by J. T. Edson
For three miles the boy followed sign which only his father could read most of the time. It said much for Hondo Fog’s trust in Ysabel that he accepted the boy’s lead even when unable to see any reason for going in that particular direction. However, after the second mile Hondo received proof of the boy’s accuracy when the track grew more plain due to another segment of the gang joining the one they followed. Two more groups joined in soon after and the sign showed more plainly.
Drawing his horse to a halt, Loncey looked around him with some interest. ‘Obregon’s place is just over the rim there, ’ap.’
‘You’re right, boy,’ Ysabel answered. ‘They’ll likely be inside.’ While Hondo Fog had heard of Obregon’s cantina, he could not have said for sure whether it lay near or far from their current position. However he accepted the boy’s word and followed as Loncey dropped from the horse and advanced on foot up the slope ahead of them. For a white man, and peace officer to boot, Hondo showed considerable knowledge of certain basic matters Loncey believed only a Comanche appreciated. Coming up on foot, the sheriff moved silently and kept well below the head of the rim as he and the boy peeped over. From what met Honda’s eyes, he judged that the boy led him well. Out in the floor of the valley lay Obregon’s cantina, a pair of really fine horses stood tied to its hitching rail. In the adobe-walled corral, some twenty good mounts moved restlessly.
‘The whole bunch’s there,’ Hondo breathed, watching a tall, well-dressed and heavily-armed Mexican walk from the cantina to the horses at the hitching rail.
‘That’s Montego,’ Loncey informed the sheriff.
‘It figures, boy. Let’s go talk to your pappy.’
Hondo did not need discussion to see the difficulty in capturing Montego’s band. Taking the cantina would create no serious problem. A notorious hide-out for the worst kind of border thieves, it could be reduced from the rim by the lightweight 12-pounder howitzer carried sectionally on mule-back with the soldiers. That would be the only way in which the cantina could be taken without considerable risk and loss of life, for it was built in the center of the valley and insufficient cover prevented any chance of a large body of men moving in close. Even using the howitzer would not be of much more use. At the first shot, Montego’s bunch would be running for their horses. The Rio Grande glinted about a half mile away, offering a safe refuge to the Mexican nationals once they crossed it.
‘They’ve sure picked a swell place,’ Hondo concluded, after explaining the situation to the other two men.
‘We couldn’t catch up to them before they’d be mounted and over the border,’ Branston Blaze complained bitterly.
‘Which same’s why Obregon’s place is so popular,’ Ysabel drawled. ‘He’s got a lousy cook.’
‘There has to be a way—’ Honda growled.
‘You could nail them afore they hit the river was they afoot,’ said Ysabel.
‘Only they won’t be,’ the sheriff pointed out. ‘That corral’s gate faces the cantina. Even if we put down the guard they’ll have on it and let the horses out, Montego’s bunch would start running for the border.’
‘If they knew the hosses had gone, they would,’ Ysabel agreed, looking to where Loncey now stood listening. ‘How’d you like to try your hand at raiding, boy?’
‘Would I just, ’ap!’ enthused the boy.
The old Comanche pursuit of raiding meant appropriating horses, any other loot gathered being merely a secondary consideration. Every properly constituted Pehnane boy lived for the day when he could make his first essay into the noble art. Having studied the corral, Loncey could foresee no great difficulty. In fact he regarded the adobe walls as a positive asset rather than a danger.
‘How soon do you reckon those blue-bellies’ll be here, Hondo?’ Ysabel asked.
‘Could likely bring them in by dawn, if Branston goes and guides them here,’ the sheriff replied. ‘Kiowa can’t track in the dark.’
When they get here, can you hold them back until everything’s set; happen they come afore we’re through with the hosses?’
‘I reckon I can,’ grinned Hondo. ‘Ole Devil had a few words with their commander before we left the OD Connected.’
Which meant the officer would be more amenable to suggestions than most of his kind when dealing with civilians. At that time, as in later life even after being crippled trying to ride an unbroken horse, ix Ole Devil Hardin packed considerable weight in Texas affairs. No army captain with an eye on his future would ignore the suggestions of a man in Ole Devil’s favor.
‘Then we’ll give her a whirl,’ Ysabel drawled.
‘How do you plan to handle it?’ Hondo asked, after Blaze rode off to collect the soldiers.
‘Nemenuh fashion,’ Ysabel replied and patted the Comanche hair rope on his grulla’s saddle.
Moving silently through the darkness, Loncey, Ysabel and the sheriff made their way to the rear of the corral. Already one guard stood by the gate and, even as the trio approached, a second man left the cantina.
‘What now?’ Ysabel breathed as the second man walked towards the guard.
‘We’ll have to take them both,’ Hondo answered in no louder tone. ‘I’ll go to the right, you have the one on the left.’
‘Let’s wait and see if the one being relieved goes in first,’ suggested Ysabel.
Although they waited, the hope was not fulfilled. Instead of going to the cantina, as any decent guard should when relieved, the first man stayed talking to his relief.
‘We’ll have to take them,’ Hondo said.
‘Looks that way,’ Ysabel answered and laid down the rope he carried.
Much as he would have liked to go along, Loncey realized he could not waste time in arguing the matter. Not having been raised in the Comanche tradition, Hondo regarded fourteen as being just a mite young for the risky business of silencing horse-guards; especially as the boy was armed only with a knife and could not club a man insensible with that.
Leaving Loncey, the men moved off around the walls of the corral. Ysabel made no sound as he passed along the side and turned to the front. Ahead of him, the two guards stood talking in low tones. Clearly they expected no trouble, for they showed none of their usual alertness and their voices carried to him.
‘How that small one screamed,’ the man with his back to Ysabel was saying. ‘Hah! How I enjoyed it.’
‘So you should have,’ his companion replied. ‘You were the last to have her.’
With those words, a man forfeited his right to stay alive. Up until that moment Ysabel intended to use the butt of his big Walker Colt to silence the guard. On hearing that one of the men who raped Mary-Sue Hobill stood before him, he substituted the bowie knife for his gun.
Suddenly Rondo Fog loomed behind the second man, coming as silently as Ysabel from the opposite direction. Up swung the sheriff’s arm and lashed towards the man’s head. Even as the guard before Ysabel realized the danger, a big hand closed over his mouth from behind and dragged him back on to the point of the bowie knife. Savagely Ysabel rammed home the knife into the guard’s kidneys. His hand stifled any outcry, and death came swiftly. After a brief, convulsive jerking, the guard went limp and Ysabel let a lifeless body fall to the ground.
‘Did you have to kill him?’ demanded the sheriff as Ysabel wiped the knife’s blade clean on the dead man’s clothing.
‘I reckon Mary-Sue Hobill’d say I did,’ Ysabel answered. ‘Hawg-tie your’n, I’ll prop mine up by the gate so that anybody looking from the cantina’ll think they still have a guard out.’
Being an advocate for simple justice, Hondo raised no more objections. He had heard the conversation between the guards and knew why Ysabel struck to kill. Taking out the pigging thongs brought for the purpose, he secured the unconscious man at his feet and gagged him with his own bandana. By the time Rondo finished, Ysabel had propped up the body by the gate.
Dragging the prisoner between them, the two men returned to where Loncey stood. Ysabel did not need to sp
eak to his son. As Hondo went to keep watch on the cantina from the corner of the corral, Loncey bounded up, caught hold of the top of the wall and pulled himself over. Taking up his rope, Ysabel tossed one end over to his son. However, Loncey left the rope hanging for a moment. Swiftly he passed among the resting horses, calming down any which showed signs of restlessness, until he found the dominant animal. Being herd-creatures, horses always accepted one of their number as leader and followed its lead. If the scheme was to succeed, Loncey must pick out that horse from among the others. All the experience gained during his training years went into the search and at last Loncey made his decision. Catching hold of the remuda leader’s mane, he led the horse to where the rope hung.
With everything ready at his side, Loncey gripped the rope and shook it gently. Then he drew down on his end, whipping the hard rope over the top of the wall. At the other side, Ysabel waited until his son’s pull ended, then drew back on his end.
Back and forwards, back and forwards went the rope, its rough exterior acting as a saw and biting into the adobe blocks of the wall. It required much continuous effort, but man and boy worked on without stopping until they had cut down almost to the ground. Pulling free their rope, they moved it about three foot to the left of the first cut and repeated the process.
Time dragged by. At the cantina light after light went out, but Hondo knew at least one guard would be awake in the building. Apparently nobody missed the first corral sentry, although that could be because Montego meant to keep two men watching the vital horses.
On reaching ground level with the second cut, Ysabel and Loncey took a rest but did not remove the rope. Instead They started to draw the strands along parallel to the ground in the direction of the right hand incision.
‘Easy, boy!’ Ysabel hissed at last.
Reaching up, Ysabel gripped the top of the wall and pulled at it. For a moment nothing happened, then the cut-away segment tilted outwards and Ysabel lowered it to the ground.
‘Here, ’ap!’ Loncey said, voice throbbing with excitement but only a whisper.
Everything depended on how well the boy judged the horses. Ysabel caught the mane of the animal Loncey selected and led it through the gap. Instantly the boy started the next animal moving, but left it to quieten a third horse which began to show signs of becoming restless. Such was the skill Loncey had developed that he kept the remuda quiet while leading out horse after horse. Finding their companions departing, the remaining horses showed no reluctance at being woken from sleep and led out to where Ysabel, mounted on their leader, waited. At last every horse had been collected and Ysabel started walking the leader slowly away, with the rest following behind.
Chapter Fourteen – An Old Feud Revived
‘Where’s Loncey?’ asked Hondo as he and Ysabel moved the horses up the slope of the valley.
For the first time Ysabel realized that his son was not accompanying them. Twisting around, he looked back to the corral and from there in the direction of the cantina. Suddenly he knew the answer to the sheriff’s question.
‘The damned young fool!’ Ysabel growled. ‘He’s gone after those other two horses that’re out front.’
‘What’re we going to do?’ Hondo inquired.
‘Keep going,’ replied Ysabel. ‘Happen the boy can’t fend for himself by now, Long Walker and me raised him all wrong.’
With that Ysabel continued moving up the slope and Hondo followed. Already the deep blackness which comes just before dawn breaks had descended. If they were to succeed, the men must have the horses over the rim before Montego’s gang stirred in the cantina. On topping the slope, both men looked back, but beyond the black loom of the cantina’s bulk and corral walls, could discern nothing of what went on down below.
Two ideas motivated Loncey’s decision to collect the pair of fine horses from before the cantina. First he wished to distinguish himself by an act of bravery as had always been taught to him. Secondly he knew that Hondo meant to have the pair shot when the attack started, so as to prevent the men in the cantina using them.
Closing the gap between the corral and the cantina, Loncey moved in complete silence and his buckskin clothing merged with the blackness around him. Although no lights showed from the cantina, he did not become careless. So he heard the squeak of the front door and instantly sank to the ground in a crouch, right hand sliding the knife from its sheath.
A man walked from the cantina, sombrero on head and serape draped around him. Muttering to himself, he started to cross the open ground in the direction of the corral. Loncey knew what he must do. If the man found the denuded corral, he would raise the alarm and spoil all the good work of the night. Swiftly the boy thought of his instruction in the business of silencing an enemy. In often-repeated lessons, he had been taught where to use a knife at such a time so as to ensure a quick and silent death. Walking with his head bowed forward, the man prevented any chance of slashing the throat. Nor could Loncey be sure of striking any of the places in the body under the concealment of the serape.
Only one place remained—but it was one of the best for Loncey’s purpose, even if only a knife-fighter would think of it.
Nearer came the man, unaware of his danger. Half-asleep, inattentive, he paid the ultimate price for lack of caution. Like a flash Loncey came up from the ground, his knife licking forward. The razor sharp blade tore open the inside of the man’s left thigh, slicing in to sever both the femoral and great saphenous veins. Even as pain drove into the man, numbing his mind, Loncey’s left hand caught his uninjured leg at the ankle and hauled it from the ground. Down went the man, his rifle falling from his hand but not exploding. Dropping on to his victim, Loncey forced the sombrero over the man’s face and stifled any chance of an outcry during the thirty seconds needed for death to come.
Rising from the body, Loncey looked around him. All remained still, his silencing appeared to have been successful. He walked forward, approaching the two horses and whistling in a low, tuneless manner which tended to sooth any fears they might have. The nearer animal must have caught a smell of blood, for it snorted and moved restlessly. Darting forward, Loncey caught its head-stall with his left hand and commenced to quieten it in the manner learned so well during horse-stealing games at the village.
The man who left the cantina had bare feet and made little or no sound. Pausing outside, he glanced towards the horses and saw the dark human shape close by. Unsure of who it might be, but apparently suspecting nothing, he walked forward.
‘What’s wro—?’ he began.
Fast and deadly as a stick-teased rattlesnake, Loncey whirled around. He had heard the man’s approach and wasted not a single moment. Before the newcomer realized his mistake, Loncey struck. This one did not wear a hat and the boy knew just what to do. Across and up whipped his right arm, ripping the knife’s blade over the man’s throat. Deep into flesh sank the steel, slicing the wind-pipe, vocal cords and veins until almost touching the bone, preventing its receiver from being able to utter any sound. Turning, the man staggered, clutching at the hitching rail with his left hand while trying to draw the revolver from his sash with the right. Death came just as quickly as it had with his companion and he slid to the ground without making a sound.
‘A’he!’ Loncey hissed automatically.
Behind him the horses showed signs of becoming restless. For all that Loncey stepped to the dying man and pulled the gun from his sash; a precaution against a last minute burst of strength and determination drawing and firing it to waken the still-sleeping cantina. The smooth, hand-fitting curve of a Dragoon Colt’s walnut butt and the four pound, one ounce weight told Loncey what kind of revolver he held. It seemed that Ka-Dih looked in favor on the boy that night, not only permitting him to count coup twice, but also presenting him with the opportunity to obtain a highly-prized piece of loot. Already the Colt company had begun to build its reputation and receive just acclaim for the excellence of its products. Among the Pehnane no firearm was so highly prized
as the heavy, six shot Colt revolving pistol—as it was known at that time—and, by right of possession, Loncey now owned one.
Sheathing his knife, he thrust the revolver into his belt and went to the horses. With remarkably steady fingers, considering what he had just done, the boy unfastened the reins. He did not mount, but led the animals slowly away from the building. Already disturbed by the smell of blood, the horses showed no objections to moving away from its source. Once clear of the hard-packed earth before the cantina, with springy, sound deadening grass under foot, Loncey mounted one of the horses to ride it and lead the other up the slope.
‘See you got them,’ Ysabel grunted as his son joined him and the sheriff.
‘They’re good horses, ’ap,’ Loncey replied, giving all the excuses he considered necessary. ‘The soldiers are coming.’
Not for several more seconds could Hondo Fog hear the distant sound of horses moving. He glanced up at the sky, which lightened by the minute. Taking the bandidos’ mounts had been justified, for the soldiers would not arrive until after it became sufficiently light to prevent any chance of their reaching the cantina unseen. Given even moderate luck now, Branston Blaze would have the men on hand and the attack launched before any of the bandidos became aware of the loss of the horses.
‘You be needing us any more, Hondo?’ asked Ysabel.
‘I don’t reckon so,’ answered the sheriff, knowing his companion did not wish to meet the soldiers.
‘How about the hosses?’
‘The laborer is worthy of his hire,’ quoted Hondo. ‘Take them.’
‘Now here’s a lawman I could get to like,’ drawled Ysabel.
‘You try running contraband through Rio Hondo and you’ll quick change your mind on that,’ grinned Hondo. ‘And thanks, Sam.’
‘See you around, Hondo,’ Ysabel replied. ‘Let’s go boy.’
With the coming of daylight, Ysabel found just how worthwhile his son’s private raid had been. The two horses each sported a fancy, silver-concha decorated saddle and bridle, while being animals of considerable value. Studying the horses, Loncey felt content. He knew that he had performed a feat worthy of a Nemunuh brave.