Sitting up on the bed, Ludlow blinked as the light from the lantern hung overhead dazzled him. He groaned as he swung his feet to the floor and clutched at his throbbing, aching head while fighting down the nausea filling his body. Slowly the throbbing and nausea died away and his dizziness ended, allowing him to take an interest in his surroundings.
He found himself in a small, stoutly-made one-room log cabin that had a small barred window in one wall faced at the other side by a door with a covered peep-hole cut into it. Significantly to Ludlow’s mind, the door did not have a keyhole or latch in it. For furnishings the cabin held a bed, foot-locker, table and chair, all securely bolted to the floor. At first he could not imagine where he might be, then he realized that the cabin must be one used to hold captured Yankee officers before passing them on to a permanent prisoner-of-war camp. Securing the furnishings prevented them being used as weapons or a means of breaking down the door.
Even as Ludlow thought of that, pain bit into him and caused his hands to reach for the place where Belle kicked him. Recollection flooded back to him. Shock and fear creased his handsome face as his hands darted up to feel at his jaw. Staring wildly around the room, his eyes came to rest on a mirror hanging upon one wall. Rising from the bed, he lurched hurriedly across the room and studied his reflection in the shining steel surface.
“Thank God!” he croaked as he found that the swelling would have no permanent effect and leave no trace to disfigure his handsome features.
Before the thought that he might never again need his good looks as a means of making a living struck him, he heard the door’s lock click and turned to see who entered. At first he barely recognized Belle without the wig and wearing male clothes. For all that, something told him that she, the burly civilian and small cavalry captain did not come merely to inquire about the state of his health.
“Go and sit at the table!” Belle ordered, standing with the parasol held lightly in both hands.
Seeing the futility of resistance, Ludlow crossed to the table and slid into the chair.
“What’s the game?” he asked, sounding more than a shade uneasy.
“Lay your hands palm down on the table top in front of you,” the girl said as if she did not hear a word he spoke.
Once again Ludlow obeyed, noticing that each of the male newcomers held lengths of rope in his hands. Giving Ludlow no chance to raise objections, Dusty and Tolling converged on him and grabbed a wrist. Fastening one of the pieces of rope around the wrist he held, Dusty drew its other end down to be secured to the top of the table leg farthest away from the prisoner. Moving no less deftly, Tolling tied Ludlow’s other wrist in the same manner. Then, while Dusty secured Ludlow’s arms further by fastening a rope from elbow to elbow, Tolling roped the man’s legs to the chair. By the time they had finished, Ludlow sat held immobile and stared at them with growing concern.
“Now we’re all set to have a little talk,” Belle said.
“I don’t know what you’re playing at—” Ludlow began and looked at Dusty. “When General—”
“Don’t look at Captain Fog!” Belle shouted. “I’m talking to you!”
“Maybe he don’t reckon that a woman should be questioning him, Miss Boyd,” Tolling put in.
“B-Boyd!” gasped Ludlow and stared at the girl. “So you’re the Rebel Spy!”
“That’s right, you stinking traitor,” Belle replied, twisting at the handle of her parasol. “I’m the Rebel Spy and you’re going to answer questions for me.”
With that she drew the handle from the body of the parasol. Putting the lower section aside, she turned once more to face Ludlow. Instead of a piece of feminine frippery, she now held a deadly and sinister weapon. Dusty had noticed earlier that the parasol’s handle appeared to be thicker than usual, but gave the matter no thought. Like Ludlow, he studied the thing Belle held and understood the need for the unfeminine thickness. Gripping the steel ball exposed by removing the parasol’s upper section, Belle gave it a tug. Out slid a length of steel-coil spring and telescoped inside it was a foot of tubular steel connected to the ball.
Up and down flicked Belle’s right hand and the coil-spring sent the steel rod whipping towards the table top with a force out of all proportion to her movement. A savage crack sounded as the metal ball struck the table and buried itself to half its depth in the wood less than an inch from Ludlow’s right hand. Giving a startled, frightened yelp, he tried to jerk his hand away but the rope prevented him from doing so.
“How did this filth use to earn his living, Mr. Tolling?” asked the girl.
“Cheating at cards—” Tolling began.
“A man needs supple hands for that,” Belle purred. “Look at them, Tolling. Those hands have been cared for, kept soft and fancy. If they were broken—”
Again the wicked spring-powered billy snapped out, crashing into the wood even closer to Ludlow’s hand. Sweat broke on to his forehead and fear twisted at his face. That a beautiful and sensual woman handled the billy made its effect so much worse. When Ludlow saw her remove the parasol handle, he expected to see it contain a knife-blade. Instead it held a far more terrifying device, for Ludlow did not doubt that the girl intended to use it against him. The steel ball would rip and smash his hands so that no doctor could repair the damage.
“You’re a soldier!” he screeched, staring with terrified eyes at Dusty. “You can’t let her torture me.”
Again the billy whipped up and drove its ball into the table top. Dusty ran his tongue tip across dry lips as he saw the grim determination on Belle’s face.
“Belle—”
“Keep quiet, Captain Fog!” Belle snapped. “I hold rank of colonel and I’m giving you a direct order. You came here at my request. So leave me to handle things my way.”
While Dusty knew the girl spoke the truth about her honorary rank—given to put her in a position of authority when dealing with members of the Confederate armed forces—she had never made use of it in his presence before. Yet he knew she would not hesitate to invoke the full powers her rank gave if he interfered. So he stiffened into a brace and kept silent. Ludlow slumped in his chair as he realized that he could expect no further help from that source.
“Start talking, Byron!” Belle snapped after a brief pause to allow the full sense of his helplessness to fill the prisoner.
“I’ve not—” Ludlow began, then realized what name she used. “Who told you my name?”
“A man called Oliver,” Belle answered, but saw no hint that Ludlow knew the name.
“And Gilpin sold you out to save his own neck back in New Orleans,” Tolling went on when he saw Ludlow’s negative response.
For a moment recognition flickered on Ludlow’s face, showing that the name Tolling gave meant something to him. However he kept his mouth shut, wanting time to think how he might profit from his position and knowledge.
“You said the filth used to charm women, then bleed them by blackmail,” Belle said gently. “He’s handsome enough to do it, too.”
With that she swung the billy sideways and its ball lashed at Ludlow’s head. For a moment Dusty thought that the girl had struck the man’s face. He heard Ludlow cry out and expected to see blood gushing from a wound. None flowed. Apparently the blow missed, but not by much.
Ludlow had felt the wind of the billy’s passing and in his over-wrought state imagined that the metal ball grazed his skin. Far worse than the threat of mangled hands, to his way of thinking, would be the disfigurement of his face. Not only did his handsome features bring in money, but he prided himself on his looks. All too well he could imagine the horror in which the billy would leave him. An intelligent man, he possessed sufficient imagination to picture the work of the steel ball as it tore his features to a bloody, barely human ruin. Nor did he doubt that Belle meant to carry out her threat. The Rebel Spy had plenty of good reasons to hate Yankee spies and her abhorrence of Southern-born traitors would hardly be less.
“Talk, man. Why be ruined,” Tolling said. “Gilpin sold you down the river quick enough to save his own hide.”
Although Tolling lied on the matter, Ludlow did not doubt his story. Being an unprincipled rogue himself, Ludlow could not imagine other men acting differently than he would under a set of circumstances. So he accepted the lie that Gilpin, who died without talking, betrayed him. For all that, he hesitated to talk and hoped for time to think how he might put his information to the best use.
“I don’t know much!” he stated hurriedly as Belle’s lips tightened. “They told me to come out here, make my way across to the Indian Nations and meet one of their people in the Choctaw Indians’ main village.”
“And that’s all you know?” Belle asked.
“That’s all I know,” agreed Ludlow.
“Bring in that box, gentlemen,” the girl ordered.
“Sure, Miss Boyd,” Tolling answered and left the room followed by Dusty.
“Captain Fog captured a Yankee agent on his way to the Choctaw village,” Belle explained to Ludlow. “Maybe his property will tell us something of your mission.”
Watching the man, Belle noticed him give a shocked start as he saw the box Dusty and Tolling carried in. She drew the key from her pocket as the men set the box down before Ludlow, placing it between his hands on the table. Fear flickered across Ludlow’s face as she walked forward. Then his features set into hard lines. Realizing that he stood a good chance of dying, Ludlow found some comfort in the fact that the girl who humiliated and captured him would also be killed. Anger at Belle for out-smarting him over-rode his knowledge of what would happen when she inserted and turned the key.
“Hold it, Miss Boyd!” Tolling said urgently, just before the key entered the lock. “There may be an infernal contrivance in the keyhole.”
“That’s true enough,” the girl admitted and stepped back. “Could you break the lock with a bullet from outside the room, Dusty?”
“Easy enough,” Dusty replied.
“Then we’ll go outside and watch you do it.”
Although Belle, Tolling and Dusty retired from the cabin, they left Ludlow inside. Desperately he strained at his bonds, but the ropes held firm. Out in the open, at the far edge of the door’s light, Belle and Tolling stood watching as Dusty took out his right side revolver then aimed in the direction of the box. If any member of Company ‘C’ had been watching, they might have felt surprise that Dusty took so long in his aiming at a target.
Sweat began to trickle down Ludlow’s face as he realized that he, and, he alone, would be caught in the raging inferno when the bullet struck the box’s lock. While reconciled to dying as long as Belle went with him, he did not relish meeting his end in such a manner when she stood in safety.
“Don’t shoot!” he screeched. “Don’t shoot. I’ve something to tell you.”
“Hold your fire, Dusty,” Belle said and walked back into the cabin. Halting, she looked down at the man. “All right, Ludlow, What is it?”
“That box’ll explode if you put a bullet into it.”
“We’d an idea it might.”
“I can tell you how to get into it without getting killed.”
“So can the armorer here in camp,” sniffed the girl. “Anyway, there’s nothing of importance in it, I’ll bet.”
“You’d be wrong!” Ludlow growled. “It’s full of counterfeit Confederate money.”
“How do you know that?” Belle asked.
“What’s in it if I talk?”
“What do you want?”
“My life,” Ludlow said simply. “I know what’ll happen to me if you send me for trial. It’ll be a rope, or firing squad, and I’m not wanting to die.”
Belle watched the man and knew that she had won. After placing Ludlow in the cabin, Tolling and Buck Blaze had removed some of the chinking—mud packed between the logs and allowed to harden there so as to keep out draughts—and made a hole large enough for them to keep him under observation from outside. Using the vantage point, Belle had studied the man on his recovery. She noted his concern for his face and based her subsequent actions on what she saw. First she played on his fears of hand-damage and disfigurement to weaken his resistance and then brought in the box on the odd chance that he might recognize it and be aware of its contents. Without the first shock treatment, he might have hidden his knowledge; but in his disturbed state failed to do so. Unless the girl missed her guess, Ludlow meant to tell all he knew. She hoped the time spent would prove worth the effort.
“Go ahead,” she ordered.
Instead of answering the girl, Ludlow looked at Dusty. “I want your word as a Confederate officer that I’ll not stand trial if I talk.”
“Isn’t my word good enough?” smiled Belle.
“I don’t trust any of you Secret Service bunch on either side,” Ludlow told the girl and turned to Dusty. “How about it, Captain?”
“I’ll do all I can for you, if Miss Boyd says your information’s worth it.”
“That’s not good enough. I want your assurance that I won’t have to stand trial if I talk.”
“These’re three bars on my collar, mister, not three stars in a laurel wreath. iii I don’t have authority to make that kind of agreement.”
“But I do,” put in Ole Devil’s voice and he entered. “Sorry to butt in, Miss Boyd, but I’ve been watching through that hole you had made in the wall. I always wanted to see some of you Secret Service crowd using ‘gentle persuasion’.”
“I suppose that General Hardin’s word is good enough for you?” asked Belle.
Only for a moment did Ludlow hesitate. All too well he knew the iron code by which the true Southern gentlemen lived. If Ole Devil gave his word, he would stick by it. No matter that the people present would say nothing should he fail to do so, the General could be relied on not to go back upon his given word. As the Commanding General of the highly-successful Army of Arkansas, Ole Devil wielded considerable influence. Not even the leaders of the powerful Confederate States’ Secret Service could countermand his orders. Nor would the South’s Government attempt to interfere with any decision he made.
“Your word’s good enough, General,” Ludlow stated.
“You have it then. If, in Miss Boyd’s opinion, your information has sufficient value, I give you my word that you won’t stand trial for your actions.”
While that placed a whole lot in Belle’s hands, Ludlow realized he was in no position to argue.
“All right then,” he said. “The box’s full of counterfeit money—”
“You’ll need to give us a whole heap more than that,” Belle warned him.
“The Yankees plan to ruin the South with it!”
“With one box full?” snorted the girl. “Don’t waste our time, man.”
“They’ve more than one box full. This’s only the start, Miss Boyd. They’re printing more and plan to flood the South with so much counterfeit money that it’ll ruin everybody and end the War.”
“Do you know where they’re printing it?” demanded Ole Devil.
“You might save your neck if you do,” the girl went on.
“It’s being printed down in New Orleans!” Ludlow blurted out.
“That’s a mighty big area, but one well-covered by our spies,” Belle pointed out. “How is it that they’ve learned nothing about the plot?”
“It’s been kept a real close secret.”
“Then how did you learn about it?” the girl snapped.
“Pickings’ve been mighty slim in New Orleans since the Yankees took it. So I grabbed when Gilpin came up with an offer to make some money. They didn’t tell me much, but I learned what the game was and all about it.”
“Go on,” the girl prompted, knowing a man like Ludlow would have methods of gaining information that exceeded those of her own people; especially as he found himself with such a good starting point.
“Like I said,” he continued, “I kept my eyes open and followed Gilpin without his knowing. I learned all the game, including where they’re printing and holding the money.”
“And where is it?” Belle asked.
“Is this important enough to save me?” inquired Ludlow.
“If you’re telling the truth.”
“I’m telling it, so help me!” Ludlow insisted, with such sincerity that the girl felt sure he told the truth. “A feller called Gaton’s doing the printing and the stuff’s held at his place on St. Charles Avenue.”
“That’s in the old city,” Belle pointed out.
“Sure. A big old house standing in a garden with a high wall around it,” agreed Ludlow. “Gaton’s working for the Yankees, has been ever since they took over. That’s the truth, Miss Boyd.”
“I hope for your sake that it is,” the girl said quietly.
“How about him, Miss Boyd?” Ole Devil asked.
“I’d say keep him alive, but a prisoner, until we’ve found a way to verify his story,” the girl replied. “If it’s true, turn him loose. If not—”
“If not you won’t need to deal with him,” Ole Devil growled. “I’ve men under me who learned torture from the Indians. We’ll see if they can make him tell the truth. I’ll do what you say. Release him, Dustine.”
“Yo!” Dusty answered and obeyed.
After releasing Ludlow, Dusty left the cabin, fastening its door with the padlock which took the place of the usual fitting. Then he walked after the others in the direction of the house used as Ole Devil’s headquarters.
“He talked easy enough,” Dusty commented as he caught up to Belle.
“Easier than I expected,” Tolling admitted.
“Of course he was only doing it for money,” Belle put in. “That kind break easier than a fanatic. I’d have bet, when we watched him, that we wouldn’t need to do more than threaten to use violence.”
“Would you have carried out your threats, Belle?” Dusty inquired.
“If necessary,” the girl replied quietly. “This isn’t a game I play, Dusty, it’s a vicious, dirty business without any rules. The thing now is to destroy the counterfeiting plant, its plates, inks and paper. If we can do that, it’ll put back the Yankees’ plot for long enough to allow us to counter it.”
“Can your people handle it, Miss Boyd?” Ole Devil asked.
“I mean to try, General,” she replied.
“You?”
“Of course. I know New Orleans fairly well, but I may need help.”
“You want for me to go with you, Miss Boyd?” Tolling wanted to know.
“No. I’d like you to go into the Indian Nations and see if you can find out who Oliver was to contact. I don’t think you’re going to be any too happy about me, General Hardin.”
“Why?” said the General.
“Because I’m going to make a formal request that you assign Dusty to help me wreck that plant.”
“You realize what you’re asking, Miss Boyd?” Ole Devil snapped, halting and facing the girl. “I know Dustine helped you collect those arms, but he traveled and worked in uniform. That won’t be possible this time.”
Which meant, as Dusty knew without needing telling, that if he fell into the Yankees’ hands, he could not claim the rights and privileges accorded to a captured officer. If he went in civilian clothing, he classed as a spy and would be shot. For all that, Dusty felt a touch of pride when considering Belle Boyd, the fabled Rebel Spy, requested his assistance on a desperate and dangerous mission.
Ole Devil did not appear so eager. “Do you consider Dustine’s presence necessary, Miss Boyd?”
“Essential, General,” the girl assured him. “I need a man of courage and on whom I can rely implicitly. Dusty fills that need.”
A frown creased Ole Devil’s face. Apart from personal considerations, he had his command to consider. Losing Dusty for a further indefinite period would lessen his fighting strength and the balance of power hung delicately in Arkansas. However he realized that should the Yankee counterfeiting plant not be destroyed, the War must be lost. He also appreciated the risks and difficulties facing Belle. Having a good man—which, despite his youth, Dusty was—at her back might make the difference between success and failure. So he made his decision.
“Very well, Dustine,” he said. “You will accompany Miss Boyd and give her every possible aid. Good luck to you both.”
“Thank you, General,” smiled the girl. “I’ve a feeling we’ll likely need it.”