‘I don’t doubt Sam Houston’s courage, or his integrity,’ Stanforth Duke stated, after one of the men who had accompanied him to San Antonio and was mingling with the other customers, acting as a stranger, had asked for his views on the current situation. Since entering the Little Sisters Cantina, he had spent much money buying drinks and had made himself so popular that he felt sure that the crowd would be willing to listen to him. Knowing that there would be some present who held the Commanding General of the Republic of Texas’s army in high esteem, he did not want to antagonize them by too blatant a criticism of their hero. ‘But I do question his judgment when he talks of burning homes and crops, iv then running away from the Mexicans. Don’t get me wrong, though, I’ve no stake in this personally. I live up north near Shelbyville. But if my home was down in this part of the country, I’d be damned if I’d be willing to put a torch to it, up stakes and run. Especially as we’ve licked the greasers every time we’ve locked horns with ’em.’
‘It ain’t right for you to be talking that ways, stranger,’ protested a second member of Duke’s party, who was sitting at a table some distance away from the first man. ‘You know the General figures that’s the right thing to do.’
‘With respect sir, I don’t agree that I shouldn’t be saying Sam Houston’s wrong in how he wants to handle things,’ Duke answered. The interruption had been made to anticipate any similar protest from genuine supporters of the General. ‘The way I figure it, the Republic of Texas’s a free country where a man’s entitled to speak his mind about anything, or anybody, no matter how important they be. That’s one of the reasons we’ve taken up arms against Santa Anna.’
Having delivered the comment, the burly, well-dressed man paused so as to study the response to it. Clearly nobody suspected that he and the lanky, buckskin-clad protestor were working together. There was a brief, yet general rumble of agreement. Satisfied that he had made his point and would be allowed to continue without interruption, he swept his gaze around the crowded barroom.
The customers who had assembled at the Little Sisters Cantina shortly after noon on February 18, 1836, were a cross-section of the male Texian population who had gathered at San Antonio in answer to Houston’s summons. Some of them had on homespun garments of the style common among the poorer communities of the United States. There were others clad in buckskins, after the fashion of the mountain men. Several wore clothing derived from the working attire of the Mexican vaqueros which was in the process of evolving into the traditional dress of the Texas cowhands. A few, such as Duke, sported broadcloth or cheaper styles of town suits. Scattered among them were a number of soldiers whose fatigue uniforms—black leather, kepi-like forage caps which could be folded flat for packing; waist-length dark blue tunics that had high, stiff stand-up collars but lacked the pipe-clayed white cross belts; lighter blue trousers decorated by stripes along the outer seams of the legs; black boots with spurs on the heels—had been copied, with minor variations, from the United States’ Regiment of Dragoons by Colonel William Barrett Travis and supplied to the members of his command.
Although only Travis’s men wore recognizable uniforms, Duke knew that there were representatives of every regiment in the vicinity present. So he had an audience which was ideally suited for his purposes. He had come to San Antonio with the dual purpose of recruiting men for the force with which Colonel Frank Johnson was planning to invade Mexico, and to persuade those who remained to compel Houston to make a stand instead of withdrawing. If the latter could be achieved, the attention of the whole of the Mexican army would be directed against Houston and it would greatly increase Johnson’s chances of success. Neither Johnson nor Duke were over concerned with the adverse effect such a stand might, probably would, have upon the General’s outnumbered force.
‘What’d you-all reckon we should do, mister?’ asked a stocky man in a cheap town suit, from another part of the room.
‘Attack the greasers before they can even cross the Rio Grande,’ Duke replied, accepting the cue which had been fed by the third of his associates. ‘That way, there’ll be no call for you to leave the homes you’ve worked so hard to build. You’ll stop the greasers before they can get near to them.’
‘By cracky, that’s right!’ enthused the stocky man and there was another mutter of fairly general approval.
Standing behind the bar, William Cord listened to the conversation with considerable misgivings as he guessed what it was leading up to. It was probably the last opportunity that Cord would have to do business for some time and he had benefited by the amount of money which Duke had spent. For all that, he wished the burly man had stayed away from his cantina. Being whole-heartedly in favor of Houston’s strategy, even though following it would mean that he must abandon his hitherto lucrative place of business, he did not approve of what he guessed was a carefully organized attempt to change it.
However, after the clever way in which Duke had established his right to freedom of expression, Cord could not see any way of preventing him from airing his views. For the cantina’s owner—a known supporter of Houston’s policies—to attempt any kind of intervention would, he realized, evoke protests which might erupt into open conflict between those who were in favor of the General’s strategy and those who opposed it. Cord suspected that the men who had supplied the various comments were in cahoots with Duke. He had a good idea that there were at least two more of the agitator’s companions in the room, although as yet they had not spoken. Big, burly, unshaven, dressed in poor quality town suits with grubby, collarless white shirts, they had a strong family resemblance which suggested they might be brothers. Like the other customers who were lining the bar almost elbow-to-elbow, they were standing with their backs to Cord. However, instead of looking at Duke, they were watching the crowd,
Turning his gaze in the pair’s direction, Cord noticed a man coming through the batwing doors. Approaching the counter, the newcomer moved with a Gascon swagger which reminded the owner of the arrogant, over-proud, French-Creole dandies he had seen in New Orleans. Although he was not French, the man exuded a similar cocky self-importance and—assurance. His clothing was clean and he had a well-scrubbed look.
Bareheaded, with his wide-brimmed, low-crowned black hat dangling by its fancy barbiquejo chinstrap on to his back, the young man—he would be in his mid-twenties—was six foot in height and had a straight-backed, whipcord lean frame which was set off to its best advantage by his well-tailored garments. He had a thinly-rolled silk bandana which was a glorious riot of brilliant, if clashing, colors knotted about his throat so that its long ends trailed over the breast of his open-necked fringed buckskin shirt. His tight-fitting fawn riding breeches ended in the tops of highly polished Hessian boots. The belt into which he had hooked his thumbs carried a long-bladed, clip-pointed knife—of the type made by James Black, the Arkansas master-cutler, which had already become known as a ‘bowie’, in honor of the man who had designed the original—in a decorative Indian sheath at the left side. There was a slanting, two-inch broad leather loop attached to the right side of the belt. Into this was thrust the barrel of a good quality pistol so that the butt was pointing forward and would be available to the grasp of either hand.
However, it was the newcomer’s face which attracted Cord’s main attention. The black hair was taken back in a way which made the sides above his temples protrude and look like short horns. That combined with the brows of his coal black eyes that were shaped like inverted CV Y, an aquiline nose, a neatly trimmed moustache and short chin beard gave his features an almost Satanic expression.
Coming to a halt on spread-apart feet, the newcomer studied the crowded front of the bar. Then his eyes came to rest upon the two men whom Cord suspected of being members of the agitator’s party. Becoming aware of the scrutiny, the pair turned their eyes towards the man who was looking at them.
‘Would you gentlemen mind moving so that I can get through to the bar?’ the young dandy inquired, his voice that of a well-educated Southron.
Seeing the pair stiffen as if somebody had laid a quirt across their rumps, Cord could tell that they did not care for the manner in which they were being addressed. Politely worded enough the appeal had been, the speaker’s tone and attitude were more suitable to the deliverance of a demand which he believed he had every right to make. Everything about him suggested that he felt he was dealing with unimportant social inferiors.
A shrewd judge of character, Cord concluded that the newcomer’s behavior was more liable to rouse the two men’s wrath than to lead them into compliance with his wishes.
‘Come on now!’ the young dandy continued impatiently, raising his voice and causing it to sound even more autocratically commanding. ‘Step out of the way there and let me through!’
Such was not, Cord could have warned the newcomer, the wisest way in which to speak to two obvious bullies and roughnecks. They were certain to take exception to his assumption of superiority and would be most unlikely to treat him with the servile deference that he clearly considered he should receive.
‘Can’t rightly see no reason why we should,’ the slightly taller and older of the pair stated, conscious of the glances being darted at them by their immediate neighbors along the bar. ‘Can you, Brother Basil?’
‘I ain’t got no better eye-sight ‘n you-all, Brother Cyril,’ the second man answered, scowling balefully at the dandy. ‘Which being so, I’d say you should try it on some other place, fancy pants. We ain’t a-fixing to move.’
The brothers had loud, harsh voices which they made no attempt to modulate. So their words were spreading beyond the person at whom they were being directed. Several pairs of eyes swung away from Duke as he was starting to explain how Johnson’s proposed invasion of Mexico would benefit the Republic of Texas.
‘Now look here, you two!’ the dandy said coldly, also raising his voice to a level which was louder than necessary. ‘While the likes of you have been propping up a bar, I’ve been out scouting against the Mexicans. So move aside and let me through.’
Glancing around as he heard the voices and noticed that he was losing the attention of his audience, Duke located the cause of the disturbance. The discovery caused him mingled annoyance and anxiety. He had spent a fair sum of money, buying drinks to ingratiate himself with the crowd and make them more receptive to his agitation, so he did not want anything distract them. From what he could see and hear, there might b a serious distraction developing. Of all the men in the room, the arrogant young dandy could hardly have selected two more dangerous than the Winglow brothers upon whom to try and impose his imperious wishes.
Being aware of the delicate nature of his assignment, Duke had tried to impress upon all his escort the need to avoid trouble if possible. He had repeated his reminder at Shelby’s Livery Barn where they had left their horses before coming separately to the cantina. Clearly Cyril Winglow, who was always a bad-tempered bully, had forgotten his instructions.
‘He’s sure dressed fancy for a feller’s done all that there scouting, ain’t he Brother Basil?’ Cyril asked, looking the young man over from head to foot.
‘Don’t let the way I look fool you, hombre,’ the dandy advised, his Mephistophelian features growing even more sardonic and mocking as he returned the scrutiny. ‘I’ve done plenty of fighting in this war. So I don’t need to go around hawg-filthy to try to make folks think I have.’
‘Hey there, gentlemen!’ Duke called, seeing the anger which came to the brothers’ faces as the barb went home. Hearing him, they looked in his direction and he hoped that they would take a hint from his intervention. ‘Let’s have no unpleasantness.’
‘There won’t be any,’ the young dandy replied, but destroyed the relief which Duke had started to feel by continuing, ‘Just so long as these two yahoos stop hogging the bar and let me through.’
‘Here, sir,’ Duke put in hurriedly, speaking before either of the brothers could do more than stare at the newcomer. Oozing an amiable bonhomie which he was far from feeling, he stepped forward and waved a hand to the gap he had left at the counter. ‘You can have my place.’
‘Thank you for the offer, sir,’ the dandy drawled, without moving or taking his attention from the brothers. ‘But I want them to make way for me. Damn it, I’m fighting for the likes of them!
‘Fighting for—!’ Cyril began, slamming his glass down so that it shattered on the floor.
Hold it!’ Cord bellowed, snatching up and cocking the bell-mouthed blunderbuss which he kept on a shelf under the counter. ‘She’s loaded with rock-salt and I’ll use her should I have to.’
‘Are you siding with him?’ Cyril demanded, spitting the words over his shoulder. However, having heard the menacing clicking as the weapon’s hammer was drawn back, he stood still instead of leaping at the newcomer.
‘I’m not siding with anybody,’ Cord corrected. ‘Just protecting my property is all. If you feller’s got things to settle, go outside and do it.’
Although Cord had acted instinctively in the first place, his training as the owner of a cantina having taught him the advisability of trying to prevent trouble on his premises, he had seen how he might turn the present situation to good use. If the men went outside to fight, the majority—if not all—of the other customers would follow to watch. That would put a temporary stop to the agitator’s speech making and allow Cord to send his son with a warning of what was happening to General Houston’s headquarters.
‘Surely there’s no need for that, gentlemen,’ Duke protested in a placatory manner, duplicating Cord’s thoughts on how the crowd would react. He moved closer, looking at the brothers rather than their challenger. ‘At a time like this, we can’t have fighting amongst ourselves.’
‘I shouldn’t reckon they’d want to do any fighting with anybody,’ the dandy scoffed.
‘Easy, Brother Cyril!’ Basil said urgently, having taken notice of their leaders’ obvious disapproval. While just as much a bully as his sibling, he was somewhat more intelligent. Being aware of how vindictive Duke could behave when crossed, Basil had no wish to antagonize him. There was, he decided, a way out which would avoid any suggestion of them having backed down. ‘He’s got a knife ’n’ pistol and neither of us is armed.’
Realizing what the younger Winglow had in mind, Duke nodded approvingly. Nobody could blame the brothers for refusing to take on an armed man when neither was carrying weapons. Nor was it likely that the arrogant young dandy would be willing to consider fighting with this bare hands against a heavier opponent.
It was a good try, but failed to produce the desired result.
‘Shucks, I’d hate the gents here to think I’d need weapons to deal with the likes of you,’ the young man remarked, sliding the knife from its sheath with his left hand while the right pulled the pistol clear of the loop. ‘If somebody will hold these for me—’
‘Here, mister,’ offered the burly sergeant of Travis’s regiment, who was sitting at a table near to the dandy. He came to his feet and held out his hands, ‘I’ll take them for you.’
‘Gracias,’ the young man drawled, relinquishing the weapons without hesitation. Then he swung his sardonic gaze to Cyril and went on. ‘Now it’s entirely up to you, loud mouth. I’m ready, but you might not have the stomach for it.’
‘I’ll show you whether I have, or—!’ Cyril roared furiously, ignoring Duke’s prohibitive headshake and making as if to lunge at his tormentor.
‘Not in here, you won’t!’ Cord interrupted firmly, tapping the muzzle of his blunderbuss on the counter to give emphasis to his words. ‘If you’re set on fighting, go outside where my furniture won’t get broken.’
‘That suits me fine,’ the young man announced as, taking heed of the owner’s words and action, Cyril restrained his impulse to attack. ‘I’ll be waiting out there, loud mouth. You do what you want.’
With that, the dandy swung on his heel and swaggered towards the door. He presented his back contemptuously to the brothers and did not so much as glance over his shoulder as he left the building.
‘Damn it to hell, Major Duke!’ Cyril protested, turning to the agitator and, in his desire to exculpate himself, ignoring the fact that they were not supposed to know each other. ‘The son-of-a-bitch ain’t giving me no choice.’
An almost uncontrollable rage filled Duke as he watched Cyril removing his hat and coat, but the incautious words had not caused it. Probably nobody else had attached any significance to them. All around the room, men were finishing their drinks and shoving back their chairs. Duke’s anger was rising as he saw that what he had feared was happening.
‘Hey!’ whooped a soldier excitedly, as Cyril passed the garments to Basil and set off across the room. ‘Come on. Let’s go see what happens.’
Watching the mass movement to go outside, Duke knew that he could neither do nor say anything to prevent the disruption of his work. Stimulated by the drinks which he had bought for them, the crowd clearly considered that watching a fight would be more interesting and entertaining than listening to him. Duke silently cursed the brothers for not having remembered why they were in San Antonio and refusing to make room for the newcomer at the bar. One glance at him ought to have warned them that their response would make such a proud, arrogant young hothead determined to enforce his demand.
‘By cracky, mister,’ enthused a leathery, buckskin-clad old timer who was standing at Duke’s side, breaking in on his train of thought. ‘That feller’s going to get taught a lesson. It don’t pay to rile up young Cap’n Hardin that ways.’
‘Who?’ the agitator inquired, realizing that the other did not consider the ‘lesson’ would be given by Cyril Winglow.
‘Cap’n Jackson Baines Hardin of tie Texas Light Cavalry,’ the leathery man elaborated. ‘He’s a lil ole devil in a fight.’