Young Ole Devil Read online

  However, it was the newcomer’s face which attracted Cord’s main attention. The black hair was taken back in a way which made the sides above his temples protrude and look like short horns. That combined with the brows of his coal black eyes that were shaped like inverted CV Y, an aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed moustache and short chin beard gave his features an almost Satanic expression.

  Coming to a halt on spread-apart feet, the newcomer studied the crowded front of the bar. Then his eyes came to rest upon the two men whom Cord suspected of being members of the agitator’s party. Becoming aware of the scrutiny, the pair turned their eyes towards the man who was looking at them.

  ‘Would you gentlemen mind moving so that I can get through to the bar?’ the young dandy inquired, his voice that of a well-educated Southron.

  Seeing the pair stiffen as if somebody had laid a quirt across their rumps, Cord could tell that they did not care for the manner in which they were being addressed. Politely worded enough the appeal had been, the speaker’s tone and attitude were more suitable to the deliverance of a demand which he believed he had every right to make. Everything about him suggested that he felt he was dealing with unimportant social inferiors.

  A shrewd judge of character, Cord concluded that the newcomer’s behavior was more liable to rouse the two men’s wrath than to lead them into compliance with his wishes.

  ‘Come on now!’ the young dandy continued impatiently, raising his voice and causing it to sound even more autocratically commanding. ‘Step out of the way there and let me through!’

  Such was not, Cord could have warned the newcomer, the wisest way in which to speak to two obvious bullies and roughnecks. They were certain to take exception to his assumption of superiority and would be most unlikely to treat him with the servile deference that he clearly considered he should receive.

  ‘Can’t rightly see no reason why we should,’ the slightly taller and older of the pair stated, conscious of the glances being darted at them by their immediate neighbors along the bar. ‘Can you, Brother Basil?’

  ‘I ain’t got no better eye-sight ‘n you-all, Brother Cyril,’ the second man answered, scowling balefully at the dandy. ‘Which being so, I’d say you should try it on some other place, fancy pants. We ain’t a-fixing to move.’

  The brothers had loud, harsh voices which they made no attempt to modulate. So their words were spreading beyond the person at whom they were being directed. Several pairs of eyes swung away from Duke as he was starting to explain how Johnson’s proposed invasion of Mexico would benefit the Republic of Texas.

  ‘Now look here, you two!’ the dandy said coldly, also raising his voice to a level which was louder than necessary. ‘While the likes of you have been propping up a bar, I’ve been out scouting against the Mexicans. So move aside and let me through.’

  Glancing around as he heard the voices and noticed that he was losing the attention of his audience, Duke located the cause of the disturbance. The discovery caused him mingled annoyance and anxiety. He had spent a fair sum of money, buying drinks to ingratiate himself with the crowd and make them more receptive to his agitation, so he did not want anything distract them. From what he could see and hear, there might b a serious distraction developing. Of all the men in the room, the arrogant young dandy could hardly have selected two more dangerous than the Winglow brothers upon whom to try and impose his imperious wishes.

  Being aware of the delicate nature of his assignment, Duke had tried to impress upon all his escort the need to avoid trouble if possible. He had repeated his reminder at Shelby’s Livery Barn where they had left their horses before coming separately to the cantina. Clearly Cyril Winglow, who was always a bad-tempered bully, had forgotten his instructions.

  ‘He’s sure dressed fancy for a feller’s done all that there scouting, ain’t he Brother Basil?’ Cyril asked, looking the young man over from head to foot.

  ‘Don’t let the way I look fool you, hombre,’ the dandy advised, his Mephistophelian features growing even more sardonic and mocking as he returned the scrutiny. ‘I’ve done plenty of fighting in this war. So I don’t need to go around hawg-filthy to try to make folks think I have.’

  ‘Hey there, gentlemen!’ Duke called, seeing the anger which came to the brothers’ faces as the barb went home. Hearing him, they looked in his direction and he hoped that they would take a hint from his intervention. ‘Let’s have no unpleasantness.’

  ‘There won’t be any,’ the young dandy replied, but destroyed the relief which Duke had started to feel by continuing, ‘Just so long as these two yahoos stop hogging the bar and let me through.’

  ‘Here, sir,’ Duke put in hurriedly, speaking before either of the brothers could do more than stare at the newcomer. Oozing an amiable bonhomie which he was far from feeling, he stepped forward and waved a hand to the gap he had left at the counter. ‘You can have my place.’

  ‘Thank you for the offer, sir,’ the dandy drawled, without moving or taking his attention from the brothers. ‘But I want them to make way for me. Damn it, I’m fighting for the likes of them!

  ‘Fighting for—!’ Cyril began, slamming his glass down so that it shattered on the floor.

  Hold it!’ Cord bellowed, snatching up and cocking the bell-mouthed blunderbuss which he kept on a shelf under the counter. ‘She’s loaded with rock-salt and I’ll use her should I have to.’

  ‘Are you siding with him?’ Cyril demanded, spitting the words over his shoulder. However, having heard the menacing clicking as the weapon’s hammer was drawn back, he stood still instead of leaping at the newcomer.

  ‘I’m not siding with anybody,’ Cord corrected. ‘Just protecting my property is all. If you feller’s got things to settle, go outside and do it.’

  Although Cord had acted instinctively in the first place, his training as the owner of a cantina having taught him the advisability of trying to prevent trouble on his premises, he had seen how he might turn the present situation to good use. If the men went outside to fight, the majority—if not all—of the other customers would follow to watch. That would put a temporary stop to the agitator’s speech making and allow Cord to send his son with a warning of what was happening to General Houston’s headquarters.

  ‘Surely there’s no need for that, gentlemen,’ Duke protested in a placatory manner, duplicating Cord’s thoughts on how the crowd would react. He moved closer, looking at the brothers rather than their challenger. ‘At a time like this, we can’t have fighting amongst ourselves.’

  ‘I shouldn’t reckon they’d want to do any fighting with anybody,’ the dandy scoffed.

  ‘Easy, Brother Cyril!’ Basil said urgently, having taken notice of their leaders’ obvious disapproval. While just as much a bully as his sibling, he was somewhat more intelligent. Being aware of how vindictive Duke could behave when crossed, Basil had no wish to antagonize him. There was, he decided, a way out which would avoid any suggestion of them having backed down. ‘He’s got a knife ’n’ pistol and neither of us is armed.’

  Realizing what the younger Winglow had in mind, Duke nodded approvingly. Nobody could blame the brothers for refusing to take on an armed man when neither was carrying weapons. Nor was it likely that the arrogant young dandy would be willing to consider fighting with this bare hands against a heavier opponent.

  It was a good try, but failed to produce the desired result.

  ‘Shucks, I’d hate the gents here to think I’d need weapons to deal with the likes of you,’ the young man remarked, sliding the knife from its sheath with his left hand while the right pulled the pistol clear of the loop. ‘If somebody will hold these for me—’

  ‘Here, mister,’ offered the burly sergeant of Travis’s regiment, who was sitting at a table near to the dandy. He came to his feet and held out his hands, ‘I’ll take them for you.’

  ‘Gracias,’ the young man drawled, relinquishing the weapons without hesitation. Then he swung his sardonic gaze to Cyril and went on. ‘Now it’s entir
ely up to you, loud mouth. I’m ready, but you might not have the stomach for it.’

  ‘I’ll show you whether I have, or—!’ Cyril roared furiously, ignoring Duke’s prohibitive headshake and making as if to lunge at his tormentor.

  ‘Not in here, you won’t!’ Cord interrupted firmly, tapping the muzzle of his blunderbuss on the counter to give emphasis to his words. ‘If you’re set on fighting, go outside where my furniture won’t get broken.’

  ‘That suits me fine,’ the young man announced as, taking heed of the owner’s words and action, Cyril restrained his impulse to attack. ‘I’ll be waiting out there, loud mouth. You do what you want.’

  With that, the dandy swung on his heel and swaggered towards the door. He presented his back contemptuously to the brothers and did not so much as glance over his shoulder as he left the building.

  ‘Damn it to hell, Major Duke!’ Cyril protested, turning to the agitator and, in his desire to exculpate himself, ignoring the fact that they were not supposed to know each other. ‘The son-of-a-bitch ain’t giving me no choice.’

  An almost uncontrollable rage filled Duke as he watched Cyril removing his hat and coat, but the incautious words had not caused it. Probably nobody else had attached any significance to them. All around the room, men were finishing their drinks and shoving back their chairs. Duke’s anger was rising as he saw that what he had feared was happening.

  ‘Hey!’ whooped a soldier excitedly, as Cyril passed the garments to Basil and set off across the room. ‘Come on. Let’s go see what happens.’

  Watching the mass movement to go outside, Duke knew that he could neither do nor say anything to prevent the disruption of his work. Stimulated by the drinks which he had bought for them, the crowd clearly considered that watching a fight would be more interesting and entertaining than listening to him. Duke silently cursed the brothers for not having remembered why they were in San Antonio and refusing to make room for the newcomer at the bar. One glance at him ought to have warned them that their response would make such a proud, arrogant young hothead determined to enforce his demand.

  ‘By cracky, mister,’ enthused a leathery, buckskin-clad old timer who was standing at Duke’s side, breaking in on his train of thought. ‘That feller’s going to get taught a lesson. It don’t pay to rile up young Cap’n Hardin that ways.’

  ‘Who?’ the agitator inquired, realizing that the other did not consider the ‘lesson’ would be given by Cyril Winglow.

  ‘Cap’n Jackson Baines Hardin of tie Texas Light Cavalry,’ the leathery man elaborated. ‘He’s a lil ole devil in a fight.’

  Chapter Two – Let’s See How You Stack Up Against a Man

  Standing in the centre of the street, Jackson Baines Hardin watched the crowd streaming out of the Little Sisters Cantina. They spread each way along the sidewalk, talking excitedly, making bets and jostling each other for the best positions from which to see what happened. If he was perturbed by what he had done inside, his Mephistophelian features—which, in part, accounted for his generally, used nickname ‘Ole Devil’ v —showed no evidence of it. Rather, if his expression was anything to go by, he regarded the prospect of fighting with a heavier man as an enjoyable relaxation from the serious and dangerous business of scouting against the Mexican army.

  There was a hush as the Winglow brothers emerged, with Basil carrying Cyril’s hat and jacket. While the young man’s comments had been directed at both of them, they had realized that the crowd would not allow them to make a combined attack upon him. Nor, if it came to a point, did either believe that it would be necessary to do so. Each of them was heavier than the slim dandy and they had both acquired considerable ability at roughhouse brawling.

  ‘Sorry you ain’t going to get a chance to whip him, Brother Basil,’ Cyril announced as he lumbered from the sidewalk.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Basil answered, halting at the edge alongside the sergeant who had taken charge of Hardin’s property. ‘You go do it good, Brother Cyril.’

  Even as the younger brother gave his magnanimous blessing, Hardin showed a reluctance to wait for Cyril to come to him. Instead, he darted forward. Doubting that the young man intended to meet him toe-to-toe, Cyril lunged forward and spread open his arms. By doing so, he intended to circumvent the other’s attempt to swerve by at the last moment. He discovered too late that such had never been Hardin’s plan.

  Gauging the distance which was separating them, Hardin bounded into the air as he had been taught by a master of savate—the French style of foot and fist fighting—in New Orleans. Drawing up his knees towards his chest, he caused his body to tilt backwards. Then, straightening his legs, he propelled the soles of his Hessian boots into the centre of Cyril’s chest. All the air was driven from the burly man’s lungs and he was flung backwards by the powerful, unexpected attack. To the accompaniment of laughter and startled comments from the onlookers, he collided with the left side hitching rail. That alone prevented him from falling on to the sidewalk.

  Rebounding from the leaping high kick, Hardin landed on his feet with an almost cat-like agility. He clearly had every intention of following up his advantage before his opponent could recover. Gliding forward, he smashed his left fist into Cyril’s belly. As the man gasped and started to fold at the waist, Hardin’s clenched right hand rose to meet the bristle-covered chin. Lifted erect and held that way by the stout bar of the hitching-rail, dazed and winded, Cyril was in serious trouble. He was clearly unable to stop the continuation of the attack.

  Seeing his brother’s predicament, Basil set about relieving it. Dropping Cyril’s coat and hat, he sprang forward without waiting to remove his own. Before Hardin realized that Basil had intervened, he felt a hand grasping the back of his shirt collar and another catching his right wrist to twist it into a hammerlock.

  Having obtained his two holds, Basil tried to use them as a means of pushing the young dandy away from his brother. Allowing himself to go until he had regained his equilibrium, Hardin came to a stop when sure of it. Setting his weight on his left leg, he thrust his right diagonally until it was alongside Basil’s left foot. Doing so caused his body to swing to the right and he crouched slightly, bending his left arm at the elbow. Although he had not tried to jerk his right wrist from Basil’s right hand, the turning motion had brought it from behind his back. Giving the other no chance to return it to the hammerlock, he snapped it upwards with his palm towards his attacker. Doing so caused Basil to loosen his hold a little.

  Instantly, Hardin’s left knuckles ploughed into Basil’s solar plexus. Letting out a croak, Basil released Hardin’s shirt and felt the wrist snatched away from his fingers. Coming around, Hardin delivered a right cross to Basil’s jaw which turned him in a half circle. Nor did he let it end there. Bringing up his left boot, he rammed it hard against the seat of the younger brother’s trousers and pushed hard. Unable to help himself, Basil went staggering to fall on hands and knees half way across the street.

  Brief though the respite had been, Cyril had recovered sufficient of his wits to take action. Shoving away from the hitching rail, he swung a wide, looping round-house punch which struck the side of the young man’s face. Although the attack came just too late to save Basil and, due to Cyril still being somewhat dazed, arrived with less than his full strength behind it, the blow caught Hardin before his foot had returned to the ground. Pitched sideways, he knew that he could not prevent himself from falling. So he let himself go and concentrated on landing as gently as possible. Lighting on the street, he rolled on to his back.

  Lumbering forward, while his brother was rising, Cyril dropped with big hand driving forward to clamp on to Hardin’s throat. It was also his intention to ram his right knee into the dandy’s body. Although Hardin could not escape the hands, he managed to writhe so that the knees missed. That made his position a little easier, but he knew that he was far from being out of the woods. Kneeling at his side, Cyril raised his head with the intention of banging it on the ground. At the sa
me time, Basil was running forward to help with the attack.

  Strolling from an alley along the street, a man of about Hardin’s age stopped as he saw what was happening. Six foot tall, heavily built, he conveyed an impression of well-padded> comfortable lethargy. He had curly, auburn hair showing beneath his black hat, and his sun-reddened features lost their amiable, sleepy-looking expression as he took in the scene before the cantina. As he was dressed—with the exception of his scarlet silk bandana—and armed in the same fashion as Hardin, it seemed likely that he was connected in some way with the dandy. He too appeared to have bathed, shaved and donned clean garments recently, Although his pace changed from a leisurely amble to a run, he knew that he would not be able to reach the fight before the second assailant had returned to participate in it.

  Being unaware that help was coming, Hardin set about saving himself. Bracing his neck, without making what he knew would be a futile attempt to free it by sheer strength, he managed to lessen the impact as Cyril shoved downwards and the back of his head met the ground. Then, as he was raised for a second time, he pivoted at the hips to send his left knee with some force into the burly man’s ribs. Immediately after making that attack, Hardin thrust his right hand upwards between Cyril’s arms. He did not close it into a fist. Instead, he jabbed his first and second fingers into Cyril’s nostrils. Pain roared through the recipient of file attack. Leaving Hardin’s throat, his hands went up to try and staunch the blood which gushed from his nose.