Civil War 11: The Bloody Border by J. T. Edson

Author:J. T. Edson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
Published: 2018-03-31T23:00:00+00:00

Nine - Keep Your Hands Off My Perfume!

“Tired, Miss Boyd?” Sam Ysabel asked, turning in his saddle and studying their back-trail.

“I’ve forgotten what a bed is,” she replied with a wry smile and eased her aching limbs as best she could.

“Rosita O’Malley’s place’s down this ways a piece,” Ysabel told her. “We’ll stop off and let the horses rest a spell. You can grab some sleep ‘til night-fall and then we’ll push on again.”

“I’ll not argue on that,” Belle assured him.

Before Eve Coniston returned to the house, Belle and Shafto had slipped away from the consulate. They carried the heavy saddlebags, containing the money, a change of clothing and few other items Belle felt she might need, with them. Joining Sam Ysabel at the pre-arranged rendezvous, the girl rode out of Matamoros before midnight. All through the night and on towards the following noon they continued to ride at a good pace. Although Belle felt very tired, she refused to show it until Ysabel suggested that they should halt.

At first sight, Rosita O’Malley’s cantina and posada looked little different to hundreds of other such places scattered through the Rio Grande border country. A two-storey adobe building set on the banks of a small stream, it offered a choice of stables or corrals for its guests’ horses. Choosing the former, Ysabel led the way inside.

“Only Rosita’s hosses here, and at the corral,” he commented and his grulla walked into a stall in a manner which showed that it had done so often before.

Fighting down her tiredness, Belle set to work tending to her bay. Then she went to help Ysabel care for the packhorse. Brought along more as a blind than for any other reason, the packs were empty and held in shape by light frameworks of twigs. While working on the horse, she saw a shadow at the doors and looked around. A tall, buxom, black haired woman, good-looking although no longer in the bloom of youth, entered. She wore a plain black dress, although of more daring cut than convention allowed. Halting, the woman’s smile of welcome died as her eyes turned from Ysabel to Belle.

“Hola, Rosita gal,” Ysabel greeted.

“Who’s she, Big Sam?” the woman demanded in English.

“Fee-ancy to one of Jack Cureton’s Rangers, come down the coast by boat. I’m taking her up to meet him.”

“You sure on that?”

“Would I lie to you, Rosey gal?” asked Ysabel, sounding pained. “Come here and give a hard-travelled man a kiss.”

A request to which Rosita responded with gusto, although throwing Belle a challenging, defiant glare as she commenced. When released, she turned to face the girl once more.

“Who’s your feller, sister?”

“Solly Cole from up Tyler way,” Ysabel put in. “Go make us some food and we’ll want two rooms until night fall.”

“I think you’re one big liar, Sam Ysabel,” Rosita stated. “And if I thought what I was thinking’s true, I’d alter the shape of her face some.”

“You mean like this?” asked Belle, swinging gracefully into a chassé, rear lateral kick which slashed her foot hard into the wall of the stall.

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