The Bloody Border (10 page)

Chapter 10

Seeing a dead animal on the range, a domesticated dog will go straight up to it and investigate. A wolf never does, but circles around the body warily, alert for traps and danger.

So it was with the Ysabel Kid as he rode towards Rosita O’Malley’s place at ten o’clock on the night of his father’s hectic visit. Instead of riding up to the buildings—owned by a good and loyal friend though they might be—he studied them from a distance and made a circle around to take note of everything. Lights glowed at the downstairs’ windows and he could see a number of horses in the corral.

Slipping from the white’s saddle, he led it to some trees beyond the house. Although he removed the headstall and bit, hanging them with the coiled rope on the horn, he left the saddle in place. The horse would remain where he left it, tied or free, while a whistle would bring it to him when needed. So he left it in the cover of the trees, with good grazing under-foot. Silently as an owl hunting in the night sky, the Kid advanced on foot towards the buildings. His route took him by the corral and he kept down wind as a matter of simple precaution. Pausing, he looked the horses over. Fine animals, yet their assortment of colours seemed to rule out a French cavalry patrol. Which still left a whole slew of possibilities. No guards around the place made the visitors unlikely to be Juaristas, for such invariably kept watch for their foreign enemies. That left a variety of border citizens, not all friendly to the Ysabel family, who might be calling on Rosita O’Malley.

The Kid moved on, creeping to the side of the main building and moving to where he could see into the big barroom through a window. What he saw surprised him and made him bless the precautions taken.

The visitors formed two distinct groups, either of which might be found anywhere along the bloody border, except in areas with large and efficient law enforcement organisations. Finding them both at Rosita O’Malley’s place, noted for its neutrality in the various border feuds, might have been natural enough. What surprised the Kid was the fact that the two leaders shared a table in apparent amity.

No mere chance meeting could bring them together, nor a desire to discuss matters of cultural interest. Tall, slender, elegantly dressed like a wealthy
haciendero
, Ramon Peraro possessed leanings towards education and gentlemanly habits. Which same nobody could even start to claim for Bully Segan. Big, bulky, with cold, hard eyes practically the only thing visible among his mat of whiskers, he wore buckskins and might have been a member of the old hairy Rocky Mountain brigade who opened up so much of the far West. Only one thing linked Peraro and Segan. Each ran as mean a band of cut-throats and killers as could be assembled.

Four of Segan’s men,
Americanos del Norte
dressed in buckskins and well-armed, sat at a table behind their boss. While two of Peraro’s gang stood at the bar, another four sat over against the wall beyond the
bandido
leader. The atmosphere seemed strained, only natural with the two gangs in competition with each other, and most of the company drank left-handed. Only the two leaders sat together, using the right hand to raise their
tequila
glasses. Watching the others, the Kid was reminded of seeing, as a boy, a cougar and grizzly bear drinking on either side of the only waterhole in ten miles. The two predators showed the same alert, suspicious watchfulness as did the members of the rival gangs.

“Now what in hell’s ole Bully Segan doing sat here all friendlied-up with Peraro?” the Kid asked himself. “Last I heard, Ramon was fixing to side with Juarez against the French.”

Not to celebrate, or merely have fun, certainly; for the men ignored Rosita’s girls and drank sparingly. One possibility sprang to mind. Ever since they started smuggling, long before the War, the Ysabels had built up a name for rugged, effective defence of their property. Few gangs on the border would chance attacking one of their pack trains. Yet it seemed unlikely that such a project would bring together Peraro and Segan. Even less so that their meeting would take place at Rosita O’Malley’s
posada
, known to be the Ysabel family’s favourite visiting spot.

Deciding to learn more about the visitors before entering the Kid withdrew and went to the rear of the building. He could see into the kitchen, but made no attempt to approach it. Instead he settled on his haunches and waited in the darkness with all the patience of his maternal grandfather’s people.

Almost an hour passed before Rosita entered the kitchen and came close enough to its open door for the Kid’s purpose. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he gave a near perfect imitation of an Arizona pyrrhuloxia’s mating call Passing the doorway, Rosita changed direction and walked outside. Again came the twittering whistle. Aware that the bird rarely came into that region and sang only in daylight, she knew the call to be a signal. So she spoke over her shoulder, telling the cook she was going out back and walked into the darkness.

“
Cabrito
?” she asked, speaking barely above a whisper.

“It ain’t Benito Juarez,” the youngster replied, moving to her side. “You got the cream of society tonight, Rosey.”

“That’s no way to talk about my customers,” the woman answered, lowering the Remington Double Derringer she had carried concealed on her person since Sam Ysabel’s departure. “Way you’re fancied up, I thought you’d be coming in. All it wants is for your pappy and that high-quality gal to come along for it to be the success of the year.”

A grin twisted the Kid’s lips as he realised that his change of clothes had come close to bringing a bullet into his belly. Knowing Rosita, he did not doubt that she would have shot if he had spoken less promptly to identify himself. Not that he blamed her. Anybody who aroused the suspicions of either Peraro or Segan stood a better than fair chance of meeting a painful death. So she could take no chances.

“What’s up, Rosey?” he asked, moving to one side as she entered the small backhouse and left its door open.

“I don’t know who that high-quality gal was, or what’s she’s doing; and’d’s soon not find out,” Rosita answered. “But she’s sure got a heap of real nice folks looking for her and Big Sam.”

“Charlie Kraus here as well as Segan and Peraro?”

“Nope. Hickey ‘a’ his crowd come in earlier. Lone Walt’s still here—’fact he won’t be leaving.”

“Poor ole Lone Walt,” drawled the Kid, in a voice which showed no sympathy. “I hope he’s not planted close to drinking water or growing things. You mean Hickey come here looking for pappy?”

“
Si
!” admitted the woman. “I couldn’t hardly believe it myself. That high-quality gal sure has something.”

“That was Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy,” the Kid told her. “What’s going on, Rosey gal?”

“Ramon and the Bully’s after your pappy and the gal. From what they’ve said, there’ll be more folks looking. So they’re working in cahoots and figure to split the money between ‘em—.”

“So word’s got out,” the Kid breathed.

“Three Yankee steam-launches’ve gone up river passing it,” Rosita replied. “Big Sam said to tell you he’s swung off to the south.”

“Peraro and old Bully’s got fellers along who can read sign real good,” the Kid remarked. “I’d’s soon not have ‘em dogging my tracks when I go after pappy.”

“You want for me to put something in their tequila?” Rosita inquired.

“Does that firewater need anything in it?” countered the Kid and grinned at the pungent, obscene defence of the
posada’s
liquor. Then he went on, “Nope. Don’t you chance it, Rosey. I’ll tend to things myself.”

All too well the Kid knew Peraro’s and Segan’s vindictive nature. Let either of them feel the slightest breath of suspicion and no amount of potential family backing could save Rosita. So the youngster intended, if possible, to halt the pursuit in a manner which would leave her free from blame.

“I’ll do anything I can, Lon,” Rosita promised.

“I know that, you never did have a lick of good sense. Got some Ysabel blood in you, most likely. Only I got me a right sneaky, treacherous notion. Where’re their hosses?”

“In the corral, all except Peraro’s black stallion.”

“That figures. He allus keeps it in’ a stable if he can.”

“And with that Yaqui of his standing guard on it,” Rosita warned. “1 could send something out—.”

“Damned if I’ll chance eating here again,” grinned the Kid, “way you’re so set on slipping something into the stuff. Nope, Rosey. Happen you want to help, just hint around that Ramon might have some more fellers out ‘n’ about.”

“You’ll never get the black—!” Rosita began.

“Likely not,” the Kid agreed, although the time would come when he had to steal Peraro’s well-guarded favourite horse.* “But Bully’s
bayo-coyote’s
in the corral and not guarded. Ole Bully sets a heap of store in that hoss.”

“It’s a good hoss,” Rosita answered.

“Yeah,” the Kid replied. “And wouldn’t he be all riled up happen it’s gone comes morning?”

“It’s a big chance, Cabrito.”

“Yes’m. A real big chance.”

Silence fell and Rosita realised that the Kid had gone. Sucking in a deep breath, she rose from the backhouse seat, shook down her skirts and returned to the posada.

Although he went back to his horse, the Kid did not intend to make a move straight away. There would be no point on going on, for he needed daylight to find his father’s and Belle’s tracks. More important, he must attempt to prevent the two gangs following them. Trying to do so in an open fight offered too little chance of success to be contemplated. So he planned another way. If one of the gangs found some of its horses missing, the blame would fall on their rivals.

Taking Peraro’s horse from the stable would be difficult. So, despite his desire to attempt the feat, he decided against trying. Down in the corral stood a easier mark. Unless his boyhood training had left him—and he knew it had not—he should be able to achieve his ends.

Satisfied, he off-saddled the white and allowed it to roll on the grass while making his own preparations to catch some rest.

Like Belle, the Kid could wake at any time he set himself to. Sitting up, he looked around, darted a glance at the sky and estimated how long he had slept. Then he rose and moved to where he could see the
posada
. No lights showed at any of the windows, although a lantern still glowed in the stable. To one side the white stallion lay sleeping, but it woke and raised its head as he walked back to his saddle.

“Settle down again, ole hoss,” the Kid said quietly, unfastening the coiled rope from the saddlehorn. “I won’t be needing you for a spell yet.”

Leaving the horse still resting, the youngster made his way through the darkness towards the
posada
. Although not really needing one, he used the light from the stables as a guide and directed his silent feet towards the corral. Eyes and ears worked constantly to catch any slight warning of danger as the Kid drew closer to his destination. Probably as a sign of their trust and faith in each other, neither gang appeared to have a man guarding the horses in the corral. Peraro could continue to do so with his black stallion; for he always did, even in the safety of his hide-out.

Raiding—horse-stealing—always rated high in the ways a Comanche could gain honour and boys received a very thorough training in all aspects of the art. So the Kid possessed all the knowledge he would need to carry out his scheme. In his hand, he held his rope, a most useful extension of his will when properly used. On reaching the downwind side of the corral, he paused to study the situation and decide which horses he wanted to steal. For his idea to work out properly, he must take horses belonging only to Bully Segan’s gang.

Selecting the required animals, even in darkness, proved easy to a man of the Kid’s encyclopedic equine knowledge. Horse being gregarious by nature, they tended to bunch with those of their kind to which they were most familiar. So the Kid could make out three well-defined groups in the corral. Even without being able to point directly at Segan’s big
bayo-coyote
stallion, he quickly learned which of the groups belonged to the white men. Easing around so that the wind bore his scent into the corral, he watched the horses’ reactions. Mexican animals gave signs of restlessness at catching a white man’s scent; not as much as Indian ponies would, but sufficient for the Kid’s needs. With the ownership of the groups established, the rest was easy. Even before he withdrew down wind, he had located the Segan’s highly-prized mount.

Before entering the corral, the Kid took out his knife and slit the rope into three twenty foot lengths. Nomally an Indian on a raiding mission took along the ropes ready prepared, but the Kid had not expected the need to arise. However a small matter like that created little difficulty. Swiftly he made running nooses on two of the pieces, the original honda remaining to be used on the third. With all ready, he approached the corral gate openly. A low hissing whistle left his lips, alerting the horses to his presence without disturbing them. Fortunately even Rosita O’Mally’s stock saw enough arrivals in the darkness not to take fright at his approach and the gangs’ mounts regarded such behaviour as natural.

Carefully the Kid eased out the gate bars, lowering the ends he held to the ground. A quick glance around told him his presence still remained unsuspected and he entered the corral. Keeping up the soothing hissing, he moved among the horses. If any of them showed signs of restlessness, he stopped like a statue until the animal quietened down once more. At last he reached the
bayo-coyote
and it faced him with alert, but not frightened attention. Using the same unhurried, calm manner that had covered his every movement since entering the corral, the Kid raised the rope and slipped its honda-formed loop over the horse’s head. Giving a snort, the
bayo-coyote
tossed its head. If the Kid had so much as flinched, the stallion might have attacked; but he stood like a statue and continuing the low comforting whistle. Then the noose drew tight and the worst danger passed. Feeling the familiar touch of a rope, the horse stood fast and awaited the next command. Before attempting anything further, the Kid drew gently but insistently on the rope. As the sleek head lowered, he blew into its nostrils. Back in the days when the Comanche obtained the first of the ‘god-dogs’ from the Spanish explorers, it had been learned that breathing into a horse’s nostrils quietened it and rendered it amenable to orders. Nor did the
bayo-coyote
prove any exception, having received the treatment many times since its capture and training. Gently and without fuss, the Kid won the horse’s confidence and dominated its will.

Gathering two more of the horses belonging to Segan’s gang took less time and presented no problems. As its owner ran the gang, so the
bayo-coyote
led their mounts. Seeing it accept the newcomer, the others stood steady enough. Leading his three captives, the Kid walked slowly around the corral and through the gate. If anybody had been watching, it seemed that the trio of horses did no more than move aimlessly. Only while passing through the gate could the difference be seen. All the rest of the Segan gang’s horses followed, but he turned them back at the gate. Three would be enough for his plan and to handle more added noise and risk. Knotting the three lead-ropes together, he left his captives standing while he replaced the corral gates.

“Grandpappy Long Walker’d be proud of me,” the Kid grinned as he reached for the knotted lead ropes. “Sure wish I’d a pair of wored-out ole moccasins along—Naw, that’d give the whole snap away for sure.”

Often a successful Comanche raider would leave a sign of his presence to mock the people he robbed. A favourite trick was to leave behind an ancient pair of moccasins. Then when the owners discovered their loss they read the message that the raider no longer needed his old foot-wear as he could ride off in comfort on the stolen horses.

Much as the Kid wished he could play the old ending to his raid, he knew it would be impossible and impracticable. He did not have a pair of old moccasins along. Even if he had, using them in such a manner might ruin his scheme. Seeing the old Comanche sign might point out an alternative remover of the horses to Segan. The Kid’s connection with that particular Indian tribe being well known, his activities could be understood and the desired trouble between the gangs averted.

So, regretfully putting aside the thoughts, he led the horses around the outside of the corral and, on the opposite side to the stables, off towards where his white stallion waited. Picketing them securely out of sight of the corral, he returned to his interrupted sleep. By the first light of dawn he woke, packed his gear, saddled the white and returned to a position from which he could watch the cantina.

Soon after the Kid took his place, a couple of Segan’s men walked from the building and in the direction of the corral. Then the others came out, the gang leaders still apparently on the best of terms even if their men showed the same veiled hostility. Reaching the corral, the first pair came to a halt, staring at the horses.

“Now cut for sign, you stupid yahoos!” breathed the Kid Almost as if they heard him, the men directed their eyes to the ground and started around the corral. At last they halted, pointing down. Without attempting to follow the tracks further, they turned and dashed back the way they came.

“Bully!” one of them yelled. “Your hoss’s gone. And two more.”

“Gone!” Segan bellowed and started towards the corral. Standing at the door of the cantina to see her guests depart, Rosita decided to add her touch to the Kid’s plan.

“Hey, Ramon,” she called in Spanish. “I’ve sent Yaqui his breakfast to the stable. What an appetite. He eats enough for two.”

Harmless enough sounding words, but sufficient to raise unpleasant thoughts in Segan’s head. Suspicious by nature, he read what Rosita hoped he would in her words. There had been other hints during the previous night that Peraro might have more than the one man outside the posada. While accepting that Yaqui was standing guard on the black stallion, in the interests of retaining Peraro’s good will until after relieving the Ysabels of the money, Segan drew sinister conclusions from Rosita’s innocent statement.

Three of Sagan’s gang would be without horses, even if he took one of their mounts for himself. He did not wish to help bushwhack the Ysabels unless sure that he had enough men at his back to protect his interests.

Never known for his tact, but famous as a hater of gringos, Peraro’s second in command, Perez, could not resist injecting a mocking comment.

“You lose something,
Matón
?” he asked with a grin at his companions.

“You’re damned right I lost something!” Segan answered, swinging around to face the Mexicans. “Where are they. Peraro?”

“
Matón
, Bully,
amigo
,” Peraro replied. “I don’t know what you mean.”