by J. T. Edson
“Sneaking up on them fellers won’t be easy among the bushes,” Leps objected, instead of obeying. “We could go straight to the herd —”
“And have the rest of the men come after and hit us, or go to Arkadelphia for help?” Hotchkiss scoffed. “We’ll do it my way, sergeant. Ride up and take the men at the fire prisoner, then go along and get the night herders. That way, the Rebs won’t know what’s happened until the cattle don’t arrive at Pine Bluff. By that time, we’ll be well on our way to safety.”
“What if them fellers don’t hold with your notion about no shooting?” Leps inquired.
“Let me worry about that, sergeant!” Hotchkiss growled. “Go tell the men my orders.”
“Yo!” Leps answered sullenly and slowed his horse to let the rest of the party catch up.
Hotchkiss felt irritated and annoyed by his sergeant’s attitude. A career soldier, Leps had little faith in the abilities of volunteer officers. He had been openly, or covertly, critical of every decision made by Hotchkiss since the start of the mission. Much of the mistrust had arisen from Hotchkiss’s reticence and reluctance to take his subordinates into his confidence. Instead of telling the sergeant all his plan, he had merely given the necessary orders and reserved several vital details until they could be produced at the most advantageous moment. By doing so, he hoped to impress the men with his brilliance.
They were drawing closer to the bushes and Hotchkiss could hear the muted, startled comments from the enlisted men as Leps passed on his orders. Stopping his horse, Hotchkiss allowed the others to catch up. There was sufficient light from the stars for him to see that they were uneasy and alarmed.
“I don’t reckon we can sneak up on them fellers without ’em hearing us, cap’n,” one of the privates declared, speaking quietly, and the others muttered their agreement.
“Neither do I,” Hotchkiss admitted. “So we’re not going to try.” With that he raised his voice. “Hello the fire, is that you Corporal Chatswen?”
Exclamations of consternation rose from the soldiers, but the instincts for self-preservation caused them to be held down to little more than alarmed whispers. Ignoring the sotto voce comments, Hotchkiss held his breath in eager—and anxious—anticipation. The answer came with gratifying promptitude and suggested that he had guessed correctly when planning his moves.
“Yeah. It’s me. Who’re you?”
“The Reverend Hotchkiss, from Arkadelphia. I spoke to you at the herd this morning.”
“Oh sure, I remember,” called back the voice from amongst the bushes. “You wanting something, Reverend?”
“The ladies suggested that, as you couldn’t come to our meeting and they’d cooked extra food, we should fetch it out to you,” Hotchkiss replied and the low-spoken expressions of delight which came from his men were like music to his ears, They were now suitably impressed by him. “May we bring it?”
“Fetch it ahead, Reverend,” offered the speaker.
“Remember, men!” Hotchkiss hissed. “No shooting. Not that there’s likely to be any need for it. We’ll take the peckerwood bastards by surprise.”
Having delivered his statement, Hotchkiss set the man into motion. He grinned in delight, satisfied that he had created the desired impression upon his men. After this, they would be more responsive and willing to carry out his orders without hesitation.
“Dismount!” Hotchkiss hissed, on reaching the fringe of the bushes. “Millet, Dorst, stay with the horses. The rest of you, have your revolvers out but keep them hidden behind your backs.”
The men obeyed with a willing speed that had rarely been in evidence when previously responding to his orders. All could see the wisdom of completing the approach to the camp on foot. The horses would be a hindrance when it came to dealing with the Rebels.
Dismounting, they passed their reins to the designated pair and followed Hotchkiss into the bushes. As they moved Forward, their admiration for their officer increased with every step. There was something satisfying about being able to advance boldly and have no worries over making noises that could alert and alarm an unsuspecting camp.
“Get into line once we’re in the clearing,” Hotchkiss ordered in a whisper. “And don’t show your guns until I fetch mine out.”
“Sure, cap’n,” Leps hissed back and the others gave soft-spoken agreement.
Peering ahead, the men saw that their victims had made camp in a small clearing. Four Confederate soldiers were standing by the fire, facing the oncoming party but not holding weapons. Beyond them was a chuck wagon. Its team had been unhitched and was nowhere in sight. Nor, if it came to that, were the quartet’s mounts. However, none of Hotchkiss’s party attached any significance to the missing animals. They were all too eager to carry out their work to pay attention to apparently unimportant trifles. Each held his revolver behind his back and thought complacently of the surprise they were going to hand to their enemies.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Hotchkiss greeted, stepping into the clearing.
“Howdy, Reverend,” Corporal Chatswen replied, but he seemed to be nervous and his eyes flickered from side to side. “Come ahead.”
Slowing his pace, Hotchkiss allowed his men to spread into a line on either side of him. He continued to approach the fire without producing his weapon, wanting to be so close when he did that the Rebels would realize any resistance would be fatal.
Studying the four Confederate soldiers, Sergeant Leps felt a vague, disturbing sensation creeping through him. He began to realize that there was something wrong with their attitudes. They seemed strained and did not look like men awaiting a pleasant meal. What was more, every one of them kept darting glances at the bushes as if expecting to see something—or somebody.
It was somebody!
Figures stepped swiftly from the hushes, with revolvers or Enfield carbines lining towards the Yankees. Young men wearing cadet-grey uniforms and the silver star-in-the-circle hat badges of the Texas Light Cavalry A tall, lean, miserable-faced sergeant and a short, young first lieutenant sprang from either end of the wagon, alighting with a revolver in each hand.
That the four men by the fire had been expecting the others was proven by the rapidity of their movements. They flung themselves to the ground, leaving the newcomers a clear field of fire at the Yankees.
“Howdy, Reverend Hotchkiss,” greeted the lieutenant. “It looks like we’ve got together for that meeting after all. We’ll start by having you and your deacons dropping the guns.”
For a moment Hotchkiss stood as if turned to stone. Then he felt an uncontrollable fury surging inside him. All the time he had been congratulating himself upon the ease with which he had fooled the small Texan, but it was he who had been the dupe. Somehow the young blond had suspected him and had contrived to deceive him, laying a trap into which he had walked Not just him, either. He had brought his whole force, with the exception of the horse-holders —
“Look out, cap—!” yelled a voice from the darkness, the words ending with a thudding sound and a gurgle of agony as if the speaker had been hit hard in the pit of the stomach.
Not even the horse-holders had escaped the trap!
“You bastard!” Hotchkiss screeched—and there could be no better description of the sound which burst from his lips—snatching his revolver into view with a reckless disregard for the consequences. “Get them!”
Catching his superior’s movements from the corner of his eye, Sergeant Leps could have quite willingly shot Hotchkiss. Up to that moment, Leps had been planning to do the sensible thing and surrender. Hotchkiss’s actions were about to ruin any hope of giving up peaceably.
“Fight ’em!” Leps bellowed, bringing the Colt from behind his back.
It was a foolish gesture under the circumstances. There were fifteen Texans spaced around the clearing. Young recruits, with the exception of Billy Jack, at least half of them were armed with single-shot Enfield carbines; but they had grown up handling weapons and most had fought Indians, or bad M
exicans, at some time during their lives. So they responded to the challenge with a speed and deadly purpose that was often lacking amongst newly enlisted men from the more civilized East.
Flame erupted from the muzzles of revolvers and carbines, while the roaring of detonated black powder shattered the silence of the night. A veritable storm of lead flew across the clearing, converging upon the Yankees as they tried to bring their weapons into action.
Hotchkiss took three bullets in the body. While his revolver was still thrusting forward and unfired, they flung him to the ground.
Struck in the head by an Enfield’s solitary load, Leps twirled and fell. In going down, he sent a bullet into the ground before him. It was the only powder burned by the would-be cattle-thieves.
Four more of them took lead in the opening volley. The remainder hurriedly discarded their revolvers, raised their hands and yelled that they wished to surrender.
“Hold your fire, men!” Dusty Fog shouted, refraining from releasing the hammer of his left hand Colt as its muzzle was swung from the height of its recoil and sought for a second target.
It said much for the control the small Texan had gained over his party that they responded immediately and not another shot was fired.
Returning his Colts to their holsters, Billy Jack listened for any hint that the noise had disturbed the herd. Failing to hear anything, he concluded that he had caused it to be bedded down far enough from the camp for Mr. Blaze’s detail to have no worries on that account.
“You all right, Kiowa?” the sergeant yelled.
“Why sure,” answered a voice from the direction in which Hotchkiss and his men had come, “We got their hosses and the two fellers’s was left with ’em.”
“Bueno,” Dusty replied. “Bring them in.” Then he looked at Billy Jack. “Sergeant, see to the prisoners. Give their revolvers to some of our men who don’t own one. Do what you can for the fellers who’ve taken lead. Are you and your men all right, Corporal Chatswen?”
“They never touched us, lieutenant,” Chatswen declared as he and his men stood up. “You sure called the play right all along the line, sir.”
Glancing at the burly corporal in passing to commence his duties, Billy Jack hid a grin. There had been no hesitation in Chatswen’s use of the honorific that time. Then the sergeant looked briefly at Dusty and a flicker of admiration passed across his face. It changed to a wry grin as he remembered his misgivings regarding Mr. Fog’s actions at the camp that morning.
When Hotchkiss had ridden away, the young officer had sent Corporal McGraw and the lean Indian-dark soldier, Kiowa Cotton, after him. They had orders to follow him, without allowing him to see them. If he did not return to Arkadelphia, they had to learn where he was going. Then Kiowa was to keep him under observation while Sandy reported hack to the camp.
Realizing that Mr. Fog was once more acting in a firm decisive and capable manner, Billy Jack had sought enlightenment. Far from blindly accepting the visitor’s story, the small Texan had been suspicious of it. The young blond had not seen Hotchkiss pass while waiting for Chatswen at the livery barn, yet he should have gone by if he had so recently come from the town. The man’s bearing and California saddle had proved little, to Mr. Fog’s way of thinking, but something else had been more significant. On being introduced, he had called Dusty “Mr.”, which was the correct military form of address when speaking to a lieutenant. A civilian would not have been likely to know that. Tied together, the various details had suggested to the small Texan much the same possibilities as Billy Jack had considered.
There were, the young officer had decided, objections to challenging the man’s veracity. If he should be genuine, he—and many of his congregation—might deeply resent the accusation and it was important for the Army to retain the goodwill of the civilian population.
On the other hand, if Hotchkiss was a spy and planning mischief against the herd, he would not he working alone. Although he would he in custody, his companions would be at liberty to continue their schemes, or escape to their own lines. Wishing to capture the whole bunch, if possible, Mr. Fog had put on an act calculated to lull Hotchkiss into a sense of false security. He had dismissed Billy Jack in that insulting manner to prevent the sergeant from reaching the point where Hotchkiss would be compelled to produce proof of his identity. Left to himself, Mr. Fog had fed the man with sufficient information to make him think he could do his work with ease.
When Mr. Blaze and Chatswen had come to report that the herd was ready to move, they had brought news. Hotchkiss had visited them and extended an invitation for the corporal and his men to attend the prayer meeting. As such a function was of no interest to him, and knowing that Mr. Fog would not approve. Chatswen had declined, So Hotchkiss had ridden off, in the direction of Arkadelphia.
Corporal McGraw had returned, a’fork a lathered, hard-ridden horse, after about an hour. The news which he had brought removed any lingering doubts. Once out of sight of the herd, Hotchkiss had turned south. Unaware that he was being followed, he had joined several more men—who had also worn civilian clothing—in a wood about five miles from the town. Leaving Kiowa to keep the men under observation, Sandy had returned as fast as his horse would carry him.
On hearing the corporal’s news, Chatswen had stated that the men were planning to stampede the herd. Mr. Fog had not agreed, claiming that Hotchkiss would not have taken the risks involved in visiting the camp if that was all they intended. In the small Texan’s opinion—although it had never been tried by the Yankees—the men hoped to steal the herd and take it to the Union’s Army of Arkansas.
Not only had the small Texan been correct in his assumption, he had proved equally accurate in deciding when and how the attempt would be made. He had figured that they would strike that night, reducing the distance they would have to drive the herd to its new destination. What was more, he had believed that Hotchkiss would want to capture Chatswen’s detail, rather than having them killed from an ambush. Doing the latter might allow one or more of them to escape and fetch help and the shooting was almost certain to cause a stampede. So Mr. Fog had declared that the try would be made soon after the herd was bedded down. That would allow the Yankees to move the cattle before they had become too settled. They would also have the full night in which to take the herd around and clear of Arkadelphia; where its appearance and change of route was likely to arouse unwanted interest and attention.
Having stated his conclusions, Mr. Fog had made plans to counter the attempt. Billy Jack had changed uniforms with Japhet, who was closest amongst the herders to his lanky build, and had accompanied the cattle. The chuck wagon had been taken along, to serve as a hiding place at the night camp if it should be needed. With the cattle moving, Mr. Fog and the recruits had followed at a sufficient distance for their presence to be undetected.
The precautions had paid off when, late in the afternoon, Billy Jack had located a man engaged in scouting the herd. When sure that the escort’s proximity was unsuspected by the watcher, the sergeant had selected a campsite and bed ground which he had felt sure was ideally suited to his officer’s needs.
After keeping Hotchkiss’s party under observation all day, Kiowa had slipped away when their scout—it had been Sergeant Leps—returned at sundown. Visiting the herd and camp, he had delivered a warning and gone on to report to Mr. Fog. From that point, everything had followed the small Texan’s plan as if all concerned were working together.
While Mr. Blaze—complaining bitterly that his cousin was pulling rank and giving him all the worst chores—had taken some of the men to protect the herd, the remainder had moved into their places of concealment and waited for the Yankees to arrive. Nothing had been left to chance. Mr. Fog had even thought of sending away the horses so that they would not be disturbed if there should be shooting.
Shaking his head in unspoken admiration, Billy Jack thought of his conjectures regarding the young officers. No matter how Mr. Blaze turned out—and the sergeant still had doub
ts about him—Mr. Fog sure had the making of a leader.
“’Less he gets killed off afore he gets a chance to,” Billy Jack thought, reverting to his pessimistic pose—a sure sign that he believed all was going well. “Which he could, working with an unlucky cuss like me.”
Part Three
THE MAKING OF A LEADER, cont’d.
Chapter Seven
Leaning against his long-barreled, muzzle-loading U.S. Model of 1861 rifle musket, Private Phineas Devlin was a bitter, disgruntled and discontented soldier. He glowered through the darkness to where three glowing areas of red light marked the camp-sites of the two infantry regiments and the large remount depot that was situated in the valley’s bottom below and between them. Over there, the other enlisted men of his outfit—even those guarding the horses—were eagerly awaiting the arrival of the O’Bannion’s whiskey. Back across the river in Searcy, the officers were attending a meeting and ball, enjoying themselves while Devlin stood his lonely duty. With only that damned shavetail, Crosby, as officer of the day at the camp, the sergeant of the guard might forget to come and relieve him when his time was up; especially if the whiskey arrived and was shared out.
An annoyed snort burst from the soldier. When he had enlisted in the Chicago All-Irish Volunteers, he had expected to do more exciting things than having to stand guard at night on a bridge that crossed the Little Red River in White County, Arkansas. Yet there he was, wearing his kepi, long cloak-coat over his uniform and hung about with all the paraphernalia—a bayonet in its sheath and dangling by its frog from his waist belt, water canteen, tin cup, pack, ammunition pouches and the rest—the Army figured necessary for such a task.
At any time, even without the added inducement of the O’Bannion’s gift, Devlin would have felt that the guard detail was not a fitting task for a fighting man who was ready, willing and eager to be beating the devil out of his country’s enemies. It seemed even more pointless under the circumstances. What fighting was being done in Arkansas at that period was taking place a good eighty miles to the south, where the Rebels were defending Little Rock. They would never dare to come so far into Union-held territory just to destroy a bridge. So guarding it, in his opinion, was a waste of time.