The Devil Gun (12 page)

‘Come on out’f it, gal,’ he ordered in a whisky-slurred voice. ‘Me ‘n’ you’s going to have some fun.’

As he often received visitors who did not wish to discuss their business in the presence of the hired help, the Deacon lived in a small, one-room cabin separated by several yards from the bunkhouse. Wilson and Liz sat at the table in the room, having just finished a meal she made for them. Although Liz wished to go and feed Jill, the man insisted on talking. Liz felt concerned for, on taking a meal to the soldiers, she learned that Fitch had found a couple of jugs of corn liquor. The men all appeared to have taken their share of the potent stuff, but Wilson made no attempt to halt their excesses. Guessing he had made a mistake in the girl’s eyes, Wilson sought to divert her by discussing the business which brought him to Texas.

‘Things could go bad wrong if the Texans escape and catch up with Castle,’ Liz remarked, after explaining presence in Texas and telling all she knew.

‘Yes,’ Wilson agreed and, wishing to exculpate himself, went on, ‘I could’ve commanded the chase if I didn’t have to stop and look after you. But you know what ignorant fools these men are.’

Ignoring the latter part of Wilson’s speech, Liz warn ‘I’ve an idea that Captain Fog knows the rendezvous.’

‘He can’t. Why not even I know that for certain. Only the Deacon and Castle know where they’re meeting the Indians. We didn’t let any of the regulars know, so Marsden couldn’t have told the rebels that. I always knew we couldn’t trust those lousy regulars.’

‘Jack Marsden claimed he deserted because the scheme endangered thousands of innocent lives. Is that true?’

‘No!’ Wilson spat out.

‘But all the Texans seemed to be so sincere, and two of them have lived among the Indians. They say that the braves will attack indiscriminately, killing civilians, women, children—’

‘So?’ growled the captain. ‘They’re only lousy rebs.’

For the first time Liz began to gain an inkling of the mentality of men like Wilson. While preaching tolerance, his kind were capable of the most vicious, bigoted intolerance against anybody who did not blindly fall in with their way of thinking or follow their beliefs.

‘But if there is dan—’ Liz began.

Her words chopped off as she heard a shrill scream from the barn. Instantly Liz forgot her argument. Turning, she dashed across the room, tore open the door and raced towards the open doors of the barn. Wilson followed on her heels, catching up with her just as she reached the barn’s door. Both halted, looking to where Fitch held Jill pressed against the side of a stall, his hands tearing open the struggling girl’s shirt front.

Only for a moment did Liz wait for Wilson to order his sergeant away from the other girl. Wilson made no such attempt, fearing to push a point where he might have to clash with his sergeant. True, Wilson had behind him all the might and weight of the
Manual of Field Regulations
—and did not hesitate to use its powers in an area where backing waited to enforce his will. However, he knew that he possessed no such backing in Texas and must stand on his own feet. So he declined to interfere when Fitch, noted as mean when wet, might refuse to obey him.

‘Leave her be, Sergeant!’ Liz shouted. ‘Make him, Wilson!’

Twisting his leering face towards his superior officer, Fitch gritted, ‘All right, Wilson, make me.’

Fury etched itself on Wilson’s face and his hand went to the hilt of the straight infantry sword he wore. He lacked the courage to draw the weapon, even though his sergeant no longer wore a weapon belt.

Liz sprang forward, drawing Jill’s Tranter from her waistband—and thanking the Lord that she had not put the gun aside when she changed.

‘Let go, right now!’ she hissed.

Something in her voice brought Fitch’s eyes to her. What he read on her face caused him to release Jill, letting her fall sobbing against the wall. For a moment Fitch stood scowling uneasy defiance, but he could not meet the scorn and fury in the girl’s level stare. Letting out a lurid curse, Fitch turned and slouched out of the barn.

‘I’ll deal with him in the morning,’ Wilson promised, his voice a shade weak.

‘Will you?’ sniffed Liz and went to Jill’s side.

Watching Fitch fade off into the darkness, Wilson felt a sense of inadequacy at Liz having done something beyond his power to achieve. For Wilson to know that someone could better him brought hatred against the one who did better. However, he felt it would be imprudent to show his hatred openly to Liz, so turned it against Jill instead.

‘Maybe she knows where the rebs plan to meet up again after scattering,’ he said, pushing by Liz and tilting Jill’s face upwards by gripping her chin. ‘Do you know, reb?’

Jill found herself faced with a different situation, one which did not scare her as much as the threat of rape by a drunken brute. So she kept quiet. Wilson shook her head from side to side savagely.

‘Where’ll they meet?’ he yelled.

‘Go to hell!’ Jill answered.

Viciously Wilson swung his other hand, lashing it forward then back across Jill’s face and rocking her head from side to side. Again he repeated the demand for information and received the same reply.

‘That’s enough!’ Liz shouted.

Mean-minded and untrustworthy himself Wilson imagined everybody to be cut in the same mould. Suspicion came easily to him and he saw danger in Liz’s words. Without giving any warning, he swung around and slapped the Tranter from her hand, then thrust her aside. Turning back to Jill, he lashed another slap across her face. Dazed by the blows and previous rough handling, Jill collapsed to her knees. Wilson loomed above her, his sallow face contorted with fury and sadistic delight at inflicting pain.

‘Where are those stinking rebs?’ he almost screamed, and when no answer came from the girl, drew back his foot.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A heave, a scrabbling of hooves, then Dusty Fog and his black stallion made the top of the steep ridge. Turning, Dusty looked down and back to where a quarter of a mile away his pursuers urged their leg-weary, jaded horses after him. From the look of the long Springfield rifles slung across their shoulders, he judged them to be mounted infantry. In the Union Army even the volunteer cavalry outfits were armed with much shorter carbines of one kind or other. By the way the men sat their horses, he reckoned they would be unable to make the difficult climb which he had just accomplished. After leading them a chase of five miles, he decided that it was time he lost them anyway and went about his business.

Although he could have ridden clear away from his pursuers in less than a mile, Dusty held his black down to a pace which kept the Yankees believing they would overtake him at any moment, while leading them further and further away from their companions. At first the state of the land drove him south-east, but at last he began to make a long, looping half circle towards the west and now he headed in the right direction again.

Unshipping his Springfield and bringing his horse to a halt, one of the soldiers aimed and fired a shot. Where the bullet went was anybody’s guess, but it came nowhere near Dusty. Grinning, the small Texan drew back a little from the rim and flattened down to offer a smaller target while watching the Yankees approach the foot of the slope. The corporal in charge of the section started to urge his horse up the slope and although the animal responded gamely, it could make no headway. Nor did any of the others do better.

‘Here endeth the first lesson,’ mused Dusty and slipped back from the rim. ‘I don’t reckon they’ll bother me again.’

Returning to the stallion, Dusty took the reins and started to walk. He led the horse for some way until he found an area which offered him shelter from unfriendly eyes. At the foot of a bush-dotted valley, he stripped off the black’s saddle and allowed the horse to roll while preparing to water and feed it.

When the horse had cooled down from its exertions, Dusty took his canteen and tipped the contents into his hat’s crown. Taking the bit from its mouth, he allowed the horse to drink its fill. With that done, he unpacked the nose-bag from the saddle-pouch ready to start feeding. One of the reasons Dusty did not bring carbines on the mission had been because the weapon’s boot made an ideal receptacle for an emergency feed of grain. Tipping the golden drops of concentrated energy from the boot into the nose-bag, he set up the stallion with a better feed than he himself would have until he joined up with the rest of his party. While the black first ate its grain, then grazed on the ankle-deep buffalo grass, Dusty watched his back trail. He saw no sign of the Union soldiers, nor did he expect to.

An hour later Dusty rode on again. Although he kept constantly alert, he saw nothing of friend or foe. That did not surprise him, for he knew his men would scatter far across the range and lead their hunters as he had done. The Yankee officer in command of the company was going to have the hell of a chore rounding up his men again when the Texans finally shook them off.

Although he never cared to risk his horse by riding in darkness, Dusty kept going for a time after night fell. In this he was helped by the fact that the big black stallion showed considerable skill at travelling in the darkness. He believed himself to be safe from any pursuit, but wished to cover as many miles as possible towards the rendezvous with his men. Using the instinct gained during a lifetime on the great Texas ranges, and steering his course by the stars, Dusty continued to move towards the west.

Topping a rim, he saw lights down to his left. A small ranch’s buildings, he guessed. Maybe the Deacon’s place near the East Trinity. If not, Dusty stood a better than fair chance of finding Confederate supporters at the buildings. Possibly one or more of his party might be present.

With the possibility of the place belonging to the Deacon, Dusty did not ride blindly and noisily towards the buildings. He saw no sign of life around the place, apart from the lights in the barn and showing from windows of two of the other buildings. Nor could he see horses in the corrals.

Dusty was still almost a quarter of a mile from the buildings when he heard a girl’s terrified scream ring out. Almost without conscious thought, Dusty drew his left-hand Colt, licking back the hammer under his thumb. Even as he prepared to put spurs to the black’s flanks, he saw the front door of one building jerk open. Liz burst into sight, racing towards the barn and behind her sprinted a Union Army officer. Watching the girl and Wilson dash into the barn, Dusty felt concern for the welfare of Billy Jack and Jill. Maybe his loyal sergeant-major had been killed or captured.

He decided to move in on foot. If Billy Jack was held prisoner, then he must be rescued. If not, well the fates would take care of things from then on.

Before Dusty could dismount, he saw a burly sergeant leave the barn. From the way the man walked, Dusty figured him to be toting a fair load of corn liquor. It did not require the second-sight of a Comanche witch-man to guess at the cause of Jill’s screams. Dusty hoped that Liz arrived in time to save Jill from the drunken Yankee.

The presence of the Yankee officer hinted at there being a Union force on hand, or at least an escort. Knowing how he would act under similar circumstances, spending a night in hostile territory, Dusty thought that there might be sentries posted around the place. He reached the corral without any alarm being given and prepared for a dash towards the barn. Looping the black’s reins over the corral rail, Dusty found his eyes on the sabre. If the Yankee had guards out, he must deal with them silently. Cold steel made a mighty effective silencer. While the 1860 Army Colt might be as fine a revolver as made to that date, it lacked the more robust qualities which made its descendants—particularly the 1873 Model P Peacemaker or the 1911 Government Model automatic pistol—such handy clubs when empty. Striking a blow with the barrel of the Army Colt could only be done with the serious risk of snapping the loading lever’s retaining catch, or damaging the cylinder which, unlike fitted on later models, had no top strap covering and protecting it. The Haiman sabre had no such defects. A blow from its hilt would stun a man, while a thrust of its point to the kidney area was certain to drop a man in such agony that he would be unable to cry out in the few seconds of life left to him.

Drawing the sabre, having holstered his Colt earlier, Dusty darted across the open space. Voices came from the barn. Shouted demands for information in a male voice. Dusty also heard Jill make some answer, then the sound of slaps and more yelled questions. Just as Dusty burst into the barn, he saw Wilson slap the Tranter from Liz’s hand, then turn to shout at Jill.

‘Where’re those stinking rebels?’ Wilson screeched, drawing back his foot for a kick.

‘Right here,’ Dusty told him.

Letting out a startled yelp, lowering his foot hurriedly and turning, Wilson swung around to face Dusty. For a moment Wilson’s hands quivered ready to rise in surrender, then he saw that Dusty appeared to be alone and held a sabre instead of a Colt.

During his time in college Wilson had learned fencing. In fact he became very good with a blade, having found that such gave him access to the company of the rich students he hated for having more money than himself. Taking in Dusty’s small size and apparent youth, Wilson decided that victory would be certain enough for him to risk his valuable neck in a fight. Then he noticed the gunbelt and matched Colts and a momentary fear gripped him. However, he knew the chivalrous nature of the Southerners and doubted if the small Texan would draw a gun if challenged to fight with swords.

‘You’d best surrender, reb,’ Wilson warned. ‘If not I’ll cut you down.’

‘Like you did to Jill?’ asked Dusty. ‘Come on, brave man—try me!’

Something in Dusty’s manner gave pause to Wilson’s actions. Wilson tried to tell himself that he could not trust Dusty to fight fairly, but he knew that fear held him from making a move. Then he thought back to his college successes and decided he could risk a sword fight against the obviously much younger and smaller man, provided the other kept his guns out of it.

‘You’d shoot me down if I tried,’ Wilson sneered. ‘I’m not wearing a gun.’

‘That’s a sword at your side,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Pull it and use it. Only you’ll find it harder than slapping a gal around.’

Liz had darted to Jill’s side and knelt by the rebel girl, arm around her. Looking up, Liz watched Wilson draw his word and ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. All too well she knew of his skill with the sword and wanted to warn Dusty, to give the small Texan a chance to make an escape. Before the words came, she saw they would be too late.

Out slid Wilson’s sword, its thirty-four-inch blade glinting under the barn’s light. In height, weight and reach Wilson held all the advantages. He looked forward to an easy victory; to killing the small Texan, for he had no intention of accepting a surrender. Perhaps his men would hear the noise and come to investigate. If so, he wanted them to see him killing, or having killed, a rebel officer. Then those sullen, mutinous scum would be more amenable to his orders. He could arrest and punish Fitch for daring to show disrespect to him.

Studying the way Wilson assumed the on-guard position, Dusty guessed that the other knew more than a little about the use of a sword and studied the Hungarian style of sabre work. Dusty favoured the French school, having learned fencing from a New Orleans master. As in everything he set his mind to, Dusty learned his fencing lessons well and kept up his practice by training with the other officers of the Texas Light Cavalry.

Up lifted Wilson’s sword blade in the first move of the salute. Immediately Dusty began a reply—and Wilson changed from the salute to a vicious cut across at Dusty’s exposed right side. Liz let out a low, angry gasp at the treacherous move, expecting to see Dusty go down with his ribs slit open.

Wilson’s move failed for one reason. From what he saw of the other, Dusty had not expected courtesy or fair play. So, while he replied to the salute, Dusty stayed alert for just such a move. In a smooth flicker, the Haiman’s blade came down, engaged the foible of Wilson’s sword and deflected it. From where Dusty sent the point of the sabre licking out in a thrust. Only by making a hurried, unorthodox and startled leap to the rear did Wilson avoid taking Dusty’s point in the belly.

Catching his balance, Wilson met Dusty’s attack. If Wilson expected to rely on his superior reach to keep Dusty back to a distance where the Texan’s attacks depended solely upon ripostes, making an offensive action following a successful parry, he was disappointed. Instead of standing back, Dusty drove forward, fighting well within Wilson’s reach and cramping his prearranged moves. Wilson knew how he would be fighting matched against a taller man and could not conceive that any brain might devise another method. In a very few passes he learned that Dusty did not intend to blindly follow his lead in the way they fought.

Liz and Jill stayed where they were, watching the fight. Of the two, Liz understood more fully the high standard of the sword-play shown by the two men. After a few passes Liz became lost to the true implications of the fight in studying the beauty and grace of the movements and the skill of the participants. Having seen a great many fencing matches, and knowing something of the game herself, Liz realised just how good both men were. Wilson had speed, a devastatingly fast beat, could bind his opponent’s blade and take it out of line, then make his own move, be it lunge, cut or feint, with startling rapidity. Yet for all that, Liz became slowly aware that Dusty was the superior man. It became clear that Dusty did not fluster in the face of speed. Dusty knew that speed alone could not assure success. In fact, on a couple of occasions Wilson’s speed almost brought him to grief when he made a very fast one-two attack and found his blade coming back into closed line from the second disengage before Dusty moved. Both times only Wilson’s skill saved him from a wound, but he knew that he had met his match with a sabre.

In desperation Wilson changed styles, going in point first as if handling a training foil or duelling sword. Instantly Dusty adopted the same method of fighting and, despite the sabre’s awkwardness in such work, showed that he excelled at that form of fighting too. The master who instructed Dusty in fencing was a French-Creole and never considered the sabre to be a gentleman’s weapon. One learned to use the sabre well, of course, and it did have uses in mounted warfare, but a gentleman much preferred the more artistic and skilful use of the point instead of slashing with a cutting edge. So the master insisted that his pupils became fully conversant with the finer points of sword work and again Dusty proved a most adept pupil.

Just how adept showed when Dusty began to drive the other back across the barn, the lightning fast point of his sabre coming time after time within a hair’s-breadth of catching Wilson’s body. Once again the Yankee was forced to revert to a slashing attack. Desperation lent him the courage of a frightened rat and he launched an attack which forced Dusty to retire towards the door of the barn. Sweat poured down Wilson’s face and he found difficulty in breathing. Dusty, being fitter and in better condition, showed less signs of distress and knew that it would be only a matter of minutes before he could terminate the fight. However, he knew he might not be spared those minutes. At any moment the Yankee sentries might hear the sound of steel against steel and come to investigate.

Timing his moves just right, Dusty feinted to Wilson’s head in the start of a compound attack. Up rose Wilson’s arm in an attempted parry and too late he realised his mistake. At just the right moment Dusty’s feint changed to its true purpose and came down in a cut at Wilson’s body. Shining steel glittered as it drove across to bite through Wilson’s clothing and inflict a painful gash in the man’s side. Wilson screeched like a stuck pig as the blade bit home. Although the wound was not serious, he dropped his sword and stumbled backwards to fall against the wall of a stall. He hung there, eyes wild with fear and mouth opening to beg for mercy.