The Morgans

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  “Make sure you have plenty of help if you try,” the Kid said with a cool smile. “When you went after me by yourself, Bracken, you wound up being tossed out into the street like a sack of garbage, as I recall.”

  Bracken had lowered his gun, but he started to lift it again as his face contorted with hate. The burly Valdez put a hand on his arm to stop him, much like Kern had done in the saloon. It appeared that some of General Ramirez’s men had their hands full just keeping Bracken from flying off the handle.

  Señorita Ramirez said, “Valdez, take the men back over to the store and get those supplies loaded up. I’ll be along in a few minutes to pick up the things I want. Then you can go ahead and drive back out to the rancho tonight.”

  “I don’t like leaving you in town by yourself, señorita,” Valdez rumbled.

  “I can take care of myself just fine,” she snapped as her chin lifted in defiance. “Besides, several of the men will stay and ride back with me tomorrow.” She glanced at Bracken. “Not him.”

  Bracken’s face flushed with anger, but he didn’t say anything. He must not have wanted to argue with his boss’s daughter.

  Señorita Ramirez was a young woman accustomed to getting her own way, the Kid thought.

  After a moment, Valdez nodded and said, “Sí.” He gestured curtly to the other men and told them in Spanish to leave. They filed out of the hotel, several of them in addition to Bracken casting hostile glances toward the Kid.

  He hoped to be one of them soon, so he wished circumstances would stop conspiring to put him on the other side.

  When they were all gone except Valdez, he frowned and said, “Señorita, you are sure—”

  “Go,” she said. “I will be there shortly, as soon as things are settled here.”

  “There’s nothing to settle,” Peggy told her as she turned toward the desk again. “You’re not staying here.” Peggy jutted her own chin out. “We’re full up.”

  “You have no empty rooms?”

  The Kid knew that wasn’t true, but he said, “The señorita can stay in my room.”

  The dark-haired girl turned her head and arched a finely curved brow at him.

  “I’ll go down to Dawson’s and see if he’ll let me sleep in the hayloft, of course,” the Kid went on. “I don’t mind giving up my room for a lady.”

  “She’s not a lady,” Peggy said. “She’s a—”

  Her mother stopped her by squeezing the arm that was still around her shoulders. Henrietta said, “We can find a room for you, Señorita Ramirez. Don’t worry about that. And you don’t have to give up your room, Mr. Callahan.”

  Señorita Ramirez regarded the Kid through narrowed eyes for a moment, then said, “Callahan. You are the man I overheard Bracken ranting about earlier. I thought as much from the way he acted just now. He’s carrying around a great deal of hatred for you.”

  “I know,” the Kid said. “I’m not overly fond of him, either.”

  “Given the chance, he will kill you.”

  “I’ll try not to give him the chance.”

  “That may mean killing him.”

  The Kid shrugged as if that possibility wouldn’t bother him. To tell the truth, it wouldn’t.

  “You are also the man Señor Kern spoke about to my father,” the señorita went on. “He believes you would be a good addition to our forces. What do you think of that, Señor Callahan?”

  “Nobody’s actually said yet what the job pays,” the Kid replied.

  “And that is the most important consideration? You would not fight for the liberty and dignity of the Mexican people?”

  “I’m an American,” he said. “The Mexican people have to look out for themselves . . . unless, of course, the money’s right.”

  She studied him again, then shook her head.

  “You are not a good man, Señor Callahan.”

  That was exactly the impression he was trying to convey. He smiled and said, “I never claimed to be.”

  She turned away then, clearly dismissing him, and faced the desk again.

  “I am tired, and I still must visit the store. I will stay here tonight and ride back out to the rancho tomorrow. Is that acceptable?”

  Peggy made a disgusted sound and stomped out through the door behind the desk. Her mother summoned up a smile, though, and said, “The room is two dollars, señorita.”

  The dark-haired girl laid a gold eagle on the desk, five times the rent for one night.

  “I do not haggle,” she said. “I want the best room you have.”

  Henrietta said, “They’re, ah, all pretty much the same . . .”

  “Mine’s mighty comfortable,” the Kid said.

  “And again you insinuate that I should share your room, Señor Callahan,” Señorita Ramirez said. “You are a bold caballero. Men who are bold often win great treasures.”

  The Kid smiled.

  “But more often, they wind up dead, because a very fine line exists between boldness and foolishness,” she went on. “Which side of that line do you fall on, señor?”

  “I only know one way to find out.”

  “That discovery will not be made tonight.” She turned back to Henrietta. “My room, señora?”

  “Fourteen,” Henrietta said. She took a key off the rack and laid it on the desk. “It’s already all made up, so it’ll be ready for you whenever you’re ready for it.”

  Señorita Ramirez picked up the key and nodded. “Gracias. Buenas noches, Señor Callahan.”

  The Kid touched a finger to his hat brim, then watched as the señorita turned and walked out of the hotel. Her braid bounced a little with each step.

  “I hope you remember that I run a decent place here, Mr. Callahan,” Henrietta said. “Anyway, you want to steer clear of that girl. If trouble ever got up and walked around on its own two feet, it would look just like her.”

  The Kid had to laugh. He didn’t doubt that at all.

  Chapter 18

  The Kid lingered in the hotel lobby, sitting in an armchair next to a potted plant and reading a three-week-old copy of the Tombstone Epitaph that someone had left behind, until Señorita Ramirez came back half an hour later. By now, both Peggy and her mother had disappeared into their living quarters at the back of the hotel’s ground floor.

  The dark-haired young woman carried a few small packages. She stopped a few steps into the lobby as she spotted the Kid. He folded the newspaper and set it aside, then stood up.

  “Señor Callahan,” she said, “I sincerely hope you are not about to make another improper suggestion.”

  “I don’t recall making any improper suggestions,” he said as he smiled. “I wanted to be sure you made it back from the store without any trouble. And now that you have, I’d be happy to walk you to your door.” He held up a hand to forestall any protest. “And no further. Just being a gentleman.”

  She regarded him intently for a moment, then said, “I believe under certain circumstances, you might wear the disguise of a gentleman, Señor Callahan, but your true face is that of a barbarian.”

  “Now, señorita—”

  “I did not say that being a barbarian is a bad thing, señor. Such men know who they are, they know what they want, and when the time comes, they take it. And anyone who attempts to stop them will regret it. Such men often accomplish great things. Bloody things, to be sure, but great as well.”

  “Is this leading to anything?” the Kid asked. The impatience in his tone wasn’t entirely feigned.

  “You may walk me to my room, but remember, señor . . . a woman can be a barbarian, as well.”

  “With you around, I’m not likely to forget it.”

  He saw what he thought was a flicker of pleasure in her eyes when he said that, but she covered up the reaction quickly. With a faint smile, she turned toward the stairs and he fell in step beside her.

  “I’m a little surprised your father lets you come into town by yourself,” he said as they started up.

  “I am not by myself. Valdez
and the other men accompanied me. Besides, my father knows I can take care of myself.”

  “You’re not packing a gun,” the Kid pointed out. “As tight as those trousers are, there’s no place for one. Sorry for being so bold, but that’s just a fact.”

  “I doubt that you’re really sorry,” she said, “but I forgive you anyway. And as for being armed . . . a person can carry other weapons besides guns.”

  She extended her left arm so that the sleeve of her black shirt pulled up over her wrist. The handle of a small dagger peeked out from under the sleeve. The sheathed dagger was strapped to her forearm.

  “I carry one on each arm, and I am very good with them,” she said. “Whether throwing them, or fighting close up. I can demonstrate . . . ?”

  “No, I’ll take your word for it,” the Kid said. “I suppose I’d be wasting my time if I offered to carry those packages for you.”

  “Indeed. I am no . . . what is the expression? No shrinking violet. No hothouse flower. I am desert born and desert raised, Señor Callahan. Hardy. A survivor.”

  “I believe it,” he murmured.

  They reached the landing. The señorita’s room was to the left, the Kid’s to the right. They both turned left. When they stood in front of the door to her room, she balanced the packages in her left arm and took the key from a pocket in the tight trousers with her right hand.

  “Good evening, Señor Callahan,” she said.

  “Are you leaving early in the morning?” he asked.

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “Who knows what a barbarian’s business is?” he countered.

  She smiled and said, “I believe I will see you again.”

  “More than likely,” he said.

  Deftly, she unlocked the door, then favored him with a last glance over her shoulder as she went inside. The door closed, leaving him standing alone in the dimly lit corridor.

  As he turned toward his own room, he thought about the odds facing him. As if General Ramirez and his dozens of hired killers hadn’t been enough to contend with, now he had to worry about this beautiful young woman who might become a dangerous enemy as well. At the same time, she fascinated him. He sensed that her sultry looks concealed a savage, fiery streak.

  A man might burn his fingers—or worse—if he ever got close enough to find out.

  But he might have to do that in order to rescue his father.

  * * *

  Señorita Ramirez hadn’t answered his question about how early she was leaving the next morning, so the Kid made sure he didn’t sleep too late. Even so, he was still well rested when he came downstairs and found Peggy in the lobby, dusting the plants and the furniture. She heard his footsteps on the stairs and smiled as she turned to greet him, but the smile disappeared when she saw who he was.

  The Kid tried to be pleasant anyway. He said, “Good morning, Miss Cole.”

  “Good morning,” she replied, but with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. “Did you sleep well?”

  “I did.”

  “You probably dreamed about Antonia Ramirez.”

  “Antonia? Is that her name? I don’t believe I’ve heard it until now.”

  Peggy sniffed and said, “That’s her name. Now you can go ahead and talk about how pretty it is.”

  “Well . . . Peggy’s a pretty name, too. And it suits you.”

  She just gave him a scornful look and went back to her dusting.

  The Kid knew the question risked arousing her wrath even more, but he asked, “Has the señorita come down yet this morning?”

  He wasn’t sure at first if Peggy was going to answer, but after a moment’s hesitation, the blonde said, “Just a few minutes ago. She left carrying some packages.”

  “She’s probably down at the stable getting ready to leave town, then.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know.”

  The Kid figured he shouldn’t push things any further with her, so he just smiled, pinched the brim of his hat politely, and left the hotel. When he reached the street, he turned toward Ezra Dawson’s livery stable, the only one in town. Antonia’s horse and those belonging to her father’s men had to be there.

  As he approached the stable, he spotted Antonia standing in front of the open double doors with a couple of men. He was a little surprised to recognize one of them as Kern, who hadn’t been with Antonia’s party the night before. He must have ridden into Saguaro Springs separately, the Kid thought.

  Three men, two Mexicans and an American hardcase, led a group of horses out of the barn, including the magnificent black stallion Antonia had been riding when the Kid first saw her.

  Even though the hour was early, the sun was up and a number of people moved around town already. One man wearing a long duster walked toward the livery stable on the same side of the street. The Kid frowned slightly as he noticed something odd about this man’s gait. The hombre moved stiffly, and as the Kid looked closer, he saw a tense, fixed expression on the man’s face.

  He had seen looks like that before and knew what they usually meant. With swift steps, the Kid angled his course to intercept the man.

  He might not have enough time to do that, he saw. The man brushed the duster back and started to lift the double-barreled shotgun he had been holding down alongside his right leg.

  The Kid could have drawn and fired, but if he did, he might kill the man and since he wasn’t sure exactly what was going on here, he didn’t want to do that. It was clear who the shotgunner’s targets were, though. His wild-eyed gaze was fixed on Antonia and her companions in front of the livery stable. None of them had noticed the man striding toward them.

  The Kid yelled, “Hey!” and broke into a run. The shout distracted the man with the shotgun. Instinctively, he stopped walking and swung the weapon toward the Kid. Seeing those two barrels looming like a cannon would unnerve most men, but at a moment like this, the Kid’s nerves were ice.

  He covered the ground between the man and himself in a hurry. He lashed out with his left arm and hit the shotgun’s barrels, knocked them skyward just as the man pulled the triggers. Both barrels discharged with a thunderous roar that pounded the Kid’s ears like giant fists, but the double load of buckshot blasted harmlessly into the air.

  The Kid lowered his right shoulder and rammed into the man, knocking him backward. Momentum carried the Kid forward, and both he and the shotgunner sprawled in the dirt at the mouth of the alley beside the livery stable.

  “You son of a—!” the man screamed. He tried to ram the butt of the shotgun’s stock into the Kid’s face. The Kid jerked his head aside, but the blow landed on his left shoulder and numbed that arm.

  The Kid’s right arm still worked just fine. He grabbed the shotgun’s barrels and wrenched them to the side, twisting the weapon as he did so. The man couldn’t hold on to it. It slipped out of his hands, and the Kid slung it away.

  Unarmed now, the man hammered at the Kid with his fists. The Kid slashed at the man’s neck with the side of his right hand. The stroke landed where the neck and shoulder came together and seemed to stun the man for a second. That was long enough for the Kid to roll to the side and come up on one knee.

  A shot roared somewhere close by. A bullet smacked into the ground near the would-be shotgunner’s head and kicked dirt into his face. He choked and coughed and rolled onto his side. Before whoever had fired the shot could trigger another one, Antonia Ramirez cried, “No! Don’t shoot!”

  The man in the duster lifted his head, rapidly blinked his eyes clear, and focused on the Kid, kneeling a few feet away. The man’s face was narrow and foxlike, topped by curly brown hair. He was probably in his late twenties. Breathing hard, he glared at the Kid with pure hatred blazing in his eyes.

  “Hold on,” the Kid said as he extended a hand. “Just stay where you—”

  The man didn’t listen or let the Kid finish. He pushed himself onto hands and knees and launched himself into a flying tackle aimed at the Kid.

  The impact drove th
e Kid over backward. He landed awkwardly with one leg twisted under him and couldn’t get any leverage to throw his opponent off. The man dug at his belly with a knee and flailed wild punches.

  The Kid clubbed his hands together and shot them straight up at the man’s chin. His teeth clicked together loudly, and his head rocked so far back it seemed like it was about to come off his shoulders. That took the fight right out of him. The Kid grabbed the duster’s lapels and heaved the man to the side, freeing himself.

  The man lay huddled in the dirt, moaning softly, while the Kid clambered to his feet. One of Ramirez’s men shouldered the Kid aside. The three gun-wolves who had stayed in town to ride back out to the hacienda with Antonia today crowded around the fallen man and pointed their guns at him. Their stances made it clear they were ready to blow the man full of holes.

  “Wait,” Antonia commanded sharply.

  “That’s right,” Kern added. “Can’t you tell that hombre’s not a threat anymore?”

  “He was going to kill us, Kern,” one of the Mexican gunmen said. “We cannot allow him to get away with that.”

  The fallen man stopped moaning, but he still gasped for breath. He managed to push himself up on one elbow. He lifted his head and glared toward Antonia.

  “No,” he said hoarsely. “I . . . I was going to kill her.”

  Ezra Dawson came up and said, “Harley? Good Lord a’mighty, boy, is that you?”

  Antonia turned to the one-eyed liveryman and asked, “Do you know this man?”

  Dawson nodded and said, “Yeah, he’s Harley Jenkins. His pa was Fred Jenkins, used to run one of the stores here in town. Last I heard, Harley was cowboyin’ over in New Mexico.” Dawson’s voice took on a grim note as he added, “I reckon he heard about what happened to his pa and just got here to try to do somethin’ about it.”

  The Kid recalled Peggy telling him that Bracken had gunned down a storekeeper named Jenkins.

  Coolly, Antonia said, “I had nothing to do with the death of this man’s father.”

  “One of your pa’s men done it!” Harley Jenkins cried from where he lay on the ground. “I lost my pa, but since I couldn’t get to yours, I figured it was only fittin’ he knows what it’s like to lose a daughter.”