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

Stap’s already unlovely nose, Dusty’s knuckles crushed it. The force of the blow lifted Stap erect. Blood gushed from his nostrils as he spun around twice and crashed back-first into the left side gate-post.
    ‘I saw him, for sure,’ admitted the scout, grinning maliciously. ‘Ain’t he the mean one?’
    Once again the small, insignificant-seeming young Texan had won the scout’s respect by proving himself to be a mighty capable and efficient big man.
    Shaking his head, to try to bring sense back into it, Stap reached for his Colt. In his pain and bewildered condition, he did not make anything like a flashing, well-performed draw. Allowing the gun to clear leather and begin to lift in his direction, Dusty lashed up his right leg. Coming inwards, the toe of his boot caught the back of Stap’s palm with a force that numbed the hand. Stap’s fingers opened and the gun spun away from him. For all that, he responded with some speed. Thrown from his daze by the agony of the kick, Stap focused his eyes on his assailant. Snarling barely coherent curses, Stap whipped across his left arm in a back-hand slap to Dusty’s head. Caught with his foot still descending from the kick, Dusty pitched sideways. Once more the small Texan lost his campaign hat.
    ‘Get him, Stap!’ screeched Charley excitedly, throwing the piece of wood down in front of him and waving the knife. ‘Stomp him good!’
    Willing to carry out his companion’s advice, Stap thrust himself from the gate post. Although the Texan had not fallen, the slap had knocked him back several feet. He looked to be off balance and easy meat for reprisals. Eager to hand them out, Stap hurled himself after Dusty. Extending his arms, the guerilla’s big hands reached ready to take hold of the small Rebel.
    By the time Stap had drawn near, Dusty was in full control of himself. Coming to a halt facing the guerilla, Dusty side-stepped at the last moment. Pivoting around as the other blundered on, the small Texan caught him by the shoulder and turned him. Then Dusty demonstrated some of the fighting skill which the spy at Pine Bluff had doubted if he possessed. Smashing a right cross punch to Stap’s jaw, Dusty sent him backwards and kept him retreating with a battery of rapidly-thrown blows to the head and body.
    ‘The stinking peckerwood son-of-a-bitch!’ Aaron spat out, his gun still half drawn and allowed to remain that way because he had believed his brother could easily thrash the diminutive Rebel. ‘I’ll fix—’
    ‘Leave the gun be, Maxim!’ Wightman hissed savagely, clamping a hold on Aaron’s wrist as the other tried to complete the withdrawal. ‘Like I’ve been telling you, we need him alive!’
    Twisting his head, Aaron stared briefly, but furiously, at the speaker. Then he swung his eyes away from the cold, savage, gaunt fate. Experience had taught the guerilla that his leader was never so dangerous, or determined to receive compliance with his wishes, than when he dropped the pious-sounding word ‘brother’ and began to use surnames. Some people might regard Parson Wightman’s pomposity and pseudo-religious cantings as harmlessly amusing, but Aaron knew him to be a cold-blooded killer with no scruples against taking even his own men’s lives if they crossed him.
    So Aaron allowed the revolver to slip back into its holster and jerked his arm from the gaunt man’s grasp. Common-sense told Aaron that, even if Wightman did not stop him shooting the Texan, the long-haired scout would do it. There was another, almost equally effective way in which he might help his younger brother.
    Driven backwards by Dusty’s fists, Stap literally did not know from where the next blow was coming. Instead of trying to anticipate the next point to be attacked and guarding it, his hands fled to the last place on which his assailant’s hard fists had impacted. Caught by an almost classic left jab to the jaw, he nearly ran rearwards to escape further punishment. To his