Kill Dusty Fog by J. T. Edson Page A

a Zouave. Although badly wounded, he kept the flag held in the air until another member of the colour guard took it from his hand. Having done his duty, the stricken man collapsed and lay still.
    Even as Dusty led his men down the slope, he wondered what had caused such an attack to be launched on the ford. It could be part of some new offensive planned by Ole Devil after Company ‘C’ had left on their current mission. Yet he doubted if his uncle would permit an unsupported assault.
    Not that Dusty devoted much time to idle conjecture. Although Red and Prince had prevented the turning of the Napoleon, Company ‘C’ did not ride unchallenged. Some of the Zouaves and Dragoons had turned from the advancing Rifles and opened fire on the approaching cavalry. A cry of pain from behind him told Dusty that at least one of the bullets had taken effect.
    The ground shook and trembled to the thundering hooves. Best mounted of the Texans, Dusty had drawn slightly ahead of the Company. Suddenly he felt a sharp jolt run through his racing horse and knew what it meant. The big black horse — one of three he had broken and trained — screamed, staggered and started to go down with a bullet in its chest. Instantly Dusty kicked his feet from the stirrups, tossing his right leg up and across the saddle. As the horse crumpled forward, he sprang from its back. His momentum carried him clear, but he was in danger of being ridden down by the rushing men behind him.
    Looking back, he saw a riderless horse approaching in the lead of the Company. Twirling away the revolver, he sprang forward to catch hold of the empty saddle’s horn and vaulted astride. The leather was slick with the previous user’s blood, but he retained his seat and charged onwards. Without any conscious thought on his part, he drew the revolver ready for use.
    Springing away from the half-turned gun, the sergeant chief-of-piece rushed at Dusty and lashed out with his short artillery sword. Down flickered the small Texan’s Haiman sabre, catching and deflecting the Yankee’s blade. Then Dusty lunged, driving his point into the man’s chest and dragging it free as the horse carried him by. A revolver crashed from the left, its bullet fanning the air by Dusty’s face. Almost of its own volition, the bone-handled Army Colt lined and barked an answer. Hit between the eyes, the battery commander let his smoking revolver drop and followed it to the ground. Hardly aware of having shot the Yankee major, Dusty whirled his horse in a rearing, sliding turn to see where he could best direct his activities.
    As always under such conditions, Dusty later remembered only flashes of what followed, brief, flickering cameos from the bloody fight raging on the Snake Ford of the Caddo. While shooting the Yankee major, he saw that the Arkansas Rifles had crossed the river and were engaging the defenders with bayonets. Bodies lay in the water and the down-stream current was tinged a pinkish-red with their blood.
    Not far from Dusty, charging forward with his Enfield and bayonet at the ready, an Arkansas Rifles private made for a terrified Zouave drummer-boy. Letting his bugle fall, the boy sank to his knees. At the last moment, the soldier swerved and left the boy kneeling unharmed, with eyes closed and lips moving in a soundless prayer.
    An artilleryman lined his revolver at one of the passing Texans. Before he could press the trigger, he was knocked sprawling by Billy Jack’s horse. He was not given a chance to recover. Rushing up, the Rebel who had spared the drummer-boy plunged home the bayonet and pinned him to the ground.
    One of the Napoleons roared, hurling its charge of canister indiscriminately into the wild hacking, thrusting scrimmage of Yankees and Rebels before it. Blue- and grey-uniformed bodies tumbled together, torn open by the flying 1.5 inch balls from the cannon. Reining his horse alongside it, a Texan sprang from his saddle. He landed on the tube, miraculously keeping