by J. T. Edson
Waiting until the sounds of the two horses had faded into the distance, Tommy walked from behind the lean-to and into the alley. He adopted similar tactics to those used by Ole Devil as he came to the window. Holding his bow and arrow, low, he looked in. The Mexican and two of the white men were now standing at the customers’ side of the bar eating a meal, as was the third, except that he was behind the counter.
Moving on, the little Oriental reached the front end of the cantina. However, he halted in the alley and listened for Ole Devil. Once again, the rain proved to be beneficial. The normally hard surface of the street was sufficiently softened for the horses to approach with little or no noise.
Holding the animals to a walk, Ole Devil was scanning the buildings on each side of the street He had noticed that the lookout was no longer outside the cantina and wondered whether that was because the man whom they were expecting had arrived, or if he was now keeping watch from a less exposed position.
‘Two have left, Devil-san!’ Tommy hissed as his companion rode by.
‘Bueno,’ the Texian answered, in no louder tones, without halting until he had turned the horses to face the hitching rail near the cantina’s door.
Shortly after the party had broken into the cantina their leader, Sid Halford had ordered Joe Stiple to search the building for liquor to supplement their meager supply. Although Stiple had failed to do so, he had stayed behind the bar. Having been a bartender, he always felt more at home on the sober side of the counter. Standing there, he was the first to become aware of Ole Devil’s arrival.
‘Hey,’ Stiple ejaculated, ‘Somebody’s just rid by the window.’
‘It could be Soapy and Al coming back,’ suggested the lanky man who had acted as lookout, speaking through a mouth filled with pemmican.
‘I don’t reckon so,’ Stiple objected. ‘Looked like there was only one man and he’s come from the east.’
While the brief conversation had been going on, Halford, the lookout—whose name was Mucker—and the vaquero Arnaldo Verde, had turned towards the door. They heard the horses being brought to a halt and leather creaking as the rider dismounted, but as yet they could not see him. Halford and Mucker reached towards their rifles. Behind the bar, Stiple was duplicating Verde’s actions by placing his right hand on the butt of the pistol that was thrust through his belt. ‘Easy there, gents,’ called the newcomer, as he crossed the sidewalk. ‘I saw the light and came in to see if I could stay here for the night.’
Studying the tall, whipcord slender young man, and giving first attention to the way he was dressed and armed, Verde then examined his features. He was reminded of pictures he had seen of the Devil.
Juglares had said that the man being sent by Houston to collect the rifles had a face like el Diablo, the Devil!
On receiving the major domos information, Verde had known that he would need help to deal with it. The nearest available assistance had been a group of white renegades who were working for the Mexicans. Going to their camp, he had told their leader what he had learned. It had been decided that Halford’s party would accompany Verde and kill Houston’s officer. Once that had been done, the band would go to the coast and capture the shipment.
Guessing that their victim—who, according to Juglares, would be travelling alone—was almost certain to make use of the trail between San Antonio and Gonzales, the party had sought for him along it Finding the hamlet deserted shortly after the rain had started to fall, they had forced an entry into the cantina. Discussing the matter, Verde and Halford had concluded that the man they were seeking would also use it for shelter when he arrived.
The gamble had only partially paid off!
In some way, the Texian had eluded Al and Soapy who had left in the hope of locating him. However, he was strolling into the cantina and clearly had no suspicion of the fate that awaited him.
For all that, Verde realized things could go wrong. Finding himself confronted by four men, all of whom were fingering weapons, the newcomer had halted just inside the door. If any of the party attempted to raise a pistol or rifle, he would leap back out of the building. Before the swiftest of them could reach the sidewalk, he would be mounted and riding away.
It was a moment for rapid thought!
Having done so, Verde put his scheme into operation and silently prayed that his companions would guess what he was doing and respond correctly.
‘Hey, amigos, it’s all right,’ Verde announced in a hearty tone, taking his hand away from the pistol. ‘I know this man. Ifs Captain Hardin of the Texas Light Cavalry. Saludos captain. Ifs good to see you.’
With that, the vaquero started to walk forward. His manner was friendly and he held out his right hand, In a sheath strapped to the inside of his left forearm, hidden from sight by his jacket’s sleeve yet ready to slip into his grasp when necessary, was a needle-pointed, razor-sharp knife. He was an expert at producing and using it unexpectedly.
Chapter Seven – They Were Waiting for You
Ole Devil Hardin watched the vaquero coming towards him, but also devoted some of his attention to the three white men. That they should have reached for their weapons on his arrival neither surprised nor alarmed him. It was a simple precaution that anybody would be expected to take in such troubled times. However, he had noticed how the lanky former lookout had thrown a startled glance at the biggest of die party on hearing his name. What was more, despite the vaquero’s apparent friendliness and his announcement of Ole Devil’s identity, the trio were showing little sign of relaxing.
Watching Verde advancing, Halford suddenly realized what the welcome meant. He turned his head just in time to see Mucker, who was not the most intelligent of the party, starting to lift his flintlock. Taking his own right hand from his rifle, Halford gave the lanky man a swift jab on the arm. On Mucker swinging a puzzled gaze at him, he scowled prohibitively and shook his head. Looking back at Verde and the Texian, Halford replaced his hand on his own rifle. He did not notice that, although refraining from lifting the weapon, Mucker did not move his hand away.
At first, Ole Devil had decided that the white men might have an antipathy towards officers. However, having observed the by-play between Halford and Mucker, he felt decidedly uneasy. His instincts suggested that everything might not be so amiable as the vaquero was making out.
Showing nothing of his suspicions, Ole Devil stepped forward. He did not recognize the vaquero, but knew that meant little. Without growing boastful about it, he knew that he had already carved something of a name for himself since arriving in Texas. What was more, his appearance was so distinctive—particularly since, as a joke more than anything, he had grown the moustache and beard to augment his Mephistophelian features—that he attracted attention and remembrance. Possibly the vaquero had seen him somewhere and was wanting to impress the three white men by a pretence of a much closer acquaintanceship than was the case.
Despite the conclusions which he had drawn, Ole Devil could not throw off his sense of perturbation. Something, he felt sure, was wrong. The burly hard-case had stopped the former lookout from lifting the flintlock, but had returned his own hand to his rifle. The third man’s hands were hidden by the counter and might already be grasping a firearm.
However, the vaquero continued to draw nearer. He was still smiling, with his right hand extended to be shaken and the left hanging by his side. Neither were anywhere near the heavy pistol which was thrust, butt forward, through the silk sash around his waist and he had no other visible weapon.
Although Ole Devil was not yet within reaching distance of the vaquero, he too thrust out his right hand. He realized that he might be doing the occupants of the bar-room an injustice by mistrusting them. They would find such an attitude offensive if they were innocent of evil intent. Being aware of the kind of pride and temper possessed by many Texians, he was alert to the possibility that they might try to avenge what they would regard as an insult to their integrity and he wanted to avoid trouble of that nature. Also, to cont
inue delaying a response to the vaquero’s friendly greeting was almost sure to arouse their suspicions if his own feelings should be justified.
‘Saludos, senor,’ the young Texian said, but he did not relax his vigilance and was ready to react with all the speed if the vaquero should try to draw a weapon. He took the opportunity to study the men at the bar, continuing, ‘Howdy, gents.’
Elated by the success of his scheme to lull the newcomer into a sense of false security, Verde gave the special twist to his left arm that liberated the knife from its sheath. Without needing to look, he caught the hilt as it slid into his hand, which was turned with the knuckles forward to prevent his potential victim from seeing what was happening. Easing back the hand so that it was concealed by his thigh, he turned the weapon deftly until its blade was extended ahead of his thumb and forefinger.
All was now ready for an upwards thrust into the unsuspecting Texian’s stomach!
The blow would be delivered as soon as they were shaking hands, so that the victim could not step back and avoid it. At the bar, Mucker started to grin broadly as he watched the knife appear in Verde’s left hand. He darted a delighted glance at Halford, but it was not returned. Equally aware of what was going on, the big man began to lift his rifle with the right hand so he would be ready in case something went wrong and Verde failed to do his work.
One more stride would bring Ole Devil and the vaquero close enough to shake hands. While the other’s features still retained their friendly aspect, the Texian noticed that his left hand had, apparently by accident, swung until it was out of sight. Glancing past the vaquero, Ole Devil observed the expression of triumph on Mucker’s face, and the movements of Half ord. He sensed that the situation might be far less innocuous than appeared on the surface.
Suddenly the young Texian felt as if a cold hand had pressed against his spine.
The vaquero was armed with a pistol, but did not appear to be wearing a knife!
Ole Devil realized that not every member of the Spanish or Mexican races had a natural affinity towards knife-fighting, but it was extremely rare to come across a vaquero who did not go armed with one. If it was not sheathed on his belt, or thrust through his sash, it might be suspended beneath his collar at the back of the neck, carried in the top of his boot, or hidden in some other way.
There was one place of concealment, Ole Devil remembered having been told, which assassins in many lands made use of.
Reaching to take hold of the young Texian’s hand and confident that he suspected nothing, Verde tensed slightly and was ready to bring out the knife. Before he could do so, he felt his intended victim’s fingers make contact
But not with his hand!
Hoping that his motives would be understood and his apologies accepted if he was mistaken, Ole Devil acted with deadly speed. Instead of allowing his hand to be trapped, he changed its direction slightly. Without giving any indication of his intentions, he grasped the vaquero’s right wrist tightly. As he did so, he took a step to the right and rear and swung so that, for a moment, he was standing at an angle away from Verde. Before the vaquero could resist, he jerked on die wrist with all his strength and pivoted himself around on his right foot. Bending his other leg, he swung it in a circular motion which propelled the knee into the advancing man’s stomach.
Taken unawares, Verde could not prevent himself from being dragged forward. The knee met his midsection with considerable force. With his wrist released at the moment of impact, he was driven backwards. His knife slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor as, partially winded and starting to fold over, he twisted away from his assailant It was an almost instinctive action, designed to shield him from any further attack by the Texian, and he stumbled against the table at which he and his companions had been seated.
‘Get the bastard!’ Halford roared, snatching up his rifle in the expectation that their potential victim would turn and run.
Seeing Verde’s assassination attempt fail, Stiple started to respond without needing the burly man’s advice. What was more, he was in a better position to do something than either of his companions. Knowing that he could do so without being seen by the Texian, he had already drawn the pistol from his belt. Jerking back the hammer, he started to raise the weapon above the level of the bar which had previously hidden his movements.
Although startled by the unexpected turn of events, Mucker made a grab for his long rifle.
Instead of justifying the burly man’s expectation and running, Ole Devil set his weight on his spread-apart feet. Bending his knees slightly and inclining his torso forward a little, he made preparations for fighting back.
While prudence might have dictated that the young Texian should adopt the course Halford was anticipating, he had no intention of running. Hot-tempered arrogance had nothing to do with the decision. The fact that the vaquero had identified him in such a manner aroused disturbing possibilities which he considered must be investigated. Nor was his decision to seek a solution made rashly. He had devoted a lot of time, thought and effort to developing the means of defending himself in such a situation.
Even before coming to Texas, Ole Devil had realized that there were several flaws in the training which he had received in handling a pistol. His instructors had regarded a handgun as a dueling implement, with rules and conventions limiting how it could be used, rather than as a readily accessible defensive weapon. With the latter purpose in mind, he had worked out a technique that was very effective.
Turning palm outwards, Ole Devil’s right hand flashed to and closed around the butt of the Manton pistol. To slide the weapon free from the belt’s retaining loop, he used a system which would eventually be developed into the ‘high cavalry-twist’ draw. xv However, unlike the gun fighters who perfected the method in the mid-1860s and later, his sequence of firing could not be carried out with just one hand. Instead because of the shape and position of the hammer, he had to use the heel of his left palm almost as if he was ‘fanning’ the hammer of a single action revolver.
The unorthodox method of handling the pistol did not end with the way it had been twisted free from the belt and turned towards its target Instead of adopting the accepted stance—sideways, with the right hand fully extended at shoulder height, left arm bent and hand on the hip—of the formal duelist, he stood squarely to his point of aim. Crouching slightly, he elevated the weapon to eye-level and, after cocking the hammer, his left hand went around to cup under the support the right. While doing so, he was selecting the man who was posing the most immediate threat to his life.
Not for another thirty or so years would the idea of fast drawing and shooting become widely known, or practiced. So Ole Devil’s actions came as a surprise and a shock to the three men at the bar, particularly to Stiple. With his pistol lifting to the firing position, he found himself looking into the unwavering muzzle of the Texian’s weapon. The hole of the barrel seemed to be much larger than its usual .54 of an inch caliber.
Having made sure of his aim, Ole Devil squeezed the trigger. On the hammer driving forward, the superiority of the caplock system became apparent. Striking directly on to the brass percussion cap, without the need to push clear the frizzen and create sparks, it was much faster in operation. Flame and white smoke gushed out of the muzzle about two seconds after his hand had closed around the butt.
Ole Devil fired the only way he dared under the circumstances. Flying across the room, the soft lead ball went by Halford as he was swinging his rifle towards his shoulder and struck Stiple in the centre of the forehead. It ranged onwards, to burst out at the rear of the skull accompanied by a spray of blood, brains and shattered fragments of bone. Killed instantly, the stricken man was flung backwards. The pistol dropped from his nerveless hand as he crashed into the wall. Then he crumpled as if he had been boned and fell out of sight behind the counter.
Although somewhat perturbed by the young Texian’s spirited and very effective resistance in the face of danger, Halford still continued
to raise the rifle. He drew consolation from the realization that, no matter how fast and capable a shot the other might be, the pistol was now empty. Long before Hardin could reload, or try to protect himself in some other fashion, Halford would have drawn a bead on him and sent a bullet into the head.
Even as the thought came to the burly man, he discovered that—in spite of the information which Verde had given on the subject—their intended victim was not travelling alone or unescorted.
Having moved silently down the sidewalk, bending low as he went by the window, Tommy Okasi was standing alongside the door by the time that Ole Devil had passed through. The little Oriental had not shown himself until he had heard the commotion which had warned him that his intervention might be necessary.
Darting across the threshold and into the bar-room, Tommy studied the situation with the eye of a tactician. One glance told him which of the remaining enemies was posing the most immediate threat to his companion. The vaquero was sprawled face down across the table. At the bar, showing his bewilderment, Mucker was making a belated grab for his rifle. Neither, Tommy realized, was so dangerous as the burly man. His weapon would soon be lined and able to open fire. At such a short range, he was not likely to miss.
Coming to a halt with his feet spread to an angle of roughly sixty degrees, Tommy turned the upper part of his body to the left and looked at his target. In a smoothly flowing, but very fast move, the long bow rose until perpendicular and was lifted until his hands were higher than his head. Extending his left arm until it was straight and shoulder high, he drew the string back and down with his right hand until the flight of the arrow was almost brushing against his off ear. xvi By the time his draw was completed, he was sighting so that two imaginary lines—one extended from his right eye and the other out of the arrow—intersected on Halford’s left breast. Satisfied, he released his hold on the string.
