The Fastest Gun in Texas (A Dusty Fog Civil War Book 5)

by J. T. Edson

  ‘He’ll be ready for you in a few minutes, Dusty,’ Hondo replied.

  ‘I’ve told Red to be ready to escort Mr. Dailey in the morning. For all of that he’ll have some fast moving to do. The court convenes on Monday and today’s Wednesday. It doesn’t give much time at all.’

  For all of that Dusty was sure there would be some fast moving done when his letter reached official Union hands. The regular army men would be only too willing to help one of their kind clear his name and Dusty’s letter gave a hope of doing just that. So his letter would be moved through the usually slow channels at a good speed. Colonel Cogshill was one who would see to that and there were others higher up who would be just as eager to unblock slow moving channels. The letter would most probably be sent by fast riding courier to the Commanding General and acted upon.

  Proof of Dusty’s guesswork came on Saturday, when a courtier came from the fighting line, having been sent back with the letter which was brought under flag of truce from the Union side that morning. Dusty came on the run from where he’d been taking his troop at saber practice.

  In Hardin’s office Dusty found the General and his father waiting for him. Hardin held out a letter.

  ‘Here, boy. This just come in. They’re granting you and your party unrestricted passage. You’re to meet Major Hamley, Third Cavalry, at Quail Ridge and he’ll be your escort.’

  ‘There’s more than just that to it, isn’t there, sir?’ asked Dusty, for he could read as much in Ole Devil’s tones.

  ‘Not much. Just that the letter was signed jointly by Grant, Sherman, Phil Sheridan—and Abe Lincoln.’

  Dusty took the letter, his face showing some of the surprise he felt. Here was patronage on a grand scale. He’d expected Sherman, as Commanding General, to take an interest, possibly Sheridan and Grant as regular soldiers, to show some interest in the matter. But Lincoln was the President of the United States and no soldier. It was hard to understand his motive, unless he was as fair minded, honest and justice loving as the Yankees tried to claim he was.

  Whatever the reason the proof was in Dusty’s hand, in the letter signed by the top four men of the Union. Another paragraph caught Dusty’s eye, a further guarantee of his safety.

  ‘Colonel Sir Charles Houghton-Rand and Colonel Baron Ulrich von Dettmer, Military Observers of Great Britain and Germany, will be on hand all the time, having both read and received copies of this letter.’

  ‘Which same means I’ll likely be sent back on the hoof,’ remarked Dusty.

  There could be no plot to capture Dusty about this business now, no treacherous moves afoot. Not when such a letter was signed by the President himself and with two foreign Military Observers on hand.

  ‘Looks that way,’ agreed Ole Devil. ‘You still aim to go through with it?’

  ‘I couldn’t do otherwise now, sir,’ replied Dusty. ‘I’ll warn Billy Jack to be ready to pull out at one o’clock. We’ll move up to Quail Ridge and spend the night with the forward troops, then cross over tomorrow morning. Should be back here by Wednesday at the latest.’

  ‘I hope you are, boy. Watch Buller all the same. He’s not going to take kindly to your arriving and spoiling his plans.’

  ‘That’s right, boy,’ agreed Hondo Fog. ‘He’ll likely try to do something about it. Watch him.’

  ‘I’ll do just that,’ promised Dusty and turned to leave.

  ~*~

  At one o’clock Dusty swung a’fork his big black horse and watched Billy Jack approaching with the old soldier who was Dusty’s striker. The men were riding their horses and the soldier, Unwin, led a pony with Dusty’s box aboard.

  Red Blaze came to his cousin’s side, worry plain on his face. ‘If you’re not back by Wednesday I’ll bring the troop and get you out.’

  ‘You won’t!’ Dusty snapped, knowing Red was quite likely to try and do just what he said. ‘That’s an order, Mr. Blaze. Do I have to give it you in writing?’

  Stiffening to a brace Red replied. ‘No, sir.’ He felt no annoyance at Dusty’s words, only worry that his cousin should be risking going into the hands of the Union Army. ‘It’s just that I—’

  ‘You’re worse than an old hen, Red,’ replied Dusty, holding out his hand. ‘Don’t you worry none, they’ll play fair with me.’

  ‘I sure wish I’d your confidence,’ Red growled. ‘What do you want me to do while you’re gone?’

  ‘Keep up the troop training that I’ve laid down in my orders. And don’t cut out any of the drill training. It won’t do the troop any harm—or you.’

  Red managed a weak grin at this jibe on his dislike and avoidance of drill and parade ground soldiering. He watched Dusty riding through the farm gates with a feeling of foreboding and a strong lacing of pride. There were not many men who would take such a risk to help an enemy. Along with Turner Ashby and John Singleton Mosby, Dusty was high on the Union Army’s list of most wanted Southern officers. His unorthodox tactics made him one of the men the Union Army talked about and some of them might look on it as a god-sent opportunity, having him dropped into their hands that way. Red was full of misgivings as he turned to make for the Mess. One thing he knew for sure. If Dusty did not come back by Thursday at the latest Red aimed to take the troop, orders to the contrary or not, and make a try at prying Dusty free.

  There were no snags met by Dusty on his way to Quail Ridge. It was for the most part open country and in Southern hands. The Union Army might have many advantages over the South in arms and equipment, but they never saw the day when their cavalry could equal the South’s for sheer raiding daring. So Dusty found no trouble in reaching the forward area and stayed the night as arranged with a Confederate Infantry regiment. He did not know any of the officers, although he was known to all of them. What surprised him was that his mission was known, a thing he was not too happy about, even though he knew such an unusual incident would be talked about from one end of the army to the other. The Colonel of the Infantry Regiment clearly thought Dusty should not be taking such a risk, but did not say so.

  The following morning the camp was disturbed by a bugle blowing. Men turned out and took up their defensive positions as a Union Army major rode towards them, followed by a bugler blowing loud calls and a soldier carrying a large white flag. This was the accepted way of requesting a truce, bugle blowing to show no surprise was intended and white flag to advertise the pacific intentions of the party.

  Dusty felt just a little uneasy as he shook hands with his host, then mounted and rode out, followed by Billy Jack and Unwin, to meet the Union Army party. The two groups came to a halt about fifty yards from the Confederate lines, Dusty, being the junior officer, saluted first.

  ‘Captain Fog, Troop C. Texas Light Cavalry, with party as arranged, sir.’

  ‘Major Hamley, Third Cavalry,’ replied the Union officer, saluting in return to Dusty’s compliment. He appeared to doubt his eyes, wondering if this small young man could possibly be the famous Dusty Fog. ‘If you’ll accompany me, Captain.’

  Dusty rode forward with Hamley, his two men following behind him. Unwin did not appear bothered, but he was a long-serving old-timer and used to taking whatever fate offered him. Billy Jack was for once feeling as worried as he always looked. He did not know of the letter, of the guarantees made for their safe return and it said much for his faith in Dusty that Billy Jack was going along with his Captain, into the hands of the enemy.

  They rode side by side across the open land which separated the two warring armies, the big Union major and the small Confederate captain. The blue clad Union troops looked on without emotion as the party passed through their lines. The enlisted men gave no sign of hostility towards their enemies and such officers as they passed showed a half-hidden approval, giving Dusty their unspoken blessing in what was to come. In the short time he’d been associated with the Union Army General Buller had established something of a reputation as a bully, an uncouth brute and made few if any friends. So Dusty was given the unspoken support of
many of the Union men, in that he was going against General Buller.

  The party rode on, following a straighter route than the one used by Dusty on his return from the raid which destroyed the Moshogen Bridge. This time they used the Corn Road and made good time along it. At the Moshogen River Dusty found that the bridge was not rebuilt, although the Union Army was working hard on it. A small ferry was being used to transport horsemen or foot soldiers across but there was no way that large quantities of heavy traffic could cross at this point. There was a company of Infantry camped on either side of the river now and a troop of cavalry near at hand, a strong guard for one place.

  Hamley saw where Dusty was looking and laughed. ‘That’s a famous example of the art of locking the door after the horse is stolen. Don’t worry, Captain, you won’t be catching us out like that again. When the bridge’s rebuilt there’ll be a strong guard permanently on it. Regular soldiers, too.’

  Dusty grinned, looking younger and more boyish than ever. ‘Looks like there is right now.’

  It was something of a tribute to himself and his troop that their effort was treated in such a manner. There was more than just the destruction of the bridge to be counted here. That in itself was a shrewd, hard and damaging blow, but there was more. Two companies of Infantry and a troop of cavalry were tied down on a boring guard duty, held away from the battlefield. More than ever Dusty could see the value of his kind of tactics against an enemy army. Light Cavalry, striking overland, travelling fast and hitting where they were least expected could make hard and damaging blows out of all proportion to the size of the command.

  Crossing the Moshogen River on the ferry the party resumed its journey along the Corn Road. Hamley watched Dusty and wondered how one so young could handle himself with such perfect self-control. They talked as they rode, idle talk of small and unimportant things. Hamley made no attempts to pump Dusty for information and in return Dusty studiously avoided using his time to study the Union Army’s set-up on the northern side of the river. He ignored the various military details they passed for he was a Southern gentleman and on his honor here. He would not abuse the privilege given to him and it said much for the code of the Southern men that Hamley accepted Dusty’s word and did not insist on either steering him along a route where he could see nothing, or blindfolding him and his party.

  Behind Dusty, Billy Jack and Unwin rode easily, talking with the two union soldiers, their talk less formal and more boisterous. Neither of the men thought to look around them and Billy Jack was a scout of note. He’d got his orders from Dusty and a man didn’t disobey Captain Fog’s orders. Not twice, anyway.

  Moshogen Town lay in a fold of land about a mile from the bridge. It was a small, sedate, sleepy town where, before the War, little if anything ever happened to change the even temper of the people. War, and their proximity to the Moshogen Bridge, brought life, bustle and some prosperity to the small town, even though it twice changed hands bloodlessly. The Union Army now held it, the Third Cavalry being in residence at the moment, however, there was always the chance the Confederate forces might return, drive out the Yankees and take control once more.

  A Confederate Army officer and two men, riding fully armed and with a small Union Army party caused some slight stir as they went along Moshogen’s main street to the big house taken over by the Third Cavalry for officers’ quarters. The citizens were interested, but only slightly, and there were no demonstrations for or against Dusty’s party. The town lay on the Mason-Dixon line and the citizens learned early not to show any great sympathy for either side of the conflict. A man could never say for sure which side would be in command of the town next. The fortunes of war might see the Stars and Stripes of the Union hauled down and the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy flying in their place. So the citizens of the town, those who remained, not joining one or the other armies, adopted a passive attitude and gave their support to whichever side was in control at the moment.

  Hamley led Dusty and his men around to the rear of the big old house the Third Cavalry used as their headquarters. The house was one of the big, old colonial style buildings, much like the one the Texas Light Cavalry were using to the South. The Horse lines of the regiment were in the big orchard behind the building and Hamley led the party to them.

  ‘If you’ll tell your men to leave their mounts here, Captain.’ he said as he dismounted. ‘I’ve arranged for your horse to have a stall in the stables.’

  Dusty nodded in agreement, his attention taken by a big, burly man who was standing watching them. The man wore the uniform of a lieutenant of the Union army, his face was hard and brutal and there was a calculating glint in his eyes as he watched them dismount. Then he started forward, his hand loosening the top of his holster as he walked towards Dusty. ‘You’re the lousy reb who killed Major Buller, aren’t you?’

  Hamley swung around, annoyance plain on his face as he looked at the big man. His voice was hard as he barked, ‘That’s enough from you, Mr. Packard.’

  Packard looked as if he had been drinking. There was a mean, slit-eyed look about his eyes and a lurching in his step which gave more than casual proof to the assumption. He looked at Dusty, never even glancing at Hamley.

  ‘Yeah?’ he snarled. ‘I ain’t forgetting he killed the Major.’

  Dusty frowned. If Packard had been one of his lieutenants Dusty would have acted with some speed and taught him a lesson he’d never forget. Dusty was a strict disciplinarian and would never stand for an officer under him being drunk and acting like this one, in front of enlisted men.

  Then Dusty’s eyes narrowed and he tensed slightly. The man might look as if he was drunk, but some instinct warned Dusty he was not. The man was acting drunk, he might have had a couple of whiskies to make his breath smell, but that was all, he was sober and knew what he was doing. Dusty could rely on his judgment and instinct in a manner of this nature, he could also rely on his memory. The name Packard meant something to him. It was the name of Buller’s sergeant major, the one who was promoted for his part in the battle at the Moshogen Bridge.

  ‘You’ve got things all wrong, mister,’ replied Dusty, holding his voice even and watching the other man. ‘I didn’t kill any of your men. I wounded Mr. Cogshill but any of the killing was done by my troop. It was all over before I reached the top of the slope.’

  ‘Is that right?’ sneered Packard, moving closer, still looking as if he was carrying a full load of brave-maker.

  Then his fist shot out, straight at Dusty’s head. It was a beautiful punch, thrown with all Packard’s weight and power behind it, driven by a heavy body and a mighty muscled arm throwing the knotted fist. It was the sort of blow Packard used to fell any worker who complained at the long hours or working conditions in Buller’s factory, the sort of blow which ended a fight before it got started. Straight for Dusty’s head the fist flew, it was sent hard enough to knock him unconscious for a long time—had it landed.

  Dusty moved faster than Hamley or Packard ever saw a man move. He sidestepped, catching Packard’s wrist and heaving. The result was highly spectacular. Packard was off-balance, his weight thrown forward and expecting to smash the fist into Dusty’s face. Instead he went flying forward, hurled by his own body weight and the pull. The big man was no mean hand in a fight but he was given no chance to show his talent. He struck at what he thought was an unprepared man and found he’d a tiger by the tail. He staggered forward and lost his balance, crashed down hard and rolled to his knees. His hand went to the holster and almost reached the ornate butt of the Navy Colt.

  ‘Hold it right there!’

  Dusty’s flat barked warning came as his left hand flipped across his body to bring the bone-handled Colt from his right holster, the hammer was drawn back under his thumb and his finger held back the trigger. It was all done in a flickering half second, faster than Packard could even think.

  Hamley’s angry yelled warning died off half done, but Packard was not even interested, his eyes were on the gun which
was lined on him. Like most people who first saw a frontier trained gun-fighting man in action, he could hardly believe his eyes. He’d no conception of just how fast or deadly such a man could be, even now he was not sure where the gun came from, how it came to be in Dusty’s hand. All Packard knew was he’d got to stop playing with guns against such a man.

  ‘On your feet, Packard!’ Hamley barked, face working angrily at the other man’s actions. ‘Confine yourself to your quarters, mister. I’m sending you back to your regiment under arrest.’

  Packard’s hand left the gun holster and he slapped the flap closed. He knew that in any matter concerning the use of guns he was beaten by this small Texan. It would have to be handled some other way, this plan of his. Slowly he got to his feet and stood mouthing curses, making no move to go to his quarters. Hamley’s face grew even more red at the refusal to obey orders.

  Holstering his gun Dusty turned away. It was not polite for a visiting officer from another Army to watch an internal trouble between two officers of the Army he was visiting, even if the trouble did directly concern him. So Dusty turned to give Billy Jack orders about his conduct during the stay with the Yankee Army. He heard Hamley’s angry shout, the sound of hard feet behind him, then two huge arms locked around him from behind. The arms tightened around his waist, under his own arms, crushing at him with savage and brutal strength. Dusty grunted in pain as Packard put on pressure in an attempt to crush the breath from him and break his ribs. The big man’s face showed his triumph as he put on more pressure, bunching his powerful muscles for the effort and ignoring Hamley’s angry shouts to let go. Billy Jack caught the major’s hand as he began to draw his gun. There was a grin on Billy Jack’s miserable face as he watched the way Dusty’s feet were moving.