Dusty Fog's Civil War 10

by J. T. Edson

  “Which same they’ll have to be stopped, sir,” Dusty stated. “Only I’ll be damned if I can see how to do it.”

  “The only way to do it would be to smash their printing plates and press,” Belle said. “And to do that we’d have to learn where it is.”

  “Oliver might know,” Dusty told her.

  “He may,” agreed Belle. “In fact he probably does. But a man fanatical enough to try to destroy that box at the cost of his own life won’t talk easily.”

  “Even if he does, the chances are that the press’ll be somewhere that we can’t reach,” Ole Devil pointed out.

  “When will he be getting here, Dusty?” asked Belle.

  “Noon tomorrow at the earliest.”

  “I’ll see him when he comes—and don’t tell me that it’s not a chore for a woman, please.”

  “It’s not,” snorted Ole Devil. “But then, neither is spying—but you’re still the best spy we have.”

  “Don’t let Rose Greenhow hear you say that, General,” warned Belle with a smile. Then she became serious again. “Dusty, did Oliver mention what he was doing traveling on a Yankee convoy?”

  “Going into the Indian Nations to preach to the Indians,” Dusty replied.

  “And so was Ludlow,” Ole Devil put in.

  “So Mrs. Hemming told me,” the girl breathed. “Is there any chance of our leaving soon, General?”

  “Certainly.”

  “If I can, I’d like to be around when Ludlow recovers,” the girl said. “He may know something and if he does, I might be able to make him talk.”

  “Do you think he’s involved in this business?”

  “I don’t know, General. But he was one of a party who left New Orleans and scattered through the South. A man like him, smooth, with a way of charming people, could go anywhere and pass the money without arousing suspicion.”

  “You’re right at that. He came with what seemed perfectly legitimate letters of introduction.”

  “Give Pinkerton and the U.S. Secret Service their due, General,” Belle said. “They’re thorough. They’d see that he came ready to get co-operation from you and the civil authorities too.”

  “What do you want to do then?” Ole Devil inquired. “Question Ludlow first. According to Tolling, he’s working for the Yankees for money and that kind break easier than somebody who’s doing it out of loyalty or for his beliefs. As I said, I’d like to be on hand when he recovers.”

  “We can pull out in ten-fifteen minutes without arousing too much comment,” the General told her. “Will that do?”

  “Yes. It will give me time to change and make my arrangements after we reach the camp,” Belle replied.

  “Shall I ride out now, sir?” Dusty asked. “If folks see me here in these clothes, they’ll start wondering what brought me back and tie it in with your leaving the ball.”

  “Go ahead, Dustine,” Ole Devil confirmed. “Where’s that box of money?”

  “Locked in your office, with a guard at the door and window.”

  “Good. Have the armorer on hand ready for when I return.”

  “Could you leave the box intact, General?” Belle put in. “At least until after I’ve seen Ludlow.”

  “Certainly,” the General promised. “Get moving, Dustine. I’ll be along with Miss Boyd and my staff as soon as I can arrange it.”

  Saluting, Dusty left the room. He went along to the stables and collected his horse. There was no sign of Tolling, so Dusty concluded he and Buck Blaze had already left with their prisoner. After saddling his horse, Dusty rode away from the Hemming house in the direction of the Texas Light Cavalry’s camp. On the way he caught up to his cousin and Tolling as they rode in the same direction, with Ludlow hanging limply across the saddle of a third horse. Pausing long enough to learn where they intended to place the man on their arrival, Dusty pushed on again at a faster pace than the others for he had things to do at the camp.

  By the time Ole Devil arrived, Dusty and the armorer were waiting in his office. On the desk stood the wooden box, untouched since being brought into the room for safe keeping. Crossing the room, Ole Devil looked down at the box and took its key which lay on the lid.

  “I wouldn’t do that, General,” the armorer warned quietly.

  “And I didn’t aim to,” Ole Devil replied. “What kind of infernal contrivance’re they using?”

  The term ‘booby-trap’ had not yet come into use, but such things were made and employed by the Secret Services of both sides. As a soldier, Ole Devil did not fully approve of infernal devices; although he granted that they did on occasion have their uses.

  “Haven’t looked too close, sir,” the armorer drawled, walking to the desk. “But from what Cap’n Fog tells me, I’d say the lock’s a fake. Instead of works, there’ll be a couple of percussion caps inside. So when somebody puts the key in and turns it, they pop a cap and fire off a charge. Only I can’t say for sure until after I’ve had a chance to look real close.”

  “If you’ll wait in the next room, you’ll maybe have your chance to find out for sure,” Ole Devil told him. “I’ll send when I need you.”

  “Yo!” answered the armorer, saluting and marching from the room.

  “Miss Boyd will be along soon, Dustine,” the General said as the door closed. “This’s a serious business and I’d best see about notifying our Government so they can take precautions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty replied.

  Taking up pen and paper, Ole Devil lapsed into silence and Dusty settled down to watch his uncle composing a concise report that could be passed in code over the telegraph wires to the Confederate Government. In addition the General would send a letter by courier to be passed East and give a fuller account of the affair. For a time the only sound in the room was the scratching of Ole Devil’s pen. Then a knock came at the door. Rising, Dusty crossed the room. On opening the door, he found Belle outside and did not hesitate to let her enter.

  No longer did Belle look the elegant Southern lady who attended the ball. In fact her appearance, as usual when clad in such a manner, drew a disapproving glance from Ole Devil. While the General reconciled himself to the girl making a success of the distasteful business of spying, he did not approve of her wearing her present kind of clothing.

  With the wig removed, Belle proved to have deep black hair cut very short all round her skull. Instead of the ball gown, she wore a man’s black shirt, riding breeches and boots; the shirt and breeches being tight enough to show off her slender figure to its best advantage and dispel any doubts as to her sex. Around her waist hung a gunbelt with an ivory-handled Dance Bros. .36 revolver—a Confederate copy of the 1851 Navy Colt—riding butt forward in the holster at her left side. Although it looked slightly incongruous taken with her clothes and appearance, she carried a lady’s parasol in her left hand.

  “We’ll soon be ready, General,” she remarked. “I’ve seen Tolling and he’s prepared everything for me.”

  “Can we do anything for you, Miss Boyd?” Ole Devil asked, eyeing the girl’s clothing in a frosty manner.

  “I’d like Dusty’s help during the questioning.”

  “Is that necessary? I don’t want my officers getting a name for torturing prisoners.”

  “It will help me to have him along,” Belle answered.

  “I’m game to go along, sir,” Dusty put in.

  “Very well,” Ole Devil growled. “Go. But this affair is not official in any way, you understand.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dusty replied.

  “There’s one thing, Dusty,” Belle said quietly. “If you come, you’ll be under my orders. Do whatever I tell you without question and don’t interfere with anything I do.”

  Watching the set, grim lines on the girl’s face, Dusty found himself feeling almost sorry for Ludlow. He knew that Belle regarded the situation as being of vital importance and would brook no interference with her handling of the Yankee spy. Yet he also guessed that the girl would not employ crude torture meth
ods until all other means failed. Dusty felt that watching Belle in action might be both interesting and instructive So he nodded his agreement and then listened to what she wanted him to do.

  Five – The Art of Gentle Persuasion

  Sitting up on the bed, Ludlow blinked as the light from the lantern hung overhead dazzled him. He groaned as he swung his feet to the floor and clutched at his throbbing, aching head while fighting down the nausea filling his body. Slowly the throbbing and nausea died away and his dizziness ended, allowing him to take an interest in his surroundings.

  He found himself in a small, stoutly-made one-room log cabin that had a small barred window in one wall faced at the other side by a door with a covered peep-hole cut into it. Significantly to Ludlow’s mind, the door did not have a keyhole or latch in it. For furnishings the cabin held a bed, foot-locker, table and chair, all securely bolted to the floor. At first he could not imagine where he might be, then he realized that the cabin must be one used to hold captured Yankee officers before passing them on to a permanent prisoner-of-war camp. Securing the furnishings prevented them being used as weapons or a means of breaking down the door.

  Even as Ludlow thought of that, pain bit into him and caused his hands to reach for the place where Belle kicked him. Recollection flooded back to him. Shock and fear creased his handsome face as his hands darted up to feel at his jaw. Staring wildly around the room, his eyes came to rest on a mirror hanging upon one wall. Rising from the bed, he lurched hurriedly across the room and studied his reflection in the shining steel surface.

  “Thank God!” he croaked as he found that the swelling would have no permanent effect and leave no trace to disfigure his handsome features.

  Before the thought that he might never again need his good looks as a means of making a living struck him, he heard the door’s lock click and turned to see who entered. At first he barely recognized Belle without the wig and wearing male clothes. For all that, something told him that she, the burly civilian and small cavalry captain did not come merely to inquire about the state of his health.

  “Go and sit at the table!” Belle ordered, standing with the parasol held lightly in both hands.

  Seeing the futility of resistance, Ludlow crossed to the table and slid into the chair.

  “What’s the game?” he asked, sounding more than a shade uneasy.

  “Lay your hands palm down on the table top in front of you,” the girl said as if she did not hear a word he spoke.

  Once again Ludlow obeyed, noticing that each of the male newcomers held lengths of rope in his hands. Giving Ludlow no chance to raise objections, Dusty and Tolling converged on him and grabbed a wrist. Fastening one of the pieces of rope around the wrist he held, Dusty drew its other end down to be secured to the top of the table leg farthest away from the prisoner. Moving no less deftly, Tolling tied Ludlow’s other wrist in the same manner. Then, while Dusty secured Ludlow’s arms further by fastening a rope from elbow to elbow, Tolling roped the man’s legs to the chair. By the time they had finished, Ludlow sat held immobile and stared at them with growing concern.

  “Now we’re all set to have a little talk,” Belle said.

  “I don’t know what you’re playing at—” Ludlow began and looked at Dusty. “When General—”

  “Don’t look at Captain Fog!” Belle shouted. “I’m talking to you!”

  “Maybe he don’t reckon that a woman should be questioning him, Miss Boyd,” Tolling put in.

  “B-Boyd!” gasped Ludlow and stared at the girl. “So you’re the Rebel Spy!”

  “That’s right, you stinking traitor,” Belle replied, twisting at the handle of her parasol. “I’m the Rebel Spy and you’re going to answer questions for me.”

  With that she drew the handle from the body of the parasol. Putting the lower section aside, she turned once more to face Ludlow. Instead of a piece of feminine frippery, she now held a deadly and sinister weapon. Dusty had noticed earlier that the parasol’s handle appeared to be thicker than usual, but gave the matter no thought. Like Ludlow, he studied the thing Belle held and understood the need for the unfeminine thickness. Gripping the steel ball exposed by removing the parasol’s upper section, Belle gave it a tug. Out slid a length of steel-coil spring and telescoped inside it was a foot of tubular steel connected to the ball.

  Up and down flicked Belle’s right hand and the coil-spring sent the steel rod whipping towards the table top with a force out of all proportion to her movement. A savage crack sounded as the metal ball struck the table and buried itself to half its depth in the wood less than an inch from Ludlow’s right hand. Giving a startled, frightened yelp, he tried to jerk his hand away but the rope prevented him from doing so.

  “How did this filth use to earn his living, Mr. Tolling?” asked the girl.

  “Cheating at cards—” Tolling began.

  “A man needs supple hands for that,” Belle purred. “Look at them, Tolling. Those hands have been cared for, kept soft and fancy. If they were broken—”

  Again the wicked spring-powered billy snapped out, crashing into the wood even closer to Ludlow’s hand. Sweat broke on to his forehead and fear twisted at his face. That a beautiful and sensual woman handled the billy made its effect so much worse. When Ludlow saw her remove the parasol handle, he expected to see it contain a knife-blade. Instead it held a far more terrifying device, for Ludlow did not doubt that the girl intended to use it against him. The steel ball would rip and smash his hands so that no doctor could repair the damage.

  “You’re a soldier!” he screeched, staring with terrified eyes at Dusty. “You can’t let her torture me.”

  Again the billy whipped up and drove its ball into the table top. Dusty ran his tongue tip across dry lips as he saw the grim determination on Belle’s face.

  “Belle—”

  “Keep quiet, Captain Fog!” Belle snapped. “I hold rank of colonel and I’m giving you a direct order. You came here at my request. So leave me to handle things my way.”

  While Dusty knew the girl spoke the truth about her honorary rank—given to put her in a position of authority when dealing with members of the Confederate armed forces—she had never made use of it in his presence before. Yet he knew she would not hesitate to invoke the full powers her rank gave if he interfered. So he stiffened into a brace and kept silent. Ludlow slumped in his chair as he realized that he could expect no further help from that source.

  “Start talking, Byron!” Belle snapped after a brief pause to allow the full sense of his helplessness to fill the prisoner.

  “I’ve not—” Ludlow began, then realized what name she used. “Who told you my name?”

  “A man called Oliver,” Belle answered, but saw no hint that Ludlow knew the name.

  “And Gilpin sold you out to save his own neck back in New Orleans,” Tolling went on when he saw Ludlow’s negative response.

  For a moment recognition flickered on Ludlow’s face, showing that the name Tolling gave meant something to him. However he kept his mouth shut, wanting time to think how he might profit from his position and knowledge.

  “You said the filth used to charm women, then bleed them by blackmail,” Belle said gently. “He’s handsome enough to do it, too.”

  With that she swung the billy sideways and its ball lashed at Ludlow’s head. For a moment Dusty thought that the girl had struck the man’s face. He heard Ludlow cry out and expected to see blood gushing from a wound. None flowed. Apparently the blow missed, but not by much.

  Ludlow had felt the wind of the billy’s passing and in his over-wrought state imagined that the metal ball grazed his skin. Far worse than the threat of mangled hands, to his way of thinking, would be the disfigurement of his face. Not only did his handsome features bring in money, but he prided himself on his looks. All too well he could imagine the horror in which the billy would leave him. An intelligent man, he possessed sufficient imagination to picture the work of the steel ball as it tore his features to a bloody, barely
human ruin. Nor did he doubt that Belle meant to carry out her threat. The Rebel Spy had plenty of good reasons to hate Yankee spies and her abhorrence of Southern-born traitors would hardly be less.

  “Talk, man. Why be ruined,” Tolling said. “Gilpin sold you down the river quick enough to save his own hide.”

  Although Tolling lied on the matter, Ludlow did not doubt his story. Being an unprincipled rogue himself, Ludlow could not imagine other men acting differently than he would under a set of circumstances. So he accepted the lie that Gilpin, who died without talking, betrayed him. For all that, he hesitated to talk and hoped for time to think how he might put his information to the best use.

  “I don’t know much!” he stated hurriedly as Belle’s lips tightened. “They told me to come out here, make my way across to the Indian Nations and meet one of their people in the Choctaw Indians’ main village.”

  “And that’s all you know?” Belle asked.

  “That’s all I know,” agreed Ludlow.

  “Bring in that box, gentlemen,” the girl ordered.

  “Sure, Miss Boyd,” Tolling answered and left the room followed by Dusty.

  “Captain Fog captured a Yankee agent on his way to the Choctaw village,” Belle explained to Ludlow. “Maybe his property will tell us something of your mission.”

  Watching the man, Belle noticed him give a shocked start as he saw the box Dusty and Tolling carried in. She drew the key from her pocket as the men set the box down before Ludlow, placing it between his hands on the table. Fear flickered across Ludlow’s face as she walked forward. Then his features set into hard lines. Realizing that he stood a good chance of dying, Ludlow found some comfort in the fact that the girl who humiliated and captured him would also be killed. Anger at Belle for out-smarting him over-rode his knowledge of what would happen when she inserted and turned the key.

  “Hold it, Miss Boyd!” Tolling said urgently, just before the key entered the lock. “There may be an infernal contrivance in the keyhole.”

  “That’s true enough,” the girl admitted and stepped back. “Could you break the lock with a bullet from outside the room, Dusty?”