by J. T. Edson
‘I warned you-all not to keep a-riling me!’ the redhead yelped, pivoting to swing and push his cousin towards the bar. In doing so, he ground Henri’s fingers between the sole of his boot and the floor. Ignoring the screech of torment his action elicited, he went on, ‘Now I’m going to whomp you good!’
Behind the two Texians, the discomfited Creoles started to recover from their initial shock. Andre Jaloux sat nursing his right wrist and moaning softly. In falling, his brother’s head had hit the floor hard enough to stun him. From the condition of Gerard’s face, he would have difficulty in aiming a pistol for a few days unless he was able to do so with his left eye.
Hoisting himself painfully into a sitting position, Henri Pierre-Quint stared at the blood which was running from three cracked fingernails. He realized that his injuries would prevent him from holding a pistol, or a sword, until they healed. Gasping to replenish his lungs, Mondor levered himself up with the aid of a chair’s seat. Flopping on to it, he felt gingerly his right eye. It was already discolored and starting to close.
Unharmed, apart from his dignity, Bardeche rose hurriedly. Without waiting for Marcel Pierre-Quint, who was also standing up and uninjured, he strode to where Ole Devil and Mannen had come to a halt near the bar. Face dark with anger, Pierre-Quint followed his captain. Each of them had the same idea in mind. Fist fighting was not their intention. They meant to issue challenges for formal duels.
Things did not work out the way desired by the Creoles.
As Bardeche approached, Ole Devil wrenched himself free from his cousin’s grasp. Having done so, he aimed a blow at the burly redhead. There was nothing somnolent about the way Mannen stepped aside, causing Ole Devil to miss him. The evasion proved to be unfortunate for Bardeche. Although he saw the Texian’s right fist rushing at him, he failed to duplicate the redhead’s avoidance. Struck with considerable violence on the right cheekbone, he reeled backwards. Blood oozed from the gash opened by the hard knuckles as he tripped and collapsed on to his rump once more.
Reaching into his jacket for the glove he carried, meaning to employ it for the traditional challenge, Pierre-Quint was startled by Bardeche’s mishap. He came to a halt, but failed to remove the concealed hand. If he had been longer in Texas, he would have appreciated that his behavior might be misconstrued.
‘Don’t you-all go pulling no pistol on me!’ Mannen bellowed, having seen the Creole’s action reflected in the mirror behind the bar.
Allowing Pierre-Quint no opportunity to correct his erroneous conclusion, the burly redhead swiveled around. Still displaying the kind of alacrity which had characterized all his responses once he was aroused from his state of sloth, he caught the Creole’s right wrist with both his hands. To the recipient of his attentions, it felt as if the limb was enfolded between the steel jaws of a bear-trap. Although no weapon emerged as Mannen snatched Pierre-Quint’s hand into view, he seemed unable to halt the line of action upon which he had embarked. Instead, pivoting to his left, he swung his captive in a half circle.
Almost matching Ole Devil in height and build, the young Creole was no better able than he had been to resist the burly Texian’s enormous strength. So Pierre-Quint found himself being hauled to his right like the weight at the end of a pendulum. Then, abruptly, his direction was reversed with a wrench which caused such severe pain that he wondered if his arm had been torn from its socket. A shrill howl burst from his lips. Instantly, he was released. Twirling away almost gracefully, he struck an unoccupied table and collapsed, very close to fainting, across the top of it.
Up to that point, none of the room’s other occupants had offered to intervene and help quell the disturbance. Watching some of the Creoles begin to rise, old ‘Deaf’ Smith made a gesture to one of the bartenders. Even though no word passed between them, the man clearly appreciated what was expected of him. Reaching under the counter, he produced a short blunderbuss which he passed to the white-haired chief of scouts. As Smith was taking it, his two companions began to draw the pistols that were thrust through their waist belts.
‘Hold hard there, blast ye!’ Smith commanded, swinging the blunderbuss towards the center of the room and hauling back its hammer to fully cocked. ‘This here ain’t no seemly bee-hav-ior for officers ’n’ gentlemen.’
Strangely, considering the prevailing conditions, Smith and his men appeared to be aligning their weapons at the Creoles rather than in the direction of the actual instigators of the disturbance. To Andre Jaloux, Bardeche, Mondor and Henri Pierre-Quint, it seemed that each personally was being menaced by the heavy caliber pistols, or the bell-mouthed muzzle of something far more effective at close quarters.
Equally peculiar was the behavior of the two Texians who had been responsible for the fracas. Although they were apparently being ignored by the trio of scouts, neither of them appeared to want to continue hostilities against the other.
‘My apologies, Colonel Smith,’ Ole Devil said, striding smartly across the room to pick up his hat. ‘With your permission, Mr. Blaze and I will leave.’
‘It’d likely be’s well,’ the old scout declared.
‘Just a moment!’ Bardeche put in, taking his hand from the already badly swollen area where he had been struck and trying to focus through an eye which resembled a Blue Point oyster peeping out of its partially open shell. He made as if to advance, but changed his mind as Smith’s borrowed blunderbuss singled him out with disconcerting accuracy. ‘My friends and I have been assaulted—’
‘It wasn’t except by accident,’ Mannen Blaze protested, relapsing into his earlier attitude of somnolence and ambling over to retrieve his head gear.
‘That doesn’t make any difference!’ Bardeche spat out indignantly and his companions muttered their concurrence. ‘We’ve been assaulted and we demand satisfaction.’
‘Well now,’ ‘Deaf’ Smith drawled, looking from one to another of the offended party. ‘That’s right truthful. ‘’Cepting, way you’ve all been hurt, there’s none of you’ll be able to go fighting no duels for a spell.’
Chapter Three – It’s Your Assignment, Captain Hardin
‘Well, Captain Hardin,’ greeted Major General Samuel Houston, studying the ramrod straight young figure standing on the other side of the rickety table which served as a desk in the big wall tent he was using as his quarters and office. Unlike the members of the Provisional Government, he cared little for his personal comfort. ‘I don’t suppose I need to tell you why I’ve sent for you, do I?’
‘No, sir,’ Ole Devil Hardin admitted.
Just over an hour had elapsed since the disturbance at the Grand Hotel. Exerting his authority, backed by the solid argument of his borrowed blunderbuss, ‘Deaf’ Smith had insisted that the two parties concerned should not remain in each other’s presence. So Ole Devil and Lieutenant Mannen Blaze had taken their departure while the injuries of the six Creoles were receiving treatment.
Once outside the building, instead of continuing their quarrel, the two cousins appeared to have forgotten their differences. They were on the best of terms by the time they had reached the Texas Light Cavalry’s tent lines and the subject of the mounted drill was not mentioned. Nor, when the captain had given instructions which would involve his lethargic-looking lieutenant in some strenuous activity, did Mannen repeat his earlier complaints or show any sign of shirking the duty. Rather he had set about it with a lively cheerfulness which seemed at odds with his general behavior. It was noticeable that the men to whom he began to issue orders showed no surprise over the way he was acting.
Neither Ole Devil nor his cousin had been particularly surprised when the former had received a summons to report immediately to the General’s headquarters. Leaving Mannen to carry out the preparations he had ordered, the captain made his way to Houston. Having anticipated the summons, he had tidied up his appearance and the Manton pistol now rode in its loop on his belt.
If the young Texian had any doubts over why he had been summoned, they ended upon his arrival.
As he had expected, on entering the big wall tent, he found that General Houston was not alone. ‘Deaf’ Smith was standing alongside Ole Devil’s uncle, Colonel Edward Fog. Although they had not met, the Texian had no need to exercise his mental powers greatly to deduce the identity of the fourth man at the General’s table-desk.
Something above medium height, stoutish, in his early fifties, with the blue-jowled features of a Provencal Frenchman, there was little of the Creoles’ dandified elegance about him, although he was dressed in the same Creole fashion. For all that, he was the commanding officer of the New Orleans’ Wildcats; Colonel Jules Dumoulin. He had a hard-bitten, disciplined appearance which told of military experience and suggested he had been a professional soldier for a number of years. There was nothing in his expression or attitude to suggest what he might be thinking about the injuries suffered by his subordinates.
However, Ole Devil’s main attention was reserved for the person to whom he had come to report.
Big, powerfully built, with longish and almost white hair, the commanding general of the Republic of Texas’s Army made an imposing figure even when seated in such simple and primitive surroundings. He was the kind of man who had no need of pomp and splendor to enhance his authority, his personality did all that was necessary in that respect. Although his seamed, lined and Indian-dark face rarely showed emotion, his surprisingly young-looking blue eyes suggested a deep inner strength. There was something about him, the indefinable—yet instantly recognizable—aura of one who was born with the gift of leadership.
Since the withdrawal to the east had commenced, Houston had packed away his uniform’s formal dress tunic and black bicorn chapeau. They had been replaced by a waist long, fringed buckskin jacket, a tightly rolled scarlet silk bandana, an open necked dark blue worsted shirt and a broad brimmed white ‘planter’s’ hat, which were better suited to his needs. As his tan colored riding breeches and shining black Wellington boots xiii were purely functional, he still retained them.
One point had struck Ole Devil as soon as he had entered the tent. Although he was aware of why he had been summoned, the General was bare headed. The hat lay with a brace of pistols and a saber on the bed in the rear portion of the structure.
‘Is that all you have to say?’ demanded the smallish, yet excellently developed blond haired Colonel Fog, when his nephew relapsed into silence after the brief answer.
‘No excuse, sir,’ Ole Devil replied, staring straight ahead.
‘Blast it!’ Colonel Fog ejaculated. ‘I’ll expect some better reason than that.’
‘No excuse, sir!’ Ole Devil repeated, conscious that Dumoulin was watching him.
‘Aw shucks, now, Ed,’ Smith protested placatingly. ‘Like I told the Colonel here, all of those boys of his’n got hurt accidental like. Mind you, I can’t say’s how I blames young Mannen for getting riled, way Devil here was a-riding him. Trouble being, he’s so all-fired big, he just don’t know his own strength.’
‘And, as I stated, I am willing to accept that explanation,’ the Frenchman went on, his tones harsh without being in any way hostile. ‘The whole affair was lamentable and should never have happened. However, as it did, we can do nothing except try to ensure it goes no further.’
‘I’m in complete agreement with that Colonel,’ Ole Devil’s uncle stated grimly. ‘And I can assure you it will not as far as the Texas Light Cavalry is concerned.’ His gaze turned to his nephew and he continued, ‘Company “C” is to be detached on special duty, Captain Hardin. They will leave tomorrow at dawn.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ole Devil responded, still conscious of Dumoulin’s scrutiny. ‘They’ll be ready.’
‘May I have your permission to depart, sir?’ the Frenchman requested, after giving what might have been a nod of approval for the young Texian’s unhesitating acceptance of his superior’s orders. ‘As my regiment will also be leaving in the morning, I have many things demanding my attention.’
‘You may go, Colonel,’ Houston authorized.
‘My thanks for being so understanding—Jules,’ Colonel Fog said, stepping around the table and behind the General.
‘It is regrettable that the need should have arisen—Edward,’ Dumoulin answered, accepting and shaking the small Texian’s hand. ‘Au revoir, gentlemen.’ His gaze once again swung in Ole Devil’s direction and he went on, ‘May our next meeting be in more pleasant circumstances, Captain Hardin.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ the young Texian replied, still unable to detect any trace of the other’s sentiments, but believing they were favorable to him. ‘I’ll do my best to make sure that it is.’
Throwing a smart salute to Houston, the Frenchman turned and strode from the Texian’s presence without a backward glance.
‘He ain’t such a bad hombre, considering he’s a Frog,’ Smith commented after Dumoulin had gone beyond earshot. ‘I’d’ve thought he’d start to screech like a knife-struck hawg when you told him’s he’d got to take his soldier-boys down to Harrisburg and guard good old Davey Burnet’s bunch.’
‘Well he didn’t,’ Houston answered, eyeing his lanky chief of scouts sardonically. ‘And now, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to hear from Captain Hardin not how, but why all those remarkable accidental injuries happened.’
‘With all respect, sir,’ Ole Devil said, showing no more emotion than was being expressed by the three older men. ‘No excuse.’
‘It wouldn’t have had any connection with the way in which those six young foo—gentlemen from New Orleans have been casting doubts on the courage of an officer under your command,’ the General suggested. ‘Would it?’
‘Again, with respect, sir,’ Ole Devil began, his voice unemotionally polite. ‘I can’t add anything to—’
‘Very well, captain,’ Houston interrupted, drumming his fingers on the top of the table for a moment. There was a frosty glint in his eyes as he started to speak again. ‘I’m not an over inquisitive man, nor do I have a suspicious nature.’ He darted a glare at Smith, who gave a muted snort of disbelief. ‘However, I do try to keep in touch with everything that goes on in my command—’
‘That’s another way of saying he’s nosy,’ the old chief of scouts explained, sotto voce,
‘For instance,’ the General continued, as if he had not heard Smith. ‘I’ve been told that, because Lieutenant Paul Dimmock was fortunate enough to have escaped from the massacre at Goliad, certain of our esteemed supporters from New Orleans have raised what might be considered as doubts regarding his personal courage and integrity. Not unnaturally, he is said to be taking very grave exception to such imputations.’
‘That’s a real fancy way of putting it,’ Smith drawled. ‘But he sure’s hell can’t be blamed happen he’s getting riled over what they’re saying.’
‘Where is Mr. Dimmock now, by the way?’ Houston inquired, taking no more notice than he had of the scout’s previous comment.
‘I sent him out in command of a foraging detail, sir,’ Ole Devil explained. ‘He won’t be back before nightfall, if then.’
‘And while he’s away,’ Houston said drily, ‘you have a quarrel with the second-in-command of your Company which has resulted in every one of the men Mr. Dimmock might have wished to challenge to a duel being, at least temporarily, rendered incapable of fighting one.’
‘There’s some’s might say, knowing how touchy these here young hot-heads both Texian ’n’ Louisianan can get where their honor’s concerned, that it’s right lucky they can’t,’ Smith declared, with deceptive mildness and oozing innocence. ‘Anyways, those fancy-Dans was tolerable unlucky getting in the way like they did.’
‘So you told Colonel Dumoulin,’ Houston growled.
‘Way he talked,’ Smith pointed out, ‘he knowed I was telling the truth.’
‘That’s because he’s new here from New Orleans,’ the General answered, but his tone robbed the words of any sting. ‘Anybody who’s been around Texas for a spell would look to see if the calendar had been c
hanged if you told them Monday came a day before Tuesday. However, whether he believed you or not, he’s content to have the whole affair forgotten and that’s what I’d like to have happen, too.’
‘Let’s hope them hot-heads of his’n see it that way,’ Smith drawled.
‘I’m relying on him to see that they do,’ Houston replied.
‘Anyway, we’re lucky that Governor Burnet’s asked for extra troops to guard the “temporary Capital” and that Urrea is down in the southeast. It gives me an excuse to send the New Orleans’ Wildcats there without making it look as if I’m trying to get rid of them.’
‘It helps with what you’ve got in mind for young Devil here, comes to that,’ Smith remarked, looking pointedly at the rigid young Texian. ‘Does he have to stand like that, Sam?’
‘At ease, Captain Hardin,’ Houston ordered. ‘As Colonel Fog told you, your Company is to leave in the morning. They’ll go to Washington-On-The-Brazos and, with my written authority, once again assume responsibility for the safe keeping of the consignment of caplocks. Your men will bring them to Groce’s and, having done so, stay there and await the arrival of the rest of the Army.’
Up to that point, Ole Devil had been listening to the General with a sense of relief. It had been apparent that Houston, his uncle and Colonel Dumoulin had not only understood but approved of the motives behind the ‘quarrel’ which he had had with Mannen Blaze at the Grand Hotel. Aware that Lieutenant Dimmock was being provoked by the Creoles’ unjustified insinuations, he had taken steps to avert a confrontation. On learning from ‘Deaf’ Smith and another of the General’s stoutest supporters—who had shared his apprehensions over the consequences of trouble between Dimmock and the young Louisianans—where they were to be found, he had formulated a scheme. By good luck, it had succeeded with far less difficulty than he had anticipated.
Furthermore, Ole Devil’s assumption of how Houston would react had been correct. He had expected that steps would be taken to separate the two parties before the Creoles were able to participate in ‘affairs of honour’. This had happened, but he had noticed that the General had said ‘they’ rather than ‘you’ when speaking of the duty to which his Company had been assigned. He also realized that, although the matter of the trouble with the New Orleans’ Wildcats had been resolved, his uncle was still looking perturbed. The emotion, he felt sure, did not stem from concern or disapproval over the trouble with the Creoles.
