The Ysabel Kid

by J. T. Edson

  Giss appeared briefly and fired, the bullet ricocheting into the air and the Kid fired back, watching the strike of his bullet against the rock. The rifle held fairly true even at that range, yet not true enough for him to rely on it. In six months’ time, when he’d made more practice with the rifle the Kid would be able to call his shots with his original uncanny accuracy, but at the moment he was still getting the feel of the weapon.

  Again Giss fired and the Kid shot back at him. Giss grinned, noting the way the bullets were hitting and knowing that he was safe for the time being unless he gave the Kid too easy a mark. He was still one shot behind the Kid.

  “What happened to Sanchez and his men?”

  “Dead, all of them. I got three before I left Mexico, and the others over the Texas line,” the Kid yelled back. “You never could pick good men.”

  “So you come back down here after me!”

  “You ‘n’ Kraus both. Where’s he at?”

  “With the Mexicans some place. We’re playing both sides. If the French win ole Kraus comes over and I say he’s been working for them. If the greasers win he does the same for me.”

  “Figgered it. We got Charro!”

  Giss grunted. Charro had been his right hand man and sent on a mission to Kraus. If the Kid knew what Charro had been carrying he would have been some surprised.

  “I’ll tell Kraus when I meet him.”

  “That’ll be in Hell!”

  Giss rocked into view and fired a fast shot which sent splinters into the air just over the Kid’s head, then fired again as the Kid came up to answer. His bullet missed the dark boy by inches and the Kid fired three times as fast as he could work the lever and pull the trigger. The bullets caused Giss to flatten back against the rock but he was satisfied for the Kid was two shots behind him.

  Firing again Giss jerked back, but this time he did not draw a shot in return. He moved around the base of the rock and looked cautiously out. It took him a couple of moments to locate where the Kid was hiding for Indian smart, he was not allowing himself to be seen any more than possible. All Giss could see was the top of the Kid’s boot but he lined on that. If the bullet hit near enough it might make the Kid rear up into view for he was watching the other side of the rock and might panic. It was a chance and Giss took it.

  The Kid was all too aware of his danger and he also was counting the shots for he knew what was going on in Giss’s mind all the time. Knew it and took savage Comanche pleasure in the shock the other man would get. Then the Kid himself got a shock. The shot came from the other side of the rock and a bullet ripped into the ground just behind his foot. Yet for all of that the Kid’s nerves were under such control that he neither jumped out of his place nor panicked in any way. With a rolling twist he was round the side of the rock away from Giss and came up to fire back; there was a rapid exchange of shots, but neither hit. Now the Kid had seven bullets left, according to Giss’s calculations while he himself still held eight.

  Giss ducked back again and lay on the ground, studying the rock behind which the Kid lay. Then his eyes went to the side of Lookout Rock facing the Kid. This side was a far gentler slope than the others and a set of steps had been carved out on this slope by the villagers allowing for rapid ascent or descent from the top. When the Kid’s rifle was empty Giss would dash up those steps and on top would be able to see the Kid and also take an easy shot. He knew he would be safe from his own experience of the Henry rifle for despite the manufacturer’s boasts it took time to draw the magazine spring to the muzzle end, open the magazine tube, insert bullets then shut the tube and slide back the spring. It took seconds and the Ysabel Kid would not have the seconds to spare, or if he had Giss would be very surprised.

  “I should have dropped you instead of your ole man, Kid!” Giss yelled, trying to annoy the Kid and make him do something foolish.

  “You should.” The Kid was not going to be provoked. His red hazel eyes were cold as he lined the rifle again. He was already getting to know how the rifle shot and how each current of moving air affected the bullet over a range. “It was the worst day’s work you ever did when you dropped him.”

  “He should have joined us then we wouldn’t. Both sides are paying us.”

  “You’ll never live to spend it.”

  Giss fired and every time he shot an answering spurt of flame came from the small rock Giss was getting worried now for he noted that the Kid’s bullets were starting to hit the same spot on the rock every time. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve shots Giss counted from the Kid’s rifle, leaving him with only two bullets. Yet for all that Giss knew his danger. The Kid was getting to know his rifle now and would be able to call his shots. Giss fired again, the answering bullet narrowly missed his face and screamed into the air causing him to jerk himself back into cover again. It took some moments before Giss could raise enough courage to try and draw the last shot.

  With the crack of the Kid’s rifle Giss came from behind the rock and raced for the steps, climbing wildly up. At the top he turned, breathing hard and looked down. The Ysabel Kid was kneeling in plain view, his rifle lining up. Giss grinned as he saw the Kid, unused to repeating rifles, had not counted his shots. With fifteen bullets gone from his rifle the black dressed boy was at Giss’s mercy and would soon meet the same end as his father. Giss lined the rifle, the sights making a perfect picture on the center of the Kid’s shirt. Then Giss waited for the Kid to squeeze the trigger of his rifle and hear the hollow click which would tell him the weapon was empty and of no use.

  That was where Giss made his mistake. The Henry he carried and that he’d looted from a hacienda to the south took only fifteen bullets. The rifle the Kid held was not an old model. It was one of the new pattern, a pattern Giss had never seen. It was a far superior weapon to the old Henry and among its innovations it held not fifteen but seventeen shots.

  Flame tore from the barrel of the Ysabel Kid’s rifle. Giss felt the sudden, shocking impact as lead struck him. He reared up and through the whirling pain haze saw the Kid get up, take out a bullet and push it towards the breech-plate of the rifle. Then the Kid lifted his weapon again, his right eye sighted along the smooth blue barrel and his finger squeezed the trigger lovingly. Even though Giss was staggering, the Ysabel shot and hit. Giss rocked back on his heels, threw his rifle to one side and crumpled forward. He lay there on top of the Lookout Rock dead without ever finding out how he came to make the mistake which cost him his life.

  The Ysabel Kid shoved more bullets through the loading gate of his rifle, then crossed the open ground fast. He held the rifle ready for instant use and never took his eyes off the still form on top of the big rock. He was very cautious as he climbed the rock, ready to shoot at the first move, but his caution was not needed. Giss lay still, two holes in his body, either of which would have caused his death.

  For a time the Kid stood looking down at the body or his father’s killer. The dark face showed none of his feelings as he rolled Giss’s body over the edge of the rock and let it crash to the ground below.

  “I thought you were counting on me being a shot ahead of you. Giss. You never was but half smart.”

  Climbing down again the Ysabel Kid caught Giss’s horse, mounted it and rode away. He did not bother to search Giss for he knew his man. Giss would never be fool enough to carry anything in writing on him. He preferred to make use of his excellent memory and carry a message in his head. There was no danger of losing it then.

  The big white stallion moved back to its master, eyeing the other horse aggressively. The Kid reached over and rubbed the white’s sleek neck and then kneed the gelding forward. The white followed him along without needing reins or anything to keep it coming. The Kid turned and looked back, his face still cold and hard. The man who killed his father was dead, but there was still one other one to get.

  Chapter Eleven – Dusty Hires Two

  Dusty Fog and Mark Counter stood together watching the Ysabel Kid riding back towards them. They’d been a
ble to see something of the long range duel which was going on out there, but bound by their word to the Kid they made no attempt to interfere.

  They walked along the street, ignoring the guerrillos who were now preparing food before they traveled on again. Dusty and Mark were hungry but they went to the edge of town to wait and see what the Ysabel Kid had to say.

  For a moment none spoke as they met. Then Dusty held out his hand, and gripped the Kid’s hard.

  “That’s one of them, Lon.”

  “I’ll get the other, too,” the Kid answered, then noticed that Mark’s coat sleeve was torn. “You all right, amigo?”

  “Likely live. No fault of yours though.”

  “Giss carrying any papers, Lon?” Dusty put in.

  “Nope, he wouldn’t be. You pair all right?”

  “All right?’ Mark growled angrily. “All right. Since I met up with you two I’ve had nothing but troubles. I’ve been shot at by the French, nearly gunned down by the Mexicans, had my pillow torn up, my arm nicked and you say are you all right? I tell you I’ve never had so much trouble since I left home to join the army.”

  “Maybe it’ll be better next time,” the Kid said consolingly.

  “Sure, maybe next time they’ll kill you,” Dusty went on. Mark looked at the other two for a moment, then he threw back his head and laughed. He put a big arm around each one’s shoulder and they returned along the street to where Don Ruis Almonte waited to serve them with a meal.

  Tom Alden was a worried man as he rode with Conway at the head of the large group of mules. He constantly turned his head to look back over the bunch of animals following the bell-mare. He ignored the man leading the mare, the flank riders of the mule train and looked at the distant horizon trying vainly to get some sight of the two Texans who’d helped him so much. It never occurred to him that Dusty Fog or the Ysabel Kid might be dead or that they might get in more trouble than they could handle. In the few short days he’d known Dusty Fog he’d got to think that there was nothing the small man could not do. Even when the Kid’s horse returned riderless he was not worried for Dusty had gone out and Alden was sure that Dusty could get the Kid back.

  “Soon be too dark to travel any more, Tom,” Conway remarked. “Wish the Kid was here. He knows this country.”

  “You’ve got your own man out as a scout.”

  “Sure, but Mick doesn’t know this country like the Kid does. He’s a fair scout but there’s only one Ysabel Kid.”

  Alden agreed with this. They were making a wide swing round the town of Santa Juanita as a matter of simple precaution. That had been Dusty’s orders before he left them. The mule train was kept moving in the general direction of Monterrey and Conway was using his regular scout instead of leaving it to the Ysabel Kid.

  They made camp on the banks of a stream for the night, holding the mules out in the open. Due to the shortage of men Alden rode his circle on the mules with the other men. There was nothing happening that night and the animals were all too leg weary to try and break away from the bunch.

  It was late the following afternoon when Mike came up from one of his wide swings round the mule-train with the disquieting news that a large bunch of men were following them. They were still in the rolling, open country and the men, looking back could faintly see a large bunch of riders coming after them. There was no way of telling yet who the men were, or even if they were French or Mexican. One thing was for sure those men were traveling faster than the mules could, and would soon catch up.

  Alden turned in his saddle and looked back. Those riders were coming closer with every minute and now it was sure they were following the mule-train. They were a deadly danger whoever they were. If it was a French patrol it was large enough to take the muleskinners in a straight fight. The French would be only too pleased to get this consignment of arms, and the thousand Henry repeaters would make a vast difference to their fighting capabilities. There would be no chance of selling the arms either, for the French would kill every man here and take all they wanted. Even if the men following were Mexicans it might not be much better for he knew the guerillos might take it into their head to acquire the arms without payment.

  “Can we get more speed out of the mules, Mike?” he asked, thinking of the effect on his company the loss of this shipment would mean.

  Times were hard for the Winchester Repeating Firearms Company at the moment, with O. F. Winchester’s failure to make a big army contract and other expenses piling up. The sale of these rifles down here would make all the difference to the Company being able to carry on or failing through lack of finance.

  “No chance,” Conway replied. “We’ve worked them harder than usual now. I was aiming to get a day’s rest for them. If we try to work them any faster they’ll be dropping on us.”

  “What do you think we’d best do then?”

  “Keep moving and hope they lose us in the dark. If they don’t we’ll be in bad trouble. Even a bunch of French soldiers could follow the trail we’re leaving.”

  Alden turned again and looked back over the rolling country at that bunch of riders which was slowly drawing nearer. He hated the steady way they were closing in on him and bringing with them an end to all his plans and hopes. He swore that before he would let these arms fall into the hands of the French he would destroy all of them. His men would each take a rifle and they would fight back. There was more ammunition on the mules than they were ever likely to use and they might be able to hold off the men who were following them.

  Mick, the scout, came racing back and brought his horse to a rearing, sliding halt. He looked excited and waved a hand ahead of them.

  “There’s a deep basin about half a mile ahead. If we can get in there they’ll have the devil’s own time getting us out again.”

  Conway and Alden put petmakers to their horses and lit out after the scout. They rode up to the edge of the basin and saw that it answered all their prayers. Whatever had caused this depression in the ground they did not know. It was about half a mile square with gently sloping, rock covered slopes leading down to the smooth, rich grass of the bottom. It was just what they needed for a fort up and they would be the first men to follow the as yet unspoken advice: “When in bad trouble fort up with a Winchester”.

  “Point ‘m down there, me boyos,” Mick roared to his men. “We’ll stand here and if they want a fight, then we’ll give ’em one.”

  The men yelled their approval for every one of these riders was a hardy Irish fighting man and wanted to try out the potentials of these Henry rifles. The man leading the bell-mare turned and headed for the basin. Slowly the untidy looking bunch of mules turned and straggled after her, down to the bottom of the basin. There they discovered that they were not expected to walk anymore and some settled to graze.

  Alden stayed with the men only long enough to tell them to break out the rifles and ammunition then dashed back up the slope again. In his hands he held a new model Henry and he flipped open the lever as he landed behind the rock he’d chosen for his fighting position. He looked as the riders came gradually nearer, squinting his eyes and trying to see who they were. At that distance he still was unable to tell much about the riders.

  “Looks bad, Tom,” Conway slid down beside him holding a Hawken muzzle loader. “There’s a fair bunch of them coming after us.”

  “Too many?”

  “Devil a bit, not for us Irish.”

  Time dragged by; the steady advance of the riders continued and gradually the worry lines left Conway’s face. He recognized the big paint and white horses at the head of the party even before he could distinguish the riders. Then even as Alden’s eye picked out the white and the paint Conway was sure that the Ysabel Kid and Dusty Fog were riding towards them at the head of the other men.

  It was some time before Conway relieved Alden’s worry as to who the riders were, and by that time Alden himself could tell the horses. It said much for the esteem Dusty was held in by the other men that even before they could
tell it was he and the Ysabel Kid neither doubted for a moment that Dusty had rescued the Kid.

  “Now what the hell’s the Cap’n been and done,” Conway asked, “and who’s that bunch he’s got with him?”

  Alden shook his head. It was beyond him for although he could see the great part of the approaching group were Mexicans riding alongside Dusty, the Kid and the tall hidalgo at the front of the group was undoubtedly a Confederate army officer. That was a mixture and Alden could not even start to think how they all came to be together or the Confederate officer was not, as might be expected, a prisoner.

  Dusty Fog looked down into the basin as he halted his horse and then asked mildly, “Expecting somebody, Tom?”

  “What?” Alden growled, the relief he felt bursting in sudden anger at these two grinning young men who’d caused him so much anxiety with so little cause. “Why you—”

  “You could have wigwagged us, Dusty,” Conway went on in aggrieved tone. “We thought you were the French and after us.”

  Dusty looked round at the men who were still in their defensive positions and then down at the mules quietly grazing in the bottom of the basin. He turned and looked back over the rolling country and made his decision.

  “Tom, if there’s any water round get the mules to it. We’ll night up down here.”

  Alden waited until after Conway went to make the arrangements for watering the mules, then turned back to Dusty and asked, “What’s all this about?”

  “Not much at all. This here’s Lieutenant Mark Counter of the Sheldon troops and Don Ruis Almonte. Don Ruis will escort us to Monterrey and Mark’s going along to meet General Sheldon with us from there.”

  There was a lot hidden in those soft spoken words, that Alden was real sure about. How Dusty came to find a Mexican with enough men to give them a safe escort to Monterrey and a Confederate officer to act as guide to Bushrod Sheldon beat Alden.

  Almonte’s men went to help the muleskinners unload and tend the stock while Dusty and Almonte prepared the defense of the basin. The guerrillos were split up into small groups and sent out as flanking pickets all round the hollow where the main party was grouped. Their orders were to watch for any French patrols and if they saw one to let it go by if it was not headed for the basin. If it was they were to try and decoy it away. The rifles must be protected at all costs in Almonte’s view and Dusty agreed with it.