Kill Dusty Fog (5 page)

‘You’d bet on it?’ Dusty asked quietly.

‘I would, sir. And I have a thousand dollars in gold to back my words.’

‘A thousand dollars,’ Dusty said. ‘Against what?’

‘The remounts,’ Hoffinger told him.

‘That’s a right sporting bet!’ Red snorted. ‘The hosses’re worth more than a thousand dollars.’

‘True,’ Hoffinger replied. ‘But I have seen the horse ridden and feel that I should be given odds.’

‘The hell—!’ Red started hotly.

‘He’s right,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘If that chief told the truth, he should have the odds. So if Mr. Hoffinger fetches out that thousand dollars, I’ll take his bet and give it a whirl.’

Hoffinger held down the delight he felt at Dusty falling into the trap. He did not doubt that the bet would be honoured and, considering how the horse had acted when his men tried to saddle it, was sure that Dusty would fail.

‘The money’s in my hand, sir,’ Hoffinger said, holding out the bag. ‘Mr. Blaze will be acceptable to me as stake-holder.’

‘We’ll let Sergeant-major Glock help him,’ Dusty answered. ‘Red, tell Sandy to fetch over my saddle while I take a look at the horse.’

Leaving Red to attend to the details, Dusty went to where the bay was tethered. Swinging to face him, it backed off until halted by the rope. Ears pricked and nostrils flaring, it exhibited a nervousness which increased as Sandy McGraw came up carrying Dusty’s saddle, saddle-blanket and bridle. A jingle from the latter’s bit brought a louder snort and the horse reared as high as the picket rope would let it.

‘Put the blanket and saddle down, Sandy,’ Dusty ordered in a quiet, gentle voice. ‘And take the bridle away with you.’

The guidon-carrier obeyed and as he retired, Billy Jack passed him walking with greater than usual speed.

‘Hear tell you’ve bet you can ride that hoss, Cap’n Dusty,’ the sergeant-major said. ‘Got to talking to Fritz Glock about it just now. He reckons the Pawnee Chief they got it off allowed it’d been three-saddled. Only neither him nor Joe Mullitz’ve managed to get a saddle on its back or bit in its mouth.’

‘Sounds bad,’ Dusty drawled, knowing that ‘three-saddled’ meant the horse had been ridden at least three times by the man breaking it.

‘Don’t you sell’em short. They’re both thirty-year men and trained as cavalry afore the War. Mullitz was a riding instructor back East.’

‘Did he ever serve out West?’

‘Neither him nor Frirz from what they told us.’

‘That figures,’ Dusty said cryptically. ‘Let’s see if I can win that bet.’

‘Ole Devil’ll have your hide if you lose!’ Billy Jack wailed and, for once, his concern was not entirely assumed, for he knew the stakes of the wager.

‘Likely,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Tell Glock’s men I figure the New Hampstead Volunteers’re sporting enough not to make fuss and spoil my chance.’

‘Sure,’ Billy Jack answered. ‘And in case they ain’t sporting enough, I’ll have ‘em watched real good.’

Turning his attention to the horse once more, Dusty noticed that its nervousness had died slightly with the removal of the jingling bridle. As he expected, it had on an Indian hackamore and not a U.S. Army halter. The chief difference was that the former had reins attached to a
bosal
— a rawhide loop fitted around the face just above the mouth — instead of a lead-rope.

Although Sandy had removed Dusty’s bed-roll and sabre on hearing of the bet, he had left the rope strapped to the saddle horn. Taking it, Dusty walked slowly towards the horse. Snorting and pawing the ground, it watched him suspiciously. All the time, he kept up a flow of soft-spoken, soothing talk. With the picket rope knotted to the
bosal
, he could not flip his loop over the bay’s head. Instead he slid the stem of his Manila rope across the top of its neck. Catching the end of the stem underneath the neck, ho quickly formed a running noose and drew it tight.

Naturally the news of the bet had attracted considerable attention. Recalling their non-coms’ experiences with the bay, Glock’s men waited to see how Dusty would fare. Equally interested, the Texans kept clear of their prisoners and remained alert for trouble. Neither Red nor Billy Jack looked too happy about the affair, being aware of what might happen to Dusty should he lose.

A smile played on Hoffinger’s lips as he watched the rope tighten about the horse’s neck. Then it wavered and died. Instead of fighting to tear free, the bay stood still. Keeping the rope taut, Dusty backed until he could pick up his saddle and blanket. Still moving unhurriedly, he returned with them in his hand. The horse let out another snort, yet did not fight against the rope. Up close, Dusty set down his saddle. Then he caressed the bay’s head with his hands, stroking its nostrils and eyes before taking hold of the head-piece of the
bosal
. Keeping the head steady, he leaned forward and began to blow into its flaring nostrils.

‘What’s he do—!’ Hoffinger yelped, the words ending as Red rammed an elbow into his ribs.

‘You try yelling to spook the hoss again,’ Red growled in a low, savage tone, ‘and I’ll raise lumps all over your pumpkin head with my Colt’s butt.’

Knowing that his escort meant to carry out the threat, Hoffinger lapsed into silence. Yet, to give him his due, surprise rather than any foul motive had caused the outburst. He had been amazed by the bay’s lack of resistance and at Dusty’s actions.

After standing by the horse’s head for a short time, Dusty took up his saddle. Anticipation bit at Hoffinger, mingled with the thought that something was wrong. Not until Dusty had slid the folded blanket into place did the dude realize what it was. With growing delight, he saw that the small Texan was standing on the right side of the horse instead of at the left. Yet the bay showed none of its usual objections to either the blanket or the saddle, despite the change of procedure. Not even the adjustment of the girths about its belly provoked the kind of savage protests which had met attempts by Glock or Mullitz to saddle it. Instead it stood quietly and allowed Dusty to unfasten the picket-rope from the
bosal
.

‘He’s not using a bridle or bit!’ Hoffinger croaked, watching Dusty slip his right foot into the stirrup iron and swing astride the bay.

‘Danged if he’s not forgot,’ grinned Red, knowing that the
bosal
served as a bit and beginning to realize why Dusty had accepted the bet.

Settling on the saddle, Dusty felt the horse tense itself between his legs. Gripping the reins in his right hand, he cautiously freed his rope. A nudge with his heels sent the bay off in a long ‘straightaway’ buck. Although it sailed high, it came down without twisting, whirling or the dangerous powerful hindquarter’s kick that could drive the base of the rider’s spine against the cantle of the saddle. Performed without the refinements, bucking straightaway posed no problems for a man with Dusty’s skill. In fact he soon realized that his mount was doing no more than try him out. It continued to crow-hop for a short time. The see-saw motion of the bucking looked spectacular, but required little effort to ride out. Nor did it sustain the fight and it soon began to respond to the messages of the reins.

‘I — I don’t believe it!’ Hoffinger croaked as Dusty rode towards him.

At the same time, the dude knew that his last chance had gone. Even the hope that his escort would take advantage of their captors’ preoccupation, jump and overcome them, did not materialize. All Glock’s men sat under guard, staring with open-mouthed amazement and apparently frozen into immobility by the ease with which the small Texan had mastered the hitherto unmanageable stallion.

‘My bet, I reckon,’ Dusty drawled, halting the horse. Swinging his left leg forward and over the saddle horn, he dropped to the ground at the bay’s right side. ‘Sandy, put my rig back on the black.’

‘And see you take it off the bay from the Indian-side,’ Red advised, grinning as he took the bag of money from Glock’s limp hand.

‘
Indian
-side?’ Hoffinger repeated.

‘Why sure,’ Dusty said. ‘Didn’t you fellers notice that the Indians always saddle-up and mount from the right, instead of at the left like white folks?’

‘I didn’t,’ Hoffinger began. ‘From the ri— But that means—’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Dusty. ‘Every time your men tried to saddle it from the left, they spooked it. Trying to use a bit made things worse. Indians don’t use ‘em.’

‘Way you took on,’ Red continued, ‘I reckon you figured Dusty’d rile it up by putting a rope ‘round its neck.’

‘I did,’ Hoffinger admitted, surprised to learn that the youngster had read his emotions so well.

‘An Indian breaks his horse by roping it and choking it down,’ Red explained. ‘That’s rough on the horse and after he’s felt it a couple of times he learns better’n fight against a running noose. After the horse gets over being choked down, the Injun fusses it a mite and blows into its nostrils. Damned if I know why, but doing that quietens it down and lets him know the feller doing it’s his friend.’

‘You still took a risk, Captain Fog,’ Hoffinger pointed out. ‘Even counting on us not knowing which side to saddle and mount from, the Pawnee chief could have been lying about it being fully saddle-broken.’

‘Indians don’t do a heap of lying,’ Dusty answered. ‘And I figured it was near on certain he hadn’t, the bay being a chief’s gift for General Trumpeter.’

‘I’m afraid that I still don’t understand.’

‘Figure it this way. That chief’s got plenty of horses to sell and’s likely getting a better price from you than he could any other place—’

‘The price is adequate, I admit, but I still don’t follow your reasoning.’

‘It’s easy enough,’ Dusty told him. ‘The chief wants to keep General Trumpeter friendly and eager to buy more horses. So he sends along a gift. Now he doesn’t know how good a rider the general is, so he figures not to take chances. The horse he picks looks good, has some spirit, but’s real easy and gentle to ride. That’s the way I saw it and reckoned I could win the bet easy. The South can use a thousand dollars in Yankee gold, only I coudn’t take it from a civilian by force, now could I?’

‘Well, I’m damned!’ Hoffinger croaked. ‘You’ve slickered me, Captain Fog!’

‘They do say it’s hell when it happens to you,’ Dusty replied with a grin. ‘I want to pull out in fifteen minutes, Cousin Red.’

‘Yo!’ Red replied and walked away grinning.

Once again Cousin Dusty had pulled it off. Sure Red and Billy Jack knew how Indians trained and mounted their horses; but neither of them had thought out a way to put their knowledge to use. Dusty had done so and gained a large sum of money for which the Confederate States’ Secret Service could probably find a purpose. What was more, he had done it in a way which the Yankee newspapers could not call robbing a civilian. Glock and the others were sure to talk of the bet on their return and would be believed no matter how the Union tried to prevent it.

In fifteen minutes, the Company was ready to march. Smiling, Hoffinger held out his hand to the small Texan who had bested him.

‘I hope General Trumpeter’s not too riled at you for losing the remounts,’ Dusty said, shaking hands. ‘Tell him from me that we’ll likely need them in our retreat across the Red River.’

‘That’s one excuse I won’t use,’ chuckled Hoffinger. ‘I feel that by now he will be very touchy when that particular stream is mentioned. Good-bye, Captain Fog. With no disrespect, sir, I hope our paths don’t cross again.’

‘They might if you try to fetch in more of these remounts,’ Dusty warned.

‘That is a remote contingency, sir,’ Hoffinger sighed. ‘My continued employment depended on delivering this bunch.’

‘I’m real sorry to spoil it for you,’ Dusty said. ‘But I reckon a feller as talented as you’ll find some way of earning his living.
Adios
.’

‘That young man is going to annoy General Trumpeter before he’s through,’ Hoffinger told Glock as they watched the Texans drive the horses into the water.

‘He’s already done it,’ Glock answered, fingering his stomach and grinning with grudging admiration. ‘Damned if he didn’t fire a salute for the general, Billy Jack told me. Out of two of our mortars and right into the middle of a review Trumpeter was holding. Yes sir, Mr. Hoffinger, Trumpeter’s going to hate Dusty Fog’s name.’

CHAPTER FIVE

‘THERE’S something up, Mr. Blaze!’ growled grizzled old Corporal Vern Hassle, bringing his horse to a sliding halt after returning at speed to the four-man scouting party sent ahead to learn what force of Yankees guarded the Snake Ford of the Caddo.

It was almost noon on the day following the capture of Hoffinger’s horses and Company ‘C’ were travelling south-east as fast as they could manage accompanied by the remounts and heavy draught animals. They had seen no sign of pursuit, but Kiowa kept watch on their back-trail. The previous night, in camp, Dusty and Red had studied their maps and decided where they could best make their crossing into Rebel territory.

Every ford along the Caddo and Ouachita Rivers was guarded by detachments of Confederate and Union troops. In addition, both sides kept patrols moving along the rivers’ banks to watch for infiltration by the enemy. On their way out, Company ‘C’ had crossed at an unguarded stretch of fast-flowing water through which only expert horsemen could pass. Using the same place on their return would be dangerous for they had a large bunch of riderless horses with them. To make a crossing would be a lengthy process and leave them open to attack should a Yankee patrol locate them.

While there had been two fords closer, Dusty had selected Snake Ford. The other two had to be approached across open, level ground with no chance of taking the Yankees by surprise. Snake Ford lay in a wide, winding valley. Being of little military importance, it was held by a company of Stedloe’s Zouaves and a platoon of Dragoons. On the other side, a full battalion of Arkansas Rifles could be swiftly brought up to support the Texans in their crossing. The strength of Rifles stemmed from the fact that the ford was in the centre of their regiment’s patrol area, rather than concern over holding on to it.

Wanting to make his dash across the river with few if any casualties, Dusty had sent Red ahead to see if the Yankees were watching their rear. Trained in Indian warfare, Vern Hassle ran Kiowa a close second in ability. He had advanced to make a scout and his return heralded trouble.

‘What’s up?’ Red demanded.

Before Hassle could reply, Red heard the staccato blast of a bugle blowing the ‘alarm’. Faint shouts wafted back to the Texan’s ears, followed by the crackle of rifle shots.

‘That!’ Hassle replied. “When I left, the Arkansas boys were forming up like they’re fixing to attack the ford — and there’s a battery of cannon on this side.’

‘Let’s go!’ Red barked. ‘Is anybody watching this way, Vern?’

‘Nope,’ the corporal answered; then the four horses were running.

Urging their mounts to a gallop, Red’s party raced across the remaining half mile and drew rein just before reaching the rim overlooking the Snake Ford. Dropping from his saddle, Red slid free the Henry rifle from its boot. Before leaving the horses ground-hitched, he told the others to take their carbines and ammunition. Thrusting a box of .44 bullets, taken from his saddle-pouch, into his tunic, Red advanced on foot until he could see the river.

The trail along which they had ridden wound down a gentle slope and across about a quarter of a mile of level ground before entering the water to emerge on the other bank which had the same general features. As the name implied, the Caddo made a S-shaped curve at that point. To either side of Red, the downwards slope extended until it eventually fell in a sheer wall to the water. There was, however, an area of about half a mile down which one could ride to reach the ford.

All that Red had expected to see from his study of the maps. What came as a shock was the sight of the Arkansas Rifles battalion formed up in line of battle and starting to advance determinedly down the opposite slope. That and the battery of Model 1857 12-pounder Napoleon gun-howitzers facing the Rebels on the Yankees’ shore. From all appearances, the whole battalion, colours flying and bayonets fixed, were moving to the attack. Their numbers would have been adequate against the normal guard, even if the assault led to casualties from the enemies’ rifle fire. The same did not apply when they must advance across more than eight hundred yards of open country, in the face of artillery bombardment, before reaching the river.

Red knew that a well-served Napoleon could fire two aimed shots a minute, using spherical case or solid shot. When the range shortened, the guns would switch to canister and speed up their rate of fire. Canister, each one holding twenty-seven balls, turned the Napoleons into a kind of giant shotgun and dispensed with the need for taking careful aim. It could not be put into use successfully until the enemy came within three hundred and fifty yards range; but after that every gun in the battery could get off up to nine shots before the attackers reached it. Such a volume of fire might easily wipe out the whole battalion.

Already solid shot was crashing among the advancing soldiers, the Yankee battery commander wisely forgetting spherical case due to the uncertainty of the timing-fuses’ operation. Down by the river, the Zouaves and Dragoons crouched in their defensive positions and exchanged shots with the Rifles’ skirmishers, So far the Yankee infantry did not fire at the main body of the attackers. Almost half a mile was not a distance over which the average soldier, armed with the U.S. Model of 1861 rifle-musket could be counted on to make a hit.

On marched the Arkansas Rifles, keeping their ranks well despite the canon-fire. In front strode the colour party, bearing the regiment’s battle-flag, and officers with drawn swords. The enlisted men carried Enfield rifles at the high-port. It would be several minutes before they were close enough to put the rifles into effective use and all that time the Napoleons would continue to fire at them.

‘We’ve got to stop those guns!’ Red snapped.

‘You mean for us four to charge down there and do it?’ asked Tracey Prince.

‘Just three of us,’ Red corrected. ‘Vern. Take my horse and ride relay to the Company. Tell Cap’n Fog what’s coming off here.’

‘How about you?’ the old corporal inquired.

‘We’re going to move down the rim, find places to settle in and start to shooting,’ Red explained. ‘Move it!’

‘Yo!’ replied Prince and Private Tarp Hayley eagerly, each holding a Sharps carbine. Like Red’s Henrys the Sharps were battle-field captures and effective weapons in skilled hands.

Studying the battery as he and his companions passed over the rim, while Hassle hurried off to deliver the message, Red concluded that it had only recently arrived and come hurriedly. He could see no sign of the battery-wagon — which carried tents and supplies for the guns’ crews — the travelling forage or six reserve caissons of ammunition which normally accompanied the Napoleons when they moved. While there had been some attempt to conceal the guns behind bushes, the crews had not raised protective earth-works. Nor had the three ammunition chests been removed from the guns’ caissons and brought closer to the pieces. So far the crews had fed their guns with charges brought from the limber’s chest. Their teams and the Dragons’ horses were held among a clump of trees over by the left side wall.

‘Fan out and find cover!’ Red snapped to Hayley and Prince. ‘Don’t bother with the Zouaves, go for the gun crews.’

Swiftly they separated and each found a place which he felt suited his needs. Red flattened behind a rock, setting the box of bullets close to his left hand. Three hundred yards lay between him and the nearest cannon. The battery, spaced at around fourteen yards intervals and allowing a further two yards per gun, covered an eighty-two yards front. Which meant even the outer pieces were in range of his Henry or his companions’ Sharps carbines.

Grimly Red set his rifle’s sights. With the wind blowing towards the Confederate side of the ford, Dusty might not hear the fighting. That meant there would be a delay before help could come. So Red knew what must be done. Unless the guns’ rate of fire was reduced, the Arkansas Rifles faced terrible losses. The bellowing of the Napoleons and sight of Confederate soldiers falling told him that.

Taking aim, Red squeezed the Henry’s trigger and felt the recoil’s kick against his shoulder. Through the swirling powder-smoke, he saw the chief-of-piece for the third gun from the left stagger and fall. Down and up flicked the Henry’s lever, throwing an empty cartridge case into the air. Before it landed, Red had swung the barrel and shot the number-one man of the crew. Caught in the act of ramming a solid shot down the barrel, the soldier collapsed and snapped the shaft of the rammer. Until a spare could be brought up, the gun was out of action.

Swiftly Red changed his point of aim, raking the fourth from left gun with half-a-dozen bullets. He hit two men and threw the rest into such confusion that the piece went unfired. From the sound of carbine shots on either side of him, he knew that Prince and Hayley were doing their part in slowing the battery’s rate of fire.

Already the artillerymen were beginning to realize that the bullets did not come from the Arkansas Rifles and started to look for their new assailants. All too well they understood the danger to themselves. In the days of its greatest exponent, Napoleon Bonaparte, cannon-fire and especially canister had been a most deadly weapon to employ against unprotected bodies of troops. While canister was still terrible, improvements in hand-held arms had rendered it less effective and it no longer had the advantage of superior range over rifles. So the Yankees wanted to make the most of the canister before the Arkansas Rifles came too close.

Seeing his men go down, the major commanding the battery swung to look at the slope. In doing so, he inadvertently saved his life. Kneeling behind a rock some thirty yards to Red’s right, Hayley had selected the major as his next mark. He touched off his shot just as the officer moved and missed.

About the same distance to Red’s left, Prince rested his carbine on the lip of the hollow in which he crouched, sighted and fired. Caught in the head, the number-three man of the far left cannon spun around and with a spasmodic gesture flung away the vent-pick with which he had been about to prick open the loaded serge powder bag to make way for the insertion of the friction-primer. Cursing, the chief-of-piece fumbled in his pockets for another vent-pick, without which the gun could not be fired.

The major raked the slope with his field-glasses and located his attackers. Only three men, but they posed a serious threat to the battery’s efficiency. Snapping an order to his orderly, he sent the man racing with a message to the Zouaves’ commanding officer.

Watching the orderly, Red guessed at the nature of his mission. Across the river, the Arkansas Rifles were still marching at quick-time with their colonel striding in front of them. Not until within a hundred yards would they make their charge. The harassing of the Napoleons must continue if the charge was to succeed.

Although his Henry still held five rounds, Red rested its butt on the ground and began to reload. Opening the magazine-tube after forcing its spring towards the muzzle, he fed ten flat-nosed .44/28 bullets base first down the tube to refill it. While working, he blessed the fact that he had brought the Henry along instead of his Spencer — also a battle-field capture. The Spencer might be more powerful, but had a slower rate of fire and only a seven-shot magazine.

While Red reloaded the Henry, his companions’ single-shot carbines continued to crack. Clearly they were having some effect, for the Napoleons’ fire slackened,

‘Bunch of Yankee puddle-splashers coming, Mr. Blaze!’ called Prince.

‘Go for the battery as long as you can,’ Red replied, closing the magazine tube and returning to his firing position.

A dozen Zouaves led by a sergeant ran by the guns towards the slopes, but they would have to be ignored until the last minute. Already the Arkansas Rifles had entered the zone in which canister could be used against them. Nor did they show signs of halting while rifle fire beat down the menace of the Napoleons.

With a grim-set face Red poured bullets at one of the centre guns. Watching men go down, he noticed that the piece at the left of the line stood unattended. Clearly he and his men had inflicted sufficient casualties for the battery’s commander to concentrate the depleted crew on other guns.

Down below, a Springfield rifle banged. Its .58 calibre ball spattered rock chips from Red’s cover. Changing his line of sight, the red head sprayed lead at the Zouaves. He dropped the sergeant and one man, then wounded another before the rest took cover. The speed at which he had fired warned the Yankees that they were facing a good shot armed with a Henry, fastest-shooting rifle of the War. So they flung themselves to shelter instead of carrying out their orders. Once more Red turned his attention to the Napoleons.

When the Texans continued to shoot at his guns, the major sent another message to the Zouave entrenchments. Red saw the Infantry major stare up the slope and hesitate, wanting to retain as many men as possible to meet the Rifles’ onslaught. Yet he also saw the danger if the harassment of the battery continued. Its fire had already been reduced to a half and at a time when it should be at its highest. So he gave an order which sent a further twenty men under the command of a lieutenant towards the slope.

Seeing support on its way, the first party of Zouaves resumed their advance. Darting from cover to cover, they ascended the slope. Once again Red began to reload the Henry. Unnoticed by him, a Zouave rose from behind a bush and lined a long-barrelled rifle at him.

Catching a movement from the corner of his eye, Tracey Prince turned his head to take a closer look. He saw the Zouave behind Red and twisted around to aim and fire his carbine. In doing so, he saved his and Red’s lives. Even as he moved, another Zouave appeared and took a shot at him. The bullet spanged off the rock where Prince’s body had been resting an instant before, but without affecting his accuracy. The Sharps spat and blood masked the face of the man beyond Red. Dropping his Springfield he turned and stumbled blindly down the slope.

On firing, Prince swung to face the threat to his own existence. Standing in plain sight, as the reloading could be done faster that way than when kneeling or prone, the second Zouave went about it with trained speed. Clearly he was a veteran, fully capable of making the best time possible at the tedious business of recharging the obsolete, muzzle-loading Springfield rifle. Already he had withdrawn a paper cartridge from his belt-pouch, torn open its base with his teeth, poured the powder into the barrel, used the covering as a wad and thrust the round ball into the muzzle. Resting the cup-shaped end of the ramrod on to the ball, he drove it to the bottom of the barrel. No less speedily he removed the rod, dropping it once clear of the muzzle, and drew back the hammer to half cock.