The Loner: Inferno

Chapter 8

An air of depressed foreboding hung over the wagon train camp that night. Nobody talked about it, but most of the adults knew that somewhere out there in the darkness, the freighters who had been with that Conestoga were probably screaming their lives away as they were tortured to death by their Apache captors.

The children were more subdued than usual, too. They had heard enough whispered comments from their parents to know what was going on.

The leadership of the wagon train held a subdued meeting next to Jessica’s wagon while they were eating supper. Dunlap had asked The Kid to join in, too.

“I just showed up yesterday,” he said, “and I’m only along for the ride. You don’t need me to help you make any decisions.”

“Ain’t any decisions to make,” Dunlap said. “We’re pushin’ on to Raincrow Valley, just like we always planned. But you’ve been around the frontier for a while, Kid. In spite of your age, you’re one of the most experienced men we’ve got. If you got any advice for us, I’m more than willin’ to listen.”

Dunlap obviously believed that inflated reputation The Kid had tried to develop about himself while he was searching for his wife’s killers. On the other hand, the past couple years in his life had been eventful, to say the least. He really had crammed a lot of experience into them.

The Kid and Farnum sat on a couple of kegs that had been taken from the wagon, while Jessica and Harwood sat together on the wagon tongue. Dunlap paced back and forth in front of them.

“Who ships goods by freight wagon anymore?” he asked. “Everybody uses the railroad now.”

“Not everybody,” Harwood said. “There are still a few freight outfits hanging on. Their rates are lower than the railroad’s, and if you’re shipping something that doesn’t have to be anywhere in a particular hurry, like hammers and nails ...”

They all knew what he meant. The four men had poked around enough in the ruins of the burned Conestoga to find lumps of partially melted hammerheads and nails. The handles of the hammers had been consumed in the blaze, but the metal heads remained, as did the nails they were intended to drive.

“I’ll bet the cavalry patrol caught up with that wagon, just like they did with us,” Dunlap said. “And that blasted Lieutenant Nicholson probably rode right on past it without even slowin’ down.”

Farnum nodded as he clamped his teeth strongly on the stem of his old briar. “Wouldn’t surprise me a bit. And now those poor fellas ...”

He didn’t have to finish that statement. They all knew what he meant.

“We have proof now that the Apaches are out here, over and above what Nicholson told us,” Harwood said quietly. “I’ve seen plenty of their depredations over in Arizona.”

The Kid said, “A gang of white outlaws could have burned that wagon.”

Harwood turned to look at him and nodded. “They could have, but why would outlaws bother with a freight wagon? It wouldn’t be carrying money or anything else they’d want. Besides, they would have just killed the teamsters and left the bodies there.” He shook his head. “No, this is Apache work. Setting the wagon on fire like that, carrying off prisoners ... I’ve seen it all before.”

“Scott’s right,” Dunlap said. “Question is, what do we do about it?”

“There were tracks around what was left of that Conestoga,” Farnum said. “I reckon I could follow ’em.”

“And do what?” Harwood asked.

“Might be able to help those prisoners.”

A bitter laugh came from Harwood. “They’re already dead, or if they’re not, they’re wishing they were. There’s nothing we can do for them, Milo. Our responsibility is here with this wagon train and these people.” He looked at Dunlap. “We’d better double the guards, Horace.”

“I agree,” The Kid chimed in. “I’ll be glad to stand a shift on watch.”

“I reckon we all will,” Dunlap said with a nod. “I’ll go around and talk to folks, get volunteers first and then figure out how many more men we need.”

Jessica spoke up. “Women can stand guard, too, Horace.”

“Oh, I don’t reckon that’d be a good idea,” the wagonmaster replied in a blustering tone.

“Why not?” Jessica asked. “Not just any of the women, of course, but I can handle a rifle and so can some of the others. And my eyesight and hearing are just fine, thank you. I don’t know what else you’d need to stand guard.”

“Shootin’ at targets ain’t the same thing as shootin’ at somebody.”

“I know that. I promise you, if I have one of those bloodthirsty Apaches in my sights, I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

That was easy for her to say, The Kid mused, but he had his doubts, too. He knew how difficult it was for most people to take a human life. He had been the same way at one time.

But he had gotten over it. Putting the barrel of a Winchester to the head of one of the men who’d killed Rebel and pulling the trigger had taken care of that.

Anybody who had lived on the frontier for very long and who was honest with themselves knew there were some people who just didn’t deserve to go on breathing perfectly good air. The Kid had met more than his share of them.

The meeting broke up as Dunlap went to arrange the guard duties. The Kid had volunteered to take one of the first shifts, so he didn’t bother spreading his bedroll under one of the wagons just yet. He could do that later.

He checked on the dun, then took his Winchester and moved out a short distance from the circle of wagons. He hunkered down in a clump of greasewood where he wouldn’t be visible and attuned his senses to the night around him.

If there was anything out of place—a sound, a flicker of movement, even a smell that shouldn’t have been there—The Kid would know it.

The three hours he spent standing watch passed in slow, tedious boredom. Of course, that was good, The Kid reminded himself. Excitement would have meant danger not only for him but for the members of the wagon train.

After his shift, he slept fitfully under one of the wagons for a few hours and was up again at dawn with the others, sipping coffee and getting ready to move out. Two more days would bring them to Raincrow Valley, according to Dunlap. From there, The Kid didn’t know where he would go, but he would deal with that when the time came.

He and Harwood and Farnum rode out again in front of the wagons. The landscape was empty, and except for the dust cloud from the wagons behind him, The Kid might have been the only living thing within a thousand miles.

Around midmorning, he saw buzzards circling ahead of him. For such ungainly birds on the ground, they wheeled through the air with a beauty and grace in striking contrast to their grim mission.

They began to descend.

A few minutes later, The Kid spotted them surrounding a dark shape lying on the ground several hundred yards away. Knowing there was no hope, he heeled his horse into a run anyway.

The buzzards took off again as the dun came pounding up. They squawked in protest as they spiraled into the air. He reined in and looked down at the man staked to the ground.

The Apaches had worked him over good with their knives, hacking and mutilating and peeling away much of his skin. His eyelids had been cut off so his lifeless eyes could only stare up into the blazing sun.

The Kid wondered if the man had still been alive when the Apaches left him there. It was a question that would never be answered. He was dead as hell now.

The Kid didn’t have a shovel, so he waited for the wagons to get closer. The buzzards had been at the corpse already, and he didn’t want them desecrating it anymore. When the wagons were within earshot, The Kid drew his Colt and squeezed off three rounds into the air. That brought Horace Dunlap at the gallop.

The wagonmaster grimaced and shook his head as he saw the body on the ground. “One of them teamsters, I expect.”

“Must be,” The Kid agreed, “but there’s not enough of him left to prove anything except that he went through hell dying. The women and the youngsters with the wagons don’t need to see this. If you’ll bring me a shovel, I’ll put him in the ground.”

Dunlap nodded. “I’ll help you. Wait here.”

An hour later, they had scraped a big enough hole out of the hard, rocky ground and lowered the dead man into it, wrapped in a blanket Dunlap had brought back from the wagon train along with the shovel. When the grave was covered up, Dunlap stood at the foot of it and took his hat off.

“Lord, I don’t know this poor sinner’s name,” he said, “but if any fella deserved a nice, comfortable spot in Your bunkhouse, I reckon it’s him. Have mercy on him, and on the fellas who were with him that we may never find, and bring ’em all home to be with You. Amen.”

When The Kid didn’t repeat that benediction, Dunlap glanced over at him. “You ain’t a religious man?”

“Didn’t say that. But I’ve done some things in my life ... Well, let’s just say I’m not sure the Lord wants anything to do with me anymore.”

“I’d bet this ol’ hat of mine you’re wrong about that.” Dunlap put the hat on and continued. “I’ll take the wagons around this spot. Won’t have to go much out of our way.”

“Probably a good idea,” The Kid said.

They didn’t find the bodies of the other teamsters, and by nightfall there had been no other signs of the Apaches. The Kid wondered if they had staked out the corpse as a warning to the wagon train to turn back.

If that had been the intention, it had failed. Dunlap was determined to push on, and The Kid didn’t blame him. According to the wagonmaster, by the time the sun went down again they would be in Raincrow Valley.

The night passed without incident, and so did the next morning. At the midday stop, Dunlap gathered everyone around and pointed to the hills north of them.

“We’re on the last leg of this trip now, folks. See that gap in the hills up yonder? On the other side of it is Raincrow Valley. The Injuns used to call it that because whenever it rains, the crows would flock to the valley. There are basins that hold the water and let it trickle out through some streams, and that lets the grass grow. It’s a mighty pretty place, and it’ll make a fine home for all of us.”

Not for me, The Kid thought, but for the rest of these folks, sure. He was a long way from wanting to settle down. In fact, given the life he had chosen to lead, it was more likely he would die on some lonely trail with a bullet or a knife in him.

When the wagons rolled again, they headed north. All during the long afternoon, the hills seemed to recede in front of them, so the destination seemed as far away as it had been when they started.

Gradually, though, The Kid could tell they were getting closer. The grass wasn’t quite as sparse, and the ground had some slope to it as they climbed toward the pass. The oxen had to strain a little harder in their traces.

As they started up the approach to the pass, The Kid, Harwood, and Farnum rode together. Harwood pulled his Winchester from its saddle boot and worked the rifle’s lever, throwing a round into the chamber. “If there’s going to be an ambush, right on the other side of the pass is the best place for it,” he warned.

The Kid and Farnum followed his example. Gripping their rifles tightly, they rode through the wide pass until the landscape before them dropped down into a broad, surprisingly green valley that was every bit as beautiful as Dunlap had promised.

And there were no Apaches in sight. No shots rang out. Nothing threatened.

“Welcome to Raincrow Valley,” Harwood said.