by J. T. Edson
Having considered the situation, the Kid had accepted that he must adopt a far less easy method to shooting if he was to acquire the present for the elderly saddler. With that point conceded, he had set about making preparations for the task. Finding a clearing a short distance upstream of the pool which offered all he needed, he had first removed the saddle and bridle from his magnificent white stallion. With this done, knowing the horse would remain in the vicinity although not tied in any way, he had divested himself of the majority of his attire. Leaving this with the remainder of his property, except for the one piece of his armament he would require, he had set about arranging a diversion which he had hoped would permit him to reach his quarry undetected. Collecting some of the wild melons from a patch in the clearing, he had launched all except one in the direction of the bend which was concealing him from the geese. Employing no other tool than the razor sharp, needle pointed blade of his massive James Black bowie knife, he had hollowed out the exception and punctured two eye-holes in the skin. Placing the remains over his head and holding them in position with his left hand, he had waded into the river. On reaching a depth sufficient to permit him to float in a vertical posture, he had allowed himself to be carried by the current after the other fruit he had launched.
In spite of it having been several years since he had last performed the technique, the Kid had retained the skills acquired in his childhood. Having come into sight of his quarry and avoided arousing suspicion by allowing himself and his camouflage to behave in the same fashion as the unprepared melons, he had studied them. Choosing the bird which he considered was most suitable for his needs, he had made his selection by comparing its size with the other members of the skein. Satisfied by its incautious behavior that it was a young male, he considered it would still be sufficiently tender fleshed to provide the best possible meal. With the decision reached, he had started to maneuver himself and the hollow melon in the appropriate direction.
Watching with satisfaction as the distance between himself and the young gander decreased and there was no trace of it becoming suspicious, the Kid concluded it was now close enough for him to achieve his purpose. Sucking in a deep breath, to ensure his lungs were filled with air, he removed his left hand and lowered his head from its covering. Having done so, grasping the bowie knife in his right fist, he thrust himself forward beneath the water. Guided by instinct rather than vision, his left hand thrust out to grasp the unsuspecting gander by the right leg.
Even as the big bird let out a startled squawk which sent the rest of the skein into the air, the thrashing of its wings notwithstanding, it was dragged beneath the surface of the pool. Coming around, just as much in response to subconscious guidance as the grab with the other hand had been, the weapon in the Kid’s right fist found its intended mark. Biting into the throat of the struggling gander, the blade ripped so deeply it practically severed the head and a flood of released life blood gushed upwards. Already the spasmodic efforts of his victim were rendering it difficult for him to retain his hold on the leg. The increase in the violent motions caused by the response of the nervous system to the sudden close-to-decapitation, wrenched the limb from his fingers. But although the gander floated to the surface, there was no danger of it escaping.
Coming up a short distance from his lifeless, if still moving, victim, the Kid shook his head to clear the water from his eyes and cleansed his lungs by expelling the air they held with a snort. Using his free hand to thrust back hair as black as the wing of a Deep South crow, he trod water while waiting for the motions of the gander to come to an end.
‘They do say you live and learn,’ the successful hunter remarked, his voice a pleasant tenor and the accent that of a native-born Texan, as he began to swim towards his now unmoving victim. ‘Trouble being, you lived too short and you didn’t learn well enough. Anyways, you won’t be wasted more than your feathers, bones, beak and feet the way old Jock McKie’ll fix you for eating when I get you to him.’
Towing the bird at the conclusion of his sentiment, the Kid struck out with his knife filled right hand towards the Texas shore. As the water shallowed, he came to his feet.
Six foot in height, the body of the successful hunter was naked except for the blue breech-clout traditionally worn by a Comanche warrior. His body was scarred as a result of knife and gunshot wounds, but powered by wiry muscles indicative of an almost tireless strength. Indian dark like the rest of his skin, his face was handsome and that of a young man. Apart from his red-hazel eyes, which spoiled an impression that was deceptive, his features had an almost babyish innocence. Wading on to dry land, his movements were those of one who possessed great agility and would be capable of acting very swiftly.
Grinning in satisfaction, the Kid swung the lifeless body of the gander across his left shoulder. Allowing the bowie knife to dangle by his right side, he strolled leisurely away from the edge of the pool and towards the place at which he had left his horse and property.
Two – Kill the Bastard!
‘Hold it up and take a look there’.’ Sebastian Montalban ejaculated in his native Spanish, reining his blaze-faced bay gelding to a halt and pointing ahead. ‘This is our lucky day, amigos!’
‘It sure is, ’Tian!’ enthused Alfredo Acusar, also bringing his mount to a stop and gazing across the clearing at the objects which had provoked the comment from his companion.
‘Whose are they, I wonder?’ Tomas Acusar inquired, duplicating the actions of his elder brother and Montalban, and gazing around the deserted clearing in a puzzled manner.
‘Who cares?’ Alfredo countered. ‘He’s not around as far as I can see.’
‘Could be he’s taking a bath down at the river,’ Montalban supplemented, forming this conclusion from what he could see. ‘And, as he doesn’t have any guns with him, I don’t think he’ll cause us any trouble.’
In their early twenties, the trio of Mexicans were all tall and slim. They wore fairly expensive charro clothing—that of Montalban being of somewhat better quality than that of either of his companions—carelessly, as if the maintenance of the garments was of no importance. Nor was it, to their way of thinking. Being bandidos by choice and members of the most notoriously successful gang in Mexico, although their status among their associates was far from high—despite Montalban being a nephew of its leader—they never felt the need to take care of their property.
None of the trio had heard the phrase, or would have understood it if they had, but their ‘philosophy’ was simple. To their way of thinking, they could always obtain a replacement for anything ruined as a result of neglect by employing the same type of illegal means by which the original had been acquired. Few storekeepers in north eastern Mexico would dare deny anything a member of Ramon Peraro’s band demanded. Those who did quickly came to regret the decision and, provided they survived the penalty, were invariably more obliging in the future.
There was, it must be admitted, an exception to the rule where the care of the property owned by the trio was concerned. Reckless and irresponsible though they tended to be where clothing, jewelry, saddlery and mounts were concerned, they had sufficient common sense to pay reasonable attention to the condition of their weapons. The Colt Peacemaker in the fast draw holster and the fighting knife which swung from every belt were all kept in a state of serviceability.
Being engaged upon what had so far proved an unproductive raiding expedition north of the Rio Grande, which they as Mexicans referred to as the Rio Bravo, the three young men were making their way towards the town of Wet Slim in the hope of finding some kind of loot to take back to Escopeta as evidence of their abilities. None of them had expected there would be any chance of acquiring booty in the unpopulated area of woodland through which they were passing and they were delighted by the discovery they had just made.
Although there was no sign of the owner, nor any clue as to how the objects in the clearing had come there, the several items all had a monetary value and would be worth collecting.
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br /> There were also, if the trio had been given to perception, indications of who owned the property which was arousing their interest and avarice!
Lying on its side, the owner clearly being a careful man and aware of the damage which might occur if it was set down on its skirts, was a low horned, double girthed saddle with a plain bridle, bit and reins across its seat. A coiled lariat was attached to the horn, but the bulky bedroll—still wrapped in a waterproof tarp—had been unstrapped from the cantle and placed close by the rig. On the bedroll was a low crowned, wide brimmed J.B. Stetson hat—its shape, like the style of the saddle, suggesting the absent owner was a Texan—a bandanna which was still tightly rolled, a shirt and a pair of trousers. As a clue to the assumption made by Montalban with regards to his absence, the owner had left behind his boots—a gray woolen sock hanging from each one—but there was no sign of any kind of underclothing. Like the saddle, with the exception of the socks, every item of attire was black.
This alone should have offered the bandidos, young and inexperienced though they might be, a suggestion as to the identity of the man who had left the property in the clearing!
An even stronger pointer was available!
Sharing the seat of the saddle with the means of guiding the horse lay a black leather gunbelt. In the low cavalry twist draw holster on its right side, the butt pointing forward when worn, was an old walnut handled Colt Model of 1848 Dragoon revolver. Although the sheath at the left was empty, its massive dimensions were a clear indication of the type of knife for which it was intended. Even more evidential of ownership, particularly if a closer examination was made, was the rifle in the boot on the uppermost left side of the rig. While the ‘furniture’ of the standard factory issue of the Winchester Model of 1873 was brown, the exposed butt of this specimen had been made from top quality black walnut and carried an inset silver plate with writing inscribed thereon.
Perception had never been the strong point of Montalban, or of either of the Acusar brothers. In spite of all the indications which would have warned a person of greater discernment of a possible and very grave danger to them if any interference was made with the items in the clearing, they ignored the signs and thought only of their improved fortune. Since becoming involved in the activities of the gang, the brothers had frequently been the objects of derision from the older and more experienced members. Nor, for all his relationship to their leader, had Montalban found himself precluded from receiving similar treatment. Therefore, they were thinking only of taking the booty which chance had thrown their way to be displayed in Bernardo’s Cantina at Escopeta. The only consideration they gave to the owner of the property was whether it would be worth the effort to find and kill him, or if it might make a more amusing tale to announce they had subjected him to the humiliation of continuing his journey clad only in whatever undergarments he happened to be wearing.
‘Hell, if he’s loco enough to leave his gear lying around like this, he deserves to have to walk wherever he’s going in his union suit or buff naked,’ Montalban scoffed, in answer to the point having been raised by the younger of the brothers. Swinging from his saddle and allowing the reins to dangle free, “ground hitching” the bay, he continued impatiently, ‘Come on. Let’s go get it!’
Dismounting, Alfredo and Tomas Acusar left their equally well trained mounts in the same fashion. As they set off across the clearing, they made no attempt to go ahead of their companion. A sense of politeness was not responsible for them allowing him to precede them. He was the nephew of their leader and, as such, they reluctantly conceded the claim each knew would be forthcoming that he was granted the first pick at the loot. However, as he was dependent upon them for companionship and support, they felt sure he would not be excessive in his appropriations.
‘Madre de dios!’ Alfredo ejaculated, staring harder as the realization came that the subject of his exclamation was no ordinary run-of-the-mill Winchester. ‘Just look at that rifle!’
‘I told you boys this is my lucky day!’ Montalban replied, having arrived at an identical conclusion and intending to establish his prior claim to the magnificent weapon. ‘And it is!’ Normally, the assumption to the right of picking first would have been allowed to pass unchallenged!
However, on this occasion, the piece of loot was far more valuable than anything else which had come the way of the trio!
‘Then why not see just how good your luck is?’ Alfredo suggested, raising his avaricious gaze from the magnificent rifle.
‘How do you mean?’ Montalban demanded rather than asked, also turning his attention from the prize he considered to be rightfully his, and looking at the older of the Acusar brothers with suspicion and menace.
‘It’s plain enough,’ Alfredo answered, showing no sign of being put out or scared by the obvious challenge directed his way. ‘You reckon you’re so lucky, so let’s spin a coin to see who gets the rifle.’
‘Why should we?’ Montalban snarled.
‘Because I want it that way!’ Alfredo declared uncompromisingly.
‘Is that so?’ Montalban spat out, lifting his right hand until it was hovering above the butt of his Colt Civilian Model Peacemaker. 6
‘That’s the way I figure it’s going to be!’ Alfredo asserted, also adopting a position of threat and readiness. ‘And don’t bother telling me Don Ramon is your uncle. I know he is and I also know he always says the loot is shared out fairly.’
‘Hey!’ Tomas put in, watching his sibling and their companion growing more angry and preparing to act in the capacity of peacemaker. Before he could go any further, a movement caught the corner of his eye and, looking around, he pointed saying, ‘Look there!’
Following the advice” they had been given, the two young bandidos gazed across the clearing. What they saw temporarily drove all thoughts of hostility from each of them. They had closed their hands about the butts of their weapons, but neither drew it from its holster. Instead, they stared at a magnificent white stallion which was approaching through the trees from the direction of the river. It was the kind of horse each had dreamed of owning. While there was a glint of metal on its hooves, indicating it had recently been shod, it conveyed an aura of being as wild and free as any manadero master of a band of mustangs.
‘Madre de dios!’ Montalban ejaculated. ‘What a beauty!’
‘I suppose you’re going to say that’s yours as well?’ Alfredo inquired coldly, swinging his attention from the stallion as he detected the note which had entered Montalban’s voice.
‘And what if I am?’ Montalban wanted to know, once again bristling aggression as he concluded that he must quell the revolt against his authority or he would never again be able to exert it over at least the elder brother.
Being less involved in the dispute over the division of the loot than his sibling or their self appointed leader, as he accepted that he would as usual, be compelled to take whatever was left, Tomas was growing aware of something which was still escaping the attention of the other two. The remembrance which was starting to take form was of something far from pleasant or likely to create a sense of peace of mind. He was considering what could be implied by the combination of clothing which was all black, the archaic type of revolver butt forward in the holster, the suggestion of the type of knife carried in the empty sheath, the extra special Winchester and the magnificent white stallion.
Such attire, armament and horse was owned by a man who, while far from old in actual years, was already a legend on both sides of the Rio Bravo
A man who would be guaranteed to have the strongest objections against anybody who tried to make off with his property!
One who, furthermore, was said to be a sufficiently competent and savage fighter to render any attempt to steal from him hazardous in the extreme!
While Tomas could not imagine why such a man as el Cabrito would leave the valuable property untended, he felt that a warning of his suppositions was most advisable!
‘Alfredo, Sebastian!’ the you
nger brother gasped. ‘Do you know—?’
‘Suppose I say I want that horse and the rifle?’ Montalban asked, ignoring the words.
‘Then you’re going to have to go through me to get them!’ Alfredo asserted, paying just as little attention to his brother. ‘So that’s the way of it?’ Montalban hissed.
‘That’s the way of it!’ Alfredo confirmed.
‘Hey!’ Tomas yelped. ‘This gear belongs to—!’
‘All right,’ Montalban said, relaxing a trifle as he realized he was outnumbered by the brothers and recollecting that the younger had always been ready to support the elder. ‘I’ll take the rifle, you have the horse. Go and get it. But watch out, it looks meaner than hell!’
‘I’ll watch it, don’t worry,’ Alfredo declared, deducing what had caused their companion to change his mind. ‘And, if it tried anything, I’ll kill the bastard!’
‘Alfredo!’ Tomas almost wailed, watching his sibling start to walk across the clearing. ‘This gear belongs to—!’
‘Us!’ the elder brother interrupted, without halting or looking back. ‘Just keep watch to make sure it stays that way!’
‘It belongs to el Ca—!’ Tomas shouted, but once more was not allowed to divulge the information.
In fact, his attempt produced a reaction its maker had not anticipated!
From all appearances, the threat made by the older of the Acusar brothers might need to be carried out as a result of the well intentioned behavior of his sibling!