by J. T. Edson
“Lead the way, sergeant,” she said, glancing to where her escort were swinging astride their horses. “Head towards Matamoros and I’ll tell you our assignment as we ride.”
However the chance did not come immediately. Deciding that they must put some distance between themselves and the bay, Ysabel urged his party on at a fast trot. Not until they had covered two miles and were riding along a path through heavily wooded country did he slow down.
“Nobody’s following,” he said. “Do you want to camp here for the night, or push on, ma’am?”
“Push on,” she replied. “I must go to see our consul in Matamoros as soon as I possibly can. Do you know his house?”
“Sure,” Ysabel agreed. “And so do the Yankees. Unless you have to go there, I’d say stay long and far away.”
“I have to report to him,” Belle insisted. “He’ll be in a muck-sweat to know whether I’ve arrived or not.”
“That figures,” the Kid remarked.
“Not for my sake, I assure you,” smiled the girl. “But for those trunks. There’s fifteen thousand dollars in them.”
“Is there that much money in the whole world, ap’?” asked the Kid.
“I’d say just a mite more,” Ysabel replied. “You’re taking one helluva chance telling a couple of border rough-necks like us that, ma’am.”
“Not if all Captain Fog told me about you is true, sergeant.”
“You know Captain Dusty Fog, ma’am?” Ysabel said.
“We’ve been on two missions together,” 4 she replied. “He spoke highly of the part you played in averting the Indian war those two Yankee soft-shells planned to start in Texas.” 5
“He’s quite a feller, that Cap’n Fog,” drawled the Kid. “I’d sure like to meet up with him.”
Almost a year later the Kid found his chance to meet Captain Dustine Edward Marsden Fog, 6 rated one of the South’s three top cavalry raiders and eventually gaining acclaim in other fighting fields.
Ysabel put off more discussion on the matter of Captain Dusty Fog. Satisfied that the girl trusted him, or she would never have given the information about the trunk’s contents, he got straight down to business.
“That’s a whole heap of money, ma’am,” he said. “What’s it for?”
“Have you heard of a General Klatwitter?” she asked.
“Is he one of our’n, or their’n?” the Kid inquired.
“Neither,” Belle replied. “He’s French. At least, he’s nominally French. His command is made up of mercenaries from most of Continental Europe. He’s at the town of Nava, do you know it?”
“Sure,” Ysabel confirmed. “It’s in Coahuila Territory, maybe ten-fifteen miles in from the Rio Grande below Piedras Negras and Eagle Pass.”
“That’s correct. We have to reach him with the money as quickly as possible. Can you do it?”
“Five to eight days’ ride, depending on you and the kind of trouble we run into on the way.”
“The Yankee Secret Service don’t know this yet,” Belle objected.
“I wasn’t figuring on them,” Ysabel assured her. “We’ll have to stay close to the river most of the way and that’s mighty rough country. The French and the Mexicans’re apt to start shooting first and ask who you are a long second. Then there’re deserters from both sides that’ve come across the river. They’re living as best they can and aren’t choosey on where they get their pickings. Top of them, there’s the usual run of border thieves, white and Mexican. No, ma’am. I count the Yankee Secret Service least of our worries.”
“We must get through,” Belle told him.
“What’d be so all-fired important about a French general, Miss Belle?” the Kid put in. “There’s some’d say we’ve got more’n enough of our own without worrying about the French.”
“Few of our generals can throw an extra thousand men into the field right now,” Belle pointed out.
“And this Klack-wicker hombre can?” asked Ysabel.
“So he claims. A full regiment of cavalry, armed, trained and loyal to whoever feeds and pays them,” Belle replied. “And with a battery of horse artillery to boot.”
“That’s a tolerable good bargain, all for fifteen thousand dollars,” Ysabel commented. “Unless there’s more to it.”
“What’s he fixing to do, ma’am?” the Kid went on. “Come down with us and help Rip Ford take Brownsville back from the Yankees?”
“No. He will march west, cross the Rio Grande into New Mexico, attack La Mesilla and continue north up the Sante Fe trail.”
“A thousand men can’t take New Mexico,” Ysabel objected. “Ole General Sibley couldn’t do it with at least twice that many.”
“And they was most of ’em Texans,” his son continued.
“General Klatwitter won’t try to take it. His objective is merely to raid, do as much damage and grab what loot he can, forcing the Yankees to divert troops badly needed elsewhere to stop him.”
“Why’d we need to pay a frog-eater good money to do that, ma’am?” the Kid demanded. “We could send some of our own fellers—”
“We don’t have any men to spare.” the girl replied simply. “The War is going badly for us and every available man is needed right where he is. But the Yankees aren’t in any better shape. Meeting a new attack will force them to withdraw troops from their field commands, they’ve no reserves worth mentioning.”
“From Arkansas?” asked Ysabel.
“In the first place, probably,” Belle agreed. “But that’s one battle front the Yankees daren’t weaken to any great extent.”
Which figured to anybody who understood the situation. Under General Ole Devil Hardin, the small Confederate Army of Arkansas held back a superior numbered Yankee force on the banks of the Ouachita River. Given a significant reduction in his enemy’s strength, he might even start to push them out of the Toothpick State. Should that happen, it would boost the flagging spirits of the Confederate States armies meeting defeat in the East and encourage them to stand firm.
“And if they can hang on in the East, even without pushing the Yankees back, it will have an effect,” Belle went on after explaining the previous points. “Up North there’s a growing feeling among the ordinary folks that the War should never have been started and ought to be ended speedily. They’re seeing wounded brought back by the train-load, hearing almost daily of kin or friends killed. If their armies can be halted, with the appearance of the War dragging on, the civilian population will start bringing pressure on their Government to make peace.”
“Will our Government have sense enough to take it, should the Yankees make it?” asked the Kid, in a voice which showed a complete lack of faith in Governmental intelligence.
“If the terms are acceptable, which they will be. I can’t see them refusing,” Belle replied. “It’s accept, or go down in defeat, Lon—uh—Kid—”
“Could say either ‘Lon’ or ‘Kid’, ma’am,” the youngster grinned. “I get called both of ’em—or worse.”
“Mostly worse and allus deserved,” Ysabel growled. “You allow this here frog general’ll do it, ma’am?”
“Of course. The fifteen thousand is only an advance payment, to be made if I am satisfied he can carry out his end of the bargain. I also have a bank draft for a further thirty-five thousand dollars, payable only after the successful completion of his share of the business.”
“Now I don’t allow to be smart, like the fellers who dreamed up this fancy twirl-me-round,” drawled the big man. “So I was wondering what’s to stop this here general just taking the money, standing us again a wall and shooting us, then soldiering on for France. Fifteen thousand’d go a long ways, further when that’s all he need do to get it.”
“A series of letters and other proof will be placed in the hands of the French as soon as it becomes apparent that he doesn’t mean to fulfill his part of the bargain,” Belle answered. “The people who produced this scheme are playing for high stakes, sergeant. They won’t hesitate to do
it.”
“Would I be out of line in asking who’s behind it, Miss Belle?” the Kid said, guessing from her tone that the Confederate Government had not formulated the scheme even if they approved of it.
“A group of British businessmen; mill owners growing desperate for cotton. They know that if the South loses, the cotton-growing industry will be wrecked for years and with it goes their source of income. It was they who contacted Klatwitter before he left Europe, made the plans and provided the money to put it through. He received orders to sail before payment could be made. So the businessmen put the delivery of the payment in our Government’s hands and they passed it on to us.”
“May Ka-Dih reward ’em for their kindness to a poor lil quarter-Injun boy,” drawled the Kid. “I allus did want to die young.”
“Ka-Dih’s the Comanche Great Spirit, Miss Boyd,” Ysabel explained. “I sure hope he’s watching over us. There’s been some trouble and the French put a curfew on in Matamoros. We’ll not get through to the consul’s house tonight.”
“Then what do we do?” she asked.
“Stop with friends just outside town and move in tomorrow morning,” Ysabel replied. “It’s the only way.”
Three – Full of Men Who Want To Rape Me
Standing naked in the tiny attic room of a small inn on the outskirts of Matamoros, Belle Boyd allowed a giggling Mexican girl to apply an oily liquid to her back. Already Belle had used the liquid on her face, neck, arms and other places accessible to her hands; turning the creamy whiteness of her skin to a brown equaling that of her assistant. With so much at stake, Belle could not take the chance of some unfortunate exposure revealing patches of white skin to arouse suspicions. So, explaining her needs to Sam Ysabel, she received the girl’s assistance to coat the parts of her body beyond her reach.
“Is it all right, señorita?” asked the girl, putting down the depleted bottle of liquid and taking a mirror from the bed.
Carefully Belle studied the reflection of her back. Then she scrutinized every inch of her body, checking behind the ears, under her breasts, beneath her armpits and between her legs. Not until certain that she bore no white flesh to betray her did she nod in satisfaction.
“It will do,” she said in Spanish. “Gracias.”
“You take much trouble to look like one of us, señorita,” the girl remarked. “Is it for a man?”
“Yes,” Belle answered, deciding such an answer would be more acceptable than any other to her assistant.
“For Cabrito?” the girl hissed.
“No!” Belle replied hastily, knowing Cabrito to be the Kid’s Mexican name. She recalled how the other had greeted the Kid on his arrival and wanted to avoid stirring up a feeling of jealousy. “He and his father are taking me to meet my—my sweetheart.”
Clearly the explanation satisfied the girl and her air of hostility evaporated as quickly as it came. Smiling warmly, she indicated the clothing on the bed and suggested that Belle dressed herself.
While donning the clothing of a poor Mexican working girl, Belle thought of the previous night’s events.
Although nobody had followed them, Ysabel had set a fast pace and kept clear of trails during the ride to Matamoros. In addition to a desire to avoid attracting attention, the girl felt the Texans might be motivated by a wish to learn her ability at riding a horse through rough country at night. In which case she believed that she had gained their approbation.
On drawing close to the town, Ysabel halted the party and sent the Kid forward to scout their way. Learning on his son’s return that a French picket was watching the trail, Ysabel still stated his intention of pushing on to the inn. Once again Belle felt herself being put to a test, but believed that she came through it to the Texans’ satisfaction. Moving on foot among the scattered bushes, keeping the horses as quiet as possible, they passed within a hundred feet of the picket and avoided being detected.
If the arrival of the Ysabels at the small inn were any indication, they were highly popular visitors. The owner greeted them warmly, accepting Belle’s presence without question. Leading his guests towards his stables, he avoided the front entrance and made his way to the rear. There he raised a dirt-covered trapdoor and lit the way down an incline to a large cellar equipped for housing horses. With the welfare of their mounts attended to, the innkeeper helped the Texans carry Belle’s trunks into the main building. Such was Belle’s confidence in her companions that she agreed without a moment’s thought to them keeping the trunks in their room while she bedded down in the attic.
Over breakfast, Belle and the Ysabels discussed their future arrangements. First she must report to the Confederate States’ consul in the town, but knew that doing so would be far from easy. To appear in her present garb of shirtwaist and riding breeches was, of course, out of the question. Nor could she make use of a dress and wig from her trunks. If she knew the Yankee Secret Service, and by that time she figured she did, they were sure to maintain a watch on the consul’s house. The arrival of a strange white woman would be noted and steps speedily taken to identify her. When it became obvious that she had not arrived through the normal channels, conclusions—maybe the correct one—would be drawn. Let the Yankees receive but one hint that the Rebel Spy had returned to Matamoros, and they would spare no effort to locate her. The mission ahead stood to be sufficiently dangerous without needlessly adding complications.
Fortunately Belle had come prepared for some such eventuality. A chemist working for her organization had produced a body stain of exactly the right color to give her the appearance of a Mexican; easy to apply, quick-drying and—he swore—impervious to soaking in cold water, while hot water and a special soap would remove it with one washing. That and clothing borrowed from the innkeeper’s daughter gave Belle a suitable disguise.
Dressing did not take long, for the clothing of a peon girl consisted of only a shift, blouse, skirt and sandals. That meant, Belle concluded as she glanced in the mirror on completion, she could not carry the Dance concealed on her person. Nor would her parasol, even reassembled, be less noticeable in her disguise. So she would have to make do with the knife-bracelet. It would not be out of place or conspicuous among the bangles of the cheap jewelry supplied to complete her attire.
“There is only your hair now, señorita,” the Mexican girl said. “I have never see—”
“I don’t suppose you have,” Belle replied in English.
Her hair was kept cut so short for a purpose. In her trunk she carried six wigs—or had until the loss of the red one at the bay—designed by an expert and used to alter her appearance. To wear one of them so that it appeared almost completely natural, she had to keep her own hair cropped close to the skull. At first Belle felt self-conscious when not wearing a wig, but she grew used to it and no longer worried over other people’s attitude towards her appearance.
Selecting a wig from the box brought up, Belle tried it on. She stood before the mirror, altering the long black tresses to conform to the style of the girl by her side. A knock sounded at the door as she completed the work. Crossing the room, she opened it. The Kid stood outside. No longer did he wear his buckskins but was dressed in a torn white shirt, ragged white trousers and sandals. A sombrero rode on his head, while a serape draped over his left shoulder. With his Indian-dark skin, he would pass as a peon provided he prevented anybody looking too closely at his face. Those red-hazel eyes would give him away even if his features did not. Glancing at Belle, he opened his mouth to speak, closed it and stared again.
“Miss Belle?” he croaked.
“Will I do?” she smiled.
“I’d say you’ll get by,” he enthused. “As long as you don’t talk too much.”
That, Belle knew, would give her away. While she spoke some Spanish, her accent could never get by. However she did not intend speaking any more than possible on the short journey to the house of the Confederate States consul.
Seated alongside the Kid on the small donkey cart, Belle attract
ed no more than casual attention from the passersby. However only a coating of vegetables lay on the tarpaulin which covered her trunks. Hidden among them lay her Dance and the Kid’s Dragoon Colt, while he carried the bowie knife concealed beneath his serape. Belle hoped that they would not find need for the weapons, but carried them in case of detection.
At first all went well. They passed through the narrow streets of the poorer section, entered an area of greater prosperity and moved at a leisurely pace towards their objective.
“Won’t be long now, Miss Belle,” the Kid commented, sitting with the brim of his sombrero drawn down to shield his face. “Once we’re through this business section, we’ll soon be at the consul’s house.”
“I won’t be sorry,” Belle replied.
They continued along the street, passing the town’s best hotel. Ahead of them, a burly French corporal halted. Studying the approaching cart, he stepped from the sidewalk and blocked their way.
“Hey you!” he said in bad Spanish. “Stop that cart!”
“Si, señor,” Belle answered mildly, jabbing her elbow into the Kid’s ribs as a warning for him to control his temper.
“What’ve you got here?” the corporal demanded, walking forward and eyeing Belle from head to toe.
“Is only vegetables for the market, señor general,” the girl replied, satisfied that her accent would pass unnoticed by the Frenchman. “My brother and I bring them to sell.”
“Get down, both of you!” the corporal ordered.
Only a few people were using the street at that moment and none displayed too much interest in the scene. Such sights had become common in Mexico since the French began their occupation and they discouraged undue curiosity in their affairs.
