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

himself from among the other men. He had spent much time in winning the stallion’s confidence and training it by far gentler means than were usual in the mid-1860’s. In return for his kindness, the horse had given him very good service. Only the previous evening, it had even saved his life by its courage, stamina and speed. So he could not stand back and watch it abused by the foul-mouthed, brutal-faced guerilla.
    Four racing strides carried Dusty within distance of Stap. Out stabbed the small Texan’s right hand. Gripping the lash of the quirt, he tore it from the other’s grasp and flung it aside. Spitting curses like boiling water erupting from a kettle’s spout, Stap released the stallion’s reins. Already drawing back, the big horse retreated into the corral. It’s tormentor swung around, glaring in almost maniacal rage. Finding himself faced by a small, insignificant-looking Rebel captain, Stap let out another screech.
    ‘I’ll kill you!’ he howled and hurled a power-packed round-house left towards Dusty’s head.
    With his fist in flight, Stap became aware of a sudden, amazing, almost scaring change come over his proposed victim. Suddenly, miraculously, the Rebel stopped looking small. He seemed to take on a size and heft to make him larger and more powerful than his brawny assailant. Unfortunately for him, Stap noticed the change too late to halt his attack.
    ‘What the hell!’ Job bellowed as Dusty bounded towards his brother.
    ‘I’ll stop hi—!’ Aaron began, right hand dropping towards his revolver.
    ‘Let him go!’ growled Wightman, face alight with sadistic delight. ‘Your brother will smite him hip and thigh.’
    Which seemed a reasonably logical conclusion, comparing the six inches difference in Dusty’s and Stap’s height and the latter’s considerable advantage of weight. Stap had a reputation for being a rough-house brawler, with better than fair skill in a brawl. For all his plans to ingratiate himself with General Buller at the Rebel captain’s expense, Wightman could not resist the temptation to watch one of the hated Secessionists receive a brutal beating. Even if the scout had told the truth about being followed by a Troop of Dragoons, the injuries inflicted by Stap could be explained away. There was, however, the matter of how the scout would react to the sight.
    ‘You saw how that Rebel filth attacked Brother Stapley without provocation, stranger?’ Wightman challenged, looking at the plainsman.
    Before the scout could be forced to take a stand on the issue, Stap launched the attack—and they all received something of a shock.
    Ducking under the punch, Dusty let the bigger man’s impetus bring him forward. Even as Stap realised that his antagonist had most unsportingly avoided the attack, he started to have troubles of his own. Bowing his legs to take him beneath the other’s fist, Dusty kept his right hand braced against the right hip. Like a flash, the small Texan struck back.
    The manner in which Dusty held his hand might have looked strange to western eyes, but any student of Oriental karate could have warned Stap of the danger. Instead of closing his hand, Dusty bent his thumb across the open and upturned palm. Driven forward, with a slight twisting of the torso to increase their force, the extended fingers thrust into Stap’s solar plexus. To the guerilla, it felt as if he had been jabbed with a blunt spike of wood. Breath burst from his lips and he changed from advance to retreat, folding over. Coming down, the centre of his face met with Dusty’s left fist as it rose in an occidental fashion. Dusty proved to be almost as effective when striking in the conventional manner.
    Almost, but not quite. He had hoped to strike Stap on the jaw, which would have rendered the guerilla hors de combat , or so near to it as not to matter. Instead, the other’s withdrawal caused the fist to miss its mark. Not that Stap felt any gratitude over his good fortune. Ploughing into