Dusty Fog's Civil War 9

by J. T. Edson

  “I’ll be with you after I’ve settled a small matter here,” Millbanks replied.

  “Come on, Cap’n Millbanks,” one of the nearby men put in. “Let’s see what kind of critter you’ve brung along.” Nodding politely to the girl, Millbanks stepped along to one of the tubs in which the contestants for the fights could be displayed. Cautiously he opened and up-ended the box, shaking its contents out. A low mutter of surprise rose from the onlookers as they saw Millbanks’ challenger. Lying coiled passively, the snake appeared to be no more than three feet long and slender, its head smallish and rounded, while bands of alternating black, yellow and red color ran along its body.

  “That sure is one fancy critter,” an onlooker remarked and eyed Millbanks. “Can it fight?”

  “There’s one sure way to find out,” he replied. “ Drop it in the pit and see.”

  “Air it pizeness?” inquired another of the crowd.

  “Wouldn’t want to put my hand in there and see,” admitted Millbanks. “But I will put my money on this fancy old snake of mine.”

  While the discussion of the fighting possibilities of the “fancy” snake went on, Riegel and Fanning stood to one side and their eyes went to Belle.

  “She went straight to Millbanks,” Fanning declared. “Now we know she’s Belle Boyd.”

  “That’s right. Now we know,” agreed Riegel.

  “What do we do?”

  “Arrange that accident—and here’s how we do it.” Unaware of the danger which threatened her, Belle stood smiling indulgently and watching Millbanks accept wagers on his snake. Despite his insistence that the snake be given odds, due to it never having fought before, she felt that he might not be making any mistake. Few of the crowd thought so, for all knew the deadly poisonous qualities of a diamondback rattlesnake or a copperhead and had seen king snakes emerge victorious from combat with both. Belle did not mind the delay. Having seen the tensions under which a blockade-runner lived at sea, she could hardly begrudge Millbanks some relaxation, even of such a bizarre nature, while ashore.

  At last the preliminaries had been taken care of, and some substantial wagers made on the result of the fight. With their money at stake, the gamblers in the crowd insisted on selecting an opponent and decided upon a king snake almost four feet long which had defeated more than one really big rattlesnake or copperhead.

  Carefully Millbanks slid his contestant into the pit and at the other side one of the fight-promoters introduced the long king. Eagerly the crowd watched and waited for the action, but for almost two minutes nothing happened.

  “Push ’em together!” a man called.

  Taking up the long thin poles kept for that purpose, two of the promoters gently eased the snakes into the centre of the pit until they were only inches apart. Normally such an action would have been unnecessary, but even when up close the king showed no aggressive tendencies despite the fact that it ought to be hungry enough to want to make a meal of the first snake it saw.

  “Make ’em come to taw!” suggested a spectator. “Damn-it, neither of ’em wants to fight.”

  As the promoter eased the king closer, the brightly colored snake coiled, reared and struck, its fangs driving into the other’s body just below the head. Fast though the king tore free and tried to throw its coils about the other, the gay-hued snake slipped away. Then the king began to thrash around wildly, knotting itself and beating its tail in frenzy as if fighting off some attack. Just what that attack might be, none of the crowd could imagine. Millbanks’ snake had slithered to the far side of the pit and coiled up, ignoring the struggles of the king. At last the king stopped struggling and lay still.

  Silence dropped on the crowd, their excited comments dying away. Not one of them could imagine what might have happened in the pit. Never had they seen a king snake laid low by a single bite; and from such a slender specimen of a critter too.

  “Now’s our chance!” Riegel hissed in Fanning’s ear and caught the other roughly by the sleeve, turning him. “You lousy cheat, there’s something crooked going on here!”

  Every eye swung towards the two men and suspicious, profane discussions began to develop. None of the crowd knew Millbanks’ entry to be a harlequin coral snake the captain picked up in Mexico, or that Elaps Fulvius poison differed from that of the Crotalids over which the kings scored so many victories. While the pit-vipers—rattlesnakes, copperheads and water moccasins—used poison which attacked the blood of the victim, a coral snake’s venom destroyed the nervous system; which accounted for the defeat of the king after only one bite. Not knowing the facts, the members of the crowd who had lost money on the result suspected that in some way they had been cheated.

  “Let loose!” Fanning howled, following his part of the plan. Placing both his hands against Riegel’s chest he began to push and yelled, “Get your cotton-picking hands offen me!”

  Releasing Fanning’s arm, Riegel went reeling away as if out of all control. He hurled straight for where Dusty, Belle and Millbanks stood at the edge of the pit. Just too late Dusty saw their danger and tried to thrust Belle to one side. Riegel changed course slightly, cannoned into the girl and sent her sprawling over the edge of the pit. Shouts rose and some fights broke out as the over-excited crowd saw Fanning’s action. Cursing, yelling warnings, the promoters rushed to protect and prevent being opened the boxes containing poisonous snakes needed for other fights.

  Belle fell backwards, winded by the impact, and landed on the soft sand of the pit. Riding instincts helped her to break her fall, but what she saw jolted all cohesive thought from her mind.

  Out in the center of the pit, the coral snake had become aware of the open nature of the surrounding area; a condition it would never have endured in its natural state. The vibrations of Belle’s arrival in the pit caused the coral to go into a defensive coil. Then it located the girl’s body and, not recognizing Belle for a human being, saw only the cover and shade it craved. Swiftly the coral snake began to glide towards the girl.

  Hearing the scream which broke unchecked from Belle’s lips, Dusty forgot his intention of taking apart with his bare hands the man who caused the trouble. Without a moment’s hesitation or thought of the danger to himself, Dusty leapt into the pit. His feet missed the snake’s tail by less than half an inch and he did not fancy chancing trying to hit a moving, slender mark like the snake with a shot taken after a fast draw. Which left him only one thing to do.

  Down shot his right hand, a hand capable of drawing a gun with blinding speed—although his true potential in that line would not become fully perfected until in 1873 when the Colt factory produced its Model P, the gun which became the greatest fighting revolver ever made iii —stabbed down and closed on the snake’s tail. Dusty’s original intention had been to jerk up the snake, crack it like a whip and snap its back in at least two places, immobilizing it quickly. However, something at the corner of his eye drew his attention to the side of the pit. What he saw caused him to change his plans for disposing of the snake.

  Riegel stood on the edge of the pit, unseen by any of the crowd. Even Millbanks, busy explaining to objecting betters about his snake, failed to notice Riegel aiming a twin barreled Remington Double Derringer down into the pit. If any of the arguing, excited crowd noticed the man, they must have thought him about to shoot the coral snake in an attempt to save the girl and Dusty.

  Maybe Dusty would have thought the same had he not seen that the deadly little gun was aimed at Belle and not the snake. In that moment Dusty knew the incident was not accidental. The man deliberately pushed Belle into the pit and meant to kill her. Seeing his first plan fail, Riegel now meant to use his gun; either escaping in the confusion, or swearing that he tried to shoot the snake and how the girl moved into the line of fire as he squeezed the trigger.

  With Dusty, to think had become nature to act. Even as his hand closed on the snake’s tail, he had seen Riegel and formed his own conclusion. Whipping the snake up, Dusty flung it straight at Riegel’s head. Even
the most confirmed Union supporter, fanatically dedicated to destroying the South’s top woman spy, would have flinched and forgotten his plans at the sight of that flying snake. Riegel served the Union for money and had no fanatical loyalty to support him. Desperately he threw up his gun-hand in an attempt to fend off the snake. He felt its sinewy length strike his arm, then coil around it. Like a flash, the enraged snake struck forward and up. Riegel screamed as he felt the burning sensation on the side of his neck. Horrified eyes turned towards him, staring at the gaily-colored coral snake which swung by its jaws from his throat.

  All quarrelling and fights became forgotten as the crowd saw Riegel spin around then crash to the ground. The snake fell away and started to wriggle. Jumping forward, Millbanks stamped down with his boot, its heel crushing the snake’s head to a pulp.

  “Get the man who pushed him!” Dusty yelled, springing to Belle’s side.

  However, before anybody could think straight enough to obey, Fanning had fled without a trace. Nor would they learn anything from Riegel. The coral snake had not used much poison to kill the king and its venom sacs contained more than enough to write a speedy finis to Riegel; especially when bitten in the neck and so close to the controlling mechanism of the nervous system, the brain.

  Millbanks sprang forward to help Belle out of the pit and Dusty looked around him, seeing no sign of Riegel’s companion.

  “What the hell happened?” asked Millbanks.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Dusty replied. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.”

  Thirteen – Miss Boyd Meets an Informer

  Lying fully dressed on her bed in the best room of the Plaza Dixie Hotel, Belle Boyd looked up at the roof and smiled wryly. It seemed ironic that she who had given so much and taken so many chances for the South should be regarded as persona non grata in a Confederate Army officers’ mess. Of course she realized that if she had announced her true identity, the mess door would be flung open and a welcome accorded to her; but she could not let it be known that she was Belle Boyd.

  So Belle found herself alone. The local garrison issued invitations for ‘General’ Amesley and his staff to be guests at dinner and, rather than go into lengthy explanations or arouse suspicions, the three officers accepted. At which point a snag cropped up. While the local officers’ ladies would have felt honored to make the acquaintance of the Captain Dusty Fog of the Texas Light Cavalry, they strenuously and vocally objected to meeting a non-combatant general’s aime on social grounds. Showing remarkable tact, the garrison commander avoided the issue by making the affair a strictly male function.

  After some argument, Dusty and the other two left Belle in the hotel. Dusty warned her not to go out, remembering that one of the men who nearly caused her death at the snake-fight pit escaped and might want to try again. Smiling a little at the small Texan’s concern for her welfare, Belle agreed to remain in the hotel and spend as much time as possible in the safety of her room.

  After the incident at the snake-pit, things moved fast. First the local law was summoned and, sizing up the officer correctly, Dusty took him aside to tell him almost the full story. Being a stout Southron as well as a peace officer, the town marshal only needed to learn Belle’s identity to make him willing to cover up the killing of Riegel as an accident. With the legal side cleared, Belle spoke to Millbanks and found him willing to take them to Matamoros. He could not sail until the following afternoon, but Belle suggested that the bulk of the luggage, including most of the money, went aboard immediately. Accepting the girl’s judgment, the men made all necessary arrangements and transferred the baggage to the safety of the Snow Queen. Doing so left them free to accept the garrison officers’ invitation, but doomed Belle to a lonely, boring night at the hotel.

  She wore one of her specially designed skirts and a plain white blouse, not bothering to dress formally when going to dinner in the hotel. Relaxed in her room after the meal, she turned over the events of the day in her mind. Given time, she could have tried to trace the man who made the attempt on her life. As she would be sailing the following day, the best she could do was hand the matter to the local branch of the Confederate States Secret Service. They knew of the existence of the ring and might possibly be able to trace it through the dead man.

  A knock on the door interrupted her thoughts on how she would handle the investigation. Rising, she crossed the room to find the fat, pompous desk clerk outside.

  “There is a person downstairs asking to see you, ma’am,” he announced in a voice which showed that he did not approve of the “person” as being suitable to visit a guest at the hotel. “He sent up this note.”

  Taking the grubby envelope offered to her, Belle first noticed that its flap had been sealed down. Obviously the sender did not intend to have the message read by a snooping hotel employee during its delivery to Belle. Tearing open the flap, she extracted a sheet of equally grubby paper and looked down at the one line of writing upon it.

  “I have something to sell to you, Miss Belle Boyd.”

  Slowly Belle’s eyes lifted to the man’s face, but she had such control over her emotions that he never noticed any change in her expression. “Who brought this for me, please?”

  “A peddler called Jacobs,” the clerk replied. “He has a hat box with him.”

  “Then you can bring him up.”

  “Up here?” yelped the man.

  “It’s quite proper for a lady to interview a tradesman in privacy,” she smiled. “He’s probably bringing me a new hat I ordered.”

  After the man left, Belle closed the door, went to her bed and drew out the small bag which contained her overnight items. Reaching into the bag, she took out an object which she concealed under the bed’s covers. Shortly after, the clerk ushered in a tall, thin, bearded and dirty-looking man of Hebraic appearance. Pausing for a moment as if waiting for an invitation to stay and act as chaperon, the clerk gave an indignant sniff when it did not come, turned and left the room. Belle’s visitor swung on his heel and thrust the door into a closed position and faced the girl—to look into the barrel of the Dance she produced from beneath the bed covers.

  “I don’t know you, Mr. Jacobs,” she stated.

  “I’m only a poor Jewish peddler, Miss Boyd,” he replied, standing very still. “A famous lady like you wouldn’t know the likes of me.”

  “Then you want something?”

  “Only to make a few cents trading.”

  “What have you to trade?” Belle asked, looking down at the large hat box in Jacobs’ hands.

  “Something a bit more valuable than a hat.”

  “Put the box down and tell me more.”

  Setting the box on the floor, Jacobs looked up at the girl. “Is that business, telling what I know before we talk money.”

  “It’s how I do business,” Belle warned. “We’ll start with you telling me how you know my name.”

  “Come now, Miss Boyd,” Jacobs purred. “A business man never tells his sec—”

  His words trailed away as he stared at Belle. Still keeping the gun in her right hand lined at the man, Belle reached towards her middle with her left. The skirt she wore had been designed with the needs of her profession in mind and a pull on the buckle freed the waist band, allowing the skirt to drop free to the floor. Underneath Belle did not wear petticoats and the removal of the skirt left her lower regions exposed; which proved to be quite an eye-bugging sight. Her drawers were considerably shorter than a young lady of good-breeding usually employed as buttock covering. Suspender straps made black slashes down the white thighs and connected with black silk stockings. The contrast of colors served to show Belle’s magnificent legs to their best advantage. High-heeled, calf-length shoes graced her feet and added to the general sensuous effect.

  While never having heard the word, Belle was aware of the psychological impact the removal of her skirt and appearance it left would have upon Jacobs. He stood with his mouth trailing open and eyes bugging out like organ stops, fe
asting his licentious gaze upon her lower limbs.

  “I learned savate in a New Orleans academy,” she remarked. “It’s very painful, as you will find out if I don’t get my answers.”

  “Suppose I walk out?” he asked, his voice a trifle hoarse.

  Without taking her Dance out of line, Belle threw up her left leg in a standing high kick that rose with sufficient power and height to rip off half his nose if it connected. Although Belle stood some distance away, Jacobs retreated hurriedly until his back struck the wall.

  “Is there any need for all this foolishness?” he asked in what should have been a growl but came out as a whine. “I came here in all good faith to see you—”

  “How did you learn my name?” Belle interrupted and delivered a horizontal stamping side kick which dented the brass knob on the bed post, still without taking her gun out of line. “Don’t try to open the door; I’ll shoot you and swear that you attacked me, if you try it.”

  Jacobs hurriedly jerked his hand away from the door handle. Not for a moment did he doubt that the girl meant every word she said. Anybody playing the dangerous game of spying could only be a success and stay alive by possessing a ruthless nature and no false sense of the value of human life.

  “I was on the dock this morning when the Rosebud came in,” he yelped. “Feller next to me pointed to you and said, ‘That’s Belle Boyd. I saw her in Atlanta.’ Well, I told this feller to keep quiet as we didn’t know who might be listening and he shut his mouth. Only I’d heard him. Seeing’s how I’d something that the South needs, I thought you’d be the best market.”

  “You’re selling information that could help the South?” she hissed.

  “I’m only a poor man, Miss Boyd. Trade’s become bad these days. A man has to make a living.”

  “What have you to sell?” she snapped.

  “It’s worth a hundred dollars,” Jacobs answered. “In gold.”