Dusty Fog's Civil War 11

by J. T. Edson

  A spy as successful as Belle Boyd became cautious in the extreme. Of course she might be growing carelessly overconfident—but not if she had come to Matamoros on the business Eve suspected.

  “Hurry!” Eve told the men.

  “I’d say we’re too late for that,” Kusic answered. “The Rebel Spy’s done what she came here for.”

  “I only hope you’re right!” she breathed.

  On the landing, Eve found two of the men waiting to deliver a negative report. Telling one of them to stay and watch what happened across the river, she sent the other to pass the captain of the Waterbury’s message to the U.S. consul. Then she went to the carriage and ordered Kusik to go as fast as he could to the house overlooking the rebel consulate.

  At the house, Eve threw herself from the coach and dashed inside. She ran up the stairs, bursting into the room where she had interviewed the lookouts earlier. One man lay dozing in a chair, but his companion sat at the window. Jolting awake, the first man joined his companion in meeting Eve’s cold gaze with the hang-dog expressions caused by knowing that they had failed in their duty.

  “She’s back, Miss Coniston,” the watcher announced. “Asleep on the bed.”

  “Damned if I can see how she got out,” his companion went on.

  “But she did!” Eve snapped. “I don’t think Allan Pinkerton’s going to like this at all.”

  Which, both men knew, was quite an understatement. There would definitely be a big reorganization of the Matamoros detachment when Eve Coniston reported to their leader.

  “Yes’m.” the watcher admitted. “It’s not ’cause we didn’t watch. Hell, we watched real good.”

  “Hoping to see her walk into that room there and strip off her clothes again. I suppose!” Eve shouted. “Anyway, I blame the men on the streets more than you in the houses. How was she dressed when she came back?”

  “In a dark shirt and riding breeches. Looked like she’d been in the water—!”

  “She had!” Eve interrupted grimly. “And then?”

  “She undressed,” the man replied uneasily. “Dried herself and dressed in a black shirt and pants. We thought she aimed to go out, but she’s lying on the bed.”

  “Did she leave the room at all?” Eve inquired, taking the telescope and focusing it on the room.

  First she noticed that the curtains had been drawn down some of the way from the top of the window. Not enough to block all view of the interior, for she could see the shape on the bed.

  “After she tried to pull down the curtain and it stuck.” the man answered. “We figured she’d gone to get somebody to fix it, but nobody came.”

  “It stuck?” Eve repeated.

  “Shucks,” the second man protested. “We could still see her from the waist down at least when she was on her feet and she’s there plain enough on the bed.”

  At that moment Kusik appeared at the door and Eve turned to him. “Describe the Ysabels to me!” she ordered.

  “Father’s a big, powerful feller. Black Irish from the looks of him—”

  “And the son?”

  “Tall, slender as a beanpole. He looks about fourteen years old and innocent as a church full of choirboys—only don’t let that fool you. Ffauldes hired a couple of Mexican asesinos to go after the Ysabels—He only tried it once.”

  “What happened?” Eve asked, lining the telescope again.

  “We never did find out about one of them.”

  “And the other?”

  “We found him leaning against the gate. His belly ripped wide open and an extra mouth—under his chin. After that there wasn’t a hired killer would take on the chore. We hired Giss and Kraus in the first place hoping they would, or could find men willing to try.”

  Most of the explanation passed unheeded as Eve stared at the room across the street. Everything fell into place and she realized the nature of the trick the Rebel Spy played on them. Damaging though it had been, the raid on the shipping was only a diversion made to help the fiction that Belle Boyd was in the consulate building.

  “That’s no woman over there!” she snapped. “It’s a young man, probably the Ysabel Kid!”

  “Bu—But the clothes!” protested the watcher. “The Kid allus wears buckskins—”

  “Except when he’s dressed as a peon riding on a donkey cart, or a vaquero delivering a message!” Eve spat back. “Damn it, he can change clothes just like Belle Boyd did, although you probably wouldn’t find the sight so attractive. And that’s what’s happened. While you’ve been sat here watching him, the Rebel Spy has escaped again.”

  “Now she’s done what she came here for, you mean?” Kusik put in.

  “That’s what she wants me to think,” Eve answered. “Find Giss and Kraus for me as quickly as you can!”

  “Yes’m!” answered the second of the watchers, to whom the order had been given and he scuttled from the room.

  “Mr. Kusik, be ready to leave in an hour,” Eve went on, walking towards the door. “You’ll be going up the Rio Grande with one of Kraus’ men in a steam-launch. I’ll give you the necessary authority for the officer in command of the flotilla. I want the word spreading that we’ll pay a thousand dollars for the capture, alive if possible, of Sam Ysabel and the Rebel Spy.”

  “There’s few enough, if anybody, who’ll chance doing that, even for a thousand dollars,” Kusik objected.

  “Then spread the word that she and Ysabel are carrying a large sum, at least ten thousand dollars in gold, with them.”

  “It’s a good story. Every border rat along the river will looking for them when I spread it.”

  “I only wish it wasn’t true,” Eve thought as she started to walk down the stairs. “Because if they reach that damned renegade Klatwitter, it might easily cost us the War.”

  Eight – He’s Lucky to Still Be Alive

  Barely had the door opened and Shafto entered the room than the Ysabel Kid came off the bed to face him. From full asleep, in more comfort than came his way in many months, to wide awake took only a brief instant.

  Across the street, the man on watch let out a yell which brought his companion leaping to his side.

  “The Coniston dame was right,” the lookout said. “It’s the Kid and not the Rebel Spy.”

  “Shafto bursting in like that, took with that feller we just saw go into the house,” the second man replied, “I’d say means they know Miss Coniston left town with Giss and Kraus.”

  A point that Shafto was making to the Kid at that moment.

  “They pulled out maybe three hours back, Lon. My man trailed along after them to try and learn what was up. Kusik from over there and one of Kraus’ ’breeds left the others, heading towards the river. My man did as I said, stuck with the Corstin woman. She went with Giss and Kraus to the Posada del Rio—”

  “That’s Charlie’s favorite hangout,” the Kid drawled. “I wouldn’t want to be caught dead in there—and you stand a chance of winding up that way even if you do no more than drink the tequila they serve.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Shafto answered dryly. “Well, Kraus, the woman and six of their men come out on good horses. From the way they took, they intended to go up river—”

  “Three hours back!” the Kid spat out. “Why in hell didn’t your man—”

  “They must’ve seen him. Two of Giss’ men took after him and he’s been trying to lose them ever since. He had to fight his way in finally.”

  “There’s times I talk a heap too much!” said the Kid contritely. “He’s lucky to still be alive, tangling with Joe Giss’ boys on their own ground.”

  “He caught a knife in the ribs doing it,” Shafto replied. “Luckily he had a sword-stick and knew how to use it. Killed one of them and wounded the other. What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know about you,” the Kid growled. “But I’m going after pappy to warn him. There’s no point in trying to make ’em think Miss Belle’s still here now.”

  “That’s what I think. I’ve told the c
ook to make breakfast for you and put up food to take along.”

  “I’ll take the breakfast. But forget the food. I’ve pemmican and jerked meat that’ll last me and be lighter to carry. Which same I’ll be moving fast. Say I saw a right likely looking sorrel in the stables. Reckon I can borrow him to ride relay along with my ole Thunder hoss?”

  “Take him,” Shafto offered, although the horse in question was his favorite mount. The Kid would need the best available animal, the way he must travel to reach his father in time. “Do you want me to go and saddle him?”

  “Just a blanket’ll do. If I can, I’ll leave him someplace safe.”

  “Don’t worry about the horse. Reaching Belle and your father’s the important thing right now.”

  After the meal, the Kid and Shafto went to the stables. Although the youngster had brought his warbag to the consulate, he would not be taking it any farther. No Indian riding on a raiding mission cluttered himself up with more spare clothing or anything but essentials; and the Kid intended to travel in such a manner. So he selected only some partly eaten pemmican and a few strips of jerked buffalo meat which could be rolled in the single blanket that would form his bed on the trail. For the rest, weapons and ammunition were his only other needs. Thirty rounds of soft lead balls for the Dragoon, fifty for the rifle and a flask of powder would be sufficient. Every ounce of weight counted, so he decided against taking along the second Dragoon which lay in the warbag. While the revolver was of the Third Model, with a detachable canteen-carbine stock, the latter device did little to improve its potential for long-range shooting. In case of a fight from a distance, the Mississippi rifle would be more use. He dispensed with the rifle’s saddleboot, intending to carry it in the lighter buckskin pouch presented to him by his grandfather on the day he rode out to fight the Yankees.

  Saddling the stallion, he studied its black-patched hide and put aside his thoughts of changing out of the black clothing into his buckskins.

  “Reckon you can find me a hat, Cap’n Rule?” he asked.

  “I’ll see what we have around,” Shafto promised.

  By the time he returned, the Kid was all ready to leave. The white stallion stood saddled and the sorrel bore a blanket Indian fashion on its back, although with a white man’s headstall, bit and reins, the latter of the short, closed type favored by cavalrymen. The Kid’s own reins were Texas style, open in two separate straps and he looped them loosely around the saddlehorn, knowing the white would stay by him tied or free.

  Neither of the men realized as the Kid tried on the hats and found a black Stetson to be the only one which fitted, that he had commenced wearing what would become his usual style of clothing. Only rarely in the years to come would the Kid wear other than all black clothes.

  “Anybody watching the house, Cap’n?” the Kid inquired, swinging astride the sorrel with deft ease.

  “Only the usual lookouts,” Shafto replied. “Not that they’d try to stop you so close to the consulate. But they saw my man come in wounded. So they’ll try it somewhere along the way.”

  “Likely,” the Kid answered. “Somebody could get hurt if they try. Open up, Cap’n. I’m on my way.”

  Riding out of the gate, the Kid watched the Yankee-owned house but met with no trouble. Nor did he appear to attract any undue attention while riding through the town. Enough Americanos del Norte made Matamoras their home, coming and going in such a manner, to prevent his appearance being out of the ordinary. However the Kid did not relax. Any trouble that came his way in town would be unlikely to start in the better-class areas. Down among the jacales of the poor quarter was the danger area. More than one man entered that section and never returned, murdered for his weapons, horse and clothing.

  Holding his horses to a steady trot, the Kid noted the empty nature of the street leading on to the west-bound river trail. Instead of the normal swarm of children, men and women gossiping in front of houses, he could see only two figures. Both wore the ragged clothes of ordinary peons and seemed to be following the age-old custom of siesta. The nearer man sat with his back against the wall of a jacale, sombrero drawn down over his face and serape hung negligently over his shoulder. Further along the street, the second of them took his rest standing with a shoulder propping him up against another adobe building.

  Casually the Kid let his right hand fall to be thumb-hooked into the gunbelt close to the Colt’s butt. It was a mite early for siesta hour, although diligent peons had been known to start before time on occasion. To the Kid’s mind, the closer man at least was sitting just a touch too tense to be resting. More than that, his right hand lay under the serape and held a revolver. The Kid could see the glint of metal beyond the brown of the partially-hidden hand. Nor did he miss the unobtrusive way the man inched up the sombrero and peeked from beneath its brim in his direction. However, after the one quick glance, the man appeared to relax. Then, as the Kid came closer, the man took another look. A startled croak broke from him and he began to lurch erect, bringing the revolver into view.

  Even as the Kid twisted his old Dragoon from its holster, he guessed what had happened. Coming from the east, with the morning sun behind him, the man had failed at first to recognize him. Riding the sorrel, with the stallion’s white coat bearing the black patches still, dressed in the black clothing instead of his usual buckskins, all helped the deception. Recognition came a fatal minute too late for the man, one of Joe Giss’ regular helpers. Flame belched from the Dragoon’s muzzle and the lead ball drove, by accident rather than lenient aim, into the man’s shoulder. Not that the wound it caused could be termed slight, for a soft lead ball opened up on impact and caused tissue damage out of all proportion to its size. Stumbling back, the man let his revolver fall from a hand he would never use again.

  At the shot, the second man threw off his pretence of sleeping. He lunged away from the building, bringing a Colt into view. The Kid saw him as a greater threat than the first would-be attacker. No Mexican, to whom a gun took second place to the knife, but an American—despite the clothes—and one who knew how to handle a revolver.

  Some thirty yards separated them, hardly ideal revolver-fighting range. However the man did not hesitate. No matter how he dressed, the Ysabel Kid could not be trifled with at such a moment. With that thought in mind, the man raised the Colt shoulder high, sighted and fired.

  An instant before the Colt barked, the Kid brought the sorrel to a halt, tossed his right leg forward over its neck and dropped to the ground. The bullet cut the air where his body had been a moment earlier. On reaching the ground, the Kid sank immediately into a kneeling position, left elbow resting on the raised knee and supporting the right hand as he aimed the old Dragoon. Before the man re-cocked his Colt, the Dragoon bellowed. Lead, driven by forty grains of powder—the most powerful loading possible at that time in a handgun—smashed into the man. Flung backwards, he crashed into the wall of the jacale and bounced from it. In falling, he lost his hat and it rolled out into the street.

  Rising, the Kid darted a quick glance around him. While he saw no sign of enemies, voices raised in the jacale behind his first victim told of their presence. So he ran towards the restlessly moving sorrel and leap-frog mounted its back, setting it running while thrusting away the Colt. Bursting out of the jacale, the leader of two men threw a shot after the departing Kid and might have made a lucky hit but for one thing. Having need for it at a later time, the Kid leaned sideways from the racing sorrel and scooped up the sombrero dropped by the disguised American. Doing so saved his life, for the bullet hissed just above him as he moved. In passing he looked at the dead man and recognized him as one of the many who lived along the bloody border by any means available.

  “Trust Joe to move fast,” the Kid mused as he urged the sorrel on, the white stallion sticking close to his side. “He must’ve hired that cuss as soon as he got the word.”

  Another bullet made its eerie sound as it hummed by his head. Then he turned a corner which hid him from the shooters.
To his ears came the yelled order to get the horses pronto.

  “Which same means I’m not out of the woods by a long Texas mile,” the Kid told himself. “Ole Joe’s likely waiting up the trail with more of ’em. Least-wise, I’ll be mortal offended happen he figures four of ’em was all he needed to take me.”

  Passing beyond the last buildings of the town, the Kid turned and saw two riders following. However, knowing him to be Cabrito, they made no attempt to come too close. That they followed at all suggested they expected Giss and more help to be waiting somewhere ahead.

  The point of importance being where would the reinforcements lay their ambush?

  Not too far from town, the Kid figured. Close enough to hear shooting and make preparations in case the first attempt at stopping him failed. Too far away and he might turn off the trail to head across country. Prudence dictated that he followed that line of action; but the Kid could not claim prudence among his many virtues.

  So he continued to ride along the trail, counting on his trained senses to locate the waiting men. During his childhood he had always excelled at the game of Nan-ip-ka, Guess-Over-The-Hill, by which Comanche boys learned to locate hidden enemies. Nor had he ever forgotten the skills gained in those formative years.

  At first he rode through fairly open country unsuitable for the laying of an ambush, especially with Cabrito, the Ysabel Kid, as the proposed victim. However about a mile from town the trail entered and wound through thickly wooded country.

  Looking ahead, he saw a small cart drawn across the trail, its shafts empty and no sign of the driver. So he turned in time to see one of the following men making an obvious signal which ended abruptly on noticing he was being observed.