Kill Dusty Fog (4 page)

From an officer in the C.S.A.’s viewpoint, Dusty considered that the men would be of less use to the Union as farmers in New Mexico than by serving in the Yankee Army. He could also imagine how the North’s newspapers would blow up the story if Hoffinger had told the truth and he took the horses from their owners.

Yet all the horses, particularly the big bay stallion, looked far more suitable for riding than performing the dragging and hauling of farm work.

Then a thought struck Dusty as he approached the big man called Glock. It was a small matter, maybe, but significant in view of Hoffinger’s story. New Mexico lay to the west, yet the trace-poles at the front of the wagons were pointing eastwards. While the springy grama grass did not lend itself to retaining tracks that proved otherwise, Dusty doubted if Hoffinger’s party would turn their wagons to face the direction from which they had come when making camp for the night.

So far none of the men Dusty approached had shown that they knew his Company was close at hand, but he felt sure that Red was already in position. Which meant he must make his move before Glock’s bunch discovered their presence.

Suddenly, giving no hint of his intentions, Dusty stepped close and stamped as hard as he could on Glock’s right foot. Letting out a startled howl, the big man hopped on his left leg, clutched at his throbbing toes and acted just as the small Texan hoped that he might.

‘What the hell do you reckon you’re—!’ Glock roared in a language Dusty and Kiowa could understand, chopping off his words as he realized what he was doing.

‘Man,’ drawled the Indian-dark scout, tensing ready to back his captain’s play. ‘You sure learned to talk English fast.’

Aware of what he had done, Glock slammed his aching foot to the ground. At the same time, he stabbed his right hand towards the flap of his hoster. Behind him, the other men just stood and stared. Even Hoffinger appeared to be shocked into immobility by Dusty’s actions.

Dusty knew that Glock would be unable to draw the revolver at any speed, so he decided against gun-play as a means of halting the attempt. While Dusty could easily have fetched out one or both his Colts and shot Glock, he knew doing so might spark off a full-scale fight.

Not that he feared for his own safety. At the first hint of trouble, Red had brought the Company out of the trees. They were now galloping forward, guns in hand, so that the men behind Glock would be wiped out before any could offer more than a token resistance. Taking no pleasure in killing, Dusty did not want that to happen. Especially when there was a more satisfactory way of handling the situation. Without ever having heard of psychology, he guessed that capturing some of the enemy, then releasing them disarmed but uninjured would carry a greater morale impact than leaving them dead. By treating them so leniently he would emphasize to the captives, and their comrades-in-arms, the superiority of the Confederate States Army in Arkansas.

So Dusty left his guns in the holsters and relied, as he had against Savos, on Tommy Okasi’s training. He did not use the
tegatana
, handsword, but brought off one of the even more effective
keriwaza
kicking attacks. Measuring the distance between himself and Glock, he balanced on his right leg and launched his left foot into the air. Curling his toes upwards as far as possible, he flexed his ankle and propelled the ball of his foot with considerable force against the pit of the big man’s stomach.

Glock slammed backwards and doubled over. Jerking the hand from the unopened holster, he clutched at his mid-section. Winded and filled with nausea, he was in no condition to defend himself against the continuation of the attack. Following the man up, Dusty drove his clenched right fist in a power-packed backhand swing to the centre of the other’s face. Lifted erect by the impact, Glock pitched helplessly into the arms of the men behind him.

From delivering the blow, Dusty whipped his right arm down and over so his fingers grasped the butt of the left side Colt. Already his left hand was curling about the bone handle of the other revolver. Steel rasped on leather, merging with the clicks of the hammers being drawn back to full cock. In three-quarters of a second from Dusty starting his draw, the men into whom Glock had collided were looking down the barrels of his Army Colts. The manner in which he had handled Glock left them almost numb with amazement and he did not intend to grant them time to recover.

‘Don’t move, any of you!’ Dusty warned.

And, in some strange way, he no longer looked small. Instead he gave the impression of possessing size and bulk sufficient to tower above them all. Such was the force of his personality that, taken with his fast-drawn Colts, he prevented the men from attempting to resist.

Knowing Dusty, Kiowa had expected him to do something and had been ready to take a hand when he did. Even as Dusty stamped on Glock’s toe, Kiowa had slid out his bowie knife. When Hoffinger made as if to move forward, Kiowa caught him by the scruff of the neck from behind. Bringing the dude to a halt, Kiowa pricked his plump ribs with the clip point of the knife and breathed a savage warning,

‘You-all too fat to tangle with Cap’n Dusty.’

‘That, I assure you, was never my intention,’ Hoffinger croaked, staring in fascinated awe at the result of Dusty’s attack.

Releasing the dude’s neck, but keeping the knife in position, Kiowa reached around to pluck the Le Mat revolver from Hoffinger’s holster. The rest of the Company came up, most of them bringing their horses to sliding halts and lining their weapons at the dude’s men. Sergeant Weather led half-a-dozen soldiers towards the unattended horses, ready to control them should there be shooting. The precaution was unnecessary. So effectively did the Texans surround the other party that resistance would have been suicidal.

‘Disarm them, Mr. Blaze!’ Dusty ordered, ‘Billy Jack, take four men and search those wagons.’

‘I think that I had better tell you the truth, Captain,’ Hoffinger called, being prevented by Kiowa from going closer to the small Texan.

‘I was just figuring to ask you to do that,’ Dusty replied, watching his orders carried out. ‘Let him come, Kiowa.’

Scuttling gratefully away from the Indian-dark sergeant, who he felt wanted only an excuse to take his scalp, Hoffinger came to Dusty’s side and dropped his voice in a confiding manner.

‘The fact of the matter is, Captain, that we have stolen these horses and deserted from the Union Army and are headed west of New Mexico to start a new life.’

CHAPTER FOUR

‘DESERTERS, huh?’ Dusty grunted, twirling away his Colts.

‘From the Union Army, sir,’ Hoffinger confirmed. ‘This is a carefully planned desertion, hence the spurious document which you thrust into your tunic before testing my men.’

‘Why’d you lie about it when we rode up then?’

‘Merely to ascertain how the document and story would stand up under the scrutiny of an alert, efficient officer like yourself. I had, of course, every intention of telling you the truth after you had tested my companions’ ability to act as newly-arrived immigrants who speak no English. You produced a remarkably effective way of testing them, I must say.’

Every word Hoffinger spoke had a ring of truth to it, while his whole being exuded an aura of sincerity. So much so that Dusty felt suspicious. Yet he admitted that his feelings might stem from antipathy to smooth-talking, portly dudes, or even out of his dislike for deserters.

‘That’s how it is, huh?’ Dusty said.

‘Exactly how it is, sir,’ Hoffinger confirmed. ‘And an officer of your undoubted experience can visualize the effect on the Union Army in Arkansas when words gets out that there has been such a large desertion. More so when the soldiers learn that, in accordance with General Hardin’s policy, the deserters were given free passage for themselves and their horses by members of the Texas Light Cavalry.’

‘I see. We’re going to let you fellers go and take those horses with you.’

‘In return for which I will gladily append my signature to a statement that you have done so. When news of it—’

‘Drop it, hombre!’ Dusty snapped, his entire attitude changing to one of cold annoyance. ‘You’re not deserters.’

‘But I assure you we are, sir!’ protested Hoffinger. ‘We are tired of fighting for a cause in which we no longer believe. So we are going to New Mexico—’

‘Then how come your wagons are pointed east?’ Dusty countered and looked at Hoffinger’s men. ‘Are you bunch deserters?’

Sullen faces glared at him and Glock, removing a hand from his bloody nose, answered in a surly tone.

‘Yeah. And Ole Devil Hardin allowed any Yankee who deserted could take his guns and hosses with him without having ‘em took off him by Rebel soldiers.’

A point which Dusty had been considering ever since Hoffinger had mentioned that they were deserters. Both sides had used such inducements as safe passage through their lines, or offers of homes and employment, to encourage desertion by the other’s soldiers and sailors. So Ole Devil had given orders that his men would in no way interfere with deserters from the Union Army.

If Hoffinger had told the truth, Dusty could not confiscate the horses. Capture of the dude’s party by the Yankees would be almost inevitable if he did. Dusty could imagine the delight displayed by various Northern newspapers at receiving proof that the Rebels did not keep their promises to deserters. The story would have an adverse effect in Arkansas, where desertion caused a steady drain on the Federal man-power. Even worse to Dusty’s way of thinking, it would imply that his uncle — for whom he felt the greatest admiration and respect — could not be relied upon to keep his word.

Once again Dusty knew that he must step warily. Maybe the Yankees, plagued by desertion, had sent out Hoffinger’s party to prove that the Rebels in the field did not honour their commanding general’s offers of co-operation to deserters. Unlikely, perhaps, but Dusty wanted to be certain before taking any action.

‘I reckon that you’re guerillas, not deserters!’ Dusty stated and looked to where Red stood listening. What do you say, Mr. Blaze?’

‘They’re stinking border-jumpers for sure, sir,’ Red answered, judging that an affirmative reply was expected and obliging. ‘I can smell it on them.’

‘We’re deserters!’ Hoffinger insisted, seeing his men show signs of concern.

‘The hell you are!’ Dusty barked. ‘They’re guerillas, Mr. Blaze.’

‘Yes, sir! And Un— General Hardin gave orders that we shot any of ‘em we caught. Say now! I heard tell that some of Quantrill’s boys had got to arguing which killed best, an Enfield or a Sharps. To settle it, they lined up five prisoners to see how many of ‘em each gun’d shoot through.’

‘I heard about that,’ Dusty said thoughtfully, showing none of the delight he felt at the way Red had caught on to and improved upon his scheme.

‘I was wondering which’d shoot best out of my Henry ‘n’ these Burnsides,’ Red remarked in a speculative manner. ‘Seeing’s how we’re going to kill this bunch, I just might’s well find out?’

‘Hey now—!’ Glock began, but was held back by the Texan guards.

‘Go to it,’ Dusty said. ‘Line five up and shoot them, Mr. Blaze.’ Shock creased the prisoners’ faces as Red swung eagerly towards them. The inhuman experiment carried out by members of William Clarke Quantrill’s guerilla band had been given much publicity in the North. Clearly all Hoffinger’s men had heard and believed the story. Nor did they doubt, looking at him, that Red was not only willing but eager to duplicate the trial on their bodies. Only the dude remained calm. Standing at Dusty’s side, he smiled and opened his mouth. Before Hoffinger could speak, Glock came to a military brace and saluted the small Texan.

‘We’re soldiers, Cap’n,’ the big man declared. I’m Sergeant-major Glock of the New Hampstead Volunteers and these fellers’re from my company.’

‘How about that, Mr. Hoffinger?’ Dusty asked.

‘We are deserters—’ the dude insisted.

‘Prove it,’ Red challenged, ‘and fast. I’m wanting to try these guns.’

‘I can hardly produce a document from the Army to say we’ve deserted,’ Hoffinger protested.

‘Damn it, we’re the official escort for these remounts, Cap’n!’ Glock yelled, Indicating the horses. ‘Being dressed this way’s part of a fool notion Hoffinger thought out.’

‘Can you prove that?’ Dusty drawled, while Red fingered a Burnside longingly.

‘Of course we ca—!’ Hoffinger began.

‘Show him that paper, you crazy son-of-a-bitch!’ Glock roared being restrained from springing forward by the lined guns of the guards. ‘They ain’t fooling.’

‘Damn it!’ Red growled. ‘I’m tired of this talking. Cut out five of ‘em, Sergeant Bixby and send a man for my Henry.’

‘No!’ Glock bellowed and his men added their voices to the plea. ‘Cap’n, he’s got another letter, telling the truth about us. It’s in the “grape-shot”—’

‘You stupid bastard!’ wailed Hoffinger. ‘Why didn’t you call their bluff? Neither of them aimed to go through with it.’

‘Didn’t we?’ Dusty asked. ‘Let me have Mr. Hoffinger’s revolver, Kiowa.’

‘I doubt very much if you did, sir,’ the dude answered, knowing that Dusty had read correctly the meaning of Glock’s last sentence, interrupted though it had been. ‘By the “C” on your guidon, I assume that you are Dusty Fog, Unfortunately I failed to see it in time to announce the fact.’

‘Hell’s teeth, yes!’ Glock spat out. ‘If I’d known—’

Ignoring the comments, Dusty examined the revolver. Due to a lack of manufacturing facilities in the South, Colonel Alexandre Le Mat had gone to France to produce his revolvers. Sufficient of them had been smuggled through the U.S. Navy’s blockade on the Confederate ports for Dusty to be familiar with their peculiarities. The gun he held was a standard production model. Under the .40 calibre hexagonal barrel was a second shorter and larger tube. At its rear end, this tube acted as a base-pin for the nine-shot cylinder and was, in fact, a smooth-bore barrel designed to fire a .50 calibre ‘grape-shot’ ball.

However Hoffinger’s Le Mat did not carry its lethal secondary load. Inserting the tip of his little finger, Dust eased a rolled sheet of paper out of the ‘grape-shot’ barrel. It proved to be an authorization for Hoffinger to collect one hundred remounts and deliver them to the U.S. Army of Arkansas’ headquarters. In the next paragraph, Sergeant-major Glock and the escort were permitted to travel in civilian clothes. Lastly, all Union Army officers were required to give the party every assistance by order of General Horace Trumpeter.

Watching Dusty read the document, Hoffinger wondered if there was any way in which the situation might yet be saved. Annoyance filled the chubby dude. Not so much at the failure to trick Dusty, although that rankled a little, but because he had made the mistake of under-estimating an opponent’s potential. To a man in Hoffinger’s profession, such a mistake was inexcusable.

Hoffinger had started life as a petty thief, graduating to the more genteel status of confidence trickster by virtue of his native talents. A man by nature peace-loving, he had avoided active participation in the War. Hovering safely clear of the fighting, he had managed to garner a comfortable living. Circumstances, not unconnected with a supply-contracts swindle in the process of going wrong, made a change of scenery of vital importance. The western ‘hinter-lands’ had seemed the best choice when good fortune presented him with the chance of getting there and making money without too much work or risk.

It had all begun when he learned that General Trumpeter had obtained permission to purchase remounts from the Pawnee Indians. Officers with considerable experience of conditions in Arkansas had warned that collecting the horses would be fraught with difficulties. In fact, the general consensus of military opinion had been that purchases from that source would be a waste of time and money, with the results not worth the cost. The unanimity of their views merely served to convince Trumpeter that he was right and he looked for a way to prove it.

A keen student of human nature, Hoffinger felt that he knew how to deal with Trumpeter. By sycophantic agreement and professing ‘liberal’ leanings, the dude had convinced the general that he was the man most suitable to collect the horses. Hoffinger had suggested using a small escort, dressed in civilian clothes and backed by the fake document as a means of tricking any Rebel patrol which met them; although he had been glib enough to make it appear the idea came from Trumpeter. Seeing a way to prove the career-officers wrong, Trumpeter had needed little convincing. If a man like Hoffinger succeeded, the general figured that he would have a powerful weapon to wave in the faces of his critics.

Patriotic fervour had not prompted Hoffinger’s actions. He had seen a way out of his difficulties and means to start a profitable career. Up until the meeting with Dusty Fog, everything had been satisfactory. As well as collecting the horses, he had made useful contacts and picked up some easily-sold merchandise. So he had hoped for further missions, with the Army paying his expenses and providing an escort to ensure his safety. At least they had on the first trip. He could not see there being others if he failed to deliver the horses.

‘This’s about what I’d figured it’d be,’ Dusty drawled, folding the paper and placing it with the other ‘authorization’ in his tunic’s inside pocket, ‘You’d show it to any Yankee officer who wouldn’t accept your “Society” story, I’d say.’

‘That is correct, sir,’ Hoffinger agreed. ‘I might have needed proof that we aren’t deserters or guerillas.’

‘Likely General Trumpeter reckoned if a civilian could bring in his horses, it’d show his men that us Rebs aren’t so all-fired tough or smart after all.’

‘I couldn’t say about that,’ Hoffinger answered tactfully.

‘Did you figure anybody’s fall for that story you told me?’

‘I’ve always found the more unlikely the story, if it is backed by documentary proof, the more likely it is to be accepted. You might have accepted it yourself if I’d thought to have the wagons turned to face west when we halted.’

‘Could be,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Not having pickets out helped your story, soldiers would have. I’d’ve thought twice before taking horses from civilians when they’d got what’d read in a Yankee newspaper like a real good reason for needing ‘em.’

‘What’s in the wagons, Billy Jack?’ Red asked, seeing the sergeant-major ambling disconsolately towards them, a large buckskin bag trailing in his hand.

‘Food, bed-rolls ‘n’ such in the first ‘n’. I’ve had all their ammunition put on the hosses, T’others toting buffalo hides, Injun moccasins and such—’

‘They’re mine, Captain Fog!’ Hoffinger interrupted. ‘And so is that money—’

‘This here, Cap’n Dusty,’ Billy Jack went on, holding out the bag. ‘Found it hid in the second wagon.’

‘It’s mine!’ Hoffinger insisted. ‘All I have in the world. I staked all my savings on this collecting mission and that’s all that remains.’

‘Give it to him, Billy Jack,’ Dusty said. ‘We don’t rob civilians. Let’s go take a look at the horses.’

Why not share a meal with us first, Captain?’ Hoffinger suggested. ‘We’ve enough food for you.’

‘Thanks for the offer,’ Dusty replied. ‘That’s what we’ll do.’

During the meal, Hoffinger studied Dusty and revised his previous ideas. The earlier crude flattery had been aimed at a naive youngster holding rank by family influence. Now Hoffinger knew better. Young he might be, but the small Texan controlled those hard-bitten veterans by virtue of his personality and achievements.

Looking around, Hoffinger noticed that the Texans continued performing their duties with the minimum of supervision. While he entertained the officers by the wagon carrying his property, Hoffinger saw Billy Jack and Kiowa seated talking amiably to Glock and Corporal Mullitz. Staring at the latter, Hoffinger felt the start of an idea. A long chance, maybe, but infinitely better than no chance at all. Quickly he turned back to his guests, not wanting them to become aware of his interest in Mullitz. During the rest of the meal, he put together the details of his scheme.

‘Thanks for the food, Mr. Hoffinger,’ Dusty said at last, coming to his feet. ‘Have the men get ready to pull out while I look at the horses, Cousin Red.’

‘They’re all good stock,’ Hoffinger put in. ‘Except for the bay stallion, that is. He won’t be any use to you.’

‘Why not?’ Red inquired with interest.

‘He was sent by a Pawnee chief as a gift for General Trumpeter. But I fear that he is unmanageable.’

‘I’ve yet to see the horse that couldn’t be managed,’ Red remarked.

‘This one can’t,’ Hoffinger stated before Dusty could speak. ‘In fact I’m willing to bet that you haven’t a man here who can saddle and ride it, even though the chief assured me it had been saddle-broke and one of his men rode it in from the tribe’s horse-herd.’