Ranch War

the other. I want to take him alive.”

Before Calamity could debate the point, even if she had wished to do so, the Kid went racing into the bushes where Ruiz had already disappeared. Watching him go, Calamity gave a low hiss of anxiety. She hoped the Kid had not forgotten that he had only his bowie knife and Ruiz packed a revolver on his belt. Putting the thought from her mind, she turned her attention to the clearing. Alert for any hostile move on his part, she walked toward Hogue. There was no need for precautions. The Kid’s two bullets might not have killed him, but either of the others would have been fatal. If the Kid wanted somebody to answer questions, it would have to be the Mexican.

Crashing through the bushes, Ruiz went up the slope as fast as his legs would carry him. At any moment he expected to feel lead driving into his body, but it did not come. So he gave a thought to what would be his best line of action. Stopping to avenge Hogue never entered his head; his main aim as he ran was to save his own skin. If he could reach the horses and mount up, he stood a better than fair chance of making it. Fast though Cabrito’s white stallion was reputed to be, there would be a delay while he collected and freed it. During the time he spent doing it, Ruiz would be building up a lead. Using Hogue’s bay and his sabino to ride relay, he could press on fast, reach Hollick City and get help to deal with the Kid and the girl.

Having decided on what to do, he approached the horses. They still stood patiently under the white oak. Going between them, he grabbed hold of the bay’s reins in his right hand. Taking up the sabino’s reins in his left, he inserted his left foot into the stirrup, gripped the dinner-plate horn of his Mexican saddle in both hands and started to mount. Even as he swung himself astride, he heard the soft pad of rapidly approaching feet and remembered that, like the girl, the Kid had been wearing moccasins.

For all his advantage in footwear, the Kid had not been able to catch up with the fleeing Mexican on the slope. Seeing the man mounting, the Kid launched himself into the air. Reaching upward, his hands hooked over one of the tree’s lowest branches. With a surging swing, the Kid propelled himself at Ruiz. Two feet smashed into the Mexican’s shoulder. Barely mounted, Ruiz felt himself struck by the Kid’s flying body and tilted sideways. Startled by its rider’s unexpected behavior, the sabino lunged forward. Taken with the Kid’s attack, the motion unseated Ruiz. Unsettled by the disturbance, the bay followed the sabino. Missing its departing rump, the two men plunged to the ground.

Going down in a rolling dive, the Kid parted company with Ruiz. Surprised as he had been, the Mexican recovered fast. Regardless at first of their trailing reins, the horses plunged off into the trees. Ignoring them for the moment, the Kid concentrated on the Mexican. They made their feet at almost the same instant, facing each other in the darkness.

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. Oton 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