The Lost Outlaw

by Paul Fraser Collard

  ‘The hacienda where we fought Santiago before – do any of you have any idea how far away that is?’

  ‘A mile, maybe two to the south,’ a stern-faced Texan replied.

  ‘Right.’ Jack searched the faces that were looking at him. These men needed a leader. They needed him. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Brody Allen.’ The Texan spoke evenly. He was tall, with a heavy moustache, and stubble that covered his cheeks and neck. He had been cut in the fighting, a gash running across his chin so that blood trickled down his neck.

  ‘Right, Allen. You lead the way. Mills, you and Moore take the rear. Keep a close eye on those bastards. Sing out if they gain too much ground.’ Jack gave his first orders quickly, his eyes darting from the men to the Ángeles on their tail. ‘Let’s go.’ He gave them no time to think on what he had said. There was no time to spare.

  It was only as he geed his horse back into motion, that he felt something shift deep inside him. It was not fear. It was something else. It had been a long time since he had given men orders in battle, yet the moment he had taken command, he had felt something awaken, something that had lain dormant for so long that he had forgotten it even existed. It was as if someone had just clamped a weight on to his shoulders. It sat there, heavy and unyielding, yet it was no burden, and he carried it willingly. He had taken responsibility for these men, and he would give them the leadership they needed. It might not be for long, and it looked more than possible that it would be the last thing he ever did, but he took on the mantle willingly.

  They rode as fast as the exhausted horses and mules could manage. The going was good enough, the dusty scrubland rushing by as they pushed on. Allen led them, choosing their path.

  Before long, Jack saw the hacienda in the distance. Smoke still rose from the charred remains of the building, the wispy column climbing high into the cloudless sky. It did not look like much, but it was the only building he had seen and so it would have to do. The Texans would have to turn it into a fortress – into their own personal Alamo.

  The men arrived at the hacienda in a cloud of dust, horses snorting and breathless. There was no time to celebrate their arrival.

  ‘Good work, Allen.’ Jack slipped from the saddle, his legs buckling as they hit the ground. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing away some of the dust and grime, then looked at the burned-out husk of a building that he would try to defend.

  The four walls still stood, yet at least half of the roof had collapsed, the charred supporting timbers unable to hold the weight. The building was just as he remembered, with a single entrance facing the track, no windows on the lower level, and just a few small square openings on what was left of the upper storey. The once white-limed walls were scorched and blackened, and the air was full of the acrid stink of woodsmoke. Yet there was something else that tainted the air, something far worse than the smell of burned wood. Underlying it all was the stench of burned human remains.

  ‘Allen! Take two men and get the horses away. We won’t need them now.’ Jack gave the first order. The Ángeles would surely steal the horses, yet there was nothing else for it. The men were all that mattered.

  ‘Hennessey!’

  ‘Here.’ The Texan corporal was the last to arrive.

  ‘Dump that bloody wagon, release the animals, then start getting everything inside – every scrap of ammunition, every firearm, even the bloody saddles.’

  ‘Yes, Jack. You want the strongbox too?’

  ‘Yes.’ Jack was already walking away. ‘I want everything.’

  He strode briskly to the hacienda. He reckoned they had five minutes, perhaps ten, before the Ángeles got there. They would have to use every precious second.

  A span of timber from the upper storey half barred the hacienda’s doorway. He kicked it out of the way, then walked inside, pulling up the bandana around his neck to cover his mouth and nose.

  The interior of the hacienda was a mess. Broken tiles and charred wood littered the ground, crunching under his boots as he made a quick survey of the place he would try to defend. Amidst the wreckage were small mounds of what looked to be charcoal. He knew what they were, yet he paid them no heed, not even when his boot crushed what might have once been a man’s arm into so much dust.

  His eyes ran over the inside of the building. The walls were thick, which would make the cutting of loopholes either difficult or impossible. The centre of the upper floor had fallen in, but a good portion of the rest remained, and though the ladder was gone, he reckoned he could still get men up there. It would be a treacherous position – what was left of the floor was barely stable and sloped heavily towards the broken edge – but those men would be vital, as they could warn of the Ángeles’ movements, and bring down fire if and when the bandoleros chose to attack.

  He spotted something amidst the ash and bent down to retrieve it. It was an Enfield rifle, or at least the remains of one. It was a reminder of what had brought him to this place and to this hopeless battle. Brannigan had said it best. There were three dangerous things in this world: guns, money and women. Now Jack held one of the three in his possession, and he knew Brannigan would stop at nothing to take back the strongbox.

  And so there would be another fight, another battle.

  One that could well prove to be his last.

  ‘Look lively.’ Jack pulled down the bandana, which had done precious little to spare him from breathing the foul air inside the hacienda, and snapped the instruction at the Texans as he strode outside. They were tired. They were slow.

  The first man bustled past carrying a set of saddlebags and half a dozen canteens. Others followed with saddles and every weapon they had.

  ‘What do you want to do about the bodies?’ One of the men asked the question as he came back for a second load.

  ‘Leave them where they are.’ Jack was busy with his own horse. Of all the men he had the least equipment.

  ‘That ain’t right,’ the man mumbled.

  Jack did not react. He concentrated on unbuckling the saddle’s cinch and hauling it off. He nodded to Allen, who was waiting to gather the mare’s reins. ‘Take the horses away. Hide them if you can, but get them well out of range, then hurry the hell back here.’

  He carried the saddle inside and dumped it without ceremony alongside the others that had been brought into the hacienda. All the men were inside now except Allen and the two other men who would get the horses out of harm’s way.

  ‘Right.’ Jack pointed at two of the troopers. ‘I want you two upstairs. Get your mates to give you a bunk-up. Make sure you have carbines, not shotguns.’ He looked at the faces turned his way. All were becoming familiar, even if he did not know every name. They were becoming his men. ‘And take that bloody strongbox up there with you.’ He added the extra order as he saw two men holding the heavy wooden crate that contained Brannigan’s specie.

  ‘Hennessey!’ He called for the corporal, the only non-commissioned officer left. ‘Have the men start making loopholes in the walls. We need them on all sides.’

  ‘Walls are plenty thick, Jack.’ Hennessey pulled a face as he contemplated the order. ‘Might not be able to make many.’

  ‘Do whatever you can. Otherwise, all we have are the windows up there,’ Jack pointed to the remains of the upper level, ‘and that bloody doorway.’

  ‘We need water, too.’

  ‘How much have we got?’

  ‘Less than one canteen each.’ Hennessey gave the news calmly.

  ‘Shit.’ Jack knew how significant the lack of water would be. Every man would already be dry-mouthed, and the amount they would have sweated out in the fight and the madcap retreat would have left them in dire need of water. Yet it appeared they had precious little left.

  ‘Where’s the nearest water?’

  ‘Out the back. There’s a dam in a small creek at the back of the yard. We filled up when we were here before.’

  ‘How many men do you need with you?’

  ‘Two.’
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br />   ‘Go.’ Jack did not hesitate. ‘But be bloody quick about it.’

  ‘You got it.’ Hennessey had already turned away and was starting to grab the canteens that had been piled on the floor.

  ‘You.’ Jack pointed at a man he did not know. ‘Get a mate and start dragging over some of these timbers so we can bar the door. We’ll reinforce whatever you can find with the saddles.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The man did not need to be told twice.

  Jack stood back as Hennessey and two other troopers dashed outside, their arms full of canteens. He had six men outside now. The rest were with him. Two were on the upper storey, and two were searching the rubble for enough strong wood to bar the door. That left just one man making loopholes, hacking away at the front wall with a bowie knife. Thus far he had made little impression.

  ‘Jack!’ One of the men on the upper floor called out.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can see ’em. Brannigan and those Mexican sons of bitches. They’re half a mile away. Mebbe less.’

  ‘Shit.’ Jack forced away the frustration. He had too few men and not enough time. ‘Watch those bastards bloody closely. I want you to shoot at them when they are one hundred yards away. You understand me, soldier?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Order given, Jack went back outside. The first seed of doubt was being sown in his mind. Brannigan, Santiago and more than a hundred bandoleros would be here in a matter of minutes. If Hennessey and his companions did not make it back, the handful of men left would be without water, and without three of their comrades.

  ‘Hurry the fuck up!’ He saw Allen and the two troopers who had got the horses away jogging back to the hacienda. They were not moving quickly enough for his liking.

  The men forced themselves into something close to a slow run. They were already exhausted.

  ‘Get inside. Help make loopholes.’ Jack would give them no time to rest.

  He paced on, his eyes searching the ground in the direction from which he expected Brannigan and his entourage to emerge. He immediately saw the telltale dust cloud that revealed their presence. It was close.

  ‘How long?’ he shouted up to the windows above, where he could see one of the Texans peering out.

  ‘Two minutes, I reckon. Mebbe less,’ the man replied in a slow drawl.

  There was no time left. Jack ran around the corner of the building. He saw Hennessey and his two men immediately. They were busy in the far corner of the yard.

  ‘Hennessey! Get back here!’ He cupped his hands around his mouth to help his shout carry.

  ‘We ain’t done,’ Hennessey called back.

  ‘Now!’ Jack had no time to explain.

  This time Hennessey did not reply, but he did obey. It took the three men a few moments to gather the canteens, then they started back.

  A single gunshot cracked out, followed by a second.

  ‘Shit! Hurry up!’ Jack knew what the shots meant. Brannigan and Santiago had to be close now.

  Hennessey and his men ran as fast as they could, the canteens draped over their bodies banging furiously together. One of the men dropped one. It was left where it lay.

  ‘Come on!’ Jack wheeled his arm as he ran back to the hacienda’s entrance. He half expected to see the enemy surging into view. To his relief, there was nothing but the cloud of dust. But that cloud was horribly close.

  ‘Keep firing!’ he shouted, then ran to the hacienda’s open doorway. He was rewarded with two crisp shots from the upper level as the men there did as he ordered.

  ‘Get ready to block this up!’ he instructed. ‘Get every gun loaded, and have the shotguns ready in case those bastards try to come straight in.’

  Commands delivered, he turned and dashed back to the corner of the building to see where Hennessey had got to. He was relieved. He and his men were close.

  ‘Get a fucking move on!’ He took a moment to give the encouragement, then turned to run back to the entrance. It was then that he saw the first Ángeles ride into view.

  The bandoleros were riding hard. And they were riding fast.

  ‘Give me a shotgun.’ As he reached the doorway, he called out to one of the men inside, his hand outstretched.

  ‘Here.’ The Texan thrust one of the freshly loaded weapons towards him.

  Jack took the weapon. It was no repeating rifle, and he wished he had the firepower the modern weapon would give him. It had hurt to see Brannigan using the Henry, just as it hurt to know that the wagon master also had the Navy Colt that had served Jack so well for so long. Yet he would not dwell on their loss. He had lost finer weapons before, and he would find himself more. When they had won. When they were safe.

  He glanced up the track that led to the hacienda. The Ángeles were close now. Almost in range.

  Hennessey and the men with the canteens came rushing around the corner of the building, their faces flushed crimson from the exertion of running in the heat.

  ‘Inside! Now!’ Jack bellowed his last instruction, then took two paces away from the doorway, clearing a path for the men and their precious load of water.

  Two shots snapped out, the men in the upper storey keeping up their rate of fire. One of the closest Ángeles was struck, the bullet thudding into his shoulder and half throwing him out of the saddle. It caused his horse to swerve, and men around him were forced to slow as they avoided the sudden obstacle.

  The rest still rode forward. They closed the distance quickly, revolvers and carbines outstretched.

  Jack stood his ground. He heard Hennessey and his men scrambling towards the doorway. He did not glance round to watch their progress. Instead, he looked only at the leading rider, a hard-faced Mexican who rode straight towards him.

  He raised the shotgun, settling the butt into his shoulder and easing his weight on to his front leg.

  Behind him, Hennessey reached the open door, his two men just behind him.

  The leading Ángel twitched his revolver to one side, changing his point of aim. Then he fired.

  Jack felt the snap in the air as the bullet zipped past his head. He did not move a muscle.

  Hennessey shouted instructions as he made it inside. They did not register in Jack’s mind, the sounds ignored.

  A second bullet snapped by close enough for him to hear the strange sound it made as it flew through the superheated air. He reached forward with his thumb, cocking first one of the shotgun’s hammers, then the other.

  Hennessey’s two men rushed past just behind him. He could hear them panting.

  More bullets flew, other Ángeles opening fire.

  Jack braced himself for the shotgun’s recoil. The sound of bullets cracking into the hacienda was loud, and he felt dust splatter against his leg from where one hit the ground by his right foot.

  The leading Ángel was just twenty feet away. His revolver moved again as he adjusted his aim one last time.

  The horse powered forward, goaded by the sound of the gunshots. The last yards passed quickly under its hooves. At such close range, the Ángel would not miss again.

  Then Jack fired.

  The shotgun’s recoil thumped hard into his shoulder. The great blast of both barrels firing at once exploded out, shocking, deafening and powerful.

  The buckshot tore into the Ángel riding at Jack, ripping through flesh and muscle. There was time for both horse and rider to scream, before the dreadful sound was cut off abruptly as they crashed into the dirt.

  Jack did not wait to inspect his gruesome handiwork. The second he had pulled the trigger, he had bounded for the open doorway.

  ‘Close it up!’ He shouted the order as he dived inside.

  The Texans hurried to obey. Some flung saddles into the opening, whilst others thrust forward scorched timbers and sections of broken roof. Within a few seconds, the doorway was almost completely blocked.

  Jack handed the now empty shotgun to a trooper, then sucked down a deep breath, forcing air into his lungs.

  It was darker now inside th
e hacienda, the only light filtering in through gaps in the jury-rigged barricade, with just a little more coming through the windows and the broken roof above. It gave the place an oppressive air, like a dungeon, the air heated to the point of being stifling.

  He had got the men inside. They had weapons and they had water.

  And they were trapped.

  It was the silence that worried Jack the most. None of the Texans spoke as they waited in the gloom. Every man breathed hard, the last-minute rush inside and the hasty barricading of the doorway leaving the already exhausted troopers panting and sweating.

  The sound of men moving past outside was fading. With the Texans inside, the Ángeles had broken away, eager to get out of range of the Confederate cavalrymen’s carbines. The men on the upper storey held their fire, the Mexicans allowed to pull back without interference.

  Jack looked around at the faces of the men Fate had picked to stand with him. He knew only a few of their stories. He did not know where most came from, or what they had done before. He did not even know most of their names. Yet here they were. Ready to fight at his side. Ready to die there.

  ‘Loopholes.’ He said the single word loudly and clearly. ‘Front, back and sides. We need as many as we can make, otherwise we won’t know what Brannigan and those Ángeles bastards are up to. Work in pairs, and work quickly.’ He did not raise his voice as he gave his instructions. He did not have to. In the quiet, every man could hear him well enough.

  ‘Hennessey.’ He picked out the corporal. ‘What weapons have we got?’

  ‘Carbines and shotguns.’ Hennessey smeared a hand over his face, as if in an attempt to wipe away his exhaustion. ‘About half a dozen of each. We’ve all got revolvers, plus a couple of spares.’

  ‘Ammunition?’

  ‘Plenty for everything except the shotguns. We’ve got maybe thirty or forty cartridges between us for those.’

  ‘Right.’ Jack took stock. ‘I want all the carbines up there.’ He pointed to the remains of the upper level. ‘They’ve got the longest range so that’s the best place for them. I want you up there too. Keep a bloody sharp eye on those bastards outside.’