by J. T. Edson
The reference to a bushwhacker band left Marsden feeling puzzled. After the raid on the Kansas town of Lawrence, both Union and Confederate Governments disowned the various irregular bands and ordered a cessation of all guerilla activity. From the direction they took, Marsden concluded that Dusty meant to visit the bushwhacker camp. Of course, if the smoke ahead proved to be no more than the bushwhackers’, Dusty’s party did not need to make a detour; and Marsden knew that every mile saved was of vital importance on their mission.
Topping the rim brought the camp into sight at a distance of almost half a mile. From all appearances the bushwhackers were preparing to move out. Men saddled horses, packed up their gear, but as yet had not struck the one tent erected.
Even as the party started down the slope, a bushwhacker saw them. His reaction came as something of a surprise to Dusty’s party. Letting out a yell and pointing up the slope, the man dropped his bundle and raced towards the horses. Other men stared, yelled and instantly the camp took on the appearance of an overturned ant’s nest. The bushwhackers dashed in all directions, discarding their property. One man tried to mount his horse, forgetting that he had not tightened the cinches. When the saddle slipped off, the man made no attempt to recover it. Instead he bounded afork the horse’s bare back and set his spurs to work. Like leaves blown by the wind, the bushwhackers started their horses galloping in every direction, except towards Dusty and his men.
‘What the hell?’ asked Ysabel.
‘Reckon they think we’re still after ‘em,’ answered Billy Jack.
‘There’s more to it than that,’ Dusty objected. ‘They must’ve—’
Two shapes erupted from the tent, chopping off Dusty’s words half said. While he recognised one as the bushwhacker girl, he had never seen the other. Even at that distance Dusty could see the excellent quality of the second girl’s clothing and guessed, if her actions proved anything, that she did not belong to the bushwhacker band.
‘Land-sakes!’ Billy Jack ejaculated, staring at the girls. ‘Just look at them go. They’re worse’n a pair of Kilkenny cats.’
Just what Liz expected Jill to do when tackled, she had not thought about. It may be that she thought her rescuers were so close that help would speedily be on hand to subdue the rebel girl. However, having laid hold on Jill, Liz found herself in a similar position to the man who caught a tiger by the tail, then found that he could not let go.
Taken by surprise, Jill went down with Liz clinging to her waist. Landing on her side, hurt and wild with a mixture of fear and fury, she acted instinctively. She drove back her upper elbow, catching Liz in the face and bringing a squeal of pain. A savage writhe brought Jill around to face her assailant. Blood from Liz’s nose splashed down on to Jill’s face as the rebel girl’s hands drove instinctively for hair. On top, Liz screeched again as the top of her head seemed to burst into painful fire, taking her mind off the hurt of her nose. Like Jill, Liz had never been engaged in physical conflict—childhood scuffles excepted—but her own instinct for self-preservation took over. Even as Jill arched her back and rolled Liz over, the Union girl’s hands found hair and she drove her head forward to try to bite.
On the ground the two girls twisted and rolled over and over, oblivious of the fleeing bushwhackers or approaching party. Hands alternated at tearing hair, grabbing and nipping flesh, swinging wild slaps and punches; legs waved, kicked, curled around each other, with Liz ignoring the way her skirt rode up to expose the white flesh over the top of her black stockings.
So wild with pain and fury did the girls become that neither realised they were rolling towards the bank of the stream. Vaguely they heard hooves coming towards them and faint shouts reached uncomprehending ears. Seeing the danger, Dusty sent his horse bounding forward. Before he reached the struggling girls, they tipped over the edge of the bank. Locked in each other’s arms, ignoring the bumps and jabs of the hard ground beneath them, they went rolling down the slope. Not until they plunged into the water did either girl realise what had happened. Their wails of shock died into soggy gurgles, for at that point the stream formed a large pool with sheer sides, as they plunged into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.
Shock caused the girls to separate, the sudden chill of the water winding them and causing them to forget their fury. Breaking the surface some distance from each other, soaking, winded and dazed, the girls stood for a moment. Then their eyes met and recognition began to return. Slowly Jill put the back of her hand to her lips and looked at the blood on it. Gasping for breath, Liz reached up to shove back her wet hair. Then each girl started through the waist-deep water towards the other, ready to resume hostilities.
‘Well dog-my-cats!’ Billy Jack gasped admiringly as he topped the slope and looked down. ‘Iffen they ain’t coming to taw again, my name’s—’
‘Let’s have ‘em out,’ Dusty interrupted, and unstrapped his rope. ‘I’ll take the bushwhacker gal, Billy Jack.’
‘Don’t leave me no choice, Cap’n Dusty,’ grinned the sergeant-major, his own rope coming free.
Almost together the two ropes flew out and down, nooses dropping over the girls’ heads and down below the level of their shoulders. Startled yells left feminine lips as they found their forward progress halted and arms pinned to sides while still some distance apart.
‘Haul ‘em in!’ Dusty ordered.
Springing from their horses, Marsden, Ysabel and Kiowa ran to the ropes. After securing his rope to the saddlehorn, Billy Jack dropped to the ground and went to assist Marsden hauling Liz out of the water and up the slope.
‘Now this here’s what I call real fishing,’ grinned Billy Jack, watching the two squealing girls hauled up the slope towards him.
‘I wouldn’t want to put either of them in a glass case on a wall though,’ Marsden answered.
Before they reached the top of the slope, surprise, exhaustion and realisation of pain forgotten during the wild, thrashing mêlée, drove all thoughts of further aggression from the girls. Seeing the men above her, Jill became aware of her position and wondered what her fate would be at the hands of the grim-faced young captain who killed Ashley. Dusty Fog must have been hunting for her band and would have found the bodies of the ambushed Union soldiers. If so, he knew that the bushwhackers went against his orders and continued their operations.
With the fight over, reaction bit sharply into Liz, more so than affected her opponent. Sobbing, she sank to her knees and on the rope being taken from her shoulders, covered her face with her hands. Pain nagged at her; bruises gained during the roll down the slope throbbed dully; where teeth, feet or hands connected on flesh each sent a separate sting through her and her hair roots seemed to be on fire. In that condition, she could not think and so missed the surprising detail of seeing a Union lieutenant in company with the Confederate soldiers.
‘Tend to them, Kiowa,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Rest of you see to the horses. We’ll make this our noon halt.’
Kiowa had learned Indian-style medicine from his mother and gained something of a reputation as a curer of minor ailments. Stepping forward, he opened his saddle-bag and took out his medicine kit, then went towards the girls. One glance told him that neither had sustained serious injury during the fight and also that Liz needed his services far more than did Jill.
‘Just let me take a look at you, ma’am,’ he said gently.
At another time Liz might have objected to submitting to treatment by a man like Kiowa. In her present condition, she wanted help and willingly accepted its offer on receipt. With surprising gentleness, Kiowa drew the girl’s hands from her face and bent forward to look at the blood-trickling nose.
Forcing herself to her feet, Jill walked slowly to where Dusty stripped the saddle from his big black stallion.
‘I don’t see why you’re hunting us down like this,’ she stated, holding her torn shirt together as best she could. ‘They were Yankee soldiers, and the boys only took their guns and horses.’
‘You’ve
lost me, ma’am,’ Dusty answered, swinging the saddle clear. ‘Who were Yankee soldiers?’
‘The bunch Guthrie ambushed back in Arkansas. We saw your troop while we were pulling out and heading for Texas after the ambush.’
‘Not my troop, ma’am,’ Dusty corrected, although he now saw the reason for the bushwhackers’ flight on seeing him. ‘Who’s the girl?’
‘She was with the Yankees. I didn’t know what Guthrie aimed to do, I was out on scout when they saw the Yankees and made their hit. Then I couldn’t leave the girl alone. Brought her along and was going to leave her in the first town we found.’
‘How is she, Kiowa?’ called Dusty.
‘Mite shook up, but nothing broke or hurt too bad.’
‘I didn’t start the fight,’ Jill put in. ‘And I wouldn’t’ve let anything happen to her.’
‘I believe you,’ Dusty replied. ‘Only you should have taken my advice and left that bunch. They’re not fighting the Yankees.’
‘They would have been,’ Jill insisted. ‘I aimed to reform the band in Texas, get men in it who wanted to fight.’
‘That’s what the army’s for,’ Dusty said. ‘Have you any dry clothes?’
‘Sure.’
‘Go change into them. See if you can get your prisoner into something dry.’
‘What do you intend to do with me?’ asked Jill.
‘Lady,’ admitted Dusty, ‘that’s something I haven’t figured out yet. Go get dried off and changed.’
Turning, Jill walked away. She went to where Liz sat on the ground and looked down. Almost with relief Jill saw that the Yankee girl seemed to be recovering and in no danger. A little stiffly, she offered to fit Liz out with dry clothing. While Liz first thought of refusing, she realised—through her exploring fingers—that her blouse had suffered damage in the fight and that she needed to get out of the wet clothing. So, just as stiffly as Jill offered, Liz accepted.
Thought had returned to Liz with Kiowa’s ministrations and she looked about her, seeing much that was puzzling. The bushwhackers had all fled, but from Confederate, not Union soldiers; and a small party at that. Then Liz became aware of Marsden and wondered at his presence. At first she thought he might be a prisoner, yet knew of no prisoner-of-war camp in Texas. Also no prisoner would be under the escort of a captain and three senior non-coms.
Still pondering on Marsden’s presence, Liz followed Jill into the tent. While accepting the other’s offer of dry clothing, Liz maintained frigid silence and Jill did nothing to help. Opening her war-bag, Jill produced two shirts and a couple of pairs of men’s pants, remarking that she had nothing else to offer. Liz opened her travelling case and took out dry underwear and a towel.
While stripping off her clothes. Liz could hear enough to tell her that the men were tending to their horses. As she started to dry herself with the towel, she caught the sound of voices; one a southern drawl, the other a northern accent. Apparently the two officers were in conference and she strained her ears to catch what they discussed.
‘So the bushwhacker girl brought the other one with her.’ The small man with the southern drawl was speaking. ‘Showed good sense in doing it too. The other girl might never’ve been found—or one of the bushwhackers gone back to her.’
‘You believe the girl intended to release Miss Chamberlain?’ asked Marsden, having recognised Liz as an acquaintance from Little Rock’s army social circle.
‘Sure. That girl’s no bushwhacker slut,’ Dusty replied. ‘And she’d a hold on that rabble or Miss Chamberlain’d’ve been raped before now.’
‘Thing now is what do you aim to do with them?’
‘How’s that, mister?’
‘We can’t leave them here,’ Marsden pointed out, then went on. ‘Could find a town, like the girl intended.’
‘There’s none around and we’re too far north for the main Texas-Arkansas trails,’ Dusty answered.
‘If the girl can control her men, leave them both here,’ Marsden suggested.
‘And if the men don’t come back?’
‘Reckon they won’t, sir?’
‘Nope. They’ll figure that I’ve taken the girls with me and destroyed the camp. So the girls will have to come with us.’
‘Can they stand up to the pace?’
‘Mister,’ Dusty said quietly but grimly, ‘they’ll have to stand up to it. You know as well as I do what’s at stake.’
‘Yes, sir,’ agreed Marsden. ‘Couldn’t we leave them at either Dallas or Fort Worth?’
‘It’d take us a day out of our way. We don’t have a day to spare, mister.’
‘Then let one of the men—’
‘I’d thought of it. But there’s nobody I can spare. Even without being short-handed if it comes to a fight, and needing them to deal with the Indians. Sam Ysabel’s our best man with the pack animals and Kiowa’s got the medicine skill if we need it. And Billy Jack can cold-shoe a horse as well as many a blacksmith. It just won’t do, mister.’
‘How about me?’ asked Marsden.
‘You’re no plainsman, mister,’ Dusty answered. ‘And you’d not get far travelling through Texas in that colour uniform. No, mister, those girls will have to take their choice. Stay here and chance being found—or come with us and stick the pace. There’s no other way and too much at stake for me to do otherwise.’
Watching Dusty, Marsden felt sympathy with the other’s position and knew just what moral fibre it needed to make such a decision. Reared in the strict Southern tradition, Dusty did not lightly toss aside his training on the subject of women’s treatment. However, the small Texan had to balance two lives against the chance of preventing an Indian uprising which would bring death, or worse, to thousands of men, women and children.
‘Go pick the best two horses from the bushwhacker remuda,’ Dusty ordered. ‘I want the rest of their stock scattered and all this stuff destroyed if the girls agree to come along with us. See to it, mister.’
In the tent Liz looked at Jill who donned a pair of men’s long-legged red-flannel underwear.
‘Who is that small captain?’ she asked.
While he might have broken up her bushwhacker band, Jill still felt considerable pride in the small Texan’s reputation as a Confederate soldier.
‘Captain Dusty Fog,’ she answered a shade pompously.
Liz tossed aside her towel and started to dress. Thoughts churned in her head as she slipped on the dry underclothing. She knew Dusty Fog’s reputation and felt certain that something very important lay behind the captain’s presence so far from the battlefields of Arkansas. The scrap of conversation she heard confirmed her belief and she felt cold anger well inside her as she realised that the Union officer must be a traitor. He seemed to know her, which meant they must have met. Swiftly Liz finished dressing, feeling uncomfortable in men’s clothing. She stepped to the door of the tent and raised the flap a trifle.
‘Jackson Marsden!’ she breathed.
While visiting in Little Rock, Liz had met Marsden and heard him mentioned as a promising career officer. Only something of great importance would turn such a man into a traitor. From what she overheard, the mission the men rode on was of vital significance with time its essence for success.
Ever since the death of the soldiers, Liz had felt guilty, blaming herself for them getting lost in the first place. Now she saw a chance to partially make amends. She would go with the Texans and do everything in her power to make sure that their mission did not succeed.
‘I’d like to see you ladies outside when you’re dressed,’ Dusty called, standing outside the tent.
A smile played on Liz’s lips. Captain Fog thought his problem with herself and the other girl was over—she aimed to see that it had only just begun.
CHAPTER NINE
A CLASH OF WILLS
‘You must understand, ladies,’ Dusty told the girls. ‘I refuse to allow considerations of your sex to slow me down. If you come with us, it is on the understanding that you obey my order
s and accept my conditions. We’ll be covering between thirty and forty miles a day and that’s rough on a man.’
Looking around her, Jill gave a shrug. Although Dusty had not mentioned the nature of his mission, she knew it must be very important for him to lay down such terms to a pair of girls. She decided that she could make a sacrifice for the Confederate States.
‘I accept your conditions, Captain Fog,’ she said.
‘Do you, Miss Chamberlain?’ asked Dusty.
‘Yes,’ Liz replied.
Something in the girl’s voice drew Marsden’s eyes to her and he felt puzzled by her mild acceptance. Although he did not know her too well, Marsden figured Liz to be an intelligent young woman. In which case she must know of the importance of the Texan’s mission—although not the details of it. He knew her to be almost fanatically loyal to the Union, due in some measure to the kind of friends she made among the intellectual Southerner-hating set of volunteer officers. So Liz should be protesting, demanding immediate return to her own people and relying on Southern chivalry to get her way; or at least trying to delay the party’s departure by argument. The manner in which she surrendered to the inevitable worried Marsden.
Taking advantage of the delay, Billy Jack and Sam Ysabel had cooked a meal from the bushwhackers’ supplies and the party ate well. After the meal, Dusty set his men to work. Jill helped saddle the horses while the men fitted the pack saddles on the baggage animals, but Liz stayed out of the way. Instinctively Liz knew the moment for defiance had not yet arrived and so remained meekly obedient.
Before moving out, Dusty saw that all the bushwhackers’ property was destroyed and their remuda scattered. He did not intend to leave them the means to reorganise should they return to their camp-site.
‘From now on you tend to your own mount, Miss Chamberlain,’ he said.
