cross; and Dusty felt sure that he had guessed the gaunt man’s identity correctly.
In the years before the start of the War Between The States, Augustus Wightman had been a hell-fire-and-damnation preacher with his eyes on advancement to a wealthy bishopric. He had selected on the Slavery Issue as offering him the best chance of attaining his ambition. By thundering searing condemnations of all who opposed the abolition of slavery, he had built up a sizeable following in his home city—but the bishopric went to another priest.
From that day on, Wightman had been a changed man. Laying the blame for his failure on slave-owning interests, he had continued his campaign against them. However, what had once been the utterances of a self-seeking, if occasionally devout, man soon developed into the ravings of a religious fanatic of the worst kind.
Soon after the commencement of hostilities, he had enlisted in the Union Army as a chaplain. Eighteen months later, he had been compelled to resign and was unfrocked by his denomination. There had been tales of outrages committed against Confederate prisoners, and uglier stories of Southern women being raped by Negroes at Wightman’s instigation. Far too many, in fact, for them all to be lies by the heathen Secessionist trash to discredit a man of the cloth; as he had tried to claim.
Disregarding his protests, the Union Army’s top brass had issued orders that Wightman be given the choice of quitting or facing a court-martial. No less quickly, the leaders of his church had removed him from their midst. Too wise to resist, for he had known just how much truth there had been in the rumours, he had taken the easy way out. Wishing to avoid a scandal, Army and Church had let him go.
By that time, Wightman had gained a taste for power and a delight in the type of activities which had caused his downfall. So he had formed a band of irregulars, gathering together criminal elements and the worst kind of draft-dodgers who evaded service in the Army. It said much for the strength of his personality and acquired dexterity in the use of weapons that he had welded such an evil, motley crowd into a single unit.
Backed by such men, Wightman had commenced a career of murderous atrocity combined with theft. At last, learning that stories of his activities were being published in foreign, pro-Confederate, newspapers, the Federal Congress had ordered that Wightman’s outfit be disbanded. When he had refused to do so, Brevet-Colonel Frederick W. Benteen, Jnr., 11 a man of forcible personality and prompt action, had been assigned to bring Wightman in. Moving swiftly, Benteen’s battalion had located and attacked the Parson’s band. Although Wightman and some of the leading members had escaped, the rest of the evil crew were killed, captured or sent flying for safety towards the Canadian border.
Left with a mere ten out of over fifty followers, Parson Wightman had drifted from the danger area. His attempts to re-establish himself had been unsuccessful, and he had found no respite in the East. So he had pushed to the west with his dwindling band.
Although rumours had reached the Texas Light Cavalry that Wightman’s band were in Arkansas and hid-out somewhere along the Saline River, there had been no confirmation. Dusty now found himself in a position to supply proof of their presence—if, of course, he lived long enough and could escape to return and give it.
Standing behind his cocked, lined Colts, the scout kept a careful watch on the quartet. At the same time, he hoped that the small Texan would act in a sensible manner. With luck, the weight of Colonel Verncombe’s name would pull them out of their peril; unless the Rebel captain made some move that would trigger off a shooting fracas.
‘Be peaceable, brothers,’ commanded Wightman, darting a coldly-warning glare at Aaron Maxim and his brothers Abel and Job. ‘This young man shares with us in serving the blessed cause of defeating the
In the years before the start of the War Between The States, Augustus Wightman had been a hell-fire-and-damnation preacher with his eyes on advancement to a wealthy bishopric. He had selected on the Slavery Issue as offering him the best chance of attaining his ambition. By thundering searing condemnations of all who opposed the abolition of slavery, he had built up a sizeable following in his home city—but the bishopric went to another priest.
From that day on, Wightman had been a changed man. Laying the blame for his failure on slave-owning interests, he had continued his campaign against them. However, what had once been the utterances of a self-seeking, if occasionally devout, man soon developed into the ravings of a religious fanatic of the worst kind.
Soon after the commencement of hostilities, he had enlisted in the Union Army as a chaplain. Eighteen months later, he had been compelled to resign and was unfrocked by his denomination. There had been tales of outrages committed against Confederate prisoners, and uglier stories of Southern women being raped by Negroes at Wightman’s instigation. Far too many, in fact, for them all to be lies by the heathen Secessionist trash to discredit a man of the cloth; as he had tried to claim.
Disregarding his protests, the Union Army’s top brass had issued orders that Wightman be given the choice of quitting or facing a court-martial. No less quickly, the leaders of his church had removed him from their midst. Too wise to resist, for he had known just how much truth there had been in the rumours, he had taken the easy way out. Wishing to avoid a scandal, Army and Church had let him go.
By that time, Wightman had gained a taste for power and a delight in the type of activities which had caused his downfall. So he had formed a band of irregulars, gathering together criminal elements and the worst kind of draft-dodgers who evaded service in the Army. It said much for the strength of his personality and acquired dexterity in the use of weapons that he had welded such an evil, motley crowd into a single unit.
Backed by such men, Wightman had commenced a career of murderous atrocity combined with theft. At last, learning that stories of his activities were being published in foreign, pro-Confederate, newspapers, the Federal Congress had ordered that Wightman’s outfit be disbanded. When he had refused to do so, Brevet-Colonel Frederick W. Benteen, Jnr., 11 a man of forcible personality and prompt action, had been assigned to bring Wightman in. Moving swiftly, Benteen’s battalion had located and attacked the Parson’s band. Although Wightman and some of the leading members had escaped, the rest of the evil crew were killed, captured or sent flying for safety towards the Canadian border.
Left with a mere ten out of over fifty followers, Parson Wightman had drifted from the danger area. His attempts to re-establish himself had been unsuccessful, and he had found no respite in the East. So he had pushed to the west with his dwindling band.
Although rumours had reached the Texas Light Cavalry that Wightman’s band were in Arkansas and hid-out somewhere along the Saline River, there had been no confirmation. Dusty now found himself in a position to supply proof of their presence—if, of course, he lived long enough and could escape to return and give it.
Standing behind his cocked, lined Colts, the scout kept a careful watch on the quartet. At the same time, he hoped that the small Texan would act in a sensible manner. With luck, the weight of Colonel Verncombe’s name would pull them out of their peril; unless the Rebel captain made some move that would trigger off a shooting fracas.
‘Be peaceable, brothers,’ commanded Wightman, darting a coldly-warning glare at Aaron Maxim and his brothers Abel and Job. ‘This young man shares with us in serving the blessed cause of defeating the
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