by J. T. Edson
‘This’s not General Hardin’s writing, sir,’ he finally told Barnett. ‘It’s a real good copy, but that’s all it is.’
Chapter Seven – It’s Our Turn To Play Tricky
Taking the sheet of paper from Dusty’s hand, Barnett compared it with other orders which he knew to be genuine. At last the colonel nodded grimly and admitted that it was a cleverly-contrived fake. Nor did he need to strain his brain to decide what lay behind its production and delivery. Morale was high amongst the Confederate troops in Arkansas and they had complete faith in their commanding general.
As Barnett had been about to say earlier, he would have hesitated to make the attack when his cavalry screen had failed to announce its presence if the order had come from anybody other than Ole Devil Hardin. The forged document promised that the horse-soldiers would be in position and that, backed by Ole Devil’s signature, had been sufficient for the colonel.
Expecting the cavalry support promised by their respected general, even though they had not seen it, the men of the Arkansas Rifles’ battalion had marched on the ford in the face of the newly-arrived Yankee battery. They might easily have been decimated by the Napoleons. Meeting with a crushing defeat would have shattered the survivors’ faith in Ole Devil and the mistrust would have spread through the rest of the Confederate Army under his command. The bloody repulse would also have done much to boost the flagging spirits of the Union Army opposing them.
Which brought up another point—one shocking in its implications. Dusty saw it first, expressing it even as it started to form among his companions.
‘Likely the Yankees wouldn’t send out just one set of orders!’ A shocked silence followed Dusty’s words. The colonel and two lieutenants exchanged apprehensive looks. Perhaps at that moment along the Caddo and Ouachita Rivers other Confederate soldiers were marching gallantly to their deaths, expecting help which would not come.
‘Red!’ Dusty went on, knowing there was no telegraph communication between the Caddo and Upper Ouachita fords. ‘Pick relays of good horses for you, Billy Jack, Kiowa and Vern Hassle. Two of you’ll go down-river, two up, as fast as you can push those horses. Warn every ford guard and patrol you come across not to make an attack if they’ve just had orders to do it.’
‘It’ll be too late!’ le Branche protested. ‘That damned son-of-a-bitch left almost four hours ago.’
‘We’ve still got to try,’ Dusty replied. ‘How many horses had he?’
‘Just the one,’ le Branche answered. ‘And he went down-river.’
‘We might catch up with him,’ Red decided. ‘I’ll see if the Yankees’ve enough good horses along, Cou—Cap’n.’
‘Do that,’ Dusty confirmed and turned to Barnett. ‘Our own mounts’ve been hard-pushed these last few days, sir.’
‘I understand,’ the colonel replied and a frosty smile played briefly on his lips. ‘Horses aren’t like infantrymen, they get tired after a few miles. Use my name as your authority for countermanding the orders, Mr. Blaze.’
‘Yo!’ Red replied, saluting and swinging on his heel to stride away.
The surviving company commanders of the battalion approached their colonel. Not knowing that the order had been a fake, they scowled at Dusty. Before any of them could speak, Barnett gave them the order to withdraw to their own lines.
‘With the colonel’s permission—?’ Dusty put in.
‘What is it, Captain Fog?’ Barnett asked, then told le Branche to explain to the three majors why the cavalry support had been delayed in its arrival.
‘Why don’t we hold this side of the river now we’ve taken it, sir?’ Dusty suggested, ignoring the comments which followed le Branche’s explanation.
‘I’ve had heavy losses—’
‘My Company’s at your disposal until reinforcements arrive, sir,’ Dusty offered. ‘And enough of them know how to handle a cannon for us to make use of those captured Napoleons. It could be that our Army’ll need something to hold the Yankees’ attention for a spell.’
‘Keep talking,’ Barnett prompted.
‘With the start he’s got, my men aren’t likely to catch that feller in time to stop the attacks. After the losses they’ll suffer, the ford guards won’t be in any shape to fight off determined counter-attacks—’
‘That’s true,’ admitted the colonel and his majors rumbled their agreement.
‘So I reckon we should make ready to hold that rim up there,’ Dusty continued. ‘And make sure the Yankees know that’s what we’re fixing to do.’
‘How do we do that?’ asked le Branche.
‘By turning loose all the prisoners, including the wounded. I’ll have some of my boys make up Indian-style litters for them. Among the horses we give the Yankees to haul the litters, there’ll be a fast saddle-mount—by accident, of course.’
‘And one of the officers we free’ll use it to find the nearest Yankee force and tell them what’s happening here,’ Barnett finished as Dusty paused for breath. ‘With luck they’ll come for us instead of attacking the other fords. That’ll give Ole Devil time to rush up reinforcements.’
‘That’s assuming the order’s a fake and this’s a plot,’ put in the major commanding Company ‘B’, which had suffered heaviest in the attack.
‘You’ve my word that that’s not General Hardin’s signature, sir,’ Dusty answered politely. ‘And the whole deal strikes me as the kind of tricky play the new Yankee general would make. I’ve come across another example of it with these remounts I captured at the top end of Lake Hamilton. Their escort was carrying a fake document.’
‘Buller’d never’ve been smart enough to think of it, that’s for sure,’ Barnett growled. ‘And a series of victories brought about by Trumpeter would set his command off to a good start.’
‘Yes, sir, it would,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Which’s one of the reasons why I reckon we should make them fight hard to retake this side of the river, even if he doesn’t aim to use the orders as openers in an offensive. That way his men won’t think his notion was so all-fired smart after all.’
‘They sure as hell won’t,’ enthused Barnett. ‘Damned if we don’t give it a whirl, gentlemen.’
‘There’s another thing, sir—’ Dusty began.
‘Tell us, Cap’n Fog. You’ve made right good sense so far.’
‘I reckon it’s our turn to play tricky. Let’s make the fellers we turn loose think that we knew all along the order was a fake, but went along with it so’s we could spring our own trap and capture the battery.’
‘By cracky, yes!’ boomed Barnett. ‘They’ll blame Trumpeter all the more that way. And, thinking of their own losses, they’ll be more likely to overlook how many we had killed. See to the arrangements, gentlemen. Captain Fog, have a man with a fast horse ready to deliver our reports to General Hardin. My own couriers both went to have their horses re-shod this morning before the messenger arrived with that order and aren’t back yet Your man can call in at my regimental headquarters and I’ll ask for some help to be sent in.’
‘Yo!’ Dusty replied, then stiffened to a brace and continued, ‘Could your men be told what’s happened, sir? That way they won’t go to blaming my boys for us not showing up earlier in the attack.’
Barnett sucked in a deep breath, knowing that to follow Dusty’s request would mean admitting that he had been taken for a sucker. Yet not to do so might bring trouble in its wake. So he nodded and agreed to pass on the facts to his men. Once that was done, he could only hope that he would redeem himself by making a success of defending the captured strip of territory.
Holding their horses to a fast, mile-devouring half-gallop, Red Blaze and Kiowa followed the trail through the wooded country alongside the Caddo River. They had been fortunate in finding eight Dragoon horses suitable for their mission. It had been decided that Red and Kiowa should head down-river, while Billy Jack and Vern Hassle would carry the warning in the other direction. Behind them, Dusty’s plan was already being put into action. They hoped that
it would succeed, or Trumpeter’s boast of conquering Texas might yet be fulfilled.
All the time they rode, Kiowa kept his eyes darting from side to side. He studied the river’s bank with care, but also gave attention to the thick cover on the other side of the trail. They did not meet up with a Confederate patrol, but that was no surprise. The Arkansas Rifles battalion supplied the patrols along that stretch of the river and Barnett had not sent any out after receiving the order to make the attack.
Soon after passing the confluence of the Caddo and Ouachita Rivers, Kiowa brought his two-horse relay to a sudden halt. Reining in his own mounts, Red watched the sergeant drop to the ground and plunge into the bushes lining the river-side of the trail. Wondering what had attracted Kiowa’s attention, Red prepared to follow him. Before he could do so, Red had to make a grab at and catch the reins of the sergeant’s horses. Unlike Kiowa’s usual mounts, the animals acquired from the Dragoons had not been trained to stand ground-hitched and showed signs of continuing along the path,
What’s up, Kiowa?’ Red called, impatiently curbing the restless fiddle-footing of the four horses.
‘Saw something that looked powerful like a feller’s leg in here,’ the scout answered. ‘And it is one.’
Swinging from his saddle, Red took the precaution of securing the relays’ reins to the branches of a sturdy bush. Then he went to join Kiowa and found the sergeant looking down at a body. It was bare-foot, unarmed, with the linings of its pockets turned inside out. Clad in the uniform of a Texas Light Cavalry private, the corpse had two bullets in its back to tell the cause of death. Bending forward, Kiowa rolled the body over and they studied its agony-distorted features.
‘I can’t mind him,’ the scout commented. ‘Which I ain’t claiming to know every feller in the outfit.’
‘He’s not one of the regular couriers, that’s for sure,’ Red replied. ‘This looks like border-jumpers’ work, Kiowa.’
‘Sure enough does. Ain’t nobody but a bunch of murdering guerillas’d take a man’s boots and turn out his pockets after they’ve killed him. You want for me to take out after ’em, Mr. Blaze? They’re headed for the river.’
‘They’ll be across it by now,’ Red replied and made a wry face. ‘I’d best see if he’s got anything left to tell us who he is.’
While Red went about the distasteful task of searching the body, Kiowa made a thorough examination of the area. The Indian-dark sergeant paid great attention to the age of the various tracks and formed his conclusions.
‘Anything?’ Kiowa asked as Red straightened up.
‘Nope. We’d best get on our way.’
‘Yep,’ Kiowa agreed. ‘Only there’s likely no rush any more. He was killed ’tween three ’n’ four hours back. Which means he’s likely the son-of-a-bitch with the fake orders. You allowed he’d come down this way.’
‘Sure I did, and the time’d be about right,’ Red replied, covering the dead face with his bandana. ‘Only we daren’t count on it being him. Let’s ride. He’ll have the next ford’s guard send somebody out for him.’
Returning to their horses, they freed the reins, mounted and continued with their assignment. While certain that Kiowa had formed a correct estimation of when the man was killed, Red kept them moving at a fast pace. It appeared likely that the impostor with the forged orders had fallen victim to a band of Yankee guerillas, a fate met by more than one lone man riding dispatch. In which case there would be no more unsupported attacks—unless there should be more than one man delivering the forgeries. Red figured he would rather be sure than sorry.
At last the Texans came into sight of the next ford and reined their horses to a stop. Studying the peaceful conditions which prevailed, Red let out a long sigh of relief. He could see no signs to tell that a battle had taken place recently. In fact from the lack of hostile action on the part of the rival guards, they might have been members of the same regiment camped for some reason on opposite banks of the river.
Keen-eyed as always, Kiowa raked the Yankee’s shore and spotted something which he regarded as significant despite the peaceful scene.
‘I’ll bet it was the feller with the false orders we found back there,’ the sergeant said. ‘There’re half-a-dozen Napoleons hidden over that side and pointed this way.’
Following the directions indicated by his companion, Red located one after another of the carefully-concealed cannon amongst the bushes. They were positioned so that their fire would effectively sweep the crossing.
‘No bet,’ Red decided and starting his horse moving.
Riding into the Confederate camp, Red reported to the major commanding the guard. After hearing what had happened at the Snake Ford, the major said that the Napoleons had moved into position the previous night. He had received no orders to attack and nodded his agreement with Colonel Barnett’s instructions that he ignore them should they arrive. Arranging for the body to be brought in as soon as possible, Red looked across the river. ‘If that feller’d got here—’ Red breathed.
‘Yes,’ the major replied. ‘It’s just what you’d expect a stinking Yankee soft-shell ii to try and pull.’
‘Sure it is,’ Red drawled. ‘After he’s tried to pull it.’
Continuing their fast-paced journey, Red and Kiowa made for the next ford. On arrival, they found similar conditions to those at their last point of call. A battery of six-pounder cannon had been brought up the previous night, the pieces being concealed, yet able to lay a cross-fire on the ford. Until he had heard Red’s news, the guard commander was at a loss to explain why the cannons had made their appearance. At first he had kept his men stood-to in their defensive positions, which explained why the Texans had not met a patrol between the two fords. The Union attack feared by the guard commander had not materialized and he had been on the point of sending a patrol along the river’s bank when Red and Kiowa came on the scene. Repeating Colonel Barnett’s orders, Red took to his horse once more. After covering about a mile, the Texans met an infantry patrol travelling towards the ford they had just visited. Halting, Red learned that no orders to attack had been received by the next guard down-river; although it too was now covered by a battery of six-pounders. There had been no reports of trouble, or even artillery movements, from the lower fords. Learning of the incident at the Snake Ford, the infantry lieutenant stated his intention to watch extra carefully for fake couriers. Red warned him to make sure the courier was a fake and, if possible to take him alive.
‘I’d sure hate the puddle-splashers to shoot down one of our boys who’s riding dispatch, Kiowa,’ Red said as they watched the patrol march away. ‘There’s no need to keep going.’
‘We headed back to the Company?’ the sergeant inquired.
‘Not by what you’d call the quickest way,’ Red answered. ‘I’ve been thinking about what Cousin Dusty’s trying to do—’
‘And?’
‘The Yankee’ll have at least three batteries against our one—soon’s they can get the guns from the other fords to the Snake. Which they couldn’t do happen somehow they was to lose all their hosses in the night.’
‘They do say Yankees are real careless with their stock,’ Kiowa grunted and fingered the knife on his belt. We could go see if it’s true.’
‘That’s just what we’ll do,’ Red decided; then a thought struck him and caused a grin to flicker across his face. ‘Wouldn’t it be a pistol if those guerillas take them fake orders to sell to the Yankee soldiers? I’d give money to see old Trumpeter’s face, happen he thought up this fancy twirl-me-round, when he gets his own orders handed back to him?
Chapter Eight – Your Guerilla Friend Killed One Of Our Spies
Being a man who enjoyed his creature comforts, the Yankee general who had originally captured Little Rock selected a fine old colonial-style house in the best section of the town for his official residence. Ever optimistic, subsequent generals saw no point of seeking other quarters when at any time they might be continuing their advance towards the bor
ders of Texas.
On the afternoon of the fourth day after his grand review had been disrupted and ruined, General Horace Trumpeter paced restlessly about the first-floor front room which had been converted into his private office. Back and forwards he tramped; from the door, passing the large desk in the centre of the room and almost brushing against the drawn-back, heavy drapes of the window in turning. Once he came to a halt by the window, glowering across the balcony into the foliage of the fine old white-oak tree which spread so close to the balustrade. The sight of the tree and the well-kept gardens stretching to the high walls surrounding the property gave him no pleasure that day. Scowling across the lawns and flower-beds, liberally dotted and lined with decorative bushes, he gave an angry snort, then resumed his walking and thinking.
Normally his thoughts would have been directed to the future, planning the country that he intended to build after the War ended. It would be a fine country, where all men were equal—guided and directed, of course, by himself and a carefully selected few of the liberal elite—and worked for the common good. In his day-dreams, he could imagine himself as President, respected by all, receiving the adulation of the masses as the savior of the Union and creator of a land which was ‘all for the people’. They were the dreams first formed as a college student and the War had presented him with an opportunity to bring them to fulfillment.
Such thoughts did not wing their delightful way that afternoon. In tune with his thudding feet, two words repeatedly throbbed inside his head. ‘Dusty Fog! Dusty Fog! Dusty Fog!’ Even before he had come to Arkansas, Trumpeter had heard the name. He had been one of those who raised their voices in protest against the Texan being permitted to attend and give evidence at Kirby Cogshill’s court martial. For the most part, Trumpeter had put the tales of Dusty Fog’s abilities and talents down to nothing more than propaganda by the Confederate States. Trumpeter knew that he could not perform the feats credited to the Texan; which meant that no lesser mortal could do them. Since his arrival in Arkansas, he had seen evidence which would have caused a less egotistical man to change his mind.