The Lost Outlaw

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘Who did this?’ He swallowed the urge to vomit.

  ‘Could’ve been anyone. Juaristas, bandoleros . . . hell, even another wagon master. My money’s on Dawson and his men. I heard they killed some bandoleros. He’d do something like this.’

  Jack fought the urge to spit. But Brannigan’s words made sense. He recalled Dawson boasting of killing some of Ángel Santiago’s men. ‘You’re all as cruel as each other then.’

  ‘Oh no.’ Brannigan gave Jack the widest smile. ‘I’m far worse than any of them.’

  Jack looked into Brannigan’s eyes and saw that he was not boasting. He was simply stating a fact.

  ‘And you’re proud of that?’ He did not bother to hold back the accusation.

  Brannigan shrugged, unmoved. ‘Pride’s a funny old thing. Makes you act strange.’ He paused, then offered a thin smile. ‘You’d better be careful, Jack. Take care that pride of yours don’t make you do something stupid.’

  Advice offered, he kicked back his heels and left Jack to stare at the two ravaged skulls.

  The trail they had been following stopped in a wide clearing surrounded on all sides by a high ridge. There was no way out, save for the way they had come. When they reached the middle of the enclosed space, the wagons rolled to a halt, just as Brannigan had ordered them to do.

  Jack rode up the side of the now stationary train, his eyes scanning the ridgeline for the men he sensed would be hidden there. Brannigan had only told them that morning of the rendezvous with the Mexicans who would buy the guns. He had described the ground, and told his gang what was to happen when they arrived. So far, they were obeying his instructions, the wagons manoeuvring into neat rows off the trail whilst the men dismounted, tethered their horses to the wagons, then gathered in a group near a lone mesquite tree.

  All was quiet. The slopes that surrounded the wagons were steep and covered with great boulders and loose fallen rocks. Jack lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he looked for another way out of the bowl-shaped clearing. He saw at once that there was no way in hell that the heavily laden wagons would be able to ascend the steep slopes. A man on horseback might manage it, but even that would be hard going, the loose rocks and sandy soil making for treacherous footing. He could not help feeling the tension as they waited in this place that God had made into the perfect location for an ambush.

  The wagon train had followed the rough, rutted trail for three full days since they had turned south. They had been days of toil and hard graft, yet they had only covered the distance a man on a well-rested horse could travel in a single day. Other than the one night at the fandango, they had not stopped, one relentless, gruelling day following another.

  Until they had arrived here.

  Jack took his place amongst Brannigan’s men. No one spoke, even the loudest and most raucous silenced by the forbidding atmosphere. They all knew the danger they were in, but Brannigan had ordered them to wait, and not one man considered following any other course of action.

  Adam stood next to Jack, his hand resting on the revolver on his right hip. As the silence stretched thin, he drew the gun, keeping it low so that it would not be seen. Jack understood the need to hold a weapon. It felt unnatural to just sit there. They were like a fox who had wandered into a farmstead, and who now sat outside the hounds’ kennel, waiting for them to be released.

  Jack watched Brannigan arrive with the rear guard. The gang leader gestured for the men to join the others whilst he rode forward alone. If he felt any of the same tension as his men, he did not show it. He rode slow and easy, as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  The wagon drivers walked over in a single group, taking a place next to Brannigan’s men, just as they had been ordered to do. At Jack’s side, Adam was fiddling with his revolver, his right thumb cocking then un-cocking then re-cocking the weapon’s hammer. Each action made the workings click, the sound repeating itself over and over.

  Brannigan stood tall in the saddle and waved his arm from side to side. Then he sat down, both arms resting easily on the saddle’s pommel.

  Nothing happened for perhaps a full minute. Adam’s revolver clicked repeatedly, the sound the only one coming from the men.

  Then there was a new noise. It was barely audible at first, and Jack cocked an ear as he tried to pick it out. It sounded like a distant train moving down the line, the low rumbling of something a long way away on the move. It grew slowly louder, the sound echoing around the clearing.

  Adam’s revolver stopped clicking.

  Suddenly, dozens of men swarmed over the ridgeline. They came in one great mass, flowing over the brow and down the slopes before spreading out to take up firing positions amongst the rocks and boulders that littered the ground.

  Jack tried to tally their numbers, but there were too many to count. He reckoned there had to be at least two hundred, perhaps more. Every one was armed.

  Brannigan dismounted. He took his time tethering his horse to the Mesquite tree before he turned to bark an order. ‘Jack! I want you with me. Kat, you too.’

  Jack glanced once at Adam. He took in the thunderous look on the younger man’s face before he walked forward to do his master’s bidding.

  Jack, Kat and Brannigan walked in a line abreast. They left the mesquite tree behind and headed towards a group of four men who moved down the far slope on to the level ground at its base.

  As they walked forward, Jack studied the men on the nearest slope. They were a strange-looking crew. Most wore skin-tight trousers that were open at the sides and widened at the ankle. Some were plain, but a few men sported pairs decorated with a row of metal buttons down the seam. On their top half, some of the men wore little more than a simple shirt, whilst others sported jackets made from dark material or some form of leather waistcoat. Nearly all wore the ubiquitous sombrero on their heads. Every man was armed, and Jack was not surprised to see a vast array of weaponry on display, from percussion carbines and shotguns to smoothbore flintlock muskets and even an ancient matchlock musket amidst a smattering of revolvers and single-shot pistols.

  ‘You’re late, Señor.’

  Jack concentrated his attention on the man who had rebuked Brannigan. He was short, perhaps not quite five feet tall. And he was old, frail even, with a sparse thatch of thin grey hair and an even thinner grey beard. Yet he exuded an air of power, and he clearly did not fear the tall, rangy American who was standing in front of him.

  ‘It’s a hard ride.’ Brannigan rested his weight on one hip, his hands slipping into his gun belt in front of his belly. He looked completely at ease. ‘I told your men how long it’d take to get here, and look here I am, right bang on schedule. You should be more appreciative of my efforts, Santiago.’

  Jack started as he realised who Brannigan was speaking to. This was Santiago, the man Brannigan himself had called a demon, and who had put the fear of God into Dawson. And he was nothing more than a weak old man.

  ‘Do you have our guns?’ Santiago demanded.

  ‘Everything as we agreed.’ Brannigan glanced briefly at Jack before he continued. ‘Do you have our money?’

  ‘Of course, Señor.’

  ‘Gold doubloons?’

  Jack heard a slight catch in Brannigan’s voice. It was the first trace of unease. He understood it, for he felt it himself. But at least now he knew whom he faced. He wondered when the deal had been done, when Brannigan had met with the men who did Santiago’s dirty work. Brannigan had not spoken of the buyer of the guns. The men had speculated, at least when they were certain the gang leader was out of earshot. Their favourite choice had been the Juaristas, the men fighting the French army that had invaded their land. It turned out that choice was wrong. Brannigan was selling the Enfields to Ángel Santiago. Jack thought back to the few sketchy details Dawson had given him about Los Ángeles de la Muerte. He had made it clear that the bandoleros lived up to their nickname. Now Jack would get the chance to see for himself if their fearsome reputation was well founded.


  ‘You think I would try to double-cross you, Señor?’ Santiago sounded as if he were genuinely affronted at the notion.

  ‘I bet you thought about it.’ Brannigan’s reply was firm, any unease now well hidden.

  Santiago smiled to reveal a few brown teeth. ‘But then who will sell me more guns? I could kill you. I could take your guns and save my gold. But a man can only double-cross someone once. Is that not so, Señor?’ He paused and made a play of looking around the small group. ‘Where is Señor Vaughan?’

  Brannigan laughed. ‘He ain’t here.’ He spoke forcefully.

  ‘So this is your last delivery to me?’

  ‘Mebbe.’

  Santiago’s eyes narrowed as he contemplated the answer. ‘Then perhaps I should kill you.’

  ‘You can try.’ Brannigan moved his hand so that it rested on the revolver at his right hip.

  For the first time, the leader of the bandoleros offered a smile. ‘I have given you my word that this transaction will be made. I must honour that, must I not, Señor? To do any less would be to condemn my soul to an eternity of suffering.’

  Jack watched Santiago closely as he addressed Brannigan. The old man was speaking with utmost sincerity, he was sure of it. Everything he saw and heard sat at odds with the tales he had heard of this man and the terror he created in the minds of so many people.

  ‘You can keep your God-fearing mumbo-jumbo to yourself, Santiago.’ Brannigan was thoroughly unimpressed by the Mexican’s words. ‘Just pay me my money and I’ll leave you the guns, and the wagons too, save for the one I’ll need.’

  Santiago nodded. ‘Very well.’ He looked past Brannigan, his gaze resting on Jack and Kat for a few moments before he turned. ‘Do we still proceed with the rest of the plan as you requested?’

  ‘We do.’

  He shook his head slowly, his expression betraying nothing but sadness. ‘So be it.’ He turned to walk away. The men with him followed, one reaching out to take him by the arm and lend a steadying hand as they began to ascend the steep slope.

  ‘What the hell is going on, Brannigan?’ Jack had been listening carefully. ‘What did he mean?’

  Brannigan stood where he was for a moment, facing away from Jack. Then he turned, moving fast, snatching his revolver from its holster and pressing it into Jack’s stomach. Only then did he smile. ‘Give me your gun, Jack. That stupid sabre of yours too.’

  ‘What the hell?’ Jack looked down at the weapon pressed into his gut.

  ‘Don’t you say another word now, not unless you want a bullet in your goddam belly.’ Brannigan reached forward with his free hand to deftly pluck Jack’s revolver from his holster. He held it out to Kat, who took it and immediately raised it so that it was aimed back at Jack.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’ Jack felt a sudden rush of fear. He had seen Brannigan kill in cold blood and knew he would not hesitate to do so again.

  ‘I’m saving your life. I owe you, don’t I? For what you did back in Texas.’ Brannigan reached forward and carefully eased Jack’s sabre out of its scabbard, moving the steel slowly. When he had it fully drawn, he tossed it contemptuously into the dirt.

  ‘Saving my life?’ Jack’s mind was racing, but he was struggling to see any threat other than the one coming from the man in front of him.

  ‘That’s right.’ Brannigan glanced at Kat. ‘Cover this son of a bitch, Kat. Shoot him in the balls if he so much as twitches.’

  He stood back, checking that Kat had her gun aimed at Jack, then turned and raised a single hand high.

  At his signal, the bandits took aim at the small band of wagon drivers and gunslingers that had brought Brannigan and his precious consignment safely to this rendezvous.

  Brannigan paused, his arm still aloft. Then he clenched his fist, and the Ángeles opened fire.

  Every one of the Ángeles fired at the same moment. The men on the slopes had been waiting for the command, and each one had been granted plenty of time to choose his first shot.

  The great roar of the volley echoed around the enclosed ground. Hundreds of bullets and musket balls tore into Brannigan’s men. At such close range, even the outdated muskets could kill. Some men cried out as they were hit, the vicious tempest ripping them apart. Others crumpled to the ground with barely a sound. A rare few stood long enough to draw a weapon and return fire. Wild shots cracked into boulders, or hit the slope to kick up plumes of dust. None hit a single Ángel. Those that fought back drew more fire, and were cut down in moments.

  Those furthest from the Ángeles tried to flee. Adam led them, the youngest man in the band reacting faster than any other. Bullets chased them away, cutting down two of the men who followed him. Those still on their feet ran back along the trail, the ground around them hit repeatedly so that spurts of dust spat up from the dirt.

  They would not get far. More Ángeles sprang up from where they had waited by the trail and opened fire, their short-range volley knocking down men like skittles at the fair. Adam and just one other man were left standing. To their credit, they did not give up, but carried on, heads down, as if battling into the teeth of a gale. They ran into a melee, the Ángeles rushing forward to take them down. The two men never stood a chance as they were beaten into the dirt, musket butts used as clubs to batter them into submission.

  Within the span of a few heartbeats, not one of Brannigan’s men was left standing. Still the shots came against them, the Ángeles with revolvers firing on and on, their bullets thumping into any body that so much as twitched. Then suddenly, as abruptly as it had started, the firing stopped.

  In the lull that followed, the moans and cries of those still alive could be heard. The pitiful sound filled the air. Here a man sobbed, whilst another cried for help. Most lay silent and still, their bodies twisted and broken, their blood pumping into the dirt on to which they had fallen.

  Jack stayed stock still. He had been powerless as the vicious storm cut down the men who had ridden the trail with him. Now he stood there, his hands clawing at the seams of his trousers, the feeling of impotence like nothing he had felt before. He was like a lone bullock left in the butcher’s yard after the day’s meat ration had been culled, surrounded by the stink of blood and the threat of imminent death.

  A man started to scream, the pitiful sound reverberating in the clearing. Jack heard footsteps. He twisted his head to see Brannigan walking towards the pile of bodies that had been created at his command, his pace slow and languid.

  ‘Help me! Jesus, Brannigan, help me!’ The scream turned to sobs as the man spotted the wagon master, who had come to stand over him. ‘I beg you, Brannigan. Oh God, help me!’ The words gushed forth, the babble almost incoherent.

  Jack watched Brannigan. The heartfelt pleas did not move him, his face expressionless as he slowly drew his revolver and brought the gun up.

  ‘No, Brannigan, don’t do it. I beg you. Help me. Don’t do it.’ The man made a final plea for his life.

  Brannigan held the gun still, taking his time to aim. Then he fired.

  The single gunshot was loud. It cut off the man’s pleas in an instant.

  Jack held his head still, but his eyes followed Brannigan as he began to pick his way through the carnage, using the toe of his boot to push at the corpses that smothered the ground. As Jack watched, the gang leader paused. The revolver was raised and a shot was fired. The process was repeated a few moments later. Brannigan was checking every body and killing anyone left alive.

  Jack held himself still. A part of him willed himself to make a break for it and risk a bullet in his spine. Yet he knew that to do so was to face certain death. Even if he evaded Kat’s shots, he was still surrounded by a few hundred Ángeles. Escape was impossible, and so he stood there, resigned and docile, waiting for whatever fate Brannigan had in mind for him.

  ‘Don’t you even think about running.’ It was Kat who spoke.

  Jack wondered how she had been able to read his mind. She made the threat quietly. He was certain she was capab
le of making good on it.

  ‘Were you in on this too, Kat?’ He spoke without moving a muscle.

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Kat snapped.

  ‘Or you’ll shoot me?’ Jack could not contain the reply. He felt sick to the stomach. He was no stranger to death, but this was something far beyond even his bloody experience. ‘When . . . when did you plan all this?’ He struggled to get the words out, choked by loathing.

  ‘A while ago.’ Kat kept her eyes on him, ready should he try anything. ‘Santiago’s men have been with us since King’s Ranch. And it was easy enough for one of his lieutenants to find us whilst you and the boys were drinking yourselves stupid the other night.’

  Jack closed his eyes as he realised he had been played for a fool. The men he had believed to be Tejanos had actually been bandoleros. Then another thought hit him. He recalled the night of the fandango, and Kat’s attention. He knew now why she had sought him out. It was not attraction. It was distraction.

  ‘You murdering bitch.’ He hissed the words, feeling another emotion start to boil inside him. It went beyond loathing. It was hatred so pure and elemental that it made him shake.

  ‘I thought you said you were a soldier.’ Kat’s reply was biting. ‘You’re acting like you haven’t seen a few dead men before.’

  ‘That was different.’

  ‘Why? Dead is dead.’

  Jack had to swallow the urge to puke up his guts. He had heard Brannigan say the same.

  ‘Way I heard it, there were so many dead at Shiloh that they were burying the poor sons of bitches for days, my brother with them.’ Kat was scathing. ‘But that’s all right with you, is it, Jack? Because they were soldiers? Because they wore a uniform?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If you ask him nice, maybe Brannigan will dress those boys up. If that’ll make it all right with you.’

  ‘How can you stand there and be a party to murder, Kat?’ He spat the words, each one coated with disgust.