The Loner: Inferno

Chapter 15

Greta continued trying to pull loose from the Mexican’s grip as The Kid pushed his chair back and stood up. At the bar, Edwin Sago frowned worriedly. Some of the cowboys and vaqueros began to sidle toward the door, obviously intent on getting out of there before any real trouble started.

Across the table from the Mexican, the redhead watched with great interest. The Kid suddenly wondered if the man had told his Mexican companion to start bothering Greta, just to see what The Kid would do.

Whether that was true or not, it didn’t really matter. Greta sounded genuinely pained and afraid.

“What’s the matter, chiquita?” the Mexican asked in a leering voice. “You are quick to make other men happy, but you are not willing to bring a smile to the face of Guadalupe Valdez?”

“I ... I just ...” Greta said.

The man’s face twisted with anger. “You just don’t like stinkin’ greasers, is that it?”

The Kid drawled, “You said it, mister, not her.”

Valdez’s head jerked toward The Kid.

“Let her go,” The Kid went on.

As he did, Valdez came to his feet. “I don’t like anybody tellin’ me what to do, señor.” The Kid got a good look at him for the first time. Valdez’s face was dark and brutal, and broad like his body. He sported a thick black mustache and heavy beard stubble.

The Kid smiled thinly. “You must run into a lot of trouble, if you’re always as much of a jackass as you’re being now.”

From behind the bar, Sago called in a nervous voice, “Listen, gents, I don’t want any trouble here.”

Valdez lifted his hands. “No trouble, señor,” he said without taking his dark eyes off The Kid. “It will be no trouble at all”—his right hand flashed across his body and plucked a knife from a sheath on his left hip—“for me to carve my name in this damn gringo’s hide!”

He charged at The Kid like a maddened bull.

The Kid realized it was a feint as soon as he saw the careful way Valdez planted his feet. He expected The Kid to leap aside from the charge, and was prepared to swerve and slash whichever way he went.

The Kid stayed put, and as soon as Valdez was within reach, he brought his right foot up in a blindingly swift kick that sank the toe of his boot in the Mexican’s groin.

Valdez screamed, dropped the knife, clutched at himself, and collapsed.

The Kid heard a chair scrape and pivoted smoothly. The pale-faced man next to the redhead was coming up and reaching for his gun. He was fast, but The Kid knew he could beat the man’s draw.

But he didn’t have to. The redhead moved fast, and swept a leg around, knocking his companion’s legs out from under him. The man fell heavily on the sawdust-littered floor, and his gun, which had just cleared leather, was jarred from his hand by the impact.

“Stop it, Chess,” the redhead snapped as he held out a hand toward The Kid as if asking him not to kill the man on the floor. “You saw what happened. Lupe brought this trouble on himself.”

The man called Chess glared. His eyes flicked toward the revolver that lay a couple of feet from him, and for a second The Kid thought he was going to make a grab for it.

But then he said, “You’re right, Kelly.” To The Kid, he went on. “I’m gonna pick up my gun and put it back in the holster, all right? Don’t get antsy.”

“I don’t get antsy.” The Kid knew it sounded a little boastful, but didn’t care.

All through the confrontation, the Yaqui hadn’t moved, except for his eyes. They had taken in everything, and The Kid would have bet that if the Yaqui had needed to do anything, it would have gotten done in a hurry.

A deadly hurry.

Chess reached for his gun.

“Why don’t you use your left hand?” The Kid suggested. “Just so nobody gets any ideas.”

Chess glared some more, but he reached over with his left hand to pick up the gun. He set it on the table, then grasped the edge and pulled himself to his feet. The redhead picked up the chair that had gotten knocked over and righted it.

Guadalupe Valdez still lay curled on the floor, hugging himself and whimpering.

The redhead—Kelly, Chess had called him—smiled at The Kid. “Sorry about the trouble. Lupe sometimes forgets he’s supposed to be civilized now. He comes from so far back in the mountains he’s not much more than an animal.”

If Valdez heard that comment, he didn’t give any sign of it.

The Kid said, “Then I don’t suppose it would do any good to tell him to apologize to the lady.”

Kelly shook his head ruefully.

“Not a bit. But I’ll do it on his behalf.” Kelly stood up and took his hat off. He looked at Greta, who stood nearby looking frightened. “I’m sorry for my amigo’s behavior, ma’am. I hope he didn’t hurt you too much.”

Greta lifted her hand and looked at her wrist, then rubbed it against the back of the other hand holding the tray. “No, I ... I’m fine. He just took me by surprise, more than anything else.”

“Lupe is a surprising sort,” Kelly said. “You forgive us, then?”

“Of course.”

“Greta,” Sago called from the bar. “Come on back over here.”

She went, casting a glance at The Kid as she did so. He saw gratitude in her blue eyes, but also worry.

“I reckon you could have killed Lupe if you’d wanted to.” Kelly spoke to The Kid. “I appreciate you just bustin’ him in the balls instead ... although right about now if you asked him, he might tell you he’d rather be dead.”

For the first time, the Yaqui showed some reaction. He smiled. “That one will walk funny for a week.”

“Yeah,” Kelly agreed with a chuckle. He gestured toward one of the empty chairs at the table. “Care to sit down and have a drink with us, Mister ... Morgan, was it?”

“That’s right.” The Kid didn’t really want to have a drink with those men, but Kelly might take it as an insult if he refused and he didn’t want to provoke any more trouble. “Is it all right if I bring my supper with me?”

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.