Ole Devil at San Jacinto (Old Devil Hardin Western Book 4) (3 page)

‘
There’s been some talk
about Lieutenant Dimmock saving his skin the way he did,’ Stepin
announced, clearly desiring to change the subject. ‘Fact being,
I’ve heard it said
—’

‘
So have I!’ Smith
interrupted, turning a prohibitive frown upon the youngster. ‘And,
seeing’s he’s an officer in
our
Company now, I don’t want to hear it again. He got
away during the massacre, sure, but nobody with an ounce of good
sense can blame him for
that.
And, after he had, he didn’t just up and keep on
running like Johnson’s bunch. He headed out this way to let us know
what had happened, so we wouldn’t sit around here just waiting for
Fannin’s men to join us.’

‘
Way you’re talking,
Stepin-boy,
’ the old timer drawled, ‘sounds like you’ve been listening
to some of them fancy-Dan New Orleans’ Wildcats’s’ve come down this
ways to teach us ig-ner-ant Texians how to fight Santa
Anna.’

‘
They’ve been doing some talking,’ the
youngster admitted, meaning to go on and disclaim any agreement
with what had been said.

‘
Too damned
much,
’
Sergeant Smith stated coldly, his manner implying that the subject
was closed.

‘
Looks like Cap’n Devil’s
headed for officers’ country,’ the oldest soldier put in
laconically. ‘Which, whatever it be’s’s riling him, it’s likely not
to do with us common folks and I’m one who’s content to let it stop
right there.
’ His eyes, undimmed by age, flickered to the blond
non-com. ‘Fact being, was
somebody
to ask me if I’d take a drink in his company, I’d
force myself to go ag’in’ my good ’n’ gawd-fearing upbringing and
say “I’d admire to, sir”.’

‘
Jube,’ Smith answered,
but he was continuing to watch his commanding officer.
‘Was
you-all
just once to ask us if we’d care to take a drink on
you,
we’d likely swoon
clear away from the shock.’

For all his levity, the sergeant was both
puzzled and concerned. Since enlisting in the Texas Light Cavalry,
he had grown to respect the Satanic-faced young captain and, after
having won promotion in the field, to know him very well.
Everything about Ole Devil warned that he was angry. The signs were
now indicative that the cause was to be found in the Grand Hotel.
As Jube had said, the establishment had become accepted as
‘officers’ country’ and enlisted men did not patronize it.

An intelligent man, Smith took an active
interest in what was going on around him. So he had heard and
noticed certain things which he suspected were connected with the
latter part of the conversation he had just had with his
companions. He did not care for the possibilities aroused by some
of his deductions. A loyal subordinate, he wondered if his
assumptions over whatever might be taking his captain into the
Grand Hotel were correct. If they were, he hoped that Ole Devil
would avoid any actions which might bring upon him the wrath and
disapproval of his superiors.

Still moving as if marching in
review before Major General Samuel Houston, Ole Devil Hardin passed
through the main entrance of the Grand Hotel. Ignoring the clerk
behind the reception desk, he went to
the open door of the barroom. Crossing the
threshold, he surveyed his surroundings with a sweeping glance.
Although the time was only just after two o’clock in the afternoon,
there were customers present. Only a few had on formal military
uniforms. The attire of the remainder ranged from the coonskin caps
and buckskins of lean, white haired old ‘Deaf’ Smith and two of his
scouts at the counter, through the
vaquero
cos
tume of a couple of
Chicanos
and town suits of the Texians, to the more
elegant raiment worn by half a dozen young men seated around one of
the tables. They were dressed in the latest style of riding clothes
which had become popular among wealthy Louisianans and, in
particular, among New Orleans’ French-
Creole
dandies.

After glancing at the other
occupants of the room, Ole Devil’s cold eyed scrutiny came to rest
upon a young man standing
—propping himself up would be a more apt
term—against the counter and holding a schooner of beer. Matching
the captain in height, he was far more bulky and lacked any
evidence of a martial posture. In fact, his whole bearing seemed to
exude a contented lassitude. His garments were those of a member of
the Texas Light Cavalry. In addition to his presence in San
Felipe’s best hotel, his scarlet silk bandana indicated that he was
an officer. He duplicated Ole Devil’s armament, and did not wear
his pistol. His black hat lay on the bar, showing crinkly red hair,
and his big, sun-reddened face bore a genially sleepy expression as
he raised the schooner to his lips.

‘
Mr. Blaze!’ Ole Devil thundered,
striding forward. The sound of his irate voice caused the burly and
somnolent-looking young man to give a guilty start and blow out a
mouthful of beer. ‘Just what in hell’s name do you think you’re
doing in here?’

‘
Why howdy there, Cousin
Devil,’ greeted the recipient of the furious words. He did not
attempt to straighten up and he seemed to be on the verge of
falling asleep. ‘Well now, I’m just having me a glass of
beer
—’

‘
A
glass of
beer,’
Ole
Devil spat out, advancing with angry steps which beat time to what
he was saying. He came to a halt alongside the bulky object of his
wrath. ‘God damn it, Mr. Blaze, I told you to take the men on
mounted drill. So why are you here instead of doing it?’

‘
Dang it all, Cousin
Devil!’ Lieutenant Mannen Blaze, second-in-command of Company
‘C
’,
almost wailed as he set down his glass. ‘You-all made me go along
when you took that scout down to Goliad, which’s a hell of a
distance to ride. So I reckon I’m entitled to take things a mite
easy for a spell.’

All of the customers and the
hotel’s three employees who were present had turned their attention
to the two young men. While his cousin was speaking, Ole Devil had
lifted free his hat. It seemed to the onlookers that he was so
disgusted with the feeble excuse he was hard put to control his
temper. Letting out an indignant snort, he sent the hat skimming
along the top of the bar in the direction of the trio of scouts.
Apart from raising his glass so it would not be struck by the head
dress,
‘Deaf’
Smith showed an almost complete indifference to what was going on.
His companions, who looked like younger versions of himself,
duplicated his lack of reaction. Some of the officers from other
regiments, remembering what they had heard about the arguing pair,
exchanged puzzled glances. When it seemed that one of them was
contemplating intervening, the best dressed of the Texians—a tall,
slim, impressively handsome man in his middle forties, whose
shoulder long black hair showed not a trace of gray—gave a quick
and prohibitive shake of his head, which was obeyed.

Only the dandified group around
the table closest to where Ole Devil and Mannen Blaze stood
displayed more than a casual interest. As their clothing suggested,
the six were well-to-do young Louisianans. They had only recently
arrived in San Felipe as members of the one hundred and fifty
strong New Orleans’ Wildcats, a privately recruited
‘regiment’ of
volunteers from the United States. Their families had jointly
financed the venture, so each had been given the rank of captain or
lieutenant. Newly arrived, none of them had seen action. They were
arrogant and self-willed. Filled with a belief in their own
importance and abilities, they had already aroused hostility by
their condescending attitudes towards the Texians they had come to
assist. Watching and listening, they did not trouble to conceal
their amused derision over the burly redhead’s responses to the
questions being fired at him.

‘
Blast it to
hell,
Mister
Blaze!’ Ole Devil blared out, looking even more Satanic
than usual and apparently oblivious of anything other than his
errant kinsman. ‘I’ve had about enough—’

‘
Now there’s another
thing!’ Mannen Blaze protested, with something approaching heat,
laboriously hoisting his big body erect to confront his cousin.
‘I’m not so all-fired taken with this here
“Mister”
talk you’re getting
real fond of tossing at me. Dadnab it all, Devil, I’m a mite older
and a whole heap stronger than you-all so—’

‘
That doesn’t even start
to come into it!’ Ole Devil roared, still showing no sign of
realizing that he and his cousin were arousing speculation by their
behavior. Instead, he began to thrust his right forefinger into the
broad chest in front of him. ‘I’ve been made captain, not you. So
you’ll do as I damned well tell you. Now get your idle
self
—’

‘
Now you-all quit that prodding, damn
it!’ Mannen bellowed plaintively, before his cousin could conclude
the indignant order.

At the table, the six
young
Creoles
threw smirking looks from one to another. To the Jaloux
brothers, Captain Andre and Lieutenant Gerard, Captain Edmond
Bardeche, and Lieutenants Jean Mondor, Henri and Marcel
Pierre-Quint, the scene they were witnessing only confirmed their
suppositions that all Texians were uncouth bores completely bereft
of gentlemanly virtues.

Like most of their kind, the six
young men had been thoroughly indoctrinated with the
‘code
duello’.
To
their way of thinking, a gentleman should always be willing to
engage an ‘affair of honor’ on the slightest pretext. Each felt
that, given similar provocation, family ties would not have
prevented him from demanding satisfaction from the Satanic-faced
newcomer. Not one gave a thought to the fact
that Ole Devil and Mannen Blaze
had been raised in Louisiana and might have been taught such
things. That the burly redhead had not issued a challenge to a duel
already filled them with contempt.

‘
I’ll
do more than
just
prod
you!’ Ole Devil threatened, clenching and drawing back the
extended hand.

Before Mannen could be struck, acting with a
rapidity which formed a vivid contrast to his hitherto lethargic
motions, he clamped two enormous hands on the front of his cousin’s
shirt. Lifting Ole Devil with no more apparent effort than if he
had been handling a baby, he gave a surging heave and, swinging
around, released his hold. Such was the force he put into his
efforts that he propelled his would-be assailant across the room.
Although Ole Devil flailed with his arms as an aid to retaining his
equilibrium and contrived to hold himself upright, he was unable to
halt his progress.

Startled exclamations burst from
the
Creoles
as they realized that the slender Texian was rushing, with
little control over his movements, in their direction. Being the
nearest of their party to him, the Jaloux brothers tried to stand
up and get out of his way. Their attempts were only partially
successful. While they averted an actual collision, neither emerged
unscathed.

Half out of his chair,
which
—like
his brother—he had turned sideways so as to obtain a better view of
the quarrel at the bar, Gerard was caught in the right eye by one
of Ole Devil’s wildly waving fists. Nor was the blow gentle, for
all that it had been delivered by accident. Bright lights seemed to
erupt inside his head. Thrown off balance, he measured his length
on the floor. For all that, he fared better than his brother. In
his haste to rise, Andre tripped and fell. He tried to break his
fall, but landed awkwardly and experienced a searing agony as the
impact sprained his right wrist.

The disruption of the
Creoles’
group did not end
there!

Still unable to restrain his
onwards momentum, Ole Devil twisted so that he fell and went
rolling across the top of the table. Hoping to avoid a soaking as
their bottle of wine was sent flying towards him, Bardeche knocked
over his chair and fell backwards. Like Gerard Jaloux, Mondor was
just commencing what should have been an evasive action when he too
received a punch in the right eye from a hard fist. Instinctively,
he tried to jerk away and felt himself becoming entangled with his
chair. Before he could rectify the
situation, or regain his balance, he
alighted on the unyielding planks with a force that drove all the
breath from his lungs.

Having wreaked havoc upon two more of the
party, Ole Devil continued his passage across the table. Neither
Henri nor Marcel Pierre-Quint were more fortunate than their
companions in escaping from disaster. Before they could do more
than start to thrust back and rise from their seats, the Texian
reached them. Rolling over and tumbling into their laps, his added
weight caused the chairs to collapse beneath them. The brothers,
letting out screeches of Gallic profanity, and they and their
burden went down together. Of the three, Ole Devil came off best.
Impeded by his body, Henri and Marcel were unable to do much in the
way of breaking their falls. So they landed supine and the Texian
was cushioned from the impact by having them beneath him.