The Fastest Gun in Texas (A Dusty Fog Civil War Book 5)

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  At fifteen he joined the Confederate Army. By eighteen he had become a legend. His name was Dusty Fog: a man with a magic hand that could draw, shoot and hit his mark in less than a second. Dusty killed quick. His opponents died slow...slow getting their six-shooter clear of leather. In the wild, lawless west he was riding hell-bent for justice...to save a man from hanging, to catch a pair of killers, and to pay a bushwhacker with bullets from Texas’s fastest gun.

  DUSTY FOG’S CIVIL WAR 5: THE FASTEST GUN IN TEXAS

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Transworld Publishers in 1974

  Copyright © 1974, 2016 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: August 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Our cover features The Enemy Is Behind Us, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.

  Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri. Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges * Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  Part One – The Futility of War

  Chapter One

  Sitting his horse on the south bank of the Moshogen River, First Lieutenant Cogshill listened with distaste to his commanding officer making a patriotic speech to explain to the company of New Hampstead Volunteers why they must guard the bridge behind them. Being a professional soldier, if a young and unblooded one, Cogshill knew the value of the bridge. It offered the only place in many miles where heavy traffic could cross the wide, fast-flowing Moshogen River. The old Corn Road ran down the northern slope of the Moshogen Valley, crossed the bridge and rose up the southern incline. Apart from a small wood about a hundred yards from the bridge on the northern bank, the land lay open and without cover for attackers. Major Buller flatly refused to take the time to search the woods, despite the fact that his company arrived to take over their command some fifteen minutes after the old guard departed, claiming that the river lay well inside Union-controlled territory where no reb dare come.

  Listening to his commanding officer, Cogshill cursed the fate which brought the Buller brothers into the Union Army. True, they equipped their own regiment, but he suspected that business interests and not loyalty to the Union dictated the move. A commission in the Union Army opened doors that would otherwise have been closed to the Bullers, rich as they were. However, neither of the Bullers had ever seen action and the major did not realize the dangers of his lax regard for duty. The woods lay, like the Moshogen River, in Union-held country, but Dixie’s Colonels, Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby, or Captain Dusty Fog never allowed a small detail like that to worry them when they wished to raid a Union objective. Being aware of the south’s raiding skill, Cogshill knew his men should be preparing their position, not lined up listening to a speech.

  One of the listening troopers chanced to look upwards and saw the rim above him lined with mounted men. Being a green rookie, the man did not at first give a thought to the fact that the horsemen on the rim wore uniforms of cadet gray instead of Union blue. A full ten seconds after the first glance, the difference struck him.

  ‘Up there!’ yelled the volunteer, his voice squeaky with excitement. ‘It’s them rebs!’

  Instantly the difference between Buller and Cogshill became obvious. While Cogshill opened his mouth ready to give orders, Buller sat and stared up the slope. A cold chill of anxiety hit the major as he found himself face to face with the men whom he often boasted he would rout in battle. Words would not leave Buller’s lips.

  Even before Cogshill could give an order, the tall, freckle-faced lieutenant in command of the Confederate force snapped an order. Showing riding skill far beyond that of the Volunteers, the gray-clad riders swept down the slope.

  Watching the charge, Cogshill felt certain his men could not hold the bridge. The rebel cavalry appeared to be veterans and each man drew a brace of 1860 Army Colts; the finest handgun yet made. Against the Colts, Cogshill’s men must depend on Pettingill, Joslyn, Manhattan or Metropolitan revolvers; and the Volunteers had received little training in the use of their weapons.

  Before Cogshill could give his orders, Buller took command. Jerking the ornate looking Navy Colt from his holster, he turned his horse towards the attackers.

  ‘Shoot them!’ he screamed in a panic-filled voice. ‘Get them!’

  Both Buller and his burly sergeant major, Packard, jerked out their revolvers and opened fire, but the rebels were still beyond any range where either man might hope for anything but a lucky hit.

  Following their leaders’ example, the troopers also started shooting, then found difficulty in controlling their horses. Yet it seemed that their resistance worked, for suddenly the rebels were fleeing back the way they came. Cogshill could hardly believe his eyes, but Buller felt sure that his theories about Confederate cowardice had been true.

  ‘Get after them!’ he yelled wildly. ‘Chase them!’

  Memories of a lecture on Indian fighting tactics came to Cogshill, especially the thought of an old Kiowa trick, as he watched the flight of the rebels. Before he could warn his superior, Cogshill saw Buller start to race his horse up the slope. Next moment, the entire company followed on its commander’s heel in more of a wild rush than an organized charge, the men firing off their revolvers indiscriminately. Duty insisted that Cogshill stayed with his command and left the vital bridge behind to follow the fleeing men. Fleeing? To Cogshill’s eyes, the rebels held together remarkably well for a scared running mob.

  Topping the rim Cogshill looked back in a purely instinctive gesture. What he saw made him bring his horse to a halt, leave his command, forget his duty to his commanding officer. What he saw was of more importance than even trying to save the half-trained Volunteers from the folly their leader was taking them into. So instead of turning and following his misguided, half-trained commanding officer he started his horse down the slope again.

  ~*~

  Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog, Troop C, Texas Light Cavalry, and his sergeant major, Billy Jack, stood hidden in the shelter of the woods on the north bank of the Moshogen River and watched the arrival of the new guard. They stood, hands covering the muzzles of their big black horses, preventing any sound which might give warning of their presence. When the troop passed on the two Texans moved towards the edge of the woods and the banks of the river. They moved in silence and were able to hear all that was said.

  They made a contrasting pair, the two Confederate soldiers. Billy Jack was a tall, gangling, lean man with a long, miserable, sorrow-filled face which hid a humorous and intelligent wit and a fund of the best dirty stories in Texas. His kepi was thrust back from his close-cropped black hair, his face tanned oak-brown by the elements. His prominent Adam’s apple forced out of his open tunic neck. The tunic was well cut and on the sleeves were the three bars and arc of silk which denoted his rank. Around his lean middle was a gunbelt with matched Army Colts in the holsters, the bottoms of the holsters pigging-thonged to his legs.

  Captain Dusty Fog was not a tall man, standing not mo
re than five-foot-six in his Jefferson boots, although there was a width to his shoulders, a tapering down at the waist and a growing, maturing strength about him that many a taller man might have envied. His build was emphasized by the uniform he wore and for a man so strong on discipline Dusty was breaking a few Confederate Army dress regulations. True, the tunic had the prescribed two rows of buttons, seven in a row, four-inch wide at the top, three at the bottom, as laid down in the regulations. The stand-up collar, sleeve cuffs and stripe down the legs of his tight-fitting breeches were of the correct cavalry yellow, but the collar was open and instead of the official black cravat around his throat he wore a scarlet silk bandana, the ends hanging long over his tunic. The flouting of regulations did not end there. His tunic was without the skirt extending to between hip and knee, but was cut off level with the top of his breeches. Around his waist was a buscadero gunbelt and butt forward in the holsters were a brace of bone-handled Army Colts. On his sleeves was the elaborate double gold thread insignia of his rank, extending from the wrist to the bend of the elbow. On his collar, Confederate uniforms being without epaulets, were three one-inch-long, half-inch-wide gold bars.

  His campaign hat was thrust back from his dusty blond hair and the face it exposed to the sun was young, handsome, strong and intelligent. It was a man’s face and the gray eyes were even, firm in the look. The mouth was firm and strong but it was a mouth that would smile easily and there was nothing of the rank-conscious braggart about Dusty Fog. It was a face that showed strength, a face matured beyond its years by the harsh realities of war.

  A man matures fast in time of war. So it was in the case of Dusty Fog. He and his cousin, the red-head commanding his waiting troop, Red Blaze, left their home at fifteen years to follow their uncle, Ole Devil Hardin, into the Confederate Army. At sixteen Dusty was a first lieutenant, his seventeenth birthday brought him his third collar bar and he’d served in that rank with distinction for the past nine months. He’d gained each promotion through cold bravery, skill and ability, there was no man in the Texas Light Cavalry who could deny that.

  ‘Thought that boy lootenant was going to make it real awkward, Cap’n Dusty,’ remarked Billy Jack. ‘I hopes young Red remembers his part of it.’

  ‘He will,’ Dusty drawled, his voice easy, not loud and with a Southern inflection. ‘Don’t you sell young Red short, he’s steady enough when the shooting starts. Is that keg ready?’

  ‘Fused and ready,’ replied Billy Jack, turning on his heel and lifting a small keg of gunpowder from the ground.

  The barrel of powder lay on a pile of slashed tarpaulin, the covers wrapped around it to make it waterproof when Dusty and Billy Jack swam the Moshogen River in the cold light just before dawn, bringing their horses over and hiding in the woods. Dusty had almost taken a chance to blow the bridge when it lay unguarded for those few minutes, but did not get the time. He could not believe that any soldier would be so foolish as to leave a vital bridge like this undefended for any length of time. Suspecting a trick of some kind he waited and missed a good chance to wreck the bridge and get away without trouble.

  Once more Billy Jack examined the keg, checking that no water could possibly have seeped through and spoiled the explosive charge. All was well, the keg dry and untouched by the Moshogen’s cold waters. Billy Jack shivered at the thought of the waters. It was no fun swimming the river in the early morning, naked, with his clothes and gunbelt wrapped in a slicker. Now he hoped Red Blaze would remember Dusty’s carefully given orders when the time came. He watched the crossing of the bridge and was puzzled by the lining up instead of getting down to the serious business of putting out pickets and preparing the guard.

  Dusty held no such worries about his cousin’s ability to handle things. He knew Red better than did any other person, including Red himself. To most people Red came into contact with he appeared to be a wild, recklessly brave young man and not long on self-control. Red was the sort of man who could not stand and watch a fight without pitching in on the side which needed help the most, without finding out who was in the right of the fight. But—and here was the thing that Dusty knew and other people were apt to miss—once in the fight Red was cool, calm and capable.

  Red’s present duty was to charge down the slope, then, when resisted, to run and draw the defenders after him. The Southern intelligence system knew what regiment was guarding the bridge and this helped Dusty form his plan. He would have planned differently if faced by regular soldiers. Red was only to force home his attack if the men did not follow him up the slope. If they did not he was to return and make a serious, determined attack, holding them down while Dusty and Billy Jack moved in on the other side and blew the bridge.

  Having heard Buller’s unmilitary yells instead of orders, and watched the undisciplined rush after Red’s party, Dusty knew he called the play correctly. He doubted if the plan would have worked had the young Yankee lieutenant been in command. From the start that shave-tail had shown a good grasp of the situation and gave Dusty a few bad moments when he suggested searching the woods. Fortunately, the major over-ruled the idea and so played into Dusty’s hands.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Dusty, moving forward. ‘I’ll get down on one of the supports in the middle and set the charge.’

  ‘Be the best place for it,’ agreed Billy Jack, watching Red’s charge, then the retreat and pursuit. He was not surprised that Dusty’s plan was working, it would have surprised Billy Jack if the plan had not worked. Even as they moved forward, to the bridge, their horses following them, Billy Jack found himself comparing the cool and competent way Dusty always acted and the wild way that Yankee major was carrying on. There would have been none of that wild, irresponsible action and those unmilitary yells instead of commands had Dusty been commanding the bridge’s defense.

  Dusty and Billy Jack went on to the bridge and walked along until they were roughly in the middle. There was a fast moving, yet unflurried way of working about them which formed a contrast with the way the Union troops carried on, a purpose to their actions which told they were well used to dangerous situations such as this.

  Leaving his horse standing like a statue in the center of the bridge, Dusty went to the side and looked over. The bridge supports would be easy climbing, they were meant to be, allowing inspection of the underside and the hidden timbers of the supports. He swung over the rail and lowered himself down on to the nearest cross brace, bending to look underneath. The thick support he stood on was joined by a crossbar wide enough to take the keg of gunpowder and this would be where Dusty would place the explosive charge. There was no time to spare in selecting a better place and the charge would do all that was necessary on this spot.

  Billy Jack lowered the powder keg to Dusty then turned to watch the Union troops. Dusty wedged the keg into place as firmly as he could, both to make sure it did not jar loose and to compress the explosion, get more results from it. He took the slow match fuse and backed off to the edge of the support again, gauging the distance to the water and making sure the burning end of the fuse would not reach it when released. Taking a match from his pocket Dusty rasped it against a timber and lit the fuse, watching to make sure it burned correctly.

  ‘That young lootenant’s seen us!’ Billy Jack said in his usual bored voice. ‘He looks like he’s going to be a hero.’

  ‘I’m finished down here!’ Dusty snapped back. ‘Mount up and light out.’

  Billy Jack did not wait for second orders. He saw Dusty climbing back on to the bridge and went a’fork his horse heading for the southern side of the Moshogen River. Dusty remained long enough to see that the vibrations of the horse did not jar loose the keg. It was as he expected, the bridge was too stoutly built for one galloping horse to make any effect on it.

  Swinging over the guardrail Dusty ran for his big black horse and went into the saddle in a flying mount. The black lunged forward as soon as Dusty hit the saddle, racing for the southern shore, where Billy Jack waited.

  A bullet
whistled between the two men as they came together. Cogshill was coming back, riding recklessly down the slope to try and save the bridge. The young Union officer tried to get more speed out of his horse and his revolver spat again, the bullet coming close.

  Billy Jack flashed Dusty a grin which showed his admiration for the spunky Yankee lieutenant. It was only at such times that the hangdog left the lean soldier and showed him for what he really was; a bone tough Texas fighting man.

  ‘Be a real pity to have to kill that boy,’ he remarked as a third shot came close to hitting him. ‘He’s getting to call his shots better all the time.’

  Dusty’s eyes were watching Cogshill as they came towards each other, gauging the distance and setting his arm up. His right hand crossed his body and the white-handled Army Colt slid from the left holster in a flickering blur of movement. The gun cracked and kicked up against his palm as the horses hurled at each other. Cogshill was lifting his gun for a more careful shot when something which felt like a red-hot iron smashed into his left shoulder. The force of the sudden blow and the intense pain of it made Cogshill drop his gun and slammed him back in his saddle. He managed to cling on and tried to draw his saber with his good hand as he closed with the two Texans.

  The three horses hurled towards each other, it appeared that they must collide. At the last moment Dusty reined to Coghill’s left and Billy Jack went to his right. Unable to get his saber clear Cogshill made a wide grab at Dusty, trying to pull the small Texan from his horse. The grabbing hands missed, for Dusty swung sideways, hanging over the flank of his horse. He’d been set to shoot Cogshill down but held his fire, he could not bring himself to kill so brave and keen a young man, even if the same young man was an enemy and might try to kill him the next time they met. Billy Jack’s Colt was in his hand but he did not shoot, he knew that had Dusty wanted it the Yankee would be dead now. With this thought in mind Billy Jack lifted his revolver and slammed the barrel down on to Cogshill’s head. Sick with pain and almost ready to collapse, Cogshill slid from the saddle and crashed to the ground. The two Texans rode by him and Dusty turned to look back and make sure Cogshill fell free of his horse and was not being dragged. Then Dusty gave his full attention to the top of the slope. Ahead of him, over the top of the rim, came the sound of shots.