spoke.
Charro got to his feet and scowled at Dusty but kept clear of the young man. However he was clearly aiming to try and make trouble. “I say they are for the French, not for Juarez,” he growled.
“If they are for the French why would we bring them through the canebrakes like this?” the Kid sneered. “Even a loco bobo like you can see that we would be well escorted and on the main trail if these were for the French.”
“Who are you?” Charro snarled.
“They call me el Cabrito .”
“ El Cabrito ?” Chavez asked and there was a mumble of talk among his men for that name had reached even down to Oaxaca Province in the far south.
“ El Cabrito ?” Charro sneered. “The man they say never misses with his rifle. Who can move in the bush like a ghost and who can use a knife better than any man in Mexico. You tell us that you are el Cabrito ?”
The Kid faced Charro looking meaner than all hell and Comanche savage enough to scare most men. His voice fell to a deep-throated Comanche grunt as he asked:
“You doubt my word, pelado ?”
The other’s face hardened, yet he was cautious for he knew that the Kid spoke truly. “I say they lie and we should kill them all, then take the rifles.”
“You talk big, pelado ,” the Ysabel Kid sneered, “but when it comes to talk of fighting it is we should do, not I should do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to prove I’m el Cabrito . May you live to enjoy it.”
The Kid advanced until he stood with his back to the half-circle of grim faced gringos. He held his rifle in one hand, the other extracting a Mexican silver dollar from his pocket. Without looking he threw it over his shoulder and called “Dusty!”
Dusty caught the coin and tossed it into the air. It went up in a flickering turning arc and as it reached the peak spun off course. The Kid came round in a smooth turn, his rifle leaping into his shoulder and the eyes lining it even as his turn completed. One shot crashed out—one lone shot, taken almost before the Kid came to a halt in his turn. But fast taken or not, the bullet flew true and the coin was hit and knocked away to land at the feet of Colonel Chavez.
The Kid levered out the empty case and picked it up for reloading, then gave his attention to the Mexicans who were looking at his smoking rifle with awe. Not one of them would have believed any man could make such a shot. With the old muzzle-loading single-shot weapons they carried none could have hoped to hit the coin even if it was still.
With a mocking smile on his face the Kid turned to Charro and said: “Now, let’s see how you can shoot.”
“You shoot well,” Chavez remarked. “How are you with a knife?”
The Kid slid back his rifle into his saddleboot, then unfastened the pigging thong from the bottom of his holster. He unbuckled the belt and swung it in his left hand.
“I will give you proof. This pelado ,” he indicated Charro, “insulted me. We will go into the bush thirty yards apart and armed with knives. Only one of us will return. Will that satisfy you?”
Chavez smiled, his white teeth flashing. “It will. Charro, remove your gunbelt and prepare.”
Charro gulped. This was not going the way he’d hoped it would. He’d expected Chavez and the other men to fall in with his idea of killing the gringos and taking the rifles to be sold to Juarez by themselves. Now he was to have no choice. He must face this gringo boy in the bush there with a knife. If he won Chavez would listen to him. If he lost, there would be no need for him to worry over anything.
“I am prepared,” he said, swinging off the gunbelt and passing it to Chavez then drawing the long bladed, double edged knife from its bootsheath. It was a long and evil-looking weapon and with it in his hand he turned to face the dark boy he was to fight.
There was a knife in the hand of the Ysabel Kid and what a knife. Eleven and a half inches of razor sharp steel, almost two and a half inches
Charro got to his feet and scowled at Dusty but kept clear of the young man. However he was clearly aiming to try and make trouble. “I say they are for the French, not for Juarez,” he growled.
“If they are for the French why would we bring them through the canebrakes like this?” the Kid sneered. “Even a loco bobo like you can see that we would be well escorted and on the main trail if these were for the French.”
“Who are you?” Charro snarled.
“They call me el Cabrito .”
“ El Cabrito ?” Chavez asked and there was a mumble of talk among his men for that name had reached even down to Oaxaca Province in the far south.
“ El Cabrito ?” Charro sneered. “The man they say never misses with his rifle. Who can move in the bush like a ghost and who can use a knife better than any man in Mexico. You tell us that you are el Cabrito ?”
The Kid faced Charro looking meaner than all hell and Comanche savage enough to scare most men. His voice fell to a deep-throated Comanche grunt as he asked:
“You doubt my word, pelado ?”
The other’s face hardened, yet he was cautious for he knew that the Kid spoke truly. “I say they lie and we should kill them all, then take the rifles.”
“You talk big, pelado ,” the Ysabel Kid sneered, “but when it comes to talk of fighting it is we should do, not I should do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to prove I’m el Cabrito . May you live to enjoy it.”
The Kid advanced until he stood with his back to the half-circle of grim faced gringos. He held his rifle in one hand, the other extracting a Mexican silver dollar from his pocket. Without looking he threw it over his shoulder and called “Dusty!”
Dusty caught the coin and tossed it into the air. It went up in a flickering turning arc and as it reached the peak spun off course. The Kid came round in a smooth turn, his rifle leaping into his shoulder and the eyes lining it even as his turn completed. One shot crashed out—one lone shot, taken almost before the Kid came to a halt in his turn. But fast taken or not, the bullet flew true and the coin was hit and knocked away to land at the feet of Colonel Chavez.
The Kid levered out the empty case and picked it up for reloading, then gave his attention to the Mexicans who were looking at his smoking rifle with awe. Not one of them would have believed any man could make such a shot. With the old muzzle-loading single-shot weapons they carried none could have hoped to hit the coin even if it was still.
With a mocking smile on his face the Kid turned to Charro and said: “Now, let’s see how you can shoot.”
“You shoot well,” Chavez remarked. “How are you with a knife?”
The Kid slid back his rifle into his saddleboot, then unfastened the pigging thong from the bottom of his holster. He unbuckled the belt and swung it in his left hand.
“I will give you proof. This pelado ,” he indicated Charro, “insulted me. We will go into the bush thirty yards apart and armed with knives. Only one of us will return. Will that satisfy you?”
Chavez smiled, his white teeth flashing. “It will. Charro, remove your gunbelt and prepare.”
Charro gulped. This was not going the way he’d hoped it would. He’d expected Chavez and the other men to fall in with his idea of killing the gringos and taking the rifles to be sold to Juarez by themselves. Now he was to have no choice. He must face this gringo boy in the bush there with a knife. If he won Chavez would listen to him. If he lost, there would be no need for him to worry over anything.
“I am prepared,” he said, swinging off the gunbelt and passing it to Chavez then drawing the long bladed, double edged knife from its bootsheath. It was a long and evil-looking weapon and with it in his hand he turned to face the dark boy he was to fight.
There was a knife in the hand of the Ysabel Kid and what a knife. Eleven and a half inches of razor sharp steel, almost two and a half inches
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