Under the Stars and Bars by J. T. Edson Read Free Book Online

of the small Texan’s preoccupation, the scout figured his chance had come. Silently, he stepped away from the dun. His moccasins made no sound as he took two long strides towards the unsuspecting Rebel.
    Finding himself observed, the man at the other side of the river swung his horse around and trotted it back out of sight. Just a moment too late, Dusty realised the chance he had presented to his prisoner. Turning his head, he saw the scout springing towards him. Dusty had not looked away from the other for long, but it had proved to be long enough.
    Hurling himself forward with the speed of a cougar plunging from a branch at a whitetail deer, the scout knotted and drove his right fist ahead of him. Rock-hard knuckles impacted against the side of Dusty’s jaw. For a moment, as he went crashing to the ground, everything seemed to burst before Dusty’s eyes into flashing, brilliant lights. Darkness welled in on him an instant before he sprawled face down on the springy grama grass of the clearing. He did not feel the scout turn him over and unbuckle his gunbelt.
    * * *
    At first, Dusty’s eye-lids refused to function when he tried to open them. Under him, the earth felt hard, the grass rough and his neck seemed to be twisted badly. A throbbing pain beat through his head, stemming from his jaw. Slowly his eyes trembled open, blinking at the sudden influx of light. Then the spinning in his skull started to ebb away. Strength oozed back, along with coherent thought. Slowly he moved his neck, turning his aching head until he could see a pair of calf-long Indian moccasins. Then the light hurt Dusty’s eyes and he rolled on to his stomach.
    The scout stood several feet away, Navy Colts thrust butts forward in his silk sash. Lounging on spread apart feet, the long-haired Yankee had his hands thumb-hooked into the sash and Dusty’s gunbelt dangling over his broad left shoulder. Hearing the Texan stirring, the man glanced his way. Then he returned his gaze to the ford. A splashing sound reached the recumbent youngster’s ears. Starting to ease himself on to hands and knees, he looked at the four men who were riding through the water in his direction. They were not a comforting sight to a man in Dusty’s present situation.
    ‘Don’t try anything, Cap’n,’ said the scout, speaking from the corner of his mouth and with the minimum of lip movement. ‘That feller you saw’s coming back with his kinfolk.’
    Two of the riders might easily have been related to the man who had brought Dusty into serious difficulties. All had un-trimmed black hair, unshaven, sullen, almost brutish faces with a strong family resemblance and were dressed in a similar manner. None were small and they went down in one-inch steps, the first of them being of the middle height.
    Swinging his gaze to the fourth member of the party, Dusty felt an uneasy sense of recognition. From his round-topped, wide-brimmed hat, through his frock coat, string tie, trousers and boots, he wore all black. His grubby shirt might have once been white, but now looked a dirty shade of grey. Gaunt of build, with a bearded, hollow-cheeked face, he had an expression of piety that failed to reach, or match, the savage glow in his sunken, dark eyes. Nor did it go well with the ivory-handled Navy Colt carried in an open-topped cross-draw holster high on his left side. Maybe he would have passed for a circuit-riding preacher of the more severe kind to some people, but Dusty felt certain that he was nothing so innocuous.
    All of the men darted glances about them, studying the clearing and its occupants with interest. To Dusty, it seemed that the four were adding up the value of everything before them; horses, saddles, firearms, even himself. He noticed the gaunt man staring at something near where he knelt. Following the direction of the other’s gaze, Dusty looked at his Jefferson Davis campaign hat. Sent flying from his head by the force of the blow, or through his collision with