Apache Rampage

by J. T. Edson

  ‘It’ll go hard for you if we miss out, Paddy,’ Dusty remarked as they stood side by side and watched the camp settling down to rest.

  ‘Sure, Cap’n,’ agreed Magoon, although he could not see any plan Dusty made going wrong. ‘But we won’t be around to see it.’

  Dusty’s eyes went to the big wagon again. ‘I’d like to see what you’re toting that needs so many men for escort.’

  ‘Would you now?’ Magoon answered, dipping his hand into his pocket and taking out a clasp knife. He opened the blade and stepped forward. ‘I’ll soon tell you, Cap’n, darlin’.’

  ‘Sergeant!’ Dusty barked out, the note in his voice bringing Magoon to a dead stop. ‘What were your orders about that load?’

  ‘Deliver it to the fort unopened.’

  ‘Then just what do you think you’re going to do?’

  Magoon looked sheepish. ‘Only aimed to pry the corners up a mite, Cap’n.’

  Dusty relaxed and grinned. It was rare that Magoon ever showed respect for any officer. Yet he treated Dusty with complete respect, even though the only uniform the small Texan ever wore belonged to an enemy army. Dusty was about to make some remark, but there was an interruption. Magoon’s bosom friend, erstwhile fellow sergeant, now reduced to corporal, Tolitski, had set their men out as pickets. One of these pickets was now on his feet and pointing along the stage trail. His voice sounded excited, for he was one of the recruits.

  ‘Soldiers coming!’ he yelled. ‘Party from the fort, looks like.’

  Dusty and Magoon were the first to reach the trooper. They looked at the approaching party. Dusty was disappointed at seeing so small a party, although he hoped it would have an officer along. If that was the case Dusty could lay the whole thing in the officer’s lap and leave Magoon clear of responsibility. Magoon recognised the riders and gave an annoyed, angry growl.

  ‘That’s just about all we need,’ he said, looking at the big, hulking three-bar who rode at the head of the party. ‘That’s Bogran from the stockade. Looks like he’s been collecting prisoners from the forts.’

  The party came closer and Dusty looked the big man over. Sergeant Bogran was heavy-set, big and with a hard, cruel face. It was not the face of a martinet disciplinarian. It was the face of a savage brute who took a delight in punishing. He rode in a slouching way that made Dusty’s hackles rise. The seat was sloppy and hard on the horse. He was not a light rider and probably a cruel one.

  Behind the sergeant came four men, bare-headed, handcuffed, and riding in pairs. The rear was brought up by two big, hulking, brutish-looking corporals. They were hard-looking men, faces showing the same love of cruelty as did the sergeant’s. Each of the three non-coms wore a long-barrelled Peacemaker in an open-topped holster, a stout club hung at the right side of their belts and a Springfield butt showed from under their legs. They were well armed and for a purpose, they were taking the other four to the Stockade, the military prison. All in all the three men were typical of the kind chosen to act as warders at the Stockade. Men selected for their brute strength and savage ways. A Stockade non-com was not a job which called for kindness, and they’d little regard for human life or suffering. Bogran was spoken of throughout the Army as being the worst of a bad bunch. Some of the guards occasionally showed a spark of humanity and decency, but he never did. Bogran was hated from Montana to the Mexican border and revelled in that hatred. It was such a reputation that was invaluable to him. It carried him from trooper to senior Stockade sergeant and, he hoped, would carry him to a commission and command of a Stockade.

  Bringing his horse to a halt with a cruel jerk at its mouth, Bogran looked at Magoon with dislike in his eyes. Bogran hated Magoon, and every other serving soldier, regarded them as possible candidates for the Stockade. He knew the Irish sergeant did not like him and revelled in the thought.

  ‘What’s all this, Magoon?’ he asked.

  ‘What’re you doing out of your cage, Bogran?’ growled Magoon in reply. ‘I thought they only let you out when there wasn’t a chance of you polluting the air decent soldiers breathe.’

  Bogran never worried about insults, they rolled off a hide which was thicker than a California redwood tree. He jerked a contemptuous finger towards his prisoners. ‘I was sent to collect this bunch. What’s doing here?’

  ‘Sergeant,’ Dusty Fog said, moving forward. ‘Why are those men handcuffed?’

  The sneer left Bogran’s face. He knew that tone of voice. It was the tone of a real tough officer. The sort of officer who would allow no disrespect. Then the sneer came back again as he looked Dusty over. Here was no officer. Just a small cowhand, a nobody.

  ‘They’re prisoners, sonny—’

  ‘Sonny, is it?’ bellowed Magoon, outraged that anyone should speak in such a manner to his hero. ‘This here’s Cap’n Fog. So watch your damned, stupid lip or he’ll be making you wish you had.’

  The sneer wavered for a moment. Bogran knew Magoon of old, knew how little respect he had for any man’s rank. For Magoon to take such an attitude meant that here was a man he respected. This small man wearing cowhand’s clothes meant something to Magoon. The fact that he was wearing civilian clothes meant nothing. Many an officer travelled out of uniform. Some of them even affected cowhand dress, although few wore it with the ease and assurance of the small Texan. Bogran studied Dusty. There was a military bearing about him, the undefinable something which marked down a real tough, efficient officer to the eyes of a soldier.

  Dusty’s voice was low, but there was something in it which wiped the sneer from Bogran’s face. ‘Sergeant, even you should know a prisoner is released in time of action. And sergeant, the way things are standing with the Apaches, action is coming up.’

  Ignoring the crowd who were gathering at his back, Dusty looked along the line of prisoners. Three of them were what he expected, drunks, malcontents and troublecausers all of them. The other prisoner was not of that kind. He was a slim, dark, good-looking young man. His uniform was well-cut and on the sleeves marks where chevrons had been. Dusty recognised this man, so did Mark Counter. He was Chet Bronson, an ex-captain of Bushrod Sheldon’s Confederate Cavalry, and had been Mark’s commanding officer in the war.

  Bronson was what was known as a turn-back, a man who gave up his officer status to stay in the Union Army, come West and fight Indians. He was a good soldier, a fine shot, a peerless horseman and known as a first-rate scout. He should never be here, with these hard-bargains, candidates for the hell-hole which was the Army Stockade.

  ‘That’s right, is it?’ Bogran growled, regaining some of his composure. He turned and bellowed an order for the prisoners to dismount, swung down from his horse and walked towards them. ‘I’d be better off with the Apaches than with this scum loose. Wouldn’t I, Bronson?’

  Chet Bronson stood rigid and did not reply as the hulking man stopped in front of him. More than any other kind of prisoner Bogran hated a non-com who was put into the Stockade and went out of his way to abuse such as came to him. Bogran was not a man to be thwarted by silence and knew how to handle it. The back of his hand lashed across Bronson’s face, staggering him into the horses.

  ‘Answer me, you lousy, reb turnback—!’ Bogran began.

  A hand gripped Bogran’s collar, hauling him backwards. The crowd would have never thought so small a man as Dusty Fog packed such strength, for the huge sergeant was thrown backwards and almost fell. He caught his balance and let out an almost animal roar of rage. For all his anger Bogran was cautious. He was no gunman and knew that the small Texan was his master in any matter which involved the exchange of Colt courtesies. With that in mind Bogran’s hand fanned down towards his club and he hurled himself bodily at the small man.

  Dusty moved faster than the eye could follow, almost. He dived forward, under Bogran’s club, caught the man’s right leg and hauled it from the ground. Bogran’s other foot was in the air, striding forward when his right lost the earth. He let out an angry yell, lost his club and went down, flailing
the air with his arms and smashed down hard.

  To one side of Dusty the two Stockade corporals prepared to help their sergeant. The first to move learned his lesson fast for Mark Counter caught his arm, turned him and shot out a fist. It was a beautiful blow, the mighty army muscles throwing the fist, arm shooting out with the full weight of Mark’s body behind it. The punch connected squarely with the side of the corporal’s jaw, his head snapped to one side and he seemed to take wings. It was the sort of blow which ended a fight before things got going. The corporal smashed down, bounced once and lay without a move.

  The second corporal let out a bellow, saw Bogran was getting up and turned to avenge his friend. Mark heard Waco’s yell of warning and thrust the impetuous youngster to one side. Then Mark attacked. It was a sight to gladden the heart of any soldier, the way Mark took that Stockade corporal. The man’s hand was fanning down for his club, but even as it slid clear Mark slammed a punch into his middle. Gasping in pain the corporal let the club fall and swung a wild, round-house blow at Mark. There was plenty of steam, weight and muscle behind the blow, but there was only one trouble. It never landed.

  Mark fought in a way which was a joy to behold. He kept his fists up, left held protectively across his body, right moving as it looked for an opening. All the time Mark moved in fast, bouncing steps, keeping his feet the same distance apart. The corporal was as big as Mark, slightly heavier and at least as strong, but he was a plain swinger with neither skill nor science. In other such encounters the Stockade guard relied on brute strength and that was of no use against a man like Mark Counter. The wild swinging blows either missed, or were brushed aside by Mark’s guard, then his other hand shot out with savage power. The corporal was tough and hard, but mere toughness was no use. His mouth and nose were running blood and his eye swelling, but he’d never laid a hand on Mark.

  There was no mercy in the way Mark took that Stockade non-com., for such men never showed mercy to any prisoner under them. Then Mark got his opening. Like a Missouri mule-kick his left sank almost wrist deep into the corporal’s middle. The man let out a croaking grunt of agony and sank to his knees. His hand went to the butt of his gun, lifting it clear of leather.

  That was when Mark Counter got riled. The fight had been fair so far and Mark refrained from using any of the rough-house tricks he’d learned in a dozen such brawls. When he saw the man drawing the revolver, he lost his temper. Jumping forward Mark drove up his foot in a savage, dynamite packed kick which exploded under the man’s jaw. The big corporal was almost lifted to his feet, and from the way his neck snapped back Mark thought he’d killed him. The corporal went right over, crashing down and lying without a move. Mark turned to see if there was anything he could do to help Dusty and found his help was not needed.

  Coming up to his feet, Bogran lunged forward with arms ready to clamp hold of, and crush the life from, Dusty. Dusty did not even move to avoid the grip, but before the arms could enfold him he acted. Using the deadly karate technique which made up for his lack of inches, Dusty brought up his foot and drove it out. The high heel of the riding boot smashed just under Bogran’s kneecap, driving home with brutal force and doubling the man over as he clutched at the injured part. The kick was enough to cripple him, but the extra pain caused by the high heel of the boot did all Dusty hoped it would.

  Bogran was doubled over, holding his knee, face twisted in agony. He was all but helpless for Dusty’s next attack, which came with the speed which made Dusty famous. Dusty’s right hand lashed around, fingers straight and rigid, thumb bent over his palm, in the tegatana, the handsword. The base of the palm caught Bogran with smashing force at the side of his neck, just behind the ear. He went down like a back-broke rabbit, landing on his face, hands clawing into the ground. His pain-twisted face looked up at the small Texan, then his fingers touched something hard and cold. It was the butt of the Stockade corporal’s revolver, lying where it fell after Mark rendered its owner incapable of using it, or anything else, for some time. Bogran’s hand closed on the revolver butt, and Dusty jumped forward. Driving his left hand into Bogran’s long, lank black hair, Dusty heaved the man upwards with a pull which almost scalped him and lifted him clear to his knees. Bogran’s howl of agony died off as Dusty swung his other hand, using the Uraken, the back-fist. The hand came round, powered by Dusty’s steel hard muscles, the protruding base joint of the second finger crashing into the man’s temple. Bogran’s howl died off, and his huge body went limp.

  There was excited chatter among the watchers. Waco was abusing Mark in no uncertain manner for making him miss a good fight while the Kid stood grinning. The soldiers and Big Em were clearly delighted, although at any other time they would have been all for the Army men in a fight with civilians. The Stockade guards were in a different class and did not count as Army in the eyes of the soldiers. Only one person was not in that excited, wildly gesticulating, talking group.

  Phyllis stood back from the others, her face sober and thoughtful. She knew there must be some trickery and secret skill in the way Dusty handled Bogran, but there was nothing of that nature in how Mark took the corporal. Phyllis knew more than a little about fist-fighting, male as well as female. She knew that the average pugilist was simply a wild swinger who won only if he could hit harder and take more punishment than his opponent. It was the same with the girl fighters she’d met. They copied the men. Yet she’d heard rumours of a new fighting style which was supplanting the old toe-to-toe method. This way of Mark’s must be the new style, and with it he could take any pugilist she’d ever seen.

  Her eyes went to Big Em, noting the size of the woman and the big, muscle-packed arms. Phyllis was no fool. She knew the fighting game well. Big Em, under the old style of fighting, had everything in her favour; youth, strength, size and reach. Phyllis knew that her own extra knowledge and experience could hardly offset all the disadvantages. Her only hope was to have a talk with Mark Counter and learn all she could from him before the fight.

  Dusty turned his attention to business again, looking at Magoon who was beaming enough to set the grass on fire. ‘Release the prisoners, Sergeant.’

  For once in his life Paddy Magoon hesitated before obeying an order given to him by Dusty Fog. He knew one of the prisoners and could guess at the kind the other two were. He was willing to allow Bronson to go free, for Magoon did not regard the southerner as a prisoner, but not the others. He stood for an instant, without moving to obey, then said:

  ‘Reckon we should, Cap’n?’ He indicated the big, sullen-looking man who’d been riding next to Bronson. ‘Harris there’s in for life, killed a sergeant in a drunken brawl. I don’t know about the other two, but with the shortage of recruits, they don’t get sent to the Stockade if there’s any chance of them making something.’

  Dusty did not reply to Magoon. He looked the men over then spoke, ‘I’m releasing you now and when we ride tonight you’ll each be given a carbine and twenty bullets. If we’re attacked while we’re here you’ll be armed, if not you’ll get the carbine just before we pull out. See to it, Sergeant Magoon. Take the carbines from your three best pistol shots. I’ll attend to Bronson myself. The three men will ride with your detail, where the Stockade non-coms. can keep an eye on them.’ He looked back at the men. ‘You’d best all know this. The Apaches are up, out in force. The whole country’s swarming with them, and you won’t get a mile if you run. If the Apaches don’t get you, my men will. At the end of the trouble you will be handed over to Sergeant Bogran again.’

  ‘Big deal,’ growled Harris sullenly, his eyes dropping to the revolver on the ground.

  ‘It’s the only deal you rate in your present position, soldier,’ snapped Dusty. ‘And a better one than you’d get with Bogran. But if you want it that way I’ll let him and his men take you on to the Stockade right now.’

  ‘We’ll ride with you,’ grunted Harris. He was under no doubt as to what his chances would be with Bogran. If they ran into Apache trouble and things became in
any way dangerous, Bogran would not hesitate. He would leave the prisoners as bait to slow down the Apaches and make good his escape. This way, by staying with Dusty Fog’s party, there was a chance of escaping either on the trail in the darkness, or after the fighting was over.

  ‘Then you ride under my terms,’ replied Dusty and turned to Magoon. ‘Release these men, Sergeant. Keep them under escort all the time, except for Chet Bronson. I want to talk with him. And Sergeant,’ Dusty saw the gleam in Harris’s eyes. ‘See you collect the Stockade noncoms’ weapons. They might give somebody ideas.’

  For a moment Harris’s face darkened in anger, then a smile came to it. He did not know who this small, soft-talking Texan was; knew nothing except that he acted and talked like a tough officer who knew what he was doing; but he was no man’s fool. Harris stood while his handcuffs were removed. He watched Corporal Tolitski collecting Bogran and the unconscious corporal’s sidearms and shrugged. That revolver which Tolitski picked up had formed part of Harris’s escape plan. Now it was out of his reach.

  Bronson walked with Dusty to where the Texans’ saddles lay. Dusty bent and drew his carbine from the boot, passing it to the dark man. Then opening his saddle pouch, Dusty removed a box of bullets for the gun and gave them to Bronson.

  ‘Sorry I don’t have a spare handgun along, Chet,’ said Dusty. ‘The carbine’s the best I can do for you. It’s full loaded. How come you’re in with this bunch?’

  ‘I’m going to the Stockade—for thirty years.’

  Dusty looked hard at the soldier. Mark was by his side now and stared at Bronson, hardly able to believe his ears. Bronson was a soldier and a good one, the two knew his reputation both in the war and since. He was a natural, a born leader of men and could have risen to officer status, but he would not accept the bars in the Union Army. It did not seem possible he could commit so serious a military offence as to warrant that punishment.