by J. T. Edson
Suddenly Mosby thrust back his chair and came to his feet. He stepped around the desk, halting to face Marsden. Looking straight at the lieutenant’s face, Mosby started a line of questioning the other expected.
‘Just why are you, an officer of the Union Army, telling all this to us?’
None of the Texans spoke or offered to intervene. The same question had been in their heads, although possibly they could guess at the answer. However, Mosby, coming from Virginia—a state long past the days of Indian raids—might be able to make a more unbiased inquiry into Marsden’s motives. Mosby had been a member of the Bar before the War and so knew how to question a suspect.
‘I was raised in New Mexico, sir,’ Marsden replied. ‘I’ve seen Indian work.’
An answer which could possibly have satisfied men who also knew the results of Indian warfare. Mosby did not appear to be convinced.
‘So you now expect General Hardin to make arrangements to quell this Indian uprising?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘By sending troops from his command to do it?’
‘I hadn’t thought of how he might handle the affair, sir.’
‘But if he does send, say a battalion, from the regiment, it might alter the balance of power in the Union’s favour.’
Marsden did not answer. All too well he knew how delicately balanced was the situation in Arkansas. Hardin’s force numbered less than the Union troops and only their superior tactics and fighting ability prevented the Yankees from advancing and sweeping the state back under Federal control. The loss of even one battalion, acted upon by the Union forces, could see the Confederates pushed out of Arkansas.
‘Well, Mr. Marsden?’ demanded Mosby.
‘I don’t quite follow your question, sir,’ Marsden answered.
‘Let me put a supposition before you, mister. Suppose this is a plot, not to arm and raise the Indians in Texas, but to create discord, uncertainty and alarm among the Texans in General Hardin’s command?’
‘If that had been my intention, sir,’ Marsden said hotly, ‘I’d have told Captain Fog of it in the presence of his men so that they could spread the word among the troops.’
‘Mr. Marsden,’ Ole Devil put in. ‘Do you give us your word that you are not trying to trick us in any way?’
‘I do, sir.’
Standing rigid to attention, Marsden met Ole Devil’s frosty black eyes without any sign of flinching. He wanted to look at the others, try to read their thoughts, but knew that any attempt to do so might be construed as a sign of guilt. At last Ole Devil gave a nod and glanced at Mosby.
‘One thing still puzzles me, Mr. Marsden,’ the Grey Ghost remarked, but much of the brusque note had left his voice. ‘This plan wasn’t made during the past ten or so days. How come you didn’t know of it earlier?’
‘I’m a career soldier, sir. There’s little common bond between us and the volunteer officers. They wouldn’t let me in on anything of this nature in case I could offer concrete reasons why it would be ill-advised.’
‘Ill-advised!’ Blaze snorted. ‘Arming the Indians would be rank lunacy.’
‘Just how did you learn of the scheme?’ Mosby asked, ignoring the outburst.
‘My suspicions were aroused, sir,’ Marsden answered and a faint grin came to his lips. ‘A bottle of whisky is a finer inducement to talking than torture, sir, properly used.’
Mosby resumed his seat and looked around the circle of tanned Texas faces, with great attention to Ole Devil’s expressionless mask. Taken with the news Mosby brought from the East, Marsden’s information could be a terrible menace to the Confederate cause. It was Ole Devil’s assumption of command that brought the Union advance in Arkansas to a halt, his leadership and tactics which held a superior force back beyond the Arkansas River. Through Ole Devil’s actions, a large Federal army, badly needed elsewhere, must stay in Arkansas. With that knowledge in mind, Ole Devil requested reinforcements, one regiment each of infantry, cavalry and artillery, and Mosby had just brought word that the General Staff could not spare the men. Having seen, and heard, Ole Devil’s receipt of the news, Mosby wondered how the other’s feelings towards the Confederate States might be affected in the light of the new development. After all, Ole Devil was a Texan and of all the Southern states, Texas had the least interest in one of the basic causes of the War.
‘Just how serious do you regard the situation, General?’ asked Mosby when nobody offered to continue the conversation.
‘It could be very serious,’ Ole Devil admitted.
‘Maybe Kiowa could tell us what chance there is of the tribes merging, sir,’ Dusty put in. ‘He’s lived among the Kiowa, his mother was one of them, and he’ll maybe be able to help.’
‘Can he keep his mouth shut?’ growled Ole Devil.
‘If he says “good morning” he’s being real talkative, sir,’ grinned Dusty.
‘Go get him then, Dustine. Take a seat, Mr. Marsden.’
‘Dusty!’ Mosby put in as the small captain turned to leave. ‘While you’re out, find my escort. Ask Sergeant Ysabel to report to me.’ He turned back to the desk. ‘Sam Ysabel knows the Comanche, married Chief Long Walker’s daughter. He could know something.’
‘Sam Ysabel, huh?’ grunted Colonel Blaze.
‘Do you know him?’ grinned Mosby.
‘I’ve heard of him. Used to be a border smuggler. Ran a good line in duty-free Mexican wine—or so they tell me.’
The latter part of the speech came as Blaze remembered his pre-war post of justice of the peace in Rio Hondo County, and as such he should not be aware of the quality of a smuggler’s goods.
‘He’s a damned good scout. Only one I have that’s better is his son, Lon.’ Mosby remarked, ignoring Blaze’s statement. ‘It’s a pity the boy isn’t here, but he went out with a patrol after a bunch of Yankees who caught and tortured a couple of our men.’
On leaving the house, Dusty headed straight for the post sutler’s building. He figured the conference had taken long enough for his troop to be dismissed and knew where to find the men he wanted. The sutler used one of the property’s out-buildings and furnished it with a bar counter, tables and chairs gathered from unmentioned sources. Inside, a man could purchase such luxuries and necessities of life as the owner managed to gather, and generally relax from military discipline.
As Dusty expected, his sergeant-major and sergeant sat with a group of senior non-coms, one of them a man Dusty knew, but who did not belong to the Texas Light Cavalry.
‘Gentlemen,’ Dusty greeted as he walked to the table.
‘My apologies. I’d like to see you outside, Billy Jack, Kiowa. You, too, Sergeant Ysabel.’
Instantly the three men rose, although Sam Ysabel did not have a reputation for adhering strictly to discipline. Outside the sutler’s store, Ysabel gave Dusty a broad and admiring grin.
‘Billy Jack’s just been telling me about what happened when you went over the Moshogen to give evidence at that Yankee shavetail’s court martial,* sir,’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you since then.’
‘Billy Jack talks too much,’ Dusty answered. ‘You and Kiowa are wanted at the General’s office.’
‘That means trouble,’ groaned Billy Jack. ‘You just see if it don’t.’
‘Likely,’ Dusty grinned for he was not fooled by his sergeant-major’s pose. Under that lachrymose exterior lay a tough, capable and intelligent fighting man. ‘Go tell Cousin Red that we’ll maybe pull out in a hurry.’
‘Yo!’ replied Billy Jack and swung away from the others. During the return to the house, Dusty took time to study the father of a man who would one day be his real good friend. At that time Dusty had not met Loncey Dalton Ysabel, better known as the Ysabel Kid, but had come into contact with the Kid’s father once before.
Ysabel looked much the same; tall, well-built, powerful. Black-Irish and Kentuckian blood flowed through his veins, a fighting mixture without peer. He moved with a long, free stride, yet set his feet down lightly
and in silence. An old Dragoon Colt hung at his right side, a James Black bowie rode his left hip in a Comanche medicine sheath. However, in time of war, unless Dusty missed his guess, the Sharps breech-loading rifle would form Ysabel’s chief defence and offence tool.
Neither of the sergeants asked any questions on their way to the house, and followed Dusty into Hardin’s office. Inside, Dusty saw that time had not been wasted while he fetched the non-coms. Maps were spread out on the desk and the Confederate officers stood around it, while Marsden sat at one side, silent and obviously hiding his thoughts.
‘Come in, gentlemen,’ Old Devil told the non-coms. ‘Mr. Marsden, tell them what you told us about this scheme to arm the Indians.’
Although he watched their faces as he talked, Marsden could see no sign of emotion, no hint at whether Ysabel or Kiowa believed him. Only once did either make any interruplion. Following Marsden’s mention of the Union agent who promised to gather the tribes, Ysabel asked:
‘Would that feller’s name be the Deacon, mister?’
‘I— Yes, that’s it. The man I was questioning didn’t talk too well when he reached that point and all I could make out was some kind of preacher.’
‘Know the Deacon, Hon—Major?’ Ysabel asked of Dusty’s father.
‘Can’t say I do.’ Hondo Fog had been local peace officer in the Rio Hondo before following Ole Devil to fight for the Confederacy.
‘Naw. Most likely you wouldn’t. He steered clear of places where the law was enforced. Was a trader, whisky, muskets, powder, lead, steel war-axes, he dealt in the lot.’
‘Could he arrange a meeting with the old man chiefs of each tribe, Sergeant?’ asked Ole Devil.
For almost a minute Sam Ysabel did not reply. He exchanged glances with Kiowa, scratched his bristle-covered jaw and nodded.
‘Sure, General,’ he answered quietly. ‘I reckon the Deacon could.’
oooOooo
* Told in The Fastest Gun in Texas.
CHAPTER FIVE
THEY HAVE TO BE STOPPED, CAPTAIN FOG
Silence fell on the room after Sam Ysabel’s words, for none of the Texans doubted his knowledge of Indian affairs. Ysabel belonged to the hardy brotherhood who pushed into the wild, unexplored country with the desire to see what lay beyond the next hill. Unlike the settlers who followed in their wake. Ysabel’s kind befriended the Indians, adopted their ways, learned their traditions and thoughts. Such a man could be expected to estimate the chances of Castle’s scheme working with more accuracy than any settler. After a moment, Ysabel expanded on his statement.
‘The Deacon knows enough of the old man chiefs to call all three tribes together, General. But he’d need some mighty strong medicine to make ‘em listen to him.’
‘Three hundred rifles like your Sharps and ammunition would give him a good starting point,’ Ole Devil pointed out.
Ysabel looked down at his rifle. At that time the Model 1859 Sharps could claim to be the finest rifle in general use. Neither the Henry nor Spencer repeating rifles could equal its range, accuracy or dependability, and ammunition for both was difficult to obtain.
‘Yes, sir,’ admitted Ysabel. ‘Spread out among the right folks in each tribe they’d gather a whole heap of support.’
‘Don’t forget the Ager, sir,’ Dusty put in.
‘I’m not likely to forget it, Captain Fog!’ Ole Devil barked.
‘You mean one of them Ager Coffee Mill guns, sir?’ asked Kiowa.
‘The men behind this scheme are taking one to the meeting and intend to offer it as support to the raiding parties,’ Ole Devil replied.
‘What would its effect be, Sam?’ Mosby inquired.
‘Big medicine, Colonel,’ Ysabel answered soberly. ‘Just about as big as you could get. They’d think it was a Devil Gun. I tell you, one good victory with that thing backing ‘em and those Yankees’d have every Indian in the whole damned state painting for war.’
‘As bad as that?’ asked Blaze.
‘Worse,’ grunted Ysabel. ‘Even such of the old man chiefs who wanted to stay out of it wouldn’t have any say with that thing siding the war-shouters.’
‘We have to stop the Ager falling into Indian hands, sir,’ Dusty stated.
‘Yes, they have to be stopped, Captain Fog,’ agreed Mosby. ‘The question is how do you stop them.’
‘Prevent them from contacting the Indians,’ Dusty suggested.
‘To do that, you have to find them,’ Blaze pointed out. ‘Did you learn either their rendezvous, or the meeting place with the Indians, Mr. Marsden?’
‘No, sir. The informant collapsed into a drunken stupor before I learned either. Each party slipped through the Ouachita Mountains, avoiding your patrols, and were to meet somewhere on the Red River.’
‘There’re a hundred crossing points on the Red,’ Hondo growled. ‘We can’t cover them all. And Texas’s a whole heap too much land for us to start combing it to find a small party.’
‘What escort did the two parties have, Mr. Marsden?’ asked Ole Devil.
‘One mounted company of Zouaves were taking the wagon to the rendezvous, but the Deacon claimed he could handle the situation better without so many men and so the escort was to return when the meeting was made.’
‘Why send them separately, Mr. Marsden?’ Blaze put in.
‘The Ager hadn’t arrived and a messenger from the Deacon arrived with news that he was expecting representatives from each tribe to visit him. He wanted something to show the Indians when they arrived. So it was decided to send off the arms wagon immediately. Castle and Silverman, in civilian clothing, were to follow with the Ager on a light artillery mount. They had a guide to take them through your lines.’
Ole Devil might have commented that lack of men prevented him from making accurate coverage of the Ouachita Mountains, but did not bother. Nor did Mosby need any explanation, for he specialised in slipping through the enemy’s lines and knew how it could be done, especially in mountainous land.
‘It doesn’t help us much to know where the rendezvous might be,’ the General commented. ‘They’ll have passed that point now.’
‘Just thought of something, General,’ Ysabel said. ‘A thing like this, getting the three tribes together I mean, calls for a special medicine place. You don’t just ask Comanche, Kiowa and Kaddoes to meet up and forget all the years of war in any old place.’
‘Sam’s right, General,’ Kiowa agreed. ‘It has to be some place that the Great Spirit keeps for his-self.’
‘Kind of sacred ground,’ continued Ysabel. ‘All the tribes have them. Places where enemies can meet and talk things out without needing to watch for sneaky games. A medicine place’d be the only location you could gather Comanche, Kiowa and Kaddo without getting trouble.’
‘Where would such a place be?’ asked Ole Devil.
‘Can think of half a dozen scattered about Texas,’ Ysabel replied. ‘There’s one on the Sweetwater, another on the Colorado.’
‘They’d be too far south,’ Dusty guessed, consulting the maps. ‘The Yankees need something close at hand.’
‘How about the joining of the Salt and Clear Forks of the Brazos?’ Kiowa put in. ‘That’s an old medicine place.’
‘I reckon you hit it, Kiowa,’ Ysabel enthused, looking at the spot to which the lean sergeant pointed. ‘The Deacon knows that country pretty well.’
‘It’s a touch close to Fort Worth and Dallas,’ objected Ole Devil.
‘Over a hundred miles from the nearest, and Indian country at that,’ Ysabel replied. ‘No, sir. Was I asked, I’d say that’s our place.’
Once again all the men gathered around and studied the maps. To experienced soldiers, the true meaning of the insignificant spaces upon the paper stood plain and clear. A thumb and forefinger might span from the Red River to the fork of the two tributaries of the Brazos, but all knew how many actual miles lay between the points.
‘With four days lead, they’ll be over the Red now,’ Hondo pointed out. ‘B
ut with wagons they’ll be travelling slow. We might send a battalion—’
‘I can’t even spare a company, not and hold out here in Arkansas,’ Ole Devil answered. ‘And a company would travel too slowly to intercept them.’
‘A small party could move fast enough, sir,’ Dusty put in.
‘How small?’ asked Ole Devil.
‘I thought myself, Kiowa, Billy Jack and two more would do,’ Dusty said. ‘A party that size, mounted on the pick of our horses, could cover between thirty and forty miles a day even without taking remounts from any Confederate outfit we happened across.’
‘It’s getting on for three hundred miles to that fork, Dusty,’ Hondo warned.
‘Yes, sir, but if we’re lucky we’ll catch the Yankees before they reach it. How many men’ll be with the wagons, six, ten, a dozen at most. The Indians wouldn’t stand for many more than that. With surprise at our back, I reckon we can handle them.’
Ole Devil sat back in his chair, the impassive mask dropping onto his face and warning all who knew him that he was thinking. Every man present understood the problem facing the grim-faced General. His orders were to prevent further Union advance in Arkansas, and if possible regain the territory already taken. While he could hold the Yankees beyond the Arkansas river and prevent their gaining more land, he needed every man to do so. Despite Dusty’s youth, he was a valuable fighting leader and a man not easily spared. To let Dusty go, even with only four men, would seriously weaken Ole Devil’s precarious hold on the delicately balanced position. Yet to refuse would be just as disastrous. Once the Indians took to the warpath, there would be no stopping them short of using considerable force. Nor would the blood-crazy, coup-seeking braves differentiate between soldier and civilian, or between man, woman and child. The Indians, would ravage Texas from north to south, leaving the country, already weakened by the number of men away at the War, a burning, bloody ruin. Ole Devil knew the result of such an Indian uprising and also realised that every Texan serving the Confederate Government would want to return home to defend, or avenge, his family once the news spread.
