The Lost Outlaw

by Paul Fraser Collard

  He did not know how long he lay there. But then he heard familiar voices, the lighter tones of a woman and the quiet voice of a man he had come to despise.

  ‘Where is he?’ It was Kat who asked the question.

  ‘Over there,’ Brannigan replied.

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes.’ There was no doubt in the reply.

  Jack felt the vibration in the ground as someone approached. He sensed someone standing over him, the touch of a familiar gaze wandering across his blood-smothered features.

  ‘You poor son of a bitch.’ Kat breathed the words. ‘You came a long, long way to die here.’

  ‘Serves the bastard right.’ There was no remorse in Brannigan’s tone.

  ‘It cost you enough,’ Kat said wryly. ‘Santiago sure took a lot of our money.’

  ‘My money,’ Brannigan corrected her. ‘And it was worth every last goddam cent.’

  ‘Well, he’s dead now. You don’t have to worry about him coming after you.’

  Jack heard something in Kat’s tone. Was it sadness at his passing? Or remorse at the role she had played in bringing it about? Whichever it was, her remark resonated. Had Brannigan been afraid of him, or just fearful that someone had knowledge of his crimes? He had clearly spent a lot of his bloodstained specie to make sure Jack did not live to tell the tale of all that had happened.

  ‘You going to bury them?’ Kat asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That ain’t right.’

  ‘I don’t care.’ Brannigan’s voice was cruel.

  ‘No, you don’t.’ Kat sighed. ‘So now it’s just you and me.’

  ‘Just like we planned.’

  ‘Are you going to kill me next?’ There was no trace of fear in Kat’s voice as she posed the dangerous question.

  Brannigan half laughed, half grunted. ‘You ain’t got no plans to double-cross me, have you, Kat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then you ain’t got a thing to worry about. I told you when I found you all those years ago that I’d see you right. I ain’t never let you down, have I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No.’ Brannigan repeated her one-word answer. ‘Men like him,’ he tapped Jack’s body with the toe of his boot, the heavy spur attached to the heel jangling as he did so, ‘hell, they’re always going to end up like that. Don’t matter if it’s here or someplace else. You and me, we’re different. And we got ourselves a future now. A good one.’

  ‘Thanks to you.’

  ‘Hell, yes, thanks to me.’ Brannigan’s voice rose as he replied. ‘Now don’t you fret none about old Jack there. His sort don’t have a future and they know it. They live as hard as they can, for as long as they can. Then they die. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘And you get to live on.’

  ‘Damn right I do.’ Brannigan paused. ‘And thanks to me, so do you.’ He spoke slowly and clearly, making sure Kat understood. ‘I could’ve left you; you know that, don’t you? I could’ve left you, and your goddam brother, all those years ago when I found you. You’d be long dead by now. Yet here you are, still breathing and living a fine old life. Now go get the wagon ready. We’ve wasted long enough here already.’ He ended the conversation with his clipped instruction.

  Jack heard them move away, the jangle of spurs and the heavy tread fading into the distance. It was quiet then, the only noise coming from the insects that buzzed and chirped their way through the day.

  And so he lay there and endured.

  He awoke to darkness. He opened his eyes, blinking hard until he could see the stars that filled the night sky. He lay there for some time, letting his mind adjust to the notion that he was still alive.

  Fireflies flittered across his vision, their tiny bright bodies dancing to a rhythm only they could hear. He watched them, mesmerised, his eyes flickering back and forth as he tried to track one small body amidst the thousands.

  As he lay there, he let his other senses reach out. The smell hit him first. It was rank, the familiar odour of blood, shit and torn flesh assaulting his nostrils. It was foul, but he had smelled it too many times for it to offend. He could hear nothing save for the buzzing of the million night-time insects. He could taste blood in his mouth, and the hard, metallic tang that only came with a thirst that had been denied for too long. And he could feel pain. It echoed through every part of his body. The worst was in his head. Something pounded away deep in his skull, the dull ache fighting for control of his mind. The rest of him hurt, but he could feel nothing that would kill him.

  With a groan, he started to stir. Something heavy lay across his chest, and so he pushed at that first, only belatedly realising that it was an arm. He took it easy, moving slowly and gingerly, allowing his body to become accustomed to one position before he attempted the next. Still, any movement doubled the intensity of the pounding in his head, and more than once he felt faint. Yet by taking it slowly, he eventually managed to get to his feet.

  As he stood there, swaying like a sapling in the breeze, he recognised where he was. He had been left in the yard to the rear of the hacienda. And he was quite alone.

  For the first time, he saw the pile of which he had been a part, the bodies of the Texans treated without ceremony or respect. Their ruined corpses lay in a heap, arms and legs contorted into grotesque, twisted shapes. Familiar faces stared back at him with sightless eyes.

  He coughed, wincing as pain forked through his skull. He needed water, so he turned away from the mound of the dead and walked at a slow, careful pace towards the rear of the yard, where he knew the dammed creek was. It took him a long time, the simple act of taking one step after another draining him of what little strength he had left. When he finally reached the creek, he fell to his knees like a pilgrim arriving at his much-longed-for destination and scooped up the water with cupped hands, relishing the feel of the cool liquid as it ran across his skin. Desperate and needy, he threw the water into his mouth, repeating the action over and over. It took him a long time to drink his fill.

  Stomach aching, he sat down. He could feel the water soaking into his clothing and he shivered, the cool night air chilling him to the bone. Yet he felt stronger now, the water revitalising.

  As he sat there, he pondered what to do next. He could scarcely credit that he was alive, and that his gruesome deception had worked. But he knew what it was like after a hard fight. The exhaustion once it was over was like nothing else. Along with the fatigue came the joy of having survived. The twin emotions made men careless, too tired and buoyed by exhilaration to take time to thoroughly check the bodies of the clearly dead. It made him wonder if he had ever been deceived by the same simple ruse. Images of past fights replayed in his mind’s eye, his tiring mind wandering through his memories.

  Time passed. He did not know how long he sat there. Twice more he forced himself to his knees to repeat the task of scooping up water. Twice more he slumped back to sit on the soil that he had soaked.

  It was only after his third refill that he had the presence of mind to force his thoughts back to the matter at hand. It seemed to him that he had two choices. He could walk back to Texas, and find a new life far removed from this moment. There he could try to forget all about cotton, and the men – and woman – whose lives had crossed his for a while. He had done it before. Moving on was one of the few skills he had mastered. He knew it would work. He knew the memories, no matter how bitter and painful they were now, would fade away with time. This moment would be just another nightmare stored away in the darkness alongside all the others. The pain, the remorse and the guilt would recede until they no longer had the power to hurt him.

  Or he could take a different path.

  He could stay. He could find Brannigan. And he could bring justice to the world.

  Alone in the darkness, he laughed aloud. There was no choice to be made, not really. It had already been made for him all those months before when Fate had brought him to an out-of-the-way dining room where a young man and a woman would p
lay the first of many games.

  He was to be Fate’s vengeance. He would find Brannigan and Kat, and he would bring them to account for their sins.

  And if he could take the money too, then he would. He was a boy from Whitechapel, after all.

  He pushed against the dampened soil on which he sat, forcing himself to his feet, and began to walk, feeling the strength returning to his limbs as he made his way to where he had been held captive.

  It was pitch black inside the shed, so he got down on his hands and knees and began to search. It took time, but at last he found what he was looking for.

  As he emerged outside, the light of the fireflies and the moon was reflected in the blade. He held it still, moving the sword this way and that as he let the light shimmer across the steel. The power of the weapon resonated deep within him. He might no longer have the power of his repeating rifle, or be able to rely upon a six-shot revolver. But he had killed more men than he could count with a blade, and he reckoned he could find a way to add a couple more to the tally.

  Jack lay on his belly and looked down over the bandoleros’ encampment. It was a good place to spend the night: a natural bowl in the ground surrounded by a dense chaparral of thorn bushes. There was just the one track leading in, making it easy to guard.

  It had not taken him long to find the place, the trail that Santiago and his men had left clear enough for even a blind man to follow. He had spotted a rise in the ground a few hundred yards away from the camp, and there he had settled down to watch and wait.

  He had chosen his ground well. The knoll was no more than a few yards from the trail that led to the encampment, and it was covered with prickly pear cactus. He had burrowed under one of the largest, taking care to avoid its viciously sharp spines, and made sure he had a clear line of sight over the encampment so that he would not miss anyone leaving.

  As he lay there, he listened to what was going on inside the encampment. At first, all he could hear was the pitiful cries of the wounded. From the volume, it seemed there were plenty of men who had been hurt in the fight at the hacienda. Many would die that night.

  As time passed, however, another sound took over, that of men celebrating their victory and their survival. There was music and singing, and even the occasional gunshot, as the bandoleros who had lived through the vicious fight drank and danced and sang.

  Jack lay there listening to the twin sounds that so often followed battle. Misery and joy. Agony and relief. Death and life.

  And he waited.

  He did not try to sleep. He let the night pass slowly, savouring the minutes, watching the stars and listening to the sounds coming from the encampment. He found peace there, alone in the dark, and he was content. For once, there was no doubt in his mind. For he knew he had made the right decision.

  It did not concern him that this night might be his last on earth. The thought of his death no longer terrified him as once it had. He would live or die at the whim of Fate, and there was nothing he could do about which of those it would be. All he could do was follow his instinct and act as he thought best. There was no room for doubt, recrimination or fear. He was to be Fate’s servant. He would let her choose whether he lived or died.

  A group of men emerged as the first rays of the sun pushed back the shadows of the night. They brought with them half a dozen corpses. They did not linger. They scraped a single shallow grave into the dusty soil and dumped the bodies without ceremony before retreating back into the encampment.

  An hour after the sun had risen, Santiago and his Ángeles left, taking the same trail they had ridden in on the previous night. The wounded, those who lived, had been loaded on to one of the wagons they had recaptured from Dawson and his men. Jack saw no sign of either Kat or Brannigan, but he spotted Santiago easily enough. The man who commanded Los Ángeles de la Muerte rode on another wagon, surrounded by a mounted escort.

  The old man had paid a high price to rid himself of Dawson and his cavalrymen, but Jack understood why it had been done. The war between the men of Texas and the bandoleros was a ferocious one, with no quarter given on either side. He thought back to the two skulls he had seen on the trail, all that remained of men who had been unlucky enough to be captured in this most vicious of frontier wars. Both sides inflicted the worst of atrocities on each other, and there was the kind of hatred between them that Jack had only seen once before, when the sepoys of the East India Company had risen up to mutiny against their white masters. Hatred such as that left no room for anything other than bloodshed.

  He understood the emotion well, for he had once felt it himself. Then he had crossed hundreds of miles to find a man he loathed with all the passion he had in him. He had killed that man, and had earned himself the bitter peace he had sought. He felt no such hatred for Brannigan or for Kat. But he would still kill them both. For they deserved to die for all that had been done.

  There had been another reason for Santiago and Brannigan to capture the ruined hacienda, one that likely surpassed even the deep need for revenge. The prize it had contained was worth more than even the dozens of lives that had been sacrificed to secure it. Now, Brannigan had taken back the strongbox and the king’s ransom it contained. Jack knew from what he had overheard between Brannigan and Kat that some of that fortune had been returned to Santiago. But he also knew that Brannigan would still be a wealthy man, whatever remained in the strongbox enough to secure his future.

  He turned his attention to the one wagon that remained behind. He knew that it belonged to Brannigan, and he was sure that it contained the remaining gold he had been paid for delivering the rifles to Santiago, just as he knew that Brannigan would have a plan for where it would be taken next. It was a plan that would not come to pass. For the wagon master had forgotten about Jack Lark.

  That mistake would kill him.

  The single wagon left the encampment no more than half an hour after the Ángeles had departed. Jack watched from his hiding place under the cactus as it moved at a leisurely pace along the trail. He bided his time. Waiting for the moment to strike.

  Brannigan drove the wagon. Like the men he had once employed, he was forced to use his whip regularly to keep the mules in motion. He had the easy skill of an experienced driver, and the wagon rolled along steadily. There was no sign of Kat, and Jack guessed she had chosen to ride inside the wagon, her eyes, and likely her revolver, aimed back down the trail, watching for anyone coming up behind them. It was a wise precaution, one that on another day might have saved the pair from being ambushed. But not that day.

  The wagon would pass no more than five or six yards from the knoll on which Jack hid. If he timed it right, Brannigan would die without ever knowing who had attacked him.

  The wagon ground its way closer. The running gear screeched and whined, the sound louder even than the braying of the mules and the crack of Brannigan’s whip. Jack stayed stock still, holding himself tight. His sword was in his right hand, the blade angled so that it would not catch the sun and so warn of his presence.

  The wagon bucked over some rough ground. For the first time, Brannigan yelled at the mules, his curses loud.

  The moment came.

  Jack sprang his one-man ambush.

  He burst from cover, running hard, his boots pounding into the rocky ground, eating up the yards in great loping strides.

  Brannigan looked up, a mixture of shock and anger in his expression.

  Jack charged, the sandy soil flashing past under his feet. He focused everything he had on the man driving the wagon.

  Brannigan reacted fast. Dropping the reins, he reached for the revolver holstered on his right hip. He drew the weapon, half rising to his feet as he did so, preparing to shoot. The gun was just out of its holster when Jack struck.

  He came in fast, bounding up on to the wagon’s seat at full speed. He hit Brannigan hard, leading with his shoulder and pumping his legs. Grabbing the wagon master with his free hand, he dragged him backwards so that they tumbled from the far side of
the seat together. He held tight as they fell, bracing for the impact with the ground.

  When it came, it was brutal. They hit with bone-jarring force, teeth clashing together, legs and arms jumbled this way and that, Brannigan’s revolver flying from his grasp.

  Jack was on his feet first. He sucked down a single breath, then swung the sword. It was a rushed blow, but Brannigan was still crouched and not ready. The blade thumped into his left arm, cleaving the flesh to the bone and throwing him to one side.

  A rush of violent exhilaration surged through Jack, powerful and intoxicating. It lent him power, and he stepped forward, readying the next strike.

  But Brannigan was fast, and he was tough. Even with blood pouring down his left arm, he fought back. As Jack came for him, he drew a bowie knife with his right hand, holding the blade low, aiming the tip at Jack’s belly. He struck the moment Jack stepped towards him.

  Jack spotted the blade’s movement. Attack turned to defence. He slashed his sword across his body, sparks flying from the clash of steel on steel as he parried the knife’s strike. Brannigan advanced regardless, smashing his head into Jack’s face and knocking him backwards.

  Jack fought to stay on his feet. Blood cascaded from his nose and filled his mouth. Brannigan gave him no respite and came for him again, bowie knife stabbing forward.

  Again Jack parried the blow, deflecting the blade wide. It came back at him a heartbeat later, moving faster than the eye could trace. This time Jack’s flailing parry missed, the knife slipping past then cutting deep into the flesh of his sword arm, just below the elbow.

  Brannigan snarled as he twisted the blade, ripping it free. A moment later, he darted it forward again, the tip aimed at Jack’s eyes.