‘Some of the Yankee Secret Service would like to see me dead, I admit. But it’s not likely they’d go at it that way. Killing Devil would throw your Army into confusion, perhaps. Not for long, but long enough to let the Yankees launch an offensive before he could be replaced. Except that “Oakland” would have warned us if a move of that magnitude was planned. It couldn’t be kept a secret.’
‘Not from Wex — Oakland, anyways,’ Dusty agreed.
‘There’s another alternative, Dusty,’ Rose said. ‘Trumpeter could have sent the man after you.’
‘Kiowa reckoned that,’ the small Texan replied. ‘Hell, he couldn’t want revenge bad enough to risk a sharp-shooter* just to get it. Even if the feller was a sharp-shooter that is.’
‘He wasn’t on that slope just to admire the scenery,’ Rose objected.
‘Do you reckon he’s Army?’
‘There you’ve got me, Dusty. That buckskin shirt, his trousers and gunbelt could have been bought anywhere west of the Mississippi. The boots are cavalry issue, so is his undershirt, which doesn’t mean much as they can be bought easily enough. The hat could have been picked up north or south of the Mason-Dixon line and is old enough to have been bought before the War. It doesn’t help us.’
‘That’s a Rocky Mountain saddle and the horse’s range-bred,’ Dusty went on. ‘It’s not carrying a brand of any kind.’
‘Neither his rifle nor revolver have U.S. Army proof-marks,’ Rose told him.
‘Sharp-shooters mostly buy their own rifles,’ Dusty replied. ‘And a whole mess of fellers, especially from out West, fetched their revolvers along when they joined the army.’
‘It’s puzzling,’ Rose sighed, thinking of one solution to the mystery but dismissing it as unworthy of serious consideration. ‘So we can only wait and see if Kiowa learns anything.’
‘That’s about all,’ Dusty agreed, reaching much the same conclusion as Rose had and not mentioning it for similar reasons. ‘Anyways, I don’t reckon there’ll be another try until whoever sent him learns he didn’t make it. Sharp-shooters aren’t so plentiful or easy come-by that they’d chance losing more than one at a go.’
‘Talking of going,’ Rose gasped as she glanced through the open doors of the barn. ‘It’s long gone time we went and dressed for the ball.’
Turning, Dusty let out a low whistle of surprise. He had not realized how long the search had taken. Night had fallen and already the big house was glowing with lights, while the activity about the place warned that the festivities would soon commence. So he told their assistants to clear up the barn, allowing Rose and himself to go to change their clothing. Rose had been fitted out with dresses on her arrival and had even managed to find a gown suitable for the occasion.
For Dusty’s part, he knew that the casual, comfortable uniform worn on patrol would not meet with official approval that night. Reluctantly he made his way to the quarters he shared with Red, meaning to don the correct full dress. On his arrival, he found his striker waiting. Dick Cody had spent most of his adult life attending to Army officers’ welfare. While proud of his current charge, he did not approve of the way Dusty ignored the
Manual of Dress Regulations.
Nothing pleased Cody more than to watch his officer going forth in a double-breasted, skirted tunic, embellished with a black silk cravat, white gloves, trousers instead of riding breeches, correct accoutrements and sabre.
‘I’m sure pleasured that you changed your mind, sir,’ Cody greeted.
‘How’s that?’ Dusty asked.
‘About attending the ball in your dress uniform.’
‘What else would I wear tonight?’
‘But Miss Georgina came and said you’d decided to go in your skirtless tunic and riding breeches, sir,’ the old striker explained, looking bewildered.
‘She must’ve been joshing you,’ Dusty replied. His cousin knew of Cody’s feelings about the matter of uniform and was riot averse to a joke,
‘Joshing or not, sir,’ Cody answered indignantly, ‘she took them with her. And your hat, boots and gunbelt.’
‘Gunbelt!’ Dusty snapped. ‘Damn it, Cousin Georgie’s gone way too far this time. I’ll pound some sense into her fool hide, see if I don’t.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cody agreed enthusiastically. ‘She sounded so sincere that I didn’t doubt that you had sent her.’
‘I hope she sounds that way when I get through with her,’ Dusty growled. ‘What damned fool game is she playing?’
Before Cody could express an opinion, they heard a disturbance from the town. Somebody shouted a warning which mingled with a revolver shot. Then another shot cracked, followed by more shouting; this time from several places.
‘It coming from Main Street, sir!’ Cody stated.
‘Sounds like it,’ Dusty agreed. ‘I’d best go and see what’s happening.’
oooOooo
* Sharp-shooter: Civil war name for a sniper.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
‘IT’S working, Cousin Betty!’ Georgina Blaze enthused as she strode along the centre of Main Street dressed in Dusty’s uniform, hat, boots and gunbelt. ‘We’re taking them all in.’
‘Out here in the street, maybe,’ Betty answered. ‘It won’t be so easy in good light. You know, Cousin Dusty’s not going to like you walking around in his uniform.’
Smaller than Georgina, Betty had borrowed clothes from one of the drummer-boys. In the hope of making her disguise more acceptable, she carried his drum on her back. Gripping its V-shaped sling in her left hand, she looked along the almost deserted street. Lights showed in a number of buildings, from many of which came the sounds of people enjoying themselves. Ahead was the Shenandoah Hotel, its porch and hitching rail deserted despite the noisy evidence of revelry from within.
‘Why he won’t mind me borrowing his old uniform,’ Georgina protested, trying to sound more confident than she felt. ‘Will he?’
‘He’ll not be pleased,’ Betty guessed. ‘I surely hope Tommy hasn’t shown him that
yoko-gururna
throw he taught me.’
‘That—?’
‘
Yoko-guruma
,’ Betty repeated. ‘It means lateral wheel or something and it’s a dilly.’
‘It sure sounds that way,’ Georgina smiled. ‘And if we can walk the length of Main Street, then get by the guards to the ball dressed like this, it will show Rose we’re smart enough to be spies.’
‘Or convince her more than ever that we’re not,’ Betty replied. ‘It’s a loco trick — and before you get into a tizz, I agreed to try it.’
A man came from an alley opposite to the hotel, slouching towards the girls. Medium-sized, stocky, he wore civilian clothes of sober colours and kept his right hand behind his back. At the same moment, the door of the Shenandoah’s barroom opened and Hoffinger stepped on to the porch. Halting, the chubby dude looked in each direction along the street. Seeing the man approaching the two uniformed figures, he stiffened slightly. For a moment he studied the girls, then his eyes went to something about the man which could not be visible to them.
‘Air you Cap’n Dusty Fog?’ asked the man from the alley.
‘I am,’ Georgina agreed, making her voice sound husky.
‘Look out!’ Hoffinger screamed, leaping forward.
The warning came too late. Hearing Georgina answer in the affirmative, the man brought his hand into view. Shock momentarily numbed the girls, causing them to ignore Hoffinger’s warning; for they saw the hand held a long-barrelled Army Colt that lifted to line at Georgina. Muzzle-blast flared redly on the night-darkened street as a .44 bullet spun from the revolver to drive into the blonde’s left breast. Cocking back the hammer swiftly, the man started to swing the barrel towards Betty. Then he heard the thud of Hoffinger’s feet and turned to meet what might prove a greater danger than the diminutive ‘drummer-boy.’
Anger filled Hoffinger, wiping away his love of peace. Recklessly he plunged from the sidewalk, striding determinedly towards the man. He gave no thought to the consequences of his actions, or his inadequacy to deal with an armed man. Since his arrival in Prescott, he had convinced his abductors of his pacific intentions and complete lack of desire to escape. So they allowed him to roam around unattended and his jovial nature had won him many friends. Popular he might be in all walks of the town’s society, but not sufficiently trusted to be allowed to carry a gun. Being unarmed did not prevent him going forward.
Coming around fast, the man slanted his Colt in Hoffinger’s direction. Aware that he could not reach the other in time to prevent him shooting, the little dude hoped that he might buy the second girl — whom he recognized despite her disguise — the opportunity to run to safety.
Only Betty did not run. Born of a fighting stock, spirited and self-reliant in her own right, she recovered rapidly from the shock of the attack. More than that, she saw Hoffinger’s peril and knew that he would die unless something was done in a hurry. Flashing up her hands, she gripped the drum with the intention of ridding herself of it to be free to help her rescuer. Even as she raised it over her head, she saw a better use for it than hurling it aside. Swinging it high, she took a stride towards Georgina’s assailant.
With death staring him in the face, Hoffinger saw something rise into the air behind the man. Then, accompanied by a dull boom, the other’s head disappeared inside Betty’s drum. Again the Colt roared, but surprise had caused its barrel to be deflected and its bullet tore a furrow through the hotel’s name-board instead of into the dude’s chubby frame.
Ducking his head, Hoffinger butted into the man as he tried to remove the drum. At the same moment, Betty smashed her interlaced-fingered hands into his kidney region from behind. The impact bore the man backwards, despite Betty’s blow, and he went down with Hoffinger on top of him. Mouthing curses, the little dude flailed inexpertly at his victim. On the street, doors were flung open as people appeared to investigate the disturbance. Bursting out of the hotel’s barroom, Billy Jack and other members of Company ‘C’ swarmed forward. Still striking out wildly, Hoffinger felt himself gripped and dragged upright.
‘Ease off, Ossie!’ Billy Jack growled, clinging to the dude’s right arm. ‘We’ll tend to him.’
Slowly Hoffinger’s fighting rage died away. Looking around, he saw the man firmly held by Sergeant Weather and Sandy McGraw. Then the dude’s eyes turned to where Betty knelt at her cousin’s side.
‘Oh Lord!’ the black-haired girl was sobbing. ‘What have we done? What have we done?’
Everything was in confusion as people milled around and asked questions, or stared in bewilderment at what they saw. Billy Jack’s lackadaisical pose left him and for once he showed why he held the rank of sergeant major in the Texas Light Cavalry’s elite Company ‘C’.
‘Quiet it down!’ he roared. Then, as silence fell, he turned to Hoffinger and spoke in a gentler tone. What happened?’
‘I — I don’t know,’ the dude admitted, struggling to think and quieten his churned-up emotions. ‘The — I saw — the young ladies — knew she wasn’t Captain Fog — saw his gun — I shouted, but it was too late.’
Which left a lot unexplained, but helped Billy Jack to understand a little of what had happened. He knew Georgina to be a practical joker, which might account for why she was wearing Cap’n Dusty’s clothes. Seeing her lying there had given the sergeant major a hell of a shock. Now he realized that her disguise had, for some reason, brought tragic results.
The crowd opened up to let Dusty come through. Striding forward, expecting to find there had been a quarrel ending in gun-play between the participants, he slammed to a halt. For a moment he could hardly credit the message of his eyes. Then he moved forward, dropping to one knee at Betty’s side. One glance at Georgina told him that she was beyond help. Blood still spread slowly on the left breast of the borrowed tunic, but he had seen enough of wounds to know that she was dead.
‘What happened?’ Dusty asked and the listeners could hardly recognize his voice.
Twisting around, Betty flung herself into Dusty’s arms and sobbed a reply;
‘He — that man — asked Georgie — ‘Are you Cap’n Dusty Fog?’ — and when — when she said she was — she — he — be shot her.’
An ugly, menacing rumble rose from the crowd, directed at the man held by the non-coms. It died away as Dusty glared around. Then the small Texan looked at the prisoner and sucked in a deep breath.
‘He asked Georgie if she was me,’ Dusty said quietly, ‘and shot her when she said she was.’
‘Y-Yes,’ Betty gulped, shocked by his tone into momentarily forgetting her horror and grief.
‘Then it looks like he got the wrong one.’
Saying that, Dusty gently freed himself from Betty’s arms. Just as gently, he removed the gunbelt from Georgina’s body. In a silence that could almost be felt, he strapped on the belt and fastened the tips of the holsters to his thighs. Moving clear of the girls, he addressed his men.
‘Turn him loose and put a gun in his hand!’
‘Cap’n—!’ Billy Jack put in and he did not intend to continue with one of his usual unmeant doleful warnings or complaints.
‘Do it!’ Dusty snapped. ‘Or I’ll kill him where he stands!’ Billy Jack nodded to Sandy and Weather. As they released the man, the sergeant major took out his right hand Colt. Sobbing for breath, the man fell back against the hotel’s hitching rail. Slowly Billy Jack walked forward and thrust his Colt into the man’s right hand, then stepped aside.
‘All right, hombre,’ Dusty said. ‘You want to kill Dusty Fog. Well, I’m him. Get to doing it.’
Almost recovered from the effects of the combined attack, the man stared numbly at the big Texan. Everything about Dusty filled the man, hard as he was, with a gnawing terror. Cold merciless retribution as certain as the hangman’s noose showed on the young face. The powerful figure stood poised like a cougar waiting to spring, hands held out from its sides with fingers slightly crooked ready to close about the white handles of the holstered Colts. That was no man he faced, but a machine, a deadly highly-developed machine with just one purpose — to kill him.
‘N-No!’ the man croaked, finding himself unable to throw the gun away.
‘Count to three, Billy Jack,’ Dusty ordered — and it was an order, despite the cat’s purr gentle way he spoke. ‘By three, he’ll use that gun or die.’
‘One!’ Billy Jack said, for he could no more resist than the ashen-faced killer could toss aside the Colt. The rest of the crowd stood as if turned to stone, oblivious of the people who came from the big house, conscious only of the scene before them.
‘Two!’ Billy Jack counted.
‘No!’ a woman’s voice shouted. ‘Dusty. No!’
Face pallid and raging with emotion, Rose Greenhow ran along the street ahead of the party from the ball. She had heard from a Negro maid of the girl’s idea to impress her and planned to surprise the would-be spies on their arrival. Waiting with members of the guard to capture them, she had heard the shooting. On learning from where it originated, Rose had an almost clairvoyant idea of what had happened. Sending a man to notify Ole Devil of the trouble, she set off to look into it and prayed she might be wrong. All too soon she knew how right she had been. No humane considerations motivated her call to Dusty. The man cowering against the hitching rail could answer questions — but only if he stayed alive.
‘Three!’ Billy Jack said.
‘Captain Fog!’ Rose screamed in the same breath.
At the sergeant major’s word, Dusty’s right hand moved. All the long, hard hours of practising his draw, backed by the carefully considered design and excellent workmanship of his gun-belt, permitted him to fetch out the long barrelled Colt with blinding speed. He had never moved faster than at that moment. Out came the revolver, its hammer drawn back by his thumb and trigger going to the rear under the pressure of his forefinger as the seven-and-a-half inch ‘civilian pattern’ barrel* turned towards its target. Straight as if pulled by a magnetic force, Dusty’s Colt lined at the man’s head.
And did not fire!
With the trigger depressed to the full and thumb quivering on the verge of freeing the hammer, reason returned to the small Texan. A concerted gasp rolled from the spectators. Letting out a moan, the man dropped Billy Jack’s revolver and turned to sob into his arms against the hitching rail.
‘Clear the street, all of you who aren’t involved!’ Dusty ordered, lowering the hammer and returning the Colt to its holster.
Like snow before a fire, the crowd melted away. There were at least two officers senior in rank to Dusty present, but they withdrew like the rest. By the time Billy Jack had retrieved his Colt and the man’s revolver, only the people directly concerned with the incident remained. Ole Devil arrived fast, accompanied by Colonel Mannen Blaze, Dusty’s father and others of the family.
‘What’s happened, Dustine?’ the general demanded while the women moved towards Betty and the body.
Slowly, fighting down her grief, Betty rose and faced the men to repeat in more detail the story she had told to Dusty. At its end, the Texan senior officers turned to Hoffinger.
‘My thanks, sir,’ Ole Devil said.
‘I — I was too late,’ the dude mumbled, seeming to have shrunk into himself and showing none of his usual urbane poise.
‘You saved Cousin Betty’s life,’ Dusty put in. ‘With your permission, Uncle Devil, I aim to let Trumpeter know that Mr. Hoffinger’s not a traitor—’
‘Trumpeter!’ croaked the killer, turning from the hitching rail and drawing every eye his way. ‘It was Trumpeter who offered the reward to any man who could kill you, Cap’n Fog.’
‘What was that?’ Ole Devil barked, striding forward.
Rose and Dusty beat the general to the man and the small Texan said, ‘Tell it fast and all!’
‘It’s true!’ the man croaked, reaching inside his jacket. ‘I’ve got the letter he sent to—!’
‘Let him take it out!’ Ole Devil ordered as Sandy and Weather sprang on to the man and grabbed his arms. Taking the folded sheet of paper which the killer produced, he read it. ‘Well I’ll be damned!’
‘Look at it, Hondo!’ Colonel Blaze said, after receiving and studying the paper. ‘It’s damnable.’
Looking like a taller, older version of Dusty, Major Hondo Fog read the message. Without comment, he handed it to Rose.
‘To whom it may concern,’ Rose read aloud. ‘I, Horace Trumpeter, General Commanding the United States’ Army of Arkansas, will pay the sum of one thousand dollars with no questions asked, to any man who produces proof that he has killed the rebel and traitor who calls himself Captain Dusty Fog.’ She paused, then continued, ‘It’s signed by him and marked with his official seal. Who are you?’
‘Ike Smith,’ the man, to whom the question had been directed, answered. ‘I was one of Toby Mattison’s boys—’
‘A lousy border-jumper!’ Billy Jack ejaculated.
‘Who else knows about this letter?’ Rose demanded, ignoring the comment.
‘Nobody’s far’s I know. I saw Toby get it and when he didn’t tell us what it was I snuck it from him.’
‘Is there a big, gaunt Westerner in your gang?’ Rose asked. ‘He wears a large grey hat, buckskin shirt and trousers, cavalry boots. Rides a dun gelding and uses a Sharps rifle.’