by J. T. Edson
“I reckon he figured that he was dealing with a couple of fuzz-faced, inexperienced shavetails and could get away with it,” Dusty had commented, “Or he allowed to say he’d never said any such thing and could count on that fat bartender to backup any lies be told.”
“Hervey’d do that for sure,” Billy Jack had conceded.
Realizing that he could not overlook such a flagrant disrespect of his authority, Dusty had been determined to take action. When Chatswen’s detail had not reached the herd by about ten o’clock in the morning, he had gone to find them accompanied by Red.
“I reckoned that those yahoos wouldn’t show too much respect for a young lieutenant, especially one who wasn’t in their outfit,” Dusty had explained. “So I knew that I’d get no place walking in and flashing my collar bars. That’s why I’m wearing my civilians clothes.”
At the hotel, following the plan formulated by Dusty during the ride to town, Red had taken Dusty’s gunbelt and hat, while Dusty had entered the barroom Red had taken up his position outside the second door. The redhead was supposed to make his appearance and, using his Colts to enforce his demand, compel the enlisted men to stand aside while Dusty had dealt with Chatswen. That had not appealed to Red’s ebullient nature and, seeing how the men had positioned themselves around Dusty, he had taken the opportunity to shed his own weapons and take a more active part in the scheme.
During the walk from the hotel, Billy Jack had warned Dusty that the soldiers were unlikely to forget, or forgive, the humiliation and punishment they had received. They were, the sergeant had continued, likely to come looking for evens, in which case, having failed with their fists, they might conclude to call the next play with guns. Much to Billy Jack’s surprise, Dusty had appeared to be inclined to overlook the possibility. Red Blaze had declared cheerfully that everything was liable to work out fine.
Having noticed the menacing attitudes and held weapons of the approaching men, Billy Jack felt that he had guessed correctly about how they planned to take their revenge. However, he also had a suspicion that Mr. Fog was not only aware of the danger, but had something in mind to circumvent it.
“All set, Cousin Dusty,” Red announced cheerily. “Don’t them blasted ‘too-fars’ look all mean ’n’ ornery, though?”
“That they do,” Dusty admitted, showing just as little sign of knowing that Chatswen’s detail were drawing nearer and fanning into a line. “Reckon this’s going to work, Cousin Red?”
“Happen it don’t, I’ll never speak to you again,” Red grinned. “What do you think, Billy Jack?”
“That I don’t know what to think,” the sergeant groaned, looking worried and not a little afraid. “I’ll be pleased when it’s all over. Happen I live through it, that is.”
“Don’t you get killed before I’ve finished,” Dusty said. “That’s an order.”
With that, the small Texan started to walk across the corral towards the bottle-decorated fence. Billy Jack’s panic-stricken aspect departed and he divided his attention between watching Dusty and covertly keeping the soldiers under observation. He noticed that Chatswen’s party were also watching the young blond and appeared puzzled by what they were seeing.
Halting when he was about twenty-one feet from the fence, Dusty stood on spread-apart, slightly bent legs. At the same instant, his hands flashed inwards. Crossing, they swept the bone-handled Colts from the carefully designed holsters. Thumbing back the hammers and slipping his forefingers into the trigger guards only after the barrels had cleared leather, Dusty aimed from waist level and by instinctive alignment. Just three-quarters of a second after his hands’ first movements, flame licked out of the muzzles of the Colts and their detonations came almost as a single sound.
With the exception of Red, who was aware of his cousin’s ambidextrous ability, the watching men believed that Dusty had only fired once. Startled exclamations rose from Chatswen’s detail when the bottles at each end of the line disintegrated simultaneously. Even Billy Jack, who was no slouch when it came to handling a brace of Army Colts, was impressed by the small Texan’s lightning speed and double-handed accuracy. Nor did the display end there.
Cocking each Colt as its seven-and-a-half inch “Civilian Model” barrel v reached the height of its recoil, Dusty turned the muzzles inwards. Without raising the revolvers higher or taking more careful sight, he continued to throw lead. As the Colts roared, the bottles shattered and he never missed. On destroying the final pair, he twirled the weapons on his trigger-fingers and returned them to their holsters almost as swiftly as they had emerged.
Turning, Dusty strolled to where Red and Billy Jack were standing side by side. If the lanky sergeant’s face was showing admiration, it was nothing to the expressions being exhibited by the other soldiers. All had come to a halt and were staring in alarmed, awe-filled amazement.
As if becoming aware for the first time of Chatswen’s detail being around, Dusty swung towards them. His eyes went to the carbines, dropped briefly at the opened flap of the corporal’s holster, then lifted and raked the men’s faces.
Not one of them would meet the cold scrutiny. Even Chatswen lowered his head to hide his confusion and uncertainty.
“Are you expecting trouble from the Yankees, corporal?” Dusty demanded, walking closer to the soldiers.
“Huh?” Chatswen ejaculated, jerking up his face and staring in a puzzled manner at the small Texan.
Except that Dusty no longer seemed small, or insignificant. in some mysterious manner, he appeared to have grown until he bettered the corporal in size.
“I said are you expecting trouble with the Yankees?” Dusty repeated.
“What Yankees?” Chatswen wanted to know.
“If there aren’t any, why the hell are your men carrying their carbines?” Dusty snapped. “And why isn’t your holster flap fastened down?”
“I —” Chatswen began.
“Are there any Yankees hereabout, sergeant?” Dusty asked over his shoulder, without taking his gaze from the soldiers.
“Nary a one’s I knows about, Lieutenant Fog, sir,” Billy Jack answered, guessing correctly how Dusty wanted the reply to be worded.
“I reckon we can take your word on that,” Dusty drawled and stared hard at Chatswen. “Don’t you, corporal?”
For a moment the burly non-corn did not reply. Clearly Hervey had been telling the truth, when he had claimed that the short-grown—or very big—blond son-of-a-bitch was an officer. Which put an entirely different complexion on the matter, despite Chatswen’s assertions that not even a blasted officer could treat him in such a fashion and live to boast about it.
“Yeah,” the corporal finally agreed, knowing that doing so was backing down and eating crow. “I reckon we can.”
“I might accept ‘mister’ from a man I respected,” Dusty said in that gentle, yet terribly menacing fashion his voice could adopt. “But the likes of you call me ‘sir’.”
“I reckon we can—sir,” Chatswen repeated, when it became obvious that the small Texan was awaiting such a response.
“Boot those carbines and get ready to move out,” Dusty told the enlisted men. “I’ve wasted too much damned time on you already.”
Glancing from side to side, Chatswen watched his men obeying with alacrity. He knew that he would receive no backing from them, even if he had contemplated taking up the small Texan’s unspoken but very real challenge.
“Corporal,” Dusty said. “I’ve better things to do with my time than to start asking what happened last night. There’s a herd of five hundred head waiting for you. I want to hand it over and attend to more important duties.”
“Yes—sir,” Chatswen replied, hurriedly adding the honorific when Dusty frowned at its omission. “We’ll come right away, sir.”
“Just one thing, corporal,” Dusty went on. “If I should ever hear of you pulling a game like this again, I’ll have you and every man concerned transferred to my Company. And then, soldier, I’ll make you wish you’d
never been born.”
Staring at the big young blond, Chatswen and the other enlisted men knew that they were hearing a warning which it would pay them to heed. There was no bombast in the officer’s voice, only a chillingly menacing promise. Something warned them that he might have the necessary influence to carry out his threat. A variety of throbbing aches, caused by the injuries inflicted in the fight, gave emphasis to their belief that service under his command would be anything but pleasant. Certainly it would be far more dangerous and harder work than their present occupations.
“Yes, sir,” Chatswen muttered, making the only comment he felt would be appropriate, acceptable, or safe, under the circumstances.
Watching the incident, Billy Jack refrained from showing the delight he was feeling. Unless he missed his guess, Mr. Fog was going to turn out as good an officer as his father. While still inexperienced, he had already displayed a sound knowledge of how to handle men.
Many young officers, faced with Mr. Fog’s predicament, might have been at a loss to figure out what to do for the best. It would have been all too easy for him to have gone about handling Chatswen’s bunch in the wrong manner. He could have tried to use his insignias of rank and the powers which he imagined were automatically granted to him by the Manual of Field Regulations, expecting them to ensure the soldier’s obedience.
Realizing just how little actual authority the Manual of Field Regulations and his badges of rank gave to a very young, newly appointed lieutenant—especially when dealing with men who did not belong to his regiment—Mr. Fog had guessed correctly that he must depend upon the strength of his personality.
Instead of attempting to pull rank, the small Texan had faced the recalcitrant soldiers while dressed as a civilian. He had then established a physical superiority—which they could appreciate and understand far better than any display of Manual-backed attempts at authority—in no uncertain manner. What was more, he had been aware that his victims might wish to take the matter even further. So he had arranged for them to witness his expert handling of firearms and had averted what might easily have ended in gun smoke and corpses.
Although satisfied with Dusty’s potential as an officer and a leader, Billy Jack still experienced misgivings regarding Red Blaze.
The redhead was brave enough, tough and a good hand in a fistfight but he was also reckless and more than a mite foolhardy. That had been proven by the way he had changed Mr. Fog’s plans for dealing with Chatswen. By disregarding his cousin’s arrangements, Mr. Blaze might have caused them to become the victims, instead of them emerging as the victors.
Such a failure would have lessened, if it had not completely destroyed, any chance of the pair becoming effective officers. Once the story of their failure had made the rounds, it would have been difficult—maybe even impossible—for them to earn the respect of the Texas Light Cavalry’s hard-bitten veterans.
So Billy Jack considered that Mr. Blaze would need far longer than Mr. Fog to develop into a satisfactory officer. The redhead would probably come to be well liked, but he would need to mature before he was respected and accepted as a leader. Perhaps, the sergeant told himself—and, for once, his regret was genuine—Mr. Blaze would never make it.
Chapter Five
“Colonel Blaze allowed’s I should come and fetch —” Sergeant Billy Jack began as he rode with Lieutenants Fog and Blaze towards the herd of cattle. Then he revised his words into a more tactful form. “I should tell you he wants the recruits getting to the regiment as fast as possible.”
“You near on said, ‘I should come and fetch you pair, so’s you don’t get lost’,” Red grinned.
“Now that wouldn’t’ve been polite of me, Mr. Blaze,” the lanky sergeant protested. “Which I’m allus real polite to anybody’s out-ranks me.”
“Even to green shavetails?” Dusty inquired.
“Especially to green shavetails, sir,” Billy Jack affirmed. “That’s ’cause I’m a good, loyal soldier—and scared they’d get mean and have me busted if I wasn’t polite to them.”
Throwing a glance at his cousin, Dusty could see that Red was aware of the tribute being paid to them. By answering in such a manner, Billy Jack was showing his respect and approval.
During the ride from Arkadelphia. Dusty Fog had continued to impress Billy Jack with his potential for making an officer. With Chatswen’s detail following about a hundred yards to their rear, the three Texans had talked as they kept their mounts moving at a steady trot. All the questions asked by Dusty had been to the point and showed that he possessed a fair appreciation of the conditions prevailing at that time in Arkansas.
From general matters, Dusty had turned the conversation to the Texas Light Cavalry and, in particular, Company ‘C’. At first he had restricted himself to tactical duties, with Red injecting questions regarding the possibility of frequently “locking horns with the Yankees”. After listening to some of the usual enlisted men’s grouches, Dusty had drawn Billy Jack into commenting upon the man who would be his immediate superior.
With a frankness which surprised him, when he came to consider it later, Billy Jack had described Captain Otto von Hertz’s character and personality.
“I surely hopes’s how you young gents’ve got uniforms just like it says in the Manual of Dress Regulations,” the sergeant had said, after stating that von Hertz was a stickler for discipline, military protocol—although he did not use those exact words—and training, but also well-versed in all aspects of cavalry warfare.
“That we have,” Red had admitted wryly. “The collar on my jacket’s like to cut my head off under my chin, way it is when it’s fastened.”
“You’ll have to take a chance that it don’t happen and keep it fastened, Mr. Blaze,” Billy Jack had warned. “Cause that’s how Cap’n von Hertz wants it.”
“Your gunbelt and saddle’s not Regulation, sergeant,” Dusty had pointed out.
“I ain’t gainsaying it, sir,” Billy Jack had replied. “But that’s only ’cause we don’t have enough of the Regulation kind, and the cap’n’s not happy about it.”
“Looks like we’ll be able to go on wearing our belts, Cousin Dusty,” Red had announced, showing satisfaction until Billy Jack had demolished it.
“I wouldn’t count on that, Mr. Blaze,” the sergeant had said. “He’ll expect you-all, being officers ’n’ gentlemen, to wear the right kind of belts even if you don’t sit McClellan saddles.”
“Whee-dogie!” Red had ejaculated. “I can see me and Cap’n Hertz —”
“Captain von Hertz,” Billy Jack had corrected. “He’s tolerable set on having folks use that there ‘von’, whatever it be.”
“Well all right,” Red had grinned. “I can’t see Captain von Hertz and me getting on too good unless one of us changes our ways. Which I’m too old, ornery and set in ’em for it to be me.”
That and similar cheerfully irrelevant remarks had done little to make Billy Jack revise his opinion regarding Red’s possibilities as an officer. From other parts of the conversation, it had become obvious that the redhead hero-worshipped his smaller cousin and was satisfied that Dusty Fog could do no wrong. In fact, Billy Jack had guessed that it was Red’s blind faith in the small Texan’s capability, as much as a genuine enjoyment of being involved in a fight, which had led him to revise the plan for dealing with Chatswen’s detail at the hotel.
Billy Jack noticed, as they drew nearer to the herd, that its bed-ground had been selected with care and showed a shrewd appreciation of the kind of precautions required to ensure its safety.
The cattle were being held close to the banks of a small stream, in a location which offered them water and good grazing. With those needs filled so adequately, they would settle down and show less inclination towards drifting away. The nearest clump of trees was at least half a mile away and there were neither ravines nor draws—that might harbor and conceal wild animals or hostile human beings—close by. Any attempt at stealing, or merely stampeding, the five hundred h
ead of half-wild longhorn steers would have been detected and countered before it could have been put into effect, even during the night.
A corporal and four soldiers, wearing the uniforms of the Texas Light Cavalry were riding herd on the cattle. According to Dusty, there had been eight men on duty through the hours of darkness positioned so that nobody could have approached the herd without being seen or heard. Until that morning, all such work had been carried out in civilian clothing. Wishing to avoid any further delays in joining the regiment, Dusty had ordered the change to military attire so that his party would be ready to move off as soon as they had turned the herd over to the men from the Commissary General’s Department.
Galloping up, the corporal saluted Dusty and reported that everything was satisfactory with the herd. He had a bruised face and threw a scowl towards Chatswen’s detail. However, it changed to a more cheerful look as he observed the burly non-com’s equally battered features.
Telling Red to attend to handing over the herd, Dusty accompanied Billy Jack to the recruits’ camp. Everything had been made ready for them to resume their journey. The young soldiers’ gear was packed, their horses saddled and standing ground-hitched ready to he mounted. A team was hitched to the chuck wagon and the fire had been doused. There was none of the litter all too often seen when a soldiers’ camp was being broken up.
Looking about him, Billy Jack could find no fault with the location of the campsite. It was on the bank of the stream, about a quarter of a mile above the herd and between the cattle and the nearest clump of trees. At that distance, the soldiers would not have needed to worry about the normal camp’s noises spooking the steers, but could have reached the animals swiftly in an emergency. All in all, it gave the sergeant yet another example of Mr. Fog’s competence.
