The Ysabel Kid (11 page)

With this in mind, the Ysabel Kid coming along fast and no chance to escape, Giss knew he must fight. Then he grinned savagely as he thought of the Henry rifle in his saddleboot. It was full loaded with fifteen bullets and could fire far more rapidly than the Ysabel Kid’s old Hawken which needed reloading after each shot. Then Giss remembered, Kraus’s bullets smashed the Hawken on the day he, Giss, killed Sam Ysabel. Unless the Kid had got hold of another rifle he would be left with that carbine stocked Dragoon, not a long range weapon, and one the Henry could outrange. Even if the Kid did own a new rifle he would not have found time to get practice in long range work with it.

Lookout Rock loomed ahead and Giss knew that here was where he must make his stand. There was little cover for the Kid, and none Giss couldn’t sight on from the top of the rock. All he had to do was get behind the rock and wait to see what weapon the Kid used, then when the Kid’s gun was empty get to the top of the rock and take careful aim. It was a real pity about the eight men they’d sent after the Kid. They were good men, but not good enough it seemed.

Giss hurled down from his horse, sliding the rifle from his saddleboot as he went, and allowing the horse to go free he ducked behind the rock. The gelding came to a halt, the hanging reins stopping it from wandering far. Giss brought up his Henry and lined it on an empty saddle. The white was wheeling off to one side but the Ysabel Kid was no longer riding it. A bullet slapped into the rock sending chips into Giss’s face and causing a very rapid draw back into cover.

The Ysabel Kid knew Giss very well, knew him and guessed how he was thinking. The man was running but knew too well that he could not escape the big white stallion. So Giss would pick his place for the fight and there would be no better place than there at the Lookout Rock. There Giss would fort up, relying on the extra range of his rifle to bring him through.

It was just before he dived from the saddle that the Kid saw what kind of weapon Giss was now carrying. A wolf-savage grin split the Kid’s face as he jerked the rifle from his saddleboot and went from leather to the shelter of a small rock. So ole Giss had got hold of a Henry rifle. Good. That evened things a mite.

The Kid lit down and went into the shelter of the rock in one move even as Giss left his own horse. They were separated by a distance of about sixty yards, these two men. The Kid’s yelled order sent his white stallion racing off in a half circle to halt out of range and shot, there to wait for whatever order came next.

The Kid’s rifle cracked out once.

Only one thing saved Giss. The Ysabel Kid had not yet managed to do much long range shooting with his new rifle. Sixty or more yards was a long range with the rimfire cartridge of the 44/28 Henry rifle. Due to the comparatively weak base, necessary with rimfire, percussion could not hold the forty-grain charge of the later centre-fire models. Even so he saw the rock chips kick up near Giss’s head and was satisfied. With his old Hawken he would have sent the ball through Giss’s head, but he knew the old weapon’s vagaries. It wasn’t bad shooting with a new rifle, not over that range. Now all he needed to do was experiment until the knew how the range would affect the bullets. After that it would be all over for Giss.

At the shot Giss, expecting the Kid to be busy with powder flask, patch, ball and ramrod, came out of cover. His rifle lined and fired and as an echo to the shot a bullet tore his hat from his head and caused him to make a rapid dive for cover again. He flattened against the wall of the rock and sweat ran down his face. It was a moment or so before he could steady his nerves and he licked his lips as he realised the Ysabel Kid had a repeater down there. From the sound of the shot it was a Henry .44 rifle, not the deep-throated bellow of the carbine stocked Dragoon Colt. Nor did it have the deeper bellow of the .56 calibre Spencer. That meant the Kid owned a Henry now. However the Kid had fired two shots, Giss figured as his nerves settled again. That left him, if his magazine was full to start with, thirteen more bullets. Giss had only fired one shot leaving him with fourteen bullets, one up on the Kid and at the end of the Kid’s magazine load he would have the great advantage that one bullet gave.

Laying behind the rock where he’d dived the Ysabel Kid regarded his habitation with some disfavour. It gave him just enough cover to be safe and was neither comfortable nor shady, but the Kid was Comanche enough to disregard personal comfort at such a time. He concentrated, not on hitting the difficult target Giss gave him but on ranging in the rifle. Already he was seeing what Dusty had known all along, that the repeating qualities of the Henry were gained at the expense of range.

Giss appeared briefly and fired, the bullet ricocheting into the air and the Kid fired back, watching the strike of his bullet against the rock. The rifle held fairly true even at that range, yet not true enough for him to rely on it. In six months’ time, when he’d made more practice with the rifle the Kid would be able to call his shots with his original uncanny accuracy, but at the moment he was still getting the feel of the weapon.

Again Giss fired and the Kid shot back at him. Giss grinned, noting the way the bullets were hitting and knowing that he was safe for the time being unless he gave the Kid too easy a mark. He was still one shot behind the Kid.

“What happened to Sanchez and his men?”

“Dead, all of them. I got three before I left Mexico, and the others over the Texas line,” the Kid yelled back. “You never could pick good men.”

“So you come back down here after me!”

“You ‘n’ Kraus both. Where’s he at?”

“With the Mexicans some place. We’re playing both sides. If the French win ole Kraus comes over and I say he’s been working for them. If the greasers win he does the same for me.”

“Figgered it. We got Charro!”

Giss grunted. Charro had been his right hand man and sent on a mission to Kraus. If the Kid knew what Charro had been carrying he would have been some surprised.

“I’ll tell Kraus when I meet him.”

“That’ll be in hell!”

Giss rocked into view and fired a fast shot which sent splinters into the air just over the Kid’s head, then fired again as the Kid came up to answer. His bullet missed the dark boy by inches and the Kid fired three times as fast as he could work the lever and pull the trigger. The bullets caused Giss to flatten back against the rock but he was satisfied for the Kid was two shots behind him.

Firing again Giss jerked back, but this time he did not draw a shot in return. He moved around the base of the rock and looked cautiously out. It took him a couple of moments to locate where the Kid was hiding for Indian smart, he was not allowing himself to be seen any more than possible. All Giss could see was the top of the Kid’s boot but he lined on that. If the bullet hit near enough it might make the Kid rear up into view for he was watching the other side of the rock and might panic. It was a chance and Giss took it.

The Kid was all too aware of his danger and he also was counting the shots for he knew what was going on in Giss’s mind all the time. Knew it and took savage Comanche pleasure in the shock the other man would get. Then the Kid himself got a shock. The shot came from the other side of the rock and a bullet ripped into the ground just behind his foot. Yet for all of that the Kid’s nerves were under such control that he neither jumped out of his place nor panicked in any way. With a rolling twist he was round the side of the rock away from Giss and came up to fire back; there was a rapid exchange of shots, but neither hit. Now the Kid had seven bullets left, according to Giss’s calculations while he himself still held eight.

Giss ducked back again and lay on the ground, studying the rock behind which the Kid lay. Then his eyes went to the side of Lookout Rock facing the Kid. This side was a far gentler slope than the others and a set of steps had been carved out on this slope by the villagers allowing for rapid ascent or descent from the top. When the Kid’s rifle was empty Giss would dash up those steps and on top would be able to see the Kid and also take an easy shot. He knew he would be safe from his own experience of the Henry rifle for despite the manufacturer’s boasts it took time to draw the magazine spring to the muzzle end, open the magazine tube, insert bullets then shut the tube and slide back the spring. It took seconds and the Ysabel Kid would not have the seconds to spare, or if he had Giss would be very surprised.

“I should have dropped you instead of your ole man, Kid!” Giss yelled, trying to annoy the Kid and make him do something foolish.

“You should.” The Kid was not going to be provoked. His red hazel eyes were cold as he lined the rifle again. He was already getting to know how the rifle shot and how each current of moving air affected the bullet over a range. “It was the worst day’s work you ever did when you dropped him.”

“He should have joined us then we wouldn’t. Both sides are paying us.”

“You’ll never live to spend it.”

Giss fired and every time he shot an answering spurt of flame came from the small rock Giss was getting worried now for he noted that the Kid’s bullets were starting to hit the same spot on the rock every time. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve shots Giss counted from the Kid’s rifle, leaving him with only two bullets. Yet for all that Giss knew his danger. The Kid was getting to know his rifle now and would be able to call his shots. Giss fired again, the answering bullet narrowly missed his face and screamed into the air causing him to jerk himself back into cover again. It took some moments before Giss could raise enough courage to try and draw the last shot.

With the crack of the Kid’s rifle Giss came from behind the rock and raced for the steps, climbing wildly up. At the top he turned, breathing hard and looked down. The Ysabel Kid was kneeling in plain view, his rifle lining up. Giss grinned as he saw the Kid, unused to repeating rifles, had not counted his shots. With fifteen bullets gone from his rifle the black dressed boy was at Giss’s mercy and would soon meet the same end as his father. Giss lined the rifle, the sights making a perfect picture on the centre of the Kid’s shirt. Then Giss waited for the Kid to squeeze the trigger of his rifle and hear the hollow click which would tell him the weapon was empty and of no use.

That was where Giss made his mistake. The Henry he carried and that he’d looted from a hacienda to the south took only fifteen bullets. The rifle the Kid held was not an old model. It was one of the new pattern, a pattern Giss had never seen. It was a far superior weapon to the old Henry and among its innovations it held not fifteen but seventeen shots.

Flame tore from the barrel of the Ysabel Kid’s rifle. Giss felt the sudden, shocking impact as lead struck him. He reared up and through the whirling pain haze saw the Kid get up, take out a bullet and push it towards the breech-plate of the rifle. Then the Kid lifted his weapon again, his right eye sighted along the smooth blue barrel and his finger squeezed the trigger lovingly. Even though Giss was staggering, the Ysabel shot and hit. Giss rocked back on his heels, threw his rifle to one side and crumpled forward. He lay there on top of the Lookout Rock dead without ever finding out how he came to make the mistake which cost him his life.

The Ysabel Kid shoved more bullets through the loading gate of his rifle, then crossed the open ground fast. He held the rifle ready for instant use and never took his eyes off the still form on top of the big rock. He was very cautious as he climbed the rock, ready to shoot at the first move, but his caution was not needed. Giss lay still, two holes in his body, either of which would have caused his death.

For a time the Kid stood looking down at the body or his father’s killer. The dark face showed none of his feelings as he rolled Giss’s body over the edge of the rock and let it crash to the ground below.

“I thought you were counting on me being a shot ahead of you. Giss. You never was but half smart.”

Climbing down again the Ysabel Kid caught Giss’s horse, mounted it and rode away. He did not bother to search Giss for he knew his man. Giss would never be fool enough to carry anything in writing on him. He preferred to make use of his excellent memory and carry a message in his head. There was no danger of losing it then.

The big white stallion moved back to its master, eyeing the other horse aggressively. The Kid reached over and rubbed the white’s sleek neck and then kneed the gelding forward. The white followed him along without needing reins or anything to keep it coming. The Kid turned and looked back, his face still cold and hard. The man who killed his father was dead, but there was still one other one to get.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

DUSTY FOG and Mark Counter stood together watching the Ysabel Kid riding back towards them. They’d been able to see something of the long range duel which was going on out there, but bound by their word to the Kid they made no attempt to interfere.

They walked along the street, ignoring the
guerrillos
who were now preparing food before they travelled on again. Dusty and Mark were hungry but they went to the edge of town to wait and see what the Ysabel Kid had to say.

For a moment none spoke as they met. Then Dusty held out his hand, and gripped the Kid’s hard.

“That’s one of them, Lon.”

“I’ll get the other, too,” the Kid answered, then noticed that Mark’s coat sleeve was torn. “You all right,
amigo
?”

“Likely live. No fault of yours though.”

“Giss carrying any papers, Lon?” Dusty put in.

“Nope, he wouldn’t be. You pair all right?”

“All right?’ Mark growled angrily. “All right. Since I met up with you two I’ve had nothing but troubles. I’ve been shot at by the French, nearly gunned down by the Mexicans, had my pillow torn up, my arm nicked and you say are you all right? I tell you I’ve never had so much trouble since I left home to join the army.”

“Maybe it’ll be better next time,” the Kid said consolingly.

“Sure, maybe next time they’ll kill you,” Dusty went on. Mark looked at the other two for a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed. He put a big arm around each one’s shoulder and they returned along the street to where Don Ruis Almonte waited to serve them with a meal.

Tom Alden was a worried man as he rode with Conway at the head of the large group of mules. He constantly turned his head to look back over the bunch of animals following the bell-mare. He ignored the man leading the mare, the flank riders of the mule train and looked at the distant horizon trying vainly to get some sight of the two Texans who’d helped him so much. It never occurred to him that Dusty Fog or the Ysabel Kid might be dead or that they might get in more trouble than they could handle. In the few short days he’d known Dusty Fog he’d got to think that there was nothing the small man could not do. Even when the Kid’s horse returned riderless he was not worried for Dusty had gone out and Alden was sure that Dusty could get the Kid back.

“Soon be too dark to travel any more, Tom,” Conway remarked. “Wish the Kid was here. He knows this country.”

“You’ve got your own man out as a scout.”

“Sure, but Mick doesn’t know this country like the Kid does. He’s a fair scout but there’s only one Ysabel Kid.”

Alden agreed with this. They were making a wide swing round the town of Santa Juanita as a matter of simple precaution. That had been Dusty’s orders before he left them. The mule train was kept moving in the general direction of Monterrey and Conway was using his regular scout instead of leaving it to the Ysabel Kid.

They made camp on the banks of a stream for the night, holding the mules out in the open. Due to the shortage of men Alden rode his circle on the mules with the other men. There was nothing happening that night and the animals were all too leg weary to try and break away from the bunch.

It was late the following afternoon when Mike came up from one of his wide swings round the mule-train with the disquieting news that a large bunch of men were following them. They were still in the rolling, open country and the men, looking back could faintly see a large bunch of riders coming after them. There was no way of telling yet who the men were, or even if they were French or Mexican. One thing was for sure those men were travelling faster than the mules could, and would soon catch up.

Alden turned in his saddle and looked back. Those riders were coming closer with every minute and now it was sure they were following the mule-train. They were a deadly danger whoever they were. If it was a French patrol it was large enough to take the muleskinners in a straight fight. The French would be only too pleased to get this consignment of arms, and the thousand Henry repeaters would make a vast difference to their fighting capabilities. There would be no chance of selling the arms either, for the French would kill every man here and take all they wanted. Even if the men following were Mexicans it might not be much better for he knew the
guerillos
might take it into their head to acquire the arms without payment.

“Can we get more speed out of the mules, Mike?” he asked, thinking of the effect on his company the loss of this shipment would mean.

Times were hard for the Winchester Repeating Firearms Company at the moment, with O. F. Winchester’s failure to make a big army contract and other expenses piling up. The sale of these rifles down here would make all the difference to the Company being able to carry on or failing through lack of finance.

“No chance,” Conway replied. “We’ve worked them harder than usual now. I was aiming to get a day’s rest for them. If we try to work them any faster they’ll be dropping on us.”

“What do you think we’d best do then?”

“Keep moving and hope they lose us in the dark. If they don’t we’ll be in bad trouble. Even a bunch of French soldiers could follow the trail we’re leaving.”

Alden turned again and looked back over the rolling country at that bunch of riders which was slowly drawing nearer. He hated the steady way they were closing in on him and bringing with them an end to all his plans and hopes. He swore that before he would let these arms fall into the hands of the French he would destroy all of them. His men would each take a rifle and they would fight back. There was more ammunition on the mules than they were ever likely to use and they might be able to hold off the men who were following them.

Mick, the scout, came racing back and brought his horse to a rearing, sliding halt. He looked excited and waved a hand ahead of them.

“There’s a deep basin about half a mile ahead. If we can get in there they’ll have the devil’s own time getting us out again.”

Conway and Alden put petmakers to their horses and lit out after the scout. They rode up to the edge of the basin and saw that it answered all their prayers. Whatever had caused this depression in the ground they did not know. It was about half a mile square with gently sloping, rock covered slopes leading down to the smooth, rich grass of the bottom. It was just what they needed for a fort up and they would be the first men to follow the as yet unspoken advice: “When in bad trouble fort up with a Winchester”.

“Point ‘m down there, me boyos,” Mick roared to his men. “We’ll stand here and if they want a fight, then we’ll give ‘em one.”

The men yelled their approval for every one of these riders was a hardy Irish fighting man and wanted to try out the potentials of these Henry rifles. The man leading the bell-mare turned and headed for the basin. Slowly the untidy looking bunch of mules turned and straggled after her, down to the bottom of the basin. There they discovered that they were not expected to walk any more and some settled to graze.

Alden stayed with the men only long enough to tell them to break out the rifles and ammunition then dashed back up the slope again. In his hands he held a new model Henry and he flipped open the lever as he landed behind the rock he’d chosen for his fighting position. He looked as the riders came gradually nearer, squinting his eyes and trying to see who they were. At that distance he still was unable to tell much about the riders.

“Looks bad, Tom,” Conway slid down beside him holding a Hawken muzzle loader. “There’s a fair bunch of them coming after us.”

“Too many?”

“Devil a bit, not for us Irish.”

Time dragged by; the steady advance of the riders continued and gradually the worry lines left Conway’s face. He recognised the big paint and white horses at the head of the party even before he could distinguish the riders. Then even as Alden’s eye picked out the white and the paint Conway was sure that the Ysabel Kid and Dusty Fog were riding towards them at the head of the other men.

It was some time before Conway relieved Alden’s worry as to who the riders were, and by that time Alden himself could tell the horses. It said much for the esteem Dusty was held in by the other men that even before they could tell it was he and the Ysabel Kid neither doubted for a moment that Dusty had rescued the Kid.

“Now what the hell’s the Cap’n been and done,” Conway asked, “and who’s that bunch he’s got with him?”

Alden shook his head. It was beyond him for although he could see the great part of the approaching group were Mexicans riding alongside Dusty, the Kid and the tall hidalgo at the front of the group was undoubtedly a Confederate army officer. That was a mixture and Alden could not even start to think how they all came to be together or the Confederate officer was not, as might be expected, a prisoner.

Dusty Fog looked down into the basin as he halted his horse and then asked mildly, “Expecting somebody, Tom?”

“What?” Alden growled, the relief he felt bursting in sudden anger at these two grinning young men who’d caused him so much anxiety with so little cause. “Why you—”

“You could have wigwagged us, Dusty,” Conway went on in aggrieved tone. “We thought you were the French and after us.”

Dusty looked round at the men who were still in their defensive positions and then down at the mules quietly grazing in the bottom of the basin. He turned and looked back over the rolling country and made his decision.

“Tom, if there’s any water round get the mules to it. We’ll night up down here.”

Alden waited until after Conway went to make the arrangements for watering the mules, then turned back to Dusty and asked, “What’s all this about?”

“Not much at all. This here’s Lieutenant Mark Counter of the Sheldon troops and Don Ruis Almonte. Don Ruis will escort us to Monterrey and Mark’s going along to meet General Sheldon with us from there.”

There was a lot hidden in those soft spoken words, that Alden was real sure about. How Dusty came to find a Mexican with enough men to give them a safe escort to Monterrey and a Confederate officer to act as guide to Bushrod Sheldon beat Alden.

Almonte’s men went to help the muleskinners unload and tend the stock while Dusty and Almonte prepared the defence of the basin. The guerrillos were split up into small groups and sent out as flanking pickets all round the hollow where the main party was grouped. Their orders were to watch for any French patrols and if they saw one to let it go by if it was not headed for the basin. If it was they were to try and decoy it away. The rifles must be protected at all costs in Almonte’s view and Dusty agreed with it.

Only a skeleton party was to remain in the basin with the muleskinners and to these Dusty gave stringent orders about keeping quiet after dark and not showing any cooking fires at all. Any cooking was to be done now, in the last light of day and every fire was to be out before full darkness.

“We could do with resting up the mules for a day, Dusty.”

It was Conway who came up with the next problem as Dusty stood watching the men taking small groups of animals off to water them.

Dusty watched the animals, noting how leg weary they were. Mike Conway made his living from these animals and he was worried about them. It was vitally important to get the mules to Monterrey and see the rifles handed over to Juarez but it would be of no use if the mules could not carry the weight. Like every army commander Dusty was aware that not only a day but minutes could make the difference in a war. He had to balance the risk of the mules foundering against the extra day of rest.

“All right, Mike, take your day. Don Almonte, we’ll camp here for one day then move on.”

Almonte nodded his approval. This small man in the dress of a cowhand was a soldier through and through. It pleased the old Don that Dusty had taken the full responsibility without hesitation for he would have liked to offer his opinion on the matter. Like Dusty, Almonte knew that Conway depended for his living on the mules and was willing to allow them a one day respite for the travelling they had been forced into.

To the muleskinners it came as a well-earned break from the trail and they were prepared to enjoy it. With the usual cheerful Irish way they made friends with the guerrillos or renewed old friendships, for Conway’s men had delivered more than one contraband cargo to Almonte’s hacienda. They made their meals around the small fires then as night came down doused each blaze. The night was warm and as the moon came up there was no need for a fire to help them see their way about.

After making sure all was as he wanted it, Dusty came back to join Mark and the Ysabel Kid. He made a tour of the pickets and found the men, much to his surprise, alert and watchful. Now he settled down on his bedroll and looked at the bulk of Mark Counter next to him.

“What’re you fixing to do when we’ve finished down here, Mark?”

For a time Mark did not reply. He was tired of army life and knew that he was too independent ever to make a successful career officer. Also he had no intention of ever wearing a Union army uniform even though one of the concessions to be made to Sheldon was that any man who wished could join the Union army with his present rank and seniority. There was his father’s big R over C spread down in the Big Bend country but it was in the very capable hands of Rance Counter and Mark’s three older brothers. There was work for him there but he knew the others could manage equally well without him. He was willing to listen to any suggestion Dusty might make.

“Reckon I’ll look round for a riding chore.”

“Uncle Devil wants me to get men for his floating outfit. I’m going to run it and I’d be real pleased if you’ll take on as my segundo.”

Mark grinned at Dusty, his firm white teeth gleaming against the tan of his face. A floating outfit was almost a mobile ranch. Five or six men who spent all their time away from the main outfit, out on the far parts of the spread’s range, doing the same kind of work the other ranch hands did closer in. With Dusty in command it promised to be a very stimulating and enterprising group.

“I’m on,” Mark replied, then looking at the Ysabel Kid. “Are you in this, too, Lon?”

Now it was the Kid’s turn to think. He’d been expecting this sort of invitation from the start and thinking over what he should say. Then his face also split in a wide grin. Those two hell twisters would do to ride the river with. He found that the idea of running contraband and following the smuggler profession was no longer attractive, not when one could ride with two good friends like these pair.

“Tell you, if you’ll promise I don’t have to meet too many sheriffs or go near too many jails I reckon I could give it a whirl.”

Dusty was satisfied. Ole Devil’s idea of the floating outfit was not only for the purpose of handling the range work away from the ranch house. He also wanted a capable fighting force on hand to help out any of his friends who found themselves in trouble. With Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid on call, Dusty was sure he had the nucleus of that fighting force and his cousin Red Blaze, would form the fourth member of the group if needed.

“Likely Uncle Devil’ll fire me when he sees what I’ve straddled him with but I’ll take a chance on it. You’re hired.”

“When’s payday?” the Ysabel Kid inquired.

“Pity we can’t move in tomorrow,” Mark put in.

“It’s only one more day,” Dusty answered.

Mark groaned. He loved his comfort and never believed in sleeping out when he might be in a bed. Now he was condemned to two nights out in the open when he’d hoped to find a comfortable resting place in Monterrey on the following night. Not only that but far worse, he was compelled to use his saddle for a pillow as the Lefauchex bullet had torn his pillow beyond any hope of repair.

The night was silent enough now and the moon up, lighting the bottom of the basin almost as if it was day. The men were almost all in their bedrolls, or just laying on the ground. Dusty lay there relaxed and studying the Ysabel Kid who was sleeping next to him. The Kid’s many talents would find full use in the floating outfit and he would be steered clear of the outlaw trails he was used to riding.

The Kid came awake, and sat up, hand going to the old Dragoon. Dusty watched, noting that complete change from sleep to full awake which told a man who was long used to danger.

“What is it, Lon?” he asked.

“Somebody’s coming in,” the Kid’s reply was just a whisper.

Dusty was several seconds before he could hear the approaching man, but the Kid was already holstering his gun. They rose and walked through the sleeping camp followed by Mark and Almonte. The men appeared to be asleep and the mules were all bedded down, either asleep or grazing.

The man who’d come out from the night was one of the pickets coming to bring some alarming news. A large French force was moving across country and would be passing the camp area at about half a mile. This would be the testing time; the French patrol might be looking for them, or it might be taking advantage of the darkness to avoid clashing with the Mexican forces. If the French were looking for Alden and his shipment of rifles they would be alert for any sound and would be watching for any sign.

This was the testing time for Dusty’s arrangements. If all was silent the French patrol might pass them in the night without even knowing they were there. It was lucky that all the men were asleep—

“Oh the English came and tried to teach us their ways,

They scorned us just for being what we are,

But they might as well have tried to catch a moonbeam,

Or light a penny candle on a star.”

The words of an Irish rebel song were being sung in a drunken tenor voice from the other side of the camp.

Dusty sprang round. He could hear men stirring and knew it was only a matter of seconds before they were talking amongst themselves and asking questions. From then it was only a matter of more seconds before there was so much noise the French would hear it as they passed.

“Quiet!” he snarled to a bunch of men as he passed them, the concentrated savagery in his tone making their voices dry off immediately.

“That you, Cap’n?” it was Mike Conway looming up in the darkness.

“Sure!” Dusty bit down the sarcastic reply which came to his lips. “Who’s that making all that noise, Mike?”

“Raffety. He’s got a bottle of tequila from one of the vaqueros and he’s been at it for a spell now.”

“Has he,” Dusty refrained from asking why the man was allowed to drink. “We’ll have to stop him.”

Conway grunted something unintelligible as Dusty went by. Then following the leader of the muleskinners said, “He’ll not let you, Cap’n. He ain’t a bad man but he gets mean when the likker’s in him. When he starts to singing Galway Bay he’s bad mean and even I can’t do anything with him.”

The Ysabel Kid had disappeared with the picket and came back fast, travelling at a loping run. He brought disquieting news. The French, though still far enough away, were coming in this direction and would pass at much less than the half mile the other man estimated.