lining the broad, straight streets were made of wood. The first ones they passed looked recently built, the wood still bright and yet to be weathered by the harsh, unforgiving climate. It spoke of a rapidly expanding settlement, the brisk and profitable trade across the Rio Grande enticing more and more people to live in this remote corner of the United States.
‘I don’t know about you, Jack, but I sure am glad to be back in civilisation.’
‘You call this civilisation?’ Jack tried to sound unimpressed. He had ridden into town with Vaughan at his side.
‘Indeed I do. Give me a hot bath and the chance to read, and I promise you I shall be the happiest man alive.’ Vaughan sighed at the expectation of such delights. ‘Do you read, Jack?’
‘Not much,’ Jack answered honestly. He was literate. His mother had taught him his letters, and the colonel of his first regiment had been broad-minded enough to allow the brightest of his men a few hours a week in the barrack’s library. ‘I read the newspapers when I can.’
‘That is good. A man should know what is going on in the world. But I really meant books, Jack. Books are what feed a man’s soul. I look at you and I believe you are malnourished.’ Vaughan paused, as if unsure whether to press on. ‘I can lend you something, if you want?’
Jack considered the notion. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Excellent.’ Vaughan seemed genuinely pleased to have secured his agreement. ‘I have a copy of Thackeray’s Pendennis that I think would suit you very nicely. I have but a few books with me. Back home, why, there is a whole library at my disposal.’
‘Back home?’
‘At Five Oaks.’
‘And that’s a plantation?’ Jack did not try to hide his ignorance.
‘Indeed it is. The finest in all Louisiana.’ Vaughan’s pride was obvious.
‘So you have slaves there?’ Jack could not help lacing the question with distaste. He had once hoped to make a new life with a runaway slave. That ambition, like so many over the years, had ended in grief and despair, and had left him with a deep-seated hatred of the institution of slavery.
‘Of course.’
‘And that doesn’t bother you?’
‘No.’ Vaughan offered an easy smile. ‘I know where you are going with this, Jack. Slavery is bad.’ He said the words in a stentorian tone of disapproval. ‘Men who own slaves are evil.’ He continued in the same voice, then stopped to laugh at himself. ‘I take it you believe slavery is a wicked thing?’
‘Isn’t it?’ For a moment, the image of Rose, the girl he had loved, pushed its way into his mind. Even now, over a year since he had lost her, it still had the power to hurt.
‘Oh, it is, Jack. There is no arguing against that.’
‘So then how do you live with it?’ Jack forced the memory of her face away by giving Vaughan his full attention. He had expected a firm argument defending slavery. Yet the agent had conceded the point immediately.
‘I live with it and am content to do so.’ Vaughan looked at Jack and raised an eyebrow. ‘I see your confusion. Let me attempt to simplify matters for you. Have you been to a cotton mill, Jack? I refer to one of the ones in your own country.’
‘No.’
‘A pity. I have. I enjoyed a memorable week touring the north of England, where I visited a number of such establishments.’ Vaughan’s tone had changed. All trace of mockery was gone. ‘The conditions there shocked me. Children barely able to stand forced to work under these great thundering machines for hours on end, despite the fact that dozens are maimed or even killed each year. Men and women labouring tirelessly with barely a rest, and in the foulest conditions our modern inventions can create. I shall be honest with you, Jack. I looked at the environment in which these countrymen of yours worked, and I was ashamed. Ashamed that I supply the raw material that leads to the creation of such hellish places.’
He paused and leaned across towards Jack. ‘How do you live with it?’ He took Jack’s question for his own and offered it back to him in a much quieter tone of voice.
Jack did not answer, so Vaughan swayed back in the saddle and rode on. When he spoke again, his tone was flat. ‘I shall not talk about the filth I saw in London. I would expect you know much better than I the conditions in which people there are expected to live their short, miserable lives. All I will say is that I saw the same squalor in every city I visited. And I will tell you this, Jack, and I say it without an ounce of shame. When I returned to Five Oaks, I felt nothing but pride. Pride for the lives our workers live and for the conditions we provide for them.
‘Of course they are not free; I fully accept the iniquitous nature of their situation. But there are many types of slavery in this world, and I simply can’t pretend that one is better than any other. I know there are places in this country of ours that are foul, and filled with evil men who perpetrate the worse kind of violations on the poor souls under their control. But not all are like that, and I know one thing with utter certainty. The conditions in which our workers live are a thousand times better than the miserable and wretched places that your own countrymen endure. Are they better for being free?’ He laced the word with a fair dollop of sarcasm. ‘I would say they are not. Not at all.’
Jack listened carefully to what Vaughan had said. There was some truth in the agent’s words, yet he was not swayed. He had seen the legacy of an overseer’s whip in the scars it had left on a young woman’s face. There were many people who lived in misery. Yet no matter how wretched their lives, they still had something the slaves did not. They had freedom.
‘You disagree with me, Jack?’
‘Yes.’ Jack spoke firmly. Sometimes one word said more than a dozen.
‘I understand, indeed I do. But such things are rarely so simple, so black and white, if you like. And sadly, it is the natural order of this world of ours. There have always been the haves and the have nots, and there will always be so, no matter how much we boast of improvements or believe we live in a civilised society. Rather than pretend such a situation does not exist, I simply acknowledge its existence. And of course, some people, some races perhaps, are more subservient in nature than others, just as some men are born to serve whilst others are born to lead. Just as you are.’
Jack held his tongue. There was much he could say, but he had long ago learned that you could not turn a ma
n from a set opinion, no matter how forceful or telling your logic.
‘I see I have not persuaded you, Jack.’ Vaughan offered a wan smile as he watched Jack closely. ‘I must say that pleases me. A man should have conviction in his opinions. We should agree to differ and leave the matter to those poor souls fighting for the right to decide which of us is correct.’
‘Do you not feel the need to fight?’ Jack held the conversation where it was. ‘Men are dying so that plantations like yours can keep their slaves. Do you not want to help them?’
‘There are many ways of serving a cause.’ Vaughan gave the enigmatic answer without looking at Jack. ‘And that includes providing an economic foundation for those who fight. Not every battle is won on the battlefield. Now then, let us turn our attention to this place. I take it you have not had the joy of visiting the delightful town of Brownsville before?’
Jack looked around him. The houses they now rode past were older, their wooden facades aged and weather-beaten. A few had broken windows or splintered door frames. ‘It doesn’t look very delightful.’ He made the wry comment out of the side of his mouth.
‘I would say that dear old Brownsville is the rowdiest town in all Texas, and if you took time to visit half the other towns in this state then you would understand what a bold claim that is.’ Vaughan laughed heartily. He seemed pleased to have moved their conversation on to safer ground. ‘But I tell you this, Jack, and it really is the darnedest thing. For all its raucous and unruly ways, I have never seen any injustice here.’
The Lost Outlaw Page 16
