by J. T. Edson
Dusty knew there was more to the quiet told story than just the bare facts as the Kid laid them down. He could picture the Indian dark boy trailing the men who murdered his father, cold, savage and more dangerous than any Comanche Dog Soldier. Then being hunted north by the Mexicans. Dusty pitied Giss and Kraus if the Ysabel Kid ever caught up with them.
“Sorry about your pappy.”
“So’ll Giss ’n’ Kraus be when I meet up with them.”
The Ysabel Kid had rested his carbine-stocked Dragoon on his saddle to pour out the coffee. He bent over the fire now to poke it up to a better blaze and was still bending forward when the big white stallion tossed back its head and snorted loud and hard.
At the same moment five dirty, ragged Mexicans burst out from the bushes at the far side of the clearing. They were a savage, hard looking bunch, each man holding a French muzzle-loading carbine and all with a knife sheathed at their belts.
The sudden appearance might have taken the Kid by surprise, but his reactions were fast. He dived forward, hands reaching for the Dragoon gun leaning on his saddle and lit down rolling, easing back the hammer. He knew he would be too late to save himself, for although three of the Mexicans could not hit a barn from the inside, the other two were excellent shots and would not miss him.
This pair halted, lining their carbines on the rolling figure, the other three charging in closer but keeping out of the line of fire.
Dusty’s tin cup fell, his hands crossing and the matched guns coming clear of leather and both roaring at the same instant. The two men who’d halted and lined their guns already both took lead. The man at the right dropped his rifle and his hands clawed up at his face as if trying to stop the blood which oozed from the hole between his eyes. The other man staggered as lead smashed into his arm, then he stumbled backwards with the carbine falling. Finally, he turned and ran for the shelter of the woods.
Dusty’s shots had sounded before the cup hit the ground. The big white stallion gave a scream of rage and raced after the wounded man. They disappeared from sight in the woods and after a moment a hideous cry shattered the air, mingled with the terrible screams of a fighting stallion and the sickening thuds as steel shod hooves tore into flesh.
The Kid bore a charmed life, aided by Dusty’s shooting. The other three men fired at him on the run, which in itself was not conducive to good shooting, even when the nerves were not jarred by the lightning speed the small insignificant man drew and shot. Of the three carbine bullets one went into the fire sending sparks and flames erupting, the second kicked up dirt near Dusty and the third fanned just over the Kid’s head as he came up and shot one. One of the trio rocked backwards, a small hole in his chest but what looked like half his back torn off where the .44 ball came out.
The last two Mexicans dropped their empty carbines and snatched out their long bladed, wicked looking knives. With these they were far more dangerous as they hurled straight at the Kid.
Dusty leapt to one side but he could not get a clear shot at the two men. He raised his right hand gun fast, eyes lining the V notch sight in the tip of the hammer with the foresight, then he fired once. The Ysabel Kid afterwards swore he felt the wind of that bullet passing him. The Mexican at his left was knocked back off his feet, hit in the right eye by Dusty’s accurate and fast thrown shot.
The last man was in close. He brought the knife round and up in a driving rip which was aimed to lay the Kid open from belly to brisket. With a slower, less agile man this might even then have succeeded but the Ysabel Kid moved with all the inborn speed and fight savvy of his Comanche ancestors. The butt of the carbine-stocked Dragoon gun came round parrying the knife which shattered its point against the tarnished silver plate inlaid in the woodwork. The Mexican, lunging forward with all his weight behind the blow was unable to stop himself and came right in on to the up swinging black clad knee as it drove for his groin. The Kid felt his knee ram home with all his power behind it and heard the man’s agonized scream as he doubled over clutching the injured organs and stumbling past in a pain wracked crouch.
Coming round fast the Ysabel Kid acted with savage, Comanche speed and lack of feeling. He gave the Mexican neither time to recover from his pain nor from his staggering, forward movement. The Dragoon’s attached stock lifted and drove down with all the power of the Kid’s lithe body behind it, sending the metal shod butt plate smashing into the Mexican’s temple. It was a killing blow and from the way the Mexican’s limp body flopped to the ground the Kid knew no further blow would be needed to end the affair.
Holding his Dragoon cocked and ready for instant use the Kid went around the bodies to make sure that no further trouble need be expected from that source. Then he stood looking down at Dusty’s first victim and the fallen rifle which indicated the place the second stood before Colt lead reminded him of urgent business in some other place. They were some distance apart and yet the small man hit both of them, one fatally in that flickering half second from dropping his cup to planting the lead. The Kid was a fair hand with a revolver himself but he knew that here was a man who was the master of any he’d seen, up to and including one of his kin, the terror from Mill Creek, Bad Bill Longley.
“I called your shooting wrong,” he said as he recalled the wind of the close-passing bullet. “It’s more than fair and I never before saw a man who could use a gun with either hand the way you did.”
Dusty did not regard his ambidextrous prowess with a gun as anything unusual. Yet it was and told a tale of a boy’s determination to make up for his lack of inches some way. All his life Dusty had felt his small size set him apart from the tall men of his clan. Even at school he’d been the smallest boy of the class although he’d never been bullied for it, he was too wild a scrapper for that. Yet in an attempt never to be noticed for his lack of inches Dusty forced himself to learn to use either hand for every purpose from writing to shooting. His natural aptitude and perfect co-ordination between hand and brain made him a fine shot and gave him the extra flicker of speed so necessary a man.
It was this ambidextrous skill and the tricks which Tommy Okasi taught him that enabled him to rise from private to Captain in command of a self-contained troop of cavalry and to make older men obey him. The deadly and, apart from in the Orient, at that time unknown techniques of ju-jitsu and karate along with his speed helped him to handle himself in any kind of fight. Several larger men met with Dusty’s knowledge of the Nippon fighting way called “the empty hand” learned that their roughhouse knowledge was of no use against him.
“Who are they?” Dusty indicated the still forms, although he could guess the answer even before it was given.
“Them borrowing neighbors you was talking about,” the Kid replied. “The five pelados Giss and Kraus sent after me.”
Dusty spoke fair Spanish and knew what pelado meant when spoken in the way the Kid just used the term. Literally the word meant one who removed the skin from a dead animal. Used as the Kid spoke it pelado meant the lowest form of thief on the border, the kind which would rob a dead body. These five looked as if they might have come into that category before their days of robbery and murder were brought to a not untimely end.
“Looked tolerable keen to get acquainted,” Dusty remarked. Then he remembered the one the white stallion chased into the woods. “Your hoss took after one of them.”
“Reckon he caught up with him,” the Kid replied and whistled shrilly.
“Yeah,” Dusty agreed as the white came out of the woods with blood on its legs. “I reckon he caught up with him.”
Neither of the pair was worried about the killing of these five Mexicans. Both had been killing from necessity since their early teens and knew that in this case not only did they save their own lives but they finished five worthless careers with the possibility that they also prevented the five murdering others. That kind of Mexican bandit were without pity or mercy and would kill to rob without any scruples. The treacherous attack, if it had been successful would have caus
ed the five Mexicans no conscience worries. It was better for the world in general and for the well-being of the two young Texans in particular that all five were dead.
“Let’s move camp some,” the Kid suggested. “This lot stink worse than a week dead polecat and they’re crawling with seam squirrels. Must have come from downwind or that ole Thunder hoss of mine would have got on to them sooner. They handled it real nice. Man’d say it was lucky you was along here.”
“They handled it nice.”
“Sure, murder’s their best play. They don’t take to no shooting war, not with anybody who can handle a gun.”
Dusty lifted the coffeepot from the fire and emptied it out. He looked around and the Kid indicated where he would find water. While Dusty took the pot along to wash it out and allow it to cool the black-dressed youngster rolled his war bag in his bedroll and slung it ready to be strapped on to the saddle. He caught the big white stallion, checked it to make sure the Mexican hadn’t managed to wound it, then saddled it and slipped on the bridle.
When Dusty returned the Kid lashed the coffeepot to the back of his bedroll then slid the Dragoon gun, still with the butt attached into his saddle boot. He gripped the saddle-horn and went into the saddle with a lithe, Indian like bound. Dusty caught his paint and mounted, looking at the Kid.
“You know this section better than I do, so lead on.”
They rode off side by side. The Kid had put out the fire and now as the sound of their hooves faded off the silence came down once more, only broken by the soft buzzing of the flies which gathered round the five bodies.
Dusty watched the other young man as they rode along. There was an Indian caution in the way he lounged in his saddle and although he didn’t seem to be taking any notice the Kid’s eyes were never still and his ears tuned for any small sound which might serve as a warning to him.
Neither spoke but both were busy with their thoughts. Dusty thought over what he knew of this dark youngster who he’d saved from death. The Ysabel family were border smugglers and had been ever since the United States made taxable certain goods from both countries. To have lasted as long as they had needed skill, brains and local knowledge. It also meant they needed to be fighting men down to their wild Irish-Kentucky-Creole-Comanche toes and the Kid was all of that. It also meant he knew Mexico and the Mexican people, from the rich hacienderos down to the poorest, most ragged peons. That knowledge would be invaluable if he would ride with Dusty on this mission.
The Kid led on to such effect that he brought them to a pleasant clearing on the banks of a stream.
“Best night here,” he said, looking round. “No place we can get to worth going afore dark.”
They off-saddled and left the horses picketed apart for the two stallions were eyeing each other and snorting warningly. Then while the Kid lit a fire Dusty got his food out and started to make a meal.
With the food done they settled down on their bedrolls and started to clean their weapons. It was then that Dusty saw the two Dragoons were not a matched pair. The one from the holster was the older, Second Model, with the square-backed brass trigger-guard and the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel. The other was of the rounded trigger-guard, eight-inch-long barrel, and cut for the attachable carbine stock, which was known as the third model.
The detachable stock lay on the bedroll at the side of the Kid and was one of the rare canteen-containing kind which Dusty had read about but never seen before. So always eager to examine something new in the way of weapons he asked if he could look at the stock. The Kid’s face was expressionless as he handed it over. Dusty saw this newer Dragoon was a finely engraved piece even as he turned the stock over and looked first at the canteen, then at the plate inlaid in the butt. The knife had only made a slight dent and he could read the lettering engraved in the silver.
“To Mason Haines from his friend Jethro Kliddoe.”
“Nice piece,” Dusty remarked as he handed the stock back after examining it for a time. He wondered how it came to be in the hands of the Ysabel Kid, for that dark boy could not be Mason Haines, nor would a Mosby rider call Kliddoe friend.
“Sure,” the Kid’s voice was soft and gentle yet there was that Comanche mean look in his eyes again. “One of these days I aim to head north and take it back to ole Yellerdawg Kliddoe.”
Dusty made no attempt to question this remarkable statement. Kliddoe had been the Union Army’s equivalent of William Clarke Quantrill, a man who committed murder and plundered in the name of his flag and under the pretence of fighting for his cause. He would hardly be the sort of man a Dixie boy would go out of his way to see at any time.
“What are you aiming to do now, Lon?” Dusty asked as he unrolled his gear to get fresh bullets for the guns.
“Waal, there were eight of them after me and Gis’ll be just busting his pants to know how they got on. I’m headed back to tell him. Surely hate to see a friend unhappy and worried.”
“Why not ride with me?” Dusty asked softly, watching the other’s face, “I’m going south, too.”
“Into Mexico?” the Kid inquired. “It’s no place for a southern boy right now.”
“I know. There are a few down there. That’s why I’m going.”
“To join ole Bushrod Sheldon?”
“To fetch him back home.”
Chapter Four – A Dying Juarez Man
There wasn’t a sound for the moment, the Kid’s Indian dark face showing no expression as he looked at Dusty. He did not speak for some time, then remarked, “A man’d say you surely picked a real easy way to make a living.”
Dusty shrugged, thinking the same thing himself. “Sure, but if General Bush don’t come back we can’t offer to send help to the Juaristas.”
The Kid thought this over. He and his father supported the Juarez cause from both personal and business reasons. However with the Southerners fighting for Maximilian they steered clear of actual conflict with the French. The family smuggling business was feeling the troubles south of the border badly and until peaceful conditions returned again there was no point in a man trying to run contraband over the river. A man needed steady, reliable customers to run a successful smuggling organization and there were enough forces of law and order arrayed against the smugglers without having to fight off French soldiers or Juarez irregulars who were from the south of Mexico, and did not know who a man was.
“I’ll go along with you, Dusty. But I can’t see Bushrod Sheldon coming back.
Dusty reached into his pocket and took out the letter handing it over. He knew that the message was private but some instinct told him that he could trust the Ysabel Kid and that if he put his cards on the table this Indian-dark boy would be more than willing to help him.
The Kid read slowly, mouthing the words to himself and scowling at the more difficult pieces. However, even though much of the letter was in phrases he could not understand, he did know one thing. The Yankee Government wanted Bushrod Sheldon back in the States and they wanted him really badly. There were concessions in that letter which made the Kid think and he knew that Bushrod Sheldon might even accept the terms. Word had it his men were tired both of the French and being so long away from home.
“I’ll help you when you find Giss and Kraus then,” Dusty promised. “I’ll keep the rest of their men off you, if I can.”
“That’ll be all right with me. But we’re going to have us one helluva time if the French find out that this letter is being sent. They’ll be looking for us and if they find us they’ll be on us foot, hoss and artillery.”
“You’ll be scaring me next.”
The Ysabel Kid grinned at Dusty. He was getting to like and feel the magnetism of the small man. Somehow the Kid felt the same admiration for Dusty as he had for his father. They were much alike those two. Even though Dusty was small, soft-spoken and inconspicuous and his father was a big, wild black Irish Kentuckian. It was the air about them, an air that called for obedience and loyalty, the air of a born leader of men.
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nbsp; With the Ysabel Kid for an ally Dusty got down to the more serious work. He first of all prepared to load his guns. The Kid was stripping the caps from his carbine stocked Dragoon gun ready to load a couple of empty chambers. Removing the percussion caps from the others was a simple precaution for a chance knock could ignite them and fire the charge in the chamber, sending a ball out. Dusty opened a packet of Colt Combustible paper cartridges and extracted enough to reload the two revolvers. He was about to load them when he saw the Kid taking out some round molded lead balls and a powder flask.
“Help yourself to these cartridges if you’re out, Lon,” Dusty remarked. “I’ve plenty of them to spare.”
“Nope, thanks,” the Kid juggled the balls in his hand. “You can keep them sort for me. Give me a soft lead round ball any time. It’ll stop man or b’ar dead in his tracks first shot. Shaped bullets don’t hit that hard.”
Dusty laughed, watching the Kid feed powder into the chamber, then place the ball on it, pushing it home, turning the chamber under the hammer and forcing the ball home. Dusty ripped the protective foil from the cartridge and made a small hole in the cover, turned the chamber and rammed it home. They loaded the empty chamber in the same manner and then slipped the percussion caps on the nipples.
With their weapons loaded and ready for use Dusty got back to the business on hand.
“Where is Bushrod Sheldon?” he asked. “Last I heard he was down near Saltillo or Neuve Rosita.”
“Neuve Rosita it is. There is a fair-sized garrison there, about five hundred men, French and the Sheldon boys. It’s a hard country down there but I know it.”
“Do you know the men who ride for Juarez down that way?”
“Sure, Don Ruis Almonte was one of the men Giss wanted to kill. He’s a friend, we did plenty of business with him.”