Ole Devil and the Caplocks by J.T. Edson Page A

although Tommy returned the arrow to his
quiver, the trio brought their mounts to a halt in front of the
building and at the unoccupied half of the hitching rail. While
doing so, they looked across at the half a dozen horses tethered on
the other side. There was nothing significant about the various
styles of saddles on the animals. It would be many years before the
low homed, double girthed rig—designed for the specialized needs of
the cattle industry as it would be practiced in the Lone Star
State xxxv —became almost de rigueur for Texians. Many colonists still
used the outfits which they had brought with them, or sat Mexican
saddles purchased locally. On dismounting. Tommy hung the bow and
quiver over his saddle horn. Effective as they would have been in
the event of attempts to molest his party during the ride through
the town, he preferred to rely upon his daisho of swords when on foot and at
close quarters. However, Di and Ole Devil retained their rifles.
Nor did they set the hammers at half cock before, having hung their
reins over the hitching rail, they stepped on to the
sidewalk.
    “ 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