by J. T. Edson
The words died away and Jeanie turned to look out of the window. Moving into a more comfortable position on the seat, the Kid wondered what had brought out the girl’s lost, unfinished sentence. Trader Schell had been a mustanger, catching and breaking wild horses, well-liked by the people who bought stock from him, even though a shrewd businessman. However, Jeanie showed no inclination to resume the conversation and the Kid did not consider himself a sufficiently close friend to force the matter further.
Hefting the rifle in his hands, the Kid looked for some way to avoid nursing it during the journey to Fort Sawyer. The Overland Stage Company had foreseen the need and fitted hooks to the woodwork above the seats on which travelers could hang their shoulder arms. Before the Kid could rise and make use of the hooks, the young man sitting opposite him indicated the rifle and asked:
‘Would that be a Henry you have?’
‘Sure,’ the Kid agreed, trying to recall where he had heard such an accent as the man used.
‘I’ve never seen one with a wooden fore grip before,’ the man commented. ‘All the Henrys I’ve seen have a bare metal barrel and magazine.’
‘This here’s one of the new model,’ the Kid explained with an air of conscious pride. He held out the rifle so that the man could see the slot let into the right side of the brass frame. ‘You load it through here in the breech instead of pulling the tube open.’
‘That’s an improvement,’ the man said soberly. The magazine was always the Henry’s weak point. This new model looks a stouter gun all round. I haven’t seen any of them on sale yet.’
‘Or me,’ the Kid admitted. ‘I got this ’n’ for helping a salesman who was taking a whole slew of the old model Henrys to Juarez.’ii
Although it later gained fame as the Winchester Model of 1866—first in a long line of successful lever-action repeaters—the type of rifle in the Kid’s hands made its appearance on the market under the name of the New Improved Henry.
After the Kid had hung the rifle on the hooks, he talked with the man for a time about the relative merits of various firearms and discussed hunting opportunities. Although the man did not introduce himself, or say what brought him to Texas, the Kid asked no questions. However, the Kid felt that he had been sufficiently sociable to satisfy his curiosity on one point.
‘No offence, friend,’ he said. ‘But do all the folks dress this fancy back where you come from?’
‘It’s a kilt, cowboy,’ April Hosman put in, following the direction of the Kid’s gaze. ‘Folks in Scotland wear them.’
‘The gals too?’ asked the Kid, for he had never seen a saloon girl dressed in such a short garment.
‘No!’ the man replied shortly, his voice losing its friendly note. The kilt’s not worn by women.’
Remembering how the young Scot had dealt with a loafer who made opprobrious remarks about his appearance in Brownsville, April felt that she had better intervene. Sure the Scot had proved capable of defending himself with his fists but she doubted if the Texan would fight with his bare hands.
‘I’ve heard that you can tell which family a man belongs to by the color of his kilt,’ she remarked. Is that right?’
‘It’s true enough, ma’am,’ the Scot agreed and tapped the kilt with his left forefinger. ‘This is the tartan of the Clan Farquharson. My name is Colin Farquharson, of Inverey.’
‘You’re a tolerable long ways from home, friend,’ the Kid commented, trying to remember where he had heard the name.
‘Aye,’ Colin agreed. ‘A kinsman of mine came home singing the praises of Texas, so I thou—’
The crack of a rifle shot, mingled with the scream of a horse in pain, chopped off the young Scot’s words. Lurching violently, the coach came to an abrupt halt. The body pitched and rocked against the thorough braces, the tough straps of heavy leather which connected and supported it above the draught and running gear.
Taken by surprise, the Kid and Jeanie were thrown off their seats and across the coach. The Kid landed on top of Colin and Jeanie collided with April. Outside another shot sounded and one of the men on the roof gave a croaking cry. Before the Kid could untangle himself from Colin, the left side door of the coach jerked open.
Chapter Two
After halting to pick up the Kid, Temple kept his team moving at a steady trot along the Fort Sawyer trail. With over six miles separating them from their destination, neither the driver nor Simcock discounting the possibility of danger. The guard stayed alert, although he left his shotgun in the boot, studying each clump of mesquite, bushes, hollows in the grounds, draws and ridges for signs of lurking enemies.
For all that, the attack when it came took them both by surprise. At that point the trail ran straight, with fairly open land on either side. Despite this careful scrutiny of places behind or among which a man might hide, Simcock saw nothing to disturb him. All in all the terrain did not lend itself to laying an ambush. There were rocks and other places that could conceal waiting men; but none sufficiently large to hide their horses. There was a draw maybe half a mile from the trail where mounted men might wait. If it should hold a gang, Simcock figured they would be no great danger. Between his shotgun and the Ysabel Kid’s rifle, the owlhoots would pay dearly for trying to rush the stagecoach.
Simcock was still thinking on those lines when a rifle cracked from among a clump of mesquite about a hundred yards to the right of the trail. So well hidden that the guard failed to detect him, the man shot accurately. Raked through the neck by the bullet, the offside lead horse went down screaming. Instantly everything was in a state of confusion. Dragged off balance as its mate went down, the near leader almost fell. The off wheeler reared on its hind legs, trying to avoid running on to the stricken animal ahead. Even as the coach swayed violently, Temple’s training sparked off an automatic reaction. Booting home the brake, he hauled back on the reins in an attempt to regain control of the team.
Only by catching hold of the handrail and bracing his feet against the sloping front of the driver’s box as the coach slammed to a halt did Simcock avoid being thrown from his seat. During the violent lurch of the body, Simcock caught a movement from the corner of his left eye. He turned his head to look closer as the thorough braces returned the body to its normal position. At first he thought that his eyes were playing tricks on him, for what he took to be a rock not far from the left side of the trail began to move.
Agitating briefly, the rear part of the ‘rock’ began to rise. It proved to be a blanket covered with dust until the same color as the real rock. Swiftly the man under the blanket stood up and flung it aside. Dressed in the style of a vaquero, he was bareheaded and his face showed more Indian than Mexican blood. Gripping a fancy-looking Navy Colt in his right hand, the man sprang towards the coach.
At the same moment, on the right of the trail, a tall, slim Mexican lurched into sight. He had been crouching behind a small rock, covered with cuttings from the nearby bushes. Not far from him a tumbleweed began to move, although there was hardly any wind and it had previously been motionless. Thrusting it aside, a third man appeared from a hollow in the ground over which it had been lying. Shorter and more stocky than the Mexican, he was of the same race. They wore fancy, expensive charro clothes and were alike in the expressions of evil and lust on their faces. Leading four horses, a rider came from the distant draw and headed for the clump of mesquite which sheltered the man with the rifle.
Aware that he had achieved his ambition and become involved in a hold-up, Simcock thrust himself erect. Cursing himself for not drawing the shotgun earlier, he wasted no time in trying to do so. Instead he sent his right hand fanning to the butt of the Army Colt holstered on his belt. Even as he made his play, he remembered that a rifle had killed the horse. Neither of the men on the right could have used it, for they had been hidden within twenty yards of the trail.
Before Simcock could draw his Colt, the rifle spat again from among the mesquite. Lead ripped into the guard’s body. Giving a cry of pain, he twiste
d around and tumbled over the left side of the box. Fully occupied with controlling the team, Temple could do nothing to try to fight off the men. Springing in from the left, the half-breed jerked open the door at his side. While the taller man lined a Starr Navy revolver at Temple, his companion approached the body of the coach.
Looking into the barrel of the half-breed’s revolver, the Kid eased himself from Colin. Then the right side door jerked open and the smaller Mexican’s Navy Colt ended any chance of immediate resistance. Jeanie wriggled off April’s lap and darted a glance at the Winchester then to the Kid. Giving an almost imperceptible headshake, the dark youngster awaited developments.
‘Don’t kill them unless you have to, Indio,’ the stocky Mexican ordered, in Spanish. ‘Somebody’ll maybe pay to get some of them back.’
‘Si, Jaime,’ the half-breed answered. ‘If they make a wrong move I’ll only kill them a little bit.’
‘Is the guard dead, Indio?’ called the taller man, without turning his Starr away from Temple’s direction.
‘Looks like it, Adàn,’ replied the half breed, glancing down and back into the coach too quickly for the Kid to take advantage of it. ‘He’s not moving and bleeding bad.’
‘Get them out so I can look at them, Jaime,’ ordered Adàn.
‘Com’ out here, peoples,’ Jaime said, using English for the first time. ‘You don’ make trouble and we don’ hurt you.’
Which was, as the Kid for one of the passengers well knew, a lie. The only reason they had not been shot immediately was that the bandidos wanted to see if any of them would be worth holding for ransom. Once that had been established, the worthless male passengers and driver would be killed. Hardened to the worst aspects of life though he might be, the Kid did not care to think about the fate of the two women before death finally claimed them.
Yet he knew that resistance at that moment would be suicidal. Even outside there would be small enough chance, but being in the open offered more opportunity than did the confines of the coach.
Trained from birth to think fast, analyze situations and rapidly work out solutions, the Kid put his lessons to good use. There was one way he might get a break. Slender, risky as hell, but a whole heap better than no chance at all.
‘Do what he says, ma’am,’ the Kid said, looking at April
‘Have we any choice?’ the blonde answered, rising and picking up her vanity bag from where it had lain between her and Colin. ‘Don’t let us women-folk stop you making a move. We both know what they’ll do to us—and it’s no pleasure that way.’
Backing off, still covering the door of the coach with his Colt, Jaime watched the blonde come to it. If April felt any concern, she managed to hide it. Showing surprising agility, she swung herself down from the coach.
‘¡A la deracha!’ Jaime ordered, and April moved to her right, halting by the rear wheel.
‘I’ll go next,’ the Kid decided. ‘Then you, friend. You’ll be the last one out, Jeanie-gal.’
‘Sure, Kid,’ the girl answered, before Colin could speak.
‘Pappy had a Henry and I’ve used it.’
‘That’n works the same way,’ the Kid told her and went to the door. ‘Don’t do nothing rash, gal.’
While dropping to the ground, the Kid glanced around and felt relieved at what he saw. During his border smuggling days he had gained an almost encyclopedic knowledge of Mexican bandido gangs. Probably he had never heard the words modus operandi, but he knew what they implied. The killing of the lead horse from a distance, followed by the appearance of men hidden close to the object of the robbery, had always been the way in which the Flores brothers’ gang worked.
One glance at the taller Mexican confirmed the Kid’s guess. He was Adàn Flores. The other brothers, Tiburcio, Matteo and Vicente, did not appear to be on hand. In fact only five of the gang showed themselves; three by the coach and the horse-holder waiting for the rifleman to mount up over by the distant clump of mesquite. Five, not twenty or more; and commanded by Adàn, by far the least efficient of the family. Given just a smidgen of good Texas luck, something might be done about busting up the robbery.
Recognition was mutual. Taking his eyes from Temple, Flores looked the Kid’s way, grinned and said, ‘Hola, Cabrito. We not know you were on the coach.’
‘You should have asked before you stopped it,’ the Kid replied, speaking Spanish with the accent of a border-country Mexican and moving to stand at April’s side.
Flores let out a bellow of laughter. ‘You hear that, Jaime?
‘We should have asked before we stopped it. Cabr—Madre de dios, what’s this?’
The sight of Colin framed in the doorway brought the words popping from Flores’ lips. Remembering his own feelings when confronted unexpectedly by the kilted Scot, the Kid had been counting on Colin’s appearance to distract the bandidos. The hope only partly materialized. While Flores and Jaime ogled with bugged-out eyes, the latter still kept his Colt pointed straight at the Kid’s belly. There was also Indio in the coach and the two approaching riders to be considered. So the Kid stood still.
On the driver’s box, Temple had managed to quieten down his team. Seeing Flores was no longer watching him, the driver started to edge cautiously along the seat towards Simcock’s shotgun.
After the Kid jumped from the coach, Indio started to enter. However, the half-breed gave Jeanie no chance to grab the rifle. His eyes raked her from head to toe and his thick lips separated in a slobbering lecherous grin. Dull-witted and bestial, Indio thought only of the fun he would have with the women passengers and did not look in Colin’s direction. Shooting out his left hand, he caught Jeanie by the arm.
‘Hey, little one,’ he said. ‘You real pretty. I think I take you if Adàn don’t want you.’
Desperately Jeanie forced herself not to struggle. The half-breed would kill her at the slightest show of resistance. While death would be preferable to being carried off alive, Jeanie aimed to hold on until there was no hope of escape. Unless she missed her guess, the Kid had something in mind. So she must do nothing to spark off trouble before he was ready to make his play. The fingers left her arm, rising to stroke her face. Although she shuddered, Jeanie made no attempt to move away. Outside the coach, voices rose and she heard laughter.
‘What is it a man or a woman?’ Flores whooped as Colin dropped to the ground. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it.’
‘Or me,’ Jaime went on, ‘Hey, Cabrito, what does he wear under that skirt?’
‘Why don’t you look and find out?’ the Kid asked.
‘You watch them,’ Flores told Jaime. ‘I’ll do it. You, gringo, come here.’
‘He means you, friend,’ the Kid said to Colin. ‘Watch how you go, he’s bad mean and a killer.’
Although Colin guessed that the bandidos had commented on his appearance, he had not understood their words. However, he knew better than to argue in the face of the guns and so walked towards Flores. Having followed the conversation, April began to pull open the neck of her vanity bag.
‘He looks real fancy, Jaime,’ Flores declared as Colin came to a halt before him. ‘I bet you he wears drawers like a saloon-girl.’
With that Flores stepped closer to Colin. Drawing the hammer of his Starr back to full cock, he placed its muzzle against Colin’s ribs. Then the bandido bent forward at the waist and took hold of the kilt’s hem with his left hand. Grinning a little, Jaime turned his head to satisfy his curiosity. Catching April’s eye, the Kid nodded slightly. She slipped her right hand into the bag. For his part, the Kid stood in a relaxed-seeming slouch but his right hand turned palm out close to the butt of the Dragoon Colt.
Hot indignation ripped through Colin as he realized what the Mexican planned to do. With a growl of fury, he brought his left hand from his side. He struck the bottom of the Starr, meaning to push it away from him, forcing it inwards and up. The result was all, and more, than the Kid had hoped for.
Adàn Flores had never been a quick thinker,
so the Scot’s reaction took him by surprise. Feeling the Starr struck, he reacted far too slowly. By the time his brain flashed its message to the right forefinger, the gun’s barrel was no longer pointing in Colin’s direction. Carried up by the Scot’s hand, the Starr’s muzzle aimed towards the side of its owner’s head.
Just an instant too late Flores realized the danger. His finger tightened on the trigger. The Starr had a double-action mechanism, but could be cocked manually. When this was done, a slight pressure on the trigger freed the hammer. So it proved. At Flores’ tug, the hammer drove downwards and struck the waiting percussion cap. Flame spurted from the barrel, singeing the bandido’s hair as the bullet ploughed into Flores’ temple. Shock and disbelief momentarily twisted at Flores’ face as he jerked erect. Then he reeled sideways and sprawled to the ground.
After which all hell tore loose by the halted stagecoach.
Jaime started to turn his revolver in Colin’s direction, then realized the danger of such a move. One could not give Cabrito, the Ysabel Kid, that much of a chance and live to boast about it. So he swung his attention back to the black-clad young Texan. Only just in time, for the Kid’s right hand had already gripped the Dragoon and started to pull it from the holster.
At Colin’s first hint of movement, the Kid folded his fingers around the walnut butt and hooked his thumb over the hammer spur. He began to lift the gun, drawing back the hammer so as to complete the cocking by the time the barrel cleared leather. Unfortunately Jaime’s attention did not stay on Colin and Flores for long enough to let the Kid complete his draw.
Seeing the Kid’s predicament, April brought her hand from the bag. In it she held a Remington Double Derringer, .41 in caliber and deadly at close quarters. Going by the way she cocked and aimed the little hide-out gun, April had taken the trouble to gain proficiency in its use. The Derringer’s upper barrel cracked and a hole appeared in Jaime’s forehead. Dropping his Colt, he staggered around in a circle and then collapsed. There was no time for the Kid to express his gratitude at being saved.
