Kill Dusty Fog Read Online Free
our well as he was coming calling.’
‘What happened?’
‘It warn’t the drinking well, so we figured it’d be a plumb waste of time to pull him out ‘n’ left him there,’ Billy Jack explained, then dropped his pose for a moment. ‘Range’d be around a mile ‘n’ a quarter, I reckon.’
‘Near enough,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Forty-five degrees elevation. We’ll give ‘em twenty seconds first go and alter it for the next if we’re wrong.’
‘Should have a big enough target, anyways,’ the sergeant major drawled, using the point of his knife to pierce the wall of the fuse at the required graduation. ‘Or was you-all figuring on dropping the shells on top of Trumpeter’s fool lil Yankee head?’
‘I’ll settle happy enough for scattering his review,’ Dusty answered.
With the fuses cut, he and Billy Jack fitted them carefully into the holes at the bottom of the shells. Ignited by the detonation of the main firing charge, the priming compound would burn down the inside of the wooden tube until reaching the opening cut by the sergeant major. There it would set off the five-pound bursting charge and explode the shell. While it did not work every time, the method gave a reasonable chance of success.
Wasting no time, the crews of the mortars had slid the pieces to the ground and removed the carriers. Selected for their strength, burly men wielded the handspikes and made adjustments to the directions in which the barrels pointed. Due to the care in positioning the wagons, they had little to do before Dusty announced his satisfaction. Removing the wooden tampions from the muzzles, the chiefs-of-piece gave the orders to load. First the powder charges went into the twenty-eight inch tubes and were rammed home. Then the men handling the tongs manoeuvred the shells into position.
Maybe the Texans did not move with the skilled precision of a trained artillery team, but they still carried out their duties at a good speed. Watching them, Dusty saw his earlier decision to have them trained to use artillery weapons justified. At the time it had been merely a means of keeping them occupied during a period when they were resting between patrols. The training was now paying off in that it allowed him to strike at the Yankees.
While the men completed the loading, Dusty looked about him. Two of his men stood some distance away, ready to cut the telegraph wires between Little Rock and Hot Springs and prevent warning of Company ‘C’s’ presence being sent ahead of them. Half-a-dozen more were headed west with the Yankee platoon’s horses, for the heavy draught animals would not be able to keep up with the Company’s mounts in the event of a hurried departure. The remainder of the Company, less those employed on the mortars, kept watch on the surrounding country.
‘Sure hope them fuses work like they should,’ Billy Jack said in a tone that hinted he doubted if they would. ‘Likely they’ll make the shells bust in the barrel. Being so, I’ll stand away somewheres safe. Like at the end of this-here lanyard.’
Considering that the eight-foot long lanyard connected to the friction-primer in the right-side mortar’s vent-hole, the gloomy prediction failed to worry the men who heard it. In fact Sergeant Stormy Weather hardly looked up from working the lever that tilted the barrel to the required angle of fire.
‘All set, Cap’n Dusty!’ announced the burly, jovial-featured Weather.
‘Ready to go,’ confirmed the tall, dapper Sergeant Bixby by the other mortar.
‘Let ‘em go!’ Dusty ordered.
Instantly Billy Jack and Bixby gave sharp tugs at their lanyards, operating the friction-primers. Steel rasped over the highly-combustible priming compound and ignited it, sending a spurt of flame into the powder grains of the main charge which turned rapidly into a terrific volume of gas. Set alight by the burning powder, the fuse began to operate. With a deep roar, the shell vomited from the left side mortar. A
‘What happened?’
‘It warn’t the drinking well, so we figured it’d be a plumb waste of time to pull him out ‘n’ left him there,’ Billy Jack explained, then dropped his pose for a moment. ‘Range’d be around a mile ‘n’ a quarter, I reckon.’
‘Near enough,’ Dusty agreed. ‘Forty-five degrees elevation. We’ll give ‘em twenty seconds first go and alter it for the next if we’re wrong.’
‘Should have a big enough target, anyways,’ the sergeant major drawled, using the point of his knife to pierce the wall of the fuse at the required graduation. ‘Or was you-all figuring on dropping the shells on top of Trumpeter’s fool lil Yankee head?’
‘I’ll settle happy enough for scattering his review,’ Dusty answered.
With the fuses cut, he and Billy Jack fitted them carefully into the holes at the bottom of the shells. Ignited by the detonation of the main firing charge, the priming compound would burn down the inside of the wooden tube until reaching the opening cut by the sergeant major. There it would set off the five-pound bursting charge and explode the shell. While it did not work every time, the method gave a reasonable chance of success.
Wasting no time, the crews of the mortars had slid the pieces to the ground and removed the carriers. Selected for their strength, burly men wielded the handspikes and made adjustments to the directions in which the barrels pointed. Due to the care in positioning the wagons, they had little to do before Dusty announced his satisfaction. Removing the wooden tampions from the muzzles, the chiefs-of-piece gave the orders to load. First the powder charges went into the twenty-eight inch tubes and were rammed home. Then the men handling the tongs manoeuvred the shells into position.
Maybe the Texans did not move with the skilled precision of a trained artillery team, but they still carried out their duties at a good speed. Watching them, Dusty saw his earlier decision to have them trained to use artillery weapons justified. At the time it had been merely a means of keeping them occupied during a period when they were resting between patrols. The training was now paying off in that it allowed him to strike at the Yankees.
While the men completed the loading, Dusty looked about him. Two of his men stood some distance away, ready to cut the telegraph wires between Little Rock and Hot Springs and prevent warning of Company ‘C’s’ presence being sent ahead of them. Half-a-dozen more were headed west with the Yankee platoon’s horses, for the heavy draught animals would not be able to keep up with the Company’s mounts in the event of a hurried departure. The remainder of the Company, less those employed on the mortars, kept watch on the surrounding country.
‘Sure hope them fuses work like they should,’ Billy Jack said in a tone that hinted he doubted if they would. ‘Likely they’ll make the shells bust in the barrel. Being so, I’ll stand away somewheres safe. Like at the end of this-here lanyard.’
Considering that the eight-foot long lanyard connected to the friction-primer in the right-side mortar’s vent-hole, the gloomy prediction failed to worry the men who heard it. In fact Sergeant Stormy Weather hardly looked up from working the lever that tilted the barrel to the required angle of fire.
‘All set, Cap’n Dusty!’ announced the burly, jovial-featured Weather.
‘Ready to go,’ confirmed the tall, dapper Sergeant Bixby by the other mortar.
‘Let ‘em go!’ Dusty ordered.
Instantly Billy Jack and Bixby gave sharp tugs at their lanyards, operating the friction-primers. Steel rasped over the highly-combustible priming compound and ignited it, sending a spurt of flame into the powder grains of the main charge which turned rapidly into a terrific volume of gas. Set alight by the burning powder, the fuse began to operate. With a deep roar, the shell vomited from the left side mortar. A
Readers choose
Oscar de Muriel
Jeff Lindsay
Chrystle Fiedler
J.B. McGee
John Hawkes
Jedediah Berry
Julie Moffett
Barbara Colley
Suzanne Brockmann
Linda Kupecek