by J. T. Edson
He twisted in the saddle of the French cavalry horse and looked at the patrol riding behind him as they rode slowly along the Santa Juanita trail. Then he turned and looked down at the deserted streets of the town and felt uneasy. He knew a French patrol was there and they had orders to stay out of sight until a stronger relief force joined them but he also knew the poor discipline of the French army when away from their main body. There should have been some signs of the French army and yet there was not.
All his life Giss had been wary and wolf-cautious, his very mode of making a living demanding such caution. In fact, to have lived through thirty-five years of double-dealing and worse showed that his caution paid dividends. So he was constantly on the alert for ambush or trap and some inborn instinct warned him all was not well in Santa Juanita. Yet for all that he did not pass on his fears to the French officer who rode by his side. That was not Giss’s way.
“My girth’s come loose,” he growled.
The French major glanced down and grunted unsympathetically. He did not like Giss’s attitude or the easy familiarity of the American. However, he was dependent on the scouting ability and on Giss’s knowledge of the country so accepted the man’s assumption of equality.
Giss halted the horse and then swung down to make the imaginary adjustment to his girth. He allowed the men to ride by him and then as the last one went by swung back into the saddle and followed them.
Carefully Giss scanned the range all round, probing every piece of cover that might conceal a man. Even the lookout rock, which they were now passing, came in for careful scrutiny but Giss could see no sign of anything that might be a guerillos ambush.
It would have been the correct thing to tell the Major, then scout the country with more caution but Giss did not mean to do that. There were few worse fates could befall a man than to be taken alive by the guerillos. Giss and Kraus might be playing a double game, working for both sides, but the guerillos would not know that. Even knowing they might not stay their hands.
Giss’s fears were well-founded. In the town of Santa Juanita, Dusty Fog had been very busy. Every sight of the French troops was removed, every sign of the fight in the darkness cleared from the streets. The Mexican guerillos were hidden in the jacals and under orders not to fire until the French were right into town. Don Ruis Almonte saw that Dusty was a soldier and a fighting man par excellence, one who knew just what he was doing and so let the young Texan lay out the ambush, put the men in their places and give them orders.
The men were now split into small groups and every jacal’s open door would soon be pouring death into the French patrol, every shadowy interior bristling with guns. It was war to the death with neither side asking for or giving any quarter. The French would kill all of them if given the same chance and so the ambush was laid to kill the French.
“Reckon they’ll obey, Lon?” Dusty asked.
The Ysabel Kid had hardly spoken since the preparations for the ambush were laid out. He stood in the jacal half way along the street with Dusty, Mark and Almonte.
“They’ll obey,” he finally replied and stood back looking towards the party riding down towards the town.
Yet for all that the Ysabel Kid was worried. Not at Dusty’s planning, he had too much faith in the small Texan for that, but he knew the vaqueros better than Dusty. They were loyal and obedient to Almonte, but they might not be able to hold down their hatred of the French, the men who despoiled and plundered their country. That was what Dusty was not allowing for. The young vaqueros might not be able to hold down their hatred for the French and snap the trap closed too early. Again the Kid did not underestimate the caution Giss would show. The man would be alert for danger and the Ysabel Kid was the first to admit that not even he could show Giss any pointers at smelling out an ambush.
With this in mind the Ysabel Kid had made his preparations for the forthcoming fight. His old Dragoon gun was full-loaded and holstered ready. Sixteen .44 caliber bullets were in the magazine tube of the Henry and one more in the breech ready for action. Another box of bullets bulged his hip pocket ready for use if needed. Further along the street, in an empty jacal, saddled and ready to obey the Kid’s signals stood his huge white stallion. If Giss got away this time it would be because the Ysabel Kid was dead.
The French patrol was coming nearer. The watching men saw Giss leave the front of the party and allow the others to ride by him.
“Just like ole Giss,” the Kid said, a mirthless grin on his lips, “He smells trouble and he’s pulling back. He’s got some Injun blood in him, allus thought he had.”
“Surely hope these boys remember what you’ve told them, Dusty.” Mark put in.
“So do I,” Dusty agreed.
Almonte was silent. He also hoped his men would not forget what they were told but he, like the Kid, knew his men. One of them might forget and spoil the trap. If that happened and Giss got away Almonte would never forgive the man for it would mean his good friend Sam Ysabel would stay unavenged.
The Kid looked round at the others, his face expressionless and his voice low as he said. “Remember, Giss is mine. No matter how it goes it’s between me and him.”
The French were now riding into town. Even the Major, a man not susceptible to instincts, was realizing all was not well. He knew the orders Bardot was given and thought the Captain was holding his men out of sight in proof of the rigid discipline he imposed upon them. Looking along the deserted street, the Major was on the point of halting his troop until a more careful reconnaissance brought some proof that Bardot was here. Before he could give the order he got his proof.
Dusty’s ambush was well laid, as well as three years of army experience could lay it. The patrol were riding into the killing area and would be caught in a murderous crossfire from which there could be no escape. It was unfortunate that there was a new recruit to Almonte’s guerillos. The other men were old hands at fighting the French and had come as near as any Latin ever could regarding enemies just as someone to fight. That was where Dusty made his mistake. He was used to working with Anglo-Saxon men who would fight an enemy but still regard him as just another man.
The new recruit was a tall young vaquero still in his teens. It was unfortunate that he was in one of the first huts of the town for as he watched the blue-coated soldiers riding by he felt hatred welling up in him. Only a few weeks before such men as these descended on his home, killed his father, raped the women of the house and burned his home to the ground. So he crouched there in the hut watching the hated French riding by and he realized that he had the means for revenge in his hand. Hatred swelled in him and the Dragoon Colt weighed heavily in his hand. He looked at the other men and at last could hold his hatred no longer.
None of the other men in the jacal realized what he was going to do or they would have stopped him. They were at the far side of the hut, in the darkness and waiting for the signal.
“Death to the French!”
The young man screamed the words out and hurled from the hut, his old gun roaring out as he landed in the street. He saw one man going down out of his saddle and brought the gun round again.
Dusty saw the young Mexican come from hiding and knew that his carefully made ambush was spoiled. True the bulk of the patrol were in the killing area but Giss, the one man he wanted, was not in it. He also saw the French were seasoned veterans and they would take some handling. The young Mexican only got off one shot before one of the troopers had whirled his horse round and cut the young Mexican down.
Dusty left the jacal in a smooth leap, his bone-handled guns out, even as he sent the French major rolling in the dirt he saw the guerillos pouring out from their hiding places. Then the stillness was shattered as French and Mexicans fought in the streets of Santa Juanita.
Dusty, Mark and the Kid were in the street together, guns out and firing. Even in that wild mêlée as the French charged at them with drawn sabers Dusty saw that Mark was able to use a gun with either hand. A cavalryman bore down at t
hem but five revolvers roared at the same moment and the man was almost torn to pieces by the heavy lead balls.
It was then the Kid saw Giss turn and run. The Kid was neither amazed nor surprised at this. The only thing which surprised him was that Giss had not lit out at the first shot, Giss whirled his bay gelding and headed back in the direction he’d come.
Loud over the roar of shots, screams of wounded horses and shouts of fighting men rang a wild, shattering whistle. From the jacal where it had stood so patiently came the Ysabel Kid’s big white stallion, racing towards its master like the devil after a yearling. Without a word to his two friends as to what he planned the Kid went into action. He thrust the Dragoon gun back into its holster and with his rifle in his left hand went afork that seventeen-hand stallion like a bird flitting into a bush.
Gripping the saddle between his knees the Kid caught up the loose tied reins and booted the rifle in one move. Then he was into the French soldiers. He saw a tanned face and the flash of a lifted saber and twisted in his saddle, his old Dragoon coming clear and roaring again, throwing the soft, round lead ball into the man’s chest.
Right into the hail of lead, through the French he rode, ignoring both guerillos bullets and French sabers. His face was a wild, savage Comanche mask of hatred and his attention given fully to Giss. He fired the old Dragoon without conscious thought but fighting instinct warned him when the gun was empty. He saw a French soldier alongside and went over the side of his saddle as the man swung up his saber. The soldier’s saber came down on to an empty saddle where an instant before was a hard-riding man. The Kid was hanging over the flank of the horse, riding Comanche style.
Along the street Dusty and Mark both saw the danger the Kid was in. Dusty twisted sideways and adopted a target shooting stance, right arm raised, left on his hip. Carefully he aligned the V-notch in the hammer with the low foresight allowing for the slight low-left bias of the gun fired. He saw the trooper rear up and go sliding over the side of the horse, then saw his own danger, saw it even as he was knocked to one side.
The French major was on his knees, a gun out and lifting at Dusty. The young Texan was so set on saving his friend that he gave the man no attention. But even as Dusty fired Mark saw the danger. The big man’s shoulder came down and rammed into Dusty knocking him aside. At the same moment Mark’s right-hand gun crashed out, just an instant before the Frenchman’s. That instant was enough. The shocking power of the .44 ball striking the major knocked the Lefauchex off aim. Mark felt as if someone had run a hot iron along his arm and knew the bullet had grazed him. He also saw that the French officer had gone over backwards and knew no further bullet was needed.
Then the mad dogfight in the street was over, the guns silent and the wind blowing away the gunsmoke as the last echoes of the shots died away. The street was silent and still again as the guerillos looked down at the still, blue clad forms which lay with ever widening pools of blood forming round them. It was over and another savage, bloody battle in Mexico’s struggle for freedom had gone to the guerillos, though it had been paid for, not all those still shapes were French.
“That was a fool trick, amigo,” Dusty remarked as he watched Mark strip off his jacket.
“Sure, I see it now,” Mark replied as he rolled back his shirt sleeve and looked at the raw, bloody furrow in the powerful bicep. The bullet had only barely grazed him, the wound was neither deep nor dangerous. “You owe me for a new jacket.”
“I’ll pay you when we get north again,” Dusty answered, then turned to Almonte who came up. “Are there many casualties, señor?”
“Few. We took no prisoners.”
Knowing the way the guerillos had with prisoners, Dusty agreed this was for the best. He watched without emotion three wounded French dispatched by the Mexican; he’d seen Indians killed the same way. Then he looked back at Almonte who called his men together.
“We will join your friends, Captain,” the old Mexican said politely.
Dusty looked out along the trail after the Ysabel Kid and shook his head. “A few more minutes won’t make any difference.”
Giss rode up the trail from Santa Juanita at a gallop, but at first he was not worried. The French would hold the guerillos off his back for long enough to allow him to get away. Then he glanced back and saw a rider coming after him, a man on a big white horse.
Cold fear hit Giss at that moment. He slammed the spurs into his gelding and felt the quiver of response as the horse increased speed. Fast though the big gelding ran it was not fast enough for Giss for he was riding with the fear of death on him. That casual glance back had shown Giss that what he’d feared for the past few weeks was true. There might be other white horses in the West but there were few as big as the Ysabel Kid’s Thunder. There were other men in the West who wore all black clothing, too, but the combination of the white stallion and the black dress was enough to tell Giss that the Ysabel Kid was after him.
Even as he twisted in his saddle for another look Giss saw the white was closing on his gelding and knew that he could not outrun the Ysabel Kid. All too well he knew how that white could both run and stay at speed. He also knew the Kid would cling to his trail now and it was many miles before Giss could hope to find another French patrol. Long before he could get there Giss knew the Kid would catch up with him.
With this in mind, the Ysabel Kid coming along fast and no chance to escape, Giss knew he must fight. Then he grinned savagely as he thought of the Henry rifle in his saddle boot. It was full loaded with fifteen bullets and could fire far more rapidly than the Ysabel Kid’s old Hawken which needed reloading after each shot. Then Giss remembered, Kraus’s bullets smashed the Hawken on the day he, Giss, killed Sam Ysabel. Unless the Kid had got hold of another rifle he would be left with that carbine stocked Dragoon, not a long range weapon, and one the Henry could outrange. Even if the Kid did own a new rifle he would not have found time to get practice in long range work with it.
Lookout Rock loomed ahead and Giss knew that here was where he must make his stand. There was little cover for the Kid, and none Giss couldn’t sight on from the top of the rock. All he had to do was get behind the rock and wait to see what weapon the Kid used, then when the Kid’s gun was empty get to the top of the rock and take careful aim. It was a real pity about the eight men they’d sent after the Kid. They were good men, but not good enough it seemed.
Giss hurled down from his horse, sliding the rifle from his saddle boot as he went, and allowing the horse to go free he ducked behind the rock. The gelding came to a halt, the hanging reins stopping it from wandering far. Giss brought up his Henry and lined it on an empty saddle. The white was wheeling off to one side but the Ysabel Kid was no longer riding it. A bullet slapped into the rock sending chips into Giss’s face and causing a very rapid draw back into cover.
The Ysabel Kid knew Giss very well, knew him and guessed how he was thinking. The man was running but knew too well that he could not escape the big white stallion. So Giss would pick his place for the fight and there would be no better place than there at the Lookout Rock. There Giss would fort up, relying on the extra range of his rifle to bring him through.
It was just before he dived from the saddle that the Kid saw what kind of weapon Giss was now carrying. A wolf-savage grin split the Kid’s face as he jerked the rifle from his saddle boot and went from leather to the shelter of a small rock. So ole Giss had got hold of a Henry rifle. Good. That evened things a mite.
The Kid lit down and went into the shelter of the rock in one move even as Giss left his own horse. They were separated by a distance of about sixty yards, these two men. The Kid’s yelled order sent his white stallion racing off in a half circle to halt out of range and shot, there to wait for whatever order came next.
The Kid’s rifle cracked out once.
Only one thing saved Giss. The Ysabel Kid had not yet managed to do much long range shooting with his new rifle. Sixty or more yards was a long range with the rimfire cartridge of the 44/28
Henry rifle. Due to the comparatively weak base, necessary with rimfire, percussion could not hold the forty-grain charge of the later center-fire models. Even so he saw the rock chips kick up near Giss’s head and was satisfied. With his old Hawken he would have sent the ball through Giss’s head, but he knew the old weapon’s vagaries. It wasn’t bad shooting with a new rifle, not over that range. Now all he needed to do was experiment until he knew how the range would affect the bullets. After that it would be all over for Giss.
At the shot Giss, expecting the Kid to be busy with powder flask, patch, ball and ramrod, came out of cover. His rifle lined and fired and as an echo to the shot a bullet tore his hat from his head and caused him to make a rapid dive for cover again. He flattened against the wall of the rock and sweat ran down his face. It was a moment or so before he could steady his nerves and he licked his lips as he realized the Ysabel Kid had a repeater down there. From the sound of the shot it was a Henry .44 rifle, not the deep-throated bellow of the carbine stocked Dragoon Colt. Nor did it have the deeper bellow of the .56 caliber Spencer. That meant the Kid owned a Henry now. However the Kid had fired two shots, Giss figured as his nerves settled again. That left him, if his magazine was full to start with, thirteen more bullets. Giss had only fired one shot leaving him with fourteen bullets, one up on the Kid and at the end of the Kid’s magazine load he would have the great advantage that one bullet gave.
Laying behind the rock where he’d dived the Ysabel Kid regarded his habitation with some disfavor. It gave him just enough cover to be safe and was neither comfortable nor shady, but the Kid was Comanche enough to disregard personal comfort at such a time. He concentrated, not on hitting the difficult target Giss gave him but on ranging in the rifle. Already he was seeing what Dusty had known all along, that the repeating qualities of the Henry were gained at the expense of range.
