by J. T. Edson
“Wouldn’t do us a whole heap of good neither,” the Kid answered. “No Tom, he’ll use it. See we’ve made him lose face in front of the town and he can’t let that get by, and keep his rank. He’ll use that cannon now even if it means wrecking every rifle in here and to hell with the consequences.”
Dusty shrugged. There was little they could do now but wait. There was no chance of getting away with the rifles even if they’d got mules along, not with the Mexican soldiers watching the house from along the street. There was only one thing to do; wait.
The hour dragged by slowly. Dusty set the others to loading reserve rifles ready for use. He was relying on the gunners being as poorly trained as the other men under Chavelinos. He and the other three would lay on the floor while the firing was on and hope for the best. Then if they were alive at the end of the shelling they would come up and start shooting at the advancing soldiers.
“They’re coming now, Dusty.” the Ysabel Kid might have been pointing out the guests coming into a turkey shoot for all the emotion he showed.
Dusty, Mark and Alden crossed to the window, flattening against the wall and looking out. Chavelinos was bringing all his men along the street and they fanned out moving with if not military precision at least some definite purpose. The men halted around the edge of the plaza and then from the street leading to the barracks came the cannon.
It was an ancient, muzzle loading brass cannon which looked as if it might have been stolen from some privateer long before the Texas War of Independence. It was a museum piece but it would still outshoot the rifles and could send a ball through these walls as if they weren’t there at all.
The men with the gun were not as fast or efficient as a trained Yankee artillery group but they still handled the cannon as if they knew what they were doing. Each man took his place quickly enough. The limber was unhooked and the heavy old muzzle turned to face the cantina, then the men loaded it.
“We’d best go out and talk, Tom,” Dusty said. “Lon, you and Mark stay in here and cover the back.”
Chavelinos stalked forward, halted across the square from the cantina and looked at the two men who stood in front of the building. Then he waved a hand to the men who were in position and towards the cannon along the street.
“You see I am prepared to enforce my commands.”
“I see!”
The voice, speaking Spanish came not from the two Americanos but from the door of a store. A small man wearing sober black clothes and with a low crowned black hat on his head stepped out.
“Benito!” Chavelinos gasped; then the streets were swarming with Mexican soldiers.
Not the half-trained peons of Chavelinos, but smart, efficient looking men of the 18th Rancheros. They came from the places where they’d been hiding for half an hour or more. Moving forward they forced back the Chavelinos men, and watching peons and townspeople. Three of them went to the cannon, pushing aside the crew then doused the slow match the leading gunner held. Then on orders the gunners gripped the trails of the gun and turned it away from the cantina. In fifteen seconds these newcomers were in full control of the situation.
“Benito!” Chavelinos’ face was grey with fear now. “I can explain what I was doing—”
Two of the Rancheros moved in, one on either side of the shaking man and led him away around the side of a building. Juarez himself stepped forward, holding out a hand to Tom Alden.
“Señor, I deeply regret what has happened to you since your arrival—” the words were interrupted by a couple of shots, “here. It was none of my doing.”
“What was the shooting?” Alden asked.
The Ysabel Kid and Mark Counter were at the door of the cantina now. It was the former young gentleman who stepped forward and replied. Baring his head and raising pious eyes to the heavens he said:
“Poor ole Terencio. He wasn’t a bad hombre, just stupid.”
By which Alden took it that ley fuga, shot while trying to escape had been done on poor Terencio and that his badness or his folly was curbed for good and all.
Juarez’s seamed face with the smoldering, fierce black eyes turned next to the fat Gonzales who was trying to hide from view. A brown hand shot out, pointing at the cowering fat man.
“Take the Captain also.”
“Now hold on there señor,” the Ysabel Kid turned to Juarez. “There’s no call to give him ley fuga. He was only obeying his orders. Anyway if you shoot him it’ll take your men a year to square up his book work.”
Juarez looked at the Indian dark young Tejano and smiled a rare flickering smile. “I take your word for it, señor. We have need of good equipment sergeants in the Army and I think Captain Gonzales would be happy back in his old place.”
Gonzales turned and headed for the barracks, shedding his Captain’s coat as he went. Juarez and the others watched him go then the leader of the Mexican people turned to Alden.
Now, señor, we can get down to business. I have sent for the money and when it comes you can turn the weapons over to me. Is that one of the rifles?”
“This is the new improved Henry,” Alden answered glancing down at his rifle. “The others are of the standard Henry. We had not produced many of this pattern before I left but I brought several for members of your staff. Your men can take the rifles now, señor. I know the money is safe.”
Dusty saw a tall man cross the street towards him, a man as tall and wide shouldered as Mark though some three or four years older. He was no Mexican even though his skin was tanned. His hat was a top quality J.B. Stetson, brown and low crowned. He was handsome and lithe, dressed in a buckskin shirt, blue jeans and wearing a low tied Colt 1860 Army revolver at his right and a knife at his left.
“Cap’n Fog?” he asked halting in front of Dusty.
“That’s me.”
“The name’s Bodie, Cheyenne Bodie. I was supposed to meet you in Brownsville but I got delayed on the way down and you’d pulled out when I arrived.”
Dusty took the offered hand, then introduced Mark and the Ysabel Kid. With the formalities completed Dusty got down to business. Alden was talking to Juarez explaining the points of the new Henry rifle and trying to work out another big sale and the soldiers were busy.
“Have you talked with Juarez, Cheyenne?”
“Sure. Some of his men don’t like the idea but Juarez agreed. He’ll give General Sheldon unrestricted passage to the Texas Line.”
“Sorry I didn’t wait on for you up in Brownsville but I saw a chance of having a lever with Juarez if I helped get these rifles here and came down. General Handiman didn’t know who would be coming and I wasn’t even sure if anyone’d come.”
“It’s a good thing you came, Dusty. Gave me something to tell Benito, he wasn’t too pleased about the idea of letting Sheldon’s men get by him at first.”
The rifles and ammunition were being brought out of the cantina now. The men of the 18th Rancheros examining the wonderful fifteen shot repeaters which would give them such an advantage over the French. The fact that they helped with the carrying out showed their interest for the Rancheros were usually too proud to perform any such menial task as that.
Juarez stood with a finely engraved, silver decorated presentation rifle in his hands. Three of the original thirteen new model Henry rifles were not present. Dusty, Mark and the Kid could have told where they were for each now owned one, Dusty’s being one of the pair of carbines Alden had brought.
“Have any trouble getting down here?” the Kid asked Cheyenne.
“Not getting to Juarez. I met him once before and he remembered me. I met him while he was in camp in the hills and the first night I was there a Mexican came to the tent. He’d got a Derringer in his hand when he came in. I woke up and saw him there and when he got near enough he tried to use a knife on me.”
“Why?” Dusty had been listening to the talk, now he turned and gave his full attention to the tall man.
“I don’t know. I hit the ground out of bed as soon as I saw
the knife and shot him. Tried to wound him but the light wasn’t good and I killed him. He said something as he came in but spoke so quietly that I couldn’t make out what he said.”
“What happened to the Derringer?”
“I kept it. Always wanted one of them. Juarez thinks the man was a thief. He didn’t belong to the camp. I asked around and none of the men seemed to know him. I don’t know why he had the Derringer. It wasn’t loaded or even capped.”
“Like to see it if I can,” Dusty said slowly, but his eyes were glowing in eagerness now.
Cheyenne took the small, singleshot, muzzle loading pistol from his pocket. The Ysabel Kid said something softly as his eyes took in the familiar shape. He reached out and before Dusty could get the gun took it and turned it over to look at it. Under the trigger guard were the scratched letters he’d been expecting. His face showed no expression as he passed the Derringer on to Dusty.
“Did you load it yet, Cheyenne?” Dusty asked.
“No, I’ve got no mould for it. I aimed to have one made when I got north.”
That was what Dusty hoped. He knew that there was so much variation in the caliber of the hand-made Derringers that each had its own mould and no two were alike. Before Cheyenne could use this Derringer he would have to take it north to a gunsmith and have the mould made for it.
Reversing the gun Dusty opened the small, shield shaped metal plate which covered a cavity in the butt. This was where the percussion caps were kept. No caps were in it now. Only a tight folded sheet of paper which Dusty eased out and unfolded. The message on the paper was written in French and Dusty read it for he could read French even better than he spoke it.
“What’s it say, Dusty?” the Kid asked for he could tell his small friend was more than ordinarily interested in the message.
“Something that might interest Juarez. He’s going to be killed.”
“What do you mean, Dusty?” Mark asked before the other two could speak.
“This letter is for Kraus from Maximilian’s second-in-command. He says that Kraus must kill Juarez. That was why the message was hidden in the Derringer. They wouldn’t want the man who brought it to know what he was doing. He was a renegade but he was Mexican and he might talk.”
“Why’d he come to me?” Cheyenne asked.
“That’s got me beat. Where did you sleep that night?” Juarez put me in one of his scout’s tents. The man was away and not expected back until the next morning.”
“He say who the man was?”
“Sure, Kraus, his top-hand scout.”
Dusty could see it all now. “You were in Kraus’s tent and the man came in with the Derringer in his hand. He thought you were Kraus and then when he saw you weren’t spooked and thought it was a trap. The Derringer wasn’t loaded so he tried to use a knife.”
“That’s the way I see it,” Cheyenne agreed. “What do we do now?”
“Tell Juarez.”
The other three men agreed this was their best bet and went to where Alden was talking with the Mexican leader and his staff. Dusty went up to them with the Derringer and note in his hand. Alden turned with a smile to Juarez and said, “I’d like you to meet Captain Dusty Fog. Without his very able assistance my mission would have failed and the rifles never arrived.”
Juarez shook hands with Dusty, then looked down at the Derringer and the sheet of paper. Dusty explained about them and although Juarez knew about Cheyenne shooting the man did not know about the Derringer. He took the sheet of paper and looked it over, then shook his head.
“I do not understand it. I believe it is in French.”
“It is,” Dusty agreed. “The man Cheyenne killed was taking it to Kraus.”
“Kraus?” Juarez’s face showed his lack of comprehension. “But Charles Kraus is one of my men and has ridden many times as my scout.”
“Ask one of your men to read it for you, or if they can’t let Tom here read it,” Dusty suggested.
None of the men with Juarez could read French so Alden took the note. He read it through to himself first then told Juarez what the message said. For a moment the Mexican leader was silent. He did not know if he should believe what the Texan was telling him. Yet there was no reason why the man should lie.
“Why should Kraus want to kill me?” he asked.
“Strategy. The French know these rifles are coming, even if they don’t know how far ahead we are. So they want to get rid of you. Without Juarez the Mexican people would be leaderless and be easy meat,” Dusty answered.
“And because Kraus is a double-dealing rat who’d murder his own mother if there was profit in it,” the Ysabel Kid put in, his voice hard and angry. “He and Joe Giss were working together, playing off one side against the other.”
Juarez looked at this black dressed Tejano who looked like a boy and spoke fluent, accentless Spanish. He’d heard much of el Cabrito and his own Indian blood could spot the wild Comanche streak in the Ysabel Kid. However Juarez was not satisfied with just that.
“I don’t understand what this is all about.”
“The man Cheyenne killed was carrying this Derringer and yet tried to use a knife. Cheyenne was in Kraus’s tent. The man thought it was Kraus and was going to hand the Derringer over with the message in the cap box. Then when he saw his mistake he got scared and tried to kill Cheyenne.”
Juarez watched Dusty all the time the small Texan was speaking. He thought for a moment then asked, “Why would Kraus take orders from the French?”
“His partner’s riding with them,” the Kid answered. “Joe Giss.”
“You appear to know them?”
“They killed my father.”
“Then you seek Kraus for revenge?” Juarez looked at the Kid.
“Wouldn’t you?”
“I would. And what of Giss?”
“He’s dead. I met up with him when he was riding with a French patrol at Santa Juanita.”
Juarez shook his head. “This is a matter that takes much thinking about. I owe Cheyenne Bodie my life for he saved it once. I trust him and I also trust Kraus for he has never failed me yet.”
“How about when the French nearly got Almonte and Bonaventura?” the Kid asked.
Juarez looked thoughtful. It was a hotly debated point amongst his men how the two guerrillo leaders had nearly fallen into a French trap. There had been a lot of mistrust and suspicion caused over the incident and Kraus came in for his share of it although nothing had been proved.
“I do not wish to doubt your word about the message,” Juarez said thoughtfully, looking at Dusty. “It is that I would wish to be sure before I act.”
“There’s one way to make sure,” Dusty replied.
Kraus rode into Monterrey just after dark and found fiesta reigned in the old town. From the celebrations going on he guessed the rifles were here and from the number of men of the 18th Rancheros knew Juarez was in town. The arrival of the rifles worried him more than a little for he knew that the thousand repeaters could possibly sway the delicate balance of power between the two factions. This was a matter of careful consideration for he wanted to have enough time to warn his partner to get away from the French if their defeat was imminent. It was several days since he last heard from Giss and wondered why. Usually they passed messages every two or three days.
Riding his big black through the town Kraus watched the celebrations with a disinterested eye. There was dancing and excited groups around them celebrating. However it was for the barracks Kraus headed. There he would find Juarez. There also he would find one of Giss’s renegades with a message from the French. The man was supposed to have met Giss two days before at the Juarez camp. A French patrol spoiled the arrangements by chasing Kraus and his men off to the south. He’d only just managed to arrive here at Monterrey and his patrol were far behind him.
They made an oddly assorted pair, he and Giss. Where that latter had been tall, lean, illiterate and uncouth Kraus was a short, heavily built, cheerful looking man with some edu
cation. It was odd they’d ever become partners but each found in the other an ideal bunkie, alike in ruthless lack of scruples.
The barracks were just as gay as the town and there was quite a celebration going on there. The enlisted men were gathered round a huge fire where a steer was being turned on a spit. All eyes were on a shapely, graceful girl dancing. Kraus halted his horse for a minute, eyeing the girl, approvingly. She was something to look at, lithe, shapely, graceful and very beautiful. After seeing Juarez, Kraus would be back and the girl would be very friendly to a man who stood so high in the affections of Benito Juarez.
Riding on again Kraus flashed a look at the well-lit officers’ quarters. He guessed there would be a celebration there and doubtless the girl would dance for the top brass later. Then Kraus got an uneasy feeling. His every instinct warned him that unfriendly eyes were watching him. It was the instinct that lay under the hide of every man who rode dangerous trails and one that Kraus would never ignore. From his place in the saddle he turned and looked around, seeing over the heads of the crowd. Yet all he could see were happy, laughing faces, none of the crowd were even taking any notice of him. He tried to shake off the feeling but could not and was still worrying over it when he rode into the stables to leave his horse.
In an upstairs room of the officers’ block the Ysabel Kid looked down over the festive scene below him. His red hazel eyes glowed as he watched the second of the men riding by. Kraus was still wearing his knife, the Kid noted with interest. That was good, for Kraus claimed to be some hand with a knife and the Ysabel Kid wanted no advantage.
“That him, Lon?” Mark Counter asked, standing by the Kid’s side.
“That’s him,” the Kid’s voice was that deep-throated Comanche grunt as his right hand went across to caress the ivory hilt of his Bowie knife.
“Easy boy,” Mark warned. “You’ve got to do it Dusty’s way.”
“Sure, I don’t like doing it but I will.”
“It’s for the best. Juarez can’t read the letter and Dusty wants to show him Kraus isn’t loyal. This is the only way we can get proof; then you can have Kraus.”
