The Rebel Spy (2 page)

“Hold it, Billy Jack!”

The words cracked from Dusty’s lips and brought the sergeant major to an immediate halt. Turning, he looked at his commander and waited to be told what caused the change of plans.

Almost three years of war and danger gave Dusty an instinct, or second sense which warned him of peril. Suddenly he became aware of the familiar sensations; something was wrong and he wondered what. Swiftly his mind ran through the sequence of events. He felt sure that the box contained articles more significant than mere religious tracts. If anything, Oliver spoke too glibly; and dressed wrongly for a member of an obscure church mission organisation.

When handing over the key to Billy Jack, Oliver for a moment lost his air of martyrdom. Only for a moment did it go, but during that time the man showed hate, disappointment and a little satisfaction. For some reason Oliver wanted them to undertake the actual opening of the box. In fact he had fallen back as Billy Jack approached it and stood so as to place Dusty between him and the sergeant major. All that had registered subconciously to Dusty, triggering off his warning instincts and causing him to stop Billy Jack. Unless Dusty was sadly wrong, Billy Jack might regret opening the box should he do so.

“What’s up, Cap’n Dusty?” Billy Jack asked.

“Leave it,” Dusty replied. “We’ll take it back unopened.”

“Let me do it for you,” Oliver offered, stepping by Dusty and speaking in a voice which sounded just a mite shakey.

“Stop right there!” Dusty ordered. “I’m taking it back—.”

“All right,” answered Oliver and shrugged his shoulders.

In doing so, he pressed his left elbow against his side in what appeared to be a casual manner. Almost immediately his cuff jerked in a peculiar manner and a Henry Deringer Pocket Pistol slid from the sleeve into his hand. Smoothly done, the move showed long practice in controlling the pistol and its holster, which was built on the same lines as a card hold-out device used by crooked gamblers. Most people would have been taken by surprise by the sudden appearance of the pistol.

Dusty Fog proved to be an exception. Back home in the Rio Hondo country, he learned gun-handling from men well-versed in all its aspects. Part of his training covered concealment of weapons and the various methods by which a hidden pistol might be produced unexpectedly yet suddenly. Fortunately he had been watching the man, or he might have missed the elbow pressure required to set the hold-out’s springs working.

Seeing the danger, a lesser person might easily have panicked, drawn, cut Oliver down and possibly have created a chain-reaction of shooting among the guards over the prisoners. Despite the urgency, Dusty realised the delicate nature of the situation and refrained from using his Colt as a means of rectifying it. All too well he could see the Yankee enlisted men’s reactions to the sight of a rebel officer shooting down a man of the church; as they imagined Oliver to be.

Realising that, Dusty acted accordingly. Even as he went into action, he became aware of Oliver’s peculiar behaviour.

At the sight of the pistol, Billy Jack discarded his pose of lackadaisical misery and showed himself to be a bone-tough Texas fighting man. Flinging himself to one side and down, he drew his right hand Colt while dropping to the ground. It appeared that he moved so fast, he caught Oliver unprepared. Certainly the small civilian made no attempt to correct his aim and continued to line the Deringer at the box. So Billy Jack held his fire. Being all too familiar with Dusty’s deadly speed, Billy Jack knew the small Texan could easily have drawn and shot Oliver. As he did not, Cap’n Dusty clearly required the man alive and Billy Jack respected his commanding officer’s wants.

From where he stood, Dusty could follow the way in which Oliver lined the gun. The hesitation in following Billy Jack’s diving body did not go with the smooth manner by which Oliver produced the hide-out pistol. Nor did there appear to be any point in the man shooting Billy Jack after the sergeant major turned away from the box. To Dusty’s way of thinking, Oliver intended to hit the box—and a particular part of it at that.

Having reached that conclusion in a flickering blur of thought, Dusty set about dealing with the matter. He acted with the kind of speed that would in the future gain him the name as the fastest gun in Texas.

Out shot his hands, but he did not waste valuable time in trying to knock the gun from Oliver’s grasp. Catching the man’s right wrist between his hands, with the thumbs uppermost and fingers around the joint bones, Dusty pivoted to the left until standing almost with his back to and behind Oliver. Then he drew the trapped arm until it was held before him and slid his left hand along to close over the pistol-filled fist. The action caused Oliver to lose his balance and stumble. Swiftly Dusty reversed the direction of the man by stepping back a pace and twisting on the wrist. Oliver went down on to his back, but the pain caused by his wrist and the momentum of his fall caused him to turn right over and land face down. Stepping around the man’s head, Dusty turned the pistol and drew it from the clutching fingers.

As Oliver went over, he let out a screech far in excess of the pain he received. At the sound Benson began to rise, hot anger showing on his young face. Seeing an apparently unprovoked attack on the little civilian, he forgot all his previous thoughts on Dusty’s chivalry. An uneasy ripple of movement passed through the seated ranks of Yankee prisoners and the watching Texans hefted their weapons to a more convenient position ready for use.

“Sit still!” ordered Red Blaze, twisting his right hand palm out and drawing the off-side Colt cavalry-style, to line it on Benson.

“Do it, damn you!” snapped Wormold, alert to the danger his shavetail’s behaviour threatened to create. “First sergeant, make the men stay still.” Then he glared at Red. “Does the Texas Light Cavalry make a habit of assaulting civilians, Mr. Blaze?”

“Likely Dusty had good reason,” Red replied loyally. “Let’s wait and see, shall we?”

“We’ll do that,” Wormold agreed, conscious that he could do no other.

“Lemme up!” Oliver whined. “I’m through.”

Releasing the man’s wrists, Dusty stepped clear. Already Billy Jack had regained his feet and stood looking at Dusty, wondering what the hell was going on. Moving slowly, as if hurt by his fall, Oliver raised himself on to hands and knees. Suddenly he flung himself forward, in the direction of the box. Out shot Billy Jack’s right arm, catching Oliver by the scruff of the neck as he passed and heaving him backwards. Even so, the small man lashed a kick at the box and his boot narrowly missed colliding with its lock. Then he went staggering backwards in Dusty’s direction.

At the second attempt by Oliver to destroy the box—for Dusty felt sure that lay behind the civilian’s actions—the small Texan called off being gentle. As Oliver reeled towards him, Dusty struck in a certain way taught to him by his uncle, Ole Devil Hardin’s personal servant. Although many people thought Tommy Okasi was Chinese, he claimed to hail from the Japanese islands. Wherever he came from originally, Tommy possessed some mighty effective fighting tricks and taught them to the smallest member of the Hardin, Fog and Blaze clan. Using the
ju-jitsu
or
karate
techniques passed to him by Tommy Okasi, Dusty could handle bigger and stronger men with comparative ease. Nor did his knowledge hinder him in dealing with Oliver.

Around lashed Dusty’s right arm, the hand held open with fingers together and thumb bent across the palm. Its heel chopped hard against the base of Oliver’s skull in the
tegatana
, hand-sword, of karate. While such a method looked awkward and might be judged unlikely to be effective by a man trained in Occidental fist-fighting. Dusty had no cause to complain. On receiving the blow, Oliver dropped like a head-shot rabbit and lay still.

“Hawg-tie him, Billy Jack,” Dusty ordered.

“Yo!” answered the sergeant major and looked around. “Hey, Tracey Prince, bring over some rope from that centre wagon.”

One of the troopers obeyed and Billy Jack swiftly secured Oliver. Dusty looked around the camp, seeing sullen resentment on Yankee faces and interest among his own men. However the Texans still had the situation well under control and Dusty aimed to keep it that way.

“What in hell made him act that ways, Cap’n Dusty?” asked Billy Jack after completing his task.

“Damned if I know,” Dusty replied. “Give me the key and I reckon I’ll find out about it.”

Walking to the box, Dusty circled and studied it. By all outer appearances, Oliver took a lot of trouble and considerable risk for nothing. The box was maybe three foot long, by two high and deep, made of white pine, with a built-in lock to its hinged lid. Although Dusty held the key in his hand, he did not offer to use it. Unless he missed his guess, Oliver tried first to drive a bullet into the lock and then kick it. Not to jam its mechanism, for that would delay the opening only the few minutes required to smash through the lid.

So why did Oliver chance being killed by trying to shoot at the lock?

Slowly Dusty turned the box on end and examined its sides, but he saw nothing in their design of workmanship to interest him. Then he looked at the bottom. It had a stout framework screwed firmly around its edges to hold the base on to the sides.

“Never saw a box with its bottom screwed on afore, Cap’n Dusty,” commented Billy Jack, standing behind the small Texan.

“Likely there’s a good reason for it,” Dusty answered. “Guidon!” The company’s guidon-carrier came over from where he had stood awaiting orders. “Fetch me a screw-driver from one of the wagons.”

“Yo!” answered the young man who carried the Company’s identifying pennant on the march, while attending to the commanding officer’s mount as required.

While waiting for the screw-driver, Dusty collected Oliver’s Deringer from where it lay on the ground and walked over to the Union officers’ fire.

“Why d’you reckon a man of the church carried a Deringer, Captain Wormold?” he asked, showing the small pistol to them.

“You mean he tried to shoot you?” asked Wormold.

“Something like that.”

“He thought you meant to rob him,” suggested the first lieutenant.

“That’d be a mighty Christian way to act, mister,” Dusty drawled. “Shooting a man down to save some religious tracts. Especially when I’d told him that we’d not take them were that all he carried.”

“Did he know you’d keep your word?” asked the first lieutenant.

“That depends on the kind of officers he’s come across on your side, mister,” Dusty answered. “And remember one thing, mister; when he made his move, he might easy have stirred up a mess that cost damned near all your men their lives.”

“But Mr. Oliver’s a man of peace,” Benson put in. “He’d not know the danger, Captain Fog.”

“I’ve got the screw-driver, Cap’n,” called the guidon-carrier.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Dusty said and turned to walk back to the box.

The short talk had been a waste of time in one respect, although it enabled Dusty to clarify his position over the incident. Despite having watched carefully, he failed to detect the slightest hint that the Yankee officers knew their passenger to be other than a member of the Baptist Mission For Indian Betterment.

Taking the screw-driver, Dusty knelt by the box and went carefully to work. After removing the screws, he moved the framework and slid away the bottom board. Before his eyes lay proof that Oliver had good reason for not wanting the box open.

“Whooee!” the guidon-carrier yelped, staring down with eyes bugged out like organ stops. “I never before saw that much money in all my life.”

His comment was very apt. All the interior space of the box was filled with packs of new Confederate money. While the guidon-carrier looked down and saw no more than the bare sight of the money, Dusty stared and thought. The small Texan wondered why a Yankee civilian travelling on a Union Army supply convoy would be carrying a large sum of the enemy’s money.

One answer sprang straight to mind. The U.S. Secret Service maintained spy-rings throughout Texas, Arkansas and the Indian Nations and its members needed rebel money for operating expenses. Most likely Oliver acted as pay-master for them. His actions earlier proved that he knew of the box’s contents and sought to destroy them before they fell into the rebels’ hands.

In which case Oliver became a catch of major importance. Most likely the Confederate Secret Service would be only to pleased to have in their hands a man so high among their opposite numbers that he carried payments for Yankee spies. With any amount of luck, Company ‘C’ ought to return to the Regiment’s headquarters in time to hand over Oliver to a person who would know the best way to deal with him.

While studying the money, Dusty became aware of the apparent thickness of the box’s walls. He took out three of the pads of money from level with the lock and looked into the space. It seemed that the inside of the box had been coated with a familiar-looking material. Unless Dusty missed his guess as he ran a finger over the box’s lining, the material was wet-stretched pig’s intestines coated with chemicals to make them inflammable and shellacked for a water-resistant finish. Self-consuming cartridges made of the same material sometimes came his way and he could not mistake the sight or touch of the lining. Nor did he feel the solid hardness of wood beneath the pig’s skin, instead it gave slightly as if some softer substance separated it from the pine.

Dusty went no further with his experiments, preferring to leave the solving of the box’s mystery to hands trained in such work. He put the three pads he had taken into his pocket, then telling the guidon-carrier to secure the box’s base, Dusty called Red and Billy Jack to him. They saw enough of the contents to arouse their interest.

“Could be the lil feller didn’t know what was inside,” Billy Jack commented.

“Happen he thought it was the church funds,” Red went on with a grin.

“You’re a big help,” Dusty answered. “This’s why he tried to put a bullet into the lock.”

“That wouldn’t stop us opening the box for long,” Red said. ‘We could easy bust in the lid.”

“Didn’t need to,” Billy Jack put in. “He’d already give me the key—”

“And didn’t make his move until after I’d told you to leave opening it up,” Dusty pointed out. “I reckon we’ll let an armourer take a look at that box.”

“If you’re thinking what I know you’re thinking,” Billy Jack said fervently. “Thanks for stopping me.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Dusty assured him. “I’d rather have the devil I know than start getting a new sergeant major used to my ways. Get ready to pull out.”

“You Want the usual doing, Dusty?” asked Red.

Only for a moment did Dusty hesitate. No matter how often he did it, he could never quite reconcile himself to taking horses from his enemies.

“Do the usual,” he said. “Take them all.”

True to the code of the Texas range country, Dusty did not lightly set a man a-foot. An old Texas saying ran, ‘A man without a horse is no man at all.’ To the majority of people in the Lone Star State being set a-foot ranked as the worst possible fate and not infrequently led to the horse-less one’s death.

However Dusty accepted that he must take all the horses; not only because his Company expected it, but as part of his duty as an officer in the Confederate States Army. He knew that the loss of the supplies would have a great demoralising effect on the Yankees—as also would his act of leaving them two-thirds of the medical supplies—and so he put aside his distaste in the interests of his duty.

Thinking of the medical supplies brought up another point and Dusty acted on it.

“Red,” he said as his cousin turned to supervise the loading of the box on to a wagon. “Pick out two horses—no, mules if they have them—and leave them as a team for the ambulance.”

“It’ll be mules then,” Red replied.

Strolling over to the officers’ fire, Dusty said, “We’ll be pulling out now, Captain Wormold.”

“You didn’t have your cup of coffee,” Wormold answered, determined to prove he could accept defeat gracefully.

“I’ll have it now then,” Dusty smiled, glancing around him. Already the wagons had been prepared to move, their teams hitched up by men assigned to the duty. Another party arrived with Company ‘C’s’ horses and Billy Jack, without waiting for instructions, ordered half of the men guarding the Yankees to mount up. Everything ran with a smooth, orderly precision which allowed no opportunity for the Yankees to make a move at changing the situation. At no time were they left without armed men ready to quell any attempt at escaping or overpowering the rebels.

“You’ll find your vedettes, pickets and riding patrols hawg-tied and gagged at the picket sites,” Dusty remarked, sipping at the coffee.

“Are any of them injured?” Wormold demanded.

“Sore heads and rope-burned necks is all.”

That gave Wormold the picture of how and why his circle of guards failed to raise the alarm. It also did nothing to lessen his admiration for the skill showed by the Texans. Stalking a lone vedette might be fairly simple, but silencing a full picket offered greater difficulty and that did not include the collection of the communicating patrols which passed constantly between the grand guard and pickets. Yet those Texans brought it off and performed most of the delicate work without any supervision from their officers. Wormold shuddered as he thought of the noiseless approach, the silent swish as ropes flew out to settle about Yankee necks, or gun butts descended to silence any Union out-cry. If the rebels were the sadistic, blood-thirsty fiends the liberal newspapers made them appear, Wormold would be burying at least half of his command the following morning instead of freeing hands and attending to minor injuries.

Sipping appreciatively at his coffee—the Union blockade of Texas’ coastline putting it among the commodities in short supply—Dusty watched the final preparations to leave. Billy Jack sent the guidon-carrier and another man to collect Oliver and carry the bound man to the wagons.

“What’s this, Captain Fog?” Wormold asked.

“I’m taking Mr. Oliver along,” Dusty replied.

“As a hostage?” growled the first lieutenant.

“Wake up, mister!” Dusty barked. “Oliver’s carrying a box full of Confederate money. He knew what he was carrying and it’s likely for distribution to Yankee spies. So he’s coming with me, mister. If our brass decide he’s innocent, I’ll be disciplined and he’ll be returned with apologies.”

Clearly the lieutenant understood the subtle differences between a harmless enemy civilian and an agent employed as pay-master and go-between for spies. If he did not, Wormold and Benson knew for they made no objections. In fact Wormold began to transfer his indignation and rage from Dusty to Oliver. No professional soldier cared for spies, although admitting they had their uses, and Wormold liked Oliver a whole lot less when considering that the man had been willing to throw away many lives to safeguard his secret.

“We understand, Captain Fog,” he stated.

“Then I’ll thank you for the coffee and be on my way,” Dusty replied. “I’m leaving you a couple of mules to haul the ambulance.”

“Thanks,” Wormold answered, understanding the reason for selecting that particular kind of team. Mules could not travel at the speed of horses and one trained for harness-work showed a strenuous reluctance to being saddled for riding. While Dusty left the Yankees with the means of hauling their medical supplies, he prevented them from using the animals as a way of sending for reinforcements. “You seem to have thought of everything.”

“I try, Captain,” Dusty smiled. “I surely try.”

Looking around his denuded, disarmed, horseless camp after the sound of the rebel hooves faded into the distance, Captain Wormold decided that Dusty did far better than merely try—he made a damned good job of it.