The Morgans

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “No, but you’re talking about joining forces with those men. I heard that the one called Kern practically offered you a job.”

  “Word gets around fast,” the Kid said.

  “It’s a small town. And we have to keep up with what’s going on.” She paused. “Our lives may depend on it.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for your troubles,” the Kid said. “I’ll try not to add to them.”

  “The best way for you to do that is to leave town and not come back.”

  “Maybe,” the Kid said, “but I’m not ready to drift on just yet.”

  He nodded to Peggy, who just glared at him, her face pale with anger, as he turned and walked out of the hotel.

  Abuelo’s café was run by a middle-aged Mexican couple, and although they gave the Kid friendly smiles when he came in, he could see the tense wariness in their eyes. As Peggy Cole had said, Saguaro Springs was a small town, and nearly everybody knew what was going on almost as soon as it happened. The Kid was the stranger who had ridden into town and given the widely despised Carl Bracken what he had coming to him . . . but he was also a hardcase who might hire on with the same man Bracken worked for. The townspeople didn’t know whether to regard him as a friend or an enemy.

  The Kid was their friend, although he wasn’t going to reveal that just yet. But he had already decided that if there was any way to do it along with rescuing his father, he was going to end the stranglehold that Ramirez’s men had on this town.

  * * *

  That resolve grew stronger in the Kid as he spent the next day wandering around the settlement. He strolled into the various businesses and talked with the owners, the people who worked there, and the customers. They were afraid of him, no doubt about that, but their fear made them polite. His friendly conversation made more than one of them relax enough to admit that things had not been good in Saguaro Springs since Diego Ramirez and his men had moved into the abandoned hacienda.

  When the Kid was at the livery stable checking on his horse, he mentioned something that had been puzzling him to Ezra Dawson.

  “I heard somebody say that the ranch where General Ramirez is staying is cursed. Why would anybody believe such a loco thing?”

  The liveryman, who had been forking hay into one of the stalls, paused and leaned on his pitchfork as he said, “Because it ain’t loco. That place is jinxed. A pure hoodoo, if you ask me.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Dawson shifted a lump of chewing tobacco from one cheek to the other and went on, “Look what happened to Walt Creeger.”

  “I don’t know who that is.”

  “The fella who started the ranch. Creeger had hisself a Mex partner name of Seguin. They built that hacienda sturdy enough to stand off attacks by Apaches or bandidos and started runnin’ cows on the range around it. But then Seguin disappeared. Creeger told folks he’d gone back to where he come from in Mexico. This was before the town was here. Creeger wasn’t around for much longer his own self. He fired all the vaqueros workin’ for him and let the stock run wild. Onliest fella left on the ranch ’sides him was the old viejo who cooked for him. That fella claimed Creeger just walked off into the desert one day and never come back, but folks didn’t know whether to believe him or not.

  “Then, years later, after a sandstorm had blown through, some fellas found a skeleton out in the desert. A whole skeleton, mind you, which meant the fella it belonged to had been buried, otherwise the coyotes would’ve torn the body, and the bones, apart. The wind had uncovered the grave. And the poor varmint hadn’t buried hisself, if you get my drift.”

  “Somebody killed him,” the Kid said.

  Dawson nodded sagely and continued, “The skull had what looked like a bullet hole in the back of it. Not only that, the right leg had been busted sometime in the past and had healed up a mite crooked, meanin’ that whoever it was would’ve had a pretty bad limp.”

  “Creeger,” the Kid guessed.

  Dawson shook his head. “Nope. Old Seguin hisself. He’s the one who limped. Folks got to figgerin’ that Creeger and Seguin had a fallin’-out for some reason, and Creeger put a bullet in the Mex’s head, then hauled him out into the desert and buried him. That’s simple enough, but then things start to get a mite odd.”

  “The hacienda was cursed because of Seguin’s murder,” the Kid said.

  “That’s right. That old cook said Creeger took to actin’ scared, lookin’ over his shoulder all the time like somebody was fixin’ to ambush him. He’d holler and ask anybody who was around, didn’t they see him skulkin’ through the house at night?”

  “Seguin’s ghost?”

  Dawson shrugged and said, “I ain’t sayin’ the ghost was there . . . but Creeger thought it was. And eventually that drove him so mad he run ever’body else off and finally wandered into the desert to get away from Seguin’s spirit.”

  “And then died out there himself.”

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Dawson said. “Some say Creeger’s still roamin’ around, all these years later, crazy as a hydrophobia skunk. Some claim to have seen somethin’ at night, nothin’ but bones and rawhide skin and long white beard, howlin’ like a coyote . . . but not like a coyote, too, if you know what I mean.”

  The Kid looked at the old liveryman for a long moment, unsure whether to laugh. He didn’t want to hurt Dawson’s feelings, so finally he just said, “That’s a good story. I don’t know whether to believe it or not, though.”

  “If it’s true, it don’t matter whether somebody believes it. And if it ain’t true, that don’t matter, neither.”

  “I suppose you’re right about that,” the Kid said. “I wonder if Ramirez knew about the rancho’s background when he and his men moved in.”

  “No tellin’. Maybe he figgered forty or fifty gun-wolves was enough to handle any ol’ ghost. Or maybe he just ain’t the superstitious sort. How about you, youngster? I heard talk about you goin’ to work for him, but maybe you’d rather stay away from that hoodoo ranch.”

  “Ghosts don’t scare me, either,” the Kid said.

  And that was a good thing, considering all the death and tragedy lurking in his past.

  * * *

  By evening, he hadn’t seen Kern, which came as no real surprise because the gunman had said it might be a couple of days before he looked up the Kid again.

  After another meal at Abuelo’s, the Kid walked over to the saloon to pass some time. He chatted with the bartender, O’Reilly, while he nursed a beer. The slick-haired gambler came over, and O’Reilly introduced him to the Kid as Harold Griffith, the owner of the Cactus. After shaking hands with the man, the Kid said, “I suppose you named the saloon after those saguaros growing along the creek.”

  “That’s right,” Griffith said. “They’re very distinctive. Since the town was already called Saguaro Springs, I just used cactus in the saloon’s name when I took it over. That was a considerable improvement over what the original owner called it.”

  “What was that?” the Kid asked, mildly curious.

  “Hoolihan’s,” Griffith said.

  “That was the name of the gent who owned it,” O’Reilly added. “I worked for him, too.” He smiled. “He never had much sense, otherwise he never would’ve sat down to play poker and lost the place on a busted flush. Say, that would make a good name for a saloon. The Busted Flush.”

  “We’ll stay with Cactus,” Griffith said. To the Kid, he went on, “I appreciate you not killing Bracken in here yesterday. That would have brought a lot of attention that I don’t need. Actually, the less attention that bunch pays to anything in town, the better.” Griffith lit a cigar and regarded the Kid coolly as the smoke spiraled up from its glowing tip. “I’m a pretty good judge of character, and honestly, you don’t strike me as the sort of man who’d be likely to throw in with them, Mr. Callahan.”

  Something inside the Kid stirred uneasily. Everybody he’d talked to in Saguaro Springs seemed to have warmed up to him, albeit reluctantly. Except for Peggy
Cole, of course. But he didn’t want these townies taking a liking to him. That could interfere with his plans.

  He put a flinty mask over his features and said in a chilly tone, “As long as the payoff is good enough, I don’t care who I work for. Never have.”

  “Then I guess I was wrong about you,” Griffith said. He put the cigar back in his mouth and clenched his teeth on it. “It happens now and then.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want me to drink here anymore?” the Kid asked.

  “I didn’t say that. Your money’s as good as anyone else’s.”

  “And you don’t want any trouble, in case I do go to work for the general—”

  Before the suddenly unfriendly conversation could continue, a loud clatter of hoofbeats came from the street outside. A man called out. Curious, the Kid left his half-full mug of beer on the bar and turned to saunter over to the entrance. He put both hands on the tops of the batwings and looked out. The sun was down, but enough of a glow remained in the sky for him to see what was happening.

  A wagon had pulled up in front of the Yates General Store, two doors down from the hotel. Several riders had accompanied the vehicle into town. Judging by their outfits, they were a mixture of gringos and Mexicans. As the Kid watched, they reined in and dismounted to tie their horses to the hitch rack.

  One of the men caught the Kid’s eye immediately. The tall, lean form and the derby hat were unmistakable. The gunman Carl Bracken had returned to Saguaro Springs.

  However, one of the other riders swung down from the saddle with such grace that the Kid couldn’t help but notice. The rider was dressed in black, like he was, but these garments were leather and the trousers clung to undoubtedly female calves, thighs, and intriguingly curved hips.

  She didn’t climb to the loading dock that served as the store’s porch. Instead she spoke to the driver, a burly, bearded man in a sombrero, and then turned to stride toward the hotel. She pushed her low-crowned black hat off her head and let it hang by its strap behind her neck, where her long, raven hair was woven together in a braid. Light from a window she passed spilled over her lovely features.

  From the bar behind the Kid, O’Reilly called, “Mr. Callahan, you want the rest of your beer?”

  The Kid ignored him, pushed through the batwings, and started across the street toward the hotel, where the beautiful young stranger had disappeared through the front doors.

  Chapter 17

  By the time the Kid stepped into the lobby, the young woman had crossed to the desk, where she stood with a visibly tense attitude. On the other side of the desk were Henrietta and Peggy Cole. Peggy wore an angry glare on her pretty face, but her mother just looked worried.

  The Kid came in as the newcomer was saying, “So you don’t want me to stay here?” Her voice was cool and controlled but held an undertone of hostility as she went on, “You are in the business of renting rooms, aren’t you?”

  “Not to the likes of you,” Peggy snapped.

  The dark-haired young woman reacted as if she’d been slapped.

  “And just what is it you think I am?” she demanded.

  “The daughter of an outlaw,” Peggy responded. “You’re probably no better than an outlaw yourself.”

  Henrietta said, “Please, there’s no need for this—”

  The two young women ignored her. They were about the same age, but otherwise they were a striking contrast, one dark, one fair. And both very attractive, the Kid thought, that was another thing they had in common. He stood just inside the lobby. None of the three at the desk had noticed him. They were too intent on their own confrontation.

  “I can pay, if that’s what you’re worried about,” the newcomer said with a sneer in her voice.

  “Blood money, no doubt, taken off the body of some poor victim your father robbed and killed,” Peggy said.

  “Our money has been good enough for everyone else in this primitive little town.”

  Peggy started around the desk as she said, “Just because everybody else is too scared to stand up to you, that doesn’t mean we are. You’re not welcome here, Señorita Ramirez. Can’t you get that through your head?”

  Well, that confirmed who the dark-haired girl was, the Kid mused, although he’d already suspected that from the things Peggy had said.

  “I go where I please!” Señorita Ramirez said.

  “Not here!” Peggy responded, equally hotly.

  “Peggy, please—” her mother tried again.

  Peggy was in no mood to listen. She was standing only about a foot away from Señorita Ramirez now, and without warning, she lifted her hands and gave the dark-haired girl a hard shove that made her stagger backward a few steps.

  Señorita Ramirez caught her balance, said, “Oh!”—and went at Peggy. Peggy tried to block her, but she pushed the blonde just as hard, causing Peggy to fall back against the desk. Peggy rebounded from the impact, lunged at Señorita Ramirez, and a second later both of them were wrapped up in each other’s arms, slapping and clawing and letting out shrill, furious cries as they battled.

  Henrietta hurried around the desk and said, “Stop it! Peggy, no!” She paused, took a step toward the two young women as if she wanted to separate them physically, then stopped again, clearly unsure what to do.

  The Kid could have intervened and put a stop to the fight, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to get between two wildcats like that. If he did, he stood a good chance of getting clawed, too.

  Then Peggy changed her tactics. She balled one hand into a tight, compact fist and brought it up and around in as pretty a punch as the Kid had seen lately. The fist smacked cleanly into Señorita Ramirez’s jaw. She flew backward from the force of the blow.

  The Kid took a quick step, put out his arms, and caught her under the arms before she could fall. She hung there against him for a second, shaking her head, then twisted her neck to look around at him. No flicker of recognition appeared in her dark eyes, but she did look grateful for a second.

  Then she straightened and threw herself at Peggy, who wasn’t able to get out of the way in time. Señorita Ramirez tackled the blonde and both of them went down, landing on one of the rugs that slid a little underneath them.

  Wearing trousers gave Señorita Ramirez a slight advantage as she and Peggy rolled around on the floor and wrestled with each other. The long dress Peggy wore today tangled around her legs and hampered her efforts. Señorita Ramirez rolled her onto her back, straddled her, grabbed her by the neck, bounced her head on the floor, and started choking her.

  So far the Kid had been content to be a bystander and just observe for the most part. But now it appeared that Peggy might be in actual danger of being injured seriously, so he moved forward lithely, bent and took hold of Señorita Ramirez around the waist, and hauled her off the blonde. The dark-haired girl’s booted feet dangled several inches off the floor. She kicked her legs furiously as she writhed in the Kid’s grip and tried to get free. Curses in Spanish tumbled from her lips, followed by the haughty demand, “Let go of me!”

  Numerous thudding footsteps sounded behind the Kid, and as he turned in that direction, he heard another sound with which he was very familiar: the metallic ratcheting of guns being cocked.

  Several men had charged into the hotel lobby from outside and now held revolvers pointing at him. Carl Bracken was one of them, and as he saw the Kid, his eyes burned with an unholy fire from his desire to pull the trigger. The danger to Señorita Ramirez was the only thing that stopped him.

  “Hold your fire! Hold your fire, damn it!” That order came from the big, bearded Mexican who had been at the reins of the wagon team. He bulled into the lobby behind the other men but realized quickly what was going on. He cursed some in Spanish, too, then looked at the Kid and said, “Let go of her, amigo, right now.”

  Señorita Ramirez had stopped struggling when she saw the gunmen, but she still hung there in the Kid’s grip. He said, “If I put her down, you’re going to shoot me.”

  “
No, we won’t,” the bearded man promised.

  “Speak for your own damn self, Valdez!” Bracken snapped. “He has been asking for a bullet ever since he rode into town, and I’m gonna give him one!”

  “No!” The sharpness of Señorita Ramirez’s tone made Bracken, Valdez, and the rest of the gunmen look at her. “No shooting. Put your guns away.”

  “But, señorita—” Bracken began.

  “You heard me.” Her voice was like ice, a thing that wasn’t common in this hot, arid country. “Valdez is right. There will be no shooting . . . for now.”

  With obvious reluctance, Bracken and the other men pouched their irons. The Kid lowered the señorita until her feet were on the floor, then let go of her and stepped back. He glanced toward the desk and saw that Peggy had gotten up and retreated behind it, along with her mother. Peggy appeared shaken but all right. Henrietta had an arm looped protectively around her daughter’s shoulders and looked determined but frightened at the same time.

  Señorita Ramirez turned to face the Kid.

  “Do you always involve yourself in things that are none of your business?” she asked.

  She was even more attractive close up like this, so that he could see the fire in her dark eyes. But her father was the man behind Frank’s kidnapping, so he reminded himself not to let her good looks distract him too much.

  “I’m staying here at this hotel,” he said. “Figured you murdering Miss Cole right here in the lobby might cause the place to close down, and then I’d have to hunt up other accommodations.”

  “She attacked me! If I had killed her, it would have been self-defense.”

  “Not once you had her down like that. She wasn’t a threat to you anymore.”

  From behind the desk, a still-angry Peggy said, “I wasn’t defenseless. I could have taken care of myself.”

  So both of the young women were mad at him, the Kid thought. That was all right. It distracted them from wanting to tear into each other again.

  Bracken said, “This fella needs to pay for laying his hands on you, señorita. Why don’t you let me and some of the boys give him a good stomping?”