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

massage his stinging cheek.
    Even Dusty, no slouch in matters pistolero himself, could not fault the speed and general competence with which the scout had extracted the Colt. Like the other had said earlier, drawing from the folds of a silk sash was fast—providing one took the trouble to learn. Nor was his talent confined to the right hand.
    Ejecting the blood that had collected in his mouth, Aaron removed his fingers from the cheek, intending to transfer them to the butt of his gun. Back curved the scout’s left hand. It slipped free and cocked the near hip’s Colt with almost an equal facility to that displayed when producing the gun’s mate. Again the production of a revolver, in a remarkably short space of time, brought a potentially threatening gesture to an abrupt and definite halt.
    ‘As the Good Book says,’ boomed the man called ‘Parson’. ‘Raise not thy hand against thy brother, lest the might of the Lord shall smite thee and bring thy pride to dust.’
    ‘He ain’t my brother,’ the scout pointed out, accepting the quotation as being genuinely from the Bible, but keeping both Colts levelled. ‘Which I don’t take easy to getting called a liar.’
    ‘Aaron meant no harm by the words, brother,’ Parson insisted.
    ‘Men’ve got killed saying ‘em,’ warned the scout coldly, ‘harmless or not.’
    ‘He spoke hastily, perhaps, brother, but with good and righteous cause,’ the gaunt man stated and waved a hand in Dusty’s direction. ‘These Secessionist scum killed his parents, good God-fearing folks that they were, and I wouldn’t soil your ears with the vileness they did to his sweet, unspoiled sister. Yes, brother, just as dead flies cause the ointment of the apothecary to send forth a stinking savour, so does the sight of that hated uniform bring anger to Aaron’s poor and ill-tried soul.’
    With each word, the angular man’s voice raised a pitch until he was thundering the speech as if from a pulpit. He hoped that he would hold the scout’s attention for long enough to allow his companions to wrest the advantage from the tanned, tawny-haired Westerner. The hope did not reach fulfilment.
    ‘Likely,’ was all the scout said, without relaxing his vigilance to a noticeable degree. ‘So how’s it affect me?’
    ‘If you just leave us have that short-growed son-of-a-bitch,’ Aaron put in with a hint of sarcasm. ‘We’ll hand him his needings.’
    ‘I’d surely admire to do it, brother, for your poor lil sister’s sake,’ the scout declared, sounding as if every word came straight from his heart. ‘Only I don’t reckon ole Colonel Verncombe’d be right pleased was I to show at Little Rock without his prisoner.’
    Still on his hands and knees, Dusty saw a slight, but definite change come over the quartet. Going by their mutual flashing exchange of glances and general loss of aggressive attitudes, they were aware of Colonel Verncombe’s sentiments on the subject of guerillas or other irregular organisations. Senior colonel in the Union’s Army of Arkansas, commanding officer of Buller’s most efficient regiment, Verncombe was a man whose opinions and desires must be reckoned with by any guerrilla band if it hoped to stay in operation around the Toothpick State.
    That the men were guerillas, Dusty no longer doubted. Their appearance had suggested that such might be the case, as did their behaviour. However, the mention of the name ‘Parson’ had clinched the matter beyond any shadow of a doubt. Falling into the hands of Northern irregulars, especially members of that particular band, was a situation on which no supporter of the Confederate States cared to contemplate. Dusty realised that the scout might very soon have the opportunity to repay him for killing the boar. From what he had said so far, the long-haired Yankee aimed to do just that. In which case, the scout was placing himself in a position of danger. Parson Wightman had the reputation of being a real bad man to