‘This’s all I need,’ she told Jill.
‘Heck!’ Jill said, and a man joined them. ‘Strap this on the bay’s saddle.’ After the man went to obey his orders.
Jill turned back to the other girl. ‘Now listen good to me, Yankee. 1 stopped Guthrie abusing you just now. But if you do anything foolish, or make fuss for us, I won’t be able to old him back a second time. You think on it.’
Liz thought on it, thought long and hard as she mounted the dead soldier’s horse. Among other things, she wondered how a girl like Jill came to be riding with the bushwhackers and what gave her such a hatred for the Yankees. Once moving, Jill kept her horse alongside Liz’s mount, but made no attempt at conversation. In a hollow they collected a string of half a dozen packhorses and then continued their interrupted journey.
During the ride Liz could not help noticing the cautious manner in which the bushwhackers rode. Scouts went out ahead, behind and upon both flanks and the rest of the party kept to low ground as much as possible. She wondered what made the party so nervous when traversing Confederate-held territory. After they had covered about two miles from the scene of the ambush, something else happened to give Liz more food for thought.
The flank scout on the left suddenly whirled his horse and came racing down to the main body. Riding to meet the man, Jill listened to his low-spoken message. To Liz it became clear that the other girl did not like what she heard. Turning, Jill galloped back to the halted party.
‘Hold it here,’ she ordered. ‘And keep those horses quiet.’
Then an idea came to Liz. The scout must have seen a search party from the convoy; one of considerable force from Jill’s concern. If she could get up the ridge, or even create enough noise, help would be rushing towards her. For a moment she sat trying to think of the best way to achieve her ends. Perhaps a sudden thrust of heels into her horse’s flanks might carry her through. Before Liz could make the move, a signal from Jill brought two men to her side and the bushwhacker girl moved her horse in front of the trio, bottling any way out.
‘They’re too far away,’ Jill commented. ‘And if you try screaming, the boys will quieten you.’
One glance at the leering faces of the men told Liz that the quietening would prove mighty unpleasant. Any attempt at escape would bring a bullet into her at best. The party from which they hid could not arrive in time to save her. So, having no desire to throw her life away, she sat quietly until the scout, who returned to his position, gave the signal for them to move on again.
Once on the move, Guthrie kept his horse alongside Jill mount and Liz listened uncomprehendingly to their conversation.
‘Reckon it was him still after us?’ asked the man.
‘Could be,’ Jill agreed.
‘What about when he finds them Yankees back there?’
‘They’re soldiers and we only took horses and guns.’
‘And her!’ Guthrie spat out, jerking a thumb towards Liz.
‘We couldn’t just leave her behind.’ Jill answered. ‘She might not’ve been found. He’ll understand that.’
‘Reckon he’ll give us a chance to explain?’ asked the scared-looking man.
‘Look!’ Jill hissed. ‘You know my idea was to keep moving west, cross the Red and lay up in Texas for a spell. You had to hit those Yankees while I was out on scout. Now dry off and keep those horses moving. He’ll not come too far after us and we’ll be safe over the Red.’
Sullenly Guthrie dropped back and Jill rode ahead without speaking to her prisoner. Liz began to wonder which Union Army officer caused such concern among the bushwhackers. During the War, only General George Armstrong Custer’s name went out as a Union cavalry leader—and his fame rested on rash, but fortunate, chance-taking that, with plenty of luck, seemed to come off—certainly no Federal officer in Arkansas possessed a reputation likely to scare such a hardened bunch of roughnecks. She decided against asking any questions and the journey continued.
Towards sundown the party crossed the Red River and entered the State of Texas. However, once over the small ford, Jill insisted that they push on for a time. Not until four miles lay behind them and the moon rose palely in the sky did she give the order to halt and make camp. They had followed a small stream which joined the Red below the ford and their stopping place lay in open ground with the stream at the foot of a slope, forming a wide, deep pool. Having halted, Jill set her men to work. She had some caring for the leg-weary horses, others making a fire and starting to cook a meal, one more set about erecting a shelter tent.
‘We’ll be using that,’ she told Liz. ‘Look, I can either have you chained, or I’ll take your word that you won’t try o escape in the night. Which is it?’
Liz gave quick thought to the matter and replied, ‘I’ll give you my word.’
‘Come and eat then,’ Jill accepted. ‘It won’t be fancy, but filling.’
With the meal over, the two girls retired to their tent. Neither undressed and they made their bed with Union Army ponchoes and blankets, using the earth for a mattress. Jill refused to talk much and Liz felt too tired to make any great conversational efforts. She saw that the other girl slept with the Tranter revolver gripped in her hand and felt instinctively that the move was not a pose to impress her.
Liz spent a restless night, but made no attempt to break her word. At dawn she found that the bushwhackers intended to make a late start, resting their horses after the hard work of the previous day. She stuck close to the tent, not caring to face the barrage of stares which greeted her every appearance. Time dragged by and towards noon heard Jill give the order to prepare to move.
‘We’ll be pulling out in half an hour,’ Jill remarked, entering the tent. ‘I don’t know where the nearest town is, but we’ll find it and leave you safe.’
‘Up there!’ yelled a voice. ‘It’s him!’
Instantly pandemonium reigned outside the tent. Men shouted curses, then the girls heard hooves drumming. Turning, Jill saw her band leaping afork their mounts and scattering in panic. In their haste, the men discarded belongings, left behind saddles even. Jill looked downstream and saw an approaching party, recognising the man in the lead. Panic always proved infectious and the girl prepared to dash to one of the abandoned horses to make good her escape.
Even as Jill reached her decision, Liz took a hand in the game. From the noise, Liz guessed that the man the bushwhackers feared had arrived on the scene. It seemed that he came too late, for the male members of the band were making good their escape. Liz determined that the rebel girl would not get away. With that thought in mind, Liz hurled herself across the tent. Locking her arms around Jill’s waist, Liz sent the other girl crashing through the tent’s flap and brought her to the ground outside.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Riding the borrowed sorrel, Lieutenant Marsden sat in the centre of the line of men moving across the rolling Texas range country some two and a half miles beyond the Red River. To his right Dusty Fog sat afork a magnificent black stallion, a big, fine looking animal which turned Marsden almost green with envy. Beyond Dusty, Sam Ysabel rode a big strawberry roan stallion which looked even meaner than all hell and matched the black’s seventeen hands of grace and power. On Marsden’s left came Billy Jack, then Kiowa, each sitting a big black horse of a kind only seen ridden by field-rank officers in the Union Army. All in all they were a superbly mounted body of men.
The reason for riding in line abreast with Marsden at the centre did not imply distrust of his motives. In line, only the leading horse had an unrestricted view of the ground it must traverse and each succeeding animal moved in air polluted by those preceding it.
Since leaving the Texas Light Cavalry the previous day at just after dawn, Marsden had already received several lessons in the art of long distance fast travel by horse. He also knew the reason for Dusty’s strict inspection of saddlery and animals—with great emphasis on the state of each horse’s shoes, to the extent of having every animal re-shod—and found himself admiring the young captain’s attention to detail.
Dusty insisted that they wait until dawn had broken sufficiently for his party to see clearly as they saddled up the horses. After the first two hours at a fast trot guaranteed to wipe out any snuffiness the horses might feel, Dusty called the first halt. Not that the men rested during the halt. Instead they examined and made necessary adjustments to packs and saddles while allowing their mounts to clear themselves and graze.
From then on the remainder of the day had been pure hard work. Alternating between riding at a trot and walking, leading the horses, the men covered mile after mile. Every hour brought a halt, the first and second short and giving the horses time to blow, but on the third hour long enough for the men to off-saddle and let each mount’s back dry off, then the horses were grain fed and allowed to graze before being saddled and moved on. In that manner, they covered around forty miles the first day and, as long as the horses held out, ought to make at least thirty more each day by using the same methods. If so, they should reach the Brazos River’s fork area in time to organise a search for Castle’s wagons.
Moving on that morning, the party made good time until they approached the Red River ford selected by Dusty as best suited to their purposes. Sam Ysabel had been ahead to scout the small ford and he sat back from the edge, keeping under cover when the others arrived.
‘Bunch went across last night, Cap’n,’ he reported. ‘Fair-sized party. From the sign they kept going, followed that stream there west.’
Kiowa rode by the others and went to the river’s edge, looking down at the tracks. Turning, he said, ‘Be about fifteen of ‘em, some packhosses. One of ‘em’s a purty lil gal.’
‘Don’t see no footprints,’ Ysabel remarked.
‘Never yet saw a danged Comanche’s could read sign,’ answered Kiowa with a faint mouth movement that passed as a broad friendly grin in his circle.
‘Danged Injun varmints,’ Billy Jack put in, enjoying the inter-tribal rivalry expressed by the two sergeants.
‘Ashley’s bunch of bushwhackers?’ guessed Dusty. ‘Looks like they didn’t listen to me. Let’s cross.’
‘And ‘fore ole Kiowa here swells up and busts a gut with all this funning,’ Billy Jack went on to Ysabel. ‘We trailed Ashley’s bunch for so long that even I can pick out their hosses’ tracks.’
‘Paleface brother got heap big mouth,’ grunted Kiowa, ‘Side with Comanches too. I—’
‘Move over!’ Dusty ordered.
All levity left the men and they advanced as a unit ready to fight. The water came barely to the level of the stirrup irons and the river’s bed offered a firm, safe footing so that the party experienced no difficulty in making their crossing. Nor were they opposed during the crossing and on the other side continued their journey. They followed the same line as the bushwhackers had the previous night.
‘Smoke up ahead,’ Ysabel said, pointing. ‘Soon know if our Kiowa brother can read sign or not.’
‘Likely,’ Dusty replied. ‘It’s on our line of march and I don’t want to waste time going around. Remember the arrangements happen we get jumped by Yankees—even Kiowa can make a mistake.’
Among other things before leaving the Texas Light Cavalry’s camp, Dusty made arrangements for action should they be attacked. Not wishing to make a fight unless forced, he planned well and Marsden admitted that the small Texan thought of the best way to handle the situation.
The reference to a bushwhacker band left Marsden feeling puzzled. After the raid on the Kansas town of Lawrence, both Union and Confederate Governments disowned the various irregular bands and ordered a cessation of all guerilla activity. From the direction they took, Marsden concluded that Dusty meant to visit the bushwhacker camp. Of course, if the smoke ahead proved to be no more than the bushwhackers’, Dusty’s party did not need to make a detour; and Marsden knew that every mile saved was of vital importance on their mission.
Topping the rim brought the camp into sight at a distance of almost half a mile. From all appearances the bushwhackers were preparing to move out. Men saddled horses, packed up their gear, but as yet had not struck the one tent erected.
Even as the party started down the slope, a bushwhacker saw them. His reaction came as something of a surprise to Dusty’s party. Letting out a yell and pointing up the slope, the man dropped his bundle and raced towards the horses. Other men stared, yelled and instantly the camp took on the appearance of an overturned ant’s nest. The bushwhackers dashed in all directions, discarding their property. One man tried to mount his horse, forgetting that he had not tightened the cinches. When the saddle slipped off, the man made no attempt to recover it. Instead he bounded afork the horse’s bare back and set his spurs to work. Like leaves blown by the wind, the bushwhackers started their horses galloping in every direction, except towards Dusty and his men.
‘What the hell?’ asked Ysabel.
‘Reckon they think we’re still after ‘em,’ answered Billy Jack.
‘There’s more to it than that,’ Dusty objected. ‘They must’ve—’
Two shapes erupted from the tent, chopping off Dusty’s words half said. While he recognised one as the bushwhacker girl, he had never seen the other. Even at that distance Dusty could see the excellent quality of the second girl’s clothing and guessed, if her actions proved anything, that she did not belong to the bushwhacker band.
‘Land-sakes!’ Billy Jack ejaculated, staring at the girls. ‘Just look at them go. They’re worse’n a pair of Kilkenny cats.’
Just what Liz expected Jill to do when tackled, she had not thought about. It may be that she thought her rescuers were so close that help would speedily be on hand to subdue the rebel girl. However, having laid hold on Jill, Liz found herself in a similar position to the man who caught a tiger by the tail, then found that he could not let go.
Taken by surprise, Jill went down with Liz clinging to her waist. Landing on her side, hurt and wild with a mixture of fear and fury, she acted instinctively. She drove back her upper elbow, catching Liz in the face and bringing a squeal of pain. A savage writhe brought Jill around to face her assailant. Blood from Liz’s nose splashed down on to Jill’s face as the rebel girl’s hands drove instinctively for hair. On top, Liz screeched again as the top of her head seemed to burst into painful fire, taking her mind off the hurt of her nose. Like Jill, Liz had never been engaged in physical conflict—childhood scuffles excepted—but her own instinct for self-preservation took over. Even as Jill arched her back and rolled Liz over, the Union girl’s hands found hair and she drove her head forward to try to bite.
On the ground the two girls twisted and rolled over and over, oblivious of the fleeing bushwhackers or approaching party. Hands alternated at tearing hair, grabbing and nipping flesh, swinging wild slaps and punches; legs waved, kicked, curled around each other, with Liz ignoring the way her skirt rode up to expose the white flesh over the top of her black stockings.
So wild with pain and fury did the girls become that neither realised they were rolling towards the bank of the stream. Vaguely they heard hooves coming towards them and faint shouts reached uncomprehending ears. Seeing the danger, Dusty sent his horse bounding forward. Before he reached the struggling girls, they tipped over the edge of the bank. Locked in each other’s arms, ignoring the bumps and jabs of the hard ground beneath them, they went rolling down the slope. Not until they plunged into the water did either girl realise what had happened. Their wails of shock died into soggy gurgles, for at that point the stream formed a large pool with sheer sides, as they plunged into the water and disappeared beneath the surface.
Shock caused the girls to separate, the sudden chill of the water winding them and causing them to forget their fury. Breaking the surface some distance from each other, soaking, winded and dazed, the girls stood for a moment. Then their eyes met and recognition began to return. Slowly Jill put the back of her hand to her lips and looked at the blood on it. Gasping for breath, Liz reached up to shove back her wet hair. Then each girl started through the waist-deep water towards the other, ready to resume hostilities.
‘Well dog-my-cats!’ Billy Jack gasped admiringly as he topped the slope and looked down. ‘Iffen they ain’t coming to taw again, my name’s—’
‘Let’s have ‘em out,’ Dusty interrupted, and unstrapped his rope. ‘I’ll take the bushwhacker gal, Billy Jack.’
‘Don’t leave me no choice, Cap’n Dusty,’ grinned the sergeant-major, his own rope coming free.
Almost together the two ropes flew out and down, nooses dropping over the girls’ heads and down below the level of their shoulders. Startled yells left feminine lips as they found their forward progress halted and arms pinned to sides while still some distance apart.
‘Haul ‘em in!’ Dusty ordered.
Springing from their horses, Marsden, Ysabel and Kiowa ran to the ropes. After securing his rope to the saddlehorn, Billy Jack dropped to the ground and went to assist Marsden hauling Liz out of the water and up the slope.
‘Now this here’s what I call real fishing,’ grinned Billy Jack, watching the two squealing girls hauled up the slope towards him.
‘I wouldn’t want to put either of them in a glass case on a wall though,’ Marsden answered.
Before they reached the top of the slope, surprise, exhaustion and realisation of pain forgotten during the wild, thrashing mêlée, drove all thoughts of further aggression from the girls. Seeing the men above her, Jill became aware of her position and wondered what her fate would be at the hands of the grim-faced young captain who killed Ashley. Dusty Fog must have been hunting for her band and would have found the bodies of the ambushed Union soldiers. If so, he knew that the bushwhackers went against his orders and continued their operations.
With the fight over, reaction bit sharply into Liz, more so than affected her opponent. Sobbing, she sank to her knees and on the rope being taken from her shoulders, covered her face with her hands. Pain nagged at her; bruises gained during the roll down the slope throbbed dully; where teeth, feet or hands connected on flesh each sent a separate sting through her and her hair roots seemed to be on fire. In that condition, she could not think and so missed the surprising detail of seeing a Union lieutenant in company with the Confederate soldiers.
‘Tend to them, Kiowa,’ Dusty ordered. ‘Rest of you see to the horses. We’ll make this our noon halt.’
Kiowa had learned Indian-style medicine from his mother and gained something of a reputation as a curer of minor ailments. Stepping forward, he opened his saddle-bag and took out his medicine kit, then went towards the girls. One glance told him that neither had sustained serious injury during the fight and also that Liz needed his services far more than did Jill.
‘Just let me take a look at you, ma’am,’ he said gently.
At another time Liz might have objected to submitting to treatment by a man like Kiowa. In her present condition, she wanted help and willingly accepted its offer on receipt. With surprising gentleness, Kiowa drew the girl’s hands from her face and bent forward to look at the blood-trickling nose.
Forcing herself to her feet, Jill walked slowly to where Dusty stripped the saddle from his big black stallion.
‘I don’t see why you’re hunting us down like this,’ she stated, holding her torn shirt together as best she could. ‘They were Yankee soldiers, and the boys only took their guns and horses.’
‘You’ve lost me, ma’am,’ Dusty answered, swinging the saddle clear. ‘Who were Yankee soldiers?’
‘The bunch Guthrie ambushed back in Arkansas. We saw your troop while we were pulling out and heading for Texas after the ambush.’
‘Not my troop, ma’am,’ Dusty corrected, although he now saw the reason for the bushwhackers’ flight on seeing him. ‘Who’s the girl?’
‘She was with the Yankees. I didn’t know what Guthrie aimed to do, I was out on scout when they saw the Yankees and made their hit. Then I couldn’t leave the girl alone. Brought her along and was going to leave her in the first town we found.’
‘How is she, Kiowa?’ called Dusty.
‘Mite shook up, but nothing broke or hurt too bad.’
‘I didn’t start the fight,’ Jill put in. ‘And I wouldn’t’ve let anything happen to her.’
‘I believe you,’ Dusty replied. ‘Only you should have taken my advice and left that bunch. They’re not fighting the Yankees.’
‘They would have been,’ Jill insisted. ‘I aimed to reform the band in Texas, get men in it who wanted to fight.’
‘That’s what the army’s for,’ Dusty said. ‘Have you any dry clothes?’
‘Sure.’
‘Go change into them. See if you can get your prisoner into something dry.’
‘What do you intend to do with me?’ asked Jill.
‘Lady,’ admitted Dusty, ‘that’s something I haven’t figured out yet. Go get dried off and changed.’