The Ysabel Kid (12 page)

Dusty went across the basin fast followed by Mark, the Kid and several other men, to where Raffety sat in solitary state. The man was seated with his back to a large rock, the tequila bottle in his hand and his voice giving out with another verse about how the wicked English downtrod the Irish people. He looked up truculently as Dusty halted in front of him.

For an instant Dusty glared down at the man who despite his tenor voice was almost as tall and quite a bit heavier than Mark. This did not influence Dusty at all and before Mark could start to make the suggestion he handled the matter it was too late. Dusty’s hand stabbed out, took the bottle from Raffety’s hand and threw it to one side.

If a jackrabbit had walked up and kicked him Raffety could not have been more surprised. He was used to folks giving him a clear trail when drunk and it took him a moment or two to realise that this small man dare come up and throw his bottle away.

With a snarl of anger Raffety came up, hand fanning towards his gun. Dusty moved in, fist driving into Raffety’s muscled but tequila-filled belly with all his strength behind the blow. Mark, no mean hand at any branch of barehand fighting looked his approval, noting the way the entire weight of Dusty’s body was behind the punch. Hard though it was it did not put Raffety down. It brought a grunt of pain from him and made his hand miss the butt of his gun but that was all.

The big man’s hand drove out in a punch that should have knocked Dusty clear across the basin but it missed. The small Texan moved his head aside and the force of the blow threw Raffety forward. The big man felt two hands grip the front of his shirt then Dusty went down, ramming a foot into Raffety’s stomach. The big man went forward with his own weight, then his feet left the ground and he sailed over to light down flat on his back. Mumbling curses Raffety rolled on to his hands and knees and came up.

“Give it up, Irish!” Dusty snapped, for his patience was wearing thin and he knew that if Raffety did not stop he was going to get hurt bad.

Raffety, unfortunately was too drunk to see the quiet menace in the determined expression on Dusty’s face. He hurled forward again, huge hands clawing out to envelope the small Texan in a murderous bear hug Mark bit down his yell of warning and was about to leap forward to help his friend when Dusty struck. The Texan’s hand moved almost faster than the eye could follow, yet Mark saw that the fist was not held tight clenched in the normal way. The forefinger was so bent that it stood out in advance of the other knuckles. It was this bent finger that landed, right under Raffety’s nose. The big man stopped dead, his arms crumpling down to his sides as a look of agony such as Mark had rarely if ever seen before passed over his face. Then without a sound Raffety collapsed to the ground and lay without a move.

“What the hell, Dusty?” Mark asked. “I thought I knew something about fist fighting but I never saw a man put down like that before, or a fist held like—”

“Quiet all of you!” Dusty’s voice was the anger filled snarl of a martinet officer. The men who were talking loudly and eagerly about what they’d seen, all fell silent. “I’ll explain it later, Mark. Right now ain’t such a good time.”

The men broke up and headed for the slopes under Dusty’s savagely hissed commands like children when an irascible father raises his voice in anger. The broken silence closed down again.

“Watch the French, Lon,” Dusty said softly.

The Kid faded into the darkness again and the men grew more silent as they heard the sound of approaching horses and the creak of saddle leather. They had been so engrossed in watching Dusty handle Raffety that they had not noticed the sound of the approaching French. Now they did and most of them cursed the now unconscious Raffety and realised why their unofficial leader took such drastic steps to stop the drunken singing.

The men on the slopes of the basin almost held their breath as the long line of French troops rode by at a distance of about a quarter of a mile. There was many a sigh of relief when the Ysabel Kid, who’d followed the French, came back to report that all was well. The French were riding on, not showing any signs of camping near by.

Dusty watched the other men going back to their bed-rolls and then gave a grunt of relief. “That was too close for me.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

“HOW did you put Raffety down, Dusty?” Mark inquired as they rode along the last leg of the journey towards Monterrey. “He was unconscious for four hours. I thought you’d killed him.”

“I was scared I might have myself,” Dusty admitted. “The trouble with using the forefinger fist on the philtrum is if you do it too hard, it can kill the man.”

Mark looked back along the line to where Raffety hunched in his saddle, his top lip swollen almost double its normal size.

“I’ve never seen a man go down like he did and I’ve hit a few on the nose,” Mark objected.

“Sure you hit them on the nose. Just under the nose, right in the centre of the top lip is the place to aim. But an ordinary fist won’t do it. You have to get the exact spot and to do that you hold your hand in what Tommy Okasi calls the forefinger fist, like this,” Dusty demonstrated the way he’d folded his fist the night before last.

Mark thought this over. He was skilled in all branches of frontier fist fighting and had learned the art of boxing from a professional pugilist friend of his father. However this technique Dusty used was new to him and appeared to be something well out of the ordinary. He felt new respect for his friend; there did not seem to be any end to the talents of Dusty Fog.

The town of Monterrey loomed ahead of them, sprawling out in the heat of the noon-day sun. The French were driven from this area and the fighting was farther south and more towards the coast.

The town was taking its siesta when Dusty Fog brought his party in. The noise of the many horses and mules brought sleepy-eyed men and women from where they carried out the ancient and noble custom of old Mexico. By the time they reached the main square, quite a crowd was gathered, yelling greetings both to the
guerillos
and to the Ysabel Kid who appeared to be well-known and liked here.

In the large, open plaza Dusty raised his hand bringing the mules to halt. He turned to Alden and asked, “Do you reckon we’d better hole up somewhere with the rifles until we’re paid?”

“Might be at that,” Alden agreed. He for one did not intend allowing the Mexican Army to get hold of the weapons until the money was paid over.

The Ysabel Kid pointed to a large, deserted looking building on the side of the plaza. “We’ll take them in there. It belongs to a friend of mine, who is off fighting the French. He won’t mind if we use it.”

Dusty looked the building over. It was separated from the other establishments by some thirty feet on either side. Then riding forward Dusty entered the building, leaving his paint standing with reins hanging loose. The inside of the building was simple in the extreme. It was just one big room with a scarred wooden bar at one end~ There were windows at each side although these had no glass in them. All in all, it would be a good place to fort up. To make sure Dusty went to the rear window and looked out. The nearest buildings was some thirty or more yards away and it was all open ground in between.

After testing the pump behind the bar and finding it worked Dusty went to the door and called, “Unload and bring it in here.”

The watching citizens of Monterrey showed great interest in the loads those mules were carrying although their interest was not enough for them to offer help in the unloading. Their help was not needed for the Conway men and the
guerrillos
were more than enough to carry the rifles in and stack them in piles of fifty on the floor. The boxes of ammunition were stacked up also in neat piles and as a precaution Dusty had a couple of them broken open ready for use.

Alden handed one of the presentation rifles to Mark Counter and showed him how to load it. Mark examined the piece with interest, hefting it and testing the balance. “Fine looking rifle,” he said to the Kid.

“Best I’ve ever handled,” the Kid replied.

Conway came into the building, going straight to Dusty and from the look on his face he was worried.

“Dusty, I just heard that Chavelinos is in command down here. Don Ruis’s just gone to see him.”

“So?”

“Chavelinos and me don’t get on together,” Conway replied, glancing at the Ysabel Kid for confirmation.

“That’s right, Dusty,” the Kid agreed. “Can’t say I like Chavelinos much myself. He was only a captain so how come he’s in command?”

“He’s a general now. The devil only knows how he got to be one. The Mexican Army can’t be that badly off for men,” Conway growled. “I reckon me and the boys best pull out; we’ll only make trouble for you if we stop here.”

The Kid nodded his agreement to this. Chavelinos and Conway had a long standing feud and it might go hard for the muleskinner to be caught in a town where Chavelinos held the power.

Dusty was willing to accept the Kid’s word for this and knew that Conway and his men could do little to help them now. He called Alden over and passed on the news. The big salesman did not argue, but made Conway out a bank draft for his services and shook hands.

“Thanks Mike, it’s been good knowing you. If you ever need a friend get in touch with the Winchester Repeating Firearms Company and I’ll do what I can for you.”

“I’ll remember that,” Conway replied.

Shortly after Conway and his men left the town leading their pack mules and headed back north as fast as they could make it.

“What do you reckon’ll happen now, Lon?” Dusty asked as they watched Conway’s men leave town.

“I’d take money that Chavelinos tries to get the guns without paying for them.”

“We’d best get ready for war then,” Dusty.looked at the building they were in. It would be a good fort in case of trouble.

Almonte returned soon after, his face troubled as he halted his horse in front of the building and looked down at Dusty.

“I have orders to take my men out again. The money is here and General Chavelinos is under orders to pay for the arms. I’m afraid he will try to get them without payment.”

“You mean a double-cross?” Dusty asked.

“By Chavelinos. He would never dare try it if Benito was near.”

“What do you aim to do about it?”

“My orders from Chavelinos is to patrol the northwest so I think Benito is to the Southeast. It is in that direction I will lead my men. I will try to get back here before Chavelinos can make any trouble.”

Almonte turned and rode out of town at the head of his men. Dusty did not waste any time in futile worrying over what he’d been told. He looked round and saw that this place was ideal for them to fort up in. The walls would stop a ball fired from a Mexican musket and any attempt to cross the open ground would be under the fire of the Henry repeaters. Unless there was some way of stopping the water to the pump they would be all right as far as that went. It was just food for themselves and the horses which would be the problem.

Until they knew definitely that Chavelinos was not going to pay for the weapons there was no need for them to worry unduly. It had been a wise precaution Mark’s borrowing a civilian shirt and stowing his uniform jacket out of sight. With Mark in uniform there would be some excuse for Chavelinos showing caution in dealing with them.

Chavelinos was General but not by virtue of his attainments unless the use of unmitigated gall is an attainment. He came into the rank in the very confused days of the early struggle against the French. A mere Quartermaster Branch officer he’d been looked down on by the arrogant Mexican Spanish gentleman officers, products of the Military College of Mexico and despised by the hard ex-bandido officers whose career of outlawry attracted such attention that they were given a commission in the Army to reduce the costs they were incurring.

His rise to the rank of General was fast though hardly official. Calls for more and more troops to fight reduced the Monterrey garrison until one day Chavelinos found himself the only officer left in the town. When news reached them the General who’d commanded the Monterrey area was dead Chavelinos took on himself duties, rank and pay of the decased General.

He stood now resplendent in the poorly fitting uniform, the original general having been a slightly smaller man, looking at the money entrusted to him for the purchase of the rifles. Fifty-seven thousand dollars was a lot of money.

“Captain Gonzales!”

Chavelinos’s shout brought a fat, bewildered looking little man running from another room. Gonzales was a clerk whose original rank of sergeant had been no more than a tribute to his ability to cook books and hide details of bribes received. He was not a fighting man, nor were any of Chavelinos’ garrison. The soldiers under him were not the hardy, free-riding vaqueros or the savage, murderous ex-bandidos but poor peons from the agricultural provinces.

“You want me, Terenico?”

Chavelinos’s face creased in a sudden scowl. “How many times must I tell you to call me General?” he bellowed. “Are the men with rifles here?”

“Yes, but they have placed all their stores in the old cantina.”

“How many men are left?”

Gonzales gulped worriedly. He had left the finding out of such details to one of his men and the man failed to bring any report.

“Only four,” Gonzales guessed.

“Are you sure, I heard that the Irishman, Conway, left with all his men.”

“I meant three.”

“Good, then take six men and arrest them.”

Gonzales gulped. He was well aware that the men who were in the cantina were well armed and his few meetings with
Americano del Norte
did not lead him to believe they would surrender mildly to any man. He paused instead of leaping to obey as a good soldier should.

“How?” he asked.

“How!” Chavelinos roared back. “How? Get down there, and demand they surrender to you.”

“But what if they won’t?”

There Chavelinos could see his Captain had a good point. The General was all too aware of the fighting ability of his men. They would never face up to even three gringos armed with repeating rifles. This was a time for strategy of the highest order.

“I will go down there and talk to these men, and while I am talking you will take your men round the back of the building, enter by the rear window and take command of the room.”

Gonzales was far from pleased with this arrangement for he could foresee all kinds of complications ahead of him. However when he tried to raise an argument Chavelimos sniffed and remarked that it would be done or the six men would march under a new Captain and Private Gonzales would be one of the six.

Chavelinos strode importantly through the streets of the town. He would have liked to ride up on his horse but it was a worn out beast left behind as unsuited for hard work. However a small thing like a horse was not important, with the money for the rifles he would be able to take his pick of the finest horses in all Mexico.

His escort straggled behind him and came to a ragged halt in the plaza. The local population fell back before the Commander of their Garrison, the man who was responsible for protecting them from the French. Chavelinos looked at the three men who lounged outside the building, two looked like typical hard-case Texas cowhands, the other, though not Texan, was tough enough too. Each man stood leaning against the wall and each held a rifle on the crook of his arm.

“Who is the one I would talk with?” Chavelinos took in the giant spread of Mark Counter’s shoulders and then passed over the small, insignificant looking man in the centre, then halting his gaze on Alden.

“I am,” Tom Alden replied. “The rifles are in the cantina here and there they remain until I have the money for them. You have the money?”

“I have the money but I am not satisfied that all is well. You say you have the rifles and your company boasts much about these rifles. I would like to see them work before I make any decisions.

“I would like to see the money here before I waste any of my Company’s good ammunition.”

“Senor!” Chavelinos’s voice was brittle and hard. “I am the General commanding this district. At my command I have three hundred men and can call on every man in Monterrey to help me. It does not pay to take so high a hand with one who can raise such an army.”

“These rifles are equal to even an army,” Alden replied as he hefted the Henry rifle across his arm.

Behind the cantina Gonzales darted forward on shaky legs followed by six scared looking soldiers. Fear is contagious and the men had caught it from their leader. It was a very worried group who sneaked towards the back of the cantina watching the windows and prepared to make a hurried retreat. At the last house beyond the cantina Gonzales halted his men, confused ideas of military procedure coming to him.

The man gulped and turned to bolt but Gonzales caught him by the coat collar and held him. For a moment the bold Captain thought of whipping out his old horse pistol and shooting the man. It was at that moment he realised that any shot would warn the men out front of the cantina that all was not well. Also Gonzales could not remember if the weapon was loaded or not.

“Advance, all of you,” Gonzales waved a hand, but his men made no attempt to move until he started forward himself.

A series of shots from the front of the building brought them all to a halt and there was an air more like startled rabbits than fierce soldiers about them. However the rear of the cantina remained silent and showed no sign of life so Gonzales started forward again.

In front of the cantina Chavelinos stood looking at the three men, then he snapped, “I want those rifles delivered to the barracks.”

“When we are paid,” Alden’s voice was even.

Dusty was watching the men behind Chavlinos, reading their faces and seeing that they were nervous. Looking down Dusty saw an empty old can laying on the sidewalk, stepped forward, bent and took up the can, threw it into the centre of the street shouting, “Mark!”

Mark brought the new model Henry rifle up to his shoulder, lining and firing fast. The bullets made a rolling tattoo of sound, dust and dirt erupted under the can as it leapt and bounced in the air.

The watching Mexicans stared at the rifle which seemed to pour out a never ending series of bullets, making the can leap and dance. The soldiers drew back slightly, their single shot, awkward old muzzle-loaders hanging heavily in their hands. Every man of the Mexican troops realised how long it took them to reload after a single shot from their muskets and they did not relish facing up to those rapid shooting rifles.

Dusty waited until the shooting ended and then smiled at Chavelinos. It was the hard smile of a man who held four aces dealt pat to him.

“You see, señor, the rifles are as good as Señor Alden claims. There are a thousand inside there. We only have a few of them loaded ready but it will not take long to load more—if we need them.”

Chavelinos could almost feel the fear among his men who realised that for some reason their General was trying to force the Americanos to give up the rifles without payment. He heard someone moving about in the cantina and grinned back at Dusty.

“You have five seconds to surrender to me. Inside the cantina are my men.”

Gonzales, reluctantly, was the first to reach the window. He was shaking with anxiety but could not see anything. There was something moving in the cantina. Then he heard the snort of a horse and realised what had happened. The men had taken their horses inside the building in case of trouble.

Raising his head with the scared eyes rolling Gonzales looking in through the window at four horses. Four! There were only three men outside the cantina and yet there were four saddled horses there.

Then Gonzales stiffened, his face turning almost ashy white as he stared at something which was placed directly in his view. Something which he recognised for what it was immediately.

“Saludos Manuel,” the Ysabel Kid greeted, resting the muzzle of his old Dragoon gun so that it enveloped the tip of Gonzales’s nose.

Gonzales stood very still. That voice was soft, gentle as a cooing dove but the mocking, Indian dark face behind was neither soft nor gentle. Nor were the red hazel eyes soft and gentle. Gonzales knew who this innocent looking young man was although he would never regard the Ysabel Kid as either young or innocent.

“You got other men with you?” the Kid went on.

Never a hero Gonzales nodded weakly and mumbled “Yes.”

“Climb in.”

Gonzales climbed. He was never one to refuse a polite request, much less so when it was delivered by the Ysabel Kid. There might have been people in Mexico who did not know
el Cabrito
or who regarded him as a sweet, gentle and kind young man with a healthy regard for human life. If there were Gonzales was not one of that number. He knew any man who disobeyed the Ysabel Kid when that mocking sardonic note was hi his voice would get hurt and hurt badly.

The other six men were not aware that anything was wrong. They were all giving their full attention to getting away from here as fast as they could. Not one of them ever gave any thought to their leader talking to an apparently empty room for the Kid held his voice down and the other men had not heard him.

With much grunting and heaving Gonzales climbed through the window and the first of his men was about to follow, being shoved along by the others. All must be all right inside or Gonzales would never have chanced going in there.

The Kid lunged into view with a deep snarl rumbling from his throat. The man gave a yell and lunged backwards crashing into the others. They scattered and there was a mad rush to get away from here.

“How goes it, Manuel?” the Kid asked, knowing Gonzales spoke enough English to get by. Enough to ask for bribes when smuggling was in the air. “Say, you done got yourself all promoted. Like I allus said you can’t keep a good man down.”

Gonzales licked his lips. He was very scared now. That voice was so soft and friendly that it made him wonder what was coming next. “I came to take charge of the rifles,” he said pompously although he felt far from pompous for here was no frightened peon overawed by the importance of an Army uniform.

“Did you now?” the Kid look worried. “Well I can’t let you have them. See ole Dusty he told me not to let anyone have them and I couldn’t go against him. Now could I? Not with him being my boss and all.”

“It is very awkward, Cabrito.”

“Why sure. Come on out and meet Dusty.” It was a command, not a request.

Outside the cantina Chavelinos looked at the three men in triumph. He could afford to smile. When Gonzales and his men came out of that door he would not only own the rifles but the money which should be paid over for them. Then to make sure there would be no talking the three Americanos would be shot while trying to escape. It was all very convenient.

The three men did not look alarmed; they did not even make any attempt to check on the safety of the building behind them. Dusty knew what was going on in Chavelimos’s head and was grinning inside at the shock which was coming to the Mexican general.

“Do you surrender?” Chavelinos asked, watching the shape of Gonzales approaching the doors and the dark form following him.

“Can’t,” Dusty answered.

“Remember the Alamo,” Mark seconded.

“You may remember what you like,” Chavelinos answered. “Raise your hands, my men are—!”

The words died off as Gonzales came from out of the cantina followed by not six armed and alert soldiers but one armed and alert gringo. Further a gringo Chavelimos knew all too well.

“What is this, Captain Gonzales?” Chavelinos snarled.

“Ole Manuel here come round the back, just like you figgered, Dusty,” the Kid remarked. “I talked him out of it. Allus was a good talker wasn’t I Terencio?” the Kid ignored Chavelinos’s angry snarls and went on. “Remember one time I got arrested. In court I starts to talk and the judge was clear convinced.”

“What happened, Lon?” Alden asked without looking round.

“Sheriff that arrested me got three years in jail.”

“You must be a real good talker.”

“Either that or ‘cause the judge was my uncle.”

Dusty cut in on the Kid’s flow of memories. “All right, General. What was you saying about us surrendering to you?”

“I want those rifles. Señor Alden you come here in the company of a known criminal and take this high hand with me. Threaten my men—”

“Didn’t threaten anybody,” the Kid objected. “I just asked old Manuel in for a friendly talk.”

“Shut your mouth!” Chavelinos roared. “Señor Alden, I won’t ask again for the rifles. I will leave you one hour then I will return and you will either give me the guns or I will take them.”

“Bring the money or don’t come at all,” Alden replied. Chavelinos snarled something in rapid Spanish, far too rapid for three of the watching men to catch what he was saying to his men. Then he turned and walked off through the crowd followed by Gonzales who was talking a blue streak and waving his hands about as he tried to explain away how the Ysabel Kid had caught him.

“Reckon he’ll try anything, Dusty?” Mark was catching the habit of asking Dusty for any advice he needed.

“Might, but he’ll have a real hard time getting those peons to follow him. They’re real scared of those rifles.”

“Sure, they’re real scared of the rifles,” the Kid agreed. “But he’ll come back again. Only this time he’s going to bring him a cannon.