From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5) (12 page)

‘
They are not more than twenty-five
men,’ Salverinas put in. ‘You have thirty here and more around if
you need them.’

‘
We are all well-armed,’ Dusty warned.
‘Not only with handguns. We have many rifles.’

‘
The
Yamparikuh
have faced rifles
before—’ Salverinas began, as Dusty hoped he would.

‘
But not such rifles as our men carry,’
the small Texan stated, dipping his left hand into a pocket and
producing something which he handed to the chief. ‘This is why you
won’t take our cattle.’

‘
What is
it?’
Pinedapoi
inquired, turning the metal-case Henry cartridge between
his thumb and forefinger.

‘
A bullet such as our new
rifles fire. Each of them can be
loaded and fired many times without
reloading—’

‘
We have such a rifle here!’ Salverinas
barked. ‘It holds seven bullets and they cannot be loaded
quickly.’

‘
Our rifles are of a new,
better kind,’ Dusty told him. ‘And it will not be
you
who face
them.’

Squatting on his heels to one
side of his companion, the Kid grinned and slid the medicine boot
from his rifle. Trust old Dusty to say just the right
things.
Pinedapoi
and the
tehnap
particularly could see how the metal-case bullets might
speed up the reloading process, even beyond that of paper
cartridges which required that the weapon be capped separately.
While a Comanche had few peers for courage, once he passed
the
tuivitsi
stage he also knew the value of caution. Using single-shot
rifles and the new bullets, a respectable rate of fire could be
achieved. High enough to make attacking men armed with such weapons
a costly business.

Equally aware of the Comanches’
qualities, Salverinas read the signs as well as had the Kid.
The
Yamparikuh
would hesitate to throw their lives away, but he saw
another way by which he might achieve his ends.

‘
This small
Tejano
must be very
important if he comes and speaks for the men with the cattle,’
Salverinas said, jumping from the wagon. ‘Take him prisoner and his
friends will pay well to have him returned.’

‘
I can’t do
that,’
Pinedapoi
objected. ‘Magic Hands is my guest.’

‘
But not mine!’ Salverinas
spat out. ‘If I take him
—’

‘
That is between you and him,’ the
chief answered calmly.

‘
Get him!’
the
Comanchero
ordered and the three men left their horses to move in
Dusty’s direction.

Instantly the Kid rose, landing
lightly on spread-apart legs. He held the Winchester in his right
hand, thumb over the wrist of the butt, forefinger inside the
trigger
guard
and the remaining three fingers curled through the loading lever’s
ring, its barrel directed at the ground. Mutters rose from the
watching
Yamparikuh
as they realized that he held some new kind of
rifle.

For their part, the three Mexicans studied
the new element which had entered the game. At that moment the Kid
did not look white. The fire’s light played on his ail-but naked,
hard-muscled and wiry body, its torso marked with the scars of old
wounds. Standing before them, he looked like some great cat ready
to pounce, or a Comanche Dog Soldier on the prod.

‘
Pinedapoi
said for your boss to take him,
pelados
!’
growled the Kid.

Although the words came in English, with the
exception of the final insulting name—used in that manner it meant
a corpse or grave robber—the trio understood. More than that, they
knew no Comanche was addressing them. Sure he looked and acted like
the saltiest brave who ever put on the paint and rode the war
trail, but he spoke Texan like one of the Alamo’s defenders. To men
from the Rio Grande’s bloody border country, the combination
brought a name to mind.

‘
Cabrito
!’
ejaculated Leon, conscious of his Spencer’s comforting
weight and the fact that he held it in a better position of
readiness than did the dark young Texan.

‘
That’s
me,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Now, happen you want to take a hand, get to
it.’

Quickly Salverinas assessed the
situation and knew that,
Cabrito
or not, he must act. The Comanches had no respect
for a coward or a boaster. Should he fail to back up his
suggestion, he would be lucky to leave the camp alive. Taken any
way he looked, things seemed to be in his favor. Not only was he
fast with a gun, but his driver had already slid the short-barreled
shotgun from its boot on the side of the wagon box. That
small
Tejano
wore two guns, yet hardly seemed dangerous. Which left the
Ysabel Kid.
Cabrito
was good, Salverinas did not deny that. So were the three
men facing him. It was worth a chance. With the two Texans dead,
the
Yamparikuh
would attack and scatter the herd. That ought to provide
pickings for the
Comancheros’,
not the least being the opportunity to obtain some
of the repeating rifles.

‘
Get them!’ Salverinas ordered,
stabbing his right hand fast towards the ornate butt of his
holstered Colt.

That left the others with no
alternative but to fight.
Cabrito
would not waste time in asking what their
intentions in the matter might be. So Leon started to swing his
Spencer into line, confident that he was in a better position than
the Kid to aim and fire. To the right of the trio Carlos reached
for the fighting knife sheathed at his belt. On the left, Cristobal
put his trust in the power of his Army Colt.

Working with lightning fast precision, the
Kid selected the men in order of their threat to his life. Fom his
findings, he made his plan of campaign and put it into effect.
First to go, without any argument, must be Leon for he already held
a weapon in his hands.

Up swung the Winchester’s
barrel, its foregrip slapping into the Kid’s left palm as if drawn
there by a magnet, to line unerringly on the man with the Spencer.
Flame lashed from the muzzle and a flat-nosed B. Tyler
Henry-designed bullet tore its way into Leon’s chest before he
could complete turning his Spencer towards its mark. Wanting to
impress the
Yamparikuh
with the magazine capacity and rapid-fire potential of the
Winchester, the Kid fanned the lever through its loading cycle. In
trained hands, the rifle could throw out two bullets per second;
and the Kid possessed the necessary skill to achieve that
performance. Working the barrel across to deal with the next
danger, he got off four shots which all found their way into the
reeling Mexican’s body. Thrown backwards, Leon died without
managing to line his Spencer or get off a load in
return.

Blurring down the lever, the Kid
watched an empty cartridge case flick out of the ejection slot in
the top of the frame. Automatically counting his shots, he swung
the barrel at the second most dangerous of the trio. Cristobal
might be trying to
draw his revolver, but the Kid knew Carlos would beat him
into action. Out came the knife; with Carlos drawing it rearwards
for a deadly underhand throw. Only a bullet, propelled by
twenty-eight grains of prime du Pont powder, flew faster than even
the best-designed knife. Again the Winchester spat and Carlos
jolted under the impact of lead. Already the knife was flying in
the Kid’s direction. On firing, he flung himself aside. While
moving, he continued to shoot. Steel nicked his arm, so close did
it come, but he had carried himself clear of the worst effect.
Another bullet struck Carlos, turning him around and tumbling him
on to his face.

Cristobal had his revolver
drawn, but he hesitated before trying to use it against a
fast-moving target
. Bringing it up, he aimed shoulder high on where he
figured the Kid would land. As he fell, the Kid stopped shooting.
Aware that he could not use the rifle from waist level while on the
ground, he thrust it forward. Seeing the Kid land, Crist6bal made a
hurried last moment of adjustment of his aim and fired. To miss. As
soon as his body touched the ground, the Kid rolled over and the
bullet plowed into the dirt where he had been an instant before.
Settling on his belly again, he cradled the butt of the Winchester
against his shoulder. A cold red-hazel eye peered from the rear
sight to the blade at the muzzle end of the barrel. When both were
set to his satisfaction, which took a bare half second, his
forefinger gently squeezed the trigger. Striking Cristobal in the
head, the bullet from the rifle instantly ended further attempts on
the Kid.

Ignoring the blast of shooting
sparked off by the Kid, Dusty sent his hands flashing across.
Fingers closed on the white handles of the waiting Colts and a
thumb coiled around the spur of each’s hammer. Almost faster than
the eye could follow, the long-barreled Army Colts left Dusty’s
holsters. Only one of them roared. From waist high, in what
wou
ld soon
become known as the gunfighter’s crouch, Dusty fired his left hand
revolver.

Shock twisted at Salverinas’
face as he reali
zed that the insignificant cowhand so lightly dismissed was
a
big,
lightning fast, dangerous man. Then a .44 ball spiked a
hole between the Mexican’s eyes. He turned involuntarily, the gun
still not clear of his holster, and tumbled to the
ground.

Slower than the others to assess
the danger, the driver completed the freeing of the shotgun and
started to throw it to his
shoulder. Salverinas had advanced from the wagon,
which permitted Dusty to deal with him from the gunfighter’s
crouch. Not wanting to chance shooting by instinctive alignment
over the distance separating him from the other Mexican, Dusty took
the time to swing his right hand Colt to shoulder level. The wisdom
showed as the gun spat. Caught in the chest by its load, the man
tilted backwards. With a roar the shotgun sent the charges from its
barrels harmlessly into the air. Then he fell into the wagon, his
feet sticking into the air, twitching for a few seconds and going
still.

Two
tuivitsi
sprang to the heads of the wagon’s
team, preventing them from bolting. After a glance to make sure
that Salverinas was out of the game, Dusty turned to look at the
Kid.

‘
Did they get you, Lon?’

‘
Just a nick,’ the dark
youngster replied, coming to his feet. ‘Throw me some more bullets
and we’ll start to dicker with
Pinedapoi.’

Listening in the silence which followed the
cook’s warning, the girl and men about the trail camp’s fire
detected faint sounds to the east. Then they awaited Goodnight’s
orders, being all too aware that none of the crew, or other friends
that they knew of, should be moving about in that direction. There
might be a simple, or harmless explanation for the sound, but the
bearded rancher did not aim to risk it being so.

‘
Grab your rifles!’ Goodnight barked.
‘Drag and right side men stay by the wagons. Wranglers head for the
remuda. Rest of you, out to the herd if anything busts. Move
it!’

Swiftly the party scattered. So
that all might gain experience in every aspect of trail driving,
the crew had been alternating their positions from point to swing,
flank or drag. Yet there was no confusion, each member snatching up
a firearm and heading to the appropriate group. Holding her
shotgun, Dawn slid under the bed-wagon and rested its twin-tubes on
a spoke of the rear wheel. A moment later Billy Jack, carrying a
Henry ‘liberated’
on the battlefield during the days when he had ridden as
Dusty’s sergeant major, dropped to her left side. Showing
excitement and a touch of eager anticipation, Vern joined them. Red
Blaze, armed with a Spencer obtained from the same source which had
supplied Billy Jack’s Henry, stood by the tailgate. The remainder
of the wagons’ defenders had also selected places from which they
could fight in reasonable safety.

‘
Likely we’ll all be
killed
’n’ scalped comes morning,’ Billy Jack muttered to the
girl.

‘
How’d I get you for a partner?’ Dawn
whispered back.

‘
Just fortunate, I reckon,’ the lanky
one answered. ‘Being with me, you’re sure to get killed
early.’

By which time the suspicious
noises in the night had come closer and were identifiable.
Listening to the ru
mble of wheels mingled with the beating of hooves, Vern let
forth a snort of disappointment.

‘
A wagon and hosses!’ the youngster
announced. ‘I never heard tell of Injuns riding the war trail in a
wagon.’

‘
There’s always a first time for
everything,’ Red told him.