Dusty Fog's Civil War 10

by J. T. Edson

  “Have you been hanging around Jim Bludso?” the brunette demanded.

  Almost as tall as Belle, the woman weighed heavier, was reasonably good-looking and showed hard muscles on her bent arms. In view of the question, and recalling the comment of the Negress at the Busted Boiler when she asked for Bludso, Belle could have groaned. The last thing she wanted was to have trouble with another of Jim Bludso’s ‘sisters’ and it seemed the brunette belonged to that class. Fortunately at that moment a troop of acrobats appeared on the stage and drew the attention of most of the room’s occupants in that direction.

  Most, but not all. The trio of petty officers watched the two women and exchanged knowing grins.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Belle said meekly.

  “Was she the one, sailor?” the brunette asked, glancing at the tallest of the trio.

  Even then trouble might have been averted, but the petty officer had no wish for it to be. Flickering another knowing leer at his companions, he nodded his head.

  “It sure was,” he stated. “A man wouldn’t forget one of old Jim’s ‘sisters’ who’s that pretty.”

  Turning a cold, angry face to Belle once more, the brunette hissed, “I’ve warned you lobby-lizzies vi to steer clear of Jim Bludso. When I’ve done with you, there won’t be so many of you wanting to bother him.”

  With that the brunette laid her right hand on Belle’s bust and shoved her. Even as Belle struck the wall, she saw the woman draw back and drive out a clenched left fist. Noting the skilled manner in which the brunette acted, Belle knew she could take no chances. Especially against a woman as strong and capable as the other showed herself.

  Just before the fist reached her face, Belle ducked and swayed aside. She timed the move right, allowing no opportunity for the brunette to halt the blow. Hissing harmlessly by the girl’s head, the brunette’s hand smashed with sickening force into the wall. A squeal of pain broke from the woman’s lips and Belle held back the punch she automatically prepared to launch. Gripping her injured hand, the woman tottered backwards.

  “Ruby!” yelped the little man, having watched every move. Concern showed on his face as he sprang forward. “Let me see that hand.”

  “Leave it, Belle!” Lucienne snapped, catching the girl’s arm.

  “I want to see if she’s badly hurt,” Belle objected.

  “The waiter’s coming back,” Lucienne replied. “Forget her, she asked for it.”

  Eleven – The Price for Cornwall’s Aid

  Comparatively few of the crowd witnessed the incident. Seeing the brunette sink to her knees, moaning and cradling the damaged hand, those who saw decided that the scene possessed no further dramatic possibilities, so turned their attention to the acrobats on the stage.

  “The boss’ll see you in his office,” announced the waiter as he came up, showing more respect than on their arrival. Then he darted a glance at the injured brunette and a startled expression crossed his face. “What happened to Ruby?”

  “She ran into the wall,” Lucienne replied calmly. “Let’s go see Cornwall, shall we?”

  Looking to where the waiter came from, Dusty saw a tall, well-dressed man rise from a table he shared with two Yankee Navy captains and walk in the direction of a door marked ‘Private’. A big, heavily-built hard-case moved across the room in the man’s direction, swerved off as if at a signal and lounged casually shoulder on the wall and back towards the door.

  Standing behind his desk in the office, Harwold Cornwall looked at the trio as they entered. He gave most of his attention to Lucienne, staring hard at her face. At last a hint of recognition came to his hard, heavily mustached features.

  “I heard you’d died, Annie,” he said. “Who’re the other two?”

  “Friends of mine. I need your help, Harwold.”

  Before any more could be said, a knock sounded at the door and the waiter entered. Dusty stepped by Lucienne and halted alongside Cornwall’s side of the desk as the door opened, but made no move. Scowling at the waiter, Cornwall growled that he left word not to be disturbed.

  “Wilf wants to see you real important, boss,” the waiter replied and the brunette’s companion came into the office, crossing to the desk.

  “What’s up, Wilf?” Cornwall demanded.

  Leaning across the desk, the man spoke in a low voice. A soft curse broke from Cornwall’s lips and he threw a furious glare in Belle’s direction. Then he listened again to the small man and made a reply too low for Dusty, Belle or Lucienne to catch.

  Straightening up, the man turned and walked towards the door. Dusty saw Cornwall nod meaningly to the waiter, who followed, the man out.

  “You’ve put me in a hell of a fix, Annie,” Cornwall remarked in a friendly tone and drew open his desk’s drawer. “And I reckon you should—”

  Fooled by Dusty’s insignificant appearance, Cornwall failed to regard him as a factor in the affair. Too late the saloonkeeper learned his mistake. Like a flash Dusty’s right hand disappeared under the left side of his jacket and came out holding the Army Colt. Although he could not produce his full, blinding speed when working from the waistband, the Colt still made its appearance in a manner amazingly fast to eyes unused to range-country gun-handling. Certainly Cornwall had never seen anything so fast and his first intimation of danger came when the cold muzzle of the Colt touched his ear. The shock caused him to jerk his hand away from the open drawer. He sat as if turned to stone, ignoring the Adams Navy revolver scant inches beneath his fingers.

  Down swooped Dusty’s left hand, taking out the Adams. He tossed it to Belle without taking his Colt away from Cornwall’s ear. Deftly catching the Adams by its butt, Belle swung to face the door and covered the burly hard-case as he entered. The man came to a halt, staring from Belle to Cornwall as if in search of instructions. Receiving none, the hard-case wisely stood still.

  “What’s gnawing at you, Harwold?” Lucienne asked.

  “Do you know who your gal crippled out there?” he countered.

  “No,” Lucienne answered. “Put up the guns, you two.”

  “It was Ruby Toot,” Cornwall explained, signaling for his man to leave.

  “And who’s she?” Lucienne inquired, her companions leaving her to speak for them. With the man gone, Dusty slid away his Colt and Belle returned the Adams.

  “Just the gal who was going to fight English Flo tonight,” Cornwall growled.

  “Fight her?” Lucienne repeated.

  “In the ring, Annie. The customers got tired of seeing male pugilists, so I put English Flo and another gal in one night. When I saw how they went for it, I started training up more gals. So did Ross down the street. Ruby Toot’s his best gal and we fixed the match for her against English Flo. There’ll be all hell pop if I have to tell that crowd the fight’s off.”

  “I’m sorry about it, Harwold,” Lucienne stated. “But the big gal laid into Becky here first.”

  “You didn’t know anything about this then?”

  “There’s been a lot of money bet against Flo. I thought maybe—”

  “No. I didn’t bring Becky here to get that gal hurt so the bets will be called off,” Lucienne said. “I came here to ask you to find me a safe-breaker in a real hurry.”

  “Can I ask why?”

  “I know where I can pick up some Yankee gold, Harwold. The War ruined my business and I’ve been lying low watching for this chance. Now I know where I can make enough for a fresh start.”

  “Here in New Orleans?” asked Cornwall, his tone indicating that the prospect would not please him.

  “No. Out in California. Can you get the man I want tonight?”

  “Maybe—for a price.”

  “How much?”

  “Not much. I want a replacement for Ruby Toot.” Although she knew what Cornwall was driving at, Lucienne asked, “How do you mean, Harwold?”

  “Wilf told me how your girl handled herself against Ruby. If you taught her, she can take care of herself. Put her against Flo an
d I’ll find the man you want.”

  “Like he—!” began Dusty.

  “How much money, Harwold?” interrupted Lucienne.

  “No money. The gal fights, or no help.”

  “All right,” Belle put in quietly. “I’ll do it.”

  A grin creased the saloonkeeper’s face as he studied the girl. Most likely she could put up a reasonable show, and her good looks would distract the crowd, while English Flo should beat her easily.

  “It’s on then, Harwold,” Lucienne declared, throwing a warning glance at Dusty. “Becky’ll be ready to fight when you get the feller here. I want to be sure he’s worth her trouble.”

  “Hell!” Cornwall snorted. “I’m not sure how long it’ll take to find a good safe man.”

  “Then start looking!” Lucienne snapped. “When I’ve seen the feller and made my deal, Becky’ll go out there and fight.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Cornwall growled. “And I’ll see about fixing your girl up with some clothes. She can’t go into the ring in that dress.”

  “If you don’t find a safe man, don’t bother,” Lucienne said calmly. “And no tricks, Harwold. I know things about you the Yankees’d be pleased to hear.”

  “Such as?”

  Leaning across the desk, Lucienne whispered in the man’s ear. Whatever she told him, the effect proved satisfactory. An expression of shocked anger crossed the man’s face and he opened his mouth to ask a question, but thought better of it, and rose to his feet.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said and walked from the office.

  “Reckon we can trust him?” Dusty asked.

  “No,” smiled Lucienne. “But he daren’t double-cross us after what I told him. Especially as I let him know how I left letters behind to be passed out if anything happens to us.”

  Ten minutes later Cornwall returned to the office. He brought in a middle-sized man of indeterminate age and who dressed like a respectable craftsman.

  “This’s Saul Paupin—” Cornwall began, then found his introduction unnecessary.

  “Annie!” Paupin gasped, advancing with his right hand held out. “Annie Buckhalter. I heard that you were dead.”

  “So did a lot of folks,” smiled Lucienne and turned to Cornwall. “You’ve done good, real good, Harwold.”

  “Then how about doing your part?” Cornwall asked. “They’re getting restless out there.”

  Clearly Lucienne regarded the man as entirely satisfactory for she asked only if he would help her by opening a safe and he agreed eagerly. Telling Dusty to stay with Paupin, Lucienne followed Belle and Cornwall from the room. Paupin asked no questions about the proposed robbery during the few minutes before Cornwall returned and asked if they wanted to see the fight.

  “I’ll put you at a table by the office here,” he offered. “If you want anything to drink—”

  “A glass of beer’ll do me,” Dusty replied and Paupin requested the same.

  Maybe Cornwall hoped to pump Dusty about the robbery, but the chance did not present itself. Even as he seated Dusty and Paupin, a waiter came up with word that the main guests of the evening requested their host’s company.

  Suddenly a hush fell on the room, then a low rumble of excitement rippled through the crowd. Three women crossed from a side room and climbed up to enter the ring. Clad in dresses, two of the trio carried a bucket, bottle of water, towel and the other gear prize-fight seconds used.

  Not that Dusty paid much attention to the pair, being more interested in the third woman. She would be two inches shorter than Belle, although out-weighing the Rebel Spy by several pounds. Medium long blonde hair, gathered in a bunch on either side of the head, framed a sullen yet good-looking face. Standing in her corner, the blonde looked even more blocky than Ruby Toot, yet had hard flesh not flabby fat. Clad in a sleeveless bodice, which showed plainly she wore nothing beneath it, and black tights, the woman gave an impression of strength and power.

  “I hope your gal knows what she’s doing,” Paupin remarked. “English Flo’s near on as good as any man I’ve ever seen.”

  So was Belle, Dusty mused, but in a different style of fighting. Dusty knew little about prize-fighting, but doubted whether her knowledge of savate, or the karate and ju-jitsu moves he taught her during the sea voyage to and from Matamoros, would be of use, as they might contravene the rules.

  In the ring, the referee announced to a suddenly silent crowd that Ruby Toot had met with an injury. Disappointed and angry murmurs rose and he hurriedly assured his audience that a substitute had been found. Although some of the crowd began to complain, they fell silent when Belle made her appearance. Accompanied by Lucienne and one of Ruby Toot’s seconds, Belle walked to the ring and climbed in.

  True to his word, Cornwall rigged the girl with a ring costume. Dressed in the same manner as English Flo, with the garments fitting just as snugly, Belle’s appearance more than compensated the women-hungry male crowd for Ruby’s absence.

  Possibly the worst part of the ordeal for Belle was facing the crowd in such scanty attire. Not even her male clothing was so revealing as the borrowed outfit and she rarely wore the shirt and breeches when in general company. However the thought of her mission’s importance drove down her objections and she forced herself to ignore the comments of the crowd. To take her mind off the audience, she studied English Flo. Although the blonde had the advantage of weight and possibly strength, Belle doubted whether she would be fast-moving. Speed then would be the weapon Belle must use, relying on her superb physical condition to out-last her more experienced opponent.

  The preliminaries went by fast, with the referee warning the girls that biting, gouging, scratching and jumping on an opponent who was down would not be tolerated. Going back to her corner, Belle turned and waited for what seemed a long time until the bout commenced.

  “Time!” ordered the timekeeper, seated outside the ring.

  Rounds as such did not exist, each lasting as long as both girls kept their feet. When one went down, the round ended and she must toe the line ready to fight on after sixty seconds or lose the bout. The timekeeper’s function was the check on the period between a knock-down and toeing the, line.

  Flo studied Belle with interest as they approached each other and figured the slim girl knew enough about fist-fighting to be dangerous. For her part, Belle watched Flo adopt the typical style of the male pugilist. While bare-fist pugilists of the day tended to stand up and slug, the lightly-built Creoles of New Orleans already used foot-work which, along with dodging and weaving, would oust the old style fighters eventually. Having learned her lessons well, Belle used the savate stance. She kept her elbows into her sides and pointing downwards, right arm in front and its fist just below eye level, left just above the height of the solar plexus. Although savate’s main emphasis centered on kicking, the fists were also used; so the stance she adopted offered good offensive and defensive possibilities.

  Before the blonde came within punching distance, Belle made use of her longer reach. Three times in rapid succession Belle’s raised right fist stabbed out to smack into Flo’s face. Even at the end of their flight, the punches stung enough to halt the blonde’s advance. Rocking back a step, Flo shook her head and thrust forward determinedly. In doing so, she left herself open for a body kick and Belle prepared to launch it. Then Belle hesitated. While no mention of kicking had been made by the referee, she felt sure it would be against the rules.

  While hesitating, Belle learned that Flo could move with deceptive speed. Taking her chance, the blonde lunged forward and crashed a solid right into Belle’s ribs. Belle gasped, for the blow had not been light, and danced back just too late to avoid Flo’s follow-up punch to the side of her jaw. As Belle staggered, Flo bored in and flung punches with both fists at the slender body. Pain and anger cause Belle to hit back and the girls exchanged punches in the center of the ring.

  That proved the wrong way for Belle, being out-weighted by the stocky blonde, although it took almost t
hirty seconds for the idea to sink home. Dancing clear, Belle avoided a hook aimed at her bust and ripped a hard right to Flo’s cheek before going out of range.

  Following her decision, Belle danced around the blonde and tossed long-range punches over the other’s guard. Although the blows reached her opponent, Belle could not land them at full power. However they stung the blonde and Belle hoped to goad the other into some rash move. The hope did not materialize. Despite using the same tactics as male pugilists of the day, Flo clearly used her brains and did not rely on brute force. She quickly realized Belle’s intention and countered it by doggedly ignoring the stinging fists while trying to crowd the other girl into a ring corner.

  For almost three minutes Belle managed to avoid being trapped or taking more than the occasional punch. She landed a few hard blows in return and her stinging knuckles homed often enough to leave a reddened patch under Flo’s left eye and to Start the blonde’s nose trickling blood. Each time Belle found herself at close range it came about through her preparing to kick and calling off the move at the last moment.

  After sinking a hard left into Flo’s chest, Belle again began to wind up for a kick and held it back. She felt Flo’s left fist rip into her stomach, croaked and began to double over. Across whipped the blonde’s right, colliding with the side of Belle’s head before she had time to recover from the left. Down went Belle, sprawling on to the canvas-covered wooden floor. Dazed, winded and hurt, Belle tried to rise. She felt hands take hold of her arms and lift her erect. Supported by Lucienne and the borrowed second, she was returned to her corner and seated on a stool while receiving treatment.

  “That kid’s good,” Paupin remarked to Dusty.

  The small Texan did not reply, but his concern grew as he watched Belle rise for the start of the second round. Knowing her, he doubted if she would follow the safe course of avoiding as much punishment as possible while giving the crowd a reasonable show, then fail to toe the line after the end of a round. Unless he missed his guess, she intended to carry the affair through to its conclusion.