‘Let’s go!’ He waved his arm high, then powered back along the trail. The ground was littered with the bodies of those bandoleros cut down by the ambush. Horses’ hooves crushed those lying in the way, the Texans callous and cruel as they raced to get out of range of the Ángeles’ rifles. They rode with the screams of the wounded ringing in their ears alongside the high-pitched whine of Minié balls zipping past.
Jack rode at the rear of his small command. For the first time, he allowed himself to feel a modicum of pride. The ambush had been timed to perfection, and the Ángeles foot soldiers had been hit hard. It had worked exactly as he had planned, and not a single one of the eleven troopers riding with him had been hit. They had bought the rest of the column enough time to get away.
‘Good work,’ he shouted. ‘We hit those bastards hard.’
‘Amen to that!’ one man shouted in reply, whilst others whooped and cheered. With their fear spent, the feeling of elation would be strong.
They rode on, letting their horses pick their way, safe in the knowledge that their pursuers had been knocked on their collective arse.
Jack looked ahead. He could make out the rest of the column and the three wagons about half a mile ahead. Already they were on better ground, and as he watched, they seemed to pick up speed.
It was only then that he saw another mounted column, moving fast across the open ground.
The cheers and cries of triumph died out as the rest of the men riding with him saw the same threat.
They had beaten one group of Ángeles bloody. But they had forgotten about the rest of Santiago’s bandoleros.
And those bandoleros were about to launch an attack of their own.
Jack and his men rode fast. Yet they were too far away to do anything but watch.
The mounted Ángeles came in firing. Armed with revolvers and carbines, they opened up with a deadly salvo of shots the moment they were in range.
From his distant viewpoint, Jack could not hear the cries of anguish and horrified surprise as the column came under attack. But he could see the troopers who were gunned out of the saddle, their bodies thrown into the dirt by the first close-range shots.
The mounted Ángeles swarmed forward. Shot followed shot as those with revolvers poured on the fire.
Dawson and his men fought back. Every Texan was a veteran of a dozen or more border skirmishes. They returned fire, shotguns and revolvers spraying bullets and buckshot into the mounted Ángeles. Well-aimed shots knocked down horses and men, the foremost Ángeles riders catching the full force of the return fire.
There was little time for anything more. With a defiant war cry, the Texan troopers counter-charged.
The two sides came together fast. Few men carried blades, so the fight descended into a chaotic melee, bullets coming from every direction. Men were shot from the saddle, their bodies trampled underfoot.
Jack rode towards the skirmish, spurring his horse on. He held the Remington ready to fire, knowing he had just the one bullet left in its chambers. The knowledge did not deter him. He would fight with what he had.
The ground passed slowly under the flying hooves of his horse. He could do nothing as more of the Texans fell, their despairing cries barely audible over the shouts and roars of men fighting for their lives and the constant snap of guns firing.
The distance closed. Yard by yard, each one crawling by.
He caught a glimpse of a familiar face in the melee. Brannigan was there, and he was using Jack’s Henry rifle. In the close-quarters fight, the weapon was murderously effective, and he was making full use of the load of sixteen rounds. Even as Jack watched in horror, the wagon master fired a fast series of shots, the salvo striking a Texan trooper from the saddle, the bullets shattering his spine. Then he switched his point of aim, firing three more shots in rapid succession into the body of another trooper.
Jack could feel his horse slowing beneath him, so he kicked back his spurs, gouging the sharp steel into the animal’s flanks, not caring that he drew blood. Speed was all.
He spotted Dawson. The Confederate captain was in the thick of the melee, hacking at countless Ángeles with a bowie knife, the blade striking down repeatedly. Corporal Hennessey had jumped on to one of the wagons and was grappling with a bandolero, the two men locked in a desperate hand-to-hand fight.
With fifty yards to go, Jack saw Kat. She was holding back, keeping away from the fighting. He could see the Volcanic pistol he had bought her clutched ready for use in her hands.
The last yards passed. Time sped up.
And he rode into chaos.
A Texan fell from the saddle just in front of him, a bone-handled knife sticking out of his throat. Another galloped through the melee, revolver firing fast, face twisted into an inhuman snarl.
A bandolero crossed Jack’s path without seeing him, the man aiming an Indian tomahawk at a Texan riding the other way. He would never make the throw. Jack raised his Remington and fired. The bullet struck the Ángel in the back of his neck. The man arched his back, his body reacting to the strike of the bullet, before the tomahawk fell harmlessly into the dust as he tumbled from the saddle.
Jack thrust the Remington into its holster as he rode on. He flashed past a bandolero, the man’s knife lunging at his side but missing by more than a foot. Close by, another bandolero’s horse reared as it was struck by a bullet, the animal’s bellow of agony loud even in the cacophony.
Jack pulled hard on his horse’s reins, angling the beast in the direction he thought Brannigan would be. With his Remington out of ammunition, he was unarmed, so he dragged the unloaded shotgun out of its holster and spun it around in his grip so that he held it by the barrel.
There was no time to dwell on his choice of weaponry. A Texan rode past in the other direction, forcing him to swerve to one side. An Ángel followed hot on the man’s heels. There was time for his eyes to widen in alarm as he saw Jack waiting in his path.
Jack saw his chance. He swung the shotgun hard. There was a moment when he felt his balance shift, then the butt slammed into the bandolero’s face. It was a cruel blow, and it smashed the man from the saddle.
He rode on. He glimpsed Brannigan and altered his course. He did not care that he was heading towards a man firing a repeating rifle whilst he was armed with nothing more than an unwieldy empty shotgun. He would trust to Fate to keep him safe.
An Ángel charged by, revolver raised and firing. Jack was riding in the opposite direction, but he lashed out with the shotgun, acting on instinct. The clumsy swing missed the man, but it caught the revolver and sent it flying from his hands. The bandolero howled in anger and twisted in the saddle to see who had come to intervene. There was time for him to look into Jack’s eyes before Jack backhanded the shotgun just as he would a sword, crashing the butt into the side of the man’s head and knocking him half out of the saddle.
There was no time to land another blow. Jack rode on, narrowly missing a fallen Texan left writhing on the ground. He saw Brannigan again. The wagon master stood in his stirrups, face calm as he emptied the repeating rifle’s magazine at targets Jack could not see.
‘Brannigan!’ A voice shouted for the wagon master’s attention.
Dawson rode through the melee, his bowie knife held out like a sabre, blood and gore dripping from the blade.
Jack saw at once that the Confederate officer was riding directly at Brannigan, attempting the same feat as Jack was himself. It doubled the odds of at least one of them succeeding.
‘Brannigan!’ He shouted the name too, then laughed. There was joy in this moment. It was foolish, idiotic even, yet it was joyous all the same.
Brannigan saw them both. His head whipped from side to side as he looked from Dawson to Jack, then back to Dawson.
Jack surged forward, breaking past a Texan and an Ángel locked in a ferocious wrestling match.
Brannigan stood his ground. The Henry emptied of rounds, he thrust the weapon into a holster next to his saddle and drew an Indian toma
hawk. It was a vicious weapon, perfect for a hand-to-hand fight like the one they were about to embark upon. Yet Jack did not fear it. He knew Brannigan would not be able to hold his own for long against two men intent on his demise.
Dawson’s horse surged ahead. He would reach Brannigan first.
Brannigan saw it. He jabbed back his spurs, and his horse lunged forward as it responded to the pain in its flanks. The two men came together at speed. Neither had a weapon with reach, so they reined in as they met, horses shoulder to shoulder, the animals snapping and biting at each other as the men lashed out for the first time.
Bowie knife met tomahawk. The two blades clashed, then came apart. Immediately both men dropped their reins and lashed out with their free hand. Dawson punched first, snapping Brannigan’s head back. Before he could land a second blow, Brannigan’s tomahawk came back in a wild, slicing blow that would have decapitated the Confederate captain had he not held back a strike of his own so that he could sway out of the way.
The two men traded blows, battering away at one another, trying to find a way through the other’s defence, both looking for an opening. Yet neither could land a telling attack.
Jack galloped in. Brannigan was concentrating on Dawson, the two exchanging a fast series of blows without either securing an advantage. He did not see Jack coming.
Jack readied the shotgun, choosing his line with care. He would get only one chance, time for a single blow, nothing more.
He was still yards away when Kat rode into the fight.
She came in fast, her mount controlled with her left hand whilst her right held the Volcanic pistol. She skirted around Brannigan, then dragged the animal to a halt, its forelegs buckling under the strain.
Jack was too far away to intervene. He could do nothing but watch as Kat aimed the Volcanic at Dawson.
She needed both hands to hold the heavy pistol, so she dropped the reins, her left hand taking a firm grip of the Volcanic’s barrel. It was skilfully done, the horse controlled with legs alone, her arms braced for the weapon’s recoil.
The first bullet hit Dawson’s right arm. The round lacked the power of a Minié ball, but at close range it was still capable of shattering bone, and the bowie knife was sent flying from a hand suddenly without the power to grip.
Dawson yelled out in pain. His head whipped around, his eyes wide as they searched for the source of the attack.
Kat fired a second shot. The bullet hit Dawson in the chest, rocking him back in the saddle.
His eyes found his assailant. There was time for a moment’s surprise to register before her third bullet hit barely an inch away from the second.
Jack saw Dawson’s clothing twitch as the rounds hit. Neither possessed enough force to knock the Confederate captain from the saddle, but with his knife gone and his arm fractured, Dawson was defenceless.
Brannigan saw it.
The tomahawk was a vicious weapon. Brannigan smashed it into Dawson’s head with every scrap of power he possessed. The sharpened blade drove deep, splitting skin and cleaving bone.
Somehow Dawson remained upright, blood pouring from his head. For a moment he stared at Brannigan, his mouth opening as if about to scream.
Kat fired again. The bullet took Dawson in the mouth. Another bullet came a heartbeat later, and then another, Kat firing as fast as the Volcanic could manage.
Dawson stayed in the saddle a moment longer. Then he fell.
He was dead before he hit the ground.
Jack watched in horror from no more than five or six yards away as Dawson toppled from the saddle. Then he was hauling on his reins, turning his mare’s head around, the decision made in an instant.
He rammed back his spurs, forcing the animal to find whatever strength it had left. With Kat now in the fight, he had no chance of taking on Brannigan, not alone and practically unarmed. So he took the only option open to him.
He fled.
‘Pull back!’ He shouted the command as he rode away from Brannigan. ‘Pull back!’
He had no idea if any of Dawson’s men would heed the command, but he repeated it over and over as he rode back through the melee.
The fight had been short and vicious. Dozens of men and horses had been struck down, the ground now littered with their bodies. Yet some men remained in the saddle, either still fighting or looking for a new target.
Jack rode past them all.
‘Pull back!’ he repeated. He saw Texans looking his way, so he shouted again and again as he rode, sawing on his horse’s reins to avoid the dead and the living alike. He saw Hennessey as he galloped by. The Texan corporal had won his fight for control of the wagon, and now sat in the driver’s seat, gathering the reins.
The Texans had been in enough fights to know when the battle was lost. First one, then another turned their horses around. Cries of anger turned into the yips and yells of men encouraging their horses to run. Hennessey came with them, whipping the wagon’s mules mercilessly, following Jack out of the chaos.
Jack heard the sound of men following so concentrated his attention on the path ahead. He gave little heed to direction. He thought only of getting the surviving Texans to safety.
His mare was near exhausted, but he pushed her on, kicking back his heels every time she flagged. The horse did its best, finding the strength for a final gallop. The ground flashed past, the sound of the bitter fight receding into the distance until he could hear nothing more than the rhythmic pounding of hooves hitting sun-hardened ground.
Only when he was sure that he had put a fair distance between himself and the melee did he allow the mare to slow. He twisted in the saddle, eager to know who, if anyone, was with him.
He looked back to see a handful of Texan troopers and a single wagon on his tail. It did not take long to count them. Just eleven men were left. All were filthy, and most were bloodied.
He brought the exhausted mare to a stand, the animal staggering for several steps before it found its footing. It gave him the chance to look back the way he had come. Off in the distance he could just about make out the place where Dawson had fallen. Two of the wagons were still there, and he could see Ángeles swarming over them.
‘Oh my Lord.’ The first man to reach Jack gasped the words as he brought his horse to a stand.
Jack said nothing. He sat in the saddle, sucking down deep breaths. Sweat sheeted his body and he could feel more running down his face. The heat of the day was pushing towards its height, so that it was like trying to breathe in an oven. But he could not complain. He was still alive. For the moment, at least.
Faces looked back at him, eyes bright against skin darkened by sweat, blood and powder smoke. He recognised some of the men. Hennessey was there, of course, driving the single wagon that had been saved from the ambush. Moore sat at the rear of the small group, the father of six drawing breath just behind the baby-faced Mills. Eight other Texan troopers reined in, each one with the wild-eyed stare of men who had just fought for their lives and come out the other side.
Yet they were to be given no respite.
‘Jack!’ It was Hennessey who shouted the warning. He was pointing back the way they had come.
‘Shit.’ Jack saw immediately what the corporal had spotted. It appeared that Brannigan and Santiago had no intention of letting the Texans escape. Dozens of figures on horseback were riding away from the two captured wagons. They galloped towards the small band of exhausted troopers. It did not take a genius to work out that they were riding to slaughter the last of Dawson’s men.
Another notion filtered into Jack’s tired mind. There was a further reason why the wagon master and the bandit leader would not let them go. He had seen the way the wagon Hennessey drove had covered the ground. It was the most lightly loaded of the three Dawson had brought with them. That meant it contained the strongbox filled with the gold doubloons Santiago had paid for the Enfields; a king’s ransom in specie.
‘Have you got a plan, Jack?’ Hennessey looked at him. Ten other faces
did the same.
For a moment, Jack hesitated. He was not these men’s leader. He was no officer, not any longer. Yet they looked to him for direction.
The decision was an easy one. He would give the men the leadership they so badly needed. It was not out of duty, or because he was being paid to be there. It was not to earn glory, or to prove he was a better soldier, or a truer warrior. Instead he chose to lead these men. For he was who he was. And they needed him.
His first thought was to abandon the wagon and its precious cargo. It was a good option, one that might be enough to turn the bandoleros from their tail. But the idea died quickly. Brannigan would not let any of them go, not after the fight. He would want to kill every last one of them, and Jack most of all. Giving up the strongbox would almost certainly achieve nothing. He thought of heading for the border, but on their tired horses, the Texans had no hope of outrunning the bandoleros.
Then there was something else, something that he would admit only to himself. Brannigan had made his plans, and had acted upon them, killing the men who had served him with such loyalty and taking his master’s specie for himself. Now only Jack stood between him and the successful completion of that plan.
It might have been bravery, or even some half-baked and fanciful notion of bringing justice to a world that would never know about it, and would likely not care even if it did. Or it might have been nothing more than sheer bloody-mindedness, his battered pride refusing to let a man like Brannigan have his way. Whichever it was, it was time to thwart Brannigan, and to put a barricade between him and the riches he had planned to steal. And so that left Jack with just one idea. One foolish, futile notion that would allow him and the Texans to hold on to the strongbox and, if they were lucky, their lives.
The Lost Outlaw Page 29
