The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3) Read Online Free Page A

fighting. Unseen and unsuspected,
the corporal had studied the clearing and its occupants. The escort
was a full company of the Long Island Lancers, a fancy volunteer
outfit led by Eastern dudes, and they were guarding old ‘Cussing’
Culver himself.
    When Captain Dusty Fog had
heard Kiowa ’s news, he had acted with the kind of swift decision the
men of Company C had already come to expect of him. There were no
other Union troops in the vicinity, so he had decided that they
would try to capture the general. Carefully, but thoroughly, he had
made his plans based on Kiowa’s description of the terrain and the
clearing’s lay out. Several of Dusty’s men had been Texas Rangers
before enlisting in the Confederate States’ Army. Their duties had
chiefly been concerned with fighting Indians, so he had sufficient
soldiers capable of silent stalking to make his scheme possible.
Selecting the best of the ex-Rangers, he had assigned them to the
duty of silencing the sentries. The rest of Company C, less those
assigned to ride herd on their horses, were waiting in the woods
and ready to move in once the way was prepared.
    When Kiowa had last come into
contact with the Long Island Lancers, during the Battle of
Martin ’s
Mill, iv they had worn
normal U.S. Cavalry uniforms and been armed with nine foot long,
Norwegian fir lances. Handling their present duty, they had adopted
a more fancy attire—copied from the dress of the British Army’s
17th Lancers—supplied by the wealthy New York families who had
financed, equipped and recruited the regiment. Although lances were
piled outside the pup tents, each sentry carried a Spencer carbine
in his white gauntlet-covered hands.
    The booming tones of General
Culver reached Kiowa ’s ears, describing in a profanity-filled manner how,
having driven the Rebels to the Ouachita, he was merely awaiting
reinforcements before pushing them from Arkansas and commencing the
conquest of Texas.
    A faint, savage grin twisted at
the corporal ’s lips as he listened to the bombastic words. Far from
being driven, the Army of Arkansas and North Texas had made a
satisfactory and carefully executed withdrawal. What was more, if
Kiowa knew anything about General Ole Devil Hardin, the Yankees
were going to find any further ‘pushing’ to be a mighty difficult
and dangerous proposition.
    At last the two sentries separated. Carrying
his Spencer at a slovenly trail, the closer of them started to
stroll towards Kiowa. His companion, with the short repeater across
the crook of the left arm, ambled in the opposite direction.
    ‘ Damn
it!’ Kiowa snarled under his breath. ‘The idle son-of-a-bitch’s
going across , not round!’
    Instead of following his previous route, the
second sentry was ambling away from the wagons. That would not help
the short, white-haired, anything but decrepit, Corporal Vern
Hassle to complete his assignment.
    The call of a whippoorwill,
repeated twice, came from the picket line. That meant, Kiowa knew
the sentry watching the horses had been dealt with. Apart from a
slight restlessness among the animals, there had been nothing to
suggest it was happening. Certainly neither of the remaining
guards, nor the rest of the camp’s occupants appeared to be aware
that one of their number had been rendered hors de combat.
    Oblivious of his own peril, or
his companion ’s fate, the sentry followed the trail until turning along
the edge of the clearing. His attention was directed towards the
tent, as he tried to hear what was being said. Nor did he take his
gaze from the well-illuminated interior. Certainly he did not see
the menacing figure crouching as if made of stone amongst the
bushes.
    Glancing across the clearing towards the
wagons, Kiowa found that the second sentry had developed an extra
shadow. Grasping a thick branch, Vern Hassle was stalking his
victim on silent feet.
    As the sentry went by, Kiowa
rose. Without making a warning sound, the corporal glided forward.
Reaching out