by J. T. Edson
‘Water’s colder’n a blue norther,’ Dude remarked. ‘But it surely beats trail dirt.’
Dusty and Mark had been thinking the same thing and they collected a change of clothes from their war bags. The Kid joined them and they all bathed in the cold water of the North Canadian.
It was a far cleaner and shaved crowd who gathered round the fire to drink and yarn. Thora went down after the men had finished and, by the time she returned, only Dusty, Mark and the Kid were awake, the rest all being wrapped in their bedrolls. The three men came to their feet with exaggerated politeness as she came up to the fire.
‘Howdy, ma’am,’ Dusty began. ‘Where did—Oh, it’s you, Thora. I thought it was a lady, not seeing you a couple of inch deep in trail dust.’
Thora sniffed disdainfully and went by with a jeer of: ‘If you worked, you’d get dusty too.’
Dusty watched her climb into the bed wagon, then turned his attention to the others. Mark was spreading his bedroll down ready to get into it as soon as he had turned out the next night-herd. Dusty shook his head and said: ‘I shouldn’t have taken that bath until morning. Don’t feel tired now. Reckon I’ll head out and look over the herd. You pair turn in.’
‘Ain’t tired now, myself,’ the Kid growled. ‘I reckon I’ll take my mount and light out tonight. Got me a hunch that something’s going to happen real soon.’
Dusty had a whole lot of faith in his pard’s hunches. They had a nasty habit of developing into full-blown, real come-ups. He told the Kid to light out, if that was how he felt, and not to get lost. Then he wound up with: ‘Happen you get to Dodge before we do. Tell that nice Mr. Earp we’re powerful sorry, but we’ve just got to use his fair metropolis.’
‘I’ll do just that,’ the Kid promised. ‘You roll my bed up for me, come morning. Ole Salt’ll cuss me like to peel my hide if he has to do it for me.’
Dusty watched his dark friend fade into the night, then heard Mark waking the relief night-herd. The four hands rose cursing the drive, the cattle, the trail boss and the segundo.
Going out with the four men, Dusty talked with the old night-herders. ‘They’re settling down real quiet now, Cap’n,’ one remarked.
‘Sure, happen they’re all quieted down come dawn, we’ll go back to a two-man herd come night again.’
Crossing to the remuda Dusty allowed Tarbrush to slip into camp for a cup of coffee, then returned himself. The camp was all silent and Dusty built the fire up, then rolled himself into his bed and went to sleep.
Far to the north, the Ysabel Kid slid from the back of his big white stallion, removed the saddle and turned the horse loose. Picketing the Comanche relay near to hand, he settled down. Using the sky for a blanket and the ground for a mattress, he was soon fast asleep.
Ten – Loncey Dalton Ysabel Rides Scout
The Ysabel Kid rode his big white stallion and led the three-horse Comanche relay tied in line one behind the other. The dark youngster was never more Indian than when he rode as he was now, on the scout for whatever he could find. He was very alert as he rode through the Indian Nation brush country, for here was a land ideal for ambush. It was from the shelter of the coulees and brush that the Kliddoe men would lay up, ready to swarm upon the unsuspecting Texas men who drove their herds along.
The land ahead held a curious fascination for the Kid. Not for him to ride blithely and unseeingly over a rim, or into a coulee. He approached each with Indian caution and examined the ground ahead carefully. This alert caution was inborn to him and came naturally when in the country of an enemy. It was what kept a man alive on the blood-drenched banks of the Rio Grande country the Ysabel Kid had been born and raised in.
The big stallion stopped, snuffling softly and tossing back its head as it sniffed the breeze. In the same instant, the Ysabel Kid slid from the saddle, his Winchester joining him as he went into the shelter and cover offered by an old scrub oak. Except for one click, as he threw open the lever and slapped a shell into the breech of the rifle, there was no other sound or movement from him.
The white stallion knew what it had to do without telling. Turning, it trotted off back the way it came, leading the Comanche war relay after it.
Lying flat under the scrub oak, the Kid placed his ear to the ground and listened. At first, he could only hear the sound of his own four horses moving away; then, when the white found cover and that sound ended, faintly from the other direction could be heard two more horses approaching.
The Kid knew what was happening now. Thunder would have led the other three horses off into cover and was waiting for him to give his next orders. The white would not move until he whistled; then it would come back fast. The other two men, if it was two men, would be headed this way for the same reason he was following it. The way was the easiest; an old Indian war-trail, which allowed ease of travel with a fair amount of concealment.
Time dragged by and the Kid looked back to where, in the far distance, the dust of the trail herd rolled into the air. Then gave his full attention to whoever was coming this way.
Two men came into view. The Ysabel Kid’s lips drew back in a savage grin as he recognized one as the man with whom he’d had words in Granite City, Texas. The other was a tall, lean, sullen-looking though handsome man, dressed like he was advertising a leather shop. He wore the rig of a cowhand dandy, this one, from his high-crowned, snow-white Stetson to the soft, expensive levis tucked into shining boots. Yet he didn’t sit his big palomino gelding like a cowhand.
The two men were riding along, talking and showing such a complete lack of caution that the Kid thought they were slighting his abilities. He listened to their talk and was enlightened as to who they were. He also got proof that his guess about the watcher all the way north had been correct.
‘Where at’s this herd, Blount?’ the dandy asked.
‘There, under that dust. ’Bout a day’s drive off and coming fast. They’ll be all set-up for the Colonel in two days. Then there’s another herd behind them ’bout three days. Allison’s C.A., that one.’
‘That don’t make us no never mind. Uncle Jethro’n me, we knows how to deal with them sort. We’ll take us head-tax toll, or herd, from both of ’em.’
Blount nodded in sycophantic agreement. ‘Sure, Cawther. We’ll do us just that. The one I wants is that black-dressed ’breed
‘Friend, you got your want!’ The Ysabel Kid left cover in a lithe bound that would have done credit to a buck Apache. He landed before the two men so fast and so quiet that they got the idea the ground had opened to sprout him, full-growed Winchester rifle and all.
Both men brought their horses to a sliding, riding halt, hands stabbing at the butts of their guns. The dandy was the faster of the two, and he got first attention from the Kid’s old rifle. The Winchester spat once, held hip-high, throwing two hundred grains of best quality B. Tyler Henry flat-nosed lead bullet through the dandy’s shoulder.
Blount’s gun was out. He jerked the horse’s head round as the Kid fired a second shot. His own bullet missed the black-dressed youngster by inches as the Kid hurled himself to one side. The Kid’s bullet was intended for Blount, but killed the horse instead.
Kicking his legs free as the horse went down, Blount swung his revolver in an attempt to line on the Kid. Loncey Dalton Ysabel didn’t wait for such a move. The lever of the rifle flipped open, flung out the empty case and replaced it with a loaded bullet. The Kid dropped while he was doing it and fired as he landed. Blount’s bullet passed over the Kid’s head, then Blount rocked over backwards.
Cawther Kliddoe had slid off his horse, and was trying to get his gun with his uninjured left hand. The Kid glided in like a Comanche headed for a white-eyed scalp taking.
‘Fool idea!’ he warned and brought the metal-shod butt of the old Winchester round to smash against Kliddoe’s jaw.
The Dandy went over backwards and lay still. Bending over, the Kid pulled the fancy, silver-mounted Navy Colt from the leather and was about to throw it away. Then he
remembered that Little Jackie had lost his old gun on the stampede and was in need of a new weapon.
Looking down at the unconscious man, he said: ‘And you kin to ole Yellerdawg Kliddoe, you deserves to lose this gun.’
With the gun tucked into his waistband, the Kid took stock of the situation his enterprise had brought about. When he came out from under the bush, he had possessed no set plan. A challenge had, unwittingly, been thrown at his head and he had replied to it. The net result of his impulsive appearance was one very tough, very dead spy, plus one wounded and unconscious nephew of Jethro Kliddoe, leader of the Kansas Border tax collectors.
The sound of hoofbeats brought the Kid whirling round in time to see Kliddoe’s Palomino headed back in the direction it had come and travelling at a fair speed. This did not enter into the Ysabel Kid’s sense of the fitness of things at all. He knew that, throughout the West, a riderless horse coming home was a serious cause for alarm. The last thing he wanted was for Jethro Kliddoe to be given anxiety about the wellbeing of his favorite nephew.
One glance was enough to show that Kliddoe would not be going any place, and so the Kid was free to act. He gave a shrill whistle and the big white stallion came crashing towards him. Running forward, the Kid drew his bowie knife with his left hand and carried the rifle in his right. The Kid went up into the saddle like he was jumping a foot-high fence. The knife slashed, cutting loose the Comanche relay and, before the severed lead rope had fallen, the white was running.
The Kid sat his racing white and sheathed the knife, then booted the rifle. Next, he unstrapped and shook the kinks out of his rope while the white closed the distance with the running palomino. The chase was not prolonged; that palomino wasn’t trying to get away and, even had it been, the gelding never breathed that could outrun that big white stallion, even when the latter was carrying its rider.
The Kid built up his noose and sent it flying out to drop over the head of the palomino. Bringing the two horses to a halt, he squinted ahead over the range. A rising column of smoke caught his eye; smoke where no smoke should be. The Kid made a careful note of its direction, then headed back to the scene of his encounter with the Kliddoe men.
The Comanche relay were grazing, and Kliddoe still lay where he had fallen. The Ysabel Kid hardly noticed them as he rode back, for he was very thoughtful. That smoke would most likely mark the campsite of the Kliddoe men. That was far more likely than it having been caused by a nester’s cooking fire. The locating of the Kliddoe camp was now a certainty. Even without the smoke, there were tracks to be followed.
Swinging down from his horse, the Kid checked on how far away the herd was. He attended to his horse, then gave his attention to the wound in Kliddoe’s shoulder. The young dandy was groaning his way towards consciousness, and the Kid talked as he worked.
‘You never up and went and left me,’ he said to the groaning and uncomprehending man. ‘Now did you, friend. I’m real pleased that you didn’t, ’cause you’re our lil ole ace-in-the-hole. You’re going to help take the pot for the ole Rocking H, less I miss my guess.’ He stopped and made a quick check around, then went on: ‘Ole Dusty’s going to be real pleased to see you. Just think about that now, a Texas boy pleased to see you. I bet you never thought to hear that. Almost worth getting shot for, warn’t it?’
Cawther Kliddoe had recovered enough to lay still and look up at the dark face whilst he listened to the soft, drawling Texas voice. He raised himself on his good elbow and spat out: ‘You’ll get your’n! Wait and see!’
‘Waiting long and lonesome and so are you.’
‘Uncle Jethro’ll fix you and your bunch.’
‘Not him. Ole Yellerdawg don’t want, nor like, no war, happen the other side’s ready and got guns. And, if he wants war, I reckon we can hand him some along of one real dead kinsman.’
The full import of those words didn’t hit Kliddoe for a few seconds for he was looking at a face as cold, emotionless and menacing as any Comanche Dog soldier. The face of a killer born and efficiently raised.
Spitting out curses, Kliddoe tried to boost his courage. The words died an uneasy death as a hair was plucked from his head and a bowie knife came into a dark hand. The Kid placed the edge of the knife to the hair and cut. Kliddoe had seen a barber do this same thing with a fresh honed razor, the result was the same, the hair split in two pieces.
‘Hombre!’ The Kid’s voice cut in, mean and menacing as a silvertip coming out of its winter sleep. ‘You ain’t got the brains of a Texan, the looks of a desert canary, but happen you got the sense of a seam squirrel. You get shut and stay shut. Rile me any more with your wicked words and vile accusations and I’ll cut your tongue out. After what your uncle and his crowd did to my pard in the war, I’d as soon do it as not.’
Cawther Kliddoe shut his mouth tight. He was remembering tales told of a handsome, innocent-looking youngster who rode a white stallion and handled a rifle like a master. They were not tales to hearten a prisoner of this man, rather they were tales liable to make such a prisoner wish he had been captured by raiding Comanche or Kiowa braves.
Time dragged by. The Kid lounged in the shade of the bush, watching and waiting for the herd to come up. Kliddoe managed to drag himself, first to the dead horse to get a drink, then to shade and lay back moaning and holding his shoulder.
Dusty rode ahead of the herd. He saw the horses and read from what he saw that his young friend the Ysabel Kid had found some trouble. He halted his paint and looked down at the wounded man. ‘Borrowing neighbor, Lon?’ he inquired.
‘Kin of ole Yellerdawg hisself,’ the Kid replied proudly. ‘And I called it right about that hombre with the three-hoss relay. You might as well have let me kill him down in Granite. I got round to doing it anyways.’
‘Sure.’ Dusty was long used to the callous way the Ysabel Kid showed when dealing with enemies. ‘You were right, for once. I’ll write the folks to home and tell them you’ve finally been right.’ He turned his attention again to the wounded man. ‘Looks like some deck’s gone shy its joker. Happen it’s ole Kliddoe’s stacked pile, he’d like to get you back alive.’
‘Yeah, he might at that.’ The Kid sounded doubtful. ‘He might like this pelado, but I can’t see why.’
‘What Cousin Betty calls fascination of the horrible.’ Dusty passed over the suggestion that Kliddoe was in border slang, a corpse robber. Pelado, in correct usage, meant a skinner of dead animals; but, used in the way the Kid spoke, it meant robber of the dead.
The Kid told what he had seen and what had happened since he met up with Kliddoe and Blount, ‘Allow I can find their camp now, was I to try real hard.’
‘Sure. But wait until after you’ve fed. You look all gut-shrunk and needing food.’
They mounted the wounded man on to his horse and escorted him back to meet the herd. The trail-hands were all too busy to take any notice of the three riders. The country through which they were now moving was thick enough to keep all hands busy. Thora saw the men and left her place on the drag. Her face paled under the tan and trail-dirt as she saw the wounded man.
‘What is it, Dusty?’ she gasped.
‘Not much. Happen you could call it old Yellerdawg Kliddoe’s favorite nephew, come to call.’
Cawther Kliddoe was staring at the trail-dirty young woman and hardly recognized her as the erstwhile belle of York, Pennsylvania. He grinned triumphantly, and sneered, ‘Howdy, Cousin Thora!’
Thora’s stomach felt suddenly cold; she looked at the two Texas men, but could read nothing in either of their faces. She wondered what they made of this greeting from a man who they hated.
Kliddoe grinned evilly at the cowhands. ‘Yeah. She’s my kin. What do you reckon about that?’
‘I’ve got kin I wouldn’t spit on, too.’ Dusty spoke to Thora, not Kliddoe. He turned and waved to Salt Ballew, who was coming up with his wagons. ‘Hold her in a spell, Salt.’
‘You reckon being kin to Miz Thora’ll buy you anything, hombre?’ The
Ysabel Kid’s voice was soft and deceptive.
‘Sure, them hands won’t take it kind to know they’ve been working for my kin.’ Kliddoe leered triumphantly at the two Texans. ‘So, afore I tells them, you’d best—’
The Kid jumped his big white forward, slamming into the Palomino. His hands shot out and dragged Kliddoe from the saddle. They hit the ground with Kliddoe held flat and the Kid kneeling astride him, knife in hand. Gripping the other man’s nose, the Kid held on until Kliddoe opened his mouth.
‘You’re going to have trouble telling without a tongue.’
‘Lon! No!’ Thora screamed as the knife went towards Kliddoe’s mouth.
Dusty flung himself from his horse yelling: ‘Quit it, you damned crazy Comanche.’
The Kid slammed Kliddoe’s head back against the ground in disgust, then rose and sheathed his knife. He turned and grinned sheepishly at Thora, his young face innocent and almost babyish. She could hardly believe, looking at that face, that its owner could be so deadly and dangerous. She didn’t doubt that, without Dusty’s intervention, Kliddoe wouldn’t have had a tongue in his mouth that moment.
‘Sorry, Miz Thora.’ The Kid managed to sound contrite. ‘I forgot ole Dusty don’t like the sight of blood.’
Salt climbed down from the wagon; he didn’t know what was happening, who the wounded man was or why the Kid had taken such drastic action. If he was surprised at all it was only that the Kid had allowed himself to be swayed from his purpose and that the stranger still kept his tongue.
‘What about him?’ he asked.
‘Throw him in the bed wagon, and see he don’t get loose,’ Dusty replied. ‘Then I want some food for Lon.’
Salt grabbed Kliddoe and hauled him erect, then pushed him towards the bed wagon. He did not know any more about the prisoner than before, but all he needed to know was that Dusty didn’t want the man to get away.