by J. T. Edson
“We’ll see about it,” Dusty promised.
“Well, I’ll be getting back to work,” the engineer said. “Sure. I reckon we’ll go back to the lounge, don’t you, Cousin Red?”
“I’m ready when you are,” Red agreed.
On their return to the lounge, Dusty and Red felt amazed to discover they had been away for over two hours. Several card games were in progress, including one in which Amesley played oblivious of distractions. Dusty saw that Dimsdale sat at a table in the middle of the lounge and close to the passage which led between two staterooms and on to the promenade deck. Watched by his sister, Dimsdale played twenty-card stud poker with the two officers and a bluff, hearty-looking man who wore the dress of a prosperous farmer. Dusty saw that although the girl kept the soldiers supplied with drinks, she treated her brother and the farmer less generously.
Standing with a couple of young artillery officers, Belle was in a position to keep her eye on the game. Catching Dusty’s attention, Belle excused herself and moved around the Dimsdales’ table to meet him.
“It looks straight enough so far, Dusty,” she said in a low voice.
“How’s it going?” he replied.
“Evenly so far, no exceptional wins or losses. I could be wrong about them. Do you know the game?”
Dusty nodded. Twenty-card stud, with only the aces down to tens of each suit used, had a reputation for being a real fast gambling game. Each of the four players received his first card face down and bet blind on it, then played with the remainder of the cards face up. With so few cards and every one in play, a man needed a clear mind to follow the game correctly and it needed following if one wished to avoid substantial losses. From what Dusty could see, liquor had dulled the two soldiers’ judgment.
“You say that they’re not losing much?” he asked.
“Not yet,” Belle answered.
At that moment the Dimsdale girl yawned, in a ladylike manner, and stirred uneasily in her chair. Turning, her brother smiled at her. “Tired, honey?”
“A little. Will you be long, Paul?”
“How about it gentlemen, will we?”
“I don’t want to keep a lady from her bed, Paul,” the farmer replied, laying great emphasis on the word “lady”.
Drunk they might be, but the two young officers were Southern gentlemen and raised in a tradition of chivalry towards the opposite sex.
“Nor me,” the taller declared.
“We’ll finish now,” his companion went on. “Unless you want to chance playing without Miss Maudie sat there to bring you luck, Paul.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right, gentlemen,” Maudie cooed.
“No, ma’am,” the taller shavetail insisted, reaching towards his money. “We’re calling the game off right now.”
“Just have one more hand,” Maudie suggested quickly—maybe a shade too quickly the listening Dusty thought, and a glance at Belle told him her mind ran on the same general lines.
Both soldiers appeared to be reluctant to keep Maudie any longer from her bed and Dimsdale shrugged. “All right. Hey, though, it’s my turn to buy the drinks. One more hand while we drink them, then win or lose we break up the game for the night.”
“I’ll go and fetch them,” Maudie suggested. “I need to walk, my—limbs—are stiff from sitting so long.”
Before any of the men could comment on the propriety of a young lady doing such a menial thing as fetching a tray of drinks, the girl rose and walked towards the bar. Handing the deck to the taller soldier, Dimsdale requested that he prepare to deal.
“Give ’em a real good riffle this time, Jefferson,” the farmer suggested with a grin. “I’ve not seen a good hand all night.”
Taking the cards, the soldier started to give them a thorough riffle. However the farmer interrupted the game to tell a story and the riffling continued after the joke’s conclusion. Maudie came towards the table, a tray of drinks in her hands, as the soldier set the deck down before the farmer to be cut. In doing so, Maudie had to pass where Belle stood in apparently earnest conversation with Dusty.
“Why I tell you-all, Captain Fog,” Belle said, “that Simmerton girl wore a hat with a brim this size—”
And to illustrate her point, Belle spread her arms wide apart. In doing so, the left slapped upwards under the edge of Maudie’s tray and knocked it from her grasp. Tray, glasses, liquor, all went tipping into the air and drew every eye in the room towards the noise. However, most people’s attention went not to the tray or the enraged face of Maudie as whiskey spread over her dress—but to a deck of cards, identical to those in use at her brother’s table, that fluttered out of the girl’s fingers which had held them concealed under the tray.
Ten – Miss Boyd Arouses Suspicions
A silence that might almost be felt dropped upon the room at the sight of the cards and knowledge of their implications.
“Your—sister—dropped something, hombre,” Dusty remarked.
Dimsdale’s eyes went to the scattered cards, then lifted to Dusty’s face. Snarling out a curse, the man started to thrust back his chair and rise. His right hand moved towards his left sleeve’s cuff—and froze inches from the concealed butt of a Derringer pistol as he found himself looking into the barrel of Dusty’s left-hand Colt. Never had Dimsdale seen such speed and he could hardly believe that he looked into the .44 caliber muzzle of the long barreled revolver which less than a second before rested in its holster at Dusty’s right side.
Although not as fast as his illustrious cousin, Red took the farmer out of the game as that worthy began to rise and reach in the direction of his inside pocket. Twisting his right-hand palm out, Red closed his fingers around the butt of his off-side Colt and slid it from leather to end such hostile moves and gestures.
“Now just sit there easy, hombre, ” Red ordered and the click of his gun coming to full cock added force to his words.
Leaving the card game he played with the senior officers, Boynes crossed the lounge fast. “That’s a whole lot of card for a game of stud,” he said. “Reckon this is where you asked to get off, Mr. Dimsdale.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Dimsdale answered suddenly.
“You want for me to search your baggage?” countered Boynes.
Knowing that such a search would produce even more damning evidence against him, and cause the loss of a lot of gambling equipment of a highly specialized nature, Dimsdale surrendered.
“We’d like to be put ashore here,” he gritted through his teeth.
Turning to the gaping infantrymen, Boynes asked, “Did you lose much?”
“I’m a hundred down,” the taller replied. “Say, did he—were they—”
“Sit down, mister!” Dusty barked as the soldier began to rise and, despite the amount of liquor the infantryman held, he knew better than to disobey.
“You boys split out what’s on the table between you,” Boynes suggested and Dimsdale raised no objections.
All the time the men spoke, Maudie had been glaring with almost animal fury at Belle. “You caused all this!” she screeched and threw herself at the Southron girl with fingers crooked ready to grab her.
Not wishing to show her talents in the art of self-defense before the passengers, Belle retreated hurriedly and backed down the passage towards the door to the promenade deck. She kept ahead of and clear from Maudie’s fingers, thrust open the door with her rump and backed out. Still shouting unladylike curses, Maudie followed and the door swung closed behind her. Nobody moved, the fury on Maudie’s face had been enough to halt the men. A crack like two billiard balls connecting sounded on the promenade deck. The door burst inwards and Maudie entered, moving backwards. Spinning around, she hit first one wall then the other before falling into the lounge and landing face down upon its floor. A moment later Belle appeared, looking the same naive, fluttery blonde.
“Oh my!” she gasped, looking down at Maudie’s recumbent body with well-simulated horror. “The door swung back and hit her. I do h
ope she isn’t hurt.”
Possibly only Dusty and Boynes had been in a position to see what happened along the passage and neither of them intended to mention that the door had closed behind Maudie before the crack of fist against chin sounded.
Watched over by the mate and Red Blaze, Dimsdale and the “farmer” stood at the side of the lounge while Boynes examined the cards. Not that he needed any further proof than the presence of the second deck. However, he found the deck in use on the table to be marked.
“It’s an old game,” he told Dusty. “The gambler lets his victims hold their own most of the evening, then rings in a cold deck by some trick. This time the girl would have held the tray out so it hid the deck on the table and the farmer would have made the switch unseen. Then the officer, believing it to be the deck he riffled, deals out good hands, the betting is forced up, and either Dimsdale or the farmer wins it. That way, if the victims don’t want to play the next night, the sharp has made some profit.”
“What’ll you do with them?” Dusty asked.
“Put them ashore. They know what to expect.”
“Not the girl,” Dusty objected, nodding to where Maudie sat on the floor, holding her jaw and with tears trickling down her face.
“She was in on it,” Boynes growled.
Having been raised with a belief that no man could meet with a worse fate than being set afoot, Dusty pleaded for the girl. He spared no sympathy for the men, but stated frankly that he would not countenance the girl being put ashore and forced to walk the fifty or more miles to the next town.
“Have it your way,” Boynes grinned. “Take those two to the main deck, Mr. Hogan, and see that they go ashore as soon as possible.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” boomed the mate. “Let’s have yez, buckos. Make one wrong move and I’ll be busting your hands.”
“No rough stuff, friend,” Dimsdale purred. Then his eyes went to where Dusty and Belle stood watching him. Shrewd judge of human character though he might be, the gambler could not decide whether Belle’s intervention had been pure accident or done deliberately and with knowledge of the forthcoming switching-in of the cold deck. Then his eyes went to Dusty again and saw a real big man. “Maybe we’ll meet again sometime, Captain Fog.”
“Maybe,” Dusty replied.
“Let’s go,” the mate ordered, and the gamblers passed out of the lounge.
Crossing to where Maudie rose, Baynes ordered her to go to her stateroom and stay in it until they reached the next town. Obediently Maudie left the lounge and from that moment maintained silence on what happened when she followed Belle through the promenade deck door. Maudie had her pride and hated to think that a featherbrained girl like the blonde could flatten her with such ease. Not until much later did Maudie start to wonder if maybe that blonde hadn’t been quite so naive as she pretended. Naive or not, the blonde certainly knew how to throw a punch. It was a long time before the aching throb left Maudie’s jaw.
While Maudie retained her silence about the attack, at least one person in the lounge felt very interested in the way she came to make such a dramatic re-entrance. Events brought every game of cards in the room to a halt, including one involving three field rank army officers and a trio of civilians; only one of whom is of any interest. Manny Engels, plump, prosperous-looking, sat staring across the room and trying to reconcile Belle’s handling of Maudie with what he had seen of her so far. After giving Belle’s face a long, searching glance, Engels dropped his eyes to the recumbent Maudie, swiveled them to where Dusty stood covering Dimsdale and finally turned his gaze to Belle once more. In the silence which followed the dramatic happenings, Engels heard Belle’s explanation for Maudie’s condition, but he did not find it convincing. There was more to the affair than met the eye, Engels felt sure of that.
“Let’s get on with the game, shall we?” asked one of the players as the gamblers left the room.
“Deal me out,” Engels replied. “I’m tired and want to take a turn around the promenade deck before I turn in for the night.”
None of the other players raised any objections, so he collected his money and left the table. On the promenade deck, he walked along until he could see the two gamblers and their baggage put ashore. However, after the boat started moving again, he did not follow his proposed course of going to bed. Instead he found a shadowy corner of the deck and remained in hiding. Time dragged by, but Engels showed patience. At last a light glowed in one of the staterooms as its lamp was brightened. A moment later he saw Dusty Fog emerge from the next room, walk along the deck, take a stealthy, cautious look around and then enter the newly-lit door.
On silent feet Engels moved towards the stateroom. Apart from Captain Boynes, nobody on the Rosebud knew of Dusty and Red’s connection with Amesley and Belle. If any of the other passengers thought of the matter at all, they assumed that the Texans were grabbing an opportunity to make a trip downriver while on a furlough. However, during the trip, Engels had noticed that Belle spent some time in private conversation with Dusty and showed reluctance to be seen doing so. Being of an inquiring nature, Engels decided that the matter might prove worth investigating. A clandestine association between a junior officer and the amie of a general—Engels discounted the idea of her being Amesley’s niece—offered possibilities handled properly.
On silent feet Engels advanced towards the door of Belle’s stateroom and cocked his head towards it, listening to the conversation within. Due to the nature of its design and construction, the upper portions of a riverboat were of necessity made of light and flimsy material. Being thin, the walls of the stateroom allowed Engels to listen without approaching too close.
“That was close, Dusty,” Belle remarked as the small Texan slipped into her room through the promenade door shortly after she entered from the lounge after pleading that the excitement had given her a headache.
“Sure was, Belle,” Dusty agreed. “Happen she’d laid hold of that wig, the folks would have thought she’d hand-scalped you.”
“Likely,” Belle answered and smiled as she realized how she now slipped into using the laconic terms her Texas friends employed. “I don’t think anybody was on the promenade deck to see me hit her as she came through the door. She did look surprised when I stopped and let her have it.”
“Yeah,” Dusty drawled and, keeping his voice at the same easy drawl, made his way cautiously towards the promenade deck door. “I wonder what the folks in the lounge are making of it?”
Even as he spoke, Dusty twisted the handle of the door and wrenched it open. Fast though Dusty had moved, Engels licked him to it. On the first movement of the door’s knob, Engels started to walk away along the deck. Although he had not gone far, the man put himself beyond any chance of Dusty proving that he had been eavesdropping on a private conversation.
“What was it?” Belle asked, joining Dusty at the door.
“I’m not sure,” Dusty replied. “Just got the feeling that somebody was out there, but he’d passed by when I got the door open.”
“Do you think he was listening?”
“I don’t know. Reckon he might have been though.”
“Do you recognize him?” the girl asked.
“It’s a travelling man, seen him around the boat, but I don’t know his name.”
“We’d best stay away from each other until he leaves the boat,” Belle suggested. “And I’ll keep my eyes on him.”
“Be best. You know this game better than I do,” Dusty agreed. “I’ll get out of here while there’s nobody watching. If any of the womenfolk aboard see me leaving your stateroom it might cause talk.”
“Not only women gossip,” Belle smiled.
“Nope,” Dusty replied. “But they do more of it than we do.”
With that Dusty stepped through the door and walked along the promenade deck. Smiling still, Belle closed the door behind him and went to prepare for bed.
Engels continued his stroll around the deck, guessing that Dusty watched him. Showing no s
ign that he had been listening, he turned the corner of the promenade deck and circled around until he reached his own stateroom. Inside, he started to undress and while removing his shirt came to a sudden halt. One of the necessities of a man in his line of work was the ability to remember conversations, and he turned the words he had heard over in his mind. Why had the Texan addressed the girl as “Belle,” and what did the reference to her wig mean? When Engels first saw Belle, he marked her down as the beautiful but brainless amie of an elderly man. Now he wondered if there might be something deeper than that about the blonde beauty.
Sitting on his bunk, and leaving his undressing as thoughts began to chum through his head, Engels tried to remember if he had ever heard of a General Amesley. No such name came to his mind, although he felt inclined to put the fact down to Amesley belonging to the non-combatant Adjutant General’s Department—or had been inclined to think that at first. Maybe Amesley only pretended to be on the Adjutant General’s staff. Perhaps he held an appointment in another Department which tried to keep its activities out of the public’s eye. Amesley might be one of the powers of the South’s efficient Secret Service. In which case the girl most probably was not Amesley’s amie.
Belle! The name bounced back into Engels’ mind almost as if powered by a blinding light. When one thought of the Confederate States’ Secret Service and heard the name Belle, one immediately coupled the name with Boyd. Excitement ripped into Engels at the thought. Belle Boyd; one of the South’s top two female spies. If the girl on the boat should be Belle Boyd, that accounted for why she wore a wig. Never had such important information come Engels’ way and he hoped he could make the most of his discovery. He wondered if he might learn what mission took Belle Boyd and Captain Dusty Fog down the Red River. Being aware of Dusty’s reputation and having a fair idea of Ole Devil’s shortage of men, Engels knew only a matter of the greatest importance would take the Texan from the firing line. Discovering the nature of the assignment could greatly add to the profit his information about Belle Boyd brought in.