The Devil Gun (2 page)

Thinking of his weapons recalled to Marsden his state of undress and caused him to unstrap and open the poncho-wrapped bundle. Apparently the poncho’s rubberised cloth fulfilled its manufacturer’s advertising boasts, for none of the clothing gave any sign of dampness as he took them out. Using his undershirt as a towel, he dried himself swiftly and then dressed. With his weapon belt around his waist, the holster’s top opened to allow easy access to the revolver butt, Marsden felt a little more contented. He checked on the bay’s saddle, mounted and urged the horse up the steep slope of the crack.

Although the climb proved difficult, and called for skilled co-ordination between rider and mount, it did not bring out the added hazard of the black bear. Once out of the crack, the going proved much easier. Finding a slightly level piece of ground which offered grazing for his horse, Marsden dismounted. Already night had fallen and he decided to care for the horse before continuing with his search for a Confederate unit to which he could surrender.

With the bay grazing and its saddle-blanket hung out to dry, Marsden found himself with nothing to do but think; and with the thoughts came back misery. Crossing the Ouachita had been the end of any chance to withdraw from his plan. Up to then a fast ride would still have carried him back to safety and his absence could be put down to visiting Betty Mayhew in Little Rock. He knew he could rely on her to agree that he had been with her the whole time. At most Stedloe would have awarded his errant shavetail with a week of Officer of the Day duties. However, the time when Marsden could return had now passed. Nor, when he thought of the effects of Castle and Silverman’s scheme, could Marsden turn back even if he knew for certain he would not be punished in any way for his absence.

The feeling of misery drove Marsden to forget his plan to stay in the small clearing until dawn. He checked the saddle-blanket and found it to be dry enough for use. So he saddled the bay, mounted and rode off into the darkness. Holding his bay to a steady walk, he topped the west bank of the Ouachita and set off towards the rolling mountains.

Two hours went by without any sign of human beings. Marsden kept his horse at a steady walk and used his eyes. Just as he was thinking that it might be as well to halt for the night, he caught a glimpse of something red in the blackness to his right. Halting his horse, he turned his gaze in the direction but saw nothing. He wondered if his eyes might be playing tricks on him, but backing his horse a few steps brought the red glow into sight once more. A fire glowed among trees about half a mile or more away. From its appearance, Marsden concluded that its makers had no wish to be located. That in itself meant little. No troops on active service would willingly give away their position. However, it could mean danger. A raiding band of Union cavalry were likely to take precautions with their fires and Marsden knew he must not ride blindly. Capture by the Union now meant certain and immediate death. No patrol raiding in enemy territory would burden itself with a deserter who clearly intended to search out and hand himself over to the enemy.

Only by winding about and keeping his eyes fixed on the partially hidden glow of the fire did Marsden manage to head in the required direction. At last he decided he could chance going no closer on his horse. Still he could not see what manner of people used the camp and so intended to make his scout on foot. Fortunately for him, the wind blew from behind him and towards the camp. There was no chance of his horse getting wind of any mounts the campers might have, and betraying Marsden’s presence by whinnying a greeting to its kind.

After securing the bay to a tree, Marsden moved forward on foot. Anybody in that area of the Ouachita Mountains would most likely be a belligerent from one side or the other. Maybe Marsden would have sufficient luck to come into contact with a Confederate unit commanded by a man who would see the full import of his news and waste no time in directing him to the commanding general, or somebody who could make arrangements to halt Castle and Silverman’s scheme.

Moving through darkened, wooded country in silence was no time for idle thought. Every instinct must be directed to the silent placing of feet and ensuring that nothing caught or rattled against the surrounding trees and bushes. Marsden threw off his thoughts and concentrated. From odd glimpses gained during his advance, Marsden decided that the camp must be set in a fair-sized clearing surrounded by thick bushes; an almost ideal location in that it offered good cover to the occupants and almost hid their fire from sight.

On silent feet Marsden eased closer to the camp, coming to a halt at the side of a large bush. Gently he parted a couple of branches and peered through the gap. At one side of the clearing stood a couple of lines of good horses, yet they had no guard watching them. A couple of bell tents, and a trio of hospital pattern tents were scattered about the clearing in a most unmilitary manner. Those two sights gave Marsden a warning that he must not fall into the hands of the people in the camp, even before he saw the occupants.

CHAPTER TWO

Crouching in his position behind the bush, Marsden turned his eyes to the occupants of the camp as they gathered about the fire. Not one of the party wore a uniform of any kind—unless he counted the occasional Union overcoat or tunic. In 1864, even with the U.S. Navy’s blockade slowly strangling the South, the Confederate Army still kept its men in some semblance of uniform. The ten or so men around the fire wore head-dress ranging from coonskin caps to a good quality Burnside officer’s hat, and sported civilian clothing as diverse as the head-wear. Only one thing had they in common, every man wore a pair of revolvers at his waist. None of them had shaved and all looked mean, cruel, vicious in the light of the flames. Marsden ignored the single woman at the fire, giving her hardly more than a single glance and discarding her as one of the usual type of camp-follower to be found with such a band.

‘Bushwhackers!’ he mused. ‘I’d best get the hell out of here.’

During the War many bands of irregulars fought on both sides; if fought was the correct term for their activities. Unattached to any formal military organisation, the bushwhackers of the South and the Red-Legs of the Union looted and raided in the name of patriotism. Despised by the formal forces of the North and South, the various bands of irregulars ranged the strife-torn land, avoiding the real fighting. Even if Marsden knew which side claimed the party’s so-called allegiance, he must not fall into their hands.

Even as the thought came to Marsden’s head and he started to turn away, he heard the startled chatter of a disturbed bird. The soldier brought his head around towards the sound and saw a dark, human shape looming towards him. With no time to draw a weapon, Marsden shot out his fist, driving the gauntlet-covered knuckles full into his attacker’s face. Although he changed the attacker’s advance to a hurried retreat, Marsden knew he was not out of danger. He sensed rather than saw the second man coming in from the rear with arms widespread to grab him. Back shot Marsden’s left arm, propelling the elbow savagely into the chest of the second attacker, bringing a gasping croak of pain and sending him stumbling away.

Surprised yells rose from the camp, but Marsden ignored the sounds. Just as he prepared to plunge away into the trees and make a dash for freedom, he saw yet a third bearded shape materialise close at hand. The fire’s light glinted momentarily from the butt-plate of the carbine held by the third man as it swung up and drove down again. Too late Marsden tried to avoid the blow. His foot slipped and he felt the carbine’s butt contact with the side of his hat. The force of the blow sent Marsden sprawling through the bushes and into the camp clearing where he landed on his knees. Snarling, gibbering almost in his rage, the first attacker crashed forward through the bushes after Marsden and launched a kick at the officer’s head. Although Marsden tried to avoid the lashing boot, he only partially succeeded. He managed to move himself sufficiently far forward that his head missed the impact of the kick, but took it in his ribs instead. Pain knifed through Marsden and he pitched over, rolling on the ground.

Men sprang forward, catching Marsden by the arms and dragging him to his feet. Snarling curses through blood-dripping lips, the first attacker prepared to resume his assault.

‘Let me at him!’ screeched the man. ‘I want to see his blood.’

‘Now jest you hold it up there!’ growled a commanding voice, and at its sound the man drew back.

Dazedly Marsden turned to look at the speaker. It figured, the big, burly man wearing the Burnside hat and good-quality clothing was sure to be the leader of the bushwhacker band. Swaggering forward, the man jerked a contemptuous thumb at Marsden and turned to the carbine-armed attacker who slouched forward on moccasin-clad feet.

‘Done saw him sneaking down on the camp,’ the man said without waiting for the obvious question. ‘Me’n the boys moved in on him. Done sent Milky to collect his hoss, Ashley.’

A sick, sinking feeling hit Marsden as he heard the name. While not as famous, or notorious, as Bloody Bill Anderson, George Todd or William Clarke Quantrill—possibly due to their presence in a more publicised section of the fighting area—Wick Ashley’s reputation was known to people in Arkansas. It was not a reputation to hearten a man unfortunate enough to fall into Ashley’s hands.

‘Drag him closer to the fire so’s we can see what we got, boys,’ Ashley ordered.

‘Wonder if there’s more of ‘em about?’ asked the sentry, resting his Perry carbine on the crook of his arm.

‘You’d best go see, Thad,’ suggested Ashley.

‘Reckon I had at that,’ agreed the man and faded off into the bushes.

Walking back to where two of his men stood supporting and restraining Marsden by the fire, Ashley looked the young soldier over as a farmer might study a prize bull.

‘Fancy sword, cost good money,’ Ashley grunted and stepped forward to open Marsden’s holster. ‘New Army Colt too.’ He reached out to feel the material of the uniform, then examine the epaulets. ‘That’s good broadcloth, and I’ll swan if these doo-hickey ain’t solid gold. Boots’s hand-made too. Yes sir, boys, I reckon we caught us a good one there. I’ll just bet his folks’ll pay up without asking twice to get him back. Might even have enough cash-money back at his camp to have it done his-self and save time.’

Among their other nefarious acts the irregulars ran a profitable side-line in offering such prisoners as they felt wealthy enough a chance to pay ransom for their freedom. Many of the bands had contacts on the enemy side who could notify the prisoner’s friends or relations and arrange for the delivery of the ransom money. It seemed that Ashley possessed such a contact, for he showed complete confidence and did not need to think about disposing of his prisoner.

Cohesive thought returned to Marsden, forcing him to stand still instead of struggling against the restraining hands while his pockets were emptied. A snap of fingers and cold scowl caused one of the searchers to pass Marsden’s well filled wallet to Ashley. Looking into the wallet, Ashley ran an appreciative finger across the paper money it held. Marsden tried to struggle as a stocky, bearded tough hauled out his father’s watch from under the tunic, but the men holding him tightened their grip and kept him immobile.

‘Allus wanted a gold watch,’ grinned the man and turned to Ashley. ‘It’s my turn to take first pick at his gear.’

‘Have I argued?’ inquired Ashley and the man held the watch to an ear before stuffing it away into his pocket. Ashley swung his attention back to Marsden. ‘How’s about it, soldier boy. You got anybody’d pay to get you back safe and well?’

‘I—I’ve got to be taken to a Confederate unit,’ Marsden answered.

‘We’re a Confederate unit, boy,’ scoffed Ashley.

‘I mean regulars.’

‘Now ain’t we good enough to suit you?’ sneered the bushwhacker leader.

‘I tell you, man, it’s imperative that I reach a regular Confederate Army unit without delay.’

‘Sure you do. You’re one of their smartest officers. All the rebs wear these blue uniforms nowadays.’

A guffaw of laughter rose from among the men, but the girl turned from where she had been stirring stew in a pot at the fire.

‘He might be a Confederate spy, Ashley,’ she said, coming towards her leader.

For the first time Marsden gave his attention to the girl, for her voice came as a surprise. She did not speak in the coarse, strident tones of the usual cheap harridan one found among the irregular camp-followers. Nor did she have the tone of a rich, well-bred Southern belle. Her voice came somewhere between the two, like the daughters of small businessmen, storekeepers and the like Marsden met in the various Arkansas towns. The girl was bare-headed, her reddish brown hair hanging to just above her shoulders and curling out at the ends, showing signs of care not often seen among camp-followers. While not beautiful, she had an attractive face, one that might have looked merry and friendly in normal times but now had tight lips and cold, hostile brown eyes. The face was tanned by the elements, but showed no signs of being degraded by a life of debauchery. She stood about five foot six and the clothes she wore tended to reveal rather than hide her figure. A tartan man’s shirt, a couple of sizes too large for her, still showed that she possessed a mature figure, while the levis pants she wore hinted at the rich curves and shape1y legs underneath. High-heeled riding boots almost completed the picture. No cheap, flashy jewellery spoiled her healthy, wholesome appearance, but a Tranter revolver was thrust into the left side of her waist band, its butt pointing inwards. Marsden formed an impression that the gun might be much more than a decoration.

Clearly Ashley respected the girl’s opinion, for he turned towards her.

‘Reckon he might, Jill?’

‘He’s riding alone,’ answered the girl. ‘Or we’d have heard from Thad by this time if there was more of them about.’

‘You could be right, gal,’ purred Ashley and turned to Marsden. ‘Are you a spy, feller?’

Marsden did not reply immediately, wanting time to think out his words. The man who had taken Marsden’s watch stepped forward and drove his fist savagely into the young officer’s belly, knifing the breath from his lungs and causing him to try to double over.

‘You answer up when Ashley asks you something, boy!’ the man warned.

‘Keep back and leave him a chance!’ snapped the girl called Jill. ‘He can’t talk if you keep hitting him.’

‘Yeah?’ began the man sullenly. ‘Well—’

‘You pay Jill mind, Whit!’ barked Ashley. ‘Stand back there and leave me do the questioning.’ Ignoring his man, Ashley looked to where Marsden, still firmly held, tried to rub the pain out of his stomach. ‘How about it, boy. Are you a spy?’

‘You—you might say that,’ agreed Marsden hopefully.

His hope went crashing to the ground.

‘Well, if you are,’ Ashley grinned, ‘I’ll bet the Yankee Army’d pay right well to lay hands on you.’

Marsden could have groaned at his mistake. The War meant only profit to men like Ashley, they were not moved by patriotic feelings. Mentioning that he might be a spy had been a wrong move, as Marsden now realised. It would have taken some time for Ashley’s agent to make contact with the Zouaves and start the negotiations for the ransom and during that time a chance of escape could present itself. Far less time would be needed to contact any Union outfit with the view of selling a Confederate spy. The agent would not even need to locate a specific unit as in the case of a legitimate captive; in fact, if Marsden judged correctly, the agent probably knew exactly the right person to see when offering a prime piece of loot for sale.

‘If he is a spy—’ the girl put in, just a hint of worry creeping through her voice.

‘The Yankees’ll pay well enough to have him delivered,’ interrupted Ashley. ‘Or if they don’t—well, I reckon his gear’ll bring in something. He sure won’t be needing it again.’

A bellow of laughter greeted the remark, but Marsden noticed that the girl did not join in with her companions. Standing slightly behind the men, her eyes met Marsden’s and an expression of doubt crept on to her face. The arrival of the man with Marsden’s horse brought an end to further talk. A swarm of bushwhackers descended on the bay, eager hands grabbing out at the saddle-bags in search of loot. However the band retained some discipline, for the men holding Marsden did not relax their hold and a watchful hard-case with a rifle stood to one side ready to end any escape-bid.

After watching that nothing of real value escaped him, Ashley swung towards the men holding Marsden and snapped, ‘Clamp on those leg-irons in the Sibley and leave him safe.’

The men holding Marsden knew their work and had sufficient strength to enforce their will on him. Swiftly they dragged him into the nearest Sibley tent, slung him to the ground and clamped on the leg-irons before he could make a move to prevent it. A pair of handcuffs followed, securing his wrists, the whole being coupled together by a chain long enough to allow him to sit up, but not stand erect. Marsden knew that kind of restraint, having seen it used on military prisoners, and was aware of the futility of trying to escape.

After securing Marsden, the men left the tent and he lay on the bare ground, as helpless as a chicken. Outside the flames leapt and flickered, showing against the tent’s walls. Plates and cups rattled, talk and laughter reached Marsden’s ears and he knew the men must be at their evening meal.

Time dragged by and at last the tent’s flap raised. The girl entered, a plate of soup and mug of coffee in her hands. However, before coming within reach of Marsden’s arms, she laid down the mug, took out her revolver and placed it in the doorway. Not until that had been completed did she advance and kneel by Marsden’s side. Deftly she helped him into a sitting position and laid the plate on his lap.

‘You’ll have to make do with just a spoon, and there’s no bread,’ she told him. ‘It’s bear stew, that’s all the meat we have. Thad downed a bear back on the bank of the Ouachita this afternoon.’

‘Look, Miss, you have to believe me,’ Marsden said in a low voice. ‘It’s vital that I should reach a Confederate outfit. The lives of thousands of people depend on it.’

‘Are you a spy?’

For a moment Marsden thought of lying, although his upbringing and training revolted at the idea. He knew he could not make a lie that sounded like the truth and so shook his head.

‘No. At least, not in the way you mean.’

‘Best eat that food while it’s still warm,’ Jill said, her voice cold.

‘You have to believe me—’ groaned Marsden.

‘Believe you?’ spat out the girl. ‘Why should I believe anything you say? You’re a Yankee and I’m David O. Dodd’s sister.’

Marsden knew the name and felt sick despair rising in him, for he knew he could expect little sympathy from the sister of a man—a mere boy of seventeen—whom the Union Army executed as a spy shortly after their arrival in Little Rock. However, he determined to try.

‘I’m no spy—’

‘Nor was my brother. He was just a fool kid who thought he was a man. The information he gathered had no importance and he had no way of passing it to our troops even if it was important.’