by J. T. Edson
A low mutter arose from the watching Indians, but interest and not anger prompted it. Every man present was a brave-heart warrior with a name for being a bone-tough fighter from soda to hock. The quickest and most effective way to gain their attention was to display superlative skill in the handling of any kind of weapon. Every man present realised they watched a master hand demonstrate his talent in the business of killing enemies.
‘This one is called Magic Hands,’ Ysabel boomed out as Dusty holstered the guns. ‘He comes to the council to listen and speak.’
Long Walker looked around the party of leading chiefs with whom he sat. First Plenty Kills, an old friend of the Comanche chief, nodded in agreement. Not to be out-done in courtesy and adherence to tradition, the other chiefs gave their complete assent to Dusty’s continued presence.
Remembering what Ysabel told him about Indian etiquette, Dusty turned to Castle and saluted.
‘Carry on speaking, sir,’ he said.
Confusion and distrust showed on Castle’s face as he received Dusty’s permission and watched the small Texan walk over to sit among the chiefs. Then he saw a way out of the predicament.
‘I can’t speak Spanish.’
‘Sergeant Ysabel will interpret for you,’ Dusty countered.
‘I said all I meant to before you came,’ Castle snarled.
‘And I heard you,’ Dusty replied. ‘With your permission, sir, I’ll speak to the council now you’re through.’
Once more a low rumble went around the assembled Indians. Tradition meant much to them and they respected a man who showed courtesy to an enemy. All would listen to Dusty the more willingly now he had shown his knowledge of their ways.
Stepping forward, Dusty looked around at the sea of impassive brown faces. After a moment’s thought to prepare himself for speaking in Spanish, he began to address the council.
‘The blue-coat chief says you should attack the settlements. You have tried before and many brave-hearts now roam the land of the spirits. He says many of our men are away, fighting with his people. That is true, but they can return soon and will come bringing many wheel guns—’
‘You have the Devil Gun!’ Castle yelled, for Ysabel had been translating Dusty’s words for the Yankee’s benefit. In doing so Castle committed a breach of council etiquette, he should have waited for Dusty to finish before speaking.
‘The Devil Gun is only one. We have many wheel guns,’ Dusty went on.
Again Castle burst in. ‘The Devil Gun is here. The grey-coats’ wheel guns are far away.’
While Ysabel turned Castle’s words into Spanish, Dusty thought up an answer.
‘This chief thinks much of the Devil Gun’s medicine. But has he showed you proof that its medicine is good?’
‘I fired the gun.’ Castle answered edging nearer to the trap Dusty set for him. ‘All men here saw its power.’
Like a flash Dusty cut back with. ‘All men heard noises. But children in their games make noises and do no harm.’
‘You’ve seen the gun work!’ Castle yelled.
‘But you have not seen it kill!’ Dusty pointed out and he walked slowly around to halt some twenty feet before the muzzle of the gun. ‘Let them kill me with their Devil Gun—if its medicine is strong enough to do so.’
Although Castle knew no Spanish, he understood Dusty’s gesture without needing Ysabel’s explanation. A quick glance around the council showed him a tense expectancy and he knew that he must accept the Texan’s challenge. On the face of it everything was in Castle’s favour. He stood at the side of the gun still, its firing handle close to his hand. All he need do was reach forward, grip and move that handle to send a bullet into Dusty’s stomach. Such a simple thing to do.
And then Castle remembered how the Deacon and Cracker came to die!
They too thought they had an easy task on their hands. Almost as if it happened again. Castle saw the way the small Texan’s hands moved to draw, shoot and kill the two renegades.
When Castle conceived his scheme, he saw himself following in the wake of the attacking Indians, using the Ager from a safe distance and taking no chances. Running risks with his valuable life did not enter his calculations. He planned to stay alive to reap the acclaim and benefits the successful end of the plan would bring. Only he would not do so if he tried to reach the gun’s firing handle.
‘It’s your turn to handle the gun, Herbie,’ he told Silverman.
Shock, fear and suspicion mingled on Silverman’s face at the words. Silverman had a mean-minded, mistrusting nature, and also a very broad streak of caution. Killing people without a chance did not worry him, but trying to kill a man who could move as quickly as Dusty did, brought a muck-sweat of apprehension to the Union lieutenant.
‘It was your idea,’ he hissed back at Castle. ‘You do it.’
A rustle of movement ran through the council as the two Yankees hesitated to display the Devil Gun’s medicine. Through it all Dusty stood still, hands at his sides, face showing complete assurance that should Castle make a move, Dusty knew he could beat it. After almost two minutes Dusty took his plan a step further. Slowly he reached down and unfastened the holsters’ pigging thongs from around his legs.
‘Perhaps the Devil Gun’s medicine does not work against armed men,’ he said.
Shocked disbelief etched itself upon Ysabel’s usually impassive face as he saw, though could hardly believe, what Dusty aimed to do. Ysabel’s agitation showed even more as he gave a low-growled warning.
‘You’ll have to go through with it if you once start, Cap’n.’
‘I aim to, Sam,’ Dusty replied and unbuckled his belt. ‘I aim to.’
With that, Dusty tossed his guns to one side and stood empty handed before the yawning muzzle of the Devil Gun. However, he gave the impression of being ready to dive after and grab his guns should Castle make a move.
Sucking in his breath, Castle took a chance. He lunged forward, reaching for the firing handle with his right hand, the left swinging the gun on its lateral traverse. Crouching slightly, Castle aimed the Ager’s barrel downwards so that it moved in line towards where Dusty’s gunbelt lay. Around turned the handle, flame spurting out—to strike nothing but earth.
Dusty had not dived for his guns—he never meant to do so. At Castle’s first movement, Dusty went forward in a rolling dive, straight towards the left side of the Ager. While Castle swung the gun towards the right, Dusty passed from its range of fire and to comparative safety.
Letting out a yell in which fear and fury mingled, Silverman sprang from his place at the loading hopper to land kneeling at Dusty’s right and grab down at the Texan’s throat with both hands. Castle, filled with concern for his safety, and mortification, plunged around the Ager and prepared to launch a vicious kick at Dusty from the other side.
Realising that he must deal with Silverman first, Dusty went into action long before Castle made his move. Even as Silverman’s hands reached his throat, Dusty’s left leg rose and its knee smashed into the Yankee’s ribs. A grunt of pain burst from Silverman and his hold relaxed slightly. Up shot Dusty’s right arm, passing between Silverman’s as it aimed towards the other’s face. Instead of clenching his fist, Dusty kept the fingers extended and held together, thumb bent across his palm in the nukite piercing hand of karate. The tips of his fingers stabbed hard under Silverman’s nose, catching the philtrum collection of nerve centres. Although unable to put all his power behind the blow. Dusty still brought about a rapid release of his throat and left himself free to handle Castle’s impending assault.
Rolling over on to his left side, Dusty struck around with his left arm. He used the uraken back-fist blow to hit and deflect Castle’s kicking leg. On the heels of the uraken. Dusty’s right hand stabbed forward to catch Castle’s raised ankle and heaved to unbalance the Yankee. Drawing up his left leg under him, Dusty lashed out a snap kick with his right that just missed Castle’s groin and sent him reeling away.
Dusty began to rise, consci
ous of the admiring mutters from the watching Indians. Before he made his feet properly, Dusty saw Silverman come in with a swinging fist. Unable to avoid the blow, Dusty took it and went crashing into the Ager’s wheel. Springing forward in a concerted rush, Castle and Silverman each grabbed hold of Dusty’s jacket front with one hand while smashing the other into his face or body. Unable to retreat, Dusty threw up his left hand in a sweeping-block move, its edge chopping into Castle’s arm and preventing the fist reaching his face. At the same moment Dusty drove back his right arm, to use a pressing-block that held Silverman’s attempt to hit his stomach. Such was the strength of Dusty’s small frame that he held both bigger men’s blows, actually pinning Silverman’s hand against the lieutenant’s body with his blocking blow. Releasing hold of Dusty’s jacket, Castle sprang back to try another line of attack.
‘Hold him, Herbie!’ he yelled.
If it came to a point, Dusty held Silverman; for his pressing-block kept the other’s disengaged arm immobile. Castle came in, throwing a savage right at Dusty’s head. Pivoting to face the danger, Dusty retained his pressing-block on Silverman and knocked aside Castle’s blow with his left arm, following it with a smashing jolt of his right elbow into the Yankee captain’s chest. Croaking in pain, Castle staggered backwards and gave Dusty a chance to deal with Silverman. Like a flash Dusty delivered a kick to the rear, stamping his boot heel against Silverman’s shin. So quickly had everything happened that Silverman’s brain could not cope with the situation and issue orders. The impact of Dusty’s boot against Silverman’s leg prevented the need for thought. With a yelp, the stocky lieutenant released his hold and hopped away on one leg.
Leaping forward, Castle swung a roundhouse blow towards Dusty’s head. Dusty saw the danger, ducked under the punch, sank a right into Castle’s belly and jack-knifed him over. Driving up his knee, Dusty caught Castle’s down-dropping face and jerked him erect. Whipping across his left Dusty smashed home a punch which spun the Yankee around and sent him sprawling to the ground in front of the Ager gun. Before Dusty could make a move to handle any further developments, Silverman leapt in from behind him and curled arms around the small Texan in a full nelson hold. Fear and desperation lent strength to Silverman’s arms and Dusty grunted as the hold sent pain knifing into him.
‘Carnie!’ Silverman screeched. ‘Do something!’
The words bit through Castle’s spinning senses and as his eyes regained focus they rested on a possible salvation. Not far ahead of him lay the Texan’s gunbelt, its white-handled Colt burden showing like providence to Castle’s eyes. Ignoring his companion’s cry, he flung himself forward, hands reaching towards the butt of the nearest gun.
Once again Dusty had thought faster than his enemy. Recognising the danger, he prepared to handle it. First he must free himself, and he knew he could not do it quickly enough by matching arm strength with Silverman. So he did not try. Drawing forward his body, Dusty propelled it back, driving his buttocks into Silverman’s lower belly with enough force to cause an immediate release. Moaning, Silverman reeled backwards and Dusty ignored him for the moment.
Bounding forward, Dusty reached the Ager. He took quick sight and whirled the firing handle even as Castle’s hands hovered over the butt of the nearer Colt. Loud in the night rose the chatter of the Devil Guii’s repeated explosions; flame belched from its barrel. A line of dust-spurts rose, creeping closer to Castle’s body. He turned a horrified face towards the gun, mouth dropping open and trying to speak. The bullets crawled closer and closer, throwing up dirt as they ploughed into the ground. Then no more dirt rose. Castle jerked as the first bullet struck his body. Five more .58 balls tore into him before Dusty could halt the Devil Gun’s fire. Torn almost in half by the lead, Castle’s lifeless body pitched over and lay still.
Dusty left the gun, whirling to meet any attack Silverman launched. Although a good three inches taller and much heavier than Dusty, Silverman lacked the guts to continue the fight. Turning, he started to run—and made a fatal mistake. While the Indian admired and respected a brave man, he had nothing but contempt for a coward. Giving a low, disgusted grunt, one of the watching braves bounded up as Silverman approached. Out thrust a buffalo lance, its point ripping into Silverman’s body. The stocky lieutenant let out a croaking scream and fell, writhing out the remainder of his life and shedding his blood upon the Texas plains he had hoped to redden with the gore of the Southerners he hated.
Leaning on the side of the Ager gun, Dusty fought to regain his breath. He heard the rumbling approval of the watching Indians and saw Sam Ysabel springing towards him. Regaining his breath, Dusty waved Ysabel aside and faced the assembled tribal chiefs.
‘The Devil Gun’s medicine is bad,’ he stated. ‘It did not protect the blue-coats.’
‘But it killed well,’ Plenty Kills remarked, pointing to Castle’s body.
‘It killed the man who would have used it, not me,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘And should you take it to war, the same would happen to you. The blue-coat lied when he said the Devil Gun would bring you victory. We have wheel guns which could shoot from far away and smash it. And if you ride to war, which tribe takes the Devil Gun?’
There Dusty posed a problem to the Indians. No one tribe would willingly allow any other to be in possession of such a deadly weapon. Talk welled up. Hostile glares passed among the various tribal enemies. Not for five minutes could Ysabel make himself heard to put forward his flash of inspiration. At last silence fell and all eyes went to the big, burly sergeant with the war lodge sheath on his rifle.
‘Who owns the Devil Gun now the blue-coats are dead?’ he asked, but gave his audience no time to answer. ‘Among all true men the brave who counts the coup takes the loot and keeps it. Of course among the poor-spirited people like the Tejas,* such is not done.’
Put that way, no Texas Indian with pride in the honour of his tribe could object to Dusty retaining ownership of the Ager; not when watched by critical members of the other tribes. If only one tribe had been present, its members might have chanced the wrath of the Great Spirit at failing to give a warrior his due, and killed Dusty to gain possession of the Devil Gun. As Ysabel well knew, no race-proud Indian would lower his tribal honour by doing so before witnesses from another nation.
‘What do you do with the Devil Gun, Magic Hands?’ asked Long Walker in good English.
‘It’s medicine is bad,’ Dusty replied. ‘No true man wants such a thing to fight for him.’
‘You fixing to take it with us, Cap’n?’ Ysabel inquired, bringing Dusty his gunbelt.
Much as the South could use such a weapon, Dusty knew what he must do. To take the Ager would be asking for trouble. He knew that once clear of the council area one of the tribes, or a bunch of name-making young braves from it, might decide to take the gun for the use of their own people. If Dusty attempted to return to Arkansas with the Ager, he could expect trouble all the way.
‘See if there is any powder in the caisson, Sergeant,’ he said.
Without another word, Ysabel turned and went to where the Ager gun’s caisson stood. The caisson, a two-wheeled ammunition carrier fitted with the necessary parts so a team of horses could be harnessed to it, proved to hold two twenty-five-pound kegs of du Pont black powder, spare chargers and moulded bullets. Taking out the kegs, one of which had been opened, Dusty placed it under the wheels of the gun. Next he used some of the contents of the open keg and lay a trail of powder from the full keg to some twenty feet away. Returning to the Ager, Dusty set the used keg at the end of the trail, making sure a continuous line of powder ran to it. He walked back to the end of the powder trail, accepted the match offered by Ysabel and rasped it alight on the seat of his pants. Nobody spoke, not one of the Indians moved, as they watched Dusty place the flame on the end of the powder trail. Flame spurted up, crawling along the ground until it came to the two kegs. Loud in the night came the roar as some thirty pounds of black powder exploded. For a moment the watching Indians were blinded by th
e glare. When their eyes cleared again they found the Devil Gun to be wrecked beyond any hope of repair.
‘Reckon that’s that,’ breathed Ysabel, relief plain in his voice.
‘Like you say, Sergeant,’ Dusty answered. ‘Now all we have to do is get out of here.’
‘That’ll cause no fuss,’ grinned Ysabel. ‘Just look at all them chiefs rushing up all excited to meet you.’
Watching the slow, dignified manner in which the chiefs rose and walked towards him, Dusty found it hard to imagine anything less rushing or excited in appearance.
‘That’s all rushing and excited?’ he asked.
‘Sure is,’ agreed Ysabel. ‘For Injuns that is. Usually they’d sit back and let you make first move.’
‘You fight well, Magic Hands,’ said Long Walker, halting before Dusty and offering his hand to be shaken white man’s fashion. ‘Aiee! You might be a Comanche.’
‘Never have I seen such a way of fighting,’ enthused Plenty Kills, not to be out-done in the matter of showing respect to a great warrior.
‘It was a remembered fight,’ Lone Hunter went on, ‘and would have been the greater if the blue-coats fought better.’
A rumble of agreement rose from the other chiefs, but all made it clear that they did not blame Dusty for any discrepancies the fight showed. Then came promises that no concerted, inter-tribal action would be made against the whites in Texas.
‘But the young men will still raid,’ warned Long Walker in the apologetic tone of one who explains an obvious point to a social equal. ‘That is always the way. How else can the young man make his name as a warrior, or win trophies to buy many squaws? It is a pity you can have but one woman, Magic Hands. You would have many white maidens wanting you to buy them.’
