‘Here they come now, Captain Fog,’ whispered Logan Huntspill, head of the Confederate States’ spy-ring that operated out of Pine Bluff and maintained a watch over the activities of the Union’s Army of Arkansas along the Arkansas River south of that town. ‘What do you reckon to them?’
Keeping his field glasses to his eyes, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog turned his attention from the original objects of his scrutiny. Big, piggish of face, his almost bloated fat body straining the gold-lace-trimmed blue uniform’s seams, General Buller stood with several of his senior officers on top of a small knoll about half a mile from the two Rebels’ position. The Yankees were looking or pointing across the Arkansas River to where a small, derelict steamboat bobbed at its moorings by the eastern bank. Beyond the old side-wheeler sat a cluster of dilapidated log cabins. Neither the boat nor the buildings seemed to merit the attention lavished on them by Buller’s party.
A sense of expectancy bit into Dusty as he turned his glasses in the direction indicated by his companion. At least he was going to see the reason for his being given orders at Prescott to ride as fast as possible to Pine Bluff and contact Huntspill.
Focusing the glasses on the new subject, Dusty felt both puzzled and a sense of anti-climax. The tall, thickset, bearded man sharing the concealment of the large clump of buffalo-berry bushes with him had hinted that something of great importance was due to happen. According to Huntspill’s message, brought by a courier to General Jackson Baines Hardin’s headquarters at Prescott, the Yankees were shortly to receive some new form of weapon that might once again put them on the offensive in the Toothpick State.
According to Ole Devil Hardin, Huntspill had always been accurate with his news and was no alarmist. The spy had stressed the extreme urgency of the matter and requested that an officer be sent to help him assess the extent of the danger. That had been sufficient to cause the commanding general of the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas and North Texas to respond immediately. So Dusty was expecting to be confronted by a sight of more apparent importance than met his gaze. Especially after crossing the Ouachita River—the boundary separating the two opposing armies—and riding nearly sixty miles through enemy-held territory in just over twenty-four hours.
Going by his tone and expression, Huntspill felt doubts as to whether the officer sent by Ole Devil would have an opinion worth hearing. Of course, he remembered how Dusty Fog had been promoted to captain in the field after his superior officer had been killed and he had led Company ‘C’ of the Texas Light Cavalry in the charge that had turned the course of the battle at Mark’s Mill to the South’s favor. In meetings with other members of that regiment, Huntspill had heard his companion’s name mentioned several times; but he had formed an entirely different impression of what Captain Fog would be like.
The Texans had told of Dusty’s lighting fast withdrawal of his two revolvers and superlative accuracy when shooting from either hand. Never modest about the prowess of their State’s favorite sons, the beef-heads had claimed that Dusty Fog was the equal of Turner Ashby or even the Gray Ghost, John Singleton Mosby, as a military raider. A further boast—clearly false, even if the other two be true—was that Dusty possessed the bare-hand fighting knowledge to let him lick any man on the Confederate or Union side of the civil conflict.
Captain Fog had proved to be something of a disappointment to Huntspill. A young eighteen, he had a handsome, though not strikingly so, face with intelligence in its lines and gray eyes that looked at a man steadily. In height he would stand no more than five foot six inches; but with the wide shoulders and lean waist that hinted at considerable strength. A regulation white Jefferson Davis campaign hat was thrust back on his curly, dusty-blond hair. In the front center of its crown rode a badge formed of a five-pointed star, with the letters TLC on it, in a laurel-wreath decorated circle. Based on the Lone Star State’s coat-of-arms, that was the insignia of the Texas Light Cavalry.
Possibly being Old Devil Hardin’s favorite nephew gave Dusty certain privileges. Certainly he flouted the Confederate States’ Army’s Manual of Dress Regulations on several points in his uniform.
The boots and tight-legged, yellow-striped riding breeches conformed with Regulations. Although his cadet-gray tunic had two rows of seven buttons on its double-breast, and a stand-up collar bearing the triple three-inch-long, half-inch-wide gold bars—the highest still looking newer than its mates—denoting his rank, it lacked the prescribed ‘skirt extending halfway between hip and knee’. True its sleeves carried the decorative double-strand gold-braid Austrian knot ‘chicken guts’, as a further aid to marking him as a captain, above their cavalry-yellow cuffs. However, the required black silk cravat was replaced by a tight-rolled scarlet bandana of the same material, long ends trailing down the front of his tunic.
About his lean waist was suspended a definitely non-issue gunbelt which possessed no means of carrying a saber. Instead it had two holsters carefully designed so as to permit him to draw the matched bone-handled 1860 Army Colts with the minimum of effort and in the shortest possible time. The long-barreled revolvers’ butts pointed forwards, but seemed to be angled differently than the conventional Army mode of carriage. Like many of the Texans Huntspill had met, Dusty tied the tips of his holsters down with pigging thongs knotted around his thighs.
While the small captain looked neat, despite the long, hard ride, he did not strike Huntspill as having the experience necessary to judge the potential of the Yankees’ secret weapon—whatever it might be.
Sensing his companion’s feelings, Dusty ignored them. He had long since grown accustomed to strangers’ reactions to his lack of height and had developed skills that more than offset it. Contrary to Huntspill’s thoughts, he did possess a remarkable talent for unarmed combat. In addition to being able to handle his fists in the conventional manner, he had gained a thorough working knowledge of jujitsu and karate—all but unknown at that time in the Western Hemisphere—from his Uncle Devil’s Japanese valet. Having solid, hard-earned achievements behind him already, and backed by a good, practical education, Dusty could shrug off other people’s lack of confidence when it was caused by misgivings on account of his height.
Although Dusty would later come into contact with two very prominent members of the Confederate States’ Secret Service—rescuing Rose Greenhow single-handed from a Yankee prison i and sharing two dangerous missions ii with Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy iii —this was his first contact with one of that organization. He had been impressed by Huntspill’s efficiency, satisfied with the arrangements made for them to be undetected while watching the Yankees, but could not help wondering if the spy had acted hastily in requesting a second opinion on what was, ostensibly, a straightforward matter.
Of course, the presence of General Buller hinted that something extra special might be in the air. The current commanding general of the Union’s Army of Arkansas had never been noted for taking an active participation in the affairs of his soldiers. So Dusty searched the objects of Huntspill’s interest for some hint of their importance.
Riding parallel to and about a quarter of a mile from the west bank of the river came what appeared to be an ordinary troop of Federal Cavalry in columns of four. They wore the peaked fatigue kepi, tunic, riding breeches and boots that were fast becoming the standard uniform for the Union Army’s mounted troops. Each man carried a revolver butt-forward in a close-topped holster on the right of his belt and had a saber suspended from the slings at its left. Well-mounted, good riders, they might be a better class of soldier than one usually saw in the Yankees’ Army of Arkansas; but they hardly seemed to warrant exceptional concern or urgency. Or did they?
Certain significant factors began to strike Dusty. Directing his glasses at the nearest rider, he studied the insignia on the front of the kepi. It was not the usual flattened ‘X’ made by two sabers, but a pair of crossed cannon above which a silver number ‘14’ was superimposed with the letter ‘A’. Given that much of a clue, Dusty examined the color of the tunic’s facings and the stripe along the seam of the breeches’ leg. They were scarlet instead of the expected yellow.
‘Well I’ll be—!’ Dusty began, lowering the glasses and turning to Huntspill. ‘They’re artillery, not cavalry.’
‘That’s what I figure when I saw them arrive,’ the spy answered. ‘Only they don’t have any guns along. They rode in yesterday just like you’re seeing them now. Had three battery-wagons and a travelling forge, but nary a cannon.’
‘Could’ve had them in the wagons, maybe?’
‘I don’t reckon so. Three wagons wouldn’t carry all their gear and enough cannons for that many men to be needed.’
‘Mountain howitzers aren’t all that big,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Except that those fellers don’t even have them along. Could be the Yankees’ve run short of cavalrymen and’re using some of the culls from their artillery to make up the numbers. Only those fellers don’t look nor ride like throw-outs from any outfit.’
‘They sure don’t,’ agreed Huntspill, knowing ‘culls’ to be the poorer stock cut out as useless from a cattle-herd. ‘Anyways, if what I’ve picked up is true, these fellers’re mighty special. That’s why I sent word for Ole—’
Then the burly civilian realized that Dusty had swiveled the field glasses upwards again.
‘Did they have those stove-pipes hanging on their saddles?’ Dusty interrupted, staring at the riders.
‘Huh?’ grunted Huntspill, whipping his own glasses to his eyes.
From his position among the bushes the spy could see some of the fifteen men in the column nearest to the river. Each had what looked like a five-foot length of three-inch stovepipe dangling from the fork of his McClellan saddle. Not just an ordinary piece of pipe, however. The lower end had been cut in half to form a trough about twelve inches long. A pair of metal bands encircled the tube, the upper having a steel rod fixed to either side of it and arranged so they could be swiveled and locked in any position from horizontal—as at the moment—to vertical. Based on the lower band and pointing upwards along the top of the tube was what looked like an elongated rear leaf-sight for a rifle.
‘No,’ Huntspill admitted. ‘They didn’t have them on their saddles yesterday.’
‘Or them pouches on the backs of their saddles?’ Dusty went on.
‘Can’t say I noticed them either,’ the spy confessed.
Having always earned his living as a riverboat man, a fact shown by his nautical peaked cap and clothing, Huntspill could be excused for failing to see anything out of the ordinary about the horses’ equipment. Born and raised in a land where a horse was an essential part of life, rather than a mere means of transport, Dusty had recognized that the pouches were not usual Federal Army accoutrements. Attached to the rear of the saddle, they consisted of four leather tubes slightly less than two feet long hanging on either flank.
‘Action left!’ bawled the major leading the party, as they came level with the boat and cabins. ‘Five hundred yards. Five degrees elevation. Incendiary, then high explosive. Prepare to fire!’
‘What the hell—?’ Huntspill began, watching the four lines halt at the major’s first words.
Working with the swift, trained orderliness that told of long practice, the men dismounted. Immediately, without waiting for further instructions, the soldiers of the right side column took the reins of the other horses in their own section of four. While the second and third member of each section peeled the saddle-pouches from their mounts, the man nearest to the river unstrapped his tube from its position and cradled it in his arms.
‘So that’s it!’ Dusty breathed, giving his attention to the forward section.
‘What?’ demanded Huntspill, staring at the scene of orderly confusion with an expression of incomprehension.
Letting the question go unanswered, Dusty watched the four Yankee artillerymen. Carrying his tube, the first moved away from the horses. Resting the end of the trough on the ground, he turned downwards the two steel rods and spiked their tips into the soil. After making an adjustment to the angle at which the tube was pointing, he raised and set the leaf sight on the rear band.
Resting his pouches on the ground, the second man opened the lid of a tube. From it he drew a metal cylinder about eighteen inches long, with a short truncated cone at one end and a sharp spike on the other.
‘What the hell is that thing?’ Huntspill hissed.
‘A Hale Spin-Stabilized rocket,’ Dusty explained. ‘And some kind of gun for sending it in the right direction.’
‘Where’s the stick?’ asked the spy. ‘All the rockets I ever saw had one.’
‘Not this kind,’ Dusty replied. ‘I’ve read and heard about them, It’s got three curved metal vanes at the blunt end where the gas that makes it go blows out. Seems they make the rocket spin like a rifle bullet and keep it flying straight.’
While they had been talking, the soldier had placed the rocket on to the trough and inserted the sharp nose up the tube. Stepping aside, he made way for the first man. After connecting a lanyard to the ring of the rocket’s friction-primer, the first Yankee rested his foot on the lower end of the tube.
Turning his glasses, Dusty saw that all fifteen launchers had been set up and were loaded ready for use. No regular form of artillery could have been prepared in so short a time. Then he resumed his watch on the first section.
‘Fire!’ roared the battery commander.
A sharp tug on the lanyard caused the serrated iron ignition-bar to scrape across and set into operation the highly combustible priming compound. A spark of flame stabbed among the propellant charge. The slow-burning mixture of niter, sulphur and charcoal, forced under great pressure into the 3¼-inch light iron case, took fire and began to emit its gas.
With a spurt of flame and sudden ‘whoosh!’, the rocket disappeared up the tube, burst from the muzzle and streaked across the river. It flew true, making for the side of the boat. Watching its flight, Dusty saw it strike the wall of the side-wheel’s cabin and understood the reason for the sharp point. Instead of bouncing back, the rocket spiked into the timber and held there. Rupturing under the impact, the case allowed a flow of blazing ‘Greek fire’ mixture to pour on to the wood.
The other fourteen rockets made their curving flight across the Arkansas River. Three more stuck into the boat and the remainder landed on, or between, the log cabins. Red glows of flame licked upwards, dancing over the sun-dried timbers.
Holding a rocket, the third man of the section advanced. Dusty saw that the missile’s head was more cone-shaped than pointed. Again the reloading process was faster than any cannon could be charged. Fifteen hands tugged on lanyards and the rockets spun through the air towards their targets. On striking, the reason for the differently shaped heads became apparent. Instead of spreading ‘Greek fire’, the second broadside’s rockets exploded on impact.
‘Whooee!’ Dusty breathed, lowering his glasses. ‘Wasn’t that something?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ Huntspill replied, glaring as if mesmerized at the flames consuming the old side-wheeler.
‘I’d heard the Hale’s were an improvement on the old Congreve stick-stabilized rockets Jeb Stuart used one time,’ Dusty drawled. ‘But I didn’t know they were this effective.’
‘They’re deadly, huh?’
‘Deadly enough. Only there’s more to it than just that.’
‘How do you mean, Captain?’
‘Surprise,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘You mind what we thought when we first saw those jaspers riding up?’
‘That they were an ordinary cavalry patrol,’ Huntspill replied.
‘Sure,’ Dusty said soberly. ‘Take it this way. Some of our fellers see that battery riding along between five hundred yards and a mile away across the Ouachita or the Caddo. They reckon it’s just a bunch of Yankee fly-slicers out for a ride. Then they cut loose with those rockets. Either incendiary or high explosive’d do. It’d throw our boys into confusion. If an attack was launched straight after that, with our folk set back on their heels and wondering what the hell’s hit them, it’d have a better than fair chance of succeeding.’
Which just about confirmed Huntspill’s summation of the situation. He looked at the small, soft-spoken, almost insignificant young man by his side and was suddenly aware of Dusty’s strength of personality. That was no bald-faced stripling, placed in a position of trust through family influence, but a shrewd, discerning cavalry officer.
‘What’re you figuring on doing, Captain Fog?’ the spy asked, in a far more respectful tone than he had shown up to that moment.
‘I’m going to spread the word to our people,’ Dusty replied.
‘We can’t be sure where the Yankees’ll hit with those blasted rockets,’ Huntspill protested.
‘Then we’ll have to guess. Likely they’ll go for the targets that’ll do most damage first, before word gets out what they’re at.’
‘That’s likely enough. What do you reckon it’ll be?’
‘There’s three comes to mind,’ Dusty replied, looking pointedly at the burning side-wheeler. ‘Uncle Devil’s navy.’
‘Those three “tin-clads” on the Ouachita?’ grinned Huntspill, with the cheerful contempt of a man who had handled the helm of a fast boat that ran along the Arkansas and Mississippi Rivers.
‘They might not be Big Muddy mail packets, but they’ve got four Williams rapid-fire cannon and two twelve-pounder boat-howitzers mounted on each of ’em,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Which they’ve done a whole heap to help stop the Yankees crossing the Ouachita.’
‘I’m not gainsaying it,’ the spy said, thinking of the trio of small, lightly armored—hence the name ‘tin-’ instead of ‘iron-clad’—steamboats. Their shallow draught, no more than two feet, made them useful vessels along the winding, narrow waters of the Ouachita River. ‘Trouble being we don’t know which the battery’ll try for first.’
‘That’s soon settled,’ Dusty stated. ‘We’ll warn all three.’
‘We—?’
‘Me and my men.’
‘There’re only three of you,’ Huntspill reminded Dusty.
‘Why sure,’ the small Texan agreed. ‘Your message said come fast and you can’t do that at Company strength. So I just brought along a couple of my men in case you needed them.’
‘Then how—?’ the spy began.
‘The Georgia works south out of Camden,’ Dusty explained. ‘I’ll send Kiowa there with the word. The Texarkana patrols between Camden and Vaden, up in Clark County, and the Skimmer runs between Vaden and Arkadelphia. So I’ll tell Vern Hassle to cut across to Arkadelphia; and call in at Vaden on my way to tell Uncle Devil about the rocket battery. It won’t take me far out of my way.’
No matter how he looked at the matter, Huntspill could not find fault with Dusty’s arrangements. Earlier, the spy might have doubted the youngster’s ability to make the return journey unescorted. Such a doubt now never entered his head. He guessed that the Texan had called the play correctly. Certainly the rocket battery’s most profitable targets would be the destruction of the ‘tin-clads’. Their exposed engines and boilers made them particularly susceptible to an incendiary bombardment. With them out of action, a crossing of the Ouachita River would be much easier and safer than while they remained afloat.
On top of that, Huntspill knew there was no faster means of spreading the warning about the battery. Even if the boats should be on patrol when the Texans arrived, a message could be left for their captains. Each of the riverside towns had a telegraph station, permitting the news to be spread along its wires.
‘We’d best get going,’ the spy suggested. ‘I’ll see if I can learn where the battery’s headed and get word there. Good luck to you, Captain Fog.’
‘And to you,’ Dusty replied. ‘If I get caught, I’ll be sent to a prison camp. If they get you, you’ll be shot.’
‘It’s a chance I have to take,’ Huntspill said and led the way back through the bushes. Behind them, the battery’s personnel were packing up their gear at the end of the demonstration.
~*~
Between Dusty’s thighs, the large, spirited black stallion moved easily in a diagonal two-beat gait. First its off fore and near hind feet struck the ground, then the near fore and off hind, carrying its rider in a fast, mile-consuming, but energy-preserving trot. Highly skilled in all matters equine, Dusty held several views that were almost tantamount to heresy in that day and age. His demands on the shoeing of horses had led to considerable heated controversy in the Texas Light Cavalry, iv but not as much as had his insistence that every member of Company ‘C’ learned how to ‘post’ when travelling at a trot. Little used at that period in Texas, regarded with suspicion or as sissified almost, it said much for the strength of Dusty’s control over them that the hard-bitten, hard-riding, harder-fighting men of Company ‘C’ had acceded to his point of view. They had discovered that they and their mounts benefited from ‘posting’ and ignored the comments of the unenlightened; or answered the more opprobrious criticism with two-fisted arguments.
Supporting himself with the balls of his feet in the stirrup irons and by the bony structure rather than the fleshy pads of his buttocks, Dusty inclined his shoulders a few inches before his hips. He sat far enough forward on the low horned, double-girthed v range saddle so that his weight was directly over the vertical stirrup leathers. Keeping his hip joints straight, he used his knees as the pivotal points. Automatically he rose and sank from the saddle in time with the stallion’s movements. The long-gaited black moved with plenty of spring and action, causing Dusty to rise high but without conscious effort or suffering inconvenience from the motion.
When it was carried out correctly, the combination of an alert, expert rider and a well-trained, healthy horse could post at a fast trot for many miles without undue fatigue to man or mount. Dusty had mastered the art and, being light of weight, gained the best out of the seventeen-hand stallion; one of a trio he had selected, broken and trained for his own use.
How effective posting the trot could be showed in the fact that, leaving the spy shortly before mid-day, he had dispatched his two men and had already completed around twenty-five miles of his journey. With the sun sinking in the west, he rode along the bottom of a valley. About two miles ahead, he could see the start of the woodland which fringed that section of the Saline River he must cross to take the most direct line to Vaden.
A bullet, coming from the rear and to the right, made its eerie ‘splat!’ sound as it split the air a few inches from Dusty’s head. Although startled by the unexpected—and never pleasant—noise, he did not panic. Like all Texans, he held his reins so that their split ends dangled downwards over his palm, gripped between his thumb and forefinger. vi Slackening his grip so that he did not make a sudden jerk at the black’s mouth, he stood in his stirrups and twisted his torso in the direction from which the missile had come. What he saw caused him to growl a curse, turn to the front, sink back to the saddle and prepare to increase speed.
Some twenty blue-clad riders had topped the incline. One of them had a Springfield carbine at his shoulder, smoke curling from its .58-calibre muzzle. Going by the way the lieutenant and sergeant of the Yankee party turned on him, the soldier had opened fire without orders. Certainly he had not done his companions any favor, for his actions had deprived them of the best chance they would be likely to get of taking the Confederate officer by surprise.
‘I’ll bust your guts when we get back—!’ threatened the sergeant.
‘You stupid son-of-a-bitch!’ screeched the officer, then swung from the man to see their proposed victim’s horse increase its speed. ‘Get after him, men!’
Letting out excited yells, sounding almost like a pack of hounds receiving their first sight of the prey, the Yankees started their horses running down the incline. Last to move was the man whose shot had set them up for a long chase instead of what they had hoped would be an easy capture.
Settling down on the saddle instead of posting, Dusty loosened his reins and nudged the stallion’s ribs gently with his heels. It was a signal that, taken with the slackening of the pressure on the bit, the horse fully understood. Building up momentum, its gait changed from the diagonal-striding, two-beat time of the trot. Instead the right hind hoof struck the ground, then the off fore and left hind simultaneously, and lastly the near fore came down to start the sequence again.
From a trot, the stallion began to canter then opened out to a full gallop. Under-foot, the ground was ideal for fast travelling; the grama grass, short, springy, cushioning the impact of the hooves. Crouching forward at the waist, but maintaining perfect balance and control, Dusty kept his mount collected and prevented its inborn tendency to rush onwards at an ever-increasing speed until it was bolting rather than galloping under his command.
No more shots came, but that did not cause Dusty any especial joy. From what he had seen, the Yankees belonged to the New Hampstead Volunteers. Raised and financed by General Buller, as a means of obtaining his rank—and the social benefits that went with it in time of war—the regiment was not the best outfit in the Union’s Army of Arkansas.
Under normal conditions, Dusty would have been in little or no danger of capture. On his other missions into the Yankee territory east of the Ouachita or Caddo Rivers, he had his full Company along. With those sixty expert fighting men at his back, he could have routed the outnumbered Volunteers. Even on the outward journey to Pine Bluff, the situation would not have been desperate. He and his two companions were not only travelling with the bare essentials, but each had ridden a three-horse relay.
As his men had greater distances to cover, Dusty had loaned each of them one of his reserve mounts. In that way, Sergeant Kiowa Cotton and Corporal Vern Hassle could attain a higher speed. It had been a sound decision, for the two non-coms had the better chances of finding one or more of the ‘tin-clads’ at their destinations.
So Dusty was left with only his black stallion. Apart from a couple of blankets rolled in a rubberized-cloth, waterproof poncho, strapped to the cantle, his saddle had no other burden. He had left his Henry rifle—a battlefield capture—at the Regiment’s headquarters and at that moment his field glasses were headed towards Arkadelphia with the mount loaned to the corporal. Unfortunately, the stallion was far from fresh after covering so many miles. If the Volunteers should be adequately mounted and reasonable riders, he would be hard-pressed to escape from them.
Heading towards the woodland, Dusty could feel the big horse straining under the exertion. To his rear, the Volunteers showed no sign of opening out the hundred or so yards which separated them from him. Nor could they decrease the distance; although it might have been a different story if Dusty had been heavier, or a less skilled rider. As it was, he maintained his lead. Yet he knew that the Yankees would run him down if they stuck to his trail for long enough. Dusty grew more certain of that with each sequence of the black’s galloping gait.
There was one way out; although Dusty—a Texan—hardly cared to consider it. Yet consider it he must. Unless something happened to halt the Volunteers, a remote contingency under the circumstances, he knew that he would have to put his scheme into operation should an opportunity to do so arise. They would surely catch up with him if he stayed afork the lathered, flagging stallion for he might easily run it into the ground. So he intended, if the chance presented itself, to quit the black’s back, take cover, and allow his pursuers to continue chasing the unencumbered animal.
A desperate risk, maybe, but well worth trying. Without his weight on its saddle, the big horse stood a chance of outdistancing the burdened mounts of the Volunteers. In the thick tangle of the woodland, they would be following their prey by sound, with only an occasional, flickering glimpse of it caught through the trees. Given just a smidgen of good Texas luck, the Yankees might go for a mile or more before they became aware of his deception.
Unless the Volunteers caught it, the range-bred stallion would eventually return to the Texas Light Cavalry’s camp at Prescott, which it now regarded as its home. If the horse should be captured, or fail to return for some other reason, Dusty would have to count its loss, along with that of one of his saddles, as the price he had paid for retaining his freedom. For his part, he would only be left afoot until he had walked the five miles beyond the Saline River to the home of a Confederate sympathizer who kept a few horses and saddles hidden away for just such emergencies.
So, much as he hated the whole notion, Dusty started to make his preparations for carrying it out.
Never forgetting to maintain his balance and keeping the same steady, controlling pressure on his mount’s mouth, Dusty knotted his reins around the saddle horn. When he released them, he wanted the reins to hang loosely against the stallion’s neck instead of trailing free. Like the majority of range-horses, the black had been trained to come to a halt and remain reasonably still when the split-ended reins dangled loose close to its fore legs.
The woods lay close ahead. Although the sun’s lower side was almost touching the western horizon, Dusty knew that the darkness would not descend quickly enough to save him. So it had to be the scheme after all. Turning carefully on the saddle’s seat, he looked back. While the Volunteers had come no closer, they showed no sign of quitting. So he could not commence his plan of escape immediately.
Guiding the stallion with expressive hands, thighs and knees, Dusty steered between the trees or avoided various clumps of bushes, rocks or other hazards. Ahead was a deep, wide valley with sloping sides down which a skilled man could ride at speed. Beyond it was just the thing Dusty needed in his plan.
Such was the rapport between the stallion and its small, efficient master that it did not hesitate on arriving at the edge of the incline. Over it went, going down in a rapid slide, hind legs tucked under its belly and forelegs reaching out ahead. Thrusting his feet forward, Dusty leaned his body to the rear. Coming near to the bottom, the horse gathered itself and thrust away from the slope to light down on level ground. With hardly a break in its motion, it headed across the valley and started up the other side. Dusty once more assumed his upright posture.
‘Come on, men!’ screeched an excited voice as Dusty’s straining stallion completed the ascension. ‘If he can do it, so can we!’
Darting a glance across his shoulder, Dusty saw the Volunteers plunging into the valley. All of them went, he noticed gratefully. Then he turned to the front and made ready. Ahead was a big old white oak tree, its heavily-foliaged branches offering sanctuary and a safe hiding-place—if Dusty could reach them.
Another swift check on the rear told Dusty that none of the Volunteers could see him. Carefully he eased back until he could raise his feet to the seat of the saddle. Then he stood up, balancing on the fast-moving stallion with the ease of a circus performer. What had been a trick learned to improve his skill as a horseman—and, like his ambidextrous ability, as a means of taking attention from his small size as a boy—now served a most useful purpose.
They were passing under the outer fringes of the tree’s spread of branches. Ahead, a sturdy limb stretched across in a manner ideally suited to the small Texan’s needs. Gauging the distance with his eyes, Dusty thrust his arms above his head.
Would he make it?
The question ripped through Dusty’s head and received its answer. Fingers curled, his reaching hands slapped against the top of the branch. An instant later the black had passed from beneath his feet, racing onwards under the inborn impulsion to run when being pursued.
Drawing himself upwards with all the strength in his powerful shoulders and arms, he rested the tops of his thighs against the branch. Then he thrust his feet forward with all the force he could muster and tilted his body to the rear. Under the power of the swing, his legs started to rise into the air. During the brief moment he hung upside down, his campaign hat slipped off. Unable to stop it, Dusty hoped that the Yankees would not draw the correct conclusion on seeing the hat under the tree. Completing a semicircle, Dusty came to a halt laying belly-down on the limb. Hooking his right leg upwards, he mounted the branch to rise and climb until he had put the thickness of the trunk between himself and the valley.
Peering cautiously around the trunk and through the dense foliage, Dusty felt sure that he was hidden from the Volunteers. In fact he could only obtain a limited view of the valley’s rim. Already the blue hats of the Yankees rose into sight. Going by what he could see, Dusty concluded that the Union lieutenant was holding all the party in a bunch. Certainly there were no stragglers as they appeared up the incline.
Without the need for conscious thought, Dusty’s right hand crossed to draw the left side Colt from its holster and his thumb eased back the hammer. For a moment he thought that he would need the firearm.
‘There he is!’ roared an excited New England voice.
‘Keep after him, men!’ urged the officer an instant later. ‘We’ll get the son-of-a-bitch Reb before dark.’
A faint grin twisted at Dusty’s lips as he realized the Yankees had either heard or seen the stallion without realizing that it no longer carried a rider. From the glances he obtained as they approached the tree, sufficient of them had lost their head-dress during the chase that they attached no importance to the sight of his campaign hat laying on the ground.
Urging their horses to greater efforts, the Yankees passed under Dusty on either side of the tree. None of them looked up and they went crashing away on the wild-goose chase. Letting them get about a hundred yards away, Dusty returned his Colt to leather. Going to the limb on which he had swung from the stallion, he lowered himself and dropped to the ground. Collecting his hat, he donned it with a grin.
‘Good ole Dick,’ Dusty mused as he started to walk in the direction of the Saline River. ‘I’m surely pleased you had me wear these cavalry boots.’
Being a long-serving soldier, although he had always been employed as an officer’s servant, Dusty’s striker, Dick Cody, disapproved of the small Texan’s flouting of the Manual of Dress Regulations. So, to please Cody, he had agreed to wear breeches and boots that conformed with what amounted to the striker’s bible. At that moment, Dusty felt thankful that he had done so.
Maybe the high heels of Texas range-boots held in the stirrup-irons with extra safety, or could be spiked into the ground when roping afoot, but they were pure hell to wear while walking any distance. The much lower heels on his cavalry-pattern boots would allow him to reach the sympathizer’s home without too much discomfort.
Yells from the Yankees brought Dusty to a halt. They had only gone about half a mile, according to the sounds, but already knew they had been tricked. Then he heard the crack of a revolver shot, followed by a scream of pain. That sound did not emerge from human lips. For a moment Dusty stood, cold and angry, wondering if one of the Volunteers, furious at the discovery, had put a bullet into the stallion. Then he decided it was not so. Instead the sound reminded him of the squeal a pig made when it felt the prick of a butcher’s knife.
Putting aside the question of why the Yankees would shoot at a pig, assuming one should be in the woods, Dusty walked on. He remained alert, giving his attention mainly to the area in which his enemies had disappeared. The precaution paid off when he saw two of the Volunteers riding in his direction. Darting into the concealment of a near-by clump of buffalo-berry bushes, Dusty crouched with the right side holster’s Colt cocked in his left hand. Going by their lack of response, the Yankees had failed to notice him walking along, or during his dive into hiding.
Carefully parting a couple of branches with his right hand, Dusty decided that it would have been surprising if the Yankees had seen him. They rode side by side at a walk, making only the slightest pretence of searching the surrounding woods for the Rebel officer who had eluded them. Instead they talked to each other and, as they drew nearer, Dusty found their conversation enlightening.
‘ “Spread out, go back and look for him,” the stupid son-of-a-bitch tells us,’ growled the taller of the pair, a surly-faced hard-case who slouched like a sack of potatoes on his jaded, sweat-lathered horse. ‘ “Find him,” he says. “The peckerwood vii bastard can’t have gotten far.” ’
‘He can’t have, Fred,’ the other Volunteer pointed out, almost apologetically.
‘Can’t hell, Simmy!’ spat the big man. ‘He could’ve dropped off his hoss any time ’tween that valley and where we first saw he wasn’t on its back.’
‘I thought we’d got him when the luff viii threw that shot into the bushes,’ Simmy declared, grinning broadly at the memory. ‘Lord! His face when that damned great critter bust out. What was it, Fred, a grizzly bear?’
‘Just you pair keep coming the way you are,’ Dusty breathed, studying the incautious approach. ‘You do that, and I’ll be riding again afore night-fall.’
If the two Volunteers continued on their present course and without paying a greater attention to duty, they might easily supply him with horses, Bursting out of the bushes, he could throw down on them and either shoot, or make them dismount and surrender their horses. In ‘Fred’s’ case, it would probably have to be the former. There was a truculence about him that might be accompanied by a reckless imprudent nature. To achieve his intentions, Dusty wanted the men much closer before he made his appearance.
‘Naw!’ Fred answered. ‘It was a hawg of some kind!’
‘I never saw a hawg that size,’ Simmy protested. ‘Why it was as—’
The ringing notes of a bugle cut off the words. With a feeling of annoyance, Dusty recognized the sound of the ‘Recall’. Reining their horses to a stop at a distance which precluded the chance of him taking them by surprise, the soldiers looked towards the source of the martial music. Dusty remained hidden. To make an appearance now would only stir up gun-play. While he knew that he could shoot accurately enough to tumble both men from their saddles, the horses would bolt before he could stop them.
‘Come on,’ Fred growled. ‘Looks like he’s finally got good enough sense to call it off.’
‘I ain’t sorry about that,’ Simmy replied. ‘Now maybe we’ll get back to camp in time for supper.’
Watching the soldiers ride away, Dusty let out an exasperated grunt. No Texan from the range country cared for walking. However, seeing that it could not be helped, he waited until the sound of the Volunteers’ departure had faded into the distance and then resumed his journey.
Satisfied that his pursuers had given up the chase, Dusty kept alert for another possible—and probably greater—danger. According to the conversation he had overheard, the Volunteers’ lieutenant had fired at what he believed to be a hidden man and wounded a pig of some kind. That the wound had not been fatal was a factor to be taken into consideration. Dusty had no wish to meet up with the injured animal.
At best the pig would be only semi-domesticated; turned by its owner to forage in the woodland, then rounded up in much the same way that Texans raised their cattle. Like longhorns, some of the pigs were never recaptured and reverted to the wild. There were few more dangerous animals in Arkansas than a feral-hog, for it had no inherited fear of human beings. The feral-hog might be cautious and, like an old ladino longhorn, try to avoid contact with men; but it would never hesitate to attack if cornered or hurt.
Darkness came without Dusty running into any kind of trouble or danger. He guessed that the ford was not far ahead when he heard the sound of running water. Much to his annoyance, he noticed a small red glow rising among the trees.
‘Damn the luck!’ Dusty growled, sotto voce. ‘There’s somebody bedding down for the night by that blasted ford.’
Going by the size of the blaze, it would only be serving the needs of a small party. Nor could Dusty see other glows to tell him that more than one group of men were settling in ahead.
Which raised a couple of vitally important points.
How many men would he be dealing with and would they be friends of foes?
Going by the lack of effort taken to conceal the flames, he would be willing to bet on the maker of the fire being a Yankee; most likely one of a small band. Soldiers, maybe. Or even worse, guerillas, those human wolves who used ‘patriotism’ as an excuse to raid, loot, pillage or murder. Rumor had it that an especially ruthless bunch of Yankee irregulars had moved into this section of the Saline River country. Being captured by them was not a situation any Southerner wished to face. Of course, the fire might have been made by a single soldier riding dispatch.
Not that Dusty felt inclined to go and investigate right then. Common-sense dictated that he should put off the attempt until morning. Stalking an unknown area, with an unspecified number of men in it, was not a business he wished to try in the darkness of the night. Far better to make camp in what comfort he could manage until daybreak and then—when able to see where he was putting his feet—move in. Once he had examined the clearing in which the man—or men—rested, he could make an estimation of his best line of action.
With that in mind, Dusty gave thought to his own bed for the night. Up so close to a possible enemy, he could not light a fire. Nor dare he chance breaking branches to make a lean-to. That left him only one alternative, to use the ground for a mattress and the sky as blankets.
‘Way my luck’s going,’ Dusty told himself, ‘it’ll pour with rain all night.’ Then he grinned, thinking of his ever-pessimistic sergeant major, and continued, ‘Damned if I’m not catching the Billy Jack’s.’
Having delivered that sentiment, he found a small hollow in a clump of bushes. Packing his hat with leaves, he set it down to be used as a pillow. Taking off his gunbelt, he removed the left-side Colt. Preferring to be cold than left without serviceable weapons, he removed his tunic and rolled the gunbelt in it. Then, with the Colt in his right hand shielded as well as possible by his body, he lay on his right side and went to sleep.
~*~
Despite the loosely packed soil among the bushes offering anything but a soft, comfortable bed, Dusty contrived to sleep all through the night. With the dawn’s first pink glow creeping into the eastern sky, he woke and sat up. Grunting a little, he came swiftly but cautiously to his feet. The chilly sensation rapidly left him. For all his gloomy, Billy Jack-esque predictions the previous evening, the weather had remained both warm and fine. Having spent many nights bedded down in the open air, although invariably with the protection of blankets and a water-proof poncho, he felt little the worse for his experience.
As Dusty worked the slight stiffness from his limbs, he shook away the light sprinkling of dew that had settled on him. His eyes turned in the direction of the ford. Clearly whoever had camped there also believed in early rising. Already the fire was sending up a column of smoke that told of a recent refueling. If Dusty intended to move in, reconnoiter and, given the chance, obtain a mount for himself, he must waste no time.
Drawing a bandana handkerchief from his breeches left hip pocket, he carefully wiped all traces of dew from the Colt in his right hand. Fortunately Colonel Sam Colt’s workmen has produced a piece of machinery that stood up very well to mild wettings. Dusty knew that the percussion caps prevented moisture from seeping into the cylinder’s chambers through the holes in the cap-nipples. The larger openings at the other end of the cylinder were coated with grease, to hold the bullet firmly in position and to stop the flames from the uppermost charge reaching and setting off the other five’s loads.
With that basic precaution taken, Dusty thrust the Colt temporarily into his waist-band. Unrolling the tunic, he produced the gunbelt. No damp had reached the second revolver, he noticed with pleasure. Returning the gun from his waist-band to its holster, he laid the belt across his hat and put on his tunic. After buttoning the double-breasted front, he strapped on the belt and tied down the tips of the holsters. Emptying the leaves from his hat, he returned the crushed crown to its normal shape and placed it on his head. Dressed and armed, he eased himself through the bushes and started walking with great caution towards the rising column of smoke.
Making use of every bit of the skill and experience he had gained while hunting alert, elusive whitetail deer back home in the Rio Hondo country, Dusty passed through the woodland without a single unnecessary noise. Although many of Buller’s command were city-born, he had some country-dwellers. Most of Verncombe’s 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons—despite their title—had seen service in Indian campaigns before the War. So it was possible that whoever was camping near the ford possessed keen ears and a knowledge of the danger presented by that kind of terrain. Dusty intended to take as few chances as he could manage.
Watching where he put his feet, so as to avoid stepping on and breaking dry twigs, he ‘also made certain that his clothes did not brush against the trunks of trees or bushes’ branches. In the latter he was helped by the figure-hugging nature of his uniform and decided to comment to his striker upon one advantage of the skirtless, non-Regulations, tunic; the fact that it had nothing to flap about as he made a stalk through wooded country.
Feeling the wind blowing into his face, coming from the direction in which he was headed, Dusty felt a further sense of relief. Maybe the man, or men, about the fire would be city-dwellers, but their horses would be on the alert. So he knew that having his scent blown away from them would lessen the chances of their detecting his presence and giving a warning.
At last he came into sight of the clearing. Inching forward with even greater care, he halted behind the thick trunk of a burly white ash tree. From the concealment of the five foot wide trunk, he studied the clearing by the ford—and found himself faced with a problem. Although there were two horses hobbled and grazing on the edge of the river’s bank, he could see only one man in the open space before him.
Was the man alone, riding a relay, or did he have a companion who had gone off into the bushes for some reason?
Calmly Dusty examined the mystery and drew his conclusions. The two horses were fine animals, a dun and a chestnut, both geldings. They had a powerful, yet not clumsy muscular development that hinted at brio escondido, hidden vigor, or stamina and guts well above average. Each had a set of hobbles attached to its forelegs above the pastern joints. U.S. cavalry hobbles, from the look of them, made of two buckle-on leather cuffs connected by a short swivel-link chain.
A pair of officer’s pattern McClellan saddles lay on their sides by the fire. Across the seat of one hung a fringed buckskin shirt on which rested a pair of ivory-handled, octagonal-barreled Colt 1851 Navy revolvers. A tight-rolled multi-hued silk bandana, a black sash of the same material and a low-crowned, wide brimmed gray Stetson hat were draped on the saddle’s hornless pommel. Leaning against the seat of the second saddle was a Henry rifle in a fancy-decorated, fringed Indian medicine boot. Dusty could see only one bed-roll alongside the fire.
‘Not but the one cup there, too,’ the small Texan mused, staring longingly at the small coffee-pot which steamed and bubbled merrily near the flames. ‘That hombre’s sure acting obliging.’
Naked to the waist, showing a heavy-shouldered, lean-waisted, muscular back, the man in question would be one or two inches over the six foot mark. While he wore U.S. cavalry breeches, his lower legs were encased in knee-high Indian moccasins. The hilt of a long-bladed fighting knife showed above the top of the right moccasin and he kept up his breeches with a fancy-patterned Indian belt. Shoulder-long tawny hair added to Dusty’s suspicions that the man was a civilian scout rather than a serving member of the Union Army.
The small Texan knew that several such specialists had been brought from their duties with the Western garrisons and allocated to various Union commands in the hope of combating the South’s very effective cavalry raiders. The man was the first of them Dusty had seen in Arkansas.
What the man’s features might be like, Dusty could not tell. Standing with his back to the young captain, the scout was shaving with the aid of a small steel mirror fixed to the trunk of a tree. Fortunately his position would prevent him seeing Dusty reflected on the shining surface.
Even as Dusty prepared to step out from behind the white ash, he heard the dun gelding let out an explosive, warning snort. Freezing in his tracks, right hand filled with the butt of its Colt, he glanced at the animals and saw the chestnut toss its finely shaped head in alarm.
At first Dusty thought that the horses had located him in some way. Then he realized that their attention was focused on the other side of the clearing. Turning his gaze that way, he saw something big, black-looking and vaguely menacing looming through the bushes. Then the long-haired scout drew Dusty’s eyes his way.
Throwing a quick look at his horses, the man snapped his head around to face the cause of their agitation. Dusty formed an impression of tanned, good-looking features with a neatly trimmed moustache making an almost white slash above a half-shaven chin.
Clearly a man long used to taking rapid decisions, the scout flung one quick glance towards the bushes then made as if to spin around and leap to his armament. At which point, his luck ran out. In turning, his right foot struck the top of one of the tree’s roots. Slipping from the moss-encrusted surface, it threw him off balance. Discarding his razor as he went down, he fell into deadly danger.
Snuffling, grunting and grinding its tusks against each other with a spine-chilling, blood-curdling sound, an enormous pig lurched into the clearing. What had appeared to be black skin proved to have the deep reddish tint that hinted of Duroc breeding. However, the hog showed none of the Duroc’s normally docile nature nor much of its broad-backed, thick bodied build. Tall, standing much higher at the shoulders than the hips, body fined down until it looked all sinew and hard muscles, it had a long nose and a big, powerful-jawed mouth from which showed tusks almost six inches in length. A raw-looking, bloody furrow on its rump explained its bad temper. Maybe its grandparents had been pure, or part, Duroc, but that hog was closer to a wild boar in its appearance than it was to a domesticated pig.
At the sight of the bristling, squealing horror charging towards their master, the two horses let out startled squeals. They backed away as fast as their hobbles would allow them, not yet in a panic, but close to it. Dusty wanted one, or both, of the geldings—although, to give him credit, he would have intervened even if he had not. So he sprang from the bushes, ready to save the scout from a terrible mauling if he could.
Coming to a halt on spread-apart, slightly bent legs, he inclined his torso to the rear. Doing so rested his weight on the pelvic region and utilized the body’s bone structure as added support. At the same time, he swung the Colt forward and up. His left hand rose to cup under the bottom of its mate. Holding the revolver at arm’s length and shoulder-high, he set the low-blade, white brass tip of the foresight in the center of the V-shaped notch cut as a rear sight in the hammer’s lip.
There was only one hope of stopping the hog in time and doing it called for a very careful aim. Aligning the sights, Dusty squeezed the trigger. The gas from thirty grains of black powder detonating spun a 219-grain conical bullet through the rifling grooves of the seven-and-a-half inch long ‘Civilian’ pattern barrel. ix Propelled through the air, the lead made a sharp crack as it ploughed through the hard bones of the hog’s skull. Hitting right where Dusty had intended it should, a couple of inches above the eyes and in the exact center of the head, the .44 bullet tore into the beast’s brain pan. Killed instantly, the hog’s forelegs buckled under it and the great body turned a forward somersault from its momentum.
Twisting himself over in a violent, desperate roll, the scout barely avoided being struck by the hog’s fast-moving carcass. It crashed to the ground on its back and, with a final, frantic thrashing of its legs, went limp. Raising himself on to his hands, the scout looked at the dead hog. Then he turned his face towards his rescuer. Surprise flickered across the scout’s bronzed features as he realized that he owed his life to a Confederate States’ Army captain.
‘Thanks, frie—’ the scout had begun to say, but the words trailed off and, after staring for a few seconds, he continued, ‘Well I’ll be damned!’
‘Maybe you’ll have time to repent from your sinful ways, hombre,’ Dusty answered, having deftly cocked his Colt on its recoil and turned it to line with disconcerting inflexibility in the man’s direction. ‘Happen you stay put for a spell, that is.’
Drawing one leg up under him ready to make a dive towards his weapons, the scout remained at the foot of the tree. His eyes flickered to the hole in the hog’s skull, then swung to estimate the distance from which the big Texan had cut loose. That had either been a real lucky, or mighty well-aimed shot. Noticing the other’s quietly competent appearance, the scout went for the latter choice.
‘Was you wanting me dead,’ the scout remarked, raking Dusty from head to foot with his eyes, ‘you’d’ve let the hawg get me.’
‘Don’t you going setting too much store by that, hombre,’ the small Texan warned. ‘If I’d let it happen, the noise’d likely’ve spooked off your horses and I need them.’
‘And I thought it was me you liked,’ said the scout, right hand moving slowly towards his leg.
‘While you’re down there, take out the knife and toss it this way,’ Dusty ordered. ‘With the tips of your fingers, so there’ll be no temptation to let you get “damned” permanent.’
Grinning resignedly, the scout obeyed. Drawing the knife between the extreme tips of his thumb and forefinger, he spun it across the clearing and made certain that it never looked like reaching his rescuer. That Texan captain might be young, but he packed a whole heap too much savvy to play games against. Going by the manner in which he handled the Colt, he rated high in skill at using it. No man could take chances with that level of talent to his own advantage. Trying to jump him, without the help of a suitable distraction, would be rapidly fatal. So the scout intended to comply with the other’s orders—unless a real good chance of altering their status happened to come up.
‘Ole “Californy” Bill allus telled me washing and shaving regular’s plumb dangerous,’ commented the scout. ‘Damned if he didn’t have him a mishap and tell the truth for once.’
‘It happens to most of us, one time or another,’ Dusty replied. ‘You can get up’s long’s you do it slow and easy.’
‘Thanks,’ answered the scout and came to his feet in a lithe, effortless manner that told Dusty he was neither slow nor clumsy in his movements. ‘Why’d the hawg jump me?’
‘Going by that nick on its butt-end, I’d say it was riled ‘cause a Yankee luff threw a bullet at it yesterday.’
‘Why’d he do a fool thing like that?’
‘Heard it moving in some bushes, figured it was me and come up smoking. I’d say he was lucky that ole hawg went away instead of coming at him.’
‘You see it happen?’ asked the scout.
‘Heard a couple of Volunteers talking about it while they was supposed to be hunting for me.’
‘Buller’s bunch, huh? That figures. There’s not one of them from the Bully hisself down to the lowest drummer boy’s’s got sense enough to pound sand into a rat-hole. What you got in mind to do with me?’
‘Now I’d say that depends on you,’ Dusty answered. I won’t chance leaving you hawg-tied here, or having you free to come after me.’
‘Maybe you should’ve let the hawg get me,’ commented the scout.
‘There’s some’s’d say you’re right,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Trouble being I didn’t and it’s too late now. After I’ve got your guns, you can come over and get dressed.’
‘Can I finish my shave first?’
‘Go to it. Only don’t try shaving me while you’re at it.’
Keeping a watch while the scout went ahead with his interrupted ablutions, Dusty lowered his Colt and crossed to the fire. Asking for and receiving permission he poured out a cup of coffee. At no time did he relax his vigilance, as the scout observed through the mirror. Dusty presented his captive with no opportunity to jump him, or to make a dash for cover. Finishing the coffee, he collected the Navy Colts and thrust them into his waist-band. Then he returned his revolver to its holster and, selecting a moment when the scout had the razor to his tight-stretched throat, slid the Henry rifle from its boot. Working the lever, Dusty emptied the repeater’s chamber. While replacing the Henry in the medicine boot, Dusty produced his Colt again.
‘Now what?’ inquired the scout, having finished his shave and rinsed his face at the river’s edge.
‘Come and get dressed,’ Dusty answered. ‘Then you can saddle both horses.’
‘Both?’
‘Sure. I’ll use one and you’ll come with me. Then when I’m safe with my own folks, you can come back with both of them.’
‘That’s sure white of you,’ commented the scout, certain that the other would keep his word.
‘More smart than white,’ Dusty corrected with a grin. ‘It’s that way, or leave you dead. I don’t want a Yankee Injun scout coming hunting for me because I took his favorite horses and guns.’
Also grinning, the scout rolled his razor, shaving brush and soap into a canvas hold-all. When he walked towards the fire, he noticed that his captor backed away to a safe distance. Although the Army Colt dangled with its muzzle directed at the ground, the scout figured it could be swiftly brought into line if he made a wrong move. Clearly the moment to reverse their positions had not yet arrived.
Picking up his shirt, the scout drew it on. He discovered, on his head emerging through the neck-hole, that the Texan had taken advantage of his actions to go and collect the horn-handled, clip-pointed fighting knife. For a moment the scout felt uneasy, knowing that the Sheffield, England, firm of W. & H. Whitehead had engraved the message ‘DEATH TO TRAITORS’ along the eight-inch blade, to appeal to purchasers of Unionist persuasions.
‘Nice sentiment,’ drawled Dusty and tossed the knife to the scout’s feet. ‘Put it back in its sheath and leave it there.’
Obeying, the scout next knotted the bandana about his throat. He tilted the Stetson into place on his head and gathered up the sash. For the first time, Dusty realized that the sash was made of two sections of the silk, one stitched on top of the other. No, not stitched all the way round. On either side, above the hips when the sash was in place, the sections were not connected.
‘How do you find it is to draw from that sash, friend?’ Dusty inquired, guessing at the purpose of the unstitched areas.
‘Easy—and fast,’ answered the scout. ‘Once you get the hang of it.’
‘I’d sooner have holsters myself,’ Dusty commented.
‘Every man to his own taste, Cap’n,’ the scout said. ‘I find I can fetch ’em out a whole heap faster this way.’
‘Like you say,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Every man to his own taste. Now you’re dressed, you can saddle up the horses and we’ll pull out.’
‘You’re giving the orders,’ answered the scout.
Still keeping his distance, Dusty allowed the man to fold and pack the bed-roll. Then he watched while the other took the necessary items for saddling-up to the waiting horses. Selecting the dun to start work on, the scout laid the carefully folded blanket on its back. With a practiced swing, he elevated the McClellan saddle into position.
‘Tighten the girth and breast collar real good, friend,’ Dusty commanded. ‘I won’t be getting on until I’m sure you have.’
‘With a sneaky, suspicious nature like you’ve got,’ grinned the scout as he obeyed, ‘you’d make a mighty good lawman, Cap’n.’
Without knowing it, the long-haired Yankee had just made a mighty prophetic statement. In the years following the end of the War, Dusty would serve with distinction as marshal in three tough, wild, wide-open towns and leave them tamer, better places at the end of his terms of office. x
‘A half-smart lil Texas boy like me has to be sneaky and suspicious,’ Dusty replied, moving closer to make sure the work was completed to his satisfaction. ‘Happen he wants to stay alive this side of the Ouach—’
Even as he spoke, Dusty happened to glance across the Saline River. A tall man dressed in a hybrid mixture of Union Army and civilian clothes sat a horse among the trees on the other bank. Big, surly-featured, he had a revolver hanging low in his right thigh. The Burnside hat and the blue tunic he wore bore no insignia. Hanging open, the latter exposed a dirty white shirt.
Becoming aware of the small Texan’s preoccupation, the scout figured his chance had come. Silently, he stepped away from the dun. His moccasins made no sound as he took two long strides towards the unsuspecting Rebel.
Finding himself observed, the man at the other side of the river swung his horse around and trotted it back out of sight. Just a moment too late, Dusty realized the chance he had presented to his prisoner. Turning his head, he saw the scout springing towards him. Dusty had not looked away from the other for long, but it had proved to be long enough.
Hurling himself forward with the speed of a cougar plunging from a branch at a whitetail deer, the scout knotted and drove his right fist ahead of him. Rock-hard knuckles impacted against the side of Dusty’s jaw. For a moment, as he went crashing to the ground, everything seemed to burst before Dusty’s eyes into flashing, brilliant lights. Darkness welled in on him an instant before he sprawled face down on the springy grama grass of the clearing. He did not feel the scout turn him over and unbuckle his gunbelt.
~*~
At first, Dusty’s eye-lids refused to function when he tried to open them. Under him, the earth felt hard, the grass rough and his neck seemed to be twisted badly. A throbbing pain beat through his head, stemming from his jaw. Slowly his eyes trembled open, blinking at the sudden influx of light. Then the spinning in his skull started to ebb away. Strength oozed back, along with coherent thought. Slowly he moved his neck, turning his aching head until he could see a pair of calf-long Indian moccasins. Then the light hurt Dusty’s eyes and he rolled on to his stomach.
The scout stood several feet away, Navy Colts thrust butts forward in his silk sash. Lounging on spread apart feet, the long-haired Yankee had his hands thumb-hooked into the sash and Dusty’s gunbelt dangling over his broad left shoulder. Hearing the Texan stirring, the man glanced his way. Then he returned his gaze to the ford. A splashing sound reached the recumbent youngster’s ears. Starting to ease himself on to hands and knees, he looked at the four men who were riding through the water in his direction. They were not a comforting sight to a man in Dusty’s present situation.
‘Don’t try anything, Cap’n,’ said the scout, speaking from the corner of his mouth and with the minimum of lip movement. ‘That feller you saw’s coming back with his kinfolk.’
Two of the riders might easily have been related to the man who had brought Dusty into serious difficulties. All had un-trimmed black hair, unshaven, sullen, almost brutish faces with a strong family resemblance and were dressed in a similar manner. None were small and they went down in one-inch steps, the first of them being of the middle height.
Swinging his gaze to the fourth member of the party, Dusty felt an uneasy sense of recognition. From his round-topped, wide-brimmed hat, through his frock coat, string tie, trousers and boots, he wore all black. His grubby shirt might have once been white, but now looked a dirty shade of gray. Gaunt of build, with a bearded, hollow-cheeked face, he had an expression of piety that failed to reach, or match, the savage glow in his sunken, dark eyes. Nor did it go well with the ivory-handled Navy Colt carried in an open-topped cross-draw holster high on his left side. Maybe he would have passed for a circuit-riding preacher of the more severe kind to some people, but Dusty felt certain that he was nothing so innocuous.
All of the men darted glances about them, studying the clearing and its occupants with interest. To Dusty, it seemed that the four were adding up the value of everything before them; horses, saddles, firearms, even himself. He noticed the gaunt man staring at something near where he knelt. Following the direction of the other’s gaze, Dusty looked at his Jefferson Davis campaign hat. Sent flying from his head by the force of the blow, or through his collision with the ground, the hat lay with its star-in-the-circle insignia facing the ford.
‘Greetings, brother,’ the gaunt man intoned, swinging from his saddle and allowing his reins to dangle free.
‘Howdy,’ replied the scout, watching the other three dismount, leave their horses ground-hitched and follow their leader on foot towards him.
‘Brother Aaron here saw you in dire trouble and need, brother,’ the gaunt man continued, indicating the middle-sized of the trio. ‘And, like the Good Samaritan, we’ve come to give you succor.’
‘Now that’s right neighborly of you,’ the scout answered, ‘whatever that there “sucker” might be. Only I’m not needing any, thanks.’
‘Brother Aaron told us that this transgressor had you prisoner,’ the spokesman for the quartet declared as they came to a halt. ‘It was our duty as God-fearful men to come to your rescue.’
‘Why I’m tolerable obliged to you, reverend,’ the scout exclaimed in respect-filled tones. ‘And I sure hope you’re around happen I ever come to need rescuing.’
‘I tell you the peckerwood had him took prisoner, Parson!’ Aaron snarled.
‘Looks that way,’ said the scout, ‘don’t it?’
Fooled by the long-haired scout’s appearance of youth and confident that the odds were all in his favor, Aaron pushed by the gaunt man. Scowling belligerently, in a manner which had caused more than one victim to show alarm and fright, the man continued with his accusations and stepped closer to the scout.
‘That Reb bastard had your guns and was making you do what he wanted. Which’s why I fetched the Par—’
‘Meaning I’m a liar?’ asked the scout mildly.
‘You might say that!’ agreed Aaron, right hand moving suggestively in the direction of his holstered Remington Army revolver.
Instantly all the mildness left the scout and he once again demonstrated that he could move with considerable speed despite his size. Gliding forward a long step, he swung his left hand almost faster than the eye could follow. With a crack like the pop of a freight-driver’s whip, the hard palm of his hand caught Aaron at the side of the head. Having received a blow from the scout, Dusty could almost feel sympathy for Aaron. Coming as a surprise, and with considerable force, the attack spun the hard-case around in a circle to blunder into the smallest of his companions as the others started to move forward.
Spitting out a vicious curse, the biggest of the party grabbed for his Starr Navy revolver. Going by his response to the threat, the scout had been in other such situations. He responded with the same alacrity which had characterized all of his movements since taking advantage of Dusty’s distraction. Although his left hand had been put to excellent use, the right had remained by his side. Turning palm out the fingers wrapped about the hand-fitting white curves of the off-side Colt’s butt, while the thumb curled over the hammer spur. Twisting the gun from its silk retainer, the scout turned its seven-and-a-half inch barrel to the left, then outwards. Doing so caused the weapon’s thirty-eight ounce weight to cock back with hammer without any effort on the scout’s part. From waist level, the .36 muzzle lined itself with unerring precision at the hard-case’s favorite navel.
From first to very rapidly-following last, the whole move had been made with smooth, lightning fast, precision. Bringing his down-dropping hand to a quivering halt, a good three inches from the butt of the Starr, the burly hard-case stared as if fascinated at the octagonal-barreled revolver pointing so unerringly at him.
Dull red crept on to ‘Parson’s’ gaunt face and his eyes glowed with cold, savage rage; but he stopped his hand in its cross-the-body motion, well clear of his revolver. On separating, the remainder of the new arrivals glowered hate. The only movement made by their hands was the middle-sized man’s involuntary raising of his fingers to gently massage his stinging cheek.
Even Dusty, no slouch in matters pistolero himself, could not fault the speed and general competence with which the scout had extracted the Colt. Like the other had said earlier, drawing from the folds of a silk sash was fast—providing one took the trouble to learn. Nor was his talent confined to the right hand.
Ejecting the blood that had collected in his mouth, Aaron removed his fingers from the cheek, intending to transfer them to the butt of his gun. Back curved the scout’s left hand. It slipped free and cocked the near hip’s Colt with almost an equal facility to that displayed when producing the gun’s mate. Again the production of a revolver, in a remarkably short space of time, brought a potentially threatening gesture to an abrupt and definite halt.
‘As the Good Book says,’ boomed the man called ‘Parson’. ‘Raise not thy hand against thy brother, lest the might of the Lord shall smite thee and bring thy pride to dust.’
‘He ain’t my brother,’ the scout pointed out, accepting the quotation as being genuinely from the Bible, but keeping both Colts leveled. ‘Which I don’t take easy to getting called a liar.’
‘Aaron meant no harm by the words, brother,’ Parson insisted.
‘Men’ve got killed saying ’em,’ warned the scout coldly, ‘harmless or not.’
‘He spoke hastily, perhaps, brother, but with good and righteous cause,’ the gaunt man stated and waved a hand in Dusty’s direction. ‘These Secessionist scum killed his parents, good God-fearing folks that they were, and I wouldn’t soil your ears with the vileness they did to his sweet, unspoiled sister. Yes, brother, just as dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savor, so does the sight of that hated uniform bring anger to Aaron’s poor and ill-tried soul.’
With each word, the angular man’s voice raised a pitch until he was thundering the speech as if from a pulpit. He hoped that he would hold the scout’s attention for long enough to allow his companions to wrest the advantage from the tanned, tawny-haired Westerner. The hope did not reach fulfillment.
‘Likely,’ was all the scout said, without relaxing his vigilance to a noticeable degree. ‘So how’s it affect me?’
‘If you just leave us have that short-growed son-of-a-bitch,’ Aaron put in with a hint of sarcasm. ‘We’ll hand him his needings.’
‘I’d surely admire to do it, brother, for your poor lil sister’s sake,’ the scout declared, sounding as if every word came straight from his heart. ‘Only I don’t reckon ole Colonel Verncombe’d be right pleased was I to show at Little Rock without his prisoner.’
Still on his hands and knees, Dusty saw a slight, but definite change come over the quartet. Going by their mutual flashing exchange of glances and general loss of aggressive attitudes, they were aware of Colonel Verncombe’s sentiments on the subject of guerillas or other irregular organizations. Senior colonel in the Union’s Army of Arkansas, commanding officer of Buller’s most efficient regiment, Verncombe was a man whose opinions and desires must be reckoned with by any guerrilla band if it hoped to stay in operation around the Toothpick State.
That the men were guerillas, Dusty no longer doubted. Their appearance had suggested that such might be the case, as did their behavior. However, the mention of the name ‘Parson’ had clinched the matter beyond any shadow of a doubt. Falling into the hands of Northern irregulars, especially members of that particular band, was a situation on which no supporter of the Confederate States cared to contemplate. Dusty realized that the scout might very soon have the opportunity to repay him for killing the boar. From what he had said so far, the long-haired Yankee aimed to do just that. In which case, the scout was placing himself in a position of danger. Parson Wightman had the reputation of being a real bad man to cross; and Dusty felt sure that he had guessed the gaunt man’s identity correctly.
In the years before the start of the War Between The States, Augustus Wightman had been a hell-fire-and-damnation preacher with his eyes on advancement to a wealthy bishopric. He had selected on the Slavery Issue as offering him the best chance of attaining his ambition. By thundering searing condemnations of all who opposed the abolition of slavery, he had built up a sizeable following in his home city—but the bishopric went to another priest.
From that day on, Wightman had been a changed man. Laying the blame for his failure on slave-owning interests, he had continued his campaign against them. However, what had once been the utterances of a self-seeking, if occasionally devout, man soon developed into the ravings of a religious fanatic of the worst kind.
Soon after the commencement of hostilities, he had enlisted in the Union Army as a chaplain. Eighteen months later, he had been compelled to resign and was unfrocked by his denomination. There had been tales of outrages committed against Confederate prisoners, and uglier stories of Southern women being raped by Negroes at Wightman’s instigation. Far too many, in fact, for them all to be lies by the heathen Secessionist trash to discredit a man of the cloth; as he had tried to claim.
Disregarding his protests, the Union Army’s top brass had issued orders that Wightman be given the choice of quitting or facing a court-martial. No less quickly, the leaders of his church had removed him from their midst. Too wise to resist, for he had known just how much truth there had been in the rumors, he had taken the easy way out. Wishing to avoid a scandal, Army and Church had let him go.
By that time, Wightman had gained a taste for power and a delight in the type of activities which had caused his downfall. So he had formed a band of irregulars, gathering together criminal elements and the worst kind of draft-dodgers who evaded service in the Army. It said much for the strength of his personality and acquired dexterity in the use of weapons that he had welded such an evil, motley crowd into a single unit.
Backed by such men, Wightman had commenced a career of murderous atrocity combined with theft. At last, learning that stories of his activities were being published in foreign, pro-Confederate, newspapers, the Federal Congress had ordered that Wightman’s outfit be disbanded. When he had refused to do so, Brevet-Colonel Frederick W. Benteen, Jnr., xi a man of forcible personality and prompt action, had been assigned to bring Wightman in. Moving swiftly, Benteen’s battalion had located and attacked the Parson’s band. Although Wightman and some of the leading members had escaped, the rest of the evil crew were killed, captured or sent flying for safety towards the Canadian border.
Left with a mere ten out of over fifty followers, Parson Wightman had drifted from the danger area. His attempts to re-establish himself had been unsuccessful, and he had found no respite in the East. So he had pushed to the west with his dwindling band.
Although rumors had reached the Texas Light Cavalry that Wightman’s band were in Arkansas and hid-out somewhere along the Saline River, there had been no confirmation. Dusty now found himself in a position to supply proof of their presence—if, of course, he lived long enough and could escape to return and give it.
Standing behind his cocked, lined Colts, the scout kept a careful watch on the quartet. At the same time, he hoped that the small Texan would act in a sensible manner. With luck, the weight of Colonel Verncombe’s name would pull them out of their peril; unless the Rebel captain made some move that would trigger off a shooting fracas.
‘Be peaceable, brothers,’ commanded Wightman, darting a coldly-warning glare at Aaron Maxim and his brothers Abel and Job. ‘This young man shares with us in serving the blessed cause of defeating the traitorous Secessionists.’ He looked about him quickly and went on, ‘Are you alone, brother?’
‘Only for a spell,’ the scout replied.
‘Then you are fortunate enough to have companions at hand?’ Wightman insisted.
Interest showed amidst the scowls on the Maxim brothers’ faces, but they refrained from making any hostile gestures and awaited the answer to their leader’s question. Their future relationship with the scout would depend on what he said.
‘ “Californy” Bill’s bringing Major Galbraith ’n’ Troop “G” along,’ replied the scout frankly. ‘They’ll likely be about four, five miles back by now.’
‘How come you ain’t with ’em?’ demanded Abel Maxim. ‘The Major left me to take this Reb captain on to Little Rock while him and the Troop run his Company off,’ answered the scout, returning the Colts to the slits in his sash. ‘Should have done it ’n’ be headed this way by now. “Californy” said’s how he’d bring ’em on my trail.’
From his position to one side, Dusty heard and understood. Unless he missed his guess, the scout was running a desperate bluff to keep them both out of the guerillas’ hands. Whoever that long-haired jasper might be, he would make a mighty tough enemy in a poker game. Nothing about him hinted he was telling other than the truth. Replacing the Colts created the impression that, with help so close at hand, he did not need fear the quartet. Even the selection of the distance separating him from ‘Californy’ Bill and Troop ‘G’ of the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons had been carefully made. The scout did not know from which direction the guerillas had come, or how far behind they had observed. So he had picked a distance to which they would have been unlikely to be able to see; yet close enough for speedy reprisals to be taken in the event of treachery on the part of Wightman’s men.
Still weakened by the effects of the scout’s blow, Dusty knew that he could not move fast enough to attempt an escape at that moment. So he remained motionless and silent, watching every move and taking in each word. Studying the guerillas’ acceptance of the scout’s treatment and interplay of questioning glances, Dusty could tell they were uncertain whether the westerner had reinforcements close by or not. So was Dusty, come to that.
Although Aaron Maxim scowled in surly disbelief, he left his doubts unspoken. One taste of the scout’s hard hand had been enough for him and he suspected that, if there should be a next time, the response to further criticism might be a bullet. Of the others, only the largest of the brothers raised any comment.
‘I didn’t know California Bill was hereabouts,’ Abel growled, looking a mite uneasy and concerned.
‘Colonel Benteen lent him ’n’ me to the “New Jersey” Dragoons for a spell,’ the scout explained. ‘Figured us being such all-fired good Injun-fighters ’n’ all’s we could maybe help ’em ag’in the Texas Light Cavalry. You know ole “Californy” from someplace, mister?’
‘We’ve heard tell on him,’ Abel admitted sourly.
‘I tell you, I ain’t never seen his better at reading sign ’n’ following tracks,’ the scout continued cheerfully, as if imparting information of importance. ‘Which, I sure didn’t try to hide which way we was coming.’
If there was one part of California Bill’s character upon which the scout did not need to elaborate, it was his ability at following tracks. All of Wightman’s party had good reason to remember it.
One of the men who had braved the terrible over-land journey to the West Coast during the gold rush of 1849, California Bill had not made his fortune. Instead, he had received a thorough education in all matters pertaining to Indian warfare. Serving the Union Army as a civilian scout, it had been he—sent East for the duration of the War—who had guided Benteen’s battalion to what Wightman’s guerillas had fondly believed to be a secret camp.
Frowning, the Parson thought fast. For something over a month, he and his last eight companions—two had deserted on the way west—had been living at a small farm close to the Saline River. They had come to Arkansas in the hope that Buller might take a more lenient attitude than most Union, or Confederate, generals towards their irregular activities. Being wolf-smart, Wightman had advised extreme caution. So they had held off committing their usual depredations, except on a minor scale to obtain the necessities of life, until a sympathizer in a Little Rock could discover how the commanding general of the Army of Arkansas would react to their presence in his area.
So far there had been no reply and Wightman knew that his men were getting restless. There were other guerilla bands operating in the Toothpick State, or back East, in which the less well-known members of his outfit might find shelter. So he wanted to be able to give them some definite news as quickly as possible.
Slowly Wightman turned his eyes in the direction of Dusty’s hat and he made sure that he had identified its insignia correctly. The Texas Light Cavalry was Ole Devil Hardin’s own regiment, organized, financed and equipped at his instigation. For such a small, insignificant youngster to be a captain suggested that he stood high in Hardin’s favor. If so, to deliver him into Buller’s hands would gain the general’s approbation. Perhaps sufficiently so for Buller—hard-pressed and under heavy criticism due to his lack of success against the Rebels in Arkansas—to overlook Wightman’s past indiscretions and confer at least a semi-official status upon him.
The only problem being how to obtain possession of the prisoner. Using force did not appeal to the Parson. Not at that moment, anyway. Already the long-haired scout had demonstrated a speed that none of the quartet could equal when drawing their guns. So he would be much too fast for any of them to prevent him from shooting should they force a showdown. Of course their combined numbers would bring them through, but at least one of the four would die. There was an ugly element of chance over which of them it would be that did not appeal to Wightman.
More than that, if the scout had told the truth, killing him would not solve the problem. No matter how they tried, Wightman’s inexperienced companions could not hide all signs of the crime from a man like California Bill. Once the old timer discovered that something had happened to his friend, he would not rest until he had led Troop ‘G’ to the men responsible.
Or was the scout bluffing?
Wightman decided against calling the bluff until he had formed a better impression of what cards the opposition held.
‘Then brother,’ the Parson said, managing to bring a kind of joviality to his sober features. ‘Why not accompany me to my home and wait for your friends there?’
‘Well, I—’ the scout began.
‘We have heard that there are other Rebels between here and Little Rock,’ Wightman interrupted. ‘If you meet them, you might lose your prisoner and your own freedom. I would be doing you a disservice, brother, if I didn’t insist you come.’
‘Wouldn’t be right at all,’ Job Maxim agreed and his brothers rumbled menacing confirmation.
For a moment Dusty thought that the scout intended to refuse. Then he saw the other look across the river and stiffen slightly. There had been a definite challenge in the words. If the scout refused to accompany the quartet, he would have to back his non-compliance with roaring guns. Dusty hoped that he would be able to help in some way. With that in mind, he started to come to his feet.
‘You stay put there, you Rebel bastard!’ Aaron spat, making as if to advance and clenching his fists.
‘Major Galbraith don’t take to folks rough-handling his prisoners,’ the scout stated, moving between Dusty and Maxim.
‘He ain’t here—!’ Abel started to protest.
‘Let’s just say I’m acting for him,’ answered the scout evenly. ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do, Cap’n, go saddle your hoss.’
Shaking his head, for coming into an upright position had started it spinning again, Dusty stood and looked at the scout. He caught a brief, barely discernible nod from the plainsman and decided to obey. Clearly the other did not intend to accept the challenge right then. So Dusty decided that he had better go along with the decision.
Leading the way to the second saddle, the scout picked up the Henry and its fancy medicine boot. Then he stood back and allowed Dusty to collect the saddle. They both noticed Aaron talked animatedly into Wightman’s ear and throwing angry glares at them.
‘He’s sure pot-boiling mad about something,’ Dusty remarked, gathering the saddle-blanket, bridle and reins in his left hand, while his right held the light McClellan saddle and its breast strap.
‘Likely telling the Parson he’s certain sure you’d got me prisoner when he come up on us the first time,’ answered the scout. ‘Which, if it’s believed, ’ll make a helluva liar out of me.’
Wanting an excuse to prolong the conversation, Dusty allowed his left hand’s burden to slip. Although Wightman and the brothers continued to talk in low, argumentative tones, they did not entirely relax their vigilance over Dusty and the Yankee scout.
‘So nobody’s coming, huh?’ Dusty asked, bending to retrieve the equipment.
‘Not so’s I know on,’ admitted the scout. ‘I’d say we’re safe until they get to know it.’
‘Why wait?’ Dusty inquired. ‘Just let me grab a hold of one of my guns, accidental-like and we’ll shoot our way by ’em.’
‘I’d thought some on it. Near on done it just now, comes to that.’
‘What stopped you?’
An increased sense of liking and admiration grew in the scout. At no time had the small Texan looked at the dead pig, or given a single hint to remind him that he owed his life to the other’s skill with an Army Colt. Maybe they were serving on opposite sides in the civil conflict that was tearing their country apart, but the scout figured his captive would do to ride the river with, even if the water should be over the willows. However, the soft-spoken question required an answer.
‘There’s another son-of-a-bitch of ’em across the river,’ the scout explained. ‘And he’s got what looks awful like a Spencer rifle pointed slap-dab at us.’
~*~
At the Scout’s warning, Dusty turned his eyes to the western bank of the Saline River. He saw the reason for the scout’s earlier failure to take up the quartet’s challenge. Standing partially concealed by a slippery elm tree, a middle-sized, stocky man looked towards them along the sights of what appeared to be a Spencer repeating rifle. The newcomer’s presence threw an entirely different complexion over the affair. If Dusty and the scout tried to escape, his rifle would halt at least one of them.
Carrying the gear towards the chestnut, with the scout by his left side, Dusty saw Aaron Maxim slouching their way. Instead of showing pure suspicion, Aaron’s unprepossessing features glinted with triumph. He looked like a man who had finally caught out another in a trick or lie. However his present feelings of elation did not entirely wipe away his caution, for he halted well beyond the reach of the scout’s arms.
‘If he was your prisoner all along,’ Aaron challenged, ‘how come you’d had to knock him down when we rid up?’
‘That was your son-of-a-bitching fault,’ rumbled the scout menacingly. ‘If you hadn’t come slinking and crawling about over the river, I’d not’ve stopped watching him. He tried to jump me and I had to knock him down.’
‘Yeah!’ snorted Aaron. ‘Well I—’
‘Deacon!’ the scout called, not wanting Wightman to guess that his identity had been discovered.
‘What is it, brother?’ asked the Parson, flashing a triumphant glance to Abel Maxim at the ‘proof’ that the scout did not recognize them.
‘I’m getting quick-sick of this jasper riding me,’ the scout stated flatly. ‘If he don’t quit—and fast—I’ll forget how he’s suffering over his sister and let windows in his skull. And I’ll do it so fast your “brother” across the river there won’t be fixed to stop me.’
All the pomp and aggression oozed out of Aaron as the implication of the words struck him. Looking at the threatening figure of the long-haired westerner, crouching lightly on spread-apart, slightly bent legs and with hands turned palms outwards close to the white butts of the Colts, he realized that he might be in imminent danger of being killed. Up to that point, confident that Blocky’s presence beyond the ford was unsuspected, Aaron had been all set to face down and call the scout’s bluff. Instead of that, the scout was aware of his peril and had spoken the truth to Wightman. Maybe Blocky would down him, but by that time Aaron would probably be too dead to care.
Although learning that the scout had located Blocky handed Wightman a shock, he tried his best to hide it.
Despite the gaunt man’s objections, Aaron had insisted on going and testing his theory. Wightman had wanted to make sure that the scout did not have friends in the vicinity before taking action, but could not dissuade the hard-case. Watching Aaron’s face, Wightman knew that the other would be only too pleased to be rescued from his predicament.
‘Peace, brothers,’ the Parson intoned as solemnly as if pronouncing a benediction to a wealthy congregation. ‘Peace, lest one of you, like Nicanor, lays dead in his harness. Curb thy tongue, Brother Aaron, for it is as the crackling of thorns under a pot. And you, stranger, bear with him in his grief, toil and tribulations. To err is human, to forgive, divine.’
Only too eager to slip out without loss of face—or life— Aaron grunted what might have been an apology and turned to lurch back to his brothers. Being too wise a man to take the matter further, the scout let the hard-case go without protest or added comment.
‘Close,’ Dusty breathed, continuing his interrupted walk towards the horses.
‘Real close,’ agreed the scout. ‘He looked like to wet his pants when I let on about his “brother” over there.’
For all his apparent calm, the scout felt distinctly uneasy. He knew that the quartet were suspicious, but hoped he had so far avoided confirming their doubts. Possibly the forthcoming saddling of the chestnut would give them further reason to know that he had been lying. Not by the fact that the Rebel captain carried a Union Army McClellan saddle, bearing a metal insignia inscribed with the letters ‘US’ at the intersection of the breast-collar’s Y-shape. Shortages of materials in the South had caused its Armies to rely to a great extent on what they could loot from the Yankees.
The chestnut gelding caused the scout’s anxiety. Spirited, it required careful and competent handling. Perhaps the small Texan lacked the necessary skill to gain its confidence. If so, the four guerillas would guess that the chestnut did not belong to him. Of course, that could be explained away by a statement that the Rebel had lost his own mount; but the suspicions would increase.
Studying the chestnut as he approached it, Dusty’s assessment of its nature coincided with the scout’s. Going by the steady manner in which it stood, it was used to being collected by hand rather than roped. So Dusty drew closer at an angle from ahead and towards its near shoulder. Speaking gently and calmly, he laid his right hand on its shoulder. From there, showing no hesitation, he ran his palm across the chestnut’s withers, along its neck and to the head.
Watching the manner in which Dusty rapidly gained the gelding’s confidence, the scout breathed a sigh of relief. To the quartet hovering in the background, it would seem that the small Texan knew the horse and was treating it in the usual manner.
Satisfied he could deal with the horse, Dusty knotted the separate ends of the reins. He then slipped them over the sleek, well-formed head, but kept them just behind the ears. Doing so gave him a measure of control over the gelding if it should try to move away from him. With deft ease, Dusty fitted the bridle into position and adjusted the bit in the chestnut’s mouth.
Fortunately for himself and the scout, Dusty had handled enough Yankee McClellan saddles to be conversant with their differences from his double-girthed range rig. After placing the folded blanket in position, he draped the right side’s stirrup leathers and girth across the seat. Hoisting the saddle into the air, he laid it on the chestnut’s back. With the girth tightened and the breast-collar fitted as perfectly as the scout could have desired, Dusty set the stirrups to the level of his shorter legs. He made the latter move under the pretence of testing the fit of the saddle, and avoided permitting the quartet to notice that the stirrup-leathers had been adjusted for a much taller man’s use. Freeing the reins from their knot, he held them while he unbuckled the hobbles, which he placed in the left-hand saddle-pouch.
Hanging Dusty’s gunbelt across the dun’s saddle, the scout secured the medicine boot to the left side of the pommel. Then he removed and put away his hobbles.
‘Mount up, Reb,’ he ordered. ‘We’re all set to go, Deacon.’
‘Come with us then,’ Wightman commanded.
‘Now I ain’t suggesting nothing,’ the scout said, in a tone that showed he was. ‘But I reckon it’d be safer for “Brother” Aaron to ride in front of me— Just so’s he can stop the Reb here from escaping.’
‘A goodly notion, brother,’ affirmed Wightman, silencing Aaron’s protests before they could be uttered. ‘Now I’m a man of peace and know nothing about such things, but shouldn’t you fasten that blasphemous Southern dog’s reins to your saddle? He may try to seek safety in flight.’
‘He’ll not achieve it with us all ‘round him,’ the scout answered.
‘If he does,’ Abel growled, ‘we’ll stop him for good and all.’
‘Likely he knows it,’ said the scout calmly and swung astride the dun. ‘Come on, I can surely use some breakfast.’
Mounting up, the guerillas formed a loose box around Dusty and the scout. Glowering savagely, Aaron went ahead. Wightman rode at the scout’s left side and Job moved into position to Dusty’s right. Drawing the Mississippi rifle from its boot, Abel brought up the rear. Splashing through the ford, they were joined by the Spencer-toting man on the western bank.
‘Who’re they, Parson?’ Blocky inquired, nursing the repeater across his upper thighs.
‘A soldier in the blessed cause, Brother Blocky,’ Wightman answered. ‘And a miserable peckerwood wretch who cowardly surrendered himself in the face of the righteous wrath of Colonel Verncombe’s Dragoons.’
‘Verncom—!’ Blocky ejaculated, looking around nervously. ‘Is he—?’
‘One of his Troops is coming,’ Wightman answered. ‘Until it arrives, I am extending our hospitality to our brother here.’
With that, the gaunt man jerked his head to the rear. Allowing the others to ride by, Blocky ranged his mount alongside Abel’s and started to converse with him in a low tone. Dusty guessed that Abel was giving Blocky the full story and mentioning Wightman’s plans for the future. However, the pair held their voices at such a level that the words did not carry to the small Texan’s ears.
Led by Aaron, the party passed through the woods parallel to the river for about half a mile. Then they swung along the banks of a stream that ran through a narrow, wood-sided gorge. Turning a corner, Dusty found that the gorge opened out and he received his first sight of the guerillas’ camp. An inclination of the scout’s head drew Dusty’s attention to where, on his right-hand slope, a tall, gangling man sat nursing a Sharps rifle and resting his back against a fallen tree’s trunk. Making as if to rise, the man received an imperious downwards wave from Wightman. Guessing at its meaning, he sank back again and resumed his watch on the bend in the gorge.
From the sentry, Dusty turned his gaze to the band’s hideout. What he saw filled him with a sense of suspicious contemplation. The small log cabin, with a lean-to at the left and a truck garden to the right, the barn, backhouse and the empty pig-pens down by the stream all looked in too good condition to have been deserted by their owners for any length of time. Dusty wondered what had happened to the people who had lived there.
On arriving at the front of the house, the men spread into a line. Giving the signal to dismount, Wightman swung from his saddle. Then he seemed to be struck by a thought and looked at Abel.
‘Will you and Brother Blocky go and see to the horses down in the south forty?’ the Parson asked. ‘I thought that I heard a mountain lion last night and they may be in fear and trembling from the beast.’
‘Sure, Parson,’ Abel answered, reversing his direction halfway to the ground. ‘Come on, Blocky. Let’s go see.’
‘And you, friend,’ Wightman continued, clearly wanting to prevent the scout from thinking too much about the order. ‘If you will come with me, we will secure your prisoner in the barn. You will understand, that with Brother Aaron’s feelings about the God-less Secessionists, I can neither have him in the house, nor let him partake of our food.’
Even with his desire to hang on to Dusty, Wightman could not lessen his bigoted, intolerant hatred towards one of the people whom he blamed for failing to receive the bishopric. That thought more than any other had prompted his words.
‘It’s your place ’n’ your food,’ the scout answered, although he shared Dusty’s thoughts on the absence of the real owners. ‘Let’s go, Reb.’
Even as they walked towards the corner of the cabin, the scout realized that he had left Dusty’s gunbelt suspended over his saddle. Knowing that to fetch it might arouse suspicion, he made no attempt to do so.
A tall, fairly handsome young man, dressed in the part-military fashion of all the band but Wightman, ambled around the corner towards them. A low-tied holster on his right thigh carried an Army Colt, balanced by an empty sheath at his left hip. The knife from the sheath, a long, spear-pointed, double-edged weapon, was in his right hand. Not for any Sinister purpose, but to round the one-inch diameter end of a six-inch length of oak branch. From beyond the cabin came the explosive snorts and hoof-stampings of an angry horse, mingled with loud curses.
‘What’s happening, Charley?’ asked Wightman.
‘Ole Stap brung in a real fine-looking black hoss,’ the young man answered. ‘Trouble being, they ain’t getting on too good.’
‘Let’s take a look,’ Wightman suggested.
On turning the corner, Dusty received a shock. Behind the cabin, concealed from their view by it and the barn, was a small pole corral. At its open entrance, a big, burly young man—apparently a younger member of the Maxim family, clung to the reins of Dusty’s black stallion with his left hand. In his right, he held a leather quirt. Even as the man appeared, Stap lashed savagely at the stallion with the quirt. Squealing in pain, it reared high and its front hooves flailed the air. Stap moved back, trying to drag the horse down on all fours. Snarling obscenities, he drew the quirt over his right shoulder and prepared to use it again. If he heard the angry growl and sound of rapidly approaching feet to his rear, the sounds gave no warning of danger to him. However, something closed on the end of the quirt. Before Stap could resist, the whip was wrenched from his fingers.
Hot rage blasted inside Dusty at the sight. Ignoring the danger doing it presented, he hurled himself from among the other men. He had spent much time in winning the stallion’s confidence and training it by far gentler means than were usual in the mid-1860’s. In return for his kindness, the horse had given him very good service. Only the previous evening, it had even saved his life by its courage, stamina and speed. So he could not stand back and watch it abused by the foul-mouthed, brutal-faced guerilla.
Four racing strides carried Dusty within distance of Stap. Out stabbed the small Texan’s right hand. Gripping the lash of the quirt, he tore it from the other’s grasp and flung it aside. Spitting curses like boiling water erupting from a kettle’s spout, Stap released the stallion’s reins. Already drawing back, the big horse retreated into the corral. It’s tormentor swung around, glaring in almost maniacal rage. Finding himself faced by a small, insignificant-looking Rebel captain, Stap let out another screech.
‘I’ll kill you!’ he howled and hurled a power-packed round-house left towards Dusty’s head.
With his fist in flight, Stap became aware of a sudden, amazing, almost scaring change come over his proposed victim. Suddenly, miraculously, the Rebel stopped looking small. He seemed to take on a size and heft to make him larger and more powerful than his brawny assailant. Unfortunately for him, Stap noticed the change too late to halt his attack.
‘What the hell!’ Job bellowed as Dusty bounded towards his brother.
‘I’ll stop hi—!’ Aaron began, right hand dropping towards his revolver.
‘Let him go!’ growled Wightman, face alight with sadistic delight. ‘Your brother will smite him hip and thigh.’
Which seemed a reasonably logical conclusion, comparing the six inches difference in Dusty’s and Stap’s height and the latter’s considerable advantage of weight. Stap had a reputation for being a rough-house brawler, with better than fair skill in a brawl. For all his plans to ingratiate himself with General Buller at the Rebel captain’s expense, Wightman could not resist the temptation to watch one of the hated Secessionists receive a brutal beating. Even if the scout had told the truth about being followed by a Troop of Dragoons, the injuries inflicted by Stap could be explained away. There was, however, the matter of how the scout would react to the sight.
‘You saw how that Rebel filth attacked Brother Stapley without provocation, stranger?’ Wightman challenged, looking at the plainsman.
Before the scout could be forced to take a stand on the issue, Stap launched the attack—and they all received something of a shock.
Ducking under the punch, Dusty let the bigger man’s impetus bring him forward. Even as Stap realized that his antagonist had most unsportingly avoided the attack, he started to have troubles of his own. Bowing his legs to take him beneath the other’s fist, Dusty kept his right hand braced against the right hip. Like a flash, the small Texan struck back.
The manner in which Dusty held his hand might have looked strange to western eyes, but any student of Oriental karate could have warned Stap of the danger. Instead of closing his hand, Dusty bent his thumb across the open and upturned palm. Driven forward, with a slight twisting of the torso to increase their force, the extended fingers thrust into Stap’s solar plexus. To the guerilla, it felt as if he had been jabbed with a blunt spike of wood. Breath burst from his lips and he changed from advance to retreat, folding over. Coming down, the center of his face met with Dusty’s left fist as it rose in an occidental fashion. Dusty proved to be almost as effective when striking in the conventional manner.
Almost, but not quite. He had hoped to strike Stap on the jaw, which would have rendered the guerilla hors de combat, or so near to it as not to matter. Instead, the other’s withdrawal caused the fist to miss its mark. Not that Stap felt any gratitude over his good fortune. Plowing into Stap’s already unlovely nose, Dusty’s knuckles crushed it. The force of the blow lifted Stap erect. Blood gushed from his nostrils as he spun around twice and crashed back-first into the left side gate-post.
‘I saw him, for sure,’ admitted the scout, grinning maliciously. ‘Ain’t he the mean one?’
Once again the small, insignificant-seeming young Texan had won the scout’s respect by proving himself to be a mighty capable and efficient big man.
Shaking his head, to try to bring sense back into it, Stap reached for his Colt. In his pain and bewildered condition, he did not make anything like a flashing, well-performed draw. Allowing the gun to clear leather and begin to lift in his direction, Dusty lashed up his right leg. Coming inwards, the toe of his boot caught the back of Stap’s palm with a force that numbed the hand. Stap’s fingers opened and the gun spun away from him. For all that, he responded with some speed. Thrown from his daze by the agony of the kick, Stap focused his eyes on his assailant. Snarling barely coherent curses, Stap whipped across his left arm in a back-hand slap to Dusty’s head. Caught with his foot still descending from the kick, Dusty pitched sideways. Once more the small Texan lost his campaign hat.
‘Get him, Stap!’ screeched Charley excitedly, throwing the piece of wood down in front of him and waving the knife. ‘Stomp him good!’
Willing to carry out his companion’s advice, Stap thrust himself from the gate post. Although the Texan had not fallen, the slap had knocked him back several feet. He looked to be off balance and easy meat for reprisals. Eager to hand them out, Stap hurled himself after Dusty. Extending his arms, the guerilla’s big hands reached ready to take hold of the small Rebel.
By the time Stap had drawn near, Dusty was in full control of himself. Coming to a halt facing the guerilla, Dusty side-stepped at the last moment. Pivoting around as the other blundered on, the small Texan caught him by the shoulder and turned him. Then Dusty demonstrated some of the fighting skill which the spy at Pine Bluff had doubted if he possessed. Smashing a right cross punch to Stap’s jaw, Dusty sent him backwards and kept him retreating with a battery of rapidly-thrown blows to the head and body.
‘The stinking peckerwood son-of-a-bitch!’ Aaron spat out, his gun still half drawn and allowed to remain that way because he had believed his brother could easily thrash the diminutive Rebel. ‘I’ll fix—’
‘Leave the gun be, Maxim!’ Wightman hissed savagely, clamping a hold on Aaron’s wrist as the other tried to complete the withdrawal. ‘Like I’ve been telling you, we need him alive!’
Twisting his head, Aaron stared briefly, but furiously, at the speaker. Then he swung his eyes away from the cold, savage, gaunt fate. Experience had taught the guerilla that his leader was never so dangerous, or determined to receive compliance with his wishes, than when he dropped the pious-sounding word ‘brother’ and began to use surnames. Some people might regard Parson Wightman’s pomposity and pseudo-religious cantings as harmlessly amusing, but Aaron knew him to be a cold-blooded killer with no scruples against taking even his own men’s lives if they crossed him.
So Aaron allowed the revolver to slip back into its holster and jerked his arm from the gaunt man’s grasp. Common-sense told Aaron that, even if Wightman did not stop him shooting the Texan, the long-haired scout would do it. There was another, almost equally effective way in which he might help his younger brother.
Driven backwards by Dusty’s fists, Stap literally did not know from where the next blow was coming. Instead of trying to anticipate the next point to be attacked and guarding it, his hands fled to the last place on which his assailant’s hard fists had impacted. Caught by an almost classic left jab to the jaw, he nearly ran rearwards to escape further punishment. To his horror, he saw that the enormous Texan was following with the clear intention of continuing the punishment.
In his eagerness to catch up with the reeling guerilla, Dusty did not notice that he was passing in front of the other men. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Aaron lunging in his direction and felt the man’s hands close on his right wrist. Bringing himself to a halt with his weight on the right foot, Dusty did not try to jerk his arm free. Instead he threw his left leg to the rear, pivoting himself around. Twisting closer instead of attempting to draw away, Dusty hurled his left arm rearwards and up. It passed over Aaron’s clutching hands, propelling the clenched fist at his face. Once again Dusty reverted to karate. Knotting his fist so that the second finger’s protruding root made the impact, he crashed it against the philtrum collection of nerves immediately under Aaron’s nose. Sharp agony stabbed through Aaron’s head, numbing his brain. Opening his hands, he stumbled away with them flying to his damaged face.
The respite had given Stap a chance to recover. Changing direction, he leapt from behind the Texan. Throwing his right arm across the back of Dusty’s neck, he bent the other for a headlock and planned to drive the left fist into his face. Up flashed Dusty’s left arm to Stap’s left shoulder and his right hand closed just as quickly on the upper inside of the guerilla’s left thigh. Throwing his right leg in front of Stap’s, before the young hard-case could carry out his second intention, Dusty ducked his left shoulder in the direction of the ground.
So suddenly did Dusty respond, that Stap was taken by surprise and pulled off balance. Forcing the guerilla’s head down with his left arm, Dusty pushed strongly at the trapped thigh while subsiding. Stap’s feet left the ground, rose into the air and described a beautiful semi-circle. Coming to earth with a solid thud, he felt himself released and bounced away from his would-be victim,
Once again Aaron tried to come to his brother’s rescue. Darting forward with his hands still trying to lessen the pain from his nose, he halted between Dusty’s spread-apart feet and raised his right leg. Although Aaron hoped to stamp his heel into Dusty’s groin, the attempt came to nothing. Hooking his right foot behind Aaron’s left ankle, Dusty drove the sole of his left boot against the other’s near kneecap. By jerking forward at the ankle and pressing to the rear on the knee, Dusty sent the burly guerilla toppling away to crash on his back in the dirt.
Before Dusty could rise, Stap had writhed around and plunged on top of him. Kneeling astride the small Texan’s torso, Stap smashed a right which twisted his head sideways. Then the young hard-case closed his hands about Dusty’s throat. Raising Dusty’s shoulders from the ground, Stap tried to crash his head against it. By bracing his neck muscles, Dusty lessened the impact; but he knew that he must escape.
Then he remembered seeing the length of branch discarded by Charley and recalled something taught to him by Tommy Okasi, his uncle’s Oriental servant. Even as his upper torso was raised again, his right hand scrabbled for and found the stick. Down drove Dusty’s head, but again his braced muscles and Stap’s weakened condition saved him from incapacitation. Gripping the stick at its center, Dusty lashed his right arm forward and up. The protruding butt end of the stick below the heel of his hand crashed on to the bridge of Stap’s nose. Instantly the guerilla’s brain seemed to burst into a searing white-hot fire. Screaming, he took his hands from Dusty’s neck and involuntarily began to rear upwards.
Feeling the weight leave his body, Dusty braced his feet and head on the ground. Bowing the rest of his frame upwards, he caught Stap between the thighs and pitched the guerilla head-first from him.
There was need for haste in escaping from beneath Stap. Already Aaron was starting to rise and Job was moving in. Aaron hurled himself through the air without regaining his feet. Bending his knees as he sank into a lying position, Dusty caught the man’s chest on the soles of his boots. Again the improvised yawara stick proved its worth. Devised by Okinawans, forbidden by their rulers to carry arms, the techniques of yawara fighting served the small Texan equally well. As Aaron’s weight pressed down on him, Dusty propelled the rounded butt-end as he had at Stap—except that this time he sent the hard hemisphere into his assailant’s temple. Aaron’s body went limp. Exerting all his strength, Dusty straightened his legs and flung the unconscious hard-case from him. Using the same impulsion, Dusty threw himself upright.
A low, savage snarl from his right warned him of danger. Glancing around, he found that Job was rushing towards him. Already the man’s right fist flung at Dusty’s head. Gasping in breaths of air, Dusty dropped into a kneeling position that carried him beneath the blow. With his left leg thrust almost straight to the rear and right knee bent, he looked like a sprinter preparing to start a race. Using much the same methods as a sprinter leaving the blocks, he thrust himself forward. Shooting out before him, the ‘point’ of the stick—that part emerging ahead of his thumb and forefinger—ploughed agonizingly into Job’s groin.
Giving a strangled scream of torment, Job fell with his body draped on Dusty’s head. Surging erect, the small Texan toppled the man over him. Clutching at the stricken area, and barely conscious, Job crashed to the ground behind Dusty.
Turning, Dusty confronted Wightman, the scout and Charley. In a defensive crouch, he held the yawara stick ready for further use. Hissing furiously, Charley lunged forward. Thrusting out his left foot, the scout tripped the young man. Even as Charley sprawled face down, knife flying from his fingers, the scout drew right-handed and threw down on the small Texan.
‘Drop it, Reb!’ the plainsman ordered, with a slight jerk of his head in the direction of the cabin. ‘Do it fast!’
Flickering a look that way, Dusty saw a medium-sized, lean guerilla with a revolver in his right hand running from the building. Even before he obeyed the scout’s command, Dusty noticed that the other had swung the Navy Colt in Wightman’s direction. Opening his hand, Dusty let the stick which had served him so well drop to his feet. He wondered what the scout intended to do next.
‘Tell your man not to shoot, Deacon,’ the long-haired westerner said, pointing his gun by what seemed an accident straight at Wightman’s belly.
‘Don’t shoot, Brother Herbert! Wightman yelped, knowing that the muzzle was turned his way by design not chance. ‘Do you help that Secessionist scum, stranger?’
‘He’s still my prisoner,’ the scout pointed out, then indicated a somewhat dazed Charley who had reached hands and knees but not stood up. ‘And I figured you didn’t want no more of your boys abusing.’
Looking around him, to where the three brothers lay either rolling in agony or still and unconscious, Wightman felt that the scout had a point. While wild and without moral scruples, Charley was more dangerous from behind than in front. If that small—or was he small—Texan could lay low the three Maxim boys, he would make easy meat of the hot-headed Charley. Wightman had no wish for his small band to be further weakened, although that might not matter if— ‘Hey!’ the scout exclaimed suddenly. ‘Look where I’m pointing my gun. It’s sure lucky that feller you’ve got on guard didn’t shoot me or this ole Navy’d right certain go off.’
And icy feeling rose in Wightman’s stomach at the words. Up to that moment he had been hoping that Gustav, up on the slope, would see what was happening and shoot the scout down. Now, with sickening clarity, Wightman realized that such an action would have also caused his own death. The scout’s negligently-held revolver had its hammer drawn back at full cock under his thumb, while his forefinger depressed the trigger. If he had been hit by a bullet, those grips would have relaxed. Before the barrel could be deflected far enough, a fast-driven, conical-shaped piece of lead would have ripped into Wightman’s belly. He had seen too many men die gut-shot to relish the prospect of it happening to him.
Turning fast, he saw the lanky sentry—never the swiftest of thinkers—raising the rifle.
‘All is well, Brother Gustav!’ Wightman yelled, anxiety adding a tinny note to his tones, Relief rolled through him as he saw the rifle lower and its owner run forward. Turning to the scout, he continued, ‘What would you have us do now, stranger?’
‘Best get the Reb there tied up safe in the barn, like we was going to,’ answered the plainsman. ‘I’ll tend to it while you and your “brothers” see to them three fellers’ hurts.’
‘It would be better—and safer for you—if we came with you,’ Wightman objected. ‘He has already shown himself mighty in sin and evil. So we will come and make sure he doesn’t try his Devil-inspired tricks on you. Take up your knife, Brother Charley and put it in its sheath.’
Having regained an upright posture, Charley glared in amazement at his leader and felt prompted to protest. His habit of whittling pieces of wood had brought the Maxim brothers to grief and he felt that he should do something to avenge them. If he did, they might forget how his innocent pastime had affected them.
‘You mean you’re letting that peckerwood bastard get away with it, Parson?’ the young man squawked. ‘Hell! I’ll—’
‘Do like the Deacon tells you,’ the scout put in.
‘Yeah?’ Charley spat out, swinging to face the speaker and starting to raise his knife. ‘Who says so?’
‘I do,’ answered the scout. ‘If you go ag’in that Texan with the knife, he’s like to take it away from you and kill you— And if you don’t turn it away from me, I’ll lick him to doing it.’
Suddenly Chancy found himself looking at the barrel of the plainsman’s gun. Beyond it was a tanned, cold, savage face which sent a chill of apprehension through the young hard-case. Chancy had seen enough killers to know the signs. There stood a man as dangerous, or maybe more so, as the worst of Wightman’s band. The .36 caliber muzzle of the Navy Colt appeared to have a bore the size of a Napoleon cannon as it pointed at his head.
Almost grinding his teeth in rage and frustration, Wightman forced himself to keep his temper in check. Schooling his face into what, for him, passed as an expression of benevolent friendship, he spoke to the others.
‘Peace, brothers. Let there be no more conflict between us.’
‘If you say so, Parson,’ gritted Charley, not regretting the chance to escape a showdown and returning his knife to its sheath.
‘Come, brothers,’ Wightman continued, promising himself revenge of the most violent kind if the scout had been lying about the presence of the Dragoons. ‘Let us secure this evil sinner before he works more mischief on us.’
~*~
Seated on the floor of a stall in the small barn, hands and feet securely tied with strong rope, Dusty felt a growing sense of apprehension and concern. Almost an hour had gone by since he had been brought into the building. So far neither the scout nor the guerillas had returned.
There had been no hope for Dusty to escape while being escorted to the stall and fastened up. Nor could the scout make a move to save him. Wightman, Chancy Herbert and Gustav had fanned in a circle around them, too far apart for there to be any hope of jumping them collectively. Under the circumstances, the scout had taken the only way out and given cooperation to guerillas. Give him full due, that long-haired Yankee sure knew how to tie a man. Of course, there had been no other way in which he could have acted while watched so closely by the four guerillas. He had secured Dusty’s wrists at the rear, taking the end of the rope down to knot it on the loop about his thighs and connect to the fastenings about his ankles, held in that manner, Dusty found the scout had left enough play on the vertical rope for him to sit in reasonable comfort. There was no way in which he could set himself free.
With the prisoner secured to his satisfaction, Wightman had led the others from the barn. Left to himself, Dusty rested his shoulders against the wall of the stall and let the effects of his exertions wear off. He thought of the information he had gathered outside Pine Bluff and wondered if his men had managed to evade the Yankees and deliver the warning. If not, the rocket battery might inflict heavy and ruinous losses upon Ole Devil’s already outnumbered Army of Arkansas and North Texas. It would not be a wild exaggeration to say that those losses might change the whole course of the War. Already the Union’s superior economic and industrial facilities were swinging the balance in their favor. If Arkansas was lost, the Texans serving on other battle-fronts would want to return and protect their home States. Even if they were compelled to remain with their commands, morale would be weakened.
Yet Dusty could do nothing about the situation at that moment. He knew better than let a wave of despondency take control of him, for he would need all his wits about him if he hoped to escape. Should he not get away, he wondered what his fate might be.
Unless the scout accomplished something in the near future, both he and Dusty could have mighty short life-expectancies. As soon as the guerillas knew for sure that the long-haired Yankee had been bluffing, they would do their damndest to kill him. Possessing their superior numbers, they most likely would succeed. After which, it would be Dusty’s turn. While he suspected that Wightman saw some benefit in keeping him alive, the Parson might not be able to hold back the vengeance-seeking brothers.
Slowly the barn’s door opened and Dusty tensed. There was a surreptitious motion about the moving timbers which hinted that the man beyond them wished to avoid letting the hinges creak. Seated in the stall, Dusty tried to think how he might defend himself should whoever was coming be one of the guerillas sneaking in to avenge the injuries inflicted on his companions. That young cuss, Charley, might do it as a sop for the humiliation he had suffered at the scout’s hands, or to placate the brothers’ anger over the result of his discarding the so-useful stick.
Although Dusty knew of ways to protect himself while his hands were tied behind his back, xii to put them into practice he needed to have the use of his legs and feet. Fastened in such a manner, there seemed little he could do.
Stepping into the barn, with a final glance at the cabin, the scout closed the door. Dusty let out a deep breath of relief. Going by the fact that his gunbelt dangled from the Yankee’s left hand, he concluded that the time to escape had come. Crossing to the stall, the scout hung the gunbelt on its wall. Then he drew the knife from its boot-top sheath. While cutting Dusty’s bonds, he spoke in a soft, conspiratory manner.
‘Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner, Cap’n. That blasted Charley was stuck to me like a burr to a blanket. Sort of took a shine to me, way he was talking—and how he talked. Hey, you sure worked them three over good, they’re only just about getting on their feet again and won’t feel like going a-dancing at a ball for a fair spell.’
‘I sure tried to get ’em that way,’ Dusty answered, working his arms and feet as the circulation pulsed back through them.
‘Happen you’re up to it,’ said the scout, helping Dusty to rise. ‘Buckle on your belt. We may still have to fight our way out of here.’
‘Sure,’ Dusty agreed.
Never had the leather of the gunbelt felt so comforting as it did as Dusty swung it about his waist. Swiftly he coupled up the belt buckle with its ‘CSA’ embossment, then knotted the pigging tongs about his thighs. After flexing his fingers a few times, finding them working with their usual fluid ease, he drew and examined the Colts one at a time. Realizing how the gesture might appear to the scout, Dusty turned in his direction. The tanned face, framed by the long tawny hair, showed only complete agreement with what had been an involuntary, but understandable precaution.
‘I’ve got my horses ’n’ that black of your’n down by the corral, Cap’n,’ commented the scout. ‘That jasper you downed’s lucky. If you hadn’t stopped him, it’d’ve likely stomped his head down level with his shoulders.’
‘What’s our play?’ Dusty wanted to know.
‘Be best if we pull out sneaky-like. I’ll fetch some soldiers along here and tend to their needings.’
Something in the scout’s tone brought Dusty’s gaze back his face. There was a tight-lipped grimness which added fuel to the small Texan’s earlier suspicions about the condition of the farm.
‘What happened to the folks who own this place?’
‘Those bastards killed ’em,’ replied the scout coldly. ‘Man, his wife ’n’ two children. I found a tin-type of ’em and that young bastard come a-bragging to me’s how they’d shot ’em ’n’ planted ’em in the hawg-pens. Lord! I don’t know how I kept from blowing his head off’s he stood.’
‘Buller’s not known for bothering what happens to our civilians,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘If he doesn’t get them, I’ll fetch my Company over here and we will.’
‘Sooner we go, better our chances of getting clear to do it,’ the scout suggested. ‘Let’s go. Given just a mite of luck, we’ll be mounted up and off afore they know it.’
That ‘mite’ of good fortune was not to be granted to them.
Walking from the barn side by side, the escaping pair found themselves confronted by—from right to left—Gustav, Wightman, Herbert and Charley. Slamming to a halt as if they had walked into an invisible wall, the guerillas glared in a mixture of shock, amazement and anger at the small Texan and the tall, long-haired Yankee scout. Of the six men only Gustav, carrying his rifle at what soldiers termed the ‘high-port’ position, held a weapon in his hands.
~*~
At first Parson Wightman had been too busy attempting to calm the partially-recovered Maxim brothers to notice scout’s departure. Even when, on being questioned, Charley admitted that the scout had left to take his horses to the corral, the guerilla leader did not appreciate the full implications straight away. An uneasy suspicion began to gnaw at him when he remembered that the Rebel captain’s Colt-loaded gunbelt had been hanging across the scout’s saddle.
Feeling distinctly uneasy, Wightman had gathered Herbert, Gustav and Charley together. The Maxim brothers had retired to the main bedroom, nursing their hurts and telling each other what they would do with the Texan. Wanting men on whom he could rely for instant obedience, Wightman had not called them. Instead he led the other three from the cabin. With Blocky and Abel not yet returned, Wightman wished to avoid a confrontation with the scout. So he ordered his companions to keep their weapons holstered, but allowed Gustav to carry along the Sharps rifle.
Coming face to face with the scout and the Rebel captain handed all four men a bad shock. Wightman felt it more than the other three. All the vicious, barely controllable temper that had cost him his hopes of a bishopric boiled up in a seething blast.
At last Wightman knew for sure that he had been tricked. The scout’s actions proved that no Troop of Dragoons were following on his trail. Instead, he had lied to save his neck—and to keep them from laying hands on the hated Secessionist.
On a Secessionist scum!
Why would any Yankee scout take such a desperate chance to save an enemy?
In his almost maniacal thrust of fury, Wightman sprang to what appeared to be the only answer.
That was no scout employed by the Union Army, but a Confederate spy in disguise. A lousy, stinking peckerwood agent. clad in the dress of a Federal supporter. There could be no other explanation—and only one way to treat the answer.
‘Cursed be all traitors!’ Parson Wightman bellowed, reaching for his gun; an example followed by his three companions.
Down lashed two guerilla hands, while a third went from right to left, and Gustav tried to bring his rifle into line.
Starting at the same instant, Dusty and the scout commenced their draws. Flashing across, Dusty’s hands curled around the bone handles of his Army Colts. Turning palms outwards, the scout wrapped his fingers about the ivory grips of his matched Navies. The .44 caliber revolvers cleared Dusty’s holsters slightly ahead of the .36 handguns leaving the longhaired scout’s silk sash. Swinging into alignment at waist level, Dusty’s weapons made a single crash; to be echoed by the lighter, more ragged twin bark of his companion’s armament.
Hit twice in the head, Wightman fell with his Navy Colt still not clear of leather. Caught in the withering blast of gun-fire, the man to his right and left sides joined him in crashing to the ground.
Stunned by the shattering holocaust of doom that had ripped into his companions, Charley froze with his gun barely above the lip of his holster. He wanted to scream for mercy, but the chance to do so did not come. Cocking his guns as their barrels rose and fell, the scout turned the right hand weapon and squeezed its trigger. The 140 grains of conical lead spiked into Charley’s throat and ripped apart his jugular vein. Gagging hoarsely, the young man spun around. Blood spurted from the ruptured flesh as he tumbled across the bodies of Herbert and Wightman.
‘Come on!’ Dusty snapped. ‘Let’s go, pron—!’
Flying from the direction of the cabin, a bullet spun the hat from the scout’s head. As they started to swivel around, Dusty and the scout saw the three Maxim brothers fanning out from the house. Stap had fired the shot, aiming it at Dusty. With his eyes swollen to two puffy slits by the small Texan’s earlier attack, the youngest brother could not line his sights as well as usual; especially when he wanted to shoot in a hurry. So his lead missed its mark and warned their prospective victims of the danger.
Alerted to the brothers’ presence, Dusty and the scout realized which of them would be the greatest danger. Swaying slightly, for the effects of the stick’s impact on his temple had not fully departed, Aaron flung a twin-barreled, ten-gauge shotgun to his shoulder. Hobbling painfully and suffering a sensation like having two red-hot six-pounder cannonballs between his thighs, Job brought up a Sharps carbine. Each of the weapons slanted in Dusty’s direction. Seeing that he had been selected as the mark for both brothers, Dusty flung himself away from the scout. He saw the brothers trying to correct their alignment, then flame and smoke burst from their weapons. With an ear-splitting crack, the carbine’s heavy-caliber bullet passed a foot above Dusty’s head. An instant later, he heard the sibilant hissing as buckshot balls went by. In later years, Dusty would always swear that three of the shotgun’s nine .32 pellets made a triangle around his upper body.
So intent were the brothers on avenging themselves upon the man who had caused them severe grief that they ignored the scout. Left free from their attentions, he took full advantage of his chances. Right, left, right, left. Four times his Navy Colts spat, held at shoulder level so that he could use their sights. What excellent purpose he put them to showed as Aaron stumbled and dropped the carbine, while Job twisted in a circle, sending the charge from the second barrel harmlessly into the side of the cabin. Bleeding from a hole in his chest and another between the eyes, Job crumpled like a pole-axed steer. Clutching at his stomach, with agony twisting his surly features into hideous lines, Aaron sank to his knees.
Oblivious of his brother’s fate, Spat plunged towards Dusty. Three times the youngest brother’s revolver banged, but without any bullet taking effect. Thinking of the murdered family, Dusty did not hesitate with his response. Ramming down his forward foot, he brought himself to a stop. Lifting to waist level, the Army Colts bellowed an answer to Spat’s challenge. Dusty shot the only way possible under the circumstances, to obtain an instant kill—and he succeeded admirably. Where Spat’s eyes had been, two gaping holes blossomed as if by magic. A corpse hurtled through the air for a moment before landing on its back.
Still Aaron was not finished. Knowing that he must die a painful death, he made a final attempt to take at least one of his enemies with him. Withdrawing his gore-smeared right hand, he clawed the revolver from its holster. Before he could use it, two balls from the scout’s Navy Colts struck him in the head.
‘That finished them,’ said the scout, returning his weapons to the silk sash. ‘We might’s well move off.’
‘Just might as well,’ Dusty agreed and holstered his Colts. They turned just in time. With their thoughts fixed on the same matter, they had almost forgotten that two other members of the guerilla band remained alive and at liberty. Looking over the corral, with the three waiting horses, at the slope, they received an unpleasant reminder.
Returning with the news that no soldiers were in the vicinity, Abel Maxim and Blocky had heard the shooting. So they had left their horses ground-hitched and, rifles in hand, advanced on foot. They had come on the scene too late to save any of their companions, or to take the Texan and the scout by surprise.
‘Get ’em!’ Blocky yelled, dropping his right knee to the ground and thrusting the Spencer’s butt against his right shoulder.
Being armed with a muzzle-loading Mississippi rifle, Abel elected to remain on his feet. By doing so, he could reload much faster than when kneeling or prone. Unlike his brothers, he did not allow hatred of the small Rebel to override common-sense. Nor did Blocky. They selected the most dangerous target and at that moment it was not the gray-uniformed captain.
With the two guerillas something like a hundred and fifty yards away, the scout knew his Navy Colts were of no use. So he flung himself forward, racing in a zigzag course to where his Henry rifle swung in its boot from the dun gelding’s saddle.
Watching the two men on the rim, Dusty guessed at their intentions, Instead of following the scout, he sent his left hand flashing across to draw its Colt and dropped to the ground. Breaking his fall with his right hand, he lowered his stomach until it rested on the soil. Pointing his body directly at the target, he extended both arms and placed his right hand under the Colt’s butt. With his chin resting on the left deltoid muscle, his left eye looked along the outstretched gun-arm. It was a position permitting a man with Dusty’s ability to shoot accurately almost to the longest limits of the revolver’s load. Like the guerillas, he made his choice of target on the basis of which man posed the greater threat.
Pressing the trigger, Dusty felt the Colt’s recoil-kick tilt the barrel upwards. Through the swirling powder smoke, he saw the hat jerk off Blocky’s head. Coming so unexpectedly, the bullet made the man rock backwards in alarm just as his forefinger carried the Spencer’s trigger to the firing position. The heavy repeating rifle bellowed, but its barrel slanted into the air. Caught by the recoil thrust, Blocky over-balanced. Dropping his weapon, he threw his hands behind him to lessen the force of his fall.
On Abel’s Mississippi rifle banging, a hank of tawny hair flew from the left side of the scout’s head. Only the fact that he was taking rapid evasive action saved him from a worse injury. Plunging forward the last few feet, he grabbed the wrist of the Henry’s butt. A jerk tore the medicine boot free and, swinging the rifle to the right, he flung the buckskin covering from it. With that done, he snapped the weapon towards the firing position.
‘Load it!’ Dusty roared, suddenly remembering that he had emptied the Henry’s chamber that morning.
After shooting, Abel dropped the rifle’s butt to the ground. He had come to the rim ready for trouble, having collected his powder horn and bullet-pouch from his saddlebags on hearing the commotion at the farm. While reaching for the horn, he saw the effect of Dusty’s long-range shot. Showing no interest in Blocky’s welfare, Abel let the muzzle-loader fall and snatched up the metal-cartridge repeater. Hooking his fingers into the trigger-guard-lever, he thrust it down to eject the empty cartridge case.
Hearing Dusty’s yell, the scout understood its meaning. In a blurring movement, he sent the mechanism through its loading cycle and took his aim. Twice the Henry spurted white puffs of powder smoke, the lever flickering down and up between the detonations. On each discharge, Abel’s body jolted. The Spencer’s barrel sank downwards. Stumbling around in a circle, the last of the brothers passed over the rim and came rolling down the slope.
Twirling himself around, Blocky rump-bounced out of sight of the two men by the buildings. Once sure they could not lay their sights on him, he rose and ran to the waiting horses. Swinging afork his mount, he grabbed the reins of Abel’s. Riding the animals in a half circle, he headed away from the valley as fast as he could make them run.
‘I’d say that’s the last,’ Dusty remarked, standing up and holstering his Colt.
‘And good riddance to ’em,’ the Scout replied, lowering the Henry.
‘We’d best just go and make sure none of them’re left alive,’ Dusty suggested as the scout collected his medicine boot.
With his Henry once more hanging from the dun’s saddle, the scout accompanied Dusty around the bodies. And bodies they were, for not one of Wightman’s band—except for the fleeing Blocky—remained alive.
Returning to their horses, Dusty and the scout looked at each other. They each had the same thought in mind again and this time the scout put it into words.
‘Which of us’s who’s prisoner now, Cap’n?’
There, if either of them cared to force the issue, was a mighty tough point. While their experience when faced by Wightman and the three guerillas had proved Dusty to be the faster on the draw, both knew that he could not get off a shot in time to prevent the scout from throwing lead at him. So, should they make a face-to-face issue of it, both might easily be killed.
That point aside, each had saved the other’s life at least twice since they first met. Their eyes met and each knew that the other felt they should forget the War at that moment. Maybe they would meet on the field of battle in the future, but that would be different. Right now there was too much between them for either to desire the other dead or a captive.
‘What say we call it a stand-off?’ Dusty suggested. ‘We’ll go our ways and figure we’d never met.’
‘I’m for that,’ enthused the scout and offered his right hand. ‘Know something, Cap’n? I don’t know your name.’
‘Dusty Fog,’ the small Texan introduced, shaking hands. ‘And I don’t know your’s.’
‘It’s James Butler Hickok,’ answered the scout. ‘Only that’s a mite fancy. Folks mostly call me “Wild Bill”.’