The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Clements promised. ‘If it is one of them, I reckon it’ll be best if he’s caught.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Dusty drawled. ‘And the sooner the better.’

  ‘The difficult thing will be catching him,’ Staunce pointed out.

  ‘I was just thinking that same thing,’ Dusty admitted. ‘But one thing I’m sure of. We’re going to find out who he is.’

  Chapter Six – Hang A Couple of Them!

  Standing near one of the holes being dug as emplacements from which the 12-pounder ‘Napoleon’ gun-howitzers could help to defend Stilton Crossing, Captain Dusty Fog overtly studied the nine civilian workmen as they climbed out at the conclusion of their day’s work. Most of them had bruised faces, or showed other signs of having been involved in a fight. However, Dusty was less interested in that than in detecting any suggestion of them knowing him. If they did, some of them might be aware that all was not as it should be in the light of recent events.

  It was almost sundown on the day after Dusty’s discovery of the boat and the printed threat, apparently from the United States’ Army of Arkansas, to the people who lived along the southern bank of the Ouachita River. Dusty had just returned to Stilton Crossing, accompanied by twelve carefully selected members of Company C. On their arrival, they had relieved the other soldiers of the Texas Light Cavalry who had performed the guard duty during the previous evening.

  Having already started to think how it might be possible to trap the traitor, if he should be at the camp, Dusty had insisted that he and Captain Staunce should leave before the civilian workers returned from visiting Camden. Going to the town and taking rooms in the best hotel, the captains had contrived to avoid being seen by the workmen and had awaited developments.

  One of Lieutenant Clements’ soldiers had possessed the necessary ability to read tracks. At dawn, as soon as there had been sufficient light, he had been sent to carry out an examination of the area around Dusty’s find. On his return, he had declared that he had found evidence to suggest that only one man had drawn the boat from the water, then passed through the bushes on to the Arkadelphia-Camden trail. The nature of the terrain had precluded any hopes of obtaining clues to the mysterious person’s identity. Due to the hard ground underfoot and the walker having had to force his way through the undergrowth, the soldier could not even establish his height or weight from the length and depth of his stride. However, he had gone from the boat to the trail at an angle that had suggested he was making for Camden—or Stilton Crossing.

  Clements had reported his man’s findings to the two captains. In addition, the lieutenant had announced that he had checked up on his guard detail and was satisfied that none of them could have left the camp, crossed the Ouachita and returned with the bundle of warning notices. Wishing to avoid arousing suspicion, he had not questioned the civilians.

  Having arranged for his cousin to keep a careful, if surreptitious, watch on the suspects, Dusty had accompanied Staunce to the headquarters of the Texas Light Cavalry. They had informed Major Smith, who was in command until the return of the other senior officers, of their discovery and plans. Giving his official sanction, the major had left the affair in their hands. To ensure its success, they had been compelled to cause a lot of work for a considerable number of people. Dusty hoped that the effort expended would be justified by the final results.

  If Dusty was studying the civilians, they in turn were subjecting him to a more obvious scrutiny. He waited to catch some comment which would suggest that one, or more, of them knew something was wrong with his appearance. For his part in the scheme, he had reverted to wearing the official type of uniform that the late Captain von Hertz had insisted upon him adopting; even down to the waist belt and a first lieutenant’s insignias of rank. It was a much less impressive outfit than the skirtless tunic and the Western gun-rig.

  ‘Look at the short-grown bastard!’ muttered the middle-sized, lean and bitter-faced man called Fletcher, scowling in Dusty’s direction and apparently neither knowing, or caring, that his words were reaching the young officer’s ears. He alone of the civilians bore no evidence of having been fighting the night before. ‘Trust a lousy dressed-up button like him to just stand there watching folks work.’

  ‘He’s doing his share by fighting the War,’ protested the big, burly, jovial-featured Amos Meats tolerantly.

  ‘That ain’t likely,’ Fletcher answered. ‘He don’t look dry behind the ears, much less been doing any fighting.’

  ‘Even if he’s not done any yet,’ Meats countered, ‘he’ll likely be doing it soon. And anybody who’s willing to fight them Yankee bastards’s all right with me.’

  ‘He may get ’round to fighting ’em,’ Fletcher grumbled. ‘But it’s poor bastards like us who have to do all the sweating and work.’

  ‘I don’t mind how much hard work I do,’ Meats stated, a touch pompously, ‘just so long as it helps to lick those Goddamned Yankees.’

  ‘Ole Amos sure hates Yankees,’ chortled one of the other men.

  ‘I’d kill every last son-of-a-bitching one of ’em, was I given the chance,’ Meats declared, scowling with the kind of patriotic fervor his companions had come to know and expect. ‘And until the chance comes my way, I’m willing to do a bit of work. You should be too, Fletch.’

  There was a mumble of good-natured agreement from the rest of the civilians. While Fletcher had taken the job rather than accept an offer to enlist in Confederate States’ Army and was receiving a higher rate of pay than the soldiers, he never stopped complaining about the work, food, accommodation, or conditions in general. He appeared to begrudge every effort he was called upon to make for the Southron cause.

  On the other hand, Meats was invariably cheerful, hard working and fanatically devoted to the Confederate States. Almost embarrassingly so, his companions considered. Last night, at the Tavern, a group of Camden citizens had been criticizing Ole Devil Hardin’s conduct of the War. They had become most indignant when Meats had intervened. As a result, there had been a fight which had seen three of their number put in hospital. The rest had, however, avoided being jailed for their part in the brawl by Meats making the town’s constable realize the importance of their work.

  Watching and listening to the men, Dusty turned over in his mind all the information his cousin had been able to give to him. Clements had studied the civilians since his arrival and had drawn conclusions which Dusty believed would be objective and close to correct. However, the lieutenant had been inclined to believe that—if there was a traitor in the camp—Fletcher was the most likely suspect. Dusty preferred to keep an open mind on the subject and to await developments. Unless he was mistaken, they should soon be starting to happen.

  And they did!

  ‘Look!’ screeched one of the civilians, dropping his pick as he stared and pointed towards the near-by woodland.

  Figures were rushing from among the trees. Carrying Springfield carbines, they wore the uniforms of the United States’ Cavalry.

  Letting out a startled yell, Dusty grabbed for and began to fumble with the flap of his holster. He did not display any of his usual skill in handling the awkward rig.

  Firing as they approached, with their weapons belching clouds of white powder smoke, the attackers scored hits and at least one near miss. Dirt flew between Dusty’s spread apart feet as a bullet churned into the ground. Having turned and started to raise his Enfield carbine, Sandy McGraw screamed. He spun around, throwing aside the weapon, and sprawled face down. The other three men on duty also went down, although in a less spectacular manner.

  Bursting out of the wedge tents, the rest of the guard showed that they had been caught unawares by the attack. One of them tried to draw a revolver, but was fired on by the Yankee sergeant—a tall, lean man whose hawk-nosed, high cheekboned, savage dark features might have implied mixed Indian and white blood. Crying in agony, the stricken soldier twirled and tumbled back into the tent.

  At the shooting of
the man by his side, the short, white-haired and ancient-looking Corporal Hassle elevated his hands. It was an example followed by the remainder of the soldiers.

  ‘Don’t shoot, blast ye!’ the old non-com howled. ‘We’ve quit! It ain’t no use doing nothing else.’

  ‘How about you, luff?’ xv demanded the tall, lean, Union captain, his voice holding a hard Teutonic timbre, as some of his men trained their weapons in Dusty’s direction.

  ‘All right,’ the small Texan agreed, sounding what he hoped would be angry and frightened. He thrust his hands hurriedly into the air, yelping, ‘All right! I surrender.’

  While speaking, Dusty darted a glance in the civilians’ direction. He could see alarm on their faces, but nothing to suggest that any of them doubted the authenticity of the ‘attack’. Not that he felt too surprised at their acceptance of the situation. If he had not been aware of their ‘assailants’ identities, he might have taken them for genuine Yankees.

  Captain Staunce and the selected members of Company C looked every inch of hard-bitten, hard-travelled Union cavalrymen. Having been aware that the need for such disguises might arise, once the withdrawal had been halted on the south shore of the Ouachita River, Ole Devil and Colonel Blaze had caused perfect copies of Federal uniforms and equipment to be made and held at the Texas Light Cavalry’s headquarters.

  To be truthful, a certain amount of luck was helping the deception. Shortly after Dusty’s arrival at the regiment, Red Blaze had returned with the Company from an all-night training exercise. So the small Texan had told the men he had selected to become ‘Yankees’ neither to wash nor shave. Staunce had already omitted his morning ablutions, complaining bitterly and half seriously about the results of such behavior. To augment their appearances of having ridden long, fast, and hard, they had immersed themselves in the river and their clothing bore evidence of the fact.

  Moving forward, the Yankees acted as they might have been expected to under the circumstances. Some went to watch over the ‘surrendered’ Texans. Others gathered around the civilians, or went to examine the ‘shot’ soldiers. Two of them took hold of and dragged away Sandy McGraw’s laxly. He had been the ‘victim’ nearest to the workmen and the most likely for them to have discovered was not really dead or injured. Accompanied by his sergeant—who now bore the same rank in Company C and went by the name Kiowa Cotton—and ‘Private’ Red Blaze, Staunce approached Dusty.

  ‘All right, luff,’ Staunce said harshly. ‘I want to know where your outfit is, how many men’re in it and what you’re going to be doing in the future.’

  ‘I won’t tell you!’ Dusty declared.

  ‘Like hell you won’t!’ Red growled, hiding the delight he was feeling at the part he now had to play.

  With that, the redhead took his left hand from the fore-grip of the Springfield carbine. The weapon, like the rest carried by the impostors, was a battlefield ‘purchase’. Up swung Red’s left arm, driving the back of his hand against the side of Dusty’s face. Red had been told to make the blow look natural and he threw himself into it with his usual gusto. Nobody, particularly its recipient, could have doubted that the redhead’s attack was genuine. Spun on his heels by the impact, Dusty crashed to the ground.

  ‘That won’t help!’ Staunce barked as Red advanced and drew back a foot as if meaning to kick his cousin. ‘Leave him to me. On your feet, luff.’

  Slowly, shaking his head and rubbing at his reddened, stinging cheek, Dusty obeyed. He faced the three ‘Yankees’, trying to look defiant and avoiding turning his eyes to the men for whom the whole performance was being carried out. For all that, he knew that he and his companions were holding the civilians’ attention. He hoped that they were being convinced—and that one of them really was the traitor.

  ‘I asked you a question, luff,’ Staunce continued, glowering at the small Texan and retaining his Teutonic accent. ‘I want to know where your outfit is, how many men are in it, and what your future orders might be.’

  ‘Do what you like to me,’ Dusty challenged, in what he believed to be the correct tone of voice. ‘You’ll never make me answer.’

  ‘Want to bet on it?’ Red inquired, making as if to attack again.

  ‘That’s enough!’ Staunce snarled, for the redhead was not such a good mimic and his Texas drawl was noticeable. A glance suggested to the captain that it had gone unnoticed. ‘Keep your damned mouth shut, Broski. And you, luff, this is your last chance to answer.’

  ‘I’m in the 11th Kentucky Heavy Infantry,’ Dusty replied hastily. ‘We’re fifteen hundred strong—’

  ‘And you’re a liar!’ Staunce interrupted. ‘Maybe you think I’m playing games. I’ll show you.’ He looked at the group by the wedge tents. ‘Hey, you with those peckerwood bastards. Hang a couple of them!’

  Startled exclamations rose from the civilians. However, their guards threatened them with the carbines. So they restricted their objections to speech and not action. The Springfield was a single-shot weapon, but not all of the ‘Yankees’ had used their solitary loads when capturing the camp. There was no way for the civilians to know which of the muzzles directed at them was still capable of throwing out flame, smoke and lead.

  Being unable to put up any resistance, the workmen watched six of the ‘Yankees’ hustling Corporal Hassle and another small enlisted man towards the trees. The rest of the ‘prisoners’’ guards continued to watch over their ‘captives’, for Dusty had warned them that they must do nothing that might warn the civilian of the situation’s true nature.

  Taking their two ‘victims’ to the edge of the woods, the ‘Yankees’ brought up a pair of horses. While Hassle’s and the private’s arms were being bound to their sides, ropes were tossed over the branches of a big oak tree in plain view of the civilians. Struggling futilely, the ‘victims’ were hoisted on to the McClellan saddles. Dusty had insisted that this type of rig be used, in case the man he was hoping to locate should be suspicious, alert for traps and sufficiently observant to notice apparently minor details. With the two men mounted, nooses were dropped about their necks and tightened.

  ‘This’s murder!’ Dusty croaked, watching the civilians.

  Although every one of them looked alarmed, it was nothing more as yet.

  Two hands rose and fell, slapping the horses’ rumps. Bounding forward, the animals left their burdens dangling with wildly kicking legs from the limbs of the tree. Horrified gasps and disgusted exclamations burst from the civilians. To Dusty, it seemed that Fletcher and Meats reacted somewhat more slowly than the rest of their party. For all that, both of them seemed to be visibly shaken by what they had seen.

  ‘Well,’ Staunce said to Dusty. ‘Are you ready to tell me the truth?’

  ‘No!’ the small Texan replied.

  ‘I’ll hang every one of your men, unless you tell me.’

  ‘Then do it. They’re soldiers and will have to take their chances.’

  ‘Like you said,’ Staunce growled. ‘They’re soldiers and have to take their chances. So I’ll start to hang the civilians.’

  ‘The civilians?’ Dusty repeated, in tones of horror and there was a louder rumble of protest from among the workmen. ‘You can’t—you wouldn’t—dare to do such a barbaric thing.’

  ‘I not only can, I would—and will,’ the Englishman declared and his eyes roamed over the nervous, perturbed group of civilians. Returning his gaze to Fletcher, he pointed. ‘Take that one. And the big, fat bastard. His neck ought pop as sweet as can be when we whip the horse from under him.’

  Without speaking, Red and Kiowa moved forward. The civilians began to protest, but the rest of the soldiers kept their weapons held in a threatening manner that overrode any hope of more strenuous objections. Closing on the designated pair, the two Texans shoved them none too gently from their companions.

  ‘You can’t do this to us!’ Fletcher wailed, then glared at Dusty. ‘Stop them, damn you!’

  ‘Show me how I can!’ the small Texan answered, sounding desper
ate.

  ‘Tell them what they want to know!’ Fletcher replied. ‘That’s how.’

  ‘I—I can’t!’ Dusty groaned.

  ‘Come on. Let’s have some movement there,’ Staunce commanded. ‘Get them to the trees and haul them up.’

  Joined by two more soldiers, Red and Kiowa made as if to hustle the selected civilians away. Fletcher moved, but Meats stood still.

  ‘Let me talk to you,’ the burly man requested, looking from Staunce to the suspended, still kicking, figures hanging from the tree.

  ‘What about?’ the Englishman asked.

  ‘In private,’ Meats requested, sweat pouring down his face as it took on a pleading expression. ‘Please, captain, it’s important. You’ll regret it if you don’t hear me out.’

  ‘All right,’ Staunce said, sounding reluctant. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not here,’ Meats began.

  ‘Go and hang him!’ Staunce barked.

  ‘Damn it!’ Meats howled, wild with anger and alarm, as the two soldiers once more pretended to be eager to carry out their orders. ‘I’m a member of the Union’s Secret Service—’

  ‘Oh sure,’ Staunce sniffed. ‘And I’m President Lincoln.’

  ‘It’s true I tell you!’ Meats insisted. ‘Last night I crossed the Ouachita and brought back some posters that I’ve got to spread around Camden. Let me take you to where I’ve hidden them.’

  ‘Well now,’ Staunce answered, resuming his normal way of speaking. ‘I hardly think you need to do that. Do you, Dusty?’

  Shock twisted at Meats’ features and his cheeks reddened in rage as he realized that he had been tricked into making a damning confession. His eyes swung from the ‘Yankee’ captain to the Confederate ‘first lieutenant’ and back.

  ‘Why you—!’ Meats began, tensing.

  ‘Stay put, hombre,’ Kiowa Cotton advised and his face was sufficiently menacing to ensure compliance with the request.