Kill Dusty Fog by J. T. Edson Page B

his balance while kicking one of the crew in the face and cutting down the chief-of-piece with his sabre. Then he pitched sideways, shot by the lieutenant who commanded the two-piece section to which the gun belonged. An instant later the officer also lay dead, shot in the back of the head by an Enfield bullet.
    Sweeping away from the rest of the Company, Vern Hassle and six men descended on the four Yankees who had been detailed to watch over the artillery’s and Dragoons’ picketed horses. One of the Union soldiers tried to fight. Without slowing his horse, Hassle cut loose with his old Dragoon Colt. He hit the man and hurled him backwards. Another of the horse-minders went down before the last two threw aside their unfired carbines and raised their hands in surrender. Leaving half of his party to deal with the prisoners, Hassle set the others to work calming the Yankee horses and preventing any from tearing free and escaping.
    On the edge of the trenches, the Arkansas Rifles’ tall, lean colonel and the major commanding the Zouaves fought a savage duel with their swords. Seeing his chance, Colonel Barnett went into a near-classic lunge and spiked his point between the other’s ribs. Behind the colonel, a Dragoon sergeant flung up and lined his carbine. Charging in, a mounted Texan almost severed the Yankee non-com’s head from his shoulders before he could fire.
    As the fight ebbed his way, an artillery lieutenant sprang on to a caisson and jerked up the lid of the forward chest. Drawing his revolver, he pointed it downwards. A fanatical Unionist, he intended to take as many of the hated Rebels with him as he could, without regard for his own men who would also perish. Reining his borrowed mount around, Dusty raised his Colt shoulder high. Sighting on the Yankee officer, he fired — and not a moment too soon. Rocked backwards by the .44 ball, the lieutenant got off his shot. The bullet flung up splinters from the edge of the chest, but did not hit and explode the charges inside it.
    Then the fight was over. Assailed from two sides, left virtually leaderless the Yankees discarded their rifles or carbines. Hands shot into the air and yells of surrender rang out. Despite the growing trend in the East towards Southern defeat, the Confederate States’ Army of Arkansas had scored another victory on the bloody banks of the Caddo River.
    Returning his Colt to its holster, Dusty rode towards where the Arkansas Rifles’ colonel stood glaring around. Instead of showing pleasure, or gratitude for Company ‘C’s’ assistance, Colonel Harvey Barnett eyed Dusty with every indication of fury.
    ‘Where the hell have you been, damn you?’ Barnett roared as Dusty swung from his saddle.
    A slight frown creased the small Texan’s face at the furious greeting. After bringing his men on to the scene at such an opportune moment, he felt that he deserved a more civil and reasonable response. Any commanding officer would be shaken after suffering heavy losses, but Barnett’s attitude hinted at snore than that. From the way he had spoken, it almost seemed that he not only expected Company ‘C’ to arrive but felt they should have come earlier in the attack.
    ‘Raiding across the Ouachita, sir,’ Dusty answered, holding his temper in check and sticking the point of his sabre into the ground to leave his hands free.
    ‘Raiding!’ Barnett blazed, face almost white with rage. Then, with a visible effort, he regained control of his emotions. ‘I’ll speak to you when I’ve attended to my duties, Captain Fog. And you’d be advised to see to your own.’
    ‘Yo!’ Dusty answered, saluting.
    Wondering what had caused the colonel to act in such a strange manner, Dusty saw Sandy McGraw approaching. He told the guidon-carrier to retrieve his saddle from the dead horse and handed over his sabre. Walking to rejoin his men, he saw Red and Prince standing on the slope looking at the still shape of Tarp Hayley.
    ‘What in hell’re them