by J. T. Edson
Reaching the mouth of the alley, Hermy could neither see nor hear the girl in its deeply shadowed length. So he hurried forward, wanting to know which way she had gone. At the rear end, he stepped cautiously out and looked in the direction she would have taken if she was going back to the theater. Still being unable to locate her, he scowled and wondered if he had been mistaken about having seen her entering the alley.
That question was answered promptly; although not in a manner he would have wished it to happen.
‘To arms! To arms, in Dixie!’ said a feminine voice from behind him.
Letting out a startled, profane ejaculation, Hermy started to turn and sent his hand under his cloak-coat in search of a weapon.
Having detected Hermy following her, Belle had decided that she must throw him off her track. However, he might have been merely a casual, disinterested pedestrian and taking the same direction by coincidence. Or he could have been a peace officer, made suspicious by her male attire and the gunbelt. In either case, she had no desire to assault him.
Taking cover behind the corner of the building farthest from the theater, the girl had awaited developments. Everything had depended upon how the man reacted to her disappearance. Once she had seen that, she had settled upon her own line of action. It was simple, effective—and very much to the point.
The fact that the man had approached so cautiously had not been sufficient in itself to prove he belonged to the Brotherhood and had guessed her purpose. A peace officer, following an armed suspect, would have displayed a similar caution. However, Hermy’s actions on arriving at the end of the alley had struck her as significant. When he had turned immediately to look in the direction which she would have taken on her way to the theater, she had been satisfied that he was following her on behalf of the organization.
Although Belle held her Dance, she did not use it as a firearm. To have done as would have made a noise and attracted unwanted interest in her actions.
Instead, the girl launched a savate attack with all the power and precision she could muster. The area was so dark that she could not make out details of the man’s clothing and appearance, other than that he was big enough to be more than she could handle in a fight. So she hoped to render him helpless, without allowing him to defend himself.
Belle’s boot drove upwards, between Hermy’s spread-apart thighs and caught him full in the groin with nauseating force. Unmentionable, unendurable agony ground its way through his whole being. He started to fold over, knees buckling and hands clutching at the stricken region. His troubles had not yet ended.
The girl did not rely upon the kick to disable the man. There was too much at stake for her to chance him recovering prematurely. So she swung the Dance. As it was an open-frame revolver, like the 1860 Army Colt, she knew better than to strike with the barrel. Instead she flung the base of the butt savagely against the back of Hermy’s close-cropped skull. Down he went, like a steer under a butcher’s pole-axe.
Without waiting to establish the extent of her victim’s injuries, Belle holstered the Dance, She did not particularly care if the man was alive or dead. One thing she knew. There was nothing more to fear from him at that moment—nor for some time to come. Satisfied on that score, she strode away in the direction the unconscious man had been looking.
On drawing near the theater, following the back alleys, Belle could see no traces of the evening’s dramatic events. Despite their enthusiastic response to the speech-making and subsequent excitement, the crowd had not lingered in the hope of further developments. Perhaps, once out in the cool night’s air and removed from the symbols of their patriotic fervor, they had had second thoughts about their reawakened loyalty to the Confederate cause. Or they might have scattered to spread the news of what had happened. Belle hoped that it was the former contingency that had brought about the dispersal of the audience.
Whatever the reason, the building and its immediate surroundings were devoid of human life. That was just how Belle had hoped to find it. She noticed that half a dozen horses were standing fastened to the hitching rail behind the theater and decided that her return had been justified.
Keeping away from the animals, for she did not want them to raise an alarm at her presence, Belle passed along the dark alley by the theater. She was approaching the flight of stone steps which led up to the stage door when it opened.
Two long, silent strides carried Belle to the wall at the level side of the steps. There she crouched in the deep darkness, clear of the pool of light which was coming through the door. Heavy boots thudded close above her head and men started to emerge from the theater.
‘Vic!’ called a voice which she recognized as that of Sabot the Mysterious, mingling with the sound of hurrying, lightly shod feet.
‘What’s wrong?’ demanded the leading figure, bringing his companions to a halt.
Again Belle believed that she should know the voice, but failed to place it. Hoping for a clue, she remained in her position and stood as if turned to stone. Relying upon her dark clothing to help keep her concealed, she drew the Dance. Holding its white handle before her, she turned to face the wall. It was a trick she had learned from Big Sam Ysabel during the final hunt for Tollinger and Barmain.
‘Selima’s not in her dressing-room,’ Sabot replied. ‘She’s changed into her street clothes and’s taken off.’
‘Where to?’ growled the man Belle assumed to be ‘Vic’.
‘I’m damned if I know. Maybe back to the rooming house. But, the way you laid into her when you came off the stage, she might have decided to run out on us. You shouldn’t have hit her that way.’
‘So let the stupid whore go! She damned near gave the whole snap away, the way she carried on out there tonight. Damn it! She didn’t even pretend to be worried when we came on to the stage.’
‘I warned you that she wasn’t very smart,’ Sabot protested, in a self-exculpatory tone.
‘Can you trust her, is more to the point,’ Vic stated.
‘How do you mean?’ the magician inquired.
‘Would she inform on us?’
‘I’m damned if I know what she’d do, pot-boiling mad like she was over you slapping her around. De Richelieu didn’t help, either, saying she deserved it and worse. She’s a hot-tempered bitch at the best of times.’
‘God damn it!’ Vic raged. ‘If I thought that she aimed
‘Somebody had best go and fetch her back,’ Sabot interrupted. ‘I can keep her under control. And I’ll need her for the act when I reach Texas.’
‘Can’t you train another girl?’ Vic challenged. ‘One with a few brains this time.’
‘I could do that easily enough, if I could find the right kind of girl,’ the magician confirmed. ‘But leaving Selima behind won’t make her feel any better disposed towards us. So she’s got to be fetched back.’
‘What about the rest of our plans?’ Vic asked.
‘I’d say let them ride until we know what she’s got in mind,’ Sabot counseled. ‘Get after her and bring her to me, then go on to Winslow’s, is what I’d advise.’
‘You’re right,’ Vic admitted grudgingly. ‘That’s what we’ll do.’
‘How about those two fellers who’ve gone to keep watch on him?’ Sabot put in. ‘They’re expecting you to get there soon.’
‘Matt’s steady enough,’ Vic replied. ‘He’ll stay put until we get there and stop that other bastard doing anything stupid. Once we’ve got her, or made sure she can’t talk, we’ll go ahead with the plan. What will you be doing?’
‘Following de Richelieu’s orders,’ Sabot replied coldly. ‘Heading for the river and the Texarkana Belle. If I’ve gone when you come back, send her after me, will you?’
‘I’ll do that,’ Vic promised. ‘We’d best not all go. Andy, you and Mick come with me, the rest stay on here.’
A muttered rumble of agreement rose. Then some of the feet started moving. Three men came through the door and walked down the steps. Apparently, Sabot did n
ot want them to remain for long in view of the street. Almost as soon as they had emerged, he closed the door.
With the light blotted out and the darkness returned to the alley, Belle chanced looking over her shoulder. The men went by, without noticing her crouching in the deepest shadows. However, the lack of light proved to be a mixed blessing. While the trio failed to locate her, she could not see any of their faces. All she managed to do was pick out certain significant details of their attire.
Something under six foot in height, with a good but not heavy build, the man in the lead—Belle assumed he was ‘Vic’—wore what could only be an Army kepi on his head. Given that much of a clue, she identified his outer garment as a cavalry officer’s long cloak-coat; from beneath the hem of which thrust the scabbard of a saber that must be hanging on the slings of his waist-belt. He had on regulation white gauntlets, she could see, and shining riding boots.
Taller than their companion, or officer, the other two had on Burnside campaign hats, enlisted men’s cloak-coats and riding boots, although neither of them was armed with a saber.
Peering through the gloom, Belle watched the trio depart. The man she believed to be ‘Vic’ seemed vaguely familiar. He strolled along with the cocky military swagger that was often the gait of an arrogant young officer. Trudging slightly to his rear, the other pair had the bearing of soldiers. They passed around the corner of the building. Leather creaked soon after and Belle heard the sound of horses moving away.
‘Now what would soldiers be doing in there?’ Belle mused as she retraced her steps along the alley. ‘Uncle Alburgh said that the town was off limits to them tonight.’
Could Szigo have learned of the Brotherhood’s visit and laid a trap for them at the theater?
That was not likely. Besides which, Szigo was no longer in command.
Why were the men, whoever they might be, so interested in her uncle that they had some of their number watching his home?
Then Belle remembered General Handiman’s comment about Winslow and the other moderate, influential citizens—her uncle’s companions at the theater that night, in fact—having prevented trouble between the civilian population and the soldiers.
‘So that’s the plan!’ Belle gasped.
The three men had already ridden out of sight. Running to the horses which remained at the rail, Belle unfastened one’s reins. She swung into the saddle, finding that it was of the military McClellan type. That proved little. Many such rigs were in civilian hands, being cheap and reasonably serviceable. Hoping that she would not be seen, she started the horse moving at a fast trot.
Traversing the town, Belle guided her borrowed mount along the darkened almost deserted street towards Winslow’s mansion. A big, bulky figure leaned against the gates to the property and peered in her direction. Then he turned and hurried into the garden. From his size and bulk, Belle knew that he was not one of her uncle’s servants. In addition, she had noticed the shape of his hat and detected the glint of metal buttons on distinctive clothing.
There had been something furtive about his actions that was calculated to arouse her suspicions. Mainly, though, her interest had stemmed from the fact that he was an enlisted man of the United States’ cavalry—or dressed like one.
Even as her mind was assimilating the details of the man’s appearance, and drawing conclusions from his presence, she rode by an empty buggy. It was parked unattended near the sidewalk before the commencement of Winslow’s property. Glancing at it in passing, she noticed a civilian cloak lying on the seat.
A vehicle of that kind had passed shortly after she had caused her uncle’s carriage to be halted. At the time, she had thought nothing of it other than to automatically make a note of its occupants’ appearance. They had been a pair of big, burly, bare-headed men wearing either long overcoats or cloaks, despite the warmth of the evening.
The man who had followed her and had been left unconscious would have fitted that description!
Draping the one-piece reins on the horse’s neck, Belle slid from the saddle without causing it to slow down from its walking gait. She could not see through the thick hedge which surrounded her uncle’s garden, but felt that she might turn the lack of vision to her advantage. A gentle slap on the rump encouraged the horse to keep going. Winslow’s stable would provide her with any further transportation she might require and she was not concerned with where the animal went now that it had served its purpose.
Allowing the horse to disappear along the street, Belle walked silently to the garden’s gates and entered. There was no sign of the man, but a number of decorative bushes offered him a selection of hiding-places. Giving no hint that she was aware of his presence, she strolled along the wide gravel path towards the front of the big, Colonial-style mansion.
Having no desire to be seen, and perhaps challenged, by the approaching rider, Matt had taken up his place of concealment behind a bush not far from the open gates. Vic’s party would not arrive singly, so the rider could not be one of the Brotherhood. One disadvantage to the cover he had selected was that he could not see the street. However, he had no difficulty in hearing the horse’s hoof-beats and knew that it was going straight by.
On the point of emerging, Matt saw a slender, boyish figure walking through the gates. At first he felt puzzled, wondering why the newcomer would be visiting Winslow at such a late hour. Then realization came with the impact of a kick in the stomach.
That was no boy, but a slim girl wearing male clothing!
Matt recollected how Hermy had claimed to have seen a ‘gal wearing pants’ emerge from Winslow’s carriage. At the time, Matt had been suspicious of his companion’s veracity. He had believed that Hermy was lying, as an excuse to quit the potentially dangerous business upon which they were engaged. So he had accepted Hermy’s story and given the order for ‘her’ to be followed. He had not expected to see his companion again and had felt that it was good riddance.
From all appearances, Hermy had been telling the truth. That he should have mentioned a girl wearing riding breeches and for one to turn up at Winslow’s house went beyond the bounds of pure coincidence. Hermy had seen the girl, but she must have eluded him in some way. That would not have been a difficult task, in Matt’s opinion. He had formed a very low impression of his companion’s intelligence and abilities.
Well, the man concluded as he crept from behind the bush, she would find Matt Cilstow a much more difficult proposition than the dull-witted Hermy.
Moving cautiously across Winslow’s well-barbered lawn, Matt kept to his victim’s rear as he converged with her. He realized that his progress would be anything but noiseless once he set foot upon the gravel of the path. So he intended to get as close as possible before doing it.
One thing was in Matt’s favor, or so he told himself. The girl was unaware of his presence.
With that thought in mind, Matt stepped on to the path. He had gauged his distance perfectly. Before the girl could take fright from hearing his footsteps, and turn or try to draw her revolver, he was close enough to make his move. Encircling her from the rear with his brawny arms, he pinioned her elbows against her sides. He intended to crush her savagely, driving the air from her lungs and rendering her incapable of crying for help. Having taken that precaution, he would fling her down so that she could be completely subdued. Then, carried away to some secluded spot, she could be induced to answer questions.
All of which might have worked, but for one small, yet vitally significant detail. Belle was far from being as unsuspecting of her peril as Matt had fondly imagined. Moreover, by using some of the techniques which she had learned from Dusty Fog, to augment her savate, she had hopes which ran parallel to her assailant’s intentions.
Instead of trying to pull away, as Matt expected and was ready to prevent, Belle seemed to wilt in his grasp. She also contracted her torso as far as possible and hugged inwards with her trapped arms. Having decided how she would react, the man was disconcerted by her refusal to behave i
n the expected manner.
Clenching her left fist, Belle ground its knuckles vigorously against the back of Matt’s right hand. At the same time, she stamped the heel of her right foot against the edge of his left instep. The double pangs of pain caused him to separate his hands before the fingers interlocked. Instantly Belle rammed her rump into him, gaining a little more room to maneuver. Bending at the waist, she reached between her legs in an attempt to catch hold of his left ankle.
At which point, her counter started to go wrong.
Before she could lay hands on his leg—with the intention of jerking it upwards, sitting on his knee and toppling him backwards with considerable force, Matt’s hands had clamped on to her shoulders and snatched her upright.
‘Smart whore, huh?’ the man gritted, moving his fingers until they coiled about her throat and his thumbs pressed forward on the nape of her neck. ‘Well, I’m too smart for you.’
Already Belle had commenced a line of action calculated to refute Matt’s claim to possessing greater intelligence. Once again, she failed to respond in the way her attacker had anticipated.
Despite the crushing, choking pressure being exerted upon her wind-pipe, Belle did not attempt to tear her neck free by brute force. To do so against her captor’s strength would have been futile. Instead, she tilted her torso towards him. Her right leg raised and bent, then flung back its foot to spike the heel hard on to his right kneecap.
Matt let out a sharp intake of breath and relaxed his pressure a trifle. Instantly Belle’s hands whipped up and over her head to grab his thick wrists. Using her left foot as a pivot, she swiveled her body sharply to the right. Snatching the man’s loosened fingers from her neck, she elevated his left arm and jerked his right underneath it. Swiftly forcing his left elbow on to the right arm, she invested all her weight and strength into a forwards and downwards thrusting heave. Thrown off balance, Matt’s feet rose into the air. His Burnside hat tumbled off as he sailed over in a near perfect somersault.
Too near, in fact!
