Dusty Fog's Civil War 9 Read online

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  CONTENTS

  One – Miss Boyd Prepares to Leave

  Two – Miss Boyd in Distress

  Three – Miss Boyd Makes Her Point

  Four – Captain Fog’s Plan

  Five – Captain Fog Acquires Wealth

  Six – A Furlough for Captain Fog

  Seven – Disturbing News for Miss Boyd

  Eight – Promotion for Major Amesley

  Nine – Captain Fog Encounters a Travel Hazard

  Ten – Miss Boyd Arouses Suspicions

  Eleven – The Inventive Genius of Mr. Henry and Captain Williams

  Twelve – Miss Boyd Sees a Snake Fight

  Thirteen – Miss Boyd Meets an Informer

  Fourteen – A Demonstration of La Savate

  Fifteen – A Difference of Table Manners

  Sixteen – Captain Smee Delivers His Cargo

  Copyright

  About the Author

  The Confederacy needs arms. And greedy European merchants are demanding gold for their goods. Though gold may be scarce in Dixie, there's no shortage of courage. Belle Boyd, beautiful rebel spy, joins Dusty Fog in a daring plot to finance a shipment of rifles with stolen Yankee dollars. Together, Dusty and Belle trade gunfire with Union troops—and cross swords with the most treacherous collection of riffraff ever to fall below the Mason-Dixon Line...

  DUSTY FOG’S CIVIL WAR 9:

  THE COLT AND THE SABER

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1968

  Copyright © 1968, 2017 by J. T. Edson

  First Smashwords Edition: November 2017

  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.

  Our cover features Mine Creek, painted by Andy Thomas, and used by permission.

  Andy Thomas Artist, Carthage Missouri

  Andy is known for his action westerns and storytelling paintings and documenting historical events through history.

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~*~ Series Editor: Ben Bridges

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author’s Agent.

  One – Miss Boyd Prepares to Leave

  Up at the big house, taken over by the 6th New Jersey Dragoons’ officers as their mess, a ball was in progress. Music, laughter, the hum of conversation, clink of glasses and clatter of plates came faintly and annoyingly to Private Hooley’s ears as he stood guard on the stables which housed the pick of the officers’ horses. After over an hour on the duty, Hooley found the noise growing increasingly more distasteful. More so when he knew that all but the essential men on guard detail celebrated news of a United States Army victory over the rebels back east.

  When Hooley enlisted in the Dragoons, filled with patriotic fervor, he expected to spend all his time alternating between charging and routing the gray-clad enemy and being feted by the adoring civilian population. Instead he found himself sent to Arkansas, where he learned foot-drill, how to ride a horse in a mighty uncomfortable fashion, dismount and prepare to fight on foot, perform the essential military task of kitchen-police and stand guard duty. None of them pleasant or attractive to a man who looked for high adventure; and of them all, he cared least for standing guard. A two-hour stretch on the stable post could stretch on and on until it felt more like two hundred. Especially when, like tonight, the brass could be heard celebrating and being feted by what passed in the Bear State for an adoring civilian population.

  A shape approached the stables, coming from the rear of the big house. From the white cap, black dress, white apron and the fact that the approaching woman carried two traveling bags, Hooley deduced that she must be a servant to one of the fancy, high-toned gals attending the ball. He could tell little about the woman’s figure or face, for a maid’s uniform did not tend to emphasize its wearer’s shape and so far she had not entered the limited area of light from the stable door.

  “Howdy, gal,” he greeted, it sounding better than lining his Springfield carbine and calling the formal “Halt, who goes there?”

  “Howdy, you-all,” answered the girl, her voice husky and holding a hint of a southern drawl. “Just bringing these bags down for my mistress. She’s going to have Captain Haxley take her home. Only the good Lord knows when that’ll be. And I’ve got to stay here and wait for her.”

  At that moment the girl entered the patch of light. She stood maybe five feet seven in height and, despite the limitations of her clothes, gave the impression that she could show a mighty pretty figure dressed more suitably. The white cap hid all her hair, but Hooley did not give a damn for that as he studied her face. Hooley prided himself on his judgment of women, and he decided that the girl before him was about as beautiful as he had ever seen. Taking in the almost faultless features, the long-lashed dark eyes, the slightly upturned nose, Hooley’s main attention rested on the full lips and their warm, inviting smile. If Hooley knew anything about women—and he would modestly admit that he knew plenty—that girl wanted company real bad.

  “Got to wait down here?” he asked.

  “Sure have,” she agreed, halting by the door and setting down the bags. They were made of good leather and designed to strap on to a saddle; not the usual kind of luggage a lady of quality used when traveling, although Hooley ignored the point.

  “Could get mighty lonesome,” he remarked, glancing around to make sure that nobody observed him.

  “It surely does,” answered the girl. “Say, does this stable have a golden horseshoe nail?”

  Knowing what the girl meant, Hooley fought down an anticipatory gulp. Even after only a year in the Army, he knew the legend of the golden horseshoe nail and its use in luring members of the opposite sex into the privacy of a stable.

  “Sure it does,” he said and hoped his voice did not sound as husky to her ears as it came to his.

  “Sergeant Papas was going to show it to me,” the girl explained, “but he’s not been around to see me.”

  That figured, thought Hooley, for Papas held post as sergeant of the guard. No love being lost between Hooley and Papas, the private figured showing his sergeant’s prospective prey the “golden horseshoe nail” might be highly diverting. Having made a study of such matters, Hooley knew that the officer of the day would be most unlikely to make rounds while the dance ran its course and, without prodding by his superiors, Papas never left the guard house when on duty.

  “Come on inside,” he grinned. “I’ll show it to you.” Entering the stable, lit by a solitary lantern hanging over the door, Hooley rested his carbine against the door and looked around him. Some twenty horses stood in the line of loose stalls around the walls. A rack supported McClellan army saddles at one side of the room. Hooley ignored both sights, his attention being on the ladder which led up to the hay loft. Did he have time to take the girl up there, or should he show her the “golden horseshoe nail” in the less comfortable confines of an empty stall?

  While Hooley pondered on that important problem, the girl opened the vanity bag which had hung from her wrist and been obscured by the travelling bag in her hand. Taking out a silver hip-flask, she threw a dazzling smile at the soldier. As she came towards him, he caught a whiff of perfume. Not the brash, cheap kind poorer girls mostly used, but something more subtle and expensive. If Hooley thought of the matter at
all, he put the aroma down to the maid helping herself to her employer’s perfume. Such a trivial detail never entered Hooley’s mind, it being fully occupied with thoughts of forthcoming pleasure and interest in the contents of the flask the girl offered to him.

  “I sneaked this out of the house,” she told him. “Got it filled up with some of the best I could find.”

  Taking the flask, Hooley removed its stopper and sniffed at an aroma even sweeter to his nostrils than the perfume the girl used. He had never come across so fine a smelling whisky and forgot his manners. Tilting the flask, he drank deeply, making no attempt to let the girl precede him. The whisky bit his throat and burned warmly as he sucked off what would have been a good four-finger drink in the post sutler’s store—and better whisky than that shrewd trader ever offered the enlisted men at that. Having drunk, his thoughts turned to other matters. Gallantly he rubbed the top of the flask and offered it to the girl.

  “How about you?” he inquired as she replaced the stopper.

  “Shuckens, a girl doesn’t drink strong liquor,” the girl giggled. “I only brought it out in case I met a handsome gentleman who looked thirsty.”

  “You’ve got a real kind heart, gal,” Hooley declared, feeling his spirits rise as the whisky sank warmingly into his belly.

  “I sure have,” she agreed, placing the flask back into her bag. With her hand still inside the bag, she suddenly stiffened and stared in a horrified manner at something behind him. “Look out!” she gasped.

  Hooley spun around, not knowing what might be waiting for him. Even as he began to turn, he saw a change come to the girl’s face. No longer did it hold either warm invitation or startled fear, but a cold, determined expression transformed her beautiful features. Before the change could register in Hooley’s mind, he had completed his turn. A sudden dizziness whirled up inside Hooley, although it did not last for many seconds.

  Holding a short, lead-loaded, leather-encased billie, the girl’s hand emerged from her bag and whipped around in the direction of Hooley’s head. While many regiments of the U.S. Army now tended to standardize their equipment, the New Jersey Dragoons retained their traditional uniform. The buff-colored trimmings of the uniform, differing from the more general cavalry yellow, made a handy conversational piece in a bar; and the peaked, soft-crowned cap was claimed to be far more comfortable than the “Jeff Davis” or Burnside hat now issued to other regiments. However, the cap offered no protection against the sun or an attack on the base of the skull. Coming around with a snappy flick of the wrist, the billie caught Hooley’s head just under the rim of the hat and he crumpled forward, collapsing to the floor without a sound.

  “Sorry, soldier,” the girl said, her voice still husky and “deep south,” but bearing the accent of an educated, cultured upbringing. “They do say showing the golden horseshoe nail to a girl weakens a man. And I reckon you’d rather have your brass think you’d been jumped from behind than know you’d taken a drugged drink.”

  Even while speaking, the girl returned her billie to the vanity bag, bent and gripped Hooley’s ankles to drag him aside so he would not be visible from the door. Leaving the soldier, she went straight to the stall housing the colonel’s favorite horse, a big, fine-looking bay gelding noted for its stamina and speed. Collecting a saddle from the rack, the girl carried it to the bay’s stall. There she removed her cap, exposing almost boyishly short hair so black that it seemed to shine blue in the lamp’s light. Next she unfastened and wriggled out of the maid’s dress. Even had Hooley been conscious to witness the disrobing, he would have met with disappointment. Instead of emerging dressed in underwear, the girl proved to be clad in a man’s dark blue shirt, tight-legged black riding breeches and high-heeled riding boots with spurs on their heels. An opportunity to caress her hips while she wore the maid’s dress would have handed Hooley a surprise, for she wore a gunbelt with an ivory-handled Dance Brothers Navy revolver, butt forward in the open-topped holster at her left side.

  Leaving her discarded clothing on the floor of the bay’s stall, the girl began to saddle the horse. She worked fast, handling the bay deftly despite its reputation for being awkward and mean. With her chosen mount saddled, she led it to the barn’s door and fastened it just inside. Collecting another saddle from the rack, she went again to the stalls. This time she selected and saddled a powerful roan, the pride of the major commanding Company D, leading it to the side of the bay.

  For a moment the girl stood by the barn’s door, listening to the sounds of revelry which came from various parts of the camp. She saw nothing to disturb her, no sign of approaching authority; which did not entirely surprise her as she had been at the ball and seen the officer of the day enjoying himself in a manner which made his attending to duty an unlikely possibility.

  “I hope the boys do their part,” she mused, returning to release the remaining horses.

  On being freed, each horse made its way towards the door of the barn and passed out into the darkness. Outside they began to bunch, uncertain of what course to follow. After turning loose the last horse, the girl went and dragged Hooley outside. Her blow had stunned him, but the laudanum in the drink she gave him served to keep him quiet long after the effects of the blow wore off. Another quick glance around and the girl entered the barn once more. Taking down the lantern, the girl carried it to the stall where her clothing lay. She hurled the lantern against the wall. Glass shattered, oil sprayed out and flames licked up, bounding across the straw. Calmly the girl waited until she felt certain that her discarded clothing would be consumed by the spreading flames, then she ran to the two saddled horses. Already the roan’s reins were secured to the bay’s McClellan saddle. The horses moved restlessly as the flames began to lick up and grow in fury. Showing considerable skill, the girl swung astride the bay and urged it out into the night, the roan following, obedient to the gentle pull of the reins.

  Drawing her revolver, the girl rode towards the freed horses. “Yeeah!” The ringing yell of the Confederate cavalry burst from her lips and she fired a shot into the air.

  Startled by the yell and shot, the horses began to run. Letting out another wild yell, the girl urged her mounts after the departing animals, hazing them away from the house and towards the open Arkansas range land. Even as the horses’ hooves drummed out loud in the night, from various points about the Dragoons’ camp came more rebel yells, shots and flickering flames as hay and straw piles took fire. Disturbed horses snorted and moved restlessly, voices shouted questions, curses and orders, the whole punctuated by the wild ringing rebel war yells and occasional shots.

  Up at the big house, the band came to a discordant halt in the middle of a Virginia reel. The more sober officers reacted first. Leaving their partners, they led the rush from the building. Outside all was pandemonium. A bugler sounded assembly, blowing lustily but without effect. Celebrating men poured from the sutler’s building, most of them too drunk to make any logical deductions. The sound of shooting increased, yells went up as horses were freed from two company picket lines to add to the confusion.

  One of the first people from the officers’ mess was Colonel Verncombe, commanding the Dragoons. Halting, he stood glaring around him at the confusion. Fires blazed from three different points, men dashed about wildly and without any coordination while a flurry of revolver shots down by A Company’s picket lines merged into the noise of stampeding horses.

  “What the hell?” yelped a major, cannoning into his colonel.

  “It’s a full-scale attack!” Verncombe answered. “Get down and start organizing your—”

  “Look there!” yelled a lieutenant, pointing to where flames licked up the walls of the officers’ stables.

  “Get men down to it!” Verncombe barked back. “Save our horses and gear if you can. Where the hell’s the sergeant of the guard. Officer of the day! Find the guard. The rest of you, to your companies. On the double!”

  “Can we help, Vic?” asked an infantry colonel, who, along with seve
ral of his officers, had been a guest at the ball.

  “Keep the civilians and womenfolk inside and from under foot, Paul,” Verncombe replied, watching his officers scatter to their companies.

  Long before any defense could be organized the firing died down and the sound of hooves faded into the distance. Cursing non-coms restrained their excited men and prevented them wasting ammunition shooting at shadows. Sweating officers started to check on the damage inflicted by the raiders and asked questions with regard to the strength of the force which attacked them.

  An hour later a glowering Verncombe watched his company commanders gathering around. Face almost black with controlled fury, he waited to hear their reports. A smoke-blackened lieutenant came first, after an abortive attempt to douse the fire at the officers’ stables.

  “We couldn’t save anything, sir,” he said. “But at least the rebels took all the horses out before firing it.”

  “That figures,” grunted Verncombe. “How about the sentry?”

  “We found him stretched out on the ground, clear of the building. Been struck from behind. I’ve sent him to the surgeon.”

  “Good. How about it, Major Klieg?”

  “They destroyed our hay supply and the corn stored by Company C, sir,” answered the major. “Cut the picket lines, but my men managed to drive them off before they could do more than scatter the horses. Horses ran back into the camp and I’ve a detail rounding them up.”

  “And casualties?” asked Verncombe.

  “Not in my company, sir. I don’t think we got any of them; or if we did, the rebs carried them off.”

  Other reports came in. Company A had lost all its horses and half of Company E’s mounts had gone, while the rest scattered through the disturbed camp. Three fodder stacks were either burned out or so badly damaged that they would be of no use in feeding the regiment’s horses. While there had been some stiff fighting, casualties proved to be light. A few slight wounds and no deaths came as a result of the raid, although various claims were made as to the number of the enemy killed.