a secret camp.
Frowning, the Parson thought fast. For something over a month, he and his last eight companions—two had deserted on the way west—had been living at a small farm close to the Saline River. They had come to Arkansas in the hope that Buller might take a more lenient attitude than most Union, or Confederate, generals towards their irregular activities. Being wolf-smart, Wightman had advised extreme caution. So they had held off committing their usual depredations, except on a minor scale to obtain the necessities of life, until a sympathiser in a Little Rock could discover how the commanding general of the Army of Arkansas would react to their presence in his area.
So far there had been no reply and Wightman knew that his men were getting restless. There were other guerilla bands operating in the Toothpick State, or back East, in which the less well-known members of his outfit might find shelter. So he wanted to be able to give them some definite news as quickly as possible.
Slowly Wightman turned his eyes in the direction of Dusty’s hat and he made sure that he had identified its insignia correctly. The Texas Light Cavalry was Ole Devil Hardin’s own regiment, organised, financed and equipped at his instigation. For such a small, insignificant youngster to be a captain suggested that he stood high in Hardin’s favour. If so, to deliver him into Buller’s hands would gain the general’s approbation. Perhaps sufficiently so for Buller—hard-pressed and under heavy criticism due to his lack of success against the Rebels in Arkansas—to overlook Wightman’s past indiscretions and confer at least a semi-official status upon him.
The only problem being how to obtain possession of the prisoner. Using force did not appeal to the Parson. Not at that moment, anyway. Already the long-haired scout had demonstrated a speed that none of the quartet could equal when drawing their guns. So he would be much too fast for any of them to prevent him from shooting should they force a showdown. Of course their combined numbers would bring them through, but at least one of the four would die. There was an ugly element of chance over which of them it would be that did not appeal to Wightman.
More than that, if the scout had told the truth, killing him would not solve the problem. No matter how they tried, Wightman’s inexperienced companions could not hide all signs of the crime from a man like California Bill. Once the old timer discovered that something had happened to his friend, he would not rest until he had led Troop ‘G’ to the men responsible.
Or was the scout bluffing?
Wightman decided against calling the bluff until he had formed a better impression of what cards the opposition held.
‘Then brother,’ the Parson said, managing to bring a kind of joviality to his sober features. ‘Why not accompany me to my home and wait for your friends there?’
‘Well, I—’ the scout began.
‘We have heard that there are other Rebels between here and Little Rock,’ Wightman interrupted. ‘If you meet them, you might lose your prisoner and your own freedom. I would be doing you a disservice, brother, if I didn’t insist you come.’
‘Wouldn’t be right at all,’ Job Maxim agreed and his brothers rumbled menacing confirmation.
For a moment Dusty thought that the scout intended to refuse. Then he saw the other look across the river and stiffen slightly. There had been a definite challenge in the words. If the scout refused to accompany the quartet, he would have to back his non-compliance with roaring guns. Dusty hoped that he would be able to help in some way. With that in mind, he started to come to his feet.
‘You stay put there, you Rebel bastard!’ Aaron spat, making as if to advance and clenching his fists.
‘Major Galbraith don’t take to folks rough-handling his prisoners,’ the scout stated, moving between Dusty and Maxim.
‘He ain’t here—!’ Abel started to protest.
‘Let’s
Frowning, the Parson thought fast. For something over a month, he and his last eight companions—two had deserted on the way west—had been living at a small farm close to the Saline River. They had come to Arkansas in the hope that Buller might take a more lenient attitude than most Union, or Confederate, generals towards their irregular activities. Being wolf-smart, Wightman had advised extreme caution. So they had held off committing their usual depredations, except on a minor scale to obtain the necessities of life, until a sympathiser in a Little Rock could discover how the commanding general of the Army of Arkansas would react to their presence in his area.
So far there had been no reply and Wightman knew that his men were getting restless. There were other guerilla bands operating in the Toothpick State, or back East, in which the less well-known members of his outfit might find shelter. So he wanted to be able to give them some definite news as quickly as possible.
Slowly Wightman turned his eyes in the direction of Dusty’s hat and he made sure that he had identified its insignia correctly. The Texas Light Cavalry was Ole Devil Hardin’s own regiment, organised, financed and equipped at his instigation. For such a small, insignificant youngster to be a captain suggested that he stood high in Hardin’s favour. If so, to deliver him into Buller’s hands would gain the general’s approbation. Perhaps sufficiently so for Buller—hard-pressed and under heavy criticism due to his lack of success against the Rebels in Arkansas—to overlook Wightman’s past indiscretions and confer at least a semi-official status upon him.
The only problem being how to obtain possession of the prisoner. Using force did not appeal to the Parson. Not at that moment, anyway. Already the long-haired scout had demonstrated a speed that none of the quartet could equal when drawing their guns. So he would be much too fast for any of them to prevent him from shooting should they force a showdown. Of course their combined numbers would bring them through, but at least one of the four would die. There was an ugly element of chance over which of them it would be that did not appeal to Wightman.
More than that, if the scout had told the truth, killing him would not solve the problem. No matter how they tried, Wightman’s inexperienced companions could not hide all signs of the crime from a man like California Bill. Once the old timer discovered that something had happened to his friend, he would not rest until he had led Troop ‘G’ to the men responsible.
Or was the scout bluffing?
Wightman decided against calling the bluff until he had formed a better impression of what cards the opposition held.
‘Then brother,’ the Parson said, managing to bring a kind of joviality to his sober features. ‘Why not accompany me to my home and wait for your friends there?’
‘Well, I—’ the scout began.
‘We have heard that there are other Rebels between here and Little Rock,’ Wightman interrupted. ‘If you meet them, you might lose your prisoner and your own freedom. I would be doing you a disservice, brother, if I didn’t insist you come.’
‘Wouldn’t be right at all,’ Job Maxim agreed and his brothers rumbled menacing confirmation.
For a moment Dusty thought that the scout intended to refuse. Then he saw the other look across the river and stiffen slightly. There had been a definite challenge in the words. If the scout refused to accompany the quartet, he would have to back his non-compliance with roaring guns. Dusty hoped that he would be able to help in some way. With that in mind, he started to come to his feet.
‘You stay put there, you Rebel bastard!’ Aaron spat, making as if to advance and clenching his fists.
‘Major Galbraith don’t take to folks rough-handling his prisoners,’ the scout stated, moving between Dusty and Maxim.
‘He ain’t here—!’ Abel started to protest.
‘Let’s
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