by J. T. Edson
‘My Company’s about a mile back,’ Dusty answered, confident that Red would keep the men hidden and not give the lie to the words. He swung to the ground and went on, ‘Mind if I ask who you are and what you’re doing here?’
‘Understandable questions both, sir. My name is Oswald Lomax Hoffinger and I am leading this party of recently-arrived immigrants to join their families in New Mexico.’
‘Can you prove it?’ Dusty inquired, knowing that Kiowa was watching the men.
‘Of course, sir,’ Hoffinger agreed. ‘I have a document in my pocket, if I may be permitted to produce it—’
‘Go to it,’ Dusty offered.
For all his pompous manner, the dude had the good sense to give a warning before letting his hand go out of sight under his jacket. Reaching across to his inside breast pocket, Hofflnger brought out a sheet of paper. While opening it and holding it to Dusty, he spoke in a foreign language, addressing the words to his companions as they stood scowling at the Texans.
‘I was merely informing them that all is well, Captain,’ Hoffinger declared, smiling disarmingly. ‘None of the poor fellows speak English and all are concerned by your arrival.’
‘Maybe they’ve cause to be,’ Dusty said.
‘They have not, sir,’ Hoffinger stated before Dusty could do more than glance at the paper. ‘In fact you might almost say that I’m helping the Confederate States. I’m taking these able-bodied men away from the fighting. They had been tricked into enlisting in the Union Army, poor fellows, but my organization — you’ve probably heard of us, the Society For The Preservation of Human Rights—?’
‘I can’t say I have,’ Dusty grunted and started reading.
Bearing the official printed heading of the Department of the Interior, the document stated that O. L. Hoffinger, secretary of the Society For The Preservation Of Human Rights, had permission to escort the ‘under-named’ men to the Territory of New Mexico and that they and their property must not be taken into service by any officer of the United States’ Army. Everything about the paper seemed authentic enough, although Dusty could not vouch for the validity of the signature on it.
‘I trust that this explains our position to your satisfaction, Captain,’ Hoffinger said when he saw that Dusty had finished reading.
‘Not all the way,’ Dusty replied.
‘Then permit me to clarify it somewhat. Word reached my Society of the scandalous way in which these poor fellows had been treated. Naturally we set about obtaining their freedom as they had been enlisted by fraud. We are not without influence in Congress, and succeeded. Their families had already gone to take up their homes, so it was decided that I should accompany them and ensure that they reached their destination without further interference.’
‘How about the horses?’
‘Bought before their enlistment, as the means of tilling their farms. We insisted that the Army returned them and once again justice prevailed. How could they plough their land without horses?’
‘Mind if I talk to them?’ Dusty asked, ignoring the question.
‘Feel free— Do you speak German?’
‘Nope,’ Dusty admitted, studying the men. None of them had Teutonic or Anglo-Saxon features and coloration. ‘Are they Germans?’
‘From various parts of mid-Europe. Polish mostly. But Mr. Glock there speaks German well enough for me to communicate with them through him.’
Walking towards the fire, accompanied by Hoffinger, with Kiowa prowling alert for danger on their heels, Dusty thought over what he had been told. All the men were of military age and in good health. With an urgent need for extra troops, it seemed unlikely that the Union Army would release potential recruits. Yet they might if sufficient political pressure was brought to bear, The North was infested by ‘liberal’ organizations for the protection of the ‘down-trodden’, some of which carried considerable weight in Congress. If Hoffinger’s Society was one of the more influential, the Army might yield to its wishes as a gesture of good will. Especially with the men unable to speak English, rendering training them difficult. In one way the number of Burnside carbines strengthened the story. Possibly the Society had obtained a reduction in price by buying in bulk. Having obtained the men’s release, the Society would waste no time in reuniting them with their families and might even send one of their senior officials, armed with suitable authority, to act as an escort.
From an officer in the C.S.A.’s viewpoint, Dusty considered that the men would be of less use to the Union as farmers in New Mexico than by serving in the Yankee Army. He could also imagine how the North’s newspapers would blow up the story if Hoffinger had told the truth and he took the horses from their owners.
Yet all the horses, particularly the big bay stallion, looked far more suitable for riding than performing the dragging and hauling of farm work.
Then a thought struck Dusty as he approached the big man called Glock. It was a small matter, maybe, but significant in view of Hoffinger’s story. New Mexico lay to the west, yet the trace-poles at the front of the wagons were pointing eastwards. While the springy grama grass did not lend itself to retaining tracks that proved otherwise, Dusty doubted if Hoffinger’s party would turn their wagons to face the direction from which they had come when making camp for the night.
So far none of the men Dusty approached had shown that they knew his Company was close at hand, but he felt sure that Red was already in position. Which meant he must make his move before Glock’s bunch discovered their presence.
Suddenly, giving no hint of his intentions, Dusty stepped close and stamped as hard as he could on Glock’s right foot. Letting out a startled howl, the big man hopped on his left leg, clutched at his throbbing toes and acted just as the small Texan hoped that he might.
‘What the hell do you reckon you’re—!’ Glock roared in a language Dusty and Kiowa could understand, chopping off his words as he realized what he was doing.
‘Man,’ drawled the Indian-dark scout, tensing ready to back his captain’s play. ‘You sure learned to talk English fast.’
Aware of what he had done, Glock slammed his aching foot to the ground. At the same time, he stabbed his right hand towards the flap of his hoster. Behind him, the other men just stood and stared. Even Hoffinger appeared to be shocked into immobility by Dusty’s actions.
Dusty knew that Glock would be unable to draw the revolver at any speed, so he decided against gun-play as a means of halting the attempt. While Dusty could easily have fetched out one or both his Colts and shot Glock, he knew doing so might spark off a full-scale fight.
Not that he feared for his own safety. At the first hint of trouble, Red had brought the Company out of the trees. They were now galloping forward, guns in hand, so that the men behind Glock would be wiped out before any could offer more than a token resistance. Taking no pleasure in killing, Dusty did not want that to happen. Especially when there was a more satisfactory way of handling the situation. Without ever having heard of psychology, he guessed that capturing some of the enemy, then releasing them disarmed but uninjured would carry a greater morale impact than leaving them dead. By treating them so leniently he would emphasize to the captives, and their comrades-in-arms, the superiority of the Confederate States Army in Arkansas.
So Dusty left his guns in the holsters and relied, as he had against Savos, on Tommy Okasi’s training. He did not use the tegatana, handsword, but brought off one of the even more effective keriwaza kicking attacks. Measuring the distance between himself and Glock, he balanced on his right leg and launched his left foot into the air. Curling his toes upwards as far as possible, he flexed his ankle and propelled the ball of his foot with considerable force against the pit of the big man’s stomach.
Glock slammed backwards and doubled over. Jerking the hand from the unopened holster, he clutched at his mid-section. Winded and filled with nausea, he was in no condition to defend himself against the continuation of the attack. Following the man up, Dusty drove his clenched right fist in a power-packed b
ackhand swing to the centre of the other’s face. Lifted erect by the impact, Glock pitched helplessly into the arms of the men behind him.
From delivering the blow, Dusty whipped his right arm down and over so his fingers grasped the butt of the left side Colt. Already his left hand was curling about the bone handle of the other revolver. Steel rasped on leather, merging with the clicks of the hammers being drawn back to full cock. In three-quarters of a second from Dusty starting his draw, the men into whom Glock had collided were looking down the barrels of his Army Colts. The manner in which he had handled Glock left them almost numb with amazement and he did not intend to grant them time to recover.
‘Don’t move, any of you!’ Dusty warned.
And, in some strange way, he no longer looked small. Instead he gave the impression of possessing size and bulk sufficient to tower above them all. Such was the force of his personality that, taken with his fast-drawn Colts, he prevented the men from attempting to resist.
Knowing Dusty, Kiowa had expected him to do something and had been ready to take a hand when he did. Even as Dusty stamped on Glock’s toe, Kiowa had slid out his bowie knife. When Hoffinger made as if to move forward, Kiowa caught him by the scruff of the neck from behind. Bringing the dude to a halt, Kiowa pricked his plump ribs with the clip point of the knife and breathed a savage warning,
‘You-all too fat to tangle with Cap’n Dusty.’
‘That, I assure you, was never my intention,’ Hoffinger croaked, staring in fascinated awe at the result of Dusty’s attack.
Releasing the dude’s neck, but keeping the knife in position, Kiowa reached around to pluck the Le Mat revolver from Hoffinger’s holster. The rest of the Company came up, most of them bringing their horses to sliding halts and lining their weapons at the dude’s men. Sergeant Weather led half-a-dozen soldiers towards the unattended horses, ready to control them should there be shooting. The precaution was unnecessary. So effectively did the Texans surround the other party that resistance would have been suicidal.
‘Disarm them, Mr. Blaze!’ Dusty ordered, ‘Billy Jack, take four men and search those wagons.’
‘I think that I had better tell you the truth, Captain,’ Hoffinger called, being prevented by Kiowa from going closer to the small Texan.
‘I was just figuring to ask you to do that,’ Dusty replied, watching his orders carried out. ‘Let him come, Kiowa.’
Scuttling gratefully away from the Indian-dark sergeant, who he felt wanted only an excuse to take his scalp, Hoffinger came to Dusty’s side and dropped his voice in a confiding manner.
‘The fact of the matter is, Captain, that we have stolen these horses and deserted from the Union Army and are headed west of New Mexico to start a new life.’
CHAPTER FOUR
LINE FIVE UP AND SHOOT THEM
‘DESERTERS, huh?’ Dusty grunted, twirling away his Colts.
‘From the Union Army, sir,’ Hoffinger confirmed. ‘This is a carefully planned desertion, hence the spurious document which you thrust into your tunic before testing my men.’
‘Why’d you lie about it when we rode up then?’
‘Merely to ascertain how the document and story would stand up under the scrutiny of an alert, efficient officer like yourself. I had, of course, every intention of telling you the truth after you had tested my companions’ ability to act as newly-arrived immigrants who speak no English. You produced a remarkably effective way of testing them, I must say.’
Every word Hoffinger spoke had a ring of truth to it, while his whole being exuded an aura of sincerity. So much so that Dusty felt suspicious. Yet he admitted that his feelings might stem from antipathy to smooth-talking, portly dudes, or even out of his dislike for deserters.
‘That’s how it is, huh?’ Dusty said.
‘Exactly how it is, sir,’ Hoffinger confirmed. ‘And an officer of your undoubted experience can visualize the effect on the Union Army in Arkansas when words gets out that there has been such a large desertion. More so when the soldiers learn that, in accordance with General Hardin’s policy, the deserters were given free passage for themselves and their horses by members of the Texas Light Cavalry.’
‘I see. We’re going to let you fellers go and take those horses with you.’
‘In return for which I will gladily append my signature to a statement that you have done so. When news of it—’
‘Drop it, hombre!’ Dusty snapped, his entire attitude changing to one of cold annoyance. ‘You’re not deserters.’
‘But I assure you we are, sir!’ protested Hoffinger. ‘We are tired of fighting for a cause in which we no longer believe. So we are going to New Mexico—’
‘Then how come your wagons are pointed east?’ Dusty countered and looked at Hoffinger’s men. ‘Are you bunch deserters?’
Sullen faces glared at him and Glock, removing a hand from his bloody nose, answered in a surly tone.
‘Yeah. And Ole Devil Hardin allowed any Yankee who deserted could take his guns and hosses with him without having ‘em took off him by Rebel soldiers.’
A point which Dusty had been considering ever since Hoffinger had mentioned that they were deserters. Both sides had used such inducements as safe passage through their lines, or offers of homes and employment, to encourage desertion by the other’s soldiers and sailors. So Ole Devil had given orders that his men would in no way interfere with deserters from the Union Army.
If Hoffinger had told the truth, Dusty could not confiscate the horses. Capture of the dude’s party by the Yankees would be almost inevitable if he did. Dusty could imagine the delight displayed by various Northern newspapers at receiving proof that the Rebels did not keep their promises to deserters. The story would have an adverse effect in Arkansas, where desertion caused a steady drain on the Federal man-power. Even worse to Dusty’s way of thinking, it would imply that his uncle — for whom he felt the greatest admiration and respect — could not be relied upon to keep his word.
Once again Dusty knew that he must step warily. Maybe the Yankees, plagued by desertion, had sent out Hoffinger’s party to prove that the Rebels in the field did not honour their commanding general’s offers of co-operation to deserters. Unlikely, perhaps, but Dusty wanted to be certain before taking any action.
‘I reckon that you’re guerillas, not deserters!’ Dusty stated and looked to where Red stood listening. What do you say, Mr. Blaze?’
‘They’re stinking border-jumpers for sure, sir,’ Red answered, judging that an affirmative reply was expected and obliging. ‘I can smell it on them.’
‘We’re deserters!’ Hoffinger insisted, seeing his men show signs of concern.
‘The hell you are!’ Dusty barked. ‘They’re guerillas, Mr. Blaze.’
‘Yes, sir! And Un— General Hardin gave orders that we shot any of ‘em we caught. Say now! I heard tell that some of Quantrill’s boys had got to arguing which killed best, an Enfield or a Sharps. To settle it, they lined up five prisoners to see how many of ‘em each gun’d shoot through.’
‘I heard about that,’ Dusty said thoughtfully, showing none of the delight he felt at the way Red had caught on to and improved upon his scheme.
‘I was wondering which’d shoot best out of my Henry ‘n’ these Burnsides,’ Red remarked in a speculative manner. ‘Seeing’s how we’re going to kill this bunch, I just might’s well find out?’
‘Hey now—!’ Glock began, but was held back by the Texan guards.
‘Go to it,’ Dusty said. ‘Line five up and shoot them, Mr. Blaze.’ Shock creased the prisoners’ faces as Red swung eagerly towards them. The inhuman experiment carried out by members of William Clarke Quantrill’s guerilla band had been given much publicity in the North. Clearly all Hoffinger’s men had heard and believed the story. Nor did they doubt, looking at him, that Red was not only willing but eager to duplicate the trial on their bodies. Only the dude remained calm. Standing at Dusty’s side, he smiled and opened his mouth. Before Hoffinger could speak, Glock cam
e to a military brace and saluted the small Texan.
‘We’re soldiers, Cap’n,’ the big man declared. I’m Sergeant-major Glock of the New Hampstead Volunteers and these fellers’re from my company.’
‘How about that, Mr. Hoffinger?’ Dusty asked.
‘We are deserters—’ the dude insisted.
‘Prove it,’ Red challenged, ‘and fast. I’m wanting to try these guns.’
‘I can hardly produce a document from the Army to say we’ve deserted,’ Hoffinger protested.
‘Damn it, we’re the official escort for these remounts, Cap’n!’ Glock yelled, Indicating the horses. ‘Being dressed this way’s part of a fool notion Hoffinger thought out.’
‘Can you prove that?’ Dusty drawled, while Red fingered a Burnside longingly.
‘Of course we ca—!’ Hoffinger began.
‘Show him that paper, you crazy son-of-a-bitch!’ Glock roared being restrained from springing forward by the lined guns of the guards. ‘They ain’t fooling.’
‘Damn it!’ Red growled. ‘I’m tired of this talking. Cut out five of ‘em, Sergeant Bixby and send a man for my Henry.’
‘No!’ Glock bellowed and his men added their voices to the plea. ‘Cap’n, he’s got another letter, telling the truth about us. It’s in the “grape-shot”—’
‘You stupid bastard!’ wailed Hoffinger. ‘Why didn’t you call their bluff? Neither of them aimed to go through with it.’
‘Didn’t we?’ Dusty asked. ‘Let me have Mr. Hoffinger’s revolver, Kiowa.’
‘I doubt very much if you did, sir,’ the dude answered, knowing that Dusty had read correctly the meaning of Glock’s last sentence, interrupted though it had been. ‘By the “C” on your guidon, I assume that you are Dusty Fog, Unfortunately I failed to see it in time to announce the fact.’
‘Hell’s teeth, yes!’ Glock spat out. ‘If I’d known—’
Ignoring the comments, Dusty examined the revolver. Due to a lack of manufacturing facilities in the South, Colonel Alexandre Le Mat had gone to France to produce his revolvers. Sufficient of them had been smuggled through the U.S. Navy’s blockade on the Confederate ports for Dusty to be familiar with their peculiarities. The gun he held was a standard production model. Under the .40 calibre hexagonal barrel was a second shorter and larger tube. At its rear end, this tube acted as a base-pin for the nine-shot cylinder and was, in fact, a smooth-bore barrel designed to fire a .50 calibre ‘grape-shot’ ball.
