Free Apache Rampage by J. T. Edson Page A

side of the trail. This was not the sort of country a man would ride through, happen he was given first pick at the remuda, but Dusty was right in having a scout out ahead.
    Sliding the rifle back into the saddleboot the Kid rode on, alert and with every sense working full time. In this sort of country he would not need the extra range and magazine capacity of the Winchester. If he needed a weapon at all the shorter barrel, harder hitting power and better, easier handling qualities of the Dragoon would be called for. His rifle would only be in the way, so he shoved it back and relied on that four-pound thumb-busting giant made in Hartford sometime around 1851 which now, in his holster, was ready to prove time had not diminished its powers.
    Riding scout, even in dangerous country like this, was the Ysabel Kid’s favourite sport. Playing off his alert, keen, Indian-smart senses against a dangerous and deadly enemy was a good gamble. Even with his life and the lives of his friends as forfeit if he failed. At such times he was far more Indian than white, the wild Comanche blood taking control of him as he rode. His dark face was impassive and emotionless, his eyes flickering this way and that in fast, all-embracing glances which missed nothing. Beneath his legs the huge white stallion appeared to have caught the feeling of the situation, caught the tenseness in the air, it looked far more like a wild creature than a domesticated animal. Moving along almost in complete silence the huge white stallion held its head up, ears cocked to catch any slight sound and nostrils quivering to detect any wind borne scent. It looked as alert, nervous and ready as a mule-dear sneaking through a well-hunted thicket.
    For three miles the Kid rode, holding his horse to the same fast lope and pulling further ahead of the wagon all the time. He did not allow this to worry him, the further ahead the better he liked it. If he ran into an ambush, there would be a better chance of his getting clear and back to allow Dusty to prepare a defence. He knew the Apache pony was not sired that could outrun the big white. If he once got clear of the ambush, they would never catch up with him.
    All the time the Kid watched the trail and the bush for any sign which might give him warning. He saw nothing, but that did nothing to lull him. That was the time when the Apache was most dangerous, when he was unseen. If anything, the lack of sign made him more alert. His every instinct warned him he was being watched, and he had no cause to doubt his instincts. They seldom, if ever, failed him. Somewhere near at hand an Apache, or maybe more, was watching him.
    The big white threw back its head and snorted. At the same moment the Kid heard a faint fizzing sound. He heard it as he fell sideways from the back of his horse, falling, right-hand twisting, palm out, to lift clear the old Dragoon gun.
    Even as the Kid tipped sideways from the saddle there sounded a dull bellow, and he heard the slap of a close-passing bullet. The shot passed through where his body had been an instant before. It was a neat ambush, well laid and well executed. The charge of the smoothbore musket would have torn through his body, without his superb co-ordination of mind and muscle. A slower thinking and acting man would have resulted in one very dead white-eye.
    The Ysabel Kid pitched from his saddle, and the big horse shot forward, running down the trail. This was an old and well-learned trick. The big white headed out of the possible firing area, then swung off into the brush and, once clear of the track, stood hidden and waited for further orders.
    Lighting down, rolling, the Kid went under the shelter and cover of a scrub-oak by the side of the trail. He ended his roll facing the trail. Dragoon Colt cocked in his right hand, eyes glowing savagely. He was full ready to shoot, for there would be at least one Apache, maybe more, at the other side of the trail. They were awaiting for another crack