Dusty Fog's Civil War 9

by J. T. Edson

  At Christie’s side, the sergeant-major watched the rebels also, but felt very disturbed at what he saw. Unlike his officer, the non-com had seen action and knew a thing or two. So he wondered why such a troop as the one facing them would make a damned fool mistake like spoiling what would have been a first-class surprise attack by premature yelling and shooting. Although about half the size of the Yankee escort, that many men would still need to know their business to penetrate so far into Union territory undetected. Such skill did not mix with blundering incompetence or reluctance to fight, both of which the rebels had apparently shown.

  Even as the sergeant-major opened his mouth to mention his fears to Christie, he heard the crack of a rifle shot from the right side of the slope almost level with his escort. A croaking gasp came from behind the sergeant-major and he twisted around to see one of the horse-holders collapse, bullet in head and hand opening to release the reins it held.

  More shots crackled from the trees and the non-com estimated that at least five rifles covered them. A small force, until he realized what the riflemen’s position and purpose meant. The shooting of the horse-holder had been no accident. Another two of the men holding the horses took lead, releasing their charges. More bullets screamed down, the loose horses began to mill and scatter, making their riders forget fighting and try to catch them.

  Seeing the danger, the sergeant-major yelled orders for a party of men to make an attack on the attackers among the trees. As he started to move forward to give direction to the counter measures, a bullet caught him in the chest, spun him around and dropped him to the ground. Another horse-holder screamed an instant later, fell and allowed a further six animals to add to the confusion.

  Up among the trees, Kiowa swung his rifle down after dropping the sergeant-major. The lean scout and his four-man detail—selected as being the best rifle-shots in the company and armed with Sharps, Henry or Spencer long guns “borrowed” from the Yankees—worked with deadly precision, following Dusty’s orders.

  On their arrival at the Funnel that morning, Dusty’s men had been put into their positions and given a final run-through of their orders. On examining the area in which he would operate, Kiowa added a touch of his own to his leader’s plans. After dropping the sergeant-major, Kiowa prepared to put his own touch into action.

  Near where Kiowa knelt in the shelter and concealment of a slippery elm, a couple of springy young saplings had been bent over, their upper foliage stripped away and the tops secured by ropes. Balanced upon forks at the upper end of each sapling rested a Katchum four-pounder hand grenade, its percussion-cap fuse ready in place. Kiowa threw a glance at the saplings, rested his Henry against the elm and yelled:

  “Now!”

  Drawing his sheathed Bowie knife, Kiowa sprang to the nearer sapling and one of his men leapt to the other. Razor-sharp steel sliced through the retaining ropes. While the spring of the saplings’ rise to an upright position did not have the force to hurl the grenades the hundred yards or so which separated the rebels from the Trace, it flung the missile far farther than any human hand could. Downwards curved first one, then the other grenade. The firing mechanism, a tube of soft metal with a flange at its outer end and a percussion cap at the other, drove into the ground. A dull roar shattered the air, drowning any other sound for a moment, then a second explosion heralded the arrival of the other grenade.

  Already spooked by the shooting and noise around them and disturbed by seeing others of their kind milling about, the horses still held by the remaining men assigned to that duty began to fight to escape. At that moment the sense of the Army’s methods showed. One man could just about handle four horses during the heat of action; he had no chance of restraining six battle-scared animals, especially when under fire directed at him.

  Struck by a careering horse, two men staggered and dropped their carbines. Other men forgot their duties as they tried to grab at passing animals. Complete chaos, of a kind only a real efficient leader could halt, reigned among the Dragoons, and Christie found his theories of how to handle men completely inadequate faced with the grim realities of war. The remaining horse-holders, realizing that their fellow workers had not been shot by accident, discarded their duty and turned free the struggling, terrified horses.

  At which moment, following on the heels of the grenades’ explosion, Red Blaze gave the order to his party to attack. Cutting through the wild, rebel yells, came the music of the bugle sounding the charge. Like puppets when the handler works the strings, every Texan’s horse sprang forward in a disciplined rush at the disorganized Dragoons. And this time the Texans came on, determined to force home their charge. Reins looped around saddle horns, leaving the riders’ hands free to handle weapons, guiding their horses by knee-pressure, the Texans came down shooting and adding to the confusion already rampant among their enemies.

  Even then a good commander might have rallied his men and saved the situation, for the Dragoons still outnumbered the Texans by almost two to one. Christie never even gave the matter a thought as panic gripped him. All his superiority over the common herd left him; his bombast about the damned cowardly rebel scum forgotten as he watched the wave of gray-clad riders pouring down towards him. Thrusting away his revolver, he sprang for and managed to catch the reins of a passing horse. Once in the saddle, he deserted his men and knocked down a corporal who was trying to rally a defense against the Texans’ charge.

  While Red Blaze might be a reckless young cuss with a penchant for becoming involved in any fight he might witness, he possessed one prime virtue which few people, himself included, knew about. Dusty knew it and was aware that given a responsible task Red became the coolest, steadiest hand a man could ask for. So even in the heady excitement of the charge, Red did not forget Dusty’s orders.

  “Stop that officer escaping, Bucky!” he yelled.

  “Yo!” whooped a corporal at the end of the line and swung his horse away so that it charged up the slope at an angle which brought it towards the fleeing Christie.

  Shock and terror came to Christie’s face as he saw the Texan boiling up the slope towards him. Then the courage of a cornered rat sent Christie’s hand to his holstered Colt. Twice the Texan’s revolver spat, but the lead missed and Christie brought up his weapon. The courses of the two horses converged rapidly and Christie fired wildly, to make the fatal mistake of missing. Again the Texan squeezed his Army Colt’s trigger, and at a range from which he stood little or no chance of missing. Searing agony ripped into Christie as he felt the shocking impact of striking lead. The gun fell from his hand and he slid from his horse to crash to the ground. On raced Christie’s mount, heading up the slope at a gallop, but the Texan let it go. Having done his part in halting the officer’s escape, the Texan swung his mount and rejoined his command.

  A condition of wild confusion reigned among the Dragoons as they made an attempt to fight back against the onrushing rebels. Men yelled, tried to use their guns, but were hampered by others of^ their party trying to capture mounts, or by the horses scattering through their ranks in wild stampede.

  Demoralized by the loss of any guiding force—Red’s men knew their business and cut down any Yankee who showed signs of organizing a defense against them—the Dragoons needed only the sight of Christie deserting them to save his own neck to make them decide that they had had enough of war. Unfortunately escaping did not prove easy for the Yankees as Kiowa’s party had performed their assigned duty very well. So well that not a single horse-holder still retained a grip of any of his comrades’ mounts, although a few did keep a grip of their own animals. Not that the possession would do any good for them. Following Dusty’s orders and Red’s reminders, the Texans cut down any man who tried to escape.

  “Don’t shoot!” yelled one of the Dragoons, throwing aside his unfired Springfield carbine. “I quit!”

  Such action in a command as badly shaken as Christie’s company was certain to prove infectious. Guns rained to the ground and arms shot into the air in s
urrender. A few of the harder souls, long-term soldiers who saw battle in Indian campaigns, might have fought it out, but most of them had already taken lead and the remainder recognized the futility of continuing the uneven struggle.

  “Hold your fire!” Red’s voice boomed out like a clarion call.

  Bringing his men to a halt, Red wasted no time in self-congratulation at a very well handled piece of work. Yet he might have taken pride in his achievement, for he brought about the capture of an enemy force almost twice as large as his command, inflicting heavy casualties on the Yankees, without the loss or wounding of a single Texan. True the plan had been out of Dusty’s fertile brain, but carrying it to its successful conclusion fell upon Red.

  With the wild, heady excitement of the charge still throbbing through him, Red still retained enough command of himself to know what must be done. While the Yankees had shown every sign of surrender, giving them time to regain their senses or recover from their shock might have disastrous results. Even now Red’s command was outnumbered by the enemy and up close could be badly mauled if some leader managed to rally the dispirited Yankees.

  “Line them up, disarm them!” Red ordered.

  Moving swiftly, yet with skilled precision that told of long practice, the Texans formed up the Dragoons in small parties and separated them from their weapons. Although the Springfield carbines were smashed beyond repair by beating against the ground, the Army Colts suffered no damage. To a rebel no piece of enemy property had so much attraction as those latest products from the Hartford factory of Colonel Samuel Colt and, while unwilling to weigh their mounts down with single-shot Springfield carbines, the Texans willingly added the burden of the Dragoon’s revolvers.

  While the disarming took place, Red recalled another section of the company.

  “Kiowa!” he yelled.

  “Yo!” came back the answer from the trees.

  “You can come out now, we’ve done got them all hawg-tied down.”

  “That Red sure is a fighting son,” grinned one of Kiowa’s party as they went to collect their horses.

  “He sure is,” agreed another and threw a look at the captured Dragoons. “Man oh man, Cap’n Dusty’s plan worked out real well.”

  “Now me,” put in Kiowa dryly. “I’d’ve been more surprised if it hadn't.”

  Five – Captain Fog Acquires Wealth

  From the front, the small knot of bushes looked natural enough, although the only growth of its kind anywhere nearer than a hundred yards from the trail at the western mouth of the Funnel. In fact until less than an hour before even that clump of bushes did not grow so close to the trail, having been cut higher up the left slope of the valley and replaced in the position Dusty Fog selected as best for his purpose. Lying behind the bushes, hidden from sight of anyone on the trail, Dusty watched the mouth of the Funnel for the first sight of the paymaster’s carriage. Already he could hear shots in the distance and knew the first part of his plan had begun. Everything now depended on how well Belle Boyd had been able to learn about the character of the man commanding the paymaster’s escort; and also on whether Dusty called the play right about how the Yankee commander would react to Red’s attack.

  Would the Yankee play into Dusty’s hands by making a fight on foot across the eastern mouth of the Funnel, allowing the paymaster’s carriage to build up a good start on any pursuit by the Texans? If the Yankee halted, might he not keep the carriage close at hand? If he sent it, how many men were likely to be in its escort?

  On the answer to those questions hinged the success or failure of Dusty’s strategy. Probably even more so than it rested upon his ability to hit a one-inch round mark at fifty yards with a borrowed Spencer carbine. Should the first part of his plans fail for any reason, Dusty would have no need to demonstrate his skill with a shoulder arm by hitting the detonator flange of the six-pounder Ketchum grenade facing him on the far side of the trail.

  Every instinct Dusty possessed told him that the Yankee commander would act in the required manner. Even the crack U.S. Army outfits like Custer’s 7th Michigan Cavalry only rarely fought in the saddle. By virtue of their training and traditions, the Dragoons always fought dismounted. Once the Yankees left their horses, Dusty knew he could rely on Red and Kiowa to handle their parts of the plan. Which left only Dusty and Belle to perform their assigned tasks for the affair to be brought to a successful conclusion.

  For a moment Dusty wondered if he had done the correct thing in allowing Belle to take such an active part in what would be a dangerous business. Then he grinned as he decided that he had been given little or no choice in the matter. Taken all in all, that beautiful girl spy had a mighty persuasive way about her. More than that, his men admired her and regarded her as being lucky for them. During the long ride north to the Crossland Trace they had seen no sign of Yankees, even though the route they took led them within two miles of the Dragoons’ camp at Russelville. Even the crossing of the Coon Fork of the Arkansas gave them no trouble due to Kiowa finding a shallows with a firm gravel bottom that offered good footing for the horses. Belle had proved herself capable and as good as any of the men at handling her horse, a thing which raised her even higher in the estimation of the Texans. So Dusty found that the men in the party he told Belle to join not only accepted her presence but appeared to let her take command in the place of a non-com.

  Including Belle in one party had been caused by necessity. Three men guarded the two Yankee prisoners and the company’s reserve horses some distance away in a valley bottom. Taking them away from the company as well as Kiowa’s detail and the ten men Dusty required did not leave Red with many guns for his part of the plan. However, it had been amusing to see those five leathery soldiers, bone-tough fighting men all, show pleasure at having Belle with them and accepting her as their leader—or did they? One of the prime qualities of any fighting man was the ability to recognize a leader; and the Texans saw those qualities in Belle just as they recognized leadership in Dusty or Red.

  Anyway, Dusty mused, it was long gone too late for him to think of changing his force around and sending the girl to the safety of the prisoner-guarding detail.

  As if giving definite proof that it was indeed too late for a change, Dusty heard the growing rumble of hooves and steel-rimmed wheels upon confined hard rock. He still could not see the paymaster’s carriage, nor, due to the deflection and distortion caused by the Funnel’s walls form any kind of guess how many horses approached. Not that Dusty wasted time in idle conjecture.

  On hearing the sound, Dusty eased forward the Spencer carbine and rested its barrel upon the crown of his hat which lay ready for that purpose upon a rock before him. So carefully had he selected his position and arranged the cover that, although he could take a good aim at the trail, no part of himself or the carbine showed beyond the bushes. Closing his left eye, Dusty took careful aim at the triangle of light-colored rocks which showed plainly at the far side of the trail. Slowly he moved down the tip of the foresight so that centered on the black circle of the Ketchum’s detonator flange in the middle of the triangle. While the Spencer could not be classed with the latest model Sharps rifle in the accuracy line, Dusty figured that its twenty-inch barrel ought to send a four-hundred-grain .56 caliber bullet right where aimed at fifty yards, even if the propellant power be only fifty grains of powder.

  A quick glance showed Dusty that the carriage had burst into sight at the mouth of the Funnel. On its box the driver swung his whip and yelled encouraging curses at the four-horse team while a second soldier, riding as guard, lent a hand by pitching rocks at the team and added his quota of verbal inducement. Close behind the rocking, lurching coach came the escort: a sergeant and twelve men. Big odds against Dusty’s party happen he failed to make good his shot at the Ketchum’s detonator flange.

  From the way it continued to race along, the carriage and escort did not intend to halt and await word of how the main body fared. That figured, knowing the consignment the Yankee general carried in
the carriage. He would want to build up as good a lead as possible in case the Texans broke through the rearguard defense of the main body. Well, maybe he would not want to desert his companions, but clearly intended to do his duty by keeping moving.

  Dusty settled down, cuddling the stock of the Spencer against his shoulder and laying the carbine, setting the tip of the foresight’s blade exactly in the center of the back sight’s V notch and aligning them carefully on the black dot at which he aimed. For a moment the team horses and carriage hid his mark from sight and the dust churned up by hooves and wheels masked it. Holding his fire, Dusty did not panic even though he knew what depended on his making a hit. The escort did not ride right up to the carriage, but stayed far enough back to keep an uninterrupted view of the trail and valley ahead. Brief though the gap might be, it gave Dusty just enough time. The dust cleared and he saw his mark, finding as he hoped that his aim still held on it. Without fluster he squeezed the trigger. The Spencer barked, belched flame and sent its bullet hurtling out.

  An instant later, with a dull roar and burst of flame, scattering fragments of metal casing and surrounding rocks in a deadly fountain, the Ketchum exploded. Dusty’s bullet must have almost touched the sergeant’s horse in passing, for the animal caught the full force of the explosion, both it and its rider going down in a hideously torn mass of lacerated flesh and spurting blood. The blast swept the nearer two men of the leading file from their horses, tumbled the third out of his saddle and threw the remainder of the escort into confusion. Reining in desperately, trying to regain control of their plunging, terrified horses, the second file ploughed into the first, horses going down. One of the final file crashed into the jumble, a second pitched over his horse’s head as it came to a sudden halt.

  “Yeeah!”