Ole Devil and the Mule Train (An Ole Devil Western Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  The most remarkable feature about the young commanding officer of Company C, especially at such a moment, was his face. Combed back and exposed by having his hat hanging on his shoulders by its barbiquejo chinstrap, his coal black hair formed what looked like small, curved horns above his temples. Taken with eyebrows like inverted W, lean cheeks, an aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed mustache—he had shaved that morning—and a short, sharply pointed chin beard, they created a satanic aspect which, in part, had produced his nickname, ‘Ole Devil’. xv

  Bringing the dun to a rump-sliding halt about thirty feet from the still unsuspecting and rowdy mob, the young captain quit its low horned, double-girthed xvi saddle and released its split-ended reins. Doing so ensured that the animal would not stray. It had been trained to stand still when ‘ground hitched’ by the dangling strands of leather and would only move under the direst of provocation.

  Without even so much as a glance at his two companions, knowing that he could rely implicitly upon their judgment, Ole Devil Hardin strode forward with sharp and angry strides. Since taking on the mission, he had had to deal ruthlessly with several situations and was willing to do so on this occasion. Nor would the fact that his own men were involved prevent him from taking whatever steps he considered necessary. For all that, he knew a single mistake on his part could blow the whole affair up into something which neither he nor anybody else could handle.

  Chapter Two – I’ll Make You Sorry You Were Born!

  Selecting a portion of the onlookers comprised of his own men, from whom he felt he could produce the most desired effect, Ole Devil Hardin headed straight for it. He heard footsteps on either side and a few paces to his rear. So he knew that Mannen Blaze and Tommy Okasi were following in the same rough arrowhead formation in which they had been riding. Although he did not see that the little Oriental no longer carried the bow and, by tugging at the quick-release knot of the carrying strap, had removed and left both it and the quiver near the horses, he would have felt no qualms if he had. Even without wearing his daisho, Tommy’s ability in the little publicized—outside his homeland—unarmed combat techniques of ju-jitsu and karate made him more than a match for most bigger, heavier and stronger assailants.

  Two of the spectators, who were clad in fawn riding breeches, felt themselves being pushed roughly from the rear by somebody who clearly wanted to pass between them. Turning, bristling with indignation and ready to take reprisals, they found themselves confronted by a figure whose features were meaner than—and very much like the pictures they had seen of—Old Nick as he was stoking up the fiery furnaces to roast another bunch of miserable sinners. Although they realized that the owner of the face was considerably more earthly and mundane, the effect was pretty near the same.

  In fact, the pair was aware that somebody was sure as hell going to find themselves pretty close to being roasted in the very near future. Assuming expressions which they hoped showed indifference, trying to appear innocent, they lost all their hostility. Once their commanding officer had stalked by, they began to edge backwards with the intention of disassociating themselves from a situation that they felt sure would not meet with his approval.

  Glancing at Tommy, Mannen diverged from the line being taken by his cousin and passed around the circle to the right. Without needing advice, the little Oriental hurried in the opposite direction until he reached the dividing line between the Dragoons and the left flank of Company C. It was, he concluded as he entered the gap, fortunate that he had demonstrated his skill at ju-jitsu, the fast withdrawal of the tachi, during the final stages of the fight and also how deadly effective such a weapon could be in his trained hands. It would be a fine inducement towards compliance with orders and a warning that any attempt to extend the hostilities would be extremely dangerous.

  For his part, the burly red-haired lieutenant seemed to be almost on the point of falling asleep as he elbowed his way through the other narrow space separating the two factions. A few from each group turned with angry protests on their lips, but none of them continued with their complaints. All of them were aware of his true potential and were not fooled by his languid exterior. However, before he could emerge beyond them, he saw something which demanded his immediate attention.

  On arriving at the forefront of the circle, Ole Devil took in the situation with a swift look. He found some slight relief in noticing that, as yet, there was no mingling between the members of the two Companies. That made things just a little more stable, provided the Dragoons did not attempt to take their representative’s part. He was counting upon his companions and the speed with which he must now act to prevent trouble.

  Although Ole Devil had never heard of psychology, he realized that the more spectacularly he dealt with the situation, the greater its effect would be upon the onlookers. In this, he would be aided by his knowledge of savate; the foot and fist fighting practiced by French Creoles in Louisiana. Furthermore, while he did not possess the skill which would be acquired by another—as yet unborn—member of the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan, xvii Tommy had taught him several useful ju-jitsu and karate tricks. Utilizing his combined lessons in the art of self-defense, he felt he could achieve his purpose. Particularly as, seeming to wish to help him, the combatants were close together. Each having grasped the other’s right wrist with the left hand, they were straining to gain the advantage.

  Thrusting himself forward without waiting for Mannen or Tommy to emerge from the crowd, the captain darted towards the two young men. He bounded into the air, rotating his body until it was parallel to the ground. Unfortunately, an instant before he reached them, they decided their position was at a deadlock and, as if by mutual consent—or realizing another factor was entering the game—shoved each other away. So they were just too far separated to receive the full impact of the collision.

  While Ole Devil still struck the fighters and sent them staggering, his attack lacked the force to incapacitate them. They went reeling at angles away from each other, but without losing their holds on the knives. Having been hit slightly the harder, the cavalryman sprawled to his hands and knees. Blundering onwards for a few more paces, the Dragoon contrived to remain erect. Alighting on his feet, Ole Devil glared from one to the other, knowing the affair was not yet over.

  Muttering an oath, one of von Lowenbrau’s men standing at the edge of their group reached for the pistol which was thrust into his belt. A friend of the knife fighter, he felt it was incumbent upon him to register a protest over such an unfair intervention by a man clad in the fashion of the opposition. Before he could do so, or identify the interloper—not that he would have been influenced towards wisdom by the discovery—he experienced a sensation such as might have resulted if he had allowed his right shoulder to come between the jaws of an exceptionally powerful bear trap.

  ‘Now you just leave that be and stay out of it, please,’ requested a drawling and lethargic voice, which somehow sounded as chilling as if it had been snarled ferociously. The last word of the sentence was accompanied by an even greater crushing pressure on the shoulder. ‘Because, if you don’t, I’ll make you sorry you were born!’

  Numbed with agony, the Dragoon glanced behind him. Maybe some folks would have regarded the bland features which met his gaze as belonging to a dull-witted simpleton, but he was not among their number. Recognizing his captor, he would have obeyed even if the excruciating torment being inflicted by the largest thumb and fingers he had ever seen were leaving him with a second choice.

  Noticing that several members of both factions appeared to be contemplating hostile action, either for or against his employer, Tommy Okasi sprang to confront them. In a flickering blur of motion which would only be matched by top grade gunfighters—employing much shorter weapons—using techniques developed from the late 1860s to the present day xviii he whipped the thirty inch long, razor sharp blade of the tachi from its sheath.

  ‘Ancient Nipponese saying, which I’ve just made up,’ the little Oriental announced, in sibilan
t tones and employing very good English, as he brandished the sword in both hands. ‘Man who pokes his nose into thing which must be stopped for good of all could end up walking on his knees, having lost all that is below them.’

  As in Mannen’s case, there were those alive who might have regarded such behavior, coming as it did from so short a person in the presence of many larger men, as being foolhardy to say the least.

  However, several of Tommy’s audience had seen and told the majority of the rest how he had practically decapitated—although that was not the term used by those who described the incident—a large Hopi brave who was trying to gut him with a war lance. Then, even before the corpse had struck the ground, he had pivoted through a good ninety degrees to fell a second warrior harboring similar intentions towards him.

  So the listeners did not regard the little Oriental’s politely phrased words as other than a serious warning of the action he was willing to take if necessary.

  Without being aware of the way in which his companions were supporting and protecting him, although neither of their tactics would have been a surprise, Ole Devil prepared to bring the fight to an end.

  Being on his feet, the Dragoon posed the greater and more pressing threat.

  Unfortunately, the problem was not so simple as there was the future to consider.

  The man’s companions would be resentful of anything which they regarded as a show of favoritism on the young captain’s part.

  Accepting what could be the only solution, Ole Devil started to put it into effect. His conscience was soothed by knowing the nature of his Company’s representative in the fight. Stepin had always shown considerable reluctance to accept discipline, despite being loyal to his outfit and proud to be serving in it, and in the past his behavior on a number of occasions had come very close to warranting punishment.

  Leaping forward, as the cursing cavalryman began to rise, Ole Devil swung up his right leg. Well versed in savate, he sent the toe of his boot with carefully calculated force under Stepin’s chin. Back snapped the head of the recipient of the attack. Lifted upwards a few inches, he released his knife’s hilt and collapsed limply to the ground. It was obvious that he would not be taking any further interest in the proceedings for a few minutes at least.

  However, the Dragoon was already rushing to the attack. He hoped that he would take his second assailant by surprise and repay the unprovoked assault upon him.

  The hope did not materialize!

  Instead of waiting for his assailant to reach him, Ole Devil glided forward on what appeared to be a converging course.

  Intending to drive his knife ‘up to the “Green River”’ xix into the intruder’s belly, the Dragoon became aware of how his would-be victim looked. Studying the savage, Mephistophelian features, he could not help glancing down. It came almost as a surprise and relief to discover that the other did not have cloven hooves or a forked tail, but was clad in the attire of the Texas Light Cavalry.

  The understanding came a trifle too late.

  Swinging to face his attacker, Ole Devil watched the knife as it was driven towards his midsection. At the last moment, he rotated his torso clear by swinging his left foot in a circular motion to his rear. Simultaneously, he raised both hands to shoulder height, palm downwards. Bringing them together, he sent them to clamp hold of Alvin’s right wrist and force it downwards away from him. Taking his weight on the right foot, the captain bent his left knee until its thigh was parallel to the ground. Still guiding the point of the knife in a harmless direction, he pulled with his hands and snapped around the raised limb so that the knee took his attacker in the pit of the stomach. Then, with a surging heave, he flung the winded, folded over, and helpless young man with a flipping motion. Turning a half somersault, Alvin alighted supine and with a bone jarring thud which drove all the air from his lungs and stunned him. Like Stepin, he was no longer in any condition to resume hostilities.

  Having ended the main source of dissension, Ole Devil wasted no time in setting about removing the rest. Glancing quickly at the two recumbent soldiers, to ensure that neither was going to make further trouble, he turned and raked the crowd with his cold black eyes. Noticing in passing that Mannen and Tommy had fully justified his confidence in them, he sought for the means to put into operation his father’s advice upon how to handle such a situation.

  ‘When you’re dealing with an unruly mob, particularly if the men in it are subject to some form of discipline,’ Captain Jeremiah Hardin, master of the trading ship Star of the Southland—which had brought Tommy Okasi to the United States—had counseled, ‘pick out one of them and make it look like you hold him responsible for what’s happening.’

  Few of the Dragoons and none of Company C would meet the grim-faced young captain’s angry scrutiny. Fortunately, the one he had selected to be his target did so.

  ‘All right, Sergeant Otis!’ Ole Devil growled, staring at the burly man who was standing in the center of the Dragoons. ‘How did you let it start?’

  ‘M-Me?’ the designated soldier began, becoming aware that the men on either side of him had begun to edge away furtively.

  ‘Hell, Cap’n, all young—’ commenced a member of Company C, but the words trailed away as his superior’s satanic face turned in his direction.

  ‘Just how the hell long have you been Sergeant Otis?’ Ole Devil demanded, with cold and savage fury which caused its recipient to back off and put aside all notions of making an explanation. On returning his gaze to its original subject, he found to his satisfaction that the non-com was no longer eyeing him defiantly, but was looking at the ground as if finding it of absorbing interest. ‘Well, sergeant?’

  ‘It was all the fault of them damned fly-slicers xx of your’n,’ Otis mumbled, jerking an indignant thumb towards the cavalryman. ‘They reckoned—’

  ‘I don’t know how it is in the Red River Volunteer Dragoons, sergeant!’ Ole Devil interrupted, after having silenced his men’s muttered protests with a glare. ‘But in my regiment, which you’re figuring on joining, you address an officer by his rank, or call him “sir”.’

  ‘Well—sir,’ Otis went on, the honorific popping like a cork from a bottle as the captain’s right foot tapped on the ground in warning. ‘It was—they reckoned’s how us Dragoons didn’t do our share of the fighting.’

  ‘Hell, cap’n!’ yelled one of Stepin’s boon companions. ‘They took their time—’

  ‘Mr. Blaze!’ Ole Devil thundered, above the growls of objection from the Dragoons. ‘Put that man to the hardest, dirtiest job you can find—and look for some more that need doing!’

  ‘Yo!’ Mannen boomed, giving the traditional cavalry acknowledgment. Having anticipated how his cousin would react to the interference, he was already ambling in the required direction with what could only be described as leisurely alacrity. ‘Get the hell into the hollow and ask Joe Galton to give you something to start digging with.’

  Satisfied that his second-in-command could deal with that aspect of the situation, Ole Devil returned his attention to the discomforted sergeant.

  ‘Hell—sir!’ Otis spat out. ‘We done our fair share and we was on top here in them rifle pits right from the start. And we got out of ’em’s quick’s we could when you yelled for us to charge. So why—?’

  ‘I wasn’t asking for a debate upon our action against the enemy, sergeant,’ Ole Devil pointed out coldly. ‘My question to you, the only one to which I require an answer, is how did you let the fight start?’

  Nothing about the young captain’s Mephistophelian features suggested that he too had noticed that the Dragoons had been slow in quitting the rifle pits when he had given the order to engage the Hopis at close quarters. He could see what had happened. Always arrogant and hot headed, Stepin must have commented upon their dilatoriness. Being of a similar disposition, Alvin had taken offense. However, the last thing Ole Devil wanted was to have the matter retained as part of the conversation.

  ‘Hell, cap’n,’ Otis b
egan, ‘we was all just standing around—’

  ‘Why?’Ole Devil asked.

  ‘Huh?’ the sergeant grunted, showing puzzlement.

  ‘Why were you all just standing around?’ Ole Devil elaborated, wondering where Corporal Smith had been and why he had not organized some kind of work to keep at least Company C occupied.

  ‘You’d all gone after the Brindley gal,’ Otis explained. ‘Von Low—the major was unconscious and that Rassendyll feller’d got an arrow in his shoul—’

  ‘I don’t need a casualty list, sergeant,’ the captain interrupted and, realizing that he had not seen any of the wounded as he was returning, deduced that his missing corporal had organized their removal into the hollow so that they could receive medical attention. ‘What you’re trying to say is that nobody had given you any orders and you didn’t have enough damned sense to put the men to work without them.’

  ‘Well—that is—!’ Otis mumbled, hanging his head and shuffling his feet.

  ‘You’re not under my command,’ Ole Devil stated and, although he did not say “Thank god”, the words were there. ‘And I’ll leave it to Major von Lowenbrau as to what action he takes against you. However, in his absence, sergeant, I’d be obliged if you would put yourself and your men at Mr. Blaze’s disposal so that he can tell you what needs to be done.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Otis responded, throwing angry glares at his companions rather than towards the man who was delivering the tongue-lashing.

  ‘You men of Company C get started throwing the Mexicans’ and Indians’ bodies into the sea,’ Mannen commanded, having heard what was being said. Shrewdly, he realized that his cousin was expecting him to act without waiting for instructions so as to emphasize the point made to Otis. ‘Put your Dragoons to helping them, sergeant. I’ll leave you in charge of the burial detail. Take those two yaks lying there, as soon as they can stand. Have the one I sent to fetch shovels and a man from your Company. I’d say the one rubbing his shoulder, but that’s up to you. Then get graves for our dead dug up here.’