The Loner: Inferno

Chapter 16

The Kid stayed where he was for a second, then slowly lowered his hand away from the reins. “What are you doing here, Sergeant?”

Brennan’s burly figure loomed closer. “The lieutenant sent me to make sure you keep your parole.” The sergeant raised the barrel of the rifle he held. “Seems he got a mite worried you wouldn’t keep your word. Thought you might try to get across the border and go after those hostiles.”

“I gave him my word I wouldn’t use my gun against him or any of you troopers,” The Kid pointed out.

“Yeah, I know. You thought you could slicker us that way, didn’t you? Well, it’s not gonna work. You’re still under arrest, Morgan. Untie your horse and come with me.”

The Kid hesitated. Brennan’s rifle was ready, but even so, The Kid knew he might be able to draw and fire before the noncom could get off a shot.

But that would mean breaking his word.

“Where’s the camp?” he asked.

“Just north of town. Come on, quit stallin’.”

“All right.” The Kid would just have to slip away later.

He untied the dun’s reins and led the horse along the street. Brennan followed, and the fact that a man who hated him was behind him with a gun made the skin on the back of The Kid’s neck crawl. Despite that, he didn’t think Brennan would shoot him down in the middle of the street.

They were passing the darkened mouth of an alley between buildings when Brennan said, “Wait a minute. Go through there. It’s a shortcut.”

“I thought you said the camp was north of town.”

“It is. Northeast. Go on. Do like I told you.”

The Kid knew what would happen if he started down that dark alley. Brennan intended to shoot him in the back, then claim that he’d tried to escape. Lt. Nicholson might be suspicious, but he wouldn’t be able to prove that Brennan wasn’t telling the truth.

The Kid heard Brennan’s breath hissing through clenched teeth. The sergeant was ready and eager to kill.

It looked like The Kid might have to break his parole after all.

Footsteps pattered on the hard-packed dirt, and a woman’s voice called, “Mr. Morgan?”

Brennan’s head jerked around toward the newcomer. The Kid took advantage of the unexpected opportunity, and dropped the reins. He lunged at Brennan, grabbing the rifle barrel and wrenching it skyward.

Brennan cursed and tightened his grip on the weapon, trying to ram the stock into The Kid’s face. The Kid had his other hand on the rifle’s breech and stopped the blow. The two men staggered to the side as they wrestled over the Springfield.

Brennan stuck a foot between The Kid’s ankles to trip him. At the same time, The Kid got the upper hand and smacked the rifle barrel across the sergeant’s face. Brennan grunted in pain and jerked back, losing his balance. The Kid was off balance, too, and as a result, both men fell.

As they rolled over, The Kid kept one hand on the barrel to hold the muzzle away from him, and with the other fist he slammed a short but powerful punch into Brennan’s face.

Brennan responded by bringing his knee up and planting it in The Kid’s belly. The Kid chopped at Brennan’s head again.

Suddenly, the Springfield erupted in noise and flame, and the woman cried out. Both men froze for a second, but The Kid recovered first. As anger coursed through him and gave him extra strength, he ripped the rifle out of Brennan’s hands and slashed out with the butt. It smacked solidly into the sergeant’s jaw. The Kid felt bone crunch under the impact and a surge of savage satisfaction went through him.

But that satisfaction was tempered by worry. He had recognized the voice that called his name. It belonged to Greta, the blond saloon girl from Sago’s place. Brennan seemed to be stunned, so The Kid tossed the empty rifle aside and leaped to his feet.

He spotted the crumpled form lying a few yards away next to one of the buildings. Hurrying to her, he dropped to a knee beside her and leaned over to see if she was still alive. He was relieved to hear her breathing, but it was rapid and shallow.

“Are you hit?” he asked as he got an arm under Greta’s shoulders and lifted her head.

“I ... I’m not sure,” she gasped out. “I think so. My side ...”

The Kid put a hand on her right side and found nothing, but when he moved it to the left he felt the wet heat of blood soaking through her dress. She cried out softly as he touched her.

“Is there a doctor here in town?” he asked.

“No ... but if you take me to my house ... I have a friend who can take care of me.”

“You don’t live at the saloon?”

“No ... I have a place ... on the south side of the settlement.”

Across the border, The Kid thought as he glanced at the well that marked the boundary. Sago had said people around there didn’t pay much attention to it, so The Kid wasn’t surprised that Greta lived over the line.

No one had come to investigate the shot. He supposed such sounds weren’t that uncommon around there. If anybody was going to help Greta, it looked it would have to be him.

Moving carefully, he slid his other arm under her knees, then straightened to his feet, lifting her and cradling her against him. She hadn’t looked particularly thin in the saloon, but there was a certain fragility to her as he held her in his arms, almost an insubstantialness as if she were fading away. He clucked to the dun to indicate the horse should follow him, then started walking toward the border.

“You’ll have to tell me how to get to your place.”

Greta gave him a weak nod and put her arms around his neck to help support herself. “It’s on the edge of the settlement, to the southwest.” In a voice strained with pain, she directed him to a small adobe cottage with a clump of cactus growing in front of it.

He looked back once and saw Brennan struggling to his feet. The noncom tried to yell something, but his broken jaw made the sound an angry, inarticulate bleat.

Once they reached Greta’s home, The Kid awkwardly worked the latch on the front door and carried her inside. She told him the bed was to the left. In the dark, he found it and lowered her onto the thin mattress. Then he stepped back and still following her directions, found an oil lamp and scratched a lucifer from his pocket into life to light it.

The flickering yellow glow of the lamp expanded and filled the cottage’s single room. It was sparsely furnished—the bed, a table, a couple of chairs, an old wooden trunk, and a battered and scarred wardrobe. The floor was dirt, and some shelves on one wall held a few supplies.

Not much of a place for a woman to live, The Kid thought as he looked around. The only feminine touch was a set of curtains that hung over the room’s lone window.

“I’d better take a look at that wound and see how bad you’re hurt,” he said as he leaned over her. The bloodstain on her dress was about a foot in diameter, but it didn’t seem to be spreading.

“No,” Greta said. “I’ll be all right. Find Consuela. . . next door. She’ll help me. You need to ... go after those Apaches. That’s what ... you were about to do ... isn’t it?”

“I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure that you’re all right,” The Kid told her. “Except to fetch this Consuela.”

His long-legged strides took him to another small adobe jacal next to Greta’s place. A worried-looking Mexican man opened the door at The Kid’s knock.

“I need to see Consuela,” The Kid said. “Greta is hurt and asked for her.”

The man’s eyes widened in the light of the candle he held. He turned his head and spoke in rapid Spanish. The Kid was able to follow enough of it to know that Consuela was the man’s wife, and he didn’t want her going anywhere with the strange gringo.

Consuela appeared and pushed past her husband with little difficulty, demanding of The Kid in English, “Where is she? At her house?”

The Kid nodded and waved a hand in that direction. Consuela, who wore a nightdress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, hurried toward Greta’s place.

The Kid and Consuela’s husband followed, and so did a handful of curious children who emerged from the small house behind them. Consuela, who had already disappeared into Greta’s cottage, met them at the door. “Hector, go get Señor Sago.”

Hector looked like he wanted to argue, but after a second he nodded, muttered, “Sí,” and trotted off to the American side of the settlement.

The Kid waited outside with the kids, who jabbered among themselves in Spanish. He didn’t bother trying to translate any of it.

He thought about Greta, sensing that she had a certain shyness about her, despite the fact that she worked in a saloon and sold herself to men. In other surroundings, though, she wasn’t that way. He was more than willing to honor that and not intrude.

A few minutes later, Edwin Sago trotted across the border toward the house. A huffing and puffing Hector followed him. Sago wasn’t in much better shape by the time he reached the cottage. Breathlessly, he asked, “Greta ... is she ... is she all right?”

“I don’t know,” The Kid replied honestly. “I don’t think she’s hurt too bad, but I’m not sure about that.”

“What the hell happened? I heard a shot outside a little while after you left, but I didn’t think anything about it. Some drunken cowboy or vaquero is always letting off steam around here by firing a gun into the air.”

“It was the sergeant from that cavalry patrol, and he was trying to kill me because of a run-in we had before.”

Sago let out a low whistle. “So you’ve got the cavalry after you now?”

“Maybe ... but I’m on the other side of the border.”

The Kid wasn’t sure what Nicholson would do. If he had managed to get across the line without any trouble, he was confident the lieutenant wouldn’t have pursued him.

But he had fought with Brennan again and broken the sergeant’s jaw. The Kid had no doubt Brennan had claimed he’d suffered the injury trying to prevent The Kid from escaping. That might offend Nicholson’s sense of military protocol so much he would risk crossing the border to apprehend the man who’d assaulted his sergeant.

Even if Nicholson didn’t pursue him, The Kid figured more charges would be levied against him. When he finally did return to the States, he would be a wanted man.

Of course, it wouldn’t be the first time, he reminded himself with a grim smile.

Hoofbeats sounded. The Kid tensed. He caught sight of four men riding south along the street, past the well and into Mexico. They galloped past Greta’s cottage, never slowing down.

The Kid recognized them in the moonlight. Enrique Kelly and his three friends. They were on their way somewhere in a hurry.

The Kid nodded toward the riders dwindling into the distance and asked Sago, “What do you know about those men?”

“Not a blasted thing except their names,” the saloon man replied. “They only rode in today. I’d never seen them before that.” Sago paused. “Tough-looking bunch, though.”

“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.