by J. T. Edson
Dust churned up, horses snorted as they came to sliding halts around the buggy. Liz saw men advancing with guns in their hands, heard surprised comments as they saw her clearly for the first time.
‘Yeah,’ grinned the man who shot the horse, speaking through a fist-damaged mouth. ‘That’s why I didn’t drop her and shot the hoss.’
‘Never seed such obliging folks,’ another went on, eyeing Liz’s body in a predatory manner. ‘Get sky-lined so’s we know they’re about. Then dog-my-cats if they don’t come along towards us instead of going away and make us chase ‘em.’
‘Now you just take your eyes off her, Tibby!’ warned the first speaker. ‘Why for d’you reckon I shot the horse?’
Sick terror bit into Liz at the words and the way the man leered in her direction. She had no weapons, not even a Derringer or one of those new-fangled, light-calibre, metal-cartridge Smith & Wesson revolvers which were becoming popular among Union officers. Even the buggy whip lay some distance away and far out of her reach.
Grinning evilly, the man started to move forward. Hooves drummed and Liz saw a couple more riders tearing along the valley bottom. Much to her surprise, she realised that one of the newcomers was a woman. Nor did that one offer to halt her horse and dismount. Instead, the girl kept her mount moving, causing the bushwhacker to jump back hurriedly. With superb skill, the girl halted her mount and glared at the men. Liz could barely believe her eyes, but the men actually appeared to be sheepish and perturbed by the girl’s cold stare.
‘You damned fools!’ Jill Dodd hissed. ‘You crazy, stupid idiots!’
‘They’re Yankee soldiers,’ the fist-damaged man replied sullenly.
‘And her?’ Jill snapped.
‘We didn’t know she was with them.’
Looking to where some of the bushwhackers were searching the bodies of their victims, Jill yelled a warning.
‘Just take their guns and ammunition. You know what he told us.’
Liz gave her rescuer a longer and more penetrating stare, wondering how such a girl came to be riding with a bunch of murderous bushwhackers. Glancing back along the trail Liz saw one of the men push a watch back into a soldier’s pocket and another removing ammunition from the driver’s pouch. With a shock, Liz realised that all her four companions were dead.
‘You murdered them!’ she gasped.
‘Killed,’ Jill corrected, slipping from her saddle. ‘They’re Yankee soldiers and we’re Confederates.’
‘They were only boys!’ Liz went on.
‘They were older than my brother when the Yankees murdered him,’ Jill answered. ‘And wearing arms and uniforms.’
‘If your brother was riding with this bushwhacker—’ Liz began.
‘He wasn’t!’ Jill interrupted. ‘All he did was—’
‘Hey, Jill,’ called one of the bushwhackers. ‘Reckon we’d best be moving?’
‘It’d be lost,’ she replied. ‘A party this small wouldn’t be travelling alone and their friends’ll be looking for them. Get the Yankees’ horses and we’ll move.’
‘How about that Yankee gal?’ grinned the man.
The question set Jill something of a problem. She had not intended to make any more raids and was scouting when the noise of her men’s gunfire brought her back on the run. Now she found herself with a prisoner. The obvious solution would be to leave the other girl to be found by her friends, but Jill saw that such an idea might not prove so easy. Firstly, that small party must have become separated from the main body and hopelessly lost or they would not have been heading into Confederate-held territory. So the search party might fail to find the girl. Another point Jill conceded was that one or more of her own men might slip away from the band, if she left the girl behind, and return to do what Jill had already prevented once.
‘She rides with us,’ Jill stated. ‘At the first town, we’ll turn her loose and she can be sent back to her own people.’
‘Be best, only I don’t like being slowed by no buggy,’ the man answered.
‘Can you ride, Yankee?’ asked Jill.
‘I can,’ admitted Liz, then stared defiance. ‘But I’ve no intention of doing so.’
‘Bring a horse for her!’ called Jill.
Collecting one of the dead men’s horses, a bushwhacker brought it to where the two girls stood facing each other. Liz decided to make as much difficulty as she could, delaying the bushwhackers’ departure in the hope that a Union seat party arrived and saved her.
‘I won’t mount!’ she insisted.
‘You’ll mount!’ Jill told her. ‘Or I’ll damned soon make you!’
Fire flashed in two pairs of eyes as the girls glared at each other. They both crouched slightly, fingers crooking ready to grab at hair. Then Liz became aware of the way the male bushwhackers started to gather around. She read anticipation and sensual delight on each face as they watched the girls and waited for the next development. Suddenly a feeling of revulsion hit Liz and she knew she could not make a physical resistance to the other girl’s demands, not with those men standing, waiting and watching every move. They would like nothing more than to see two girls fighting and she did not intend to degrade herself by so doing.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll ride. Can I take my travelling case with me?’
‘Sure,’ answered Jill, sounding just a shade relieved at not being forced to tangle in a hair-tearing cat-fight with the Yankee girl. ‘You can take along a small bag, but we’ll have to leave the rest of your gear here. If some of your folks’re out looking for you, they’ll find it.’
All too well Jill realised the precarious nature of her position. During the two days since Ashley’s death, she led the band by the force of her personality and because none of the men showed any qualities of leadership. One wrong move, a single mistake, a temporary set-back, would see the band break up and Jill deserted, if nothing worse. So she allowed Liz a face-saver out of gratitude for not being forced to take the showdown to a conclusion.
Going to the buggy, Liz walked to the rear and drew aside a cover to expose a small trunk and a box made to be strapped to a saddle. She took the latter, it contained toilet articles, a change of underclothing and a couple of blouses; all she would need during the next few days. If the bushwhackers kept their word, she could expect to be free in two days at the most and the Confederate soldiers would give her unrestricted passage to her own people.
‘This’s all I need,’ she told Jill.
‘Heck!’ Jill said, and a man joined them. ‘Strap this on the bay’s saddle.’ After the man went to obey his orders.
Jill turned back to the other girl. ‘Now listen good to me, Yankee. 1 stopped Guthrie abusing you just now. But if you do anything foolish, or make fuss for us, I won’t be able to old him back a second time. You think on it.’
Liz thought on it, thought long and hard as she mounted the dead soldier’s horse. Among other things, she wondered how a girl like Jill came to be riding with the bushwhackers and what gave her such a hatred for the Yankees. Once moving, Jill kept her horse alongside Liz’s mount, but made no attempt at conversation. In a hollow they collected a string of half a dozen packhorses and then continued their interrupted journey.
During the ride Liz could not help noticing the cautious manner in which the bushwhackers rode. Scouts went out ahead, behind and upon both flanks and the rest of the party kept to low ground as much as possible. She wondered what made the party so nervous when traversing Confederate-held territory. After they had covered about two miles from the scene of the ambush, something else happened to give Liz more food for thought.
The flank scout on the left suddenly whirled his horse and came racing down to the main body. Riding to meet the man, Jill listened to his low-spoken message. To Liz it became clear that the other girl did not like what she heard. Turning, Jill galloped back to the halted party.
‘Hold it here,’ she ordered. ‘And keep those horses quiet.’
Then an idea came to Liz. Th
e scout must have seen a search party from the convoy; one of considerable force from Jill’s concern. If she could get up the ridge, or even create enough noise, help would be rushing towards her. For a moment she sat trying to think of the best way to achieve her ends. Perhaps a sudden thrust of heels into her horse’s flanks might carry her through. Before Liz could make the move, a signal from Jill brought two men to her side and the bushwhacker girl moved her horse in front of the trio, bottling any way out.
‘They’re too far away,’ Jill commented. ‘And if you try screaming, the boys will quieten you.’
One glance at the leering faces of the men told Liz that the quietening would prove mighty unpleasant. Any attempt at escape would bring a bullet into her at best. The party from which they hid could not arrive in time to save her. So, having no desire to throw her life away, she sat quietly until the scout, who returned to his position, gave the signal for them to move on again.
Once on the move, Guthrie kept his horse alongside Jill mount and Liz listened uncomprehendingly to their conversation.
‘Reckon it was him still after us?’ asked the man.
‘Could be,’ Jill agreed.
‘What about when he finds them Yankees back there?’
‘They’re soldiers and we only took horses and guns.’
‘And her!’ Guthrie spat out, jerking a thumb towards Liz.
‘We couldn’t just leave her behind.’ Jill answered. ‘She might not’ve been found. He’ll understand that.’
‘Reckon he’ll give us a chance to explain?’ asked the scared-looking man.
‘Look!’ Jill hissed. ‘You know my idea was to keep moving west, cross the Red and lay up in Texas for a spell. You had to hit those Yankees while I was out on scout. Now dry off and keep those horses moving. He’ll not come too far after us and we’ll be safe over the Red.’
Sullenly Guthrie dropped back and Jill rode ahead without speaking to her prisoner. Liz began to wonder which Union Army officer caused such concern among the bushwhackers. During the War, only General George Armstrong Custer’s name went out as a Union cavalry leader—and his fame rested on rash, but fortunate, chance-taking that, with plenty of luck, seemed to come off—certainly no Federal officer in Arkansas possessed a reputation likely to scare such a hardened bunch of roughnecks. She decided against asking any questions and the journey continued.
Towards sundown the party crossed the Red River and entered the State of Texas. However, once over the small ford, Jill insisted that they push on for a time. Not until four miles lay behind them and the moon rose palely in the sky did she give the order to halt and make camp. They had followed a small stream which joined the Red below the ford and their stopping place lay in open ground with the stream at the foot of a slope, forming a wide, deep pool. Having halted, Jill set her men to work. She had some caring for the leg-weary horses, others making a fire and starting to cook a meal, one more set about erecting a shelter tent.
‘We’ll be using that,’ she told Liz. ‘Look, I can either have you chained, or I’ll take your word that you won’t try o escape in the night. Which is it?’
Liz gave quick thought to the matter and replied, ‘I’ll give you my word.’
‘Come and eat then,’ Jill accepted. ‘It won’t be fancy, but filling.’
With the meal over, the two girls retired to their tent. Neither undressed and they made their bed with Union Army ponchoes and blankets, using the earth for a mattress. Jill refused to talk much and Liz felt too tired to make any great conversational efforts. She saw that the other girl slept with the Tranter revolver gripped in her hand and felt instinctively that the move was not a pose to impress her.
Liz spent a restless night, but made no attempt to break her word. At dawn she found that the bushwhackers intended to make a late start, resting their horses after the hard work of the previous day. She stuck close to the tent, not caring to face the barrage of stares which greeted her every appearance. Time dragged by and towards noon heard Jill give the order to prepare to move.
‘We’ll be pulling out in half an hour,’ Jill remarked, entering the tent. ‘I don’t know where the nearest town is, but we’ll find it and leave you safe.’
‘Up there!’ yelled a voice. ‘It’s him!’
Instantly pandemonium reigned outside the tent. Men shouted curses, then the girls heard hooves drumming. Turning, Jill saw her band leaping afork their mounts and scattering in panic. In their haste, the men discarded belongings, left behind saddles even. Jill looked downstream and saw an approaching party, recognising the man in the lead. Panic always proved infectious and the girl prepared to dash to one of the abandoned horses to make good her escape.
Even as Jill reached her decision, Liz took a hand in the game. From the noise, Liz guessed that the man the bushwhackers feared had arrived on the scene. It seemed that he came too late, for the male members of the band were making good their escape. Liz determined that the rebel girl would not get away. With that thought in mind, Liz hurled herself across the tent. Locking her arms around Jill’s waist, Liz sent the other girl crashing through the tent’s flap and brought her to the ground outside.
CHAPTER EIGHT
A PROBLEM FOR CAPTAIN FOG
Riding the borrowed sorrel, Lieutenant Marsden sat in the centre of the line of men moving across the rolling Texas range country some two and a half miles beyond the Red River. To his right Dusty Fog sat afork a magnificent black stallion, a big, fine looking animal which turned Marsden almost green with envy. Beyond Dusty, Sam Ysabel rode a big strawberry roan stallion which looked even meaner than all hell and matched the black’s seventeen hands of grace and power. On Marsden’s left came Billy Jack, then Kiowa, each sitting a big black horse of a kind only seen ridden by field-rank officers in the Union Army. All in all they were a superbly mounted body of men.
The reason for riding in line abreast with Marsden at the centre did not imply distrust of his motives. In line, only the leading horse had an unrestricted view of the ground it must traverse and each succeeding animal moved in air polluted by those preceding it.
Since leaving the Texas Light Cavalry the previous day at just after dawn, Marsden had already received several lessons in the art of long distance fast travel by horse. He also knew the reason for Dusty’s strict inspection of saddlery and animals—with great emphasis on the state of each horse’s shoes, to the extent of having every animal re-shod—and found himself admiring the young captain’s attention to detail.
Dusty insisted that they wait until dawn had broken sufficiently for his party to see clearly as they saddled up the horses. After the first two hours at a fast trot guaranteed to wipe out any snuffiness the horses might feel, Dusty called the first halt. Not that the men rested during the halt. Instead they examined and made necessary adjustments to packs and saddles while allowing their mounts to clear themselves and graze.
From then on the remainder of the day had been pure hard work. Alternating between riding at a trot and walking, leading the horses, the men covered mile after mile. Every hour brought a halt, the first and second short and giving the horses time to blow, but on the third hour long enough for the men to off-saddle and let each mount’s back dry off, then the horses were grain fed and allowed to graze before being saddled and moved on. In that manner, they covered around forty miles the first day and, as long as the horses held out, ought to make at least thirty more each day by using the same methods. If so, they should reach the Brazos River’s fork area in time to organise a search for Castle’s wagons.
Moving on that morning, the party made good time until they approached the Red River ford selected by Dusty as best suited to their purposes. Sam Ysabel had been ahead to scout the small ford and he sat back from the edge, keeping under cover when the others arrived.
‘Bunch went across last night, Cap’n,’ he reported. ‘Fair-sized party. From the sign they kept going, followed that stream there west.’
Kiowa rode by the others and went to
the river’s edge, looking down at the tracks. Turning, he said, ‘Be about fifteen of ‘em, some packhosses. One of ‘em’s a purty lil gal.’
‘Don’t see no footprints,’ Ysabel remarked.
‘Never yet saw a danged Comanche’s could read sign,’ answered Kiowa with a faint mouth movement that passed as a broad friendly grin in his circle.
‘Danged Injun varmints,’ Billy Jack put in, enjoying the inter-tribal rivalry expressed by the two sergeants.
‘Ashley’s bunch of bushwhackers?’ guessed Dusty. ‘Looks like they didn’t listen to me. Let’s cross.’
‘And ‘fore ole Kiowa here swells up and busts a gut with all this funning,’ Billy Jack went on to Ysabel. ‘We trailed Ashley’s bunch for so long that even I can pick out their hosses’ tracks.’
‘Paleface brother got heap big mouth,’ grunted Kiowa, ‘Side with Comanches too. I—’
‘Move over!’ Dusty ordered.
All levity left the men and they advanced as a unit ready to fight. The water came barely to the level of the stirrup irons and the river’s bed offered a firm, safe footing so that the party experienced no difficulty in making their crossing. Nor were they opposed during the crossing and on the other side continued their journey. They followed the same line as the bushwhackers had the previous night.
‘Smoke up ahead,’ Ysabel said, pointing. ‘Soon know if our Kiowa brother can read sign or not.’
‘Likely,’ Dusty replied. ‘It’s on our line of march and I don’t want to waste time going around. Remember the arrangements happen we get jumped by Yankees—even Kiowa can make a mistake.’
Among other things before leaving the Texas Light Cavalry’s camp, Dusty made arrangements for action should they be attacked. Not wishing to make a fight unless forced, he planned well and Marsden admitted that the small Texan thought of the best way to handle the situation.
