Under the Stars and Bars (A Dusty Fog Civil War Western Book 4)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Sure,’ Dusty said soberly. ‘Take it this way. Some of our fellers see that battery riding along between five hundred yards and a mile away across the Ouachita or the Caddo. They reckon it’s just a bunch of Yankee fly-slicers out for a ride. Then they cut loose with those rockets. Either incendiary or high explosive’d do. It’d throw our boys into confusion. If an attack was launched straight after that, with our folk set back on their heels and wondering what the hell’s hit them, it’d have a better than fair chance of succeeding.’

  Which just about confirmed Huntspill’s summation of the situation. He looked at the small, soft-spoken, almost insignificant young man by his side and was suddenly aware of Dusty’s strength of personality. That was no bald-faced stripling, placed in a position of trust through family influence, but a shrewd, discerning cavalry officer.

  ‘What’re you figuring on doing, Captain Fog?’ the spy asked, in a far more respectful tone than he had shown up to that moment.

  ‘I’m going to spread the word to our people,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘We can’t be sure where the Yankees’ll hit with those blasted rockets,’ Huntspill protested.

  ‘Then we’ll have to guess. Likely they’ll go for the targets that’ll do most damage first, before word gets out what they’re at.’

  ‘That’s likely enough. What do you reckon it’ll be?’

  ‘There’s three comes to mind,’ Dusty replied, looking pointedly at the burning side-wheeler. ‘Uncle Devil’s navy.’

  ‘Those three “tin-clads” on the Ouachita?’ grinned Huntspill, with the cheerful contempt of a man who had handled the helm of a fast boat that ran along the Arkansas and Mississippi Rivers.

  ‘They might not be Big Muddy mail packets, but they’ve got four Williams rapid-fire cannon and two twelve-pounder boat-howitzers mounted on each of ’em,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Which they’ve done a whole heap to help stop the Yankees crossing the Ouachita.’

  ‘I’m not gainsaying it,’ the spy said, thinking of the trio of small, lightly armored—hence the name ‘tin-’ instead of ‘iron-clad’—steamboats. Their shallow draught, no more than two feet, made them useful vessels along the winding, narrow waters of the Ouachita River. ‘Trouble being we don’t know which the battery’ll try for first.’

  ‘That’s soon settled,’ Dusty stated. ‘We’ll warn all three.’

  ‘We—?’

  ‘Me and my men.’

  ‘There’re only three of you,’ Huntspill reminded Dusty.

  ‘Why sure,’ the small Texan agreed. ‘Your message said come fast and you can’t do that at Company strength. So I just brought along a couple of my men in case you needed them.’

  ‘Then how—?’ the spy began.

  ‘The Georgia works south out of Camden,’ Dusty explained. ‘I’ll send Kiowa there with the word. The Texarkana patrols between Camden and Vaden, up in Clark County, and the Skimmer runs between Vaden and Arkadelphia. So I’ll tell Vern Hassle to cut across to Arkadelphia; and call in at Vaden on my way to tell Uncle Devil about the rocket battery. It won’t take me far out of my way.’

  No matter how he looked at the matter, Huntspill could not find fault with Dusty’s arrangements. Earlier, the spy might have doubted the youngster’s ability to make the return journey unescorted. Such a doubt now never entered his head. He guessed that the Texan had called the play correctly. Certainly the rocket battery’s most profitable targets would be the destruction of the ‘tin-clads’. Their exposed engines and boilers made them particularly susceptible to an incendiary bombardment. With them out of action, a crossing of the Ouachita River would be much easier and safer than while they remained afloat.

  On top of that, Huntspill knew there was no faster means of spreading the warning about the battery. Even if the boats should be on patrol when the Texans arrived, a message could be left for their captains. Each of the riverside towns had a telegraph station, permitting the news to be spread along its wires.

  ‘We’d best get going,’ the spy suggested. ‘I’ll see if I can learn where the battery’s headed and get word there. Good luck to you, Captain Fog.’

  ‘And to you,’ Dusty replied. ‘If I get caught, I’ll be sent to a prison camp. If they get you, you’ll be shot.’

  ‘It’s a chance I have to take,’ Huntspill said and led the way back through the bushes. Behind them, the battery’s personnel were packing up their gear at the end of the demonstration.

  ~*~

  Between Dusty’s thighs, the large, spirited black stallion moved easily in a diagonal two-beat gait. First its off fore and near hind feet struck the ground, then the near fore and off hind, carrying its rider in a fast, mile-consuming, but energy-preserving trot. Highly skilled in all matters equine, Dusty held several views that were almost tantamount to heresy in that day and age. His demands on the shoeing of horses had led to considerable heated controversy in the Texas Light Cavalry, iv but not as much as had his insistence that every member of Company ‘C’ learned how to ‘post’ when travelling at a trot. Little used at that period in Texas, regarded with suspicion or as sissified almost, it said much for the strength of Dusty’s control over them that the hard-bitten, hard-riding, harder-fighting men of Company ‘C’ had acceded to his point of view. They had discovered that they and their mounts benefited from ‘posting’ and ignored the comments of the unenlightened; or answered the more opprobrious criticism with two-fisted arguments.

  Supporting himself with the balls of his feet in the stirrup irons and by the bony structure rather than the fleshy pads of his buttocks, Dusty inclined his shoulders a few inches before his hips. He sat far enough forward on the low horned, double-girthed v range saddle so that his weight was directly over the vertical stirrup leathers. Keeping his hip joints straight, he used his knees as the pivotal points. Automatically he rose and sank from the saddle in time with the stallion’s movements. The long-gaited black moved with plenty of spring and action, causing Dusty to rise high but without conscious effort or suffering inconvenience from the motion.

  When it was carried out correctly, the combination of an alert, expert rider and a well-trained, healthy horse could post at a fast trot for many miles without undue fatigue to man or mount. Dusty had mastered the art and, being light of weight, gained the best out of the seventeen-hand stallion; one of a trio he had selected, broken and trained for his own use.

  How effective posting the trot could be showed in the fact that, leaving the spy shortly before mid-day, he had dispatched his two men and had already completed around twenty-five miles of his journey. With the sun sinking in the west, he rode along the bottom of a valley. About two miles ahead, he could see the start of the woodland which fringed that section of the Saline River he must cross to take the most direct line to Vaden.

  A bullet, coming from the rear and to the right, made its eerie ‘splat!’ sound as it split the air a few inches from Dusty’s head. Although startled by the unexpected—and never pleasant—noise, he did not panic. Like all Texans, he held his reins so that their split ends dangled downwards over his palm, gripped between his thumb and forefinger. vi Slackening his grip so that he did not make a sudden jerk at the black’s mouth, he stood in his stirrups and twisted his torso in the direction from which the missile had come. What he saw caused him to growl a curse, turn to the front, sink back to the saddle and prepare to increase speed.

  Some twenty blue-clad riders had topped the incline. One of them had a Springfield carbine at his shoulder, smoke curling from its .58-calibre muzzle. Going by the way the lieutenant and sergeant of the Yankee party turned on him, the soldier had opened fire without orders. Certainly he had not done his companions any favor, for his actions had deprived them of the best chance they would be likely to get of taking the Confederate officer by surprise.

  ‘I’ll bust your guts when we get back—!’ threatened the sergeant.

  ‘You stupid son-of-a-bitch!’ screeched the officer, then swung from the man to see their proposed vic
tim’s horse increase its speed. ‘Get after him, men!’

  Letting out excited yells, sounding almost like a pack of hounds receiving their first sight of the prey, the Yankees started their horses running down the incline. Last to move was the man whose shot had set them up for a long chase instead of what they had hoped would be an easy capture.

  Settling down on the saddle instead of posting, Dusty loosened his reins and nudged the stallion’s ribs gently with his heels. It was a signal that, taken with the slackening of the pressure on the bit, the horse fully understood. Building up momentum, its gait changed from the diagonal-striding, two-beat time of the trot. Instead the right hind hoof struck the ground, then the off fore and left hind simultaneously, and lastly the near fore came down to start the sequence again.

  From a trot, the stallion began to canter then opened out to a full gallop. Under-foot, the ground was ideal for fast travelling; the grama grass, short, springy, cushioning the impact of the hooves. Crouching forward at the waist, but maintaining perfect balance and control, Dusty kept his mount collected and prevented its inborn tendency to rush onwards at an ever-increasing speed until it was bolting rather than galloping under his command.

  No more shots came, but that did not cause Dusty any especial joy. From what he had seen, the Yankees belonged to the New Hampstead Volunteers. Raised and financed by General Buller, as a means of obtaining his rank—and the social benefits that went with it in time of war—the regiment was not the best outfit in the Union’s Army of Arkansas.

  Under normal conditions, Dusty would have been in little or no danger of capture. On his other missions into the Yankee territory east of the Ouachita or Caddo Rivers, he had his full Company along. With those sixty expert fighting men at his back, he could have routed the outnumbered Volunteers. Even on the outward journey to Pine Bluff, the situation would not have been desperate. He and his two companions were not only travelling with the bare essentials, but each had ridden a three-horse relay.

  As his men had greater distances to cover, Dusty had loaned each of them one of his reserve mounts. In that way, Sergeant Kiowa Cotton and Corporal Vern Hassle could attain a higher speed. It had been a sound decision, for the two non-coms had the better chances of finding one or more of the ‘tin-clads’ at their destinations.

  So Dusty was left with only his black stallion. Apart from a couple of blankets rolled in a rubberized-cloth, waterproof poncho, strapped to the cantle, his saddle had no other burden. He had left his Henry rifle—a battlefield capture—at the Regiment’s headquarters and at that moment his field glasses were headed towards Arkadelphia with the mount loaned to the corporal. Unfortunately, the stallion was far from fresh after covering so many miles. If the Volunteers should be adequately mounted and reasonable riders, he would be hard-pressed to escape from them.

  Heading towards the woodland, Dusty could feel the big horse straining under the exertion. To his rear, the Volunteers showed no sign of opening out the hundred or so yards which separated them from him. Nor could they decrease the distance; although it might have been a different story if Dusty had been heavier, or a less skilled rider. As it was, he maintained his lead. Yet he knew that the Yankees would run him down if they stuck to his trail for long enough. Dusty grew more certain of that with each sequence of the black’s galloping gait.

  There was one way out; although Dusty—a Texan—hardly cared to consider it. Yet consider it he must. Unless something happened to halt the Volunteers, a remote contingency under the circumstances, he knew that he would have to put his scheme into operation should an opportunity to do so arise. They would surely catch up with him if he stayed afork the lathered, flagging stallion for he might easily run it into the ground. So he intended, if the chance presented itself, to quit the black’s back, take cover, and allow his pursuers to continue chasing the unencumbered animal.

  A desperate risk, maybe, but well worth trying. Without his weight on its saddle, the big horse stood a chance of outdistancing the burdened mounts of the Volunteers. In the thick tangle of the woodland, they would be following their prey by sound, with only an occasional, flickering glimpse of it caught through the trees. Given just a smidgen of good Texas luck, the Yankees might go for a mile or more before they became aware of his deception.

  Unless the Volunteers caught it, the range-bred stallion would eventually return to the Texas Light Cavalry’s camp at Prescott, which it now regarded as its home. If the horse should be captured, or fail to return for some other reason, Dusty would have to count its loss, along with that of one of his saddles, as the price he had paid for retaining his freedom. For his part, he would only be left afoot until he had walked the five miles beyond the Saline River to the home of a Confederate sympathizer who kept a few horses and saddles hidden away for just such emergencies.

  So, much as he hated the whole notion, Dusty started to make his preparations for carrying it out.

  Never forgetting to maintain his balance and keeping the same steady, controlling pressure on his mount’s mouth, Dusty knotted his reins around the saddle horn. When he released them, he wanted the reins to hang loosely against the stallion’s neck instead of trailing free. Like the majority of range-horses, the black had been trained to come to a halt and remain reasonably still when the split-ended reins dangled loose close to its fore legs.

  The woods lay close ahead. Although the sun’s lower side was almost touching the western horizon, Dusty knew that the darkness would not descend quickly enough to save him. So it had to be the scheme after all. Turning carefully on the saddle’s seat, he looked back. While the Volunteers had come no closer, they showed no sign of quitting. So he could not commence his plan of escape immediately.

  Guiding the stallion with expressive hands, thighs and knees, Dusty steered between the trees or avoided various clumps of bushes, rocks or other hazards. Ahead was a deep, wide valley with sloping sides down which a skilled man could ride at speed. Beyond it was just the thing Dusty needed in his plan.

  Such was the rapport between the stallion and its small, efficient master that it did not hesitate on arriving at the edge of the incline. Over it went, going down in a rapid slide, hind legs tucked under its belly and forelegs reaching out ahead. Thrusting his feet forward, Dusty leaned his body to the rear. Coming near to the bottom, the horse gathered itself and thrust away from the slope to light down on level ground. With hardly a break in its motion, it headed across the valley and started up the other side. Dusty once more assumed his upright posture.

  ‘Come on, men!’ screeched an excited voice as Dusty’s straining stallion completed the ascension. ‘If he can do it, so can we!’

  Darting a glance across his shoulder, Dusty saw the Volunteers plunging into the valley. All of them went, he noticed gratefully. Then he turned to the front and made ready. Ahead was a big old white oak tree, its heavily-foliaged branches offering sanctuary and a safe hiding-place—if Dusty could reach them.

  Another swift check on the rear told Dusty that none of the Volunteers could see him. Carefully he eased back until he could raise his feet to the seat of the saddle. Then he stood up, balancing on the fast-moving stallion with the ease of a circus performer. What had been a trick learned to improve his skill as a horseman—and, like his ambidextrous ability, as a means of taking attention from his small size as a boy—now served a most useful purpose.

  They were passing under the outer fringes of the tree’s spread of branches. Ahead, a sturdy limb stretched across in a manner ideally suited to the small Texan’s needs. Gauging the distance with his eyes, Dusty thrust his arms above his head.

  Would he make it?

  The question ripped through Dusty’s head and received its answer. Fingers curled, his reaching hands slapped against the top of the branch. An instant later the black had passed from beneath his feet, racing onwards under the inborn impulsion to run when being pursued.

  Drawing himself upwards with all the strength in his powerful shoulders and arms, he r
ested the tops of his thighs against the branch. Then he thrust his feet forward with all the force he could muster and tilted his body to the rear. Under the power of the swing, his legs started to rise into the air. During the brief moment he hung upside down, his campaign hat slipped off. Unable to stop it, Dusty hoped that the Yankees would not draw the correct conclusion on seeing the hat under the tree. Completing a semicircle, Dusty came to a halt laying belly-down on the limb. Hooking his right leg upwards, he mounted the branch to rise and climb until he had put the thickness of the trunk between himself and the valley.

  Peering cautiously around the trunk and through the dense foliage, Dusty felt sure that he was hidden from the Volunteers. In fact he could only obtain a limited view of the valley’s rim. Already the blue hats of the Yankees rose into sight. Going by what he could see, Dusty concluded that the Union lieutenant was holding all the party in a bunch. Certainly there were no stragglers as they appeared up the incline.

  Without the need for conscious thought, Dusty’s right hand crossed to draw the left side Colt from its holster and his thumb eased back the hammer. For a moment he thought that he would need the firearm.

  ‘There he is!’ roared an excited New England voice.

  ‘Keep after him, men!’ urged the officer an instant later. ‘We’ll get the son-of-a-bitch Reb before dark.’

  A faint grin twisted at Dusty’s lips as he realized the Yankees had either heard or seen the stallion without realizing that it no longer carried a rider. From the glances he obtained as they approached the tree, sufficient of them had lost their head-dress during the chase that they attached no importance to the sight of his campaign hat laying on the ground.

  Urging their horses to greater efforts, the Yankees passed under Dusty on either side of the tree. None of them looked up and they went crashing away on the wild-goose chase. Letting them get about a hundred yards away, Dusty returned his Colt to leather. Going to the limb on which he had swung from the stallion, he lowered himself and dropped to the ground. Collecting his hat, he donned it with a grin.