She opened her mouth as if about to say more, but then clearly thought better of it. Instead, she turned and walked away, leaving Jack standing in the doorway doing his best to understand the odd conversation. He did not know what she had intended, but she had sown the seeds of distrust. A mind like his was a fertile place for such a crop. He already trusted no one but himself, and he had needed no warning to continue to do so.
Jack turned in the saddle, looking back at the Rio Grande and the ferry that had brought them across its turbulent waters. He had not enjoyed the crossing, and he was heartily glad to be back on solid ground.
The area to the south of the river looked a little different to that around Brownsville. There were the usual thickets of mesquite trees, but nearer the river were dense swathes of huisache and juniper bushes, some up to seventy feet tall. Far off in the distance he could see a long chain of mountains that broke up the horizon and promised something other than more of the same desolate terrain that was all he had seen for days on end.
For once, there was something almost beautiful in the desolate landscape, something majestic. The sky was enormous, the great expanse of blue broken up only by a few wispy clouds. It was enough to make a man feel very small, yet at the same time part of something greater. Jack looked at the world around him and saw its beauty, then grunted as he acknowledged the strangeness of such a sentimental feeling. He put it down to their being close to their destination, the promise of some respite from the brutally hard trail weakening his resolve to remain detached from a world that usually delivered nothing but pain and discomfort.
They had a ride of around a mile to the Mexican town of Matamoros, their final destination. The route they would follow was clearly well used, and the wagons immediately began to kick up a huge cloud of dust. Once at Matamoros, they would deliver the cotton to the merchants who waited there, before purchasing the weapons and ammunition that they would then transport back to Confederate territory, to the grey-clad army that needed them so badly.
The first part of their long journey was almost complete.
The wagon train reached Matamoros late in the afternoon. It did not take long for Jack to decide that the town had little to recommend it. From what he could see, its nine thousand inhabitants had been through some tough times. Many of the buildings on the outskirts bore the scars of battle, their facades liberally scattered with bullet holes and broken stone. Vaughan had told him tales of the fighting that had broken out back in ’61, when the cotton trade was only just beginning, the various factions that had tried to control the burgeoning trade scrapping it out until the great cotton barons had secured control of the town.
As they approached the centre, it became clear that the town was thriving. Fine red-brick buildings lined the streets, and as the wagon train pulled to a halt near a large plaza surrounded by iron railings, Jack could see that the place was teeming with life, whilst every building seemed to be engaged in some form of commerce.
Many belonged to the large commercial firms that had established themselves here to exploit the cotton trade. He had seen dozens of names on his way to the town’s centre, and even two from back home, with Harding, Pullin and Company of London and Lloyd’s of London both occupying large buildings that overlooked the plaza. The town also boasted its own cathedral, and he had noted the presence of a British consulate, a building that pointed towards the importance his cotton-hungry country gave to this place.
Alongside the offices and buildings connected to the cotton trade were the boarding houses, stores, saloons, dining rooms and brothels that catered to the needs of the men who transported the great bales of cotton. Those men were there in their hundreds. Vaughan had told Jack that ten stage-coaches made the journey each day from the village of Bagdad, twenty-five miles away on the coast, bringing a stream of seamen from every country in the world, along with as many smugglers and swindlers as could be found. All were drawn to the ready cash of the cotton trade, and the fortunes that were being made on the back of it.
Yet for all the finery of some of its buildings, and the prosperity that they alluded to, the town of Matamoros stank. The streets were filthy, with no pavements, and the roadway itself was deeply rutted. With so many people filling the town, water was scarce; every drop had to be carried in from the river by a constant stream of men and donkeys. Food and stores were horribly expensive, and Vaughan had warned Jack to keep a close eye on his possessions, the town lousy with pickpockets and thieves.
Jack was given the perfect example of the dangers of the place within five minutes of their arrival. Even before he had had a chance to dismount, a diligence made a noisy arrival nearby, a rowdy crowd of men surrounding it the moment it came to a halt, all of them pointing and laughing. The coach was covered in dust, but Jack could see no other reason for the noisy reception that had greeted its arrival. Yet it soon became clear that all was not well behind the coach’s drawn curtains. As he watched, a hasty transaction was completed between whoever hid there and a fat Mexican who had arrived carrying a bundle of clothing.
‘What’s going on over there?’ He fired the question at one of Brannigan’s men who was nearby.
‘Those sorry sons of bitches have gone and got themselves robbed.’ Brannigan’s man hooted with glee as he replied. ‘Those bandoleros will have stripped ’em naked. Taken every last thing they own.’
‘Does that happen a lot?’
‘Often enough for that fat son of a gun over there to be waiting here ready to sell them a pair of pants for ten dollars! And that’s only if he thinks they’ll be good for the money.’
Jack looked back at the coach and saw clothing being thrown inside. He did not wait to see the unfortunate fellows who had been robbed. It was another example, if one were needed, that he was living in a world without rules, one where danger lurked around every corner.
Brannigan did not let his men linger for long. The train stayed in the centre of town until he and Vaughan had presented their documents inside one of the red-brick buildings. As soon as the pair returned, the wagons headed down to the wharves, where the cotton was unloaded by what looked to Jack’s eyes to be at least a thousand Mexican stevedores. It was then carried on to a pair of paddle steamers, which would transport it along the Rio Grande to Bagdad. From there, freighters would take it on to Veracruz, and the deep-draught merchantmen that waited for it at the port.
The first transaction completed, the wagons rolled back the way they had come, then turned away from the centre of Matamoros. A short while later, they lined up outside a huge wooden warehouse. Again the teamsters sat back and watched as more Mexicans worked tirelessly to reload the wagons with long wooden crates filled with rifles, and smaller ones packed with cartridges.
Jack could not resist taking a look. He slipped out of the saddle and made his made to one of the first wagons to be fully loaded. According to the stencilled letters on the wooden lids, these crates contained 1853 Pattern Enfield rifle muskets made by the Birmingham Small Arms Company. The percussion-cap weapons would be a welcome addition to the Confederate arsenal. Too often the Confederate soldiers were taking the field with smoothbore muskets, which were hopelessly outdated when compared to the more accurate and vastly more powerful rifled muskets like the Enfields.
The Enfields had an effective range of around six hundred yards, and a maximum of over twelve hundred, and they fired Minié bullets rather than the traditional musket ball. The conically shaped projectile had a soft metal base that would expand when the main charge was fired, meaning that it would grip the rifling in the musket’s barrel, spinning the bullet so that it travelled further, faster and with much greater accuracy.
Jack had seen the effect of the powerful Minié balls at first hand. The heavy projectiles could shatter bone and rip limbs right off a man’s body. They made for a dreadfully effective weapon. The Confederate soldiers fortunate enough to receive these Enfields would finally be able to match the power of the Union’s Springfield rifle muskets. It w
ould start to level the playing field and give the men in grey a much better chance of winning the war.
‘You like what you see there, Jack?’ Brannigan rode past. For once, he was smiling.
‘I’m just glad to see you fellows have the sense to buy from us. These Enfields are a fine weapon.’ Jack slapped a hand on the crate.
‘You English boys want cotton. We want guns. That sure makes trade easier.’
‘And now you take these guns back north and sell them on for a fat profit.’ Jack felt a moment’s distaste at being part of such a transaction.
‘We do. So long as we don’t let anyone take them.’
‘You think they will?’
‘Well, we got ourselves two of the three most dangerous things in the world for a man to own. I reckon there’s many folk who’d want to get their hands on either.’
‘What are they?’
‘Guns and money.’ Brannigan’s smile widened as Jack bit on his line.
‘And the third?’
‘Women.’ This time Brannigan laughed. ‘Guns, women and money. You ever think how many men died for those three things alone?’
‘Oh, there are plenty more things to die for.’
‘Like what?’
‘Pride? Duty? Loyalty?’
‘Shit, Jack. What century were you born in?’ Brannigan scoffed.
Jack slowly shook his head, then looked away so that Brannigan would not see the loathing he was sure was reflected in his gaze.
‘It’s time you woke up and smelled the goddam coffee.’ The gang leader’s tone had changed. There was no longer any trace of good humour. ‘Hell, you’re lucky to still be here, if you believe in all that old-fashioned horseshit.’
‘Well, here I am. I’m still standing.’ He looked at Brannigan, his expression now neutral.
‘For now. But you’ll need to learn quick sharp if you’re going to stay that way,’ Brannigan warned. ‘In my experience, men like you don’t last long down here.’
‘I think I might surprise you.’
‘Mebbe.’ Brannigan offered something that might have been a smile, but that could easily have been nothing more than a grimace.
‘I saved your life, didn’t I?’
‘No need to remind me. I know there’s a debt to be paid.’ Any trace of that half-smile was gone. ‘And it will be paid, I promise you that.’
‘There’s no need. Consider it my gift to the world.’ Jack heard scorn lacing his words.
‘No, that’s not how we work down here. A Texan never lets a debt go unsettled.’
‘Then forgive me if I don’t look forward to giving you the opportunity to save my life.’
Brannigan shook his head. ‘You really do think you’re better than us.’
‘No, I’m not better.’ Jack answered with absolute honesty.
‘You sure about that?’ Brannigan leaned forward in the saddle to make a play of inspecting him. ‘I can almost smell the pride on you.’ He snuffled like a hound scenting a fox before pulling back and sitting up straight in the saddle once again.
Jack laughed. ‘I’m not a damn dog.’
‘No?’ There was no hint of a smile on Brannigan’s face now. ‘You sure act like one.’
‘What do you mean?’ Jack’s laughter died.
‘You need a master. Someone telling you what to do.’
‘So who’s my master now? You?’
Brannigan shrugged. ‘You’re here. Doing what I tell you.’
‘Because it suits me.’
‘Tell yourself that if you want to.’ The corner of Brannigan’s mouth quirked in what might have been a wry smile. ‘I know what I see.’
For a moment, Jack did not have the words to reply. There was truth in Brannigan’s judgement, truth that he did not want to acknowledge. ‘Is that why you do it?’ He sought to divert the conversation away from himself.’
‘Do what exactly?’
‘Collect people like me. Or like Adam and Kat. The waifs and strays.’
This time Brannigan’s smile was genuine. ‘You’re sharp.’
‘You haven’t answered my question.’
He acknowledged the remark with a short nod. ‘Fair enough. You know much about loyalty, Jack?’
‘A little.’ Jack was evasive. This was not about him.
‘It’s an important quality in a man, or a woman, come to that. And it’s not easy to find. Not the true kind. Oh, there’s plenty of folk who’ll swear they’ll do whatever you tell them. They’ll look you in the eye too; promise they’ll be true no matter what. Then they turn tail and skedaddle as soon as you need ’em.’
‘And people like Adam and Kat are loyal to you?’
‘They sure are.’ Brannigan’s answer was immediate. ‘You find people like that. Give them a home, give them a job and take care of them when they need you. You bind them to you and then they’ll be yours for as long as you need ’em.’
‘And when you don’t? When you don’t need them any more?’
Brannigan shrugged. ‘Then you do what you gotta do.’
Jack shook his head. ‘You’re wrong. That’s not loyalty. It’s subservience. Loyalty’s a two-way street. You to them. Them to you. It’s a bond. One that ties you together, no matter what happens.’
‘I ain’t got no time for that malarkey.’ Brannigan snorted. ‘People? They’re just tools, like a horse, or a gun. You appreciate ’em, hell you can even like ’em. But you use them. Adam’s a good kid, and he’s useful to me. Just like Kat’s brother was until he went off like a fool and got hisself killed.’
‘What about Kat?’
‘Oh, she’s useful too. Good in a fight. Got herself a sharp mind as well.’ Brannigan gave his terse verdict.
‘Do you trust her?’
‘A little.’ Brannigan acknowledged the fact with a grudging look on his face. ‘But no more than that. Hell, at the end of the day, she’s a woman. She ain’t dangerous, not like a man. She just don’t have it in her. None of her kind do.’
‘And you’ll still get shot of her when you want to?’
‘Without hesitation.’ Brannigan looked Jack in the eye as he gave the straight answer. ‘These people, they have their uses. But when they’re a burden, or they don’t work right no more, why, then you just get rid. A man can’t saddle himself with a lame horse, or a gun that won’t fire. He does that and he dies.’ He grunted to himself as he finished his explanation, as if surprised to have revealed so much. ‘Now get back on your horse, Jack, and be ready to leave. We still got a long ride ahead of us. Who knows what could happen along the way.’
Without another word, he rode on, leaving Jack to stare at his back and wonder quite what was meant by the remark. Was it a warning? Or was it merely a reference to what they all knew would be a long, hard journey back to Louisiana? Whichever it was, he knew he would have to be on his guard all the way. He had never trusted Brannigan, but now he was sure that not all the dangers the wagon train faced came from without.
There were just as many within.
The wagon train left Matamoros at dawn. Many of the men were quiet, their heads heavy and sore after a night enjoying all the delights the town could offer. Jack, however, felt little but boredom. He had gone to bed early, forgoing the opportunity to drink and whore with the others. Now he rode out of town in his usual place with the rear guard, thinking only of the long, hard journey that lay ahead.
The wagon train kicked up a cloud of dust as they ground out the single mile that separated Matamoros from the ferry that would take them back over the Rio Grande and on to Texan soil once again. The trail was badly rutted, and the going was slow as the wagons bucked and scrabbled their way along. Yet for once, it was almost peaceful. The mules were fresh, and the wagon drivers did not have to work them hard. The only sound was the creaks and groans of any poorly greased running gear on the wagons. The constant noise, so familiar after many hundreds of miles, faded into the background, the melody of the wagon train lulling the men into a stup
or.
Jack rode easy. Like the mules, his mare was fresh after time spent in a livery, and she walked steadily with the gait of an animal enjoying being back outside. Even the constant heat felt somehow less fierce than normal, the early-morning start giving the men some respite from the relentless power of the sun.
Brannigan was on the move. He had started the day at the front of the wagon train with the advance guard. Now he rode back along the column. He drew level with Vaughan, who was leading the rear guard, and nodded a greeting at Kat, who rode a few yards behind.
Kat came forward. She said nothing as she took a place to the right of Vaughan.
‘Brannigan.’ Vaughan greeted the arrival of the wagon master as he had a thousand times before. He did not notice Kat’s movement, or if he did, he paid it no heed.
For his part, Brannigan turned his mare around so that he rode alongside Vaughan, ready to start a conversation.
Jack looked to the south and the long line of distant mountains. He thought back to the time he had spent in the mountains of Virginia. There he had passed the weeks frozen to the bone, the harsh, unforgiving winter the coldest time of his life. The memory of it was buried deep in his bones, and he twisted in the saddle so that the morning sun could warm his face. For once, he let his mind drift back, and he smiled as the image of Garrison and his daughter Martha came into his mind’s eye. It had not been a happy time – he had been in too much pain for that – yet there were parts of the memory that were pleasant enough to recall: the silence of the snow-shrouded woods, and the satisfaction of honest hard work and a warm fire at the end of the day. There had been something that had filled a gap in his soul in the companionship of the two people who had saved his life. For a time, he had lived solely in the present, and in the simple task of surviving the harsh winter elements, his life pared back to essentials.
He tried to push the memory away before it soured. It was a morning for riding, and for daydreaming. A time for savouring the peace and for husbanding strength for the trials that most certainly lay ahead. Yet despite his efforts, the image of Garrison’s grave slipped unwanted into his mind, the newly turned earth brown and warm against the cold snow that shrouded it.
The Lost Outlaw Page 19
