The Morgans

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Good evening, Señor Morgan,” she said. “It is good to see you again. You have been treated well?”

  “Fine, señorita,” Frank said. She was headed toward the chair at the opposite end of the table from her father, so he moved in that direction, too. Kern and Bracken, who had stood by silently while Frank and Ramirez were talking, both stiffened and put their hands on their guns, but as Frank took hold of the chair and pulled it out for Antonia, Ramirez made a slight gesture to indicate that they should relax.

  “Gracias, señor,” Antonia said as Frank held her chair for her. “I knew as soon as I met you that you were a gentleman.”

  “I was raised to be polite,” Frank said.

  Antonia sat down and nodded to her father. “Papa.”

  “You look lovely as always, my dear,” Ramirez told her.

  The same female servant filled Antonia’s wineglass while Frank and Ramirez resumed their seats. Antonia murmured, “Gracias, Manuela,” to the girl.

  “I was about to propose a toast,” Ramirez said as he reached for his glass again. “I will do so now. To the future. May it be bright for us all.”

  “The future,” Antonia repeated as she lifted her glass. She looked at Frank.

  “I’ll drink to the future,” he said. “Who knows what it holds?”

  “Success for the revolution!” Ramirez said. “That is what it holds.”

  They all drank. Ramirez set his glass down, motioned with a finger, and more servants began to arrive at the table, carrying platters of food.

  The meal tonight consisted of strips of tenderly cooked beef, along with chilis, wild onions, beans, and tortillas. The beef probably came from rustled cattle, Frank thought, although he supposed Ramirez could have brought some stock with him when he and his followers fled across the border. Even if that was the case, though, more than likely he had stolen them down there in Mexico.

  The food was good and plentiful. In the same way that he handled sleep, a frontiersman ate when he had the chance, so Frank put away plenty of the vittles and washed them down with wine from the glass that seemed to stay full. Luckily, alcohol had never muddled his brain, except for the stretch when he had been mourning his late wife, Dixie. He had put that behind him long ago.

  Ramirez seemed to have a pleasant glow about him, however, and he grew more expansive as the meal went on, saying, “I deeply regret inconveniencing you this way, Señor Morgan. I would never be so ill-mannered if it were not necessary in order to free my beloved country from the cruel grip of the tyrant Díaz!”

  “El Presidente has plenty of enemies,” Frank said, “but somehow he’s managed to hang around for a long time.”

  “Because he is a murderous dog!” Ramirez clenched a fist and thumped it on the table. “But mark my words, señor, that butcher’s time is coming to an end. He knows it, too. He fears me. That is why he sent his Rurales to force me to flee from my own homeland.”

  Antonia said with a smile, “The fact that you kept holding up trains and robbing his garrisons had nothing to do with it, did it, Papa?”

  “A revolution must be paid for. Not every man fights out of sheer patriotism and love for his country. Not every man who supports our cause is from our beloved Mexico.” Ramirez waved his glass toward the two gunmen. “Is that not right, Bracken?”

  “You’re always right, boss,” Bracken drawled.

  “You fight because I pay you to fight and because you hunger for your share of the loot that comes our way.”

  Bracken shrugged.

  “If someone offered you a better price,” Ramirez went on, “you would betray me in an instant!”

  Bracken frowned and said, “I don’t know as I’d go so far as to say that, boss. You’ve treated us good, and we’ve been loyal to you.”

  “Sí, but if the money went away, your loyalty would go with it.”

  Bracken looked like he wanted to protest some more, but Ramirez didn’t let him go on. Instead Ramirez turned to Frank and went on, “You see, Señor Morgan, that is why you are so vital to our cause. With the money your son will pay to save your life, I will be able to recruit more men, buy more guns, perhaps even form a real army with cannons to blow that bastardo Díaz right out of his palace!”

  “Papa,” Antonia spoke up, “you have said enough . . . and drunk too much.”

  “Nonsense!” Ramirez said with a snort. “Señor Morgan is an intelligent man. He has long since realized why he is here. But one thing he does not know.” He looked at Frank. “Would you like for me to explain what that is, Señor Morgan?”

  “This is your place,” Frank said. “I reckon you can say whatever you want to say.”

  “Indeed I can! The real reason I brought you here to dine with us this evening is to offer you a position in our revolution.”

  “Papa!” Antonia said as she sat up straighter. “You said nothing of this to me.”

  “You are my daughter, but I am the leader of this rebellion.” Ramirez’s gaze swung back to Frank. He didn’t seem so drunk now as he went on, “You have a reputation as a superb fighting man, señor. Just the sort of man I need in my army. I am the general, but I would make you a colonel. You would share in our successes, and there would be a high place for you in the government after Díaz is dealt with and I rule Mexico in his place!”

  “And if I was to throw in with you like that, I reckon I’d be expected to furnish the money to build that army of yours?” Frank asked. “Instead of you taking it from my son?”

  “Support freely given for a good cause is always repaid in one fashion or another.”

  “You’re overlooking something, Señor Ramirez. I’m not a military man. I had my fill of being a soldier a long time ago, when I went off to fight the Yankees. I wouldn’t be much good as a colonel.”

  “All battle is the same,” Ramirez snapped. “One man trying to kill another and demonstrate his superiority. Only the excuses are different.”

  “I’ll have to refuse your offer,” Frank said with a shake of his head. “It’s not my revolution . . . and I’m not a bandit.”

  Ramirez’s face darkened with anger. He put his hands on the table and lurched to his feet.

  “You have been treated well, Señor Morgan, but you should remember . . . a dungeon lies below our feet, and time spent there would be much less pleasant for you.”

  “I know. Bracken told me about it. But that doesn’t change anything. I don’t want any part of your revolution, and I hope my son tells you to go to hell.”

  “Papa . . .” Antonia said in a warning tone, but Ramirez ignored her. He jerked a hand toward Frank and barked an order to Kern and Bracken.

  “Take him!”

  “It’ll be a pleasure, boss,” Bracken said. He yanked his gun from its holster and lunged at Frank, chopping at his head with the weapon.

  Chapter 11

  Frank didn’t care where he was or what the situation might be, he still wasn’t going to just sit there and let somebody wallop him with a gun.

  He twisted toward Bracken as he came up out of the chair. His left forearm blocked the slashing blow aimed at his head. At the same time, his right fist shot out and caught Bracken on the chin. The blow snapped the gunman’s head back. His momentum made him stumble into Frank.

  Frank caught hold of Bracken’s coat and swung him around fast. When he let go, that sent Bracken flying into Kern, who was also trying to get close enough to Frank to clout him. Their legs got tangled up with each other, causing both men to fall.

  Frank sprang toward the head of the table, where Ramirez was clawing under his coat, probably for a gun. If he could get his hands on Ramirez and use the man as a shield, he might be able to bluff his way out of here.

  Before Frank could reach Ramirez, something smashed into the side of his head. Liquid splashed across his face and got into his eyes, stinging and blinding him momentarily. The smell of wine filled his nose, and he knew a bottle had hit him. He staggered against the table and slapped a hand down on i
t to catch his balance and keep from falling.

  A second later, a wildcat landed on his back. Long fingernails clawed at his eyes and forced him to duck his head. Antonia had jumped on him. Elegant and beautiful though she might be, she was a fighter.

  One of the men he had knocked down, Kern or Bracken, grabbed his ankles from behind and jerked his legs out from under him. Frank pitched forward heavily and landed on his belly. Antonia still clung to his back.

  He was vaguely aware of Ramirez shouting in Spanish, calling for help from his other guards. Frank knew he didn’t have much time. Fighting a girl really went against the grain for him, but he had no choice. He rammed an elbow back into Antonia’s midsection with enough force to lift her off him.

  She let out a startled sound and fell away from him, gasping for breath. He rolled to put some distance between them, and as he did he caught a glimpse of Bracken looming over him with a foot drawn back, ready to kick him. Remembering the savage kicks that had battered him during the attack in Pete McRoberts’s stable, Frank figured Bracken had been responsible for them. When Bracken’s foot flashed toward him this time, he caught it and heaved upward as hard as he could. Bracken yelled and went over backward. His head thudded against the floor.

  Frank rolled again, got his hands and knees under him, and pushed up to his feet. Kern knelt a few yards away and aimed a gun at him, clearly aiming to shoot his legs out from under him. Frank snatched a platter off the table and flung it at the gunman as he dived aside. Kern’s gun boomed, but the shot went wild because the thrown platter struck him in the face at the same moment he pulled the trigger.

  Another gun went off, this one with the sharp crack of a smaller-caliber weapon. The bullet burned along Frank’s hip and spun him halfway around. As he slapped a hand on the table to keep his balance, he saw Ramirez pointing a pistol at him and knew the bandit leader had just wounded him.

  Frank also saw a wine bottle lying on the floor and figured it was the one Antonia had thrown at him. His head was still spinning a little from that impact.

  Antonia lay beside the table, curled up in a ball as she still struggled to drag air into her lungs after Frank had elbowed her in the stomach. He darted toward her, moving with surprising speed and agility for a man of his size and age, and bent to slide an arm around her.

  “Antonia!” Ramirez said as Frank dragged her to her feet. He didn’t dare shoot again, and neither did Kern.

  A rush of footsteps behind him told Frank that the guards Ramirez had been yelling for had arrived in the dining room. He backed off at an angle so he could see them from the corner of his eye. They couldn’t open fire on him because of the danger that their bullets would go through him and strike Antonia.

  Using a woman as a human shield like that galled Frank, but vastly outnumbered and surrounded by enemies as he was, he had to use every weapon he could get his hands on . . . and he had gotten his hands on Antonia Ramirez.

  “Call off your men if you don’t want your daughter to get hurt,” he told Ramirez. He looped his arm around Antonia’s neck. He wouldn’t harm her seriously, no matter what the circumstances, but Ramirez and his gun-wolves didn’t know that.

  “Señor Morgan, you are making a terrible mistake,” Ramirez said. “Even if we cannot work together, we need not be enemies.”

  “I reckon you took care of that when you kidnapped me and your men hurt my dog and an old man who’s a friend of mine. Now, I want you to have a couple of horses saddled. The señorita and I are leaving, and nobody’s going to try to stop us.”

  “Please, Señor Morgan,” Antonia whimpered. “You . . . you are hurting me.”

  “Sorry,” Frank muttered, but he didn’t ease his grip.

  “And I . . . I am frightened.”

  “No need to be, as long as your father does what I tell him—”

  A lance of fiery pain bit into his right thigh and made his leg buckle momentarily. His hold on Antonia slipped enough for her to writhe free. He made a grab for her but had to jerk his hand back when she slashed at it with the bloody dagger she had just used to stab him in the leg. He didn’t know where she’d had it hidden on her, but somehow he wasn’t surprised that she had been armed after all.

  “Get him!” Ramirez roared. “But do not kill him!”

  Half a dozen men surged at him. Some were Mexican, some gringos, but all of them were hard-bitten bandits who swarmed around him throwing punches. Frank fought back as best he could, blocking some of the blows and lashing out with hard fists of his own.

  Many of the punches landed, though, and despite trying to ignore the punishment he was absorbing, Frank’s reactions began to slow and he wasn’t as steady on his feet. A fist slammed into his side, which was still sore from the kicks back in Tucson, and another man clubbed his hands together and drove them into the back of Frank’s neck like a sledgehammer. Frank tried to stay on his feet but felt himself falling. More weight descended on him, forcing him to the floor.

  The men rolled him over and pinned him down by hanging on to his arms and legs. Bracken leaned over him, shaking his head dazedly from the rap against the floor it had gotten. The gun in his hand was steady enough, though, as he swung it up and pointed it at Frank.

  “No!” Ramirez snapped as he stepped alongside Bracken and caught hold of his wrist, pushing the gun back down. “I still want him alive.”

  “Why?” Bracken said. “You already sent that photograph of him to his kid. He’s no good to us now.”

  Ramirez glared, clearly not liking the way the gunman had stood up to him.

  “I am in command here,” he said. “Browning may insist on seeing his father alive before he cooperates and turns over the ransom.”

  “Hell, once he brings the money to Saguaro Springs, what’s it matter? Just take it away from him and kill him.”

  “I do not trust him. Browning has a reputation as a canny businessman. He may try some trick.” Ramirez shook his head. “No, we will keep Morgan alive . . . for now.”

  Antonia moved up beside her father and didn’t look nearly as beautiful as before as she said, “Alive, perhaps . . . but I want him to suffer for daring to lay hands on me!”

  Ramirez nodded in response to that, willing to give his strong-willed daughter what she wanted, and ordered his men, “Take him to the dungeon.”

  As the guards hauled him to his feet, Ramirez added, “For your sake, Señor Morgan, I hope your son has more sense than you do.”

  Chapter 12

  Tucson

  The tall young man in dark clothes and hat swung down from the train as clouds of smoke from the locomotive’s diamond-shaped stack rolled over the depot platform. The only bit of color in his outfit was the turquoise-studded silver band around his flat-crowned hat. The Colt .45 that rode in a black holster on his right hip was strictly a tool for work with nothing flashy about it, no ivory grips or anything fancy like that.

  The young man didn’t have any baggage with him, only a pair of saddlebags slung over his left shoulder. He planned on traveling light. He strode easily through the crowd of passengers coming and going, to the other end of the long platform where the door of a boxcar had been slid open and a plank walkway put in place. A hostler led a fine-looking buckskin stallion out of the boxcar. Another man carrying the horse’s saddle and blanket followed them to the platform.

  The hostler said, “Here you go, Mr.—”

  “Morgan,” the young man interrupted him. San Francisco was far behind him now, and so was Conrad Browning. He held out his hand for the reins. “I’ll take it from here.”

  Taking the reins in one hand and carrying the saddle in the other, the Kid led the buckskin down the ramp at the end of the platform to the open ground beside the depot building. He got the saddle on the horse and cinched it into place, then attached the saddlebags.

  He had studied several maps and knew that the small settlement of Saguaro Springs was southwest of Tucson, on the edge of the great Sonoran Desert, where it merged with the m
ore hospitable rangeland to the east. The town was only a few miles from the Mexican border. The Kid would be able to make it there in a day on horseback, more than likely, but he intended to pick up a few supplies before he set out anyway, because you never knew what might happen along the way.

  He swung up into the saddle and rode around the depot, then started along the street in search of a general mercantile where he could buy those supplies. He had gone only about a block when he passed the open doors of a livery stable and heard a dog bark inside.

  Something about the sound made the Kid pull back on the reins and bring the buckskin to a stop. He looked through the open double doors of the livery stable and saw a big, shaggy, wolflike cur standing there. As the two of them looked at each other, the dog barked again.

  “Dog?” the Kid said.

  The big cur loped out of the barn. The Kid dismounted, and as his boots hit the ground, the dog reared up and rested his front paws on the Kid’s chest. Most men would have been at least a little shaken to have such a scary-looking animal in his face, but the Kid just rubbed Dog’s ears and scratched the top of his head. Dog’s tongue lolled out in pleasure, revealing his mouthful of sharp, dangerous teeth.

  A short, mostly bald old-timer in overalls came out of the barn and stared at the Kid and Dog in obvious surprise.

  “Would you look at that?” he said. “That critter barely tolerates me, but he acts like you’re his long-lost friend, son. I reckon the two of you must know each other.”

  “We’ve met,” the Kid said. “He must remember me. I sure remember him.”

  The liveryman took off his battered old hat, pulled a bandanna from his pocket, and wiped sweat from his forehead. He said, “It’d be hard to forget a varmint like him who looks like he’s first cousin to a wolf and acts like one, too.” He put the bandanna away and stuck out his other hand. “I’m Pete McRoberts. This is my stable.”