across at the guard with the convex curve of the sharpened lower edge meeting the convex curve of the upper edge exactly in the centre of the knife. The convex edge was also sharpened to the same razor edge, but the straight piece which ran from it to the guard was rounded and thick for strength. That was the knife of the Ysabel Kid, a real, genuine, James Black bowie from the same forge the old Texas master’s own blade came and made to his own specifications. The finest fighting knife ever devised, manufactured or used by man.
For a moment Charro looked at the long and wicked knife in the hand of the Texan. He licked his lips for he now knew he was faced by el Cabrito and there was no escape from a fight. Chavez and the other men would never agree to his not fighting now.
“Come, Charro. We don’t want to be here all day,” Chavez snapped. “Take your place and I will give the signal.”
Dusty escorted the Kid thirty yards along the track at the edge of the thick bush. They stood side-by-side and watched Chavez push Charro into place facing them.
“Hope you know what you’re doing, amigo ,” Dusty remarked.
“I know. I’ve seen that hombre before. He was one of Giss’s pards. They won’t take my word for it but when I’ve done with him he’ll talk loud, long and often.”
“Are you ready, señor ?” Chavez called.
“Ready, willing and able!” the Kid replied.
“Then go!”
Charro whirled and plunged into the thick bush fast, running forward to dive under a bush and lay there. At the same moment the Ysabel Kid shook his knife and gave voice to a Comanche war-scream and went in after him in a smooth dive. Where Charro halted and took cover the Kid hunted for him knowing what the Mexican was doing and willingly matching Comanche skill and training against a dangerous and passive enemy. It was his favourite game and one at which he was willing to match his skill with any man, white, brown or red. Without a move that would make a sound he flitted through the woods, a black dressed shadow with a razor sharp Bowie knife in his hand.
Charro lay under the comparative safety of the bush, hugging the ground and trying to see some sign of the black dressed, baby-faced killer who even now was stalking him. He knew that el Cabrito would never lay up passively and wait for the other man to come for him but would be hunting and questing as dangerous as any cougar and more willing to attack.
From his hiding place under his waist-band the Mexican drew a Derringer pistol and grinned savagely as he hefted the heavy little single shot weapon. He would rather have been holding a sixshooter but could never have concealed one from the eagle scrutiny of Colonel Chavez and Chavez was too much of a gentleman to let Charro bring a known firearm into a knife duel. It was having this Derringer which gave him the confidence to come in here and risk meeting the Ysabel Kid in combat. It gave an advantage over even the finest knife-fighter, for the bowie knife was outranged by the comparatively short-ranged weapon as a Derringer.
Minutes rolled by, minutes which brought sweat running down Charro’s face and made him repeatedly loosen his grip on the Derringer and wipe dry his palm. He was afraid and wished that he was not in a place where he could only make an exit in one direction. However the Kid must be near now, prowling through the bush like a hunting mountain lion. Any sign or sound Charro made would be transmitted in the uncanny silence of the woods to the keen ears which sought for such things.
For a brief instance he thought he saw a black shadow flit across an open space, but there was no sound and he decided his imagination was playing tricks on him.
Then from close at hand a bird gave a startled squawk and rocketed up into the air. Charro twisted to where the sound came from, bringing the Derringer cracking out even before he was round.
From behind there came a sudden rush of feet, even as a branch fell from the
For a moment Charro looked at the long and wicked knife in the hand of the Texan. He licked his lips for he now knew he was faced by el Cabrito and there was no escape from a fight. Chavez and the other men would never agree to his not fighting now.
“Come, Charro. We don’t want to be here all day,” Chavez snapped. “Take your place and I will give the signal.”
Dusty escorted the Kid thirty yards along the track at the edge of the thick bush. They stood side-by-side and watched Chavez push Charro into place facing them.
“Hope you know what you’re doing, amigo ,” Dusty remarked.
“I know. I’ve seen that hombre before. He was one of Giss’s pards. They won’t take my word for it but when I’ve done with him he’ll talk loud, long and often.”
“Are you ready, señor ?” Chavez called.
“Ready, willing and able!” the Kid replied.
“Then go!”
Charro whirled and plunged into the thick bush fast, running forward to dive under a bush and lay there. At the same moment the Ysabel Kid shook his knife and gave voice to a Comanche war-scream and went in after him in a smooth dive. Where Charro halted and took cover the Kid hunted for him knowing what the Mexican was doing and willingly matching Comanche skill and training against a dangerous and passive enemy. It was his favourite game and one at which he was willing to match his skill with any man, white, brown or red. Without a move that would make a sound he flitted through the woods, a black dressed shadow with a razor sharp Bowie knife in his hand.
Charro lay under the comparative safety of the bush, hugging the ground and trying to see some sign of the black dressed, baby-faced killer who even now was stalking him. He knew that el Cabrito would never lay up passively and wait for the other man to come for him but would be hunting and questing as dangerous as any cougar and more willing to attack.
From his hiding place under his waist-band the Mexican drew a Derringer pistol and grinned savagely as he hefted the heavy little single shot weapon. He would rather have been holding a sixshooter but could never have concealed one from the eagle scrutiny of Colonel Chavez and Chavez was too much of a gentleman to let Charro bring a known firearm into a knife duel. It was having this Derringer which gave him the confidence to come in here and risk meeting the Ysabel Kid in combat. It gave an advantage over even the finest knife-fighter, for the bowie knife was outranged by the comparatively short-ranged weapon as a Derringer.
Minutes rolled by, minutes which brought sweat running down Charro’s face and made him repeatedly loosen his grip on the Derringer and wipe dry his palm. He was afraid and wished that he was not in a place where he could only make an exit in one direction. However the Kid must be near now, prowling through the bush like a hunting mountain lion. Any sign or sound Charro made would be transmitted in the uncanny silence of the woods to the keen ears which sought for such things.
For a brief instance he thought he saw a black shadow flit across an open space, but there was no sound and he decided his imagination was playing tricks on him.
Then from close at hand a bird gave a startled squawk and rocketed up into the air. Charro twisted to where the sound came from, bringing the Derringer cracking out even before he was round.
From behind there came a sudden rush of feet, even as a branch fell from the
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