J. Johnstone: The Loner: Inferno #12

“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.