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and get dressed,’ Dusty answered. ‘Then you can saddle both horses.’
    ‘ Both? ’
    ‘Sure. I’ll use one and you’ll come with me. Then when I’m safe with my own folks, you can come back with both of them.’
    ‘That’s sure white of you,’ commented the scout, certain that the other would keep his word.
    ‘More smart than white,’ Dusty corrected with a grin. ‘It’s that way, or leave you dead. I don’t want a Yankee Injun scout coming hunting for me because I took his favourite horses and guns.’
    Also grinning, the scout rolled his razor, shaving brush and soap into a canvas hold-all. When he walked towards the fire, he noticed that his captor backed away to a safe distance. Although the Army Colt dangled with its muzzle directed at the ground, the scout figured it could be swiftly brought into line if he made a wrong move. Clearly the moment to reverse their positions had not yet arrived.
    Picking up his shirt, the scout drew it on. He discovered, on his head emerging through the neck-hole, that the Texan had taken advantage of his actions to go and collect the horn-handled, clip-pointed fighting knife. For a moment the scout felt uneasy, knowing that the Sheffield, England, firm of W. & H. Whitehead had engraved the message ‘DEATH TO TRAITORS’ along the eight-inch blade, to appeal to purchasers of Unionist persuasions.
    ‘Nice sentiment,’ drawled Dusty and tossed the knife to the scout’s feet. ‘Put it back in its sheath and leave it there.’
    Obeying, the scout next knotted the bandana about his throat. He tilted the Stetson into place on his head and gathered up the sash. For the first time, Dusty realised that the sash was made of two sections of the silk, one stitched on top of the other. No, not stitched all the way round. On either side, above the hips when the sash was in place, the sections were not connected.
    ‘How do you find it is to draw from that sash, friend?’ Dusty inquired, guessing at the purpose of the unstitched areas.
    ‘Easy—and fast,’ answered the scout. ‘Once you get the hang of it.’
    ‘I’d sooner have holsters myself,’ Dusty commented.
    ‘Every man to his own taste, Cap’n,’ the scout said. ‘I find I can fetch ‘em out a whole heap faster this way.’
    ‘Like you say,’ Dusty drawled. ‘Every man to his own taste. Now you’re dressed, you can saddle up the horses and we’ll pull out.’
    ‘You’re giving the orders,’ answered the scout.
    Still keeping his distance, Dusty allowed the man to fold and pack the bed-roll. Then he watched while the other took the necessary items for saddling-up to the waiting horses. Selecting the dun to start work on, the scout laid the carefully folded blanket on its back. With a practised swing, he elevated the McClellan saddle into position.
    ‘Tighten the girth and breast collar real good, friend,’ Dusty commanded. ‘I won’t be getting on until I’m sure you have.’
    ‘With a sneaky, suspicious nature like you’ve got,’ grinned the scout as he obeyed, ‘you’d make a mighty good lawman, Cap’n.’
    Without knowing it, the long-haired Yankee had just made a mighty prophetic statement. In the years following the end of the War, Dusty would serve with distinction as marshal in three tough, wild, wide-open towns and leave them tamer, better places at the end of his terms of office. 10
    ‘A half-smart lil Texas boy like me has to be sneaky and suspicious,’ Dusty replied, moving closer to make sure the work was completed to his satisfaction. ‘Happen he wants to stay alive this side of the Ouach—’
    Even as he spoke, Dusty happened to glance across the Saline River. A tall man dressed in a hybrid mixture of Union Army and civilian clothes sat a horse among the trees on the other bank. Big, surly-featured, he had a revolver hanging low in his right thigh. The Burnside hat and the blue tunic he wore bore no insignia. Hanging open, the latter exposed a dirty white shirt.
    Becoming aware