The Devil Gun (7 page)

‘We’d better stop him!’ Marsden gasped and started to move forward.

‘Leave be, Jack,’ answered Red Blaze, clamping hold of the other’s arm and restraining him. ‘Dusty won’t hurt that feller none.’

At which point Marsden began to see that his fears had been misplaced.

Instead of side-stepping the other’s rush, Dusty waited for it. However, before Heimer struck him, Dusty’s hands shot out and clamped hold of Heimer’s jacket just below the armpits, arms locking against the man’s bent-forward body and holding it. Moving fast, Dusty pivoted his hips slightly to the left and started to fall backwards. Suddenly Dusty hooked his right foot behind Heimer’s left leg and pressed his left boot against the front of the other’s right ankle. Heimer howled as his feet lost all control. By using Heimer’s momentum, Dusty changed the charge into a head-long tumble. While a good horseman, Heimer did not have time to break his fall. He felt himself falling, let out a wail and landed with a crash upon his back.

Bounding up, Dusty went forward, bent and laid hold of Heimer’s jacket front. With a heave, Dusty fetched the winded man to his feet and then heaved him into Sam Ysabel’s waiting arms.

‘See he tends to the sorrel, Sergeant!’ Dusty barked. ‘And if it isn’t fit for use in the morning I’ll stuff his pants with these damned burrs and ride him on a cannon until he wishes his mother and father never met the one time they did.’

Gripping Heimer by the scruff of the neck, Ysabel shook him savagely. ‘You hear that, boy?’ he growled. ‘Well you’d better believe it. Happen that hoss ain’t fit to be rid Cap’n Fog’ll surely do what he says.’

While he claimed to be tough, and could not be counted among the world’s brighter intellects, Heimer knew enough to call a game quits. He did not know how the small captain managed to handle him with such comparative ease, but his every instinct warned him that Dusty could most likely repeat the process, or maybe even find a rougher and more painful method next time. Nor did he offer to raise objections to Sam Ysabel’s handling, for the big sergeant had a direct, blunt and very effective way of enforcing his demands. So Heimer, limping slightly, went to the sorrel took the reins, and started to walk it.

‘How the hell did he do that?’ Marsden asked a grinning Red, while Dusty spoke with Ysabel. ‘I know a few wrestling tricks, but that—’

‘Uncle Devil’s got a servant,’ Red explained. ‘Most folks reckon Tommy Okasi comes from China, but he claims to hail from some place called Nippon. Well, ole Tommy knows a mighty fancy way of fighting they use back to his home. Taught Dusty near on all he knows.’

Then Marsden remembered how Dusty handled the bushwhacker, Ashley, and decided that wherever that Tommy Okasi feller came from, his way of fighting sure gave the small Texan a powerful edge over bigger and stronger men.

After a thorough walking session, Heimer returned with the sorrel and stood apprehensively by while Dusty and Marsden inspected the animal’s back. While they found that the metal burr had made a small indentation where it pressed on the sorrel’s back, both men realised that no permanent or serious damage had been done—which was fortunate for Heimer.

‘He’ll do,’ Dusty told the young man. ‘Throw the saddle on him again so that Mr. Marsden can ride him.’

Although the horse fiddle-footed a little on being mounted, it soon settled down and showed signs of regaining confidence in its rider. When Marsden returned from making a circuit of the corrals, he knew he sat a horse capable of carrying him through the long and hard journey ahead.

CHAPTER SEVEN

By half-past nine in the morning Elizabeth Chamberlain knew that she and her small escort were utterly and completely lost. All around them rolled the Arkansas hill country, with not a single identifiable mark. Nowhere could she see any sign of the convoy in which she travelled from Fort Downey, one of the posts established by the Union to hold the eastern half of the Indian Nations against the rebels.

A second, less palatable, thought struck Liz—as she preferred to be called. If it came to a point, she might well blame herself for her present position. Instead of allowing the soldier at her side to concentrate on driving the buggy, she insisted on showing her views on equality by engaging him in conversation and straightening him out on various matters. While talking, they must have taken a wrong turning and, followed by three of the mounted escort, wandered away from the convoy. March discipline had not been good and the line straggled badly in the darkness, so their absence would not be discovered until dawn at the earliest.

At first Liz stubbornly refused to believe that she could make such a mistake and when she did both she and the escort failed to do the obvious thing and stay where they were until a search party came for them. Instead they tried to retrace their steps and in doing so became more completely and utterly lost.

‘How about it, Miss Chamberlain?’ asked one of the escort, a youngster in his teens. ‘What d’you reckon we ought to do?’

Liz thought furiously. Despite the liberal views gained by association with some of the new type of Union Army officers, she could not shake off the habits and training of a lifetime. Being the daughter of the men’s colonel, she felt that it rested on her shapely and beautiful head to steer them out of trouble. Her only major problem remained how she could do it.

‘Could stop here and wait for a search party,’ the driver of the buggy suggested. ‘They’ll be looking for us.’

‘No,’ Liz replied. ‘We’ll make for that high ground and see if we can catch sight of our party.’

None of her escort thought of questioning her decision. Obediently the driver headed the buggy up the slope at his right and the other men followed. Liz sat in silence, trying to remember something told her, or overheard, in the past.

‘I suppose we’re in Union-held territory,’ she suddenly remarked.

‘The convoy had to pass pretty close to reb country,’ the driver replied. ‘That was why we moved over-night. Sure hope no reb patrol sees us.’

‘There’s worse than reb army patrols about,’ one of the escort stated. ‘I was with a supply train that got jumped by that Captain Fog of the Texas Light. We’d stopped for water and them rebs just seemed to come up out of the ground. We didn’t have a chance so the shavetail told us to throw down our guns. Them rebs never fired a shot, just took the wagons, all our horses and guns. Treated us real good. It’s not their soldiers that worry me, it’s them bushwhackers who’re the mean ones.’

Actually Dusty Fog had not been responsible for the raid in question, but his name had become so well known that every Yankee hit by the Texas Light Cavalry gave him credit for the affair.

On reaching the top of the slope, Liz’s party halted and began to scan the broken, rolling, bush-dotted land for some hint of where they might find their convoy. Nothing met their eye except the thinly wooded Arkansas hills, rolling slopes broken by ravines and gashes, ideal country for hiding in, but no comfort when lost on possible enemy ground.

Low-growled curses reached Liz’s ears as the escort fell slightly away from the covered-over buggy and discussed their situation. She became suddenly and chillingly aware of her own position as a lone, unprotected, attractive young woman with a quartet of scared young men who had little chance of contact with the opposite sex.

A small, dainty hat perched on Liz’s head. Being at the stage where defiance of conventions seems the only way of life, she wore her straw-coloured hair cut short and boyishly around her truly beautiful face. The clothes selected for the journey, white frilly bosomed shirt, black jacket, tan divided skirt and dainty black riding boots, clung to a shapely body, emphasising the rich curves. All in all she must look as desirable as water in the desert to those four young men. If they once panicked and decided to desert, they might also—

Liz’s thoughts died away as an uneasy feeling came over her. Once, in her sixteenth year, she had been at her father’s militia camp and, believing herself to be alone, stripped naked to swim in the cool waters of a stream. While swimming, she became conscious of the feeling that somebody was watching her. A search of the area revealed nothing, but later she learned that a party of soldiers had been on a nearby ridge, studying her through a telescope.

The same feeling crept over Liz again, but although she searched the area, she saw no sign of possible watchers. Then she remembered the thought which had nagged at her on the way up the slope. More than once she had heard men talk of the importance of not appearing on a sky-line when in hostile country. Now she sat in a buggy, out in plain view on a rim.

‘Nothing,’ said the driver. ‘They must have missed us by this time.’

‘We’ll go back into the valley,’ Liz answered. ‘Keep going until we find water, then make camp. The convoy’s scout ought to be able to track us.’

Once again the men obeyed her. On reaching the foot of the slope, they turned and continued their journey along the rough trail. Ahead lay the mouth to one of the ravines which split into the slope, bush-dotted, rock-covered and somehow menacing. With each stride of the horse, Liz felt her apprehension growing and the belief that somebody watched them increased.

Even as Liz opened her mouth to mention her thoughts to the driver, shots crashed from the bushes at the side of the trail. Liz saw two of the escort pitch out of their saddles. Beyond the men, bearded shapes showed among the bushes, guns roaring in hands.

‘Bushwhackers!’ yelled her driver and grabbed for the buggy whip.

He needed no such inducement to speed. Spooked by the sudden noise, stink of gunpowder and blood, the harness horse lunged forward and started to run, almost jerking the wheels from the ground as it hit leather. More shots came. Holes appeared in the canvas cover of the buggy, but none of the lead struck home. The last member of the escort proved less fortunate. Caught in the head and chest by bullets, the soldier slid down from his spooked horse and landed limply upon the ground.

Tearing by the mouth to the ravine, Liz saw more shapes; this time mounted on horses. Wild yells rang out and the horsemen gave chase, charging their mounts out of the ravine. One fact began to register in her mind. The attackers wore civilian clothing. No matter how poorly made it might be, the regular Confederate soldier always wore a uniform.

The riders, four in number, raced their horses after the speeding buggy and Liz knew it would be only a matter of time before they caught it. In fact their fast saddle mounts closed the gap with the harness horse rapidly. Shots were fired, but none hit the buggy.

Before they covered two hundred yards, Liz saw a rider coming up on either side of the buggy. The man at her side started to raise his revolver, gave her a second glance, grinned wolfishly and urged the horse on. At the other side of the buggy, a second rider came up. Desperately the young driver tried to yell that he surrendered. Coming in close, the bushwhacker fired once. Jerking under the impact of a .36 ball, the driver let whip and reins slide from his fingers, then he slumped forward in his seat.

Bringing his horse alongside the buggy animal, the bushwhacker tried to lean over and grab its reins. Failing, he gave a snarl, drew his revolver and fired down. A scream, burst from the stricken harness horse. Its forelegs buckled under it and it went crashing down, sliding along the ground. Liz let out a cry of pity and fear. Desperately she grabbed at the side of the seat, clinging on with grim determination. Although it lurched wildly, the buggy remained upright. The driver’s body toppled from its place, but Liz managed to stay in her seat.

Dust churned up, horses snorted as they came to sliding halts around the buggy. Liz saw men advancing with guns in their hands, heard surprised comments as they saw her clearly for the first time.

‘Yeah,’ grinned the man who shot the horse, speaking through a fist-damaged mouth. ‘That’s why I didn’t drop her and shot the hoss.’

‘Never seed such obliging folks,’ another went on, eyeing Liz’s body in a predatory manner. ‘Get sky-lined so’s we know they’re about. Then dog-my-cats if they don’t come along towards us instead of going away and make us chase ‘em.’

‘Now you just take your eyes off her, Tibby!’ warned the first speaker. ‘Why for d’you reckon I shot the horse?’

Sick terror bit into Liz at the words and the way the man leered in her direction. She had no weapons, not even a Derringer or one of those new-fangled, light-calibre, metal-cartridge Smith & Wesson revolvers which were becoming popular among Union officers. Even the buggy whip lay some distance away and far out of her reach.

Grinning evilly, the man started to move forward. Hooves drummed and Liz saw a couple more riders tearing along the valley bottom. Much to her surprise, she realised that one of the newcomers was a woman. Nor did that one offer to halt her horse and dismount. Instead, the girl kept her mount moving, causing the bushwhacker to jump back hurriedly. With superb skill, the girl halted her mount and glared at the men. Liz could barely believe her eyes, but the men actually appeared to be sheepish and perturbed by the girl’s cold stare.

‘You damned fools!’ Jill Dodd hissed. ‘You crazy, stupid idiots!’

‘They’re Yankee soldiers,’ the fist-damaged man replied sullenly.

‘And her?’ Jill snapped.

‘We didn’t know she was with them.’

Looking to where some of the bushwhackers were searching the bodies of their victims, Jill yelled a warning.

‘Just take their guns and ammunition. You know what he told us.’

Liz gave her rescuer a longer and more penetrating stare, wondering how such a girl came to be riding with a bunch of murderous bushwhackers. Glancing back along the trail Liz saw one of the men push a watch back into a soldier’s pocket and another removing ammunition from the driver’s pouch. With a shock, Liz realised that all her four companions were dead.

‘You murdered them!’ she gasped.

‘Killed,’ Jill corrected, slipping from her saddle. ‘They’re Yankee soldiers and we’re Confederates.’

‘They were only boys!’ Liz went on.

‘They were older than my brother when the Yankees murdered him,’ Jill answered. ‘And wearing arms and uniforms.’

‘If your brother was riding with this bushwhacker—’ Liz began.

‘He wasn’t!’ Jill interrupted. ‘All he did was—’

‘Hey, Jill,’ called one of the bushwhackers. ‘Reckon we’d best be moving?’

‘It’d be lost,’ she replied. ‘A party this small wouldn’t be travelling alone and their friends’ll be looking for them. Get the Yankees’ horses and we’ll move.’

‘How about that Yankee gal?’ grinned the man.

The question set Jill something of a problem. She had not intended to make any more raids and was scouting when the noise of her men’s gunfire brought her back on the run. Now she found herself with a prisoner. The obvious solution would be to leave the other girl to be found by her friends, but Jill saw that such an idea might not prove so easy. Firstly, that small party must have become separated from the main body and hopelessly lost or they would not have been heading into Confederate-held territory. So the search party might fail to find the girl. Another point Jill conceded was that one or more of her own men might slip away from the band, if she left the girl behind, and return to do what Jill had already prevented once.

‘She rides with us,’ Jill stated. ‘At the first town, we’ll turn her loose and she can be sent back to her own people.’

‘Be best, only I don’t like being slowed by no buggy,’ the man answered.

‘Can you ride, Yankee?’ asked Jill.

‘I can,’ admitted Liz, then stared defiance. ‘But I’ve no intention of doing so.’

‘Bring a horse for her!’ called Jill.

Collecting one of the dead men’s horses, a bushwhacker brought it to where the two girls stood facing each other. Liz decided to make as much difficulty as she could, delaying the bushwhackers’ departure in the hope that a Union seat party arrived and saved her.

‘I won’t mount!’ she insisted.

‘You’ll mount!’ Jill told her. ‘Or I’ll damned soon make you!’

Fire flashed in two pairs of eyes as the girls glared at each other. They both crouched slightly, fingers crooking ready to grab at hair. Then Liz became aware of the way the male bushwhackers started to gather around. She read anticipation and sensual delight on each face as they watched the girls and waited for the next development. Suddenly a feeling of revulsion hit Liz and she knew she could not make a physical resistance to the other girl’s demands, not with those men standing, waiting and watching every move. They would like nothing more than to see two girls fighting and she did not intend to degrade herself by so doing.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll ride. Can I take my travelling case with me?’

‘Sure,’ answered Jill, sounding just a shade relieved at not being forced to tangle in a hair-tearing cat-fight with the Yankee girl. ‘You can take along a small bag, but we’ll have to leave the rest of your gear here. If some of your folks’re out looking for you, they’ll find it.’

All too well Jill realised the precarious nature of her position. During the two days since Ashley’s death, she led the band by the force of her personality and because none of the men showed any qualities of leadership. One wrong move, a single mistake, a temporary set-back, would see the band break up and Jill deserted, if nothing worse. So she allowed Liz a face-saver out of gratitude for not being forced to take the showdown to a conclusion.

Going to the buggy, Liz walked to the rear and drew aside a cover to expose a small trunk and a box made to be strapped to a saddle. She took the latter, it contained toilet articles, a change of underclothing and a couple of blouses; all she would need during the next few days. If the bushwhackers kept their word, she could expect to be free in two days at the most and the Confederate soldiers would give her unrestricted passage to her own people.