by J. T. Edson
Following her opponent, the Mexican girl was so confident of success she became incautious. Despite the pain she was suffering, desperation and a determination not to suffer defeat gave the red head the will she needed to strike back. Her effort might have been doomed to failure, for she thrust herself upwards with the left hand open in an unthinking attempt to grab Florencia by the face. Instead, the base of her cupped palm caught the Mexican beneath the chin. The effect was startling to the onlookers, as well as the recipient of the unconventional blow. Back snapped her head and her eyes went glassy as she rumbled rearwards on legs which seemed close to buckling under her weight. In spite of that, she remained on her feet.
For a few seconds, the girls remained where they were!
Still kneeling, Mavis was keening softly in pain!
A similar sound was leaving Florencia as she braced herself on spread apart feet!
Silence fell over the spectators as they watched and wondered how much longer the embattled pair could last without collapsing!
If at all!
The Mexican girl moved first!
Stepping on legs spraddled to keep her upright, Florencia began to approach the crouching red head. Knowing only a blind desire to survive and avert further punishment, Mavis responded in a most effective fashion. Diving forward before the searching hands of her antagonist could reach her, she rammed her shoulder into the other’s midsection. Breath whooshed from the disheveled and tormented Mexican as she was driven backwards and they both crashed to the floor.
This time, the red head was on top and made the most of it. Crouching astride the torso of the Mexican girl, she sank her fingers into the tangled and sweat soaked hair. While Florencia was writhing and struggling with urgent desperation, her efforts lacked their earlier force. Having had what she believed to be victory snatched from her grasp, her nerve had gone and she was feebly trying to escape. She could neither dislodge her captor, nor fend off what she knew was coming. Even as her hands were grabbing at the bosom of the American girl, her head was raised and slammed back on to the floor. For a moment, while her senses were reeling, she scrabbled feebly at the breasts. Up and down jerked her head, with another solid impact against the hard boards. She went limp and did not feel the third bang delivered by her opponent.
‘Go and stop her, Pepita, it’s over!’ Peraro ordered, seeing by the flaccid way Florencia hung in the hands of the red head that there would be no more fighting. As the big woman went to obey, he looked at the three men around him and announced, ‘By the Holy Mother, Juan Pablo was right about that gringo. She is a hell-cat!’
‘Si, patron,’ Jesus “Obispo” Sanchez agreed, his face also wet with perspiration. ‘But what will her family say when you send her back the way she is?’
‘Huh?’ the bandido chief grunted, staring at the taller sub-leader with an air suggestive of a lack of comprehension.
Then, making a visible effort to think about what had been said, he made what was an equally clear spur-of-the-moment reply, ‘They’ll be so pleased to get her back, they’ll not mind if she goes to them with a few bruises and scratches.’
Twelve – That’s Exactly What it Means
‘And that is how I see the situation, gentlemen. Those god-damned bandidos from Escopeta have kidnapped my niece, who you all know and admire. They’ve taken this beautiful young white lady of delicate raising and breeding to their filthy, criminal-infested town and almost killed her maid before sending Hettie to me with a note demanding ten thousand dollars as ransom. Now I’m ready to pay the money. In fact, it is here in this sack if anybody wishes to count it. I can assure you, the money means absolutely nothing to me where the safety of my niece is concerned. However, I feel—and I’m sure every one of you will agree—it will be creating a most dangerous precedent for me to pay them.’
Having left the leather shop by its rear entrance, the Ysabel Kid had accompanied its owner in search of support for their intention to prevent any attempt being launched to rescue Mavis Dearington by force. On reaching the home of Doctor Augustus Dalrymple, a man much liked and respected in the area, they had been told by his housekeeper that he had been called away a short while earlier to attend a pregnancy some distance from Wet Slim. Knowing nobody else who was held in a similar high regard who could help them, they had made their way to the River Queen Saloon.
Halting outside the place of entertainment, with Jock McKie coming to a stop at his side, the young Texan listened to the speaker while looking over the batwing doors of the bar-room. Wise beyond his years in the ways of the land, he liked nothing of what he was hearing and seeing. For one thing, apart from the words of the speaker—whose impassioned voice had the carrying clarity of a professional politician long used to addressing, reaching and swaying to his will every member of a crowd—there was not a sound.
Such a lack of noise had not been in evidence when the Kid had ridden by the saloon earlier!
Silence from the kind of men who formed the majority of the customers in the bar-room was ever an ominous sign!
As the well filled hitching rails outside the building and its neighbors had suggested, the crews of the local ranches were out in force that night. Cowhands who rode the rugged terrain along that section of the border country being particularly noted for their hardness and salty toughness, they were a well armed and far from gentle-looking crowd. Yet, as the Kid was all too aware, they possessed the same qualities which were characteristic of all their hard-working, harder-playing fraternity throughout Texas. With few exceptions, they were courageous, loyal to the brand for which they rode, given to great generosity if faced with what they considered to be a worthwhile needy case and, especially where a ‘good’ woman was concerned, chivalrous.
However, as was a trait of all their kind, the cowhands in the bar-room could easily be swayed in the wrong direction by their emotions. Subjected to the right—or, depending upon one’s point of view, wrong—form of inducement, they could be persuaded to perform acts which were ill-advised and, when considered later in a more sober frame of mind, liable to cause them grave misgivings and regrets. If they were led to believe a cause was just, while basically honest, they could even be persuaded to break the law regardless of the penalties which might incur.
Listening to and studying the speaker, the Kid concluded he had the personality and ability to play upon the less desirable character traits of the men in the audience. Despite the adverse opinion expressed by the elderly leatherworker, Philo Handle conveyed a suggestion of bluff and hearty camaraderie, held in check at that time by grave concern for the welfare of his kidnapped niece, which would appeal to the cowhands.
Ruddy of complexion, tail and bulky in build, with silver gray hair, Philo Handle was in his late forties. While his accent was that of a well educated New Englander, he wore the style of clothing favored by such wealthy Southern owners of cotton plantations as were still being operated along the banks of the Mississippi River. There was no sign of him being armed, but McKie claimed he carried a short barreled British-made Webley Royal Irish Constabulary revolver in a spring-retention shoulder holster and had proved to be a good shot with it even if his draw was not up to the standards an expert gun fighter could achieve.
Although the young Texan was not unmindful that his outlook might have been influenced by the detrimental point of view expressed by his companion, the company Handle was keeping while occupying the small bandstand the better to address the other occupants of the room precluded him from revising his own opinion for something more favorable.
Ira Jacobs was standing at the right side of the rancher, his bearing suggesting he would take offence should there be any objections to what was being said!
To the left of Handle was a shorter, lean and rat-faced man whose Colt was tied low and who wore range clothes of the fashion dictated by local conditions. Not that the Kid considered he would ever require the garments for the work of handling cattle in the thorn-bush country of the region. He was, the young T
exan knew, a border hard-case of the worst kind. A man who, in the years when the Ysabel family had run contraband across the Rio Grande, neither they nor any other honest smuggler would have considered hiring. For all that, he would have sufficient awareness of the situation to be able to warn his employer how Don Ramon Manuel Jose Peraro would react to any attempt to rescue the victim of a kidnapping.
Yet, if such Information had been supplied, the rancher was obviously disinclined to act in a sensible fashion upon it!
‘Hey, Mr. Handle, sir!’ called one of the crowd, whose appearance led the Kid to assume he was more likely to be a hired hard-case than an ordinary working cowhand in spite of his polite mode of address.
‘Yes, sir?’ asked the rancher.
‘This here “pre—seed—V the man went on, ‘or whatever you call her—?’
‘You mean “precedent”?’ Handle inquired.
‘That’s the son-of-a-bitch,’ the man agreed. ‘Do that mean’s how having you pay off could make Peraro and his greasers allow they can grab off other white g—ladies any time they’ve a mind to get more money?’
‘That’s exactly what it means!’ the rancher confirmed. ‘And, while I’m willing to ransom my niece, I feel it is my bounden duty to consider all the other ladies in this area. Am I, I ask myself, gentlemen, justified in placing them in a position of jeopardy to save my niece by purchasing her freedom?’ He paused as if wishing to let his audience consider the implication of what he had said, then continued when there was no response, ‘Or should I not be advised to call upon every man of spirit to go with me to Escopeta and rescue her, teaching Peraro and his handido scum such a lesson they will never again dare come north of the Rio Grande and lay their filthy hands upon another white, American, lady?’
A thunderous roar expressing approval of the suggestion to oppose the ransom arose as Handle stopped speaking!
The majority of the cowhands in the bar-room had friends among the local Chicano population and acquaintances among the vaqueros of the haciendas in the area across the river. For all that, there was always the underlying hostility which native-born Texans felt towards Mexicans. It stemmed from the animosity born of stories of the oppressions suffered by the ‘Anglo’ colonists invited to settle and form a buffer state against the hostile Indians. 29 Nor had the situation been improved by the atrocities inflicted on the orders of Presidente Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna after the Texicans had finally been driven to seek independence from his dictatorial rule. 30 Glancing around, the Kid sought for anybody who might back him if he raised an argument against the proposed rescue attempt. With the exception of McKie and himself, he could see only four men who were showing no eagerness to accept the suggestion of the rancher. All were seated around one table and, as well as being somewhat older, were slightly better dressed than the rest of the cowhands. Two he knew were the segundos of the local ranches and he guessed the other pair were employed in a similar capacity. Yet, despite being faced with the possibility of losing the services of every member of their respective crews who were present—some permanently, in all probability, as the raid would be vigorously opposed by skilled fighting men—not one of the quartet was offering to intervene. 31
‘Let’s go in and—!’ McKie began, sotto voce.
‘No, Jock!’ the young Texan replied, no louder, yet with an urgency which brought the attention of the elderly leatherworker to him. ‘Lord, how I wish Dusty or Mark was here. Coming from us, talking won’t stop it, way he’s gotten hold of them. Let’s head back to your place and figure what we can do to make them quit.’
Even if the support of the four segundos could be obtained, the Kid could foresee there would still be great difficulty in dissuading the cowhands. It was obvious they had made up their minds that what they were being asked to embark upon was a noble and justifiable expedition, which had the added advantage of providing a welcome break from the drudgery of their normal working lives. While they might have been willing to listen to a contrary point of view if it was expressed by Dusty Fog or Mark Counter, each an acknowledged and highly respected member of their trade, the Kid was aware that—although he would not have employed the exact words—he would lack such a rapport.
What was more, the young Texan suspected Handle was so determined to carry out the proposed rescue that steps had been taken in the bar-room to silence any opposition which appeared likely to be effective. Considering by whom it had been made, the question about the meaning of the word, ‘precedent’, was put in such a fashion he believed it had been pre-arranged to strengthen the argument in favor of making the raid. There were, he had also noticed, other obvious hard-cases—half a dozen of whom were close to the quartet of segundos and whose aid might be forthcoming if he stated his objections—positioned at strategic points among the crowd.
For all his undoubted courage and fighting ability, the Kid was far from being reckless or foolhardy. Such went against his upbringing. Except when having elected to carry a war lance into battle, or riding pukutsi—each of which was a ‘medicine’ condition and subject to vastly different behavior 32—a Comanche warrior took only calculated risks. He was aware that any intervention on the part of himself or McKie would be resisted. With the mood the crowd was in, even if he was to overcome his assailants, the sympathy would all be directed to them. Under such circumstances, it was most unlikely the cowhands would be willing to listen to anything he had to say.
Sharing the belief that there was nothing either of them could do verbally to dissuade the rescue bid and guessing why the Kid had expressed a wish to have one or the other of his well known amigos available, McKie accompanied him. They left without their presence having been noticed by the men inside the saloon or the watchers who were keeping the leatherworker’s shop under observation. As they went, they discussed the situation. Learning there did not appear to be any justification for the suspicions he expressed, the younger Texan proposed another theory which his companion admitted could be correct. Then he put forward a plan. It was anything but a sinecure, but he stated that he could think of no other way which might offer the girl an even slender chance of survival.
‘You could be right on it, boy,’ the elderly leatherworker admitted, after a few seconds thought. ‘Only, should you be right on either count about Handle, do you reckon he’ll be willing to go along with letting you do it?’
‘Could be he won’t have any other choice,’ the young Texan answered. ‘I ain’t never yet seen a cowhand who’d walk further than from one bar to another and not even then happen he could ride. Which, should those jaspers in there just happen to find themselves left a-foot, I reckon they’d think more than twice afore they’d be ready to go traipsing down to Escopeta town.’
‘You mean we’re going to run off all their horses?’ McKie breathed. ‘God damn it, boy, that’ll get them riled worse’n a stick-teased diamondback.’
‘Which same’s why it’s not us who’ll be doing it, only me,’ the Kid corrected. ‘Fact being, seeing’s how you’ll be down there in the bar-room when it happens, I don’t reckon anybody’ll even think of blaming you for it.’
‘They’ll sure’s shit be wanting your hide, though,’ McKie warned. And not even riding for the OD Connected’ll stop ’em trying to take it.’
‘Likely,’ conceded the young Texan. ‘Only I don’t aim to be around for them to tell me about it.’
‘Where’ll you be?’
‘Down to Escopeta, or headed there. Where else?’
‘Like you say, where else,’ the elderly leatherworker drawled and, although he felt sure his companion had not overlooked such a potential snag to his scheme—whatever it might be—he continued, ‘Leave us not forget those two knobheads’s Jacobs has watching my place to stop me billing in down here.’
‘I reckon I’ll just have to stop them billing in with me,’ the Kid answered.
‘It’s your fool neck,’ McKie sniffed, despite having complete confidence in his young companion’s ability to prevent
any intervention from that source. ‘Is there anything I can do for you?’
‘Get me the loan of a couple of good hosses,’ the Kid requested. ‘And, happen you’ve such lying around, I could sure use a pair of old and worn out moccasins.’
‘You’ve got ’em all,’ McKie promised. ‘Only just what have you got in mind?’
‘You know how Peraro’s got to be paid off on time, or she’s dead,’ the Kid concluded his explanation. ‘Which being, we’ve got to stop that fool bunch trying to haul her out at gun point first thing. Should I pull that off, well I don’t reckon anybody can get to Escopeta ahead of me and I’ll be able to do what I’m figuring on. After I’m well clear, get hold of those four segundos and anybody else you know you can trust. Tell them who I am and what I’m figuring on doing.’
‘That I will,’ McKie promised somberly.
If any other man had put forth the proposal he had just heard, knowing the enormity of the task, the elderly leatherworker would have rejected it with scorn. For all that—desperate and dangerous though the plan might be—he considered if there was anybody who could pull it off, the Ysabel Kid was the man who could do it.
‘God damn it, Jug!’ protested the bristle jawed hard-case, peering out of the alley at the still illuminated front windows of Jock McKie’s place of business. ‘The old bastard ain’t going to go down to the saloon.’