The Devil Gun (11 page)

Possibly Dusty would have tried to mediate, to bring Jill and Marsden back together, but he had much on his mind. He never continued marching until the sun set but always called a halt while enough light remained for his party to see their way to tending to the stock. How successful the policy proved showed in the excellent condition of the horses. While a little thinner, all still looked in fine shape and showed no signs of weakness.

Following their usual routine, the senior non-coms gathered around Dusty as he unfolded his map to calculate their day’s journey and mark off the ever-decreasing distance to the ring drawn around the Salt and Clear Forks of the Brazos. Usually Marsden would have been in the group, but that night he sat in black despair by the fire which Jill, again following routine, built ready for preparing a meal. None of the men noticed that for once Liz lay awake and watched them, listening to every word they said.

‘We’ll be about here, I’d say,’ Dusty stated, tapping the map. ‘Put the Sulphur behind us this afternoon. Ought to cross the Sabine around noon tomorrow and be on the East Trinity the day after. I’d say four more days ought to see us in the area.’

‘Just thought, Cap’n,’ Ysabel put in. ‘The Deacon runs a spread on the East Trinity, ranch, supply house and store.’

‘Whereabouts?’ asked Dusty.

‘I’m not sure,’ Ysabel admitted. ‘Only heard him talk about it.’

‘They might have called in there, Cap’n,’ Billy Jack suggested.

‘Might,’ admitted Dusty. ‘If we see any sign of the place, and it’s not too far off our line, we’ll scout it. If not, we push on. I don’t reckon we can start hoping for much until we cross the West Fork of the Brazos, but we’ll expect it after the Denton.’

‘And if we haven’t called the play right, Cap’n?’ asked Billy Jack, never one to look on the bright side.

‘I’m trying not to think about that,’ Dusty answered, trying to sound as if the responsibility sat lightly on his shoulders. ‘If we’re wrong, there’ll be a couple of Indian prophets without honour in their country. Here, put the maps in your saddlebags for me, Billy Jack. Kiowa, let’s give the stock a last look over before dark. Sam, take Mr. Marsden and see what you can scare up between you for supper. Miss Dodd, make the coffee, please.’

Watching the men go about their duties, Liz wished that she felt less tired and could raise the energy to try to lay hands on the map. Even now she did not know their destination and guessed that the map would tell her that. Perhaps if she could destroy the map, she could—— Still thinking on that line she drifted off to sleep.

At dawn Liz awoke to a feeling of difference and for almost a minute could not think what brought about the change. Then she realised that the nagging stiffness which usually accompanied her waking had gone. She wanted to leap from the blankets, dance, throw cartwheels like a kid. Only the thought of what her relief from stiffness meant prevented her from displaying her pleasure. She could now go ahead with her plans for disrupting the party.

However, the chance to obtain the map did not present itself and Liz could not think of any other move. Before breakfast finished, she could see that the men knew of her improved condition. Even if she had not seen it at breakfast, Liz knew it later, for Dusty pushed on at a better speed.

The party crossed the Sabine River more than an hour before noon and kept up a good pace. At two o’clock in the afternoon, Liz rode between Jill and Billy Jack wondering if she might manage to get the plans that night, or if she could stir up some other kind of trouble. Maybe she could take advantage of the rivalry shown by the non-coms when helping her to set them at each other’s throats? Or she might exploit the obvious differences which caused Jill and Marsden to quarrel.

Ahead of them, the ground dropped away in a steep slope and they steered a course to take them along its top. All around lay the open, rolling land Liz had come so used to seeing. She wondered what would happen to her should she carry out a successful plot to prevent Dusty Fog carrying out his orders.

As if in answer to Liz’s thoughts, something went ‘splat!’ against her left ear and a spurt of dirt erupted from the ground ahead of her horse. She had never heard the sound of a close-passing bullet. The others all knew the sound, even without the following crack of a rifle, and all started to swing around to see who shot at them.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sam Ysabel brought his huge roan around in a rump-scraping, dime-small pivot turn that would have made a British polo player’s eyes sparkle in admiration; and he did it by heel pressure alone, his hands being occupied by transferring the Sharps rifle from the crook of arm to butt-cudled against his shoulder.

Even as Liz saw the line of blue-uniformed figures on the top of a slope some three hundred yards away, recognising them as salvation and the means to end the Texans’ mission, she heard the bellow of Ysabel’s rifle. Up on the slope, the firer of the first shot slammed backwards under the impact of Ysabel’s .52 calibre bullet and flopped limply to the ground.

A wild yell, like the sound of hounds clamouring around a treed cougar, rang out from the Union troops. Yelling an order to charge, their leader sent them boiling down the slope in a wild rush; but he did not take the lead as one might expect. Instead it seemed that he allowed as many of his party as possible to come between himself and those gun-handy Texans before allowing his horse to move forward.

Elation, pleasure—and just a touch of disappointment—filled Liz as she watched the soldiers charging down. Soon she would be among her own kind again and able to tell them all she knew of Dusty Fog’s mission. Yet in a way she would miss the cheerful uncomplaining companionship of the Texans, for she had found herself growing to like them despite her political feelings. She expected the Texans to dismount and make a fight and realised that she might be in the thick of flying lead very soon, but the thought did not frighten her.

‘Scatter!’ Dusty yelled, almost as an echo to Ysabel’s shot.

Only Liz of the party did not know what the order meant. When laying his plans for the journey, Dusty prepared his men for just such an emergency. Having no intention of risking the success of his mission by fighting a superior-numbered enemy force if he could avoid it, he had planned accordingly. On his command, the party dissolved into fast-moving, fanning-out segments. Leading one packhorse, Billy Jack started his mount running along the top of the slope, with Jill at his side. Marsden gave the girl one piteous glance before urging his sorrel and packhorse off on the heels of Kiowa’s running black and Kiowa led the third packhorse as they cut off to the right. Swinging down his rifle, Ysabel brought the roan about in a half turn and set it galloping at an angle to Kiowa’s right, going away from the Texan. Last to leave the field, Dusty headed his black stallion towards the slope. Even as he went, Dusty saw Liz following Billy Jack’s section and wondered what game the girl played this time.

Liz’s original movement after the others was involuntary. Used to travelling with the rest, her mare obeyed its herd-instinct and lunged forward on the heels of the departing horses. Even as she reached down on the reins, meaning to halt her mare and join her approaching companions-at-arms, a thought struck Liz. Clearly the Confederates did not intend to make a fight, and with that much of a lead they ought to be able to outride those clumsy-looking Union soldiers. So if she could only delay the rebels, her people might take them. At that moment Liz remembered the maps Billy Jack carried. They might be of the greatest help in locating the remainder of the Texans in case of an escape.

Eagerly she urged her mare after Billy Jack and Jill. The little mare proved to be a flier. Carrying less weight, and unencumbered by a trailing packhorse, Liz’s mount closed up to and came between Billy Jack’s and Jill’s. Then she started to edge her mare towards the packhorse which in turn moved in against Billy Jack’s black and urged it towards the edge of the slope.

‘Get over, J—!’ Billy Jack started to yell, turning his head. The words trailed off as he saw Liz, not Jill, at his side.

When making arrangements for Jill’s inclusion in the escape groups, Dusty had not included Liz. Should the party separate, it would be because they met a Yankee force among whom Liz, as a Union supporter, could be safely left. So Billy Jack felt a momentary surprise at seeing Liz. Then he guessed what she aimed to do. His black’s hooves churned the earth on the very start of the slope. If it once went over, he knew it would stumble or be forced to slow down to such an extent that he fell into the hands of the Yankees.

Liz read the expression on the lean non-com’s face and felt disgusted with herself. Thinking back to all the little kindnesses shown her by Billy Jack, she hated to be acting in such a treacherous manner. A few more inches would see him go over the edge of the slope—only she could not make herself continue. Before she could swing the mare clear, Liz felt her hat sent spinning from her head and two hands dug into her hair from behind, pulling at it, dragging her backwards out of the saddle. Her horse lost stride, a shriek of pain burst from her lips, then Billy Jack passed her and his black swung away from the edge of the slope.

‘Keep going, Billy Jack!’ screamed Jill’s voice from close behind Liz.

On seeing Liz’s attempt to ride Billy Jack off the level ground, Jill wasted no time. She urged her buckskin closer to the other two, leaning over to send Liz’s hat flying, then lay hold of her hair. Billy Jack turned slightly in his saddle and saw the girls’ horses slowing down. Even without Jill’s advice, he would not have stopped, for he knew Dusty’s orders on the subject. On hearing of Dusty’s plans for such a situation, Jill agreed that she must be sacrificed rather than endanger her escort and stated that she would be reasonably safe in Union hands provided she knew nothing of the Texans’ plans. So Billy Jack kept his horse running, the pack-animal keeping pace at its side, and left Jill behind.

While holding rank as captain, and serving in a regiment which saw considerable action, Marty Wilson had so far avoided contact—and its risks—with the enemy. Sometimes he had been heard to boast that the rebels might be brave enough when bullying some poor Negro, but showed a great lack of courage when faced with armed Union men. However, he never really believed that theory and expected a stiff fight on sighting his quarry. With that thought in mind, Wilson made sure that he let his men lead the charge on the Texans. Much to his surprise, he saw the rebels separate into fleeing groups after one of their number shot down the guide who brought the party overland from the Red River.

‘Split up!’ he yelled wildly. ‘Get after them. Kill ‘em!’

Although his men felt the exhilaration of the chase and the heady joy which came from the sight of the fleeing enemy, obeying Wilson’s order did not come easy. Members of Marsden’s Zouave regiment, they had been formed into a mounted company in an attempt to answer the mobility of the Texas Light Cavalry; but they lacked the Texans’ experience on horseback. Showing none of the Texans’ rapid disintegration, Wilson’s company split apart and one group took out after each segment of Dusty’s party. Due to lack of foresight and planning, Wilson found himself with his sergeant, a burly, sullen hard-case called Fitch, and only two men. Taking the easiest course, he led his small group down with the intention of pursuing the girls and Billy Jack.

Wilson’s party watched Jill tackle Liz and the girls go sliding from their horses to the ground where they tangled in a wild-hair-tearing tangle of waving arms and thrashing legs. Instantly all thoughts of chasing Billy Jack were forgotten. The men slid their horses to a halt, laughing, whooping out encouragement and profane advice to the struggling girls. Bringing his mount to a sliding halt, Wilson looked back.

‘Get after hi—’ he began.

The words died off as he recognised one of the fighting girls. Even through the trail-dirt and dishevelled coating, Wilson made out the features of Liz Chamberlain. He wasted no time in wondering how she came to be involved in a hair-yanking brawl with another girl on the North Texas plains. Remembering that her father had considerable influence, both financially and politically, he reluctantly decided he must end what looked like developing into a promising fight.

‘Pull them apart, Sergeant!’ he ordered.

A scowl came into Fitch’s face at the words, then he grinned and dropped out of his saddle. Moving forward, he watched the girls struggle to their knees still clinging to each other’s hair, then grabbed Liz by the arms from behind. One of his men had also dismounted and caught Jill in a similar manner. Pulling backwards, the men managed to separate the girls, but it took all their strength to prevent a resumption of hostilities. Liz stopped struggling first and stood with face flushed and breasts heaving as she stared at her rescuers.

‘Quit it, gal!’ the soldier holding Jill yelled, and shook her hard.

Sanity returned to Jill, warning her of the futility of struggling. She relaxed and stood gasping for breath, glaring defiantly at Wilson as he swung out of his saddle.

‘Are you all right, Liz?’ he asked.

Liz looked at the medium-sized, sallow-faced young man and found difficulty in recognising him. Not because he looked much different from her last meeting, Wilson never looked clean or tidy even when in full dress, but because she had met so many people on her visit to Arkansas.

‘I’ll live,’ she replied, touching her left eye with a finger tip and wincing.

‘What’re you doing here? Who’s that girl?’

‘Her name’s Jill Dodd,’ Liz answered guardedly.

‘A rebel?’ growled Wilson.

‘Yes, I am!’ Jill put in, shrugging the man’s hands from her and glancing hopefully towards the buckskin which had come to a halt some yards away.

‘We’ll take her along with us,’ Wilson stated and looked to where Billy Jack faded off into the distance. ‘There’s no chance of catching him now, Sergeant. We’ll go on to the Deacon’s place. The guide told me how to find it last night.’

‘Do your men know where to find you?’ Liz inquired, as the second private rode after her mare and the buckskin.

‘Yes,’ replied Wilson—a slight pause which made Liz eye him suspiciously. Wanting to take her mind off the subject, he pointed to where Jill’s Tranter lay on the ground. ‘We’d better take that with us.’

The man behind Jill grabbed her again as she started to move forward and Liz went to pick up the revolver. Thrusting the Tranter into her waistband, she smiled at Jill.

‘I’ll return it when we part, reb,’ Liz promised.

‘That’s a good hoss,’ Fitch growled, eyeing the buckskin avariciously. ‘Too good for a rebel slut to—’

‘He’s too much horse for you, Yankee,’ Jill spat back.

‘Yeah?’ the sergeant grinned. ‘Well, I’ll—’

‘Take your own horse, Sergeant!’ Liz ordered coldly.

Turning his eyes towards the girl, Fitch prepared to snarl a refusal. However, Wilson backed Liz with his own command and Fitch slouched to his leg-weary mount.

On moving out, Jill strained her ears for sounds of shooting that would mean the Yankees had caught up with her friends. She heard nothing and concluded that the rest of the party must have made good their escape. Not that it surprised her when she came to consider the poor condition of the Yankee horses and inexperience of the captain.

Just how ignorant Wilson was showed in the fact that he never once offered to dismount and walk to rest his horses. Riding on at a slow trot, he led his party due west. During the ride Liz learned what brought Wilson to Texas. Although he approved of Castle’s plan in theory, it contained too much danger for his liking. So he contented himself with commanding the escort to the Red River. After seeing the arms and Ager gun over into Texas, Wilson prepared to make a fast ride to the safety of his own lines. On his way back; the civilian guide met him with orders from Colonel Stedloe. Marsden had deserted, taking news to the rebels. Guessing what Ole Devil Hardin would do, Stedloe sent orders for Wilson to follow Castle’s party and use his company to protect it. Instead of following the wagon tracks of Castle’s party, the guide led them towards the Deacon’s ranch; he showed as much reluctance as Wilson had to going into the Indian council area. Fate intervened, bringing them into contact with the enemy and Wilson considered his duty well done.

Night had fallen when the party rode towards the deserted ranch buildings. Being Eastern-raised, Wilson had the horses taken into the barn instead of using the corral. Only Liz’s example made the men care for their horses before going to the ranch house in search of food. However, nothing Liz could do prevented Wilson from locking Jill in a small saddlery-store in the barn. He said it was to keep her out of the men’s way, but Liz suspected that Wilson had a blind bigoted hatred towards the Southerners and was merely taking his spite out on the girl.

‘I’ll have food sent to you, reb,’ Liz promised and even managed a smile as she looked at the others dirty face. ‘And I’ll send along some hot water and soap.’

‘You need it yourself,’ Jill answered, eyeing Liz’s unkempt appearance, now blackened eye, but unable to hold any hate against such a game girl.

However, when the door closed, Jill looked around her prison and felt like crying. The room was small, its walls stout and the window heavily barred—to keep out marauding black bears rather than prevent a prisoner escaping, but too strong for her to attempt anything against.

Time dragged by, Liz came with hot water, soap, a towel and Jill’s other clothing, standing by while the rebel girl washed and changed.

‘I’ll bring you some food as soon as I can,’ Liz told Jill is she prepared to leave the room. ‘And we’ll return you to your people first chance we get.’

‘Bring that lamp out with you,’ Wilson called from the barn. ‘She might try to use it to burn her way out.’

Figuring that Jill just might make such an attempt, Liz picked up the lamp and carried it out of the room. Left done, Jill made herself as comfortable as possible and sat thinking of the past few days. A chink of light showed under the bottom of the door, for Liz insisted on leaving the barn well illuminated to help guide any of Wilson’s men who might be in the vicinity.

Time dragged slowly by. Outside the room, the horses in their stalls moved restlessly, chomping hay or stamping their hooves. Jill felt very tired and decided to try to settle down and sleep. Then she heard steps approaching the door, heavy and uneven-sounding steps which worried her. The lock clicked and the door jerked open. Leaning against the door’s jamb, his face twisted in the slobber-lipped sneer of a bad drunk, Fitch looked Jill up and down.