by J. T. Edson
While waiting Dusty reloaded his Colt’s two empty chambers, working deftly with only an occasional need for Bludso to light a match and illuminate his work. By the time they heard the approaching footsteps, Dusty once more held a gun with six full and capped chambers.
Coming up to the waiting pair, Paupin wondered how they would take the news that he escaped while Belle fell into the Yankees’ hands and Willie returned to try a rescue. Quickly he told Dusty and Bludso the full story, expecting to hear savage condemnation when he finished.
“You did the right thing, Saul,” Dusty said quietly. “If they’d taken you all, it would have been a long time before we heard about it.”
“And Willie stands a better chance than any of us to get close to Belle,” Bludso went on. “What do you reckon, Dusty?”
“That we make a stab at saving Belle. What’ll Willie do?”
“Learn what he can, do whatever he can. If he sees he can’t save her, he’ll try to find out where they’re taking her.”
“We’ll need help, likely,” Dusty said. “Let’s give him ten minutes to come here, then head back to the Busted Boiler and make plans.”
“It’d be best,” agreed Bludso. “Anybody after you, Saul?”
“Nope. I led them around to draw them away from Willie, then lost them and cut back this way.”
“We’ll give him ten minutes then,” Dusty decided.
Never had time dragged so slowly as during the minutes Dusty stood in the dark alley. The mission had been a success, with the counterfeiting plant destroyed, its operator dead and details of the whole scheme in the small Texan’s pocket. It would be a long time before the Yankees could make a reorganisation of the size needed to start the counterfeiting chain from printer to distributors and before then the Confederate Government could take precautions. Many people would regard the affair a success should Dusty make good his escape with the news; but he. could not go and leave Belle a prisoner. He must at least make some determined attempt to rescue the girl, even at the risk of his own life and freedom.
“We’d best go, Dusty,” Bludso said gently.
“I suppose so,” Dusty answered in a disappointed voice, knowing the time to be up. “Willie’ll foll—.”
At that moment they heard the padding of feet approaching and fell silent. Breathing hard, Willie loped up to the trio and halted to lean on the wall. After a few seconds, the Negro looked first at Saul Paupin then to the other two men.
“See you made it, Massa Saul.”
“What’d you learn, Willie?” Dusty put in.
“Miss Belle’s in bad trouble, Cap’n. Three fellers done took her off in a carriage.”
“Soldiers?”
“Naw. They was some of Pinkerton’s men. Leastwise one of ‘em was. I’d know his whiskery face any ole time, Cap’n. He’s a mean one, real bad. ‘Nother of ‘em looked like somebody done whomped his ole pumpkin head with a club, way it was all bandaged up.”
“That’ll be Turnpike, Dusty,” Bludso growled. “I thought you’d shot him up real bad.”
“There wasn’t time to take careful aim,” Dusty explained. “Happen I get another crack at him I won’t make the same mistake.”
“I’d say they’ll be taking Belle to their headquarters for questioning,” Paupin put in.
“They ain’t,” Willie answered. “Seems like the Yankee officer of the guard figured they aimed to abuse Mss Belle real bad and wouldn’t have it. So they done snuck off someplace to work on her secret—like.”
“Do you know where, Willie?”
Although the words left Dusty in a soft, almost gentle whisper, they brought a chill to all the listeners.
“They allowed to take her to Madam Lucienne’s shop,” Willie answered.
“Let’s get going!” Bludso growled.
“Not you, Jim,” Dusty replied. “One way or another there’ll be a big hunt for us by tomorrow dawn at the earliest. If I rescue Belle, the sooner she’s out of New Orleans the better. If not—well, it’d be best if the Jack’s gone by morning.”
“So?” Bludso asked.
“I want you to go to the Busted Boiler, get Belle’s and my gear and take them to the Jack. Tell Cord Pinckney to be ready and pull out by three in the morning whether we’re there or not.”
“How about you?”
“Willie can get me to the shop, Jim. I reckon we can handle three like Turnpike. There’s no time to argue it, anyway.”
Bludso knew Dusty spoke the truth. Already a messenger would be rushing to the Garrison Commander and most likely New Orleans would be swarming with Federal soldiers searching for the party who had destroyed a valuable piece of Union property. So far no organised effort had been made by the Yankees, but each minute drew them closer to when it would be.
“How about me, Captain?” Paupin inquired.
“Stay with Jim. He’ll hide you until we can have you moved out of town and to somewhere safe.”
“I’ll get you on to a foreign boat when one comes in with a skipper I can trust,” Bludso promised.
“Damn it, I’m not bothered about that!” the safe-breaker barked. “I meant what can I do to help Miss Boyd?”
“Go with Jim, Saul,” Dusty said gently. “If I can’t get to Belle, he’ll maybe need an expert at opening locks.”
“That’s for sure,” Bludso admitted. “Let’s go, Saul.”
“I’ll maybe not run across you again, Saul,” Dusty said, offering his hand to the man. “But if there’s ever anything I can do for you, just get word to me.”
With his hand tingling from Dusty’s grip, Paupin watched the small Texan fade off into the darkness at Willie’s side.
“There goes the biggest man I know,” the safe-breaker remarked.
“He’s all of that,” Bludso agreed. “Let’s go. I’ve an idea of my own and you can help me on it.”
Guided by Willie, Dusty passed through the streets of old New Orleans but at the rear of its stately mansions. By following the routes used by coloured servants, they avoided the notice of soldiers heading towards the Gaton place. When reaching Le Havre Street, on which stood Madam Lucienne’s shop, Dusty and Willie found it deserted. However a carriage stood before her establishment and a light showed through its front windows.
“They’re here, ‘cap’n,” Willie breathed. “That’s their carriage.”
“Let’s go then,” Dusty replied, Colt sliding into his hand.
Silently they moved along the sidewalk and Dusty peeped around the edge of the window. Behind him, Willie heard a low growl of rage. Then Dusty went by the window and the Negro looked in to see Lorch drive a hand at Belle’s naked bust. Even as the blow landed, Dusty hurled himself like a living projectile at the shop’s door.
With Belle’s scream ringing in his ears, Dusty burst into the room and his coming took the three Yankees by surprise. So completely had their attention been on Belle that none of them heard or saw Dusty pass the window. They did not even suspect his presence until the door flew open and then it was too late.
For once in his young life Dusty allowed anger to override thought in a dangerous situation. By his treatment of the helpless Belle, Lorch was a man who deserved to die; but he did not hold a gun and so presented less of a danger than the armed Turnpike. Normally Dusty would have dealt with Turnpike first, but the expression of pain on Belle’s face caused him to forget that elementary precaution.
Even as shock and fear wiped the lust-filled sneer from Lorch’s bearded features, Dusty shot him in the head. Although the bullet would have done a satisfactory job, Dusty thumbed off a second on its heels. Lorch pitched backwards, struck the counter and slid to the floor as dead as a man could be with a .44 bullet ranging upwards through each eye.
Terror knifed into Turnpike as he recognised the small Texan. Seeing the manner in which Lorch died did nothing to lessen Turnpike’s fears. Having twice witnessed the Texan’s superlative skill in handling a gun, Turnpike had no wish to try conclusions with Dusty aga
in. A way out of the difficulty presented itself close to hand and Turnpike took it, fast. Lunging forward, he thrust the muzzle of his Smith & Wesson against the side of Belle’s head.
“I’ll kill the girl!” he yelled in a voice high with fear.
Dusty took in the situation rapidly. At Belle’s right side stood a man so scared that he might pull his gun’s trigger in blind panic. To her left, Bartok—no less scared-looking—reached for the Colt Baby Dragoon in his jacket pocket. With Belle’s life and his own as the stake, Dusty knew he must handle the matter just right. Swiftly he studied the two men, assessing their natures and forming his conclusions. Even as Belle opened her mouth to advise him to go ahead and shoot, Dusty acted—although not in the manner she would have expected.
Giving a dejected, beaten shrug, the small Texan reached up with his left hand to take hold of the Colt by its cylinder. Still wearing the attitude of a man thoroughly whipped, he reversed the Colt with his left forefinger through the triggerguard. Supporting the gun lightly on his remaining fingers, he offered it butt pointing upwards towards Turnpike.
“I surrender. My name is Captain Dusty Fog, Texas Light Cavalry, and I demand the privileges of my rank as a prisoner-of -war.”
A mixture of rage and hate twisted at Turnpike’s face as he listened to the words. Before him stood one of the people responsible for wrecking a scheme designed to bring the South’s economy crashing into such ruins that it would be unlikely ever to recover, even if such misguided fools as President Lincoln offered the chance, as seemed likely, after the War. The utter and complete destruction of the hated white Southerners had been the aim behind the plan when formulated by Turnpike and others of his kind, not merely the bringing about of a speedy and less bloody ending to the War.
Nor did Dusty’s part in destroying the counterfeiting plant form Turnpike’s only reason for hatred. The small Texan had proven himself more capable than the Yankee agent and had performed deeds that the other knew he could not hope even to approach. Like all his kind, Turnpike hated any man who did something he could not and Dusty’s small, insignificant appearance made matters worse.
The sight of the Texan standing in an attitude of abject surrender drove some of Turnpike’s fear away. Then a thought struck the Yankee. Already that night he had seen one example of military chivalry, in the officer of the guard’s determination that no ill-treatment should come the female prisoner’s way. A man with Captain Dusty Fog’s reputation could expect good treatment from most Federal regular soldiers, who would have respect for a brave and honourable enemy. Nothing so lenient must be allowed to happen. Alive, Dusty Fog could testify to their treatment of the girl. Far worse, he would be living proof of Turnpike’s inadequacy and failure.
With that thought in mind, Turnpike swung the Smith & Wesson’s barrel away from Belle’s head and played right into Dusty’s hands. Gambling on Turnpike’s knowledge of firearms being, by Texas standards, rudimentary, Dusty prepared to try a move often practiced but never used in earnest by him until that moment.
When reversing the gun in apparent surrender, Dusty left its hammer drawn back at full cock. The lack of objection to the State of his gun by Turnpike or Bartok increased the small Texan’s confidence. With the Smith & Wesson turning away from Belle, all Dusty needed to do was get the Colt’s butt into his hand and squeeze its trigger.
Professional duelists had discovered how twirling and spinning a pistol on its triggerguard strengthened the fingers and helped develop increased accuracy. The information passed West, where men frequently found the need for skilled use of a hand gun under less formal conditions than the code duello. During spells of gun-juggling, Dusty developed a trick later to become famous, or notorious, as ‘the road-agent’s spin’. It was a trick of desperation and one only likely to work, even before its latter-day publicity, against a man lacking in knowledge of practical gun-handling matters.
Waiting until the Smith & Wesson passed out of line with Belle’s head, Dusty gave his left hand a slight jerk upwards. At the same moment he released his hold of the barrel with his other fingers. With his forefinger as its pivot, the Colt’s butt rose upwards and curled over to slap into his waiting palm. Instantly Dusty’s remaining three fingers folded around the curved bone grip and he squeezed the trigger with unhurried speed.
Too late Turnpike saw his danger. Being unable to use his gun left-handed, it never occurred to him that others might be able to do so. Nor did he possess the kind of lightning fast reactions which might have saved him. Flame ripped from the barrel of Dusty’s Colt and a bullet tore into Turnpike’s chest. Reeling under the impact, the Yankee retained his hold of the Smith & Weston. Again Dusty fired, angling his shot upwards. The bullet ripped into Turnpike’s throat, sending him backwards and the gun clattered from his hand as he fell.
Terror lent speed to Bartok’s movements and he had spent more time than his companions at learning to handle a revolver. Jerking out his small Colt, he swung it up to line at Dusty. Belle saw there would be no time for Dusty to deal with both Turnpike and Bartok, so took a hand in the game. Using all her strength, she flung herself and the chair over to crash into Bartok’s side. A yelp of surprise left the man and his Colt jerked aside just as it fired. Hearing the shot, Dusty swung from firing his second shot at Turnpike. One glance warned the small Texan that he faced a man with some gun-skill. Enough for there to be no taking chances with him.
Cocking the little Colt smoothly, Bartok prepared to shoot again. Dusty threw himself to one side, dropping to the ground. As he landed, the small Texan lined up his Colt and missed death by inches as the Baby Dragoon spat out another .31 ball. Once again Dusty found himself in a position where he must shoot to make an instant kill. So he took that extra split-second necessary to aim. Then the Colt bucked in his palm, its deep roar echoing in challenge to the lighter crack of the small calibre weapon in Bartok’s hand. Driving up, the bullet Dusty fired tore into the soft flesh beneath Bartok’s jaw, passing on upwards through the roof of his mouth and into the brain. Dusty did what he had to do, achieved an instant kill, and Bartok’s body collapsed like an unstuffed rag doll across Belle’s legs.
Partially winded by landing on the floor, her fastened arms prevented any chance of breaking the fall, Belle lay gasping in pain. Willie burst into the room as Dusty rose and together they approached the girl. Bending down, the two men lifted the girl and the chair upright.
“Are you all right, Belle?” Dusty asked.
“I’ve felt better,” she admitted. “The bearded one has the key.” While Willie used a cut-throat razor to sever the cord holding Belle to the chair, Dusty searched Lorch’s body and recovered the key of the handcuffs. On her wrists being freed, Belle gasped and raised her right hand to rub at the left shoulder. Then she remembered the state of her clothing and tried to cover up her naked torso. Dusty thrust the Colt into his waistband and removed his jacket to give to the girl. Slipping into it, Belle glanced at Willie as the Negro went to the shop’s door and stood listening.
‘We’d best get going, Cap’n,” he said. “There’s folks coming a-running and they’s wearing heavy boots.”
“Can you walk, Belle?” Dusty asked.
“I’m game to try,” she replied. “Let’s get going. Out of the back way, too.”
Although the building had been thoroughly searched, Turnpike’s men did not trouble to take away the back door’s key. Belle followed Dusty’s action in locking the door after them on leaving. Already they could hear running feet drawing closer to the shop, but not from its rear. Darting a quick glance around, Belle suggested that Willie took them by the least conspicuous route to the Busted Boiler.
“There’s no need for that,” Dusty told her. “Jim’s collected our gear and he’ll be taking it to the Jack. We’ve done what we came for, Belle. It’s time we got out of New Orleans.”
Chapter 16
A Way of Life
Dawn crept greyly into the eastern sky and Lieutenant Cord Pinckney watc
hed the ever-growing light with care. Although they had crept by the main New Orleans’ up-river defences, there was always the chance of meeting some U.S. Navy craft returning from a journey. Or if a chance-passing cavalry patrol happened to see them from the shore, it would only be a matter of hours at most before a fast launch or two came after them.
On arrival at the hidden dock, Dusty, Belle and Willie found everything ready. Each night, when the smoke would not be seen rising from among the ruins, Pinckney’s men built enough fire to raise a head of steam capable of giving the Jack motive power. So they needed only to pole their vessel out from under its hiding place and set off up-river.
Already the alarm had been raised and the first part of a massive search campaign begun. While the main body of men concentrated on the area around Gaton’s house, the U.S. Navy started to put out guard boats on the river so thickly that sneaking through them in the Jack, even ballasted down to the limits of safety, invited disaster.
Jim Bludso came up with the answer. In fact he had been preparing for it through his return to the Busted Boiler and carrying the gear to the dock. Once he had delivered the two bags and given Dusty’s message to Pinckney, Bludso told the lieutenant of his own idea. Before the others arrived, Bludso left to put the plan into operation. With the aid of Paupin and three trusted men from the Busted Boiler, Bludso stole a steam launch used as picket boat by the Yankee fleet, making sure that the theft would be discovered quickly. Then he and his men headed downstream as if trying to escape through to the sea. Rockets flamed into the air and steam whistles whooped a warning, drawing guard boats and such larger craft as had enough steam up to follow down river and away from the Jack.
Timing their moves just right, Bludso’s men abandoned the stolen launch and left it tearing along with a locked tiller to be sunk by shell fire from the pursuing vessels. After swimming ashore, Bludso and his party made good their escape. While the Yankees searched for survivors, and eventually concluded that the launch went down with all hands, the Jack passed up-river unnoticed.
