The Loner: Inferno #12

by J. A. Johnstone

  Kelly grinned. “Sure.”

  The Kid fetched the plates from the other table, and pulled out a chair at Kelly’s table.

  “Chess, why don’t you help Lupe into a chair at one of the other tables.” Kelly tossed a coin to Chess, who had pouched his iron, but still stood tensely beside the table. “Buy him a bottle of mescal. That’ll take his mind off his troubles.”

  “Sure, Kelly.” Chess grunted, and bent down. With a show of surprising strength considering his slight frame, he hauled Valdez to his feet.

  With Chess supporting him, the Mexican waddled over to an empty table and sat down, wincing as he used both hands to support his injured privates.

  Kelly called to Sago, “We need another bottle and a glass over here.”

  The saloon’s proprietor nodded. “I’ll bring it myself.” He didn’t want Greta getting anywhere near those men again.

  Sago brought over the whiskey and a clean glass, and took away the empty bottle that sat in the middle of the table. Kelly picked up the new bottle, pulled the cork from it, and splashed amber liquid into his glass and The Kid’s.

  “Your friend’s not drinking?” The Kid asked with a nod toward the mostly silent Yaqui.

  “Mateo’s an Indian, as I’m sure you can tell. He has a problem handling liquor. You wouldn’t want to be around him after he’s had a drink. I wouldn’t want to, and he and I have been amigos for a long time.”

  The Kid shrugged and picked up his glass.

  “I’m Enrique Kelly, by the way,” the redhead went on. “Here’s to your continued health, Mr. Morgan.” He lifted his glass and tossed back the fiery liquor.

  The Kid wasn’t sure if that toast was a veiled threat, nor did he care. He downed his drink and set the empty back on the table.

  “You’re probably wondering about that name,” Kelly went on.

  The Kid wasn’t, but he didn’t say anything, figuring Kelly was going to tell him anyway. He busied himself with the tortillas, beans, and beef.

  “My father, God rest his soul, was an Irishman, with the Irish love for drinking, fighting, and wandering. He was an adventurer, a soldier of fortune, a filibuster. He wound up working for Maximilian, and that’s what he was doing when he met my mother, a beautiful Mexican señorita. A high-born lady, you understand, from a family of grandees, who didn’t want her marrying some ragtag Irish mercenary. They wound up running away together, getting hitched by some village priest in the mountains, and you see the result of that union sitting right here before you. Quite a romantic tale, isn’t it?”

  “Worthy of a cheap novel,” The Kid said, convinced that was probably where Kelly had gotten it. His father might have been a mercenary as he said, but his mother was probably some back alley Mexico City whore.

  Kelly’s mouth tightened. “I’ll take that comment in the friendly spirit in which it was meant.” He poured another drink even though it was obvious he’d had plenty before The Kid and Lt. Nicholson arrived in town. “So you’re a scout for the cavalry, are you?”

  “For the moment.” The Kid didn’t intend to stay that way for long. Jess and the other women were still out there somewhere, prisoners of the Apaches, and he was going after them no matter what some greenhorn lieutenant said.

  “What’s this about an Apache war party?” Kelly asked. “We’ve heard rumors, but I’d like some cold, hard facts.”

  “I don’t know all that much, firsthand,” The Kid replied with a shrug. Kelly started to pour him a second drink, but he put his hand over the top of the empty glass and shook his head. “According to the lieutenant, a hundred Apache warriors crossed the border from Mexico about a week and a half ago and started raiding north of here. They hit some ranches and are even supposed to have attacked a town. I don’t know if that’s true or not.” The Kid paused. “But I do know they wiped out a wagon train in a valley about thirty miles north of here. I saw with my own eyes what happened to those poor people.”

  He left out any mention of killing the three Apaches who had come after him. That didn’t really seem to matter anymore.

  “A wagon train,” Kelly repeated in a musing tone. “I didn’t know there were such things anymore.”

  “There are a few,” The Kid said, thinking of the things Horace Dunlap had told him. He had liked the old wagonmaster. It would be nice to even the score a little for him, though rescuing the captives came first.

  “And you said something about prisoners?”

  “Four women.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “When I came along and found out what had happened, one of the men with the wagon train was still alive. Before he died, he told me he had seen the prisoners being taken away.”

  “A dying statement,” Kelly muttered. “You have to believe that.”

  “I knew the man who made it. I believe him.”

  “Well, it’s a right shame for those poor women. They’ll be treated roughly. Probably already have been.”

  “Probably,” The Kid agreed with a bleak edge in his voice.

  “And there’ll be no help for them, since the lieutenant made it clear he won’t pursue the Apaches into Mexico.”

  “Maybe they’ll run across some Rurales,” The Kid suggested.

  The Yaqui, Mateo, grunted. That was what passed for a laugh from him, The Kid realized.

  Kelly grinned. “If the Rurales see any Apaches, they’ll be the ones doing the running, amigo. Running the other way, as fast as they can. You can depend on that. They want no trouble with the Apaches. They only hunt down bandits in the hopes of liberating some loot for themselves.”

  The Kid had heard how the Rurales were corrupt or incompetent or both, and Kelly clearly agreed with that assessment. The man was right: Jess and the other prisoners couldn’t expect any help from that quarter.

  The Kid had finished eating, so he scraped his chair back. “Thanks for the drink.”

  “Sure you don’t want another?”

  “I’m sure.” He looked over at the other table, where Guadalupe Valdez sat hunched over, sucking greedily at a bottle of mescal. The Mexican slanted his eyes toward The Kid, and they were full of pure hatred.

  He could get in a long line of men who hated Kid Morgan.

  Without looking back, The Kid headed for the door. He hoped Lt. Nicholson hadn’t had the dun taken away with the other horses. If the horse was still tied up at the hitch rack in front of the saloon, The Kid intended to mount up and head for the border.

  If Nicholson wouldn’t pursue an Apache war party into Mexico, it was doubtful he would risk an international incident by going after one man whose only crime was to get into a brawl with some soldiers.

  Nicholson was counting on The Kid’s word keeping him on the American side of the border ... but that wasn’t what The Kid had promised. He had given his parole not to use his gun against the troopers, and he didn’t intend to.

  Lighting a shuck out of the border settlement was an entirely different thing.

  He stepped onto the low porch in front of the saloon. The dun was still there with the reins looped around the hitch rack. The Kid smiled, stepped off the porch, and reached for those reins.

  “Hold it,” a voice challenged from the darkness.

  Chapter 16

  The Kid stayed where he was for a second, then slowly lowered his hand away from the reins. “What are you doing here, Sergeant?”

  Brennan’s burly figure loomed closer. “The lieutenant sent me to make sure you keep your parole.” The sergeant raised the barrel of the rifle he held. “Seems he got a mite worried you wouldn’t keep your word. Thought you might try to get across the border and go after those hostiles.”

  “I gave him my word I wouldn’t use my gun against him or any of you troopers,” The Kid pointed out.

  “Yeah, I know. You thought you could slicker us that way, didn’t you? Well, it’s not gonna work. You’re still under arrest, Morgan. Untie your horse and come with me.”

  The Kid hesitated
. Brennan’s rifle was ready, but even so, The Kid knew he might be able to draw and fire before the noncom could get off a shot.

  But that would mean breaking his word.

  “Where’s the camp?” he asked.

  “Just north of town. Come on, quit stallin’.”

  “All right.” The Kid would just have to slip away later.

  He untied the dun’s reins and led the horse along the street. Brennan followed, and the fact that a man who hated him was behind him with a gun made the skin on the back of The Kid’s neck crawl. Despite that, he didn’t think Brennan would shoot him down in the middle of the street.

  They were passing the darkened mouth of an alley between buildings when Brennan said, “Wait a minute. Go through there. It’s a shortcut.”

  “I thought you said the camp was north of town.”

  “It is. Northeast. Go on. Do like I told you.”

  The Kid knew what would happen if he started down that dark alley. Brennan intended to shoot him in the back, then claim that he’d tried to escape. Lt. Nicholson might be suspicious, but he wouldn’t be able to prove that Brennan wasn’t telling the truth.

  The Kid heard Brennan’s breath hissing through clenched teeth. The sergeant was ready and eager to kill.

  It looked like The Kid might have to break his parole after all.

  Footsteps pattered on the hard-packed dirt, and a woman’s voice called, “Mr. Morgan?”

  Brennan’s head jerked around toward the newcomer. The Kid took advantage of the unexpected opportunity, and dropped the reins. He lunged at Brennan, grabbing the rifle barrel and wrenching it skyward.

  Brennan cursed and tightened his grip on the weapon, trying to ram the stock into The Kid’s face. The Kid had his other hand on the rifle’s breech and stopped the blow. The two men staggered to the side as they wrestled over the Springfield.

  Brennan stuck a foot between The Kid’s ankles to trip him. At the same time, The Kid got the upper hand and smacked the rifle barrel across the sergeant’s face. Brennan grunted in pain and jerked back, losing his balance. The Kid was off balance, too, and as a result, both men fell.

  As they rolled over, The Kid kept one hand on the barrel to hold the muzzle away from him, and with the other fist he slammed a short but powerful punch into Brennan’s face.

  Brennan responded by bringing his knee up and planting it in The Kid’s belly. The Kid chopped at Brennan’s head again.

  Suddenly, the Springfield erupted in noise and flame, and the woman cried out. Both men froze for a second, but The Kid recovered first. As anger coursed through him and gave him extra strength, he ripped the rifle out of Brennan’s hands and slashed out with the butt. It smacked solidly into the sergeant’s jaw. The Kid felt bone crunch under the impact and a surge of savage satisfaction went through him.

  But that satisfaction was tempered by worry. He had recognized the voice that called his name. It belonged to Greta, the blond saloon girl from Sago’s place. Brennan seemed to be stunned, so The Kid tossed the empty rifle aside and leaped to his feet.

  He spotted the crumpled form lying a few yards away next to one of the buildings. Hurrying to her, he dropped to a knee beside her and leaned over to see if she was still alive. He was relieved to hear her breathing, but it was rapid and shallow.

  “Are you hit?” he asked as he got an arm under Greta’s shoulders and lifted her head.

  “I ... I’m not sure,” she gasped out. “I think so. My side ...”

  The Kid put a hand on her right side and found nothing, but when he moved it to the left he felt the wet heat of blood soaking through her dress. She cried out softly as he touched her.

  “Is there a doctor here in town?” he asked.

  “No ... but if you take me to my house ... I have a friend who can take care of me.”

  “You don’t live at the saloon?”

  “No ... I have a place ... on the south side of the settlement.”

  Across the border, The Kid thought as he glanced at the well that marked the boundary. Sago had said people around there didn’t pay much attention to it, so The Kid wasn’t surprised that Greta lived over the line.

  No one had come to investigate the shot. He supposed such sounds weren’t that uncommon around there. If anybody was going to help Greta, it looked it would have to be him.

  Moving carefully, he slid his other arm under her knees, then straightened to his feet, lifting her and cradling her against him. She hadn’t looked particularly thin in the saloon, but there was a certain fragility to her as he held her in his arms, almost an insubstantialness as if she were fading away. He clucked to the dun to indicate the horse should follow him, then started walking toward the border.

  “You’ll have to tell me how to get to your place.”

  Greta gave him a weak nod and put her arms around his neck to help support herself. “It’s on the edge of the settlement, to the southwest.” In a voice strained with pain, she directed him to a small adobe cottage with a clump of cactus growing in front of it.

  He looked back once and saw Brennan struggling to his feet. The noncom tried to yell something, but his broken jaw made the sound an angry, inarticulate bleat.

  Once they reached Greta’s home, The Kid awkwardly worked the latch on the front door and carried her inside. She told him the bed was to the left. In the dark, he found it and lowered her onto the thin mattress. Then he stepped back and still following her directions, found an oil lamp and scratched a lucifer from his pocket into life to light it.

  The flickering yellow glow of the lamp expanded and filled the cottage’s single room. It was sparsely furnished—the bed, a table, a couple of chairs, an old wooden trunk, and a battered and scarred wardrobe. The floor was dirt, and some shelves on one wall held a few supplies.

  Not much of a place for a woman to live, The Kid thought as he looked around. The only feminine touch was a set of curtains that hung over the room’s lone window.

  “I’d better take a look at that wound and see how bad you’re hurt,” he said as he leaned over her. The bloodstain on her dress was about a foot in diameter, but it didn’t seem to be spreading.

  “No,” Greta said. “I’ll be all right. Find Consuela. . . next door. She’ll help me. You need to ... go after those Apaches. That’s what ... you were about to do ... isn’t it?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure that you’re all right,” The Kid told her. “Except to fetch this Consuela.”

  His long-legged strides took him to another small adobe jacal next to Greta’s place. A worried-looking Mexican man opened the door at The Kid’s knock.

  “I need to see Consuela,” The Kid said. “Greta is hurt and asked for her.”

  The man’s eyes widened in the light of the candle he held. He turned his head and spoke in rapid Spanish. The Kid was able to follow enough of it to know that Consuela was the man’s wife, and he didn’t want her going anywhere with the strange gringo.

  Consuela appeared and pushed past her husband with little difficulty, demanding of The Kid in English, “Where is she? At her house?”

  The Kid nodded and waved a hand in that direction. Consuela, who wore a nightdress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, hurried toward Greta’s place.

  The Kid and Consuela’s husband followed, and so did a handful of curious children who emerged from the small house behind them. Consuela, who had already disappeared into Greta’s cottage, met them at the door. “Hector, go get Señor Sago.”

  Hector looked like he wanted to argue, but after a second he nodded, muttered, “Sí,” and trotted off to the American side of the settlement.

  The Kid waited outside with the kids, who jabbered among themselves in Spanish. He didn’t bother trying to translate any of it.

  He thought about Greta, sensing that she had a certain shyness about her, despite the fact that she worked in a saloon and sold herself to men. In other surroundings, though, she wasn’t that way. He was more than willing to honor that and
not intrude.

  A few minutes later, Edwin Sago trotted across the border toward the house. A huffing and puffing Hector followed him. Sago wasn’t in much better shape by the time he reached the cottage. Breathlessly, he asked, “Greta ... is she ... is she all right?”

  “I don’t know,” The Kid replied honestly. “I don’t think she’s hurt too bad, but I’m not sure about that.”

  “What the hell happened? I heard a shot outside a little while after you left, but I didn’t think anything about it. Some drunken cowboy or vaquero is always letting off steam around here by firing a gun into the air.”

  “It was the sergeant from that cavalry patrol, and he was trying to kill me because of a run-in we had before.”

  Sago let out a low whistle. “So you’ve got the cavalry after you now?”

  “Maybe ... but I’m on the other side of the border.”

  The Kid wasn’t sure what Nicholson would do. If he had managed to get across the line without any trouble, he was confident the lieutenant wouldn’t have pursued him.

  But he had fought with Brennan again and broken the sergeant’s jaw. The Kid had no doubt Brennan had claimed he’d suffered the injury trying to prevent The Kid from escaping. That might offend Nicholson’s sense of military protocol so much he would risk crossing the border to apprehend the man who’d assaulted his sergeant.

  Even if Nicholson didn’t pursue him, The Kid figured more charges would be levied against him. When he finally did return to the States, he would be a wanted man.

  Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time, he reminded himself with a grim smile.

  Hoofbeats sounded. The Kid tensed. He caught sight of four men riding south along the street, past the well and into Mexico. They galloped past Greta’s cottage, never slowing down.

  The Kid recognized them in the moonlight. Enrique Kelly and his three friends. They were on their way somewhere in a hurry.

  The Kid nodded toward the riders dwindling into the distance and asked Sago, “What do you know about those men?”

  “Not a blasted thing except their names,” the saloon man replied. “They only rode in today. I’d never seen them before that.” Sago paused. “Tough-looking bunch, though.”