The Bloody Border (8 page)

Flares and lanterns illuminated the
Waterbury
and depot ship. From all appearances, the raid had been at least a partial success. Water spurting out of hoses and the clanging of pumps aboard the
Waterbury
told of the fight to save her. Even as Eve’s boat approached, she saw one of the forward Dahlgren nine-inch cannon tumble over the side through a gap cut in the bulwarks. A further gap at the stem told that the steam sloop’s captain had jettisoned some of his armament in the bid to stay afloat. Yet, even with the reduction in weight of four—two from each side—9,200 pound cannon, the sloop lay low in the water. Beyond her, the depot ship listed far over to port and looked in a more sorry plight even than the
Waterbury
.

Kusik, the man rowing at Ffauldes’ side, knew naval procedure for he raised his voice in a hail. “
Waterbury
ahoy! Permission to come aboard!”

“Who the hell are you?” demanded an exasperated voice. “If they’re from some stinking newspaper, turn the hoses on ‘em!” roared the burly captain, appearing at the rail.

“We’re U.S. consular staff from Matamoros!” Ffauldes yelled hastily.

“Lay alongside aft and come aboard!” ordered the captain grudgingly and Eve heard him continue in a lower tone, “A woman! That’s all I need right now. A damned woman coming aboard asking stupid questions.”

“I’ll report him to the admiral comm—!” Ffauldes began. “Shut your mouth!” Eve snapped. “He’s right, but I have to go aboard.”

She could sympathise with the captain, doing everything in his power to save his ship and faced by the arrival of what would probably amount to nothing more than useless sightseers. However she wanted to learn if any of the raiders had been seen and might be identified.

Boarding the
Waterbury
presented no problem, for she lay low in the water. Two sailors reached through the gap in the bulwarks, caught Eve’s wrists and swung her up on to the deck. Kusik followed by his own efforts and Ffauldes struggled up after the other two.

“You understand I’ve no time to spare, madam,” the captain told Eve, giving her a scowl along with the salute.

“You may tell the ladies ashore that there’ve been no casualties in either vessel.”

“Thank you, captain,” she replied. “And the damage?”

“We’re holed in the bottom, have plugged it with hammocks as best we can but are still making water. The
Grayson
is in worse shape than us. I’ve had no report from her. You are from the consulate?”

“I’m with the Secret Service,” Eve answered, her voice holding just a touch of pride. “Did anybody see the attackers?”

“See them!” growled the captain, sounding more angry than ever. “One of my officers had his hands on her and—.”

“
Her
?” Eve prompted. “There was a woman involved?”

“Damn it, can’t you see I’m—,” the captain blared, then gave a resigned shrug. “Very well. It will come out later anyhow. Mr. Thurley. Lay aft here.”

“Aye aye, sir!” answered the abashed midshipman who had commanded the guard boat, running up to the party.

“Tell the lady about your outstanding achievement tonight. Mr. Thurley,” ordered the captain. “And while you’re at it, tell her about that damned wig you brought aboard with that blasted greaser down the coast last night. I’m going below to inspect the damage.”

Slowly the midshipman told of Belle’s ‘capture’ and escape, clearly hating to admit his failure to civilians, especially when one of them was a woman. If he came out of the affair still retaining his commission, he would be lucky; and he knew it. So he spoke carefully, weighing out each word with the view to how it would sound repeated before a court martial. Showing tact and using skilled questioning backed by sympathy, Eve drew out all the details.

“It could have happened to anybody,” she finally said with more compassion than she felt. The Rebel Spy had been in Yankee hands and escaped. No member of the U.S. Secret Service could regard that news with equanimity. However she wished to let the young man down as lightly as possible in view of what his superiors would do to him. “What was that about a wig?”

Thurley did not hesitate with his answer. On that matter at least he could maintain a clear conscience, being covered in his actions by the captain’s stringent orders.

“That was last night, ma’am. We heard shots from the shore and saw a fight by a fire. Captain sent me ashore with a party to investigate. The fighters ran before we landed. Hey though! One of them was a woman—the same one we caught tonight, I’ll bet. At least they both had the same sort of short black hair. The two men with her were Americans, frontiersmen from the look of them.”

“What baggage did they have?” Eve asked eagerly.

“Two trunks. They carried them off. The bigger man took one and she helped the youngster with the other.”

“And you didn’t give chase?” Ffauldes put in.

“That was on Mexican territory,
mister
,” Thurley answered, contempt for a civilian plain in his tone. “My orders were not to go beyond the beach. I brought a greaser aboard with me, but his jaw’s smashed so bad that he can’t talk.”

“About what size were the trunks?” Eve inquired.

“About so,” Thurley replied, demonstrating with his hands. “I’d say they weighed around a hundred pounds each, they way they carried them off.”

Not large enough to carry two torpedoes then, although that proved little, Eve told herself. Then she looked at the young officer and gave him a reassuring smile.

“There’s nothing more you can tell us?”

“No, ma’am. Now I’d like to get back to my duties.”

“Hell!” Kusik ejaculated. pointing. “Look there!”

Turning, they saw the
Grayson
lurch and then roll over until she lay on her side. She took two of the launches with her, smashing down on them before they could draw away, but the other four hovered around her.

“Jettison two more cannon!” roared the captain, coming up to the deck from below. “Move, damn you. Madam, I’d be obliged if you’d go ashore, make contact with’ the Mex—French authorities and ask if I can run this ship in for repairs.”

Brownsville offered few dockyard facilities. Nor did Matamoros for that matter, but repairs could be carried out more safely there. As long as the
Waterbury
made only such repairs as would render her seaworthy and did not touch her armament, she could enter a neutral port for that purpose under international law.

“I’ll see the arrangements are made,” Eve promised, knowing that the sloop would be safe in Matamoros even should Brownsville be retaken by the Confederacy. “We’ll get from under your feet now, captain.”

While being rowed back to Matamoros, Eve turned over her findings in her mind and liked nothing about them. Somehow Belle Boyd’s capture and escape seemed too fortunate, contrived almost. Then there had been her behaviour in the Confederate consulate. After suspecting that her presence had been discovered, the Rebel Spy had acted in a peculiarly uncharacteristic manner. Not once, but several times she had permitted herself to be seen, and in such a manner as to ensure a still more careful watch for her would be made. Eve could imagine how eagerly the lookouts had waited in the hope of seeing the girl disrobing again.

A spy as successful as Belle Boyd became cautious in the extreme. Of course she might be growing carelessly overconfident—but not if she had come to Matamoros on the business Eve suspected.

“Hurry!” Eve told the men.

“I’d say we’re too late for that,” Kusic answered. “The Rebel Spy’s done what she came here for.”

“I only hope you’re right!” she breathed.

On the landing, Eve found two of the men waiting to deliver a negative report. Telling one of them to stay and watch what happened across the river, she sent the other to pass the captain of the
Waterbury’s
message to the U.S. consul. Then she went to the carriage and ordered Kusik to go as fast as he could to the house overlooking the rebel consulate.

At the house, Eve threw herself from the coach and dashed inside. She ran up the stairs, bursting into the room where she had interviewed the lookouts earlier. One man lay dozing in a chair, but his companion sat at the window. Jolting awake, the first man joined his companion in meeting Eve’s cold gaze with the hang-dog expressions caused by knowing that they had failed in their duty.

“She’s back, Miss Coniston,” the watcher announced. “Asleep on the bed.”

“Damned if I can see how she got out.” his companion went on.

“But she did!” Eve snapped. “I don’t think Allan Pinkerton’s going to like this at all.”

Which, both men knew, was quite an understatement. There would definitely be a big reorganisation of the Matamoros detachment when Eve Coniston reported to their leader.

“Yes’m.” the watcher admitted. “It’s not ‘cause we didn’t watch. Hell, we watched real good.”

“Hoping to see her walk into that room there and strip off her clothes again. I suppose!” Eve shouted. “Anyway. I blame the men on the streets more than you in the houses. How was she dressed when she came back?”

“In a dark shirt and riding breeches. Looked like she’d been in the water—!”

“She had!” Eve interrupted grimly. “And then?”

“She undressed,” the man replied uneasily. “Dried herself and dressed in a black shirt and pants. We thought she aimed to go out, but she’s lying on the bed.”

“Did she leave the room at all?” Eve inquired, taking the telescope and focusing it on the room.

First she noticed that the curtains had been drawn down some of the way from the top of the window. Not enough to block all view of the interior, for she could see the shape on the bed.

“After she tried to pull down the curtain and it stuck.” the man answered. “We figured she’d gone to get somebody to fix it, but nobody came.”

“It stuck?” Eve repeated.

“Shucks.” the second man protested. “We could still see her from the waist down at least when she was on her feet and she’s there plain enough on the bed.”

At that moment Kusik appeared at the door and Eve turned to him. “Describe the Ysabels to me!” she ordered.

“Father’s a big, powerful feller. Black Irish from the looks of him—.”

“And the son?”

“Tall, slender as a beanpole. He looks about fourteen years old and innocent as a church full of choirboys—only don’t let that fool you. Ffauldes hired a couple of Mexican
asesinos
to go after the Ysabels—He only tried it once.”

“What happened?” Eve asked, lining the telescope again.

“We never ‘did find out about one of them.”

“And the other?”

“We found him leaning against the gate. His belly ripped wide open and an extra mouth—under his chin. After that there wasn’t a hired killer would take on the chore. We hired Giss and Kraus in the first place hoping they would, or could find men willing to try.”

Most of the explanation passed unheeded as Eve stared at the room across the street. Everything fell into place and she realised the nature of the trick the Rebel Spy played on them. Damaging though it had been, the raid on the shipping was only a diversion made to help the fiction that Belle Boyd was in the consulate building.

“That’s no woman over there!” she snapped. “It’s a young man, probably the Ysabel Kid!”

“Bu—But the clothes!” protested the watcher. “The Kid allus wears buckskins—.”

“Except when he’s dressed as a peon riding on a donkey cart, or a
vaquero
delivering a message!” Eve spat back. “Damn it, he can change clothes just like Belle Boyd did, although you probably wouldn’t find the sight so attractive. And that’s what’s happened. While you’ve been sat here watching him, the Rebel Spy has escaped again.”

“Now she’s done what she came here for, you mean?” Kusik put in.

“That’s what she wants me to think,” Eve answered. “Find Giss and Kraus for me as quickly as you can!”

“Yes’m!” answered the second of the watchers, to whom the order had been given and he scuttled from the room.

“Mr. Kusik, be ready to leave in an hour,” Eve went on, walking towards the door. “You’ll be going up the Rio Grande with one of Kraus’ men in a steam-launch. I’ll give you the necessary authority for the officer in command of the flotilla. I want the word spreading that we’ll pay a thousand dollars for the capture, alive if possible, of Sam Ysabel and the Rebel Spy.”

“There’s few enough, if anybody, who’ll chance doing that, even for a thousand dollars,” Kusik objected.

“Then spread the word that she and Ysabel are carrying a large sum, at least ten thousand dollars in gold, with them.”

“It’s a good story. Every border rat along the river will looking for them when I spread it.”

“I only wish it wasn’t true,” Eve thought as she started to walk down the stairs. “Because if they reach that damned renegade Klatwitter, it might easily cost us the War.”

oooOooo

* Apples: slang name for breasts.

Chapter 8

Barely had the door opened and Shafto entered the room than the Ysabel Kid came off the bed to face him. From full asleep, in more comfort than came his way in many months, to wide awake took only a brief instant.

Across the street, the man on watch let out a yell which brought his companion leaping to his side.

“The Coniston dame was right,” the lookout said. “It’s the Kid and not the Rebel Spy.”

“Shafto bursting in like that, took with that feller we just saw go into the house,” the second man replied, “I’d say means they know Miss Coniston left town with Giss and Kraus.”

A point that Shafto was making to the Kid at that moment.

“They pulled out maybe three hours back, Lon. My man trailed along after them to try and learn what was up. Kusik from over there and one of Kraus’ ‘breeds left the others, heading towards the river. My man did as I said, stuck with the Corstin woman. She went with Giss and Kraus to the
Posada del Rio
—.”

“That’s Charlie’s favourite hangout,” the Kid drawled. “I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in there—and you stand a chance of winding up that way even if you do no more than drink the tequila they serve.”

“So I’ve heard,” Shafto answered dryly. “Well, Kraus, the woman and six of their men come out on good horses. From the way they took, they intended to go up river—.”

“Three hours back!” the Kid spat out. “Why in hell didn’t your man—.”

“They must’ve seen him. Two of Giss’ men took after him and he’s been trying to lose them ever since. He had to fight his way in finally.”

“There’s times I talk a heap too much!” said the Kid contritely. “He’s lucky to still be alive, tangling with Joe Giss’ boys on their own ground.”

“He caught a knife in the ribs doing it,” Shafto replied.

“Luckily he had a sword-stick and knew how to use it. Killed one of them and wounded the other. What do we do now?”

“I don’t know about you,” the Kid growled. “But I’m going after pappy to warn him. There’s no point in trying to make ‘em think Miss Belle’s still here now.”

“That’s what I think. I’ve told the cook to make breakfast for you and put up food to take along.”

“I’ll take the breakfast. But forget the food. I’ve pemmican and jerked meat that’ll last me and be lighter to carry. Which same I’ll be moving fast. Say I saw a right likely looking sorrel in the stables. Reckon I can borrow him to ride relay along with my ole Nigger hoss?”

“Take him,” Shafto offered, although the horse in question was his favourite mount. The Kid would need the best available animal, the way he must travel to reach his father in time. “Do you want me to go and saddle him?”

“Just a blanket’ll do. If I can, I’ll leave him someplace safe.”

“Don’t worry about the horse. Reaching Belle and your father’s the important thing right now.”

After the meal, the Kid and Shafto went to the stables. Although the youngster had brought his warbag to the consulate, he would not be taking it any farther. No Indian riding on a raiding mission cluttered himself up with more spare clothing or anything but essentials; and the Kid intended to travel in such a manner. So he selected only a partly eaten
awyaw:t
of pemmican and a few strips of jerked buffalo meat which could be rolled in the single blanket that would form his bed on the trail. For the rest, weapons and ammunition were his only other needs. Thirty rounds of soft lead balls for the Dragoon, fifty for the rifle and a flask of powder would be sufficient. Every ounce of weight counted, so he decided against taking along the second Dragoon which lay in the warbag. While the revolver was of the Third Model, with a detachable canteen-carbine stock, the latter device did little to improve its potential for long-range shooting. In case of a fight from a distance, the Mississippi rifle would be more use. He dispensed with the rifle’s saddleboot, intending to carry it in the lighter buckskin pouch presented to him by his grandfather on the day he rode out to fight the Yankees.

Saddling the stallion, he studied its black-patched hide and put aside his thoughts of changing out of the black clothing into his buckskins.

“Reckon you can find me a hat, Cap’n Rule?” he asked.

“I’ll see what we have around,” Shafto promised.

By the time he returned, the Kid was all ready to leave. The white stallion stood saddled and the sorrel bore a blanket Indian fashion on its back, although with a white man’s headstall, bit and reins, the latter of the short, closed type favoured by cavalrymen. The Kid’s own reins were Texas style, open in two separate straps and he looped them loosely around the saddlehorn, knowing the white would stay by him tied or free.

Neither of the men realised as the Kid tried on the hats and found a black Stetson to be the only one which fitted, that he had commenced wearing what would become his usual style of clothing. Only rarely in the years to come would the Kid wear other than all black clothes.

“Anybody watching the house, Cap’n?” the Kid inquired, swinging astride the sorrel with deft ease.

“Only the usual lookouts,” Shafto replied. “Not that they’d try to stop you so close to the consulate. But they saw my man come in wounded. So they’ll try it somewhere along the way.”

“Likely,” the Kid answered. “Somebody could get hurt if they try. Open up, Cap’n. I’m on my way.”

Riding out of the gate, the Kid watched the Yankee-owned house but met with no trouble. Nor did he appear to attract any undue attention while riding through the town. Enough
Americanos del Norte
made Matamoras their home, coming and going in such a manner, to prevent his appearance being out of the ordinary. However the Kid did not relax. Any trouble that came his way in town would be unlikely to start in the better-class areas. Down among the
jacales
of the poor quarter was the danger area. More than one man entered that section and never returned, murdered for his weapons, horse and clothing.

Holding his horses to a steady trot, the Kid noted the empty nature of the street leading on to the west-bound river trail. Instead of the normal swarm of children, men and women gossiping in front of houses, he could see only two figures. Both wore the ragged clothes of ordinary peons and seemed to be following the age-old custom of
siesta
. The nearer man sat with his back against the wall of a
jacale
, sombrero drawn down over his face and serape hung negligently over his shoulder. Further along the street, the second of them took his rest standing with a shoulder propping him up against another adobe building.

Casually the Kid let his right hand fall to be thumb-hooked into the gunbelt close to the Colt’s butt. It was a mite early for
siesta
hour, although diligent peons had been known to start before time on occasion. To the Kid’s mind, the closer man at least was sitting just a touch too tense to be resting. More than that, his right hand lay under the serape and held a revolver. The Kid could see the glint of metal beyond the brown of the partially-hidden hand. Nor did he miss the unobtrusive way the man inched up the sombrero and peeked from beneath its brim in his direction. However, after the one quick glance, the man appeared to relax. Then, as the Kid came closer, the man took another look. A startled croak broke from him and he began to lurch erect, bringing the revolver into view.

Even as the Kid twisted his old Dragoon from its holster, he guessed what had happened. Coming from the east, with the morning sun behind him, the than had failed at first to recognise him. Riding the sorrel, with the stallion’s white coat bearing the black patches still, dressed in the black clothing instead of his usual buckskins, all helped the deception. Recognition came a fatal minute too late for the man, one of Joe Giss’ regular helpers. Flame belched from the Dragoon’s muzzle and the lead ball drove, by accident rather than lenient aim, into the man’s shoulder. Not that the wound it caused could be termed slight, for a soft lead ball opened up on impact and caused tissue damage out of all proportion to its size. Stumbling back, the man let his revolver fall from a hand he would never use again.

At the shot, the second man threw off his pretence of sleeping. He lunged away from the building, bringing a Colt into view. The Kid saw him as a greater threat than the first would-be attacker. No Mexican, to whom a gun took second place to the knife, but an American—despite the clothes—and one who knew how to handle a revolver.

Some thirty yards separated them, hardly ideal revolver-fighting range. However the man did not hesitate. No matter how he dressed, the Ysabel Kid could not be trifled with at such a moment. With that thought in mind, the man raised the Colt shoulder high, sighted and fired.

An instant before the Colt barked, the Kid brought the sorrel to a halt, tossed his right leg forward over its neck and dropped to the ground. The bullet cut the air where his body had been a moment earlier. On reaching the ground, the Kid sank immediately into a kneeling position, left elbow resting on the raised knee and supporting the right hand as he aimed the old Dragoon. Before the man recocked his Colt, the Dragoon bellowed. Lead, driven by forty grains of powder—the most powerful loading possible at that time in a hand-gun—smashed into the man. Flung backwards, he crashed into the wall of the
jacale
and bounced from it. In falling, he lost his hat and it rolled out into the street.

Rising, the Kid darted a quick glance around him. While he saw no sign of enemies, voices raised in the
jacale
behind his first victim told of their presence. So he ran towards the restlessly moving sorrel and leap-frog mounted its back, setting it running while thrusting away the Colt. Bursting out of the
jacale
, the leader of two men threw a shot after the departing Kid and might have made a lucky hit but for one thing. Having need for it at a later time, the Kid leaned sideways from the racing sorrel and scooped up the sombrero dropped by the disguised American. Doing so saved his life, for the bullet hissed just above him as he moved. In passing he looked at the dead man and recognised him as one of the many who lived along the bloody border by any means available.

“Trust Joe to move fast,” the Kid mused as he urged the sorrel on, the white stallion sticking close to his side. “He must’ve hired that cuss as soon as he got the word.”

Another bullet made its eerie sound as it hummed by his head. Then he turned a corner which hid him from the shooters. To his ears came the yelled order to get the horses
pronto
.

“Which same means I’m not out of the woods by a long Texas mile,” the Kid told himself. “Ole Joe’s likely waiting up the trail with more of ‘em. Least-wise, I’ll be mortal offended happen he figures four of ‘em was all he needed to take me.”

Passing beyond the last buildings of the town, the Kid turned and saw two riders following. However, knowing him to be
Cabrito
, they made no attempt to come too close. That they followed at all suggested they expected Giss and more help to be waiting somewhere ahead.

The point of importance being where would the reinforcement lay their ambush?

Not too far from town, the Kid figured. Close enough to hear shooting and make preparations in case the first attempt at stopping him failed. Too far away and he might turn off the trail to head across country. Prudence dictated that he followed that line of action; but the Kid could not claim prudence among his many virtues.

So he continued to ride along the trail, counting on his trained senses to locate the waiting men. During his childhood he had always excelled at the game of
Nan-ip-ka
, Guess-Over-The-Hill, by which Comanche boys learned to locate hidden enemies. Nor had he ever forgotten the skills gained in those formative years.

At first he rode through fairly open country unsuitable for the laying of an ambush, especially with
Cabrito
, the Ysabel Kid, as the proposed victim. However about a mile from town the trail entered and wound through thickly wooded country.

Looking ahead, he saw a small cart drawn across the trail, its shafts empty and no sign of the driver. So he turned in time to see one of the following men making an obvious signal which ended abruptly on noticing he was being observed.

“Down there, huh,” he grinned, eyes raking the ground around the wagon.

A white man might have betrayed himself through anxiety or over-eagerness, but never a
Pehnane Tehnap
; and the Kid was all of that as he continued to ride into the ambush. No longer did he look young or innocent. Lips drawn back in a wolfish grin, rest of face a cold, savage mask, he might have been Long Walker, war leader of the dreaded Dog Soldier lodge, heading to meet an enemy.

Not that he under-estimated the dangers of the situation. Joe Giss claimed few peers in accurate rifle shooting and— as the Kid had told Shafto—had learned the art of concealment from Indians. So he would be hard for even a
Pehnane
to locate. Anywhere within three hundred yards of the cart could be the danger area. Up to that distance Giss allowed to be able to knock out a squirrel’s eye and call which one he meant to hit.

“So it’s from now to maybe a hundred and not less’n fifty,” the Kid decided, gauging the distance with an eye almost as accurate as a surveyor’s tape-measure. “Come on, Joe. Show your skinny-gutted hand. There’s one of your boys, all hid real careful behind that pepperwood tree. Another hunkered under the deadfall and one laid up between them sassfrass bushes. Where’re you, Joe. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Giving no sign that he had located three of his enemies, the Kid rode on. Still no hint of Giss’ presence. Yet he would be there, hidden carefully and squinting along the sights of his rifle.

Watching the Kid draw closer, the man behind the pepperwood tree grew more alarmed. That was no ordinary man approaching, but
Cabrito
, who many claimed to have a charmed life. Gomez had been an
asesino
of high quality, skilled at his work, and everybody knew how he had died when sent after the Ysabel Kid. So, despite Giss’ orders that the others waited until he opened fire, the Mexican acted. Burning powder sparked alongside the pepperwood tree and the Kid slid sideways between the two horses.

“I got him!” yelled the man, his voice almost drowned out by other shots.