Standing naked in the tiny attic room of a small inn on the outskirts of Matamoros, Belle Boyd allowed a giggling Mexican girl to apply an oily liquid to her back. Already Belle had used the liquid on her face, neck, arms and other places accessible to her hands; turning the creamy whiteness of her skin to a brown equaling that of her assistant. With so much at stake, Belle could not take the chance of some unfortunate exposure revealing patches of white skin to arouse suspicions. So, explaining her needs to Sam Ysabel, she received the girl’s assistance to coat the parts of her body beyond her reach.
“Is it all right, señorita?” asked the girl, putting down the depleted bottle of liquid and taking a mirror from the bed.
Carefully Belle studied the reflection of her back. Then she scrutinized every inch of her body, checking behind the ears, under her breasts, beneath her armpits and between her legs. Not until certain that she bore no white flesh to betray her did she nod in satisfaction.
“It will do,” she said in Spanish. “Gracias.”
“You take much trouble to look like one of us, señorita,” the girl remarked. “Is it for a man?”
“Yes,” Belle answered, deciding such an answer would be more acceptable than any other to her assistant.
“For Cabrito?” the girl hissed.
“No!” Belle replied hastily, knowing Cabrito to be the Kid’s Mexican name. She recalled how the other had greeted the Kid on his arrival and wanted to avoid stirring up a feeling of jealousy. “He and his father are taking me to meet my—my sweetheart.”
Clearly the explanation satisfied the girl and her air of hostility evaporated as quickly as it came. Smiling warmly, she indicated the clothing on the bed and suggested that Belle dressed herself.
While donning the clothing of a poor Mexican working girl, Belle thought of the previous night’s events.
Although nobody had followed them, Ysabel had set a fast pace and kept clear of trails during the ride to Matamoros. In addition to a desire to avoid attracting attention, the girl felt the Texans might be motivated by a wish to learn her ability at riding a horse through rough country at night. In which case she believed that she had gained their approbation.
On drawing close to the town, Ysabel halted the party and sent the Kid forward to scout their way. Learning on his son’s return that a French picket was watching the trail, Ysabel still stated his intention of pushing on to the inn. Once again Belle felt herself being put to a test, but believed that she came through it to the Texans’ satisfaction. Moving on foot among the scattered bushes, keeping the horses as quiet as possible, they passed within a hundred feet of the picket and avoided being detected.
If the arrival of the Ysabels at the small inn were any indication, they were highly popular visitors. The owner greeted them warmly, accepting Belle’s presence without question. Leading his guests towards his stables, he avoided the front entrance and made his way to the rear. There he raised a dirt-covered trapdoor and lit the way down an incline to a large cellar equipped for housing horses. With the welfare of their mounts attended to, the innkeeper helped the Texans carry Belle’s trunks into the main building. Such was Belle’s confidence in her companions that she agreed without a moment’s thought to them keeping the trunks in their room while she bedded down in the attic.
Over breakfast, Belle and the Ysabels discussed their future arrangements. First she must report to the Confederate States’ consul in the town, but knew that doing so would be far from easy. To appear in her present garb of shirtwaist and riding breeches was, of course, out of the question. Nor could she make use of a dress and wig from her trunks. If she knew the Yankee Secret Service, and by that time she figured she did, they were sure to maintain a watch on the consul’s house. The arrival of a strange white woman would be noted and steps speedily taken to identify her. When it became obvious that she had not arrived through the normal channels, conclusions—maybe the correct one—would be drawn. Let the Yankees receive but one hint that the Rebel Spy had returned to Matamoros, and they would spare no effort to locate her. The mission ahead stood to be sufficiently dangerous without needlessly adding complications.
Fortunately Belle had come prepared for some such eventuality. A chemist working for her organization had produced a body stain of exactly the right color to give her the appearance of a Mexican; easy to apply, quick-drying and—he swore—impervious to soaking in cold water, while hot water and a special soap would remove it with one washing. That and clothing borrowed from the innkeeper’s daughter gave Belle a suitable disguise.
Dressing did not take long, for the clothing of a peon girl consisted of only a shift, blouse, skirt and sandals. That meant, Belle concluded as she glanced in the mirror on completion, she could not carry the Dance concealed on her person. Nor would her parasol, even reassembled, be less noticeable in her disguise. So she would have to make do with the knife-bracelet. It would not be out of place or conspicuous among the bangles of the cheap jewelry supplied to complete her attire.
“There is only your hair now, señorita,” the Mexican girl said. “I have never see—”
“I don’t suppose you have,” Belle replied in English.
Her hair was kept cut so short for a purpose. In her trunk she carried six wigs—or had until the loss of the red one at the bay—designed by an expert and used to alter her appearance. To wear one of them so that it appeared almost completely natural, she had to keep her own hair cropped close to the skull. At first Belle felt self-conscious when not wearing a wig, but she grew used to it and no longer worried over other people’s attitude towards her appearance.
Selecting a wig from the box brought up, Belle tried it on. She stood before the mirror, altering the long black tresses to conform to the style of the girl by her side. A knock sounded at the door as she completed the work. Crossing the room, she opened it. The Kid stood outside. No longer did he wear his buckskins but was dressed in a torn white shirt, ragged white trousers and sandals. A sombrero rode on his head, while a serape draped over his left shoulder. With his Indian-dark skin, he would pass as a peon provided he prevented anybody looking too closely at his face. Those red-hazel eyes would give him away even if his features did not. Glancing at Belle, he opened his mouth to speak, closed it and stared again.
“Miss Belle?” he croaked.
“Will I do?” she smiled.
“I’d say you’ll get by,” he enthused. “As long as you don’t talk too much.”
That, Belle knew, would give her away. While she spoke some Spanish, her accent could never get by. However she did not intend speaking any more than possible on the short journey to the house of the Confederate States consul.
Seated alongside the Kid on the small donkey cart, Belle attracted no more than casual attention from the passersby. However only a coating of vegetables lay on the tarpaulin which covered her trunks. Hidden among them lay her Dance and the Kid’s Dragoon Colt, while he carried the bowie knife concealed beneath his serape. Belle hoped that they would not find need for the weapons, but carried them in case of detection.
At first all went well. They passed through the narrow streets of the poorer section, entered an area of greater prosperity and moved at a leisurely pace towards their objective.
“Won’t be long now, Miss Belle,” the Kid commented, sitting with the brim of his sombrero drawn down to shield his face. “Once we’re through this business section, we’ll soon be at the consul’s house.”
“I won’t be sorry,” Belle replied.
They continued along the street, passing the town’s best hotel. Ahead of them, a burly French corporal halted. Studying the approaching cart, he stepped from the sidewalk and blocked their way.
“Hey you!” he said in bad Spanish. “Stop that cart!”
“Si, señor,” Belle answered mildly, jabbing her elbow into the Kid’s ribs as a warning for him to control his temper.
“What’ve you got here?” the corporal demanded, walking forward and eyeing Belle from head to toe.
“Is only vegetables for the market, señor general,” the girl replied, satisfied that her accent would pass unnoticed by the Frenchman. “My brother and I bring them to sell.”
“Get down, both of you!” the corporal ordered.
Only a few people were using the street at that moment and none displayed too much interest in the scene. Such sights had become common in Mexico since the French began their occupation and they discouraged undue curiosity in their affairs.
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 received 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.”