The Floating Outfit 46
Page 10
Ignoring the groaning man at his feet, the Kid walked from the saloon and McKie followed. He watched the young man, who was standing there looking at the horses with brooding attention.
“Got a knife, Jock?” he asked.
“Never without,” McKie replied, reaching down and pulling a wicked-looking hunting knife from the top of his boot. “What the hell are you at?”
The Kid was cutting the reins of horse after horse, the eleven and a half inch, razor sharp bowie knife making nothing of the leather. “Never yet saw me a cowboy who’d walk, even to save a lady.”
McKie grinned as he saw the Kid’s plan. Then he asked: “What you fixing to do? Make like Georgie Washington and say ‘I can’t tell a lie, I turned your hosses loose’?”
“Nope. I’m going down there and try to pry her loose.” McKie stopped, his knife half-way through a rein. He was a noted poker-player; but, for once, he showed his surprise. Then he shook his head and severed the reins through. “Was it anybody but you, I’d say they was loco. Reckon you can do it?”
“Going to try. But I wish Dusty and Mark were here.” McKie knew why. The cowhands in the saloon would listen to either Dusty Fog or Mark Counter—for those pair were regarded as being the top hands in their line. The Kid, on the other hand, was noted more for his ability to ride scout, to follow a trail where even a buck Apache might fail, and to fight a Comanche Dog Soldier; but he was not regarded as a cowhand.
“Listen, Jock,” the Kid said softly as they released the last horse. “I want you to get hold of all the ranch-owners, all but Handle. Tell them what I’ve got in mind. Tell some of the older hands that you can trust. Don’t let out who I am to anyone. I don’t figger anybody could get to Peraro before I do. But it won’t help me any if he knows I’m the one whose against him. Something stinks about this whole thing. I want to get to the bottom of it.”
McKie agreed with this; and he was as wily an old border wolf who ever rode the dark trails and drove wet cattle or contraband over the Rio Grande. He also knew the task the Ysabel Kid was setting for himself and knew how little chance there was of it coming off. All the same, small though the chance was, if a man lived who could pull it off, Loncey Dalton Ysabel was that man.
The Kid whistled shrilly and his big white came from round the side of the shop at a fast run, sweeping along the street in a thunder of hooves. The Kid ran forward, caught the saddle-horn and went into the saddle with a single bound. In the same movement his old Dragoon gun came out and roared, and his wild Comanche war-whoop shattered the air.
The horses standing in front of the rails scattered all ways, breaking out and heading along the street, followed by the white stallion. The Kid swung over to hang over the flank of his horse, keeping it between him and the men who poured out of the saloon. Several of them held guns; but, before they could use the weapons, Jock McKie jumped into the trail in front of them, his old Walker Colt booming after the fast-departing rider. By the time this public-spirited action was over and the other men could manage to get clear, it was too late. The horses were streaming out on to the open range and the man was out of gunshot range.
“Who was it, McKie?” a man yelled.
“Could have been a Mexican,” McKie replied, ignoring the accusing looks.
Grumbling, the other man went along examining the cut reins, but one stayed back. He was a stocky, hard-looking cowhand, who rode as foreman for one of the spreads—a tough hombre, and an ex-Clay Allison rider. He studied Jock McKie for a long moment, then remarked:
“That yell sounded more Comanche than Mex. And that young heller in there looked real like a certain part-Comanche I knows.”
“Sammywell,” McKie looked piously to the heavens. “You are so right. You get your boss and the other three owners and come down to my shop. Don’t you go telling Handle or his bunch though.”
Holding the racing white stallion to a gallop, the Ysabel Kid left Wet Slim town behind him, driving most of the horses ahead of him. Then he cut the white off from after the others and watched the animals scattering. He was not worried that the men would lose their horses. A range-bred horse would always make for home if it was loose without a rider. It would take some time to round-up all the stock; and, long before that time was up, the Ysabel Kid hoped either to have rescued the girl, or to have met with an untimely end.
It was no easy task he was setting out on. That, the Ysabel Kid didn’t need telling. He was going to need all his Indian savvy and more luck than any one man could rightly expect. Ramon Peraro was a powerful man in this section of Mexico. He was so powerful that not even Don Emilio Kosterliski’s man-killing Rurales could get to him and end his promising career. However, there were three things Peraro needed to keep hold of his power. The first was the loyalty of his men, those hard, savage bandidos who would take any torture rather than talk. The second was his big black stallion, a horse which was, if not faster, at least the equal of the best the Rurales owned. The third, he needed two men badly to help rule his empire; these were Pedro Perez, his able second-in-command, and Jose Sanchos, the Alcalde of Piente. Perez was his shadow and made sure that no man ever got behind his back. Sanchos kept Piente safe for him, and warned of visits by persons of authority.
That was the only way to get at Peraro. He’d no kin to be kidnapped, and would hardly have bothered if he had. But he needed those three, the two men and the horse. If they were taken, it would cost him heavily in both prestige with the other members of his gangs, and also in vital backing. The Kid hoped that he might get at least two of the three; and, if he were real lucky, he might even get all three.
All this the Ysabel Kid thought of as he rode along a narrow, winding trail through the thick bush of the Rio Grande. He rode without any apparent need to see where he was going, nor to study the occasional side trail. This was an old smuggler’s route and one he could have followed just as well in the dark; in fact, he often had followed it in the dark. He came out on to the banks of the Rio Grande, the river which separated two countries. Up and downstream the Rio Grande ran fast, deep and treacherous; but, by some freak of nature, it widened out here to make a gentle ford.
Easing the white into the water, the Ysabel Kid rode across the river, wetting up to the top of his high-heeled fancy-stitched boots. He was alert and his rifle came into his hand as the water lapped around the white stallion’s legs. There might be a man or so watching this ford here, but it was highly doubtful. There were few enough who knew of the ford—which explained why it was not well used. The few who knew of it were border smugglers; and it was one of the few the American preventive officers did not know of.
For all of that, a man had crossed here a few days back—lone man riding at an easy pace. The Kid examined these tracks, but they meant nothing to him; not even when his tracks were joined by those of another who’d been waiting for him. The two sets joined yet two more men, who apparently stopped and talked together, then rode off. The Ysabel Kid made no attempt to examine the tracks further; they were of no interest to him and, as far as he could tell, bore no connection with Peraro.
“Tell you, Thunder hoss,” he remarked. “Let’s us look in on ole Juan Sebastion’s place and say howdy.”
The white went on at a steady walk through the bush, following a better-marked trail on this side of the river. It covered about a mile, when turning a corner the Kid found himself surrounded by grim-faced men, wearing dark gray uniforms and black braid down the legs of the tight trousers, and the eagle and snake badge of the Guardia Rurale on their high-crowned sombreros.
“Howdy, Don Emilio,” the Kid greeted a tall, spare, handsome man who was wearing the same uniform, but in better quality material. “Remember me?”
Kosterliski, head of the Rurales, remembered the Kid well enough. He had good cause to remember—for the young man had helped him escape over the river when he was being hunted as a deserter by the American Cavalry. Also the Kid once helped him in a bit of trouble with a would-be revolutionary.
“You are the Ysabel Kid?”
“Ain’t but the one,” the Kid replied modestly.
“I’ve heard it said that one was more than enough. Get down and eat with me.”
It was more than a friendly request; it was an order, for Kosterliski was the law in the part of the land. The Rurales swung from their horses and soon two fine-looking coaches came rolling up. A camp was quickly set up and a good, cold meal laid out for Kosterliski and his guest.
“What happened to Duvalde?” the Kid asked after they’d eaten.
“Fell off his horse, poor chap, while we were fording a river. Drowned,” Kosterliski replied cheerfully. “And now, what brings you to Mexico?”
“Peraro.”
“The dear Ramon?” Kosterliski’s face showed no expression. “And what has he done to attract the attention of the Ysabel Kid?”
The Kid wondered what Kosterliski was playing at. The head of the Rurales was the best informed man in the whole of Mexico and would be expected to know that Ramon Peraro was making a coup. However, there was little point in lying about it.
“Took a gal and brought her over the river.”
“Are you sure it was Ramon? My pardon for appearing to doubt your word, but my information was that Ramon is having trouble with his men for not working. Why did he take the girl?”
“Ransom. He wants thirty thousand.”
“Are her family rich?”
“Rich enough.”
“Then you are taking the ransom?”
“Nope. Going to try to get her loose. Not for her kin—they don’t even know I’m alive. What I don’t figger is why they don’t pay up. Got Russel riding for them and he knows Peraro, and what’ll happen if they try and pry her loose. Aim to get a bunch of hands and come down here to rescue her. I tried to talk them out of it, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“They contemplate making an armed invasion of my country?” Kosterliski’s eyes went hard.
“Did—but they won’t for a piece yet,” the Kid replied and explained why.
The Russian roared with laughter and slapped his thigh. “Cabrito, you are the most unusual man I ever saw. What do you intend to do?”
“Get her out of Piente.”
“If any other man but el Cabrito said that to me, I would split my side in laughter. But with you I don’t know at all.”
“How do I stand with you?” the Kid inquired, knowing it would be best to put all his cards on the table.
“Meaning?”
“I just aim to bend the law a mite.”
“In what way?”
“First off, Colonel, I aim to kidnap Mexican citizens and tote them over the border.”
“That is somewhat illegal, I’ve been told.” Kosterliski watched the dark face all the time, knowing what the Kid had in mind. “If I was not going four miles up the Rio Grande, I might have to stop you!”
“Going to steal me a hoss, too.”
“Dear me, is there no end to your evil-doing?”
“Happen I’ll have to kill some Peraro’s men while I’m doing it.”
“Cabrito, I am a man of the law. Yet I am also a man who understands the necessity of such actions. I will carry on up the Rio Grande, and will not return for a week. By that time, you should have ended your business.”
“I’ll be riding then; I want to be in Piente soon after dark and it won’t be long afore night now. See you, happen I make it.”
“I hope you make it. Ramon is a thorn in my flesh, and I can’t get near to him to remove it. Good luck, young man!”
“I’ll likely need it,” the Kid replied. He went to the big white stallion and swung into the saddle. “Hasta le vista.”
Kosterliski turned on his heel and called to his men to prepare to move. He watched the young Texan riding off, a slim, lithe and strangely young-looking figure to be on so dangerous a mission. Yet the head of the Rurales doubted if any other man alive had even half as good a chance as the Ysabel Kid of succeeding.
The Ysabel Kid was worried as he rode up to and left his white at the water trough outside Juan Sebastion’s cantina. The sun was setting, already, a few lights were lit inside the low, adobe-built establishment. There were several good horses tied outside the cantina, but the small front bar was deserted when the Kid came in. Only Juan Sebastion himself, big, fat and greasy as ever, was behind the bar. The Kid looked round; the room might be empty but there was loud talk from the other side of the thin wall.
Kosterliski should have known about the kidnapping, for he was the best-informed man in Mexico and very little happened that he did not know about. The Rurales would have spies in Peraro’s gang, and yet they had not reported a very important piece of information like that. It almost looked as if Peraro and Perez were going to double-cross the other members of their gang. In that case, the chore might be some easier.
Juan Sebastion was a good judge of character and he knew this Indian dark young gringo spelled danger as he came across the room in silent steps. There was something familiar about the way this youngster moved, and the eyes; but Juan Sebastion could not be sure. He wondered if he should warn the men in the other room to lower their voices.
“Saludos, señor,” Juan Sebastion began a welcoming speech in Spanish.
“Cut out that talk. I don’t know it,” the Kid replied in English.
Sebastion nodded politely, noting the butt-forward Dragoon gun and the knife. There had been one who carried such
weapons, one who
“I’ll take me a drink,” the Kid went on. Then, as Sebastion dropped his hand under the bar, he went on. “Knowed me a bar-tender who allus slipped something into a stranger’s drink, just for laughs. He died real sudden when he tried it on a man who knowed the game.”
Sebastion spoke very good English, despite his lack of culture; he knew exactly what his customer meant, and did not like the implication. He also changed his plan and left a certain small, green-colored bottle lying where it was until some less suspicious caller came.
“I say Ramon is wrong!” a voice yelled from the other room and, although it was in Spanish, the Ysabel Kid understood it perfectly. “He says we must hide here for another few weeks and it is long since we last made any money.”
“Softly, fool! If one of Ramon’s friends was to hear you it would go hard on all of us.”
“It might,” the first voice replied, still loudly. “I, Paco Santovel, am not afraid of Peraro, nor of Perez. Sebastion! More wine for my friends.”
Sebastion picked up another bottle and crossed the room, passed through the door and closed it behind him. The Kid went cat-footed to the wall and listened to the conversation, which suddenly dropped to almost whispers.
“What kind of a man?”
“Young, but bad, Paco. Much like el Cabrito—”
“El Cabrito?” Santovel’s voice rose slightly. “Is it he?”
“No!” There was scorn in Sebastion’s voice. “This one can’t speak Spanish—and el Cabrito spoke it as well as we do.”
The Kid returned to the bar and lounged there; he’d finished his drink when Sebastion returned and now leaned there as if he’d never moved. He set his hat right on his head, turned and walked out. He mounted the big white and rode from the cantina, into the fast-fading dusk. He was thinking again; here was proof that at least one part of the Peraro bunch did not know their leader was holding a girl for ransom. It smelled like a big double-cross and, given luck in getting hold of at least two of three things he wanted, the Kid would be in a position to dicker.
The town of Piente was built in a circle, with the Cantina del Peraro right in the center of the protective shelter. To get to it, a man would need to go right between the other houses where every man was Peraro’s ally. The Kid knew Piente well enough, although he’d not been there for several years. Like an Indian, he pos
sessed the rare faculty of retaining a map of any place he visited in his head.
Leaving the big stallion without saddle or bridle, on the banks of a stream, the Kid faded into the blackness and through the street of the town. Most of the houses were dark and deserted-looking, but from a few came sounds of revelry, The Alcade’s office was beside the jail; a look though the window showed this exalted official in his full glory.
Sanchos lay in comfort on a soft couch. He was a fat, bloated man wearing silver-filigreed clothes, his bare feet sticking out from the end of the trousers, the fat toes wriggling as he thought over his many blessings. For an obscure official in the Government at Mexico City, Sanchos considered he’d come far. He was Alcade of a thriving town, and drew revenue from various sources which would hardly have met with the approval of el Presidente. Of course, to a man with money, there was no reason why el Presidente should ever know. That was why Sanchos was so valuable to Ramon Peraro. The fat man knew the right people in Mexico City; and, from them, in return for certain monetary favors, he got much information.
The Alcade was a dreamer. Lying back on his comfortable couch, he dreamed of what he would do with the ransom money when the gringo girl’s relatives paid for her safe return. He also dreamed what might happen if the other members of the gang found out Peraro and Perez intended to double-cross them and not make a fair share-out. This latter dream disturbed him, and he tried to refocus his mind on the pleasures he would be able to buy in Mexico City with his share.
“Señor! I have need of your help, señor!” a whining voice said from outside the door. It was the voice of a poor peasant, requesting help from an important official, “My wife beats me and has driven me from my home.”
Sanchos bellowed a curse back: “Vamos, you swine! How dare you disturb your Alcade when he is resting, for such a small thing!”