The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3) (4 page)

At last the two sentries separated. Carrying
his Spencer at a slovenly trail, the closer of them started to
stroll towards Kiowa. His companion, with the short repeater across
the crook of the left arm, ambled in the opposite direction.

‘
Damn
it!’ Kiowa snarled under his breath. ‘The idle son-of-a-bitch’s
going
across
, not round!’

Instead of following his previous route, the
second sentry was ambling away from the wagons. That would not help
the short, white-haired, anything but decrepit, Corporal Vern
Hassle to complete his assignment.

The call of a
whippoorwill,
repeated twice, came from the picket line. That meant, Kiowa knew
the sentry watching the horses had been dealt with. Apart from a
slight restlessness among the animals, there had been nothing to
suggest it was happening. Certainly neither of the remaining
guards, nor the rest of the camp’s occupants appeared to be aware
that one of their number had been rendered
hors de combat.

Oblivious of his own peril, or
his companion
’s fate, the sentry followed the trail until turning along
the edge of the clearing. His attention was directed towards the
tent, as he tried to hear what was being said. Nor did he take his
gaze from the well-illuminated interior. Certainly he did not see
the menacing figure crouching as if made of stone amongst the
bushes.

Glancing across the clearing towards the
wagons, Kiowa found that the second sentry had developed an extra
shadow. Grasping a thick branch, Vern Hassle was stalking his
victim on silent feet.

As the sentry went by, Kiowa
rose. Without making a warning sound, the corporal glided forward.
Reaching out with his left hand, he passed it above the
nearside brass
shoulder scale—which even carried a copy of the 17th Lancers’ skull
and crossed-bones insignia—of the blue tunic and clapped it over
the man’s mouth. Stifling any outcry before it could be attempted,
Kiowa jerked the lancer’s head backwards. At the same instant, his
right hand thrust home the bowie knife. Its clip point sank into
the man’s kidney region. Although he died almost instantly and in
silence, the Spencer slipped from his lifeless grasp and dropped to
the ground.

Having kept
Kiowa
’s
victim under observation, Vern Hassle timed his own attack to
coincide with his companion’s. Swinging the stout piece of branch
parallel to the ground—having decided that the fancy Lancer’s cap
offered too much protection against a downwards blow—the old-timer
crashed it against the base of his objective’s skull. Continuing to
move with a speed that belied his white hair and years, he followed
his victim down. Flattened on the grass behind the motionless
sentry, Hassle waited until sure that his actions had gone
unnoticed. Then, picking up the Spencer, he wriggled rapidly back
to the shadows of the wagons.

There was no sign of life from
the
pup
tents. Nor did Culver’s flow of profane, bombastic chatter cease,
to suggest that he had heard the slight disturbance as the sentries
were removed. Satisfied, Kiowa gave the call of a whippoorwill
twice and Hassle echoed the signal.

Figures flitted through the
trees, feeling their way with cautious feet so as to keep the noise
of their passage to a
minimum. While they might not have succeeded if
their opponents had been Indians, they were quiet enough to avoid
detection by the Easterners against whom they were
operating.

Despite the knowledge that they
were not dealing with men who possessed the natural alertness and
keen senses of Indians, and that Company C had defeated three
Companies of Long Island Lancers at the Battle of
Martin
’s
Mill, the Texans were too battle-wise to take unnecessary risks or
grow over-confident. They had lost several men in the fighting and
were outnumbered by the party in the clearing. Only by attaining
complete surprise could they hope to achieve their new commanding
officer’s purpose. Every one of them figured life would be a whole
heap easier and more pleasant all round if they did
that.

Captain Fog might be very
young, hardly more than seventeen, but he possessed a mighty
forceful character and it was well to pay heed to his orders or
instructions. There was no better gun-handler in the Texas Light
Cavalry, for he could draw with lightning speed and shoot
very
accurately with
either hand. He had few peers as a horse-master, or in saber
fighting mounted and a-foot. Using tricks learned from Ole Devil
Hardin’s ‘Chinese’
^v
servant, augmented
by considerable physical strength, he had proven capable of
out-fighting bigger, heavier, older and more powerful men when
necessary.

So, when Captain Fog had laid great emphasis
on the need for silence and care, the enlisted men had paid greater
attention than they would have to an officer who did not stand as
high in their esteem.

On reaching the edge of the clearing, the
enlisted men halted in concealment. They lined their weapons,
revolvers or whatever type of shoulder-arm they might possess, on
the tents and waited to see if their presence had been detected.
Apparently it had not, for there was no sign of activity on the
part of the Yankees.

Satisfied that all had gone to
plan, Captain Fog moved towards the marquee. He was accompanied by
his second-in-command and the Company
’s sergeant major. While they were armed
with an 1860 Army Colt in each hand, his matched, bone-handled
revolvers were still in the cross-draw holsters of his
well-designed Western-style gun belt. Instead, he grasped a
long-bladed knife in his right fist.

Inside the marquee, General
Culver stood at the head of the collapsible table. A short, broad,
bearded man, he wore his full-dress uniform with an air of
belligerent self-assurance. All his comments on the
futur
e
conduct of the War Between the States, or his part in it, were
directed at the trio of Eastern newspapermen.

Culver
’s words were full of the bluster and
obscenities—referred to as ‘colorful language’ by his friends,
although others used a different, less complimentary term—which had
given him the sobriquet, ‘Cussing’. They were designed to divert
attention from what he—and the Lancers’ officers—knew to have been
his failure. Despite all his previous boasting, the Rebels had
withdrawn—which was far different from having been chased or
driven—to the safety of the Ouachita’s southern shore. Nor would
they be so easy to dislodge from their new positions.

Being aware of the value of a
good press
—although the term had not yet come into use—to a man with
political ambitions, Culver was taking the newspapermen on a tour
of the forward areas. To impress them with his courage and ability
and to emphasize his control of the situation, he had refused a
larger escort. Instead, he had demanded just one company of
Lancers, in full dress, and had travelled in considerable
luxury.

Being a frugal man by nature, the general
had caused the dinner to be served late. With it over, he had
contrived to keep his guests from becoming bored or wanting to go
to bed; but had avoided expending too much of his liquor stock.
There would, he had hinted, be more lavish entertainment once they
had returned to Little Rock.

‘
We
didn’t have any trouble in running the Rebels back this far,’
Culver was saying. ‘And, once we have our
reinforcements, we’ll chase them
clear into their louse-infested, son-of-a-bitching State. I’ll make
those mother-fu—’

While the general was
continuing with his often-repeated promise, his striker had been
taking a bottle of whiskey from the liquor chest which was part of
the marquee
’s furnishings. The plump, red-faced soldier started to
draw the cork, then he saw something shiny thrust through the rear
wall. Letting out a startled exclamation, the striker allowed the
bottle to slip from his fingers. However, his duties were servant
and attendant, not fighter, so he responded too slowly to give a
warning that might have been acted upon.

With a slight ripping sound, a razor-sharp
knife slashed downwards through the wall of the marquee. The
damaged section was torn horizontally and three figures thrust
through the gap into the light. They came so swiftly that there was
hardly any interval between the insertion of the knife being seen
by the striker and their appearance.

At the right of the trio,
wearing the uniform of an enlisted man in the Texas Light Cavalry,
was a tall, gangling sergeant major. Taken with his prominent
Adam
’s
apple, somewhat receding chin and miserable expression, the three
chevrons, topped by an arc, denoting his rank seemed out of place.
He looked more like a dejected, ill-used sandhill crane than the
senior non-commissioned officer of a tough, fighting cavalry
Company. However, the gun belt about his waist had been well made
and the Army Colts in his hands were lined steadily.

To the left was a tall,
well-made young first lieutenant. Under his white Jeff Davis
campaign hat, which was thrust to the back of his head, was an
untidy mop of curly, fiery red hair. He had a good-looking,
freckled, pugnaciously cheerful cast of features. Like the sergeant
major, he brandished two long
barreled Army Colts with the air of being
extremely competent in their use. Apart from having only two
half-inch wide, three-inch long gold bars on his tunic’s stand up
collar and a single gold braid twisted to form a ‘chicken guts’
Austrian knot on his sleeves, his uniform matched that of his
commanding officer. The position of his gun belt’s holsters showed
that he used the low cavalry twist-hand draw.

Between the two was the young man who had
made such an impression upon the hard-bitten, hard-riding,
harder-fighting veterans of Company C that they were willing to
accept his orders without question. A mere youth, in years, but who
had already performed deeds that would have taxed the abilities of
older, more experienced men.

If one had been expecting a
giant, disappointment, incredulity even might have resulted at the
first sight of Dusty Fog. He had dusty blond hair and a tanned,
moderately handsome face that
—in times of peace anyway—did not tend to catch
the eye. Although he was no more than five foot six in height, he
was anything but puny. His wide shoulders trimmed down to a slim
waist in a manner that hinted at considerable strength.

Since assuming command of the
Company, after having won promotion in the field for his activities
during the Battle of Martin
’s Mill, Dusty had adopted a somewhat less formal
style of dress than had been permitted by the man he had replaced.
While his tunic partially conformed to the
Manual of Dress Regulations,
by being
double-breasted, with the correct type of stand up collar and twin
rows of seven buttons, it lacked the prescribed ‘skirt extending to
half-way between hip and thigh’. Instead of the formal black silk
cravat, he sported a tight-rolled scarlet silk bandana. His riding
breeches had the traditional yellow stripe along their outer seams
and spurs decorated the heels of his Hessian boots. Since his
elevation in rank, he wore
three
collar bars and his ‘chicken guts’ were formed
from two lengths of gold braid.

Free from the late Captain von
Hertz
’s
restrictions, he no longer used the official weapon belt with its
awkward, impractical close-topped holster. The rig he now wore
offered him considerably more freedom and allowed for exceptional
speed in the drawing of the matched, bone-handled Colt 1860 Army
revolvers; as he proceeded to demonstrate.

Even as the occupants of the
marquee started to turn, or stared at the intruders, Dusty dropped
the knife and his hands flashed inwards. Crossing, they closed
about the butts
and swept free the Colts in a flickering blur of motion.
With the seven and a half inch ‘Civilian’ pattern barrels
^vi
turning to the front, just clear of
the holsters’ lips, his forefingers entered the trigger guards and
his thumbs drew back the hammers. Before the knife had reached the
ground, both guns were pointing in the direction of the
table.

Dusty had never heard of
psychology, but he was aware of the value of demonstrating his
ambidextrous gun-wizardry. That was why he had elected to slit open
the marquee
’s wall and allow his companions to enter with drawn
weapons. The speed with which he had produced his Colts was likely
to have a numbing effect when seen by men who had not come into
contact with a Western-trained gunfighter.

‘
No
noise, gentlemen!’ Dusty warned in a gentle—yet somehow
menacing—Texas drawl, the muzzles of his Colts moved slowly from
side to side and seeming to threaten every man before them.
‘There’s a circle of guns around the camp and your sentries’re all
out of the deal.’ His right hand weapon halted with its bore
directed at the Lancers’ major. ‘Easy there. My men’ll kill anybody
who comes out of the tents.’

Although the
major
’s
mouth had been opening and he was tensing to leap at the small
Texan, he refrained from doing either. Being a good poker player,
he knew that he was not hearing an idle threat or a bluff. He could
also visualize the consequences of any action that would arouse the
camp. Freshly woken, illuminated by the still burning fire, his men
would be at the mercy of the Texans as they emerged from their
tents. Nor would lances be of any use against the firearms which
would be opposing them. That had been proven all too thoroughly at
the Battle of Martin’s Mill, when a single Company of the Texas
Light Cavalry—perhaps the very one now surrounding the camp—had
defeated three companies of the Long Island Lancers. There was only
one sensible way to act.