Dusty Fog's Civil War 11

by J. T. Edson

  One of the Indians, sporting a long war bonnet, raised his war lance in the same manner. Lowering it again, he took his right hand away to make a sign in the trio’s direction. Taking his right hand from the rifle, the Kid held it palm downwards before his chest. Then he moved his bent arm to the right in a wriggling motion.

  Whatever the sign might mean, Belle could see no change in the Indians’ attitude. After a moment they sent their horses leaping forward, charging down on the trio at full speed.

  “Sit fast and don’t touch that Dance, Miss Belle!” Ysabel growled over his shoulder and the girl guessed he was speaking with the minimum of lip movement.

  The next few seconds seemed to be the longest Belle could ever remember. Nearer thundered the Indians, looking meaner than all hell and more deadly than a stampeding herd of buffalo. Then, when there appeared to be no way to avoid being ridden down, the Indians split around them and came to a halt. Belle had never seen such fine riding, although she admitted that most of the finer points were lost to her at that moment.

  For a moment nobody spoke, then the war-bonnet chief let out a guttural growl of words. Listening to the Kid’s reply, Belle caught only two familiar words, ‘Ysabel’ and ‘Cuchilo’ which she knew to be Spanish for knife. Her quick ears noticed that the Kid spoke more slowly than the chief—much as a Texan’s speech differed from a New Englander’s—but she put that down to his using a foreign language. She could not fail to notice the depreciating manner with which the Kid waved a hand in her direction, then indicated his father.

  More talk followed, some laughter and the Ysabels passed out tobacco. Then the two parties separated. Even so, Ysabel warned the girl to remain behind and not until a mile lay between them and the Indians did he offer an explanation for his and the Kid’s behavior.

  “I reckon we can get divorced now, Miss Belle,” he said, halting the horse and grinning at her.

  “Divorced?” she repeated. “What was that all about?”

  “They’re Pahuraix, Water Horse Comanches, on a raid. Lon saw their scout just in time for us to make things look right. These medicine boots Long Walker gave us let ’em know we belonged to the Pehnane band and we allowed that you was my squaw.”

  “And no Indian would let his squaw ride at his side, or lead the horses with her along,” Belle smiled.

  “Not on a trail in country like this,” Ysabel agreed. “We’re through ’em now, but we’d best keep going.”

  “It was a close call.” Belle stated rather than guessed.

  “Too close,” Ysabel replied. “Happen we hadn’t been totting these medicine boots on the rifles, they mightn’t’ve give us time to start talking. With them, the Pahuraix figured they’d best see who we were afore they killed us. Lon’s Long Walker’s grandson, killing him’d start off a blood feud.”

  Listening to the quiet words, Belle found herself blessing the good fortune which had given her such able companions, and not for the first time since meeting the Ysabel family. She could realize just how dangerous the situation had been. Only the Kid’s alertness and relationship to the Pehnane war chief had saved them.

  As they rode on to the west, Ysabel explained how the Kid had used the traditional sign when the Pahuraix chief asked for information as to their tribe. Speaking the slow Pehnane dialect which had attracted Belle’s attention, the Kid introduced himself as Cuchilo, grandson of Long Walker and explained that he and his father were riding on private business, accompanied by the latter’s squaw. After an exchange of information and the latest jokes, the Pahuraix went on their way.

  Despite their belief that the Pahuraix had accepted their bona-fides, the Ysabels insisted that they made a camp in wooded country that night. A tuivitsi, young warrior, might decide to ignore the threat of a blood feud with the Pehnane and try to win acclaim by stealing their horses. So they settled down for the night in an area through which silent progress would be difficult.

  Always a light sleeper, Belle woke in the night. She saw the Kid and his father standing by the dying embers of the fire and sat up. Turning, the Kid raised a finger to his lips.

  “There’s somebody out that ways, Miss Belle,” he said, coming to the girl’s side and pointing into the blackness.

  “One of the Indians?” she whispered back.

  “Nope. Too noisy and wearing boots. I’m going to take a look, see who it is. Stay put and keep your Dance handy.”

  With that the Kid turned and disappeared into the woods. He went in silence, flickering out of the girl’s sight with his knife in hand. Joining Belle, holding a Sharps rifle, Ysabel nodded after his departing son.

  “Knife’s better than any gun in the dark and among the trees.”

  “I suppose so.” Belle replied. “We must be close to Nava now?”

  “Be there late tomorrow night, or before noon the day after,” Ysabel replied. “Depends on who’s around.”

  Five minutes went by, then a whistle sounded in the darkness.

  “Lon?” asked Belle.

  “Sure,” Ysabel answered, putting down his rifle at her side. “Wait here.”

  Rising, Belle watched Ysabel walk away. In a short time he returned, helping his son to carry a man in uniform. Belle tossed a few sticks on to the fire and its glow allowed them to study the newcomer.

  “A French Huzzar,” Belle said as the Ysabels lay the man by the fire. “He’s been shot!”

  “Late this afternoon, I’d say,” Ysabel replied. “Lord knows how he’s come this far.”

  “Maybe saw the fire and come towards it,” the Kid went on as Belle ran forward to kneel at the man’s side. “He’s near on bled white and just about gone.”

  Opening his eyes, the Huzzar stared vacantly around for a moment. Then a flicker of realization showed in them and he began to speak haltingly. Only by bending forward could Belle catch the words. At first he talked sensibly, then began to ramble. His hand clutched the girl’s arm, tightened and went loose.

  “He’s done,” Ysabel said quietly.

  “Yes,” Belle replied.

  “What’d he say?” asked the Kid.

  “That the fort is under attack by a large force of Juaristas armed with cannon,” the girl told her companions. “Klatwitter sent two of them to fetch help, but the Mexicans killed his companion and wounded him before his horse out-ran them. He doesn’t think they can hold out.”

  For a moment neither the Kid nor his father spoke. Then the youngster let out a low-growled curse.

  “That’s just about all we need.”

  “Have the Juaristas any cannon?” Belle inquired.

  “The Mexican army has, and a whole slew of ’em are fighting for Juarez,” Ysabel replied.

  “Can they take Klatwitter?” the girl asked.

  “That fort at Nava was built to stand off Injuns, not soldiers with cannon,” Ysabel answered. “But if Klatwitter’s got a thousand men and guns of his own he just might do it.”

  “Trouble being we just can’t go riding up there to see him,” the Kid put in.

  “That’s for sure,” Ysabel agreed.

  “The Juaristas might let us through if they knew why we wanted to see Klatwitter,” Belle remarked.

  “Could be,” Ysabel said. “Thing being, can we trust the Juaristas? Some of ’em we know and’re honest as they come. Others run Peraro and Bully Segan close for ornery meanness. Fifteen thousand dollars in gold’d come in useful to Juarez.”

  “You don’t think we’d be advised to take it with us?”

  “I reckon we’d be plumb foolish to take it,” Ysabel corrected. “Look, Miss Belle, what I’d say is this. We’ve got a hideaway down by the river, nobody’s found it yet. Let’s cache the money there. Then Lon and me’ll make a fast ride to Nava and see what’s doing.”

  “We’ll go Injun-style, ma’am,” the Kid went on. “If there’s somebody we can trust with the Juaristas, we’ll talk to him. Then, if they’ll agree, we’ll come back to fetch you.”

  “That would be best
,” Belle admitted. “My orders are that this money must not fall into the wrong hands.”

  “That’s how we play it then,” Ysabel stated. “We’ll take this feller into the woods and leave him. There’s no way we can bury him. Comes morning, we’ll head for the river.”

  “Will it be safe?” Belle asked.

  “Nowhere’s safe for us right now,” Ysabel replied grimly. “Only where we’re headed’s in Cosme Danvila’s neck of the woods. Him and Charlie Kraus hate each other like the devil hates holy water. I don’t figure Golly’d pass the word about us to Danvila. We’ll have to chance it and ride careful.”

  Dawn found them riding in a north-westerly direction. They travelled fast, but with caution, and saw nobody all day. Towards evening they approached the Rio Grande and Ysabel called a halt while the Kid went ahead as scout. On his return, the youngster said that their hideout remained undetected. So the party rode on once more.

  Coming to a valley through which the river curved, Sam Ysabel led the way downwards. They watered their horses on a wide sand bank and the Kid used a leafy branch to wipe out their tracks. Taking the horses into the thick bushes which grew close to the sand bar, Ysabel ordered that they be picketed. Then he led the girl on foot through the bushes to where a section of the valley side fell in a cliff. Still Belle could see no sign of their destination. Thrusting through some bushes, Ysabel brought the girl to the concealed mouth of a cave. Small the entrance might be, but beyond it lay a large, roomy cavern. Striking a match on the seat of his pants, Ysabel located and lit a lantern.

  Looking around her in the improved light given by the lantern, Belle saw a birch-bark canoe and several familiar-looking kegs in the cave.

  “We helped Rip Ford raid the Yankees and he gave us those kegs of powder,” Ysabel explained. “We sent Mig and some of the boys up here with ’em to be took over to Long Walker. He’s keeping the peace with the white folks and Rip figured a present was called for.”

  Studying the powder and canoe, Belle formed an idea. The safety of the money seemed assured, but she wished to make certain that it would not fall into the wrong hands.

  “Is the canoe safe?” she asked, taking the paddle from inside it.

  “Why sure,” Ysabel replied. “Feller who taught me to make ’em learned from the Blackfeet and Sioux up north.”

  “Then we could take the money across the river in it?”

  “Sure. But it’s as safe here as any place.”

  “I thought that we might put it in the canoe, launched ready, and take it across the river if the Juaristas should refuse to let us see Klatwitter and come after it.”

  “Might be best, ap’,” the Kid remarked. “One thing’s for sure. If we get it across, nobody’ll follow us.”

  “Is the current so fast?” Belle asked.

  “Nope. The bottom’s quicksand once you get out a ways,” drawled the Kid. “Trouble being they might get to us afore we got the boat out.”

  “I’ve thought of that,” Belle said. “If we could put the money into two or three of these powder kegs and load them into the boat, we could push it off and blow the lot up rather than let it fall into the wrong hands.”

  “That’s smart figuring, Miss Belle,” Ysabel told her. “We can do it easy enough.”

  By that time the night had come down and so they could not launch the canoe. However they prepared three kegs, emptying out sufficient powder from each to take the money. At dawn they moved the canoe to the river, carried down and loaded the three kegs aboard. Shoving the canoe upstream, to where the bushes grew down to the water’s edge, Ysabel fastened it to the bank. Then he and his son cut branches and draped them in position to hide the canoe.

  “She’ll hold there, Miss Belle,” Ysabel finally told the girl. “If you have to get her out fast, yank on that rope and the knot’ll slip. Then push her out into the river and use the paddle to go across.”

  “It’s a pity we haven’t any fuse or slow match along,” Belle remarked, walking back off the sand bar with Ysabel while the Kid removed all signs of their presence. “Then if the worst comes to the worst, we could blow up the powder.”

  “Should it come to that,” Ysabel replied, “a bullet into one of the kegs’ll do just as good as a fuse.”

  “It sure will,” agreed the Kid, standing surveying his work. “Touch off that powder and the money’s gone.”

  “I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Belle said sincerely.

  If it did, as they all knew, the mission would be a failure and the South’s last hope was gone.

  Thirteen – Work Together—Or Die

  After the Ysabels left, Belle settled down. Wanting to travel fast, the men took all but Belle’s mount and the packhorse. In view of the new turn of events, Belle saddled her horse and left it tied ready for an immediate departure. Then she settled down to rest. She did not sleep and heard the sound of approaching hooves. Rising, she went to the horses and stood by their heads. The riders were travelling along the trail at the top of the slope and could not see her. With any luck, they ought to pass without becoming aware of her presence.

  Blowing down the slope, the wind carried the scent of its kind to the packhorse. Just a moment too late Belle lunged forward and caught the horse’s nose to silence the whinny it gave. Seeing the riders turn and three of their number start in her direction, she knew there was only one thing to do. Releasing the packhorse, she freed her mount, swung into the saddle and charged from the bushes. At first she thought of launching the canoe across the river, then decided to try to draw away the Mexicans. Before she could turn the horse, a bullet ripped into it and it fell. Pitched from the saddle, Belle was winded by the fall and unable to resist when the men came down. With her Dance gone, she sat on the ground and studied her captors.

  Only with an effort did Belle prevent her surprise showing at the sight of Eve Coniston riding with the Mexicans. At first Belle thought that she had fallen into Kraus’ hands. On second thoughts, she concluded that the Yankee woman was also a prisoner. The poor-quality horse and bare feet did not suggest she, Eve, rode of her own free will.

  After reaching this conclusion, Belle gave thought to her own predicament. Whatever happened, she must not let the others suspect her identity. If possible, she wanted to get them away from the area before any of them started nosing around and found the canoe.

  “You wait ’til Bully hears what you done!” she screeched in the accent of a poor southerner. “He’ll be riled about you-all shooting my hoss!”

  “Who are you, señorita?” Sandos asked.

  “Rosie-May Benstable, that’s who!” Belle replied, conscious of Eve’s eyes on her. “And I’m Bully Segan’s best gal.”

  “She’s got good boots, Joaquin,” Juanita put in. “Nearly as good as mine.”

  “I want them!” Rosa yelled, drawing the knife from her belt and starting towards Belle.

  Tensing slightly, Belle prepared to defend herself. She watched the men’s faces and decided against making the attempt. Still partially winded by the fall, she could not give of her best. While a savate attack might, probably would, take Rosa by surprise, using it was not the answer. To demonstrate her skill would arouse the Mexicans’ suspicions. Even if they failed to understand the significance of what they saw, the Yankee woman might. Already ‘Emily Corstin’ had proved to be a smart, capable adversary and could be relied upon to draw the right conclusions. So Belle decided to avoid drawing too much attention to herself. Tangling in a hair-yanking brawl offered no way out, either. Rosa looked strong enough to make a hard fight. The longer they remained on the sand bar, the greater chance of somebody seeing the boat.

  “Hey!” yelped Belle, backing off on her rump with well-simulated fear. “You’ll keep her off me, d’you hear!”

  “She want your boots, señorita,” Sandos pointed out.

  “Then she c’n have ’em!” Belle wailed, starting to ease the right boot off.

  While doing so, she glanced at Eve Coniston and saw t
he other showing more interest in her surroundings than the Mexicans. Then their eyes met and a smile flickered momentarily on Eve’s lips. No matter what the Mexicans believed, Belle felt that she was not fooling the Yankee girl.

  “Get the boots on pronto, Rosa!” Sandos ordered in Spanish, throwing a look towards the river. “The boats might come back and we don’t want to be caught down here.”

  “What do we do with this one?” another of the gang inquired, indicating Belle with his thumb.

  “Take her with us,” Sandos replied. “If she’s Bully Segan’s woman, we’d better keep her for him.”

  “What’s she going to ride?”

  “Get her up behind the other gringo.”

  Having spent some of her time during the ride from Matamoros in improving her knowledge of Spanish, with Ysabel acting as tutor, Belle could follow the conversation. However she gave no sign of understanding what she heard. The time might come when her apparent lack of comprehension would pay off.

  Escape would be impossible while seated behind Eve on the sway-backed horse, even if Belle could rely on the Yankee to cooperate, so she made no attempt. In his eagerness to leave the river’s edge, Sandos pushed his party at a good pace. So they missed noticing the tracks made by Belle and the Ysabels on their arrival.

  Swinging away from the Rio Grande, they took a southeasterly direction for something over a mile. At last Sandos directed his horse into the mouth of a draw. As they turned a bend in the wide valley, they came into sight if the bandido camp. The fact that only two adobe jacales and a pole corral stood before them led Belle to assume the place was not the gang’s main headquarters. Probably it served as no more than a temporary hide-out handy for the border. From the general lack of life around the place, no other members of the gang were using it. Which still left six men and two women from whom Belle must escape.

  “Put the women in there!” Sandos ordered, pointing to the smaller of the jacales. “When, we’ve fed, we’ll go across the river, spread out and find Cosme.”