The Bloody Border (14 page)

Running to the door, Belle tugged at it. Much to her surprise, she found it was not locked. However by that time Eve had mounted and was already galloping along the draw. Anger made Belle act rashly for once. Instead of returning to the cabin and collecting her Dance, she dashed across to the waiting horses. Unfastening one of them, she swung into the saddle and set off after the fleeing Yankee spy.

oooOooo

* Peckerwood: derogatory name for a Southerner.

Chapter 14

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.*

“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 realised 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 marvelled 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 favourable 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 realised 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 come-back 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 Nigger 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, realising 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’ sabre 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 recognise 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.