The Morgans Read online

  The majordomo stood stiffly just inside the dining room. Ramirez glanced at him and said, “Regalberto, tell the women to set two more places, and then we will be ready to eat.”

  Regalberto bowed slightly and said, “Of course, Excellency.” As far as he was concerned, Ramirez was already the supreme leader of Mexico.

  Or of this little piece of Arizona Territory, anyway, the Kid thought wryly.

  The majordomo bustled out. Ramirez waved the others toward the table and said, “Let us sit.”

  “I would prefer to freshen up after the ride from the settlement, Papa,” Antonia said.

  “Nonsense. You look fine. A little trail dust is nothing to concern yourself with. Is that not so, Señor Callahan?”

  “I’m used to it, myself,” the Kid said. “Been on the drift for quite a while now.”

  “I would like to learn more about you.” Ramirez motioned toward the chairs again. “Please.”

  Antonia rolled her eyes, but she took her seat to her father’s right. The Kid sat to Ramirez’s left, with Kern on his other side. A female servant appeared from somewhere and poured wine into glasses for them.

  Ramirez lifted his glass and said, “To Señor Juan Callahan, for his service in saving my daughter’s life.”

  “You honor me, General,” the Kid said.

  They all drank, Antonia with a bit of ill grace, and then Ramirez went on, “I know it is not considered polite to inquire too much about a man’s background, but I am curious about you, Señor Callahan. I can tell by looking at you that you are a fighting man.”

  “I wasn’t always,” the Kid said. “In fact, when I was a youngster, I wasn’t much good to anybody. But then my folks died, and I had to learn how to make my own way in the world.”

  That response actually had a good deal of truth in it. Ramirez nodded and said, “Life can be a very hard teacher. But the lessons we learn serve us well, eh?”

  The Kid took another sip of his wine. It had a raw bite and wasn’t very good, but out here in the middle of nowhere, you couldn’t expect anything else.

  “I learned that I’m good with a gun,” he said. “It seemed to come natural to me.” That was true, as well. “So I figured if I had a talent, I ought to put it to good use. That’s what I’ve been doing ever since.”

  “Where?” Ramirez asked sharply.

  “Texas, Colorado, California,” the Kid answered with a shrug. “All over the Southwest, really. I’ve never been the sort to stay in one place for very long at a time.”

  “I hope that if you join our cause, you will consider remaining with us after we are victorious. Every man who supports me will have a place waiting for him.”

  “Are you asking me to throw in with you, General?”

  “Not just yet, perhaps,” Ramirez said. “But everything I have heard so far makes me believe that you would be a good addition to our ranks. But for now . . .” He nodded toward the two servant women, one older, one younger, who had just come into the room and were carrying platters of food. “Let us enjoy our dinner!”

  * * *

  During the time Frank had been down here in the dungeon, he had learned the names of the older woman and the two younger ones. Not that they ever talked to him when they brought him his meals and the older woman checked his wounds, but sometimes the guards called them by name. The older woman was Juana; the younger ones were Beatriz and Florita. Frank was pretty sure that Beatriz was Juana’s daughter, and Florita was her niece.

  Knowing their names didn’t help him, but thinking about it was something to do. He also thought about ways to escape from his imprisonment, but so far he hadn’t come up with anything even remotely workable.

  His hip still ached a little from the bullet graze but was healed for the most part. His right leg was stiff at times from the stab wound, but it no longer bothered him much, either. The moss that Juana had used to treat it had been quite effective.

  Feeling better meant that he was more restless than ever, and pacing back and forth as best he could in the close confines of the cell didn’t do anything to relieve that feeling.

  He was pacing like that when he heard footsteps approach and then a key rattled in the lock. He backed to the far side of the cell, knowing at least one shotgun-wielding guard would cover him when the door opened.

  It swung back, and sure enough, an American gunman named Hardy stepped into the cell and leveled a short-barreled coach gun at Frank. Hardy moved aside, out of the doorway, to allow Florita to enter the chamber. She carried a wooden tray with a bowl and a cup on it that she placed on the stone floor between her and Frank.

  “You fellas sure must be scared of me,” Frank drawled as he grinned at Hardy. “You never come in here without a scattergun.”

  Hardy grunted and said, “And I don’t mind pullin’ the triggers if I need to, so don’t get any ideas, Morgan.”

  “No ideas,” Frank said. “Gracias, Florita.”

  The girl didn’t acknowledge the thank-you. She just turned and went stiffly out of the cell. Hardy backed out, never lowering the shotgun as he did so.

  Frank chuckled as the key turned in the lock again. They acted like he was the most dangerous man alive.

  He hoped he would get a chance to demonstrate to them that they’d been right to be so cautious.

  He sat down cross-legged on the floor beside the tray. The bowl contained some sort of stew, probably cabrito, and he saw now that a chunk of bread sat beside the bowl. He could use it to sop up the liquid from the stew. The cup was full of weak coffee. The meal wasn’t much, but it would keep him alive.

  He used his fingers to pick out the lumps of goat meat, which were tough but nourishing, along with pieces of potato and wild onion. Sips of coffee washed down the food. He dipped the bread into the stew and ate it, too, but it wasn’t a big enough piece to soak up all the liquid. Some was left in the bottom of the bowl. Frank picked it up to drink the last of the savory juice.

  But before he did, he saw something shiny lying on the tray. The bowl had been sitting on top of it, concealing it.

  Frank picked it up and brought it closer to his face to study it in the dim light. He held a thin piece of metal, half an inch wide and four inches long, pointed on one end. He ran a fingertip along the edges to test them. The metal wasn’t sharp, but it was sturdy despite its thinness.

  A man could use just this sort of tool to open a lock . . . if he knew how.

  Frank didn’t, but he thought he could figure it out.

  He knew from listening that no guards were posted directly outside his door. They always came down the corridor from the bottom of the stone staircase. He had heard their footsteps approaching often enough. He had also heard faint snoring coming from that direction at times, so he believed they had a chair down at the end of the corridor and would doze there while they were making sure he didn’t escape.

  He would have to deal with that problem later. Getting the cell door unlocked was the first obstacle to overcome.

  He drank the rest of the coffee, then stood up and moved to the door. Bending over to work on the lock was awkward for a man of his height, so he went down on one knee and began to probe in the keyhole with the little metal strip. He put his other hand against the door to steady himself.

  Frank had seen men pick locks before. He knew it was as much an art as a science, and he possessed no such artistry. But he had sensitive hands and nerves, and keen hearing as well. He turned his head and put his right ear close to the lock as he explored inside it with the metal strip.

  Every time he felt the tip catch on something, he applied gentle but steady pressure to see if he could move the lock’s mechanism. When it resisted, he eased off. He didn’t want to break the metal.

  Long minutes of maddening trial and error went by. He began to worry that Florita and the guard would return so she could pick up the bowl, cup, and tray before he was able to unlock the door. If that happened, he would have to hide the metal strip in his pocket and try agai
n later. That might even be better, he decided. His chances of escape would be better if he broke out of here in the middle of the night.

  After being locked up in this cell for long, miserable days, though, he wanted to be out. He would try for a few more minutes.

  Just as he told himself that, he heard a faint scraping sound inside the lock as he twisted the metal strip.

  Frank paused, made sure the tip was still caught securely on whatever it had caught on, then applied pressure again. Once more something scraped. Little by little, he worked it to the left until finally, with a whisper-quiet thud, whatever was moving came free.

  That was just the first step. A handle still had to be turned in order to open a latch. Frank had heard the guards doing that every time they had come to the cell. Could he reach it by sticking his arm between the bars on the little window?

  He stood up, put his face to the opening, and listened. He didn’t hear anyone talking or moving around. From the window, he could see part of the corridor, but not the end by the stairs. He didn’t know if a guard was posted there around the clock.

  “Hey!” Frank called quietly. “When’s that pretty little señorita coming back?”

  No answer. The corridor might be empty . . . or the guard might be ignoring him.

  He took a deep breath and thrust his left arm between the bars.

  No alarmed shout, no rushing footsteps. He pressed his shoulder against the bars as hard as he could to get as much reach as possible and felt around for the handle. After a moment his fingertips brushed against it. He strained harder as he tried to get a grip on it. The first time he attempted to turn the handle, his fingers slipped off. Frank clenched his jaw and tried again.

  This time the handle turned a little. Frank was able to get a better grasp. He twisted.

  The latch clicked. The door moved toward him slightly. He withdrew his arm from the window and eased the door open, going slow so the hinges didn’t creak as much. He leaned forward and peered along the corridor toward the stairs. No guards were in sight. Two ladder-back chairs sat on either side of a table where the guards could play cards or put a whiskey bottle and some glasses, but at the moment those chairs were empty.

  Frank was out of the cell, but he was a long way from freedom. A small army of cold-blooded killers blocked his way out of this castle and the compound beyond.

  This was the necessary first step, though. He hurried along the corridor toward the stairs.

  Before he got there, he heard footsteps echoing through a hallway somewhere up above . . . and they were coming nearer with each passing second.

  Florita and the guard were on their way back to the cell.

  Chapter 21

  Frank could have turned and gone back inside the cell, but if he did, Hardy would realize the door was unlocked and know that something had happened. That wouldn’t help Frank, and it might cause a great deal of trouble for Florita.

  Faced with that choice, he did the only thing he could. He hurried forward, dropped to hands and knees, and crawled under the table next to the chairs. He was a big man and it wasn’t easy, but he managed, pressing his body against the wall to conceal himself as much as possible. Now he had to hope that Hardy wouldn’t spot him under there. The man wouldn’t be expecting trouble, so he might not. One thing about hired guns: they tended to get a little lax when they weren’t in the middle of a fight.

  The footsteps were louder now as they descended the stairs. Frank listened closely. He believed only two people were headed down here to the dungeon. That was good. An extra guard would have just increased the odds against him.

  He held his breath as they reached the bottom of the stairs and moved past the table. He saw two sets of feet, one clad in sandals with bare ankles above them and a long skirt swishing around the calves, the other crammed into well-worn boots.

  Then he stood up, grunting a little as he grasped the edges of the table and lifted it on his bent back. His leg nudged one of the chairs and made it scrape on the stone floor. The guard heard that and started to turn quickly, but Frank raised the table higher and crashed it down on top of the gunman.

  The impact drove Hardy to his knees and made him drop the shotgun. It clattered on the floor. He recovered enough to make a lunge for the shotgun, but Frank kicked him in the jaw and knocked him sprawling on his back. A lot of the anger and frustration that had built up inside Frank since he was captured went into that kick. When he looked at the guard, who was now out cold, he could tell that the man’s jaw was broken.

  Frank didn’t figure he was going to lose a second of sleep over that.

  He bent and picked up the scattergun, then plucked the unconscious man’s revolver from its holster and stuck it behind his belt. Only then did he look at Florita, who stared at him in shock. She tried to speak, but it took her a moment before she was able to.

  Finally she said, “Señor, you . . . you freed yourself . . .”

  “And I reckon I’ve got you to thank for that,” Frank said. “You took a mighty big chance, smuggling that piece of metal to me so I could pick the lock. It wouldn’t have gone well for you with the general if you’d been caught.”

  “I trusted to el Señor Dios to protect me and grant you your freedom,” she said.

  “We’re a long way from that. How many men are upstairs?”

  Florita shook her head and said, “I do not know. Seven or eight, at the very least. Two pistoleros, Señor Kern and another man who is new here, dine with el General and Señorita Antonia right now.”

  Frank had known all along that he couldn’t shoot his way out of the hacienda. But if Ramirez and Antonia were his prisoners, the general’s men wouldn’t dare harm him. He needed to get to some horses and put some distance between himself and this unholy place.

  “You stay here,” he told Florita as he turned toward the steps. “Muchas gracias for what you’ve done—”

  “Wait,” she said. “Let me come with you.”

  “It’s too dangerous—” Frank began.

  She bent and picked up the guard’s hat, which had fallen off when Frank brought the table crashing down on him. As she punched the broad-brimmed black hat into shape, she said, “Wear this and keep your head down.”

  “I can’t pretend to be that hombre,” Frank said as he nodded toward the guard. “I’m a heap bigger than him.”

  “But it might fool the others for a moment, especially if I am with you acting like nothing is wrong, and that moment might be important.”

  She had a point there, Frank thought. With the odds so high against him, any advantage, however slight, was worth pursuing.

  “All right,” he said as he took the hat from her. It was too small, but not by much. The hired gun was slightly built but had a big head.

  “Drag this dog into the cell,” Florita suggested. “I know where he keeps the key. I should get the things I brought down for your meal. It will look better if I have them when we go back up.”

  “You’re right, señorita,” Frank agreed. He got hold of the unconscious man’s collar and hauled him along the corridor. Florita hurried ahead of him and went into the cell to fetch the tray, bowl, and cup.

  Once Frank had Hardy laid out on the floor, the young woman delved inside one of his trouser pockets and came up with the key. They stepped out, and she locked the cell behind them.

  “It would be all right with me if no one ever found him and he rotted in there,” she said in a low, vehement voice. “He is a pig!”

  Frank wasn’t going to ask her what the guard had done to cause her to hate him so much. He didn’t figure that was any of his business.

  “Are you sure about this?” he said to her. “You can stay down here where it’s safe while I go up.”

  She shook her head. “You must get away from here, Señor Morgan. When you do, go to the café in Saguaro Springs run by Julio Hernandez. He is my uncle, and he will know what to do.”

  Frank wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but he nodded and said
, “All right. Let’s go.”

  They returned to the bottom of the stairs, where he paused long enough to set up the table, which was lying on its side where it had fallen after he used it to knock out the guard. It was sturdily built and hadn’t broken apart.

  Then they started up out of the dungeon. That felt mighty good to Frank.

  No matter what happened from here on out, he had a fighting chance again. That was all he had ever asked out of life.

  He heard voices before they reached the top of the stairs. Florita, who was beside him, said quietly, “There is a room up here where the guards sometimes sit and drink and amuse themselves. It was empty when Hardy and I went down to the dungeon.”

  “It’s not now,” Frank said. “Sounds like a couple of men.”

  “Let me go first,” the girl suggested. “That is the way it would be if Hardy were with me.”

  Frank nodded and let her move up a couple of steps above him. He lowered his head, so anyone looking down the stairs at them would see Florita for the most part, as well as the black hat on the man behind her.

  “Here she is now,” a man’s mocking voice said as Florita neared the top of the stairs. “Hey, sweetheart, how about you put on another little show for us, like you did the other day? I never saw a gal dance quite like that before.”

  “It was somethin’, all right,” another man put in. “C’mon, darlin’, put that tray down and shake them hips for us. I always liked you hot-blooded Mex gals.”

  “I must take these things back to the kitchen,” Florita muttered with her head down. She was off the stairs and in the guardroom now, with Frank close behind her.

  “Hell, your tía won’t mind if you ain’t back right away. I want to watch you dance—”

  “Hey!” the other guard interrupted. “That ain’t—”

  Florita swung the tray before the man could finish warning the other one that it wasn’t Hardy with her. The cup and bowl went flying. The tray smacked across the man’s face.

  Frank leaped at the other man and brought the coach gun up. He didn’t want any shooting to alert the rest of the hacienda that something was going on, so he slammed the shotgun’s butt into the guard’s jaw. Bone shattered, just as Frank’s kick down in the dungeon had broken Hardy’s jaw. The guard dropped to the floor, senseless.