Young Ole Devil

by J. T. Edson

  Rushing up, Basil arrived just after his brother had been compelled to release Hardin. Coming in from the opposite side to Cyril, Basil launched his right foot in a kick. Rolling to the left, Hardin swung his left arm so that the base of his fist met the advancing shin just above the ankle. Working in smooth coordination, his right hand grasped the leg of the trousers over his left fist. Having halted the kick, Hardin returned his shoulders to the ground and hauled the captured limb above him. Then his own right leg snapped around and upwards, aiming the toe of his boot at Basil’s groin area. The kick caught Basil on the inside of the upper thigh. While painful, it was not sufficiently so to incapacitate him. It did, however, combine with the pull being exerted upon his leg to throw him off balance.

  Giving Basil’s leg a twisting heave which toppled him over, Hardin released him and bounded up. Snarling incoherently in his rage, half-blinded by tears, Cyril lunged and with bloody hands tried to grab the slim young man.

  ‘This’s for the Chicano boy!’ Hardin told the burly man savagely, pivoting into another savate kick.

  Propelled by the powerful gluteus muscles of Hardin’s buttocks, his right boot came into contact with the bottom of Cyril’s jaw. The burly man’s head hinged back until it seemed that his neck might be in danger of snapping. Lifted from his knees he began to crumple like a punctured balloon and collapsed flaccidly on to his face.

  Having disposed of the elder brother, Hardin turned his attention to the younger. Moving clear of Cyril and standing with his back to the spectators, the young dandy studied Basil who was once more on his hands and knees and staring at his sibling as if unable to believe his eyes.

  ‘Come on, you lousy son-of-a-bitch!’ Hardin ordered coldly and his face seemed even more Satanic as he swept the second of the Winglow family with a contempt-filled gaze. ‘Let’s see how you stack up against a man instead of a Chicano boy.’

  Swinging his head so as to glare at the speaker, Basil became aware of the significance of die comment and did not care for what it suggested. Apparently, the dandy had another reason besides arrogant self-importance for picking the fight.

  Although the Winglows and their companions had believed that they were the only human occupants of the livery barn, they had been mistaken. Shortly after the rest of the party had taken their departure, the brothers had heard a scuffling noise. On going to investigate, they had discovered that a pair of boys—a Texian and a Chicano—were hiding behind some bales of hay. Guessing that the boys had heard Duke giving his instructions, Basil and Cyril had decided to frighten them into keeping quiet and had tried to catch them. Being older than his friend, the Chicano had tried to hold the brothers off with a pitchfork while the youngster escaped. Although he had been partly successful, the Texian boy having fled, the Chicano had been less fortunate. Disarming him, the brothers had slapped him around and finally left him bloody and unconscious on the floor.

  Partly because they had been told to pretend that they did not know the rest of their party, but mainly due to believing that Duke would disapprove of what they had done, the brothers had not mentioned the incident on their arrival at the cantina. From what he had said, it seemed that the dandy had found the Chicano and, learning who was responsible, had for some reason decided to inflict summary punishment upon the men who had carried out the attack.

  Letting out a bellow of rage, Basil thrust himself erect. Recklessly he flung himself forward with big hands reaching to grab hold of the dandy. It proved to be a costly error in tactics. Before his fingers could close, the object of his intentions seemed to disappear.

  Crouching under Basil’s grasp, Hardin let him have a punch in the pit of the stomach. It halted him and, as he doubled over, Hardin’s knee rocketed upwards. For the second time, Basil was fortunate in avoiding the full force of an attack. He had fallen back just enough for the knee to miss his face. Struck on the forehead, he was lifted upright and staggered rearwards for a few steps. However, he did not go down. As Hardin advanced, Basil caught his balance and swung a backhand blow with his right hand. Although it was almost at the end of its flight when it connected on the side of the dandy’s head, it brought him to a halt. Basil followed it with a much more effective punch to the chest, sending Hardin up against the hitching rail. Wanting to make the most of his success, Basil lunged forward.

  On seeing that his cousin had escaped and rendered one attacker hors-de-combat, Mannen Blaze had slowed to a more leisurely pace. He had complete faith in Hardin’s ability to take care of the remaining assailant. Satisfied that his assistance would not be required and thinking that his arrival might bring some of the burly man’s friends into the affair, he halted and leaned against the hitching rail of a store on the opposite side of the street to the cantina. While it was clear that he did not mean to intervene, he was ready if anybody else should do so. Although he did not know it, such an intervention was at that moment being suggested.

  Standing glowering angrily at the crowd, Duke felt a touch on his sleeve. Looking around he found one of his party at his side. Tall, gangling, the man’s somber features and black clothing were indicative of his profession. He had been an undertaker before joining Johnson’s regiment.

  ‘Shall we cut in, major?’ the man inquired, watching Hardin side step Basil’s rush and move into the centre of the street.

  ‘No, Jolly!’ Duke replied. Those two stupid bastards deserve all they get, letting themselves be riled into a fight.’

  The force with which the punch had landed on his chest had been a warning to Hardin that a toe-to-toe slugging brawl would favor his heavier assailant. So he had had no intention of being trapped in a position which would require that he fought in such a manner. Having evaded Basil and gained room to maneuver, he swung around to await the next development.

  Instead of having learned the futility of such tactics, the burly man continued with the methods he had employed with some success in previous fights. They proved disastrous against the swiftly-moving dandy, who refused to stand and trade blows or to come to grips where brute strength would have prevailed. It soon became obvious that, barring something unforeseen happening, Hardin was going to win. However, not all of the punishment being meted out went one way, Basil managed to land some punches in return for the many which were being rained upon him. All in all, the appreciative spectators were treated to a pretty good fight.

  Despite seeing that his cousin was justifying his confidence, Mannen Blaze was perturbed as he remembered what had brought them to San Antonio. Devil could, Blaze reflected have picked a more suitable time to become involved in a street brawl. That belief was increased, as was his perturbation, by the sight of two men who came from an alley further along the street. Recognizing one and making an accurate guess at the other’s identity, Blaze could foresee stormy times ahead for his cousin.

  One of the new arrivals was grey-haired, very tall, broad-shouldered and powerfully built. Clad in a buckskin shirt, brown bell-bottomed vaquero trousers and high heeled, spur-decorated boots, with a wide-brimmed black hat tilted back on his head, he had a bowie knife—more correctly the bowie knife vi—in a sheath on the left side of his waist belt

  Seeing Colonel James Bowie approaching was not the cause of Blaze’s consternation. In fact, the legendary knife-fighter and adventurer appeared to be amused at finding Hardin in a fight. The same did not apply to his companion.

  Lacking two inches of Bowie’s height, the second man was also more slenderly built. He wore a uniform similar to those of the soldiers on the sidewalk, except that it was of better material and more decorative. There were bullion shoulder scales on his tunic and his head-dress was a black felt shako. Further indications of his rank were supplied by the red sash, knotted at the right, around his waist under a belt with a saber hanging by its slings, and by a row of five brass buttons on each sleeve’s cuff. He marched rather than walked, striding out as if on parade.

  Blaze assumed, correctly, that the officer was Colonel William Barrett Travi
s; already noted for being a tough martinet and disciplinarian. Judging from his expression, he did not approve of what was going on.

  ‘Stop this damned brawling immediately!’ Travis bellowed, just after Hardin had knocked Basil staggering with a right to the jaw.

  Turning his head to discover who had spoken, Hardin duplicated his cousin’s identification of the two men. However,’ carrying out the order was not possible. While Hardin was willing to obey, the same did not apply to his battered and bloody assailant.

  Catching his balance and coming to a halt, Basil once again charged wildly at the young man who had inflicted so much pain upon him. Hearing the other approaching, Hardin knew that he would not be responsible to words. Avoiding the bull-like rush, he whipped around a savate circular side kick which propelled the toe of his boot into the pit of Basil’s stomach with considerable force. The burly man let out a belching gasp, folded over at the waist and blundered onwards a couple of steps. Pivoting, Hardin delivered a second kick. It landed on the seat of Basil’s pants and kept him moving. Pure chance guided him to the supporting post of the hitching rail. As he still had not straightened up, the top of his skull rammed into the sturdy timber. Rebounding from it, he fell as if he had been boned and with blood pouring from his scalp.

  ‘Sorry, colonel,’ Hardin said, breathing heavily but turning in a respectful manner towards the approaching men. T don’t think that feller heard what you said.’

  ‘I see you’ve not forgotten how to fight, young Ole Devil,’ Bowie remarked with a grin, glancing at the motionless brothers.

  ‘You know him, Colonel Bowie?’ Travis asked, before Hardin could reply and in tones which suggested that he and the great knife fighter might not be on the best of terms.

  ‘Don’t you?’ Bowie inquired, sounding puzzled. ‘This’s Captain Hardin of Ed Fog’s Texas Light Cavalry. Devil, may I present Colonel William Barrett Travis?’

  ‘My pleasure, sir,’ Hardin responded, although he felt certain that the sentiment would not be mutual under the circumstances.

  Like his cousin, who was coming slowly towards him, Hardin silently decided that of all the senior officers in the Republic of Texas’s army, Barrett Travis was the last whom he would have wanted to arrive at that moment. Even if the colonel had known the reason for the fight, Hardin considered it was unlikely to have met with his approval.

  ‘Sergeant Brill!’ Travis called, turning to the spectators on the sidewalk, without offering to acknowledge the introduction. ‘Take our men back to the camp and find them some work.’

  ‘Yo!’ answered the non-com, giving what was already developing into the accepted cavalry response to an order.

  While Duke could see that he would be losing some of his audience, he expected that the rest were going to re-enter the cantina and allow him to continue with the work which had been interrupted. Even as the thought came, he heard bugles playing a familiar and—under the circumstances—infuriating call.

  ‘That’s assembly, boys,’ Bowie announced. ‘Means we’re all wanted back at the camp. I’d be right obliged if you’d close down for a spell, Bill.’

  ‘She’s as good’s done, Jim,’ Cord answered, and he could hardly restrain his relief as he realized that by doing so he would prevent Duke from resuming the agitation. ‘I’ll open up after sundown, gents, but there’ll be nothing else served until then. Collect your belongings.’

  ‘Whose outfit are those two with?’ Bowie asked, indicating the unconscious brothers.

  Nobody replied. Glancing at Duke, his men received a prohibitive shake of his head and kept silent.

  ‘Looks like they must have come in to join somebody,’ Bowie went on. ‘Here, Ed, Tim, see to them.’

  The men named by the knife-fighter belonged to his regiment. Swinging from the porch, they went to carry out the order. While Travis’s soldiers were forming up, the sergeant returned Hardin’s property to him.

  ‘We’d best have ’em toted to a doctor, Colonel Jim,’ suggested one of the men who was examining the brothers, and he pointed to Basil. ‘This jasper’s head’s split open pretty bad and, way young Ole Devil there kicked it, the other’ll be lucky if his jaw’s not broken.’

  ‘That’s very good!’ Travis snorted, in tones which implied exactly the opposite, scowling at Hardin who had donned his hat and was returning the pistol to its loop on his belt. ‘Thanks to you, captain, we’ve lost two men who could have fought against the Mexicans.’

  ‘No excuse, sir,’ the young dandy answered, stiffening into a ramrod straight brace as rigidly military as the uniformed colonel’s posture. His Mephistophelian features displayed a complete lack of emotion, certainly he did not appear to be contrite over having deprived the army of the brothers’ services. ‘Permission to leave, sir?’

  ‘Granted!’ Travis replied. ‘And, unless you wish to indulge in further brawls and to cripple a few more members of our army, I’d suggest that you get about whatever business has brought you to San Antonio.’

  Chapter Three – You’ve No Intention of Believing Us

  ‘Tommy’s not here yet,’ Mannen Blaze remarked, looking languidly around as he and his cousin entered Shelby’s Livery Barn.

  ‘I was hoping that he wouldn’t be,’ Ole Devil Hardin admitted, and touched his bruised left cheek with a careful forefinger. ‘With any luck, I’ll have time to tidy myself up again before he comes to fetch us.’

  ‘I’m going to stick with you this time, cousin,’ Blaze declared with a sleepy grin. That way you’ll maybe keep out of mischief.’

  On their arrival at General Samuel Houston’s headquarters that morning, Hardin and Blaze had delivered the report of the scouting mission which they had carried out. They had been told that the General would not be able to see them for some time, but wished to do so eventually. Wanting to look their best, and having an aversion to being dirty, for longer than was necessary, they had left the third member of their party at the headquarters’ building and gone to try and make themselves more presentable.

  Visiting the livery barn where they had already left their horses, the cousins had asked advice of its owner. An old friend of their clan, Allen Shelby, had told them to go to his home and make use of his toilet facilities. As the senior officer, Hardin had been the first to use the bath and change from his travel-stained garments. While his cousin was bathing in turn, he had returned to the barn to see if their companion had arrived. Finding the Chicano boy and learning what had happened, he had set off to deal with the matter alone instead of waiting for Blaze to Join him.

  Although Hardin had achieved his purpose, he had accepted Colonel William Barrett Travis’s comments and curt dismissal from the front of the cantina without making any attempt to offer an explanation which would exculpate him. Accompanied by his cousin, who had prudently remained in the background during the brief discussion with Travis, he had made his way back to the livery barn. They had arranged to meet their companion there when he came to fetch them for the interview with Houston.

  During the walk from the cantina to the barn, Hardin had satisfied Blaze’s curiosity regarding the trouble. He had also explained why he had not told Travis of the real reason for him picking the fight. Far from being the slow-witted dullard which he pretended to be, Blaze had conceded that his cousin had acted for the best and hoped that their superiors would share his sentiments when they heard.

  The barn was still unoccupied, which did not surprise Hardin and Blaze. Shelby had been on the point of departing for a conference at Houston’s headquarters when they had come to seek his advice, and had said that all of his employees were occupied with preparations for leaving with the army.

  ‘Mrs. Shelby’s too busy to want me bothering her again,’ Hardin drawled. ‘I’ll have a wash in the horse-trough.’

  ‘You shouldn’t need to change your clothes again,’ Blaze commented. ‘I reckon we can brush most of the drift off.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Hardin replied. ‘I don’t have another pair of bree
ches until Mrs. Shelby sends the pair she’s having washed. Let me get a towel out of my war bag and, while I’m washing, will you get the rest of our gear out of the office? Then we’ll take the horses, go out to headquarters and wait there until the General can see us.’

  ‘I’m for that J Blaze declared. ‘There’ll be less chance of you getting into trouble again if we do.’

  Although the cousins’ and their companion’s saddles were hanging with several more on the inverted V-shaped wooden ‘burro’, which had been erected along one wall for that purpose, they had removed their bed rolls, rifles and other weapons. Shelby had suggested that with so many strangers in town—and as the barn would be untended—it might be advisable for them to leave their more portable property somewhere less public than on the burro. Putting his private office at their disposal, he had given them a key so that they could retrieve their gear when they needed it.

  By the time Hardin had finished his ablutions, Blaze had fetched their belongings from the office and had removed most of the dirt stains from his shirt. Donning it, Hardin replaced the towel in his war bag. He was about to refold his bed roll when footsteps sounded and a group of men came through the open main doors.

  Six in number, the newcomers formed a rough half circle and halted just inside the building. In the centre of the line, standing with his hands behind his back, was a tall, gangling, mournful-looking man wearing a black hat and suit Studying him, Blaze thought he might be an undertaker and wondered what had brought him to die barn. Although the others wore a variety of clothing, it was clear that they were with the black dressed man. What was more, their attitude suggested that they might not have arrived for the harmless purpose of collecting their horses.