by J. T. Edson
A hand caught Belle by the shoulder as she landed. Another came around, drove into her stomach and as she doubled over a knee caught her in the face. Belle crashed into the wall, half-blinded by tears of pain. Digging fingers into Belle’s hair, Flora heaved and threw the girl across the room. Only Belle’s superb coordination kept her on her feet. Again she managed to turn and hit the wall with her back, bouncing off it in the direction of Beth as the blonde rushed forward. Belle reacted almost without thought, yet she brought off the ideal answer to Beth’s rush. Bounding into the air, Belle drew up her legs and thrust them forward with all her strength. Too late Beth saw her danger. Her own forward impetus added force to the kick as Belle’s boots drove full into her bust. Screaming in mortal agony, Beth shot backwards, twisted around and crashed brutally into the wall.
Rebounding from the leaping high kick, Belle landed on her feet and found fresh trouble. Leaping forward, Flora smashed a blow which caught Belle at the side of the face. Behind the redhead, May came forward again. Desperately Belle drove out a roundhouse right which exploded on the side of Flora’s jaw and sent her staggering to one side. May skidded to a hurried halt on seeing that she must again face alone the devastating fighting techniques of the other girl. Deciding to make use of her superior reach. May flung a punch at the black-haired girl’s head. Throwing up her right fist, Belle caught the outer side of May’s striking arm, deflected the blow and turned the brunette’s body from her. A swift sidestep put Belle in position to deliver a stamping kick to the back of May’s left knee. Even as the bigger girl lost her balance, Belle’s left foot reached the floor and her right swung up to crash hard at the base of the brunette’s skull. Already off balance, the kick flung May forward and, dazed and helpless, she smashed headlong into the wall. From there she collapsed in a limp heap upon the floor.
Before Belle could fully recover from handling May, she found fresh trouble. Flora flung herself forward, coming in at Belle’s side. Two arms locked around Belle’s waist and the impact knocked her sprawling to the floor with Flora clinging to her. On landing, Belle forgot all her knowledge of savate and her fingers dug into the mass of red hair. An instant later she felt as if the top of her head had burst into flames, for Flora retaliated in the same manner.
With both of Flora’s girls out of action, the fight became equal. Over and over thrashed and turned the struggling gasping, squealing girls, first one then the other gaining the upper position and holding it until thrown over by the one on the bottom. In the earlier stages of the fight Belle’s clothing gave her a greater freedom of movement than that afforded by the dresses of her attackers. Now the advantage meant little in the wild, close-up tangle the fight had become. Tearing hair, slashing wild slaps and blows, flailing with their legs, fingers digging and twisting into flesh, Belle and Flora churned about the room in a wild female fracas where skill had no place.
Slowly the Southern girl’s superior physical condition began to show its effect. Flora did not lead a life conducive to perfect health and began to tire under the continued exertion. Slowly, but just as surely as when the king snake crushed out the diamondback’s life at the snake-pit, Belle began to gain the upper hand. Blood ran from her nostrils; the shoulder and one sleeve of her shirt had been ripped away, but she ignored both as she fought for mastery over the half-naked, just as badly marked redhead.
A surging heave rolled Flora from the upper position. She landed on her back, too exhausted to make more than a token resistance as Belle threw a leg across her body and sat on her. Blind instinct sent Belle’s fingers to the other’s throat, for at that moment the Southern girl became the most primeval and deadly of all creatures, a furiously angry, hurt woman. All her upbringing and refinement was forgotten as her fingers tightened upon Flora’s throat. Fear gave Flora strength. She arched her back in an attempt to throw Belle from her, but failed. Croaking, unable to breathe, her hands beat at the other girl’s face, tried to claw at her shoulders, then went down, gripping the top of Belle’s exposed underwear in an attempt to get at the flesh below.
At that moment sanity began to creep into Belle’s mind again, or it may have been that some primeval instinct gave warning of her danger. Whatever the reason, Belle twisted her head around to see what the other two women were doing. May lay where she had fallen, but Beth dragged herself across the floor in Belle’s direction. One hand supported and tried to give relief to the throbbing agony in the ultrasensitive area which caught the impact of Belle’s leaping high kick; but the other held a four-inch bladed push-knife such as gamblers and women of Beth’s profession often carried concealed about their persons. While Beth had obeyed orders and discarded her rings, she retained the knife in its garter sheath. Seeing a chance to get at the woman who inflicted such punishment and suffering upon her, Beth drew the knife and started to crawl across the floor.
As if sensing what her companion planned, Flora clung even tighter to Belle’s clothing. Struggling savagely, Belle tried to either rip the cloth or drag herself out of Flora’s grasp, for she knew she must escape the hold—or die.
Even as Beth gathered her pain-wracked body for a dive which would carry her on to Belle and drive home the knife, the Southern girl smashed a fist with all her strength into Flora’s right breast. Shocking agony ripped through Flora, numbing her body and causing her hands to release their hold. Feeling herself free of the clutching fingers, Belle rolled from Flora. She did not move a moment too soon. Down hurled Beth, her pain-drugged brain failing to react to the changed situation. Instead of realizing that her enemy, had gone, Beth carried through the plan formulated as she crawled across the floor—only she landed on Flora, not Belle. Down drove the push-knife, its point sinking just under the redhead’s left breast and Beth’s weight sent the blade in hilt-deep.
Landing on her back, Belle coiled up her legs and, as Beth reared up from the jerking, twitching body of the red-head, drove out both feet. The shoes smashed with sickening force into the side of Beth’s head. Giving a low moan, she pitched off Flora and crashed to the floor.
For almost a minute Belle stayed on her back. Across the room, May moaned and tried to rise. The sight gave Belle an incentive to move. Dragging her aching body erect, she stood swaying and looking around at a room which seemed to roll and pitch like the deck of a ship. Seeing her gun lying on the floor, she staggered forward and picked it up.
The cabin’s door burst open and Fanning entered. For a moment he stood staring in amazement at the sight which met his eyes. He did not recognize Belle as the woman he tried to kill at the snake-pit, but she identified him.
“What the hell?” he demanded, reaching towards his sagging jacket pocket.
Sick with exhaustion and pain though she might be, Belle could still react to such a threat. Up came the Dance she held, almost of its own volition it seemed—in later years Belle could never remember lifting the gun or pressing the trigger—and roared. In the confines of the cabin, the crack of the light gun sounded as loud as the boom of a Dragoon Colt. Through the pain-mists and powder smoke Belle saw the man jerk, stagger, hit the wall and slide down. Without waiting to see how badly hurt he might be, Belle ran staggering from the room and along the dark trail towards Morgan City.
Reaction to the events of the evening began to set in as Belle made her way towards the town. Her body seemed to give out a continuous throbbing ache, her head whirled with dizziness and nausea threatened to engulf her at any moment. Gun in hand she stumbled long the path, darting frantic glances about her.
Suddenly a man’s shape appeared on the track ahead of Belle. She had just turned a corner which hid the shack from view and before she could halt saw the dark bulk blocking her way. Even as she tried, to raise her gun, the man sprang forward and struck at her wrist. Feeling his fingers close around her arm, Belle acted almost instinctively. Up drove her knee, catching the man in a place guaranteed to make him release his hold. The man gave a strangled gasp of pain for, although Belle might be on the verge of col
lapse, the impact packed enough power to drive agony through him. Feeling the hand leave her wrist, she thrust the man aside, but three more shapes swarmed around her and other fingers closed on her.
“It’s a gal!” announced a disbelieving voice.
Blending down, one of the others raised Belle’s Dance, held its muzzle to his nose and sniffed at it. “Hold down the talk!” he snapped in an authoritative tone. “This’s been fired. Then it was a shot we heard from down there.”
Relief flooded through Belle as she recognized the voice of Morgan City’s efficient town marshal—who also ran the local field office of the Confederate States Secret Service: a detail he had not confided to Dusty.
“Shout—Southrons hear your country call you,” Belle gasped.
“What the—!” began the marshal on hearing the familiar password. “Show a light here, but keep it down.”
“N—No light!” Belle objected. “Down at the fisherman’s cabin—”
“Get down there, two of you,” the marshal ordered. “Keep alert at it. How’d you feel, Tom?”
“—terrible,” came the profane reply from Belle’s assailant. “That danged gal near on ruined me. Who is she?”
“B—Belle—Boyd—” gasped Belle, then collapsed. “After covering up for you and asking no questions down at the snake-pit,” the marshal said grimly, “I figure we rated some co-operation from you.”
Seated in the marshal’s office, feeling stiff, sore and more than a little sorry for herself, although having received medical attention for her numerous bruises and minor abrasions, Belle nodded gravely.
“I didn’t aim to go over your head, or try to show my superiority over you. But the information I bought might have been false and I didn’t want anybody to know about that if it should be. And I’d no intention of moving in it there’d been a light showing or any sign of life.”
“How’d you get mixed in this game anyhow?” the marshal inquired. “We’ve known about that outfit for some time, but couldn’t get any proof. I began to get suspicious when I heard that soldiers and seamen were being filled with free liquor down there. That’s not the cat-house way, unless somebody wanted the men drunk and talking. Anyhow, I sent a cousin of mine in, he’s on furlough down here. He went dressed as a seaman and found that after he’d been liquored up, Flora started asking him questions about when his ship would be sailing and what she’d carry. So I figured it was time we moved in and took a look around.”
“Did you find the telegraph station?”
“Sure. That feller you shot, Fanning, he talked up a storm and showed us all we wanted. We raided the cathouse—don’t know what the mayor’ll have to say about it thought.”
“Why should he have anything to say?” Belle asked.
“He was with one of the girls when we arrived—and him supposed to be at a meeting of the municipal council.”
“If he’s married, he won’t say a word,” Belle stated, and her guess proved to be correct. “Did you destroy the station?”
“Nope. I aimed to, but when I found Flora’s code books, I figured that it might be useful to be able to let the Yankees know what we want them to know.”
“It will be at that,” Belle agreed. “Can you get word out that there won’t be any ships leaving, but that one is expected from the north tomorrow night?”
“Sure we can. The Yankees land to take any messages at midnight every night. I’ll tend to it for you.”
“And how about that peddler, Jacobs?” the girl went on. “He was the one who told me about the telegraph station.” “If I know old Jake Jacobs, he’ll be long gone by now,” the marshal replied. “Reckon that Flora sent him with the information for you?”
“She may have done. Did the two girls tell you anything yet?”
“Nope. May’s in no shape to talk and all Beth knows is that you were supposed to be some cathouse madam who intended to open a place down there.”
“They weren’t in the spy ring?”
“I doubt it. The bouncer, Flora and a couple more were the only ones involved in the ring. I’ll pick up the odd ends tonight. Got the boys started on it right now. We’ve bust the Yankee spy-ring. Say, one way and another, the Yankees have been giving you a bad time.”
“I must have riled them for some reason,” Belle smiled. “And now I’d best be getting back to the hotel. Lord knows what Dusty and the others will say when they see my face in the morning.”
A grin creased the marshal’s features as he studied Belle’s blackened right eye, scratched cheek, swollen lip and nose. “You might try telling them you walked into a door and it fought back.”
Fifteen – A Difference of Table Manners
Although Belle’s appearance attracted some comment among her friends, all found themselves too busy preparing for their departure the next day to go too deeply into the matter.
From that smooth manner in which the trip went, it seemed that the gods of war had relented and decided to smooth the path for their small band of devotees.
Slipping from her berth, the Snow Queen ran down the Atchafalaya Bay under sail power on the evening tide. The false message had done its work and the Yankee blockade gunboats lay to the north awaiting the arrival of the nonexistent ship. By running the Snow Queen through a channel skirting the mangrove swamps which lined the shore, Millbanks avoided detection and at dawn lay well beyond the enemy’s range of vision. Once clear, the crew profanely informed the Texans, no damned Yankee scow ever built could lay alongside the ole Queen in a stern chase.
In good weather and bad, the Snow Queen ran down to the southwest at a steady thirteen knots. Showing masterly skill, Millbanks avoided the Yankee ships blockading Galveston, skimmed along the shore of Matagorda Island, beat out to sea to avoid the enemy off Corpus Christi and passed along the fringes of the shoals surrounding the elongated Padre Island. On approaching the mouth of the Rio Grande, the ship again put out to sea and slipped by in the night, unseen by a Yankee ironclad which lay a good three miles out from the entrance to the border river.
Thinking back on the trip, Duty decided that Millbanks must have augmented his winter earnings by doing in-shore trading—a polite name for smuggling—as he knew all the tricks of avoiding detection by an enemy and every channel of deep waters along which a vessel could slip close to the shore. The thought gained support on seeing the way the Mexican population of a small fishing village some twenty miles south of Matamoros greeted the Snow Queen’s arrival.
Using keg pontoons, Millbanks’ men ferried ashore the carriage and horses brought aboard in Morgan City. Then the captain supplied a guide; a villainous-looking Mexican whom none of the Texas would have cared to trust without such good references. Certainly they had no cause to complain about his services. After arranging for Millbanks to wait in the area for a week or so as to be able to carry the arms, Dusty’s party took to a form of transport they understood. Their guide led them along narrow, winding tracks through the swamplands of the coast and across the range to the Los Indios trail. There he left them and, following their original plan, the party entered Matamoros as if they had crossed the Rio Grande up Mercedes way and come along the river trail.
Despite Ole Devil’s predictions, the party had little trouble with the bad elements of Matamoros society. On their arrival Amesley presented his credentials to the garrison commander, a bulky French general very much of du people and, like many of his kind, determined to appear gentile. One meeting told Amesley all he needed to know of the French general’s nature and at the earliest opportunity he broached the subject of the exchange of deserters. Amesley’s judgment paid off. While the garrison commander wanted to lay his hands on French deserters, using their fate as a deterrent to other would-be absconders, he refused to accept responsibility for such an important matter. Nor would he flatly refuse the offer. As Amesley expected, the French general insisted that the Texans stay on in Matamoros as his guests until he could send a report to Mexico City and receive instructions from h
igher authority.
Given a good excuse to stay in Matamoros, Amesley settled down to enjoy himself. There were parties to attend, dinner invitations to accept. For three days the Texans and Belle relaxed, although each day saw Dusty and the girl at the dockside watching for the first sign of Smee’s boat.
To avoid attracting too much attention, Dusty and Red had discarded their gunbelts and now wore the regulation type of equipment, one revolver butt forward in a closed-topped holster at the right side, and a saber in the slings at the left. Neither their skirtless tunics nor the fact that Dusty’s Colt bore a white bone handle were out of character, as the Confederate Army allowed its officers considerable freedom in choice of arms and dress. Being introduced as Captain Edward Marsden, and the fact that he did not look how people imagined a man like Dusty Fog would be, prevented anyone suspecting his true identity. However, the open-topped holsters could have aroused suspicion, so Dusty left them off. He did not expect to need his weapons. True, there were some Yankee personnel in Matamoros, but they ignored the Southrons as became enemies meeting on neutral ground.
General Plessy laid great stress on his determination not to have trouble between Southrons and Yankees in his town. At the first meeting, he demanded that Amesley explain the rules of neutrality to the junior officers and warned that any trouble would result in all concerned, on both sides, being placed under arrest until the end of hostilities. With that in mind, Dusty and Red walked warily in the presence of such Yankees as they met and avoided conflict.
On the fourth afternoon a new ship had arrived and lay in the stream. Named the Lancastrian, she was an ugly vessel. A three-masted ship converted to steam propulsion, she retained her raised poop deck and standing rigging. The construction of the Lancastrian interested Dusty and Belle far less than the flag she wore.
