Young Ole Devil Read Online Free

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.’

Chapter Two – Let’s See How You Stack Up
Against a Man
     
    Standing in the centre of the street,
Jackson Baines Hardin watched the crowd streaming out of the Little
Sisters Cantina. They spread each way along the sidewalk, talking excitedly,
making bets and jostling each other for the best positions from
which to see what happened. If he was perturbed by what he had done
inside, his Mephistophelian features—which, in part, accounted for
his generally, used nickname ‘Ole Devil’ v —showed no evidence of it. Rather, if
his expression was anything to go by, he regarded the prospect of
fighting with a heavier man as an enjoyable relaxation from the
serious and dangerous business of scouting against the Mexican
army.
    There was a hush as the Winglow
brothers emerged, with Basil carrying Cyril ’s hat and jacket. While the young
man’s comments had been directed at both of them, they had realized
that the crowd would not allow them to make a combined attack upon
him. Nor, if it came to a point, did either believe that it would
be necessary to do so. Each of them was heavier than the slim dandy
and they had both acquired considerable ability at roughhouse
brawling.
    ‘ Sorry
you ain’t going to get a chance to whip him, Brother Basil,’ Cyril
announced as he lumbered from the sidewalk.
    ‘ That’s all right,’ Basil answered, halting at the edge
alongside the sergeant who had taken charge of Hardin’s property.
‘You go do it good, Brother Cyril.’
    Even as the younger brother
gave his magnanimous blessing, Hardin showed a reluctance to wait
for Cyril to come to him. Instead, he darted forward. Doubting that
the young man intended to meet him toe-to-toe, Cyril lunged forward
and spread
open his arms. By doing so, he intended to circumvent the other’s
attempt to swerve by at the last moment. He discovered too late
that such had never been Hardin’s plan.
    Gauging the distance which was
separating them, Hardin bounded into the air as he had been taught
by a master of savate— the French style of foot and fist fighting—in New Orleans.
Drawing up his knees towards his chest, he caused his body to tilt
backwards. Then, straightening his legs, he propelled the soles of
his Hessian boots into the centre of Cyril’s chest. All the air was
driven from the burly man’s lungs and he was flung backwards by the
powerful, unexpected attack. To the accompaniment of laughter and
startled comments from the onlookers, he collided with the left
side hitching rail. That alone prevented him from falling on to the
sidewalk.
    Rebounding from the leaping
high kick, Hardin landed on his feet with an almost cat-like
agility. He clearly had every intention of following up his
advantage before his opponent could recover. Gliding forward, he
smashed his left fist into Cyril ’s belly. As the man gasped and started to
fold at the waist, Hardin’s clenched right hand rose to meet the
bristle-covered chin. Lifted erect and held that way by the stout
bar of the hitching-rail, dazed and winded, Cyril was in serious
trouble. He