The Bloody Border (4 page)

Deciding not to push her luck further, the girl stumbled from the plaza. She heard the woman tell the man to give her a head start, which suited her too. Once through the gate, she discarded her terror-stricken pose and started to turn along the alley.

A shape loomed before her, bringing her to a halt. Raising her head, and ready to launch an immediate savate attack, she found herself faced by the Kid. Anger showed on his face, while the bowie knife in his hand told what had brought him off the street. Then relief flickered across his features at the sight of the girl. He opened his mouth to speak and Belle saw the danger. If the man and woman in the plaza heard a voice speaking English, they were sure to investigate. Finding only two Mexican peons in the alley would arouse their suspicions. So Belle took steps to avoid it.

“My brother!” she said loudly in Spanish. “It is all right. I am not harmed. A great lady saved me.”

Give the Kid full credit; he might be boiling with rage and full of a desire for revenge, but he could still think. Darting a glance at the gateway, he slid the knife back into its sheath beneath the serape.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked in English. but barely higher than a whisper.

“Yes. Come on, let’s get back to the cart. I’ve quietened him down.”

“For good?”

“I hope not. Let’s move. There’s no time to lose.”

“Damn it, that lousy frog-eater knocked me down!” the Kid growled. “I’ll just go—.”

“To that cart!” Belle ordered. “Believe me, Lon. I’ve paid him back in full for hitting you.”

Chapter 4

For a moment the Kid stood glaring towards the plaza. To the grandson of Long Walker and a
Pehnane tehnap’
* in his own right, it went hard to take a blow without repaying the striker in full. However he studied the grim set of the girl’s face and knew she would brook no arguments. Good sense helped him to reach the right decision. Turning, he walked with the girl to the waiting cart. Not until they sat behind the plodding donkey did he ask the questions seething inside him.

“What happened in there?”

“Like I said, I handled the corporal and he won’t be bothering us for a spell,” Belle replied, turning to look back along the street. Seeing no sign of the man and woman, she concluded they must have left the alley by its other entrance.

“Anybody see you do it?” asked the Kid.

“A man and woman.”

“Mexicans?”

“No.” Belle answered. “Americans. That’s why I stopped you talking to me in English back there.”

“I figured there must be some reason,” the Kid grinned. “Only damn me if I could see it. Who were they, Miss Belle, some of our folks?”

“No,” she said definitely, then described the pair.

“Feller’s Charlie Kraus, I’d say,” the Kid drawled at the conclusion. “Woman don’t come to mind, though.”

“She did say ‘Mr. Kraus’, or some such name,” Belle admitted.

“That
posada’s
not Charlie’s sort of place,” the Kid commented. “Fact being, I’m tolerable surprised they let him inside and I sure hope they didn’t leave nothing lying loose with him there.”

“Who is he?” she asked.

“A border jumper, like pappy and me—only I’d not thank anybody to class us with him.”

“What does he do?”

“Anybody,” the Kid replied laconically. “Kept out of the Army when the War started. Fought Injuns and bad Mexicans for a spell, so I heard. Then he started running blockade stuff across the river into Texas.”

“For the Confederacy?”

“For him and his partner, a skinny-gutted—sorry. ma’am—
hombre
called Joe Giss. They run in the luxury stuff that pays best.”

Being operated mainly by private individuals interested in making a profit, the blockade running ships carried more than essential goods for the Confederate States. Luxury items commanded a high price, so much so that the Confederate Government laid down rules as to the proportion that might be brought in. However some of the captains still ran complete non-essential cargoes, relying on unscrupulous men to dispose of them.

“I don’t like the sound of this, Lon,” Belle admitted.

“Or me. Among other things, Giss and Kraus do dirty work for the French and Mexicans both. If Charlie Kraus’s around and gets to hear about that money, there’ll be blood spilled afore we’re through.”

“We’ll just have to stop him getting to hear,” Belle stated.

“He’s got mighty handy ways of finding things out,” warned the Kid. “What do you make of the woman? Way you tell it, she’s not his kind.”

“I don’t know. No wedding ring, which means she’s not a wife from the Yankee consul’s office. Unless she’s cheating on her husband.”

“Not with Charlie Kraus, or at that
posada
. Might be working for some Yankee ship-owner though.”

Belle admitted the possibility. Although New England stood high on the anti-slavery vote that had helped start the War, a number of its businessmen held shares in blockade running ships and indirectly sold goods to the South. So the woman could be acting as a go-between for such people. The number of men called into the Army caused many women to handle what had previously been male work, especially in the industrial Northern States.

Seeing the consul’s house ahead, Belle put all thoughts of the woman from her head. If she was no more than a go-between for blockade runners, it seemed unlikely that their paths would cross again.

Donated by a Southern businessman, the consul’s house was a fine, large building standing in its own grounds and surrounded by a high wall. Since assuming its new function, broken glass had been fixed to the top of the wall as a barrier against intruders. In addition, a Confederate infantry private stood guard at the front and rear entrances. Knowing that a vegetable cart would not be allowed in at the front under normal circumstances, Belle steered their vehicle around to the rear. As she approached the gate, the sentry moved forward to block her path.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“Vegetables for the consul,
senor
,” Belle replied, not wanting to make her true identity known in so public a place. Across the street were other large houses in their own grounds and she would be willing to bet the U.S. Secret Service owned or rented one from which the consul’s property could be kept under observation. However the sentry showed no sign of moving.

“We’ve got all we want from our regular feller,” he said, scowling suspiciously at the cart. “
Vamos!
”

“I think you should ask the corporal of the guard to come and see our vegetables,
senor
,” Belle answered, hoping the man would have sufficient intelligence to take the hint. When he did not, she continued, “Perhaps the corporal will not like it if you send us away.”

Still the words failed to bring the desired result. Annoyance showed on the guard’s face and he started to move forward in a menacing manner. “Damned if I don’t take a chance on i—!”

Then he came to a halt as if running into an invisible wall. His bugged-out eyes seemed magnetized to the bowie knife which slid into view from beneath the Kid’s serape and lined its needle-sharp point at the centre button of his tunic. Held low and in a position that only the sentry might see it, the bowie knife gave added menace to the Comanche-mean lines of the Kid’s face.

“Get the hell out of our way, foot-shuffler,” the youngster growled in a pure Texas voice, “afore I come down and whittle your head top to a point.”

And he looked mean enough to try it, what with the incident outside the hotel and a complete lack of patience in face of stupidity.

Nor had the use of a cavalryman’s derogatory term for an infantry soldier escaped the sentry’s notice, adding to his sudden realisation that the couple on the cart were far more than itinerant vegetable sellers. Having been employed as a guard at the consul for over a year, the soldier could guess what kind of people he was facing. Spies in disguise did not expect to have their identities revealed and possessed sufficient influence high up to make life uncomfortable for any mere private who crossed them. Maybe his present employment lacked the glamour of active service, but he preferred to remain at it rather than be returned to his regiment. So he stepped back and prepared to let the visitors enter.

“Act
just
as you would on an ordinary call like this!” Belle ordered, speaking English for the first time. “If you point out the kitchen, do it. Or take us there if that’s what you normally do.”

Should there be a Yankee watching, he must see everything done in a normal manner.

“Yes’m!” the sentry replied, but he had sense enough not to make the change in his demeanour too obvious. “I should shout up the corporal of the guard, ma’am.”

“Then do it,” Belle snapped. “We haven’t all day.”

“No, ma’am! Yes’m! Corporal of the guard! Back gate for the corporal of the guard!”

On his arrival, the corporal of the guard proved to have a better grasp of the situation than the sentry. Which did not surprise Belle, who remembered him from her last visit. In fact she knew that, despite the two stripes on his sleeves, Rule Shafto drew the pay and held the rank of captain in the Confederate States Army. Of slightly over medium height, he possessed the kind of average build and features which defy description. On occasion he could pose as Mexican, from hildalgo down to peon, a French soldier, or a border drifter as tough and coarse as any of that breed and escape detection.

“Vegetables for the consul, senor captain,” Belle greeted in a low voice. “Hello, Rule.”

“Pass them in, Tidd,” Shafto ordered, without giving a sign of the surprise he must have felt.

“Yo!” answered the sentry, stepping aside.

“I had less trouble getting in last time,” Belle smiled as the cart rolled through the gate.

“You looked different then,” Shafto replied, for on the previous visit she had posed as the
amie
of a Confederate ‘general’. “Tidd’s not the quickest thinker around. Comes in handy if we want the Yankees to know something. There’s one of ‘em buys him drinks regularly for what can be learned. Not that that’s much. I make good and sure he sees nothing.”

“How about seeing us?” Belle asked.

“I’ll keep him away from the cantina until you’ve finished your assignment. What brings you back here, Belle?”

“A big one. You know Corporal Ysabel?”

“Sure. Hi, Lon. Where’s your pappy?”

“Down to ole Ramon’s
posada
,” the Kid replied.

“Act natural,” Shafto warned. “The Yankees own that house back there and keep a feller in one of the top floor rooms watching us all the time.”

“That’s bad!” Belle breathed. “I’ve two trunks in the cart that we have to take inside.”

“Easy enough done,” Shafto assured her. “We put up that cabin—for the guard—when we took over. The Yankees can’t see behind it and we always unload stuff for the kitchen there.”

Belle had already noticed the small cabin, obviously of later construction than the rest of the building, standing to one side. Instead of driving towards the rear doors, she directed the cart around the cabin and found it concealed another entrance to the kitchen.

While members of the Negro domestic staff unloaded the cart, the Kid looked around him. Although he received information and instructions from Shafto, this was his first visit to the consul’s house. The French knew about the blockade runners using Matamoros, but preferred that the Confederate States consul did not take an active part in it. So all contact with the Ysabel’s superiors took place well away from the house.

At the rear of the building lay a small open plaza and a truck garden. Along each side and, he presumed, to the front, were well cared for gardens with a number of thick, flowering bushes scattered around. Too many, to the Kid’s way of thinking, for they offered places of concealment a skilled man might use. However the high wall, with its topping of jagged glass, and the sentries at front and rear seemed to rule out the chances of anybody making use of the cover.

“Here you are, Lon,” Belle said, holding out the Dragoon Colt. “Let’s go inside and see the consul.”

Already the trunks were being carried inside. Following them, Belle, the Kid and Shafto passed through the kitchen and to the front hall. The servants set down the trunks by one of the doors leading from the hall and Shafto went through it. Trying to tuck the Colt into his waist band, the Kid found its weight too much for the piece of rope which acted as a belt.

“Damn it!” he growled.

“Leave it on the trunks with mine,” Belle suggested. “You’re not likely to need it in here.”

“Mr. Garfield won’t keep you a couple of minutes, Belle,” Shafto announced, returning from the room. “He has a visitor. Don’t worry, he’ll show him out through the library.”

While waiting, Belle told Shafto of her run-in with the French corporal. When she mentioned the pair of Americans, he nodded his head.

“Her name’s Corstin, Emily Corstin,” Shafto said. “Cousin of Hayter, the Yankee consul and down here on a visit. Or so I heard. Only that doesn’t tell us why she’d be with a border rat like Charlie Kraus.”

“I think Miss Corstin will bear watching,” Belle remarked.

“So do I, now,” Shafto agreed. “I’ll see to that.”

Soon after, the room’s door opened and Winston Garfield, the consul, came out. A tall, well-built, elegantly-dressed man, he covered ability under a mantle of amiable pomposity.

“My dear Miss Boyd,” he greeted, looking her over from head to toe. “I’d never have recognised you-all. Come in, come in. I’m sorry for keeping you waiting, but that was the harbour-master come for his weekly pay-off.”

“You know why I’m here?” Belle asked, leading the way into the consul’s comfortably furnished study.

“Of course,” Garfield admitted. “Have a seat, Miss Boyd. May I offer you a glass of wine?”

“I think I could use one,” Belle smiled. “Have you met Corporal Ysabel?”

“Not officially,” Garfield answered. “But I’ve seen the results of your work, young man.”

“Thanks,” the Kid replied, feeling just a touch uncomfortable in the luxurious surroundings. “Pappy said to tell you he’d bring down some more of that wine on the next trip.”

“Hum! Yes!” Garfield sniffed. “And now, to business. I trust everything has gone smoothly so far, Miss Boyd?”

“Well enough,” she said. “We ran into a little difficulty on the way to the bay, but it all worked out.”

While the others talked, the Kid looked around the room. Then his eyes went to the window which overlooked the gardens on the left side of the building. The upper part of the sash had been lowered to allow a cooling breeze to circulate around the room, but that did not interest him. Even as he looked, he caught the brief flicker of a colour alien to its surroundings in the garden. Constant alertness had been a lesson taught from early childhood and the sight sent a warning ringing in his head.

“Is there anybody working in the garden?” he asked, cutting into the conversation without hesitation.

“Not on this side of the house,” Shafto replied. “There never is when the harbour-master calls.”

Before the reply was half completed, the Kid started across the room towards the window. He intended to raise the lower sash on his arrival and check that his eyes were not playing tricks, but saw there would be no time. That flicker of colour had been no trick of light or imagination. A man was darting through the bushes away from the house.

Hurling himself forward in a rolling dive, the Kid went through the window in a cloud of shattering glass and framework. Behind him Garfield let out a startled squawk. Equally surprised, Belle and Shafto followed on the Kid’s heels. They did not know why he was acting in such a manner, but figured he must have a mighty good reason.

While falling to the ground, the Kid found time to curse his luck in not having the old Dragoon available. The man running away from the window must be stopped and had a good head start to be run down in a foot-race. Then another fact ripped into him. A flicker of dark blue had attracted his attention, but the fleeing men wore buckskins of a tawny colour. That meant there must be two interlopers in the garden. Locating the second of them became a matter of vital importance to the Kid’s continued well-being.

Not that the locating took much accomplishing. Catching a movement from the corner of his eye, the Kid swung his head to make a closer examination. To the side of the window, dark blue shirt and all, was the second man, a lean, vicious-looking half-breed armed with a knife and already moving forward to use it. Holding his weapon Indian fashion, with the blade below the hand, the man launched a sideways stroke aimed at the Kid’s neck. No white man could have avoided the attack, but the man struck at a part Comanche.

Landing with a cat-like agility, the Kid dropped his right knee to the ground, thrusting his left leg behind him and lowering the left hand for added support. The other’s knife almost brushed the black hair as it passed oven the Kid’s head. Then the young Texan launched an attack of his own. While thinking and acting like a
Pehnane tehnap’
, he gripped the bowie in the fashion of skilled white knife-fighter With the blade rising ahead of his thumb and forefinger, he could thrust, cut, or chop with equal ease. He chose the latter, swinging the knife around like a woodman chopping fire-kindling. A scream broke from the man as the razor-edged blade tone across his body. Designed by a man who had given much thought to perfecting it as a fighting weapon, the bowie knife possessed the deadly qualities of a cavalry sabre. It ripped across the man’s body, laying through the flesh and into the vitals below.

“
A:he!
”