The Floating Outift 33 Page 7

  ‘Draw the horse from under him,’ the captain ordered. ‘See how he feels about answering questions after he’s dangled for a time.’

  Desperately the vaquero tried to cling to his saddle, gripping it with his knees. Even as the captain opened his mouth to tell his men to make the vaquero loose his hold, the Kid took a hand.

  The ‘old yellowboy’ lined and barked once. Its bullet struck the rope where it passed over the limb and carved through it.

  ‘Run, Pancho!’ yelled the Kid.

  Even as he shouted, the Kid sighted again, sending lead into the captain and tumbling him in a lifeless heap on the ground. The rest whirled, grabbed at guns to defend themselves, ignoring the vaquero who took his chance and sent his horse racing away, clinging to it and steering with his knees.

  In the past few days the Kid had learned much about the art of attacking a superior number of enemy. His rifle lined towards the sergeant, meaning to deprive the bunch of leaders. Then he saw one of the men showing signs of starting to rally faster than the three-bar. Changing his aim slightly, the Kid chopped this man down and then threw a bullet into the sergeant. That proved to be enough for the men. They ran for their horses, going astride fast, with lead singing around them. The Kid watched them mount and ride, one started his horse in the direction the vaquero went and died for it. If the others had any idea of following their captive, they threw up the idea and fled as fast as they could go.

  The Kid wasted no time. A whistle brought his horses to him, Thunder coming as always to his call and the other animal following along. Gripping the saddlehorn in one hand, the Kid went afork his white and headed after the vaquero.

  ‘Hey, Pancho!’ called the Kid, as his white stallion raced after the grulla.

  He thought he recognized the man and when the grulla stopped, allowing him to catch up, the Kid found his thought to be correct.

  ‘Cabrito!’ greeted the vaquero. ‘You were never more welcome, amigo.’

  One slash of the bowie knife set Pancho’s arms free and then the Kid cut the ropes from his wrists. They looked each other over as friends will when meeting after a period of years. Pancho was a couple of years older than the Kid and had been a good friend in the old days. His clothes looked worn but clean and his eyes had a cautious look about them.

  ‘Where’s Don Francisco?’ asked the Kid.

  ‘I take you to him.’

  ‘Got some friends to collect first.’

  Just a hint of suspicion came to Pancho’s eyes, then faded. El Cabrito would never turn on, or betray Don Francisco. The young vaquero opened his mouth, let it hang open as a thought struck him.

  ‘You!’ he suddenly whooped. ‘You’re the one, you and your three amigos. It’s you who has been raiding the Marcus men.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed the Kid, throwing a look around. ‘Say, I feel sorta conspicuous out here. Let’s ride.’

  ‘Marez, the captain, took my gunbelt,’ growled Pancho. ‘One day I will get it back.’

  ‘No time like the present,’ grinned the Kid. ‘You’ll find him laying back there. Happen we ride fast we might get it afore they come back.’

  ‘I hope so, amigo. There is a matter of great importance to be dealt with. It could mean the end of a free Mexican Government unless we can deal with it.’

  Six – The Fastest Gun in Mexico

  The Kid wasted no time in asking Pancho to explain his words. Not when the Marcus men might run into somebody who might put heart into them and bring them back hot and eager for revenge.

  ‘Let’s put distance between us ’n’ them,’ he suggested. ‘I get all shy and retiring in company.’

  ‘The last company I was in,’ grinned Pancho, ‘nearly retired me for good.’

  He turned his horse and they rode back to the clearing. No sign of life showed, nothing stirred except for the couple of horses which hadn’t been grabbed by the escaping soldiers or run without their riders. One of the horses, a fine looking bay, carried a gunbelt slung over its saddle.

  ‘Don’t waste time picking,’ growled the Kid. ‘Bring the hoss as well.’

  Pancho did not argue. He took the bay’s reins and led it as he followed the Kid out and across the range. They did little talking, being more concerned with keeping eyes and ears alert for the first sign of pursuit.

  On his way out that morning the Kid took a long, winding route. His return to join Dusty, Mark and Waco followed a straight line, or as near a straight line as he could manage and keep in reasonable cover.

  Scanning the small bosque from a distance, then all the time as they rode towards it, the Kid could see no sign of human occupation. He knew his friends had been doing this kind of chore too long for them to make a fool mistake like having a fire burning in daylight, sending up smoke which might guide the curious to their camp. He saw also that they made no unnecessary noise and did not show themselves or any sign of their presence on the edge of the wood.

  Not until they were almost on the edge of the tree line did Waco, who had the lookout chore at the moment, show himself. He stepped from behind a bush, his rifle across his arm and raised the other hand in a cheerful wave.

  ‘Howdy, Lon,’ he greeted. ‘What kept you?’

  ‘Business, boy. That’s all. Where at’s Dusty?’

  ‘Headed north, to Dodge with a trail herd. Where would he be?’

  A grin creased Pancho’s lips as he studied Waco. ‘Your younger brother, Cabrito?’ he asked.

  Both the Kid and Waco protested vigorously at the idea of being related to the other.

  ‘He can’t help being ornery,’ Waco pointed out. ‘Was born that way. Me, I had to work hard to get like it.’

  ‘Don’t you let ’em sneak up on you,’ warned the Kid. ‘Let’s see Dusty, Pancho. Then you can tell me about Don Francisco.’

  The vaquero showed his interest and pleasure in meeting the Captain Dusty Fog. It came as something of a surprise to Dusty just how well known he was in Mexico, but Pancho’s obvious pleasure showed his name had gone out after his aid to the Juarez faction.

  ‘This is a matter of great urgency, señores,’ Pancho told the others. ‘On el Camino Real at this moment, a large sum of money is being sent north, to cross the border as a down payment on weapons which will be used to start a revolution.’

  ‘How’d you know about this?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘It was at the cantina of Bruno Hernando I heard. The men stopped there for the night. They drank and in drinking they talked. I happened to pass by the cantina and Bruno told me. Then, as I rode to my patron to get aid, I fell into an ambush. Luckily the Kid saved me. But we have left it too late to reach my patron.’

  ‘Then Don Francisco’s safe?’ put in the Kid.

  ‘Safe, except for a broken leg, in a place where Marcus will never find him. With him are eight of us, all of his faithful vaqueros who escaped. I will take you to him, Cabrito.’

  ‘About this money,’ interrupted Dusty, before the Kid could reply. ‘How big an escort?’

  ‘Not big, Captain, but choice. Very choice,’ replied Pancho. ‘Ten, fifteen men at most. Big odds for even you, el Cuatro, the Four, as they call you.’

  ‘We’ve hit bigger bunches than that,’ drawled Mark.

  ‘Por cierto, señor. Certainly, but they were not commanded by Enrico Chavez.’

  The name brought a sudden hiss from the Kid’s lips, showing his surprise. To Dusty and Mark it meant something also. Enrico Chavez, almost unique in that he was a Mexican with a name for being real fast with a gun. His name had reached north of the border. Men claimed him to be the fastest gun in Mexico, which meant little in a land of knife-fighters, except that the men who gave him this title had seen fast Texans in action and knew how to gauge the speed of a draw. Such men did not lightly toss around names like the fastest gun in Mexico.

  Nor did Chavez’s gun speed end the danger. Again he stood unique amongst the border gangs in that he had Texas men riding under him, taking his orders. The men who rode for Ma
rcus did not count, for the most part they were northern, or south-easterners who found the hospitality of the Texas Rangers too much for them and, on coming south of the border, jumped feet first into the best position offered.

  In the old days, before and just after the war, the Kid knew Chavez and his gang. They had been small, but choice, as Pancho said. Whang, Dooley and Clapper, the three Texan members, were cool hands in a fight, the rest, two Mexicans and three half-breeds, could be relied upon far more than their kind in most bandido gangs. With that kind of escort prying away their ill-gotten gains would be far from easy.

  ‘Reckon we could jump them when they make camp for the night?’ asked Mark.

  ‘On el Camino Real,’ smiled Pancho. ‘Not much chance, señor.’

  ‘If I know Chavez he’ll spend the night under a roof if he can,’ drawled the Kid. ‘He’s wuss’n you for sleeping inside, Mark.’

  For all that he spent a lot of his life sage-henning, Mark did not care for sleeping out in the open and much preferred a warm bed instead.

  ‘Where’ll he stop for the night?’ asked Dusty.

  ‘The men made a late start,’ Pancho began.

  ‘That figures, knowing Chavez.’

  Ignoring the Kid’s comment, Pancho went on, ‘They travel slowly. The road winds a lot, too. I think we could find them at Anibal’s place.’

  ‘Know it, Lon?’ Dusty inquired.

  ‘Sure. But I reckon Pancho can show us the way better’n I can.’

  ‘Go call Waco in. We’ll ride as soon as we’re saddled,’ Dusty ordered. ‘How’s the land lie around that inn, or whatever it is that they’ll be stopped at.’

  ‘An inn, as you say. I know it well,’ Pancho replied, reaching for a stick laying at the edge of the previous night’s fire. ‘I will show you all I know.’

  Night lay its blanket over the land as Dusty and his men sat their leg-weary horses on a rim, looking down at Anibal’s Posada de Gallo, the Inn of the Cock. It stood by el Camino Real; the Royal Road built in the great days of the Spanish colonization. The building was long, only one floor, and of adobe, there were a couple of small adobe huts to the right and a couple of large corrals to the left. A number of horses moved in the corral nearer to the inn and by its walls a faint red glow showed where a sentry stood watch.

  ‘They’ll have at least two of them out,’ drawled the Kid. ‘I sure hope it ain’t Whang, Dooley or Clapper outside.’

  From what the Kid had told them about the abilities of the three men named, they agreed with him. The Kid would have a hard enough task on his hands to deal with the sentries without the added hardship of three men who knew better than to relax when on duty.

  Even from where they sat their horses Dusty and the others could hear the laughter and bursts of drunken song coming from the well-lit front of the house. It would make the Kid’s work that much the easier for no Mexican guard would be alert while his fellows drank and made merry. The noise of the drinkers might also serve to drown any slight noise the Kid made.

  Quickly the Kid slipped off his spurs, then removed his gunbelt, retaining only the big bowie knife, for his task called for silencing the sentries and he could do this either permanently with the point and edge, or temporarily with the hilt end depending on the circumstances.

  ‘See you,’ he promised.

  ‘We’ll be here,’ Dusty replied.

  Tossing aside his cigarette butt, the sentry leaned himself against the corral gate post. By this time the Kid reached the side of the corral and hung close to the adobe wall. He inched his way along, keeping in the shadow, hiding the knife behind his back. From the shape of the hat and the clothes the sentry was a Mexican, for which the Kid felt grateful. However, that sombrero would cushion a blow to the head effectively.

  Halting behind the man, the Kid let out his breath in a long hiss, like the sound a king snake made when it faced a diamondback rattler. A king snake was not poisonous and so the Mexican did not show any alarm as he turned to look for it. Too late he saw the dark shape. His mouth opened to challenge, or yell for help, his hands tried to turn the rifle.

  Up lashed the Kid’s right foot, driving the boot toe between the man’s legs and collapsing him in agony. Such pain filled the Kid’s victim that he could not cry out. It is doubtful if he felt the Kid remove his sombrero. The knife rose and fell in a fast move. Striking behind the man’s head, the metal-shod butt of the knife’s hilt pitched him from raw red agony into cool painless blackness.

  ‘Hey Miguel!’ called a voice, just as the Kid straightened up from landing the blow. ‘Listen to Chavez and his bunch in there while we stand guard.’

  Footsteps came towards the Kid. He saw the shape which formed in the dark, recognizing it as another Marcus soldier. There would be no time to take cover, no time to move even. He leaned back against the gate post and grunted as if in agreement with the approaching man.

  ‘It’s always the same,’ the man went on. ‘Last night two of us stood the guard. Tonight two more. Chavez does not use his—hey! You’re not Mi—’

  He got no further. The surprise at discovering another man in Miguel’s place prevented him doing anything sensible for an all-important vital instant. He might have yelled a warning to the men in the cantina, could have brought around the rifle to shoot at the stranger, or even fired a wild, warning shot. Except to tell the Kid what the Kid already knew, that he was not Miguel, the man did nothing. He had failed in his duty. In the harsh world of a bandido second chances only rarely came by which one who made a mistake might profit.

  The Kid sprang forward like a charging cougar. His left hand clamped on the man’s throat, silencing any sound unmade. The right hand drove home the bowie knife, ripping into the man’s belly, across and back again in the V-shaped killing stroke learned from his Comanche grandfather. He let a dead man fall from his hand.

  Satisfied that only two men—now both of them accounted for and silenced—had been on guard, the Kid gave a shrill whistle.

  Up on the slope Dusty and the others saw the Kid’s big white toss its head and walk down towards the house. They followed even though none had heard the Kid’s whistle. The big horse would never move until its master signaled it to do so.

  ‘Got it, boy?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Right here,’ whispered Waco, speaking no louder than had Dusty and showing the powder horn in his hand.

  ‘We’re all set then.’

  Pancho moved forward with the others. He recognized a born leader when he saw one and knew he could do worse than follow Dusty’s lead. The plan would work, but only if every man did his part just as the small Texan ordered.

  In silence they moved forward, leaving the horses behind with trailing reins rather than risk taking them in closer. The Kid appeared in the same silent way which he faded from sight on his way down. He nodded to Dusty and did not waste a word for he did not need. Dusty knew he could trust the Kid to handle any scouting mission and not to miss anything so important as a hidden sentry.

  ‘Only one thing though,’ drawled the Kid. ‘That roof’s not flat. It’s sloping up there like a Tennessee log cabin.’

  ‘Figured that,’ Dusty replied, no louder but sounding as dry as a sun-baked twig in the middle of the Staked Plains. ‘Changed our play just a mite. Let’s go.’

  On reaching the building Mark turned, standing with his back to it and cupping his hands together, holding them ready for Waco’s foot. The youngster came forward, placed his right foot into Mark’s hands, then thrust up with his left leg. Helped by the surging lift of Mark’s hands, Waco rose into the air, caught the edge of the roof and hauled himself up. Silently but quickly, he climbed upwards to the ridge on top. He walked along it, balancing despite his high-heeled boots, and halted by the chimney from which came the sounds of shouting, laughter and snatches of song, mingling with the smoke from a fire burning in the grate below.

  Taking the powder horn from where it swung behind his back, he carefully removed its stopper, then he wa
ited. Waco looked down, along the slope of the roof. He hoped Dusty had gauged the right amount of powder or there would sure be a hot time on that roof when he played his part in the plan.

  He did not have long to wait. The others were already taking up their places ready for going into action. Waco listened, hearing the call of whippoorwill from behind the building, a second from the far side, the third came from below him and lastly, one by the front entrance. Lifting the powder horn, he dropped it down the chimney.

  Enrico Chavez could claim to be a master of his trade. Fast with his guns, able to call his shots with accuracy, he could draw praise from Texas men like Whang, Dooley and Clapper in such a matter. Even his worst enemy could not doubt his personal courage. He had a good education, could plan clearly and well. One thing alone kept Chavez from reaching legendary status like the James brothers, the Daltons or any other of the outlaw breed who were fabled in song and story. Chavez could not hold his liquor. Only a few drinks reduced him to an unsteady boaster and a drunken incompetent.

  As he sat at the table in the Inn of the Cock, Chavez had taken enough drink to make him boastful. A few more would see him sprawled flat on his back under the table, sleeping and uncaring that he rode on an urgent and vitally important mission which might be endangered by his drunken stupor. The previous night he had drunk himself under the table and so delayed his party’s start this morning that darkness found them far short of the distance they should have covered along the road to the border.

  Rising unsteadily to his feet, Chavez climbed on to the table and looked around him in a challenging, defiant manner. He made a fine figure, tall, slim, handsome, wearing the charro dress of a wealthy Mexican and looking natural in it; something few bandidos managed in their loot-bought finery. His sombrero carried silver conches on its snakeskin band, the white shirt, though sweat streaked and dirty, was made of silk and the short black jacket carried silver filigree work on it as did the tight legged, flaring bottomed trousers. Even his spurs were forged from silver. Silver also decorated the gunbelt, but it hung just right and the .44 Rimfire Colt with fancy cast metal Tiffany stocks, much favored below the border, rode in a fast draw, tied down holster.