The Ysabel Kid (9 page)

“For Juarez,” the Kid explained, liking this caution and regard for the well-being of his fellows. “See, if the boys do pull out they’ll likely have to fight the Mexicans and French all the way north. If we get the guns to Juarez we can get his word the Mexicans will give you boys uninterrupted passage through. That’s what Dusty says, and likely he’ll be right.”

Mark grinned. He did not know Dusty Fog except by reputation but the ex-Captain must be quite a man if he’d got the Ysabel Kid thinking so highly of him. Suddenly Mark himself was looking forward to meeting the fabulous Dusty Fog who could get the loyalty and devotion of a dangerous young man like this on so short an acquaintance.

“You trust Juarez?”

“Sure. He’ll keep his word and he’s got him a real kind way with him for any yahoo who disobeys him. Got a touch of Comanche in him, ole Benito, ‘less I miss my guess. If he says you boys can go through no man in his army’ll risk disobeying him.”

“I’ll let you loose right now and we’ll see about getting out of here.”

Mark took the knife and was about to cut the cords when both he and the Kid realised the futility of any escape plan at the moment. The streets were being watched all the time and they would have to run the gauntlet of some twenty or more carbines out in the open with no cover. Not only that but they would also have to cross more open ground before they could get near the horse lines and the guards there were picked for their ability to shoot.

“Maybe best if I leave you tied, I’ll loosen the ropes but leave them on. If Bardot found you loose he’d shoot us both down. If not he won’t risk it. Only half the patrol are for him, the rest hate him. If he kills me he’ll have to have a good excuse or someone will tell General Bush. The French don’t want to lose us rebs and they wouldn’t like it if one of their officers shot down a Confederate officer without a real good reason.”

“I’ll stay tied. I’m comfortable enough.”

“It’s a pity your hoss took off like that. We could use him now.”

“He didn’t take off, I sent him. He’ll have headed back to the mule train and be bringing Dusty Fog along. I don’t know what Dusty will do but I figger he won’t make a move until after dark. If he doesn’t come by midnight I’ll get out of here and slide a couple of hosses from the picket-line. It won’t be hard. I’ve never seen a Frenchman yet who could keep a decent guard. Which is your hoss?”

“A big bloodbay tied near this end of the line. You can’t miss him, he’s the biggest hoss there.”

The door opened and Bardot came in, his face showing some triumph. “I have just received word from Major Duprez that he and his patrol will be joining us here tomorrow. He will arrive late in the afternoon but his advance party will be with us shortly after dawn.” He stopped for a moment, a sadistic smile on his face as he looked at the Ysabel Kid. “We will soon know something about you, my friend. Giss is with them.”

CHAPTER NINE

DUSTY FOG was not unduly worried when the Ysabel Kid failed to appear after a couple of hours. He had too much faith in the Indian dark boy to worry for he knew the Kid was going to see friends and might take some time to get back. So Dusty took the point, riding far ahead of the mule train and watching out for any sign of the French as he followed the landmarks the Kid drew for him on a piece of bare soil back at their last camp.

Halting the horse Dusty surveyed the range ahead of him. There was nothing in sight other than the rolling land with its stunted trees and occasional
bosque
of cottonwood, scrub oak and other trees. For all the country ahead Dusty could see there was no sign of human life. He scanned the area with his powerful field-glasses and when satisfied they would be able to travel without risk of ambush waved the slowly moving train up towards him.

Something white flickered into view over a distant hill. It caught Dusty’s eye for a brief moment, then disappeared for a moment. The glasses came up once more, sweeping across the range country until they picked up something which made Dusty curse softly under his breath. There were other white horses in Mexico, that he was sure of, but few of them were equipped with a Texas range saddle, fewer with a new model Henry rifle in the saddleboot. And he seriously doubted if there was another horse as big, fast and good looking as that white stallion the Ysabel Kid cheerfully called Nigger.

Mike Conway came alongside Dusty now. The white stallion was closer and still running fast but he recognised it even as had Dusty.

“The Kid’s afoot,” he said.

Afoot. There were few words in the West so feared as that. In that country of vast, unpopulated miles a horse was more than a means of transport. It was a vital necessity. For a man to be left afoot it was almost certain death.

“Reckon he’s hurt bad some place?” Dusty asked.

“Could be. He must have been able to talk. That ole Nigger hoss would stay by him if he wasn’t. He must have sent it off.”

“That’s what I thought.” Dusty watched Alden riding up, then pointed to the big white stallion. “The Kid’s in bad trouble.”

“How many men do you want to go with you?” It was then Alden showed himself to be a true gentleman. He didn’t care if the rifles were not delivered, if one of the two young men who’d aided him so much needed help. “Take them and give them a Henry each, take enough bullets as well.”

“Thanks, Tom. I won’t forget that. But I’d best go alone, I’ll have a better chance that way.”

Alden shook his head. He watched Dusty starting towards the big white horse which was slowing down now. He looked next at Conway who grinned back at him. “The Cap’n’s right, like always. He’ll get the Kid back, safe. We’ll keep them mules moving towards Monterrey; that’s what he wants.”

Dusty rode alongside the big white stallion, whispering softly to him, soothing him down, but he did not try to touch him. Dusty looked down at the tracks left by the white. He could read sign fairly well, well enough to follow this line anyhow. Starting the paint forward Dusty found that his tracking ability would not be needed for the white stallion turned and loped ahead of him, only stopping to look back and make sure he was following. Dusty was better than a fair hand with a horse himself and knew the long and patient hours of training it had taken the Ysabel Kid to teach the horse the things it could do.

The white headed back in the direction it had come, travelling at an easy loping stride which the paint could keep up with. Dusty wasted no time in idle speculation as to why the Ysabel Kid had sent the horse, knowing only his friend was in some kind of trouble and that his help was called for. The Kid could have been thrown by the white, but that was not likely. He could have been shot down by the French or anything. All Dusty knew was that his friend was in need of help and he meant to see the need was not left unfulfilled.

For about an hour he rode, then brought the horse to a halt as he looked down on the village of San Juanita. He sat his horse in the same spot the Kid had sat earlier and looked down, then rode towards the big rock. His carbine was in his hands, ready for use as he rode. The village was too still for an afternoon. There should have been some sign of movement down there, people walking the streets and going about their business. Dusty was about to start on down the slope when he saw two men come from one of the huts. He flattened to the side of the rock and then went to his horse and got the glasses from his saddle-pouch. What he saw made him hug the side even more carefully.

The two men crossing the street wore uniform and in colour it could have been either French or Mexican for both went in for blue jackets and red trousers. A closer look told Dusty that these were no Mexicans. The big sergeant had a swarthy face, but not a Mexican look. The other was an officer. His face was definitely not Mexican in feature and far too light. Dusty knew the type, for he’d seen it often enough in New Orleans; the arrogant French Creoles down there had much in common with this elegant officer of the Republic’s army.

The two soldiers crossed the street and went to a hut at the near-side. It was then Dusty saw the soldier on guard outside this building and knew the town was full of French soldiers. With his glasses he searched the streets with far greater care, noting enough signs to know that a fair force were hidden in the houses. He also knew that they were cavalry men, the spurs on the sergeant’s boots telling him that, and so he searched for their horse lines. His glasses covered the woods behind the town carefully, trying to pierce through the thick cover but not seeing where the horses were hidden. Then he saw a man coming out of the woods, a blue dressed trooper who stood just at the edge, looked towards the town then turned and went back again. He would be one of the picket-line guards looking for a relief. If that had been the Texas Light Cavalry the trooper would have wished he’d never been born deserting his post in that way.

This was not helping Dusty find his friend, although he guessed the Kid was down there in the village, perhaps a prisoner, probably dead. Dusty focused his glasses on the hut again, watching the sergeant standing outside and that the officer had gone in. Then the door opened and the guard turned, half-raising his carbine as a tall man came out. This man was not French but Dusty thought no more of the guard’s action than he was of the usual excited French nature. His full attention was on this handsome blond giant who stood at the door. Over one wide shoulder hung a gunbelt with an old Dragoon gun on the holster. Dusty thought he recognised the belt and was sure when the man turned showing the ivory hilted bowie knife at the other side.

That man was a Confederate officer. Dusty knew the Counter version of the official uniform. He did not know Lieutenant Mark Counter except as a very rich and elegant young man whose sartorial taste in uniform was much copied in the deep south cavalry. Dusty’s cousin, Red Blaze, had met Mark Counter and copied the style along with many other young officers. Dusty’s own uniform was copied from it, with a slightly more official neck fitting. He regarded it as being the best dress for a cavalry man as the skirts of the regulation pattern got in the way.

Dusty watched the Confederate lieutenant return to the hut and shut the door then checked carefully the ground ahead of him making sure that he could find his way in the dark. If the Ysabel Kid was still alive he would be in that hut with the big Confederate officer. What Dusty could not understand was why the French chose to put a guard on the door as well as the man inside. There was no way of finding out until after dark. So Dusty removed the saddles from both horses, watching the Kid’s white all the time. It said much for his horse skill that he managed to remove the saddle with no trouble, for the white would let very few people handle him.

Just before dark Dusty got to his feet and saddled the two horses ready to move. He was finished by the time full blackness came down over the land, the blackness before the moon came out. Then leading the horses Dusty skirted the town and left them as near as he could in the shelter of he woods knowing they would both stay silent. Then he slipped back into the silent deserted town.

Dusty moved along the street, keeping to the dark shadows and hugging the sides of the houses. It was being in so close that let him hear what was being said in one building. He flattened against the side and listened, understanding enough of the fast spoken French to know that the Confederate officer was in deadly peril from the occupants of the building. From what he heard he felt relieved for he gathered they had a prisoner although they harboured homicidal thoughts towards him and the big man who guarded him.

The sentry outside the hut was leaning against the wall, his carbine resting by him in a display of sloppiness that made Dusty’s military training and instincts writhe with rage. No man in his outfit would have guarded like that but it was like the French that their men were so lax in the performance of a serious duty like guarding a dangerous prisoner. The sentry’s behaviour would be a help now for he appeared to be half asleep and certainly was not in any state to take alert and effective action.

On silent feet Dusty came nearer. He held no weapon, relying on his bare hands to deal with the matter. The French cavalry shako provided too much protection for him to risk dropping the man with a carefully applied Colt barrel and the hitting with the bottom of the barrel might damage the loading ramrod. Besides that Dusty knew of a far more effective way of silencing a man standing with his back towards him. Balancing lightly on his feet Dusty clenched his fist then struck with his arm held straight. The hard, tight clenched hand smashed right where Tommy Okasi taught him, into the
katsusarsu
, that spot between the fifth and sixth vertebra which could be effectively attacked and with deadly results.

The sentry stiffened erect. He was all but paralysed by the agony of the unexpected blow and could make no sound. Faster than thought almost Dusty struck again, this time using the
tegatana
, the handsword. The edge of his flat hand smashed into the back of the dazed, rigid man’s neck, dropping him to the ground unconscious and without a sound coming from him. Dusty quickly dragged the man round the corner and out of sight then tossed his carbine to one side. Then he went to the door and started to whistle softly, using a tune the other two men knew very well.

Mark Counter and the Ysabel Kid sat on either side of the table in the light of the lantern Bardot had sent to them not so much as a concession of their comfort but as a means of being able to see into the hut through the window. So to all intents the Kid was still fastened, although his hands were free now.

“Bardot won’t be round for much longer. He likes his bed too much,” Mark said softly. “Then we’ll make our move. These French don’t take to following orders and still less to doing guards at night. They know the Juaristas move in the darkness.”

The Kid grinned back. He too had quite a respect for the Juaristas, or for the Mexicans, as a night fighter. “I’ll get by the sentry easy enough and then I’ll snake us a couple of hosses from the picket-line. We’ll be long gone before they even know what we aim to do.”

Mark turned down the light although Bardot had ordered him to keep it on all night. He winked at the Kid and settled down on the bed from which he’d taken all the bedding and substituted it for his own bedroll. They both prepared for a long and trying wait and they got it. On towards midnight they both heard a sound outside the jacal, then a softly whistled tune they both knew. The Kid slid from his chair, catching the Dragoon gun Mark tossed to him and darted on silent feet to the door. That was a friend out there, no other would be whistling “Dixie” to warn them of his pacific intentions.

“Lon, you in there?” a soft voice asked.

“You expecting maybe Robert E. Lee?” the Kid replied as he pulled open the door. “Come in!”

Dusty came in fast, all the faster for he’d seen certain things in the street which told him there was no time for delay. He was no sooner inside than the Kid shut the door behind him. “That ole Nigger hoss of mine—?” he began.

“Get down and make like you’re asleep,” Dusty cut in through the friendly greeting, his voice showing how serious he thought the situation was. “We’re going to have us some callers.”

Mark and the Kid obeyed without question although when he came to think about it Mark wondered how Dusty Fog knew he was a friend. However he obeyed, getting on to the bed and laying as if asleep. The Kid sat hunched in his chair and Dusty flattened himself against the wall under the window. This place was well chosen for Mark saw a face at the window, looking in at them. Dusty wondered what the men out there made of the sentry being missing, not knowing that Sergeant Lefarge had given the man orders to clear off shortly before midnight.

Time dragged by and the door of the jacal slowly started to open. Then the big sergeant leant in, his Lefauchex revolver lining on the bed. Mark flung himself off his bedroll, hitting the floor and reaching for his gun. He saw the Kid and Dusty both bringing their guns up and marvelled at the speed of the small man.

Lefarge fired one shot, the bullet making a hole in Mark’s prized pillow, a thing he would never travel without. Then Lefarge saw a small figure lunging up from the wall under the window. Even as his shot put out the small light of the lamp he saw the small man’s gun swinging up and a blackness came down on the hut, flame tore from the muzzle of the gun. It was the last thing Lefarge saw in this world for Dusty Fog could aim by instinct and memory and the man did not have time to move.

Dusty’s guns roared once; the French sergeant reeled backwards into the wall. Even as he fell a second man leapt in showing the futility of standing against an open door when contemplating aggressive action against three skilled pistol shots who were inside and hidden by the darkness. Three guns roared in the dark as Dusty, Mark and the Ysabel Kid fired at the same time. The Frenchman was literally torn to dollrags by the three heavy bullets which picked him up and threw him lifeless through the door to fall on and send blood gushing over Bardot’s boots as the officer came to investigate the noise. He’d suspected Lefarge meant to get rid of Mark Counter and allowed his sergeant to carry on for he was sure the man was not only a bully and trouble causer, but also he was watching his officer to report anything to their Colonel. Bardot was a member of the
ancien regime
, his ancestors having escaped the kiss of Madame Guillotine by getting out of France in time. Colonel Mornec, like Lefarge, was of the new order and Lefarge might have received promotion to officer rank if Bardot had not been sent to the regiment by Maximillian. There was little love lost between the elegant aristocrat and the uncouth Colonel. If Lefarge died Bardot would feel better and the killing of Lieutenant Counter would give him a reason to shoot Lefarge.

“What’s happening?” he snapped at two men who cowered in front of the jacal. “Get in and see!”

“Sergeant Lefarge is inside,” one replied licking his lips and staring at the open door. “I think he is dead.”

A bullet from inside the hut narrowly missed Bardot, causing him to duck back to safety. He saw his men pouring from the houses where they’d been resting and coming towards him at a run. “Surround this place!” he yelled. “The American is a traitor and has killed Sergeant Lefarge.”

At any other time this news would have been greeted with cheers for Lefarge in common with most sergeants in the French army was hated as a petty tyrant. Now the men fanned into some kind of fighting line and swarmed forward. Two of them went down as the guns in that jacal spat out. The side window broke and a long-barrelled Colt sounded loud, dropping a man with a bullet-smashed shoulder as he ran by.