The Devil Gun (16 page)

Dusty began to rise, conscious of the admiring mutters from the watching Indians. Before he made his feet properly, Dusty saw Silverman come in with a swinging fist. Unable to avoid the blow, Dusty took it and went crashing into the Ager’s wheel. Springing forward in a concerted rush, Castle and Silverman each grabbed hold of Dusty’s jacket front with one hand while smashing the other into his face or body. Unable to retreat, Dusty threw up his left hand in a sweeping-block move, its edge chopping into Castle’s arm and preventing the fist reaching his face. At the same moment Dusty drove back his right arm, to use a pressing-block that held Silverman’s attempt to hit his stomach. Such was the strength of Dusty’s small frame that he held both bigger men’s blows, actually pinning Silverman’s hand against the lieutenant’s body with his blocking blow. Releasing hold of Dusty’s jacket, Castle sprang back to try another line of attack.

‘Hold him, Herbie!’ he yelled.

If it came to a point, Dusty held Silverman; for his pressing-block kept the other’s disengaged arm immobile. Castle came in, throwing a savage right at Dusty’s head. Pivoting to face the danger, Dusty retained his pressing-block on Silverman and knocked aside Castle’s blow with his left arm, following it with a smashing jolt of his right elbow into the Yankee captain’s chest. Croaking in pain, Castle staggered backwards and gave Dusty a chance to deal with Silverman. Like a flash Dusty delivered a kick to the rear, stamping his boot heel against Silverman’s shin. So quickly had everything happened that Silverman’s brain could not cope with the situation and issue orders. The impact of Dusty’s boot against Silverman’s leg prevented the need for thought. With a yelp, the stocky lieutenant released his hold and hopped away on one leg.

Leaping forward, Castle swung a roundhouse blow towards Dusty’s head. Dusty saw the danger, ducked under the punch, sank a right into Castle’s belly and jack-knifed him over. Driving up his knee, Dusty caught Castle’s down-dropping face and jerked him erect. Whipping across his left Dusty smashed home a punch which spun the Yankee around and sent him sprawling to the ground in front of the Ager gun. Before Dusty could make a move to handle any further developments, Silverman leapt in from behind him and curled arms around the small Texan in a full nelson hold. Fear and desperation lent strength to Silverman’s arms and Dusty grunted as the hold sent pain knifing into him.

‘Carnie!’ Silverman screeched. ‘Do something!’

The words bit through Castle’s spinning senses and as his eyes regained focus they rested on a possible salvation. Not far ahead of him lay the Texan’s gunbelt, its white-handled Colt burden showing like providence to Castle’s eyes. Ignoring his companion’s cry, he flung himself forward, hands reaching towards the butt of the nearest gun.

Once again Dusty had thought faster than his enemy. Recognising the danger, he prepared to handle it. First he must free himself, and he knew he could not do it quickly enough by matching arm strength with Silverman. So he did not try. Drawing forward his body, Dusty propelled it back, driving his buttocks into Silverman’s lower belly with enough force to cause an immediate release. Moaning, Silverman reeled backwards and Dusty ignored him for the moment.

Bounding forward, Dusty reached the Ager. He took quick sight and whirled the firing handle even as Castle’s hands hovered over the butt of the nearer Colt. Loud in the night rose the chatter of the Devil Guii’s repeated explosions; flame belched from its barrel. A line of dust-spurts rose, creeping closer to Castle’s body. He turned a horrified face towards the gun, mouth dropping open and trying to speak. The bullets crawled closer and closer, throwing up dirt as they ploughed into the ground. Then no more dirt rose. Castle jerked as the first bullet struck his body. Five more .58 balls tore into him before Dusty could halt the Devil Gun’s fire. Torn almost in half by the lead, Castle’s lifeless body pitched over and lay still.

Dusty left the gun, whirling to meet any attack Silverman launched. Although a good three inches taller and much heavier than Dusty, Silverman lacked the guts to continue the fight. Turning, he started to run—and made a fatal mistake. While the Indian admired and respected a brave man, he had nothing but contempt for a coward. Giving a low, disgusted grunt, one of the watching braves bounded up as Silverman approached. Out thrust a buffalo lance, its point ripping into Silverman’s body. The stocky lieutenant let out a croaking scream and fell, writhing out the remainder of his life and shedding his blood upon the Texas plains he had hoped to redden with the gore of the Southerners he hated.

Leaning on the side of the Ager gun, Dusty fought to regain his breath. He heard the rumbling approval of the watching Indians and saw Sam Ysabel springing towards him. Regaining his breath, Dusty waved Ysabel aside and faced the assembled tribal chiefs.

‘The Devil Gun’s medicine is bad,’ he stated. ‘It did not protect the blue-coats.’

‘But it killed well,’ Plenty Kills remarked, pointing to Castle’s body.

‘It killed the man who would have used it, not me,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘And should you take it to war, the same would happen to you. The blue-coat lied when he said the Devil Gun would bring you victory. We have wheel guns which could shoot from far away and smash it. And if you ride to war, which tribe takes the Devil Gun?’

There Dusty posed a problem to the Indians. No one tribe would willingly allow any other to be in possession of such a deadly weapon. Talk welled up. Hostile glares passed among the various tribal enemies. Not for five minutes could Ysabel make himself heard to put forward his flash of inspiration. At last silence fell and all eyes went to the big, burly sergeant with the war lodge sheath on his rifle.

‘Who owns the Devil Gun now the blue-coats are dead?’ he asked, but gave his audience no time to answer. ‘Among all true men the brave who counts the coup takes the loot and keeps it. Of course among the poor-spirited people like the Tejas,* such is not done.’

Put that way, no Texas Indian with pride in the honour of his tribe could object to Dusty retaining ownership of the Ager; not when watched by critical members of the other tribes. If only one tribe had been present, its members might have chanced the wrath of the Great Spirit at failing to give a warrior his due, and killed Dusty to gain possession of the Devil Gun. As Ysabel well knew, no race-proud Indian would lower his tribal honour by doing so before witnesses from another nation.

‘What do you do with the Devil Gun, Magic Hands?’ asked Long Walker in good English.

‘It’s medicine is bad,’ Dusty replied. ‘No true man wants such a thing to fight for him.’

‘You fixing to take it with us, Cap’n?’ Ysabel inquired, bringing Dusty his gunbelt.

Much as the South could use such a weapon, Dusty knew what he must do. To take the Ager would be asking for trouble. He knew that once clear of the council area one of the tribes, or a bunch of name-making young braves from it, might decide to take the gun for the use of their own people. If Dusty attempted to return to Arkansas with the Ager, he could expect trouble all the way.

‘See if there is any powder in the caisson, Sergeant,’ he said.

Without another word, Ysabel turned and went to where the Ager gun’s caisson stood. The caisson, a two-wheeled ammunition carrier fitted with the necessary parts so a team of horses could be harnessed to it, proved to hold two twenty-five-pound kegs of du Pont black powder, spare chargers and moulded bullets. Taking out the kegs, one of which had been opened, Dusty placed it under the wheels of the gun. Next he used some of the contents of the open keg and lay a trail of powder from the full keg to some twenty feet away. Returning to the Ager, Dusty set the used keg at the end of the trail, making sure a continuous line of powder ran to it. He walked back to the end of the powder trail, accepted the match offered by Ysabel and rasped it alight on the seat of his pants. Nobody spoke, not one of the Indians moved, as they watched Dusty place the flame on the end of the powder trail. Flame spurted up, crawling along the ground until it came to the two kegs. Loud in the night came the roar as some thirty pounds of black powder exploded. For a moment the watching Indians were blinded by the glare. When their eyes cleared again they found the Devil Gun to be wrecked beyond any hope of repair.

‘Reckon that’s that,’ breathed Ysabel, relief plain in his voice.

‘Like you say, Sergeant,’ Dusty answered. ‘Now all we have to do is get out of here.’

‘That’ll cause no fuss,’ grinned Ysabel. ‘Just look at all them chiefs rushing up all excited to meet you.’

Watching the slow, dignified manner in which the chiefs rose and walked towards him, Dusty found it hard to imagine anything less rushing or excited in appearance.

‘That’s all rushing and excited?’ he asked.

‘Sure is,’ agreed Ysabel. ‘For Injuns that is. Usually they’d sit back and let you make first move.’

‘You fight well, Magic Hands,’ said Long Walker, halting before Dusty and offering his hand to be shaken white man’s fashion. ‘Aiee! You might be a Comanche.’

‘Never have I seen such a way of fighting,’ enthused Plenty Kills, not to be out-done in the matter of showing respect to a great warrior.

‘It was a remembered fight,’ Lone Hunter went on, ‘and would have been the greater if the blue-coats fought better.’

A rumble of agreement rose from the other chiefs, but all made it clear that they did not blame Dusty for any discrepancies the fight showed. Then came promises that no concerted, inter-tribal action would be made against the whites in Texas.

‘But the young men will still raid,’ warned Long Walker in the apologetic tone of one who explains an obvious point to a social equal. ‘That is always the way. How else can the young man make his name as a warrior, or win trophies to buy many squaws? It is a pity you can have but one woman, Magic Hands. You would have many white maidens wanting you to buy them.’

‘It is no pity,’ stated Plenty Kills. ‘If Magic Hands had plenty squaws, they would give him many sons like himself and the white-eyes could then drive us from our lands with ease.’

The compliments continued, each chief trying to excel the others in their praise for a brave fighting man who might one day be a potential enemy. Standing before the chiefs, Dusty tried to stay impassive and hide his pleasure at the praise. He felt grateful that none of his kin or brother officers heard some of the things said in his praise.

Finally each chief gave his word that none of his people would impede Dusty’s party during their return to Arkansas.

‘Ask them for a relay of horses, Cap’n,’ Ysabel suggested. ‘Then I can go on ahead of you to tell General Hardin how things’ve turned out.’

While Dusty had thought of the possibility of sending a man ahead with his report, he hesitated to ask Ysabel to take the task. It meant an even more hard and gruelling ride than the trip out and Dusty wanted a volunteer to make the journey. Having his volunteer, he made the request. Eagerly the chiefs offered the pick of their horse herds and Ysabel selected three fine, powerful horses which, along with his roan, ought to be able to cover fifty miles a day given anything like reasonable conditions.

The next morning Dusty and his small band turned east, following the wake of the faster-travelling Ysabel and leaving the Indian council to disband. Although Dusty did not hear of it until many years later, a picked escort of Comanche Dog Soldiers trailed his party from a distance ready to lend a hand should any other tribe break its word.

With each day of the journey to the east, the Texans grew more relaxed and cheerful at the thought of returning to their friends. Liz gradually threw off the shock of seeing the Indian-massacred family and tried to raise Marsden’s spirits, without much success. Each day Marsden grew more quiet and disturbed, for the return to Arkansas meant that he must face his own kind and stand his trial as a traitor. In love with Jill, wanting to make her his wife and devote his life to making her happy, he knew that he stood but little chance of being allowed to do so.

oooOooo

* Tejas: Texas tribe noted for friendship with the white men.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Lieutenant Jackson Hardin Marsden never stood trial for either desertion or treason. On his return to Arkansas, he was taken under a flag of truce to the Ouachita River and passed into the care of a colonel from the U.C. Adjutant-General’s Department. After a thorough interrogation of Marsden, reading a bulky letter sent by General Hardin, and interviews with Liz Chamberlain and Jill Dodd, the colonel took Marsden to Little Rock, from where the lieutenant found himself detailed to join a west-bound supply train and transferred to a cavalry regiment serving in the Montana Territory. With Marsden when he went, travelled Mrs. Marsden; until recently Jill Dodd, Confederate sympathiser, ex-bushwhacker band member and hater of everything to do with the Union. Far from the civil conflict, she managed to make her husband happy; and even forgot her old hatreds.

What brought about the Union’s remarkable leniency towards Marsden?

A number of things.

First, Ole Devil Hardin’s report of the affair reached General Handiman at the Adjutant-General’s Department and from him went to Sherman, Grant and finally into President Lincoln’s hands. The latter, great man that he was, saw the full implications and cost in innocent lives of Castle’s scheme. He also visualised the effect word that such a scheme had been tried might have upon world opinion. At that time the United States strove to improve its public image—although the term had not then come into use—in the eyes of the European countries. The United States’ prestige had dwindled in Europe after a U.S. Navy ship stopped a British merchantman on the high seas and forcibly removed several accredited Confederate ambassadors and other officials. Feelings ran high in Britain at the breach of diplomatic immunity and insult to her flag, and the United States feared that what was then the greatest power in the world might swing its weight fully behind the Confederacy. Even now the situation hung in a delicate balance. Should word of the attempted arming of Indians and endangering of innocent civilians leak out, the Confederate propagandists in Europe would have fuel to burn against the Union. Ole Devil hinted in his letter to Handiman that any attempt to court martial Marsden would see the full facts placed in the hands of various European military observers who visited the combat zones.

After some deliberation, a decision came down that Marsden had acted for the best. Colonel Stedloe of the Zouaves received a letter which left him in no doubt of how the top brass regarded his permitting the scheme. In the same package came orders transferring Marsden to the Eighth Cavalry who kept the peace with—or against—the Indians in Montana Territory. The order was dated the day before Marsden deserted, turned traitor—and helped save thousands of men, women and children from death at the hands of Indians inspired by the evil medicine of the Devil Gun.

THE END