The Fastest Gun in Texas (A Dusty Fog Civil War Book 5)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Hold hard there, Major,’ he drawled mournfully. ‘That big hombre’s going to get him one real fast, free and friendly lesson of how the Texas Light handles a drunk,’ he paused and the grin grew even broader—‘even if the same drunk ain’t so drunk as he acts.’

  Which proved that Billy Jack might talk slow, look to have all the cares in the world, but was still a real quick-thinking man whose perceptions were just as quick and all seeing as his commanding officer’s.

  Hamley frowned, holding his gun, yet not drawing it. Before he could decide what he should do about it he was too late.

  Dusty moved his feet until they were between Packard’s widespread legs and slightly behind Packard’s big feet. The small Texan was grunting in pain but he was still able to think and act even though the breath was being crushed from his body. He made no attempt to break the crushing pressure, knowing that his strength was as nothing compared with the other man’s. Dropping his hands he got them around the outside and back of Packard’s thighs. Then Dusty bent slightly and lifted. It looked almost as if he was giving the huge man a pick-a-back ride. Once more Dusty’s strength took Packard by surprise and before the big man could make up his mind how to handle this unusual situation he felt Dusty bending forward. Packard’s own weight worked as a pivot, his hands lost their hold and he felt himself falling to the ground. There was no time for him to protect his head as he fell and it crashed on to the ground with a sickening thud. Packard’s big frame crumpled like it was boned and he lay without a move.

  ‘Sure hope he’s all right,’ remarked Billy Jack unhappily, although he hoped no such thing.

  So did Dusty, although he was a little more sincere in his hope. The ju-jitsu throw called seoi-age, the lifting shoulder throw, taught him by Ole Devil’s servant was very effective. It was also deadly dangerous in use and in training or practice was termed complete just by lifting the other man from his feet. To do the throw in earnest as Dusty did with Packard, was likely to wind up with the receiver breaking his neck, or at least with a fractured skull. Bending down Dusty looked at the still form on the ground and felt something like relief to see the neck was not broken. If there were other injuries Dusty could not see but he expected there would be. Packard lit down hard, head first, and there was probably some serious damage.

  Hamley, face red with anger and mortification, but shaken by the apparent ease Dusty handled a much larger man, moved forward. He turned and bellowed his anger at the enlisted men who gathered from where they’d been policing the horse lines. The men had gathered round and stood chattering excitedly, pointing out to each other what happened.

  ‘Four of you carry Packard to the guard house and leave him there,’ Hamley growled. ‘You, sergeant, my compliments to the post surgeon, tell him to attend to Mr. Packard and report to me on his condition.’

  Hamley felt suddenly worried, the full awareness of what had just occurred came to him. His face reddened with both anger and embarrassment at Packard’s action. His regiment’s honor, more, the honor of the United States of America was at stake. He knew full well the backing behind bringing Captain Fog to Moshogen, knew of the letter and who signed it. Dusty Fog was in Moshogen under a guarantee of safety and he might have been seriously injured or killed. Packard’s actions might be taken as the behavior of a drunk, but he was wearing the uniform of a lieutenant of the Union Army and such an action could hardly be passed over. Then Hamley remembered the two military observers who’d come to make sure the terms of the letter were carried out. He did not know how Houghton-Rand or von Dettmer would take the news that Dusty was attacked by a drunkard the moment he arrived.

  ‘I’d like to apologies for Packard’s actions, Captain Fog,’ he said sincerely. ‘Damn him for a drunken trouble-causer. I’ll have him court-martialed and dismissed for this.’

  ‘You don’t need to apologize, sir,’ replied Dusty. ‘He wasn’t of your regiment and I attach no blame to you.’

  Hamley did not try to hide his relief at the words. He knew full well how much importance Sherman attached to this visit and it would go badly for Hamley if anything should happen to Dusty. He could see that Dusty did not appear to be unduly worried by the attempted attack and put it down to Dusty laying it all on the temper of an ill-bred drunken lout.

  In this surmise Hamley was far from right. Dusty did not blame the Major of the Third Cavalry for the attack. He did not put it down to the action of a drunk either. Dusty knew Packard was far from drunk. The man was cold sober and probably under orders from General Buller to either kill or injure the small Texan, preventing him giving his evidence at the court-martial.

  There was a grin on Dusty’s face, a grin which both Billy Jack and Unwin knew all too well, even if Hamley did not It was the grim-lipped grin which only came when danger was thickest and always heralded trouble for someone. Dusty knew his life was in danger every minute he was here in Moshogen, that he was dealing with a powerful man who was rich enough to hire men like Packard. General Buller was a hard and ruthless man, not one to be worried by small matters like his country’s honor. He would try everything in his power to remove this small Texan who came to prevent an innocent man from being sacrificed for the Buller pride. Buller was not going to stand back and watch Dusty spoil the plan to whitewash his brother’s name and Buller must guess that Dusty alone could possibly clear young Cogshill of the charges falsely laid against him.

  ‘Where at’s General Buller now, Major?’ Dusty asked innocently, watching the soldiers carrying Packard away. ‘That was one of his men, wasn’t it?’

  ‘It was, Packard, the sergeant-major who was with Charlie Buller at the Moshogen Bridge. General Buller promoted him for his part in the action. Buller’s not in Moshogen. General Grant ordered both Colonel Cogshill and Buller to join him until after the court-martial.’

  ‘Grant? Is he near to hand?’

  ‘Very near,’ answered Hamley and something in his voice told Dusty there was more than just the bald statement implied. ‘Very well guarded, too.’

  Dusty smiled at his compliment to the way he and his two raiding colleagues, Mosby and Ashby were acting. No Union Army staff officer could feel safe anywhere within striking distance of the Confederate lines, not when a fast riding cavalry troop might suddenly appear, swoop down and snatch him from safety to be dumped in the Andersonville prisoner-of-war camp. He could see that General U. S. Grant, General-in-Chief of the Union Army, was concerned that the trial should go off without a hitch. General Buller and Colonel Cogshill both being taken away from the town showed that.

  For all his absence, Buller was not going to sit back mildly and allow Dusty to ruin his plan to exculpate his brother.

  Dusty knew that, he also knew that he must be ready to meet other attempts on his life and they might be shrewder, more subtle than this one.

  They saw to the horses, leaving Billy Jack and Unwin’s mounts in the horse lines of Hamley’s company, tactfully overlooking the U.S. brand the horses carried. It was after putting Dusty’s horse in the officers’ stables that Hamley was worried about what he should do with his guests. It was Sunday afternoon, warm, and he could hardly expect them to be cooped up all day. He did not want them to be allowed to wander around and see too much. Dusty could hardly expect to be allowed to do so, not as an officer of Light Cavalry, the scouts of the Army. There were too many things a keen-eyed, intelligent young man could see, even if he did not mean to, too much he could learn by just looking around.

  Hamley was torn between a desire to offer no offence to Dusty; who was trying to help a regular officer out of trouble; and his military training which did not allow an enemy officer to wander about and see whatever there was to see.

  Realizing the problem his presence must be raising for Hamley, Dusty offered a suggestion that they saw his men to their quarters. They were walking towards the tented lines where Billy Jack and Unwin would stay and just passing the mess hall, when a fat, grinning man stepped out. He stood looking at the approac
hing men for a time, the grin growing broader. Removing the white apron from around his waist he came forward, hand held out.

  ‘Howdy, Cousin Billy Jack.’

  Billy Jack didn’t look any more cheerful at the greeting, although there was a twinkle in his eyes as he replied, ‘Why, howdy, Cousin Bendigo. Ain’t seen you in a coon’s age. Say, how come you all in the Yankee Army?’

  There was no anger in the question, just mild interest. Cousin Bendigo’s grin grew even broader. ‘Waal, it’s a long story. You know what I’m like when I’ve had a couple of Taos Lightnings. Anyways, I’d just paid off from cooking for a dude who was hunting out west and went out to get a couple of snorts under the belt afore I joined the Texas Light, thought Ole Devil’d want a good cook. I got on my hoss and headed out. Must have got lost, so I took me another snort to kinda clear my head. It sure worked. When I got to thinking about it again I found I’d joined the Army. Only it was the Yankee Army. Didn’t figure it made much difference who I cooked for through the War, so I stayed on.’

  Hamley saw a chance of getting rid of Billy Jack for the period of his stay. ‘Take a day off, Sergeant Shandon, take care of your cousin and the soldier. See they’re made comfortable.’

  ‘I’ll do that, Major,’ Bendigo answered. ‘Come on, Cousin Billy Jack.’

  ‘Billy Jack!’ Dusty’s voice cut across the inquiries after different kin which were being exchanged by the two cousins, ‘I know there’s no place like Texas, no cavalry in the world to touch the Texas Light and that we run the best damned troop in the Texas Light. But you don’t go telling the Yankee soldiers that, especially after you’ve had a couple of shots of Taos Lightning.’

  ‘I’ll remember, Cap’n,’ replied Billy Jack, looking even more mournful and sorrow filled as he turned to go with his cousin.

  ‘A real good man that,’ Dusty remarked, then a thought struck him. ‘I wonder if his name’s Shandon?’

  ‘Don’t you know his name?’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you, Major. I’ve known Billy Jack for getting on ten—twelve years, but somehow I never got round to asking him what his surname was.’

  Hamley watched Dusty’s face, suspecting a joke, but reading nothing in the young Texan’s expression. So he asked something which had been puzzling him all the time. ‘Is he always as miserable as that?’

  ‘Nope. This’s one of his better days.’

  They entered the house and Hamley was about to take Dusty to his quarters when the Texan stopped and looked with some interest at a set of large double doors which led off from the big entrance hall. From behind the doors he heard a familiar sound, a sound which would draw his attention any time. It was the ringing clash of steel against steel, the sound made as swords crossed. Hamley could see Dusty’s interest and offered an explanation:

  ‘It’s the fencing school. We started it in almost every place we could, this is just about the best location we’ve had since the beginning of the War.’

  ‘Would my visiting it be in order?’

  Hamley frowned, not being sure if such a visit was advisable. It would most probably be all right. If only the Third Cavalry regiment officers were present there would be neither trouble nor danger, for they all approved of what Dusty was doing. However, there might be some of the Volunteer officers visiting and that could prove dangerous to Dusty. A chance wrong word or action could lead to a challenge and the young Texan could be killed in it. Hamley remembered the way that gun came into Dusty’s hand, he knew that no man in the Union Army, including the loud-mouthed, longhaired scout, James Butler Hickok, could equal such speed. There was only one snag. If a duel was caused, swords, not pistols would be the weapon and Hamley doubted if the young Texan even knew how to hold a dueling rapier.

  Still, a visit to the fencing school would be a way of keeping Dusty occupied and away from anything which he might be able to use later in his campaign against the Union Army. So against his better judgment Hamley agreed to take Dusty to the fencing school as soon as they washed and tidied up from the ride.

  Dusty settled down in his new quarters with no great worries. Still not eighteen-years-old he was a seasoned campaigner and long used to making his home wherever the fortunes of war found him. The room was larger than his own back at the Texas Light Cavalry headquarters and better furnished. There were two beds in it and Hamley indicated the one furthest from the door.

  ‘Would you take that one, Captain,’ he suggested. ‘I’d feel safer if you did.’

  Dusty did not argue with the arrangement. He was always a light sleeper, more so when in time of danger and he was in danger right now. There would be danger to him until the time when he returned to his own people, it was something he accepted without worry.

  Unbuckling his gunbelt Dusty laid it on the bed, then stripped off his coat and shirt. Unwin and Hamley’s striker made their appearance carrying water and towels, then left to fetch along the box which contained Dusty’s best uniform, sword belt and other gear.

  Hamley could not help but be struck by the incongruity of this situation he found himself in. He and Dusty were of the same race, the same people, yet they were enemies and at war with each other. Dusty’s gunbelt lay on the bed, the next time they met those bone-handled Colts might be throwing lead at him. Then Hamley thought of the meeting between Billy Jack and his cousin and wondered how many other such meetings had occurred, with more tragic results, throughout the bitter years of the Civil War.

  They washed and tidied up and went to the fencing school to pass the time until a meal was prepared for them. Unwin put Dusty’s gunbelt in the box and got out the uniform to prepare it. His captain was not going to appear before the Yankee Army unpressed and unpolished if Unwin knew anything about it, so he prepared to clean and shine every bit of brass and leather work and get a glow on the hilt of the Haiman saber ready for when the court convened the following morning.

  The fencing school was formed in what also served as the main dining room or dance hall, depending on which was needed. The furniture was cleared out except for a few chairs and tables at the side of the walls. The tables were littered with fencing gear, masks and swords. Several Union Army officers lounged around watching the two men in the center of the floor. One of them was Dailey, Dusty saw that even with the fencing mask the man wore. The other was a slim, fast moving, dark and swarthy looking man who handled his sword with the air of a master. He was obviously only playing with Dailey, for suddenly he redoubled the speed of his masterful attack, driving the young officer before him almost to the wall. Then a fast lunge and the button-tipped rapier bowed gracefully as it pressed just over Dailey’s heart.

  Stepping back the man removed his mark and looked at the young lieutenant with a mocking sneer on his handsome face. He stroked the pencil-thin mustache which graced his sneering top lip and remarked: ‘It’s a pity they don’t teach you professional soldiers how to use a gentleman’s weapon at West Point.’

  The jibe stung Hamley and he snorted angrily. ‘The rapier’s all right for a dancing master. But a cavalryman needs a weapon he could use from the back of a horse. Like a saber, there’s a weapon for you.’

  ‘Really?’ sneered the dark man, still mocking and contemptuous. ‘I haven’t been privileged to witness any saber work by either side yet. How about a few passes with the rapier, Hamley?’

  ‘No thanks, Montreigen.’

  ‘Then how about you,’ Montreigen asked, looking at Dusty. ‘Captain, isn’t it?’

  Dusty looked right back, guessed Montreigen’s rank, but did not say so. His voice was an even, yet biting, drawl. ‘It is, mister.’

  ‘Major, New Hampstead Volunteers.’ Montreigen’s face flushed slightly as he made the correction. ‘How about showing us if the Confederate Army has more skill than the Union in one style of fighting.’

  The words held a sting to them but Dusty did not lose his temper. He looked at the rapiers and saw they were using slip-on buttons, so there would be no risk to him. The man was probabl
y trying to humiliate Dusty before the watchers. His words bit back at Montreigen faster than a sword thrust: ‘Which kind of fighting did you have in mind, Major? We seem to have held you in most of them.’

  There was a chuckle at this, even from the Union men who were watching, for Montreigen was liked no more than his commanding officer, General Buller. The man was a swaggering New Orleans bully and a master with a rapier. They thought his skill with the rapier would show the soft talking Texan one style of fighting the South could not equal.

  Taking the fencing mask from Dailey and slipping it on Dusty held out his hand to take the rapier offered him. He tested the balance of it and behind the mask he was smiling.

  Montreigen was a New Orleans master but Dusty was not exactly a beginner himself and had learned, was still learning, from a man who once ran one of the finest fencing schools in the old city of New Orleans, but was now serving in the Texas Light Cavalry.

  Montreigen studied the way Dusty lunged towards him, holding the rapier with the point down. Then adopting the classic fencing posture the swarthy man flourished his sword and said, ‘En garde!’ Instantly Montreigen made a fast lunge, meaning to show Dusty as a bungling beginner and make him the laughing stock of the watching men. His blade was met and parried, it took a fast move to prevent himself being touched by the point which flickered out at him. It took Montreigen just three fast passes of arms to know that here was a man who could handle a rapier in the classic old New Orleans style. The man’s fast attack was set by one just as good, the two moving with an effortless skill which told the differences between a man who was good and an expert. Watched by the other officers the bout went on, lunge, parry, riposte, they came so fast the eye could barely follow.

  Montreigen suddenly sprang back and lowered his point to the ground. Dusty stopped his lunge and came to the guard position, smiling behind the mask. He saw the annoyance on Montreigen’s face as the swarthy man removed his facemask. The man was seething with anger at the way he’d been fooled by Dusty’s pose as a beginner and at the chuckles of the onlookers.