J. Johnstone: The Loner: Inferno #12

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.”