‘Let’s go,’ Salar hissed. ‘We didn’t get the Kid.’
The words brought instant departure. The other men knew of the skill of the Ysabel Kid and didn’t want him in a fight. He had not returned for the white horse, but that meant nothing to them. They turned their horses and headed off into the night, drawing rein only when they’d put almost a mile between themselves and Sanchez Riley’s place.
Salar brought his horse to a halt and the others stopped around him, straining their ears to pick up some sound which would warn that the Kid was in pursuit.
‘We’ve lost him now,’ Smith growled.
‘I ain’t sorry, about that,’ put in another man. ‘That damned Kid’s too much like an Injun for me.’
‘What we going to do about him?’ Salar inquired. ‘Dave wants him dead and it’ll go bad for some of us if he isn’t. We can’t get him before he crosses the river and I’m not going after him.’
‘We’ll have to wait and see if he gets back.’
‘He’ll get back,
Señor
Smith,’ Salar replied. ‘We might stay around here but it would do little good. There are so many ways the Kid could get back towards Holbrock without touching here. Besides, Sanchez Riley’s the Kid’s friend. He would be on the look-out for us.’
‘The Kid’ll have to head back to Holbrock when he’s done though,’. Smith remarked thoughtfully. ‘Which means he’ll come through the woods, follow the trail. We could lay for him either in the woods, or where the trail comes out of them. That would be the best place, plenty of cover and less chance of the Kid getting hid down, with that damned yellow boy of his’n going.’
‘Is good thinking,’ agreed Salar. ‘One man could get on that rim beyond the woods and be able to see the Kid far off. Then we could lay for him. It will be the best way to get him.’
‘Mean sagehenning out there,’ Smith replied. ‘But it’ll be worth it. We’ll stay out and not let the folks at Holbrock know we’re back. Then when the Kid comes through we’ll be ready.’
‘He might come through in the night,’ the man called Tonk pointed out.
‘Sure, but there’ll be some moon in a few days and that white stallion’ll show up real well.’
With that Smith turned his horse and started in the direction they’d come. The other men followed him, riding away from Sanchez Riley’s place.
The Ysabel Kid lay in the darkness away from the house for a time, listening to the sound of the departing men. Then he heard voices shouting from the opened windows of the bedrooms.
‘What’s the shooting, Frank?’ called a voice as a man, keeping clear of the lamplight, came to the side of his bedroom window.
‘I don’t know, Jesse,’ came the reply. ‘You all right, Cole?’
‘Sure, I’m all right,’ a third voice replied.
‘Is all right,
Señor
James,’ Sanchez Riley’s voice sounded from the ground floor. ‘A private matters I apologize that your sleep was disturbed.’
* * *
The Ysabel Kid was a day-and-a-half into Comanche country. He’d crossed the Salt Fork of the Brazos before daylight on the morning after his visit to Sanchez Riley’s and was now riding through the wild, open country of the greatest of the horse-Indians, the Comanche.
In that time he’d seen tracks of small hunting parties, not new enough to worry him, and sign of a large band but no warriors. He did not expect to see the Comanche until they wanted to be seen. He expected a Comanche scout had spotted him early that morning. The scout would have seen him and gone haring off to warn others that a white man was in the land of the Comanche, or might still be watching to find out what folly brought a lone man into their land.
The Kid held his Nigger horse to the same easy walk; there was no need for hurry now and no chance of Salar’s bunch following him. He studied the range around him, examining every inch for the first sign that the Comanche wanted him to be aware of their presence.
It was fine land here, rolling slopes, hills, valleys; rich and well watered. The grass was deep, fully capable of supporting and fattening vast herds of cattle. But the Comanche ruled this land and did not want cattle; only the great, shaggy buffalo, the mule-deer, the pronghorn antelope and the wild horse grazed on the rich grass. It was wild, beautiful, wide open and free from the corrupting influence of the white man. This was how all the plains must have looked before the white man came. Looking at it, the Kid felt a vague stirring, a half-wish that the white man had never come, bringing great herds of cattle and the rest: the town, the farmer, moving in and driving the free-roaming Indian from his land.
That would happen here, the Kid knew. The White Father in Washington might give his word that no white man would move across the Salt Fork of the Brazos, but that word would be broken. Pressure would be brought to bear on the Senate, more land would be needed, then it would happen again. The Army would move in and the Comanches would be driven from this fertile land to whatever useless bit of soil the white men did not want. That was the way of the white man; it was no wonder the Indians fought so savagely against it.
While he was thinking, the Kid was riding along, his every sense alert as he rode. He knew now he was being watched by cold eyes that followed his every move. But he made no attempt to draw either the Winchester or the old Dragoon revolver. He was here in peace and wanted to give no sign of war. Resistance would be out of the question and useless, for he was surrounded, watched, and the Comanche would show themselves only when they were ready, not before.
The big white horse snorted, throwing back its head as the wind brought the scent of hidden men.
‘Easy, ole Nigger hoss,’ the Kid said gently. ‘I know they’re about.’
For another ten minutes he rode on, giving no sign that he knew the hidden watchers were around him, closing in all the time. It was the deadly war of nerves the Comanche liked to play on a man. One faltering move could bring an arrow or a bullet for the Comanche had no use for a coward or a man who spooked at shadows.
Then there were Comanches ahead of him. They came over the top of the rim he was climbing, to his right and left. Although the Kid never changed his easy position he knew there were others behind him.
The group were squat, thick-bodied, hard-faced warriors, with lank black hair framing their faces. They were naked to the waist, a breech-cloth and calf-high Comanche moccasins being all they wore. To men who didn’t know the Indians in general and Comanche in particular, these warriors looked poorly dressed and armed. They did not wear fancy doeskin warshirts, feathered headdress or any of the war-wear affected by other tribes, nor did they show signs of either repeating rifle, war bow or revolver. Their sole weapon appeared to be the lance. Each man held the needle pointed, razor edged, seven foot war lance, and wore a knife at his belt, but there was no sign of a firearm amongst them.
The Ysabel Kid was a man who knew Indians in general and more than a little about Comanches. The sign was plain enough and told a grim and savage story. Those warriors were Dog Soldiers, members of the bravest, finest, supreme Commanche war lodge. They carried the weapon of the chosen, the lance: it was the only weapon a Comanche Dog Soldier needed. His knife was not used to kill, but only as a means of taking a scalp, or ending the life of an enemy who did not deserve the honourable thrust of the lance. They used no bow, no rifles, no revolvers; but they’d be fighting long after lesser Comanches had been driven, off and gone from the battle.
There were eight men in the group ahead of the Kid. Seven of them were old hands; battle-tried warriors with scalps hanging before their lodges. They sat their horses, faces expressionless and inscrutable, looking for all the world as if they were carved from stone.
The eighth Comanche was a youngster, just initiated to the Dog Soldier Lodge and without trophy or scalp taken in war. He watched the approaching rider, then lifted his lance, shook it in the air and let out a war-yell which was savage enough to scare the hair out of a silvertip grizzly. He sent his wiry pony forward, changing from rock-still to a gallop in a split-second and hurled down the slope at the Ysabel Kid.
The lance point, held along the neck of the racing pony, was ready to split through the Kid like a needle through a piece of cloth. The Kid stopped his horse for an instant, then started it forward again, still lounging in the saddle. For all his nonchalant appearance he was tense and ready and felt the big white horse moving more lightly now. Old Nigger always knew what was expected of him. The Kid kept on riding, making no attempt to draw a weapon but watching the young Comanche all the time.
At last, with the lance point driving full at him, the Kid moved. His right hand slapped down, knocking the lance to one side; his knee gave the white a signal. The big horse sidestepped the charging pony, allowing it to shoot by. The young brave was off-balance and he did not get a chance to recover. The Kid lashed up a backhand slap full into the face of the onrushing Comanche, knocking him from the racing war-pony. As the young brave fell, the Ysabel Kid came out of the saddle of his big white. The Comanche lit down hard, lost his lance and lay winded on the ground. The Kid landed astride the brave, then knelt over him, the sun glinting on the blade of his razor sharp bowie knife as it came out of the sheath to the brave’s chin, resting in position to slit the brown throat.
‘You live or you die,’ said the Kid in the deep-throated Comanche tongue, looking down into the brave’s amazed eyes. ‘Choose!’
The young brave looked up taking in the dark face above him and reading no sign of hesitation. A refusal would bring the knife slashing across his throat, biting through to the neck bone. That was the Comanche way; the way of a Dog Soldier who took a prisoner in such a manner. The young Comanche hated having to choose life at the hands of a white man, no matter how well the white man spoke the Comanche language and knew their customs. Then he remembered. There was no disgrace in falling to the hands of this dark-faced Texan who rode the huge white stallion.
‘I live!’ he said.
The Kid came to his feet, stepping clear and sheathing the knife. From all around came the shattering yells of the Comanche braves and the thunder of hooves. They came down towards the Kid, riding with that superb skill which made them the supreme horse-Indians. It made an awe-inspiring sight: racing ponies, each ridden by a savage-faced warrior, armed and painted for war.
Suddenly, when it seemed that all the horses would collide and crush the Kid under their weight, they stopped as if some giant hand held them, halting their horses and sitting like statues again. The dust churned up by the hooves of the horses settled again and the circle broke to allow a grey-haired man to ride through. He came forward, face inscrutable, his eyes on the black-dressed young Texan. Sitting his huge horse the Indian looked at the Kid, not speaking.
Slowly the Kid lifted his right hand in a peace sign. The Comanche dialect rolled from his tongue again:
‘Greetings, Long Walker. I have ridden many miles to see you.’
* * *
‘He’s coming!’ Salar yelled, bringing his horse to a halt by Smith’s side. ‘I saw him in the distance.’
‘No mistake is there?’ Smith replied.
It was the day the Kid was due back, nine in the morning, and the men were tired of waiting. They’d been camped out in the thick brush on the Holbrock side of the dense woods for the past few days, since losing the Kid at Sanchez Riley’s place. It was no fun, for they were short on rations and could not get any more from town. They did not dare risk going into Holbrock for food for Dusty Fog was no fool and would guess what they were doing. Handling the Ysabel Kid was dangerous enough, without the added hazard of Dusty Fog and the sheriff.
‘There’s no mistake,’ Salar replied. ‘I didn’t wait, but came as soon as I was sure it was the Kid.’
Smith grunted. There’d been several false alarms over the last two days and nights. They’d turned out once in the darkness when a rider on a light coloured horse approached, only to discover they’d made a mistake. Now they were all bad-tempered and irritable, wanting this business over and done with.
‘Get hid out, then,’ Smith snapped. ‘Both sides of the trail.’ They knew where to go for they’d already picked out the best spots for their ambush. Smith and two of the men took cover amongst the rocks at the side of the trail where they’d been camped, while Salar and the other men darted across the trail and flattened down amongst the bushes and trees at the other side. Salar slid behind a rock, his Buffalo Sharps in his hands, a bandolier, with the long .45 rifle bullets shining dully in the loops, around his shoulders. It was a weapon he favoured above any other and could guarantee to hit a man-size target at half a mile. The range would be much less here. He set the adjustable rearsight, then looked around. He lay at the edge of a shallow gully, hardly more than the dried out bed of a long departed stream. The edge of the water-course and the bottom were lined with bushes and the stream-bed ran back to the wood.
The men lay in the places they’d picked, rifles ready, lining on the trail as it emerged from the woods. Because of their failure to catch up with the Kid, the men had come to regard him as almost a supernatural being. The feeling was playing on their nerves when they heard the faint sound of a man singing: a pleasant, untrained tenor voice.
‘A Yankee rode into ole Texas,
A mean kind of cuss and real sly,
Who fell in love with Rosemary-Jo,
Then turned and told her, “Goodbye”.’
Smith looked across the trail to where Saltar was lying ready. The Mexican could read the angry, unasked question and nodded: he’d heard the Ysabel Kid sing before and knew the voice. The Kid must be thinking there was no danger so close to Holbrock, that he’d thrown off the pursuers and was safe. He certainly did not sound to be worried as he rode through the woods singing on:
‘So Rosemary-Jo telled her tough pappy,
Who yelled, “Why hombre, that’s bad.
In tears you left my Rosemary-Jo,
No Yankee can make my gal sad”.’