Get Urrea! (An Ole Devil Hardin Western Book 5) Read online

  While there was a most efficient weapon in Serrano’s saddlebags, he had no intention of advertising that he had it in his possession. From what he had seen during the period spent in hiding watching the battleground by the San Jacinto River, the Texians were not taking reprisals against the Mexican soldiers who fell into their hands. But they were unlikely to be so lenient if they discovered he was carrying that particular weapon. It was so distinctive that they were almost certain to recognize it and would know how he must have obtained it.

  During the final assault on the Alamo Mission the men under Serrano’s command had killed James Bowie. After his death, the young lieutenant had taken the famous Texian’s knife as spoils of war. However, realizing that such a highly prized piece of loot would be claimed by one of his superiors—or even el Presidente himself—if they heard of it, Serrano had kept quiet about it. The other members of his detail had been killed in the fighting and nobody had learned of the part he had played in Bowie’s death. To prevent the knife being seen and attracting unwanted attention, he had carried it in his saddlebag. That was how, although he had lost his own weapons, he still had it with him.

  Serrano had taken no part in the battle which had ended Santa Anna’s hopes of crushing the rebellion and had seen Texas established as an independent, self-governing Republic. xxxi Intending to join a friend in another part of the camp on the morning of April 20, he had not bothered to don his sword and pistol. He had just mounted the horse which his orderly had saddled and brought for him when a wagon loaded with gunpowder had exploded. High spirited at the best of times, the powerful dun had taken the bit between its teeth and bolted. Although Serrano, excellent rider that he was, had managed to remain in the saddle more than a mile had fallen behind them before he could regain control of the frightened animal. By the time he had returned to the vicinity of the camp, the Texians’ attack had been launched and the fighting was almost over.

  Watching the battle from the concealment of some trees on a hill about half a mile away, Serrano had reluctantly concluded there was nothing he could do to help his companions. While he was no coward, neither was he a fool. He had realized that he would either be killed or taken prisoner if he went any closer. In the latter event, the discovery of the knife in his saddlebags might bring the wrath of the Texians upon him as it would be evidence of the part he had played in slaying Bowie. So he had remained in hiding for the rest of the day and had set off to return home after night had fallen.

  Although Serrano had been eager to reach the Rio Bravo and gain the comparative safety of Mexican soil, prudence dictated that he took precautions. To reach the river had meant traversing the terrain through which Santa Anna’s column had passed, looting, burning and pillaging as they went. The lieutenant’s instincts warned him that it would be a most unhealthy region for a solitary and apparently unarmed member of the plundering army. So, to reduce the chances of being seen by other human beings, until that day he had travelled only during the hours of darkness.

  His reasons for wishing to remain undetected were well founded but he was to fail in his aim of arriving unobserved at the Rio Grande.

  Fired from among the post oak trees which coated the top of the valley’s southern slope, a bullet ripped its way into the dun gelding’s heart. Taken completely unaware, Serrano was just too slow in wrenching his feet from the stirrup irons as the stricken animal went down. Even as he heard the crack of the shot that had killed it, his left foot was caught beneath the collapsing horse. Although pinned to the ground, he was not otherwise hurt. As he placed his free foot against the seat of the saddle to try and liberate himself, he stared in the direction from which the sound had come. What he saw filled him with a sense of foreboding.

  Led by a big, unshaven man wearing a wide brimmed, low crowned black hat, dirty black frock coat, very grubby collarless white shirt, Nankeen trousers and riding boots, four equally well armed, but no cleaner, riders were approaching in an almost leisurely fashion. Bringing their horses to a halt at the foot of the slope, they sat for several seconds studying the young Mexican. Their faces were completely devoid of pity or mercy, but he thought that there was something familiar about them.

  ‘Why in hell didn’t you shoot him instead of the son-of-a-bitching horse, Ernie?’ the big man demanded, idly fingering the hilt of the huge sheathed knife that was on the right side of his belt and balanced the pistol that was on the left.

  ‘Was figuring to, Dick,’ answered the tall, gangling, buckskin clad rider to whom the words had been directed. He gestured with the rifle in his right hand. ‘Only this fool hoss of mine moved just’s I was squeezing off.’

  ‘You’re making a mistake!’ Serrano warned, remembering where he had seen the men. Although he spoke little English, he knew enough to have been able to follow the gist of the brief conversation. xxxii ‘I’m a Mexican officer, not a Chicano.’ xxxiii

  ‘That supposed to make some difference to us?’ the big man inquired in Spanish.

  ‘I’ve seen you in our camp more than once since we left San Antonio,’ Serrano replied. ‘We were told that you were fighting for us.’

  Even as the lieutenant was speaking, he doubted whether the words would have any effect. There were white men who had supported Santa Anna out of loyalty to the Mexican citizenship which they had been granted on settling in Texas. However, for the most part such renegades were vicious and cold-blooded opportunists whose sole motive was financial gain. Unless he was mistaken, these five riders belonged to the second category.

  “That we are,’ the big man admitted. ‘El Presidente pays us a bounty on every deserter we fetch in and you look like one to me.’

  ‘Pays it dead or alive,’ continued another member of the party. He was of medium height, with a narrow, vicious face and was attired in cheap town-dweller s clothing. Swinging from his saddle, he drew a-long bladed knife from its sheath. ‘So it’s as easy to tote you back dead.’

  He slouched menacingly in Serrano’s direction. The rest of the men began to dismount and Serrano continued to push unavailingly against the saddle. He realized that telling them of Santa Anna’s defeat would not save him. Once they heard of it, they would know there was nothing further to be gained by supporting the Mexicans. Nor could he do much in his own defense. They would not permit him to take Bowie’s knife from the saddlebag, much less allow him to use it to protect himself.

  ‘Cut his heart out, Wylie!’ suggested a fourth man.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ Ernie protested, leering evilly. ‘You’ll ruin them fancy duds he’s wearing. Slit his throat from ear to ear.’

  Strolling around the rump of the gelding, Wylie threw a grin at his companions. It was a mistake. He should never have lifted his attention from what he regarded as a helpless victim.

  Serrano had felt his temper rising as he watched the men and listened to their comments. From what little he could understand, he deduced that they were not interested in collecting a bounty for taking him back. Instead, they intended to murder him and appropriate his property. Ignoring the rest, he concentrated on Wylie. There was little enough the lieutenant could do, held down by the weight of his dead horse, but he had no intention of just waiting passively to be killed.

  Without showing any indication of what he was about to do, Serrano twisted his torso towards Wylie. Shooting forward his hands, he caught the unsuspecting man’s right foot as it advanced. Giving a sudden, powerful jerk combined with a twist and a push, he sent Wylie staggering.

  ‘Get the bastard!’ Dick commanded, lumbering forward.

  While the rest of his companions began to run around the horse, Ernie leapt over it. Once in the air, he kept his feet together with the intention of landing on the recumbent Mexican’s chest. Guessing what was planned, Serrano reacted with considerable speed and, in view of how he was situated, very effectively. Interlacing his fingers, he swung both arms around and up to the left. His linked hands caught Ernie’s left leg at knee level and with sufficient force to defl
ect the descending feet. Letting out a startled and infuriated howl, Ernie felt himself being knocked off balance. Losing his grip on the rifle as he flailed the air in an attempt to regain his equilibrium, he finally landed on his back in a way which drove all the breath from his body.

  Despite what Serrano had accomplished against his first two assailants, he accepted that he was merely making futile—if vaguely satisfying—gestures of defiance. There was no way in which he could save himself from the rest of the renegades. Having separated, Dick and the other two were coming at him from each end of the horse. Although Dick was having to swerve around Wylie and Ernie, the pair at the other end had no such impediment. One was swinging up the rifle he held, meaning to strike their victim with its butt and his companion grasped a bell-mouthed blunderbuss with a similar intention.

  At that moment, a wild, ringing yell reached Serrano’s ears. It was followed by the rumble of rapidly approaching hooves. The blows were not struck. Instead, the two men joined their companions in staring northwards across the valley towards the source of the sounds. Startled exclamations burst from all of them but they did not display the kind of alarm which might have been forthcoming if the newcomers had been members of the Mexican army.

  ‘Take it easy until we see if there’s any more of ’em!’ Dick commanded.

  Although Serrano was grateful for the respite, he suspected that it would be brief and would do little to relieve his predicament. He had heard similar yells on the various occasions when Texian raiding parties were striking at Santa Anna’s column during the pursuit from San Antonio de Bexar. However, even if they were some of Houston’s men, they did not know that Serrano’s assailants were renegades.

  Turning his head and looking between the legs of the man with the blunderbuss, the lieutenant confirmed his suppositions regarding the possible identity of the new arrivals. They were three in number, riding side by side and none of them held a weapon.

  Apart from a low crowned, wide brimmed black hat, the man in the center wore clothing similar to Serrano’s. However, his tanned face was that of an Anglo-Saxon and he had a pistol and knife on his waist belt. There was a rifle, its butt pointing to the rear, in some kind of leather container xxxiv on the left side of his magnificent dun stallion’s double girthed, low horned saddle. To his left, the burlier Texian was armed in the same way and clad in the fashion of a working vaquero. Big and heavy he might be, but he sat his equally fine blood bay stallion with the easy grace of a light rider. By far the smallest of the three, the last man was apparently an Indian of some kind. He had dark brown skin, with long black hair trailing from beneath the brim of a steeple-crowned black hat with an eagle’s feather stuck in its band. A multi-colored shirt hung outside a scarlet breechclout, encircled by a leather belt from which hung two unusual-looking swords. His legs were bare to knee length moccasins. He was as well mounted as his companions, on a powerful if fancy paint stallion, and rode just as capably. While the other two each carried a pistol and a saber suspended from their saddle horns, he had a quiver of arrows on his. An unstrung bow hung on two loops that were attached to the near side skirt of his saddle.

  Almost as if they were connected by an invisible string, the three men came to a halt simultaneously and about twenty yards from where Serrano was lying. Making no attempt to take out their rifles, or the bow, they left the animals ground hitched by allowing the split-ended reins to dangle from the bits. None of them bothered to arm himself in any way. Instead, they advanced and adopted a shallow arrowhead formation with the slender man as its point. There was, Serrano decided, something compelling about him. Young he might be, but his attitude was that of a man used to commanding obedience.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ the slender young Texian asked, coming to a halt with around seven yards separating him from Serrano’s tormentors. His voice was that of a well-educated Southron, but had a hard and unfriendly note.

  ‘What’s it look like?’ Dick replied, sensing the other’s disapproval and not caring for it. However, as he still did not know if the speaker had more men in the vicinity, he went on, ‘We’ve just caught this greaser son-of-a- bitch and’re going to kill him.’

  ‘Why?’ the sardonic-featured young Texian inquired.

  Despite the lack of English, Serrano could just about follow the gist of the two men’s words and he began to feel a trifle more hopeful. There was something about the slender spokesman for the trio which suggested he would not allow a cold-blooded murder to be committed.

  ‘Why?’ Dick repeated, raising his voice. ‘We’re going to pay him back for what them bastards did to our boys at Goliad and the Alamo. That’s why!’

  ‘Was he at the Alamo, or Goliad?’ the young man wanted to know.

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ Dick demanded, glancing to where Wylie was rising and then at the other two men who were on their feet. Although Ernie had not recovered enough to help, they still had a slight advantage in numbers over the newcomers and were ready to back any play he made. ‘He’s a greaser and it don’t make no never mind to me and my boys whether he was or not.’

  ‘It does to me,’ the dark faced Texian stated, showing no sign of being impressed or concerned by the quartet’s menacing attitudes. ‘Help him up and we’ll ask him.’

  For all his apparent calm, Ole Devil Hardin was alert and suspicious. He knew that he, Mannen Blaze and Tommy Okasi—suitably attired for their mission—were the first party to leave the camp on Buffalo Bayou since the battle. However, there were many Texians who had not joined the main body of Houston’s Army. In addition, Santa Anna had made use of bunches of renegades. Such traitors, operating for their own personal gain, could be expected to be roaming in search of plunder through an area that had been cleared when the Mexicans had advanced across it. He had no way of knowing to which category the five men belonged, so was disinclined to take chances.

  ‘Help him—!’ Dick spluttered.

  “That’s what I said,’ Ole Devil confirmed.

  ‘Just who the hell do you reckon you are?’ Dick demanded, still uncertain as to how many more of the newcomers’ party might be in the vicinity and hoping to find out.

  ‘Hardin’s the name,’ was the reply. ‘Captain Jackson Baines Hardin, of Company “C”, the Texas Light Cavalry.’

  ‘Hardin?’ Ernie yelped. ‘Don’t they call you “Ole Devil”?’

  ‘I’ve been called that—and worse,’ the young Texian admitted.

  Ole Devil had decided to speak the truth so as to try and find out where the sympathies of the five men lay. If they should be loyal Texians, they might—probably would—be inclined to listen to reason. Since the commencement of hostilities, he had been growing in prominence. While he had not reached the heights of Houston, Bowie, Travis, or Davy Crockett, he was known to be regarded highly and had already built up a reputation of finishing anything he started. So, as he was clearly opposed to the quintet harming the Mexican, they might be willing to desist.

  Throwing a quick look to the left and right, Dick noticed that his companions were showing less aggression than he had hoped to see. Even Cocky, standing next to him, was displaying a lack of resolution despite holding a loaded and primed blunderbuss which would be a mighty effective weapon at such close quarters.

  The big man was less easily cowed. Thinking fast, he came up with some pretty accurate conclusions. None of the trio wore what he knew to be the usual uniform of the Texas Light Cavalry. That implied they were on a scouting mission and not raiding with a Company. The presence of the strange looking ‘Indian’ gave strength to the supposition. In which case, it would be possible and safe to kill them. Not in the matter of duty, which had never concerned Dick, but because their horses and weapons were of good quality and would be worth taking after they were dead.

  ‘If you’re Hardin,’ Dick growled, studying the newcomers’ empty hands and speaking in order to gain time in which to decide upon a course of action. ‘You’ve fought the greasers—’

 
‘More than once, mister,’ Ole Devil put in, without offering to confirm or deny his identity. ‘But I’ve never yet murdered one, nor stood by while somebody else did.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Dick spat back. ‘What in hell did they do to our fellers at—’

  ‘I’m not going to argue with you,’ Ole Devil warned, his almost gentle voice underlined with steel-hard determination. ‘That man’s a prisoner-of-war and General Houston says that all such are to be allowed to go home, not to be murdered in so-called revenge for the Alamo and Goliad.’

  ‘So that’s what Houston says, is it? Dick sneered, drawing no special conclusions from the information.

  ‘Those are the General’s orders,’ Ole Devil confirmed, laying emphasis on the use of Houston’s rank. ‘So you’d best do as I said and let this man go on his way.’

  ‘All right,’ Dick said, with what he hoped was a convincing air of resignation. ‘If that’s how General Houston wants it—’

  Allowing the sentence to trail off unfinished, the big man started to turn to his right. Then, moving with fair speed for one of his bulk, his left hand went out to grab the barrel of Cocky’s blunderbuss. With a quick jerk, he plucked it from its owner’s grasp and, as he started to twist back to face Ole Devil, his right hand went across to begin shoving the hammer back to fully cocked.

  Dick’s actions had been carefully considered. Not only was the blunderbuss more readily accessible than his pistol or knife, it was far more suitable for his purpose. At such close range, the spread of its charge could not miss the slender Texian and some of the balls might also strike at least one of his companions.

  Providing, of course, that the weapon was discharged!

  Clearly Ole Devil had some ideas of his own on the subject, as Dick discovered when the young Texian reappeared in his range of vision. Obviously he had not been taken in by the apparent submission to his demands.