“That they are.” The Kid didn’t know if he would ever run into Kelly and the others again, but thinking about them left him with a slight sense of unease.
A step in the doorway made him swing around sharply. Sago reacted the same way as Consuela emerged from the cottage.
“The bullet just grazed poor Greta in the side,” she said before either The Kid or Sago could ask. “She bled enough to make her sick and weak, but the bleeding is stopped now and I cleaned the wound. I will make a poultice to draw out any poison, and she will be fine.”
The Kid nodded in relief.
“Thank you, Consuela,” Sago said. “Whatever Greta needs, you know I’ll pay for it.”
“She should not need much, only care. You wish to see her?”
“I do,” Sago said with a nod. He hurried inside.
When the saloon man was gone, The Kid said, “He really seems to care about her.”
“He does,” Consuela said. “Why would he not? He is in love with her.”
The Kid frowned. “But she works in his saloon. She, uh ...”
“Goes with men?” Consuela’s shoulders rose and fell in an expressive shrug. “Love is different for everyone, Señor Morgan.”
“I suppose you’re right.” The Kid turned to look toward the center of town as hoofbeats rumbled in the night.
He saw a dark mass of riders in the street. They came to a stop on the other side of the well. One of the horsemen separated himself from the others and rode forward slowly, halting when he came even with the water trough.
“Morgan!” Lt. Nicholson shouted. “Morgan, I see you down there!”
The Kid said to Consuela, “You’d better go back inside. And keep Sago there. Hector, take your kids and go home.”
“Señor—” Consuela began.
“It’ll be all right,” he assured her. “Tell Greta I wish her the best.”
Consuela crossed herself. “And for you as well, Señor.” Then she barked orders at Hector that sent him and the children scurrying back to their own house.
“Morgan!” Nicholson shouted again.
The Kid hooked his thumbs in his belt and walked out a few feet from the house. “What do you want, Lieutenant?”
“You gave me your word!” Nicholson responded, sounding outraged.
“And I kept it,” The Kid replied. “I didn’t use my gun against you or any of your men.”
“You broke Sergeant Brennan’s jaw!”
“Yeah, but I used his rifle to do it,” The Kid drawled.
“And you’ve illegally crossed the border into Mexico!”
“I never promised I wouldn’t do that.”
Nicholson was silent for a moment, then he said, “Morgan, I’m calling on you to come back across the line and surrender. If you don’t, you can consider yourself a fugitive from the United States Army!”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” The Kid said, even though he actually wasn’t. “I’m going after those Apaches. I’ve got some captives to rescue.”
“You’re insane!”
“This isn’t the first time I’ve been accused of that.”
Nicholson fell silent again. The Kid imagined he was fuming. A few seconds went by before the lieutenant said, “You know I’m prohibited from crossing the border to pursue you.”
The Kid reached for the dun’s reins. “So long, Lieutenant.”
From a block away, Nicholson said, “But I think I can stretch a point and allow my men to fire across the border.”
The Kid’s eyes widened in surprise. He lunged for the dun and grabbed the horse’s reins as Nicholson bellowed the order to open fire.
Orange bursts of muzzle flame spouted in the darkness as the troopers started shooting. The Kid got a foot in the stirrup and yelled for the dun to take off running. Holding tightly to the saddle horn, he swung up into the saddle as the horse broke into a gallop. Bullets whipped around them.
The Kid hadn’t expected that. He was pretty sure if it was against army regulations for Nicholson to cross the border, shooting over the line was probably prohibited, too.
But try telling that to a bullet, he thought as he bent low over the dun’s neck and urged the horse into an even faster run.
Luckily, accurate shooting was almost impossible in the dark. A few of the slugs from the troopers’ rifles came close enough for The Kid to hear them sizzling past his head, but neither he nor the dun were hit. The settlement of Sago rapidly fell behind them, and the shooting faded away.
He was confident Nicholson wouldn’t come after him. That was one less thing he had to worry about.
All he had to figure out was how one man was going to take four prisoners away from a hundred bloodthirsty Apaches, without getting killed in the process.
Chapter 17
The Kid rode for a couple of miles, steering southward by the stars, before he stopped. He didn’t want to go too far in case he had to backtrack to pick up the trail of the Apaches.
Looking back, he could still see the lights of Sago in the distance. He thought about Greta and hoped she would be all right. She seemed to have a good friend in Consuela, and according to the Mexican woman, Edwin Sago loved her and would help care for her, so she probably stood a good chance of pulling through.
Maybe Lt. Nicholson could get Consuela to tend to Sgt. Brennan’s busted jaw, too, The Kid thought with a faint smile. He couldn’t find it in him to regret doing that. The sergeant had been asking for it.
The Kid looked around until he found a little hollow ringed by mesquite bushes. That would do for a camp. Since he had eaten back in the settlement, he didn’t have to worry about a fire, just a place to spread his bedroll.
He poked around under the bushes to make sure no snakes were lurking in the vicinity, then unsaddled the dun and tied him to one of the mesquites. He let the horse drink from his hat again before turning in.
In the desert latitudes, the night air cooled quickly. By morning, when The Kid rolled out of his blankets, it was downright chilly. The sun wasn’t up, but the eastern sky was gray and the stars were fading overhead.
He looked toward Sago, where a few lights glowed in the homes of early risers. He supposed Lt. Nicholson and the rest of the patrol would start back to Fort Bliss. Hunkered on his heels, he built a small fire out of mesquite branches and boiled some coffee. He had some supplies from the wagon train left, although the biscuits were getting a little stale. Together with the salt pork, they made a decent meal.
When he had finished eating and cleaned up after himself, he saddled the dun and led it out of the mesquites. The sun still wasn’t up, but the brilliant orange glow on the eastern horizon told him it soon would be. There was enough light to see by, so he swung up into the saddle.
The Apaches hadn’t paraded right through Sago with their captives, so they had to have gone either east or west of the settlement. The Kid rode back toward the border, angling toward the east.
He spent more than an hour riding back and forth before he finally came across the tracks of the war party about a mile west of the settlement. The sun was up, and the day was growing hot as he turned to follow the tracks to the south.
The Kid rode another hour before he reined in sharply and lifted his head as the sound of three distant gunshots drifted to his ears. Three shots, spaced close together like that, were undoubtedly meant to be a signal, he thought. The fact that no more shots followed was a good indication of that, too.
The Kid frowned. It was unlikely the Apaches were signaling to each other. Judging from the tracks he’d been following, they were all sticking together.
He thought about Enrique Kelly, Chess, Valdez, and Mateo. They had ridden out of the bordertown the night before, heading in the same general direction. A signal like that usually meant a search of some sort. Had Kelly and the others been looking for something?
The trail of the Apache war party, maybe?
The shots probably meant they had found it.
The Kid pressed on. If Kelly and
the other men were ahead of him, he would deal with that when and if it became a problem. For now, his attention was still focused on following the trail.
Anyway, those shots might not have anything to do with him or the quarry he was after, he told himself... although he didn’t really believe that.
Since he had started trailing the war party, he had worried that he would come across the mutilated body of at least one of the women. If the Apaches tired of their captives, it was entirely possible they would just cut the women’s throats and leave them behind for the buzzards. For that reason, The Kid kept glancing at the sky, fearful he would see the carrion-eaters circling.
So far that hadn’t happened, but The Kid wondered how long the prisoners’ luck would hold.
If you could call anything about being held captive by a bunch of brutal savages lucky, that is ...
The Kid could see mountains ahead and to the west of him, but the trail led through country that could only be described as desert: a flat, hot, arid, mostly featureless landscape, the soil a mixture of sand and rock dotted here and there with mesquites and small clumps of hardy grass. He saw a few snakes, lizards, and giant, hairy-legged tarantulas, but those were the only signs of life.
He had been through the Jornada del Muerto, the awesome desert to the north, in New Mexico Territory. That was as close to hell on earth as anything he had ever seen.
The Mexican desert ran it a close second, The Kid thought. By midday his shirt was sodden with sweat, and he had started looking for a place that offered a little shade where he and the dun could wait out the hottest part of the day.
He found it in a small arroyo. A mesquite grew on the edge of it, and the space underneath the tree had been hollowed out by the very occasional flash floods that ran through there.
The Kid spooked a rattlesnake out of the shady spot. For a second he thought about letting it go, but then realized that if he did, it might crawl back into the hollow with him.
He brought his boot heel down on the writhing body just behind the head and drew his knife. A swift swipe cut the rattler’s head off. The snake kept trying to sink its fangs into something, not yet aware that it was dead.
The Kid kicked the rattler’s head and the still-squirming body well away from him and led the dun into the hollow, which was barely big enough for both him and the horse. The dun didn’t like the snake smell, but he didn’t want to get back out in the blazing sunlight, either.
Despite The Kid’s intention to stay awake, in the heat it was almost impossible not to doze off. With his back against the wall of the arroyo and his hat tilted forward over his eyes, he drifted into slumber.
Some time later—he wasn’t sure exactly how long, although the sun was still up—more shots woke him.
The Kid lifted his head and opened his eyes. The shots were faint, nothing more than quiet popping sounds in the distance. There were more than three of them, and they weren’t regularly spaced. They came in fast bursts, one on top of another, and that told The Kid there was a fight going on.
Again he thought about Kelly and the other men who had ridden out of Sago. If they were looking for trouble, they must have found it. But it was none of his business.
Was that true? If Kelly and the others were looking for the Apaches, they were potential allies for him, despite what had happened between him and Valdez. The Kid didn’t figure he could trust them for a second, but their common interests might come into play.
Anyway, somebody up ahead on the trail he was following was in trouble, and he wanted to find out what it was about. He got to his feet, untied the dun’s reins from the mesquite roots that protruded from the arroyo wall, and mounted up.
In the big, empty landscape, it was going to be hard to sneak up on anybody. From time to time as The Kid rode south, he stopped to listen. The shooting was still going on, although the shots weren’t coming as rapidly. They had settled into a slower, steadier rhythm.
It sounded like somebody was pinned down, he thought. He kept riding.
Suddenly, after another mile or so, the ground almost fell out from under him with no warning. He reined in and stared at the deep canyon that slashed across the barren earth in front of him.
The canyon was fifty or sixty feet wide and at least a hundred feet deep. It stretched as far as The Kid could see in both directions. The walls were perpendicular to the floor of the canyon, or close enough to it. Only a fly could climb up and down them.
Except ... where the Apache trail led, a narrow ledge zigzagged its way to the bottom, then up the other side. The ledge was wide enough for one man on horseback, maybe two if the riders were brave or foolhardy enough. The Kid couldn’t tell at first glance if it was natural. Something about it struck him as man-made, as if someone had carved the ledge into the rocky walls.
It might be the only place for miles where a man could cross the canyon without having to ride around it for a day or more. The Apaches must have known about it. They had ridden straight to this spot, even though The Kid didn’t see any landmarks nearby that could have guided them.
The shots came from inside the canyon, bouncing from wall to wall as booming echoes before escaping. They were probably even louder down there, The Kid thought.
He dismounted and left the dun with reins dangling, knowing the horse was unlikely to bolt. He pulled the Winchester from its sheath and levered a round into the chamber. Carrying the rifle, The Kid moved forward cautiously until he could peer down into the great declivity.
Puffs of gunsmoke told him where the shots were coming from. The ledge on both sides was littered with slabs of rock that had sheered away from the canyon walls in ages past and toppled onto the trail, creating obstacles but also places where men under fire could take cover.
That was obviously what had happened. About halfway down on either side of the canyon, two groups of riflemen crouched behind those rocks and took potshots at each other. The group on the opposite side was slightly higher than the men on the side where The Kid was, giving them a small advantage.
Their numbers were also greater. Shots were coming from eight different places over there, and when The Kid bellied down and risked a look over the rim on his side, he saw only four men under attack. Two to one odds.
The men on his side of the canyon weren’t strangers. From up there, he could see behind the rocks where they were crouched. He recognized Enrique Kelly, Lupe Valdez, the man called Chess, and the Yaqui, Mateo.
Except for brief glimpses, the rocks on the opposite ledge concealed the riflemen over there. The Kid caught sight of leggings, blue and red shirts, and equally colorful headbands and sashes.
Apaches. No doubt about it, The Kid thought.
It was easy enough to figure out what was going on. The leaders of the war party, heading deeper into Mexico, might not have expected pursuit, but they hadn’t avoided extermination so far by being careless. Knowing that anyone coming after them would have to cross the canyon, they had left some men behind to watch the place and ambush anyone they regarded as a threat.
Kelly and the others had ridden into that trap, descending into the canyon until the Apaches opened fire on them.
The Kid felt no fondness for the men, and he knew Valdez hated him. He didn’t trust Kelly or Chess, and he had a hunch Mateo would slit his throat in an instant if it suited the Yaqui’s purpose ... or if he just felt like it.
But this was a chance to whittle down the odds that might be facing him later when he tried to rescue those prisoners, The Kid told himself. From where he was, he could take the Apaches by surprise, and he had a better angle at them than Kelly and the other men did.
The Kid edged the Winchester’s barrel over the rimrock. He nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the stock, peered over the barrel, and lined the sights on a slab of rock where he had seen one of the Apaches poke his head up for a second a few moments earlier. He breathed slowly, steadily ...
There!
The Kid squeezed the trigger.
/> Chapter 18
With all the shots and echoes of shots racketing around in the canyon, the blast of one more Winchester was lost.
But the results were startlingly evident. The Apache who had unwisely lifted his head flew backward as The Kid’s steel-jacketed slug bored through his skull and exploded out again in a pink, grisly shower of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments.
The dead warrior’s body hadn’t hit the ground by the time The Kid worked the Winchester’s lever, shifted his aim, and honed in on another rock. The Apache kneeling behind it, evidently startled by his companion’s sudden death, twisted around to look at the bloody corpse. One of his shoulders stuck out enough for The Kid to see it.
He fired again.
The Apache didn’t make a sound as the bullet shattered his shoulder, but the impact sent him rolling out from behind the rock. He tried to leap to his feet, but shots rang out from the other side of the canyon and he went down again, drilled at least twice through the body. He jerked a couple of times, then lay still.
In a matter of seconds, the odds had improved considerably. However, the Apaches couldn’t give up without a fight. If they left the shelter of the rocks, they would be easy targets. Even though they had set up the ambush, they were pinned down just as much as Kelly and the others were.
Both sides started firing with renewed intensity. Bullets flew back and forth across the canyon, and clouds of powdersmoke drifted through the air.
The Kid added to the hellish clamor by cranking off several rounds as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever. He concentrated his shots on the canyon wall behind the rocks where the Apaches were hidden. Ricochets whined and buzzed around them like angry hornets.
Those hornets had fatal stings. One of the warriors dropped his rifle and stood up, arching his back and trying to reach behind him to the place where he’d been hit. More slugs riddled him, driving him back a step before he pitched forward off the ledge. He turned over a couple times in the air before his limp body thudded to the sandy bottom of the canyon.
The Loner: Inferno #12 Page 12
