by J. T. Edson
Once more the band struck up and Mark bowed to the girl, asked her to dance and led her on to the floor. Waco and the Kid followed, leaving Dusty leaning by the bar table.
Sanchez, segundo to Perez, joined Dusty, offering him a drink. The big, lean Mexican recognized a social equal in Dusty and began to talk about the cattle industry. Dusty could guess that Sanchez came with his boss’s permission and orders to probe, in the politest possible way, what brought the segundo of the O.D. Connected into Mexico. This might be curiosity for at least one of the big Texas spreads had been seeking to extend its lands by buying property below the border. No doubt Perez wondered if this brought Dusty Fog south of the line.
Of course, there would be no ill-mannered rush to inquire, possibly not even a question about it. Sanchez looked down at Dusty’s guns and they discussed the new model weapons. For a knife-handling Mexican, Sanchez showed knowledge of the qualities needed in a gunfighter’s Colt.
‘A man needs weapons in Mexico, Captain, just as north of the border,’ said Sanchez. ‘Not for Indians, only the Yaqui give trouble and we are almost free of their presence.’
'Bandidos?’ asked Dusty, watching the other man’s face.
They are always a problem. There are haciendas which have lost whole herds of cattle, gone without a trace. You do not have the same trouble in Texas?’
‘Only rarely. In the Rio Hondo we have just about licked the cow thief problem.’
The term ‘rustling’ was never used in Texas. Dusty knew the way the conversation headed. Sanchez was pointing out all the disadvantages of ranching below the border, just in case Dusty had his eye on moving in.
‘I wish we had. The Army does little to help us. Our market for cattle is limited. We do not have the great railways, or the sale for beef that you north of the line have.’
‘It is as I thought,’ agreed Dusty and decided to put the other man at ease. ‘A friend suggested we came south of the border and bought in on a hacienda but my uncle does not think it worthwhile. We’ve all the land that we can handle in Rio Hondo County without taking more.’
He saw the look of relief on Sanchez’s face and changed the subject by indicating the girl dancing with Mark.
‘Do you know the señorita?’ he asked. Not having seen any sign of a wedding ring he guessed at her maiden status.
‘I have never seen her before. When Don Jose throws open his house all may enter and be welcome. Excuse me, Captain, I have my duties to attend to.’
Dusty watched Sanchez circle the room and return to his boss. From the look Perez threw in his direction, Dusty guessed his words regarding the subject of taking land south of the border had been passed on.
When the dance ended the young woman returned with Mark. She smiled at Dusty and said, ‘It is a pity you do not dance.’
‘So I’ve been told, ma’am,’ Dusty agreed.
‘Would I be impolite to ask what brings you south of the border?’ she went on, still smiling, although the smile did not reach her eyes.
Dusty grinned. He, too, could play smart, the girl was making the mistake of thinking she dealt with naive country boys.
‘Know those hills out there, ma’am?’ he asked.
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘Me ’n’ the boys, we always like to see what lies beyond a hill. Might be something different.’
The band starting again halted any more chance of talk. A vaquero came over, bowed to the girl and escorted her out to dance. He did it without a swagger, with no hint of trying to make the Texans look small by taking their woman. Dusty watched the girl dance. He saw her almost falter and miss a step as the vaquero told her something. From the way she stared across the room towards him Dusty guessed the man had let his name slip.
Hooves thundered on the street outside the gates. Saddle leather creaked and feet thudded on the ground. The band’s music trickled away as half a dozen men in ragged, dirty and untidy uniforms entered, led by a big, heavily built and sullen sergeant who halted and scowled around.
‘Well?’ he said, noting the strained attitudes of the vaqueros, the silence of the band and the worry on Perez’s face ‘Are the men of General Marcus’s Army not welcome here?’
Five – Take the Tejanos
A silence fell on the room as every eye turned to the group of dirty men in their ragged and untidy uniforms, each man with a double bandoleer of rifle bullets slung around his shoulders, a gunbelt carrying a holstered revolver—or two in some cases—and a knife.
Slowly Don Jose Perez rose to his feet, smiled a reassuring smile at the women of his party and replied.
‘When I give a baile all are welcome. Musicians, play.’
The band re-raised their instruments and stared to play, although in a more ragged manner than before. Yet the atmosphere of the affair changed. No longer did warm, friendly gaiety fill the air. The six soldiers swaggered across the room, insolence and offence in every inch of their bodies. They sneered around them, eyeing the women, stripping them bare with leering gaze.
Dusty watched all this. He saw the vaqueros and wondered how soon it would be before they took offence and showed the half a dozen soldiers their indignation. In many ways the vaquero and the Texas cowhand were alike. Fighting men, proud and honorable men with a loyalty to their boss. With the advantage of numbers, or even one to one, the vaqueros could have taught these insolent visitors a lesson and most likely would.
Then Dusty saw Sanchez moving amongst his men, speaking to the scowling, angry groups, giving his orders with the knowledge that as far as possible they would be obeyed.
‘Your men, Captain,’ Sanchez said, halting at Dusty’s side. ‘I am sorry to mention it, but this is a delicate situation we face. Don Jose wishes to avoid any trouble with the soldiers.’
‘I understand,’ Dusty replied. ‘We’ll avoid trouble if we can.’
‘My thanks. And my apologies that these pelados are permitted to defile our master’s baile.’
Sanchez passed on, throwing an angry look to where the soldiers elbowed their way to the food table and dug grubby hands into the dishes waiting to be served. Dusty saw this. He shot out a hand to catch Waco’s arm as the youngster came towards him.
‘Somebody ought to pen them hawgs,’ Waco drawled.
‘Not you, boy!’ growled Dusty. ‘Set fast and easy.’
‘Sure,’ agreed the Kid. ‘They’re here hunting trouble. But let them start it afore we make a play.’
Looking around the room. Dusty saw the young woman who had spoken with him earlier. Before dancing with the vaquero she had returned to his side each time the music ended. Now she stood talking with the vaquero, laughing and making herself most agreeable. Not that Dusty worried. He wondered if she might have taken offence at his giving her a false name or if she wished for the company of her own kind.
Although a few people went out to dance it soon became plain that none had the heart for it. No longer could they take pleasure in dancing when the soldiers pushed and shoved, elbowing men aside as they went for partners amongst the women. One of the soldiers crashed into the Ysabel Kid, turned with a mocking sneer on his face as the Kid bumped into a vaquero. For a moment Dusty thought trouble would explode. The Kid crouched slightly, his right hand raising, fingers crooked ready to fetch out the bowie knife. The soldier stood sneering, mocking, never knowing how close he stood to death.
‘My apologies, señor,’ said the Kid, bowing to the vaquero.
‘The fault was all mine,’ replied the vaquero, gritting out his words and holding down his temper, trying to prevent his eyes going to the soldier.
With a mocking laugh the soldier whirled his partner again. The Kid stood tense as a crouching cougar on a limb over a horse herd. Once more he took hold of his temper and led his partner from the floor.
‘Lordy lord!’ growled the Kid, sounding meaner than a Dog Soldier after a prime white scalp. ‘There’s going to be trouble tonight. I’ll sure hand that pelados his needings, you see if I
don’t.’
One of the soldiers turned, crashing into a peon and sprawling him and the plate of food he held, into Waco. The youngster turned fast and the soldier stood mocking and insolent for a moment. His eyes locked with Waco’s and slowly he let them look away, unable to meet the cold gaze. The peon, cowering as if expecting a blow from either the soldier or Waco, backed away hurriedly.
Scenes of the same kind were being repeated all round the square. If Dusty needed it, this gave proof that the men were here to work the game they played in other parts of the Aquila country. Near at hand would be a company of Marcus’s men, backing enough to enforce their will on the haciendero for the attack on soldiers of their regiment.
Dusty knew now he had been right in coming to the baile. He suspected something of this kind might happen and came along on the chance of making contact with his enemy.
‘Say one thing, Dusty,’ drawled Mark. ‘Those vaqueros are sure long on temper. I’d’ve busted a head or two before now.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty answered, never stopping his alert watch on the happenings around him. ‘Those soldiers haven’t managed to start anything yet. I wonder what they’ll try next?’
‘You reckon they’re hide-bound set for causing trouble?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Might just be trying to show us civilians how tough the Army is,’ Mark suggested.
‘If they’d any pride in being in the Army they might,’ agreed Dusty. ‘But this bunch aren’t that sort of soldiers. Nope, they’re here to make trouble so a big fine can be slapped on Perez. Get set, if they go too far we’ll cut in.’
‘Why sure,’ drawled Mark. ‘Leave the big hawg of a sergeant to me.’
Turning, Mark sauntered off to where Waco and the Kid stood and gave them Dusty’s orders as well as claiming the right to handle the sergeant. He received no objections from either of his friends for they both had scores to settle with other members of the soldier party.
Swaggering across the square, the sergeant bellowed for music. He headed to where the young woman who had spoken with Dusty earlier now stood talking to the vaquero who took her out to dance.
‘Hey, señorita,’ barked the sergeant. ‘A dance with you.’
‘I have already asked,’ replied the vaquero, turning to face the burly man.
‘You?’ sneered the sergeant. ‘A woman needs a grown man, not a puny, weakling little boy.’
Anger flushed the vaquero's face deeper brown. The sergeant had put an insult on him, one which could not easily be overlooked. Yet he did not wish to go against his boss’s wishes by starting trouble. Looking for advice on what action to take he made a foolish mistake, for he turned his head away from the sergeant and towards Perez and Sanchez.
Before the vaquero could look back the sergeant stepped forward, reaching out with big hands. Clamping a hold on the front of the short jacket, the sergeant lifted the vaquero from his feet shaking him savagely and giving him no chance to draw a weapon in his defense. Then, with a contemptuous gesture, tossed him aside, sending him staggering back across the floor.
At the first sign of trouble Dusty glanced at and nodded to his friends. He needed to say nothing for they could all form their own opinions of how to handle the situation. Even as the sergeant assaulted the vaquero, Dusty’s party moved into place. Waco, a gleam of delight in his eyes, halted just behind the soldier who bumped into him upon the dance floor, clenched his fist and thought pleasantly of what he aimed to do. The Kid also moved, stopping behind the one who had shoved into him and the vaquero but did not offer an apology. For his part Mark watched the sergeant, listened to the boasting words and, even as he went forward, saw the vaquero lifted from the floor. It seemed that the sergeant wanted to show off his strength. Which same game two could play at, Mark decided.
‘Like I said!’ boomed the sergeant. ‘She wants a man, not a weakling b—’
His boasting words died off unsaid and a startled squawk took their place. Mark had moved fast, unnoticed, coming behind the sergeant even as he tossed the vaquero aside. Out shot Mark’s right hand, fingers like steel bands digging into the fat flesh of the sergeant’s neck. At the same moment Mark’s left hand took hold of the sergeant’s trousers seat. Before the sergeant could recover from his surprise, Mark began to raise him from the ground. Only Mark did not merely lift him a few inches from it. With a tremendous surging heave Mark raised the sergeant, turning him and hoisting him to arms’ length overhead, holding him kicking and struggling weakly there.
The crowd gasped with amazement, staring at Mark as he held two hundred and thirty pounds of cursing, writhing human flesh over his head.
Although they did not know it, a pair of soldiers stood just in front of Dusty. They saw their sergeant’s predicament and decided to help out. The thought reached two minds at almost the same moment and with the same conclusion. Two right hands dipped to close on gun butts. When dealing with a man strong enough to hoist the big sergeant clear over his head it would never do to chance a knife. Such a man called for lead sent from a distance, not steel within reach of his hands.
Dusty’s hands crossed in a sight defying flicker, the matched guns coming out and thrusting hard into the two soldiers’ spines even before their grabbing hands closed on weapons. They stood very still for both heard the low double click which warned them the guns thrust into their backs could now fire without waste of time. To make the slightest wrong move would send lead smashing into them.
‘Stand still and live long, hombres!’ Dusty warned.
Even as the soldier he picked out reached towards a gun, Waco stepped forward. He caught the man by the shoulder, turned him then drove out the other hand knotted ready into a fist. It sank with the power of a Missouri mule’s kick full into the pit of the man’s stomach. How hard and with what power Waco struck showed in the way the soldier croaked in agony, folded over and went to his knees, then flopped down to roll in pain upon the ground.
‘Which same’ll teach you to bump into delicate lil ole m—!’ began Waco.
To his right another of the soldiers came lunging forward, fanning out a knife. Waco drew right handed, turning to meet the danger. He remembered Dusty wished to avoid shooting and so whirled the Colt around on his trigger-finger, gripping it by the chamber and lashing it forward. The butt smashed full against the side of the man’s jaw.
‘Loose it—or turn it this way!’ the Ysabel Kid growled in warning as his target also decided to cut in and help the sergeant.
Turning, the soldier’s eyes first went to the Kid’s face, then sank to his right hand which hung thumb-hooked into his belt scant inches from the hilt of his bowie knife but well away from the turned forward butt of the old Dragoon Colt.
With a head full of ideas about Texans not being knife fighters, the Mexican carried on with his grab towards his gun. He considered he held an edge over the Texan in the distance each had to reach for his weapon. In this he guessed correctly—only the Kid did not bother with the Dragoon. Instead his hand flipped up, folded over the ivory hilt of the bowie knife, fetching it out. Too late the Mexican saw his danger. The knife licked towards him, its eleven and a half inch long, two and a half inch wide blade’s clipped point, lower cutting edge and curve of the upper false edge sharp as many a barber’s cut-throat razor.
The Kid did not strike to kill. His blade sank into the man’s arm, biting through the sleeve and into flesh underneath, sinking in to rip through the muscles of the forearm. The soldier relaxed his hold on the gun butt, his other hand grabbed down at the blood-spurting wound and he reeled half-fainting to one side.
Whilst all this went on, although it all happened in a matter of a minute or so, Mark stood holding the sergeant over his head. He did not lower the man to the ground hurriedly as might be expected after lifting and supporting such a weight. Instead Mark bent his legs slightly, then heaved, throwing the burly sergeant in a waving tangle of arms and legs, away from him. Taken by surprise, the sergeant landed hard. He
might have counted himself as being lucky that he landed without breaking bones or no more serious injury than having all the wind knocked from his lungs. At the moment of his landing, and for some time after, he was incapable of being thankful for his luck, or taking any positive action.
Moving past his two men, keeping them covered all the time, Dusty backed across the floor to join Mark. Waco and the Kid came forward also, fanning on either side of Dusty and awaiting his orders.
‘What now?’ Waco asked, standing behind his drawn Colts and watching his victims although neither would be likely to give trouble.
‘We get out of here, boy,’ Dusty replied, ‘That’s what now.’
A strained silence followed the Texans’ effective handling of the soldiers. Although they might give their unspoken approval to the four young men, Perez and Sanchez knew the danger and trouble ahead for them. Marcus would wish to know why Perez allowed his men to be man-handled in such manner and might take the attitude that the haciendero hired the Texans to do his fighting. Yet Perez could not bring himself to break his hospitality by going against guests who had behaved themselves in the manner of gentlemen.
‘Our apologies for acting as we did, Don Jose,’ Dusty said, knowing how Perez stood through he and his friends’ actions.
Perez did not reply in words, but his face showed he accepted the apology and felt no annoyance.
‘I’ll take the boy and collect the hosses, Dusty,’ suggested the Kid.
‘Sure. Mark and I’ll stay on here.’
They all backed to the gates, keeping the whole of the crowd before them. Mark and Dusty stood with their guns drawn, more for the benefit of the conscious and uninjured soldiers than because of any fear of attack by the Perez men. The Kid and Waco left, heading for the posada's stable for they knew they might need the horses in a hurry.
Seconds ticked by. Feet shuffled and the people attending the baile watched their master, waiting for some sign of how they should act. The sergeant recovered his wind and his senses at the same moment. He started to snarl out curses and reach for his gun, then saw how his command consisted of no more than two able men. One glance at the gates told him how little chance he and his men would have of facing even the two remaining Texans. Lurching to his feet, he scowled at Perez.
