by J. T. Edson
“Down there, huh,” he grinned, eyes raking the ground around the wagon.
A white man might have betrayed himself through anxiety or over-eagerness, but never a Pehnane Tehnap; and the Kid was all of that as he continued to ride into the ambush. No longer did he look young or innocent. Lips drawn back in a wolfish grin, rest of face a cold, savage mask, he might have been Long Walker, war leader of the dreaded Dog Soldier lodge, heading to meet an enemy.
Not that he under-estimated the dangers of the situation. Joe Giss claimed few peers in accurate rifle shooting and—as the Kid had told Shafto—had learned the art of concealment from Indians. So he would be hard for even a Pehnane to locate. Anywhere within three hundred yards of the cart could be the danger area. Up to that distance Giss allowed to be able to knock out a squirrel’s eye and call which one he meant to hit.
“So it’s from now to maybe a hundred and not less’n fifty,” the Kid decided, gauging the distance with an eye almost as accurate as a surveyor’s tape-measure. “Come on, Joe. Show your skinny-gutted hand. There’s one of your boys, all hid real careful behind that pepperwood tree. Another hunkered under the deadfall and one laid up between them sassafras bushes. Where’re you, Joe. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Giving no sign that he had located three of his enemies, the Kid rode on. Still no hint of Giss’ presence. Yet he would be there, hidden carefully and squinting along the sights of his rifle.
Watching the Kid draw closer, the man behind the pepperwood tree grew more alarmed. That was no ordinary man approaching, but Cabrito, who many claimed to have a charmed life. Gomez had been an asesino of high quality, skilled at his work, and everybody knew how he had died when sent after the Ysabel Kid. So, despite Giss’ orders that the others waited until he opened fire, the Mexican acted. Burning powder sparked alongside the pepperwood tree and the Kid slid sideways between the two horses.
“I got him!” yelled the man, his voice almost drowned out by other shots.
Finger already squeezing the Sharps rifle’s trigger, Joe Giss had received a shock when the Mexican’s shot cracked out. Nor could he control the involuntary tightening of his forefinger that set the rifle’s mechanism working. Both his remaining men’s weapons barked almost at the same moment and the three bullets tore harmlessly over the backs of the approaching horses.
Carefully concealed under the branches of another sassafras bush, Giss heard his man’s exultant yell. At first glance the words appeared to be justified, for the horses raced down the trail with no sign of a rider. The trouble being that the Kid’s body did not lie on the trail either. In which case, the Sharps ought to be reloaded and fast. Which raised a snag. To load a rifle, even a breech-feeding Sharps, meant movement sure to draw the Kid’s attention to Giss’ hiding place. Attracting Cabrito’s interest at such a moment was as dangerous a pastime as poking one’s head into the mouth of a starving silvertip grizzly bear and saying, “Bite it.”
Whoops of delight rose from Giss’ less perspicacious companions and he could see that none of them thought to reload their rifles. Then they too realized that something must be wrong. The two men from town signaled violently; and not in congratulation for a well-aimed shot. Closer thundered the two horses, still with no sign of the Kid. So the ambushers belatedly reached for powder flasks to begin the business of recharging their rifles.
When he slid from the sorrel’s back, a split-second before the Mexican cut loose at him, the Kid caught hold of the white’s saddlehorn. He hung suspended between the two horses, guiding the white by word and signal while retaining his hold of the sorrel’s reins. Watching ahead, he saw the cart rushing nearer.
“Sorry, Cap’n Rule,” he breathed. “But I don’t know if I can trust your hoss to come with me.”
With that, he let the reins free to hang over the borrowed horse’s neck. Dropping his feet to the ground, he used their impact to bound up and astride the white’s saddle. A wild Comanche yell shattered the air and the huge horse lengthened its stride. Dropping his rifle, one of the Mexicans sprang from his cover and snatched at the holstered revolver on his hip. None of the others were even close to being reloaded and could only stare, hoping not to catch the Kid’s eye.
Up soared the white stallion, taking the cart like a hunter-spooked white-tail deer bounding over a bush. Gathering itself, the sorrel also jumped, clearing the obstacle and lighting down running alongside the white. Wanting his own horse as fresh as possible for the work ahead, the Kid quit its saddle, dropped to the ground and leapt on to the sorrel’s back once more. Although the Mexican drew and fired his revolver, the bullet came nowhere near hitting the fast-moving Kid.
“Get after him, you stinking greasers!” Giss howled rolling out from under the bush and standing up.
Under the pretence of reloading the Sharps, Giss allowed his men to reach their horses—hidden among the trees—first. By the time he completed the loading, they were mounted and starting after the Kid. However his plan failed, for once by the cart they drew rein and waited for him. Scowling, he rode up and ordered the chase to be continued. Giss never cared to take chances; and neither did his men where the Ysabel Kid was concerned.
Holding his horses to a gallop, the Kid watched for a chance to lose his pursuers. At first he stuck to the trail, not wishing to pass through that thickly tangled woodland when riding at speed. A mile or so fell behind him before he reached more open country. So far his hunters had caught only fleeting glimpses of him on the winding trail and wasted no lead in trying for such a scanty target. However the trail stretched straight and level for almost a quarter of a mile. That meant presenting Joe Giss with too good a mark at which to aim. So the Kid swung his horses from the trail, riding up the slope flanking it to the south through the scattered trees and bushes.
Just as he reached the top, something struck the sorrel. The Kid heard the horse’s stricken grunt and the sound of a shot from behind him. Then the sorrel staggered and began to collapse. Throwing his leg across its back, he jumped clear and darted-around the white stallion’s rump. Even using the Indian-made boot, the Kid carried his rifle Texas fashion, on the left of the saddle with the butt pointing to the rear. So he needed only to grip the wrist of the butt and the horse walking away slid the rifle free.
“That Kid’s luckier’n the devil!” Giss spat out, lowering his smoking Sharps.
Seeing the Kid approaching the top of the slope and realizing the nature of the country beyond it, Giss felt disinclined to follow the young Texan further. So he swung up ms Sharps and chanced a snap shot. At almost a hundred yards, on a fast moving target, he might have counted himself fortunate to come so close to hitting his mark.
Swiveling around, the long old Mississippi rifle flowing to his shoulder, the Kid sighted quickly and took a fast shot. Giss’ hat spun from his head and he threw himself from the saddle to dive into cover, a move his men copied with some speed. Once hidden from further bullets, they looked to their leader for guidance. Not for almost two minutes did Giss offer to give any. Then he looked up the slope and sucked in a breath.
“Let’s go. Stay with the hosses. Manuel. The rest of us’ll foot it.”
After shooting, the Kid ran to where his stallion was waiting. He thrust the rifle unloaded into the boot and took the sombrero collected in Matamoros from where it hung on the saddlehorn. Drawing his bowie knife, he slashed open the top of the crown and ripped the brim. Tossing the ruined hat on to the body of the sorrel, he turned, mounted the white and rode off to the southwest.
Advancing cautiously up the slope, darting from cover to cover, Giss and his men approached the dead horse. Halting, their gaze went to the sombrero and noted the damage. Then they exchanged glances as the significance of what they saw struck them. All of the men, including Giss, had worked with Comanchero bands and knew something of Comanche Indian ways; enough to read the message left by the Kid.
If a raiding Pehnane brave found enemies persistently sticking to his trail, seeking t
o regain the loot lifted from them, he would destroy an item of their property and leave it in his tracks. That served as a warning of his future intentions. No longer would he content himself with passive flight. If they continued beyond his marker, he would kill on sight.
Some people, considering the Kid’s youth and appearance of innocence, might have regarded the hat as mere ostentation left without serious intent; but Giss did not number among them. He knew, as sure as spring followed winter, that to follow the dark youngster would be courting quick, unexpected death. So Joe Giss reached a rapid decision.
“That frog-eater colonel in Matamoros wants somebody to scout for him, boys,” he announced. “I conclude it’d be easy money. Let’s go take on for him.”
That meant deserting his partner, but Charlie Kraus had an understanding nature. Anyway, if their expressions were any guide, Giss’ companions wholeheartedly approved of the desertion, even if scouting for the French meant working against their own people. Turning, they walked back down the slope, collected their horses and retraced their tracks to Matamoros.
Nine – Keep Your Hands Off My Perfume
“Tired, Miss Boyd?” Sam Ysabel asked, turning in his saddle and studying their back-trail.
“I’ve forgotten what a bed is,” she replied with a wry smile and eased her aching limbs as best she could.
“Rosita O’Malley’s place’s down this ways a piece,” Ysabel told her. “We’ll stop off and let the horses rest a spell. You can grab some sleep ’til night-fall and then we’ll push on again.”
“I’ll not argue on that,” Belle assured him.
Before Eve Coniston returned to the house, Belle and Shafto had slipped away from the consulate. They carried the heavy saddlebags, containing the money, a change of clothing and few other items Belle felt she might need, with them. Joining Sam Ysabel at the pre-arranged rendezvous, the girl rode out of Matamoros before midnight. All through the night and on towards the following noon they continued to ride at a good pace. Although Belle felt very tired, she refused to show it until Ysabel suggested that they should halt.
At first sight, Rosita O’Malley’s cantina and posada looked little different to hundreds of other such places scattered through the Rio Grande border country. A two-storey adobe building set on the banks of a small stream, it offered a choice of stables or corrals for its guests’ horses. Choosing the former, Ysabel led the way inside.
“Only Rosita’s hosses here, and at the corral,” he commented and his grulla walked into a stall in a manner which showed that it had done so often before.
Fighting down her tiredness, Belle set to work tending to her bay. Then she went to help Ysabel care for the packhorse. Brought along more as a blind than for any other reason, the packs were empty and held in shape by light frameworks of twigs. While working on the horse, she saw a shadow at the doors and looked around. A tall, buxom, black haired woman, good-looking although no longer in the bloom of youth, entered. She wore a plain black dress, although of more daring cut than convention allowed. Halting, the woman’s smile of welcome died as her eyes turned from Ysabel to Belle.
“Hola, Rosita gal,” Ysabel greeted.
“Who’s she, Big Sam?” the woman demanded in English.
“Fee-ancy to one of Jack Cureton’s Rangers, come down the coast by boat. I’m taking her up to meet him.”
“You sure on that?”
“Would I lie to you, Rosy gal?” asked Ysabel, sounding pained. “Come here and give a hard-travelled man a kiss.”
A request to which Rosita responded with gusto, although throwing Belle a challenging, defiant glare as she commenced. When released, she turned to face the girl once more.
“Who’s your feller, sister?”
“Solly Cole from up Tyler way,” Ysabel put in. “Go make us some food and we’ll want two rooms until night fall.”
“I think you’re one big liar, Sam Ysabel,” Rosita stated. “And if I thought what I was thinking’s true, I’d alter the shape of her face some.”
“You mean like this?” asked Belle, swinging gracefully into a chassé, rear lateral kick which slashed her foot hard into the wall of the stall.
Jerking back a pace, Rosita stared at the mark on the wall and noted it to be at the height of her own face. Nor did she overlook the power with which the kick had landed, and she realized what it would do should it strike home on human flesh. A grin came to her face.
“I hope you ’n’ Solly Cole’ll be happy, señorita,” she said. “And I still reckon Big Sam’s a liar.”
“Only about me,” Belle smiled back. “He’s loyal and true to you.”
“Yeah, I just bet he is,” Rosita replied. “As long as he’s where I can keep both eyes on him. Come on. Leave the big Indio to finish the work and I’ll give you a meal. Then you look like you could use some sleep.”
Clearly the woman accepted that Belle and Ysabel were travelling together without romantic intentions. However she asked no questions about the girl’s real reason for riding the river trail. Nobody, not even a close friend like Rosita O’Malley, inquired too closely into the Ysabel family’s business—not twice hand-running, anyways.
“Shall I keep the saddlebags, or you, Miss Belle?” Ysabel asked.
“You, although there are a couple of things I’d like from them before I go to sleep,” the girl replied.
For a posada drawing its trade from people travelling the bloody border, Rosita’s place offered a good standard of cleanliness and the bed in the room allocated to Belle looked comfortable. Tired through she might be, Belle collected her dark blue shirt and riding breeches—dried and ironed hurriedly before she left the consulate—her parasol and, to Ysabel’s amusement, a perfume bottle with its spray attached from the saddlebags before going to catch up on her rest. She closed the door, placed her property on the bedside chair, hung her gunbelt on its back and eased off her boots. Then she lay on the bed and went to sleep.
Practice had taught Belle to wake at any given time. When she opened her eyes, feeling refreshed, she saw that the sun hung low in the western sky. Rising, she worked her muscles and found the ache had left them. It would be time to move soon, so she started to change clothes. While the black shirt and trousers fitted her, they lacked the comfortable feel of her older garments. With the riding breeches and boots on, a precaution against sudden departure, Belle reached for the shirt. She heard the lock click and the door opened.
“Well, now ain’t that a sight to see?” asked an unfamiliar male voice.
Swinging around. Belle saw a man and woman entering the room. Strangers to her, they wore filthy clothes and gave an impression of voluntary uncleanliness. Across the passage a man covered Sam Ysabel at the door to his room and a third turned towards the speaker.
“Wha—!” Belle began, darting a glance towards her gunbelt.
“You try it and I’ll blow your purty head off, gal!” warned the man at the door, thrusting forward a Le Mat revolver in a threatening manner. “Go take her gun, Amy-Jo.’
Standing at the opposite end of the bed to her weapons, Belle knew she could not hope to reach them in time. She stood still as the young woman walked by her and the man came closer. Despite his eyes ogling her bare shoulders and revealing underskirt, the Le Mat never wavered from its line on her stomach.
“Well I’ll swan, Hickey!” Amy-Jo announced, picking up the perfume bottle. “If she don’t have some fancy scent long.”
“Keep your hands off my perfume!” Bell snapped.
“You hear her, Hickey?” Amy-Jo asked. “Anybody’d think it was her got the gun way she gives orders.”
“Don’t you put any of that perfume on yourself!” Belle warned.
“Listen here now, quality gal!” Amy-Jo flared back. “Right now I don’t have to do one lil thing you tells me.”
With that she directed the nozzle at her face and squeezed the bulb. A misty spray of liquid shot out, striking just under her nose. Instantly Amy-Jo let out a strangled, gaggi
ng croak, half-dropping, half-throwing the bottle on to the bed as she reeled backwards. The raw, acrid aroma of ammonia rose from the girl as she stumbled around in a circle and dropped fighting for breath to her knees.
Hickey’s head jerked around to stare at Amy-Jo and for a moment he wondered what had caused the girl to act in such a manner. After which he became too engrossed in his own problems to care.
Up rose Belle’s foot and this time she wore a boot highly suitable for kicking. While Hickey’s Le Mat wavered involuntarily out of line, the toe of Belle’s boot drove with considerable power under his jaw. Shooting backwards across the room, he crashed into the wall, bounced from it and landed face down on the floor.
At the commotion, the nearer of the men in the passage turned and sprang into Belle’s room. His companion foolishly failed to keep full attention on Sam Ysabel. Whipping across, Ysabel’s right hand slapped the man’s revolver aside and flashed towards his holstered Dragoon. As the man took an unintended pace to the rear, Ysabel bunched and launched his left fist against the side of the other’s head. Sent reeling across the passage, the man tried to bring his gun back into line. Thumb-cocked on the draw, the big Dragoon bellowed in Ysabel’s hand as it cleared leather. The bullet sliced into the man’s head, ending his attempt at shooting immediately. Even before the man fell, Ysabel went leaping towards the door of Belle’s room.
Diving on to the bed as Hickey’s second companion entered, Belle grabbed the scent-spray. She swung its nozzle towards the man as he lunged with hands reaching for her, and squeezed the bulb. Caught in the face by the spray of ammonia, the man duplicated Amy-Jo’s reactions. Belle brought up her foot, ramming it into his stomach and shoving hard. Propelled backwards, the man offered Ysabel at tempting target. Up and down rose the big Texan’s arm, smashing the base of the Dragoon’s butt on top of the man’s head to drop him like a pole-axed steer.
From downstairs came the voice of Rosita O’Malley, raised in a mixture of lurid Spanish and Irish curses.
