by J. T. Edson
‘It’s all right, marshal,’ Dusty put in, ignoring the outburst. ‘I’ll tend to him. Will you show my men to the livery barn, please?’
‘Sure will, cap’n,’ the constable agreed.
‘Kiowa, take Prince, Graveling and Svenson with you,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Tend to the horses and leave Prince on guard while you come to bed down and eat.’
‘Yo!’ Kiowa replied, taking the reins of Dusty’s stallion. ‘Let’s go.’
Accompanied by the constable, Kiowa’s party led the horses away. Without satisfying the crowd’s curiosity, Dusty and Gilbertson entered the hotel, followed by Surtees. The Volunteer studied Surtees again. While a bugle was suspended from the soldier’s left shoulder, the Dance Bros. Army revolver in his open-topped holster had seen much use. There was a tough, capable air about the bugler that warned Gilbertson of his ability in combatant duties.
So the Yankee shelved until later certain thoughts which had run through his head on seeing the majority of his escort sent away.
Like most such establishments in small towns, the Amity Hotel did double duty as a saloon. Its front door opened into a large combined dining- and bar-room, the counter also serving as a reception desk. At each end of the bar, a flight of stairs ascended to the first floor.
Crossing the room, Dusty gave thought to a problem. He looked at Gilbertson for a moment as they stood at the reception desk end of the counter and reached a decision.
‘Captain Gilbertson,’ Dusty said formally. ‘We’ll be at the Snake Ford by noon tomorrow—’
‘That’s so,’ the Volunteer agreed, acting more amiably than previously.
‘Will you give me your word not to escape, or try to, between now and sun-up tomorrow?’ Dusty requested. ‘It’ll make things a heap easier for all of us.’
‘Of course I will,’ Gilbertson agreed without hesitation.
Despite the increasing determination and bitterness that had developed with each succeeding year of the War, the traditional chivalries and conventions were still generally observed. Captured officers in most cases received the privileges of their rank, especially those taken by the Army of Arkansas and North Texas. If an officer gave his parole, he would be allowed a measure of freedom and was expected to keep within the bounds of his agreement.
‘Your word of honour, sir?’ Dusty insisted, wanting no misunderstandings.
‘My word of honour, Captain Fog,’ Gilbertson confirmed solemnly.
Something in the Yankee’s manner disturbed Dusty, but he could not put his finger on what it might be. An officer in the Union Army’s word was his bond, as binding as if he had signed the most carefully written legal agreement. Yet Dusty felt vaguely uneasy.
There appeared to be no valid reason for Gilbertson to refuse his parole. By noon the following day, at the latest, he could cross the Snake Ford of the Caddo and be free. So Dusty could see no reason why the Volunteer would want to take the risk of attempting to escape. Having pledged his word of honour, Gilbertson would not require guarding and the whole sense of tension that filled the members of the escort could disperse.
Hearing the door behind the bar open, Dusty turned his attention to it. The owner of the hotel, a short, unshaven man in old, but clean, town clothes, came to the counter. Dusty decided that he was the man who had looked down from the first floor room on their arrival.
On listening to Dusty’s request for accommodation, the owner threw a scowling glare at Gilbertson. For a moment the man seemed to be on the verge of refusing. Then his eyes went to Dusty’s collar and he recognised the meaning of the three bars it carried. There was an air of quiet, determined authority about the small Texan only rarely seen in one so young. More than that, the captain wore a gunbelt with the ease of long practice. He also had the backing of a tough, salty-looking soldier; with more of them close at hand should the need for their assistance arise.
‘Got me two single-bed rooms and a big ‘n’ is all, cap’n,’ the owner said.
‘Captain Gilbertson and I’ll have the singles,’ Dusty decided. ‘Can you put my men in the other?’
‘Ain’t but the one bed, but I’ll set mattresses on the floor for the others,’ the man offered.
‘You’ve got other folks staying here?’ Dusty inquired.
‘A gambling man and three other fellers, cap’n. They’re just passing through. You want to see them rooms now?’
‘We might as well,’ Dusty decided.
Going up the right hand flight of stairs, the owner turned along a narrow passage. Opening doors, he showed his vacant quarters to the soldiers. The two single rooms flanked the larger. While small, they had clean-looking beds and appeared to be comfortable enough.
‘They do?’ the owner asked grudgingly.
‘They’ll do,’ confirmed Dusty. ‘Which one do you want, captain?’
‘I’ll take this,’ Gilbertson answered, nodding to the door nearest to the head of the stairs.
If the Volunteer had refused to give his parole, Dusty would not have accepted the selection. With Gilbertson’s word of honour accepted, he could choose either of the rooms.
‘It’s yours,’ Dusty said. ‘I hope you’ll be my guest for supper tonight. And it might be best if you didn’t leave the hotel unless one of us is with you.’
‘Damn it, I’ve given you my word——!’ Gilbertson blazed.
‘And I’ve accepted it. But the folks in Amity aren’t used to seeing Union officers around. If somebody should see you out alone, they might figure you’re trying to escape. There’s no sense in taking chances, is there?’
‘I suppose not. And I’ll do what you suggest.’
Once it had been explained, Gilbertson could see the wisdom of Dusty’s suggestion and so had accepted it. In Murfreesboro, the citizens knew the meaning of a parole and had grown accustomed to seeing unescorted Yankee officers on the streets. People in a hamlet like Amity would not understand such matters.
A man stepped from a room across the passage. Dressed in dirty range-clothes, carrying an Army Colt tied low on his right thigh, he had a hard, unshaven face, Of medium height, he was clearly within the military age limits. His eyes went first to Gilbertson, then turned in Dusty’s direction. Stepping from his room, he went along the passage with a pronounced limp to his left leg. That might account for why he did not wear a uniform.
‘If you-all want anything, cap’n, just holler for it,’ the owner remarked. ‘Supper’ll not be ready for two hours, ‘less you want it Sooner,’
‘That’ll be soon enough,’ Dusty replied.
Going to his room, Dusty looked along the passage. The civilian was on the point of entering a door next to the second flight of stairs and stared back over his shoulder. Finding himself under observation, the man jerked his eyes to the front and disappeared through the doorway. Dusty realised that the man occupied, or had left, one of the rooms at the front of the building. Possibly it had been him and not the owner who had attracted Dusty’s attention earlier.
* * *
Two and a half hours after their arrival, Dusty accompanied Gilbertson into the barroom. Waving Kiowa and the three privates to remain seated, Dusty strolled across to a small table by the window. Looking out, he saw half-a-dozen saddled horses standing at the hotel’s hitching-rail. Possibly they belonged to the lame civilian and the other two gun-hung hard-cases who stood drinking at the counter.
None of the trio turned or showed the slightest interest in the new arrivals, a thing Dusty noticed and pondered upon. Before the small Texan could reach any conclusions, the owner’s wife appeared and placed plates of steaming stew before the two officers.
‘Ain’t got nothing else, cap’n,’ the woman declared, directing her words to Dusty. ‘I hope it’ll do.’
‘It’ll do right well, ma’am,’ Dusty assured her and nodded towards the bar. ‘Who’re those fellers?’
‘Reckon they’ve been helping Colonel Early drive in cattle from Texas,’ the woman answered. ‘Smell like they might’ve
been, too.’
‘Bad as that, huh?’ Dusty grinned.
‘Sure is,’ agreed the woman and walked away.
With so many able-bodied men serving the South, Colonel Jubal Early of the Confederate States Army’s Quartermasters’ Corps had to make use of whatever help he could find to deliver herds of cattle. Possibly the men had been paid off from a drive and had decided to stay in Amity for a few days on their way back to Texas. There was nothing strange, or suspicious about them being in the town; except for their too-obvious lack of interest in Dusty and the Yankee captain.
Despite giving his parole not to escape, Gilbertson showed no signs of mellowing during the meal. Having already discovered that the other had no wish for conversation, Dusty made no great effort to stimulate one. Instead he settled down to eat the tasty stew and studied his surroundings. Dusty decided that he would not be sorry to part company with the surly Yankee officer, but refused to let the Volunteer spoil his enjoyment of the meal.
When the men had finished eating, Kiowa rose and slouched across the room to the officers’ table.
‘Got the hosses bedded down with no fuss, Cap’n Dusty,’ the scout reported. ‘Now me ‘n’ the boys’ve fed, I’ll send Craveling down to relieve young Prince so’s he can come and eat.’
‘What do you know about those three hombres at the bar, Kiowa?’ Dusty asked.
‘Tallest’s name’s Abe, the one with the limp’s Will, ‘n’ t’other’s called Harpe. Allow to’ve been working for Jubal Early.’
‘Have they?’
‘Could be. He takes on some hard hands. Only they don’t talk Texan. East Arkansan maybe, or even Mississip’, but not Texan.’
‘There’re no ropes on those saddles,’ Dusty remarked, nodding towards the window. ‘I reckon we’ll have two men on guard at the barn tonight.’
‘Yo!’ Kiowa agreed. ‘I’ll take Graveling and Surtees for the first trick. Then I’ll sleep down there ‘n’ can watch the other two while they’re doing their spell—Unless you want me here.’
‘Stop at the barn,’ Dusty confirmed.
Kiowa’s eyes flickered briefly in Gilbertson’s direction. Then the sergeant gave a barely perceptible nod of understanding. Clearly the Yankee had given his parole not to escape. In which case, Cap’n Dusty would not need to keep a strict watch over him. A bunch of excellent-quality horses would make a tempting target should the three hard-cases be other than they stated. So the sensible thing was to establish a strong guard over the animals.
Swinging on his heel, Kiowa returned to the other enlisted men. After his companions had left, Svenson rose and went across to the bar. Grinning amiably, the civilian called Will told the hotel’s owner—now acting as bartender—to give the soldier a drink. Before accepting, Svenson warned the trio that he was in no financial condition to return the hospitality. Waving aside the comment as of no importance, Will limped along the counter and started a conversation.
Watching the men, Dusty saw nothing unusual in Will’s actions. In times of war and danger, civilians tended to forget their antipathy towards soldiers and not infrequently entertained them Going by the gestures which were made, Will was asking Svenson why the other Texans had left and the soldier satisfied his curiosity. Then Will slapped his pockets and let out an annoyed grunt.
‘Damned if I didn’t leave my money upstairs,’ the man announced. ‘I’ll have to go and fetch it.’
Everything seemed harmless as Will went to the right-side set of stairs. Yet Dusty experienced a growing sense of uneasiness as he watched the man depart. The small Texan wondered what kind of injury had caused Will’s pronounced limp. It must have been of a most peculiar nature, for its effects appeared to change from leg to leg. Dragging his right foot awkwardly, Will disappeared up the stairs.
With a more sociable companion, even an enemy, Dusty would have mentioned and discussed the phenomenon. Deciding against trying to communicate with the surly Volunteer, the small Texan still thought about Will’s disability.
Why should the man fake a limp if he worked for Jubal Early?
There seemed to be no need for such subterfuge. Bringing in cattle to help feed the fighting soldiers could be classed as a useful occupation. It would excuse a man for not being in uniform. Of course, soldiers suffering the dangers and hardships of war might be unsympathetic and not so understanding towards healthy civilians. Especially if the same civilians were employed in work that brought them wages far beyond the soldiers’ meagre pay.
Will might be faking an injury to avoid trouble of that kind; although he did not strike Dusty as the type of man who would go to such lengths to do so.
A deserter might adopt a limp, so as to evade being questioned and to excuse him not being in uniform. Which did not explain Will’s obvious interest in Gilbertson upstairs. Unless he had deserted from the Union Army and was afraid that the Volunteer might recognise, denounce and cause his return. That could be. There had been cases during the war of officers, plagued by desertion among their own men, returning captured enemy deserters. Doing so warned their malcontents that no safe refuge awaited them on the other side.
Recently, however, there had been a growing tendency among the Northern and Rebel Armies to attempt to encourage desertion from their enemy’s forces. Offers of good treatment, safe conduct, assistance even, had been made in the hope of seducing men from the opposition. Perhaps Will had not heard of the change in policy, or disbelieved it and aimed to take no chances.
Footsteps sounded on the left-side stairs; a firm, even, heavy tread different in timbre from Will’s hesitant gait. Glancing across the room, Dusty saw that the other two hard-cases had joined Svenson. Abe stood to the recruit’s right and Harpe lounged negligently to his left. A snort and movement outside the building drew Dusty’s attention to the horses. Suddenly he became aware of a significant point that had escaped his notice earlier. Instead of being tied to the hitching-rail, the horses’ reins merely dangled across it. While such a method held trained mounts as effectively as tying them, the necessary training took time and patience. Any man who made the effort had a good reason for doing it. Outlaws, needing to have the means for a fast escape, used it.
From the horses, Dusty swung his eyes in the direction of the left side set of stairs. He studied the man who was coming down. Dressed in a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat, grey broadcloth jacket, fancy vest, frilly-bosomed shirt, string bow-tie, slim-legged white trousers and town boots, he had the appearance of a riverboat gambler. Clean-shaven, swarthily-handsome, he appeared to have nothing in common with the bristle-stubbled hard-cases at the bar.
Yet he did belong to Will’s party!
Dusty discovered the fact just an instant too late.
Stepping into the barroom, his right hand concealed behind his back, the newcomer did not look at the men by the counter. Although no visible signal passed between them, Abe and Harpe reacted swiftly to the gambler’s arrival. Sliding his Army Colt from its holster, Abe rammed its barrel against Svenson’s side. Just as rapidly, Harpe produced his Remington Army revolver and threw down on the startled hotel-keeper.
About to rise, left hand moving across in the direction of the right side Colt’s butt, Dusty saw the gambler swing to face him. While turning, the man brought his right hand from behind his back. In it, he held a Starr Army revolver which he lined at the small Texan.
‘Sit still, sonny!’ the gambler ordered. ‘No heroics, unless you want to get your man and our host killed.’
‘Do what you want, Cap’n Dus—!’ Svenson began, standing like a statue with a whiskey-filled glass halfway to his lips.
‘Monte ain’t fooling, soldier-boy,’ Abe warned, gouging the Colt’s muzzle harder into Svenson’s ribs.
‘I’m not,’ the gambler assured Dusty. ‘My companions are men of hasty temper and with small regard for human life. You don’t want two deaths on your conscience, do you, captain?’
Put that way, Dusty knew that he must restrain his intentions.
If his life only had been at stake, he would have taken his chances. On producing the Starr, Monte had come to a halt and was waiting until his men had the situation under control before moving closer. So Dusty would have staked his gun-skill against the trio’s across the width of the barroom. He could not if doing it would cause the deaths of two men.
‘What’s the idea, hombre?’ Dusty asked and continued to rise, keeping his empty hands in plain view.
‘We gentlemen of Monte Beaufort’s Private Company are going to save you some time and effort, captain,’ the gambler replied, walking towards the two officers. ‘If we take your blue-clad friend off your hands, you won’t need to ride all the way to Murfreesboro with him and can go back to your regiment.’
‘And what’ll you do with him?’ Dusty inquired, moving slowly around the table as he spoke.
The mention of Monte Beaufort’s Private Company had already supplied the answer. To add a kind of spurious legality to their efforts, most bands of guerillas adopted military-sounding titles. Clearly the men at the hotel belonged to such an organisation. Most probably, the gambler was ‘Monte Beaufort’.
‘I reckon he’ll be worth something to somebody,’ the gambler answered, darting a glance at the seated Yankee Volunteer. ‘If not— Well, it’s the duty of all loyal Southerons to kill Abolitionists.’
That was just about what Dusty had expected to lie behind the men’s actions. Advancing a couple of strides, Dusty stopped between his prisoner and the approaching Guerilla-leader.
‘Captain Gilbertson’s in my care, hombre!’ Dusty stated flatly.
‘I’ve no quarrel with you, soldier-boy,’ Monte warned. ‘But if you don’t step aside, I’ll blow a hole through you.’
‘Pull that trigger and you’re done for,’ Dusty replied. ‘If the rest of my men don’t get you, Uncle Devil’ll not let anybody rest until you’ve been hunted down and hung from a tree.’
‘Uncle Devil?’ Monte growled and his two companions looked around.