Dusty Fog's Civil War 11

by J. T. Edson

  Springing after Belle, Eve raised her right leg and stamped. Her heel drove into Belle’s side as the girl rolled over, instead of striking her stomach. While painful, the stamp did not slow Belle down as it would if it had landed on its intended mark. So she was ready when Eve followed her and tried to repeat the stamp. Twisting herself over in Eve’s direction, Belle caught the ankle on which she stood in one hand and placed the other on the knee. By tugging forward at the ankle and shoving back on the knee, she over balanced the older woman. Eve yelled as she fell on to her back on the sand.

  Like a flash Belle hurled herself on to Eve, trying to pin down her arms as a prelude to driving home punches at the other’s face and torso. Belle knew Eve was strong, and learned the extent of her strength. Heaving herself upwards, until only the soles of her feet and top of her head rested on the sand, Eve pitched the lighter girl off her. Rolling on top, Eve locked her fingers about Belle’s throat and began to squeeze. Desperately Belle heaved and shook to try to tip the other woman from her. Eve’s fingers clamped home hard, tightening savagely and Belle knew she must escape the grip. Fighting down the near panic which caused her to waste energy striking wildly at Eve’s face, Belle reached up and clutched at the front of the mauve blouse. Pain knifed into Eve as Belle’s fingers dug into and crushed at her bust. Croaking curses, she tried to raise Belle’s head and crash it down again. The effort proved only partially successful, for the soft sand cushioned the impact and Belle’s neck muscles fought against it. Nor did the slim fingers relax their hold, but continued to dig into the sensitive mounds of flesh. Giving a screech of agony, Eve tried to rise without releasing her hold on Belle’s throat. As Eve stood up, Belle curled both feet between her spread-apart legs, placed them against her mid-section and heaved. Losing her grip on Belle, Eve felt the fingers dragged from her bust. Then she flew over and landed on her back.

  That first exchange gave Belle a grim warning. Eve possessed strength at least equal to and probably greater than her own. Tangling at close quarters would be dangerous. So she rolled over to a kneeling position and rose. Sucking in deep breaths of air, she swung to face Eve who had also made her feet. For a moment the older woman stood rubbing at her bust, then she clenched her fists and advanced. No longer did she act like an untrained woman, but came forward in the manner of a trained male pugilist. Belle moved to meet Eve in much the same manner, except that she favored the stance of the savate fighter.

  When they came together, it might have been two men fighting. Their fists flew, smacking hard into face, bust, stomach as they circled. Any slight advantage Belle might have gained by her speed was countered by Eve’s small strength superiority. Blood ran from Eve’s nose and Belle’s lip, their breath came in gasping hisses, but they fought on oblivious of everything except each other. Bony knuckles smacked solidly against Eve’s already throbbing nose. She stumbled back a couple of paces, screamed and flung herself at the advancing Belle. Swept backwards by the older woman’s weight, Belle collided with the dead horse. Still locked together the women fell over it, landing on the sand to chum over and over in a wild tangle. They went at it completely oblivious of everything but each other and neither saw the two riders who came into view on the slope across the river.

  “Madre de dios!” Sandos spat out as he saw the two women rolling over and over by the dead horse. Even at that distance he could recognize them. “It’s the gringos I told you about, Cosme. How the hell did they escape?”

  Middle-sized, stocky and hard-looking despite his elegant clothing, Cosme Danvila let out a low growl, “We’ll find out whe—hey! Look at that canoe.”

  Carried forward by its light weight and Eve’s shove, the canoe had reached the center of the river. The sluggish current at that point turned the canoe’s bows downstream and floated it along slowly. Pleased that something had taken his leader’s thoughts off how the prisoners escaped Sandos decided to try to keep them that way.

  “Maybe that other one isn’t Bully Segan’s woman,” he said hurriedly. “She could be the one who was with Big Sam Ysabel, taking the gold to the French general at Nava.”

  “I never knew Bully to have a woman who wasn’t fat as a pig and ugly,” Danvila answered. “You told me the old one was a spy for the United States: and the other will work for the Confederacy. Get the men, that canoe has the money in it.”

  While Sandos turned to obey, Danvila looked at the kegs in the canoe. He had guessed pretty accurately what had happened; from the Ysabels hiding the money until learning if the French general could be trusted, through Belle’s actions at the time of her capture, to the women’s escape—somebody was going to wish they had never been born allowing that to happen—and why they were fighting. One of them must have pushed it off, meaning to escape and the other was trying to prevent her from doing so. On the latter point Danvila wasted no time or thought. Whatever had started the fight, he intended to have the money. A large sum in gold would be a god-send at a time when French and Juarista soldiers were making banditry unprofitable below the border and Captain Jack Cureton’s hard-fighting Rangers rendered it extremely unsafe in Texas.

  On the sand bar, unaware of the new threat to their existence, Eve expended much of her remaining dregs of energy to heave Belle away from her. The tangle on the ground had been rough, with teeth, fists, knees, elbows and heads used indiscriminately. Their blouses hung in tatters, underwear torn and Eve’s skirt had split up its left side. Croaking in breaths of air, they both began to rise. Pain and exhaustion gnawed at Eve, for Belle’s youth and superb physical condition had combined to wear the older women down. Eve stumbled back, away from Belle, hoping to gain a respite during which she could gather her flagging strength for a further effort. Sensing the other’s condition, Belle clenched her fists and advanced. If she could continue the attack quickly enough, Eve was beaten.

  Leading his men down the slope, Danvila saw the three steam launches come into sight around the river’s upstream bend. With almost fifty well-armed men at his back, and the chance of laying hands on fifteen thousand dollars as an inducement, the bandido leader saw no reason to call off his attempt. Faced by a body of men on land, be they sheriff’s posse, company of Texas Rangers or members of the Mexican Guardia Rurales, he could have estimated the danger immediately. However he knew nothing of naval power. While he recognized the cannon, the true potential of the Gatling gun in the leading launch escaped him. Like Amy-Jo, he took the six-barreled machine gun to be some strange form of cannon, single-shot and not especially dangerous. So he yelled to his men to kill the gringos, jerked out his revolver and fired towards the river.

  Seated forward on the gunwale of the launch commanded by the lieutenant, the Gatling’s gunner saw the canoe. At his look-out’s yell, the lieutenant moved towards the bows. Taking in the canoe and the sight of the two tattered, exhausted women getting to their feet on the sand bar, the officer guessed what might be happening. Even before Eve’s assistant in the second launch, or Golly in his own could speak, the lieutenant opened his mouth to give orders. He meant to tell the launch nearest to the Mexican shore to land and bring aboard the women. A bullet, flying down from the Texas bank of the river, struck his launch’s funnel and chopped off the words unsaid.

  More shots sounded and a sailor cried out, clutching at his bleeding chest as he toppled over the side of the third launch. That drew the crews’ attention to the approaching Mexicans. Veterans of the Mississippi Squadron’s river campaigns, the sailors knew how to deal with such an attack, whether it be delivered by Confederate cavalry or a rabble of Mexican border thieves.

  Without needing orders the gunners sprang to their pieces and started twirling elevating screws to line the barrels upwards. Their assistants leapt forward to throw open the ammunition lockers under the decking which supported the guns. Already the coxswains were thrusting on the tillers to point the launches’ bows in the required direction and the engineers cut off the propellers to prevent them being run aground. Other members of the c
rews grabbed up Spencer carbines or drew their Navy Colts.

  Before Danvila and his men fully realized the extent of their danger, the flotilla opened fire. With a sullen double roar, the two twelve-pounders vomited out their loads. Each cannon was charged with canister, the twenty-seven 1.5 inch balls turning it into a kind of enormous shotgun, deadly up to a range of three hundred and fifty yards. Their detonations mingled with the harsh chatter as the man behind the Gatling gun whirled its firing handle around, turning the barrels in their loading cycle to spurt flame and lead as each muzzle reached the uppermost point of its axis.

  Caught in the blast of flying lead, the bandido gang suffered badly. Men and horses went down. Flung over its head by his mount’s collapse, Danvila fell into the path of the Gatling gun’s bullets. His body arched as three of them ripped into him, then went limp and rolled a few feet down the slope. Desperate hands hauled back on reins, trying to swing the horses away from the hail of death. Then the shattered remnants of Danvila’s gang plunged back up the slope. They left ten dead and seven wounded behind in their flight. Not until the last of the gang had passed out of sight over the rim could the lieutenant spare a thought for the two women.

  At the sound of the shooting Belle stopped in her tracks and started to look around. She had her back to the river, so failed to see the new arrivals. Exhausted she might be, but Eve saw them and recognized that help was on hand. Taking a staggering step forward, she swung a roundhouse punch to the side of Belle’s jaw. Taken completely by surprise, Belle went down to land spread-eagled on her back. Dazed by the blow, she lay motionless. Breath whistling through her mouth, Eve stumbled towards the slim girl. The woman intended to fall knees first on to Belle’s stomach and finish her off. Through the mists which seemed to be swirling around in her head, Belle saw Eve’s advance and guessed her intention. Yet the girl could not make herself do anything to prevent the move.

  Then an explosion split the air, its sound all but drowning out the double crack of rifle fire which wafted down from the rim on the Mexican shore. On the river, the canoe disappeared in a sheet of flame and cloud of black smoke. Tossed up by the blast, a sizeable wave rushed on to the launches. Each boat had men flung over the side by the unexpected pitching and the one closest to the explosion took a considerable amount of water aboard as it rocked violently.

  On the bank Eve staggered as the shock wave of air hit her but did not fall. The halt in Eve’s advance gave Belle just that brief moment she needed to recover. Coiling up her body, Belle thrust her legs forward and up with all her remaining strength. Reeling forward again, Eve took the soles of Belle’s driving feet full in the pit of her stomach. A strangled croak broke from the Yankee as she doubled over, pitched backwards and crashed helplessly to the sand. All but spent by her final effort, Belle rolled on to her stomach. She could not force herself higher than to hands and knees. Yet she knew that she must try to escape. Weakly, sobbing at the effort, she started to crawl in the direction of the bushes.

  At the top of the slope overlooking the sand bar, Sam Ysabel and the Kid watched the result of their shooting. When they came into view of the river, they had seen immediately what must be done. No bunch of Mexican bandidos ever born would face up to what Danvila and his men received from the launches. With the gang disposed of, the Yankees could easily catch up with the canoe. So there was only one course left open to the two Texans. Sighting their rifles, they planted a bullet each into the powder kegs. Some of the gold coins might land on the banks, but the vast majority of them sank irrecoverably into the quicksand at the bottom of the river. That left only one problem needing a hurried solution.

  “We’ve got to rescue Miss Belle!” the Kid stated, coming to his feet.

  “Yeah!” Ysabel replied. “We’ll take her out Comanche fashion.”

  Running to their waiting horses, they thrust the rifles into the saddleboots, freed the spare mounts and swung into the saddles. Side by side, the father and son headed over the rim and down towards the sand bar.

  Occupied with the work of bailing out their launches and helping comrades back aboard, the Yankee sailors did not notice the Ysabels. Golly saw them first, guessed what they meant to do and yelled a warning.

  Painfully Belle dragged herself along the sand. Although she could hear the thunder of approaching hooves, the sound meant nothing to her. Directing their horses to pass on either side of the girl, the Ysabels leant inwards and reached down. Belle felt a hand take hold of each arm and raise her then carry her along. Shouts rang out as the Yankees realized a rescue bid was being made. Golly’s revolver barked twice, but its bullets came nowhere near the fast-moving Texans. Other men grabbed at weapons, their excited movements threatening to capsize the boats.

  “Belay that shooting!” roared the lieutenant. “Mr. Snaith, run your launch ashore and bring Miss Coniston off. She looks like she needs help.”

  With the bushes close ahead, there could be no more carrying Belle between them. So Ysabel reached across with his other hand, took hold and swung the girl’s limp body up before him. Supporting her in his arms, he used knee pressure to guide the grulla in among the undergrowth. Showing superb horsemanship, the Kid allowed his father to go first and plunged into cover after him. Letting Ysabel ride on, the Kid collected the pack horse and its saddles before following.

  Not until they had put two miles between them and the river did the Texans stop. While the Kid made a fire and set up camp for the night, Ysabel helped Belle tend to her injuries. At last the girl lay on a bed of soft grass, her numerous bruises and aching muscles sending knife-like jagged stabs of pain through her. Yet she had barely felt them in the sick, numbing realization that her mission had ended in failure. The Kid had brought along the packs which held her property and disguised weapons; but the gold on which so much depended lay at the bottom of the Rio Grande. Without it Klatwitter would not make a move, even if he could after the attack on the fort at Nava. Nothing the Ysabels could say offered her any comfort.

  “I’ve failed!” she moaned. “Everything is lost.”

  Little did Belle know that the failure had probably been the most fortunate thing to happen to her.

  The date was April 8, 1865. Next day at the Appomattox courthouse, wishing to prevent further bloodshed and loss of life, General Robert E. Lee surrendered his sword to General U. S. Grant as a preliminary to bringing the War Between the States to an end.

  DUSTY FOG’S CIVIL WAR 11: THE BLOODY BORDER

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1969

  Copyright © 1969, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: April 2018

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book

  Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  About the Author

  J.T. Edson was a former British Army dog-handler who wrote more than 130 Western novels, accounting for some 27 million sales in paperback. Edson’s works - produced on a word processor in an Edwardian semi at Melton Mowbray - contain clear, crisp action in the traditions of B-movies and Western television series. What they lack in psychological depth is made up for by at least twelve good fights per volume. Each portrays a vivid, idealized “West That Never Was”, at a pace that rarely slackens.

  Dusty Fog’s Civil War

  By J. T. Edson

  Mississippi Raider

  You’re In Command Now, Mr. Fog

  The Big Gun

  Under the
Stars and Bars

  The Fastest Gun in Texas

  A Matter of Honor

  Kill Dusty Fog!

  The Devil Gun

  The Colt and the Saber

  The Rebel Spy

  The Bloody Border

  … And More to Come!

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  More on J. T. EDSON

  1 1. Pelado: A grave or corpse-robber.

  2 2. How this happened is told in the author’s floating outfit stories.

  3 3. Told in COMANCHE.

  4 4. Told in THE COLT AND THE SABRE and THE REBEL SPY.

  5 Told in THE DEVIL GUN.

  6 6. Told in THE YSABEL KID.

  7 * Apples: slang name for breasts.

  8 * Peckerwood: derogatory name for a Southerner.