The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3) Read online

  As the sentry went by, Kiowa rose. Without making a warning sound, the corporal glided forward. Reaching out with his left hand, he passed it above the nearside brass shoulder scale—which even carried a copy of the 17th Lancers’ skull and crossed-bones insignia—of the blue tunic and clapped it over the man’s mouth. Stifling any outcry before it could be attempted, Kiowa jerked the lancer’s head backwards. At the same instant, his right hand thrust home the bowie knife. Its clip point sank into the man’s kidney region. Although he died almost instantly and in silence, the Spencer slipped from his lifeless grasp and dropped to the ground.

  Having kept Kiowa’s victim under observation, Vern Hassle timed his own attack to coincide with his companion’s. Swinging the stout piece of branch parallel to the ground—having decided that the fancy Lancer’s cap offered too much protection against a downwards blow—the old-timer crashed it against the base of his objective’s skull. Continuing to move with a speed that belied his white hair and years, he followed his victim down. Flattened on the grass behind the motionless sentry, Hassle waited until sure that his actions had gone unnoticed. Then, picking up the Spencer, he wriggled rapidly back to the shadows of the wagons.

  There was no sign of life from the pup tents. Nor did Culver’s flow of profane, bombastic chatter cease, to suggest that he had heard the slight disturbance as the sentries were removed. Satisfied, Kiowa gave the call of a whippoorwill twice and Hassle echoed the signal.

  Figures flitted through the trees, feeling their way with cautious feet so as to keep the noise of their passage to a minimum. While they might not have succeeded if their opponents had been Indians, they were quiet enough to avoid detection by the Easterners against whom they were operating.

  Despite the knowledge that they were not dealing with men who possessed the natural alertness and keen senses of Indians, and that Company C had defeated three Companies of Long Island Lancers at the Battle of Martin’s Mill, the Texans were too battle-wise to take unnecessary risks or grow over-confident. They had lost several men in the fighting and were outnumbered by the party in the clearing. Only by attaining complete surprise could they hope to achieve their new commanding officer’s purpose. Every one of them figured life would be a whole heap easier and more pleasant all round if they did that.

  Captain Fog might be very young, hardly more than seventeen, but he possessed a mighty forceful character and it was well to pay heed to his orders or instructions. There was no better gun-handler in the Texas Light Cavalry, for he could draw with lightning speed and shoot very accurately with either hand. He had few peers as a horse-master, or in saber fighting mounted and a-foot. Using tricks learned from Ole Devil Hardin’s ‘Chinese’ v servant, augmented by considerable physical strength, he had proven capable of out-fighting bigger, heavier, older and more powerful men when necessary.

  So, when Captain Fog had laid great emphasis on the need for silence and care, the enlisted men had paid greater attention than they would have to an officer who did not stand as high in their esteem.

  On reaching the edge of the clearing, the enlisted men halted in concealment. They lined their weapons, revolvers or whatever type of shoulder-arm they might possess, on the tents and waited to see if their presence had been detected. Apparently it had not, for there was no sign of activity on the part of the Yankees.

  Satisfied that all had gone to plan, Captain Fog moved towards the marquee. He was accompanied by his second-in-command and the Company’s sergeant major. While they were armed with an 1860 Army Colt in each hand, his matched, bone-handled revolvers were still in the cross-draw holsters of his well-designed Western-style gun belt. Instead, he grasped a long-bladed knife in his right fist.

  Inside the marquee, General Culver stood at the head of the collapsible table. A short, broad, bearded man, he wore his full-dress uniform with an air of belligerent self-assurance. All his comments on the future conduct of the War Between the States, or his part in it, were directed at the trio of Eastern newspapermen.

  Culver’s words were full of the bluster and obscenities—referred to as ‘colorful language’ by his friends, although others used a different, less complimentary term—which had given him the sobriquet, ‘Cussing’. They were designed to divert attention from what he—and the Lancers’ officers—knew to have been his failure. Despite all his previous boasting, the Rebels had withdrawn—which was far different from having been chased or driven—to the safety of the Ouachita’s southern shore. Nor would they be so easy to dislodge from their new positions.

  Being aware of the value of a good press—although the term had not yet come into use—to a man with political ambitions, Culver was taking the newspapermen on a tour of the forward areas. To impress them with his courage and ability and to emphasize his control of the situation, he had refused a larger escort. Instead, he had demanded just one company of Lancers, in full dress, and had travelled in considerable luxury.

  Being a frugal man by nature, the general had caused the dinner to be served late. With it over, he had contrived to keep his guests from becoming bored or wanting to go to bed; but had avoided expending too much of his liquor stock. There would, he had hinted, be more lavish entertainment once they had returned to Little Rock.

  ‘We didn’t have any trouble in running the Rebels back this far,’ Culver was saying. ‘And, once we have our reinforcements, we’ll chase them clear into their louse-infested, son-of-a-bitching State. I’ll make those mother-fu—’

  While the general was continuing with his often-repeated promise, his striker had been taking a bottle of whiskey from the liquor chest which was part of the marquee’s furnishings. The plump, red-faced soldier started to draw the cork, then he saw something shiny thrust through the rear wall. Letting out a startled exclamation, the striker allowed the bottle to slip from his fingers. However, his duties were servant and attendant, not fighter, so he responded too slowly to give a warning that might have been acted upon.

  With a slight ripping sound, a razor-sharp knife slashed downwards through the wall of the marquee. The damaged section was torn horizontally and three figures thrust through the gap into the light. They came so swiftly that there was hardly any interval between the insertion of the knife being seen by the striker and their appearance.

  At the right of the trio, wearing the uniform of an enlisted man in the Texas Light Cavalry, was a tall, gangling sergeant major. Taken with his prominent Adam’s apple, somewhat receding chin and miserable expression, the three chevrons, topped by an arc, denoting his rank seemed out of place. He looked more like a dejected, ill-used sandhill crane than the senior non-commissioned officer of a tough, fighting cavalry Company. However, the gun belt about his waist had been well made and the Army Colts in his hands were lined steadily.

  To the left was a tall, well-made young first lieutenant. Under his white Jeff Davis campaign hat, which was thrust to the back of his head, was an untidy mop of curly, fiery red hair. He had a good-looking, freckled, pugnaciously cheerful cast of features. Like the sergeant major, he brandished two long barreled Army Colts with the air of being extremely competent in their use. Apart from having only two half-inch wide, three-inch long gold bars on his tunic’s stand up collar and a single gold braid twisted to form a ‘chicken guts’ Austrian knot on his sleeves, his uniform matched that of his commanding officer. The position of his gun belt’s holsters showed that he used the low cavalry twist-hand draw.

  Between the two was the young man who had made such an impression upon the hard-bitten, hard-riding, harder-fighting veterans of Company C that they were willing to accept his orders without question. A mere youth, in years, but who had already performed deeds that would have taxed the abilities of older, more experienced men.

  If one had been expecting a giant, disappointment, incredulity even might have resulted at the first sight of Dusty Fog. He had dusty blond hair and a tanned, moderately handsome face that—in times of peace anyway—did not tend to catch the eye. Although he was
no more than five foot six in height, he was anything but puny. His wide shoulders trimmed down to a slim waist in a manner that hinted at considerable strength.

  Since assuming command of the Company, after having won promotion in the field for his activities during the Battle of Martin’s Mill, Dusty had adopted a somewhat less formal style of dress than had been permitted by the man he had replaced. While his tunic partially conformed to the Manual of Dress Regulations, by being double-breasted, with the correct type of stand up collar and twin rows of seven buttons, it lacked the prescribed ‘skirt extending to half-way between hip and thigh’. Instead of the formal black silk cravat, he sported a tight-rolled scarlet silk bandana. His riding breeches had the traditional yellow stripe along their outer seams and spurs decorated the heels of his Hessian boots. Since his elevation in rank, he wore three collar bars and his ‘chicken guts’ were formed from two lengths of gold braid.

  Free from the late Captain von Hertz’s restrictions, he no longer used the official weapon belt with its awkward, impractical close-topped holster. The rig he now wore offered him considerably more freedom and allowed for exceptional speed in the drawing of the matched, bone-handled Colt 1860 Army revolvers; as he proceeded to demonstrate.

  Even as the occupants of the marquee started to turn, or stared at the intruders, Dusty dropped the knife and his hands flashed inwards. Crossing, they closed about the butts and swept free the Colts in a flickering blur of motion. With the seven and a half inch ‘Civilian’ pattern barrels vi turning to the front, just clear of the holsters’ lips, his forefingers entered the trigger guards and his thumbs drew back the hammers. Before the knife had reached the ground, both guns were pointing in the direction of the table.

  Dusty had never heard of psychology, but he was aware of the value of demonstrating his ambidextrous gun-wizardry. That was why he had elected to slit open the marquee’s wall and allow his companions to enter with drawn weapons. The speed with which he had produced his Colts was likely to have a numbing effect when seen by men who had not come into contact with a Western-trained gunfighter.

  ‘No noise, gentlemen!’ Dusty warned in a gentle—yet somehow menacing—Texas drawl, the muzzles of his Colts moved slowly from side to side and seeming to threaten every man before them. ‘There’s a circle of guns around the camp and your sentries’re all out of the deal.’ His right hand weapon halted with its bore directed at the Lancers’ major. ‘Easy there. My men’ll kill anybody who comes out of the tents.’

  Although the major’s mouth had been opening and he was tensing to leap at the small Texan, he refrained from doing either. Being a good poker player, he knew that he was not hearing an idle threat or a bluff. He could also visualize the consequences of any action that would arouse the camp. Freshly woken, illuminated by the still burning fire, his men would be at the mercy of the Texans as they emerged from their tents. Nor would lances be of any use against the firearms which would be opposing them. That had been proven all too thoroughly at the Battle of Martin’s Mill, when a single Company of the Texas Light Cavalry—perhaps the very one now surrounding the camp—had defeated three companies of the Long Island Lancers. There was only one sensible way to act.

  ‘Stand still, Owen, Stewart!’ the major growled at his lieutenants. ‘They’ve got us cold.’

  ‘That’s being real sensible,’ First Lieutenant Charles William Henry Blaze—whose fiery thatch of hair had earned him the nickname ‘Red’—drawled and turned his gaze to the startled civilians. ‘You fellers’re newspapermen, I’d say. So you don’t want to get killed before you can write this story. Which being the case, don’t make a sound.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ Culver demanded, staying half-risen from his chair.

  ‘You, general,’ Dusty replied and, suddenly, in some strange way, he appeared to have grown. No longer did he look small, young and insignificant; but seemed to be the biggest man present. ‘It’s your decision. Yell for help, make a fight of it, and there’ll be a whole lot more than just you in here get killed. Call the play wrong and you’ll lose another company of Lancers.’

  Although Culver had had a few drinks, they were insufficient to dull his mind. So he was able to understand the full implications of the situation. If he raised the alarm, he would most likely die. Even if he survived and escaped capture, the Lancers would be slaughtered as they came to investigate. There was nothing more sure than that. Young as that big blond Texan might be, he was a menacing, commanding figure. Culver could not detect the slightest hesitation, weakness or lack of resolution about him.

  Faced with the choice between capture and practically certain death if he attempted to resist, the general thought fast. His career was already under a cloud, due to his failure to prevent the Rebels from reaching safety with all their supplies, equipment and other material. There was to be a court of inquiry into the affair, from which he would be highly unlikely to escape with an unblemished reputation. Perhaps, provided he handled things properly, being captured would give him a way out of his difficulties. It would not help his Army career, of course, but he was thinking of his future as a politician after the War.

  ‘What will you do to my escort if I yield to your demands?’ Culver asked, with none of his usual profanity.

  Although the general addressed the words to Dusty Fog, who was studying him with level gray eyes and an impassive face, they were heard by the three newspapermen. Culver was unable to resist darting a quick glance at them, hoping to see a favorable reaction. They seemed interested, but he could not be sure what other emotions he had unleashed by his question.

  ‘Not a thing, unless we’re driven to it,’ Dusty promised. ‘I can’t say how bad hurt your sentries are, but we don’t want to kill without reason. So we’ll take their horses, to make sure they can’t follow us. But that’s as far as it’ll go on our side.’

  ‘Our horses,’ growled the Lancers’ second lieutenant, tensing. ‘Like—’

  ‘Stay put, feller!’ Red Blaze advised, thrusting forward his right hand Colt. ‘Me and this old plow-handle out-rank you, so that’s an order. Anyway, losing the horses’s better than losing all your men. Some of our fellers’re toting scatter-guns and they’re surely evil.’

  ‘Don’t make trouble, Stewart!’ commanded the major, face red with anger and humiliation. ‘We’re licked!’

  While speaking, the major watched the three Texans. He saw nothing to give him hope or comfort. Despite his appearance, that lanky sergeant major handled the two Colts in a skilled manner. If the rest of the Company were equally able, his men would not stand a chance. So, much as he hated to do it, he continued to yield to the inevitable.

  ‘You’re sure that nothing worse will happen to the Lancers?’ Culver asked, being determined to instill a sense of his concern over the enlisted men’s welfare in the civilians’ memories.

  ‘You’ve got my word on it, sir,’ Dusty declared, guessing what the general was trying to do.

  ‘Then I’ll go with you and save their lives,’ Culver stated and wondered if he should insert a comment to the newspapermen regarding the advisability of such a decision.

  After a moment’s thought, Culver concluded that he had said enough. His words would read very well, when they were reported in the newspapers. Instead of being labeled as the general who failed to make good on his boasts, people would think of him as the noble, gallant officer who had been willing to sacrifice his freedom to prevent his soldiers from being killed.

  Suddenly Culver became aware of the Rebel captain’s scrutiny. There was a faint smile on the young blond’s lips. With the sickening force of a kick in the stomach, the general became uncomfortably suspicious that his line of thought was known to his captor.

  That was truer than Culver imagined. On learning of Culver’s presence with the three civilians, Dusty had guessed what was behind it. So he had taken that aspect into consideration when making his arrangements. He had gambled on Culver, faced with the consequences of failure, b
eing willing to gain some acclaim if given the chance. From what had happened, Dusty’s summation was correct. However, he refused to let a sense of triumph make him careless.

  ‘Lie face down on the floor, gentlemen,’ the small Texan said, indicating the lieutenants.

  ‘Do it!’ the major gritted when his subordinates showed an inclination towards refusal.

  ‘And you’d best come to the door of the tent, major,’ Dusty suggested, as his order was obeyed. ‘I want you to call out your guard commander and see that anybody else who shows knows what’s happening.’

  ‘All right,’ the major sighed, watching his captor for any hint of carelessness and failing to find it.

  While Dusty supervised the major, standing just too far away for there to be any danger of being tackled by him, Sergeant Major Billy Jack backed to the torn wall of the tent. At his signal, three enlisted men entered. They were told to disarm the lieutenants, then gather up Culver’s travelling gear.

  ‘You gents stay peaceable and you’ll not get hurt,’ Red told the newspapermen.

  ‘Count on us for that,’ declared one of the trio. ‘Like you said, I’d hate to get killed before I’ve written this story.’

  ‘Talking about the story,’ the second newspaperman went on, ‘what’s your captain’s name?’

  ‘It’s Dusty Fog,’ Red replied, full of pride in his cousin’s success. ‘Likely you’ll be hearing it plenty from now on.’

  Chapter Three – This Is As Far As We Go

  General Jackson Baines Hardin had the tanned, lean and hardy look of born fighting man. Black haired, just touched with gray at the temples, his face had a slightly Mephistophelian aspect which partly accounted for his sobriquet, ‘Ole Devil’. He was a complete contrast to his captured counterpart in the Union Army. There was none of Culver’s bombast and profanity in Ole Devil’s bearing or speech. Intelligent, morally and physically courageous, capable, tolerant and understanding—if inclined to be harsh and ruthless when confronted by stupidity or inefficiency—he had the saving graces of breeding, modesty and a sense of humor.