Comanche (14 page)

‘I reckon I can,’ grinned Hondo. ‘Ole Devil had a few words with their commander before we left the OD Connected.’

Which meant the officer would be more amenable to suggestions than most of his kind when dealing with civilians. At that time, as in later life even after being crippled trying to ride an unbroken horse,** Ole Devil Hardin packed considerable weight in Texas affairs. No army captain with an eye on his future would ignore the suggestions of a man in Ole Devil’s favour.

‘Then we’ll give her a whirl,’ Ysabel drawled.

‘How do you plan to handle it?’ Hondo asked, after Blaze rode off to collect the soldiers.

‘
Nemenuh
fashion,’ Ysabel replied and patted the Comanche hair rope on his grulla’s saddle.

Moving silently through the darkness, Loncey, Ysabel and the sheriff made their way to the rear of the corral. Already one guard stood by the gate and, even as the trio approached, a second man left the cantina.

‘What now?’ Ysabel breathed as the second man walked towards the guard.

‘We’ll have to take them both,’ Hondo answered in no louder tone. ‘I’ll go to the right, you have the one on the left.’

‘Let’s wait and see if the one being relieved goes in first,’ suggested Ysabel.

Although they waited, the hope was not fulfilled. Instead of going to the cantina, as any decent guard should when relieved, the first man stayed talking to his relief.

‘We’ll have to take them,’ Hondo said.

‘Looks that way,’ Ysabel answered and laid down the rope he carried.

Much as he would have liked to go along, Loncey realised he could not waste time in arguing the matter. Not having been raised in the Comanche tradition, Hondo regarded fourteen as being just a mite young for the risky business of silencing horse-guards; especially as the boy was armed only with a knife and could not club a man insensible with that.

Leaving Loncey, the men moved off around the walls of the corral. Ysabel made no sound as he passed along the side and turned to the front. Ahead of him, the two guards stood talking in low tones. Clearly they expected no trouble, for they showed none of their usual alertness and their voices carried to him.

‘How that small one screamed,’ the man with his back to Ysabel was saying. ‘Hah! How I enjoyed it.’

‘So you should have,’ his companion replied. ‘You were the last to have her.’

With those words, a man forfeited his right to stay alive. Up until that moment Ysabel intended to use the butt of his big Walker Colt to silence the guard. On hearing that one of the men who raped Mary-Sue Hobill stood before him, he substituted the bowie knife for his gun.

Suddenly Rondo Fog loomed behind the second man, coming as silently as Ysabel from the opposite direction. Up swung the sheriff’s arm and lashed towards the man’s head. Even as the guard before Ysabel realised the danger, a big hand closed over his mouth from behind and dragged him back on to the point of the bowie knife. Savagely Ysabel rammed home the knife into the guard’s kidneys. His hand stifled any outcry, and death came swiftly. After a brief, convulsive jerking, the guard went limp and Ysabel let a lifeless body fall to the ground.

‘Did you have to kill him?’ demanded the sheriff as Ysabel wiped the knife’s blade clean on the dead man’s clothing.

‘I reckon Mary-Sue Hobill’d say I did,’ Ysabel answered. ‘Hawg-tie your’n, I’ll prop mine up by the gate so that anybody looking from the cantina’ll think they still have a guard out.’

Being an advocate for simple justice, Hondo raised no more objections. He had heard the conversation between the guards and knew why Ysabel struck to kill. Taking out the pigging thongs brought for the purpose, he secured the unconscious man at his feet and gagged him with his own bandana. By the time Rondo finished, Ysabel had propped up the body by the gate.

Dragging the prisoner between them, the two men returned to where Loncey stood. Ysabel did not need to speak to his son. As Hondo went to keep watch on the cantina from the corner of the corral, Loncey bounded up, caught hold of the top of the wall and pulled himself over. Taking up his rope, Ysabel tossed one end over to his son. However, Loncey left the rope hanging for a moment. Swiftly he passed among the resting horses, calming down any which showed signs of restlessness, until he found the dominant animal. Being herd-creatures, horses always accepted one of their number as leader and followed its lead. If the scheme was to succeed, Loncey must pick out that horse from among the others. All the experience gained during his training years went into the search and at last Loncey made his decision. Catching hold of the remuda leader’s mane, he led the horse to where the rope hung.

With everything ready at his side, Loncey gripped the rope and shook it gently. Then he drew down on his end, whipping the hard rope over the top of the wall. At the other side, Ysabel waited until his son’s pull ended, then drew back on his end.

Back and forwards, back and forwards went the rope, its rough exterior acting as a saw and biting into the adobe blocks of the wall. It required much continuous effort, but man and boy worked on without stopping until they had cut down almost to the ground. Pulling free their rope, they moved it about three foot to the left of the first cut and repeated the process.

Time dragged by. At the cantina light after light went out, but Hondo knew at least one guard would be awake in the building. Apparently nobody missed the first corral sentry, although that could be because Montego meant to keep two men watching the vital horses.

On reaching ground level with the second cut, Ysabel and Loncey took a rest but did not remove the rope. Instead They started to draw the strands along parallel to the ground in the direction of the right hand incision.

‘Easy, boy!’ Ysabel hissed at last.

Reaching up, Ysabel gripped the top of the wall and pulled at it. For a moment nothing happened, then the cut-away segment tilted outwards and Ysabel lowered it to the ground.

‘Here, ‘
ap
!’ Loncey said, voice throbbing with excitement but only a whisper.

Everything depended on how well the boy judged the horses. Ysabel caught the mane of the animal Loncey selected and led it through the gap. Instantly the boy started the next animal moving, but left it to quieten a third horse which began to show signs of becoming restless. Such was the skill Loncey had developed that he kept the remuda quiet while leading out horse after horse. Finding their companions departing, the remaining horses showed no reluctance at being woken from sleep and led out to where Ysabel, mounted on their leader, waited. At last every horse had been collected and Ysabel started walking the leader slowly away, with the rest following behind.

oooOooo

* Told in
The Peacemakers.

** Told in
The Fastest Gun in Texas
.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘WHERE’S Loncey?’ asked Hondo as he and Ysabel moved the horses up the slope of the valley.

For the first time Ysabel realised that his son was not accompanying them. Twisting around, he looked back to the corral and from there in the direction of the cantina. Suddenly he knew the answer to the sheriff’s question.

‘The damned young fool!’ Ysabel growled. ‘He’s gone after those other two horses that’re out front.’

‘What’re we going to do?’ Hondo inquired.

‘Keep going,’ replied Ysabel. ‘Happen the boy can’t fend for himself by now, Long Walker and me raised him all wrong.’

With that Ysabel continued moving up the slope and Hondo followed. Already the deep blackness which comes just before dawn breaks had descended. If they were to succeed, the men must have the horses over the rim before Montego’s gang stirred in the cantina. On topping the slope, both men looked back, but beyond the black loom of the cantina’s bulk and corral walls, could discern nothing of what went on down below.

Two ideas motivated Loncey’s decision to collect the pair of fine horses from before the cantina. First he wished to distinguish himself by an act of bravery as had always been taught to him. Secondly he knew that Hondo meant to have the pair shot when the attack started, so as to prevent the men in the cantina using them.

Closing the gap between the corral and the cantina, Loncey moved in complete silence and his buckskin clothing merged with the blackness around him. Although no lights showed from the cantina, he did not become careless. So he heard the squeak of the front door and instantly sank to the ground in a crouch, right hand sliding the knife from its sheath.

A man walked from the cantina, sombrero on head and serape draped around him. Muttering to himself, he started to cross the open ground in the direction of the corral. Loncey knew what he must do. If the man found the denuded corral, he would raise the alarm and spoil all the good work of the night. Swiftly the boy thought of his instruction in the business of silencing an enemy. In often-repeated lessons, he had been taught where to use a knife at such a time so as to ensure a quick and silent death. Walking with his head bowed forward, the man prevented any chance of slashing the throat. Nor could Loncey be sure of striking any of the places in the body under the concealment of the serape.

Only one place remained—but it was one of the best for Loncey’s purpose, even if only a knife-fighter would think of it.

Nearer came the man, unaware of his danger. Half-asleep, unattentive, he paid the ultimate price for lack of caution. Like a flash Loncey came up from the ground, his knife licking forward. The razor sharp blade tore open the inside of the man’s left thigh, slicing in to sever both the femoral and great saphenous veins. Even as pain drove into the man, numbing his mind, Loncey’s left hand caught his uninjured leg at the ankle and hauled it from the ground. Down went the man, his rifle falling from his hand but not exploding. Dropping on to his victim, Loncey forced the sombrero over the man’s face and stifled any chance of an outcry during the thirty seconds needed for death to come.

Rising from the body, Loncey looked around him. All remained still, his silencing appeared to have been successful. He walked forward, approaching the two horses and whistling in a low, tuneless manner which tended to sooth any fears they might have. The nearer animal must have caught a smell of blood, for it snorted and moved restlessly. Darting forward, Loncey caught its head-stall with his left hand and commenced to quieten it in the manner learned so well during horse-stealing games at the village.

The man who left the cantina had bare feet and made little or no sound. Pausing outside, he glanced towards the horses and saw the dark human shape close by. Unsure of who it might be, but apparently suspecting nothing, he walked forward.

‘What’s wro—?’ he began.

Fast and deadly as a stick-teased rattlesnake, Loncey whirled around. He had heard the man’s approach and wasted not a single moment. Before the newcomer realised his mistake, Loncey struck. This one did not wear a hat and the boy knew just what to do. Across and up whipped his right arm, ripping the knife’s blade over the man’s throat. Deep into flesh sank the steel, slicing the wind-pipe, vocal cords and veins until almost touching the bone, preventing its receiver from being able to utter any sound. Turning, the man staggered, clutching at the hitching rail with his left hand while trying to draw the revolver from his sash with the right. Death came just as quickly as it had with his companion and he slid to the ground without making a sound.

‘
A’he!
’ Loncey hissed automatically.

Behind him the horses showed signs of becoming restless. For all that Loncey stepped to the dying man and pulled the gun from his sash; a precaution against a last minute burst of strength and determination drawing and firing it to waken the still-sleeping cantina. The smooth, hand-fitting curve of a Dragoon Colt’s walnut butt and the four pound, one ounce weight told Loncey what kind of revolver he held. It seemed that
Ka-Dih
looked in favour on the boy that night, not only permitting him to count coup twice, but also presenting him with the opportunity to obtain a highly-prized piece of loot. Already the Colt company had begun to build its reputation and receive just acclaim for the excellence of its products. Among the
Pehnane
no firearm was so highly prized as the heavy, six shot Colt revolving pistol—as it was known at that time—and, by right of possession, Loncey now owned one.

Sheathing his knife, he thrust the revolver into his belt and went to the horses. With remarkably steady fingers, considering what he had just done, the boy unfastened the reins. He did not mount, but led the animals slowly away from the building. Already disturbed by the smell of blood, the horses showed no objections to moving away from its source. Once clear of the hard-packed earth before the cantina, with springy, sound deadening grass under foot, Loncey mounted one of the horses to ride it and lead the other up the slope.

‘See you got them,’ Ysabel grunted as his son joined him and the sheriff.

‘They’re good horses, ‘
ap
,’ Loncey replied, giving all the excuses he considered necessary. ‘The soldiers are coming.’

Not for several more seconds could Hondo Fog hear the distant sound of horses moving. He glanced up at the sky, which lightened by the minute. Taking the
bandidos’
mounts had been justified, for the soldiers would not arrive until after it became sufficiently light to prevent any chance of their reaching the cantina unseen. Given even moderate luck now, Branston Blaze would have the men on hand and the attack launched before any of the
bandidos
became aware of the loss of the horses.

‘You be needing us any more, Hondo?’ asked Ysabel.

‘I don’t reckon so,’ answered the sheriff, knowing his companion did not wish to meet the soldiers.

‘How about the hosses?’

‘The labourer is worthy of his hire,’ quoted Hondo. ‘Take them.’

‘Now here’s a lawman I could get to like,’ drawled Ysabel.

‘You try running contraband through Rio Hondo and you’ll quick change your mind on that,’ grinned Hondo. ‘And thanks, Sam.’

‘See you around, Hondo,’ Ysabel replied. ‘Let’s go boy.’

With the coming of daylight, Ysabel found just how worthwhile his son’s private raid had been. The two horses each sported a fancy, silver-concha decorated saddle and bridle, while being animals of considerable value. Studying the horses, Loncey felt content. He knew that he had performed a feat worthy of a
Nemunuh
brave.

Just how worthwhile Loncey did not learn until much later. Even Hondo Fog failed to find out until after the attack on the cantina had been successfully made, for he withdrew to go and meet the soldiers before it was light enough to see the two dead men outside the building.

Although the men arrived and began their advance before the loss of the horses was discovered, an occupant of the cantina saw them and raised the alarm. At first the
bandidos
prepared to make their fight from the bullet-proof safety of the building, but a shell from the howitzer changed their minds. Dashing out, they found the corral empty and at that moment Hondo gave the order to launch a charge.

Knowing the cornered-rat courage of the
bandido
, Hondo felt puzzled at the comparatively weak resistance. He found the reason when advancing to secure the men who surrendered. The few who tried to reach the safety of the Rio Grande on foot were run down by a mounted party under Branston Blaze. Sprawled before the building, clearly dead before the attack, lay two bodies.

‘It’s Montego and his second-in-command,’ Hondo told the U.S. Mounted Rifles officer.

‘That accounts for why the others didn’t fight,’ replied the officer. ‘They had no leader. Your work, sheriff?’

Looking down at Montego, lying with bare feet and fancy clothing soaked in the blood which poured from the ear-to-ear gash in the throat, Hondo shook his head.

‘Not mine. The Ysabel Kid’s.’

‘Here, brother,’ said Loncey, standing in the centre of a circle of people and passing the reins of one of the cantina horses to Loud Voice. Then he turned and looked at Comes For Food. ‘And this is for you,
amigo
.’

After rejoining their Mexican helpers, Loncey and Ysabel pushed on to the
Pehnane
country. They found the village with no great difficulty, returning in the manner of a triumphant raiding party. Having brought in a fair bunch of horses, including the two acquired by his own efforts, gained possession of a Colt revolver and counted coup twice, Loncey could only be honoured by receiving another Give-Away Dance. For the first time, he was in a position to be able to supply the majority of the gifts arranged in the centre of the circle and took a warrior’s right by ensuring that his foster-brother and best friend received the pick of the loot.

Nobody expected a brave-heart to part with such a highly desirable trophy as the Dragoon Colt of course. It proved to be one of the straight-backed triggerguard type later known as the First Model, almost in mint condition and not altered from when it left the factory. A store in the last white man’s town visited before entering the
Pehnane
country supplied Loncey with a Colt powder flask suitable for the Dragoon and a .44 calibre bullet mould. While offered paper cartridges, the boy declined. He preferred to use a round lead ball backed by forty grains of loose powder. Such was the simplicity of design and operation that Loncey could strip, clean, maintain and load his weapon long before he reached the village, but handling it with accuracy took far more practice.

It seemed that the fates conspired to keep alive Fire Dancer’s hatred of the Ysabel family. Only the day before, No Father made his first major hunting kill, a large bull elk, and his mother planned to give a dance to make sure everybody knew of his achievement. Unfortunately a mere hunting trophy could not compare with the horses brought in by Loncey and so Fire Dancer’s celebration had to be postponed while the village honoured the greater success. Such would have been intolerable to Fire Dancer under any conditions; that a member of the hated Ysabel family caused her son’s being forgotten made matters far worse.

After Loncey told of his exploits, with the crowd listening and the braves nodding grim approval, Ysabel walked to his side. Holding out his hand, the big man asked to see the boy’s knife. Obediently Loncey handed it over, watching as his father examined it. At last Ysabel gave a grunt and tossed the knife aside.

‘That was for a boy to carry,’ he said, reaching behind his back and producing something hidden beneath his pants waistband. ‘But this is a man’s knife. Take it—
Cuchilo
.’

Only by straining every nerve did Loncey prevent himself from showing the emotion which welled up inside him at what he saw. In his father’s hands lay a knife—yet such a knife as the boy only dreamed of owning. It had an ivory hilt curved so as to fit in the palm and never slip, a brass guard to protect the hand from an enemy’s cut or stab, and a blade full eleven and a half inch long, two and a half wide, thick across the back for strength, yet with an edge a barber might desire on his razor, the convex swoop of the edge forming a central point with a two and a half inch concave false edge on the back, the latter so sharpened as to form a continuation of the blade itself.

Loncey did not need to ask what kind of knife his father presented to him. There might be good copies available, but only the true, genuine James Black bowie knife gave that impression of superlative excellence. Bought some time before, the knife had been stored in buffalo tallow and kept hidden until Long Walker and Ysabel decided the boy to be worthy of owning it. Loncey’s actions at the cantina proved him to be ready to take possession of one of the finest fighting knives ever made.

Standing in the light of the fire, Loncey hefted the knife and tried a tentative slash. He felt the knife’s superb balance throw its weight behind the blade and knew he held perfection when he mastered its use. A dull rumble rose from the watching crowd, a single word. Yet in the moment the boy was Loncey no more to the
Pehnane
. At last he received formal granting of his man-name. It roiled like distant thunder through the still of the Texas night.

‘Cuchilo!’

‘Look at him!’ hissed Fire Dancer, standing in the darkness at the edge of the crowd and jabbing her son with an elbow. ‘You are a better warrior than him, yet they give him honour and none to you.’

While No Father heartily agreed with his mother’s views on his greatness, he grudgingly admitted that nothing he had so far achieved even approached the deeds which brought Loncey acclaim. Of course he could seek to devalue the slim boy by physical means, but had no wish to make the attempt. While No Father wished to achieve the greatness his mother frequently prophesied, he possessed a broad streak of caution and felt disinclined to take unnecessary risks. All too well he knew the other boy’s deadly fighting skill and did not aim to tangle with Loncey,
Cuchilo
as he now was, unless sure of holding the advantage.