by J. T. Edson
With that latter qualification in mind, Governor Howard had contacted Ole Devil Hardin and asked for the help of the man he believed to be most suited to fill his needs; the Rio Hondo gun wizard whose name was Dusty Fog.
People in Texas, never slow to praise their State’s favorite sons, had often claimed that Dusty Fog was the fastest, most accurate gun-handler in the West. It was also said that few men could stand up against him in bare-handed fighting. Those were qualities which he would need to stay alive in Hell, but Howard had known there were others equally important. In the Governor’s opinion, Dusty Fog had them all.
A captain in the Texas Light Cavalry at seventeen, Dusty Fog had built a reputation as a military raider equal to that of John Singleton Mosby or Turner Ashby. Ranging across the less-publicized Arkansas battlefront, Dusty Fog had played havoc with the Yankees. 8 It had been whispered how he had supported Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy, 9 on two of her missions. 10 Less well known was how he had prevented two fanatical Unionists from stirring up an Indian war that would have decimated much of Texas. 11
With the War over, and his uncle crippled in a riding accident, 12 Dusty had become segundo of the great OD Connected ranch. He had earned a name as a top hand with cattle, a trail boss of considerable ability and—although not in Texas—had won acclaim as a capable town-taming peace officer. 13 Small wonder that Stanton Howard had felt confident that Dusty could take on the assignment.
In accordance with a carefully-formulated plan, Dusty the Kid and Waco had gone to Hell. Their pose of being wanted outlaws had been successful. So much so that they had completed their mission and, aided by Giselle Lampart, widow of the mayor and founder of the town, lady outlaw Belle Starr, Emma Nene and some of her saloon’s employees, they had destroyed the Kweharehnuh’s next issue of ammunition and brought away much of the citizens’ ill-gotten gains.
Up to that evening, only Belle Starr had known the trio’s true identity and she had good reasons for not exposing them. However, after three days of hard, fast travelling—at a camp set up close to the Swisher Creek some five miles from its junction with the Red River’s Prairiedog Fork—Dusty had decided that the time had come to let the others of the party know where they stood. They had been under the impression that the money in their wagon was to be divided equally amongst them, instead of being returned to the banks and stagecoach companies from which most of it had come.
‘Well,’ drawled the Kid, nodding towards the gloomy outlines of the trees which surrounded the camp. ‘We’ll right soon know what it’s going to be.’
Following the direction of his Indian-dark companion’s gaze, Waco watched three figures take form and advance into the circle of firelight. Two were women with bodies and—in normal times—faces to catch the eye in any crowd. So far the various bruises gathered in the course of two long, grueling fights with each other had not faded away; but both Belle Starr and Emma Nene still showed sufficient traces of their matching, yet different beauties.
Currently Belle Starr’s hair was dyed black. In three days she had managed to clear up the tangle in which it had been left by Emma’s clutching fingers, as they had fought and provided a diversion while the other members of the party had stolen Mayor Lampart’s loot. She wore a dark blue shirt, black riding-breeches and high-heeled boots. A Manhattan Navy revolver swung in the fast-draw holster on her magnificently shaped right thigh. Her clothing showed off a body with rich, mature and eye-catching curves.
Although a riding habit, open-necked blouse and high-button shoes could not compete with Belle’s attire for drawing male attention, Emma Nene had a figure every bit as voluptuous. She too had tidied up her blonde hair, for she had no desire to be seen at a disadvantage by the man who strolled between them.
Going by her expression, Emma had just received a shock. Waco and the Kid could have guessed at what it had been.
Silence fell at the fire as Emma’s big, burly bartender, Hubert, Giselle Lampart and the six saloon girls stared in interest at the two women; but mainly at their escort. He was the man in whom Governor Stanton Howard had placed so much faith. A giant amongst his fellows as far as achievements were concerned.
From his low crowned, wide brimmed Texas-fashion Stetson to his high-heeled fancy stitched boots, Dusty Fog measured a mere five foot six. He had curly dusty blond hair and a fairly handsome face that was unnoticeable when in repose. Only when he was roused did its full magnetism, strength of will and the hint of intelligence beyond average make itself felt. Like his friends, he had played the part of an outlaw on a spree and purchased good clothes in Hell. He contrived to make them look like somebody’s cast-offs. Nor did the excellent gunbelt and its twin bone-handled Colt Civilian Model Peacemakers in cross-draw holster appear to add anything to his stature.
In times of peace, Dusty Fog could have been overlooked as an insignificant nobody. That very rapidly changed when trouble reared its head.
‘Dusty!’ the Kid said quietly, forgetting for the first time since commencing with the deception to use the small Texan’s assumed name. ‘There’s riders coming!’
Chapter Three – We’ll Shoot You Where You Stand
‘Who are they, Comanche?’ Emma Nene asked, throwing a worried look around.
‘Soldiers, sound of it,’ the Kid replied. ‘Ain’t nobody else makes all that much clatter ’n’ jingling.’
‘How many of them?’ Dusty demanded, for he could only just make out the faint sound of hooves.
‘Four, five maybe,’ estimated the Kid. ‘No more’n that, anyways.’
‘What color hosses’re they on?’ Waco challenged cheerfully.
Having brought their assignment to a successful conclusion, the youngster could see nothing to be concerned about from the presence of the soldiers.
‘Have they seen us?’ Hubert wanted to know, not sharing Waco’s feelings on the subject.
‘I’d say “yes” to that,’ the Kid drawled. ‘Leastwise, they’re headed right slap at us.’
‘What’re we going to do?’ yelped the pretty red-haired girl who had been Waco’s escort in Hell.
‘How’s about you-all taking them on tooth ’n’ claw, Red-gal,’ Waco suggested. ‘You can hold ’em off long enough for the rest of us to get away.’
‘Like hell I will!’ the girl snorted. ‘Only I’d hate to have them find out what’s in the wagon.’
‘And me!’ Hubert agreed. ‘So how do we play it, Ed?’
‘Make out you’re a bunch of saloon-folk headed for work in Colorado,’ Dusty decided. ‘You’d best hide in the wagon, Belle. Matt, Comanch’ and me, we’re cowhands stopping by for the night. Play it that way and everything’ll be fine.’
Even as he finished speaking, Dusty became aware of Emma Nene’s eyes on him. There was more than a hint of suspicion in her scrutiny and he could guess at its cause. Whilst walking with her and Belle, he had disclosed his true identity and made her an offer. In return for their help in Hell, Emma, Belle and Giselle Lampart would each receive fifty thousand dollars. The rest of Emma’s party were to be given ten thousand dollars apiece. That was less than any of them, with the exception of Belle, had anticipated; but it was backed by the small Texan’s assurance that he would not mention their connection with the town. All in all, it was a generous offer.
Up to Dusty’s speech, Emma had apparently been satisfied with the arrangement. Having seen the small Texan and his companions in action at Hell, she had known there was little her party could do other than accept. The three men and Belle Starr could nullify any protest. His words had created doubts. Instead of realizing that the subterfuge was for her and the other Hell’s citizens’ benefit, she had started to wonder if he really was Ed Caxton, wanted for murdering and robbing a U.S. Army paymaster.
There was no time for the small Texan to go into an explanation, even if—which he doubted—the blonde would be inclined to believe it. So he decided to say nothing further to Emma. In the interests of self-preservation, she would be unlikely to betr
ay him.
Nearer came the sound of the hooves, mingled with the creaking of saddle leather and faint jingling of metal accoutrements which civilian travelers did not find necessary. Instinctively the Kid edged to where his Winchester Model 1866 rifle rested on the seat of the saddle he would be using as a pillow. Waco ambled across to stand alongside Dusty. Going to the wagon, Belle Starr swung herself on to its box and disappeared inside. The rest of the party remained around the fire.
‘Hello, the camp!’ bawled a voice. ‘U.S. Cavalry here. Can we come in?’
‘Answer him, Hubert!’ Dusty growled when the bartender looked for guidance. ‘It’s you they’ll expect it from.’
‘C—Come ahead,’ the bartender replied.
Led by a tall, broad-shouldered young 2nd Lieutenant, a sergeant and three troopers rode from amongst the trees. They drew rein by the line of horses picketed on the fringe of the firelight and swung from their saddles. While the enlisted men stood by their mounts, the officer crossed to the fire. As he walked, his eyes darted from side to side and he seemed to be examining his surroundings with some care.
‘My names’s Kitson, 4th Cavalry, ladies, gents,’ the officer introduced. ‘Is it all right if me and my men share your fire?’
‘Feel free,’ Hubert offered, darting another look in Dusty’s direction. ‘Coffee’s on the boil and we’re going to cook up supper.’
‘Thanks,’ Kitson answered, turning a quick glance in the direction the bartender had looked. ‘We didn’t expect to meet anybody out this way.’
‘We’ve come up from Paducah,’ Hubert explained, selecting the only town he knew to be roughly south of their position. ‘Headed to work at the Bon Ton House in Denver.’
‘All of you?’ queried the officer.
‘These three young fellers met up with us around sundown,’ the bartender replied.
‘We’re on our way home from a trail drive, mister,’ Dusty elaborated. ‘The folks were good enough to let us stay on here for the night.’
‘Huh huh!’ Kitson grunted in a matter-of-fact manner, as if three cowhands were beneath his serious notice. ‘I’ll fetch my men along. I want to warn them about their behavior.’
Swinging around, the officer strode away. Dusty watched him go, deciding that under the slightly pompous nature—which was only to be expected in a young 2nd Lieutenant—Kitson was most likely a capable soldier and popular leader. Certainly the enlisted men listened attentively to his low spoken words and showed no resentment, although they all had the appearance of long service.
After Kitson had finished speaking, each of the troopers unclipped his carbine from the leather sling draped diagonally over his left shoulder to the right hip. None of the Texans saw anything suspicious in the move. The carbine sling, a sixty inch long, three inch wide leather strap fitted with a polished steel ring and snap-hook, had become a standard issue to the U.S. Cavalry during the War Between the States. That had been brought about by the tendency of Union commanding officers to make their mounted men fight on foot. A combination of the sling and carbine-ring had ensured that the weapon was always in its user’s possession. However, the Springfield Model of 1870 carbine weighed seven pounds fifteen ounces—no mean burden to have dangling at one’s side. Experienced men would not leave their carbines on the slings in a friendly camp, but would pile them in a neat, easily-separated pyramid close to the fire.
Fanning out in a casual-seeming manner, the soldiers walked towards the civilians. Suddenly, the troopers’ carbines lifted and lined on the Texans. With fair speed, considering the awkward manner in which the United States’ Army insisted that its personnel carried their revolvers, Kitson and his sergeant produced Colt Cavalry Peacemakers from their holsters.
‘Don’t move, or we’ll shoot you where you stand!’ Kitson snapped, thumbing back the Colt’s hammer and lining its muzzle on Dusty’s chest.
‘What—?’ Hubert croaked, starting to rise.
‘Don’t be alarmed, sir,’ Kitson replied, without taking his attention from the small Texan. ‘Your visitors are our concern. They’re Ed and Matt Caxton and the other one’s name is Comanche Blood.’
‘Lands sakes a-mercy!’ Emma gasped, right hand fluttering to her mouth. ‘The men who robbed that paymaster and murdered all his men?’
‘That’s them, ma’am,’ the sergeant confirmed and his revolver lined unerringly at the Kid. ‘Paddy Magoon was a good friend of mine.’
Dusty could have cursed the unexpected turn of events. After leaving Hell, he and his amigos had shaved off the beards grown to lessen the chances of them being recognized. Unfortunately, the recognition had finally come from an entirely different source. That figured. Kitson had the look of a competent, efficient officer. So he would be unlikely to have forgotten the descriptions of the three men accused of robbing an Army paymaster and murdering his whole escort. What was more, he had been smart enough to plan the best way in which to arrest the trio. When the story came out, a number of Yankee officers who had served in Arkansas were going to have red faces. None of them had come anywhere near to capturing Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog.
Apart from the embarrassment which would be caused for various officers, there was another and more immediate point to consider. How could Dusty, the Kid and Waco evade capture without implicating Emma’s party with the town of Hell? Or prevent Belle Starr from being arrested? Dusty had promised that his helpers would go free, without even being connected to the town, and he always believed in keeping his word.
One thing was for certain. Dusty knew that convincing Kitson of the truth would be anything but easy. The very nature of the deception had rendered impossible the carrying of written proof of the trio’s true identity. Angered at the story which had been circulated, the soldiers would be unlikely to accept the mere word of men they believed had cold-bloodedly murdered several of their comrades in arms.
Unless, of course, they had no other choice but to accept.
Attaining that desirable situation would not be easy, if it was to be done without the help of Hubert and the women.
‘Let your gunbelts fall,’ Kitson ordered. ‘Left-handed and real slow.’
‘You’ve got us dead to rights, mister,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Best we do what he says, boys.’
‘We can save a whole heap of fussing if we just shoot ’em now,’ muttered the burly soldier covering Dusty.
‘Shut off that kind of talk, Brill!’ Kitson snapped. ‘I’ll have no more of it from you.’
That removed one worry from Dusty’s mind. No matter what his personal feelings might be, the lieutenant did not intend to carry out any private revenge on his captives. Nor did he mean to let his escort do so. Although the other enlisted men showed their dislike of the trio, none of them appeared to be openly supporting Brill’s point of view.
Studying Brill, with eyes which read his character as if it had been printed on his sullen face, Dusty decided that he would offer the best opportunity to turn the tables on their captors.
Freeing the pigging thongs which held the tips of the holsters to his thighs, Dusty unbuckled and lowered the gunbelt to his feet. All the time, he studied Brill with an infuriatingly mocking sneer. He could see the soldier’s indignation rising. Which was just what the small Texan wanted to happen.
Waco and the Kid followed Dusty’s example, satisfied that he had some plan for their salvation in mind.
‘Back away from the belts,’ Kitson commanded, as he continued to advance with Brill at his side.
‘Could be you’re making a mistake, mister,’ Dusty remarked, standing his ground. ‘We don’t know anything about—’
‘You heard the lieutenant!’ Brill barked, delighted that the short-grown son-of-a-bitch had presented him with an opportunity. Striding ahead of Kitson, he directed the muzzle of his Springfield in a savage thrust towards Dusty’s midsection. ‘Move b—!’
Offered his chance, Dusty took it with devastating speed. In his eagerness to strike, Brill had insert
ed his big frame between the small Texan and the barrel of Kitson’s revolver.
‘Get out—!’ the lieutenant bawled.
Like a flash, Dusty’s right hand cupped under the Springfield’s barrel and jerked it out of alignment. At the same moment, his left hand closed over the carbine’s breech from above. Although Brill had involuntarily squeezed the trigger, the outside hammer was halted by the small Texan’s hand before it could reach the head of the firing pin.
Finding his weapon grasped with surprising strength and turned from its target, Brill’s first inclination was to reverse its direction. Instantly Dusty changed his twisting motion to the way in which the soldier intended it to go. Dusty’s response took Brill by surprise. Pivoting slightly on his left foot, he plucked the carbine from the soldier’s hands. Snapping it back, Dusty propelled the butt against the side of its owner’s jaw and knocked him staggering.
Attracted by the commotion, the soldier covering Waco allowed his attention to wander. Watching the carbine swing towards Dusty, the youngster sprang forward. Taking his hold with both hands gripping from above, Waco felt the soldier trying to pull back from his grasp. Up swung the youngster’s right foot to ram into the soldier’s belly. Sinking into a sitting position, he dragged the trooper off balance. By rolling on to his back, pulling down with his hands and thrusting his foot upwards, Waco caused his assailant to turn a half somersault through the air. With a startled yell, the trooper lost his hold on the carbine and landed upon his back beyond Waco’s head.
Like Waco’s watcher, the sergeant and third trooper heard the disturbance. They matched their companion’s reaction in starting to turn away from their charge. Although the Kid immediately made his play, he was all too aware of the dangers doing so entailed. The non-com and the soldier were experienced fighting men. So they had halted well beyond the Kid’s reach and sufficiently far apart for him to be unable to launch a simultaneous attack on them. Any other way he tried it would likely prove fatal for him.