The Devil's Staircase

by Randy D. Smith

  "Since when do you take it upon yourself to go against my orders?"

  "Those vaqueros were too slow. I wanted to make time."

  "I rode with some of those vaqueros, myself. That’s horse shit and you know it."

  Patch didn’t answer choosing to pour himself a cup of coffee instead.

  "You get this one," Black Jack said slowly. "Next time you ride out alone, don’t bother to come back."

  "Meaning?" Patch asked sullenly.

  Jack stared coldly, his eyes narrowing. "I’ll bury you."

  "Might take some doing."

  "It might. You know I will."

  Patch nodded as Toby handed him a plate of beans.

  "Tad, you ride out and do the scouting tomorrow. Take Rigundo with you. Do what he says and you’ll be all right."

  "I can do my job," Patch said angrily.

  "Then do it, by God. I’ll not stand for insubordination." Jack’s eyes flashed in the firelight.

  Patch nodded, taking a mouthful of beans without looking up. After a moment he spoke. "You want me to scout or Tad?"

  "You do it then; but take Rigundo with you." Jack threw his coffee grounds into the fire and made up his blankets.

  The men stared uncomfortably at each other before turning in. Patch finished his beans then went to his blankets.

  A coyote howled from the ridge. It caused the burros to bray a response. Otherwise the camp was quiet except for the stirrings of the guards.

  Chapter 7

  San Angelo Mission, the village of San Angelo, and the Gomez Rancho were situated together along the river for protection against the Comanche. The Rancho hacienda consisted of a walled adobe fort surrounding a courtyard with attached corrals. The mission stood 300 yards to the west and was also walled in a similar fashion to the Alamo Mission in Bejar. Scattered between them were several tradesmen’s houses and a corral. As was typical of an early Spanish settlement the village had formed around the protection and attractive influence of the church.

  Old Fransico Gomez, the patriarch of the family, waited with three of his mature sons to greet Dona Elaina as the caravan circled in front of his hacienda. Although he was not of pure Spanish blood, he was still a recognized man of prominence and wealth who had not been overwhelmed by Anglo settlement. The close proximity of the Comanche raiders had discouraged white settlement in the area and he was one of the few Mexicanos able to keep his ranch together after Texas independence. The Texas Republic had little influence upon his activities and he was left in relative peace and quiet. But Gomez was a wise man and could read the winds of change. He had supported the separation of Texas from Mexico, and knew instinctively that a wave of greedy Texans would soon reach the mission as the Indian menace was subdued. He had worked extensively with the government in Austin to secure land claims and make sure that his family’s interests were protected as part of his involvement in Texas independence. He maintained a force of seventy armed vaqueros to protect his lands and was the unofficial law from San Angelo seventy miles west to Rattlesnake Butte.

  Ortiz dismounted and escorted Gomez to the carriage where he graciously welcomed the women and instructed his sons to escort them into the hacienda. The rest of the caravan was directed to a nice camping spot along the river. After a private conversation with Ortiz, Gomez directed the pack mules into the hacienda courtyard. The Rangers were directed to the camp. Black Jack obeyed the directive knowing that a challenge would not be successful.

  "How the hell are we supposed to protect that ransom out here?" Patch Wilkes asked.

  "We aren’t. Gomez will never allow Rangers into his hacienda. We’ll just have to do the best we can from the camp."

  "I don’t like it. What if old Gomez takes a shine to that money and it disappears?" Patch asked.

  "This is Senora Valverde’s show and her problem. She wants the money within the walls of the hacienda and that’s that."

  "Ain’t you an agreeable sort, nowadays?" Patch complained.

  "Quit your bitching. We’ll do as we’re ordered. Be glad we don’t have to pull guard duty for a few days. That money will leave when she does. You can bet on it."

  Tad Cole swung his horse alongside. "There’s a cantina over there, Captain. You don’t suppose we could get a few drinks tonight?"

  "Probably the best you’ll do is pulque but if that suits you boys, have at it. It’ll probably be the last chance any of you will have at a drink between here and El Paso," Jack said.

  "What? Are you dining with the lady tonight with all the other high-falootins?" Patch asked.

  "No, I ain’t. I just want to get some rest and talk to some boys about the trail ahead. Sitting around a cantina drinking cactus beer doesn’t hold much appeal."

  "Damn, Jack! You are getting soft. Are you going to need a warm glass of milk before bedtime?"

  "See to your camp," Jack answered briskly, spurring his mount ahead. "Watch your mouth tonight. I don’t want you getting into it with any of the locals. That goes for all of you boys, as well."

  * * * *

  The dirt floor cantina was little more than a one-room stable with a plank bar and a few stools. Most of the peons drank their pulque under the trees in front. The bar owner brewed the stuff out of cactus and poured the pulque from crock jars into small glazed crock cups. It was the first pulque Tad, Kyle and Toby had tried. Even for frontier soldiers used to almost any concoction they had guts enough to drink, this stuff took some adjustment. They relaxed in the evening shade of the building and nursed their cups a sip at a time.

  Patch Wilkes joined them carrying a full crock. He sat against the building beside them and drank deeply from the crock, allowing the excess to drip from the sides of his mouth. "You boys want a little?" he asked as he took a deep breath and wiped the excess from his chin with his sleeve.

  Tad giggled as he watched Patch take another draft. "Good lord! How do you stomach such a concoction?"

  "Got to develop a taste for it. This is good stuff. Better than most you’ll drink out here. Just slide it to the back of the throat and down the chute. This is prime bust head."

  Tad hesitated a moment to build his courage then, "All right, here goes!" He drank the entire saucer in three gulps and gasped for breath.

  Not to be outdone, Kyle and Toby followed. Their faces reflected the bitterness of the brew.

  Patch motioned for them to hold out their cups for a refill. "Don’t worry boys. It’ll get better as the evening wears on." He filled their cups and took another long drink from the crock.

  El Segundo and four vaqueros joined them with a crock and saucers. "Hey, Amigos," he said laughingly. "We join you, con permission."

  "Sure! Why the hell not!" Patch said loudly as he refilled the cups and prepared to take another big swig.

  The crocks were downed quickly and two more ordered. Within a quarter hour the men were comparing their Bowie knives. Segundo had a thin blade of seven inches with a small bone inlaid handle secured by five silver pins and silver guard. Patch carried a sixteen-inch Bowie that looked more like a large meat cleaver, a sixteenth of an inch across the flat of the straight blade back, the blade rising in a gentle arch to the point with a heavy antler handle and no guard. The argument soon developed between them as to which was better. Segundo maintained that his was handy, threw well and could be used for almost any chore from trimming leather to slicing meat. Patch argued that his Bowie was more a man’s knife, suitable for cleaving a man from his shoulder to his belly button with one blow from the back of a horse to chopping wood, or skinning. The debate developed into a knife-throwing contest. A circle was quickly carved into the top of a stool that was then lodged into the fork of a live oak. Segundo threw first at fifteen paces, sticking the light knife dead center. He drew the blade out amid congratulations from his vaqueros. Patch threw his next. His Bowie looked like a tomahawk in flight and split a gash in the stool. Tad, Kyle and Toby were loud in their praise.

  A sullen group of vaqueros rode up and quietly wat
ched the antics. Eventually, one of them, a handsome rider on a tall Tobiano paint stallion spoke in Spanish. "The Anglo is very good with his knife. Perhaps he would like to prove himself in a contest."

  Patch swirled drunkenly and asked. "What sort of contest?"

  "The dance of the blade," the vaquero said in English.

  "Careful, this is a dangerous game and your knife is not suited for such a contest," Segundo warned quietly.

  Patch listened but the pulque seemed to be taking its effect upon his judgment. "I suppose I’m about as good as any man with a blade. How can this contest be much different?"

  "This man is Juan Ortega. He rides for Senor Gomez. Worse than that, he is known for his skill at the dance," Segundo warned again.

  "Is that right?" Patch asked. "Are you this Juan Ortega character?"

  "Si, amigo."

  "Well, what’s the rules?"

  Ortega drew a long red silk scarf from around his neck. "I knot the ends and you take hold of the knot with either your right or left hand. With the other you hold your knife. The blade cannot be directed to the hand holding the knot. The man that draws first blood wins. The man who drops the knot loses. If the scarf is jerked from the other man’s grasp, the one who drops the scarf loses. It is that simple."

  "First blood only?" Patch asked.

  "First blood only. This is a game of skill only."

  "Let’s go for it."

  Ortega smiled. "First we settle the matter of a wager."

  "Wager?" Patch asked as he staggered a step forward. "How much damn wager?"

  "Since you are new, perhaps, ten pesos."

  Patch squinted his good eye to focus. "Ten pesos. Hell, let’s make her twenty."

  "Muy bien," Ortega laughed. "Twenty it is."

  Patch turned to Toby, Kyle and Tad. "You boy’s got twenty pesos for this?"

  Tad looked at his friends who reluctantly nodded. "I guess so. But don’t bet anymore."

  "What about you, Segundo? You want to bet on the Texan?" Patch pointed to himself. "Or your own kind." He motioned wildly in the general direction of Ortega.

  Segundo stepped forward and spoke softly. "If you will use my blade. Otherwise, he will cut you before you know what has happened. Your blade is too heavy."

  "Szat so? Well, we’ll see. Keep your money…. For now."

  The men formed a wide circle around Ortega and Wilkes as each man took a knotted end of the scarf in his left hand. Ortega produced a ten-inch double-edged Arkansas toothpick while Patch retained his heavy cleaver Bowie. Each man formed a wrap around the palm with his end of the scarf to prevent it from accidentally being dropped. They circled slowly walking backward forcing the knife hand to the outside. Patch seemed to be struggling to maintain his balance. After a couple of fakes from each man Patch struck out with a slow raking motion throwing himself off balance. Ortega swiftly countered and caught Patch across his forearm with the tip of his blade. Patch groaned in frustration as blood immediately flowed through his sleeve.

  Ortega dropped the scarf and smiled broadly. "Twenty pesos if you please."

  Kyle and the boys shook their heads and began counting up each man’s share of the wager.

  "Lordy," Tad exclaimed. "At least you could have made it last a while, Patch. That wasn’t much of a contest for twenty pesos."

  "He was lucky. This big footed ox couldn’t do it again if he had to," Patch sneered.

  "Senor, please. Your knife is too heavy and you are too slow for the dance," Ortega protested.

  "You know, that’s the trouble with you peppers. You get a lucky cut and think its skill. Why, I thought you was going to piss in your pants just watching my blade."

  Segundo stepped forward. "Senor Wilkes, por favor. Be gracious and accept his skill."

  "Skill, hell. He more likely stumbled into this cut than anything else!"

  Ortega’s expression turned hard. "If that is your feeling, perhaps you would like to dance again."

  "Not for no twenty pesos, pepper."

  Ortega grimaced. "Too much to lose?"

  "Hell’s bells! Not enough. How about fifty?"

  "Not our fifty," Tad protested.

  "What about it, pepper? You got the guts to go another round?" Patch snarled.

  "It is your arm, senor. And, your fifty pesos."

  Ortega’s men laughed and shook their heads as they gathered their money for side bets, not so much on who would win but rather how long it would take for Ortega to draw blood.

  The ceremony repeated. The men circled and fainted jabs but Patch was more cautious. Finally, Ortega saw his opening and thrust forward. Patch barely managed to fend the blade away with his Bowie, but too quickly to follow, Ortega countered and again drew blood from Patch’s forearm. Patch immediately dropped his knife and held his wound. It was much deeper and longer than before.

  "Perhaps the loss of seventy pesos and the scar will teach you some humility, Senor," Ortega said boldly as he stepped back and placed his blade in his belt. He started to rejoin his companions.

  "Ain’t no dandified Mex alive that can teach me a damn thing," Patch snarled. "We’ve whomped you peppers in every damned fight you ever took on. Hell, the only time you cowards ever put up a fight worth mentioning was when you outnumbered us fifty to one.’

  "Jeeze, Patch," Tad protested. "What the hell are you doing?"

  "You insult me with your stupidity," Ortega said.

  "And you insult me with your stupid cowardly kid’s game. Hell, Mexican, you got the sand for another round? Or, do I need to take on all of you to prove my point?"

  "I have had enough of this. Pay your money and I will be on my way," Ortega said.

  Patch pulled back his sleeve and began wrapping his cut with his scarf. "I’ve got a hundred dollars American that says you’re full of shit."

  Ortega turned scornfully toward Patch.

  Segundo stepped forward quickly and took Patch’s arm. "Allow me to help you with that." As Segundo began to dress the wound, he hesitated. Several similar scars lined Patch’s forearm. Segundo looked up and glared. "Are you sure you know what you are doing? These men will not accept being played for fools."

  "I told you to save your money for later," Patch said as his eye darted to see if the others were listening.

  "You may win your money. But, it could cost you your life," Segundo warned.

  Patch smiled wickedly and nodded. "What about it, Ortega. Is it worth a hundred dollars or are you just a small stakes boy?"

  "A hundred dollars is a lot of money. Do you have such a sum?" Ortega scoffed.

  Patch reached into his belt and threw down a sack of coins. "Count it out, if you know what real American money looks like."

  Ortega shook his head. "You cannot buy yourself out of this. You know that I am a poor peon. I do not have such a sum."

  "You got a fancy paint stallion. I’d stake you a hundred on him," Patch said.

  Ortega hesitated.

  "No guts, no glory. But, I guess that’s what I’d expect from the likes of you."

  Ortega turned to his men. They were silent. The stakes were too high. All were suspicious of the Texan. Any cut made now would be deep, too deep for the loser to demand another dance. Whoever lost would not only risk a small fortune, but a serious wound as well. "Perhaps another day, senor."

  Patch glared. "Why you’re nothing but a damned coward. But then that’s typical of you people, ain’t it?"

  Ortega’s features hardened. "I will enjoy making you eat those words."

  "Put up or shut up," Patch said coldly. "You like to play when all you got to risk is a scratch or two. You got the stomach for a man’s fight?"

  Tad nudged Kyle. "You better go find the Captain. I don’t like the looks of this."

  "Not me," Kyle answered. "I ain’t about to miss this."

  "I hope your pistols are loaded, fellows," Toby warned. "If what I think is about to happen, we just might have to shoot our way out of this mess."

  "Maybe we best fo
rget the whole thing," Tad said loudly. "We don’t need this trouble, Patch."

  "That’s easy for you to say, soldier boy. You ain’t got no blood invested in this," Patch snapped. He stepped forward and held out his hand for the scarf.

  Ortega hesitated, nodded and offered the scarf.

  The men slowly faced off and began circling backwards. Ortega was hesitant to thrust. Whether he suspected he was being played for a fool or was concerned about losing his stallion, he took his time and waited cautiously for Wilkes to make a move.

  Wilkes seemed much surer. Although not bold in his movements, he was smooth and quicker.

  Ortega thrust forward and Wilkes countered his heavy blade with surprising dexterity. Sparks flashed as the light knife recoiled and Ortega struggled not to lose control of it with no chance for a counter move.

  Ortega smiled. "Suddenly you are much quicker. You have played me for the fool."

  "We’ll see," Patch grinned.

  "When I cut this time, it will be deep and you will learn your lesson." Ortega watched for a reaction in his eye.

  "We’ll see. Are we talking or knife fighting?" The reaction was cold and certain, no sign of fear or confusion.

  Ortega’s blade thrust forward, then again and again in swift succession.

  At each thrust, Patch countered with his blade and held his ground. The blades sounded more like swords as the parries increased.

  Again, Ortega lashed out with several successive thrusts each countered by Patch’s blade.

  Ortega held up and retained his position but Patch thrust forward with his blade putting Ortega’s lighter blade at a disadvantage. Ortega found himself jumping back because his light blade could not effectively counter the heavy Texas Bowie. Patch drove forward until he had Ortega near a stumble but held up rather than be drawn in too far.

  Tad nudged Kyle again. "How does he handle that big hog sticker so quickly? I never seen nothing like it."

  Kyle shook his head and carefully eyed the others. "I’d say he’s done this before. Look at those vaqueros. They know he suckered Ortega and they’re pissed."

  Tad cut his eyes to the vaqueros. Their faces were frozen and hard, many glaring at the Texans. "Shit! This ain’t going to be pretty."