by J. T. Edson
Belle released her hold once she had got him into the air. Staggering with the force she had put into the effort, she saw that he had contrived to land on his feet instead of alighting hard on the base of his spine. However, he stumbled and seemed to be in danger of falling flat on his face.
Wanting to incapacitate her assailant, Belle fought to regain her equilibrium. Doing so took her four running strides. In control of her movements, she swung around and darted in his direction. Too late she observed that he too had recovered from the effects of the throw.
Obligingly, if inadvertently, Belle ran into range. Swinging towards her, Matt whipped his left arm up and across. The back of his hand collided with her cheek. Bright lights burst in front of her eyes. Gasping in pain and half blinded by the tears it caused, she went spinning helplessly across the path. Catching her left toe against her right ankle as she reached the lawn, she tripped. Her horse-riding instincts helped her to soften the impact of the fall. For all that, she landed hard and rolled over three times before coming to a halt, supine, dazed and winded, on the grass.
Spitting out threats of violence, Matt thumbed open his holster and started to draw his revolver. He had decided against trying to take that hell-cat a prisoner and intended to close her mouth permanently.
Belle saw what the man planned to do, but was too befuddled to make a move in her own defense. Out came the revolver, slanting in her direction. A shot rang out; but it was the flat crack of a rifle and from farther away than her attacker’s weapon. With the top of his head seeming to erupt like a burst sack of flour, the man was flung sideways and to the ground.
Lights showed at the doors of the mansion. Grasping a rifle, Winslow sprinted along the path, followed by Hector carrying a lantern.
‘Are you all right, Belle?’ Winslow demanded.
‘I’ve felt better,’ he girl admitted. ‘But it could have been worse. How did you—?’
‘I’ve been watching him hanging about at the gate ever since Hector said that he’d followed us home,’ Winslow explained. ‘When he attacked you, I got my Winchester lined and stopped him as soon as you were out of my line of fire. He’s a soldier!’
‘It looks that way,’ Belle admitted, standing up and approaching the body. ‘Bring the light here, please Hector.’
Bending closer, Belle studied the buttons on the blue jacket. At first glance, they looked like the standard issue. There were, however, two noticeable differences. Each button had the usual spread-eagle and three-pointed shield insignia, but instead of the ‘A’, ‘C’ or ‘I’, by which the wearer’s branch of service—Artillery, Cavalry or Infantry—was revealed, it bore the letter ‘D’. And while ordinary buttons displayed no further adornment, the ones worn by her attacker carried an inscription.
‘Ad Astra Per Aspera,’ Belle read out.
‘That’s the state motto of Kansas,’ Winslow interpreted. ‘And the “D” means “Dragoon”. He must have belonged to some Kansan militia outfit and kept the buttons on his jacket.’
‘I don’t think he served in the Blue,’ Belle contradicted.
‘Can you have two horses saddled, Uncle Alburgh? You and I have to go out. Pray God we’re in time. If we’re not, there’ll be murder done tonight and we’ll be on our way to another civil war comes morning.’
Sixteen – She’s Done For, Vic!
Although the sergeant of the guard looked with a hint of incredulity from Belle to the identification card she had shown him and back again, he did not attempt to question the validity of the document.
‘You want me to send a man with you, ma’—col—ma—?’ the non-com inquired, uncertain of how he should address the visitor.
‘Is that Headquarters?’ Belle asked, indicating the large, well-lit mansion ahead of her.
‘Yes’m,’ the sergeant confirmed. ‘You’ll find the colonel up on the first floor, in the officers’ club. I’ll have a man—’
‘I can find it,’ Belle assured him and started her horse moving.
‘You reckon that paper she showed us’s real, sarge?’ the sentry wanted to know as Belle rode away.
‘I dunno,’ admitted the non-com. ‘What I do know is, that happen it is for real, I didn’t want to stop her. That gal’s not like the other. She’s a lady. And talking of Selima, where the hell’s Brody?’
‘Maybe the new colonel’s got him up there in officers’ country for a drink ’n’ a talk, friendly-like,’ grinned the sentry. ‘This here’s a no good chore, sarge. There’s too many folk coming tonight.’
‘It’s to be expected,’ commented the sergeant. ‘With the change of command and all.’
If Belle had heard the reference to Selima, she might have been very interested. As it was, she rode the mount borrowed from her uncle towards the hitching rail by the porch of the mansion.
Having explained her theory to Winslow, Belle had left him to take care of certain precautions. Then she had mounted the horse which he had selected and set off for the Army post. She prayed that she might be in time to set the soldiers into motion. Given luck, anyway, she had spoiled the devilish scheme which the Brotherhood For Southron Freedom had planned to implement in Shreveport.
Leaving her horse alongside two others which were tethered to the hitching rail, Belle slipped off the cloak which she had donned at Winslow’s house. She had worn the garment to avoid attracting attention during the ride to the post, but the night was too warm for it to be comfortable. So she draped it over her saddle, secured the horse and ascended the steps to the porch. Crossing it, she tried the front doors. They opened and she stepped into the dimly illuminated main hall.
Hearing Belle enter, a man turned from where he had been standing at the door of one of the rooms which led from the hall. Stiffening slightly, he threw a glance at the door. Then he walked towards the girl. He advanced with a somewhat arrogant gait. His whole bearing hinted that he belonged in the building, but that he doubted whether the newcomer did.
Something about the man caught Belle’s eye and started thoughts leaping in her head. Under six foot in height, he had a sturdy, yet not exceptional build and a handsome, but hard, face. An officer’s kepi sat at a rakish angle on his head and his uniform was that of a cavalry captain. Going by his white gauntlets and the saber dangling from the slings of his weapon belt—balanced by the holster at his right side—he was performing some military duty rather than relaxing after a day’s work.
The duty could not be officer-of-the-day, Belle realized. That was the province of first, or second, lieutenants, not captains.
‘Good evening,’ the officer greeted, with coldly polite formality, while still some distance from the girl. ‘Can I help you?’
Was he speaking louder than necessary? Belle mused. Or did he always adopt that carrying tone of voice?
Even as she pondered on those points, Belle realized that the captain had spoken with more than a hint of a Southron accent. What was more, she felt sure that she had heard a similar style of speaking already that night. She observed that he was starting to draw off his right gauntlet
And the flap of his holster was open!
Taken at its face value, the latter was not an important detail. Considering the other items which Belle had noticed, it might be highly significant.
There were Southrons serving as officers in the United States’ Army; men who had felt that their loyalties lay in preserving the Union, or who had been disenchanted with the Confederate States’ way of life. So the accent was not out of place.
However, Belle’s study of the captain had led her to class him as a bow-necked, parade ground martinet who would take great pride in his personal appearance. Such a man would only allow the flap of his holster to be unfastened if he was expecting to need the revolver it carried. There could be no such need, or expectancy, at the Headquarters building of an Army post, unless
Thinking back to her second visit to the theater, Belle remembered the conversation she had overheard between Sabot the Mysterious and th
e man he had called ‘Vic’. It had had to do with the possibility of the magician’s assistant informing the authorities of their activities. ‘Vic’ had promised to find her. What was more, he had been wearing the uniform of an officer in the United States’ Cavalry. The cloak-coat and the darkness had combined to prevent her from discovering his rank, but she had seen the saber he was wearing.
At the time, Belle had been puzzled by seeing the weapon. In most cases, a saber merely served as a symbol of authority when performing some duty.
A duty like arresting men guilty of treason!
That would be a task assigned to a captain!
Before Belle could take her thoughts any further, somebody opened the door at which the captain had been standing. A tall, burly corporal stepped out in a furtive manner. Raw scratches showed on his cheeks and hands, as if he had been raked by a cat’s claws—
Except that the bloody furrows were spaced at wider intervals than any domestic cat’s talons would spread.
‘She’s done for, Vic,’ the corporal said as he appeared. ‘Lord, did she—’
On hearing the words, a hot flush of anger played over the officer’s features. He saw a flicker of understanding cross the girl’s face and sensed that, somehow or other, she realized he had no right to be in the building. If so, his ‘corporal’s’ stupidly incautious words would have been proof for her that something was radically wrong.
There was only one thing for ‘Vic’ to do.
Snapping his right hand back to the already unfastened holster, the captain started to draw his revolver. The move was made with some speed and hinted that he was well used to the kind of rig in which the United States’ Army insisted that its personnel carried their side arms.
Everything was suddenly plain to Belle. By some trick of acoustics, Vic’s voice had been distorted at the theater. So she had failed to recognize it when he had addressed her on her arrival. Yet she now realized why it had sounded vaguely familiar. The first time she had heard it was on the stage of the theater. Unless she was badly mistaken, ‘Vic’ had been the second of the spokesmen.
Pure instinct caused the girl to respond to the menace. Already her right hand had turned and was wrapping its fingers about the smooth ivory grips of the Dance. Throwing herself sideways, she swept the gun from leather. Its hammer went back under her thumb and she swung the barrel into alignment as she had done so many times in practice.
Even as Vic’s revolver cleared the cumbersome holster’s lip, flame licked from the barrel of Belle’s Dance. Aimed by instinctive alignment, the .36 ball plowed into ‘Vic’s’ forehead. Releasing his revolver unfired, the captain pivoted almost gracefully and sprawled headlong to the floor.
Realizing that he had made a mistake, the corporal was equally aware of the danger to himself. He saw his companion shot down and was all too aware of the slender girl’s skill in handling her gun. It was a standard of ability to which he could not aspire. So he did not make any attempt to do so. Jumping back into the room, he jerked the door closed behind him.
Darting across the hall, ignoring the shouts which rang out from the floor above, Belle heard the man’s feet crossing the room. Then glass shattered and the footsteps faded away. Belle knew what the sound implied. So she did not offer to enter the room. Turning, she ran along the passage to the front door.
Starting to go through, the girl discovered that the man had moved swiftly after leaping through the window of the room. He had also taken the opportunity to arm himself; a fact of which Belle was rapidly made aware.
Having sprinted to the front of the building, the corporal had been on the point of freeing his horse when he had heard Belle approaching the front entrance. He also heard the sentry yelling for the sergeant of the guard, but treated it as of secondary importance. That blasted girl not only dressed like a man, she could shoot like one. So she was a greater potential danger than the soldiers of the guard. They might hesitate before opening fire upon a man they took to be a corporal. At least, they would most likely delay for long enough to let him ride them down and burst through the gates to safety.
First, however, the girl must be dealt with.
Thrusting forward his Army Colt, the corporal snapped off a shot in Belle’s direction. He fired fast and without making sure of his aim; never a combination conducive to accuracy.
Lead impacted on the frame of the door in front of the Rebel Spy. Jerking back involuntarily, she paused to review the situation. Hearing sounds which told her the man was mounting his horse, she made her second attempt to effect an exit. Going through the door in a rolling dive, she halted on her left side at the edge of the porch. Clasping the Dance’s butt in both hands, she looked swiftly along the barrel at the corporal’s rage-distorted face.
Then Belle changed her point of aim. A living, if wounded, prisoner could satisfy her curiosity on a number of points. Chiefly, given the correct inducements, he could describe the Frenchman and instruct Belle on the source of her hatred’s appearance.
So the girl lowered the Dance’s barrel, until it pointed at the corporal’s right shoulder. Controlling his restless horse, he was trying to throw down on her. She refused to let that fluster her, or change her intention.
The Dance barked, but Belle believed that she had heard a second, more distant detonation. Aimed truly, her bullet entered the blue jacket in an ideal position to break his clavicle. The light load of a Navy-caliber revolver might lack stopping power, as had been proven when Brunel had shot Willie, but Belle was confident that the corporal could not ride far while suffering from such an injury.
As Belle’s bullet found its mark and entered, something burst violently out of the corporal’s chest in a spray of blood, splintered bones and pulverized flesh. His body jerked uncontrollably and blood gushed from a far vaster wound than the
Navy’s ball could have made. Shying violently, his horse flung him from the saddle. Falling on to the mount ‘Vic’ had used, he was pitched from its rump and to the ground.
Coming to her feet, Belle sprang from the porch. While approaching the writhing shape, she saw the sergeant turning and addressing the sentry. The latter lowered his smoking carbine and attempted to offer some explanation. Ignoring him, the sergeant urged the remainder of the guard to increase their speed and led them on the double towards the house.
Although Belle held her Dance ready for use, she saw that she would not require it. Before she reached the stricken corporal, his body gave a final convulsive shudder and went limp. Lowering the hammer to rest on the safety notch between two of the percussion caps, she returned the Dance to its holster. Without considering how the action might be interpreted, she turned to go back into the mansion.
The sergeant of the guard did not know what had happened inside the building, having only the evidence of his eyes to go on. What he could see looked highly suspicious and dangerous to his rank. A long-serving soldier, he was inclined to take the side of the shot ‘corporal’ for want of better evidence. If the sentry—who had fired without orders—had killed another member of the U.S. Cavalry, the sergeant would be held responsible. So he intended to hold on to the only witness, who might also be a guilty party.
‘Hold it right there, lady!’ the sergeant bellowed, making the command in such a manner that she could not use it against him if the rank on her identification card should be genuine.
Wisely, Belle complied. She guessed that the sergeant had reached an erroneous conclusion regarding her actions. Although the corporal’s horse had bolted on being relieved of his weight, two more animals were fighting their reins at the hitching rail. So the non-com suspected that she could be contemplating mounting one and making a dash for safety.
The arrival of the guard, glowering suspiciously in the light of the lanterns two of them carried, coincided with the appearance of three officers at the front door.
‘What’s happening?’ demanded the burly, bearded colonel in the lead.
‘I’m damned if I know, sir,’ the
sergeant of the guard admitted. ‘That two-bar come running like his arse was on fire, just after we heard a window busted. He jumped on his hoss, then this ga—lady come out shooting.’
‘He’d shot at her first,’ protested the sentry, wishing to absolve himself of blame for his spontaneous action. ‘And was set to do it again.’
‘That’s right, sir. He did,’ conceded the non-com. He was still uncertain of Belle’s standing in the affair and aimed to take no chances.
‘Who is this man?’ asked the major who had been last of the trio to emerge, studying the dead ‘corporal’ in the light of the lanterns. ‘I don’t seem to recognize him.’
‘He come in with the captain’s’d brought the dispatches for Colonel Szigo, sir,’ the sergeant explained.
‘Dispatches?’ grunted the lanky, miserable lieutenant colonel, making his first comment. ‘Dispatches? I’ve seen no damned captain—’
‘But he came maybe ten minutes back, sir,’ the sergeant protested. ‘He said I didn’t need to send nobody with him, ’cause him and the corporal knew their way. Then the sentry told me the gal was coming and they rode up here while I was turning to look.’
‘Which girl?’ asked Colonel Manderley and indicated Belle. ‘This one?’
‘No, sir,’ corrected the non-com. ‘It was Selima, that magical feller’s gal. She come asking to see Colonel Szigo. Wouldn’t say what she wanted, ’cepting that it was important. Looked like she’d been getting slapped around by somebody and she was madder’n a boiled owl. So I told Brody to fetch her up here.’
‘She never arrived, either,’ the major growled. ‘Just what the hell is going on here?’
‘I think I can explain,’ Belle put in. ‘But you’d better have somebody look in that open room along the hall first. You’ll find the girl in there, and your soldier. I hope that he’s still alive, but I’m sure she isn’t.’
‘Do it, Major!’ Manderley ordered, eyeing Belle with interest and appraisal. After the officer had departed, he went on, ‘I think explanations are in order, young lady.’