Part Two – A Convention of War

 

One o’clock in the morning!

After an hour on sentry duty, Private Alberto Genaro stood and glowered bitterly at the distant, unlit rows of tents. Beneath their shelter, most other members of his field artillery battery would be sleeping in as much comfort as they could devise while bivouacked on the hard Arkansas countryside. Even the rest of the guard, with the exception of Dutchy Kruger over by the horse-lines, were almost certainly wrapped in their blankets and snoring like pigs.

Not poor old Genaro though.

He had to stand his guard between midnight and four a.m.; the most miserable and depressing tour of duty any soldier ever faced.

Hell! It all seemed so damned pointless, too.

Earlier in the night, the lights of Little Rock could have been seen glowing, a mile to the south at most, beyond the valley of the Arkansas River. By continuing their journey for another ninety minutes or so, the battery could have been bedded down in comfort and with solid roofs above their heads. Instead of pushing on, Captain Luxton had insisted that they halted before sun-down and made camp in the open air.

So then what had happened?

Poor old Genaro, armed with a short artillery sword and a Springfield carbine, wound up roaming among the parked vehicles and pieces of the battery during that part of the night when all sensible people were in bed.

Performing his duty under the prevailing conditions struck Genaro as both stupid and futile. Between the battery’s current location and the Ouachita River—with the Rebels over on its western bank—lay a good eighty miles of Union-held territory. In the unlikely event of a Confederate cavalry patrol penetrating so far they would be disinclined concern themselves with a field artillery battery’s six 12-pounder gun-howitzers, caissons, limbers, battery-wagon and travelling forge. With the Arkansas, Saline and Ouachita Rivers to cross before reaching safety, the gray-clad raiders would search for loot of greater portability.

So, to Genaro’s way of thinking, there was no danger to the battery and walking the guard served only to deprive him of well-earned rest. There could not, he concluded as he leaned his carbine against the wheel of a Napoleon and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette, possibly be any Rebels closer than the disarmed population of Little Rock.

Which only were to prove how little Genaro knew of the true state of affairs in his immediate vicinity.

Having left their horses in the care of their companions a full mile to the north, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry and his Company’s sergeant major now crouched in a hollow not more than thirty feet from the disinterested Yankee sentry.

Moving in on foot through the darkness, they had taken advantage of Genaro’s indifferent patrol to crawl that close undetected. Concealed in the shallow depression, they knew that approaching any nearer without being located would be difficult, if not impossible. Then, as if wishing to assist the Confederate cause, the Yankee artilleryman had obligingly presented them with an opportunity of silencing him. The watching Rebels could be counted on to make the most of such a chance.

Lean as a poorly-nourished bean-pole, Sergeant Major Billy Jack topped a six foot length with close-cropped black hair and a thin, careworn, anxious cast of features above a prominent Adam’s apple. He presented such a lugubrious appearance that the first sight of the ‘V’-shaped triple bars and arc of silk denoting his rank came as a surprise. Bareheaded, he wore a cadet-gray, waist-long tunic and tight, yellow-striped breeches ending in knee-high boots. Around his middle hung a wide gunbelt carrying two walnut-handled 1860 Army Colts in open-topped holsters tied low to his thighs. In his hands, he held a fifty-foot length of three-strand, hard-plaited Manila rope specially prepared for his needs.

At Billy Jack’s side lay a young man fast building a name for himself on the Arkansas battle-front; first coming into prominence by his bravery and ability while leading a cavalry charge that many of the combatants claimed had turned the course of the battle at Mark’s Mill in the South’s favor.

As yet the Yankees did not know Dusty Fog so well as they would come to when he attended a Federal court-martial to give evidence on behalf of a Union Army lieutenant falsely accused of cowardice. ^xiii To save Lieutenant Kirby Cogshill’s life, ^xiv Dusty Fog would have to endanger his own and would be compelled to kill General Buller in a duel the commander of the Union Army of Arkansas forced upon him. Then Dusty would so be-devil Buller’s successor that General Horace Trumpeter would place a bounty on the young Texan’s head with tragic—and for the general, fatal—results. ^xv

To the Union Army in Arkansas, Dusty Fog would become synonymous with raiding, losses of urgently-needed equipment and supplies, or other similar forms of military disaster. He would also be known as a gallant, chivalrous enemy of great courage, integrity and efficiency.

Already Confederate sympathizers from the Lone Star State were boasting of his qualities of leadership. At a young eighteen, those qualities had won him the rank of captain—awarded in the field at Mark’s Mill—and placed him in command of the Texas Light Cavalry’s hard-riding, harder-fighting Company ‘C’. Never slow to glorify prominent sons of their State, the Texans told of how Dusty Fog could draw his revolvers in blinding speed and throw lead with great accuracy from them; or mentioned proudly that he possessed the bare-handed fighting skill to lick any man in either Army.

What kind of man inspired such claims at so early an age?

Curly, dusty-blond hair topped a face that was handsome—though not in an eye-catching manner—tanned, showed strength of will, intelligence and an air of commanding attention. Tight-rolled and knotted about his throat, a scarlet silk bandana trailed long ends down the front of his tunic. Copied from a style originated by a 1st Lieutenant Mark Counter ^xvi —with whom Dusty would one day be closely associated ^xvii —the tunic continued the bandana’s defiance of the Manual of Dress Regulations. Its stand-up collar carried the conventional triple three-inch long, half-inch wide gold bars of his rank. Two rows of seven buttons each graced its double-breasted front and its sleeves bore above their yellow cuffs the double, gold braid, Austrian knot ‘chicken-guts’ device by which the Confederate States’ Army further identified its captains. No skirt extended halfway between hip and knee as Regulations required. His riding breeches and boots did conform to Regulations, but his weapon belt departed from them. Like Billy Jack’s, it rode lower than the official pattern, possessed no means of carrying a saber, and had open-topped holsters cut to leave the trigger-guards of the revolvers exposed. However, the matched bone-handled Army Colts rode butt forward instead of pointing to the rear.

All in all, Dusty Fog’s wide shoulders and lean waist conveyed an impression of exceptional muscular power and strength. Despite the fact that his height was barely five foot six, none of his Company—and few others who came into contact with the force of his personality—ever thought of him as being small.

Studying the sentry for a few seconds, Dusty addressed his sergeant major in a whisper.

‘Reckon you can rope him from here?’

‘Likely not,’ Billy Jack answered dismally, but no louder. ‘I’ll certain-sure miss. Then he’ll holler ’n’ wake the whole boiling of ’em ’n’ we’ll both of us get catched, or killed.’

Which meant, as Dusty well knew, that Billy Jack considered the chances of silencing the indolent sentry to be greatly in their favor. For all his doleful appearance and constant predictions of doom, the lean sergeant major was a fighting man from soda to hock ^xviii  and well-deserving of his rank. Knowing the risks involved, and what his commanding officer hoped to do, he would not attempt to rope the Yankee soldier unless almost certain of success.

Measuring with his eyes the distance separating him from Genaro, Billy Jack carefully made his preparations. The Yankee soldier was standing with his back to the Texans’ position, shoulders hunched and hands gathered about the match he was using to light his cigarette. In such a posture, he could not be caught as Billy Jack knew must be done. Waiting for his chance, the lanky Texan worked the stem of his rope through the two-inch long, rawhide-wrapped eye of the honda to increase the size of the loop he would use when the time came.

With his cigarette glowing, Genaro leaned against the Napoleon’s barrel. Resting his arms on top of the cold metal of the tube, he kept his head held up so as to observe the tent lines and see if the officer-of-the-day appeared to make the rounds. City-born and not long enlisted, Genaro lacked the country-dwellers’ keen senses of veteran’s natural alertness. So he failed to hear certain faint sounds that ought to have warned him of danger.

Slowly Billy Jack eased himself upright and from the hollow. There could be no extensive twirling of the rope as an aid to accuracy, its noise might alarm the sentry. However, the lean, miserable Rebel’s repertoire of roping methods offered a solution to that problem. Ensuring that the stem, or spoke, of the rope—that part not forming the loop—could move freely, he prepared to make his throw.

One quick whirl before him carried the rope up to the right and above his head. Then the loop and spoke flew through the air. Deft hands turned the loop to flatten horizontally before it reached its victim. Sliding along the stem as it advanced, the honda decreased the size of the loop. Passing downwards around Genaro’s kepi, the reduced noose scraped by his ears and came to rest on his shoulders.

Called a hooley-anne throw, the method used by Billy Jack was a head-catch originally designed to collect a horse from a bunch in a corral without disturbing the rest of them. It proved equally effective when used against another human being.

Wasting no time in self-congratulation over a masterly piece of roping, Billy Jack tugged sharply on the stem between his hands. Before Genaro could respond to the unexpected assault, the rope snapped tight about his throat. Jerked backwards, unable to cry out or snatch up his carbine, the artilleryman lost his footing and sat down hard. Deprived of one weapon, the impact of his landing caused him to forget his other. It would also have driven the air from his lungs, but the constricting coil about his throat prevented that from happening.

Moving closer, Billy Jack swung his hands in a circular motion. Curling away from him, the stem of the rope passed over Genaro’s head. Even as the Yankee decided to make a grab for the strangling loop, a coil of Manila settled around his biceps and torso. With his arms effectively pinned and helpless, Genaro could do no more than sit and listen to the sound of footsteps approaching from his rear.

No mean hand with a catch-rope himself, Dusty had watched his companion in silent admiration. Dusty had often heard it claimed that the only thing Billy Jack could not do with a rope was make it stand upright, climb to the top and sit on the honda. There were times when Dusty felt his lanky sergeant major could even accomplish that.

Slipping a specially-manufactured gag from his breeches’ pocket, Dusty ran towards Genaro. Made of a hard ball of rubber, encased in rawhide and fitted with two cords, it could be rapidly attached to a captive and effectively prevented him from making any outcry.

Catching hold of the dazed, half-strangled artilleryman’s shoulder, Dusty inserted the ball between his open lips. Acting with a speed that permitted Genaro no opportunity of resisting, the small Texan affixed the cords. Drawing them tight, he knotted them behind the Yankee’s head.

Billy Jack produced two rawhide ‘piggin’ strings’, of the kind used to secure hogs or calves, from inside his tunic. With the gagging completed, he turned Genaro face-downwards. Loosening the stem’s coil a little, Billy Jack drew the Yankee’s wrists together. Lashing them in a way that would require a knife to set them free, the Texan repeated the process on Genaro’s ankles. With that done, he removed the strangling loop and stood back coiling his rope.

‘Nice work, Billy Jack,’ Dusty praised quietly. ‘We’ve got him safe enough.’

‘Sure never thought we’d do it,’ the sergeant major replied dolefully. ‘I’ll bet he busts loose and gets the drop on us.’

‘Damned if I shouldn’t’ve picked a turkey-buzzard,’ ^xix  Dusty grinned, ‘instead of a whip-poor-will for you to use as a signal.’

‘I allus see more of ’em around me than “whips”,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘So I’d know how to do one better.’

While carrying on their whispered conversation, the two Texans had been scrutinizing the surrounding area with eyes and ears. Alert to detect any hint that their presence had been discovered, they saw and heard nothing to alarm them. Cupping his hands to his mouth, Billy Jack gave a passable impersonation of a whip-poor-will’s plaintive call.

‘That was so real,’ Dusty declared, ‘I’ll bet every lil gal “whip” around’ll be headed this way.’

‘Sure,’ agreed Jack miserably. ‘And I know what they’ll do when they fly over me. They nev—’

The remainder of his mournful tirade went unsaid as the call received an answer from the vicinity of the battery’s horse-lines.

~*~

Although he might have given an argument on the matter, Private ‘Dutchy’ Kruger should have counted himself a very fortunate man. Caught asleep at his post by two men who had small regard for the sanctity of an enemy’s life, he had Dusty Fog to thank that he received nothing worse than a blow on the head from a revolver’s butt. Stunned, but still alive, he lay face down on the ground and received the same treatment as that given to Genaro.

Instinctively Dusty Fog knew that the morale effect of taking sentries alive and leaving them bound, gagged, but unharmed, was far greater than killing them. So he had given his scouts orders to that effect. With men of less ability than that possessed by Sergeant Kiowa Cotton and Corporal Vern Hassle, Dusty would never have issued such dangerously prohibitive instructions. It said much for the respect in which they held their youthful commanding officer that the two hard-bitten scouts had troubled to carry out the far-from-easy directive.

Experts in their trade, schooled under the exacting conditions of Indian warfare, they had experienced little difficulty in stalking and clubbing down the lethargic Kruger as he sat sleeping with his back to a tree’s trunk. Their harder task was still to come.

Sergeant Cotton could not be termed handsome. Tall, lean, black-haired, he had a face that in times of stress resembled that of a particularly mean, blood-thirsty Indian. Even when relaxed, he would not be considered any oil-painting. He wore an untidy uniform, a battered campaign hat with an eagle’s feather stuck in its band, while a Remington Army revolver and a bowie knife dangled from his belt.

Kneeling by the unconscious Yankee and attending to fastening a gag in his mouth, Kiowa grinned wolfishly at his companion. If his flowing white hair was any proof, Corporal Vern Hassle had seen many years of life. Yet he moved with an agility a younger man might have envied and his eyes flickered keenly in a seamed, lined old face.

‘There’s Billy Jack,’ Hassle breathed as the call of a whip-poor-will reached their ears.

‘Best finish hawg-tying this hombre,’ Kiowa replied. ‘Then we’ll let Cap’n Dusty know we’ve done it.’

‘Sounds like Kiowa and Vern’ve got the horse-guard,’ Dusty commented as Hassle answered the signal.

‘Or he got them,’ countered Billy Jack. ‘And now’ he’s doing the “whip” to trick us. Don’t see why we should be the only ’n’s fool enough to be catched.’

Completing his speech, the sergeant major repeated the same type of bird’s call three times in succession. Off in the darkness to the north, another member of the Company replied.

While awaiting the arrival of reinforcements, Dusty walked over and boarded the nearest limber. Raising the lid of its chest, he looked inside. The light of the stars and new moon was sufficient for him to identify the contents and know that the chest carried its full load. Its eight compartments held thirty-two 12-pounder rounds, two spare cartridges, seventy-five friction primers, three port fires and one-and-a-half yards of slow match.

From his position, Dusty counted the remaining vehicles. Each cannon had its own limber and caisson, the former carrying one and the latter three ammunition chests. Being a battery newly-arrived from the East, each of the chests ought to carry its full complement of equipment. Even if they did not, there was sufficient material on hand for what he planned; especially as the six reserve caissons stood in a line behind the others. Beyond them was the battery-wagon containing—if fully loaded—oil, paint, spare gunners’ tools, stocks and spokes, over two hundred pounds of reserve harness, axes, spades and picks. At its side was the travelling-forge, with blacksmiths’ tools, spare hardware and iron, as well as 300 pounds of ready-shaped horseshoes and nails. A replacement battery, on its way to join the Union’s Army of Arkansas, could be expected to come fully equipped.

The loss would be that much greater, if its destruction could be effected.

Concluding his examination of the battery’s material, ^xx  Dusty gave a disgusted grunt. Whoever commanded it must be very inexperienced, incompetent, criminally negligent, or a permutation of the three, to camp with so few precautions even that close to Little Rock. The lax behavior, however, did not entirely come as a surprise to the small Texan.

Wanting to strike down the heart of the Confederate States, Federal policy demanded that the pick of their troops be reserved for the Eastern and Southern battle-fronts. General Buller had a few good outfits under his command—Verncombe’s 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons for instance. Mostly the commanding general in Arkansas had to make do with regiments produced by merging several disrupted privately-formed Volunteer battalions, recuperating from losses in action, or found wanting under the harsh tests of combat. Badly led, poorly trained, demoralized, such regiments made the work of the Confederate States’ cavalry far easier to accomplish in the Toothpick State.

Taking a round from the chest, Dusty dropped to the ground and crossed to the nearest Napoleon. By manipulating the elevating screw, he raised the breech of the barrel. Resting the metal ball of the round on the cheek of the carriage, he lowered the barrel and held it firmly in place. He had just fixed the demolition charge into position when twenty men of his Company arrived. On hearing Billy Jack’s signal, they have moved in silently and were ready to play their part in depriving the Yankees of a field artillery battery. Having previously visualized how he would handle such a situation, Dusty had already instructed his men in the duties they were to perform.

Courage in action alone did not account for Dusty’s success as a military raider. When setting out on a mission, he always tried to carry along items that would be of use. One commodity he never left behind was quick-match fuses and his reinforcements held sufficient for their needs. Swiftly, silently, the Texans fanned out to attend to their appointed tasks.

It was hard, exacting and nerve-wracking work that demanded the utmost in concentration on the part of the men carrying it out. Not fifty yards from the rear vehicles, the members of the battery lay sleeping in their tents. Any undue noise would rouse the Yankees, who, by weight of numbers, would drive off the Texans and waste the work already carried out.

About to lift out a round, one of the Texans saw the lid of the chest slip and fall. By inserting his fingers, he prevented the bang of wood against wood and he bit on his bottom lip to prevent his pain-induced curses from becoming audible.

Working in the battery-wagon, another man dislodged an axe. Hearing the brief clatter it made, the whole party froze. Full thirty seconds dragged by before Dusty felt satisfied that the sound had not disturbed the sleeping Yankee artillerymen and gave the signal for the work to continue.

Joined by half-a-dozen assistants, the pick of a Company noted for its expert horsemen, Kiowa Cotton and Vern Hassle set about a no less demanding and equally important duty. Selecting and dominating mounts for their own use, with the need for silence of paramount importance, was no work for the inexperienced. With that task accomplished, they gave their attention to the rest of the battery’s horses. In addition to setting the animals free, Kiowa’s section had to silently curb any attempt to stray or prematurely quit the severed picket lines.

Held immobile by his bonds, although Billy Jack had thoughtfully turned him on to his back, Genaro strained his eyes and ears in an attempt to discover what the Texans were doing. He could see and hear little, but what he did told him all that he needed to know.

Each of the remaining five Napoleons had a round of ammunition fixed where the two-and-a-half pound powder firing-charge would do the most damage. The battery-wagon and the travelling forge both received the contents of one chest from the nearest caissons to ensure their demolition.

While his men worked, Dusty gave thought to the detonating of the charges. Quick-match, made of cotton-yarn impregnated with a highly-combustible compound, burned at a rate of a yard in thirteen seconds when exposed to the open air. Composed of three lightly-twisted strands of hemp, flax or cotton-rope, slow-match required an hour to consume four-and-a-half inches. By combining the qualities of the two, Dusty hoped to strike the essential happy medium between allowing his men to withdraw in safety and permitting sufficient time to elapse for the raid to be discovered before the explosions took place.

‘We’ll give them a yard of quick-match, Billy Jack,’ Dusty decided, ‘and fasten a couple of inches of slow-match to it.’

‘Yo!’ the sergeant major answered, giving the traditional cavalry response of assent. ‘Two inches?’

‘We won’t be starting it off from the end,’ Dusty assured him.

Using a piece of priming-wire found in a limber’s chest, the sergeant major made a hole in the paper container of the round and through the close-textured flannel cartridge bag. Carefully he eased one end of a yard-length of quick match into the cavity so that it was buried in the powder. Extending the remainder of the fuse along the stock of the Napoleon, he knotted it to a piece of slow-match and looped them around the cannon’s upper prolonge hook.

A cartridge in each limber’s chest and the central chest of every caisson received a similar treatment, as did one of the rounds placed in the battery-wagon and the travelling-forge. At last everything was fused, ready and waiting for the fire that would start off the train of devastation.

Kept silent by his gag, Genaro felt a growing sensation of alarm as the significance of his position became apparent to him. Often he had contended to his companions that he came from a long line of civilians and would be overjoyed when he went back to them. Impressed by the silence and grim, deadly purpose with which his captors worked, he decided that his return was long overdue. A man stood but little chance of going home to marry his amante and raise many bambinos if he fought against such terrible people.

Given the good fortune to survive through the night, Genaro swore that he would take the first opportunity to set off home and chance being shot as a deserter. Not that, he told himself glumly, he could see much hope of his living through the night. Bound and helpless, unable to move, he would be blown up in company with the battery’s material.

~*~

Making a tour of his party, Dusty checked that everything was ready. In passing he gave each man his orders.

‘When Billy Jack gives the “whip’s” call, count to ten slowly. Then set off the slow-match about half-an-inch from the knot. No closer, but not much farther away. Light up a smoke ready to get things going.’

One of the qualities that endeared Dusty to his men was that he gave orders, but did not add unnecessary warnings. Some officers would have emphasized that care must be taken to avoid letting the lighting-up process be seen by the Yankees. Knowing his party to be veterans and not in the least suicidally-inclined, Dusty figured he could count on them not to make foolish mistakes. On receiving his orders, each man turned his back to the tent lines, shielded the match’s flame in his hands, and lit either a cigarette or a cigar.

Pausing only long enough for the man he addressed to whisper a confirmatory ‘Yo!’, Dusty continued to the next member of his company and repeated his instructions. On rejoining Billy Jack, Dusty took one of the cigars lit by the sergeant major and blew its end to a rich, clear glow. From his place on the ground, Genaro saw ruddy glints like so many fire-flies as Dusty’s men crouched ready for the signal. At a nod from Dusty, Billy Jack once more sounded the call of a whip-poor-will.

‘One!’ Dusty counted.

‘Two!’ hissed the man by the tail-gate of the battery-wagon.

‘Three!’ timed the soldier in the center of the third reserve caisson.

‘Four! Five!’ said the tall, slim, debonair Sergeant Lou Bixby, thinking of times when he had counted the fall of trump cards in a high-stake whist game, but concentrating on the fuse leading into the number four gun’s limber’s chest.

‘Sei!’ thought Genaro, having heard Dusty’s instructions and involuntarily counting off the seconds in his native Italian. ‘Sette!’

‘Eight!’ decided the corporal charged with the destruction of the travelling forge.

‘Nine!’ Billy Jack announced, in a whisper that held nothing of his usual dolorous tones.

‘Ten!’ Dusty concluded.

Laying the glowing tip of the borrowed cigar against the slow-match at the required distance from the knot connecting it to its faster-burning contemporary, Dusty watched it splutter into life. Once lit, only water, or smothering pressure, would halt the creeping fire. With an almost leisurely, yet deliberate spreading motion, the tiny red glow crept on its way.

Allowing for variations in the pace of each individual count and the fuses’ rate of consumption, Dusty estimated that his men had between five-and-a-half and six-and-a-half minutes in which to get clear of the danger area. Already the other members of his party were converging upon him.

In a muck-sweat of anxiety, Genaro tried to burst his bonds. If the stories he had heard were true, the Rebels would leave him to his fate. In which case, he could do nothing to save himself. The gag in his mouth even prevented him from pleading for his life.

‘Move out!’ Dusty ordered and pointed swiftly to some of his men. ‘You four, tote this hombre with you!’

To his amazement and relief, Genaro felt himself gripped and raised from the ground between four of the Texans. Big, strong men, they carried the dumpy Italian soldier without difficulty. Maybe their holds were not gentle, but to Genaro it felt as if he were riding on a feather-bed. Bearing the artilleryman between them, the quartet strode off at a fast pace on the heels of their companions,

‘You too,’ Dusty growled at Billy Jack.

‘Don’t be too long,’ the sergeant major answered and went reluctantly after the departing men.

Letting the others go, Dusty strolled along the line of cannon. He had not sufficient men for one to each fuse and had selected the Napoleons as the pieces to be left. Lighting one length of slow-match after another, he listened for some sound that would tell him their presence had been detected by the Yankees. With every passing second, the chances of the battery being saved grew slighter.

Even if one of the artillerymen should wake up, leave the tents, come over and find a burning fuse, the affair could still meet with success. There would be a delay while the man doused the fuse, more as he roused the camp. Further time would be required for the sleep-dulled Yankees to understand the danger, then search for and render innocuous the other lengths of slow- or quick-match. Most likely some would be overlooked, particularly those in the battery-wagon and travelling-forge. Although Dusty believed they were too far apart for it to happen, there was always the chance of sympathetic explosions should only one charge touch off.

At the worst, a little damage—or even if none happened—would demoralize the battery’s personnel. Certainly they would lose all their horses. Their fighting efficiency would suffer for some time to come.

Quitting the area after lighting the last fuse, Dusty loped swiftly after the other Texans. Bringing up the rear, Billy Jack paused to let his commanding officer catch up with him.

‘You’ve cut it fine, Cap’n Dusty,’ the sergeant major warned chidingly. ‘If one of them charges’d’ve gone off—’

‘They didn’t,’ Dusty pointed out, although that thought had occurred to him.

‘Bet all them fuses’ve gone out,’ Billy Jack said as they walked on and seemed surprised to learn that they had not. ‘Anyways, I figured you’d fall down ’n’ bust a leg. Was getting set to call for volunteers to come back ’n’ see.’

‘Thanks,’ Dusty grinned. ‘Only that kind of thing’d be more likely to happen to you than me.’

‘I ain’t that lucky,’ Billy Jack protested. ‘If it’d’ve happened to you, it’d be me’s had to go back ’n’ tell Ole Devil and Major Hondo how come you went to taking such fool chan—’

The sound of the first explosion chopped off the sergeant major’s complaints. Going by its slight volume, it must have been caused by a single round detonating under the barrel of a Napoleon. However, it gave a warning that could not—must not—be ignored.

‘Down!’ Dusty barked, raising his voice loud and disregarding as unnecessary the need for further silence.

Dropping Genaro, the men assigned to carry him to safety joined him on the ground. Responding with equal, or even greater speed, the remainder of Dusty’s party prostrated themselves on the dew-sprinkled grama grass. All offered up silent prayers, or what passed for prayers in their eyes, that the less than half a mile separating them from the battery would be sufficient for safety.

On hearing Billy Jack’s signal to light the fuses, Kiowa’s section had swung afork the bare backs of their selected mounts. When the first explosion sounded, the already restless horses let out startled snorts and began to bolt.

‘Yeeah! Texas Light!’ Kiowa screeched, slamming his heels against the flanks of his mount and using its lead rope in lieu of reins.

‘Yeeah! Texas Light!’ echoed Vern Hassle, urging forward the horse that had been Captain Luxton’s pride and joy.

Controlling the animals they sat with the skill gained during a life-long experience in matters equine, the Texans told off to help Kiowa and Hassle started moving. They gathered about the fleeing horses and endeavored to direct them to where the rest of the Company waited. Ignoring the commotion that arose behind them, they concentrated on keeping the horses bunched and held together. They needed all their ability, for the animals grew increasingly more terrified as a result of what was going on to their rear.

Following close behind the first, other explosions took apart the silence of the night. The flat bangs caused by the single rounds were swamped beneath the deeper roars as limbers disintegrated, or drowned by triple crashes as the caissons’ outer chests erupted in sympathy with the central containers’ ignitions. Blasted apart by the discharge of eighty-five pounds of gun-powder, the travelling-forge sprayed nails and ruined horseshoes to the consternation of the battery’s personnel as they tried to escape from their bedrolls or collapsing tents. Instead of solid shot, the battery-wagon held thirty-two rounds of shell. The half-pound burster charges added to the thirty-four cartridges’ power and aided in the obliteration of the load.

Sudden, brilliant red flashes lit up the scene and briefly exposed the pandemonium that raged in the tent lines. Across the Arkansas River, an alarm bell boomed solemnly in Little Rock and was followed by urgent bugle calls to arouse the garrison. Members of the Confederate spy ring that operated from the town, and who had informed Dusty of the battery’s arrival, heard the explosions and cut the telegraph wires leading from Buller’s headquarters. That would delay news of the raid being spread to other Yankee troops.

Silence returned, or something near to it, after the final explosion. The darkness closed down again, except where an occasional small flicker of flames told that a port fire, grease-bucket, or can of paint had escaped being blown to fragments only to be reduced to ashes. Coming to their feet, the Texans stared in fascination and almost disbelief towards the havoc they had caused.

‘Now that was something you don’t see every day,’ commented Sergeant Bixby with masterly understatement.

The whole material of a field artillery battery had been completely destroyed, without loss of life to either its personnel or the raiders. It had been a remarkably well-handled affair.

‘Damned if I wasn’t certain-sure we’d all get blowed up, being so close,’ Billy Jack wailed and, in further expression of his delight, continued, ‘I dropped on to a rock ’n’ must’ve caved my ribs in. Likely I’ll be dead from my hurts comes morning.’

‘Don’t you die on us, that’s an order!’ Dusty put in. ‘Turn our Yankee amigo loose, Sergeant Bixby.’

‘Yo!’ the non-corn answered.

While his captors had been speaking, Genaro had become aware of the rapidly approaching rumble of hoof-beats. His emotions on the matter were mingled. Owing the Texans his life, he did not wish to see them attacked, captured or killed. Yet he would like to see the destruction of his battery avenged. Then he realized that, despite their interest in the damage, the Texans must also hear the riders. Going by their lack of concern, the men about him had reason to believe that the newcomers were friends.

Set free and with the gag removed, Genaro could do little more than sit up, stifle his moans and the pain of the restored circulation to his limbs and try to work life into his aching jaws. He looked around at the riders, each leading at least one spare horse, swept to a halt before his captors’ rescuers.

The Company’s guidon-carrier, a tall, well-built, sandy-haired young corporal, brought a fine, large black stallion to his commanding officer. Taking the white ‘Jefferson Davis’ campaign hat that dangled from the hilt of the saber strapped to the low horn of his double-girthed range saddle, Dusty donned it. Genaro could see the badge on the front of the hat’s crown and guessed at its shape. A silver, five-pointed star, with the letters T.L.C. across its center, set in a laurel-wreath decorated circle, being modeled on the Sovereign State of Texas’ coat-of-arms, it was an insignia all too well known to the Yankee troops in Arkansas, but Genaro felt curious.

‘Who—who’s that officer?’ the artilleryman inquired of Bixby, as Dusty swung astride the stallion.

‘That, sir,’ the sergeant answered, a ring of pride in his voice, ‘is Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog, commanding Company ‘C’ of the Texas Light Cavalry. You can tell it to your battery’s officer, if he asks.’

‘Sure, I’ll remember,’ Genaro muttered; but he had no intention of passing on his information.

If he could not be found in the morning, it would be assumed that the Rebels had carried him off; or that he had been left behind and perished in the destruction of the battery’s material. Either way, the means to desert in comparative safety lay open before him. After watching the Texans ride off to the west, Genaro turned and started walking in what he believed to be an easterly direction.

Ten men, led by Dusty’s second-in-command, joined Kiowa’s hard-pressed section and helped them bring the terrified Yankee horses under control. With exclamations of satisfaction, the sergeant’s party exchanged their bare-backed borrowed mounts for the comfort and greater safety of their own saddled horses.

Slightly over six foot in height, 1st Lieutenant Charles William Henry Blaze had wide shoulders and a strongly-made frame. He was Dusty’s cousin, also eighteen, and they had grown up together in the Rio Hondo country. Under his campaign hat, a fiery thatch of ever-untidy hair gave him his commonly-used sobriquet ‘Red’ and matched the pugnacious aspect of his freckled, good-looking face. Adopting Dusty’s lead in matters sartorial, his collar sported only two bars and his ‘chicken guts’ were formed of a single strand of braid. Two walnut-handled Army Colts rode butts-forward in his holster and he drew them cavalry-fashion instead of copying Dusty’s cross-hand technique.

Like his smaller cousin, Red was building a name; but it was for hot-headed, quick-tempered, reckless audacity and an almost unrivalled ability to become involved in any fight that took place in his vicinity. There had been some comment among the senior officers of the Regiment when Dusty had taken Red as his subordinate in Company ‘C’. However, Dusty recognized one prime virtue in his cousin that older men tended to overlook. Given a job to do, Red accepted his responsibility, handled it competently, and let nothing swerve him before its completion.

Coming together with the rest of the Company about a mile from the ruined battery, Red gave his delighted congratulations to his cousin. Then Kiowa rode up to make his report.

‘Couldn’t hold ’em all, Cap’n Dusty,’ The Indian-featured sergeant-scout apologized, with a respectful tone that he did not use to every officer. ‘We lost us a few.’

Very few, Dusty concluded as he studied the riderless mass of horses. Counting six per team for each limber, caisson, the battery-wagon and the travelling-forge, with at least a dozen saddle-mounts, they had made a fine haul. Dusty was willing to bet that Kiowa’s men had not lost twenty of the animals during the wild stampede through the darkness.

‘You’ve kept plenty,’ the small Texan praised. ‘Let’s go. I want some miles between us and Little Rock comes morning.’

‘It’d be best,’ Red agreed. Then, as they rode at the head of the Company’s four-abreast column in the wake of the herd of captured horses, he went on, ‘Reckon Uncle Devil can find use for even a bunch of Yankee crow-bait, Cousin Dusty.’

Red had the Texan’s inborn contempt for the lack of horse-savvy shown by the majority of Yankees who opposed them.

‘Likely,’ Dusty replied. ‘He’ll be pleased to get them.’

‘Pleased enough to give us a furlough?’ Red suggested, but he did not sound too hopeful.

‘Maybe,’ Dusty grinned. ‘Only it’s more likely he’ll have something else in mind for us when we get back.’

~*~

General Jackson Baines Hardin, better known as ‘Ole Devil’, scowled at the sheet of paper in his hand. Considering that he held an official communication from an important member of the Confederate States’ Government, his whole attitude was anything but polite, impressed or respectful.

There was always something sardonic, devilish even, in Ole Devil’s sharp-featured, tanned face and black eyes. It told of a temperament fiery, explosive, hard-as-nails, but with the saving grace of understanding human nature and possessing a sense of humor. Tall, ramrod-straight, his lean figure was ideally set off by the uniform of a Confederate States’ Army’s major general. No martinet or blind disciplinarian, he was held in the greatest respect and admiration by the man who served under him.

Since assuming command of the Confederate’s Army of Arkansas and North Texas, Ole Devil had halted the Yankee’s formerly triumphant advance across the Toothpick State and ended the Union’s hopes of invading Northern Texas. In the opinion of many expert observers, if the South had been able to supply him with more men, arms and equipment, he might have thrown the superiorly-numbered Union forces into retreat and pushed them out of Arkansas. As it was, he held the lands west of the Ouachita and Caddo Rivers, compelling the North to retain numbers of troops on the eastern banks who might otherwise have been diverted to more profitable battle-fronts.

By skillfully deploying and manipulating his limited manpower, Ole Devil not only held his ground, but struck hard, telling blows at his enemies. Under his command, he had fewer regiments than those available to his Union opposite number. However, his soldiers had a higher morale and showed a greater determination in action. That could be accounted for by the fact that they were predominantly Texans or Arkansans, fighting to protect, or regain their home States.

While Ole Devil’s infantry held the banks of the Ouachita River and its tributary, the Caddo, his cavalry crossed to raid, harass or destroy the Federal Army’s personnel and supplies. For the most part native Texans, his cavalrymen had been born and raised in a land where a horse was no mere means of transport, but a vital necessity to life. Taught early to handle weapons and ride, trained by fighting against Mexican bandidos, bad whites, or hostile Indians, his Texans were well-suited to the Napoleonic art of making war support war. The Lone Star State fed, clothed and mounted them, but they relied upon the Yankees to produce their specialized military requirements. At a conservative estimate, three-quarters of Ole Devil’s command carried Union-manufactured weapons and fired Northern-made ammunition at their Federal enemies.

All in all, the Confederate States’ Government had good reason to feel satisfied with Ole Devil’s handling of the Army of Arkansas and North Texas. Yet there were times when his superiors annoyed and exasperated him. He not only had to retain control of the west side of the boundary rivers with little more than their moral support, but occasionally they passed to him the damnedest requests or instructions.

Coming to his feet, Ole Devil glared across the desk at the man who had delivered the message. They were in what had been the library of a fine old colonial-style house on the outskirts of Prescott. Presented by its owner as a combined headquarters for the general and the Texas Light Cavalry, the building and especially Ole Devil’s office had been as carefully maintained as while in its owner’s hands. There was a kind of Spartan comfort about the room that suited Ole Devil’s personality and particularly matched his present mood.

‘Have you read this blasted thing, Beau?’ Ole Devil demanded, waving the document angrily.

Major Beauregard Amesley could hardly have avoided doing so. Before the War, he had been a fencing master with a justly-renowned salle des armes in New Orleans. He had been wounded early in the conflict between North and South and left with a permanent limp that precluded further active service. So he had accepted the post as Ole Devil’s aide-de-camp. In addition to handling the general’s affairs, Amesley also gave fencing instruction to the young officers of the Texas Light Cavalry and they in turn occasionally put his lessons to good use.

‘I have, sir,’ Amesley admitted, then stood like a man waiting for an explosion to take place.

The wait was not prolonged. Cutting loose with a furious blast of a snort, Ole Devil flung the offending paper on to the desk.

‘So I’ve got to release this Captain Bertram Gilbertson, of the New Hampstead Volunteers, have him escorted from Murfreesboro to the Snake Ford of the Caddo and there exchange him for Captain Charles de Malvoisin.’

‘You know why, sir.’

‘I know why!’ Ole Devil confirmed grimly. ‘Young de Malvoisin had to be clever and cross the Ouachita on an unofficial raid, then got himself captured. Now we have to arrange for him to be set free. If his men hadn’t escaped, I’d say to hell with him. God blast all hot-headed young French Creoles. I should never have let him into my command.’

‘His father’s not without influence in our Government, sir,’ Amesley pointed out in a placatory manner.

‘Influence!’ Ole Devil spat out the word as if it burned his mouth. ‘What the Southern States need, Beau, is more cooperation and coordination and a whole heap less influence. Well, damn it, I suppose we’ll have to waste men and time to effect this infernal exchange.’

‘The order stresses the extreme urgency of making it, sir,’ Amesley said.

‘That’s probably so that young de Malvoisin can be on hand to attend his sister’s birthday ball,’ the general sniffed. ‘Do you know anything about this Gilbertson, Beau? Are we getting a fair trade?’

‘I’m not sure, sir,’ admitted Amesley. ‘His name doesn’t mean anything to me but the New Hampstead Volunteers aren’t the best outfit Buller’s got. Even if he did put up most of the money to organize and equip it.’

‘If Gilbertson’s got two legs, two arms, a pair of eyes and ears that work, the Yankees are getting the best of the deal,’ Ole Devil rumbled. ‘Who can I send to handle the exchange?’

‘Gilbertson has the right to expect an officer of equal rank as his escort, sir. It’s military courtesy and a convention of war.’

‘If that’s supposed to be a comfort to me, Beau, believe me, it isn’t one.’

‘No, sir,’ Amesley replied. ‘Company “C” came in last night.’

‘I saw Dustine’s report,’ Ole Devil answered. ‘It hardly seems fair to give him the chore, he did so well. Still, it ought to be straightforward enough. A furlough even, although I don’t suppose he’ll think of it that way.’ Grinning frostily, he raised his voice in a bellow. ‘Sergeant major! Give Captain Fog my compliments and tell him I want to see him as soon as convenient; whether it’s convenient or not.’

~*~

Gripping the knife so that its long blade extended below the heel of his hand, the big man rushed at Dusty Fog. Up whipped the man’s right arm, then it propelled the weapon downwards in the direction of the small Texan’s shoulder. Throwing up his hands, Dusty crossed his wrists and interposed them between himself and the knife.

Descending into the upper section of the X-shape formed by Dusty’s arms, the man’s wrist came to a halt before the knife could reach its collar-bone target. Transferring his left hand rapidly to the man’s right wrist, Dusty laid his thumb along the back of the knife-hand. Advancing a pace towards his attacker, Dusty curled his right arm underneath and behind the raised elbow to fold its fingers over the inside of the trapped hand. All the time, Dusty continued to move his feet. He stopped alongside and facing towards the man’s rear, elevating the ensnared arm. Delivering a swift stamping kick to the back of his assailant’s right knee, Dusty tumbled him to the straw-covered floor of the big barn. Immediately on feeling the other going down, Dusty released the arm to avoid injuring him.

Excited and interested comments rose from the assembled soldiers. A dozen recently-enlisted recruits, they were undergoing the final stages of their training before joining the Texas Light Cavalry’s Companies. The demonstration of unarmed self-defense had been put on at the request of the big, burly sergeant who sprawled at Dusty’s feet.

‘You all right, Ditch?’ Dusty inquired.

‘Sure, cap’n,’ the sergeant replied, rising and retrieving the blunt knife.

‘That’s what I figure’s the best way to handle a feller using a knife Indian fashion,’ Dusty told the recruits, ‘Don’t try to grab at and catch hold of the arm. If you miss it, you’re dead. Cross your Wrists and block his hand, then do it like I did. Only do it fast— You’ve got something to say, soldier?’

One of the recruits was a tall, well-made youngster slightly less than Dusty’s age. Handsome, black-haired, he had an air of cocky self-assurance. While the small Texan had been speaking, he muttered to his companions.

‘That’s bueno when you’re facing Injuns,’ the recruit answered, showing no embarrassment at being singled out. ‘Only it wouldn’t work so good happen you come up again’ a greaser or somebody’s knows how to handle a knife properly.’

Looking the speaker over, Dusty silenced the sergeant’s angry rumble. All too well Dusty knew Tracey Prince’s kind. Full of notions about the extent of their own salty toughness, they frequently needed convincing that the small captain held his rank by something more than being Ole Devil Hardin’s nephew. Dusty had always found that a practical demonstration worked far better than words.

‘I’m not sure how you mean, soldier,’ Dusty said quietly, in a tone that would have screamed warnings to any member of Company ‘C’, ‘Give him the knife, sergeant. Then he can show us what it’s all about.’

‘Yo!’ answered Ditch, offering Prince the knife hilt first and eyeing the recruit in a pitying manner.

The sergeant’s attitude went unnoticed by Prince. Flickering a grin at his companions, the recruit accepted the training weapon and stepped into the center of the open space. He held the hilt so that the blade protruded ahead of his right thumb and forefinger. Crouching slightly and showing that he had picked up some skill in the use of a fighting knife, he suddenly assailed Dusty with a series of rapidly-executed slashes and jabs. None came close to connecting with the fast-moving captain. Nor, at first, did Dusty attempt to disarm his attacker. Instead he contented himself with evasive tactics, side-stepping, twisting away, ducking beneath or bounding clear of the weapon.

Hearing his companions’ sniggers combined with his repeated failures to infuriate Prince. Letting out an exasperated snort, he tossed the knife from his right hand and caught it in the left. Executing the exchange with smooth precision, he drove his weapon into a savage thrust directed at his unsuspecting victim’s midriff.

Unfortunately for Prince, his ‘victim’ was anything but unsuspecting.

Swinging his left foot to the rear, Dusty pivoted his torso away from the advancing blade. As the knife rushed past him, carried onwards by the impetus of Prince’s lunge, Dusty whipped up his right arm. Striking beneath Prince’s right forearm, Dusty forced it into the air. Then the small Texan’s left hand flashed across to grip Prince’s raised wrist. Bending his right elbow, Dusty removed his blocking arm and carried it in front of his chest. From there, he lashed the heel of his clenched fist into the soldier’s solar plexus.

Breath exploded from Prince’s lungs, for the blow had not been a light one. The knife clattered to the floor as he clutched at the stricken area and doubled over. Releasing the trapped wrist, Dusty caught the discomforted Prince by the scruff of the neck and gave a sharp heave. Flung bodily across the barn, the recruit landed on his hands and knees in an empty stall.

‘Now I’d say that’s a tolerable fair way of handling a feller who uses his knife like a greaser,’ Sergeant Ditch announced and the other recruits laughed.

At that moment, the regimental sergeant major arrived and delivered Ole Devil’s message verbatim.

‘I reckon it’s convenient now,’ Dusty grinned, collecting his gunbelt from the wall of a stall and buckling it on. ‘How many of these fellers’re for me, Sergeant Ditch?’

‘Only three, cap’n,’ Ditch answered apologetically. ‘You don’t get your old hands killed off fast enough to need more.’

‘I’ll try to change that,’ Dusty promised. ‘If you think they’re ready, have them move their gear to my Company’s lines when they get through here.’

‘Yo!’ the sergeant replied. ‘Trouble being, I’m not sure one of ’em’s ready yet a-whiles.’

Following the non-com’s sardonic glance to where Prince was climbing slowly to his feet, Dusty nodded agreement. However, one did not waste time gossiping when General Ole Devil Hardin said come as soon as convenient. Collecting his hat, Dusty left the barn with the sergeant major. Prince lurched from the stall and scowled at his companions, noticing the mocking grins on their faces.

‘I likes a feller’s quits when he’s ahead,’ Prince declared. ‘If—’

‘If Cap’n Fog’d been so minded,’ Ditch put in coldly, his patience wearing dangerously thin, ‘he’d’ve bust your arm, or your fool neck. You’ve maybe seen Tommy Okasi around headquarters?’

‘That Chinee runt’s works for Ole Devil?’ Prince replied. ‘Sure, I’ve seen him.’

Going by the recruit’s tone, he did not regard the sight as being worthy of interest or comment.

‘Tommy allows he ain’t no Chinee, but comes from some place name of Japan—wherever that be,’ Ditch elaborated. ‘No matter where he hails from, he knows some jim-dandy fighting tricks and he’s taught Cap’n Dusty all of ’em.’

Although the claim tended slightly towards overstatement, none of the recruits felt like challenging it. They had just seen enough to warn them that Captain Dusty Fog possessed some out-of-the-ordinary knowledge and ability when it came to bare-handed fighting.

However, Ole Devil Hardin’s Oriental personal servant had not taught Dusty all his extensive repertoire of ‘jim-dandy fighting tricks’. He had, nevertheless passed on sufficient knowledge of ju-jitsu and karate—all but unknown at that period in the Western Hemisphere—for Dusty to possess a decided advantage when tangling with larger, heavier men.

‘Could be they ain’t so all-fired “jim-dandy” second time you go again’ ’em,’ Prince muttered, wanting to avoid sounding impressed.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ditch growled. ‘Nobody I’ve met’s been hawg-stupid enough to take a second whirl. Happen you feel so inclined, you’ll maybe get your chance. You, Berns ’n’ Svenson can tote your gear across the Company ‘C’s’ lines as soon as you’re dismissed.’

‘Company ‘C’,’ repeated Prince, delighted to learn that he would soon be on active duty. Then the full significance of the words struck him. ‘Hey! That’s—’

‘Yeah,’ Sergeant Ditch finished for him with a malicious grin, ‘That’s Cap’n Fog’s Company.’

~*~

‘Pick up Gilbertson at Murfreesboro, Dustine,’ Ole Devil ordered, showing no sign that his favorite nephew stood at ease before his desk. ‘You’ll not get from the camp to the Snake Ford in one day’s ride with him along, so you’ll have to spend the night in the hotel at Amity.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty replied.

‘It’ll be easy enough,’ Ole Devil continued. ‘And, if I remember correctly, Frank Jex at Murfreesboro sets a good table. We must go up there—on a tour of inspection—one day soon, Beau.’

‘Yo!’ Amesley answered, then looked at the small Texan. ‘Remember, Dusty, if Gilbertson can escape before you reach the Snake Ford, the exchange can’t be put into effect.’

‘I understand, sir,’ Dusty replied.

‘What escort will you be taking?’ Ole Devil inquired.

‘A sergeant, four men. That ought to do it, sir. I’ll not need a large party.’

‘That’ll be enough, I shouldn’t think Gilbertson will bother about trying to escape. How about the rest of your wild men while you’re away?’

‘I’ll leave Cous—Mr. Blaze enough work to keep them occupied, sir.’

‘See you do,’ Ole Devil warned. ‘I don’t want them rampaging around Prescott. It’d be enough to turn the local citizens into Yankees.’

Already, with pride in their solid achievements behind them, Company ‘C’ regarded themselves as the elite of the best damned fighting cavalry regiment in the whole Confederate States’ Army. As was always the case, they insisted that their company commander was the sole authority to which they should be accountable and considered that few other officers had the right to give them orders.

While Ole Devil recognized the military value of such a spirit, especially in the kind of war circumstances compelled him to fight, he wished to avoid friction within his command or among the local citizens. So he wanted to be sure that Company ‘C’s’ more reckless members were held in check. Dusty could do it, but Ole Devil wondered if Red Blaze possessed the type of personality to do so. Knowing his cousin, Dusty felt no such doubts as long as he took certain precautions before leaving.

‘I’ll have a few words with them before I go, sir,’ Dusty promised. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

‘It will,’ Ole Devil confirmed. ‘Get him there and effect the exchange, Dustine. Bring de Malvoisin back here with you. You’re dismissed.’

Saluting, Dusty made an about-face and marched from the office. Leaving the building, he made his way in the direction of his Company’s lines. Strolling along, he gave thought to the composition of the escort. There could be only one choice for his second-in-command. Red would need help to control the Company’s high spirits. It could best be supplied by Billy Jack with the able backing of Sergeants Bixby and ‘Stormy’. Weather. While Kiowa Cotton also held rank as sergeant, his duties were riding scout and he had small interest in disciplinary or administrative matters. Conditions might arise during the delivery of the Yankee prisoner where Kiowa’s specialized talents would be invaluable. For the rest, Dusty would select the men most likely to provoke the kind of incident that Ole Devil wished to avoid.

Hearing his name called, Dusty came out of his reverie and saw Ditch approaching. The sergeant saluted and said, ‘I’ve sent your recruits over, Cap’n Dusty. Berns, Svenson— and Prince.’

‘I know Phil Berns and Ollie Svenson from back home,’ Dusty replied. ‘What’s this Prince yahoo like, Ditch?’

‘Good with a gun. Better’n fair with a hoss.’

‘Now get to the things he’s not so “good” or “better than fair” at.’

‘He’s a mite uppy, like you saw. Which he’ll maybe need his toes taking up a couple of times afore he shapes up. That’s why I assigned him to your Company.’

‘Thanks,’ Dusty said dryly, but he was pleased with the implied compliment.

A long-serving career-soldier, Ditch knew men and could figure out how best to handle them. So he had decided that Dusty was the officer best suited to tame Prince and turn the recruit into a useful soldier.

If a horse on a roundup insisted on repeatedly breaking out of the wranglers’ rope-corral, ^xxi  the boss would tell his best roper to ‘take its toes up’ on the next departure. By tossing his loop around the recalcitrant horse’s fore-feet, the roper would slam it to the ground with sufficient force to knock better sense into it, or break its neck. If the latter happened, the rancher would regard it as small enough price for preventing the bad habit spreading among the rest of the remuda.

Such drastic treatment would not be applied to Prince, but he might require a sharp, painful lesson before he accepted discipline.

Continuing his interrupted journey, Dusty approached his company’s lines of cone-shaped Sibley tents. He discovered Billy Jack making the three recruits welcome before assigning them to their quarters. Standing with his back to Dusty, the gangling sergeant major was obviously unaware of his commanding officer’s arrival.

‘Cap’n Dusty don’t make favorites,’ Billy Jack was saying. ‘He’s just naturally mean to everybody. So you-all keep one thing in mind. In this outfit, there’s two ways of going on. How the captain wants it and the wrong way. Do your work and life’ll go so easy you’ll reckon you’d been born rich. Make fuss and you’ll wish you’d never been born at all.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better, sergeant major,’ Dusty declared.

Calling the recruits to attention, Billy Jack performed a much smarter than usual about-face and saluted. Dusty returned the compliment, then turned his gray eyes to the trio. Glancing briefly at Berns and Svenson, he let his gaze stay longer on Prince’s face. Then he dropped his eyes to the gunbelt with its holsters tied low on the recruit’s thighs. Prince had the kind of attitude best calculated to raise Red Blaze’s ire. Until the youngster had learned to accept discipline, he would be better away from Dusty’s fiery-tempered cousin. However, Dusty wanted to avoid making the matter too obvious.

‘Get your gear settled in,’ the small Texan ordered. ‘Inspect their horses, sergeant major. I’ll be taking Svenson and Prince with me on patrol in the morning.’

‘Yo!’ Billy Jack replied, looking more apprehensive than interested. ‘Where’re we headed this time?’

‘You and the Company’ll be headed over to Captain Streeton’s cannon battery,’ Dusty replied. ‘I want you to know all about handling them by the time I get back.’

‘Back?’

‘I’ve got to collect a Yankee prisoner from Mursfreesboro and take him for exchange on the Snake Ford of the Caddo.’

‘I didn’t reckon Yankee prisoners was worth anything in trading,’ Billy Jack sniffed and nodded towards Prince and the stocky, blond-haired Svenson. ‘Will you be wanting somebody beside them?’

‘Sure,’ Dusty replied. ‘I’ll take Kiowa and Graveling; and I’d best have Surtees along. Rations for a week, fifty rounds a man for their revolvers, twenty for their saddle-guns.’

‘Does Surtees need his bugle?’

‘He’s paid for blowing it, so have him bring it along. I don’t want to have to ask the Arkansas Rifles for the loan of a bugler, they might think we don’t have any in the Texas Light.’

Fully aware of the rivalry which existed between the Arkansas Rifles, an infantry regiment, and his outfit, Billy Jack understood Dusty’s point.

‘They’d likely put it around we use smoke-signals if you did,’ the lanky sergeant major admitted. ‘I’ll warn Kiowa and the fellers.’

‘Bueno!’ Dusty answered. ‘We’ll be pulling out an hour after reveille in the morning.’

‘They’ll be ready,’ Billy Jack assured him.

‘Huh!’ snorted Prince, after Dusty had walked away. ‘I didn’t join the Army to be nursemaid to a Yankee prisoner.’

‘Happen you don’t like it, go tell Cap’n Dusty you ain’t going,’ Billy Jack advised coldly. ‘Only don’t do it while I’m around. I hates to see the sight of privates’ blood getting spilled’

‘You sure it’d be the private’s blood?’ Prince asked.

‘So sure that, happen you’re loco enough to do it, I’ll go start writing to tell your folks how you died,’ the sergeant major replied. ‘Go put up your gear. Feller’s tough as you’ll be a great help to the cooks.’

‘Huh?’ grunted Prince.

‘You got so much brio Escondido ^xxii  that you can work some of it off peeling potatoes for ’em,’ Billy Jack explained. ‘Get moving.’

For all his mournful, hang-dog aspect and fake-miserable temperament, the sergeant major was a shrewd judge of character. Unless he missed his guess, young Tracey Prince would either change his ways in the near future or received a well-deserved lesson in manners. If Prince clashed wills with Dusty Fog, Billy jack had no doubts as to what the result would be.

~*~

Always a realist, Ole Devil Hardin had grown increasingly doubtful that the South could win the War. His decision to support the Confederate States had not been motivated by a desire for the right to possess slaves; for he owned none and had no wish to do so. In fact, despite its use by Northern propagandists as a means of justifying and ennobling their cause, the Slavery issue had not been the sole reason for the secession.

Far more important, to most Texans’ way of thinking, had been an infringement of the right of each, or any State—as a sovereign government—to secede from the Union if its affairs and interests became incompatible with those of the Federal Congress.

Since becoming a part of the Union, Texas had been shabbily treated. Having disbanded its efficient Ranger battalions, the State had repeatedly been refused the military protection promised by the Federal government. So the majority of Texans had become disenchanted with the Northern States. On top of that, many Texans had close family ties in the other seceding States. So the Lone Star State had voted by a two-thirds majority to join the Confederate States and Ole Devil had offered his clan’s services.

Slowly but surely, the North’s industrial and economic superiority was crushing the South. Courage and prowess on the battlefield could not avail in the long run. Even without his own humanitarian feelings and sense of chivalry, that factor had made Ole Devil determined that his prisoner-of-war camps would not follow the lead of Andersonville and other Confederate establishments.

To be fair to the staffs of the other Southern camps, much of the terrible conditions, the shortages of food, clothing and medical supplies, could be blamed upon the Yankees themselves. The United States Navy’s blockade of Southern ports had restricted the import of many vital commodities and, not unnaturally, the Confederate authorities had given priority to their own people rather than to their captured enemies.

So there were mitigating circumstances for the adverse conditions in the majority of Confederate camps. Far more so than in those commanded by the Union’s intellectual General Smethurst. ^xxiii  There, starvation, ill-treatment and cruelty were permitted, encouraged even, by Smethurst and his kind out of vicious malice against men who had refused to give blind acquiescence to their ‘liberal’ beliefs.

Knowing that men who received reasonable treatment would remember it in later years, Ole Devil had made arrangements and issued strict instructions concerning the prisoners-of-war taken by his command.

Caution demanded that the Yankee officers and men be kept separate; as did military tradition. So there were two camps, perched on the tops of hills about a mile apart, not far from Murfreesboro, seat of Pike County. Inside the stout log palisades, the enlisted men occupied tents and the officers were quartered in wooden cabins.

Many of the enlisted men fed better than any other time in their lives, for Texas longhorns were such a cheap and easily obtainable commodity that they received beef at least once a day. Such had been the success of Ole Devil’s system that there had never been an attempt to escape from Murfreesboro. In fact, there had been considerable reluctance to accept on the part of several enlisted men who had been offered their freedom and the chance to return to their respective regiments east of the Ouachita.

Wanting to get his assignment over as quickly as possible, Dusty had sent Kiowa on ahead of the rest of the escort. Riding a two-horse relay, the Indian-dark sergeant had reached the camp the previous night and informed its commanding officer that the exchange was due to be implemented.

At ten o’clock on the second day after receiving his orders from Ole Devil, Dusty sat in the office of the camps’ commanding officer and watched Colonel Jex read his authorization to collect Captain Gilbertson. White-haired, elderly, with a pleasant face, Jex had been a cavalry officer all his service before coming to the more sedentary occupation of running the prisoner-of-war camps. Looking at Dusty as he laid down the paper, Jex expressed the amiability and comradeship that stemmed from their mutual membership of the mounted arm of the service.

‘If Gilbertson wasn’t the son of the top soft-shell politician in New Hampstead,’ Jex remarked after the conventional greetings had ended, ‘I’d wonder why the hell Buller wanted him back. I’ve got career-officers here who’d be far greater use to the North.’

‘What kind of man is he?’ Dusty inquired.

‘If he was a horse, I wouldn’t use him to breed mules,’ Jex sniffed, then cocked his head and listened to the footsteps crossing the porch to his office door. ‘This’ll be him now.’

Turning, Dusty watched the door open and Captain Gilbertson walk in. Clad in an untidy uniform, the man for exchange proved to be tall, thick-set, with heavy, sullen features. Cold, suspicious eyes darted from Jex to Dusty and roamed over the small Texan’s figure with an almost insulting gaze. Slouching across to the colonel’s desk, the Yankee Volunteer threw up a grudging salute.

‘Captain Fog, this is Captain Gilbertson, New Hampstead Volunteers,’ Jex introduced, struggling to sound polite. ‘Captain Gilbertson, may I present your escort? This is Captain Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry.’

Again the cold eyes turned Dusty’s way. There was a hint of condescension in Gilbertson’s attitude. He acknowledged the introduction with only the slightest inclination of his head. Although willing to be friendly, Dusty kept his right hand at his side and made no greater gesture in reply than he had been given.

‘If it’s convenient to you, captain,’ Dusty said evenly, ‘I’d like to leave just after noon.’

‘I’m ready to go straight away,’ Gilbertson answered, his voice well-educated, arrogant and anything but polite. ‘How soon can we start?’

The ungracious response drew an angry intake of breath from Jex. Up to that moment, the colonel had been intending to ask the two young captains to be his guests for lunch. Faced with such blatant bad manners, Jex felt disinclined to offer his hospitality to the Yankee.

‘You can leave when you’re ready, Captain Fog,’ the colonel said blandly, without looking at Gilbertson. ‘I hope that you’ll have an uneventful journey and that you will call by to dine with me on your return.’

‘It will be my pleasure, sir,’ Dusty replied. ‘With your permission, we’ll make a start.’

Walking over to the cupboard at the left of his desk, Jex opened it and took out a Union Army weapon belt with a saber on its slings. Bringing them across to Gilbertson, he held them out.

‘Your sword, captain.’

Jerking his eyes from their scrutiny of Dusty, Gilbertson looked at the weapon with an air of mistrust. He seemed puzzled and surprised by Jex’s action, maybe even wondering if its return might be some kind of trick. Without a word of thanks, he accepted and buckled on the belt.

‘Have you all your other property, captain?’ Dusty asked.

‘All your men le—’ Gilbertson began, then shrugged. ‘I’ve got it all.’

‘May we go, sir?’ Dusty went on to Jex.

‘You’re dismissed,’ the colonel confirmed.

With a more sociable prisoner, the colonel would have said more. A glance at Dusty assured Jex that his motives and brusque tone were understood. Saluting, the small Texan and the Volunteer turned and left the office. Curious officer-prisoners watched as the two captains walked from the administration compound and crossed to the main gates. Listening to the ribald comments directed at Gilbertson, Dusty concluded that his unpopularity extended to his companions in the camp. Certainly none of them displayed displeasure, or regret, at seeing him leave.

Kiowa and the four privates waited outside the palisade. Joining his men and accepting his stallion’s reins from the bugler, Dusty indicated the second of the horses held by Svenson.

‘Will you use that one, captain?’ Dusty asked.

Looking at the horse, Gilbertson gave a sniff. It had the appearance of being easy-going, but did not approach the superb quality of the animals to be used by his escort. While its gentle disposition and sober temperament would make it a pleasant animal to ride, it could not hope to outrun the Texans’ mounts. Despite the way in which the words had been framed, the Volunteer knew that he had no choice but accept.

‘It’ll do,’ Gilbertson growled.

Considering that he was being released from captivity and returned to his own people, Gilbertson showed little change in his sullen attitude. With a surly scowl, he swung astride his borrowed horse. Watching his escort mount, he reached conclusions about them. That third bar on the captain’s collar had not been in place for long. For one so young to have reached such a rank hinted that family connections rather than outstanding achievements had taken him there. Apart from the sergeant, the rest of the escort had the appearance of youth, inexperience even. That sergeant would be a decisive element in the event of trouble. Hard-faced and dangerous, he would not be a man amenable to discipline and might require watching.

On the move, Dusty told Kiowa to range ahead, then sent Graveling and Surtees out on the flanks. Watching them go, Gilbertson revised his opinion. For all their smart appearance and new-looking uniforms, those two had seen service. The Volunteer did not need to ask why Dusty was taking such precautions.

After a few attempts had failed during the early days of Ole Devil Hardin assuming defensive positions west of the Ouachita and Caddo Rivers, the Yankee cavalry had shown little tendency to cross and raid. Clearly Captain Fog did not believe in taking chances. There were other factors to be considered besides official Union Army action. Thinking of them, Gilbertson almost approved of his escort’s precautions.

Guerillas, for the most part little better than marauding bands of thieves, roamed both sides of the rivers. Under the pretence of fighting for the North or the South, they looted, pillaged and committed outrages. They would not hesitate to snatch up a Yankee officer, or a Rebel for that matter, so that he could be ransomed by his friends or brought by his enemies. Misguided Southern patriots formed a smaller, but no less real threat. One of them might decide to shoot a Yankee soldier out of malice and without thought of how his actions might affect his own Army. Gilbertson was pleased that his escort seemed aware of the dangers.

~*~

Despite all Dusty’s precautions, or possibly because of them, the day’s journey went by uneventfully. They had ridden at a steady pace, held down to the limit of the slowest horse. At first Dusty had tried to open a conversation, but Gilbertson displayed such a reluctance to reply that the attempts ended. Yet the Volunteer’s attitude puzzled Dusty. Other Union officers with whom the small Texan had come in contact had talked, joked even. What Dusty failed to take into consideration was that they had been professional soldiers, men who fought as their duty and responded to the friendship of chivalrous enemies who followed the conventions of war.

Towards sundown, the party crossed the boundary between Pike and Clark Counties and entered the small town of Amity. The arrival of a Union officer, even though accompanied by a Confederate captain and five enlisted men from the Texas Light Cavalry, attracted considerable attention. Women and children came from the houses to follow the riders. Discarding their traditional pastimes of pitching horseshoes at the back of the livery barn, or hard-wintering ^xxiv  on the porch of the general store, elderly and middle-aged men converged on the newcomers. Dusty noticed that Gilbertson looked uneasy, nervous almost, and darted worried glances at the civilians.

Nothing untoward happened and Dusty’s party turned their horses towards the front of the small hotel. Glancing up, Dusty saw an unshaven face at the window of a first floor room. It withdrew on finding itself observed. Then the people attracted the small Texan’s attention.

‘Where’d you get him, Cap’n?’ asked an old man sporting the badge of town constable, but not wearing a gun.

‘Why’s he still wearing that toad-sticker?’ another of the crowd demanded, indicating Gilbertson’s saber.

Dusty was saved from answering the questions by the crowd pressing closer. Letting out a snort, his huge black stallion cut loose with both iron-shod rear hooves and caused a rapid movement away from it. Quitting his saddle, he quietened his mount down and looked over his shoulder.

‘Keep back please, folks,’ Dusty requested.

‘You come crowding in too close behind any of these bosses, and you’re likely to wind up picking shoeing-iron out of your teeth,’ Kiowa elaborated, dropping to the ground and facing the crowd. ‘Hold back there, all of you.’

‘Haul back, folks,’ the constable continued, conscious of his official status. ‘Come on, give these Texas gents room to move.’

‘Gracias marshal,’ Dusty drawled as the people obeyed.

‘Ain’t got no jail-house, ‘cepting for the root-cellar at my place, cap’n,’ the constable said respectfully. ‘You can put him in that, happen you want to.’

‘Damn it, F—Captain Fog!’ Gilbertson barked. ‘I’m an officer—’

‘It’s all right, marshal,’ Dusty put in, ignoring the outburst. ‘I’ll tend to him. Will you show my men to the livery barn, please?’

‘Sure will, cap’n,’ the constable agreed.

‘Kiowa, take Prince, Graveling and Svenson with you,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Tend to the horses and leave Prince on guard while you come to bed down and eat.’

‘Yo!’ Kiowa replied, taking the reins of Dusty’s stallion. ‘Let’s go.’

Accompanied by the constable, Kiowa’s party led the horses away. Without satisfying the crowd’s curiosity, Dusty and Gilbertson entered the hotel, followed by Surtees. The Volunteer studied Surtees again. While a bugle was suspended from the soldier’s left shoulder, the Dance Bros. Army revolver in his open-topped holster had seen much use. There was a tough, capable air about the bugler that warned Gilbertson of his ability in combatant duties.

So the Yankee shelved until later certain thoughts which had run through his head on seeing the majority of his escort sent away.

Like most such establishments in small towns, the Amity Hotel did double duty as a saloon. Its front door opened into a large combined dining- and bar-room, the counter also serving as a reception desk. At each end of the bar, a flight of stairs ascended to the first floor.

Crossing the room, Dusty gave thought to a problem. He looked at Gilbertson for a moment as they stood at the reception desk end of the counter and reached a decision.

‘Captain Gilbertson,’ Dusty said formally. ‘We’ll be at the Snake Ford by noon tomorrow—’

‘That’s so,’ the Volunteer agreed, acting more amiably than previously.

‘Will you give me your word not to escape, or try to, between now and sun-up tomorrow?’ Dusty requested. ‘It’ll make things a heap easier for all of us.’

‘Of course I will,’ Gilbertson agreed without hesitation.

Despite the increasing determination and bitterness that had developed with each succeeding year of the War, the traditional chivalries and conventions were still generally observed. Captured officers in most cases received the privileges of their rank, especially those taken by the Army of Arkansas and North Texas. If an officer gave his parole, he would be allowed a measure of freedom and was expected to keep within the bounds of his agreement.

‘Your word of honor, sir?’ Dusty insisted, wanting no misunderstandings.

‘My word of honor, Captain Fog,’ Gilbertson confirmed solemnly.

Something in the Yankee’s manner disturbed Dusty, but he could not put his finger on what it might be. An officer in the Union Army’s word was his bond, as binding as if he had signed the most carefully written legal agreement. Yet Dusty felt vaguely uneasy.

There appeared to be no valid reason for Gilbertson to refuse his parole. By noon the following day, at the latest, he could cross the Snake Ford of the Caddo and be free. So Dusty could see no reason why the Volunteer would want to take the risk of attempting to escape. Having pledged his word of honor, Gilbertson would not require guarding and the whole sense of tension that filled the members of the escort could disperse.

Hearing the door behind the bar open, Dusty turned his attention to it. The owner of the hotel, a short, unshaven man in old, but clean, town clothes, came to the counter. Dusty decided that he was the man who had looked down from the first floor room on their arrival.

On listening to Dusty’s request for accommodation, the owner threw a scowling glare at Gilbertson. For a moment the man seemed to be on the verge of refusing. Then his eyes went to Dusty’s collar and he recognized the meaning of the three bars it carried. There was an air of quiet, determined authority about the small Texan only rarely seen in one so young. More than that, the captain wore a gunbelt with the ease of long practice. He also had the backing of a tough, salty-looking soldier; with more of them close at hand should the need for their assistance arise.

‘Got me two single-bed rooms and a big ’n’ is all, cap’n,’ the owner said.

‘Captain Gilbertson and I’ll have the singles,’ Dusty decided. ‘Can you put my men in the other?’

‘Ain’t but the one bed, but I’ll set mattresses on the floor for the others,’ the man offered.

‘You’ve got other folks staying here?’ Dusty inquired.

‘A gambling man and three other fellers, cap’n. They’re just passing through. You want to see them rooms now?’

‘We might as well,’ Dusty decided.

Going up the right hand flight of stairs, the owner turned along a narrow passage. Opening doors, he showed his vacant quarters to the soldiers. The two single rooms flanked the larger. While small, they had clean-looking beds and appeared to be comfortable enough.

‘They do?’ the owner asked grudgingly.

‘They’ll do,’ confirmed Dusty. ‘Which one do you want, captain?’

‘I’ll take this,’ Gilbertson answered, nodding to the door nearest to the head of the stairs.

If the Volunteer had refused to give his parole, Dusty would not have accepted the selection. With Gilbertson’s word of honor accepted, he could choose either of the rooms.

‘It’s yours,’ Dusty said. ‘I hope you’ll be my guest for supper tonight. And it might be best if you didn’t leave the hotel unless one of us is with you.’

‘Damn it, I’ve given you my word——!’ Gilbertson blazed.

‘And I’ve accepted it. But the folks in Amity aren’t used to seeing Union officers around. If somebody should see you out alone, they might figure you’re trying to escape. There’s no sense in taking chances, is there?’

‘I suppose not. And I’ll do what you suggest.’

Once it had been explained, Gilbertson could see the wisdom of Dusty’s suggestion and so had accepted it. In Murfreesboro, the citizens knew the meaning of a parole and had grown accustomed to seeing unescorted Yankee officers on the streets. People in a hamlet like Amity would not understand such matters.

A man stepped from a room across the passage. Dressed in dirty range-clothes, carrying an Army Colt tied low on his right thigh, he had a hard, unshaven face, Of medium height, he was clearly within the military age limits. His eyes went first to Gilbertson, then turned in Dusty’s direction. Stepping from his room, he went along the passage with a pronounced limp to his left leg. That might account for why he did not wear a uniform.

‘If you-all want anything, cap’n, just holler for it,’ the owner remarked. ‘Supper’ll not be ready for two hours, ‘less you want it Sooner,’

‘That’ll be soon enough,’ Dusty replied.

Going to his room, Dusty looked along the passage. The civilian was on the point of entering a door next to the second flight of stairs and stared back over his shoulder. Finding himself under observation, the man jerked his eyes to the front and disappeared through the doorway. Dusty realized that the man occupied, or had left, one of the rooms at the front of the building. Possibly it had been him and not the owner who had attracted Dusty’s attention earlier.

~*~

Two and a half hours after their arrival, Dusty accompanied Gilbertson into the barroom. Waving Kiowa and the three privates to remain seated, Dusty strolled across to a small table by the window. Looking out, he saw half-a-dozen saddled horses standing at the hotel’s hitching-rail. Possibly they belonged to the lame civilian and the other two gun-hung hard-cases who stood drinking at the counter.

None of the trio turned or showed the slightest interest in the new arrivals, a thing Dusty noticed and pondered upon. Before the small Texan could reach any conclusions, the owner’s wife appeared and placed plates of steaming stew before the two officers.

‘Ain’t got nothing else, cap’n,’ the woman declared, directing her words to Dusty. ‘I hope it’ll do.’

‘It’ll do right well, ma’am,’ Dusty assured her and nodded towards the bar. ‘Who’re those fellers?’

‘Reckon they’ve been helping Colonel Early drive in cattle from Texas,’ the woman answered. ‘Smell like they might’ve been, too.’

‘Bad as that, huh?’ Dusty grinned.

‘Sure is,’ agreed the woman and walked away.

With so many able-bodied men serving the South, Colonel Jubal Early of the Confederate States Army’s Quartermasters’ Corps had to make use of whatever help he could find to deliver herds of cattle. Possibly the men had been paid off from a drive and had decided to stay in Amity for a few days on their way back to Texas. There was nothing strange, or suspicious about them being in the town; except for their too-obvious lack of interest in Dusty and the Yankee captain.

Despite giving his parole not to escape, Gilbertson showed no signs of mellowing during the meal. Having already discovered that the other had no wish for conversation, Dusty made no great effort to stimulate one. Instead he settled down to eat the tasty stew and studied his surroundings. Dusty decided that he would not be sorry to part company with the surly Yankee officer, but refused to let the Volunteer spoil his enjoyment of the meal.

When the men had finished eating, Kiowa rose and slouched across the room to the officers’ table.

‘Got the hosses bedded down with no fuss, Cap’n Dusty,’ the scout reported. ‘Now me ’n’ the boys’ve fed, I’ll send Craveling down to relieve young Prince so’s he can come and eat.’

‘What do you know about those three hombres at the bar, Kiowa?’ Dusty asked.

‘Tallest’s name’s Abe, the one with the limp’s Will, ’n’ t’other’s called Harpe. Allow to’ve been working for Jubal Early.’

‘Have they?’

‘Could be. He takes on some hard hands. Only they don’t talk Texan. East Arkansan maybe, or even Mississip’, but not Texan.’

‘There’re no ropes on those saddles,’ Dusty remarked, nodding towards the window. ‘I reckon we’ll have two men on guard at the barn tonight.’

‘Yo!’ Kiowa agreed. ‘I’ll take Graveling and Surtees for the first trick. Then I’ll sleep down there ’n’ can watch the other two while they’re doing their spell—Unless you want me here.’

‘Stop at the barn,’ Dusty confirmed.

Kiowa’s eyes flickered briefly in Gilbertson’s direction. Then the sergeant gave a barely perceptible nod of understanding. Clearly the Yankee had given his parole not to escape. In which case, Cap’n Dusty would not need to keep a strict watch over him. A bunch of excellent-quality horses would make a tempting target should the three hard-cases be other than they stated. So the sensible thing was to establish a strong guard over the animals.

Swinging on his heel, Kiowa returned to the other enlisted men. After his companions had left, Svenson rose and went across to the bar. Grinning amiably, the civilian called Will told the hotel’s owner—now acting as bartender—to give the soldier a drink. Before accepting, Svenson warned the trio that he was in no financial condition to return the hospitality. Waving aside the comment as of no importance, Will limped along the counter and started a conversation.

Watching the men, Dusty saw nothing unusual in Will’s actions. In times of war and danger, civilians tended to forget their antipathy towards soldiers and not infrequently entertained them Going by the gestures which were made, Will was asking Svenson why the other Texans had left and the soldier satisfied his curiosity. Then Will slapped his pockets and let out an annoyed grunt.

‘Damned if I didn’t leave my money upstairs,’ the man announced. ‘I’ll have to go and fetch it.’

Everything seemed harmless as Will went to the right-side set of stairs. Yet Dusty experienced a growing sense of uneasiness as he watched the man depart. The small Texan wondered what kind of injury had caused Will’s pronounced limp. It must have been of a most peculiar nature, for its effects appeared to change from leg to leg. Dragging his right foot awkwardly, Will disappeared up the stairs.

With a more sociable companion, even an enemy, Dusty would have mentioned and discussed the phenomenon. Deciding against trying to communicate with the surly Volunteer, the small Texan still thought about Will’s disability.

Why should the man fake a limp if he worked for Jubal Early?

There seemed to be no need for such subterfuge. Bringing in cattle to help feed the fighting soldiers could be classed as a useful occupation. It would excuse a man for not being in uniform. Of course, soldiers suffering the dangers and hardships of war might be unsympathetic and not so understanding towards healthy civilians. Especially if the same civilians were employed in work that brought them wages far beyond the soldiers’ meager pay.

Will might be faking an injury to avoid trouble of that kind; although he did not strike Dusty as the type of man who would go to such lengths to do so.

A deserter might adopt a limp, so as to evade being questioned and to excuse him not being in uniform. Which did not explain Will’s obvious interest in Gilbertson upstairs. Unless he had deserted from the Union Army and was afraid that the Volunteer might recognize, denounce and cause his return. That could be. There had been cases during the war of officers, plagued by desertion among their own men, returning captured enemy deserters. Doing so warned their malcontents that no safe refuge awaited them on the other side.

Recently, however, there had been a growing tendency among the Northern and Rebel Armies to attempt to encourage desertion from their enemy’s forces. Offers of good treatment, safe conduct, assistance even, had been made in the hope of seducing men from the opposition. Perhaps Will had not heard of the change in policy, or disbelieved it and aimed to take no chances.

Footsteps sounded on the left-side stairs; a firm, even, heavy tread different in timbre from Will’s hesitant gait. Glancing across the room, Dusty saw that the other two hard-cases had joined Svenson. Abe stood to the recruit’s right and Harpe lounged negligently to his left. A snort and movement outside the building drew Dusty’s attention to the horses. Suddenly he became aware of a significant point that had escaped his notice earlier. Instead of being tied to the hitching-rail, the horses’ reins merely dangled across it. While such a method held trained mounts as effectively as tying them, the necessary training took time and patience. Any man who made the effort had a good reason for doing it. Outlaws, needing to have the means for a fast escape, used it.

From the horses, Dusty swung his eyes in the direction of the left side set of stairs. He studied the man who was coming down. Dressed in a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat, gray broadcloth jacket, fancy vest, frilly-bosomed shirt, string bow-tie, slim-legged white trousers and town boots, he had the appearance of a riverboat gambler. Clean-shaven, swarthily-handsome, he appeared to have nothing in common with the bristle-stubbled hard-cases at the bar.

Yet he did belong to Will’s party!

Dusty discovered the fact just an instant too late.

Stepping into the barroom, his right hand concealed behind his back, the newcomer did not look at the men by the counter. Although no visible signal passed between them, Abe and Harpe reacted swiftly to the gambler’s arrival. Sliding his Army Colt from its holster, Abe rammed its barrel against Svenson’s side. Just as rapidly, Harpe produced his Remington Army revolver and threw down on the startled hotel-keeper.

About to rise, left hand moving across in the direction of the right side Colt’s butt, Dusty saw the gambler swing to face him. While turning, the man brought his right hand from behind his back. In it, he held a Starr Army revolver which he lined at the small Texan.

‘Sit still, sonny!’ the gambler ordered. ‘No heroics, unless you want to get your man and our host killed.’

‘Do what you want, Cap’n Dus—!’ Svenson began, standing like a statue with a whiskey-filled glass halfway to his lips.

‘Monte ain’t fooling, soldier-boy,’ Abe warned, gouging the Colt’s muzzle harder into Svenson’s ribs.

‘I’m not,’ the gambler assured Dusty. ‘My companions are men of hasty temper and with small regard for human life. You don’t want two deaths on your conscience, do you, captain?’

Put that way, Dusty knew that he must restrain his intentions. If his life only had been at stake, he would have taken his chances. On producing the Starr, Monte had come to a halt and was waiting until his men had the situation under control before moving closer. So Dusty would have staked his gun-skill against the trio’s across the width of the barroom. He could not if doing it would cause the deaths of two men.

‘What’s the idea, hombre?’ Dusty asked and continued to rise, keeping his empty hands in plain view.

‘We gentlemen of Monte Beaufort’s Private Company are going to save you some time and effort, captain,’ the gambler replied, walking towards the two officers. ‘If we take your blue-clad friend off your hands, you won’t need to ride all the way to Murfreesboro with him and can go back to your regiment.’

‘And what’ll you do with him?’ Dusty inquired, moving slowly around the table as he spoke.

The mention of Monte Beaufort’s Private Company had already supplied the answer. To add a kind of spurious legality to their efforts, most bands of guerillas adopted military-sounding titles. Clearly the men at the hotel belonged to such an organization. Most probably, the gambler was ‘Monte Beaufort’.

‘I reckon he’ll be worth something to somebody,’ the gambler answered, darting a glance at the seated Yankee Volunteer. ‘If not— Well, it’s the duty of all loyal Southerons to kill Abolitionists.’

That was just about what Dusty had expected to lie behind the men’s actions. Advancing a couple of strides, Dusty stopped between his prisoner and the approaching Guerilla-leader.

‘Captain Gilbertson’s in my care, hombre!’ Dusty stated flatly.

‘I’ve no quarrel with you, soldier-boy,’ Monte warned. ‘But if you don’t step aside, I’ll blow a hole through you.’

‘Pull that trigger and you’re done for,’ Dusty replied. ‘If the rest of my men don’t get you, Uncle Devil’ll not let anybody rest until you’ve been hunted down and hung from a tree.’

‘Uncle Devil?’ Monte growled and his two companions looked around.

‘Ole Devil Hardin’s my uncle,’ Dusty announced in a carrying voice, ‘My name is Dusty Fog.’

By trade and natural aptitude, Monte was a fast thinker. So he considered Dusty’s words and digested their implications. For one so young and insignificant to hold captain’s rank hinted at important family connections. According to rumor, the Fogs shared with the Hardins and Blazes in ownership of Texas’ vast Rio Hondo County. So the small blond was most likely speaking the truth.

Having worked on Mississippi riverboats, Monte knew all about the strong inter-family loyalties possessed by Southern gentlemen. So he was aware that the short-grown captain had been correct about how Ole Devil Hardin would react to the news of his nephew’s murder.

On the other hand, the commanding general of the Army Arkansas and North Texas might be willing to overlook abduction of the prisoner if his loss could mean damage to a favorite, kinsman’s career.

By the time he had formulated his opinion and come to a decision on it, the gambler had almost reached Dusty. Giving a shrug and acting as if he had reconsidered, Monte let his revolver’s barrel sag towards the floor and he made as if to turn away.

‘All right,’ the gambler said, in tones of mock-resignation. ‘No shooting!’

With that, Monte rapidly reversed his direction and whipped his revolver around. Instead of burning powder, he intended to smash the barrel against the side of the small Texan’s head.

Suddenly Dusty no longer looked small. In some strange manner, he appeared to have taken on size and heft until he conveyed the impression of at least equaling Monte’s height.

Far from being fooled by the gambler’s apparent change of heart, Dusty had expected some such reaction. Instead of trying to draw back, or dodge under the blow, Dusty stepped within its arc. Up rose his hands in the kind of X-block he had used against Sergeant Ditch’s knife attack, but he did not intend to restrict himself to his former comparatively mild protective measures while disarming his present assailant.

As Monte’s wrist impacted into the side of the ‘X’ and halted, Dusty continued to move with devastating speed. Breaking open his block the instant it had served its purpose, Dusty caught Monte’s wrist from below with his left hand and turned the gun-filled fist palm upwards. Bending his right elbow, Dusty closed his other fingers over the top of the gambler’s off bicep. At the same time, Dusty pivoted to the left so that he halted with his back to Monte’s belly.

Snapping down with his hands, Dusty slammed the back of Monte’s trapped elbow on to the left shoulder of his tunic. Doing so exerted a dangerous pressure against the joint and came close to breaking it. With a yelp, Monte released his hold on the Starr and it fell at Gilbertson’s feet. Nor had the gambler’s troubles ended. Sinking to his left knee, Dusty catapulted his larger, heavier assailant over his shoulder. Smashing into the wall with his rump, Monte crumpled on to the top of the table at which the officers had eaten their meal and sprawled limply across it.

Having known Dusty since childhood in Polveroso City, Svenson had not been misled by the small Texan’s passive behavior. So the recruit had stood quietly, but ready and waiting to take full advantage of Dusty’s response to the threat when it came.

Attracted by the conversation between Dusty and Monte, the two hard-cases at the bar had allowed their attention to be diverted from the men they were supposed to be guarding. On seeing how Dusty handled the gambler, Abe and Harpe hastily began to turn their weapons in his direction. They were confused by the sudden and—as it appeared to them—miraculous turn of events. Nor did the stocky blond recruit give them time to recover from the shock of seeing the diminutive captain almost casually flip the much heftier Monte over his shoulder.

Jerking his wrist to the right, Svenson propelled the contents of his glass into Abe’s face. Letting out a startled yelp, the hard-case retreated a few steps. Abe’s hands rose n an involuntary gesture as the raw liquor stung his eyes and his gun went off to send its bullet harmlessly into the ceiling. Ignoring Abe after throwing the whiskey, Svenson hurled himself to the left. Ramming his shoulder into Harpe, he knocked the guerilla staggering. At the same moment, seizing his opportunity, the hotel’s owner dropped out of sight behind the counter.

From throwing Monte over his shoulder, Dusty straightened his bent leg and thrust himself erect. While spinning around to face the bar, he noticed that Gilbertson had snatched up Monte’s Starr revolver and was coming to his feet. Satisfied that the Yankee would honor his parole, Dusty expected that he would use the gun to help fight off the guerillas. So Dusty concentrated his attention on dealing with the gambler’s companions. He saw Svenson charging into Harpe, but knew that the affair had not yet ended.

Still reeling from the impact, Harpe cut loose with a shot in Dusty’s direction. Lead screamed eerily by the small Texan’s head, coming so close that it gave warning of the hard-case’s ability. A man with such skill was too dangerous to be trifled with.

Dusty sent his hands flashing across his body. Like twin extensions of his will, the matched Colts left their holsters. Passing each other with smooth precision, the seven-and-a-half inch long Civilian Model barrels ^xxv  turned outwards and pointed at Harpe. Before the guns had cleared leather, their hammers were thumbed back to the full-cock position. Once the barrels started to turn, Dusty’s forefingers entered the trigger guards. So all was ready the instant the Colts lined at his target.

From waist high, aimed by instinctive alignment, the Colts went off in what sounded like a single crash. Three-quarters of a second after Dusty’s hands had made their first movements, two 219-grain bullets were speeding towards Harpe. Both struck him in the forehead with less than an inch separating them. Flung backwards, the guerilla collided with the bar and bounced lifeless from it to the floor.

While the smoke still swirled from his guns, a sudden impact from behind knocked Dusty reeling. With an effort, he managed to maintain his hold on the two Colts. Fighting to regain his balance and avoid falling, he heard the sound of running feet to his rear and twisted to look over his shoulder.

About to turn back and deal with Abe, after watching Dusty take Harpe out of the game, Svenson saw Gilbertson lunge from his chair. Dropping his right shoulder, the Yankee officer charged the small Texan from the rear. Having knocked Dusty out of the way, the Volunteer bounded across the room. It was clear that, despite having given his word, he intended to escape.

Letting out an angry bellow, Svenson sprang to meet the fleeing man. No gun-fighter, the blond recruit lacked the coordination and fast reactions required to draw a gun with blinding speed. In a fight, he much preferred to use his big fists. So he plunged resolutely in Gilbertson’s direction and made no attempt to reach for his holstered revolver.

Even when he had given it, Gilbertson had had no intention of keeping his parole. He had planned to take advantage of his escort relaxing their vigilance, on accepting his word, and to escape during the night. To make certain of reaching safety, he would need a horse. Learning that Dusty was putting two men to guard the party’s mounts had caused Gilbertson’s hopes to dwindle. The intervention of Monte’s guerillas had opened another avenue of departure for him.

Acting more on blind impulse than a thought-out plan, Gilbertson had not used the Starr to remove Dusty from his path. By the time the idea of doing so had come to him, he had knocked the small Texan aside and gone running by. To turn and shoot would waste valuable seconds; especially when the second of the guerillas might kill the Rebel captain for him. At that moment too, the stocky blond recruit presented a greater threat to Gilbertson’s bid for freedom.

Throwing forward the Starr, the Volunteer pressed its trigger. Back rode the double-action hammer, then slammed forward. A .44 bullet ripped into the center of Svenson’s chest, halting his advance. Involuntarily Gilbertson relaxed his forefinger and tightened it again. The Starr spat at the height of its recoil kick, sending its next load into the center of Svenson’s forehead. Knocked from his feet, the recruit no longer impeded Gilbertson’s flight. Without giving his victim a second glance, the Volunteer ran on.

Digging in with his heels, Dusty came to a halt and started to swing in Gilbertson’s direction. Hot anger blazed inside the small Texan at the Volunteer’s treachery. Even as Dusty prepared to lunge in pursuit, a gun roared from the left side stairs and its bullet stirred his hair in passing.

Throwing himself aside in a rolling dive, Dusty saw Will coming down the stairs. Smoke curled from the revolver in the man’s hand and he had miraculously lost his limp. There was no time to think about that. Landing on the floor, Dusty cut loose with first left, then right hand Colt. Through the swirling clouds of discharged gas that belched out of the muzzles, he saw Will jolt as if struck by an invisible hand. Falling backwards, Will sat down, then slid to the foot of the stairs. The Colt slipped from his hand as he came to a stop.

Turning on to his stomach, Dusty saw his prisoner leaping through the front door. Before the small Texan could make another movement, he heard the blast of detonating gun-powder. Splinters erupted from the planks ahead of him. Twirling himself over so that he could look in the direction from which the shot had come, Dusty saw Abe looming towards him. Again the man fired, but his whiskey-inflamed eyes and the haste of his actions did not lend to accurate sighting. Another hole appeared in the floor, less than a foot from the side of Dusty’s head.

Trained thumbs drew back the Colts’ hammers as Dusty continued to roll over. He squeezed the triggers while on his back and with the revolvers extended at arms’ length above his head. Shock twisted the rage from the guerilla’s face as two bullets tore through his rib-cage. Spinning in a circle, he released his hold on his weapon and stumbled away from it to collapse face down.

Completing his roll, Dusty wasted no time in regaining his feet. Yet, fast as he moved, he knew that he might still be too late. From the street came the snorting of disturbed horses and, farther away, shouts rang out. Running towards the window, Dusty noticed that Monte was recovering and rolling painfully back and forwards on the table.

Ignoring the gambler, Dusty watched what was happening outside the building. Already Gilbertson had swung astride the best of the horses fiddle-footing nervously at the hitching-rail. Up swung the Starr, crashing twice in concert with the Volunteer’s wild and ringing yell. All too well Dusty saw the other’s plan. With their own horses unsaddled at the livery barn, the Texans might still have launched a rapid pursuit using the remaining guerillas’ mounts. So Gilbertson intended to run them off and put them beyond the reach of the Rebels. Swinging his borrowed horse around by savagely tugging at the reins, the Volunteer started it moving. Already disturbed, the other animals scattered and fled into the night.

Spitting out furious curses, Dusty hurled himself towards the window. Behind him, the hotel’s owner had made a cautious reappearance and wailed a protest as his intentions became apparent. Paying no attention to the man, Dusty covered his head with his arms and propelled himself from the building by the closest route. Glass shattered and wood crackled as Dusty passed through the window. Landing on the sidewalk, he swung his right hand Colt to shoulder level. He sighted as well as he could at the fast-moving, already barely-discernible rider. More in hope than expectancy, Dusty squeezed off a shot. Even as the recoil kicked the barrel upwards, he knew that he had missed.

Boots drumming a rapid tattoo along the sidewalk, Kiowa, Prince and Graveling raced up. They all held their guns, but had no target at which to aim. Gilbertson had gone from sight.

‘What the hell—?’ Kiowa began.

‘Gilbertson ran out!’ Dusty spat back. ‘Let’s go inside. The son-of-a-bitch shot Ollie Svenson.’

Turning without further chatter, the enlisted men followed Dusty through the hotel’s front door. On entering the room, they saw the gambler straightening up with Will’s Colt in his hand. Snarling in mixed fear and fury, Monte tried to turn his acquired weapon on the newcomers. Six revolvers roared in a ragged volley, Dusty and Prince each carrying one in either hand. Literally lifted from his feet and hurled backwards by the bullets, any one of which would have been fatal, the gambler crumpled lifeless in the left rear corner of the room.

‘That’s the last of them!’ Dusty said with savage bitterness. ‘See to Ollie.’

Holstering his revolver, Graveling walked over and made a brief examination of the body. Looking to where the rest of the Texans were replacing their guns into leather, he gave a resigned shrug.

‘He’s cashed in.’

‘What happened?’ Prince demanded truculently. ‘How did—?’

‘No chance of following the Yankee, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa put in, glaring a furious warning that silenced the recruit. ‘Not afore morning, anyways.’

‘None,’ Dusty agreed. ‘But I want to be on his trail as soon as it’s daylight, Kiowa.’

‘He’ll be over the Caddo afore then!’ Prince protested.

‘I don’t care where the hell he is!’ Dusty replied and the young recruit began to feel an awareness of his personality’s full deadly powerful force. ‘Gilbertson broke his parole and killed one of my friends. I aim to fetch him back.’

~*~

Straightening up after a long, careful examination of a set of hoof-marks, Kiowa turned and walked to where Dusty, Prince and Surtees were waiting for him. The sun had only barely lifted above the eastern horizon, but the sergeant-scout had been out at the first glint of light and following his commanding officer’s orders.

‘I’d say these’re the right ’n’s, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa declared. ‘They’re the right age, anyways, and toting a rider.’

‘Trouble being they’re not headed towards the Caddo,’ Dusty pointed out. Twisting in his saddle, he looked back at the town of Amity. ‘It’s the way Gilbertson came out, though.’

If the incident had taken place the previous day, Tracey Prince would have been crowding forward and inserting his views on the matter. Sitting his horse at the rear of the party, as became its most junior, and inexperienced member, he waited to discover what Captain Fog and the lean, Indian-dark sergeant intended to do. Already aware of Kiowa Cotton’s competence before they had left Prescott, Prince was becoming more and more convinced that he had been wrong in dismissing Dusty Fog as a rich kid put into power by his kin-folk.

For all his cocky attitude and believing that he was so wild he had never been curried below the knees, Prince possessed enough common-sense to realize he had gone as far as he could without forcing an open showdown between himself and Dusty. Although he fought against admitting it, his instincts also warned him that he might regret the result if a clash came. He had seen and heard enough the previous night to tell him that Dusty Fog was far more than Ole Devil Hardin’s nephew wearing a captain’s coat.

After Svenson’s body had been removed from the barroom, Prince had watched the coldly efficient manner in which Dusty had handled the rest of the situation. While the small Texan and Kiowa had accompanied the town constable to inspect the dead guerillas’ rooms, the hotel’s owner had delivered a graphic description to Prince and the assembled townsmen of what had happened.

The story of how Dusty had so easily tossed the bulky gambler over his shoulder had drawn excited comments from the civilians. Prince had been less impressed, for he had seen that side of his captain’s ability demonstrated. What started the recruit’s change of heart had been the visual proof of Dusty’s gun-fighting potential.

Svenson had been killed with his gun still in leather. Certainly the Yankee officer had played no part in the fight beyond shooting down the blond recruit. That meant Dusty Fog must have come through the corpse-and-cartridge affair unaided and against three men. More to the point, he had killed two and critically wounded the third of his assailants. Prince had sufficient knowledge of shooting to imagine the deadly gun-skill required to ensure survival under those exacting conditions.

Yet there had been more to Dusty Fog than just fast, accurate and effective lead-throwing. Prince had received further evidence of his Company commander’s dynamic personality as he watched how Dusty had handled the irate owner of the hotel. At first the man had been nervous and inclined to righteous indignation; nervous over how his Army-guests would regard his part—or lack of it—in the affair, and indignant about the damage suffered by his property.

Without threats or recriminations, Dusty had calmed and soothed the man. He had, on his return from searching the guerillas’ property, stated that he did not hold the owner responsible for the incident; which had been a relief to the man. On the subject of the shattered window, Dusty had pointed out that the dead guerilla’s belongings and such of their horses as might be recovered ought to more than pay for its replacement.

A shrewd businessman, the owner had seen the wisdom of not pressing his complaints farther. If he did so, he would certainly antagonize a member of the most powerful faction in West Arkansas. Thinking deeper into the affair, the owner could also see how his business might benefit from it. Every instinct the owner possessed had told him that the young captain might, most likely would, attain some prominence in the future. So the hotel could attract custom by being the scene of an incident involving him. With that in mind, the owner had announced that he did not blame Captain Fog for the trouble or the damage.

Borrowing a pen, ink and writing paper, Dusty had made out a report of the incident. At least, Prince assumed that was what his captain had written. Whatever it had been, Dusty had given the completed document to Graveling and issued orders for its delivery to the Regiment’s headquarters. A hard-case, with a reputation for salty toughness, Graveling’s unspoken acceptance of the orders had been a further subject of thought for Prince. After making arrangements for Svenson’s funeral, the Texans had turned in.

Before daylight that morning, Dusty and his men had been preparing to move out. Graveling had come to see them off and been told to attend the funeral, then return to Prescott as quickly as he could.

Now a chastened, slightly perturbed Prince sat watching Dusty Fog and awaiting the next development.

‘We’ll see where these tracks go,’ Dusty decided.

‘Yo!’ Kiowa replied.

Collecting his horse from Surtees, the sergeant went afork it with a bound. Dusty nudged his stallion’s ribs with his heels and gave the order to move out. With his eyes raking the ground ahead, Kiowa took the lead. Following the tracks of a single horse over short, springy grass and through lightly-wooded country could not be done at speed. So the party moved slowly and in a westerly direction.

After covering about a mile, Dusty could sense the two privates’ doubts and knew what caused them. In fact, while he had complete faith in Kiowa’s ability to read sign, he began to wonder if maybe they were following the wrong set of tracks.

‘Feller stopped there,’ Kiowa remarked, bringing his horse to a halt and pointing ahead. ‘Then he turned around a couple of times, like he was trying to figure which way he was headed.’

‘What’d he decide?’ Dusty inquired.

‘Moved off to the north,’ Kiowa replied.

‘That’d take him to Caddo,’ Dusty said.

‘Sure would,’ Kiowa agreed. ‘Giddap, hoss!’

Starting their mounts moving, they followed the tracks but had not covered more than a hundred yards before Kiowa stopped them again.

‘He’s swinging off to the west again, Cap’n Dusty.’

‘Could be he’s lost. That’d happen easy enough. A man could soon get himself all turned around in this sort of country on a dark night.’

‘A dude like that Yankee could,’ Kiowa admitted. ‘And if he’s lost, maybe we’ll find him.’

‘We can hope on it,’ Dusty drawled.

The hope did not materialize. After wavering from side to side and changing direction twice in the next half a mile, the rider had stopped and made camp for the night. Clearly he had wasted no time in getting his bearings at sun-up, for he had already moved off in the correct direction if he wanted to reach the Caddo River.

‘He’s not more’n an hour and a half ahead,’ Kiowa commented as they took up the trail again. ‘What do we do now, Cap’n Dusty, see if we can ride him down?’

‘Nope. Not with that much of a lead on us,’ Dusty replied. ‘He’ll be over the Caddo before we can do it.’

For the first time that morning, Prince put in a question. When he spoke, his voice held little of its earlier arrogant near-insolence.

‘What’ll we do if he licks us to the river and goes over, Cap’n?’

‘We’ll go after him,’ Dusty stated flatly.

‘It’ll be near on two days afore the Company can get here,’ Prince pointed out. ‘By that time—’

‘We won’t be waiting for the Company,’ Dusty interrupted quietly, then turned his attention to the front.

‘Don’t let it worry you, soldier,’ Surtees said quietly as Prince turned a startled face his way. ‘Cap’n Dusty’s likely got something in mind.’

Prince decided against asking what it might be. If Kiowa and the bugler were willing to accompany the small captain, the recruit did not mean to let them think that he felt concern for his own safety. For all that, he was puzzled and worried by the thought of what might lie ahead.

A yearning for excitement and adventure had brought Tracey Prince into the Texas Light Cavalry. On joining, he had expected to be sent straight into the battle-front and had seen himself winning instantaneous acclaim for his courage against the Yankees. Instead of being accepted as the finished product he had believed himself to be, he had been treated as a raw hand. During his training, he had repeatedly bewailed the waste of time learning how to drill and do other fool soldier tricks. He had regarded his arrival in Company ‘C’ as the prelude to action and had looked forward eagerly to coming to grips with the enemy.

Yet, never in his wildest day-dreams, had he conceived that he would be part of such an expedition. Beyond the Caddo River lay Yankee-held territory. Sure the Texas Light Cavalry raided across it regularly—but at Company strength. He felt certain that, as a general rule, a group of no more than four men did not go beyond the boundary river.

All the time they were riding, Prince scanned the land ahead of them in the hope of seeing the escaped Yankee. The woods through which they passed grew thicker and he saw no sign of Gilbertson. At last Prince caught a glimpse of water glinting through the trees and Kiowa signaled to them to halt. Quietly Dusty gave the order to dismount. Swinging to the ground, Dusty allowed his split-end reins to fall free. Doing so held a range-trained horse as effectively as tying it to a branch.

‘Tracks keep going down there, Cap’n,’ Kiowa announced as Dusty joined him. ‘Likely he went straight across. Do we head after him?’

‘Take a look around first,’ Dusty advised. ‘If he met up with a Yankee patrol, they could figure we’ll be following and be laying up for us when we try to go across.’

Leaving his horse ground-hitched by its trailing reins, Kiowa glided off through the trees. Dusty and the two privates waited in silence, watching how the sergeant took advantage of every scrap of cover during his approach to the river’s edge.

While his men raked the opposite shore with an intent scrutiny, Dusty studied his surroundings and estimated their position on the Caddo. Unless he missed his guess, they were about two miles downstream from the Snake Ford. He knew which of Buller’s regiments currently had the responsibility of patrolling that area of the river. Making use of his knowledge, Dusty formulated a plan for repossessing the absconding Volunteer. He did not tell his companions of his intentions, figuring that they would have doubts as to the chance of his bringing it off.

Almost half an hour went by before Kiowa returned. Nothing showed on his brown, hard features, but Dusty knew the sergeant had not liked what lay ahead.

‘He went straight across, Cap’n Dusty. Not more’n an hour ago.’

‘Have we anybody waiting for us?’

‘Not as I could see,’ Kiowa admitted. ‘Only it’s real thick bushes over the other side.’

‘And they could be laying for us?’ Dusty asked.

‘Could be,’ Kiowa drawled. ‘There’s places enough for ’em to hide and me not to see ’em.’

‘It’s a chance I’ll have to take,’ Dusty decided, then turned to the two privates. ‘This’s as far as I’m ordering you to come.’

‘Happen you’re asking for volunteers, Cap’n Dusty,’ Surtees answered laconically, ‘I’m game to give it a whirl.’

‘And me!’ Prince went on, hoping that his voice showed none of the perturbation he felt.

Cautiously, leading their horses, the Texans wended their way towards the river. All of them gave the opposite bank their full attention, probing it for any sign of lurking enemies. They halted just before reaching the narrow path that followed the course of the river, worn by the boots and hooves of many Confederate patrols, without obtaining conclusive evidence for or against there being Yankees waiting to ambush them.

‘There’s only one way to make sure,’ Dusty declared. ‘I’m going over.’ He looked at Kiowa, then to Surtees and finally in Prince’s direction, continuing, ‘Feel like coming with me, soldier?’

The words came as a shock to Prince and he did not answer for a moment. Then he realized that Dusty had called him ‘soldier’ instead of the coldly-formal ‘Prince’.

Was there a hint of challenge in the request?

‘I’m with you, Cap’n,’ Prince decided, trying to sound far more nonchalant than he was feeling.

For all his light-hearted comment, Dusty had no intention of advancing blindly into danger. Before starting, there were certain precautions to be taken.

‘Here’s my Henry, Kiowa,’ Dusty drawled, reaching forward to slide the repeating rifle—a battle-field capture—from its saddle-boot, then handing it over. ‘You and the bugler’d best cover us. If we don’t make it, head back and tell Uncle Devil what’s happened.’

‘Yo!’ Kiowa answered calmly, hefting the Henry. ‘The current’s fast, but it’s not too deep where he went over. You should get through without swimming.’

‘We’ll make sure of dry guns, anyway,’ Dusty decided.

Unbuckling their belts, Dusty and Prince suspended them across their shoulders so as to try to keep the Colts from becoming wet. Drawing his Enfield rifle, Surtees checked that its percussion cap was intact and adjusted the sights. Then he and Kiowa watched their companions mount up and ride towards the river.

‘Young Prince looked a mite peaked,’ Surtees commented sotto voce, never taking his eyes from the other bank. ‘He went with Cap’n Dusty game enough, though.’

‘Why sure,’ Kiowa agreed. ‘He’ll make a hand—happen he comes through this, that is.’

~*~

If Prince had heard the two veterans’ words, they would have given him pleasure by their implication of acceptance into the elite ranks of Company ‘C’. However, at that moment the recruit had far too much on his mind to be interested in his companions’ good opinions of him. Crossing the path, the horses splashed into the water and moved steadily forward.

Ahead the woods still lay silent. The trees, bushes and grass looked no different to those which they had just left. For all that, Prince knew the woodland on the eastern bank was different.

Very, very different!

Menacingly and dangerously so!

To the rear were friends and comparative safety. Ahead of Prince and Dusty, the Yankees dominated the whole eastern side of the Caddo. Even now, blue-clad soldiers might be peering and leering along the barrels of Springfield rifles at the two intruders.

Prince ran the tip of his tongue across lips that suddenly felt dry.

‘Was you ever in Arkansas before the War, Tracey?’ Dusty inquired, without relaxing his vigilance.

‘N-Nope!’ Prince croaked, startled by hearing the small Texan’s voice rather than at the question.

‘Or me,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Seen a fair bit of it since the War started, though. Trouble is I’ve still not met Annie Breen.’

‘Huh?’ Prince gulped.

Although he had already started to make his name as a lady’s man, which would eventually be the cause of his death, ^xxvi  for once the mention of a woman brought little of Prince’s usual eager response.

‘According to the song, she lived out this way,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘Or was it from Kentucky?’

‘Wha—?’

‘How’s the song go,

‘Come all you lads of Arkansas,

To you a tale I bring,

Of Annie Breen from old Kaintuck—’

‘Hell, there’s no wonder I’ve never run across her.’ Swiveling his eyes from the bank ahead, Prince stared at the small Texan for a moment. It seemed impossible that an experienced soldier, riding into possible danger, could think about the words of a folk-song.

The force of the current’s thrust compelled Prince to return his attention to the horse between his legs. However, underfoot the firm gravel of the river’s bed offered a safe footing and the animals found little difficulty in wading. Returning his gaze hurriedly to the eastern shore, Prince stiffened in his saddle.

Was that a rifle’s barrel, black and evil-looking, thrusting its way out of a clump of dogwood bushes?

‘Anyways,’ Dusty’s voice came quiet and unconcernedly to Prince’s ears. ‘I don’t reckon it’d be worth meeting her now. That song was written back in the ‘forties. She’d be a heap too old for either of us. Easy, it’s only a branch.’

A faint sigh of relief broke from the recruit. For all the flow of care-free chatter, his captain was also watching what lay ahead.

By that time they had almost reached the center of the river. The water had risen nearly to the tops of the saddles’ rosaderos, ^xxvii  but came no higher. By raising their feet from the stirrup-irons, the riders avoided wetting their boots. Doing so called for a careful watch to be kept on one’s balance and for a short time it held Prince’s full attention.

As the level of the water subsided, the recruit returned his feet to the stirrups and resumed his scrutiny of the woodland. Darting his eyes back and forwards, Prince saw what he thought was a man spread-eagled behind a rock. Closer examination showed it to be a fallen tree-trunk.

Or was it?

Captain Fog had stopped his horse and was reaching towards his gunbelt!

With a feeling of shock, Prince reined in his mount. Instinctively his right hand dropped towards his hip—to feel nothing more protective than the material of his breeches’ leg.

‘Nobody around after all,’ Dusty remarked. ‘But we’d best strap on our belts now. Then we’ll be set to cover Kiowa and Surtees while they come over.’

‘Yo!’ Prince replied, hoping that his commanding officer had not noticed his involuntary gesture.

Lowering their gunbelts to the more usual position about their waists, Dusty and Prince connected the buckles. With that done, they started their horses moving. Prince could not prevent himself sucking in a deep anticipatory breath as he followed the small Texan. Ascending the gentle incline of the eastern bank, they crossed the trail that had been enlarged by Federal patrols and went into the thick undergrowth beyond it.

With a cold, sinking sensation biting into his stomach, Prince realized that he was now inside enemy territory. The fact that he was the first of his recruit-intake to get there never occurred to him. His full attention was given to staring around. At any moment, he expected to see hordes of Yankee soldiers swarming in his direction.

Glancing sideways, Prince was impressed by Dusty’s attitude of calm, detached alertness. The small captain, whom Prince had previously been inclined to deride—if only silently—had clearly made such crossings many times and regarded them as commonplace. It was comforting to know that one served under so competent and courageous an officer. From that moment, Tracey Prince joined the ranks or the many who regarded Dusty Fog as being the tallest of them all.

Having taken up concealed positions among the bushes, Dusty told Prince to keep a watch on the upstream section of the trail. Then he waved to the men on the other side. Joining the advance party, Kiowa and Surtees flashed cheery, friendly grins at Prince.

‘You handled that just like a veteran,’ the bugler praised.

‘Better,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Us young ’n’s don’t have you Veterans’ creaking old bones to slow us. And I’ll have the Henry, Kiowa. That’s how I got it.’

‘Never did have time for no Yankee metal-case gun, anyways,’ the sergeant sniffed, returning the rifle. ‘Give me something I can get fodder for.’

‘Where’d Gilbertson come out, if it’s him we’re trailing?’

‘Upstream a mite, Cap’n.’

‘Let’s go get him,’ Dusty ordered, retaining the Henry in his right hand.

Flushed with pride at the knowledge that he had won his companions’ approbation, Prince watched the sergeant move a short way along the river’s bank. Dropping from his saddle, Kiowa bent and picked up something that his keen eyes had detected as it lay half concealed in the mud at the edge of the water. Signaling to the others to join him, he held his find towards Dusty.

‘He must’ve dropped it as he come out of the river, Cap’n,’ the sergeant guessed. ‘Likely he didn’t want to chance stopping to pick it up.’

‘It’ proved to be a Starr Army revolver, covered with mud. Taking it, Dusty found that four of the chambers had been emptied.

‘Or figured he wouldn’t be likely to need it again,’ Dusty replied with satisfaction. The discovery of the Starr had given them the first real proof that they were following the right tracks. ‘It’s the gun he used to kill Ollie Svenson.’

‘He ain’t sticking to the trail, though,’ Kiowa observed, indicating the evidence that somebody, or something, had forced a path through the bushes.

‘That figures,’ Dusty answered. ‘If he had, he might’ve been seen by one of our patrols. He’d want to get into cover rather than chance that.’

‘Yeah,’ Kiowa agreed.

Turning their horses in the direction taken by the man they were following, the Texans rode on. Their way led them through the thick woodlands which flanked the Caddo at that point, then into the more open, rolling country.

‘He’s not turning to go up to the Snake Ford,’ Kiowa remarked, letting Dusty come alongside his horse.

‘I wasn’t expecting him to,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Way he left us, he’ll not want to go there and be asked questions.’

With each stride, the horses carried their riders deeper into enemy-held terrain. Prince felt his tension rising again as he kept up a constant surveillance of his surroundings. Watching the flanks, he forgot to look ahead. He had his attention drawn forcibly in that direction as Kiowa once more brought the party to a halt. Staring in the line indicated by the sergeant’s pointing forefinger, Prince stiffened and gulped. Several thin columns of smoke rose from beyond a rim about a mile in front of them. From what the recruit saw, the tracks they were following went towards the smoke.

‘What do you reckon, Kiowa?’ Dusty inquired.

‘Company of ’em at least,’ the sergeant replied. ‘And this-here’s the “New Jersey” Dragoons’ stomping grounds.’

That had been one of the factors taken into consideration by the small Texan before he led the way across the river. The 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons was a regular Army regiment, commanded by career officers. Most efficient of all Buller’s outfits, the Dragoons were one Yankee force in Arkansas that even the Texas Light Cavalry regarded as dangerous.

‘Take a point, Kiowa,’ Dusty ordered. ‘If that’s where Gilbertson’s going, so’re we.’

Allowing Kiowa to build up a lead of almost a hundred yards, Dusty started the remainder of the party moving. Prince looked at the smoke-columns, trying to estimate how many men had been responsible for making them. While he could not decide upon an accurate figure, he felt certain that his own group would be heavily outnumbered. That the man they were following was heading towards the smoke grew more positive by the minute. Watching the big captain, Prince wondered what he hoped to accomplish with a sergeant and two privates if Gilbertson had joined up with a large number of Dragoons.

Ranging ahead of the others, Kiowa kept an especially keen watch for the Dragoons’ vedettes and pickets. If the men ahead had been in camp for a day or longer, they would have taken such defensive precautions. He saw none and at last dismounted, leaving his horse ground-hitched while he continued up the slope on foot. Flattening down on his stomach, he crawled the last few feet and peered cautiously over the rim from behind a bush. What he saw explained away the Dragoons’ lack of guards around their camp-site. Moving back with equal care, the sergeant returned to his patiently-waiting horse.

‘It’s a full company of ’em, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa reported. ‘They’re just finishing packing and’ll be pulling out soon.’

Listening to the softly-spoken, unemotional words, Prince decided that they would trail along after the Dragoons and try to sneak Gilbertson out of the Yankees’ next night-camp. It would not be easy—

‘Is he with ’em?’ Dusty asked, cutting across the recruit’s thoughts.

‘Yep,’ confirmed the sergeant. ‘He’s there. I saw him stood talking to the Dragoons’ major.’

‘What’re we going to do now, Cap’n Dusty?’ Surtees inquired.

‘Go and get him back,’ Dusty replied and handed his Henry to Kiowa.

‘You mean you’re aiming to ride over that rim and ask the Yankees to give him back?’ Prince gasped, watching the small Texan unbuckle his gunbelt.

‘Nope,’ Dusty said, quietly but with determination. ‘I’m going to tell them to hand him over.’

~*~

Crystal clear in the morning air, the notes of a bugle-call rang out from the rim overlooking the camp-site used the previous night by Troop ‘G’ of the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons. Having been pulled in for breakfast, the men from the vedettes and pickets were sitting around the dying fires instead of being stationed about the surrounding area. The remainder of the Troop stood with their horses in four files, being inspected by the captain and two lieutenants.

Startled exclamations burst from the enlisted men and officers as they looked in the direction from which the call sounded. Then eyes turned towards the piles of Springfield carbines, left stacked while their owners completed the final tasks of breaking camp, and the soldiers gave thought to their holstered revolvers.

‘Blasted Rebs!’ yelped a young soldier, jerking open his holster’s flap.

‘Leave it be, son,’ ordered the grizzled veteran at his side, watching without any concern as two riders approached down the slope. ‘They’re coming in to make a parley.’

‘What the hell?’ demanded Major Galbraith, swinging away from Gilbertson and examining the cause of the disturbance. ‘Take up defensive positions, men!’

Swiftly, with the efficient, purposeful actions of well-trained troops, the Dragoons sprang to obey. Each section of four left its horses in the care of one man and the other three erupted into motion. Pyramids of carbines disintegrated with disciplined speed. Gripping their saddle-guns, urged on by barked-out commands from the officers, the Dragoons fanned out and took up positions which would allow them to meet an attack from any side. Dropping to the ground in whatever cover they could find, the enlisted men swung their carbines into firing postures.

‘No shooting, men!’ Captain Miller called and the non-commissioned officers repeated the warning.

Major Galbraith watched his men assume a state of all-round defense and nodded his approval. If the surly Volunteer at his side knew anything about military matters, he would be impressed by the Dragoons’ efficiency. With that thought come and gone, Galbraith turned his attention to the approaching pair of riders. A long-serving career-officer, the major recognized the significance of what he saw.

Going by the ‘chicken guts’ on his sleeve, the small, young-looking man at the left was an officer. In his right hand, he carried a rifle’s ramrod to which a white bandana had been fastened like a flag. Raising a bugle to his lips, the second rider blew another loud call on it. Neither of the newcomers appeared to be carrying arms of any kind.

That was the traditional, established procedure for requesting a truce or a parley. The white flag and lack of weapons announced the two men’s pacific intentions, while the repeated bugle calls proved that they did not mean to surprise the enemy soldiers.

Disheveled, unshaven and bleary-eyed, Gilbertson stared up the slope in horror. At first he could hardly believe that he was awake and felt that he must be dreaming. Recognizing the newcomers, he felt a growing sense of foreboding. Spitting out a low, savage curse, he dropped his right hand across to close on the hilt of his saber.

‘Is something wrong, Captain Gilbertson?’ asked the tall, lean, leathery-faced major as he became aware of the Volunteer’s perturbation.

Taking warning from the Dragoon’s tone, Gilbertson held down the reply which he had been about to give. Instead he nodded in the direction of the Texans and said, ‘You’ve got a good catch here, Major.’

‘I don’t follow you,’ Galbraith growled.

‘That’s young Fog,’ elaborated the Volunteer. ‘Hardin’s nephew.’

‘And that’s a white flag he’s carrying,’ the Dragoon pointed out coldly. ‘So I’ll hear what he has to say.’ Looking around, Galbraith raised his voice. ‘Stand to your arms, men. Captain Miller, Mr. Coulson, Mr. Hargrove, make sure that nobody opens fire unless the Rebs make a hostile move.’

‘Yo!’ came the answer from the Troop’s subordinate officers.

Squaring his shoulders, Galbraith set the peaked Dragoon forage cap straighter on his head. Another sweeping glance around the camp-site assured him that all was ready, in case—which he doubted—the Confederate soldiers planned some treachery. If they did, they would meet with a hot, and well-deserved, reception. Satisfied, he strode forward and passed through his Troop’s defensive circle. Filled with curiosity, and fears for his own safety, Gilbertson followed the major.

Young, insignificant almost in appearance, or not, the Confederate captain knew military convention and etiquette. Coming to a halt at least a hundred yards from the nearest defender, so that he could not see too many details of their armament and disposition, he handed the white flag to his bugler. Dismounting, he left his black stallion with its reins dangling free and advanced a further fifty feet on foot. Coming to a halt before the Yankees, he threw up a smart salute directed at Galbraith.

‘Fog. Captain. Texas Light Cavalry, sir,’ Dusty announced formally as the Dragoon returned his salute.

‘Major Galbraith, 6th “New Jersey” Dragoons,’ the senior of the two Federal officers acknowledged, then indicated the man hovering behind him. ‘This is—’

‘I know who he is, sir,’ Dusty interrupted politely but coldly. ‘Captain Gilbertson was my prisoner—’

‘And he escaped?’

‘No, sir. He ran away after giving me his word of honor that he wouldn’t escape. So I’ve come to take him back. Will you order him to get ready, please.’

‘What’s this?’ Galbraith barked, swinging furiously to glare at Gilbertson. ‘Is it true?’

Not that the Dragoon needed to ask, or to see the guilt on the Volunteer’s face, to know the answer. Ever since Gilbertson had arrived that morning, Galbraith had grown increasingly doubtful of his veracity. The captain had spun a reasonably convincing story of his carefully-planned and executed escape from Murfreesboro, but there had been points left unexplained in the telling. One of them being how he had regained possession of his sword. It would have been taken from him at his capture, to be held by the Rebels until his release.

Of course, a man who had won the admiration and respect of his enemies might have his sword returned as a tribute to his courage or ability. Gilbertson did not strike the hard-bitten Galbraith as being that kind of officer. Nor would he have had, in the Dragoon’s opinion, sufficient notions of honor to take the chances involved in gaining possession of his sword before escaping.

Captain Fog’s words had confirmed Galbraith’s suspicions, although the Dragoon had fought against the one answer that would have explained everything. More than that, they had placed an entirely different complexion on Gilbertson’s presence. Any officer who escaped from captivity by fair means deserved praise and approbation. That did not apply to the methods by which the sullen Volunteer had attained his freedom.

‘Damn it, Gilbertson!’ Galbraith blazed when the Volunteer did not answer. ‘Is this true, or isn’t it?’

‘It’s true, sir,’ Dusty put in. ‘Last night in the hotel at Amity, he gave his word, in the presence of my bugler, not to escape before dawn.’

‘In Amity?’ Gaibraith growled.

‘Yes, sir. I was escorting him to the Snake Ford to be exchanged for one of our captains. We had a run in with some guerillas and during the fighting, he killed one of my men and ran. I’ve come to take him back.’

Being fully aware of guerillas’ habits, Galbraith could guess that the Texans had been fighting to protect their prisoner. Which only made Gilbertson’s actions the more reprehensible.

‘Well?’ the Dragoon spat at the Volunteer.

‘All right,’ Gilbertson snarled. ‘So I saw my chance and took it.’

The calm admission struck Galbraith dumb for a moment. He could hardly believe that an officer in the United States’ Army would brazenly make such a confession. In fact, the Dragoon did not want to believe it. So he sought desperately for some excuse or mitigating circumstance—even though he doubted if there could be one against such a charge.

‘You understood what you were doing when you gave your word?’ the major demanded, hoping that the other would answer in the negative.

‘Of course I did!’ Gilbertson yelped, his college-educated superiority revolting at the suggestion that there might be something he did not know.

‘And after giving your word,’ Gaibraith breathed, ‘you still ran?’

‘I’d every intention of running, that’s why I gave it,’ Gilbertson declared. ‘What the hell do you think war is, some kind of game to be played by rules?’

‘You’ll have to go back!’ Galbraith stated.

‘If he was stupid enough to thi—’ Gilbertson continued, then the full implication of the Dragoon’s words penetrated his mind. The flow of bombastic rhetoric gurgled to an uneven halt and he stared in amazement at the cold-faced, angry major. ‘Wha-wha——?’

‘You’ll have to go back with Captain Fog,’ Galbraith elaborated grimly. ‘Damn it all, man. If you don’t care about your own honor, think of how this action of yours will look in the eyes of the world. The Union Army—the whole United States—will stand condemned unless you go back.’

‘Who’ll know about it?’ Gilbertson asked scornfully. ‘My father will see that Buller hushes it up.’

‘I’ll know, for one,’ Galbraith pointed out. ‘And so will Captain Fog.’

A deep, bitter sense of frustrated fury tore at Gilbertson. Filled with the arrogant, egoistical self-importance of the ‘liberal-intellectual’ college student, he had entered the Union Army certain that his superlative brilliance must destine him for great deeds. Like many another of his kind, he had found himself sadly lacking in practical knowledge once faced with the harsh realities of life. So he had failed to achieve even a modicum of success in a field which he had always regarded as being the province of men with limited intelligence.

To have been captured by the despised Rebels, in his first essay at active duty, had rankled and hurt. Especially as it had been through his own stupidity and inefficiency that he had fallen into their hands. To know that he was gaining his liberty at the expense of freeing one of the hated Southerners had been an intolerable humiliation.

Not that he had thought of refusing the offer, or passing it to one of his companions in Murfreesboro. Such a sacrifice was not in keeping with his small-minded, self-centered nature.

He had already been thinking of escape during the journey to the Snake Ford. Seeing the youth and general insignificance of his escort’s leader, he had felt sure that slipping away could be accomplished with no difficulty. Doing so would reassert his sense of self-importance, humiliate Ole Devil Hardin, and prevent the Rebel prisoner from attaining freedom.

Being fully aware of the convention of war concerning an officer’s parole, Gilbertson had intended to make use of it. Even if that short-grown Texan had not suggested a truce until dawn, the Volunteer had meant to do so. Gilbertson had seen his opportunity in the Amity hotel, taken it and had finally reached what ought to have been safety.

Then that infernal Rebel captain had appeared and demanded—not asked, demanded! —that he be returned.

To make matters worse, Galbraith—a stinking career officer—clearly intended to comply with the small Texan’s wishes.

Gilbertson’s full, bigoted hatred reached a boiling point as he considered the lousy trick fate had played on him. To have escaped, found his way across the Caddo, then to have fallen in with a lousy, stupid career officer who believed in conventions and outmoded codes of honor.

‘Him!’ the Volunteer screeched, throwing a glare of loathing at Dusty. ‘Who the hell cares what a lousy Secessionist peckerwood thinks?’

‘I care,’ Galbraith barked and turned his back on Gilbertson as he addressed the Confederate officer. ‘Captain Fog, I apologies on behalf of the United States Army and—’

Wild with rage, fear and near panic, Gilbertson slid the saber from its sheath. If he killed the Rebel officer, he would present Galbraith with a fait accompli. The Dragoon major would have to conceal the fact that the incident had happened, if only to preserve the honor of his sacred Union Army. With Gilbertson’s father so influential in New Hampstead affairs, General Buller could be counted on to prevent too close an inquiry into the matter. In fact, Buller would exert his authority as the commanding general in Arkansas to prevent any military disciplinary action being invoked against Gilbertson.

So the Volunteer believed that he had nothing to lose and everything to gain if he killed Dusty Fog. Having attended fencing classes in college, Gilbertson knew he could handle the saber well enough to dispatch an unarmed, unsuspecting victim; no matter how good the other might be when using a revolver.

‘He’ll tell nobody!’ Gilbertson screeched and sprang by Galbraith to launch a savage cut directed at the side of the small Texan’s neck.

Shouting the threat merely served to increase Dusty’s awareness of his peril. Watching the Volunteer, even while being addressed by Major Galbraith, Dusty had noticed the stealthy withdrawal of the saber. Nor did the young Texan need to strain his brain to follow Gilbertson’s line of reasoning.

What came as a surprise was the speed and precision of the Volunteer’s attack. For once in his life, Dusty had come close to making the mistake of underestimating the potential of an enemy. Nothing he had seen of Gilbertson during their short acquaintance caused Dusty to form a high opinion of the other’s military prowess. So the ability displayed by the Volunteer’s attack was completely unexpected.

Two things saved Dusty as Gilbertson leapt forward in a flèche attack. He had observed the preparations for it and he knew enough about fencing to establish in what manner his assailant meant to strike. Held in supination, with the back of the hand pointing towards the ground, the saber could only be used for a cut at the chest, abdomen, or side of the head. The second factor in saving Dusty was his own superb speed of reaction.

Knowing where the saber was aimed, Dusty threw his left leg outwards and bent his right knee. Ducking his head and lowering his torso, he sank below the sweeping thirty-six inch long blade.

There had not been a moment to spare. So close did Gilbertson come to success that the edge of his blade sliced into the upper part of the campaign hat’s crown and ripped it from Dusty’s head. Throwing himself aside, Dusty landed erect and facing his assailant.

‘Get set, Cap’n Dusty!’ Surtees bellowed. ‘I’m com—’

‘Stay back there!’ Dusty answered.

If the Dragoons saw his companion charging forward, without being sure of why, they might open fire. That would end any hope of retrieving Gilbertson and making him pay for his treachery. Fortunately Surtees had been a soldier long enough to take even an unpalatable order; and possessed sufficient faith to figure his captain could get out of the present difficulty without requiring help. So he made no attempt to start the horses moving.

Crouching side by side on the rim above the camp, Kiowa and Prince had watched Gilbertson launch his treacherous attack. With a moaning splutter of invective, the young recruit snatched up Surtees’ Enfield rifle and cradled the butt against his shoulder.

‘Quit that!’ ordered the sergeant, placing the palm of his left hand on to the rifle’s hammer and preventing his companion from cocking it. ‘You know what we was told to do.’

Before leaving the two soldiers, Dusty had given strict and definite orders. Under no circumstances were they to make their presence known to the Yankees. If the flag of truce should be violated, they must watch what happened; but remain concealed. Then they were to return at all speed and inform Ole Devil of Dusty’s fate. Producing Dusty’s gunbelt and Henry would be evidence that he had been unarmed at the time. The incident would be a powerful propaganda weapon for Ole Devil. So, much as doing it went against the grain, Kiowa aimed to carry out his captain’s orders.

‘The bastard’ll kill Cap’n Fog!’ Prince blazed, trying to tug the rifle free from Kiowa’s grasp.

‘Cap’n Dusty don’t kill that easy,’ the sergeant answered. ‘Which you’d be’s like to hit him as the Yankee from here, with a strange rifle. Look! That Dragoon major’s taking cards.’

‘Gilbertson!’ Galbraith bellowed, but he knew that no words could halt the wild-eyed, raging Volunteer.

Spluttering curses, Gilbertson charged at the unarmed Texan. Watching him draw near, Dusty noticed that the Volunteer’s hand was no longer in supination.

He must mean to try for another target! With the knuckles pointing downwards in pronation, any cut could best be directed to the opponent’s flank.

So it proved. Around flashed the saber, directed towards Dusty’s ribs. A leap to the rear carried the small Texan clear, then a rapid crouch downwards followed by a bound to the right took him beyond the reach of the backhand chop that came after the cut had ended.

Galbraith’s breath hissed through his teeth as he visualized the consequences of the treacherous attack. No matter how his people tried to hush it up, the story would come out. Very soon the whole world would know that a Yankee officer had broken his word and violated a flag of truce; and how an unarmed man had been vilely betrayed, then done to death.

The incident would reflect badly upon the integrity of the United States’ Army; bring disrepute to the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons; and be damning in the extreme to Major Galbraith himself as the senior officer present and the man who had accepted the correctly-requested call for a truce.

There could be only one answer.

Stop Gilbertson!

To hell with the influence the Volunteer’s father might wield in New Hampstead, or in the Federal Congress. No matter how General Buller would react when learning of Galbraith’s actions. Whatever happened as a result of it, Gilbertson must be prevented from committing a cold-blooded, dastardly murder.

Watching Dusty as he started to draw his saber, Galbraith decided that the young Texan knew something of fencing. Both of his evasions had shown a knowledge of where the blows would be directed. Of course most wealthy young Southerners received instruction in handling saber or epee-de-combat. Galbraith’s every instinct told him that Captain Fog could hold his own against the Volunteer, given a chance to do so.

The problem facing Galbraith at that moment was how best to put Captain Fog in a position to defend himself. Flashing across his right hand, the Dragoon slid his saber from its sheath.

‘Here, Captain Fog!’ Galbraith yelled, spiking the point of the saber into the ground and, springing aside, left the weapon standing erect. ‘Take this and defend yourself.’

‘Blast him!’ Prince spat out, still trying to tear his rifle from Kiowa’s grip, ‘that Yankee major sure ain’t doing much.’

Seeing the major’s action, Gilbertson snarled and pressed forward his assault with vigor and determination. At Galbraith’s words, Dusty flickered a glance by his attacker.

Some distance separated the small Texan from the sword; which raised the question of how to reach it.

Returning his full attention to Gilbertson, Dusty sprang aside as the other rushed up. Although he did not like the idea, Dusty darted by the man and headed towards the Dragoon’s saber on the run. Swinging around, mouthing obscenities, Gilbertson gave chase. Striding out fast, the unencumbered Texan drew away from his assailant whose progress was not helped by slashing wicked cuts at his departing enemy.

Putting on a burst of speed, Dusty reached the saber. Down stabbed his right hand in passing, entering the hilt and plucking the weapon from the ground. However, although armed, he did not halt and face the Volunteer immediately.

Known to its users by the unflattering sobriquet ‘The Old Wrist-Breaker’, the Model of 1840 saber—copied from the French Army’s 1822 type—had been replaced in the Union Army by a lighter, slimmer-bladed variety in 1860. Following the lead of their Federal contemporaries, the Confederate arms manufacturers had produced the more easily-handled Model of 1860 pattern for their cavalry. Specially made for him by the company of L. Haiman & Brother, Dusty’s saber was even lighter than the standard type. So he needed a brief respite to adjust to the heavier weapon in his hand.

With the knuckle bow of the guard hanging downwards, Dusty gripped the front of the handle by the first joints of the thumb and forefinger and curled the other fingers less tightly about it. The weight of the saber was mainly supported by the pommel-end of the handle pressing against the heel of his palm. Held in such a manner, the hand could be turned from pronation through to supination so as to make the best use of the blade’s cutting edge, the eight-inch long false edge on the back, or the point.

Having obtained the necessary grip, Dusty thrust five more long strides that pulled him clear of Gilbertson. Then he brought himself to a turning halt and faced the Volunteer. Pointing his right foot in the fighting line towards his attacker, Dusty turned his left toe outwards to stand on parted, slightly bent legs. Keeping his trunk erect, he tucked his left hand’s thumb into his waistband. With his point raised, adopting an on-guard position in tierce, he waited for the Volunteer to reach him.

On the rim, Kiowa removed his hand from the Enfield rifle. Grinning at Prince, the sergeant relaxed.

‘Likely the major’s done enough,’ the dark-faced Texan drawled.

So swiftly had everything happened, that Dusty held the saber and prepared to engage Gilbertson before the majority of Troop ‘G’ realized that something had gone wrong with the parley. Then excited voices raised, drawing other Dragoons’ attention. Forgetting their duty, ignoring the possibility of a Rebel cavalry force lurking ready to attack, the enlisted men stood up to obtain a better view of the fight. No less interested, the captain and two lieutenants converged at the double on Galbraith.

‘What the hell’s happening, Tam?’ demanded Captain Miller worriedly.

‘Gilbertson wants to murder Captain Fog,’ the major answered, without taking his eyes from the combatants. ‘I just evened things up.’

‘But—But——!’ Miller croaked.

‘It’s better this way,’ Galbraith stated and told his subordinates why Dusty had come and asked for the parley.

‘The hell he did!’ Miller spat as he heard of Gilbertson’s escape. Although he shared with his superior a repugnance for the Volunteer’s behavior, he felt that he should say something more. ‘Are you letting this go through all the way?’

‘Right to the end, Fred.’

‘If Gilbertson loses—’

‘I think that Captain Fog won’t take the matter further.’

‘And if he wins?’

‘That’s what I’m counting on not happening, Fred,’ Galbraith admitted frankly.

Miller watched Dusty and Gilbertson, wishing that he could share his commanding officer’s optimism. From what the captain could see, the issue was still very much in doubt.

Without hesitation, probably because he could not stop himself in time, Gilbertson plunged towards the small Texan. Counting on his extra reach, weight and strength, the Volunteer delivered a barrage of slashes and cuts that kept Dusty on the defensive for almost a minute. Trying no such refinements as thrusts, feints or lunges, Gilbertson continued to expend his energy in a hurricane assault of orthodox speed and force.

For his part, Dusty concentrated on following Beau Amesley’s often-repeated advice to let the eye and the feet save the arm. The weapon he held was longer and heavier than the one to which he had become accustomed, so he used the passing seconds in gaining its feel, hang and balance.

Satisfied at last that he knew the saber, Dusty changed his tactics and took the offensive. Like a rubber ball rebounding after being thrown at a wall, Gilbertson went into a retreat. Forced to withdraw and parry desperately, he rapidly lost the ground gained during his abortive whirlwind, carpet-beating assault. With growing anxiety, the Volunteer began to admit that he might be facing a man approaching his own skill. Gradually, however, he was compelled to swallow his bigoted pride and accept that once again a Rebel was proving superior to him.

‘There,’ Kiowa said in satisfaction, watching Gilbertson being forced to give ground. ‘I told you there wasn’t nothing to worry over.’

‘You telled me,’ agreed Prince. ‘Only one thing worries me now.’

‘What’d that be?’

‘What’ll happen after Cap’n Dusty’s licked that Yankee son-of-a-bitch?’

That point had also occurred to Kiowa, but he did not mention the matter to his companion.

Dusty originated another attack, bounding forward with his blade in pronation as it went for a cut to flank. Down dropped Gilbertson’s point, executing a parry in low tierce. Falling back a little, with his blade held ready for a lunge, Dusty decided that the Volunteer intended to follow up the parry with a cut at his arm. When the blow came, Dusty made a parry in seconde and raised the attacking weapon. With his opponent’s blade taken out of line, Dusty disengaged it and brought off a rapid cut to the head.

Seeing the danger, Gilbertson spread apart and bent his knees, to duck beneath the arc of Dusty’s blow. From the position he had gained, the Volunteer could have legitimately cut at Dusty’s chest or abdomen. Instead, while still crouching, he swept his saber around in an attempt to strike the small Texan’s legs.

A low, angry mutter rose from the Dragoon officers, for such a tactic was regarded as a deliberate foul in a fencing match or during a serious duel. However, they saw that Dusty was aware of the danger and did not intervene.

Realizing that he dealt with a man to whom honor, ethics and fair play had no meaning, Dusty had watched for and been ready to counter Gilbertson’s foul maneuver. Bounding into the air, bending his knees and tucking his feet beneath him, he passed over the Volunteer’s saber.

On landing, Dusty stumbled slightly. Not sufficiently to throw him off his balance, but enough to make his saber waver from its hitherto near-perfect guard. Thrusting up from his crouch, Gilbertson brought around his own weapon in a savage inwards beat and tried for a sforzo disarmament. Using his extra weight, the Volunteer struck the side of Dusty’s blade with considerable force. Gilbertson hoped that the impact would so loosen the small Texan’s hand on the hilt that he would lose his hold of it and he would be unable to parry the coming lunge or cut.

Although Dusty’s strength and control prevented the former from happening, he could not stop his blade being forced to his attacker’s left. Carried forward by his impetus, Gilbertson found himself approaching a position of corpse-a-corps. Before the sabers’ hilts met and their users halted chest to chest, the Volunteer saw a chance offered. Prompted by his fear of defeat, he took it. Bringing his left hand from his hip, he caught hold of the back of Dusty’s blade. Keeping his fingers extended, to avoid the cutting edge, Gilbertson prepared to take advantage of his latest piece of foul play. Up swung his saber, ready to smash the iron knuckle bow of the guard into the Texan’s face.

Once again Dusty’s lightning fast reactions saved him. Feeling his blade gripped and immobilized, he guessed what Gilbertson intended to do even before the other’s right hand began to lift. This latest attempt at foul play warned Dusty that he could not treat the Volunteer as an honorable enemy and so must fight fire with fire.

With Dusty Fog to think was to act.

Up rose the small Texan’s right foot, then drove down to smash the heel of his boot against the top of Gilbertson’s forward instep. Pain caused the Volunteer to yelp, flinch and relax his grasp on Dusty’s saber. Oblivious of the furious shouts that rose from behind him, Dusty rotated his wrist to the left almost 90^o By tugging back on the hilt, he drew the cutting edge across Gilbertson’s involuntarily clutching fingers. Again the Volunteer cried out, even louder, as the edge bit into his phalanges. Jerking his hand from Dusty’s weapon, he took a long stride to the rear. Doing so caused his down-driving hand to miss.

Having set his saber free, Dusty also started to withdraw. The knuckle bow of the Volunteer’s weapon almost grazed Dusty’s face in passing, but it failed to strike him.

In a flash, the small Texan retaliated. With his hand in supination, he propelled his blade around to pass over Gilbertson’s left shoulder. Slicing into the side of the Volunteer’s neck, the saber almost removed his head from his shoulders. Throwing his weapon aside, the man spun around and went down. He landed on his back spread-eagled and lifeless.

Sucking in deep breaths, Dusty stepped back and lowered his borrowed saber. He saw Surtees galloping towards him and heard the Dragoon officers running in his direction. Turning to the latter, he felt puzzled by the anger and disapproval they displayed. Then he realized what had caused the emotions. The Dragoons had been unable to see the reason for Dusty’s apparently unsporting action.

‘Look at his left hand, Major,’ Dusty suggested before any word of condemnation could be directed at him.

Striding by the small Texan, Galbraith knelt at Gilbertson’s side. One glance informed the Dragoon that nothing could save the Volunteer’s life. In a way that was all to the good. Unless Captain Fog insisted on making the deplorable incident public, the affair could be kept a secret. Talking about it would do more harm than good.

Having reached that conclusion, the major took up the Volunteer’s limp left hand. He looked for a moment at the bloody gash across the fingers and nodded his understanding. Satisfied, he came to his feet and faced his subordinates.

‘He grabbed Captain Fog’s blade,’ Gaibraith announced.

‘It wasn’t his first foul trick,’ Captain Miller went on coldly. ‘I don’t blame you for playing him at his own game. Captain Fog.’

A mutter of agreement rose from the two lieutenants. Gathering a handful of grass, Dusty cleaned the saber’s blade. With that done, he reversed the weapon and held its hilt towards Galbraith.

‘My thanks, sir,’ Dusty said.

‘I suppose that I shouldn’t have let you fight him,’ Galbraith admitted as he returned his saber to its sheath. Then he stiffened and growled, ‘The hell I shouldn’t. He deserved all he got and I don’t regret him getting it.’

‘Comes to that, sir,’ Dusty answered ruefully, ‘I shouldn’t’ve killed him. Like I told you, he was due to be exchanged for one of our captains this morning.

Looking at the small Texan—although he would never again think of Dusty Fog as being small—Galbraith saw the other’s predicament. By a convention of war, a prisoner could be exchanged for a man of equal rank held by the opposition. However Captain Fog no longer had a prisoner to offer in exchange. Another convention of war was that an officer’s word must be his bond. Gilbertson had admitted to giving his parole with the full intention of breaking it. If he had lived, he would have been handed back to his escort.

Any way that Major Galbraith looked at the problem, he saw only one honorable solution. The Army of the United States must uphold its obligations and preserve the conventions of war.

‘As far as I’m concerned, Captain Fog,’ the Dragoons’ major said soberly. ‘You delivered Gilbertson alive and in good health. If you’ll accompany me to the Snake Ford, I’ll guarantee your officer is released in exchange for him.’