The Loner: Inferno #12 (13 page)

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Authors: J.A. Johnstone

BOOK: The Loner: Inferno #12
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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.

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