by J. T. Edson
Only a skeleton party was to remain in the basin with the muleskinners and to these Dusty gave stringent orders about keeping quiet after dark and not showing any cooking fires at all. Any cooking was to be done now, in the last light of day and every fire was to be out before full darkness.
“We could do with resting up the mules for a day, Dusty.”
It was Conway who came up with the next problem as Dusty stood watching the men taking small groups of animals off to water them.
Dusty watched the animals, noting how leg weary they were. Mike Conway made his living from these animals and he was worried about them. It was vitally important to get the mules to Monterrey and see the rifles handed over to Juarez but it would be of no use if the mules could not carry the weight. Like every army commander Dusty was aware that not only a day but minutes could make the difference in a war. He had to balance the risk of the mules foundering against the extra day of rest.
“All right, Mike, take your day. Don Almonte, we’ll camp here for one day then move on.”
Almonte nodded his approval. This small man in the dress of a cowhand was a soldier through and through. It pleased the old Don that Dusty had taken the full responsibility without hesitation for he would have liked to offer his opinion on the matter. Like Dusty, Almonte knew that Conway depended for his living on the mules and was willing to allow them a one day respite for the traveling they had been forced into.
To the muleskinners it came as a well-earned break from the trail and they were prepared to enjoy it. With the usual cheerful Irish way they made friends with the guerrillos or renewed old friendships, for Conway’s men had delivered more than one contraband cargo to Almonte’s hacienda. They made their meals around the small fires then as night came down doused each blaze. The night was warm and as the moon came up there was no need for a fire to help them see their way about.
After making sure all was as he wanted it, Dusty came back to join Mark and the Ysabel Kid. He made a tour of the pickets and found the men, much to his surprise, alert and watchful. Now he settled down on his bedroll and looked at the bulk of Mark Counter next to him.
“What’re you fixing to do when we’ve finished down here, Mark?”
For a time Mark did not reply. He was tired of army life and knew that he was too independent ever to make a successful career officer. Also he had no intention of ever wearing a Union army uniform even though one of the concessions to be made to Sheldon was that any man who wished could join the Union army with his present rank and seniority. There was his father’s big R over C spread down in the Big Bend country but it was in the very capable hands of Rance Counter and Mark’s three older brothers. There was work for him there but he knew the others could manage equally well without him. He was willing to listen to any suggestion Dusty might make.
“Reckon I’ll look round for a riding chore.”
“Uncle Devil wants me to get men for his floating outfit. I’m going to run it and I’d be real pleased if you’ll take on as my segundo.”
Mark grinned at Dusty, his firm white teeth gleaming against the tan of his face. A floating outfit was almost a mobile ranch. Five or six men who spent all their time away from the main outfit, out on the far parts of the spread’s range, doing the same kind of work the other ranch hands did closer in. With Dusty in command it promised to be a very stimulating and enterprising group.
“I’m on,” Mark replied, then looking at the Ysabel Kid. “Are you in this, too, Lon?”
Now it was the Kid’s turn to think. He’d been expecting this sort of invitation from the start and thinking over what he should say. Then his face also split in a wide grin. Those two hell twisters would do to ride the river with. He found that the idea of running contraband and following the smuggler profession was no longer attractive, not when one could ride with two good friends like these pair.
“Tell you, if you’ll promise I don’t have to meet too many sheriffs or go near too many jails I reckon I could give it a whirl.”
Dusty was satisfied. Ole Devil’s idea of the floating outfit was not only for the purpose of handling the range work away from the ranch house. He also wanted a capable fighting force on hand to help out any of his friends who found themselves in trouble. With Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid on call, Dusty was sure he had the nucleus of that fighting force and his cousin Red Blaze, would form the fourth member of the group if needed.
“Likely Uncle Devil’ll fire me when he sees what I’ve straddled him with but I’ll take a chance on it. You’re hired.”
“When’s payday?” the Ysabel Kid inquired.
“Pity we can’t move in tomorrow,” Mark put in.
“It’s only one more day,” Dusty answered.
Mark groaned. He loved his comfort and never believed in sleeping out when he might be in a bed. Now he was condemned to two nights out in the open when he’d hoped to find a comfortable resting place in Monterrey on the following night. Not only that but far worse, he was compelled to use his saddle for a pillow as the Lefauchex bullet had torn his pillow beyond any hope of repair.
The night was silent enough now and the moon up, lighting the bottom of the basin almost as if it was day. The men were almost all in their bedrolls, or just laying on the ground. Dusty lay there relaxed and studying the Ysabel Kid who was sleeping next to him. The Kid’s many talents would find full use in the floating outfit and he would be steered clear of the outlaw trails he was used to riding.
The Kid came awake, and sat up, hand going to the old Dragoon. Dusty watched, noting that complete change from sleep to full awake which told a man who was long used to danger.
“What is it, Lon?” he asked.
“Somebody’s coming in,” the Kid’s reply was just a whisper.
Dusty was several seconds before he could hear the approaching man, but the Kid was already holstering his gun. They rose and walked through the sleeping camp followed by Mark and Almonte. The men appeared to be asleep and the mules were all bedded down, either asleep or grazing.
The man who’d come out from the night was one of the pickets coming to bring some alarming news. A large French force was moving across country and would be passing the camp area at about half a mile. This would be the testing time; the French patrol might be looking for them, or it might be taking advantage of the darkness to avoid clashing with the Mexican forces. If the French were looking for Alden and his shipment of rifles they would be alert for any sound and would be watching for any sign.
This was the testing time for Dusty’s arrangements. If all was silent the French patrol might pass them in the night without even knowing they were there. It was lucky that all the men were asleep—
“Oh the English came and tried to teach us their ways,
They scorned us just for being what we are,
But they might as well have tried to catch a moonbeam,
Or light a penny candle on a star.”
The words of an Irish rebel song were being sung in a drunken tenor voice from the other side of the camp.
Dusty sprang round. He could hear men stirring and knew it was only a matter of seconds before they were talking amongst themselves and asking questions. From then it was only a matter of more seconds before there was so much noise the French would hear it as they passed.
“Quiet!” he snarled to a bunch of men as he passed them, the concentrated savagery in his tone making their voices dry off immediately.
“That you, Cap’n?” it was Mike Conway looming up in the darkness.
“Sure!” Dusty bit down the sarcastic reply which came to his lips. “Who’s that making all that noise, Mike?”
“Raffety. He’s got a bottle of tequila from one of the vaqueros and he’s been at it for a spell now.”
“Has he,” Dusty refrained from asking why the man was allowed to drink. “We’ll have to stop him.”
Conway grunted something unintelligible as Dusty went by. Then following the leader of the muleskinners said, “He�
�ll not let you, Cap’n. He ain’t a bad man but he gets mean when the likker’s in him. When he starts to singing Galway Bay he’s bad mean and even I can’t do anything with him.”
The Ysabel Kid had disappeared with the picket and came back fast, traveling at a loping run. He brought disquieting news. The French, though still far enough away, were coming in this direction and would pass at much less than the half mile the other man estimated.
Dusty went across the basin fast followed by Mark, the Kid and several other men, to where Raffety sat in solitary state. The man was seated with his back to a large rock, the tequila bottle in his hand and his voice giving out with another verse about how the wicked English down trod the Irish people. He looked up truculently as Dusty halted in front of him.
For an instant Dusty glared down at the man who despite his tenor voice was almost as tall and quite a bit heavier than Mark. This did not influence Dusty at all and before Mark could start to make the suggestion he handled the matter it was too late. Dusty’s hand stabbed out, took the bottle from Raffety’s hand and threw it to one side.
If a jackrabbit had walked up and kicked him Raffety could not have been more surprised. He was used to folks giving him a clear trail when drunk and it took him a moment or two to realize that this small man dare come up and throw his bottle away.
With a snarl of anger Raffety came up, hand fanning towards his gun. Dusty moved in, fist driving into Raffety’s muscled but tequila-filled belly with all his strength behind the blow. Mark, no mean hand at any branch of bare hand fighting looked his approval, noting the way the entire weight of Dusty’s body was behind the punch. Hard though it was it did not put Raffety down. It brought a grunt of pain from him and made his hand miss the butt of his gun but that was all.
The big man’s hand drove out in a punch that should have knocked Dusty clear across the basin but it missed. The small Texan moved his head aside and the force of the blow threw Raffety forward. The big man felt two hands grip the front of his shirt then Dusty went down, ramming a foot into Raffety’s stomach. The big man went forward with his own weight, then his feet left the ground and he sailed over to light down flat on his back. Mumbling curses Raffety rolled on to his hands and knees and came up.
“Give it up, Irish!” Dusty snapped, for his patience was wearing thin and he knew that if Raffety did not stop he was going to get hurt bad.
Raffety, unfortunately was too drunk to see the quiet menace in the determined expression on Dusty’s face. He hurled forward again, huge hands clawing out to envelope the small Texan in a murderous bear hug Mark bit down his yell of warning and was about to leap forward to help his friend when Dusty struck. The Texan’s hand moved almost faster than the eye could follow, yet Mark saw that the fist was not held tight clenched in the normal way. The forefinger was so bent that it stood out in advance of the other knuckles. It was this bent finger that landed, right under Raffety’s nose. The big man stopped dead, his arms crumpling down to his sides as a look of agony such as Mark had rarely if ever seen before passed over his face. Then without a sound Raffety collapsed to the ground and lay without a move.
“What the hell, Dusty?” Mark asked. “I thought I knew something about fist fighting but I never saw a man put down like that before, or a fist held like—”
“Quiet all of you!” Dusty’s voice was the anger filled snarl of a martinet officer. The men who were talking loudly and eagerly about what they’d seen, all fell silent. “I’ll explain it later, Mark. Right now ain’t such a good time.”
The men broke up and headed for the slopes under Dusty’s savagely hissed commands like children when an irascible father raises his voice in anger. The broken silence closed down again.
“Watch the French, Lon,” Dusty said softly.
The Kid faded into the darkness again and the men grew more silent as they heard the sound of approaching horses and the creak of saddle leather. They had been so engrossed in watching Dusty handle Raffety that they had not noticed the sound of the approaching French. Now they did and most of them cursed the now unconscious Raffety and realized why their unofficial leader took such drastic steps to stop the drunken singing.
The men on the slopes of the basin almost held their breath as the long line of French troops rode by at a distance of about a quarter of a mile. There was many a sigh of relief when the Ysabel Kid, who’d followed the French, came back to report that all was well. The French were riding on, not showing any signs of camping nearby.
Dusty watched the other men going back to their bed-rolls and then gave a grunt of relief. “That was too close for me.”
Chapter Twelve – In Old Monterrey
“How did you put Raffety down, Dusty?” Mark inquired as they rode along the last leg of the journey towards Monterrey. “He was unconscious for four hours. I thought you’d killed him.”
“I was scared I might have myself,” Dusty admitted. “The trouble with using the forefinger fist on the philtrum is if you do it too hard, it can kill the man.”
Mark looked back along the line to where Raffety hunched in his saddle, his top lip swollen almost double its normal size.
“I’ve never seen a man go down like he did and I’ve hit a few on the nose,” Mark objected.
“Sure you hit them on the nose. Just under the nose, right in the center of the top lip is the place to aim. But an ordinary fist won’t do it. You have to get the exact spot and to do that you hold your hand in what Tommy Okasi calls the forefinger fist, like this,” Dusty demonstrated the way he’d folded his fist the night before last.
Mark thought this over. He was skilled in all branches of frontier fist fighting and had learned the art of boxing from a professional pugilist friend of his father. However this technique Dusty used was new to him and appeared to be something well out of the ordinary. He felt new respect for his friend; there did not seem to be any end to the talents of Dusty Fog.
The town of Monterrey loomed ahead of them, sprawling out in the heat of the noon-day sun. The French were driven from this area and the fighting was farther south and more towards the coast.
The town was taking its siesta when Dusty Fog brought his party in. The noise of the many horses and mules brought sleepy-eyed men and women from where they carried out the ancient and noble custom of old Mexico. By the time they reached the main square, quite a crowd was gathered, yelling greetings both to the guerillos and to the Ysabel Kid who appeared to be well-known and liked here.
In the large, open plaza Dusty raised his hand bringing the mules to halt. He turned to Alden and asked, “Do you reckon we’d better hole up somewhere with the rifles until we’re paid?”
“Might be at that,” Alden agreed. He for one did not intend allowing the Mexican Army to get hold of the weapons until the money was paid over.
The Ysabel Kid pointed to a large, deserted looking building on the side of the plaza. “We’ll take them in there. It belongs to a friend of mine, who is off fighting the French. He won’t mind if we use it.”
Dusty looked the building over. It was separated from the other establishments by some thirty feet on either side. Then riding forward Dusty entered the building, leaving his paint standing with reins hanging loose. The inside of the building was simple in the extreme. It was just one big room with a scarred wooden bar at one end. There were windows at each side although these had no glass in them. All in all, it would be a good place to fort up. To make sure Dusty went to the rear window and looked out. The nearest building was some thirty or more yards away and it was all open ground in between.
After testing the pump behind the bar and finding it worked Dusty went to the door and called, “Unload and bring it in here.”
The watching citizens of Monterrey showed great interest in the loads those mules were carrying although their interest was not enough for them to offer help in the unloading. Their help was not needed for the Conway men and the guerrillos were more than enough to carry the rifles in and stack them in piles of f
ifty on the floor. The boxes of ammunition were stacked up also in neat piles and as a precaution Dusty had a couple of them broken open ready for use.
Alden handed one of the presentation rifles to Mark Counter and showed him how to load it. Mark examined the piece with interest, hefting it and testing the balance. “Fine looking rifle,” he said to the Kid.
“Best I’ve ever handled,” the Kid replied.
Conway came into the building, going straight to Dusty and from the look on his face he was worried.
“Dusty, I just heard that Chavelinos is in command down here. Don Ruis’s just gone to see him.”
“So?”
“Chavelinos and me don’t get on together,” Conway replied, glancing at the Ysabel Kid for confirmation.
“That’s right, Dusty,” the Kid agreed. “Can’t say I like Chavelinos much myself. He was only a captain so how come he’s in command?”
“He’s a general now. The devil only knows how he got to be one. The Mexican Army can’t be that badly off for men,” Conway growled. “I reckon me and the boys best pull out; we’ll only make trouble for you if we stop here.”
The Kid nodded his agreement to this. Chavelinos and Conway had a long standing feud and it might go hard for the muleskinner to be caught in a town where Chavelinos held the power.
Dusty was willing to accept the Kid’s word for this and knew that Conway and his men could do little to help them now. He called Alden over and passed on the news. The big salesman did not argue, but made Conway out a bank draft for his services and shook hands.
“Thanks Mike, it’s been good knowing you. If you ever need a friend get in touch with the Winchester Repeating Firearms Company and I’ll do what I can for you.”