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

by J. T. Edson

  While the words echoed Villena’s sentiments, the fact that they had been uttered by his greatest rival made him stiffen and glare around.

  ‘I didn’t notice you showing any willingness to volunteer for the task, Major Santoval!’ the self-appointed colonel snorted back.

  Santoval could not have disputed the comment, even if he had wished to do so. Although approving—even if only silently and to himself—of his superior’s strategy, he had been all too aware of the danger involved in carrying out a most important aspect of it. So he had studiously refused to meet Villena’s eyes, or respond in any other way to the call for a volunteer to take on the precarious assignment.

  From the scout’s description of the Texians’ defensive positions and their surroundings, Villena had concluded that attaining his desire for revenge would be anything but a sinecure. He was all too aware that success, or failure, hinged entirely upon the Hopis’ willingness to fight. They had not been sufficiently exposed to the influences of Christianity to have discarded their belief in the primitive superstitions of their nation. So, remembering that the previous failure had been in a similar location at Santa Cristóbal Bay, meeting a determined resistance at this site could cause them to assume that their war medicine was bad. Once that happened, they would lose heart and be grudging of their lives to such an extent that they were unlikely to press home an attack.

  With that in mind, the ‘colonel’ had decided to employ trickery. It was his intention, he had explained to his subordinates, to have two Companies move on foot down the steeply sloping ground over which it would be impossible for them to ride horses at speed. To prevent the impromptu infantry from being discovered prematurely, he would cause the defenders to be distracted by sending an officer under a flag of truce ostensibly to deliver terms for a surrender.

  The first snag to Villena’s plan had been persuading one of his majors, whose rank made them the obvious choice, to perform the vitally important part in the proceedings. In all fairness, Santoval had not been alone in evading the duty. Like him, all but Mendez-Castillo had excused themselves on the grounds that they could not speak sufficient English to conduct negotiations. Their obvious reluctance had infected and brought an equal lack of co-operation from their juniors. Nor had the ‘colonel’s’ attempts at minimizing the risks produced the desired results. While they had been willing to concede that the leader of the Texians might be a caballero close to their own social standing and, as such, imbued with the wellborn Anglo-Saxon’s respect for a flag of truce, the same could not be said of the men who would be with him.

  Fear of the consequences, rather than any moral objections to the betrayal of the rules governing the conducting of a formally requested parley, had been responsible for the majors’ reluctance to come forward. Their easy consciences had dismissed the latter as excusable on the grounds that they were dealing with rebels and not fighting an enemy. From their limited acquaintance and what they had been told, they considered the majority of Texians to be complete barbarians with small regard for civilized conventions and less where the sanctity of human life was concerned. Even if such men could be trusted to remain passive while their superior was talking, they would open fire upon whoever was conducting the parlay if the foot party should be seen approaching before he had withdrawn. What was more, if the plot succeeded, before they were wiped out the defenders would make him a prime target in revenge for his betrayal.

  It had only been when, dark with barely controlled anger, the ‘colonel’ had hinted at dire consequences in the future if the plan fell through and they were compelled to retire empty handed that Mendez-Castillo had reluctantly offered his services. Of all the officers present, he was the least able to refuse. Not only was he fluent in English but his formerly wealthy family had suffered serious business reverses and were to a great extent dependent upon the charity of Villena’s father. So he had volunteered with what grace he could muster.

  Although Mendez-Castillo’s bearing and attitude had not been calculated to induce wild optimism among his fellow officers, he had appeared to be carrying out his duty in a satisfactory fashion. For the plan to succeed, he had to hold the Texians’ attention. At first, despite his somewhat nervous manner, it had seemed that he would do so. The gringo enlisted men had remained in their shallow rifle pits, which formed a half circle around the tarpaulin covered mound of ammunition boxes, but they had watched him instead of their fronts. Majors Pina and Gomez had already started their respective Companies advancing on foot, but they were still far from an advantageous distance when Mendez-Castillo terminated the parley by turning away.

  Cold rage boiled through Villena. Because of the Hopi braves’ growing disenchantment with the pursuit through terrain so vastly different to that in which they had been born and raised, he had been compelled to let their chiefs tell them of his ‘medicine’ for ensuring victory. The strength of his authority had been further weakened among them by the realization that much of the valuable loot they were anticipating had gone over the river and would require a further chase. If it was seen that his present scheme was not going according to plan, they might refuse to fight and certainly would not give of their best if they did.

  There was, the ‘colonel’ concluded, only one thing to do.

  ‘Charge!’ Villena thundered, sending his restlessly moving horse bounding forward.

  Realizing the danger of any further delay, the rest of the Mexicans repeated the order and followed their superior. Letting out their war whoops, the Hopis obeyed and the mass of riders began to swoop downwards towards the small band of Texians who must stand and fight as they had no means of doing anything else.

  Chapter Sixteen – Good Old Yellow Stone

  ‘Watch that slope!’ Ole Devil Hardin shouted, following the advice himself as he noticed Major Ramon Mendez-Castillo throw a quick look in that direction and then encourage the horse to move faster.

  Only the briefest inspection was needed to inform the young Texian that his summation had been correct. However, he could also take some small comfort from the realization that the enemy’s treacherous plot had gone amiss because of the major’s premature departure. While a number of Hopis and their Mexican officers were approaching on foot, making the most of what little cover was available, they were still much too far away to pose the threat they would have been if the trick had not miscarried.

  Startled exclamations told Ole Devil that his instructions had been carried out by the men in the rifle pits closest to the sloping ground. However, they were all experienced fighters and did not waste powder and shot by opening fire at such a long range.

  Listening to Ole Devil’s warning, Mendez-Castillo knew that his superior’s ploy had failed. His glance had shown him that Companies Four and Nine were still much too far away to play their part. Even as he was returning his gaze to the front, he heard ‘Colonel’ Abrahan Phillipe Gonzales de Villena y Danvila’s word of command and saw the remaining Companies of the Arizona Hopi Activos Regiment commencing the attack. So he applied his spurs to his mount’s flanks, causing it to increase its pace, in the hope of avoiding the wrath which he felt sure the defenders would direct upon him in repayment for his treachery.

  The Hopi brave carrying the white flag had also started to turn away from the Texians. At the sight of his companions beginning to advance, he saw a way of gaining a great honor.

  It was a dangerous—some might even consider foolhardy—thing to do, but he had elected to arm himself with a lance and there were obligations in accepting such a distinction. lxxvi One was an utter disregard for personal safety in battle.

  Reversing his mount’s direction with a speed and precision which would not have shamed the finest polo player and pony, the brave dropped the head of his weapon forward. Without even trying to shake off the white shirt which had served as a flag, he gave his ‘kill or die’ cry and signaled his intentions with his heels. Instantly, the well-trained horse sprang forward. There was no need for him to think of selectin
g a victim. He had already decided that only one was suitable and would bring the acclaim deserved by his deed.

  The gringo with the face of el Diablo!

  Aiming the lance’s needle-sharp head at the center of the chest of the tall, slim Texian, the brave guided the horse towards him.

  Although Ole Devil was looking away, he heard the Hopi’s yell and the sound of the horse approaching. Knowing something of the Indians’ regard for the lance as a weapon, he guessed what was happening and that he might have been chosen as the victim. What was more, as he had not laid aside his pistols while conducting the parley, he had the means to defend himself.

  Swinging his attention to the front and confirming his suspicions, Ole Devil was already lifting his right hand pistol. However, he was not the only member of his party who had appreciated the danger. Equally aware of the responsibilities which went with carrying a lance, although he could not be sure that the house-Indian Hopis—with whom he had had no prior contact—adhered to such precepts, Tom Wolf had been keeping the warrior under observation. At the first suggestion of trouble, the Tejas chief snapped his rifle upwards.

  Even as Ole Devil was squeezing the Manton’s trigger, he heard the crack of two rifle shots; but too late for him to prevent himself from firing. Hit between the eyes and in the chest, either of which wounds would have been sufficient to kill him, the brave was flung bodily backwards from his horse. The lance flew from his hand as he went down and, frightened by the weapons going off in front of it, his mount swerved aside. At the same moment that death took the Hopi, the bullet fired by old Jube struck the back of Mendez-Castillo’s skull. Killed instantly, the Mexican joined his companion in crashing to the ground and became their Regiment’s first two casualties.

  Although Ole Devil saw his party had scored first blood in the encounter, he knew it was small cause for congratulations. Nor would it have the slightest effect upon the inevitable ending.

  Well over two hundred mounted attackers were pouring into the basin and rushing closer at an ever-increasing rate as they urged their horses to gallop!

  Nearly a hundred more assailants, seeing that there was no hope of drawing nearer undetected, gave vent to war yells and started to run forward!

  Following his orders, Sergeant Smith moved back until he joined Sammy Cope, who was behind the tarpaulin-covered mound of ammunition. Taking out and cocking his pistol, the non-com knelt and placed its muzzle on the tip of the quick match cord. The destruction of the supplies was his duty, or would fall to Cope if he should be prevented from carrying it out for some reason.

  Scanning the enemy’s ranks as he tossed the empty pistol behind him and on to the mound, so that it would not be taken away after the battle, Ole Devil noticed how the older Mexicans and Hopi war leaders were allowing their more imprudent juniors and the younger braves to draw ahead. The same thing had happened at Santa Cristóbal Bay, so he was not surprised to find out who would be bearing the brunt of his men’s fire.

  Despite being little older than his subalterns, Villena was one of those who were showing caution. He had done so during the previous battle and it had saved his life. Trying to locate him among the swarming mass of riders, Ole Devil intended to prevent him from escaping a second time if an opportunity was presented.

  Onwards thundered the attackers!

  Already the defenders were opening fire upon the still closely packed horde!

  By Ole Devil’s side, Tommy Okasi drew and loosed a yanagi-ha arrow, extracting another from his quiver with deft speed as soon as it was on its way. Dropping the rifle with which he had justified Mendez-Castillo’s fears of how the treacherous betrayal of the flag of truce would be replayed, Jube snatched up his second weapon and put it to equally good use. Others aimed, fired and exchanged their spent caplocks for the loaded reserve arms laid close at hand.

  At each shot, a man or a horse went down; but the remainder continued to charge without hesitation or alarm over the losses.

  Another hundred yards and the leading Hopis would be on the defenders!

  Seventy-five!

  Every Texian and Tejas Indian had used three of his weapons to good effect!

  Then it happened!

  Louder than the barking of the defenders’ rifles, even making itself heard above the rumbling thunder from the horses’ hooves, came an unexpected noise.

  ‘Whoo—ooo—whoo!’

  The eerie sound, magnified and echoing from the sheer walls of the gorge, caused all the Hopis in particular to stare in that direction and brought the dismounted braves to a halt. It was something beyond their comprehension. So was the sight that greeted their amazed gaze a moment later.

  ‘Good old Yellow Stone!’ Ole Devil breathed, without looking around. ‘Let’s hope those horses aren’t like Di’s mules!’

  Coming from where it had been concealed up to then by the sides of the gorge was the thing which had caused the young Texian to be concerned over traveling along the banks of the Brazos River with the mule train. He had known that, having been brought in sections from the United States and assembled on arrival, a steamboat operated between the coast and the inland cities. However, Diamond-Hitch Brindley had assured him that her animals had had sufficient contact with the Yellow Stone and similar vessels which plied the Red River in Arkansas to have lost all fear of them.

  The same did not apply to the Hopis—or their mounts!

  In spite of being smaller than the great passenger and cargo carriers using the mighty Mississippi-Missouri Rivers system, the Yellow Stone was still an impressive sight as she emerged from the gorge. Smoke, flames and sparks—the latter created deliberately on her captain’s orders to enhance the dramatic effect—belched from her tall stack and her wheels churned the water as they drove her along. A trio of four-pounder boat cannon had been fitted at her bows since the commencement of hostility and these were manned, ready for use.

  Coming from Arizona, the Indians had never seen a boat larger than was needed for an oxen-powered or ‘compass’ type of ferry, or even one that was driven by a sail. Nor were they aware of such a device as a steam engine as a means of motive power. So the sight of the Yellow Stone bearing down on them was the cause of consternation and terror. None of them could imagine what the strange apparition might be.

  Turning his vessel towards the western shore, with all the easy facility granted by the paddle wheels on each side, the captain tugged on the lanyard and the whistle emitted another of its steam-powered whoops. In echo to the sound, the three cannons bellowed and vomited forth their loads of canister. lxxvii

  Great as the shock delivered to the Hopis by the Yellow Stone’s appearance might be, it had an even more adverse effect upon their horses. Before the tempest of balls from the cannon reached them, the animals were registering their alarm by rearing, plunging or swerving wildly in an attempt to get away from the terrible fire-breathing monstrosity that was coming towards them.

  Nor did the Hopis and Mexicans who had avoided being unseated try to regain control of their panic-stricken mounts and resume the attack. Instead, like the animals, the braves in particular had only one idea. To flee as swiftly as possible from the demoniac device which they believed had been summoned up by some magical power of that gringo with the face of el Diablo, the Devil.

  In an instant, the charge that had threatened to overrun the Texians’ positions had been reduced to chaos. With one exception, even the Mexicans—who knew what the Yellow Stone was—did nothing to avert the panic. Instead, they joined in the flight. Nor was the exception, Villena, able to prevent the mass departure.

  Thrown from his horse as it took grave exception to the appearance of the steamboat, the ‘colonel’ had contrived to alight without injury. However, his pistol had flown from his grasp while he was falling. Leaping to his feet and snatching the epee de combat from its sheath, he tried to avert the rout. Not one of the men who were still mounted took the slightest notice of his yells. Instead, they scattered and fled in the direction from
which they had come. If he had looked, he would have learned that the two Companies on the sloping ground were also in full flight.

  Finding themselves left on foot and with no means of flight gave the Hopis the courage of desperation. Screaming war cries that held a timbre of terror, they rushed at the men in the rifle pits with the intention of dying fighting.

  Rage filled Villena as he realized that he had been abandoned by the majority of his Regiment. Glaring around furiously, he located the man who had brought about his downfall and saw his chance of taking revenge. As he looked, the young Texian—whose face appeared even more like that of the devil than ever—shot a charging brave. Doing so had emptied his pistol and he did not have another on his person.

  Realizing what it meant, the ‘colonel’ spat out a delighted exclamation and dashed forward. If he had been in control of his emotions, he would never have attempted such a wild attack. In his present frame of mind, he thought only of impaling the man for whom he had developed an all consuming hatred on the epee de combat.

  On discharging the shot from his second pistol, Ole Devil released it. His right hand flashed across to close around the concave ivory hilt of the bowie knife. Even as he was drawing it from its sheath, he became aware of another threat to his life. Face distorted with rage, Villena was almost upon him.

  Seeming to act of its own volition, the bowie knife swung to the right. The great blade met the advancing epee de combat and swept it aside. There was a major difference between the two weapons. Where the sword was designed purely for thrusting with its point, the shape of the knife’s blade gave it a far greater scope. The rounded back of the blade was excellent for parrying without endangering the cutting edge, but the latter or the equally sharp false edge could be used to slash and thrust.

  Disengaging his weapon as soon as it had deflected Villena’s blade away from him, Ole Devil performed a lightning fast backhand chop. The false edge made contact before the Mexican could think of retaliation or evasion, passing under his chin to lay open his throat. As the weapon came free, although his every instinct told him he had already delivered a mortal blow, the Texian could not resist striking again. Around lashed his hand, directing the cutting edge to just below Villena’s right ear. Biting in until it met bone, the blade shoved its recipient aside. His weight dragged him free and he blundered on for a few involuntary steps until he collapsed face down across the mound of ammunition that had, in part, cost him his life.