by J. T. Edson
“Attention!” a voice snapped.
A tall, dandified young French officer came from the hut where the Confederate made his appearance. He crossed the street with lazy strides, tapping the side of his trousers with his cane. He looked elegant and handsome but there was a hint of cruelty in his face and eyes. He looked round at the men who stood at rigid attention, then at the tall young Confederate lieutenant who was not.
“What is the trouble, Lieutenant Counter?”
“The same as before,” the voice was an easy, cultured Texas drawl. “I’m sick of your men ill-treating every living soul that they lay their hands on. This boy hadn’t but rode in here when Lefarge jumped him, knocked him down and started to kick him.”
“I see,” the French officer examined the Ysabel Kid with his cold and cruel eyes. “This one answers to the description of a man with that firearms seller we heard of.”
“That so?” Lieutenant Mark Counter looked down without too much interest at the Ysabel Kid. “He looks some too young for a thing like that. We’d best hang on to him until we get back to Saltillo, but don’t ill-treat him any.”
“I’ll do what I—”
The French officer’s voice died away as the young Texan’s hands lifted to hover over the butts of his guns. “No, you won’t, Bardot. Nobody mishandles a prisoner when I’m around.”
“All right.” Apparently Bardot had quite a fair-sized respect for the Texan’s gun skill. He looked back over his shoulder and snapped. “Take him and tie him up. Throw him in that hut there.”
“No,” Mark snapped back, looking down at the Kid, “Here I’ll take care of him myself.”
The Kid was no weakling. There was a whipcord strength in his lean frame that was out of keeping with one his size but he was like a baby in the powerful hands of Mark Counter. He was helped to his feet and his gunbelt slung over the big Texan’s shoulder. Then Mark pushed the Kid into the small jacal he’d come from to make his timely rescue.
The building was small and of only one room. It was the house of one of the men who’d given good service to the Ysabel family at different times. The house itself gave no sign that the men had a fair amount of money hidden away. It held only a rough table, a couple of chairs and an untidy and dirty looking bed.
Shoving the Kid into one of the chairs Mark fastened him securely and in a way which gave little or no chance of escaping. The Ysabel Kid looked Mark over with fresh respect. The big man might talk like a gentleman and dress like a New Orleans dandy but he knew how to handle rope.
“Sorry I’ve got to hawgtie you like this, but I’ve got to make it look real good for when Bardot comes. He’s a real mean hombre and if he gets his way neither you or I will make Saltillo alive.”
“Sure,” the Kid watched the handsome face, knowing that he was still alive because of Mark Counter. “What happened to the folks of the town?” he asked.
“There wasn’t one of them in sight when we came.”
Mark hand rolled two smokes, passing one to the Kid and lighting it. He was looking at the Indian dark face and at last asked, “Are you taking rifles to Juarez?”
“Sure.”
“You know a lot of Confederate boys are fighting for the French?”—there was a hard note in Mark’s voice.
“Sure.”
“And you’re still taking them?”
“Yep. Cap’n Dusty Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry is with me.”
Mark’s face showed its disbelief. He knew the reputation of Dusty Fog and could not see that loyal son of Dixie doing any such thing. Mark pulled out the second chair and sat down facing the Kid, his face showing nothing of his feelings. “I can’t help you get loose now, boy. Not with you bringing those guns. They’re better than anything we’ve got. I’ll see the French don’t mistreat you but I’ll take you to Saltillo.”
For a time the two men stayed silent, each occupied with his thoughts. The door opened and Bardot came in followed by the sergeant. The French officer came over and examined the Kid’s bonds carefully, then sniffed and straightened up. He jerked his head and the sergeant left the room.
“Monsieur Counter, I will leave you to guard the prisoner and to make sure he does not escape. I will give instructions to fire upon anyone who comes out.”
“Thanks, and when do we eat?”
“I will send soup and coffee across when we make it. Until then you will confine yourself to this hut. I have given orders for a double guard on the horse lines and they have orders to shoot anyone who moves in the street after dark.”
“Sounds like you don’t trust somebody,” the Kid remarked.
Bardot’s hand drew back but Mark came to his feet in a lithe move, facing the other man. “If you want to hit somebody try me. I’m not tied.”
The Frenchman turned on his heel and left the jacal, slamming the door after him. The Ysabel Kid grinned at Mark. “Looks like we’re both prisoners.”
“Man’d say you were right,” Mark agreed. “General Bushrod won’t be any too pleased when he hears.”
The Kid relapsed into silence for a time, still watching Mark. Then he got more comfortable in the chair and remarked, “You look a lonely man.”
“Feel it. I never knew just how lonesome until I saw you ride in there on that old range saddle.”
Mark wasn’t looking at the Kid. His eyes were on the wall but he was seeing the great rolling Big Bend range country and his father Rance Counter’s great R over C ranch. To his ears came the sound of the range, the creaking of saddle leather, the grunting of cow horses as they worked and the beat of the feet of cattle interspersed with the wild yell of the cowhand. He was tired of this vagrant army life, homesick and wanted to be done with the sort of warfare the French engaged in as they tried to bring the Mexicans to their knees. What he wanted was to head back north, cross the Rio Grande into Texas and feel a comfortable old kak saddle between his knees as he rode the range.
“How’d you like working for the French?” the Kid asked after a time.
“I don’t. I’m surely sick of them and the way they fight. Man, you’ve never seen such cruel hawgs as they get when they catch a Mexican.”
“You all set to quit them?”
Mark looked at the dark young man for a long time. He rose and went to the door, opening it slightly. The French guard turned, hefting his carbine and nervously easing back the hammer. Shutting the door again Mark returned to the table and sat down again.
“Them, not General Bush.”
The Kid was about to speak when the door was opened and two men came in carrying a bowl and a cup each. They put the utensils on the table and turned to go out. Mark looked in at the grayish looking soup, a kind of stew which the French army served at each of its two daily meals. It was nourishing all right but a deadly tedious diet to a man who was as fond of his creature comforts as Mark Counter. He eyed the food with some distaste and went to the door to bellow out for the officer.
Bardot entered. He scowled at Mark and then at the Ysabel Kid. “What now?”
“What am I supposed to do, eat it with my fingers?” Mark replied. “My mess gear is in my saddlebag.”
“I will send for it,” Bardot watched Mark all the time. There was hatred in his eyes now. Calling to the man outside Bardot gave orders for a couple of spoons to be brought then he stated flatly he would wait until the Kid was tied once more before leaving.
Mark held down his temper, knowing that he could not handle all the patrol at one go even with the aid of the young man they’d captured. He drew the Kid’s Bowie knife and cut the thongs holding the dark wrists then set to and ate his food. The Kid was hungry now and the soup went down well for he was used to taking what he could get.
With the food done Mark rose and went to the door, pushed by Bardot and stepped outside. The sentry stared at him but made no attempt to raise his carbine for he’d seen just how fast this Texan could draw and with what accuracy he shot even without lifting the guns and looking along their sights. Mark
stood there with the Kid’s gunbelt hanging over his shoulder still, then he ordered the soldier to fetch his bedroll and turned to go back into the hut.
“Fasten your prisoner again, monsieur,” Bardot ordered. “Then I will leave you to guard him. Remember my orders.”
Mark lashed the Kid’s arms again, making a thorough job of it. He went to the dirty window, rubbed it clear and looked out. The town was as deserted in appearance again as if it were a dead town, for Bardot was holding all his men under cover. The horses were picketed out of sight in the woods and under guard so to all signs the village of San Juanita was deserted.
“You said Dusty Fog was riding with you,” Mark asked as he returned to the table.
“Why sure.”
“What would a reb like him be doing, bringing repeating rifles down here when some of his friends are on the other side?”
“He’s come to ask Bushrod Sheldon to come home again,” the Kid decided to lay his cards on the table. “Folks up north of the border want him back real bad.”
“You reckon he’ll go?”
“I reckon he will.” The Kid told Mark of the letter Dusty was carrying and the rest of what Dusty told him. “I’ve seen the letter, and it’ll make him go back.”
At the end of the narrative Mark rose and paced the room whistling softly an old cattle song. He knew of both Dusty Fog and Ole Devil Hardin and knew that the latter was probably the only man Bushrod Sheldon would trust. The letter from President Grant might be full of concessions and flowery phrases, but it would have no effect on Bushrod Sheldon unless it was endorsed by a man who he trusted. Mark knew better than the Ysabel Kid the way the battle-weary ex-Confederate veterans who rode for Sheldon felt. Every one of them was tired of this life they led, far from home and family. With anything like a reasonable assurance from the Union Government all would wish to ride north again.
“How about the rifles?” That was the one part of the matter Mark did not like. “Why’d you bring them?”
“For Juarez,” the Kid explained, liking this caution and regard for the well-being of his fellows. “See, if the boys do pull out they’ll likely have to fight the Mexicans and French all the way north. If we get the guns to Juarez we can get his word the Mexicans will give you boys uninterrupted passage through. That’s what Dusty says, and likely he’ll be right.”
Mark grinned. He did not know Dusty Fog except by reputation but the ex-Captain must be quite a man if he’d got the Ysabel Kid thinking so highly of him. Suddenly Mark himself was looking forward to meeting the fabulous Dusty Fog who could get the loyalty and devotion of a dangerous young man like this on so short an acquaintance.
“You trust Juarez?”
“Sure. He’ll keep his word and he’s got him a real kind way with him for any yahoo who disobeys him. Got a touch of Comanche in him, ole Benito, ‘less I miss my guess. If he says you boys can go through no man in his army’ll risk disobeying him.”
“I’ll let you loose right now and we’ll see about getting out of here.”
Mark took the knife and was about to cut the cords when both he and the Kid realized the futility of any escape plan at the moment. The streets were being watched all the time and they would have to run the gauntlet of some twenty or more carbines out in the open with no cover. Not only that but they would also have to cross more open ground before they could get near the horse lines and the guards there were picked for their ability to shoot.
“Maybe best if I leave you tied, I’ll loosen the ropes but leave them on. If Bardot found you loose he’d shoot us both down. If not he won’t risk it. Only half the patrol are for him, the rest hate him. If he kills me he’ll have to have a good excuse or someone will tell General Bush. The French don’t want to lose us rebs and they wouldn’t like it if one of their officers shot down a Confederate officer without a real good reason.”
“I’ll stay tied. I’m comfortable enough.”
“It’s a pity your hoss took off like that. We could use him now.”
“He didn’t take off, I sent him. He’ll have headed back to the mule train and be bringing Dusty Fog along. I don’t know what Dusty will do but I figger he won’t make a move until after dark. If he doesn’t come by midnight I’ll get out of here and slide a couple of hosses from the picket-line. It won’t be hard. I’ve never seen a Frenchman yet who could keep a decent guard. Which is your hoss?”
“A big bloodbay tied near this end of the line. You can’t miss him, he’s the biggest hoss there.”
The door opened and Bardot came in, his face showing some triumph. “I have just received word from Major Duprez that he and his patrol will be joining us here tomorrow. He will arrive late in the afternoon but his advance party will be with us shortly after dawn.” He stopped for a moment, a sadistic smile on his face as he looked at the Ysabel Kid. “We will soon know something about you, my friend. Giss is with them.”
Chapter Nine – The Rescue
Dusty Fog was not unduly worried when the Ysabel Kid failed to appear after a couple of hours. He had too much faith in the Indian dark boy to worry for he knew the Kid was going to see friends and might take some time to get back. So Dusty took the point, riding far ahead of the mule train and watching out for any sign of the French as he followed the landmarks the Kid drew for him on a piece of bare soil back at their last camp.
Halting the horse Dusty surveyed the range ahead of him. There was nothing in sight other than the rolling land with its stunted trees and occasional bosque of cottonwood, scrub oak and other trees. For all the country ahead Dusty could see there was no sign of human life. He scanned the area with his powerful field-glasses and when satisfied they would be able to travel without risk of ambush waved the slowly moving train up towards him.
Something white flickered into view over a distant hill. It caught Dusty’s eye for a brief moment, then disappeared for a moment. The glasses came up once more, sweeping across the range country until they picked up something which made Dusty curse softly under his breath. There were other white horses in Mexico, that he was sure of, but few of them were equipped with a Texas range saddle, fewer with a new model Henry rifle in the saddle boot. And he seriously doubted if there was another horse as big, fast and good looking as that white stallion the Ysabel Kid cheerfully called Thunder.
Mike Conway came alongside Dusty now. The white stallion was closer and still running fast but he recognized it even as had Dusty.
“The Kid’s afoot,” he said.
Afoot. There were few words in the West so feared as that. In that country of vast, unpopulated miles a horse was more than a means of transport. It was a vital necessity. For a man to be left afoot it was almost certain death.
“Reckon he’s hurt bad some place?” Dusty asked.
“Could be. He must have been able to talk. That ole Thunder hoss would stay by him if he wasn’t. He must have sent it off.”
“That’s what I thought.” Dusty watched Alden riding up, then pointed to the big white stallion. “The Kid’s in bad trouble.”
“How many men do you want to go with you?” It was then Alden showed himself to be a true gentleman. He didn’t care if the rifles were not delivered, if one of the two young men who’d aided him so much needed help. “Take them and give them a Henry each, take enough bullets as well.”
“Thanks, Tom. I won’t forget that. But I’d best go alone, I’ll have a better chance that way.”
Alden shook his head. He watched Dusty starting towards the big white horse which was slowing down now. He looked next at Conway who grinned back at him. “The Cap’n’s right, like always. He’ll get the Kid back, safe. We’ll keep them mules moving towards Monterrey; that’s what he wants.”
Dusty rode alongside the big white stallion, whispering softly to him, soothing him down, but he did not try to touch him. Dusty looked down at the tracks left by the white. He could read sign fairly well, well enough to follow this line anyhow. Starting the paint forward Dusty found that his track
ing ability would not be needed for the white stallion turned and loped ahead of him, only stopping to look back and make sure he was following. Dusty was better than a fair hand with a horse himself and knew the long and patient hours of training it had taken the Ysabel Kid to teach the horse the things it could do.
The white headed back in the direction it had come, traveling at an easy loping stride which the paint could keep up with. Dusty wasted no time in idle speculation as to why the Ysabel Kid had sent the horse, knowing only his friend was in some kind of trouble and that his help was called for. The Kid could have been thrown by the white, but that was not likely. He could have been shot down by the French or anything. All Dusty knew was that his friend was in need of help and he meant to see the need was not left unfulfilled.
For about an hour he rode, then brought the horse to a halt as he looked down on the village of San Juanita. He sat his horse in the same spot the Kid had sat earlier and looked down, then rode towards the big rock. His carbine was in his hands, ready for use as he rode. The village was too still for an afternoon. There should have been some sign of movement down there, people walking the streets and going about their business. Dusty was about to start on down the slope when he saw two men come from one of the huts. He flattened to the side of the rock and then went to his horse and got the glasses from his saddle-pouch. What he saw made him hug the side even more carefully.
The two men crossing the street wore uniform and in color it could have been either French or Mexican for both went in for blue jackets and red trousers. A closer look told Dusty that these were no Mexicans. The big sergeant had a swarthy face, but not a Mexican look. The other was an officer. His face was definitely not Mexican in feature and far too light. Dusty knew the type, for he’d seen it often enough in New Orleans; the arrogant French Creoles down there had much in common with this elegant officer of the Republic’s army.
