The Loner: Inferno

Chapter 7

Dunlap had been right about The Kid being able to see the wagon train’s dust behind him. Every time he looked back over his shoulder, the pale cloud hung in the sky that was already turning brassy, even though the sun hadn’t been up for long.

If the dust wasn’t there, it would mean the wagons had stopped. If that happened before midday, it probably meant trouble. For that reason, The Kid checked his back trail fairly often.

Most of his attention was focused in front of him and to the sides. Not many places to hide existed in the mostly featureless landscape. There were a few hills here and there, so small they were nothing more than knolls. He didn’t see how a war party of a hundred Apache warriors could conceal themselves behind such skimpy cover.

It was more likely they would be hiding in one of the dry washes that slashed across the land. From time to time a cloudburst would dump a lot of rain into the hills that rose to the north, and that water had to go somewhere. It cut arroyos into the plains as it rushed southward from the hills. Once the thirsty ground had sucked up all the water, nothing was left but the bone-dry courses through which it had run.

Most of those arroyos were shallow, but some were deep enough to hide men on horseback. Whenever The Kid came to one, he reined in and studied it carefully before he began searching for a place where the banks were shallow enough to allow the wagons to cross. Some of the washes were straight and he could see a good distance along them in both directions.

Others, however, twisted and turned, winding their way across the plains like a snake, and those were the ones that made The Kid nervous. He had no way of knowing what might lurk just around the nearest bend.

But as the sun rose higher and the morning passed, he didn’t see any signs of life except for a few snakes and lizards, and every now and then a distant rider pacing him. He knew that was either Scott Harwood or Milo Farnum.

At midday the dust cloud from the wagon train began to dissipate, telling The Kid the canvas-covered vehicles had come to a stop. He turned and rode back toward the train. It didn’t take long for the wagons to come into view.

When he looked to the sides, he saw Harwood and Farnum angling in toward the wagons, too.

The Kid hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, only an occasional sip from his canteen, so his belly was empty. Horace Dunlap waved him on in. “Mrs. Ritter said for me to tell you to come on back to her wagon. She’ll have food for you and Scott.”

“Much obliged,” The Kid said with a nod for the wagonmaster. He was a little surprised Jessica had volunteered to feed him. She seemed to be a walking contradiction, interested in him one moment, and sharp and angry with him the next.

When he reached the wagon he saw that Scott Harwood had beaten him there. In fact, Harwood was standing at the rear of the vehicle, next to the lowered tailgate where Jessica had spread a cloth with some thick sandwiches on it. He had a hand on her shoulder, and the stance was definitely intimate.

Harwood moved his hand and stepped away as he saw The Kid coming. “Horace told me you’d been out there scouting this morning. See anything unusual?”

The Kid shook his head. “Just a lot of miles of nothing. This is pretty empty country.”

“That’s true,” Harwood agreed.

“Did you know the Apaches were raiding on this side of the border when you started out here?”

Jessica said, “You can talk about the Apaches later. Right now you both need to eat.”

The Kid took the sandwich she gave him. It was a chunk of roast beef between two thick slices of bread smeared with butter, and he thought it was good. Not the sort of gourmet fare he’d been accustomed to in his former life as Conrad Browning, but a lot better than gnawing on a hunk of jerky.

One of the other women brought them cups of hot coffee. By the time The Kid finished the meal, he felt revitalized and ready to ride out again.

Scott Harwood took out his pipe and began packing it with tobacco from a leather pouch with a fancy design worked into it. When he had the pipe lit, he puffed on it for a moment, then answered the question The Kid had asked earlier.

“No, we didn’t know the Apaches were raiding again. We didn’t just start out blindly from El Paso and hope for the best. Horace and I both talked to officers at Fort Bliss who assured us this part of New Mexico Territory was peaceful at the moment. I guess the reports of the raids just hadn’t reached them yet.” Harwood took another puff on the pipe and added, “The Apaches can move pretty quickly when they want to.”

The Kid nodded. He recalled his father telling him that an Apache warrior could run forty miles a day in a ground-eating lope if he had to. As a rule, the Apaches weren’t horse Indians, like the Sioux and the Comanche and the Cheyenne, along with the other Plains tribes. The Apaches preferred to travel on foot.

But on a long raid across the border, they would be mounted. However, if they planned to attack the wagon train, they might hide their horses and make their approach on foot, since that was the way they were used to fighting.

“Maybe they’re already back below the border,” Jessica said. “We don’t know that they’re not.”

“That’s true,” Harwood said. “We can’t count on them being gone, though.”

“No, of course not. We still have to be ready for trouble.”

“A few more days and we won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Harwood said with a smile. “We’ll be in Raincrow Valley, and we can start making our new home there.”

Jessica returned the smile. “I’m looking forward to that.”

The Kid figured that was his cue to leave. “I’m much obliged to you for the meal, Mrs. Ritter. It was very good. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You’re risking your life by riding with us, Mr. Morgan. The least we can do is feed you.”

“It would be even more risky for him if he was traveling alone,” Harwood said. “So we’re doing him a favor, too.”

The Kid felt like pointing out that he was still standing right there in front of them, so there was no call for Harwood to talk like he was gone.

But such a reaction wouldn’t serve any purpose, he decided, so he lifted a hand in farewell. “So long.”

He led his dun over to a water bucket that had been set out for the scouts’ horses and let the animal drink. Then he swung up into the saddle and rode back to the front of the wagon train.

Dunlap was already there, sitting on horseback, talking to Milo Farnum. The wizened little scout grinned at The Kid. “So you’ve joined our ranks, have you, Morgan?”

“I figured having another pair of eyes out there wouldn’t hurt,” The Kid said.

“Aye, that’s the truth. You didn’t see any sign of the savages this morning?”

The Kid shook his head. “Not a one.”

“I’m thinkin’ those varmints have already lit a shuck back down into Mexico,” Dunlap said, unknowingly echoing what Jessica Ritter had suggested. “And they can stay down there, as far as I’m concerned.”

That was The Kid’s hope as well, but he wasn’t going to believe it until the wagon train reached Raincrow Valley without any trouble.

A short time later the wagon train got underway again. The Kid, Harwood, and Farnum rode out together, splitting up when they were about a quarter mile ahead of the wagons. Harwood angled off to the south, Farnum veered north, and The Kid continued straight ahead.

The hot sun beating down made him grateful for the shade cast by the broad-brimmed hat. He had to stop more often during the afternoon and pour water from his canteen into his hat so the dun could drink.

It was during one of those pauses The Kid heard something that made him lift his head and squint into the distance to the west. The sounds that drifted to his ears through the hot, still air were unmistakable.

Gunshots.

Just a few, at first, then a ragged outburst that sounded like several dozen rifles firing at once. The Kid stood stiffly, listening as the battle continued.

The dun paid no attention to the sounds that meant men were fighting and probably dying. It continued to drink until the water in The Kid’s hat was gone. Putting the hat on, The Kid felt the last few drops trickle coolly over his face and neck, a sensation that was welcome in the heat.

It was hard to tell how far away the shooting was. Sound traveled great distances in the clear air. The Kid’s hunch was that the fight was at least a couple of miles west of his position. He debated for a moment whether he should gallop ahead and try to lend a hand, or carry the warning of possible trouble back to the wagon train.

That decision was taken out of his hands as the shots began to rapidly fade away. The battle was just about over. It hadn’t lasted long.

For one side or the other, that had to be bad news.

The Kid wheeled his horse and hurried toward the wagons. He saw Harwood and Farnum coming in, too, and figured they had also heard the shots.

Horace Dunlap saw the three scouts, and rode out to meet them a couple hundred yards from the wagons, which had come to a halt, no doubt at his order.

“What is it, fellas?” the wagonmaster asked. “Trouble?”

“For somebody,” Harwood replied. “I heard a lot of shooting up ahead.”

“I heard it, too,” Farnum said, and The Kid nodded to indicate that he had, as well.

“Is it still goin’ on?” Dunlap asked.

“No, it stopped.” Harwood’s grim tone was proof that he understood the meaning of that just as well as The Kid did.

“Son of a ...” Dunlap said under his breath. He looked at the other men. “You reckon the Apaches jumped that cavalry patrol?”

“Those troopers have had more than half a day to get ahead of us,” Harwood said. “As fast as they were moving when they left, they ought to be farther ahead of us than it sounded like those shots were.”

He looked over at The Kid and Farnum, both of whom nodded in agreement with that opinion.

Dunlap took off his hat and ran his hand over his head as he frowned in thought. “So the ruckus happened somewhere between us and them soldier boys.”

“That’s the way it seems to me,” Harwood said.

Dunlap clapped his hat on as he reached a decision. “We’ll ride ahead and take a look-see, just the four of us. The wagons will stay here. I’ll tell the folks to get ready for trouble.”

“You ought to stay here, too, Horace,” Harwood argued. “You’re the wagonmaster. We can’t afford to have anything happen to you.”

“I’m goin’, blast it!” Dunlap snapped. “I never hid from trouble in my life, and I ain’t fixin’ to start now.”

The Kid said, “You wouldn’t be hiding from trouble. You’d be doing the smart thing. These people are depending on your leadership to get them through.”

“What kind of leader sends his men where he won’t go his own self?” Dunlap demanded. “Wait here.” His tone allowed no further argument. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

While Dunlap rode back to the wagons to issue his orders, The Kid said, “Well, do we wait for him?”

“If we don’t, we’ll just have him breathing down our necks in a few minutes,” Harwood said. “I’ve known Horace for quite a while. Once he makes up his mind, there’s no changing it.”

“I’ve known him for even longer,” Farnum said. “What it amounts to is that he’s stubborn as an ol’ mule. We might as well wait for him, ’cause he’s comin’ along anyway.”

A couple of minutes later, Dunlap galloped back out to join them. The Kid looked past him at the wagons and saw that all the outriders had been pulled in to help defend the immigrants if need be.

“Let’s go,” Dunlap said curtly.

The shots had come from due west. The four men rode in that direction. They didn’t push their horses. If they encountered trouble, they might need to make a run for it, so they wanted their animals to be as fresh as possible.

Anyway, the shooting was over. There was no real hurry.

Suddenly, Dunlap leaned forward in the saddle and uttered a curse. “Is that smoke I see up yonder?”

It was. The Kid had spotted the dark, thin ribbon of smoke curling into the air at the same time as the wagonmaster.

“What the hell’s burnin’?” Farnum wondered.

“I don’t know, but I intend to find out,” Dunlap said. “Come on.”

“Horace, wait a minute,” Harwood said. “There’s not much smoke. The fire can’t be very big. It won’t do anybody any good for us to go charging in there and get ourselves killed. We still need to be careful.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Dunlap said reluctantly. “But I sure don’t like it.”

Neither did any of the other men. All four wore grim expressions as they rode toward the rising smoke, which thickened slightly as the flames consumed more fuel.

The smoke gave them something to steer by, and it wasn’t long before they came in sight of what was burning. The fire was beginning to die down, leaving behind the charred husk of what appeared to be a huge wagon.

“That’s a freight wagon,” Dunlap said as they closed in. “One of them Conestogas.”

The Kid knew enough about the freight business to be aware that Conestoga wagons were longer, taller, and heavier than the light wagons used by immigrants. They were behemoths that were used only for hauling freight.

The wagon hadn’t gotten out there by itself. It had been pulled by a team of eight draft horses, all of which lay slaughtered in their traces. Bloody, gaping wounds in the bodies of the unfortunate animals showed where large hunks of meat had been carved out and carried away.

“Apaches,” Harwood said, with no doubt in his voice. “They love horse meat.”

“There must’ve been several teamsters with a wagon this size,” Farnum said. “Where are they?”

“You know the answer to that as well as I do, Milo,” Harwood said. “They must not have been killed in the fighting. The Apaches have taken them prisoner ... the poor, doomed bastards.”