by J. T. Edson
Before the Negro could reply, Belle sensed that somebody had moved to her side. A hand caught hold of her arm in a firm, hard grip.
‘Now what’d a pretty gal like you want with the likes of Jim Bludso?’ demanded a hard, tough, but—Belle noticed gratefully—male voice.
Turning her head, the girl looked into a surly, bristle-covered face under a peaked dark blue hat. Her accoster was a big, thickset man, wearing a blue civilian uniform coat, black trousers and heavy Wellington leg boots. His appearance matched his voice, hard and tough. From his right wrist dangled a length of stout knotted rope, like the ‘starter’ once used as a means of inflicting punishment by petty officers aboard ships.
‘That’s my business, bucko,’ Belle answered, sounding as coarse as she looked. ‘So get your cotton-picking hands off me.’
‘I’d do it, was I you, Cap’n Bascoll,’ the Negro advised politely.
‘Who the hell asked you to bill in, shine-boy?’ Bascoll demanded, still holding Belle’s arm. ‘On the Stream Queen, we keeps the blacks in their place. Don’t we, Mr. Tyrone?’
The man to whom the words had been directed moved forward. Big, burly, he had a typically Irish cast of features. Dressed in a similar, if cheaper, manner to Bascoll, he had a heavy riding quirt grasped in his right fist.
‘That we do, Cap’n,’ Tyrone confirmed. ‘Same as should be done on the Prairie Belle.’
‘I ain’t looking for fuss with you gentlemen,’ Willie said quietly, glancing from the Stream Queen’s captain to its mate.
‘You ain’t knowing your place, either,’ Tyrone warned, hefting his quirt and striding forward. ‘But we know how to treat uppy blacks on the Stream Queen.’
Watching Willie clench his fists, Belle prepared to help him. To do so might draw unwanted attention her way, but she had no intention of allowing him to be assaulted on her behalf. The question was, how to do it without attracting too much notice by virtue of her fighting abilities. Luckily, a ‘lady of easy virtue’ could be expected to know a few defensive and offensive tricks.
The need for Belle’s intervention did not arise.
Before Belle could move, she saw something hurtling through the air from the direction of the cordwood stacked ready to feed the furnaces on the Prairie Belle’s main deck. On striking and enfolding Tyrone’s face, the missile proved to be a piece of oil-dripping rag. It had been flung, with considerable precision and accuracy, by the man Belle had come to see.
Bareheaded, with crinkly reddish hair. Jim Bludso—senior engineer of the Prairie Belle—was ruggedly good looking. He was tall, powerfully built, yet neither slow nor clumsy. Oil was streaked on his face and the muscular arms that protruded from the rolled-up sleeves of his gray flannel shirt. His black trousers were tucked into Wellington leg boots and a long-bladed Ames Rifleman’s knife hung in a sheath at the left side of his wide waist belt.
Vaulting from the main deck to the dock, Bludso sprang forward. Before Tyrone had managed to claw the oily rag fully from his face, the engineer had come within striking distance.
‘You lousy traitor, Bludso!’ Bascoll bawled, releasing Belle’s arm and lunging in the engineer’s direction.
Knotting his right hand into a useful-looking fist, Bludso propelled it solidly against the edge of Tyrone’s jaw. The mate pitched sideways, dropping the rag and his quirt, before crashing down and rolling over three times on the hard wooden planks of the dock.
Raising the knotted rope’s end, Bascoll intended to lay it vicious across Bludso’s shoulders. Struck there, the engineer would be momentarily incapacitated. Long enough, certainly, for the captain to deliver a more damaging assault with fist or boot.
The treacherous attack was destined never to be completed. Realizing that Bludso might not be able to turn fast enough to cope with his second assailant, Belle took an effective hand. Sliding the parasol through her fingers as she brought it from her shoulder, she grasped its end. Then she reached down, hooking the crook of the handle under Bascoll’s rearmost ankle and jerking sharply. Yelling a curse, the captain stumbled. In his efforts to retain his balance, he let the rope’s end fly from his fingers.
Turning as fast as a scalded cat, Bludso thrust out his left fist. Hard knuckles collided with Bascoll’s nose and halted his advance. A sharp right cross turned it into a retreat. Shooting out first one fist then the other, Bludso drove Bascoll across the dock until the captain was teetering helplessly on the very edge of the planks. Catching hold of the dark blue jacket’s breast with his right hand, Bludso restrained Bascoll from tumbling into the water. Then the engineer drew back his left fist.
‘Mr. Bludso!’ roared a voice from the pilothouse, which perched high on top of the Prairie Belle’s upper ‘Texas’ deck. ‘Take your hands off Captain Bascoll immediately!’
‘Aye aye, sir!’ Bludso replied, having identified the speaker without requiring to look around, and, like any dutiful officer receiving a lawful command from a superior, he obeyed.
Perhaps Bascoll was grateful for the intervention, but it proved to be a mixed blessing. Although Bludso did not deliver another blow to the captain’s already bloody and suffering features, he released his grasp on the jacket. Deprived of the engineer’s support, Bascoll wailed and plunged almost gracefully backwards into the river.
‘Behind you, Massa Jim!’ Willie yelled.
Watching Bludso, Belle had not troubled to keep Tyrone under observation. Swinging her gaze in the mate’s direction, she decided that Willie’s warning was well founded.
Shaking his head from side to side, Tyrone was in a crouching position like a sprinter waiting to start a race. However, his right hand was less innocently occupied. It was reaching towards the quirt which he had earlier discarded. From what Belle saw, the quirt served a second, more deadly purpose than as a mere inducer of recalcitrant horses, the force of its landing had caused the cap of the handle to separate from the remainder. Attached to the cap, and normally concealed inside the quirt, was a razor-sharp knife’s blade.
Belle realized that Bludso could not hope to reach Tyrone and prevent him from picking up the knife. So she felt that, being closer, it was up to her to attend to the mate. With that in mind, she darted towards the man.
Reaching the same conclusion as Belle, Bludso did not attempt to advance. Instead, he sent his right hand flashing across to pluck the Ames knife from its sheath. Up, then down whipped his arm. Showing the same precision and aim as when he had flung the oily rag, he sent the weapon spinning through the air. As if drawn by a magnet, its eleven-and-three-quarters-of-an-inch-long blade guided the needle-sharp spear point into Tyrone’s right forearm.
Letting out a shriek of anguish, the mate forgot his intention of arming himself. Even as he tried to lurch upright, with his left hand grabbing at the hilt of the Ames knife, he found that he had further troubles coming his way.
Hitching up her skirt and wishing that she had decided to wear her elegant, but stoutly made, Hessian boots, Belle let fly with a kick. She found that she had no need to regret adopting footwear more in keeping with the character she was pretending to be. Her cheap high-buttoned shoes proved adequate for the occasion. Catching Tyrone under the chin with all the power of her slender, yet steel-muscled left leg, she caused his head to snap back. He rose at an increased speed for a few inches, then flopped forward limply. Considering the thud with which he landed, he might have counted himself fortunate that he was unconscious before his body and face struck the timbers.
‘Hello, Jim boy,’ Belle greeted, as the engineer walked towards her. ‘Remember lil ole me?’
Already Bludso had been studying her in a calculating, yet not too puzzled manner. Recognition, surprise, then understanding flashed briefly across his face to be replaced by a broad grin.
‘I surely do, gal,’ the engineer confirmed, then indicated Tyrone with a jerk of his left thumb. ‘What’s up? Didn’t you figure I could handle him?’
‘I should have known you could,’ Belle admitted tru
thfully, glancing about her to see if any of the onlookers were inclined to take up hostilities on the behalf of Bascoll and Tyrone.
Although Belle failed to locate any further assailants, one of the crowd caught her eye. He was tall, dark, handsome and, if his style of clothing was anything to go by, a successful professional gambler.
That fact alone did not interest the girl.
If the sketch produced by Horatio Darren had been accurate, Belle believed that she was looking at the gambler who had visited the young agent’s room on the night of the fire at the Bijou Theater.
Ten – Are They After You, Or Me?
‘You’re lucky we weren’t in Helena when you came to the Belle asking after me,’ Jim Bludso remarked, as he and Belle sat at a side table in the almost empty barroom to which he had escorted her. ‘There’s a lil red-haired gal there who’d get into a real tizz happened she’d heard you.’
‘Knowing you, that could apply in Greenville, Vicksburg, Natchez and all points down to New Orleans; although maybe not always with a redhead,’ Belle replied with a smile. ‘In fact, I nearly didn’t chance coming. I was a long time getting over the bruises from the first time we met.’
Bludso grinned in sympathy. The incident to which Belle referred had taken place during the War, in New Orleans. On an assignment to smash a Union counterfeiting ring which had operated in that city, Belle had required the services of a safecracker. Because of an incident involving a woman of Bludso’s acquaintance, the girl had found herself in a boxing ring and compelled to fight a professional female pugilist. [11]
‘Mind if I ask why you did chance coming?’ Bludso drawled. ‘Not that I’m not real pleased to see you again.’
Before answering, Belle glanced quickly around her. Apart from the bartender, idly shooting poker dice with a customer, they had the room to themselves. The two men were far enough away to be unable to overhear any conversation that took place. So Belle knew that she could supply her companion with the answer to his question. That was why they had come to the bar, to talk without the danger of anybody eavesdropping.
A soaking, furious Captain Bascoll had managed to haul himself from the river. His appearance on the dock had coincided with the arrival of a sergeant and a patrolman of the Memphis Police Department, which had prevented any further hostilities.
The peace officers had asked questions concerning the cause of the disturbance, learning that the captain and the mate of the Stream Queen had been the aggressors. On being asked if he wished to prefer charges, Bludso had refused to do so. Accepting the decision, the sergeant had suggested that the two parties stayed aboard their respective vessels and saved their feuding until they were long gone out of his jurisdiction.
Due to being occupied in acting as a witness on Bludso’s behalf, Belle had lost sight of the gambler who had attracted her notice amongst the crowd. That had meant she would be unable to satisfy her curiosity about him. So she had accepted Bludso’s offer to go and talk ‘old times’ over a drink. Belle had wondered if it had been made due to the engineer’s desire to satisfy his curiosity about her presence on the dock, or concerning her appearance. She had settled on the former reason when Bludso had selected the small barroom after passing other, better-patronized establishments.
‘I need your help, Jim,’ Belle said frankly.
‘You’ve got it,’ Bludso promised without hesitation. ‘What can I do?’
‘Find out if a certain consignment is being sent down to New Orleans on the Belle and, if it is, arrange for me to travel with you.’
‘The first’s’s good’s done. Second might take a lil fixing, though. We’re likely to be running full. So I might not be able to get you a stateroom, unless you’d be willing to share.’
‘I could share,’ Belle admitted. ‘But it might be better if I was alone.’
‘Huh huh!’ Bludso grunted. ‘We’ll go talk to le Verne. He’s the clerk and he’ll do what he can to help you.’
‘I’d rather he didn’t know who I am,’ Belle hinted.
‘It’ll be me that he’s doing the favor for,’ Bludso answered. ‘Shall we go and see him?’
‘Don’t you want to know what it’s all about?’
‘You want help’s enough for me. But I figure you’ll tell me as much as you can about it.’
‘I will,’ Belle agreed. ‘By the way. Do you ever run across Madame Lucienne when you’re in New Orleans?’
‘Near enough every trip,’ Bludso replied and nodded as if he was forming a clearer understanding concerning Belle’s activities. ‘I keep telling her how she’s getting too old and fat for that game. All it gets me is a hide-blistering. That gal’s got an educated tongue.’
The few lingering doubts, which Belle had harbored, faded away with her appreciation of the meaning behind Bludso’s words. If Madame Lucienne had let him know that she was now employed by the United States’ Secret Service, Belle could rely upon his discretion and cooperation.
Recollecting Captain Bascoll’s comment, accusing Bludso of being a traitor, Belle decided that the engineer’s actions during the War were still misunderstood by some Southrons. Yet she would have imagined that, like her own, Bludso’s connections with the Confederate States’ Secret Service had been made public knowledge. Certainly the term ‘traitor’ struck her as being most inappropriate.
During the War, the original Prairie Belle had been sunk by raiding Yankee gunboats. The crew had escaped and most of them had enlisted in the Navy of the Confederate States. Just as loyal as his companions, Bludso had elected to remain in New Orleans. Although he had worked for the Yankees, he had also been a very capable, effective member of Madame Lucienne’s spy ring in that city.
Concluding that Bascoll might have employed the term to remind the onlookers of Bludso’s supposed treachery during the War—and so to enlist their support or sympathy—Belle put the matter from her thoughts. Holding nothing back, she told the engineer of her current assignment. On hearing that she was dealing with Irish nationalists, Bludso showed what Belle took to be a brief expression of relief. However it had come and gone again before she could be certain of its existence, to leave his face a mask of interest and understanding.
‘So it’s the Mick-landers you’re after,’ Bludso drawled quietly at the conclusion of the story.
‘Who did you think it might be?’ Belle challenged, puzzled by the comment.
‘I wasn’t sure. You folk handle more’n just spies and trouble causers, way Lucienne tells it.’
‘We do. I’ve been out West hunting counterfeiters for almost a year. And I’m not after any of your friends who might be doing some smuggling.’
‘As if I’d know folks who’d do that, for shame,’ Bludso grinned, then he became serious. ‘Don’t these fellers know what could happen if they go through with their game?’
‘I doubt if they’d care, if they do,’ Belle replied. ‘Anyway, I have to try and stop them.’
‘What I don’t figure is why that O’Reilly bucko told your man they’d be sending the stuff on the Belle,’ Bludso remarked.
‘The way I see it, there are three possibilities,’ Belle answered. ‘O’Reilly lied about them sending it on the Belle. They are sending it, but not to New Orleans. Or O’Reilly told the truth for some reason. I like that one least of all.’
‘We can soon enough check if they’re sending it on the Belle,’ Bludso declared, finishing his drink and shoving back his chair. ‘Le Verne’ll tell us that.’
‘Will I hurt the bartender’s feelings if I don’t drink this?’ Belle inquired, indicating her glass. ‘One sip was enough for me.’
‘I surely wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings,’ Bludso grinned, taking and sinking the girl’s drink. ‘After that, even engine oil’ll taste good.’
Taking Belle on board the boat by the stern stage-plank, Bludso led her up the crew’s stairs to the boiler—or cabin deck. They went along the promenade and entered the big Gentlemen’s Cabin section of the saloon. In the sm
all office, next to a bar sufficiently magnificent in appearance that it would not have disgraced the finest saloon in the land, they found Hervey le Verne hard at work. The clerk of the Prairie Belle—he would have been called the purser on a sea-going vessel—was a small, bird-like man who conveyed an air of competence.
Setting down a list of supplies that he had been checking, le Verne looked from Bludso to Belle. On the point of returning his gaze to the engineer, the little clerk gave Belle a quick, but more careful scrutiny.
‘Well, Jim,’ le Verne said, lifting his eyes from their examination of the girl’s hands. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Do we have a shipment, four rifle-boxes, two ammunition, and four bales aboard this trip?’ Bludso asked.
‘Not yet. But we should have before sundown.’
‘Where’re we taking it?’
‘Right through to New Orleans.’
‘All the way, huh?’ Bludso said.
‘I hope so,’ le Verne replied, his face impassive and almost disinterested apart from his eyes. ‘It’s being stowed right forrard in the hold. That’s why it’s coming down today.’
‘Who’s sending it, and where to?’ Bludso drawled, asking the question that Belle had wanted without the need for prompting.
‘The consignors are the Shamrock Supplies Incorporated, although I’ve never heard of them before,’ le Verne answered, having checked on the cargo manifest which he plucked from amongst the other papers on his desk. ‘The consignee is Rattigan’s Warehouse, to await collection. Is that what you want to know?’
‘Sure,’ Bludso agreed. ‘How’re we off for cabin space?’
‘Not an empty stall,’ le Verne declared. ‘We’ve one berth, but that’s in a gentlemen’s stateroom. There might be a vacancy, Miss—’
‘Winslow,’ Belle supplied, smiling.
‘There might be a vacancy if you wouldn’t object to doubling up with another lady, Miss Winslow.’
