by J. T. Edson
Marsden knew the name and felt sick despair rising in him, for he knew he could expect little sympathy from the sister of a man—a mere boy of seventeen—whom the Union Army executed as a spy shortly after their arrival in Little Rock. However, he determined to try.
‘I’m no spy—’
‘Nor was my brother. He was just a fool kid who thought he was a man. The information he gathered had no importance and he had no way of passing it to our troops even if it was important.’
‘He had maps of our installations, the supply park—’
‘I could expect a Yankee to excuse his kind,’ Jill snapped, and started to rise.
‘Listen to me, Miss Dodd!’ Marsden put in, almost spilling the plate of stew as he tried to reach out and catch her arm. ‘Please listen!’
The girl had started to draw back, but something in Marsden’s voice halted her and turned her eyes from the Tranter at the tent’s door to his face once more.
‘I’ll listen, but I’m not saying I’ll believe a word of it.’
‘I’m not denying that I’m a Union officer and that I’m loyal to the North. But I learned something important and I must tell it to a Confederate Army officer.’
‘What did you learn?’ asked the girl.
‘Two members of my regiment have a—’ Suddenly the girl swung her head towards the door, turned back to Marsden and said, ‘You start eating, mister.’
Before Marsden could make a reply, the tent’s flap lifted and Ashley peered in suspiciously.
‘You’re taking long enough, Jill,’ he said.
‘Maybe you’d like to feed him,’ the girl answered.
‘What was you talking about?’
‘Feller reckons he has something real important to tell, something that might save a lot of our folks.’
‘Has, huh?’ grunted Ashley. ‘What is it, Yankee?’ Marsden thought fast and knew that he must not speak of his knowledge to the bushwhacker. Not even the dreadful meaning of the scheme would change Ashley’s attitude and knowing of it would give the bushwhacker something of saleable value. Maybe Ashley could evaluate the true worth, offered in the right place of Marsden’s knowledge. Colonel Stedloe might pay well to have word of the scheme suppressed until after its successful completion and would not want too close an investigation into Marsden’s desertion. No, it would never do to let Ashley learn what brought him over the Ouachita.
‘Come on, mister,’ the girl said. ‘Tell us about it.’
‘Well—It’s—I——’ Marsden forced himself to stutter and fumble like a man caught unaware or detected in a lie. ‘It’s real important.’
‘I just bet it is,’ boomed Ashley. ‘So important that you reckoned Jill might set you free to slip away.’
‘You lousy, stinking Yankee!’ Jill spat out, catching up the coffee mug and hurling its contents into Marsden’s face.
While not boiling, the coffee proved hot enough to make Marsden rear up and tip over backwards. The plate of stew tipped from his knees and fell to the ground as he went. Jill turned and stormed out of the tent, scooping up her Tranter in passing and without a backward glance.
Bending down, a grinning Ashley helped Marsden sit up. ‘You shouldn’t’ve tried that, soldier-boy. Jill’s a smart gal, but she could fall for a good-looking feller like you. Only she’d blow your head off as soon as look at you for wearing a Yankee uniform. Like to tell me what did bring you over here?’
‘I’m on a scouting mission,’ answered Marsden, trying a bluff. It missed by a good country mile.
‘In full dress and alone?’ grinned Ashley. ‘Naw, I don’t reckon so. You’re on something important, just like you told Jill.’
‘Maybe I just got tired of fighting and want to surrender.’
‘Can’t say as I go a lot on that, boy.’
‘You could find out by handing me over to the Confederate Army. After all, you are fighting on their side.’
‘Sure I am,’ replied Ashley. ‘Only I’m fighting for me. I don’t give a damn whether they free the slaves or keep ‘em as they are. Made good money before the War both running slaves to the North and setting ‘em free, and sending ‘em back to their owners for the reward. Only reason I support the South’s so that if they win I’ll be able to go on making money the old way.’
‘How do your men feel about that?’
‘ ‘Bout the same as me. They’d rather ride with me and make money than be in some army outfit.’
‘And Jill Dodd?’
A cold, warning scowl came to Ashley’s face. ‘Jill hates you Yankees for what you did to her brother. If some reb regiment’d have her, she’d be wearing a grey uniform and fighting. Only they won’t have a woman, so Jill rides with my outfit. She might have listened to you just now, but she won’t any more. Anyways, I’m fetching Thad in and putting him to guard you. Thad’s a mountain man, mighty sharp-eared, and he’ll be told not to let anybody talk to you.’
It seemed that Ashley did not entirely trust his female member. Anyway, he had no intention of allowing her to make further private conversation with his prisoner.
‘How about some food?’ asked Marsden.
‘Jill’s the cook, she might be mean enough to throw away what’s left of the stew rather than have a Yankee eat it,’ Ashley answered. ‘Now why don’t you tell me what brought you across the Ouachita. I’m going to learn one way or another when we get you back to our main camp, it’ll be easier on your hide to talk friendly.’
‘I’m just a deserter,’ Marsden insisted.
Coming erect, Ashley shrugged. ‘It’s your hide, boy. Only Thad’s a mighty persuasive feller when he has to be. Think on it. Don’t rush, you got all night.’
CHAPTER THREE
DEATH OF A BUSHWHACKER
Although he doubted if he would, Marsden slept at least some of the night. One of the bushwhackers brought him another plate of stew and mug of coffee soon after Ashley left, but the girl did not make another appearance. With the meal finished, Marsden was left to himself although the black silhouette on the tent’s wall showed that Thad stood guard outside. Sheer exhaustion brought sleep to him at last, even though his chains forced him to adopt an uncomfortable position.
Dawn’s grey light showed through the tent as Marsden opened his eyes. Outside, from what he could hear, the bushwhackers were awake and preparing to break camp. Voices and laughter reached his ears. Then the tent shook violently and began to collapse. The mass of canvas and central support pole came clattering down on him and he started to struggle, as well as he could in the chains, to extricate himself. Something round and hard prodded into his side, sending a wave of pain through him.
‘Come on, Yankee!’ whooped a voice. ‘Wriggle harder.’
Marsden forced himself to lie still rather than give more cause for amusement to the men around the fallen tent. Outside, some half a dozen bushwhackers, including the man who felt Marsden’s hard fist the previous night, gathered around. Raising his rifle, the man thrust it down hard at the mound which marked Marsden’s position.
‘Wriggle, Yankee!’ whooped the man, as well as he could through his swollen lips. Again he thrust the rifle’s muzzle down. ‘Come on, make a move to get—’
Suddenly the man felt a violent push which sent him staggering away from the tent. Jill Dodd, flush-faced and angry, glared at the others of the taunting group and pointed down with a quivering finger.
‘Get that tent pulled off him!’ she snapped.
‘We was only funning, Jill gal,’ answered one of the men.
‘Uncover him!’
‘He’s only a Yankee!’ objected the man Jill pushed.
‘He’s a human being!’ the girl answered hotly. ‘And he’s going to be treated like one.’
‘There’s some’d say you was going soft on that Yankee,’ stated the man. ‘Or maybe that you’re forgetting what they did to your brother.’
‘I’m not forgetting anything!’ Jill blazed back, the Tranter sliding into her hand. ‘If
you want, I’ll kill him right now. But if not, he’ll be treated like a human being and not humiliated.’
Slowly one of the men bent down, gripped the canvas and started to draw it from Marsden. Some of the others helped, uncovering the young lieutenant. Jill Dodd had a unique standing among Ashley’s bushwhacker band. There had been other women who followed Ashley, but they were no more than cheap prostitutes who found making a living impossible due to the War and came to earn their keep with their bodies. Jill rode as a serving member of the band. Only once, soon after she joined them, had an attempt been made to treat her as a normal camp-follower. The man who made the attempt died with a .36 Tranter ball in his belly and the remainder of the band took the hint. There were no further attempts on Jill’s virtue. In the six months or so that she rode with the band, she proved herself able to handle a horse and shoot with the best of them and gained Ashley’s confidence until he came to regard her as his second-in-command. None of the men around the tent doubted that Jill would shoot their prisoner, or that she meant to enforce her orders to them in the same manner if they disobeyed.
Always a late riser, Ashley appeared at the door of his tent and glowered across the camp.
‘What’s all the fuss?’ he bellowed. ‘Why in hell haven’t you started to break camp?’
Thad opened his mouth to answer, but the words did not come. Instead the man stared past his leader, made as if to raise his Perry carbine from the crook of his arm, thought better of it and stood still. His actions brought every eye towards the two uniformed figures who stepped from among the bushes and advanced towards the centre of the camp.
Clearly the new arrivals belonged to some crack Confederate regiment, for their uniforms, though travel-stained, were of excellent material and cut. The taller of the pair, a gangling bean-pole who topped the six-foot mark and had a miserable, careworn face, wore the usual kepi, cadet grey tunic—with a prominent Adam’s apple showing through its stand-up collar—yellow-striped cavalry breeches tucked neatly into high-legged Jefferson boots. Instead of the usual weapon belt, he wore one of brown leather, broader and lower on the hips than normal, with a pair of walnut-butted 1860 Army Colts in open-topped holsters, the holster bottoms secured to his legs by thongs. From the triple bars and arc of silk, denoting rank of sergeant-major, on his sleeves, that man must have more to his make-up than showed in his face and general manner.
Turning his eyes from the sergeant-major to the second soldier, Marsden bit down an exclamation of surprise and hope.
On the face of it, the second man did not seem to be worthy of Marsden’s interest. Even the term ‘man’ might be thought an over-statement when applied to a male person not long gone eighteen, and not large-grown for his age. Even with a white Confederate version of the Burnside hat—without one side turned up and devoid of a plume—on his dusty blond-haired head, the second man clearly stood no more than five foot six. However, his shoulders had a width that hinted at strength and tapered down to a slim waist. Cool grey eyes looked from a tanned, handsome, intelligent young face, yet he did not give the impression of a swaggering half-pint who used his rank and social position to enforce his will on others. The uniform he wore set off his build, although it did not entirely conform with the Confederate Army’s Manual of Dress Regulations. While the jacket had a stand-up collar, bearing the triple half-inch-wide, three-inch-long strips of gold braid of a captain, its wearer replaced the official black silk cravat with a tight rolled scarlet bandana. The double-breasted jacket bore the necessary double braid rank insignia on its sleeves and double row of seven buttons, but it ended at the waist, being without the prescribed ‘skirt extending to halfway between hip and knee” His riding breeches and boots had clearly been made to measure. Like his sergeant-major, the young captain wore a brown leather weapon belt, however, the two white handled Army Colts rode butt forward in their open-topped holsters and not so low hanging as the other man’s.
‘Release that man,’ ordered the small captain, the drawl in his voice confirming Marsden’s thoughts of his place of origin even without the lieutenant needing a second look at the hat badge—a five-pointed star in a circle.
‘He’s our prisoner,’ Ashley replied, darting looks around him and seeing only the silent woods.
‘He’s an officer of the Union Army,’ stated the captain. ‘I’ll take him out of your hands.’
Pleasure at his rescue was mingled with doubt and concern as Marsden turned his head in an effort to see what support the two soldiers had to enforce their demands. He saw nothing but the trees and bushes which surrounded the clearing. Surely the two men had not been fools enough to come unsupported?
Ashley seemed to think so. After another quick glance around, he started to raise a big right hand, meaning to grip the front of the small captain’s non-regulation tunic.
‘Just who do you reckon you are, you short—’ Ashley began.
Out and up stabbed the captain’s left hand in a move almost faster than the eye could follow. He caught Ashley’s thumb neatly, his own thumb resting on the trapped member’s second joint and fingers curling around, using leverage and counteracting pressure in a manner which threatened to snap the gripped bones. On securing his hold, the captain turned Ashley’s palm upwards and at the same time raised the trapped hand. In an attempt to relieve the extreme pain caused by the hold, Ashley allowed his hand to bend inwards and twisted so he stood with his back to his captor. Moving a pace to the rear, but retaining his hold on the thumb, the captain raised his right leg, placed his foot against Ashley’s rump and, releasing his grip, pushed hard. Ashley shot forward, stumbled, and went to his knees, mouthing a mixture of curses and orders to his men.
‘Hold it right there!’ ordered the sergeant-major, backing his words with a Colt in both hands.
The angry curses which rose from the bushwhackers died again. So interested had they been in watching Ashley’s abortive attack on the captain that none saw the gangling non-com produce his weapons. However, all took in the sight of the lined Colts and discarded any ideas that might be forming on the matter of taking reprisals against the rash intruders.
Twisting around, still on his knees, Ashley studied the situation. First to strike his notice was that the sergeant-major’s full attention was fixed on his men. Next he observed that the captain had not as yet drawn his weapons.
‘Which of you’s Ashley?’ asked the captain.
Already Ashley had one hand on the butt of his fancy Remington revolver. From the way he saw it, the two soldiers had made a deadly error in tactics. The moment that bean-pole non-com tried to turn his guns towards Ashley, the rest of the band would jump him. With a holstered gun, the captain could not draw lift, aim and shoot before being swamped under. Satisfied on that point, Ashley jerked out his Remington and started to raise the gun shoulder high so he could take aim.
Instantly, even as Ashley started to pull his gun, the captain moved. Faster than the eye could follow, the left hand flashed across and closed upon the curved white grip of the right-side Colt. The moment the gun came clear of leather, its user’s forefinger entered the trigger-guard and already his thumb drew back the hammer. Nor did he take the time to lift the Colt shoulder high. His legs moved, halted to place him squarely facing Ashley, the knees slightly bent. Elbow almost touching his belt buckle, Colt no more than waist high, the captain fired his first shot. From first movement of the hand to crash of the shot took less than a second, but at the end of that time Ashley died with a .44 bullet in his head.
So swift had been the small captain’s action that it took everybody in the clearing—with the possible exception of the lean sergeant-major—completely by surprise. Not for several years would Ned Buntline and his fellow-writers publicise the speed with which some Western men could draw and shoot a gun. At the start of the War, Arkansas was so far past the frontier days that such superlative skill with weapons ceased to be a necessity of life and none of the bushwhackers knew just how fast and deadly a man raised
in the West could be. Even Marsden, reared as he had been in New Mexico, felt surprised, for such speed and ability was the exception rather than the rule.
On the shot, almost before Ashley’s body hit the ground, grey-clad soldiers dressed in the manner of the sergeant-major stepped from cover all around the camp. The guns held by the newcomers quelled any hope the bushwhackers might had had for avenging their leader’s death.
Holstering his Colt, the captain pointed to Marsden and said, ‘Release him!’
The words jolted one of the bushwhackers into action. Taking out the necessary keys, he walked to Marsden’s side and unlocked the handcuffs, then removed the leg-irons. Slowly and stiffly, Marsden came to his feet. He stood working his arms and legs to get the stiffness out of them, touched his sore ribs and then rubbed his aching belly. All the time, he studied the bushwhackers. Finding the man he wanted, Marsden strolled over and held out his right hand.
‘I’ll have it back.’ he said.
‘Sure, mister,’ gulped the man and reached for his inside pocket to take out Marsden’s watch.
Taking the watch, Marsden slipped it back into its usual place. Then his left hand bunched into a fist and shot forward to drive into the man’s stomach. Marsden struck hard, his fist sinking into the man’s belly, doubling him over in a croaking mass of pain and dropping him to his knees.
‘That’s enough, mister!’ barked the captain. ‘Take charge of the prisoner, Mr. Blaze.’
A freckle-faced, pugnaciously handsome young lieutenant, his hat shoved back to show curly, unruly fiery-red hair, moved forward. While Mr. Blaze understood Marsden’s feelings, and could guess that the Yankee lieutenant had been rough-handled by the bushwhackers, he also knew that the irregulars must be given no chance of grabbing a hostage.
‘My apologies, sir,’ Marsden said, stepping away from the bushwhackers and turning to the captain. ‘I was just exchanging gifts.’