by J. T. Edson
Handiman smiled, this young man certainly knew Bushrod Sheldon. “You’d better read the letter,” he said and passed over the envelope.
Pulling open the flap Dusty opened the large sheet of paper and read it through. At the end he looked at Handiman and asked: “They want him back this badly?”
“They want him back that bad.”
Dusty whistled as he thought over the concessions made in that letter. He looked at the letter, then at his uncle. Ole Devil reached out a hand, took the letter and read it through. He folded the paper, put it back into the envelope once more and grunted: “It won’t be easy.”
“It won’t,” Handiman agreed. “Juarez won’t know who you are and his men have a nasty way of shooting gringos first then asking questions. The French may know we’re sending a man, and if they do they’ll move heaven and earth to stop you reaching Bushrod Sheldon.”
“That figgers,” Dusty replied, although he didn’t appear unduly alarmed at it.
“Do you speak French or Spanish??’
“Speak saddle Mex and a mite of French, can get by in either.”
“Good, it’ll be a help. Now Washington is trying to arrange for a man to go along with you as far as the Juaristas, I’d like you to go with him. There was a mix-up over this and I don’t know who he is, or anything about him. He will be in Brownsville, Cameron County until the end of the week or so, waiting to contact the Juarez men. I’d like you to locate him and go with him.”
Dusty wasn’t too keen on this idea. He would much prefer to go alone, or if he needed help to take his now retired Top-sergeant, Billy Jack, or his cousin Red Blaze along. They were men he could trust, tried and found not wanting in either brains or courage.
“I’d rather go it alone,” he replied for both Red and Billy Jack were needed here in Texas.
“The man won’t go far with you. Only to the Juarez men,” Handiman replied. “Will you do it?”
Dusty looked at Ole Devil. The old man nodded imperceptibly and Dusty said, “Sure. I’ll head for home and pick up some gear I’ll need.”
“Come back for dinner, boy,” Ole Devil called as Dusty stepped from the porch and walked away. “We’ve got things to talk over.”
Hondo Fog, Sheriff of Rio Hondo County, watched his son riding towards the house in Polveroso City. He noted Dusty was afork a speed horse left behind when the crew took the remuda as being too fast for cattle work. So Hondo went along the path through the flower garden and opened the gate.
“Ole Devil fired you, son?” he asked.
“Could call it that,” Dusty replied as he swung down from the saddle and tied the horse up. “He wants me to head south of the border for him.”
Hondo Fog asked no questions, but he knew that Mexico was no place for an ex-Confederate officer to be riding these days. The sheriff made quite a contrast to his son, for Hondo Fog stood well over six foot tall, was wide shouldered and powerful looking.
They entered the living room and Hondo hung his Confederate officer’s hat on a peg, then turned and looked down at his son. Before he could ask any questions the door opened and Mrs. Fog came in. She was a tall, plump, smiling woman with the black eyes of a Hardin, yet softer and gentler than Ole Devil’s.
“You look hungry boy,” she said. “I won’t be sorry when young Betty comes back from the East. She makes Jimmo serve up better than his everlasting son-of-a-gun stew.”
Dusty grinned. His cousin Betty made other things happen at the ranch when she was there. She was only his age, just under twenty, but she ruled that spread with a rod of iron.
“I have to head back as soon as I can, maw,” he replied. “Just came to collect some of my gear. I’d like my uniform packing in my war bag.”
“Uniform?”
“Yes’m. That’s the way I’m going to have to handle this.”
“Sounds real important, son,” Hondo remarked, knowing that the OD Connected were in the middle of their spring roundup and that Dusty was the roundup captain.
“Some,” Dusty agreed, taking a chair and as his father sat down telling him of his mission. “Could be bad if General Bushrod won’t come back.”
“Could be,” Hondo was an old campaigner and full fed up with the horror of a war which set brother to killing brother. He looked to where above the fireplace a pair of crossed sabers hung below a bullet torn Cavalry pennant. “You want your saber?”
“Not this time,” Dusty answered regretfully for he had the true cavalry regard for the saber as a fighting weapon. “I couldn’t hide it until I needed it. I’ll take a rifle if I can.”
Hondo waved a hand towards the stand of long arms in the corner of the room and Dusty went towards them, looking them over. The single-shot, muzzling loading weapons he dismissed right away. The old Colt revolving breech rifle did not meet with his approval either. That left two choices, either a Henry rifle or a Spencer carbine. Both were repeaters and yet neither really were what he wanted in a saddle gun. The Henry was too heavy and long for comfortable saddle use and also prone to jam up if the long tube magazine was knocked against anything. The Spencer was more the length, but too heavy in caliber at .56 to be really easy in use from a horse.
“Take the Spencer if I can,” he said, looking down at the engraving on the lock.
It read: “1st New York Vols.”, a regiment neither Dusty nor his father served in nor did anything other than shoot at. The carbine and the Henry were battlefield captures, taken in the War.
Hondo Fog went to the saddle boot belonging to the carbine and Dusty unlocked a box in the corner. From it he took two wooden boxes each containing ten tubes of seven bullets for the Spencer carbine. Two cardboard boxes of Colt Combustible cartridges came next, then a buckskin bag holding ready molded bullets and a mould to make more. Lastly he took a couple of powder flasks, one a plain horn, the other belonging to his matched brace of guns, complete with a measure to give the correct weight of powder for the chambers of the guns.
He took the pile of ammunition into the bedroom where his mother was carefully folding his cadet grey Confederate uniform with the Captain’s braid at the sleeve cuffs and the triple bars of half-inch wide, three-inch long gold braid at the collar.
“You’ll be back soon, son?” she asked as she put the uniform into the war bag and placed a couple of dean shirts on top of it.
“I’ll try. I’d best get back before Betty comes home or I’ll be in bad trouble. That ole paint of mine got into her truck garden and surely mussed it up. I want to see that it’s straightened out before she gets back.”
Mrs. Fog watched her small, soft-spoken son with eyes that were bright with pride and unshed tears. She was worried at his going on so dangerous a mission but knew that few men were better equipped to do it. She’d seen him ride to war in the footsteps of his father and uncle at fifteen and then return at eighteen a Captain and a hero. Then she’d seen him go west to help another uncle. Colonel Charles Goodnight, in the first of the early cattle drives after the War, drives which were to set the pattern and bring money pouring into Texas for the next few years.
She’d faith in this small son, her elder son, and knew that he would return to the Rio Hondo country.
Dusty settled down on the bed and cleaned his Colts and the Spencer, then let his mother pack away his cleaning gear and fasten the bag. She fetched his bedroll with its tarp, suggans and blankets and rolled it neatly for him to take and strap to his saddle cantle.
After a meal Dusty took the gear out to the waiting horse and while Hondo fastened the bedroll on Dusty slid the carbine into the saddle boot his father had already fixed cavalry style to the left side of the saddle. Then he turned and kissed his mother and gripped his father’s hand. He saw people looking, kinsfolk mostly and all good friends. They would be curious as to where he was headed but even if they asked, which wasn’t likely, Hondo Fog would not tell them.
“Watch yourself down there boy,” Hondo said as Dusty swung up into the saddle. “And if you have any tr
ouble getting to see ole Bushrod Sheldon, or in getting him to listen to you, see Major Jubal Granger. He’s an old friend of mine and he’ll help you all he can. I reckon ole Jube will be just about ready to come on home again. And so will the other men.”
“I’ll do just that,” Dusty agreed. “Reckon I’d better call in and see Uncle Tim, down to Brownsville. He’s still the sheriff there?”
“Sure, he’ll help you find the man.”
“I’ll tell him you asked about him,” Dusty remarked. “Any word for Aunt Martha while I’m there, maw?”
“Tell her I’m all right and that we’ll try and visit them later in the year,” Mrs. Fog replied. “You take care of yourself, son. Be careful.”
“I always am. Now don’t you start in to sniffing, maw, or you’ll likely start me going too.”
Mrs. Fog held down the tears, she managed a smile up at Dusty, then said: “You just take care.”
“Sure,” Dusty agreed. “Adios!”
Hondo Fog put his arm round his wife’s shoulders as they watched their son riding out of town towards the OD Connected. They stood there for a long time and watched him fade into the distance. Then they returned to the house again.
The following morning Dusty Fog stood on the porch of the ranch house and looked at Ole Devil Hardin and General Handiman.
“I’ve got your letter, but what’s your message for Bush Sheldon?” he asked.
Ole Devil grunted and held his hand out.
“You tell him to get back to the United States and stop his fooling around. There’s only me’n Sam French left here and we’re tired of handling these damned Yankees alone.”
Chapter Three – Loncey Dalton Ysabel
Dusty Fog’s big paint stallion picked an easy way along the winding trail through the thickly wooded Texas country. Dusty sat relaxed in the saddle, yet he was alert for every sound or movement. That sort of caution paid even on the better, more used trails. On a narrow sidetrack like this it was essential for there were bad whites and Mexicans roaming the wooded country and a man had been murdered for far less than a magnificent stallion, a good saddle and a brace of matched Colt revolvers.
With each loping stride of the big paint carrying him nearer to Brownsville Dusty grew more watchful and alert. So far nobody knew of his mission or his destination, of that he was sure. Handiman insisted that he hadn’t told anyone why they were in the Rio Hondo. That was some consolation, for Dusty knew that he was in for a hard time even without the added hazard of the French knowing why he was going to see Bushrod Sheldon.
The man in Brownsville might, or might not be of help to him. Dusty was not even sure who the man would be for Handiman couldn’t tell him. However the Cameron Country Sheriff was one of Dusty’s numerous kin and might be able to help locate the man. If not Dusty meant to stay on only for two days, then strike south on his own.
The paint turned a sharp bend in. the trail and came out into a clearing. Dusty halted the horse and looked round, alert and watchful for someone was camping here. A small fire was burning in the center of the clearing, a coffeepot bubbling on it. A bedroll and war bag lay on the other side of the fire and at the far side of the clearing, looking at him, stood a magnificent white stallion not an inch smaller than Dusty’s seventeen-hand paint. The horse was without bridle or saddle, they lay near the bedroll.
That was all, there was no sign of the owner of horse or outfit.
“Who’d you ride for in War, friend?”
The voice, soft, drawling and a musical tenor, seemed to float out of the air in a ventriloquial way. Dusty judged it to come from the left and went down off his horse on the “Injun side”, left hand leaping across his body, the bone-handled Colt coming out cocked and ready. He stood very still, trying to locate the speaker. The woods lay silent all round the clearing, not even a bird stirring to help give him a clue. Apart from the two horses Dusty might have been alone here, but the voice came again to prove he was not.
“Asked a real sociable question, friend.”
“Texas Light Cavalry,” Dusty replied, twisting round slowly, almost sure the voice came from the far side of the clearing. “How about you?”
A short mocking laugh came from behind Dusty and the sound which might come from a cocking revolver. The small Texan spun round, dropping to one knee and firing in a flickering blur of movement at where the clicking sound came from. The bullet sent splinters flying as it sank into a thick tree and a voice which came from behind it said: “Don’t shoot, I’m coming out.”
A tall, Indian dark, black-dressed youngster stepped from behind the tree. He stopped and looked at the hole in the trunk then compared it with his own body and nodded. “Fair piece of offhand shooting a man’d say, friend.”
Dusty looked the other over. He didn’t look to be more than sixteen at the most but for all of that he was a dead cool hand. The bullet would have caught him in the body at heart level had he been stood in front of the tree instead of behind it.
“My own fault,” the youngster went on. “Shouldn’t have fooled about like that and then step on a rotten stick.”
He came forward, giving Dust a better view of him. His black JB Stetson hat was hanging back by its storm-strap and his hair was curly, so black it shone almost blue in the light. His face looked handsome, young and innocent, almost babyish but those red-hazel colored eyes were not young, they were old, watchful and hard. Like his hat and his hair all his clothing was black, from the silk bandana round his neck to his boots. Only the butt forward walnut grips of the old Dragoon Colt at his side and the ivory hilt of his Bowie knife at his left relieved the blackness.
This youngster walked forward with the long-legged, free stride of a buck Apache. In his hands he held a second Colt Dragoon revolver, this one with a detachable canteen, carbine stock fitted on it.
“Howdy,” he greeted as he halted in front of Dusty. “Smelled your dust a piece back and concluded to hide and see who you was before I showed.”
“You expecting borrowing neighbors, friend?” Dusty inquired as he blew the smoke from the barrel of his Colt and holstered it. Such caution might mean the boy was on the run from the law, or just that he liked to pretend he was. Dusty was a shrewd judge of character and knew the boy was not the sort to be playing children’s games.
“Man has to watch who comes up on him down here, happen he wants to grow up all old and ornery,” the boy replied. “Coffee’s on the boil, light and take some.”
“Thank you, friend,” Dusty went to his paint and felt inside the bedroll, bringing out a tin cup. “One thing I learned in the army was always to keep my gun and coffee cup on hand all the time.”
“I thought I’d seen you afore,” the youngster took Dusty’s cup and filled it with strong black coffee. “You’re Cap’n Fog of the Texas Light. I saw you that time your pappy and Colonel Mosby told Quantrill just what they thought of him. You wouldn’t have seen me, I warn’t but a private and right at the back of the Mosby bunch.” He paused and refilled his own cup. “The name is Loncey Dalton Ysabel.”
“Better known as the Ysabel Kid?”
“To sheriffs, the border patrol and other kind of friends,” the young man answered cheerfully. “You heard of me?”
“I’ve heard.”
Dusty had heard plenty about a certain Indian dark young man called Loncey Dalton Ysabel, better known as the Ysabel Kid. He’d also heard of the Kid’s father, Sam Ysabel, as a prominent gentleman of the border smuggling bunch. Sam Ysabel was a wild Irish Kentuckian who’d come to Texas m the early days and rode as scout for Jim Bowie; riding scout was how he’d missed the Alamo. After the war with Mexico, Sam Ysabel pushed into the Comanche country and came back with a beautiful wife, daughter of Chief Long Walker and his French Creole squaw. Out of that dangerous mixture of bloods was born one child, a son who inherited the sighting eye of an eagle from the sure-shooting, rifle-toting Kentuckian stock. From the French Creole side he got a love of cold steel for a fighting weapon and the
inborn ability to handle a knife. From his Comanche grandpappy he’d got his horse savvy, the ability to read sign where a buck Apache might falter. From all of them he’d gained a power of fight savvy and a willingness to match against anyone who tried to make him toe the line.
This was Loncey Dalton Ysabel. The Mexicans along the border said his name in whispers as an harbinger of death and destruction, yet there were many of them who called him friend. He was said to be good with his handgun, a master at the noble art of knife fighting and beyond all par with a rifle. The rifle was not in evidence at the moment, or Dusty couldn’t see it anywhere.
“Heard anything good?” the Kid asked.
“Some,” Dusty grinned at the other youngster. The Rio Grande country did not come under Hondo Fog’s jurisdiction as sheriff of Rio Hondo County so the Ysabel family had never come into conflict with the Fogs. In fact Dusty and his father were inclined to look on smuggling as the Ysabels did it as harmless and certainly not breaking any serious law. “Your pappy along?”
“He’s dead. Gunned down from behind by a pair of border rats called Giss and Krauss.”
“I thought they worked for your pappy?” Dusty could read the pain and anger behind those soft drawled words and in the Comanche mean look in the red-hazel eyes.
“They did. Not regular, but when we couldn’t get good men. Came to see us in our camp on the other side of the river, wanted us to sell some of our friends to the French. We wouldn’t do that and they left the camp. Then while pappy was saddling up to ride and warn Don Ruis they shot him down from behind. That’ll be Giss I reckon. He claims to be more than a fair hand with a rifle. Kraus tried to down me, bust my Hawken to hell and gone and lit out afore I could get to my ole Thunder hoss here.” The Kid paused, his face still that inscrutable Indian mask. “I took after them and trailed them down towards the French at Neuva Rosita. Then when they got into the French camp they sent their renegade Mexicans after me. I lit out, a man can’t handle that sort on their own ground. Come north to the line and crossed over. I’ve been hid out here for a couple of days. Happen I’ve given them the slip. I’ll be headed back there again.”
