by J. T. Edson
The two soldiers crossed the street and went to a hut at the near-side. It was then Dusty saw the soldier on guard outside this building and knew the town was full of French soldiers. With his glasses he searched the streets with far greater care, noting enough signs to know that a fair force were hidden in the houses. He also knew that they were cavalry men, the spurs on the sergeant’s boots telling him that, and so he searched for their horse lines. His glasses covered the woods behind the town carefully, trying to pierce through the thick cover but not seeing where the horses were hidden. Then he saw a man coming out of the woods, a blue dressed trooper who stood just at the edge, looked towards the town then turned and went back again. He would be one of the picket-line guards looking for a relief. If that had been the Texas Light Cavalry the trooper would have wished he’d never been born deserting his post in that way.
This was not helping Dusty find his friend, although he guessed the Kid was down there in the village, perhaps a prisoner, probably dead. Dusty focused his glasses on the hut again, watching the sergeant standing outside and that the officer had gone in. Then the door opened and the guard turned, half-raising his carbine as a tall man came out. This man was not French but Dusty thought no more of the guard’s action than he was of the usual excited French nature. His full attention was on this handsome blond giant who stood at the door. Over one wide shoulder hung a gunbelt with an old Dragoon gun on the holster. Dusty thought he recognized the belt and was sure when the man turned showing the ivory hilted Bowie knife at the other side.
That man was a Confederate officer. Dusty knew the Counter version of the official uniform. He did not know Lieutenant Mark Counter except as a very rich and elegant young man whose sartorial taste in uniform was much copied in the deep south cavalry. Dusty’s cousin, Red Blaze, had met Mark Counter and copied the style along with many other young officers. Dusty’s own uniform was copied from it, with a slightly more official neck fitting. He regarded it as being the best dress for a cavalry man as the skirts of the regulation pattern got in the way.
Dusty watched the Confederate lieutenant return to the hut and shut the door then checked carefully the ground ahead of him making sure that he could find his way in the dark. If the Ysabel Kid was still alive he would be in that hut with the big Confederate officer. What Dusty could not understand was why the French chose to put a guard on the door as well as the man inside. There was no way of finding out until after dark. So Dusty removed the saddles from both horses, watching the Kid’s white all the time. It said much for his horse skill that he managed to remove the saddle with no trouble, for the white would let very few people handle him.
Just before dark Dusty got to his feet and saddled the two horses ready to move. He was finished by the time full blackness came down over the land, the blackness before the moon came out. Then leading the horses Dusty skirted the town and left them as near as he could in the shelter of the woods knowing they would both stay silent. Then he slipped back into the silent deserted town.
Dusty moved along the street, keeping to the dark shadows and hugging the sides of the houses. It was being in so close that let him hear what was being said in one building. He flattened against the side and listened, understanding enough of the fast spoken French to know that the Confederate officer was in deadly peril from the occupants of the building. From what he heard he felt relieved for he gathered they had a prisoner although they harbored homicidal thoughts towards him and the big man who guarded him.
The sentry outside the hut was leaning against the wall, his carbine resting by him in a display of sloppiness that made Dusty’s military training and instincts writhe with rage. No man in his outfit would have guarded like that but it was like the French that their men were so lax in the performance of a serious duty like guarding a dangerous prisoner. The sentry’s behavior would be a help now for he appeared to be half asleep and certainly was not in any state to take alert and effective action.
On silent feet Dusty came nearer. He held no weapon, relying on his bare hands to deal with the matter. The French cavalry shako provided too much protection for him to risk dropping the man with a carefully applied Colt barrel and the hitting with the bottom of the barrel might damage the loading ramrod. Besides that Dusty knew of a far more effective way of silencing a man standing with his back towards him. Balancing lightly on his feet Dusty clenched his fist then struck with his arm held straight. The hard, tight clenched hand smashed right where Tommy Okasi taught him, into the katsusarsu, that spot between the fifth and sixth vertebra which could be effectively attacked and with deadly results.
The sentry stiffened erect. He was all but paralyzed by the agony of the unexpected blow and could make no sound. Faster than thought almost Dusty struck again, this time using the tegatana, the hand sword. The edge of his flat hand smashed into the back of the dazed, rigid man’s neck, dropping him to the ground unconscious and without a sound coming from him. Dusty quickly dragged the man round the corner and out of sight then tossed his carbine to one side. Then he went to the door and started to whistle softly, using a tune the other two men knew very well.
Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid sat on either side of the table in the light of the lantern Bardot had sent to them not so much as a concession of their comfort but as a means of being able to see into the hut through the window. So to all intents the Kid was still fastened, although his hands were free now.
“Bardot won’t be round for much longer. He likes his bed too much,” Mark said softly. “Then we’ll make our move. These French don’t take to following orders and still less to doing guards at night. They know the Juaristas move in the darkness.”
The Kid grinned back. He too had quite a respect for the Juaristas, or for the Mexicans, as a night fighter. “I’ll get by the sentry easy enough and then I’ll snake us a couple of hosses from the picket-line. We’ll be long gone before they even know what we aim to do.”
Mark turned down the light although Bardot had ordered him to keep it on all night. He winked at the Kid and settled down on the bed from which he’d taken all the bedding and substituted it for his own bedroll. They both prepared for a long and trying wait and they got it. On towards midnight they both heard a sound outside the jacal, then a softly whistled tune they both knew. The Kid slid from his chair, catching the Dragoon gun Mark tossed to him and darted on silent feet to the door. That was a friend out there, no other would be whistling “Dixie” to warn them of his pacific intentions.
“Lon, you in there?” a soft voice asked.
“You expecting maybe Robert E. Lee?” the Kid replied as he pulled open the door. “Come in!”
Dusty came in fast, all the faster for he’d seen certain things in the street which told him there was no time for delay. He was no sooner inside than the Kid shut the door behind him. “That ole Thunder hoss of mine—?” he began.
“Get down and make like you’re asleep,” Dusty cut in through the friendly greeting, his voice showing how serious he thought the situation was. “We’re going to have us some callers.”
Mark and the Kid obeyed without question although when he came to think about it Mark wondered how Dusty Fog knew he was a friend. However he obeyed, getting on to the bed and laying as if asleep. The Kid sat hunched in his chair and Dusty flattened himself against the wall under the window. This place was well chosen for Mark saw a face at the window, looking in at them. Dusty wondered what the men out there made of the sentry being missing, not knowing that Sergeant Lefarge had given the man orders to clear off shortly before midnight.
Time dragged by and the door of the jacal slowly started to open. Then the big sergeant leant in, his Lefauchex revolver lining on the bed. Mark flung himself off his bedroll, hitting the floor and reaching for his gun. He saw the Kid and Dusty both bringing their guns up and marveled at the speed of the small man.
Lefarge fired one shot, the bullet making a hole in Mark’s prized pillow, a thing he would never travel without. Then Lefarge sa
w a small figure lunging up from the wall under the window. Even as his shot put out the small light of the lamp he saw the small man’s gun swinging up and a blackness came down on the hut, flame tore from the muzzle of the gun. It was the last thing Lefarge saw in this world for Dusty Fog could aim by instinct and memory and the man did not have time to move.
Dusty’s guns roared once; the French sergeant reeled backwards into the wall. Even as he fell a second man leapt in showing the futility of standing against an open door when contemplating aggressive action against three skilled pistol shots who were inside and hidden by the darkness. Three guns roared in the dark as Dusty, Mark and the Ysabel Kid fired at the same time. The Frenchman was literally torn to doll rags by the three heavy bullets which picked him up and threw him lifeless through the door to fall on and send blood gushing over Bardot’s boots as the officer came to investigate the noise. He’d suspected Lefarge meant to get rid of Mark Counter and allowed his sergeant to carry on for he was sure the man was not only a bully and trouble causer, but also he was watching his officer to report anything to their Colonel. Bardot was a member of the ancient regime, his ancestors having escaped the kiss of Madame Guillotine by getting out of France in time. Colonel Mornec, like Lefarge, was of the new order and Lefarge might have received promotion to officer rank if Bardot had not been sent to the regiment by Maximilian. There was little love lost between the elegant aristocrat and the uncouth Colonel. If Lefarge died Bardot would feel better and the killing of Lieutenant Counter would give him a reason to shoot Lefarge.
“What’s happening?” he snapped at two men who cowered in front of the jacal. “Get in and see!”
“Sergeant Lefarge is inside,” one replied licking his lips and staring at the open door. “I think he is dead.”
A bullet from inside the hut narrowly missed Bardot, causing him to duck back to safety. He saw his men pouring from the houses where they’d been resting and coming towards him at a run. “Surround this place!” he yelled. “The American is a traitor and has killed Sergeant Lefarge.”
At any other time this news would have been greeted with cheers for Lefarge in common with most sergeants in the French army was hated as a petty tyrant. Now the men fanned into some kind of fighting line and swarmed forward. Two of them went down as the guns in that jacal spat out. The side window broke and a long-barreled Colt sounded loud, dropping a man with a bullet-smashed shoulder as he ran by.
Bardot saw a regrettable but understandable reluctance amongst his men to take any more risks. He ordered them to shoot at the hut and hold the defenders down, then turned to his corporal and snapped, “Get a torch. We will burn them out.”
The corporal hurried away to collect a piece of wood that he could make a torch with. He realized that the man who tried to get close enough to the jacal to throw the torch would have an unenviable task. Running out into the street with a burning piece of wood in the hand would give those straight shooting Americans something of a target which was well within their capabilities.
Bardot watched the man coming back and read something of the reluctance and worry in the way he carried the burning piece of wood. The corporal was worrying for nothing. The first man to try and throw that burning brand on to the jacal would be one of Lefarge’s friends. There was no point in leaving any of the Lefarge crowd alive if it could be helped.
“Becque, take the torch and throw it!”
The corporal heard the words with relief for his name was not Becque. He put one hand on the butt of his Lefauchex revolver ready to back up the order with force as he passed the burning piece of wood to Trooper Becque’s reluctant hand.
“Give him covering fire,” Bardot went on, drawing his revolver. All things must be in order, and the Colonel must hear that Bardot acted with military wisdom when they returned with the sad news that Trooper Becque died trying to avenge his sergeant. “Go!”
Becque started forwards, blazing brand in his hand, not knowing that if the Americans in the hut did not kill him Bardot meant to in the confusion. He ran out into the center of the street while his companions poured shots into the jacal sides and through the open door. He stopped and drew back his arm, the flames licking up hungrily from the wood.
A shot thundered from along the street and Trooper Becque met his end not at the hands of the Americans nor his own officer. The town was suddenly swarming with fast moving Mexicans, advancing and firing as they came. The moon was up now and in its silvery light the men fought with savage skill.
The three Texans stayed in the darkness of the jacal, knowing better than go out into the open and blunder into the fight which was going on outside in the half light. They would be fighting both sides for neither French nor Juarista would speak before shooting.
The Ysabel Kid kicked the door shut, then went to the window and looked out. He could see little for the window looked out over a space between two buildings and there was nothing but shadows. He saw a man dart across the open end of the street. What he saw worried him, for the man wasn’t wearing a uniform, and that meant he was a guerrillo.
The shots died away and men gathered outside the jacal. From their voices the Kid knew the Mexicans had won this savage night attack and were in full control of the town.
“Come out friends,” a voice called.
The Kid felt relieved. His friends understood what was said. That voice had the cultured accent of a Creole, a Spanish born Mexican. “Who is it speaks?” he called back.
“Don Ruis Almonte,” the voice came back. “Who are you?”
The Kid felt relieved now and knew there was little danger for this was an old friend of the Ysabel family and although his men were guerillos they were loyal Juaristas who fought with no other aim than to win freedom for their country. He knew he could answer up in safety.
“El Cabrito,” he answered. “With two friends.”
“Come out, my young friend.”
The Kid stepped out, knowing that the vaqueros who rode for Almonte knew him of old. He saw from their friendly grins that they not only knew, but recognized him. The grins started to fade as Dusty came out for the vaqueros had little time for Tejanos in general. They were wiped off and hard grim lines took their place when Mark came out and they recognized the uniform he wore.
“What is this, Cabrito?” tall, lean and elegantly dressed Don Ruis Almonte asked grimly as he looked at the handsome blonde man in the Confederate uniform. “Is he your prisoner?”
“He is my friend. If it was not for him I would be dead now.”
“Kill the Americano!” a man yelled, moving forward.
Faster than either Dusty or Mark could move the Ysabel Kid was in front of his friend, the moonlight glinting on the blade of his Bowie knife. “Who’ll be the first to try?” he asked.
“Put up your knife!” Almonte barked. “Pedro, back! Cabrito this man is an enemy and,—”
“And I am your friend. I apologies for reminding you but I allowed the men who killed my father to escape while I came to warn you of their plans.”
Almonte’s face softened. He looked ashamed and inclined his head. “It is I who should apologies for needing reminding. If he is your friend then he will be unharmed by my men.”
The Kid’s knife went back into leather and he relaxed for he knew that none of the men who rode under Almonte would disobey their leader and patron in any matter. He stepped forward and took Almonte’s hand, then introduced Dusty and Mark. After that he explained why he was here when he mentioned the rifles Almonte nodded. “I’ve heard of them. They will be of great help to us. I will give you an escort to Monterrey. We took it last week and there are no French there. I am not sure where Benito is and I have not enough money to pay for so many weapons but the commander of the garrison will be able to do so.”
It was Dusty who explained why he was here in Mexico. Almonte sat back and listened without a word. At the end Dusty asked. “What do you think?”
“I think Benito will agree. He is a good man and a
just one. We would rather fight the entire French army than those wild devils who ride under General Sheldon. Do we pull out tonight?”
Dusty shook his head. During the time in the hut he’d heard about the first of Sam Ysabel’s murderers coming here and knew the Kid wanted to stay. He also knew that if he said the word the Kid would leave Giss until some other time.
“We stay. Tomorrow Giss will be coming here and I think Lon wants to meet him.”
“I think he does,” Almonte agreed.
Chapter Ten – Rifle Duel
Joe Giss wasn’t a nice man morally or physically. He was tall, lean and cadaverous, with a thin, hard face half hidden by a growth of beard and eyes as hard cold and unfeeling as the eyes of a diamond-back rattler. Along the Rio Grande he was known as a bad man to cross, very unlucky to argue with. He was thoroughly disliked from Pasear Hennessey’s outlaw hideout in the west to the eastern coast. The dislike was usually well hidden for Giss was better than fair with a rifle and no mean hand with a Colt gun and not particularly worried about giving the other man an even break.
Yet for all that Giss rode with fear these days and his ordinary wolf caution was increased with the knowledge that his life was in danger. Giss did not fear ghosts and the faces of his murdered victims never troubled him but he was haunted by the ghost of a black-dressed young man who rode a huge white stallion. The fear of the Ysabel Kid grew with each day. Giss and Kraus had sent eight of their best men after the Kid but as the days passed Giss knew they had not succeeded. He regretted having shot down Sam Ysabel and leaving the Kid to his partner. Kraus was a top-hand with a knife but only a mediocre performer with a rifle. It could not be helped, with a single-shot rifle Giss could not make enough time to drop both Sam Ysabel and his son. Giss scowled down at the butt of the Henry rifle looted from a hacienda after joining the French. With that weapon he could have downed both the Ysabels.
