The Devil Gun

by J. T. Edson

  So Ole Devil had to balance the temporary loss of a good officer against the possibility of the South losing thousands of badly needed soldiers. There could only be one answer.

  ‘Who do you want with you, Dustine?’ he asked. ‘And before you say it, I can’t let Mr. Blaze go with you. I need one of you to lead your troop.’

  ‘You’d best take Sergeant Ysabel, Dusty,’ Mosby put in. ‘He knows the country—’

  ‘And I’m kin to Long Walker, top war chief of the Comanche,’ Ysabel finished for his commanding officer. ‘It’s a pity Lon’s not here, Long Walker’s his grandpappy.’

  Like many of his kind, Sam Ysabel had taken an Indian wife; unlike some of the frontiersmen, he remained true to the Indian girl and grief at her death sent him from the Comanches, although he stayed in touch with them.

  ‘Be pleased to have you, Sergeant,’ Dusty said. ‘And for the other man—’

  ‘May I be the other man, sir?’ Marsden put in.

  All the Confederates in the room looked at the young Union officer. He read a mixture of surprise, inquiry, suspicion even in the various faces.

  ‘Why, mister?’ asked Ole Devil.

  ‘My people are causing the trouble, sir. I’d like to help put it right.’

  ‘If you fall into Union hands, you’ll be shot, boy,’ warned the grim-faced General, but an almost gentle note crept into his voice.

  ‘I will whether I see it through or stay here, sir, in the end.’ A man who acted as Marsden had could expect death at the hands of his own people. He knew and accepted that fact before be started out for the Ouachita. However, he wanted to see through the thing he started. Knowing the risks they took, he stood a fair chance of never coming back and preferred that to bringing shame upon his family.

  Dusty smiled. ‘We’ll be travelling light, real light, sir. Mr. Marsden’s an infantry officer, does he think he can stand the pace?’

  ‘I trained for cavalry almost from birth, sir,’ Marsden answered.

  ‘Then you can come along,’ Dusty promised. ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll start making my preparations. We’ll pull out at first light in the morning.’

  Although they might be able to leave earlier, Dusty knew it would be better to utilise the rest of the day in making sure they had the best horses and preparing for the long, hard ride ahead.

  After Dusty’s party left the room, Mosby turned to Ole Devil. ‘Do you think we can trust Marsden, sir?’

  ‘I know we can,’ Ole Devil answered. ‘Haven’t seen the boy since he was ten, but he’s his father’s son.’

  ‘How about it, Dustine?’ queried Ole Devil.

  ‘You know his family, sir?’

  ‘You might say that, Colonel Mosby. I served with his father in the Mexican War, General Marsden is Dustine’s god-father and young Marsden there is my god-son. They named him Jackson Hardin for me. Now, gentlemen, we’ll see what we can do to get my god-son out of the mess he’s in. You’re a pretty good lawyer, John. Is there a precedent for his action?’

  ‘If there is,’ Mosby replied after a moment’s thought, ‘I can’t think of it.’

  ‘Or me,’ admitted Ole Devil. ‘I think that we’ll have to try direct methods. Hondo, can you take down a letter to General Philo Handiman, we’ll send it under a flag of truce to the nearest regular Yankee outfit, they’ll pass it on to Philo in Washington.’

  Not knowing that his future was under consideration, Marsden resigned himself to his fate. In an attempt to stop himself thinking of his ruined career and possible fate, he studied the scenes around him. First thing to strike his eye was that the Texas Light Cavalry’s camp showed none of the casual slovenliness he associated with volunteer outfits. Next of interest being the amount of Union Army gear on view. Tents, leatherwork, arms all bore the mark of Union make, even though the voices around the camp sounded Texan.

  ‘You look surprised that we’re living so well, mister,’ Dusty remarked.

  ‘I am, sir,’ admitted Marsden.

  ‘We couldn’t do it relying on our own folks’ supplies. Apart from the uniforms, we mostly draw on the Yankees for anything we need.’

  A faint smile came to Marsden’s lips at the small captain’s words. Something told Marsden that the forthcoming trip would be an education for him and that he might gain knowledge of use in his career. The smile went as Marsden realised that in all probability he no longer had a career or a future.

  Telling the two sergeants to grab a meal, then report to his tent and bring Billy Jack, Dusty took Marsden to his quarters in the officers’ lines. Another of Marsden’s illusions went as he found that the wedge of tents had been stockaded and gave every hint of permanency.

  ‘We aren’t going anywhere,’ Dusty remarked in answer to the other’s comment on the permanent nature of the quarters. ‘Not unless it’s back over the Arkansas.’

  The tent proved to be spacious, although not luxuriously furnished. However, it compared favourably with Marsden’s quarters with the Zouaves. Dusty shared the tent with his second-in-command and Red Blaze sat on one of the beds, his jacket off, Marsden’s weapon belt lying next to his own. A pair of saddles rested on burros, wooden racks like inverted A-shapes. One glance told Marsden that the Texans might use many Union items, but they stuck to their range rigs. The saddles had double girths and the type of low horn only rarely seen in New Mexico. A coiled, thirty-foot rope hung on one side of each saddle’s horn, with the slings for carrying a sabre at the other side. From the saddles, Marsden turned his attention to the arms leaning against the burros. As the Spencer carbine did not come into use until after the War started, he concluded the pair in the tent must be battlefield captures.

  From the Spencers, Marsden turned his eyes to the sabres arid saw something that interested him. He wondered how he could satisfy his curiosity.

  ‘Everything all right, Dusty?’ Red asked.

  ‘Sure. Have a bed brought in for Mr. Marsden, he’s our guest.’

  The order aroused no comment from Red. Among the regular officers of the Union and most of the Confederate brass the rules and chivalries of war were still honoured. A captured officer could expect decent treatment and certain privileges.

  ‘I’ll tend to it,’ Red promised. ‘His weapons are here, I left them until you told me how to dispose of them.’

  ‘You can let him have them back. He’ll be riding out with me in the morning.’

  Once again Red refrained from asking questions, although he clearly showed his surprise. Never before had Dusty taken a captive to a prisoner-of-war camp, his time being too fully occupied for him to be spared on such an unimportant detail. Nor did the return of the weapons lessen Red’s perplexity. While a regular Union officer’s sword might be returned to him by his captors, no Confederate would willingly part with such a highly prized item as an 1860 Army Colt; the most highly thought-of handgun to have made its appearance in the War.

  At last Red could hold his curiosity no longer. ‘What’s on, Cousin Dusty?’

  ‘I’ve a chore to handle, Mr. Marsden’s going along.’

  ‘Taking the troop?’

  ‘Nope. Just Billy Jack and Kiowa.’

  ‘Can you tell me about it?’

  ‘Later maybe,’ Dusty replied. ‘Have you ate yet?’

  ‘No, thought I’d wait for you.’

  ‘As soon as we’ve washed up, we’ll go and grab a meal then. Care to take first crack at the wash-bowl, Mr. Marsden.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Marsden replied.

  ‘I’ll go tell the striker to bring more water,’ Red said, rising and walking from the tent.

  Restlessness drove Marsden to make conversation and he sought for something to talk about.

  ‘That’s not regulations, is it, sir?’ he asked, indicating the jacket Dusty removed and placed on the second bed.

  A grin came to Dusty’s face. ‘A shavetail called Mark Counter, in Sheldon’s outfit, started the no-skirt jacket and the idea caught on. I find it better for wor
k than the authorised undress uniform.’

  Then Marsden recalled the thing which interested him on his arrival. Crossing the tent, he looked at the sabre on one of the burros.

  ‘May I, sir?’ he asked, reaching towards it.

  ‘Feel free,’ Dusty replied.

  At West Point and since, Marsden had always heard that the Confederate Army possessed poor swords. Shortage of material due to the blockade of Southern ports, lack of skilled tradesmen and forging facilities prevented the rebels from owning decent weapons. However, the pair of swords in that tent showed excellent workmanship and proved to be of Southern manufacture; no Union company would use the letters C.S.A. in the hilt pattern of its produce.

  The sabre Marsden examined had sharkskin-covered grips secured with gilt wire, and its blade sported a stopped blood gutter and an additional thin, deep channelling on both upper sides of the blade for added flexibility and strength. On examination, Marsden found the blade’s steel to be as good as any from a Union force. He hefted the sabre, noting its razor-sharp edge, and found he did not care for its balance.

  ‘A fine blade, sir,’ he said, returning the sabre to its sheath.

  ‘The Haiman Brothers made it for me,’ Dusty replied. ‘A thirty-two-inch blade instead of thirty-six, and a shade lighter than the artillery sabre.’

  Now it had been pointed out to him, Marsden saw the difference in length between the two sabres.

  ‘Do you find yourselves at any disadvantage using it against arms of the conventional length, sir?’ he asked, and regretted the question as soon as the word left his mouth. A small man in a large man’s world might resent any comment or hint at his lack of size.

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty replied with a grin. ‘It only means that I have to get closer to the other feller than he gets to me.’

  Apparently Dusty took no offence. Suddenly Marsden realised that Dusty Fog accepted his lack of inches and, very sensibly, made no attempt to carry the full-length cavalry sabre in an effort to hide his small size. Looking first at the sabre, then at Dusty, Marsden wondered how well the small Texan could handle the weapon. Before he could go into the matter, Marsden saw Dusty’s striker, a cheery young Negro arrive with water.

  ‘All right, mister,’ Dusty said. ‘Let’s wash, go have a meal, then we’ll get everything ready for pulling out in the morning.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  MR. MARSDEN PICKS A HORSE

  ‘Like I said,’ groaned Billy Jack as Dusty finished telling him of their latest assignment, ‘trouble.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Dusty. ‘We’ll need the pick of the horses. I want a real good mount for Mr. Marsden.’

  The mournful pose left Billy Jack and he nodded, then continued with his preparations.

  ‘Carbines?’ he asked.

  During his meal at the officers’ mess Dusty had given some thought to the matter of armament. On such a ride every ounce of weight counted and he balanced the value of taking along carbines and ammunition, giving his party weapons with a longer range than their Colts, against the extra loading of the horses.

  ‘Just sidearms,’ he answered. ‘We’re not fighting unless we’re forced. Fifty cartridges, powder flask and twenty round ball per man.’

  ‘Huh, huh,’ grunted Billy Jack. ‘Packhosses?’

  ‘Two, carry food for the mounts and jerked meat. We’re travelling light.’

  ‘Like to take my old rifle along, Cap’n,’ Ysabel put in.

  Dusty studied the big Sharps for a moment. Men like Ysabel felt lost without a rifle handy, regarding it almost as a part of their own body. Knowing the independent nature of Ysabel’s kind, Dusty took the request as quite a compliment. Not that he intended to allow that to sway him in any way. His party might find use for a rifle and Ysabel was the best man to handle it.

  ‘Take it, Sergeant,’ he authorised. ‘No more than fifty rounds though.’

  ‘Yep,’ agreed Ysabel. ‘Won’t need no cartridges for my belt gun. I allus use loose powder and round ball.’

  ‘I’ll leave it to you,’ Dusty answered.

  ‘Jerked meat, coffee, sugar do for food?’ asked Kiowa.

  ‘That and anything we can pick up on the way,’ Dusty replied.

  Watching the others, Marsden realised that all knew their business and had ridden on many missions of a dangerous nature. The questions and orders were merely routine, for each man knew his part.

  ‘Let’s go and see about your horse, Mr. Marsden,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Billy Jack, head down and tell Sergeant Granger I want him to put the remuda in the big corral.’

  ‘Yo!’ replied the gangling non-corn and was about to depart when Dusty joined him and said something in a voice too low for the others to catch. ‘I’ll tend to it, Cap’n Dusty.’

  ‘Leave the food side to you, Kiowa,’ Dusty went on and the sergeant left on Billy Jack’s heels.

  ‘Need me for anything, Cap’n?’ asked Ysabel.

  ‘Come down to the corral with us,’ Dusty suggested. ‘If you’re ready, Mr. Marsden, we’ll go see about collecting your horse.’

  Although not a member of the party, Red Blaze had been present. He rose from his bed and prepared to carry on with his duty of escort to Marsden. Knowing that the Union possessed a reasonably efficient spy network even in Arkansas, Dusty took no chances of news of his mission leaking out. While in camp Marsden would be treated as a prisoner-of-war and kept under escort. Dusty knew he could rely on his cousin to keep quiet about the mission and so asked Red to be Marsden’s escort even though the redhead held a higher grade of rank than the prisoner.

  Dusty did not appear to be in any great rush to reach the corral. Strolling leisurely through the camp, he and Red kept up a friendly conversation with Marsden and did nothing to prevent the Union officer from examining his surroundings. At last they reached the horse lines. All around them, the never-ending business of cavalry soldiers went on. Men cleaned up the picket lines, led horses to water, saw to feeding their mounts. To a casual, inexperienced observer everything might have seemed to be in wild confusion, but Marsden saw the disciplined purposefulness of the scene. One thing he noticed was that the officers and sergeants clearly trusted their men to carry out the assigned work without constant supervision. That was understandable. Born in a land where a horse was far more than a means of transport, being an absolute necessity of life, the men of the Texas Light Cavalry knew better than neglect their mounts.

  Never had Marsden seen such a fine collection of animals. Nor did his admiration decline when he approached one of a series of big pole corrals. Already a number of horses had been driven into the corral and, although they belonged to the regiment’s reserve of mounts, Marsden noticed their glossy coats and general signs of good health.

  ‘Take your pick,’ offered Dusty.

  Sensing a test of his horse-knowledge and judgment, Marsden swung himself up to sit on the top rail. Once there he started to examine the horses with careful eyes and knew straight off that no easy task lay before him. All the horses showed well-rounded frames that told of perfect condition and looked as hard as exercise and training could make them.

  At last Marsden saw what he wanted. While not the biggest horse in the corral, he decided to ask for the sorrel gelding with the white star on its face. Everything about the sorrel pleased him. Its head gave an impression of leanness, although with good width between the eyes, which were set well out at the side and promised a wide range of vision; depth through the jaw, the lips clasped firmly over the teeth and the nostrils flaring well open. That head ensured good breathing capability while the erect ears pointed to alertness. Of course, Marsden knew the old dealers’ claim that one did not ride the head; but a good head, all things being equal, usually meant a good horse. The sorrel’s neck had sufficient length and strength to give a good carriage to the head. A short back, level from the dip behind the withers and a well ribbed-up frame offered a firm base for the saddle, while the powerful loins, fore-limbs and legs hinted at power, stamina, spee
d and agility.

  Several of the horses showed up almost as well, but the sorrel possessed an undefinable something which made Marsden select it.

  ‘I’ll take that one,’ he said, indicating the horse.

  Almost before the words left Marsden’s mouth, Billy Jack swung up alongside him. The sergeant-major held a sixty-foot-long Manila rope in his hands, a running loop dangling ready. Up and out whirled the loop, flying through the air to drop around the sorrel’s neck. The throw had been so swiftly and neatly made that Marsden turned towards Dusty meaning to comment on it. A smile played on Dusty’s lips, mirrored on the faces of Red and Billy Jack. Suddenly Marsden knew that the sorrel was placed among the other horses, on Dusty’s whispered orders, as a test of his knowledge.

  A momentary irritation rose in Marsden’s thoughts. In addition to being at least three years older than Dusty Fog, he had attended West Point and was not just some volunteer who held rank because his uncle happened to be the commanding general. Then sober thought wiped out the irritation. Dusty was embarking upon a desperate and dangerous assignment, also upon a very long and arduous journey. One could not blame him for taking no chances.

  ‘That’s a good horse, mister,’ Billy Jack remarked, drawing in on his rope. ‘Only I wouldn’t let the Yankee General, Custer, catch you riding it.’

  ‘Why?’ Marsden asked, watching the calm way the sorrel accepted the rope.

  ‘It used to belong to him.’

  Then Marsden remembered that among his other exploits Dusty had led a raid on the 7th Cavalry’s camp and drove off a fair number of the regiment’s mounts. Knowing something of Custer’s taste in horses, Marsden decided that possibly the sorrel had been one of the General’s personal mounts.

  ‘Reckon you’d best use one of our saddles, Mr. Marsden,’ Dusty suggested as Billy Jack led the sorrel from the corral.

  ‘Had one fetched down for you, mister,’ Billy Jack called over his shoulder. ‘It’s there on the rail.’