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Authors: J. T. Edson

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BOOK: The Ysabel Kid
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Bardot saw a regrettable but understandable reluctance amongst his men to take any more risks. He ordered them to shoot at the hut and hold the defenders down, then turned to his corporal and snapped, “Get a torch. We will burn them out.”

The corporal hurried away to collect a piece of wood that he could make a torch with. He realised that the man who tried to get close enough to the jacal to throw the torch would have an unenviable task. Running out into the street with a burning piece of wood in the hand would give those straight shooting Americans something of a target which was well within their capabilities.

Bardot watched the man coming back and read something of the reluctance and worry in the way he carried the burning piece of wood. The corporal was worrying for nothing. The first man to try and throw that burning brand on to the jacal would be one of Lefarge’s friends. There was no point in leaving any of the Lefarge crowd alive if it could be helped.

“Becque, take the torch and throw it!”

The corporal heard the words with relief for his name was not Becque. He put one hand on the butt of his Lefauchex revolver ready to back up the order with force as he passed the burning piece of wood to Trooper Becque’s reluctant hand.

“Give him covering fire,” Bardot went on, drawing his revolver. All things must be in order, and the Colonel must hear that Bardot acted with military wisdom when they returned with the sad news that Trooper Becque died trying to avenge his sergeant. “Go!”

Becque started forwards, blazing brand in his hand, not knowing that if the Americans in the hut did not kill him Bardot meant to in the confusion. He ran out into the centre of the street while his companions poured shots into the jacal sides and through the open door. He stopped and drew back his arm, the flames licking up hungrily from the wood.

A shot thundered from along the street and Trooper Becque met his end not at the hands of the Americans nor his own officer. The town was suddenly swarming with fast moving Mexicans, advancing and firing as they came. The moon was up now and in its silvery light the men fought with savage skill.

The three Texans stayed in the darkness of the jacal, knowing better than go out into the open and blunder into the fight which was going on outside in the half light. They would be fighting both sides for neither French nor Juarista would speak before shooting.

The Ysabel Kid kicked the door shut, then went to the window and looked out. He could see little for the window looked out over a space between two buildings and there was nothing but shadows. He saw a man dart across the open end of the street. What he saw worried him, for the man wasn’t wearing a uniform, and that meant he was a
guerrillo
.

The shots died away and men gathered outside the jacal. From their voices the Kid knew the Mexicans had won this savage night attack and were in full control of the town.

“Come out friends,” a voice called.

The Kid felt relieved. His friends understood what was said. That voice had the cultured accent of a Creole, a Spanish born Mexican. “Who is it speaks?” he called back.

“Don Ruis Almonte,” the voice came back. “Who are you?”

The Kid felt relieved now and knew there was little danger for this was an old friend of the Ysabel family and although his men were
guerillos
they were loyal Juaristas who fought with no other aim than to win freedom for their country. He knew he could answer up in safety.


El Cabrito
,” he answered. “With two friends.”

“Come out, my young friend.”

The Kid stepped out, knowing that the vaqueros who rode for Almonte knew him of old. He saw from their friendly grins that they not only knew, but recognised him. The grins started to fade as Dusty came out for the vaqueros had little time for Tejanos in general. They were wiped off and hard grim lines took their place when Mark came out and they recognised the uniform he wore.

“What is this,
Cabrito
?” tall, lean and elegantly dressed Don Ruis Almonte asked grimly as he looked at the handsome blonde man in the Confederate uniform. “Is he your prisoner?”

“He is my friend. If it was not for him I would be dead now.”

“Kill the
Americano
!” a man yelled, moving forward.

Faster than either Dusty or Mark could move the Ysabel Kid was in front of his friend, the moonlight glinting on the blade of his bowie knife. “Who’ll be the first to try?” he asked.

“Put up your knife!” Almonte barked. “Pedro, back!
Cabrito
this man is an enemy and,—”

“And I am your friend. I apologise for reminding you but I allowed the men who killed my father to escape while I came to warn you of their plans.”

Almonte’s face softened. He looked ashamed and inclined his head. “It is I who should apologise for needing reminding. If he is your friend then he will be unharmed by my men.”

The Kid’s knife went back into leather and he relaxed for he knew that none of the men who rode under Almonte would disobey their leader and patron in any matter. He stepped forward and took Almonte’s hand, then introduced Dusty and Mark. After that he explained why he was here when he mentioned the rifles Almonte nodded. “I’ve herd of them. They will be of great help to us. I will give you an escort to Monterrey. We took it last week and there are no French there. I am not sure where Benito is and I have not enough money to pay for so many weapons but the commander of the garrison will be able to do so.”

It was Dusty who explained why he was here in Mexico. Almonte sat back and listened without a word. At the end Dusty asked. “What do you think?”

“I think Benito will agree. He is a good man and a just one. We would rather fight the entire French army than those wild devils who ride under General Sheldon. Do we pull out tonight?”

Dusty shook his head. During the time in the hut he’d heard about the first of Sam Ysabel’s murderers coming here and knew the Kid wanted to stay. He also knew that if he said the word the Kid would leave Giss until some other time.

“We stay. Tomorrow Giss will be coming here and I think Lon wants to meet him.”

“I think he does,” Almonte agreed.

CHAPTER TEN

Rifle Duel

JOE GISS wasn’t a nice man morally or physically. He was tall, lean and cadaverous, with a thin, hard face half hidden by a growth of beard and eyes as hard cold and unfeeling as the eyes of a diamond-back rattler. Along the Rio Grande he was known as a bad man to cross, very unlucky to argue with. He was thoroughly disliked from Pasear Hennessey’s outlaw hideout in the west to the eastern coast. The dislike was usually well hidden for Giss was better than fair with a rifle and no mean hand with a Colt gun and not particularly worried about giving the other man an even break.

Yet for all that Giss rode with fear these days and his ordinary wolf caution was increased with the knowledge that his life was in danger. Giss did not fear ghosts and the faces of his murdered victims never troubled him but he was haunted by the ghost of a black-dressed young man who rode a huge white stallion. The fear of the Ysabel Kid grew with each day. Giss and Kraus had sent eight of their best men after the Kid but as the days passed Giss knew they had not succeeded. He regretted having shot down Sam Ysabel and leaving the Kid to his partner. Kraus was a top-hand with a knife but only a mediocre performer with a rifle. It could not be helped, with a single-shot rifle Giss could not make enough time to drop both Sam Ysabel and his son. Giss scowled down at the butt of the Henry rifle looted from a hacienda after joining the French. With that weapon he could have downed both the Ysabels.

He twisted in the saddle of the French cavalry horse and looked at the patrol riding behind him as they rode slowly along the Santa Juanita trail. Then he turned and looked down at the deserted streets of the town and felt uneasy. He knew a French patrol was there and they had orders to stay out of sight until a stronger relief force joined them but he also knew the poor discipline of the French army when away from their main body. There should have been some signs of the French army and yet there was not.

All his life Giss had been wary and wolf-cautious, his very mode of making a living demanding such caution. In fact, to have lived through thirty-five years of double-dealing and worse showed that his caution paid dividends. So he was constantly on the alert for ambush or trap and some inborn instinct warned him all was not well in Santa Juanita. Yet for all that he did not pass on his fears to the French officer who rode by his side. That was not Giss’s way.

“My girth’s come loose,” he growled.

The French major glanced down and grunted unsympathetically. He did not like Giss’s attitude or the easy familiarity of the American. However, he was dependent on the scouting ability and on Giss’s knowledge of the country so accepted the man’s assumption of equality.

Giss halted the horse and then swung down to make the imaginary adjustment to his girth. He allowed the men to ride by him and then as the last one went by swung back into the saddle and followed them.

Carefully Giss scanned the range all round, probing every piece of cover that might conceal a man. Even the lookout rock, which they were now passing, came in for careful scrutiny but Giss could see no sign of anything that might be a
guerillos
ambush.

It would have been the correct thing to tell the Major, then scout the country with more caution but Giss did not mean to do that. There were few worse fates could befall a man than to be taken alive by the
guerillos
. Giss and Kraus might be playing a double game, working for both sides, but the
guerillos
would not know that. Even knowing they might not stay their hands.

Giss’s fears were well-founded. In the town of Santa Juanita, Dusty Fog had been very busy. Every sight of the French troops was removed, every sign of the fight in the darkness cleared from the streets. The Mexican
guerillos
were hidden in the jacals and under orders not to fire until the French were right into town. Don Ruis Almonte saw that Dusty was a soldier and a fighting man par excellence, one who knew just what he was doing and so let the young Texan lay out the ambush, put the men in their places and give them orders.

The men were now split into small groups and every jacal’s open door would soon be pouring death into the French patrol, every shadowy interior bristling with guns. It was war to the death with neither side asking for or giving any quarter. The French would kill all of them if given the same chance and so the ambush was laid to kill the French.

“Reckon they’ll obey, Lon?” Dusty asked.

The Ysabel Kid had hardly spoken since the preparations for the ambush were laid out. He stood in the jacal half way along the street with Dusty, Mark and Almonte.

“They’ll obey,” he finally replied and stood back looking towards the party riding down towards the town.

Yet for all that the Ysabel Kid was worried. Not at Dusty’s planning, he had too much faith in the small Texan for that, but he knew the vaqueros better than Dusty. They were loyal and obedient to Almonte, but they might not be able to hold down their hatred of the French, the men who despoiled and plundered their country. That was what Dusty was not allowing for. The young vaqueros might not be able to hold down their hatred for the French and snap the trap closed too early. Again the Kid did not underestimate the caution Giss would show. The man would be alert for danger and the Ysabel Kid was the first to admit that not even he could show Giss any pointers at smelling out an ambush.

With this in mind the Ysabel Kid had made his preparations for the forthcoming fight. His old Dragoon gun was full-loaded and holstered ready. Sixteen .44 calibre bullets were in the magazine tube of the Henry and one more in the breech ready for action. Another box of bullets bulged his hip pocket ready for use if needed. Further along the street, in an empty jacal, saddled and ready to obey the Kid’s signals stood his huge white stallion. If Giss got away this time it would be because the Ysabel Kid was dead.

The French patrol was coming nearer. The watching men saw Giss leave the front of the party and allow the others to ride by him.

“Just like ole Giss,” the Kid said, a mirthless grin on his lips, “He smells trouble and he’s pulling back. He’s got some Injun blood in him, allus thought he had.”

“Surely hope these boys remember what you’ve told them, Dusty.” Mark put in.

“So do I,” Dusty agreed.

Almonte was silent. He also hoped his men would not forget what they were told but he, like the Kid, knew his men. One of them might forget and spoil the trap. If that happened and Giss got away Almonte would never forgive the man for it would mean his good friend Sam Ysabel would stay unavenged.

The Kid looked round at the others, his face expressionless and his voice low as he said. “Remember, Giss is mine. No matter how it goes it’s between me and him.”

The French were now riding into town. Even the Major, a man not susceptible to instincts, was realising all was not well. He knew the orders Bardot was given and thought the Captain was holding his men out of sight in proof of the rigid discipline he imposed upon them. Looking along the deserted street, the Major was on the point of halting his troop until a more careful reconnaissance brought some proof that Bardot was here. Before he could give the order he got his proof.

Dusty’s ambush was well laid, as well as three years of army experience could lay it. The patrol were riding into the killing area and would be caught in a murderous crossfire from which there could be no escape. It was unfortunate that there was a new recruit to Almonte’s
guerillos
. The other men were old hands at fighting the French and had come as near as any Latin ever could regarding enemies just as someone to fight. That was where Dusty made his mistake. He was used to working with Anglo-Saxon men who would fight an enemy but still regard him as just another man.

The new recruit was a tall young vaquero still in his teens. It was unfortunate that he was in one of the first huts of the town for as he watched the blue-coated soldiers riding by he felt hatred welling up in him. Only a few weeks before such men as these descended on his home, killed his father, raped the women of the house and burned his home to the ground. So he crouched there in the hut watching the hated French riding by and he realised that he had the means for revenge in his hand. Hatred swelled in him and the Dragoon Colt weighed heavily in his hand. He looked at the other men and at last could hold his hatred no longer.

None of the other men in the jacal realised what he was going to do or they would have stopped him. They were at the far side of the hut, in the darkness and waiting for the signal.

“Death to the French.”

The young man screamed the words out and hurled from the hut, his old gun roaring out as he landed in the street. He saw one man going down out of his saddle and brought the gun round again.

Dusty saw the young Mexican come from hiding and knew that his carefully made ambush was spoiled. True the bulk of the patrol were in the killing area but Giss, the one man he wanted, was not in it. He also saw the French were seasoned veterans and they would take some handling. The young Mexican only got off one shot before one of the troopers had whirled his horse round and cut the young Mexican down.

Dusty left the jacal in a smooth leap, his bone-handled guns out, even as he sent the French major rolling in the dirt he saw the
guerillos
pouring out from their hiding places. Then the stillness was shattered as French and Mexicans fought in the streets of Santa Juanita.

Dusty, Mark and the Kid were in the street together, guns out and firing. Even in that wild mêlée as the French charged at them with drawn sabres Dusty saw that Mark was able to use a gun with either hand. A cavalryman bore down at them but five revolvers roared at the same moment and the man was almost torn to pieces by the heavy lead balls.

It was then the Kid saw Giss turn and run. The Kid was neither amazed nor surprised at this. The only thing which surprised him was that Giss had not lit out at the first shot, Giss whirled his bay gelding and headed back in the direction he’d come.

Loud over the roar of shots, screams of wounded horses and shouts of fighting men rang a wild, shattering whistle. From the jacal where it had stood so patiently came the Ysabel Kid’s big white stallion, racing towards its master like the devil after a yearling. Without a word to his two friends as to what he planned the Kid went into action. He thrust the Dragoon gun back into its holster and with his rifle in his left hand went afork that seventeen-hand stallion like a bird flitting into a bush.

Gripping the saddle between his knees the Kid caught up the loose tied reins and booted the rifle in one move. Then he was into the French soldiers. He saw a tanned face and the flash of a lifted sabre and twisted in his saddle, his old Dragoon coming clear and roaring again, throwing the soft, round lead ball into the man’s chest.

Right into the hail of lead, through the French he rode, ignoring both
guerillos
bullets and French sabres. His face was a wild, savage Comanche mask of hatred and his attention given fully to Giss. He fired the old Dragoon without conscious thought but fighting instinct warned him when the gun was empty. He saw a French soldier alongside and went over the side of his saddle as the man swung up his sabre. The soldier’s sabre came down on to an empty saddle where an instant before was a hard-riding man. The Kid was hanging over the flank of the horse, riding Comanche style.

Along the street Dusty and Mark both saw the danger the Kid was in. Dusty twisted sideways and adopted a target shooting stance, right arm raised, left on his hip. Carefully he aligned the V-notch in the hammer with the low foresight allowing for the slight low-left bias of the gun fired. He saw the trooper rear up and go sliding over the side of the horse, then saw his own danger, saw it even as he was knocked to one side.

The French major was on his knees, a gun out and lifting at Dusty. The young Texan was so set on saving his friend that he gave the man no attention. But even as Dusty fired Mark saw the danger. The big man’s shoulder came down and rammed into Dusty knocking him aside. At the same moment Mark’s right-hand gun crashed out, just an instant before the Frenchman’s. That instant was enough. The shocking power of the .44 ball striking the major knocked the Lefauchex off aim. Mark felt as if someone had run a hot iron along his arm and knew the bullet had grazed him. He also saw that the French officer had gone over backwards and knew no further bullet was needed.

Then the mad dogfight in the street was over, the guns silent and the wind blowing away the gunsmoke as the last echoes of the shots died away. The street was silent and still again as the
guerillos
looked down at the still, blue clad forms which lay with ever widening pools of blood forming round them. It was over and another savage, bloody battle in Mexico’s struggle for freedom had gone to the
guerillos
, though it had been paid for, not all those still shapes were French.

“That was a fool trick, amigo,” Dusty remarked as he watched Mark strip off his jacket.

“Sure, I see it now,” Mark replied as he rolled back his shirt sleeve and looked at the raw, bloody furrow in the powerful bicep. The bullet had only barely grazed him, the wound was neither deep nor dangerous. “You owe me for a new jacket.”

“I’ll pay you when we get north again,” Dusty answered, then turned to Almonte who came up. “Are there many casualties, señor?”

“Few. We took no prisoners.”

Knowing the way the
guerillos
had with prisoners, Dusty agreed this was for the best. He watched without emotion three wounded French despatched by the Mexican; he’d seen Indians killed the same way. Then he looked back at Almonte who called his men together.

“We will join your friends, Captain,” the old Mexican said politely.

Dusty looked out along the trail after the Ysabel Kid and shook his head. “A few more minutes won’t make any difference.”

Giss rode up the trail from Santa Juanita at a gallop, but at first he was not worried. The French would hold the
guerillos
off his back for long enough to allow him to get away. Then he glanced back and saw a rider coming after him, a man on a big white horse.

Cold fear hit Giss at that moment. He slammed the spurs into his gelding and felt the quiver of response as the horse increased speed. Fast though the big gelding ran it was not fast enough for Giss for he was riding with the fear of death on him. That casual glance back had shown Giss that what he’d feared for the past few weeks was true. There might be other white horses in the West but there were few as big as the Ysabel Kid’s Nigger. There were other men in the West who wore all black clothing, too, but the combination of the white stallion and the black dress was enough to tell Giss that the Ysabel Kid was after him.

Even as he twisted in his saddle for another look Giss saw the white was closing on his gelding and knew that he could not outrun the Ysabel Kid. All too well he knew how that white could both run and stay at speed. He also knew the Kid would cling to his trail now and it was many miles before Giss could hope to find another French patrol. Long before he could get there Giss knew the Kid would catch up with him.

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