The Devil Gun

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The Devil Gun Page 11

by J. T. Edson


  ‘Keep in line, Dodd!’ Dusty barked as Jill started to swing her horse with the intention of resuming hostilities. Turning back to Liz he continued, ‘Mr. Marsden knows what such an uprising would mean. Understands the cost in innocent lives. The men behind the idea don’t, or they’d never have started it.’

  ‘You rebels have used Indians to do your fighting for you,’ she pointed out.

  ‘Pike’s Cherokee Brigade,’ agreed Dusty. ‘That’s not the same thing—’

  ‘Why?’ spat Liz. ‘Because they sided you rebs—’

  ‘No, ma’am. Because the Cherokee aren’t Comanche, Kiowa or Kaddo.’

  ‘They scalped our dead on the field at Pea Ridge,’ Liz reminded him.

  ‘They did, ma’am,’ Dusty answered. ‘Which’s just what I mean. The Cherokee are tamed Indians. They’ve lived white-man fashion for years. Most of ‘em are Christians, send their kids to school. Yet when they went to war, they went right back to the old ways and started scalping.’

  ‘Cap’n Dusty’s right, ma’am,’ Ysabel put in. ‘Them Cherokee’re tamed Injuns and like lap-dogs alongside buffalo-wolves when took with Comanches, Kiowas and Kaddos like the fool Yankees’re trying to stir up. At least our Cherokees stuck to killing and lifting hair from Yankee soldiers.’

  ‘Those hostiles Castle plans to stir up, ma’am,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘Once they get started, they’ll not leave a living white in Texas.’

  ‘And a thing like that won’t just stay in Texas. Word’ll go out and every hostile across the country’ll paint for war,’ Ysabel warned grimly. ‘There’ll likely not be a white man, woman or child left alive from the Red River to the Pacific. That’s why we’re headed west.’

  Liz relapsed into silence and thought of what the men told her. Although she knew little about Castle’s scheme, she had met the man. Thinking back, she remembered hearing him discuss the effects of an Indian uprising in Texas. The withdrawal of the Texas troops could bring victory for the Union. Castle made it clear that such an uprising would need to be controlled, the Indians held in check and directed only at profitable targets. Of course, the rebels would try to stop such a plan, nor would they hesitate to try to blacken the Union’s name by pretending the situation was far more serious and endangered the life of their people. Naturally the Texans would try to make her believe in the danger. She refused to be swayed from her purpose and determined to help the Union cause by doing all she could to prevent Dusty Fog’s party interfering with Castle’s war-winning scheme.

  No chance presented itself during the rest of the day’s march. Liz walked slowly to the camp-fire after tending to her horse at the end of the day. As she sat down, a thought struck her. She would stay awake and when all the others slept release and scatter the horses.

  CHAPTER TEN

  YOU’RE PLAYING A GAME, MISS CHAMBERLAIN DON’T

  ‘Come on, Yankee,’ said a voice, while a hand shook Liz’s Shoulder and jarred through her sleep. ‘Time to be up and doing.’

  Cold grey light met Liz’s eyes as they came open. Stifling a low groan, for the ground proved a far less satisfactory mattress than her bed at home offered, she forced herself up on one elbow and peered around sleepily. The men gathered around a fire and held plates, while a coffee pot bubbled on the flames.

  ‘You sure slept well last night,’ Jill went on, with a friendly smile. ‘Why even afore we set camp, you’d gone off. Didn’t disturb you, not that we could have.’

  ‘So much for my big idea!’ thought Liz, tossing aside the blankets and rising stiffly. It seemed that she slept through the night instead of laying awake until a chance presented itself for her to free and scatter the horses.

  ‘Here, I’ll lend you a hand to pack your bedroll,’ Jill offered. ‘You can’t eat until it’s done.’

  ‘Thanks reb.’ Liz answered, suddenly feeling ravenously hungry and sniffing at the aroma of cooking meat that wafted from the fire.

  With the bedroll packed ready for loading, Liz walked with Jill towards the fire. It came as something of a surprise to see a smile on Dusty Fog’s face.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Chamberlain,’ he greeted. ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I’d like a hot bath and a buggy to ride in,’ she found herself replying, ‘but apart from that I’m fine.’

  ‘You can have the hot bath, happen we find some warm-water springs,’ Dusty told her with a grin. ‘But buggies’re something we’re long out of.’

  ‘So much for Southern hospitality,’ she sighed, but her voice held no anger or bitterness.

  ‘Comes the end of the War, ma’am,’ Dusty answered, ‘happen you’re in the Rio Hondo country, I’ll fix you with a buggy that’s soft and comfortable as swan’s down, rig you a bath too, but you’ll have to take it by yourself.’

  ‘I should hope so, for shame,’ she chuckled.

  Suddenly she thought how incongruous the situation had become, for her to be standing exchanging pleasantries with a man who only yesterday deserted her and whose vitally important mission she intended to ruin if she could.

  ‘Sure hope these pronghorn steaks are all right, ma’am,’ Billy Jack said, handing her a plate. ‘I’d rather have it hung for a couple of days, but Cap’n Dusty allows there’s not time for that. Eggs aren’t bad though.’

  ‘Pronghorn? Eggs,’ she breathed. ‘But where—’

  ‘Sam got one last night,’ Billy Jack explained. ‘Pronghorn I mean.’

  During the meal, an idea began to form in Liz’s mind for making trouble among the party. However, before she could make a move towards starting, Dusty saw that she had finished eating and gave orders to prepare for moving.

  ‘Can you manage, ma’am?’ asked Ysabel as she walked towards her saddle.

  Seeing Kiowa hovering in the background, Liz shook her head. ‘I—I’m not sure if I can.’

  ‘Sergeant Ysabel!’ Dusty barked. ‘Tend to your duties. Kiowa, help him. Mr. Marsden, help the ladies—only don’t pamper them.’

  ‘Yo!’ Marsden replied.

  ‘Go help the Yankee, Mr. Marsden,’ Jill suggested as he came in her direction. ‘I’m not so milk-soft that I can’t saddle and tend for my own horse.’

  In her desire to stifle a growing tolerance and liking felt towards at least one Yankee, Jill said the right thing. Annoyance glinted into Liz’s eyes and she forgot her pose of the meek, near-helpless female in the presence of strong, reliable men. Taking up her saddle and bedroll, she stamped indignantly towards the mare. Determination to show the rebel that anything a Southern girl could do, a Yankee could do better, drove her to forget her plan and also the aches in her saddle-stiffened body.

  On reaching the horses, she found that releasing them in the night would not have been such an easy task. The Union Army always picketed their horses, the Texans preferred to give their mounts a certain amount of freedom to move and graze. All the men’s mounts had chain hobbles on their forelegs, a leather cuff buckled around each leg over the pastern joint and connected by a short swivel chain which let the animal move around at a slow walk in order to pick good grazing. To remove the hobbles in the dark would take much time and could only be done with some noise.

  Liz found the bay and Jill’s buckskin secured in a different manner, though not one easier to remove than the chain hobbles would be. A loop of rope encircled the mare’s neck secured with a bowline knot that rested on the left shoulder. From there the rope went down to be taken in a half-hitch around the ankle joint of the left hind leg and carried back up to join and knot about the neck looped in a manner which raised the hoof about four inches above the ground.

  ‘Didn’t have any spare gear along, ma’am,’ Billy Jack apologised as she glared pointedly at his horse’s fore feet. ‘Had to use a scotch hobble on you ladies’ mounts. Watch that half hitch on the legs. It stops the horse kicking free, but it’s surely hell to get off.’

  After freeing the mare’s leg, Liz prepared to saddle up. While taking up her saddle-blanket she saw another c
hance to delay the party; although not one she cared to use. However, she must put loyalty to her country before her dislike at inflicting deliberate suffering upon her horse. She knew the purpose of the blanket, to give protection and padding to the horse’s back against the weight and pressure of the saddle. To do this correctly, the blanket must be raised slightly off the back-bone and withers and also, very important, laid flat on the back without wrinkles. Taking up the blanket, she made sure that the underside held a ridge of raised material which would chafe and rub into the mare’s body, making her back sore.

  Just as Liz put the blanket on, she felt a violent shove and heard Jill’s contempt-filled voice at her side.

  ‘Land-sakes, Yankee, don’t you know a damned thing? Here, let me put your saddle on for you.’

  Hot anger flared up in Liz, reddening her cheeks and brought her fingers into a hair-grabbing crook. Before she could move, a hand caught her arm and she turned to glare fury up into Marsden’s face.

  ‘Drop it, Miss Chamberlain,’ he warned.

  ‘I don’t know what—’ Liz began.

  ‘Stop this playing at being the saviour of the Union.’

  ‘Playing!’ she gasped.

  ‘Playing!’ repeated Marsden coldly. ‘You’re playing a game, Miss Chamberlain—Don’t. Captain Fog won’t let you delay him. If he’d seen what you just did, he’d maybe have given you what you deserve.’

  Despite herself, Liz felt a shudder run through her, for she knew the punishment meted out to a soldier who negligently or deliberately allowed his horse to get a sore back. He was stripped naked and strapped into the saddle, then made to ride that way until he knew how the horse felt. Glancing to where Dusty saddled his black stallion, Liz wondered if he would treat her in such a manner and decided he might. She wondered if perhaps he might have been telling the truth about the ultimate result of Castle’s plan. Then she gave an angry shake of her head. No, Dusty Fog only made up the story of wholesale Indian slaughter of innocents as a way of playing on her emotions and gaining her co-operation. A man with Castle’s sense of social conscience and belief in the rights of the individual would never chance any scheme that might endanger innocent lives.

  Snarling that she could handle the mare without further help, Liz thrust by Jill and continued the saddling.

  Once again the party continued with its westwards march and the girls learned just how rough such a trip could be. Alternately riding and walking, the halts spent checking hooves, condition, saddlery or feeding and watering the horses, Dusty led his party and covered over thirty miles each day. With each passing mile, his hope of meeting a south-bound party to whom he might deliver the girls grew less and less. Since the War took so many men from Texas, people tended to concentrate in or around the towns and cities and did little travelling. So, although he hated having to subject the girls to such continuous effort, he continued to hold his pace.

  And it was an effort for both girls, although Liz felt the effects more than did Jill. While healthy and used to an open-air life, Liz found a vast difference between taking a long ride in the morning and making thirty miles a day with the care of her horse awaiting her attention at the end of the trip. Under those Conditions she found little time for plotting further delaying tactics. In fact, during her scant leisure hours she felt no inclination to waste time in planning ideas that would need further bodily effort to carry out. Her life became a Continuous struggle against weariness and pain as unused muscles protested and stiffened under the strain. When in camp, she finished her work, ate her food and dropped into her blankets to sleep like a log. Only Liz’s determination not to let the rebel girl see her give way kept her moving when her body screamed to be let collapse on the ground and move no more.

  Due to her life with the bushwhackers, Jill felt the strain somewhat less than did Liz; not that Jill found keeping up the pace easy and often had to use Liz’s presence as an inducement to keep going.

  The men did what they could to ease the girls’ burden, but all had more than enough work on their hands and both Jill and Liz were compelled to attend to much of the care and attention their horses needed.

  Three days went by, long, hard days, and with each Marsden found his admiration for the Texans’ skill as horse-masters growing. He watched everything and learned much that would be of use to him in his career as a soldier. From the range-wise men he learned which plants and roots possessed medicinal value, what certain animal signs meant in the way of finding food and water on the open plains. Everybody in the Union Army knew that the end of the Civil War would mark the beginning of westward movement onto the Great Plains home of several hostile Indian tribes. With the knowledge he gained on the trip, Marsden knew he could be of the greatest use in the future campaigns. Such a thought always brought on a fit of brooding as he remembered that he no longer had a career as a soldier. While he cursed the men who formed the Indian-uprising plan, he laid no blame on his present companions, for they took no part in his decision to desert and become a traitor.

  Possibly only Jill knew how Marsden felt and of his fears for the future. As the days went by, it became a convention that Marsden helped Jill as much as his own duties allowed. The other men vied with each other to assist Liz with her horse management, but grinned, winked and stood aside to let Marsden lend Jill a hand.

  ‘Tell you one thing, Jackson,’ Jill remarked on the evening of the third day as they stood by the horses and watched Liz hobble slowly towards the camp. ‘That Yankee gal’s got guts.’

  ‘So have you,’ he answered.

  ‘I’m doing it for the South,’ Jill told him. ‘If those yahoos stir up the Indians, the Yankees might win the War.’

  Suddenly Jill became aware of a slight tension come over the young man at her side. Seeing him glance down at the trail-dirty Union-blue sleeve of his jacket, she realised what her words meant to him. By his actions he had given up his career and ruined himself. Now she stood like a damned fool, rubbing salt in his open wounds. Contrition flooded over her. Reaching for his hand, she led him from sight of the camp. They came to a halt in a depression which hid them from view. Turning to face Marsden, Jill looked up at his unshaven face.

  ‘Lordy, Jackson,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for what I just said—’

  His hands found hers, clasping them and drawing her to him, feeling the warmth of her body against his. Next moment they were in each other’s arms.

  ‘It’s no good!’ Marsden moaned, trying to free himself. ‘Why?’ asked Jill, drawing back. ‘Because I’m a reb and you’re—’

  ‘Because I’ve no future. Nothing to offer you.’

  ‘And what if I tell you I don’t care?’

  ‘They’ll court martial me when I go back, Jill,’ Marsden tried to explain, reading the anger that grew in her eyes. ‘I’ll be broken even if they don’t have me shot as a deserter and traitor.’

  ‘You don’t have to go back,’ Jill pointed out.

  ‘I have to, Jill.’

  ‘Why?’ she insisted.

  ‘I took an oath at West Point and broke it. I have to go back when this is over.’

  ‘And what about me?’ she asked, her voice brittle.

  ‘Jill!’ Marsden groaned. ‘I just have to go back.’

  ‘To the Yankees?’

  ‘To my people.’

  Jill tore herself from his hands, glaring her fury at him. In her pent-up emotional state it seemed that he had tried to take advantage of her. She blamed him for making her forget the reason she hated the Yankees and turned her fury on him.

  ‘You lousy Yankee!’ she spat, then turned and fled back to the camp.

  Black despair welled over Marsden as he watched the girl go. Suddenly he knew just how much Jill had come to mean to him. He wanted Jill to be his wife, loved her for her many good qualities, wished to share his life with her. Only he could offer her no life.

  Dropping his hand, Marsden opened the flap of his holster and curled his fingers around the butt of the Colt.
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  ‘That’s no way out, Jack!’ Dusty’s voice warned from behind him.

  Turning, Marsden saw the small captain walking towards him and growled, ‘Did you—’

  ‘By accident. I’d been taking a scout around and came back at the end of it. You’re too much of a man to take that way out—even without what it would do to the girl.’

  ‘I’ve nothing to go on, for.’

  ‘It’s your decision,’ Dusty said calmly. ‘One thing though, Jack. Don’t rush it.’

  With that Dusty swung around and walked towards the camp. Marsden stood for a long time before he angrily thrust down the Colt, closed the holster flap and followed on Dusty’s heels.

  If anybody at the camp noticed a change in Jill and Marsden’s attitude, they made no comment. Watching the girl, Marsden wanted to go to her, tell her he would stay in the South. Pride and his sense of duty prevented him from doing so. For her part, Jill also wanted to apologise, to beg Marsden’s forgiveness, yet she, too, had a stubborn streak of pride. If either one had made the slightest move towards the other, they would have been plunged into a sea of reconciliation—only neither offered to make the move. So they sat silent, morose and letting the rift between them grow wider and wider.

  Possibly Dusty would have tried to mediate, to bring Jill and Marsden back together, but he had much on his mind. He never continued marching until the sun set but always called a halt while enough light remained for his party to see their way to tending to the stock. How successful the policy proved showed in the excellent condition of the horses. While a little thinner, all still looked in fine shape and showed no signs of weakness.

  Following their usual routine, the senior non-coms gathered around Dusty as he unfolded his map to calculate their day’s journey and mark off the ever-decreasing distance to the ring drawn around the Salt and Clear Forks of the Brazos. Usually Marsden would have been in the group, but that night he sat in black despair by the fire which Jill, again following routine, built ready for preparing a meal. None of the men noticed that for once Liz lay awake and watched them, listening to every word they said.

 

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