The Fury of El Tigre

  The Fury of El Tigre

  El Tigre – the Tiger. That's what the Mexicans called him. His name was Jim Curtis, and he was a product of the Civil War, who went to Mexico to fight in the Revolution.

  Now he just roams the West, riding from one town to the next – a drifter with no home. Then fate intervenes, in the form of a woman named Mary-Alice, and Curtis is soon up to his neck again in someone else's war. Only this time it has brought him face to face with an old friend.

  The killers think they can beat him. But they've never come across the fury of El Tigre!

  By the same author

  Fury at Bent Fork

  Brolin

  Brothers of the Gun

  Writing as Sam Clancy

  Valley of Thunder

  Even Marshals Hang!

  The Man Who Burned Hell!

  Hellraiser!

  Writing as Brent Towns

  Lightning Strike!

  The Other Madden

  Saracen!

  The Fury of El Tigre

  B.S. Dunn

  ROBERT HALE

  © B.S. Dunn 2019

  First published in Great Britain 2019

  ISBN 978-0-7198-2992-5

  The Crowood Press

  The Stable Block

  Crowood Lane

  Ramsbury

  Marlborough

  Wiltshire SN8 2HR

  www.bhwesterns.com

  Robert Hale is an imprint of The Crowood Press

  The right of B.S. Dunn to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him

  in accordance with the Copyright, Designs andPatents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. This e-book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  For Sam and Jacob

  and for George Snyder – still riding the range

  Prologue

  Shiloh, afternoon 6 April 1862

  Hell is a place on earth. Or so it seemed at that moment in time, what with the carnage of war surrounding the desperate Union troops as they fought for their lives in the place that would become known as the Hornet’s Nest.

  Up to this point, the Confederates had thrown brigade after brigade into the Hornet’s Nest, and still the stubborn Yankees held on. Commanders such as A.P. Stewart, Shaver, Patton, Anderson and Wood, all sent their battle-hardened men forward, only to be thrown back by the resolute Federal resistance.

  Then came the artillery.

  Between fifty and sixty cannons commanded by Brigadier General Daniel Ruggles threw shot after shot into that stand of trees split by a sunken road. The once living, breathing vegetation was now a mass of shredded sticks only suitable for kindling. Amidst it all were the soldiers of generals W.H.L. Wallace, Prentiss and Hurlbut.

  On the right flank, Sherman and McClernand had already fallen back to re-form along the heights of a ravine.

  Altogether, the Rebs had gathered some fourteen brigades. The Union troops were outnumbered, outgunned, and staring down the barrel of disaster.

  ‘Captain Reynolds?’ a soldier shouted. ‘Captain Reynolds?’

  Jack Reynolds fired another shot from his 1860 Army Colt, and the figure he was aiming for, dressed in Confederate grey and carrying a musket complete with bayonet, disappeared behind the cloud of blue-grey gunsmoke that spewed forward. When it cleared, he was gone.

  ‘Captain Reynolds?’ the voice shouted again.

  ‘Over here!’ Reynolds called back.

  Hurrying across to the man he sought, the soldier found himself standing before a six-foot tall, powerfully built officer with dark hair and matching facial hair. The face was lined, and from beneath a battered campaign hat, steel-grey eyes stared out.

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’ Reynolds asked, as another Reb ball fizzed past his head.

  ‘General Hurlbut has been forced to withdraw, sir,’ the sergeant shouted above the sound of musket fire. ‘General Prentiss wants this side of the flank refused, so as to meet the Rebs as they come on, sir. The general told the colonel. The colonel told me, and I’m telling you. The 14th Iowa will be on your right when you swing your line. Others will link to them.’

  Reynolds looked to his left and saw that the flank was indeed hanging in the wind and the Rebs were gathering in force to try and roll them up from that side. His men, part of the 23rd Missouri, were now the left of the line.

  More cannon shots landed amongst the Union lines, leaving big holes in it where men had fallen or completely disappeared.

  ‘Shit,’ Reynolds cursed. ‘Take word back to the colonel that we’ll refuse his line and we shall await further orders.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Reynolds looked around his depleted line. Troubled eyes searched for his second-in-command, Lieutenant Lucius Frame. He grabbed a corporal from the line in front of him and barked loud enough for the man to hear.

  ‘Find Lieutenant Frame and have him report to me. Double-time it.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Somewhere further along the line, case-shot exploded and stripped a handful of men from an already thin line. To the Union front, a long row of Confederate troops stopped and shouldered arms. They sighted along their musket barrels, and upon command, fired as one, the sound rippling along a line soon to be consumed in powder smoke.

  The cries of Union troops sounded through the din as lead balls found their target. One man had part of his face shot away, another took three balls in his guts. Even more took wounds that were ghastly to see. Ones that would eventually cost arms or legs.

  ‘Close the gap in the line!’ Reynolds shouted at his men. ‘Fill the damned holes! Keep up the fire!’

  Suddenly, Lieutenant Frame appeared beside him. ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. It would seem that General Hurlbut has pulled back and left our flank exposed. I’ve orders to refuse the line on the left before the Rebs roll us up. See to it. And make sure every man has some ammunition. The Iowa boys will be on our right.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Frame hurried away and began to organize the line. It wasn’t long before he had them turned at ninety degrees to the firing line and moving left to allow the 14th Iowa, 3rd Iowa, 18th Wisconsin, 21st Missouri and others to link in with them. They would be ready to meet the new onslaught when it came.

  ‘Runner!’ Reynolds cried out. ‘Smith, on me!’

  A young private with a grime-covered face came across to Reynolds, looking up at him with red and tear-filled eyes from the harshness of the powder smoke the firing line produced.

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  Reynolds opened his mouth to speak when a sharp crack sounded, and a Reb musket ball smashed into the private’s head, making it snap to the side. The man fell into a heap at the captain’s feet.

  ‘Damn it,’ Reynolds cursed. He stepped forward to the firing line and pulled a private out of it. ‘I need you to find the colonel and tell him we’ve refused the line and are expecting to be able to hold the Rebs.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Immediately to the front of the 23rd Missouri, the Confederate forces were starting to fall back. Not surprising, considering the amount of fire the Union troops were pouring into them. The lead being flung at the Rebs seemed to be cutting them down in rows.

  Yet although they had withdrawn, the Union troops were still in dire trouble. Their right and
left flank had withdrawn, leaving the centre to fend for themselves in a patch of wooded hell where the bodies were piling up fast.

  Then as the Confederate forces gathered themselves for another assault, the cannons commenced firing again and steel rain once more opened large gaps along the front of the defensive line. Huge eruptions of earth shot skyward, and every now and then contained the remnants of a trooper.

  When the cannon fire ceased five minutes later, Reynolds could see the enemy troops forming to their front.

  ‘Get ready, men!’ he heard Sergeant Jim Curtis shout. ‘Remember, hold the line. I’ll shoot any man who takes a backward step. You’re the 23rd Missouri, and I’ll not have any of you tarnishing that wonderful name.’

  Jim Curtis was, of all things, from Texas. The men looked up to him, and Reynolds was pleased to have such a backbone for them to rely on.

  There was movement at Reynolds’ side and he turned to face the private he’d sent with the message for the general.

  ‘Report, private,’ Reynolds urged the wide-eyed man.

  ‘The – ahh – the general sends his – ahh. . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Reynolds cut him short, ‘get on with it.’

  ‘The Rebs are getting in behind our lines, sir, and the general said to be ready to withdraw at a moment’s notice.’

  Reynolds was nodding when something occurred to him. ‘Private, why are you telling me this and not the colonel?’

  He’d not thought about it earlier when the sergeant had first approached him, and for that to happen meant. . . .

  ‘The colonel is dead, sir,’ the private said, confirming his suspicions.

  Reynolds nodded, a grim expression on his face. What he’d give to be back home about now. ‘All right. Find Lieutenant Frame and tell him of our new orders. Then report back to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Reynolds said, stopping him. ‘Your name. What is it?’

  ‘Hunt, sir.’

  ‘All right, Hunt. Carry on.’

  ‘Here they come!’ Reynolds heard Curtis’ shouted warning.

  On cue, the trees filled with a rousing Rebel yell which was immediately followed by the staccato sound of the Union line opening fire. The men in Reynolds’ company stood shoulder to shoulder, steadily loading and firing.

  After the battle was finished, the Confederate survivors who fought in the place that would be known as The Hornet’s Nest would recall of those opposite, ‘The air was filled with so much lead that I saw a bird walking across it. There was no need for him to fly.’

  Something tugged at Reynolds’ left sleeve and when he looked down he saw a tear in his jacket. Although it wasn’t the only one. He counted four others.

  Reynolds noticed a concentrated Confederate push to the left, towards a gap that had opened tantalizingly wide. If they got through that breach then the line would disintegrate and the Rebs would roll up the line.

  ‘Every third man drop out and move to your left!’ Reynolds shouted at his men.

  The cry was taken up by the NCOs along the line and almost immediately men were falling out of the line and moving to fuse the gap on the left.

  Reynolds spotted Curtis moving with them. ‘Sergeant Curtis!’

  Curtis halted. ‘Sir?’

  There was a fresh cut on the sergeant’s right cheek and a thin trickle of blood had streaked his grime-covered face.

  ‘You hold that line,’ Reynolds ordered. ‘I don’t care how. But you hold it.’

  ‘We’ll hold it, sir,’ the Texan growled.

  ‘Take care, Jim,’ Reynolds said.

  ‘That’ll be the day, Captain,’ the sergeant said with a smile, then noticed the captain looking toward the Confederate line.

  ‘See to the men.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The crackle of musketry ebbed and flowed along the line and still the Rebs came on. Reynolds saw an officer out front waving a sabre in the air, encouraging his men onwards.

  ‘Can’t have that,’ Reynolds growled.

  ‘Corporal Murphy!’ the captain called out.

  ‘Sir!’

  The voice came from in front of Reynolds where a tall man stood almost within reach.

  ‘That damned Johnny Reb out there waving that toothpick around like a madman. You see him?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Kill him!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It may have seemed cold-blooded, but that was the man driving the attack. While he was leading, his men would follow. If he was killed, maybe they would lose their way and the confusion would force them to fall back.

  The musket in Murphy’s hands roared. The distance was no more than thirty yards and the lead ball slammed the officer backwards.

  Reynolds was right. Maybe the officer was well liked, or perhaps it was the shock of seeing their commanding officer fall. Whatever it was, the brutal death of the sabre-wielding man stalled their advance.

  ‘Keep firing,’ Reynolds shouted. ‘Pour it into them, boys!’

  Gradually, blue-grey gunsmoke increased throughout the wooded area until it formed a great pall which hung in the air, thick and heavy, filtering between the skeletal remains of the splintered trees like a ghostly mist.

  The cries of the wounded and dying blended together in a bizarre symphony punctuated by musket fire. Reynolds managed to block it out. It was something one never got used to, but he was able to ignore it while focusing on his men and the desperate situation in which they found themselves.

  Then another officer came forwards. Not as flamboyant in his actions as the one who’d just died, but coming to the front of the advance, he signalled the troops forwards, and started walking towards the Union line, six-gun in hand.

  Reynolds felt a moment of admiration for the man heading towards almost certain death. But that’s all it was, a moment. A fleeting instant, and then it was gone.

  ‘Murphy!’ he shouted above the next rattle of musket fire. ‘Murphy?’

  He was about to call the man’s name again when he noticed him lying on the ground, arms outflung, a dark stain on his left breast.

  ‘Damn it.’

  He looked back up just in time to see the Confederate advance halt fifteen yards in front of the Union troops. Commands were issued and weapons were raised into the firing position.

  Reynolds braced himself for the onslaught of round shot and minié balls that would rip through his line, destroying material and flesh, even bone, with its violent passage.

  He heard the call.

  ‘Fire!’

  Great clouds blossomed from the Confederate line as hammers fell on firing caps, igniting the powder, which in turn hurled the contained lead along the smooth bore of the weapon’s barrel until it punched clear, searching for a target.

  Reynolds flinched as a minié ball cut the air close to his cheek. Another tugged at a loose fold in his jacket, a third clipping the epaulet on his right shoulder.

  Around him, the snap of flying lead filled the air. Men fell with balls buried in their bodies. One spun about with the lower part of his face shot away. Another soldier was on his knees, bent forward, clutching at a ghastly stomach wound from which his intestines were trying to escape.

  Beside the mortally injured man, a fellow soldier bent down, said something in his ear, and then straightened once more. Reynolds watched as the second man drew a sidearm he’d appropriated from a Confederate officer earlier, and shot the first man in the head.

  The men’s names were Finch. They were brothers.

  ‘Charge!’

  The shouted order brought Reynolds’ gaze up in time to see the Confederate troops begin their headlong rush at the Union line. Muskets were levelled and wicked-looking bayonets were now pointed forwards.

  ‘Hold the line!’ Reynolds shouted to his men.

  With shrill rebel yells piercing the cacophony of other sounds, the Reb troops closed the distance between the two sides until, with an audible whoof, they came toget
her and continued killing each other with a bloody and grim determination.

  A burning pain cut deep into Reynolds’ left side as a Reb bayonet pierced the skin and glanced off one of his ribs. He cursed through gritted teeth and brought up his Army issue Colt, firing point-blank into the snarling face of the Confederate soldier who’d tried to end his life.

  The .44 calibre slug smashed through the man’s teeth and blew out the back of his head. He crumpled to the ground and was immediately replaced by another soldier. Reynolds shot him, too.

  One thing Reynolds had learned in his time fighting was that death didn’t discriminate. It didn’t matter if you were officer or trooper, general or private. If your time had come, then there was no avoiding it. To prove it, all along the line were blue and grey-clad bodies entwined as though in some macabre embrace.

  Above the noise of battle, Reynolds could hear Curtis’ voice barking orders as he organized those in his charge. He cast a quick glance towards him and saw the sergeant thrust his rifle butt forwards into the face of a Confederate soldier. The man dropped as though pole-axed at the Texan’s feet.

  Then from out of the mêlée to Reynolds’ right came the officer who’d taken over the lead in the Confederate attack. He was wild-eyed, and his grime-covered face showed a large scar that disfigured his right cheek. In his hand was a cocked sidearm, while his grey uniform had telltale bloodstains on it.

  To his horror, Reynolds saw him approach Lieutenant Frame who was grappling with a Reb soldier, completely unaware of the danger approaching him. The Confederate officer raised the gun, and only inches from the young lieutenant’s head, squeezed the trigger. Frame’s head snapped to one side and he slumped lifelessly to the blood-soaked earth.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ Reynolds snarled, raising his own six-gun.

  The Reb officer must have sensed what was happening and turned to face him. He stared at Reynolds and then smiled a twisted grimace, made more so by the livid scar.