Ole Devil and the Caplocks (6 page)

“Is your word worth as
much as that of General Cos?” Ole Devil inquired, dropping his
former attitude and eyeing the Mexican in open derision.

Anger darkened Villena’s
features, wiping away every trace of amiability and showing that
the thrust had gone home. He had had no intention of keeping his
word, but had been convinced that the Texian believed he would do
so. Knowing what was implied by the question,
^xxiv
he realized that he was wrong.

“Very well, gringo!”
Villena spat out, dropping all his pretense. “We’ll see how long
you will refuse to talk.” looking over his shoulder, he barked in
Spanish, “Many Plantings, make this one tell me everything I want
to know. Do it slowly. I want to hear him scream and beg me to make
you stop.”

Watching the five Hopi
Indians standing up and starting to walk in his direction, Ole
Devil Hardin stiffened slightly. No coward, he was also far from
being a reckless fool. So he did not try to delude himself
regarding the predicament he was in. Bound hand and foot, there was
little enough he could do in his own defense. Nor could he expect
any mercy from his captors. Even if he gave Major Abrahan Phillipe
Gonzales de Villena y Danvila the required information, it would
not save him.

Not that Ole Devil even
considered taking such a course. He knew how much the consignment
of Caplock rifles could mean to the Army of the Republic of Texas
in the struggle which was still to come. Yet he could also see one
disadvantage in refusing to speak. Villena was already curious over
having found two members of the Texas Light Cavalry so far from
their regiment’s recorded position. If he did not receive an answer
of some kind, he was certain to investigate.

By going along the route
taken by Ole Devil, who had not troubled to try and conceal his
tracks, the Mexican would eventually arrive at Santa Cristobal Bay.
Of course there was a chance that one of the pickets visited by the
Texian would not be taken by surprise and deliver a warning to
Mannen Blaze. In that case, preparations could be made to protect
the consignment. The snag to that was, while Villena was
accompanied only by a small party, there was almost certain to be a
larger force from the Arizona Hopi
Activos
Regiment not too far away.
Even if the reinforcements were not sufficient in numbers to defeat
Company “C,” they could harass the mule train and at least slow
down the delivery even if they were unable to stop it.

“Come on!” Villena
commanded in Spanish, stepping back a few paces, his face ugly with
sadistic anticipation. “Get to work on him!”

Understanding the
Mexican’s words, Ole Devil brought his thoughts on the situation to
an end. The Hopi with the red headband snapped something in his own
tongue. Darting forward, the two youngest of the other braves—who,
like their companions, were advancing empty-handed—grabbed the
Texian by the feet. Giving him no chance to resist, they dragged
him away from the tree. Although he managed to avoid having his
head banged against the trunk, he could do nothing to prevent
himself from being hauled along the ground.

Releasing the boot he was
grasping, the shorter of the braves drew his knife. Stepping into
position, he dug the fingers of his other hand into Ole Devil’s
hair. With a savage jerk, he snatched the Texian into a sitting
position. Searing pain which seemed to be setting the top of his
skull on fire brought tears involuntarily to Ole Devil’s eyes, but
he managed to hold back the yelp of torment that the sensation
almost caused. At any moment, he expected to feel the knife’s blade
biting into his flesh. It would not be a mortal thrust, but merely
designed to hurt.

Sucking in a breath, Ole
Devil prepared to resist any inclination to cry out. If possible,
he meant to die well. However, before he did, he must give Villena
some satisfactory yet untrue explanation for his presence. Not only
would it have to be believable, but it would have to send the
Mexican as far away as possible from Santa Cristobal Bay and the
route to be taken by the mule train.

The expected cut from the
knife did not materialize!

Instead, there was a
hissing sound which every man present recognized!

Even Ole Devil could
hardly believe the evidence of his ears!

Passing between the other
braves, having flown from among the bushes at the northern edge of
the clearing, an arrow struck the Texian’s assailant just below the
left armpit. It arrived with such a velocity that the shaft sank in
to the fletching and sent the stricken brave reeling. Spinning
around helplessly on buckling legs, he measured his length on the
ground.

Startled exclamations
burst from the Mexican and the rest of the warriors. Swiveling
around with hands grabbing for the epee-de-combat, knives,
tomahawks, or—in the eldest brave’s case—a pistol, Villena and the
Hopis stared in the direction from which the arrow had come. What
they saw was cause for concern and relief; particularly for those
warriors who realized that they were some distance from weapons
which offered a greater range than those they carried.

Only a single man was
standing among the bushes. Small, bareheaded, clad in black
garments, he did not look like a Texian. In fact he was unlike
anybody, Indian, Mexican, or gringo, the Hopis had ever seen. Nor
was Villena any better informed as to what nationality he might
belong.

Experienced warriors, the
Indians recognized one thing!

In spite of the newcomer’s
lack of inches—he was barely as tall as the
mozo
^xxv
holding Villena’s palomino gelding—he could not be dismissed
as harmless. In his left hand was— compared with his stature—a
remarkably long bow, its handle set two thirds of the way down the
stave instead of centrally. His stance for shooting appeared
strange to the Indians’ eyes,
^xxvi
but that clearly did not make it any the less effective.
Already, moving with the smoothly flowing speed of a highly trained
archer, his right hand was plucking another arrow from the quiver
on his back.

“
Get
him,
pronto!”
Villena screeched furiously, starting to slide the
epee-de-combat from its sheath.

Nocking the arrow to the
string and laying its shaft on the shallow “V” formed by the base
of his left thumb and the bow’s stave, the newcomer made his draw
with what appeared to be a circling motion of his arms.

The Hopi braves were
starting to move forward without waiting for their Mexican
superior’s order. Although their people did not have the cult of
the warrior so highly developed as in the nomadic nations who lived
by hunting and raiding, they too were taught to regard a coup taken
by personal contact as more estimable than making a kill from a
distance. What was more, they considered that they would have a
better chance of dealing with the diminutive foreigner at close
quarters than by taking the time—brief as it would be—to go and
retrieve their bows or throwing sticks. The speed with which he was
moving warned them that every second’s delay would be deadly
dangerous.

Tugging to liberate the
pistol which he had taken from the dead gringo’s body. Chief Many
Plantings became aware that he was in peril. He saw the little
man’s left index finger, which was extended instead of being coiled
around the bow’s handle with its mates, pointing straight at him
from just below the arrow. However, he refused to be deterred by
the discovery that he was selected as the next target. A warrior
who elected to carry a war lance was expected to set an example by
having a complete disregard for his personal safety. So he
continued to step forward and, as the weapon came free, his left
hand went toward it with the intention of cocking the hammer. If he
was to die, he would give his younger companions—to the parents of
whom he had a responsibility for their welfare—an improved chance
of survival.

Even as the chief was
commencing his second stride, before his left hand could reach the
pistol, the small man had completed his draw and taken sight.
Loosing his hold on the string, he allowed the flexed limbs of the
bow to return to their original curves. Propelled across the
intervening space so swiftly that the eye could barely follow its
movements, the arrow reached its mark. The needle sharp, razor
edged steel point, set horizontally on the shaft, passed between
Many Plantings’s left ribs and through his heart. He stumbled
backward, dying as he would have wished, with a weapon in his hand
and facing an enemy.

“Kill the little devil!”
Villena shrieked as the chief went down, but he did not offer to go
and help carry out his command.

Nor was the Mexican’s
exhortation needed by the remaining braves. The sight of their
leader receiving a fatal wound gave them an added inducement to
reach and deal with the man who had inflicted it. What was more,
they felt sure that they could make contact with him before he was
able to take out, nock, draw, and aim another arrow.

Obviously the newcomer
shared the Hopi warriors’ summation of the situation. He made no
attempt to recharge his bow. Instead, he tossed it aside. Having
done so, his left hand flashed upward at an angle. The quiver’s
shoulder strap was joined together by a knot which disintegrated as
he grasped and tugged sharply at one protruding end. Having
released the quiver from restraint, he allowed it to fall behind
him and out of his way. Then he bounded rapidly toward the
advancing trio.

Despite the small man’s
display of competence up to that point, both in having reached his
position without being detected and in the way he had handled the
bow, his latest actions appeared to be a serious error in tactics.
Although a pair of swords swung in sheaths from his waist belt, he
was darting forward with empty hands to meet three larger, heavier
enemies—each of whom was already grasping a weapon ready for
use.

Still seated, as he had
been since the Indian had dragged him into that position by his
hair, Ole Devil watched. He recognized his rescuer and was far from
perturbed at seeing’ what Villena and the braves regarded as a
fatal mistake on the small newcomer’s part. In fact, he had no
doubt that it was the three Hopis who were going to suffer for
their over-confidence and ignorance of the truth about the man they
were rushing to attack.

The ignorance was
understandable, Ole Devil realized. At that period, there were few
people in the Western world who would have anticipated Tommy
Okasi’s potential as a highly skilled fighting man. The Chinese
coolies and merchants— and their number was far from extensive—with
whom the majority of Occidentals came into contact were, in
general, a passive race who rarely displayed any knowledge of
armed, or unarmed, combat.

However, Tommy was not
Chinese.

Some five years earlier,
the merchant ship commanded by Ole Devil’s father had come across a
derelict Oriental vessel drifting in the China Sea. Half dead from
hunger and thirst, Tommy had been the sole survivor. He had had no
possessions apart from the clothing on his back, his
daisho
,
^xxvii
a bow six foot in length and a quiver of arrows.

On recovering, it had been
found that Tommy spoke a little English. When questioned, while he
had described what had happened to the rest of the crew, he had not
explained his reason for being aboard the stricken vessel. Nor had
he evinced any desire to return to his as yet little known native
land, Japan.
^xxviii
Instead, he had made a request to be allowed to stay on
Captain Hardin’s ship. When this had been granted, he had attached
himself to his rescuer’s son who had helped persuade Captain Hardin
to keep the little Oriental.

Whatever had been the
cause of Tommy’s disinclination to go home, it had proved to be
most beneficial as far as Ole Devil was concerned by providing him
with a loyal and useful friend. Although Ole Devil did not acquire
the proficiency of another—as yet unborn—member of the Hardin, Fog
and Blaze clan,
^xxix
he had learned a number of useful unarmed fighting tricks
from the little Oriental. However, while highly adept in his
nation’s very effective martial arts, Tommy had insisted upon
serving in the capacity of Ole Devil’s valet.

In spite of his passive
occupation, the little Oriental had never hesitated to participate
in any hazardous activity upon which his employer had become
engaged. Not only had he played an important part in Ole Devil’s
escape from jail in Crown Bayou, he had willingly joined in the
missions carried out by his companions since their arrival in
Texas. Tommy had helped Ole Devil to deal with the renegades who
had tried to prevent them reaching Santa Cristobal Bay and had also
done much to ensure that, having left, the Mexican warship which
had been there would be unable to return.

So, all in all. Tommy
Okasi was well able to take care of himself.

Nor was the little
Oriental acting in as reckless a manner as it appeared to Villena
and the Hopis.