by J. T. Edson
There was only one hope of stopping the hog in time and doing it called for a very careful aim. Aligning the sights, Dusty squeezed the trigger. The gas from thirty grains of black powder detonating spun a 219-grain conical bullet through the rifling grooves of the seven-and-a-half inch long ‘Civilian’ pattern barrel.9 Propelled through the air, the lead made a sharp crack as it ploughed through the hard bones of the hog’s skull. Hitting right where Dusty had intended it should, a couple of inches above the eyes and in the exact centre of the head, the .44 bullet tore into the beast’s brain pan. Killed instantly, the hog’s fore legs buckled under it and the great body turned a forward somersault from its momentum.
Twisting himself over in a violent, desperate roll, the scout barely avoided being struck by the hog’s fast-moving carcass. It crashed to the ground on its back and, with a final, frantic thrashing of its legs, went limp. Raising himself on to his hands, the scout looked at the dead hog. Then he turned his face towards his rescuer. Surprise flickered across the scout’s bronzed features as he realised that he owed his life to a Confederate States’ Army captain.
‘Thanks, frie—’ the scout had begun to say, but the words trailed off and, after staring for a few seconds, he continued, ‘Well I’ll be damned!’
‘Maybe you’ll have time to repent from your sinful ways, hombre,’ Dusty answered, having deftly cocked his Colt on its recoil and turned it to line with disconcerting inflexibility in the man’s direction. ‘Happen you stay put for a spell, that is.’
Drawing one leg up under him ready to make a dive towards his weapons, the scout remained at the foot of the tree. His eyes flickered to the hole in the hog’s skull, then swung to estimate the distance from which the big Texan had cut loose. That had either been a real lucky, or mighty well-aimed shot. Noticing the other’s quietly competent appearance, the scout went for the latter choice.
‘Was you wanting me dead,’ the scout remarked, raking Dusty from head to foot with his eyes, ‘you’d’ve let the hawg get me.’
‘Don’t you going setting too much store by that, hombre,’ the small Texan warned. ‘If I’d let it happen, the noise’d likely’ve spooked off your horses and I need them.’
‘And I thought it was me you liked,’ said the scout, right hand moving slowly towards his leg.
‘While you’re down there, take out the knife and toss it this way,’ Dusty ordered. ‘With the tips of your fingers, so there’ll be no temptation to let you get “damned” permanent.’
Grinning resignedly, the scout obeyed. Drawing the knife between the extreme tips of his thumb and forefinger, he spun it across the clearing and made certain that it never looked like reaching his rescuer. That Texan captain might be young, but he packed a whole heap too much savvy to play games against. Going by the manner in which he handled the Colt, he rated high in skill at using it. No man could take chances with that level of talent to his own advantage. Trying to jump him, without the help of a suitable distraction, would be rapidly fatal. So the scout intended to comply with the other’s orders—unless a real good chance of altering their status happened to come up.
‘Ole “Californy” Bill allus telled me washing and shaving regular’s plumb dangerous,’ commented the scout. ‘Damned if he didn’t have him a mishap and tell the truth for once.’
‘It happens to most of us, one time or another,’ Dusty replied. ‘You can get up’s long’s you do it slow and easy.’
‘Thanks,’ answered the scout and came to his feet in a lithe, effortless manner that told Dusty he was neither slow nor clumsy in his movements. ‘Why’d the hawg jump me?’
‘Going by that nick on its butt-end, I’d say it was riled ‘cause a Yankee luff threw a bullet at it yesterday.’
‘Why’d he do a fool thing like that?’
‘Heard it moving in some bushes, figured it was me and come up smoking. I’d say he was lucky that ole hawg went away instead of coming at him.’
‘You see it happen?’ asked the scout.
‘Heard a couple of Volunteers talking about it while they was supposed to be hunting for me.’
‘Buller’s bunch, huh? That figures. There’s not one of them from the Bully his-self down to the lowest drummerboy’s’s got sense enough to pound sand into a rat-hole. What you got in mind to do with me?’
‘Now I’d say that depends on you,’ Dusty answered. I won’t chance leaving you hawg-tied here, or having you free to come after me.’
‘Maybe you should’ve let the hawg get me,’ commented the scout.
‘There’s some’s’d say you’re right,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Trouble being I didn’t and it’s too late now. After I’ve got your guns, you can come over and get dressed.’
‘Can I finish my shave first?’
‘Go to it. Only don’t try shaving me while you’re at it.’
Keeping a watch while the scout went ahead with his interrupted ablutions, Dusty lowered his Colt and crossed to the fire. Asking for and receiving permission he poured out a cup of coffee. At no time did he relax his vigilance, as the scout observed through the mirror. Dusty presented his captive with no opportunity to jump him, or to make a dash for cover. Finishing the coffee, he collected the Navy Colts and thrust them into his waist-band. Then he returned his revolver to its holster and, selecting a moment when the scout had the razor to his tight-stretched throat, slid the Henry rifle from its boot. Working the lever, Dusty emptied the repeater’s chamber. While replacing the Henry in the medicine boot, Dusty produced his Colt again.
‘Now what?’ inquired the scout, having finished his shave and rinsed his face at the river’s edge.
‘Come and get dressed,’ Dusty answered. ‘Then you can saddle both horses.’
‘Both?’
‘Sure. I’ll use one and you’ll come with me. Then when I’m safe with my own folks, you can come back with both of them.’
‘That’s sure white of you,’ commented the scout, certain that the other would keep his word.
‘More smart than white,’ Dusty corrected with a grin. ‘It’s that way, or leave you dead. I don’t want a Yankee Injun scout coming hunting for me because I took his favourite horses and guns.’
Also grinning, the scout rolled his razor, shaving brush and soap into a canvas hold-all. When he walked towards the fire, he noticed that his captor backed away to a safe distance. Although the Army Colt dangled with its muzzle directed at the ground, the scout figured it could be swiftly brought into line if he made a wrong move. Clearly the moment to reverse their positions had not yet arrived.
Picking up his shirt, the scout drew it on. He discovered, on his head emerging through the neck-hole, that the Texan had taken advantage of his actions to go and collect the horn-handled, clip-pointed fighting knife. For a moment the scout felt uneasy, knowing that the Sheffield, England, firm of W. & H. Whitehead had engraved the message ‘DEATH TO TRAITORS’ along the eight-inch blade, to appeal to purchasers of Unionist persuasions.
‘Nice sentiment,’ drawled Dusty and tossed the knife to the scout’s feet. ‘Put it back in its sheath and leave it there.’
Obeying, the scout next knotted the bandana about his throat. He tilted the Stetson into place on his head and gathered up the sash. For the first time, Dusty realised that the sash was made of two sections of the silk, one stitched on top of the other. No, not stitched all the way round. On either side, above the hips when the sash was in place, the sections were not connected.
‘How do you find it is to draw from that sash, friend?’ Dusty inquired, guessing at the purpose of the unstitched areas.
‘Easy—and fast,’ answered the scout. ‘Once you get the hang of it.’
‘I’d sooner have holsters myself,’ Dusty commented.
‘Every man to his own taste, Cap’n,’ the scout said. ‘I find I can fetch ‘em out a whole heap faster this way.’
‘Like you say,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Every man to his own taste. Now you’re dressed, you can saddle up the horses and
we’ll pull out.’
‘You’re giving the orders,’ answered the scout.
Still keeping his distance, Dusty allowed the man to fold and pack the bed-roll. Then he watched while the other took the necessary items for saddling-up to the waiting horses. Selecting the dun to start work on, the scout laid the carefully folded blanket on its back. With a practised swing, he elevated the McClellan saddle into position.
‘Tighten the girth and breast collar real good, friend,’ Dusty commanded. ‘I won’t be getting on until I’m sure you have.’
‘With a sneaky, suspicious nature like you’ve got,’ grinned the scout as he obeyed, ‘you’d make a mighty good lawman, Cap’n.’
Without knowing it, the long-haired Yankee had just made a mighty prophetic statement. In the years following the end of the War, Dusty would serve with distinction as marshal in three tough, wild, wide-open towns and leave them tamer, better places at the end of his terms of office.10
‘A half-smart lil Texas boy like me has to be sneaky and suspicious,’ Dusty replied, moving closer to make sure the work was completed to his satisfaction. ‘Happen he wants to stay alive this side of the Ouach—’
Even as he spoke, Dusty happened to glance across the Saline River. A tall man dressed in a hybrid mixture of Union Army and civilian clothes sat a horse among the trees on the other bank. Big, surly-featured, he had a revolver hanging low in his right thigh. The Burnside hat and the blue tunic he wore bore no insignia. Hanging open, the latter exposed a dirty white shirt.
Becoming aware of the small Texan’s preoccupation, the scout figured his chance had come. Silently, he stepped away from the dun. His moccasins made no sound as he took two long strides towards the unsuspecting Rebel.
Finding himself observed, the man at the other side of the river swung his horse around and trotted it back out of sight. Just a moment too late, Dusty realised the chance he had presented to his prisoner. Turning his head, he saw the scout springing towards him. Dusty had not looked away from the other for long, but it had proved to be long enough.
Hurling himself forward with the speed of a cougar plunging from a branch at a whitetail deer, the scout knotted and drove his right fist ahead of him. Rock-hard knuckles impacted against the side of Dusty’s jaw. For a moment, as he went crashing to the ground, everything seemed to burst before Dusty’s eyes into flashing, brilliant lights. Darkness welled in on him an instant before he sprawled face down on the springy grama grass of the clearing. He did not feel the scout turn him over and unbuckle his gunbelt.
* * *
At first, Dusty’s eye-lids refused to function when he tried to open them. Under him, the earth felt hard, the grass rough and his neck seemed to be twisted badly. A throbbing pain beat through his head, stemming from his jaw. Slowly his eyes trembled open, blinking at the sudden influx of light. Then the spinning in his skull started to ebb away. Strength oozed back, along with coherent thought. Slowly he moved his neck, turning his aching head until he could see a pair of calf-long Indian moccasins. Then the light hurt Dusty’s eyes and he rolled on to his stomach.
The scout stood several feet away, Navy Colts thrust butts forward in his silk sash. Lounging on spread apart feet, the long-haired Yankee had his hands thumb-hooked into the sash and Dusty’s gunbelt dangling over his broad left shoulder. Hearing the Texan stirring, the man glanced his way. Then he returned his gaze to the ford. A splashing sound reached the recumbent youngster’s ears. Starting to ease himself on to hands and knees, he looked at the four men who were riding through the water in his direction. They were not a comforting sight to a man in Dusty’s present situation.
‘Don’t try anything, Cap’n,’ said the scout, speaking from the corner of his mouth and with the minimum of lip movement. ‘That feller you saw’s coming back with his kinfolk.’
Two of the riders might easily have been related to the man who had brought Dusty into serious difficulties. All had un-trimmed black hair, unshaven, sullen, almost brutish faces with a strong family resemblance and were dressed in a similar manner. None were small and they went down in one-inch steps, the first of them being of the middle height.
Swinging his gaze to the fourth member of the party, Dusty felt an uneasy sense of recognition. From his round-topped, wide-brimmed hat, through his frock coat, string tie, trousers and boots, he wore all black. His grubby shirt might have once been white, but now looked a dirty shade of grey. Gaunt of build, with a bearded, hollow-cheeked face, he had an expression of piety that failed to reach, or match, the savage glow in his sunken, dark eyes. Nor did it go well with the ivory-handled Navy Colt carried in an open-topped cross-draw holster high on his left side. Maybe he would have passed for a circuit-riding preacher of the more severe kind to some people, but Dusty felt certain that he was nothing so innocuous.
All of the men darted glances about them, studying the clearing and its occupants with interest. To Dusty, it seemed that the four were adding up the value of everything before them; horses, saddles, firearms, even himself. He noticed the gaunt man staring at something near where he knelt. Following the direction of the other’s gaze, Dusty looked at his Jefferson Davis campaign hat. Sent flying from his head by the force of the blow, or through his collision with the ground, the hat lay with its star-in-the-circle insignia facing the ford.
‘Greetings, brother,’ the gaunt man intoned, swinging from his saddle and allowing his reins to dangle free.
‘Howdy,’ replied the scout, watching the other three dismount, leave their horses ground-hitched and follow their leader on foot towards him.
‘Brother Aaron here saw you in dire trouble and need, brother,’ the gaunt man continued, indicating the middle-sized of the trio. ‘And, like the Good Samaritan, we’ve come to give you succour.’
‘Now that’s right neighbourly of you,’ the scout answered, ‘whatever that there “sucker” might be. Only I’m not needing any, thanks.’
‘Brother Aaron told us that this transgressor had you prisoner,’ the spokesman for the quartet declared as they came to a halt. ‘It was our duty as God-fearful men to come to your rescue.’
‘Why I’m tolerable obliged to you, reverend,’ the scout exclaimed in respect-filled tones. ‘And I sure hope you’re around happen I ever come to need rescuing.’
‘I tell you the peckerwood had him took prisoner, Parson!’ Aaron snarled.
‘Looks that way,’ said the scout, ‘don’t it?’
Fooled by the long-haired scout’s appearance of youth and confident that the odds were all in his favour, Aaron pushed by the gaunt man. Scowling belligerently, in a manner which had caused more than one victim to show alarm and fright, the man continued with his accusations and stepped closer to the scout.
‘That Reb bastard had your guns and was making you do what he wanted. Which’s why I fetched the Par—’
‘Meaning I’m a liar?’ asked the scout mildly.
‘You might say that!’ agreed Aaron, right hand moving suggestively in the direction of his holstered Remington Army revolver.
Instantly all the mildness left the scout and he once again demonstrated that he could move with considerable speed despite his size. Gliding forward a long step, he swung his left hand almost faster than the eye could follow. With a crack like the pop of a freight-driver’s whip, the hard palm of his hand caught Aaron at the side of the head. Having received a blow from the scout, Dusty could almost feel sympathy for Aaron. Coming as a surprise, and with considerable force, the attack spun the hard-case around in a circle to blunder into the smallest of his companions as the others started to move forward.
Spitting out a vicious curse, the biggest of the party grabbed for his Starr Navy revolver. Going by his response to the threat, the scout had been in other such situations. He responded with the same alacrity which had characterised all of his movements since taking advantage of Dusty’s distraction. Although his left hand had been put to excellent use, the right had remained by his side. Turning palm out the f
ingers wrapped about the hand-fitting white curves of the off-side Colt’s butt, while the thumb curled over the hammer spur. Twisting the gun from its silk retainer, the scout turned its seven-and-a-half inch barrel to the left, then outwards. Doing so caused the weapon’s thirty-eight ounce weight to cock back with hammer without any effort on the scout’s part. From waist level, the .36 muzzle lined itself with unerring precision at the hard-case’s favourite navel.
From first to very rapidly-following last, the whole move had been made with smooth, lightning fast, precision. Bringing his down-dropping hand to a quivering halt, a good three inches from the butt of the Starr, the burly hard-case stared as if fascinated at the octagonal-barrelled revolver pointing so unerringly at him.
Dull red crept on to ‘Parson’s’ gaunt face and his eyes glowed with cold, savage rage; but he stopped his hand in its cross-the-body motion, well clear of his revolver. On separating, the remainder of the new arrivals glowered hate. The only movement made by their hands was the middle-sized man’s involuntary raising of his fingers to gently massage his stinging cheek.
Even Dusty, no slouch in matters pistolero himself, could not fault the speed and general competence with which the scout had extracted the Colt. Like the other had said earlier, drawing from the folds of a silk sash was fast—providing one took the trouble to learn. Nor was his talent confined to the right hand.
Ejecting the blood that had collected in his mouth, Aaron removed his fingers from the cheek, intending to transfer them to the butt of his gun. Back curved the scout’s left hand. It slipped free and cocked the near hip’s Colt with almost an equal facility to that displayed when producing the gun’s mate. Again the production of a revolver, in a remarkably short space of time, brought a potentially threatening gesture to an abrupt and definite halt.
‘As the Good Book says,’ boomed the man called ‘Parson’. ‘Raise not thy hand against thy brother, lest the might of the Lord shall smite thee and bring thy pride to dust.’