The Loner: Inferno

Chapter 14

Nicholson pushed the patrol fairly hard all day, but by nightfall they still hadn’t caught up to the Apaches, or even caught sight of the war party’s dust.

The Kid spotted something interesting as gloom began to settle over the landscape. A scattering of lights winked in the distance.

He pointed out the glowing yellow pinpricks to Nicholson, who raised a hand to stop the patrol. “Is that the Apache camp?”

The Kid shook his head. “Looks more like a town to me. I’d say it’s probably one of those border settlements we talked about earlier.”

“Then that’s where we need to go. The people there can tell us how far it is to the border.”

That settled the question of where the patrol would camp for the night, which was good. So far The Kid hadn’t seen a really suitable place. Nicholson waved the troops forward.

As they drew closer, it became easier to see that the lights came through windows in a number of buildings. The settlement wasn’t very big, with a main street running north and south that stretched for a couple of blocks. Some dwellings were scattered here and there. Even in the gloom, The Kid could tell that all of them were constructed of adobe, and most were squat and square.

One place in the first block had two stories, making it the biggest structure in town. A sign on the building read SAGO HOTEL AND SALOON. As the patrol reined to a halt in front of the establishment, the lieutenant said, “Sago ... Do you think that’s the name of this settlement?”

“Either that or the name of the man who owns the place,” The Kid said. “Maybe even both. There’s an easy way to find out.”

“Of course. Go inside and ask someone.” Nicholson turned in the saddle. “Sergeant Brennan, you and the men wait out here. You can dismount and allow the horses to drink at that water trough.” Nicholson pointed to a well that was situated in the middle of the intersection where the settlement’s lone cross street bisected the main street. A windmill, an elevated water tank, and a long trough that could be filled from a spout attached to the tank were nearby. The setup reminded The Kid of water stops he had seen along the railroads.

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 Mexico.”

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.