Free The Devil Gun by J. T. Edson Page B

whispered orders, as a test of his knowledge.
    A momentary irritation rose in Marsden’s thoughts. In addition to being at least three years older than Dusty Fog, he had attended West Point and was not just some volunteer who held rank because his uncle happened to be the commanding general. Then sober thought wiped out the irritation. Dusty was embarking upon a desperate and dangerous assignment, also upon a very long and arduous journey. One could not blame him for taking no chances.
    ‘That’s a good horse, mister,’ Billy Jack remarked, drawing in on his rope. ‘Only I wouldn’t let the Yankee General, Custer, catch you riding it.’
    ‘Why?’ Marsden asked, watching the calm way the sorrel accepted the rope.
    ‘It used to belong to him.’
    Then Marsden remembered that among his other exploits Dusty had led a raid on the 7th Cavalry’s camp and drove off a fair number of the regiment’s mounts. Knowing something of Custer’s taste in horses, Marsden decided that possibly the sorrel had been one of the General’s personal mounts.
    ‘Reckon you’d best use one of our saddles, Mr. Marsden,’ Dusty suggested as Billy Jack led the sorrel from the corral.
    ‘Had one fetched down for you, mister,’ Billy Jack called over his shoulder. ‘It’s there on the rail.’
    Sensing something out of the ordinary in the air, a small knot of soldiers hovered in the background. On seeing that Marsden went towards the rail-hung saddle, an air of anticipation ran through the watching men. All wanted to see what kind of a horseman the Yankee shavetail might be. With his army’s reputation to uphold, Marsden hoped that he might put on a good display. However, he had never used a double-cinched range saddle and wondered if he could handle it correctly.
    ‘Here, Yankee,’ a voice said. ‘I’ll lend you a hand.’
    Turning his head, Marsden looked towards the speaker. All in all the approaching man did not strike Marsden as being the type to voluntarily offer assistance. He was a tall, burly young man with a sullen truculent face and wore the uniform of Mosby’s Rangers. However, Marsden knew that appearance could be deceptive and so raised no protest. Not that the soldier intended to burden himself to any great extent, for he took the blanket and left Marsden to handle the saddle. Not that Marsden objected, as he liked to saddle his own horse.
    Walking to the sorrel, the soldier went around it, halting on the side away from Billy Jack and in a position that hid him from the watching men. He took his time in getting the blanket into place, slipped a hand under it to ensure its smooth, unwrinkled fit, then let Marsden swing on the saddle. To one side of the group, Sam Ysabel glanced at the horse then turned his eyes to study Marsden’s helper.
    While saddling the sorrel, Marsden took the opportunity to study the animal. It showed no objections at receiving the saddle, although it moved restlessly when he first put the rig on. Clearly the sorrel was used to being saddled and ridden, however it might want to debate the matter of who ran things when it felt Marsden’s weight for the first time. Not that Marsden felt worried, he reckoned he could hold his own in that kind of company.
    With everything set, Marsden gripped the saddlehorn, placed a foot in the stirrup iron and swung upwards. Cocking his leg over, Marsden settled his weight down in the saddle. Instantly the sorrel gave a shrill scream of pain and took off in a wild leap. Only by a grab at the horn did Marsden prevent himself from being thrown. He came down hard on the saddle once more after being raised clear out of it, landing just as the horse’s feet touched the ground again. Another scream of pain burst from the horse and it took off once more. Marsden could not imagine what was happening. He did not for a moment believe that Dusty misled him or gave him an outlaw horse. No horse could have fooled Marsden so completely as to its character. Yet the sorrel