The Floating Outfit 52: The Hard Riders by J. T. Edson

Author:J. T. Edson
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Piccadilly Publishing
Published: 2020-09-30T23:00:00+00:00

The room spun round and the Ysabel Kid shook his head to clear the fog from it. He tried to move his arms and found they were fastened together and drawn up over his head. He was tied to a beam in the center of the room, his feet on the ground and his black shirt laying with his gun-belt on a table.

‘What the hell?’ he asked.

Duvalde stepped out into the Kid’s line of sight. ‘Did you see the girl?’ he asked, his voice purring.

‘Like hell I did. I got there and found her waiting with a gun. One of your boys went over there and talked some.’

‘Talked, did he?’ There was a silky menace in Duvalde’s voice. ‘There seems to have been a lot of talking done last night. Like you and Kosterliski talking.’

‘Me and Kosterliski? You’ve been eating loco-weed.’

Duvalde laughed. He was tapping his quirt against his leg. ‘We know you went and talked to Kosterliski, Comanche Blood—or whatever your name is.’

‘Could find out from his hoss,’ Jason remarked.

‘A good idea. Two of you go and bring his horse to the door.’

The Kid whistled shrilly, and loud. Outside, he heard the thunder of hooves and knew his white stallion was headed off. The horse would avoid capture and then circle round to hide, waiting for further orders. He knew the man who laid hands on the stallion would get killed, but they might drop the stallion. There was enough in his saddle-bags to identify him, even without the silver plate set in the butt of his rifle. That plate had his name engraved on it.

‘Clever man, ain’t you?’ Jason asked. ‘Real tough, as well. Time we’ve done you won’t be so tough.’

Duvalde nodded, ‘Jason is right. I want to know what Kosterliski told you and how much he knows.’

‘Waal now,’ the Kid answered. ‘He started off by insulting you—said you warn’t fit to sleep with a hawg—but I stood by you. I said that, effen the hawg warn’t too pure-bred you was.’ Duvalde smashed the back of his hand across the dark cheek, rocking the Kid’s head back. Then Loncey Dalton Ysabel started to curse him in fluent Spanish and the Kid was the boy to do just that.

The gang, who were standing round like wolves flanking a ham-strung bull, held back and listened in awe to as fine a flow of invective as they were ever to hear coming from the mouth of a man.

Duvalde waited until the Kid stopped for breath, then nodded. Jason stepped behind and slashed the quirt across the Kid’s back. Pain knifed through the Kid, but he gritted his teeth. Duvalde looked at him. ‘Are you going to talk?’

‘Just talked.’

Again the lash bit into the Kid’s dark, scarred back; but he never yelled, just hung there, murder in his red-hazel eyes.

The cantina door was thrown open and a man came in. The Kid recognized him as one of the Reid peons. He had been running hard and gasped: ‘Senor Duvalde, the old gringo has found the entrance top.

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