“Sure, Kelly.” Chess grunted, and bent down. With a show of surprising strength considering his slight frame, he hauled Valdez to his feet.
With Chess supporting him, the Mexican waddled over to an empty table and sat down, wincing as he used both hands to support his injured privates.
Kelly called to Sago, “We need another bottle and a glass over here.”
The saloon’s proprietor nodded. “I’ll bring it myself.” He didn’t want Greta getting anywhere near those men again.
Sago brought over the whiskey and a clean glass, and took away the empty bottle that sat in the middle of the table. Kelly picked up the new bottle, pulled the cork from it, and splashed amber liquid into his glass and The Kid’s.
“Your friend’s not drinking?” The Kid asked with a nod toward the mostly silent Yaqui.
“Mateo’s an Indian, as I’m sure you can tell. He has a problem handling liquor. You wouldn’t want to be around him after he’s had a drink.
The Kid shrugged and picked up his glass.
“I’m Enrique Kelly, by the way,” the redhead went on. “Here’s to your continued health, Mr. Morgan.” He lifted his glass and tossed back the fiery liquor.
The Kid wasn’t sure if that toast was a veiled threat, nor did he care. He downed his drink and set the empty back on the table.
“You’re probably wondering about that name,” Kelly went on.
The Kid wasn’t, but he didn’t say anything, figuring Kelly was going to tell him anyway. He busied himself with the tortillas, beans, and beef.
“My father, God rest his soul, was an Irishman, with the Irish love for drinking, fighting, and wandering. He was an adventurer, a soldier of fortune, a filibuster. He wound up working for Maximilian, and that’s what he was doing when he met my mother, a beautiful Mexican senorita. A high-born lady, you understand, from a family of grandees, who didn’t want her marrying some ragtag Irish mercenary. They wound up running away together, getting hitched by some village priest in the mountains, and you see the result of that union sitting right here before you. Quite a romantic tale, isn’t it?”
“Worthy of a cheap novel,” The Kid said, convinced that was probably where Kelly had gotten it. His father might have been a mercenary as he said, but his mother was probably some back alley Mexico City whore.
Kelly’s mouth tightened. “I’ll take that comment in the friendly spirit in which it was meant.” He poured another drink even though it was obvious he’d had plenty before The Kid and Lt. Nicholson arrived in town. “So you’re a scout for the cavalry, are you?”
“For the moment.” The Kid didn’t intend to stay that way for long. Jess and the other women were still out there somewhere, prisoners of the Apaches, and he was going after them no matter what some greenhorn lieutenant said.
“What’s this about an Apache war party?” Kelly asked. “We’ve heard rumors, but I’d like some cold, hard facts.”
“I don’t know all that much, firsthand,” The Kid replied with a shrug. Kelly started to pour him a second drink, but he put his hand over the top of the empty glass and shook his head. “According to the lieutenant, a hundred Apache warriors crossed the border from Mexico about a week and a half ago and started raiding north of here. They hit some ranches and are even supposed to have attacked a town. I don’t know if that’s true or not.” The Kid paused. “But I do know they wiped out a wagon train in a valley about thirty miles north of here. I saw with my own eyes what happened to those poor people.”
He left out any mention of killing the three Apaches who had come after him. That didn’t really seem to matter anymore.
“A wagon train,” Kelly repeated in a musing tone. “I didn’t know there were such things anymore.”
“There are a few,” The Kid said, thinking of the things Horace Dunlap had told him. He had liked the old wagonmaster. It would be nice to even the score a little for him, though rescuing the captives came first.
“And you said something about prisoners?”
“Four women.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“When I came along and found out what had happened, one of the men with the wagon train was still alive. Before he died, he told me he had seen the prisoners being taken away.”
“A dying statement,” Kelly muttered. “You have to believe that.”
“I knew the man who made it. I believe him.”
“Well, it’s a right shame for those poor women. They’ll be treated roughly. Probably already have been.”
“Probably,” The Kid agreed with a bleak edge in his voice.
“And there’ll be no help for them, since the lieutenant made it clear he won’t pursue the Apaches into Mexico.”
“Maybe they’ll run across some
The Yaqui, Mateo, grunted. That was what passed for a laugh from him, The Kid realized.
Kelly grinned. “If the Rurales see any Apaches, they’ll be the ones doing the running, amigo. Running the other way, as fast as they can. You can depend on that. They want no trouble with the Apaches. They only hunt down bandits in the hopes of liberating some loot for themselves.”
The Kid had heard how the Rurales were corrupt or incompetent or both, and Kelly clearly agreed with that assessment. The man was right: Jess and the other prisoners couldn’t expect any help from that quarter.
The Kid had finished eating, so he scraped his chair back. “Thanks for the drink.”
“Sure you don’t want another?”
“I’m sure.” He looked over at the other table, where Guadalupe Valdez sat hunched over, sucking greedily at a bottle of mescal. The Mexican slanted his eyes toward The Kid, and they were full of pure hatred.
He could get in a long line of men who hated Kid Morgan.
Without looking back, The Kid headed for the door. He hoped Lt. Nicholson hadn’t had the dun taken away with the other horses. If the horse was still tied up at the hitch rack in front of the saloon, The Kid intended to mount up and head for the border.
If Nicholson wouldn’t pursue an Apache war party into Mexico, it was doubtful he would risk an international incident by going after one man whose only crime was to get into a brawl with some soldiers.
Nicholson was counting on The Kid’s word keeping him on the American side of the border ... but that wasn’t what The Kid had promised. He had given his parole not to use his gun against the troopers, and he didn’t intend to.
Lighting a shuck out of the border settlement was an entirely different thing.
He stepped onto the low porch in front of the saloon. The dun was still there with the reins looped around the hitch rack. The Kid smiled, stepped off the porch, and reached for those reins.
“Hold it,” a voice challenged from the darkness.
Chapter 16
The Kid stayed where he was for a second, then slowly lowered his hand away from the reins. “What are you doing here, Sergeant?”
Brennan’s burly figure loomed closer. “The lieutenant sent me to make sure you keep your parole.” The sergeant raised the barrel of the rifle he held. “Seems he got a mite worried you wouldn’t keep your word. Thought you might try to get across the border and go after those hostiles.”
“I gave him my word I wouldn’t use my gun against him or any of you troopers,” The Kid pointed out.
“Yeah, I know. You thought you could slicker us that way, didn’t you? Well, it’s not gonna work. You’re still under arrest, Morgan. Untie your horse and come with me.”
The Kid hesitated. Brennan’s rifle was ready, but even so, The Kid knew he might be able to draw and fire before the noncom could get off a shot.
