Ole Devil and the caplocks

by Edson, John Thomas

  "Don't any of you make what could be called a hostile, or even threatening, move," Mannen warned, in tones more suggestive that he was complaining over having had a nap

  disturbed and which fooled none of his audience. "And stay put in those holes you volunteered to dig."

  'That was volunteering?" asked one of the enlisted men, with a grin, for the redhead had insisted that the pits were dug as a precaution the previous evening.

  "You 'n' Mister Rassendyll get into your'n pronto comes trouble, Mister Blaze," Sergeant Dale requested, after the chuckles had ended, for the two young men alone were standing exposed to their visitors. "We'd hate for him to get killed afore we've seen if that danged thing he's holding really can shoot."

  "I'll do my best not to disappoint you, Sergeant," Rassendyll promised, delighted by the evidence that his status had improved where his comrades-in-arms were concerned.

  Up until the supercargo's collection and use of the bull's-eye lantern the previous night, he had been annoyed to find that the Texians did not hold him in very high esteem. Partly it had been his own fault. His earlier attitude was not calculated to be acceptable to such fiercely independent souls. So his assumption that he would automatically be accorded the same respect as Ole Devil and Mannen had antagonized them. However, having demonstrated that he was good for something more than dressing fancy, handling the easiest part of the consignment's delivery, and toting a mighty peculiar kind of handgun, he was being treated as an equal.

  Conscious of his companion's elation, Mannen did not allow it to distract him. Instead, he continued to keep the Dragoons under observation and waited to see what would develop. He felt satisfied that he had done everything he could to receive them.

  "Halt the men here. Sergeant!" von Lowenbrau ordered, while a good fifty yards still separated them from their objective.

  "Huh?" grunted Benn.

  "You heard!" the major snarled, glancing back and finding that the men were already obeying without the non-com's orders. "Come up when I signal."

  Riding onward, von Lowenbrau studied the Texians. Noticing the disciplined manner in which they were behaving, he could not help wishing that the Red River Volunteer Dragoons could be counted upon to act in such a fashion. However, he put the thought from his mind. Bringing his horse to a stop about thirty feet from the closest rifle pit, he dismounted.

  "Your men seem to have recovered rapidly, Mister Blaze," the major commented dryly, leaving the animal and walking —marching in review would be a better description—forward.

  While advancing, von Lowenbrau studied Rassendyll and made an accurate guess at his reason for being present. Briefly, the Prussian wondered if he had been the brains behind the preparations and bluff. It was possible, but for one thing. All too well, from his own experiences shortly after his arrival in Texas, von Lowenbrau knew the ruggedly individualistic spirit of the colonists. They would never have accepted the leadership of a newcomer in such a short time.

  "Must have only been a touch of the grippe, Major," Man-nen replied blandly. "Anyways, they're over it now, no matter what it was, so I'm giving them a mite of training to stop them thinking about it."

  "Is this your entire command?" von Lowenbrau demanded.

  "The rest of them are off someplace with Cousin Dev— Captain Hardin," Mannen replied, looking and sounding exceptionally somnolent. "They should be back some—any time now."

  "And until they return, this valuable consignment of arms

  has been left with completely inadequate protection!" the Prussian barked, barely able to restrain himself from bellowing at the redhead to wake up. Then he glanced at Ras-sendyll as if expecting some comment. When it did not come, he continued, "That won't do. I'll take it in my charge."

  "Well now, Major," Mannen drawled and, although he seemed to be finding it difficult to stay awake, he sounded both grateful and perturbed. "Grateful as I am for you offering, I couldn't rightly let you do that."

  "I'm not making a friendly request, mister!" von Lowen-brau warned, still wondering why the other young man did not intervene. "I'm ordering you to hand it over."

  While speaking, the major made a beckoning motion with his lowered left hand. Seeing the signal, Benn growled at the Dragoons to advance. However, conscious of the menace from the rifles of the soldiers in the pits, he held the pace to a walk and issued a warning that nobody had to even look like raising a weapon.

  "Isn't there some rule or other's calls it mutiny if I don't obey an order from a superior officer?" Mannen inquired worriedly, raising his eyes to look at the approaching Dragoons as if wishing to avoid meeting the Prussian's gaze.

  "There is," von Lowenbrau confirmed with grim satisfaction, deciding that his task was growing easier. "And the punishment for mutiny is death."

  For all his feeling that the burly redhead would yield to his demand, the major became conscious of how the men in the rifle pits were reacting. None seemed alarmed, or disturbed by the sight of his Dragoons riding nearer. Instead, they seemed to be finding the affair interesting and even amusing. There was something vaguely familiar about their attitudes, but he was unable to decide what it might be.

  "And so, Mister Blaze," von Lowenbrau went on, as Benn

  brought the Dragoons to a halt near his horse, "I am ordering you to hand over the consignment to me. If you refuse, I will have to regard it as an act of mutiny and you will suffer the consequences."

  I CAN REPAY YOU FOR SAVING ME!

  Without realizing that some six miles to the northeast another threat had arisen to the safety of the consignment of arms which had caused her husband's death, tiredness and the knowledge that she must allow her horse to rest brought Madeline de Moreau to a halt.

  Once her mount had recovered its breath after the mad dash through the woodland, the woman had mounted and pushed on with all the speed she could muster. Using the training she had received from her husband, she had continued to travel southwest. While she had known that the most simple way to find members of the Mexican Army would be to follow the coast road, she had also seen the objections to doing so. The trail did not go into Santa Cristobal Bay, but went sufficiently close to it for there to be the danger of meeting with pickets set out by Ole Devil Hardin before he had left for San Phillipe. He was too intelligent, damn him, to have overlooked such a precaution.

  What was more, before Madeline could reach territory under Mexican control, she would have to pass areas occupied by other Texian outfits. Probably they would not molest her.

  but she would be expected to give an account of her presence and had no wish to attract such undesirable attention. There was no way in which she could be sure that Hardin had not passed word of her activities. It would not have surprised her if he had. So she was disinclined to take the chance.

  So Madeline had kept moving across country. It said much for her physical condition that she had got so far during the hours of darkness. Furthermore, she might have counted herself fortunate that she was such a skilled horsewoman and astride an exceptionally reliable mount. Exhausted by the strain which she had been under, she had found herself repeatedly threatened with dropping off to sleep as she was riding. In fact, she had been dozing and almost fallen from the saddle before she woke up and, taking the warning, concluded that she must grab some rest.

  Gazing ahead with eyes glazed by fatigue, the woman located a place where she could satisfy her craving for sleep. The terrain was once more fairly dense woodland, with plenty of undergrowth. However, she was approaching a clearing through which a small stream was flowing.

  If Madeline had been in a more alert frame of mind, she might have heard and been alarmed by certain noises from not too far behind her. Barely able to keep her eyes open, she was only conscious of one thing. That she had found a reasonably safe haven in which she could rest.

  Entering the clearing and finding it deserted, the brunette allowed her horse to reach the bank of the stream before halting it and dismounting. Its pace had been slow
enough for the last hour for it to be able to drink without harmful effects. Removing the bit, she allowed it to do so.

  In spite of her tiredness, Madeline knew that there were things which she must do before she dared to succumb to sleep. First, she had to make sure that her mount would still be available when she woke up. Removing the cloak-coat,

  she laid it on the ground without removing the "Pepperbox" from its pocket. Then she took a set of hobbles from her saddle pouch and applied them to the pasterns* of the animal's forelegs. With that done, she removed the rig. There was one more essential task to be attended to, she told herself, and she would do it as soon as she had set her burden down.

  "Well dog my cats, Nippy, you was right," declared a hard masculine voice, coming from the bushes through which the woman had passed on her way into the clearing. "It air that high-toned Mrs. dee Moreau."

  "Only she don't look nowheres near's high-toned now as when her and that stinking mac was treating us like dirt," answered a second set of male tones. "Nor when her damned fool notions was getting some of the boys killed."

  Letting the saddle slip from her fingers, Madeline stared at the speakers. Even if she had not recognized their voices, the words would have informed her that they were members of her husband's band of renegades. Not that she took any pleasure from finding them striding toward her. Rather the opposite. In addition to insulting his memory by referring to Randolph as a "mac," which meant a pimp, they had been two of the more vocal malcontents in her party before the disastrously abortive ambush. Nor, judging from their comments and expressions, were they coming with friendly intentions.

  Bending, the woman snatched the upper of the brace of pistols from the holsters on her saddle horn. Knowing how capable she was, the men started to run toward her. Even as her brain began to scream a warning, she cocked and raised the weapon to aim at Nippy. However, although she realized the futility of the gesture, she could not stop herself from snatching at the trigger. The hammer fell, but there was only

  * Pastern: part of the horse's leg immediately above the hoof.

  a click. In her haste, she had selected the pistol with which she had tried to kill Ole Devil Hardin.

  Letting out a shriek of combined rage and fear, Madeline flung the empty weapon at Nippy. She missed, but was already grabbing for its mate when she saw each man's face registering alarm and fright.

  Something passed through the air close above the woman and struck Nippy between the eyes with considerable force. His head snapped to the rear and he pitched over backward. Bouncing off after the impact, the missile proved to be a sturdy piece of curved wood.

  An instant after the renegade was hit, there was a different kind of hiss and the second man, trying to stop running, gave a convulsive jerk. With his hands rising to claw ineffectually at the fletching of the arrow which had buried itself in his chest, he spun around and collapsed.

  Looking over her shoulder with her fingers closing on the butt of the loaded pistol, Madeline did not know whether to be pleased or terrified. While they had rescued her from the renegades, her fate at the hands of the two Indians across the stream might not be different from that which Nippy and his companion had intended. It could, however, result in a quicker death. Nippy's killer no longer held a weapon, but the second brave was already reaching for another arrow from his quiver.

  "Don't kill her!" yelled a voice in Spanish.

  Another man appeared, striding from behind a bush. At the sight of him, Madeline straightened up without drawing the pistol. Although she did not know to which regiment he belonged, the newcomer was an officer in the Mexican Army. His black busby, which had lost part of its Quetzal's tail feathers' plume, and light green Hussar-type uniform suggested he served in a volunteer unit. There was an air of breeding about him which she found comforting. Such a man

  would be more willing to honor her identification pass from Presidente Antonio Lopes de Santa Anna than either of the Indians.

  "Gracias, senor/' Madeline said, also employing Spanish. "I can repay you for saving me."

  Five minutes later, Major Abrahan Phillipe Gonzales de Villenay Danvila of the Arizona Hopi Activos Regiment had solved the mystery which had brought him back accompanied by a small party of braves who had been sent to locate him. He knew why two members of the Texas Light Cavalry were so far from their regiment's last reported position.

  "Dang it all!" Mannen Blaze almost wailed, in a sleepily petulant tone, after Major Ludwig von Lowenbrau had delivered the ultimatum. "It looks like one way or the other I'm forced and bound to become a mutineer and get shot. Because Captain Hardin, who's my superior officer, ordered me to hold on to the consignment until he comes back."

  "Damn it, man," the Prussian thundered, all his military background and upbringing revolting at such a display of stupidity from an officer. "I'm a major and that's senior to a captain. So, in Captain Hardin's absence, I'm countermanding his order and assuming authority for—"

  "Excuse me for interrupting. Major," the redhead put in, exuding a slothfully apologetic aura. "But before you can countermand an order in Captain Hardin's absence, he had to be absent—doesn't he?"

  "Of course—!" von Lowenbrau commenced, before he could stop himself. "What do you mean, damn it?"

  "It's just that I can't see how he can be absent," Mannen explained, "when he's walking down the slope behind you."

  Looking over his shoulder, the Prussian let out a guttural and explosive oath in his native tongue. Unnoticed by the

  rest of the Red River Volunteer Dragoons' contingent, three men were advancing on foot and had almost reached them.

  Von Lowenbrau recognized all the trio. At the right, carrying a strange-looking rifle, was the man who had departed during the night. Apparently he had partly told the truth about his reason for going. On the left, with an arrow nocked to the string of the remarkably long bow he was carrying and armed with two swords, was Hardin's "Chinese" servant.

  However, the Prussian's main attention was focused upon Tommy Okasi's employer. Unshaven, showing signs of having ridden hard and fast, clearly very tired, Ole Devil Hardin still contrived to stride out with a smart, almost gasconading, swagger. Unlike his escort, he had no weapon in his hands.

  Suddenly, von Lowenbrau realized what the attitudes of the Texians in the rifle pits had reminded him of. It had been the look of men who knew that somebody they disliked was shortly to be given an unpleasant shock. Obviously they had seen their captain coming even though their other officer had not.

  Or had Mannen Blaze been aware of his cousin's arrival?

  Considering the behavior of the man who had accompanied the consignment from New Orleans and who had remained silent when he should have been protesting or trying to take control from the bumbling, incompetent redhead, the Prussian was puzzled. Either the burly lieutenant had been exceptionally lucky, or he was far from the dullard he appeared.

  However, there was no time for von Lowenbrau to ponder on the question. Glancing at the rim, he stiffened. There were several men armed with rifles advancing from it. They had not been there when he had led his Dragoons into the hollow. The members of his company were not yet aware of the new and very dangerous factor which had arisen.

  "Good morning, Captain Hardin," the Prussian greeted.

  hoping that none of his Dragoons did anything stupid. While the man he was addressing kept walking, the other two had halted to their rear. "I'm pleased to see that you have brought more men to help guard the consignment."

  "Good morning, Major von Lowenbrau," Ole Devil replied, knowing that the second sentence had been a warning to the Dragoons, but he passed without as much as a glance in their direction.

  On arriving at the mule train, having found Smith there and learning of Mannen's problem, the Texian had wasted no time. Borrowing fresh mounts, he, Tommy, Smith and fifteen members of Sergeant Maxime's detail had set out to give support to his cousin. Reaching the vicinity just as the major was leading the Dragoons into the h
ollow and realizing that they were unaware of his party's presence, he had gambled upon Mannen being able to keep the Prussian occupied until he was ready to take over. From all appearances, the redhead had—as on other occasions—fully justified his cousin's faith in him.

  "Anything to report. Mister Blaze?" Ole Devil asked, halting in between von Lowenbrau and the Dragoons, but looking by the major and still ignoring his men.

  "Everything's set up ready for moving as soon as the mules arrive, sir, except for the rifles you told me to have loaded and held in reserve in case of an emergency," Mannen reported, with slightly greater animation than he had shown so far and using the honorific which he had not employed when addressing the Prussian. "The major was good enough to have his men stand watch last night, so I called in our sentries."

  "Bueno," Ole Devil praised, then turned his attention to von Lowenbrau. "Thank you. Major. The safety of this consignment is of the greatest importance."

  "You seem to have been taking its safekeeping lightly," the

  Prussian answered. "I arrived to find you absent and your second-in-command with insufficient men to ensure its protection. If that's—"

  "Damn it—!" Beauregard Rassendyll shouted, filled with indignation at such an unjust criticism of his friend.

  "You're at attention, Mister Rassendyll!" Ole Devil interrupted, without taking his eyes from von Lowenbrau. "It appears that they've protected it adequately regardless of their numbers, Major. May I ask what brings you hereabouts?"

  "I've been sent to take charge of this consignment," von Lowenbrau replied.

  "On whose orders?"

  ''Colonel Frank Johnson's. He has given me written authority—"

  "With respect, sir," Ole Devil put in, although his tones were far from apologetic, "my orders come from Major General Houston. They are that I'm to deliver the arms to him and, unless I receive written instructions to the contrary from him, that's exactly what I intend to do."