‘Here they come!’
The Kid, watching the slopes, gave a warning shout. The Hunkpapa came racing their horses down at what should have been a camp slow-witted and stiff with sleep or by lack of it.
They came fast, riding their war ponies in a wild rush which should smash down the defenders and give the victorious warriors loot and coups. Too late the charging braves saw the rope strung around the camp. The horses smashed into it, piling over and going down. Pandemonium reigned among the attacking braves, the first were thrown from their horses, others tried to stop their racing war ponies before they hit the rope.
‘Fire at random!’ Dusty roared. ‘Pour it on!’
From all around the wagons the guns crashed out, Springfields bellowing in with the sharper, rapid cracks of repeating rifles and the whiplash bark of Dusty’s carbine. The Sioux found themselves caught in a withering and murderous fire, thrown into confusion by the failure of their rush.
Brave heart never met with such adversity without deciding it was long gone time to head for home. The attack on the soldier-coats had been met all the way with bad medicine. This final attack proved the gods were not with the raiding party.
A war-bonnet chief gave a yell, swinging his horse just in time to avoid the medicine-breaking rope. He raised his lance over his head and screamed out something in Hunkpapa tongue. The rest changed their tactics. The wounded were scooped up, men unhorsed by the rope bounded on to riderless mounts or behind their lodge brothers. Then they were gone, streaming up the slopes away from the ill-fated oblong of wagons which should have been easy prey and yet which broke their medicine.
For a moment the soldiers watched the Sioux go. Then word that the attack had ended passed from mouth to mouth. The recruits began to cheer, waving their hats in the air, showing excitement at their first taste of victorious combat.
Dusty rested his carbine against the wagon side and looked to where the sergeant-major ran towards him.
‘We did them, sir,’ Hogan said. ‘It worked!’
‘Parade the men,’ Dusty replied. ‘Dunbrowski, a burial detail for our dead. Hogan, have a meal prepared. Get that rope gathered in, it’s on the quartermaster’s list and he’ll want it delivered to him. Come on, man. We haven’t all day to waste.’ With a salute Hogan turned and headed to begin his duties.
He did not even think that Dusty shouldn’t be giving orders in such a tone. The agreement made was that Dusty received the same courtesy as would be given to the real officer. Hogan grinned to himself. It would be Lord help any man who didn’t render the correct respect to Captain Dusty Fog.
‘Sergeant-major!’ Dusty roared. ‘I want to be ready to roll in two hours’ time. See to it!’
‘You heard the captain?’ Hogan bellowed at the soldiers as they fell in before him, standing in two files. ‘Corporal Dunbrowski, stables detail, water the horses.’
Dusty stood by watching the bustle of the camp. He still did not know if he was doing the right thing in taking over like this. One thing he did know. To the best of his ability he aimed to take over that leaderless and demoralized battalion and shake it into shape, or kill half of the blue-belly soldiers trying.
oooOooo
* Told in
The Ysabel Kid
.
CHAPTER FOUR
Perched on the Dakota plains, Fort Tucker proved to be a collection of wooden cabins which housed the battalion and such families as followed their men west. A wall, far too low to be called a palisade, but offering some slight protection to a defender, surrounded the area. Each face of the wall’s square had a gate in it; the main entrance facing east, large enough for wagons to enter and covered by the guard-house. The north gate led to Madlarn’s sutler’s post; the south to Shacktown, a mushroom village where rushers waited for a chance to slip across the Belle Pourche River into the Black Hills: while the last gate opened on the rolling plains.
At the main gate of the Fort a soldier stood on what might have been termed sentry by someone not versed with military ideas. He leaned his shoulder against the wall, a piece of straw in his mouth and his Springfield carbine resting by his side. Nor did he offer to straighten and do any of the things a sentry should by orders do when a party approached. He studied them, deciding they must be the new recruits and officer. So he raised his left hand in a cheery greeting rather than anything resembling a salute.
Dusty flung his paint’s reins to Dunbrowski, who rode as guidon carrier at his side. Then he came down from the military saddle and stepped forward. His left hand swung, knocking the straw from the soldier’s mouth. His right hand bunched in to the amazed man’s shirt front and hauled him close. With his face scant inches from the soldier’s and eyes glowing with fury Dusty studied the other for a moment.
‘Do you know me?’ he asked, thrusting the man backwards with the ease of brushing off a fly.
‘N-nope——’ gulped the thoroughly startled soldier. ‘N-no, sir.’
The latter came when he saw Dusty’s brows knit at the omission of the word, ‘sir’ at his first ‘nope’.
‘Then why in hell didn’t you halt me and the troop, salute my rank and call out the sergeant of the guard?’
Coming to a smarter brace than he’d managed for a few weeks the soldier stood rigid. Something warned him to give only one answer.
‘No excuse, sir.’
‘Sergeant-major!’ barked Dusty over his shoulder. ‘Find this man a week’s hard work to remind him of his duties!’
‘Yo!’ came Hogan’s reply.
For all that the burly sergeant-major could hardly hide a smile which flickered across his face. The slight doubt he’d held that Dusty might not be able to handle the deal left him. From the look of that soldier he not only took Dusty for a U.S. cavalry officer but suspected he’d tangled with the Provost-Marshal of the command.
‘And you,’ Dusty went on, giving his attention to the man who by a series of remarkable muscular contortions had managed to get his carbine to the shoulder without breaking his brace. ‘Listen to me with both your ears. Spread this among your bunkies. The next man who fails to respect my rank’ll go into the cells and, by God, will wish he’d never been born! Call out the sergeant of the guard.’
It took the sentry three shouts to bring the guard commander from his post in the guardhouse. He proved to be an unshaven and untidy looking corporal and came forward at a trot, fastening his weapon belt as he ran. Halting before Dusty the corporal threw up a ragged salute.
For a moment Dusty did not speak, just looked the corporal over.
‘At ease, Corporal,’ he said, his voice so cold it almost brought a shiver to the non-com’s campaign toughened hide. ‘Attention, private. You’re relieved of rank and duty. Hogan, assign this man to latrine detail, it appears to be all he’s fit for.’
The corporal’s mouth dropped open. He’d been in the army long enough to know a captain, especially one with the rank of fort commander, could reduce him to the ranks. He’d never believed one would do it in so few words, although he had the fairness of mind to admit he deserved it for his appearance and neglect of duty.
‘You heard the captain, soldier,’ said Hogan, dismounting and walking forward. ‘Get those bars from your sleeves and report to me in the office in twenty minutes.’
All too well Hogan knew there could be no hesitation in the way he or Dusty acted. He knew the corporal, a good enough soldier, but like most of the other ranks of the army, not a well-educated man. Such fell easily into boredom and forgot the strict training driven into them unless led by a firm hand. He could see the Fort needed that firm hand on it quickly before it burst apart at the seams. The young lieutenants did not have the knowledge or experience to handle rough campaign hardened veterans like this battalion and slowly it began to rot away.
‘Dunbrowski, take over as corporal of the guard,’ Dusty went on. ‘Hogan, with me.’
The remainder of the main-gate guard were settled down for a leisurely afternoon, lazing around the front part of the building. Suddenly the door burst open and a tornado hit them. Dusty’s tongue, learned under a master of vituperation in the Confederate Army, matured handling cowhands on range work and trail drive, finished in the wild cattle towns, lashed the men, throbbing with fury. For five minutes without stop he told the guard what he thought of it, its morals, ancestors and descendants, never repeating himself and drawing on every dreg of his years of learning.
‘Now get to your quarters and return in stable fatigue,’ he finished. ‘I’m putting a new guard in and they’re not coming into this hawg-pen. I want this place so clean I could bring the colonel’s lady in and let her eat her food off the boards. Move!’
The guard scattered and headed for the barrack blocks. A pair of them headed across the square on the double and one looked at the other.
‘That’s Dandy van Druten, that was,’ he said. ‘Wowee! We had a good time for the past few weeks, James me boy. But it’s over now.’
‘Least we’re off duty and can have a night at Madlarm’s,’ answered James. ‘Which same I reckon we’re going to need it.’
‘And aren’t going to get it. I’ve a nasty idea that captain’s going to keep folks too busy for them to go any place at all.’
Standing on the porch Dusty watched the soldiers depart. He happened to look towards where Mark and the Kid sat to one side of the troop. Mark’s face held a grin and his eye dropped in a wink. Jim Halter was not with the men, for Dusty insisted they sent him to regimental headquarters with a message telling what had happened and what they planned to do. This might not help in case of a court martial for Hogan and Dusty, but might ease the sentence on the big non-com. It had been a decision reached on the night after the fight with the Sioux. Dusty guessed he might be recognized and sending the letter could help partly exculpate them.
Dusty did not have time to waste thinking about his actions, the rights and wrongs of his decision. There was much to do, organizing that he must attend to even before he began to shake the Fort up.
‘Dunbrowski, tell off a guard detail from your men. Hogan, relieve every sentry in the camp of his duty, have them all report to help police the guardhouse and area. Dunbrowski, I’ll send one of the Fort sergeants to acquaint you with your orders as soon as I can. Until then carry on as you would under the same circumstances with the regiment.’
With that Dusty headed for the officers’ quarters. The wagons had rolled into the Fort but for all the notice anybody took they might have not been within a hundred miles of it. The large square lay empty and deserted, not a soul stirred on it. Behind the barrack cabins Dusty could hear children laughing and playing but not a sign of life could he see.
A most annoyed Dusty reached officers’ country, the block in which he and the three lieutenants lived. No longer did Dusty think of himself as an impostor, holding down his job until a replacement came. He felt just as he would have if he arrived as the genuine fort commander.
In the old days when he rode as captain in command of Troop ‘C’ Texas Light Cavalry, if the word went out, ‘Dusty’s on the warpath,’ people made themselves scarce or made damned sure they gave full attention to their military duties. By the time he’d done with this lot they’d be just the same.
Quite a sight greeted Dusty’s eyes as he passed an open door marked with a card announcing the officer of the day was inside and for people to knock and wait. Dusty neither knocked nor waited, but stepped inside.
Stretched flat on his back; a towel over his eyes, a tartan shirt, and pair of Crow moccasins on his feet at odds with his yellow striped cavalry trousers; at peace with the world lay First-Lieutenant Frank Gilbey. He felt pleasantly at ease for this was Saturday afternoon and by allowing the men to relax he could forget the worries of trying to hold the battalion together until Monday, by which time the new commander should be on hand. Then he could take a week’s well deserved furlough to go hunting, see if he could nail a good proghorn buck to send for his father’s collection of game heads.
Gilbey did not offer to open his eyes when he heard someone enter the room, or remove the towel. He expected it would be his striker come to clean his boots and gear, so settled back to relax for a couple more seconds. They were the last seconds of relaxation coming his way for some time.
‘May I ask just what the hell you are, mister?’ asked a voice which although holding a southern drawl had all the hard-bitten toughness of a strict disciplinarian senior officer.
Jerking away the towel Gilbert studied the small man in the travel-stained captain’s uniform for a moment, then came to his feet with a welcoming smile.
‘Gilbey, sir. First-Lieutenant, officer of the day.’
Somehow Frank Gilbey got the impression that his words did not meet with the newcomer’s approval. A pair of cold grey eyes studied him from head to foot, taking in his side-whiskers and moustache, worn to make him look older, his tartan shirt, then dropping to the moccasins.
‘You’re sure that’s who you are, mister?’ asked Dusty savagely. ‘You’re not some trail-end town mac blacksmithing on the calico cats?’
Gilbey frowned. He did not stop to wonder where a desk warmer from the east, like this Dandy van Druten, might know such terms as mac for pimp, blacksmithing used to describe pimp’s living on the earnings of a calico cat, or prostitute. All he knew was he’d been insulted.
‘Here, easy—!’ he began.
‘Easy, mister!’ roared Dusty in a tone which took Gilbey back to the days where he was a raw plebe at the West Point. It slammed a brace into his shoulders and warned him that, no matter what he’d heard of Dandy van Druten, this man would stand for no laxness in military etiquette. ‘Have you forgotten your training. You salute a senior officer and you address him as sir. Why are you out of uniform?’
‘No excuse, sir.’
While leaving a lot unexplained the reply was the only one Gilbey could make under the circumstances. His instincts and good sense warned him not to state truthfully that he had been taking advantage of his temporary position as post commander to relax. He’d been in command ever since Major Lingley died and suddenly he saw how he’d missed his chance. This was not entirely true. He’d known a new post commander would be along and tried to hold things together. On hearing Dandy van Druten would be the next commander he let things slip, for he knew the other would never acknowledge his junior officers’ ability lest it detract from his own record.
Gilbey stood rigid at a brace with the cold unfriendly eyes on his face. A thought puzzled him, something about Dandy van Druten, yet he could not tie it. It came almost as a relief when Dusty spoke again, although one might term it the relief at having a sore throat after toothache.
‘Perhaps a week as officer of the day might remind you of your duties, mister,’ Dusty snapped. ‘You will report in uniform, with the other officers, to my office in fifteen minutes. In uniform, mister!’
With that Dusty took Dandy van Druten’s watch from his tunic pocket and looked at it, closed the case and walked out of the room. For a long moment Gilbey stood and watched the open door. Then slowly he wiped his brows. The point of that glance taken at the watch did not escape Gilbey. Fifteen minutes he had and if he took more he’d wish he did not.
‘Wow!’ he gasped, heading for the next room. ‘That Dandy van Druten’s a mean one. But, by all that’s holy, he’s a soldier and he’ll shake the battalion together one way or another.’
In the next room Second-Lieutenant Farrow slept in peace, a slim, wiry and cheery youngster. He jerked erect as Gilbey shook him, gasping out a demand to know what all the excitement was for.
‘He’s here,’ Gilbey answered. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes to get into number one uniform and report to his office. Where’s Card?’
‘Took Joanna for a ride to see if they could scare up a mess of fool-hens,’ answered Farrow.
Gilbey clasped a hand to his forehead. ‘No!’ he groaned. ‘I’ll never get off officer of the day.’
Before Farrow could ask questions which boiled in his mind Gilbey dashed back to his own room and started to dig out his best field uniform. Farrow came to the door.
‘Hey, what’s all the fuss?’
‘The fuss, Jimmy boy,’ snapped Gilbey, ‘is that Captain van Druten wants to see us in his office in about eleven minutes and I for one don’t aim to be late or untidy. Now get the hell out of here and leave me to change.’
Farrow turned, scratched his head. Then he realized what Gilbey had said. If Frank Gilbey was jumping like a flea on a griddle it would be as well to hop to the music. He dashed into his own room and jerked open his foot-locker ready to change.
Even in the short time since entering the officers’ quarters Dusty found a change in the square. Hogan acted as he would if Dusty really commanded the troop, which meant he did not waste time. From the men in camp he’d organized a detail to off-load, under guard, a large, stout and well locked iron chest from one wagon. In this chest lay the pay for the battalion for the next month. The other wagons were parked behind the buildings, their teams being cared for. Men scattered and scurried about and from the guardhouse came the sound of the scrubbing brushes working on wood.
‘I’ll be in my office if you want me, Hogan,’ Dusty said. ‘Bring the payroll in when you’re able.’
‘Yo!’ Hogan replied, for the box was made to make easy transport a slow and tedious matter.