Small!
That was the word needed to trigger off the dude’s realization of the truth. Dusty Fog had stood in just such a manner, apparently relaxed but at coil-spring readiness, just before launching his attack on Glock.
‘It’s DusTY FO—!’ Hoffinger yelped, his voice rising higher as the certainty of the suspicion grew.
The recognition had not come quickly enough. Already the two men were in the darkness beyond the window and close to the waiting couple. Although it had been Dusty’s intention to silence the Provost Marshal first, he changed his mind in a hurry. Hoffinger must be prevented from making any more noise.
Mentally cursing the lousy turn of fate that had brought the chubby dude to the jail-house, Dusty sprang forward. With the speed that allowed him to draw and shoot a Colt in less than a second, his right hand stabbed in Hoffinger’s direction. A thumb and four powerful fingers closed about the dude’s throat, sinking in and tightening with a force that paralysed his vocal cord. Even as Hoffinger’s words chopped off, Dusty’s left hand reached for the Colt in his waistband ready to deal with the Yankee officer.
The need did not arise. For a refined, well-bred Southern lady, Rose showed a remarkably quick grasp of the situation and moved with commendable speed. Seeing Dusty leap at and silence the dude, she devoted herself to the Provost Marshal. In fact, recalling the humiliation suffered at his hands during the search and removal of her clothing, she found satisfaction in being given the chance to settle accounts with him.
Bringing up the baton, she lunged and drove its tip hard into his solar plexus. With a croak of pain, he dropped the bundle and jerked backwards. Rose followed him, swinging the baton around. Crashing on to the captain’s head, which was encased in a silk-braided fatigue cap, the blow tumbled him to the ground.
‘And Cousin Belle couldn’t have done it neater,’ Rose told herself. Then, hearing a sound from the rear of the alley, she turned with the baton lifting to strike.
Dragging the croaking Hoffinger after him at arm’s length, Dusty also turned. He recognized the tall, lean shape looming through the blackness and spoke a warning, ‘Don’t hit him. ma’am. He’s one of mine.’
Judging by his captain’s tone that some explanation of his presence might be called for, Kiowa decided to avoid making it if he could. Instead he acted as if he had been obeying orders.
‘Thought I heard somebody coming ‘round the back, Cap’n Dusty. It war only a cat when I got there.’
With a heave, Dusty propelled the half-strangled Hoffinger towards the scout. Catching the front of the dude’s jacket in his left hand, Kiowa held the point of his knife to the centre of the fancy vest.
‘Keep him quiet!’ Dusty ordered. ‘How’s the captain, Mrs. Greenhow?’
‘He looks better now than when we last met,’ she replied and the tension she felt made her continue. ‘For the Good Lord’s sake call me “Rose”. You make me feel old, saying “ma’am” and “Mrs.” ’
‘Yes, m — Rose,’ Dusty grinned, looking at the Provost Marshal and deciding he would be no danger for some time. ‘Let’s go.’
‘How about him, Cap’n?’ Kiowa inquired, shaking Hoffinger who was too busy trying to recover from the strangling grip to protest.
For a moment Dusty hesitated and Hoffinger’s life hung in the balance. If Dusty had given the word, Kiowa would have driven his knife home. Two things saved the chubby dude, Dusty’s aversion to cold-blooded, unnecessary killing and the fact that he saw a way of making use of the man.
‘Bring him with us,’ Dusty ordered. ‘But if he tries to make fuss, or shout to anybody, kill him.’
‘That’s easy enough done,’ drawled Kiowa, deftly twirling his captive towards the rear of the building. Transferring his hold to the back of Hoffinger’s coat collar, he pricked the bowie knife at the spot where its blade could most easily reach the kidneys.
‘Start your feet moving,
hombre
. Do like Cap’n Dusty says or I’ll you here permanent.’
‘Remembering Kiowa as vividly as Dusty from their last encounter, Hoffinger did not doubt that he would obey his captain’s order. So he had no intention of causing trouble, or trying warn any members of the garrison they chanced to meet that Rose Greenhow had escaped.
‘This’s the Provost Marshal, Dusty,’ Rose remarked, stirring the unconscious officer with her toe. ‘Perhaps he was coming to collect me.’
‘Or set you free, figuring it was all a mistake,’ Dusty answered, picking up the bundle. ‘This feels like it’s got clothes and shoes it.’
‘They’d know Hoffinger didn’t make a mistake,’ Rose told him. ‘There was a knife-bracelet and a ring that would tell them who am. Come on, we’d better get away from here.’
An unprotesting Hoffinger allowed himself to be hustled through the back streets. Nobody saw the party and they reached he outskirts without being challenged. As he walked, he wondered why Dusty had ordered that he be brought along. Not to be killed that could have been done just as easily by the jail-house and was against the small Texan’s chivalrous nature. Certainly not as a hostage, to be traded for their freedom if they were aught. Dusty Fog, and more particularly Rose Greenhow, knew the Yankees would never make such a
trade
.
‘Why have you brought him, Dusty?’ Rose inquired and Hoffinger listened with interest. ‘Will you release him when we get to the horses?’
‘No, ma — Rose. I’m going to take him with us to Prescott.’
‘Because he denounced me to the Yankees? If so, I assure you that I’ve no desire for revenge. It was my own fault that I was recognized. I felt so sure that nobody in Arkansas would recognize me that I didn’t travel in disguise.’
‘Revenge’s not what I’m figuring on. Like you said at the jail-house, Trumpeter’s going to know I had help from somebody in Little Rock. So I’m fixing to let him know who it was.’
‘I don’t—’ Rose began, then gasped out, ‘Hoffinger!’
‘Yes’m. There’s going to be a rumour started that he’s one of our spies. Old Trumpeter’s going to be reminded of a few lil things. Like how we knew where to find the remounts and how we come to be on the Snake Ford at just the right time after we’d met Hoffinger. Time we’re through, Trumpeter’ll be certain that Hoffinger’s been working for us all along.’
‘You’ve hit it!’ Rose enthused. ‘He’ll even think that Hoffinger denouncing me was part of a plot to make him look foolish when I escaped. He’s egotistical enough to accept that we’d do it just to have him removed from command, for fear of his brilliance.’
Listening, Hoffinger felt a shudder run through him. Once those rumours started to circulate, he was a doomed man in Little Rock. Remembering Trumpeter’s delight at capturing the notorious Rose Greenhow, he could imagine the reaction when the general heard of her escape. Hoffinger’s disappearance would seem like conclusive proof of guilt. Ironically, he had asked to accompany the Provost Marshal, on hearing that the officer intended to interrogate Rose, hoping that his presence would prevent her from being brutally ill-treated. Not that his good intentions, even if Trumpeter had known about them — would save him. The general would show him no mercy. In fact Trumpeter would not want him taken alive so that he could testify to how he had deceived the most brilliant brain in the Union Army.
‘Fetching him along’s going to slow us down some, Cap’n Dusty,’ Kiowa warned. ‘We don’t have a relay for him to use and we’re late starting back as it is.’
A point which Dusty had been considering since deciding how to use Hoffinger. The need for speed had prevented him from bringing more than the bare minimum of horses for his party. Rescuing Rose had consumed valuable hours that ought to have been spent in heading for the safety of the Ouachita River. Expecting to start back almost immediately, he had planned the journey accordingly. Slowed down by being unable to use the full potential of the two-horse relays, dawn would find them far from the wooded country where he had hoped that they could hide during the day. However he had to balance that against the chance to remove all suspicion from Wexler. Dusty thought that the opportunity justified the risk.
‘We’ll take a chance on it,’ he told the others.
oooOooo
* So called due to their alleged resemblance in shape to the elbow of a stove-pipe and because after about forty-eight hours’ wear the socks, like the pipe, had a hole at each end.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
JUST as Dusty feared, sun-up found them traversing rolling but open country. So they kept moving, with Kiowa ranging ahead of them, keeping to the low land and avoiding sky-lines if they could.
On rejoining his men, Dusty had changed back into his uniform. The bundle had held Rose’s clothing, but she retained the borrowed outfit except for donning her own shoes. Everything had been ready for their departure. Pausing only long enough to tell Hacker — who had met Dusty’s group on the edge of town — of the scheme to incriminate Hoffinger, they had moved out. The alarm bell had sounded before they had covered a mile, warning them that Rose’s escape had been discovered. No pursuit came close, nor could the news be passed ahead. Seeing Dusty returning with Rose, Sandy McGraw had found and cut the telegraph line to the south-west.
Towards noon they were travelling along the bottom of a large valley. Ahead of them, Kiowa peered cautiously over the rim of the left-hand slope. Ducking down his head, he turned his horse and galloped back to his companions.
‘There’s a Yankee patrol coming this way, Cap’n Dusty,’ the scout announced. ‘Once they top that rim, they’ll see us for sure.’
‘No place to hide, either,’ Dusty replied, looking around. ‘How many of them and how far off are they?’
‘Twenty or so, look like 3rd Cavalry to me. About half a mile off.’
‘Too many to fight,’ Dusty decided. ‘There’s only one chance. I’m going to make a stab at drawing them away from you.’
‘You?’ Rose gasped.
‘Yes’m. I haven’t ridden my black all night and I’ll bet he’s got the legs of any horse in the Yankee Army. When they see me, they’ll give chase — Especially if they know who I am.’
‘That’s for sure,’ Kiowa growled, for Dusty had passed on Wexler’s information during the night. ‘After Trumpeter putting out that order about you, every blue-belly officer in Arkansas’d give his right arm for a chance to get you.’
‘How can you be sure they’ll recognize you, Dusty?’ Rose inquired.
‘Vern’s going to tell them,’ Dusty answered. ‘If you’ll do it, Vern, that is. Could be you’ll wind up in a Yankee prison-camp—’
‘Allus did want to see what one of them looked like,’ the old corporal drawled laconically. ‘Just what’ve you got in mind?’
Quickly Dusty explained his scheme. Watching the men, Rose saw that they showed no hesitation in accepting it. Even Hassle, who might end up as a prisoner-of-war, gave his agreement.
‘How about Hoffinger?’ Rose asked.
‘Have no fear, dear lady,’ the dude answered. ‘By this time I am branded as a Confederate spy. My life depends on reaching your side of the Ouachita River. I will do nothing to impede our escape.’
‘See you don’t,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Go with Kiowa, Rose. And Kiowa, you keep going no matter what happens to us.’
Leading a twenty-strong patrol of the 3rd Cavalry, 1st Lieutenant Koebel saw a rider coming over the ridge up which he and his men were about to ascend. Even as Koebel realized that the newcomer was a Confederate cavalry captain, a second figure followed him. On foot, the man wore the uniform of a Texas Light Cavalry corporal, He was short, white-haired and clearly very angry.
‘Come back with me hoss, blast ye!’ the old corporal screeched, bounding after the captain.
Suddenly the Confederate officer became aware of the 3rd Cavalry patrol’s presence. Reining his horse in a tight turn, he let out a yell, raked it with his spurs and sent it racing away at a tangent to the north-east. The corporal drew his right hand revolver, firing a shot in the direction of his departing superior.
‘Take six men and get after him, sergeant!’ Koebel barked. ‘Remainder, draw pistols and follow me.’
While his sergeant gave chase to the fleeing captain, Koebel led the rest of the patrol up the slope. From all appearances, the old Rebel non-com was too filled with indignation at the officer’s desertion to see the danger.
‘Blast your stinking hide, Cap’n Fog!’ the corporal bellowed in a carrying voice. ‘You come back here!’
Until he heard the name spoken by the furious old-timer, Koebel had intended to go over the rim and see if more of the enemy were in the vicinity. Instead he brought his horse to a rump-scraping halt. His men also stopped their mounts, amused by the ancient Rebel’s antics.
‘Who did you say he was?’ Koebel demanded, hoping that he had heard correctly. ‘Who is he?’
Glaring around him, Vern Hassle howled in well-simulated exasperation and flung down his smoking revolver. Although his right holster was empty, the discarded Colt had belonged to Slasser. Stamping his feet in a paroxysm of wrath, he shook his fists in the air.
‘Blast that Dusty Fog’s hide!’ Hassle raged. ‘He’s left me afoot so’s he can escape.’
‘Was that Dusty Fog?’ asked one of the soldiers.
‘Of course it b—!’ Vern began, then stared wildly around as if the true nature of his position had just struck him. ‘Now look what he’s done! I knowed I shouldn’t’ve come on this scout with him!’
Ignoring the excited chatter which rose from his men, Koebel hurriedly revised his plans. To hell with going over the rim, there would be nothing on the other side. It was obvious what had happened. Fog had somehow lost his horse while on a mission accompanied only by the corporal. Typical of an arrogant Southerner, he had taken the aged non-com’s mount. On seeing the patrol, Fog had deserted his companion and fled. If the rest of his Company had been close by, he would have attacked instead of running.
While there might be gaps in Koebel’s logic, he refused to see them. From all he had heard, whoever captured or killed Dusty Fog would stand high in General Trumpeter’s favour. The man responsible could expect promotion and further recognition from the grateful commanding general — and Koebel had sent his sergeant after the fleeing Rebel instead of going himself.
‘Guard this feller, corporal, you two men!’ Koebel ordered, the words tumbling out in his haste to get started. ‘Come on, the rest of you. After him. I’ll give a month’s pay to the man who brings him down.’
Already primed with excitement, the soldiers needed no further encouragement. Setting their horses into motion, they galloped at a reckless pace towards the rest of their party. Watching them go, the Yankee corporal gave a disgusted sniff and swung from his saddle.
‘Rest your butt-ends,’ he told his companions. ‘They’ve got a long ride ahead of them. Shed the gunbelt, old timer.’
‘Won’t I just!’ Hassle answered, complying. ‘To hell with fighting for the South, happen that’s how an officer treats me!’
‘All officers’re sons-of-bitches,’ grinned one of the privates, holstering his Colt as he dismounted. ‘Look how Koebel’s rid off and left us.’
‘I hope he enjoys the ride,’ the second soldier remarked, dropping his gun into leather as he watched the chase. ‘ ‘Cause I’m betting that’s all he gets. That hoss of Fog’s runs like a prong-horn antelope in a hurry.’
‘Fog’s hoss!’ Hassle yelped. ‘That’s
my
danged hoss!’
And, tossing his gunbelt to the Yankee corporal, he launched into a magnificently profane discourse on the subject of Dusty’s behaviour, morals, ancestry and possible fate. All in all it proved to be a fine performance and the Yankees listened with considerable amusement, not noticing that the rest of the patrol went rushing away from them. Hassle watched the departure, straining his inventive powers to find ways to keep his guards occupied. At last he paused for breath, standing snorting like a mossy-horned bull.
‘That’s was sure beautiful to hear,’ chuckled one of the privates. ‘It’ll be a real pity to waste you on them prison-camps’ guards.’
‘Danged if I ain’t pleased to be going to one,’ Hassle answered, rubbing his hips. ‘Trouble being, I’ve drawed on next month’s pay and ‘twouldn’t be right not to go back and work it out.’
‘Don’t see as you’ve any other choice, pop,’ the Yankee corporal said, letting the barrel of his Colt dangle downwards and shaking Hassle’s gunbelt.
Still rubbing at his sides, the old timer moved his hands behind his back in a casual-seeming manner.
‘Could argue about that, son,’ he said and the right hand appeared holding the second of his revolvers which had been tucked into the back of his breeches. Cocking the hammer, he threw down on the other two-bar and continued, ‘Let it drop peaceable. I’m mortal bound to dee-cline your offer.’
‘And I’m here to see he gets that chance!’ Sandy McGraw announced, rising from the top of the slope with Dusty’s Henry rifle aimed at the Yankee privates.
Staring into the muzzle of the old Dragoon Colt, the Yankee corporal stood still. Before he could line his revolver, the Dragoon would put lead into him. He flickered a glance at and estimated the rest of the patrol were too far away to hear the sound of shooting over the thunder of their horses’ hooves. Then he looked at his companions. Faced with a Henry repeater, they showed no inclination to take chances.
All of the trio had served long enough in Arkansas to know of the Texas Light Cavalry’s skill with firearms and chivalrous treatment of prisoners. Deciding that they would be killed if they resisted, but released unharmed should they surrender, they followed the sensible course. Letting his revolver and Hassle’s gun-belt drop to the ground, the corporal joined his companions in raising their arms.
‘I reckon we’ve been slickered,’ the corporal said, eyeing Hassle with a mixture of annoyance and admiration. ‘Now what?’
‘Soon’s we’ve took your guns, you boys can get going,’ the old timer replied. We wouldn’t want you to be toting all that extry weight while you’re walking — Which you will be. We’ll be needing your hosses.’
‘So’ll you be walking, for a long spell, happen Cap’n Dusty gets to know what you called him,’ Sandy declared, feeling relieved.
If the ruse had failed, he would have started shooting in an attempt at preventing the patrol from crossing the rim. So would Vern, while Dusty turned and charged to the attack, In that event, their chances of survival would have been slight.
Holding his black stallion to a gallop, Dusty turned in the saddle to see if his scheme was working. To his satisfaction, he found that the second portion of the patrol had swung off the ridge and were coming after him. That meant they had not reached the top, or seen Kiowa leading Rose and Hoffinger to safety. With only three men guarding him — and not doing a very good job of it — wily old Vern Hassle ought to escape, backed by Sandy and the Henry. Dusty knew that he could rely on the two corporals not to make their move too early.
Much as he would have liked to watch until Hassle escaped, Dusty faced the front and concentrated on the work at hand. The horse he rode had speed, endurance and was in the peak of condition. While making his arrangements, he had transferred every piece of equipment to the second of his relay, retaining only the clothes he wore and his gunbelt to add weight to his saddle. Being lighter than the majority of his pursuers, a superior rider to them all and far better mounted, he felt sure that he could eventually leave the Yankees behind.
However, he must not do so too quickly. First he had to lure them well clear of his companions. That would call for careful judgment, keeping close enough to encourage them to continue the chase, yet at a distance where they would be unlikely to hit him with their revolvers. Also he must try to nurse his horse so that it kept something in reserve in case of emergency.
From the cracking of shots that mingled with the drumming of hooves from behind him, Dusty concluded that some of the Yankees were trying to hit him. None of the bullets came close enough for him to be aware of their passing and he had no intention of returning the fire.
After covering about a mile, Dusty twisted cautiously around. Without disturbing his balance on the black’s back, he studied his pursuers. Already the two sections had mixed together, which meant those from the rear party had driven their mounts extra-hard to catch up. The gap between Dusty and the leaders remained about the same, but the rest were beginning to string out. Poorer riders and weaker horses were already feeling the strain.
‘Keep coming, you Yankee gentlemen!’ Dusty gritted, turning forward. ‘The further you follow me, the better Mrs. — no, she said I could call her “Rose” — the better her chances.’
Koebel for one had no thought of calling off the pursuit. Raking with his spurs, he goaded his lathered mount to greater efforts. Anxiety gnawed at him as he passed among the sergeant’s party. He hoped that none of the shots being fired would hit the Texan before he had assumed command once more. Avid for the prestige, and promotion, that would come from carrying out Trumpeter’s unusual order, he gave no thought to the strain he was imposing upon his horse. Instead he forced it to stride out faster. Man after man fell behind him and at last he ranged himself alongside his sergeant. Glancing over his shoulder, the noncom stiffened as he recognized the officer.
What’s up?’ the sergeant demanded, starting to rein in and wondering if they had fallen into a trap, with a large force of Texas Light Cavalry following to spring it on them.
‘Keep going!’ Koebel yelled back. ‘Get him. It’s Dusty Fog!’ Which explained almost everything, particularly the officer’s display of frenzied eagerness, to the experienced non-com. Trumpeter’s order regarding Dusty Fog had aroused much speculation amongst the enlisted men. A long-serving soldier, the sergeant understood Koebel’s motives. Equally aware of the benefits to be gained, the three-bar urged his horse on with renewed vigour.
Another mile was covered, without the distance between pursuers and pursued changing. No matter how the Yankees spurred their horses, the small Texan remained just as far ahead.
A vague suspicion began to creep over the sergeant and he remembered how he had once seen a fox run before a pack of hounds to lead them from its cubs. Maybe Dusty Fog was drawing the patrol away from something, or somebody, of importance. If so, he was succeeding. Looking back, the non-com saw that at least half of the patrol had already been forced to halt and the remainder straggled well behind.
‘It’s no use!’ the sergeant shouted. ‘We’ll kill the horses trying to catch up with him!’