Dusty Fog's Civil War 9

by J. T. Edson

  Acting on their orders, five of Dusty’s men burst into sight on the right side of the valley, making all the noise they could manage. Guns in hand, they tore down the slope towards the disorganized escort.

  Only two of the escort avoided the tangled jumble, and they more through luck than by good management. Wild with terror inspired by the explosions, screams and stench of spilled blood, the horses reared, fought and finally bolted to the left, headed in Dusty’s direction.

  On firing his shot, Dusty started to work the Spencer’s loading lever and at the same moment thrust himself rapidly out of his cover. He knew that none of the Dragoons must be allowed to escape, but could not handle the Spencer freely enough from his hiding place to rely on taking his share in bottling in the Yankees. Both the approaching Dragoons appeared to be good horsemen and were already gaining control of their mounts. Seeing Dusty, and guessing that it was he who detonated the explosion, they charged in his direction. One of the pair drew his Army Colt and fired at Dusty, but thirty yards was too great a range for a man to perform accurate shooting with a handgun when astride a racing horse. Drawing back the Spencer’s side-hammer, Dusty threw the carbine to his shoulder, took aim and touched off a shot in return. Caught in the shoulder by the heavy bullet, the eager Dragoon pitched out of the saddle, his gun dropping from his hand.

  Ignoring his fallen comrade, the second man continued his charge and drew his gun. From all appearances he was an old soldier and well-versed in his business. Not for him to open fire wildly at a range where luck alone might guide home the bullet. Instead he headed straight for Dusty, meaning to ride the other down and end the affair at a distance from which he could hardly miss.

  Dusty worked the lever of the Spencer, feeling the breach start to open, stick for an instant, then came back—only no empty cartridge case flicked into the air. Metal cartridge manufacture had not yet developed to a stage where reliable cases were the rule rather than the exception and accidents frequently happened. Even without looking, Dusty guessed that the case had stuck tighter than usual in the chamber and the withdrawing ejector tore its head off, leaving the remainder of the brass cylinder inside the gun and effectively preventing the insertion of a replacement bullet.

  Nearer rushed the Dragoon, still holding his fire. Dusty’s right hand left the Spencer, driving down and across his body in a move almost too fast for the eye to follow. Trained fingers curled around the waiting white handle of the left-side Colt and its streamlined length flowed from the holster. Back drew the hammer under Dusty’s thumb and his forefinger slipped into the trigger-guard. He did not offer to raise the gun shoulder high and take sight in the formal manner; with the Dragoon rushing closer by the second there would not have been time. Not that Dusty needed to use a fancy dueling stance. He had been trained to handle his Colts in the manner of the Texas range country and down there if a man needed a gun, he mostly did not have time to adopt a fancy stance before using his weapon. Even as the Dragoon fired his opening shot, Dusty’s Colt roared from waist high and aimed by instinctive alignment. Like Dusty figured, the Dragoon knew how to handle a gun. Only the fact that the man fired from a mighty unsteady platform saved Dusty; and at that the Dragoon’s bullet stirred the Texan’s hair in passing.

  For his part, Dusty shot back the only way he dared under the circumstances—for a kill. There was no time for taking a careful aim and sending a bullet into the man’s shoulder, not when faced with an enemy so skilled in use of a gun. So Dusty sent his bullet into the Dragoon’s chest as offering the easiest target under the prevailing conditions. Jerking under the impact of the lead, the Dragoon let his gun drop and slid off his horse. So close had it been that Dusty was forced to throw himself aside to avoid being run down by the horse.

  Down on the trail, the Dragoons had been too dazed and shocked to offer any resistance and, even as Dusty shot down the second man, were surrendering to his five Texans. One of the five, Dusty’s company guidon carrier, wheeled away from the rest. Leading Dusty’s stallion, as was his duty at such times, the guidon carrier loped over to where his captain waited. Dusty took the black’s reins, mounted and turned his attention to where Belle’s party intercepted the fleeing carriage.

  “Steady!” Belle breathed as she watched the carriage hurl by the point where the Ketchum grenade awaited Dusty’s bullet.

  Around her, concealed among a clump of bushes, the five men assigned to take the carriage held their restive mounts in check. At Belle’s side, the burly corporal whose challenge had brought a lesson in savate, gave the girl a grin. He volunteered to ride in her party with the express intention of showing Belle how it was done. Yet he, like the others, willingly accepted her as the leader.

  All heard the crack of Dusty’s Spencer followed by the roars as the Ketchum exploded.

  “Charge!” Belle ordered, her voice low but urgent.

  Setting her spurs to the flanks of her mount, she sent it leaping out of cover and down the slope. Dance in hand, she led the men towards the wagon in a fast and deadly rush. Yet they went in silence, without as much as a cowhand yell to give warning of their presence. Lack of cover caused Dusty to station the party farther from the trail than he wanted, but he tried to ease their task as much as possible.

  Racing their horses downwards, Belle and the Texans watched the carriage for the first sign that its occupants noticed them. Seventy-five yards, fifty, thirty; still the driver and guard, watching the ambush of the remainder of their escort, failed to see or hear their danger. The hooves of their team and the rumbling of the wheels on the trail drowned out the grass-muffled drumming of the Texans’ mounts. Even General Main stared back at the havoc Dusty’s grenade caused among the Dragoons during the first, dangerous moments of the charge.

  Suddenly the driver became aware that his team careered along the Trace without guidance from him. Twisting around, he prepared to handle the reins and saw the charging group. His warning yell, garbled though it came out, served to bring the guard’s attention to the front. The warning came just too early for Belle’s party to make a safe contact with the enemy.

  Belle had chosen to wear her Union Army fatigue cap and taken with her dark blue shirt and black breeches it gave her the appearance of a Yankee soldier. Under the stress and excitement of the moment, the guard completely overlooked certain aspects of Belle’s appearance which ought to have told him that he did not look at a man. To his eyes a member of his own army rode with the rebels; a traitor; a lousy, stinking renegade who had sold out to the enemy and brought death or injury to a good few Union soldiers that day. Fury boiled inside the guard and he swore to himself that he would get the damned traitor or want to know why not.

  Although she saw the guard’s eyes riveted on her, Belle felt no great anxiety at first. The Springfield carbine issued to the Union Army’s enlisted man had never been a weapon noted for accuracy and she reckoned she could take a chance on the guard shooting at her from the swaying box of the racing carriage.

  Only the guard did not hold an inaccurate Springfield carbine.

  Apprehension ripped through Belle as she realized that the guard’s weapon had two barrels. No matter how the box rocked, a ten-gauge shot-gun at that range would be unlikely to miss if its handler knew his business. From the smooth way the guard started to raise his shot-gun, Belle figured he knew enough to make things all-fired dangerous for anybody he aimed to hit.

  At Belle’s side, the burly corporal saw the raising of the shot-gun and with something of a shock realized that the guard aimed to cut the girl down. Swinging his horse, the corporal rammed it into Belle’s racing bay and staggered the other animal aside. Flame tore from the shotgun’s right barrel as nine buckshot balls lashed from its muzzle in a spreading pattern of death. At twenty-five yards the balls had spread enough so that a human body would catch most of them—and the corporal had ridden into the place he knocked Belle from. Seven of the .32 caliber balls tore into his body. He jerked backwards, striking the cantle of his saddle. Th
e army Colt slid from his fingers and he fell sideways to the ground. His four male companions fired back at the guard, but missed.

  Only Belle’s superb riding skill kept her in the saddle as her horse reeled under the impact of the corporal’s charge. Not only did she retain her seat, but collected and brought the bay under control. At the same moment her brain screamed a warning that she must do something or take the shotgun’s left barrel’s charge. The guard saw his first shot miss the girl and wavered between which of the attackers he ought to try next.

  Much as she hated what she must do, that pause gave Belle her chance. Bringing up the Dance, she threw a shot at the nearest of the carriage’s team. Even from the back of the racing bay, Belle could hardly miss so large a target. Screaming as the .36 ball hit it, the horse stumbled and went down, bringing the other leader with it. Instantly the carriage lurched to a violent halt. The guard’s shotgun boomed, but as an involuntary measure as his finger tightened on the trigger when he was thrown forward. He hit nothing and before he recovered took a bullet from one of the Texans.

  The driver could do nothing beyond trying to keep himself from being thrown off the box and also prevent his team from killing each other or themselves in their wild panic. Inside the coach General Main had been pitched forward, his head smashing into the side. Blackness welled over him and he collapsed to the floor.

  Leaving the men to handle the carriage’s driver and occupant, Belle whirled her bay around in a rump-scraping turn and left the saddle before the animal stopped. She holstered her Dance as she ran to where the corporal lay sprawled on the ground. Dropping to her knees beside the stricken man, she gently raised his head and pillowed it upon her knees. For a moment she thought he was dead, then his eyes opened and he looked at her. A pain-wracked grin twisted his lips.

  “Reckon I put one over on—you—this—time—ma’am!” he gasped.

  Before Belle could make any reply, she saw his body stiffen, blood oozed out of his mouth and his eyes glazed over, then the body went limp. For the first time in three or more years Belle felt the impact of death. She knew that she owed the corporal her life. If he had not knocked her horse aside, it would be she who lay on the ground. Tears trickled down Belle’s cheeks and she remained on her knees, cradling the soldier’s dead head in her hands.

  Hooves drummed behind Belle but she did not look up to see who approached.

  “How is he?” asked Dusty’s voice.

  Turning, Belle looked up at the small Texan. Grief showed plainly on her face and she replied, “He’s dead. Died saving me.”

  “Poor old Mike,” Dusty said, his voice gentle. “He was a good soldier.”

  The corporal had also been a good friend in the days before the War, companion on more than one schoolboy escapade. However, Dusty had long since learned that friends died in battle, but that life must go on. The lives of the rest of the company depended on Dusty, so he must hold down his sorrow at losing a friend and force himself to go ahead with the work at hand.

  “I’ll send somebody to tend to him,” Dusty told Belle. “Come and help me find the money.”

  Gently Belle laid the still form on the ground and came to her feet. Looking around, she found everything under control. Already Dusty’s party had joined the men who rode with her. The Yankee prisoners stood to one side under guard and attended to their wounded. On Dusty’s orders, two of the Texans came forward to load the dead corporal on his horse. Back at the reserve horses, one of the packs, carried a couple of shovels with which a grave could be dug. At the carriage, the driver, now disarmed, and a Texan helped a dazed, bloody-scalped, groaning General Main from inside.

  “Have you pulled the General’s teeth?” asked Dusty.

  “Sure have, Cap’n,” grinned the Texan and held up one of the small, metal-cartridge Smith and Wesson revolvers which had become popular with members of the U.S. Army assigned to more sedentary duties. “Ain’t this the fiercest gun you ever did see though.”

  The hoots of derisive laughter which rose from the other Texans, firm .44 caliber addicts who regarded even the .36 Navy bullets as being a mite small for serious work, did nothing to make them relax their vigilance or control of their prisoners. Although Dusty held the same views as his men, he stopped their comments with a low growled word.

  “Rider coming fast, Cap’n Dusty,” announced one of the men.

  “It’s Kiowa,” another went on.

  Bringing his horse to a halt by the carriage, Kiowa threw a quick glance around, nodded with satisfaction, then reported to Dusty.

  “Went off right as right could be. Red’s marching the Yankees through the Funnel right now.”

  “Any casualties—?” asked Dusty.

  “None. Leastways, not on our side.”

  “Good,” Dusty said and turned to look in the direction of the Funnel. Then he swung back and watched two of his men, under Belle’s urgings, removing a large box from the carriage.

  “This’s what I wanted, Dusty,” the girl breathed.

  Something in her attitude drew Dusty’s eyes to Belle. Mere lust for money did not give her the air of excitement. True she would probably receive a percentage of the consignment as a reward for her efforts, but he knew patriotism and not profit had been her motive.

  Drawing his right-hand Colt, he sent a bullet into the lock, shattering it. Belle threw back the lid and looked at the canvas bags. Taking one out, she borrowed Kiowa’s knife and slit it open. Gold coins glinted in her hands and she raised her eyes to Dusty’s.

  “How do we transport the money?” she asked. “The carriage won’t help us.”

  “Never aimed to use it,” Dusty replied. “We’ll make up the money into loads for two pack-horses. Then I’ll send Kiowa and Red to escort you back to our headquarters. Reckon Uncle Devil’ll see that you get where you want to go after that.”

  “Can’t you come with me?”

  “Reckon not. I don’t know how soon the Yankees will learn about this raid, but I do know it’ll make them pot-boiling wild when they hear. So I figured to keep my boys in this area, stir things up just like I was sent to do.”

  “That’ll be risky,” Belle pointed out.

  “Sure,” Dusty agreed. “But maybe they’ll figure I’ve still got the money with me and give you an easy trip through. Anyways, I’ve got to try to draw as much of the Yankee strength as possible up here so that Cousin Buck has a better chance of taking that supply depot and getting Company A out alive.”

  Much as Belle wanted to ask Dusty to come back with her, she did not. She knew the dangers of her own task and needed help, but a whole company of the Texas Light Cavalry might be wiped out if Dusty failed to do his part in a large plan. Making a swift calculation, Belle decided that she had a few days to spare even allowing for travelling time.

  “How long will you be out?” she asked.

  “Two days, should be back at headquarters in four,” Dusty replied, wondering at her questions.

  “I may see you there then,” Belle smiled.

  “Likely,” agreed Dusty and turned back to attend to preparations for joining Red and pulling out.

  Six – A Furlough for Captain Fog

  “Lawsy me, Cap’n Dusty, sah,” greeted the fat, jovial-looking Negro butler as he opened the front doors of the big house taken over by the Texas Light Cavalry for their officers’ mess. “You-all looks all peaked, gaunt and tired.”

  “I feel a mite that way, Oscar,” Dusty replied.

  Since parting from Red, Belle and Kiowa, Dusty had been constantly on the move. By pushing his men and horses to the very limits of their endurance, he stirred up a hornet’s nest in the northwest Arkansas and left the Yankees feeling that they had been hit by a raging Texas-twister in all its fury. An unexpected evening rush took the reinforced guard at the Coon Fork bridge by surprise, coming as it did from the northern bank of the river. After destroying the Vandenburg gun—the horses were too tired and in no shape to haul such a valuable piece of booty back to t
he Confederate lines—Dusty’s men crossed the bridge and destroyed it behind them. The rest had been fairly easy. Walking more than they rode their leg-weary horses, the men made for and crossed the Ouachita, then passed through Confederate-held territory to their regiment’s headquarters.

  Already the men had attended to their horses and saddles, cleaned their weapons, ate a good meal and now prepared to catch up on some badly needed sleep. Dusty knew that before he could think of resting he still had to make his reports, write at least one of the letters to the parents of the seven men who died on the mission, and clean his Colts. No man who lived as Dusty did ever failed to take that precaution.

  “I’ll want some boiling water sent up to my room after I’ve seen Colonel Blaze, Oscar,” he told the butler.

  “If it am boiling, it ain’t for washing,” the Negro answered. “And if it’s for cleaning your guns, I’d sure admire for you-all to do it outside. It sure makes the room smell something wild if you-all does it indoors.”

  “Reckon you’re right at that,” Dusty smiled. “Have it out back of the kitchen in fifteen minutes.”

  Big, burly, yet hard-fleshed and capable-looking, Colonel Blaze saw Dusty immediately. One glance told Blaze that his nephew had been hard-travelled and looked in need of sleep.

  “Make it short, boy,” Blaze ordered. “I’ll have the full story later.”

  Taking the chair brought up by the sergeant who showed him into the room, Dusty sank down with a low sigh of contentment. Then he shook off the lethargy and said, “You’ll know about the gold consignment, sir?”

  “Red brought it in two days ago. They had to lay up north of the Ouachita for a day because of Yankee activity stopping them crossing.”

  “Pleased they made it. Where’s Red now?”

  “I sent him out on a foraging expedition, we need meat and the next shipment of beef hasn’t come in from home yet,” Blaze grinned. “Had to give him something to do or he’d’ve been heading back across the Ouachita to look for you. Damned short on discipline that boy. Takes after his pappy.”