J. Johnstone: The Loner: Inferno #12

“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.