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

with his left hand, he passed it above the nearside brass
shoulder scale—which even carried a copy of the 17th Lancers’ skull
and crossed-bones insignia—of the blue tunic and clapped it over
the man’s mouth. Stifling any outcry before it could be attempted,
Kiowa jerked the lancer’s head backwards. At the same instant, his
right hand thrust home the bowie knife. Its clip point sank into
the man’s kidney region. Although he died almost instantly and in
silence, the Spencer slipped from his lifeless grasp and dropped to
the ground.
    Having kept
Kiowa ’s
victim under observation, Vern Hassle timed his own attack to
coincide with his companion’s. Swinging the stout piece of branch
parallel to the ground—having decided that the fancy Lancer’s cap
offered too much protection against a downwards blow—the old-timer
crashed it against the base of his objective’s skull. Continuing to
move with a speed that belied his white hair and years, he followed
his victim down. Flattened on the grass behind the motionless
sentry, Hassle waited until sure that his actions had gone
unnoticed. Then, picking up the Spencer, he wriggled rapidly back
to the shadows of the wagons.
    There was no sign of life from
the pup
tents. Nor did Culver’s flow of profane, bombastic chatter cease,
to suggest that he had heard the slight disturbance as the sentries
were removed. Satisfied, Kiowa gave the call of a whippoorwill
twice and Hassle echoed the signal.
    Figures flitted through the
trees, feeling their way with cautious feet so as to keep the noise
of their passage to a minimum. While they might not have succeeded if
their opponents had been Indians, they were quiet enough to avoid
detection by the Easterners against whom they were
operating.
    Despite the knowledge that they
were not dealing with men who possessed the natural alertness and
keen senses of Indians, and that Company C had defeated three
Companies of Long Island Lancers at the Battle of
Martin ’s
Mill, the Texans were too battle-wise to take unnecessary risks or
grow over-confident. They had lost several men in the fighting and
were outnumbered by the party in the clearing. Only by attaining
complete surprise could they hope to achieve their new commanding
officer’s purpose. Every one of them figured life would be a whole
heap easier and more pleasant all round if they did
that.
    Captain Fog might be very
young, hardly more than seventeen, but he possessed a mighty
forceful character and it was well to pay heed to his orders or
instructions. There was no better gun-handler in the Texas Light
Cavalry, for he could draw with lightning speed and shoot very accurately with
either hand. He had few peers as a horse-master, or in saber
fighting mounted and a-foot. Using tricks learned from Ole Devil
Hardin’s ‘Chinese’ v servant, augmented
by considerable physical strength, he had proven capable of
out-fighting bigger, heavier, older and more powerful men when
necessary.
    So, when Captain Fog had laid great emphasis
on the need for silence and care, the enlisted men had paid greater
attention than they would have to an officer who did not stand as
high in their esteem.
    On reaching the edge of the clearing, the
enlisted men halted in concealment. They lined their weapons,
revolvers or whatever type of shoulder-arm they might possess, on
the tents and waited to see if their presence had been detected.
Apparently it had not, for there was no sign of activity on the
part of the Yankees.
    Satisfied that all had gone to
plan, Captain Fog moved towards the marquee. He was accompanied by
his second-in-command and the Company ’s sergeant major. While they were armed
with an 1860 Army Colt in each hand, his matched, bone-handled
revolvers were still in the cross-draw holsters of his
well-designed Western-style gun belt. Instead, he grasped a
long-bladed knife in his right fist.
    Inside the marquee, General
Culver stood at the head of the collapsible table. A short,