by J. T. Edson
Coming face to face with the scout and the Rebel captain handed all four men a bad shock. Wightman felt it more than the other three. All the vicious, barely controllable temper that had cost him his hopes of a bishopric boiled up in a seething blast.
At last Wightman knew for sure that he had been tricked. The scout’s actions proved that no Troop of Dragoons were following on his trail. Instead, he had lied to save his neck—and to keep them from laying hands on the hated Secessionist.
On a Secessionist scum!
Why would any Yankee scout take such a desperate chance to save an enemy?
In his almost maniacal thrust of fury, Wightman sprang to what appeared to be the only answer.
That was no scout employed by the Union Army, but a Confederate spy in disguise. A lousy, stinking peckerwood agent. clad in the dress of a Federal supporter. There could be no other explanation—and only one way to treat the answer.
‘Cursed be all traitors!’ Parson Wightman bellowed, reaching for his gun; an example followed by his three companions.
Down lashed two guerilla hands, while a third went from right to left, and Gustav tried to bring his rifle into line.
Starting at the same instant, Dusty and the scout commenced their draws. Flashing across, Dusty’s hands curled around the bone handles of his Army Colts. Turning palms outwards, the scout wrapped his fingers about the ivory grips of his matched Navies. The .44 caliber revolvers cleared Dusty’s holsters slightly ahead of the .36 handguns leaving the longhaired scout’s silk sash. Swinging into alignment at waist level, Dusty’s weapons made a single crash; to be echoed by the lighter, more ragged twin bark of his companion’s armament.
Hit twice in the head, Wightman fell with his Navy Colt still not clear of leather. Caught in the withering blast of gun-fire, the man to his right and left sides joined him in crashing to the ground.
Stunned by the shattering holocaust of doom that had ripped into his companions, Charley froze with his gun barely above the lip of his holster. He wanted to scream for mercy, but the chance to do so did not come. Cocking his guns as their barrels rose and fell, the scout turned the right hand weapon and squeezed its trigger. The 140 grains of conical lead spiked into Charley’s throat and ripped apart his jugular vein. Gagging hoarsely, the young man spun around. Blood spurted from the ruptured flesh as he tumbled across the bodies of Herbert and Wightman.
‘Come on!’ Dusty snapped. ‘Let’s go, pron—!’
Flying from the direction of the cabin, a bullet spun the hat from the scout’s head. As they started to swivel around, Dusty and the scout saw the three Maxim brothers fanning out from the house. Stap had fired the shot, aiming it at Dusty. With his eyes swollen to two puffy slits by the small Texan’s earlier attack, the youngest brother could not line his sights as well as usual; especially when he wanted to shoot in a hurry. So his lead missed its mark and warned their prospective victims of the danger.
Alerted to the brothers’ presence, Dusty and the scout realized which of them would be the greatest danger. Swaying slightly, for the effects of the stick’s impact on his temple had not fully departed, Aaron flung a twin-barreled, ten-gauge shotgun to his shoulder. Hobbling painfully and suffering a sensation like having two red-hot six-pounder cannonballs between his thighs, Job brought up a Sharps carbine. Each of the weapons slanted in Dusty’s direction. Seeing that he had been selected as the mark for both brothers, Dusty flung himself away from the scout. He saw the brothers trying to correct their alignment, then flame and smoke burst from their weapons. With an ear-splitting crack, the carbine’s heavy-caliber bullet passed a foot above Dusty’s head. An instant later, he heard the sibilant hissing as buckshot balls went by. In later years, Dusty would always swear that three of the shotgun’s nine .32 pellets made a triangle around his upper body.
So intent were the brothers on avenging themselves upon the man who had caused them severe grief that they ignored the scout. Left free from their attentions, he took full advantage of his chances. Right, left, right, left. Four times his Navy Colts spat, held at shoulder level so that he could use their sights. What excellent purpose he put them to showed as Aaron stumbled and dropped the carbine, while Job twisted in a circle, sending the charge from the second barrel harmlessly into the side of the cabin. Bleeding from a hole in his chest and another between the eyes, Job crumpled like a pole-axed steer. Clutching at his stomach, with agony twisting his surly features into hideous lines, Aaron sank to his knees.
Oblivious of his brother’s fate, Spat plunged towards Dusty. Three times the youngest brother’s revolver banged, but without any bullet taking effect. Thinking of the murdered family, Dusty did not hesitate with his response. Ramming down his forward foot, he brought himself to a stop. Lifting to waist level, the Army Colts bellowed an answer to Spat’s challenge. Dusty shot the only way possible under the circumstances, to obtain an instant kill—and he succeeded admirably. Where Spat’s eyes had been, two gaping holes blossomed as if by magic. A corpse hurtled through the air for a moment before landing on its back.
Still Aaron was not finished. Knowing that he must die a painful death, he made a final attempt to take at least one of his enemies with him. Withdrawing his gore-smeared right hand, he clawed the revolver from its holster. Before he could use it, two balls from the scout’s Navy Colts struck him in the head.
‘That finished them,’ said the scout, returning his weapons to the silk sash. ‘We might’s well move off.’
‘Just might as well,’ Dusty agreed and holstered his Colts. They turned just in time. With their thoughts fixed on the same matter, they had almost forgotten that two other members of the guerilla band remained alive and at liberty. Looking over the corral, with the three waiting horses, at the slope, they received an unpleasant reminder.
Returning with the news that no soldiers were in the vicinity, Abel Maxim and Blocky had heard the shooting. So they had left their horses ground-hitched and, rifles in hand, advanced on foot. They had come on the scene too late to save any of their companions, or to take the Texan and the scout by surprise.
‘Get ’em!’ Blocky yelled, dropping his right knee to the ground and thrusting the Spencer’s butt against his right shoulder.
Being armed with a muzzle-loading Mississippi rifle, Abel elected to remain on his feet. By doing so, he could reload much faster than when kneeling or prone. Unlike his brothers, he did not allow hatred of the small Rebel to override common-sense. Nor did Blocky. They selected the most dangerous target and at that moment it was not the gray-uniformed captain.
With the two guerillas something like a hundred and fifty yards away, the scout knew his Navy Colts were of no use. So he flung himself forward, racing in a zigzag course to where his Henry rifle swung in its boot from the dun gelding’s saddle.
Watching the two men on the rim, Dusty guessed at their intentions, Instead of following the scout, he sent his left hand flashing across to draw its Colt and dropped to the ground. Breaking his fall with his right hand, he lowered his stomach until it rested on the soil. Pointing his body directly at the target, he extended both arms and placed his right hand under the Colt’s butt. With his chin resting on the left deltoid muscle, his left eye looked along the outstretched gun-arm. It was a position permitting a man with Dusty’s ability to shoot accurately almost to the longest limits of the revolver’s load. Like the guerillas, he made his choice of target on the basis of which man posed the greater threat.
Pressing the trigger, Dusty felt the Colt’s recoil-kick tilt the barrel upwards. Through the swirling powder smoke, he saw the hat jerk off Blocky’s head. Coming so unexpectedly, the bullet made the man rock backwards in alarm just as his forefinger carried the Spencer’s trigger to the firing position. The heavy repeating rifle bellowed, but its barrel slanted into the air. Caught by the recoil thrust, Blocky over-balanced. Dropping his weapon, he threw his hands behind him to lessen the force of his fall.
On Abel’s Mississippi rifle banging, a hank of t
awny hair flew from the left side of the scout’s head. Only the fact that he was taking rapid evasive action saved him from a worse injury. Plunging forward the last few feet, he grabbed the wrist of the Henry’s butt. A jerk tore the medicine boot free and, swinging the rifle to the right, he flung the buckskin covering from it. With that done, he snapped the weapon towards the firing position.
‘Load it!’ Dusty roared, suddenly remembering that he had emptied the Henry’s chamber that morning.
After shooting, Abel dropped the rifle’s butt to the ground. He had come to the rim ready for trouble, having collected his powder horn and bullet-pouch from his saddlebags on hearing the commotion at the farm. While reaching for the horn, he saw the effect of Dusty’s long-range shot. Showing no interest in Blocky’s welfare, Abel let the muzzle-loader fall and snatched up the metal-cartridge repeater. Hooking his fingers into the trigger-guard-lever, he thrust it down to eject the empty cartridge case.
Hearing Dusty’s yell, the scout understood its meaning. In a blurring movement, he sent the mechanism through its loading cycle and took his aim. Twice the Henry spurted white puffs of powder smoke, the lever flickering down and up between the detonations. On each discharge, Abel’s body jolted. The Spencer’s barrel sank downwards. Stumbling around in a circle, the last of the brothers passed over the rim and came rolling down the slope.
Twirling himself around, Blocky rump-bounced out of sight of the two men by the buildings. Once sure they could not lay their sights on him, he rose and ran to the waiting horses. Swinging afork his mount, he grabbed the reins of Abel’s. Riding the animals in a half circle, he headed away from the valley as fast as he could make them run.
‘I’d say that’s the last,’ Dusty remarked, standing up and holstering his Colt.
‘And good riddance to ’em,’ the Scout replied, lowering the Henry.
‘We’d best just go and make sure none of them’re left alive,’ Dusty suggested as the scout collected his medicine boot.
With his Henry once more hanging from the dun’s saddle, the scout accompanied Dusty around the bodies. And bodies they were, for not one of Wightman’s band—except for the fleeing Blocky—remained alive.
Returning to their horses, Dusty and the scout looked at each other. They each had the same thought in mind again and this time the scout put it into words.
‘Which of us’s who’s prisoner now, Cap’n?’
There, if either of them cared to force the issue, was a mighty tough point. While their experience when faced by Wightman and the three guerillas had proved Dusty to be the faster on the draw, both knew that he could not get off a shot in time to prevent the scout from throwing lead at him. So, should they make a face-to-face issue of it, both might easily be killed.
That point aside, each had saved the other’s life at least twice since they first met. Their eyes met and each knew that the other felt they should forget the War at that moment. Maybe they would meet on the field of battle in the future, but that would be different. Right now there was too much between them for either to desire the other dead or a captive.
‘What say we call it a stand-off?’ Dusty suggested. ‘We’ll go our ways and figure we’d never met.’
‘I’m for that,’ enthused the scout and offered his right hand. ‘Know something, Cap’n? I don’t know your name.’
‘Dusty Fog,’ the small Texan introduced, shaking hands. ‘And I don’t know your’s.’
‘It’s James Butler Hickok,’ answered the scout. ‘Only that’s a mite fancy. Folks mostly call me “Wild Bill”.’
Author’s Note
Dusty and Hickok did not meet again on the field of battle. Having no desire to do so, the scout had reported to Buller’s headquarters in Little Rock and announced his intention of returning to the East to rejoin his pard, California Bill. With other things on their mind Buller’s staff raised no objections. In the years that followed, Dusty’s and Hickok’s paths would cross; but the scout ensured that their interests never clashed.
Kiowa and Vern Hassle reached their destinations in safety, delivering the warnings. Then they rejoined their captain, who had also made good his escape from the Union-held territory. Dusty had called the play correctly in his assumption that the ‘tin-clad’ would be the rocket battery’s first objectives. Due to the warning they had received, the riverboats were ready to counter such an attack. On its meeting with the Georgia, the battery’s commanding officer went ahead with his preconceived plot. Expecting the Rebel’s ship’s crew to mistake his men for a cavalry patrol, he had given the order to go into action. The captain of the Georgia had identified the battery and proved to have taken precautions. At some expense in sweat and effort, improvised mountings had been fitted so that all four Williams Rapid Fire cannon could be carried on the side facing the Yankee bank of the river. Each gun had a crew capable of producing its maximum rate of sixty-five one-pound, 1.75 inch rounds a minute. Caught in a hail of such fire, the battery’s commander died and it suffered heavy losses in men and horses. After taking such a mauling, the remnants of the ill-fated outfit were sent East to refit. It was equipped with cannon instead of rockets, and never returned to the Arkansas battlefront.
Part Two – A Convention of War
One o’clock in the morning!
After an hour on sentry duty, Private Alberto Genaro stood and glowered bitterly at the distant, unlit rows of tents. Beneath their shelter, most other members of his field artillery battery would be sleeping in as much comfort as they could devise while bivouacked on the hard Arkansas countryside. Even the rest of the guard, with the exception of Dutchy Kruger over by the horse-lines, were almost certainly wrapped in their blankets and snoring like pigs.
Not poor old Genaro though.
He had to stand his guard between midnight and four a.m.; the most miserable and depressing tour of duty any soldier ever faced.
Hell! It all seemed so damned pointless, too.
Earlier in the night, the lights of Little Rock could have been seen glowing, a mile to the south at most, beyond the valley of the Arkansas River. By continuing their journey for another ninety minutes or so, the battery could have been bedded down in comfort and with solid roofs above their heads. Instead of pushing on, Captain Luxton had insisted that they halted before sun-down and made camp in the open air.
So then what had happened?
Poor old Genaro, armed with a short artillery sword and a Springfield carbine, wound up roaming among the parked vehicles and pieces of the battery during that part of the night when all sensible people were in bed.
Performing his duty under the prevailing conditions struck Genaro as both stupid and futile. Between the battery’s current location and the Ouachita River—with the Rebels over on its western bank—lay a good eighty miles of Union-held territory. In the unlikely event of a Confederate cavalry patrol penetrating so far they would be disinclined concern themselves with a field artillery battery’s six 12-pounder gun-howitzers, caissons, limbers, battery-wagon and travelling forge. With the Arkansas, Saline and Ouachita Rivers to cross before reaching safety, the gray-clad raiders would search for loot of greater portability.
So, to Genaro’s way of thinking, there was no danger to the battery and walking the guard served only to deprive him of well-earned rest. There could not, he concluded as he leaned his carbine against the wheel of a Napoleon and fumbled in his pockets for a cigarette, possibly be any Rebels closer than the disarmed population of Little Rock.
Which only were to prove how little Genaro knew of the true state of affairs in his immediate vicinity.
Having left their horses in the care of their companions a full mile to the north, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry and his Company’s sergeant major now crouched in a hollow not more than thirty feet from the disinterested Yankee sentry.
Moving in on foot through the darkness, they had taken advantage of Genaro’s indifferent patrol to crawl that close undetected. Concealed in the s
hallow depression, they knew that approaching any nearer without being located would be difficult, if not impossible. Then, as if wishing to assist the Confederate cause, the Yankee artilleryman had obligingly presented them with an opportunity of silencing him. The watching Rebels could be counted on to make the most of such a chance.
Lean as a poorly-nourished bean-pole, Sergeant Major Billy Jack topped a six foot length with close-cropped black hair and a thin, careworn, anxious cast of features above a prominent Adam’s apple. He presented such a lugubrious appearance that the first sight of the ‘V’-shaped triple bars and arc of silk denoting his rank came as a surprise. Bareheaded, he wore a cadet-gray, waist-long tunic and tight, yellow-striped breeches ending in knee-high boots. Around his middle hung a wide gunbelt carrying two walnut-handled 1860 Army Colts in open-topped holsters tied low to his thighs. In his hands, he held a fifty-foot length of three-strand, hard-plaited Manila rope specially prepared for his needs.
At Billy Jack’s side lay a young man fast building a name for himself on the Arkansas battle-front; first coming into prominence by his bravery and ability while leading a cavalry charge that many of the combatants claimed had turned the course of the battle at Mark’s Mill in the South’s favor.
As yet the Yankees did not know Dusty Fog so well as they would come to when he attended a Federal court-martial to give evidence on behalf of a Union Army lieutenant falsely accused of cowardice. xiii To save Lieutenant Kirby Cogshill’s life, xiv Dusty Fog would have to endanger his own and would be compelled to kill General Buller in a duel the commander of the Union Army of Arkansas forced upon him. Then Dusty would so be-devil Buller’s successor that General Horace Trumpeter would place a bounty on the young Texan’s head with tragic—and for the general, fatal—results. xv
