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 cook 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.
“Down there, huh,” he grinned, eyes raking the ground around the wagon.
A white man might have betrayed himself through anxiety or over-eagerness, but never a Pehnane Tehnap; and the Kid was all of that as he continued to ride into the ambush. No longer did he look young or innocent. Lips drawn back in a wolfish grin, rest of face a cold, savage mask, he might have been Long Walker, war leader of the dreaded Dog Soldier lodge, heading to meet an enemy.
Not that he under-estimated the dangers of the situation. Joe Giss claimed few peers in accurate rifle shooting and—as the Kid had told Shafto—had learned the art of concealment from Indians. So he would be hard for even a Pehnane to locate. Anywhere within three hundred yards of the cart could be the danger area. Up to that distance Giss allowed to be able to knock out a squirrel’s eye and call which one he meant to hit.
“So it’s from now to maybe a hundred and not less’n fifty,” the Kid decided, gauging the distance with an eye almost as accurate as a surveyor’s tape-measure. “Come on, Joe. Show your skinny-gutted hand. There’s one of your boys, all hid real careful behind that pepperwood tree. Another hunkered under the deadfall and one laid up between them sassafras bushes. Where’re you, Joe. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”
Giving no sign that he had located three of his enemies, the Kid rode on. Still no hint of Giss’ presence. Yet he would be there, hidden carefully and squinting along the sights of his rifle.
Watching the Kid draw closer, the man behind the pepperwood tree grew more alarmed. That was no ordinary man approaching, but Cabrito, who many claimed to have a charmed life. Gomez had been an asesino of high quality, skilled at his work, and everybody knew how he had died when sent after the Ysabel Kid. So, despite Giss’ orders that the others waited until he opened fire, the Mexican acted. Burning powder sparked alongside the pepperwood tree and the Kid slid sideways between the two horses.
“I got him!” yelled the man, his voice almost drowned out by other shots.
Finger already squeezing the Sharps rifle’s trigger, Joe Giss had received a shock when the Mexican’s shot cracked out. Nor could he control the involuntary tightening of his forefinger that set the rifle’s mechanism working. Both his remaining men’s weapons barked almost at the same moment and the three bullets tore harmlessly over the backs of the approaching horses.
Carefully concealed under the branches of another sassafras bush, Giss heard his man’s exultant yell. At first glance the words appeared to be justified, for the horses raced down the trail with no sign of a rider. The trouble being that the Kid’s body did not lie on the trail either. In which case, the Sharps ought to be reloaded and fast. Which raised a snag. To load a rifle, even a breech-feeding Sharps, meant movement sure to draw the Kid’s attention to Giss’ hiding place. Attracting Cabrito’s interest at such a moment was as dangerous a pastime as poking one’s head into the mouth of a starving silvertip grizzly bear and saying, “Bite it.”
Whoops of delight rose from Giss’ less perspicacious companions and he could see that none of them thought to reload their rifles. Then they too realized that something must be wrong. The two men from town signaled violently; and not in congratulation for a well-aimed shot. Closer thundered the two horses, still with no sign of the Kid. So the ambushers belatedly reached for powder flasks to begin the business of recharging their rifles.
When he slid from the sorrel’s back, a split-second before the Mexican cut loose at him, the Kid caught hold of the white’s saddlehorn. He hung suspended between the two horses, guiding the white by word and signal while retaining his hold of the sorrel’s reins. Watching ahead, he saw the cart rushing nearer.
“Sorry, Cap’n Rule,” he breathed. “But I don’t know if I can trust your hoss to come with me.”
With that, he let the reins free to hang over the borrowed horse’s neck. Dropping his feet to the ground, he used their impact to bound up and astride the white’s saddle. A wild Comanche yell shattered the air and the huge horse lengthened its stride. Dropping his rifle, one of the Mexicans sprang from his cover and snatched at the holstered revolver on his hip. None of the others were even close to being reloaded and could only stare, hoping not to catch the Kid’s eye.
Up soared the white stallion, taking the cart like a hunter-spooked white-tail deer bounding over a bush. Gathering itself, the sorrel also jumped, clearing the obstacle and lighting down running alongside the white. Wanting his own horse as fresh as possible for the work ahead, the Kid quit its saddle, dropped to the ground and leapt on to the sorrel’s back once more. Although the Mexican drew and fired his revolver, the bullet came nowhere near hitting the fast-moving Kid.
“Get after him, you stinking greasers!” Giss howled rolling out from under the bush and standing up.
Under the pretence of reloading the Sharps, Giss allowed his men to reach their horses—hidden among the trees—first. By the time he completed the loading, they were mounted and starting after the Kid. However his plan failed, for once by the cart they drew rein and waited for him. Scowling, he rode up and ordered the chase to be continued. Giss never cared to take chances; and neither did his men where the Ysabel Kid was concerned.
Holding his horses to a gallop, the Kid watched for a chance to lose his pursuers. At first he stuck to the trail, not wishing to pass through that thickly tangled woodland when riding at speed. A mile or so fell behind him before he reached more open country. So far his hunters had caught only fleeting glimpses of him on the winding trail and wasted no lead in trying for such a scanty target. However the trail stretched straight and level for almost a quarter of a mile. That meant presenting Joe Giss with too good a mark at which to aim. So the Kid swung his horses from the trail, riding up the slope flanking it to the south through the scattered trees and bushes.
Just as he reached the top, something struck the sorrel. The Kid heard the horse’s stricken grunt and the sound of a shot from behind him. Then the sorrel staggered and began to collapse. Throwing his leg across its back, he jumped clear and darted-around the white stallion’s rump. Even using the Indian-made boot, the Kid carried his rifle Texas fashion, on the left of the saddle with the butt pointing to the rear. So he needed only to grip the wrist of the butt and the horse walking away slid the rifle free.
“That Kid’s luckier’n the devil!” Giss spat out, lowering his smoking Sharps.
Seeing the Kid approaching the top of the slope and realizing the nature of the country beyond it, Giss felt disinclined to follow the young Texan further. So he swung up ms Sharps and chanced a snap shot. At almost a hundred yards, on a fast moving target, he might have counted himself fortunate to come so close to hitting his mark.
Swiveling around, the long old Mississippi rifle flowing to his shoulder, the Kid sighted quickly and took a fast shot. Giss’ hat spun from his head and he threw himself from the saddle to dive into cover, a move his men copied with some speed. Once hidden from further bullets, they looked to their leader for guidance. Not for almost two minutes did Giss offer to give any. Then he looked up the slope and sucked in a breath.
“Let’s go. Stay with the hosses. Manuel. The rest of us’ll foot it.”
After shooting, the Kid ran to where his stallion was waiting. He thrust the rifle unloaded into the boot and took the sombrero collected in Matamoros from where it hung on the saddlehorn. Drawing his bowie knife, he slashed open the top of the crown and ripped the brim. Tossing the ruined hat on to the body of the sorrel, he turned, mounted the white and rode off to the southwest.
Advancing cautiously up the slope, darting from cover to cover, Giss and his men approached the dead horse. Halting, their gaze went to the sombrero and noted the damage. Then they exchanged glances as the significance of what they saw struck them. All of the men, including Giss, had worked with Comanchero bands and knew something of Comanche Indian ways; enough to read the message left by the Kid.
If a raiding Pehnane brave found enemies persistently sticking to his trail, seeking to regain the loot lifted from them, he would destroy an item of their property and leave it in his tracks. That served as a warning of his future intentions. No longer would he content himself with passive flight. If they continued beyond his marker, he would kill on sight.
Some people, considering the Kid’s youth and appearance of innocence, might have regarded the hat as mere ostentation left without serious intent; but Giss did not number among them. He knew, as sure as spring followed winter, that to follow the dark youngster would be courting quick, unexpected death. So Joe Giss reached a rapid decision.
“That frog-eater colonel in Matamoros wants somebody to scout for him, boys,” he announced. “I conclude it’d be easy money. Let’s go take on for him.”
That meant deserting his partner, but Charlie Kraus had an understanding nature. Anyway, if their expressions were any guide, Giss’ companions wholeheartedly approved of the desertion, even if scouting for the French meant working against their own people. Turning, they walked back down the slope, collected their horses and retraced their tracks to Matamoros.