The Ysabel Kid

by J. T. Edson

  “Started as soon as I left for Mexico,” Dusty answered. That was one of the concessions, that Sheldon’s home, Sheldvale, destroyed by the Union Army after the war would be rebuilt. “They will make restitution to any man who suffered loss of his property during the occupation of the South and will accept any officer, noncom or man into the Cavalry with rank and seniority standing.”

  There was a sudden rush of talk. Every eye was on Sheldon even more now and in every face he read one thing, willingness to leave Mexico and go back home again. Sheldon looked at the last paragraph again. He was to take his old seat in Congress again as soon as he’d been home and straightened out his affairs.

  “What does Ole Devil think about all this?”

  “He allows it’s time you came home and took your share. Likely you didn’t hear that he took a bad fall from a hoss and tied down in a wheelchair. That means he can’t attend Congress and that leaves it all on General French.”

  “Very interesting, mon General!”

  The men all turned. The door at one side of the big room was open and three French officers stood there. In the center was a big, fat, heavily mustached colonel, at his right was a short, stocky major and at his left stood Captain Bardot.

  The Captain looked leaner and his face was savage for he was still feeling the effect of the long walk back to the nearest French troops. In his hand he held a Lefauchex revolver, lined on Dusty Fog.

  “What’s all this about, Mornec?” Sheldon barked. “Why is Captain Bardot pointing that gun at Captain Fog?”

  “It appears you are entertaining a traitor, General. That will not please my superiors.”

  “What do you mean traitor?” Sheldon growled, the other officers looking on and ready to follow their leader.

  “This is the man who shot Major Harmon in Brownsville and who brought the repeating rifles for Juarez.”

  Sheldon swung round and fixed his hard eyes on Dusty. “Is that true?”

  “Sure. I wanted a lever to get you free, unrestricted passage north from Juarez. Bringing those rifles to him gave me that lever. That way we won’t need to fight Mexicans all the way north.”

  “You were so sure I’d go back with you?”

  “I was sure you’d be too sensible to refuse.”

  Mornec laughed and pointed from the window to the barrack buildings. “I was expecting this and took precautions, even though I was ordered to detach my main force and keep only a skeleton garrison here. My men are stood by ready and the Gatling guns cover the entrance of the mess hall. If your men try to get out they will be killed.”

  “Just as I will kill this one,” Bardot hissed and started to lift the revolver he was holding and line it on Dusty.

  One of the negro servants dropped the tray he was holding. It clattered to the floor and Bardot glanced towards the sound. His eyes were off Dusty for less than a second but it was long enough. Like a flicker of lightning Dusty’s hands moved crossing and bringing out the matched guns. Both roared and Bardot rocked over backwards under the hammering impact of the .44 bullets.

  “Stand still, Colonel!” Dusty’s command froze Mornec and his Major even as they started to think about drawing their own weapons. “Take their guns one of you gentlemen, please. I don’t want to have to kill them.”

  The sound of the shot was heard outside the walls of the building. It brought the attention of the Gatling gun crews from the outside of the fort to the inside.

  Mark Counter started up the ladder thanking the inefficiency of the French in that the crews of the guns were not issued with side arms, not even their short Artillery sabers.

  The other gun crew were not so slow in moving. Even as the Ysabel Kid and Ben Thompson came into view the gunner started the weapon swinging round. The Kid brought up his Henry rifle and fired all in one move. The loader of the gun slid down with a hole between his eyes. Before either the Kid or Thompson could make a further move the gun started to chatter. Neither of the Americans wasted any time. They hit the ground behind the small wall around the officers’ country, diving over it and hugging the base as the .58 caliber bullets smashed through the air over their heads.

  Mark started up the ladder, climbing fast. He was almost level with the top when one of the Gatling gun crew saw him. The man ran along the parapet and lifted his foot to kick down at Mark. The Texan let loose of the ladder with his right hand, stabbing it out and catching the down-swinging foot. From the corner of his eye he saw the French soldiers coming from the barrack building, armed and ready for war. He gripped the foot and twisted it as the man tried to force it down on him and shove both Mark and the ladder backwards. Mark felt himself moved back and tightened his grip on the foot. The Frenchman was dragged nearer the edge and pulled back bringing the ladder to the wall again. Still holding the foot Mark lunged up another step and heaved. The French soldier yelled as he shot forward on one leg; then he was falling.

  The man handling the Gatling gun saw Mark gain the parapet and started to traverse the gun round. Mark saw the yawning multitude of barrels of the gun swinging round and flung himself flat as the gunner turned the firing handle. The bullets hammered over his head, smashing into the stone of the parapet behind him. Mark’s right hand Colt was out even as he dropped and his other hand fanned the hammer. In the next seconds Mark disproved two theories which were to be discussed many times over the years: that a really good man with a gun never fanned the hammer and that no man could be accurate while fanning.

  The shots rolled out, sounding almost as fast as the Gatling gun chatter. Firing up under the swivel mounting Mark sent two bullets into the lower body of the gunner then as the man staggered back and the thunder of the Gatling died away, Mark sent a bullet into one of the other two men. The last man turned and leapt down the twelve foot gap from parapet to ground. He lit down running and almost made it. Who shot him was never discovered for by now the Confederate soldiers and the French were shooting at each other.

  Mark came up and holstered the gun. He saw at a glance taken as he leapt for the Gatling gun, that his help was needed. The Confederate soldiers were in the worst position, caught out in the open. They were cavalry men and southern cavalry at that. Their weapon was either the saber or the hand-gun and few had even a carbine, while the French were armed with rifles. Also the Gatling gun on the other side of the gate would be turned against them as soon as the menace of the Ysabel Kid and Ben Thompson was removed. Even now the Gatling gun was tearing pieces from the adobe wall they were sheltered behind.

  Mark swung the gun round. He knew how to handle it and knocking off the magazine which was on the gun he placed a full one on. Sighting on the other Gatling gun he whirled the handle, the barrel turned and the gun chattered throwing lead across the open space.

  The second gun crew had not seen what was happening. The first inclination they had that anything was wrong was when lead from their neighboring Gatling hit the wall near them.

  The Kid looked up as soon as the firing halted, one glance telling him what was happening. He glanced at Ben Thompson;

  “You handle one of those things, Ben?”

  “Why sure.”

  “Let’s go then!”

  From behind the wall leapt two figures, one with a brace of roaring Colt guns and the other with a crashing Henry rifle. The Kid and Ben Thompson sprinted out across that open space. Their rapid dash attracted attention from the French soldiers but Mark’s Gatling gun churned out its song and caused a rapid hunting for cover amongst the French who were safely beyond pistol range but well within the area of fire the Gatling gun covered.

  The crew of the second Gatling tried to bring their gun to bear. The Ysabel Kid’s rifle cracked and the gunner went down. Ben Thompson threw three fast shots and sent the man who leapt to replace the dead gunner rolling on the parapet. The other man decided on discretion. He ran along the wall, Thompson’s Colts cracked out again and slowly as if he was tired the man sank to the ground.

  The Kid halted forcing bulle
ts into the loading gate of his rifle and then yelled. “Get up and let her go, Ben.”

  Thompson went up the ladder fast. Below him the repeating rifle cracked at a rate the French single loaders could never equal and beyond them Mark Counter kept up a flow of fire far beyond anything the rifle could manage.

  Under the menace of the two guns the Confederate soldiers advanced fast until some of them at least were in range of the French. Then with both Gatling guns ready to chatter out their message and more Confederate men getting into place every minute the French surrendered.

  Bushrod Sheldon was the first man from the officers’ quarters. He took in the situation at a glance and turned to Colonel Mornec who was standing under escort behind him.

  “Colonel, I’m telling my men to prepare to march out. You will be left here with only these few troops. If you’re wise you’ll get out fast.”

  Mornec knew this to be the truth. There would be no chance for him with his few men against the Juarez forces. He could see that his force was even more depleted since the fighting started.

  “What do you suggest, Colonel?”

  “That you leave as soon as you can. We’ll allow you to take your arms, not the Gatling guns but your small arms. I’d be gone as soon as possible if I were you.”

  The French Colonel nodded in agreement. He was getting far better treatment than he’d expected. Turning to the major he snapped an order for the men to be ready to march in one hour.

  After the French pulled out the bugle sounded assembly and the men buzzing with talk and rumors gathered. Ben Thompson and the Ysabel Kid had been closely questioned by the others and a suspicion of what was going to happen was being passed around.

  Silence fell as the men watched their leader coming towards them, General Bushrod Sheldon halted and looked round. They stood before him, the men who’d served under him in the Civil War and the men who’d come in with him when he brought the troops to Mexico. Every man here was known to him, the good soldiers, the bad, the indifferent.

  “Men,” he said. “This is Captain Dusty Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry. He came here to bring me a message from General Grant.”

  An excited murmur ran through the ranks of men at the words. It was some moments before Sheldon could make himself heard. He remained silent until the men all stopped talking then went on:

  “General Grant wants us to return to our homes. He offers us the chance to take up our lives where we left off. To any man who wishes to remain in uniform he offers entry to the cavalry with whatever rank the man holds. To any man who wishes to return home and finds his home destroyed the United States will pay for the home to be rebuilt. To any man who wishes to go west and make a new life financial aid will be given. Now you men have served me well and as of now we are no longer a fighting regiment. The choice is in your hands. Those who wish may ride north with me. Any who don’t wish to ride north may go with the French.”

  A tall gangling sergeant major stepped forward and saluted, then in a slow, easy Kentucky drawl said, “General, sir. We all aims to ride with you but how about the Juaristas. We’ll have to fight them all the way and we’re a mite low on powder and ball.”

  “Captain Fog can answer for that,” Sheldon replied.

  All eyes went to the small man who was a legend among them, a name to rank with Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby.

  “I came down here with a consignment of repeating rifles for Juarez. In return for that he is giving you unrestricted passage to the border and supplying an escort to make sure nothing goes wrong.”

  Then the discipline of the regiment went by the boards. Men whooped, yelled and slapped each other on the back.

  “Yowee!” Ben Thompson screamed and fired his revolver into the air. “Yowee. Boys, we’re going home!”

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