by J. T. Edson
Then it came, a roaring bellow that shattered the dawn, drowning out every other noise. The gun bucked and slammed back hard with its terrible recoil and its volley of lead hissed forth along the bridge. Even as he fired, the gunner realized he had left things a shade too late to catch the rider in the center of the bullets’ pattern. Maybe too late for a hit even.
Belle heard the “splat!” of a close-passing bullet splitting the air by her head. Then there came a soggy thud, a jarring sensation just behind her leg. The roan screamed, lurched and started to go down, caught by a chance ball after the main charge missed by inches.
Charging through the disturbed camp, the six-man detail, who had been preparing to ride escort on a supply wagon to their regiment’s camp, let out wild yells of triumph as they saw the roan going down. They had been unable to cross the bridge until the Vandenburg bellowed, but now could do so and pick up the rider. Or so they believed. Almost as soon as the gun fired, the leading riders reached the end of the bridge. Startled by the noise and flame, one of the horses shied violently, throwing its rider before stampeding wildly. The remaining four men, a sergeant and three privates, managed to keep control of their mounts and headed across the bridge at a gallop.
Feeling the roan going down, Belle kicked her feet from the stirrups. She clung on to the bay’s reins, swinging the horse round as it tried to run on. Praying that the bay’s bit and bridle held firm, Belle kicked her left leg over the roan’s saddle and jumped clear. From the moment her feet touched the ground, she started to run, fighting desperately to keep her balance. A wild grab closed her fingers on the bay’s saddle, gripping the pommel and clinging on desperately. The bay slid on its haunches as it tried to obey the orders of its reins. In doing so, it presented Belle with a chance to get a foot in the stirrup. Hampered by the cloak-coat, Belle could not make a flying mount. In fact she found difficulty in swinging herself afork the bay at all. After a momentary pause, the bay started moving again, going along the trail at a run. Belle’s free foot stamped down once and she clung to the saddle grimly. With a desperate heave, she managed to raise herself, throw a leg across the saddle and dig a toe into the security of the stirrup iron to keep herself astride the bay. Doing so cost her valuable time which she could not spare.
Better mounted than the others, the sergeant drew ahead during the dash over the bridge. On reaching the other side, he charged after the fleeing girl and drew his Colt to fire a shot. On hearing the bullet hiss by her head, Belle glanced back and saw her danger. A keen judge of horseflesh, she knew the sergeant’s mount ought to be able to run down the bay, being more fresh than the animal Belle sat upon. That shot had been mighty lucky to come so close when fired from the unstable platform offered by a racing horse. Lucky maybe, but Belle knew a lucky shot killed just as dead as one taken with the most careful aim.
Belle knew she must do something to prevent the sergeant drawing any nearer. Remembering how the overcoat impeded her, Belle saw a way. Keeping the bay running at a slow gallop, Belle started to wriggle from the coat. In this the garment’s extra size proved advantageous. Unhooking the frog buttons, Belle freed the coat and, working carefully, wriggled her arms from the sleeves. The left arm came free as another shot narrowly missed her. Grabbing down, she caught the reins in her left hand and jerked the right out of the sleeve. Instantly the coat whisked behind her.
Too late the sergeant saw his danger. Dropping his Colt, he tried to check his horse’s forward rush as the coat came fluttering down before him. The coat struck the horse’s forelegs, tangling them and bringing the animal crashing down. Pitching over the horse’s head, the sergeant tried to break his fall. He was only partially successful, landing rolling but breaking his shoulder. Ignoring their fallen non-com, the remainder of the party charged on after the fleeing girl.
Having ridden since early childhood, Belle knew the dangers of galloping a horse over a hard-packed surface like the trail. Due to the jarring impact on the iron-hard earth, the hooves or legs might easily be damaged, in which case Belle would fall a victim to the pursuing Yankees. Another point she considered was that she stood a better chance of escape while riding over rough ground, being willing to gamble her skill on a horse against that of the following soldiers.
Turning the horse, she headed it from the trail and out across the rolling country. Underfoot the springy grass and loose soil served as a cushion for the racing hooves and lessened the danger of injury. Belle used all her skill to ease the horse’s task in what she knew must be a long, hard race for freedom. Had the bay been fresh, she could ride the soldiers out of sight in a couple of miles. With it tired from a long journey, she knew she must aid it all she could.
Throwing her weight forward to be taken on the knees and stirrups, Belle lifted herself clear of the seat of the saddle and bent forward at the waist. Riding in that fashion offered as little interference as possible to the thrust and stride of the bay’s hind legs and acted as an aid to speed. To increase her control and give a better feel of the horse’s mouth, Belle took a shorter grip on the reins. Her whole arms gave to the movements of the horse’s head, but she maintained her control over the animal. Under such conditions a horse’s natural instinct for self-preservation tended to make it rush wildly along, so Belle knew the need for control.
Behind her one of the men did not understand the danger. His horse careered along, its reins flapping. Losing his hat, the soldier panicked and had no idea of collecting, regaining control of the racing animal. He drew ahead of the others, but found the horse running off to one side at an angle which grew more acute to the direction of his quarry. Grabbing a firm hold of the reins, the soldier tried to correct this. Feeling the savage tug at its mouth, the horse tried to fight against the pressure, lost its footing and went down. The rider went flying, struck the ground and scraped along in the dirt before coming to a moaning, barely conscious halt.
Not knowing that her pursuers now numbered only three, Belle kept her horse running. Luck more than good horsemanship kept the remainder of the Yankees in their saddles and their fresher horses lost no ground. On they went and a mile fell behind them. Sliding down slopes in a rump-scraping churning of dust and flying stones, fighting upwards when necessary, tearing along level ground, the bay ran like a creature possessed. Belle gave up her entire attention to controlling and handling the horse, never daring to relax for a moment. Sweat poured down her face, trickling into and stinging her eyes.
Ahead lay a slope, steeper and higher than any other so far climbed. Under Belle, the bay showed signs of distress. She estimated they had now covered almost two miles from the bridge. If the bay made it to the top of the slope, she stood a chance of escaping. By that time the Yankees’ horses must be almost as leg-weary as her own mount. Glances taken to the rear during the chase had told her of the following men’s abilities and she knew their horses must be suffering. The slope ought to prove their breaking point.
Through the sweat-mist in her eyes Belle saw shapes on the slope above her. A trio of riders appeared on the top and started down. Though blurred, her eyes still picked out enough to tell that the men wore uniforms.
Desperately she tried to turn the horse. It staggered, lost its footing and came to a churning halt. Belle gave a groan as her hand dropped towards the butt of her Dance. This area lay well within the sphere of Union control and the men above her cut off her escape. It seemed that Belle’s mission would come to a sudden end.
Three – Miss Boyd Makes Her Point
“Kiowa’s wig-wagging, Cousin Dusty.”
Almost before Lieutenant Red Blaze finished speaking, Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog raised his right hand in a signal which brought Company C’s V-shaped formation to a halt. The tanned, gray-clad riders sat on their horses like statues, making no chatter as they scanned the range around them or looked ahead to where their outfit’s forward scout stood by his mount looking in their direction and signaling to the column.
How close did the Dragoon’s des
cription fit the man who had carved himself such a name throughout the war-torn country?
The black stallion between Dusty Fog’s knees stood only seventeen hands high, but a matter of four inches could be overlooked. However, Dusty could hardly be described as a great big feller when he stood a mere five feet six inches in his Jefferson boots. Not that he was puny with the small size. His shoulders had width that hinted at strength, he tapered down to a lean, fighting man’s middle, with straight, powerful legs. A white Jeff Davis hat rode his dusty blond hair, its broad brim offering shade for his tanned, intelligent, handsome young face. Cut of good quality material, the uniform he wore emphasized his physique although it did not entirely conform with the Confederate States Army’s Manual of Dress Regulations. True, the stand-up collar bore the required triple three-inch long, half-inch wide gold braid bars of his rank, but he did not wear the black cravat at his throat. Instead a scarlet silk bandana, tightly rolled and knotted, trailed its long ends down over the cadet-gray of the jacket. While the double row of buttons, seven to the row, ran up his double-breasted jacket and its sleeves bore the double strand gold braid decoration of a captain, it lacked the skirt “extending half-way between hip and knee” expected by a strict adherent to regulations. His tight-legged breeches conformed to regulations, the yellow cavalry stripe running down the outer seam. His weapon belt did not conform, for instead of a single revolver in a close-topped holster and a saber, the wide brown belt, worn lower than normal military fashion, supported a matched brace of bone-handled 1860 Army Colts butt forward in open-topped holsters. Not that Dusty ignored the arme blanche of the true cavalryman. He sat in a range saddle, low of horn and with double cinches; a long Manila rope strapped to one side of the horn, and at the other hung a Haiman Brothers saber, made to his own specifications by one of the finest companies in the world.
The Yankee Dragoon did not come very close in his description of Dusty Fog. Not a great, big, black-bearded feller, but a youngster of eighteen—yet one full grown in the arts of war.
“Hold up the company, Cousin Red,” he ordered. “Let’s go, Billy Jack.”
Red Blaze, a pugnaciously handsome, freckle-faced youngster with a fiery thatch of hair that showed from under his pushed-back hat, nodded. Dressed in a similar manner to his illustrious cousin, he topped Dusty by a good six inches and had a powerful frame. Yet he never gave a thought to his superior size when Dusty gave him an order. Like most people, maybe more so as he grew up with Dusty, Red never thought of the other in mere feet and inches. To the admiring Red, that small Texan stood the tallest of them all and he felt no envy or jealousy at his cousin’s fame.
Tall, gangling, his mournful-featured face and prominent Adam’s apple giving him a hang-dog, care-worn appearance, Sergeant-Major Billy Jack followed his captain as the other rode towards the lead-scout.
Despite the strangulation of the Union blockade upon Confederate ports, the men under Dusty’s command all appeared to be well mounted, dressed and armed. They relied upon the Yankee army for most of the necessities of life, raiding to replenish their supply of arms, powder and lead, or whatever commodity happened to be needed. Although few of them had heard of it, they were by birth, upbringing and training, ideally suited to follow the Napoleonic way of making war support war.
Organized and financed by rich men of the Lone Star State, the Texas Light Cavalry was commanded by officers who knew the rudiments and refinements of horseback fighting through much personal experience against exponents of the art such as Mexican banditos and Comancheros or the various hostile Indian tribes who roamed their State’s vast area. Every man in the regiment had been reared with a horse as a means of survival instead of a mere method of transport. Skilled almost from teeth-cutting days in the use of firearms, they came to war with at least as much experience as a regular Union Army outfit and far more than any of the volunteer regiments the Yankees used to maintain their hold on the northeast land beyond the Arkansas River.
Kiowa, a tall, lean, Indian-dark man in the uniform of a sergeant, had halted his horse back from the edge of a slope and stood looking down. While nobody, except possibly his mother, would call him handsome, he possessed all the keen senses and knowledge of an Indian brave-heart warrior and made an ideal scout upon whom Dusty never failed to trust the safety of the company.
“Yankees chasing a gal,” Kiowa remarked, an unusually long speech for him.
Which, while not gabby, explained everything happening below. Moving forward cautiously, Dusty and Billy Jack looked down the slope and witnessed the final stages of the chase. They saw Belle Boyd start her lathered, leg-weary horse on the difficult climb up the slope.
“She’ll not make it,” Dusty remarked. “Let’s go help her.”
Returning to their waiting horses, the three men made rapid mounts and urged the animals down the slope. All showed their considerable riding skill in staying afork their horses on ground most people would either have ignored or walked down. Seeing the girl look up, Dusty expected her to make farther efforts to reach them. Instead she reined the horse in a turn and only succeeded in bringing it to a sliding halt. Her right hand went down and drew the revolver she wore. Guessing that sweat blinded her, or at least prevented her from recognizing the cadet-gray of his uniform, Dusty let out a ringing rebel yell.
Never had any sound come so sweetly to Belle’s ears than did that wild “Yeah!” Dusty let forth. Two shots crackled from below, but the bullets went wild. Having ridden hard, fast and far, the Yankee soldiers were in no shape for fancy revolver shooting. Apparently they realized that and saw their danger, for they turned their leg-weary horses and started to gallop back towards the safety of the Coon Fork bridge.
“Take after them!” Dusty ordered. “We don’t want them stirring up the whole damned country.”
“Yo!” answered Billy Jack, throwing an admiring glance at the girl as he and Kiowa passed her in their reckless ride down the slope.
Belle thrust away her Dance and gave her full attention to regaining control of her horse. With that done, she raised a hand to rub the sweat from her eyes. Being in good physical condition, the girl soon had her breath back and could think clearly once more. Studying Dusty, she reached rapid, and correct, conclusions. The uniform told her some of it, but not quite as much as the insignia on his hat. One did not need to be a student of military matters to recognize that silver star in a circle as the badge of the Texas Light Cavalry.
From Dusty, the girl turned her attention to where Billy Jack and Kiowa had reached the foot of the slope and now urged their horses after the fleeing Yankees.
“Can your men handle it?” she asked.
“Unless there’s a whole lot more Yankees close up they can,” Dusty replied.
“The nearest are almost two miles off.”
“Then the boys’ll have caught up with those three before they reach help.”
Watching the expert manner in which the two Texans handled their racing horses, Belle could understand her rescuer’s quiet confidence. Even mounted on fresh animals, the Yankees would be hard put to out-ride the pursuing Texans. She turned her eyes to Dusty.
“I suppose you are wondering who I am and why the Yankees were after me.”
“The thought had hit me,” Dusty admitted.
“May I ask who you are, sir?”
“The name’s Fog.”
Belle glanced at Dusty’s collar bars and then looked him over. Being a shrewd judge of human nature, she saw beyond his youth and small size to the real man underneath. However, it did take some believing that he really was—
“Captain Dusty Fog?”
“I’ve been called that at times.”
Shots sounded from the foot of the slope and ended any more conversation for a few moments. Turning, Belle and Dusty looked down to see how the two non-coms fared against the trio of Yankees. It seemed that the Texans had managed pretty well. Even as Belle looked down, she saw one of the blue-clad soldiers slide sideways from his
horse and crash to the ground. By all appearances the Yankees decided flight would not save them and turned to make a fight. Fighting offered them little better chance when matched by a couple of highly skilled horseback warriors like Kiowa and Billy Jack. When the second soldier took lead in his shoulders, the third decided to yell “calf rope” and surrender. Throwing aside his revolver, he jerked his arms into the air—just in time to stop Kiowa cutting him down.
“They didn’t get far,” Belle remarked.
“I never figured they would,” Dusty replied. “Let’s get back to my company.”
Although Belle could hardly hide her delight at learning that the fates threw her in with the very aid she needed, she managed to conceal her emotions. “What will you do with the Yankees?” she asked as they turned their horses up the slope.
“Take them with us until we get where we’re going.”
“May I ask where that would be?”
A smile flickered on Dusty’s face. “May I ask what you said your name was?” he countered.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I’m Belle Boyd?”
“A Southern gentleman never doubts a lady’s word, ma’am,” Dusty replied, “but I’m a soldier—and they like proof.”
“When we get to your company, I’ll give you proof,” Belle promised.
On reaching the company, Belle found that she would not be given an immediate chance to prove her identity. Dusty showed a commendable reluctance to staying out in such an exposed position and prepared to move on. Although he could see his cousin seething with unasked questions, Dusty let Red stew for a time.
