Free Under the Stars and Bars by J. T. Edson

right-hand slope, a tall, gangling man sat nursing a Sharps rifle and resting his back against a fallen tree’s trunk. Making as if to rise, the man received an imperious downwards wave from Wightman. Guessing at its meaning, he sank back again and resumed his watch on the bend in the gorge.
    From the sentry, Dusty turned his gaze to the band’s hideout. What he saw filled him with a sense of suspicious contemplation. The small log cabin, with a lean-to at the left and a truck garden to the right, the barn, backhouse and the empty pig-pens down by the stream all looked in too good condition to have been deserted by their owners for any length of time. Dusty wondered what had happened to the people who had lived there.
    On arriving at the front of the house, the men spread into a line. Giving the signal to dismount, Wightman swung from his saddle. Then he seemed to be struck by a thought and looked at Abel.
    ‘Will you and Brother Blocky go and see to the horses down in the south forty?’ the Parson asked. ‘I thought that I heard a mountain lion last night and they may be in fear and trembling from the beast.’
    ‘Sure, Parson,’ Abel answered, reversing his direction halfway to the ground. ‘Come on, Blocky. Let’s go see.’
    ‘And you, friend,’ Wightman continued, clearly wanting to prevent the scout from thinking too much about the order. ‘If you will come with me, we will secure your prisoner in the barn. You will understand, that with Brother Aaron’s feelings about the God-less Secessionists, I can neither have him in the house, nor let him partake of our food.’
    Even with his desire to hang on to Dusty, Wightman could not lessen his bigoted, intolerant hatred towards one of the people whom he blamed for failing to receive the bishopric. That thought more than any other had prompted his words.
    ‘It’s your place ‘n’ your food,’ the scout answered, although he shared Dusty’s thoughts on the absence of the real owners. ‘Let’s go, Reb.’
    Even as they walked towards the corner of the cabin, the scout realised that he had left Dusty’s gunbelt suspended over his saddle. Knowing that to fetch it might arouse suspicion, he made no attempt to do so.
    A tall, fairly handsome young man, dressed in the part-military fashion of all the band but Wightman, ambled around the corner towards them. A low-tied holster on his right thigh carried an Army Colt, balanced by an empty sheath at his left hip. The knife from the sheath, a long, spear-pointed, double-edged weapon, was in his right hand. Not for any Sinister purpose, but to round the one-inch diameter end of a six-inch length of oak branch. From beyond the cabin came the explosive snorts and hoof-stampings of an angry horse, mingled with loud curses.
    ‘What’s happening, Charley?’ asked Wightman.
    ‘Ole Stap brung in a real fine-looking black hoss,’ the young man answered. ‘Trouble being, they ain’t getting on too good.’
    ‘Let’s take a look,’ Wightman suggested.
    On turning the corner, Dusty received a shock. Behind the cabin, concealed from their view by it and the barn, was a small pole corral. At its open entrance, a big, burly young man—apparently a younger member of the Maxim family, clung to the reins of Dusty’s black stallion with his left hand. In his right, he held a leather quirt. Even as the man appeared, Stap lashed savagely at the stallion with the quirt. Squealing in pain, it reared high and its front hooves flailed the air. Stap moved back, trying to drag the horse down on all fours. Snarling obscenities, he drew the quirt over his right shoulder and prepared to use it again. If he heard the angry growl and sound of rapidly approaching feet to his rear, the sounds gave no warning of danger to him. However, something closed on the end of the quirt. Before Stap could resist, the whip was wrenched from his fingers.
    Hot rage blasted inside Dusty at the sight. Ignoring the danger doing it presented, he hurled