Dusty Fog's Civil War 11

by J. T. Edson

  “You don’t?” the officer purred.

  “Nary a notion,” Ysabel answered.

  “We have heard that two men and a girl take money to seduce General Klatwitter from his duty to France,” the lieutenant explained. “Sergeant. Manguer says he believes you are they.”

  “Don’t see no gal along of us, do you, mister?” Ysabel drawled.

  “Happen there is one around, you just tell me where to find her,” the Kid went on with a grin. “I ain’t seed a white gal in a coon’s age.”

  Although he stood in what resembled a relaxed slouch, the youngster was tense with coiled-spring readiness. Like his father, he realized that coming to the French had been a serious error in tactics. Leaving again might prove even more difficult. Before coming to speak with his officer, the sergeant had flashed a signal to the troopers. Already the four sentries were lining their carbines at the Texans and the other men continued their interrupted gathering of piled carbines.

  Used to the servile deference given by French enlisted men and Mexican peons, the officer found the Ysabels’ attitude infuriatingly over-familiar.

  “Don’t play games with me!” he blazed. “Not a few of those Juarista pigs have learned that Lieutenant Henri du Plessis is no man to trifle with.”

  “Mister,” Ysabel drawled. “We come here to do you a service. Happen you don’t want it, we’ll be on our way.”

  “Not so fast!” du Plessis barked. “I am dissatisfied with your answers and intend to hold you for further questioning. Drop your gunbelts.”

  While on patrol along the Rio Grande, du Plessis had seen and challenged the three Yankee steam-launches. He had learned of the Rebel Spy’s mission and had changed his route in the hope of finding her before she reached Klatwitter. Avarice showed on his face as he studied the Texans and wondered if Manguer had guessed correctly. They did not have a woman along, nor carry saddle pouches bulky enough to hold the large sum of money mentioned by the men from the launches. So he wanted to take them alive if possible and see if they would give useful information under questioning.

  Even if they should not be the men seeking Klatwitter, killing them would produce some valuably loot. Four good, if hard-run, horses, a Sharps rifle and two Dragoon Colts—so much more effective than the Le Mat and Lefauchex revolvers issued by the French army—could not be picked up every day of the week. Nor was there likely to be any comeback over the killings. The Confederate States Government could hardly complain at the death of two agents while on a mission to seduce an entire French regiment from its duty. And if the men were not Confederate agents it seemed unlikely that such unimportant people would be missed.

  “Damned if we don’t oughta make him kill us, so’s he’ll try to ride ole Thunder there,” the Kid remarked to his father, having read du Plessis’ feelings towards the white stallion in the avaricious study of it. “Do you see ’em, ap’?”

  “Just now did. Likely there’re waiting to see how things go,” Ysabel answered and turned his attention to du Plessis. Much as he disliked the Frenchman, he felt that he must give a warning. “Soldier-boy. Was I you, I’d tell your fellers to set them carbines down, go get their hosses and be ready to ride for Nava.”

  “You tell me nothing!” du Plessis yelled, wild with fury at the lack of deference showed by the Ysabels. “I will count to three, by which time you will drop your gunbelts and surrender.” Then in French he told Manguer of his intentions and added, “Shoot them in the legs when I say ‘two’.”

  “Oui, mon lieutenant,” Manguer replied, realizing the importance of taking the Texans alive.

  Drawing his revolver, the sergeant began to raise it and du Plessis commenced his treacherous count.

  “One!”

  Something swished through the air, flying from the slope opposite to that down which the Ysabels had come to the camp. Even as his finger squeezed at the trigger ready to carry out his orders, Manguer’s back arched in sudden pain. Shock and agony twisted his face as he took an involuntary pace forward. Dropping the revolver, he clawed at the head of an arrow which burst through the left breast of his tunic. Vainly trying to draw the arrow from him, he sank to his knees, collapsed face forward and spasmodically kicked as his life-blood soaked into the Mexican soil.

  Attracted by the same smoke that had led the Ysabels to the French, the band of Pahuraix raiders reached the scene shortly after the Texans arrived. Seeing the two men who claimed such close ties with Long Walker of the Pehnane, the chief did not launch an immediate attack. However it soon became obvious that the Texans were not among friends and the braves moved forward. Neglecting their duty, all the sentries were watching what happened to their visitors and failed to see the deadly advance. Witnessing the sergeant aiming his revolver at Ysabel, the chief took a hand. The short Comanche bow, designed for use on the back of a fast-running horse, packed enough power to sink a thirty-six inch arrow flight deep into the muscular back of a bull buffalo. It proved no less successful when used against a human being.

  Showing commendable restraint, the rest of the party let their chief commence the attack. However all held their weapons ready and turned loose a volley as their leaders bow-string vibrated. Arrows, and bullets from the few rifles in the group, tore down into the unsuspecting Frenchmen.

  Four troopers and the sergeant died in that first deadly assault, but the rest did not panic and prepared to fight. Nor did the arrival of the Indians cause the French to forget their original visitors.

  Throwing up his carbine, a trooper snapped a shot that sent Ysabel’s hat spinning from his head. On the heels of the shot, the big Texan drew and fired his Dragoon. Ysabel shot to kill; not only to prevent another attempt on himself but to make sure the soldier did not fall alive into the hands of the Pahuraix.

  No Comanche worth his salt would be content to stand back from an enemy. A coup counted by bullet or arrow rated lower than one gained in personal contact. So after the first volley, they charged recklessly forward at the remains of the French party.

  Out flashed du Plessis’ saber and he flashed a quick glance around. Quick maybe, but it told him all he needed to know. Nothing could save his men and he saw no reason to die with them. Not when the means of escape lay so near. Not his own horse, for that stood picketed with his men’s close to where the Indians attacked. However four fine mounts were waiting for him in a position that offered a clear run to safety. Mounted on that magnificent white stallion, he could escape while the remains of his command fought to their deaths.

  With that thought in mind, he sprang in the direction of the horses. Before he took three strides, he found his way blocked by an obstacle that must be removed if he hoped to carry on. At first he did not recognize the obstacle. Although still dressed in his white man’s clothing, the Ysabel Kid’s face looked no less savage than those of the attacking Comanches. Steel glinted in the Kid’s hand also, but for once the bowie knife looked almost dwarfed alongside its opposite number.

  During his career in the army, du Plessis had fought in several duels and not all of the au premier sang—which ended when blood, no matter how slight, was drawn—variety prescribed in regulations. A fine swordsman, he expected no trouble in dealing with the tall youngster. What he failed to take into consideration was that he faced a man trained from early childhood in all the rudiments and refinements of fighting with cold steel; yet whose schooling did not conform to the accepted precepts of the continental code duello.

  Going into the attack, du Plessis launched a cut at the Kid’s head and confidently expected to batter down the other’s guard to reach his target. However the youngster knew better than try to parry a saber blow with even a James Black bowie knife. Instead he seemed to go two ways at the same moment. From landing on the ground in a forward step, the right foot thrust backwards and the Kid moved to the rear, outside the saber’s lethal arc.

  Taken by surprise at the failure of his attack, du Plessis still caught his balance and returned the saber with a sweeping inside sw
ing to the head. Again he missed, for the Kid thrust, cut and lunged at the illusive shape before him. Oblivious of the fight which was raging behind them, the Kid and du Plessis fought their strange duel. While the Kid’s long knife never met the saber, neither did the armé blanche make hit on him.

  Leaping over a low cut, the Kid landed inside the blade and his knife ripped across. For the first time du Plessis found need to show his own agility. He tried to avoid the Kid’s attack by a hurried spring to the rear. Slicing through the French tunic, the tip of the bowie knife carved a shallow gash across its wearer’s chest. Pain stung du Plessis, although he knew the wound to be superficial. However he realized that he must bring the fight to a speedy end, kill that deadly savage who stood between him and the horses. Doing it with the saber would consume too much time.

  Again he sprang to the rear and the Kid started after him. Whipping back his arm, du Plessis hurled his saber at the Kid. Then the officer sent his right hand flashing towards the revolver at his belt. Shone brightly and looking militarily smart, the holster did not lend itself to a fast draw.

  Like a giant dart, the saber hurled at the Kid, but he went under it in a rolling dive that wound up with him in a kneeling position almost at du Plessis’ feet. Up drove the Kid’s blade, its point gouging into the Frenchman’s belly—always the knife-fighter’s favorite target. With a croaking cry of pain du Plessis stumbled backwards and began to double over. Again the Kid struck, almost in a continuation of the move which tore the knife free from its first mark. Coming upwards and back, the curved false-edge, as sharp as the blade itself, sank into flesh. It sliced through the windpipe, veins and arteries of the throat almost to the bone. Gagging in an effort to breathe, blood spouting from the terrible gash, du Plessis went down.

  “A:he, I claim it!” hissed the Kid.

  Behind him a French trooper turned a Le Mat revolver in his direction. Coming up from behind the Pahuraix war chief swung his fighting axe to sever the soldier’s spine and drop him instantly to the ground. Springing past his chief, a young brave sank his knife into the dying trooper and claimed the coup.

  Then it was all over. Standing with his smoking Dragoon in hand, Ysabel looked around him. With something like relief he saw that none of the soldiers had been taken alive. If any had fallen into the Comanches’ hands, there was little enough Ysabel could have done to save them. Nor could he interfere in any way with the aftermath of the victory.

  “My thanks, Soldado Pronto,” the Kid said, wiping clean his knife on du Plessis’ tunic. “The smoke brought you here?”

  “Yes,” the chief replied. “This has been a poor raid, Cuchilo. Everywhere we found soldiers and little loot.”

  “You have horses, guns and bullets here,” Ysabel pointed out, joining his son. Then he pointed unerringly towards Nava. “Down that way is a big fight, many soldiers are going there.”

  “I think we go and see what we can take,” the chief stated.

  “And we must ride to meet my squaw,” Ysabel answered.

  “It’s lucky we come back,” the Kid said as he and his father rode away and the Pahuraix braves set about the business of gathering loot. “They were headed for the border and might’ve found Miss Belle.”

  “Yep!” Ysabel agreed. “And with their medicine looking so bad, they might’ve took their meanness out on her.”

  Riding on, they swung somewhat to the east of their original line and came into sight of the two jacales from which Belle and Eve had escaped. They brought their horses to a halt, ears catching certain significant sounds. Mingled with a scuffling sound and screams from the smaller building was the drumming of rapidly departing hooves. At first they saw no sign of life, other than the horses at the corral. Then the two exhausted, but still fighting Mexican girls reeled through the front door and sprawled to the ground.

  “What the hell?” Ysabel ejaculated, starting his horses moving. “This’s one of Danvila’s hide-outs, but there don’t look to be any of his fellers around.”

  If there had been any of the gang present, it was unlikely they would miss such a prime piece of excitement as what looked to have been one hell of a good girl fight.

  “Wonder who it was rode off,” the Kid went on. “Two of ’em. Way the hooves sounded, I’d say one following the other and both going like the devil after a yearling.”

  “Best go take a look and pull them two apart afore they snatch each other bald-headed,” Ysabel suggested.

  Before the men reached them, the girls rose to their knees and pitched back into the jacale. Alert for a trap, Ysabel and the Kid dismounted, drew their Colts and followed the girls. Looking over the fighting pair, the Kid studied the man lying by the rear wall. Then he glanced at the hole and dropped his eyes to the revolver at the man’s side.

  Forgetting the girls, the Kid darted across and picked up the revolver. At first glance it looked like a well-made Navy Colt. Only the Kid knew different. The revolver bore the unmistakable signs of being made by the Dance brothers of Columbia, Texas. More than that, its ivory handle and superior finish proved it to be the gun they made for and presented to the Rebel Spy as a tribute to her good work.

  “Miss Belle’d never part with this unless there was no way she could help it!” the Kid growled. “They must’ve got her.”

  “And she’s got away again,” his father went on. “Likely that was her running with one of ’em after her we heard.”

  “Let’s get going after her and see!” the Kid barked, thrusting the Dance into his belt and running towards the door.

  Although the Ysabels wasted no time in mounting, when they reached the end of the draw they could see no sign of whoever had fled before their arrival. So they pushed on in the direction of the sand bar. With tired horses under them, they could not make as fast a pace as they wished. However they rode on, hoping for a sight of the people they were following. Suddenly they heard shooting ahead. Not just rifles and carbines, but the crack of a light cannon and a harsh staccato rattle that reminded Ysabel of the sound made by an Ager Coffee-Mill machine gun.

  Jerking their rifles from the medicine boots, Sam Ysabel and the Kid urged their leg-weary mounts on towards the head of the slope which hid the river—and the sand bar where they had left the money in the canoe—from view.

  Fifteen – Take Her Out Comanche Fashion

  By the time Belle Boyd had selected, freed and mounted the best of the remaining horses, Eve Coniston had built up a good lead in the race for the canoe. While a good horsewoman, Eve could not equal Belle’s skill. However no amount of ability could off-set the superior mount Eve sat and Belle failed to close the distance no matter how she urged on her horse.

  Wondering if the Rebel Spy had managed to make good her escape, Eve fought down a desire to look back. She wished to avoid anything that might jeopardize her chances. To take her attention off the horse and where she rode might cause a fall. As she rode, she decided on her course of action. At the sand bar she would shove off and board the canoe, then either paddle down the river or allow the current to take her. Either way, the steam launches would find her. Then she could continue down to Brownsville at all speed and deliver the money to the authorities. With it as evidence, the United States Government ought to be able to demand that Great Britain should prevent any recurrence of the attempt.

  On Eve rode, keeping the horse at a gallop. At last she saw the sand bar, identifying it for certain by the dead horse lying by the water’s edge. Down the slope she went, almost losing her balance. At the foot, she jumped from the saddle and let the horse go free. If all went well she would not need it again and she could not spare valuable seconds to secure it.

  Even as Eve reached the canoe and tugged at its fastenings, she heard the drumming of hooves. Turning her head, she saw Belle Boyd galloping into sight. She swung back to the canoe, jerking the knot open and throwing the rope aside. Then she began to haul the canoe out from under its covering, turning its bows towards the center of the river as soon as she co
uld.

  A glance over her shoulder told Eve how little time she had. Riding with reckless abandon, Belle plunged down the incline. The slim Southern girl left the saddle as the horse reached the foot of the slope and ran across the sand. Belle knew she would be too late to prevent the launching of the canoe, but figured she could still destroy its load. Although she had no means of igniting the powder charges, she felt that up-turning the canoe and dumping them into the river would suffice. Under the surface lay quicksand, according to the Kid. Once the kegs reached them, recovery would be impossible.

  Realizing that she could not hope to board the canoe and escape, Eve did not try. Instead she gave it a hard push and watched it carried forward across the water. Then she swung around to face Belle. What a triumph it would be if she could deliver the Rebel Spy along with the gold to Brownsville. The smug male crowd who insisted that women had no place in the Secret Service would be hard pressed to find an argument to that achievement.

  However Eve knew capturing Belle Boyd would be anything but easy. From what she had seen at the jacale, and suspected had happened to the French sergeant in Brownsville, the Southern girl could handle her end of any rough stuff that came along. So could Eve if it came to that.

  During the ride to the jacales, being seated behind Eve and holding on to her waist had allowed Belle to form an estimate of the other’s physical condition. So Belle had an idea of Eve’s strength. Yet the older woman showed no sign of knowing other than female ways of defending herself. Charging forward with hands raised and fingers hooked like talons, Eve seemed to be wide open for a savate attack. Bare footed or not, Belle felt sure a stamping side kick would take most of the aggression out of the older woman.

  So Belle skidded to a halt, going into a savate fighting stance and swinging herself into position to deliver the kick. As her leg rose, she saw a change come over Eve. Down came the woman’s hands, thumbs touching and with the fingers forming a U shape into which Belle’s ankle slipped to be halted. Clamping hold of the ankle, Eve swung the leg around and twisted the foot. Belle felt her other foot leave the ground, then she went somersaulting over. Long training at riding helped her to break her fall on the soft sand.