Kill Dusty Fog (11 page)

‘There’s that,’ Frost admitted and looked at Dusty. ‘What have you to say?’

‘Nothing!’ Dusty mumbled, trying to avoid sounding like Texan. ‘Lemme go.’

‘Not without a better account of yourself than that!’ Frost snapped. ‘Take him to the cells and hold him, sergeant. We’ll see how a night there loosens his tongue.’

‘Yes, sir!’ Slasser replied, with more enthusiasm than he had shown since Frost entered the cafe.

Catching hold of Dusty’s right arm, Slasser held it firmly while Pope fanned his hands over his person in search of weapons. Finding none, he gripped Dusty by the other arm. Holding him between them, the guards led him to the door.

‘I hope that nothing will happen to the young man, Mr. Frost,’ Wexler remarked in a carrying voice. ‘There are so many stories about how prisoners are treated in the stockades.’

‘Not in our stockade!’ Frost protested. ‘He won’t be harmed as long as he behaves himself.’

Letting out a low grunt that might have meant anything, Slasser opened the door and they hustled Dusty through it. On the sidewalk, the sergeant slipped his baton free and hefted it almost lovingly. His leg still stung sufficiently to act as a reminder of his grievance. Baring his teeth in a mirthless grimace, he glared viciously at Dusty.

‘All right, you short-growed son-of-a-bitch,’ the sergeant snarled. ‘Now I’m going to beat the—’

More cautious than his companion, Pope kept his eyes on the building they had just quit. As he had expected, he saw Frost and Wexler watching them through a window. While he did not particularly care what happened to Slasser, he figured that he might be held jointly responsible should the other make an unprovoked attack upon their prisoner.

‘Not here, damn it!’ Pope warned. ‘They’re watching you. That stinking son-of-a-bitch Frost’d break us both if you laid a hand on him.’

‘Yeah,’ rumbled Slasser, returning the baton to its sling. ‘Only what happens when there’s no witnesses’s another thing. He needs teaching respect for his betters, Popey, don’t he?’

‘Could be,’ Pope grunted, without his usual enthusiasm for such a pleasant pastime. ‘Let’s get him down there. The boy’s’re waiting to be relieved.’

In the cafe, Wexler watched the men lead Dusty off along the street. So far everything had gone according to plan, although be wondered what Dusty had thought about the delay in his arrival. It had been all for the best. Seeing Frost coming in his direction, Wexler had waited for him. While Slasser might have held off his attack in the presence of an influential local ‘soft-shell’, he was more likely to refrain if he saw an officer. There was something further for Wexler to do before he had finished with Frost.

‘Would you care for a meal, Mr. Frost?’ the undertaker offered. ‘I was going to the Grand Hotel for supper, why not join me?’

‘That’s good of you, Mr. Wexler,’ Frost replied. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

Unnoticed by Slasser or Pope, although expected by Dusty, Hacker came from an alley alongside the cafe. For once the thin man did not cough, but moved in silence as he followed the guards and their ‘prisoner’. Keeping his distance and acting in a normal manner, Hacker tailed them to the main square on the far side of which the jail-house was situated. Up to there Hacker had found no difficulty in trailing along behind the trio. Only a few people used the square and they were all on the opposite side. So he continued with extra care and remained undetected. From what he could see, there would be no chance of following beyond the building next to the jail. It was the City Bank and a lamp inside its farther window threw light across the sidewalk. Not wishing to pass through the illuminated area, Hacker came to a halt and stepped into the mouth of the bank’s side alley. From his position, he could see the big building which served as a court as well as housing prisoners. Most of it lay in darkness, unoccupied for the night, but a lamp hung over the side door and a light showed at one of the windows towards the rear.

Standing like a statue in the darkness, Hacker watched the sergeant and corporal escort Dusty to the side door. It opened at Slasser’s knock and they hustled the small Texan inside. When the door closed, Hacker sucked in a deep breath. Captain Fog had got that far. The most dangerous part of the rescue bid lay ahead.

Never had time gone so slowly for Hacker. At last the door opened and men came out. Although not five minutes had elapsed since Dusty’s disappearance into the jail-house, it seemed far longer to the gaunt man. Counting the uniformed figures as they emerged, Hacker took a heavy leather purse from his jacket’s pocket. Tossing it into the air and catching it, so that it gave off a faint jingling sound, he looked around to make sure that he was unobserved.

‘What a way to treat good money!’ he mused and skidded the purse along the sidewalk until it halted on the edge of the lighted area. ‘They can’t miss seeing it there. I should pitch horseshoes that good.’

With that he withdrew deeper into the alley. Flattening himself against the bank’s wall, he listened to the heavy feet thudding on the sidewalk. The sound drew closer and Hacker could hear men talking as they walked. Knowing they were the guards relieved by Slasser and Pope, he strained his ears to catch their conversation.

‘To hell with helping Slasser work that runt over,’ were the first audible words to reach the listener. ‘Not after what the Man told us.’

‘He’s set on doing it regardless,’ another of the party went on.

‘Well, that’s up to him and Pope.’

‘Popey won’t help him,’ declared a third. ‘And if Slasser does it—’

‘You can bet he will, after what that runt did to him,’ stated the first speaker. ‘Whooee! I’d’ve loved to see it.’

‘If he does it, somebody else’ll be wearing the sergeant’s bars comes noon tomorrow,’ continued the third guard, in a tone which implied that he expected to be the ‘somebody’. ‘Slasser’s riled enough to— Hey, what’s this on the sidewalk?’

‘It’s a purse,’ announced the first speaker as the feet came to a halt. ‘A good heavy one at that.’

‘Feller it belongs to must’ve dropped it when he come out of the bank,’ guessed a fourth voice. What’ll we do with it?’

‘If he’s that damned careless, he don’t deserve to get it back,’ stated the third guard. ‘So let’s us poor, deserving gentlemen share it between us.’

Apparently the idea met with approval. Moving out of the light, the guards gathered in a bunch at the mouth of the alley and shared out the contents of the purse. With that done, they continued on their way discussing how they would spend their ‘lucky’ find. Watching them pass from sight and listening to the sounds of their passing fading away, Hacker figured that another item of the plan had been successful. In possession of a twenty-dollar windfall each, the guards would be unlikely to hurry their return to the jail.

That all of ‘em, friend?’ whispered a voice from behind Hacker.

Stifling a yelp of surprise, for he could have sworn that he had the alley to himself, Hacker whirled around and reached under his jacket. He could not see the speaker, so did not draw the Deringer concealed in the waitsband of his trousers. Just as he decided that his ears had played a trick on him, he heard a faint chuckle and saw a slight movement at the rear of the bank. ‘Who is it?’ Hacker breathed.

‘Kiowa,’ replied the tall, lean shape which came on noiseless feet from the shadows. ‘I’m Cap’n Fog’s scout, mind me?’

‘I do
now
!’ Hacker answered. ‘You near on scared me white-haired.’

‘Didn’t figure shouting, or singing “Dixie” ’d be the thing to do,’ Kiowa drawled. ‘Have they all pulled out of the jail?’

‘All the men have, I counted five of them,’ Hacker replied. ‘But the woman, the one they’re using as matron, may still be there.’

‘Likely Cap’n Dusty can tend her needings if he has to,’ Kiowa said. ‘Now you’d best get going. I’ll sort of keep watch down by the side of the jail house and stop any of those five yahoos coming back too early.’

oooOooo

* The Man: in this case, the Provost Marshal.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHAT the hell—?’ gasped the guard who opened the door at Slasser’s knock, staring at the sergeant’s stew-smeared tunic. Then, seeing the anger on the three-bar’s face, he stood aside and let them bring in their ‘prisoner’. ‘Who’ve you got there, serge?’

Swiftly Dusty looked around and took note of his surroundings. They were standing in what must be the entrance hall of the building. Most of it was in darkness, but lamps illuminated the section by the side door through which he had entered. Off to his left, the stairs leading down to the basement were also well-lit. Men came from a room at the rear of the building. Four of them, wearing their hats and weapon belts like the one who had opened the door. Apparently the room served as their quarters, for Dusty could see two beds beyond its open door. The sergeant’s wife who had been hired as a matron did not make her appearance.

Before Dusty could worry about the matron’s non-appearance, Slasser thrust him into a chair by the table at the left of the door and snarled a warning that he had better stay put, or else! Having no intention of doing otherwise with the full complement of guards present, Dusty crouched in the chair trying to look terrified. His eyes went to the table. On it lay a pen, inkpot and the Guard Report Book in which details of prisoners accepted or discharged were entered.

‘He’s a stinking deserter is who,’ Slasser snarled. ‘And a real feisty one. Needs teaching proper respect for his betters and I reckon we’re the boys to do it, don’t you?’

Watching the men, Dusty saw that they understood the sergeant’s meaning. He also read worry, concern and blank refusal on the coarse, hard faces. Even without knowing of Frost’s and Wexler’s intervention and interest in the small ‘prisoner’, the five men wanted no part in the respect-teaching.

Self-preservation rather than common humanity caused their hesitation. Every one of the five enjoyed the privileges being a stockade guard brought and had no desire to be returned to their original regiments. They figured that it could happen if they took a part in beating up the small youngster.

Recently there had been incidents in which stockade guards had inflicted brutal beatings without cause on prisoners. Such things had always happened, of course, but the guards concerned had been careless. Their victims had been men with important friends. So word of their treatment had reached influential circles. Questions had been raised in Congress, while the ‘liberal’ newspapers thundered demands for investigations and the prevention of further assaults. Such was the heat of public protest that the Union Army’s top brass had given strict and definite orders to all Provost Marshals regarding the future conduct of the guards.

Dusty Fog possessed the supreme quality of a fighting cavalry officer, the ability to take advantage of any prevailing set of circumstances. Knowing something of the stockade situation, from conversations with captured Yankee soldiers and from Union newspapers gathered during raids, he, had seen how they might make use of it. According to Wexler, Slasser had the reputation for being a sadistic brute who took pleasure in ill-treating prisoners. Such a man would not easily change his ways, no matter what instructions he received from the Provost Marshal. Especially if his temper could be roused in some way.

So the incident at the Birdcage Cafe had been planned; although Dusty had not expected the table to fall in such a satisfactory manner and was prepared to use feet or knees to achieve his end. Figuring that Slasser would then be determined to extract a savage revenge, Dusty had avoided stirring up the same desire on Pope’s part. Wexler’s ‘timely’ arrival had been to ensure that the beating-up did not take place immediately, or out on the street. It had worked and Dusty found himself inside the jail-house. Now he was gambling on the other five guards being reluctant to endanger their careers by helping Slasser to work him over. If that happened, he felt sure the sergeant would be the more determined to do it without their assistance.

A very long, for Dusty at least, thirty seconds ticked by. The five guards shuffled their feet, exchanged glances with each other and Pope, but avoided meeting Slasser’s cold eyes. Growing more impatient by the second, the sergeant unbuckled his belt and removed his tunic.

‘What about it?’ Slasser demanded, tossing the tunic on to the table and adjusting the belt about his middle. ‘Who’s going to help me?’

This was the decisive moment. In a very short time Dusty would know if his rescue attempt stood any chance of succeeding — or whether he would be fighting for his life against the combined attack of several larger, heavier and stronger men all trained in rough-house self-defence.

Sure he and Wexler had made arrangements against the latter eventuality. If all had gone as it should, Hacker would have followed him to the jail and would carry a warning to the undertaker if the five guards did not leave within five minutes of his arrival. Maybe Wexler could not do his part by persuading Frost to visit the jail. Even if he did, they might arrive too late to save Dusty from injury.

‘You know what the Man told us—’ one of the five mumbled.

‘The Man—!’ Slasser spat out.

‘He way out-ranks you,’ growled a surly-faced red-head who considered himself next in line for promotion. ‘So I ain’t doing it!’

Looking at the others, Slasser saw that the blank refusal had caused them to make up their minds. All could remember the grim emphasis with which the Provost Marshal had spoken on the subject of mis-handling prisoners. Unlike the sergeant, they had no cause to dislike the small ‘captive’. So they all affirmed their non-compliance.

‘Get the hell out of here, happen you feel that way!’ Slasser snarled, face reddening with anger. ‘All of you can go.’

‘Come on, boys,’ said the red-head. ‘How about the food for that Reb gal?’

‘It wasn’t ready when we left the Birdcage,’ Pope answered. ‘One of you’ll have to bring it with you.’

‘There’s no call to rush back with it,’ Slasser continued, not wanting witnesses — particularly the red-haired corporal — around while he dealt with the small prisoner. ‘Where’s Sarah?’

‘She’s gone home for the night,’ the red-head replied, making for the door. ‘If that gal wants anything, one of you’ll have to tend to her.’

With that, the men trooped out of the building. Pope closed and locked the door behind him, then turned with the expression of one who knew that he faced an unpleasant duty.

‘Come on, Popey,’ Slasser said in a cajoling tone. ‘Let’s put this short-growed son-of-a-bitch away for the night.’

‘It shouldn’t take two of us,’ Pope answered, having been made extra wary by the refusal of the other five guards. ‘You take him down.’

‘What if he jumps me?’ Slasser inquired.

‘If that happens, it’s between you and him,’ Pope replied. ‘I won’t see it happen, but I’ll take your word that’s what he did.’

‘Have it your way,’ Slasser sniffed, knowing he could count on the corporal to give the right answer when questioned later. ‘I’ll see to his needings.’

With that he shot out his right hand to grip Dusty’s collar. Jerking the small Texan out of the chair, he grinned a little. Hell, a runt like that would be easy meat. In fact two of them would probably reduce the fun by finishing him off too quickly. Catching Dusty’s left wrist from underneath, Slasser deftly turned the trapped arm into a hammerlock position. The move was made with the swift ease of long practise. Experience had taught the sergeant that the combined hold was the best way for a single man to control and make a prisoner walk in a required direction.

Allowing himself to be guided to the wooden steps leading to the basement, Dusty kept alert without resisting. He was ready, if Slasser was to hurl him down the stairs, to try to break the force of his landing. Yet he doubted if the man would do so. Slasser wanted the pleasure of battering him to a pulp and to do it while he could still feel the blows landing.

So Dusty looked around him as he went down the stairs. Ahead of him, at the other side of the basement, were a line of ordinary open cells made out of steel bars. With a feeling of relief, he saw that they were unoccupied. No other prisoners had been brought in since Trumpeter released those already held to take part in the attack on the Snake Ford.

That raised the point of where the Yankees were holding Mrs. Greenhow. Once again Wexler had provided the answer. Turning his head to the right, Dusty studied the two rooms used to house female or dangerous male prisoners, completely enclosed, they had solid wooden doors fitted with peep-holes and secured with double bolts but no locks. Only one of the doors had its bolts closed, so that would be the cell holding the Confederate lady spy.

Having satisfied himself on that score, Dusty gave thought to his escape. He could see well enough, for the basement was lit with hanging lamps. Once he reached the floor, he could make his move.

The moment Dusty felt the hard stone of the basement under his feet, he changed from passively yielding to dangerously active. Alert for the first warning sign, he was ready when Slasser slackened his grip ready to commence the beating. Instantly Dusty stepped back with his left foot, until it was alongside and pointing to the rear of the sergeant’s right boot. Taking his weight on the right leg, Dusty pivoted his body to the left and used its motion to free his trapped arm. Before Slasser had become fully aware of the danger, Dusty drew the bent arm from behind his back. Snapping it upwards and twisting his palm to face his assailant, he pulled the wrist from the other’s fingers.

Up to that point Dusty had displayed only a frightened, unresisting obedience. So the sudden transition to aggression took Slasser completely by surprise. Having already loosened his hold, he could not prevent the trapped wrist from slipping out of his grasp. Instinctively he tightened his grip on the collar, which was what Dusty wanted him to do. Pressing his left forearm and shoulder against Slasser’s right arm, Dusty used the leverage he exerted to throw the other off balance. While he could not apply sufficient pressure to throw the sergeant to the floor, Dusty opened the way for a continuation of the attack. Drawing back his right arm, Dusty ripped a punch into his captor’s solar plexus. Due to his own awkward position, he could not strike with his full power. The blow landed hard enough to bring a grunt of pain from its recipient. While it also caused him to release Dusty’s collar and take an involuntary step to the rear, it did not incapacitate him.

Swiftly Dusty brought up his right foot in a stamping kick aimed at Slasser’s body. Showing considerable speed for so bulky a man, the sergeant snapped his hands down and caught the rising leg by its ankle. With a twisting heave, he pitched Dusty across the basement. Slasser failed to appreciate that his efforts alone did not cause the small Texan’s flight through the air. Feeling his ankle trapped and the first warning twist at it, Dusty applied a counter learned from Tommy Okasi. Thrusting up with his other leg, he added force to the sergeant’s heave and went with it. Long training at
ju-jitsu
and riding had taught Dusty how to fall on even hard surfaces. Covering his head with his forearms, he curled his body into a ball and lit down rolling. The wall halted his progress and he used it to force himself upright.

‘Try to escape, would you?’ Slasser roared, loud enough for the words to reach Pope so that they could be repeated later as ‘proof’ that he had acted in self-defence.

Something about Dusty’s attitude as he rose warned Slasser of danger. No other prisoner had managed to escape from the collar-and-hammerlock take-down hold. Yet the small man had done so— Or was he small? Standing in that half-crouched position of readiness, he gave the impression of size and deadly, latent power. Maybe he called for stronger measures than mere bare hands.

Sliding the baton from its belt loop, Slasser gripped it in his right hand and moved forward. He looked as big as a bull buffalo, dangerous as a winter-starved grizzly bear and meaner than a stick-teased diamondback rattlesnake. Rushing forward, he revised his opinion. Despite the quick way in which he made his feet, the small ‘deserter’ seemed dazed and unready to resist. Disinclined to take chances, but not wanting his victim to lose consciousness too quickly, Slasser raised the baton. Down it whistled in a blow calculated to strike Dusty’s collarbone and either break it or leave it numbly inoperative.

Although Dusty looked dazed, he had never been more alert. Guessing what his attacker intended, he waited until the club began its downwards swing before thrusting himself sideways along the wall. Swinging around before Slasser regained control of the baton, Dusty snapped another side-kick. His boot thudded against Slasser’s right bicep, but not hard enough to put the muscle out of action. Knowing better than to go in close, Dusty made no other attack. He wanted room to manoeuvre, so sprang away from the wall and turned ready to take the offensive.

Once again Slasser displayed his speed. Swivelling in a fast turn, he spat a curse and lunged towards the small Texan. Out licked the club, in a round-house swing powerful enough to crush Dusty’s skull if it had landed. It missed, but the sergeant whipped it across in a snapping back-hand slash directed at the side of Dusty’s head. While launching it, Slasser reached a decision. Much as he hated to admit it, the small ‘captive’ was proving too much for him.

‘Pope!’ the sergeant bawled at the top of his voice. ‘Get’ the he—!’

Realizing the danger, Dusty moved in. He shot his left foot out to the left, bending his right leg and ducking his head and torso underneath the arc of the baton’s swing. Feeling the wind of the stout oak club’s passing stir his hair, he flung up his left hand to block and hold off its return. Hearing Slasser start to shout, he knew that he must finish the sergeant before Pope put in an appearance. It seemed that providence had offered him a way of doing so.

In turning, Slasser had halted with his feet spread apart. From his crouching posture, adopted to evade the blow, Dusty was ideally placed to take the advantage offered to him. Drawing back his right fist, he propelled it forward and, this time, was in a perfect position to strike. Driving up with the full fprce of the small but powerful frame behind them, his knuckles smashed into Slasser’s testicles.