The Rushers Read Free Page A

disorder, leaving a number of their braves dead on the ground. The Kid watched them draw back until they lined the slopes surrounding the wagons. He walked towards Mark, thumbing bullets through the loading slot of his Winchester.
    ‘That’ll hold them for a spell, likely until nightfall and they don’t make war in the dark. At most they won’t more than once today.’
    ‘Which same could be enough,’ Mark replied. ‘Ole Dusty sure pulled these blue bellies together, didn’t he?’
    ‘He sure did,’ grinned the Kid. ‘Just look at them bunch who took the main rush. They’re all puffed up with themselves like they’d whupped the whole Sioux nation.’
    The change in the men showed plain. No longer did they look scared. Instead all were grinning broadly, even though the faces might be a greyish tinge under the newly gained tan. They’d stood up to an attack, beat it off and could claim to be fighting men at last.
    Dusty did not get a chance to speak with his two friends as he walked around the defences once more. He wanted to speak with the sergeant-major, get the uniform off and return to wearing his own clothes. A bullet fired at long range hissed by his head but he ignored it. Then Dusty saw something which roused his anger. One of the soldiers had rested his rifle against the wheel of a wagon and was looking around him without regard to the watching Sioux.
    ‘Do I look like an Indian!’ Dusty roared, almost leaping forward.
    The soldier found himself confronted by an angry officer, a man with hard, cold and savage eyes. He stiffened into a brace, his mouth suddenly felt dry and he knew better than try any flip answers with this officer who came so dramatically to their rescue.
    ‘No—no—no, cap’n sir,’ he gasped.
    ‘Then why in hell’s name are you looking at me?’ demanded Dusty, his voice throbbing with anger. ‘Keep your full attention on the Sioux or I’ll have you lashed to an outside wagon wheel where you can see them properly!’
    From the tone of Dusty’s voice the young soldier did not for a moment doubt the threat would be carried out, nor did any of the others who heard. Not one of them took their eyes from the surrounding line of braves but one called:
    ‘They’re shooting at us, cap’n, sir.’
    ‘That’s all right. They’re not on our side so they’re allowed to.’
    As a joke it wouldn’t have made Eddie Foy fear for his act but it served to bring a chuckle from the men. Dusty knew better than keep riding them and now they were all attending to duty could relax slightly.
    Dusty walked to where the wounded sergeant-major lay. The man was tall, wide shouldered and burly, clearly an old soldier, a man who had seen plenty of action in his time. The bullet had grazed his shoulder badly, spun him into the side of a wagon and his head struck as he went down, knocking him unconscious. He had regained consciousness now and tried to stiffen into a brace as Dusty dropped to his knees by the wounded man’s side.
    ‘Hogan, sir,’ said the non-com. ‘Sergeant-major. We’ve been three days at the rendezvous, sir, waiting for you.’
    In the voice Dusty detected a faint hint of disapproval. His eyes narrowed a trifle for he was not a man to allow his rank to be flouted. Then he realized the sergeant-major took him to be the dead officer. Dusty’s eyes could detect nothing in Hogan’s face, certainly not a thing to indicate Hogan might be an officer-hater who hid behind the limits of the Manual of Field Regulations to deride and belittle his superiors. Hogan struck Dusty as being a good man with a legitimate grievance against the dead captain.
    ‘I got your orders at Fort Bannard, sir,’ Hogan went on. ‘You’d left before I could see you and taken the only scout available. The regiment pulled out the day we left, sir, they’ve been ordered to the south and needed all their scouts. I came by map and formed a circle to wait for you.’
    ‘Mister,’ drawled Dusty quietly, so