The Ysabel Kid (7 page)

Dusty suddenly dug the spurs into his big paint stallion causing it to leap forward. The horse was used to hunting bears and the scent of one didn’t scare the paint as badly as it was doing the mount Alden was afork. The big paint stallion hurled forward right at that old bear. Dusty shook loose his rope and swung it over his head then with a shattering Rebel warwhoop brought the hondo of the rope round and down, lashing full on to the tip of the bear’s nose.

That old bear was the master of the canebrakes. He’d grown old and ornery in there, the undisputed ruler of all he surveyed. Never had any creature, not even a longhorn bull come at him in that manner. It shook him back on to his heels, then the yell jarred his nerves even more and when the stinging pain assailed his delicate nose he decided he’d taken all he meant to. With a half snort, half grunt he whirled and went up that trail like the devil after a yearling. Dusty followed him lashing with the rope and yelling wildly. The old bear made a new record for a fast departure into the safety of the canebrake thicket where he mostly lay up.

Bringing the paint to a halt Dusty looked round and grinned back at the Kid who was still riding at an even pace towards him. Taking his bandana out the Ysabel Kid wiped sweat from his face, his grin a mite weak.

“Don’t you ever do nothing like that again, Dusty,” he said. “I ain’t never seen anyone fool enough to charge a b’ar afore.”

“Don’t reckon that ole bear had either,” Dusty answered “I figgered he might light out if somebody came at him. He wouldn’t expect it.”

The Kid shook his head, eyeing Dusty with new respect. Among the Comanches the bear was regarded as being a dangerous enemy and one to be avoided. He would no more thought of charging at that bear with only a rope than he would of going into the United States Customs Office and declaring a load of contraband. Dusty Fog rose even higher in the Kid’s estimation.

Dusty rode on with his friend, watching the expression on that usually immobile and unemotional face. He knew that both Hondo Fog and Ole Devil Hardin could find use for the talents of a man like the Ysabel Kid and hoped that when this business in Mexico was over his newfound friend would want to come back with him. The Kid was alone now, his smuggler band broken and separated after the death of Sam Ysabel. They might or might not come back together if the Kid wanted them but Dusty hoped they would refuse. The Kid was an amiable and handy young man but he was following an illegal profession and Dusty knew that sooner or later he would come into conflict with the law. There would be shooting for the Kid was not the sort to accede tamely to having his stock-in-trade taken from him. From then on the Ysabel Kid would be on the run and on a downgrade with a pull on him which would drive him deeper and deeper into crime. All too well Dusty knew that there was no single level of crime. Once in a man it grew worse until there was no hope for him.

The mules moved on and as night came down they could hear the gentle murmur of running water. The ground opened out ahead of them and Dusty brought his horse to a halt, looking around him.

“The Rio Grande?” he asked pointing to where water glinted between the trees.

“Unless somebody snuck in and changed it for the North Canadian,” the Kid answered.

Dusty ignored this and went on, “Reckon Mike could hold the line here while we take a pasear around?”

“Sure, why?”

“Just a hunch. Was I the French Commander I’d not let the wagons fool me too much. I’d get to figgering that, a man’d be loco to come down to a ford that was being watched. So I’d figure that maybe the man I wanted was expecting me to think the wagons would go some other way and I’d have patrols out.”

“Could be,” the Kid agreed. “But it ain’t all that likely. They don’t know about the mules yet. Sure, they’ve likely got a man watching around Brownsville but Mike never brought the mules into town. Allow we’ve got us a day or so until we have anyone after us.”

They rode from the shelter of the big river; the Kid at the right, his Winchester resting on his knee, muzzle in the air. At the left Dusty sat his big paint with the short carbine on his arm. He’d chosen that weapon in the face of the Kid’s arguments that it was too small and wouldn’t have much better range than the revolver. To Dusty the new Henry in its carbine form was the ideal saddle weapon. Short, compact, light and carrying twelve bullets which could be thrown out as fast as any man would ever need. With arms like this his troop of the Texas Light Cavalry would have been able to stir up the Yankees even more than they had managed when armed with just revolvers. The carbine nestled in the crook of Dusty’s arm as he rode forward alert and watchful.

Here the Rio Grande levelled down to a gentle flow over a firm gravel bottom and allowed an easy passage not afforded at most other places for some fifty miles in either direction. The ford was not known to many men and fewer still knew how to find it. On both sides of the river the country was thick and awkward to travel over, the canebrakes on the American side and dense woods on the other. There were many men, members of the United States Customs included, who swore there was no way a man could cross the Rio Grande for a hundred or more miles between the two main fords. The Indians knew of this ford and how to get to it; few others knew but the Ysabel Kid, grandson of Chief Long Walker of the Comanches knew it. He also knew that the secret of the ford was safe. Mike Conway might like to use it again but would never chance it for he could never find his way through the canebrakes.

They crossed the ford and made a thorough search through the woods but found no sign of any life. On the way back the Kid told Dusty that he knew of at least two more of these secret fords along the Rio Grande and there might be more.

“We’ll halt here for the night,” the Kid told Conway and Alden when they all met. “Rest up here and cross in the morning. The country is rough over there but not as bad as the brakes here. We’ll go through it in daylight and cover as much distance as we can. After that we’ll just have to see what we can do.”

Conway nodded. “Might be best to move after dark,” he suggested.

“Might be at that,” Dusty agreed. “But there is one thing wrong with it. If the French hear this many mules moving at night they’ll surely know something is wrong. They’ll know no man would be moving so big a bunch after dark unless he was trying to keep out of the way.”

“What do you reckon then, Dusty?” the Kid asked.

“We move in daylight and try to bluff any French we see. If Lon rides ahead as scout we can get word if the French are coming. If they do I’ll get my uniform out and we’ll be some of the boys riding for the French. If we can bluff through all right. If we can’t—”

“Yes?” Alden asked.

“Ole Juarez is going to be some ammunition short when we get the rifles to him.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

THE crossing of the Rio Grande offered no great difficulty for the mules were all long used to making these fords. Mike Conway watched the last of his animals coming ashore and shook his head.

“Tell you, Cap’n Fog,” he said looking back, “If I hadn’t been along on this ride I wouldn’t have believed it could be made.”

“We’re not out of the woods yet, Mike,” Dusty warned. “It’s a long ride to Monterrey and it’ll be longer if the French know we’ve come across here.”

The mules were moved out again with Dusty and the Kid ranging out ahead of them, riding under the rims and watching every inch of ground ahead of them. For all their caution they saw no sign of French soldiers all the first day.

“Got company, Dusty,” the Kid remarked.

Dusty looked up from his place by the small fire. Twenty or more Mexicans sat their horses on a rim looking down at them. They were a varied bunch, some wearing uniforms, most of them not. The Kid felt relieved to see that the small thin faced man in the centre of the group wore the uniform of Colonel in the Juarez army. The others might be
guerillos
but that one was a professional soldier and would hold the others in check.

“Stand fast all of you,” Dusty ordered. “Tom, you and Lon best do the talking while the rest of us cover you.”

“Cover us but keep the rifles down,” the Kid replied. “I’ll talk to them but if any of them try to lift a gun shoot fast.”

The Ysabel Kid and Alden rode forward towards the Mexicans. The Kid was alert for trouble. He knew those
guerillos
, they were no better than bandits most of them. This bunch here did not look any better or worse than the others, and only the fact that there were a couple of soldiers along stopped the Kid from fighting right away.

“
Saludos
,” the Kid lifted his hand as he looked at the Mexicans.

“Who are you?” the big, hard-faced burly man seated next to the small officer asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Picking blueberries,” the Kid answered, then to the Mexican officer, “We are looking for Juarez.”

“You are, huh!” the big man sneered. “I suppose you and the rest of—”

“Charro, I’m in command here,” the small man roared. “Keep your mouth shut. And you.
señor
, what do you want with Juarez?”

“Come down and talk with us,
señor
.”

The Mexican looked hard at the Kid’s young face, wondering where so young a gringo learned to speak such fluent Spanish. Having come from the south of Mexico Colonel Chavez did not know the Ysabel Kid even by repute.

“We will come.”

The men rode down the slope into the camp area and swung down from their horses then gathered round the cook fire when Conway’s cook started to hand out the food that remained from his morning cooking spell. The Mexicans for the most part accepted the hospitality with grins of friendship for they like their leader came from the south and were not used to gringos. Nor had they the heritage of warfare the northern men shared with the
Americanos del Norte
. Only Charro seemed to be determined to cause trouble for he growled sullen complaints about the food and the coffee.

“May I ask what is in the boxes?” Chavez asked.

“Repeating rifles for Juarez,” the Kid replied and drew the new Henry from his saddleboot. “Rifles like this one.”

“Like that?” there was reverence in the Mexican’s voice for he had never seen such a rifle as this one.

“Just like it.”

Charro lurched forward. “We have heard of no such rifles.”

“Juarez does not tell his men everything,” Dusty put in; something about the big Mexican annoyed him.

Charro spun round, noted the small Texan’s apparent youth and innocence and reached out a hand to put it on to Dusty’s chest meaning to push him backwards. Faster than the eye could follow Dusty moved. What he did was absurdly simple but the result was spectacular. His hands linked together on the back of the Mexican’s dirty hand, flattening it to his chest. Then he dropped to his right knee and pain knifed through Charro’s arm. He was brought to his knees by the pain and by the fact that if he did not go down his wrist would snap. Dusty let loose and brought his knee up under the other’s jaw lifting him up and on to his back.

Charro landed hard, his hand clawing at his gun. Colonel Chavez stepped in and his foot came down hard on Charro’s wrist, holding his hand still. “Look,
cabron
. Look and thank me for saving your life.”

Charro looked. The small Texan stood with a gun in his left hand, the hammer eared back under his thumb. Even as the big Mexican looked the gun went back into leather again and the hand lifted clear.

Chavez smiled mockingly and stepped clear; he was not too fond of Charro from the way he acted. “So these rifles are for Juarez?” he asked.

“They are,” it was Alden who spoke.

Charro got to his feet and scowled at Dusty but kept clear of the young man. However he was clearly aiming to try and make trouble. “I say they are for the French, not for Juarez,” he growled.

“If they are for the French why would we bring them through the canebrakes like this?” the Kid sneered. “Even a loco bobo like you can see that we would be well escorted and on the main trail if these were for the French.”

“Who are you?” Charro snarled.

“They call me
el Cabrito
.”

“
El Cabrito
?” Chavez asked and there was a mumble of talk among his men for that name had reached even down to Oaxaca Province in the far south.

“
El Cabrito
?” Charro sneered. “The man they say never misses with his rifle. Who can move in the bush like a ghost and who can use a knife better than any man in Mexico. You tell us that you are
el Cabrito
?”

The Kid faced Charro looking meaner than all hell and Comanche savage enough to scare most men. His voice fell to a deep-throated Comanche grunt as he asked:

“You doubt my word,
pelado
?”

The other’s face hardened, yet he was cautious for he knew that the Kid spoke truly. “I say they lie and we should kill them all, then take the rifles.”

“You talk big,
pelado
,” the Ysabel Kid sneered, “but when it comes to talk of fighting it is we should do, not I should do.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m going to prove I’m
el Cabrito
. May you live to enjoy it.”

The Kid advanced until he stood with his back to the half-circle of grim faced gringos. He held his rifle in one hand, the other extracting a Mexican silver dollar from his pocket. Without looking he threw it over his shoulder and called “Dusty!”

Dusty caught the coin and tossed it into the air. It went up in a flickering turning arc and as it reached the peak spun off course. The Kid came round in a smooth turn, his rifle leaping into his shoulder and the eyes lining it even as his turn completed. One shot crashed out—one lone shot, taken almost before the Kid came to a halt in his turn. But fast taken or not, the bullet flew true and the coin was hit and knocked away to land at the feet of Colonel Chavez.

The Kid levered out the empty case and picked it up for reloading, then gave his attention to the Mexicans who were looking at his smoking rifle with awe. Not one of them would have believed any man could make such a shot. With the old muzzle-loading single-shot weapons they carried none could have hoped to hit the coin even if it was still.

With a mocking smile on his face the Kid turned to Charro and said: “Now, let’s see how you can shoot.”

“You shoot well,” Chavez remarked. “How are you with a knife?”

The Kid slid back his rifle into his saddleboot, then unfastened the pigging thong from the bottom of his holster. He unbuckled the belt and swung it in his left hand.

“I will give you proof. This
pelado
,” he indicated Charro, “insulted me. We will go into the bush thirty yards apart and armed with knives. Only one of us will return. Will that satisfy you?”

Chavez smiled, his white teeth flashing. “It will. Charro, remove your gunbelt and prepare.”

Charro gulped. This was not going the way he’d hoped it would. He’d expected Chavez and the other men to fall in with his idea of killing the gringos and taking the rifles to be sold to Juarez by themselves. Now he was to have no choice. He must face this gringo boy in the bush there with a knife. If he won Chavez would listen to him. If he lost, there would be no need for him to worry over anything.

“I am prepared,” he said, swinging off the gunbelt and passing it to Chavez then drawing the long bladed, double edged knife from its bootsheath. It was a long and evil-looking weapon and with it in his hand he turned to face the dark boy he was to fight.

There was a knife in the hand of the Ysabel Kid and what a knife. Eleven and a half inches of razor sharp steel, almost two and a half inches across at the guard with the convex curve of the sharpened lower edge meeting the convex curve of the upper edge exactly in the centre of the knife. The convex edge was also sharpened to the same razor edge, but the straight piece which ran from it to the guard was rounded and thick for strength. That was the knife of the Ysabel Kid, a real, genuine, James Black bowie from the same forge the old Texas master’s own blade came and made to his own specifications. The finest fighting knife ever devised, manufactured or used by man.

For a moment Charro looked at the long and wicked knife in the hand of the Texan. He licked his lips for he now knew he was faced by
el Cabrito
and there was no escape from a fight. Chavez and the other men would never agree to his not fighting now.

“Come, Charro. We don’t want to be here all day,” Chavez snapped. “Take your place and I will give the signal.”

Dusty escorted the Kid thirty yards along the track at the edge of the thick bush. They stood side-by-side and watched Chavez push Charro into place facing them.

“Hope you know what you’re doing,
amigo
,” Dusty remarked.

“I know. I’ve seen that
hombre
before. He was one of Giss’s pards. They won’t take my word for it but when I’ve done with him he’ll talk loud, long and often.”

“Are you ready,
señor
?” Chavez called.

“Ready, willing and able!” the Kid replied.

“Then go!”

Charro whirled and plunged into the thick bush fast, running forward to dive under a bush and lay there. At the same moment the Ysabel Kid shook his knife and gave voice to a Comanche war-scream and went in after him in a smooth dive. Where Charro halted and took cover the Kid hunted for him knowing what the Mexican was doing and willingly matching Comanche skill and training against a dangerous and passive enemy. It was his favourite game and one at which he was willing to match his skill with any man, white, brown or red. Without a move that would make a sound he flitted through the woods, a black dressed shadow with a razor sharp Bowie knife in his hand.

Charro lay under the comparative safety of the bush, hugging the ground and trying to see some sign of the black dressed, baby-faced killer who even now was stalking him. He knew that
el Cabrito
would never lay up passively and wait for the other man to come for him but would be hunting and questing as dangerous as any cougar and more willing to attack.

From his hiding place under his waist-band the Mexican drew a Derringer pistol and grinned savagely as he hefted the heavy little single shot weapon. He would rather have been holding a sixshooter but could never have concealed one from the eagle scrutiny of Colonel Chavez and Chavez was too much of a gentleman to let Charro bring a known firearm into a knife duel. It was having this Derringer which gave him the confidence to come in here and risk meeting the Ysabel Kid in combat. It gave an advantage over even the finest knife-fighter, for the bowie knife was outranged by the comparatively short-ranged weapon as a Derringer.

Minutes rolled by, minutes which brought sweat running down Charro’s face and made him repeatedly loosen his grip on the Derringer and wipe dry his palm. He was afraid and wished that he was not in a place where he could only make an exit in one direction. However the Kid must be near now, prowling through the bush like a hunting mountain lion. Any sign or sound Charro made would be transmitted in the uncanny silence of the woods to the keen ears which sought for such things.

For a brief instance he thought he saw a black shadow flit across an open space, but there was no sound and he decided his imagination was playing tricks on him.

Then from close at hand a bird gave a startled squawk and rocketed up into the air. Charro twisted to where the sound came from, bringing the Derringer cracking out even before he was round.

From behind there came a sudden rush of feet, even as a branch fell from the bush above Charro where the Kid threw it to make a diversion. Charro tried to come round and his ears were jarred by the hideous, unnerving scalp-scream of a Comanche dog soldier. He was almost round when he saw a black dressed shape hurling at him. A face as savage as any Comanche loomed before him, then he crashed down and felt the numbing agony as the great knife lashed round biting through coat, shirt, flesh and muscle. The knife came back and blood spurted into the air.

Men crashed through the bushes, coming fast to investigate the shot which should not have come. Dusty was the first to arrive on the scene and he came with his guns out. He holstered the long-barrelled Colts and stepped forward to where the Kid was standing looking down at Charro.

“What happened?” Chavez came up.

“The
pelado
had a gun,” the Kid replied.

“He lies, Colonel,” Charro gasped. “I fought fairly, he shot me then cut me to hide the hole.”

“So?” Chavez looked hard at the Kid, then back at Charro. “One is lying. I wonder which. Well?”

A Mexican stepped forward and saluted; it was to him Chavez spoke. “I saw Charro with the gun two days ago.”

The Kid bent down and lifted the Derringer up to examine it. He turned the gun over and over in his hands, then grinned mirthlessly. “Where did you get this gun from?” he asked.

Charro looked up with fear in his eyes as he tried to staunch the flow of blood which came from his wound. He licked his lips and shook his head weakly. The Kid pulled his hair and dragged the head back, placing the edge of his knife to the neck.

“Why do you ask?” Chavez inquired. “Do you know it?”

“Sure, there were a pair of them owned by a couple of hombres called Giss ‘n’ Kraus. They used them to identify their men when they were smuggling. They’d give one to buyer and the other to the man with the goods. This is one of the two guns.”

“I see, but Kraus is our man; he works for Juarez.”

“Sure.” The Kid turned the gun over and carved on the trigger-guard was the word, “Giss”.

“Giss. He is the Maximillian man who nearly trapped Almonte and Bonaventura. What does this mean?”

Charro was too far gone to reply to the question. He slumped back against the tree, bleeding to death as the other men talked. Not one of them showed any sign of helping him until Dusty bent down and examined the gaping wound and started to tie a tourniquet around the arm.

“Tell you what it means,” the Kid replied. “Giss and Kraus are still in cahoots. They’re working for the French but Kraus acts like he is on your side. Then when he gets anything to pass on to the French he sends Charro with it and that gun acts as a blab board for him.”

Chavez could speak some English but the term “Blab board” had him beaten. It was Dusty who explained that a blab board was the sheet of cowhide carrying his ranch’s brand the spread rep. wore to announce who he belonged to at a round-up. Dusty also explained that Charro would carry the Derringer for a passport to show any French he contacted that he was to be trusted by them.

“So?” Chavez growled, lowering the muzzle of the revolver he drew. “Die, dog!”

The bullet cut over the Kid’s shoulder and Charro’s body bounced as the lead smashed into his head. He quivered once and went limp. The Kid rose, eyeing Chavez in an unpleasant manner.

“What the hell?” he growled.

“So die all traitors.”

“Real nice and patriotic, friend.” In his annoyance the Kid forgot to speak Spanish. “But I’d surely rather had him alive and talking than dead and dumb. I wanted to know just where I could find Kraus.”

“I am sorry, my young friend. I did not know you had private business with him or I would have held off. It is to be regretted that he died so easily. I acted hastily, something no soldier should do. Come, we will leave this place.”

The men returned through the trees, none of them saying much—Alden and Conway having stayed behind to watch the weapons showed their relief when Dusty and the Kid came back with the Mexicans.

“What happened?” Alden asked.

Dusty explained quickly and then gave the order to prepare to move out and head towards Monterrey. The mule skinners went to work loading up the mules with either boxes or long bundles. Conway’s men worked fast for there was a large number of animals to load. Each mule was given its balanced load, one bundle of rifles or two boxes of ammunition strapped to each pannier and fastened on with the hitch which held it securely.

When all the mules were ready to move on Chavez came up and looked round. “My men and I will ride with you to Monterrey.” he said. “It will be best for all concerned and I think Benito would want it.”

“Why sure,” Dusty agreed. He grinned cheerfully as he waved the men to move on. “Besides with only a thousand of these repeaters among the Juarez army a man will need to be on hand to make sure he gets at least one of them.”

Chavez smiled back. This small, soft talking gringo who seemed to be the leader of the men was a smart one. Chavez could tell a born leader and knew that here was one, such a one as the small, half Indian Benito Juarez who would soon rule all Mexico and even now led the fight for freedom against the French.

“Lon, take a point,” Dusty ordered, then turned to Chavez. “Sorry, Colonel. As senior officer you take command of the escort.”

“I accept your judgment, Jose, ride with
el Cabrito
as the scout.”