by J. T. Edson
Just how adept showed when Dusty began to drive the other back across the barn, the lightning fast point of his sabre coming time after time within a hair’s-breadth of catching Wilson’s body. Once again the Yankee was forced to revert to a slashing attack. Desperation lent him the courage of a frightened rat and he launched an attack which forced Dusty to retire towards the door of the barn. Sweat poured down Wilson’s face and he found difficulty in breathing. Dusty, being fitter and in better condition, showed less signs of distress and knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before he could terminate the fight. However, he knew he might not be spared those minutes. At any moment the Yankee sentries might hear the sound of steel against steel and come to investigate.
Timing his moves just right, Dusty feinted to Wilson’s head in the start of a compound attack. Up rose Wilson’s arm in an attempted parry and too late he realised his mistake. At just the right moment Dusty’s feint changed to its true purpose and came down in a cut at Wilson’s body. Shining steel glittered as it drove across to bite through Wilson’s clothing and inflict a painful gash in the man’s side. Wilson screeched like a stuck pig as the blade bit home. Although the wound was not serious, he dropped his sword and stumbled backwards to fall against the wall of a stall. He hung there, eyes wild with fear and mouth opening to beg for mercy.
‘Dusty, behind you!’ Jill screamed.
Fitch had returned to the bunkhouse in a smouldering humour and found the two soldiers in that stage of drunkenness when they could be persuaded to take any kind of action. Setting to the task, he soon had the soldiers ready to go with him to the barn. Wilson had never been popular with the men under him and neither objected to teaching him a lesson as a prelude to taking and having fun with the girl. Collecting their rifles, each man fitted on his bayonet as a means of quietening any objections Wilson might show. Then they headed for the barn. Fitch watched them go and a drunken sneer came to his face. Once they dealt with Wilson, they would be mutineers and he had the right to kill them. After that the girls would be his until he chose to leave. He intended to show that officer’s daughter where she came off, it ought to be fun.
Not until almost at the barn did the two soldiers realise anything was wrong. Neither had heard the clash of steel and did not recognise the sound. However, when they approached closer to the open doors, they saw Wilson in the final stages of his fight. The sight of the cadet-grey uniform of Wilson’s attacker drove all thoughts of mutiny from their heads. Even as Dusty began his compound attack, the soldiers charged forward to help out their officer.
If they had come in side by side, making a concerted rush, the two men would have had Dusty at their mercy. In the heady exhilaration of the prospect of a fight, mingled with whisky consumption, they made a race of their attack and one proved fleeter of foot than the other.
Howling a wild shout, the first man launched a thrust at Dusty’s body. He gave the small Texan no chance to use the sabre and only Dusty’s swift-sidestep caused the blow to miss. Carried on by his own momentum, the soldier rushed forward. He felt a hand clamp hold of his shirt front, saw Dusty slipping backwards under him, contact with a boot that rammed into his belly. Then the soldier lost all knowledge of the subsequent happenings. He had a vague knowledge of losing his balance and felt the foot against his belly giving a powerful shove. Instantly the room appeared to whirl around and he saw the floor rushing towards him. The rifle clattered to the floor as Dusty performed the tomoe-nage stomach throw of ju-jitsu and sent the soldier sailing into the air. Taken by surprise, with his reflexes slowed through whisky-drinking, the soldier could do nothing to break his fall. Down he crashed, landing head first on the hard-packed earth floor of the barn. A dull pop sounded as the neck bones broke and the soldier’s limp body crumpled to the ground.
By that time his companion had arrived. Roaring with rage, the second man raised his rifle and sent the bayonet driving down at Dusty’s recumbent body. With a rolling twist of his hips, Duty avoided the thrust and the bayonet’s tip shattered on impact with the ground. Even while performing the tomoe-nage Dusty retained his grip on the sabre. Twisting back, he drove upwards in what would have been a thrust if aimed at the body. Instead the sabre passed between the man’s legs and its razor-sharp blade sliced into the soft flesh of the inner thigh to sever the femoral artery. Blood followed the sabre from the gash in a rushing flood. The soldier had but thirty seconds to live.
Dusty received no respite. Even as he started to rise, and while the stricken soldier lurched blindly away, Dusty saw yet another menace to his life. Still carrying the stone jug, Fitch arrived on the scene. With a snarl of rage, he sprang forward. Ignoring the gun at his belt, Fitch swung the jug around like a club and struck at the small Texan’s head. Only just in time did Dusty duck. He had just made his feet and moved his head down quickly. The jug brushed Dusty’s hat in passing and he took a fast pace to the rear before launching a backhand cut which laid open Fitch’s belly like an axe-split melon. Fitch stumbled backwards, guts pouring out of the terrible wound. Behind Dusty, Liz screamed, covering her face with her hands to shut out the terrible sight.
While just as shocked and horrified as Liz, Jill saw something which made her forget, momentarily, the nausea which arose in her. Wilson made no attempt to help his men at first, but stood cowering against the wall. Nor did the sight of the first two deaths affect him. Being entirely self-centred, like all cowards, Wilson cared nothing for the men under him. All he knew was that he had a chance to save his own miserable life. On the ground not far from him lay Jill’s Tranter and, while Dusty met Fitch’s attack, Wilson screwed up sufficient courage to go forward to grab the weapon. Knowing his lack of skill with a revolver, Wilson moved forward, meaning to get so close that he could not miss.
Taking the scene in, Jill knew she must do something to save Dusty. Close at hand a pitchfork leaned against the wall. She had tried to reach it when Fitch made his rape attempt. Unhindered by other hands, she caught up the fork and sprang forward. Pure blind chance directed the prongs of the fork into just the right place, for Jill struck without conscious effort. Wilson was just lining the revolver at Dusty’s back when he felt a sudden, excruciating agony bite into him. Arching his back, Wilson triggered off a wild shot. Dusty whirled around, sabre ready for use, and saw Wilson crumpling forward. The Yankee crashed to the ground at Dusty’s feet, the shaft of the pitchfork rising from his back. One glance told Dusty what caused the instant collapse. Either by design or accident, Jill sent its prongs into Wilson’s kidneys and ended his murder attempt.
Dusty knew he must waste no time. Although both girls appeared to be on the verge of hysterics, he had more important things on his mind. At any moment the rest of the Yankee party would arrive, attracted by the shot. He must be prepared to fight his way clear and make for the black. Could he leave Jill and Liz behind? Would they be safe in the hands of the leaderless party. From what Dusty had seen of the sergeant and soldiers, and smelled on their breaths, discipline must be lax. If the rest of the party had also been drinking, maybe not even Liz would be safe among them.
Thinking of the girls caused Dusty to look for their horses. Only four other mounts stood in the stalls alongside the buckskin and mare. Maybe the whole of the Yankee party lay around the barn. Dusty decided to take a chance on his guess proving correct.
Gently he led the girls from the barn and into the cool night air. Possibly because she had seen violent death more than once with the bushwhackers, or maybe because the victims were Yankees and not good specimens at that, Jill recovered control of herself before Liz regained a hold.
‘Are there any more of them, Jill?’ Dusty asked.
‘Only those in the barn,’ she finally managed to answer. ‘I ki—’
‘Easy, gal,’ Dusty put in as her words trailed off. ‘Let’s get Miss Chamberlain to the house. Say, did they get Billy Jack?’
Jill caught Liz’s eye and read pleading on the other girl’s face. Neither of them knew for
sure how Dusty would react when he heard of Liz’s action. Possibly he might leave the Yankee girl behind when he rode on. Nothing Liz could think of would be worse than being left alone in that place of death. Jill realised that at last she had a Yankee almost pleading with her, silently begging for help.
‘My horse stumbled, Captain,’ she stated. ‘I yelled to Billy Jack to keep going and he did, just as you ordered.’
‘Huh, huh,’ Dusty grunted. ‘You girls go up to the house. I’ll do what I can in the barn. Make up a meal for me, please, Jill. We’ll pull out after we’ve rested.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THIS’S WHAT THEY’LL TURN LOOSE
The East Trinity River lay almost an hour’s ride behind Dusty Fog and the two girls. Overhead the sun began to dip down past its noon height. Up on a rim stood a magnificent specimen of longhorn Texas cattle. Big, black, nine hundred pounds of powerful frame, with a six-foot spread of needle-pointed horns capable of gutting a black bear or impaling a cougar gracing its head, a bull of the first water. Giving a deep-throated bellow, the bull swung around and passed over the rim from sight. Dusty brought his horse to a halt and a wistful grin twisted his lips.
‘Whooee!’ he said. ‘I bet he’s a mean one. If the good Lord made anything more cross-grained, stubborn, ornery or vicious than a Texas longhorn, I sure’ve never seen it. One of ‘em’ll charge you after you’ve hauled it from a bog-hole; run a hoss ragged chasing it; hunt the worst cover it can find; damned near burst your teeth trying to chew its meat when it’s dead. But it sure makes a real pretty sight when you’ve been away from home for a spell.’
Liz stared at Dusty in surprise. After seeing him fight and watching the calm competent, efficient manner he handled the problems of the march, she had thought him to be hard, dehumanised almost by the life war forced him to lead. Now she saw him in a different light. That coldly confident young man felt homesick and must be thinking of his folks, his home in the Rio Hondo country.
‘Your family must have many slaves for you to give up so much, face such dangers, live such a life that you can keep them,’ she commented.
‘There’s no slaves in the Rio Hondo country, only a few coloured folks and they’re all free.’
‘Then why did you—’ Liz began.
‘Come on now, Miss Chamberlain,’ Dusty interrupted with a smile. ‘You know that the slavery issue’s only one reason the South fought. A mighty good one for the Yankees to use. It’s making your soldiers feel mighty noble to believe they’re fighting to free a lot of bad done-by slaves. Only most slaves live just as well as a white worker up north—and nobody’s thought of what they aim to do with all the Negroes when they’re set free.’
‘If Texas isn’t a slave state, why did they fight?’ Liz insisted.
‘There are some slaves in Texas,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Down on the coast you’ll find a few, but I don’t think there’re ten men in Texas who own enough slaves to need an overseer. Nope, slavery’s not what brought Texas into the War.’
‘What then?’ asked Liz.
‘We figure that each State is a sovereign government. Fact being that idea goes right back to when the original thirteen States combined. The States formed to be of mutual benefit to each other. Way we see it, if our State doesn’t like the way things are run, then it should be allowed to pull out.’
‘Cap’n Dusty’s right on that,’ Jill asserted.
‘Sure,’ Dusty said. ‘Another thing Texas didn’t like was the way the Union asked us to join, gave us promises and then sold us down the river.’
‘How do you mean?’ asked Liz.
‘We were told to disband the Rangers and did it believing the Union would give us armed protection against the Indians and the Mexicans. That aid never came. It gave the Secessionists fuel to burn and they stirred up folks. Uncle Devil decided, and it wasn’t an easy decision, that we fought for the South.’
‘And you don’t believe in slavery?’ Liz insisted.
‘No, ma’am. Only I sure as hell can’t see how throwing thousands of Negroes out into the world and telling them they’re free folks will solve their problems. I read about riots in New York a few years back; white folks objecting to slaves sent north by the underground railroad* coming into town and grabbing their work. If—’
‘Dusty!’ Jill gasped, for the first time dropping the formal ‘Captain’ in her agitation and pointing ahead of them.
On following the direction of Jill’s point, the discussion on the coloured people problem became forgotten. A puff of smoke rose into the air from the side of a distant hill, closely followed by two more.
‘Indians?’ Liz gasped.
‘You might say that,’ grinned Dusty, ‘Sam Ysabel’s as near to an Indian as a white man can come.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Liz gasped.
‘It’s part of the plan we made for if we had to split up,’ Dusty answered. ‘I made no rendezvous. Told Sam Ysabel to outride his hunters, make sure he had a clear area around him and then send up smoke. The rest of the party gathered in on the smoke when they saw it.’
‘Then none of you but Sam could know where the others would gather,’ Liz said. ‘How about if he was caught?’
‘If Kiowa hadn’t seen Sam’s smoke three hours after noon on the day after we split up, he was to send up the smoke. Only I didn’t expect any trouble. I’ve yet to see Yankee cavalry that can outride those boys of mine.’
‘No bunch as sorry mounted as that lot back there could,’ Jill stated.
‘I’m sure I saw a rider a moment ago,’ Liz interrupted. ‘Yes. There. Look!’
Turning their eyes, Dusty and Jill saw a distant rider. The girls could see nothing more than that, but Dusty grinned and said, ‘Billy Jack.’
Almost as if he heard the words, Billy Jack swept off his hat and waved it over his head. Instead of riding towards them in a straight line, however, Billy Jack continued forward, approaching the others on a diagonal course which also kept him headed on the required route to the west.
A momentary fear hit Liz as she watched the man approach them. No matter what Jill had told Dusty, Billy Jack knew the true reason for her capture by the Yankees. Nor would he be likely to forget Liz’s attempt to ride him over the slope and deliver him into Union hands.
‘See you get clear, Cap’n,’ Billy Jack remarked, although Liz felt his eyes studied her coldly.
‘There’s times I don’t know how you get so smart and all-seeing, you old goat,’ Dusty answered. ‘Have any trouble in shaking your lot?’
‘I may as well tell you, Captain Fog,’ Liz put in stiffly. ‘I tried to get Sergeant-major—’ she paused as she could not remember ever hearing Billy Jack’s surname. ‘I tried to cause the sergeant-major’s capture. Jill stopped me and that was how she came to be in Union hands.’
‘I sure hope the Yankees pulled you pair apart a mite gentler than we did,’ Dusty answered.
Two pairs of eyes turned to him as the meaning of Dusty’s words struck the girls. Suddenly both realised that he must have seen everything before taking his horse over the top of the slope.
‘Then you knew all along about Liz trying to have Billy Jack captured,’ Jill gasped.
‘Saw some of it,’ agreed Dusty.
‘Tell you though, Cap’n Dusty,’ Billy Jack put in. ‘Miss Liz was pulling her hoss back even before Jill jumped her.’
‘And she only did what I would’ve done in the same position,’ Jill went on.
‘Reckon she did,’ Dusty grinned. ‘All right, swing down and let’s start walking for a spell. That is unless Miss Chamberlain figures to sit down for a spell.’
‘I tried that,’ Liz reminded him. ‘It didn’t work then and I doubt if it would now.’
‘How did your lot go, Billy Jack?’ asked Dusty as they started walking.
‘Easy enough. I could’ve rid them out of sight in less than a mile, but I allowed to give ‘em some work to do. Lost them in some rough country down south a piece. Say, h
ow come you tied in with the girls?’
Dusty explained and Billy Jack listened with a grin. A wistful gleam came into the sergeant-major’s eyes when Dusty mentioned tangling with the Yankee captain and Billy Jack promised himself that he would hear the full story from one of the girls as his captain gave only the bare details and omitted any reference to either his duel with Wilson or battle against the other members of the enemy party. All Dusty mentioned was that he tangled with the Yankees, then after a meal left the ranch; neither girl wished to stay there through the night with the bodies in the barn. After covering a couple of miles from the Deacon’s place, Dusty and the girls camped for the night and moved on at dawn.
Alert and watchful, the party continued to head west. They made their way towards the hill from which the smoke rose, although after the brief puffs no sign of human life showed. For all any of the party saw, they might have been the only people in the whole of the North Texas range country. While approaching the hill, they saw no hint of Sam Ysabel’s presence and Liz, for one, wondered if some hitch had come to Dusty’s arrangements. Barely had the doubt come than Ysabel rose from cover behind a large rock. Rifle across his arm as usual, he came down the slope and for once his impassive face showed emotion. Grinning his relief, he advanced towards the others.
‘Howdy, Cap’n, folks,’ he greeted. ‘See you made it.’