by J. T. Edson
Before the Kid could swing into his saddle he felt Dusty’s hand clamp down on his arm. As always Dusty was thinking ahead, planning for the future as well as studying the happenings of the day.
‘Not this time, Lon,’ he said. ‘Sure we could maybe get the jump on them and ride through them. But what happens if we take lead, or the horses go under? There’s too much at stake to take fool chances, amigo.’
‘What you fixing in to do then?’
‘I reckon we split up. I’ll cross here, seeing’s how I wasn’t raised a smuggler and don’t know the river. You go either north or south two or three miles. Fix some place for us to meet up again and take our chances, double them even.’
The Kid nodded. He knew that word must reach Mark and Waco of their failure to stop the rifles and Gatling guns falling into the Marcus army hands. Not only would the entire border be in danger, but Marcus might well decide to strengthen his hold of the Aquila country by using the new weapons to smash the power of the hacienderos and from them alone could Dusty expect any help.
‘Call it your way. This’s a good place to cross, Dusty, they’ll likely not cut back on their tracks just yet. I’ll go up north being towards the New Mexico line, which same we’re no place near. Cross over a ford I know, it’s four mile up and in the bad country.’
‘Where do we meet up again?’ asked Dusty. ‘Some place well clear of the line so we’re out of their thick patrols. I tell you, Lon, that de Plonchet gal’s as smart as any Yankee officer I ever come across. She must have had men in the area, plenty of them and now she’s through she don’t intend us to follow. It’s that, or they haven’t fallen for there being two lots of us. Somebody’s smart enough to have guessed what we’re at, sent a good bunch up here. Works the same whichever ways.’
‘Ride straight south, once you’re over, Dusty. Comes morning you’ll see the line of hills ahead. There’s one you can’t miss, got a kind of V-notch at the top that makes it look like it has two peaks. It’s two days’ hard ride, but when you reach the lower slopes follow a stream that runs up. I figure knowing the range like I do I’ll be there about the same time as you. First one there waits up towards the notch until sundown of the day he arrives, then rides on towards the edge of el Laberinto. Then we’ll have to lie up until we see one of the raiding parties coming in to take us through.’
‘Got it,’ drawled Dusty. ‘One thing though. If you hear shooting down this way don’t come back. One of us has to get through.’
They shook hands and both knew the other would do what must be done, no matter what happened. With a lithe swing the Kid mounted his horse and turned its head upstream. He faded off into the bushes and Dusty gave him a few minutes’ start then mounted and eased his horse into the water. Reaching down he drew the carbine from its saddle boot and clicked off the safety catch. If it came to a fight across the river he would need the extra range and magazine capacity of the wicked little saddle-gun and while he might scoff at rifle shooting he knew he could throw his shots accurately from the carbine.
For all his precautions Dusty made his crossing without any trouble. He rode up the Mexican shore and headed off with the North Star at his back. Halting the horse. Dusty sat listening. He heard shouts in the distance and hooves, but they did not sound to be either angry or excited calls such as made by men who had sighted an enemy. Nor did he hear any shots which meant they had met up with the Kid, for Dusty doubted if Marcus had a man good enough to get close enough to the Kid to settle the matter silently with a knife. No, the shouting meant no more than the general lack of discipline among the bandido-soldiers. A grin twisted Dusty’s lips as he imagined what Margarita de Plonchet would say, and possibly do, if she had heard the men.
Starting the horse forward once more, Dusty rode on. In matters of this nature, while admitting the Kid to be better, Dusty knew himself to be a good hand. During the war he had often ridden dispatch through enemy territory and knew the secrets of reasonably silent movement.
The very lack of discipline of the Marcus men stood him in good stead now. Only once did a patrol come anywhere near him and the noise they made, arguing, cursing, allowing their horses to crash through the foliage around them, as well as the flickering of a match and glowing cigarette tips gave Dusty ample warning. He stood by his horse’s head, soothing the animal and keeping it quiet while the ten-man patrol passed within five yards of his hiding place.
Once the patrol passed and faded into the distance Dusty mounted the horse. But this time the Kid should be across the river and Dusty strained his ears to try and catch the sound of shooting. He stopped himself knowing how little chance there was of the sound carrying that far. In trying to hear shots in the distance he might miss some slight, yet danger-heralding sound close at hand. No matter if he did hear shooting, or that the Kid had become as close as any brother to him, even if he should hear the shots he could do nothing to help.
After riding for an hour, Dusty brought his horse to a halt on top of a wooded hill and looked back towards the river. At four different spots he could see the flickering of flames, large fires from the look of them. Once more the Marcus men showed their lack of discipline by settling down for the night. Dusty would have bet all he owned that not one patrol carried on with its duties for more than another hour at most. Even as he thought this, Dusty saw yet another fire building up down to the east.
‘Looks like we can make camp and sleep ourselves soon, old hoss,’ he said to the roan between his knees.
Dusty knew better than push his horse too hard when there was no need. A few hours’ rest would do him the world of good and keep the horse ready for running, or distance covering fast walk whichever he needed during the daylight hours. He also knew better than make an exposed camp in enemy territory.
Riding down the slope so as to be hidden from the fires of the patrols, he entered a thick wood, listening for the chuckling of running water which told him he was near a small stream. Dusty swung from the horse’s saddle and looked around him. This spot would be ideal for his purpose, the wood thick enough to hide the flames of his tiny camp fire, but not so thick that he would find himself hampered in case a hurried departure became necessary.
After loosening the double cinches he worked the saddle back and forwards until the horse’s back had cooled down. While doing it his hand felt a familiar shaped bump in the bedroll and he began to grin.
‘Now won’t ole Lon be riled, hoss?’ he said, sliding the heavy kak from the roan’s back. ‘I done snuck away with the coffeepot.’
Lowering the saddle, Dusty caught the roan’s reins, remembering in time it was not his paint, a horse he could rely on not to stray when off-saddled. He would have to hobble the roan, for being left afoot would be even more fatal than normally the case.
Some three miles to the west and possibly half a mile further into the danger area, the Ysabel Kid decided he could rely on the Marcus men having made their camps for the night. So he found a spot where he might make a meal and sleep in the hope of not being discovered.
‘Dang that Dusty,’ he told the brown horse after removing its saddle and hobbling it. ‘He done took out and headed off with the coffeepot. It’ll be a long winter, hoss.’
Saying that he took some of the jerked meat he carried and settled down, using the saddle for a pillow, chewing the nourishing, if unappetizing looking jerked meat which Jimmo, the O.D. Connected’s cook prepared so well. Like Mark often said, if anybody could make jerked meat look fit to eat, Jimmo could.
A meal of jerked meat, a drink of cold water from a trickling stream, served the Kid for the night. He rolled himself in his blankets and went to sleep, but his rifle lay by his side and his old Dragoon cocked ready in his grip.
The night passed without incident and dawn found both Dusty and the Kid riding on through the Aquila country in a race against time.
‘There’s that hill, hoss,’ he said to the roan, stroking its sleek neck. ‘Be tomorrow at the earliest when we reach it.’
He spent the day riding cautiously, not rushing the horse and always alert. By now, possibly, the soldiers knew that he and the Kid had crossed the border separately and might be on their trail. He could rely on the Kid to cover his tracks in an expert manner. Dusty also knew he himself did not have that kind of skill. Sure, he knew enough to keep on rocky ground, but there were ways in which one as skilled as the Kid could cover or confuse his tracks even when crossing country that ought to allow sign to show.
Twice during the day Dusty saw patrols of soldiers headed towards the border. It appeared that Marcus had put his strength into the field and much of it deployed towards the border. Dusty did not know that every time she saw a party of the Marcus men, Margarita sent them to reinforce the guard on the border.
Night found both Dusty and the Kid dry camped without a fire and out in the open. They spent the night as they had the previous one, with their horses hobbled and their guns in their hand. Once during the night a blundering bunch of cattle woke Dusty, but at dawn he rose without a sign of danger.
Once during the second day Dusty saw a small village, but from the top of a rim he also saw that a bunch of Marcus men, at least ten of them, were in possession. That meant he could not ride in and buy a meal. So he tightened his belt and headed on once more.
He wondered how the Kid was managing as he made camp within two miles of the hill with the V-notch. In the morning he would ride up the slope and find someplace to hide while he waited for his pard’s arrival, unless, of course, as was quite likely, the Kid had beat him to it.
Another night went by without incident. Dusty felt that this had proved to be too easy so far. A man might get careless happen he didn’t watch himself, after expecting danger and finding none.
Dusty was still thinking on the same lines as he rode down the bank of a fairly wide, though not over deep river which he must cross to reach the foot of the hill. He eased the roan into the water and let it walk forward over the firm, even sandy bottom. His eyes flickered up the other side’s gentle bank, to where a tree trunk lay at the top. It had been chopped down from the slope of the hill and hauled here to be floated somewhere downstream, then left until the water level rose higher.
Suddenly, without any warning, a bullet came from behind smashing into the roan horse’s rump and tearing on through the body. Dusty heard the thud, recognized its sound. The roan screamed in mortal agony and went down, churning the water under it and just in time Dusty kicked his legs free and pitched out of the saddle. Even as he went under the river’s surface, Dusty wished he could have grabbed out his carbine before quitting the saddle.
Coming to his feet, standing about knee deep, Dusty spat water out and faced his attackers. They came charging down the opposite bank, ten or so Marcus soldiers, riding their horses and waving what appeared to be cheap Ballard, Sharps or Leman single-shot rifles. Their leader, a coarse looking sergeant, had a better weapon, a Remington buffalo gun and Dusty guessed this to be the weapon which killed his horse.
Out lashed Dusty’s right-hand Colt. He did not use the normal method of firing, cocking the hammer with his thumb, then squeezing home with his trigger finger. There would not be time for handling the gun in such a manner, not if he wished to have his life. He closed his trigger finger, holding the trigger, even as the heel of his left hand started to lash back and forward against the hammer, working it back, releasing it to fall on to a cartridge primer and fire the gun. Fanning in such a manner might be the fastest known method to empty a single action weapon which had to be cocked before each shot but it gave little scope for straight aim or accuracy at anything but the shortest range.
Not that Dusty sought after target shooting accuracy, or even gunfighting accuracy—something else entirely for no man’s life had ever been endangered by a paper target shooting back. He knew only pure blind chance would send one of his bullets into the rushing men but did not care. What Dusty wanted, and succeeded in getting, was cover, something to conceal him from the men. The Colt’s thirty-grain powder charge turned into a cloud of thick black smoke when it followed the bullet out of the barrel. Six such bullets fired in one and a half seconds—like most men, Dusty usually only carried five cartridges in his gun, but was loaded for war at the time, with all six—put up a fair cloud of smoke. It proved sufficient to at least partially hide Dusty and prevent his attackers getting a clear shot at him, while the bullets, flying in their direction, slowed down their pace and made them less eager to get in close.
The moment his gun was empty, Dusty turned and ran for the shore. He churned through the water and on to the bank, sprinting up it. By now the Mexicans had their rifles working and lead slapped close by him, but his fast, swerving run carried him up the slope and he dived over the log. He heard the deeper bellow of the Remington and a large chunk of log ripped free to sail into the air.
Dusty lit down in comparative safety. He rolled around, holstering the empty Colt and drawing his second weapon as he heard the Mexicans yelling and urging on their horses.
Coming up, Dusty rested his wrists on the log, laying behind its shelter and exposing as little of himself as possible. He used the double-handed grip which allowed him to take a careful sight.
On the other side of the river, the Mexicans had almost reached the water. Dusty’s Colt crashed out and one of their number jerked in his saddle, then keeled over and fell into the sand at the water’s edge. A second shot brought down a horse for its rider saw the Colt lining in his direction and jerked the animal’s head up just as Dusty fired.
A side glance at the mark made by the Remington’s bullet caused Dusty to change his aim. That rifle could rip his shelter to pieces, send powerful bullets through it, kick up flying splinters which might, if they struck him in the eyes, be as deadly as any piece of lead. Twice Dusty fired as the men churned to a halt before his roaring gun and still without crossing the river. The first shot missed, he expected that for this was a long range to be using a handgun over. On the second shot he saw the sergeant rock under the impact of the bullet, clutch at his shoulder and let the rifle fall. At that the men whirled their horses and headed back the way they came, the one left afoot actually bounding over the powerful rifle, ignoring it in his rush to get under cover.
Not one of the bunch had thought about el Cuatro, or suspected the Four’s leader rode before them when, in passing, they saw Dusty heading for the river. To them he appeared nothing more than a young Texas cowhand, so they decided to cut him down and collect some loot. The sergeant had meant his Remington’s bullet to smash into Dusty’s back for the horse looked a fine animal and worth money. However, he did not know the rifle having stolen it from a murdered prospector and never used it in target practice to learn how it fired. So he killed the horse, but it carried a saddle and most likely a rifle of some kind. There would be loot enough if they could get the Texan from behind the log.
Expecting a bullet to rip into him at any time, the sergeant swung from his horse and took cover, being beaten to it by his men. He clutched at his shoulder but knew the wound to be no more than a graze. His eyes went to the rifle and he opened his mouth to snarl an order to one of the men. Before he could speak, he heard Dusty’s Colt crack again and the rifle bounced into the air, struck on the breech and wrecked by the bullet.
Although not a particularly bright man, he held his rank mainly because he had been a small time bandit and brought all his gang to enlist in the Marcus army, the sergeant could do some smart figuring when needed. He got to thinking about the matter of dislodging and killing the Texan with as little risk as possible. Thinking back on the happenings, the sergeant reached certain conclusions.
Firstly, the small Texan came from the water with a gun in his hand, firing several shots. Although the shots came so fast that the sergeant could not say for sure how many were fired, he guessed that their victim emptied that gun before running for cover.
Secondly, the Texan had fired six shots to rout the attack and break the Reming
ton. Of that the sergeant could be sure for he counted them automatically as they roared out.
Which all meant, unless their victim had something unusual in handguns, both his weapons were now empty.
‘Come on!’ barked the sergeant, having digested the thoughts and reached his conclusion. ‘Let’s go get him!’
His spirit of aggression did not inspire the others who had found safe shelter behind rocks and bushes to waste Marcus’s valuable ammunition taking pot-shots at the log behind which their proposed victim lay hidden and safe now the Remington could not be used.
‘He might have a rifle!’ yelped the man who had lost his horse.
‘And how could he, hijo de puta!’ the sergeant snarled in reply. ‘He fanned his gun and that takes two hands. Where did he hold the rifle, up his—’ he offered a coarse, but impractical method of carrying the weapon.
Even a scared bandido-turned-soldier could think clearly enough to see his sergeant’s point, even if not caring to be addressed as the son of a whore. He saw that their victim would be highly unlikely to waste time using a revolver if he had a rifle handy, even one carried where the sergeant suggested. Certainly the Texan did not have a rifle with him when he rose from quitting his saddle, or when he ran up the bank and took cover.
The words carried to the other men and started them both thinking and talking. All of them knew what must be done to load, or even reload, a percussion fired revolver. Its spent percussion caps must first be stripped from the nipples, then powder and ball placed into the empty chambers of the cylinder one at a time, each chamber being turned under the loading rammer and forced home by a pull on the rammer’s lever. With this done fresh caps were placed on the nipples ready for use. All that took time, even when done with the combustible cartridges instead of powder flask and ball.
Thinking of powder flasks and loose round bals brought up another point.
