by J. T. Edson
‘Damn it!’ Belle gasped. ‘We’ve settled Wilkinson and her cronies, but Buller still has to be stopped.’
‘Then somebody else will have to do it,’ the civilian declared. xix
Twelve – He’s Charged With Cowardice
‘All right, you men!’ Captain Dustine Edward Marsden “Dusty” Fog called, running his gaze over the dozen soldiers who were standing before him, each about to load his Colt 1860 Army revolver. ‘Make sure you only put a quarter of a charge in the chambers!’
‘A god-damned quarter of a son-of-a-bitching charge is it?’ muttered a newly arrived recruit, glancing from his weapon to its powder flask, and considering the task to which he was currently assigned fell far short of what he had believed he would be doing when he had enrolled. ‘Why the hell’re we fooling around this way, ’stead of getting out and fighting the Yankees?’
‘You’re doing it ’cause Cap’n Dusty wants it doing that way,’ Sergeant Kiowa Cotton announced stepping closer to the speaker. He had heard the sotto voce comment, as its maker intended he should, believing that he would share the sentiment.
‘Now that don’t seem like too all fired good a reason to me!’ the enlisted man declared, glancing at the soldiers on either side of him to ensure they were being made aware of his salty toughness. ‘I ain’t never loaded less’n full, ’cepting when I was knee-high to a horny-toad.’
‘You do what you want,’ Kiowa drawled, having come across a similar mentality many times. ‘Only, happen you’ve a mind to load her with more ’n that said quarter charge, was I you, there’s something I’d do first off.’
‘What’d that be?’
‘Go take that old Colt to the armorer. Have him file off the foresight knob, hammer spur ’n’ trigger guard, then take out the trigger to boot.’
‘Now why’d I do a thing like that?’
‘’Cause,’ the sergeant explained, his Indian dark features savage in their cold mockery. ‘Happen you do cut loose with more’n said quarter charge and spoil any of those hosses for shooting off their backs, Cap’n Dusty’ll take your goddamned Army Colt and ram it clear up your butt!’
‘You reckon he could do it?’ the enlisted man inquired, trying to make the words sound like a challenge, as he remembered all he had heard about the commanding officer of Company C since his arrival at the headquarters of the Texas Light Cavalry. He was impressed, in spite of himself, by the vehemence with which the grim visaged non-com had addressed him.
‘Soldier, I don’t just reckon,’ Kiowa asserted. ‘I flat out know for certain he could do it. One handed and leftie to boot.’
'Him?’ the enlisted man almost yelped, finding it difficult to reconcile the reputation acquired by Captain Dusty Fog with his far from impressive physical appearance.
‘You mind Cy Bollinger?’
‘That blacksmith jasper? Sure, I’ve seed him around.’
‘Big hombre, ain’t he?’ Kiowa hinted.
‘Big’s I’ve seed, even back home to San Saba County,’ the soldier conceded after a moment of thought, employing the air of one conferring a favor. ‘Which means they don’t come a whole heap bigger no other place.’
‘Likely,’ Kiowa grunted dryly. ‘Well I mind one time, just afore Cap’n Dusty got made captain, he got to wondering same way’s you. He got whupped so fast he must’ve thought the hawgs’d jumped him.’ xx
‘How’d a short-growed kid do that to a feller his size?’ the enlisted man asked, being too prudent for all his bombast to phrase his doubts in any other fashion.
‘You’ve seed Tommy Okasi xxi around?’
‘That lil Chinee jasper’s fetches ’n’ carries for Ole Devil?’
‘That’s him,’ Kiowa agreed, without demanding that the correct title of General Jackson Baines ‘Ole Devil’ Hardin should be used by the recruit. ‘’Cepting he allows to hail from some place name of Japan, not China. Well, he’s taught Cap’n Dusty some fancy wrassling tricks the like of which I’ve never seed. Neither’d Cy, nor any of those other big fellers’s made the same god damned stupid mistake where he’s concerned.’
‘Sergeant Cotton!’ called the subject of the discussion. ‘If you pair could put off talking for a spell, the rest of us would like to get on with what we’re here for!’
‘Yo!’ the Indian dark non-com responded, noticing the enlisted man was starting to charge the chambers of his Army Colt with the required amount of black powder.
Although the recruit was not a member of Company C, he had been sent to help in a task assigned to its commanding officer. The work at present being undertaken explained why the horses ridden during the raid on the bridge over the Mushogen River had been better behaved under fire than the mounts of the New Hampstead Volunteers.
Having been ‘three-saddled’ before delivery to the Texas Light Cavalry, xxii a recently arrived batch of remounts were being conditioned to accept having firearms discharged by their riders. It was a lengthy process, made possible only by having such a good supply of horses that the newcomers could be ‘brought on’ before allocating them for duty in the field, therefore making them reliable when taken into action.
After having had a firearm placed in the manger with its feed, allowing it to become familiar with the sight and smell of the alien object, the horse was next accustomed to the sound of the action being operated while unloaded. With this accomplished, while being ridden, it was shown the weapon sometimes presented to the front and one side or the other of its head. When it had become reconciled to the sight, it was subjected to having first a single, then a succession of percussion caps discharged from its back. Having accepted this, it was subjected to a growing charge of powder augmenting the cap until willing to accept the crack of a full load. If at any stage of the proceedings it shows signs of being uneasy over what was taking place, it would be walked for a short while and petted until calmed down.
Watching the response of the horses carefully as the revolvers were discharged with no greater noise than he had ordered, Dusty nodded his approval. At his side, Sergeant Major Billy Jack expressed a similar satisfaction by remarking that all the lack of protesting reaction proved was that they had been given a bunch of stone-deaf crow-bait likely to fall dead should it become necessary to walk slowly for more than a few feet.
‘Walk them a spell then and make sure you didn’t over call how far they’d last,’ the small Texan told his apparently pessimistic subordinate. ‘Happen I’m lucky, one of them will fall on you.’
‘It’ll more likely be every last son-of-a-bitch of ’em,’ the sergeant major corrected. ‘Company A’s coming in.’
‘Looks like they’ve had some luck,’ Dusty remarked, turning his gaze to the double column of men riding towards the training area.
‘They allus do,’ Billy Jack claimed, his demeanor so dismal a stranger would have believed Company C met with nothing except disaster and misfortune.
‘Cousin Pete doesn’t have a calamity wailer like you as his top kick,’ Dusty pointed out with well-simulated asperity.
‘There ain’t only the one like me,’ the sergeant countered. ‘Which, maybe Cap’n Blaze don’t have all the luck that’s going ’round.’
‘If having you around’s lucky,’ the small Texan asserted. ‘I’m going to start breaking mirrors and stomping black cats!’
‘My momma always used to do that,’ Billy Jack drawled with doleful satisfaction. ‘Which’s how I got the way I am.’ Having made the comment, the lanky sergeant major ambled rather than marched off to carry out his orders. However, there was nothing of his seeming hangdog misery in the way he addressed the enlisted men. Nor, knowing his true nature and capabilities, did any of them delay before obeying the orders he gave.
‘Howdy, Cousin Dusty,’ greeted Captain Peter Blaze, who looked like a somewhat older and less reckless version of the small Texan’s second in command. Signaling for the man by his side to accompany him, he reined his clearly hard ridden mount clear of his Company and, halting, went on
, ‘Come on over and meet Lieutenant Frank Dailey of the Third U. S. Cavalry. Mr. Dailey, let me present Captain Fog!’
‘My pleasure, si—!’ the young man in the Union blue uniform began, stiffening instinctively into a formal brace, despite his understandable air of dejection. Then an appreciation of what he had heard struck home and, staring at the small figure walking briskly forward, he gasped, ‘Captain Dusty Fog?’
‘There’s only the one Captain Fog in the Texas Light Cavalry, mister,’ Pete Blaze said dryly, although he was far from surprised by the response to his introduction. ‘Which, some have said, is more than enough.’
‘We’re awful long on Blazes, though, even if only two of them’ve made captain,’ Dusty commented, no more surprised by the reaction of the Yankee than his cousin and, having grown accustomed to such emotions, feeling not the slightest animosity over it being displayed. ‘Fact being, here comes another of them!’
Looking from one to the other Texan, Dailey sensed their banter was—in part, at least—being carried out to try and relieve some of the misery which was assailing him. If such was the case, he concluded, it was in keeping with the chivalrous conduct which he had frequently heard and now witnessed at first hand, was accorded by their regiment to those who fell into their clutches. Certainly, he had no complaint about the treatment given to those of his men wounded when he had led them into an ambush. What was more, while he alone was taken along as a prisoner, he had been subjected to no humiliation or abuse.
However, thinking of something other than his personal misfortunes, the young Yankee lieutenant devoted the majority of his attention to the smaller of the Rebel captains. Recently promoted and sent to join a regiment though he might be, Dailey had the natural instinct of a professional soldier for recognizing a born leader. Short, almost insignificant to the eye at first glance, Dusty Fog was worthy of his rank. Although he too could be classed as a volunteer who had entered his country’s Army to serve in its present conflict, he was a vastly different proposition to those in a similar category on the Union’s side in Arkansas. Here was no wealthy young dandy enrolled for the prestige of an officer’s uniform, nor middle class ‘liberal’ snob dripping smug patronage while despising as poorly educated morons the enlisted men placed under his command. Here was one with a flair for and the capability to earn the respect of those under his orders. He obviously did not require the authority vested by the Manual of Field Regulations to ensure he was obeyed.
Coming up at something approaching a run, saber bouncing on its slings from his waist belt and face a trifle flushed under the constraining clutch of an unaccustomed closed collar and cravat, the arrival of First Lieutenant Charles William Henry ‘Red’ Blaze diverted the attention of the captured Yankee from Dusty. Being officer of the day, Red was obliged to discard his comfortable skirtless tunic and bandana, replacing them with the attire laid down in the Manual of Dress Regulations. Skidding to a halt, he snapped into a brace and threw up a salute divided equally between his older brother—one of twins—and his cousin.
‘Take charge of Mr. Dailey, please, Red,’ Pete requested.
‘Yo!’ the officer of the day assented. ‘You might as well get down, friend, it’s not far to my tent and we’ll bed you down there for the night.’
‘Thank you,’ Dailey replied, obeying. However, as he dismounted, he swung his gaze to the small Texan and, feeling not the least awkward or surprised at addressing an enemy in such a formal fashion, went on, ‘Excuse me, Captain Fog, sir! ’
‘Yes, mister?’ Dusty inquired, noticing the urgency in which the Yankee had spoken to him.
‘It was you who blew up the Mushogen Bridge, wasn’t it?’ Dailey asked.
‘My Company helped more than a smidgen,’ the small Texan replied.
‘You’ve made such a mess of it, heavy transport still can’t get over,’ Dailey declared, with a frankness he hoped might serve his purpose. ‘There’s to be a court martial because of it.’
‘That figures,’ Dusty drawled, surprised at the bitterness which had come into the lieutenant’s voice during the second sentence. Yet a professional soldier such as he appeared to be should have expected the officer commanding the ineffective guard to be court-martialed. Then he remembered something else and went on, ‘I thought you said you killed the major you suckered into chasing after you, Red?’
‘Things being what they were, I didn’t stop to hold a mirror in front of his mouth and make certain sure,’ the freckle faced Rebel lieutenant replied. ‘But, going by the hole ’tween his eyes, I surely figured he was dead.’
‘He was killed all right,’ Dailey declared.
‘Then who’re they court-martialing?’ Dusty asked.
‘Kirby Cogshill,’ Dailey answered, his face flushed with anger.
‘Who-all might he be?’ the small Texan inquired.
‘The lieutenant who was second in command of the guard detail,’ the Yankee officer supplied, sensing the interest his words were arousing and hoping he would learn something to justify a belief he—along with others like him—had formed with regards to the matter under discussion. ‘The one you wounded.’
‘That one, huh?’ Dusty said quietly, face creasing with a frown. ‘But how the hell can he be court-martialed?’
‘He’s charged with cowardice in the face of the enemy,’ Dailey explained. ‘They’ve added dereliction of duty, failing to obey an order given by a superior and deserting his command. Any and all of which carry the death penalty, Captain Fog. They say he left his men and ran away from the fighting. ’
Hardly believing their ears, the small Texan and his cousin exchanged looks. It was Dusty who spoke, his voice hard and angry:
‘That’s a damned lie! The lieutenant was the only one of them who made any attempt at doing his duty correctly. In the first place, he wanted to search the bushes where Kiowa and I, that’s my sergeant scout, were hidden, but the major was set on moving out even though their relief wasn’t there yet. Then he went after them when they chased off after Red and our boys, hoping to stop them because he guessed what was likely coming. Only he looked back, saw us and turned to try and stop us setting the charges and blowing the bridge. ’
‘And that’s how he told it,’ Dailey stated. ‘But the major who made all the mistakes was General Buller’s brother.’
‘So that’s the way of it!’ the blond haired Texan breathed and, gently as he spoke, the Yankee lieutenant ceased to think of him as being small.
‘That’s the way of it, sir,’ Dailey confirmed, but loyalty to a respected superior made him continue, despite a disinclination to wash the dirty linen of his service in the presence of enemies. ‘The way things are, Colonel McDonald has had no choice but to order the court martial convened. Buller’s sergeant major and a corporal laid the accusation and, as there aren’t any other witnesses, it’s their word against that of Kirby.’
‘There were other witnesses, mister!’ Dusty corrected. ‘Kiowa and I saw and heard most of what happened.’
‘Billy Jack and I saw the lieutenant following his men until he saw you and turned back, Dusty,’ Red supplemented.
‘But there’s no way any of you could give evidence,’ Dailey protested. ‘Is there?’
‘I don’t know,’ the small Texan admitted. ‘But, should there be, I’ll bet Uncle Devil knows and will fix it for us.’
Thirteen – I Want the Bastard Found Guilty
‘God damn that interfering Scotch son-of-a-bitch!’ Brigadier General Moses J. Buller snarled, neither knowing nor caring that the racial classification should have been, “Scottish”. Glaring furiously at the more bulky of the two men standing before the folding table in the big wall tent which circumstances were forcing him to use instead of having reached the comfortable accommodation at his headquarters, he went on, ‘Are you sure he’s going through with it?’
‘He sure is, bo—General,’ Sergeant Major Alden Packard confirmed nervously, concluding he was correct in his belated suspicion that
the news he had taken it upon himself to deliver would be far from welcomed by its recipient. ‘As soon as that son-of-a-bitching luff of his, Dailey, got back and told him about it, he started making arrangements for that god-damned Reb officer and two non-com’s blowed up the bridge out there to come ’n’ give their evidence at Cogshill’s court martial. They’re likely fixing to come to Mushogen and do it right now.’
‘Why the hell did Mick Meacher let him do it?’ Buller demanded. ‘I told him to watch out for things while I was away. Didn’t he try to stop the son-of-a-bitch?’
‘I dunno,’ Packard answered untruthfully, having heard that Colonel Michael “Fatso” Meacher had made an unsuccessful attempt to dissuade Colonel Iain McDonald of the Third Cavalry from accepting the offer of evidence on behalf of First Lieutenant Kirby Cogshill made by the commanding general of the Confederate Army of Arkansas and North Texas.
‘There was no way he could stop it,’ Major Saul Montreigen put in, less from a desire for fair play than to air a knowledge of military matters which was greater than that of his superior. Showing no sign of being put out by the baleful glare turned his way, he went on, ‘It’s a matter of seniority. McDonald was a chicken colonel long before Meacher joined the Army.’
‘May hell’s fires burn the Scotch son-of-a-bitch!’ Buller spat out, who was aware of the point raised by his subordinate and suspected why it had been made. ‘Can he let those Rebel bastards come and do it?’
‘I expect he’ll be able to quote precedents for it,’ the slim major answered, the query having been directed at him. ‘I suppose all the negotiations were carried out under a flag of truce, but I can’t understand how the Rebs heard what was going on.’
‘Dailey’d got took prisoner,’ Packard supplied, as both officers looked his way. ‘Seems they turned him loose with the word when he told them about Cogshill. That’s why I come out here to meet you, General. I figured you’d want to know what’s doing as soon’s possible.’
