The Devil Gun (6 page)

Once again Red refrained from asking questions, although he clearly showed his surprise. Never before had Dusty taken a captive to a prisoner-of-war camp, his time being too fully occupied for him to be spared on such an unimportant detail. Nor did the return of the weapons lessen Red’s perplexity. While a regular Union officer’s sword might be returned to him by his captors, no Confederate would willingly part with such a highly prized item as an 1860 Army Colt; the most highly thought-of handgun to have made its appearance in the War.

At last Red could hold his curiosity no longer. ‘What’s on, Cousin Dusty?’

‘I’ve a chore to handle, Mr. Marsden’s going along.’

‘Taking the troop?’

‘Nope. Just Billy Jack and Kiowa.’

‘Can you tell me about it?’

‘Later maybe,’ Dusty replied. ‘Have you ate yet?’

‘No, thought I’d wait for you.’

‘As soon as we’ve washed up, we’ll go and grab a meal then. Care to take first crack at the wash-bowl, Mr. Marsden.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ Marsden replied.

‘I’ll go tell the striker to bring more water,’ Red said, rising and walking from the tent.

Restlessness drove Marsden to make conversation and he sought for something to talk about.

‘That’s not regulations, is it, sir?’ he asked, indicating the jacket Dusty removed and placed on the second bed.

A grin came to Dusty’s face. ‘A shavetail called Mark Counter, in Sheldon’s outfit, started the no-skirt jacket and the idea caught on. I find it better for work than the authorised undress uniform.’

Then Marsden recalled the thing which interested him on his arrival. Crossing the tent, he looked at the sabre on one of the burros.

‘May I, sir?’ he asked, reaching towards it.

‘Feel free,’ Dusty replied.

At West Point and since, Marsden had always heard that the Confederate Army possessed poor swords. Shortage of material due to the blockade of Southern ports, lack of skilled tradesmen and forging facilities prevented the rebels from owning decent weapons. However, the pair of swords in that tent showed excellent workmanship and proved to be of Southern manufacture; no Union company would use the letters C.S.A. in the hilt pattern of its produce.

The sabre Marsden examined had sharkskin-covered grips secured with gilt wire, and its blade sported a stopped blood gutter and an additional thin, deep channelling on both upper sides of the blade for added flexibility and strength. On examination, Marsden found the blade’s steel to be as good as any from a Union force. He hefted the sabre, noting its razor-sharp edge, and found he did not care for its balance.

‘A fine blade, sir,’ he said, returning the sabre to its sheath.

‘The Haiman Brothers made it for me,’ Dusty replied. ‘A thirty-two-inch blade instead of thirty-six, and a shade lighter than the artillery sabre.’

Now it had been pointed out to him, Marsden saw the difference in length between the two sabres.

‘Do you find yourselves at any disadvantage using it against arms of the conventional length, sir?’ he asked, and regretted the question as soon as the word left his mouth. A small man in a large man’s world might resent any comment or hint at his lack of size.

‘Nope,’ Dusty replied with a grin. ‘It only means that I have to get closer to the other feller than he gets to me.’

Apparently Dusty took no offence. Suddenly Marsden realised that Dusty Fog accepted his lack of inches and, very sensibly, made no attempt to carry the full-length cavalry sabre in an effort to hide his small size. Looking first at the sabre, then at Dusty, Marsden wondered how well the small Texan could handle the weapon. Before he could go into the matter, Marsden saw Dusty’s striker, a cheery young Negro arrive with water.

‘All right, mister,’ Dusty said. ‘Let’s wash, go have a meal, then we’ll get everything ready for pulling out in the morning.’

CHAPTER SIX

‘Like I said,’ groaned Billy Jack as Dusty finished telling him of their latest assignment, ‘trouble.’

‘Sure,’ agreed Dusty. ‘We’ll need the pick of the horses. I want a real good mount for Mr. Marsden.’

The mournful pose left Billy Jack and he nodded, then continued with his preparations.

‘Carbines?’ he asked.

During his meal at the officers’ mess Dusty had given some thought to the matter of armament. On such a ride every ounce of weight counted and he balanced the value of taking along carbines and ammunition, giving his party weapons with a longer range than their Colts, against the extra loading of the horses.

‘Just sidearms,’ he answered. ‘We’re not fighting unless we’re forced. Fifty cartridges, powder flask and twenty round ball per man.’

‘Huh, huh,’ grunted Billy Jack. ‘Packhosses?’

‘Two, carry food for the mounts and jerked meat. We’re travelling light.’

‘Like to take my old rifle along, Cap’n,’ Ysabel put in.

Dusty studied the big Sharps for a moment. Men like Ysabel felt lost without a rifle handy, regarding it almost as a part of their own body. Knowing the independent nature of Ysabel’s kind, Dusty took the request as quite a compliment. Not that he intended to allow that to sway him in any way. His party might find use for a rifle and Ysabel was the best man to handle it.

‘Take it, Sergeant,’ he authorised. ‘No more than fifty rounds though.’

‘Yep,’ agreed Ysabel. ‘Won’t need no cartridges for my belt gun. I allus use loose powder and round ball.’

‘I’ll leave it to you,’ Dusty answered.

‘Jerked meat, coffee, sugar do for food?’ asked Kiowa.

‘That and anything we can pick up on the way,’ Dusty replied.

Watching the others, Marsden realised that all knew their business and had ridden on many missions of a dangerous nature. The questions and orders were merely routine, for each man knew his part.

‘Let’s go and see about your horse, Mr. Marsden,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Billy Jack, head down and tell Sergeant Granger I want him to put the remuda in the big corral.’

‘Yo!’ replied the gangling non-corn and was about to depart when Dusty joined him and said something in a voice too low for the others to catch. ‘I’ll tend to it, Cap’n Dusty.’

‘Leave the food side to you, Kiowa,’ Dusty went on and the sergeant left on Billy Jack’s heels.

‘Need me for anything, Cap’n?’ asked Ysabel.

‘Come down to the corral with us,’ Dusty suggested. ‘If you’re ready, Mr. Marsden, we’ll go see about collecting your horse.’

Although not a member of the party, Red Blaze had been present. He rose from his bed and prepared to carry on with his duty of escort to Marsden. Knowing that the Union possessed a reasonably efficient spy network even in Arkansas, Dusty took no chances of news of his mission leaking out. While in camp Marsden would be treated as a prisoner-of-war and kept under escort. Dusty knew he could rely on his cousin to keep quiet about the mission and so asked Red to be Marsden’s escort even though the redhead held a higher grade of rank than the prisoner.

Dusty did not appear to be in any great rush to reach the corral. Strolling leisurely through the camp, he and Red kept up a friendly conversation with Marsden and did nothing to prevent the Union officer from examining his surroundings. At last they reached the horse lines. All around them, the never-ending business of cavalry soldiers went on. Men cleaned up the picket lines, led horses to water, saw to feeding their mounts. To a casual, inexperienced observer everything might have seemed to be in wild confusion, but Marsden saw the disciplined purposefulness of the scene. One thing he noticed was that the officers and sergeants clearly trusted their men to carry out the assigned work without constant supervision. That was understandable. Born in a land where a horse was far more than a means of transport, being an absolute necessity of life, the men of the Texas Light Cavalry knew better than neglect their mounts.

Never had Marsden seen such a fine collection of animals. Nor did his admiration decline when he approached one of a series of big pole corrals. Already a number of horses had been driven into the corral and, although they belonged to the regiment’s reserve of mounts, Marsden noticed their glossy coats and general signs of good health.

‘Take your pick,’ offered Dusty.

Sensing a test of his horse-knowledge and judgment, Marsden swung himself up to sit on the top rail. Once there he started to examine the horses with careful eyes and knew straight off that no easy task lay before him. All the horses showed well-rounded frames that told of perfect condition and looked as hard as exercise and training could make them.

At last Marsden saw what he wanted. While not the biggest horse in the corral, he decided to ask for the sorrel gelding with the white star on its face. Everything about the sorrel pleased him. Its head gave an impression of leanness, although with good width between the eyes, which were set well out at the side and promised a wide range of vision; depth through the jaw, the lips clasped firmly over the teeth and the nostrils flaring well open. That head ensured good breathing capability while the erect ears pointed to alertness. Of course, Marsden knew the old dealers’ claim that one did not ride the head; but a good head, all things being equal, usually meant a good horse. The sorrel’s neck had sufficient length and strength to give a good carriage to the head. A short back, level from the dip behind the withers and a well ribbed-up frame offered a firm base for the saddle, while the powerful loins, fore-limbs and legs hinted at power, stamina, speed and agility.

Several of the horses showed up almost as well, but the sorrel possessed an undefinable something which made Marsden select it.

‘I’ll take that one,’ he said, indicating the horse.

Almost before the words left Marsden’s mouth, Billy Jack swung up alongside him. The sergeant-major held a sixty-foot-long Manila rope in his hands, a running loop dangling ready. Up and out whirled the loop, flying through the air to drop around the sorrel’s neck. The throw had been so swiftly and neatly made that Marsden turned towards Dusty meaning to comment on it. A smile played on Dusty’s lips, mirrored on the faces of Red and Billy Jack. Suddenly Marsden knew that the sorrel was placed among the other horses, on Dusty’s whispered orders, as a test of his knowledge.

A momentary irritation rose in Marsden’s thoughts. In addition to being at least three years older than Dusty Fog, he had attended West Point and was not just some volunteer who held rank because his uncle happened to be the commanding general. Then sober thought wiped out the irritation. Dusty was embarking upon a desperate and dangerous assignment, also upon a very long and arduous journey. One could not blame him for taking no chances.

‘That’s a good horse, mister,’ Billy Jack remarked, drawing in on his rope. ‘Only I wouldn’t let the Yankee General, Custer, catch you riding it.’

‘Why?’ Marsden asked, watching the calm way the sorrel accepted the rope.

‘It used to belong to him.’

Then Marsden remembered that among his other exploits Dusty had led a raid on the 7th Cavalry’s camp and drove off a fair number of the regiment’s mounts. Knowing something of Custer’s taste in horses, Marsden decided that possibly the sorrel had been one of the General’s personal mounts.

‘Reckon you’d best use one of our saddles, Mr. Marsden,’ Dusty suggested as Billy Jack led the sorrel from the corral.

‘Had one fetched down for you, mister,’ Billy Jack called over his shoulder. ‘It’s there on the rail.’

Sensing something out of the ordinary in the air, a small knot of soldiers hovered in the background. On seeing that Marsden went towards the rail-hung saddle, an air of anticipation ran through the watching men. All wanted to see what kind of a horseman the Yankee shavetail might be. With his army’s reputation to uphold, Marsden hoped that he might put on a good display. However, he had never used a double-cinched range saddle and wondered if he could handle it correctly.

‘Here, Yankee,’ a voice said. ‘I’ll lend you a hand.’

Turning his head, Marsden looked towards the speaker. All in all the approaching man did not strike Marsden as being the type to voluntarily offer assistance. He was a tall, burly young man with a sullen truculent face and wore the uniform of Mosby’s Rangers. However, Marsden knew that appearance could be deceptive and so raised no protest. Not that the soldier intended to burden himself to any great extent, for he took the blanket and left Marsden to handle the saddle. Not that Marsden objected, as he liked to saddle his own horse.

Walking to the sorrel, the soldier went around it, halting on the side away from Billy Jack and in a position that hid him from the watching men. He took his time in getting the blanket into place, slipped a hand under it to ensure its smooth, unwrinkled fit, then let Marsden swing on the saddle. To one side of the group, Sam Ysabel glanced at the horse then turned his eyes to study Marsden’s helper.

While saddling the sorrel, Marsden took the opportunity to study the animal. It showed no objections at receiving the saddle, although it moved restlessly when he first put the rig on. Clearly the sorrel was used to being saddled and ridden, however it might want to debate the matter of who ran things when it felt Marsden’s weight for the first time. Not that Marsden felt worried, he reckoned he could hold his own in that kind of company.

With everything set, Marsden gripped the saddlehorn, placed a foot in the stirrup iron and swung upwards. Cocking his leg over, Marsden settled his weight down in the saddle. Instantly the sorrel gave a shrill scream of pain and took off in a wild leap. Only by a grab at the horn did Marsden prevent himself from being thrown. He came down hard on the saddle once more after being raised clear out of it, landing just as the horse’s feet touched the ground again. Another scream of pain burst from the horse and it took off once more. Marsden could not imagine what was happening. He did not for a moment believe that Dusty misled him or gave him an outlaw horse. No horse could have fooled Marsden so completely as to its character. Yet the sorrel seemed to be almost crazy as it bounded and leapt, squealing on each leap’s completion.

Dusty threw a glance at the burly soldier who helped Marsden, then turned and raced to where a saddled horse stood ready for use in an emergency—a simple precaution when handling spirited animals that might be snuffy through lack of work. Taking off in a bound, Dusty leap-frogged over the horse’s rump, landed in the saddle, caught up the reins and started the animal moving. A second rider, a man returning from some duty, sent his mount racing towards the wildly leaping sorrel so as to give assistance.

Bringing his horse alongside the sorrel, Dusty yelled a warning to Marsden and hoped the other knew what to do. Marsden still stuck on the horse despite his amazement at its behaviour. True he expected some trouble, but nothing so serious as the wild fit of bucking. He knew that somehow each time he slammed down into the saddle, the impact brought on another spasm. Yet there was no way he could dismount short of leaping clear and chancing a broken leg. Then he heard Dusty’s yell and saw the small captain loom alongside, coming in very close. At the same moment a second rider appeared at the other side, crowding in on the sorrel.

‘Now!’ Dusty yelled as he extended an arm towards Marsden.

Grabbing out, Marsden hooked an arm around Dusty’s shoulders and felt the Texan’s hand clamp hold of his belt. Then he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and felt himself dragging over the saddle. A moment later he hung suspended from Dusty and the sorrel drew away from them still bucking. Leaning from his saddle, the second rider managed to catch the sorrel’s trailing reins and brought the animal to a halt.

Once clear of the sorrel, Dusty set Marsden down on the ground. Swinging from his saddle, Dusty left the horse to its own devices and strode towards where the sorrel stood fighting its reins. Dusty took the reins and started to calm the horse, speaking gently and holding its head down. Hearing a burst of laughter, Dusty threw a cold, ominous glare at the Mosby man who had helped Marsden.

When the sorrel calmed down and stood still, although shivering, Dusty moved alongside it and started to loosen the saddle-girths. Running forward, Marsden helped to strip off the saddle. With an angry gesture Dusty reached under the blanket and brought something out. Marsden looked down at a small iron ball with four knobbly lumps of pyramid-shape rising from it.

‘So that’s what made him buck!’ Marsden breathed. ‘But I don’t—’

‘I do!’ Dusty growled and swung from Marsden to walk to where the burly Mosby man stood wiping his eyes and still laughing. ‘Did you put this under the sorrel’s saddle blanket?’

With an effort the soldier stopped laughing and the truculence returned to his sullen features. ‘Sure I did. Figured to see how well the Yankee shavetail could ride a hoss.’

Which, as any member of the Texas Light Cavalry could have warned the soldier, was most definitely not the manner to use when answering a very annoyed Captain Dusty Fog.

‘Damn you, Heimer!’ Sam Ysabel bellowed. ‘I’ll—’

‘I’m handling this, Sergeant!’ Dusty cut in.

It had long been Heimer’s boast that he showed respect only for Colonel Mosby and he objected to having a short-growed kid-officer from another regiment mean-mouthing him.

‘So I shook the shavetail up,’ he scoffed. ‘Hell, he’s only a Yankee—’

‘Walk that horse until it cools down,’ Dusty ordered quietly.

‘Like he—’

Heimer’s words chopped off abruptly as Dusty moved forward to insist on obedience to orders. Out and up drove Dusty’s left fist, sinking with some force into the pit of the unsuspecting Heimer’s stomach. Knowing his own size and reputation as a rough-house brawler, Heimer never thought the small captain dare lay a hand on him. So the blow, anything but a light one, took him completely by surprise. Grunting, he went back on his heels, took a pace to the rear and doubled over. Dusty whipped up his other hand, swinging it around so that the knuckles caught the offere4 jaw with a crisp thud.

Lifted erect by the punch, Heimer staggered back several feet before he managed to catch his balance and come to a halt. Then he gave an enraged bellow, lowered his head and launched a charge calculated to flatten a much larger man than the grim-faced officer who so rough-handled him.