Dusty Fog's Civil War 11 Read online

  Once again Belle jabbed the Kid’s ribs and he dropped from the cart to face the soldier.

  “Vegetables,” the corporal sniffed. “Maybe there’re guns under them.”

  “No, señor!” Belle gasped. “Just vegetables. What would simple peons like us want with guns?”

  “You Mexicans are all the same, rebels,” the corporal answered, glancing at her.

  Then, without any warning, he lashed his hand across the Kid’s face. The attack came so suddenly that even the Kid’s Indian-fast reactions could not avoid it. Caught with a powerful roundhouse backhand swing, he went sprawling to the ground. Luckily his knife remained hidden, but Belle knew he would not accept the blow without retaliation. Just let him clear his head, and the Kid would be up with knife in hand. Then either he or the Frenchman would die. Whichever way the affair went, her mission would be endangered. So she decided to lure the corporal away before the Kid recovered.

  “Hijo de puta!” she screamed, catching up a tomato and hurling it.

  Letting out a bellow as the tomato struck and burst in his face, the corporal sprang forward. His hands closed on air for Belle bounded from the cart and fled down the alley by the hotel. Determined to take his revenge, the corporal gave chase. He plunged around the rear of the cart, ignoring it completely, and ran after the girl. Immediately the pedestrians hurried away. Since their arrival in the country, French soldiers plundered, committed acts of vandalism or rape unchecked by their officers. Any Mexican who interfered was likely to be shot on the spot as a rebel and trouble-causer. So the few people who saw the incident played safe and got clear of its location.

  Hoping that the Kid did not recover too quickly, Belle fled down the alley. On either side rose a high wall, at the end another street where she might meet more French troops. Behind her clumped the boots of the running soldier. Hoping to throw him off her trail, she darted through a gateway and found that she had entered a cul-de-sac. It was a small plaza, deserted at that moment, where residents of the hotel could take exercise or dine out of doors in private. What Belle found most interesting—and annoying—about the place was that it offered only two ways out; the gate by which she entered and a closed door leading into the hotel.

  Even as the facts registered, Belle heard the heavy footsteps of the corporal drawing closer. She could not chance entering the hotel in search of an escape. Such a fancy place probably housed French army officers or officials and any Mexican peon who entered—even for Belle’s perfectly good reasons—would just as rapidly be evicted. Should she manage to raise an objection, the corporal would claim he was suspicious. A search of the cart would reveal the trunks. Belle could not see any French commandant turning away a chance to lay hands on fifteen thousand dollars in gold; even if acquiring it meant antagonizing the Confederate States Government. Even if her story and identity should be accepted by the French, they might order her out of Mexico rather than become compromised with the United States. In any event, word was sure to reach the Yankee Secret Service and cause a search to be organized to locate her.

  So Belle knew that she must handle the matter herself, dealing with the corporal in a way which would dissuade his intentions. Yet she must not kill or seriously injure him. To do either would start an investigation and hunt for the person responsible. Glancing around quickly, she saw nobody at the windows overlooking the plaza to witness what happened. That made dealing with her pursuer easier.

  Turning as she reached a side wall, Belle faced the man. A lecherous grin twisted his face as he advanced with arms reaching out to close on her.

  “Damned if the country’s not full of men who want to rape me,” Belle mused. “I admire their taste, but not their style.”

  With the thought come and gone in a flash, she prepared to defend her honor. Just in time she recalled that she was not wearing her riding boots and knew the sandals did not lend themselves to savate kicking.

  Twisting aside, she tried to dart by the man. His right hand shot out, catching her arm and swinging her around. Doing so put him with his back to the wall. Taking her other arm in his free hand, he pulled her towards him. At first Belle approached with only feeble struggles and face twisted in an expression of panic which lulled any suspicions he might feel at the easy capture. Measuring the distance, she whipped up her right knee at the exact moment when it would do most good. Steel-spring powerful muscles knotted to give force to the rising leg and the loose-fitting, calf-long peon’s skirt did nothing to impede its movement. Coming with sickening impact, her knee struck between the man’s spread apart legs. Instantly his hands fell away from her arms. Agony knotted up his face as he stumbled back against the wall and started to double over.

  Interlacing her fingers, Belle hooked the cupped hands under the corporal’s chin and heaved. Lifted erect, he slammed into the wall hard and bounced from it. Nor had Belle finished. She wanted to make sure that the corporal could not raise an alarm for some time to come. Nobody from the hotel appeared to be aware of their presence in the plaza, so she might easily make her escape and reach the safety of the consul’s house before he recovered.

  With that in mind she caught the right shoulder of his jacket in her left hand, while the right closed on the open neck. At the same moment her right foot rose to ram into his midsection. As he bounced forward from being slammed against the wall, she shot her left leg between his open feet and sank rapidly to the ground. Her weight and the pull on his torso caused the corporal to tilt forward. When her rump landed on the hard-packed soil of the plaza, she thrust upwards with her right leg. The corporal catapulted over, crashed down on his back, bounced once and lay still.

  Hoping that she had not done too much damage to her assailant, Belle rolled over and to her knees. Before trying to rise, she shot her hands to her head and adjusted the wig. Then she saw the hotel’s side door open and, as she stood up, a man and woman emerged. They came to a halt, staring in surprise at the scene before them. Belle could imagine just how it looked, the corporal sprawled on his back and her standing disheveled by his head.

  Neither of the newcomers had the skin pigmentation nor features of Mexicans; which could mean they were French. However the man did not seem to be of Gallic origin either. Short, blocky, heavily-built, he gave an impression of rubbery hardness rather than fat. His face had a jovial expression belied by the cold, calculating eyes. Clad in a Stetson hat, buckskin jacket, shirt, string tie, trousers tucked into riding boots, with a gunbelt around his waist supporting an 1860 Army Colt in an open-topped holster at the right side and a sheathed Arkansas toothpick on the left, he looked like an American; but not the type to stay in Matormoros’ best hotel. If it came to a point, he hardly seemed a suitable escort for the woman.

  In height she would equal Belle, some two inches taller than her companion. Black hair framed a good-looking face somewhat marred by an air of superiority. She wore a mauve shirt-waist and a plain black skirt from beneath which showed high-heeled boots suitable for town wear or occasional riding. Full-busted, she trimmed down to a slim waist and out again for the hourglass figure currently regarded as fashionable. Studying her, Belle guessed she would be in her middle thirties. A fine-looking woman, yet hard and intelligent, were Belle’s other conclusions.

  None of which worried Belle over much at that moment. She realized that something must be done, and fast, to explain away the dramatic scene into which the couple were walking. If the woman were a French officer’s or official’s wife, she would not overlook what she saw.

  Twisting her face into what she hoped would be suitable lines of fear, Belle lurched across the plaza. Collapsing to her knees before the woman, she began to babble out an incoherent version of what happened. The effort taxed all her knowledge of Spanish, but she hoped that the man and woman attributed mistakes in grammar or pronunciation to fright rather than the real cause. She also kept her face averted, in case she failed to adopt a sufficiently convincing expression to go with the hesitantly spluttering words. Then she rece
ived something of a shock herself. So much so that she darted a quick glance at the woman and studied her with extra interest.

  “What’s she talking about, Mr. Kraus?” asked the woman.

  Not in French, but speaking English with a clipped New England accent and the tone of one who had received a good education.

  Hearing the words almost made Belle forget her pose. However she regained it quickly as the man replied. From his accent, he hailed out of Texas and he clearly understood Spanish better than his companion.

  “She allows the soldier tried to lay hands on her, from what I can make out,” he told the woman. “Gal’s so spooked she don’t talk too clear. Reckons she got scared and run in here. When he caught her, she pushed him off and he fell. Must’ve caught his nut one hell of a crack. Anyways, now she’s worse scared that the soldiers’ll come and shoot her. She wants you to talk up for her to your husband. Must allow you’re some frog’s missus.”

  Keeping up her scared babble, after the one brief pause, Belle continued to dart glances up at the woman. The guess at the age seemed close enough, for her skin showed the coarsening of time. Although she wore some good jewelry, a wedding ring was not included. Annoyance showed on the woman’s face as she turned her eyes in Belle’s direction. Just in time Belle dropped her head forward, not wishing to let a Yankee woman see too much of her features.

  “Get her out of here!” the woman snapped in the tone of one used to giving orders. “We don’t want to be mixed up in trouble between the French and Mexicans.”

  Clearly neither she nor the man felt any suspicion that Belle was lying. Bending down, she gently helped Belle to stand up. The girl kept her head bowed and allowed her shoulders to jerk as if sobbing.

  “Come on, girl!” the man ordered in Spanish, taking her by the arm and turning her towards the gate. “Go back to your people. The lady’ll not let them follow you. Vamos, pronto!”

  Deciding not to push her luck further, the girl stumbled from the plaza. She heard the woman tell the man to give her a head start, which suited her too. Once through the gate, she discarded her terror-stricken pose and started to turn along the alley.

  A shape loomed before her, bringing her to a halt. Raising her head, and ready to launch an immediate savate attack, she found herself faced by the Kid. Anger showed on his face, while the bowie knife in his hand told what had brought him off the street. Then relief flickered across his features at the sight of the girl. He opened his mouth to speak and Belle saw the danger. If the man and woman in the plaza heard a voice speaking English, they were sure to investigate. Finding only two Mexican peons in the alley would arouse their suspicions. So Belle took steps to avoid it.

  “My brother!” she said loudly in Spanish. “It is all right. I am not harmed. A great lady saved me.”

  Give the Kid full credit; he might be boiling with rage and full of a desire for revenge, but he could still think. Darting a glance at the gateway, he slid the knife back into its sheath beneath the serape.

  “Are you all right, ma’am?” he asked in English, but barely higher than a whisper.

  “Yes. Come on, let’s get back to the cart. I’ve quietened him down.”

  “For good?”

  “I hope not. Let’s move. There’s no time to lose.”

  “Damn it, that lousy frog-eater knocked me down!” the Kid growled. “I’ll just go—”

  “To that cart!” Belle ordered. “Believe me, Lon. I’ve paid him back in full for hitting you.”

  Four – There’ll Be Blood Spilled Afore We’re Through

  For a moment the Kid stood glaring towards the plaza. To the grandson of Long Walker and a Pehnane tehnap’, or experienced Comanche warrior, in his own right, it went hard to take a blow without repaying the striker in full. However he studied the grim set of the girl’s face and knew she would brook no arguments. Good sense helped him to reach the right decision. Turning, he walked with the girl to the waiting cart. Not until they sat behind the plodding donkey did he ask the questions seething inside him.

  “What happened in there?”

  “Like I said, I handled the corporal and he won’t be bothering us for a spell,” Belle replied, turning to look back along the street. Seeing no sign of the man and woman, she concluded they must have left the alley by its other entrance.

  “Anybody see you do it?” asked the Kid.

  “A man and woman.”

  “Mexicans?”

  “No.” Belle answered. “Americans. That’s why I stopped you talking to me in English back there.”

  “I figured there must be some reason,” the Kid grinned. “Only damn me if I could see it. Who were they, Miss Belle, some of our folks?”

  “No,” she said definitely, then described the pair.

  “Feller’s Charlie Kraus, I’d say,” the Kid drawled at the conclusion. “Woman don’t come to mind, though.”

  “She did say ‘Mr. Kraus’, or some such name,” Belle admitted.

  “That posada’s not Charlie’s sort of place,” the Kid commented. “Fact being, I’m tolerable surprised they let him inside and I sure hope they didn’t leave nothing lying loose with him there.”

  “Who is he?” she asked.

  “A border jumper, like pappy and me—only I’d not thank anybody to class us with him.”

  “What does he do?”

  “Anybody,” the Kid replied laconically. “Kept out of the Army when the War started. Fought Injuns and bad Mexicans for a spell, so I heard. Then he started running blockade stuff across the river into Texas.”

  “For the Confederacy?”

  “For him and his partner, a skinny-gutted—sorry. ma’am—hombre called Joe Giss. They run in the luxury stuff that pays best.”

  Being operated mainly by private individuals interested in making a profit, the blockade running ships carried more than essential goods for the Confederate States. Luxury items commanded a high price, so much so that the Confederate Government laid down rules as to the proportion that might be brought in. However some of the captains still ran complete non-essential cargoes, relying on unscrupulous men to dispose of them.

  “I don’t like the sound of this, Lon,” Belle admitted.

  “Or me. Among other things, Giss and Kraus do dirty work for the French and Mexicans both. If Charlie Kraus’s around and gets to hear about that money, there’ll be blood spilled afore we’re through.”

  “We’ll just have to stop him getting to hear,” Belle stated.

  “He’s got mighty handy ways of finding things out,” warned the Kid. “What do you make of the woman? Way you tell it, she’s not his kind.”

  “I don’t know. No wedding ring, which means she’s not a wife from the Yankee consul’s office. Unless she’s cheating on her husband.”

  “Not with Charlie Kraus, or at that posada. Might be working for some Yankee ship-owner though.”

  Belle admitted the possibility. Although New England stood high on the anti-slavery vote that had helped start the War, a number of its businessmen held shares in blockade running ships and indirectly sold goods to the South. So the woman could be acting as a go-between for such people. The number of men called into the Army caused many women to handle what had previously been male work, especially in the industrial Northern States.

  Seeing the consul’s house ahead, Belle put all thoughts of the woman from her head. If she was no more than a go-between for blockade runners, it seemed unlikely that their paths would cross again.

  Donated by a Southern businessman, the consul’s house was a fine, large building standing in its own grounds and surrounded by a high wall. Since assuming its new function, broken glass had been fixed to the top of the wall as a barrier against intruders. In addition, a Confederate infantry private stood guard at the front and rear entrances. Knowing that a vegetable cart would not be allowed in at the front under normal circumstances, Belle steered their vehicle around to the rear. As she approached the gate, the sentry moved forward to block her pa
th.

  “What’s this?” he demanded.

  “Vegetables for the consul, señor,” Belle replied, not wanting to make her true identity known in so public a place. Across the street were other large houses in their own grounds and she would be willing to bet the U.S. Secret Service owned or rented one from which the consul’s property could be kept under observation. However the sentry showed no sign of moving.

  “We’ve got all we want from our regular feller,” he said, scowling suspiciously at the cart. “Vamos!”

  “I think you should ask the corporal of the guard to come and see our vegetables, señor,” Belle answered, hoping the man would have sufficient intelligence to take the hint. When he did not, she continued, “Perhaps the corporal will not like it if you send us away.”

  Still the words failed to bring the desired result. Annoyance showed on the guard’s face and he started to move forward in a menacing manner. “Damned if I don’t take a chance on i—!”

  Then he came to a halt as if running into an invisible wall. His bugged-out eyes seemed magnetized to the bowie knife which slid into view from beneath the Kid’s serape and lined its needle-sharp point at the center button of his tunic. Held low and in a position that only the sentry might see it, the bowie knife gave added menace to the Comanche-mean lines of the Kid’s face.

  “Get the hell out of our way, foot-shuffler,” the youngster growled in a pure Texas voice, “afore I come down and whittle your head top to a point.”

  And he looked mean enough to try it, what with the incident outside the hotel and a complete lack of patience in face of stupidity.

  Nor had the use of a cavalryman’s derogatory term for an infantry soldier escaped the sentry’s notice, adding to his sudden realization that the couple on the cart were far more than itinerant vegetable sellers. Having been employed as a guard at the consul for over a year, the soldier could guess what kind of people he was facing. Spies in disguise did not expect to have their identities revealed and possessed sufficient influence high up to make life uncomfortable for any mere private who crossed them. Maybe his present employment lacked the glamour of active service, but he preferred to remain at it rather than be returned to his regiment. So he stepped back and prepared to let the visitors enter.