“I told you, this area is now under martial law because of the threat of the Apaches.” Nicholson held out his hand. “Give me your gun.”
The Kid took a step back and nodded toward Brennan and the other two soldiers. “If you’re going to arrest anybody, it ought to be them. They started it.”
“That’s a lie, Lieutenant,” one of the troopers said. “Morgan threw the first punch. I saw it.”
Mutters of agreement came from several of the other men.
“I didn’t do anything until Brennan grabbed me,” The Kid insisted.
“When we get back to Fort Bliss, the commanding officer will hear your testimony and decide whether to seek civil charges against you. Until then, I’ll take your gun, Morgan.”
The Kid glanced around. There were close to thirty troopers, and while none of them held a rifle at the moment, their Springfields were close by. Those weren’t good odds, and anyway, he didn’t want to shoot American soldiers.
Well, maybe one, he thought as he looked at Nicholson.
“It wouldn’t be smart to take my gun when we’re on the trail of a hundred bloodthirsty Apaches, Lieutenant.”
“If we encounter the hostiles, I’ll return your weapon.”
“How about if I give you my parole?” The Kid suggested. “That’s what you army types call it, isn’t it? I swear not to use my gun against you, and you don’t push this until it’s gone too far for either of us to back out. Deal?”
Nicholson hesitated. He didn’t want to back down in front of his men, yet the arrangement The Kid had proposed did have some precedent.
“All right,” Nicholson said with an abrupt nod. “You give me your parole now, and we’ll deal with your actions once we get back to Fort Bliss. That’s acceptable.”
The Kid returned the nod, even though he had no intention of ever going to Fort Bliss with the stuffed-shirt lieutenant.
Nicholson jerked a hand toward Brennan, who was still unconscious. “Get the sergeant up and throw a little water in his face,” he ordered. “Not much, though. We can’t afford to waste it. We ride in five minutes.”
The Kid picked up his hat and slapped it against his leg to knock the dust off. He watched as several soldiers roused Brennan from his stupor.
When the sergeant had his wits about him again, he looked over at The Kid with a glare of pure hatred. “This ain’t over.”
“I know,” The Kid told him.
It probably wouldn’t be until one of them was dead.
Chapter 14
Nicholson pushed the patrol fairly hard all day, but by nightfall they still hadn’t caught up to the Apaches, or even caught sight of the war party’s dust.
The Kid spotted something interesting as gloom began to settle over the landscape. A scattering of lights winked in the distance.
He pointed out the glowing yellow pinpricks to Nicholson, who raised a hand to stop the patrol. “Is that the Apache camp?”
The Kid shook his head. “Looks more like a town to me. I’d say it’s probably one of those border settlements we talked about earlier.”
“Then that’s where we need to go. The people there can tell us how far it is to the border.”
That settled the question of where the patrol would camp for the night, which was good. So far The Kid hadn’t seen a really suitable place. Nicholson waved the troops forward.
As they drew closer, it became easier to see that the lights came through windows in a number of buildings. The settlement wasn’t very big, with a main street running north and south that stretched for a couple of blocks. Some dwellings were scattered here and there. Even in the gloom, The Kid could tell that all of them were constructed of adobe, and most were squat and square.
One place in the first block had two stories, making it the biggest structure in town. A sign on the building read SAGO HOTEL AND SALOON. As the patrol reined to a halt in front of the establishment, the lieutenant said, “Sago ... Do you think that’s the name of this settlement?”
“Either that or the name of the man who owns the place,” The Kid said. “Maybe even both. There’s an easy way to find out.”
“Of course. Go inside and ask someone.” Nicholson turned in the saddle. “Sergeant Brennan, you and the men wait out here. You can dismount and allow the horses to drink at that water trough.” Nicholson pointed to a well that was situated in the middle of the intersection where the settlement’s lone cross street bisected the main street. A windmill, an elevated water tank, and a long trough that could be filled from a spout attached to the tank were nearby. The setup reminded The Kid of water stops he had seen along the railroads.
That was an odd place to put a well, right in the middle of town like that, The Kid mused, then he realized the well had probably been there first and the settlement had grown up around it. Water was so precious in the mostly dry region that such a thing was completely understandable.
He and the lieutenant dismounted and looped their reins around a hitch rack in front of the hotel and saloon. The troopers swung down and led their horses to the well while The Kid and Nicholson stepped onto the building’s low porch.
Instead of the batwings found on most saloon entrances, this one had a pair of regular doors. Nicholson took the lead and opened one of them, striding in with The Kid behind him.
That was all right with The Kid. He never entered a place quite so carelessly, but if anybody decided to start shooting, Nicholson was in front.
No shots rang out.
A low hum of conversation ceased abruptly at the sight of the newcomers. With his hand held close to the butt of his Colt, The Kid moved into the room behind Nicholson and looked around.
The long bar was in an L-shape, starting on the right side of the room and running across the rear wall, ending where a staircase ascended to the second floor balcony.
Tables filled the middle of the room, and along the left-hand wall was a gambling layout including tables for poker, faro, keno, and blackjack, along with a roulette wheel. No one was trying their luck at the moment.
In fact, the saloon wasn’t very busy. Only two tables were occupied, and maybe a dozen men stood at the bar, nursing drinks and mugs of beer. One white-aproned bartender was enough to tend to their needs. The only woman in the place was a faded blonde who wore a frilly dress and had an empty tray in her hand as she stood in the angle of the bar. The Kid figured she had just delivered drinks to one of the tables.
The men at the bar were a mixture of American cowboys and Mexican vaqueros. Three more vaqueros sat at one of the tables. All seemed to be getting along.
The four men sitting at the other occupied table didn’t look like the sort to be chasing cows. One of them was big and rugged, with a shock of coarse red hair under a thumbed-back Stetson. To his left was a man with a pale, narrow face and deep-set dark eyes. Across from the redhead, with his back to The Kid so that his face wasn’t visible, sat a man in a charro jacket and wide-brimmed felt sombrero with a colorfully woven band, but no other decoration.
The fourth man, on the redhead’s right, was an Indian, but not an Apache. He wore high-topped moccasins, buckskin trousers, and a loose, homespun shirt with a blue sash tied around his waist. A blue headband held back his shoulder-length black hair. The Kid would have been willing to bet the man was a Yaqui. He had met some of them over in Texas, in a place called Rattlesnake Valley.
It was unusual to see a Yaqui in town. The Kid wondered what he was doing there and who the other three men were.
He didn’t like the looks of them, he knew that for sure.
He took all that in with a glance as he followed Nicholson to the bar.
