Free Apache Rampage by J. T. Edson Page B

at him, waiting patiently. There was no sign of them, and the Kid did not expect any sign for some time, so he settled down to wait, to allow the Apaches to make the first move.
    Knowing Apaches, the Kid was ready for a long wait. They were just as patient and lay watching the place where he disappeared. The Apaches would be waiting for him to make the first move. It was the Apache way, a deadly war of nerves and death waiting for the first to make a wrong move.
    Slowly, silently, an inch at a time the Kid braced his left leg under him ready to lunge forward when the Apaches showed themselves. His keen ears, working even more keenly at such a time, caught a faint scraping sound, a sound so slight that less keen ears would have overlooked or missed it completely. The Kid neither missed, nor ignored the sound, for he knew what made it. One of the braves on the other side of the trail was ramming a fresh charge down the barrel of the old flintlock smoothbore. The scraping sound was caused by the ramrod on the inside of the barrel.
    All went silent again, silent as the grave. Off in the bush the Kid knew his big white stallion was standing like a statue, waiting for the whistle which would bring the horse back to him. The pitch of the whistle would tell Nigger if it must come back at a walk, or with a rush.
    Nothing moved, everything deathly still. Even the birds were silent, as if they knew the deadly drama being enacted by the sides of the trail. The Ysabel Kid lay still and unmoving as a deadly black shadow, his old Dragoon gun ready to fire.
    Then suddenly there were two young Apaches on the trail. They came into view in complete silence. One minute the trail was empty, the next they were on it and moving forward, towards where the Kid disappeared when he fell from his horse. One held an old flintlock mustket, the other carried a bow, arrow on string but not drawn back as yet.
    Their sudden appearance almost took the Kid by surprise. They should have waited much longer before making an appearance. It was then the Kid saw how young the two were, boys fresh from horse-herding. It was all clear now, older hands would never have shown themselves that way, or come out so quickly. Come to that, older hands carried better than an old flintlock muzzle-loader which fizzed out a warning as the powder in the frizzen-pan burned before igniting the main firing charge in the barrel. These were not old hands, they were but boys on their first war trail. They were never going to make it to being battle-tried, experienced warriors. Or if they were Loncey Dalton Ysabel was slipping badly.
    With eager grins the braves started forward, towards the victim who they fondly imagined lay dead. Their grins died as the same victim came lunging out from the other side of the trail. He landed half-crouched before them, his old gun swinging up to line on them. He came fast, silent and moved faster than they were capable of moving. The old Dragoon bellowed like a cannon, flame lancing from the barrel, and the brave holding the musket was flung backwards from his feet by the impact of the soft, round lead ball, powered by a full forty grain charge of prime Du Pont powder.
    Through the whirling eddies of the powder smoke, the Kid saw the other Apache bring back his bowstring ready to release the arrow. The Kid was moving Indian fast, his reactions just that much ahead of the young Apache. He flung himself to one side even as he shot down the first brace, trying to get clear of the smoke, get a. clear shot—and avoid the arrow. The brave was fast, his arrow cut through the Kid’s vest as it swung away from his body. The Kid drew back the hammer of his old Dragoon and let it fall, strike the percussion cap and send a tiny jet of flame into the chamber below. There was a roar, and the round ball was expelled through the seven-and-a-half-inch barrel of the Dragoon.
    The bow-toting brave was spun around, his left shoulder almost torn from his body by the .44