From Hide and Horn (A Floating Outfit Book Number 5)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘The man who broke the medicine of the Devil Gun?’ asked Pinedapoi.

  ‘He is the one,’ confirmed the Kid.

  During the War, a pair of fanatical supporters of the Union had obtained an Agar Coffee Mill gun and hoped to use its rapid-fire qualities to lead the Indians in Texas on the warpath. Dusty had learned of the plot, attended the council at which the gun was to be displayed, killed the fanatics and prevented the full-scale uprising they had planned. xvii

  ‘He may come,’ Pinedapoi declared, for such a fighter as ‘Magic Hands’ would be welcome even though a white man and nominally an enemy, and without the added advantage of being blood-brother to a member of the Penhane Dog Soldiers.

  The Kid pursed his lips and gave a shrill whistle. In the darkness, Dusty saw the white stallion toss its head and start to walk forward for no reason apparent to him. Following the horse, he booted his carbine. Riding towards the Yap-Eaters’ camp, Dusty felt a touch uneasy. Cold black eyes in impassive, slightly Mongoloid faces studied him from head to toe. At a signal from the Kid, the stallion halted on the fringe of the firelight. Taking his cue from Thunder, Dusty stopped his paint, dropped from the saddle and let the reins dangle free. With his horse ground-hitched, he walked to where the Kid and the chief waited.

  ‘Why are you here, Magic Hands?’ Pinedapoi asked in Spanish after the formalities had ended.

  ‘I am with Chaqueta-Tigre,’ Dusty explained in the same language. ‘We are taking a herd of cattle to the Army’s forts beyond the Staked Plains.’

  ‘So that the soldiers may eat well and be strong to fight against the Comanche?’ suggested the chief. ‘Or to make your home on the Indian lands?’

  ‘Neither. To feed the Indians who live at peace on the reservations.’

  Before Dusty could elaborate further, a tuivitsi rose and pointed to the south. All the other young braves came to their feet, talking and showing excitement. The older warriors scowled their disapproval at such behavior before strangers and retained their impassive postures.

  ‘We’ve got callers, Dusty,’ the Kid said quietly. ‘A wagon and two-three riders. Could be we’ve picked a mighty poor time to come calling.’

  ‘Could be,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Only it’s too late to pull out now.’ In a short time the newcomers appeared and Dusty found that the Kid had guessed correctly about the composition of the party. Three riders flanked a small wagon and two men sat on its box. They were Mexicans, evil-faced and looking out-of-place in the tarnished finery of their charro clothing. All carried revolvers and knives at their belts, while one of the riders nursed a Spencer carbine on his knees.

  ‘Damn the luck!’ grunted the Kid. ‘It’s Hugo Salverinas and his bunch. They’re Comancheros. That’s Salverinas on the wagon. The driver’s Andres. The short cuss riding on the right’s Carlos, the one with the Spencer’s called Leon and the other’s Cristobal. If the Devil put worse on this earth, I’ve sure never met ’em.’

  Which, considering some of the people met by the Kid during his short but hectic life, sounded very damning for the new arrivals. Comancheros were Mexican bandidos who combined trading with the Nemenuh and raiding on their own account. Merciless killers, they had been all but quelled by the Texas Rangers before the War and returned due to the inefficient policing offered by the corrupt Davis Administration currently controlling the State.

  Dusty could not see a bunch of Comancheros taking kindly to finding two Texans in the Comanche camp. Nor could the Kid, so he moved slowly from his companion’s side and squatted on his heels by the fire. The wagon came to a halt and Salverinas directed a cold glare in Dusty’s direction. Short, heavy-built, cruel-featured, the man carried himself with the air of one who knew he was on safe ground.

  ‘Who is this?’ Salverinas demanded, pointing at the small Texan but apparently taking the Kid for one of the Yamparikuh.

  ‘He is a friend,’ Pinedapoi answered, sounding just a touch annoyed at the tone of the Comancheros’ leader.

  ‘Why is he here?’ Salverinas went on without leaving the wagon’s box.

  ‘Why are you here?’ countered the chief.

  ‘We met Apache Scalp and four braves,’ Salverinas explained in a milder voice and his men swung from their horses. ‘They told us where you are camped and we came to bring you news. Not far from here is a large herd of cattle. If you take them for us, we have guns, powder and lead for trading.’

  ‘What do you say to this, Magic Hands?’ Pinedapoi asked, the conversation having taken place in Spanish.

  ‘He is sending many of your braves to the Land Of Good Hunting, chief,’ Dusty replied. ‘We want no trouble with your people. And you have too few braves to attack Chaqueta-Tigre’s herd with any hope of winning.’

  ‘They are not more than twenty-five men,’ Salverinas put in. ‘You have thirty here and more around if you need them.’

  ‘We are all well-armed,’ Dusty warned. ‘Not only with handguns. We have many rifles.’

  ‘The Yamparikuh have faced rifles before—’ Salverinas began, as Dusty hoped he would.

  ‘But not such rifles as our men carry,’ the small Texan stated, dipping his left hand into a pocket and producing something which he handed to the chief. ‘This is why you won’t take our cattle.’

  ‘What is it?’ Pinedapoi inquired, turning the metal-case Henry cartridge between his thumb and forefinger.

  ‘A bullet such as our new rifles fire. Each of them can be loaded and fired many times without reloading—’

  ‘We have such a rifle here!’ Salverinas barked. ‘It holds seven bullets and they cannot be loaded quickly.’

  ‘Our rifles are of a new, better kind,’ Dusty told him. ‘And it will not be you who face them.’

  Squatting on his heels to one side of his companion, the Kid grinned and slid the medicine boot from his rifle. Trust old Dusty to say just the right things. Pinedapoi and the tehnap particularly could see how the metal-case bullets might speed up the reloading process, even beyond that of paper cartridges which required that the weapon be capped separately. While a Comanche had few peers for courage, once he passed the tuivitsi stage he also knew the value of caution. Using single-shot rifles and the new bullets, a respectable rate of fire could be achieved. High enough to make attacking men armed with such weapons a costly business.

  Equally aware of the Comanches’ qualities, Salverinas read the signs as well as had the Kid. The Yamparikuh would hesitate to throw their lives away, but he saw another way by which he might achieve his ends.

  ‘This small Tejano must be very important if he comes and speaks for the men with the cattle,’ Salverinas said, jumping from the wagon. ‘Take him prisoner and his friends will pay well to have him returned.’

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Pinedapoi objected. ‘Magic Hands is my guest.’

  ‘But not mine!’ Salverinas spat out. ‘If I take him—’

  ‘That is between you and him,’ the chief answered calmly.

  ‘Get him!’ the Comanchero ordered and the three men left their horses to move in Dusty’s direction.

  Instantly the Kid rose, landing lightly on spread-apart legs. He held the Winchester in his right hand, thumb over the wrist of the butt, forefinger inside the trigger guard and the remaining three fingers curled through the loading lever’s ring, its barrel directed at the ground. Mutters rose from the watching Yamparikuh as they realized that he held some new kind of rifle.

  For their part, the three Mexicans studied the new element which had entered the game. At that moment the Kid did not look white. The fire’s light played on his ail-but naked, hard-muscled and wiry body, its torso marked with the scars of old wounds. Standing before them, he looked like some great cat ready to pounce, or a Comanche Dog Soldier on the prod.

  ‘Pinedapoi said for your boss to take him, pelados!’ growled the Kid.

  Although the words came in English, with the exception of the final insulting name—used in that manner it meant a corpse or grave robber—the trio un
derstood. More than that, they knew no Comanche was addressing them. Sure he looked and acted like the saltiest brave who ever put on the paint and rode the war trail, but he spoke Texan like one of the Alamo’s defenders. To men from the Rio Grande’s bloody border country, the combination brought a name to mind.

  ‘Cabrito!’ ejaculated Leon, conscious of his Spencer’s comforting weight and the fact that he held it in a better position of readiness than did the dark young Texan.

  ‘That’s me,’ agreed the Kid. ‘Now, happen you want to take a hand, get to it.’

  Quickly Salverinas assessed the situation and knew that, Cabrito or not, he must act. The Comanches had no respect for a coward or a boaster. Should he fail to back up his suggestion, he would be lucky to leave the camp alive. Taken any way he looked, things seemed to be in his favor. Not only was he fast with a gun, but his driver had already slid the short-barreled shotgun from its boot on the side of the wagon box. That small Tejano wore two guns, yet hardly seemed dangerous. Which left the Ysabel Kid. Cabrito was good, Salverinas did not deny that. So were the three men facing him. It was worth a chance. With the two Texans dead, the Yamparikuh would attack and scatter the herd. That ought to provide pickings for the Comancheros’, not the least being the opportunity to obtain some of the repeating rifles.

  ‘Get them!’ Salverinas ordered, stabbing his right hand fast towards the ornate butt of his holstered Colt.

  That left the others with no alternative but to fight. Cabrito would not waste time in asking what their intentions in the matter might be. So Leon started to swing his Spencer into line, confident that he was in a better position than the Kid to aim and fire. To the right of the trio Carlos reached for the fighting knife sheathed at his belt. On the left, Cristobal put his trust in the power of his Army Colt.

  Working with lightning fast precision, the Kid selected the men in order of their threat to his life. Fom his findings, he made his plan of campaign and put it into effect. First to go, without any argument, must be Leon for he already held a weapon in his hands.

  Up swung the Winchester’s barrel, its foregrip slapping into the Kid’s left palm as if drawn there by a magnet, to line unerringly on the man with the Spencer. Flame lashed from the muzzle and a flat-nosed B. Tyler Henry-designed bullet tore its way into Leon’s chest before he could complete turning his Spencer towards its mark. Wanting to impress the Yamparikuh with the magazine capacity and rapid-fire potential of the Winchester, the Kid fanned the lever through its loading cycle. In trained hands, the rifle could throw out two bullets per second; and the Kid possessed the necessary skill to achieve that performance. Working the barrel across to deal with the next danger, he got off four shots which all found their way into the reeling Mexican’s body. Thrown backwards, Leon died without managing to line his Spencer or get off a load in return.

  Blurring down the lever, the Kid watched an empty cartridge case flick out of the ejection slot in the top of the frame. Automatically counting his shots, he swung the barrel at the second most dangerous of the trio. Cristobal might be trying to draw his revolver, but the Kid knew Carlos would beat him into action. Out came the knife; with Carlos drawing it rearwards for a deadly underhand throw. Only a bullet, propelled by twenty-eight grains of prime du Pont powder, flew faster than even the best-designed knife. Again the Winchester spat and Carlos jolted under the impact of lead. Already the knife was flying in the Kid’s direction. On firing, he flung himself aside. While moving, he continued to shoot. Steel nicked his arm, so close did it come, but he had carried himself clear of the worst effect. Another bullet struck Carlos, turning him around and tumbling him on to his face.

  Cristobal had his revolver drawn, but he hesitated before trying to use it against a fast-moving target. Bringing it up, he aimed shoulder high on where he figured the Kid would land. As he fell, the Kid stopped shooting. Aware that he could not use the rifle from waist level while on the ground, he thrust it forward. Seeing the Kid land, Crist6bal made a hurried last moment of adjustment of his aim and fired. To miss. As soon as his body touched the ground, the Kid rolled over and the bullet plowed into the dirt where he had been an instant before. Settling on his belly again, he cradled the butt of the Winchester against his shoulder. A cold red-hazel eye peered from the rear sight to the blade at the muzzle end of the barrel. When both were set to his satisfaction, which took a bare half second, his forefinger gently squeezed the trigger. Striking Cristobal in the head, the bullet from the rifle instantly ended further attempts on the Kid.

  Ignoring the blast of shooting sparked off by the Kid, Dusty sent his hands flashing across. Fingers closed on the white handles of the waiting Colts and a thumb coiled around the spur of each’s hammer. Almost faster than the eye could follow, the long-barreled Army Colts left Dusty’s holsters. Only one of them roared. From waist high, in what would soon become known as the gunfighter’s crouch, Dusty fired his left hand revolver.

  Shock twisted at Salverinas’ face as he realized that the insignificant cowhand so lightly dismissed was a big, lightning fast, dangerous man. Then a .44 ball spiked a hole between the Mexican’s eyes. He turned involuntarily, the gun still not clear of his holster, and tumbled to the ground.

  Slower than the others to assess the danger, the driver completed the freeing of the shotgun and started to throw it to his shoulder. Salverinas had advanced from the wagon, which permitted Dusty to deal with him from the gunfighter’s crouch. Not wanting to chance shooting by instinctive alignment over the distance separating him from the other Mexican, Dusty took the time to swing his right hand Colt to shoulder level. The wisdom showed as the gun spat. Caught in the chest by its load, the man tilted backwards. With a roar the shotgun sent the charges from its barrels harmlessly into the air. Then he fell into the wagon, his feet sticking into the air, twitching for a few seconds and going still.

  Two tuivitsi sprang to the heads of the wagon’s team, preventing them from bolting. After a glance to make sure that Salverinas was out of the game, Dusty turned to look at the Kid.

  ‘Did they get you, Lon?’

  ‘Just a nick,’ the dark youngster replied, coming to his feet. ‘Throw me some more bullets and we’ll start to dicker with Pinedapoi.’

  Chapter Eight – You Are Responsible For Our Deaths

  Listening in the silence which followed the cook’s warning, the girl and men about the trail camp’s fire detected faint sounds to the east. Then they awaited Goodnight’s orders, being all too aware that none of the crew, or other friends that they knew of, should be moving about in that direction. There might be a simple, or harmless explanation for the sound, but the bearded rancher did not aim to risk it being so.

  ‘Grab your rifles!’ Goodnight barked. ‘Drag and right side men stay by the wagons. Wranglers head for the remuda. Rest of you, out to the herd if anything busts. Move it!’

  Swiftly the party scattered. So that all might gain experience in every aspect of trail driving, the crew had been alternating their positions from point to swing, flank or drag. Yet there was no confusion, each member snatching up a firearm and heading to the appropriate group. Holding her shotgun, Dawn slid under the bed-wagon and rested its twin-tubes on a spoke of the rear wheel. A moment later Billy Jack, carrying a Henry ‘liberated’ on the battlefield during the days when he had ridden as Dusty’s sergeant major, dropped to her left side. Showing excitement and a touch of eager anticipation, Vern joined them. Red Blaze, armed with a Spencer obtained from the same source which had supplied Billy Jack’s Henry, stood by the tailgate. The remainder of the wagons’ defenders had also selected places from which they could fight in reasonable safety.

  ‘Likely we’ll all be killed ’n’ scalped comes morning,’ Billy Jack muttered to the girl.

  ‘How’d I get you for a partner?’ Dawn whispered back.

  ‘Just fortunate, I reckon,’ the lanky one answered. ‘Being with me, you’re sure to get killed early.’

  By which time the suspicious noises in the nigh
t had come closer and were identifiable. Listening to the rumble of wheels mingled with the beating of hooves, Vern let forth a snort of disappointment.

  ‘A wagon and hosses!’ the youngster announced. ‘I never heard tell of Injuns riding the war trail in a wagon.’

  ‘There’s always a first time for everything,’ Red told him.

  ‘Hello the fire!’ called a voice from the darkness. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘It’s white folks!’ Vern sniffed and began to wriggle forward.

  ‘Stay put until Colonel Charlie tells you different!’ ordered Billy Jack in a low, grim tone far removed from his normal plaintive whine. In that moment he let Dawn and Vern see him as he really was, a bone-tough, competent fighting man. Such a change did it make that Vern froze as if turned to stone.

  ‘Come ahead,’ offered Goodnight. ‘But do it slow, easy and with your hands showing.’

  Time dragged by, with the trail crew remaining at their posts. While the second group had joined their night horses, Mark had not led them out to the herd. He was waiting to make sure that doing so would be necessary. From what he had just heard, the need ought not to arise; but he kept the men by their mounts until certain of it.

  Drawn by a pair of powerful horses, a small covered wagon came into the light of the fire and stopped. It was driven by a medium-sized, dapper, handsome man, with an exceptionally beautiful, black-haired young woman seated at his side. From all appearances, neither of them belonged to the range country. The man wore a well-cut town suit which set off his slender frame to its best advantage, derby hat, spats and walking boots—as opposed to the high-heeled cowhand variety. A wide brimmed, flower-decorated hat graced the woman’s head. Draped across her shoulders, a black cloak hung open at the front. Under it she wore a stylish black dress with a décolleté which seemed more suited to a fancy dude ball than for riding in a wagon on the West Texas plains. Jewelry sparkled at her ears, neck, wrists and fingers, while the dress displayed a truly magnificent figure.