The Ysabel Kid

by J. T. Edson

  “Sure,” the Kid’s face was that hard Comanche mask again. “Then I can have him.”

  The Ysabel Kid was more Comanche than ever now.

  Kraus was almost over the worried feeling as he walked towards the officers’ quarters and inside went straight to the large dining-room. He could hear the laughter and talking from the room and on opening the door found the officers of the 18th Rancheros were being entertained by the Juarez staff.

  The long table was flanked by men in uniform and at the head sat Juarez. On either side of Juarez sat two Americans. Kraus studied these four with some caution for he was never truly happy with Americanos del Norte. He took in the cowhand dress of the two big men who sat on either side, then studied Tom Alden’s eastern clothes. Then he glanced at the small man who sat at Juarez’s right hand and wondered what so insignificant a young man was doing there.

  The officers of the regiment and some of the Juarez staff shot hostile looks at Kraus as he walked along by them but he was used to that. They resented both his reputation and his attitude towards them.

  “Charles, come and meet Mr. Alden who brought the rifles for us,” Juarez called.

  Kraus went along the table and held out his hand to Alden. Then he was introduced to the other three men. He looked with renewed interest at Dusty Fog and knew now why he sat in a place of honor,

  One of the officers sitting next to Cheyenne Bodie pushed back his chair and made room for Kraus to sit down. Then Cheyenne started to bring Dusty Fog’s plan into operation.

  “Say Kraus. I had a Mexican come looking for you a couple of nights back. You’d best tell him to speak before he comes into a tent in the dark. I near to killed him. He left a Derringer for you.

  Kraus’s face showed some worry as he looked at the small, heavy caliber gun in Cheyenne’s big hand. He was not sure what to reply and felt vaguely uneasy. It was not like one of Giss’s men to make a fool mistake like that.

  “Say,” Dusty put in before Kraus could either say or do anything. “Is that a genuine Henry Derringer gun or one of the copies.”

  Cheyenne examined the gun, looking at the engraved name on top of the barrel. “The real thing. Got the maker’s name on it.

  Dusty accepted the gun and turned to Juarez. “You know, señor, they say the Derringer isn’t accurate over six feet. I once saw a man killed at fifty yards with one.

  “Fifty yards?” Mark put in, like Dusty speaking Spanish. “You must have been drinking Taos Lightning when you saw it.”

  There was a rumble of agreement from round the table for all the men here knew the Derringer to be a short range weapon.

  “Fifty yards, we measured it out later,” Dusty stated.

  “That’s a long shot for one of these,” Cheyenne Bodie remarked. “I bet it wouldn’t carry the length of this room.”

  At the word bet the attention of every man in the room was focused on the gun for the Mexican is an avid gambler. In seconds many bets were being made on the subject.

  “Like to use your gun to settle this, friend,” Dusty said, watching the sweat running down Kraus’s face. He glanced in the barrel as if to check on the Derringer being charged.

  Before Kraus could either object or agree Dusty was lining the small gun on the wall at the end of the room. He eased back the hammer and pressed the trigger. A dry click rewarded his efforts and Dusty looked down at the gun, drew back the hammer and remarked, “No cap.”

  Kraus licked his lips, then growled, “Give me the gun back. I’ve got another in my saddlebag that you can use.”

  “No need to waste that much time. I’ll just get a cap out of the box here.”

  Kraus lunged forward as Dusty started to raise the cover of the butt box cap. He knew that there would be a message in there and who it would be from for he recognized the Derringer as one he’d left not with Giss but with Maximilian’s second-in-command. Whatever the message was it would never do for Juarez to see it.

  “Give it here,” he snarled. “I don’t like folks messing with my gun.”

  “Charles,” Juarez spoke softly, his eyes on the other man’s face. “I also have laid wagers. I would like to see them decided right away. Let us settle the wagers now.”

  “There’s no caps in the box.” Kraus answered, his eyes flickering around the room.

  Dusty stood up and moved round his chair slightly. “How’d you know that? You haven’t looked.”

  Juarez still kept his eyes on Kraus’s face and saw the guilty look in them. He knew that Dusty told the truth. Kraus was a traitor and the message was genuine from the French.

  “Take the gun and look in the cap box,” he snapped.

  Kraus’s hand dropped towards the gun at his side and at the same moment Dusty moved faster than a striking diamondback. He hurled forward, arms locking round Kraus’s legs and lifting. Taken by surprise by Dusty’s tackle Kraus was lifted clear off his feet and brought crashing down on to the ground. His Navy Colt slid from its holster and he clawed desperately for it.

  A foot came down hard on to Kraus’s hand pinning it within inches of the gun-butt. Kraus’s eyes went to the boot, then up over the black trousers. Fear hit him when he saw that butt-forward old Dragoon gun, then the black shirt and bandana. Then to the dark face with the cold red hazel eyes.

  “Howdy Charlie,” the Ysabel Kid’s voice was gentle and caressing. “I’ve been waiting to see you for a piece now.’

  Chapter Fourteen – Bush Sheldon’s Decision

  Kraus looked up at the expressionless face of the Ysabel Kid as the dark young man moved slowly backwards and let him come to his feet. There was murder in Kraus’s eyes but his lips still held a friendly smile that had disarmed and made unsuspicious several men.

  “Howdy Lon. Looks like the end of the trail for me. I’m sorry about your father but there was no other way.”

  “It was a fool mistake, Charlie.”

  The other men in the room were all silent, watching the final act in a drama which started just south of the Rio Grande and was being brought to an end here. Not one of the men would make any move to interfere for every man here knew of the feud between Kraus and the Ysabel Kid. It was for the Kid to make the next move, or for Kraus.

  “We made it pay for a spell, Lon. Got a fair sum cached out in case we ever needed to light out fast. Reckon you know Giss’ll be looking for you?”

  “Giss’s dead. Met up with him at Santa Juanita and I got your other boys.”

  Kraus nodded; he’d guessed as much. There was nothing hurried in the way he moved but he was measuring the distance between them with calculating eyes. All too well he knew what little chance he would stand in a fair fight with the Ysabel Kid. He’d seen that Comanche brand of knife work too often to believe he could hope to match it. His right hand dipped into his pocket and lifted out a sack of Bull Durham.

  “Mind if I roll a smoke first?” he asked.

  The left hand brought out the knife fast and threw it across his body to be caught in the right as the sack of tobacco fell to the floor. In the same move Kraus lunged in, the blade of his knife ripping up a savage drive for the Ysabel Kid’s bowels. It was a brutal stroke, sent with the full weight of Kraus’s body behind it as he lunged in to get his muscular frame behind the blow. It was a move he’d perfected and used on three occasions with some considerable success.

  Against a white man it would have succeeded but at that moment the Ysabel Kid was pure Comanche and he moved with Indian speed. His left arm slashed across to deflect the knife holding arm to one side. Kraus’s weight carried him forward and as he did he felt the Kid’s left hand catch his arm and spin him. Then the great Bowie knife in the Ysabel Kid’s trained right hand made a shining arc. Full to the hilt it sank in the stomach, the target of the knife fighter. It sank in and ripped up. Kraus let his knife fall through his fingers as the terrible pain of the wound ripped through him. His hand clawed at the gaping wound as if trying to stop the flow of blood. Then he went down on the floor.


  The Kid stepped back, his face the face of a Comanche Dog Soldier who has counted coup. Then the red fire died in his eyes and he became once more the baby faced innocent looking young man who’d captured hearts from señoritas all over Mexico.

  “Sorry I mussed up your floor, señor,” he said to Juarez.

  * ~ *

  Three days later Dusty Fog brought his two friends to a halt. They were getting near to Saltillo now, the place where they would find General Bushrod Sheldon.

  “Time we got into uniform, I reckon,” he said.

  “Haven’t seen either French or Juaristas, Dusty,” Mark pointed out.

  “Nope and I hope we don’t. But I figger they know we’re in Mexico and they are expecting something. We ride in there in cowhand clothes and they’ll get all suspicious. But if we ride in uniform they’ll maybe take us for a detachment from another fort.”

  “Sure there are a few more of us serving, men that didn’t come down with ole General Bush. I’ll tell them you are one of them.”

  “How about me,” the Kid inquired.

  “You’ve got a uniform in your war bag. You’ll wear it,” Dusty answered.

  “Ain’t but a private.”

  “That’s good. You’ll be able to get on to the enlisted men and warn them. If they know about us they might recognize that big white of your’n,” Dusty answered. “It stands out like a nigger on a snowdrift. Maybe you’d best stay out here.”

  “Mebbe hell,” the Kid growled back. “You’ve plumb ruined me as a smuggler by making me go visiting sheriffs so you’re going, to hold to giving me a riding chore when we’ve done here.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m sticking close to you in case you change your mind.”

  They headed for a small clump of trees off the main trail and in the shelter hidden from prying eyes they unpacked their uniforms from war bags. The Kid also took a small package out but did not explain what it was.

  Mark pulled on his jacket, the sleeve of which had been mended by a woman in Monterrey. He was still wearing his issue trousers, boots and hat, so he was the first changed. He looked at Dusty who was changing into the uniform so carefully packed in his war bag. Mark smiled as he noted the cut of the jacket. Despite his reputation as a strict disciplinarian he flouted dress regulations by wearing a jacket cut in the Counter fashion, the fashion Mark himself was responsible for. Also Dusty did not wear an issue sword belt, retaining his own hand tooled buscadero gun-belt with the matched, bone handled Colt guns in the holsters.

  Turning Mark found that the Kid was not even starting to change yet. He’d got the mysterious package open and was rubbing some powder on the sleek white coat of the stallion. Before he’d done his horse was transformed from an all white to a piebald. Then and then only did he get his rather worn private’s uniform on.

  There was a subtle change in Dusty as he swung into the saddle of the big paint. The easy slough had gone from him now, he sat more erect in the saddle and there was an air about him that was plain to any man who’d ever served under a real tough, efficient officer.

  They rode into Saltillo town and passed through the streets attracting no attention from the few Mexicans who were about. The barracks was on the other side of town and as they rode towards it Dusty was sure something was wrong. He halted his horse and looked at the high walls which surrounded the barracks. On either side of the main gate was something which looked both strange and familiar to him.

  “Only French sentries,” Dusty remarked softly.

  “Saw that. Usually we have our own men on the main gate guard.”

  The three men rode nearer and the French soldier who stood slackly at ease by the gate looked them over without any great interest. He lifted his carbine in a sloppy salute and allowed them through.

  Stood facing the gate was the officers’ mess and quarters, surrounded by a low adobe wall. To the right of the officers’ country lay a line of barrack rooms, to the left a large building which gave all signs of being a mess-hall. From the sounds which came from this building a meal was in progress.

  Dusty took this in as he swung down from his paint outside the officers’ mess garden wall. Then he glanced up and felt the hair rising on the back of his neck.

  “See those two Gatlings?” he asked softly.

  “Sure, they’ve been there all the time. Four men crew for them on watch.”

  “How long have they been trained in this way?”

  Mark and the Ysabel Kid, without any due haste or apparent worry turned and glanced up at the wall. The two Gatling guns were on naval style swivel mounts instead of the more usual wheeled carriages. They were placed to give covering fire on the streets of the town, but right now they were turned with the muzzles in towards the barracks.

  Dusty ran his tongue over his lips. He’d seen a Gatling gun in action and knew that it was the most terrible fighting weapon ever invented by man. He looked at the wall, then at the ladder which led up to the walk on the wall side.

  “Something stinks, Mark,” he whispered.

  “Sure.” Before Mark could do more than agree he saw a man coming towards him. A squat, wide-shouldered, dark faced man wearing the uniform of a sergeant but with a buscadero gunbelt supporting a brace of matched Colt 1860 Army revolvers in tied down holsters. “Howdy Ben, what’s all that up there?”

  The sergeant halted and to Mark’s surprise came to a smart brace and brought off a salute. “No idea, suh.” It was to Dusty he replied. “French relieved us on gate guard duty two days back.”

  Mark and the Ysabel Kid looked at each other. They both knew that Ben Thompson was not the best soldier in the world and noted for disrespect to officers. Yet he was acting very respectful to Captain Dusty Fog. It was some surprise for although as yet Ben Thompson had not reached fame as one of the fast guns he was still reckoned with as a handy man to have around.

  “How many French troops are there here?” Dusty inquired.

  “Only about fifty and they stay well clear of us. Spend nigh on all their time in their barrack block down there. We’re still bunking in the mess hall.”

  Dusty glanced first at the barrack block then at the mess hall. Men in the barracks, covered and aided by those Gatling guns would have the soldiers in the mess hall under their guns and at their mercy.

  “Where’s General Sheldon?” Dusty asked.

  “In the officers’ mess room. Having lunch with the other brass.”

  “Good. I’m going in there, Lieutenant Counter in fifteen minutes you, the sergeant here and Private Ysabel will deal with those two Gatling gun crews. If you hear a shot from inside do it immediately. If not in fifteen minutes.”

  “What’s going on?” Thompson growled.

  “Bengeeman, ole friend,” the Kid replied. “Don’t you go worrying about that. Let’s get the hosses out of the way and then do what the Cap’n says. I’ll tell you what it’s all about.”

  Dusty watched the two men lead off the horses and then turned back to Mark. “It’s real important you get those guns, you know that?”

  “I know it. They’ll be stopped.”

  Turning. Mark walked across the open space, the French soldiers paying little or no attention to him as he leaned against the wall near the ladder and started to roll a smoke.

  Dusty turned on his heel, pushed open the door of the officers’ mess building and entered. He glanced around as he stood in the hail, then removing his hat he crossed to where he could hear sound of men talking. On opening the door he found he’d come to the right place. It was like a scene out of the War. The room and the men in it could have stepped straight out of Georgia for all of them wore the uniform of the Confederate Army. Colored waiters moved among the dozen or so officers carrying trays. One of them saw Dusty in the doorway and came forward to take his hat but he retained his gunbelt.

  General Bushrod Sheldon was seated in a comfortable chair, big, lean and as usual with a cigar stuck between his bearded lips. He and the other men looked Dusty ov
er with some interest for they knew he was not one of them. He crossed the room striding smartly in a completely different manner from the usual way he lounged along when not in the saddle. Halting he saluted the General.

  “Cap’n Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry with dispatches for General Sheldon from General Grant.”

  Bushrod Sheldon looked up, his eyes frosty and cold. “Is that your idea of a joke, Captain?” he barked.

  “I never joke with my superiors, sir,” Dusty answered. “With the General’s permission.”

  He drew the letter from his jacket front and held it out. Sheldon took it, turning it over in his hands. “What’s this all about, Captain?” he asked. “Have you come down here to join us?”

  “No sir. To fetch you back home.”

  “Back! Back did you say. You mean, sir, to stand there and ask me to go back to Georgia and make peace with the Yankees?”

  “No sir. For the Yankees to make peace with you. Uncle Devil sent me along to say that he had read the letter and knows it will be honored.”

  Sheldon studied Dusty, remembering him now, a small man who’d come into his camp one night with prisoners, two generals, a colonel and three majors taken from a place where they might have thought safe from attack.

  “So Ole Devil Hardin sent you along did he?”

  “Yes sir, now the letter there—” Dusty held up his hand to stem the angry words unsaid. “A wise Southern gentleman once told me always to look into a proposition then condemn it.”

  Sheldon coughed. He remembered saying those words one time back before the War whilst on a visit to the Rio Hondo. He opened the envelope and took out the sheet of paper. Every eye was on him as he spread flat the paper and started to read. Every man here was hoping their leader would agree to go north again. By the time he’d reached the third line of the paper Sheldon’s face wasn’t red and angry any more, instead it was relaxed and thoughtful.

  “Is this on the level, Captain Fog?” he asked passing the letter to the Colonel who stood near him.

  “They have started to rebuild Sheldvale?”