by J. T. Edson
Always assuming that the case ever saw trial, it would follow the course James suggested. More likely Wes would be killed on sight, as he, the doctor and Flip well knew.
So Wes felt the need for advice. Young, inexperienced in anything other than the handling of longhorn cattle or horses, he turned to the doctor in the absence of his father. ‘What’ll I do, Doc?’
‘Where’s your paw?’
‘Went over to Walt Caxton’s place yesterday, fixing to work, then hunt coon all night.’
‘Well, was I you, I’d get a’fork my hoss and fog over that way. Tell him all that happened and that you can rely on me to speak the truth when the time comes.’
‘And me!’ Flip affirmed grimly. ‘No stinking State Police skunk’ll make me lie about you, Wes.’
‘You’re going with him, boy!’ James growled. ‘They’ll blow your head off to stop you talking.’
‘A man could get killed having that happen,’ Flip said, trying to sound a whole heap more cheerful than he felt.
‘There’s one trouble,’ Wes remarked. ‘I’m not sure which way Pappy’ll come home. So I might miss him.’
‘Let me stick around here until he comes back, in case you do,’ Flip suggested. ‘I can tell him—’
‘No!’ Wes barked.
‘It’d be best,’ James answered. ‘You ride out, Wes. I’ll stay on here with Flip until your paw comes home. When Joel tells me what he figures’s best for you, I’ll send him after you.’
‘You stay put at the Caxton place until you hear from me,’ Flip finished.
‘It’ll be risky as all hell,’ Wes warned grimly.
‘Why sure,’ admitted Flip. ‘Only this’s not the safest game we ever sat in, no matter what way you call it.’
Although Wes tried to argue against Flip’s plan, the youngster proved adamant on it. So Wes gave up the attempt and made preparations for his departure. Swiftly he gathered such of his belongings as he might need during a protracted absence, packing his warbag and wrapping it in his bedroll. Aided by Flip, he saddled the bay and slid his Winchester rifle into the boot. With all ready, he mounted the horse and looked at his friend.
‘Don’t take fool chances, amigo,’ he warned, extending his hand.
‘You know me,’ grinned Flip.
‘That’s why I’m telling you,’ Wes replied and looked at James. ‘See you sometime, Doc—and thanks.’
‘Get going!’ James answered gruffly. ‘Get going, boy. Stay well clear of the town trail and you’ll be all right.’
Casting a long look at his home, Wes turned the bay’s head. Then he brought it to a halt.
‘You don’t reckon they’ll be coming out here after me, do you?’ he asked.
‘Last I saw of them, they were at the Pronghorn letting the barkeeper buy drinks for them,’ Flip replied.
‘I heard they were waiting for somebody, or something,’ James went on. ‘For more help, maybe. Knowing their kind, I don’t reckon they’ll do much afore morning. Go on, get riding.’
Partially satisfied, Wes started the horse moving again. He rode down the path, out of the gate and swung off through the trees. Watching him go, James let out a low sigh of relief. Wes knew the country like the back of his hand, far better than did any of the State Police. Given a head start, he should be able to get clear of the area.
Not that James expected any immediate pursuit. The State Police did not possess a reputation for diligence in the performance of their duties. Probably they would spend the night drinking, at the saloonkeeper’s expense, and not visit the Hardin place until morning.
‘Let’s get inside,’ James told Flip. ‘Say, do you play cribbage or checkers, boy?’
‘Checkers,’ grinned Flip. ‘We used to play out at the spread. Used Winchester and Sharps bullets for men.’
‘How’d you make kings?’ grinned the doctor as they entered the house.
‘Lay one over on its side. Trouble being that if anybody knocked the table you were like to wind up with all kings.’
Despite his carefree attitude, Flip proved to be a good checkers player and a worthy opponent even for a wily veteran like James. They became so engrossed in the game that neither paid any great attention to the time. Before either realized it, four hours had passed.
‘Lord! Is that the time?’ James growled, glancing at the wall clock. ‘No sign of Joel yet.’
‘Maybe Wes met him on the way,’ Flip suggested. ‘Reckon he’ll mind if I brew a pot of Arbuckle’s?’
‘Nope,’ the doctor answered. ‘And I could use a cup myself.’
Before Flip could carry out his intention of making a pot of coffee—at that time Arbuckle’s coffee was the most popular variety in the West—there came a dramatic interruption.
Something smashed against the window, shattering the glass and exploding into a ball of flames which fell into the room. Flip let out a startled yell and leapt to his feet. No less surprised, James flung his chair over and sprang from the tables while unsure of whether the house had been struck by lightning, or if some human agency had caused the fire, the doctor wasted no time in idle conjecture.
‘Grab something and try to douse it!’ he yelled.
With an awesome speed the fire spread, leaping at the dry walls and floor. Scooping up a bearskin rug from in front of the fireplace, Flip ran towards the blaze. James followed and stared at the conflagration. Sniffing the air, he caught a horribly familiar scent. Unless he missed his guess, the ball of fire which had tumbled into the room had been caused by igniting a mixture of benzole, crude petroleum, turpentine, coal oil and tar. The last time such a smell had come to his nostrils had been during the war, when under Yankee bombardment using the incendiary shells invented by Alfred Berney.
One thing the experience had taught James. No ordinary tactics would serve to douse a blaze caused by ‘Grecian-fire’, or ‘liquid damnation’ as the compound had been called. ‘Leave it, boy!’ he yelled. ‘Get the hell out of here!’
Four – A Dose of ‘Liquid Damnation’
The dozen men riding through the night in the direction of the Hardin house formed an average cross-section of State Police officers. Eight were Negroes, better dressed than most of their kind and armed with either Winchester or Sharps carbines and including in their number Spargo’s companion, Wally. None rode good quality horses, which might account for why they trailed along behind their white companions. Bringing up the rear, one of the Negroes led a packhorse which bore a stoutly-made pannier on either flank and with what, at first glance, appeared to be a five foot length of sturdy metal pipe securely fastened along the center of its saddle.
Ahead of the others, aloof and clearly in command, came a big, swarthily-handsome man. He wore a Union Army officer’s Burnside hat, without military decorations, an artillery captain’s jacket that hung open to show a tartan shirt, civilian riding breeches and shining boots. Although his holster had an open top, its ivory-handled Navy Colt pointed butt forward in the Army manner. Best mounted of all the party, Jim ‘Rocket’ Robbins rode in silence and grew increasingly annoyed at the continuous rumble of whiskey-inspired conversation behind him.
None of the remaining trio of white men looked the kind a self-respecting peace officer would accept as members of a posse. In less favorable times their type could be found idling around any big town. Avaricious, shunning work, they would willingly go along with any kind of devilment—whether it be a ‘workers’ riot or a lynch mob—that offered the chance of free drinks and loot. Mostly from the North, they supported—for want of a better word—the Union without caring a damn about the issues and causes of the war. Davis’ administration hired many such as coming cheaper and having less scruples than more able men.
At last a guffaw of louder laughter caused Robbins to twist around in his saddle and glare at the others.
‘Shut that row down!’ he snarled. ‘Do you want him to hear and run out before we get there?’
Instantly the chatter and laughter died away; although not for en
tirely the reason Robbins mentioned. Nudging his horse forward, a tall, gangling white man, with a face scarred by a bayonet while robbing the bodies after a battle, ranged alongside his leader and spoke in a voice hardly louder than a whisper.
‘Way that Negro who was with Spargo tells it, that Hardin kid’s real good with a gun.’
‘So?’ grunted Robbins.
‘So when you call him to come out and surrender, he’s more likely to come shooting than with his hands up.’
‘I’d say that’s more than likely, Mr. Skench,’ Robbins said. ‘It all depends.’
‘What on?’ Skench asked.
‘On whether we call for him to come out and surrender,’ replied Robbins, looking back in the direction of the packhorse. ‘Or whether we let old Spitter there do it for us.’
Following the direction of his leader’s gaze, Skench frowned. Then the other’s meaning became clear, although he showed little relief at the understanding.
‘You aim to try that f—’ Skench began, then remembered how Robbins picked up his nickname. So he rapidly rephrased the question. ‘So that’s why you brought it along?’
‘You didn’t reckon I’d be stupid enough to ride up to the front of the house and ask him to come out, did you?’
‘Well, I hadn’t thought much on it,’ Skench admitted frankly.
‘I have!’ stated Robbins. ‘Even if I was that stupid, young Hardin’s too smart to come out. I’ve heard what Wally said. Spargo was good with a gun and had it in his hand. But that Hardin kid still managed to draw and shoot him. One thing I do know. I’m not taking chances with anybody that good.’
‘How do we play it then?’
‘We’ll leave the horses on the main trail and go down to the house on foot, real quietly. Then after we’ve got the place surrounded, I’ll slap one into it, give ’em a dose of “liquid damnation” and you boys can start shooting as soon as he comes out.’
Doctor James had guessed correctly when saying he thought the State Police might be waiting for somebody. While Skench and the others felt they should avenge Spargo, they lacked the initiative to set about it. Left to their own devices, they would have spent the night drinking at the saloonkeeper’s expense in Bonham. Then Robbins arrived and applied the driving force of his personality to spur the others into action. His motives stemmed less from a desire for revenge, or sense of duty, than due to his seeing a heaven-sent opportunity to carry out part of the mission which brought him to Texas.
On reaching the point where the track to the Hardin house left the main trail, Robbins ordered his men to dismount and fasten their horses to the trees. Nobody questioned his right to command. Even the Negroes, normally surly and truculent when given orders by a white man, obeyed him. Working with the leader of the packhorse, two Negroes unloaded each pannier while he unfastened and shouldered the metal tube. With other Negroes carrying their burdened companions’ carbines, the party moved off along the path.
Ranging ahead of his companions, Robbins reached and studied the clearing. By the time the others arrived, he knew what he wanted doing and set about putting his plan into operation. Swiftly he deployed men to cover both sides and the rear of the building.
‘Looks like that other cowhand’s with him,’ Skench remarked, nodding to the two horses still fastened to the picket fence.
‘So much the better,’ Robbins answered. ‘We don’t want witnesses around who can tell what really happened in the sheriff’s office. Get going.’
‘Reckon there’re any dogs on the place?’
‘I’ve not seen nor heard them if there are. Go to it. We haven’t all night and the longer we wait, the more chance of somebody hearing us.’
‘Sure,’ Skench replied sullenly and slouched away.
Left to himself, Robbins turned and looked at the Negroes who had carried the packhorse’s load.
‘We’ll set up right here, Eli,’ he said.
‘Sure thing, Massa Rocket.’
Clearly Eli knew his business. Telling the others to put down the panniers and go to their places, he swung the tube from his shoulder. After resting one end on the ground, he unloosened a screw and let down a set of bipod legs fitted about three inches from the other end. Spiking the legs firmly into the soil, he moved back and raised what looked like an enlarged rifle rear-sight on top of the tube. Behind the sight the upper half of the tube had been cut away to leave a trough possibly a foot in length, its inner surface blackened as if by fire.
With that done, Eli walked across to the panniers, opened one and reached inside. He lifted out a cylinder seventeen inches long and with a diameter of three and a quarter inches, rounded at one end, but tapered to a brief truncated cone at the other. Carrying the object to the tube, he rested it on the trough and thrust the rounded end into the hole.
While Eli went about his work, Robbins stood studying the house. Licking a finger, the white man tested the wind for direction and gauged its velocity. Then he went to the panniers and lifted out a wooden box from which he took a piece of brass tube six inches long and no thicker than a man’s little finger. Anybody who had knowledge of ‘ground torpedoes’—landmines they would later be called—p might have recognized the object as a friction tube used for exploding the devices at a distance. At one end of the tube was the firing mechanism, a spring-held metal bar with a rasp-like surface to be dragged over and ignite the percussion mixture beneath it. Once lit, the mixture fired a compound of mealed gunpowder and spirit that in turn set off the main charge of the ‘torpedo’.
Sliding the tube into the vent at the base of the cylinder, Robbins clipped a lanyard from the box on to the eyelet of the friction bar. With that done, he paused and looked in a satisfied manner at the device on which he based his hopes for a prosperous future.
During the latter stages of the war, a British Army officer, Major Lion, arrived in the United States with an improved version of a very ancient weapon. Rockets had been used in battle by the Chinese long before the birth of Christ and received sporadic revivals through the ages. Already the Federal forces made use of the Congreve and Hale rockets, with varying success and favoring the latter. Known as the Hale Spin-Stabilized Rocket, it improved upon its predecessors by doing away with the troublesome guidance stick. Instead it relied upon a set of three metal vanes inserted behind the exhaust nozzle. These acted on the propellant gasses and, in theory, kept the rocket flying in the right direction.
While the Hale proved more successful, less inaccurate or dangerous than the stick-stabilized Congreve rocket, it possessed some of the other’s vices. However, Major Lion believed that his launcher answered the problem of ensuring that the missile started its flight in the required direction. He backed his beliefs to the extent of forming a rocket battery, of which Robbins became an early member and convert. Unfortunately the rockets did not show up any too well in field trials and so the battery received instead conventional six-pounder cannon.
Many of the battery’s members, particularly Robbins, regretted the decision and wished that they could have retained their original armament. After much study, thought and experimentation, Robbins concluded that Lion should have concentrated their efforts on the rockets’ incendiary role, leaving the shell and solid head to the more suitable cannon. However, improvements in artillery, along with the waning of the South’s ability to continue the fight, caused a lack of official support for making and perfecting the rockets. Then the war ended and prevented him from having an opportunity to prove his theories.
Mexico, torn apart by the struggle to free itself from foreign rule, seemed a likely field. However, the French under Maximillian showed no interest in rockets and the Mexicans, led by Juarez, might have used them but could not be trusted to pay for the privilege.
Next Robbins offered his services to the police departments of various Eastern cities. Despite a post-war increase in crime, all declined to hire an expensive expert on the odd chance that they might one day require his specialized ability to dislodge a
criminal barricaded in a building.
Unable to find employment in his own field, Robbins learned of the Texas State Police. Deciding they might be more amenable, he applied for enrolment. He possessed all the qualifications required by the adjutant general; the right kind of background, few scruples, sufficient money to purchase his horse, harness, badge and firearms—all supplied at something above their true value by contractors allegedly related to that important State official. So he found ready acceptance. Natural leaders came few and far between, especially men like Robbins who showed little concern with scooping up a major portion of any loot gathered. So he received the rank of captain. Although he brought along his rockets and a launcher, until that night the chance to use them had been denied him.
With the primer fixed, Robbins stepped behind the tube and looked at the house in a calculating manner. First he changed the height of the legs in a downwards direction, then adjusted the back sight’s eyepiece by moving it up the graduations marked on the bar.
Satisfied that he could not improve the launcher’s aim, he glanced impatiently around him. If his efforts ended in success, he would make certain that General Smethurst received all the details. Mention in a favorable report to Washington might result in a revised interest in rockets. In addition to being lighter and more easily transported than any cannon, the launcher cost much less to build, always an important factor when considering a new weapon in times of peace. Should the Army start using rockets again, Robbins hoped to be recalled and promoted to train soldiers in their use.
However, there was no point in his opening fire until the covering parties had taken their positions. No matter how good a shot he made, or how well the rocket worked, there would be little credit gained if young Hardin escaped.
‘They’s ready, Massa Rocket,’ Eli announced, having seen a wave of the hand from one of the men covering the left side of the building from the picket fence.
‘So am I!’ Robbins breathed, taking the end of the lanyard.
Moving back the full length of the lanyard, he knelt down to the right side of the launcher. For a moment he paused, then gave the lanyard a sharp tug at a downwards angle. With a slight rasping sound, the bar snapped over the percussion compound and he heard the faint hiss of the compressed, spirit-soaked powder igniting. Next came the louder sound as the rocket’s propellant charge took fire. Slowly at first the rocket slid farther into the launcher tube. Its pace increased as the slow-burning compound of niter, charcoal and sulfur, rammed firmly into the case by a powerful press, burned into the gas which thrust it forward. With a savage hiss it burst out of the muzzle, curving a shooting-star trail through the air in the direction of the house.
