The Loner: Inferno #12

by J. A. Johnstone

  That was an odd place to put a well, right in the middle of town like that, The Kid mused, then he realized the well had probably been there first and the settlement had grown up around it. Water was so precious in the mostly dry region that such a thing was completely understandable.

  He and the lieutenant dismounted and looped their reins around a hitch rack in front of the hotel and saloon. The troopers swung down and led their horses to the well while The Kid and Nicholson stepped onto the building’s low porch.

  Instead of the batwings found on most saloon entrances, this one had a pair of regular doors. Nicholson took the lead and opened one of them, striding in with The Kid behind him.

  That was all right with The Kid. He never entered a place quite so carelessly, but if anybody decided to start shooting, Nicholson was in front.

  No shots rang out.

  A low hum of conversation ceased abruptly at the sight of the newcomers. With his hand held close to the butt of his Colt, The Kid moved into the room behind Nicholson and looked around.

  The long bar was in an L-shape, starting on the right side of the room and running across the rear wall, ending where a staircase ascended to the second floor balcony.

  Tables filled the middle of the room, and along the left-hand wall was a gambling layout including tables for poker, faro, keno, and blackjack, along with a roulette wheel. No one was trying their luck at the moment.

  In fact, the saloon wasn’t very busy. Only two tables were occupied, and maybe a dozen men stood at the bar, nursing drinks and mugs of beer. One white-aproned bartender was enough to tend to their needs. The only woman in the place was a faded blonde who wore a frilly dress and had an empty tray in her hand as she stood in the angle of the bar. The Kid figured she had just delivered drinks to one of the tables.

  The men at the bar were a mixture of American cowboys and Mexican vaqueros. Three more vaqueros sat at one of the tables. All seemed to be getting along.

  The four men sitting at the other occupied table didn’t look like the sort to be chasing cows. One of them was big and rugged, with a shock of coarse red hair under a thumbed-back Stetson. To his left was a man with a pale, narrow face and deep-set dark eyes. Across from the redhead, with his back to The Kid so that his face wasn’t visible, sat a man in a charro jacket and wide-brimmed felt sombrero with a colorfully woven band, but no other decoration.

  The fourth man, on the redhead’s right, was an Indian, but not an Apache. He wore high-topped moccasins, buckskin trousers, and a loose, homespun shirt with a blue sash tied around his waist. A blue headband held back his shoulder-length black hair. The Kid would have been willing to bet the man was a Yaqui. He had met some of them over in Texas, in a place called Rattlesnake Valley.

  It was unusual to see a Yaqui in town. The Kid wondered what he was doing there and who the other three men were.

  He didn’t like the looks of them, he knew that for sure.

  He took all that in with a glance as he followed Nicholson to the bar.

  The apron came along the hardwood and gave them a friendly nod. “What can I do for you, Captain ?”

  “It’s lieutenant,” Nicholson snapped.

  The Kid had a hunch the bartender knew exactly what rank the insignia denoted.

  Nicholson went on. “What’s the name of this settlement?”

  “This is Sago, New Mexico Territory, Lieutenant.” The man was in his forties, thick-bodied, with gray hair and the flushed face of a man who consumed too much of his own product. “Named after me, Edwin Sago. I dug that well and founded the town.”

  Sago had a note of pride in his voice, which wasn’t surprising considering how quickly and easily he had volunteered the settlement’s history.

  Nicholson glanced at The Kid, who had come up alongside him at the bar. “Are you sure you haven’t been here before?”

  “This is my first visit,” The Kid replied.

  Nicholson shook his head and turned back to Sago. “Can you tell us how far it is from here to the Mexican border?”

  “Did you see the well when you rode into town?” Sago asked.

  “Of course. It would be difficult to overlook.”

  “Well, then, you’ve seen the border. That’s it right there. Happenstance, mind you. I didn’t set out to drill the well right on the line, but that’s where I found water.”

  “You mean the town sits directly on the border?”

  “That’s right.” Sago nodded. “The south side of town is in Mexico.” He shrugged. “Of course, on a practical level it doesn’t really matter much. Folks go back and forth all the time. Nobody really cares which side of the line they’re on.”

  “I do,” Nicholson snapped. “My authority stops at the border.”

  Sago idly polished the hardwood with a bar rag, but The Kid could tell the man’s casual pose concealed a sharp interest.

  “Your authority to do what, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “We’re in pursuit of a band of hostiles. Apaches.”

  “And they have four prisoners with them,” The Kid added. “White women.” He watched the four men at the table from the corner of his eye as he said that.

  The tough-looking redhead’s eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward a couple of inches in an instinctive reaction. The other three men cut their eyes at him, even the stocky Mexican, who turned his head enough to look toward the bar.

  “Now that’s a real shame,” Edwin Sago said. “I feel sorry for those ladies. We’d heard some rumors around here about a bunch of bronco Apaches coming over the border, but nobody in town has seen hide nor hair of ’em. Thank the Lord for that, I say.”

  “How can you be sure no one has seen them?” Nicholson asked.

  “Because everybody in this part of the territory comes in here sooner or later, Lieutenant, and I keep my eyes and ears open. This is the only real watering hole in these parts, and I’m talking about the well and the saloon.”

  Nicholson nodded, accepting what Sago told him. “The war party’s tracks lead in this direction. They must have slipped around the town in the dark. We can’t be that far behind them.”

  “We can probably pick up their trail in the morning and catch up to them before the day’s over,” The Kid said.

  Sago looked at him curiously. “Who might you be, mister?”

  “Name’s Morgan.” The Kid paused. “I’m working as a civilian scout for the lieutenant here.”

  “And you know perfectly well that our pursuit of the hostiles is over, Mr. Morgan,” Nicholson said. “I told you before, my authority ends at the border. I’ll not be a party to an illegal incursion into a sovereign foreign nation.”

  Sago chuckled. The Kid figured the man’s amusement was directed at the lieutenant’s pompous longwindedness.

  “We can talk about this later,” The Kid said.

  “There’s nothing to talk about,” Nicholson insisted. “It’s over.”

  The hell it is, The Kid thought. He knew that as soon as it was light again, he could find the tracks left behind by the Apache war party. But he didn’t want to argue with Nicholson about it in front of strangers, so he just shrugged.

  “We’ll be camping nearby tonight, Mr. Sago,” Nicholson went on to the bartender.

  “I’ve got several empty rooms upstairs. That’s the hotel part of the business. You and Mr. Morgan are welcome to stay here, Lieutenant. No charge for the cavalry.”

  “No, thank you,” Nicholson replied without hesitation. “I’ll stay with my men.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, Morgan.”

  “I thought I might stay here and have a beer, maybe something to eat,” The Kid said.

  “Have you forgotten what occurred earlier?”

  “No. I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it.”

  For a long moment, Nicholson gave him a narrow-eyed stare. Finally the officer said, “Very well. I’ll hold you to that. I have to go make sure none of the men have strayed past the well into Mexi
co.”

  The Kid didn’t doubt for a second that Nicholson would raise hell about somebody stepping a foot over the line. Stiff-backed as always, the lieutenant left the saloon.

  “You said you wanted a beer?” Sago asked.

  “That’s right,” The Kid said. “Do you have any food?”

  “Tortillas, beans, and beef.”

  A smile tugged at The Kid’s mouth. “That sounds just fine.”

  Sago drew the beer and slid the mug across the hardwood to The Kid. He looked curious again. “What was that the lieutenant said about something that happened earlier?”

  “Nothing for you to worry about. Just a disagreement over tactics.”

  “I didn’t think officers had disagreements about tactics with civilians.”

  “Neither did the lieutenant,” The Kid said.

  That drew another chuckle from Sago. He waved at the empty tables. “Sit down wherever you want. I’ll have Greta bring a plate of food to you.”

  “Much obliged,” The Kid told him. He dropped a five dollar gold piece on the bar.

  Sago lifted his eyebrows. “That buys you the hospitality of the house, Mr. Morgan ... which includes Greta, if you want.”

  “I’ll think about it,” The Kid said, even though he had no intention of taking the tired-looking blonde upstairs.

  He carried the beer over to one of the tables and sat down. He was aware that the four men were still watching him without being too obvious about it.

  Conversation among the cowboys and vaqueros had quieted while Nicholson and The Kid were talking to Sago, but it started up again, mostly in low-pitched, worried tones as the men discussed the potential threat of an Apache war party in the area. Sago had said there were rumors about that, but the arrival of the cavalry had confirmed the possible menace.

  Of course, now that the Apaches were across the border in Mexico, it was doubtful they would double back to attack the town or any of the ranches in the area. More than likely, the raiders had done all the damage they intended to and just wanted to get back to their stronghold somewhere in the fastness of the Mexican mountains.

  The blonde had gone behind the bar, and disappeared. She emerged from a door carrying a couple of plates on her tray, and crossed to The Kid’s table.

  “Here you are, sir,” she said as she set the plates on the table in front of him. One held a stack of tortillas, the other piles of beans and beef.

  Up close, The Kid saw that the woman looked wearier than he’d thought. She was somewhere around thirty, old for working in a saloon. Tiny lines around her eyes and mouth indicated she had lived a hard life. But her blue eyes were clear and beautiful.

  The Kid smiled up at her and slipped her another gold piece. “Your name is Greta?”

  “That’s right.” Her voice held just a trace of some sort of Scandanavian accent.

  “Well, thank you, Greta. I appreciate it.”

  She hesitated, holding the empty tray in front of her. “Mr. Sago said that if you stay here and you want some company later on—”

  Still smiling, he interrupted her. “There’s nobody I’d like to get to know better, but I’ve been riding with that stuffed-shirt lieutenant all day, and to tell you the truth, it’s just flat worn me out.”

  She smiled back at him, and he saw what he thought was gratitude—and maybe a little disappointment—in her eyes.

  “I understand,” she said. “Enjoy your meal.”

  “I intend to.”

  She turned and started back toward the bar.

  The Kid picked up one of the tortillas, rolled it into a cylinder, and used it to scoop up some of the beans and a chunk of meat. He was about to put the food in his mouth when he heard her cry out in surprise and pain.

  Looking up, he saw that the Mexican sitting at the table with the other three men had hold of her wrist and was trying to pull her onto his lap. His other hand roughly caressed her hip.

  The Kid sighed, muttered, “Oh, hell,” and set the tortilla back on the plate.

  Chapter 15

  Greta continued trying to pull loose from the Mexican’s grip as The Kid pushed his chair back and stood up. At the bar, Edwin Sago frowned worriedly. Some of the cowboys and vaqueros began to sidle toward the door, obviously intent on getting out of there before any real trouble started.

  Across the table from the Mexican, the redhead watched with great interest. The Kid suddenly wondered if the man had told his Mexican companion to start bothering Greta, just to see what The Kid would do.

  Whether that was true or not, it didn’t really matter. Greta sounded genuinely pained and afraid.

  “What’s the matter, chiquita?” the Mexican asked in a leering voice. “You are quick to make other men happy, but you are not willing to bring a smile to the face of Guadalupe Valdez?”

  “I ... I just ...” Greta said.

  The man’s face twisted with anger. “You just don’t like stinkin’ greasers, is that it?”

  The Kid drawled, “You said it, mister, not her.”

  Valdez’s head jerked toward The Kid.

  “Let her go,” The Kid went on.

  As he did, Valdez came to his feet. “I don’t like anybody tellin’ me what to do, señor.” The Kid got a good look at him for the first time. Valdez’s face was dark and brutal, and broad like his body. He sported a thick black mustache and heavy beard stubble.

  The Kid smiled thinly. “You must run into a lot of trouble, if you’re always as much of a jackass as you’re being now.”

  From behind the bar, Sago called in a nervous voice, “Listen, gents, I don’t want any trouble here.”

  Valdez lifted his hands. “No trouble, señor,” he said without taking his dark eyes off The Kid. “It will be no trouble at all”—his right hand flashed across his body and plucked a knife from a sheath on his left hip—“for me to carve my name in this damn gringo’s hide!”

  He charged at The Kid like a maddened bull.

  The Kid realized it was a feint as soon as he saw the careful way Valdez planted his feet. He expected The Kid to leap aside from the charge, and was prepared to swerve and slash whichever way he went.

  The Kid stayed put, and as soon as Valdez was within reach, he brought his right foot up in a blindingly swift kick that sank the toe of his boot in the Mexican’s groin.

  Valdez screamed, dropped the knife, clutched at himself, and collapsed.

  The Kid heard a chair scrape and pivoted smoothly. The pale-faced man next to the redhead was coming up and reaching for his gun. He was fast, but The Kid knew he could beat the man’s draw.

  But he didn’t have to. The redhead moved fast, and swept a leg around, knocking his companion’s legs out from under him. The man fell heavily on the sawdust-littered floor, and his gun, which had just cleared leather, was jarred from his hand by the impact.

  “Stop it, Chess,” the redhead snapped as he held out a hand toward The Kid as if asking him not to kill the man on the floor. “You saw what happened. Lupe brought this trouble on himself.”

  The man called Chess glared. His eyes flicked toward the revolver that lay a couple of feet from him, and for a second The Kid thought he was going to make a grab for it.

  But then he said, “You’re right, Kelly.” To The Kid, he went on. “I’m gonna pick up my gun and put it back in the holster, all right? Don’t get antsy.”

  “I don’t get antsy.” The Kid knew it sounded a little boastful, but didn’t care.

  All through the confrontation, the Yaqui hadn’t moved, except for his eyes. They had taken in everything, and The Kid would have bet that if the Yaqui had needed to do anything, it would have gotten done in a hurry.

  A deadly hurry.

  Chess reached for his gun.

  “Why don’t you use your left hand?” The Kid suggested. “Just so nobody gets any ideas.”

  Chess glared some more, but he reached over with his left hand to pick up the gun. He set it on the table, then grasped the edge and pulled himself to hi
s feet. The redhead picked up the chair that had gotten knocked over and righted it.

  Guadalupe Valdez still lay curled on the floor, hugging himself and whimpering.

  The redhead—Kelly, Chess had called him—smiled at The Kid. “Sorry about the trouble. Lupe sometimes forgets he’s supposed to be civilized now. He comes from so far back in the mountains he’s not much more than an animal.”

  If Valdez heard that comment, he didn’t give any sign of it.

  The Kid said, “Then I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell him to apologize to the lady.”

  Kelly shook his head ruefully.

  “Not a bit. But I’ll do it on his behalf.” Kelly stood up and took his hat off. He looked at Greta, who stood nearby looking frightened. “I’m sorry for my amigo’s behavior, ma’am. I hope he didn’t hurt you too much.”

  Greta lifted her hand and looked at her wrist, then rubbed it against the back of the other hand holding the tray. “No, I ... I’m fine. He just took me by surprise, more than anything else.”

  “Lupe is a surprising sort,” Kelly said. “You forgive us, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Greta,” Sago called from the bar. “Come on back over here.”

  She went, casting a glance at The Kid as she did so. He saw gratitude in her blue eyes, but also worry.

  “I reckon you could have killed Lupe if you’d wanted to.” Kelly spoke to The Kid. “I appreciate you just bustin’ him in the balls instead ... although right about now if you asked him, he might tell you he’d rather be dead.”

  For the first time, the Yaqui showed some reaction. He smiled. “That one will walk funny for a week.”

  “Yeah,” Kelly agreed with a chuckle. He gestured toward one of the empty chairs at the table. “Care to sit down and have a drink with us, Mister ... Morgan, was it?”

  “That’s right.” The Kid didn’t really want to have a drink with those men, but Kelly might take it as an insult if he refused and he didn’t want to provoke any more trouble. “Is it all right if I bring my supper with me?”