The Devil Gun (10 page)

‘I need it,’ Jill groaned.

‘The hosses get the rest, ma’am,’ grinned Kiowa. ‘We work.’

‘Billy Jack, tend to Miss Chamberlain’s horse this time,’ Dusty ordered.

‘Yo!’ the sergeant-major replied. ‘Get your hoss’s nose-bag out of the saddle-pouch, Miss Dodd. Sam’ll give you the grain.’

Clearly the men knew their duties, for none needed telling what to do. Each of them took his horse’s nose-bag from the saddle-pouches and Sam Ysabel led the way to one of the pack animals. Carefully he opened one of the grain sacks on the right of the pack saddle and started to pour a quantity of food into each bag as it was offered to him.

‘Round the other side, ma’am,’ he said as Jill came up in her turn.

For a moment the order puzzled Jill, then she realised that the load must be balanced if the horse’s back was to be kept free from injury. Jill did not know it, but a difference of as little as two pounds in the weight of the packs could injure the horse. However, of necessity, Sam Ysabel had learned the pack train trade very thoroughly and could gauge a balance with his eyes as well as many men would do with a set of scales.

Taking the feed-bag to the buckskin, Jill happened to glance inside as she prepared to place it into position. She saw something brown among the grain and reached in to extract a small ball of what appeared to be wood.

‘What’re you doing, gal?’ asked Billy Jack as she prepared to toss the object away.

‘I found it mixed in with the grain,’ she explained.

‘Sure. We put it there. It’s meat.’

‘Meat?’ Jill gasped. ‘But horses don’t eat meat.’

‘Don’t set down and carve a pot-roast, ma’am,’ agreed Ysabel. ‘But the Comanches learned way back that slipping some small balls of meat in with the other food helps a hoss to keep going when it’s travelling fast.’

‘Get those nose-bags on there,’ Dusty called. ‘Buckle it up good and tight, Miss Dodd, so he doesn’t have to toss his head to get at the grain and lose most of it.’

Removing her horse’s bit, Jill fixed the nose-bag in position and drew it up tight. The horses had been allowed to drink when crossing a small stream some three hundred yards back and the buckskin started eating as she drew on the bag. After caring for her own mount, Jill looked around to see if she could help with any of the others. Finding that the men had cared for all the stock she gave thought to her own needs.

‘I’ve got to go into the bushes,’ she remarked, and Dusty nodded.

‘Let me take your horse, Miss Dodd,’ Marsden offered. Jill’s fingers brushed against Marsden’s as she handed over the reins. A tingling sensation ran through her and she lifted her eyes to his. Then she remembered that the Yankees had murdered her brother and tried to fight the feeling down. Turning, she walked hurriedly up the slope and into a clump of bushes near the top. Since joining the bushwhackers most of her toilet arrangements were made in a similar manner. Then she always kept her Tranter handy and felt uneasy at the thought that the gun was in Liz’s hands. However, she guessed that the Texans would respect her privacy and went out of sight to attend to her business.

With set face and grim bearing, Liz walked down the slope towards the men. Jill came from the bushes adjusting her waist belt and Liz braced herself for the first of the expected taunts.

‘I’ll take the Tranter, Yankee,’ Jill remarked in a neutral tone. ‘And if you want to go, I’d go now, Captain Dusty’ll be wanting to move off real soon.’

Handing Jill the gun, Liz disappeared into the bushes and soon the two girls walked side by side down the slope. Although Liz’s back remained stiff with defiance, she found none of the expected derision. A feeling of pique hit her, a touch of disappointment, as she found she could not even feel like a martyr suffering at the hands of a vicious enemy.

Looking around, Dusty saw that his force had everything ready to move and so gave the order to march. Liz swung into her saddle and wondered at the sense of security the touch of leather and presence of the rest of the party gave her. Quick thought warned her not to try any more delaying tactics right then. When they made camp for the night might offer greater opportunities. However, her annoyance at being ignored—when she had worked herself up to take derision if not actual abuse—drove her to pick on somebody. Marsden, in his Union-blue uniform, provided her with the best target.

‘Mr. Marsden,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you command the rear-guard action at Poison Springs?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You handled it magnificently, so I heard. There were many rebel casualties,’ she went on in a carrying voice, then turned to look at Kiowa. ‘Were you at the action, Sergeant?’

‘No, ma’am,’ Kiowa answered.

‘Were any of the Texas Light Cavalry?’

‘Three companies.’

‘Did you see any of them, Mr. Marsden?’ Liz asked.

‘If you mean, did he help kill any of our outfit,’ Dusty put in coldly. ‘I’d say it was likely. A soldier’s duty is to kill his enemies. Only we’re not fussing with him for what happened in the past.’

A flush crept over Liz’s face as she realised that she had instinctively made a move to split up the party, and saw it fail. Once more her anger turned on Marsden. ‘I fail to see why a man like you turned traitor and renegade!’ she snapped.

‘You leave him be, Yankee!’ Jill shouted across Dusty. ‘He must’ve had real good reason.’

‘He had, ma’am,’ agreed Billy Jack. ‘If Castle gets them Injuns—’

‘Billy Jack!’ Dusty roared, but knew that the damage had been done. ‘That’s why we’re heading west in such a hurry, ma’am. Two of your officers are trying to stir up an Injun uprising in Texas.’

‘Carney Castle’s scheme!’ Liz gasped. ‘I heard him mention it. Why it would bring about the withdrawal of all the Texas troops from the rebel army. You lousy traitor, Marsden. You told the rebs—’

‘Keep in line, Dodd!’ Dusty barked as Jill started to swing her horse with the intention of resuming hostilities. Turning back to Liz he continued, ‘Mr. Marsden knows what such an uprising would mean. Understands the cost in innocent lives. The men behind the idea don’t, or they’d never have started it.’

‘You rebels have used Indians to do your fighting for you,’ she pointed out.

‘Pike’s Cherokee Brigade,’ agreed Dusty. ‘That’s not the same thing—’

‘Why?’ spat Liz. ‘Because they sided you rebs—’

‘No, ma’am. Because the Cherokee aren’t Comanche, Kiowa or Kaddo.’

‘They scalped our dead on the field at Pea Ridge,’ Liz reminded him.

‘They did, ma’am,’ Dusty answered. ‘Which’s just what I mean. The Cherokee are tamed Indians. They’ve lived white-man fashion for years. Most of ‘em are Christians, send their kids to school. Yet when they went to war, they went right back to the old ways and started scalping.’

‘Cap’n Dusty’s right, ma’am,’ Ysabel put in. ‘Them Cherokee’re tamed Injuns and like lap-dogs alongside buffalo-wolves when took with Comanches, Kiowas and Kaddos like the fool Yankees’re trying to stir up. At least our Cherokees stuck to killing and lifting hair from Yankee soldiers.’

‘Those hostiles Castle plans to stir up, ma’am,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘Once they get started, they’ll not leave a living white in Texas.’

‘And a thing like that won’t just stay in Texas. Word’ll go out and every hostile across the country’ll paint for war,’ Ysabel warned grimly. ‘There’ll likely not be a white man, woman or child left alive from the Red River to the Pacific. That’s why we’re headed west.’

Liz relapsed into silence and thought of what the men told her. Although she knew little about Castle’s scheme, she had met the man. Thinking back, she remembered hearing him discuss the effects of an Indian uprising in Texas. The withdrawal of the Texas troops could bring victory for the Union. Castle made it clear that such an uprising would need to be controlled, the Indians held in check and directed only at profitable targets. Of course, the rebels would try to stop such a plan, nor would they hesitate to try to blacken the Union’s name by pretending the situation was far more serious and endangered the life of their people. Naturally the Texans would try to make her believe in the danger. She refused to be swayed from her purpose and determined to help the Union cause by doing all she could to prevent Dusty Fog’s party interfering with Castle’s war-winning scheme.

No chance presented itself during the rest of the day’s march. Liz walked slowly to the camp-fire after tending to her horse at the end of the day. As she sat down, a thought struck her. She would stay awake and when all the others slept release and scatter the horses.

CHAPTER TEN

‘Come on, Yankee,’ said a voice, while a hand shook Liz’s Shoulder and jarred through her sleep. ‘Time to be up and doing.’

Cold grey light met Liz’s eyes as they came open. Stifling a low groan, for the ground proved a far less satisfactory mattress than her bed at home offered, she forced herself up on one elbow and peered around sleepily. The men gathered around a fire and held plates, while a coffee pot bubbled on the flames.

‘You sure slept well last night,’ Jill went on, with a friendly smile. ‘Why even afore we set camp, you’d gone off. Didn’t disturb you, not that we could have.’

‘So much for my big idea!’ thought Liz, tossing aside the blankets and rising stiffly. It seemed that she slept through the night instead of laying awake until a chance presented itself for her to free and scatter the horses.

‘Here, I’ll lend you a hand to pack your bedroll,’ Jill offered. ‘You can’t eat until it’s done.’

‘Thanks reb.’ Liz answered, suddenly feeling ravenously hungry and sniffing at the aroma of cooking meat that wafted from the fire.

With the bedroll packed ready for loading, Liz walked with Jill towards the fire. It came as something of a surprise to see a smile on Dusty Fog’s face.

‘Good morning, Miss Chamberlain,’ he greeted. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I’d like a hot bath and a buggy to ride in,’ she found herself replying, ‘but apart from that I’m fine.’

‘You can have the hot bath, happen we find some warm-water springs,’ Dusty told her with a grin. ‘But buggies’re something we’re long out of.’

‘So much for Southern hospitality,’ she sighed, but her voice held no anger or bitterness.

‘Comes the end of the War, ma’am,’ Dusty answered, ‘happen you’re in the Rio Hondo country, I’ll fix you with a buggy that’s soft and comfortable as swan’s down, rig you a bath too, but you’ll have to take it by yourself.’

‘I should hope so, for shame,’ she chuckled.

Suddenly she thought how incongruous the situation had become, for her to be standing exchanging pleasantries with a man who only yesterday deserted her and whose vitally important mission she intended to ruin if she could.

‘Sure hope these pronghorn steaks are all right, ma’am,’ Billy Jack said, handing her a plate. ‘I’d rather have it hung for a couple of days, but Cap’n Dusty allows there’s not time for that. Eggs aren’t bad though.’

‘Pronghorn? Eggs,’ she breathed. ‘But where—’

‘Sam got one last night,’ Billy Jack explained. ‘Pronghorn I mean.’

During the meal, an idea began to form in Liz’s mind for making trouble among the party. However, before she could make a move towards starting, Dusty saw that she had finished eating and gave orders to prepare for moving.

‘Can you manage, ma’am?’ asked Ysabel as she walked towards her saddle.

Seeing Kiowa hovering in the background, Liz shook her head. ‘I—I’m not sure if I can.’

‘Sergeant Ysabel!’ Dusty barked. ‘Tend to your duties. Kiowa, help him. Mr. Marsden, help the ladies—only don’t pamper them.’

‘Yo!’ Marsden replied.

‘Go help the Yankee, Mr. Marsden,’ Jill suggested as he came in her direction. ‘
I’m
not so milk-soft that I can’t saddle and tend for my own horse.’

In her desire to stifle a growing tolerance and liking felt towards at least one Yankee, Jill said the right thing. Annoyance glinted into Liz’s eyes and she forgot her pose of the meek, near-helpless female in the presence of strong, reliable men. Taking up her saddle and bedroll, she stamped indignantly towards the mare. Determination to show the rebel that anything a Southern girl could do, a Yankee could do better, drove her to forget her plan and also the aches in her saddle-stiffened body.

On reaching the horses, she found that releasing them in the night would not have been such an easy task. The Union Army always picketed their horses, the Texans preferred to give their mounts a certain amount of freedom to move and graze. All the men’s mounts had chain hobbles on their forelegs, a leather cuff buckled around each leg over the pastern joint and connected by a short swivel chain which let the animal move around at a slow walk in order to pick good grazing. To remove the hobbles in the dark would take much time and could only be done with some noise.

Liz found the bay and Jill’s buckskin secured in a different manner, though not one easier to remove than the chain hobbles would be. A loop of rope encircled the mare’s neck secured with a bowline knot that rested on the left shoulder. From there the rope went down to be taken in a half-hitch around the ankle joint of the left hind leg and carried back up to join and knot about the neck looped in a manner which raised the hoof about four inches above the ground.

‘Didn’t have any spare gear along, ma’am,’ Billy Jack apologised as she glared pointedly at his horse’s fore feet. ‘Had to use a scotch hobble on you ladies’ mounts. Watch that half hitch on the legs. It stops the horse kicking free, but it’s surely hell to get off.’

After freeing the mare’s leg, Liz prepared to saddle up. While taking up her saddle-blanket she saw another chance to delay the party; although not one she cared to use. However, she must put loyalty to her country before her dislike at inflicting deliberate suffering upon her horse. She knew the purpose of the blanket, to give protection and padding to the horse’s back against the weight and pressure of the saddle. To do this correctly, the blanket must be raised slightly off the back-bone and withers and also, very important, laid flat on the back without wrinkles. Taking up the blanket, she made sure that the underside held a ridge of raised material which would chafe and rub into the mare’s body, making her back sore.

Just as Liz put the blanket on, she felt a violent shove and heard Jill’s contempt-filled voice at her side.

‘Land-sakes, Yankee, don’t you know a damned thing? Here, let me put your saddle on for you.’

Hot anger flared up in Liz, reddening her cheeks and brought her fingers into a hair-grabbing crook. Before she could move, a hand caught her arm and she turned to glare fury up into Marsden’s face.

‘Drop it, Miss Chamberlain,’ he warned.

‘I don’t know what—’ Liz began.

‘Stop this playing at being the saviour of the Union.’

‘Playing!’ she gasped.

‘Playing!’ repeated Marsden coldly. ‘You’re playing a game, Miss Chamberlain—Don’t. Captain Fog won’t let you delay him. If he’d seen what you just did, he’d maybe have given you what you deserve.’

Despite herself, Liz felt a shudder run through her, for she knew the punishment meted out to a soldier who negligently or deliberately allowed his horse to get a sore back. He was stripped naked and strapped into the saddle, then made to ride that way until he knew how the horse felt. Glancing to where Dusty saddled his black stallion, Liz wondered if he would treat her in such a manner and decided he might. She wondered if perhaps he might have been telling the truth about the ultimate result of Castle’s plan. Then she gave an angry shake of her head. No, Dusty Fog only made up the story of wholesale Indian slaughter of innocents as a way of playing on her emotions and gaining her co-operation. A man with Castle’s sense of social conscience and belief in the rights of the individual would never chance any scheme that might endanger innocent lives.

Snarling that she could handle the mare without further help, Liz thrust by Jill and continued the saddling.

Once again the party continued with its westwards march and the girls learned just how rough such a trip could be. Alternately riding and walking, the halts spent checking hooves, condition, saddlery or feeding and watering the horses, Dusty led his party and covered over thirty miles each day. With each passing mile, his hope of meeting a south-bound party to whom he might deliver the girls grew less and less. Since the War took so many men from Texas, people tended to concentrate in or around the towns and cities and did little travelling. So, although he hated having to subject the girls to such continuous effort, he continued to hold his pace.

And it was an effort for both girls, although Liz felt the effects more than did Jill. While healthy and used to an open-air life, Liz found a vast difference between taking a long ride in the morning and making thirty miles a day with the care of her horse awaiting her attention at the end of the trip. Under those Conditions she found little time for plotting further delaying tactics. In fact, during her scant leisure hours she felt no inclination to waste time in planning ideas that would need further bodily effort to carry out. Her life became a Continuous struggle against weariness and pain as unused muscles protested and stiffened under the strain. When in camp, she finished her work, ate her food and dropped into her blankets to sleep like a log. Only Liz’s determination not to let the rebel girl see her give way kept her moving when her body screamed to be let collapse on the ground and move no more.

Due to her life with the bushwhackers, Jill felt the strain somewhat less than did Liz; not that Jill found keeping up the pace easy and often had to use Liz’s presence as an inducement to keep going.

The men did what they could to ease the girls’ burden, but all had more than enough work on their hands and both Jill and Liz were compelled to attend to much of the care and attention their horses needed.

Three days went by, long, hard days, and with each Marsden found his admiration for the Texans’ skill as horse-masters growing. He watched everything and learned much that would be of use to him in his career as a soldier. From the range-wise men he learned which plants and roots possessed medicinal value, what certain animal signs meant in the way of finding food and water on the open plains. Everybody in the Union Army knew that the end of the Civil War would mark the beginning of westward movement onto the Great Plains home of several hostile Indian tribes. With the knowledge he gained on the trip, Marsden knew he could be of the greatest use in the future campaigns. Such a thought always brought on a fit of brooding as he remembered that he no longer had a career as a soldier. While he cursed the men who formed the Indian-uprising plan, he laid no blame on his present companions, for they took no part in his decision to desert and become a traitor.

Possibly only Jill knew how Marsden felt and of his fears for the future. As the days went by, it became a convention that Marsden helped Jill as much as his own duties allowed. The other men vied with each other to assist Liz with her horse management, but grinned, winked and stood aside to let Marsden lend Jill a hand.

‘Tell you one thing, Jackson,’ Jill remarked on the evening of the third day as they stood by the horses and watched Liz hobble slowly towards the camp. ‘That Yankee gal’s got guts.’

‘So have you,’ he answered.

‘I’m doing it for the South,’ Jill told him. ‘If those yahoos stir up the Indians, the Yankees might win the War.’

Suddenly Jill became aware of a slight tension come over the young man at her side. Seeing him glance down at the trail-dirty Union-blue sleeve of his jacket, she realised what her words meant to him. By his actions he had given up his career and ruined himself. Now she stood like a damned fool, rubbing salt in his open wounds. Contrition flooded over her. Reaching for his hand, she led him from sight of the camp. They came to a halt in a depression which hid them from view. Turning to face Marsden, Jill looked up at his unshaven face.

‘Lordy, Jackson,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for what I just said—’

His hands found hers, clasping them and drawing her to him, feeling the warmth of her body against his. Next moment they were in each other’s arms.

‘It’s no good!’ Marsden moaned, trying to free himself. ‘Why?’ asked Jill, drawing back. ‘Because I’m a reb and you’re—’

‘Because I’ve no future. Nothing to offer you.’

‘And what if I tell you I don’t care?’

‘They’ll court martial me when I go back, Jill,’ Marsden tried to explain, reading the anger that grew in her eyes. ‘I’ll be broken even if they don’t have me shot as a deserter and traitor.’

‘You don’t have to go back,’ Jill pointed out.

‘I have to, Jill.’

‘Why?’ she insisted.

‘I took an oath at West Point and broke it. I have to go back when this is over.’

‘And what about me?’ she asked, her voice brittle.

‘Jill!’ Marsden groaned. ‘I just have to go back.’

‘To the Yankees?’

‘To my people.’

Jill tore herself from his hands, glaring her fury at him. In her pent-up emotional state it seemed that he had tried to take advantage of her. She blamed him for making her forget the reason she hated the Yankees and turned her fury on him.

‘You lousy
Yankee
!’ she spat, then turned and fled back to the camp.

Black despair welled over Marsden as he watched the girl go. Suddenly he knew just how much Jill had come to mean to him. He wanted Jill to be his wife, loved her for her many good qualities, wished to share his life with her. Only he could offer her no life.

Dropping his hand, Marsden opened the flap of his holster and curled his fingers around the butt of the Colt.

‘That’s no way out, Jack!’ Dusty’s voice warned from behind him.

Turning, Marsden saw the small captain walking towards him and growled, ‘Did you—’

‘By accident. I’d been taking a scout around and came back at the end of it. You’re too much of a man to take that way out—even without what it would do to the girl.’

‘I’ve nothing to go on, for.’

‘It’s your decision,’ Dusty said calmly. ‘One thing though, Jack. Don’t rush it.’

With that Dusty swung around and walked towards the camp. Marsden stood for a long time before he angrily thrust down the Colt, closed the holster flap and followed on Dusty’s heels.

If anybody at the camp noticed a change in Jill and Marsden’s attitude, they made no comment. Watching the girl, Marsden wanted to go to her, tell her he would stay in the South. Pride and his sense of duty prevented him from doing so. For her part, Jill also wanted to apologise, to beg Marsden’s forgiveness, yet she, too, had a stubborn streak of pride. If either one had made the slightest move towards the other, they would have been plunged into a sea of reconciliation—only neither offered to make the move. So they sat silent, morose and letting the rift between them grow wider and wider.