The Ysabel Kid Read Online Free Page A

he was listening with care and attention. When the talking was done he gave his opinion:
    “Bushrod won’t come back.”
    “I’d agree with you if it wasn’t for this letter from Grant. I hoped that you could take it and talk to him.”
    “I might at that,” Hardin agreed. “You say you’ve got that letter from Grant with you?”
    “Sure,” Handiman patted his pocket where the thick letter for Bushrod Sheldon bulged it. “It gives so many concessions that it only needs one more to say the South won after all.”
    “All right then,” Ole Devil replied. “I’ll get it delivered for you. “Tommy!” This last was in a yell which brought the servant from the house. “Go get Dusty.”
    Handiman watched the small servant hurrying across towards the cookshack but didn’t connect anything yet. He shook his head: “Bushrod won’t listen to anyone except you.”
    “Won’t he?” Hardin replied stubbing out the cigar. “He’ll listen to the man I send. He’ll listen because I’m going to send him a message and a letter. And anyway he’d listen to the man I’m sending.”
    The small Texan came back with Tommy Osaki, looking even younger with his hat in his hand. “You needing me, Uncle Devil?” he asked.
    “Hold hard, Devil,” Handiman snapped, hardly noticing his aide had emerged from the house and was standing behind him. “This is a dangerous and very important mission and—”
    “I know that,” Ole Devil snapped back. “That’s why I’m sending Dusty here. Do you think I’d be sending my segundo right in the middle of the spring round-up if it wasn’t? Was it less important I’d get one of the Blaze twins to go.” Then he stopped and a grin creased his face as he watched Handiman’s face. “Reckon I must have forgotten to introduce you. This is my nephew, Dusty Fog.”
    Handiman’s cigar fell from his hand, his mouth dropped open and he stared for a second at the small man. He’d heard that name before, so had his aide and it was the latter who spoke:
    “Captain Dusty Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry?”
    “Retired,” the small man replied.
    The name meant something to both of them, yet neither would have ever connected it with this small insignificant looking man. It meant that here stood one of the South’s supreme trio of raiders, ranking with Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby. It mean hard riding, hard hitting men striking like Comanches and disappearing again before the Umon forces could organise either defence or pursuit. It meant even more. This small, young man caused more than one professional Yankee soldier to curse impotently and wish he was fighting a more conventional opponent.
    Things were more clear now to Handiman. Back there when that cowhand called Dusty Fog “Cap’n” it was respect and not derision. Handiman should have known that those reckless sons of the saddle never gave their respect to a man for who his kin were but for what he himself was. It was the same with the young boys out there. It was respect for their hero which prompted them to crowd round and ask to be allowed to handle his horse.
    “I owe you an apology, Captain Handiman remarked as he held out his hand. “I didn’t recognise you. But you’ll do the job if any man can.”
    “What job is that?” Dusty asked, looking from his uncle to the General.
    “I want you to go into Mexico and bring back Bushrod Sheldon,” Handiman explained. “You’re the only one who could do it now Ole Devil is out.”
    “I’ll try, but I know Bush Sheldon. He’ll not come.”
    “He’ll come when he reads this letter from President Grant.”
    “I’d sooner take him smallpox. It’d make me more popular with him,” Dusty growled.
    Handiman smiled, this young man certainly knew Bushrod Sheldon. “You’d better read the letter,” he said and passed over the envelope.
    Pulling open the flap Dusty opened the large sheet of paper and read it through. At the end he looked at Handiman and asked: “They