The Floating Outfit 20 Read online

  Immediately on the woman’s departure, Dusty threw a look around and yelled an order for his men to keep in cover. Some of them had exposed themselves to gain a better view of what happened and made entirely too good targets for his liking. While Dusty respected a flag of truce, he doubted whether the guerillas possessed such scruples. Taking out his watch, he checked on the time and hoped that the women would agree to accept his offer of free passage and come out. If they did not, he must do his duty and they take their chances in the ensuing fighting.

  ‘What the hell!’ Dusty growled after sending his guidon-carrier and another man up the slopes so that they could carry word of his arrangements to the parties covering the rear of the buildings.

  Darting from cover to cover, Tracey Prince flung himself the remaining yards to land at Dusty’s side. None of the other men had moved, keeping in cover and not indulging in the kind of horse-play less disciplined troops would at such a time.

  ‘Did she say if they’d any prisoners in there, Cap’n Dusty?’ Tracey asked.

  Until that moment, being so busy with the organization of the attack and other details, Dusty had almost forgotten Prince and the girl ‘with a face like an angel’.

  ‘She tried a bluff, but called it off,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Then Rowena’s not with them?’

  ‘If she was, that woman’d’ve mentioned it. They’d not miss playing an ace in the hole like that.’

  ‘I reckon not,’ admitted Prince disconsolately. ‘But she wasn’t at the village, we know that.’

  ‘It’s almost four months since you were there, Tracey,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Could be that she left during that time.’

  ‘Sure, Cap—’

  ‘Women coming out of the cabin, Cap’n Dusty!’ called one of the men.

  Shooting out a hand, Dusty hauled Prince back behind the shelter of the rock.

  ‘You stay down and act sensible, Tracey,’ the small Texan warned. ‘Those jaspers down there can’t be trusted.’

  When sure the other would obey, Dusty peered around the rock. Already half-a-dozen women gathered before the main building and more left the cabins. Fifteen in all stood in a small group and the woman who organized their escape. spoke rapidly to them. With that done, she led the rest in the direction of the attackers; nor did any of the camp-followers show reluctance at leaving their men.

  ‘They look in a tolerable hurry, Cap’n Dusty,’ Billy Jack commented.

  ‘Likely figure that some of the men might have second thoughts and try to fetch them back,’ Dusty replied, then turned to the man at his side. ‘Keep down, damn you, Tracey.’

  ‘She’s not with ’em!’ Prince stated and settled back into cover again. ‘Can I ask questions when they get here?’

  ‘After the att—!’ Dusty began.

  Suddenly there came from the main building a loud roar of exploding gun powder. A brilliant, fiery, flaring glow showed even in the daylight while black smoke, flying timbers and pieces of human bodies rose into the air. Caught in the blast of the explosion, the women were flung to the ground and the adjacent cabins suffered damage. The cabins on either side of the main building collapsed as their closest wall caught the force of the blast and roofs caved in. Where the big main building had stood, only a smoking crater remained.

  ‘What the hell!’ Dusty spat out. ‘If that gunner opened fire—’

  Before he finished, Dusty realized that no half-pound exploding charge of a 12-pounder howitzer shell could have wreaked such havoc. Yet there did not seem to be any alternative as a cause of the explosion.

  Rising to their feet, the women started to stagger in the direction of Dusty’s men. Fortunately they had been far enough away to avoid the worst of the blast and, apart from damage to their clothing, or grazed skin caused by being thrown to the ground, none appeared to be hurt.

  ‘Just keep coming!’ Dusty ordered. ‘And keep your hands in plain sight.’

  Women they might be, but those harridans from the guerilla band would be as dangerous as rattlesnakes if they got among his men with the intention of making trouble. Dusty knew that his men would hesitate to open fire on women, even should the women hold weapons; or at least they might delay their actions that vital instant too long. So he aimed to take no chances.

  ‘We’ll have to watch ’em, Cap’n Dusty,’ Billy Jack stated, showing his mind ran on the same lines as his commanding officer’s.

  ‘Have Vern and four of the oldest married men do it,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘You want them gals searching?’

  ‘Watch ’em’s all. Take them off to one side and well clear of the howitzer.’

  It seemed highly unlikely that the guerillas would try such a desperate game as sending out their women with orders to jump the howitzer’s crew, after being passed through the attacking circle, but Dusty did not intend to take the chance. If some unfortunate circumstance deprived him of the howitzer’s support, taking the cabins would be even more difficult. Even with the gun it was no sinecure. Without the howitzer to batter down walls and soften resistance, the guerillas might hold out for a long time and take many lives before being over-run.

  The women came closer and their leader glared wildly at Dusty. ‘You started shooting!’ she accused.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ Dusty replied.

  ‘Then—then it must have been the gun-powder in the cellar.’

  ‘Gun powd—’ Dusty started. ‘How much?’

  ‘W—Hannah looted a Yankee supply column and got two wagon-loads of it just afore Ole Devil Hardin put out that order for us to quit.’

  Two wagon loads of gun-powder would be ample to cause such an explosion. Any number of things might have sparked it off. Careless handling, a chance mishap, bad management might have supplied the means of ignition. Undisciplined guerillas would take none of the necessary precautions to avoid accidents. One flicker of naked flame, even as small as a spark kicked by a boot nail, finding its way to the powder would be enough. From there a sympathetic explosion did the rest, running from keg to keg in split-seconds until the whole consignment went up.

  Already shots came from the remaining buildings and bullets whistled through the air around the women. It almost seemed that the men in the cabins shot at their erstwhile companions and bed-mates.

  ‘Get moving along the valley, you women!’ Dusty barked. ‘Open fire, men!’

  At his side, Prince half-rose so as to speak with the women. Caught in the shoulder by a bullet from the cabins, the young soldier screamed and crashed down again.

  ‘See to him, Billy Jack!’ Dusty ordered. ‘Vern, get your bunch and herd the women off to the right side.’

  Showing his usual efficiency, Billy Jack had gathered up an escort of married, older men who would be less susceptible to female wiles. Certainly none of the selected escort showed any great interest in the disheveled women.

  ‘Come on!’ ordered the old corporal. ‘Do what the Cap’n says and there’ll be no trouble.’

  ‘Don’t take any chances, or man-handle them in any way unless you have to,’ Dusty warned.

  ‘Trust us for that, Cap’n Dusty,’ Vern replied. ‘Get moving, darlings, afore some of your friends down there shoot you by mistake.’

  Obediently enough the women moved off and the corporal’s party followed at a safe distance. With one responsibility lifted, Dusty turned his thoughts to taking the remainder of the guerilla band. If Hannah had been in the main building, as seemed most likely, Dusty did not need to worry further about him.

  Four – The Attack

  Studying the ground ahead of him, Dusty doubted if the cabin on either side of the destroyed main building could offer much resistance. He heard faint screams of pain or cries for help coming from beneath the shattered framework and saw two men dragging themselves painfully from under the collapsed walls. However the volume of fire which came from the remaining four cabins warned him that their occupants were still full of fight. Calling on the guerillas to surrender at that
point would be both futile and dangerous to the man who made the attempt.

  ‘Gunner!’ he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth and seeing a wave to show that the other heard him. ‘Give the first cabin on the right a shot.’

  ‘Yo!’ came the reply.

  A skilled technician, the artillery sergeant did not give the order to open fire until he made sure of his aim. After taking such adjustments as he considered necessary, he stepped clear so as to observe the fall of the shot and barked the command to shoot. Banging loud, the howitzer sent its shell streaking away to pass through the wall of the desired cabin and burst inside.

  Dusty could guess at the effect of the exploding charge in the confines of the cabin. Maybe the shell’s comparatively weak load of powder could not blow up the building, but the blast and flying fragments of metal casing it ought to have a highly demoralizing effect and do some physical damage. The cabins, proof against ordinary bullets, had not been constructed to withstand artillery bombardment from even a small mountain howitzer and would offer little protection to the men within. Faced by such a weapon, they must try to silence it, or surrender.

  ‘How’s Tracey?’ Dusty asked as he turned to look back at the howitzer again.

  ‘Lucky,’ replied Billy Jack, kneeling by the still form of the soldier. ‘The bullet went through without hitting bone. I had to put him to sleep, but he’s resting easy enough now.’

  ‘See to him,’ Dusty said and prepared to call for a change of aim.

  Before the words could be uttered, Dusty saw the number one man of the gun’s crew drop his rammer then stagger and fall to the ground. Knowing that the man had been shot, Dusty first turned and looked towards the captive women. Certainly none of them could have done the shooting, for they sat quietly on the ground with their backs to the howitzer and watched by the corporal’s guard.

  Of course a chance bullet from the cabins might have dropped the soldier, but Dusty did not believe in taking chances. His eyes raked the cabins and saw only the barrels of rifles or carbines aimed in the direction of his party. On the second examination, however, he observed a sinister sight. The rifle which attracted his attention crept into view at the corner of the left outer cabin’s second window and remained for a long time without firing. Then it barked and Dusty swung around in time to see the sergeant leap away from the howitzer. Not that Dusty needed such added confirmation, having recognized the barrel of a rifle just as specialized as the one Thad Baylor used. Clearly the guerillas had a sharpshooter among them and he had used his skill to end the menace of the howitzer.

  Equally obviously, that sharpshooter must be silenced before he wiped out the gun’s crew. Dusty could not expect those artillerymen to stand exposed to fire and continue working their piece. Even if they did so, their accuracy must suffer and there were few enough shells to handle the work ahead.

  ‘Thad!’ Dusty yelled. ‘There’s a sharpshooter in the outer cabin on the left. He’s going for the howitzer’s crew.’

  ‘Yo!’ Baylor answered and moved his rifle into a firing position.

  At first Baylor failed to locate the man, although he allowed for the time needed to go through the reloading procedure with a sharpshooter’s rifle. Then he swung the rifle’s barrel, eye behind the telescope-sight watching the front of the building, until he reached the outer window. Like the artillery sergeant, Baylor was a skilled technician and knew his work. If he had been in the enemy sharpshooter’s place, he would not have remained in the same firing position if given the choice.

  Sure enough, the barrel of the other sharpshooter’s rifle stuck out of the second window and Baylor could see its user kneeling behind it. Taking careful aim, Baylor squeezed the set-trigger of his rifle. He fired just an instant before the other man, but soon enough. Caught in the chest by Baylor’s bullet, the guerilla jerked backwards and tipped his rifle’s barrel into the air, where its bullet went harmlessly flying.

  ‘Got him!’ Dusty said. ‘I don’t think they’ll have another man who can use that rifle.’

  True any of the guerillas could handle a rifle, but not to take advantage of the special accuracy offered by their dead sharpshooter’s weapon. Baylor knew his work well enough to keep on watch and deal with anybody in the cabin who tried to use the dead man’s rifle; so the bombardment could be resumed unhindered.

  Despite the loss of one man, the howitzer could be kept in operation. Firing drill instructions provided exercises by a diminished crew—even down to the ominous ‘service by two men’ in case the remainder should be wiped out through enemy action—so the number two man also assumed his dead companion’s duties.

  Again and again the howitzer banged, sending its shells over the heads of Dusty’s party and towards the cabins. Not all the shells hit the mark. A combination of short tube and poor sights did not make for accuracy at a range of six hundred yards. So three shells fell short and a couple more passed over the cabins: and not all which flew true exploded on arrival. However the destruction of the main building and disablement of the cabin on either side of it gave the howitzer’s crew a surplus of ammunition which off-set the necessary wastage.

  It could not last. Finding their shelter under bombardment from beyond any range where their arms might hope to hit, such guerillas as could gave thought to flight. The right side outer cabin’s rear door flew open and four men broke out to make a dash for the corral. Seeing the defection of their companions, more and more of the men in the remaining cabins took their chances on reaching the corral.

  On the rear slopes Red and Hardy ordered their men to shoot. However only Red among the Texans held a repeater and one volley saw his men holding empty guns. Rather than take the time to reload, Red rose from his place.

  Twisting his hands back around the butts of his Colts, he drew the weapons.

  ‘Come on, Texas Light!’ he shouted. ‘Let’s take ’em!’

  Roaring their agreement, his men followed him in a rush down the slope and towards the front of the corral. Hardy only hesitated for a moment before launching his blue-clad section downwards to support the Texans.

  Not wishing to have the howitzer out of ammunition before effecting the destruction of the enemy’s shelter, Dusty automatically counted the number of shots it fired. At each successive hit he expected to see either surrender flags, or the guerillas trying to escape. In the latter case, they would go by the rear doors and head for the corral. When the rush finally came, Dusty guessed how Red would react. Counting on his cousin to run true to form, Dusty had made his plans ready.

  ‘Cease fire with the gun!’ he yelled, waving his hat to attract the artillery sergeant’s attention. ‘Bugler, sound the charge!’

  Every man in Dusty’s party had been expecting the order and discarded their shoulder arms so that they could have the advantage offered by their Colt revolvers. Even as Red led his men down the slope, he and they heard the wild, ringing notes of the bugle and recognized the call being blown. Bounding down the slope, the Texans held their fire until sure they could aim in the hope of hitting. Lead tore around them as the guerillas cut loose, but none of it found a mark on human flesh.

  Swarming forward in a fast, yet orderly rush, Dusty’s men swept towards the front of the buildings. They expected little or no opposition from that direction and met none at first. Then, twenty yards from the nearest cabin, Dusty saw a shape appear at a window. Up came a rifle, lining in his direction. It would be ironic, he mused while throwing his left hand Colt up into line, if he should be shot on his last assignment and after the end of the War. Thinking did not influence either Dusty’s speed or aim. Still running, he fired, saw flame spurt from the guerilla’s rifle and felt his hat spin backwards to be halted when its storm-strap snapped tight on his throat. Caught in the neck by Dusty’s bullet, the guerilla pitched back and fell out of sight . . .

  Reaching the cabin’s door, Dusty found it had been weakened by a shell driving through the center. A kick sent it flying open inwards and the small Texan w
ent through fast. Although he entered the room ready to shoot, Dusty found no need to use his guns. The man by the window had been too badly lamed to escape and now lay dying on the floor. Looking around, Dusty saw the devastation caused in the living-room by exploding shells. Torn, shattered bodies were scattered around and blood oozed stickily underfoot. With relief he saw no women among the bodies.

  A sound from one of the other rooms sent Dusty across the charnel-house the shells had created. Thrusting open a door, he found a guerilla trying to escape. Despite having lost a foot during the bombardment, the man used a shotgun for a crutch and tried to hobble through the rear door.

  ‘Hold it!’ Dusty snapped.

  With an almost bestial snarl of rage, the guerilla turned and rammed his shoulder against the door jamb to remain erect. Then he began to raise the shotgun. Dusty would have tried to take the man alive if he had held any other kind of weapon, but not when threatened by a shotgun’s spreading charge. Much as he hated to do it, Dusty threw a shot with his right hand Colt and drove the bullet into the man’s head. Propelled through the door under the impact, the guerilla triggered off a wild shot. Dusty heard the solid ‘whomp!’ of lead striking the wall by his side. It had been a close thing. So close that the nearest of the buckshot balls pierced the timbers less than an inch from his side.

  A savage struggle raged outside the cabin. Clearly the guerillas had no intention of surrendering to the soldiers. Nor did the Texans hesitate to shoot to kill when doing so might easily cost them their own lives.

  Leaping to the corral, one of the guerillas threw down the top pole of its gate. He saw Red, ahead of the others, drawing close and spun around to snatch the revolver from his belt. Skidding to a halt, Red fired his right hand Colt by instinctive alignment. Although the bullet hit the guerilla, it neither killed him nor made him drop his gun. Without hesitation Red thumped off a shot from his left hand gun. Again lead ripped into the guerilla and he collapsed, the revolver sliding from limp fingers. Only then did Red turn his attention from the man.