Dusty Fog's Civil War 7

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Likely, ma’am,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Which’s why I’ve done it. A man in a temper’s judgment gets clouded. He quits thinking straight and acts rash. So I want for him to know who rescued you.’

  ‘He’ll still realize that you must have had local help.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. Only, way he feels about me already, I’m figuring he’ll be wanting me even worse than the fellers who helped.’

  ‘Trumpeter’s a vindictive, vicious man, Captain Fog. There’s no telling what he might do to take his revenge on you. Take care in future and don’t fall into his hands.’

  ‘I’ll try extra hard not to, ma’am,’ Dusty promised and took the key from the lock.

  Opening the door, Dusty looked out. Nobody was in sight, so they left the building. Wanting to make things look as normal as possible, he closed and locked the door behind them. Then they walked along the alley towards the rear of the building. Just as they passed through the light thrown by the guards’ room’s window, they heard footsteps behind them.

  ‘Hold it up there, corporal!’ barked an authoritative voice.

  Looking back, Rose saw two men at the mouth of the alley. She recognized both of them. The one in the uniform of a Union Army captain and carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket was the Provost Marshal. At his side, looking a mite distressed and perturbed, waddled Hoffinger.

  ‘Best do what they say, ma’am,’ Dusty whispered. ‘If we run now, they’ll raise the alarm. Let them come real close.’

  Slipping free the baton as she turned, Rose held it concealed at her side. Dusty had not drawn the Colt after filling in the column of the book, but made no attempt to touch it. Everything depended on them retaining the element of surprise. They stood far enough beyond the window’s light to be indistinct shapes rather than identifiable figures. Given just a smidgen of good Texas luck, the approaching men would not discover their mistake until close enough for him to deal silently with them.

  ‘Where’re you going and what’s that kid doing around here?’ the captain demanded, striding unsuspectingly towards what he assumed to be one of the stockade guards and a local youngster.

  Looking at the figures, Hoffinger felt a growing, uneasy suspicion that one of them seemed familiar. Not the corporal, although there was something odd about ‘him’, but the civilian. For some reason, the way the smaller shape stood facing them appeared to strike a chord in Hoffinger’s memory.

  Small!

  That was the word needed to trigger off the dude’s realization of the truth. Dusty Fog had stood in just such a manner, apparently relaxed but at coil-spring readiness, just before launching his attack on Glock.

  ‘It’s Dusty Fo—!’ Hoffinger yelped, his voice rising higher as the certainty of the suspicion grew.

  The recognition had not come quickly enough. Already the two men were in the darkness beyond the window and close to the waiting couple. Although it had been Dusty’s intention to silence the Provost Marshal first, he changed his mind in a hurry. Hoffinger must be prevented from making any more noise.

  Mentally cursing the lousy turn of fate that had brought the chubby dude to the jail-house, Dusty sprang forward. With the speed that allowed him to draw and shoot a Colt in less than a second, his right hand stabbed in Hoffinger’s direction. A thumb and four powerful fingers closed about the dude’s throat, sinking in and tightening with a force that paralyzed his vocal cord. Even as Hoffinger’s words chopped off, Dusty’s left hand reached for the Colt in his waistband ready to deal with the Yankee officer.

  The need did not arise. For a refined, well-bred Southern lady, Rose showed a remarkably quick grasp of the situation and moved with commendable speed. Seeing Dusty leap at and silence the dude, she devoted herself to the Provost Marshal. In fact, recalling the humiliation suffered at his hands during the search and removal of her clothing, she found satisfaction in being given the chance to settle accounts with him.

  Bringing up the baton, she lunged and drove its tip hard into his solar plexus. With a croak of pain, he dropped the bundle and jerked backwards. Rose followed him, swinging the baton around. Crashing on to the captain’s head, which was encased in a silk-braided fatigue cap, the blow tumbled him to the ground.

  ‘And Cousin Belle couldn’t have done it neater,’ Rose told herself. Then, hearing a sound from the rear of the alley, she turned with the baton lifting to strike.

  Dragging the croaking Hoffinger after him at arm’s length, Dusty also turned. He recognized the tall, lean shape looming through the blackness and spoke a warning, ‘Don’t hit him. ma’am. He’s one of mine.’

  Judging by his captain’s tone that some explanation of his presence might be called for, Kiowa decided to avoid making it if he could. Instead he acted as if he had been obeying orders.

  ‘Thought I heard somebody coming ‘round the back, Cap’n Dusty. It war only a cat when I got there.’

  With a heave, Dusty propelled the half-strangled Hoffinger towards the scout. Catching the front of the dude’s jacket in his left hand, Kiowa held the point of his knife to the centre of the fancy vest.

  ‘Keep him quiet!’ Dusty ordered. ‘How’s the captain, Mrs. Greenhow?’

  ‘He looks better now than when we last met,’ she replied and the tension she felt made her continue. ‘For the Good Lord’s sake call me “Rose”. You make me feel old, saying “ma’am” and “Mrs.”’

  ‘Yes, m—Rose,’ Dusty grinned, looking at the Provost Marshal and deciding he would be no danger for some time. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘How about him, Cap’n?’ Kiowa inquired, shaking Hoffinger who was too busy trying to recover from the strangling grip to protest.

  For a moment Dusty hesitated and Hoffinger’s life hung in the balance. If Dusty had given the word, Kiowa would have driven his knife home. Two things saved the chubby dude, Dusty’s aversion to cold-blooded, unnecessary killing and the fact that he saw a way of making use of the man.

  ‘Bring him with us,’ Dusty ordered. ‘But if he tries to make fuss, or shout to anybody, kill him.’

  ‘That’s easy enough done,’ drawled Kiowa, deftly twirling his captive towards the rear of the building. Transferring his hold to the back of Hoffinger’s coat collar, he pricked the bowie knife at the spot where its blade could most easily reach the kidneys.

  ‘Start your feet moving, hombre. Do like Cap’n Dusty says or I’ll you here permanent.’

  ‘Remembering Kiowa as vividly as Dusty from their last encounter, Hoffinger did not doubt that he would obey his captain’s order. So he had no intention of causing trouble, or trying warn any members of the garrison they chanced to meet that Rose Greenhow had escaped.

  ‘This’s the Provost Marshal, Dusty,’ Rose remarked, stirring the unconscious officer with her toe. ‘Perhaps he was coming to collect me.’

  ‘Or set you free, figuring it was all a mistake,’ Dusty answered, picking up the bundle. ‘This feels like it’s got clothes and shoes it.’

  ‘They’d know Hoffinger didn’t make a mistake,’ Rose told him. ‘There was a knife-bracelet and a ring that would tell them who am. Come on, we’d better get away from here.’

  An unprotesting Hoffinger allowed himself to be hustled through the back streets. Nobody saw the party and they reached the outskirts without being challenged. As he walked, he wondered why Dusty had ordered that he be brought along. Not to be killed that could have been done just as easily by the jail-house and was against the small Texan’s chivalrous nature. Certainly not as a hostage, to be traded for their freedom if they were caught. Dusty Fog, and more particularly Rose Greenhow, knew the Yankees would never make such a trade.

  ‘Why have you brought him, Dusty?’ Rose inquired and Hoffinger listened with interest. ‘Will you release him when we get to the horses?’

  ‘No, ma—Rose. I’m going to take him with us to Prescott.’

  ‘Because he denounced me to the Yankees? If so, I assure you that I’ve no desire for revenge. It was my own fault that I was recognized.
I felt so sure that nobody in Arkansas would recognize me that I didn’t travel in disguise.’

  ‘Revenge’s not what I’m figuring on. Like you said at the jail-house, Trumpeter’s going to know I had help from somebody in Little Rock. So I’m fixing to let him know who it was.’

  ‘I don’t—’ Rose began, then gasped out, ‘Hoffinger!’

  ‘Yes’m. There’s going to be a rumor started that he’s one of our spies. Old Trumpeter’s going to be reminded of a few lil things. Like how we knew where to find the remounts and how we come to be on the Snake Ford at just the right time after we’d met Hoffinger. Time we’re through, Trumpeter’ll be certain that Hoffinger’s been working for us all along.’

  ‘You’ve hit it!’ Rose enthused. ‘He’ll even think that Hoffinger denouncing me was part of a plot to make him look foolish when I escaped. He’s egotistical enough to accept that we’d do it just to have him removed from command, for fear of his brilliance.’

  Listening, Hoffinger felt a shudder run through him. Once those rumors started to circulate, he was a doomed man in Little Rock. Remembering Trumpeter’s delight at capturing the notorious Rose Greenhow, he could imagine the reaction when the general heard of her escape. Hoffinger’s disappearance would seem like conclusive proof of guilt. Ironically, he had asked to accompany the Provost Marshal, on hearing that the officer intended to interrogate Rose, hoping that his presence would prevent her from being brutally ill-treated. Not that his good intentions, even if Trumpeter had known about them—would save him. The general would show him no mercy. In fact Trumpeter would not want him taken alive so that he could testify to how he had deceived the most brilliant brain in the Union Army.

  ‘Fetching him along’s going to slow us down some, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa warned. ‘We don’t have a relay for him to use and we’re late starting back as it is.’

  A point which Dusty had been considering since deciding how to use Hoffinger. The need for speed had prevented him from bringing more than the bare minimum of horses for his party. Rescuing Rose had consumed valuable hours that ought to have been spent in heading for the safety of the Ouachita River. Expecting to start back almost immediately, he had planned the journey accordingly. Slowed down by being unable to use the full potential of the two-horse relays, dawn would find them far from the wooded country where he had hoped that they could hide during the day. However he had to balance that against the chance to remove all suspicion from Wexler. Dusty thought that the opportunity justified the risk.

  ‘We’ll take a chance on it,’ he told the others.

  Chapter Thirteen – He’s Left Me Afoot So He Can Escape!

  Just as Dusty feared, sun-up found them traversing rolling but open country. So they kept moving, with Kiowa ranging ahead of them, keeping to the low land and avoiding sky-lines if they could.

  On rejoining his men, Dusty had changed back into his uniform. The bundle had held Rose’s clothing, but she retained the borrowed outfit except for donning her own shoes. Everything had been ready for their departure. Pausing only long enough to tell Hacker—who had met Dusty’s group on the edge of town—of the scheme to incriminate Hoffinger, they had moved out. The alarm bell had sounded before they had covered a mile, warning them that Rose’s escape had been discovered. No pursuit came close, nor could the news be passed ahead. Seeing Dusty returning with Rose, Sandy McGraw had found and cut the telegraph line to the south-west.

  Towards noon they were travelling along the bottom of a large valley. Ahead of them, Kiowa peered cautiously over the rim of the left-hand slope. Ducking down his head, he turned his horse and galloped back to his companions.

  ‘There’s a Yankee patrol coming this way, Cap’n Dusty,’ the scout announced. ‘Once they top that rim, they’ll see us for sure.’

  ‘No place to hide, either,’ Dusty replied, looking around. ‘How many of them and how far off are they?’

  ‘Twenty or so, look like 3rd Cavalry to me. About half a mile off.’

  ‘Too many to fight,’ Dusty decided. ‘There’s only one chance. I’m going to make a stab at drawing them away from you.’

  ‘You?’ Rose gasped.

  ‘Yes’m. I haven’t ridden my black all night and I’ll bet he’s got the legs of any horse in the Yankee Army. When they see me, they’ll give chase—Especially if they know who I am.’

  ‘That’s for sure,’ Kiowa growled, for Dusty had passed on Wexler’s information during the night. ‘After Trumpeter putting out that order about you, every blue-belly officer in Arkansas’d give his right arm for a chance to get you.’

  ‘How can you be sure they’ll recognize you, Dusty?’ Rose inquired.

  ‘Vern’s going to tell them,’ Dusty answered. ‘If you’ll do it, Vern, that is. Could be you’ll wind up in a Yankee prison-camp—’

  ‘Allus did want to see what one of them looked like,’ the old corporal drawled laconically. ‘Just what’ve you got in mind?’

  Quickly Dusty explained his scheme. Watching the men, Rose saw that they showed no hesitation in accepting it. Even Hassle, who might end up as a prisoner-of-war, gave his agreement.

  ‘How about Hoffinger?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Have no fear, dear lady,’ the dude answered. ‘By this time I am branded as a Confederate spy. My life depends on reaching your side of the Ouachita River. I will do nothing to impede our escape.’

  ‘See you don’t,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Go with Kiowa, Rose. And Kiowa, you keep going no matter what happens to us.’

  Leading a twenty-strong patrol of the 3rd Cavalry, 1st Lieutenant Koebel saw a rider coming over the ridge up which he and his men were about to ascend. Even as Koebel realized that the newcomer was a Confederate cavalry captain, a second figure followed him. On foot, the man wore the uniform of a Texas Light Cavalry corporal, He was short, white-haired and clearly very angry.

  ‘Come back with me hoss, blast ye!’ the old corporal screeched, bounding after the captain.

  Suddenly the Confederate officer became aware of the 3rd Cavalry patrol’s presence. Reining his horse in a tight turn, he let out a yell, raked it with his spurs and sent it racing away at a tangent to the north-east. The corporal drew his right hand revolver, firing a shot in the direction of his departing superior.

  ‘Take six men and get after him, sergeant!’ Koebel barked. ‘Remainder, draw pistols and follow me.’

  While his sergeant gave chase to the fleeing captain, Koebel led the rest of the patrol up the slope. From all appearances, the old Rebel non-com was too filled with indignation at the officer’s desertion to see the danger.

  ‘Blast your stinking hide, Cap’n Fog!’ the corporal bellowed in a carrying voice. ‘You come back here!’

  Until he heard the name spoken by the furious old-timer, Koebel had intended to go over the rim and see if more of the enemy were in the vicinity. Instead he brought his horse to a rump-scraping halt. His men also stopped their mounts, amused by the ancient Rebel’s antics.

  ‘Who did you say he was?’ Koebel demanded, hoping that he had heard correctly. ‘Who is he?’

  Glaring around him, Vern Hassle howled in well-simulated exasperation and flung down his smoking revolver. Although his right holster was empty, the discarded Colt had belonged to Slasser. Stamping his feet in a paroxysm of wrath, he shook his fists in the air.

  ‘Blast that Dusty Fog’s hide!’ Hassle raged. ‘He’s left me afoot so’s he can escape.’

  ‘Was that Dusty Fog?’ asked one of the soldiers.

  ‘Of course it b—!’ Vern began, then stared wildly around as if the true nature of his position had just struck him. ‘Now look what he’s done! I knowed I shouldn’t’ve come on this scout with him!’

  Ignoring the excited chatter which rose from his men, Koebel hurriedly revised his plans. To hell with going over the rim, there would be nothing on the other side. It was obvious what had happened. Fog had somehow lost his horse while on a mission accompanied only by the corporal. Typical of an arrogant Southerner
, he had taken the aged non-com’s mount. On seeing the patrol, Fog had deserted his companion and fled. If the rest of his Company had been close by, he would have attacked instead of running.

  While there might be gaps in Koebel’s logic, he refused to see them. From all he had heard, whoever captured or killed Dusty Fog would stand high in General Trumpeter’s favor. The man responsible could expect promotion and further recognition from the grateful commanding general—and Koebel had sent his sergeant after the fleeing Rebel instead of going himself.

  ‘Guard this feller, corporal, you two men!’ Koebel ordered, the words tumbling out in his haste to get started. ‘Come on, the rest of you. After him. I’ll give a month’s pay to the man who brings him down.’

  Already primed with excitement, the soldiers needed no further encouragement. Setting their horses into motion, they galloped at a reckless pace towards the rest of their party. Watching them go, the Yankee corporal gave a disgusted sniff and swung from his saddle.

  ‘Rest your butt-ends,’ he told his companions. ‘They’ve got a long ride ahead of them. Shed the gunbelt, old timer.’

  ‘Won’t I just!’ Hassle answered, complying. ‘To hell with fighting for the South, happen that’s how an officer treats me!’

  ‘All officers’re sons-of-bitches,’ grinned one of the privates, holstering his Colt as he dismounted. ‘Look how Koebel’s rid off and left us.’

  ‘I hope he enjoys the ride,’ the second soldier remarked, dropping his gun into leather as he watched the chase. ‘ ‘Cause I’m betting that’s all he gets. That hoss of Fog’s runs like a prong-horn antelope in a hurry.’

  ‘Fog’s hoss!’ Hassle yelped. ‘That’s my danged hoss!’

  And, tossing his gunbelt to the Yankee corporal, he launched into a magnificently profane discourse on the subject of Dusty’s behavior, morals, ancestry and possible fate. All in all it proved to be a fine performance and the Yankees listened with considerable amusement, not noticing that the rest of the patrol went rushing away from them. Hassle watched the departure, straining his inventive powers to find ways to keep his guards occupied. At last he paused for breath, standing snorting like a mossy-horned bull.