His attacker shrieked in rage, then threw himself at Jack. Off balance and unarmed, Jack could do little to protect himself. He punched hard, but the blow bounced off the man’s shoulder. It did nothing to stop his rush, and he grabbed Jack around the throat.
With his windpipe being crushed, Jack fell backwards, powerless against the force of the man attacking him. Yet even then, he felt nothing but calm. There was no wild rage. No visceral need to kill. Just a frozen, ice-cold mind, detached from the animalistic fight that surrounded him.
He hit the floor on his back, the impact brutal. The pain came in a great wave, but it was as nothing against the white-hot agony of the fingers clawing at this throat. Fingers that choked, suffocating, strong, remorseless.
He fought back, lifting his hands to his attacker’s face. His fingers found the target they sought immediately. He dug them into the bandolero’s eye sockets, nails like claws as they gouged deeper and deeper, ravaging the soft flesh. He heard the man scream as his eyeballs burst under the relentless pressure. Still he ground his fingers forward, ruthless and cruel, tearing through the mushy tissues then digging deeper still, blood hot and warm on his skin. He did not stop even as the man’s hands released his throat and beat against his arms.
Keeping his fingers buried in the ruin of the man’s eyes, he pushed hard, forcing his opponent up and away. He used the strength of his arms to manoeuvre the man to his feet then shove him backwards until it was the bandolero’s turn to fall on to his back. Only then did Jack allow his fingers to tear free.
‘Mother of God.’ One of Dawson’s men pushed past him as he staggered away from his victim. The trooper looked down at the man who lay writhing on the floor, hands clasped to his ruined eyes, blood escaping through his grasping fingers to run down his wrists. Then he glanced up at Jack, his expression somewhere between loathing and admiration.
Jack cared nothing for the man’s opinion. He cared only for getting air into his tortured lungs, and he hauled down great gasps of it, his chest heaving with the effort. Around him the fight was dying out, the last of the Ángeles falling to Dawson’s men.
The lower chamber of the hacienda stank. Powder smoke mixed with the stench of opened bowels, blood, piss and sweat. It was the smell of a bitter fight to the death.
‘Heads up!’ It was Dawson who shouted the warning.
Even as he sang out, rifles were pointed down the ladder that led to the upper level. They fired a moment later. Bullets whipped into the men near the foot of the ladder. Two of them crumpled, bodies like rag dolls.
‘Return fire!’ Dawson bellowed. Almost instantly, men raised revolvers and fired up through the opening at the top of the simple wooden ladder. Yet the angle made accurate shooting impossible, and the men sheltering upstairs were in little danger of being hit.
‘Out! Out!’ Jack saw the futility of the situation and pushed at the nearest men, forcing them towards the door. Another volley came from upstairs. Bullets ricocheted off the floor and walls. This time Dawson’s men were spared, but the volley added impetus to the need to get outside.
Jack followed a trooper out into the light. Like the men around him, he flung himself back against the wall and out of sight of the bandoleros above. A moment later, Dawson slammed into a spot beside him.
‘Sweet Jesus.’ The words rasped breathlessly from the officer’s lips.
Jack wiped the sweat from his face with hands bloodied to the wrist, leaving red streaks across his skin. ‘Now what?’
‘We burn the sons of bitches out.’ Dawson’s answer was immediate. He sucked down a single breath, then lifted his head to shout his instructions. ‘Get me wood and straw. Anything that will burn.’
His men were battered and exhausted, but not one hesitated. Keeping away from the firing arcs of the upper storey, they did as they were ordered. Within minutes, a steady stream of broken wood and straw was carried towards the hacienda’s open doorway.
‘Get our wounded out, then shove it in there!’ Dawson stood to one side of the door, pressing his back hard against the wall. His men obeyed, dashing inside with whatever combustible material they had been able to find, then coming out with any wounded troopers left inside. They carried on even as the Ángeles on the upper storey fired down, their bullets ricocheting in every direction. One of Dawson’s men was hit in the leg, his curses adding urgency to the task their officer had set them.
‘What about their wounded?’ One of Dawson’s men gabbled the question as he came out of the hacienda dragging the last of Dawson’s own wounded men.
‘Leave the sons of bitches to burn.’ Dawson’s reply was immediate.
Jack said nothing even as Dawson looked his way. If the Confederate officer wanted a response, he would be disappointed. He looked down at the blood and scraps of flesh caked on his hands and trapped under his nails. He had killed without a qualm. Not even when he had ripped out the man’s eyes with his fingers had he felt anything. His emotions ran cold, just as they had to, just as he wanted them to. He had become something more than just a soldier. He was no master of war. No hero. No great warrior. But he was something else, something harder and colder. He had become a merciless killer of men; the instigator of Fate’s judgement.
‘Fire it up!’ Dawson gave the order as soon as he judged there to be enough material inside to burn.
Two of his men came forward with lucifers at the ready. It took but a moment to light bundles of straw and toss them inside. The dry wood and straw caught immediately. Within seconds, a thick, choking smoke filled the interior of the hacienda. Flames followed, crackling and fierce.
Screams came within the first minute. Men too badly wounded to move cried out as the flames licked over their broken bodies, their shrieks of unimaginable agony lasting for a cruel length of time before they finally died out.
Shouts rang out from the upper level. The openings in the wall there were much too small for a man to slide through, and so the bandoleros who had fired at Dawson’s men now faced a horrific choice. Stay and burn. Or dare to run through the flames only to be shot down by the men who waited for them.
Dawson’s troopers knew the choice their enemy faced. As the flames caught, they moved away from the cloud of smoke that belched out of the entrance, forming a cordon to one side so that they would have a clear shot at anyone who tried to flee.
They had their first chance within a minute. A bandolero broke through the doorway. The man was screaming like a banshee, his clothing ablaze. Four men shot him down, their bullets knocking him over before he had taken more than two paces. He fell back into the doorway, the flames that engulfed him roaring and spitting as they cooked his flesh.
Another man followed. Like the first, his clothes were alight, and even his hair was on fire. He was felled with a single blast from a shotgun.
No one else came out.
The hacienda echoed to the screams of men burning alive.
The air around the hacienda was filled with the pungent reek of smoke, burned wood and charred human meat. There was little left of the building itself. The central section of the upper storey’s floor had fallen in, as had a large portion of the roof. Flames still burned deep in the remains of the building, and a great column of thick black smoke rose into the sky, embers and scraps of burned clothing caught in the updraught.
Jack stood and stared at what was left of the hacienda. The bitter, acrid stink transported him to another time, to another catastrophic fire, one that had altered the course of his life. That had been in his home town of London, the building that had been destroyed the gin palace that his mother had clung to with all the fervour of a woman who knew she had nothing else. This day there was no one to mourn, and no thoughts of a lost future amidst the wreckage. So he stared at the twisted shapes that had once been men and felt nothing.
‘We’ve found the guns. It looks like they took some, but I reckon we’ve got most of them, and most of the ammunition too.’
Jack turned to see that Dawson had come
to stand beside him.
‘Good.’ There was nothing more for him to say.
‘There are still too many for us to take with us. We can manage three wagons of rifles, no more than that.’
‘What about the rest?’
‘My boys are breaking the rifles up now. When they’re done, we’ll turn the animals we don’t need loose, then set light to the wagons and anything else we can’t take with us. That way we won’t have to worry about Santiago’s men being as well armed as us.’
‘Seems a waste.’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
‘No.’ Jack made the admission freely. Dawson’s command had suffered badly in the fight: he had lost six men with another five badly wounded. That left him with just twenty-five to drive and protect the few wagons he could take with him. They would need that protection. Santiago’s men had been mauled, but there were still a hell of a lot of them out there. And there was Brannigan.
‘What about Brannigan’s gold? Is there a strongbox here?’ Jack asked.
Dawson smiled, white teeth bright against skin streaked with soot.
‘You found it?’ Jack felt no such urge to smile.
‘It’s all there.’
‘And Brannigan himself?’ Jack cared nothing for the specie.
‘I didn’t see him. Did you?’
‘No.’ Jack tasted something bitter as he made the admission. Brannigan would not have gone far from his money, but he had not been in evidence at the hacienda. There had been no sign of Kat either. ‘He’ll come for the gold.’
‘He’ll be welcome to try.’
‘You might think differently if he brings a hundred of Santiago’s men.’
‘They won’t be back.’ Dawson gave the answer with confidence. ‘They’re not soldiers. We killed enough of them here. They won’t have the guts for another fight.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ Jack was dubious.
‘I know these people. Brannigan, well, he’s different. But I don’t see him wanting to take us on all by his lonesome. He’s too clever for that.’
Jack heard the grudging respect in Dawson’s answer. ‘What if you’re wrong? What if he persuades them to attack? What if they want what’s in that strongbox?’
‘Then we’ll fight them off.’ Dawson gave the answer immediately, but Jack saw the flicker of doubt in the officer’s eyes. For all his confidence, Dawson knew the danger they were in. The threat of Santiago and his Ángeles was a real one. He did not need any reminder.
‘So what’s next?’ Jack asked.
‘We ride as soon as my boys are ready.’
‘Have you sent out scouts?’
‘Not yet.’
‘You need to.’
‘I know.’ Dawson turned his head and glared at Jack. ‘The boys are exhausted.’
‘They’ll have plenty of time to rest if you let them get killed.’
Dawson looked away. ‘Fine. I’ll send out a patrol.’
‘And pickets, too. Three or even four pairs. One to each point of the compass.’
Dawson turned back to search Jack’s face. ‘Are you giving me goddam orders?’
‘Just suggestions.’ Jack met the stare calmly.
‘Then tell me what I should do with them.’ Dawson turned to point at a huddle of captured Ángeles. Each had been bound with ropes around his ankles and arms, with another, longer rope that went around every man’s neck, linking them together.
Jack tallied their number. Six men had been taken prisoner. All were bloodied, either from bullets, shot or fists. They sat in a dejected circle, not one of them looking at their captors.
‘I haven’t got enough men to guard them if we bring them with us.’ Dawson spoke quietly. ‘And if that was my boys sat over there, that son of a bitch Santiago wouldn’t hesitate to kill every last one of them. He’d take his goddam time over it too.’
Jack heard what was not being said as clearly as he heard Dawson’s reasoning. ‘You’re going to kill them.’
‘That’s what we do. I’ve done it before.’
Jack looked Dawson dead in the eye. He saw something half hidden in the man’s gaze; something that he read as shame, or at least close to it. ‘That just makes us as bad as him.’
‘As bad as Brannigan, or as bad as Santiago?’
‘Both, I suppose.’ Jack considered the man standing in front of him. To this point, he had not thought much of Dawson, his similarity to Brannigan and his readiness to work for his own account condemning him in Jack’s mind. Now he saw something else; something better. ‘So bring them with us. Find a way.’
‘No. I don’t see how I can do that.’ Dawson spoke slowly, then sighed. ‘We don’t have any other choice. Killing them will warn the others what to expect if they come against us. It might put them off.’
Jack looked at the captured Ángeles. Empathy had never been his strongest suit. His mind went back to the massacre of Brannigan’s men. These Ángeles had likely been there. They were the men who had pulled the triggers, killing without pity. They would know not to expect mercy. And yet to kill them in cold blood was more than he could stomach. The notion almost made him smile. It meant he was weak. But that was a good thing. He was not Brannigan, and neither was Dawson. So there was another way.
‘Let them go.’ He gave Dawson a different option. ‘Turn them loose, like Brannigan did with me.’
Dawson looked at him sharply. ‘You’d do that if you were me?’
‘I’m not you. I’m not in charge here.’
‘But if you were?’
Jack looked Dawson dead in the eye. ‘I’d let them go.’
‘And risk having them find their way back to Santiago?’
‘Yes.’
Dawson looked at Jack for a long time as he wrestled with the idea. Jack said nothing. The decision had to be Dawson’s alone.
‘Shit.’ Dawson looked at the ground, then over to the prisoners. ‘Hooper!’ he shouted at one of the men guarding them.
‘Captain?’
‘Strip those men naked.’
‘Captain?’
‘You heard me, Trooper.’
Hooper opened his mouth as if to protest further. But he clearly saw something in his officer’s expression that made him close it quickly enough and go to do as he was told.
‘I hope this isn’t a mistake.’ Dawson spoke softly, as much to himself as to Jack.
‘Six more men isn’t going to make a difference,’ Jack replied.
‘I hope you’re right.’ Dawson rubbed the toe of his boot in the dirt, a final moment’s hesitation before he went to get rid of his prisoners.
Jack stood inside the shed where he had been kept captive. It felt like that had been days ago, not just hours. He could sense the presence of both Adam and Brown, their ghosts lingering like the smell that filled the cramped space. He remembered the long night before they had been led away into the desert, the night before Adam and Brown had been murdered.
He sighed. It was time to push their faces away and consign them to the dark recesses of his mind, where they could dwell with all the others. They would have company there, amongst the many faces of the dead and the lost.
Yet there was one more thing he had to do before he quit this place. It was the reason he had come back to the shed, and it did not take much digging around in the dirty straw that still littered the floor to find what he was looking for.
The sword lay where Brannigan had discarded it. Jack bent down to scoop it up and held it in his right hand, just as he did in battle. The weight felt right. He had always fought with a sword in his right hand and a revolver in his left. Brannigan had derided him for clinging to the past, his way of fighting an anachronism that had no place in a world where every man carried a six-shooter and a rifle.
He hefted the blade, then moved it in a slow arc, slicing it through the air. The movement was familiar, comforting. It was a reminder of the man he had been for such a long time. Yet that had been when he was a soldier, an o
fficer and a leader of men. He had moved on from all that, becoming his own man at last. One he knew well; the good and the bad, the strong and the weak. He knew what manner of man he was and he accepted it. He had even begun to like it.
He held the blade for one last moment, then he bent over and carefully returned it to the floor before kicking a covering of straw back over it. He no longer needed the sword to define him. It was time to move on.
He left the shed and did not look back.
The column rode away from the ruined hacienda an hour later. The men had barely had a moment to rest. They had stayed long enough to water the horses and heat some coffee, and then they were back in the saddle.
As before, Dawson sent out scouts and flankers. This time he had the three wagons to concern him, one carrying a full load of Enfields and their ammunition and another bearing the five most severely wounded troopers. The strongbox and its precious cargo were in the third wagon, with two of Dawson’s men acting as guards. The dead had been buried and the rest of the wagons, rifles and ammunition had been set on fire, the enormous pyre filling the sky with a great column of dense black smoke.
Dawson’s plan was simple. They would ride due north, heading for Matamoros. They would not stop save to replenish their water. It would be a hard ride, but none of the men minded the order. The sooner they were out of Mexico the better.
‘Hey, you there.’
Jack turned to face the trooper who had addressed him. He was riding with three of Dawson’s men just ahead of the wagons. ‘What do you want, soldier?’
The man was chewing on tobacco, and he spat out a stream of dark juice before he spoke again. ‘You reckon Brannigan will be able to convince that son of a bitch Santiago to try to stop us reaching the border?’
‘Yes.’ Jack gave the honest answer.
They rode on for a while, the only sound the creaking of the axles on the three wagons and the slow, methodical sound of horses’ hooves hitting the sun-baked ground.
‘Hey, you there.’
Again Jack twisted in the saddle. It was the same man as before who had spoken. He had the stripes of a corporal on his sleeves and enough grey whiskers in his beard to be older than Jack. ‘Corporal, my name is Jack. Feel free to use it.’
The Lost Outlaw Page 27
