The Ysabel Kid

by J. T. Edson

  The Kid looked at Dusty. There was pleading in the red hazel eyes and Dusty knew that more than anything in the world his young friend wanted that rifle. It was a hard decision to make. If they went with Alden there would be no chance of waiting for General Handiman’s man, but those rifles would make Juarez more than pleased to see them. With that many repeaters and with Bushrod Sheldon’s men out of the way Juarez would be able to strike the French hard and drive them from his country.

  “We’ll take on, Tom,” he said, watching the delight on the Kid’s face. “If you remember one thing. We’ll only be able to get you to the town of Monterrey. If we get there and you sell the guns that is the end of our deal. We’ve some business of our own in Mexico and can’t take time out to come back north with you. Is that all right?”

  “Most certainly. Once we’ve sold the rifles I will make my own way back. No doubt Juarez will give me an escort with the money.”

  The Ysabel Kid laughed. He took the rifle and caressed it, hefting it with all the pleasure of a child with a new toy. “You watch that escort, Tom,” he warned. “Was I you I’d pay them off as soon as you can and try to make it alone.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Now, as to the transporting of the rifles. I have wagons—”

  “Wagons?” the Kid put in, taking his eyes off his new rifle for a moment. “You can’t get through with wagons. The French know about these arms and they’ll be out looking for them. We’re going to have to take them overland.”

  “Overland?” Alden stared at the Kid. “There are a thousand stand of arms here and fifty thousand rounds of ammunition. How can we move that much overland?”

  “Happen we’re lucky we can do it. I’ll be riding out of here and see if I can find a man. He should be within a day of here. I’ll be back in two.”

  Alden asked no questions and Dusty went to the door with the Kid. He watched the young man slide the Winchester into his saddle boot and stuff the bullets Alden gave him into his bedroll.

  “What’s amusing you, Lon?” Dusty asked.

  “Plenty. A sheriff shakes my hand and acts like he’s pleased to meet me and I’ve got me a new repeating rifle.”

  Chapter Six – Canebrake Country

  “Tom, this here’s Mike Conway.”

  It was two days after the meeting with Alden and the Ysabel Kid returned to Brownsville bringing a big, bearded and cheerful looking Irishman. They were at the small wooden store again.

  “Mike,” Alden greeted. “Pleased to meet you. Now how about these arms, Lon?”

  “We’ve got to get them through, Mike,” the Kid explained. “And we can’t use wagons. The French will be patrolling the wagon trails, so there ain’t but one way we can do it.”

  “You mean on mules?” Conway asked. “Lon, you’re a darling boy to think of your poor ole Uncle Mike.”

  “There are a thousand rifles and fifty thousand round of ammunition,” Alden pointed out. “That will take a lot of mules.”

  “Sure and I’ve got a lot. We’ll break all the rifles out and wrap ’em in in tarps and we’ve carried boxes the size of the others many the time,” Conway replied.

  Dusty looked the Kid up and down, wondering if the young man could bring this off. He could see the impossibility of taking the wagons into Mexico and that the only possible way of getting the arms through would be on mules. He’d run mule trains of arms himself, but never in numbers like this.

  Conway examined the new model Henry rifles and grunted in satisfaction at them. He could see no great difficulty in getting the rifles through on mules and after a short discussion on money agreed to go along.

  “One thing I don’t like is the French knowing not only about the shipment but who you were, Tom. That means they’re on to you. They’ll be watching for you and we don’t want that. So this is what I reckon we should do,” Dusty said.

  The others listened intently for they knew who Dusty Fog was and they were willing to put themselves under his care.

  So the following morning Dusty, the Kid, Alden and two of Conway’s men headed for a ford of the Rio Grande above the town of Brownsville. Conway’s men sat on the driving seats of Tom Alden’s two wagons and the other three rode ahead. Dusty wanted the French to be looking for two wagons and not for mules. His guesswork was proved correct as they turned a corner in the trail and approached the ford. At the nearer side a couple of Sibley tents were erected and a young Lieutenant with four troopers were standing outside them. On the other side were several French soldiers commanded by a hard faced young Captain.

  The young Lieutenant stepped forward as the wagon approached and held up his hand. “Are you Mr. Alden?” he asked.

  “I am sir. May I help you in any way?”

  “Only by turning back, sir. The French Government has made representations to Washington on the subject of your mission. My orders are to prevent you from crossing the border here.”

  “What!” Alden boomed back, his face reddening even deeper.

  Those are my orders, sir. You will have to turn back. Washington does not want international complications at the moment.”

  “Wait, please,” the voice came from the other side of the ford. “I will come across if I may.”

  The French Captain rode across the river and halted, saluting the Lieutenant casually and introducing himself. “Are these the men?”

  “These are the gentlemen I was asked to turn back if that is what you mean.”

  “Then you will arrest them?” and when the Lieutenant shook his head, “I will call my men across and do it then.”

  “There will be no arrest,” the young Lieutenant turned his gaze to the other Americans as he spoke. “These gentlemen are citizens of the United States I may remind you. My orders are to make sure that they do not cross the ford and I will remain here to make sure they do not. I hope that is understood by all concerned?”

  Dusty caught the emphasis on the word “here” and nodded in agreement. He for one clearly understood what was meant.

  Alden did not appear to have caught the sign, for his face went deeper red and he snapped, “This is intolerable. I will return to Brownsville and telegraph my company. We are not without friends in Congress as you’ll soon find out.”

  “Monsieur,” the Frenchman’s face grew dark and, angry, “My orders from Vera Cruz are to arrest this man. May I fetch my men over and do so?”

  “You may not,” the Lieutenant snapped back. “These gentlemen are United States citizens and on American soil. If you bring armed men across the river I will be compelled to regard it as a breach of international law and an act of open war. If Mr. Alden should cross into Mexico then you may do what you like.”

  Alden growled an angry curse and ordered his men to turn their horses back in the direction they’d come. When they were out of sight of the ford he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  “That young officer was smart,” he said. “He’ll be staying at that ford and not patrolling. It all falls on you now, Lon. Do you know a way across the river?”

  “Why sure,” the Kid replied. “See this bosque country here?” He indicated the woods on either side of the trail. “Upstream from here runs the canebrakes, behind the trees. We’re going through them.”

  “The canebrake country?” Dusty turned to look at the Kid. “You allow to take those mules through there?”

  “I’ve run mules through the canebrakes,” Conway said dubiously. “But never a bunch this size.”

  “Reckon there’s always a start for everything,” the Kid replied. “How long have you been using that string?”

  “Three, four years. But never all of them at one whirl like we’re doing now.”

  “And they will follow that bell mare of your’n?”

  “Never lose her.”

  The Kid nodded. He was sure that Mike Conway meant just what he said. The mules were trained to follow the bell mare all the time, unfastened and allowed to pick their own way. However they were rarely used
in such large groups as would be necessary to transport the arms and ammunition. That would be their only hope, that the mules would keep moving after the bell mare through the winding trails of the canebreak country. It would be impossible in most places for Conway’s outriders to keep on the flanks of the mules and there would be little chance of watching the animals. It said much for Conway’s skill as a mule trainer and handler that the Ysabel Kid was willing to risk going through the canebrakes with the mules.

  The following day the huge band of mules, loaded with the bundles of rifles and boxes of ammunition were led out of town before dawn. The Ysabel Kid, Dusty Fog and Alden stayed on until daylight then left town by another trail, riding as if headed along the seacoast. The Kid circled back to make sure they were not being followed or watched and then took them across country to join Conway’s men as they held the mules at the edge of the canebrakes.

  It was the first time Alden had ever seen the thick mass of growth and the high cane shoots which formed an unholy tangle.

  “Do you think we can get lost there?” Alden asked.

  “Happen we don’t get lost,” the Kid replied comfortingly.

  “Which same we don’t do, not with the Kid guiding us,” Conway put in. “He knows the trails in there like you know New Haven. You couldn’t lose him.”

  Dusty sat silent, watching the others. He was sure that the Ysabel Kid would get them through to the Rio Grande and across it. After that no man could say what would happen next. He had decided that he would go along without Handiman’s agent and left a letter with Farron to be sent to the OD Connected where Handiman was staying as a houseguest until his return. He could guess that Handiman would be annoyed to know he was going alone but Dusty was not worried. This was his mission and he would rather handle it his own way for he’d got help from that very able young man the Ysabel Kid and with these rifles he could make a deal with Juarez for the safe passage of the Sheldon Men.

  “Let’s go then,” he said at last. “Move out.”

  Mike Conway and the Kid rode with Alden and Dusty now, at the head of the line as they went forward, then thinned into single file as the Kid rode through a narrow gap in the bamboo canes. Dusty came second, Alden third and Conway brought up the rear followed by a mare with a bell fastened round her neck. This was the bell-mare and the mules were trained to follow her; in the dark they would keep in touch with the sound of the bell and this was what the Kid was counting on now. The mules were strung out nose to tail behind them in a long line and he hoped that their training and instinct would keep them moving for long enough to get them through the thickest of the canebrakes.

  Once inside the canebrakes they were surrounded and enclosed by the thick growing bamboo intersected by other narrow or wider trails which cut off from or across the one they were following. Alden was hopelessly lost inside a couple of minutes and although Dusty retained his sense of direction for a short time after Alden, he also soon knew that left alone he would have very serious trouble in ever finding his way out again.

  Riding his dun behind Alden, Mike Conway looked around him at the very sameness of the clumps of bamboo, one looking just like the next and every hundred yards looking like the last hundred or the hundred ahead. It was a bewildering and scaring feeling, even to a man who’d gone through the Canebrakes before. Conway was a smuggler and a good one but he mostly tried to avoid this sort of country. He’d been through it with small groups of mules at times, but only when forced to by dire necessity and then only with an Indian guide who knew the trails. Never had he been so deeply in as they were now going.

  The Kid alone appeared calm and relaxed as he rode at the head of the party. His Winchester rifle was across his knees and his red-hazel eyes never missed a thing. His Comanche blood gave him an inborn instinct to remember any trail he ever rode and never did an instinct stand him so much good use as now. He pushed on at an even pace, allowing the big white stallion to pick its own way along and knowing the horse would make for the river even if he should get lost. He wanted to get them out there on the banks of the Rio Grande before night and if possible across the other side where the trail widened out for some way ahead, though still winding and no easy route to follow. The Kid looked back over his shoulder and called to Conway to get a count made of the mules. There was no delay in doing this and Dusty himself stayed where the trail started to widen to count the mules as they went by. He watched them pass, counting in the same manner he’d learnt to count a herd of cattle as they moved by him. This was far easier than making a trail count for the mules came along singly and there was not so many of them as to make the use of a cord to tally the number of hundreds necessary.

  Despite the small number Dusty was pleased to see that they had not lost a mule so far. Conway’s men, riding at the rear of the group grinned amiably at Dusty and one asked, “How’s it going up there, Cap’n?”

  “Good enough,” Dusty replied. “We haven’t lost any yet.”

  “Hope we don’t. If we got separated down here, I don’t know when we’d get back together again.”

  Dusty thought the same thing himself as he turned his paint and headed back the way he’d just come. He rode by the mules and felt more than relieved when he saw Conway and the bell-mare ahead of him. It wasn’t until he was back alongside the Kid again that he felt completely at ease. The narrow trails down in the canebrakes weren’t for him. He much preferred the open range country where a man could see his way along. This country was too secretive for him.

  “How’s it back there?” the Kid asked. “We still got any left?”

  “Couple,” Dusty replied. “Fact being we haven’t lost one so far.”

  “Didn’t expect to,” the Kid waved a hand round. “Mules are smart critters, real smart. They don’t like this sort of range and they’ll stay bunched until we get out of here. That’s why we’re going to keep moving. There are a couple of clearings ahead and the graze is good. I want to push across them as fast as we can. If the mules get the idea they can find food there they’ll balk and we’ll be stuck with them.”

  Conway caught up as the Kid talked and agreed with all the young man said. He knew his mules would follow the bell-mare but that if they once got stopped in what they regarded as a nice safe area they would be hard to move. He couldn’t see any way they might be able to avoid it except by doing what the Kid suggested, and keeping the mules moving.

  The first of the clearings lay ahead of them, an open space not more than a hundred yards across but nearly half a mile long and offering good grazing. Even as the men came into view there was a rush of hooves and several wild steers went crashing into the canebrakes at the other side.

  “Keep them moving,” the Kid yelled as the bell-mare led her followers. “Don’t let them get their heads down and grazing.”

  Dusty sent his paint hurling forward, swinging his rope and urging the mules on by him. He knew they were far harder to drive than cattle and that if they once took it into their heads to stop it would be a hard task starting them again. The bell-mare went on, her bell ringing as she stepped out across the open and the mules followed her, crowding out into the open. The Conway men kept their charges moving at a fair speed and they were across the open space before any of them realized it was there. Back into the narrow trail again there was less chance of a mule balking when it followed the tail of the animal in front and was crowded in by the one behind.

  They traveled on, walking the horses and leading them in the cavalry manner instead of riding all the time. There were few delays; once a pack came loose along the line and Conway’s men cut their way through the bamboo to get alongside and readjust the load. Later a big, old black bear challenged their right to use the path, snorting and grunting as it reared back on its hind legs and waved the forefeet with the long, curved claws in defiance.

  “No shooting,” Dusty warned as the Kid’s rifle lifted. “We may have fooled the French but they’ll surely get suspicious if they hear shooting from in here.
”

  The Kid nodded. He knew that the sound of shooting would carry far. Yet he did not wish to stop the line as the back part of it was still in the last of the clearings. The horses were snorting and jibbing back now, fiddle-footing restlessly as the black bear went down on his four feet again and stood shaking his head slowly from side to side and growling.

  Dusty suddenly dug the spurs into his big paint stallion causing it to leap forward. The horse was used to hunting bears and the scent of one didn’t scare the paint as badly as it was doing the mount Alden was afork. The big paint stallion hurled forward right at that old bear. Dusty shook loose his rope and swung it over his head then with a shattering Rebel war whoop brought the hondo of the rope round and down, lashing full on to the tip of the bear’s nose.

  That old bear was the master of the canebrakes. He’d grown old and ornery in there, the undisputed ruler of all he surveyed. Never had any creature, not even a longhorn bull come at him in that manner. It shook him back on to his heels, then the yell jarred his nerves even more and when the stinging pain assailed his delicate nose he decided he’d taken all he meant to. With a half snort, half grunt he whirled and went up that trail like the devil after a yearling. Dusty followed him lashing with the rope and yelling wildly. The old bear made a new record for a fast departure into the safety of the canebrake thicket where he mostly lay up.

  Bringing the paint to a halt Dusty looked round and grinned back at the Kid who was still riding at an even pace towards him. Taking his bandana out the Ysabel Kid wiped sweat from his face, his grin a mite weak.

  “Don’t you ever do nothing like that again, Dusty,” he said. “I ain’t never seen anyone fool enough to charge a b’ar afore.”

  “Don’t reckon that ole bear had either,” Dusty answered “I figgered he might light out if somebody came at him. He wouldn’t expect it.”

  The Kid shook his head, eyeing Dusty with new respect. Among the Comanches the bear was regarded as being a dangerous enemy and one to be avoided. He would no more thought of charging at that bear with only a rope than he would of going into the United States Customs Office and declaring a load of contraband. Dusty Fog rose even higher in the Kid’s estimation.