Jack walked behind the group, distancing himself from their crude and offensive display. He deliberately slowed his pace still further, letting Brannigan’s men press ahead. It was only as the distance between them widened that he heard the first sounds of music coming from the plaza. There were drums, the rhythm they played fast and pulsating like a racing heartbeat. Then there were guitars, and overlaying them all, voices singing and the high notes of flutes. The combination produced an effect the like of which he had not heard before, the music at once foreign and strange, yet somehow warm and inviting. It promised life, along with something more, something earthy and passionate.
He entered the plaza. Long benches had been arranged around its flanks, and already dozens of men, women and children were dancing in the centre, gyrating and jigging to the fast-paced music that filled the air with a riotous, joyous sound. A promenade was lined with drinking booths, gambling tables and stalls selling food, and people paraded past, many arm in arm as they perambulated, stopping for a moment’s conversation, or to purchase something to eat or drink.
Jack worked his way into the stream of people. The men, nearly every one significantly shorter than he was, were smartly turned out in dark suits decorated with silver buttons, and most wore wide sombreros on their heads. But it was the women that captured his attention. They exhibited a dark, sultry beauty, their heads plastered with grease so that their black hair lay slick against their skulls. All had heavily painted faces, eyes rimmed with black lines that extended past the socket, and cheeks and lips brightened with rouge. Most wore full-skirted dresses with tight bodices in bright colours, their outfits completed by flowers in their hair and the ubiquitous fan, which was moved back and forth in time to the music.
Brannigan’s men made a rowdy display as they stormed the first drinking booth they came across. Leers and shouts rang out, and the dignified procession of couples and families immediately gave the raucous Americans a wide berth. Jack did not have to be any closer to see the looks of disdain and disgust on the faces of the locals as the foreigners arrived to cast a pall over their celebration. He felt something close to it himself. He had spent his life around soldiers and knew their coarse ways well, but there was something about the behaviour of Brannigan’s men that repelled him.
He quickened his pace, walking past the throng around the drinking booth. He paid no attention to the shouts sent his way, or to the first roars of anger as the Mexican working the booth failed to supply the drinks at the pace the Americans demanded.
It was a relief to leave the other white men behind. He slowed as he reached a set of gambling tables pushed into a darkened corner. Four old women were presiding over them, each assisted by one or two small boys, whose quick fingers darted across the tables, withdrawing cards and coins with the dexterity of youth. He saw that three-card Monte was the game, and judging by the small piles of silver coins and doubloons moving across the table, it was being played fast and hard.
Yet it was not the stakes that deterred him from playing. He had never been a gambler. There were plenty of ways in the world to make him part with money, so he had no need to look for another. He had known dozens of men who had lived for making wagers. He had never known one who came out on top.
Still he lingered at the table. He had no intention of joining the dancing, and he had little appetite for either the alcohol or the food being served to the crowd. His eyes turned to the women on the very edges of the plaza. They were from his world, those dim, shadowy places where life was hard. He thought back to Brannigan’s advice to find a whore. There were plenty present, the women sashaying along on the fringes of the promenade wearing tight dresses with plunging necklines that left no doubt as to the trade they plied.
For a moment, he was tempted to approach one. He could feel the lure of the women, and he was sorely tempted to buy himself some comfort. Yet he had lived around whores for too long to be a willing customer. He knew the lives they clung to until their beauty failed them. He knew their fate when that happened.
He turned away, moving his gaze from the shadows and back to the card game, which was being played at a relentless pace. It was not a night for whoring or for gambling, at least not for him. He resolved to watch the game for a while, then find a quiet drinking booth, far from Brannigan’s men, where he could turn the silver coins he had been given into whatever alcohol the men in the town favoured. Then he would drink enough to empty his mind of thought, before he went back to the wagons. It felt like a good plan, a wise plan even. He just hoped it would be enough to shift the loneliness that had engulfed him from the moment he had set foot in the town.
‘You fancy playing a hand, Jack?’
Jack started as he was addressed by someone he had not heard approach. Kat stood slightly behind him as she assessed the game in play. Her arrival brought with it a surge of emotions, ones that he would rather not have to deal with.
‘No, I’m no good at cards.’ He gave the honest answer.
‘At last, something the great Jack Lark is not good at.’
Jack felt the wash of Kat’s warm breath on the side of his face. ‘Are you twisting my tail to see if I bite?’ he asked.
‘Why would I do that?’ Kat leaned forward as she replied. She was close enough for her lips to land the faintest touch on the very bottom of his ear.
Jack relished the sensation, which sent a surge of fire through his veins, and fizzing through his chest before heading lower. ‘I have no idea.’ He heard his voice catch as he replied.
‘Perhaps I just wanted your company.’ Kat leaned into him, pressing herself against his side.
Those first tantalising and immoral emotions left him. He felt something else in their place, something akin to anger. Kat was playing one of her games, one where he did not understand all the rules; one that he did not want to play.
He stepped to one side, breaking contact. ‘Why did you pull a gun on me, Kat?’ His tone was harsh, coloured with the first strokes of anger.
‘Why do you think?’ Kat showed no fear.
‘Because you’re Brannigan’s bloody lackey.’
She turned her head away. When she looked back at him, her cheeks were coloured. ‘Is that what you think? That whatever I do, it’s at Brannigan’s request?’
‘You pulled a gun on me to protect him.’
‘You were never going to shoot.’ Kat’s reply came back laced with disdain.
‘You know that for a fact?’
‘I sure do.’
‘Why? Did Brannigan tell you that I didn’t have the balls for it?’
‘I don’t need Brannigan to tell me any such thing. Especially something that goddam obvious.’
‘Is that so?’ It was Jack’s turn to be scornful. ‘You were in on his plan, though, weren’t you? You knew he was going to murder Vaughan.’
Kat did not answer. She simply glared.
‘When did he tell you?’
‘The day we arrived in Brownsville.’
The answer made sense. That was the day she had come to warn him. ‘You didn’t try to persuade him not to do it?’
‘No.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it suited me.’ Kat stared at him, her eyes locked on to his own.
He searched her face, looking for the truth. He found it. She was not lying, he was sure of it. ‘Why?’
‘Because Vaughan would never have allowed us to turn south.’
‘And you wanted that?’
‘It suited me to have him gone.’
‘Because it suited Brannigan?’ He did not fully understand.
‘No.’ Kat shook her head with exasperation. ‘It suited me.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘I do have my own mind. I’m not just here for decoration.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘That surprises you?’ Kat hissed the words, lowering her voice, which had been getting steadily louder. ‘I’ve been on my own since my brother ran off and left me. I t
ake care of myself now. Do what I want to do. I ain’t beholden to no one.’
‘Maybe your brother was the clever one.’
‘He was a fool.’ The words were snapped back.
‘Why?’
‘Because he wanted to be a goddam soldier. Because he wanted to prove he was as brave as the next man, or even braver. Well, all that earned him was a bullet right in that stupid brain of his.’
Jack heard the pain in her words. He understood her brother’s actions; after all, he had taken the Queen’s shilling himself. The lure of a soldier’s uniform was strong, no matter where or when you were born. ‘And so that left you with no one but Brannigan.’
‘It left me alone in this world.’ Kat’s chin lifted. Any sadness or grief was gone. There was just iron determination.
‘To do Brannigan’s bidding,’ Jack added, watching her carefully.
‘No, to do my own goddam bidding. You sure have got yourself one low opinion of women. Do you really believe that we’re put on this earth just to please you menfolk and do as we’re told?’
‘And don’t you? Don’t you do whatever Brannigan tells you?’
‘Not if it don’t suit me.’
Jack gave a short, contemptuous laugh at the bold reply. ‘Bullshit. You do whatever he says, even if that includes standing by when he commits murder.’
Kat did not flinch as he made the accusation. Instead she reached out to grab his arm, pulling him after her into the shadows behind the gambling table. Only when they were in a much less public space did she turn to address him again, still holding his arm. ‘I told you before, it suited me fine what he did.’
‘You wanted Vaughan dead? Taylor too?’
‘Taylor was a goddam idiot.’
‘And Vaughan? What had he done?’
‘You didn’t know him.’
‘No, I didn’t. So tell me, what had he done to deserve to die?’
‘He had plans to take the guns for himself.’
‘That’s the same bollocks Brannigan spouted.’ Jack fired back the words. ‘I didn’t believe them then and I don’t believe them now. Why would Vaughan betray us all?’
‘Money does strange things to people. Those guns are worth a small fortune, easily enough to live on for a lifetime, and in comfort too. That sure changes people’s minds about things.’
‘Do you really believe Vaughan planned to double-cross Brannigan?’
‘Not just Brannigan. You think Vaughan would still have paid you and the rest of the boys if he’d got his thieving hands on the guns?’
‘So Brannigan murdered Vaughan because one day soon Vaughan was about to murder him?’
‘That would have to be part of his plan. Brannigan knew it.’
‘What is he? Some sort of fucking clairvoyant?’
Kat glowered. ‘I trust him. I trust him a damn sight more than I trusted Vaughan.’
‘So Vaughan was some great criminal mastermind who was playing us all false. And Brannigan is some kind of hero who saved us?’
‘Mebbe.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘Because you know better?’
‘I know a murdering bastard when I see one.’ Jack had no choice but to step forward as Kat tugged his arm with surprising force.
‘You don’t see what’s right in front of your goddam face, Jack Lark.’
‘And what’s that?’ he asked, his voice harsh.
Kat replied by pressing her lips to his.
Jack pulled her closer, his arm slipping around her waist so that his palm rested on the small of her back. He held her then, savouring the touch of her body under his hand. He had no idea what her game was, but he found he did not care, and he lost himself in the moment, closing his mind to everything save the touch, the smell, the feel and the taste of the woman in his arms.
Kat broke away from him. ‘You still think I’m doing what Brannigan tells me?’
‘I don’t know what to think.’ Jack could still taste her kiss on his lips. He wanted more – no, he corrected himself, he needed more. Kat filled his mind, every sense, every thought, every sensation riveted on the woman in front of him.
‘I do what I want. Not what some man tells me to do.’ She stepped towards him and kissed him again. This time it lasted longer, until she broke away for a second time. ‘I don’t know what Vaughan intended, not all of it. But to answer your question, yes, I was in on Brannigan’s plan, and yes, I agreed that Vaughan had to die. Taylor, well he was a goddam fool, and his death is no one’s fault but his own. And no, I am not Brannigan’s lackey.’
Again she closed the gap between them. This time as she kissed him, she pushed her hips forward. He reached around and held her, hands dancing across her back, fingertips tingling as he followed the contours of her spine. She stayed there for the span of a dozen heartbeats, pressing hard against him, before she took a step back and looked him dead in the eye.
‘Whatever you do, don’t discount me, Jack.’ She reached forward to grasp his hand. ‘Underestimate me at your peril.’
Jack dropped his gaze. He did not want her to see the naked lust that he knew would be reflected there. He savoured the feel of her hand on his, the warmth of her skin. When she dropped his hand, it was all he could do not to gasp out loud.
Kat did not say goodbye. She simply turned and walked away, leaving him alone in the shadows.
Jack watched her go. Only when he lost sight of her in the crowd did he start to move. He would stick to his earlier plan. He would find some alcohol, and he would get drunk in the hope that it would erase the feel of her from his mind. For he had a fearful notion that it would take root, and he did not know what to do if that happened.
It was only as he left the shadows behind that he saw Adam standing there. He could only presume the young man had been watching the whole time. He would have seen everything, and his hatred glimmered in the darkness like a lantern.
Jack rode along the side of the wagon train. They had left Valle Hermoso just after dawn. The men were quiet, the night’s debauchery dampening spirits and hurting heads. Jack felt no better than the others, his own head reverberating to a pounding that threatened to split his skull in two. As ever, he was roasting hot, and he was contemplating taking a drink of water from his canteen when he noticed the wagon train’s advance guard circled around something in the sand a few yards to one side of the trail.
‘You should see this.’ It was Brannigan who spoke. He too was riding up the side of the wagon train and called out to Jack as he passed.
‘What is it?’
‘Look for yourself,’ Brannigan said without turning around.
Intrigued, Jack rode forward. There were two objects on the ground. Both were the same size, no bigger than a ripe melon. It was only as he rode closer that he realised what it was he was looking at.
‘The poor bastards.’ He breathed the words as he brought his horse to a stand next to Brannigan, who had halted just short of the gruesome sight.
Two heads stuck out of the sand. There was not a lot left of either, the faces and scalps ravaged by animals so that they were barely recognisable as having once been human. Nothing at all was left of the eyes or lips. Both mouths had been forced open by some creature or other, and Jack could see that all of the soft tissues inside had been ripped out.
‘Is that another warning?’
‘Maybe.’ Brannigan answered Jack’s question evenly. There was no trace of disgust in his tone.
‘It’s a foul way to bury a man.’
Brannigan turned to look at him. As ever, his eyes were cold. ‘They weren’t dead when they were left.’
‘Someone buried them alive?’ Jack did not bother to hide his revulsion.
‘Of course.’
His stomach lurched at the notion. He was no stranger to death, and he had seen men die in a hundred different ways. Yet he could not recall having come across one as cruel as this. ‘Have you ever done that to a man?’ He asked the question, even though he pretty muc
h knew the answer.
‘A few times.’ Brannigan offered a strange lopsided smile as he studied Jack’s reaction. ‘Does that turn your stomach?’
‘Yes.’ Jack answered bluntly.
‘Why?’
‘It’s a horrible death.’
‘Are there any good ones?’
‘Yes.’ Jack believed the answer he gave fully.
‘Dead is dead.’ Brannigan shook his head, as if surprised by Jack’s folly.
‘And cruel is cruel.’
‘You don’t approve.’
‘You think I should?’ Jack did not bother to remove the scathing tone from his voice. It might have been a better idea to hide his reaction, but he did not want to. He wanted his revulsion to register.
‘You’re soft, Jack. You think you’re a killer, but in truth you’re as soft as butter.’
‘Soft?’ Jack scoffed. ‘I’m not soft, chum. But I’m not the sort of evil bastard who would do that to a man.’
‘Does it frighten you?’ Brannigan glanced at the animal-ravaged heads. ‘You’re a clever man, Jack. You must be thinking what it would be like to be that poor son of a bitch over there. What it must be like to be buried like that. What it must be like waiting for the first animals to come by. You’d last a fair whiles, I reckon: hours, maybe even days. You could shout at first, drive them away. But then one would come close. They’d take the first little bite, then another, and then another. Before you know, they’re feasting on your flesh, ripping out your eyes and crawling into your goddam mouth.’ He watched Jack’s face as he painted the horrific picture. ‘You think what that’d be like, and then tell me it don’t make you want to shit in your pants.’
Jack forced himself to look at the remains of what once had been living, breathing human beings. Brannigan was right. He was able to conjure the scene in his mind’s eye. He could imagine the terror the men would have felt as they were left like that, the sheer horror of that fate enough to turn his stomach.
The Lost Outlaw Page 21
