J. Edson - Ranch War

Two right hands flashed to the hilt of knives and steel glinted faintly under the pale light of the stars. Even as Ruiz saw the Kid start moving toward him, he felt elation rise inside him. White men in general, and Texans in particular, tended to regard Mexicans as knife-rather than gun-fighters. It was a belief that Ruiz had used to his advantage on more than one occasion. His white opponents had expected him to make his play with cold steel rather than hot lead. That expectation had cost four men their lives.

What Ruiz failed to take into consideration was that the Kid was only part-white. Both the French-Creoles and the Comanches had long been knife-fighters. In addition to that, the Kid had been around Mexicans long and often enough to know that some of them were good with handguns.

Taking in the other’s stance, the Kid’s mind screamed a warning. Ruiz’s foot placement was wrong. Correct for using a gun, but not offering the freedom of balance and movement needed when fighting with a knife.

Even as the thought came, Ruiz dropped the knife, and his right hand flew down to the Colt’s butt. Up tilted the long barrel, still in its holster and the hammer clicked back under Ruiz’s thumb. The trigger had been removed, so he had only to release the hammer to fire.

No white man could have saved himself, but at that moment the Kid was pure, unadulterated Pehnane Dog Soldier. Only an arm’s length separated them when the Colt’s cocking click reached his ears. Already he had remembered what kind of holster Ruiz used, recognizing its advantages and limitations. While such a rig allowed its user to get off a shot very fast, it severely restricted the mobility of the revolver.

With the sound of the click registering in his ears, the Kid twisted his body sideways and to Ruiz’s left. He heard the crash of the shot and felt the heat of the muzzle-flare against his back, but the bullet scraped by his shirt without touching him. In a flash, the Kid retaliated. Up that close, he did not dare hesitate. Nor, if it came to the point, could he halt the instantaneous response the narrow escape from death triggered off.

Lashing back and up with his right hand, the Kid swung his bowie knife in a savage chop. He turned his torso, adding force to the blow. The razor-edged, eleven-and-a-half-inch-long, two-and-a-half-inch-wide blade passed under Ruiz’s chin and bit deep into his throat. Blood spurted from the terrible, mortal wound and the man stumbled backward. Releasing the butt of his Colt, the right hand rose to join the left in a futile attempt to stop the life-blood gushing from the bone-deep tear in his throat.

The blow had been struck by a Comanche, a name-warrior of the dreaded Pehnane Dog Soldier war lodge. So deeply had the training of his childhood been ingrained into his being that the Kid could not have halted his reaction to the Mexican’s shot. Nor could he hold down the coup-cry which followed the delivery of the blow.

“A:he!” the Kid growled in guttural Comanche, meaning, “I claim it!”

Standing balanced lightly on the balls of his feet, body crouched in a knife-fighter’s stance, the Kid allowed the savage passions of a Nemenuh brave-heart to ebb away. Then he looked around him. Ruiz lay huddled against the trunk of a tree, spasmodic movements of his limbs growing weaker. Not far away, the sabino had come to a halt with its reins tangled in a bush. It stood snorting and trying to free itself while the bay ran on, but more slowly.

“Damn it!” the Kid grunted, walking over to Ruiz’s body. “He sure won’t be telling us anything.”

Yet there had been no other way to handle the situation. Men like Ruiz had no compunction about killing and were deadly dangerous as long as they lived. Up so close, if he had not been stopped, he could have turned the holster far enough to make a hit with his next bullet. So the Kid had stopped him, swiftly, effectively—but permanently.

Kneeling by the corpse, the Kid searched it. He did not find Calamity’s letter. So, after cleaning the blade of his knife on Ruiz’s jacket, he rose and walked across to the sabino. Soothing it, he freed the reins and swung into the saddle. Although he knew that Calamity would be raising a muck-sweat of anxiety, having heard the shot and being aware that he did not carry a firearm, he rode after the bay. Catching Hogue’s horse, he gathered in its reins and led it back in the direction of the hollow.

Everything looked quiet and peaceful as the Kid came into sight of their camp. Hogue’s body sprawled where it had fallen, the horses still stood quietly on the picket lines and the blanket-covered mounds were by the fire. However, there was no sign of Calamity or the Kid’s rifle.

Hearing a sound from the bushes to his left, the Kid swung in that direction. Calamity walked from the undergrowth, carrying her carbine in one hand and his rifle in the other. Relief showed on her face as she came toward the Kid and he dropped from the sabino ’s saddle.

“When I heard the hosses coming, after that shot, I didn’t know which way it’d gone,” she explained. “So I got out of sight until I knowed who’d won. Can’t say I’m sorry to see it’s you.”

“I didn’t get him alive ’n’ talking,” the Kid admitted. “Hold on to these hosses while I search his amigo. Otón wasn’t carrying your letter.”

Taking the horses’ reins. Calamity watched the Kid search Hogue’s body with the precision of a trained peace officer. Failing to produce the documents, he asked her to help him with the animals. After they had unsaddled the bay and sabino, they hobbled all but the white stallion. Hobbling was to be preferred to using a picket line. With their front legs secured by two cuffs connected by a short swivel chain, the horses could move around slowly, graze, but not wander too far. The stallion was set free and moved off, snorting a little.

“Damned if ole Nigger ain’t riled because he’s been tied up for once,” Calamity grinned.

“We had to do it,” the Kid answered. “Else he’d’ve heard them coming and either got shot charging ’em, or scared ’em off.”

Despite Hogue’s and Ruiz’s thoughts, their pursuers had not been unaware of the danger. In fact Calamity and the Kid had become aware how close behind they were on their arrival at Silvers’ way station.

The previous night, Calamity and the Kid had made a carefully concealed camp. Leaving it early, they had continued their swift progress along the stage-trail. On reaching the way station, they had found proof of the men’s proximity. Newly left horse-droppings at the hitching rail gave a warning that was augmented by the presence of two sets of plates and cups on a table. Small things in themselves, but sufficient to tell them that the men they sought had passed that way recently. Maybe so recently that they had seen Calamity and the Kid ride up. If so, they would know that Spatz’s attempt had failed and decide to take action themselves.

When the Kid had tried to raise the matter of the previous visitors, the Silvers’ family had proved uncommunicative. While honest enough, the agent also possessed a streak of sensible caution. He had read the signs and known that the two hard-cases were expecting, or at least ready for somebody to arrive. As long as the trouble did not erupt on his property, Silvers did not intend to become involved.

Respecting Silvers’ reticence, Calamity and the Kid had restricted themselves to the first evasively answered questions. They had eaten a meal, rested and grain-fed their horses. Then, after purchasing sufficient food to last them until they reached Hollick City, they had ridden on. Keeping up a fast pace, they had been even more alert for the possibility of an ambush. Not that the Kid expected the attempt to be made in daylight. Even without knowing that he was followed by Cabrito, the Mexican would most likely insist on playing things safe. Either the men would keep going, intending to collect reinforcements at Hollick City, or make their move after dark.