by J. T. Edson
“So word’s got out,” the Kid breathed.
“Three Yankee steam-launches’ve gone up river passing it,” Rosita replied. “Big Sam said to tell you he’s swung off to the south.”
“Peraro and old Bully’s got fellers along who can read sign real good,” the Kid remarked. “I’d’s soon not have ‘em dogging my tracks when I go after pappy.”
“You want for me to put something in their tequila?” Rosita inquired.
“Does that firewater need anything in it?” countered the Kid and grinned at the pungent, obscene defence of the posada’s liquor. Then he went on, “Nope. Don’t you chance it, Rosey. I’ll tend to things myself.”
All too well the Kid knew Peraro’s and Segan’s vindictive nature. Let either of them feel the slightest breath of suspicion and no amount of potential family backing could save Rosita. So the youngster intended, if possible, to halt the pursuit in a manner which would leave her free from blame.
“I’ll do anything I can, Lon,” Rosita promised.
“I know that, you never did have a lick of good sense. Got some Ysabel blood in you, most likely. Only I got me a right sneaky, treacherous notion. Where’re their hosses?”
“In the corral, all except Peraro’s black stallion.”
“That figures. He allus keeps it in’ a stable if he can.”
“And with that Yaqui of his standing guard on it,” Rosita warned. “1 could send something out—.”
“Damned if I’ll chance eating here again,” grinned the Kid, “way you’re so set on slipping something into the stuff. Nope, Rosey. Happen you want to help, just hint around that Ramon might have some more fellers out ‘n’ about.”
“You’ll never get the black—!” Rosita began.
“Likely not,” the Kid agreed, although the time would come when he had to steal Peraro’s well-guarded favourite horse.* “But Bully’s bayo-coyote’s in the corral and not guarded. Ole Bully sets a heap of store in that hoss.”
“It’s a good hoss,” Rosita answered.
“Yeah,” the Kid replied. “And wouldn’t he be all riled up happen it’s gone comes morning?”
“It’s a big chance, Cabrito.”
“Yes’m. A real big chance.”
Silence fell and Rosita realised that the Kid had gone. Sucking in a deep breath, she rose from the backhouse seat, shook down her skirts and returned to the posada.
Although he went back to his horse, the Kid did not intend to make a move straight away. There would be no point on going on, for he needed daylight to find his father’s and Belle’s tracks. More important, he must attempt to prevent the two gangs following them. Trying to do so in an open fight offered too little chance of success to be contemplated. So he planned another way. If one of the gangs found some of its horses missing, the blame would fall on their rivals.
Taking Peraro’s horse from the stable would be difficult. So, despite his desire to attempt the feat, he decided against trying. Down in the corral stood a easier mark. Unless his boyhood training had left him—and he knew it had not—he should be able to achieve his ends.
Satisfied, he off-saddled the white and allowed it to roll on the grass while making his own preparations to catch some rest.
Like Belle, the Kid could wake at any time he set himself to. Sitting up, he looked around, darted a glance at the sky and estimated how long he had slept. Then he rose and moved to where he could see the posada. No lights showed at any of the windows, although a lantern still glowed in the stable. To one side the white stallion lay sleeping, but it woke and raised its head as he walked back to his saddle.
“Settle down again, ole hoss,” the Kid said quietly, unfastening the coiled rope from the saddlehorn. “I won’t be needing you for a spell yet.”
Leaving the horse still resting, the youngster made his way through the darkness towards the posada. Although not really needing one, he used the light from the stables as a guide and directed his silent feet towards the corral. Eyes and ears worked constantly to catch any slight warning of danger as the Kid drew closer to his destination. Probably as a sign of their trust and faith in each other, neither gang appeared to have a man guarding the horses in the corral. Peraro could continue to do so with his black stallion; for he always did, even in the safety of his hide-out.
Raiding—horse-stealing—always rated high in the ways a Comanche could gain honour and boys received a very thorough training in all aspects of the art. So the Kid possessed all the knowledge he would need to carry out his scheme. In his hand, he held his rope, a most useful extension of his will when properly used. On reaching the downwind side of the corral, he paused to study the situation and decide which horses he wanted to steal. For his idea to work out properly, he must take horses belonging only to Bully Segan’s gang.
Selecting the required animals, even in darkness, proved easy to a man of the Kid’s encyclopedic equine knowledge. Horse being gregarious by nature, they tended to bunch with those of their kind to which they were most familiar. So the Kid could make out three well-defined groups in the corral. Even without being able to point directly at Segan’s big bayo-coyote stallion, he quickly learned which of the groups belonged to the white men. Easing around so that the wind bore his scent into the corral, he watched the horses’ reactions. Mexican animals gave signs of restlessness at catching a white man’s scent; not as much as Indian ponies would, but sufficient for the Kid’s needs. With the ownership of the groups established, the rest was easy. Even before he withdrew down wind, he had located the Segan’s highly-prized mount.
Before entering the corral, the Kid took out his knife and slit the rope into three twenty foot lengths. Nomally an Indian on a raiding mission took along the ropes ready prepared, but the Kid had not expected the need to arise. However a small matter like that created little difficulty. Swiftly he made running nooses on two of the pieces, the original honda remaining to be used on the third. With all ready, he approached the corral gate openly. A low hissing whistle left his lips, alerting the horses to his presence without disturbing them. Fortunately even Rosita O’Mally’s stock saw enough arrivals in the darkness not to take fright at his approach and the gangs’ mounts regarded such behaviour as natural.
Carefully the Kid eased out the gate bars, lowering the ends he held to the ground. A quick glance around told him his presence still remained unsuspected and he entered the corral. Keeping up the soothing hissing, he moved among the horses. If any of them showed signs of restlessness, he stopped like a statue until the animal quietened down once more. At last he reached the bayo-coyote and it faced him with alert, but not frightened attention. Using the same unhurried, calm manner that had covered his every movement since entering the corral, the Kid raised the rope and slipped its honda-formed loop over the horse’s head. Giving a snort, the bayo-coyote tossed its head. If the Kid had so much as flinched, the stallion might have attacked; but he stood like a statue and continuing the low comforting whistle. Then the noose drew tight and the worst danger passed. Feeling the familiar touch of a rope, the horse stood fast and awaited the next command. Before attempting anything further, the Kid drew gently but insistently on the rope. As the sleek head lowered, he blew into its nostrils. Back in the days when the Comanche obtained the first of the ‘god-dogs’ from the Spanish explorers, it had been learned that breathing into a horse’s nostrils quietened it and rendered it amenable to orders. Nor did the bayo-coyote prove any exception, having received the treatment many times since its capture and training. Gently and without fuss, the Kid won the horse’s confidence and dominated its will.
Gathering two more of the horses belonging to Segan’s gang took less time and presented no problems. As its owner ran the gang, so the bayo-coyote led their mounts. Seeing it accept the newcomer, the others stood steady enough. Leading his three captives, the Kid walked slowly around the corral and through the gate. If anybody had been watching, it seemed that the trio of horses did no more than move aimlessly. Only while passin
g through the gate could the difference be seen. All the rest of the Segan gang’s horses followed, but he turned them back at the gate. Three would be enough for his plan and to handle more added noise and risk. Knotting the three lead-ropes together, he left his captives standing while he replaced the corral gates.
“Grandpappy Long Walker’d be proud of me,” the Kid grinned as he reached for the knotted lead ropes. “Sure wish I’d a pair of wored-out ole moccasins along—Naw, that’d give the whole snap away for sure.”
Often a successful Comanche raider would leave a sign of his presence to mock the people he robbed. A favourite trick was to leave behind an ancient pair of moccasins. Then when the owners discovered their loss they read the message that the raider no longer needed his old foot-wear as he could ride off in comfort on the stolen horses.
Much as the Kid wished he could play the old ending to his raid, he knew it would be impossible and impracticable. He did not have a pair of old moccasins along. Even if he had, using them in such a manner might ruin his scheme. Seeing the old Comanche sign might point out an alternative remover of the horses to Segan. The Kid’s connection with that particular Indian tribe being well known, his activities could be understood and the desired trouble between the gangs averted.
So, regretfully putting aside the thoughts, he led the horses around the outside of the corral and, on the opposite side to the stables, off towards where his white stallion waited. Picketing them securely out of sight of the corral, he returned to his interrupted sleep. By the first light of dawn he woke, packed his gear, saddled the white and returned to a position from which he could watch the cantina.
Soon after the Kid took his place, a couple of Segan’s men walked from the building and in the direction of the corral. Then the others came out, the gang leaders still apparently on the best of terms even if their men showed the same veiled hostility. Reaching the corral, the first pair came to a halt, staring at the horses.
“Now cut for sign, you stupid yahoos!” breathed the Kid Almost as if they heard him, the men directed their eyes to the ground and started around the corral. At last they halted, pointing down. Without attempting to follow the tracks further, they turned and dashed back the way they came.
“Bully!” one of them yelled. “Your hoss’s gone. And two more.”
“Gone!” Segan bellowed and started towards the corral. Standing at the door of the cantina to see her guests depart, Rosita decided to add her touch to the Kid’s plan.
“Hey, Ramon,” she called in Spanish. “I’ve sent Yaqui his breakfast to the stable. What an appetite. He eats enough for two.”
Harmless enough sounding words, but sufficient to raise unpleasant thoughts in Segan’s head. Suspicious by nature, he read what Rosita hoped he would in her words. There had been other hints during the previous night that Peraro might have more than the one man outside the posada. While accepting that Yaqui was standing guard on the black stallion, in the interests of retaining Peraro’s good will until after relieving the Ysabels of the money, Segan drew sinister conclusions from Rosita’s innocent statement.
Three of Sagan’s gang would be without horses, even if he took one of their mounts for himself. He did not wish to help bushwhack the Ysabels unless sure that he had enough men at his back to protect his interests.
Never known for his tact, but famous as a hater of gringos, Peraro’s second in command, Perez, could not resist injecting a mocking comment.
“You lose something, Matón?” he asked with a grin at his companions.
“You’re damned right I lost something!” Segan answered, swinging around to face the Mexicans. “Where are they. Peraro?”
“Matón, Bully, amigo,” Peraro replied. “I don’t know what you mean.”
However he stood tense, balancing lightly on the balls of his feet. One night’s drinking could not wipe away decades of antipathy caused by racial differences and working in active competition. No more than a precaution on Peraro’s part, it increased Segan’s suspicions and anger.
Quickly Rosita drew the cantina door closed. Not suspicious in itself. Born and raised on the border, she could read the signs. At the first hint of trouble, even without prior knowledge of its coming, she would have acted in the same manner.
“Where’s my hoss?” Segan demanded. “Where the hell did your son-of-a-bitch take it to?”
“I’m not sure that I like that question, hombre!” Peraro answered with the silky deadliness of a high born Spanish fighting man. “If you can’t keep hold of your horses, I am not to blame.”
“Keep ‘em!” Segan bellowed. “I’ll damned soon get ‘em back.”
Despite having an old Walker Colt hanging in his holster, Segan snatched the long bladed knife from its sheath and sprang at Peraro. Moving even faster, the Mexican also fanned out his shorter but no less deadly blade. With the fluid grace of a matador avoiding the charge of a bull, Peraro side-stepped Segan’s rush. As the heavy copy of a James Black bowie lashed harmlessly by him, the Mexican delivered a ripping thrust to the attacker’s body. Letting out a croaking cry of agony, Segan staggered by Peraro, dropped his knife, clawed at his belly and crashed to his knees at the porch.
“You never should’ve tried a knife, Bully,” the Kid commented, watching with satisfaction.
One of Segan’s men showed a better grasp of the situation than his boss. Whipping the revolver from his belt, he fired. The bullet caught Peraro in the shoulder, spinning him around and tumbling him to the ground. Out came more guns and men dashed for cover to continue the fight.
Satisfied that everything in his scheme was going as he wanted, the Kid returned to his horses. With both leaders incapacitated, the Ysabels and Belle Boyd need not fear pursuit from either gang. Finding his father’s tracks took only a short time. Using his newly-acquired horses, the Kid could push on at a better pace. From what Rosita told him and he had seen at the posada, the sooner they joined forces the better.
Chapter 11
They’ll Pay To Get Her Back
Due to nursing his throbbing jaw and thinking what he would do to Amy-Jo when he laid hands on her, Hickey rode through the darkness without his usual caution. Nor did the men with him show greater alertness, being concerned with their own sufferings. Before they could stop themselves or realise the danger, the trio found themselves covered by the guns of three horsemen who loomed out of the bushes.
For a moment panic filled Hickey, then he recognised the stocky shape on the nearest horse.
“Howdy, Charlie,” he greeted. “You headed for Rosita O’Malley’s?”
“Maybe,” Charlie Kraus replied, holstering his Colt. “You been there?”
“Sure. We got your word and figured Big Sam’d likely call in to see Rosey. He was there all right.”
“You went up against Sam Ysabel?” Kraus asked, his voice showing how he felt on the matter.
“Sure, but him and some of his boys laid for us and whomped us good,” Hickey answered.
“What is it, Mr. Kraus?” asked a woman’s voice and Eve rode forward from where she and Ffauldes had been told to wait until the approaching riders were identified. “Has he seen Ysabel and Boyd?”
“Sure,” Kraus replied. “At Rosey O’Malley’s place.”
“They ain’t there now, ma’am,” Hickey put in, sensing the chance of making a little money out of the disastrous affair.
“Who’s this, Mr. Kraus?” Eve inquired.
“Name’s Hickey. He tried to get that money.”
“Tried?”
“That’d be his best, ma’am. What happened, Hickey?”
“Big Sam was waiting for us. Nigh on bust my jaw, beat Tetch here about the head something evil and done for poor ole Lone Tom. Rosey lay a skillet on Mick’s face and when we come too, Big Sam and that high-quality gal’d lit out.”
“Where?” Eve demanded. “Along the river?”
“Down south, way Rosey told it,” Hickey replied.
“She told you that?” Kraus
growled.
“Naw. I heard her telling it to Ramon Peraro and Bully Segan.”
“Peraro and Segan, huh?”
“Who are they, Mr. Kraus?” Eve put in.
“Just about the meanest, most ornery pair of killers on the Rio Grande,” he explained. “Fact being, you’d be hard put to pair ‘em anywheres short of hell.”
“Then it wouldn’t be advisable for us to go to this woman and question her about Ysabel?” Eve said.
“Ma’am,” Kraus replied. “It wouldn’t be advisable even without them two there. Where Ysabel’s concerned, Rosey O’Malley wouldn’t tell you the time of day. And with Peraro ‘n’ the Bully both there, it’s be plumb suicide.” Then a thought struck him and he glared at Hickey. “How much did you tell Big Sam?”
“Nothing!” the man yelped. “Warn’t much talking done when we met up and time I’d got round to feeling like it again, he’d pulled out.”
“Where’s Amy-Jo?” Kraus growled.
“She—She pulled out,” Hickey admitted.
“Afore you come round?”
“Yeah. And when I lay hands on her, I’ll make her wish she’d never learned to talk!”
“So She told Big Sam how you got on to him?”
“She told him,” agreed Hickey. “You can’t blame her, Charlie. Big Sam’s got mighty fetching ways when he gets that way inclined.”
“That means Ysabel and Boyd know what we’ve done,” Eve remarked. “Here, take this ten dollars and ride!”
Grabbing the money, Hickey gabbled his thanks while putting the spurs to his horse. Followed by his men, he set off through the darkness at a gallop.
“That stupid—!” Kraus began. “A bullet’d been more his needings.”
Satisfied that there would be no danger, Ffauldes rode up to assert himself. He had heard everything said and felt he should give the others the benefit of his superior ability.
