Read Online Under the Stars and Bars by J. T. Edson - Free Book Online

just say I’m acting for him,’ answered the scout evenly. ‘If you’ve got nothing better to do, Cap’n, go saddle your hoss.’
    Shaking his head, for coming into an upright position had started it spinning again, Dusty stood and looked at the scout. He caught a brief, barely discernible nod from the plainsman and decided to obey. Clearly the other did not intend to accept the challenge right then. So Dusty decided that he had better go along with the decision.
    Leading the way to the second saddle, the scout picked up the Henry and its fancy medicine boot. Then he stood back and allowed Dusty to collect the saddle. They both noticed Aaron talked animatedly into Wightman’s ear and throwing angry glares at them.
    ‘He’s sure pot-boiling mad about something,’ Dusty remarked, gathering the saddle-blanket, bridle and reins in his left hand, while his right held the light McClellan saddle and its breast strap.
    ‘Likely telling the Parson he’s certain sure you’d got me prisoner when he come up on us the first time,’ answered the scout. ‘Which, if it’s believed, ‘ll make a helluva liar out of me.’
    Wanting an excuse to prolong the conversation, Dusty allowed his left hand’s burden to slip. Although Wightman and the brothers continued to talk in low, argumentative tones, they did not entirely relax their vigilance over Dusty and the Yankee scout.
    ‘So nobody’s coming, huh?’ Dusty asked, bending to retrieve the equipment.
    ‘Not so’s I know on,’ admitted the scout. ‘I’d say we’re safe until they get to know it.’
    ‘Why wait?’ Dusty inquired. ‘Just let me grab a hold of one of my guns, accidental-like and we’ll shoot our way by ‘em.’
    ‘I’d thought some on it. Near on done it just now, comes to that.’
    ‘What stopped you?’
    An increased sense of liking and admiration grew in the scout. At no time had the small Texan looked at the dead pig, or given a single hint to remind him that he owed his life to the other’s skill with an Army Colt. Maybe they were serving on opposite sides in the civil conflict that was tearing their country apart, but the scout figured his captive would do to ride the river with, even if the water should be over the willows. However, the soft-spoken question required an answer.
    ‘There’s another son-of-a-bitch of ‘em across the river,’ the scout explained. ‘And he’s got what looks awful like a Spencer rifle pointed slap-dab at us.’
    * * *
    At the Scout’s warning, Dusty turned his eyes to the western bank of the Saline River. He saw the reason for the scout’s earlier failure to take up the quartet’s challenge. Standing partially concealed by a slippery elm tree, a middle-sized, stocky man looked towards them along the sights of what appeared to be a Spencer repeating rifle. The newcomer’s presence threw an entirely different complexion over the affair. If Dusty and the scout tried to escape, his rifle would halt at least one of them.
    Carrying the gear towards the chestnut, with the scout by his left side, Dusty saw Aaron Maxim slouching their way. Instead of showing pure suspicion, Aaron’s unprepossessing features glinted with triumph. He looked like a man who had finally caught out another in a trick or lie. However his present feelings of elation did not entirely wipe away his caution, for he halted well beyond the reach of the scout’s arms.
    ‘If he was your prisoner all along,’ Aaron challenged, ‘how come you’d had to knock him down when we rid up?’
    ‘That was your son-of-a-bitching fault,’ rumbled the scout menacingly. ‘If you hadn’t come slinking and crawling about over the river, I’d not’ve stopped watching him. He tried to jump me and I had to knock him down.’
    ‘Yeah!’ snorted Aaron. ‘Well I—’
    ‘Deacon!’ the scout called, not wanting Wightman to guess that his identity had been discovered.
    ‘What is it, brother?’ asked the Parson, flashing a trumphant glance to Abel