by J. T. Edson
Although learning that the scout had located Blocky handed Wightman a shock, he tried his best to hide it.
Despite the gaunt man’s objections, Aaron had insisted on going and testing his theory. Wightman had wanted to make sure that the scout did not have friends in the vicinity before taking action, but could not dissuade the hard-case. Watching Aaron’s face, Wightman knew that the other would be only too pleased to be rescued from his predicament.
‘Peace, brothers,’ the Parson intoned as solemnly as if pronouncing a benediction to a wealthy congregation. ‘Peace, lest one of you, like Nicanor, lays dead in his harness. Curb thy tongue, Brother Aaron, for it is as the crackling of thorns under a pot. And you, stranger, bear with him in his grief, toil and tribulations. To err is human, to forgive, divine.’
Only too eager to slip out without loss of face—or life— Aaron grunted what might have been an apology and turned to lurch back to his brothers. Being too wise a man to take the matter further, the scout let the hard-case go without protest or added comment.
‘Close,’ Dusty breathed, continuing his interrupted walk towards the horses.
‘Real close,’ agreed the scout. ‘He looked like to wet his pants when I let on about his “brother” over there.’
For all his apparent calm, the scout felt distinctly uneasy. He knew that the quartet were suspicious, but hoped he had so far avoided confirming their doubts. Possibly the forthcoming saddling of the chestnut would give them further reason to know that he had been lying. Not by the fact that the Rebel captain carried a Union Army McClellan saddle, bearing a metal insignia inscribed with the letters ‘US’ at the intersection of the breast-collar’s Y-shape. Shortages of materials in the South had caused its Armies to rely to a great extent on what they could loot from the Yankees.
The chestnut gelding caused the scout’s anxiety. Spirited, it required careful and competent handling. Perhaps the small Texan lacked the necessary skill to gain its confidence. If so, the four guerillas would guess that the chestnut did not belong to him. Of course, that could be explained away by a statement that the Rebel had lost his own mount; but the suspicions would increase.
Studying the chestnut as he approached it, Dusty’s assessment of its nature coincided with the scout’s. Going by the steady manner in which it stood, it was used to being collected by hand rather than roped. So Dusty drew closer at an angle from ahead and towards its near shoulder. Speaking gently and calmly, he laid his right hand on its shoulder. From there, showing no hesitation, he ran his palm across the chestnut’s withers, along its neck and to the head.
Watching the manner in which Dusty rapidly gained the gelding’s confidence, the scout breathed a sigh of relief. To the quartet hovering in the background, it would seem that the small Texan knew the horse and was treating it in the usual manner.
Satisfied he could deal with the horse, Dusty knotted the separate ends of the reins. He then slipped them over the sleek, well-formed head, but kept them just behind the ears. Doing so gave him a measure of control over the gelding if it should try to move away from him. With deft ease, Dusty fitted the bridle into position and adjusted the bit in the chestnut’s mouth.
Fortunately for himself and the scout, Dusty had handled enough Yankee McClellan saddles to be conversant with their differences from his double-girthed range rig. After placing the folded blanket in position, he draped the right side’s stirrup leathers and girth across the seat. Hoisting the saddle into the air, he laid it on the chestnut’s back. With the girth tightened and the breast-collar fitted as perfectly as the scout could have desired, Dusty set the stirrups to the level of his shorter legs. He made the latter move under the pretence of testing the fit of the saddle, and avoided permitting the quartet to notice that the stirrup-leathers had been adjusted for a much taller man’s use. Freeing the reins from their knot, he held them while he unbuckled the hobbles, which he placed in the left-hand saddle-pouch.
Hanging Dusty’s gunbelt across the dun’s saddle, the scout secured the medicine boot to the left side of the pommel. Then he removed and put away his hobbles.
‘Mount up, Reb,’ he ordered. ‘We’re all set to go, Deacon.’
‘Come with us then,’ Wightman commanded.
‘Now I ain’t suggesting nothing,’ the scout said, in a tone that showed he was. ‘But I reckon it’d be safer for “Brother” Aaron to ride in front of me— Just so’s he can stop the Reb here from escaping.’
‘A goodly notion, brother,’ affirmed Wightman, silencing Aaron’s protests before they could be uttered. ‘Now I’m a man of peace and know nothing about such things, but shouldn’t you fasten that blasphemous Southern dog’s reins to your saddle? He may try to seek safety in flight.’
‘He’ll not achieve it with us all ‘round him,’ the scout answered.
‘If he does,’ Abel growled, ‘we’ll stop him for good and all.’
‘Likely he knows it,’ said the scout calmly and swung astride the dun. ‘Come on, I can surely use some breakfast.’
Mounting up, the guerillas formed a loose box around Dusty and the scout. Glowering savagely, Aaron went ahead. Wightman rode at the scout’s left side and Job moved into position to Dusty’s right. Drawing the Mississippi rifle from its boot, Abel brought up the rear. Splashing through the ford, they were joined by the Spencer-toting man on the western bank.
‘Who’re they, Parson?’ Blocky inquired, nursing the repeater across his upper thighs.
‘A soldier in the blessed cause, Brother Blocky,’ Wightman answered. ‘And a miserable peckerwood wretch who cowardly surrendered himself in the face of the righteous wrath of Colonel Verncombe’s Dragoons.’
‘Verncom—!’ Blocky ejaculated, looking around nervously. ‘Is he—?’
‘One of his Troops is coming,’ Wightman answered. ‘Until it arrives, I am extending our hospitality to our brother here.’
With that, the gaunt man jerked his head to the rear. Allowing the others to ride by, Blocky ranged his mount alongside Abel’s and started to converse with him in a low tone. Dusty guessed that Abel was giving Blocky the full story and mentioning Wightman’s plans for the future. However, the pair held their voices at such a level that the words did not carry to the small Texan’s ears.
Led by Aaron, the party passed through the woods parallel to the river for about half a mile. Then they swung along the banks of a stream that ran through a narrow, wood-sided gorge. Turning a corner, Dusty found that the gorge opened out and he received his first sight of the guerillas’ camp. An inclination of the scout’s head drew Dusty’s attention to where, on his right-hand slope, a tall, gangling man sat nursing a Sharps rifle and resting his back against a fallen tree’s trunk. Making as if to rise, the man received an imperious downwards wave from Wightman. Guessing at its meaning, he sank back again and resumed his watch on the bend in the gorge.
From the sentry, Dusty turned his gaze to the band’s hideout. What he saw filled him with a sense of suspicious contemplation. The small log cabin, with a lean-to at the left and a truck garden to the right, the barn, backhouse and the empty pig-pens down by the stream all looked in too good condition to have been deserted by their owners for any length of time. Dusty wondered what had happened to the people who had lived there.
On arriving at the front of the house, the men spread into a line. Giving the signal to dismount, Wightman swung from his saddle. Then he seemed to be struck by a thought and looked at Abel.
‘Will you and Brother Blocky go and see to the horses down in the south forty?’ the Parson asked. ‘I thought that I heard a mountain lion last night and they may be in fear and trembling from the beast.’
‘Sure, Parson,’ Abel answered, reversing his direction halfway to the ground. ‘Come on, Blocky. Let’s go see.’
‘And you, friend,’ Wightman continued, clearly wanting to prevent the scout from thinking too much about the order. ‘If you will come with me, we will secure your prisoner in the barn. You will understand
, that with Brother Aaron’s feelings about the God-less Secessionists, I can neither have him in the house, nor let him partake of our food.’
Even with his desire to hang on to Dusty, Wightman could not lessen his bigoted, intolerant hatred towards one of the people whom he blamed for failing to receive the bishopric. That thought more than any other had prompted his words.
‘It’s your place ’n’ your food,’ the scout answered, although he shared Dusty’s thoughts on the absence of the real owners. ‘Let’s go, Reb.’
Even as they walked towards the corner of the cabin, the scout realized that he had left Dusty’s gunbelt suspended over his saddle. Knowing that to fetch it might arouse suspicion, he made no attempt to do so.
A tall, fairly handsome young man, dressed in the part-military fashion of all the band but Wightman, ambled around the corner towards them. A low-tied holster on his right thigh carried an Army Colt, balanced by an empty sheath at his left hip. The knife from the sheath, a long, spear-pointed, double-edged weapon, was in his right hand. Not for any Sinister purpose, but to round the one-inch diameter end of a six-inch length of oak branch. From beyond the cabin came the explosive snorts and hoof-stampings of an angry horse, mingled with loud curses.
‘What’s happening, Charley?’ asked Wightman.
‘Ole Stap brung in a real fine-looking black hoss,’ the young man answered. ‘Trouble being, they ain’t getting on too good.’
‘Let’s take a look,’ Wightman suggested.
On turning the corner, Dusty received a shock. Behind the cabin, concealed from their view by it and the barn, was a small pole corral. At its open entrance, a big, burly young man—apparently a younger member of the Maxim family, clung to the reins of Dusty’s black stallion with his left hand. In his right, he held a leather quirt. Even as the man appeared, Stap lashed savagely at the stallion with the quirt. Squealing in pain, it reared high and its front hooves flailed the air. Stap moved back, trying to drag the horse down on all fours. Snarling obscenities, he drew the quirt over his right shoulder and prepared to use it again. If he heard the angry growl and sound of rapidly approaching feet to his rear, the sounds gave no warning of danger to him. However, something closed on the end of the quirt. Before Stap could resist, the whip was wrenched from his fingers.
Hot rage blasted inside Dusty at the sight. Ignoring the danger doing it presented, he hurled himself from among the other men. He had spent much time in winning the stallion’s confidence and training it by far gentler means than were usual in the mid-1860’s. In return for his kindness, the horse had given him very good service. Only the previous evening, it had even saved his life by its courage, stamina and speed. So he could not stand back and watch it abused by the foul-mouthed, brutal-faced guerilla.
Four racing strides carried Dusty within distance of Stap. Out stabbed the small Texan’s right hand. Gripping the lash of the quirt, he tore it from the other’s grasp and flung it aside. Spitting curses like boiling water erupting from a kettle’s spout, Stap released the stallion’s reins. Already drawing back, the big horse retreated into the corral. It’s tormentor swung around, glaring in almost maniacal rage. Finding himself faced by a small, insignificant-looking Rebel captain, Stap let out another screech.
‘I’ll kill you!’ he howled and hurled a power-packed round-house left towards Dusty’s head.
With his fist in flight, Stap became aware of a sudden, amazing, almost scaring change come over his proposed victim. Suddenly, miraculously, the Rebel stopped looking small. He seemed to take on a size and heft to make him larger and more powerful than his brawny assailant. Unfortunately for him, Stap noticed the change too late to halt his attack.
‘What the hell!’ Job bellowed as Dusty bounded towards his brother.
‘I’ll stop hi—!’ Aaron began, right hand dropping towards his revolver.
‘Let him go!’ growled Wightman, face alight with sadistic delight. ‘Your brother will smite him hip and thigh.’
Which seemed a reasonably logical conclusion, comparing the six inches difference in Dusty’s and Stap’s height and the latter’s considerable advantage of weight. Stap had a reputation for being a rough-house brawler, with better than fair skill in a brawl. For all his plans to ingratiate himself with General Buller at the Rebel captain’s expense, Wightman could not resist the temptation to watch one of the hated Secessionists receive a brutal beating. Even if the scout had told the truth about being followed by a Troop of Dragoons, the injuries inflicted by Stap could be explained away. There was, however, the matter of how the scout would react to the sight.
‘You saw how that Rebel filth attacked Brother Stapley without provocation, stranger?’ Wightman challenged, looking at the plainsman.
Before the scout could be forced to take a stand on the issue, Stap launched the attack—and they all received something of a shock.
Ducking under the punch, Dusty let the bigger man’s impetus bring him forward. Even as Stap realized that his antagonist had most unsportingly avoided the attack, he started to have troubles of his own. Bowing his legs to take him beneath the other’s fist, Dusty kept his right hand braced against the right hip. Like a flash, the small Texan struck back.
The manner in which Dusty held his hand might have looked strange to western eyes, but any student of Oriental karate could have warned Stap of the danger. Instead of closing his hand, Dusty bent his thumb across the open and upturned palm. Driven forward, with a slight twisting of the torso to increase their force, the extended fingers thrust into Stap’s solar plexus. To the guerilla, it felt as if he had been jabbed with a blunt spike of wood. Breath burst from his lips and he changed from advance to retreat, folding over. Coming down, the center of his face met with Dusty’s left fist as it rose in an occidental fashion. Dusty proved to be almost as effective when striking in the conventional manner.
Almost, but not quite. He had hoped to strike Stap on the jaw, which would have rendered the guerilla hors de combat, or so near to it as not to matter. Instead, the other’s withdrawal caused the fist to miss its mark. Not that Stap felt any gratitude over his good fortune. Plowing into Stap’s already unlovely nose, Dusty’s knuckles crushed it. The force of the blow lifted Stap erect. Blood gushed from his nostrils as he spun around twice and crashed back-first into the left side gate-post.
‘I saw him, for sure,’ admitted the scout, grinning maliciously. ‘Ain’t he the mean one?’
Once again the small, insignificant-seeming young Texan had won the scout’s respect by proving himself to be a mighty capable and efficient big man.
Shaking his head, to try to bring sense back into it, Stap reached for his Colt. In his pain and bewildered condition, he did not make anything like a flashing, well-performed draw. Allowing the gun to clear leather and begin to lift in his direction, Dusty lashed up his right leg. Coming inwards, the toe of his boot caught the back of Stap’s palm with a force that numbed the hand. Stap’s fingers opened and the gun spun away from him. For all that, he responded with some speed. Thrown from his daze by the agony of the kick, Stap focused his eyes on his assailant. Snarling barely coherent curses, Stap whipped across his left arm in a back-hand slap to Dusty’s head. Caught with his foot still descending from the kick, Dusty pitched sideways. Once more the small Texan lost his campaign hat.
‘Get him, Stap!’ screeched Charley excitedly, throwing the piece of wood down in front of him and waving the knife. ‘Stomp him good!’
Willing to carry out his companion’s advice, Stap thrust himself from the gate post. Although the Texan had not fallen, the slap had knocked him back several feet. He looked to be off balance and easy meat for reprisals. Eager to hand them out, Stap hurled himself after Dusty. Extending his arms, the guerilla’s big hands reached ready to take hold of the small Rebel.
By the time Stap had drawn near, Dusty was in full control of himself. Coming to a halt facing the guerilla, Dusty side-stepped at the last moment. Pivoting around as the other blundered on, the sm
all Texan caught him by the shoulder and turned him. Then Dusty demonstrated some of the fighting skill which the spy at Pine Bluff had doubted if he possessed. Smashing a right cross punch to Stap’s jaw, Dusty sent him backwards and kept him retreating with a battery of rapidly-thrown blows to the head and body.
‘The stinking peckerwood son-of-a-bitch!’ Aaron spat out, his gun still half drawn and allowed to remain that way because he had believed his brother could easily thrash the diminutive Rebel. ‘I’ll fix—’
‘Leave the gun be, Maxim!’ Wightman hissed savagely, clamping a hold on Aaron’s wrist as the other tried to complete the withdrawal. ‘Like I’ve been telling you, we need him alive!’
Twisting his head, Aaron stared briefly, but furiously, at the speaker. Then he swung his eyes away from the cold, savage, gaunt fate. Experience had taught the guerilla that his leader was never so dangerous, or determined to receive compliance with his wishes, than when he dropped the pious-sounding word ‘brother’ and began to use surnames. Some people might regard Parson Wightman’s pomposity and pseudo-religious cantings as harmlessly amusing, but Aaron knew him to be a cold-blooded killer with no scruples against taking even his own men’s lives if they crossed him.
So Aaron allowed the revolver to slip back into its holster and jerked his arm from the gaunt man’s grasp. Common-sense told Aaron that, even if Wightman did not stop him shooting the Texan, the long-haired scout would do it. There was another, almost equally effective way in which he might help his younger brother.
Driven backwards by Dusty’s fists, Stap literally did not know from where the next blow was coming. Instead of trying to anticipate the next point to be attacked and guarding it, his hands fled to the last place on which his assailant’s hard fists had impacted. Caught by an almost classic left jab to the jaw, he nearly ran rearwards to escape further punishment. To his horror, he saw that the enormous Texan was following with the clear intention of continuing the punishment.
