by J. T. Edson
‘Likely,’ agreed Dusty, sounding unconcerned.
‘What’s Stewart playing at?’ growled Dickson. ‘Why’s he want Mort killed, or the Kid for that?’
‘I don’t know about Stewart unless he wants the Lewis place as well as Chass’. In that case he wouldn’t want the Kid to come back with proof that Mort was at the Injun camp.’
‘I’ll jail him first thing tomorrow,’ Dickson snapped. ‘And he’d walk out as soon as he’d got a lawyer,’ drawled Dusty. ‘We’ve no proof that Stewart’s men went after the Kid.’
‘Aren’t you worried?’
‘Sure, they might catch up with Lon. That’d be real dangerous.’
‘Sure it would, The Kid—’
‘I mean dangerous for them,’ replied Dusty, with complete confidence in his friend’s ability to take care of himself. ‘How’d you like to come to the Humboldt house for lunch tomorrow?’
‘I’m not likely to get invited, not until nearer election time,’ Dickson answered with a grin.
Dusty grinned back. ‘You wouldn’t want to bet on that?’
* * *
The Ysabel Kid turned in the saddle of his big white stallion and looked back across the range. The woods were well behind him now and he was headed through the rolling, broken, open range country. He gave the land behind him a thorough scrutiny, missing nothing: not even the small cloud of dust some two miles behind him. It was a small cloud for the ground did not give off much dust and a less keen-eyed man might have missed it, but not the Kid. One horse could not cause so much dust-stirring, that was for sure.
Equally for sure, the riders were following him. He’d changed direction twice since first discovering he was being followed and each time the dust cloud had changed where he’d turned.
‘Still coming, old Nigger hoss,’ he said, with quiet satisfaction. ‘They got a man with ‘em as can read sign. Waal, we can make that same sign — and hide it some, too.’
The pursuit did not unduly worry the Kid. The men were a good two miles behind him and travelling slower, reading his sign. While they were following him, the Kid was making more tracks ahead of them. It would be dark soon and the Kid knew he was in no danger. He would make a dry camp ahead and they would never find him in the darkness. There was no chance of the men riding up on him, his senses were too alert for that. There was no chance of their finding him by accident; his horse was trained to remain silent at such times; a thing of great use to a man when he was smuggling, and hiding in the dark from the contraband-hunting Border Patrol.
He twisted back and slouched easily in the saddle, allowing the big horse to make a gentle pace across country. He was out in the open and the men might be able to see him but that was no danger. They could not run him down before it was dark and would only tire their horses trying, while he could hold this even walk and keep the white stallion fresh for a run if they closed with him. The men would know this and would keep to his tracks, trying to avoid being seen. If they knew the country they’d head for a waterhole or stream near to the Kid, working on the assumption that he would camp near water.
Just before darkness the Kid found a stream, watered his big horse, filled his canteen, then rode on for another mile before making a dry camp. He was indifferent to hardship and just as at home sagehenning under the stars as in a bed at the OD Connected ranch house. He ate some hardtack from his saddlebag, drank sparingly, and cared for his horse; then with his saddle for a pillow and his old yellow boy close to hand, the Kid went to sleep.
His guess proved correct. Salar and his men made for the stream, reaching it in the darkness and trying to locate his camp. They gave up the attempt in the end and went to sleep, waiting for the morning when they hoped to re-locate the Kid’s tracks. It would cause a considerable delay.
Before dawn the Kid, refreshed by a good sleep, was riding on. He estimated that he’d increased his lead on the pursuing men and still knew a trick or two to confuse them. The man who was reading sign back there was good, and would be hard to throw off the track. Then the Kid remembered that Salar was known as a skilled reader of sign. The Kid thought of this as he rode on, keeping his eyes open for a certain type of country. He had to prevent the other men getting too close now. Salar was known as a fine rifle shot and there’d been a Buffalo Sharps rifle in the Mexican’s saddleboot when he rode with the posse. If Salar was to get within half a mile of the Kid and find a clear shot it was doubtful if the Kid would know what had hit him.
Luck favoured him for just ahead he saw what he wanted, an arroyo~ He rode towards the steep sloped gash where rains and flowing water had eroded the land, biting down deeper and deeper until the slopes were over ten feet high. The Kid hoped the bottom would be a fast flowing stream over hard rock but found instead there was no water at all. The rains of almost a fortnight earlier had swept along the arroyo bottom, levelling the sandy soil and leaving it soft. A horse would leave plain tracks down there, marks which a half-blind Digger Indian could follow.
Curiously, the Kid was not over-disappointed at the sight. He turned in his saddle and, while the horse picked a way along the edge of the arroyo, unstrapped his bedroll and got two blankets out. He saw a place ahead where the steep slopes were cut back to allow an easy way down to the bed of the arroyo. Before turning the big white stallion the Kid gave the surrounding land a careful glance. The men following behind must be at least three or four miles back and travelling slow. They were nowhere in sight and he doubted if they could see him.
The horse knew what to expect and halted at the top of the slope. The Kid dismounted and spread the two blankets end to end, down the slope. The horse stepped on to the blankets, walking forward over the first, and halted before leaving the second.
The Kid worked fast. He brushed away any signs of his progress and lifted the first blanket, carrying it ahead of the second. The white moved forward and the process was repeated. Each time the Kid moved a blanket forward the horse stepped on to it. Even on the soft sand of the arroyo bottom the horse’s weight was distributed and there was no sign of its passing.
It was slow work; the Kid turned downstream, in the opposite direction to which he wanted to go. For almost half a mile he followed the base of the arroyo until he found a place to leave. He’d passed other places but hoped the men trailing him were going to have some trouble in locating which way he’d gone.
Reaching the top of the arroyo the Kid made sure his departure was not too obvious. Then, rolling the blankets once more, he headed across country. Now he kept to every bit of cover he could find, sticking to low ground and never crossing a rim without making a searching examination of the surrounding land.
Eventually he reached a spot where he could not keep hidden, he had to ride across nearly half a mile of open land. The big white stallion, with the Kid dressed all in black, would stand out like a nigger on a snowbank, A man on a high place miles back might see him and that would spoil all his work in the arroyo. The riders would head for the spot, then find his tracks.
Stopping his horse in the shade of a clump of scrub-oaks, the Kid dismounted and opened his warbag. He took out a light grey shirt and a pair of blue jeans, then changed into them. Next he took a package from the warbag, placed his black shirt and trousers in and turned back to the horse. The Kid opened the package and dropped a hand into it looking at the black powder which was smeared on his fingers. He rubbed his hand along the horse’s neck and watched the black mark left behind. Working fast the Kid turned his white into what appeared to be a piebald, Then, packing his gear, he fixed it to the saddle and rode forward into the open.
Far behind, riding the trail left by the Kid, Salar and the other five men were worried. They’d failed to find where he had camped on the previous night and had wasted time trying to locate his tracks the following morning. The gunmen did not like the way things were going. The Ysabel Kid apparently knew they were after him and if he decided to make a fight of it they must see him first or some of them would be dead.<
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Ahead of the others, riding slowly and watching the ground all the time, was Salar. There was enough sign for him to be able to follow the Kid without any great trouble, but he knew he was dealing with a man who knew much both at following and hiding his trail.
Suddenly Salar brought his horse to a halt. The tracks they’d been following along the top of the arroyo were no longer to be seen. He halted and stared at the ground. Swinging from his horse he bent closer, his eyes examining every inch of the earth before him.
‘What’s wrong, Salar,’ Smith asked.
‘The Kid’s playing clever,’ Salar replied, looking around him.
The young gunman, eager to make up for his failure with Dusty Fog at Holbrock, rode to the end of the arroyo and looked down. ‘He never went down there,’ he announced. ‘It’s clear, ain’t no sign of a track.’
Salar stepped forward, his eyes on the gentler slope which led to the bottom of the arroyo. There was a twisted smile on his lips; he knew what the Kid had done. It was going to take some hard work to find out in which direction the Kid had gone and even more to know where he had left. Salar knew that he was matched by a man who knew as much about tracking as he did himself. He also got the feeling the Ysabel Kid knew who was doing the trailing.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Smith growled. ‘He didn’t take wing and fly off.’
‘That’s right, he did not,’ agreed Salar. ‘I know what he did, the blanket trick. I wondered when he would try to throw us. We’ll have to try and find where he left.’
‘On the other side most likely,’ Smith suggested.
‘Most likeley, but not certainly. The Kid knows we’re after him and he might come up this side again, then follow the arroyo until he can cross without our seeing his sign.’
‘What are you fixing to do, Salar?’ asked one of the other men.
‘Go down to the bottom and find out where the Kid left. It’s going to take some time.’
Smith slouched in his saddle and fumed at the delay. The Kid was ahead and still covering ground. If there’d been a point high enough one of the men could have tried to see some sign of the dark boy on the white horse. It would have been possible to spot them a good distance away. But there was no piece of land high enough for them to make use of it.
So the gunmen waited, resting their horses while Salar made a careful search. It took the Mexican all of an hour and a half to locate where the Kid had left the arroyo and pick up the trail. Salar could not hurry: the Kid knew they were after him and was taking some trouble to make his line as awkward as he could.
At last Salar brought his horse to a halt. He sat looking round him, remembering just where he was. Smith watched the Mexican and asked:
‘What’s holding us up now?’
‘I have a — what you call it — hunch,’ Salar replied. ‘The Kid’s making for Sanchez Riley’s place.’
‘Could be at that,’ agreed Smith. Sanchez Riley’s store saloon-hotel lay near the edge of Comanche country. The gunman knew of the place, but had no idea where it was. ‘If he hasn’t we’ll have lost him for good.’
‘We have now,’ reminded Salar. ‘He’s got such a lead on us that he’ll be over the Salt Fork of the Brazos and into Comanche country. I don’t think we’ll follow him over the river.’
Neither did Smith. It would be highly dangerous for a white man, or a party of white men, to enter the domain of the Comanches. There was much to be said for heading for Sanchez Riley’s place. The man knew what went on in the Comanche country and might hear if the Kid slipped in. There was also a chance the Kid would stop off at Sanchez Riley’s and they might catch up with him there.
‘Let’s head for Riley’s, then,’ grunted Smith. ‘How come you know where it lays, Salar?’
‘I worked up this way once before,’ replied the Mexican, but did not say who he had worked for or what he had done. ‘I know the way.’
It was night as the Ysabel Kid rode towards Sanchez Riley’s place. There was only one light showing in the big T-shaped building which housed a store, a saloon and a hotel. He was almost to the building when he remembered something which made him worried about his decision to come this way.
‘Damn it, Nigger hoss,’ the Kid said, as he rode nearer the three big corrals a short way from the building. ‘I done forgot ole Salar used to ride for Thomas Riveros’ Comanchero bunch. He’ll know how to find this place. Us’ns best sleep easy.’
The horses in the corrals moved around. In two of the corrals were several animals; the Kid looked them over with care. In the first corral were Sanchez Riley’s horses, in the second some half dozen or so really fine looking animals. The Kid studied them; they were good, fast stock, better than the average cowhand would be riding. Such horses would be owned either by a party of Texas Rangers or a bunch of outlaws. One was as likely as the other to be staying at the house.
In the other corral there was only one horse. The Kid looked at it and a grin split his face, his teeth showing white against his dark skin. The horse was a white, a fine looking animal and almost as large as the Kid’s Nigger. Seeing it gave the Kid another idea. He’d meant to leave his horse in a corral if one was empty, but not now.
About a hundred yards from the building was a large clump of scrub-oaks. The white could stay there; it would find plenty of good grazing and water and would not stray. The Kid headed to the clump, removed the saddle and laid it carefully in the protective cover of a thick bush, leaving his rifle in the boot. Earlier in the day he’d washed the black colouring from the horse and resumed his normal clothing. Now he was pleased he’d done so. The black clothing merged into the darkness and he could move on silent feet, almost invisible in the night.
The light came from the dining-room on the hotel side of the building and was the only part of the big house which showed any sign of life. The Kid made for one of the two doors but took the precaution of looking through the window before entering the room.
A big, fattish man and a tall, slender, black-haired girl sat at a table, but they were the only occupants. The Kid relaxed, pushing open the door and walking in.
For one so fat-looking the big man was not slow. He came to his feet as the door opened, a Dragoon Colt lined on it. He was a cheery-looking man, his face a mixture of Spanish and Irish blood. He wore a dirty white shirt, open at the neck, cavalry blue trousers and his feet were bare. Yet there was nothing dirty or unkempt about him.
‘Cabrito!’ the man yelled, lowering the gun, as he recognized an old friend, ‘Long time since we was seeing you last.’
‘Howdy, Sanchez,’ replied the Kid, holding out his hand to the man. ‘You get fatter every time I see you.’
‘Tis praising me you are,’ Riley said, his voice seemed to be warring between the brogue of old Ireland and the gentler accents of Spain.
The girl was also on her feet. She was pretty, tall and her sleek black hair was as dark as the Kid’s own. She was dark-eyed and there was something wild about her which might have resulted from her Comanche mother. She was Rosita Kathleen Riley, the big man’s only child.
‘Hola cabrito,’ she said, coming forward with her arms held out to the Kid. Then in Comanche she went on, ‘And how many girls have you kissed since we last met?’
‘Not one, Little Bird,’ replied the Kid, speaking Comanche just as faultlessly, then returning to English again, ‘I’ve got to be going on tomorrow, good and early, Rosie gal.’
‘Huh!’ she pouted. ‘I bet you’re going to see another girl. You and that big, white haired gringo, Mark Counter, there’s not the one a girl might trust.’
The Kid laughed. Sanchez Riley’s daughter would not speak to any other man in this manner. No other man could have come in and kissed her without her father to contend with, but the Kid was exceptional. He ruffled the girl’s long hair, then turned his attention to Riley:
‘You all got a room, Sanchez?’
The big man shook his head, looking distressed. ‘Cabrito, son of my oldest
and best friend, I must tell you I have not. All my six bedrooms are being used by guests. Would you care to share my room?’
‘No thanks, I’ll be lighting out early and don’t want to disturb you. Say, Rosie, how about some food? Then I’ll hunk down here on one of the tables.’
The Kid was mildly curious about the guests who’d taken all Riley’s bedrooms but he did not ask. The men were most likely outlaws either going to or coming from a job and curiosity about such might only bring trouble. A man’s private business was his own, so the Kid asked no questions.
The girl flitted into the kitchen and came out with a plate of stew. The Kid sat at a table and ate with the appetite of a healthy young man. He ate well, and drank the coffee the girl brought, for he did not know when he would get another meal.
While the Kid was eating, Riley sat with him, bemoaning the poor quality of the Rio Grande smugglers and comparing them unfavourably with the Kid’s father, Sam Ysabel. To Sanchez it was cheaper to buy the goods legally than from the men who now ran contraband across the big river.
‘It was a terrible blow when you retired, Cabrito,’ he finished.
‘You could be right at that,’ grinned the Kid. He might have been a successful and prosperous smuggler had he not thrown his lot in with Dusty Fog after the death of Sam Ysabel. There were times when the Kid missed the thrill of running smuggled goods, but they were very rare. His life at the OD Connected, as a member of Ole Devil’s floating outfit, was rarely dull enough for him to have time to spare in fruitless day-dreaming.
‘I wish you’d take my room, old friend.’
‘No thanks, Sanchez. I might have some callers looking for me and I don’t want you getting into no fuss.’
Sanchez Riley snorted angrily. ‘Your father and I went into the Comanche country as friends. If you are in any trouble—’
‘I’m not. There’s a bunch after me but I might have shook them. I left my old Nigger hoss out back there. Saw a white in the corral, who’s it belong to?’