Read The Loner: Inferno #12 Online
Authors: J.A. Johnstone
The Loner: Inferno #12 (2 page)
Chapter 2
The Kid rode away from the little settlement an hour later. He had finished his beer, let the dun drink from a water trough once he’d cooled off some, and even bought a few supplies from the extremely nervous proprietor of the general store.
During that time, Dan Hammersmith and his men waited just outside the western end of town. When The Kid finally left, he rode past them, feeling hatred radiating as they glared at him.
Outnumbered ten to one, there was no question he would have been killed if Hammersmith had decided to force the issue and ordered his men to slap leather.
But the rancher had looked into The Kid’s eyes and known that if he did that, he would be the first to die in the fracas. None of the cowboys were anywhere close to fast enough on the draw to stop The Kid from getting lead into him.
So Hammersmith had turned his horse and barked orders at his men and they withdrew to the western end of the street to wait reluctantly.
Facing them down had been a foolish stunt, and The Kid knew it. It was the sort of thing a man with a death wish might do.
He didn’t have a death wish, he told himself as he rode away.
He just didn’t give a damn anymore.
A few days earlier, he had been in the town of Val Verde, east of there, standing in front of a tombstone in the graveyard behind the mission with his hat in his hand. He hadn’t spoken aloud, and he wouldn’t have known what to say to his late wife, anyway.
Good-bye, maybe, because he was putting his former life, with all its tragedies and disappointments behind him, once and for all. Conrad Browning was just as dead as the woman in that grave.
He had made that decision once before, but things kept pulling him back to his former existence. First the need for revenge, then the prospect of family, a prospect that promised at least a degree of healing.
Instead, all the scabs on the old wounds had been brutally ripped away again, and the only way to deal with the pain was to put it behind him.
So it was Kid Morgan, the gunfighter, who rode away from Val Verde, leaving Conrad Browning buried back there.
Rest in peace, you unlucky son of a bitch.
In the few days since then, he had drifted farther west, through the arid, but starkly beautiful, reaches of southern New Mexico Territory. He hadn’t run into any trouble until today, and his reputation as a deadly gunman had ended that before it well and truly began.
While he was still in earshot, revolvers and rifles and shotguns began to roar in the settlement. The Kid didn’t look back. There was nothing he could have done to stop what was happening. The hatred between the two sides was too deeply ingrained. It was a shame that men had to die, but they had gone into it with their eyes open.
The Kid hoped William Mahoney was keeping his head down, along with all the other citizens who weren’t part of the fight. Innocent people shouldn’t have to die because of somebody else’s hate. Of course, they often did.
The heat eased a little as the sun lowered toward the horizon. A range of rugged hills bulked to the north, but the flats where The Kid rode stretched endlessly to the south. It was dry, treeless country, except for some scrubby mesquites and the occasional stunted cottonwood that grew along the washes where streams ran part of the year. Clumps of hardy grass dotted the landscape, along with saguaros that reared their spiny arms, sentinel-like, over the sandy ground.
That part of the territory was sparsely populated, and for good reason. There was enough graze to support cattle—if you had an abundance of rangeland and a small enough herd. Farther south, along the border, were deposits of silver, gold, and copper.
Mostly, it was a route for people going somewhere else. The original Butterfield stage line had gone through there more than forty years earlier, and nowadays the Southern Pacific’s steel rails spanned it, linking El Paso and California.
The Kid was several miles north of the railroad, riding roughly parallel to it. He knew it well, since Conrad Browning had been a stockholder in the Southern Pacific, but he had no interest in it now. Back to the northeast was a spur line the Browning financial interests had built, but The Kid had even less interest in that.
He could still be curious when he saw something unexpected, though. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a line of pale blurs a mile or two ahead of him, and reined the dun to a halt. He wasn’t sure what those things were, but they were moving. Slowly, to be sure, but they were definitely creeping along.
He reached inside his saddlebags and brought out a telescope. Extending the cylinder, he lifted it to his right eye, closed the left, and squinted through the lenses.
One of the objects he was looking at sprang into sharp relief.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” The Kid said.
It was a covered wagon.
He moved the telescope, swinging its field of view along the line of wagons with their bleached canvas covers. He had seen covered wagons before, of course, but only one or two at a time. Never a whole train of them.
He knew that in the past, wagon trains had carried hundreds of thousands of immigrants to new homes on the frontier, but in this day and age, when the railroads reached almost everywhere, they were rare. Rare enough that The Kid had never seen one.
But that was what he was looking at, no doubt about it. Using the telescope, he made a quick count. Thirty wagons in the train stretched out, single file, for a couple of hundred yards.
A dozen or so outriders moved along with the wagons, flanking them on horseback. Two more riders were in the lead, several yards ahead of the first wagon in line.
Smiling faintly, The Kid lowered the telescope and shook his head. The heyday of the wagon trains might not be far enough in the past to consider what he was looking at as a bit of living history, but it was close.
His curiosity about what he was seeing wasn’t satisfied. He closed the telescope, tucked it back into his saddlebags, and heeled the dun into motion again, setting a faster pace.
The ground-eating trot quickly closed the gap between him and the wagons. As he approached, a couple of the outriders noticed him and peeled away from the vehicles to intercept him.
The men looked tough and competent, and each was armed with a pistol and a rifle. One of them raised his hand in a signal for The Kid to halt.
He wasn’t looking for trouble, so he hauled back on the dun’s reins and brought the horse to a stop. The two men walked their mounts closer.
“Something we can do for you, mister?” the one who had lifted his hand asked.
“Just thought I’d pay a visit to the wagon train.” The Kid nodded toward the cumbersome vehicles that continued rolling slowly westward, being pulled by teams of oxen. “I’ve never seen one like this before.”
“It ain’t a sideshow,” the other man snapped. “Just a bunch of honest, hard-workin’ folks who’re tryin’ to make better lives for themselves.”
“I don’t doubt it for a second. I told you, I’m not looking for trouble.”
“Go on about your business, then.”
The Kid’s jaw tightened. Being talked to like that rubbed him the wrong way. However, he didn’t want to get in a shooting scrape with these men, so he supposed the best thing to do would be to ride on around the wagons and ignore them.
He was about to do that when he saw one of the men who’d been leading the wagon train galloping toward them. The two outriders looked around, then one of them said, “Stay right there, mister. I reckon the boss wants to talk to you.”
The Kid thought about being contrary and saying he didn’t want to talk to the “boss”, but there didn’t seem any real point in that. He sat easy in the saddle and waited.
The man who rode up was an imposing, barrel-chested presence with a craggy, ruggedly powerful face. He reined in, then thumbed a gray hat to the back of his head and demanded, “Who’s this?”
“He hasn’t told us his name, Mr. Dunlap,” one of the outriders replied.
“Well, have you asked him?”
“Uh ... no, not really.”
The big man brought his horse closer to The Kid. “I’m Horace Dunlap, the wagonmaster of this train. Who might you be, mister?”
Dunlap had the look of a veteran frontiersman, so he had probably heard of Kid Morgan. That identity hadn’t existed only a few years earlier, but The Kid had developed quite a reputation in a short time.
Facing down Hammersmith and the rancher’s gun-crew had been different. The Kid didn’t see any need to play on that reputation at the moment, so he gave Dunlap a friendly nod and said, “Name’s Morgan.”
“Do you aim to cause us any trouble, Mr. Morgan?”
“Not a bit,” The Kid replied honestly.
“In that case, why don’t you come with me? We’ll ride up at the point, so we can talk.” Dunlap looked at the outriders. “You fellas get back to your posts.”
The two men didn’t look particularly happy about it, but they turned their horses and rode back to the wagons.
“They’re good hombres,” Dunlap went on, “but they take their jobs mighty serious-like.”
“That’s the best way to take a job,” The Kid said.
“That’s the God’s honest truth. Come on.”
Dunlap turned his horse, a big brown gelding, and The Kid moved alongside him on the dun. As they rode toward the front of the wagon train, Dunlap went on, “You must be wonderin’ what an outfit like this is doin’ out here.”
“I didn’t know there were any more wagon trains,” The Kid admitted. “Everybody travels by regular train now.”
“Not everybody. I’ve been leadin’ wagon trains west since ’67, and in all that time I’ve headed up at least one every year, sometimes three or four.” The wagonmaster paused. “The past few years, though, it’s only been one. And this one ... well, this is my last.”
The Kid looked over at him and cocked an eyebrow.
“I’m retirin’,” Dunlap said in answer to the unasked question. “I’ve had my fill of it. It’s time to settle down. So when these folks get where they’re goin’, I’ll be stayin’ there with ’em.”
The Kid wasn’t sure why Dunlap was being so open with him. Some men were just talkative, he supposed, and didn’t mind sharing the story of their lives.
The less The Kid had to talk or even think about his own past, the better.
As they rode past the wagons, he got a good look at the people on the high seats of the vehicles. Most of the teams were being handled by men who appeared to be farmers, or good hardy working stock, anyway. Some had women with them, and kids peeked out from most of the wagons.
Women were driving a few wagons. The Kid supposed they were widows or maybe the wives of some of the outriders. He noticed one in particular who had long, blond hair that had been pulled back and tied into a ponytail hanging far down her back from under her sunbonnet.
When he and Dunlap reached the front of the wagon train, Dunlap introduced The Kid to the other man riding up there.
“This is Scott Harwood, one of our scouts. Scott, meet Mr. Morgan.”
Harwood, a lean, dark-faced man who could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty, gave The Kid a nod. “Howdy.”
The Kid had a hunch Harwood was as taciturn as Dunlap was garrulous, so that probably made them a good team.
“Mr. Morgan’s never seen a wagon train before,” Dunlap continued. “Reckon he figured they didn’t exist anymore, that the locomotives run ’em all out of business.”
“There are still places the railroad doesn’t go,” Harwood said. “Like Raincrow Valley.”
“That’s the name of the place you’re headed?” The Kid asked. “Raincrow Valley?”
“Yep,” Dunlap said. “Prettiest place you ever saw. And you can help us get there, Mr. Morgan.”
That statement caused The Kid to raise his eyebrows in surprise. “Me? How can I help you?”
Dunlap gave him a shrewd look. “Come on. You reckon I don’t know the famous gunslinger Kid Morgan when I see him?”
Chapter 3
For a long moment, The Kid didn’t respond. When he spoke, he kept his voice flat and noncommittal. “I didn’t say anything about being a gunslinger.”
“You didn’t have to,” Dunlap said. “A fella I know pointed you out to me in a saloon in Santa Fe a while back. Told me you were about as fast as that other fella named Morgan. What’s his name? Frank?”
Frank Morgan, the gunfighter known as The Drifter, was The Kid’s father, but not very many people knew that. The Kid wanted to keep it that way.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“No point in denyin’ it. Lord knows I’m not lookin’ to prod you into a fight, Kid. Even when I was young I was never fast on the draw. No, I want to hire you.”
“To do what?”
“I figure we can always use another scout.” Dunlap gave The Kid a sly look. “Especially one who’s supposed to be mighty slick at handlin’ a gun.”
Before The Kid could say anything else, Harwood spoke up.
“We don’t need another scout, Horace. We’re only a few days away from the valley.”
Dunlap nodded. “I know that. And I’d plumb hate for anything bad to happen when we
are
this close.”
are
this close.”
“We haven’t run into any trouble so far.”
“I know. That’s what’s makin’ me nervous. I’ve guided plenty of wagon trains, and none of ’em have ever come this far without something bad happenin’.”
“Wait a minute,” The Kid said. “I’m not looking for a job.”
As a matter of fact, because of the far-flung financial interests he had inherited from his mother, The Kid was probably one of the richest men west of the Mississippi. Teams of trusted lawyers in Boston, Denver, and San Francisco handled those lucrative enterprises for him, and he could call on them for funds anytime he needed to.
In the life he was determined to lead now, all he really needed money for was supplies. He wasn’t going to explain any of that to Horace Dunlap.
“You’re headed the same direction we are,” Dunlap said. “At least, you looked to be when you rode up.”
“That’s true,” The Kid admitted. He had no real reason to be riding west, but that
was
the direction he’d been going.
was
the direction he’d been going.
“Don’t call it a job, then. Just ride along with us because we all happen to be goin’ the same way.”
The Kid didn’t reply immediately. He knew what was happening. He had encountered similar situations in the past. He set out to ride alone, to stay far from people and their problems so he could forget about his own, and yet he kept running smack-dab into trouble, like back there in that nameless settlement where he had almost wound up right in the middle of a shooting war that didn’t have anything to do with him.
He had managed to ride away from that. Every instinct in his body warned him he needed to ride away from the wagon train, too. It wouldn’t be hard to leave the slow, cumbersome vehicles behind him.
He was about to refuse Dunlap’s offer to travel with them when a swift, sudden rataplan of hoofbeats coming up from behind made all three men rein in. They turned in their saddles to look at the rider who was galloping toward them.
The Kid recognized the man as one of the outriders who had challenged him earlier. The man pounded up to them and hauled his horse to a stop.
“What is it, Dave?” Dunlap asked with a worried frown creasing his forehead.
“Riders comin’ up from behind, boss,” the man reported. “Looks like a pretty big bunch.”
Dunlap looked over at Harwood. “Ride along the wagons and tell everybody to stop for now, Scott. And warn ’em to get ready for trouble.”
Harwood nodded and heeled his horse into motion. Dunlap looked at The Kid. “Are you with us or not, Morgan?”
“I’ll wait until I see what’s going on,” The Kid answered. He told himself he was just indulging his curiosity once more.
Dunlap spurred his horse toward the rear of the wagon train. The Kid kept pace with him. As they rode past the wagons, he glanced over and saw the expressions on the faces of the immigrants, expressions that ranged from nervousness to outright fear. Dunlap had probably warned them to expect some trouble along the way, and the fact that it hadn’t happened so far might have lulled some of them into an easy confidence ... but not all. Most of the travelers were still waiting for something bad to happen.
Somebody with that attitude wasn’t going to be surprised very often, The Kid knew.
Because trouble was always waiting.
And it was kicking up a cloud of dust as it closed the distance to the wagon train. It was the second time that day The Kid had seen such a thing. The first time he’d been able to avoid the resulting ruckus.
Something told him he wouldn’t be as lucky this time.
They reached the last wagon in line and rode past it. The outriders had gathered there, forming a defensive line. The men pulled their rifles from their saddle boots and waited with an air of tense anticipation.
Judging by the size of the dust cloud, the group of riders coming toward the wagon train was several times larger than the one that had ridden up to the settlement earlier in the day.
The Kid said to Dunlap, “Shouldn’t you have pulled the wagons into a circle or something?” He had no direct experience with that tactic, but he had read about it in dime novels.
“No time. That takes longer than you might think.” The wagonmaster drew his Winchester, and worked the lever, throwing a shell into the chamber. “You ain’t gonna cut and run on us, are you, Kid?”
“If I was going to do something like that, I already would have,” The Kid snapped, not bothering to conceal the irritation he felt at such a question. He pulled his Winchester from its sheath and readied it.
The riders were starting to be visible. Dunlap suddenly stood up in his stirrups and squinted toward them, muttering, “Well, I’ll be damned!”
The Kid saw the same thing that had provoked the response in the wagonmaster. The riders were dressed in blue, and the late afternoon sunlight glinted off brass buttons and fittings. A guidon flapped in the wind as it flew from a staff in the hand of one of the riders.
The men riding toward the wagon train belonged to the United States Cavalry.
The sense of relief that went through Horace Dunlap was obvious. He said to Harwood, “Scott, pass the word again, and this time tell everybody to take it easy. We don’t have anything to worry about from those soldier boys.”
The Kid hoped that was the case. He felt a touch of foreboding, even as he watched the cavalry troopers approach. When Dunlap rode out to meet them, The Kid went along, too. Dunlap cast a slightly puzzled glance at him, but didn’t tell him to go back.
The officer leading the patrol held up a gauntleted hand, and the sergeant right behind him bellowed the order to halt. The Kid wasn’t that familiar with military insignia, but he thought the officer was a lieutenant.
That hunch was confirmed a moment later when the men faced each other and the officer introduced himself.
“Lieutenant Blake Nicholson, sir. Is one of you in charge of this wagon train?”
“I am. Horace Dunlap, wagonmaster. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
“For me, nothing, but for those people with you, the best thing you can do for them is to turn around and go back where you came from.”
That blunt, unexpected statement made Dunlap stiffen with surprise. “Turn around?” he repeated. “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, but what in blue blazes are you talkin’ about?”
“We’ve received reports of a band of renegade Apaches in this area,” Nicholson said. “They came across the border from their stronghold in Mexico and raided some ranches north of here, burning and killing. They even attacked a small settlement, and now the thinking is they’re working their way back south, headed below the border once more.”
“The army sent you to look for these savages?”
“That’s right. Numerous patrols were sent out to search for and engage the hostiles.”
Dunlap took off his hat and ran the fingers of his other hand through his thinning gray hair. He looked over his shoulder at the wagons. Quietly, he said, “I just told those folks they didn’t have anything to worry about.”
“Well, it appears that you were wrong,” Nicholson said.
The Kid had taken an instant, instinctive dislike to the lieutenant, and Nicholson’s callous attitude as he spoke to Dunlap supported that feeling.
“That’s why I said you should turn around and go back where you came from,” Nicholson went on. “It’s reasonably certain the hostiles aren’t east of here, or else we would have encountered them already.”
The Kid wasn’t so sure about that. He hadn’t had any direct dealings with the Apaches, but he knew from listening to his father that the only time you saw hostile Indians was when they wanted you to see them.
The lieutenant continued, “You should be safe enough if you turn back. If you continue west, though, it’s quite possible you’ll run right into them.”
“We’re headed for Raincrow Valley,” Dunlap said.
“I’m not familiar with it,” Nicholson replied with a shake of his head.
“It’s only three days west of here.”
“A great deal can happen in three days, especially where savages are concerned. I’ve given you my best advice, Mr. Dunlap. Whether or not you take it is up to you.”
Dunlap clapped his hat back on and muttered under his breath. After a moment, he looked up. “You’re headed west, Lieutenant, and so are we. You and your men could escort us the rest of the way to Raincrow Valley.”
“Impossible,” Nicholson snapped without a second’s hesitation. “My orders are to carry out the search for the hostiles with all due speed and efficiency. Accompanying your wagon train would slow us down greatly and cause an intolerable delay in the carrying out of our mission.”
The lieutenant was a prig, The Kid thought, the sort of stuffed shirt who figured he knew best about everything. It was easy to recognize the type ... because there had been a time in The Kid’s life when he had been exactly the same way.
“It’s gonna be dark before too much longer,” Dunlap said. “We were fixin’ to make camp anyway. We’ll stop right here for the night, Lieutenant. And you can camp here, too, can’t you?”
“And provide protection for the night?” Nicholson thought about it for a second and then shrugged. “I suppose there wouldn’t be any harm in that. But tomorrow morning we’ll be riding out, Dunlap. Don’t waste your time trying to convince me otherwise.”
“Fine,” the wagonmaster said. “I’ll take what I can get, to be honest with you, Lieutenant. I’ll tell my people to circle up the wagons, and then you and your men are more than welcome to join us for supper.”
Nicholson gave him a curt nod, but didn’t actually respond to the invitation. He turned to his noncom. “Sergeant Brennan, we’ll be making camp here adjacent to the wagons.”
“Yes, sir.” The sergeant turned his horse toward the rest of the troop and started calling out the appropriate orders.
Nicholson turned away, too, obviously through with his conversation with Dunlap.
Dunlap watched him go and said quietly, “I don’t much cotton to that fella.”
“He’s an ass,” The Kid said.
Dunlap looked over at him.
“You know anything about Apaches, Kid?”
“Not much.”
“I’ve swapped lead with ’em more’n once. They’re crafty varmints, and mean as snakes. If there’s a bunch of ’em on the loose, lookin’ for blood, we could be in real trouble.” Dunlap paused. “A man ridin’ alone might be in even more danger, though.”
A faint smile touched The Kid’s mouth. “You’re still trying to get me to ride with you, aren’t you?”
“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.”
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