“Gott in himmel!” shouted Major Ludwig von Lowenbrau, commanding Company “B” of the Red River Volunteer Dragoons, as the rising sun allowed him his first unimpeded view into the hollow which surrounded Santa Cristobal Bay. In the stress of his emotion, he continued to speak with his native tongue. “If I’d known last night—”
Realizing that there were some of his subordinates also studying the terrain and its occupants below, von Lowenbrau made an almost visible effort to restrain his display of anger and surprise. It would never do for them to suspect, even if they had not understood his words, just how badly he had been mistaken in his summation of the situation. Discipline in his regiment was slack enough without him behaving in a manner likely to increase their disrespect. However, while outwardly he resumed his hard and expressionless demeanor, internally he was boiling with rage and mortification.
No man, particularly a proud and arrogant former Prussian officer who also considered himself a capable gambler, enjoyed learning that he had been tricked. Yet, taking in the sight which was spread beneath him, von Lowenbrau knew that he had fallen for a bluff. Realizing who was responsible for it did nothing to improve his feelings.
It was, the major concluded bitterly, all too easy to be wise after the event!
Everything about the previous night had suggested that von Lowenbrau might be leading his men into a situation which they could not handle and from which they were likely to suffer heavy losses. From all appearances, his purpose had been suspected, and very effective measures taken to circumvent it. The disparity between the references made by Mannen Blaze and the sentry regarding Ole Devil Hardin’s whereabouts had suggested that he was close at hand instead of being away relieving the pickets. Such would have been a task assigned to a subordinate, for it did not require the services of the company’s commanding officer. Of course, Hardin might have been reluctant to trust it to such an incompetent second-in-command, but he would have been even more reluctant to leave Blaze in charge of the consignment of Caplocks.
All in all, von Lowenbrau had been convinced that there was too much organization about his reception for it to have been arranged by Hardin’s dull-witted lieutenant. So, he had decided it was wise not to enter the hollow. And Blaze’s mention of yellow fever made his men unwilling to approach the source of such a virulently infectious disease.
Having been well trained in an officer’s duties, von Lowenbrau had decided to wait for daylight to reassess the situation and form a better impression of it. Once he had seen the exact strength of the opposition, he could estimate the chances of being able to carry out his assignment by force if necessary.
With that in mind, the major had ordered his company to make camp on the rim. Although Blaze had withdrawn the majority of his men, he had left two sentries at the top of the slope. Nor had there been a time when they, or their reliefs, relaxed their vigilance and most of it had been directed at the Prussian and his subordinates. However, much to his surprise, they had rejoined their companions as soon as his men had shown signs of rising.
Dawn’s gray light showed von Lowenbrau just how he had been misled!
One of the first things to strike the major on commencing his examination was the absence of Ewart Brindley’s mules. He had wondered why the animals were so quiet during the night and had finally concluded that, having been pushed hard on the journey to the bay, they were sleeping.
However, the matter of the missing mule train struck von Lowenbrau as being a minor issue. Once he had taken charge of the consignment, he would wait until Brindley arrived and then commandeer the animals for his own use. From what he could see, gaining possession of the Caplocks would not be as difficult as he had anticipated.
On counting the men in the hollow, von Lowenbrau found there were nowhere near as many as he had anticipated. In fact, his contingent had the consignment’s guards outnumbered by close to three to one. However, Hardin’s men— although he did not appear to be present—were ensconced in pits which had been sited so as to offer protection against assailants who were descending from the rim. Each of them had no less than five rifles close at hand.
“Looks like you was hornswoggled, Major,” remarked Lou Benn, a burly and sullen featured man who held rank as sergeant and had ambitions to become an officer. He had given the situation a similar evaluation and drawing much the same conclusions as the Major. “What’re you fixing to have us do now?”
The words came to von Lowenbrau like the thrust of a sharp-roweled spur. All too well he could imagine how the story of his failure would be received if they returned empty-handed to the regiment. There were many, including the speaker, who hated him and would be delighted to see him humbled. In fact, the colonel might even use it to remove him from his position of command.
“Have the men saddle up,” the major ordered, goaded by the need to take some kind of action and thinking about the consequences of going back a failure. “We’re going down for the rifles and ammunition.”
“Ole Devil Hardin’s not the man to give—” Benn began.
“Hardin’s not there!” von Lowenbrau pointed out, snapping shut the telescope through which he had been conducting his scrutiny. “And, even if he was, I outrank him. So saddle up, damn you. We have them outnumbered and, as they’ve only got Blaze in command, there won’t be any trouble from them.”
While the sergeant felt that his superior might be somewhat overconfident, he did not announce his misgivings. Fancy-dressed and high-toned the Prussian—like many of his race, he grew indignant if called a German—might be, but he had gained the reputation for being bad medicine when crossed. What was more, Benn had to concede that he had been correct on two points.
Firstly, the numerical odds were well in the Dragoons’ favor.
Secondly, as far as Benn could make out—and he too had used a telescope to look very carefully—Ole Devil Hardin was not present. One did not easily forget such a man and the sergeant was confident that he could have made the required identification if its subject had been available.
Sharing von Lowenbrau’s low opinion of Mannen Blaze’s personality and capability, Benn also considered that it would be possible to commandeer—he disliked the more accurate term “steal”-the consignment. The Texas Light Cavalry’s enlisted men were unlikely to resist with their commanding officer absent and while they were being led by a numbskull who acted most of the time like he was about to fall asleep. Especially when they found themselves confronted by a determined force of nearly three times their numbers.
Nor, if it came to a point, did the sergeant relish the notion of reporting to Colonel Johnson without having successfully accomplished the mission. He had his eyes set upon promotion to and the status—plus benefits—gained by being an officer. So delivering the Caplocks would be a big step toward attaining his ambition. Turning, he barked orders which sent the rest of the Dragoons hurrying to saddle their horses.
“Bring the pack animals too,” von Lowenbrau commanded. “I want every man going down there with us.”
~*~
“Here they come, Mannen,” Beauregard Rassendyll remarked, looking at the rim and wishing he could draw the sword he was wearing to supplement the Croodlom & Co. “Duck Foot” Mob Pistol which dangled in his right hand. However, the burly redhead had said that he must not and— no matter what his earlier opinion of the other had been— the events of the previous night had made him willing to bow to what he now accepted as superior wisdom. “And, was I asked, I’d say they were ready to make trouble.”
“Yep,” Mannen Blaze conceded, still sounding as if he might fall asleep at any moment. Standing by the supercargo, with the Browning Slide Repeating rifle across the crook of his left arm, he studied the approaching riders as they spread out to descend the slope in line abreast. “They’re loaded for b’ar, not squirrel, I’d say.”
Which was, the burly redhead told himself silently, pretty well what he had expected would happen once Major Ludwig von Lowenbrau discovered the exact strength—or lack of it —of the force at his disposal.
There were, Mannen conceded, a few consolations. His ruse and the intelligent backing of the men under his command had bought him some valuable time. Unless Smith— who had been replaced by another sentry on the rim—had been prevented from departing, help should already be on its way from the mule train.
The big question was, would it arrive in time?
Mannen had hoped that the reinforcements would have put in an appearance before von Lowenbrau could find out that he had been tricked. Unfortunately, the hope had not materialized. Nor, from what Mannen could remember of the major, would he be likely to turn aside after he had been seen by his men to have fallen for a bluff. In fact, going by the way each of his men was nursing a rifle, it had made him even more determined to carry out his intentions—
And a man did not need to be a mind reader to work out what they must be!
Sweeping a quick glance at the few members of Company “C” who were at his disposal, Mannen could find no traces of alarm and despondency as they watched the thirty or so Dragoons. He did not doubt that they were ready and willing to fight despite the disparity of their numbers, but that was a mixed blessing. Even if they should be victorious, he could imagine how the rest of the Republic of Texas’s Army would react to the news—which was sure to leak out—that two outfits had done battle with each other. Morale was low enough already without giving Major General Samuel Houston that sort of a situation to contend with.
“Don’t any of you make what could be called a hostile, or even threatening, move,” Mannen warned, in tones more suggestive that he was complaining over having had a nap disturbed and which fooled none of his audience. “And stay put in those holes you volunteered to dig.”
“That was volunteering?” asked one of the enlisted men, with a grin, for the redhead had insisted that the pits were dug as a precaution the previous evening.
“You ’n’ Mister Rassendyll get into your’n pronto comes trouble, Mister Blaze,” Sergeant Dale requested, after the chuckles had ended, for the two young men alone were standing exposed to their visitors. “We’d hate for him to get killed afore we’ve seen if that danged thing he’s holding really can shoot.”
“I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, Sergeant,” Rassendyll promised, delighted by the evidence that his status had improved where his comrades-in-arms were concerned.
Up until the supercargo’s collection and use of the bull’s-eye lantern the previous night, he had been annoyed to find that the Texians did not hold him in very high esteem. Partly it had been his own fault. His earlier attitude was not calculated to be acceptable to such fiercely independent souls. So his assumption that he would automatically be accorded the same respect as Ole Devil and Mannen had antagonized them. However, having demonstrated that he was good for something more than dressing fancy, handling the easiest part of the consignment’s delivery, and toting a mighty peculiar kind of handgun, he was being treated as an equal.
Conscious of his companion’s elation, Mannen did not allow it to distract him. Instead, he continued to keep the Dragoons under observation and waited to see what would develop. He felt satisfied that he had done everything he could to receive them.
“Halt the men here. Sergeant!” von Lowenbrau ordered, while a good fifty yards still separated them from their objective.
“Huh?” grunted Benn.
“You heard!” the major snarled, glancing back and finding that the men were already obeying without the non-com’s orders. “Come up when I signal.”
Riding onward, von Lowenbrau studied the Texians. Noticing the disciplined manner in which they were behaving, he could not help wishing that the Red River Volunteer Dragoons could be counted upon to act in such a fashion. However, he put the thought from his mind. Bringing his horse to a stop about thirty feet from the closest rifle pit, he dismounted.
“Your men seem to have recovered rapidly, Mister Blaze,” the major commented dryly, leaving the animal and walking —marching in review would be a better description—forward.
While advancing, von Lowenbrau studied Rassendyll and made an accurate guess at his reason for being present. Briefly, the Prussian wondered if he had been the brains behind the preparations and bluff. It was possible, but for one thing. All too well, from his own experiences shortly after his arrival in Texas, von Lowenbrau knew the ruggedly individualistic spirit of the colonists. They would never have accepted the leadership of a newcomer in such a short time.
“Must have only been a touch of the grippe, Major,” Mannen replied blandly. “Anyways, they’re over it now, no matter what it was, so I’m giving them a mite of training to stop them thinking about it.”
“Is this your entire command?” von Lowenbrau demanded.
“The rest of them are off someplace with Cousin Dev—Captain Hardin,” Mannen replied, looking and sounding exceptionally somnolent. “They should be back some—any time now.”
“And until they return, this valuable consignment of arms has been left with completely inadequate protection!” the Prussian barked, barely able to restrain himself from bellowing at the redhead to wake up. Then he glanced at Rassendyll as if expecting some comment. When it did not come, he continued, “That won’t do. I’ll take it in my charge.”
“Well now, Major,” Mannen drawled and, although he seemed to be finding it difficult to stay awake, he sounded both grateful and perturbed. “Grateful as I am for you offering, I couldn’t rightly let you do that.”
“I’m not making a friendly request, mister!” von Lowenbrau warned, still wondering why the other young man did not intervene. “I’m ordering you to hand it over.”
While speaking, the major made a beckoning motion with his lowered left hand. Seeing the signal, Benn growled at the Dragoons to advance. However, conscious of the menace from the rifles of the soldiers in the pits, he held the pace to a walk and issued a warning that nobody had to even look like raising a weapon.
“Isn’t there some rule or other’s calls it mutiny if I don’t obey an order from a superior officer?” Mannen inquired worriedly, raising his eyes to look at the approaching Dragoons as if wishing to avoid meeting the Prussian’s gaze.
“There is,” von Lowenbrau confirmed with grim satisfaction, deciding that his task was growing easier. “And the punishment for mutiny is death.”
For all his feeling that the burly redhead would yield to his demand, the major became conscious of how the men in the rifle pits were reacting. None seemed alarmed, or disturbed by the sight of his Dragoons riding nearer. Instead, they seemed to be finding the affair interesting and even amusing. There was something vaguely familiar about their attitudes, but he was unable to decide what it might be.
“And so, Mister Blaze,” von Lowenbrau went on, as Benn brought the Dragoons to a halt near his horse, “I am ordering you to hand over the consignment to me. If you refuse, I will have to regard it as an act of mutiny and you will suffer the consequences.”