The Loner: Inferno

Chapter 5

The Kid didn’t get up from the tailgate as the yelling continued. He kept eating his stew and biscuit, washing the food down with sips of the hot coffee.

If the Apaches had been attacking, his reaction would have been different. But it was just an argument, albeit a loud one, between two men, and he figured it was none of his business.

That wasn’t true of the rest of the immigrants. Most of them, including Jessica Ritter headed toward the commotion. She paused long enough to look back over her shoulder, as if to see if The Kid was coming, too. When she saw that he wasn’t budging, she gave him a disgusted look and turned away.

He didn’t mind that she thought less of him. He would never see her again after they reached Raincrow Valley.

The Kid couldn’t help but hear the voices of the two men shouting at each other. One of them he recognized as the rumbling bass of Horace Dunlap, the wagonmaster. If Dunlap was so upset, it was probably over something important, at least to the immigrants who had hired him, The Kid thought. For a second time, he told himself it was none of his business.

His spoon scraped against the bottom of the bowl as he scooped up the last of the stew, and the last bit of biscuit soaked up the rest of the juices. One more healthy swallow finished off the coffee.

More men were shouting, and it sounded like a brawl was about to break out.

The Kid set the empty bowl and cup aside and slid down from the wagon’s tailgate. Those people had fed him, after all. He supposed he owed them something.

The immigrants were gathered around one of the gaps between two wagons. The Kid drifted up to the edge of the crowd. He was tall enough to see over the heads of most of them.

Horace Dunlap stood just inside the circle of wagons, blocking the gap between the two vehicles. His hat was pushed back on his head and his fists were cocked against his hips as he leaned forward to shout into the angrily flushed face of Sgt. Brennan.

Hot words flew back and forth between the noncom and the wagonmaster. A number of the cavalry troopers were outside the wagons, backing up their sergeant with catcalls and curses. Some of the men from the wagon train supported Dunlap equally vehemently and shook threatening fists at the soldiers.

The Kid saw Scott Harwood standing nearby, looking as dour as ever, and asked the scout, “What’s going on?”

“The sergeant and some of his bully boys came over here wanting to dance with our women,” Harwood explained. “Horace told him there wasn’t any dancing going on and that there wasn’t any music. Brennan offered to provide the music, too. Seems one of the soldiers has a fiddle, and another plays a squeeze box.”

“Sounds like it might be a nice distraction,” The Kid said.

“It would be ... if those soldiers didn’t just want an excuse to put their grubby paws all over our women.”

The Kid noticed Harwood’s eyes flick protectively toward Jessica Ritter when he said “our women”. If Jessica didn’t want somebody putting his hands on her, she could probably deal with that herself, The Kid thought.

“Just go on back to your camp!” Dunlap shouted at Brennan.

“You want us to protect you from the damned Apaches, but we’re not good enough to associate with you!” the noncom bellowed back.

The Kid said to Harwood, “Sergeant Brennan has a point.”

The scout grunted, but didn’t say anything.

“Where’s your commanding officer?” Dunlap demanded. “By Godfrey, we’ll just see about this!”

“Leave Lieutenant Nicholson out of it,” Brennan snapped. “This is between you and me, you obstinate old buffalo!”

Dunlap drew back in outrage. “Old buffalo, is it? We’ll see how you like it when I stampede right over you, mister!”

With that, he lunged at Brennan, swinging a knobby-knuckled fist at the sergeant’s head.

A roar went up from both sides in the dispute. Soldiers and immigrants alike surged toward the gap between wagons, fists clenched and ready to do battle.

Of course, there were plenty of other gaps between the wagons. It wasn’t the only point of entry into the circle, by any means. But symbolically, it had become the gate, and Dunlap the gatekeeper.

The narrowness of the opening worked against a full-scale brawl. There was only room for Dunlap and Brennan to slug at each other, which they did with enthusiasm. Shouts filled the night every time a fist thudded into flesh. Men on both sides called encouragement to their respective champion.

More people from the wagon train had come up behind The Kid. They crowded forward, eager to see what was happening, and the press of human flesh forced him to move closer. Harwood wasn’t next to him anymore—he couldn’t see the scout—but suddenly he realized Jessica Ritter was. Her hip was against his, and neither of them had room to pull away.

Jessica looked over at him, tall enough that she didn’t have to tilt her head back much to do so. “Mr. Dunlap’s too old for this!” She had to raise her voice to be heard over the tumult.

The Kid knew what she meant. Brennan was middle-aged, an obvious veteran of many years in the cavalry, but Dunlap was even older. He had told The Kid that he was settling down when the wagon train reached Raincrow Valley. He had put in enough dangerous decades on the frontier to deserve that retirement.

Even so, The Kid didn’t know what Jessica expected him to do. He couldn’t stop the fight. It had gone too far for that. The only thing that would end it was one man getting the best of the other.

At that moment, Brennan landed a hard, looping punch that made it past Dunlap’s attempt to block it. The sergeant’s fist crashed into Dunlap’s jaw with such force the older man was lifted off his feet and spilled onto his back. Brennan charged into the circle after him, and that left the gap between wagons wide open.

The troopers began to pour through it, spoiling for a fight the immigrants were glad to give them. In the blink of an eye, punches were being thrown furiously and indiscriminately.

Now this was a full-fledged brawl.

Most of the immigrant women fled from the violence, which caused the crowd to thin out in a hurry. The Kid could move again. It wasn’t his fight and he didn’t want any part of it, so he started to back up.

Jessica Ritter stalked forward, grabbed the shoulder of a trooper who was pounding his fist into the face of a civilian, and hauled him around with a shouted, “Hey!”

She punched the startled soldier in the nose, flattening it and making blood spurt from his nostrils.

The startled trooper howled in pain and clapped one hand to his injured nose. He swung the other in a backhand that cracked across Jessica’s face and jerked her head to the side.

It was an instinctive reaction on the soldier’s part, an unthinking response to the pain he felt. Under normal circumstances it was unlikely he would have hit a woman.

The Kid reacted instinctively, too. Since Scott Harwood wasn’t around to protect the woman he was engaged to, The Kid lunged forward, shoved the stumbling Jessica behind him, and uncorked a punch that buried his fist to the wrist in the trooper’s belly. The man doubled over and collapsed at The Kid’s feet.

He turned toward Jessica, not expecting any thanks but not anticipating what he got, either. She punched him hard in the chest.

“I didn’t ask you to do that!” she yelled. “I can take care of myself!”

The imprint of the trooper’s hand stood out on her cheek where she’d been hit, and she looked a little dazed.

Suddenly, her eyes rolled up in their sockets, and her knees started to come unhinged. The Kid caught her before she could fall, getting his hands under her arms. Her head rolled loosely on her neck as she sagged against him.

Fists still flew and chaos still raged around him. He started to back up, half carrying and half dragging the unconscious Jessica. He wanted to get her clear of the ruckus before either of them got seriously hurt.

Stumbling into the open, The Kid paused and scooped her up in his arms. She was solidly built and weighed enough that he grunted with the effort of carrying her. He made it to where he had eaten his supper before all hell broke loose, and carefully he put her on the lowered tailgate.

“What the hell are you doing with her?”

The angry shout came from Scott Harwood, who rushed up to the wagon with his hand on the butt of his revolver. The Kid watched him closely. He didn’t want to kill the scout or even wound him, but if Harwood tried to draw that gun, The Kid would have to do something. He wasn’t going to stand there and let Harwood shoot him.

“Calm down,” The Kid snapped. “I’m just trying to help her. She got hit in that brawl. You can see that for yourself.”

Harwood regarded him coldly. “Did you hit her?”

“What? Of course not!” The Kid shook his head disgustedly. “It was one of the cavalrymen ... but only after she busted his nose.”

The fierce tension visibly gripping Harwood eased a little. He asked, “How bad is she hurt?”

“Not too bad, I expect. I think she just passed out. But when she started to fall down I figured I’d better get her out of there. She could have gotten hurt a lot worse if that loco bunch trampled all over her!”

Harwood nodded, clearly knowing The Kid was right about that. “Sorry, Morgan,” he muttered. “I saw you messing with her, and I didn’t know what had happened.”

“You can tend to her now.” As The Kid started to turn away from the wagon, the high, shrill notes of a bugle blowing attention sounded in the night.

The troopers stopped fighting and formed up into rough ranks, the ones who were still conscious and on their feet, anyway. Several of them were sprawled on the ground, either out cold or moaning from the blows that had knocked them down.

Lt. Nicholson, bareheaded and looking furious, strode into the circle of wagons as the strains of the bugle died away. His gaze fell on Sgt. Brennan, and he demanded, “Sergeant, what’s going on here?”

Brennan stood stiffly at attention. “A, uh, misunderstanding with these pilgrims, sir.”

“Misunderstanding, hell!” Harwood walked up with a groggy-looking Jessica leaning on him. “Your men attacked us, Lieutenant. One of them even assaulted my fiancée!”

“Is that true, Sergeant?” Nicholson snapped at Brennan.

“With all due respect, sir, it sure ain’t,” the noncom said. “That fella Dunlap, the wagonmaster, threw the first punch. I was just defendin’ myself, and the rest of the lads were only tryin’ to help me.”

“What were you doing over here, anyway?”

“Well, sir, you didn’t make the wagons off-limits, so the boys and me figured maybe some of these ladies would like to dance.”

“So you tried to force your way in here to fraternize with these civilian women.” Nicholson drew in such a deep breath it caused his nostrils to flare. “Get back to camp, Sergeant. Have the men pick up the ones who can’t walk and take them with you. And double the guard for tonight! I don’t want the pickets just standing around. The men on guard duty will walk the perimeter of this entire area, double time!”

Brennan hesitated. “Sir, the men will likely be in the saddle for a long time tomorrow—”

“Then they should have thought of that before they decided it was so important to go sashaying around with these women. You have your orders, Sergeant. Dismissed!”

Horace Dunlap had been helped back to his feet. He still looked a little stunned, but was able to come up to Nicholson. “You need to keep those troopers of yours under control, Lieutenant.”

Nicholson looked at him coldly. “My apologies for this incident,” the lieutenant said, although he didn’t sound too sincere. “But you have to understand that my men are under a great deal of pressure. The Apaches could be anywhere. We could be fighting for our lives without even a moment’s notice.”

“The same thing’s true for us,” Dunlap said. “Don’t get me wrong, Lieutenant. I’m glad you fellas are here tonight. Just keep ’em away from our wagons.”

Nicholson gave him a brusque nod and stepped over a wagon tongue to leave the circle and go back to the cavalry camp. The immigrants began to scatter to their wagons. Some hadn’t finished eating supper yet.

The Kid picked up his bowl and coffee cup, which he had brushed off the tailgate when he placed Jessica on it. When he turned to take them back to the women who had provided the meal, he found Jessica standing in his path.

“I’m sorry I hit you,” she said. Her apology sounded about as genuine as the one Nicholson had offered to Dunlap.

“That’s all right,” The Kid told her with a faint smile. “Chalk it up to the heat of battle. Anyway, I’m not hurt.”

“You’ll have a bruise there in the morning.”

“Maybe. Let me guess, Mrs. Ritter ... You were raised with a bunch of brothers.”

“Seven of them,” she said. “And I was the youngest in the family. I learned early on that I’d have to fight for anything I got.”

“You learned well,” The Kid said.

“Yes. Unfortunately, there are times when fighting doesn’t do any good, when all the rage in the world won’t—” She stopped herself and after a moment went on. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Good night.” She started to turn away.

The Kid touched her lightly on the arm. When she looked back at him, he said, “Maybe next time we’ll be fighting on the same side.”

“We’ll be in Raincrow Valley in three days. There won’t be a next time.”