Under the Stars and Bars Read Online Free PDF Page A

distance which precluded the chance of him taking them by surprise, the soldiers looked towards the source of the martial music. Dusty remained hidden. To make an appearance now would only stir up gun-play. While he knew that he could shoot accurately enough to tumble both men from their saddles, the horses would bolt before he could stop them.
    ‘Come on,’ Fred growled. ‘Looks like he’s finally got good enough sense to call it off.’
    ‘I ain’t sorry about that,’ Simmy replied. ‘Now maybe we’ll get back to camp in time for supper.’
    Watching the soldiers ride away, Dusty let out an exasperated grunt. No Texan from the range country cared for walking. However, seeing that it could not be helped, he waited until the sound of the Volunteers’ departure had faded into the distance and then resumed his journey.
    Satisfied that his pursuers had given up the chase, Dusty kept alert for another possible—and probably greater—danger. According to the conversation he had overheard, the Volunteers’ lieutenant had fired at what he believed to be a hidden man and wounded a pig of some kind. That the wound had not been fatal was a factor to be taken into consideration. Dusty had no wish to meet up with the injured animal.
    At best the pig would be only semi-domesticated; turned by its owner to forage in the woodland, then rounded up in much the same way that Texans raised their cattle. Like longhorns, some of the pigs were never recaptured and reverted to the wild. There were few more dangerous animals in Arkansas than a feral-hog, for it had no inherited fear of human beings. The feral-hog might be cautious and, like an old ladino longhorn, try to avoid contact with men; but it would never hesitate to attack if cornered or hurt.
    Darkness came without Dusty running into any kind of trouble or danger. He guessed that the ford was not far ahead when he heard the sound of running water. Much to his annoyance, he noticed a small red glow rising among the trees.
    ‘Damn the luck!’ Dusty growled, sotto voce . ‘There’s somebody bedding down for the night by that blasted ford.’
    Going by the size of the blaze, it would only be serving the needs of a small party. Nor could Dusty see other glows to tell him that more than one group of men were settling in ahead.
    Which raised a couple of vitally important points.
    How many men would he be dealing with and would they be friends of foes?
    Going by the lack of effort taken to conceal the flames, he would be willing to bet on the maker of the fire being a Yankee; most likely one of a small band. Soldiers, maybe. Or even worse, guerillas, those human wolves who used ‘patriotism’ as an excuse to raid, loot, pillage or murder. Rumour had it that an especially ruthless bunch of Yankee irregulars had moved into this section of the Saline River country. Being captured by them was not a situation any Southerner wished to face. Of course, the fire might have been made by a single soldier riding dispatch.
    Not that Dusty felt inclined to go and investigate right then. Common-sense dictated that he should put off the attempt until morning. Stalking an unknown area, with an unspecified number of men in it, was not a business he wished to try in the darkness of the night. Far better to make camp in what comfort he could manage until daybreak and then—when able to see where he was putting his feet—move in. Once he had examined the clearing in which the man—or men—rested, he could make an estimation of his best line of action.
    With that in mind, Dusty gave thought to his own bed for the night. Up so close to a possible enemy, he could not light a fire. Nor dare he chance breaking branches to make a lean-to. That left him only one alternative, to use the ground for a mattress and the sky as blankets.
    ‘Way my luck’s going,’ Dusty told himself, ‘it’ll pour with rain all night.’ Then he grinned, thinking of his ever-pessimistic sergeant major, and continued,