J. Johnstone: The Loner: Inferno #12

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.”