Under the Stars and Bars (A Dusty Fog Civil War Western Book 4)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Likely,’ was all the scout said, without relaxing his vigilance to a noticeable degree. ‘So how’s it affect me?’

  ‘If you just leave us have that short-growed son-of-a-bitch,’ Aaron put in with a hint of sarcasm. ‘We’ll hand him his needings.’

  ‘I’d surely admire to do it, brother, for your poor lil sister’s sake,’ the scout declared, sounding as if every word came straight from his heart. ‘Only I don’t reckon ole Colonel Verncombe’d be right pleased was I to show at Little Rock without his prisoner.’

  Still on his hands and knees, Dusty saw a slight, but definite change come over the quartet. Going by their mutual flashing exchange of glances and general loss of aggressive attitudes, they were aware of Colonel Verncombe’s sentiments on the subject of guerillas or other irregular organizations. Senior colonel in the Union’s Army of Arkansas, commanding officer of Buller’s most efficient regiment, Verncombe was a man whose opinions and desires must be reckoned with by any guerrilla band if it hoped to stay in operation around the Toothpick State.

  That the men were guerillas, Dusty no longer doubted. Their appearance had suggested that such might be the case, as did their behavior. However, the mention of the name ‘Parson’ had clinched the matter beyond any shadow of a doubt. Falling into the hands of Northern irregulars, especially members of that particular band, was a situation on which no supporter of the Confederate States cared to contemplate. Dusty realized that the scout might very soon have the opportunity to repay him for killing the boar. From what he had said so far, the long-haired Yankee aimed to do just that. In which case, the scout was placing himself in a position of danger. Parson Wightman had the reputation of being a real bad man to cross; and Dusty felt sure that he had guessed the gaunt man’s identity correctly.

  In the years before the start of the War Between The States, Augustus Wightman had been a hell-fire-and-damnation preacher with his eyes on advancement to a wealthy bishopric. He had selected on the Slavery Issue as offering him the best chance of attaining his ambition. By thundering searing condemnations of all who opposed the abolition of slavery, he had built up a sizeable following in his home city—but the bishopric went to another priest.

  From that day on, Wightman had been a changed man. Laying the blame for his failure on slave-owning interests, he had continued his campaign against them. However, what had once been the utterances of a self-seeking, if occasionally devout, man soon developed into the ravings of a religious fanatic of the worst kind.

  Soon after the commencement of hostilities, he had enlisted in the Union Army as a chaplain. Eighteen months later, he had been compelled to resign and was unfrocked by his denomination. There had been tales of outrages committed against Confederate prisoners, and uglier stories of Southern women being raped by Negroes at Wightman’s instigation. Far too many, in fact, for them all to be lies by the heathen Secessionist trash to discredit a man of the cloth; as he had tried to claim.

  Disregarding his protests, the Union Army’s top brass had issued orders that Wightman be given the choice of quitting or facing a court-martial. No less quickly, the leaders of his church had removed him from their midst. Too wise to resist, for he had known just how much truth there had been in the rumors, he had taken the easy way out. Wishing to avoid a scandal, Army and Church had let him go.

  By that time, Wightman had gained a taste for power and a delight in the type of activities which had caused his downfall. So he had formed a band of irregulars, gathering together criminal elements and the worst kind of draft-dodgers who evaded service in the Army. It said much for the strength of his personality and acquired dexterity in the use of weapons that he had welded such an evil, motley crowd into a single unit.

  Backed by such men, Wightman had commenced a career of murderous atrocity combined with theft. At last, learning that stories of his activities were being published in foreign, pro-Confederate, newspapers, the Federal Congress had ordered that Wightman’s outfit be disbanded. When he had refused to do so, Brevet-Colonel Frederick W. Benteen, Jnr., xi a man of forcible personality and prompt action, had been assigned to bring Wightman in. Moving swiftly, Benteen’s battalion had located and attacked the Parson’s band. Although Wightman and some of the leading members had escaped, the rest of the evil crew were killed, captured or sent flying for safety towards the Canadian border.

  Left with a mere ten out of over fifty followers, Parson Wightman had drifted from the danger area. His attempts to re-establish himself had been unsuccessful, and he had found no respite in the East. So he had pushed to the west with his dwindling band.

  Although rumors had reached the Texas Light Cavalry that Wightman’s band were in Arkansas and hid-out somewhere along the Saline River, there had been no confirmation. Dusty now found himself in a position to supply proof of their presence—if, of course, he lived long enough and could escape to return and give it.

  Standing behind his cocked, lined Colts, the scout kept a careful watch on the quartet. At the same time, he hoped that the small Texan would act in a sensible manner. With luck, the weight of Colonel Verncombe’s name would pull them out of their peril; unless the Rebel captain made some move that would trigger off a shooting fracas.

  ‘Be peaceable, brothers,’ commanded Wightman, darting a coldly-warning glare at Aaron Maxim and his brothers Abel and Job. ‘This young man shares with us in serving the blessed cause of defeating the traitorous Secessionists.’ He looked about him quickly and went on, ‘Are you alone, brother?’

  ‘Only for a spell,’ the scout replied.

  ‘Then you are fortunate enough to have companions at hand?’ Wightman insisted.

  Interest showed amidst the scowls on the Maxim brothers’ faces, but they refrained from making any hostile gestures and awaited the answer to their leader’s question. Their future relationship with the scout would depend on what he said.

  ‘ “Californy” Bill’s bringing Major Galbraith ’n’ Troop “G” along,’ replied the scout frankly. ‘They’ll likely be about four, five miles back by now.’

  ‘How come you ain’t with ’em?’ demanded Abel Maxim. ‘The Major left me to take this Reb captain on to Little Rock while him and the Troop run his Company off,’ answered the scout, returning the Colts to the slits in his sash. ‘Should have done it ’n’ be headed this way by now. “Californy” said’s how he’d bring ’em on my trail.’

  From his position to one side, Dusty heard and understood. Unless he missed his guess, the scout was running a desperate bluff to keep them both out of the guerillas’ hands. Whoever that long-haired jasper might be, he would make a mighty tough enemy in a poker game. Nothing about him hinted he was telling other than the truth. Replacing the Colts created the impression that, with help so close at hand, he did not need fear the quartet. Even the selection of the distance separating him from ‘Californy’ Bill and Troop ‘G’ of the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons had been carefully made. The scout did not know from which direction the guerillas had come, or how far behind they had observed. So he had picked a distance to which they would have been unlikely to be able to see; yet close enough for speedy reprisals to be taken in the event of treachery on the part of Wightman’s men.

  Still weakened by the effects of the scout’s blow, Dusty knew that he could not move fast enough to attempt an escape at that moment. So he remained motionless and silent, watching every move and taking in each word. Studying the guerillas’ acceptance of the scout’s treatment and interplay of questioning glances, Dusty could tell they were uncertain whether the westerner had reinforcements close by or not. So was Dusty, come to that.

  Although Aaron Maxim scowled in surly disbelief, he left his doubts unspoken. One taste of the scout’s hard hand had been enough for him and he suspected that, if there should be a next time, the response to further criticism might be a bullet. Of the others, only the largest of the brothers raised any comment.

  ‘I didn’t know California Bill was hereabouts,’ Abel growled, lo
oking a mite uneasy and concerned.

  ‘Colonel Benteen lent him ’n’ me to the “New Jersey” Dragoons for a spell,’ the scout explained. ‘Figured us being such all-fired good Injun-fighters ’n’ all’s we could maybe help ’em ag’in the Texas Light Cavalry. You know ole “Californy” from someplace, mister?’

  ‘We’ve heard tell on him,’ Abel admitted sourly.

  ‘I tell you, I ain’t never seen his better at reading sign ’n’ following tracks,’ the scout continued cheerfully, as if imparting information of importance. ‘Which, I sure didn’t try to hide which way we was coming.’

  If there was one part of California Bill’s character upon which the scout did not need to elaborate, it was his ability at following tracks. All of Wightman’s party had good reason to remember it.

  One of the men who had braved the terrible over-land journey to the West Coast during the gold rush of 1849, California Bill had not made his fortune. Instead, he had received a thorough education in all matters pertaining to Indian warfare. Serving the Union Army as a civilian scout, it had been he—sent East for the duration of the War—who had guided Benteen’s battalion to what Wightman’s guerillas had fondly believed to be a secret camp.

  Frowning, the Parson thought fast. For something over a month, he and his last eight companions—two had deserted on the way west—had been living at a small farm close to the Saline River. They had come to Arkansas in the hope that Buller might take a more lenient attitude than most Union, or Confederate, generals towards their irregular activities. Being wolf-smart, Wightman had advised extreme caution. So they had held off committing their usual depredations, except on a minor scale to obtain the necessities of life, until a sympathizer in a Little Rock could discover how the commanding general of the Army of Arkansas would react to their presence in his area.

  So far there had been no reply and Wightman knew that his men were getting restless. There were other guerilla bands operating in the Toothpick State, or back East, in which the less well-known members of his outfit might find shelter. So he wanted to be able to give them some definite news as quickly as possible.

  Slowly Wightman turned his eyes in the direction of Dusty’s hat and he made sure that he had identified its insignia correctly. The Texas Light Cavalry was Ole Devil Hardin’s own regiment, organized, financed and equipped at his instigation. For such a small, insignificant youngster to be a captain suggested that he stood high in Hardin’s favor. If so, to deliver him into Buller’s hands would gain the general’s approbation. Perhaps sufficiently so for Buller—hard-pressed and under heavy criticism due to his lack of success against the Rebels in Arkansas—to overlook Wightman’s past indiscretions and confer at least a semi-official status upon him.

  The only problem being how to obtain possession of the prisoner. Using force did not appeal to the Parson. Not at that moment, anyway. Already the long-haired scout had demonstrated a speed that none of the quartet could equal when drawing their guns. So he would be much too fast for any of them to prevent him from shooting should they force a showdown. Of course their combined numbers would bring them through, but at least one of the four would die. There was an ugly element of chance over which of them it would be that did not appeal to Wightman.

  More than that, if the scout had told the truth, killing him would not solve the problem. No matter how they tried, Wightman’s inexperienced companions could not hide all signs of the crime from a man like California Bill. Once the old timer discovered that something had happened to his friend, he would not rest until he had led Troop ‘G’ to the men responsible.

  Or was the scout bluffing?

  Wightman decided against calling the bluff until he had formed a better impression of what cards the opposition held.

  ‘Then brother,’ the Parson said, managing to bring a kind of joviality to his sober features. ‘Why not accompany me to my home and wait for your friends there?’

  ‘Well, I—’ the scout began.

  ‘We have heard that there are other Rebels between here and Little Rock,’ Wightman interrupted. ‘If you meet them, you might lose your prisoner and your own freedom. I would be doing you a disservice, brother, if I didn’t insist you come.’

  ‘Wouldn’t be right at all,’ Job Maxim agreed and his brothers rumbled menacing confirmation.

  For a moment Dusty thought that the scout intended to refuse. Then he saw the other look across the river and stiffen slightly. There had been a definite challenge in the words. If the scout refused to accompany the quartet, he would have to back his non-compliance with roaring guns. Dusty hoped that he would be able to help in some way. With that in mind, he started to come to his feet.

  ‘You stay put there, you Rebel bastard!’ Aaron spat, making as if to advance and clenching his fists.

  ‘Major Galbraith don’t take to folks rough-handling his prisoners,’ the scout stated, moving between Dusty and Maxim.

  ‘He ain’t here—!’ Abel started to protest.

  ‘Let’s just say I’m acting for him,’ answered the scout evenly. ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do, Cap’n, go saddle your hoss.’

  Shaking his head, for coming into an upright position had started it spinning again, Dusty stood and looked at the scout. He caught a brief, barely discernible nod from the plainsman and decided to obey. Clearly the other did not intend to accept the challenge right then. So Dusty decided that he had better go along with the decision.

  Leading the way to the second saddle, the scout picked up the Henry and its fancy medicine boot. Then he stood back and allowed Dusty to collect the saddle. They both noticed Aaron talked animatedly into Wightman’s ear and throwing angry glares at them.

  ‘He’s sure pot-boiling mad about something,’ Dusty remarked, gathering the saddle-blanket, bridle and reins in his left hand, while his right held the light McClellan saddle and its breast strap.

  ‘Likely telling the Parson he’s certain sure you’d got me prisoner when he come up on us the first time,’ answered the scout. ‘Which, if it’s believed, ’ll make a helluva liar out of me.’

  Wanting an excuse to prolong the conversation, Dusty allowed his left hand’s burden to slip. Although Wightman and the brothers continued to talk in low, argumentative tones, they did not entirely relax their vigilance over Dusty and the Yankee scout.

  ‘So nobody’s coming, huh?’ Dusty asked, bending to retrieve the equipment.

  ‘Not so’s I know on,’ admitted the scout. ‘I’d say we’re safe until they get to know it.’

  ‘Why wait?’ Dusty inquired. ‘Just let me grab a hold of one of my guns, accidental-like and we’ll shoot our way by ’em.’

  ‘I’d thought some on it. Near on done it just now, comes to that.’

  ‘What stopped you?’

  An increased sense of liking and admiration grew in the scout. At no time had the small Texan looked at the dead pig, or given a single hint to remind him that he owed his life to the other’s skill with an Army Colt. Maybe they were serving on opposite sides in the civil conflict that was tearing their country apart, but the scout figured his captive would do to ride the river with, even if the water should be over the willows. However, the soft-spoken question required an answer.

  ‘There’s another son-of-a-bitch of ’em across the river,’ the scout explained. ‘And he’s got what looks awful like a Spencer rifle pointed slap-dab at us.’

  ~*~

  At the Scout’s warning, Dusty turned his eyes to the western bank of the Saline River. He saw the reason for the scout’s earlier failure to take up the quartet’s challenge. Standing partially concealed by a slippery elm tree, a middle-sized, stocky man looked towards them along the sights of what appeared to be a Spencer repeating rifle. The newcomer’s presence threw an entirely different complexion over the affair. If Dusty and the scout tried to escape, his rifle would halt at least one of them.

  Carrying the gear towards the chestnut, with the scout by his left side, Dusty saw Aaron Maxim slouchi
ng their way. Instead of showing pure suspicion, Aaron’s unprepossessing features glinted with triumph. He looked like a man who had finally caught out another in a trick or lie. However his present feelings of elation did not entirely wipe away his caution, for he halted well beyond the reach of the scout’s arms.

  ‘If he was your prisoner all along,’ Aaron challenged, ‘how come you’d had to knock him down when we rid up?’

  ‘That was your son-of-a-bitching fault,’ rumbled the scout menacingly. ‘If you hadn’t come slinking and crawling about over the river, I’d not’ve stopped watching him. He tried to jump me and I had to knock him down.’

  ‘Yeah!’ snorted Aaron. ‘Well I—’

  ‘Deacon!’ the scout called, not wanting Wightman to guess that his identity had been discovered.

  ‘What is it, brother?’ asked the Parson, flashing a triumphant glance to Abel Maxim at the ‘proof’ that the scout did not recognize them.

  ‘I’m getting quick-sick of this jasper riding me,’ the scout stated flatly. ‘If he don’t quit—and fast—I’ll forget how he’s suffering over his sister and let windows in his skull. And I’ll do it so fast your “brother” across the river there won’t be fixed to stop me.’

  All the pomp and aggression oozed out of Aaron as the implication of the words struck him. Looking at the threatening figure of the long-haired westerner, crouching lightly on spread-apart, slightly bent legs and with hands turned palms outwards close to the white butts of the Colts, he realized that he might be in imminent danger of being killed. Up to that point, confident that Blocky’s presence beyond the ford was unsuspected, Aaron had been all set to face down and call the scout’s bluff. Instead of that, the scout was aware of his peril and had spoken the truth to Wightman. Maybe Blocky would down him, but by that time Aaron would probably be too dead to care.