The Ysabel Kid by J. T. Edson

They were a varied bunch, some wearing uniforms, most of them not. The Kid felt relieved to see that the small thin faced man in the centre of the group wore the uniform of Colonel in the Juarez army. The others might be guerillos but that one was a professional soldier and would hold the others in check.
    “Stand fast all of you,” Dusty ordered. “Tom, you and Lon best do the talking while the rest of us cover you.”
    “Cover us but keep the rifles down,” the Kid replied. “I’ll talk to them but if any of them try to lift a gun shoot fast.”
    The Ysabel Kid and Alden rode forward towards the Mexicans. The Kid was alert for trouble. He knew those guerillos , they were no better than bandits most of them. This bunch here did not look any better or worse than the others, and only the fact that there were a couple of soldiers along stopped the Kid from fighting right away.
    “ Saludos ,” the Kid lifted his hand as he looked at the Mexicans.
    “Who are you?” the big, hard-faced burly man seated next to the small officer asked. “What are you doing here?”
    “Picking blueberries,” the Kid answered, then to the Mexican officer, “We are looking for Juarez.”
    “You are, huh!” the big man sneered. “I suppose you and the rest of—”
    “Charro, I’m in command here,” the small man roared. “Keep your mouth shut. And you. señor , what do you want with Juarez?”
    “Come down and talk with us, señor .”
    The Mexican looked hard at the Kid’s young face, wondering where so young a gringo learned to speak such fluent Spanish. Having come from the south of Mexico Colonel Chavez did not know the Ysabel Kid even by repute.
    “We will come.”
    The men rode down the slope into the camp area and swung down from their horses then gathered round the cook fire when Conway’s cook started to hand out the food that remained from his morning cooking spell. The Mexicans for the most part accepted the hospitality with grins of friendship for they like their leader came from the south and were not used to gringos. Nor had they the heritage of warfare the northern men shared with the Americanos del Norte . Only Charro seemed to be determined to cause trouble for he growled sullen complaints about the food and the coffee.
    “May I ask what is in the boxes?” Chavez asked.
    “Repeating rifles for Juarez,” the Kid replied and drew the new Henry from his saddleboot. “Rifles like this one.”
    “Like that?” there was reverence in the Mexican’s voice for he had never seen such a rifle as this one.
    “Just like it.”
    Charro lurched forward. “We have heard of no such rifles.”
    “Juarez does not tell his men everything,” Dusty put in; something about the big Mexican annoyed him.
    Charro spun round, noted the small Texan’s apparent youth and innocence and reached out a hand to put it on to Dusty’s chest meaning to push him backwards. Faster than the eye could follow Dusty moved. What he did was absurdly simple but the result was spectacular. His hands linked together on the back of the Mexican’s dirty hand, flattening it to his chest. Then he dropped to his right knee and pain knifed through Charro’s arm. He was brought to his knees by the pain and by the fact that if he did not go down his wrist would snap. Dusty let loose and brought his knee up under the other’s jaw lifting him up and on to his back.
    Charro landed hard, his hand clawing at his gun. Colonel Chavez stepped in and his foot came down hard on Charro’s wrist, holding his hand still. “Look, cabron . Look and thank me for saving your life.”
    Charro looked. The small Texan stood with a gun in his left hand, the hammer eared back under his thumb. Even as the big Mexican looked the gun went back into leather again and the hand lifted clear.
    Chavez smiled mockingly and stepped clear; he was not too fond of Charro from the way he acted. “So these rifles are for Juarez?” he asked.
    “They are,” it was Alden who