by J. T. Edson
Being serious-minded, Cornelia felt compassion for the mass of humanity less fortunate than herself in the matter of worldly goods and social position. Her heart went out to the poorer classes and she wanted to help them achieve better conditions in life.
At times, it must be admitted, she wondered if perhaps her efforts fell on barren ground. Attending a social function organized by a friend’s father for his workers, she overheard a number of comments on her motives for being present, few of which were complimentary, However, her select group of intensely intellectual friends explained that such often happened and laid the blame on bosses’ spies making trouble and preventing the other workers from seeing the light. Which hardly made up for her having heard at least three different members of the crowd asking ‘why the hell doesn’t she go back to her own kind and let us have our fun?’
Nor had her efforts to integrate the white and colored workers met with any better success. In fact one white worker had the audacity to remark that she might advocate allowing an unlimited number of negroes to come North in search of employment as their presence could not affect her in any way. Fortunately such bigots were few and far between for Cornelia, like most intellectual do-gooders, hated to have to face the truth.
All in all, she felt grateful when her father brought her along with him to the treaty council. He held his seat in Congress on the strength of the workers’ votes and her views on a number of matters proved embarrassing; which may have accounted for his offer.
To Cornelia the trip offered an opportunity to study conditions in Texas and make the acquaintance of the down-trodden Indians. After the first night at the Fort, she found herself at a loose end. Her father was already involved in the first of the party policy rows which would plague the council. Having heard enough the previous night to warn them off, even such young officers who had no specific duty that morning avoided the girl and she did not trust Texas-born, Southern-raised Dusty Fog, Mark Counter or Temple Houston. So she walked alone from the Fort and towards the Comanche camps.
During dinner in the officers’ mess the previous evening, before he went out to deliver a stirring address to the assembled chiefs, Dusty Fog had mentioned that any member of the party who wished to visit the Comanche would receive courtesy and be safe among the Pehnane. Suspecting that Dusty must have an ulterior motive for his suggestion, the girl ignored perfectly sound advice and directed her footsteps towards the tipis of the Kweharehnuh. Muffles, her poodle, bounded along before her for she had not felt it safe to leave the little dog in a position where that brutal Temple Houston could allow his savage hound to attack it.
To reach the Kweharehnuh camp, Cornelia had to pass through a large patch of wooded country, but found a fairly wide track and followed it. Going ahead of its mistress, the poodle caught a scent of interest and went to investigate it. Cornelia let out a cluck of annoyance and followed her dog, calling to it. Passing through a clump of bushes, she came face to face with two white men. A Western-raised girl or even one born in less favorable circumstances back East, would have taken one glance at the men, noted their menacing attitudes and got the hell out of it. Cornelia saw only a tall, unshaven man in range clothes and one of medium height who wore a town suit of sober hue.
‘Hello,’ she said brightly, but felt a little disconcerted by the way the taller man scowled at her. ‘My dog came—’
‘How long have you been around here?’ the bigger man growled.
‘You have to excuse Mr. Higgins, my dear young lady,’ his companion said in a much milder tone, ‘Your appearance startled us.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Cornelia apologized. ‘But my little dog—Muffles, Come here!’
The latter command rapped out as Muffles darted between the two men and around the trunk of the flowering dogwood tree under which they stood. Knowing that obedience was not the poodle’s greatest virtue, Cornelia swooped after it, round the trunk and found the dog standing hopefully licking the top of one of several stone jugs which had so far been hidden from her view. Some instinct caused the girl to turn around and she found the men approaching her. A feeling of near panic bit into Cornelia at the raw fury on the big man’s face. Yet Higgins’ companion filled her with a greater horror as he spoke. While his voice remained the same, it held undertones of menace.
‘You shouldn’t have seen those, young lady,’ he told her mildly,
‘We can’t let her go, Bristow!’ Higgins pointed out, ‘I—I don’t understand!’ gasped the girl.
‘I do.’
Never had Cornelia expected to feel pleasure at hearing the voice of a rich Southerner, or to experience delight at seeing one of the Confederate States’ war heroes. Yet those two words and the sight of Dusty Fog and Mark Counter standing in the background gave her the most pleasant experience of her life.
On returning from tending to their horses, Dusty and Mark had seen the girl leaving the Fort. From the direction she took, and remembering certain remarks she made the previous evening, the Texans guessed at her destination, While she would be safe under Long Walker’s care, the girl had to reach the chief first and Dusty recalled his experience at the hands of the tuivitsi. Should anything untoward occur to the girl in the Pehnane village it could cause repercussions that might affect the whole council. So the Texans followed Cornelia at a discreet distance and knew they had done the right thing when she headed not to the comparative safety of the Pehnane but towards the tipis of the Kweharehnuh, the least friendly band present.
Before the Texans could catch up with her and suggest that she went to the Pehnane village, Cornelia disappeared among the bushes. On following her, Dusty and Mark needed only one glance at the stone jugs to know what Bristow’s words meant.
At the sound of Dusty’s voice, the two men with Cornelia swung around, While Higgins’ right hand went towards the gun holstered at his side, his left closed on the girl’s arm and started to draw her towards him. Through horrified eyes, Cornelia saw Dusty’s left hand begin to move. Somehow, she could not guess how, the small Texan held a Colt, its barrel med towards her and flame tore from its barrel.
Seeing Higgins’ move, Dusty did not dare hesitate. If the man once pulled the girl before him, he could use her as a shield or hostage. So Dusty drew and fired in the only way he could, for an instant kill. Lead ripped into Higgins’ head and slammed him backwards; his gun half-drawn and left hand jerking away from the girl’s arm.
Thinking that both the Texans might be concentrating on Higgins, Bristow made a move in the direction of his gun. He froze as he found out his mistake and saw the right side Colt scooped from Mark’s holster in a move almost as fast as the one with which Dusty ended Higgins’ life. While he faced a hanging charge for his actions previous to the arrival of the girl, Bristow lived by the old saying that while there was life there was also hope. Should he try to complete his draw in the face of the blond giant’s obvious mastery of the gun, he would have neither hope nor life for long.
‘Throw it away!’ Mark ordered and Bristow obeyed, tossing his gun aside in a careful manner that gave no offence to the watching Texan.
Cornelia stared first at Dusty, eyes on the Colt which dribbled smoke in his right hand. Then she looked down at Higgins, seeing the blood which trickled from the hole in his forehead.
‘You—you killed him!’ she gasped.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ agreed Dusty flatly.
‘You killed him!’ repeated the girl, her voice rising a couple of notes.
This time Dusty ignored her, his eyes on Bristow as he and Mark drew closer to the man. ‘All right!’ Dusty growled.. ‘How much of it have you sold?’
‘What’s that supp—’ Bristow began,
Dusty knew a number of legal ways of interrogating a suspect but time did not permit him to use them. Around lashed his free hand in a slap which caught the man’s face and spun him around to crash into the tree trunk. Bristow could not hold back a croak of pain as Dusty’s knuckles caught him and he knew that his troubles had
only just begun.
Having served as Dusty’s first deputy, Mark knew that the small Texan did not normally employ such tactics to gain information. He also knew why Dusty acted in such a manner and heartily approved of it under the circumstances. Those stone jugs contained enough concentrated trouble to blow the whole peace council into the air and stir up a good-sized Indian war. With that in mind. Mark holstered his Colt and stepped forward. He caught Bristow’s right wrist in his big right hand, forcing the arm up behind the man’s back in an agonizing manner, Nor did Mark content himself just with that. Steel hard fingers clamped hold of the back of Bristow’s head and forced his features savagely against the hard bark of the tree.,
‘Where’s the rest of your booze?’ the blond giant demanded. Horror twisted Cornelia’s face as she watched the agony contort Bristow’s struggling body. With her head full of hatred for Southerners and ideas about the sanctity of human life, she ignored the fact that Dusty saved her life. Probably she did not know just how grave her danger had been when the Texans put in their appearance, All she knew was that Dusty had killed one man and now seemed set to torture another.
‘Stop!’ she screamed. ‘Release him or I’ll have you arrested.’ Like most of her kind, she professed the gravest distrust of peace officers yet did not fail to invoke the law’s protection when needing it. However, her words might never have been said for all the notice the Texans took. Mark relaxed his hold of Bristow’s head long enough to repeat the question and, on receiving no answer, once more forced the crushed, damaged features against the trunk.
Cornelia let out a gasp, turned and stumbled blindly back towards the path with her poodle following. In her distraught frame of mind she did not notice that she ran away from the Fort instead of towards it. Rounding a corner, she found herself faced by a trio of armed Comanche tehnap.
Once again Cornelia’s inexperience showed, Any girl raised in the Texas range country would have known from the antelope hide clothing, as opposed to the more usual buckskins, that she faced Kweharehnuh Comanches, Not that a Western girl would have wasted time worrying about which band the men belonged to on noting their general attitude and the thing one of the bucks held in his hand. Lacking a basic knowledge of such important facts, Cornelia did not see her danger until too late.
Letting fall the stone jug he held, the centre buck of the party sprang at the girl. As he caught her and began to drag the coat from her shoulders, Cornelia received a face-full of his breath, It almost made her gag and she breathed in the fumes of a raw whiskey the like of which she had only smelled once before; when she and her friends went to picket a detachment of police who destroyed a cache of illegally brewed ‘red biddy’ back East. Terror filled her and she began to scream.
Bow on its top-knot or not, the little poodle gave a growl and sprang to its mistress’ aid and sank sharp teeth into the Indian’s ankle. With a bellow of rage, the tehnap jerked his leg and sent the dog flying. One of his companions held a bow and, even though drunk, notched an arrow to the string in fast time. Even as he started to aim at the dog, the bowman heard the sound of approaching feet and swung to face the fresh menace. At his side, the third Comanche brought up his Winchester carbine ready for use.
On hearing the girl’s scream, Dusty and Mark realized that she had left them and guessed what she had run into. At the same moment Bristow gave a low moan and went limp in Mark’s hands. Releasing his hold, Mark turned and dashed after Dusty in the direction of the scream. As soon as they had gone, Bristow raised his bloody face from the ground. Groaning a little, he rose and darted into the bushes,
Bursting into sight of Cornelia and the Indians, Dusty and Mark missed death by inches. A bullet fanned by the small Texan’s cheek, so close that its eerie ‘splat!’ sound almost deafened him; but did not put him off his aim. Firing on the run, Dusty shot the bowman an instant after an arrow winged its deadly way through the air. Mark felt the arrow brush his trousers as it passed between his legs just below the crotch. In echo to Dusty’s shot, he cut down on the third Comanche, and his bullet drove home just as the brave worked the Winchester’s lever, spinning him around then tumbling him to the ground.
Thrusting the girl aside, the last buck snatched out his war weapon, a Dragoon Colt taken from a dead soldier’s body after a long-forgotten brush with the cavalry. He looked as mean as a winter-starved grizzly bear and dangerous as a pit full of stirred-up rattlesnakes as he lunged forward, Dusty and Mark knew that a drunken Indian could not be reasoned with. So they did not try. Two Army Colts roared at the same instant, their bullets converging on the Indian, slamming into him and throwing him back to his heels. Even then he still retained his grip on the Dragoon and tried to use it. Without a single hesitation, acting in the manner of a trained lawman faced with the same situation, Dusty shot again and a third time. It took both bullets to finish the Kweharehnuh. The Dragoon clattered from a lifeless hand as the Indian crumpled and fell to the ground.
At the same moment Cornelia let out a gasp and slid down in a faint. For the first time since their arrival, Dusty and Mark gave the girl attention. Not much though, for they realized the seriousness of their position. As usual Dusty thought fast and rattled out his summing up of the situation.
‘The bucks from the Kweharehnuh village’ll be coming soon, Mark,’ he said. ‘You’d best take the gal back to the Fort fast and warn the General to be ready for trouble. I’ll collect that damned whiskey-peddler.’
‘Go to it,’ Mark replied.
Even as the blond giant scooped the girl up from the ground, showing no more strain than if she were as light as a newly born baby, he heard shouts in the direction of the Kweharehnuh village. Without wasting more time, be started to stride out in the direction of the Fort.
Once more Dusty plunged through the bushes, changing guns on the way. Although he found the clearing, there was no sign of Bristow.
‘Damn it to hell!’ Dusty growled. ‘He must’ve been playing possum.’
Quickly Dusty studied the surrounding area. He could not claim to possess the Kid’s skill at reading sign, but knew enough to see where Bristow took a hurried departure. Before Dusty started in pursuit, he took time to wrench the stopper from each bottle and upend the contents on to the ground. Leaving full containers of whiskey where the Indians might find them would have been as dangerous as laying down a fully loaded, cocked revolver in the presence of mischievous children. With that elementary precaution taken, Dusty headed for the bushes in the direction taken by the fleeing Bristow.
Before the small Texan had gone many yards, he heard the drumming of hooves and rattle of rapidly turning wheels. Realizing the futility of pursuit on foot, Dusty did not even try. Instead he ran through the bushes and trees towards the Fort. A cowhand’s boots had never been designed for work on foot, but Dusty made good time in his for all that.
As Dusty left the woods and came into sight of the Fort, he saw Mark emerge still carrying the girl. However Dusty did not give his friend a second glance, being far more interested in the procession which filed out of the main gates. The events of the past few minutes had chased all thoughts of the proposed display of weapons from Dusty’s mind. Seeing the various dignitaries approaching followed by first the Whitworth rifle then the other special weapons brought remembrance back to the small Texan, It also offered him a way to stop the departing wagon.
Unfortunately none of the approaching party rode a horse, a fact Dusty noticed with a low curse at his lousy luck. Normally the sergeant in command of the Whitworth rifle would have been mounted on a horse instead of walking alongside the limber; and on occasion the crew of the mountain howitzer rode into action. Wishing to avoid emphasizing the lack of mobility of the weapons, Handiman ruled that each gun would be in position ready to be shown and so avoid undue movement. Even the Lancers, who could only ride into action, did not offer any solution, their part in the display having been cancelled.
‘That’s my daughter!’ Senator Waterhouse bawled, look
ing more than usual like a well-dressed and -fed sheep, staring towards Mark. ‘What’s happened to her?’
‘What the hell’s going on, Dusty?’ Handiman barked.
‘There’s been a whiskey peddler at work. General,’ Dusty said, ‘and he’s escaping,’
Handiman might be lacking in knowledge of Indians, but he could claim full awareness of how the red brother reacted when under the influence of paleface fire-water. So too could all the soldiers involved in the display, if their expressions be anything to go on as they looked at Handiman and awaited his orders.
‘Up there, General!’ snapped the colonel commanding the Fort, pointing to where a light wagon pulled by four horses came into sight and spun off along the trail in the opposite direction to the party. ‘I’ll send a—’
‘Stop that wagon, Sergeant Pratt!’ interrupted Handiman, addressing the non-com in charge of the Whitworth.
Quickly the sergeant studied the situation, knowing his professional reputation depended on his handling of the assignment. Accurate the Whitworth might be, but it could not be traversed at speed; which made firing at a moving target crossing its front extremely difficult.
‘I’ll have to pick a better place, General, sir,’ he pronounced.
‘Then do it!’ Handiman ordered.
‘Can I go along?’ asked Dusty.
‘Take Captain Fog with you, sergeant,’ confirmed the General.
‘You’ll have to ride the off swing hoss, Cap’n,’ Pratt said.
Without the caisson following to carry the remainder of the crew, Pratt operated using only the drivers and three men who rode the limber. However his men did not need their personal belongings and so the valise-saddles of the off side horses carried no loads. Although far from comfortable, the valise saddles offered a means of transport and Dusty swung afork the centre horse on the right side. Taking his place on the off lead horse, Pratt gave the order to roll.
