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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘I took a new Navy Colt from Packard, a real fancy weapon for a man to be carrying.’ Hamley put in. ‘And he lost nearly fifteen hundred dollars in a poker game the night he was promoted.’

  ‘So?’ Buller snarled.

  ‘The gun was engraved with your brother’s name and that’s a lot of money for a hired man to be losing.’

  ‘And I couldn’t use Union money, mister. Unless you’re telling us your brother was carrying Confederate money.’

  Buller’s temper was boiling over but he was still not fool enough to try outright violence against Dusty. He knew that Hamley was probably telling the truth and only accused Dusty to make trouble. He’d lost the exchange of words and his rage boiled over.

  Dusty wanted no trouble, nor did he want this scene to carry on. He started to turn away but Buller caught his arm and turned him.

  ‘Take your lousy hand off me!’ Dusty’s voice sank to just over a whisper and the concentrated fury made the big man drop his hand.

  ‘Why you short-grown runt!’ Buller snarled. ‘If you was taller I’d—’

  ‘Hire somebody to do something?’ Dusty finished for him. ‘You’ve tried twice and I took both of them.’

  ‘Why you—!’ Buller began, then words failed him and he drew back his fist. Instantly his arm caught in a vice-like grip and he turned to meet Cogshill’s cold eyes.

  ‘That’s enough, Buller. Get out of here. Now!’

  Dusty stood very still, at his side his right hand was held flat, thumb bent over, palm and fingers stiff and rigid for the nkite, the four-finger piercing hand of karate. In another instant the steel hard fingers would have driven into the fat stomach, doubling Buller in agony and helpless for the next attack Dusty would launch. Dusty was almost beyond controlling his anger, but the interruption prevented him from disgracing himself. The few seconds pause gave Dusty time to regain his control and stop his temper.

  Buller could see the end of his career in the Army. He could read it in Grant’s angry gaze, in the looks of the crowd. There would be a polite note asking him to resign, which if not accepted would be followed by a point blank order to do so. It would be the end of his hopes, his dreams of social acceptance as an officer of the Army. Worse, he would be an outcast and even such doors as had previously been opened to him would slam closed now. His full rage turned on Dusty Fog and for the first time in his life Buller spoke without caution.

  ‘Why you lousy, short-grown rebel scum,’ he snarled. ‘If you were man-sized I’d squash you under my boot heel.’

  Like a whiplash Dusty’s reply cut back, biting through Buller’s rage and lashing at him. ‘If the General will waive question of his rank, I’ll waive my natural reluctance to fight someone who is obviously no gentleman.’

  It was the one thing capable of making Buller throw off the last vestige of self-restraint. The words struck home, biting into his ego. More than anything Buller wanted to be known as a gentleman, every move he made was to that end.

  ‘Well said, well said,’ growled Houghton-Rand from behind Buller and that brought the rage boiling out.

  Buller’s face turned a deep purple and for a moment Dusty thought the man would have a stroke. The fat hands clawed up to tear away the cravat and pull the neck of the shirt open. For an instant Buller was on the verge of throwing himself bodily at Dusty, but sanity prevented him from doing it. This was the man who beat Packard, sent him to the hospital with a broken head. Buller had every cause to know how tough Packard was and he could not handle Dusty Fog. There was only one alternative, a duel.

  Then Buller’s mind started to work fast. Cold steel was out. Montreigen could not handle the Texan with a blade and Buller knew how skilled a performer the swarthy man was. Buller was but a poor performer with any kind of sword, having neither the grace, speed, skill or balance to make a skilled fencer. A mounted duel was out of the question, for the Texan was born and raised in a country where a horse was more than just a means of transport and where a man could ride as soon as he could walk. A mounted duel would be fatal—and not for Dusty Fog.

  That left Buller only one chance and it was one he relished. Pistols. He was not better than fair with a handgun and was sure Dusty was better than just fair. However, there was trickery and Montreigen knew every trick in the book. Pistols were Buller’s only hope of surviving a fight with Dusty Fog.

  ‘I’ll waive anything if it’ll make you fight,’ he snarled.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Grant put in, growling the words out. ‘That’s enough. There’ll be no dueling. Captain Fog’s here—’

  ‘Your pardon, sir,’ Dusty interrupted politely, his tone respectful. ‘General Buller has cast doubts on my honor and my personal courage. It cannot be overlooked as these gentlemen have all heard. I demand satisfaction on the field of honor.’

  Grant was in an awkward position. Dueling was forbidden by law but he knew that the law was frequently flouted by serving soldiers. The southern gentleman was one who refused to follow the law and chose the field of honor to settle his differences. Hoping for guidance Grant glanced at Lincoln, but the President was talking to the Mayor of Moshogen and making sure he kept his back to the trouble, leaving the Army to sort out its own internal troubles.

  So the decision lay on Grant’s head. Dusty Fog was completely in his rights and Buller never more in the wrong. Grant was far from being a fool, he knew why men like Buller joined the Union Army. That might have been why he made the decision he did. He was putting Dusty Fog into danger but he knew Dusty was well able to handle the trouble. If the duel was allowed the Union Army would lose a dangerous enemy one way or the other. Grant doubted if Dusty would be the one to fall—strangely the thought gave him some satisfaction.

  ‘Very well, Captain,’ he growled. ‘Buller, send your seconds to wait on Captain Fog.’

  Dusty was presented with a problem. He did not wish to ask one of the Third Cavalry Officers to act for him in a duel against a member of their Army, even though he knew they would do so willingly. He turned to the two Military Observers and asked if they would act for him. Houghton-Rand and von Dettmer could see the position Dusty was in and agreed to be his seconds. Telling Buller they’d wait for his seconds in the library, they left the room. Buller, followed by Montreigen, left the room and the band started up once more, but all the festivity was gone from the air now and the ball started to break up soon after.

  Montreigen and another Volunteer officer came into the room soon after and found Dusty waiting with his seconds. Buller was not present, he’d told Montreigen how he wanted to fight and left the New Orleans duelist to think up some plan to give him the edge. Buller’s decision to use pistols gave Montreigen an idea, a dirty trick and one which would ruin Buller socially, but should keep him alive. It would be the end of him in the Union Army, but he was finished with the Army anyway. Buller hoped his money would shield him from worse happenings and he expected to be able to live down the distaste other people might feel at his methods.

  ‘General Buller wants us to state that he does not use the sword,’ Montreigen said, getting down to business without any small talk. ‘He wishes to fight with pistols.’

  ‘That is to our principal’s satisfaction,’ answered von Dettmer a trifle haughtily. He was a Prussian and had fought in duels, but to him a duel was only correct when edged weapons were used. However, Buller could select any kind of weapon and condition as long as it was fair to both participants in the duel.

  ‘Further, as there is no chance of getting a working pair of dueling pistols at such short notice the General suggested each man uses his own Colt revolver. That will be fair to both participants and each revolver will have only one percussion cap. The next to fall under the hammer. That will be satisfactory?’

  ‘Quite satisfactory,’ Houghton-Rand replied, glancing at Dusty.

  On the face of it the terms were more than satisfactory for Houghton-Rand knew how good Dusty was with a revolver, having spoken to young Cogshill on the matter earlier.
With his own weapon in his hand Dusty would have a decided edge in the duel, more so than if both men were using a strange dueling pistol, the vagaries of which they did not know.

  ‘Then tomorrow at seven o’clock,’ Montreigen went on. ‘General Buller’s a busy man and doesn’t want to waste any more time around here.’

  ‘Very good,’ barked Houghton-Rand, annoyed at this implication that Buller must win on the following morning. ‘If that’s all, Major, we’ll return to the ballroom. After you, sir.’

  ~*~

  The following morning several men gathered in the orchard behind the house. Grant was not to be seen and Colonel Cogshill was in charge of the affair. Besides Dusty and Buller there were the four seconds, Billy Jack, the post surgeon and a couple of Volunteer officers. Buller stripped off his coat, his fat shape packing and straining at his thin silk shirt. He stood scowling, watching Dusty remove his tunic and unbuckle the gun belt, then take the right-hand gun out. Dusty passed his tunic and gunbelt to Billy Jack, who accepted them, looking unhappy and far more worried than he felt.

  ‘Make sure there’s only one cap on that gun. Montreigen,’ Buller scowled.

  Houghton-Rand opened his mouth to protest at this breach of etiquette, but Dusty shook his head. Reversing the bone-handled Colt he held it out towards Montreigen as the man came up.

  ‘Take a look, Major, although I’m not willing to allow you to touch the gun.’

  Montreigen smiled, it was a sneering, mocking smile, yet there was something furtive in it. He looked down at the reversed Colt and saw there was only one percussion cap in place, the other nipples were clear and the gun could only be fired the once.

  Houghton-Rand made the obvious suggestion but Dusty shook his head. ‘I’ll treat General Buller as if he was a gentleman.’

  The British Colonel smiled, this youngster was a cool hand. Those words bit into Buller like a whiplash and made the man almost shake with rage. It would do his shooting no good at all to be in such a temper. However, Houghton-Rand wished he could make sure there was only one percussion cap on Buller’s revolver.

  The two men were called together and stood back to back, each held his revolver in his right hand, muzzle pointing to the sky. Cogshill stepped forward and asked. ‘Is there no chance of you forgetting this, gentlemen?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Very well. I will say commence, as you step off I will count to ten, then both turn and fire. Is that satisfactory?’

  ‘It is,’ Buller growled.

  ‘Why sure,’ agreed Dusty.

  ‘Commence!’ Cogshill snapped and the two men stepped forward. ‘One! Two!—’

  There was sweat running down Buller’s face as he stepped out the paces. Yet there was a look of triumph on his face. He drew back the hammer of his Colt and faintly heard the click of Dusty’s revolver come to full cock. The count was going on and at each word they took another step.

  ‘Five! Six! Seven!’

  ‘Look out, Dusty!’ Billy Jack yelled out a warning, forgetting military formality in the urgency of the situation.

  Buller was turning on the eighth step, swinging around to stand sideways, left hand on his hip, right bringing the revolver down into line, adopting the stance Montreigen taught him. The long barreled Colt crashed out, the bullet ripping by Dusty’s head, for in his hurry Buller flinched his pull and his shot missed. The recoil kicked the gun barrel high and Buller cocked back the hammer, apparently forgetting there was only supposed to be one chamber capped.

  At the sound of the shot Dusty turned fast. Not for him the fancy duelist’s stance, there was no time. He knew Buller was not making a mistake, the revolver Buller held was fully capped. Dusty knew this and acted on it. His turn ended with him ready, feet apart, legs slightly bent and body thrown forward to offer a smaller target. The Army Colt swung down to line, held centrally with his body and only waist high. It was the stance of a frontier fighting man, a man used to shooting and hitting a man-sized mark in less than a second, starting from the leather. The gun roared while only waist high, flame lashed from the barrel, behind the heavy .44 bullet. Through the whirling powder smoke Dusty saw Buller rock over backwards and crash to the ground. Even as the big man fell his gun crashed and the bullet tore into the turf by his side.

  Montreigen slapped at his holster, knocking open the top and gripping the butt of his revolver. He was slow, real slow, when faced by a man who learned his gunfighting in the West. Billy Jack dropped Dusty’s tunic and belt, his right hand stabbed down and brought up his Colt. Before the dropped articles hit the floor Billy Jack sent a second bullet into the reeling man, then covered the other Volunteer officers.

  Cogshill and the surgeon ran to Buller’s side, bending over him. They stood up and Cogshill took the fallen revolver, looked at it, then came to Dusty, face working angrily.

  ‘On behalf of the Union Army I apologize to you, Captain Fog,’ he said, showing the revolver was fully capped. ‘General Buller cannot apologize for himself, he is dead.’

  Dusty did not reply, he turned and went to pick up his jacket, pulled it on then strapped his gunbelt around his waist and set it right. He turned and walked back towards the house, where breakfast was waiting for him.

  ~*~

  The President of the United States walked with the Captain of the Confederate States Army as Dusty made his way to where his party were waiting to be escorted back to their own people.

  Lincoln looked at the small man by his side. Man? A mere boy in years, but a man full grown for all of that.

  ‘I’d like to apologize once more for all that happened here, Captain Fog,’ he said. ‘I and General Grant would have given anything to avoid it.’

  ‘Apologies aren’t needed, sir,’ replied Dusty. ‘There are men like Buller on both sides. Whoever wins the war’s going to have to watch them real careful. They’re dangerous in War but they’ll be more so just after it. I don’t hold anything against the rest of you and have told Colonel Houghton-Rand and Baron von Dettmer so. They agree the Union Army behaved correctly and honored their side of the agreement I came under. Any blame for anything which happens lies with General Buller and he’s beyond our reproof.’

  Lincoln felt relieved for he’d spent a worrying night thinking of how the attempts on Dusty must look to the foreign observers. Now he could see Dusty had cleared up any doubts the British and Prussian officers might hold.

  ‘You’ll see your own leaders know this?’ It was a statement really, not a question, for Lincoln knew Dusty would do so.

  ‘Yes, sir, although Uncle Devil will know without being told. There are hotheads who might like to make political capital out of it. I will see that the true facts are known.’

  They walked in silence for a few moments, then Lincoln asked, ‘Why do you serve the Confederacy, Captain? Do your family own many slaves?’

  ‘We don’t have any, sir. Got a few colored folks down in the Rio Hondo country, but I wouldn’t call them slaves. Uncle Devil made the decision. He leads the clan and he decided it was our duty to fight for the South. We followed him on it.’

  ‘You wounded young Cogshill at the Moshogen Bridge?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I suppose you were trying to kill him?’

  ‘Waal, we were riding fast at each other. There was no time for fancy shooting. I just shot to stop him killing me, wasn’t bothered where I hit him so long as I hit. Reckon you could say I was trying to kill him.’

  ‘And if you see him in action you’ll try to kill him once more?’

  ‘Likely,’ replied Dusty, thinking along the same lines as Lincoln and a half-smile playing on his lips.

  ‘And yet he would have been shot without your evidence to clear him. That is certain.’ Lincoln’s gentle drawl went on, a smile on his face which made him look dependable and likeable. ‘Would it have made any difference if we’d shot him, or if he was killed by you?’

  ‘None in the end, I suppose. Except for his honor.’

 
‘His honor,’ Lincoln mused, watching Dusty’s face. They were nearing the waiting party now. ‘You risked your life to save his, yet you would kill him tomorrow if you saw him in action. It’s a strange world, isn’t it, Captain?’

  Dusty nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Makes a man think how futile war is.’

  Part Two – The Union Spy

  Chapter One

  ‘Lynch her! Hang her! Kill the Yankee spy!’

  The hate-filled voices of the mob rose high into the night air, shattering the peace and turning hideous the air of the quiet Southern town. The light of flickering torches showed off the faces of the men and women who headed for the big old house and yelled hate to the skies.

  At the gate of the house’s garden a small, frail woman in her early fifties watched them come, standing stiff and erect, showing neither fear nor any other emotion. Through the War she’d served the Union well, doing her duty as she saw it, fighting the only way she could. Now it appeared the truth was known, although how she could not guess, and the price must be paid. The people who formed the mob were her friends and neighbors. Only the day before some of the women were at her home, taking tea with her, now they were here with this hate-filled mob, screaming for her blood.

  Nearer came the mob, the rumble of their hate, the most savage and ugly sound in the world, grew louder as more and more people joined the bunch and heard that Elizabeth van Bruwer was a Union spy.

  The woman felt a shiver run through her and tried to restrain it as she stood waiting for them, a slender, small figure with a spotless white cap on her head, a sober, plain black dress which extended to her feet. There was no escape for her, the Confederates took all but one tired old horse for Service with the Army. So, with no hope of escape she came to face them. The van Bruwers were a sturdy stock, the men having served their country in every War. She would do nothing to disgrace the family name.