by J. T. Edson
With the exception of five men and a sergeant, who were to try to lure away the relief guard should it appear at the appointed time, Dusty had left the Company under the command of his cousin, First Lieutenant Charles William Henry ‘Red’ Blaze. While the visibility would have been too great during the night hours for so large a body of men to make the approach undetected, he and Kiowa had contrived to reach the bushes closest to the bridge without being located by the lax sentries despite each of them carrying a small keg of gunpowder and fuse cord wrapped in waterproof tarpaulin.
Although the two Texans had been prepared to hide in the water beneath the overhanging foliage, the need had not arisen. The Yankees, instead of having taken the vital precaution of searching such a potentially dangerous area, had prepared to march off as soon as their commanding officer had risen. Then Red had brought Company C into view and everything started to happen as Dusty required.
With the attention of the Yankees devoted entirely upon the main body, the small Texan and his scout had set about their task. They were aware that, regardless of how well the distraction was succeeding, time might not be on their side. For one thing, the relief guard might not have taken the bait and could be on their way. Therefore they could not delay in commencing their preparations. Unfortunately, the only way they could reach the bridge was by leaving the concealment of the bushes and crossing open ground which would otherwise have been in plain view of its supposed defenders.
At first, it had seemed the plan was completely successful. However, as the two Texans were reaching the end of the bridge, they found that not all of the Yankees had become so engrossed in the pursuit as to have forgotten its existence.
‘God damn it!’ Kiowa ejaculated, watching Cogshill charging recklessly down the slope. ‘I just knowed he was going to be trouble from the start!’
‘He’s regular army and a damned sight smarter than the major,’ Dusty replied, having reached the conclusion from studying Buller and the lieutenant. Then he stiffened as the crackling of gunfire arose from beyond the rim. ‘We’d best hope Red and Billy Jack can keep the rest of them from coming back!’
‘If they can’t, or the relief guard’s got here to cut them off,’ the sergeant answered, sharing his superior’s realization that the shooting had commenced somewhat earlier than it was anticipated, ‘could be you ’n’ me’re in more ’n’ just a mite of trouble, Cap’n Dusty!’
Eight – We’ll Give Him Cogshill
‘Goldarn and consarn it, I just knowed something’d go wrong, Mr. Blaze!’ Sergeant Major Billy Jack asserted, with something like a complaining whine in his Texas drawl. ‘That Yankee luff’s heading back!’
‘Are any of them following him?’ inquired the second in command of Company C of the Texas Light Cavalry, aware that the speaker had been carrying out the duty of watching what happened behind them.
‘Not yet,’ Billy Jack admitted, sounding almost disappointed at being unable to reply in the affirmative.
Tall, gangling, the sergeant major had a long face which appeared to express sorrow and misery, but which in fact hid a humorous intelligence and what was claimed to be the best fund of dirty stories in the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas and North Texas. His kepi was tilted back at an apparently impossible angle on close-cropped black hair and his doleful features were tanned oak brown by exposure to the elements. Regardless of the prominent Adam’s apple which emerged from the open neck of his cadet gray tunic, making him seem even more scrawny, he was as tough as whang leather and skilled in the use of the two Colt 1860 Army revolvers he carried.
‘Reckon we’d best go back right now and make sure they don’t get took with the notion,’ decided First Lieutenant Charles William Henry “Red” Blaze, who duplicated the attire of his superior except that his holsters were positioned for a low cavalry twist draw and his Army Colts had walnut handles.
‘Yo!’ Billy Jack assented immediately, although he knew the Company was not supposed to turn upon their pursuers until further from the rim.
There were those who might have experienced grave doubts over the advisability of placing Red Blaze in a position of such responsibility, but the lanky sergeant major was not one of them. He was aware that, given such an assignment, the young lieutenant could be counted upon to discard an apparently reckless nature and behave with the competence of an efficient fighting leader. xv
Urged on by Major Gerald Buller, who was in the lead only because he was much better mounted than the rest of them, Company A of the New Hampstead Volunteers were experiencing the exhilaration which arose from the sight of their fleeing enemies’ backs. Waving his Tiffany handled Navy Colt wildly, while exhorting his men to greater efforts, Buller was also thinking how he might word his report to discredit First Lieutenant Kirby Cogshill and keep all the acclaim for having protected the vitally important bridge over the Mushogen River for himself. Before he could draw any conclusions on the matter, he found other and less enjoyable issues were demanding his attention.
Suddenly and more swiftly than even Buller of the Yankees could believe was possible, the ‘cowardly Rebel scum’ were no longer fleeing!
Obeying the command yelled by Red, although it was given sooner than expected, the Texans wheeled around their fast running mounts with the skill acquired by what amounted to having spent a lifetime in the saddle. Therefore, in a remarkably short time, they had changed from a ‘terrified flight’ to charging at their erstwhile pursuers.
Alarmed by the drastic alteration in the behavior of their intended victims, those of the Volunteers who were not already doing so opened fire. As on their previous volley, they were still too far away. Even expert marksmen and horsemen could have only achieved a moderate result. Due to a disinclination among their superiors towards incurring the expense of providing the requisite powder and bullets, the enlisted men had only rarely been allowed to practice with the handguns which were their sole weapons. Nor were their mounts used to hearing the cracking of their weapons at such close quarters. Startled by the commotion, the reaction of the horses rendered any hope of improving the aim even less likely.
In addition to riding well-trained animals and using ammunition looted from the Yankees, the Texans were given every opportunity to retain or improve skill with arms and they were at no such disadvantage. What was more, while they too were volunteers, competent leadership and past experience had turned them into efficient veterans who had seen much combat. Ignoring the lead which occasionally whistled by, they were holding their fire until close enough for it to prove effective.
Just as startled by the unexpected developments as were his enlisted men, Buller nevertheless recollected advice he had frequently heard expounded by the regular Army officers. According to them, the best way to dissuade an enemy force was to shoot down its leader. With that in mind, seeing the red haired Rebel lieutenant—campaign hat now dangling by its chinstrap across broad shoulders—was coming straight at him, he prepared to put the information into use by bringing up and aligning the ornate revolver.
Unfortunately for the major, Red was equally aware of the advice. He acted upon it with skill and precision. Having secured the split end reins around the low horn of his double girthed Texas range saddle, which offered a firmer ‘seat’ than Buller’s Eastern rig, he had an Army Colt in each hand. Controlling the well trained horse by pressure from his knees, he opened fire an instant before his would be assailant could commence.
Left, right, left, right, the weapons thundered!
The speed at which Red was moving caused the white smoke of the detonated powder to be whipped away, allowing him to see what he was doing. Controlling and thumb cocking the Colts on their recoil, he contrived to change their respective point of aim slightly between each discharge. As the fourth .44 caliber round lead ball was sent upon its way, its predecessor plowed into the chest of the Yankee major. An instant later, while Buller was reeling under the impact, the following lead punctured a blue-rimmed hole in the center of his
forehead. Sliding from the saddle, he crashed lifeless to the ground.
The position in which the inexperienced Volunteers found themselves was one capable of demoralizing far better trained and disciplined soldiers. Even those who had not yet emptied their revolvers were finding it increasingly difficult to control their mounts. To add further to their consternation, although none of their bullets was taking effect, soon men about them were being shot by their clearly far more competent attackers.
Such a desperate predicament might have been alleviated, perhaps even overcome, by capable leadership. Unfortunately for the Volunteers, they were deprived of this. The one best suited to at least attempt to extricate them, Cogshill, was already dashing back in the hope of saving the bridge. While—by virtue of his rank—Buller was the logical candidate, it was unlikely he had the ability to effect anything even if he had not fallen victim to the accurate shooting of the Texas-born lieutenant.
Nor was Sergeant Major Alden Packard available to try and rally the enlisted men. Struck in the head by a wild bullet from one of the Volunteers, his horse collapsed beneath him as his superior was going down. Throwing himself clear and losing his Manhattan Navy revolver, he concluded discretion to be the better part of valor. Allowing himself to sprawl face down on the ground, ignoring the pounding of hooves all around him, he lay giving an impersonation of a corpse and allowed the remnants of Company A to try to extract themselves from the dire straits into which they had been led by their incompetent commanding officer.
Demoralized and left leaderless, the surviving Volunteers began to discard their revolvers. Leaving behind those who were unhorsed, wounded or dead, the former taking flight on foot, they scattered like quail being flushed from a meadow and the fear of death was encouraging each to goad his horse to greater efforts.
‘Bugler!’ Red bellowed, reining his mount to a halt and watching their enemies scattering. ‘Sound “Cease Fire” and “Recall”!’
‘How’s about their arms and wounded, Mr. Blaze?’ Billy Jack inquired, as the enlisted men of Company C called off their pursuit of the fleeing Volunteers in response to the calls from the bugle.
‘What I saw, they were mostly toting Joslyns and Pettingills, but some had what looked like Navy Colts,’ Red answered, glancing around, having drawn an erroneous conclusion from noticing the Manhattans and Metropolitans which bore a deliberate resemblance to the far superior revolvers he had named last. Then, seeing a man of his Company approaching from the south leading two horses, he went on, ‘Way Sandy’s coming in, I’d say the relief guard’s on its way. We’ll leave their wounded for them to tend and go let Cousin Dusty know what’s doing.’
Although the lanky sergeant major accepted his superior was making real good sense, neither realized they were helping to pave the way for their commanding officer to face one of the most serious and soul searching decisions of his young life!
~*~
‘Damn it to hell!’ ejaculated Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog, watching the blue-clad young lieutenant closing rapidly and drawing the revolver from his holster. ‘Why couldn’t it have been that loud-mouthed major who came back?’
Uttering the comment, the small Texan allowed the bundle wrapped in tarpaulin to slip from his grasp. Flashing across almost too fast for the human eye to follow, his right hand enfolded the butt of the near side Army Colt. Sweeping it from its carefully designed holster, forefinger staying outside the trigger guard, and thumb refraining from coiling around the spur of the hammer until after the seven and a half inches long ‘Civilian’ pattern barrel was turning away from him, xvi he made ready to fire. xvii Not, however, at waist level and by instinctive alignment. Although it was being closed fast, the distance to his intended mark was too great for such a method to offer the kind of accuracy he required. As the left hand rose to join the right on the butt with the facility offered by his completely ambidextrous prowess, a natural trait enhanced by constant practice all through his life—perhaps to help distract from his lack of height in a land of tall men—he elevated the weapon until able to take sight along the barrel. Regardless of having taken this precaution, he squeezed off a shot in just over a second after the movement was commenced.
Swiftly though the Army Colt had been drawn and fired, the result was indicative of the skill which would in the not too distant future gain the small Texan acclaim as the Rio Hondo gun wizard. Flying almost precisely as it was intended, the lead struck Cogshill in the right shoulder. For all that, the lieutenant might have counted himself fortunate. Instead of using a soft ball, which tended to ‘mushroom’ badly on impact, Dusty had loaded the revolvers with shaped bullets. What was more, so carefully was it dispatched, the missile missed the bones in the area and passed through, inflicting a less serious injury than would otherwise have been the case.
Pain and shock knifed through the young lieutenant. Combining with an involuntary swerve by his horse, alarmed at having a weapon discharged so close ahead, it caused him to be toppled from his saddle. As he was going down, he lost his grip on his revolver. However, on landing, he forced himself to disregard the agony he was suffering and rolled towards the weapon. Managing to snatch it up with his left hand, he began to force himself into a kneeling position. As he was doing so, he saw the Indian dark Rebel sergeant had dropped a tarpaulin wrapped bundle and was already darting towards him. Gritting his teeth, he prepared to try and sell his life dearly.
‘Don’t kill him, Kiowa!’ Dusty shouted, watching his companion swinging free the Henry rifle.
Giving no indication of whether or not he had heard the command, the sergeant reached his objective. However, even without the order he had received, he had no desire to take the life of a young man as courageous as the ‘Yankee luff’ had proved to be. Furthermore, he was aware that his superior had not shot to kill. This implied Captain Fog wanted the lieutenant left alive for some reason. Therefore, while he had liberated the rifle, he only intended to use it as a firearm as a last resource. Concluding such measures were not called for, he employed it as a club. Swinging the barrel against the side of the head, but with less than the full force of which he was capable, he rendered Cogshill unconscious before the retrieved Army Colt could start to threaten his or his superior’s life.
‘Didn’t never have no notion to make wolf bait of him, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa claimed, turning towards the small Texan. ‘I float my stick ’long of you on it, he’s too brave to gun down for keeps.’
‘He was brave enough and smart to boot,’ Dusty agreed, returning his revolver to its holster. ‘Leather his Colt for him, then we’ll get the bridge set ready for blowing. Sounds like Cousin Red had to turn and fight sooner than we counted on. Him and the boys might be needing to get across the river real fast, that happening.’
~*~
Raising his head cautiously, Sergeant Major Packard lowered it again almost immediately. Although the Texans who had decimated and scattered his company were already riding down the slope, another half dozen were approaching at a gallop. Waiting until they had gone by, he made sure no more of them were in the vicinity. Only when satisfied he could do so in safety did he come to his feet. Looking around, he discovered that he had not been alone in playing possum. A short distance away, having kept a similarly surreptitious observation, a burly and equally brutal looking corporal was also rising, displaying the same absence of having suffered any kind of injury.
‘What happened to you, Silky?’ Packard asked, paying no attention to the half a dozen genuinely wounded enlisted men who were lying and trying to rise from where they had fallen.
‘Hoss throwed me,’ Corporal John Silkin replied truthfully, but without going on to explain that he too had considered it would be safer to play dead. ‘Those lousy Reb sons-of-bitches sure suckered us good, Pack!’
‘Yeah,’ the sergeant major agreed, accepting the employment of his nickname from a man who had acted as bruiser and bully under his command in the service of the Buller family. ‘They did
at that!’
Having supported the corporal’s point of view, Packard still showed no indication of offering aid to the wounded. Instead, followed by Silkin, he went to where their commanding officer lay face down on the ground. One glance at the gory mess which was the back of Buller’s head told him nothing could be done by way of first aid.
‘He’s cashed in,’ the sergeant major announced unnecessarily, then collected the ornately butted Navy Colt from where it had fallen after leaving the dead hand of its owner. ‘Wouldn’t you know he’d have a good gun like this while we’ve been given any god-damned cheap trash they could get even cheaper.’
‘Sure would,’ Silkin replied, ever the sycophant. He had turned over and searched Buller’s pockets, extracting a thick wallet from inside the tunic. ‘Reckon he won’t be needing this where he’s going, Pack.’
‘They do say paper money burns, Silky,’ the sergeant major answered. ‘So we’ll split it down the middle, but put the wallet back in his kick.’
‘How the hell’re we going to get back to camp?’ Silkin wanted to know, after the division of the money was made and the wallet returned.
