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.
Having saved Ole Devil from the knife of the first brave and dealt with the man whom he had calculated was posing the most immediate threat to himself, Tommy had realized that the affair was far from at an end. The rest of the Indians clearly intended to attack him and there was also the Mexican to be taken into consideration. So, thinking fast, he had decided how he could best deal with the situation. Having reached his conclusions, he did not waste time in putting them into practice. Going to meet the trio without holding a weapon was part of his plan, designed to lull them into a sense of false security.
Although they were trained warriors, the three Hopis had never come into contact with a man like Tommy. So they attached no greater thought to his apparently foolhardy behavior than to consider that it would make him an easy victim for whichever of them reached him first.
In their individual eagerness to be the one who counted coup, each brave was running at his best speed. Before they had covered half of the distance, they had attained a rough arrowhead formation with the youngest of them at its point. Waving his tomahawk over his head and whooping his delight, he charged onward. Still the strange looking little foreigner was showing no sign of arming himself. Nor was he slackening his pace. To the brave, it seemed that he intended to do neither but meant to come to grips with his bare hands. Having drawn his conclusion, the Hopi made ready to strike without bothering to guard himself against possible reprisals.
For all the seeming disregard of danger which Tommy was showing, he was calculating the distance between himself and the leading brave with great care and studying the relative positions of the other two. When he estimated that the time was right, he made his moves and they proved to be devastatingly effective.
One of the martial subjects in which the little Oriental had acquired considerable proficiency was laijitsu, fast sword drawing. Although he no longer carried his daisho in the manner of his forefathers, xxx he could still produce either of the weapons with remarkable speed.
Darting across in a flickering blur of motion. Tommy’s right hand closed around the hilt of the tachi just above the three and three-eighths of an inch diameter circular tsuba, hand guard. Even as he was whipping the thirty-inch-long, reverse-Wharncliffe point xxxi blade from its bamboo sheath, he weaved to his left. Nor did he act a moment too soon.
Launching a swing with sufficient power to sink the tomahawk deep into the top of its recipient’s skull, the young brave was taken completely unawares by Tommy’s change of direction. With a sensation of horror, he saw that his blow was going to miss. Then, just a fraction of a second too late, he realized that he was in terrible danger. However, there was neither the time nor the opportunity for him to take any evasive action.
“Kiai!” Tommy shouted, giving the traditional cry of self-assertion, as the sword came clear of the sheath and, making a glistening arc, continued to sweep around to the right.
Such was the little Oriental’s skill at laijitsu that the tachi reached its destination before the brave’s tomahawk-filled right hand had descended far enough to impede it.
The steel from which the tachi had been forged was as fine as could be found anywhere in the world. Produced by a master swordsmith with generations of experience behind him and involving techniques unknown outside of Japan, xxxii its cutting edge had been ground and honed until it was as sharp as a barber’s razor, but it was more pliant and far stronger. Nor had Tommy ever neglected it for it was still in the same excellent condition as it had been on the day it was presented to him by his father. So, in his hands, it was a weapon of terrifyingly lethal efficiency.
Just how lethal and efficient was soon evident.
Reaching the brave, even as his shocked mind was beginning to register the full horror of his predicament, the hardened cutting edge of the tachi’s blade performed one of the functions for which it had been designed. Slitting into the unprotected region below the rib cage, it passed through as if the living tissues were incapable of offering any resistance. Having disemboweled him, it emerged and rose until its point was directed away from the little Oriental. Releasing the tomahawk, the stricken brave’s hands went to the wound in an unavailing attempt to close it. He blundered past his would-be victim on buckling legs, falling first to his knees and then face downward.
Having avoided being struck by his leading assailant. Tommy was confronting the remaining pair of braves. As he advanced so as to pass between them, his right fist rotated until its knuckles were pointing at the ground and the left hand went to the handle of the sword. Taking hold above its mate, it acted as a pivot for the other’s leverage. Driving to the left with a similar deadly speed to that of the first blow, the blade met the side of the second brave’s neck and sliced onward. The Hopi’s head parted company with his shoulders, toppling to the ground as nervous reactions caused his decapitated body to continue its forward movement.
On the point of making an attack with his tomahawk, the last of the braves saw what was happening to his companion. The sheer horror of the sight, intensified by the fact that the havoc had been created by such a small man as Tommy, caused him to hesitate. Nor was he permitted to regain his wits.
Taking away his left hand and ignoring the headless Hopi, Tommy curled the tachi around in a half-circular motion. His right knuckles swiveled until they were upward and the weapon swept at its next target in a whip-like motion which no other type of sword could duplicate. Although only the last three inches of the blade made contact, they were sufficient. Passing under the brave’s chin, the steel laid his throat open to the bone and he crumpled dying to the ground.
With the unsheathed epee-de-combat in his right hand, Villena was staring across the clearing. Although reluctant to believe his eyes, he accepted that they were not playing him false. When he saw the third of the braves being struck down, he realized that there was nobody left between himself and the strange, yet deadly, little foreigner. For all that, the Mexican believed he had one advantage over his subordinates. They had rushed recklessly into the attack on the assumption that the newcomer would be easy meat. Having seen how fatally wrong such deductions were, he had no intention of duplicating their mistakes. A skilled fencer, used to fighting against a man armed with a sword—which none of the Hopis had been—he was confident that he could more than hold his own.
Another thought struck Villena as he was reaching his conclusions regarding Tommy. From his actions, if not his attire and armament, it seemed likely that the small man was another member of the Texas Light Cavalry. It was possible that there were more of them close by and they could arrive before he was able to dispatch the little swordsman. In which case, he would be advised to withdraw if he wanted to stay alive and avoid capture.
However, Villena’s every instinct told him that the uncommunicative Texian prisoner was more than a mere enlisted man and could be engaged upon a mission of importance. If that should be so, duty demanded that he must be prevented from carrying it out.
There was only one way to ensure that the Texian did not continue with whatever duty had brought him to the east of his regiment’s reported position. Killing him would not only deprive the rebels of a capable fighting man, but would satisfy Villena’s sadistic pleasure in inflicting pain.
“I’ll make sure of you!”
Shouting the words, the Mexican sprang forward with the intention of killing his prisoner.