Dusty Fog's Civil War 7

by J. T. Edson

  Watching Dusty read the document, Hoffinger wondered if there was any way in which the situation might yet be saved. Annoyance filled the chubby dude. Not so much at the failure to trick Dusty, although that rankled a little, but because he had made the mistake of under-estimating an opponent’s potential. To a man in Hoffinger’s profession, such a mistake was inexcusable.

  Hoffinger had started life as a petty thief, graduating to the more genteel status of confidence trickster by virtue of his native talents. A man by nature peace-loving, he had avoided active participation in the War. Hovering safely clear of the fighting, he had managed to garner a comfortable living. Circumstances, not unconnected with a supply-contracts swindle in the process of going wrong, made a change of scenery of vital importance. The western ‘hinter-lands’ had seemed the best choice when good fortune presented him with the chance of getting there and making money without too much work or risk.

  It had all begun when he learned that General Trumpeter had obtained permission to purchase remounts from the Pawnee Indians. Officers with considerable experience of conditions in Arkansas had warned that collecting the horses would be fraught with difficulties. In fact, the general consensus of military opinion had been that purchases from that source would be a waste of time and money, with the results not worth the cost. The unanimity of their views merely served to convince Trumpeter that he was right and he looked for a way to prove it.

  A keen student of human nature, Hoffinger felt that he knew how to deal with Trumpeter. By sycophantic agreement and professing ‘liberal’ leanings, the dude had convinced the general that he was the man most suitable to collect the horses. Hoffinger had suggested using a small escort, dressed in civilian clothes and backed by the fake document as a means of tricking any Rebel patrol which met them; although he had been glib enough to make it appear the idea came from Trumpeter. Seeing a way to prove the career-officers wrong, Trumpeter had needed little convincing. If a man like Hoffinger succeeded, the general figured that he would have a powerful weapon to wave in the faces of his critics.

  Patriotic fervor had not prompted Hoffinger’s actions. He had seen a way out of his difficulties and means to start a profitable career. Up until the meeting with Dusty Fog, everything had been satisfactory. As well as collecting the horses, he had made useful contacts and picked up some easily-sold merchandise. So he had hoped for further missions, with the Army paying his expenses and providing an escort to ensure his safety. At least they had on the first trip. He could not see there being others if he failed to deliver the horses.

  ‘This’s about what I’d figured it’d be,’ Dusty drawled, folding the paper and placing it with the other ‘authorization’ in his tunic’s inside pocket, ‘You’d show it to any Yankee officer who wouldn’t accept your “Society” story, I’d say.’

  ‘That is correct, sir,’ Hoffinger agreed. ‘I might have needed proof that we aren’t deserters or guerillas.’

  ‘Likely General Trumpeter reckoned if a civilian could bring in his horses, it’d show his men that us Rebs aren’t so all-fired tough or smart after all.’

  ‘I couldn’t say about that,’ Hoffinger answered tactfully.

  ‘Did you figure anybody’s fall for that story you told me?’

  ‘I’ve always found the more unlikely the story, if it is backed by documentary proof, the more likely it is to be accepted. You might have accepted it yourself if I’d thought to have the wagons turned to face west when we halted.’

  ‘Could be,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Not having pickets out helped your story, soldiers would have. I’d’ve thought twice before taking horses from civilians when they’d got what’d read in a Yankee newspaper like a real good reason for needing ’em.’

  ‘What’s in the wagons, Billy Jack?’ Red asked, seeing the sergeant-major ambling disconsolately towards them, a large buckskin bag trailing in his hand.

  ‘Food, bed-rolls ’n’ such in the first ’n’. I’ve had all their ammunition put on the hosses. T’other’s toting buffalo hides, Injun moccasins and such—’

  ‘They’re mine, Captain Fog!’ Hoffinger interrupted. ‘And so is that money—’

  ‘This here, Cap’n Dusty,’ Billy Jack went on, holding out the bag. ‘Found it hid in the second wagon.’

  ‘It’s mine!’ Hoffinger insisted. ‘All I have in the world. I staked all my savings on this collecting mission and that’s all that remains.’

  ‘Give it to him, Billy Jack,’ Dusty said. ‘We don’t rob civilians. Let’s go take a look at the horses.’

  Why not share a meal with us first, Captain?’ Hoffinger suggested. ‘We’ve enough food for you.’

  ‘Thanks for the offer,’ Dusty replied. ‘That’s what we’ll do.’

  During the meal, Hoffinger studied Dusty and revised his previous ideas. The earlier crude flattery had been aimed at a naive youngster holding rank by family influence. Now Hoffinger knew better. Young he might be, but the small Texan controlled those hard-bitten veterans by virtue of his personality and achievements.

  Looking around, Hoffinger noticed that the Texans continued performing their duties with the minimum of supervision. While he entertained the officers by the wagon carrying his property, Hoffinger saw Billy Jack and Kiowa seated talking amiably to Glock and Corporal Mullitz. Staring at the latter, Hoffinger felt the start of an idea. A long chance, maybe, but infinitely better than no chance at all. Quickly he turned back to his guests, not wanting them to become aware of his interest in Mullitz. During the rest of the meal, he put together the details of his scheme.

  ‘Thanks for the food, Mr. Hoffinger,’ Dusty said at last, coming to his feet. ‘Have the men get ready to pull out while I look at the horses, Cousin Red.’

  ‘They’re all good stock,’ Hoffinger put in. ‘Except for the bay stallion, that is. He won’t be any use to you.’

  ‘Why not?’ Red inquired with interest.

  ‘He was sent by a Pawnee chief as a gift for General Trumpeter. But I fear that he is unmanageable.’

  ‘I’ve yet to see the horse that couldn’t be managed,’ Red remarked.

  ‘This one can’t,’ Hoffinger stated before Dusty could speak. ‘In fact I’m willing to bet that you haven’t a man here who can saddle and ride it, even though the chief assured me it had been saddle-broke and one of his men rode it in from the tribe’s horse-herd.’

  ‘You’d bet on it?’ Dusty asked quietly.

  ‘I would, sir. And I have a thousand dollars in gold to back my words.’

  ‘A thousand dollars,’ Dusty said. ‘Against what?’

  ‘The remounts,’ Hoffinger told him.

  ‘That’s a right sporting bet!’ Red snorted. ‘The hosses’re worth more than a thousand dollars.’

  ‘True,’ Hoffinger replied. ‘But I have seen the horse ridden and feel that I should be given odds.’

  ‘The hell—!’ Red started hotly.

  ‘He’s right,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘If that chief told the truth, he should have the odds. So if Mr. Hoffinger fetches out that thousand dollars, I’ll take his bet and give it a whirl.’

  Hoffinger held down the delight he felt at Dusty falling into the trap. He did not doubt that the bet would be honored and, considering how the horse had acted when his men tried to saddle it, was sure that Dusty would fail.

  ‘The money’s in my hand, sir,’ Hoffinger said, holding out the bag. ‘Mr. Blaze will be acceptable to me as stake-holder.’

  ‘We’ll let Sergeant-major Glock help him,’ Dusty answered. ‘Red, tell Sandy to fetch over my saddle while I take a look at the horse.’

  Leaving Red to attend to the details, Dusty went to where the bay was tethered. Swinging to face him, it backed off until halted by the rope. Ears pricked and nostrils flaring, it exhibited a nervousness which increased as Sandy McGraw came up carrying Dusty’s saddle, saddle-blanket and bridle. A jingle from the latter’s bit brought a louder snort and the horse reared as high as the picket rope would let it.

 
; ‘Put the blanket and saddle down, Sandy,’ Dusty ordered in a quiet, gentle voice. ‘And take the bridle away with you.’

  The guidon-carrier obeyed and as he retired, Billy Jack passed him walking with greater than usual speed.

  ‘Hear tell you’ve bet you can ride that hoss, Cap’n Dusty,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Got to talking to Fritz Glock about it just now. He reckons the Pawnee Chief they got it off allowed it’d been three-saddled. Only neither him nor Joe Mullitz’ve managed to get a saddle on its back or bit in its mouth.’

  ‘Sounds bad,’ Dusty drawled, knowing that ‘three-saddled’ meant the horse had been ridden at least three times by the man breaking it.

  ‘Don’t you sell ’em short. They’re both thirty-year men and trained as cavalry afore the War. Mullitz was a riding instructor back East.’

  ‘Did he ever serve out West?’

  ‘Neither him nor Fritz from what they told us.’

  ‘That figures,’ Dusty said cryptically. ‘Let’s see if I can win that bet.’

  ‘Ole Devil’ll have your hide if you lose!’ Billy Jack wailed and, for once, his concern was not entirely assumed, for he knew the stakes of the wager.

  ‘Likely,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Tell Glock’s men I figure the New Hampstead Volunteers’re sporting enough not to make fuss and spoil my chance.’

  ‘Sure,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘And in case they ain’t sporting enough, I’ll have ’em watched real good.’

  Turning his attention to the horse once more, Dusty noticed that its nervousness had died slightly with the removal of the jingling bridle. As he expected, it had on an Indian hackamore and not a U.S. Army halter. The chief difference was that the former had reins attached to a bosal—a rawhide loop fitted around the face just above the mouth—instead of a lead-rope.

  Although Sandy had removed Dusty’s bed-roll and saber on hearing of the bet, he had left the rope strapped to the saddle horn. Taking it, Dusty walked slowly towards the horse. Snorting and pawing the ground, it watched him suspiciously. All the time, he kept up a flow of soft-spoken, soothing talk. With the picket rope knotted to the bosal, he could not flip his loop over the bay’s head. Instead he slid the stem of his Manila rope across the top of its neck. Catching the end of the stem underneath the neck, ho quickly formed a running noose and drew it tight.

  Naturally the news of the bet had attracted considerable attention. Recalling their non-coms’ experiences with the bay, Glock’s men waited to see how Dusty would fare. Equally interested, the Texans kept clear of their prisoners and remained alert for trouble. Neither Red nor Billy Jack looked too happy about the affair, being aware of what might happen to Dusty should he lose.

  A smile played on Hoffinger’s lips as he watched the rope tighten about the horse’s neck. Then it wavered and died. Instead of fighting to tear free, the bay stood still. Keeping the rope taut, Dusty backed until he could pick up his saddle and blanket. Still moving unhurriedly, he returned with them in his hand. The horse let out another snort, yet did not fight against the rope. Up close, Dusty set down his saddle. Then he caressed the bay’s head with his hands, stroking its nostrils and eyes before taking hold of the head-piece of the bosal. Keeping the head steady, he leaned forward and began to blow into its flaring nostrils.

  ‘What’s he do—!’ Hoffinger yelped, the words ending as Red rammed an elbow into his ribs.

  ‘You try yelling to spook the hoss again,’ Red growled in a low, savage tone, ‘and I’ll raise lumps all over your pumpkin head with my Colt’s butt.’

  Knowing that his escort meant to carry out the threat, Hoffinger lapsed into silence. Yet, to give him his due, surprise rather than any foul motive had caused the outburst. He had been amazed by the bay’s lack of resistance and at Dusty’s actions.

  After standing by the horse’s head for a short time, Dusty took up his saddle. Anticipation bit at Hoffinger, mingled with the thought that something was wrong. Not until Dusty had slid the folded blanket into place did the dude realize what it was. With growing delight, he saw that the small Texan was standing on the right side of the horse instead of at the left. Yet the bay showed none of its usual objections to either the blanket or the saddle, despite the change of procedure. Not even the adjustment of the girths about its belly provoked the kind of savage protests which had met attempts by Glock or Mullitz to saddle it. Instead it stood quietly and allowed Dusty to unfasten the picket-rope from the bosal.

  ‘He’s not using a bridle or bit!’ Hoffinger croaked, watching Dusty slip his right foot into the stirrup iron and swing astride the bay.

  ‘Danged if he’s not forgot,’ grinned Red, knowing that the bosal served as a bit and beginning to realize why Dusty had accepted the bet.

  Settling on the saddle, Dusty felt the horse tense itself between his legs. Gripping the reins in his right hand, he cautiously freed his rope. A nudge with his heels sent the bay off in a long ‘straightaway’ buck. Although it sailed high, it came down without twisting, whirling or the dangerous powerful hindquarter’s kick that could drive the base of the rider’s spine against the cantle of the saddle. Performed without the refinements, bucking straightaway posed no problems for a man with Dusty’s skill. In fact he soon realized that his mount was doing no more than try him out. It continued to crow-hop for a short time. The see-saw motion of the bucking looked spectacular, but required little effort to ride out. Nor did it sustain the fight and it soon began to respond to the messages of the reins.

  ‘I—I don’t believe it!’ Hoffinger croaked as Dusty rode towards him.

  At the same time, the dude knew that his last chance had gone. Even the hope that his escort would take advantage of their captors’ preoccupation, jump and overcome them, did not materialize. All Glock’s men sat under guard, staring with open-mouthed amazement and apparently frozen into immobility by the ease with which the small Texan had mastered the hitherto unmanageable stallion.

  ‘My bet, I reckon,’ Dusty drawled, halting the horse. Swinging his left leg forward and over the saddle horn, he dropped to the ground at the bay’s right side. ‘Sandy, put my rig back on the black.’

  ‘And see you take it off the bay from the Indian-side,’ Red advised, grinning as he took the bag of money from Glock’s limp hand.

  ‘Indian-side?’ Hoffinger repeated.

  ‘Why sure,’ Dusty said. ‘Didn’t you fellers notice that the Indians always saddle-up and mount from the right, instead of at the left like white folks?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Hoffinger began. ‘From the ri— But that means—’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Dusty. ‘Every time your men tried to saddle it from the left, they spooked it. Trying to use a bit made things worse. Indians don’t use ’em.’

  ‘Way you took on,’ Red continued, ‘I reckon you figured Dusty’d rile it up by putting a rope ‘round its neck.’

  ‘I did,’ Hoffinger admitted, surprised to learn that the youngster had read his emotions so well.

  ‘An Indian breaks his horse by roping it and choking it down,’ Red explained. ‘That’s rough on the horse and after he’s felt it a couple of times he learns better’n fight against a running noose. After the horse gets over being choked down, the Injun fusses it a mite and blows into its nostrils. Damned if I know why, but doing that quietens it down and lets him know the feller doing it’s his friend.’

  ‘You still took a risk, Captain Fog,’ Hoffinger pointed out. ‘Even counting on us not knowing which side to saddle and mount from, the Pawnee chief could have been lying about it being fully saddle-broken.’

  ‘Indians don’t do a heap of lying,’ Dusty answered. ‘And I figured it was near on certain he hadn’t, the bay being a chief’s gift for General Trumpeter.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I still don’t understand.’

  ‘Figure it this way. That chief’s got plenty of horses to sell and’s likely getting a better price from you than he could any other place—’

  ‘The price is adequate, I admit, but I still
don’t follow your reasoning.’

  ‘It’s easy enough,’ Dusty told him. ‘The chief wants to keep General Trumpeter friendly and eager to buy more horses. So he sends along a gift. Now he doesn’t know how good a rider the general is, so he figures not to take chances. The horse he picks looks good, has some spirit, but’s real easy and gentle to ride. That’s the way I saw it and reckoned I could win the bet easy. The South can use a thousand dollars in Yankee gold, only I couldn’t take it from a civilian by force, now could I?’

  ‘Well, I’m damned!’ Hoffinger croaked. ‘You’ve slickered me, Captain Fog!’

  ‘They do say it’s hell when it happens to you,’ Dusty replied with a grin. ‘I want to pull out in fifteen minutes, Cousin Red.’

  ‘Yo!’ Red replied and walked away grinning.

  Once again Cousin Dusty had pulled it off. Sure Red and Billy Jack knew how Indians trained and mounted their horses; but neither of them had thought out a way to put their knowledge to use. Dusty had done so and gained a large sum of money for which the Confederate States’ Secret Service could probably find a purpose. What was more, he had done it in a way which the Yankee newspapers could not call robbing a civilian. Glock and the others were sure to talk of the bet on their return and would be believed no matter how the Union tried to prevent it.

  In fifteen minutes, the Company was ready to march. Smiling, Hoffinger held out his hand to the small Texan who had bested him.

  ‘I hope General Trumpeter’s not too riled at you for losing the remounts,’ Dusty said, shaking hands. ‘Tell him from me that we’ll likely need them in our retreat across the Red River.’

  ‘That’s one excuse I won’t use,’ chuckled Hoffinger. ‘I feel that by now he will be very touchy when that particular stream is mentioned. Good-bye, Captain Fog. With no disrespect, sir, I hope our paths don’t cross again.’

  ‘They might if you try to fetch in more of these remounts,’ Dusty warned.

  ‘That is a remote contingency, sir,’ Hoffinger sighed. ‘My continued employment depended on delivering this bunch.’