Kill Dusty Fog

by J. T. Edson

  ‘Just seven men,’ Dusty said quietly. ‘And a woman, maybe. I’d’ve expected more than that.’

  ‘In addition to being short of men in the town garrison right now, Trumpeter believes that Mrs. Greenhow’s capture is a secret,’ Wexler explained. ‘Probably he also assumes that, even if we found out, we’d never expect him to put a Southern lady into a common jail-house. So he doesn’t want to attract attention by increasing the guard.’

  ‘That figures,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Tell me all you know about the jail; how it’s guarded, the routine the guards follow, when they get fed and how, everything that might help. Maybe we can think up some way to get her loose.’

  ‘I hope we can,’ Wexler said sincerely.

  ‘There’s another thing we’ve got to think about,’ Dusty yarned. ‘Trumpeter won’t like it one lil bit if we bring it off. He’ll want blood and it’ll be the Lord help you happen he found out who you are.’

  ‘That’s a chance I have to take,’ Wexler answered. ‘Risking being found out is something I’ve come to live with.’ While Dusty accepted that, he knew a successful rescue would rouse Trumpeter to such a pitch of fury that the Yankees were going to hunt as never before for the people responsible. While Rose Greenhow’s freedom might be of considerable importance to the South, so was Wexler’s. Somehow, Dusty could not think how right then, he must find a way to divert suspicion from the little undertaker if the rescue bid should be brought off. Suddenly a thought came to Dusty, driving the concern he felt for Wexler’s safety momentarily from his mind. ‘Say, not long back I read something in a Yankee newspaper about stockade guards being in trouble with the soft-shells.’ A frown creased the undertaker’s brow. He did not answer for some seconds, then he realized what Dusty meant. ‘That’s true, they were and still are,’ Wexler finally agreed. ‘I didn’t bother to report it to General Hardin, it didn’t seem important enough.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ Dusty drawled. ‘It may just be important enough to help us prise Mrs. Greenhow loose from that old jail-house,’

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE NEEDS TEACHING RESPECT FOR HIS BETTERS

  DISREGARDING the scowls of the other enlisted men present, Sergeant Bernie Slasser and Corporal Dick Pope swaggered into the Birdcage Cafe for their supper. Although the owner secretly wished that they would go elsewhere, he stood by their usual table and greeted them politely. Big, burly, with brutish faces and close-cropped hair, they wore Burnside hats and infantry uniforms; but every soldier in the room knew to which branch of the Army they belonged. Stockade guards had never been selected for charm of personality and understanding natures. Alertness and caution had become a way of life with the pair. Their hands never strayed far from the twenty-six inch long oak batons dangling from loops and balancing the holstered revolvers on their belts. Aware that every man in the room most likely hated their guts, the knowledge caused Slasser and Pope no concern.

  ‘It’s a nice night, gentlemen,’ greeted the owner, grinning with patent insincerity.

  ‘You’re getting your share of it,’ Slasser grunted, hanging his hat on the back of a chair and sitting down. ‘We’ll want a meal to take back. Nothing fancy and don’t hurry it. If it’s not ready, the fellers we relieve can fetch it.’

  ‘I understand, sergeant,’ the owner replied truthfully. ‘Do you gentlemen want your usual?’

  ‘It’s no worse than any of the other hawg-wash you serve,’ Pope growled and, after the man had left, grinned at his companion. ‘Did you see that Southern gal?’

  ‘Not enough,’ Slasser answered. ‘We can go take a look later. Sarah’ll’ve gone then.’

  ‘It’d be best if we waited until we knew what the Man* has to say about her first,’ Pope suggested cautiously. ‘He’s wetting his pants on the hour about correct procedure since the top brass sent out that damned order about how we treat the prisoners.’

  ‘There’s only one way to treat a prisoner,’ Slasser spat out. ‘Rough.’

  Pope darted a quick glance around, as if wishing to make sure that nobody had heard his companion’s comment. Then he let the subject lapse and the arrival of their food prevented Slasser from resuming it. While eating, their alertness never left them. Continually flickering their eyes around the room, they gave the impression that they were studying the soldiers to select the ones most likely to fall into their hands. Neither of them showed any great interest when, at the conclusion of their meal, a seedy-looking civilian sidled over to their table. Poorly-dressed, prone to giving a hacking cough at regular intervals, he was assistant to one of the sutlers who followed and traded with the soldiers.

  ‘Sergeant—’ the man began, bobbing his head ingratiatingly after a preliminary cough.

  ‘What’s up, Hacker?’ Slasser demanded.

  ‘Air that bounty on deserters still getting paid?’

  ‘Sure,’ the sergeant agreed, interest replacing his frown. The Union Army offered a reward of a hundred dollars to anybody who was responsible for the capture of a deserter. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Hacker replied, starting to turn away. ‘I was just ask—’

  Shooting out a big hand, Slasser caught the civilian’s thin arm and crushed it. ‘Where is he, Hacker?’

  ‘I — I—’ the man answered, then he gave a resigned shrug. ‘He’s in here.’

  ‘Which one?’ Pope inquired.

  ‘See that short runt sat near the front door?’ Hacker answered, without looking at or indicating the person he meant. ‘He’s the one. Used to be with Custer’s outfit, Owed my boss money, which’s how I ‘member him.’

  Without displaying too obvious interest, the two stockade guards turned and studied the man in question. Small, though well-built, young, with a bare head of curly blond hair, he wore a collarless shirt and poorly-fitting cheap civilian suit. For the most part, he looked like an ordinary youngster from the working-class section of the town. Only one thing pointed to Hacker’s statement being correct. His boots, which showed from under the table, were of better quality than the rest of his wardrobe indicated. There was another sign which the experienced pair could recognize. While waiting for his food to arrive, the youngster kept his head bent forward except when darting flickering, furtive glances around the room,

  ‘Why’d a deserter come here to eat?’ Pope asked.

  ‘Likely he thinks this’s the last place anybody’d expect find a feller who’s gone over the hill,’ Hacker offered.

  ‘Them’s cavalry boots he’s wearing, Popey,’ Slasser went on.

  ‘Even if he ain’t a deserter, it’d be interesting learning where he got ‘em. Let’s go over and see what he’s got to say for his-self.’

  ‘You won’t forget it was me’s pointed him out, wil-ya?’ whined Hacker as the non-coms came to their feet and put their hats on.

  ‘We’ll not forget,’ Slasser promised, winking at his companion. ‘If he’s a deserter, we’ll see the right thing’s done.’

  Seated at the table with his back to the wall, Dusty Fog watched the by-play between the civilian and the two soldiers, Nothing about him showed that he was aware of their scrutiny and interest. As a waiter placed a steaming plate of stew before him, he grinned and tensed. The first stage of Mrs. Greenhow’s rescue had begun.

  As always, Wexler had proved to possess plenty of vitally important information about the current situation. Admitting that he had expected Dusty to attempt a rescue bid — and ready to try himself if the other had not arrived that night — the undertaker had already gathered in details of the woman’s incarceration. He had previously collected a thorough working knowledge of the jail’s routine in case it might one day be needed. Working from what he had been able to tell Dusty, a daring scheme was concocted. There had been little enough time to arrange its details, but so far everything was going correctly.

  Surreptitiously watching the soldiers drawing closer, with Hacker following on their heels, Dusty measured the distance between them with his eyes. Give them their due, t
hey were putting on a mighty good act. Neither showed any obvious interest in him and they were acting in a casual manner as if merely leaving the cafe. An unsuspecting victim might have been fooled by them. Aware of what was going on, Dusty made ready to play his part. None of the other occupants of the room were watching the stockade guards right then, but Dusty figured that he ought to be able to draw attention their way.

  In a casual-appearing gesture, Dusty rested the palms of his hands under the edge of the table. Then he glanced up and down and jerked back his head in a startled manner, as if suddenly becoming aware of the two non-coms bearing down on him. Catching his cue with the skill of a professional actor, Hacker went on with the next part of the scheme. In addition to being a sutler’s assistant, he was one of Wexler’s most trusted agents.

  ‘That’s him for certain sure, sergeant!’ Hacker yelled. ‘He’s over the hill from Custer’s outfit!’

  Letting out an annoyed grunt, Slasser lunged forward. He had hoped to be within reaching distance before the ‘deserter’ realized the danger, but Hacker’s shouted comment ruined his chances of doing it. So he advanced, meaning to reach over the table and grab the small young man. Despite being alerted, he could hardly escape. The wall prevented him from backing away.

  Not that Dusty meant to try escaping in that manner. Instead he heaved upwards with his hands, throwing the table over. His aim could hardly have been better if he had practised the move for days. Shooting off the inclined surface, the plate of stew distributed its hot contents over the front of Slasser’s tunic. Nor did the damage end there. In falling, the edge of the table cracked against the shin-bone of the sergeant’s forward leg. Going by the screech Slasser let out, the impact caused him considerable pain.

  Having dealt with Slasser in a most satisfactory manner Dusty came to his feet. For his plan to succeed, he had to make what seemed a determined attempt to escape, but without antagonizing Corporal Pope. So he contented himself with evading the other’s hands and resisted the temptation to deliver a karate attack. Ducking by Pope, Dusty ran towards the door. Bounding forward, Hacker thrust out his right leg to trip and bring the small Texan sprawling to the floor.

  ‘Fix the bastard good, Pope!’ Slasser bellowed, hopping on his sound leg and massaging the injured shin. ‘Tromp him into the ground!’

  Elbowing Hacker aside, Pope held down an inclination to carry out his sergeant’s instructions. All around the room, feet shuffled, chairs scraped and men stood up hurriedly to obtain a better view of what was happening. Refraining from driving his boot into Dusty’s body, Pope bent to grip the collar of his borrowed jacket and jerked him erect. Seeing the burly guard raise the small youngster and slam him against the wall, an angry, menacing growl rose from the on-lookers. Only a few of the closest soldiers knew what had started the fuss, but their attitude mirrored that of the remainder. Maybe they had little sympathy with deserters, but they actively hated and despised the stockade guards.

  Knowing how the enlisted men felt, Pope decided to do no more than haul his captive upright. Pope might be as hard, tough and unimaginative a roughneck as ever guarded military prisoners, but he possessed sufficient sense to see the danger. If he should start to work the small ‘deserter’ over with feet or fists, the crowd would intervene. There were men present only seeking the opportunity to tangle with members of the stockade guard yet they formed the least serious threat to his way of thinking. Others would be just as eager to witness an incident that could be reported to those ‘liberal’ Congressmen who took an interest in and gave protection to the ‘under-dog’. Under the prevailing conditions, Pope had no desire to antagonize the latter group of his audience.

  Mouthing obscenities, Slasser prepared to fly in the face of popular opinion. Hot stew soaked and clung to his tunic, while pain throbbed through his shin. Added to that was the knowledge that almost every man in the room revelled at the sight of his injury and humiliation. It all served to rouse his never too amiable temper to a furious pitch.

  For the first time, Dusty wondered if the plan was going wrong. Seeing the big sergeant looming at him, he hoped that nothing had happened to keep Wexler from carrying out the part assigned to him. Crouching against the wall with an attitude of numb terror, Dusty prepared to launch a devastating karate attack to protect himself. To do so would ruin the rescue bid and endanger his own safety.

  Even as Dusty tensed to drive up his foot, he saw the front door open. So did Slasser, and recognized the two men who entered. With a feeling of baffled frustration, the sergeant scowled at the newcomers and revised his intention of teaching the ‘deserter’ an immediate and painful lesson. Neither Trumpeter’s aide, 1st Lieutenant Frost, nor that mealy-mouthed soft-shell undertaker would stand by and watch while he battered the small son-of-a-bitch to a pulp.

  If Frost had been alone, he would have ignored the disturbance he heard while passing the Birdcage Cafe. The place was a hangout for enlisted men and going in without an escort to quell the trouble could be dangerous. Unfortunately he had just met Wexler and the undertaker insisted that they should investigate. Knowing that Wexler possessed some influence, even in military circles, Frost dare not refuse. Reluctantly he opened the door and stepped inside.

  When Frost saw the men responsible for the noise, he realized the advantages of intervening. Firstly, another soft-shell stood at his side. Knowing how he would act in similar circumstances, he believed that Wexler would enjoy making an adverse report to General Trumpeter if he failed to protect the small victims Secondly, he had the typical liberal-intellectual’s hatred of those whom he regarded as the tools and implements of authority. While willing to make use of the stockade guards for his own ends, he despised them at other times. Third and most important, to prevent Slasser from attacking the terrified youngster would raise Frost in the esteem of the watching enlisted men. One never knew, during some future election men in the crowd might remember the incident and be persuaded to vote for him.

  So Frost fixed Slasser with a cold glare, wanting to remind the other that a lieutenant was backed by the disciplinary powers of The Manual Of Field Regulations, and barked, What’s all this?’

  ‘We’ve been told this bastard’s a deserter,’ Slasser answered, coming to a surly, grudging brace. ‘Was going to ask him about it when he jumped us and tried to escape.’

  ‘Did good at it, too!’ called a voice from the crowd.

  ‘Are you a deserter?’ Frost asked Dusty as Slasser swung around furiously in an attempt to recognize the speaker.

  Knowing that the small Texan’s voice might spoil the deception, Hacker was prepared to give confirmation. The need did not arise. Wanting to prove that they had not acted hastily, Pope stepped forward and threw up a smarter-than-usual salute.

  ‘Sure he is, lieutenant, sir,’ the corporal declared and pointed to the floor. ‘Look at them boots. They’re U.S. cavalry issue.’

  A point with which Dusty could not have truly argued, considering they had been looted from a Yankee convoy. While he had borrowed the civilian clothing from a store of such things kept by Wexler, he had retained the boots as offering proof of Hacker’s accusation.

  ‘They’re cavalry boots, no doubt about that,’ Frost admitted. ‘Who told you that he’s a deserter?’

  ‘Hacker there,’ Slasser muttered.

  ‘Now that ain’t entirely right, sergeant,’ the gaunt man objected, then faced Frost and bobbed his head in a respectful manner the officer found most gratifying. ‘I only said he looked like a feller I knowed in the 7th Cavalry, sir. My boss’d know for certain sure, but he’s out of town for a couple of days.’

  Dusty made a feeble escape to free himself from Pope’s hand, taking care not to be too violent or to hurt the other, and quitting when he was banged back against the wall. Looking what he hoped was sullenly and guiltily at Frost, Dusty tried to will the other into reaching the correct decision.

  ‘Have you ever seen this youngster around Little Rock, Mr. Wexler?’ Frost inquired.<
br />
  ‘Well, I can’t be sure,’ Wexler dithered. ‘But I don’t recall ever seeing him. And, even if he is a local boy, where did he those boots from?’

  ‘There’s that,’ Frost admitted and looked at Dusty. ‘What have you to say?’

  ‘Nothing!’ Dusty mumbled, trying to avoid sounding like Texan. ‘Lemme go.’

  ‘Not without a better account of yourself than that!’ Frost snapped. ‘Take him to the cells and hold him, sergeant. We’ll see how a night there loosens his tongue.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Slasser replied, with more enthusiasm than he had shown since Frost entered the cafe.

  Catching hold of Dusty’s right arm, Slasser held it firmly while Pope fanned his hands over his person in search of weapons. Finding none, he gripped Dusty by the other arm. Holding him between them, the guards led him to the door.

  ‘I hope that nothing will happen to the young man, Mr. Frost,’ Wexler remarked in a carrying voice. ‘There are so many stories about how prisoners are treated in the stockades.’

  ‘Not in our stockade!’ Frost protested. ‘He won’t be harmed as long as he behaves himself.’

  Letting out a low grunt that might have meant anything, Slasser opened the door and they hustled Dusty through it. On the sidewalk, the sergeant slipped his baton free and hefted it almost lovingly. His leg still stung sufficiently to act as a reminder of his grievance. Baring his teeth in a mirthless grimace, he glared viciously at Dusty.

  ‘All right, you short-growed son-of-a-bitch,’ the sergeant snarled. ‘Now I’m going to beat the—’

  More cautious than his companion, Pope kept his eyes on the building they had just quit. As he had expected, he saw Frost and Wexler watching them through a window. While he did not particularly care what happened to Slasser, he figured that he might be held jointly responsible should the other make an unprovoked attack upon their prisoner.

  ‘Not here, damn it!’ Pope warned. ‘They’re watching you. That stinking son-of-a-bitch Frost’d break us both if you laid a hand on him.’