by J. T. Edson
Unfortunately none of the approaching party rode a horse, a fact Dusty noticed with a low curse at his lousy luck. Normally the sergeant in command of the Whitworth rifle would have been mounted on a horse instead of walking alongside the limber; and on occasion the crew of the mountain howitzer rode into action. Wishing to avoid emphasizing the lack of mobility of the weapons, Handiman ruled that each gun would be in position ready to be shown and so avoid undue movement. Even the Lancers, who could only ride into action, did not offer any solution, their part in the display having been cancelled.
‘That’s my daughter!’ Senator Waterhouse bawled, looking more than usual like a well-dressed and -fed sheep, staring towards Mark. ‘What’s happened to her?’
‘What the hell’s going on, Dusty?’ Handiman barked.
‘There’s been a whiskey pedlar at work. General,’ Dusty said, ‘and he’s escaping,’
Handiman might be lacking in knowledge of Indians, but he could claim full awareness of how the red brother reacted when under the influence of paleface fire-water. So too could all the soldiers involved in the display, if their expressions be anything to go on as they looked at Handiman and awaited his orders.
‘Up there, General!’ snapped the colonel commanding the Fort, pointing to where a light wagon pulled by four horses came into sight and spun off along the trail in the opposite direction to the party. ‘I’ll send a—’
‘Stop that wagon, Sergeant Pratt!’ interrupted Handiman, addressing the non-com in charge of the Whitworth.
Quickly the sergeant studied the situation, knowing his professional reputation depended on his handling of the assignment. Accurate the Whitworth might be, but it could not be traversed at speed; which made firing at a moving target crossing its front extremely difficult.
‘I’ll have to pick a better place, General, sir,’ he pronounced.
‘Then do it!’ Handiman ordered.
‘Can I go along?’ asked Dusty.
‘Take Captain Fog with you, sergeant,’ confirmed the General.
‘You’ll have to ride the off swing hoss, Cap’n,’ Pratt said.
Without the caisson following tø carry the remainder of the crew, Pratt operated using only the drivers and three men who rode the limber. However his men did not need their personal belongings and so the valise-saddles of the off side horses carried no loads. Although far from comfortable, the valise saddles offered a means of transport and Dusty swung afork the centre horse on the right side. Taking his place on the off lead horse, Pratt gave the order to roll.
‘What’s happening, Mark?’ asked Handiman as the Whitworth moved off.
‘Miss Waterhouse run into a whiskey pedlar in that bosque,’ Mark explained, setting the girl on her feet and allowing her to stagger into her father’s arms. ‘We’ve got trouble, General; and, was I you, I’d get the Gatling set up ready and the civilians back inside the Fort.’
‘Do it!’ ordered Handiman and looked once more at Mark.
‘General!’ Waterhouse put in before Handiman could speak. ‘My daughter—.’
‘You’d best get her into the Fort, Senator,’ Mark interrupted. ‘Happen you don’t want for her hair and yours to decorate some Kweharehnuh’s scalp pole.’
Working fast, the Gatling gun crew swung their weapon so its barrels pointed towards the woods. Before the gun had been freed from its limber, the gunner stood at the firing handle and his number two brought a loaded magazine from the ammunition chest.
Give him credit, Waterhouse might be arrogant and pompous, but he possessed discretion. Seeing the martial preparations and realizing how exposed he would be in the event of hostilities, he took his daughter in his arms and headed towards the Fort. Showing an equal grasp of the situation, the rest of the Congressional Committee followed without waste of time.
‘That’s the first time I didn’t have a politician ask questions,’ said the Colonel dryly, ‘Shall I turn out the guard, General?’
‘What’s happened, Mark?’ demanded Handiman, shelving the question until he knew more of the situation.
‘Like I said,’ Mark answered, watching the woods. ‘The gal came across those whiskey pedlars and didn’t like the way Dusty and me started asking questions. So she started for the Fort, aiming to have us arrested, I’d say. Only she took the wrong turn and walked right into three Kweharehnuh bucks who’d beat us to the pedlar.’
‘They didn’t hurt her?’ growled the Colonel.
‘She’s scared, no more,’ Mark replied, ‘Dusty and me got there just in time. Only you all know what Indians are when they’re carrying a gut-full of Old Stump Blaster. When they’re that way, you have to dissuade them fast and permanent.’
‘That’s what the shooting was about,’ Handiman said bitterly.
‘It was them, or us and the girl,’ Mark told him. ‘Which same if she’d been raped and killed you’d’ve had a war on your hands for sure.’
‘And we don’t have one now?’ asked Handiman, nodding to where a group of Kweharehnuh braves came from among the trees.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A WORSENING SITUATION
DESPITE his considerable Civil War experience, Dusty had never ridden into action on a field artillery vehicle and might have found the situation exhilarating under less trying conditions. Urged on by their drivers, the six-horse team built up speed and Dusty found himself forced to concentrate on retaining his seat without the aid of stirrups while also avoiding attempting to steer the horse he sat. Going at a speed which almost equalled that of a ridden horse, the Whitworth’s team tore along in the wake of the speeding wagon.
Scanning the winding trail ahead, Pratt barked an order and the lead-driver began to swing his horses in a turn. Smoothly and efficiently the swing and wheel pair followed and the pace slowered until the team came to a halt with the barrel of the Whitworth pointed towards the departing wagon. Even before the horses halted, the men on the limber deserted their seats. Swiftly two of the crew raised the gun’s lunette from its retaining pin on the limber and by the time the limber moved the prescribed six yards away had slid a handspike in. to the pointing rings at the base of the stock.
After swinging down from his uncomfortable perch, Dusty moved well clear so as to avoid impeding the work of what he could see to be a highly skilled team. There had never been a time in the War when the Confederates held ascendancy over the Federal artillery and, watching Pratt’s gun crew, Dusty could see why.
In a remarkably short time the team had set the gun into line, fed one of the strange-looking hexagonal shaped shells, known as ‘bolts’ and designed to ensure a gas-tight seal as well as engage in the rifling of the bore, and a one-and-three-quarter pound firing charge into the breech. With a clang the breech-block swung into position and the number two man twirled the hinged screw-cap to lock it home.
Behind the gun Pratt aligned his sights. Not at the wagon, but on a corner around which it must turn if Bristow aimed to stick to the trail. Years of experience went into the move and the sergeant’s mind clicked through a number of considerations. Calculating the wagon’s speed, estimating the distance that the bolt must travel, time of ignition, wind velocity and other items which affected the correct arrival of the shot, he manipulated the elevation screw and sighted the piece. Inside the breech reposed a percussion-ignited shell ready to explode on contact. All now depended on his ability to place the bolt in the right spot.
Satisfied that he could do no more, Pratt stepped clear and studied the wagon as it started to make the turn.
‘Fire!’ he ordered, waiting to observe the fall of the shot.
The number four man tugged at the firing lanyard and the Whitworth roared, leaping backwards under the force of the recoil, Springing from the positions they adopted to avoid the gun’s backlash, the crew prepared to return their piece to a firing line without waiting to see the result of the shot.
Unaware of his danger, but sure that pursuit of some kind would come, Bristow urged his wagon along at a
full gallop. If he could reach Elk Creek before being overtaken, he hoped to pour all his whiskey into the water and destroy the evidence against him. With Eastern politicians at the Fort, summary justice would be less likely to be administered; even for the heinous crime of whiskey-peddling. Given a chance at a trial, he might even escape due to lack of evidence. Certain influential people would not want their part in his affairs brought to light and could be relied upon to do everything possible on his behalf.
Something hissed through the air, then Bristow heard the crack of an explosion behind him, accompanied by a lurch and the rear of the wagon collapsed, His team swerved violently; glass and stone jugs shattered and the fumes of raw whiskey gushed into the air. In the distance Bristow heard the crack of a rifled cannon.
‘That was some shooting, sergeant!’ Dusty enthused.
‘It was lucky shooting,’ Pratt corrected with a grin; but he felt a touch of pleasure at receiving praise from a man of Dusty’s calibre.
‘Can I take a horse and get over there?’ the small Texan went on. ‘I want that damned pedlar.’
‘Use the near leader.’
‘If that feller up there shows fight from cover—’
‘I’ll give him another present,’ promised Pratt. ‘Bring up a solid shot.’
Wishing to show the Whitworth’s versatility, Pratt carried solid ball, explosive and cannister loads in the limber’s chest. Exchanging the explosive load for one of solid construction, the number five man delivered it to the gun. While that took place, Dusty went to collect his mount.
Artillery harness was designed to allow quick removal and replacement of dead or injured horses. Swiftly Dusty and the horse-holder slid free the toggle fastenings from their links and released the left side front animal. Then Dusty went into the saddle, scooped up the reins and started his borrowed mount moving.
Dazed by suddenly finding himself under assault by a cannon, Bristow sprang down and glared wildly around. One glance told him that he would be going no further in the wagon. No cavalry accompanied the cannon, that he could see, so he might still make good his escape using one of the team horses, With that thought in mind, fear of the consequences lending speed to his limbs, he sprang towards the horses. While working, he heard the drumming of approaching hooves and looked around to see Dusty charging across the range towards him, A snarl of rage broke from Bristow’s lips. Long before he could unhitch a horse, that damned Texan would be on him, The butt of a Winchester rifle showed over the wagon’s box, an ideal weapon when matched against a man armed only with revolvers.
Even as Bristow sprang to the wagon and grabbed the rifle, Dusty saw the danger and acted on it. The small Texan rode a route which kept him out of the Whitworth’s line of fire and he did not hesitate in removing his Stetson and waving it over his head. Once more the cannon banged and a second bolt hurled at the wagon. It struck with savage force and, although it did not explode, produced a mighty effective result, Caught in the spray of wooden splinters hurled up by the impact, Bristow reeled away from the wagon, Tears filled his eyes and by the time he managed to clear them, Bristow saw Dusty thundering up. Colt in hand, the small Texan brought the horse to a halt.
‘Get flat on the ground!’ Dusty ordered. ‘Keep your hands in plain sight. I’d as soon take you in dead as living, so it’s your choice,’
Having been in and around Western towns most of his life, Bristow could tell a top quality hand with a gun when he saw one. So he obeyed Dusty’s orders without a single argument. While he doubted if the Texan aimed to shoot him on the slightest provocation, he felt disinclined to take the chance. One thing he did know, a man so fast and deadly accurate as Dusty had proved to be was not the kind to take chances with. So he lay face down and with arms spread out in plain view while the other disarmed him.
‘Now get up!’ Dusty commanded. ‘We’re going back to the Fort.’
‘I’ve money in my wallet,’ hinted Bristow.
‘You’ll need it to hire a lawyer,’ Dusty answered, killing the hope. ‘Not that any kind of lawyer’ll save your neck, hombre.’
Mark Counter did not scare easily and had proved his courage a number of exacting ways. Yet in later years he would look back on the few minutes following Dusty’s departure after Bristow as amongst the worst in his life, Standing watching the sullen faced Kweharehnuh braves make their appearance at the edge of the trees, he felt like a man sitting in a room filled with open kegs of gun powder while somebody tossed lit matches at them. At any moment the whole situation could blow up and if it once did there would be no halting a full-scale battle,
It seemed that Handiman also read the signs correctly for he barked, ‘Nobody draw a weapon, Gunner, you open fire only at my order!’
Already hands stole to holster flaps and the Gatling’s gunner held the firing handle in a sweaty grip. If anything, the presence and apparent readiness of the Gatling held the Kweharehnuh in check, Constantly at war with the white man, their braves knew more than any other band about the weapons employed by the U.S. Army and a few of the older Model of 1862 Gatling guns had been used on Texas frontier posts. Seeing one of the deadly guns lined their way caused the braves to halt and hold conference. Yet Mark knew that one shot fired would start the assembled braves fighting back.
One of the braves turned and pointed to where a group of chiefs strode into sight, Instantly the remainder of the Kweharehnuh party relaxed and lowered their weapons.
‘Long Walker!’ Mark breathed. ‘Thank the Lord for that.’
Taking in the scene, Long Walker advanced. With so many old friends gathered about his fire and talking, the chief failed to hear the revolver shots and did not know there had been any trouble. One glance told him that something had gone wrong with the smooth running of the council and he moved forward. Leaving the rest of Long Walker’s party, the chiefs of the Kweharehnuh joined their braves.
‘What is wrong, General?’ asked Long Walker, giving for the first time a sign that he understood and spoke passable English.
‘There’s been bad trouble,’ Handiman replied. ‘Some of your—’
‘Long Walker!’ barked Dark Night, senior chief of the Kweharehnuh. ‘Three of our tehnap have been killed by the white men.’
Exclamations rose from the other chiefs and they darted glances at the white men. Only Long Walker gave the impression of remaining impassive and he looked at Handiman.
‘Is this true words, General?’
‘Dusty and I killed them,’ Mark put in. ‘They were drunk and trying to harm the daughter of one of the white men from the East.’
The first crack of the Whitworth sounded before anything more could be said and every eye swung in its direction. However it and Bristow’s wagon had passed out of sight over the horizon and so the white men could not tell whether the shot had been successful or not.
‘Where did the tehnap get the fire-water?’ Long Walker asked, then repeated the words in Comanche for the benefit of the other chiefs.
‘From a white man in the woods there,’ Mark explained, We—!’
Again the Whitworth cracked and this time Handiman knew he must tell the Indians why the cannon was being used.
‘As soon as I heard, I sent a cannon to halt or destroy the whiskey pedlar’s wagon,’ he said. ‘Captain Fog went with the party.’
‘Then we must hope that Magic Hands has been successful,’ answered Long Walker. ‘This is bad, General.’
‘I know,’ Handiman replied.
One of the chiefs called to Long Walker and a conversation in Comanche began. While Mark did not speak the language, he guessed that views differed on the affair and wondered what Long Walker meant to do. At last the chiefs stopped talking, turned and stalked away with the exception of Long Walker. On joining their braves, the Kweharehnuh chiefs spoke quietly and with some reluctance the braves turned to fade back among the bushes.
‘The man who sold the whiskey will be punished, Long Walker,’ promised Handiman as the Pehnane leade
r walked towards him. ‘And the braves were in the wrong to attack the white woman. Will the chiefs come and see the weapon display?’
‘Not today,’ Long Walker replied. ‘This trouble needs much talk, so we return to my tipi to make it. When we decide what to do, we will send word to you.’
‘But—I’ Handiman began.
‘He’ll say no more, General,’ warned Mark as Long Walker swung around and followed the departing chiefs. ‘All we can do is wait and hope.’
‘If word of this gets out,’ the colonel remarked, ‘there’s some who’ll claim it’s proof that the Comanche never really wanted peace.’
‘If they hadn’t wanted it,’ Mark drawled, ‘they’d a mighty good excuse for painting for war.’
‘The colonel’s with us in wanting peace, Mark,’ Handiman commented, ‘That’s why we came here. Dismiss the weapon crews, Colonel, and make sure that nobody leaves the Fort. One more incident will really fix us. I’m going back to my office. Are you coming, Mark?’
‘I’ll wait for Dusty and tell him what’s come off,’ Mark replied, nodding to where the Whitworth’s crew returned led by Dusty and a bound, dejected-looking prisoner. ‘Lordy lord, General, I’d’ve given anything for this not to have happened,’
‘So would I,’ Handiman agreed worriedly. ‘But it has and there’s no going back on it.’
On his return, Dusty listened to the latest developments and said, ‘I’ll go to the Pehnane village and see if they’ll let me explain.’
‘You can try,’ Handiman replied. ‘They might be willing to listen to you. Is this him?’
