by J. T. Edson
Sensing something out of the ordinary in the air, a small knot of soldiers hovered in the background. On seeing that Marsden went towards the rail-hung saddle, an air of anticipation ran through the watching men. All wanted to see what kind of a horseman the Yankee shavetail might be. With his army’s reputation to uphold, Marsden hoped that he might put on a good display. However, he had never used a double-cinched range saddle and wondered if he could handle it correctly.
‘Here, Yankee,’ a voice said. ‘I’ll lend you a hand.’
Turning his head, Marsden looked towards the speaker. All in all the approaching man did not strike Marsden as being the type to voluntarily offer assistance. He was a tall, burly young man with a sullen truculent face and wore the uniform of Mosby’s Rangers. However, Marsden knew that appearance could be deceptive and so raised no protest. Not that the soldier intended to burden himself to any great extent, for he took the blanket and left Marsden to handle the saddle. Not that Marsden objected, as he liked to saddle his own horse.
Walking to the sorrel, the soldier went around it, halting on the side away from Billy Jack and in a position that hid him from the watching men. He took his time in getting the blanket into place, slipped a hand under it to ensure its smooth, unwrinkled fit, then let Marsden swing on the saddle. To one side of the group, Sam Ysabel glanced at the horse then turned his eyes to study Marsden’s helper.
While saddling the sorrel, Marsden took the opportunity to study the animal. It showed no objections at receiving the saddle, although it moved restlessly when he first put the rig on. Clearly the sorrel was used to being saddled and ridden, however it might want to debate the matter of who ran things when it felt Marsden’s weight for the first time. Not that Marsden felt worried, he reckoned he could hold his own in that kind of company.
With everything set, Marsden gripped the saddlehorn, placed a foot in the stirrup iron and swung upwards. Cocking his leg over, Marsden settled his weight down in the saddle. Instantly the sorrel gave a shrill scream of pain and took off in a wild leap. Only by a grab at the horn did Marsden prevent himself from being thrown. He came down hard on the saddle once more after being raised clear out of it, landing just as the horse’s feet touched the ground again. Another scream of pain burst from the horse and it took off once more. Marsden could not imagine what was happening. He did not for a moment believe that Dusty misled him or gave him an outlaw horse. No horse could have fooled Marsden so completely as to its character. Yet the sorrel seemed to be almost crazy as it bounded and leapt, squealing on each leap’s completion.
Dusty threw a glance at the burly soldier who helped Marsden, then turned and raced to where a saddled horse stood ready for use in an emergency—a simple precaution when handling spirited animals that might be snuffy through lack of work. Taking off in a bound, Dusty leap-frogged over the horse’s rump, landed in the saddle, caught up the reins and started the animal moving. A second rider, a man returning from some duty, sent his mount racing towards the wildly leaping sorrel so as to give assistance.
Bringing his horse alongside the sorrel, Dusty yelled a warning to Marsden and hoped the other knew what to do. Marsden still stuck on the horse despite his amazement at its behaviour. True he expected some trouble, but nothing so serious as the wild fit of bucking. He knew that somehow each time he slammed down into the saddle, the impact brought on another spasm. Yet there was no way he could dismount short of leaping clear and chancing a broken leg. Then he heard Dusty’s yell and saw the small captain loom alongside, coming in very close. At the same moment a second rider appeared at the other side, crowding in on the sorrel.
‘Now!’ Dusty yelled as he extended an arm towards Marsden.
Grabbing out, Marsden hooked an arm around Dusty’s shoulders and felt the Texan’s hand clamp hold of his belt. Then he kicked his feet free of the stirrups and felt himself dragging over the saddle. A moment later he hung suspended from Dusty and the sorrel drew away from them still bucking. Leaning from his saddle, the second rider managed to catch the sorrel’s trailing reins and brought the animal to a halt.
Once clear of the sorrel, Dusty set Marsden down on the ground. Swinging from his saddle, Dusty left the horse to its own devices and strode towards where the sorrel stood fighting its reins. Dusty took the reins and started to calm the horse, speaking gently and holding its head down. Hearing a burst of laughter, Dusty threw a cold, ominous glare at the Mosby man who had helped Marsden.
When the sorrel calmed down and stood still, although shivering, Dusty moved alongside it and started to loosen the saddle-girths. Running forward, Marsden helped to strip off the saddle. With an angry gesture Dusty reached under the blanket and brought something out. Marsden looked down at a small iron ball with four knobbly lumps of pyramid-shape rising from it.
‘So that’s what made him buck!’ Marsden breathed. ‘But I don’t—’
‘I do!’ Dusty growled and swung from Marsden to walk to where the burly Mosby man stood wiping his eyes and still laughing. ‘Did you put this under the sorrel’s saddle blanket?’
With an effort the soldier stopped laughing and the truculence returned to his sullen features. ‘Sure I did. Figured to see how well the Yankee shavetail could ride a hoss.’
Which, as any member of the Texas Light Cavalry could have warned the soldier, was most definitely not the manner to use when answering a very annoyed Captain Dusty Fog.
‘Damn you, Heimer!’ Sam Ysabel bellowed. ‘I’ll—’
‘I’m handling this, Sergeant!’ Dusty cut in.
It had long been Heimer’s boast that he showed respect only for Colonel Mosby and he objected to having a short-growed kid-officer from another regiment mean-mouthing him.
‘So I shook the shavetail up,’ he scoffed. ‘Hell, he’s only a Yankee—’
‘Walk that horse until it cools down,’ Dusty ordered quietly.
‘Like he—’
Heimer’s words chopped off abruptly as Dusty moved forward to insist on obedience to orders. Out and up drove Dusty’s left fist, sinking with some force into the pit of the unsuspecting Heimer’s stomach. Knowing his own size and reputation as a rough-house brawler, Heimer never thought the small captain dare lay a hand on him. So the blow, anything but a light one, took him completely by surprise. Grunting, he went back on his heels, took a pace to the rear and doubled over. Dusty whipped up his other hand, swinging it around so that the knuckles caught the offere4 jaw with a crisp thud.
Lifted erect by the punch, Heimer staggered back several feet before he managed to catch his balance and come to a halt. Then he gave an enraged bellow, lowered his head and launched a charge calculated to flatten a much larger man than the grim-faced officer who so rough-handled him.
‘We’d better stop him!’ Marsden gasped and started to move forward.
‘Leave be, Jack,’ answered Red Blaze, clamping hold of the other’s arm and restraining him. ‘Dusty won’t hurt that feller none.’
At which point Marsden began to see that his fears had been misplaced.
Instead of side-stepping the other’s rush, Dusty waited for it. However, before Heimer struck him, Dusty’s hands shot out and clamped hold of Heimer’s jacket just below the armpits, arms locking against the man’s bent-forward body and holding it. Moving fast, Dusty pivoted his hips slightly to the left and started to fall backwards. Suddenly Dusty hooked his right foot behind Heimer’s left leg and pressed his left boot against the front of the other’s right ankle. Heimer howled as his feet lost all control. By using Heimer’s momentum, Dusty changed the charge into a head-long tumble. While a good horseman, Heimer did not have time to break his fall. He felt himself falling, let out a wail and landed with a crash upon his back.
Bounding up, Dusty went forward, bent and laid hold of Heimer’s jacket front. With a heave, Dusty fetched the winded man to his feet and then heaved him into Sam Ysabel’s waiting arms.
‘See he tends to the sorrel, Sergeant!’ Dusty barked. ‘And if it isn’t f
it for use in the morning I’ll stuff his pants with these damned burrs and ride him on a cannon until he wishes his mother and father never met the one time they did.’
Gripping Heimer by the scruff of the neck, Ysabel shook him savagely. ‘You hear that, boy?’ he growled. ‘Well you’d better believe it. Happen that hoss ain’t fit to be rid Cap’n Fog’ll surely do what he says.’
While he claimed to be tough, and could not be counted among the world’s brighter intellects, Heimer knew enough to call a game quits. He did not know how the small captain managed to handle him with such comparative ease, but his every instinct warned him that Dusty could most likely repeat the process, or maybe even find a rougher and more painful method next time. Nor did he offer to raise objections to Sam Ysabel’s handling, for the big sergeant had a direct, blunt and very effective way of enforcing his demands. So Heimer, limping slightly, went to the sorrel took the reins, and started to walk it.
‘How the hell did he do that?’ Marsden asked a grinning Red, while Dusty spoke with Ysabel. ‘I know a few wrestling tricks, but that—’
‘Uncle Devil’s got a servant,’ Red explained. ‘Most folks reckon Tommy Okasi comes from China, but he claims to hail from some place called Nippon. Well, ole Tommy knows a mighty fancy way of fighting they use back to his home. Taught Dusty near on all he knows.’
Then Marsden remembered how Dusty handled the bushwhacker, Ashley, and decided that wherever that Tommy Okasi feller came from, his way of fighting sure gave the small Texan a powerful edge over bigger and stronger men.
After a thorough walking session, Heimer returned with the sorrel and stood apprehensively by while Dusty and Marsden inspected the animal’s back. While they found that the metal burr had made a small indentation where it pressed on the sorrel’s back, both men realised that no permanent or serious damage had been done—which was fortunate for Heimer.
‘He’ll do,’ Dusty told the young man. ‘Throw the saddle on him again so that Mr. Marsden can ride him.’
Although the horse fiddle-footed a little on being mounted, it soon settled down and showed signs of regaining confidence in its rider. When Marsden returned from making a circuit of the corrals, he knew he sat a horse capable of carrying him through the long and hard journey ahead.
CHAPTER SEVEN
BUSHWHACKER RAID
By half-past nine in the morning Elizabeth Chamberlain knew that she and her small escort were utterly and completely lost. All around them rolled the Arkansas hill country, with not a single identifiable mark. Nowhere could she see any sign of the convoy in which she travelled from Fort Downey, one of the posts established by the Union to hold the eastern half of the Indian Nations against the rebels.
A second, less palatable, thought struck Liz—as she preferred to be called. If it came to a point, she might well blame herself for her present position. Instead of allowing the soldier at her side to concentrate on driving the buggy, she insisted on showing her views on equality by engaging him in conversation and straightening him out on various matters. While talking, they must have taken a wrong turning and, followed by three of the mounted escort, wandered away from the convoy. March discipline had not been good and the line straggled badly in the darkness, so their absence would not be discovered until dawn at the earliest.
At first Liz stubbornly refused to believe that she could make such a mistake and when she did both she and the escort failed to do the obvious thing and stay where they were until a search party came for them. Instead they tried to retrace their steps and in doing so became more completely and utterly lost.
‘How about it, Miss Chamberlain?’ asked one of the escort, a youngster in his teens. ‘What d’you reckon we ought to do?’
Liz thought furiously. Despite the liberal views gained by association with some of the new type of Union Army officers, she could not shake off the habits and training of a lifetime. Being the daughter of the men’s colonel, she felt that it rested on her shapely and beautiful head to steer them out of trouble. Her only major problem remained how she could do it.
‘Could stop here and wait for a search party,’ the driver of the buggy suggested. ‘They’ll be looking for us.’
‘No,’ Liz replied. ‘We’ll make for that high ground and see if we can catch sight of our party.’
None of her escort thought of questioning her decision. Obediently the driver headed the buggy up the slope at his right and the other men followed. Liz sat in silence, trying to remember something told her, or overheard, in the past.
‘I suppose we’re in Union-held territory,’ she suddenly remarked.
‘The convoy had to pass pretty close to reb country,’ the driver replied. ‘That was why we moved over-night. Sure hope no reb patrol sees us.’
‘There’s worse than reb army patrols about,’ one of the escort stated. ‘I was with a supply train that got jumped by that Captain Fog of the Texas Light. We’d stopped for water and them rebs just seemed to come up out of the ground. We didn’t have a chance so the shavetail told us to throw down our guns. Them rebs never fired a shot, just took the wagons, all our horses and guns. Treated us real good. It’s not their soldiers that worry me, it’s them bushwhackers who’re the mean ones.’
Actually Dusty Fog had not been responsible for the raid in question, but his name had become so well known that every Yankee hit by the Texas Light Cavalry gave him credit for the affair.
On reaching the top of the slope, Liz’s party halted and began to scan the broken, rolling, bush-dotted land for some hint of where they might find their convoy. Nothing met their eye except the thinly wooded Arkansas hills, rolling slopes broken by ravines and gashes, ideal country for hiding in, but no comfort when lost on possible enemy ground.
Low-growled curses reached Liz’s ears as the escort fell slightly away from the covered-over buggy and discussed their situation. She became suddenly and chillingly aware of her own position as a lone, unprotected, attractive young woman with a quartet of scared young men who had little chance of contact with the opposite sex.
A small, dainty hat perched on Liz’s head. Being at the stage where defiance of conventions seems the only way of life, she wore her straw-coloured hair cut short and boyishly around her truly beautiful face. The clothes selected for the journey, white frilly bosomed shirt, black jacket, tan divided skirt and dainty black riding boots, clung to a shapely body, emphasising the rich curves. All in all she must look as desirable as water in the desert to those four young men. If they once panicked and decided to desert, they might also—
Liz’s thoughts died away as an uneasy feeling came over her. Once, in her sixteenth year, she had been at her father’s militia camp and, believing herself to be alone, stripped naked to swim in the cool waters of a stream. While swimming, she became conscious of the feeling that somebody was watching her. A search of the area revealed nothing, but later she learned that a party of soldiers had been on a nearby ridge, studying her through a telescope.
The same feeling crept over Liz again, but although she searched the area, she saw no sign of possible watchers. Then she remembered the thought which had nagged at her on the way up the slope. More than once she had heard men talk of the importance of not appearing on a sky-line when in hostile country. Now she sat in a buggy, out in plain view on a rim.
‘Nothing,’ said the driver. ‘They must have missed us by this time.’
‘We’ll go back into the valley,’ Liz answered. ‘Keep going until we find water, then make camp. The convoy’s scout ought to be able to track us.’
Once again the men obeyed her. On reaching the foot of the slope, they turned and continued their journey along the rough trail. Ahead lay the mouth to one of the ravines which split into the slope, bush-dotted, rock-covered and somehow menacing. With each stride of the horse, Liz felt her apprehension growing and the belief that somebody watched them increased.
Even as Liz opened her mouth to mention her thoughts to the driver, shots crashed from t
he bushes at the side of the trail. Liz saw two of the escort pitch out of their saddles. Beyond the men, bearded shapes showed among the bushes, guns roaring in hands.
‘Bushwhackers!’ yelled her driver and grabbed for the buggy whip.
He needed no such inducement to speed. Spooked by the sudden noise, stink of gunpowder and blood, the harness horse lunged forward and started to run, almost jerking the wheels from the ground as it hit leather. More shots came. Holes appeared in the canvas cover of the buggy, but none of the lead struck home. The last member of the escort proved less fortunate. Caught in the head and chest by bullets, the soldier slid down from his spooked horse and landed limply upon the ground.
Tearing by the mouth to the ravine, Liz saw more shapes; this time mounted on horses. Wild yells rang out and the horsemen gave chase, charging their mounts out of the ravine. One fact began to register in her mind. The attackers wore civilian clothing. No matter how poorly made it might be, the regular Confederate soldier always wore a uniform.
The riders, four in number, raced their horses after the speeding buggy and Liz knew it would be only a matter of time before they caught it. In fact their fast saddle mounts closed the gap with the harness horse rapidly. Shots were fired, but none hit the buggy.
Before they covered two hundred yards, Liz saw a rider coming up on either side of the buggy. The man at her side started to raise his revolver, gave her a second glance, grinned wolfishly and urged the horse on. At the other side of the buggy, a second rider came up. Desperately the young driver tried to yell that he surrendered. Coming in close, the bushwhacker fired once. Jerking under the impact of a .36 ball, the driver let whip and reins slide from his fingers, then he slumped forward in his seat.
Bringing his horse alongside the buggy animal, the bushwhacker tried to lean over and grab its reins. Failing, he gave a snarl, drew his revolver and fired down. A scream, burst from the stricken harness horse. Its forelegs buckled under it and it went crashing down, sliding along the ground. Liz let out a cry of pity and fear. Desperately she grabbed at the side of the seat, clinging on with grim determination. Although it lurched wildly, the buggy remained upright. The driver’s body toppled from its place, but Liz managed to stay in her seat.