Free The Big Gun (Dusty Fog's Civil War Book 3) by J.T. Edson

officers who’d condone, or allow, the
indiscriminate shelling of civilian property.’
    ‘ You
could be right—’ the Englishman began.
    Any further comment Staunce may
have considered making was forgotten. The trail passed through
fairly thick woodland, with a heavy coating of bushes on either
side. There was little light filtering down from the stars and half
moon, but the two captains ’ eyes had grown accustomed to the gloom. They
could make out the shapes of their horses and see a short way
ahead.
    Suddenly
Dusty ’s big
bay gelding snorted, threw up its head, pricked its ears and stared
towards the bushes on the right side of the trail.
    There was a rustling commotion
amongst the undergrowth. Something fairly large lunged into view,
bounding in front of the riders. Controlling their startled mounts
with deft ease, the officers reached rapidly towards their weapons.
While Staunce ’s right hand was still trying to free the flap of his
close-topped official issue holster—and he had trained himself to
be far from slow at this—Dusty’s left fist had stabbed across,
drawn and cocked the off side white-handled Army Colt. Despite
having aligned the barrel on the swiftly moving shape and holding
back the trigger with his forefinger, Dusty did not complete the
draw by releasing the hammer.
    Sailing back into the air, with
the kind of leap for which its species was famous, a large buck
whitetail deer passed across the trail in front of Dusty and
Staunce. It disappeared, to alight in the bushes on the
river ’s side
of the path and continued its flight. When it landed the second
time, there was a hollow, wooden thumping noise far different from
how its previous return to the ground had sounded.
    ‘ If
you’d have been faster, we could have had venison for dinner
tomorrow,’ the Englishman complained, closing the holster’s flap.
‘What’s wrong?’
    Having returned the Colt to leather, with a
spinning twirl on his trigger-finger as a preliminary, Dusty was
swinging from his saddle.
    ‘ I’m
going to see what he landed on the second time,’ the small Texan
replied, dropping his reins.
    ‘ It
did sound a trifle odd,’ Staunce conceded, also dismounting. I’ll
come with you.’
    Advancing cautiously into the undergrowth,
they spread out and moved in the direction which had been taken by
the fleeing buck. A startled, or chased, whitetail deer could cover
up to twenty feet in a single leap. So Dusty and Staunce were
approaching the bank of the river before the mysterious sound was
explained. A small boat had been turned upside down and was
concealed amongst the bushes. Dusty found it and, placing his left
hand on the keel, felt at the wood.
    It ’s still wet, Doug,’ the small Texan
said, having called his companion over and announced his discovery.
‘Somebody’s come across the river.’
    ‘ It
could have been a family, or a man, who wanted to get away from the
Yankees,’ Staunce suggested.
    ‘ Why
sure,’ Dusty drawled, bending to grip the side of the boat and turn
it the right way up. ‘Only, if it had been, I don’t reckon
they’d’ve bothered to hide it like this.’
    ‘ There’s something under it,’ Staunce remarked, feeling into
his trouser pocket. He produced a box of Phosphorus
‘Strike-Anywhere’ matches and lit one.
    In the sudden glow of light,
ignoring the anything but pleasant smell that always accompanied
the ignition of a phosphorus match, the captains looked at a small,
oblong, tarpaulin-wrapped bundle. Dusty drew the Russell-Barlow
folding knife which his Cousin, Red Blaze had given to him as a
replacement for one lost during the Battle of
Martin ’s
Mill, and used it to open the wrappings. Any lingering notions
either of them might have harbored about the boat having carried
refugees to safety were brought to an end in no uncertain
way.
    Setting off another match, before the first
had burned itself out, Staunce joined Dusty in staring at the
printed words on the top sheet