The Devil Gun

by J. T. Edson

  ‘How about it, Mr. Marsden?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘I’ve hunted deer, sir.’

  ‘Deer don’t shoot back and take your scalp, mister,’ Ysabel remarked, but his voice stayed friendly. ‘You’ll have to move real quiet through the woods so’s to get up close—’

  ‘And then cross about twenty yards of open ground to reach the men,’ Dusty interrupted, bringing up a point the other overlooked. ‘They’ll have to be taken quietly. I don’t want the Indians at the council alerting.’

  ‘There’s no chance of waiting until the guards sleep, sir?’ asked Marsden. ‘They might all go to sleep at the same time.’

  ‘In Injun country?’ Ysabel grunted. ‘I tell you, mister, these fellers know the game. They’re still alive and they’ve been in hostile country most of their growing lives.’

  Silence dropped on the men for a moment as they began to examine the difficulties of the situation.

  ‘I could get to the edge of the clearing without ‘em hearing me,’ Kiowa stated. ‘But it’s moving in on them that’ll make the fuss.’

  ‘What we need is a diversion,’ Marsden put in.

  Liz had sat listening to the talk, her brain working furiously in an attempt to help out with the problem. An idea came to her and she looked at Jill for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Perhaps Jill and I could cause the diversion you need,’ she said and explained her idea.

  ‘It might work,’ Dusty admitted.

  ‘Won’t it be too dangerous for—the girls, sir?’ Marsden asked.

  ‘Mister, they’re living in danger,’ Dusty answered. ‘But it’s going to take some slick timing to bring it off. And there’s another thing—’ At this point his words trailed off and he sat for a few seconds thinking out the idea which came. ‘There’s one way we could play it,’ he finally remarked.

  None of the three men guarding the arms wagons cared for the thought of sitting within two miles of a sizeable Indian camp while in possession of such desirable loot as three hundred Sharps rifles, with ammunition, percussion caps and Maynard tape primers to feed the said weapons. True the various tribes gathered for a peaceful council, but some of the younger bucks might take it into their heads that the top of the big bend of the river did not count as sacred ground and so could be raided with impunity.

  So the trio stayed alert, ears strained to catch any deviation from the normal night noises. While the men might lack formal schooling, and their morals left much to be desired, all knew one thing very well; how to stay alive in hostile country. The normal night noises did not disturb them, but a fresh sound came to their ears and brought them to their feet at the small fire on which their coffee pot stood.

  ‘Hosses,’ announced the lean, bearded man. ‘Coming this way.’

  ‘Only two of ‘em,’ remarked the short, stocky man.

  A moment later all three heard the faint click of steel striking rock, although less keen ears would have failed to catch the sound.

  ‘Shod hooves,’ growled the third of the guards.

  No Indian ever rode a shod horse. Even should he take a white man’s horse as loot, the Indian ripped off the valuable metal shoes for his own use.

  ‘Get out of sight!’ snapped the bearded man. ‘Hit the wagon, Smokey. You go in the bushes, Will.’

  Neither questioned the bearded man’s right to give orders. Turning, the short man hurried across the clearing and took cover in the bushes on the very edge of the area illuminated by the fire. Moving just as fast, the third man went to the rear of the wagon, swung himself up and disappeared inside. The bearded man threw a glance at the Volcanic rifle which rested against his saddle, then he looked towards the picketed team and saddle horses at one side of the clearing. Finally he sank on his haunches at the fire, drawing his Navy Colt and resting it on his knees.

  Nearer came the horses, following the rough trail made by the Deacon on previous trading visits to the bend of the river. If the riders aimed to sneak up on the camp, they showed poor judgment or mighty poor faith in the guards’ abilities. Making no attempt to ride quietly, the newcomers came closer, although still out of sight.

  ‘Hello the fire!’ called a female voice.

  ‘Who is it?’ a second woman’s voice went on.

  A few seconds later the man found himself gazing at a pair of dishevelled, pretty girls who rode slumped wearily in their saddles. His eyes took in Jill’s torn shirt and the fact that she needed one hand to hold the cloth together. From there he gazed with frank interest at Liz, whose blouse had lost a sleeve and hung ripped open down its side, while her skirt was torn from hem almost to hip and showed an expanse of bare white leg as she rode astride.

  ‘Th—Thank God!’ Liz gasped. ‘You’re white men. We’ve been lost for hours until we saw your fire.’

  Rising, the man eyed the girls suspiciously and made no attempt to holster his gun. ‘Where’d you come from?’ he asked.

  ‘We were travelling to Fort Worth with a party from the Indian Nations,’ Jill answered. ‘Only we lost them last night.’

  ‘Get down,’ the man growled.

  Instinctively he knew something to be wrong, although he could not quite put his finger on it. Certainly the girls looked weary, untidy and scared enough to have been lost for some time. Maybe—

  At that point he lost interest in the matter. Liz started to swing her leg over the saddle and dismount, but the torn hem of her skirt caught on the horn and hung there. A squeal of embarrassment left her lips as she lowered her foot to the ground and found her leg exposed to view.

  When dressing for her part in Dusty’s plan, Liz donned the clothing damaged in her first fight with Jill and augmented it with a pair of very daring drawers of a kind actresses, but few of Liz’s class, wore. She thought the effect might be increased by the extra exposure the drawers offered as opposed to the more ladylike long-legged variety a proper young lady wore. From the way the bearded man’s eyes bulged out, she knew she’d made a wise decision.

  ‘I—I’m caught up,’ she told the man pathetically.

  Watching Liz, Jill could barely hold down a chuckle. Give her her due, the Yankee girl could sure act. She looked as helpless as the heroine of one of the melodramatic plays put on by travelling theatrical troupes; although they never showed their legs in so daring a manner during mixed or family shows. Certainly the bearded man had no suspicions as he started forward to help free Liz’s skirt.

  Nor, it appeared, had the other two guards. In an age when a woman’s exposed calf drew gasps of indignation, or interested stares, depending on the sex of the observer, men like that trio would not hesitate to take a closer look at as much exposed female limb as Liz offered to view.

  Dropping from the wagon, Smokey walked towards the girls. He failed to see why Rogers should have all the fun. So did Will, for he emerged from the bushes and started to hurry across the clearing. In his haste, Will failed to notice a dark shape rise behind him and follow on his trail with the silent, deadly purpose of a cougar stalking a whitetail deer. In one respect Will might have counted himself fortunate. While awaiting the girls’ arrival, Kiowa watched Will’s arrival in the bushes. Knife in hand, the Indian-dark sergeant stalked Will and had been on the point of silencing the other when Will left cover to lend a hand with Liz’s predicament. Silently, Kiowa glided out of the woods after Will and only the other’s preoccupation with viewing Liz’s legs prevented his normally keen senses from detecting his danger.

  Although as absorbed in the view as his two friends were, Rogers could not help but feel that he missed an important detail. Not until he had almost reached Liz did he realise what was wrong. While the girls showed signs of hard travelling, their horses appeared to be fresh.

  ‘What the—’ he began.

  At which point Billy Jack and Marsden burst into sight from either side of the trail down which the girls appeared. Guns in hand, they sprang forward, covering the startled guards.

  ‘Freeze, boys!’ Billy Jack requested
.

  Rogers let out a low snarl and his hand stabbed down at his gun. Jumping her buckskin forward, Jill swung up the hand she kept hidden from the guards. In it she held her Tranter and she put the gun to good use. Up rose her hand and, powered by a strong arm, slammed the barrel of the gun downwards on to Rogers’ head. Giving a low grunt, the man buckled at the knees and went down.

  Exposed to the guns of the newcomers far more than Rogers had been, Smokey raised his hands in surrender. While a shot might alert the boss’ party at the big council, Smokey knew its bullet would end his life; and he did not feel in the mood for noble self-sacrifice right then.

  Across the clearing, Will reached hipwards. He figured himself to be far enough from the soldiers to take a chance and also that they could not see his movement. Even as his fingers closed around the butt of his gun, his instincts told him that he was not alone. The feeling received confirmation when something sharp pricked his spine just at the point where the kidneys could best be reached by an exploratory knife.

  ‘Let’s keep it quiet, hombre,’ growled an Indian-savage voice in Will’s ear. ‘Just walk forward slow and easy.’

  A hand removed Will’s gun, tossing it aside, and he walked forward slowly.

  ‘It worked,’ Liz announced proudly, freeing her dress and letting it drop into something like a respectable position.

  ‘Never thought it wouldn’t,’ Billy Jack replied as he advanced to disarm the other guards.

  Nor had he, for he possessed great faith in the planning ability of the small man who led him. Dusty’s idea worked smoothly. To give them a chance to approach the camp undetected, Dusty told Marsden and Billy Jack to ride behind the girls and drop off the horses just before reaching the clearing. In that way they avoided a long, difficult stalk through the woods with the danger of making some noise to warn the guards. How well the plan worked showed as the Deacon’s men lost their weapons without a shot being fired or an unnecessary noise made.

  ‘Tie them securely, Sergeant-major,’ Marsden ordered, and wondered if the man would obey him.

  ‘Yo!’ Billy Jack replied.

  While Marsden might be a Yankee, Billy Jack had received Dusty’s orders to let Marsden command the party and the lean non-com needed no more than that. Swiftly but thoroughly Billy Jack and Kiowa roped their prisoners’ hands and feet. With that done, Kiowa grinned at Liz.

  ‘How’s about showing us how you got these jaspers watching you, when we get back to the regiment, ma’am?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you saw just now,’ she answered, trying to think if she had ever seen the impassive man smile before.

  ‘I did, only a feller can allus learn if he sees a thing done enough.’

  ‘Sure can,’ Billy Jack chuckled. ‘Let’s hitch up the wagon and pull out.’

  ‘Say,’ Kiowa drawled as they led the team horses into position. ‘These rifles will sure come in handy for our infantry.’

  ‘They sure will,’ Billy Jack agreed.

  Suddenly Marsden realised what the words meant. If the Texans took the arms wagon back to Arkansas, the rifles would be used against the Union Army, probably to kill members of his regiment. A grim, tight expression came to his face.

  ‘We’ll throw the rifles and ammunition over that cliff into the lake,’ he said. ‘There’s nearly thirty foot of water under it Sergeant Ysabel said as we passed it. The Indians will never recover them from there.’

  An angry objection rose to both Texans’ lips, but died unsaid. For the first time in days they remembered that Marsden served the Union. Yet they also knew what his presence meant to the people of Texas. Billy Jack and Kiowa exchanged glances, then the sergeant-major nodded.

  ‘We owe you that much, Mr. Marsden,’ he said.

  ‘How about the prisoners?’ Marsden asked, to conceal his gratitude and relief.

  ‘We’ll turn them loose. With the guns gone, they’ll know what to expect if the Indians lay hands on them,’ Kiowa replied. ‘Wonder how Cap’n Dusty’s doing?’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LET THEM KILL ME WITH THEIR DEVIL GUN

  In many ways the Ager Coffee Mill Gun was a fine weapon, far superior to the Barnes or Ripley guns which preceded it and better, more reliable than the Billinghurst Requa or Vandenburg Volley gun. The model in Castle and Silverman’s possession stood on a light artillery mount, but lacked the protective shield fitted to some models as defence for the gunners against return fire by the enemy. Single-barrelled, .58-in, calibre, it derived its name from the resemblance its operating parts bore to the coffee-grinding mills of the day.

  Standing to the left of the gun, Lieutenant Silverman fed another handful of loaded chargers into the hopper-shaped magazine on top of the gun. The sallow-faced, large-nosed stocky lieutenant made sure each charger went in correctly, for both he and his partner in the scheme knew they must not let the Indians see the gun jam.

  Captain Castle, at the gun’s right side, twirled its cranking handle at less than the fastest possible speed. Far from a source of supply, he wanted to conserve powder, shot and chargers as much as possible. While the guns fired slowly, it still exceeded anything the Indians had ever seen. Mutters of awe rose all around the halfcircle of watching chiefs and braves as the gun continued to crash, spewing its used chargers around the tall, slim, lean-faced captain’s feet.

  At last Castle stopped turning the handle, although several rounds still remained in the hopper. By the time he had turned towards the Indians, he found their usual impassive masks looking at him and he read nothing on their faces. Running a tongue tip over his lips in a nervous manner, Castle turned his gaze to the two civilians who stood on his right. Tall, gaunt, clad in the garb of a circuit-riding preacher, the Deacon’s sombre features showed as little expression as the Indians’. He stood with legs braced apart, an eight gauge, twin barrelled shotgun held down before him in both hands. Next to the Deacon lounged a lean, long-haired, dirty, mean-faced man in smoke-blackened buckskins, but the gunbelt around his waist and the holstered Army Colt were clean and cared-for.

  An elderly, stocky, powerfully built Comanche chief growled out a question and Cracker turned to Castle.

  ‘Long Walker says the Devil Gun eats much powder and shot. Can you get more?’

  Bending down, Castle lifted one of the used chargers and held it for the chief—one of the most powerful and influential present—to see. The charger proved to be a steel tube with a place in its bottom to accommodate a percussion cap. Taking the powder flask and moulded lead bullet from Silverman’s reluctant hand—the lieutenant hoped to heighten his prestige by demonstrating how to load the charger, but Castle did not intend to allow anyone to share his glory. The captain showed the Indian how easily the Devil Gun’s appetite could be appeased.

  ‘Tell the chief that we will have powder, lead and fresh charges brought as we need them,’ Castle ordered Cracker. ‘We have enough for an attack upon both Fort Worth and Dallas, after we have proved our claims for the gun on some smaller objective.’

  While Cracker interpreted, Castle stood thinking of his great scheme. Once the Indians rose, there would be no stopping them and they would wipe out the hated rebels. That ought to bring the Texans fighting in the Confederate Army home with a rush, but they would not arrive in one party and the Indians ought to be able to swamp, then exterminate each body of men as it returned. That loss of man-power would so weaken the South that it must surrender. Castle wished there was some way the Indians could be turned loose though all the Southern States so as to leave none of the rebels alive.

  At that point of his day-dream, Castle became aware of a stir among the assembled Indians and a startled gasp from Silverman. Bringing his eyes in the direction everybody stared, the Union captain let his mouth drop open at what he saw.

  Two men walked from the darkness which surrounded the area lit by large fires. Not just two men, but a pair of Confederate soldiers, a captain and a sergeant, in uniform. Unlike the two Union officers, who showed a vol
untary untidiness beyond that of hard travel, Dusty Fog looked smart; for Jill and Liz had worked hard all day to clean up the signs of the journey from his clothes. To show their ‘good faith’ the two Yankees attended the meeting without weapons. From what Ysabel told him. Dusty retained his gunbelt as a sign that he respected the others present and expected them to be able to trust him among them while armed.

  Up lunged a Kaddo brave, lifting the Hawkens rifle from his knees. Before he could make a move, one of his companions caught his arm and pointed to the fringed, decorated buckskin boot which covered Ysabel’s rifle.

  ‘This one is called Ysabel!’ boomed Long Walker in a warning voice. ‘He is a member of the Dog Soldier lodge as his medicine pouch shows.’

  Which meant that the big white man had a right to attend the council and anyone who objected chanced the wrath of the most feared of all the Comanche war lodges.

  ‘And the other?’ asked Plenty Kills, main chief of the Kiowa.

  ‘This one is a great war chief of his people,’ Ysabel answered in Spanish. ‘He is my blood brother, we cut wrists and mixed blood.’

  And that gave Dusty the right to be present.

  ‘What do you want here?’ Lone Hunter of the Kaddo asked.

  For the first time in his life the Deacon panicked. Knowing his fate at the hands of his fellow-Texans should his betrayal become public news, he prepared to take the easy way out, relying on the Devil Gun’s medicine to quieten any Indian-raised objections to his breach of hospitality.

  ‘They’re spies!’ he screeched and started to lift his shotgun. ‘Get ‘em!’

  Instantly Cracker sent his right hand stabbing towards the butt of his gun. He knew Sam Ysabel could never remove the long medicine boot from the Sharps in time to take a hand, which left only that rebel captain to be handled.

  An instant behind Cracker’s move, Dusty sent his hands crossing to the white handles of the matched Army Colts in a flicker of movement almost faster than the eye could follow. Three-quarters of a second later the two Colts crashed in Dusty’s grip, their shots sounding so close together that no man, not even the most quick-eared Indian present, could tell the sound apart. Caught between the eyes with a .44 bullet, the Deacon pitched over backwards, his shotgun still not raised high enough to fire. Colt still in leather, Cracker rocked, spun around and fell even as his boss went down.