Numbing agony tore at the burly non-com. It was a torment that numbed the mind and tore into his vital organs. Chopping off, the yell for help turned into a croaking bawl of anguish. The baton fell from his limp fingers and he was helpless, unable to think of defending himself against Dusty’s next actions. For, wanting to render the sergeant
hors de combat
before Pope arrived the small Texan did not content himself with merely striking the blow.
From impacting on Slasser’s lower body, Dusty’s right hand flashed up to join the left. They both closed on the trapped wrist, turning the sergeant’s hand palm-upwards. At the same time Dusty spun on his heel so that he stood with his back to Slasser. Levering the arm against its elbow joint, Dusty bent his torso forward and catapulted the man over his shoulder. Turning in the air, he came down hard on to the stone floor. Dusty thought that he heard the pop of breaking bones as Slasser landed. It was a sound that would have gladdened the hearts of many prisoners who had suffered under the burly sergeant’s baton, boots and hard fists.
Following Slasser down, Dusty noticed that his head tilted over at an unnatural angle. The sound he had heard must have been caused by the other’s neck breaking. Jerking open Slasser’s holster, Dusty slid the revolver from it. He could not remember when the smooth, hand-fitting curves of an Army Colt’s butt had last felt so comforting. The sergeant was out of the deal, but that did not mean the game had been won. Dusty still had Pope to deal with; a point very quickly brought home.
‘Did you shout, serge?’ called the corporal from the hall above.
All too well Dusty knew what that meant. When no answer came and Pope could not hear the sounds of Slasser working on the prisoner, he was certain to investigate. So Dusty looked around for a way in which he might silence the second guard. Although he had taken Slasser’s revolver, it did not supply the answer. The sound of a shot might be heard outside the building. Nor did hiding in the main line of cells present a better solution; their barred walls offered no concealment. For a moment Dusty thought of hiding in the room next to where he hoped to find Rose Greenhow. The trouble being that it was the obvious place for him to go.
‘What’s doing down there?’ asked Pope, sounding a mite worried.
Figuring that time was running out, Dusty saw the ideal hiding-place and wondered why he had not thought of it straight away. Darting across to the stairs, he ducked into the triangular cavity beneath them. Used to store the jail’s brooms and buckets, the space was large enough for his purposes. More than that, the wooden steps had no fronts. Dusty found that he could see and, more important, reach through the gaps between the steps.
Almost as soon as he had taken his place, he heard Pope’s footsteps drawing nearer. Slipping the Colt into his waistband to leave both hands free, he drew in a deep breath and let it out gently.
‘You ain’t killed him, have you?’ the corporal demanded anxiously, sounding almost directly above the waiting Texan. ‘If you have, I’d— What the hell—?’
Clearly Pope had just received his first view of Slasser’s sprawled-out body. Dusty wondered what he made of it. Expecting that he would find Slasser standing over the still, possibly lifeless, figure of their ‘prisoner’, learning that the sergeant was the victim must have come as a hell of a shock. The footsteps halted as Pope took in the scene. Faintly Dusty heard the rasp of steel on leather, which meant that the corporal had drawn his revolver, and he waited for the sound of its hammer going back to full cock. The feet resumed their movement without it coming. Either Pope had forgotten a basic precaution, or he held a double-action weapon which did not require cocking before it could be fired. Whichever reason applied, the corporal came down the stairs at a good speed.
‘Keep moving, damn you!’ Dusty breathed, hands raising towards the gap on a level with his eyes. ‘Don’t start figuring out where I’m at!’
Almost as if he had heard and was willing to oblige, Pope continued to hurry down the stairs. Remembering the small size of their prisoner and his apparently meek acceptance of capture, the corporal was astonished by what lay below. Not until half-way to the bottom did he start to realize that he could not locate the second party in the drama.
The realization came just a moment too late.
Seeing Pope’s right foot descend on to the step in front of him, Dusty reached through the gap with both hands. Already steping forward with his other leg, the corporal felt his leading ankle seized in a powerful grip but could not stop himself advancing. Jerking back hard on the captured limb, Dusty contrived to throw Pope off balance. With the corporal’s wail of shock and terror ringing in his ears, Dusty opened his hands. Carried forward by his impetus, Pope hit a lower step with one foot then pitched on across the basement.
Released by its owner, the revolver sailed through the air Hardly daring to breath, Dusty watched its flight towards the cells. It landed on the floor, bounced and struck one of the doors but did not fire.
With no control of his limbs, Pope landed erect and continued to move. Flailing desperately, his arms tried to grab at the air in an attempt to stop himself, but to no avail. Still travelling fast, he crashed head-first into a cell. The top of his skull rammed against one of the steel bars with a sickening thud and he crumpled limply on top of his revolver.
Dusty leapt from the cavity, running towards Pope. Although he went prepared to use boots or hands to complete the silencing, he saw that neither would be necessary. Blood and something grey were oozing from the corporal’s head, spreading evilly on the floor. The way had been opened for Dusty to set Rose Greenhow free.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SATISFIED that he need not worry himself further about the two guards, Dusty still took precautions. Raising Pope’s unresisting body, he retrieved the revolver from beneath it. He examined the gun, recognizing it as a double-action Starr Army model; which explained why the impact against the bars had not caused it to fire. However the force of the collision had damaged the base-pin and thrown the cylinder out of line, so it would be of no use to him.
Dropping the revolver, Dusty rose and crossed the room. Glancing at the stairs, he drew back the bolts and opened the door behind which he hoped to find Rose Greenhow. Light flooded into the small cell, giving Dusty his first view of the woman he had risked his life to rescue. She stood in the centre of the cubicle, blinking a little but tense and alert.
‘Who are you?’ she demanded in a voice as brittle with menace as the spitting snarl of a she-bobcat preparing to defend its young.
In her mid-thirties, Rose Greenhow was a tall woman with a statuesque, magnificently curved figure. Dusty was left in no doubt on that score. Her milk-white shoulders and arms were naked as she hugged at the coarse grey U.S. Army blanket wrapped around her torso. Ending at knee-level, leaving her perfectly-formed bare legs and feet exposed to his gaze, it emphasized the swell of her bosom, slender waist and richly contoured hips. Black hair, somewhat dishevelled at that moment, framed a strikingly beautiful face with proud, defiant, hazel eyes. Surprise showed on her patrician features as she stared at him, mingled with suspicion but giving no hint of fear.
‘Captain Fog, Texas Light Cavalry, ma’am,’ Dusty replied and as Wexler had warned him that she would want proof that he was speaking the truth, went on, ‘Simon Oakland helped me to get in here so that I could rescue you.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ the woman declared, looking at the small, insignificant youngster in the ill-fitting civilian clothes, ‘In fact, I still don’t know why I have been subjected to this scandalous treatment. When my husband hears what has haopened—’
Nothing about her showed that she recognized the name of the man who was to have made contact with her and helped her to reach Ole Devil Hardin. In fact, despite speaking with the accent of a well-bred Southern lady, she sounded genuine in her reaction. There was one thing that made Dusty sure that he had not made a mistake. Clearly she had been disturbed by the sounds of the fight in the basement, even if she could not see it. Looking behind him, her eyes took in the two motionless guards sprawled on the floor. If she was, as she claimed, the wife of a Yankee officer imprisoned by mistake, she ought to be screeching her head off for help.
‘We’ve no time to waste, ma’am,’ he warned, drawing the Colt from his waist-band and offering it butt forward to her. ‘It’s full-capped and loaded. Can you use it?’
Despite her caution, Rose Greenhow desperately wanted to believe a rescue bid was in progress. Yet she knew that the Yankee Secret Service might be trying to trick her. Looking from the revolver to Dusty, she thought fast. If the enemy had faked the escape, they would have selected a more credible ‘rescuer’; one whose stature made him capable of felling the pair of guards. The small man had said he was Captain Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry. He spoke like a well-educated Texan, and she had heard stories of Dusty Fog’s bare-hand fighting prowess. Everything depended on his response to her next words.
‘I leave such violent things to my cousin,’ she said, not touching the gun.
‘Oakland allows that Miss Boyd’s real good with that fancy
ivory
-handled
Navy
revolver
David
Dance made up special for her,’ Dusty answered, knowing that he was facing a test and supplying the information given to him by Wexler.
All Rose’s suspicions went as she listened to the emphasis Dusty placed on certain words. While a Yankee might guess which cousin she had meant, the small Texan knew the maker, type and furnishings of Belle Boyd’s revolver. That information could only have come from somebody deep in the Confederate States’ Secret Service. The details he had given were not of the kind which might have been extracted under torture from a captured spy.
So she accepted Dusty as genuine. Then she saw the quizzical manner with which he was studying her. Thinking fast, she realized that one of his facts had not been entirely correct. Only a small thing. It could have been a mistake — or he might be doing a little testing on his own account.
‘David Dance may have carved the handle,’ she said. ‘But it was George who made the gun.’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Dusty agreed. ‘David’s the wood-worker of the family.’
‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ Rose went on. ‘In my line of work one takes few things at their face value.’
‘It’s a good way to be, ma’am. I’m a mite that way myself,’ Dusty drawled, confirming her suspicion that the wrong name had been deliberate. ‘I’ve settled the guards, but their amigos might come back any time. We’d best get moving.’
‘That won’t be easy,’ Rose pointed out, gesturing at the blanket. ‘They’ve taken all my clothes.’
‘The hell you say!’ Dusty ejaculated. ‘That’s one thing me and Wex — Oakland never figured on. Do you reckon they’re upstairs in the guards’ quarters?’
‘I doubt it. When that Yankee pig of a Provost Marshal had me stripped, he said he would take my clothes to headquarters and make a thorough examination of them. Much good that will do him. All my information is in my head.’
At that moment Dusty was not greatly interested in how Rose carried her information. Silently he cursed the lack of foresight which had caused them to overlook the possibility of the Yankees taking Rose’s clothes. All too well he realized the difficult position her state of undress placed them in. Maybe the blanket served to retain some semblance of her modesty, but it would be completely inadequate for what lay ahead. Even if she could walk barefooted and unnoticed through the back-streets, it would be impossible for her to make the long, hard, fast ride to safety clad in such a manner. Nor could Wexler help. Wanting him to have as good an alibi as possible, Dusty had arranged to head for the Ouachita without meeting him again. Wexler would spend the time until the escape was discovered in the company of Frost, so Dusty could not contact him.
As Rose joined him at the cell’s door, Dusty looked around the basement in search of inspiration. His eyes went to the two motionless shapes on the floor, then swung speculatively back to the woman. From what he read on Rose’s face, her thoughts were running along similar lines to his own.
‘Can you use this, ma’am?’ Dusty inquired, offering her the Colt again.
‘If I have to.’
‘Then take it and watch the stairs. I’ll get you something to wear. Which I sure hope you’re not a choosy dresser, ma’am.’
‘That depends on what I’m dressing for,’ Rose smiled, wondering how she had ever thought of her rescuer as being small. ‘I’m sure that I can manage with what you have in mind, under the Circumstances.’
Taking the revolver from Dusty’s hands, Rose watched him cross the room. Pausing for a moment, he studied the two men and decided that Pope — being slightly smaller than Slasser — was the better suited to his needs. At that the corporal’s clothing would be far too large for Rose, but they had nothing else for her to wear. Glancing over his shoulder, Dusty saw that she had turned her attention to the stairs. Grim determination creased the beautiful face and she handled the Colt with calm competence as her ears strained to catch any warning sounds which came from the entrance hall.
Knowing that he could rely on the woman to keep a good watch, Dusty knelt at Pope’s side and started to undress him. With a wry, distasteful twist to his lips, he unfastened the rawhide laces and removed the ankle-length Jefferson-pattern shoes. Under them Pope had on a pair of almost new, thick grey woollen socks far superior to the usual stove-pipe* variety issued by the Quartermasters’ Department. Taking them off, he thrust them into the shoes and unbuckled the baton-loaded belt. Then he raised Pope into a sitting position, leaning him against the bars of the cell, trying to prevent the blood from running on to the tunic.
Leaving Dusty to work without interruption, Rose maintained her watch on the stairs. Nothing happened to alarm her and at last the small Texan stood up. Carrying a bundle of clothes and a pair of shoes in his arms, he rejoined her. Rose could not hold down a smile as he approached. In addition to the Union-blue coloured garments which she had expected, she noticed one of red flannel material. Glancing by Dusty, she discovered that Pope lay as naked as she had been before wrapping herself in the blanket. Turning her eyes back to her rescuer, she was surprised to see him blushing.
‘They’re not the clothes for a lady, ma’am,’ Dusty apologized. Only it’ll be a rough ride back to our lines and I figured you’d d them.’
‘Anything will be a welcome improvement, Captain,’ Rose assured him. ‘Will you put them on the bed for me, please?’
‘Sure, ma’am,’ Dusty agreed.
‘Then, if you’ll keep watch, I’ll dress as quickly as I can,’ Rose continued, wiping off her smile so as to avoid embarrassing him.
Entering the cell, Dusty dumped his burden on the bunk. Almost snatching the revolver from Rose’s hand, he scuttled through the door. She smiled, wondering if the threat of armed enemies would have made him depart so hurriedly. Still smiling, she dropped the blanket and picked up the long-legged red flannel drawers.
None of the clothing fitted her, which came as no surprise. The trousers hung baggily, but with the suspenders tightened and waist-belt taken to its last notch, they stayed in place. Even with the thick socks on, the ends of the trouser legs tucked into the uppers and the laces drawn as tight as she could manage, she felt that she had her feet inside a couple of packing boxes. However the shoes served their purpose and ought to stay on unless she tried to be too active.
‘How the mighty have fallen,’ Rose sighed ruefully as she buttoned the loose-fitting tunic, thinking back to the days when she had been known as the best-dressed hostess in Washington’s glittering social whirl. ‘I’d hate for Cousin Belle to see me like this.’
Shuffling from the cell, she joined Dusty at the foot of the stairs. In passing, she noticed that he had taken the time to find a blanket and had covered Pope with it.
‘You sure look elegant, ma’am,’ Dusty grinned, looking at her and holding out the corporal’s weapon-belt with the baton hanging from it. ‘There’s only one last touch needed. There’s no revolver, but I’d keep the club if I was you.’
‘Yes, it will help my disguise,’ Rose agreed. ‘I should imagine that ordinary soldiers try to avoid stockade guards. So if any of them see it, they won’t come too close. What I need now is a hat.’
‘Pope must’ve left his upstairs,’ Dusty suggested. ‘Let’s go and look.’
The entrance hall was deserted when they reached it. Leaving Rose to collect the hat, Dusty made for the side door. He intended to look outside, but the open Guard Report Book caught his eye. Thinking of what Wexler had told him about Trumpeter’s reaction to his activities, Dusty started to smile. If any member of Company ‘C’ bad seen that smile, they would have known that their leader was planning some fresh devilment to torment the Yankees. Sliding the Colt into his waistband, he went to the table.
Tucking stray curls under the brim of a Burnside campaign hat she had found, Rose emerged from the guards’ room. She saw Dusty return the pen to the inkpot and straighten up from the table. Wondering what he had been doing, she joined him. A gurgle of delight broke from her as she looked at the book. While waiting, he had filled in the section marked
REASON FOR ARREST OR RELEASE.
‘To be returned to her loved ones,’ Rose read, ‘by order of General Jackson Baines Hardin, C.S.A. Signed, D. E. M. Fog, Captain, Texas Light Cavalry.’ While amused, she felt that she should give a warning. ‘Trumpeter will be fit to be tied when he sees this.’
‘Likely, ma’am,’ Dusty admitted. ‘Which’s why I’ve done it. A man in a temper’s judgment gets clouded. He quits thinking straight and acts rash. So I want for him to know who rescued you.’
‘He’ll still realize that you must have had local help.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Only, way he feels about me already, I’m figuring he’ll be wanting me even worse than the fellers who helped.’
‘Trumpeter’s a vindictive, vicious man, Captain Fog. There’s no telling what he might do to take his revenge on you. Take care in future and don’t fall into his hands.’
‘I’ll try extra hard not to, ma’am,’ Dusty promised and took the key from the lock.
Opening the door, Dusty looked out. Nobody was in sight, so they left the building. Wanting to make things look as normal as possible, he closed and locked the door behind them. Then they walked along the alley towards the rear of the building. Just as they passed through the light thrown by the guards’ room’s window, they heard footsteps behind them.
‘Hold it up there, corporal!’ barked an authoritative voice.
Looking back, Rose saw two men at the mouth of the alley. She recognized both of them. The one in the uniform of a Union Army captain and carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket was the Provost Marshal. At his side, looking a mite distressed and perturbed, waddled Hoffinger.
‘Best do what they say, ma’am,’ Dusty whispered. ‘If we run now, they’ll raise the alarm. Let them come real close.’
Slipping free the baton as she turned, Rose held it concealed at her side. Dusty had not drawn the Colt after filling in the column of the book, but made no attempt to touch it. Everything depended on them retaining the element of surprise. They stood far enough beyond the window’s light to be indistinct shapes rather than identifiable figures. Given just a smidgin of good Texas luck, the approaching men would not discover their mistake until close enough for him to deal silently with them.
‘Where’re you going and what’s that kid doing around here?’ the captain demanded, striding unsuspectingly towards what he assumed to be one of the stockade guards and a local youngster.
Looking at the figures, Hoffinger felt a growing, uneasy suspicion that one of them seemed familiar. Not the corporal, although there was something odd about ‘him’, but the civilian. For some reason, the way the smaller shape stood facing them appeared to strike a chord in Hoffinger’s memory.