Get Urrea! (An Ole Devil Hardin Western Book 5) Page 2

  After watching the swathe of Texians going down before his battalion’s deadly crossfire, Saucedo flickered glances at the two parties of Lancers. Much to his annoyance, he discovered that his hopes in regard to them had not materialized. While their horses were startled by the commotion, they had been sufficiently prepared to avert the trouble he had desired. Although a few of them were having difficulties, the majority were in control of their mounts. In fact, some of the advance guard—especially Badillo, the colonel saw to his annoyance—were already starting to turn back. The men at the rear were lowering their lances so as to ride forward and help complete the slaughter.

  ‘Charge!’ Saucedo thundered and sprang forward, waving the sword above his head. ‘At the bastards! None of them must get away!’

  Flourishing pistols and swords, yelling encouragement, the rest of the officers led the rush towards the trail. Behind them, needing no urging, the enlisted men who had fired leapt into motion to the accompaniment of awe-inspiring whoops and bellows. However, twelve men on the right side and thirteen along the left remained in their positions. The best shots in the battalion, their weapons were still loaded and it was their duty to shoot down any Texian who managed to break clear of the attackers.

  Even as Dimmock was going down, he heard the roaring of the Baker rifles. It was followed by the eerie sound of a bullet passing so close above him that he felt the wind of its passing. Then came the soggy impact of lead striking human flesh, screams of agony and yells of alarm. However, the lieutenant was one of the very few in the left hand file to come through the holocaust unscathed.

  Striking the ground, still hardly able to believe that such a thing could be happening, Dimmock’s first instinct was to rise. But at that point he heard, faintly yet with a terrible clarity due to the volume of power with which it had been made, Saucedo’s bellowed order over the sounds of the stricken column. Taking a quick glance, the lieutenant saw the Mexican infantrymen pouring down the slope. They held their rifles with bayonets to the fore and were clearly determined to continue the slaughter that their bullets had begun.

  Much as Dimmock wanted to spring to his feet and throw himself at the attackers, he realized that to do so would be useless. He would die before he could achieve anything. It was far more sensible to lie still, playing ‘possum’ iii until a chance of escape presented itself. If he could break clear, he would carry news of the massacre to the rest of the Republic of Texas’s Army on the Colorado River. General Houston would not be able to do anything about avenging Fannin’s command, but he would at least know that he could no longer count on their support.

  Having reached his decision, Dimmock exerted all his will power so that he might carry it out. Clenching his fists and gritting his teeth, he forced himself to lie still as he heard the footsteps of the Mexican infantrymen rushing nearer.

  Behind the lieutenant, the other Texians had been numbed into a state of immobility by the horror of what was happening. Then a full understanding of their deadly peril began to strike the survivors of the fusillade. Even those who had favored the original surrender realized that they would not ever be allowed to fight again. With that knowledge, they prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible.

  Despite some difficulty in controlling his horse, Badillo’s second-in-command was leading the rear guard forward. Slightly taller and heavier built than his superior, Captain Alphonso Escalier was greasily handsome, a dandy limited by his lack of money. His face was contorted with blood lust as he sent his mount forward and slashed with his saber at the nearest Texian’s head. Behind him, his men were fanning out so as to be able to use their lances.

  Advancing with reckless bounds, an infantryman drew ahead of his companions. He had been one of the closest to the trail, so reached it first. Wild with excitement and a desire to kill, he decided that he would plunge his bayonet into the back of the Texian who was sprawled face down in front of him. Coming into range, he swung up his weapon and prepared to drive it at Dimmock.

  Chapter Two – Don’t Let Him Escape!

  Before the infantryman could carry out his intention, a Texian from the second file intervened. Seeing that the soldier was about to bayonet the apparently helpless officer, who had been very popular and well-liked, the man sprang forward. As he did so, he swung the bundle from his shoulder and hurled it at the Mexican. Instead of driving his bayonet downwards, the soldier used it to deflect the approaching missile. Impaling the bundle, he flung it over his head. Before he returned the weapon to a fighting position, the Texian was upon him. Grabbing hold of the Baker rifle and wrenching it from its owners grasp, the Texian smashed the butt against his head. As the infantryman went down with a crushed skull, his killer fell to a pistol in the hand of the nearest Mexican officer. With the rifle slipping from his lifeless hands, the Texian toppled alongside the man whose life he had saved.

  Although Lieutenant Paul Dimmock had seen enough to guess what was happening, he forced himself to keep still. It went bitterly against the grain for a man of his background and upbringing to have to act in such a manner, particularly as the sounds of the fighting increased, but he continued to follow the course he had set himself. There was, he knew, more than the lives of his companions in the balance and his efforts would do little or nothing to prevent them from being killed. On the other hand, unless General Samuel Houston learned of the massacre, the rest of the Republic of Texas’s Army would be in deadly peril. So Dimmock repeatedly reminded himself of that fact and compelled himself to remain motionless.

  A savage hand-to-hand battle was soon raging on the trail. Despite the devastating effect of the murderous fusillade, sufficient of the Texians had escaped death or injury for them to equal the numbers of Colonel Sebastian Saucedo’s ‘Landero’ Line Infantry Battalion. Of course, although hampered by the nature of their weapons, the troop of Tamaulipa Lancers gave the attackers a numerical superiority which made victory over the unarmed Texians practically certain. Even so, the Mexicans did not have things all their own way.

  Weaponless, shocked and horrified by their captors’ treachery and the cold-blooded murder of so many of their companions, the Texians started to fight back with a courage born of desperation and fury. Some of them tackled the charging foot soldiers, trying to avoid the enlisted men’s bayonets or officers’ swords and grapple with the wielders. Others flung themselves at the Lancers who were thrusting with their weapons at any figure which did not wear a Mexican uniform.

  Soon the noise reached the proportions of bedlam. Men of both nationalities shouted, cursed, roared and screamed. Driven into the swirling mass of fighting human beings, horses snorted and squealed in terror as they smelled blood. Some bolted, their riders dragged from the saddles to add to the confusion. Two of the animals went down, plunging and kicking in agony, as wildly thrust bayonets impaled them instead of the proposed human targets. There were a few shots, fired from the pistols which Saucedo’s officers and Captain Escalier were using to augment the slashing and hacking of their swords.

  Having succeeded in bringing his bay gelding around in a half circle, Major Carlos Badillo found that he was obstructed by the other members of the advance guard who were also attempting to return and take a part in the fighting. There was no chance of him forcing his way through their ranks. Nor, obedient as they were under normal circumstances, would calling for them to let him pass be likely to produce the desired result. They were too excited for words to have any effect. So, instead of trying to do either, he completed the drawing of his saber and guided his mount to the right with the intention of going around them.

  The major’s eagerness was caused by more than his sadistic delight in inflicting pain and killing. While he was starting to turn back, he had seen Saucedo bounding down the opposite slope. The colonel had already plunged into the thickest part of the fighting, just as the major had anticipated he would.

  When helping to make the plans for the ambush, Badillo had known that the tactics he proposed would result i
n just such a fight as had developed. He was hoping to use the confusion of close quarters brawling as a means of removing his hated rival.

  Given an opportunity, Badillo intended to kill Saucedo. He had decided that it must be done with one of the pistols which hung in their holsters on the pommel of his saddle. In that way, even if anybody should happen to see him do it, he could claim that the shot had been fired at a Texian and hit the colonel by accident. No doubt the truth would be suspected, but General Urrea would be unlikely to make too close an inquiry into what had really happened. With Saucedo dead, there was nobody else who had sufficient authority, or influence, to carry the matter further. Not even Badillo’s own colonel. The major had gained such a moral ascendancy over his nominal superior that he was the commanding officer of the Tamaulipa Lancers in everything but name.

  Although the major did not know it, he was in considerable danger as he started to ride by his men. He was not the only one to have foreseen the possibilities of removing a rival in the present situation.

  Tall, lanky, with sharp and evil features, Sergeant Refugio was the best shot in the ‘Landero’ Line Infantry Battalion. His skill with the Baker rifle was one reason why he had been given command of the party who had remained on the left side slope to deal with any Texians who tried to escape. For all that, when three of them burst from the entangled mass and fled in his direction, he left the shooting to his men. Such behavior would have surprised anybody who knew him, for he usually enjoyed displaying his skill with a rifle.

  There was a very good reason for Refugio to refrain from shooting. To reload the Baker could not be done quickly and he had a better use for the solitary bullet than expending it on a Texian. When assigning the duty to the sergeant, Saucedo had supplemented it with private instructions and the promise of promotion if he should be successful in carrying them out. There was, Refugio had considered, nothing difficult about his task. All he had to do was to watch for a suitable opportunity and then ‘accidentally’ shoot Major Badillo.

  Holding the butt of the Baker rifle cradled at his shoulder and resting its thirty-inch long barrel across a convenient limb as an aid to greater accuracy, the lanky sergeant scanned the ranks of the Lancers who had preceded the column. Luck appeared to be favoring him. Instead of riding through, or beyond, the rest of the advance guard, Badillo was coming along the left side of the valley. That meant he would pass at a distance of no more than seventy-five yards. An easy enough shot for a marksman like Sergeant—soon to be Captain— Refugio. All he had to do to earn his promotion was line his sights and, at the appropriate moment, squeeze the trigger.

  To Refugio’s way of thinking, selecting the correct moment was of considerable importance to his future. While he was not particularly intelligent, he had a certain amount of low cunning. Sufficient at least for him to be aware that his situation could be dangerous. Colonel Saucedo had promised that he would be protected against any repercussions, but he preferred not to take chances. Before he fired at Badillo, he wanted an excuse for shooting and, if possible, to have some of his men discharging their weapons at the same time. In that way, nobody would be able to say for sure whose bullet had struck the major down.

  Keeping his decision in mind, Refugio sought for a way to carry out his assignment. Even as Badillo was approaching the point where he would be level with the sergeant’s position, what appeared to be an ideal opportunity began to present itself.

  On the fringe of the fighting, at the left side of the trail, a Texian was trying to save his younger brother’s life. Avoiding the point of a lance as it was being driven in his direction, he caught hold of the shaft and tugged with all his strength. Unable to slip his wrist from the rawhide loop which was attached to the weapon’s point of balance to enable a more secure grip when driving home the diamond-section head, the Lancer was hauled from his mount’s back. As he fell he just managed to snatch his left foot out of the stirrup iron. However, he retained his hold on the reins and the jerk he gave at them snapped the animal’s neck around, causing its legs to buckle and making it squeal with pain.

  ‘Grab this hoss and go, Sam!’ the elder brother bellowed, driving a kick against the side of the Lancer’s head as he crashed to the ground and released the reins.

  Remembering that their parents were getting on in years, had lost their home by accompanying Houston from San Antonio de Bexar and needed help to re-establish themselves elsewhere, still the younger brother hesitated for a moment. He hated the thought of fleeing as it meant leaving his sibling with little or no hope of escape. They had enlisted and served together and since the ambush began had been fighting back to back. Yet he knew that Tad was making a sensible suggestion and there was certainly no time to argue about which of them should leave.

  Hurling a rifle, which he had wrenched from its owner’s hands and used to defend himself, at the nearest Mexican foot soldier, Sam threw a sorrow-filled glance at his brother. Then he sprang to catch hold of the horse’s saddle horn and went astride its back with a bound. Grabbing up the one-piece reins, he let out a yell and kicked his heels against the animal’s flanks. Already nervous due to the commotion and the hurt sustained when its former rider was unseated, the horse needed little urging. Trying to locate the stirrups with his feet and having difficulty keeping his balance, the young Texian found himself being carried towards what had been the head of the column.

  Once again, good fortune was smiling upon Lieutenant Paul Dimmock, offering him the means by which he might carry out his self-appointed mission.

  ‘Kill that one on the horse!’ Refugio yelled, lining his rifle at Badillo and hoping for the desired result.

  Even as he was shouting, the sergeant realized that he could not continue to rest the barrel on the branch. He had done so in the first place to lessen the strain of supporting the nine pound-two ounce iv weapon while waiting and in case there should be a chance of aiming at a stationary target. With the major riding by, the added stability would be more of a liability than an asset. The Baker rifle was accurate up to about three hundred yards in skilled hands, but it had faults common to all flintlocks. One of these was the perceptible delay between squeezing the trigger and the detonated powder in the priming pan reaching the main charge.

  Knowing his weapon’s failings, Refugio did not keep the barrel pointing directly at his intended victim. Instead, having set it on to the required alignment, he aimed it ahead so as to allow for Badillo’s forward movements. Waiting until he heard the crackle of shots from further along the slope, he squeezed the trigger. He continued to swing the rifle, holding it rock steady, so that the bullet would converge with the major on being ejected from the muzzle and traversing the distance between them.

  Holding his bay to a swift half gallop that was carrying him by his men, Badillo did not suspect that his life was being threatened. He was scanning the tangled mass of fighting men, searching for Colonel Saucedo who had disappeared among them. He paid no attention to the slope above him.

  Glancing ahead, the major noticed the young Texian emerging on the captured horse and decided to deal with him if the riflemen among the trees failed to do so. He heard Refugio’s shouted command. It was followed by at least four shots. Thinking sourly of the wasted effort and possible danger to their own men who were fighting on the trail (although the latter did not greatly disturb him), Badillo saw that at least one of the bullets had flown accurately. Hit in the right temple, with the lead smashing straight through his head, the Texian was knocked sideways out of the saddle. However, the horse continued to run.

  Although he was still lying on the ground, Dimmock was alert for any opportunity to escape. Without being detected, he had contrived to look around and ease himself into a position which would allow him to rise swiftly when he found his chance. He was aware of the purpose of the riflemen on the slope but did not know how many there might be. Seeing the young Texian killed and the horse approaching, he decided that he wouldn’t have a better opportunity. So, waiting until it
drew near, he thrust himself to his feet and leapt forward with his hands reaching to grab the reins.

  Turning at the waist and guiding his weapon with the smooth ease of an expert, Refugio felt the solid thrust of the recoil against his right shoulder. Although the cloud of white smoke which gushed from the barrel obscured his view, he was confident that he had held true.

  Only one small detail saved Badillo from a not undeserved death. The time that elapsed between the fall of the Baker’s hammer and the emission of the bullet from the muzzle.

  While the sergeant had believed there was a clear field of fire between himself and his victim, he had failed to notice a sapling further down the slope. Flying through the air at the correct angle to connect with its intended target, the bullet grazed the right side of the slender trunk. Slight though the contact had been, it was sufficient to deflect the patched lead ball. v Not much, but enough. Instead of striking Badillo in the body (Refugio having been disinclined to chance a shot at the smaller—if more certainly lethal—target of the head) it caught the bay just in front of the shoulder. Distorting from its globular shape as it plowed through the flesh, the bullet hit and broke the bones of the horse’s neck. Killed almost instantly, the animal crumpled and went down, falling on to its left side.

  Hearing the sickening, soggy thud of the bullet’s impact and feeling his mount collapsing beneath him, Badillo realized that it must have been shot. There was no time for him to wonder if the shooting had been accidental or a deliberate attempt to murder him. In fact, it was all he could do to liberate his feet from the stirrups and hurl himself out of the saddle so as to prevent having his left leg trapped. Because of the direction in which the animal was falling, he was unable to dive to the right. Instead, he was compelled to go down in front of the foremost of his men. While his skill as a rider enabled him to reduce some of the force of his landing, and even though he had tossed aside his saber as he fell, he still hit the ground hard enough to jar all the breath from his body. It left him sprawled dazed, winded and helpless not far ahead of the approaching Lancers’ horses.