“With what we know now about them renegades, seems like it’d be a good idea for both sides.”
Dunlap had a point, The Kid supposed. A lone rider would be too tempting a target for the Apache war party to pass up, and although the dun was a lot faster and stronger than it looked, The Kid doubted if he would be able to outrun the raiders.
On the other hand, the Apaches might think twice about attacking a large, well-armed wagon train. Although Nicholson had said they had raided a town north of there.
But The Kid didn’t have anywhere he had to be at any certain time, so it made sense to throw in with the immigrants for now. Maybe by the time they reached Raincrow Valley, the threat of the Apaches would be over.
“You win,” he told Dunlap. “I’ll ride with you.”
The wagonmaster grinned. “I’m glad to hear it. I feel a mite better now, knowin’ that we’ll have a top-notch fightin’ man like Kid Morgan around. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the folks.”
Chapter 4
The immigrants had already started maneuvering the wagons into a circle. One team was unhitched, then a wagon was backed up to it, the second team was unhitched, and so on.
The Kid watched with interest, never having seen anything like that before. Even though the oxen were docile, they weren’t easy to handle, especially when backing up. But the drivers didn’t seem to be having much trouble with them, telling The Kid they were experienced hands at that sort of thing. He didn’t know where the wagon train had started from, but obviously the pilgrims had been on the trail for a while.
The woman he had noticed earlier, the one with the long blond ponytail, struggled with the reins more than the others. As he and Dunlap rode by, The Kid said, “Maybe we should stop and give that lady a hand.”
Dunlap shook his head. “Mrs. Ritter will get it done. She don’t take kindly to folks feelin’ sorry for her.”
“I’m not feeling sorry for her. I just thought she looked like she could use some help.”
“Nope. Take my word for it—unless you’re of a mind to get your head bit off.”
So that was it, The Kid thought. Well, he had certainly been around temperamental women before, so he wasn’t afraid of this Mrs. Ritter, but there was no point in sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.
Besides, if she needed help, that was Mr. Ritter’s job.
“You already met Scott,” Dunlap said as they rode up to a small, leathery-faced man in buckskins. “This is our other scout, Milo Farnum. Milo and me been workin’ these wagon trains for a long time.” Dunlap waved a hand at The Kid. “Milo, meet Kid Morgan.”
Farnum’s eyes narrowed in obvious recognition of the name. “The gunfighter?”
“I didn’t set out to get that reputation,” The Kid replied.
That was a bald-faced lie. He had created the character of Kid Morgan, basing the identity on various dime novel gunfighters he had read about, including his own father, in order to help him track down his wife’s murderers. He had wanted people to think Kid Morgan was a famous pistoleer.
Over time the lie had become the reality. The Kid really was fast on the draw and deadly accurate with a gun, and he had no compunctions about killing when it was necessary. Most of what those book scribblers put in their yarns was just made up, but such steely-eyed gunmen as they wrote about really did exist, and The Kid was one of them.
Farnum looked at Dunlap. “Havin’ gunslicks around usually leads to trouble, Horace.”
“In town, maybe, where there’s always some punk wantin’ to prove that he’s faster.” Dunlap waved a hand at their surroundings. “But out here in the middle of nowhere, I don’t reckon that’s likely to be a problem.”
The Kid hoped he was right about that.
The wagonmaster waved for The Kid to follow him. “You can put your horse in the circle with our mounts and the rest of the livestock.”
“I’m obliged for the hospitality,” The Kid told him. They dismounted and led their horses into the circle that the wagons were forming.
He picketed the dun and unsaddled him, then Dunlap took him around to the wagons, introducing him. The Kid knew he would never remember all the names of the immigrants, so he didn’t try. He just greeted them pleasantly and moved on.
Some of the pilgrims had heard of him, but he could tell that most of them had no idea of his reputation. That was fine with him. He hoped that while he was traveling with them, he wouldn’t have any reason to demonstrate why he’d gotten a name as a fast gun.
They came to the wagon where the blond Mrs. Ritter was unhitching her team of oxen. Dunlap nodded to her, “Ma’am, this is Mr. Morgan. He’s gonna be ridin’ with us the rest of the way to Raincrow Valley.”
She turned to face The Kid and gave him a brief smile, which transformed the normally stern set of her features. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, and it might have been a stretch even to call her pretty, but her face had a strength to it The Kid found undeniably compelling.
And when she smiled, she really was pretty, he thought, even if it only lasted for a second.
“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan.” She glanced at the Colt on his hip. “I’ve heard the rumors about the Apaches. We all have. It’s good to have another man around who can use a gun.”
“How do you know I can?” The Kid asked.
A short laugh came from her lips. “You don’t look like the sort of man who’d wear a gun for show. Am I right?”
He shrugged.
“The Kid’s a fightin’ man, all right,” Dunlap said. “We’re better off havin’ him around.”
“Is it true what I’ve heard, that the officer in command of that troop refused to escort us to Raincrow Valley?”
“I’m afraid it is,” Dunlap said with a nod. “I reckon it didn’t take long for the gossip to make it all the way around the train.”
“Of course not. You know how it is. I think it’s disgraceful that the lieutenant refused. Doesn’t the cavalry have a responsibility to protect civilians?”
“I reckon so, ma’am, but Lieutenant Nicholson’s got his orders, and they come first.”
“My husband knew that orders sometimes have to be adjusted to take circumstances into account.”
“Your husband was in the army, ma’am?” The Kid asked.
She nodded. “He was a captain, so he knew about the responsibilities of command.”
“Is he ... retired?”
“Dead,” she said.
The Kid had a hunch that would be her answer, judging by the way she spoke about her husband. He wasn’t sure why he pushed her into admitting that she was a widow, and he was a little sorry that he had.
“Well, we best be movin’ on,” Dunlap said into the brief, awkward silence that followed. “I want to introduce The Kid to the rest of the folks.”
“Kid Morgan, is that it?” Mrs. Ritter mused.
“That’s right,” he told her.
She smiled and gave a tiny shake of her head, as if she found the name silly. That irritated The Kid, for no specific reason he could state.
When he and Dunlap had moved on out of earshot, he asked the wagonmaster, “What’s her given name?”
“Jessica, I believe.”
“Pretty name.”
“You best call her Mrs. Ritter, at least for now.”
“What do you mean by that?” The Kid asked.
“She’s spoke for. When we get to Raincrow Valley, her and Scott Harwood are gettin’ hitched.”
By the time darkness settled down, the immigrants had built several large cooking fires, and stew simmered in big iron pots, giving off savory aromas. The smell of baking bread came from dutch ovens, and coffee was on the boil. All of it blended together and made The Kid realize how hungry he was.
Dunlap had invited the cavalry troopers to join them for supper, but Lt. Nicholson kept the soldiers in their own bivouac, preparing their own meal. They would probably be eating hardtack and jerky.
If he was one of th
em, he woudn’t be happy about that, The Kid thought. Not with those mouth-watering smells drifting over the plains.
The food wasn’t the only attraction of the wagon train camp. Young women were there, too, and The Kid was sure those troopers heard their laughter and were thinking about long hair, smooth skin, and red lips.
It was a recipe for trouble, or at the very least, complications.
A number of families went in together on the meal, contributing ingredients for the stew as the women and girls shared the cooking duties. The Kid found himself looking for Jessica Ritter. He spotted her with several other women, taking turns stirring the pot where their communal stew simmered, while nearby Scott Harwood stood with some of the other men as they talked and smoked pipes.
It was quite a domestic scene, The Kid thought. He didn’t long to share it, though. That part of his life was over.
He was about to turn away when Harwood noticed him and waved him over. The Kid didn’t want to be impolite for no good reason, so he joined the men.
“We’ve been talking about the Apaches,” Harwood said. “Have you ever fought them, Morgan?”
The Kid shook his head. “No, not really. A skirmish a few years ago when I was working on a railroad, but it didn’t amount to much.”
He didn’t mention that his company had been building that railroad, nor that it was during that adventure he had met the woman who later became his wife. Despite the time that had passed, those memories were still too painful to dwell on.
“Well, I’ve tangled with them before,” Harwood said. “Over in Arizona with General Crook.”
“You were in the army?”
“No. Civilian scout with Al Sieber.”
“Did you happen to serve with Captain Ritter?” The Kid asked, playing a hunch.
“I did,” Harwood replied stiffly. “He was a fine officer.”
The Kid nodded, thinking, And did you have your eye on the captain’s lady even then ?
One of the other men pointed his pipe stem at The Kid. “Word is that you’re some sort of gunman.”
“The sort who’s still alive,” The Kid said. “That means I don’t go around looking for trouble.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” the immigrant said quickly. He was a chunky, middle-aged man who looked like he had spent the past twenty years or so behind a plow. “I’m just curious, that’s all. How many men have you killed?”
The Kid felt like turning and walking off. But he kept a tight rein on his temper and replied honestly, “I couldn’t tell you. I don’t carve notches in my gun butt ... and I don’t kill anybody who doesn’t need killing.”
“Who decides that?” Harwood asked. “You?”
“I’d say the other fella makes that decision,” The Kid drawled, “when he pulls a gun and tries to kill me.”
None of the men could dispute that.
Before the discussion could continue, one of the women gathered around the stew pot called, “Supper’s ready!”
Harwood inclined his head toward the pot and said to The Kid with only a slight show of reluctance, “You’re welcome to join us.”
“Thanks. I will.”
One of the women handed him a bowl of stew, a biscuit, and a cup of coffee. He had to balance the food as he walked over to a wagon. Having both hands occupied like that bothered him. He had gotten in the habit of keeping his right hand free, so it could reach for a gun at a second’s notice.
He sat on the lowered tailgate of the wagon and started eating. The stew was good, much better than anything he could have thrown together in a lonely trail camp. The Arbuckle’s was strong and black, just the way he liked it, and the biscuit was still warm enough to steam a little when he tore it open and used a chunk to sop up some of the savory juice from the stew.
“You look like you’re enjoying that.”
He glanced up and saw Jessica Ritter standing in front of him. She wasn’t smiling. Evidently that was reserved for rare occasions.
“The food’s very good,” The Kid said with a nod. “Thank you.”
“If there’s any trouble, you’ll earn your meals. We’ll all pitch in to fight.”
“You’re a good shot?” he asked.
“With a rifle, yes. My late husband taught me to shoot. I never quite picked up the knack of using a handgun, though.”
“Most women aren’t good with a handgun,” The Kid said, thinking of an exception to that sweeping statement: Lace McCall, the redheaded bounty hunter who had crossed his path months earlier. Lace was good with rifle, revolver, knife ... whatever it took for her to get the job done.
“Most women aren’t that good with a rifle, either,” Mrs. Ritter said. “I can make a Winchester sing and dance.”
The Kid couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Nothing wrong with your confidence.”
“No, there’s not.”
He saw Scott Harwood watching them and wondered why Mrs. Ritter had come over to talk to him in the first place. She wasn’t flirting with him. From what he had seen of her so far, he wasn’t sure she had a flirtatious bone in her body.
Maybe she was using him to make Harwood jealous. The Kid hoped that wasn’t the case. If he was going to be traveling with the wagon train the rest of the way to Raincrow Valley, he didn’t want to have to worry about a jealous fiancé.
“I just wanted to make sure the food was all right.” She gave The Kid a nod. “Good evening, Mr. Morgan. Or do you prefer Kid?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Then I’ll call you Mr. Morgan.”
She turned back toward the big campfire, but she had taken only a couple of steps when she stopped abruptly and lifted her head.
The Kid knew what she had heard. Everybody in camp could hear the angry shouts coming from the other side of the circled wagons.
Chapter 5
The Kid didn’t get up from the tailgate as the yelling continued. He kept eating his stew and biscuit, washing the food down with sips of the hot coffee.
If the Apaches had been attacking, his reaction would have been different. But it was just an argument, albeit a loud one, between two men, and he figured it was none of his business.
That wasn’t true of the rest of the immigrants. Most of them, including Jessica Ritter headed toward the commotion. She paused long enough to look back over her shoulder, as if to see if The Kid was coming, too. When she saw that he wasn’t budging, she gave him a disgusted look and turned away.
He didn’t mind that she thought less of him. He would never see her again after they reached Raincrow Valley.
The Kid couldn’t help but hear the voices of the two men shouting at each other. One of them he recognized as the rumbling bass of Horace Dunlap, the wagonmaster. If Dunlap was so upset, it was probably over something important, at least to the immigrants who had hired him, The Kid thought. For a second time, he told himself it was none of his business.
His spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl as he scooped up the last of the stew, and the last bit of biscuit soaked up the rest of the juices. One more healthy swallow finished off the coffee.
More men were shouting, and it sounded like a brawl was about to break out.
The Kid set the empty bowl and cup aside and slid down from the wagon’s tailgate. Those people had fed him, after all. He supposed he owed them something.
The immigrants were gathered around one of the gaps between two wagons. The Kid drifted up to the edge of the crowd. He was tall enough to see over the heads of most of them.
Horace Dunlap stood just inside the circle of wagons, blocking the gap between the two vehicles. His hat was pushed back on his head and his fists were cocked against his hips as he leaned forward to shout into the angrily flushed face of Sgt. Brennan.
Hot words flew back and forth between the noncom and the wagonmaster. A number of the cavalry troopers were outside the wagons, backing up their sergeant with catcalls and curses. Some of the men from the wagon train supported Dunlap equally vehemently and s
hook threatening fists at the soldiers.
The Kid saw Scott Harwood standing nearby, looking as dour as ever, and asked the scout, “What’s going on?”
“The sergeant and some of his bully boys came over here wanting to dance with our women,” Harwood explained. “Horace told him there wasn’t any dancing going on and that there wasn’t any music. Brennan offered to provide the music, too. Seems one of the soldiers has a fiddle, and another plays a squeeze box.”
“Sounds like it might be a nice distraction,” The Kid said.
“It would be ... if those soldiers didn’t just want an excuse to put their grubby paws all over our women.”
The Kid noticed Harwood’s eyes flick protectively toward Jessica Ritter when he said “our women”. If Jessica didn’t want somebody putting his hands on her, she could probably deal with that herself, The Kid thought.
“Just go on back to your camp!” Dunlap shouted at Brennan.
“You want us to protect you from the damned Apaches, but we’re not good enough to associate with you!” the noncom bellowed back.
The Kid said to Harwood, “Sergeant Brennan has a point.”
The scout grunted, but didn’t say anything.
“Where’s your commanding officer?” Dunlap demanded. “By Godfrey, we’ll just see about this!”
“Leave Lieutenant Nicholson out of it,” Brennan snapped. “This is between you and me, you obstinate old buffalo!”
Dunlap drew back in outrage. “Old buffalo, is it? We’ll see how you like it when I stampede right over you, mister!”
With that, he lunged at Brennan, swinging a knobby-knuckled fist at the sergeant’s head.
A roar went up from both sides in the dispute. Soldiers and immigrants alike surged toward the gap between wagons, fists clenched and ready to do battle.
Of course, there were plenty of other gaps between the wagons. It wasn’t the only point of entry into the circle, by any means. But symbolically, it had become the gate, and Dunlap the gatekeeper.
The narrowness of the opening worked against a full-scale brawl. There was only room for Dunlap and Brennan to slug at each other, which they did with enthusiasm. Shouts filled the night every time a fist thudded into flesh. Men on both sides called encouragement to their respective champion.
The Loner: Inferno #12 Page 3
