by J. T. Edson
The man was dressed for trouble anywhere west of the Big Muddy, in a style that was more correct for the eastern city, not for the wild frontier country of Texas. A pearl-grey plug hat sat back on his head, the face was reddened by the sun, but was impressive with its stylish moustache and neatly trimmed goatee beard. He wore an expensive and well-cut black Prince Albert jacket, white shirt and large polka dotted bow tie, tight-legged grey trousers, spats and boots. The main wonder of the stylish gent’s attire was that he wore no gun nor could Dusty’s trained eyes locate any sign of a hidden weapon.
The soldiers at the bar nudged each other as they saw the man come into the room. The biggest of them moved from his place at the bar and grinned at the others.
“What we got here, boys?” he asked. “It looks like some deck’s gone shy a joker, don’t it?”
The others all howled with laughter at this and one of them whooped, “Listen to ole Cooney. He’s a real rip, ain’t he?”
The big dude stopped, his moustache bristling with rage. “He looks more like a drunken bum and a disgrace to his uniform to me.”
Cooney stiffened and pushed his big face forward. “Is that right, Percy?” he snarled out. “Why you fancy—”
The dude might look fancy but he moved fast and with a strength and skill that showed he could handle himself. His right fist shot out from the shoulder in a punch which carried all his weight behind it. It was the sort of punch that ended a fight as soon as it started. Of its strength and power Cooney could have given testimony and did after he recovered.
Cooney’s head rocked back under the impact of the punch, his feet shot out as they tried wildly to hold the floor, then he crashed down on to his back. The other soldiers stared down in amazement, expecting Cooney to bound up and tear the dude limb from limb. Then it dawned on their drink-slowed minds that Cooney was not going to get up for some time.
One of the troopers grabbed for his gun, hand twisting round to make the fast done cavalry draw. His gun was clearing out when the fast dude’s cane rattled down on his wrist making him howl and drop his weapon. The others moved from the bar, fists clenched.
“Attention!”
The Ysabel Kid almost leapt out of the door as Dusty roared out that one word. His friend’s voice was changed from that easy soft-spoken drawl to a tone the Kid and the soldiers knew. It was the tone of a savage disciplinarian, an officer who meant to be obeyed.
Those soldiers did not doubt the authenticity of that voice even though they could not see any officer. It was the sort of voice that set a rigid iron bar down even the most drunken and whisky-soaked spine. They waited for the next order to come, thinking one of their officers was outside.
With his back to them Dusty gave his next order, “Pick up that drunken gold-brick then march out. Move!”
The door of the saloon opened and a big, hard-looking sergeant stood there. “Well, if it ain’t Mr. Cooney’s friends,” he said sarcastically eyeing the men. “And what happened to Mr. Cooney?”
“This dude put him down,” a trooper answered.
“Then he’s a gentleman to be commended. Cap’n Adams’ll be real pleased to hear how you’ve been drinking when you were on stores detail. Get hold of him and march back to the barracks.
The soldiers left carrying Cooney but the sergeant stayed inside looking round. He glanced at the two young Texans then at the dude, then shaking his head he walked out again.
The dude came across the room, holding his hand out and smiling broadly. “An excellent ruse if I may say so, sir,” he said as he gripped Dusty’s hand. “That could have developed into a nasty situation. Egad, I almost wish I’d been wearing a gun.”
“War’s over friend. They hang a man for shooting blue bellies now,” the Kid replied.
“I suppose so. May I offer you liquid refreshment?”
“Not unless it’s a cold beer,” Dusty answered. “We only came in here for a meal.”
“Then you must be my guests. Take a seat gentlemen,” he turned and yelled across the room, “Charles, a libation. My guests require cold beer and I will take my usual. Give my compliments to the chef. I have two guests and will require a fitting repast. Preferably some of his excellent son-of-a-bitch stew. If that meets with your approval, gentlemen?”
“Why sure,” Dusty agreed as he and the Kid took their seats at a table.
The big man sat down with a flourish, produced his cigar case and offered it across the table, but the Texans refused, preferring to roll their own smokes with paper and Bull Durham. After lighting the smokes the big man broke his match and dropped it into the ashtray.
“May I introduce myself, gentlemen. I am Thomas Emery Alden, traveler, salesman, agent-extraordinary for the Winchester Repeating Firearms Company of New Haven. Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”
The name meant nothing to Dusty or the Kid as yet for Winchester were not as yet bringing out weapons in their own name, still calling their product the Henry rifle. Dusty thought the man was a salesman for one of the numerous crackpot little companies which were trying to make a successful repeating rifle that was capable of doing its work and cheap enough to be practical.
After the introductions were over the talk turned to more normal channels, the cattle business or lack of it, the War and the trouble below the border. On each subject Alden talked with some knowledge. He was an accomplished talker and a man with some education, that was plain. However, much to Dusty’s surprise Alden neither tried to sell nor interest them in his company’s product.
The food was good and after the meal they sat back and talked some more. They were still talking when three men wearing Mexican dress came in. Alden looked the men over as they went to the bar and spoke softly to the bartender who pointed to the table where Dusty sat with the Kid and Alden.
The three Mexicans came across the room. They were tall men and more heavily built than the usual run of vaquero. Each carried a revolver in an open topped holster but none wore a knife.
“Señor Alden?” the tallest of the trio asked.
“I am sir,” Alden spoke good Spanish. “What can I do for you?”
“May I speak with you on a matter of some importance and of a confidential nature?”
“You may,” Alden pushed back his chair, nodded to Dusty and the Kid. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I’ve some business to attend to with these gentlemen.”
It was then Dusty saw the butts of the Mexicans’ guns. He noticed the Ysabel Kid was watching the Mexicans and frowning, so wondered what was worrying his young friend.
The guns carried by the three Mexicans took his attention again, particularly the butts. They were not the smooth, hand-fitting curve of the Colt, the finest pointing grip ever made for a handgun. These were black, round and more straight. Always interested in weapons Dusty thought of how they would be awkward guns to line on a draw. Then he remembered.
It was back in the War, he’d been sent with his troop to collect a consignment of foreign firearms smuggled through the Yankee blockade. Amongst those arms were handguns like these. He thought back, trying to remember more about the guns. They’d been called Lefauchex revolvers and only moderately popular with the men who were issued with them. Lefauchex was a French firm.
It was then the Kid spoke. He’d been watching the three Mexicans who were now seated at another table with Alden and eating a meal as they talked with him. The Ysabel Kid frowned and catching Dusty’s eye jerked his head towards the door. Dusty pushed his chair back and got to his feet, then waved a cheery good-bye to Alden and walked out. The Kid followed him out and on the sidewalk they looked at three horses which were fastened to the hitching rail.
“Something wrong, amigo?” the Kid asked.
“Something. Those three in there are wearing French guns.”
“Are they?” The Kid didn’t look too surprised at this. “A whole lot of the Juarez men do. They take them the same way we took arms in the war. You never rode for the 1st New York Volunteers and I surely ain’t a
friend of ole Yellerdawg Kliddoe.”
Dusty took the point. The Juarez men, like the rebels, went in for replacing their arms with battlefield captures. However there was more to it than that. Dusty was sure the men were not what they seemed.
“They were new issued guns from the look of them. I never saw a Mexican who’d take good care of his gun.”
“Wouldn’t say that, Dusty. But you’re right when you say there’s something bad wrong. Those three hombres talk real good Spanish, but it’s not Mexican Spanish they’re talking. You wouldn’t know that, but I do.”
“They’re not talking it right?”
“Sure they talk it right, but not like they’d learned it in Mexico.”
Dusty went to the horses and looked them over. They were three big, strong looking bays with military saddles. In the saddle boots were short, single-shot Charlesville carbines. Then he lifted one of the stirrup irons. It was coated with red mud.
Stepping back on to the porch Dusty glanced through the window. “Lon look at those three.”
The Kid looked through the window but his face showed that he saw nothing more than the three men eating with Alden. “What about them?”
“They’re holding their knives in the right hand.”
“So?”
“We use the left hand for our knives, so do the Mexicans. Folks in Europe use their right.”
“Do tell,” the Kid still could not follow Dusty’s line of reasoning.
“Sure, those three aren’t Mexicans, they’re French. Remember that Mexican we found out there on the trail?”
“Why sure. You reckon they’re the three who dropped him?”
“Could be. Say! Alden said he was a salesman for some company and the Mexican was mumbling something about guns for Juarez.” Dusty paused then looked up and down the street. “When we go in there again get set, I’m going to try something.”
The Kid studied his young friend for a moment. He did not know what Dusty had in mind but he’d an idea that things were going to happen fast and furious in the near future. He glanced to make sure his horse was loose and ready to make a fast departure from town. Tim Farron wasn’t going to be any too pleased to see Sam Ysabel’s son any time, and he was going to like the Ysabel Kid even less after Dusty was through.
Dusty and the Kid entered the saloon again, the three men at the table were still talking to Alden and took no notice. Dusty glanced at the Kid to make sure he was set ready for action. Then Dusty opened his mouth and bellowed out:
“Aux armes! Aux armes! Juaristas.”
The three men came to their feet, swinging round with angry, startled words bursting from their lips. Alden looked up, his face showing surprise. Not at the sudden shout or the way the three men leapt up, that was normal. The men shaken by the sudden shout were talking in French.
“Sacre diable!” the biggest snapped as he realized what he’d done. His hands dropped towards his gun as the other two also made their move.
Alden’s chair went over backwards as the big man rolled back, crashing to the floor and twisting in an attempt to avoid the bullet he knew would be coming his way.
Ahead of all the others Dusty’s matched guns were out, he threw a shot into the man who was trying to draw on Alden. The bullet smashed into the man’s arm, knocking him backwards, The other two stood fast, they were covered by the Ysabel Kid’s old Dragoon Colt.
The bar dog who’d disappeared under the bar at the first sign of trouble came up again. He was debating what action to take when the small young man made up his mind for him by sending him for the sheriff.
The Kid stared his unbelief at Dusty, wondering what he was letting himself in for. He could see the inhospitable cell doors slamming on to him even now.
Dusty looked across the room at Alden who got to his feet and rubbed his hips. “Egad, that’s the second time you’ve saved me from a serious and perilous position, Dusty, These men are French.”
“Why sure,” Dusty agreed, then went on in French. “who are you?”
“Major Harmon, Blue Hussars,” the wounded man gritted through his teeth.
“Attend to the Major,” Dusty ordered the other two. “Lon, get their guns.”
The Ysabel Kid did as he was ordered, moving behind the men and substituting his knife for the gun as he went in close. He removed the guns and then went back to stand by his friend.
The sheriff and the town marshal both arrived at once. Tim Farron stopped and looked over the scene, his eyes were distinctly unfriendly as he looked the Kid over or that was the impression Loncey Dalton Ysabel got.
“All right, what happened here?” he asked.
The Kid looked at Dusty and groaned inwardly. They would soon be in jail and he didn’t like the idea of being cooped up in a cell. It was Dusty who answered:
“Howdy Uncle Tim. These three killed a Mexican. His body is on the edge of the Brownsville trail.”
Farron gave his illustrious young nephew a warm smile. “Howdy, Dusty. You sure about it?”
“Sure enough,” Dusty replied and told of the finding of the body. “Lon here cut their sign and followed it to the slope. You’ll find the same soil as the slope on one of the stirrup irons.”
The Ysabel Kid had been trying to efface himself from sight and felt very uneasy as Tim Farron turned round. A big hand reached out to him and Farron grinned warmly. “Howdy, boy. How’s your pappy?”
The Ysabel Kid was still dazed after Tim Farron left with his three prisoners for he could not believe that not only was he still free but that Tim Farron had actually shaken hands with him and been friendly. Dusty went out of the saloon with his uncle and told something of his reason for being down this way. Farron could not even offer to help locate the man from Washington for the town was filled with a floating population.
Alden and the Kid were seated together at a table in the saloon when Dusty returned. The big man looked worried and there was something like relief in his eyes as Dusty came up.
“This puts me on the horns of a dilemma,” Alden remarked. “As I was just telling the Kid here. Look, would you care to come along the street with me?”
“Why sure, we’ve got nothing more to do for a spell.”
The three men left the saloon and went along to a small wooden building. Alden unlocked the door and waited for the two Texans to leave their horses, then led the way in.
There was only one room, small, square and windowless. Alden lit a lamp and the other two found themselves looking at boxes which crowded the place out almost to where they stood. Some of the wooden boxes were small and square, the others long and oblong in shape. All bore the stenciled words. “Winchester Repeating Firearms Company, New Haven.”
Alden went to the nearest of the long boxes and took out a rifle, coming back to the others and asking, “What do you think of this?”
“A Henry rifle,” the Kid breathed out the words almost reverently. “Man, with one of these you can load on Monday, shoot Yankees all week and still have lead to go coon hunting on Sunday.”
Dusty did not show the same enthusiasm for he’d handled several Henry rifles. “They’re not bad, nigh as good a repeater as you could buy these days. But I found the extractor a mite weak and the magazine slot got clogged up with dirt easily, gets dented and jammed real easy too.”
“A discerning eye, I see,” Alden replied. “They were structural defects in the earlier Henry rifles which we’ve almost eradicated in these. They make a good weapon.” Alden took the rifle to the box and replaced it, taking out another. “These are far better.”
The second rifle looked much like the Henry at first glance, but a second showed the difference. There was a wooden fore grip along part of the magazine and a slot in the side of the frame that was not present with a Henry rifle of the old pattern. All in all the new rifle looked much stronger and reliable.
There was pride in Alden’s voice as he showed off the rifle and explained its points to his interested audience.
; “You will notice that you load the magazine through this slot in the frame here. That allows us to strengthen the magazine tube. The magazine holds sixteen shots and a further one in the breech. Another useful innovation is that even when the gun has a full magazine single shots can be loaded into the breech allowing one to use it as a single shot but also to have sixteen ready loaded charges when needed.”
Dusty nodded in approval as he hefted the rifle. It felt good in his hands but was still, in his opinion, too long and heavy for an effective saddle-weapon. The Ysabel Kid on the other hand held no such worries. There was eagerness in the way he took the rifle and tossed it on his shoulder, left eye closing and right eye as he focused along the barrel.
“So this is the new Henry?” he asked as he reluctantly handed the rifle back to Alden.
“It is,” Alden agreed.
The Winchester Repeating Firearms Company had not yet renamed the rifle which was later to become famous as the “old yellow boy”, the Model 66 and the first of their long line of lever action rifles bearing the company name. At the moment it was still known as the new, improved Henry.
It was a rifle that the Kid would have given his soul for. A repeater which really worked and which carried seventeen shots yet was light and compact enough for normal use. On the banks of the Rio Grande a man could use such a weapon to great advantage. More than any other weapon he’d ever seen the Kid wanted to own one of those new Henry rifles.
“How much would a man have to pay for one of those new Henry rifles?” he asked, never taking his eyes from the gun which Alden still held.
“They aren’t for sale as yet. But I have twelve of them for Benito Juarez and his staff.” Alden watched the disappointment flickering on the Kid’s face. “I’ve been here for a month now waiting for a messenger from Juarez, but it appears he is dead and also that I must take the rifles to Monterrey if I want to sell them. Now if I could find a couple of smart young men who knew Mexico and would act as my guides there I would be willing to present them with one of these new model Henry rifles, a hundred dollars each and five hundred of the best Tyler B. Henry forty-four rimfire bullets.”
