But that
“Where’s the camp?” he asked.
“Just north of town. Come on, quit stallin’.”
“All right.” The Kid would just have to slip away later.
He untied the dun’s reins and led the horse along the street. Brennan followed, and the fact that a man who hated him was behind him with a gun made the skin on the back of The Kid’s neck crawl. Despite that, he didn’t think Brennan would shoot him down in the middle of the street.
They were passing the darkened mouth of an alley between buildings when Brennan said, “Wait a minute. Go through there. It’s a shortcut.”
“I thought you said the camp was north of town.”
“It is. Northeast. Go on. Do like I told you.”
The Kid knew what would happen if he started down that dark alley. Brennan intended to shoot him in the back, then claim that he’d tried to escape. Lt. Nicholson might be suspicious, but he wouldn’t be able to prove that Brennan wasn’t telling the truth.
The Kid heard Brennan’s breath hissing through clenched teeth. The sergeant was ready and eager to kill.
It looked like The Kid might have to break his parole after all.
Footsteps pattered on the hard-packed dirt, and a woman’s voice called, “Mr. Morgan?”
Brennan’s head jerked around toward the newcomer. The Kid took advantage of the unexpected opportunity, and dropped the reins. He lunged at Brennan, grabbing the rifle barrel and wrenching it skyward.
Brennan cursed and tightened his grip on the weapon, trying to ram the stock into The Kid’s face. The Kid had his other hand on the rifle’s breech and stopped the blow. The two men staggered to the side as they wrestled over the Springfield.
Brennan stuck a foot between The Kid’s ankles to trip him. At the same time, The Kid got the upper hand and smacked the rifle barrel across the sergeant’s face. Brennan grunted in pain and jerked back, losing his balance. The Kid was off balance, too, and as a result, both men fell.
As they rolled over, The Kid kept one hand on the barrel to hold the muzzle away from him, and with the other fist he slammed a short but powerful punch into Brennan’s face.
Brennan responded by bringing his knee up and planting it in The Kid’s belly. The Kid chopped at Brennan’s head again.
Suddenly, the Springfield erupted in noise and flame, and the woman cried out. Both men froze for a second, but The Kid recovered first. As anger coursed through him and gave him extra strength, he ripped the rifle out of Brennan’s hands and slashed out with the butt. It smacked solidly into the sergeant’s jaw. The Kid felt bone crunch under the impact and a surge of savage satisfaction went through him.
But that satisfaction was tempered by worry. He had recognized the voice that called his name. It belonged to Greta, the blond saloon girl from Sago’s place. Brennan seemed to be stunned, so The Kid tossed the empty rifle aside and leaped to his feet.
He spotted the crumpled form lying a few yards away next to one of the buildings. Hurrying to her, he dropped to a knee beside her and leaned over to see if she was still alive. He was relieved to hear her breathing, but it was rapid and shallow.
“Are you hit?” he asked as he got an arm under Greta’s shoulders and lifted her head.
“I ... I’m not sure,” she gasped out. “I think so. My side ...”
The Kid put a hand on her right side and found nothing, but when he moved it to the left he felt the wet heat of blood soaking through her dress. She cried out softly as he touched her.
“Is there a doctor here in town?” he asked.
“No ... but if you take me to my house ... I have a friend who can take care of me.”
“You don’t live at the saloon?”
“No ... I have a place ... on the south side of the settlement.”
Across the border, The Kid thought as he glanced at the well that marked the boundary. Sago had said people around there didn’t pay much attention to it, so The Kid wasn’t surprised that Greta lived over the line.
No one had come to investigate the shot. He supposed such sounds weren’t that uncommon around there. If anybody was going to help Greta, it looked it would have to be him.
Moving carefully, he slid his other arm under her knees, then straightened to his feet, lifting her and cradling her against him. She hadn’t looked particularly thin in the saloon, but there was a certain fragility to her as he held her in his arms, almost an insubstantialness as if she were fading away. He clucked to the dun to indicate the horse should follow him, then started walking toward the border.
“You’ll have to tell me how to get to your place.”
Greta gave him a weak nod and put her arms around his neck to help support herself. “It’s on the edge of the settlement, to the southwest.” In a voice strained with pain, she directed him to a small adobe cottage with a clump of cactus growing in front of it.
He looked back once and saw Brennan struggling to his feet. The noncom tried to yell something, but his broken jaw made the sound an angry, inarticulate bleat.
Once they reached Greta’s home, The Kid awkwardly worked the latch on the front door and carried her inside. She told him the bed was to the left. In the dark, he found it and lowered her onto the thin mattress. Then he stepped back and still following her directions, found an oil lamp and scratched a lucifer from his pocket into life to light it.
The flickering yellow glow of the lamp expanded and filled the cottage’s single room. It was sparsely furnished—the bed, a table, a couple of chairs, an old wooden trunk, and a battered and scarred wardrobe. The floor was dirt, and some shelves on one wall held a few supplies.
Not much of a place for a woman to live, The Kid thought as he looked around. The only feminine touch was a set of curtains that hung over the room’s lone window.
“I’d better take a look at that wound and see how bad you’re hurt,” he said as he leaned over her. The bloodstain on her dress was about a foot in diameter, but it didn’t seem to be spreading.
“No,” Greta said. “I’ll be all right. Find Consuela. . . next door. She’ll help me. You need to ... go after those Apaches. That’s what ... you were about to do ... isn’t it?”
“I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure that you’re all right,” The Kid told her. “Except to fetch this Consuela.”
His long-legged strides took him to another small adobe jacal next to Greta’s place. A worried-looking Mexican man opened the door at The Kid’s knock.
“I need to see Consuela,” The Kid said. “Greta is hurt and asked for her.”
The man’s eyes widened in the light of the candle he held. He turned his head and spoke in rapid Spanish. The Kid was able to follow enough of it to know that Consuela was the man’s wife, and he didn’t want her going anywhere with the strange gringo.
Consuela appeared and pushed past her husband with little difficulty, demanding of The Kid in English, “Where is she? At her house?”
The Kid nodded and waved a hand in that direction. Consuela, who wore a nightdress with a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, hurried toward Greta’s place.
The Kid and Consuela’s husband followed, and so did a handful of curious children who emerged from the small house behind them. Consuela, who had already disappeared into Greta’s cottage, met them at the door. “Hector, go get Senor Sago.”
Hector looked like he wanted to argue, but after a second he nodded, muttered,
The Kid waited outside with the kids, who jabbered among themselves in Spanish. He didn’t bother trying to translate any of it.
He thought about Greta, sensing that she had a certain shyness about her, despite the fact that she worked in a saloon and sold herself to men. In other surroundings, though, she wasn’t that way. He was more than willing to honor that and not intrude.
A few minutes later, Edwin Sago trotted across the border toward the house. A huffing and puffing Hector followed him. Sago wasn’t in much better shape by the time he reached the cottage. Breathlessly, he asked, “Greta
