The Floating Outfit 48

by J. T. Edson

  Halting on the edge of the clearing on hearing the shouted words, having been to the river to slake its thirst, the stallion tossed its head and let out a snort charged with menace. Like most of its species, it was possessed of better hearing and sense of smell than vision. Therefore, while it had been able to see the three male figures in the clearing as it approached through the woodland, it was not able to make out who they were due to there having been no assistance from the breeze. All it had known until Tomas yelled was that there were intruders encroaching upon an area in which it and the property of its master had been left. The sound and timbre of the voice removed any possibility of them being friendly.

  The response elicited by the discovery struck the three young Mexicans as familiar. It was similar to that of a manadero seeing a strange stallion in the vicinity of its harem of mares. Nor did any of them consider the evidence of its domestication would make the big white horse any the less dangerous than a manadero

  ‘You’d better get ready to shoot it, amigo,’ Montalban warned, seeing a way in which he might ensure ownership of the rifle and, if fortunate, the horse. Starting to take out and cock his Colt, he went on so as to prevent the younger brother drawing the wrong—or, from his own point of view, right—conclusion with regards to his motives, ‘Tomas and I’ll cover you in case you don’t drop him first shot!’

  Never the quickest of thinkers and, despite having known their companion for long enough to have been made suspicious by such uncharacteristic behavior, the younger Acusar also reached for his holstered Colt. He responded without thinking, or offering to continue his warning with regards to his deductions regarding the owner of the property. The way in which the large white stallion was acting drove every other thought from his head.

  Until—!

  Some instinct, rather than having heard any sounds, caused Tomas to glance over his shoulder. What he saw drove every other consideration away immediately. Yet, although he did not realize it, the sight was proof that he had been correct in his assumptions.

  Naked except for a blue breechclout and armed with a knife of proportions rendered, it seemed, even more enormous by his savage demeanor, the figure racing from the woodland behind the two young Mexicans had the appearance of a Comanche Dog Soldier coming to make an attack apart from his black hair being short instead of hanging at shoulder length.

  Returning from his successful stalking and killing of the Canada goose, the Ysabel Kid had seen the trio as they were dismounting in the clearing. While he did not know who they were, their appearance had left him with no doubts over what they were. He was too far away at the first sighting to hear what was being said, but could guess what the subject under discussion would be. Furthermore, the years he had spent riding the border trails with his father as smugglers had done nothing to lead him to assume they would be dissuaded from their intentions by verbal means if, as he knew was almost certain to be the case, they were planning to steal the property he had left behind.

  Guessing by the lack of response that his big white stallion had gone to drink from the river, at the point where he had entered to be carried around the bend and to his quarry, the Kid had prepared to defend his belongings. Armed only with his massive James Black bowie knife, effective a weapon though it might be in some circumstances, he was too well versed in such matters to want his presence to be discovered by the Mexican bandidos. Young and inexperienced as they clearly were, each was wearing a handgun which offered a greater range than his knife. With that point in mind, dropping his trophy, he had continued his advance as swiftly as stealth and caution would permit.

  Just before the Kid had reached the edge of the clearing, he had seen his stallion returning. Despite being grateful for the distraction its arrival had caused, listening to the comments this elicited, he had been aware of the danger to the animal. He knew, even before he had seen it, what the response of discovering the strangers near his property would be. Hearing the remarks passed between the two older members of the party had confirmed his belief.

  Moving forward, the Kid began to act as his upbringing as a Pehnane Comanche warrior dictated. Crossing the intervening space at a swift run, he had no intention of allowing the men to realize he was there any sooner than was absolutely necessary. To do so under a misguided sense of sporting behavior would be the height of folly which was against the nature of the Nemenuh brave-heart he had become. Nor was his decision produced solely by the Indian side of his birthright. As a white man, he was equally aware that there were few people around more ruthless and cold blooded than the average Mexican bandido. Even three so young would not have the slightest compunction over killing him without a chance if granted an opportunity.

  They would possibly be more violent because of their youth and a desire to prove themselves the equal of their older and more experienced companeros. In fact, they would prefer to make his death as painful and lingering as possible.

  Watching the younger of the pair he was approaching start to look around, the Indian dark Texan let out the blood chilling war whoop of a Comanche warrior. He did not allow the effect of the yell alone to achieve his purpose. Even as it was bursting from him, he bounded into the air. As he was rising, he turned his lean and steel muscled body until it was almost parallel to the ground. He crashed into the backs of Tomas and Montalban, arriving an instant before the latter could deliver any warning of his coming. Both his victims were knocked in spinning sprawls out of his way, but they were not his main concern at that moment.

  Already the big horse was displaying signs of aggression!

  While the Kid was well aware of how effectively the stallion could protect itself, he was equally cognizant of the disadvantage it was under at that moment. The third Mexican was drawing his gun and there was enough space between them for him to’ be able to open fire before it could reach him no matter how fast it charged. Nor, with so large a target, was he likely to miss and he would at the very least inflict a wound which might prove fatal. Therefore he had to be stopped.

  Going to the ground in a rolling plunge after having knocked the other two bandidos out of his way, the Kid came to his knees at the end of it. Up and down whipped his right arm, the writhing of its muscles testifying to the force it was imparting. Leaving his hand, the great knife flew through the air. It was propelled by an owner who had attained the Comanche man-name’, ‘Cuchilo—Spanish for ‘Knife’—while still a boy.

  Hearing the commotion behind him, Alfredo Acusar took his attention from the white stallion for a moment. Starting to look around, his action was instinctive. It did nothing to save him. Traveling far too swiftly for him to be able to avoid it, the clip point of the great knife caught him on the temple. Made from almost the finest steel James Black was able to manufacture and given a perfect balance for throwing, 7 the velocity with which it arrived allowed the blade to pierce the bone. Head split open as if struck by an axe and killed instantly, the Mexican went down with the Colt flying harmlessly from his lifeless hand.

  For all the success of the throw, it seemed the Kid had committed a grievous error of tactics.

  By sending the knife to save his horse, the Texan had left himself with empty hands and he was not wearing any other weapon!

  Three – This Could Lose Me the Bet

  The Ysabel Kid did not wait to watch the result of the throw!

  Having dispatched the knife with what his instincts in such matters suggested was a sufficiently accurate aim to ensure a hit, the Indian dark Texan wasted not a moment before setting about arming himself again!

  A glance around as he was rising informed the Kid he must do so with all the speed he could muster if he was to stay alive!

  While he had sent both of the remaining Mexicans staggering as he burst between them, fortune had not favored him to any great extent. Only the younger of the pair had fallen. Not only had he retained his hold in his Colt Artillery Model Peacemaker, but it had cleared leather as he was going down. The other was still on his feet and
was also still holding his revolver. It too was out and readily available to be used.

  At such a moment, only an exceptional white man could have survived!

  The Kid was responding not as a white man, but as a name warrior of the Comanche nation’s Pehnane band; than which no better and more competent fighter existed!

  Throwing himself forward, the Texan reached for the butt of his old Colt Model of 1848 Dragoon revolver. He had made the decision, knowing the handgun would be more easy to extract than trying to slide the Winchester Model of 1873 rifle from its boot. Under the circumstances which were prevailing, every split second counted and could make the difference between life and death. Grasping the walnut handle in his right fist as he was hurdling the saddle, he snatched the revolver from its holster in passing. With his left hand joining the right, as an aid to greater security and steadiness against the solid four pounds, one ounce weight, he swiveled around on landing. While doing so, he was drawing back the hammer with both thumbs and elevating the weapon to shoulder height at arms’ length.

  Catching his balance with an effort, Sebastian Montalban was momentarily too dazed to realize what was happening. By the time his wits had returned, he found he was in grave peril. The only thought elicited by the sight of Alfredo Acusar sprawling lifeless, the ivory hilt of a great knife rising above the bloody skull, was that the Indian dark figure was temporarily unarmed. However, he was taking very rapid steps to change that. Driven by a mixture of fear and anger, the young Mexican jerked up and fired his Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker.

  Such a method was not conducive to accuracy!

  Only very straight shooting could save Montalban!

  Ignoring the lead from the gun of the Mexican as it hissed by his head, the Kid took aim along the eight inch long round barrel rather than using the notch on the tip of the hammer and the foresight. While the system would not have produced high scores in firing at a target on a range, it proved more than adequate for his current needs. In a vastly shorter time than the more formal way of sighting would have allowed, he was satisfied and squeezed the trigger. By removing his thumbs from the hammer, he allowed the mechanism to function and the Dragoon fired. Propelled along the rifling grooves, the .44 caliber round soft lead bullet left the muzzle followed by a cloud of white gas which briefly concealed his intended target. Flying with far greater accuracy than the one dispatched at him, it struck Montalban between the eyes and passed through to shatter its way out at the rear of the skull. Going over backwards, its recipient was dead before his body landed on the ground.

  Sitting up and looking about him, Tomas Acusar let out a gobble which was closer to fear than fury. He saw his brother was down, and that the huge white stallion had halted its charge a few feet away and was moving restlessly, watching the motionless figure. Closer at hand, Montalban was being thrown from his feet by what was clearly a fatal wound. However, the response elicited by these sights was not provoked by grief and a desire to avenge their deaths. Self preservation alone caused Tomas to lift the Colt he was still holding and cut loose at the Indian-dark figure.

  Thumb cocking the big Dragoon on its recoil, the Kid swung around at the waist. Once again, having a bullet narrowly miss him did nothing to detract from his purpose. As before, he relied upon aiming in a way more suited to a shotgun than a revolver and his weapon bellowed awesomely an instant after Tomas had tried to kill him. While the hit he made was much less serious than would otherwise have been the case (due to the rapidity with which it was discharged) it did all he required. Driven by the expanding gasses resulting from the explosion of fifty grains of prime du Pont black powder, ten more than was considered advisable for use in the cartridges of his rifle, the bullet merely ripped through the flesh at the point where the arm joined the shoulder. For all that, pain and shock pitched the young Mexican on to his back and he dropped his Peacemaker.

  ‘Don’t you even try,’ the Kid warned, speaking the Spanish of the border country with the facility acquired by usage for much of his young life.

  Swinging his head around as he was rolling on to his stomach and reaching towards the revolver, Tomas found himself staring into what seemed to be the muzzle of a heavy cannon such as he had once seen in an Army fort. Behind it, despite the words having been spoken so well in his native tongue that another Mexican might have uttered them, was a terrifying figure. The black hair might be short, but the features were those of a Comanche warrior on the warpath.

  ‘D—don’t shoot!’ Tomas howled, snatching his hand away from its objective as if he expected to find the butt red hot if he touched it. ‘I’m hit bad!’

  ‘Go on now!’ the Kid scoffed, lowering the hammer under the control of his thumbs and allowing the barrel of the Dragoon to sink out of alignment. ‘You’re not more than scratched a mite!’

  Watching and listening, Tomas became aware of a change coming over his assailant!

  No longer was the voice savage and chilling. It now held an almost gentle, albeit sardonic, note. The difference, however, was only a little less disturbing because of this undertone. At the same time, the Indian dark features lost their bloodcurdling expression and took on a suggestion that was close to babyish innocence. This too was belied by the cold glint in the red hazel eyes which appeared to be boring into the head of the young Mexican and reading his innermost thoughts.

  While the figure no longer resembled a Comanche brave-heart on the hunt for coups and scalps, but was a white man, he was still clearly not one with whom it would be wise or safe to trifle.

  ‘Y—!’ Tomas gasped, sitting up and feeling gingerly at the wound to ascertain it was as trivial as his informant had suggested. Then, the words sounding more of a statement than a question, he continued, ‘You’re el Cabrito?

  ‘Well, yes, I’ll have to come right out and admit truthfully I’m el Cabrito,’ the Texan confirmed, showing no offence at having his sobriquet corrupted by translating it into the name for a baby goat. 8 ‘And, seeing as we’re getting down to it, who are you?’

  ‘T—Tomas Acusar,’ the Mexican said, staring down at the reddened fingers of his hand which had carried out the exploration. ‘I’m bleeding bad, Cabrito.’

  ‘Not nearly so bad’s you’d’ve been should I have aimed to hit you anywhere more dangerous,’ the Kid pointed out, but he refrained from mentioning that pure chance alone had dictated the wound was so slight. ‘Your amigos weren’t close to so lucky. Who are they?’

  ‘The one by your horse is my brother, Alfredo,’ Tomas replied, with no great display of grief or animosity. ‘And the oth—!

  ‘And who?’ prompted the Texan, the words having trailed off as the speaker realized it might be very imprudent to supply the information that the second victim was the nephew of Don Ramon Peraro.

  ‘I—I—!’

  ‘Now you don’t want for me to have to ask Thunder over and have him see if he can do better than I did at hurting you, do you?’

  ‘Thun—?’ Tomas commenced, knowing sufficient English to be aware of the meaning usually implied by the word, then realized to what it was being applied on this occasion. ‘N—No, Cabrito.’

  With the appreciation, the Mexican turned his eyes to the huge white stallion as it stood menacingly alongside the body of his brother. He was not, however, giving any thought to the example of a type of humor peculiar to the cowhands of Texas which had created such a contradictory name. Instead, he was remembering all the tales he had heard regarding the savagery of the animal in question. At that moment, despite previously having been inclined to dismiss them as mere fabrications, he had no doubts about their validity.

  ‘Then you’d best tie me a brand on your amigo there and muy pronto,’ the Kid advised, as gently as the first whisper of an arising Texas “blue norther” storm and sounding just as potentially dangerous. ‘And who is he kin to?’

  ‘Kin to?’ Tomas repeated, startled at the perception suggested by the second part of the question.

  ‘I’ll give you some be
tter than you deserve,’ the Texan offered. ‘You tell me where you come from and I’ll see if I can figure it out for myself.’

  ‘Chihua—!’ the Mexican began.

  ‘Thunder!’ the Kid called over his shoulder.

  ‘Escopeta!’ Tomas revised hurriedly, deciding that to continue the interrupted attempt at a bluff would produce painful and possibly fatal repercussions.

  ‘Escopeta, huh?’ the Kid drawled pensively. ‘And he’s kin to Don Ramon Peraro?’

  ‘Y—Yes,’ the young bandido replied, wondering if the admission would cost him his life which would be the most simple means of preventing the news of what had happened to Montalban reaching his patron.

  ‘Are they close kin?’ the Texan asked.

  ‘N—not all that close,’ Tomas admitted truthfully.

  ‘Get up and toss away your knife,’ ordered the Kid.

  ‘Wh—why?’ the Mexican inquired, with every evidence of alarm and fear.

  ‘You don’t reckon I’m trustful enough to starting fixing your wound while you’re still wearing it, now do you?’ the Kid queried sardonically. Then, looking from the body of Alfredo Acusar to the motionless shape of Montalban, he continued in

  English, ‘God damn it, this could lose me the bet!’ 9

  ‘Ah, Señora and Señorita Castrillo,’ greeted Don Ramon Manuel Jose Peraro, striding across the bar-room of Bernardo’s Cantina with a proprietorial air which was valid as he and not the man whose name was painted on the wall above the main entrance was the owner of the establishment. Going to where two women followed by a third were coming downstairs from the second floor, 10 he continued with genuine amiability, ‘The ransom money has arrived and, as I gave you my assurance would be the case, you are to be returned immediately to your family.’

  ‘Immediately?’ asked the older of the two elegantly attired women, hopefully and yet clearly not entirely at ease, as she looked through the open front doors at the darkness outside the building.