by J. T. Edson
‘That’s was sure beautiful to hear,’ chuckled one of the privates. ‘It’ll be a real pity to waste you on them prison-camps’ guards.’
‘Danged if I ain’t pleased to be going to one,’ Hassle answered, rubbing his hips. ‘Trouble being, I’ve drawed on next month’s pay and t’wouldn’t be right not to go back and work it out.’
‘Don’t see as you’ve any other choice, pop,’ the Yankee corporal said, letting the barrel of his Colt dangle downwards and shaking Hassle’s gunbelt.
Still rubbing at his sides, the old timer moved his hands behind his back in a casual-seeming manner.
‘Could argue about that, son,’ he said and the right hand appeared holding the second of his revolvers which had been tucked into the back of his breeches. Cocking the hammer, he threw down on the other two-bar and continued, ‘Let it drop peaceable. I’m mortal bound to dee-cline your offer.’
‘And I’m here to see he gets that chance!’ Sandy McGraw announced, rising from the top of the slope with Dusty’s Henry rifle aimed at the Yankee privates.
Staring into the muzzle of the old Dragoon Colt, the Yankee corporal stood still. Before he could line his revolver, the Dragoon would put lead into him. He flickered a glance and estimated the rest of the patrol were too far away to hear the sound of shooting over the thunder of their horses’ hooves. Then he looked at his companions. Faced with a Henry repeater, they showed no inclination to take chances.
All of the trio had served long enough in Arkansas to know of the Texas Light Cavalry’s skill with firearms and chivalrous treatment of prisoners. Deciding that they would be killed if they resisted, but released unharmed should they surrender, they followed the sensible course. Letting his revolver and Hassle’s gun-belt drop to the ground, the corporal joined his companions in raising their arms.
‘I reckon we’ve been slickered,’ the corporal said, eyeing Hassle with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. ‘Now what?’
‘Soon’s we’ve took your guns, you boys can get going,’ the old timer replied. We wouldn’t want you to be toting all that extry weight while you’re walking—Which you will be. We’ll be needing your hosses.’
‘So’ll you be walking, for a long spell, happen Cap’n Dusty gets to know what you called him,’ Sandy declared, feeling relieved.
If the ruse had failed, he would have started shooting in an attempt at preventing the patrol from crossing the rim. So would Vern, while Dusty turned and charged to the attack, In that event, their chances of survival would have been slight.
Holding his black stallion to a gallop, Dusty turned in the saddle to see if his scheme was working. To his satisfaction, he found that the second portion of the patrol had swung off the ridge and were coming after him. That meant they had not reached the top, or seen Kiowa leading Rose and Hoffinger to safety. With only three men guarding him—and not doing a very good job of it—wily old Vern Hassle ought to escape, backed by Sandy and the Henry. Dusty knew that he could rely on the two corporals not to make their move too early.
Much as he would have liked to watch until Hassle escaped, Dusty faced the front and concentrated on the work at hand. The horse he rode had speed, endurance and was in the peak of condition. While making his arrangements, he had transferred every piece of equipment to the second of his relay, retaining only the clothes he wore and his gunbelt to add weight to his saddle. Being lighter than the majority of his pursuers, a superior rider to them all and far better mounted, he felt sure that he could eventually leave the Yankees behind.
However, he must not do so too quickly. First he had to lure them well clear of his companions. That would call for careful judgment, keeping close enough to encourage them to continue the chase, yet at a distance where they would be unlikely to hit him with their revolvers. Also he must try to nurse his horse so that it kept something in reserve in case of emergency.
From the cracking of shots that mingled with the drumming of hooves from behind him, Dusty concluded that some of the Yankees were trying to hit him. None of the bullets came close enough for him to be aware of their passing and he had no intention of returning the fire.
After covering about a mile, Dusty twisted cautiously around. Without disturbing his balance on the black’s back, he studied his pursuers. Already the two sections had mixed together, which meant those from the rear party had driven their mounts extra-hard to catch up. The gap between Dusty and the leaders remained about the same, but the rest were beginning to string out. Poorer riders and weaker horses were already feeling the strain.
‘Keep coming, you Yankee gentlemen!’ Dusty gritted, turning forward. ‘The further you follow me, the better Mrs.—no, she said I could call her “Rose”—the better her chances.’
Koebel for one had no thought of calling off the pursuit. Raking with his spurs, he goaded his lathered mount to greater efforts. Anxiety gnawed at him as he passed among the sergeant’s party. He hoped that none of the shots being fired would hit the Texan before he had assumed command once more. Avid for the prestige, and promotion, that would come from carrying out Trumpeter’s unusual order, he gave no thought to the strain he was imposing upon his horse. Instead he forced it to stride out faster. Man after man fell behind him and at last he ranged himself alongside his sergeant. Glancing over his shoulder, the noncom stiffened as he recognized the officer.
What’s up?’ the sergeant demanded, starting to rein in and wondering if they had fallen into a trap, with a large force of Texas Light Cavalry following to spring it on them.
‘Keep going!’ Koebel yelled back. ‘Get him. It’s Dusty Fog!’ Which explained almost everything, particularly the officer’s display of frenzied eagerness, to the experienced non-com. Trumpeter’s order regarding Dusty Fog had aroused much speculation amongst the enlisted men. A long-serving soldier, the sergeant understood Koebel’s motives. Equally aware of the benefits to be gained, the three-bar urged his horse on with renewed vigor.
Another mile was covered, without the distance between pursuers and pursued changing. No matter how the Yankees spurred their horses, the small Texan remained just as far ahead.
A vague suspicion began to creep over the sergeant and he remembered how he had once seen a fox run before a pack of hounds to lead them from its cubs. Maybe Dusty Fog was drawing the patrol away from something, or somebody, of importance. If so, he was succeeding. Looking back, the non-com saw that at least half of the patrol had already been forced to halt and the remainder straggled well behind.
‘It’s no use!’ the sergeant shouted. ‘We’ll kill the horses trying to catch up with him!’
From his mount’s uneven gait, Koebel knew the man spoke the truth. Yet he refused to give up the attempt when the chance of promotion and acclaim rode less than a quarter of a mile ahead.
‘Keep after him!’ Koebel croaked, slamming his spurs brutally against the heaving flanks of his horse. We’ll get him ye—’
The stabbing of the spurs proved Koebel’s undoing. Gamely trying to respond, the horse missed its footing, staggered and fell. Pitching over its head, the officer landed hard and skidded along the ground.
Taking warning from Koebel’s fate, the sergeant brought his mount to a stop. Without a backwards glance, he dropped to the ground and snatched the Springfield carbine from the saddle-boot. Breathing hard, he sank on to his right knee. With his left elbow supported on the raised knee, he still found the exertions of the grueling ride prevented him from taking aim. Try as he might, he could not stop the barrel wavering in tune with the expansion and contraction of his struggling lungs. More in hope than expectancy, he squeezed the trigger at a moment when the sights lined on Dusty. It was a gesture of desperation. Clearly the bullet had no effect. Giving a resigned shrug, the sergeant stood up. Before he could reload, the small Texan would be out of range.
Other members of the patrol came up and reined in their lathered, leg-weary horses, watching Dusty continue to ride away. Booting his carbine, the sergeant went to Koebel’s
side. Bending, he examined the officer and decided that Koebel could count himself a lucky man. While his shoulder and arm had been broken by the fall, its result might easily have been fatal.
‘Are we going after him, serge?’ a soldier gasped.
‘The hell we are!’ the non-com replied; but did not mention that he now believed they should never have started the chase. ‘We’ll rest the hosses, do what we can for the luff, then head back and see what’s on the other side of that ridge. Only,’ he finished to himself, ‘by now we’ll likely be way too late.’
A point with which Dusty was in complete agreement as he twisted his torso and looked back, Satisfied that the patrol would not trouble him again, he allowed the black to slow down. Rose ought to be safe by now, so Dusty dismounted and gave thought to making good his own escape.
At about the same time that Dusty found himself free to make for the Ouachita River, Lieutenant Frost tiptoed nervously into his commanding general’s presence. Seated at his desk, Trumpeter raised a haggard face and stared at his aide.
‘The search of the town’s finished, sir,’ Frost reported. ‘Nothing’s been found. No word from the patrol we sent out towards the Arkadelphia section of the Ouachita.’
‘They won’t do any good!’ Trumpeter spat out. ‘You should have sent out more than one patrol.’
While organizing the pursuit of Rose Greenhow and her rescuers had not been Frost’s responsibility, he knew better than to raise the point, Brought back to the general’s residence by the clamor of the alarm bell, Frost had found considerable reluctance amongst the rest of the staff to report Rosa’s escape to Trumpeter. It had fallen on Frost to break the news that the general’s prize captive—whose arrest would divert attention from the unfortunate incidents of the lost remounts and Snake Ford—had been set free.
Frost had thought that Trumpeter would suffer a heart-seizure on reading Dusty Fog’s entry in the Guard Report Book. Hurling the book at the wall, Trumpeter had cursed and raged like a madman, but had done nothing to take control of and correlate the hunt for the woman. Stripped of men for the assault on the Snake Ford, the garrison could not do a thorough job and hold the town against possible Rebel attack.
‘I’d never have suspected Hoffinger—’ Frost began, then realized that the comment had not been the most tactful he could have made.
‘He’s to be shot on sight!’ Trumpeter snarled, ‘All of them are!’
‘Yes, sir,’ Frost replied in a flat, neutral tone that still implied his doubt that the chance would arise.
Sinking his head on to his hands, Trumpeter ignored his aide. Thoughts churned and tumbled across the general’s mind. All too clearly he could see the diabolical plot worked by the Rebels to discredit him. They were afraid to have a man of his superlative brilliance in a position of importance. While he had been tied to a desk in Washington, he was innocuous to their hated cause. Put in command of the Union’s Army of Arkansas—last area of Confederate supremacy—his guiding genius would mean a turning point for the North. So the Rebel scum had conspired to bring about his removal.
Of course nobody had suspected Hoffinger. Getting him into Trumpeter’s confidence had been almost clever. Thinking back, the general recalled that it was Hoffinger’s idea to collect the remounts in that unorthodox manner. He could also have learned of the forged orders and been prepared to give the information to his companion-in-evil Captain Dusty Fog. If the two incidents did not prove sufficient to remove Trumpeter, they had arranged for the ‘denouncing’ of the woman as Rose Greenhow. Then, after the general had reported her capture to Washington, conspired with members of the garrison to set her free.
They thought that they were smart, but they underestimated the man against whom they pitted their feeble wits. Soon, very soon, they would learn their mistake. Maybe not so soon in the case of Hoffinger and the woman. The Rebel Secret Service would move them to a place temporarily beyond his reach. Not so the other participant in the vile plot. Dusty Fog would remain in Arkansas; a living reminder pointing the finger of scorn at Trumpeter. Something must be done about that and Trumpeter knew what it was to be.
Who can get in contact with the guerillas, Mr. Frost?’ the general asked, raising his head.
‘A few of the officers know members of different bands, sir,’ Frost answered.
‘Get as many who can reach guerilla leaders as you can,’ Trumpeter ordered, picking up his pen and drawing a sheet of official paper towards him. ‘And do it quickly!’
Chapter Fourteen – Trumpeter’d Admire to See You Dead
‘Believe me, Betty, Georgina, being a spy is a terrible life,’ Rose Greenhow told the two girls as they approached the big house which served as the combined headquarters of Ole Devil Hardin’s staff and the Texas Light Cavalry. ‘Oh, I know it sounds romantic, gay and noble, but it isn’t. You have to do things which sicken you; let men you despise paw and maul you to win their confidences, lie, cheat, steal—even kill. I’ve done all that and hated every minute of it.’
Seven days had gone by since Rose’s release from captivity. Her escape, after passing the 3rd Cavalry patrol, had been uneventful. Guided by the corporals and Kiowa, she had crossed the Ouachita and spent a worrying twenty-four hours until Dusty joined them. Changing into her own clothes, she had delivered her information to Ole Devil and now waited to return to the East. She had been made welcome and treated as a honored guest by everybody, although there had been a certain hostility on the part of Company ‘C’ until Dusty had returned unharmed.
Since their arrival, small, petite, black haired and beautiful Betty Hardin and slightly taller, buxom, blonde and pretty Georgina Blaze had devoted much of their time to trying to enlist, with Rose’s aid, as spies. From the first, she had attempted to dissuade them from the idea and, with her departure imminent, increased her efforts. Looking at the eager young faces, she wondered if they took her words to heart. Betty appeared to be partially convinced, but Georgina seemed as determined as ever to join the Confederate States’ Secret Service.
Situated on the edge of Prescott, the house had been built with its front away from the town. From its porch, one could look across the gardens to the rolling, wood-covered hills. The nearest slope rose about half a mile away, covered with bushes and trees that still offered feeding terrain for an occasional Kansas whitetail deer.
A black horse stood saddled and ground-hitched in front of the main entrance and Ole Devil Hardin strode from the house with Dusty Fog at his side. Seeing the woman and girls coming towards them, the general threw a frosty grin at his nephew.
‘Good afternoon, General,’ Rose greeted.
‘Mrs. Greenhow,’ Ole Devil answered, directing a cold stare at the girls without it having any visible effect. ‘I hope these two young misses haven’t been bothering you.’
‘On the contrary,’ Rose smiled. ‘I find them most refreshing and delightful. They remind me of when I was young.’
‘That’s strange,’ Ole Devil growled. ‘They have just the opposite effect on me. May we expect you at the ball tonight, Mrs. Greenhow?’
‘You must come,’ Betty insisted, black eyes twinkling. Why grand-papa gets quite lively when he throws away his walking-cane and takes the shawl from his tired old shoulders.’
An explosive snort broke from Ole Devil, but a smile played on the corners of his lips. Possibly no other person would have dared make such a comment.
The ball was to celebrate the successful conclusion of the Snake Ford affair. While strengthening the defenses on the rim, Colonel Barnett had also been preparing for the inevitable time when the Union Army assembled such force that they would sweep the Confederate soldiers back by sheer weight of numbers. He had held on, defeating lesser attacks while cavalry patrols harassed the Yankees’ flanks and rear, until receiving Wexler’s warning of the massive reinforcements approaching. Then, in accordance with Ole Devil’s orders, had made ready to withdraw.
After a night’s artillery bombardment, Colonel Verncomb
e had launched an attack at strength in the grey light of dawn. Leading his men forward under heavy cannon fire from across the river, he had been puzzled by the lack of response from the Confederate positions ahead. Neither the captured Napoleons in their protective earthworks nor the figures in the trenches responded to the sight of the advancing enemy. Verncombe had soon learned why this was.
During the night, the Confederate defenders had fallen back to their own side of the river. They left behind dummies armed with useless, rusted rifles and wooden models of Napoleons for the Yankees to capture. Made at Barnett’s instigation, the decoys had been moved in under the cover of darkness over four nights and were substituted without any report of it reaching Verncombe. Furious at having been tricked, the assault force continued its advance; only to be halted after heavy losses at the river’s eastern edge. Seeing the impossibility of crossing the ford in the face of such heavy, concentrated and determined opposition, Verncombe wisely refrained from making the attempt.
So the Union’s Army of Arkansas felt no pleasure at retaking the strip of territory. Maybe the Northern newspapers would enthuse over the success and probably regard it as the prelude to Trumpeter’s promised advance into Texas, but the men concerned knew better. Once more they held the east side of the Snake Ford, but could go no farther; and taking it had cost many lives without the consolation of a corresponding number of Rebel dead. They were even denied the weak pleasure of retaking the captured Napoleon battery.
Ole Devil considered that there was cause for celebration. Making Barnett the guest-of-honor would be a public demonstration that the general did not blame him for accepting the forged order.
