You're in Command Now, Mr Fog Page 6

  Turning his head to make some comment to the small Texan, Billy Jack found that he was looking at a horse that was tied by its reins to the chuck wagons tailgate. The sergeant had noticed the animal, mainly because it was not with the others and apparently needed securing to something instead of being prevented from straying by merely having its reins dangling free.

  Now that Billy Jack’s attention had been drawn to the horse, a big roan gelding, he detected other differences.

  Obviously the recruits had fetched along their own mounts on enlistment. The ground-hitched animals were typically range-bred stock. Not one topped fifteen hands and the majority lacked four inches of that height, but they looked agile, wiry, packed with vitality and endurance. Each carried a low horned, double girthed—a Texan rarely used the word “cinch” because of its Spanish connotations—saddle with a saber and coiled rope dangling from it.

  Bigger, more powerful, the roan by the chuck wagon had one-piece reins and not the two separate strands mostly used by Texans. Its light, high-horned saddle had a centrally fitted girth and the leathers of the covered stirrups passed over the seat. No self-respecting son of the Lone Star State would be caught sitting such a Spanish-looking saddle.

  Only one of the recruits was in sight. Lounging with a shoulder against the side of the wagon, he was tall, lean, with a hard, savage, Indian-dark cast of features that suggested mixed blood. As Dusty and Billy Jack rode up, he straightened and spoke over his shoulder.

  Going closer, the sergeant discovered that the remainder of the party were beyond the wagon, gathered around a tall, black-clad civilian. However, at the dark soldier’s words, a good-looking, sandy-haired youngster—whose sleeves bore the chevrons of a corporal—swung away from his companions. His blackened left eye, swollen top lip and bruised right cheek implied that he had been the second of Chatswen’s victims. Billy Jack noticed that he did not appear to be surprised, on glancing towards the herd, to find that Mr. Fog had succeeded in returning with its new attendants. Halting as Dusty and Billy Jack dismounted, he threw up a smart salute.

  “Everything’s ready for us to pull out, Mr. Fog,” the corporal stated, then nodded towards the cattle. “He allowed he’d come, happen you went for him.”

  “Why sure,” Dusty agreed. “This here’s Sergeant Billy Jack. He’ll be showing us the way to the regiment. Sergeant, let me present Corporal Sandy McGraw.”

  “Howdy, corporal,” Billy Jack responded, extending his right hand.

  “Glad to know you, sergeant,” Sandy McGraw replied.

  “Who’s the caller?” Dusty inquired, after they had shaken hands.

  “The Reverend Hotchkiss, from Arkadelphia,” Sandy answered. “He just now rode up and wants for us to go to some prayer meeting he’s holding in town tonight.”

  “What did you tell him?” Dusty asked.

  “That he’d have to wait until you came back for an answer,” Sandy replied.

  Before any more could be said, the civilian had turned and was walking away from the soldiers. He would not be more than in his late thirties and had a tanned, unsmiling face under a round-topped black hat of the style much favored by preachers of various denominations. His jacket, vest, shirt, cravat and trousers were pretty much what a small town’s parson might wear. Even his Wellington leg-boots were not unexpected, or unusual, items of attire. He most likely visited the country-dwelling members of his flock on horseback. However, he walked with a slightly swaggering gait that would have seemed more natural in a cavalry soldier than a man of the cloth.

  “Good day, sergeant,” greeted the civilian, in a Southern but not an Arkansas’ drawl. He had given Dusty just one quick glance before devoting his attention to Billy Jack. “You’ve a fine body of young men here. Has your officer stayed out at the herd?”

  “Nope,” Billy Jack replied, looking and sounding at his most miserable and dejected as he stared at the speaker. “This here’s Lieutenant Fog.”

  Following the direction indicated by the sergeant, the civilian gave Dusty a much longer scrutiny. Hotchkiss seemed unwilling to believe his ears. Studying the excellent condition of the camp, he frowned in a puzzled manner as if unable to reconcile such evidence of discipline with the short, insignificant figure in the dress of a working cowhand. Then he swung a glance at Billy Jack, but found no enlightenment in the lanky sergeant’s appearance. Once more his eyes returned to Dusty and he realized that he was not acting in a polite, or even tactful manner.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Fog,” the civilian said. “I didn’t realize who you were. My name’s Hotchkiss and I’ve come to extend an invitation for you and your men to attend a little prayer meeting and social evening were holding in town tonight.”

  “You-all must’ve took over from the regular preacher real recent, Mr. Hotchkiss,” Billy Jack injected.

  “I haven’t taken over officially as yet, sergeant,” the civilian replied. “But I’m the Reverend Deane’s nephew and he’s asked me to replace him when he retires at the end of the month.”

  “I hadn’t heard he was retiring,” Billy Jack stated, being puzzled by the other’s appearance.

  “It’s not been announced yet,” Hotchkiss answered evenly. “But he’s wanting to quit. His health isn’t too good.” With that, he looked pointedly away from his interrogator. “Can I expect you and your men tonight, Mr. Fog?”

  “Well now, sir,” Dusty said hesitantly, glancing at Billy Jack as if seeking approval and advice. When none came, he continued, “I’m sorry, but we won’t be able to come. Will we, sergeant?”

  “Nope,” Billy Jack agreed, surprised by the change which had come over the small Texan.

  “May I ask why not?” Hotchkiss said, addressing Dusty.

  “We’ll be moving out as soon as I’ve changed my clothes, sir,” Dusty explained. “Serg—I’ll be starting as soon as I’m back in uniform.”

  Watching Dusty, Billy Jack was at a loss to understand the way in which his confident manner had changed. He seemed uncertain and anything but the competent young officer who had so impressed the sergeant during the ride from town.

  “Ah yes,” Hotchkiss said, nodding his head. “You’ll be moving the cattle again.”

  “Not us, sir,” Dusty corrected. “I’ve done my part of the delivery. Men from the Commissary General’s Department are looking to them now.”

  “Surely that leaves you free to bring your men to the meeting?” Hotchkiss stated. “The town’s ladies would be delighted to see you and your voices would be of great assistance in the hymn-singing.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Dusty insisted, having thrown another swift look at Billy Jack. “My orders are to get to my regiment as quickly as possible. I hope to be fifteen miles closer to Little Rock by nightfall.”

  “The cattle couldn’t cover that much distance, could they?” Hotchkiss asked.

  “No, sir,” Dusty admitted. “But there’s no reason why they should.”

  “You won’t be escorting them any further?”

  “Not us, sir. They’re headed for our main supply depot at Pine Bluff.”

  “Without your party to guard them?” Hotchkiss said, sounding puzzled.

  “Shucks, sir,” Dusty affirmed. “There’s no need for us, or anybody else, to guard them. The Yankees wouldn’t dare to come this far behind our lines. Corporal Chatswen’s got five good men to help him and we’d be wasting our time if we went along.”

  Although Billy Jack did not show it, lie was growing alarmed and concerned by the trend of the conversation. As it had progressed, Mr. Fog had started to diminish in the sergeant’s estimation. After having observed what he had believed to be so many sterling qualities in the small Texan, it was disappointing to hear him speaking to a stranger in such a frank, indiscreet even, fashion. Especially after Billy Jack had given an oblique warning that the civilian was not the regular preacher from Arkadelphia.

  There was something about Hotchkiss that disturbed Billy Jack. It was not just his claim to be a preacher,
but something deeper. Perhaps it was his bearing and attitude, or the hard look about the tanned face. None of them suggested that he was a man of peace, or the kind who would be content to stagnate in a small town like Arkadelphia. He would, Billy Jack considered, be more likely to try to take an active part in the War.

  What if Hotchkiss should be taking a more active part in the War—but on the side of the Union?

  Both the North and the South made use of spies in the other’s territory, or so Billy Jack had heard. There could hardly be a better way for one to conceal his identity than by acting as the preacher in a small town. Such a man would be almost above suspicion and was ideally situated to obtain information. The frank way in which Mr. Fog had answered Hotchkiss’s questions had been proof of the latter point.

  “Sergeant,” Dusty said, cutting through Billy Jack’s thoughts. “Go and make sure everything’s ready for us to move out.”

  “Yo!” the sergeant replied. “Maybe —”

  “Do I have to have every order debated?” Dusty yelped, sounding more like an indignant schoolboy whose assumed authority was challenged than the capable young officer who had dealt with Chatswen’s detail.

  “No, sir,” Billy Jack said, barely concealing his annoyance. “You don’t.”

  “Wait here, San—corporal,” Dusty said, as Sandy made as if to follow Billy Jack. Then he looked at Hotchkiss and smiled. “I reckon I could think up a good reason for us to stay and attend your meeting, sir.”

  Alarm and disappointment showed on Sandy’s face. Not only was he eager to reach the Texas Light Cavalry, attending a church social was hardly his idea of how to spend a night in town. The emotions changed to surprise. He had sensed that the sergeant disapproved of Mr. Fog for some reason and suddenly realized what had caused it. However, having known the small Texan for longer than Billy Jack had, Sandy had developed considerable faith in his judgment, If Mr. Fog allowed that the preacher was all right, Sandy accepted his summation without question. For all that, the offer he had just heard came as a surprise:

  “Wouldn’t that be contrary to your orders?” Hotchkiss asked, showing less enthusiasm than Sandy would have expected.

  “Well —” Dusty said hesitantly. “Well, sort of —”

  “A lot more than just ‘sort of”, I’d say,” Hotchkiss interrupted sternly.

  “Shucks,” Dusty answered, lowering his head and shuffling his feet. “We wouldn’t be missed and I’d think up some story for why we were late arriving.”

  “I couldn’t permit that!” Hotchkiss declared. “It would be almost like starting out on a lie. When I came here, I didn’t the urgency of your orders. If I had known, I wouldn’t have invited you.”

  “It’d work out all right, sir —” Dusty began.

  “Whether it would or not, I can’t let it happen,” protested the civilian. “And it wouldn’t do me any good for try congregation to know I’d allowed you to go against your orders.”

  “You’re right, I reckon,” Dusty admitted, a trifle sulkily.

  “You know I am,” Hotchkiss barked. “Perhaps we’ll be able to entertain you and your men at a later date, when you’ll be free to come. Until then, I’ll wish you a safe journey to Pine Bluff!”

  “Little Rock, sir,” Dusty corrected. “It’s the herd that’s headed for Pine Bluff. Can I offer you a meal, or anything, sir?”

  “No, thank you,” Hotchkiss refused. “I won’t do anything to delay you. Good afternoon, Mr. Fog, corporal. I wish you both every success for the future. Remember, always fight the good fight and the Lord will be strong for you.”

  “I’ll do just that, sir,” Dusty promised. “Adios!”

  Still feeling puzzled and a mite annoyed by what he regarded as Mr. Fog’s failure to maintain the high standard of capability, Billy Jack watched Hotchkiss walk towards the chuck wagon. Unfastening the big roan’s reins, the man swung into the saddle and rode away.

  Frowning, Billy Jack wondered if he should not have insisted upon continuing questioning Hotchkiss, or have demanded proof of his identity. Then he thought that maybe he was allowing his disappointment in Mr. Fog to cause his imagination to run away with him. Certainly the preacher in Arkadelphia was an old man and could be figuring on retiring. In which case, he was likely to try to have a deserving kinsman come to replace him. Yet Hotchkiss had not seemed all he should be and he could sure ride a horse real well.

  Thinking back to the conversation during the ride from town, Billy Jack recollected having told Mr. Fog, on being asked, that the Yankees had never tried to interfere with the herds of cattle. There did not seem to be any reason why they should be starting right now.

  Billy Jack decided that there was nothing to worry over. However, he figured that he had better warn Mr. Fog about the dangers of talking so freely with strangers. It was a pity that the young officer should have made such a potentially dangerous mistake after having behaved so admirably up to then. At least Billy Jack consoled himself, there had been no real harm done by the small Texan’s indiscretion.

  Urging his horse to a trot, Hotchkiss headed towards the herd of cattle. After he had covered about a hundred yards, he shook his head in amused disgust.

  “That stupid peckerwood vi son-of-a-bitch,” the black-dressed man said to himself, thinking of the way in which the small Texan had given him all the information he would require. “It looks like we’re not the only Army that gives commissions to fool kids because their folks know somebody important. I almost wish he was going with the held, so that he could see how easy he’s made things for us when we take it.”

  Chapter Six

  As Captain Stratford Hotchkiss rode through the darkness towards the camp of the men who were now handling the herd of cattle, he was still feeling amused by the ease with which he had tricked the small Texan into helping him. The information that he had been given was of the greatest value. It was making his assignment so much easier than he had hoped might happen.

  When Sergeant Leps had returned from making a scout the previous night, telling how adequately the cattle were being watched over and protected, Hotchkiss had wondered if he could carry out his attempt to take them from the Rebels. Clearly somebody with the escort had known the most suitable precautions to take against such an eventuality.

  Deciding to discover the strength and weakness of the escort, Hotchkiss had visited their camp. His mission was being undertaken in civilian clothing and he had along attire suitable for him to pose as a preacher from Arkadelphia. Fortunately, he had discovered the name of the town’s real preacher. At first, he had doubted that he would learn anything. The smart, alert young soldiers and the condition of the camp had hinted at experienced leadership of a high quality.

  Only that skinny-gutted, miserable-looking sergeant had not accepted Hotchkiss as being genuine. He was either suspicious, or more careful than his immediate superior. For a time Hotchkiss had been uneasy, for he knew nothing more about the Reverend Deane than the name and his age. However, the small luff had had to assert his authority and sent away the man who might have spoiled things for Hotchkiss. After that, the ease with which the short-grown runt had supplied all the necessary information—including the size and destination of escort and the name and rank of the man commanding it—had come almost as an anti-climax.

  For a moment, as had happened more than once since leaving the Rebels’ camp, Hotchkiss found himself wondering who had been responsible for its excellent condition. Most likely it had been the lean sergeant, whom Hotchkiss suspected of being more capable than showed on the surface. The efforts of more than one enterprising and efficient soldier had been brought to nothing by the incompetence of superiors who owed their ranks to family influence rather than ability. Hotchkiss himself was, he felt, a case in point.

  Having learned something about handling cattle in California, before volunteering to serve in the Union Army; Hotchkiss had seen an opportunity to put his specialized knowledge to good use.

  Sent to the Army of Ar
kansas, Hotchkiss had found it poorly fed and demoralized. It was not a fighting force to inspire an ambitious man with confidence or hopes for a distinguished future. Then he had seen what he had believed was a good way to gain acclaim and draw attention his way. Learning that the Rebels received regular supplies of fresh beef from Texas, he had proposed that he was given men to raid and drive the cattle back to his own lines. By doing so, he would produce food for the soldiers and cause the Confederate States’ Army to use men to guard the future deliveries.

  Like many another man, Hotchkiss discovered that it was easier to think up a plan than to gain acceptance and official backing for it. His own colonel and General Culver had been interested, but neither was willing openly to associate himself with something that might easily fail. However, he had received grudging and qualified permission to proceed. To his annoyance, he had been compelled to use men from his own Company instead of gathering skilled help. He had selected a sergeant and eight enlisted men with farming backgrounds. While they had not had experience with trail driving, they at least know how to handle cattle.

  Helped by the information so stupidly given to him, Hotchkiss was for the first time confident of success. Once he captured and delivered the herd, he could hope for promotion and to be given a much larger, more experienced, force with which to expand his efforts.

  “Looks like they’ve set up camp in the bushes along by the river,” Sergeant Leps remarked, pointing ahead as his horse came alongside the roan. “That’s something we hadn’t figured on.”

  “It won’t make too much difference,” Hotchkiss replied. “Drop back and make sure the men know I don’t want any shooting. It could spook the herd and start a stampede.”