Ole Devil and the caplocks

by Edson, John Thomas

  "When Jonathan Browning* saw how difficult it was to carry with the slide in place, he decided that five was the number that could be handled most conveniently," Ole Devil explained, noticing that the hammer had not been drawn down into the fully cocked position and guessing that his captor was merely playing a cat-and-mouse game with him. So he was able to show no concern and spoke as if making nothing more than casual conversation. "He'll make slides to take greater numbers as a special order."

  "That's interesting," the Mexican said thoughtfully, his right forefinger caressing the trigger. Seeing no trace of alarm on his captive's face, he turned the barrel out of its alignment with an air of annoyance and disappointment. "Does he make many rifles like this?"

  "I don't know," Ole Devil admitted, deciding against claiming that the majority of the RepubUc of Texas's Army were supplied with similar weapons. "It's the only one I've come across, but I expect he's made and sold more."t

  * Jonathan Browning was the father and tutor of the master firearms' designer, John Moses Browning, who appears in CALAMITY SPELLS TROUBLE.

  f Despite the difficulty of transporting it with the magazine in position, Jonathan Browning had produced a comparatively simple repeating rifle which was capable of a continuous fire unequaled by any contemporary

  J. T. EDSON

  "I've never heard of a weapon like this," the Mexican stated. "An army equipped with them would be a formidable thing."

  "Except that the generals would never accept anything so new," Ole Devil pointed out, wondering what the conversation was leading up to.

  "That's true enough," the Mexican conceded and gave a shrug. Laying the rifle down carefully alongside the other weapons, he straightened with an attitude of being ready to get to business. "Enough of this small talk, senor. The time has come for us to introduce ourselves. I am Major Abrahan Phillipe Gonzales de Villena>' Danvila, of the Arizona Hopi Activos Regiment, at your service."

  The introduction accounted for the man being clad in a uniform with which Ole Devil was not acquainted. Activos were not members of the regular army, but reservists and local militia commanded by influential civilians from the districts in which they were raised. Coming from wealthy families, the majority of such officers selected whatever type of attire they fancied.

  As, in general, the Activos regiments were formed oipeons who were poorly trained, armed and equipped and who had little desire to become soldiers, they were not regarded as dangerous by the Texians. However, Ole Devil realized that his captors might prove to be an exception to the rule. Although the Hopi Indians, being a nation of settled pastoral agriculturalists, did not have a reputation as raiders and warriors like the Apaches, Yaquis and Comanches, they were

  weapon. However, during the period when he was manufacturing it, between 1834-42, he lacked the facilities to go into large-scale production. He would have been able to do so in later years, but the development of self-contained metallic cartridges and more compact, if less simple, repeating arms had rendered it obsolete.

  said to be tough and capable fighting men. So being a prisoner in their hands was not a thing to be taken Hghtly.

  "May I ask who you are, sefiorT Villena went on, when the Texian did not offer to respond to the introduction. "You will pardon me for doing so, but my curiosity has been aroused by meeting with a member of the Texas Light Cavalry in this part of the country—" He raised his hand in a mockingly prohibitive gesture as Ole Devil was about to speak. "Please, senor, don't try to deny it. I'm not one of those regular army clodhoppers. I've made a thorough study of—if you will excuse the use of the term—the enemy. The way you are dressed tells me that you serve in Colonel Edward Fog's 'regiment.' "

  "In that case, I won't deny it," the Texian promised, impressed by the extent of the Mexican's knowledge and hiding his annoyance over the note of derision with which the word "regiment" had been said.

  "Then perhaps you will be good enough to answer my question," Villena suggested, still speaking politely, but the underlying threat in his voice was growing more noticeable.

  "I decided that I didn't like the idea of being a soldier anymore," Ole Devil explained. "So I deserted."

  'You are a deserter?" the Mexican purred, exuding disbelief and waving his hand almost languidly toward the weapons at his feet. "I very much doubt that, senor. A matched pair of percussion-fired pistols made by Joseph Manton of London, England, a 'bowie' knife inscribed with the name 'James Black, Little Rock, Arkansas,' a saber from L. Haiman and Brother, this remarkable rifle. They are not the arms supplied to an ordinary enlisted man. You are a caba-llero, like myself, senor. Men of our class do not desert."

  Considering he was on dangerous ground, Ole Devil did not reply. Instead, he looked around the clearing again. He was no more fortunate than on the first occasion in finding

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  something which might offer the shghtest hope of escaping from his desperate situation. Certainly there was no help anywhere close at hand, unless the picket whom he had been on his way to visit—

  "I must confess that I am puzzled, senor" Villena stated, breaking into his captive's train of thought. "According to the information I was given, the Texas Light Cavalry are forming part of the screen for General Houston's flight. And yet I find two members of it over here near the coast."

  Try as he might, Ole Devil could not prevent himself from giving some slight indication of how disturbing that news was. Yet, when he came to think of it, Villena had suggested that he had already met with another member of the Texas Light Cavalry. Which meant that he must have come across the picket. Even as Ole Devil regained control and halted the stiffening movement he was making, he knew that it had not gone unnoticed.

  "Two of you, senor;' the Mexican confirmed, clearly delighted at having evoked even so small a response. "My scouts came upon the other at the edge of the woodland. But you know what these damned savages are Uke. Instead of taking him a prisoner, so that I could question him, one of them caved his skull in with a throwing stick."

  The mocking timbre in the Mexican's voice filled Ole Devil with anger. Like any good officer, he took an interest in the men under his command. Although well qualified to handle the duty, having spent several years on the frontier, the picket was also a married man with two children. No matter how he had allowed the Hopis to come near enough to kill him, his death was a tragedy. However, the Texian controlled his emotions. Displaying them would serve no other purpose than to give amusement and pleasure to his sadistic captor. "So you see my predicament, senor;' Villena went on, but he was clearly growing irritated by Ole Devil's continued re-

  fusal to respond to his goading. "My colonel has sent me on a scouting mission and I come across a member of the Texas Light Cavalry far from where he should be. But he is killed before I can question him. At first I tell myself he must be a deserter. Then I am told that one of his officers has been captured. So, being a man of intelligence, I ask myself, 'Why are they in this vicinity?' and find I cannot supply the answer."

  Despite his distress over the death of the picket, Ole Devil was listening with growing relief. Up until then he had been afraid that, having learned about the consignment of caplocks, Santa Anna had sent a regiment to help the renegades who had tried to prevent their collection. Now he was sure that Villena's presence was no more than an unfortunate coincidence. In addition to the Mexicans' main force, which was marching toward San Antonio de Bexar, there were said to be two other columns on their way to invade Texas. In all probability, the Arizona Hopi Activos Regiment were the advance party from one of the latter.

  "Perhaps you would care to supply me with the answer, senorT' Villena suggested. "I'd advise you to do so. These Indians of mine can be most brutal. Much as I would dislike to have to give the order, they'll make you talk whether you want to or not."

  "I've nothing to say," Ole Devil replied.

  "That is a foolish attitude, senor/' Villena warned. "And one which will avail you nothing. Much as
I would regret the necessity, my sense of duty would compel me to employ even barbarous and painful means if that is the only way in which I can get the information I require from you. Tell me what I want to know and I give you my word that I will set you free."

  "You will?" Ole Devil gasped, with well-simulated eagerness.

  "I will," Villena confirmed. "You have my word on it."

  An experienced poker player, Ole Devil had become experienced at reading facial expressions. As the Mexican was giving the assurance, a malicious glint came to his eyes and his lips twisted into a derisive sneer. It was obvious to the Texian that his captor was still playing the cat-and-mouse game by making such an offer. Even if he supplied the information, it would not save him from torture and death. Yet he also had to concede that Villena was playing the game in a clever fashion. The pretended amiability and reluctance to employ painful methods was calculated to lessen his resistance when the latter were being applied.

  "Is your word worth as much as that of General Cos?" Ole Devil inquired, dropping his former attitude and eyeing the Mexican in open derision.

  Anger darkened Villena's features, wiping away every trace of amiability and showing that the thrust had gone home. He had had no intention of keeping his word, but had been convinced that the Texian believed he would do so. Knowing what was implied by the question,* he realized that he was wrong.

  "Very well, gringo!" Villena spat out, dropping all his pretense. "We'll see how long you will refuse to talk." looking over his shoulder, he barked in Spanish, "Many Plantings, make this one tell me everything I want to know. Do it slowly. I want to hear him scream and beg me to make you stop."

  * On December 6, 1835, at the end of a battle lasting for six days. General Martin Perfecto de Cos and his force of eleven hundred men had surrendered to the Tcxians at San Antonio de Bexar. On Cos giving his parole that he and his men would refrain from further military action against the Republic of Texas, they were allowed to return unharmed to Mexico. As Cos was accompanying the army which was marching north, it was apparent that he did not intend to honor the terms of his parole.

  I'LL MAKE SURE OF YOU!

  Watching the five Hopi Indians standing up and starting to walk in his direction, Ole Devil Hardin stiffened slightly. No coward, he was also far from being a reckless fool. So he did not try to delude himself regarding the predicament he was in. Bound hand and foot, there was little enough he could do in his own defense. Nor could he expect any mercy from his captors. Even if he gave Major Abrahan Phillipe Gonzales de Villena y Danvila the required information, it would not save him.

  Not that Ole Devil even considered taking such a course. He knew how much the consignment of caplock rifles could mean to the Army of the Republic of Texas in the struggle which was still to come. Yet he could also see one disadvantage in refusing to speak. Villena was already curious over having found two members of the Texas Light Cavalry so far from their regiment's recorded position. If he did not receive an answer of some kind, he was certain to investigate.

  By going along the route taken by Ole Devil, who had not troubled to try and conceal his tracks, the Mexican would eventually arrive at Santa Cristobal Bay. Of course there was

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  a chance that one of the pickets visited by the Texian would not be taken by surprise and deliver a warning to Mannen Blaze. In that case, preparations could be made to protect the consignment. The snag to that was, while Villena was accompanied only by a small party, there was almost certain to be a larger force from the Arizona Hopi Activos Regiment not too far away. Even if the reinforcements were not sufficient in numbers to defeat Company "C," they could harass the mule train and at least slow down the delivery even if they were unable to stop it.

  "Come on!" Villena commanded in Spanish, stepping back a few paces, his face ugly with sadistic anticipation. "Get to work on him!"

  Understanding the Mexican's words, Ole Devil brought his thoughts on the situation to an end. The Hopi with the red headband snapped something in his own tongue. Darting forward, the two youngest of the other braves—who, like their companions, were advancing empty-handed—grabbed the Texian by the feet. Giving him no chance to resist, they dragged him away from the tree. Although he managed to avoid having his head banged against the trunk, he could do nothing to prevent himself from being hauled along the ground.

  Releasing the boot he was grasping, the shorter of the braves drew his knife. Stepping into position, he dug the fingers of his other hand into Ole Devil's hair. With a savage jerk, he snatched the Texian into a sitting position. Searing pain which seemed to be setting the top of his skull on fire brought tears involuntarily to Ole Devil's eyes, but he managed to hold back the yelp of torment that the sensation almost caused. At any moment, he expected to feel the knife's blade biting into his flesh. It would not be a mortal thrust, but merely designed to hurt.

  Sucking in a breath, Ole Devil prepared to resist any inch-

  nation to cry out. If possible, he meant to die well. However, before he did, he must give Villena some satisfactory yet untrue explanation for his presence. Not only would it have to be believable, but it would have to send the Mexican as far away as possible from Santa Cristobal Bay and the route to be taken by the mule train.

  The expected cut from the knife did not materialize!

  Instead, there was a hissing sound which every man present recognized!

  Even Ole Devil could hardly believe the evidence of his ears!

  Passing between the other braves, having flown from among the bushes at the northern edge of the clearing, an arrow struck the Texian's assailant just below the left armpit. It arrived with such a velocity that the shaft sank in to the fletching and sent the stricken brave reeling. Spinning around helplessly on buckling legs, he measured his length on the ground.

  Startled exclamations burst from the Mexican and the rest of the warriors. Swiveling around with hands grabbing for the epee-de-combat, knives, tomahawks, or—in the eldest brave's case—a pistol, Villena and the Hopis stared in the direction from which the arrow had come. What they saw was cause for concern and relief; particularly for those warriors who realized that they were some distance from weapons which offered a greater range than those they carried.

  Only a single man was standing among the bushes. Small, bareheaded, clad in black garments, he did not look like a Texian. In fact he was unlike anybody, Indian, Mexican, or gringo, the Hopis had ever seen. Nor was Villena any better informed as to what nationality he might belong.

  Experienced warriors, the Indians recognized one thing!

  In spite of the newcomer's lack of inches—he was barely as

  tall as the mozo* holding Villena's palomino gelding—he could not be dismissed as harmless. In his left hand was— compared with his stature—a remarkably long bow, its handle set two thirds of the way down the stave instead of centrally. His stance for shooting appeared strange to the Indians' eyes,t but that clearly did not make it any the less effective. Already, moving with the smoothly flowing speed of a highly trained archer, his right hand was plucking another arrow from the quiver on his back.

  "Get him, prontoV Villena screeched furiously, starting to slide the epee-de-combat from its sheath.

  Nocking the arrow to the string and laying its shaft on the shallow "V" formed by the base of his left thumb and the bow's stave, the newcomer made his draw with what appeared to be a circling motion of his arms.

  The Hopi braves were starting to move forward without waiting for their Mexican superior's order. Although their people did not have the cult of the warrior so highly developed as in the nomadic nations who lived by hunting and raiding, they too were taught to regard a coup taken by personal contact as more estimable than making a kill from a distance. What was more, they considered that they would have a better chance of dealing with the diminutive foreigner at close quarters than by taking the time—^brief as it would be—to go and retrieve their bows or throwing sticks. The speed with which
he was moving warned them that every second's delay would be deadly dangerous.

  Tugging to liberate the pistol which he had taken from the dead gringo's body. Chief Many Plantings became aware that he was in peril. He saw the little man's left index finger, which was extended instead of being coiled around the bow's

  * Mozo: a manservant, particularly one serving in a menial capacity.

  fA description of Tommy Okasi's archery technique is given in YOUNG

  OLE DEVIL

  handle with its mates, pointing straight at him from just below the arrow. However, he refused to be deterred by the discovery that he was selected as the next target. A warrior who elected to carry a war lance was expected to set an example by having a complete disregard for his personal safety. So he continued to step forward and, as the weapon came free, his left hand went toward it with the intention of cocking the hammer. If he was to die, he would give his younger companions—to the parents of whom he had a responsibility for their welfare—an improved chance of survival.

  Even as the chief was commencing his second stride, before his left hand could reach the pistol, the small man had completed his draw and taken sight. Loosing his hold on the string, he allowed the flexed limbs of the bow to return to their original curves. Propelled across the intervening space so swiftly that the eye could barely follow its movements, the arrow reached its mark. The needle sharp, razor edged steel point, set horizontally on the shaft, passed between Many Plantings's left ribs and through his heart. He stumbled backward, dying as he would have wished, with a weapon in his hand and facing an enemy.

  "Kill the little devil!" Villena shrieked as the chief went down, but he did not offer to go and help carry out his command.