by J. T. Edson
Even while the three Texans topped the ridge and looked down, the man with the carbine took aim and fired. His bullet caught the driver in the center of the back and caused him to drop the reins then pitch sideways and fall to the ground.
Without waiting to see any more the three Texans sent their horses down the slope, heading at an angle which would bring them on to the valley bottom level with the coach and its wildly running, uncontrolled team. Even at this distance they could see the scared-looking face which peered from the coach window. Mark and Waco could see nothing more than the blurred shape of the face, but the Kid, keener eyed than his friends, saw more. Saw enough to bring a growl of rage to his lips. His suspicions on seeing the coach and its team, both costly and well cared for, received all the confirmation they needed and that gave added urgency to an already urgent situation.
Before Mark, Waco and the Kid had covered half the distance, they saw the bandidos closing in on the flanks of the coach like wolves around a hamstrung buffalo. They did not seem to be trying to halt the coach, but to urge the team on at greater speed. One glance at the valley ahead told the Kid why.
‘Stop that coach, Mark, Waco!’ he yelled.
He left his big white stallion’s saddle as soon as he gave the signal for the horse to stop, lighting down on his feet with catlike agility. A couple of strides served to keep his balance, then he dropped to his right knee, supported his left elbow on the left knee, sighting his rifle at the coach’s attackers. One of the bandidos rode alongside the coach and slanted his revolver down at the window but he never fired. The Kid’s old ‘yellow boy’ pointed down, his right eye lining sights on target. His trigger-finger tightened gently and the rifle kicked back against his shoulder. He saw, through the wisp of burnt black powder smoke, the man flop from his horse in the rag-doll limp way of one who had been head shot and knew he held true.
Shifting his aim slightly, the Kid cut down the man whose carbine ended the old coach driver. Knowing bandidos, the Kid expected to see the others turn tail and run at the sight of help. It came as something of a surprise to see two of them swing their horses and head at Mark and Waco while the remaining pair charged on, one on either side of the coach clearly meaning to get the occupants if they could.
The Kid’s rifle moved again. He knew what he must do and so aimed at the man who would soon be hidden on the far side of the coach. Even before the Kid could be sure of hitting, he saw the man pass out of sight behind the coach, only the heaving rump of his horse in view. Regretfully the Kid changed his aim slightly, sighting at what he could see. He pressed the trigger and his bullet caught the horse, causing it to stumble. He heard the horse scream and start to go down, then a human voice screeched out in surprise, fear and, as the rear of the coach lurched, died off in agony. Through the slight dusty haze behind the coach, the Kid saw the still human shape and knew what must have happened. The horse, on taking lead, staggered and took the man off balance, throwing him out of the saddle and down under the rear wheel of the coach which passed over his body, crushing the life from him.
Two bandidos came up the slope at Mark and Waco. They came fast and they came shooting. Lead sang around the two Texans, not a novel sensation, or the first time either had heard the curious slapping sound of a bullet splitting the air close by them. Two Texas right hands dipped fast and brought out the waiting six-guns. The long barreled Model P Colt in Mark’s palm bellowed just an instant before Waco fired his Army Colt.
Mark saw a puff of dust from the shirt of his target as the bandido rocked back under the impact of lead. Waco’s man gave a howl, let his Smith and Wesson fall and clutched at his shoulder, then turned his horse in a tight circle and raced it back in the direction from which he came. Waco prepared to turn his paint and give chase when he heard the new Colt boom out again in Mark’s hand. The man Mark shot let his gun fall, then followed it down. On being hit the first time, the man retained his grip on his weapon so Mark, acting like a trained lawman would in the circumstances, shot him again, this time to kill.
By this time the Kid had dealt with the man on the far side of the coach and turned his rifle to take the nearer man. From the corner of his eye he saw Mark and Waco come through their engagement with the pair of bandidos and saw Waco start to follow the wounded man. The Kid could not spare time to yell the warning which welled up inside him, nor did he need to do so.
‘Forget that one!’ Mark roared at Waco. ‘Stop the coach.’
For Mark had seen the deadly danger to the coach. Ahead of the tearing, terrified team the valley curved, but on this side the slope fell away to leave a ledge which tilted over to a steep drop before rising again. The horses, in their present blind state of panic, would never turn the curve. Unhitched they might make the drop on their feet, but not with that coach behind them. It would pile over and smash itself to pieces. Mark swung his blood bay and hurled it down the slope with Waco following him, holstering his Army Colt as he discarded the idea of riding the wounded bandido down and finishing him.
A deep throated Comanche grunt came from the Kid, for Mark and Waco had come into his line of fire and prevented his taking aim at the last bandido. He could do no more from this point and so came to his feet and ran to where the big white horse stood like a statue waiting for his next order. Knowing what would be expected of it next, the white started forward even before the Kid reached it. He left the ground in a leap-frog mount clear over the rump and into his low horned saddle. Even as he hit the saddle and scooped up the reins, his big stallion picked up speed going down the slope with the sure-footed grace of a Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep.
The last of the bandidos, riding by the coach, saw the danger of his position even as he lined his gun at the occupants. Four of his companions were down and the other wounded and taking a greaser stand-off as he headed for Mexico on the run. The last man did not have the kind of courage needed to press home his attack and follow his orders without their support. So, showing a riding skill which the cowhands might have admired had they thought of it, he wheeled his horse in a tight, sliding turn, applied a liberal dose of encouragement via his sharp rowelled spurs and made the best time he could back along the valley bottom.
Luck stayed with the last man for the Kid’s rifle followed him and a finger laid on the trigger. Then the Kid saw his man passing the white shape of the coach driver and he held his fire. Bending forward the Kid booted his rifle and rode down the slope to see if he could do anything for the driver, then check on the results of his deadly rifle work.
By this time Mark and Waco had reached the foot of the slope and were racing their horses after the coach, closing up on it with every stride. The two horses in the team had been bred for their work and were the best money could buy, but the harness horse had never been sired which could outrun a saddle stallion of the quality each Texan rode, especially when hauling a coach behind it. Being some pounds lighter than Mark, Waco started to draw ahead, making for the right side of the coach while Mark went along to the left. Mark threw a glance into the coach and caught a vague impression of a very pretty little girl trying to hold erect the limp and bouncing body of a man.
Then Mark passed the window and could see Waco as the youngster’s paint drew level with the team horses. Mark could see what Waco intended to do and silently cursed him for a hot-headed, reckless fool kid likely to get himself killed, although Mark could not withhold a grin at the youngster’s courage.
Riding like a centaur even though his horse was pressed farther and farther towards the slope which would make running difficult, Waco took time to glance ahead. The corner and the dip lay much closer than he imagined and he must make his move quickly. Even so it would be a difficult enough task to control the fear-maddened horses and stop them in time.
Unhooking his right foot, Waco kicked his left free of the stirrup iron and launched himself out towards the racing team horses. He landed astride and managed to clamp down his legs, dig his hands into the horse’s mane and prevent h
imself being thrown off again. If he fell Waco knew he would go under the wheels of the coach and he had already seen what happened to a man who went under them. However, the instincts of a horseman came to his aid and he managed to keep balanced for the vital instant necessary to catch his seat firmly and hold it. Reaching forward, he managed to grip the trailing reins of his mount, then sat up, hauling back on them in an attempt to halt it, even though its teeth clamped down hard on the bit iron.
‘Whoa, hoss!’ he yelled.
‘Hang on, boy,’ Mark shouted.
Mark did not try to catch up with the other horse. Instead he rode the blood bay close to the coach and leaned over. His hands clamped hold of the driver’s box rails and he hauled himself from his saddle, hung for a moment as the coach swayed under his weight, then swung himself up on to the box. He knew the ribbons would be out of reach, let fall by the driver when lead ripped into his body, but they had not come into his calculations in the first place. The corner lay too close now for him to bother with reins. He grabbed the brake handle and pulled back on it, feeling the brake shoes clamp on the rear wheels and lock them. This stopped the wheels turning, but the coach continued to move forward, the horses straining and pulling almost at the edge of the dip.
Bounding from the box, Mark sprang towards the rear wheel. He saw it slip as the hold of the brake weakened slightly. Then Mark’s hands gripped a spoke and he flung his weight back, his high heels digging into the ground as they were meant to do. The boots, made by Joe Gaylin—who boasted nothing this side of hell could rip off the heels—held firm and proved Gaylin’s boast. Exerting all his giant strength, Mark held on, throwing all his power into trying to hold back the coach and to prevent the wheels turning.
The horses’ hooves churned the ground, Waco dragged back at the head of his mount, cursing it even as he looked down at the dip, fifteen foot deep and with death at the bottom if once the two horses went over. Yet he stayed mounted, not once thinking of leaping clear and saving his own neck.
Then the dead weight of the coach, its rear wheels locked and held firm, combined in no small measure by the blond giant’s enormous strength, served to bring the horses to a hoof churning halt which pawed the very lips of the dip. A foot further forward would have seen the horses unable to stop themselves and the coach crashing down upon them.
Springing from his seat, Waco went before the horses, feet clinging to the edge of the dip, hands gripping their bridles as he gently spoke to them. He worked fast, soothing them down and bringing them under control. Then he started to try and back them out, get them facing away from the dangerous dip. He did not have much success until Mark, releasing the wheel, sprang forward and let off the brake.
‘Pelados! Cabrons! Bandidos!’ screamed a feminine voice as Waco turned the horses from the dip, backing the coach to safety. The voice followed on with a blast of Spanish which came too quickly for him, although he spoke the language, to follow. An instinct warned Waco the furiously rapid splutter of words was anything but complimentary.
She came from the coach. Erupted would better describe the way the small black-haired and very pretty girl came through the door of the coach. Despite her dainty little hat, which sat at an angle never thought of by its designer, her shoulder long, rather disheveled hair, her expensive, if somewhat rumpled black travelling clothes, and the fact that she could not be much over eighteen years old, she looked as wild and unsafe to approach as a treed bobcat.
For the first time the girl seemed to realize Waco was not a fellow Mexican, but the knowledge did nothing to abate her anger, it merely gave her a chance to show her bilingual prowess.
‘Robber! Thief! Brute—murderer—!’ She paused, clearly at a loss for further unpleasant names in English.
‘Try sneaking, shepherding, wide-looping, ring-tailed, cow-hocked, spavined, low-living Yankee sidewinder, ma’am,’ drawled Mark, from the safety of the other side of the coach, watching the girl with a tolerant smile.
‘Don’t you call me no Yankee, ma’am!’ objected Waco.
The girl ignored him, seeing a fresh target. Mark would have done better to keep quiet for the girl turned and unleashed a torrent of Spanish at a rate which both he and Waco could understand and which drew broad grins from them, although they wondered where the girl might have heard and learned some of the terms.
Before either Mark or Waco could do anything about clearing up the situation, hooves sounded and the Kid rode up. The girl turned, a cry of relief came from her lips and she ran towards the approaching rider.
‘Cabrito!’ she cried. ‘We are safe now. Kill them, Cabrito!’
‘Why sure, Ramona, honey, for you-all anything,’ replied the Kid, seeing his suspicion that he should know the owner of the coach to be correct. ‘Right now, or after I done introduced you-all to them?’
Stopping in her tracks, the girl stared at the Kid. All the fury and anger seemed to ooze out of her, leaving a startled, blushing little girl in rumpled travelling clothes, a hat out of place and all practical use drained from her as she understood the meaning of the Kid’s words.
‘You—you mean they aren’t bandidos, villains, all those things I called them?’ she gasped.
‘Wouldn’t go so far as to say that,’ grinned the Kid. ‘But they’re sure enough my friends.’
‘Which same’s nothing for a man to boast about,’ Mark put in dryly.
With the blush spreading even further over the girl called Ramona’s face, she turned to look at Mark and Waco. She saw the wide grins on their faces and the frank admiration Waco showed and her knowledge of Texas cowhands told her that neither had taken any offence at her words.
‘I ain’t boasting. I’m confessing my shame,’ drawled the Kid. ‘Wouldn’t want Ramona here to reckon I had too many friends like you pair.’
‘Don’t you let this innocent jasper fool you, ma’am,’ Mark warned, jerking a contemptuous thumb at the unabashed Kid. ‘He’s a lot older ’n’ meaner than he looks.’
‘Sure is,’ agreed Waco. ‘And he’s got him a gal in every ranch, town and cantina from here to there and back the long way.’
Two twinkling black eyes studied the sober expressions showed by Mark and Waco, but lost their twinkle as they turned to eye the Ysabel Kid.
‘He has, has he?’
‘Sure has, ma’am,’ agreed Waco. ‘Told me so just the other night.’
Before the Kid could reply to Waco’s slander, a groan inside the coach drew all their attention to it. Ramona’s mouth fell open, then she sprang to the coach door to look inside.
‘Father!’ she gasped.
The Kid came down from his saddle in a bound, he beat Mark and Waco to the coach door. His hand shot out to help the tall, slim, distinguished man to climb out. The man wore the dress of a rich rancher, quiet, black and in good taste, although his hat lay on the floor of the coach and he held his head and seemed unsteady on his feet.
‘Are you injured, Don Ruis?’ asked the Kid in faultless Spanish.
It took a moment for the man to shake the dizziness out of his head and take notice of his rescuers. Recognition came to his eyes as he looked at the black dressed Texan before him. More than recognition showed for a moment, a hint of trouble glinted in his eyes. Then by an almost visible effort he took control of himself.
‘I was stunned, no worse, Cabrito. The coach went over a bump and threw me into its side. Where is Manuel?’
His eyes had gone to the box, and then to the horses. The Kid jerked his thumb along the valley bottom.
‘Along there.’
‘Then we must help him,’ Ramona said, turning to go.
The Kid shot out a hand to catch her arm and hold her. ‘There’s nothing you can do for him, Ramona.’
Once more Ramona gasped, this time in anguish and remorse for Manuel, the coach driver, had been with her family for as long as she could remember. Her father slipped his arms around her shoulders, holding her and comforting her. He held her to him, allowing her to g
et over her shock and grief, his eyes on the faces of the three men who stood before him.
‘Who were that bunch who came after you?’ Mark asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the dead bandidos.
Their kind did not often raid so far north of the line, especially in Rio Hondo County with Hondo Fog, Dusty’s father, as its sheriff and the tough, handy backing of the O.D. Connected and Double B ranches to help him as needed.
‘I’m not sure,’ replied Don Ruis. ‘But I think they may be some of General Marcus’s men.’
'General Marcus?’ asked the Kid.
‘Raised to that exalted rank for services rendered during the war against Maximillian and the French.’
A mocking, ironic note crept into the stately Mexican’s voice as he replied to the Kid’s startled query for both knew Pablo Marcus in the days when he was no more than a bandido. From the actions of his men, always provided Don Ruis called the play right in his guess at their identity, Marcus still retained some of his old habits, like robbery on the highway, although no highway was present.
‘Knowed the one who shot ole Manuel,’ drawled the Kid, knowing Don Ruis spoke good English, so reverting to his own tongue. ‘Used to ride for Esteban, one of his best boys. And Esteban didn’t sit in too friendly with Marcus in them days.’
‘I could agree with you on that, Cabrito,’ replied Don Ruis, also speaking English. ‘But times change and circumstances can make friends out of enemies. But I have news of concern to both you and Diablo Viejo.’
‘We’re just headed back to the spread now, sir,’ drawled Mark. ‘Waco’ll drive for you, and we’ll take you in to see Ole Devil.’