Johnstone J. A.

The Loner: Inferno #12

The Loner: INFERNO

J. A. Johnstone

PINNACLE BOOKS

Kensington Publishing Corp.

Chapter 1

The place didn’t have a name, at least as far as the rider on the dun horse knew. Probably the people who lived there called it something, but the tall young man didn’t care about that.

He just wanted a drink after riding all day in the baking New Mexico sun. One of the handful of buildings alongside the trail was a saloon, so that was all that mattered to him.

He reined the dun over to the hitch rail in front of the saloon and swung down from the saddle. Most of the buildings in the tiny settlement were adobe, but this one was constructed of lumber—freighted in from somewhere—and even had a porch and a false front giving the illusion of a second story.

MAHONEY’S—BEER—LIQUOR—GAMBLING was painted on the false front. Right to the point, the newcomer thought. He was a little surprised WHORES wasn’t painted up there too.

The man was broad-shouldered, lean but powerfully built. He wore brown whipcord trousers tucked into high-topped brown boots, a buckskin shirt unadorned with fringe, and a wide-brimmed, flat-crowned brown Stetson with conchos on the band.

A Colt .45 revolver with black grips rode easily in the holster on his right hip. In sheaths strapped to his saddle were a nearly new Winchester repeater and an older Sharps Big Fifty carbine. With the dawn of a new century not that far away, it was getting more unusual to see men armed like that, even on the frontier, but it wasn’t yet uncommon.

He wrapped the dun’s reins around the hitch rack and stepped up into the blessed shade of the saloon’s porch. Even though the air was blistering hot and dry, it helped to get out of the direct rays of the sun.

The stranger was thirsty, but before he stepped into the saloon he paused and leaned on the porch railing for a moment to look along the street. He was in the habit of being cautious and studying his surroundings.

Next to the saloon was a mercantile, beyond that a corral, and on the other side of the corral a single-story adobe hotel. Across the street was a blacksmith shop, a cantina, and a couple of adobe houses. That was the extent of the settlement.

A dog, panting in front of the blacksmith shop, was the only sign of life in the community. The stranger’s dun was the only horse tied at the hitch racks, although a few unsaddled mounts shifted around listlessly in the corral.

Everybody was taking a siesta, the man thought. Given the heat of the day, it wasn’t surprising. Nobody wanted to move around much.

But somebody was moving, and in a hurry, he realized as he glanced to the south. His blue eyes narrowed at the sight of the dust cloud rolling up into the brassy sky.

Usually when somebody was moving that fast in such heat, it meant trouble. But it couldn’t have anything to do with him. He had just ridden in and had never been there before.

With a mental shrug, he turned, pushed through the batwings, and walked into Mahoney’s Saloon.

The stranger was the only customer. The place would soon go broke if it never did any more business than this. The bar was empty, and so were the half-dozen tables. A single bartender stood behind the hardwood, aimlessly wiping a cloth over it.

He looked up in surprise at the stranger’s entrance. He was a middle-aged man with a pinched face and was mostly bald with a fringe of graying red hair around his ears. “Afternoon, mister.”

“It surely is,” the stranger agreed as he approached the bar. “Is your beer cold?”

“Oh, now, you might as well be asking for a miracle, my friend. The closest cold beer is in Albuquerque or El Paso. But what I have is wet, and it’ll wash the dust out of your throat if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“It is.” The stranger took a coin out of his pocket and dropped it on the bar.

The bartender frowned. “Beer’s usually four bits.”

“I pay four bits for cold beer. Warm is only worth two.”

The bartender thought for a second and then nodded.

“I suppose that’s fair enough, especially seeing as I don’t exactly have customers beating down my door right now.”

“You may in a few minutes,” the stranger said as the bartender filled a mug from a keg. “I saw some dust headed toward town. Looked like quite a few riders, and judging by the hurry they’re in, they must be thirsty.”

The bartender dropped the mug. It shattered and splashed beer over the floor behind the bar.

“A bunch of riders ... coming toward town?” he choked out.

“That’s right.” The stranger’s eyes narrowed. “You act like you have a pretty good idea who they are and what they want.”

The bartender kicked the broken glass aside and didn’t bother picking it up. “If your horse isn’t completely played out, I’d advise mounting up and riding out of here right now, mister. You don’t want to be here.”

“Why not?”

The bartender wiped sweat off his face with the bar rag. “Because when Hammersmith’s men get here, there’s likely to be shooting. A lot of it.”

“Shooting about what?”

“Dan Hammersmith owns the Hammer Ranch south of here. He’s been losing stock, and he blames Pepé Flores. Flores owns the cantina across the road. He’s holed up in there now with half a dozen Mex gunmen. When Hammersmith and his crew get here, there’s going to be a battle. Everybody in town knows what’s coming. That’s why they’re all hunkered down, waiting until it’s over. I’m going in my back room, where I’ve got some crates stacked up to stop any stray bullets that come this way.”

“Is Flores actually behind the rustling?”

“I don’t know. Hammersmith thinks he is, and that’s all that matters.”

The stranger thought it over, and nodded. “I still want that beer.”

“You’re not leaving?” the bartender asked, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Not until I’ve had that beer, Mister ... are you Mahoney?”

“Aye. William Mahoney, his own self.”

“Then draw another beer for me, Mr. Mahoney, and you can go get behind your crates.”

Mahoney stared at him for a long moment, then muttered, “’Tis a madman you are.”

The stranger smiled. “No. Just thirsty.”

Mahoney grabbed a mug from the backbar and filled it. He pushed it across the hardwood toward the stranger. “There. It’s on the house this time, since I dropped the first one. And whatever happens ... it’s on your head, mister.”

He turned, scurried to the end of the bar, and disappeared through a narrow door.

The stranger picked up the mug and took a long swallow of the beer. Mahoney was right. It wasn’t the least bit cold, but it was wet and washed away the trail dust, and it wasn’t too bitter. The stranger sighed in satisfaction as he set the mug back on the bar.

He turned and walked to the door, pushed the batwings aside and stepped onto the porch. The dust cloud was a lot closer to the settlement. Close enough he could hear the pounding hoofbeats of the horses.

Riders appeared at the cloud’s base, black dots at first and then recognizable as men on horseback. They swept into the settlement and reined their mounts to a halt at the point where the trail turned into a street. The skidding stop kicked up more dust, and since there was barely any breeze, it hung over the street, drifting slowly past the saloon.

The stranger took off his hat, revealing a thatch of sandy hair, and waved some of the dust away as it tried to settle on him.

As the air gradually cleared, he saw that ten men had ridden into town, all of them wearing range clothes and sporting guns in tied-down holsters. They fancied themselves Coltmen, whether they actually were or not.

One man was a little better dressed than the others, so the stranger pegged him as Dan Hammersmith, the rancher whose herd had been the victim of rustlers.

Hammersmith cast a frowning glance at the stranger, who had replaced his hat and stood with a hip braced against one of the posts supporting the awning over the porch. Hammersmith said something to the rider beside him, who shook his head. The second man was probably indicating he had no idea who the tall stranger was.

Hammersmith jerked a hand in a curt gesture. The stranger’s identity clearly didn’t matter to him. He hitched his horse into motion and started leading his men along the street toward the cantina.

“Hold on a minute,” the stranger called as he straightened from his casual pose and stepped down from the saloon’s porch.

Instantly, some of the cowboys put their hands on their guns. The stranger ignored them as he walked toward Hammersmith. He didn’t figure they would draw and fire without their boss giving the order.

“What the hell do you want, mister?” the leader snapped. “This ain’t a good time to be askin’ for a job, if that’s what you’re doin’.”

The stranger shook his head. “I’m not interested in work. Are you Hammersmith?”

“That’s right. What’s it to you?”

“I hear you’ve got a grudge against the fella who owns the cantina down yonder.”

“That’s right. What business is it of yours? Are you friends with that greaser thief Flores?”

“Never met the man,” the stranger said. “Never even seen him, just like I never saw you until now. Whatever problems you have, I’m not part of them.”

Hammersmith scowled. “The biggest problem I have right now is you’re interferin’ with what we’ve got to do. We’re about to clean out that rat’s nest, and if you don’t like it, you can go to hell!”

Mutters of agreement came from his men.

“I don’t care what you do,” the stranger said. “But you see that horse over there?” He pointed to the dun standing at the hitch rack in front of Mahoney’s with his head drooping in weariness.

“What about it?” Hammersmith demanded.

“That’s my horse, and he’s tired and hot. He needs some water and the chance to rest for a while before I ride out again. But if you and those men holed up in the cantina start shooting at each other, my horse is liable to get hit by a stray bullet.”

“Well, then, get him off the damned street!” Hammersmith bellowed.

The stranger shook his head. “He’s fine where he is. I’ll be leaving in an hour or so. Flores and his men will still be waiting for you in the cantina then.”

The rancher’s eyes widened in amazement. “You want us to wait and have our showdown after you’re gone, just so your horse won’t get shot?”

“It seems like a reasonable request to me,” the stranger said.

With his face turning purple with rage, Hammersmith demanded at the top of his lungs, “Just who in blazes do you think you are?”

“They call me Kid Morgan.”

Chapter 2

The Kid rode away from the little settlement an hour later. He had finished his beer, let the dun drink from a water trough once he’d cooled off some, and even bought a few supplies from the extremely nervous proprietor of the general store.

During that time, Dan Hammersmith and his men waited just outside the western end of town. When The Kid finally left, he rode past them, feeling hatred radiating as they glared at him.

Outnumbered ten to one, there was no question he would have been killed if Hammersmith had decided to force the issue and ordered his men to slap leather.

But the rancher had looked into The Kid’s eyes and known that if he did that, he would be the first to die in the fracas. None of the cowboys were anywhere close to fast enough on the draw to stop The Kid from getting lead into him.

So Hammersmith had turned his horse and barked orders at his men and they withdrew to the western end of the street to wait reluctantly.

Facing them down had been a foolish stunt, and The Kid knew it. It was the sort of thing a man with a death wish might do.

He didn’t have a death wish, he told himself as he rode away.

He just didn’t give a damn anymore.

A few days earlier, he had been in the town of Val Verde, east of there, standing in front of a tombstone in the graveyard behind the mission with his hat in his hand. He hadn’t spoken aloud, and he wouldn’t have known what to say to his late wife, anyway.

Good-bye, maybe, because he was putting his former life, with all its tragedies and disappointments behind him, once and for all. Conrad Browning was just as dead as the woman in that grave.

He had made that decision once before, but things kept pulling him back to his former existence. First the need for revenge, then the prospect of family, a prospect that promised at least a degree of healing.

Instead, all the scabs on the old wounds had been brutally ripped away again, and the only way to deal with the pain was to put it behind him.

So it was Kid Morgan, the gunfighter, who rode away from Val Verde, leaving Conrad Browning buried back there.

Rest in peace, you unlucky son of a bitch.

In the few days since then, he had drifted farther west, through the arid, but starkly beautiful, reaches of southern New Mexico Territory. He hadn’t run into any trouble until today, and his reputation as a deadly gunman had ended that before it well and truly began.

While he was still in earshot, revolvers and rifles and shotguns began to roar in the settlement. The Kid didn’t look back. There was nothing he could have done to stop what was happening. The hatred between the two sides was too deeply ingrained. It was a shame that men had to die, but they had gone into it with their eyes open.

The Kid hoped William Mahoney was keeping his head down, along with all the other citizens who weren’t part of the fight. Innocent people shouldn’t have to die because of somebody else’s hate. Of course, they often did.

The heat eased a little as the sun lowered toward the horizon. A range of rugged hills bulked to the north, but the flats where The Kid rode stretched endlessly to the south. It was dry, treeless country, except for some scrubby mesquites and the occasional stunted cottonwood that grew along the washes where streams ran part of the year. Clumps of hardy grass dotted the landscape, along with saguaros that reared their spiny arms, sentinel-like, over the sandy ground.

That part of the territory was sparsely populated, and for good reason. There was enough graze to support cattle—if you had an abundance of rangeland and a small enough herd. Farther south, along the border, were deposits of silver, gold, and copper.

Mostly, it was a route for people going somewhere else. The original Butterfield stage line had gone through there more than forty years earlier, and nowadays the Southern Pacific’s steel rails spanned it, linking El Paso and California.

The Kid was several miles north of the railroad, riding roughly parallel to it. He knew it well, since Conrad Browning had been a stockholder in the Southern Pacific, but he had no interest in it now. Back to the northeast was a spur line the Browning financial interests had built, but The Kid had even less interest in that.

He could still be curious when he saw something unexpected, though. His eyes narrowed as he spotted a line of pale blurs a mile or two ahead of him, and reined the dun to a halt. He wasn’t sure what those things were, but they were moving. Slowly, to be sure, but they were definitely creeping along.

He reached inside his saddlebags and brought out a telescope. Extending the cylinder, he lifted it to his right eye, closed the left, and squinted through the lenses.

One of the objects he was looking at sprang into sharp relief.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” The Kid said.

It was a covered wagon.

He moved the telescope, swinging its field of view along the line of wagons with their bleached canvas covers. He had seen covered wagons before, of course, but only one or two at a time. Never a whole train of them.

He knew that in the past, wagon trains had carried hundreds of thousands of immigrants to new homes on the frontier, but in this day and age, when the railroads reached almost everywhere, they were rare. Rare enough that The Kid had never seen one.

But that was what he was looking at, no doubt about it. Using the telescope, he made a quick count. Thirty wagons in the train stretched out, single file, for a couple of hundred yards.

A dozen or so outriders moved along with the wagons, flanking them on horseback. Two more riders were in the lead, several yards ahead of the first wagon in line.

Smiling faintly, The Kid lowered the telescope and shook his head. The heyday of the wagon trains might not be far enough in the past to consider what he was looking at as a bit of living history, but it was close.

His curiosity about what he was seeing wasn’t satisfied. He closed the telescope, tucked it back into his saddlebags, and heeled the dun into motion again, setting a faster pace.

The ground-eating trot quickly closed the gap between him and the wagons. As he approached, a couple of the outriders noticed him and peeled away from the vehicles to intercept him.

The men looked tough and competent, and each was armed with a pistol and a rifle. One of them raised his hand in a signal for The Kid to halt.

He wasn’t looking for trouble, so he hauled back on the dun’s reins and brought the horse to a stop. The two men walked their mounts closer.

“Something we can do for you, mister?” the one who had lifted his hand asked.

“Just thought I’d pay a visit to the wagon train.” The Kid nodded toward the cumbersome vehicles that continued rolling slowly westward, being pulled by teams of oxen. “I’ve never seen one like this before.”

“It ain’t a sideshow,” the other man snapped. “Just a bunch of honest, hard-workin’ folks who’re tryin’ to make better lives for themselves.”

“I don’t doubt it for a second. I told you, I’m not looking for trouble.”

“Go on about your business, then.”

The Kid’s jaw tightened. Being talked to like that rubbed him the wrong way. However, he didn’t want to get in a shooting scrape with these men, so he supposed the best thing to do would be to ride on around the wagons and ignore them.

He was about to do that when he saw one of the men who’d been leading the wagon train galloping toward them. The two outriders looked around, then one of them said, “Stay right there, mister. I reckon the boss wants to talk to you.”

The Kid thought about being contrary and saying he didn’t want to talk to the “boss”, but there didn’t seem any real point in that. He sat easy in the saddle and waited.

The man who rode up was an imposing, barrel-chested presence with a craggy, ruggedly powerful face. He reined in, then thumbed a gray hat to the back of his head and demanded, “Who’s this?”

“He hasn’t told us his name, Mr. Dunlap,” one of the outriders replied.

“Well, have you asked him?”

“Uh ... no, not really.”

The big man brought his horse closer to The Kid. “I’m Horace Dunlap, the wagonmaster of this train. Who might you be, mister?”

Dunlap had the look of a veteran frontiersman, so he had probably heard of Kid Morgan. That identity hadn’t existed only a few years earlier, but The Kid had developed quite a reputation in a short time.

Facing down Hammersmith and the rancher’s gun-crew had been different. The Kid didn’t see any need to play on that reputation at the moment, so he gave Dunlap a friendly nod and said, “Name’s Morgan.”

“Do you aim to cause us any trouble, Mr. Morgan?”

“Not a bit,” The Kid replied honestly.

“In that case, why don’t you come with me? We’ll ride up at the point, so we can talk.” Dunlap looked at the outriders. “You fellas get back to your posts.”

The two men didn’t look particularly happy about it, but they turned their horses and rode back to the wagons.

“They’re good hombres,” Dunlap went on, “but they take their jobs mighty serious-like.”

“That’s the best way to take a job,” The Kid said.

“That’s the God’s honest truth. Come on.”

Dunlap turned his horse, a big brown gelding, and The Kid moved alongside him on the dun. As they rode toward the front of the wagon train, Dunlap went on, “You must be wonderin’ what an outfit like this is doin’ out here.”

“I didn’t know there were any more wagon trains,” The Kid admitted. “Everybody travels by regular train now.”

“Not everybody. I’ve been leadin’ wagon trains west since ’67, and in all that time I’ve headed up at least one every year, sometimes three or four.” The wagonmaster paused. “The past few years, though, it’s only been one. And this one ... well, this is my last.”

The Kid looked over at him and cocked an eyebrow.

“I’m retirin’,” Dunlap said in answer to the unasked question. “I’ve had my fill of it. It’s time to settle down. So when these folks get where they’re goin’, I’ll be stayin’ there with ’em.”

The Kid wasn’t sure why Dunlap was being so open with him. Some men were just talkative, he supposed, and didn’t mind sharing the story of their lives.

The less The Kid had to talk or even think about his own past, the better.

As they rode past the wagons, he got a good look at the people on the high seats of the vehicles. Most of the teams were being handled by men who appeared to be farmers, or good hardy working stock, anyway. Some had women with them, and kids peeked out from most of the wagons.

Women were driving a few wagons. The Kid supposed they were widows or maybe the wives of some of the outriders. He noticed one in particular who had long, blond hair that had been pulled back and tied into a ponytail hanging far down her back from under her sunbonnet.

When he and Dunlap reached the front of the wagon train, Dunlap introduced The Kid to the other man riding up there.

“This is Scott Harwood, one of our scouts. Scott, meet Mr. Morgan.”

Harwood, a lean, dark-faced man who could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty, gave The Kid a nod. “Howdy.”

The Kid had a hunch Harwood was as taciturn as Dunlap was garrulous, so that probably made them a good team.

“Mr. Morgan’s never seen a wagon train before,” Dunlap continued. “Reckon he figured they didn’t exist anymore, that the locomotives run ’em all out of business.”

“There are still places the railroad doesn’t go,” Harwood said. “Like Raincrow Valley.”

“That’s the name of the place you’re headed?” The Kid asked. “Raincrow Valley?”

“Yep,” Dunlap said. “Prettiest place you ever saw. And you can help us get there, Mr. Morgan.”

That statement caused The Kid to raise his eyebrows in surprise. “Me? How can I help you?”

Dunlap gave him a shrewd look. “Come on. You reckon I don’t know the famous gunslinger Kid Morgan when I see him?”

Chapter 3

For a long moment, The Kid didn’t respond. When he spoke, he kept his voice flat and noncommittal. “I didn’t say anything about being a gunslinger.”

“You didn’t have to,” Dunlap said. “A fella I know pointed you out to me in a saloon in Santa Fe a while back. Told me you were about as fast as that other fella named Morgan. What’s his name? Frank?”

Frank Morgan, the gunfighter known as The Drifter, was The Kid’s father, but not very many people knew that. The Kid wanted to keep it that way.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“No point in denyin’ it. Lord knows I’m not lookin’ to prod you into a fight, Kid. Even when I was young I was never fast on the draw. No, I want to hire you.”

“To do what?”

“I figure we can always use another scout.” Dunlap gave The Kid a sly look. “Especially one who’s supposed to be mighty slick at handlin’ a gun.”

Before The Kid could say anything else, Harwood spoke up.

“We don’t need another scout, Horace. We’re only a few days away from the valley.”

Dunlap nodded. “I know that. And I’d plumb hate for anything bad to happen when we are this close.”

“We haven’t run into any trouble so far.”

“I know. That’s what’s makin’ me nervous. I’ve guided plenty of wagon trains, and none of ’em have ever come this far without something bad happenin’.”

“Wait a minute,” The Kid said. “I’m not looking for a job.”

As a matter of fact, because of the far-flung financial interests he had inherited from his mother, The Kid was probably one of the richest men west of the Mississippi. Teams of trusted lawyers in Boston, Denver, and San Francisco handled those lucrative enterprises for him, and he could call on them for funds anytime he needed to.

In the life he was determined to lead now, all he really needed money for was supplies. He wasn’t going to explain any of that to Horace Dunlap.

“You’re headed the same direction we are,” Dunlap said. “At least, you looked to be when you rode up.”

“That’s true,” The Kid admitted. He had no real reason to be riding west, but that was the direction he’d been going.

“Don’t call it a job, then. Just ride along with us because we all happen to be goin’ the same way.”

The Kid didn’t reply immediately. He knew what was happening. He had encountered similar situations in the past. He set out to ride alone, to stay far from people and their problems so he could forget about his own, and yet he kept running smack-dab into trouble, like back there in that nameless settlement where he had almost wound up right in the middle of a shooting war that didn’t have anything to do with him.

He had managed to ride away from that. Every instinct in his body warned him he needed to ride away from the wagon train, too. It wouldn’t be hard to leave the slow, cumbersome vehicles behind him.

He was about to refuse Dunlap’s offer to travel with them when a swift, sudden rataplan of hoofbeats coming up from behind made all three men rein in. They turned in their saddles to look at the rider who was galloping toward them.

The Kid recognized the man as one of the outriders who had challenged him earlier. The man pounded up to them and hauled his horse to a stop.

“What is it, Dave?” Dunlap asked with a worried frown creasing his forehead.

“Riders comin’ up from behind, boss,” the man reported. “Looks like a pretty big bunch.”

Dunlap looked over at Harwood. “Ride along the wagons and tell everybody to stop for now, Scott. And warn ’em to get ready for trouble.”

Harwood nodded and heeled his horse into motion. Dunlap looked at The Kid. “Are you with us or not, Morgan?”

“I’ll wait until I see what’s going on,” The Kid answered. He told himself he was just indulging his curiosity once more.

Dunlap spurred his horse toward the rear of the wagon train. The Kid kept pace with him. As they rode past the wagons, he glanced over and saw the expressions on the faces of the immigrants, expressions that ranged from nervousness to outright fear. Dunlap had probably warned them to expect some trouble along the way, and the fact that it hadn’t happened so far might have lulled some of them into an easy confidence ... but not all. Most of the travelers were still waiting for something bad to happen.

Somebody with that attitude wasn’t going to be surprised very often, The Kid knew.

Because trouble was always waiting.

And it was kicking up a cloud of dust as it closed the distance to the wagon train. It was the second time that day The Kid had seen such a thing. The first time he’d been able to avoid the resulting ruckus.

Something told him he wouldn’t be as lucky this time.

They reached the last wagon in line and rode past it. The outriders had gathered there, forming a defensive line. The men pulled their rifles from their saddle boots and waited with an air of tense anticipation.

Judging by the size of the dust cloud, the group of riders coming toward the wagon train was several times larger than the one that had ridden up to the settlement earlier in the day.

The Kid said to Dunlap, “Shouldn’t you have pulled the wagons into a circle or something?” He had no direct experience with that tactic, but he had read about it in dime novels.

“No time. That takes longer than you might think.” The wagonmaster drew his Winchester, and worked the lever, throwing a shell into the chamber. “You ain’t gonna cut and run on us, are you, Kid?”

“If I was going to do something like that, I already would have,” The Kid snapped, not bothering to conceal the irritation he felt at such a question. He pulled his Winchester from its sheath and readied it.

The riders were starting to be visible. Dunlap suddenly stood up in his stirrups and squinted toward them, muttering, “Well, I’ll be damned!”

The Kid saw the same thing that had provoked the response in the wagonmaster. The riders were dressed in blue, and the late afternoon sunlight glinted off brass buttons and fittings. A guidon flapped in the wind as it flew from a staff in the hand of one of the riders.

The men riding toward the wagon train belonged to the United States Cavalry.

The sense of relief that went through Horace Dunlap was obvious. He said to Harwood, “Scott, pass the word again, and this time tell everybody to take it easy. We don’t have anything to worry about from those soldier boys.”

The Kid hoped that was the case. He felt a touch of foreboding, even as he watched the cavalry troopers approach. When Dunlap rode out to meet them, The Kid went along, too. Dunlap cast a slightly puzzled glance at him, but didn’t tell him to go back.

The officer leading the patrol held up a gauntleted hand, and the sergeant right behind him bellowed the order to halt. The Kid wasn’t that familiar with military insignia, but he thought the officer was a lieutenant.

That hunch was confirmed a moment later when the men faced each other and the officer introduced himself.

“Lieutenant Blake Nicholson, sir. Is one of you in charge of this wagon train?”

“I am. Horace Dunlap, wagonmaster. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

“For me, nothing, but for those people with you, the best thing you can do for them is to turn around and go back where you came from.”

That blunt, unexpected statement made Dunlap stiffen with surprise. “Turn around?” he repeated. “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant, but what in blue blazes are you talkin’ about?”

“We’ve received reports of a band of renegade Apaches in this area,” Nicholson said. “They came across the border from their stronghold in Mexico and raided some ranches north of here, burning and killing. They even attacked a small settlement, and now the thinking is they’re working their way back south, headed below the border once more.”

“The army sent you to look for these savages?”

“That’s right. Numerous patrols were sent out to search for and engage the hostiles.”

Dunlap took off his hat and ran the fingers of his other hand through his thinning gray hair. He looked over his shoulder at the wagons. Quietly, he said, “I just told those folks they didn’t have anything to worry about.”

“Well, it appears that you were wrong,” Nicholson said.

The Kid had taken an instant, instinctive dislike to the lieutenant, and Nicholson’s callous attitude as he spoke to Dunlap supported that feeling.

“That’s why I said you should turn around and go back where you came from,” Nicholson went on. “It’s reasonably certain the hostiles aren’t east of here, or else we would have encountered them already.”

The Kid wasn’t so sure about that. He hadn’t had any direct dealings with the Apaches, but he knew from listening to his father that the only time you saw hostile Indians was when they wanted you to see them.

The lieutenant continued, “You should be safe enough if you turn back. If you continue west, though, it’s quite possible you’ll run right into them.”

“We’re headed for Raincrow Valley,” Dunlap said.

“I’m not familiar with it,” Nicholson replied with a shake of his head.

“It’s only three days west of here.”

“A great deal can happen in three days, especially where savages are concerned. I’ve given you my best advice, Mr. Dunlap. Whether or not you take it is up to you.”

Dunlap clapped his hat back on and muttered under his breath. After a moment, he looked up. “You’re headed west, Lieutenant, and so are we. You and your men could escort us the rest of the way to Raincrow Valley.”

“Impossible,” Nicholson snapped without a second’s hesitation. “My orders are to carry out the search for the hostiles with all due speed and efficiency. Accompanying your wagon train would slow us down greatly and cause an intolerable delay in the carrying out of our mission.”

The lieutenant was a prig, The Kid thought, the sort of stuffed shirt who figured he knew best about everything. It was easy to recognize the type ... because there had been a time in The Kid’s life when he had been exactly the same way.

“It’s gonna be dark before too much longer,” Dunlap said. “We were fixin’ to make camp anyway. We’ll stop right here for the night, Lieutenant. And you can camp here, too, can’t you?”

“And provide protection for the night?” Nicholson thought about it for a second and then shrugged. “I suppose there wouldn’t be any harm in that. But tomorrow morning we’ll be riding out, Dunlap. Don’t waste your time trying to convince me otherwise.”

“Fine,” the wagonmaster said. “I’ll take what I can get, to be honest with you, Lieutenant. I’ll tell my people to circle up the wagons, and then you and your men are more than welcome to join us for supper.”

Nicholson gave him a curt nod, but didn’t actually respond to the invitation. He turned to his noncom. “Sergeant Brennan, we’ll be making camp here adjacent to the wagons.”

“Yes, sir.” The sergeant turned his horse toward the rest of the troop and started calling out the appropriate orders.

Nicholson turned away, too, obviously through with his conversation with Dunlap.

Dunlap watched him go and said quietly, “I don’t much cotton to that fella.”

“He’s an ass,” The Kid said.

Dunlap looked over at him.

“You know anything about Apaches, Kid?”

“Not much.”

“I’ve swapped lead with ’em more’n once. They’re crafty varmints, and mean as snakes. If there’s a bunch of ’em on the loose, lookin’ for blood, we could be in real trouble.” Dunlap paused. “A man ridin’ alone might be in even more danger, though.”

A faint smile touched The Kid’s mouth. “You’re still trying to get me to ride with you, aren’t you?”

“With what we know now about them renegades, seems like it’d be a good idea for both sides.”

Dunlap had a point, The Kid supposed. A lone rider would be too tempting a target for the Apache war party to pass up, and although the dun was a lot faster and stronger than it looked, The Kid doubted if he would be able to outrun the raiders.

On the other hand, the Apaches might think twice about attacking a large, well-armed wagon train. Although Nicholson had said they had raided a town north of there.

But The Kid didn’t have anywhere he had to be at any certain time, so it made sense to throw in with the immigrants for now. Maybe by the time they reached Raincrow Valley, the threat of the Apaches would be over.

“You win,” he told Dunlap. “I’ll ride with you.”

The wagonmaster grinned. “I’m glad to hear it. I feel a mite better now, knowin’ that we’ll have a top-notch fightin’ man like Kid Morgan around. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the folks.”

Chapter 4

The immigrants had already started maneuvering the wagons into a circle. One team was unhitched, then a wagon was backed up to it, the second team was unhitched, and so on.

The Kid watched with interest, never having seen anything like that before. Even though the oxen were docile, they weren’t easy to handle, especially when backing up. But the drivers didn’t seem to be having much trouble with them, telling The Kid they were experienced hands at that sort of thing. He didn’t know where the wagon train had started from, but obviously the pilgrims had been on the trail for a while.

The woman he had noticed earlier, the one with the long blond ponytail, struggled with the reins more than the others. As he and Dunlap rode by, The Kid said, “Maybe we should stop and give that lady a hand.”

Dunlap shook his head. “Mrs. Ritter will get it done. She don’t take kindly to folks feelin’ sorry for her.”

“I’m not feeling sorry for her. I just thought she looked like she could use some help.”

“Nope. Take my word for it—unless you’re of a mind to get your head bit off.”

So that was it, The Kid thought. Well, he had certainly been around temperamental women before, so he wasn’t afraid of this Mrs. Ritter, but there was no point in sticking his nose in where it wasn’t wanted.

Besides, if she needed help, that was Mr. Ritter’s job.

“You already met Scott,” Dunlap said as they rode up to a small, leathery-faced man in buckskins. “This is our other scout, Milo Farnum. Milo and me been workin’ these wagon trains for a long time.” Dunlap waved a hand at The Kid. “Milo, meet Kid Morgan.”

Farnum’s eyes narrowed in obvious recognition of the name. “The gunfighter?”

“I didn’t set out to get that reputation,” The Kid replied.

That was a bald-faced lie. He had created the character of Kid Morgan, basing the identity on various dime novel gunfighters he had read about, including his own father, in order to help him track down his wife’s murderers. He had wanted people to think Kid Morgan was a famous pistoleer.

Over time the lie had become the reality. The Kid really was fast on the draw and deadly accurate with a gun, and he had no compunctions about killing when it was necessary. Most of what those book scribblers put in their yarns was just made up, but such steely-eyed gunmen as they wrote about really did exist, and The Kid was one of them.

Farnum looked at Dunlap. “Havin’ gunslicks around usually leads to trouble, Horace.”

“In town, maybe, where there’s always some punk wantin’ to prove that he’s faster.” Dunlap waved a hand at their surroundings. “But out here in the middle of nowhere, I don’t reckon that’s likely to be a problem.”

The Kid hoped he was right about that.

The wagonmaster waved for The Kid to follow him. “You can put your horse in the circle with our mounts and the rest of the livestock.”

“I’m obliged for the hospitality,” The Kid told him. They dismounted and led their horses into the circle that the wagons were forming.

He picketed the dun and unsaddled him, then Dunlap took him around to the wagons, introducing him. The Kid knew he would never remember all the names of the immigrants, so he didn’t try. He just greeted them pleasantly and moved on.

Some of the pilgrims had heard of him, but he could tell that most of them had no idea of his reputation. That was fine with him. He hoped that while he was traveling with them, he wouldn’t have any reason to demonstrate why he’d gotten a name as a fast gun.

They came to the wagon where the blond Mrs. Ritter was unhitching her team of oxen. Dunlap nodded to her, “Ma’am, this is Mr. Morgan. He’s gonna be ridin’ with us the rest of the way to Raincrow Valley.”

She turned to face The Kid and gave him a brief smile, which transformed the normally stern set of her features. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, and it might have been a stretch even to call her pretty, but her face had a strength to it The Kid found undeniably compelling.

And when she smiled, she really was pretty, he thought, even if it only lasted for a second.

“I’m pleased to meet you, Mr. Morgan.” She glanced at the Colt on his hip. “I’ve heard the rumors about the Apaches. We all have. It’s good to have another man around who can use a gun.”

“How do you know I can?” The Kid asked.

A short laugh came from her lips. “You don’t look like the sort of man who’d wear a gun for show. Am I right?”

He shrugged.

“The Kid’s a fightin’ man, all right,” Dunlap said. “We’re better off havin’ him around.”

“Is it true what I’ve heard, that the officer in command of that troop refused to escort us to Raincrow Valley?”

“I’m afraid it is,” Dunlap said with a nod. “I reckon it didn’t take long for the gossip to make it all the way around the train.”

“Of course not. You know how it is. I think it’s disgraceful that the lieutenant refused. Doesn’t the cavalry have a responsibility to protect civilians?”

“I reckon so, ma’am, but Lieutenant Nicholson’s got his orders, and they come first.”

“My husband knew that orders sometimes have to be adjusted to take circumstances into account.”

“Your husband was in the army, ma’am?” The Kid asked.

She nodded. “He was a captain, so he knew about the responsibilities of command.”

“Is he ... retired?”

“Dead,” she said.

The Kid had a hunch that would be her answer, judging by the way she spoke about her husband. He wasn’t sure why he pushed her into admitting that she was a widow, and he was a little sorry that he had.

“Well, we best be movin’ on,” Dunlap said into the brief, awkward silence that followed. “I want to introduce The Kid to the rest of the folks.”

“Kid Morgan, is that it?” Mrs. Ritter mused.

“That’s right,” he told her.

She smiled and gave a tiny shake of her head, as if she found the name silly. That irritated The Kid, for no specific reason he could state.

When he and Dunlap had moved on out of earshot, he asked the wagonmaster, “What’s her given name?”

“Jessica, I believe.”

“Pretty name.”

“You best call her Mrs. Ritter, at least for now.”

“What do you mean by that?” The Kid asked.

“She’s spoke for. When we get to Raincrow Valley, her and Scott Harwood are gettin’ hitched.”

By the time darkness settled down, the immigrants had built several large cooking fires, and stew simmered in big iron pots, giving off savory aromas. The smell of baking bread came from dutch ovens, and coffee was on the boil. All of it blended together and made The Kid realize how hungry he was.

Dunlap had invited the cavalry troopers to join them for supper, but Lt. Nicholson kept the soldiers in their own bivouac, preparing their own meal. They would probably be eating hardtack and jerky.

If he was one of them, he woudn’t be happy about that, The Kid thought. Not with those mouth-watering smells drifting over the plains.

The food wasn’t the only attraction of the wagon train camp. Young women were there, too, and The Kid was sure those troopers heard their laughter and were thinking about long hair, smooth skin, and red lips.

It was a recipe for trouble, or at the very least, complications.

A number of families went in together on the meal, contributing ingredients for the stew as the women and girls shared the cooking duties. The Kid found himself looking for Jessica Ritter. He spotted her with several other women, taking turns stirring the pot where their communal stew simmered, while nearby Scott Harwood stood with some of the other men as they talked and smoked pipes.

It was quite a domestic scene, The Kid thought. He didn’t long to share it, though. That part of his life was over.

He was about to turn away when Harwood noticed him and waved him over. The Kid didn’t want to be impolite for no good reason, so he joined the men.

“We’ve been talking about the Apaches,” Harwood said. “Have you ever fought them, Morgan?”

The Kid shook his head. “No, not really. A skirmish a few years ago when I was working on a railroad, but it didn’t amount to much.”

He didn’t mention that his company had been building that railroad, nor that it was during that adventure he had met the woman who later became his wife. Despite the time that had passed, those memories were still too painful to dwell on.

“Well, I’ve tangled with them before,” Harwood said. “Over in Arizona with General Crook.”

“You were in the army?”

“No. Civilian scout with Al Sieber.”

“Did you happen to serve with Captain Ritter?” The Kid asked, playing a hunch.

“I did,” Harwood replied stiffly. “He was a fine officer.”

The Kid nodded, thinking, And did you have your eye on the captain’s lady even then ?

One of the other men pointed his pipe stem at The Kid. “Word is that you’re some sort of gunman.”

“The sort who’s still alive,” The Kid said. “That means I don’t go around looking for trouble.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” the immigrant said quickly. He was a chunky, middle-aged man who looked like he had spent the past twenty years or so behind a plow. “I’m just curious, that’s all. How many men have you killed?”

The Kid felt like turning and walking off. But he kept a tight rein on his temper and replied honestly, “I couldn’t tell you. I don’t carve notches in my gun butt ... and I don’t kill anybody who doesn’t need killing.”

“Who decides that?” Harwood asked. “You?”

“I’d say the other fella makes that decision,” The Kid drawled, “when he pulls a gun and tries to kill me.”

None of the men could dispute that.

Before the discussion could continue, one of the women gathered around the stew pot called, “Supper’s ready!”

Harwood inclined his head toward the pot and said to The Kid with only a slight show of reluctance, “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks. I will.”

One of the women handed him a bowl of stew, a biscuit, and a cup of coffee. He had to balance the food as he walked over to a wagon. Having both hands occupied like that bothered him. He had gotten in the habit of keeping his right hand free, so it could reach for a gun at a second’s notice.

He sat on the lowered tailgate of the wagon and started eating. The stew was good, much better than anything he could have thrown together in a lonely trail camp. The Arbuckle’s was strong and black, just the way he liked it, and the biscuit was still warm enough to steam a little when he tore it open and used a chunk to sop up some of the savory juice from the stew.

“You look like you’re enjoying that.”

He glanced up and saw Jessica Ritter standing in front of him. She wasn’t smiling. Evidently that was reserved for rare occasions.

“The food’s very good,” The Kid said with a nod. “Thank you.”

“If there’s any trouble, you’ll earn your meals. We’ll all pitch in to fight.”

“You’re a good shot?” he asked.

“With a rifle, yes. My late husband taught me to shoot. I never quite picked up the knack of using a handgun, though.”

“Most women aren’t good with a handgun,” The Kid said, thinking of an exception to that sweeping statement: Lace McCall, the redheaded bounty hunter who had crossed his path months earlier. Lace was good with rifle, revolver, knife ... whatever it took for her to get the job done.

“Most women aren’t that good with a rifle, either,” Mrs. Ritter said. “I can make a Winchester sing and dance.”

The Kid couldn’t stop himself from laughing. “Nothing wrong with your confidence.”

“No, there’s not.”

He saw Scott Harwood watching them and wondered why Mrs. Ritter had come over to talk to him in the first place. She wasn’t flirting with him. From what he had seen of her so far, he wasn’t sure she had a flirtatious bone in her body.

Maybe she was using him to make Harwood jealous. The Kid hoped that wasn’t the case. If he was going to be traveling with the wagon train the rest of the way to Raincrow Valley, he didn’t want to have to worry about a jealous fiancé.

“I just wanted to make sure the food was all right.” She gave The Kid a nod. “Good evening, Mr. Morgan. Or do you prefer Kid?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Then I’ll call you Mr. Morgan.”

She turned back toward the big campfire, but she had taken only a couple of steps when she stopped abruptly and lifted her head.

The Kid knew what she had heard. Everybody in camp could hear the angry shouts coming from the other side of the circled wagons.

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.”

Chapter 6

The rest of the night passed quietly. The Apaches didn’t attack, and there was no more trouble between the soldiers and the members of the wagon train. The Kid had spread his bedroll underneath one of the wagons, and slept soundly.

When he got up in the morning and looked toward the cavalry camp, he saw the troopers were already getting ready to move out.

One of the women who had provided supper for him the night before came over to him bearing a steaming cup of coffee. The Kid took it with a grateful grin. “Thanks, ma’am.”

“I’ll bring you some flapjacks and bacon in a minute if that’s all right, Mr. Morgan,” she said.

“That’s more than all right,” he assured her. “It sounds wonderful.”

He looked around and didn’t see Jessica Ritter, but even though it occurred to him, he didn’t think he ought to ask after her. Things between them had been rather tense ever since they’d met. Jessica didn’t seem to want any attention from him, yet sometimes went out of her way to talk to him.

While The Kid sat on a wagon tongue and drank his coffee, Horace Dunlap came over to him and nodded good morning. The wagonmaster’s face was bruised and swollen from the fight with Sgt. Brennan, and he moved like he was sore all over.

With a sheepish grin, he confirmed it. “Reckon I’m gettin’ a mite too old for bare-knuckles brawlin’. I just hope that durned sergeant has half as many aches and pains as I do this mornin’.”

“I think there’s a good chance of that,” The Kid said. “It looked to me like you got in some pretty good licks.”

Dunlap chuckled and nodded. “Yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He waved a hand toward the cavalry camp. “I guess you saw them soldier boys gettin’ ready to ride.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m gonna go over there and ask that lieutenant one more time if he’ll go with us to Raincrow Valley. I don’t expect it’ll do any good, but I got to try. You want to come with me, Kid?”

“I don’t see what good having me along will do.” The Kid frowned.

“You’re a famous hombre. Lieutenant Nicholson might come closer to listenin’ to you.”

“I think you’re way wrong there, but I’ll go with you. For moral support, if nothing else.”

The Kid told the woman at the campfire that he would be back in a few minutes for his flapjacks and bacon, then, carrying the coffee cup, he walked over to the cavalry camp with Dunlap.

A couple of troopers got in their way, carbines slanted across their chests. “Hold it right there, sir,” one said to Dunlap. “Please state your business.”

“I want to talk to your lieutenant,” Dunlap said.

“I’ll see if he’s available,” the soldier said.

Dunlap scowled and pointed at Nicholson, who stood about ten feet away watching some of the men saddle their horses. “He’s standin’ right there.” The wagonmaster sounded like a man trying not to reveal his irritation.

“I’ll see if he’s available,” the trooper repeated. He turned on a heel and walked over to Nicholson, where he saluted, then spoke to the officer in a low voice.

The Kid had never been in the army, so he was no expert on military discipline. It seemed to him Nicholson was being a little too strict, especially considering they were out in the middle of nowhere.

But maybe that was what it took to maintain order among his men, The Kid mused. The troopers hadn’t seemed too well-disciplined the night before when they’d been brawling with the immigrants.

Nicholson nodded to the soldier who’d been talking to him. The trooper came back over to The Kid and Dunlap. “You can speak to the lieutenant now.”

“Much obliged,” Dunlap said in a dry tone, making it clear how ridiculous he thought the whole thing was. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and walked over to Nicholson.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Dunlap?” the lieutenant asked.

“Well, you can go with us to Raincrow Valley and make sure the Apaches don’t scalp all those good folks in the wagon train.”

Nicholson shook his head. “I’ve already told you I can’t do that.”

“Just how big is that war party you’re chasin’, anyway?”

“It’s been reported to have as many as a hundred warriors in it.”

“Good Lord!” Dunlap exclaimed. “How many men have you got in your patrol?”

“Thirty,” Nicholson answered without hesitation.

“Then if you do find them Indians, you’ll be outnumbered more than three to one.”

“That’s true,” the lieutenant admitted. “But I’m counting on the fact that a well-trained and well-equipped member of the United States Cavalry is the fighting equivalent of several dirty, illiterate savages.”

It was all The Kid could do not to ask Nicholson just how big a damned fool he really was. Instead he asked, “What sort of rifles do your men carry, Lieutenant?”

“What?” Nicholson appeared to be taken by surprise by the question. “They’re Springfields, of course.”

“Single shot weapons?”

“Of course.”

“Most of the Apaches have Winchester repeaters that they’ve either stolen in raids or traded for with white and Mexican gunrunners.” The Kid had been told as much by Frank Morgan. “Those rifles can fire off fifteen rounds in the same time it would take your men to get off three or four shots, reloading between each round. But you think one of your men is really a match for three or four of them?”

“The hostiles are undisciplined—”

“Why don’t you ask my head scout, Scott Harwood about that? Scott served with General Crook over in Arizona while Crook was tryin’ to chase down Cochise and Geronimo. He can tell you just how undisciplined those Apaches are.”

Nicholson’s face flushed with anger. “It doesn’t matter what you say,” he snapped. “I know my men, and I have my orders, which are to locate and engage the hostiles. I won’t be distracted from that mission by a bunch of farmers.”

Dunlap looked mad enough to start swinging again. The Kid put a warning hand on his shoulder.

“Lieutenant, I think you’re making a mistake,” The Kid said. “I believe if your superiors were here, they would see how important it is to get this wagon train safely to Raincrow Valley.”

Nicholson glared at him. “From what I understand, you’re nothing but a wandering gunman, Morgan. It’s presumptuous of you to claim you know more about what my superiors would want than I do. I’ll say it one last time. I have my orders. And we’re moving out with all due speed.”

Nicholson turned and called to his noncom. “Sergeant Brennan, tell the men to mount up!”

“Yes, sir!” Brennan replied. He had been standing not too far away, glaring at Dunlap and The Kid. Now he began stalking around the camp, getting the troopers on their horses and ready to ride.

Nicholson nodded to the two civilians. “You’re dismissed.”

The lieutenant’s contemptuous tone made Dunlap’s hands clench into fists.

“Come on,” The Kid told the older man. “We’re wasting our time here.”

“Yeah, I reckon it was a waste of time tryin’ to talk sense into somebody with his head so far up his rear end that he can’t hear nothin’.”

The Kid chuckled at the angry look that flashed across Nicholson’s face as the lieutenant glanced back. Nicholson’s spine was stiff and the back of his neck turned a deep red as he walked away.

When The Kid and Dunlap returned to the wagon train, Scott Harwood and Milo Farnum were waiting for them.

“Talking to the lieutenant didn’t do any good, did it?” Harwood asked.

“Nope,” Dunlap replied. “I didn’t figure it would, but I had to try.” He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Oh, well, we made it this far without any real trouble. Maybe we can make it a mite farther.”

“We’ll both be on the scout all day,” Farnum said. “If there’s any Injuns waitin’ for us, Horace, Scott and me will find ’em.”

Dunlap nodded, but The Kid saw the doubt in the wagonmaster’s eyes. The Apaches were so good at hiding, sometimes when they attacked it seemed like they came up from the very ground itself, like worms rising from the earth after a hard rain.

Some of the immigrants were hitching up their teams and getting ready to roll the wagons. All The Kid had to do was saddle his dun, so he took the time to enjoy the breakfast the woman had put aside for him.

“What’s your name, ma’am?” he asked.

“I’m Mrs. Price. Violet Price.” She was about forty, a pleasant-looking woman with short brown hair.

The Kid still hadn’t seen Jessica that morning. But as he approached her wagon a few minutes later, she emerged from the canvas-covered bed and dropped to the ground.

“Good morning,” he said. “Do you need a hand getting your team hitched?”

Jessica didn’t hesitate. She shook her head. “No, I’ve been hitching them up every morning for weeks. I think I can manage.”

“I’m sure you can. Just thought it might be easier with a little help.”

“How many teams of oxen have you handled, Mr. Morgan?”

“Well ... none, really,” The Kid admitted.

“That’s what I thought. If you really want to help, you can stay out of my way.”

“Seems to me like your fiancé might be over here giving you a hand.”

“Scott has more important things to do,” Jessica snapped. “Like making sure there aren’t any Apaches waiting for us around the next bend in the trail.”

The Kid supposed that was true. He had seen Harwood ride out a few minutes earlier, along with Milo Farnum.

“It’s a dangerous job, too,” Jessica went on. “Out there in front of the wagons by himself, he’s liable to be attacked if he runs into any savages.”

That was true, as well.

“Maybe I should do some scouting myself,” The Kid suggested. “Three pairs of eyes have to be better than two.”

“That’s up to you. Do whatever you want.”

He left her getting the oxen in their traces and sought out Horace Dunlap again.

“I was thinking I’d go out with Harwood and Farnum,” he told the wagonmaster.

Dunlap frowned. “Scott and Milo already left. They were gonna split up and cover both sides of the trail.”

“I could ride directly in front of the wagons, then.”

“I didn’t think you knew how to get to Raincrow Valley. You’d never heard of the place.”

“You’re headed west, and you said the valley was still three days from here, so you won’t reach it today. I think I can handle riding west.”

Dunlap shrugged his brawny shoulders. “That’s fine with me, if that’s what you want to do, Kid. You’ll be able to see our dust behind you. Don’t get more than a mile or so ahead of us, though, in case you run into trouble and have to light a shuck back here.”

The Kid nodded his agreement and went to get his horse. By the time he saddled the dun and led him back to the front of the wagon train, all the teams were in their traces and the wagons were ready to roll.

“I’ll see you later,” he told Dunlap.

“Come back in when it gets to be the middle of the day,” Dunlap said. “We’ll stop and eat.”

“Sounds good.” The Kid glanced back along the line of canvas-covered vehicles. Jessica’s wagon was the ninth in line. She had donned her sunbonnet and climbed to the high seat on the front of the wagon to grip the reins in her hands. The Kid thought she gave him a slight nod, but he couldn’t be sure.

He lifted a hand and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat anyway, then turned and heeled the dun into motion. The horse carried him in an easy lope across the arid plains, and the wagons soon dwindled in the distance behind him.

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.”

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.

Chapter 9

The three scouts spread out to search the area on the other side of the pass. According to the prearranged plan, Dunlap had stopped the wagons before they entered the pass, and the vehicles wouldn’t proceed until he got the all clear from Harwood, Farnum, and The Kid.

As he rode along the bank of a small creek, The Kid scared up a small herd of deer, but that was the only life he saw other than a few birds in the scrub pines. He rendezvoused with Harwood and Farnum at the mouth of the pass and reported the lack of any threat that he found.

“Same here,” Farnum said.

Harwood nodded. “The valley appears to be empty. I’ll let Horace know. If you two want to stay over here and look around a little more, that’s fine.”

Harwood headed back through the pass. The Kid and Farnum stayed together as they rode deeper into the valley.

“I’m surprised nobody has settled this place before now,” The Kid commented.

“Well, it’s a long way from anywhere,” Farnum said, “and you got to travel through some pretty rugged country to get to it. You saw that for yourself the past few days. There’s no railroad in here and ain’t likely to ever be one. The soil’s good enough for farmin’, and there’s enough graze for a small herd of cattle, but nobody’s gonna get rich by settlin’ here. But if you’re lookin’ for a nice place to live, where a fella who’s willin’ to work hard can get by, Raincrow Valley fits the bill.” The scout gave The Kid a shrewd look. “How about you, Morgan? You lookin’ to settle down?”

The Kid shook his head. “Not hardly.”

A bark of laughter came from Farnum. “Reckon I knew that. You ain’t the type to ever let grass grow under your feet, are you?”

“I might have been ... at one time.”

“I won’t even ask you what happened to change things. Ain’t none of my business. I’m glad you came with us this far, even though it turned out we didn’t need your gun after all.”

They heard men calling to their teams and looked back to see the wagons emerging from the pass and starting the descent into the valley. The trail was an easy one. It was almost like the valley had been put here specifically for those immigrants.

Dunlap and Harwood led the wagons to a broad, level field next to one of the streams. The settlers would need a place to camp for a while, until they’d had a chance to explore the valley and decide where they wanted to build their cabins and ranch houses.

Later on, the camp might even serve as the site of a small community that was likely to grow up to serve the needs of the settlers. When word got around, it was possible more immigrants might arrive in Raincrow Valley.

For now, though, the most important thing was getting situated for the night. Dunlap had the drivers pull the wagons into the usual circle, for defensive purposes and also to shelter the livestock. As the shadows of dusk began to gather, cooking fires sprang up. The trees that grew along the creek provided fuel.

The Kid unsaddled his dun and picketed the horse with the other saddle mounts. He had been pushing the horse pretty hard the past few days, he thought. Although he had no intention of settling here, it might be a good idea to stay for a few days and allow the dun to rest.

That would also give him a chance to make sure the immigrants were settling in all right.

Dunlap caught The Kid’s eye and waved him over. “We’re still gonna post guards tonight. I figure those Apaches are back across the border by now. They stopped long enough to attack that freight wagon, but with the cavalry patrollin’, they’re gonna want to get back to their stronghold in Mexico.”

“You’re probably right,” The Kid said. “I agree that it’s a good idea to stay alert, though.”

“You’re gonna be here with us?”

The Kid nodded. “For a day or two. I don’t know for sure yet when I’m riding out.”

Dunlap clapped a hand on his shoulder. “You know you’re welcome to stay as long as you want. We’re much obliged to you for your help.”

“I didn’t do anything but ride along with you,” The Kid pointed out.

“Maybe so, but it eased my mind some knowin’ that we had a fella as handy with a gun as you are along with us.”

The Kid assured Dunlap that he’d be glad to take a turn standing guard again, then went in search of some supper. For some reason, his footsteps led him toward Jessica Ritter’s wagon.

He expected to find Harwood there, but he didn’t see the scout. Nor was Jessica visible outside the wagon.

The thought crossed The Kid’s mind that Jessica and Harwood might be inside the wagon. They were engaged to be married, after all.

He was about to back off and go in search of Violet Price, figuring she would be happy to share her family’s supper with him, when he heard a loud thud inside the wagon, followed by a yelp of pain.

That didn’t sound good, so The Kid stepped to the back of the wagon and called, “Everybody all right in there?”

Jessica pushed aside one of the canvas flaps that hung over the vehicle’s rear opening and looked out at him with an irritated expression on her face. The irritation wasn’t actually directed at him, though.

“I dropped my blasted dutch oven,” she said.

“Are you all right?” The Kid asked. “One of those things can break a toe.”

“I’m fine. It didn’t land on my foot. But when I jumped back so it wouldn’t, I banged my head on one of the iron ribs that hold up the canvas cover.”

The Kid nodded in understanding of what had happened. A bump on the head probably wasn’t too serious.

“Where’s Harwood?” he asked.

“Scott said he was going to scout around a little more before it gets dark,” Jessica told him.

“That’s probably a good idea. He’s devoted to his job.”

“Yes,” she said with an edge in her voice. “Very devoted.”

The Kid wasn’t sure what that meant, but he didn’t suppose it was any of his business.

“Let me give you a hand with that oven,” he offered.

For a second Jessica looked like she was going to refuse, but then she nodded her head. “All right. Thanks.”

The Kid lowered the tailgate, stepped up on it, and climbed in to the wagon. With the sun already down, it was pretty dim inside, under the arching canvas cover. He saw the dutch oven and bent to pick it up.

Jessica reached for it at the same time. “I said you could help, I didn’t say you had to pick it up by yourself.”

Their hands brushed together and stopped short of the dutch oven, with skin pressed to skin. The Kid expected Jessica to pull her hand away, but she didn’t.

“I can get it—” he began.

She turned, put her hand on the back of his neck to hold him still as she came into his arms and pressed her mouth to his.

The kiss was unexpected, but The Kid didn’t pull away. Since his wife’s death, he hadn’t sought out any romantic relationships, but a few of them had come his way and he hadn’t turned them down. Not all of them, anyway. He still enjoyed the feel of a woman in his arms and the taste of her lips.

But this was just asking for trouble he didn’t need, and The Kid knew it. He’d instinctively put his arms around Jessica, but moved his hands to her shoulders and tried to ease her away from him.

She clung to him with obvious need and desperation. When he finally succeeded in breaking the kiss, she whispered urgently, “Damn you, Morgan. Why did you have to come riding along and get me all mixed up like this?”

“If you’re mixed up, it’s because of you, not me,” he told her. “You’d be better off thinking about your fiancé—”

“Stop it! I don’t want to think about him. He’s not thinking about me right now, I can promise you that. The only thing he’s thinking about is finding some Apaches to kill!”

“That sounds to me like a good way of staying alive,” The Kid said. “I’m sorry if there’s trouble between the two of you, but I’m sure as hell not the solution.”

A shudder went through her. She was close enough to him that he could feel it.

“I’m not going to marry him. I decided that even before you came along, Kid. I only agreed because I ... I’d known him for so long, since before my husband died. I guess I was scared to face things alone.”

In the time he had known her, Jessica hadn’t acted like much of anything scared her. But there was no way of knowing what went on inside a person’s heart and mind, where their true self was found.

“You’ll have to work that out without my help.” He started to turn away.

She clutched at him again. “Kid, please—”

From the wagon’s tailgate, Scott Harwood roared a curse and flung himself toward them. “Let go of her, you son of a bitch!” He tackled The Kid and knocked him away from Jessica. Both men crashed to the floor of the wagon. Harwood started throwing wild punches in the gloom.

“Scott, stop it!” Jessica shouted. The collision’s impact had driven her to her knees nearby. “Stop it!”

Harwood ignored her and kept flailing away at The Kid.

Biting back angry curses of his own, The Kid blocked as many of the punches as he could, but some of them got through and landed on his chin and jaw, jerking his head back and forth, stunning him. His arms sagged.

With a shake of his head, he threw off the effects of the punches and reached up to grab the front of Harwood’s shirt. A sudden heave sent Harwood crashing into the wagon’s sideboards. The Kid rolled away from him and came up on a knee.

“Blast it, settle down!” The Kid said as he held out a hand toward Harwood, as if to ward off the scout’s attack.

It didn’t do any good. Harwood scrambled up and launched himself at The Kid again. As they crashed together, they rolled toward the rear of the wagon, through the canvas flaps, and right off the lowered tailgate.

The fall to the ground was a good four feet, and the awkward landing broke them apart. People had heard the shouting from Jessica’s wagon and were hurrying toward it to see what was wrong. Surprised exclamations went up as the two battling men emerged.

The Kid wasn’t one to run from a fight, but as he got to his feet he backed off. It was a pointless struggle that shouldn’t have happened in the first place. He was just thankful that so far Harwood had only used his fists. If the scout had reached for his gun, that would have been real trouble.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Harwood,” The Kid said as he tried to talk some sense into the furious man. “There’s nothing between Mrs. Ritter and me.”

Harwood had reached his feet, too, his chest heaving and his eyes blazing. His fists were clenched at his sides. “You’re a damned liar! I saw the two of you together. You either attacked her, or you’re trying to steal her away from me!”

“Scott, stop it,” Jessica said again from the rear of the wagon. “Mr. Morgan didn’t do anything. It was me, all me!”

Harwood lifted his head, and an even bleaker look settled over his face. “What are you saying, Jess?”

She swallowed hard. “You heard me. I’m sorry, Scott, but I ... I can’t marry you.”

Silence fell over the people who had crowded around Jessica’s wagon as Harwood stared at her uncomprehendingly. Finally, a grim realization settled over his face. “I was right,” he said quietly. He turned his head to look at The Kid. “You did this.”

And with that, he twisted his body and grabbed for the gun on his hip.

Chapter 10

Instinct sent The Kid’s hand flashing toward his own Colt. Harwood might be a fine scout, but he was no fast gun. The Kid could have drawn and fired a couple of times before Harwood cleared leather.

But that didn’t happen. Horace Dunlap moved up fast behind Harwood, swiftly thudding a revolver against the back of his head. Harwood’s hand opened, releasing his gun as he toppled forward.

The Kid’s gun was leveled, but his finger wasn’t on the trigger. Dunlap said, “You can pouch that iron now, Kid. I’m much obliged to you for not killin’ him.”

“I wasn’t going to kill him, but I might’ve had to break his arm with a bullet,” The Kid said. “I’m glad I didn’t.” He slid his Colt back into leather as he looked down at Harwood. The scout was out cold.

Milo Farnum came up and scooped Harwood’s gun from the ground. “I’ll hang on to this for a while. Just to make sure everybody’s cooled off.”

“That’s a good idea, Milo.” Dunlap turned to face the crowd and raised his voice as he went on. “You folks go on about your business. All the excitement’s over.”

A grim-faced Jessica climbed down from the wagon and went over to kneel beside the unconscious Harwood. She put a hand on his head where Dunlap had hit him.

“He’ll be all right,” the wagonmaster said. “I didn’t wallop him that hard. Reckon he’ll have a headache when he wakes up, but that’s all.”

She shook her head and murmured, “No, that’s not all. He’ll have a broken heart, too.”

“Ain’t nothin’ I can do about that, ma’am.”

“No, it’s too late. There’s nothing anybody can do.”

The Kid turned away and walked toward his horse, leaving Jessica kneeling beside Harwood. Dunlap and Farnum followed him.

When they reached the dun, the wagonmaster said, “Maybe it ain’t none of my business, but if you want to tell me what just happened, Kid, I’m listenin’.”

“And if I don’t want to tell you?” The Kid asked.

“Then I’d be obliged if you did anyway,” Dunlap said, his voice hardening. “I signed on to bring these folks out here. They’re my responsibility.”

The Kid shook his head. “Not anymore they’re not. They’re here. This is Raincrow Valley. You did your job.”

Dunlap rubbed his jaw for a second and shrugged. “Reckon you’re right about that ... but I still feel like I got a duty to look after ’em. There’s been some talk about, well, about makin’ me the mayor of these parts, if you want to call it that. There’s no town yet, but maybe there will be, one of these days.”

“And Scott’s our friend,” Farnum added. “We want to know what happened to start this.”

“Fine,” The Kid said. “Mrs. Ritter decided she doesn’t want to marry him anymore. He blamed me for that.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he saw her kissing me.”

Dunlap and Farnum glanced at each other, then both gave him hard looks.

“You say she was kissin’ you?” Dunlap asked.

“That’s the way it was,” The Kid replied curtly.

Dunlap sighed and nodded. “I suppose I can believe that. I ain’t known Mrs. Ritter all that long, but she strikes me as a gal who usually does just about whatever she wants to.”

Farnum regarded The Kid suspiciously. “You didn’t do anything to put the idea in her head?”

“No, I didn’t,” The Kid said. “And you can believe me or not. I really don’t give a damn.”

“I reckon I believe you,” Dunlap said with another sigh. “But no matter who’s to blame for it, this here’s a mess, and we got to do somethin’ about it.”

“I intend to.” The Kid picked up his saddle blanket and threw it over the dun’s back, smoothing the coarse fabric.

“Hold on there,” Dunlap exclaimed. “What’re you doin’?”

“Getting ready to ride out.” The Kid thought it was obvious what he was doing. He shouldn’t have to explain it.

“Tonight?”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

Dunlap snatched his hat off and pawed at his thinning hair in his habitual gesture when he was upset about something. “There ain’t no need to do that. Just steer clear of Scott and Mrs. Ritter. Maybe they’ll work things out between ’em and maybe they won’t, but we’ll give ’em a chance to.”

“This isn’t that big a camp,” The Kid said as he lifted his saddle and placed it on the dun’s back. “There’s too much of a chance I’d run into one or the other of them, and if that happens, Harwood’s liable to try gunning me again. I told you, I don’t want to hurt him.”

“But you can’t travel at night,” Dunlap protested.

“I don’t see why not.” The Kid fastened the saddle cinches. “This is a big valley. I can make camp on my own a few miles away, where there’s no chance of more trouble with Harwood. I was going to be riding on in a day or two, anyway. I’ll find somewhere else, maybe lay up for a week or two to let my horse rest. What’s north of this valley, anyway?”

“More mountains,” Dunlap replied. “Get over them and there’s a basin with some ranches and a little settlement called San Blanco.”

The Kid nodded.

“That’s where I’ll head, then.”

“Dadgum it!” Dunlap slapped his hat back on his head. “At least let me round up some supplies for you. We got plenty of food. We can spare enough to get you to that town. Shoot, that’s the least we can do for you.”

The Kid wasn’t sure why everybody felt so grateful to him when he hadn’t really done anything to help these pilgrims. But some extra provisions would make his journey easier, so he nodded. “All right. Thanks.”

“Come on, Milo. We’ll get those supplies.”

Farnum shook his head. “You can handle that,” he told Dunlap. “I’m gonna stay here, just to make sure there’s no more trouble.”

“There won’t be,” The Kid said.

“You can’t be sure about that. Depends on how soon Scott wakes up.”

The Kid supposed Farnum had a point. “Suit yourself.”

After Dunlap had hurried off, Farnum went on, “Scott ain’t a bad hombre, you know.”

“I never said he was.”

“He’s a pretty close-mouthed cuss most of the time, and he ain’t what you’d call friendly to most folks. But he really cares about that woman. Mrs. Ritter.”

“I don’t doubt it,” The Kid said. “Any problems they have are between them, though. I don’t have anything to do with it.”

“I got a hunch you’re right.” Farnum nodded. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you when she thinks nobody’s watchin’. I didn’t know her when her husband was over there in Arizona with Crook, but Scott’s told me enough I figure she was really devoted to him. Must’ve hit her mighty hard when he died. Scott said he figured she’d never want anything to do with another man after that, but he got it in his head he was gonna see if she’d warm up to him anyway. Well, she did, after so long a time. But now maybe she figures she made a mistake.”

That was the longest speech The Kid had heard Farnum make.

“I hope they work it out. I don’t wish trouble on anybody.”

“That’s sort of an odd way for a gunfighter to feel, ain’t it?”

“Not when that gunfighter just wants to be left alone.”

Dunlap walked up a moment later carrying a canvas sack that bulged with food and supplies.

“There you go, Kid,” he said as he held it out. “With our thanks.”

“I’m the one who ought to be thanking you.” The Kid took the sack and tied it to his saddle. Then he extended his hand to Dunlap. “Good luck to you.”

The wagonmaster gripped his hand hard. “The same to you, Kid.”

The Kid hesitated, then asked, “Did you happen to see whether Harwood regained consciousness yet?”

Dunlap nodded. “Yeah, he was sittin’ and talkin’ with Mrs. Ritter. I didn’t disturb ’em, and nobody else is, either.”

“Good. I hope it all works out.”

The Kid shook hands with Farnum as well, then swung up into the saddle. “Enjoy your lives here in Raincrow Valley.” He touched his fingers to the brim of his hat in a salute and turned the dun to ride out of the circle of wagons.

Full night had fallen, but once The Kid was away from the campfires and his eyes had adjusted, the millions of stars in the ebony sky overhead provided enough light for him to see where he was going. He followed the creek, figuring that would be the easiest route to the northern part of the valley where he intended to spend the night.

It likely would take him a few days to get out of the valley and cross that mountain range Dunlap had mentioned. He and the dun would be worn out by the time they reached the basin on the other side. He was already looking forward to finding the settlement and taking it easy for a few days.

A half moon rose in the east and scattered more silvery light across the valley. The creek’s meandering course quickly took The Kid out of sight of the wagon train camp, and when he looked back, he could no longer see the fires.

He rode until he thought he was four or five miles north of the camp. When he came upon a pine-dotted knoll overlooking the creek, he decided it would make a decent place to stop for the night. He rode up the slope and found that the top of the knoll was fairly level. It would do to spread his bedroll, and there was enough grass to keep the dun happy.

The Kid dismounted, unsaddled, and picketed the horse, then delved into the bag of supplies Dunlap had given him. He found some biscuits that felt fresh and a hunk of salt pork. Starting a fire and brewing some coffee seemed like too much trouble. He would make a cold camp for the night, then have coffee in the morning. He sat on a fallen pine to eat, washing down the food with water from his canteen.

When he was finished with his meal, he piled up some pine boughs, spread his blankets on top of them, took off his boots, and stretched out with his gunbelt coiled on the ground beside him. His head rested on his saddle.

It would be chilly before morning, he thought as he looked up at the stars. In fact, most of the day’s warmth had already faded away, and those stars with their silvery glitter had a distinctly cold look about them.

That was because the stars didn’t give a damn, The Kid mused. They sat up there looking down on the earth, and the petty trials and tribulations of the puny humans who lived here were utterly meaningless to them.

It didn’t pay to think too much about things like that, The Kid told himself. If a man realized how tiny and insignificant he was in the universe’s grand scheme of things, he might be too overwhelmed to go on.

With that thought in his head, he rolled onto his side and closed his eyes to go to sleep.

He hadn’t been in that position for more than a second or two when he heard gunfire in the distance.

The Kid stiffened, then flung his bedroll aside and reached for the revolver lying next to him. With the Colt in his hand, he got to his feet and walked over to the edge of the knoll. His pulse hammered in his head as he stared to the south, toward the wagon camp, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of the shots that drifted through the night air.

The gunfire wasn’t the only thing that alarmed him. As he looked in that direction, he saw an orange glow climbing into the sky, faint at first, then growing stronger with every passing second. Something was burning down there, and the flames were big enough to light up the heavens.

The Kid turned sharply and started toward his horse. He might not be able to get there in time to help the immigrants, but he had to try.

He had taken only a step when a dark shape suddenly flung itself out of the shadows under the pines and lunged at him as a savage war cry split the air.

Chapter 11

The Apache never had a chance. The Kid’s gun was already in his hand, and it roared twice in less than a heartbeat, slamming a pair of slugs into the attacker’s chest.

The bullets stopped the Apache like running into a wall. He crumpled, probably dead when he hit the ground.

He wasn’t alone, though. A Winchester cracked, spitting flame and leaden death into the night. The Kid felt as much as heard the rifle bullet hum hotly past his ear. He triggered a shot at the muzzle flash as he went down in a rolling dive.

His brain was working automatically, trying to figure out how many Indians he faced and where they were. He heard a sharp, angry neigh from the dun, so he knew one of the Apaches was over by the horse.

As The Kid came up on one knee with the Colt leveled, he spotted a figure in the moonlight, trying to get around the dun. The Kid fired and sent the man spinning off his feet.

Rapid footsteps sounded behind him. The Kid whirled as he came up, but the Apache was too close. He crashed into The Kid in a flying tackle, and both of them went down.

The Kid expected to feel the bite of cold steel at any second. He kicked loose as the Apache grappled with him. The man lunged after him, and moonlight glinted on a knife blade. Steel rang on steel as The Kid blocked the thrust with the barrel of his Colt.

He sank a knee in the Apache’s groin, making the man grunt in pain. The knife slashed at him again. The Kid ducked desperately as the blade went over his head. He grabbed the Apache’s wrist, clamping the fingers of his left hand around it to hold the knife off.

With his right hand, he shoved the revolver’s barrel under the man’s chin and pulled the trigger.

Flesh muffled the boom as the shot blew the Apache’s head apart. The man fell back dead. The Kid plucked the knife from his fingers and rolled away from the corpse.

He had just fired the last round in the Colt’s cylinder. Extra cartridges were in his pocket, but the knife would have to do until he could reload.

As he knelt there with the empty gun in one hand and the knife in the other, listening to the pounding beat of his pulse inside his head, he looked around the clearing where he’d made his camp and didn’t see anyone else. The dun still moved around skittishly, but that was due to the smells of powdersmoke and death that hung in the air.

The Kid’s instincts told him his enemies were dead. He trusted those instincts, but he wanted confirmation. He stood up, slipped the knife behind his belt, and reached into his pocket for those extra shells. It took only a moment to thumb them into the cylinder.

With the gun ready, he checked the three bodies. The Apaches were all dead, just as he’d suspected.

With that grim chore out of the way, he quickly holstered the Colt, strapped the gunbelt around his hips, and pulled on his boots. He got the saddle on the dun as fast as he could.

He hadn’t forgotten the sounds of battle he had heard coming from the south, or the glow of flames lighting up the sky.

He tried to concentrate on the task at hand, but a part of his brain still listened to the shots. They were dwindling, fewer and fewer of them, and The Kid knew that was probably bad. He tried to tell himself that the Apaches had given up their attack on the wagon camp and retreated ...

But the orange glow of the fire told a different story.

“The bastards,” he muttered under his breath as he tightened the saddle cinches. “The cruel bastards.”

The Apaches must have been watching the wagon train for the past couple of days, he thought. They were probably curious and wanted to see where the immigrants were going. Once it was obvious they planned to settle in Raincrow Valley, the Apaches had moved in to snatch away their chance for happiness, and most likely their lives as well.

The raiders had been lurking out there in the darkness, watching the camp, and they had seen The Kid ride away. They had sent three men after him, no doubt thinking that was plenty to slaughter one lone white man.

Those three had found out just how wrong that was.

The Kid couldn’t take any pleasure in that. As soon as everything was ready, he put his foot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle. Leaving the dead warriors where they had fallen, he rode down the hill to the creek and started south. He pushed the dun as fast as he dared in the darkness.

From time to time he stopped to listen. When he didn’t hear any more shots, a feeling of rage filled him. Fate had conspired to keep him away from the settlers on the very night they could have most used his help.

The orange glare in the sky brightened, then began to fade. The fires were dying down, The Kid knew. It was just like the attack on the Conestoga, only on a much larger scale. He dreaded the sight of the devastation that awaited him.

But not for a second did he consider turning back. He had ridden out of that village several days earlier when violence was about to erupt, and that decision had nagged at him. The circumstances tonight were much different—he hadn’t had any idea the Apaches were about to attack the camp—but he wasn’t going to turn away again.

He slowed down as he approached the camp. Fires still burned here and there, but most of the wagons had already been consumed. Bodies, human and animal alike, littered the ground thickly. All the oxen had been slaughtered, but as far as The Kid could tell, the Apaches had taken some of the horses with them. They could trade those horses below the border, maybe, or kill them and eat them on the way back to Mexico.

A bitter taste filled The Kid’s mouth as he rode up to the camp and saw the sprawled corpses. Men, women, even children ... no one had been spared.

He dismounted and started through the camp on foot, searching for survivors. Horace Dunlap’s body lay just inside the circle of charred wagons. The wagonmaster still clutched a gun in his hand. He had been shot to pieces, riddled with at least a dozen bullets.

The Kid would have been willing to bet that Dunlap had taken some of the attackers with him, though.

He moved on, listening for a moan, peering through the flickering light of the flames that still burned for any sign of movement. He didn’t find any.

After a few moments he came to Jessica’s wagon. At least, he thought it was her wagon. In the midst of all this destruction, it was difficult to be sure.

He saw a familiar figure lying face down next to the burned wagon. The Kid hurried over and knelt next to the man, grasping his shoulder and rolling him onto his side.

Scott Harwood’s head hung limply on his neck. His face was twisted in death. The broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his chest. The Kid could tell what had happened. That arrow had driven deeply into Harwood’s body, killing him, and the shaft had broken off when the scout pitched forward.

Still on one knee, The Kid looked around, thinking that Jessica’s body had to be nearby. He figured she would have died fighting, just as many of the others obviously had.

He didn’t see her, though, and when he stood up and got as close to the burned wagon as the heat still coming from it would allow, he didn’t see her body in the ashes and debris, either.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. If she wasn’t there, she was somewhere else in the camp, but she was just as dead either way. From everything he had seen so far, the Apaches had wiped out everyone.

He kept looking, and a few minutes later was rewarded by the sound of a weak moan behind him. Swinging around quickly, he asked, “Who’s there? Can you hear me?”

Another moan turned into a reedy voice saying, “O ... over here ...”

Even strained by agony, the voice was familiar. The Kid ran toward one of the sprawled shapes and dropped to a knee beside it. The wounded man lay on his side. Easing him over onto his back, The Kid propped the man’s head up.

Milo Farnum gasped in pain as The Kid moved him. The front of the old scout’s shirt was dark and sodden with blood.

“K-Kid?” he choked out. “Kid ... is that ... you?”

“That’s right, Milo. Take it easy. I’ll see if I can help you.”

A grim chuckle came from the old-timer. “Ain’t no ... chance of that. I’m ... gutshot. Been tryin’ to ... hang on ... ’cause I thought maybe ... you’d hear the fightin’ ... and come back.”

The Kid understood. Farnum should have been dead, but grit and sheer determination had kept the scout alive.

“I’ll go get my canteen—”

“No! Water ... water won’t help. I want ... I wanted to tell you ... those red bastards didn’t ...”

Farnum’s voice trailed off. The Kid waited, thinking for a second that Farnum had died, but then he heard the rasp of breath coming from the old man’s throat.

“What didn’t they do, Milo?”

Farnum had to force the words from his tortured throat. “They didn’t ... kill everybody!”

The Kid’s heart slugged in his chest as the meaning of Farnum’s words sunk in. He leaned closer and asked, “They took prisoners with them?”

“Y-yeah. I seen ’em... . They had ... Jess Ritter ...”

Jessica was still alive!

“And Miz Price ... and her daughter ... and another lady ... Leah Gabbert... . I saw ’em ... drag those gals off... . Thought maybe ... if you came back ... I could tell you... . They headed south.... You gotta ... go after ...”

When Farnum’s voice faded, it was replaced by a long sigh, the likes of which The Kid had heard too many times in his life.

The scout was dead.

Despite that, The Kid said, “I’ll go after them, Milo. You did the right thing by hanging on until I got here. I’ll go after them and do everything I can for them.”

After making that vow, he eased Farnum’s head to the ground.

The Kid stood up and continued his search of the camp, hoping he might find someone else alive, but that hope was futile. Farnum had been the only survivor, and now he was gone.

By the time The Kid finished his search, the horrors of what he had seen were ingrained in his soul. He had been witness to death and destruction before in his life, but never on this scale.

What made it even worse was the fact that he couldn’t do anything about it. Burying all these people would take him days, and in the heat the stench would choke a man before he could ever get them in the ground. Even if that cavalry patrol had been there to act as a burial detail, it would take a long time to dig so many graves.

Thinking about the troopers made The Kid’s jaw clench in anger. If Lt. Nicholson had accompanied the wagon train to Raincrow Valley, as Horace Dunlap had asked, the immigrants might still be alive. The cavalry would have camped there for the night, and the Apaches probably would not have attacked.

Would the raiders have bided their time and struck later, after the cavalry was gone? That was possible, The Kid supposed, but there was no way to know for sure either way. He forced those thoughts out of his mind for the moment.

But if he ever crossed paths with Lt. Blake Nicholson again, he would make sure the man knew what had happened there.

In the meantime, there was nothing The Kid could do except keep the promise he had made to Milo Farnum. He walked through the devastation, past the littered bodies, and left the circle of burned wagons. The well-trained dun waited for him with reins dangling. The horse tossed its head as The Kid came up, maybe spooked a little by the coppery smell of so much freshly spilled blood.

“Yeah, we’re leaving,” The Kid told the dun. “There’s nothing we can do here.”

He mounted up and turned the horse to the south. Even though it was dark, he didn’t have any trouble following the trail up to the pass through the hills.

When he reached it, he paused and turned to look back. The fires were all out, but piles of glowing embers still winked here and there in the darkened valley, like the eyes of the ghosts that might linger there. He wasn’t a superstitious man, but a little shudder ran through him as he gazed out over that place of death.

Gehenna, he thought. That’s what they ought to call Raincrow Valley now.

He turned to face south again and heeled the dun into a trot.

Somewhere out there were four women, terrified prisoners of the Apaches.

And Kid Morgan was their only chance for survival.

Chapter 12

He rode to the edge of the hills and stopped. Since the Apaches had prisoners now, not to mention those horses they had taken from the camp, it was likely they would head for the border in a straight line, just as fast as they could.

But The Kid couldn’t be absolutely certain of that, so the smart thing to do would be to wait until morning and pick up their trail once it was light. A war party of a hundred men couldn’t travel without leaving behind plenty of signs, even in the arid wasteland.

When he thought about Jessica Ritter and the other three women, he wanted to keep going, but he forced himself to stop and unsaddle the dun.

If he was going to have any chance of rescuing the captives, he had to keep his emotions at bay. He had to be as coldly calculating as a machine. It was the only way to overcome the overwhelming odds he faced.

The Kid picketed the horse and spread his bedroll again for the second time that night. He wrapped up in his blankets against the nighttime chill and tried to sleep.

But even though his eyes were closed, he kept seeing horrific images of fire and blood and death. He hadn’t witnessed the slaughter at the wagon camp, but in his mind it was like he had been there, watching and hearing everything.

Every terrible thing.

Despite that, weariness eventually claimed him, but his sleep was restless and haunted by nightmares. He was glad when he woke up the next morning in the cold gray light of dawn.

The Kid stood up and stretched to ease muscles that ached from tossing and turning so much on the hard ground. He gathered broken branches from some nearby scrub brush and built a small fire.

He soon had coffee boiling and shaved slices off a chunk of salt pork into his frying pan. There were plenty of biscuits left in the bag of provisions Horace Dunlap had gathered for him the night before. As he hunkered on his heels next to the fire and ate, The Kid thought about the people who had donated that food for him.

Most of them—maybe all of them—were dead. The meal tasted like ashes in his mouth, but he forced himself to eat anyway.

By the time the sky was light enough for him to start searching for the war party’s tracks, he had his gear packed away and the dun saddled. The Apaches must have come through this area, he thought as he mounted and began to ride along the edge of the hills.

That hunch proved right. He had gone less than a quarter mile when he came to a broad swath of hoofprints and mocassin tracks that led off to the south. Some of the Apaches were on foot, but that wasn’t surprising. An Apache warrior moving at a steady trot was capable of running a horse into the ground, Frank had told him.

The Kid turned to follow the tracks. Figuring out how many men were in the war party was impossible. The prints were too jumbled up.

The only thing he could be sure of was that there were a lot of them.

From the looks of it, the Apaches weren’t trying to cover their trail. They knew they had avoided the cavalry patrol, which had moved on west. And they wouldn’t be expecting any pursuit from the devastated wagon camp. As far as they knew, they hadn’t left anyone alive behind them.

After a few days, when the three Apaches who had gone after The Kid failed to return, the rest might start to wonder what had happened to them. They wouldn’t be concerned, though. The Kid was only one man.

What could one man do to hurt them?

The night’s chill disappeared rapidly as the sun climbed into the sky. As the heat grew, The Kid wondered how far it was to the next source of water. He had filled both canteens in the creek in Raincrow Valley before he rode away, but in the semidesert, that water wouldn’t last long. The dun would require quite a bit of it.

The Apaches had to know this territory, he reminded himself. They would need water, too, and would know where to find it. As long as he was following them, he would come to it sooner or later.

A couple of hours after sunup, he spotted dust rising to the west. Unless the war party had made a sharp turn for some unfathomable reason, that was the wrong direction for them. The Kid reined in and rested his hands on the saddle horn as he studied the dust.

It wasn’t the first such cloud he had seen recently. In that arid country, any group larger than a few riders raised considerable dust. The cloud was about the same size as the one he had seen a few days earlier as the cavalry patrol approached the wagon train.

Could it be?

The Kid decided the smart thing to do was wait and see. The delay in going after the Apaches grated on him, but he needed to know whether or not he had a new threat galloping toward him. He looked around, spotted a cluster of boulders about half a mile away, and rode toward it, figuring the rocks would conceal him while he got a look at those riders.

Once he was behind the boulders, he dismounted and pulled his Winchester from its saddle sheath. He found a good spot where he could see the approaching dust cloud and waited.

Within a few minutes, he could make out the riders. He thought he saw the bright colors of a flapping guidon, so he fetched his telescope from the saddlebags to check.

Yes, The Kid thought grimly as he peered through the glass, the cavalry had returned ...

Much too late to do any good.

He closed the telescope, put it away, and stepped out from behind the boulders. Pointing the Winchester into the sky, he fired three shots as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever.

The troopers slowed in response to the shots, then turned toward him without stopping. The Kid lowered the Winchester and waited until the blue-uniformed soldiers rode up and reined in.

Lt. Nicholson was in the lead, with Sgt. Brennan behind him. Nicholson stared at The Kid in surprise. “Morgan! What are you doing out here?”

“I’m trailing that Apache war party. What are you doing?”

The lieutenant’s face darkened in anger at the contemptuous tone in The Kid’s voice. “Not that I have to answer to you, but we’re returning to Fort Bliss. We reached the limits of the area we were supposed to patrol.”

“Let me guess. You didn’t see any sign of the Apaches, did you?”

“As a matter of fact, no. What’s that you said about trailing them?”

The Kid didn’t answer the question directly. Instead he snapped, “You didn’t see them because they didn’t want you to see them. They probably knew where you were every minute of the day and night and could have ambushed you at any time. The only reason you’re not dead now is because they found a more tempting target ... that wagon train.”

Nicholson drew in a deep breath and glared down at The Kid from his saddle. “The wagon train?” he repeated.

“That’s right. Except for four women the Apaches carried off as prisoners, every man, woman, and child in that party of immigrants is dead now, and I figure you’re partially to blame for that.”

Angrily, Sgt. Brennan crowded his horse forward. “Hold on just a damned minute! You best keep a respectful tongue in your head when you’re talkin’ to the lieutenant, mister.”

“I’m not in the army. Those gold bars don’t mean anything to me,” The Kid said coldly. “If you’d stayed with the wagons, Nicholson, the Apaches might not have attacked.”

“You can’t be certain of that.”

The Kid shrugged. Nicholson was right about that. He couldn’t be sure. But there was a good chance it was true.

The lieutenant dismounted and handed his reins to Brennan. He turned to The Kid. “Tell me what happened.”

The Kid summed up the bloody, tragic circumstances in as few words as possible. Nicholson’s face had acquired a tan during his service in the Southwest, but he turned pale underneath it as The Kid described how everyone with the wagon train had been killed except for the four women who were taken prisoner.

“You say you were trailing the Apaches?” Nicholson asked when The Kid was finished.

“That’s right. Their tracks are hard to miss.” The Kid paused. “You might have even noticed them if you’d kept riding.”

Nicholson’s lips tightened at the thinly veiled insult. “We saw the glow in the sky from our camp last night. The sergeant told me something was on fire, and I was planning to investigate. I recalled that man Dunlap saying the wagon train was headed for Raincrow Valley, and I wanted to be sure the settlers were all right.”

“Little late for that,” The Kid drawled.

Brennan started to get down from his horse. “By God, I’ve had just about enough of you, mister!”

Nicholson waved the noncom back into the saddle. “Stay where you are, Sergeant. Civilians are ... entitled to their opinion, even when they don’t know what they’re talking about. I had my orders, Mr. Morgan, and I followed them. My conscience is clear.”

The Kid wondered if that was completely true, or if later on uncertainty and guilt would visit Nicholson on some dark night of the soul. He had experienced plenty of that himself.

But he said, “If you want to follow something, how about following their tracks? The Apaches probably aren’t expecting any pursuit. We might be able to catch up to them in time to do those women some good.”

Nicholson frowned in thought as he considered the suggestion.

“For God’s sake,” The Kid burst out impatiently, “your orders are to find that war party, right?”

“To locate and engage the hostiles, yes,” Nicholson said with a nod.

“Well, those tracks will lead you right to them. Even a stiff-necked son of a—” The Kid forced himself to stop and take a breath. “Even you ought to be able to see that, Lieutenant.”

“You’re right. Following those tracks is exactly what I should be doing, Mr. Morgan. And you’re going to help me do it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“From this point on, consider yourself under my command,” Nicholson said. “You’re now attached to this patrol as a civilian scout, and therefore under the jurisdiction of the United States Army.”

The Kid’s eyes widened. “The hell you say!”

Nicholson jerked his head in a nod. “That’s right, the hell I say. I’m declaring this part of the territory to be under martial law, and as such I have the right to impress civilians into temporary duty.”

“That can’t be legal,” The Kid protested.

“If you think so, you can take the matter up with my superior officers when we get back to Fort Bliss. In the meantime, you already said you were trailing those Apaches. I intend to do the same thing. Why should you object to riding with us?”

“It’s not the riding with you I object to, it’s the blasted business about being under your command.”

“Well ... perhaps it won’t come to that. We want the same thing, after all, don’t we? To punish those savages and deliver justice to them for their crimes?”

That wasn’t what The Kid wanted at all. He wanted to rescue Jessica and the other three women. Killing some Apaches in the process would be a good thing, but it wasn’t the main objective.

If he said that, it would just lead to more arguing with Nicholson, and they had already wasted enough time. “Let me get my horse. I’ll ride with you.”

“I thought so,” Nicholson said with a smile.

The Kid wanted to wipe the smirk off the lieutenant’s face with a fist. If he was lucky, he would get the chance to do that later.

For now, getting those women away from the war party was the only thing that mattered to him. He led the dun out of the boulders, swung up into the saddle, and moved to the front of the patrol alongside Nicholson.

As he rode past Sgt. Brennan, he saw hate smoldering in the noncom’s eyes. There would be trouble with Brennan before it was all over, The Kid thought.

That was fine. The mood he was in, he was ready for trouble, and plenty of it.

Chapter 13

The Kid led the patrol to the tracks and pointed out how they arrowed straight south. “They’re making a run for the border. The Apaches may not be expecting any pursuit, but they want to get below the line before anybody can catch up to them, just in case.”

“The savages took four women as prisoners, you said?” Nicholson asked.

“That’s right. Mrs. Jessica Ritter, Mrs. Violet Price, Mrs. Price’s daughter ... Elsie, I think her name is ... and a woman named Gabbert. I don’t know if she was married or not.” The Kid paused. “If she was, she’s a widow now.”

“That’s regrettable. I hope circumstances allow us to be of assistance to them.”

The Kid knew what that meant. Nicholson would be perfectly willing to sacrifice the prisoners’ lives if doing so helped him destroy the war party.

The odds of that happening were pretty slim, The Kid thought. The patrol was outnumbered three to one and was outgunned, to boot. The best they could hope for would be to hit the Apaches hard, inflict some casualties, then get away without being wiped out themselves.

But in doing so, they might provide enough of a distraction for The Kid to rescue the captives. That was what he hoped for.

The patrol headed south at a brisk pace, following the tracks. Nicholson didn’t really need the services of a scout. The trail was so easy to see, even a greenhorn like him could follow it.

If Frank Morgan had been there, he could have examined the tracks and the droppings left behind by the Apache ponies and figured out how far ahead the war party was. The Kid wasn’t that skilled as a tracker, although the past couple of years had given him some experience in that area.

“How far is it to the border?” Nicholson asked after a while.

“I don’t know,” The Kid replied. “Around fifty miles, I’d say, but that’s just a guess.”

“How will we know when we get there? There’s no river separating the countries here in New Mexico Territory, like there is over in Texas.”

“Don’t know that, either. There are a few settlements right along the border, I think. We may have to find one of them and ask folks where the line is.”

“I can’t pursue the hostiles into Mexico. You know that, don’t you? If I were to cross the border, it might provoke an international incident.”

The Kid managed not to laugh. Out in the middle of nowhere, it was unlikely anybody would know or care if Nicholson and his troops crossed the border. The Mexican government might make a stink about it later on, but it would be too late to do anything other than complain.

They could avoid the issue entirely by catching up to the war party and dealing with it sooner rather than later. Every hour those women were in the hands of the Apaches was another hour when something bad could happen.

The Kid was under no illusions about how the prisoners were being treated. Probably all four of them had been raped already. Even if they survived the ordeal and escaped from captivity, their lives had been changed forever.

A lot of so-called good Christian folks wouldn’t have anything to do with a woman who had lain with a savage, even against her will. That attitude didn’t make any sense to The Kid, but he knew it was true.

If there was anybody strong willed enough to rebuild her life after such a thing, it was Jess Ritter. All the women deserved that chance, not just Jess.

“We’ll worry about the border when we get there,” The Kid told Nicholson. “Right now let’s just keep moving as fast as we can without running these horses into the ground.”

As they rode, The Kid constantly scanned the horizon ahead of them, looking for the dust raised by the Apaches and also watching for places where there might be an ambush. The raiders could have left some warriors behind, in case anyone gave chase. Even a relatively small group of Apaches could deal out quite a bit of damage if they took the cavalrymen by surprise.

Nicholson called frequent halts to rest the horses. The Kid didn’t like the delays, but he knew it was the right thing to do. On the frontier, a man’s mount had to be protected at all costs. It was often the only thing standing between that man and a lingering, miserable death from thirst or starvation.

During one of those stops, The Kid was giving the dun some water from his hat when Sgt. Brennan came up to him, trailed by a couple of troopers. The Kid glanced at Brennan and saw the belligerent look on the noncom’s face.

That trouble The Kid expected had shown up sooner than he anticipated.

“You’re mighty quick to talk about how the lieutenant didn’t stay with those pilgrims, Morgan,” Brennan said, getting right to the point. “But where were you when those Apaches attacked?”

The Kid kept a tight rein on his temper. It probably wouldn’t do any good, but he was going to try to prevent the conversation from turning into a problem.

“Like I told Lieutenant Nicholson, I was camped a few miles up the valley.”

“How come?” Brennan persisted. “You traveled with ’em for several days. How come as soon as they got where they were goin’, you up and left ’em?”

“That’s none of your business.” When The Kid was explaining things to Nicholson, he hadn’t mentioned what had happened between him and Jess, or Scott Harwood’s reaction to it. He certainly didn’t intend to explain it to the loutish sergeant.

“I reckon it is,” Brennan said. “You can’t go around accusin’ the lieutenant of abandonin’ those settlers, when you did the same damned thing! Actually, what you did was worse, to my way of thinkin’. The lieutenant had orders to follow. You just flat left ’em for the Apaches to slaughter!”

The dun had finished drinking. The Kid poured the little bit of water left in the hat into his hand and wiped it over his face, relishing the momentary coolness in the heat of the day.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Sergeant,” he said without looking at Brennan. “I had my reasons for what I did, and again, they’re none of your business.”

An ugly laugh came from the noncom. “What were you doin’, Morgan? Messin’ around with some poor sodbuster’s wife?”

“Back off,” The Kid snapped.

Instead, Brennan crowded closer. “That’s it, ain’t it? You didn’t leave. They ran you off. You’re just a no-account gunman who can’t keep his hands off other men’s women!”

“Brennan, I’m warning you—”

“What’re you gonna do, gunfighter? Shoot me?” Brennan laughed again. “The lieutenant and the rest of the boys will hang you if you do. It’d be pure murder if you drew on me. I’m not even carryin’ a gun.”

That was true. The sergeant’s rifle was still in its sheath on his horse.

With a grimace of disgust, The Kid turned away. He’d had enough.

But Brennan hadn’t. His hand shot out and grabbed The Kid’s arm. “Don’t turn your back on me, you no-good—”

The Kid twisted around, still holding the Stetson, and threw the hat in Brennan’s face. He reacted instinctively by letting go of The Kid’s arm and throwing his hand up to block the hat coming at his eyes. The Kid stepped in right behind it and hooked his right fist into Brennan’s midsection, a powerful blow that buried his fist in the noncom’s belly.

Brennan gasped and doubled over. The blow had driven the air from his lungs. He was out of the fight for a moment.

The same couldn’t be said for the two troopers who had walked over with him. They lunged at The Kid, fists swinging wildly.

The Kid avoided one man’s charge, but the second man caught him with a looping punch that grazed his jaw. The impact was enough to make him take a step back. Trying to seize the advantage, the second trooper rushed in and attempted to land a second blow.

The Kid blocked that one and snapped a left jab into the man’s face. Blood spurted from the soldier’s nose as The Kid’s fist landed solidly on it. Grunting in pain and surprise, the soldier stepped back. The Kid swung a right that slammed into the man’s jaw and knocked him against the dun. The horse shied away and the soldier fell.

After his momentum carried him past The Kid, the first trooper recovered his balance and tackled The Kid around the waist, driving him off his feet. He landed on the hard-packed rock and sand with stunning force.

The soldier flailed punches against his ribs. Knowing he couldn’t let himself get pinned down, The Kid brought up a knee and drove it into the man’s belly. Grabbing the front of the uniform shirt, he threw the cavalryman one way, then rolled the other to put some distance between them.

Brennan had recovered, and stepped in, aiming a kick at The Kid, who was trying to get to his feet. The Kid’s hands shot out, grabbed Brennan’s foot, and heaved. With a startled yell, Brennan went over backward and came crashing down on his back.

The Kid managed to stand up, but as soon as he did, the two soldiers came at him again. He blocked, punched, and slugged as other troopers gathered around, shouting encouragement to their comrades.

Brennan scrambled to his feet and rushed in to throw more punches of his own. The Kid was battered back and forth, but stubbornly stayed upright. He didn’t know where Nicholson was, but the lieutenant had to be aware of what was going on. The Kid wondered if Nicholson was going to let the fight continue until he was knocked down and stomped to death.

The answer came a moment later as Nicholson bellowed, “Attention! Attention, damn it! That’s enough!”

The spectators broke apart and started to form ranks, but Brennan and the other two kept throwing punches. The Kid ducked under a sweeping blow and threw an uppercut that caught one man under the chin and drove his head back so far it seemed like his neck ought to snap. The blow had enough steam behind it to lift the trooper off his feet and dump him on his back.

The Kid elbowed the other trooper aside and went after Brennan. He let his rage fuel him as he shot in punch after punch with blinding speed. His fists hammered Brennan’s face and body. Brennan backpedaled, but couldn’t escape the barrage. The Kid didn’t stop until Brennan’s eyes rolled up in their sockets and he collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.

The Kid stood there with his chest heaving and blood trickling down his face.

Nicholson strode up to him and glared. “You’re under arrest, Morgan,” he snapped. “I won’t have brawling among my men.”

“You can’t arrest me. I’m not a damned soldier.”

“I told you, this area is now under martial law because of the threat of the Apaches.” Nicholson held out his hand. “Give me your gun.”

The Kid took a step back and nodded toward Brennan and the other two soldiers. “If you’re going to arrest anybody, it ought to be them. They started it.”

“That’s a lie, Lieutenant,” one of the troopers said. “Morgan threw the first punch. I saw it.”

Mutters of agreement came from several of the other men.

“I didn’t do anything until Brennan grabbed me,” The Kid insisted.

“When we get back to Fort Bliss, the commanding officer will hear your testimony and decide whether to seek civil charges against you. Until then, I’ll take your gun, Morgan.”

The Kid glanced around. There were close to thirty troopers, and while none of them held a rifle at the moment, their Springfields were close by. Those weren’t good odds, and anyway, he didn’t want to shoot American soldiers.

Well, maybe one, he thought as he looked at Nicholson.

“It wouldn’t be smart to take my gun when we’re on the trail of a hundred bloodthirsty Apaches, Lieutenant.”

“If we encounter the hostiles, I’ll return your weapon.”

“How about if I give you my parole?” The Kid suggested. “That’s what you army types call it, isn’t it? I swear not to use my gun against you, and you don’t push this until it’s gone too far for either of us to back out. Deal?”

Nicholson hesitated. He didn’t want to back down in front of his men, yet the arrangement The Kid had proposed did have some precedent.

“All right,” Nicholson said with an abrupt nod. “You give me your parole now, and we’ll deal with your actions once we get back to Fort Bliss. That’s acceptable.”

The Kid returned the nod, even though he had no intention of ever going to Fort Bliss with the stuffed-shirt lieutenant.

Nicholson jerked a hand toward Brennan, who was still unconscious. “Get the sergeant up and throw a little water in his face,” he ordered. “Not much, though. We can’t afford to waste it. We ride in five minutes.”

The Kid picked up his hat and slapped it against his leg to knock the dust off. He watched as several soldiers roused Brennan from his stupor.

When the sergeant had his wits about him again, he looked over at The Kid with a glare of pure hatred. “This ain’t over.”

“I know,” The Kid told him.

It probably wouldn’t be until one of them was dead.

Chapter 14

Nicholson pushed the patrol fairly hard all day, but by nightfall they still hadn’t caught up to the Apaches, or even caught sight of the war party’s dust.

The Kid spotted something interesting as gloom began to settle over the landscape. A scattering of lights winked in the distance.

He pointed out the glowing yellow pinpricks to Nicholson, who raised a hand to stop the patrol. “Is that the Apache camp?”

The Kid shook his head. “Looks more like a town to me. I’d say it’s probably one of those border settlements we talked about earlier.”

“Then that’s where we need to go. The people there can tell us how far it is to the border.”

That settled the question of where the patrol would camp for the night, which was good. So far The Kid hadn’t seen a really suitable place. Nicholson waved the troops forward.

As they drew closer, it became easier to see that the lights came through windows in a number of buildings. The settlement wasn’t very big, with a main street running north and south that stretched for a couple of blocks. Some dwellings were scattered here and there. Even in the gloom, The Kid could tell that all of them were constructed of adobe, and most were squat and square.

One place in the first block had two stories, making it the biggest structure in town. A sign on the building read SAGO HOTEL AND SALOON. As the patrol reined to a halt in front of the establishment, the lieutenant said, “Sago ... Do you think that’s the name of this settlement?”

“Either that or the name of the man who owns the place,” The Kid said. “Maybe even both. There’s an easy way to find out.”

“Of course. Go inside and ask someone.” Nicholson turned in the saddle. “Sergeant Brennan, you and the men wait out here. You can dismount and allow the horses to drink at that water trough.” Nicholson pointed to a well that was situated in the middle of the intersection where the settlement’s lone cross street bisected the main street. A windmill, an elevated water tank, and a long trough that could be filled from a spout attached to the tank were nearby. The setup reminded The Kid of water stops he had seen along the railroads.

That was an odd place to put a well, right in the middle of town like that, The Kid mused, then he realized the well had probably been there first and the settlement had grown up around it. Water was so precious in the mostly dry region that such a thing was completely understandable.

He and the lieutenant dismounted and looped their reins around a hitch rack in front of the hotel and saloon. The troopers swung down and led their horses to the well while The Kid and Nicholson stepped onto the building’s low porch.

Instead of the batwings found on most saloon entrances, this one had a pair of regular doors. Nicholson took the lead and opened one of them, striding in with The Kid behind him.

That was all right with The Kid. He never entered a place quite so carelessly, but if anybody decided to start shooting, Nicholson was in front.

No shots rang out.

A low hum of conversation ceased abruptly at the sight of the newcomers. With his hand held close to the butt of his Colt, The Kid moved into the room behind Nicholson and looked around.

The long bar was in an L-shape, starting on the right side of the room and running across the rear wall, ending where a staircase ascended to the second floor balcony.

Tables filled the middle of the room, and along the left-hand wall was a gambling layout including tables for poker, faro, keno, and blackjack, along with a roulette wheel. No one was trying their luck at the moment.

In fact, the saloon wasn’t very busy. Only two tables were occupied, and maybe a dozen men stood at the bar, nursing drinks and mugs of beer. One white-aproned bartender was enough to tend to their needs. The only woman in the place was a faded blonde who wore a frilly dress and had an empty tray in her hand as she stood in the angle of the bar. The Kid figured she had just delivered drinks to one of the tables.

The men at the bar were a mixture of American cowboys and Mexican vaqueros. Three more vaqueros sat at one of the tables. All seemed to be getting along.

The four men sitting at the other occupied table didn’t look like the sort to be chasing cows. One of them was big and rugged, with a shock of coarse red hair under a thumbed-back Stetson. To his left was a man with a pale, narrow face and deep-set dark eyes. Across from the redhead, with his back to The Kid so that his face wasn’t visible, sat a man in a charro jacket and wide-brimmed felt sombrero with a colorfully woven band, but no other decoration.

The fourth man, on the redhead’s right, was an Indian, but not an Apache. He wore high-topped moccasins, buckskin trousers, and a loose, homespun shirt with a blue sash tied around his waist. A blue headband held back his shoulder-length black hair. The Kid would have been willing to bet the man was a Yaqui. He had met some of them over in Texas, in a place called Rattlesnake Valley.

It was unusual to see a Yaqui in town. The Kid wondered what he was doing there and who the other three men were.

He didn’t like the looks of them, he knew that for sure.

He took all that in with a glance as he followed Nicholson to the bar.

The apron came along the hardwood and gave them a friendly nod. “What can I do for you, Captain ?”

“It’s lieutenant,” Nicholson snapped.

The Kid had a hunch the bartender knew exactly what rank the insignia denoted.

Nicholson went on. “What’s the name of this settlement?”

“This is Sago, New Mexico Territory, Lieutenant.” The man was in his forties, thick-bodied, with gray hair and the flushed face of a man who consumed too much of his own product. “Named after me, Edwin Sago. I dug that well and founded the town.”

Sago had a note of pride in his voice, which wasn’t surprising considering how quickly and easily he had volunteered the settlement’s history.

Nicholson glanced at The Kid, who had come up alongside him at the bar. “Are you sure you haven’t been here before?”

“This is my first visit,” The Kid replied.

Nicholson shook his head and turned back to Sago. “Can you tell us how far it is from here to the Mexican border?”

“Did you see the well when you rode into town?” Sago asked.

“Of course. It would be difficult to overlook.”

“Well, then, you’ve seen the border. That’s it right there. Happenstance, mind you. I didn’t set out to drill the well right on the line, but that’s where I found water.”

“You mean the town sits directly on the border?”

“That’s right.” Sago nodded. “The south side of town is in Mexico.” He shrugged. “Of course, on a practical level it doesn’t really matter much. Folks go back and forth all the time. Nobody really cares which side of the line they’re on.”

“I do,” Nicholson snapped. “My authority stops at the border.”

Sago idly polished the hardwood with a bar rag, but The Kid could tell the man’s casual pose concealed a sharp interest.

“Your authority to do what, Lieutenant, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“We’re in pursuit of a band of hostiles. Apaches.”

“And they have four prisoners with them,” The Kid added. “White women.” He watched the four men at the table from the corner of his eye as he said that.

The tough-looking redhead’s eyes narrowed slightly as he leaned forward a couple of inches in an instinctive reaction. The other three men cut their eyes at him, even the stocky Mexican, who turned his head enough to look toward the bar.

“Now that’s a real shame,” Edwin Sago said. “I feel sorry for those ladies. We’d heard some rumors around here about a bunch of bronco Apaches coming over the border, but nobody in town has seen hide nor hair of ’em. Thank the Lord for that, I say.”

“How can you be sure no one has seen them?” Nicholson asked.

“Because everybody in this part of the territory comes in here sooner or later, Lieutenant, and I keep my eyes and ears open. This is the only real watering hole in these parts, and I’m talking about the well and the saloon.”

Nicholson nodded, accepting what Sago told him. “The war party’s tracks lead in this direction. They must have slipped around the town in the dark. We can’t be that far behind them.”

“We can probably pick up their trail in the morning and catch up to them before the day’s over,” The Kid said.

Sago looked at him curiously. “Who might you be, mister?”

“Name’s Morgan.” The Kid paused. “I’m working as a civilian scout for the lieutenant here.”

“And you know perfectly well that our pursuit of the hostiles is over, Mr. Morgan,” Nicholson said. “I told you before, my authority ends at the border. I’ll not be a party to an illegal incursion into a sovereign foreign nation.”

Sago chuckled. The Kid figured the man’s amusement was directed at the lieutenant’s pompous longwindedness.

“We can talk about this later,” The Kid said.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Nicholson insisted. “It’s over.”

The hell it is, The Kid thought. He knew that as soon as it was light again, he could find the tracks left behind by the Apache war party. But he didn’t want to argue with Nicholson about it in front of strangers, so he just shrugged.

“We’ll be camping nearby tonight, Mr. Sago,” Nicholson went on to the bartender.

“I’ve got several empty rooms upstairs. That’s the hotel part of the business. You and Mr. Morgan are welcome to stay here, Lieutenant. No charge for the cavalry.”

“No, thank you,” Nicholson replied without hesitation. “I’ll stay with my men.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Come on, Morgan.”

“I thought I might stay here and have a beer, maybe something to eat,” The Kid said.

“Have you forgotten what occurred earlier?”

“No. I gave you my word, and I intend to keep it.”

For a long moment, Nicholson gave him a narrow-eyed stare. Finally the officer said, “Very well. I’ll hold you to that. I have to go make sure none of the men have strayed past the well into Mexico.”

The Kid didn’t doubt for a second that Nicholson would raise hell about somebody stepping a foot over the line. Stiff-backed as always, the lieutenant left the saloon.

“You said you wanted a beer?” Sago asked.

“That’s right,” The Kid said. “Do you have any food?”

“Tortillas, beans, and beef.”

A smile tugged at The Kid’s mouth. “That sounds just fine.”

Sago drew the beer and slid the mug across the hardwood to The Kid. He looked curious again. “What was that the lieutenant said about something that happened earlier?”

“Nothing for you to worry about. Just a disagreement over tactics.”

“I didn’t think officers had disagreements about tactics with civilians.”

“Neither did the lieutenant,” The Kid said.

That drew another chuckle from Sago. He waved at the empty tables. “Sit down wherever you want. I’ll have Greta bring a plate of food to you.”

“Much obliged,” The Kid told him. He dropped a five dollar gold piece on the bar.

Sago lifted his eyebrows. “That buys you the hospitality of the house, Mr. Morgan ... which includes Greta, if you want.”

“I’ll think about it,” The Kid said, even though he had no intention of taking the tired-looking blonde upstairs.

He carried the beer over to one of the tables and sat down. He was aware that the four men were still watching him without being too obvious about it.

Conversation among the cowboys and vaqueros had quieted while Nicholson and The Kid were talking to Sago, but it started up again, mostly in low-pitched, worried tones as the men discussed the potential threat of an Apache war party in the area. Sago had said there were rumors about that, but the arrival of the cavalry had confirmed the possible menace.

Of course, now that the Apaches were across the border in Mexico, it was doubtful they would double back to attack the town or any of the ranches in the area. More than likely, the raiders had done all the damage they intended to and just wanted to get back to their stronghold somewhere in the fastness of the Mexican mountains.

The blonde had gone behind the bar, and disappeared. She emerged from a door carrying a couple of plates on her tray, and crossed to The Kid’s table.

“Here you are, sir,” she said as she set the plates on the table in front of him. One held a stack of tortillas, the other piles of beans and beef.

Up close, The Kid saw that the woman looked wearier than he’d thought. She was somewhere around thirty, old for working in a saloon. Tiny lines around her eyes and mouth indicated she had lived a hard life. But her blue eyes were clear and beautiful.

The Kid smiled up at her and slipped her another gold piece. “Your name is Greta?”

“That’s right.” Her voice held just a trace of some sort of Scandanavian accent.

“Well, thank you, Greta. I appreciate it.”

She hesitated, holding the empty tray in front of her. “Mr. Sago said that if you stay here and you want some company later on—”

Still smiling, he interrupted her. “There’s nobody I’d like to get to know better, but I’ve been riding with that stuffed-shirt lieutenant all day, and to tell you the truth, it’s just flat worn me out.”

She smiled back at him, and he saw what he thought was gratitude—and maybe a little disappointment—in her eyes.

“I understand,” she said. “Enjoy your meal.”

“I intend to.”

She turned and started back toward the bar.

The Kid picked up one of the tortillas, rolled it into a cylinder, and used it to scoop up some of the beans and a chunk of meat. He was about to put the food in his mouth when he heard her cry out in surprise and pain.

Looking up, he saw that the Mexican sitting at the table with the other three men had hold of her wrist and was trying to pull her onto his lap. His other hand roughly caressed her hip.

The Kid sighed, muttered, “Oh, hell,” and set the tortilla back on the plate.

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.

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.

Chapter 17

The Kid rode for a couple of miles, steering southward by the stars, before he stopped. He didn’t want to go too far in case he had to backtrack to pick up the trail of the Apaches.

Looking back, he could still see the lights of Sago in the distance. He thought about Greta and hoped she would be all right. She seemed to have a good friend in Consuela, and according to the Mexican woman, Edwin Sago loved her and would help care for her, so she probably stood a good chance of pulling through.

Maybe Lt. Nicholson could get Consuela to tend to Sgt. Brennan’s busted jaw, too, The Kid thought with a faint smile. He couldn’t find it in him to regret doing that. The sergeant had been asking for it.

The Kid looked around until he found a little hollow ringed by mesquite bushes. That would do for a camp. Since he had eaten back in the settlement, he didn’t have to worry about a fire, just a place to spread his bedroll.

He poked around under the bushes to make sure no snakes were lurking in the vicinity, then unsaddled the dun and tied him to one of the mesquites. He let the horse drink from his hat again before turning in.

In the desert latitudes, the night air cooled quickly. By morning, when The Kid rolled out of his blankets, it was downright chilly. The sun wasn’t up, but the eastern sky was gray and the stars were fading overhead.

He looked toward Sago, where a few lights glowed in the homes of early risers. He supposed Lt. Nicholson and the rest of the patrol would start back to Fort Bliss. Hunkered on his heels, he built a small fire out of mesquite branches and boiled some coffee. He had some supplies from the wagon train left, although the biscuits were getting a little stale. Together with the salt pork, they made a decent meal.

When he had finished eating and cleaned up after himself, he saddled the dun and led it out of the mesquites. The sun still wasn’t up, but the brilliant orange glow on the eastern horizon told him it soon would be. There was enough light to see by, so he swung up into the saddle.

The Apaches hadn’t paraded right through Sago with their captives, so they had to have gone either east or west of the settlement. The Kid rode back toward the border, angling toward the east.

He spent more than an hour riding back and forth before he finally came across the tracks of the war party about a mile west of the settlement. The sun was up, and the day was growing hot as he turned to follow the tracks to the south.

The Kid rode another hour before he reined in sharply and lifted his head as the sound of three distant gunshots drifted to his ears. Three shots, spaced close together like that, were undoubtedly meant to be a signal, he thought. The fact that no more shots followed was a good indication of that, too.

The Kid frowned. It was unlikely the Apaches were signaling to each other. Judging from the tracks he’d been following, they were all sticking together.

He thought about Enrique Kelly, Chess, Valdez, and Mateo. They had ridden out of the bordertown the night before, heading in the same general direction. A signal like that usually meant a search of some sort. Had Kelly and the others been looking for something?

The trail of the Apache war party, maybe?

The shots probably meant they had found it.

The Kid pressed on. If Kelly and the other men were ahead of him, he would deal with that when and if it became a problem. For now, his attention was still focused on following the trail.

Anyway, those shots might not have anything to do with him or the quarry he was after, he told himself... although he didn’t really believe that.

Since he had started trailing the war party, he had worried that he would come across the mutilated body of at least one of the women. If the Apaches tired of their captives, it was entirely possible they would just cut the women’s throats and leave them behind for the buzzards. For that reason, The Kid kept glancing at the sky, fearful he would see the carrion-eaters circling.

So far that hadn’t happened, but The Kid wondered how long the prisoners’ luck would hold.

If you could call anything about being held captive by a bunch of brutal savages lucky, that is ...

The Kid could see mountains ahead and to the west of him, but the trail led through country that could only be described as desert: a flat, hot, arid, mostly featureless landscape, the soil a mixture of sand and rock dotted here and there with mesquites and small clumps of hardy grass. He saw a few snakes, lizards, and giant, hairy-legged tarantulas, but those were the only signs of life.

He had been through the Jornada del Muerto, the awesome desert to the north, in New Mexico Territory. That was as close to hell on earth as anything he had ever seen.

The Mexican desert ran it a close second, The Kid thought. By midday his shirt was sodden with sweat, and he had started looking for a place that offered a little shade where he and the dun could wait out the hottest part of the day.

He found it in a small arroyo. A mesquite grew on the edge of it, and the space underneath the tree had been hollowed out by the very occasional flash floods that ran through there.

The Kid spooked a rattlesnake out of the shady spot. For a second he thought about letting it go, but then realized that if he did, it might crawl back into the hollow with him.

He brought his boot heel down on the writhing body just behind the head and drew his knife. A swift swipe cut the rattler’s head off. The snake kept trying to sink its fangs into something, not yet aware that it was dead.

The Kid kicked the rattler’s head and the still-squirming body well away from him and led the dun into the hollow, which was barely big enough for both him and the horse. The dun didn’t like the snake smell, but he didn’t want to get back out in the blazing sunlight, either.

Despite The Kid’s intention to stay awake, in the heat it was almost impossible not to doze off. With his back against the wall of the arroyo and his hat tilted forward over his eyes, he drifted into slumber.

Some time later—he wasn’t sure exactly how long, although the sun was still up—more shots woke him.

The Kid lifted his head and opened his eyes. The shots were faint, nothing more than quiet popping sounds in the distance. There were more than three of them, and they weren’t regularly spaced. They came in fast bursts, one on top of another, and that told The Kid there was a fight going on.

Again he thought about Kelly and the other men who had ridden out of Sago. If they were looking for trouble, they must have found it. But it was none of his business.

Was that true? If Kelly and the others were looking for the Apaches, they were potential allies for him, despite what had happened between him and Valdez. The Kid didn’t figure he could trust them for a second, but their common interests might come into play.

Anyway, somebody up ahead on the trail he was following was in trouble, and he wanted to find out what it was about. He got to his feet, untied the dun’s reins from the mesquite roots that protruded from the arroyo wall, and mounted up.

In the big, empty landscape, it was going to be hard to sneak up on anybody. From time to time as The Kid rode south, he stopped to listen. The shooting was still going on, although the shots weren’t coming as rapidly. They had settled into a slower, steadier rhythm.

It sounded like somebody was pinned down, he thought. He kept riding.

Suddenly, after another mile or so, the ground almost fell out from under him with no warning. He reined in and stared at the deep canyon that slashed across the barren earth in front of him.

The canyon was fifty or sixty feet wide and at least a hundred feet deep. It stretched as far as The Kid could see in both directions. The walls were perpendicular to the floor of the canyon, or close enough to it. Only a fly could climb up and down them.

Except ... where the Apache trail led, a narrow ledge zigzagged its way to the bottom, then up the other side. The ledge was wide enough for one man on horseback, maybe two if the riders were brave or foolhardy enough. The Kid couldn’t tell at first glance if it was natural. Something about it struck him as man-made, as if someone had carved the ledge into the rocky walls.

It might be the only place for miles where a man could cross the canyon without having to ride around it for a day or more. The Apaches must have known about it. They had ridden straight to this spot, even though The Kid didn’t see any landmarks nearby that could have guided them.

The shots came from inside the canyon, bouncing from wall to wall as booming echoes before escaping. They were probably even louder down there, The Kid thought.

He dismounted and left the dun with reins dangling, knowing the horse was unlikely to bolt. He pulled the Winchester from its sheath and levered a round into the chamber. Carrying the rifle, The Kid moved forward cautiously until he could peer down into the great declivity.

Puffs of gunsmoke told him where the shots were coming from. The ledge on both sides was littered with slabs of rock that had sheered away from the canyon walls in ages past and toppled onto the trail, creating obstacles but also places where men under fire could take cover.

That was obviously what had happened. About halfway down on either side of the canyon, two groups of riflemen crouched behind those rocks and took potshots at each other. The group on the opposite side was slightly higher than the men on the side where The Kid was, giving them a small advantage.

Their numbers were also greater. Shots were coming from eight different places over there, and when The Kid bellied down and risked a look over the rim on his side, he saw only four men under attack. Two to one odds.

The men on his side of the canyon weren’t strangers. From up there, he could see behind the rocks where they were crouched. He recognized Enrique Kelly, Lupe Valdez, the man called Chess, and the Yaqui, Mateo.

Except for brief glimpses, the rocks on the opposite ledge concealed the riflemen over there. The Kid caught sight of leggings, blue and red shirts, and equally colorful headbands and sashes.

Apaches. No doubt about it, The Kid thought.

It was easy enough to figure out what was going on. The leaders of the war party, heading deeper into Mexico, might not have expected pursuit, but they hadn’t avoided extermination so far by being careless. Knowing that anyone coming after them would have to cross the canyon, they had left some men behind to watch the place and ambush anyone they regarded as a threat.

Kelly and the others had ridden into that trap, descending into the canyon until the Apaches opened fire on them.

The Kid felt no fondness for the men, and he knew Valdez hated him. He didn’t trust Kelly or Chess, and he had a hunch Mateo would slit his throat in an instant if it suited the Yaqui’s purpose ... or if he just felt like it.

But this was a chance to whittle down the odds that might be facing him later when he tried to rescue those prisoners, The Kid told himself. From where he was, he could take the Apaches by surprise, and he had a better angle at them than Kelly and the other men did.

The Kid edged the Winchester’s barrel over the rimrock. He nestled his cheek against the smooth wood of the stock, peered over the barrel, and lined the sights on a slab of rock where he had seen one of the Apaches poke his head up for a second a few moments earlier. He breathed slowly, steadily ...

There!

The Kid squeezed the trigger.

Chapter 18

With all the shots and echoes of shots racketing around in the canyon, the blast of one more Winchester was lost.

But the results were startlingly evident. The Apache who had unwisely lifted his head flew backward as The Kid’s steel-jacketed slug bored through his skull and exploded out again in a pink, grisly shower of blood, brain matter, and bone fragments.

The dead warrior’s body hadn’t hit the ground by the time The Kid worked the Winchester’s lever, shifted his aim, and honed in on another rock. The Apache kneeling behind it, evidently startled by his companion’s sudden death, twisted around to look at the bloody corpse. One of his shoulders stuck out enough for The Kid to see it.

He fired again.

The Apache didn’t make a sound as the bullet shattered his shoulder, but the impact sent him rolling out from behind the rock. He tried to leap to his feet, but shots rang out from the other side of the canyon and he went down again, drilled at least twice through the body. He jerked a couple of times, then lay still.

In a matter of seconds, the odds had improved considerably. However, the Apaches couldn’t give up without a fight. If they left the shelter of the rocks, they would be easy targets. Even though they had set up the ambush, they were pinned down just as much as Kelly and the others were.

Both sides started firing with renewed intensity. Bullets flew back and forth across the canyon, and clouds of powdersmoke drifted through the air.

The Kid added to the hellish clamor by cranking off several rounds as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever. He concentrated his shots on the canyon wall behind the rocks where the Apaches were hidden. Ricochets whined and buzzed around them like angry hornets.

Those hornets had fatal stings. One of the warriors dropped his rifle and stood up, arching his back and trying to reach behind him to the place where he’d been hit. More slugs riddled him, driving him back a step before he pitched forward off the ledge. He turned over a couple times in the air before his limp body thudded to the sandy bottom of the canyon.

By now the remaining Apaches realized they were under attack from above. They lifted their rifles and started peppering the rimrock with slugs. The bullets threw grit into The Kid’s eyes and forced him to roll away from the edge.

He lay there for several moments, using the opportunity to thumb fresh cartridges through the Winchester’s loading gate. When the rifle’s magazine was full again, he tossed his hat aside and crawled toward the rim again. The Apaches seemed to have gone back to shooting at Kelly and the others.

But they had left one man watching for him, The Kid realized as a bullet struck the rim less than a foot from his head as soon as he poked it out. Tiny bits of gravel stung his cheek.

He forced himself not to flinch, and snapped a slug right back at the spot where the shot came from. An instant later he saw a rifle flung into the air and knew that was because of a dying spasm on the part of its owner. His bullet must have gone right over the barrel of the Apache’s Winchester and into his head.

Now that The Kid had personally accounted for half of the ambushers, the pendulum had swung the other way. The Apaches were the ones who were outnumbered. He pulled back a little and watched as Kelly and his friends picked off the other Indians one by one. Two of the Apaches fell off the ledge when they were fatally wounded, plummeting to the bottom of the canyon the way their companion had a few minutes earlier.

Even when the shooting stopped, it took several seconds for the echoes to stop rolling through the canyon. When silence finally settled, it had a grim, eerie quality after all the gun-thunder.

Enrique Kelly broke that silence by calling, “Hey, whoever’s up there on the rim! You sure as hell saved our bacon, mister!”

The Kid moved forward so he could look down at them. The men had emerged from their cover behind the rocks, but Chess and Mateo still had their rifles trained on the opposite wall just in case any of the Apaches were clinging to life and tried to resume the fight.

Kelly and Valdez peered up at the rim, each man using a hand to shield his eyes, and Valdez suddenly yelled, “It’s him! Morgan! The bastard who kicked me in the cojones!”

He jerked his Winchester to his shoulder.

Before Valdez could fire, Kelly’s hand shot out, grabbed the rifle’s barrel, and forced it down. “Quit it, you fool! Morgan probably saved our lives just now.” He pulled the rifle out of Valdez’s hands and then tipped his head back to call up to The Kid again. “Morgan, come on down!”

The Kid’s instincts told him not to trust these men, but if he was going to convince them to help him free those captives, he had to make them think that he did. He waved his rifle over his head and said, “I’ll get my horse.”

He picked up his hat, slid the Winchester back in the saddle boot, and took the dun’s reins. It would be easier and probably safer to lead the horse down the ledge than to ride. As he started down, he saw that the others had already resumed their descent rather than waiting for him.

By the time he reached the bottom of the canyon, Valdez and Mateo had gone over to the bodies of the Apaches who had fallen off the ledge. Making sure the warriors were dead, The Kid thought, even though it was highly unlikely any of them had survived the fall on top of being shot.

Kelly and Chess stood waiting with the horses near the base of the trail. Kelly grinned at The Kid. “When somebody started shooting from the rimrock, I had a hunch it was you, Morgan. I knew you weren’t going to pay any attention to that stiff-necked lieutenant. You’re still on the trail of those Apaches, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” The Kid said. “And from the looks of things, you are, too. You followed the tracks here, didn’t you?”

Kelly shrugged. “That’s right. We’ve got business to take care of.”

The Kid glanced across the canyon’s sandy floor. Valdez was hunkered on his heels next to one of the bodies.

The Kid frowned as he saw sunlight reflect off steel. “What’s he doing?”

Kelly glanced over his shoulder at Valdez and said carelessly, “That business I just mentioned.”

Valdez straightened from the corpse with something dark hanging from his hand. He held it out toward Mateo and grinned proudly.

The Kid’s jaw tightened as he realized what he was seeing. “Valdez just scalped that man, didn’t he?”

Kelly chuckled. “That’s the only way to collect the bounty the Mexican government pays for dead Apaches. You’ve got to have the scalps to prove it. We made some money here today. Not a whole lot, mind you, but it all adds up.”

“You’re scalphunters,” The Kid said.

“Somebody’s got to do it. It’s no different from exterminating any other kind of vermin.”

After seeing what the Apaches had done in that wagon camp, The Kid felt no sympathy for them. Politicians and newspaper writers back east liked to talk about how the Indians would be peaceful if only they were given the chance. That might even be true in some cases ... but not this one. The Apaches lived to kill their enemies, and it didn’t matter who those enemies were. If there hadn’t been any white or Mexican settlers in the Southwest, the Apaches would have warred against other tribes, as they had done all through the ages.

Even knowing that, The Kid didn’t like seeing men being mutilated. It didn’t sit right inside him.

But he was aware that Kelly was watching him. Though the man had seemed friendly enough so far and had stopped Valdez from shooting at him, The Kid saw something cold and intent in Kelly’s eyes. A lot was riding on how he reacted.

“Bounty, eh?” he said. “Well, I killed four of those varmints, so I’ll expect my share.”

Kelly threw back his head and laughed, and even the normally dour Chess smiled a little. Kelly nudged his companion with an elbow. “What’d I tell you, Chess? I told you that if we ran into Kid Morgan down here below the border, we ought to ask him to throw in with us.”

“That’s what you said, all right,” Chess agreed quietly.

“You know who I am?” The Kid asked.

“Well, I wasn’t sure,” Kelly said, “but you said your name was Morgan and I thought I remembered hearing about a fella who’s supposed to look like you. I know a man who’s fast on the draw when I see one, and you’re not anywhere near old enough to be that other Morgan, the one they call The Drifter.”

“People will forget about him, but they’ll remember me,” The Kid said with the cool arrogance most gunfighters displayed. He figured these men would be less likely to try to double-cross him if they believed he was as deadly as his reputation. “Are you serious about wanting me to join forces with you?”

“Damn right I’m serious,” Kelly responded without hesitation. “That’s a damned big bunch of redskins we’re going after. We can use some help, especially from a man as good with a gun as you are.”

“Even with the ones we killed here, that war party still has eighty-five or ninety men in it,” The Kid pointed out. “I’m not sure one more gun on your side is going to make much of a difference.”

“It wouldn’t if we took them all on at once. But my plan is to cut a few out of the bunch at a time. Also, I’ve got a pretty good idea where they’re going. If we can get ahead of them, maybe we can set up an ambush of our own.”

“You know where their stronghold is?”

“Mateo’s got a pretty good idea,” Kelly replied as he inclined his head toward the Yaqui, who was walking back from the other side of the canyon with Valdez. Three blood-dripping scalps now hung from the Mexican’s hand.

Kelly went on, “But that’s not where the Apaches will be going first. I knew that as soon as you mentioned those female prisoners they have, back in that border settlement.”

“I don’t understand,” The Kid said.

“The Apaches won’t be that interested in keeping the women,” Kelly said. “The fact that they haven’t already killed them and dumped the bodies tells me they’ve got something else in mind for them. They’re taking them to Alberto Guzman.”

“And who’s that?” The Kid asked.

Kelly grinned. “The biggest slaver in this part of Mexico.”

Chapter 19

Taking the scalps obviously had cheered him up, but Valdez still wasn’t happy when he found out The Kid was throwing in with them. “You can’t trust this damn gringo!” he protested to Kelly.

“Chess and I are gringos,” Kelly said.

“Sí, but that’s different. This one kicked me in the cojones!”

“You drew a knife on him. He could have shot you.”

Valdez continued to scowl, but after a few seconds he shrugged. “This is true.” He turned to The Kid. “I may have to work with you, gringo, but I don’t have to like you!”

“Feeling’s mutual,” The Kid said.

Kelly rubbed his hands together. “Now that we’ve got that all squared away, let’s get moving. I don’t want those savages to get too far ahead of us.”

Valdez stored the scalps away in a canvas sack he hung on his saddle horn. From the ugly, faded brown stains on the sack, The Kid could tell that it had been used for that purpose in the past, probably often.

They led their horses up the ledge on the south wall of the canyon. Valdez and Mateo stayed behind to scalp the Apaches who still lay dead on the ledge at the site of the ambush.

“They’ll catch up to us,” Kelly told The Kid. “It won’t take long for Lupe to lift those heathens’ hair. He’s had plenty of practice.”

When they reached the top, The Kid, Kelly, and Chess swung into their saddles and rode south, still following the war party’s trail. Less than a quarter hour later, Valdez and Mateo galloped up from behind to join them.

The sack bulged even more, and fresh bloodstains were soaking through the canvas.

“Tell me more about this Guzman hombre,” The Kid suggested as he rode alongside Kelly.

“Sure,” Kelly said. “Like I told you, he deals in slaves. Indian, Mexican, white ... it doesn’t matter. As long as somebody’s willing to pay, Guzman can supply the merchandise. Say you own a mine in the mountains, and you want some cheap labor to work it. Guzman can get you all the Indians you want, and once you’ve paid him, the only cost for that labor is a little bit of food. Damned little, if you get my drift.”

The Kid nodded. “The mine owners work them and starve them to death.”

“Well, if there’s one thing there’s plenty of in this world, it’s poor Indians,” Kelly said with a grin. “Or say you own a whorehouse and some of your customers have a liking for young girls. Really young girls. Guzman’s your man. He can find Mexican families who can spare an extra mouth or two that need to be fed. Or if he can’t find any who are willing to sell their niñas, he can always just steal ’em.”

“The youngest of these captives I’m looking for is seventeen or eighteen,” The Kid pointed out.

“Yeah, but they’re white. There are rich men in Mexico City who’ll pay a pretty peso for white women they can do anything they want with, and Guzman has contacts with those men. He’ll find somebody who’s willing to pay his price for those gals once he’s traded for them with the Apaches, you can count on that.”

“What’s he going to trade for them?”

“Rifles, maybe. Ammunition. Liquor. Whatever the savages want, Guzman will get it.”

“You make it sound like he does all this out in the open.”

“Well, that’s pretty much true,” Kelly said. “Most folks in northern Mexico know about Guzman.”

The Kid shook his head in amazement. “Why haven’t the Rurales gone after him?”

That question drew a startling response from Kelly. The man threw his head back and boomed a hearty laugh. The other three chuckled, as well.

“I said something funny?” The Kid asked tightly.

“You just don’t know,” Kelly said. “The reason the Rurales haven’t gone after Guzman is because. . . Guzman is a Rurale. A captain of Rurales, in fact. He’s the commander in charge of this whole district.”

The Kid tried not to stare. He had known the Rurales had a bad reputation, but he hadn’t expected that an outright criminal was in charge of them in these parts.

The news made the task facing him that much more difficult, he thought. If he couldn’t get Jess and the other women away from the Apaches before they reached Guzman, he would have to try to steal them away from the Rurales, which might be even harder.

“So you think the Apaches are headed for Guzman’s headquarters?” The Kid asked Kelly.

“I’m sure of it.”

“Where is that?”

“The Rurales barracks are in a village called San Remo, in the mountains southwest of here. Mateo thinks the Apache stronghold is in the same direction, only deeper in the mountains. They can stop and make their deal with Guzman on their way home.”

That sounded reasonable and plausible to The Kid.

The scalp hunters stopped from time to time to rest their horses, but not for a meal. They gnawed pieces of jerky while they were in the saddle. Kelly shared some of his with The Kid.

“Least I can do, seeing as how you helped us out back there,” he explained.

The trail continued south, even though Kelly had said it would angle toward the mountains when they got closer. In the middle of the afternoon, the five men came to a broad wash veering to the southwest.

Kelly reined in and pointed along it even though the tracks of the war party continued almost due south. “That’s the route we’ll take. It’s a shortcut to the foothills. With any luck it’ll put us ahead of the Apaches.”

“What if they don’t go the way you think they’re going to?” The Kid asked. “We’ll have to double back, and that’ll just cost us time.”

“You don’t know Kelly,” Valdez said with a sneer. “His plans are never wrong.”

Kelly smiled. “I appreciate that vote of confidence, Lupe. I’m not always right, but I’ve been tracking down those savages long enough that you can trust me on this, Morgan. They won’t keep going south. There’s nothing in that direction except badlands. But in the mountains there are villages and farms and haciendas they can raid, along with Guzman’s headquarters. That’s where they’re going, all right.”

The Kid realized he had no choice but to go along with Kelly’s plan. Working with these men, no matter how repugnant he found them, still gave him his best chance of rescuing the prisoners. “Fine. You’re the boss, Kelly.”

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” the Irishman said with a grin. He sent his horse down the wash’s sloping bank. “Come on.”

It didn’t take long for The Kid to realize why the Apaches hadn’t taken that route. The bottom of the wash was littered with rocks and gullies and clumps of brush. The riders had to weave around the obstacles, and it was slow going.

“Are you sure this is going to save us some time?” The Kid finally asked.

“Count on it,” Kelly said. “I know it’s slow, but this way is ten miles shorter. Also, we’re deep enough into Mexico now that the Apaches won’t be in any hurry at all.”

“When those bushwhackers they left behind don’t come back, they may start to worry.”

“Not for another day or two,” Kelly insisted.

Down in the wash, The Kid could no longer see the mountains, so he couldn’t judge their progress. “Are we going to get where we’re going before it gets dark?”

“No, but that’s all right. We’ll reach the foothills sometime tomorrow morning, and the savages probably won’t get there until the middle of the day, maybe later.”

All The Kid could do was hope that Kelly was right.

They traveled until it was too dark to go on through the rugged arroyo, then made camp. Since they were down where flames couldn’t be seen for miles around, Kelly declared it was all right to build a fire so they had a hot meal. The Kid shared the last of his salt pork with his companions.

As they sat around the dying fire drinking coffee, Valdez got a bottle of tequila from his saddlebags. “You can’t have any, gringo,” he said as he poured some of the fiery liquor in his cup. “Because of you, my cojones still ache like the very Devil himself!”

“That’s fine,” The Kid said. “I don’t much cotton to that cactus juice, anyway.”

Kelly laughed. “I prefer Irish whiskey myself. I have a bottle in my saddlebags, Kid, if you’d like a taste.”

“No, thanks. Anytime there’s a chance I might be attacked by a bunch of howling savages, I’d rather have a clear head.”

Kelly waved off that sentiment. “Those Apaches don’t have a clue we’re here!”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” The Kid said. “They were careful enough to set up that ambush in the canyon. They’re bound to know about this shortcut. Maybe they split their forces again and sent some men this way just to be sure nobody tries to use it to get ahead of them.”

He was just talking off the top of his head, but as he spoke, he realized that he might have hit upon a real possibility.

He wasn’t the only one who thought that. Chess said, “Morgan might be right, Kelly. Maybe we shouldn’t have built this fire.”

“It’ll be out soon,” Kelly snapped, sounding like he didn’t care for having his thinking challenged. “And setting up that ambush at the canyon was different. The savages are cunning enough to do that. They won’t think about setting a trap in this wash.”

The Kid wasn’t willing to bet his life on Kelly’s opinion. “It still might be a good idea to stand guard.”

“That’s exactly what we’re going to do,” Kelly said. “We would have, anyway. It never hurts to be careful.”

That allowed Kelly to save face, The Kid thought, and he let it go at that. He didn’t have any wish to challenge Kelly for the leadership of this bloodthirsty gang of scalphunters.

Each of the five men agreed to take a two-hour turn standing watch. Kelly decided the order of the shifts, and again, The Kid didn’t argue. He was given the third shift, the deepest, darkest hours of the night.

Even though he wasn’t a frontiersman by birth, he had spent enough time out there in recent years to develop many of the traits of one. Most of the time he dropped off to sleep easily and quickly when he had the chance, and when he woke up, he was fully alert as soon as he opened his eyes.

Chess had the turn before him. The man knelt beside The Kid and pulled back a hand from touching his shoulder.

“Your turn, Morgan,” Chess whispered.

The Kid sat up and reached for the shell belt coiled beside his bedroll. “Anything?”

“Quiet as it can be,” Chess replied.

That was good. The Kid stood up, buckled on his gunbelt, and picked up his rifle. Chess had already stretched out. The Kid walked over to where the horses were picketed and turned his head to take a look around. Light from the stars and a three-quarter moon was scattered across the wash, but there were a lot of thick shadows.

He searched those shadows for movement and didn’t see any. He frowned as Valdez rolled onto his back and began to snore loudly. That racket would make it harder to hear if anyone was trying to sneak up on the camp.

The Kid was thinking about going over there and prodding Valdez with a boot toe, when a rock rolled down the bank of the wash behind him. He recognized the tiny sound.

As he whirled toward it, something launched off the top of the bank at him, blotting out the stars like a giant bird of prey.

Chapter 20

The Kid’s razor-sharp reflexes saved him. He twisted aside and brought up the rifle in his hands. Metal rang against metal as the Winchester’s barrel deflected the knife aimed at his throat.

The Apache crashed into him, driving him off his feet. The Kid managed to hang on to the rifle as he rolled over. Levering the Winchester, he swung the muzzle toward the warrior, who had leaped agilely back to his feet.

Flame stabbed into the darkness as the Winchester blasted. The Kid saw the Apache jerk and stumble, but the would-be killer kept coming at him.

He wasn’t alone, either. With howls meant to strike fear into an enemy’s heart, more of the warriors leaped from the bank into the camp.

The Kid’s shot had alerted Kelly and the other men, however, and like him, the perilous lives they led had given them to ability to wake up instantly and be dangerous right away. Kelly came up out of his bedroll with a revolver in each hand. Colt flame bloomed in the night as both guns roared their deadly song.

Chess had his rifle. It barked wickedly as he cranked off several shots in less than two heartbeats. A few yards away, Valdez employed a machete he had pulled from somewhere in his gear. He hacked left and right as he waded into the attacking Apaches. Blood flew in the air like rain.

Mateo fought the invaders on their own terms, gliding through the shadows like a phantom. The knife in his hand flicked out, snake-quick, and cut a throat or pierced a heart.

The Kid was still in the fight, too. He whirled and fired the Winchester again, cutting down another warrior about to leap off the bank.

There were more Apaches up on the bank, and they stopped trying to engage their foes in close combat. They opened fire with their rifles, pouring lead down into the wash heedless of hitting their own men.

The Kid dived behind a rock as bullets whined around him. He came up on a knee and brought the Winchester to his shoulder as he returned the fire. His aim was deadly accurate, even in the dark, as he used the muzzle flashes as targets.

Kelly’s revolvers and Chess’s rifle blasted from where they had taken cover in the thick brush. As The Kid reloaded, he glanced around to see where Valdez and Mateo were, but he couldn’t account for them. It was possible they were among the sprawled shapes lying motionless on the ground in death.

Then, suddenly, the men on the bank began shrieking in pain, cries that were abruptly cut off. Someone roared curses in Spanish. It was Valdez.

“Hold your fire!” Kelly shouted. “Lupe and Mateo are up there among them!”

It was true. Several of the Apaches came hurtling off the bank to land on the floor of the wash in limp sprawls. No more shots rang out, but The Kid heard some ugly, wet sounds that had to be Valdez’s machete chopping into human flesh.

A few moments later, Valdez called, “They are all dead.”

“Mateo?” Kelly asked.

“Sí,” the Yaqui replied in a flat voice. The Kid didn’t know whether Mateo was agreeing with Valdez’s assessment or just acknowledging that he was still alive. It didn’t really matter.

“Chess?”

“I’m all right, Kelly. A scratch or two, that’s all.”

“Morgan?”

“Right here,” The Kid said. “I’m fine.”

Valdez and Mateo slid down the bank.

“I need a light,” Valdez said. “One of the bastards stuck a knife in my arm.”

“Chess, stir up the fire and see if there are any embers left,” Kelly ordered. “Don’t worry, Lupe, we’ll patch you up.”

“The only thing I worry about is if this arm stiffens up. This is my scalping arm!”

Within a few minutes, Chess had a little fire burning again. By its light, he examined the deep gash in Valdez’s arm.

“You got any of that tequila left?” Chess asked.

“Sí, of course.”

“I can put it to good use.”

In the flickering light, Valdez looked horrified. “You mean to use perfectly good tequila to clean this knife wound?” he demanded. “I would sooner have my whole arm rot off than waste it that way!”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” Kelly said. “You’re the best man with a knife we have.” He paused. “Well, when it comes to taking an Apache’s hair, anyway. I reckon Mateo’s got you beat when it comes to pure killing.”

The Yaqui grunted.

“All right,” Valdez said with a sigh. “Chess, do what you have to do.”

Chess fetched the bottle from Valdez’s saddlebags and poured the raw liquor over the wound, washing away the blood and hopefully anything else that might cause it to fester. “A sawbones would probably stitch that up, but I’ve never been much of one for sewing.”

Mateo put a hand on Chess’s shoulder and made a motion with his head to indicate that Chess should step aside.

Valdez’s eyes widened in alarm. “Don’t let that loco Indian near me!”

“He just wants to help you,” Kelly said.

“Sí ... by torturing me!”

Mateo’s lips moved a fraction of an inch in what passed for a smile.

In the end, after Valdez had downed several healthy slugs of the tequila, Mateo stitched up the ugly gash and wrapped clean strips of cloth around it, knotting them tightly in place. Valdez moved his arm around and winced at the pain that caused.

“It hurts, but I can use it.” As if to prove it, he drew his knife from its sheath. “Lemme at those scalps.”

Mateo went with him and stood guard while Valdez went about his grisly work, stuffing scalp after scalp into the canvas bag.

While that was going on, The Kid, Kelly, and Chess hunkered by the fire.

“You reckon there are any more traps like that waiting for us up ahead?” Chess asked.

“Not much chance of it,” Kelly answered without hesitation. “I’m not surprised some of those varmints were laying for us down here, but there were at least ... what? Ten of them?”

“At least,” Chess agreed. “I’m sure Valdez is keeping an accurate tally.”

“The rest of those Apaches probably think that was plenty to deal with any threat,” Kelly went on. “They sure as hell won’t be expecting any trouble now. This plays right into our hands.”

The Kid had already figured out how Kelly approached things. No matter what happened, Kelly was going to claim that was what he expected, and not only that, it was going to work out to their advantage. He was an eternal optimist and a man who couldn’t admit even the possibility that he’d been wrong about something.

The Kid didn’t care. Kelly could think whatever he wanted to. The only thing that mattered was that they stay alive long enough to get those prisoners away from the Apaches.

Valdez and Mateo came back to the fire. Valdez tossed the sack onto the ground. It made a squishy sound when it landed.

“Twelve more scalps, amigos,” he said. “We have collected an even twenty. A good day’s work.”

“We can do better,” Kelly said. “I’d like to get every one in that war party.”

“That would be a small fortune,” Chess observed.

“Damn right it would.” Kelly jerked his head in a nod. “And who deserves it more than we do?”

Valdez grinned, Chess smiled, and even Mateo nodded his head in agreement.

“You’ve been good luck for us since you came along, Kid,” Kelly said. “If those Apaches had cut your throat and jumped the rest of us without any warning, they probably would have wiped us out.”

“You’re saying that I saved your lives?” The Kid asked.

Kelly’s face hardened slightly in the firelight. “I’m saying that you’re earning your share, nothing more than that. Don’t go getting a big head. We’ve still got a lot of work to do.”

“And by a lot of work, you mean a lot of killing,” The Kid said.

“Well, sure.” Kelly looked around. “Any of that tequila left?”

They rode away early in the morning, leaving the Apaches’ bodies for the buzzards, the coyotes, and the ants.

Though they had survived one attack, nobody relaxed. Where there were a dozen Apaches, there could be a dozen more—or two dozen or three dozen—and none of the men wanted to take any chances. Nobody had slept much after the fight the night before, just fitful catnaps while at least one man was always awake and on guard.

The wash was still rough going, and the temperature climbed as quickly as the sun did. Not even a breath of air stirred inside the arroyo where the men rode. The Kid was glad when they finally reached the end of it. There wasn’t much of a breeze blowing on the desert, just a faint stirring in the atmosphere, but even that was enough to bring a little cooling to sweat-soaked skin.

Not far away, foothills loomed with the mountains behind them. The green pines dotting the slopes gave them a cool look, even though the air was as hot as ever. Up in the hills, in the shade of those pines, it would be cooler.

“How will we know if we’re ahead of the Apaches?” The Kid asked Kelly.

“See that saddle?” The Irishman pointed to a dip between two rugged hills. “The trail to San Remo goes through there. If there are no fresh tracks, that means we’re ahead of the savages.”

“Maybe they went some other way,” The Kid suggested.

“We’ve been down here off and on for more than two years, hunting Apaches,” Kelly said. “I know where they go, Kid. There are other trails through the hills ... but that’s the one that leads to the pass, and on the other side of the pass is the valley where San Remo is located. Where Guzman’s headquarters are. Any other route would take them days out of their way, and they aren’t going to want that.”

What Kelly said made sense, The Kid supposed.

The men drew their rifles as they rode toward the saddle between the two hills. They didn’t want to ride up onto the rear guard of the Apache war party and not be prepared.

Mateo inspected the ground closely. When they reached the top of the slope, they reined in. Mateo looked at Kelly and shook his head.

“They haven’t come through here yet,” Kelly said.

The Kid agreed with that conclusion. He hadn’t seen any fresh tracks, either.

He turned in the saddle and looked back to the northeast. They were high enough that he could see the vast sweep of that godforsaken wilderness. Somewhere out there, if they were still alive, were Jess Ritter, Violet and Elsie Price, and Leah Gabbert. They were probably terrified, miserable, and humiliated by the degradation they had been forced to endure already.

But The Kid clung to the hope that they were alive. As long as they were, there was a chance to help them. He had been determined to turn his back on everyone’s problems, including his own, but fate hadn’t worked out that way.

Kelly pointed to the slopes on either side of the gap.

“Let’s get up there and find some good spots. Morgan and I will take this side. Mateo, you take Lupe and Chess up yonder on the other side.”

Mateo nodded.

Kelly turned a wolfish grin toward the desert. “Lots more scalps headed this way.”

Chapter 21

The Kid and Enrique Kelly climbed about fifty yards up the slope, leading their horses. When they reached an area that was thickly covered with trees, as well as having a cluster of boulders just a short distance uphill, Kelly declared, “This is it. This is where we’ll wait for them. We’ll put the horses in the rocks where they’ll be safe, then pick good firing positions here in the trees.”

They led their mounts behind the boulders and picketed them, then returned to the thick stand of pines. The spot gave them a good field of fire over the entire trail for several hundred yards.

The Kid looked at the opposite hill and didn’t see any sign of Chess, Valdez, and Mateo, even though he knew they were over there. Obviously, they were well hidden.

“I’ve been wondering about something,” he said to Kelly as they took up their positions behind thick-trunked pines. “Even with the twenty men we’ve killed, there are still a lot more of them than there are of us. What’s to stop them from charging up the slopes and overrunning us with their superior numbers?”

“That’s why we’ve got to do as much damage as possible as soon as we open fire. Pick your targets well, Kid, and shoot fast. If we can put another fifteen or twenty of them on the ground before they know what’s going on, it’ll spook them. They won’t know how many men are up here, so they’ll try to get out of this bottleneck as fast as they can and head on through the pass to San Remo.”

“If it doesn’t work out that way, we won’t stand much of a chance,” The Kid warned.

Kelly shrugged. “Nobody ever said this life would be easy. A man’s got to fight, and he’s got to take some chances, if he’s going to get what he wants. Otherwise, what’s the point?” The Irishman laughed. “Anyway, the only thing that’s ever scared me is thinking about getting old and dying in bed. How about you?”

“That’s not likely to happen,” The Kid said.

“Exactly. Don’t worry about it, Kid. Just enjoy it as it comes.”

Fine advice from a bloody-handed killer, The Kid thought.

That description fit him, too, he reminded himself. Maybe Kelly was right.

But there were still those prisoners to think of. Until he had done everything he could to help them, he couldn’t let himself get carried away by the urge to do battle that had grown up inside him in recent years.

Now that they were in position, all they could do was wait. The Kid had not been raised to be the most patient of men ... but that life was in the past. Now he was able to stand still, alert, his eyes searching the desert to the northeast of the foothills.

And after a while, sure enough ...

He saw something.

It was just a smudge at first, with a haze of dust floating over it, but as it came closer the vague, dark mass took on shape. It resolved itself into a large group of riders.

As Kelly had said, the Apaches weren’t in any hurry. They approached the foothills at a deliberate pace, most of them on horseback but some walking, striding along tirelessly beside the horses.

“What’d I tell you?” Kelly called softly. “I was right, wasn’t I, Kid?”

“Looks like it,” The Kid agreed. He wished he could fetch his telescope from his saddlebags so he could get a better look at the group. He wanted to be sure the four women were with them.

But there was too great a chance sunlight would reflect off the glass and warn the Apaches that someone was up there waiting for them. The Kid knew he couldn’t run that risk. He would just have to wait until they were closer before he looked for Jess and the other captives.

Now that the Apaches were almost there, the waiting was harder. The Kid felt his heart slugging in his chest as the first riders in the war party reached the slope and started up toward the saddle. His eyes narrowed with intensity as he swept his gaze along the column.

Like a splash of light in the middle of surrounding darkness, the sun shone on blond hair. The Kid leaned forward. The riders came closer and shifted around, and suddenly he got a good look at Jessica Ritter.

Jess rode one of the Apache ponies by herself. Her blouse was in tatters, and her skirt was pulled up since she rode astride. The Kid could tell by the way she held her hands in front of her that her wrists were tied together.

But her head was up, and he was confident if he was close enough to make out any details, he would see defiance burning in her eyes.

A few yards behind her, two women with brown hair rode double on one of the horses. That was probably Violet Price and her daughter, The Kid thought. Farther back in the column, the fourth captive, Leah Gabbert, rode in front of one of the warriors with his arm around her. Her long auburn hair hung over her face as her head drooped forward. Everything about her screamed despair, and The Kid didn’t figure he could blame her for feeling that way.

As far as any of the women knew, no help was coming for them and no one was even aware of their plight.

It was understandable that they would give up, but from the looks of things, Leah was the only one who had so far. Once she realized that things weren’t completely hopeless—almost, maybe, but not completely—she might come around.

“Kid!” Kelly called in a whisper. “Are you seeing what I’m seeing?”

For a second The Kid wasn’t sure what Kelly meant, but then he realized he’d been concentrating so hard on the women that he hadn’t noticed something very important about the Apaches.

There weren’t nearly as many of them as he’d expected.

It was fairly easy to make a rough count. The Kid came up with forty-two. That was still overwhelming odds against five men, but he’d been expecting to see seventy-five or eighty Apaches in the group.

Either the war party hadn’t been as big to start with as the reports Lt. Nicholson had gotten indicated, or else the Apaches had lost quite a few men in the raids they had carried out before hitting the wagon train.

“If we can wipe out half of them, they’ll cut and run for sure,” Kelly said. “Then we can pick off some more while they’re running. I’d have liked to get those other scalps, but this is all right.”

That was one way of looking at it, The Kid thought. He brought the rifle up and settled the stock against his shoulder.

“Wait until some of them have gone past us,” Kelly said. “That way the ones in front will be more likely to run.”

“What about Chess, Valdez, and Mateo?”

“They won’t open fire until we do.”

Impatience gnawed at The Kid’s nerves. Jess rode past, her head turning from side to side as she studied her surroundings. The Kid wondered if she was looking for an escape route. That would be just like her, he thought, checking for a way to make a run for it if she got the chance.

He hoped to give her that chance, very soon.

The prisoners were all in the front half of the column. Kelly let them go by. Then he looked over at The Kid and nodded as he lifted his rifle.

The Kid rested his cheek against the stock of his Winchester and peered over the barrel.

Kelly fired, and the head of one of the Apaches on horseback exploded.

An instant after Kelly’s rifle cracked, The Kid’s blasted as well. He had settled his sights on the bright red headband holding back the coarse black hair of one of the riders. The warrior flew off his pony like he’d been struck by a giant hammer as The Kid’s slug bored through his brain.

Even before the Apache’s body had time to hit the ground, The Kid worked the Winchester’s lever and swung the rifle toward another target, this time a warrior who was on foot. He drilled the man through the body. The Apache crumpled to the dirt.

It wasn’t a battle, at least not starting out. It was more like murder. The five men hidden on the slopes fired as fast as they could, pouring leaden death down into the gap between the two hills. The Kid glanced across the way and caught a glimpse of Mateo darting from tree to tree, killing another Apache every time he paused behind another bit of cover.

The Kid realized what the Yaqui was doing. His actions made it seem like there were more gunmen up on the hill than there really were. The Kid contributed to that illusion himself by dashing over to another tree and cranking off three swift rounds from there that dropped two more Apaches.

At least a dozen of the Indians were down already, and more continued to fall to the deadly accurate shots of the scalp hunters. As Kelly had predicted, the warriors leading the column kicked their horses into a gallop. The Kid saw that one of the Apaches had hold of the reins attached to Jess’s horse and was leading it. He swung his rifle and put a bullet in the man’s back, driving him forward over his mount’s neck. The reins fell free.

Jess’s horse was running loose now.

The Kid stopped shooting to watch as Jess leaned far forward and tried to retrieve the reins with her bound hands. Before she could manage to do that, the horse’s flashing forelegs tangled with the dangling reins, and suddenly the animal fell, sending Jess flying off its back and sailing through the air as the horse crashed to the ground.

The Kid’s heart leaped with alarm as he saw Jess land in a heap and roll over and over until she stopped and lay in a limp sprawl. He didn’t know how badly she was hurt, but she wasn’t going to have a chance to get away now ... unless he went down there and got her.

He was about to turn away and run for his horse when he saw one of the mounted Apaches racing toward Jess’s fallen form. The warrior looked like he intended to pick her up. The Kid snapped his rifle to his shoulder and blew the man off his horse.

The Apaches were starting to fight back. They peppered the slopes on both sides of the saddle with rifle fire. The Kid had to throw himself behind a tree as slugs whined and buzzed around his head. He heard more bullets thudding into the trunk. Pieces of bark and chips of wood sprayed through the air.

When the shooting let up enough for The Kid to take another look, Jess was gone.

Anger and disappointment shot through him. He looked past the gap to where a number of Apaches were fleeing across a broad stretch of open ground. He caught sight of Jess’s blond hair on one of the ponies. A flash of auburn told him that Leah Gabbert was still a prisoner, too. He couldn’t tell about the Price women.

“Son of a bitch!” he burst out.

“Don’t worry, Kid, we got more than half of them.” Kelly fired again and dropped one of the few Apaches still putting up a fight.

“But the others got away with the prisoners.”

“I told you, we know where they’re going. We’ll try to catch up to them before they get to San Remo, and if we don’t, we know we can find the women there.” Kelly looked over at The Kid with a shrewd expression on his rugged face. “You sweet on one of those gals, Kid? Is that why you’re so interested in them?”

“I just want to help them if I can,” The Kid replied. “But the scalps are more important.”

That was an outright lie, but Kelly seemed to believe it. He jerked his head in a nod. “Yeah, and there’s a bunch of them down there now, just waiting for Lupe’s scalping knife.”

The men on the opposite hill picked off the few members of the war party who hadn’t fled. After the shooting had been over for a few minutes, Mateo and Valdez cautiously made their way down the slope to check on the bodies and start the grim work of harvesting the scalps.

Kelly, Chess, and The Kid moved out into the open to stand guard while the other two men were busy. When they finally all rendezvoused, leading their horses, Valdez held up two bulging, bloodstained canvas sacks.

“Twenty-four more scalps,” he announced triumphantly. “We’re gonna be rich men!”

“Damn right,” Kelly said. “I counted forty-two of the savages. That means there are only eighteen of them left, and some of them are probably wounded. That’s mighty good work. I’m proud to be riding with you fellas.”

The Kid didn’t take any pride in associating with murderers ... but so far they had proven to be useful murderers, he reminded himself. He wasn’t sure they were any worse than he was.

He could brood about that when Jess and the other three women were free and safe, he thought.

“You know how to find this San Remo place, where Guzman’s headquarters are?” he asked Kelly.

“Sure,” the Irishman replied. “We’ve been there.”

“Well, if all the scalping’s finished, let’s get moving,” The Kid said. “There’s still work to do.”

Kelly grinned, but there was a steely edge to his voice as he said, “Don’t start giving orders, Kid. But I’ve got to admit ... I like your enthusiasm for the job!”

Chapter 22

Mateo had grown up in those rugged Mexican mountains and hills, so he led the way as the five men headed for San Remo. Not surprisingly, the Yaqui knew some shortcuts ... but the Apaches would know those same shortcuts, Kelly warned, so it was possible they would reach the village first.

“There’s something I was wondering about,” The Kid said as they rode. “You said the Mexican government pays a bounty for Apache scalps?”

“That’s right,” Kelly said with a nod.

“But the Rurales work for the Mexican government, and yet Guzman trades with the Apaches, rather than killing them.”

“Guzman works for himself, first and foremost,” Kelly said, “and his men work for him. Technically they draw wages from the government, but the paymaster from Mexico City doesn’t get up this way very often. The politicians established the Rurales so they could claim they were protecting the people, but except for a few officers who take things a hell of a lot more seriously than they should, it’s all a sham. The government doesn’t care what the Rurales do. So Guzman trades with the Apaches because it makes money for him. Also, as long as he’s doing business with them, the savages will be less likely to attack him and his men when they’re out on patrol ... by which I mean, out hunting for slaves.”

The Kid could only shake his head in amazement after that long speech by Kelly. In his former life as a businessman, he had seen firsthand how corrupt the American politicians in Washington could be, but evidently the south of the border version put them to shame when it came to unabashed avarice.

After everything he had experienced over the past few years, he was no longer shocked by how low human beings could sink, but occasionally the depths of their depravity made him wonder just how bad they could get.

Right now, practical matters were all that concerned him. “If the Apaches are already at the Rurales barracks when we get there and have made a deal with Guzman, how will you persuade him to double-cross them?”

“The same way men like Guzman are always persuaded. Money. We’ll offer to split the bounty on the rest of the scalps we take.”

“What’s to stop him from killing the Apaches, taking their scalps, and collecting all the bounty?”

“Like I told you, there’s a truce of sorts between Guzman and the savages. He can’t just kill them openly. That’s where we come in.”

“So he’ll make it look like you killed them and he didn’t have anything to do with it.”

Kelly grinned and nodded. “Now you’re catching on, Kid. Everybody gets something out of the deal that way.”

“What about the prisoners?”

“Well, now, you may be out of luck there,” Kelly said. “You never did say whether or not you’re sweet on one of those women, but if you are, that’s too bad. If Guzman’s already traded with the Apaches for them, he’s not going to give them up. And if he hasn’t, well, we may have to throw them in to sweeten the pot. Sorry, Kid, but one way or another those ladies will be headed to Mexico City.”

The Kid shrugged as if it didn’t mean that much to him, but inside he seethed with rage. Kelly might believe that Jess and the other women were destined for short, degrading lives of slavery in Mexico City brothels, but The Kid wasn’t going to let that happen.

They wound through the foothills for several hours, then climbed to the pass through the mountain range. Mateo dismounted to examine the ground in the pass. When he looked up, he gave Kelly a curt nod.

“They’re ahead of us,” Kelly said. “How long?”

“One hour,” the Yaqui answered.

“That’s long enough,” Kelly said with a sigh. “We can’t get to San Remo ahead of them. We’ll just have to strike a deal with Guzman. That was what I figured to do, whether we got there first or not.”

The Kid tried not to let his spirits flag. He had still been hoping to get the prisoners away from the Apaches before they reached San Remo, but that wasn’t going to happen. He would have to figure out some way of getting them out of Captain Alberto Guzman’s greedy hands. That might be even more of a challenge.

From the pass they could see into the broad valley that stretched before them. The Kid spotted San Remo in the distance. It was still miles away, and the square adobe buildings of the village looked like a child’s building blocks that had been scattered across the floor in a fit of petulant anger.

Mateo leveled his arm and pointed. Kelly leaned forward in the saddle, and squinted into the distance. “Yep, there they are, all right.”

The Kid took out his telescope and extended it. He aimed it in the direction Mateo was pointing, and after a few moments of searching, he found the line of Apaches riding through the valley toward San Remo.

All the Indians were mounted. The ones who had been on foot earlier had been easier targets for the scalphunters, and their scalps were stuffed into Valdez’s bloodstained canvas sacks.

Jess and Leah each rode double with one of the warriors. The Price women still rode together on the same pony. Jess’s shoulders had a dispirited slump to them. She didn’t seem gripped with despair as strongly as Leah Gabbert was, but her failure to escape during the battle apparently had taken some of the wind out of her sails.

“Can you see them?” Kelly asked.

“Yeah.”

“Do a head count. Should be eighteen of the varmints left, if I counted right earlier.”

Those numbers agreed with The Kid’s estimate, but he moved the telescope to the front of the column and counted anyway, just to be sure. “Eighteen,” he announced.

“It’s a damned shame they’re too far ahead for us to catch them before they get to Guzman’s place,” Kelly said. “I think we could handle that many of the bucks.”

Not in a head-on fight, The Kid thought. In a case like that, he and his companions probably would wind up dead. But it was easy for Kelly to say when the Apaches were several miles away, he supposed. Kelly was in the habit of boasting.

“Well, let’s go.” Kelly lifted his reins. “It’s probably going to be dark by the time we get there.”

They rode on, with Mateo still taking the lead. More mountains loomed to the west of the valley, and true to Kelly’s prediction, the sun sank behind those peaks before the five riders reached the village of San Remo.

Mateo was able to find his way in the dark, and after a while the lights of the village came into view.

“The Rurales compound is at the south end of town,” Kelly said. “We’ll head straight there. There’s not much to San Remo, just a few stores and cantinas and a whorehouse.”

“As for myself,” Valdez said, “I would very much enjoy a visit to a cantina and a whorehouse.”

“In which order?” Chess asked dryly.

Valdez had to think about that. Evidently it was a question that required considerable pondering, because it was a long moment before the Mexican said, “The cantina first, I think. To give me added strength for pleasuring the señoritas.”

Kelly chuckled. “Be careful you don’t drink so much you fall asleep before you even get to the señoritas, amigo.”

“That will never happen,” Valdez declared proudly.

The Kid heard their banter but didn’t pay much attention to it. He asked Kelly, “What’s this compound you mentioned?”

“That’s where the Rurales barracks is located,” Kelly explained. “There’s the barracks building itself, plus Guzman’s office, a mess hall, an infirmary, a powder magazine and armory, and some storage buildings. There’s a corral inside the walls, too, but no blacksmith shop. They use the smith in the village when they need new shoes for their horses.”

“How tall are the walls?”

Kelly looked over at him with a frown. “You’re mighty curious about this stuff, Kid.”

“I like to know what I’m getting into.”

“Well, I suppose that’s reasonable. The walls are twelve feet tall and about a foot thick, with a parapet on the inside for riflemen and a couple of guard towers.”

“Sounds like a regular fortress,” The Kid commented.

“Oh, it is,” Kelly agreed. “Guzman’s managed to work up that truce with the Apaches I mentioned, but when the Rurales first came here, they had to fight off quite a few Indian attacks. That was before I was around these parts, but Mateo’s told me all about it. So they built the place to be defended.”

The Kid nodded slowly in the darkness. The information might come in handy. A lot of times places that were built to keep enemies out didn’t do such a good job of keeping people in.

He hoped that turned out to be the case, because sooner or later he was going to have to gather up Jess and the other women and make a break for freedom.

The five riders skirted the village and approached the Rurales compound, despite the yearning looks Valdez cast toward the buildings as he licked his lips thirstily. Torches blazed on top of the walls, casting their garish, flickering glow over the empty ground around the place. No one would be able to approach the walls or the gates without being seen by the Rurales on duty in the guard towers.

The front gates were massive affairs made of thick beams and iron straps. Breaching them would be difficult.

Kelly rode right up to them and called out in Spanish. A challenge came back to him from the parapet on the inside of the wall. When the Kid looked up, he saw torchlight reflecting on the barrels of numerous rifles that were thrust over the wall to point at the newcomers.

“Tell Capitán Guzman that Enrique Kelly is here to see him!” the Irishman called to the guards. “We have a matter of urgent business to discuss.”

“Stay where you are, Señor Kelly!” one of the men on the parapet responded.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Kelly assured him.

The Kid asked, “Are they always this on edge?”

“They’re probably nervous because the Apaches are here. Having them around is sort of like inviting a mountain lion into your parlor. You never know what’s going to happen.”

“You mean the Apaches are inside the compound ?”

Kelly shook his head. “No, they wouldn’t all waltz in there and let the Rurales close those gates behind them. That would be running too great a risk. I figure their war chief, Salvatorio, and some of his trusted lieutenants took the women in to make the trade with Guzman. But the rest of the bunch will be somewhere close by, you can count on that.”

Kelly seemed to know what he was talking about, so The Kid took him at his word. They waited, and after a few minutes, one of the guards called down, “Capitán Guzman wishes to speak with you! We will take you to him!”

The Kid heard bars and bolts being undone on the gates. With a creaking of hinges, the massive portals began to swing open. As soon as the gap between them was large enough, The Kid and the other four men rode into the compound under the watchful eyes—and the rifles—of more than a dozen guards in gray uniforms and steeple-crowned sombreros.

Once they were inside, the gates swung closed ponderously behind them. The Kid looked around. The whole compound was lit up by torchlight, and he was able to pick out the various buildings Kelly had mentioned, including the long barracks, the squat, thick-walled powder magazine that sat against a side wall, and a building that was more imposing than the others because it had a second story with a wrought-iron balcony.

Kelly saw where The Kid was looking and said quietly, “That’s the capitán’s headquarters and residence. That’s where we’ll find Guzman and likely those women you’re so worried about.”

A number of the Rurales surrounded them as they dismounted. The men didn’t seem threatening as they reached for the horses’ reins. Kelly nodded that it was all right to turn the animals over to them.

“These hombres know me,” he said to The Kid. “They know I’ve done business with Guzman before, so they won’t give us any trouble.”

Kelly strode toward the headquarters building, along with The Kid, Valdez, Chess, and Mateo. Several of the Rurales went with them, but their rifles were down and they seemed relaxed. They were escorting, but not necessarily guarding, the visitors.

The headquarters building had a low porch along the front. The Kid and the others stepped up onto it, and a door opened. A slender Rurale who wore spectacles and carried himself like a clerk ushered them in. In English, he said, “Capitán Guzman awaits you and your friends in his quarters, Señor Kelly.”

“Gracias, Luis,” Kelly replied.

They followed as the clerk led them up a curving staircase with a polished wooden banister. From what The Kid could see, the place was fancier inside than he would have expected a military headquarters to be.

Of course, the Rurales weren’t exactly military, he reminded himself. They worked for the government, but the organization was a police force ... at least in theory.

When they reached the second floor, Luis took them along a corridor with a gleaming hardwood floor. Tapestries and portraits hung on the walls. Clearly, Guzman was a man who liked to surround himself with comfort and luxury. That took a lot of money and couldn’t be done on a Rurales’ wages, not even an officer’s. The elegant surroundings were ample testimony to Guzman’s greed and corruption.

A set of carved double doors stood at the end of the hall. Luis knocked on them, and in response to a muffled voice from inside, he said, “Señor Kelly and the others are here, Capitán.”

The voice barked an order. Luis opened the doors and motioned for the visitors to go in.

The Kid wasn’t surprised by what he saw when he stepped inside with the others. They found themselves in a parlor with thick rugs on the floor, heavy furniture, and walls hung with more portraits, along with a number of modern rifles and crossed sabers. It was a man’s room, and the master of it stood on the other side of the room with a drink in his hand and a smile on his face.

Guzman was tall and lean, with a thick shock of salt-and-pepper hair. His pointed beard gave him a satanic look, The Kid thought. He wore an immaculate gray uniform with a crimson sash and a broad leather belt with a holstered revolver strapped to it.

The captain wasn’t alone in the room. With him stood a shorter, stocky figure in leggings, breechcloth, blousy blue shirt, and blue headband. The man’s square, dark face was set in iron-hard lines of hatred as he gazed at the newcomers.

“Señor Kelly,” Guzman said. “So good to see you and your amigos again. Tell me, por favor, why I should not allow our friend Salvatorio here and his men to take you out and see to it that you spend long hours shrieking and dying?”

Chapter 23

Kelly returned Guzman’s smile and didn’t miss a beat as he replied, “You could do that, certainly, Capitán. But if you did, it would cost you money in the long run.”

A stream of guttural language erupted from Salvatorio. The Kid didn’t speak any Apache, but he was pretty sure what the war chief was saying wasn’t flattering.

Kelly let Salvatorio’s unleashed venom run down, then went on. “There’s no rule that says the people you do business with have to like each other, Captain. I’m perfectly willing to back off and let you finish your transaction with Salvatorio. Then you and I can come to an arrangement of our own.”

“My business with the chief is already done,” Guzman said. “He was just leaving.”

“You might want to ask him to wait around for a while,” Kelly suggested. “The proposition I have for you involves him as well.”

Interest sparked in Guzman’s eyes. The Kid read greed there as well.

“Salvatorio’s associates are downstairs eating,” Guzman said. “I’ll have him taken to join them while you and I discuss matters, Kelly.”

The conversation made it pretty obvious the war chief didn’t speak or understand any English. Guzman spoke in rapid Spanish to Salvatorio, peppering the conversation with Apache words he must have picked up from dealing with the Indians. Salvatorio didn’t look happy, but he nodded curtly and turned to leave the room.

As he passed Kelly, his hand twitched a little toward the handle of the knife tucked behind his sash. The Kid saw Kelly’s hand shift slightly, moving closer to the butt of his gun. But both men controlled the impulse to kill, and Salvatorio left the room.

When the war chief was gone, Guzman said, “Come, have a drink with me, my friends. And while I am acquainted with three of these hombres, this one is a stranger to me.” He nodded toward The Kid.

“I do not like having strangers in my home,” Guzman continued. “Introduce us, Señor Kelly.”

“This is Morgan,” Kelly said. “Some folks call him The Kid. He’s riding with us now.”

“Ah. El Keed,” Guzman said, deliberately exaggerating the accent. “There have been others of your countrymen called by such a name, Señor Morgan, and they were all fast with a gun. Are you fast with a gun, as well?”

“Fast enough that I’m still alive,” The Kid replied.

The answer brought a laugh from Guzman. “An excellent response. At the end of the day, survival is the most important thing, is it not? Come, Señor Morgan, have a drink.”

Instead of the tequila, pulque, or mescal The Kid expected, Guzman poured snifters of what smelled like fine brandy. Tasted like it, too, The Kid discovered as he took a sip. It was more confirmation Guzman had expensive tastes. They all drank except Mateo.

“Now, what is this business you wish to discuss with me, Señor Kelly?”

Kelly tossed back the rest of his drink. “We have forty-four Apache scalps, Captain. Are you still paying a hundred dollars apiece?”

“A hundred in gold, in American dollars, yes,” Guzman replied with a nod. “As long as they are scalps from warriors. Women and children bring less, you know.”

“These scalps all came from Salvatorio’s war party.”

“I thought as much, from the way the chief reacted to the sight of you and your amigos. The Apaches hate you even more than they hate us.”

“That doesn’t bother me one blessed bit,” Kelly said.

“So, you wish to collect the bounty on these scalps you mention?”

“That’s right. And there are some more we’d like to collect as well.”

“More scalps, you mean?” Guzman asked with a frown.

“That’s right. Salvatorio and the rest of his men.”

For a long moment, Guzman just stared at Kelly. Then he said, “You are nothing if not audacious, señor. You know that a state of truce exists between me and the chief. Yet you come in here and ask me to jeopardize that state of peace simply so you can collect more blood money?”

A harsh note crept into Kelly’s voice. “Don’t talk to me about blood money, Captain. We’ve both stuffed plenty of it in our pockets.”

Anger flickered in Guzman’s dark eyes, but after a second he shrugged. “Go on. I cannot consider a plan if I do not know what it is.”

“I want the full bounty on the scalps we’ve already taken,” Kelly said firmly. “But as for the others, we’ll take half the money and you can have the other half. And you can blame the killings on us. Like you said, the Apaches already hate us. They can’t want us any deader than they already do.”

The Kid could tell Guzman was considering it. The Mexican government wanted the Apaches wiped out, but an army couldn’t do it. The Indians would just withdraw deeper into the mountains and hide until the soldiers grew tired and returned to where they came from.

The only way to get rid of the Apaches was piecemeal, killing smaller numbers of them when the opportunity presented itself, and for a job like that, scalphunters like Kelly and the others were the perfect tools.

The number of warriors still living in the mountain strongholds had already dwindled enough that sending the scalps of more than sixty Apache fighting men to Mexico City would be a definite feather in Guzman’s cap. As long as the politicians thought he was doing a good job, he could continue to play all sides against the others and keep amassing a small fortune from his slave trade. So the deal Kelly proposed would benefit Guzman in several different ways.

“What you suggest requires treachery on my part, Señor Kelly,” the captain finally said. “I would have to betray the chief. I am an honorable man.”

“Of course you are,” Kelly agreed without hesitation. “But a man’s word given to a primitive savage like Salvatorio ... well, that’s not really the same thing as giving your word to another gentleman, now is it?”

Guzman thought it over some more and slowly nodded. “What you say is true, Señor Kelly. If you were to do this, how would it be arranged?”

“The rest of Salvatorio’s men are close by, correct?”

Guzman nodded. “They wait a short distance south of here.”

“You need to get them inside the walls. Once they’re in, your men can open fire.”

“Which would be breaking the truce,” Guzman pointed out.

“If they’re all dead, who would ever know that? You could spread whatever rumor you wanted about it and say it was me and my friends who killed them.”

For a moment, Guzman looked like he could go along with that, but then his features hardened and he shook his head. “It will not work. The rest of the Apaches will not come inside the walls. Even if we threatened the lives of Salvatorio and the men with him, the others would not come in.”

“You’re not going to threaten anybody.” A sly smile stole over Kelly’s face. “You’re going to give them something they want, and that’s how my friends and I are going to earn our share of the bounty.”

“What do you mean by this?” Guzman asked, but The Kid suddenly had a pretty good idea of where Kelly was going with the plan.

He didn’t like it, either.

“You’re going to give those savages exactly what they want,” Kelly said again as he lifted a hand and made a sweeping gesture taking in himself, The Kid, Chess, Valdez, and Mateo. “You’re going to give them us.”

Chapter 24

Guzman stared at Kelly for a long moment without speaking. Then he threw back his head and boomed out a hearty laugh. “No one can claim that you lack for audaciousness, Señor Kelly.” He echoed his own comment from a few minutes earlier.

“Wait just a minute,” Chess said. “Don’t you think if you’re going to offer us up as sacrificial lambs, Kelly, you ought to ask us about it first?”

Kelly turned to regard him coldly. “Don’t I do the thinking and make the decisions for this bunch, Chess?” Kelly’s voice was mild enough, but it held a steely undercurrent of menace.

Chess backed down a little by shrugging. “Sure you do. This business just sort of took me by surprise.”

“Anyway, we won’t be sacrificial lambs,” Kelly went on. “More like ... staked goats.” He grinned. “Staked goats with guns.”

He turned to Guzman and continued. “You can tell Salvatorio that you took us prisoner and decided to turn us over to him if he’ll assemble all his men in the courtyard out there. Act like you want to make a big show out of it. He’ll understand that.”

Guzman nodded. “Yes, yes, go on.”

“It’ll look like we’re disarmed, but we’ll have guns under our shirts. The Apaches come marching in, figuring they’re going to have a fine old time torturing us to death, and as soon as they’re all through the gates, your men open fire on them from the parapet. We’ll pull out our own guns and get in on it.”

“If I were to do this thing, all the Apaches must die,” Guzman cautioned. “Every one. None can escape to carry the tale back to their stronghold.”

“We can make sure of that, Captain. They’ll all die.” Kelly smiled. “Then we split the money for those scalps, and everybody is happy. Except for Salvatorio and the rest of his savages, of course. By then they won’t be feeling a thing. The rest of the Apaches will never know the truth.” He hesitated. “That is, if you can control your men and make sure they don’t say anything.”

Guzman’s bearded chin jutted out as if he were insulted by the suggestion that he might not be able to control his men. “My Rurales are loyal to me! My thoughts are their thoughts, my words are their words.”

“In that case, you don’t have anything to worry about,” Kelly said.

“It sounds as if it might work.” Guzman gave a thoughtful nod.

“There’s just one more thing. Salvatorio brought some prisoners in here with him tonight.”

Guzman looked surprised. “How do you know that?” Before Kelly could answer, he went on. “Yes, yes, you’ve been trailing them, I remember. You have seen the women?”

“Not close up yet.”

Guzman chuckled and moved to the sideboard to pour more brandy into his glass. “They are all quite attractive, the blonde and the redhead most of all. The blonde is not what you would call beautiful, but she has a fire to her. Any man fortunate enough to share his bed with her would have a challenge on his hands, mi amigo!” Guzman downed some of the brandy and licked his lips. “You and your men want to spend some time with the women before I send them to my associates in Mexico City, is that it?”

“Actually, we want to take the women with us, as part of our share in the payoff,” Kelly said.

Guzman stared at him, lips tightening into a thin line. The captain shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. The women are going to Mexico City. As I said, you and your men may spend some time with them—none of them are virgins, after all, so that will not affect their value—but that is all. If you insist on this ...”

The tone of unspoken menace that hung in the air as Guzman’s voice trailed off made the threat clear. He could always turn Kelly and his men over to the Apaches for real, then double-cross Salvatorio.

Kelly held up both hands, palms out. “Don’t get me wrong, Captain. I’m not insisting on anything. It was just a proposal, that’s all.”

“It was a foolish one,” Guzman snapped. “Do we have a bargain?”

Kelly nodded. “We have a bargain.”

“Very well. I see no point in waiting. Surrender your guns.”

Valdez said, “I don’t like giving up my guns. How do we know we can trust this hombre?”

Guzman’s eyes glittered icily as he sneered at Valdez. “Kelly, speak to this peasant who works for you.”

Valdez stiffened in anger.

Kelly said quickly, “Lupe, take it easy. We have to make it look good for the Apaches. If we’re going to do that, we can’t be packing iron. You can keep one gun. Just hide it under your shirt.”

The Irishman glanced at Guzman to make sure that was all right. Guzman gestured in a superior fashion to indicate that it was.

The Kid found himself in the unusual position of agreeing with Valdez. He didn’t like giving up his guns, either. But Kelly had a point about making it look good. The Kid took his Colt from its holster and tucked it behind his belt at the small of his back, letting the tail of his buckskin shirt hang over the gun butt so it was hidden.

“Knives, too,” Kelly said. “Everybody shuck all your weapons except one gun.”

It didn’t take long for the men to prepare. Guzman suggested that they leave their hats behind, too, and make their clothing look like they had been in a fight. They needed to look disheveled, disarmed, and helpless the next time the Apaches saw them.

While they were doing that, Guzman called his clerk Luis into the room and explained the plan to him, so he could pass the necessary orders on to the rest of the Rurales. The young man listened intently, his narrow face expressionless.

When Guzman was finished, Luis nodded. “Sí, Commandante,” he said, then hurried out.

A short time later, eight Rurales with rifles showed up.

“These men will escort you down to the courtyard and act as your guards,” Guzman explained. “If they treat you roughly in any way, it will only be to make things look more convincing to Salvatorio.”

Valdez growled something under his breath. He wasn’t going to like being pushed around, The Kid thought, but he would put up with it in order to collect more bounty money.

“One more thing,” Guzman said to Kelly. “After our business is concluded, you and your men must leave and stay away from here for a while. I want no trouble at this time from the remaining Apaches in the area, so I must maintain the impression that I oppose your activities.”

“I reckon we can do that,” Kelly said. “Until next time we have some scalps to sell.”

The Kid spoke up for the first time in a while. “You mean for us to leave tonight?”

“What would hold you here, Keed?” Guzman asked with his annoyingly smug smile. Then understanding dawned on his face. “Ah, I see. It is not what holds you, but rather what you wish to hold. The women. Am I correct?”

The Kid had to know where the prisoners were being held if he was going to have any chance of rescuing them, and what better way to find out than to have the Rurales show him?

He shrugged. “You told us we could spend some time with them.”

“Indeed I did, and I suppose it would not hurt anything for you men to spend the night here. But we will discuss it when our business is concluded. Is that satisfactory for you, Keed?”

“You’re the boss,” The Kid said.

“And you will do well to remember that.” Guzman gestured to the Rurales. “Take them to the courtyard. I’ll wait a few minutes and then fetch Salvatorio and the men he brought with him.”

As they left the room with the armed men following them, Kelly said quietly to The Kid, “I already did my best to get you what you wanted, Morgan. Don’t go pushing Guzman or you’ll foul this up for us. All he needs is an excuse to double-cross us, and he may try to do it even without one.”

“He promised us time with the women,” The Kid whispered back.

“Are you that anxious to say good-bye to your sweetheart? I like you, Kid, and you’ve been a good addition to the bunch, but I’ll cut you loose in a second if I have to. See how long you last with Guzman on your own.”

“I’m not going to ruin anything. Don’t worry.”

Kelly’s frown made it clear that he was going to worry, though, at least until the deal reached its bloody conclusion.

Men were hurrying along the parapets and getting into position as the group reached the courtyard in front of the headquarters building. A burly Rurale came up behind Valdez and without warning kicked the back of his knee, making Valdez’s leg buckle underneath him.

“Get down, dogs!” the Rurale ordered loudly in Spanish. “On your knees, all of you!”

Guzman had warned that they might be roughed up. Even so, the severity of it surprised The Kid as another guard moved up behind him and rammed the butt of his rifle between The Kid’s shoulder blades. The blow knocked him to the ground.

All around him, more Rurales closed in and battered Kelly, Chess, and Mateo off their feet as well. Booted feet thudded into ribs as the Rurales kicked them. As The Kid rolled away from one of the blows, he caught a glimpse of the small group of men standing on the porch of the headquarters building. Guzman had emerged from the building with Salvatorio and two more Apaches.

Salvatorio wore a grim smile as he watched the scalp hunters being mistreated by the guards.

The Rurales stepped back and covered The Kid and the other men with their rifles. Guzman spoke in Spanish to Salvatorio, who nodded and turned to grunt a command in Spanish to one of his lieutenants. The man trotted across the courtyard toward the gates.

Guzman called the order to open the gates. The Apache messenger slipped between them and disappeared into the night.

It looked like everything was going as planned, The Kid thought. Salvatorio had sent the runner to bring the rest of the Apaches to the compound, where they would take the so-called prisoners and lead them away to a grisly fate.

Valdez muttered in Spanish as he lay there beside The Kid, who understood just enough to know that the Mexican was talking about killing somebody when it was over. The Kid didn’t know who Valdez meant specifically, but there were plenty of possibilities.

Minutes dragged by while they waited. Chess whispered, “What’s going on, Kelly? Something’s gone wrong.”

“Take it easy. It’ll take a few minutes for the rest of the savages to get here.”

From the corner of his eye, The Kid saw Guzman and Salvatorio step down from the porch and walk toward them. Salvatorio drew his knife. It would ruin everything if the war chief decided to start carving them up before the rest of the Apaches walked into the trap, The Kid thought. None of the “prisoners” was going to lie there and allow himself to be tortured just to keep up the masquerade.

Salvatorio didn’t use the knife. He started spitting on them. As a glob of warm spittle landed on the back of his neck, The Kid reined in the anger he felt. Soon enough, the courtyard would explode into violence and death, and he would be right in the middle of it. Time enough then to let his anger out.

He heard hinges squeal and lifted his head to see the gates opening again. They swung wide, so the rest of the Apache war party could ride inside the compound. Salvatorio called to his men with triumph and cruel satisfaction in his voice. The Kid didn’t have to understand the words to grasp the hatred they contained.

The Apaches dismounted, and together they walked toward their chief and the men who lay at his feet. Guzman and the rest of the Rurales began to pull back. The men at the gates started swinging the massive portals closed again.

With all those things going on, the Apaches should have suspected a trick. But all their attention was focused on the scalp hunters they despised so much, and their thoughts were filled with the bloody vengeance they would soon take on their enemies.

But something else was wrong.

“Kelly,” The Kid said in a low, urgent voice. “They’re going to wait until the Apaches are all around us to open fire! We’ll be killed, too!”

A curse exploded from Kelly. “You’re right. Guzman’s double-crossing us! We’ll see about that, by God!”

Kelly surged to his feet, reaching under his shirt as he did so. Salvatorio was only a few steps away from him. The war chief’s eyes widened in surprise, and he brought his knife up as if to defend himself.

The blade was no defense against a bullet. Kelly yanked a revolver from under his shirt, jerked the barrel up, and thumbed off a shot that blew a good-sized chunk of Salvatorio’s brain right out the back of his head.

Chapter 25

Guzman was shouting orders in Spanish even before the shot blasted from Kelly’s gun, and the Rurales on the parapet opened fire on the Apaches. Seeing their chief gunned down would make the warriors realize they were being betrayed, and they would fight back if they got the chance.

Guzman wasn’t going to give them that chance.

The Kid reached his feet only an instant after Kelly. His hand swept behind his back and plucked the Colt from under his shirt. One of Salvatorio’s men screeched in fury as he brought his rifle up and tried to line his sights on The Kid.

The revolver in The Kid’s hand erupted with flame first, driving a slug into the Apache’s chest, knocking him backward. Crouching, The Kid pivoted and triggered a pair of shots at the Apaches who had just entered the compound. Those who hadn’t already been cut down were spreading out in hopes of making themselves more difficult targets, but The Kid’s bullets sent one of them spinning to the ground anyway.

The courtyard was filled with chaos as bodies drilled by the men on the walls slumped to the ground. The Kid whirled toward the headquarters building. Jess and the other women were somewhere in there, he thought. With all the distraction, it might be his best chance to find them.

The Kid slowed as he watched a scene playing out in front of the porch. Mateo had reached the fleeing Captain Guzman and threw his left arm around the Rurales commander’s neck. The Yaqui jerked Guzman around and put a knife to his throat. Where Mateo had gotten the knife, The Kid didn’t know but the fact that the Yaqui had it didn’t surprise him.

“Tell your men to hold their fire,” Mateo ordered. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it was important.

Guzman’s face had gone pale at the touch of the blade. When Mateo relaxed the pressure on his neck, he shouted orders to his men. The shooting died away as the Rurales heard the commands.

The Kid stepped up beside Mateo and held his Colt leveled in case any of Guzman’s men tried something. His eyes scanned the courtyard. All the Apaches were down, but some were still kicking and squirming against the pain of their wounds.

Kelly, Chess, and Valdez were on their feet and appeared to be uninjured. Kelly snapped an order to the other two, and they walked among the fallen Apaches. Shots rang out in the night as they finished off the wounded warriors.

The Rurales on the parapets watched in confused silence. As long as their commandante was being threatened, no one wanted to risk Guzman’s throat getting cut.

Kelly strode over to The Kid, Mateo, and Guzman and glared at the captain in accusation. “You double-crossed us, Guzman. I ought to have Mateo carve you a new mouth right now.”

“I attempted to double-cross you,” Guzman replied with a thin smile. “It appears that I have failed. But you would have done the same thing, amigo, if you had seen the opportunity.”

For a moment, Kelly continued to glare, then, abruptly, he chuckled. “You’re probably right about that.”

Guzman asked, “Do we still have a deal, since Salvatorio and all his men are dead?”

“I suppose so. Tell your men that we’re not to be harmed. And don’t try any more tricks. We all speak Spanish, too, you know.”

Guzman issued the orders. The men on the parapet lowered their rifles, and with the exception of a few who would remain up there on guard, they began to descend.

“All right, Mateo,” Kelly said with a nod to the Yaqui. “You can take the knife away from his throat. Put your gun down, Kid. But both of you stay close to Guzman. If he tries anything, kill him.”

Guzman straightened his uniform jacket. “I am not accustomed to such rude treatment.”

“Better than being shot in the back by somebody who’s supposed to be your partner,” Kelly said.

“We should put the past behind us,” Guzman replied with an eloquent shrug.

“You know, I believe you mean that.”

“Of course I do,” Guzman said. “A wise businessman tries to seize whatever opportunity he can, but once it passes, he puts it out of his thoughts.”

“Fine,” Kelly said. “We’re partners again. We can trust each other.”

“But of course.”

“Watch him anyway,” Kelly told The Kid and Mateo.

“Come inside,” Guzman invited. “I will have supper prepared for us. And there is still the matter of the women, eh?”

“The women,” Kelly repeated with a glance toward The Kid. “Can’t forget about them, can we?”

Kelly turned to Valdez. “Lupe, can you handle getting those scalps by yourself? Mateo’s going to be busy.”

“Certainly,” Valdez replied, again sounding proud of himself. “It will not take long.”

Kelly nodded to the open door of the headquarters building. “Let’s go.”

They went inside with The Kid and Mateo flanking Guzman. Kelly and Chess followed. The clerk, Luis, stared at them goggle-eyed from the door of the office.

“Where are the women?” Kelly asked.

“They are locked in one of the storage buildings,” Guzman replied. “They have not been harmed. Not by me or any of my men, that is. I cannot speak for the treatment they received at the hands of the Apaches.”

“You’re going to give us quarters for the night and have the women brought to us.”

Guzman’s back stiffened. “I do not like being dictated to, señor, no matter what the situation.”

“Consider it a request, then,” Kelly suggested. “And here’s the situation, as you call it. Mateo’s going to be within arm’s reach of you every second until we ride out of here in the morning. No matter what trick you might think about trying, you can’t do it fast enough to keep him from killing you. Even if all of us die, you will, too.”

“I believed that all thoughts of treachery were behind us now,” Guzman said. “You wound me deeply, Señor Kelly.”

“Not as deeply as Mateo will if you try anything funny.”

Guzman shrugged. “You will honor the terms of our bargain?”

“Full payment for the forty-four scalps we brought in, half payment for the ones Valdez is harvesting in the courtyard now? Sure, that’s agreeable. And you throw in safe conduct away from here tomorrow.”

“That goes without saying,” Guzman told him.

“Let’s say it anyway,” Kelly said.

“Safe conduct,” the Rurale captain promised.

Kelly nodded in satisfaction. “Once we’re gone, it might be smart for us to steer clear of these parts for a while. I imagine the rest of the Apaches won’t be very friendly toward us once you’ve finished spreading the word about how we killed Salvatorio and his entire war party.”

“That would probably be wise,” Guzman agreed dryly.

“We’ll go back across the border for the time being. We’ll be back sometime, though, you can count on that. And we’ll have more scalps with us when we come.”

Guzman nodded. “I look forward to doing business with you.”

“Now, about those women ...”

“Of course. Luis!”

Guzman quickly issued the orders to his aide. Luis hurried out.

“There are rooms upstairs where you can spend the night, down the corridor the other way from my own quarters. Luis will show you when he returns.” Guzman glanced at Mateo, who still stood close to him, knife in hand. “The Yaqui does not wish to have one of the women for himself?”

“Mateo’s not interested in white women,” Kelly explained. “Killing our enemies appeals more to him.”

Expressionlessly, Mateo peered at Guzman and ran a thumb along the edge of the blade, just enough to slice the top layer of skin.

The Kid’s brain had been working furiously while he listened to the conversation. The women were being brought to him and the others, which was good because he wouldn’t have to hunt for them. On the other hand, he would have to smuggle them out of Guzman’s headquarters somehow, after first getting them out of the hands of Kelly and the other scalphunters. That wouldn’t be easy.

And if he succeeded in that, it was entirely possible Guzman would send the Rurales after him, and Kelly and his friends might join the pursuit, too. Kelly would want revenge for what he would consider a double cross.

The border was miles away across a burning desert. The odds against The Kid and the four women getting there alive were almost insurmountable.

But he wasn’t going to let that stop him from trying. His life no longer meant much to him, but maybe his death could accomplish something good.

The door was still open, so a few minutes later The Kid heard footsteps on the porch. His heart beat heavily in his chest as he looked in that direction.

Luis came into the building first, but right behind him, walking with her eyes downcast, came Jessica Ritter. Jess’s lank, fair hair hung in front of her face. One of the Rurales was beside her with his free hand clamped around her arm.

Jess’s clothes were in tatters, and the pale flesh that showed through the rents was mottled by bruises. Obviously, she had been through hell.

The same was true of the other women who were brought into the room behind her, each of them being hauled along by a Rurale. Violet Price bore little resemblance to the friendly, cheerful middle-aged woman who had provided several meals for The Kid. She was haggard and barely able to stumble along. Her daughter Elsie was in better shape but was still bruised and terrified. Leah Gabbert came last, her auburn hair a wild mass of tangles and a haunted look in her eyes as she jerked her head back and forth rapidly. The Kid wondered if the ordeal had driven her mad.

“You see,” Guzman said, “I keep my end of the bargain, Señor Kelly. You and your men may choose among these ... lovely ladies. They are yours for the night.”

Kelly grinned. “That sounds good to me. Since I’m the ramrod of this outfit, I’ll pick first, and I want the blonde.” He turned his head to glance at The Kid as he asked mockingly, “If that’s all right with you, Morgan?”

At the mention of The Kid’s name, Jess’s head suddenly jerked up, and an involuntary cry of “Kid!” came from her lips. She hadn’t noticed him before.

“So this is the one who’s special to you, eh, Kid?” Kelly asked, still grinning. “Well, that’s too bad, because she’s going upstairs with me.”

It took a lot of effort, but The Kid kept his face expressionless as he shrugged his shoulders. “Fine. It doesn’t really matter to me which one I get.”

The pain that flashed in Jess’s eyes at those callous words stabbed him to the core. He didn’t think it was wise for Kelly to know how much she meant to him.

“That’s good to know. Makes me trust you a little more, Kid.” Kelly reached out, took hold of Elsie Price’s arm, and thrust her toward The Kid. “Here, take this young one. She’s closer to your age, anyway.”

The Kid put a smile on his face. “Sounds good.” He slipped an arm around her shoulders. “You want to come upstairs with me, honey?”

He felt her trembling, but other than that, she didn’t respond.

“Answer the man,” Kelly snapped.

Biting her lips, Elsie lifted her head and gasped. “Y-yes. I want ... I want to go upstairs with you, mister.”

“Guess that leaves you with your pick of these other two, Chess,” Kelly said.

“I’ll take the older one,” Chess said. “That redheaded gal looks loco. Lupe can have her when he’s finished getting those scalps.”

“All right.” To Guzman, Kelly went on. “The redheaded girl will stay here with you and Mateo, Captain, until Lupe is done. The rest of us have things to do.”

Guzman nodded. “Of course. Luis, show them to their rooms.”

As they started up the curving staircase, The Kid tightened his arm around Elsie’s shoulders and tried to ignore the hate-filled glances Jess kept shooting back at him.

Sooner or later, she would understand, he told himself. When he got the prisoners out of there, she would realize he hadn’t meant what he said.

In the meantime, he could put up with knowing that she thought he was just about the lowest snake on the face of the earth.

When they reached the landing, Luis took them down the corridor in the opposite direction from Guzman’s quarters. As the captain had said, there were a number of empty rooms up there. The Kid supposed that important visitors—men who had come to San Remo to buy slaves from Guzman—used them from time to time. He wished there was some way to put a stop to that sordid operation, but the task was too big for him. He would have to settle for rescuing the four women, if he could even pull that off.

With several Rurales tagging along as guards, Luis showed the men to their rooms and lit lamps in each one. The chamber he took The Kid and Elsie into wasn’t fancy, but it was furnished comfortably with a bed, a wardrobe, a small table, and a couple of chairs. A rug was on the floor.

Luis lit the lamp on the table, then turned to The Kid. “Buenas noches, señor. Enjoy your stay.”

“I intend to,” The Kid said, keeping up the façade as he squeezed Elsie’s shoulders again. She shuddered. With a smile, the clerk went out and closed the door behind him, leaving the two of them alone.

The Kid had already noticed the room’s single window. Yellow curtains hung over it. He let go of Elsie and strode over to it, sweeping the curtains back and unfastening the latch so he could swing the casements open.

There was no balcony outside. But the ends of wooden beams called vigas protruded from the adobe wall under the tile roof. The Kid thought he might be able to swing from them and make his way to the window that opened into the next room, where Kelly and Jess were.

He nodded in satisfaction and turned back to face Elsie. It was time to explain to her the real reason he was there and what he intended to do.

He didn’t get the chance. Without warning, she charged at him, slamming both hands into his chest and knocking him back against the window. His knees hit the sill, and he toppled over it into empty air.

Chapter 26

Elsie’s actions took The Kid completely by surprise. She hadn’t looked or acted like she had any fight left in her at all. As he fell backward, his hands shot out and gripped the sides of the window, stopping his plunge.

She continued her attack, lunging at him, clawing at his eyes with her fingernails. He jerked his head from side to side to avoid being blinded. Planting his feet underneath him, he straightened up, and tackled Elsie. She wailed as her feet came off the floor. The Kid forced her backward, and they fell onto the bed with him on top.

Her struggles intensified and became more frantic. She was certain she was about to be raped. Her mouth opened to scream as she flailed at The Kid with both hands.

He slapped his left hand over her mouth and used his right to trap first one of her wrists and then the other. He levered her arms above her head and pinned them to the bed. She stopped fighting and moaned against his palm.

The Kid put his face close to hers and said in a low, urgent voice, “Elsie! Elsie, listen to me! I’m not going to hurt you! You remember me from the wagon train. You know I’m not going to hurt you.”

She blinked rapidly as she stared up at him. He didn’t see any hope or understanding in her eyes, only fear.

“Elsie, you’re all right now,” he went on, although that wasn’t exactly true. She was still in plenty of danger, just not from him. “I’m going to get you out of here. Do you understand what I’m saying? I’m going to help you and your mother and Jess and Leah. We’re all going to get out of here.”

For the first time, something other than sheer terror was visible in her eyes.

“Listen, I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth, and we’re going to talk, all right? Don’t scream.”

The others wouldn’t think anything of it if they heard screams coming from this room, but The Kid knew he had to calm Elsie down if he was going to be able to talk rationally to her. And if they were going to have even a chance to get away, she needed to understand what he was saying.

She stared up at him for a long moment before finally nodding. He lifted his hand, but held it ready to clap down again over her mouth if she started to let out a yell.

Instead she whispered, “Mr. Morgan? You ... you really want to help me? Not ... not ...”

“Shh. That’s right. I’m going to help you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Her features crumpled up as she started to cry, sobbing quietly.

The Kid rolled off her and sat up on the edge of the bed. He lifted her and pulled her against him, putting his arm around her shoulders again, but in a kindly, comforting fashion. She buried her face in his shoulder and continued to cry.

He held her for a while, knowing that the stress of the past week couldn’t be let out in a short period of time. But he also knew that he couldn’t sit there all night holding her. He had to get to the other women and get them out of there.

Finally he said, “Listen to me, Elsie. Are you hurt badly?”

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “N-no, I’m all right, I guess. The Indians ... they treated us pretty rough, but except for ... molesting us ... they didn’t really hurt us.”

“Then you can still ride a horse?”

“Yes. If it means getting away from here, I can ride a million miles!”

The Kid smiled. “I don’t think we’ll have to go that far. We need to get back over the border, though. You think the others can all ride?”

“I know my mother and Mrs. Ritter can. I ... I’m not sure about poor Leah. She’s capable of riding, but ... well, she’s not really right in the head anymore.”

“We’ll deal with that when we have to.”

Elsie clutched at his sleeve. “I-I thought when the Indians weren’t holding us prisoner anymore that things might get better. But the men here ... they’re just as bad as the Apaches, aren’t they?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What are they going to do with us? Are they going to keep us here and ... and—”

“You’re not staying here. You’re going home.”

Instantly, he regretted his choice of words. Elsie didn’t have a home anymore, and other than her mother, she probably didn’t have any family left. She started to cry again.

Even if he was able to get them back to the States, The Kid knew all the women would have a hard time of it. Unfair though it might be, they would be shunned and scorned because they had been raped by the Apaches, and that story would probably follow them anywhere they went in New Mexico Territory.

The answer to that was for them to go somewhere else, somewhere no one would know them or be aware of what had happened to them. Somewhere they could start over. That would take a lot of money.

Luckily, Conrad Browning had a lot of money.

The Kid knew all it would take was one telegram to his lawyers, and the four women would be taken care of. Each could have a new start, and if Leah Gabbert needed care for the rest of her life, Conrad Browning’s wealth could easily pay for that, too.

First things first, he reminded himself. That meant getting out of there.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he told Elsie. Having a plan to think about might distract her from the terrible things that had happened to her. “Jess and one of those other men are next door. I’m going to try to reach the window of that room and get inside. If I can take Kelly by surprise, I can knock him out. Then I’ll figure out some way to deal with the others.”

“They’ll kill you,” she said.

“Not going to let that happen,” he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. He patted her shoulder. “You just sit here and wait for me.”

“I ... I’m not sure I can sit. I’m too nervous for that.”

“Well, come to the window, then. You can help me watch for guards.”

They went to the window. The two halves of it still stood wide open, and a night breeze moved the curtains. The Kid leaned out and looked around.

The room he and Elsie were in was the last one along the corridor, which meant it was on the corner of the building. He could see the main gate and one of the guard towers, which meant the Rurales on duty could see him, too, if they happened to look in his direction.

Their attention was focused outward, though. And they were probably sleepy. The Kid would be running a risk by using those vigas to reach Kelly’s room ... but all of life was a risk, wasn’t it?

He had gotten one break already. Kelly’s window was open. The night was too hot to leave it closed.

The Kid pointed out the window to Elsie and explained what he was going to do.

“Be careful. If anything happens to you—”

“It’s not going to,” he said, hoping that he could keep that promise.

He took off his boots and climbed onto the window sill. When he stood up, he was able to reach the nearest viga. He got a good grip on the rough wooden beam and swung away from the window.

The strain on his arms and shoulders was tremendous, but the rugged life he had led over the past few years had given him a great deal of strength. His muscles contracted to swing his body back and forth, building up momentum. When he judged that he had enough, he let go and reached for the next viga as he sailed through the empty air.

The building had only two stories. If he missed and fell, the drop probably wouldn’t kill him or injure him greatly, but it might ruin his plan. He felt relief shoot through him as his hands slapped down on the beam and fastened to it like iron clamps.

When he was a boy, his mother and stepfather had taken him to a traveling circus performance in Boston. A circus was rather low-class for the wealthy Vivian Browning, but Conrad had wanted to go. Anyway, Vivian had grown up on a ranch in Texas and hadn’t completely forgotten those days. She enjoyed the spectacle of it, too.

Conrad had been especially impressed by the acrobats, and as The Kid swung from beam to beam, he remembered those men in their gaudy costumes. This seemed like something they would do to make audiences cheer.

His performance wasn’t a matter of entertainment, though.

It was life and death.

By the time he reached the beam where he was able to put a toe down and rest it on the window sill, the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back were burning and throbbing. He worked his other foot onto the sill and took more of the weight off his arms. The Kid perched there for several long moments to recover his strength.

He couldn’t see into the room, but he could tell that the lamp had burned low, giving off only a faint illumination.

He could hear just fine, though, and he didn’t like what he was hearing.

Enrique Kelly said, “You’d better do what I tell you, honey, or you’re going to be sorry.”

“You can go to hell.”

That low, hoarse voice belonged to Jess, and the anger and defiance The Kid heard in it brought a grim smile to his lips for a second.

“I could say the same thing to you,” Kelly responded.

“It wouldn’t do any good,” Jess said. “I’m already there.”

“That’s enough arguing, damn it. Come here, you little—”

A fist thudded against flesh. For a second The Kid thought Kelly had hit Jess, but then Kelly’s grunt of pain told him it was the other way around. Jess wasn’t the sort of woman to slap somebody. She clenched her hand into a fist and whaled away.

“Blast it!” Kelly exclaimed.

Clothes ripped. Another blow sounded, and the soft, involuntary cry of pain came from Jess.

The Kid had waited as long as he was going to wait. He bent down, grasped the sides of the window, and pulled himself through the opening. He caught a glimpse of Kelly struggling with Jess. Kelly had succeeded in ripping the rest of her tattered clothing away from her. The lamplight glowed on her pale, bruised skin.

The Kid launched himself in a flying tackle that took Kelly from behind. His shoulder caught Kelly in the small of the back and knocked him forward onto the bed.

The impact sent Jess flying. The Kid didn’t have time to see if she was all right. He had his hands full with Kelly.

The man was big and strong and obviously an experienced bare knuckles brawler. He had barely landed on the bed when he bucked up away from it, arching his back in an attempt to throw off his attacker.

The Kid got his left arm around Kelly’s neck and hung on. Kelly drove an elbow into his midsection. The blow knocked the breath out of him and he gasped for air, but he didn’t loosen his grip. Kelly managed to heave himself up and topple over backward, which put The Kid on the bottom. His head hit the floor hard when they landed, stunning him.

The Kid grabbed hold of Kelly’s left wrist with his right hand, and didn’t let go. Somehow he found the strength to squeeze harder. He knew he had cut off Kelly’s air, and if he could just manage to hang on, eventually the Irishman would pass out or die.

Kelly tried to fumble his gun from its holster. The Kid brought his knee up sharply and hit Kelly’s wrist. The revolver flew free and slid across the floor.

With a heave, The Kid rolled over and put Kelly underneath him. He planted a knee in Kelly’s back and hauled up harder against the Irishman’s neck. There was a chance he would snap Kelly’s spine, and if he did, it was perfectly all right with The Kid.

Before that could happen, Kelly finally went limp. Thinking that it might be a trick, The Kid kept the pressure on Kelly’s throat for another minute or two. When he let go at last, Kelly’s head fell forward and thudded against the floor.

The Kid checked for a pulse and found a weak, unsteady one in Kelly’s neck. The scalp hunter was still alive, but he was unconscious and likely to stay that way for a while. The Kid thought about killing him—it would take only a few blows with a gun to crush Kelly’s skull—but in the end decided against it. He had killed men in cold blood before, but only some of those responsible for the death of his wife.

He pushed himself up onto hands and knees, then heaved himself to his feet. As he did, he heard an all-too-familiar sound.

The metallic ratcheting of a revolver being cocked.

Chapter 27

Slowly, The Kid turned his head to look over his shoulder. Jess stood behind him. She had picked up Kelly’s gun, and was pointing it at The Kid as she held it in both hands. The barrel was rock-steady.

It was the first time he could recall a naked woman pointing a gun at him. It was a pretty unsettling experience.

“Jess, wait a minute. It’s me, Kid Morgan.”

“I know who you are.” Her voice was as steady as the barrel of the gun. “You’re the man who threw in with these scalp hunters.”

“Pretended to throw in with them. I only helped them so they’d bring me along and help me get to you and the other prisoners.”

What looked like doubt flickered in her eyes, but she wasn’t convinced yet. “Downstairs you told that one”—the gun jerked toward Kelly’s unconscious form for an instant, then went right back to pointing at The Kid—“that you didn’t care what happened to me.”

“What was I supposed to tell him? I couldn’t tell him the truth. I didn’t want him using the way I feel about you against either of us.”

“How do you feel about me?”

“I want to help you,” he answered without hesitation. He was human; the fact that she was nude wasn’t lost on him. But after everything she had gone through, he knew any thoughts of intimacy were the farthest thing from her mind. “That’s all. I want to help you and the other women get away from here.”

“What about the deal you have with that Mexican officer?” She packed a lot of scorn into the word deal.

The Kid shook his head. “That bargain was between Guzman and Kelly. The only promise I made was to myself, and now I’m making it to you. I’m going to help you get away.”

Finally, she lowered Kelly’s gun. Carefully, she looped her thumb over the hammer and let it down.

Then a shudder went through her and she took a deep breath in an obvious effort to keep her emotions under control. “I need something to wear. My clothes are ruined.”

“We’ll do something about that.” The Kid nodded. “For now, wrap the sheet around yourself.”

Jess used the gun to point at Kelly. “What about him?”

“I’ll make sure he can’t hurt you.”

“Are you going to kill him?” She asked the question in a cold, impersonal voice, as if the answer didn’t matter to her at all.

“No, I’m not going to kill him,” The Kid said, hoping he wouldn’t regret that decision.

He waited until Jess had wrapped one of the bed sheets around her, then tore strips from the other sheet to bind Kelly’s hands and feet. He yanked Kelly’s arms behind his back before he lashed the scalp hunter’s wrists together, and he pulled off the man’s boots so Kelly couldn’t bang the heels on the floor to summon help that way.

The last thing The Kid did was stuff another piece of sheet into Kelly’s mouth and bind it in place to serve as a gag.

While he was doing that, Jess watched him curiously and finally asked, “Why did you come all the way down here into Mexico after us? How did you even know what happened to us?”

He answered her second question first. “I saw the light from the burning wagons in the sky and was about to come back when three Apaches jumped me. They must have been watching the wagon camp and saw me leave that night, so a few of them followed me.”

“You killed them.”

It wasn’t a question, just a flat statement.

The Kid nodded anyway. “Yeah. By the time I got to the wagon camp, it was too late. The wagons were burned, and everybody was dead ... except Milo Farnum. Before he died, he told me what had happened and told me that the Apaches had carried off four prisoners. There was never any doubt in my mind that I’d come after you.”

“Scott ... ?”

“I’m sorry. He and Horace Dunlap and all the others died fighting.”

Jess closed her eyes and lowered her head for a moment. She shuddered again. But then she looked up again. “You didn’t answer my other question. Why did you come after us, Kid? Why was there never any doubt in your mind that you would? The four of us ... we don’t mean anything to you.”

“Everybody means something to somebody,” The Kid said. “If it had been my ... wife ... I would have wanted somebody to go after her and help her.”

“You say that like you’ve got a wife.”

“I did have.”

She didn’t press him for more details, and he was grateful.

“What are you going to do now? Swing in some other window like a giant bat?”

The Kid had been thinking about that, but before he could answer, a soft knock sounded on the door and took him by surprise. He glanced at Jess, but wide-eyed, she shook her head to indicate that she didn’t know who it could be, either.

“Señor Kelly?” a man’s voice called tentatively through the door. The Kid recognized it as belonging to Luis, Guzman’s aide. “Capitán Guzman sent me to find out if you would like a bottle of brandy or anything else we might provide.”

This was a stroke of luck, The Kid thought. He beckoned Jess closer and whispered, “Let him in.”

“What?”

The Kid bent and pulled Kelly’s still senseless form behind the bed where it wouldn’t be visible from the door.

“Let him in,” he said again. “And let that sheet drop a little. He’s a man.”

Her mouth hardened into a grim line. She let the sheet fall around her midsection so that her breasts were completely bare. “How about this? Enough of a distraction?”

“We’ll find out.” In stocking feet, The Kid moved silently to the door and stood so that he would be behind it when it opened.

For a second he thought Jess was about to laugh, and he took that as a good sign. She hadn’t lost her nerve. She called to Luis, “Just a second,” and went over to the door.

When she opened it, The Kid heard Luis say in a flustered voice, “Señorita, I ... I ...”

“Come on in and bring the brandy,” she told him.

She stepped back, and Luis came into the room. The Kid was ready. Striking like a cat, he brought the butt of his gun down on the back of Luis’s head. He pitched forward, and Jess let go of the sheet completely to grab the bottle of brandy he dropped before it could hit the floor and shatter.

The Kid eased the door closed. “He’s not that much bigger than you. Get his boots and uniform off him and put them on.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t suppose there’s any way to get them fumigated first.”

“I’m afraid not. Your other alternative is to ride away from here naked.”

“I’ll take the uniform.” Jess bent over and started pulling Luis’s boots off, then paused. “Kid, he looks dead.”

The Kid had noticed the clerk’s glassy-eyed stare, too. “I guess I hit him a little too hard.”

“That’s a shame,” Jess muttered. “He didn’t seem quite as bad as the rest.”

“He worked for Guzman,” The Kid pointed out. “That means he helped sell hundreds of helpless prisoners into slavery. Maybe more than that.”

“That’s true. Good riddance.”

While Jess was getting dressed, The Kid went back to the door and eased it open a crack. He put his eye to the gap and looked along the corridor as best he could. A Rurale lounged at the landing, as if standing guard but not being too diligent about it.

Still, the man must have seen Luis go into the room. After a while he might wonder why the clerk didn’t come back out.

“How do I look?” Jess asked.

The Kid glanced around. The uniform was too big on her, but not by much. “It’ll do.” His eyes narrowed in thought. “Blow out that lamp.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It’s a matter of what you’re going to do. You’re about to join the Rurales.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Blow out the lamp so it’s dark in here. The only light in the corridor is down at the far end, so that guard won’t be able to see very well.”

Jess lifted a hand to her blond hair. “I think it’ll still be light enough for him to tell that I’m not Luis, or whatever his name was.”

“If you stepped all the way out, he might. But you’re just going to put an arm out and motion him down here. He’ll see the uniform and think you’re Luis, all right.”

“I don’t know,” Jess said dubiously. “Seems like a long chance to me.”

“That’s the only kind we have these days.”

“I guess you’re right.” She bent over and blew out the lamp. “If I can get him to come down here, what then?”

“Leave that to me,” The Kid said.

Jess went to the door and opened it. She put her right foot just outside. “Hsst!” Extending her arm into the corridor, she crooked her fingers in a beckoning motion at the guard.

The Kid heard footsteps clumping along the hall.

“Stay there,” he whispered to Jess. Just enough light penetrated from the corridor for him to see the tense, strained lines in which her face was set.

With a coarse chuckle, the guard asked in Spanish, “What is it? Does the American want an audience to watch?”

“Pull back,” The Kid breathed. “Slow.”

Jess retreated into the room, and a second later the guard’s bulk stood in the doorway. The Kid’s hands shot out, grabbed the lapels of the man’s uniform jacket, and hauled him into the room, swinging him around so that he crashed into the wall.

The guard was too surprised to put up a fight. The Kid grabbed him by the throat, cutting off any sound, and lifted a knee into the man’s groin.

Jess stepped close to the struggling figures and plucked a knife from behind the guard’s belt. She was about to stab him when The Kid saw what she was doing and knocked her away with a shoulder. He kneed the guard a second time and forced him to the floor, still choking the life out of him.

A few minutes later, he felt a shudder go through the man’s body. He checked for a pulse but didn’t find one.

Jess closed the door, then came over and whispered, “Why didn’t you let me stab him?”

“Because that would have gotten blood on his uniform, and we need this uniform, too.”

“What ... Oh.”

The Kid was already pulling the dead man’s boots off. The pearl-gray trousers and jacket came next. He pulled off his own clothes and donned the uniform, including the boots. He buckled the guard’s gunbelt around his hips. When he picked up the steeple-crowned sombrero from the floor where it had fallen and settled it on his head, he asked Jess, “What do you think?”

“You’ll pass for one of them ... from a distance.”

“I’m hoping that’s good enough.”

“What if somebody heard that crash when you threw him against the wall?”

“They’re not likely to think anything about it. They’ll just assume Kelly was getting rough with you.”

“He would have, too, the son of a bitch. Can I kick him? Maybe break his nose?”

“We don’t have time. Guzman will start wondering pretty soon what’s taking Luis so long. We have to get the other women and get out of here.”

He turned toward the door, but Jess stopped him by putting her hand on his arm. “Kid ... I appreciate what you’re doing, and Lord knows I’d rather die fighting than go through what they’ve got in mind for us ... but we’re not getting out of here and you know it. We’re going to get killed, all of us.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

She smiled, leaned closer to him, and brushed her lips across his in a brief kiss. “Then let’s go.”

Chapter 28

The Kid didn’t know whether Valdez had finished scalping the dead Apaches in the courtyard, so the Mexican was something of a wild card. But he would deal with that once he had taken care of Chess, who was in the next room with Violet Price.

Easing the door open, The Kid checked the hallway. It was empty, so he stepped out, looked back at Jess, giving her an encouraging nod, and walked quietly along the corridor to the next door.

The Kid knocked softly. An irritated-sounding Chess asked from inside, “What is it, damn it?”

Making his voice guttural and hard to recognize—he hoped—The Kid said, “El Capitán Guzman ...”

His voice trailed off into a mumble as he slipped his Colt from its holster. Quick footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. Chess jerked it open, and saw what appeared to be one of the Rurales standing there. “What the hell does Guzman—”

The Kid’s arm lashed out and the gun in his hand smacked against Chess’s skull. The scalp hunter, who was wearing only the bottom half of a pair of long underwear, folded up and hit the floor, out cold.

“Oh, my God,” Violet Price said in a dull voice as The Kid stepped over Chess’s body into the room. “Not another—”

She stopped short as he lifted his head and let her see his face under the wide brim of the sombrero.

“Mr. Morgan!”

The Kid reached down, caught hold of one of Chess’s ankles, and dragged him into the room so he could close the door. By the time he turned back to Violet, she had pulled up the sheet on the bed where she sat and wrapped it around her.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“As ... as all right as I’m going to be. But you”—anger darkened her eyes—“you took my Elsie—”

The Kid held up a hand to stop her. “Elsie’s fine. I didn’t hurt her. In fact I’m going to help all of you ladies get out of here.”

“But you ... you’re one of those awful men ...”

“I let them think that,” The Kid explained. “Really I’ve been trying to catch up with you and the others ever since the Apaches attacked the wagon camp.”

A shudder went through her at those awful memories. “My husband ... the rest of my children. . .”

“I know it’s hard, but don’t think about them right now. You and Elsie are alive, and that’s the most important thing. You can grieve later.”

Violet swallowed and managed to nod. “You’re right. I have to be strong ... for Elsie.”

“And she’ll be strong for you.” The Kid nodded toward Chess. “I’m going to tie him up and gag him so he can’t cause any trouble. As soon as I’m gone, get dressed. I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.” He inclined his head toward the next room. “Do you know if Valdez is in there with Leah yet?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything, but ... I wasn’t really paying attention. I was trying to make myself ... not be here in my mind. You know what I mean?”

The Kid nodded. “I know.” He got to work trussing up Chess.

When he was finished, he checked the hall and slipped out of the room. He went to the next door and leaned close to it, listening intently in an attempt to determine if Valdez and Leah Gabbert were in there.

He got his answer in the form of a frantic scream.

The Kid didn’t wait. His hand shot to the knob and twisted it. The door wasn’t locked. He threw it open and rushed into the room.

Valdez was on the bed with Leah. The redheaded girl was struggling frantically underneath him, swatting at him with hysterical but ineffectual blows. Valdez glanced over his shoulder, saw the uniform-clad figure coming into the room, and obviously mistook the newcomer for one of Guzman’s Rurales.

“Ah, muchacho!” Valdez said. “Give me a hand with this one. She is loco, but if you help me, you can have a turn with her, too.”

The Kid moved swiftly to the side of the bed. The leering smile on Valdez’s ugly face disappeared, replaced with a look of startled recognition. The look vanished as The Kid slammed the gun in his hand across Valdez’s face, crushing bone and cartilage and tearing flesh. Blood spurted from the man’s broken nose and welled from his mouth as he slumped on top of Leah.

The Kid grabbed Valdez’s arm and rolled him off her, onto the floor, where he landed with a solid thump. Leah screamed again. She didn’t recognize him, The Kid knew, but saw him as another menacing figure who wanted to hurt her.

He had to quiet her down and calm her, but wasn’t sure how to. At that moment Jess hurried into the room and went directly to the bed. She sat down and gathered Leah into her arms, talking softly in a crooning voice.

She glanced up at The Kid. “I thought you might have trouble with her, so I risked being spotted. There was nobody out there to see me.”

The Kid picked up Valdez’s sombrero from the chair where it sat along with the rest of the Mexican’s clothes and tossed it on the bed next to Jess. “You can tuck your hair up into that. It’s not exactly the same style as the Rurales wear, but maybe it’s close enough to get by for a little while.”

She nodded her understanding. Leah had stopped screaming and just whimpered as Jess consoled her.

“Stay here with her,” The Kid said. “I’ll fetch Mrs. Price and Elsie.”

“Then what?” Jess asked.

“We’ll try to make it to the corral and get some horses.”

“How’s that going to help us? The gates are closed, and those Rurales aren’t going to open them for us.”

“Let me worry about that,” The Kid said.

And in fact he had already been worrying about it. He had the glimmer of an idea, but so far that was all.

He left Jess and Leah and went next door. Violet Price had pulled her tattered dress back on and had Chess’s gun in her hand when The Kid came in. He motioned for her to lower the revolver.

“I know how to shoot,” she said. “My ... my husband made sure of that before we came west. I thought it would be a good idea to take this man’s gun with me when we leave.”

“It’s an excellent idea. Are you ready?”

She hefted the revolver. “I have everything I need ... except my daughter.”

“I’m going to get her right now.” The Kid checked the corridor and motioned her out. “Go next door with Jess and Leah. I’ll be right back with Elsie.”

When he opened the door into the room where he had taken Elsie earlier, he didn’t see her. Alarm went through him for a second as he whispered, “Elsie?”

“Oh, thank God!” The exclamation came from behind the door, then Elsie appeared around it. “I didn’t know it was you. I thought maybe I should try to hide ...” Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened. “You’re dressed like one of the Mexicans!”

“That’s going to help us get out of here,” The Kid told her. “Come on. Your mother’s waiting.”

“Is she all right?” Elsie asked anxiously.

“She is.”

The next few minutes were busy ones as The Kid gathered the four women. He gave Valdez’s revolver to Jess. The Rurales guard he had killed hadn’t been carrying a handgun, but he had a rifle, so The Kid turned that weapon over to Elsie and showed her how to shoot it. All of them stuffed as much extra ammunition as they could into their pockets.

He didn’t give Leah a gun. With the mental state she was in, she didn’t need to be armed. It was going to be difficult enough just getting her to cooperate and do as she was told, although she had calmed down considerably since Jess had comforted her.

The Kid went to the window and studied the compound. It was quiet, with most of the Rurales having already turned in. There were still guards on the walls.

He pulled one of the sheets off the bed and started tearing it into strips.

“Give me a hand,” he told Jess. “We’re going to make a rope and climb down from this window.”

“I’m not sure Leah can do that,” Jess said.

“You’ll have to talk her into it. Trying to go out the front door is too risky.”

Jess and Elsie started tearing up the other sheet. It didn’t take long for The Kid to braid and knot the strips together and fashion a makeshift rope that was sturdy enough to support them. He tied one end to the bed, then stood next to the window, holding the rope.

“I’ll climb down first,” Jess said. “Leah, you’ll come right after me, won’t you?”

Leah’s face was tear-streaked and her eyes were still wide and rolling like those of a spooked mustang, but she nodded and seemed to understand what Jess had said. Jess smiled and patted her on the shoulder.

Without hesitation, Jess swung out the window and went down the makeshift rope hand over hand. Violet and Elsie helped Leah through the opening. The Kid held his breath, but Leah managed to climb down into Jess’s welcoming arms.

Elsie went next, then Violet. Jess kept them all pressed close to the building in the shadows. When all four women were on the ground, The Kid leaned out the window and handed the rifle down, then pulled up the knotted bedsheet and left it in the room. He didn’t want the rope hanging out to attract attention. He climbed through the window, hung from his hands, and dropped the five or six feet to the ground, landing agilely.

“The corral is over there,” he whispered to Jess as he pointed out the enclosure. “The four of you head for it, and stay in the shadows as much as you can. I’m hoping that if anybody sees you, they’ll take you for one of the Rurales and think that you’re escorting the prisoners to the barracks.”

“Why would they be taking us to—Oh.”

“Yeah, it would be just like Guzman to let his men have some sport once Kelly and the others were through with you.”

“Some sport,” Jess said bitterly. “The bastards.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. I’ll join you at the corral in a few minutes.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make us a way out of here.”

She was puzzled, but didn’t ask questions. While she herded the other three women toward the corral, The Kid headed for the powder magazine.

The stone building stood next to the wall of the compound, with only a narrow gap between the two. The Kid hoped it wasn’t locked.

Luck was with him there. The door was latched but not locked. He slipped inside. The darkness was almost absolute, but he couldn’t risk striking a match with that much powder around. Working by feel, he found two kegs. He used his knife to pry the lids off both and reached inside to find the gritty, slightly greasy feel of gunpowder.

He had left the door open a crack. Looking through the gap and not seeing anyone, he moved outside with the kegs. It took only a moment to shove both kegs into the gap between the magazine and the wall.

With his background in railroad construction, he had worked in the past with dynamite and blasting powder. Gunpowder was a little different, but it would still explode. Dipping a hand into one of the kegs, he laid a trail of powder to the corner of the building. It would burn fast, so he wouldn’t have much time.

An idea occurred to him. Patting the pockets of the uniform he had taken off the dead Rurale, he found a thin black cigarillo in one of them. The Kid had put his own matches in one of the pockets. He took one out and leaned into the narrow opening behind the magazine so the sudden flare of light wouldn’t be noticed as he struck the match.

He puffed the cigar into life and quickly smoked it down to about half its length. The coal on its end glowed redly as he set it on the ground with the unlit end in the powder trail. That would give him a little more time, but he had to rely on the cigarillo not going out before it reached the powder. If that happened ...

If that happened he would think of something else, The Kid told himself. Leaving the burning cigarillo and the gunpowder behind, he hurried toward the corral.

The women were waiting beside a shed where feed and tack were stored. Jess hissed at The Kid as he came up to let him know where they were.

“Stay here,” he told them. “I’ll saddle some horses for us.”

With another glance at the guard towers and the parapet, he opened the gate and slipped into the corral. The Rurales still had their attention focused outward. The idea that there could be a threat inside the compound obviously hadn’t occurred to them.

The Kid found his own saddle in the tack room that opened into the corral. He didn’t waste any time getting it on his dun. Having somebody poking around inside the corral in the dark made the other horses a little skittish. He hoped they wouldn’t move around so much they attracted the attention of the guards.

As he worked, he wished he knew whether or not that cigarillo was still burning down toward the powder. All he could do was get some other horses saddled and wait.

When he had the dun and four other horses ready to ride, he held their reins and led them over to the gate. He handed the reins of two of the horses to Jess. “You’ll probably have to lead Leah’s horse. Can you do that?”

“If it means getting out of here, you’re damned right I can.”

The Kid grinned in the darkness. Jess’s fighting spirit had come back, and that was good.

Because they were liable to need it.

Violet and Elsie climbed onto a couple of mounts, and Jess urged Leah onto another one. She and The Kid were about to swing up into their saddles when a thunderous roar split the night and shook the ground. Jess staggered a little and exclaimed, “What was that?”

“With any luck, our way out of here,” The Kid said. “Follow me!”

Chapter 29

A ball of flame shot into the air from the explosion, lighting up the compound as bright as a day in hell. As The Kid led the women on horseback across the courtyard, he wasn’t surprised that the magazine was still standing. The stone structure had been built to contain an explosion. But with the magazine on one side, the force of the blast had to go somewhere. He hoped that it had blown a gaping hole in the wall.

He glanced over his shoulder to check on the women and saw all four right behind him, riding with the urgency of life and death. Jess had her reins and also those of Leah’s horse held tightly in her hands. Violet and Elsie were close behind them.

The guards on the wall shouted alarms—as if everybody within a couple of miles hadn’t heard the explosion—but they didn’t start shooting. They were confused by the fact that two of the riders appeared to be fellow Rurales. Those few moments they held their fire were invaluable to The Kid and the women.

Another glance back showed The Kid another good thing. He had left the corral gate open behind him, and the rest of the horses were so frightened by the blast they were streaming out of the corral and running wildly around the compound. As herd animals will do, they started following the horses on which The Kid and the women were mounted.

If he could lead them out of there, The Kid thought, it would take quite a while for the Rurales to round them up and put together any sort of pursuit.

He rounded the magazine and saw the big hole in the wall, at least eight feet wide. Rubble littered the ground, but other than that the way was open. The Kid leaped the dun over the chunks of masonry. Behind him, the other horses sailed over the obstacles as well.

They were out of the compound. Hot night air blew in The Kid’s face as he swung the dun toward the lights of San Remo. Behind them, guns finally began to pop as the Rurales realized what was going on.

The dun was faster than any of the other horses. The Kid held him back a little to keep him from running off and leaving the women. He waved them on and shouted encouragement, fearing that at any moment he would hear one of them cry out in pain as a blindly-fired shot found a target. Such a hit would be pure luck—bad luck—but just as dangerous as a well-aimed bullet.

But the only sounds that filled the night were the pounding hoofbeats and the gunshots that were dwindling in the distance behind them. So far, all the women seemed to have made it through the daring escape unharmed.

Circling around San Remo, they headed east toward the mountains, with The Kid in the lead steering by the stars. When they reached the slopes, he pulled the dun back to a walk and called to the others to slow down. After a minute, he stopped.

“What are you doing?” Jess demanded. “We have to keep moving!”

“Quiet,” The Kid said. “Let me listen.”

He didn’t hear any shots, but more important, he didn’t hear any hoofbeats. The Rurales weren’t coming after them yet. At least, they weren’t within earshot.

“All right,” he told the women. “We’ll walk the horses for a few minutes, then run them again. We’ll have to ride like that, or they’ll get so worn out they won’t be able to go on. That won’t do us any good.”

“That makes sense, I suppose,” Jess said grudgingly. “I still can’t believe we actually got out of that place, but now that we are, I want to put as much distance between us and it as we can.”

“We will,” The Kid told her.

He had a hard time believing they had escaped, too. Luck had been with them so far.

The bad thing about luck was that you couldn’t count on it. It could turn on you at a moment’s notice, without any warning, and usually with tragic results. It had happened to him.

They moved at a steady pace, climbing toward the pass. The Kid heard Jess muttering and knew she was impatient. They could let the horses run again once they were on the other side of the pass.

It was a long way to the border. Would their mounts be able to last that long? The Kid hoped he could find the waterholes where he and the scalphunters had stopped on the way to San Remo. If he couldn’t, there was no chance they could make it across that inferno of a desert between the mountains and the border.

His canteens still hung on his saddle, and one was full, the other about half. He had some jerky in his saddlebags. That wasn’t much for a journey that might take several days. He might be able to shoot some game along the way ... if they came across any animals other than lizards and snakes. It was possible they wouldn’t.

But worrying about everything that could go wrong was a waste of time. The important thing was to keep moving. They were in a race to the border, and the stakes were life and death.

The Kid kept them moving all night, except for brief halts to rest the horses. He could tell the animals were tired, and soon they would need to rest for a longer period of time. He didn’t want to stop until morning, when he could see if anyone was coming after them.

By the time the sun began to peek over the eastern horizon, they had reached the saddle where he and Kelly and the others had ambushed the Apaches. The stench of rotting flesh hung over the area and made the women grimace and gag.

“Don’t look at them,” The Kid advised. “The buzzards have been after them, and it’s not pretty.”

“After what they did to us, I’m glad they’re dead,” Jess said. “It doesn’t bother me a bit to see them.”

“Well, it bothers me,” Violet said. “Come on, Elsie.”

The Kid said, “Jess, give Leah’s reins to Elsie. If you’re all right, you can give me a hand.”

“Doing what?” Jess asked. “They’ve already been scalped.”

“There might be food in their gear,” The Kid explained. “I intend to have a look. We can use any ammunition they have that will fit our guns, too.”

For the next half hour, The Kid and Jess poked through the packs dropped by the Apaches when bushwhack bullets cut them down. They found strips of dried meat—probably horse meat, The Kid thought, but he wouldn’t tell the women that—along with rifles and ammunition enough for all of them. He gathered up a number of canteens, too. Most had water in them, and he could refill them at the first waterhole they came to.

He also spent some time with his telescope, scanning the foothills and mountains to the west. After a while, he caught a glimpse of the sun reflecting off something just below the pass. It had to be metal of some sort, and that meant pursuit.

“They’re back there,” he told Jess. “Quite a few hours behind us, though, so we’re lucky there. I was hoping it would take them a while to round up enough horses. We’d better get moving.”

“Can we stay ahead of them long enough to reach the border?”

“That’s a good question,” The Kid said with a faint smile. “Only one way to find out.”

They moved on in the rising heat, following the cutoff through the brush-choked wash that Kelly had used before. The Kid thought there was a good chance Kelly and the others would be with the Rurales, so he and the women couldn’t afford to go the long way around the way the Apaches had.

By midday they were all soaked with sweat and the horses were lathered and staggering. The Kid called a halt for an hour and told the women to crawl under some of the brush to take advantage of its shade.

“Watch out for snakes,” he warned them.

“Aren’t you going to rest?” Jess asked.

“Next time. Somebody needs to stand watch.”

“Give me half an hour, then I’ll spell you.”

The Kid started to tell her that wasn’t necessary, then nodded. “I’m obliged.”

“We’d either be back there in that compound or on our way to Mexico City if it wasn’t for you,” Jess said. “That’s a debt we’ll never be able to pay back.”

“Nobody’s expecting you to,” The Kid said.

The women fell asleep right away. The Kid woke Jess thirty minutes later. As soon as he lay down and closed his eyes he was asleep, too.

Getting out of the sun and dozing, even for half an hour, made him feel better.

Jess woke the others. They mounted up and headed out again. When they reached the end of the wash, The Kid said, “We’re going to stop here for a few hours and wait out the worst of the heat. The rest has helped the horses, but not enough. We can make better time by traveling at night.”

Grim-faced, Jess asked, “Do you think those bastards who are after us will stop?”

“I hope so, but even if they don’t, we don’t have any choice. The horses are about to drop, and we sure can’t get away from the Rurales on foot.”

“It’ll be all right, Jess,” Elsie said. “I’m sure Mr. Morgan knows what he’s doing.”

“I’m sure he does, too,” Jess agreed, but added under her breath, “But there may not be any way out of this.”

She was right about that, but The Kid didn’t feel like giving up.

They rested in the shade of the banks until the sun went down, sleeping and gnawing on jerky to sustain their strength. When the sun finally disappeared behind the mountains, they mounted up and The Kid led them into the desert.

“There’s a waterhole in some rocks about twenty miles north of here, if I remember right. We can make it before morning.”

“Unless you get lost and we miss it,” Jess said.

The Kid grinned. “Have a little faith.”

“That’s not ... easy to do.”

He grew solemn as he nodded. “I know. But we need to do it anyway.”

He was a fine one to talk, he told himself, after the way he had just about given up on life. He still felt that way sometimes, but for now, he had a goal that kept him going—to get the women safely across the border.

That night was a challenge to everything he had learned from Frank Morgan about using the stars as a guide. The Kid thought he had them going in the right direction, but he couldn’t be absolutely certain. If they missed the waterhole, as Jess had pointed out, they might not ever make it to the next one.

Long hours into the night, when the moon had risen and was on its downward sweep, The Kid caught sight of something dark up ahead. His heart leaped at the possibility that it was the rocks where the waterhole was located. He couldn’t be sure so he didn’t say anything to the others.

Then the horses suddenly lifted their heads and their ears pricked forward, and he knew they had scented the water. Relief flooded through him.

“Let’s go,” he said. “The waterhole is right in front of us.”

It was a crude tank formed by a rocky hollow in the ground. As he recalled from the previous journey, the water was stagnant and not pleasant to drink. But it was wet, and that was the most important thing. The horses were almost running by the time they got there.

The Kid dismounted hurriedly and grabbed the reins of the other mounts so they wouldn’t drink too much and founder. Jess and Elsie helped him haul the horses back.

Violet had to do the same with Leah, who tried to plunge her head into the little pool and drink and drink. Eventually, they all got their fill of the brackish water.

Leah sat back beside the pool and looked up at The Kid. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan.”

For the first time, he heard coherence in her voice. She knew who he was and what was going on around her. That was a big improvement.

They all rested. The Kid and Jess took turns standing guard again. Along toward morning, Jess woke him and said quietly, “Kid, I think you’d better look at this.”

He stood up and walked with her to the edge of the boulders around the waterhole. Across the desert behind them, several miles away, an orange light flickered.

“Is that a campfire?” Jess asked.

“Yeah,” The Kid said. “They’re going to have coffee and a hot breakfast. They don’t care if we know they’re back there.”

“Why not?”

“Because they think there’s no way we can beat them to the border. They think it doesn’t matter if we know they’re after us. Guzman and Kelly probably hope we see the fire, and that it makes us nervous.”

“Are you nervous, Kid?”

“No reason to be. We either make it or we don’t. Either way we gave it a good try.”

“Is that all that matters in life? Giving it a good try?”

“Sometimes that’s all that’s left.”

Jess didn’t say anything, but after a moment she moved closer, and her head rested against his shoulder.

Chapter 30

The Kid and Jess didn’t stand there for long. After a few moments, he roused the others from sleep and got them in their saddles. Weariness gripped everyone, but he wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to gain a little ground on the pursuers.

It had crossed his mind that the appearance of the fire was a trick. Kelly, Guzman, or whoever was in charge could have built the fire, then left it burning in an attempt to lull their quarry into thinking they had stopped for a while.

Either way, The Kid knew it was time for them to get moving again.

Once the sun was up, the tracks left by the Apache war party as it traveled southward were visible again. Time and the elements were starting to blur the hoofprints and footprints, but The Kid could still see them. It was an easy trail to backtrack.

He had the women push their mounts into a ground-eating lope. Leah had recovered enough of her senses to handle her own horse. The Kid sensed a fragility about her, as if her tenuous grip on sanity might slip again, but she was doing better. The rest just needed to keep an eye on her.

After a while they walked the horses, then urged them to a faster pace again. Throughout the long day they kept that up.

They came to the deep canyon where the Apaches had laid the trap for anyone following them, where The Kid had thrown in with Kelly and the other scalp hunters. Now The Kid called a halt and had everyone dismount.

“You can see the trail that goes down this side of the canyon and then back up the other side.” He pointed out the zigzagging ledge. “We’ll take it on foot. Jess and I will lead all the horses.”

Before they started down the trail, The Kid paused long enough to take out his telescope and scan the desert behind them. His jaw tightened as he spotted the haze of dust hanging in the air several miles back.

Even though the reaction was a slight one, Jess spotted it. “What is it, Kid? Do you see them?”

“Not them, but the dust their horses are kicking up.”

“Then we don’t have any time to waste, do we?” Jess took Leah’s reins in addition to her own. “Let’s go.”

She went first, then the other three women. The Kid brought up the rear, leading the dun and the other two horses.

When they reached the bottom of the canyon, Leah said, “It’s so cool and shady down here. I wish we could just stay here.”

“So do I, honey,” Violet told her, “but we have to keep moving.”

Leah pouted a little, but didn’t give them any trouble. They followed the trail up to the north rim of the canyon, climbing back into the heat.

This great gash in the earth is an encouraging landmark, The Kid thought. They weren’t that far from the border. They might even be able to reach it by nightfall.

But while they were descending into the canyon, then climbing out of it, the pursuers had been covering more ground. The dust was closer, The Kid saw when he looked back. It was an actual cloud, not just a haze in the air.

Kelly and the others had to cross the canyon, too, and while they were doing that, The Kid and the women would make up some of the ground they had lost. But the horses were awfully tired, and their water was starting to run low even though he had rationed it carefully. There was another waterhole between there and the border. The Kid was counting on it to give them the boost of strength they would need to make the final run. They mounted the horses and headed in that direction.

The waterhole was even smaller and more brackish than the other one, but when they got there, the horses sucked up what water they could, drinking the hole practically dry.

“They need it more than we do,” The Kid said, his voice raspy because his throat, tongue, and lips were so dry. “There’s a good well in Sago, and we’ll be there before too much longer.”

While the other women were resting, Jess came over to him and said quietly, “That dust cloud’s closer than ever, Kid. Those bastards must be running their horses into the ground.”

“Or they brought along extra mounts and have been switching back and forth. I’ve been worried about that all along.”

Jess grimaced. “I didn’t even think about that. That’s how they’ve been able to catch up.”

“We should have done that, too. I just wasn’t sure we could handle extra horses in addition to the ones we’ve been riding.”

“You mean you weren’t sure we could handle them. And you’re right, we probably couldn’t have. They would have gotten away from us.”

“Nothing’s perfect,” The Kid said with a shadow of a smile.

“That’s the truth.”

He let the others rest for another minute or two, then said, “All right, everybody mount up again. We have to move fast now.”

“It’s hot,” Leah said. “Can’t we find someplace shady and wait until it cools off?”

“I wish we could,” The Kid told her, “but we don’t have any choice.”

“Come on, Leah,” Elsie said. “We can do a little more.”

Once they were all moving, The Kid brought up the rear, pushing them along as fast as he dared. He looked at the sun, quartering down toward the horizon. They were still following the Apaches’ trail, but he could tell that the tracks were angling toward the northwest.

The war party had circled around the settlement of Sago, he recalled. That had added some distance to their trek, distance that The Kid and his companions couldn’t afford. Not only that, but if they crossed into New Mexico Territory away from the town, Guzman might be angry enough to disregard the border and come after them.

The Kid didn’t think Guzman would bring his Rurales all the way into Sago. Such an invasion of U.S. soil could cause a lot of problems between the States and Mexico and draw too much attention to Guzman’s activities. His bosses in Mexico City were willing to let him do what he wanted, but they might not be so inclined if he caused a war, or even the threat of a war.

Those thoughts flashed through The Kid’s mind as he pushed the dun past the other horses.

“Follow me,” he said as he turned away from the Apaches’ trail, heading what he hoped was due north. That would take them to Sago by the fastest possible route.

He was guiding them by dead reckoning, and if he reckoned wrong ... The thought brought a grim smile to his mouth for a second.

Time was of the essence. Minutes passed. The sun dropped lower in the sky. There was not a bit of air moving, as if the world held its breath, but not even that could stop time.

Then Jess cried, “Kid!”

He reined in and looked back. The dust cloud was considerably closer, close enough that he could make out the riders at the base of it.

This is it, The Kid thought. They had to make a run for it and hope the horses had enough strength and stamina left to get them where they were going.

“All right,” he told the women. “Gallop straight ahead. Don’t look back. Just keep going no matter what you hear. Don’t stop until you’re in the town—the north side of the town, past the public well in the middle of the street. That’s the border.”

“What are you going to do, Kid?” Jess asked.

“I’ll be right behind you, don’t worry.”

“I don’t believe you. You’re going to try to slow them down, aren’t you?”

“I have the best horse.”

“I’m staying with you.”

He controlled the flare of anger that went through him. “We’re wasting time arguing. Jess, you lead the way. Take these women back to where they’ll be safe.”

“Kid ...”

“Otherwise it’s all for nothing,” he said quietly.

She gave him a look that was half-angry, half-stricken, then sighed in resignation and nodded. “Come on,” she said to the other women. “We have to make these horses run!”

Jess set off at a gallop with the other three women trailing close behind her. The Kid sat there on the dun, looking back and forth between the women and the dust cloud raised by the pursuers, for a minute or so before he swung down from the saddle.

His Sharps was still in its sheath, strapped to the saddle under the right stirrup. He pulled it out and reached into the saddlebags for ammunition. Frank had told him that rifles like that were favorites of the old-time buffalo hunters because of their range and power.

He needed some of that range and power now, The Kid thought.

He loaded the Sharps and moved around the dun so he could rest the barrel across the saddle. The Kid had practiced in the past, so the horse knew what was going on and stood still. Resting his cheek against the stock, The Kid aimed at the dark mass of riders about half a mile away. He angled the barrel upward slightly to make the bullet carry better.

Then he held his breath and squeezed the trigger.

The boom of the Sharps rolled across the desert. The rifle’s heavy kick made The Kid take a step back even though he had braced himself. He caught his balance and peered toward the onrushing horsemen. They kept coming ...

Suddenly, there was a disturbance among the riders. The Kid was too far away to make out any details, but it seemed the men had paused and started to mill around.

He opened the Sharps, slapped another cartridge in the breech, aimed, and fired.

He didn’t wait to see the results. He reloaded right away and fired a third time. The unbroken line of pursuers definitely had stopped and become more jagged as men tried to control nervously dancing horses, while at the same time glancing at the sky and wondering if the next slug to fall from the heavens would have their name on it.

The Kid didn’t expect to stop Guzman, Kelly, and the others. But by the time the riders started charging toward him again, he had fired three more rounds and inflicted some damage on them—he hoped.

More important, he had slowed them down for several minutes, giving Jess and the other women time to get closer to the border.

The Kid shoved the buffalo gun back in its sheath and pulled the Winchester. The repeater didn’t have the range of the Sharps, but if he waited a minute, the pursuers would be in range.

“Won’t be long now, fella,” he said softly to the dun. “Just a minute or two, and you’ll be able to run again. Run for all you’re worth.”

He took several deep breaths. The sun was about to touch the mountains to the west. Its glare, redder than ever because it was low in the sky, washed over the landscape. Maybe this was what hell looked like, The Kid thought. He was sure he would find out someday.

The Winchester cracked as he levered off shot after shot until the fifteen-round magazine was empty.

As he lowered the rifle, he saw a little plume of dust and dirt erupt from the ground off to his left. He saw a rock jump in the air to his right. Bullets were hitting around him. The pursuers had started returning his fire.

“Time to go,” he told the dun. He jammed the Winchester back in the boot and swung up into the saddle. As he leaned forward, he heeled the horse into a run.

The dun stretched his legs and flashed across the ground. The sombrero flew off The Kid’s head and sailed away. He let it go without worrying about it. The need for deception was long since past. All that mattered now was speed.

The sun started to sink behind the peaks. Long shadows stretched across the desert.

And in one of those shadows ... the twinkle of lights.

Sago.

Had to be, because that was the only settlement in those parts. The Kid sent the dun in that direction, hoping that Jess and the other women had found the town. He didn’t see any sign of them ahead of him. Maybe they were already safely there.

He turned his head to look over his shoulder. The dun was running gallantly, but The Kid thought the pursuers were closer. They were cutting the gap because their horses were fresher, even if only by a little.

The settlement was half a mile away. But the Rurales and the scalp hunters were only a quarter mile behind him, The Kid estimated. It would be close, very close.

Even if Guzman and his men stopped short of the border, those same restraints didn’t mean anything to Kelly, Chess, Valdez, and Mateo. They might chase The Kid all the way into Sago. They might even try to find the women and take them prisoner again. There was no real law in this border settlement to stop them.

The Kid was the only one who could stop them, and he’d probably have to kill them to do it.

On they pounded in the deadly race. The sun was completely behind the mountains, and dusk began to settle quickly over the landscape. More lights appeared in Sago.

When The Kid looked back again, the riders were only a couple hundred yards behind him. Muzzle flashes twinkled like fireflies in the twilight as they threw lead at him.

The Kid was close enough to the town to be able to make out the buildings. He could even see the well with its water tank and trough in the middle of the street. People were gathered on the other side of it, and from the size of the crowd, he knew that Jess and the other women had reached the settlement and told everyone what was going on. Relief flooded through him at that realization.

It also appeared to The Kid that most of the inhabitants of the southern side of town had retreated north of the well. They didn’t trust the Rurales. The federal police had a reputation for ruthlessness and brutality.

The Kid felt the hot breath of a bullet as it hummed past his ear. It was impossible to shoot a gun with any degree of accuracy from the back of a galloping horse, but a lucky hit was always possible.

The dun’s sides heaved as he thundered on, running the race of his life. The southernmost buildings of the settlement flashed past. Another few seconds and The Kid would reach the border.

The dun collapsed from exhaustion, tumbling to the ground in a wild confusion of flailing legs. The Kid kicked his feet free of the stirrups just in time so he wasn’t crushed.

He found himself sailing through the air, crashing down a second later with stunning force.

The hard landing knocked the breath out of him and left him gasping for air as he rolled over a couple times and came to a stop on his belly. He lifted his head and saw the riders bearing down on him, close enough to recognize Guzman. The Rurale commander had led the pursuit himself, as The Kid expected he might. Riding next to Guzman was Enrique Kelly, with the other scalp hunters close behind.

There was nothing like having several dozen killers thundering toward him for clearing a man’s mind. The Kid surged to his feet and slapped leather. His Colt had stayed in its holster when he fell, and it came out roaring and spitting fire and lead.

He ran for the well—the closest cover. Slugs whined around his head and kicked up dust at his feet. The water trough loomed in front of him. He went up and over it in a dive, carrying him across the border and back into the United States.

That wasn’t stopping Guzman and the others. Bullets flew across the border, drawing frightened screams and angry shouts from the citizens of Sago as they scattered and hunted cover. Some of the men who were armed began returning the fire from the Rurales.

The Kid had thought Guzman would stop short of creating an international incident, but obviously he’d been wrong. The crash and boom of guns rose and filled the air above the settlement as the townspeople fought back against the Rurales.

That broke the back of the charge, but Guzman and a few of his men, along with the scalp hunters, kept coming. The Kid finished thumbing fresh cartridges into his Colt and rose up behind the water trough. The revolver roared and bucked in his hand.

Above the chaos of battle, he heard the sudden, shrill sound of a bugle. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the cavalry galloping into town from the north. The Kid was surprised that Lt. Nicholson and his patrol were still there, but he was glad to see them. He ducked behind the water trough again as competing storms of lead scythed through the air above him.

Several riders galloped past the well. The Kid twisted around and saw Kelly, Chess, and Valdez, along with Captain Guzman. The guns in their hands tracked toward him. He sat up with his back against the water trough and fired. His bullet drove into Kelly’s chest and made the leader of the scalp hunters rock back in the saddle. Kelly got off a shot anyway. The slug smacked into the water trough just inches from The Kid’s left shoulder. The Kid triggered again, and Kelly went down, toppling from the back of his horse to land with a puff of dust in the street.

The sharp crack of a rifle, again and again, made The Kid glance to his right. Jess Ritter had emerged from one of the buildings, still dressed in the Rurale uniform, and the Winchester she carried spouted flame as she levered off round after round. Chess doubled over as at least one bullet ripped through his body. Valdez threw his hands in the air and slid out of his saddle.

Guzman charged The Kid on horseback. The captain’s revolver was empty, so he threw it aside and ripped a saber from its scabbard at his waist. He slashed down with the blade. The Kid threw himself aside to avoid the razor-sharp edge. Guzman crowded after him, leaning over in the saddle and hacking with the saber even as his horse almost trampled The Kid.

Jess couldn’t help him now, The Kid thought. With Guzman looming over him so close like that, she couldn’t risk a shot. He twisted away from another slash of the saber and leaped up. His gun was empty, too, so he dropped it and used both hands to grab Guzman’s arm. The Rurales commander shouted in surprise and rage as The Kid dragged him off the horse.

Both men sprawled in the street. Guzman jabbed the saber’s point toward The Kid, who ducked under it and caught hold of his wrist. With his other hand, The Kid smashed a punch into Guzman’s face. Guzman shook it off and kept trying to turn the blade toward The Kid. As The Kid’s grip slipped for a second, the saber swung free.

The Kid closed his hand around the blade and felt its edge slice into his palm. He yelled in pain but didn’t let go. Heaving himself up so he would have the advantage of his weight, he twisted the saber at Guzman. The captain’s eyes had just enough time to widen in shock before The Kid drove the blade so deeply into his throat that it grated on bone. Blood fountained in the air from severed veins as Guzman writhed and kicked away the remaining few seconds of his life.

Then his body sagged back on the ground, limp in death.

Panting, pulse hammering wildly in his head, The Kid crouched for a second over the Rurales captain before he realized the shooting had stopped. He looked up to see that he was surrounded by blue-uniformed cavalry troopers. Lt. Nicholson was among them. The lieutenant raised the revolver in his hand, and pointed it at The Kid. “Mr. Morgan, you’re under arrest.”

Chapter 31

Before The Kid could respond to that, Jess elbowed her way through the ring of troopers and forced herself between Nicholson and The Kid. “Are you insane? You can’t arrest him! He saved us! He went into Mexico and rescued us from those ... those monsters!”

“Exactly, ma ’ am , ” Nicholson said. “Mr. Morgan crossed the border without proper authorization—”

The cavalrymen began to step back and come to attention as another officer strode up. He was a short, wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard.

“Lieutenant,” the newcomer said sharply, “we’ve talked about this!”

Nicholson holstered his pistol and stood stiffly at attention. “Yes, sir”—his eyes were straight ahead—“but it still seems to me—”

“I don’t care how it seems to you, son,” the other officer said, then turned and extended a hand to The Kid. “Let me help you up, Morgan.”

The Kid clasped the man’s hand and got to his feet. With a nod, he said, “I’m obliged to you, sir.”

“Colonel Stilwell,” the officer introduced himself. “I rode in with a patrol of my own a couple of days ago and found the lieutenant waiting here in case you came back from your little jaunt south of the border. When he told me who you were and that you were trying to save some kidnapped American women, I figured if anybody could bring them back, it’d be you. So I decided to wait a little while, just in case.” Stilwell chuckled. “I didn’t expect you to bring a bunch of Rurales back with you, too.”

“There’s going to be trouble over this, sir,” Nicholson warned. “We engaged Mexican troops without authorization—”

“By my order, Lieutenant,” Stilwell snapped. “My authorization. I’ll take the responsibility, and by God, after forty years of fighting Indians and outlaws out here on this frontier, if anybody tells me I’m not allowed to defend American soil from a foreign invasion, I’ll retire, blast it!”

“The Rurales didn’t actually cross the border—”

“That one did.” He pointed at Guzman’s body. “And the others fired over the border and endangered American citizens.”

Edwin Sago stepped up. “I’ll testify to that, Colonel, if I need to.”

Nicholson sighed and shook his head. “Very well, sir. But it’s all highly irregular.”

“When you’ve been out here for a while, son, you may see things differently. Irregular is the order of the day on the frontier.” Stilwell took a cheroot out of his jacket pocket and put it in his mouth unlit as he turned to The Kid. “Now, Morgan, I’ll bet you could use a drink and something to eat.”

“Yes, sir, I could,” The Kid agreed. Jess was beside him, smiling. He slipped an arm around her, partly out of affection and partly because he was so tired it felt good to have someone to lean on.

Sago said, “We’ll all pitch in and clean up that mess on the other side of town, Colonel.”

The Kid looked in that direction. Some of the Rurales had fled, but a number of them were dead.

Suddenly, at the far end of town, a rider moved into the light that spilled through an open window. The Kid tensed as he recognized Mateo. He hadn’t seen the Yaqui during the fighting. Mateo appeared to be unharmed, and he had a rifle in his hand. For a second The Kid thought he might lift the gun and take a last shot.

Mateo raised the Winchester. Holding it above his head for a second, he wheeled his horse and vanished into the gathering darkness.

Had that been a salute? The Kid thought it was. Mateo was done with this fight.

But if their trails ever crossed again, The Kid mused, he suspected he would have himself one more deadly enemy.

“Come on,” Jess said softly. “The others want to see you and thank you.”

The Kid nodded and let her lead him away.

Other than a bit of lameness that disappeared with rest, the dun hadn’t been injured in the fall. The Kid was grateful for that. He and the horse made a good team.

Two weeks later, he and Jess sat in the luxurious lobby of the Camino Real Hotel in El Paso. A couple of years earlier, Conrad Browning had met with Frank Morgan at that hotel, to ask for Frank’s help, and that was the beginning of the growing friendship and respect between father and son. The Kid hadn’t been back since.

The saber cut on his hand was healing. Luckily, he hadn’t needed to use his gun during the past two weeks.

The skirmish at Sago had been brushed under the rug, as far as The Kid knew. Maybe there had been a few angry letters exchanged between Washington and Mexico City. Maybe not. None of that mattered to him.

With a smile, Jess said, “I can’t help but wonder how a drifting gunfighter can afford to stay in a fancy place like this, let alone pay for four women to start new lives. It wouldn’t do any good to ask, though, would it?”

The Kid shrugged. “Everybody has secrets.”

“You know just about everything there is to know about me, Kid. The good and the bad.”

“I don’t know anything bad,” he told her with a shake of his head.

“Most people wouldn’t see it that way.”

“Most people are damned fools in one way or another.”

She smiled. “I suppose you’re right about that. Speaking of damned fools ... are you sure I can’t talk you into going to Dallas with me?”

“Leah’s going to be staying with you for a while. The two of you will do fine.”

“I know,” Jess said. “But if you ever change your mind ...”

“I’ll know where to find you,” The Kid promised. He got to his feet, holding a black Stetson in his hand. The Rurales uniform was long gone. He wore a black suit, white shirt, and string tie. And the Colt on his hip, of course. He was never without it.

Jess came into his arms and hugged him, resting her head against his chest for a moment. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’ve said that plenty times already. No need to say it again.”

“Never enough.” She tipped her head back to look at him. “Come see me sometime.”

“Count on it,” The Kid told her, although he didn’t know if that promise would ever be fulfilled.

The dun was waiting outside, and the trail to ... somewhere ... beckoned.

Kid Morgan was ready to answer that call.

Turn the page for an exciting preview of the USA Today bestselling series

MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN

In the harsh, unforgiving American frontier, in the vast wilderness that is Wyoming, a ruthless gang of cutthroats is cutting a bloody swath of death and destruction through the territory. No one can stop them ... no one, that is, except for a legendary mountain man named Matt Jensen.

The year is 1884. A ten-year-old British boy has come to visit his uncle’s Wyoming spread, just as the vicious Yellow Kerchief Gang has the ranch under siege. Outgunned and outmatched, a British rancher is willing to pay $5,000 for help. That is more than enough money to bring Matt Jensen into the fray. A huge, bloody gunfight, fueled by betrayal, erupts at the Powder River. But Matt has to shoot carefully. The Yellow Kerchief Gang has a hostage—the British lad named Winnie. And Matt has history on his hands, because Winnie Churchill must survive. Fifty years later Winston Churchill will fight a war of his own—carrying a Matt Jensen .44 shell in his pocket and a gunfighter’s spirit in his soul.

MATT JENSEN, THE LAST MOUNTAIN MAN

MASSACRE AT POWDER RIVER

by William W. Johnstone with J. A. Johnstone

Coming in February 2012

Wherever Pinnacle Books are sold.

Prologue

20 Grosvenor Square, London, England

June 23, 1944

Overhead the distinctive buzzing sound of the approaching V-1 bomb grew silent and the guards around General Eisenhower’s headquarters looked up to the east to watch a small, pulse-jet-powered, square-winged flying bomb tumble from the sky. It was followed by a heavy, stomach-shaking blast as the missile exploded, sending a huge column of smoke roiling into the air.

A few moments later an olive-drab Packard glided to a stop in front of the American headquarters. The car was festooned with three small flags attached to the hood ornament: a U.S. flag, a British flag, and the four star flag denoting it to be the car of General Dwight D. Eisenhower. Captain Kay Summersby, the general’s female driver, hurried around to open the back door as the general came out of headquarters. Before Eisenhower got into the car his chief of staff stepped outside.

“We just got the all clear, General,” General Walter Bedell Smith said. “No more buzz bombs are headed this way.”

“Thanks, Beetle,” Eisenhower said as he climbed into the backseat.

General Smith and the guards saluted as the car drove away.

Fifteen minutes later the Packard drew to a stop in front of Number 10 Downing Street, and Kay Summersby hurried around to open the door for General Eisenhower.

“Thank you, Kay.”

He was met at the curb by Phyllis Moir, Winston Churchill’s private secretary. “This way, General. The PM is in the cabinet room.”

General Eisenhower followed the secretary through the labyrinthine halls of the residence of the Prime Minister of Britain, and past the two pairs of Corinthian columns that led into the cabinet room. Churchill, with the ever-present cigar protruding from his mouth, was standing at a small bar, pouring whiskey.

“Tennessee mash for you, right, General?” Churchill said. “I prefer Mortlach, which is an excellent single-malt Scotch.”

He handed Eisenhower a glass. The whiskey in the glass caught a beam of light that passed through one of the enormous windows, causing the liquor to glow as if lit from within.

“Please,” Churchill said when he had his own glass. “Have a seat.” He indicated a small seating area which consisted of an oxblood leather couch and two facing saddle-leather chairs. Eisenhower chose the couch. A coffee table separated the sofa and chairs. Churchill flicked the long white ash from the end of his cigar into the crystal ashtray on the table before he settled his rather large frame into one of the chairs.

“Any word on the buzz bomb attack?” Eisenhower asked.

“Six killed at Waterloo Station,” Churchill said.

“That’s a shame.”

“Better than last weekend, when we lost two hundred to the attacks. What’s our status with the invasion?”

“We’re advancing toward Cherbourg,” Eisenhower said. “I expect we will have it within a few days.”

“Good, good, that’s wonderful news. Oh, by the way, I want to thank you for that pile of Western novels you sent over last week.”

“I’m glad I had them.”

“You enjoy reading Western novels, do you?”

“Yes, sir, I do. I keep a stack of them on my bedside table, and probably read about three a week.”

“Outstanding,” Churchill said. “I’m a fan of the American Western novel as well. Who is your favorite Western author?”

“I’m fairly eclectic. I like Zane Grey of course, Owen Wister, Max Brand, and Andy Adams.”

“Wonderful,” Churchill replied enthusiastically. “I like them as well.” He held out his glass. “Shall we drink to the American West?”

“It would be an honor.” General Eisenhower held his glass to Churchill’s. The men drank; Eisenhower took but a sip, while Churchill took a large swallow.

“Tell me, General”—Churchill wiped his lips with the back of his hand—“have you ever read anything about a Western hero named Matt Jensen?”

“Yes, of course.” Eisenhower smiled. “In fact, I even know a bit of trivial information about him. His real name wasn’t Jensen, it was ...” Eisenhower paused for a moment, as if trying to recall.

“Cavanaugh,” Churchill said, supplying the name. “Matthew Cavanaugh, but after he was orphaned, he took on the name of his mentor, Smoke Jensen.”

“Whose real name was Kirby Jensen,” Eisenhower said. “And he was quite a hero himself. But, tell me, Mr. Prime Minister, how is it that you know so much about Matt Jensen?”

“I have what you might call a vested interest in that gentlemen,” Churchill replied.

“All right, now you have me hooked. Why do you have a vested interest in one of America’s Old West heroes?”

Churchill took another swallow of his scotch. “I have piqued your interest, have I?”

“I must confess that you have,” Eisenhower replied.

“If it had not been for Matt Jensen I would not be the Prime Minister of Great Britain, and I would not be sitting here before you, discussing the greatest invasion in the history of warfare.”

“How is that so?”

“Matt Jensen saved my life.”

Chapter 1

Livermore, Colorado

Late March 1884

When Jarvis Winslow returned home from the city council meeting, he wondered why the house was dark. His wife and daughter should be there, and supper should be on the table.

“Julie?” he called. “Julie, are you here?”

Winslow walked over to a nearby table, then lit a lantern. Light filled the room as he turned it up. “Julie?”

“Hello, Mr. Winslow,” a man said, stepping into the living room from the hallway. He was a smallish man, with black hair, and a large, hooked nose. He had a big red spot on his cheek and a gun in his hand.

“What?” Winslow gasped. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter,” the gunman said. “And what is going on is a bank robbery.”

“A bank robbery? Are you insane? I’m the president of the bank, but I don’t keep any money in my house. Wait a minute, I know who you are. You are Red Plummer, aren’t you?”

Two other men came into the room then.

“If you know who I am, then you know I am someone you had better listen to. Let me introduce my associates, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy. You don’t want to get them angry, either.”

“Where is my wife? Where is my daughter?” Winslow asked.

“They are safe. For the time being,” Plummer said. “Would you like to see them?”

“Yes.”

“They are back in the bedroom. Bring your lantern.”

“Julie?” Winslow called, grabbing the lantern and hurrying into the bedroom. When he stepped through the door he saw his wife and his daughter, both stripped absolutely naked and tied to the bed. They had gags in their mouths, and terror in their eyes.

“What the hell have you done to them?” Winslow shouted angrily.

“We ain’t done nothin’ yet.” Plummer looked over at the other two men. “But I have to tell you, I’m havin’ a hard time keepin’ Sullivan and McCoy off of ’em.”

“I want the young one,” Sullivan said, rubbing his crotch.

“You bastard! She is only twelve years old!” Winslow said.

“Maybe so, but she’s comin’ along real good.”

“You see what I’m having to deal with?” Winslow said. “Now, the only way I’m goin’ to be able to keep them away from your women is if you do exactly what I tell you to do.”

“What do you want?” Winslow asked. “I’ll do it.”

“I want you to go to the bank, get every dollar the bank has, then bring it here. Once we have the money, we’ll be on our way.”

“I’ll get the money. Just—just don’t do anything to hurt my wife and daughter.”

Plummer smiled, showing a mouth full of crooked and broken teeth. “I thought we might be able to work something out.”

Winslow took one last look at his wife and daughter, then hurried out of the house and over to the bank, which was just one block away. Inside the bank he emptied the safe, taking out twenty-three thousand dollars, and stuffing the money into a bag. He started to leave, but before he did, he scribbled a quick note.

Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy

When he got back to the house, he hurried into the bedroom. “I got the money. Let them go.”

Then, looking toward the bed, he gasped. Their throats had been cut and blood was all over the bed. His wife and daughter were looking up with glazed, sightless eyes.

“You bastards!” he shouted, throwing the money bag toward Plummer.

“Really now, Winslow, you didn’t think we were going to let you live after you knew our names, did you?”

So shocked by the sight of his wife and daughter, Winslow didn’t realize McCoy was behind him until he felt the knife thrust into his back.

One week later

Matt Jensen walked into the Gold Nugget Saloon in Fort Collins, twenty miles south of Livermore. On the wall was a sign:

Card cheats will not be allowed in this establishment.

Please report any cheating to the Management.

In addition to the sign cautioning gamblers against cheating, the walls were decorated with game heads and pictures, including one of a reclining nude woman. Three bullet holes strategically placed had augmented the painting, though one shot was slightly off, giving her left breast two nipples. Below the painting was a mirror which reflected back the long glass shelf of whiskey bottles. At each end of the bar was a large jar of pickled eggs as well as pickled pigs’ feet.

The saloon was also a first-class brothel and Matt saw one of the girls taking a cowboy up the stairs at the back of the room.

The upstairs area didn’t extend all the way to the front. The main room, or saloon, was big, with exposed rafters below the high, peaked ceiling. There were a score or more customers present, sitting at tables or standing at the bar talking with the girls, drinking or playing cards.

Matt was one of those standing at the bar when a woman known as Magnificent Maggie went over to him and put her arm through his. She got her name, not from her beauty, but from her size. Weighing over three hundred pounds, she was the owner of the Gold Nugget.

“Welcome, Mr. Jensen. It has been a while since you have graced us with your presence. What brings you to Fort Collins?”

“You know me, Maggie. I follow the tumbleweed.” Matt looked around the saloon. “You seem to be doing a pretty good business today.”

“Some days are better than others. Could I get you something to drink, Mr. Jensen?”

“Yes.”

“Wine, beer, or whiskey?”

Whiskey.”

At the back of the saloon a piano player with a pipe clenched in his teeth, wearing a round derby hat and garter belts around his shirt sleeves, was playing “The Gal I Left Behind Me,” though few were listening.

“Oh my, still alone? You haven’t found a girl to keep you company?” Maggie asked when she returned with Matt’s whiskey.

Matt put his arm around her shoulders. “Maggie, do you think I could settle for anyone but you?”

Magnificent Maggie laughed out loud. “My, my, Mr. Jensen you do have the gift of glib. But what would you do if I thought you were serious and took you up on it?”

“I don’t know. I’d do my best, I guess,” Matt replied.

She laughed again, a loud cackle that rose over the piano music and all the conversation in the room. “Oh, damn! You just made me laugh so hard that I peed in my drawers.”

Matt had just taken a swallow and at her pronouncement he laughed, spewing out some whiskey.

She hurried off to take care of the situation, leaving Matt standing alone at the bar, smiling and drinking his whiskey.

One of the customers got up and walked over to Matt, carrying his beer with him. “Hello, Matt. It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Bart,” Matt replied.

“What are you doing in Fort Collins?”

“A man’s got to be somewhere. You still deputying?”

“No, I’m working as a messenger for Wells Fargo now. It pays some better. Oh, by the way, I suppose you heard what happened in Livermore last week?”

“No, what?”

“Bart, there’s an open chair. You in or not?” someone called from one of the tables.

“Ah, I’ve been waiting to get into the card game.” Bart held up his beer. “It was good seeing you again.”

“What happened in Livermore?” Matt asked.

“Someone killed the bank president and his wife and daughter. There’s a paper down at the end of the bar. You can read all about it.”

Matt moved down to the end of the counter where newspapers were stacked. He put a nickel in the bowl and took one, then found an empty table where he sat down to read.

Gruesome Find!

In what may be the most gruesome event in the history of Livermore, Jarvis Winslow and wife and daughter were found murdered in their home.

Mr. Winslow was president of the bank and many will tell you there was no finer man for the job, as he always showed a willingness to work with people who needed loans.

Mrs. Winslow and her young daughter were discovered tied to a bed, their throats cut and their clothes removed, giving evidence of ravages being visited upon them. Mr. Winslow was on the floor with a knife wound in his back.

The murder seems to be connected to the bank robbery, for over twenty-three thousand dollars is missing. In what must be considered a clue, a paper was found in the bank bearing the names Red Plummer, Manny Sullivan and Paddy McCoy.

The funeral of the three slain was attended by nearly all residents of the city.

Jarvis Winslow, like Matt Jensen, had been an orphan in the Soda Creek Home for Wayward Boys and Girls. They were there at the same time, and a friendship had developed between them. Though they had not maintained steady contact, Matt considered Winslow a brother of sorts, and he took it personally when Jarvis and his family were killed in such a way.

Matt was too late for the funeral, but he went out to the cemetery where he found three fresh mounds of dirt, side by side. There was only one tombstone set in the middle of the three graves.

JARVIS WINSLOW

His Wife JULIE

His Daughter CYNTHIA

Plucked from this earthly abode by a deed so foul as to defy all understanding

Two years older than Matt, Jarvis had helped him adjust to life in an orphanage. Matt remembered a moment he had shared with Jarvis.

“You don’t have any brothers?” Jarvis asked.

“No. I had a sister, but I don’t anymore.”

“I don’t have any brothers either. You want to be my brother?”

“Sure, why not?”

Jarvis stuck a pin in the end of his thumb bringing up a drop of blood. Matt did the same thing, and they held their thumbs together.

“Now we are blood brothers,” Jarvis said. “And that is as real as real brothers.”

“Jarvis,” Matt said, speaking quietly over the three graves. “I don’t know if your spirit is still hanging around here or not. I reckon that’s a mystery we only find out after we’re dead. But in case your spirit is here, and you can hear me, I’m going to make you this promise. I intend to find the low-life sons of bitches who did this to you and your wife and daughter, and I am going to send their sorry asses to hell.”

Matt left the cemetery, then rode across town to the sheriff’s office. When he went inside he saw Sheriff Garrison and two of his deputies looking at wanted posters.

“Matt Jensen,” the sheriff said, smiling broadly as he walked around his desk with his hand extended. “What brings you to Livermore?”

“The murder of Jarvis Winslow.”

The smile left the sheriff’s face. “Yes. That was a terrible thing. The woman and the girl.” He shook his head. “I’ve been in the law business for a long time and I’ve seen some grizzly things, but I tell you the truth, Matt, that is about the worst I have ever seen. I don’t know what kind of animal could do such a thing. They had both been raped, Matt. Then their throats were cut and they bled to death. Not only that, we found ’em both naked. The sons of bitches didn’t even have the decency to cover ’em up.”

“Jarvis Winslow was a personal friend of mine,” Matt said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” the sheriff replied.

“Sheriff, I intend to hunt down the men who did this, if you don’t mind the help.”

“Of course I’m glad to have your help. I can even deputize you if you’ d like. That would make it legal, as long as you catch up with them in Larimer County. Once they get out of the county, your badge wouldn’t do you much good.”

“That’s all right,” Matt said. “I’ve got my own badge.”

Over the years, he had done investigative work for the railroad, for which he had a railroad detective’s badge. Even though the badge had no actual legal authority, a detective for one railroad was recognized on a reciprocal arrangement by all other railroads. It was also given a courtesy recognition by the states served by the railroads. He showed the badge to Sheriff Garrison.

“I don’t see how that is going to help. This crime had nothing to do with the railroad.”

“I read in the paper that Plummer, Sullivan, and McCoy got away with twenty-three thousand dollars. Is that right?”

“I’m afraid it is right,” Sheriff Garrison said.

“Sheriff, are you going to try and tell me that not one single dollar of that money was ever on a train?”

Sheriff Garrison chuckled. “That’s sort of stretching the intent, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Matt replied, his answer almost a challenge.

Garrison threw up his hands. “Well, you’ll get no argument from me. Go after them.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

Chapter 2

Moreton Frewen was an unquenchable optimist, prolific in ideas, and skilled in persuading his friends to invest in his schemes. Although he owned the Powder River Cattle Company, his personal field of operations covered America, England, India, Australia, Kenya, and Canada. He had crossed the Atlantic almost one hundred times.

A brilliant man who urged the building of a canal across the Isthmus of Panama, as well as a means of connecting the Great Lakes to the sea, he was, despite his intellect and creativity, a man who had failed in nearly every business enterprise he undertook. Frewen had the build of an athlete with long legs, a flat abdomen, a high forehead, bright blue eyes, and a baroque mustache. An avid hunter and sportsman, he had attended Cambridge University in England as a gentlemen, spending his days betting on horse races and his evenings in the university drinking club.

After graduation he continued the life of a country gentleman, fox hunting and wenching in the shires through the winter, and horse racing and wenching in London during the summer. Living in such a way as to show no interest in a career, he ran through his rather sizeable inheritance within three years. Shortly thereafter, he came to America, married Clara Jerome, daughter of the very wealthy Leonard Jerome and sister of Lady Randolph Churchill, and set himself up as a rancher in northern Wyoming.

Along the Powder River was a stretch of prairie with grasslands watered by summer rains and winter snows. A large open area, it was impressive in its very loneliness, but it was good cattle country, and it was there that Moreton Frewen built his ranch.

Two of the Powder River Cattle Company cowboys, Max Coleman and Lonnie Snead, were at the north end of the twenty-thousand-acre spread, just south of where William’s Creek branched off the Powder River. They were keeping watch over the fifteen hundred cattle gathered at a place providing them with shade and water, and were engaged in a discussion about Lily Langtry.

“They say she is the most beautiful woman in the world,” Snead said.

“That’s a load of bull. I’ve seen pictures of her, and she ain’t half as good lookin’ as Mrs. Frewen is.”

“Yeah, well, Mrs. Frewen is the wife of our boss. We can’t really talk about her like that.”

“Hell, I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about her that ever’body else don’t say,” Coleman said. “All I’m talkin’ about is that she is a real good lookin’ woman. You ain’t a’ doubtin’ that, are you?”

“No, I ain’ doubtin’ that. But she’s our boss’s wife, so I don’t think about her like that. But now, Miss Langtry, why I can think any way about her that I want to, ’cause she’s a single woman, and besides which, she goes around the country singin’ up on the stage, so she’s used to people lookin’ at her.”

“Yeah, but with her, lookin’ is all you can do,” Coleman said.

“And daydreamin’,” Snead said. “Sometimes I get to day dreamin’ about her and I think maybe she’s been captured by Injuns, or maybe the Yellow Kerchief Gang or someone like that, and I come along and save her.”

Coleman laughed. “Snead, you’re fuller of shit than a Christmas goose. Ha, as if you would—” He interrupted his own comment midsentence, then pointed. “Hey, wait a minute. Look over there. Do you see that?”

Looking in the direction Coleman pointed, Snead saw someone cutting cattle from the herd.

“Who the hell is that over there?” Coleman asked. “We ain’t got anyone out here but us, have we?”

“No, we ain’t got anybody over there. So whoever it is, he must be rustlin’ cows,” Snead said.

“He’s got some nerve, comin’ out here all by his lonesome to steal cows.”

“Maybe he thought there wouldn’t be anybody out here.”

“Let’s run him off,” Coleman proposed.

The two started riding toward the rustler. Pulling their pistols, they shot into the air, hoping to scare away the rustler.

“You!” Coleman shouted. “What are you doing here?”

Coleman and Snead continued to ride hard toward the rustler. A single rustler, being accosted by two armed men, should be running but he wasn’t. Coleman began to get an uneasy feeling about it when the rustler stood his ground.

“Snead, hold up!” Coleman called. “There’s somethin’ ain’t right about this!”

Suddenly Coleman and Snead saw why the rustler they were advancing toward was so brazen. He wasn’t alone. At least six others were wearing a patch of yellow at their necks.

“Damn!” The challenge in Snead’s voice was replaced by a tone of apprehension. “It’s the Yellow Kerchief Gang!”

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Coleman shouted.

The two cowboys wheeled their horses about, and the hunters became the hunted. The seven outlaws started after them, firing as they rode hard across the open distance separating Coleman and Snead from the rustlers.

The two men galloped away, pursued by the rustlers. Hitting William’s Creek in full stride, sand and silver bubbles flew up in a sheet of spray sustained by the churning action of the horses’ hooves until huge drops began falling back like rain.

Coleman pointed to an island in the middle of the stream. “Snead, they’re goin’ to run us down! Let’s try and make a stand there. It’s our only chance!” Fear gave enough volume to his voice so he was easily heard.

The two cowboys brought their steeds to a halt. Dismounting, they took what shelter they could find behind the large rock that dominated the island. The rustlers held up at the edge of the creek.

“How many bullets you got?” Coleman asked.

“Four,” Snead said.

“Just four? You got ’ny in your belt?”

“No, just these four is all I got. How many you got?”

“Five.”

“That ain’t very many,” Snead said.

“It’ll have to do.”

“Son of a bitch! Here they come!”

The countryside exploded with the sound of gunfire when the Yellow Kerchief riders opened up on the two Frewen cowboys. The first several bullets whizzed harmlessly over their heads or raised sparks as they hit the rocky ground, then careened off into empty space, echoing and reechoing in a cacophony of whines and shrieks.

At first, Coleman and Snead entertained a hope that the rustlers, who had missed so far, would become frustrated and ride away, leaving them unharmed. Then, three more men wearing yellow scarves rode up to join the other seven. A furious gunfight broke out between the rustlers and the cowboys, but the rustlers were expending bullets at a ratio of twenty to one over the two cowboys. The odds, not only in terms of men, but of available bullets were just too great. Within a matter of minutes, the two cowboys had been killed and the rustlers returned to their task of stealing cattle.

Frewen had two dozen cowboys working for him, living in two bunkhouses behind the big house. Called Frewen Castle, it was a huge, two-story edifice constructed of logs. The cowboys ate in the cookhouse and when everyone gathered for the supper meal that evening, they noticed Coleman and Snead had not returned.

“They weren’t plannin’ on stayin’ out there all night, were they?” Jeff Singleton asked.

“No, they were comin’ back,” Burt Rawlings said. “Me ’n’ Snead was goin’ to ride into town tonight after supper.”

“Well, where are they?”

“I think something must have happened to ’em,” Burt said.

Burt and Jeff went to see Myron Morrison to tell him of their concern. The foreman agreed to send several cowboys out to look for Coleman and Snead.

When the cowboys reached the range the first thing they noticed was that there were no cattle.

“Whoa, this ain’t right,” Burt said. “There’s supposed to cattle here. I know, ’cause we moved at least fifteen hundred head up here last week. Where are they?”

“You don’t think—” One of the other cowboys paused in midsentence.

“Don’t think what?” Burt asked.

“You don’t think Coleman and Snead run off with the cows, do you?”

“Maybe you could tell me just where in the hell they would go with them?”

“To Logan and the Yellow Kerchief Gang, maybe?”

“No,” Burt insisted. “They wouldn’t do that.”

“Well somethin’ has happened to the cattle.”

“Right now I’m more concerned about what happened to Coleman and Snead than I am about what happened to the cows. I don’t have a good feeling about this.”

“Look! Ain’t that Snead’s horse?”

The four cowboys hurried over to the horse, which made no attempt to run from them. When they got closer they saw that the horse had been shot.

“Damn! Look at this,” Jeff said.

“Looks like he come from that way, from the crick.” Burt pointed toward the creek.

Jeff took the wounded horse’s reins and led it as they rode toward Williams Creek. They saw Coleman’s horse standing on the island in the middle of the creek. Hurrying to it, they saw what all were beginning to suspect, but no one wanted to see.

Coleman and Snead were lying dead on the island. Both men were holding pistols. Burt picked up Snead’s weapon and checked it, announcing what he found. “Empty.”

One of the other cowboys picked up Coleman’s gun. “This one is empty, too.”

“Looks like they were in one hell of a gun battle,” Burt said.

“Injuns? They ain’t come this far north, have they?” Jeff asked.

“It wasn’t Injuns, ” one of the other cowboys said.

“How do you know?”

“Look over there.” The cowboy called attention to a stake in the ground, to which was tied a yellow scarf.

“Son of a bitch, the bastards is braggin’ about it,” Burt said. “They left us a sign just so’s we’d know who done it.”

“Wasn’t no doubt about who done it, was there?” another asked. “Who the hell else could it be, if it wasn’t the Yellow Kerchief Gang?”

At a small cabin located at the head of a long, deep ravine carved into a butte at the end of Nine Mile Creek, the ten men who had killed Coleman and Snead and stolen the cattle were celebrating their success. The men ranged in age from twenty-one to forty-five years old. Every one of them had a record from burglary to murder. They had been operating in Larimer County for the last six months, and had been quite successful in rustling cattle, but it was, by far, the biggest job they had ever done.

“I make it at least a thousand head, maybe more,” a man named Poindexter said.

“Hey, think maybe we could butcher one, have us some fresh beef?” Clayton had not been on the raid with the others. He was a good enough cook the rest of the men didn’t mind that he never joined them on any raids.

“What about it, Logan?” Greer asked. “Some fresh beef would be pretty good.”

“All right,” Logan agreed. “I guess we got enough this time that we ain’t goin’ to miss one cow.”

The Yellow Kerchief Gang was led by Sam Logan. He had started his outlaw career in New Mexico, riding with two desperadoes, Kid Barton and Coal Oil Johnny. Johnny may have had a last name, but if so, nobody ever learned what it was. The three men terrorized anyone who happened to be on the Santa Fe Trail, whether it be stagecoach, freight wagon, or a single rider on horseback. If they were attacking a stagecoach or freight wagon, all three of them would participate. If it was a single horseman, then only one would approach, slowly, quietly, and without giving any hint of danger. He would ride alongside their mark for a few minutes, carrying on a friendly conversation, then turn to him and suddenly shoot him dead.

Kid Barton and Coal Oil Johnny were the most notorious of the group. They tended to revel in their notoriety, whereas Sam Logan purposely kept a low profile. As rewards were posted, the offers for Kid Barton and Coal Oil Johnny grew, while no reward at all was offered for Sam Logan. Kid Barton and Coal Oil Johnny sometimes took great delight in teasing him for not being worth anything, while the reward on each of them reached one thousand dollars.

Logan, who had not established a name, killed them both as they were waiting beside the road to hold up a stagecoach. When the coach arrived, Logan waved it down, and pointed to the two men, claiming he had overheard them plotting to rob the coach. He not only got the bounty money, a total of two thousand dollars, he also became a hero for stopping a robbery. He used that publicity to get himself hired as city marshal for the town of Salcedo.

Logan’s stint as a lawman didn’t work out very well for him. When he killed a personal envoy from Governor Lew Wallace, he wound up in his own jail. Tried and convicted for murder, Logan was sentenced to hang. But on the night before the execution was to take place, Logan killed the deputy who was the acting city marshal, a deputy he had personally hired and befriended, and broke jail.

He left New Mexico and went north, all the way to Wyoming where he organized a group of cutthroats and thieves into the Yellow Kerchief Gang. He resumed his earlier career of robbery, entering a new phase when he started rustling cattle.

Copyright © 2012 J. A. Johnstone

All rights reserved.

Content

Johnstone J. A. The Loner: Inferno #12