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Authors: J. T. Edson

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Finger already squeezing the Sharps rifle’s trigger, Joe Giss had received a shock when the Mexican’s shot cracked out. Nor could he control the involuntary tightening of his forefinger that set the rifle’s mechanism working. Both his remaining men’s weapons barked almost at the same moment and the three bullets tore harmlessly over the backs of the approaching horses.

Carefully concealed under the branches of another sassfrass bush, Giss heard his man’s exultant yell. At first glance the words appeared to be justified, for the horses raced down the trail with no sign of a rider. The trouble being that the Kid’s body did not lie on the trail either. In which case, the Sharps ought to be reloaded and fast. Which raised a snag. To load a rifle, even a breech-feeding Sharps, meant movement sure to draw the Kid’s attention to Giss’ hiding place. Attracting
Cabrito’s
interest at such a moment was as dangerous a pastime as poking one’s head into the mouth of a starving silvertip grizzly bear and saying, “Bite it.”

Whoops of delight rose from Giss’ less perspicacious companions and he could see that none of them thought to reload their rifles. Then they too realised that something must be wrong. The two men from town signalled violently; and not in congratulation for a well-aimed shot. Closer thundered the two horses, still with no sign of the Kid. So the ambushers belatedly reached for powder flasks to begin the business of recharging their rifles.

When he slid from the sorrel’s back, a split-second before the Mexican cut loose at him, the Kid caught hold of the white’s saddlehorn. He hung suspended between the two horses, guiding the white by word and signal while retaining his hold of the sorrel’s reins. Watching ahead, he saw the cart rushing nearer.

“Sorry, Cap’n Rule,” he breathed. “But I don’t know if I can trust your hoss to come with me.”

With that, he let the reins free to hang over the borrowed horse’s neck. Dropping his feet to the ground, he used their impact to bound up and astride the white’s saddle. A wild Comanche yell shattered the air and the huge horse lengthened its stride. Dropping his rifle, one of the Mexicans sprang from his cover and snatched at the holstered revolver on his hip. None of the others were even close to being reloaded and could only stare, hoping not to catch the Kid’s eye.

Up soared the white stallion, taking the cart like a hunter-spooked white-tail deer bounding over a bush. Gathering itself, the sorrel also jumped, clearing the obstacle and lighting down running alongside the white. Wanting his own horse as fresh as possible for the work ahead, the Kid quit its saddle, dropped to the ground and leapt on to the sorrel’s back once more. Although the Mexican drew and fired his revolver, the bullet came nowhere near hitting the fast-moving Kid.

“Get after him, you stinking greasers!” Giss howled rolling out from under the bush and standing up.

Under the pretence of reloading the Sharps, Giss allowed his men to reach their horses—hidden among the trees—first. By the time he completed the loading, they were mounted and starting after the Kid. However his plan failed, for once by the cart they drew rein and waited for him. Scowling, he rode up and ordered the chase to be continued. Giss never cared to take chances; and neither did his men where the Ysabel Kid was concerned.

Holding his horses to a gallop, the Kid watched for a chance to lose his pursuers. At first he stuck to the trail, not wishing to pass through that thickly tangled woodland when riding at speed. A mile or so fell behind him before he reached more open country. So far his hunters had caught only fleeting glimpses of him on the winding trail and wasted no lead in trying for such a scanty target. However the trail stretched straight and level for almost a quarter of a mile. That meant presenting Joe Giss with too good a mark at which to aim. So the Kid swung his horses from the trail, riding up the slope flanking it to the south through the scattered trees and bushes.

Just as he reached the top, something struck the sorrel. The Kid heard the horse’s stricken grunt and the sound of a shot from behind him. Then the sorrel staggered and began to collapse. Throwing his leg across its back, he jumped clear and darted-around the white stallion’s rump. Even using the Indian-made boot, the Kid carried his rifle Texas fashion, on the left of the saddle with the butt pointing to the rear. So he needed only to grip the wrist of the butt and the horse walking away slid the rifle free.

“That Kid’s luckier’n the devil!” Giss spat out, lowering his smoking Sharps.

Seeing the Kid approaching the top of the slope and realising the nature of the country beyond it, Giss felt disinclined to follow the young Texan further. So he swung up ms Sharps and chanced a snap shot. At almost a hundred yards, on a fast moving target, he might have counted himself fortunate to come so close to hitting his mark.

swivelling around, the long old Mississippi rifle flowing to ins shoulder, the Kid sighted quickly and took a fast shot. Giss’ hat spun from his head and he threw himself from the saddle to dive into cover, a move his men copied with some speed. Once hidden from further bullets, they looked to their leader for guidance. Not for almost two minutes did Giss offer to give any. Then he looked up the slope and sucked in a breath.

“Let’s go. Stay with the hosses. Manuel. The rest of us’ll foot it.”

After shooting, the Kid ran to where his stallion was waiting. He thrust the rifle unloaded into the boot and took the sombrero collected in Matamoros from where it hung on the saddlehorn. Drawing his bowie knife, he slashed open the top of the crown and ripped the brim. Tossing the ruined hat on to the body of the sorrel, he turned, mounted the white and rode off to the south-west.

Advancing cautiously up the slope, darting from cover to cover, Giss and his men approached the dead horse. Halting, their gaze went to the sombrero and noted the damage. Then they exchanged glances as the significance of what they saw struck them. All of the men, including Giss, had worked with
Comanchero
bands and knew something of Comanche Indian ways; enough to read the message left by the Kid.

If a raiding
Pehnane
brave found enemies persistently sticking to his trail, seeking to regain the loot lifted from them, he would destroy an item of their property and leave it in his tracks. That served as a warning of his future intentions. No longer would he content himself with passive flight. If they continued beyond his marker, he would kill on sight.

Some people, considering the Kid’s youth and appearance of innocence, might have regarded the hat as mere ostentation left without serious intent; but Giss did not number among them. He knew, as sure as spring followed winter, that to follow the dark youngster would be courting quick, unexpected death. So Joe Giss reached a rapid decision.

“That frog-eater colonel in Matamoros wants somebody to scout for him, boys,” he announced. “I conclude it’d be easy money. Let’s go take on for him.”

That meant deserting his partner, but Charlie Kraus bad an understanding nature. Anyway, if their expressions were any guide, Giss’ companions wholeheartedly approved of the desertion, even if scouting for the French meant working against their own people. Turning, they walked back down the slope, collected their horses and retraced their tracks to Matamoros.

Chapter 9

Keep Your Hands Off My Perfume

“Tired, Miss Boyd?” Sam Ysabel asked, turning in his saddle and studying their back-trail.

“I’ve forgotten what a bed is,” she replied with a wry smile and eased her aching limbs as best she could.

“Rosita O’Malley’s place’s down this ways a piece,” Ysabell told her. “We’ll stop off and let the horses rest a spell. You can grab some sleep ‘til night-fall and then we’ll push on again.”

“I’ll not argue on that,” Belle assured him.

Before Eve Coniston returned to the house, Belle and Shafto had slipped away from the consulate. They carried the heavy saddlebags, containing the money, a change of clothing and few other items Belle felt she might need, with them. Joining Sam Ysabel at the pre-arranged rendezvous, the girl rode out of Matamoros before midnight. All through the night and on towards the following noon they continued to ride at a good pace. Although Belle felt very tired, she refused to show it until Ysabel suggested that they should halt.

At first sight, Rosita O’Malley’s cantina and
posada
looked little different to hundreds of other such places scattered through the Rio Grande border country. A two-storey adobe building set on the banks of a small stream, it offered a choice of stables or corrals for its guests’ horses. Choosing the former, Ysabel led the way inside.

“Only Rosita’s hosses here, and at the corral,” he commented and his grulla walked into a stall in a manner which showed that it had done so often before.

Fighting down her tiredness, Belle set to work tending to her bay. Then she went to help Ysabel care for the packhorse. Brought along more as a blind than for any other reason, the packs were empty and held in shape by light frameworks of twigs. While working on the horse, she saw a shadow at the doors and looked around. A tall, buxom, black haired woman, good-looking although no longer in the bloom of youth, entered. She wore a plain black dress, although of more daring cut than convention allowed. Halting, the woman’s smile of welcome died as her eyes turned from Ysabel to Belle.


Hola
, Rosita gal,” Ysabel greeted.

“Who’s she, Big Sam?” the woman demanded in English.

“Fee-ancy to one of Jack Cureton’s Rangers, come down the coast by boat. I’m taking her up to meet him.”

“You sure on that?”

“Would I lie to you, Rosey gal?” asked Ysabel, sounding pained. “Come here and give a hard-travelled man a kiss.”

A request to which Rosita responded with gusto, although throwing Belle a challenging, defiant glare as she commenced. When released, she turned to face the girl once more.

“Who’s your feller, sister?”

“Solly Cole from up Tyler way,” Ysabel put in. “Go make us some food and we’ll want two rooms until night fall.”

“I think you’re one big liar, Sam Ysabel,” Rosita stated. “And if I thought what I was thinking’s true, I’d alter the shape of her face some.”

“You mean like this?” asked Belle, swinging gracefully into a
chassé
, rear lateral kick which slashed her foot hard into the wall of the stall.

Jerking back a pace. Rosita stared at the mark on the wall and noted it to be at the height of her own face. Nor did she overlook the power with which the kick had landed, and she realised what it would do should it strike home on human flesh. A grin came to her face.

“I hope you ‘n’ Solly Cole’ll be happy, senorita,” she said. “And I still reckon Big Sam’s a liar.”

“Only about me,” Belle smiled back. “He’s loyal and true to you.”

“Yeah. I just bet he is,” Rosita replied. “As long as he’s where I can keep both eyes on him. Come on. Leave the big lndio to finish the work and I’ll give you a meal. Then you look like you could use some sleep.”

Clearly the woman accepted that Belle and Ysabel were travelling together without romantic intentions. However she asked no questions about the girl’s real reason for riding the river trail. Nobody, not even a close friend like Rosita O’Malley, inquired too closely into the Ysabel family’s business—not twice hand-running, anyways.

“Shall I keep the saddlebags, or you, Miss Belle?” Ysabel asked.

“You, although there are a couple of things I’d like from them before I go to sleep,” the girl replied.

For a
posada
drawing its trade from people travelling the bloody border, Rosita’s place offered a good standard of cleanliness and the bed in the room allocated to Belle looked comfortable. Tired through she might be, Belle collected her dark blue shirt and riding breeches—dried and ironed hurriedly before she left the consulate—her parasol and, to Ysabel’s amusement, a perfume bottle with its spray attached from the saddlebags before going to catch up on her rest. She closed the door, placed her property on the bed-side chair, hung her gunbelt on its back and eased off her boots. Then she lay on the bed and went to sleep.

Practice had taught Belle to wake at any given time. When she opened her eyes, feeling refreshed, she saw that the sun hung low in the western sky. Rising, she worked her muscles and found the ache had left them. It would be time to move soon, so she started to change clothes. While the black shirt and trousers fitted her, they lacked the comfortable feel of her older garments. With the riding breeches and boots on, a precaution against sudden departure, Belle reached for the shirt. She heard the lock click and the door opened.

“Well, now ain’t that a sight to see?” asked an unfamiliar male voice.

Swinging around. Belle saw a man and woman entering the room. Strangers to her, they wore filthy clothes and gave an impression of voluntary uncleanliness. Across the passage a man covered Sam Ysabel at the door to his room and a third turned towards the speaker.

“Wha—!” Belle began, darting a glance towards her gunbelt.

“You try it and I’ll blow your purty head off, gal!” warned the man at the door, thrusting forward a Le Mat revolver in a threatening manner. “Go take her gun, Amy-Jo.’

Standing at the opposite end of the bed to her weapons, Belle knew she could not hope to reach them in time. She stood still as the young woman walked by her and the man came closer. Despite his eyes ogling her bare shoulders and revealing underskirt, the Le Mat never wavered from its line on her stomach.

“Well I’ll swan, Hickey!” Amy-Jo announced, picking up the perfume bottle. “If she don’t have some fancy scent long.”

“Keep your hands off my perfume!” Bell snapped.

“You hear her, Hickey?” Amy-Jo asked. “Anybody’d think it was her got the gun way she gives orders.”

“Don’t you put any of that perfume on yourself!” Belle warned.

“Listen here now, quality gal!” Amy-Jo flared back. “Right now I don’t have to do one lil thing you tells me.”

With that she directed the nozzle at her face and squeezed the bulb. A misty spray of liquid shot out, striking just under her nose. Instantly Amy-Jo let out a strangled, gagging croak, half-dropping, half-throwing the bottle on to the bed as she reeled backwards. The raw, acrid aroma of ammonia rose from the girl as she stumbled around in a circle and dropped fighting for breath to her knees.

Hickey’s head jerked around to stare at Amy-Jo and for a moment he wondered what had caused the girl to act in such a manner. After which he became too engrossed in his own problems to care.

Up rose Belle’s foot and this time she wore a boot highly suitable for kicking. While Hickey’s Le Mat wavered involuntarily out of line, the toe of Belle’s boot drove with considerable power under his jaw. Shooting backwards across the room, he crashed into the wall, bounced from it and landed face down on the floor.

At the commotion, the nearer of the men in the passage turned and sprang into Belle’s room. His companion foolishly failed to keep full attention on Sam Ysabel. Whipping across, Ysabel’s right hand slapped the man’s revolver aside and flashed towards his holstered Dragoon. As the man took an unintended pace to the rear, Ysabel bunched and launched his left fist against the side of the other’s head. Sent reeling across the passage, the man tried to bring his gun back into line. Thumb-cocked on the draw, the big Dragoon bellowed in Ysabel’s hand as it cleared leather. The bullet sliced into the man’s head, ending his attempt at shooting immediately. Even before the man fell, Ysabel went leaping towards the door of Belle’s room.

Diving on to the bed as Hickey’s second companion entered, Belle grabbed the scent-spray. She swung its nozzle owards the man as he lunged with hands reaching for her, and squeezed the bulb. Caught in the face by the spray of ammonia, the man duplicated Amy-Jo’s reactions. Belle brought up her foot, ramming it into his stomach and shoving hard. Propelled backwards, the man offered Ysabel a empting target. Up and down rose the big Texan’s arm, smashing the base of the Dragoon’s butt on top of the man’s head to drop him like a pole-axed steer.

From downstairs came the voice of Rosita O’Malley, raised in a mixture of lurid Spanish and Irish curses.

“Watch ‘em, gal!” Ysabel yelled, turning to dash out of the room and in the direction of the stairs.

Looking around her, Belle decided there would be no need to bother about the visitors for a spell. Even Amy-Jo showed no signs of recovery, but still crouched on the floor gagging and trying to breathe.

“I warned you not to use it,” Belle remarked as she picked up her shirt.

Deciding that they would be making a hurried departure, Belle donned the shirt, tucked it into her waistband and then strapped on the gunbelt. With the Dance at her hip she felt capable of dealing with anything Hickey’s crowd cared to start. Gathering up her belongings, she took them to Ysabel’s room. On coming out, she saw Ysabel returning. The big Texan walked towards her, shaking his head as if unable to believe what he had found below.

“I never figured Hickey to have one lil bit of right good sense,” he told the girl. “But I never reckoned he’d he hawgstupid enough to leave just one feller guarding Rosey.”

“Is she all right?” Belle asked.


She’s
fine. Only I don’t know how the feller’ll feel when he gets round to feeling again. That skillet she hit him with sure messed up his face some.”

From which Belle concluded that Rosita had managed cope with the situation unaided.

“What lousy luck,” Belle commented. “Picking today all times to attempt a robbery.”

“Like I say,” Ysabel drawled. “Hickey’s not smart; but he’s a whole heap too smart to try a game like that at Rosey’s place and again me without real good reason. If he knowed how much money we’re carrying—.”

“Then he might?”

“He just might get brave enough then.”

“But he can’t know!’ Belle stated.

“He
shouldn’t
know,” corrected Ysabel. “Maybe we’d best ask some questions!”

“I think you’re right,” Belle agreed. “The girl looks to be the only one likely to tell us anything for a time.”

Sucking in sobbing breaths of air, Amy-Jo stared with tear-reddened, frightened eyes as Belle and Ysabel approached her.

“We didn’t mean no harm!” the girl whined, edging across the floor on her rump away from them and darted a glance at her companions. “I tried to tell Hickey it wouldn’t work.”

“What wouldn’t work. Amy-Jo?” Ysabel asked.

“Nothin’—.”

Bending down, Belle dug her fingers into the girl’s dirty hair and jerked her head back, looking at Ysabel and saying. “Pass me that scent bottle, please, Sergeant Ysabel.”

“No!” Amy-Jo yelped, the recollection of her first tangling with the thing still vivid in her mind.

“What wouldn’t work?” Belle demanded. “H—Hickey’d kill me if he knowed I’d talked!” Amy-Jo wailed.

“You’ve got troubles from all sides, gal,” Ysabel told her unsympathetically “Rosita’s all riled up and looking to take it out of somebody’s hide. I’ll just call and tell her you’re the first one woke up.”

“Lookee, Big Sam!” the girl yelped, fear plain on her face as she directed another glance at the still form of her leader. “I had to come. You know Hickey!”

“I know him,” Ysabel admitted. “And I never figured he’d be
loco
enough to try a game like this.”

“That ten thousand dollars you’ve got sounded mighty tempting,” Amy-Jo answered simply.

Belle and Ysabel exchanged glances. Maybe the sum fell short of the actual total, but it came close enough to arouse ugly suspicions.

“How’d you know about that?” Ysabel growled.

“We was down on the river this afternoon,” Amy-Jo replied. “Heard something coming and dog-my-cats if’n around a bend don’t steam three itty-bitty boats like I’ve never seed afore. Like big rowing boats they was, only with chimneys ‘n’ engines in ‘em. Done got cannons in the front—.”

“Steam launches!” Belle breathed. “What about them?”

“We was just fixing to get the hell out of there when a feller yells out Hickey’s name. It was Golly, that ‘breed who ides for Charlie Kraus. Tells us it’s all right and they only wants to make talk.”

“What did he say?” Belle asked.

“That Big Sam was coming up river with you and for us to go after you. Hickey wouldn’t’ve listened, only Golly allowed you’d got maybe ten thousand in gold along. Said for us to let Charlie have a cut if we got it.”

“Who were in the boat?”

“Fellers in uniforms, ma’am. They let Golly come on to the bank to talk to us. that’s how he let on about the money.”

“Smart,” Belle said to Ysabel. “They’re sending word up-river and making it look like the people he tells are getting something extra that the Yankees don’t know about.”

“Smart and tricky.” Ysabel agreed. “Charlie Kraus always was. What come off next, Amy-Jo?”

“Golly gets back to the boat and they heads on up river,” the girl replied. “Then Hickey allows you’d be sure to call in here, Big Sam, and we should oughta try for the money. Only it didn’t work.”

“You tell Hickey, when he starts to take notice, to keep well out of my sight from now on,” Ysabel growled.

“If you ain’t holding me, I’m going to be long gone afore that,” the girl stated. “Hickey’s not going to forget it was me worked that damned scent squirter.”

“Light out, gal,” Ysabel grinned. “Let’s get going, Miss Belle.”

Collecting their belongings, Belle and Ysabel went down. stairs. By the time they reached the ground floor, the drumming of hooves told that Amy-Jo had made good her promise of departing.

“I let her go,” Rosita remarked.

“She’d not help against Hickey,” Ysabel answered. “So its as well.”

“I’m sorry about making trouble for you, Rosita,” Belle went on.

“So’ll Hickey be, unless you killed him,” the woman replied, nodding to a bunch of tough-looking Mexicans who hovered in the background. “We’ll tend to everything here. You’d best start riding.”

“Could be there’ll be more folks around asking about us, Rosey,” Ysabel warned. “Don’t get smart should they come.”

“They’ll get the same as everybody else,” Rosita promised. “Food, a place to sleep, and no information. How about Lon?”

“Tell him we’re headed south, instead of sticking to the river trail,” Ysabel replied. “He’ll find us easy enough.”

“1 agree with you, sergeant,” Belle put in. “Those launches can make easily six miles an hour going up-river and will have been moving while we rested.”

“They’ve got engines that don’t get tired, ma’am,” the Texan pointed out. “Hosses do, and people. Thing is, how did the Yankees get to know about us?”

“They have efficient spies too,” Belle replied as they walked out of the building. “I’ve been afraid they’d find out from the start.”

“You mean they brought them launches here especial for this?”

“No. Although somebody acted fast and smart in using them to pass on the message. I don’t suppose there’s a chance of them meeting some of our troops along the river?”

“Devil the bit this far from Brownsville.”

“How about Captain Cureton and his men?” Belle asked.

“They’re Rangers, not army. Fellers who didn’t want to take sides, some Yankees and some of us rebs,” Ysabel explained. “Cureton can only hold ‘em together by staying clear of either side in the War. They’re trying to protect the homes of soldiers away fighting from Injuns, bad whites and Mexican
bandidos
. There’ll be no help from them.”

“And the man with the launches can find other men like Hickey?”

“Or worse. Golly knows the river hang-outs. Even if he only tells ‘em ten thousand dollars, there’ll be plenty wanting to try for it.”

“What do we do then?” Belle inquired.

“Like I said. Go south. They’ll likely all be figuring on us sticking to the river and looking for a place to cross into Texas.”

“How about Rosita?” Belle said as she saddled her horse. “Will she be safe after we’ve gone?”

“From Hickey?” Ysabel laughed. “She could eat two like him and his whole bunch. And for the rest; well, she’s got kin on both sides of the river, tough hombres all of ‘em, thicker’n fleas on an Injun dawg, who’ll come a-running happen she yells, or should anything untoward happen to her. Yes, ma’am. I figure Rosey’ll be all right. But we sure as hell won’t, unless we put some miles between us and the border.”

BOOK: The Bloody Border
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