The Loner: Inferno

Chapter 13

The Kid led the patrol to the tracks and pointed out how they arrowed straight south. “They’re making a run for the border. The Apaches may not be expecting any pursuit, but they want to get below the line before anybody can catch up to them, just in case.”

“The savages took four women as prisoners, you said?” Nicholson asked.

“That’s right. Mrs. Jessica Ritter, Mrs. Violet Price, Mrs. Price’s daughter ... Elsie, I think her name is ... and a woman named Gabbert. I don’t know if she was married or not.” The Kid paused. “If she was, she’s a widow now.”

“That’s regrettable. I hope circumstances allow us to be of assistance to them.”

The Kid knew what that meant. Nicholson would be perfectly willing to sacrifice the prisoners’ lives if doing so helped him destroy the war party.

The odds of that happening were pretty slim, The Kid thought. The patrol was outnumbered three to one and was outgunned, to boot. The best they could hope for would be to hit the Apaches hard, inflict some casualties, then get away without being wiped out themselves.

But in doing so, they might provide enough of a distraction for The Kid to rescue the captives. That was what he hoped for.

The patrol headed south at a brisk pace, following the tracks. Nicholson didn’t really need the services of a scout. The trail was so easy to see, even a greenhorn like him could follow it.

If Frank Morgan had been there, he could have examined the tracks and the droppings left behind by the Apache ponies and figured out how far ahead the war party was. The Kid wasn’t that skilled as a tracker, although the past couple of years had given him some experience in that area.

“How far is it to the border?” Nicholson asked after a while.

“I don’t know,” The Kid replied. “Around fifty miles, I’d say, but that’s just a guess.”

“How will we know when we get there? There’s no river separating the countries here in New Mexico Territory, like there is over in Texas.”

“Don’t know that, either. There are a few settlements right along the border, I think. We may have to find one of them and ask folks where the line is.”

“I can’t pursue the hostiles into Mexico. You know that, don’t you? If I were to cross the border, it might provoke an international incident.”

The Kid managed not to laugh. Out in the middle of nowhere, it was unlikely anybody would know or care if Nicholson and his troops crossed the border. The Mexican government might make a stink about it later on, but it would be too late to do anything other than complain.

They could avoid the issue entirely by catching up to the war party and dealing with it sooner rather than later. Every hour those women were in the hands of the Apaches was another hour when something bad could happen.

The Kid was under no illusions about how the prisoners were being treated. Probably all four of them had been raped already. Even if they survived the ordeal and escaped from captivity, their lives had been changed forever.

A lot of so-called good Christian folks wouldn’t have anything to do with a woman who had lain with a savage, even against her will. That attitude didn’t make any sense to The Kid, but he knew it was true.

If there was anybody strong willed enough to rebuild her life after such a thing, it was Jess Ritter. All the women deserved that chance, not just Jess.

“We’ll worry about the border when we get there,” The Kid told Nicholson. “Right now let’s just keep moving as fast as we can without running these horses into the ground.”

As they rode, The Kid constantly scanned the horizon ahead of them, looking for the dust raised by the Apaches and also watching for places where there might be an ambush. The raiders could have left some warriors behind, in case anyone gave chase. Even a relatively small group of Apaches could deal out quite a bit of damage if they took the cavalrymen by surprise.

Nicholson called frequent halts to rest the horses. The Kid didn’t like the delays, but he knew it was the right thing to do. On the frontier, a man’s mount had to be protected at all costs. It was often the only thing standing between that man and a lingering, miserable death from thirst or starvation.

During one of those stops, The Kid was giving the dun some water from his hat when Sgt. Brennan came up to him, trailed by a couple of troopers. The Kid glanced at Brennan and saw the belligerent look on the noncom’s face.

That trouble The Kid expected had shown up sooner than he anticipated.

“You’re mighty quick to talk about how the lieutenant didn’t stay with those pilgrims, Morgan,” Brennan said, getting right to the point. “But where were you when those Apaches attacked?”

The Kid kept a tight rein on his temper. It probably wouldn’t do any good, but he was going to try to prevent the conversation from turning into a problem.

“Like I told Lieutenant Nicholson, I was camped a few miles up the valley.”

“How come?” Brennan persisted. “You traveled with ’em for several days. How come as soon as they got where they were goin’, you up and left ’em?”

“That’s none of your business.” When The Kid was explaining things to Nicholson, he hadn’t mentioned what had happened between him and Jess, or Scott Harwood’s reaction to it. He certainly didn’t intend to explain it to the loutish sergeant.

“I reckon it is,” Brennan said. “You can’t go around accusin’ the lieutenant of abandonin’ those settlers, when you did the same damned thing! Actually, what you did was worse, to my way of thinkin’. The lieutenant had orders to follow. You just flat left ’em for the Apaches to slaughter!”

The dun had finished drinking. The Kid poured the little bit of water left in the hat into his hand and wiped it over his face, relishing the momentary coolness in the heat of the day.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sergeant,” he said without looking at Brennan. “I had my reasons for what I did, and again, they’re none of your business.”

An ugly laugh came from the noncom. “What were you doin’, Morgan? Messin’ around with some poor sodbuster’s wife?”

“Back off,” The Kid snapped.

Instead, Brennan crowded closer. “That’s it, ain’t it? You didn’t leave. They ran you off. You’re just a no-account gunman who can’t keep his hands off other men’s women!”

“Brennan, I’m warning you—”

“What’re you gonna do, gunfighter? Shoot me?” Brennan laughed again. “The lieutenant and the rest of the boys will hang you if you do. It’d be pure murder if you drew on me. I’m not even carryin’ a gun.”

That was true. The sergeant’s rifle was still in its sheath on his horse.

With a grimace of disgust, The Kid turned away. He’d had enough.

But Brennan hadn’t. His hand shot out and grabbed The Kid’s arm. “Don’t turn your back on me, you no-good—”

The Kid twisted around, still holding the Stetson, and threw the hat in Brennan’s face. He reacted instinctively by letting go of The Kid’s arm and throwing his hand up to block the hat coming at his eyes. The Kid stepped in right behind it and hooked his right fist into Brennan’s midsection, a powerful blow that buried his fist in the noncom’s belly.

Brennan gasped and doubled over. The blow had driven the air from his lungs. He was out of the fight for a moment.

The same couldn’t be said for the two troopers who had walked over with him. They lunged at The Kid, fists swinging wildly.

The Kid avoided one man’s charge, but the second man caught him with a looping punch that grazed his jaw. The impact was enough to make him take a step back. Trying to seize the advantage, the second trooper rushed in and attempted to land a second blow.

The Kid blocked that one and snapped a left jab into the man’s face. Blood spurted from the soldier’s nose as The Kid’s fist landed solidly on it. Grunting in pain and surprise, the soldier stepped back. The Kid swung a right that slammed into the man’s jaw and knocked him against the dun. The horse shied away and the soldier fell.

After his momentum carried him past The Kid, the first trooper recovered his balance and tackled The Kid around the waist, driving him off his feet. He landed on the hard-packed rock and sand with stunning force.

The soldier flailed punches against his ribs. Knowing he couldn’t let himself get pinned down, The Kid brought up a knee and drove it into the man’s belly. Grabbing the front of the uniform shirt, he threw the cavalryman one way, then rolled the other to put some distance between them.

Brennan had recovered, and stepped in, aiming a kick at The Kid, who was trying to get to his feet. The Kid’s hands shot out, grabbed Brennan’s foot, and heaved. With a startled yell, Brennan went over backward and came crashing down on his back.

The Kid managed to stand up, but as soon as he did, the two soldiers came at him again. He blocked, punched, and slugged as other troopers gathered around, shouting encouragement to their comrades.

Brennan scrambled to his feet and rushed in to throw more punches of his own. The Kid was battered back and forth, but stubbornly stayed upright. He didn’t know where Nicholson was, but the lieutenant had to be aware of what was going on. The Kid wondered if Nicholson was going to let the fight continue until he was knocked down and stomped to death.

The answer came a moment later as Nicholson bellowed, “Attention! Attention, damn it! That’s enough!”

The spectators broke apart and started to form ranks, but Brennan and the other two kept throwing punches. The Kid ducked under a sweeping blow and threw an uppercut that caught one man under the chin and drove his head back so far it seemed like his neck ought to snap. The blow had enough steam behind it to lift the trooper off his feet and dump him on his back.

The Kid elbowed the other trooper aside and went after Brennan. He let his rage fuel him as he shot in punch after punch with blinding speed. His fists hammered Brennan’s face and body. Brennan backpedaled, but couldn’t escape the barrage. The Kid didn’t stop until Brennan’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

The Kid stood there with his chest heaving and blood trickling down his face.

Nicholson strode up to him and glared. “You’re under arrest, Morgan,” he snapped. “I won’t have brawling among my men.”

“You can’t arrest me. I’m not a damned soldier.”

“I told you, this area is now under martial law because of the threat of the Apaches.” Nicholson held out his hand. “Give me your gun.”

The Kid took a step back and nodded toward Brennan and the other two soldiers. “If you’re going to arrest anybody, it ought to be them. They started it.”

“That’s a lie, Lieutenant,” one of the troopers said. “Morgan threw the first punch. I saw it.”

Mutters of agreement came from several of the other men.

“I didn’t do anything until Brennan grabbed me,” The Kid insisted.

“When we get back to Fort Bliss, the commanding officer will hear your testimony and decide whether to seek civil charges against you. Until then, I’ll take your gun, Morgan.”

The Kid glanced around. There were close to thirty troopers, and while none of them held a rifle at the moment, their Springfields were close by. Those weren’t good odds, and anyway, he didn’t want to shoot American soldiers.

Well, maybe one, he thought as he looked at Nicholson.

“It wouldn’t be smart to take my gun when we’re on the trail of a hundred bloodthirsty Apaches, Lieutenant.”

“If we encounter the hostiles, I’ll return your weapon.”

“How about if I give you my parole?” The Kid suggested. “That’s what you army types call it, isn’t it? I swear not to use my gun against you, and you don’t push this until it’s gone too far for either of us to back out. Deal?”

Nicholson hesitated. He didn’t want to back down in front of his men, yet the arrangement The Kid had proposed did have some precedent.

“All right,” Nicholson said with an abrupt nod. “You give me your parole now, and we’ll deal with your actions once we get back to Fort Bliss. That’s acceptable.”

The Kid returned the nod, even though he had no intention of ever going to Fort Bliss with the stuffed-shirt lieutenant.

Nicholson jerked a hand toward Brennan, who was still unconscious. “Get the sergeant up and throw a little water in his face,” he ordered. “Not much, though. We can’t afford to waste it. We ride in five minutes.”

The Kid picked up his hat and slapped it against his leg to knock the dust off. He watched as several soldiers roused Brennan from his stupor.

When the sergeant had his wits about him again, he looked over at The Kid with a glare of pure hatred. “This ain’t over.”

“I know,” The Kid told him.

It probably wouldn’t be until one of them was dead.