Ole Devil and the Caplocks (12 page)

“
Saludos,
Charlie Slow-Down,” Ole
Devil greeted, as he had been instructed by the girl, taking a
buckskin pouch from the inside pocket of his shirt. “Ewart Brindley
sent this snuff and said he’d be obliged if you’d keep an eye on
our horses and gear while we’re inside.”

There was no verbal
response to the request. However, a thick left wrist emerged from
beneath the serape. Deciding that—with the possible exception of
Mannen Blaze’s hands —the upturned palm was the largest he had ever
seen, Ole Devil dropped the pouch into it. Closing, the fist
disappeared and the mound of humanity became as motionless as
before.

Satisfied that he had
carried out and been accepted in a proscribed ritual, the Texian
wished he had been given some indication of the state of affairs
which was awaiting his party inside the hotel. Not that he gave any
sign of his feelings. In fact, he had a gasconading swagger in his
walk as, with the Browning rifle cradled on the crook of his left
arm, he led the way across the porch. With the girl and the little
Oriental following on either side and about a pace to the rear, he
paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the glare of the well-lit
interior. Then he stepped through the double doors and his friends
followed him.

The lateness of the hour
did not appear to be having any adverse effect upon trade in the
hotel’s barroom. There were a number of men in various styles of
clothing ranging from Eastern suits to buckskins and Mexican charro
garments, but all had one thing in common. Everyone was well armed,
with pistols, knives, or both. A number of white, Latin and Indian
girls in garish costumes circulated among the customers and helped
to ensure that the two bartenders behind the counter —made from
planks set on empty barrels—were kept occupied in dispensing their
wares. Although the band, which was comprised of a piano, two
fiddlers and a trumpeter, continued to play with no reduction of
volume, conversations died away. Cold, hard, watchful eyes turned
in the newcomers’ direction.

Advancing to Ole Devil’s
right, with enough room for her to turn the rifle she was carrying
into a firing position if the need arose, Di tried to walk in a
cockily masculine fashion. She also scanned the room from beneath
the drawn down brim of her hat, searching for the man who could
mean the trio would achieve their purpose and be allowed to go
without hindrance. Reaching a table in the right-hand rear corner,
she was hard put to hold down an exclamation of relief.

There were many people in
Texas and along the lower reaches of the Mississippi River who
would not have shared the girl’s satisfaction over seeing the man
who was responsible for it. In fact, they would have regarded such
an emotion as peculiar when it was directed at Cole
Turtle.

Even sitting down, Turtle
was obviously tall and built on a massive scale. Completely bald,
his fat and from a distance (but not when close enough to notice
his hard eyes) jovial face sported an enormous black mustache. He
wore an expensive gray cutaway coat, white shirt with a ruffed
front and Nankeen trousers tucked into riding boots. Evidence of
his prosperity was given by a couple of diamond rings and the pearl
stickpin in his scarlet silk cravat. A good quality
percussion-fired pistol lay close to his big right fist and there
were four stacks of gold coins in front of him. Tossing down his
cards, he let out a thunderous guffaw of laughter and scooped in
the money which had formed the pot in the hand of poker which had
just ended.

None of the other five
players in the game appeared to find their heavily built host’s
actions amusing. Instead, they scowled at him and one angrily
gathered the cards ready to continue. Ignoring his companions,
Turtle glanced at the newcomers. After one quick look, he neither
moved nor gave any indication of being aware that the trio had
entered. For all that, he felt uneasy.

One of Charlie Slow-Down’s
functions was to prevent unauthorized visitors from coming in with
such readily accessible weapons as the rifles carried by two of the
new arrivals. Nor had he ever failed in the duty. Yet despite there
being something which seemed vaguely familiar about the tall young
man. Turtle could not remember having met him. Nor, due to the
positions of their hats, could the hotelkeeper identify the other
two.

Conscious of Turtle’s
scrutiny, brief as it had been, Di wished that she could inform her
companions that this was the man they had come to meet. However,
such was her faith in Ole Devil and Tommy, she felt sure that such
an explanation would not be necessary. She had described Turtle for
their benefit while riding to the town. Men of their ability could
be counted upon to keep their eyes open and wits about them under
such trying conditions. So they were sure to have already seen him
and made a correct identification.

While the Texian and the
little Oriental were justifying the girl’s faith in their powers of
observation, having noticed that Turtle was present, they were not
devoting their entire attention to him. Instead, once they had seen
and recognized him, they were studying the other occupants of the
room.

Some of the furnishings of
the barroom, particularly the counter, left much to be desired in
style and elegance and made one fitting seem out of place. Taken
from a wrecked vessel—which had gone aground on a local reef—having
survived the impact and being brought ashore in a small boat, a
large mirror was attached to the wall behind the bar. It was a
fixture regarded with mixed feelings by the customers. However, as
three men had already been killed because their behavior had been
considered a menace to its existence and safety, it was now an
accepted feature of the hotel.

While crossing the room,
Ole Devil and Tommy were taking advantage of the mirror’s most
controversial and, to some of the clientele’s way of thinking,
objectionable qualities. Looking at the reflections on its surface,
which was cleaned daily even though other parts of the
establishment might not be, they were able to watch the people to
their rear as well as keeping those in front and to either side
under observation. They could tell that their arrival was a source
of considerable interest and speculation, but that was only to have
been expected. Strangers must be even rarer in San Phillipe since
the struggle for independence had commenced than they had been in
more peaceful times.

However, in spite of their
curiosity, the majority of the customers had no intention of
attempting to satisfy it. Many of them were residents of the town
and most of the remainder had visited the hotel often enough to be
aware of its most stringently enforced rule. Not only did the tall
young man look as mean as hell and might prove dangerous if riled,
but the fact that he and one of his companions carried rifles was
significant. It suggested that they were sufficiently trusted by
Cole Turtle to have the right to be armed in such a manner.
Visitors who were less favored were compelled by Charlie Slow-Down
to leave outside all but the weapons upon their persons.

Four men, who were
occupying a table to the left of the door, struck Ole Devil as
being more than casually interested in his party’s arrival. Dressed
in the kind of clothing which would evolve into the attire of the
Texas cowhand, they were unshaven and travel-stained. Empty plates,
a coffeepot and cups in front of them implied that they had not
been present for long. In fact, even as the Texian gave the quartet
his attention, a girl with a tray arrived and cleared the
table.

Although Ole Devil could
not recollect the circumstances, he was certain that he had come
into contact with at least one of the quartet recently. However, he
was unable to make a more extensive examination. Seated with his
back to the trio, the man had been looking over his shoulder. Then,
turning his head to the front, he began to speak to his
companions.

Before the Texian could
decide whether he was correct in his assumption, he saw certain
disturbing movements by the rest of the quartet. The man nearest to
the door and the one at the far side of the table dropped their
hands out of his range of vision. However, the behavior of the last
man supplied a clue to what they might be doing. He reached across
with his right hand and grasped the butt of the pistol which was
thrust through the left side of his belt. Before he could draw the
weapon, an angry comment from the first to have attracted Ole
Devil’s attention caused him to refrain. If the way in which he
glared at the mirror was any guide, he had been warned that his
actions might have been seen via its reflection. He did not appear
to be too pleased with what he was told next, but scowled and spoke
heatedly.

After a brief discussion,
the man with his back to Ole Devil shoved aside his chair and stood
up. The rest also rose, with the second and third of them taking
care to keep their right hands concealed behind their backs.
Throwing another brief look across the room, the first man strode
out of the door.

Suddenly, Ole Devil’s
memory clicked. Unless he was mistaken, the man had been a member
of Madeline de Moreau’s gang of renegades and had fled with her
when Company “C” had put in its appearance to rout them.

Even as Ole Devil was
reaching his conclusions regarding the identity of the man who was
leaving the San Phillipe Hotel, he became aware of something else.
Instead of following Dodd, as he remembered having heard their
companion called, the other three from the table were walking
toward the bar. They might merely be intending to buy drinks, but
he doubted it.

In fact, the young Texian
felt sure that two of the approaching men were holding cocked
pistols concealed behind their backs!

If that was so, there
could be only one reason for the three renegades’
actions!

“
What do
you make of it, Mister Blaze?” asked the sentry who was posted on
top of the slope overlooking Santa Cristobal Bay, at about the time
that—some fifteen miles to the north—Ole Devil Hardin was
identifying the member of Madeline de Moreau’s band of renegades in
the San Phillipe Hotel. Holding his voice down, he peered through
the darkness m an attempt to see the approaching riders who, as yet
he could only hear. Failing to do so, he went on, “It can’t be
Cap’n Devil, Di ’n’ Tommy. There’s more’n three of ’em and they’re
coming from the southwest.”

“
That’s
the living truth,” Mannen Blaze conceded, sound-mg as if he was
still more than half asleep. He had, however been sufficiently
awake to pick up and fit a five shot magazine into his Browning
slide repeater rifle before leaving his blankets. “It’s not them.
You did right to call me.”

“It might be some of your
men from the mule train “ Beauregard Rassendyll suggested, having
been disturbed when the sentry had arrived to report to his
superior that he had heard riders in the distance and had
accompanied them to investigate.

“
Only
they ain’t coming from the right direction for that, neither,” the
enlisted man pointed out, wondering somewhat irascibly why the
dude—whom he had not bothered to waken —had come with them. “On top
of which, they’ve been told to stay put ’n’ guard the mules. And
Cap’n Devil don’t take kindly to folks going again’ his
orders.”

“Who do you think it can
be, Mannen?” Rassendyll inquired, far from pleased at the sentry’s
faintly derisive attitude; which had not been in evidence while the
man was addressing the burly redhead.

“I wouldn’t know and
couldn’t even start to guess,” Mannen admitted, in tones redolent
of disinterest. From the way in which he was speaking, his only
desire was to get back to his blankets and interrupted sleep.
“Whoever they are, they’re not trying to sneak up on
us.”

“Could be they’re just
passing by. Mister Blaze,” the sentry offered, far from being
fooled by the other’s air of lethargy. “We haven’t got no fire, nor
nothing else to show we’re here.”

“Could be,” Mannen
grunted, still with nothing to show he found the subject other than
a boring interference with the more important business of resting.
“I only hope’s that’s all there is to it.”

“
You
haven’t heard anything to suggest they’ve come across the pickets
in that direction, have you?” Rassendyll asked, holding his
Croodlom and Co. “Duck Foot” Mob Pistol in his right hand and
wondering if he would find use for its special qualities.
^xxxvi

“
A thing
like that’s not real likely to slip my remembering, mister,” the
sentry answered indignantly.

“By the Lord!” Rassendyll
began furiously, being accustomed to more respectful treatment from
members of the lower social orders. “I’ve had ab—”

“Might he’s well if we all
talk softer,” Mannen put in almost sleepily, but there was a hard
timbre underlying his words.

“Sorry, Mister Blaze,
sir,” the sentry grunted, his attitude vastly different from when
he had addressed the former supercargo of the Bostonian Lady. “What
do you want for us to do?”

Rassendyll had been on the
point of directing some of his wrath and indignation at the burly
redhead, but common sense took control. Instead, he refrained from
speaking and looked at the other with considerable interest. Up to
that moment, he had always regarded Mannen as an amiable,
exceptionally strong, yet—if not exactly slow-witted—dull and lazy
young man who took little notice of what was going on around
him.