Sitting their horses in cover, the Ysabel Kid and his father studied the fort at Nava. As Sam Ysabel had told the Rebel Spy, the walls, designed to stand off an attack by arrows and rifle bullets, fared badly when assailed by cannon fire. However the defenders were still holding out and there did not appear to be any chance of a rapid end to the siege.
“Can’t see anybody we know well enough to trust, boy,” Ysabel remarked.
“Nope,” the Kid replied. “But there’re a few there we know well enough not to trust. Damned if that’s not old Marcus back there, all fancied up like a regular army officer.”
“He was allus ambitious,” Ysabel said. “If Benito Juarez does chase the French out, he’ll have to watch his back against Marcus.”
“Somebody’ll chill Marcus’ milk if he gets feisty,” drawled the Kid.
Little did the Kid know, but he was fated to play a prominent part in the chilling process. 9
“We’d best not get down there,” Ysabel went on. “Marcus’d shoot us first and ask what we wanted while they buried us. Anyways, I don’t feel right about leaving Miss Belle back by the river.”
“Or me. What’ll she do, ap’?”
“Damned if I know. Even if the Juaristas don’t take the fort, I can’t see Klatwitter having enough men or ammunition left to make their raid on New Mexico.”
Turning their horses, they started the return journey. Indian-wise, they knew better than return along the route they had followed to Nava. Should somebody, French, Mexican or Kraus’ gang, have come on their tracks, the Ysabels did not intend to simplify matters by going back along them. By riding relay, they had covered the distance to Nava in fast time and intended to return in the same manner. Three miles fell behind them. Then the Kid reined in his white stallion and pointed ahead.
“No Juaristas’d make that much smoke,” he said.
“Nor Charlie Kraus, especially this close to Cosme Danvila’s bailiwick,” Ysabel went on, studying the column of smoke which climbed upwards from beyond a rim half a mile ahead. “They’ll be French soldiers, I’d say.”
Father and son exchanged glances. Several Mexican friends of long standing fought for Juarez, but the Ysabels had their duty to the Confederacy. So they must see if there was any way that relief could be brought to Klatwitter, even though doing so hurt the Juaristas’ cause.
“We’d best go tell ’em what’s happening at Nava,” the Kid finally said.
“It’s the only way,” his father agreed.
Attacking unexpectedly, even a moderate-numbered French force might drive off the Juaristas. If the siege could be raised, Belle Boyd might yet visit Klatwitter and decide whether to continue with the plan.
As they rode on, the Ysabels watched the smoke. Although they had only just come into a position from which they could see it, both realized that it must have been visible for some time in other directions.
“Those frog soldiers sure must be lucky,” the Kid remarked as they drew closer to the rim, “happen they allus make fires that smoke that ways.”
“Likely there’s no Injuns where they come from,” his father replied. “Although a Creole feller I knowed one time allowed they had Apaches in Paris, France.”
“I thought all the Apaches was over to New Mexico ’n’ Arizona, ’cepting for the Lipans in West Texas,” the Kid said. “Happen them French Apaches’re like our’n, I don’t see how whoever’s making that smoke’s not wound up with their ears hanging on some buck’s lodge-pole.”
Topping the rim, they looked down and marveled still more. Eight French troopers and a sergeant were gathered around a fire, their carbines piled out of reach. Standing aloof at one side of the men, a young lieutenant was smoking a cigar. While four sentries covered the main points of the compass, each held his carbine on the crook of his arm and was doing his work inefficiently. Not one kept truly alert and each was looking in the wrong places. Such lack of caution might easily spell disaster. Discounting an Indian attack, the Juaristas claimed enough wild-country brains to read the signs and take appropriate action from what they learned.
Not until the Ysabels started to ride down the slope did any of the French soldiers notice them. Then the sentry nearest to them jerked his head around, brought his carbine to the ready position and gave a yell. Belated though the warning might be, the soldiers moved with some speed. Dropping coffee cups, the troopers leapt towards their carbines. The officer spat away his cigar and swung to look at the newcomers. Discovering that they were not Mexicans, he barked an order which halted his men before they reached and un-piled the weapons.
Following the dictates of frontier etiquette, Ysabel halted his horse at the edge of the camp. He raised his hand in a peace sign and called, “Howdy. Mind if we’ns come up to the fire?”
“You may come,” the officer answered in good English. Swinging from their saddles and leaving the horses standing with trailing reins, the Ysabels walked forward. Studying the Frenchmen, Sam Ysabel liked little of what he saw. Tall, slim, handsome, the lieutenant’s face held a hint of calculated cruelty. Ysabel summed him up as the kind of officer found all too frequently in the French army, a harsh disciplinarian who drove but never led men. Nor did the sergeant strike Ysabel in any more favorable a manner. Big, burly, brutal in appearance, he would blindly back up any order his officer gave.
“You gents headed for Nava?” Ysabel asked, noticing the envious manner with which the officer and sergeant were eying the four horses.
“Perhaps,” the officer replied coldly.
“Happen you do,” the big Texan drawled, “ride real careful. The Juaristas are attacking the fort down there.”
“They attack the fort at Nava?” the officer repeated.
“Foot, hoss and artillery,” Ysabel confirmed. “Happen there’s more of you around, I’d get ’em pronto. They’re being bad hit at Nava and could use some help.”
“Did Colonel Klatwitter send you?”
“He don’t even know we’re alive.”
“Then how do you know of the attack?”
“We was down that ways and saw it.”
“And what took you to Nava?” the lieutenant demanded.
“Me ’n’ the boy know some folks down there and went visiting. Only when we saw the fighting, we concluded to head back across the river to home.”
“Then why did you come to tell me of the attack?”
“You French folks’ve allus played square with the Confederacy,” Ysabel replied. “So we allowed to come and give you the word.”
All the time his superior and Ysabel were talking the French sergeant stood to one side studying first the Texans then their horses. Stepping forward, he saluted and spoke quietly to the officer in French. Nodding, the lieutenant replied and then turned back to Ysabel.
“Was the friend you intended to visit General Klatwitter?” he asked.
“Trouble, boy!” Ysabel grunted in Comanche to the Kid, although he never took his eyes from the officer’s face or allowed a flicker of expression to show. “Plain folks like us don’t get to make friends with generals, mister. So I don’t know what you’re meaning.”
“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 swing 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.