Dusty Fog's Civil War 9 Read online

  Swinging his gunbelt around his waist, Dusty fastened the buckle and then secured the thongs which held the holster tips down. He took up the two Colts. Checked that each nipple had a percussion cap firmly seated upon it and that the hammer of each gun rested on a safety notch between two of the nipples. Taking precautions like that came naturally to Dusty. He knew that even in his regiment’s camp he might need his guns, and if he did need them, there would be no time to start checking on and replacing any percussion caps not in place. Making sure the Colts’ hammers rode safely was another simple, but necessary precaution. No man with any brains in his head carried a loaded revolver with its hammer resting on a capped nipple.

  The door of the room opened and Dusty’s striker entered, having heard his officer moving about and guessing that the letter-writing session had ended. Knowing Dusty’s views on writing, the striker kept out of the way until the distasteful business had been concluded.

  “Take the letters to the orderly room, Dick,” Dusty ordered.

  “Yo!” the striker answered. “And don’t you go tearing about neither. Take it easy for a spell. That danged company of your’n won’t fall apart if you leave it for a spell.”

  “You know it, and I know it,” Dusty grinned, “but I don’t want Uncle Devil to know it or I’ll be looking for a fresh command.”

  “Hope it’s one where they make you wear the right jacket,” sniffed the striker, sealing the last envelope and taking up the others.

  “If they do, I’m going home to mother.” Dusty told his striker and left the room before the other could make any adequate reply.

  Dusty walked from the house and made his way through the neat tented lines to his company’s area. Visiting Billy Jack’s quarters, he heard his sergeant-major’s report on the welfare of his men. From there Dusty and the lean non-com passed on to the horse lines where the regiment veterinarian and stables sergeant waited. After checking that the welfare of his horses was well in hand, Dusty gave Billy Jack the good news. Relief showed on the lean sergeant-major’s face as he heard that the company would be able to relax and reform before making any more sorties against the Yankees.

  “Red and I are going on an assignment,” Dusty went on. “Only if anybody asks, we’re on furlough. Pappy’ll be running the Company until I get back.”

  “That’ll be all right,” Billy Jack answered. “If there’s no more, Cap’n Dusty, it’s Saturday and I’ve a card game waiting.”

  “Gambling’ll be your downfall,” Dusty warned.

  Grinning, the lean non-com saluted and ambled away. Dusty watched the other go and smiled. There went a real good man, one in whom a feller could trust his life. Turning, Dusty walked towards the big house. To get there he had to pass a large storehouse which had been emptied and converted into a fencing school for the Regiment. Hearing the unmistakable sound of swords in action, he walked towards the open door of the building and looked inside.

  A fencing match was in progress, watched by the maitre d’armes and seven or so of the younger officers of the Regiment. Remaining outside, Dusty studied the contestants and noted the high standard of skill both showed. The skill did not surprise him really, for Major Amesley, the maitre d’armes—he also acted as the Regiment’s adjutant—had been a fencing instructor in New Orleans, and taught the junior officers all he could. Pete Blaze, Red’s older brother, could claim to be the best saber fighter in the Regiment and, although using an epée de salle instead of the arme blanche of the cavalry, performed with skill. So did his opponent. Clad in her Union army kepi, dark blue shirt, black breeches and light shoes, Belle Boyd handled her epée to such effect that Pete could not make a hit on her. Nor could she get through to him. Suddenly she jerked off her kepi, tossed it into Pete’s face and went into a lunge. Blinded by the hat, Pete failed to recover in time and he felt the epée’s button touch him in the belly.

  “I always say if you can’t lick ’em, trick ’em,” Bell stated, avoiding Amesley’s accusing eye.

  Laughing, the rest of the officers gathered around the girl. Not having been reared under the strict rules of the code duello, they regarded the girl’s breach of fencing etiquette as amusing. Requests to try a few passes against Belle came from all sides, but as the girl was about to accept one challenge she saw Dusty enter the building. One of the others turned to look at the new arrival.

  “Hey, Dusty,” he greeted. “Come on in and give Belle a whirl. This gal’s a living wonder with an epée.”

  Eagerly the other officers joined in the appeal for Dusty to try his hand in a bout with the girl. Belle regarded the small Texan with expectant eyes and hoped he would agree to face her. Since her arrival at the Regiment’s headquarters, she had heard many tales of Dusty’s blinding speed and deadly accuracy when using his Colts and also of his ability at unarmed fighting, but little had been said of his knowledge of fencing. She wanted to gauge his ability in that line.

  “Loan me an epée,” Dusty said, “I’ll learn how it’s done.”

  Taking the offered epée after removing his hat, jacket and gunbelt, he stepped into the center of the hall. Belle had recovered her hat and moved into place before him, smiling as she studied the relaxed ease with which he handled the epée.

  A faint smile came to Amesley’s face and he moved forward. Nothing could quite compare, in his opinion, to watching the interplay between two skilled users of the epée. While he taught the Regiment how to handle their sabers, at heart he clung to the belief that the epée was the only true gentleman’s weapon and hoped the girl would not spoil what promised to be a fine bout by using any trickery.

  Gracefully Belle raised her epée in the salute and watched the relaxed, casual manner with which Dusty replied to the courtesy. If the way he handled his epée proved anything, he knew at least the basic rudiments of fencing. From what Belle had seen so far among the Texans, that did not surprise her. She wanted to see how much further his knowledge went.

  “En garde!” Amesley ordered. “Engage.”

  The blade touched and Belle attacked with a covered thrust but felt Dusty’s epée deflect her own slightly and parried his counter-attack with a deft wrist twist which gladdened Amesley’s heart as he watched. While the opening moves told Belle that Dusty knew more than a little about handling an epée, before many seconds passed Belle began to realize just how good he was with that weapon. Yet for all his skill, Dusty found that the girl could handle his attacks and prevented him from making a hit on her.

  Steel glinted, hissed and clashed as the bout went on. Attacks on arm and body, thrusts at low or high angulation, froisse attacks, prises de fer, were made and parried; even beats at the blade, most difficult of all moves to accomplish with an epée were tried without the one attempting the beat taking the point of the blade so far out of line that it left the forearm uncovered for a counter thrust. Even the stern old master, Amesley, could not resist joining in the applause when Belle, in the course of her attack, carried her left foot as far back as possible, dropped her left hand to the floor while extending her right arm with the hand high and thumb downward so as to direct her sword towards Dusty in the low line. Only by a very rapid retreat did Dusty avoid being taken by Belle’s passata sotto and her low lunge, a classic and entirely legal move, carried her body under his blade.

  For over a minute the duel went on fast and furiously. Sweat trickled down Belle’s face and she had never found a moment when she might chance getting off balance to repeat the trick which beat Pete Blaze. However, she saw her chance as they came in close. Just as Dusty wondered if he ought to call off the contest, for the girl had already taken on Pete in a long bout, he caught a warning glint in her eyes.

  Up drove Belle’s left foot, aimed at his middle. She gave only that one very faint hint of her plan, but against a man with Dusty’s lightning fast reactions such a hint was enough. From the raised balance position, Dusty’s left hand sped down and his fingers closed on her leg before the foot reached him. Belle gave a startled yel
p as she felt his strength. Then he twisted on the ankle, turning the foot inward and raising it higher than Belle meant it to go. This caused Belle to turn her body away from him and, losing her epée, she went down to land on her hands, face to the floor. Still gripping the ankle in his hand, Dusty, placed his right foot between her legs and dropped to his knee so as to bend the trapped limb across his. This move came so swiftly that Belle could not even think of countering it. Pain knifed into her knee and she gasped. Instantly Dusty released his hold and came to his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Belle,” he said, bending to help her rise. “I just went on with the move without thinking.”

  A wry smile came to Belle’s face. “Mike was right. I wouldn’t have fooled you with my savate.”

  “You sure can handle a sword,” Dusty commented.

  “I had a good teacher,” Belle replied and in an attempt to make amends for spoiling Amesley’s enjoyment of the bout by her attempt at trickery, went on, “almost as good as the man who taught you.”

  “I’d like to see you matched against Dusty when you are fresh, Miss Boyd,” Amesley put in, accepting the compliment with a slight bow.

  “We’ll see what we can do, sir,” Dusty promised. “And now, how about coming riding with me, Belle?”

  “My pleasure, sir,” Belle answered with as near a curtsy as she could manage while slightly winded and wearing breeches instead of a skirt. “If the other gentlemen will excuse me.”

  Jumping to the wall, Pete Blaze took down one of the epées from the rack and returned to block the way to the door. “We won’t,” he warned. “You’ll have to fight your way out.”

  Eagerly the seven other young officers grabbed training weapons and aligned themselves with Pete.

  “Two against eight?” asked Belle with a smile. “How about it, Dusty?”

  “Danged if we haven’t all but got them outnumbered,” Dusty replied and winked at her. “Let’s follow the Boyd family motto.”

  Dropping his epée, Dusty went forward in a fast, rolling dive that carried him under the blades of the waiting swords. His hands shot out to grab the inner ankle of the man on either side of Pete and his body struck and knocked his cousin over backwards. Coming erect at the end of his roll, Dusty retained his grip on the ankles, jerking them into the air. Taken by surprise, the trapped men tipped over, to land in a tangled heap upon Pete.

  Keeping her epée in her hand, Belle bounded forward and into the air in a savate leaping high kick. Drawing up her legs, she shot them out, one foot striking each of the central of her four opponents in the chest and flinging them backwards. Rebounding from her attack, which carried her body over their swords, Belle landed on her feet once more. With a swift, deft bound, she twisted the amazed third man’s saber from his grasp. Whirling, Belle lunged at the fourth and passed his guard long before he thought to make it.

  “You’re dead!” she announced as the epée bowed gracefully from hand to chest.

  “And so are you, Stan,” declared Dusty, scooping up a saber and delivering a cut at the body of the last of their attackers while that worthy stood open-mouthed and amazed.

  Whether any of the eight would have accepted their “deaths” was not to be discovered. A soldier appeared at the door of the building even as Dusty spoke.

  “Company A is back!” the man yelled.

  Instantly all thought of carrying on with the fun departed and the discomfited attackers untangled themselves to rise and leave the room. Dusty returned his epée and saber to the wall rack, collected his hat, jacket and gunbelt and joined the others outside to watch the returning company.

  “Buck’s all right,” Pete breathed in relief as he watched his twin brother riding at the head of the approaching column.

  Leaving his men, Buck Blaze rode towards the others and halted. Although his face showed fatigue, he managed a grin as his eyes rested on Dusty.

  “We got it, Dusty,” Buck said. “Hardly saw a Yankee all the way, thanks to you. Prisoner we took at the depot allowed most of the men had been sent west after your boys. You sure riled the Yankees this time out.”

  “Pleased to hear it,” Dusty replied. “Did you lose many men?”

  “Four. It’d been a damned sight harder happen you hadn’t drawn so many of the Yankee troops to the west.”

  On a previous attempt at destroying the depot, with less forethought or planning, half a company of a Virginia cavalry regiment were killed or captured. That had been during the period when Ole Devil found himself fully occupied with assuming office as commanding general of the Army of Arkansas.

  Dusty watched Buck ride away after Company A. Somehow his cousin’s news made him feel better. There had been a big saving of lives through his actions.

  “Well, Dusty,” Belle remarked after Buck left, “we’ve fought our way out. Let’s take that ride, shall we?”

  “I reckon we can,” he answered.

  Borrowing two horses from the Regiment’s remount pool, Belle and Dusty rode from the camp and along the forest-lined trail towards Hope City. At first they talked of Dusty’s fighting skills and he described the deadly ju jitsu and karate techniques taught to him by Ole Devil’s servant, a smiling Oriental who claimed to hail from some country called Nippon. At last, about a mile from the camp, Dusty brought up the subject which interested him most.

  “When do we leave?”

  “As soon as authorization to purchase the guns is telegraphed to me from my headquarters. The Government may have some other plans for using the money, or may not want to deal with Smee.”

  “How’d you figure we’ll get to the coast and reach Matamoros?”

  “Pick up a riverboat at Fulton and go down the Red, but swing off along the Atchafalaya River instead of joining the Mississippi. Go through Grand Lake to Morgan City and join a fast blockade-runner there, use it to reach Matamoros.”

  “And how do we go up the Rio Grande to Matamoros?” asked Dusty. “A Confederate blockade-runner won’t be flying the British flag.”

  “I’m not sure how,” Belle admitted. “I think we’ll be put ashore south of Matamoros and make our way overland.”

  “That’ll mean taking horses with us,” Dusty remarked.

  A redheaded woodpecker flitted from the trees ahead of the horses, made a rapid change of direction and sped off towards the thick bushes flanking the other side of the trail. Then it seemed to be trying to halt in mid-air and its chattering cry burst loud as it. swung away from the bushes to speed off and disappear into the trees again.

  Watching the bird’s appearance, Dusty followed its flight until it made the second hurried change of direction. His eyes caught a sight of something blue in color and at odds with the greens or browns of the surrounding bushes. In a flickering blur of movement, his left hand crossed to draw the right side Colt.

  “Come out with your hands raised high!” he ordered, cocking the Colt. “Do it slow and real easy.”

  Belle halted her horse and for once just sat staring instead of reacting with her usual speed. While she carried her Dance in an open-topped holster, she had never mastered the knack of drawing it really fast. So far little publicity had been given to the deadly techniques of the Western gun fighter and few people in the more pampered East had any conception of just how swiftly a frontier-trained man could draw his weapon. To Belle, who had been engaged in her own business and failed to see Dusty shoot the Dragoon at the mouth of the Funnel, it seemed that the Army Colt just appeared in Dusty’s left hand; and for no reason that she could discern.

  Hands in the air and moving slowly, a bearded man stepped from the bushes. He had the appearance of a poorer class manual worker and did not appear to be armed. Although blue, his shirt was a lighter shade than that worn by the Yankee army; which was fortunate for him, as Dusty would have shot without challenging otherwise.

  “Don’t shoot, sir,” he said. “Maybe the lady knows what comes after ‘Southrons, hear your country call you’. ”

  “‘Up, lest worse
than death befall you’,” Belle answered. “He’s a friend, Dusty. You won’t need your gun.”

  “My friends don’t hide out when they see me coming,” Dusty commented.

  “Mine do,” Belle countered. “Do you have a message for me?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the man answered, throwing a glance at Dusty and making no attempt to pass on the message.

  “Will you wait here, please, Dusty?” asked Belle, knowing that the man did not wish to speak in front of the small Texan.

  “It’s your deal,” Dusty replied.

  Belle and the man walked up the trail, the girl sitting her horse and leaning down to speak. A few moments passed and Belle turned her horse to ride back towards Dusty while the man disappeared into the bushes. Even before Belle reached him, Dusty knew something troubled her.

  “We’d better go back to the camp, Dusty,” she said. “I’ve just had some disturbing news.”

  Eight – Promotion for Major Amesley

  The short, smiling Oriental servant showed Belle and Dusty into Ole Devil Hardin’s office. Seated at his desk, the General shoved aside a pile of papers on which he had been working and then came to his feet.

  “You wish to see me, Miss Boyd?” he asked.

  “I do, general,” Belle replied.

  “Was just going to send for you anyway. Your authorization to take the money and buy the arms has just come in.”

  Belle and Dusty exchanged glances and despite their being accustomed to living in danger, both felt a faint tingle of anticipation run through them.

  “Give Miss Boyd a chair, Tommy,” Ole Devil ordered, for, despite his inborn objections to a young lady wearing men’s clothing and indulging in such an unfeminine business as spying, he never forgot the social graces. When the girl had been seated at the desk, he continued, “What did you want to see me about, Miss Boyd?”