The Morgans

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Ramirez laughed and hit the table with the side of his fist again.

  “I can promise you dinero, my friend, mucho dinero. Remember the train I mentioned to Señor Kern a short time ago?”

  “The one carrying those aristocrats’ gold to the coast?”

  “Exactly. Tomorrow you will ride south with my men, and by tomorrow night a portion of that gold will belong to you. Even though I trust you, it will be a good test for you, no? A profitable test for both of us.” Ramirez picked up his wineglass. “Let us drink to gold!”

  “To gold,” Antonia said as she raised her own glass.

  The Kid didn’t hesitate in reaching for his glass. He had been a lot of things in his life, he told himself... and now, if he wanted to have any chance of saving his father, he was going to have to be a train robber, too.

  “To gold,” he said as he raised his glass.

  Chapter 23

  Three thoughts crawled through Frank Morgan’s brain as consciousness oozed into it like molasses on a cold morning.

  He was lying on something hard, which more than likely meant the floor of his old cell in the dungeon.

  His head hurt like blazes, throbbing with every beat of his heart.

  And his own son was the one who had walloped him and put him back here.

  Frank was well aware that when he and Conrad first met, the boy despised him. Had no use for him at all. But that had changed over the years, as they fought side by side and pulled each other’s fat out of the fire numerous times. At least, Frank had believed it changed.

  Conrad had been quick to spring forward and knock him out cold with a gun butt, though, just as those other fellas rushed in with drawn guns . . .

  Frank stiffened as understanding burst on his brain. He had still had Hardy’s revolver stuck behind his belt, but it was underneath him where he’d have had a hard time getting to it fast, and he had lost the shotgun. In another second or two, a hail of lead would have torn into him, and he wouldn’t have been able to do a thing about it.

  The only one who’d been able to prevent that from happening . . . was Conrad.

  Frank heaved a sigh of relief. He was still in a mighty bad fix, but his son didn’t hate him after all.

  And if Conrad was here, dressed like a hardcase instead of a businessman and packing iron, it could only mean one thing.

  Kid Morgan was back, and he had come to this outlaw stronghold to free his pa.

  A grin tugged at Frank’s mouth as he lay there. He hadn’t been around to raise Conrad when the boy was growing up, but he still came by his stubborn, contrary nature honestly. Frank had hoped all along that Conrad wouldn’t give in and pay the ransom.

  Instead, he was infiltrating Ramirez’s outfit. That was the only explanation for him being there having dinner with Ramirez, Antonia, and Kern. Frank suspected that quite a story was behind that. He looked forward to hearing it.

  While those thoughts were going through Frank’s brain, the ache inside his skull had subsided somewhat. He risked opening his eyes. He had been in the darkness of unconsciousness long enough that even the lantern’s faint glow coming through the window in the door was enough to make him squint. A few fresh throbs of pain boomed inside his head, but then his eyes adjusted and the discomfort eased off again.

  He was definitely inside a cell. It looked like the same one, but more than likely, they were all pretty much alike, so it was difficult to be sure. At any rate, he was locked up . . . and he didn’t like it.

  Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, rested his back against the wall. He had no idea what Conrad’s plan was and no way of communicating with his son.

  But he had confidence. He had seen Conrad come through all sorts of great danger and greater tragedy. Honestly, there was no one he would trust more to help him get out of this mess.

  So for now he would wait, and rest up from what had happened today, and when the time came for Kid Morgan to make his move . . . Frank would be ready.

  * * *

  After the excitement in the dining room, Ramirez led the Kid to what he called his study, another chamber on the ground floor of the castlelike structure. Bookshelves covered one wall, and on them were leather-bound volumes dusty and moldy with age. They must have belonged to loco old Walt Creeger, the Kid thought, although everything he had heard about Creeger so far wouldn’t have caused him to think that the man was much of a reader.

  The study was furnished with shabby gentility. The furniture had been good at one time, but now it was worn and rotten and sported places here and there where something had gnawed on it. And this was going to be Ramirez’s presidential “palace,” the Kid told himself wryly. That was suitable, he supposed, for dreams founded on lawlessness, cruelty, and butchery.

  Antonia had gone up to her room after the toast they had made to gold, and this time Ramirez hadn’t tried to stop her. He and the Kid weren’t alone in the study, however. Valdez had appeared from somewhere, and as the burly Mexican stood leaning against one of the walls, he idly caressed the wooden handle of a machete thrust behind the sash at his waist. The intent way in which he watched the Kid made it clear that he wouldn’t mind using that machete on the newcomer if it became necessary.

  “Cigar?” Ramirez asked the Kid as he took a thin black cheroot from a wooden box on the desk.

  “No thanks. I don’t use ’em. But I’m obliged for the offer.”

  Ramirez clamped the cheroot between strong-looking white teeth and snapped a lucifer to life. He held the flame to the cheroot and puffed until it was burning well. Then he dropped the match to the stone floor and ground it out under his bootheel.

  He blew out a cloud of smoke and said, “You are a man of quick reactions. My men would have killed the prisoner in another heartbeat, had you not knocked him out.” Ramirez regarded the Kid with what was apparently genuine curiosity. “Why would you do that? Why did you not just allow my men to shoot him?”

  “Surely that would have disturbed your daughter, to see a man gunned down like that,” the Kid suggested.

  Ramirez looked at him a moment more and then laughed.

  “You do not know Antonia well. Did you not hear her say that we would be better served by Morgan’s death?”

  “Well, yeah, she did say that,” the Kid admitted.

  “So do not claim that you saved Morgan’s life in order to spare my daughter’s . . . delicate sensibilities.”

  “To be honest with you, General, I didn’t even think about it. I just saw a threat and acted to put a stop to it. I didn’t consider what your men might do, because I’m used to dealing with problems myself. And that was a quick and easy way of doing it.”

  Ramirez slowly nodded.

  “I understand. Swift action . . . it is a habit with you.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And yet, if you join forces with me, you will be expected to obey orders. You cannot do whatever your impulse tells you to do, whenever you want to do it.”

  “I know. And I’ve worked together with other folks before. Those trains I said I held up, I didn’t do that by myself. Whoever’s in charge, I’ll do what they say.”

  “Tomorrow,” Ramirez said, “that will be Señor Kern.”

  “He’s the boss, then,” the Kid said.

  Ramirez nodded again, apparently satisfied with the Kid’s answer.

  The little majordomo, Regalberto, bustled into the study and spoke quietly enough to Ramirez that the Kid couldn’t make out the words. Ramirez’s face darkened with anger, though, so evidently he didn’t like what he had heard.

  “Señor Kern has his orders,” Ramirez snapped. “Tell him that I intend for him to carry them out . . . personally.”

  Regalberto nodded and scurried out. Ramirez turned to the Kid and went on, “You must be curious why such a notorious gunfighter as Frank Morgan is our prisoner.”

  “It does seem a mite strange.”

  Ramirez puffed on the cheroot for a moment, then said, “I offe
red him a chance to join us, to help make my dream a reality, but he refused. So he serves us in another way. Did you know, amigo, that Frank Morgan is a very rich man?”

  “An old gun-wolf like him? Hell, they say he never even sold his gun, never got involved in a scrape unless he believed it was the right thing to do,” the Kid scoffed. “That’s no way to get rich.”

  “Once, Señor Morgan was married to a very wealthy woman. When she died, he inherited half of her riches. Their son inherited the other half and has made the businesses even more valuable. I learned this from an agent in San Francisco who supports our cause.”

  The Kid wondered who that agent might be, but it didn’t really matter. The relationship between him and Frank wasn’t exactly a secret, nor was the fact that the Browning holdings were worth a lot of money. Anybody could find out those things with a little digging.

  “I sent a letter to Morgan’s son explaining that he will be killed unless we receive a payment of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Ramirez went on.

  The Kid let out a low whistle of admiration.

  “A quarter of a million. That’s one hell of a fortune, General. You think you can get it for that old pelican?”

  “It is my fervent hope that I do. Not only does my revolution need the money, but I feel a certain admiration for Morgan. He has survived many years of a very perilous life. He is like an ancient wolf, gray and scarred, not as strong and fast as he once was, perhaps, but still dangerous.”

  “Well, I hope you get that loot, too. Put that together with the gold we’re taking from that train tomorrow, and your revolution will be set, won’t it, General?”

  “Indeed, a new day will dawn in Mexico, my friend, a new day!” Ramirez puffed on the cigar and then said around it, “Now, come with me. I wish you to see something.”

  The Kid had no idea what Ramirez had in mind next, but after everything that had happened, he didn’t think anything would surprise him.

  Ramirez led the way from the study out to the hacienda’s main entrance, where he and the Kid stepped into an open area between the castlelike building and the flat-roofed adobe structure that stood in front of it. Valdez followed them.

  Ramirez pointed at the adobe building with his cigar and said, “When I rule Mexico, my government will be headquartered there while I am here at my palace. A second capital, you could say.”

  The Kid nodded. The general was as loco as old Walt Creeger, but it wouldn’t do any good to tell him that. It would just get the Kid dead in a hurry.

  Kern walked out of the hacienda. He didn’t look happy.

  “Report, Señor Kern,” Ramirez snapped. “Did you find out how Morgan was able to escape?”

  “I found out a few things,” Kern said. “He had a servant with him when he ran into Bracken, a girl called Florita. She was the one who took Morgan his meals today. Hardy was supposed to be standing guard. But Hardy was locked up in Morgan’s cell with a busted jaw. Two more men were in the guardroom at the top of the stairs to the dungeon. One of them had a broken jaw, too, and the other one was dead.”

  “This Florita, she turned Morgan loose?”

  “I don’t know how she managed it, but she had the key to his cell in the pocket of her skirt. And even though Bracken didn’t get a real good look, he says she wasn’t acting like she was Morgan’s prisoner when he ran into them.” Kern grimaced. “I hate to say it, but it sure looks like she’s responsible.”

  “Then you know what must be done,” Ramirez said.

  “General, I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.” Some of the frustration Kern had to be feeling came through in his voice. If he hadn’t been frustrated, he never would have risked talking to Ramirez like that.

  The general’s jaw tightened. He glared at Kern and said, “You have your orders, señor. Where is the girl?”

  “Bracken found her,” Kern replied as he gestured vaguely toward the hacienda. “He’s got her.”

  “Bring her out.” Ramirez looked toward the adobe building. “I think one of those vigas will do nicely.”

  Something stirred uneasily inside the Kid. He wasn’t sure what Ramirez had in mind, but he didn’t like the direction this was headed.

  Kern stepped into the hacienda, and a moment later he reappeared along with Bracken. They held a young Mexican woman between them, each of them tightly gripping one of her arms. She bore a resemblance to the servants who had served them dinner, the Kid realized, but she wasn’t one of that duo. Her face was defiant, but she looked frightened, too. Probably with good reason.

  Kern and Bracken marched her across the open space. Valdez followed. Around the compound, men seemed to realize that something was going on and drifted in this direction.

  Valdez stepped through a door into the adobe building and came back with a coiled lasso. He shook out one end of it and tossed it over a viga, one of the wooden beams that protruded from the adobe wall just below the roofline. Kern and Bracken grabbed Florita’s wrists and thrust her arms above her head. They slid their grips down enough that Valdez could wrap the lasso around her wrists and tie it tightly.

  Then Valdez stepped back and put some pressure on the rope, pulling hard enough on the other end that Florita cried out and was forced to go up on her toes.

  Kern looked over his shoulder at Ramirez, who said calmly, “Continue.”

  Bracken grinned, licked his lips, and said, “Let me do this part, Kern.”

  Kern didn’t argue. Bracken gripped Florita’s shirt at the back of her neck, under her tumbled mass of raven hair, and savagely ripped it apart. It tore all the way down her back. Bracken shoved the ruined garment aside to expose the long, smooth, brown expanse of skin. He ran the fingertips of his right hand along her spine and laughed when she tried to flinch away from his touch. With Valdez putting so much pressure on the rope, though, she couldn’t move much.

  Bracken turned and said, “General, can I—”

  “No,” Ramirez said. “Kern.”

  With his face set in stony lines, Kern stepped into the adobe building and came back holding a whip. He shook it out, and to the Kid, it seemed to coil and hiss like a snake. It took all of his iron self-control to keep his face impassive and not reach for his gun. He wanted to let out a furious yell, yank his Colt from its holster, and start shooting.

  More than two dozen men had gathered to watch this grim spectacle, though, and the Kid knew that if he gave in to that urge, he would be dead in a matter of seconds and no longer able to do anything for Frank. He felt a little muscle jump in his jaw, but that was the only sign he gave of how horrified he was.

  “Five lashes, Kern,” Ramirez said. “Now.”

  Chapter 24

  Kern positioned himself about ten feet behind Florita. The Kid could tell by the way Kern handled the whip that the gunman wasn’t an expert at its use. However, in a situation such as this, a man didn’t have to be an expert.

  Just brutal . . . or pragmatic enough to know that he didn’t have a choice.

  Kern took a deep breath. Florita didn’t sob or beg for mercy as she hung there by her wrists. She held her head up. From where the Kid stood, he could see the defiant set of her jaw. He hoped that defiance would be enough to carry her through this ordeal.

  Kern drew his arm back, then brought it forward quickly. The whip struck at an angle across Florita’s back with enough force to make her jerk forward. It left a red stripe that began to ooze blood in a few places.

  Ramirez said, “That was hardly enough to count as a lash, Kern. The girl still has five strokes coming to her for her treachery. Make them good strokes, or you will only increase her pain.”

  Bracken began eagerly, “General, I can—” but Ramirez cut him off with a curt gesture.

  Kern dragged in another deep breath. This time when he wielded the whip, he put more force behind it. Florita jerked again, and although she didn’t cry out, the Kid heard a sharp hiss of breath. When the whip fell away from her back, it left a long, diagonal cut in t
he smooth skin. Blood trickled from it in a few places.

  “Much better,” Ramirez said. “Four more.”

  The Kid had wondered before if Ramirez was genuine in his desire to improve things in Mexico. This grisly display answered that. Anyone who could stand there watching so calmly, so self-satisfied, while a young woman was brutally whipped, had no real compassion, no desire for justice. If by some bizarre twist of fate Diego Ramirez ever ruled Mexico, he would rule by blood and fire and terror. It would be a new age for that country, all right . . . a dark age.

  Florita managed not to show much reaction to the next two lashes, but she couldn’t hold back cries of agony as the final two strokes fell. She jerked and spasmed as the whip struck her. Small drops of blood flew in the air from the impacts. Her back was crisscrossed by crimson welts. As Kern stepped back after the final stroke, Florita sagged. The way her weight pulled on her wrists had to hurt, but she probably didn’t even notice it because of the fiery torment of her back. Her head drooped forward. The Kid knew she hadn’t passed out because he could hear her muttering something. It would have been better if she had lost consciousness.

  While the whipping was going on, the general’s men who had gathered to watch had been laughing and talking and making bets among themselves on when or if Florita would pass out. Their callousness infuriated the Kid, but he couldn’t do anything about it right now. All he could do was pretend to be one of them, which made him sick to his stomach. He was overwhelmingly outnumbered, but somehow, some way, he would bring a reckoning to these animals, he vowed.

  The crowd began to disperse as Valdez eased the pressure on the rope. Florita’s knees buckled. Valdez let go of the rope completely. It slithered over the viga and Florita crumpled to the ground. Blood had splattered around her, forming small, circular splashes in the dirt that were now drying in the heat.

  Movement to the Kid’s right caught his eye. The two women who had served the meal hurried forward with distraught looks on their faces. They must have been watching from the hacienda and now wanted to go to Florita and try to help her.