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

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Don’t let it worry you, soldier,’ Surtees said quietly as Prince turned a startled face his way. ‘Cap’n Dusty’s likely got something in mind.’

  Prince decided against asking what it might be. If Kiowa and the bugler were willing to accompany the small captain, the recruit did not mean to let them think that he felt concern for his own safety. For all that, he was puzzled and worried by the thought of what might lie ahead.

  A yearning for excitement and adventure had brought Tracey Prince into the Texas Light Cavalry. On joining, he had expected to be sent straight into the battle-front and had seen himself winning instantaneous acclaim for his courage against the Yankees. Instead of being accepted as the finished product he had believed himself to be, he had been treated as a raw hand. During his training, he had repeatedly bewailed the waste of time learning how to drill and do other fool soldier tricks. He had regarded his arrival in Company ‘C’ as the prelude to action and had looked forward eagerly to coming to grips with the enemy.

  Yet, never in his wildest day-dreams, had he conceived that he would be part of such an expedition. Beyond the Caddo River lay Yankee-held territory. Sure the Texas Light Cavalry raided across it regularly—but at Company strength. He felt certain that, as a general rule, a group of no more than four men did not go beyond the boundary river.

  All the time they were riding, Prince scanned the land ahead of them in the hope of seeing the escaped Yankee. The woods through which they passed grew thicker and he saw no sign of Gilbertson. At last Prince caught a glimpse of water glinting through the trees and Kiowa signaled to them to halt. Quietly Dusty gave the order to dismount. Swinging to the ground, Dusty allowed his split-end reins to fall free. Doing so held a range-trained horse as effectively as tying it to a branch.

  ‘Tracks keep going down there, Cap’n,’ Kiowa announced as Dusty joined him. ‘Likely he went straight across. Do we head after him?’

  ‘Take a look around first,’ Dusty advised. ‘If he met up with a Yankee patrol, they could figure we’ll be following and be laying up for us when we try to go across.’

  Leaving his horse ground-hitched by its trailing reins, Kiowa glided off through the trees. Dusty and the two privates waited in silence, watching how the sergeant took advantage of every scrap of cover during his approach to the river’s edge.

  While his men raked the opposite shore with an intent scrutiny, Dusty studied his surroundings and estimated their position on the Caddo. Unless he missed his guess, they were about two miles downstream from the Snake Ford. He knew which of Buller’s regiments currently had the responsibility of patrolling that area of the river. Making use of his knowledge, Dusty formulated a plan for repossessing the absconding Volunteer. He did not tell his companions of his intentions, figuring that they would have doubts as to the chance of his bringing it off.

  Almost half an hour went by before Kiowa returned. Nothing showed on his brown, hard features, but Dusty knew the sergeant had not liked what lay ahead.

  ‘He went straight across, Cap’n Dusty. Not more’n an hour ago.’

  ‘Have we anybody waiting for us?’

  ‘Not as I could see,’ Kiowa admitted. ‘Only it’s real thick bushes over the other side.’

  ‘And they could be laying for us?’ Dusty asked.

  ‘Could be,’ Kiowa drawled. ‘There’s places enough for ’em to hide and me not to see ’em.’

  ‘It’s a chance I’ll have to take,’ Dusty decided, then turned to the two privates. ‘This’s as far as I’m ordering you to come.’

  ‘Happen you’re asking for volunteers, Cap’n Dusty,’ Surtees answered laconically, ‘I’m game to give it a whirl.’

  ‘And me!’ Prince went on, hoping that his voice showed none of the perturbation he felt.

  Cautiously, leading their horses, the Texans wended their way towards the river. All of them gave the opposite bank their full attention, probing it for any sign of lurking enemies. They halted just before reaching the narrow path that followed the course of the river, worn by the boots and hooves of many Confederate patrols, without obtaining conclusive evidence for or against there being Yankees waiting to ambush them.

  ‘There’s only one way to make sure,’ Dusty declared. ‘I’m going over.’ He looked at Kiowa, then to Surtees and finally in Prince’s direction, continuing, ‘Feel like coming with me, soldier?’

  The words came as a shock to Prince and he did not answer for a moment. Then he realized that Dusty had called him ‘soldier’ instead of the coldly-formal ‘Prince’.

  Was there a hint of challenge in the request?

  ‘I’m with you, Cap’n,’ Prince decided, trying to sound far more nonchalant than he was feeling.

  For all his light-hearted comment, Dusty had no intention of advancing blindly into danger. Before starting, there were certain precautions to be taken.

  ‘Here’s my Henry, Kiowa,’ Dusty drawled, reaching forward to slide the repeating rifle—a battle-field capture—from its saddle-boot, then handing it over. ‘You and the bugler’d best cover us. If we don’t make it, head back and tell Uncle Devil what’s happened.’

  ‘Yo!’ Kiowa answered calmly, hefting the Henry. ‘The current’s fast, but it’s not too deep where he went over. You should get through without swimming.’

  ‘We’ll make sure of dry guns, anyway,’ Dusty decided.

  Unbuckling their belts, Dusty and Prince suspended them across their shoulders so as to try to keep the Colts from becoming wet. Drawing his Enfield rifle, Surtees checked that its percussion cap was intact and adjusted the sights. Then he and Kiowa watched their companions mount up and ride towards the river.

  ‘Young Prince looked a mite peaked,’ Surtees commented sotto voce, never taking his eyes from the other bank. ‘He went with Cap’n Dusty game enough, though.’

  ‘Why sure,’ Kiowa agreed. ‘He’ll make a hand—happen he comes through this, that is.’

  ~*~

  If Prince had heard the two veterans’ words, they would have given him pleasure by their implication of acceptance into the elite ranks of Company ‘C’. However, at that moment the recruit had far too much on his mind to be interested in his companions’ good opinions of him. Crossing the path, the horses splashed into the water and moved steadily forward.

  Ahead the woods still lay silent. The trees, bushes and grass looked no different to those which they had just left. For all that, Prince knew the woodland on the eastern bank was different.

  Very, very different!

  Menacingly and dangerously so!

  To the rear were friends and comparative safety. Ahead of Prince and Dusty, the Yankees dominated the whole eastern side of the Caddo. Even now, blue-clad soldiers might be peering and leering along the barrels of Springfield rifles at the two intruders.

  Prince ran the tip of his tongue across lips that suddenly felt dry.

  ‘Was you ever in Arkansas before the War, Tracey?’ Dusty inquired, without relaxing his vigilance.

  ‘N-Nope!’ Prince croaked, startled by hearing the small Texan’s voice rather than at the question.

  ‘Or me,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Seen a fair bit of it since the War started, though. Trouble is I’ve still not met Annie Breen.’

  ‘Huh?’ Prince gulped.

  Although he had already started to make his name as a lady’s man, which would eventually be the cause of his death, xxvi for once the mention of a woman brought little of Prince’s usual eager response.

  ‘According to the song, she lived out this way,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘Or was it from Kentucky?’

  ‘Wha—?’

  ‘How’s the song go,

  ‘Come all you lads of Arkansas,

  To you a tale I bring,

  Of Annie Breen from old Kaintuck—’

  ‘Hell, there’s no wonder I’ve never run across her.’ Swiveling his eyes from the bank ahead, Prince stared at the small Texan for a moment. It seemed impossible that an experienced soldier, riding into possible dang
er, could think about the words of a folk-song.

  The force of the current’s thrust compelled Prince to return his attention to the horse between his legs. However, underfoot the firm gravel of the river’s bed offered a safe footing and the animals found little difficulty in wading. Returning his gaze hurriedly to the eastern shore, Prince stiffened in his saddle.

  Was that a rifle’s barrel, black and evil-looking, thrusting its way out of a clump of dogwood bushes?

  ‘Anyways,’ Dusty’s voice came quiet and unconcernedly to Prince’s ears. ‘I don’t reckon it’d be worth meeting her now. That song was written back in the ‘forties. She’d be a heap too old for either of us. Easy, it’s only a branch.’

  A faint sigh of relief broke from the recruit. For all the flow of care-free chatter, his captain was also watching what lay ahead.

  By that time they had almost reached the center of the river. The water had risen nearly to the tops of the saddles’ rosaderos, xxvii but came no higher. By raising their feet from the stirrup-irons, the riders avoided wetting their boots. Doing so called for a careful watch to be kept on one’s balance and for a short time it held Prince’s full attention.

  As the level of the water subsided, the recruit returned his feet to the stirrups and resumed his scrutiny of the woodland. Darting his eyes back and forwards, Prince saw what he thought was a man spread-eagled behind a rock. Closer examination showed it to be a fallen tree-trunk.

  Or was it?

  Captain Fog had stopped his horse and was reaching towards his gunbelt!

  With a feeling of shock, Prince reined in his mount. Instinctively his right hand dropped towards his hip—to feel nothing more protective than the material of his breeches’ leg.

  ‘Nobody around after all,’ Dusty remarked. ‘But we’d best strap on our belts now. Then we’ll be set to cover Kiowa and Surtees while they come over.’

  ‘Yo!’ Prince replied, hoping that his commanding officer had not noticed his involuntary gesture.

  Lowering their gunbelts to the more usual position about their waists, Dusty and Prince connected the buckles. With that done, they started their horses moving. Prince could not prevent himself sucking in a deep anticipatory breath as he followed the small Texan. Ascending the gentle incline of the eastern bank, they crossed the trail that had been enlarged by Federal patrols and went into the thick undergrowth beyond it.

  With a cold, sinking sensation biting into his stomach, Prince realized that he was now inside enemy territory. The fact that he was the first of his recruit-intake to get there never occurred to him. His full attention was given to staring around. At any moment, he expected to see hordes of Yankee soldiers swarming in his direction.

  Glancing sideways, Prince was impressed by Dusty’s attitude of calm, detached alertness. The small captain, whom Prince had previously been inclined to deride—if only silently—had clearly made such crossings many times and regarded them as commonplace. It was comforting to know that one served under so competent and courageous an officer. From that moment, Tracey Prince joined the ranks or the many who regarded Dusty Fog as being the tallest of them all.

  Having taken up concealed positions among the bushes, Dusty told Prince to keep a watch on the upstream section of the trail. Then he waved to the men on the other side. Joining the advance party, Kiowa and Surtees flashed cheery, friendly grins at Prince.

  ‘You handled that just like a veteran,’ the bugler praised.

  ‘Better,’ Dusty corrected. ‘Us young ’n’s don’t have you Veterans’ creaking old bones to slow us. And I’ll have the Henry, Kiowa. That’s how I got it.’

  ‘Never did have time for no Yankee metal-case gun, anyways,’ the sergeant sniffed, returning the rifle. ‘Give me something I can get fodder for.’

  ‘Where’d Gilbertson come out, if it’s him we’re trailing?’

  ‘Upstream a mite, Cap’n.’

  ‘Let’s go get him,’ Dusty ordered, retaining the Henry in his right hand.

  Flushed with pride at the knowledge that he had won his companions’ approbation, Prince watched the sergeant move a short way along the river’s bank. Dropping from his saddle, Kiowa bent and picked up something that his keen eyes had detected as it lay half concealed in the mud at the edge of the water. Signaling to the others to join him, he held his find towards Dusty.

  ‘He must’ve dropped it as he come out of the river, Cap’n,’ the sergeant guessed. ‘Likely he didn’t want to chance stopping to pick it up.’

  ‘It’ proved to be a Starr Army revolver, covered with mud. Taking it, Dusty found that four of the chambers had been emptied.

  ‘Or figured he wouldn’t be likely to need it again,’ Dusty replied with satisfaction. The discovery of the Starr had given them the first real proof that they were following the right tracks. ‘It’s the gun he used to kill Ollie Svenson.’

  ‘He ain’t sticking to the trail, though,’ Kiowa observed, indicating the evidence that somebody, or something, had forced a path through the bushes.

  ‘That figures,’ Dusty answered. ‘If he had, he might’ve been seen by one of our patrols. He’d want to get into cover rather than chance that.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Kiowa agreed.

  Turning their horses in the direction taken by the man they were following, the Texans rode on. Their way led them through the thick woodlands which flanked the Caddo at that point, then into the more open, rolling country.

  ‘He’s not turning to go up to the Snake Ford,’ Kiowa remarked, letting Dusty come alongside his horse.

  ‘I wasn’t expecting him to,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Way he left us, he’ll not want to go there and be asked questions.’

  With each stride, the horses carried their riders deeper into enemy-held terrain. Prince felt his tension rising again as he kept up a constant surveillance of his surroundings. Watching the flanks, he forgot to look ahead. He had his attention drawn forcibly in that direction as Kiowa once more brought the party to a halt. Staring in the line indicated by the sergeant’s pointing forefinger, Prince stiffened and gulped. Several thin columns of smoke rose from beyond a rim about a mile in front of them. From what the recruit saw, the tracks they were following went towards the smoke.

  ‘What do you reckon, Kiowa?’ Dusty inquired.

  ‘Company of ’em at least,’ the sergeant replied. ‘And this-here’s the “New Jersey” Dragoons’ stomping grounds.’

  That had been one of the factors taken into consideration by the small Texan before he led the way across the river. The 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons was a regular Army regiment, commanded by career officers. Most efficient of all Buller’s outfits, the Dragoons were one Yankee force in Arkansas that even the Texas Light Cavalry regarded as dangerous.

  ‘Take a point, Kiowa,’ Dusty ordered. ‘If that’s where Gilbertson’s going, so’re we.’

  Allowing Kiowa to build up a lead of almost a hundred yards, Dusty started the remainder of the party moving. Prince looked at the smoke-columns, trying to estimate how many men had been responsible for making them. While he could not decide upon an accurate figure, he felt certain that his own group would be heavily outnumbered. That the man they were following was heading towards the smoke grew more positive by the minute. Watching the big captain, Prince wondered what he hoped to accomplish with a sergeant and two privates if Gilbertson had joined up with a large number of Dragoons.

  Ranging ahead of the others, Kiowa kept an especially keen watch for the Dragoons’ vedettes and pickets. If the men ahead had been in camp for a day or longer, they would have taken such defensive precautions. He saw none and at last dismounted, leaving his horse ground-hitched while he continued up the slope on foot. Flattening down on his stomach, he crawled the last few feet and peered cautiously over the rim from behind a bush. What he saw explained away the Dragoons’ lack of guards around their camp-site. Moving back with equal care, the sergeant returned to his patiently-waiting horse.

  ‘It’s a full company of ’em, Cap�
��n Dusty,’ Kiowa reported. ‘They’re just finishing packing and’ll be pulling out soon.’

  Listening to the softly-spoken, unemotional words, Prince decided that they would trail along after the Dragoons and try to sneak Gilbertson out of the Yankees’ next night-camp. It would not be easy—

  ‘Is he with ’em?’ Dusty asked, cutting across the recruit’s thoughts.

  ‘Yep,’ confirmed the sergeant. ‘He’s there. I saw him stood talking to the Dragoons’ major.’

  ‘What’re we going to do now, Cap’n Dusty?’ Surtees inquired.

  ‘Go and get him back,’ Dusty replied and handed his Henry to Kiowa.

  ‘You mean you’re aiming to ride over that rim and ask the Yankees to give him back?’ Prince gasped, watching the small Texan unbuckle his gunbelt.

  ‘Nope,’ Dusty said, quietly but with determination. ‘I’m going to tell them to hand him over.’

  ~*~

  Crystal clear in the morning air, the notes of a bugle-call rang out from the rim overlooking the camp-site used the previous night by Troop ‘G’ of the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons. Having been pulled in for breakfast, the men from the vedettes and pickets were sitting around the dying fires instead of being stationed about the surrounding area. The remainder of the Troop stood with their horses in four files, being inspected by the captain and two lieutenants.

  Startled exclamations burst from the enlisted men and officers as they looked in the direction from which the call sounded. Then eyes turned towards the piles of Springfield carbines, left stacked while their owners completed the final tasks of breaking camp, and the soldiers gave thought to their holstered revolvers.

  ‘Blasted Rebs!’ yelped a young soldier, jerking open his holster’s flap.

  ‘Leave it be, son,’ ordered the grizzled veteran at his side, watching without any concern as two riders approached down the slope. ‘They’re coming in to make a parley.’

  ‘What the hell?’ demanded Major Galbraith, swinging away from Gilbertson and examining the cause of the disturbance. ‘Take up defensive positions, men!’