‘Is everyone reloaded?’ he called. He could do nothing about the Ángeles, not with the hacienda under constant fire. But he could keep the men occupied.
Heads nodded. The Texans knew their trade.
‘Take up positions on the front wall only.’ Jack changed their placement. If Hennessey was right, the Ángeles were going to attack the front of the hacienda alone.
He paused, letting the men shuffle towards the front wall. Two crouched near a loophole that had been hacked from the stone. The rest gathered near the barricade.
‘Hennessey!’
‘Jack?’
‘You boys hold your fire until the last moment. Then give those bastards everything you’ve got.’
‘You got it.’ Hennessey’s answer was quick and sure.
Jack grinned. He liked these Texans. ‘Are you boys ready to fight?’ he asked the men crouching near him.
‘Hell, yeah.’ Moore was closest, and he growled the reply.
‘Make every shot count.’ Jack flinched as a bullet snapped through the opening in the barricade. He smiled as he saw the men nearby grinning at his reaction. ‘Let’s take as many of those fuckers with us as we can.’
The men nodded in agreement. All of them were ready.
‘Here they come!’ Hennessey sang out the warning.
Jack sucked down a deep breath. There was no fear. Not now.
He sensed devilment stirring in his gut. His end might be coming, but at least he was being given the chance to fight. He thought back to Adam and Brown, and then to Vaughan and the rest of the men in the wagon train. All had died a sad, ignoble death. At least Jack had the opportunity to end his days in the one place where he felt truly at home.
He would die in battle, with a gun in his hand and a snarl on his face.
The Ángeles charged for a second time. Once again they shouted as they pounded forward, unleashing their wild, eerie war cry. This time it was underscored by the crack of rifle fire.
Brannigan and Santiago had stationed men to either side of the assault. The angle let them continue to fire even as the main group rushed forward. Bullets thudded into the hacienda without pause. Rounds impacted into walls, cracking stone then hurtling on, fizzing and whining as they ricocheted.
‘Ready!’ Jack held himself still as he crouched behind the barricade, shotgun in hand.
The Ángeles rushed on. The covering fire died out as the charging mob finally blocked the gunmen’s line of sight.
It was time.
‘Fire!’ Jack shouted the order as he rose, swinging the shotgun level. He pulled the trigger the moment the weapon was aimed outside.
This time he could see his enemy. The shotgun blast tore through two men leading the charge. At his side, the Texans stood and fired, the shotgun blasts merging into one. With the Ángeles so close, every piece of buckshot hit home. Men tumbled over, screaming and shrieking as their bodies were shredded. More fell as Hennessey and his men on the hacienda’s upper storey opened fire, their carbines dreadfully accurate at such close range.
‘Pour it on!’ Jack exhorted his men to keep firing.
Shotguns emptied, the men switched to revolvers. They fired round after round into the horde rushing towards them. The storm of bullets scythed through the Ángeles’ ranks, killing and maiming indiscriminately. Men fell constantly, their dying bodies crumpling to the ground, where they were trampled by the callous feet of the living.
‘Keep firing!’ Jack picked another target. There was the shortest flash of triumph as his bullet took a man in the gut before he switched aim to fire again.
Still the bandoleros came on. As before, there was no order to their attack, no neatly aligned ranks. They charged in a mob, men running together, their faces contorted as they released their dreadful war cry.
Jack fired again and again. Every bullet hit. The men at his side were doing the same, yet there was no way to stop the men coming towards them.
The Ángeles reached the barricade, hitting it hard, hands and rifle butts hammering into the jumbled arrangement of saddles and broken wood. Weakened and already half broken, the defences collapsed inwards.
The Ángeles cheered as they poured inside.
The Texans could do nothing to stop them. But that did not mean they would not try.
Revolvers and shotguns emptied, the men defending the hacienda drew bowie knives and readied tomahawks. They counterattacked hard, ploughing into the first Ángeles to step inside, knives ripping into flesh. Men screamed as they were cut down, their bodies falling to writhe around the feet of the men fighting above them.
It was chaos. A moustachioed bandolero came at Jack, his Enfield rifle raised as a club. Jack saw the blow coming and arched his body, letting the rifle fly past his belly. Then he stepped forward, bowie knife rising in a fast strike. He punched the blade into the Ángel’s throat, whipping the steel in and out so that it would not get caught in the flesh.
The moustachioed man’s eyes widened, a moment’s horrified surprise before blood poured from the wound in one great rush. His rifle clattered to the ground as he raised both hands to the gruesome tear in his flesh.
Jack gave him no time to dwell on his fate. He punched hard with his free left hand, smacking it into the side of the Ángel’s head, bludgeoning him to the ground. The man fell without making a sound.
Without hesitation, Jack stepped forward into the gap he had created. He drove his knife into a bandolero’s side, then grabbed another man’s hair and threw him backwards towards the barricade.
Around him the Texans fought hard. They cut deep into the Ángeles’ disordered ranks, striking men down one after the other and pushing them back. They did not have it all their own way. Two of the Texans went down, the bandoleros fighting back with rifle butts and knives. Yet the impetus of the Mexicans’ rush had been broken by the stubborn defiance of Jack and his men.
‘Keep going!’ Jack bellowed the encouragement then stepped forward again. An Ángel came at him with a long knife with a fine bone handle. The blade was thrust forward, the tip aimed at Jack’s gut.
He managed a desperate parry, throwing the strike wide so that the knife slipped past his hip. It gave him an opening and he thrust his left hand forward, grabbing the Ángel by the throat. As soon as his fingers took hold, he pulled hard, jerking his attacker towards him. Off balance, the man could do nothing to resist, and he stumbled forward just as Jack intended. He had taken no more than a half-step before Jack head-butted him right in the centre of his face. It was a vicious blow that came straight from the alleyways of east London, and it pulped the Ángel’s nose and broke teeth.
The man’s head recoiled from the strike. But Jack still held him around the throat, exposing the soft flesh of his neck. It was the work of seconds to recover his knife from its parry and drag it across his opponent’s throat, cutting through sinew and gristle and opening the man’s windpipe. Blood poured from the gruesome wound as Jack sawed the blade back and forth, driving the edge deep. The Ángel tried to scream, but there was too much blood in his throat, and he gagged on it, spluttering and choking as he died.
Jack threw the man backwards, then searched for a new target. Yet the bandoleros were backing away now, every one of them fearful of the white-faced men with their vicious knives. The attackers nearest the barricade stepped back again, creating space for those close to the Texans to retreat.
Jack stepped forward, blade dripping gore, blood slathered over his right hand and covering his jacket almost to the elbow. He saw the bandoleros were about to run. He could sense it. He could almost smell their fear. It would just take one more push.
He opened his mouth, readying the shout that would see the remaining defenders throw themselves at the bandoleros. The order never came.
A tall American stepped over the remains of the barricade. He held a strange-looking rifle in his hands, one with an odd-shaped lever around its trigger.
Jack saw Brannigan. He saw his Henry repeater.
; And he knew that their stubborn defence was over.
Brannigan opened fire the moment he cleared the remains of the barricade. The Henry was never meant to be a long-range weapon, and the close confines of the fight in the hacienda were perfect for it to demonstrate its power. The first bullet hit a Texan in the gut, the second and third following so quickly that the sounds merged into one.
‘Upstairs!’ Jack shouted the only order he could think of. There was nowhere else to go.
The surviving defenders turned. Moore was in front of Jack. He ran to the place where the upper storey was lowest. One of the men already there squatted down, hands reaching for him, ready to haul him up.
Brannigan stepped further into the hacienda. He fired fast, cranking the Henry’s handle and pumping bullets into the defenders even as they tried to escape. Three bullets hit Moore in the pit of the spine, knocking him face down on to the floor.
Jack could hear Brannigan laughing as he killed. Another Texan went down in a flurry of bullets, his body twisting and spinning as he fell. The bullets came without pause, the repeater firing as fast as Brannigan could make it.
‘Jack!’ Hennessey shouted. All three men on the upper storey were reaching down, their hands outstretched.
Jack needed no encouragement. He dropped his knife and ran towards them, his back twitching as his muscles tensed in expectation of being hit.
The last surviving trooper ran at his side. They jumped together, reaching up for the hands that could haul them to safety.
Brannigan fired.
The man next to Jack screamed as a bullet thumped into his spine. He fell away, pulling down the man who had attempted to lift him. Jack was scrambling up so he did not see either man fall, but he heard their screams as the mob below attacked them with knives.
There was a sharp stab of pain in his gut as he was dragged up and over the broken edge of the upper storey, then he was there, floundering on the floorboards like a freshly landed fish.
‘Look out!’ Hennessey shouted the warning before Jack could get to his feet.
Hands grabbed at his boots, which still stuck out into space. The Ángeles had swarmed inside as Brannigan gunned down the last defenders. Now they tried to drag Jack back down and into the clutches of the men below.
He lashed out, kicking away the hands then scrabbling forward on his stomach. Mills was there. The baby-faced trooper still had a loaded revolver, and now he fired down. The bullets took the nearest bandoleros in the head and face, driving them back and giving Jack the chance to scramble to his feet.
Yet he was far from safe. What remained of the upper level hugged the walls, the floor angled and twisted. The central section was missing completely, and as he found his footing, he looked down into a sea of faces as still more Ángeles poured inside. Already many were jumping for the upper storey, their comrades offering cradled hands to boost them up.
They came by the dozen. There were far too many to be stopped, but Jack refused to stop fighting. He stamped forward, crushing a set of grasping fingers under the heel of his boot. Then he kicked out, smashing his foot into the face of a man on the point of hauling himself up.
Everything was happening fast. Brannigan loomed into view below. Jack caught a glimpse of the raised Henry repeater, then the bullets came again.
Hennessey went down in the hail of lead, face smashed into offal by the impact of two bullets. His body tumbled over the edge of the floor and was immediately lost from sight as the Ángeles below swarmed over it, knives hacking.
The first bandoleros had reached the upper level. Mills battered one of them to the ground with his now empty revolver, but two others took his place. Both attacked the Texan with knives, their blades thrusting into his flesh at the same time. Mills staggered back, revolver tumbling from his grasp as his hands clutched at the two great crevices gouged in his flesh. The Ángeles went after him, blades moving fast, his despairing, terrified cries cut off as one of them stabbed him in the throat.
Jack fought like a man possessed. Two more men reached the upper storey. He punched the first one, the blow connecting with the man’s face, bloodying his lips and nose. Then he twisted around, hands grabbing for the second. He managed to grip the man’s jacket and swung hard, throwing the Mexican back over the edge and down on to the heads of the men still rushing inside.
The man he had punched recovered fast. He came at Jack with a knife, the blade held low, ready to gut him. Jack twisted away, but with so little floor left, there was nowhere for him to go, and he thumped hard into the wall. Again the Ángel came at him. Jack swatted an arm across the front of his body, driving the blade wide. It saved him, but the Ángel’s left hand was free, and he punched hard, hitting Jack in the side of his head.
The blow stung, but Jack butted his head forward regardless, striking the man hard, knocking him back. He went after him in an instant, his weight thrown forward, hands making contact with the centre of the man’s chest. Off balance and hurting, the Mexican could do nothing to resist, and he went back over the edge of the floor, arms windmilling as he fell.
Yet there was to be no respite. Even as Jack fought, more Ángeles had made it to the upper level. And now there was no one else left to fight them. No one except one exhausted Englishman who did not know when he was beaten.
Jack charged across the blood-splattered floor. He hit one of the bandoleros with his shoulder, knocking the man over the edge. Another immediately came at him with a knife. Jack saw the blow coming. He blocked it with his left forearm, then punched, right hand cracking forward to catch the Ángel’s chin with a rising uppercut that snapped his head back and sent him reeling away.
Still more Ángeles came for him. One rushed at him from behind. He twisted around, punching with his left hand then lashing out with his right, driving the man back.
Yet turning had left him open to an attack from the other side. Another Ángel came at him with the butt of an Enfield rifle. The blow connected with the back of his head, throwing him forward.
His knees buckled and his vision greyed. Somehow, he stayed on his feet. He turned around to grab at the man attacking him, but he was slow now, the blow to his head stealing his speed. He managed to get hold of the Enfield, but the man simply pushed forward, driving him backwards.
The back of his head hit the wall. Pain flared, bright and hot. He could feel the blood starting to flow from the wound, soaking into his hair. Still he tried to fight. He lashed out, fists flailing at the men to his front. He hit one of them, his punch landing true, knocking the man backwards. Yet more of them came at him, fists and rifle butts hammering into his body. A blade scored across his forehead, opening the skin from temple to temple so that blood ran down his face and into his eyes.
More blows came. A knife slashed him across the chest, the pain sharp and clear. Then another rifle butt hit the side of his battered and blood-covered head.
He went down like a sack of horseshit.
As he hit the floor, his senses fled so that he could no longer fully see, or hear, or feel. But he knew that the blows had stopped.
Cheers penetrated the fog that engulfed him. The Ángeles had paid a heavy price to capture the hacienda. Now they whooped and hollered as they celebrated their victory.
Jack lay still, waiting for the killing strike. There was no fear at that moment. There was just mute acceptance that this was to be the day when everything ended.
Yet the blow did not arrive.
The moments crawled past. The cheers subsided. He heard Brannigan’s voice, loud, clear and strident as he ordered the men outside. He heard the thump of boots hitting the stone floor below as the men around him jumped down.
Then he was alone.
A final, desperate idea came to him. He did not believe it would work, but still he rolled to one side, hands reaching out like a blind man. He had fallen next to Mills, the young Texan trooper who had listened so intently to Jack’s long and sorry tale. Mills was dead, his body ripped to bloody ruin by
the men who had cut him down. But he could still provide one last service to a comrade.
Jack slipped his hands across Mills’s still warm body, then pushed his hands into the rents in the man’s chest. He felt no revulsion as his fingers probed deep. They dug hard, nails tearing away scraps of flesh and bits of torn muscle. Only when his hands were full did he pull them away. It was easy then. He slathered the gore over his face and neck, adding it to the blood that had come from his own wounds, until his skin was covered. He went back for more, filling his hands with the grotesque mixture then layering it over himself until his face was nothing but a nauseating mess of blood and gristle.
Only then did he lie back, exhausted and hurting.
His breathing slowed, the pain taking over at last. The world faded away and he slipped into the darkness.
Jack awoke to a world shrouded in fog and confusion. At first, he was not sure if he was alive, or if he was awaking to his first moments in hell. Then he heard voices. They sounded far away, the sounds they made unintelligible, but it was a reminder that he still lived, that his arrival into hell was delayed, for a moment or two at least.
There was the sensation of movement, of being dragged, then a sharp moment of pain as his head hit the ground. He was barely conscious as he was moved again. He felt hands take hold of him, hard fingers digging into him, then he was dropped, the connection with the ground hard enough to send him back into the darkness.
He came to for a second time. He did not know how long he had been unconscious, but he was aware that this time he could hear more clearly. The voices no longer babbled, but instead spoke clear words, although in a language he did not understand.
He lay still, barely breathing. His thirst was terrible, yet still worse was the pain that rippled through him, his battered body making him aware of every hurt and every wound. For the moment, though, there was nothing he could do but endure. He continued to fake his own death, lying as still as a corpse with his face and neck slathered with gore. And he would wait like that until either his death became a reality or the bandoleros left him.
The Lost Outlaw Page 33
