Under the Stars and Bars (5 page)

‘Only for a spell,’ the scout replied.

‘Then you are fortunate enough to have companions at hand?’ Wightman insisted.

Interest showed amidst the scowls on the Maxim brothers’ faces, but they refrained from making any hostile gestures and awaited the answer to their leader’s question. Their future relationship with the scout would depend on what he said.

‘ “Californy” Bill’s bringing Major Galbraith ‘n’ Troop “G” along,’ replied the scout frankly. ‘They’ll likely be about four, five miles back by now.’

‘How come you ain’t with ‘em?’ demanded Abel Maxim. ‘The Major left me to take this Reb captain on to Little Rock while him and the Troop run his Company off,’ answered the scout, returning the Colts to the slits in his sash. ‘Should have done it ‘n’ be headed this way by now. “Californy” said’s how he’d bring ‘em on my trail.’

From his position to one side, Dusty heard and understood. Unless he missed his guess, the scout was running a desperate bluff to keep them both out of the guerillas’ hands. Whoever that long-haired jasper might be, he would make a mighty tough enemy in a poker game. Nothing about him hinted he was telling other than the truth. Replacing the Colts created the impression that, with help so close at hand, he did not need fear the quartet. Even the selection of the distance separating him from ‘Californy’ Bill and Troop ‘G’ of the 6th ‘New Jersey’ Dragoons had been carefully made. The scout did not know from which direction the guerillas had come, or how far behind they had observed. So he had picked a distance to which they would have been unlikely to be able to see; yet close enough for speedy reprisals to be taken in the event of treachery on the part of Wightman’s men.

Still weakened by the effects of the scout’s blow, Dusty knew that he could not move fast enough to attempt an escape at that moment. So he remained motionless and silent, watching every move and taking in each word. Studying the guerillas’ acceptance of the scout’s treatment and interplay of questioning glances, Dusty could tell they were uncertain whether the westerner had reinforcements close by or not. So was Dusty, come to that.

Although Aaron Maxim scowled in surly disbelief, he left his doubts unspoken. One taste of the scout’s hard hand had been enough for him and he suspected that, if there should be a next time, the response to further criticism might be a bullet. Of the others, only the largest of the brothers raised any comment.

‘I didn’t know California Bill was hereabouts,’ Abel growled, looking a mite uneasy and concerned.

‘Colonel Benteen lent him ‘n’ me to the “New Jersey” Dragoons for a spell,’ the scout explained. ‘Figured us being such all-fired good Injun-fighters ‘n’ all’s we could maybe help ‘em ag’in the Texas Light Cavalry. You know ole “Californy” from someplace, mister?’

‘We’ve heard tell on him,’ Abel admitted sourly.

‘I tell you, I ain’t never seen his better at reading sign ‘n’ following tracks,’ the scout continued cheerfully, as if imparting information of importance. ‘Which, I sure didn’t try to hide which way we was coming.’

If there was one part of California Bill’s character upon which the scout did not need to elaborate, it was his ability at following tracks. All of Wightman’s party had good reason to remember it.

One of the men who had braved the terrible over-land journey to the West Coast during the gold rush of 1849, California Bill had not made his fortune. Instead, he had received a thorough education in all matters pertaining to Indian warfare. Serving the Union Army as a civilian scout, it had been he—sent East for the duration of the War—who had guided Benteen’s battalion to what Wightman’s guerillas had fondly believed to be a secret camp.

Frowning, the Parson thought fast. For something over a month, he and his last eight companions—two had deserted on the way west—had been living at a small farm close to the Saline River. They had come to Arkansas in the hope that Buller might take a more lenient attitude than most Union, or Confederate, generals towards their irregular activities. Being wolf-smart, Wightman had advised extreme caution. So they had held off committing their usual depredations, except on a minor scale to obtain the necessities of life, until a sympathiser in a Little Rock could discover how the commanding general of the Army of Arkansas would react to their presence in his area.

So far there had been no reply and Wightman knew that his men were getting restless. There were other guerilla bands operating in the Toothpick State, or back East, in which the less well-known members of his outfit might find shelter. So he wanted to be able to give them some definite news as quickly as possible.

Slowly Wightman turned his eyes in the direction of Dusty’s hat and he made sure that he had identified its insignia correctly. The Texas Light Cavalry was Ole Devil Hardin’s own regiment, organised, financed and equipped at his instigation. For such a small, insignificant youngster to be a captain suggested that he stood high in Hardin’s favour. If so, to deliver him into Buller’s hands would gain the general’s approbation. Perhaps sufficiently so for Buller—hard-pressed and under heavy criticism due to his lack of success against the Rebels in Arkansas—to overlook Wightman’s past indiscretions and confer at least a semi-official status upon him.

The only problem being how to obtain possession of the prisoner. Using force did not appeal to the Parson. Not at that moment, anyway. Already the long-haired scout had demonstrated a speed that none of the quartet could equal when drawing their guns. So he would be much too fast for any of them to prevent him from shooting should they force a showdown. Of course their combined numbers would bring them through, but at least one of the four would die. There was an ugly element of chance over which of them it would be that did not appeal to Wightman.

More than that, if the scout had told the truth, killing him would not solve the problem. No matter how they tried, Wightman’s inexperienced companions could not hide all signs of the crime from a man like California Bill. Once the old timer discovered that something had happened to his friend, he would not rest until he had led Troop ‘G’ to the men responsible.

Or was the scout bluffing?

Wightman decided against calling the bluff until he had formed a better impression of what cards the opposition held.

‘Then brother,’ the Parson said, managing to bring a kind of joviality to his sober features. ‘Why not accompany me to my home and wait for your friends there?’

‘Well, I—’ the scout began.

‘We have heard that there are other Rebels between here and Little Rock,’ Wightman interrupted. ‘If you meet them, you might lose your prisoner and your own freedom. I would be doing you a disservice, brother, if I didn’t insist you come.’

‘Wouldn’t be right at all,’ Job Maxim agreed and his brothers rumbled menacing confirmation.

For a moment Dusty thought that the scout intended to refuse. Then he saw the other look across the river and stiffen slightly. There had been a definite challenge in the words. If the scout refused to accompany the quartet, he would have to back his non-compliance with roaring guns. Dusty hoped that he would be able to help in some way. With that in mind, he started to come to his feet.

‘You stay put there, you Rebel bastard!’ Aaron spat, making as if to advance and clenching his fists.

‘Major Galbraith don’t take to folks rough-handling his prisoners,’ the scout stated, moving between Dusty and Maxim.

‘He ain’t here—!’ Abel started to protest.

‘Let’s just say I’m acting for him,’ answered the scout evenly. ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do, Cap’n, go saddle your hoss.’

Shaking his head, for coming into an upright position had started it spinning again, Dusty stood and looked at the scout. He caught a brief, barely discernible nod from the plainsman and decided to obey. Clearly the other did not intend to accept the challenge right then. So Dusty decided that he had better go along with the decision.

Leading the way to the second saddle, the scout picked up the Henry and its fancy medicine boot. Then he stood back and allowed Dusty to collect the saddle. They both noticed Aaron talked animatedly into Wightman’s ear and throwing angry glares at them.

‘He’s sure pot-boiling mad about something,’ Dusty remarked, gathering the saddle-blanket, bridle and reins in his left hand, while his right held the light McClellan saddle and its breast strap.

‘Likely telling the Parson he’s certain sure you’d got me prisoner when he come up on us the first time,’ answered the scout. ‘Which, if it’s believed, ‘ll make a helluva liar out of me.’

Wanting an excuse to prolong the conversation, Dusty allowed his left hand’s burden to slip. Although Wightman and the brothers continued to talk in low, argumentative tones, they did not entirely relax their vigilance over Dusty and the Yankee scout.

‘So nobody’s coming, huh?’ Dusty asked, bending to retrieve the equipment.

‘Not so’s I know on,’ admitted the scout. ‘I’d say we’re safe until
they
get to know it.’

‘Why wait?’ Dusty inquired. ‘Just let me grab a hold of one of my guns, accidental-like and we’ll shoot our way by ‘em.’

‘I’d thought some on it. Near on done it just now, comes to that.’

‘What stopped you?’

An increased sense of liking and admiration grew in the scout. At no time had the small Texan looked at the dead pig, or given a single hint to remind him that he owed his life to the other’s skill with an Army Colt. Maybe they were serving on opposite sides in the civil conflict that was tearing their country apart, but the scout figured his captive would do to ride the river with, even if the water should be over the willows. However, the soft-spoken question required an answer.

‘There’s another son-of-a-bitch of ‘em across the river,’ the scout explained. ‘And he’s got what looks awful like a Spencer rifle pointed slap-dab at us.’

* * *

At the Scout’s warning, Dusty turned his eyes to the western bank of the Saline River. He saw the reason for the scout’s earlier failure to take up the quartet’s challenge. Standing partially concealed by a slippery elm tree, a middle-sized, stocky man looked towards them along the sights of what appeared to be a Spencer repeating rifle. The newcomer’s presence threw an entirely different complexion over the affair. If Dusty and the scout tried to escape, his rifle would halt at least one of them.

Carrying the gear towards the chestnut, with the scout by his left side, Dusty saw Aaron Maxim slouching their way. Instead of showing pure suspicion, Aaron’s unprepossessing features glinted with triumph. He looked like a man who had finally caught out another in a trick or lie. However his present feelings of elation did not entirely wipe away his caution, for he halted well beyond the reach of the scout’s arms.

‘If he was your prisoner all along,’ Aaron challenged, ‘how come you’d had to knock him down when we rid up?’

‘That was your son-of-a-bitching fault,’ rumbled the scout menacingly. ‘If you hadn’t come slinking and crawling about over the river, I’d not’ve stopped watching him. He tried to jump me and I had to knock him down.’

‘Yeah!’ snorted Aaron. ‘Well I—’

‘Deacon!’ the scout called, not wanting Wightman to guess that his identity had been discovered.

‘What is it, brother?’ asked the Parson, flashing a trumphant glance to Abel Maxim at the ‘proof’ that the scout did not recognise them.

‘I’m getting quick-sick of this jasper riding me,’ the scout stated flatly. ‘If he don’t quit—and fast—I’ll forget how he’s suffering over his sister and let windows in his skull. And I’ll do it so fast your “brother” across the river there won’t be fixed to stop me.’

All the pomp and aggression oozed out of Aaron as the implication of the words struck him. Looking at the threatening figure of the long-haired westerner, crouching lightly on spread-apart, slightly bent legs and with hands turned palms outwards close to the white butts of the Colts, he realised that he might be in imminent danger of being killed. Up to that point, confident that Blocky’s presence beyond the ford was unsuspected, Aaron had been all set to face down and call the scout’s bluff. Instead of that, the scout was aware of his peril and had spoken the truth to Wightman. Maybe Blocky would down him, but by that time Aaron would probably be too dead to care.

Although learning that the scout had located Blocky handed Wightman a shock, he tried his best to hide it.

Despite the gaunt man’s objections, Aaron had insisted on going and testing his theory. Wightman had wanted to make sure that the scout did not have friends in the vicinity before taking action, but could not dissuade the hard-case. Watching Aaron’s face, Wightman knew that the other would be only too pleased to be rescued from his predicament.

‘Peace, brothers,’ the Parson intoned as solemnly as if pronouncing a benediction to a wealthy congregation. ‘Peace, lest one of you, like Nicanor, lays dead in his harness. Curb thy tongue, Brother Aaron, for it is as the crackling of thorns under a pot. And you, stranger, bear with him in his grief, toil and tribulations. To err is human, to forgive, divine.’

Only too eager to slip out without loss of face—or life— Aaron grunted what might have been an apology and turned to lurch back to his brothers. Being too wise a man to take the matter further, the scout let the hard-case go without protest or added comment.

‘Close,’ Dusty breathed, continuing his interrupted walk towards the horses.

‘Real close,’ agreed the scout. ‘He looked like to wet his pants when I let on about his “brother” over there.’

For all his apparent calm, the scout felt distinctly uneasy. He knew that the quartet were suspicious, but hoped he had so far avoided confirming their doubts. Possibly the forthcoming saddling of the chestnut would give them further reason to know that he had been lying. Not by the fact that the Rebel captain carried a Union Army McClellan saddle, bearing a metal insignia inscribed with the letters ‘US’ at the intersection of the breast-collar’s Y-shape. Shortages of materials in the South had caused its Armies to rely to a great extent on what they could loot from the Yankees.

The chestnut gelding caused the scout’s anxiety. Spirited, it required careful and competent handling. Perhaps the small Texan lacked the necessary skill to gain its confidence. If so, the four guerillas would guess that the chestnut did not belong to him. Of course, that could be explained away by a statement that the Rebel had lost his own mount; but the suspicions would increase.

Studying the chestnut as he approached it, Dusty’s assessment of its nature coincided with the scout’s. Going by the steady manner in which it stood, it was used to being collected by hand rather than roped. So Dusty drew closer at an angle from ahead and towards its near shoulder. Speaking gently and calmly, he laid his right hand on its shoulder. From there, showing no hesitation, he ran his palm across the chestnut’s withers, along its neck and to the head.

Watching the manner in which Dusty rapidly gained the gelding’s confidence, the scout breathed a sigh of relief. To the quartet hovering in the background, it would seem that the small Texan knew the horse and was treating it in the usual manner.

Satisfied he could deal with the horse, Dusty knotted the separate ends of the reins. He then slipped them over the sleek, well-formed head, but kept them just behind the ears. Doing so gave him a measure of control over the gelding if it should try to move away from him. With deft ease, Dusty fitted the bridle into position and adjusted the bit in the chestnut’s mouth.

Fortunately for himself and the scout, Dusty had handled enough Yankee McClellan saddles to be conversant with their differences from his double-girthed range rig. After placing the folded blanket in position, he draped the right side’s stirrup leathers and girth across the seat. Hoisting the saddle into the air, he laid it on the chestnut’s back. With the girth tightened and the breast-collar fitted as perfectly as the scout could have desired, Dusty set the stirrups to the level of his shorter legs. He made the latter move under the pretence of testing the fit of the saddle, and avoided permitting the quartet to notice that the stirrup-leathers had been adjusted for a much taller man’s use. Freeing the reins from their knot, he held them while he unbuckled the hobbles, which he placed in the left-hand saddle-pouch.

Hanging Dusty’s gunbelt across the dun’s saddle, the scout secured the medicine boot to the left side of the pommel. Then he removed and put away his hobbles.

‘Mount up, Reb,’ he ordered. ‘We’re all set to go, Deacon.’

‘Come with us then,’ Wightman commanded.

‘Now I ain’t suggesting nothing,’ the scout said, in a tone that showed he was. ‘But I reckon it’d be safer for “Brother” Aaron to ride in front of me— Just so’s he can stop the Reb here from escaping.’

‘A goodly notion, brother,’ affirmed Wightman, silencing Aaron’s protests before they could be uttered. ‘Now I’m a man of peace and know nothing about such things, but shouldn’t you fasten that blasphemous Southern dog’s reins to your saddle? He may try to seek safety in flight.’

‘He’ll not achieve it with us all ‘round him,’ the scout answered.

‘If he does,’ Abel growled, ‘we’ll stop him for good and all.’

‘Likely he knows it,’ said the scout calmly and swung astride the dun. ‘Come on, I can surely use some breakfast.’

Mounting up, the guerillas formed a loose box around Dusty and the scout. Glowering savagely, Aaron went ahead. Wightman rode at the scout’s left side and Job moved into position to Dusty’s right. Drawing the Mississippi rifle from its boot, Abel brought up the rear. Splashing through the ford, they were joined by the Spencer-toting man on the western bank.

‘Who’re they, Parson?’ Blocky inquired, nursing the repeater across his upper thighs.

‘A soldier in the blessed cause, Brother Blocky,’ Wightman answered. ‘And a miserable peckerwood wretch who cowardly surrendered himself in the face of the righteous wrath of Colonel Verncombe’s Dragoons.’

‘Verncom—!’ Blocky ejaculated, looking around nervously. ‘Is he—?’

‘One of his Troops is coming,’ Wightman answered. ‘Until it arrives, I am extending our hospitality to our brother here.’

With that, the gaunt man jerked his head to the rear. Allowing the others to ride by, Blocky ranged his mount alongside Abel’s and started to converse with him in a low tone. Dusty guessed that Abel was giving Blocky the full story and mentioning Wightman’s plans for the future. However, the pair held their voices at such a level that the words did not carry to the small Texan’s ears.

Led by Aaron, the party passed through the woods parallel to the river for about half a mile. Then they swung along the banks of a stream that ran through a narrow, wood-sided gorge. Turning a corner, Dusty found that the gorge opened out and he received his first sight of the guerillas’ camp. An inclination of the scout’s head drew Dusty’s attention to where, on his right-hand slope, a tall, gangling man sat nursing a Sharps rifle and resting his back against a fallen tree’s trunk. Making as if to rise, the man received an imperious downwards wave from Wightman. Guessing at its meaning, he sank back again and resumed his watch on the bend in the gorge.

From the sentry, Dusty turned his gaze to the band’s hideout. What he saw filled him with a sense of suspicious contemplation. The small log cabin, with a lean-to at the left and a truck garden to the right, the barn, backhouse and the empty pig-pens down by the stream all looked in too good condition to have been deserted by their owners for any length of time. Dusty wondered what had happened to the people who had lived there.

On arriving at the front of the house, the men spread into a line. Giving the signal to dismount, Wightman swung from his saddle. Then he seemed to be struck by a thought and looked at Abel.

‘Will you and Brother Blocky go and see to the horses down in the south forty?’ the Parson asked. ‘I thought that I heard a mountain lion last night and they may be in fear and trembling from the beast.’

‘Sure, Parson,’ Abel answered, reversing his direction halfway to the ground. ‘Come on, Blocky. Let’s go see.’

‘And you, friend,’ Wightman continued, clearly wanting to prevent the scout from thinking too much about the order. ‘If you will come with me, we will secure your prisoner in the barn. You will understand, that with Brother Aaron’s feelings about the God-less Secessionists, I can neither have him in the house, nor let him partake of our food.’

Even with his desire to hang on to Dusty, Wightman could not lessen his bigoted, intolerant hatred towards one of the people whom he blamed for failing to receive the bishopric. That thought more than any other had prompted his words.

‘It’s your place ‘n’ your food,’ the scout answered, although he shared Dusty’s thoughts on the absence of the real owners. ‘Let’s go, Reb.’

Even as they walked towards the corner of the cabin, the scout realised that he had left Dusty’s gunbelt suspended over his saddle. Knowing that to fetch it might arouse suspicion, he made no attempt to do so.

A tall, fairly handsome young man, dressed in the part-military fashion of all the band but Wightman, ambled around the corner towards them. A low-tied holster on his right thigh carried an Army Colt, balanced by an empty sheath at his left hip. The knife from the sheath, a long, spear-pointed, double-edged weapon, was in his right hand. Not for any Sinister purpose, but to round the one-inch diameter end of a six-inch length of oak branch. From beyond the cabin came the explosive snorts and hoof-stampings of an angry horse, mingled with loud curses.

‘What’s happening, Charley?’ asked Wightman.

‘Ole Stap brung in a real fine-looking black hoss,’ the young man answered. ‘Trouble being, they ain’t getting on too good.’

‘Let’s take a look,’ Wightman suggested.

On turning the corner, Dusty received a shock. Behind the cabin, concealed from their view by it and the barn, was a small pole corral. At its open entrance, a big, burly young man—apparently a younger member of the Maxim family, clung to the reins of Dusty’s black stallion with his left hand. In his right, he held a leather quirt. Even as the man appeared, Stap lashed savagely at the stallion with the quirt. Squealing in pain, it reared high and its front hooves flailed the air. Stap moved back, trying to drag the horse down on all fours. Snarling obscenities, he drew the quirt over his right shoulder and prepared to use it again. If he heard the angry growl and sound of rapidly approaching feet to his rear, the sounds gave no warning of danger to him. However, something closed on the end of the quirt. Before Stap could resist, the whip was wrenched from his fingers.

Hot rage blasted inside Dusty at the sight. Ignoring the danger doing it presented, he hurled himself from among the other men. He had spent much time in winning the stallion’s confidence and training it by far gentler means than were usual in the mid-1860’s. In return for his kindness, the horse had given him very good service. Only the previous evening, it had even saved his life by its courage, stamina and speed. So he could not stand back and watch it abused by the foul-mouthed, brutal-faced guerilla.

Four racing strides carried Dusty within distance of Stap. Out stabbed the small Texan’s right hand. Gripping the lash of the quirt, he tore it from the other’s grasp and flung it aside. Spitting curses like boiling water erupting from a kettle’s spout, Stap released the stallion’s reins. Already drawing back, the big horse retreated into the corral. It’s tormentor swung around, glaring in almost maniacal rage. Finding himself faced by a small, insignificant-looking Rebel captain, Stap let out another screech.

‘I’ll kill you!’ he howled and hurled a power-packed round-house left towards Dusty’s head.

With his fist in flight, Stap became aware of a sudden, amazing, almost scaring change come over his proposed victim. Suddenly, miraculously, the Rebel stopped looking small. He seemed to take on a size and heft to make him larger and more powerful than his brawny assailant. Unfortunately for him, Stap noticed the change too late to halt his attack.