Ole Devil at San Jacinto (Old Devil Hardin Western Book 4) (22 page)

However, small though Santa
Anna’s only precautions might be, they were making Dimmock’s task
more difficult. As in Tommy’s case when lurking outside the striped
marquee,
el
Presidente
was only fractionally visible between the leading members
of the escort. The lieutenant knew that he did not have the means
as Tommy to scatter the Dragoons and make Santa Anna a more
accessible target. Nor was there time for the little Oriental to
join him and carry out the scattering. Everything was too far
advanced to start making any change in their plans.

Dimmock was cradling the thirty-six inches
long, half stocked barrel of his borrowed Hawken Model 1830 caplock
rifle upon the angle formed by a sturdy branch and the trunk of his
shelter. Obtaining an added stability for the ten and a half pound
firearm was important at that moment. He needed to align the
buckhorn backsight and the three-sixteenths of an inch ‘low’ silver
bead foresight with great care.

The rifle had been loaned to the
lieutenant by Ole Devil Hardin as a replacement for the weapon
which had been taken from him after Colonel James Walker Fannin had
ordered the Fort Defiance’s contingent to surrender at
Goliad. Despite only
having had it in his possession for a few
days, he had already fired it often
enough to be conversant with its individual traits and was
competent in its use. For all that, he knew he was going to need a
certain amount of luck as well as all his skill to carry out the
first part of his assignment correctly.

Even when charged with its
maximum load of two hundred and fifteen grains of black powder, the
excellently constructed Hawken ‘Plains’ rifle could only throw its
two hundred and seventeen grains, .53 caliber patched
^xlvii
lead ball with complete reliability
up to, at the most, two hundred and fifty yards. While it would
kill over at least double that distance, the further away, the more
remote grew the chances of placing a bullet exactly where it was
required to go.

There was, Dimmock decided as he was
estimating the range carefully, only one possible solution.

Santa Anna must be allowed to reach a
distance at which a hit of the kind called for in the plan could be
made.

Doing this was going to place Tommy Okasi’s
life in some additional jeopardy, but it would not materially alter
the rest of the scheme as far as Dimmock was concerned.

Looking down from his place of concealment
beyond the ridge, Ole Devil frowned as he estimated the decreasing
distance between his companions and Santa Anna’s party. It seemed
to him that Dimmock was delaying far too long. He frowned as he
wondered if the lieutenant was intending to make a major alteration
to his plan. He hoped not. Having accepted that the task could not
be carried out without some risk to the participants, he had tried
to reduce it as far as possible. By ignoring the instructions,
Dimmock was increasing the danger and placing Tommy’s life as well
as his own in even greater danger than was necessary.

Suddenly a deep concern began to assail Ole
Devil. Remembering the changeable way in which the lieutenant had
been acting, he wondered if he had made the correct choice in
allowing Dimmock to perform the assignment. After his preoccupied
behavior the previous evening, the lieutenant had been a changed
man since dawn. He had seemed cheerful and almost light-hearted,
but not in a way suggestive that he was trying to cover fear of
what lay ahead. If it had been, Ole Devil would have had no
hesitation over how to act. As it was, to have refused to let
Dimmock play the part that he had been promised would have aroused
such resentment that he could never have regained his self
esteem.

Thinking back, Ole Devil
realized that Dimmock’s attitude and the way he had shaken hands
when they parted by the bushes was indicative of a man who, having
wrestled with a serious problem, had reached a decision and meant
to carry it through at all
costs.

The question was, what might the decision
have been?

Bringing the assignment to the
conclusion required by Major General Samuel Houston called for the
plan to be carried out in the way Ole Devil had ordered. Dimmock’s
local knowledge had justified his inclusion in the party and,
without his help, the fight against the six
vaqueros
might have had a different ending,
but his mental state could have rendered him unsuitable for the
vitally important duty which he had been given. A deviation of the
land he might be contemplating would ruin everything.

There was, Ole Devil conceded bitterly,
nothing he could do to change things.

It was far too late for Dimmock to be
replaced.

‘
Go on!’ Ole Devil
breathed. ‘Shoot, damn you,
shoot
!’

Almost as if he had heard his superior’s
silent but vehement command, Dimmock obeyed. Satisfied that he
could not make a better alignment of the sights, he held his breath
to ensure there was no movement to disrupt it, and tightened his
right forefinger.

Liberated, the Hawken’s hammer descended and
ignited the percussion cap!

There was a deep crack as the detonated
powder in the cylinder expelled the bullet.

An instant later, about two hundred and
fifty yards away, Santa Anna’s bicorn hat was sent spinning from
his head!

Having fired, Dimmock did not waste time in
waiting to discover the result of his shot. Whatever its effect
might have been, there would not be any opportunity to reload and
try again. Furthermore, he realized that there was only one hope of
survival for his companion and now, if he was to carry out the
special task to which he had assigned himself, they must take
flight without delay.

Following Ole Devil’s
instructions, Dimmock dropped the rifle as an unacceptable
encumbrance. He rose and, without a backwards glance, sprinted to
the waiting horses. Grabbing his reins from Tommy, he vaulted on to
the saddle a
nd set his mount into motion. With the little
Oriental—carrying the long bow strung ready to be used—by his side,
he galloped towards the slope. However, it was not their intention
to make the easier ascent offered by the trail.

Confusion reigned for several
seconds after
el Presidente’s
headdress was removed by the Texian’s bullet. He
and the whole bodyguard reined in their mounts. While he felt
gingerly at his head, they stared around to find out if he, or
anybody else, had been hurt. Then, attracted by the rumbling of
hooves and the sight of the two riders dashing away, Colonel Juan
Almonte bellowed orders. Followed by half of his men and leaving
the remainder to form an even closer circle around Santa Anna, he
gave chase.

‘
It’s
that “Indian” from
last night!’
el Presidente
screeched, drawing the required conclusion from
Tommy’s appearance and armament. ‘Get them, damn you, get
them!’

Quivering with a mixture of rage and fright
over the second narrow escape from death he had had in less than
twenty-four hours, Santa Anna forgot to add a most important
supplement to his order.

Urging their horses onwards,
Tommy and Dimmock made for the slope at an angle which would bring
them to where Ole Devil was waiting to give covering fire should it
be needed. Before commencing the far from easy climb, which would
demand every bit of their attention if it was to be accomplished
successfully, each of them glanced to his rear. As they expected,
they found a party of Dragoons
—some waving carbines and the others brandishing
sabers—thundering after them.

In itself, the sight was neither surprising
nor exceptionally alarming.

Pursuit had been
i
nevitable no
matter whether Dimmock’s shot had taken effect or missed its mark
completely. For all that, the situation was far from desperate.
With so much of a lead—even though, because of the delay, it was
somewhat less than Ole Devil had envisaged—being mounted on horses
of at least equal quality to those of the Dragoons and clad in much
lighter, less cumbersome clothing, Tommy and the lieutenant had an
excellent chance of outdistancing their pursuers.

Provided, of course, that there were no
mishaps!

Just as the two young men were about half
way to the top, something went wrong!

Apparently through an error of judgment
while negotiating a particularly steep and awkward section of the
incline, Dimmock attempted to correct his horse’s movements. Doing
so caused it to lose its footing momentarily. Thrown off balance,
it slipped and started to slide back along the slope. Nor, although
it recovered its equilibrium and managed to avoid falling over,
could it gather sufficient momentum to resume the climb. Instead,
it was compelled to continue its involuntary downwards
progress.

Yells of triumph and delight rose from the
Dragoons as they saw the Texian’s desperate predicament. There was
an even greater source of satisfaction in store for them.

In trying to turn his mount
upwards once more, it seemed that Dimmock was unseated and he
toppled from the saddle. Showing remarkable presence of mind,
considering the circumstances, he snatched the spare pistol from
its holster on the saddlehorn as he was leaving the horse’s back.
Furthermore, displaying such agility that he might have
anticipated
—or even arranged—the mishap, he contrived to alight on his
feet. While he was no more able to prevent himself from going down
the slope than his mount had been, at least he was not making a
helpless and uncontrollable headlong plunge.

Catching a glimpse of what was happening
from the corner of his eye, Tommy took the chances involved in
glancing around to confirm certain suspicions. Satisfied that his
judgment was correct, he neither tried to stop nor turn his horse
so as to render assistance. Only about half of Santa Anna’s
bodyguard were following, but that still made the odds at least
seven to one against them. Not that such a consideration would have
prevented the little Oriental from going to his companion’s aid if
he had felt the situation called for such a deed. However, being
aware of how the ‘accident’ had come about, he was certain that the
lieutenant would not welcome such a gesture on his part. So he
returned his attention to the front and continued to guide his
mount towards the top of the ridge.

Bounding towards the onrushing
enemy, Dimmock’s right hand tugged the pistol from its loop on his
belt. As he had on
ly recently started to wear the weapon in such a fashion,
he had not acquired Ole Devil’s ability to cock the hammer as it
was emerging. So it was fortunate, if somewhat peculiar in
consideration of his experience with firearms, that he had been
carrying
both
the pistols with their actions at full cock.

There was a look of grim satisfaction and
gratification, rather than alarm at his position, on Dimmock’s face
as he came to a halt at the foot of the slope. Knowing where the
ball would do most good, he raised the pistol from his belt and
took aim at Almonte.

‘
Death to the murderous butcher, Santa
Anna!’ the lieutenant yelled defiantly in Spanish and he squeezed
the trigger.

The pistol barked and, although the bullet
missed its intended mark, it was not entirely wasted. Back snapped
the head of the Dragoon who was riding just behind the colonel.
With blood running from a hole between his eyes and the helmet
ripped from his head as the lead burst out of his skull, he slid
from his saddle.

‘
Shoot him!’ Almonte almost screamed,
seeing the Texian bringing the second pistol into
alignment.

Even before the order was given,
those of the Dragoons who were holding carbines were making ready
to open fire. As they were
el Presidente’s
personal bodyguard, they were equipped
with percussion-fired weapons instead of the antiquated flintlocks
supplied to the majority of the Mexican
Army. So all seven pieces went off in
a ragged volley. How
ever, discharged from the backs of fast moving horses, they
might have counted themselves fortunate that even one of them made
a hit.

Struck in the right shoulder, Dimmock was
spun around and the empty pistol flew from his grasp. The pain sent
him to his knees, but such was his grim determination to complete
the assignment he had set himself that he managed to keep hold of
his second weapon. Gritting his teeth, he made another attempt to
shoot Almonte.

Although the colonel was fortunate enough to
escape injury for a second time, he did not get off scot-free.
Giving a scream as the bullet tore into its chest, his horse’s legs
buckled and he had to throw himself clear as it started to
collapse. Sweeping by him, his men bore down on the animal’s
killer.

Watching the Dragoons
approaching with their burly sergeant in the lead and raising a
saber, Dimmock gave a low hiss of satisfaction. Thrusting himself
erect, he made what he knew was a pointless attempt to leap aside
as the non-com launched a blow in his direction. Even as the blade
was about to split open his skull, the lieutenant’s last
thought
was
that, after what he had just done, nobody would ever again be able
to hint that he had lacked in courage.

A moment later, Paul Dimmock was dead!

‘
Catch his horse for me, one of you!’
Almonte bellowed, as his men started to draw rein around the
Texian’s body. ‘The rest, get after that “Indian”!’