The white stallion made a magnificent sight. At least a full sixteen hands in height, yet so perfectly proportioned that it moved with swift and easy grace. It might have been a wild creature, despite the bridle and low-horned, double-girthed saddle it bore, for it moved with an air of constant alertness. Not the tense watchfulness, ready to flee at the first hint of hostile sound or scent, a whitetail deer or broomtail mare showed, but the constant readiness of a master animal willing to fight for its right to survive.
Nor did the man sitting the saddle distract in any way from the stallion’s untamed appearance. Six foot tall, his lean frame gave an impression of whipcord strength and whang leather toughness. He had a handsome face almost babyishly young and innocent in feature, if one discounted the wild red-hazel eyes and an Indian-dark tan. At first glance one might take him to be in his early teens. Closer inspection warned that his looks were deceptive; or if he was in his early teens, they had been very hard years. A black Stetson hat of Texas style sat on his raven-dark head of hair. The black motif ran through his entire outfit, bandana, shirt, pants, boots and gunbelt all being of that somber hue. Only the brown walnut grips of the old Dragoon Colt holstered butt forward at his right side and the ivory hilt of the James Black bowie knife sheathed on his left hip relieved the blackness. The butt of a Winchester Model 1866 rifle showed from his saddleboot and his armament did not end there.
In his right hand, augmenting the Indian air he gave in appearance and the way he rode, was a Comanche war lance. Its seven-foot-long handle of bois d’arc wood supported a thirty-inch head of finely tempered steel. Painted with medicine symbols and decorated by a cluster of eagle feathers, the lance looked what it was; a deadly efficient fighting weapon.
Man and horse made a good pair. Between them they exhibited an aura of wolf-cautious alertness; the kind of air a full grown grizzly bear showed when crossing its selected territory.
All the time as he rode, the young-looking man watched the range around him with eyes that missed little. He saw the distant rump-flashing of a startled pronghorn start off other flickering signals from its kind. Near at hand a prairie falcon rose from the body of a jackrabbit and winged clear of the approaching man. Then he slowed the horse, reared up in the stirrups and looked ahead. Most men could have seen only a patch of brown on the rolling green of the range, but the rider knew he looked at a very important segment of Texas’ major industry; a trail herd bedded down for the night. On riding closer he made out the chuck and bed wagons halted in an advantageous position and the smaller mass of the remuda which supplied fresh mounts for the men who worked the cattle.
Feeling that he might like to spend the night in human company, the rider pointed his stallion towards the distant herd and allowed it to make better time in the new direction. All the time he rode, he studied the night camp. There were a few Texas outfits who would not make him welcome and he did not wish to force his company on any man. Before he covered half the distance, he knew that he rode towards friends.
Gathered about the fire while waiting for the cook to start serving the inevitable beef stew and beans, the trail crew watched the approaching rider. One of them, a brash youngster making his first drive north, grinned broadly as he studied the newcomer’s armament and gave particular attention to the war lance.
’Damnit!’ he grinned to the grizzled veteran at his side. ‘A war-whoop’s done jumped the reservation.’
‘Was I you, I wouldn’t say it so’s he could hear you,’ counseled the other.
‘Why not?’ demanded the youngster truculently.
‘Because that feller’s a particular good friend of Big Ranse for one thing,’ the oldster explained. ‘And iffen that’s not enough, he’s also the Ysabel Kid.’
Maybe mere loyalty to his employer might not have prevented the youngster making further comment, but the name spoken by the old timer and what went unspoken about it caused him to keep silent. New to the trail, a touch wild and reckless on occasion, the young cowhand possessed sufficient good common-sense not to play games with that babyishly innocent looking rider.
Many knowledgeable people claimed the Ysabel Kid to be the most dangerous member of Ole Devil Hardin’s floating outfit. True he could not equal either Dusty Fog or Mark Counter’s speed on the draw, although he performed passably well with his old Dragoon Colt in time of necessity. His talent in the skilled use of the bowie knife made up for any close-range deficiencies with a hand-gun and his marksmanship when using the rifle almost passed belief. Yet those attributes alone did not make him one to be feared.
Born of an Irish-Kentuckian father and French Creole-Comanche mother, the Kid spent his rearing years among the pehnane band of his mother’s tribe. From his maternal grandfather, Chief Long Walker, he learned those things a Comanche warrior needed to know. ix He could ride any horse ever foaled, follow tracks where lesser men might see nothing, move in silence through any kind of country, hide and locate hidden enemies and knew the ways of the great Texas plains. Less of a cowhand than his two companions, he acted as scout in time of danger. So the talents taught to make him a brave-heart warrior found many uses among the white men.
After seeing his grandfather’s people settled on their new home and satisfying himself that the White Father in Washington’s word would be kept to the pehnane, the Kid began his journey to the OD Connected. On his way he had to deliver the war lance to the Governor of Texas, being both a tribute to the man who made the peace possible and a sign that the Wasps, Raiders, Quick Stingers—those names being the nearest white equivalent to pehnane—rode no more to war. Cheerfully he rode towards the trail drive’s camp, knowing he could expect hospitality from Big Ranse Counter’s crew.
Mark’s father equaled him in size and muscular development, although age had put thickness to Big Ranse’s middle. Dressed like a working cowhand, with an Army Colt hanging at his side, the rancher swung away from the bed wagon and raised his hand in greeting to the newcomer.
‘Howdy, Kid. This wouldn’t be some of your Comanche witchcraft, would it?’
‘How’s that?’ asked the Kid.
‘You’ve sure showed up at the right time.’
‘For what?’
‘Mark’s likely to need help.’
‘Where and for what?’
Forgotten was the visit to Austin and presentation of the war lance to the Governor. The Kid’s face showed little, but interest glinted in his red-hazel eyes as he listened to Ranse Counter’s story of the happenings in the capital. Just a hint of worry began to show on the Indian-dark features as Ranse told how the Wycliffe gang’s tracks had been lost but that Mark went on with the search.
‘Just him and Tejas Tom went on,’ the rancher concluded. They’re headed up the Pedernales River towards Pegler’s place.’
‘That’s on the edge of the Kaddo country,’ the Kid breathed, thinking of a story going the rounds of the pehnane camp before he left it.
‘And he’ll not stop there if the Wycliffes’ve gone on,’ Ranse continued. ‘I’m fixing to go after him.’
‘How about your herd?’ asked the Kid.
‘That’s just what I’ve been asking the old goat!’ yelled a peevish voice from the bed wagon and Bragg thrust his head into sight. ‘I’ve got all shot ’n’ can’t ride trail boss. There’s fifteen hundred head of our stuff and another thousand for two other spreads bedded down back there that he has to get to market.’
With beef prices at the Kansas rail head standing high, that amounted to a tolerable sum of money. Far too much to be tossed aside without real good reason. Not that the financial considerations worried Ranse Counter with his son in danger, but the Kid guessed that the other two spreads relied upon the rancher to take the herd through. So the Kid reached his decision fast, knowing that Ole Devil Hardin would expect him to act in such a manner.
‘Let me go after him,’ the Kid suggested. ‘I can travel faster than you, and faster alone than if you come with me.’
For a long moment Ranse Counter hesitated and digested the Kid’s words. All too well he knew the close ties which bound the floating outfit’s members, so realized that every effort would be made to reach Mark in time and back his play no matter how great the odds. The Kid’s timely arrival presented the best possible answer to Ranse’s problem. While the rancher had fully intended to ride to his son’s aid, he knew the penalty for doing so. He could survive the loss of the herd, but two neighbors depended on him to deliver and sell their cattle, providing them with badly needed money to carry them through until the next year.
Knowing the Kid’s reputation, Ranse had no doubt in the other’s ability to find Mark. Also the Kid spoke the simple truth when he stated that he could travel faster alone.
‘Go to it, Lon,’ the rancher ordered. ‘Is there anything you want?’
‘Reckon I’ve everything I need,’ the Kid replied. ‘Can you send my war bag into Austin? I’ll be travelling light.’
‘I’ll see to it for you,’ Ranse promised.
Dawn found the Kid in the saddle, although his bedroll no longer rode on the cantle. All he carried besides his clothing were bullets for the rifle, a powder horn and twenty ready-molded balls to be used in the Dragoon, his knife and the war lance. To his way of thinking the latter did not form added weight, but was his passport into the Kaddo camp should one be needed.
Being a white man, Ranse Counter would have ridden down river from his camp at the junction of the Llando and Colorado, followed the edge of Lake Travis to where the Pedernales flowed into it and up the latter stream. Not so the Kid. Using his inborn sense of direction, he proposed to ride across country at an angle that would bring him to the headwaters of the Pedernales. Doing so would save time and, he hoped, bring him to the vicinity of the Pegler trading post ready to back up Mark on the blond giant’s arrival.
The route taken by the Kid took him through country not yet occupied by rancher or town dweller. For all that he lived well, relying on his rifle to supply meat and augmenting it with fruits or nuts and the tuberous roots of the Indian potato. Despite the urgency of the situation, he ensured that both he and the horse ate well. He knew that he travelled faster than Mark could while following tracks and on a route that he hoped would converge with the other’s before arrival at the trading post.
For two days the Kid rode over the rolling Texas range without the sight or trace of another human being. He had covered over forty miles the first day and figured to be coming close to his destination. However, search the horizon as he might, he saw no smoke rising from the trading post’s chimney nor distant glint of the sun reflected from the building’s windows.
The rapid drumming of hooves came to the Kid’s ears from beyond the rim up which he rode. At the same moment the wind, coming from the direction of the sound, carried a scent to the white stallion’s nostrils, setting it fiddle-footing nervously and snorting as if to blow away the offending odor. Reading the signs correctly, despite the lack of confirmatory noise, the Kid started his horse moving up to the head of the rim. While he knew roughly what to expect, the sight before him brought a deep-throated exclamation bursting from his lips and caused him to bring the stallion to an abrupt halt.
Anywhere west of the Mississippi River, especially on the open ranges of Texas, the sight of a saddled, riderless horse gave rise to concern. Yet not even the sight of eight wolves loping after the fleeing horse at the foot of the valley beyond the rim added to the shock received by the Kid. That wolves hunted so large an animal did not surprise him. He knew they would take after any creature offering the possibility of a meal when hunger gnawed at them. What caused the Kid to sit back and take notice was the fact that he recognized the fleeing horse.
There might be other huge blood-bay stallions in Texas, probably most of them would carry a similar style of saddle—the low-horned, double-girthed rig being much favored by sons of the Lone Star State—but the Kid suffered from no doubts. He knew the horse to be Mark’s favorite mount and could have picked it out from a big remuda.
Although the sight of Mark’s riderless horse handed the Kid one hell of a shock, it did not freeze him into panic-filled immobility. Letting the lance fall from his right hand, he tossed his right leg across the front of the saddle and dropped to the ground. In passing he slid the rifle from its boot and his eyes measured the distance separating him from the horse. The rifle carried a slide rear sight graduated from one hundred to nine hundred yards. Loyal supporter of Oliver F. Winchester’s product though he might be, the Kid admitted the upper graduations on the sight’s scale were no more than wishful thinking. Twenty-eight grains of even the best powder could not propel the two hundred grain bullet nine hundred yards with any hope of hitting its intended target. However the horse and wolves came along the valley bottom in his direction and at much less than a quarter of a mile.
Even as he sank to his left knee and rested his left elbow on the bent right leg, the Kid knew he had no time to spare if he hoped to save the horse. As if sensing the danger of an intervention between it and the pack’s prey, the big dog wolf in the lead increased its speed. Like most of the other species of its kind, the medium-sized, dark grey colored, comparatively thin-coated Texas grey wolf could lope along at a speed of ten to twelve miles an hour for long periods. At a spurt, it might touch more than twice that speed. The dog wolf put on such a spurt, closing on the racing blood bay with the intention of chopping at the tendons of the lower leg. A bite there would hamstring the horse, bring it to a halt and leave it at the mercy of the pack.
The Kid did not take time to raise and adjust the leaf sight. At such a short range he could use the ordinary V notch sight and allow for deviations of distance. Swiftly he sighted, right forefinger curled around the trigger and starting to take the pressure. Even as the wolf gathered itself for the final leap, the Winchester cracked. Drilled through the chest, the wolf uttered a shrill yelp and somersaulted over. Down and up blurred the rifle’s lever, throwing out the empty cartridge case and replacing it with a loaded bullet. The Kid changed aim and sent his next bullet through the shoulders of the second wolf, tumbling it under the feet of the remainder of the pack. Again he fired, sending lead into the wolves as they halted, snarling and tearing at their fallen companions.
Even in an area far from human habitation, the wolves knew what the sound of a rifle meant. So they did not stick around to face more of the Kid’s lead. Pulling away from the shot animal at which they mauled, the five unwounded wolves raced off at such speed that trying to shoot them would have been a waste of lead.
Booting his rifle, the Kid darted around his horse. The big white had stood like a statue, ignoring the crack of the rifle, smell of burning powder and scent of the wolves. Nor did it make a move until after the Kid, scooping up the lance in passing, bounded a’fork the saddle. Urged forward by its master, the white started down the slope in the direction of the fleeing blood bay.
Ridden by a man trained from his earliest days in the business of staying astride a horse, the white went down the slope at a good speed. Once on the level floor of the valley bottom, it really stretched out and showed how it could run. Crouching lightly in the saddle, the Kid used all his considerable skill to help the white. All too well he knew the speed at which Mark’s blood bay could travel. While the white could run faster, it carried more weight than the blood bay and so needed every aid its rider offered.
Fear kept the blood bay running, but it had been pushed hard and long by the wolves. For all that, a quarter of a mile fell behind them before the Kid’s white caught up. Grunting out a curse, the Kid thrust the lance under his left leg to leave his hands free. Slowly the white drew level with the other horse. Looking across, he saw the reins looped around the saddlehorn. Like the Kid, Mark could rely on his horse to stand without tying for a short time. Something must have spooked the blood bay and set it running after Mark left it. The Kid wanted to learn what the something had been.
Leaning across, the Kid gripped the blood bay’s reins. A knee signal caused his white to slow down and between them they brought the other horse to a halt. The Kid retained his hold as he dropped from the saddle. On landing, he set to work to calm the blood bay so that he could examine it closer.
‘Easy, big feller,’ he said gently. ‘Easy there.’
The Kid’s familiar scent, mingled with his voice and firm, capable handling swiftly brought the horse under control. Although badly blown and heavily lathered by the wolves’ long chase, the blood bay yielded no immediate sign of damage. After making sure that another flight would not be the result of letting go of the reins, the Kid examined its right side. Alert for any sign of restlessness, he passed around the horse’s rump. Then he saw the reddish tint of the lather on the left hip and went closer to investigate.
Gently the Kid placed a finger on the discolored patch, meaning to clean away the lather. He felt the horse quiver and spoke softly to calm it before continuing. Underneath the coating of lather he found a shallow graze in the skin. Bending closer and wiping off more of the froth sweated out during the chase, he saw that the hair had been burned away at the start of the groove. One did not need the powers of a Comanche witch woman to guess at the cause. Somebody had cut loose with a revolver at close range, the muzzle-blast singed the blood bay and the bullet sliced a nick in its flank. Pain started it running and somewhere in its flight it attracted the attention of the wolves. Luckily the wound had been only superficial or the pack would have pulled the blood bay down long before it came into the Kid’s sight.
Glancing towards the horse’s head, the Kid’s eyes came to a halt at the saddle. He saw a dark stain on the leather and, hoping against hope, he moved closer to check the evidence of his eyes. Shock and anxiety twisted at his usually unemotional face as he looked at the stain. All too well he knew what the dark mark was—human blood. Far worse, he identified the grayish lumps which clung to the leather among the bloodstain. Blood and human brains had been smeared down the saddle. The Kid looked back in the direction from which the blood bay came and tried not to think that the hideous stain might originate from Mark Counter’s shattered-open skull.