The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3) (13 page)

At that moment, Dusty was not
especially interested in the enemy. Instead, he swung his gaze to
the horses hitched to the rail outside
the Tavern. They all bore
double-girthed Texas saddles, which meant they would be available
for use by his men.

Swinging from the bay, Dusty
left it ground-hitch
ed. He crossed the warped boardwalk, opened the front door
and entered the barroom. Smoke hung in a heavy cloud under the
roof, being combated by the lamps which illuminated the tables and
bar. A number of garishly attired girls hung around the soldiers
who appeared to be the majority of the customers, encouraging them
to drink, or take part in the various gambling games. There were
half a dozen burly, hard-looking civilians, who had the appearance
of river roughnecks, scattered around and watching the various
activities with more than casual interest. Behind the bar, two big,
tough-faced men attended to the customers’ needs.

Looking around, Dusty
discovered that the majority of the soldiers were recruits. Half of
them belonged to his Company, replacements for the men who had died
at Martin
’s
Mill. However, standing at the bar and gazing about him in a
tolerant manner, Corporal Vern Hassle held a glass of
whiskey.

Dust
y’s arrival created some interest
among the civilians in the room. It also was arousing suspicion, he
guessed. The Tavern was not often visited by officers, being an
establishment devoted to the enlisted men. So the bartenders, girls
and roughnecks were wondering what had brought him into their
presence.

‘
Hello, handsome,’ greeted a pretty girl, leaving two lanky
recruits who were part of Company C and approaching the small
Texan. ‘My name’s Magda. Is there anything I can do for
you?’

‘
Not
off hand, ma’am,’ Dusty replied, partially gratified for the
silence that had fallen over the room. ‘You men from Company C,
finish your drinks and get mounted. We’re going back to
camp.’

A chorus of protest rolled up.
Although the recruits recognized Dusty and had heard plenty about
him from the old hands, they had seen little of him since joining
his Company. So they were not over impressed
—having taken sufficient drinks
for their susceptibilities to have become dulled—as he stood there,
a small figure amongst so many bigger, older men.

‘
Hey!’
said one of the pair who had been entertaining Magda, standing and
picking up a bottle. Crossing the room behind Dusty, he draped his
other arm around the captain’s shoulders in a friendly manner. ‘You
take a drin—’

Which was as far as the recruit got.

Dusty knew that, with the soldiers in their
present frame of mind, he could not permit the man to take such
liberties. If he did, he would have no control over any of them. So
he acted with his usual speed and effectiveness.

Raising his right boot, Dusty
propelled its heel hard against the top of the
soldier
’s
left foot. With a shrill yelp of pain, the recipient of the attack
jerked away his arm and hopped on his other leg. Turning, Dusty
laid the palm of his right hand against the man’s face and shoved.
Reeling backwards, the soldier sat down hard on the floor with the
bottle flying out of his hand.

‘
Like
I said,’ Dusty announced, giving no indication of knowing that the
recruit had come and gone. ‘I want every man from Company
C—’

One of the biggest civilians lurched
forward. Hooking his thumbs in his waist belt, he loomed above the
small Texan and teetered menacingly on his heels.

‘
Now
just a blasted minute,’ the man snarled. ‘This ain’t no
son-of-a-bitching Army camp. You ain’t got no right—’

‘
This’s an Army matter, mister,’ Dusty interrupted!
‘So—’

‘
Like
hell it is!’ the man barked back. ‘Them things on your sleeves
don’t pack no weight in here.’

‘
I’d
best apologize now,’ Dusty said quietly.

‘
So
you should, coming in here—’

‘
No,’
Dusty corrected. ‘For what I’m going to do to you.’

And saying it, he kicked the
man sharply but with considerable force on the front of the shin
bone. Letting out a startled and agonized howl, the roughneck went
backwards, hopping on his uninjured limb. He did not go far enough.
Advancing almost with a bound, Dusty whipped over a right cross
that slammed his knuckles into the side of the
man
’s jaw.
How hard the punch landed was shown by the bulky figure changing
course with rapidity. Blundering away from his assailant, he landed
belly down on top of a table which collapsed under his weight.
Almost before the man’s body had reached the floor, Dusty’s matched
Colts were drawn to throw down on others of the civilians. However,
he could not watch everybody in the room.

Behind the counter, one of the
bartenders
reached to where he kept a shotgun with its barrels cut
down to a convenient length. Before his fingers closed about the
butt, he heard a double click and a cracked, old voice addressing
him.

‘
There
ain’t nothing down there’s you wants, now be there,
friend?’

Raising his gaze, the bartender looked into
the yawning muzzle of a Dragoon Colt and beyond it was the
leathery, ancient face of Corporal Hassle. Old the non-com might
be, but the heavy revolver never wavered in its alignment.

‘
Nope,’ conceded the bartender, bringing his hands hurriedly
into view. ‘There ain’t.’

The front door opened to admit
Kiowa Cotton and the stocky, powerful Sergeant
‘Stormy’ Weather. They each
held a revolver and changed the minds of two other civilians who
had considered drawing weapons.

‘
Like
I said,’ Dusty barked, returning the Colts to their holsters almost
as swiftly as he had drawn them. ‘I want every man of my
Com—’

‘
One
minute!’ called a voice and a tall, elegantly-dressed man came from
a doorway at the rear of the room. ‘These soldiers are here as my
guests and I question your right to come in giving them
orders.’

‘
They’re in the Army—’ Dusty began, guessing correctly that
he was speaking to Livesey, the owner.

‘
And
they’re on civilian property,’ Livesey countered, taking in the
bare details of Dusty’s appearance without looking at the
essentials. Believing that he was dealing with a callow,
inexperienced junior officer, he decided to try a bluff and
continued bombastically, ‘I resent this high-handed attitude and
won’t hesitate to lodge a complaint with Colonel Blaze, or even
General Hardin. My uncle is mayor of Camden—’

‘
And
I’m General Hardin’s and Colonel Blaze’s nephew,’ Dusty put in,
watching alarm come to the man’s face. ‘My name is Fog.’

For a moment Livesey stared at
the small Texan and this time took notice of the triple gold bars
on his collar. The Tavern
’s owner had heard of Dusty and knew that he was
related to the senior officers in question. So, while Livesey hated
to see the recruits leave before they had spent all their money, he
decided that it would not be polite, or wise, to antagonize a man
with such influential family connections.

‘
The
bar’s closed to all members of Captain Fog’s Company,’ Livesey
declared, putting on a more benevolent expression than he was
feeling. ‘There’ll be a free drink for every one of you next time
you come in, but now I want to see you all obeying orders and
getting going.’

‘
Why
thank you ’most to death, sir,’ Dusty drawled, watching the
soldiers rise and start to file out. ‘It’s sure good to see such a
co-operative gentleman.’

With that, the small Texan strolled from the
room. He neither saw nor would have cared if he had seen, the
bitter glare the owner threw after him. Instead, he was thinking of
the work that lay ahead. Luckily none of his men were too drunk to
ride. Something told him that he might need every one of them
before he was finished with the big gun.

Although a
well-bred young Southron lady was expected
to ride sidesaddle, Harriet Cable had gained considerable
proficiency in sitting astride a horse. Her earlier defiance of
convention had proved to be of the greatest assistance in the days
that had followed her escape from her home on Nimrod
Lake.

Having taken the boat almost to
Perryville, Harry and her Negro companion had left it before
reaching the town. They had made their way on foot to the
Bluchers
’
home. There it had been the girl’s unpleasant duty to inform Mrs.
Blucher of her husband’s death. Harry had not seen the duel, but
had heard about it from the butler. At his wife’s instigation,
Oscar had hidden in the garden and watched what happened through
the window. Despite her horror, shock and grief, Mrs. Blucher was
of sturdy pioneering stock. So she had held her emotions in check
while helping the girl to make preparations for the
journey.

Supplied with horses from
Bluchers
’
stables, Harry and Eric had set off to try to find her father. They
had headed south, following the headwaters of the Saline River to
Benson. From there, acting upon the information they had gathered,
they had crossed the river and ridden parallel to—but out of sight
of—the trail to Malvern. All the time they had been riding, they
had kept a careful watch for any pursuers Major Lyle might have
dispatched to capture them. While there had been a few Union
patrols, Harry and Eric had avoided being seen by them. Nor had
they appeared to be searching for the girl and her Negro
escort.

One thing had soon become
obvious. The Yankees had attempted to keep Pulling
Sue
’s
purpose a secret. They had only been partially successful. Faced
with the restrictions placed upon their movements by the Union
Army, none of the friends Harry had contacted in the various towns
could help her to locate her father. So that task had fallen upon
Eric’s broad, capable shoulders and he had been more successful.
Not only was he large, brawny and intelligent, he was also Mama
Lukie’s son. The Cable family’s cook had a reputation throughout
Arkansas as being a conjure woman of considerable potency. On
learning Eric’s identity, the Negroes he had questioned were ready
to render every possible assistance. So, with their help, Harry had
been able to trace her father’s movements. She had also been able
to discover how the war was progressing and keep in touch with its
latest developments.

Acting upon the information gathered by her
companion, Harry had made her way towards Arkadelphia. However,
instead of trying to cross the Ouachita River, they had turned
downstream and made for Camden.

Shortly after noon one day, the girl and the
Negro found themselves riding along the bottom of a broad, winding
valley. They had selected the route to avoid being seen on a
skyline. While they were still a good two miles north of the river,
they had felt that it was not advisable to go any nearer.

The bank was certain to be patrolled by the
Yankees. By that time, word of their escape could have been
circulated and the girl had not wanted to attract unwanted interest
or attentions. If her father was anywhere in the vicinity, she
would know about it without needing to see him; Pulling Sue would
ensure that.

Suddenly two figures appeared, ahead and on
the right hand side of the valley. Although mounted, they had
concealed themselves amongst the bushes that coated the slopes so
successfully that they had remained undetected by Harry or Eric
until showing themselves in a silent, but alarming manner.

With a sickening sense of
failure, Harry saw that the men wore U.S. Cavalry uniforms. Her
first instinct was to send
her horse galloping along the valley in the hope
of dashing by. Next she considered attempting to turn and make a
run for safety in the other direction. Clearly Eric was duplicating
her feelings.

‘
What’re we going to do, Miss Harry?’ the Negro inquired,
sounding nervous. He knew that many Union Army soldiers would be
suspicious, even indignant, at finding a white girl riding in the
company of a colored man. While supposedly fighting to liberate the
slaves, they objected to too close contact between the objects of
their efforts and their own women. ‘Go like bats out of
hell?’

Instead of replying immediately, Harry gave
a few seconds of rapid but careful thought to the situation. Her
father had always stressed the need to do so in times of danger and
she respected his superior wisdom. Swiftly she studied the
approaching riders and formed her conclusions.

One was sufficiently sinister
looking to be worthy of alarm and concern; being Indian-dark and
savage-featured, despite the sergeant
’s chevrons on his sleeves. Older, shorter
and white-haired, the other seemed less frightening and sported the
insignia of a corporal. While their clothing was typical of the
United States’ Cavalry, which was well on the way to standardizing
its uniforms, they wore gun belts with revolvers in open-topped
holsters and their saddles were not of the McClellan pattern. Each
carried a Henry repeating rifle across the crook of his left arm.
While they made no attempt to move the weapons to a position of
greater readiness, doing so would not be a lengthy
process.