The south will rise agai.., p.3
The South Will Rise Again, page 3
Being only a small town, Mooringsport could not support a theater. So the show had taken place on an improvised stage in the biggest saloon. While they had had a good reception each night, Belle wondered how Sabot was able to afford to play to such a restricted audience. He seemed content to do so and she did not ask questions.
Four days went by and on the fifth evening, Belle was presented with an opportunity to impress Sabot.
During the magician’s performance, the girl had seen what she suspected was an exchange of signals between the magician and a big, burly, red-haired man in the audience. Although the latter was dressed differently, Belle had recognized him as ‘Mick’, a member of the Brotherhood whom she had seen in Memphis. Apart from the brief byplay, Sabot gave no further sign of interest in Mick.
After the show was over, and the girl had donned her street clothes in the small store-room which had been converted into her dressing-room, she went to find her employer. All the rest of the cast had already gone, but the door of the men’s dressing-room was open. Seated at the table, with his ‘jewel’-emblazoned turban, black opera cloak and frock coat removed, the magician was peeling off his false mustachios and sharp-pointed chin beard. At his side, the owner of the saloon had just finished counting out a pile of money.
I’m sorry it’s not more, Sabot,’ the owner was saying. ‘You’ve given me a full house and good bar sales every night. I’m sorry to see you go.’
‘I’ve other commitments, unfortunately,’ Sabot answered, his sallow face almost looking as if it was unfortunate. ‘And this’s enough. We couldn’t move on until the Belle came back and doing the shows has helped me to teach Melanie her duties.’
‘Say!’ the owner ejaculated, indicating the newspaper which lay on the dressing-table. ‘It was a bad thing, your other gal getting killed that way.’
‘Tragic,’ Sabot intoned soberly. ‘It seems I misjudged her and she wasn’t in cahoots with those men. She escaped and was trying to notify the authorities. If she had only come to me, things would have been different.’
‘Maybe she didn’t get away from the bastards until after the Belle’d pulled out,’ the owner consoled. ‘Anyways, it’s not you us folks blames for her getting killed.’
There had been considerable discussion caused by the reports of the ‘mysterious doings’ in Shreveport. Some of the Texarkana Belle’s officers had been at the show. They, and the marshal, had told enough of Sabot’s part in the affair for a garbled version of it to have made the rounds. Belle had watched and listened, hoping to learn in which direction public sentiment was swinging. From her findings, she had concluded that the officially-sponsored version of Selima’s murder had swung public sympathy away from the Brotherhood. If the people of Mooringsport reflected the trend throughout the South, Sabot and his companions would be unable to benefit in any way from the incident.
‘She was a good girl,’ Sabot sighed, ‘but always chasing after men. That’s one problem I don’t have to worry about
now. Not chasing after m—’
‘Hey, Selima!’ called the owner, becoming aware of Belle’s presence and wanting to warn the magician before he made an indiscreet statement concerning his assistant’s sexual behavior.
‘Changed and ready already, heh?’ Sabot went on, turning to look at the girl. ‘Come in. I’ll not be long. Then we’ll go back to the hotel and it’ll be pay-day.’
‘There’s a word I love to hear,’ Belle smiled, advancing. Then the newspaper’s headlines caught her eye. ‘Hey! Do you know her? Of course you do. I’m sorry, Sabby.’
Acting contrite and flustered, as a person would after making such a mistake, Belle picked up the paper. To the men, it seemed that she was merely covering her embarrassment; or motivated by morbid curiosity concerning her predecessor’s death.
Under the headline, ‘MAGICIAN’S ASSISTANT MURDERED’, the Shreveport Herald-Times had done a fine job in covering the true facts of Selima’s death. Her uncle had used it in a masterly fashion to condemn the Brotherhood’s activities. Dismissing the incident at the theater as he had promised, he had also commented that what had probably begun as a practical joke misfired badly when Selima had escaped. Being a courageous young lady with a strong sense of public spirit, she must have intended to report the incident to the authorities. Rather than allow it, the men had pursued her and killed her within sight of the post’s main entrance. Unfortunately for the murderers, the guards had been on the alert and both men had been shot down while resisting arrest. There was no mention, once more, of Brandt and his companion having been dressed in U.S. Army uniforms.
A second headline announced Lieutenant Colonel Szigo’s departure ‘for a command on the Western frontier’. As the new commanding officer, Colonel Manderley wished to improve relations between the citizens and his soldiers. With that in mind, he, Winslow and the mayor of Shreveport—who would have been one of the victims in the plot—had come together and organized a ‘Friendship Week’. During the seven days, there would be a variety of sporting, entertainment and social events, culminating with a Grand Ball on the Saturday.
‘You wily old bas—gentleman—Uncle Alburgh,’ Belle thought as she finished reading. ‘With all that to look forward to, nobody will spare a thought for the speeches they heard. Nor about Selima’s death. Not enough to query it deeply, anyway.’
Packing the money into his wallet, Sabot completed his change of clothing. Then he and Belle passed through the saloon’s bar-room towards its main entrance. Avoiding the various offers to stop and take a drink, by pointing out that the show was moving on early the following morning and so he and Selima wished to grab some sleep, he escorted the girl from the building.
There had been no sign of Mick in the bar-room, but Belle soon detected him standing in the shadows across the street. Clearly he did not want his connection with the magician to be known. Instead of coming straight over, he waited until the couple had moved away from the saloon before starting to cross the street. Belle became aware of certain possibilities opened up by Mick’s actions. If he only
would hold off from joining them for a little while
Obligingly, Mick did as Belle wished.
‘Sabby!’ the girl whispered, after they had covered about a hundred yards along the practically empty street. ‘There’s a man coming .’
‘So?’
‘He’s following us. He was lurking outside the saloon and’s been dogging our tracks ever since.’
‘Why’d he do that, do you reckon?’ Sabot inquired.
It’s our last night here. He’d know that you’d be getting paid off and he’s fixing to rob you.’
‘It could be,’ the magician admitted soberly, hiding the amusement he felt. ‘Shall I yell for the marshal?’
‘That one-horse town knobhead!’ Belle scoffed. ‘He couldn’t catch a blown-off hat with three extra hands. Anyway, I don’t like turning anybody in to the john-laws.’
‘So what do we do?’ Sabot challenged.
‘Let’s teach the bastard a lesson,’ Belle suggested. ‘I think I know how we can do it.’
‘All right,’ the magician agreed, having heard the girl’s plan. ‘We’ll play it your way.’
Continuing to the end of the building they were passing, Belle and Sabot turned into the alley. In the shadows, they waited and listened to the sound of Mick’s feet drawing nearer. Whispering for Sabot to get ready, the girl returned to the street. She timed her arrival so that she walked straight into the burly man’s arms.
‘What’s the hurry, darlin’?’ Mick demanded, dropping his hands to rest on Belle’s hips, ‘Did old—?’
‘My, you’re a big one,’ Belle purred, not wanting a premature exposure of Mick’s connection with the magician.
‘If that’s the way you like them, darlin’,’ Mick grinned, feeling her body moving invitingly under his palms. ‘Then ’tis what I am.’
‘I’ll just bet you are,’ Belle enthused, turning as if to walk away.
‘Seeing’s we’re going the same way, darlin’,’ Mick commented, following and curling his right arm about her waist. ‘Let’s go together.’
Advancing a couple of steps side by side, Belle contrived to angle them so that their backs were to the mouth of the alley. Her right hand rose to rest on his, its thumb pressing against the rear-center of his knuckles. Curling her fingers under, she gently and provocatively tickled his palm as an aid in lulling him further into a sense of false security.
‘Perhaps not all the way,’ Belle drawled.
Tightening her grip on his hand, she stepped sideways with her right foot. Before he realized her intentions, she had hooked her left leg behind his right knee. Bending her knees slightly, to get below his center of gravity, she completed her escape. Working in smooth coordination, she propelled her left elbow rearwards against his solar plexus, kept her left leg rigid and thrust her body into his. Taken by surprise and off balance, Mick let out a startled curse. Belle released his hand, the arm flew from about her middle and he stumbled backwards into the alley. Unable to regain his equilibrium, he sat down hard.
‘Stomp the bastard good, Sabby!’ Belle hissed, spinning around. ‘Teach him a lesson—!’
Instead of following the girl’s excited advice, Sabot was laughing. So Belle reacted as she could be expected to have done if she had been genuine. Letting her words trail off, she displayed bewilderment at his lack of activity.
‘Are you all right, Mick?’ the magician inquired, moving forward.
‘Wha—What—?’ muttered the burly Irishman, shaking his head in a dazed and winded fashion. Then a dull, angry flush crept across his face and he started to lurch erect. ‘Why you—!’
Watching Mick rise and look menacingly in her direction, Belle prepared to take measures for her protection. However, Sabot stepped between them. Flicking from inside his right sleeve, a shiny nickel-plated Remington Double Derringer settled its ‘bird’s head’ butt in his waiting palm.
‘Easy, Mick,’ the magician ordered. ‘She thought you was following to rob us and reckoned she could handle you. I see now that she could.’
Mumbling under his breath, Mick allowed his eyes to drop to the Remington. Although it dangled negligently at the magician’s side, the Irishman was under no delusions as to its deadly qualities. Nor did he doubt that Sabot would use it if necessary.
‘She near on bust my back!’ Mick growled. ‘I’ll—’
‘Do nothing,’ Sabot finished for him.
‘Just what the hell’s going on?’ Belle demanded, as she felt would be expected of her.
‘It’s all right, my dear,’ Sabot replied, keeping his eyes on the other man and speaking over his shoulder. ‘Mick’s a friend of mine. We do business together. I should have told you, but I wanted to see how you’d make out.’
‘Sure and it’s slick the way you did it, darlin’,’ Mick went on, starting to grin. ‘You wouldn’t have Irish blood, would you?’
‘You’d better come to the hotel with us, Mick,’ Sabot suggested, giving Belle no chance to reply. ‘We’ll talk there.’
‘That I’ll do,’ the Irishman agreed, looking at Belle. ‘Can I take hold again without getting thro wed over your head?’
‘I wouldn’t count on it,’ Sabot warned and moved closer to whisper something in Mick’s ear.
‘If he’s telling you I like girls, not fellers, he’s right, Mick,’ Belle said calmly. ‘I’m not ashamed of it and your knowing will save us both time and inconvenience.’
‘So that’s the way of it?’ Mick grunted, sounding disappointed. ‘Well, ’tis everybody to their own tastes, I always say. Is she in it with us, Sabot?’
‘I haven’t asked,’ the magician admitted. ‘But I hope she will be.’
Four – U. S. Army Paymaster Robbed
Dressed in her ‘harem girl’ attire, Belle Boyd was seated in Sabot’s dressing-room sharing a pot of coffee and doughnuts with the magician. They were waiting to start their first performance in Fort Worth, Texas, three weeks after their departure from Mooringsport.
Belle’s time in Sabot’s employment had not been wasted. Having been accepted at face value by her travelling companions, she had learned plenty about the Brotherhood for Southron Freedom. On first being told of its aims, she had displayed such enthusiasm that the magician had been convinced of her sincerity. So much so that he had not hesitated to speak freely with Mick in her presence.
According to the Irishman, with four exceptions, the Brotherhood had made good their escape from Shreveport. Brandt and his companion’s fate was known; but nobody could discover what had happened to the two men who had followed Winslow from the theater, and should have watched his house until the arrival of the ‘arrest detail’.
Sabot had guessed that they had taken alarm and fled when they realized the ‘detail* was not coming; and Mick agreed that it was possible. Belle could have enlightened them on the matter, having dealt with the men in question, but felt disinclined to do so.
Continuing his report, Mick had said that de Richelieu—who appeared to be the supreme head of the Brotherhood—was taking the rifles and ammunition to a ranch in Texas. As Sabot had apparently known the ranch’s location, Belle had not heard it mentioned. She had not pressed the point, for to do so might have aroused the magician’s suspicion. Instead, she had listened to the orders for their future activities. They were to follow the original itinerary, but to act in a different manner than had been arranged. Instead of spreading the news about the Shreveport incident, they were merely to pass out pro-Secession propaganda and select supporters for the movement.
In addition to improving her abilities as Sabot’s assistant, Belle had been required to help further the Brotherhood’s cause. The show had played one-night stands at various towns since leaving Mooringsport. In each, Sabot had given an informal dinner to carefully selected members of the community. The selection had been carried out by another member of the Brotherhood, whom Belle had not yet met. Travelling ahead of the show, he decided who would be the most likely candidates and left a list of their names for Sabot to collect at the towns’ best hotels. After the third of the dinners, at which she was required to act as hostess, Belle had concluded that the unknown man was highly competent in his duty.
At each dinner, the main topic of conversation had been the evils of living under Yankee domination. Belle had identified the guests as malcontents, trouble-causers and rabid Secessionists of the kind she had always mistrusted as much as violently pro-Unionists. Fanatics of any kind had always been dangerous.
Once the magician had felt sure of his audience, he had told them of the forces at work to ‘liberate’ the suffering Southern States. When that happened, he had gone on, there would be positions of power, influence, importance—and wealth—in store for the men who had played an active part during the early days of the struggle. Men like themselves, in fact, if they had the courage, and sufficient loyalty to the Confederate cause, to lend a hand in the work that lay ahead. The arguments being presented had been calculated to appeal to the guests’ patriotism, personal ego, avarice and other basic human emotions. Always the message had been there.
Give money to purchase arms!
Make ready for the day of reckoning with the Yankees!
THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN!
There had been oaths of allegiance and secrecy sworn at the dinners. Arrangements had been discussed for the collection of the donations contributed, or gathered from others, by the guests and turned over to the Brotherhood’s funds.
Always when that point had been reached, the listeners had grown cagey and unresponsive. While willing to support another attempt at Secession, and to donate—or at least collect—the money, none of them had been willing to hand it over without some convincing proof that the Brotherhood’s intentions were honorable. Waving aside as unimportant, or as evidence of his guests’ sound business sense, the comments about not doubting his word, Sabot had promised that a sign would be forthcoming in the near future. He had never offered to name a date, but had insisted that no donations would be accepted until the proof had been forthcoming. That had always impressed the listeners. It had also produced replies that he, or some other member of the Brotherhood, could contact their supporters after the promised sign had become a proven and established fact.
To help her play her part the more successfully, Sabot had purchased Belle a more presentable wardrobe. He had insisted that she toned down her facial makeup and generally improved her appearance. Dressed in stylish clothes and displaying a gracious, yet somewhat condescending manner which had been highly impressive—especially in the small towns where such sophistication was rarely seen—it had been her duty to pave the way for the real purpose of the dinners. Her shame-faced admissions of how she had been driven on to the stage—breaking her dear mama’s heart in the process—through Yankee oppression had invariably won her much sympathy and guided the conversation along the required lines.
Belle had had some heart-searchings before she had decided to play her part so well. After serious consideration, she had concluded that the end justified the means. By presenting an image of complete loyalty and proving herself to be a capable ally, she would be all the more likely to be taken into the confidence of the Brotherhood’s leaders.
The trend of the meetings had confirmed that her decision was a reasonably safe one. Until the promised sign was given, there was little danger of the guests carrying out their duties. Once it happened, if the need to take action arose, Belle knew the men in each town. They could be arrested before they did any harm.
