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  All through the war, Belle Boyd, the Rebel Spy, had hoped to meet Tollinger and Barmain, the leaders of the mob which had murdered her parents and burned her home to the ground. At last, with the war over, she found them. Accompanied by the Ysabel Kid and his father, Belle set out to take her revenge.

  To do so, she had to enter the camp of a renegade revolutionary leader in Mexico and become involved in a plot that might plunge the United States into another costly, bloody war.

  DUSTY FOG’S CIVIL WAR 12:

  BACK TO THE BLOODY BORDER

  By J. T. Edson

  First published by Corgi Books in 1970

  Copyright © 1970, 2018 by J. T. Edson

  First Edition: July 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.

  For Jerry ‘Jesbo’ Culley, Best Plug-Maker and Third Best Pike Fisherman in Melton Mowbray.

  Chapter One – The War’s Over, Sailor

  ‘What’re you fixing to do now, Miss Belle?’ asked Sam Ysabel, sitting with his back against a wall of the dining-room in Bannister’s Hotel.

  Over the years, Ysabel had made sufficient enemies to render the precaution second nature. He always preferred to have a wall behind him, even when eating in a respectable Brownsville hotel.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Belle Boyd admitted. ‘What does a spy do when the war’s over and she’s served on the losing side?’

  ‘You could always go back home,’ suggested Ysabel’s son, having selected a chair that allowed him an uninterrupted view across the table at the hotel’s lobby.

  ‘Home!’ Belle repeated the word bitterly. ‘I don’t have a home any more. A bunch of Abolitionists saw to that back in ’61.’

  Tall, slender, although by no means skinny, the girl had coal-black hair cut almost boyishly short. She wore an expensive, stylish, if travel-stained, black jacket and riding-skirt, a frilly-bosomed white blouse and dainty, calf-high boots. Beautiful features, with strength of will and intelligence in their lines, displayed little of the concern she might feel for the future. Her voice, with its well-educated deep-South drawl, expressed unspoken anger as she mentioned her loss.

  As Belle claimed, she no longer had a home. Not since the night, early in 1861, when Alfred Tollinger and George Barmain had led a mob, consisting of rabidly violent pro-Union fanatics and ordinary drunken rabble in search of a chance to loot and pillage, against her father’s plantation. The family and house-servants had fought back desperately. However, before the Boyds’ ‘down-trodden and abused’ slaves had rallied and helped to drive off the attackers, Belle had been wounded, her parents murdered and the once magnificent mansion destroyed by fire. To escape justice, the leaders of the mob had fled to the North. The start of the War Between the States had prevented their arrest and return to Baton Royale for trial.

  Belle’s wound had healed in time, but it left her with a deep and lasting desire for revenge and a hatred of the Union’s supporters that she had not felt before the attack. The brutal, irresponsible and ill-advised actions of a pair of intellectual fanatics was to cost the North dearly in the years that followed. Wanting to avenge her parents, Belle had sought for a way to do so. Learning that a cousin, Rose Greenhow, intended to organize a spy-ring, Belle had offered her services in the hope that the work would bring her into contact with Tollinger and Barmain. Knowing of the girl’s unconventional upbringing, Rose had been only too willing to enroll her.

  Wanting a son, and learning that his wife could have no more children, Vincent Boyd had insisted on instructing his daughter in several subjects not normally taught to a wealthy Southern girl. By sixteen, she could ride a horse—astride, not side-saddle—and follow a hound-pack as well as any of her foxhunting male neighbors. At twenty, when the mob had arrived, she was a skilled performer with a dueling sword, a deadly shot with a hand-gun and had also acquired a thorough knowledge of savate: French-Creole foot- and fist-boxing.

  Belle’s lessons in the more usual feminine accomplishments had not been neglected and, but for the raid on her home, she would probably have put aside her masculine skills, taken a husband and lived a conventional life. Instead she made use of her training as a member of the newly-formed, but very efficient, Confederate States’ Secret Service organization.

  Not for Belle Boyd the routine and intrigue of making contacts, worming confidences from susceptible males or accumulating information. She had preferred the more active task of delivering her fellow-agents’ gatherings to their superiors in the organization. Coming and going through the Union Army’s lines, she had relied upon disguises, quick wits, riding or fighting skills to avoid capture. Her fame grew and she was given the name ‘the Rebel Spy’ for her efforts in the South’s cause.

  All through the War, wherever its fortunes carried her, she had looked for Tollinger and Barmain. Rumor had it that they were members of the United States’ Secret Service, but Belle had failed to locate them. Despite military hostilities having ended, she felt disinclined to forgive or forget what the two men had done to her parents; although she knew that gaining her revenge would not be easy.

  Typical of Belle, while unsure of what the future might hold for her, she also wondered how her companions would make out now that peace had returned to the United States.

  Yet she guessed that her fears on their behalf might be unfounded. Although their pre-War business would be reduced, if not ruined, the Ysabels were probably better fixed than Belle in the matter of earning a living. They were Texan’s frontiersmen, with the great wide spread of the Lone Star State in which to search for a fresh start.

  Big, powerfully-built, Sam Ysabel had short-cropped black hair and a rugged face tanned to the color of old saddle-leather; but was clean-shaven in honor of the occasion. He wore a fringed buckskin shirt and trousers, with Comanche moccasins on his feet. A battered old Confederate Jeff Davis campaign hat dangled from the back of his chair. Around his waist hung a gunbelt, supporting an old Dragoon Colt, its butt pointing forward, at the left side, and on the right a sheathed bowie knife.

  Almost as tall as his father, Loncey Dalton Ysabel had a slim, wiry frame that hinted at hidden reserves of strength.

  Hair as black as the wing of a deep-South crow framed a handsome, Indian-dark face with a young, almost babyishly-innocent cast of features. His red-hazel eyes seemed out of place in such a face, being neither young nor innocent, but giving a hint of his true, reckless nature. He wore all black clothing, including the wide-brimmed, low-crowned Stetson hat hanging on his chair and the gunbelt about his lean waist. Reversing his father’s style of armament, he carried his walnut-handled Dragoon Colt in a low cavalry-twist-draw holster on his right thigh and an ivory-hilted James Black bowie knife sheathed at his left hip. There were few people along the Rio Grande’s banks who would have regarded those weapons as v being mere decorations.

  Born in the village of the Pehnahterkʉh —Wasp, Quick-Stinger, Raider—Comanche, the tall, slim, young Texan had been brought up and educated as a member of that hardy warrior race. Sam Ysabel’s wife, daughter of Chief Long Walker and his French-Creole pairaivo, had died giving birth to their only ch
ild. With his father away much of the time on the family business of first mustanging, then smuggling, the boy had been raised by his maternal grandfather. War leader of the Dog Soldier lodge, Long Walker had taught his grandson all those things a Pehnahterkʉh brave-heart must know. The boy had grown up skilled in the use of both white and red man’s weapons, capable of winning the confidence or mastering any horse ever foaled, able to follow barely discernible tracks and to locate hidden enemies or to conceal himself from the most keen-eyed searchers.

  Following his father along the Rio Grande’s smuggling trails, the boy had put his Pehnahterkʉh education to good use. He had also earned himself considerable fame in the bloody border country. By virtue of his exceptional skill when wielding one, the Pehnahterkʉh had given him the man-name ‘Cuchilo’, the Knife. To the Mexicans with whom he came in contact, he was ‘Cabrito’, the Kid. Among the Texans, he was known as ‘the Ysabel Kid’. Members of all three races, fighting men from soda to hock, recognized his fatal accuracy when shooting a Mississippi rifle and acknowledged that he could perform adequately with his old Dragoon or knife. All were unanimous in their belief that he made a real good, loyal friend, but was a deadly, implacable foe.

  On learning of the War between the States, the Ysabels had traveled East and enlisted in John Singleton Mosby’s Raiders. Although the Grey Ghost had thought highly of their ability as scouts, he had been compelled to let them return to Texas. There they had continued to render important service to the South by delivering urgently needed supplies—run through the U.S. Navy’s blockade into neutral Matamoros—across the Rio Grande to the Confederate authorities.

  It had been during this work that they had met the Rebel Spy. Sent to negotiate with a French general, who had offered to throw his full command into the War on the side of the Confederate States, Belle had been assigned the Ysabels as her escort. Fortunately for her, circumstances had prevented Belle from completing the mission. Generals Grant and Lee had met at the Appomattox Courthouse, as the first move towards ending the War, on the day that she should have contacted the French renegade and handed over the advance payment for his services.

  That had been just over six months ago. On their return to Matamoros, news of the War’s end had not yet arrived. So the Confederate States’ consul had asked them to leave as quickly as possible. The ambiguous diplomatic situation in the town had caused him to make the request. Neither of the warring governments north of the border wished to antagonize the Mexican patriots or the European powers involved in the struggle for control of Mexico. Knowing that Belle’s mission might be exploited by the Yankees as a means of discrediting his consulate, the consul had taken steps to remove her and her assistants.

  Being aware of the consul’s motives, Belle had taken a ship to Nassau, the principal port for blockade-runners in the West Indies. It had been her intention to go on to Charleston, or Savannah, from either of which Confederate town she could report to her superiors for further orders. On hearing that the War had ended, she returned to Matamoros with the intention of spreading the news in Texas and ending the fighting between the Rebels and the Yankees defending Brownsville.

  On arrival in Matamoros, she had learned that the news was known. The consulate no longer had any official status, but its consul had remained in Mexico as a private citizen. Wanting to learn all she could about conditions north of the Rio Grande, Belle had crossed over and in Brownsville had met the Ysabels. From what they had told her, they had spent their enforced absence with the Pehnahterkʉh Comanche. The Kid had been hoping to locate a boyhood enemy, No Father, and settle accounts with him, but failed to do so. Coming back to Matamoros, the Ysabels had found that their services were no longer required officially and were making their first visit to Brownsville since the start of the Yankee occupation.

  Accepting the Ysabels’ offer to have a meal with them, Belle had been surprised when they brought her to Bannister’s Hotel. One of the town’s best-known establishments, it now appeared to cater for businessmen who had carved a niche during the Union’s control. However, its owner raised no objections to the Ysabel family entering with their guest. The food had been good and the disapproving glares thrown their way by the room’s other occupants failed to spoil Belle’s appetite. Not until they had finished the meal did the subject of the future come up.

  ‘What will you do now, Sam?’ Belle asked, sitting opposite the big man and with the Kid on her left.

  ‘Ain’t made our minds up yet.’ Ysabel admitted.

  ‘Could start selling maps to where we buried all that money we was taking to the Frog general, ap’,’ suggested the Kid with a grin, using the Comanche word for father.

  ‘But we destroyed the money,’ Belle objected.

  ‘You know it, we know it,’ the Kid answered. ‘Trouble being, nobody believes us that that’s what happened.’

  ‘We’ve had three different fellers asking us about it,’ Ysabel confirmed.

  Belle smiled, knowing that the money in question was irrecoverable at the bottom of the Rio Grande.

  ‘I can’t see you as treasure-map sellers,’ she told the Texans.

  ‘Anyways, we’ll make out fine one way or another,’ Ysabel assured her. ‘Right now it’s you we’re thinking about.’

  ‘Why don’t you stay on here in Brownsville and help us set up again, Miss Belle?’ asked the Kid. ‘It’s not going to be easy for rough-necks like us to do it, is it, ap’?’

  ‘Sure ain’t, boy,’ Ysabel confirmed. ‘Most all the folks we used to trade with don’t have money no more to buy smuggled wine and stuff.’

  That Belle could figure out without needing to ask for an explanation. By its support of the Confederate States, Texas had been left with a worthless currency. The majority of the Ysabels’ old customers would be broke, or near to it. For some time to come they would be too busy striving for survival and the recovery of their State’s solvency to be able to afford smuggled luxuries. Yet there were others, people whose loyalties had been with the victorious North, who might possess the means to purchase the Ysabels’ wares. As Sam Ysabel had said, contacting such new customers would not be easy.

  There was one big snag to Belle accepting the offer and helping the Ysabel family to gather sufficient customers to make their business pay. Even before the assassination of President Lincoln, the liberals, radicals and intellectuals of the Union had been demanding that extreme reprisals be carried out against the supporters of the Confederacy. With the blind, bigoted intolerance their kind always showed against anybody who dared to oppose their lofty ideals, the Northern soft-shells had repeatedly demanded that every Southern leader be hanged for treason. Having caused some of the soft-shells inconvenience, humiliation and loss, Belle had heard that she and Rose Greenhow were to receive the same treatment if captured. So she had no desire to fall into the Yankees’ hands until she had discovered how much power and authority the soft-shells would command in the United States’ government.

  Wondering how she could frame a refusal that would not offend the Texans, Belle heard a disturbance from the hotel’s lobby. Raucous laughter and loud talk rose, drawing the attention of all the diners to the door of the room. Turning her head to the right, Belle saw a quartet of sailors had entered the building. Judging by their general appearance of conviviality and the increase to their nautical rolling gait, the newcomers had been drinking steadily and long. Clad in the usual dark blue, round, peakless cap, blouse and bell-bottomed trousers of the United States’ Navy, each of them had a cutlass dangling from the left side of his belt and a Colt Navy revolver in a high-riding, close-topped holster at its right.

  Before the War, ordinary seamen would not have been encouraged to remain in the Bannister Hotel; and the quartet clearly knew it. Conscious of their status as victors in a conquered city, they showed disdain for the management’s prejudices. Halting just outside the dining-room’s door, they looked around until their eyes came to rest on Belle, the youngest and best-looking woman present.
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  Although the Ysabels hardly gave the sailors more than a glance, Belle treated them to a longer scrutiny. All were tall: one a big, thickset, clean shaven stoker, two leaner, dark headed and bearded—and the last a gangling beanpole with sandy red hair.

  Early in her career as a spy, Belle had found that she possessed a talent of the greatest use and did her best to develop it. She had a remarkable memory for faces and, more important, the ability to recall the circumstances which led her to remember them. Stiffening slightly, she halted her right hand as it moved involuntarily towards the parasol leaning against her chair.

  ‘What’s up, Miss Belle?’ demanded the Kid, having noticed the girl’s gesture.

  ‘I’ve seen that ginger-haired sailor before,’ Belle replied, turning her attention hurriedly towards her companions as the sailors’ gaze moved her way. ‘He was one of the pair who tried to pull me into the guard-boat the night we attacked the Waterbury.’

  ‘Reckon he’ll recognize you?’ asked Ysabel, suddenly realizing that it might go badly for the girl should she be identified as the Rebel Spy.

  ‘I hope not,’ Belle answered. ‘Damn it, they’re coming over here.’

  Having completed their examination of the room and satisfied themselves that only civilians were present, the sailors swaggered forward. If the man with ginger hair recognized Belle as the girl who had been captured, but escaped, on the night that the U.S. Navy’s steam-sloop Waterbury had been torpedoed in Brownsville harbor, he showed no sign of it. Instead he seemed to be jockeying for position with his companions. Coming to a halt at the empty side of the table, the quartet eyed Sam Ysabel and the Kid in the challenging manner before turning their lecherous gaze in Belle’s direction.

  ‘These land-crabs don’t look to be giving you much of a time, gal,’ the stoker exclaimed in a loud voice.

  ‘Why they’re my uncle and cousin from out of town, sir,’ Belle answered, giving the Kid’s leg a quick kick as he seemed about to speak. ‘We’ve just finished supper and are going home.’