Kill Dusty Fog (16 page)

‘Sounds like the feller in Stegner’s bunch, the one they call Rocky Mountains,’ Smith answered. ‘He allows to be a better’n fair shot with that rifle.’

‘And
that’s
why we didn’t find any identification!’ Rose said. ‘He was a guerilla trying to collect the bounty.’

‘I wondered if he might be one,’ Dusty confessed. ‘Only I knew no lousy guerilla’d come after any of us just to serve the North.’

‘The same thing occurred to me,’ Rose admitted. ‘But it seemed so unlikely — Why didn’t I speak. We could have been on guard—’

‘You weren’t to know,’ Ole Devil told her gently. ‘None of us could imagine a general of the United States Army would stoop to doing it.’

‘I
should
have realized!’ Rose insisted. ‘All along I’ve known Trumpeter was a rabid radical, the kind who’d break if he found himself under any strain. I ought to have guessed it was possible he’d hire men to kill Dusty.’

‘Nobody blames you, Rose,’ Hondo declared; then his face clouded. Before the War, he had fast been gaining a name as one of the most shrewd peace officers in Texas. During that time he had developed the habit of looking at any incident from all its angles. Doing the same on the Prescott street, he reached an ugly conclusion. ‘If Trumpeter sent those bounty notes to Mattison and Stegner, he’ll have passed them to the other guerilla bands.’

‘And it’s likely that they’ll be trying to claim the reward,’ Rose went on.

‘That’s how I see it,’ Dusty remarked in the same quiet voice with which he had ordered Billy Jack to arm Smith.

‘It’ll have to be stopped!’ Rose stated. ‘Grant wouldn’t allow it if he heard of Trumpeter’s actions.’

‘Grant’s a long ways off,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘Time we can get word to him, could be somebody else’ll have been killed in mistake for me. No ma’am, Rose. There’s only one man who can stop that bounty quick enough to do any good. The feller who’s offering it.’

‘
Trumpeter!
’ Rose gasped, staring at the small Texan as she began to understand what he meant.

‘Yes’m. And I’m fixing to give him a chance to earn his own bounty.’

‘He’d never cancel the offer!’ Ole Devil said, then realization struck him. ‘You mean that you’re going to face him down?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Dusty confirmed.

‘Not alone you won’t!’ Red Blaze declared. He had arrived with the others and listened to the conversation while comforting Georgina’s mother. ‘The whole Company, the whole regiment comes to that. ‘ll be with you.’

‘They won’t,’ Dusty contradicted. ‘Just me and four men’re going.’

‘Who’re the other
three
?’ Red wanted to know.

‘Billy Jack, Kiowa happen he’s back in time, Vern Hassle—’

‘I’ll volunteer, Capn’ Dusty,’ Sandy McGraw announced, beating Sergeant Weather to it by a split second.

‘You, Sandy,’ Dusty confirmed. ‘This’s no chore for a married man, Stormy. You’ll run the Company as acting sergeant major while we’re gone.’

‘Dusty, you can’t—!’ Rose protested.

‘Those bounty letters won’t be done with until one of us is dead,’ Dusty replied. ‘Already one innocent girl’s been killed because of them. There could be others. So I’m going to stop them.’

‘What’re we going to need, Cap’n Dusty?’ asked Billy Jack.

And then the sergeant major, Red and Sandy realized that permission for the mission to proceed had not been given. So they turned their eyes towards Ole Devil, As always, he thought first but came to a decision without a waste of time.

‘You think you can achieve something, Dustine?’

‘I’m going to try,’ Dusty stated. ‘I won’t take chances, sir. I want to get to Trumpeter too bad for that.’

‘What do you think, Hondo?’ asked the general. ‘He’s your son.’

‘And he’s set on going,’ Honda replied. ‘There’s no way, short of hog-tying him, that’ll stop him. And I know that, whatever he does, it’ll be thought out carefully, not rushed at blind.’

Which agreed with Ole Devil’s summation. He had already made up his mind, but had needed the extra seconds to steel himself for giving the permission that might send two of his nephews and three good soldiers to their death. The fact that they would go with or without authority provided him with some small consolation; and he knew that something must be done to stop the guerillas acting on the bounty offer.

‘Good luck, Dustine,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything you need, ask for it.’

‘Let me go with you, Dusty,’ Betty put in. ‘Please. Lord! I could have talked Cousin Georgie out of this foolishness, but I didn’t try. I’ll go mad if I don’t do something.’

Looking at Betty, Rose felt that she must speak. This was no naive girl filled with ideas of how glamorous a life she might have as a spy. Betty had matured, grown up, changed in the minutes since Georgina had died. While aware of how dangerous the mission would be, Rose felt that Betty deserved a place on it and might be of assistance.

‘Take her, Dusty,’ Rose begged. ‘I’d come with you, but I don’t ride well enough and would slow you down.’

Betty and Dusty faced each other, standing withouut speaking for several seconds. He knew that she would accept his refusal, but that things would never be the same between them again. So he nodded his head and said, ‘You can come.’

oooOooo

*The normal Army model had an eight inch barrel.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

PATROLLING outside the eastern wall of General Trumpeter’s residence was not a duty Private Sloan regarded with enthusiasm. Unlike on the other three sides, no gates pierced his part of the wall. So he could not stop and chat with the stationary sentries. The duty would have seemed less onerous if there had been any logical point on keeping watch that side. In addition to the ten-foot stone wall around the property, the nearest dwellings — a pair of smaller houses some fifty yards away — had been commandeered and were occupied with Union personnel. Anyways, who the hell among the Rebs would figure on sneaking in and killing old ‘Bugle-horn’ Trumpeter. Fact being, from the hash he had made of things since his arrival, the Confederate States Army ought to be real keen to leave him in command.

Just about the only consolation Sloan could find came from his clothes. No longer did Zouave regiments wear fancy copies of frog-eating French uniforms, but dressed like honest-to-God American soldiers. He preferred even a forage cap to the Zouave fez. Over his infantry uniform, he wore an overcoat with a shorter cloak than that sported by cavalrymen. Around the coat was his well-polished cartridge-box belt, with leather sling, passing diagonally from the cartridge box on his right hip to the left shoulder, cap box, bayonet scabbard and canteen; although Sloan could not see the point of carrying the latter.

The sound of footsteps drew his attention to the gap between the adjacent houses. Bringing his rifle and bayonet to the required position — In case it was the officer-of-the-day making rounds, rather than expecting to need the weapons — he gave the prescribed challenge.

‘Halt. Who goes there?’

‘Now you-all don’t think lil ole me’s a Johnny Reb soldier, do you?’ answered a feminine voice.

Peering through the darkness, Sloan made out the figure of a girl coming towards him. Small, dainty, wearing a sleeveless white blouse and a skirt of glossy black material, she walked with an attractive hip-sway. Lowering his rifle, Sloan grinned. Every enlisted man knew that the officers entertained ladies — a very loose definition — in their quarters, regardless of Regulations. So he saw nothing suspicious about her presence.

‘Where you going, gal?’ Sloan demanded, figuring he had best not ask where she had been.

‘Home,’ she replied. ‘Don’t you-all tell me it’s not allowed.’

‘It’s after curfew,’ Sloan pointed out. ‘I’m supposed to holler for the sergeant of the guard.’

‘If you do, he’ll only take me off someplace and — scold me a lil,’ the girl purred. ‘Now a big, strong, handsome gentleman like you won’t let that happen to me, will you?’

What do
I
get if I don’t?’

‘A kiss — for starters.’

Figuring that he could take the chance, even if no more than a kiss came out of it, Sloan leaned his rifle against the wall. Then he took a stride forward and put his arms around the girl’s waist. From what he felt, she wore nothing under the blouse. She was warm, inviting, yielding to the force of his charm. As he lowered his face, she brought up her hands to his shoulders. Savouring in anticipation the coming kiss, he became aware that three men in uniform were approaching from the gap through which the girl had appeared. They were cavalry soldiers, going by their uniforms, but no Union cavalry wore gunbelts of that kind.

Even as Sloan’s grip slackened, the girl slipped her right leg between his spread apart feet. At the same time, she thrust up her hands. The bases of her palms rammed with some force under his chin. Bright lights blazed briefly before Sloan’s eyes. Deftly the girl hooked her advanced leg behind his left foot as the force of the double blow caused him to retreat. Tripping, he fell backwards and his skull smashed into the wall as he went down.

‘Nice going, Cousin Betty!’ Dusty Fog complimented, as he, Kiowa and Billy Jack sprang forward.

‘Is he dead?’ Betty Hardin inquired worriedly, watching the gangling sergeant major kneel by the sentry’s motionless body.

All too clearly Betty saw what Rose Greenhow had meant about the unpleasant nature of a spy’s work. There had been nothing gay, romantic, or noble in tricking the sentry, necessary though it might have been.

When Kiowa had returned, saying he had back-tracked the dead guerilla for five miles without learning anything, Dusty’s party made ready to travel. With Betty wearing boy’s clothing and all non-essentials left behind, they had made a fast but uneventful ride from Prescott.

Leaving Red and Sandy to guard the horses and, when the time came, cut the telegraph wires, Dusty took Betty and his men into Little Rock. Visiting Wexler, Dusty found him preparing to send a warning about Trumpeter’s bounty offer. On learning of the events in Prescott, he put all his knowledge at Dusty’s disposal. Not only had he made a very accurate map of the general’s residence, but he gave a complete description of its staff and the manner in which it was guarded. With that done, he had continued to tell of the most recent developments.

Since Rose Greenhow’s escape and learning — through rumours started by Wexler — of Hoffinger’s ‘treachery’, Trumpeter had become suspicious and uncommunicative; which explained the undertaker’s delay in discovering the offer had been made. Not even the officers who had delivered the notes knew of the contents. On learning of the general’s actions and obtaining one of the letters, Wexler had arranged for it to reach Colonel Verncombe. Little love was lost between the Dragoon and Trumpeter. Knowing Verncombe to be the most senior officer under the general, Wexler had hoped that something might come of the colonel learning such an offer had been made.

Disinclined to wait in the hope that something might happen, Dusty had decided to go on with his plan. From what he had learned, he considered the eastern wall offered the best point of entry — if its sentry could be removed in silence. Rather than chance stalking the man across the open ground, he had arranged for Betty to act as a decoy. Warned of what she might need by Rose Greenhow, Betty had brought along suitable clothing. Consisting only of the blouse and skirt, borrowed from a girl who knew Billy Jack very well, the weight of her disguise had been negligible and proved its worth. Picking a time shortly after the sentries had been changed, she had done all Dusty required. The way she had handled Sloan was her own idea, backed with the training received from Tommy Okasi.

‘He’ll live,’ Billy Jack answered, unbuckling Sloan’s cartridge belt.

‘You’re nearest his size,’ Dusty told the sergeant major. ‘Get dressed pronto and start walking his beat.’

‘I allus knowed you aimed to bust me,’ Billy Jack complained as he drew the cartridge-box’s sling over the sentry’s head. ‘Only I never figured it’d be to private in the Yankee Army,’

‘And a puddle-splasher at that,’ Betty went on, smiling weakly. ‘Why I’m shamed by your meanness, Cousin Dusty.’

Glancing at his cousin, Dusty grinned. Often he had seen new recruits on their first dangerous mission relax and gain confidence from Billy Jack’s gloomy wailing. Betty appeared to have thrown off her worry and concern, caused by the way she had deceived the sentry.

While Dusty kept watch, Billy Jack removed Sloan’s accoutrements and overcoat. He donned the garments himself, heaving Betty and Kiowa to rope and gag the unconscious sentry.

‘How’ll I do?’ Billy Jack inquired, putting on the Yankees kepi.

‘You’ll get by, happen you keep your boots out of sight,’ Dusty replied.

Yankee infantry wore trousers and Jefferson bootees, but the overcoat was too short to hide the discrepancy.

‘You could walk kind of scrunched up,’ Betty suggested.

‘If that’d’ve been Cap’n Dusty,’ moaned the sergeant major, ‘He’d’ve told me to cut a foot or so off my legs.’

‘I had thought of that,’ Betty assured him, ‘but it would take too long.’

‘Let’s go!’ Dusty ordered. ‘You all know what to do. If I’m not back to you three minutes after any shooting starts, I’ll be dead, so get away.’

‘Yo!’ Kiowa answered, with as near emotion as he ever showed, moving to stand with his back to the wall.

Dusty placed his right foot in the sergeant’s cupped hands and thrust upwards with his left leg. Assisted by Kiowa’s lift, he rose and swung himself on to the garden wall. Lowering himself on the other side, he dropped into the garden. There he crouched against the wall, searching for signs that his arrival had been detected. Wexler had claimed that no sentries patrolled inside the grounds, but precautions cost nothing and kept a man alive. Certain at last that he was undetected, he began to move across the garden.

Passing amongst the bushes, Dusty pictured what his companions would be doing. Beyond the wall, Betty and Kiowa were dragging the sentry away while Billy Jack walked the beat. Then the girl would return, ready to stand and talk with the sergeant major if the north or south wall sentry happened to look. Out with the horses, Red and Sandy waited for sounds of shooting before cutting the telegraph wires. To do so earlier might prevent a routine message from going out. That would alert the Yankees, for cutting the wires was a regular habit of the Texas Light Cavalry when on patrol in Union territory.

On reaching the corner of the house, Dusty looked along its front. He saw nobody and kept moving. Once he had to creep on hands and knees beneath a window, with Yankees officers talking inside the room, but he reached the big old white oak which — if Wexier’s description had been correct — reared before the window of Trumpeter’s office.

The gnarled condition of the trunk offered sufficient footholds for him to climb the twelve foot or so to the lowest branch. By keeping on the house’s side of the trunk, he avoided detection by the main gate’s sentries. Once in the branches, he moved fast. Nor did reaching the general’s balcony prove difficult. Stepping from a branch on to the stone balustrade, he saw a chink of light glowing from the centre of the drawn drapes. That meant the room most likely had occupants. However its windows were open, relieving Dusty of the task of forcing an entry.

Advancing on silent feet, Dusty looked through the tiny gap in the drapes. Going by the single star on the epaulettes of the man standing by the desk, Dusty had found General Trumpeter’s room. The other’s actions caused him to wait instead of entering. Slipping a .32 calibre metal-case cartridge into the cylinder of a Smith & Wesson No. 2 Army revolver, Trumpeter pivoted its barrel down to connect with the frame. Even as Dusty prepared to step through the drapes, a knock at the door changed his plans. With an almost furtive, guilty air, Trumpeter cocked the revolver and placed it in the open right hand drawer of the desk. Dusty felt puzzled by what he saw. Surely a brigadier general, even if he was a soft-shell appointed for political rather than military reasons, ought to know better than leave a cocked revolver lying around.

‘Come in,’ Trumpeter called, without closing the drawer.

A young lieutenant entered, the one-eighth of an inch gold cord down the outer seams of his trouser leg showing him to be a member of the staff. Behind him came a big, burly man wearing the double-breasted jacket and eagle-insignia of a colonel. Even without the buff facings of the uniform, different in shade to the normal cavalry yellow, Dusty recognized Colonel Verncombe of the 6th New Jersey Dragoons. He had seen the colonel from a distance on more than one occasion during the fighting at the Snake Ford.

‘You can go, Mr. Frost,’ Trumpeter said and Dusty thought that he detected a signal pass between the general and lieutenant.

‘What do you know about this?’ Verncombe demanded, stalking to the desk as Frost backed from the room and closed the door.

Without looking at the sheet of paper thrown before him, Trumpeter scowled at his visitor and replied, ‘There’s still a difference in our ranks, Verncombe!’

‘To hell with rank!’ Verncombe barked, tapping the paper with his right forefinger. ‘Did you put this damnable thing out?’

What if I did?’ challenged Trumpeter and sat down.

‘It’s monstrous, that’s what. A general in the United States Army using his official position to settle a personal vendetta.’

For a moment Trumpeter did not reply. His eyes flickered in the direction of the door and Dusty formed the conclusion that he expected somebody to arrive. Then the general swung his gaze back to Verncombe. In a casual-seeming gesture, Trumpeter inched his right hand towards the open drawer.

‘Watch your words, Vemcombe!’ Trumpeter spat out. ‘Your conduct is mutinous — and not for the first time.’

‘If my conduct is mutinous, I’d like to know what you call your own,’ the colonel blazed back. ‘Having young Fog murdered by some stinking guerilla won’t excuse your mistakes.’

‘Have a care, Verncombe!’ Trumpeter snarled, speaking loud and darting another glance at the door. ‘You’ll go too far!’

Suddenly everything became clear to Dusty. Now he understood why Trumpeter had loaded the revolver and placed it cocked in the open drawer. The exchange of signals between the general and Frost, taken with the interest in the door and over-loud comments gave the game away. Unless Dusty missed his guess, Trumpeter planned to kill Verncombe and had done so before the other produced the damning bounty offer or spoke mutinously.

What was more, Dusty knew why. After so many failures Trumpeter must be under heavy fire from Washington and in danger of losing his command. So he planned to use an old method of worming out of difficulties. Select a scapegoat, someone who could be blamed for all the failures. And who better than the most senior colonel in the Army of Arkansas. Accuse Verncombe of everything — after he was dead and unable to refute the charges — and escape the consequences.

There might even be a more personal reason for selecting Verncombe. Whatever small credit accrued from the Snake Ford affair had gone to the colonel. Everybody knew — and Trumpeter knew that they knew — Verncombe had done well in straightening out his superior’s muddles. So the general had every reason to hate the burly, competent Dragoon.

Dusty understood the whole situation; including that he must intervene or see the colonel murdered. From all appearances, Verncombe was too angry to see his danger and was headed for a carefully laid trap.