by J. T. Edson
‘Then we’ll make a start,’ Lyle declared, extracting the second Tranter. ‘I don’t want to be up all night.’
Following Block, the civilian watched him lay the revolver on the table with its butt towards him. As the soldier went to join his companion by the sidepiece, Blucher was tempted to snatch up the weapon and start shooting. Two things stopped him from doing so. He was a Southron gentlemen, reared in an exacting code of honorable behavior. And, at the other end of the table, Lyle watched him with alert, somewhat mocking eyes and still held the revolver. Stepping into position, Blucher raised his right hand and let it hover about six inches over Tranter’s fancy rosewood butt.
When satisfied that the other man did not intend to snatch up the weapon prematurely, Lyle laid down his own and lifted away his hand.
‘Count to five, Block,’ the major said. ‘And, when he reaches it, we both pick up our weapons then start to fire.’
‘One!’ the soldier obliged, watching the men at the table with the cruel anticipation of a spectator awaiting the start of a dog-, or a snake-fight. ii
Gazing along the table, Lyle felt a growing surge of savage, exultant excitement. It was a sensation he had experienced on two previous occasions when he had contrived to cause similar situations. Twice, before his enlistment, he had fought illicit duels and had emerged victorious; due to the thought and special training which he had put in to ensure that he had a much better than even chance of winning.
‘Two!’Block said.
Would Blucher allow the full count before grabbing at the Tranter? Lyle asked himself. Groendaul, the second victim, had only let it reach three. Not that his treachery had saved him. Being a Southron, Blucher would most likely stick to the rules; for all the good that would do him.
‘Three!’
Watching Lyle and listening to the count, Blucher was also thinking fast. Everything seemed fair enough on the surface. As the Yankee officer had given him first choice, the weapons must both be correctly loaded. Undoubtedly Lyle must be a very good, capable shot, but so was Blucher. So, if he could shoot the major, he might have a chance to escape. Neither of the enlisted men had a firearm, having left their Spencer repeating rifles by the front door when they had dragged him in. With that much distance separating him from them, he ought to be able to drop both and flee. Once clear of the house, he would make a run for the boats. If he was lucky enough to get away, he would head for the Ouachita River in the hope of contacting Confederate troops and warn them of the dangers they would soon be facing.
‘Four!’
Suddenly Blucher became aware of how Lyle was looking at him. No shadow of concern or doubt marred the major’s handsome face. Rather it bore an expression of complete, self-satisfied confidence and even a hint of sadistic, perverted pleasure. That he, apparently, had no wish to take an unfair advantage showed in his hand being raised a good foot above the Tranter.
Why did Lyle look so confident? Blucher wondered.
It almost seemed that the Yankee knew that he must win!
What could be wrong?
Was there some trickery involved in the loading of the revolvers?
‘Five!’
On the word, two hands dipped towards the table!
Although Blucher had the shorter distance to reach, he was disturbed by what he had seen and the train of doubts that it had aroused. So he fumbled a little as his fingers met the unfamiliar, awkward shape of the Tranter’s butt. Even as he raised it, he knew that he was going to be too late.
Smoothly, moving with the speed which implied long training, Lyle scooped up his revolver. His left hand joined the right, closing over it and helping to support the weight of the gun. Along the length of the table, he knew better than to try to shoot by instinctive alignment. So he elevated his weapon to shoulder level, sighting along the barrel and squeezing the trigger. Flame spurted and the bullet was flung into the center of Blucher’s chest. Knocked staggering, he lost his hold on the Tranter. That did not save him any more than the fact that he was already mortally wounded.
Bearing his teeth in a wolfish leer of sheer animal delight at inflicting pain, Lyle corrected his aim and fired again. The second bullet passed into the center of the civilian’s forehead and burst its way out of the back of his skull. Already off balance, he twirled on his heels and measured his length face down on the floor.
‘That got the bastard!’ Block enthused.
‘Go and keep those damned blacks out of here!’ Lyle snarled, lowering his Tranter and looking at the enlisted men.
Even as Grilpan hurried away, footsteps sounded beyond the door. They were light, suggestive of feminine high heels descending the stairs. Passing the soldier in the doorway, a beautiful woman entered the room. She had a flimsy robe thrown hurriedly over a diaphanous nightdress, which revealed far more than it concealed, and high-heeled slippers graced her feet. All in all, from her blonde hair to her toes, she was a very shapely, voluptuous creature and her slinking gait added to her allure. There was a golden wedding ring on the appropriate finger.
‘Kade, what’s happening?’ the woman began, then her eyes went to the body as it lay oozing blood over the carpet. ‘Oh my God! Wha—Who—?’
‘Get out of here, Monica!’ Lyle growled, displaying little concern over the revulsion and shock which she was clearly experiencing. ‘I’ll be up in a minute and tell you.’
‘But what’s going on?’ the blonde croaked, her face pallid as she turned her gaze from the corpse.
‘I’ll tell you when I come up!’ the officer shouted, annoyed at the way Block was eyeing the woman. ‘Suppose somebody was to see you down here?’
‘You sent your man to keep the servants away,’ the woman pointed out. ‘And Harriet’s locked in her room. Why can’t you let me—?’
‘Because I said for you to go!’ Lyle replied. ‘This’s no place for you and I’ll come up as soon as I get through here.’
‘Oh, all right,’ the blonde sniffed petulantly, knowing better than to try his patience too far. ‘I’ll go. Don’t be too long.’
With that the woman turned and stalked from the room. She was conscious of Block watching her every motion and, to annoy Lyle, increased the lascivious rolling of her buttocks until beyond his range of vision. Ascending the stairs, she looked back at the entrance to the dining room.
If Monica Cable had been less interested in what might be going on to her rear, she could have noticed that the door of the room next to her own was open a short way. Before she had turned her attention to the front, it was closed and she went by without knowing that she had been observed.
Having closed the door silently, preventing her stepmother from realizing that she too was able to leave the room after having been locked in for the night, Harriet Cable stood glaring at it for a moment. She realized that Mama Lukie had been correct when suggesting that something was going on between Monica and Major Lyle. That was now obvious from the freedom with which the blonde moved around the house. Previously, Harry—as her friends mostly called her—had tended to discount the old Negress’s hints on grounds of jealousy. Mama Lukie had been devoted to Harry’s mother and had never become reconciled to Eli Cable remarrying, especially to a woman like Monica.
Well, at last the truth was out.
While Harry had obtained a spare key for her door from Mama Lukie, she knew the Negress would never have given one to Monica. Which meant that Mrs. Cable was not kept a prisoner at night. Perhaps she was even a willing hostage and had used Eli Cable’s love for her as a means of ensuring his compliance with the Yankee major’s demands.
‘It could have been she who told Lyle about Big Minnie and Pulling Sue,’ Harry mused, recalling that there had been a number of puzzling aspects about the Union soldiers’ arrival at Cable Grange. Her father had kept his work a secret, yet they had seemed to know all about it; including a couple of very recent developments. ‘That settles it. I’m going to tell Poppa what’s happening.’
Locking the door, s
o as to avoid arousing suspicion if anybody checked up on her, Harry crossed to the wardrobe. Slipping out of her nightgown, she opened the door and stood naked before the full-length mirror. It reflected the image of a small, buxom, yet firm-fleshed girl of eighteen. Not as out-and-out beautiful as her stepmother, maybe, but quite pretty in a friendly, open way that hinted at a normally merry nature. Her brunette hair was curly and cropped short in defiance to the fashion of the day.
Although Harry had been disinclined to accept Mama Lukie’s conclusions regarding her mother, more from a naturally charitable nature than for any feeling of affection, she had gathered the means to escape if the need arose. Taking clothing from the wardrobe, she made ready for her departure.
Donning her underwear, Harry followed it with a boy’s dark gray shirt, yellowish-brown Nankeen trousers, thick gray woolen socks and riding boots. A wolf skin coat and a low-crowned, wide-brimmed black hat completed her attire.
Opening her dressing table’s drawer, she dug under its contents and produced a present from her father on her fifteenth birthday. Opening the box, she removed the four inch barreled, ivory-handled Colt 1849 Pocket Pistol. Her room had not been searched by the Yankees, probably because Monica did not know of the revolver, so it was still available for her to use.
Knowing that the weapon was loaded and capped, she dropped it into the jacket’s right pocket. Into the left, she stuffed the powder flask, cap box, nipple-wrench, a small tin holding deer’s grease and a buckskin bag containing a supply of round .31 caliber lead bullets.
Armed and equipped, if in a somewhat scanty, Spartan fashion, the girl doused her room’s light. Going to the window, she raised its sash and looked out. There was no sign of activity on the part of the Yankees. So she eased herself over the sill. A section of sturdy latticework ran down the wall, thickly covered by a Virginia creeper. Always a tomboy, Harry had frequently used it as a means of leaving the house unseen.
On reaching the ground, she looked back at the house. Nobody raised the alarm and she hurried towards Mama Lukie’s quarters.
About an hour later, accompanied by the Negress’s youngest son, Eric, Harry sat in a boat and passed along the lake towards the Fourche la Fave River. A supply of food lay between them and she hoped that they would be able to obtain horses in Perryville. Then she would try to reach her father and tell him of how he had been tricked into putting a powerful, dangerous weapon into the hands of the Yankees.
Chapter Two – You Don’t Want to Get Killed
‘Come on, you Yankee bastards!’ Corporal Kiowa Cotton breathed, as he crouched between two bushes and watched the pair of Union Army sentries talking. ‘Quit that jaw-flapping and do your son-of-a-bitching duty like soldiers.’
Tall, lean, Indian-dark, with a high cheek-boned, hook-nosed face that was suggestive of mixed blood, Kiowa Cotton looked—and was—a very dangerous man to have as an enemy. On his head of close-cropped black hair, he had a yellow-topped kepi. The silver star-in-a-circle badge—the circle bearing a laurel wreath motif and the center of the star embossed with the letters TLC—that usually graced the hat’s front had been removed as an aid to remaining undetected. A tight-rolled red bandana trailed its long ends over the front of his waist-length, cadet-gray tunic. His yellow-striped riding breeches ended in the leggings of Kiowa moccasins. Around his waist hung a Western-style gun belt. At the left side, butt forward for a cross-draw, was holstered a Remington 1861 Army revolver. The sheath on the right side of the belt was empty, for the bowie knife—its blade blackened by smoke to prevent from glinting and maybe attracting unwanted attention—was in his right hand and ready for use.
Instead of heeding Kiowa’s silent exhortation, the sentries continued to talk. Waiting somewhat impatiently for them to separate and go where they could be dealt with, the sergeant looked round the large clearing. Once again, he decided that it should never have been selected as a campsite for such an important man; particularly when he was travelling with so small an escort.
In times of peace, the clearing would have been a pleasant place in which to spend a night. Being on the banks of a small stream that eventually flowed into the Ouachita River, one could easily catch fish for supper. The surrounding woods gave shelter from the wind and the Pine Bluff-Arkadelphia trail was nearby.
Those very qualities, particularly the latter, make the clearing anything but an ideal resting place in times of war. The trees and bushes that lined three of its sides, including a scattering along the banks of the stream, gave cover in which enemies could—in fact, at that moment did—find concealment.
Along the edge of the trail, again offering a hiding place for a member of the Texas Light Cavalry, were parked a Concord coach and two Rocker ambulances. iii At the center of the clearing, the large campfire was gradually dying down since all the soldiers not on guard duty had retired to their two-man pup tents. The wagons’ teams and horses of the escort were picketed in two lines parallel to the stream, watched over by a third sentry. The pair being studied by Kiowa shared the remainder of the boundary between them. One went from the wagons, north around the perimeter until making contact with the man on the picket line. Moving south, the other would approach the corporal’s hiding place. If permitted, he could turn east and pass behind the brightly lit marquee which alone showed any sign of life. Inside, ‘Cussing’ Culver, commanding general of the Union’s Army of Arkansas, was entertaining the officers of his company-strong escort and three civilians.
The latter group, particularly General Culver, was the reason for Kiowa Cotton’s presence and desire that the sentries should continue with their patrols instead of standing in conversation.
The Battle of Martin’s Mill had been fought four days earlier. By winning it, the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas and North Texas had succeeded in moving all their supplies and equipment south across the Ouachita River. While the rest of the army was consolidating their positions along the bank of the Ouachita, Company C of the Texas Light Cavalry—under its newly-promoted commanding officer, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog—had been sent north of the river to reconnoiter.
On their way back, with information regarding the Yankees’ troop dispositions, Kiowa Cotton—ranging ahead as scout—had seen the camp being set up in the clearing. Moving closer undetected had been an easy task for a man schooled in the demanding arts of Indian fighting. Unseen and unsuspected, the corporal had studied the clearing and its occupants. The escort was a full company of the Long Island Lancers, a fancy volunteer outfit led by Eastern dudes, and they were guarding old ‘Cussing’ Culver himself.
When Captain Dusty Fog had heard Kiowa’s news, he had acted with the kind of swift decision the men of Company C had already come to expect of him. There were no other Union troops in the vicinity, so he had decided that they would try to capture the general. Carefully, but thoroughly, he had made his plans based on Kiowa’s description of the terrain and the clearing’s lay out. Several of Dusty’s men had been Texas Rangers before enlisting in the Confederate States’ Army. Their duties had chiefly been concerned with fighting Indians, so he had sufficient soldiers capable of silent stalking to make his scheme possible. Selecting the best of the ex-Rangers, he had assigned them to the duty of silencing the sentries. The rest of Company C, less those assigned to ride herd on their horses, were waiting in the woods and ready to move in once the way was prepared.
When Kiowa had last come into contact with the Long Island Lancers, during the Battle of Martin’s Mill, iv they had worn normal U.S. Cavalry uniforms and been armed with nine foot long, Norwegian fir lances. Handling their present duty, they had adopted a more fancy attire—copied from the dress of the British Army’s 17th Lancers—supplied by the wealthy New York families who had financed, equipped and recruited the regiment. Although lances were piled outside the pup tents, each sentry carried a Spencer carbine in his white gauntlet-covered hands.
The booming tones of General Culver reached Kiowa’s ears, describing in a profanity-
filled manner how, having driven the Rebels to the Ouachita, he was merely awaiting reinforcements before pushing them from Arkansas and commencing the conquest of Texas.
A faint, savage grin twisted at the corporal’s lips as he listened to the bombastic words. Far from being driven, the Army of Arkansas and North Texas had made a satisfactory and carefully executed withdrawal. What was more, if Kiowa knew anything about General Ole Devil Hardin, the Yankees were going to find any further ‘pushing’ to be a mighty difficult and dangerous proposition.
At last the two sentries separated. Carrying his Spencer at a slovenly trail, the closer of them started to stroll towards Kiowa. His companion, with the short repeater across the crook of the left arm, ambled in the opposite direction.
‘Damn it!’ Kiowa snarled under his breath. ‘The idle son-of-a-bitch’s going across, not round!’
Instead of following his previous route, the second sentry was ambling away from the wagons. That would not help the short, white-haired, anything but decrepit, Corporal Vern Hassle to complete his assignment.
The call of a whippoorwill, repeated twice, came from the picket line. That meant, Kiowa knew the sentry watching the horses had been dealt with. Apart from a slight restlessness among the animals, there had been nothing to suggest it was happening. Certainly neither of the remaining guards, nor the rest of the camp’s occupants appeared to be aware that one of their number had been rendered hors de combat.
Oblivious of his own peril, or his companion’s fate, the sentry followed the trail until turning along the edge of the clearing. His attention was directed towards the tent, as he tried to hear what was being said. Nor did he take his gaze from the well-illuminated interior. Certainly he did not see the menacing figure crouching as if made of stone amongst the bushes.
Glancing across the clearing towards the wagons, Kiowa found that the second sentry had developed an extra shadow. Grasping a thick branch, Vern Hassle was stalking his victim on silent feet.