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

by J. T. Edson

‘Hello, handsome,’ greeted a pretty girl, leaving two lanky recruits who were part of Company C and approaching the small Texan. ‘My name’s Magda. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘Not off hand, ma’am,’ Dusty replied, partially gratified for the silence that had fallen over the room. ‘You men from Company C, finish your drinks and get mounted. We’re going back to camp.’

  A chorus of protest rolled up. Although the recruits recognized Dusty and had heard plenty about him from the old hands, they had seen little of him since joining his Company. So they were not over impressed—having taken sufficient drinks for their susceptibilities to have become dulled—as he stood there, a small figure amongst so many bigger, older men.

  ‘Hey!’ said one of the pair who had been entertaining Magda, standing and picking up a bottle. Crossing the room behind Dusty, he draped his other arm around the captain’s shoulders in a friendly manner. ‘You take a drin—’

  Which was as far as the recruit got.

  Dusty knew that, with the soldiers in their present frame of mind, he could not permit the man to take such liberties. If he did, he would have no control over any of them. So he acted with his usual speed and effectiveness.

  Raising his right boot, Dusty propelled its heel hard against the top of the soldier’s left foot. With a shrill yelp of pain, the recipient of the attack jerked away his arm and hopped on his other leg. Turning, Dusty laid the palm of his right hand against the man’s face and shoved. Reeling backwards, the soldier sat down hard on the floor with the bottle flying out of his hand.

  ‘Like I said,’ Dusty announced, giving no indication of knowing that the recruit had come and gone. ‘I want every man from Company C—’

  One of the biggest civilians lurched forward. Hooking his thumbs in his waist belt, he loomed above the small Texan and teetered menacingly on his heels.

  ‘Now just a blasted minute,’ the man snarled. ‘This ain’t no son-of-a-bitching Army camp. You ain’t got no right—’

  ‘This’s an Army matter, mister,’ Dusty interrupted! ‘So—’

  ‘Like hell it is!’ the man barked back. ‘Them things on your sleeves don’t pack no weight in here.’

  ‘I’d best apologize now,’ Dusty said quietly.

  ‘So you should, coming in here—’

  ‘No,’ Dusty corrected. ‘For what I’m going to do to you.’

  And saying it, he kicked the man sharply but with considerable force on the front of the shin bone. Letting out a startled and agonized howl, the roughneck went backwards, hopping on his uninjured limb. He did not go far enough. Advancing almost with a bound, Dusty whipped over a right cross that slammed his knuckles into the side of the man’s jaw. How hard the punch landed was shown by the bulky figure changing course with rapidity. Blundering away from his assailant, he landed belly down on top of a table which collapsed under his weight. Almost before the man’s body had reached the floor, Dusty’s matched Colts were drawn to throw down on others of the civilians. However, he could not watch everybody in the room.

  Behind the counter, one of the bartenders reached to where he kept a shotgun with its barrels cut down to a convenient length. Before his fingers closed about the butt, he heard a double click and a cracked, old voice addressing him.

  ‘There ain’t nothing down there’s you wants, now be there, friend?’

  Raising his gaze, the bartender looked into the yawning muzzle of a Dragoon Colt and beyond it was the leathery, ancient face of Corporal Hassle. Old the non-com might be, but the heavy revolver never wavered in its alignment.

  ‘Nope,’ conceded the bartender, bringing his hands hurriedly into view. ‘There ain’t.’

  The front door opened to admit Kiowa Cotton and the stocky, powerful Sergeant ‘Stormy’ Weather. They each held a revolver and changed the minds of two other civilians who had considered drawing weapons.

  ‘Like I said,’ Dusty barked, returning the Colts to their holsters almost as swiftly as he had drawn them. ‘I want every man of my Com—’

  ‘One minute!’ called a voice and a tall, elegantly-dressed man came from a doorway at the rear of the room. ‘These soldiers are here as my guests and I question your right to come in giving them orders.’

  ‘They’re in the Army—’ Dusty began, guessing correctly that he was speaking to Livesey, the owner.

  ‘And they’re on civilian property,’ Livesey countered, taking in the bare details of Dusty’s appearance without looking at the essentials. Believing that he was dealing with a callow, inexperienced junior officer, he decided to try a bluff and continued bombastically, ‘I resent this high-handed attitude and won’t hesitate to lodge a complaint with Colonel Blaze, or even General Hardin. My uncle is mayor of Camden—’

  ‘And I’m General Hardin’s and Colonel Blaze’s nephew,’ Dusty put in, watching alarm come to the man’s face. ‘My name is Fog.’

  For a moment Livesey stared at the small Texan and this time took notice of the triple gold bars on his collar. The Tavern’s owner had heard of Dusty and knew that he was related to the senior officers in question. So, while Livesey hated to see the recruits leave before they had spent all their money, he decided that it would not be polite, or wise, to antagonize a man with such influential family connections.

  ‘The bar’s closed to all members of Captain Fog’s Company,’ Livesey declared, putting on a more benevolent expression than he was feeling. ‘There’ll be a free drink for every one of you next time you come in, but now I want to see you all obeying orders and getting going.’

  ‘Why thank you ’most to death, sir,’ Dusty drawled, watching the soldiers rise and start to file out. ‘It’s sure good to see such a co-operative gentleman.’

  With that, the small Texan strolled from the room. He neither saw nor would have cared if he had seen, the bitter glare the owner threw after him. Instead, he was thinking of the work that lay ahead. Luckily none of his men were too drunk to ride. Something told him that he might need every one of them before he was finished with the big gun.

  Chapter Eight – That ‘Young Feller’ Is A Gal

  Although a well-bred young Southron lady was expected to ride sidesaddle, Harriet Cable had gained considerable proficiency in sitting astride a horse. Her earlier defiance of convention had proved to be of the greatest assistance in the days that had followed her escape from her home on Nimrod Lake.

  Having taken the boat almost to Perryville, Harry and her Negro companion had left it before reaching the town. They had made their way on foot to the Bluchers’ home. There it had been the girl’s unpleasant duty to inform Mrs. Blucher of her husband’s death. Harry had not seen the duel, but had heard about it from the butler. At his wife’s instigation, Oscar had hidden in the garden and watched what happened through the window. Despite her horror, shock and grief, Mrs. Blucher was of sturdy pioneering stock. So she had held her emotions in check while helping the girl to make preparations for the journey.

  Supplied with horses from Bluchers’ stables, Harry and Eric had set off to try to find her father. They had headed south, following the headwaters of the Saline River to Benson. From there, acting upon the information they had gathered, they had crossed the river and ridden parallel to—but out of sight of—the trail to Malvern. All the time they had been riding, they had kept a careful watch for any pursuers Major Lyle might have dispatched to capture them. While there had been a few Union patrols, Harry and Eric had avoided being seen by them. Nor had they appeared to be searching for the girl and her Negro escort.

  One thing had soon become obvious. The Yankees had attempted to keep Pulling Sue’s purpose a secret. They had only been partially successful. Faced with the restrictions placed upon their movements by the Union Army, none of the friends Harry had contacted in the various towns could help her to locate her father. So that task had fallen upon Eric’s broad, capable shoulders and he had been more successful. Not only was he large, brawny and intelligent, he was also Mama Lukie’s son. The Cable fami
ly’s cook had a reputation throughout Arkansas as being a conjure woman of considerable potency. On learning Eric’s identity, the Negroes he had questioned were ready to render every possible assistance. So, with their help, Harry had been able to trace her father’s movements. She had also been able to discover how the war was progressing and keep in touch with its latest developments.

  Acting upon the information gathered by her companion, Harry had made her way towards Arkadelphia. However, instead of trying to cross the Ouachita River, they had turned downstream and made for Camden.

  Shortly after noon one day, the girl and the Negro found themselves riding along the bottom of a broad, winding valley. They had selected the route to avoid being seen on a skyline. While they were still a good two miles north of the river, they had felt that it was not advisable to go any nearer.

  The bank was certain to be patrolled by the Yankees. By that time, word of their escape could have been circulated and the girl had not wanted to attract unwanted interest or attentions. If her father was anywhere in the vicinity, she would know about it without needing to see him; Pulling Sue would ensure that.

  Suddenly two figures appeared, ahead and on the right hand side of the valley. Although mounted, they had concealed themselves amongst the bushes that coated the slopes so successfully that they had remained undetected by Harry or Eric until showing themselves in a silent, but alarming manner.

  With a sickening sense of failure, Harry saw that the men wore U.S. Cavalry uniforms. Her first instinct was to send her horse galloping along the valley in the hope of dashing by. Next she considered attempting to turn and make a run for safety in the other direction. Clearly Eric was duplicating her feelings.

  ‘What’re we going to do, Miss Harry?’ the Negro inquired, sounding nervous. He knew that many Union Army soldiers would be suspicious, even indignant, at finding a white girl riding in the company of a colored man. While supposedly fighting to liberate the slaves, they objected to too close contact between the objects of their efforts and their own women. ‘Go like bats out of hell?’

  Instead of replying immediately, Harry gave a few seconds of rapid but careful thought to the situation. Her father had always stressed the need to do so in times of danger and she respected his superior wisdom. Swiftly she studied the approaching riders and formed her conclusions.

  One was sufficiently sinister looking to be worthy of alarm and concern; being Indian-dark and savage-featured, despite the sergeant’s chevrons on his sleeves. Older, shorter and white-haired, the other seemed less frightening and sported the insignia of a corporal. While their clothing was typical of the United States’ Cavalry, which was well on the way to standardizing its uniforms, they wore gun belts with revolvers in open-topped holsters and their saddles were not of the McClellan pattern. Each carried a Henry repeating rifle across the crook of his left arm. While they made no attempt to move the weapons to a position of greater readiness, doing so would not be a lengthy process.

  Having taken the last point into consideration, Harry realized that flight would avail them little or nothing. The horses she and Eric were riding had been pushed hard since leaving Perryville. Those of the two soldiers looked fresh and in the peak of physical condition. From the easy, relaxed way the men sat their saddles, they were probably far better riders, too. Even if they were not, she suspected that they were sufficiently skilled with their rifles to render any attempts at escape dangerous, if not fatal.

  The pair’s appearances—apart from the sergeant’s menacing face—were another point Harry noticed. They looked fairly neat and tidy, which suggested that they were not deserters. If they had been, the girl would have been very worried. Deserters had built up an ugly reputation during the War years. Maybe the sergeant looked as mean as all hell, but there was an amiable, perky, almost disarmingly friendly air about the white-haired corporal.

  Lastly, the girl noticed that the soldiers seemed surprised and puzzled by seeing her. Certainly they gave no hint of having been searching for her and Eric.

  ‘Wait!’ Harry decided. ‘They may not be looking for us and we might learn where Poppa is.’

  With that, the girl brought her horse to a stop. Eric reined in slightly behind her There was, he conceded, no hope of dashing by the soldiers or turning around to run away. Already the men had reached the valley bottom and were approaching, spreading apart, along it.

  ‘Howdy, you-all,’ greeted the corporal, halting his wolf-gray bayo-lobo gelding about ten yards ahead of the couple. ‘Real pleasant afternoon.’

  At the corporal’s side, the dark-featured sergeant said nothing. Instead he studied Harry with cold, wary eyes.

  For her part, Harry stiffened slightly. The old timer’s accent was that of a Texan. While the Lone Star State was part of the Confederacy some of its people had elected to fight for the North. So the discovery did not raise any hope in her breast.

  ‘Howdy fellers,’ the girl replied disturbed by the sergeant’s continued scrutiny but forcing herself to adopt a husky and—she hoped—masculine timbre in her voice. ‘It sure is.’

  In addition to trying to sound like a boy, Harry hoped that the combination of the broad-brimmed hat—under which she had tucked all her hair—wolf skin jacket, boy’s shirt, trousers and riding boots would prevent her real sex from being discovered. However, in case the soldiers meant mischief, she slipped her right hand casually into the jacket’s pocket and closed it around the butt of the Colt Pocket Pistol.

  ‘Mind if I asks where you’re going, young feller?’ the corporal went on and the girl’s relief at apparently having succeeded in her attempt at deception was lessened by the sergeant’s continued, silent examination. Not that his face offered her any clue to his feelings. There was an almost apologetic note in the old timer’s voice as he continued, ‘It ain’t none of my never-mind, I’ll grant you, but when you gets to my age, you’re entitled to act all nosey.’

  ‘Eric and me,’ Harry replied, continuing to use her ‘male’ voice, ‘we’re looking to enlist and fight the Rebs. Reckon your outfit’d take us on?’

  ‘I dunno about that, young feller.’ answered the corporal, laying a little emphasis on the last word. ‘But I’d admire to see you take your hand out of the pocket. When you gets to my age, you’re kind of nervous about folks’s finger guns when they’re talking to you.’

  ‘When you gets to your age, I’d say your eyes start to go bad on you, Vern,’ the sergeant put in and, although harsh and somewhat guttural, he too spoke with a pronounced Texas drawl. ‘That “young feller” is a gal.’

  ‘I knowed that all along, ye danged whipper-snapper!’ the corporal yelped, bristling with indignation yet maintaining his vigilance. ‘Only I thought’s how the young lady was trying to make us think otherwise, us being Texas gentlemen—leastways, one of us be—we should reckon we’d been fooled.’

  ‘Likely,’ grunted the sergeant and his cold eyes seemed to be boring into Harry’s head. ‘’Cepting he talks a heap too much, ma’am, Vern had him a right smart point. I’d admire to see an empty hand come out of that pocket right now.’

  ‘All right,’ the girl sighed, yielding to the inevitable and complying with what had clearly been a demand rather than a request. Realizing the deception had failed, she reverted to her normal manner of speaking.

  ‘That’s a heap more neighborly,’ commented the corporal. ‘So you’re looking to enlist in the Yankee Army, huh?’

  ‘You two did,’ Harry countered, although she was starting to have doubts on that point.

  ‘Well now, I’ll tell you, ma’am,’ the old timer answered, contriving to look and sound as if he was thoroughly ashamed of what he was about to confess. ‘We ain’t exactly in the Yankee Army. Fact being, there’s some’s might say we was out-’n’-out “imposters”.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Harry asked, guessing the man had meant ‘impostors’. ‘And what are you doing out here?’

  ‘Names’re Vern Hassle, which’s me,’ the corporal int
roduced, ‘’n’ Kiowa Cotton. Ranks’re right, but we belongs to Company C, of the Texas Light Cavalry, ma’am. Like I said, there’s some might call us “imposters”. And, from the way you’re dressed and’ve been talking, I’d be just a leetle mite inclined to say we’re not the only ones.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Harry conceded, but she did not know whether to be pleased or distressed by meeting two members of the Confederate States’ Army.

  Chapter Nine – We’re Headed in the Wrong Direction

  Although nothing showed on Sergeant Kiowa Cotton’s face, he was very interested. From the first moment he and Corporal Hassle had discovered that Harry was a girl, before they had shown themselves, they had been puzzled by her presence. Wanting to learn more about her—and being confident that there were no Yankee soldiers in the vicinity—they had decided to announce their true identity and see what response that brought. Kiowa had guessed that they had made the right decision when he heard her speaking with the accent of a well-bred Southron.

  ‘I’m not nosey, like some, ma’am,’ Kiowa remarked, favoring his ancient companion with a cold glare. ‘But Cap’n Fog, him being our Company’s commanding officer, he’s going to want to know who you are and why you’re fixing to enlist in the Yankee Army.’

  ‘We’re riding scout for Company C, ma’am,’ Hassle continued. ‘And, like Kiowa said, Cap’n Fog’s going to want to talk to you. So, happen you’ve no objections, you’d best come along and meet him.’

  ‘I’ve no objections,’ Harry smiled, sensing that she could trust the two soldiers and would be safe in their company. There was, however, something that she felt must be settled. ‘Eric’s a free man. Poppa set his folks free long before the War.’

  ‘We’ll mind it, ma’am,’ Kiowa promised, knowing that such had frequently been done even by people who were now supporting the Confederate cause. ‘Happen you reckon you can find the way. Vern, being so damned old an’ all, you’d best take them. I’ll keep looking for that blasted big gun.’