CONTENTS
About the Book
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
About the Author
Copyright Page
They gambled bloodily with the lives of innocent men and women...
They used mayhem and murder to fulfil their ambitions…
The prize in their deadly gamble was the Territory of Arizona. Law and order rested in the hands of Joe Blade, lovely Charity Clayton and veteran scout George McMasters…
The Tucson Ring had penetrated all walks of life in the Territory…
Only two men and a woman stood between them and power…
One
It was in Crewsville, Arizona, that Joseph Santiago Blade came on them - or rather that they came on him.
They came sweeping down from North Street and on to Main with a sudden rush and a drum-beat of hoofs, a close-packed cluster of horsemen, shapeless in the dim lamplight, the riders faceless above the rolling eyes and flaring nostrils of the straining horses.
They came too quickly for the few watchers to realize what they intended, their spurs and quirts keeping the horses at a reckless pace, leaving behind them a pall of dust that almost obliterated the lamplight.
As they racketed by on the far side of the street, so he saw the soft metal-gleam of the guns, but the weapons were already firing when he flung himself full-length on the ground.
Once he had seen a man shot through the face, so his arms covered his, and he lay there rigidly expectant of lead tearing into his flesh. The slugs thudded hollowly into wood, smacked against the adobe and howled like high-voiced banshees into the night. For no more than two seconds he was deafened by the racket of the guns, the yelling of the riders, the roll of hoofs and the strike and ricochet of bullets. Then the hoofs rapidly softened to a whisper in the night and disappeared into the empty vastness of the desert.
The town seemed to hold its breath in the absolute silence and Blade thought, not for the first time in his life: My God, I’m alive! Turning his head, he saw where the wood and the adobe of the building behind him had been hit by flying lead. He experienced that wonderful lightheadedness of the man who realizes that he should be dead and is not.
Getting to his feet, he dusted himself down and wondered if they knew they were shooting at him, Joe Blade. It was not unknown for drunken cowhands to let go a few shots just So a town would know they were still alive and kicking and didn’t have no truck with townfolk. But what he had just experienced was not that kind of shooting.
He heard a man’s voice on the far side of the street. It sounded odd in the silence. Distantly, a dog barked.
‘You all right, mister?’
He realized the man was addressing him.
‘Sure. Just fine, thanks.’
He walked north along Main. Now he realized the experience had shaken him. It was not the first time he had been shot at, but being a target didn’t have to be a first time to shake you.
He stopped when he remembered the man in Tucson.
That was the way your mind worked when you had been as many years as he had in the business. Without you knowing it, it started sifting through memories, scraps of talk, lines read in newspapers, reports, often while you thought of other things.
What was his name?
He had been shot by a bunch of riders leaving town. The local law had never caught up with them. A posse followed them for a day and then they scattered all over and what posseman wanted to ride the desert after a crowd of hardcases when he could be at home in comfort?
Killers, like other criminals, followed the pattern they were used to.
The dead man’s name was Carson Dunfield.
Blade started to search systematically through the index of his brain. Captain Dunfield of the Arizona Rangers. A widower with a pretty daughter - recommendation enough for Joe Blade. Dunfield had been a political animal with friends in high places. In spite of that, Joe Blade had liked him.
The sheriff’s office was on North Street. Here smooth old Dilke Barnes presided. He certainly did not preside out in the county, a job the territorial governor had appointed him for. Nor had he any intention of risking his butt in a saddle.
Barnes ran a good office, but he hired other men to do the riding. High sheriff, he called himself. And somehow the title suited him. He had a lot of dignity - though that was spoiled somewhat by his small cunning eyes. Even when he was being honest, which God knew was seldom enough, his eyes made you distrust him.
Just to show that he didn’t miss a trick, as soon as Blade walked in, he said: ‘I heard that shooting, Joe.’
Blade seated himself in front of the desk, but he didn’t help himself to the sheriff’s whiskey because he knew it was awful.
‘They were shooting at me,’ he said.
Barnes prided himself on his imperturbability, but the surprise showed in those little eyes just the same. However, he was imperturbable enough when he said: ‘You don’t mean to tell me.’
‘I insist,’ said Blade.
‘Sounded like some of the boys havin’ a little harmless fun.’
‘Fun, but not harmless,’ said Blade. ‘I’d be interested to know how a harmless shot compares with a harmful one. Has a sweeter note, does it?’
The sheriff looked accusing — ‘You a-settin’ there hintin’ I should ought to leap on my noble steed an’ pursue them miscreants all over hell’s half acre or some such?’
Blade said: ‘That was the way Carse Dunfield was killed.’
Barnes fell back in his chair and it creaked sadly under his weight.
He did a little social acting and produced a look of polite horror.
‘Boy,’ he said, ‘you can’t mean that. No, sir, I can’t believe you’re meanin’ just what you say. You’re tryin’ to stir up an old man ...’
‘There’s nothing old except your habits, Dilke,’ Blade told him. ‘Don’t get yourself all riled up. I’m not asking you to do a damn thing. Just, when I bring a man in here and cache him in one of your cells, I don’t want to see him walking the streets next day. Let a decent interval intervene.’ He rose. ‘All right?’
The sheriff looked down his nose and he looked mean. Blade knew it was crazy to offend a man like Barnes, but he thought: What the hell?
Barnes slammed a fist down on his desk-top so the inkwell with its congealing ink leapt and the whiskey bottle danced. He put on his master-of-men look and cried: ‘It ain’t goddam fittin’ you should talk to a man old enough to be your father this way, hear?’
Blade walked out on to the street, stopped for a moment and thought: The old moss horn knows something. I spooked him.
He angled across the street and entered the lobby of his hotel, the Clayton House. Coming out of the diner was Hope Clayton, half the reason why all red-blooded men coming into town stayed there. She was twenty-five years old and was a female oasis in a land which was sadly lacking in women who looked like her. She was married to Charlie Clayton, but neither she nor anybody else noticed it too much. He was twice her age and looked like an embittered muley-cow.
Hope had red hair, freckles and large green eyes that gave hope to just about everything in pants.
She said: ‘Hello, handsome, keep your distance, the old man’s around.’
Her figure was superb and a challenge to every male over the age of twelve. Blade felt challenged even in that short moment. He smiled appreciative
ly and mounted the stairs. She watched him as if she’d been a little short on men lately.
In his room, sitting on his bed, was the other half of the reason why red-blooded men stayed at the Clayton House. This was Charity Clayton, Hope’s sister-in-law and old Clayton’s kid sister. She was as like Clayton as a butterfly was a Gila monster.
She smiled up at Blade as he entered and he said: ‘That’s what I like about this place - a man always feels wanted.’
Where Hope was built like Venus, Charity was small and neat. But she did not lose out through the fact. Everything about her was in delicious harmony - except for her breasts, which threatened anybody’s sense of balance. And maybe her mouth, which threatened any man’s self-control. Her hair was dark brown and her eyes the warmest brown with that soft velvet look to be found on fawns.
‘I can’t say I feel wanted,’ she said, ‘not after the way you been lookin’ at that homely old sister-in-law of mine.’
She was all of eighteen and coming on fast. In a land that was short on women, men said, she should have been married and nursing her first child. Well, nursing her first child, any road.
He closed the door.:
Looking down at her, he said: ‘Were you a good girl? Did you do as I asked?’
‘Sure.’
‘Any luck?’
‘I nearly had to give my all to get it.’
He smiled gently — ‘That must have been dreadful for you.’
She grinned up at him companionably and said: ‘You’re the original son-of-a-bitch. His real name is Manfred K. Shafer. He is carrying one thousand dollars in gold. Did you ever hear of any such thing, Joe? One thousand in gold. Did you hear, Joe?’
‘I heard, honey.’ He was thinking. ‘Maybe you’d be better off with him than with me.’
‘I reckon you’re right at that. But he don’t know how to treat a girl like a lady. I don’t know why I do these things for you, honest to God I don’t, Joe. He treated me like I was a cheap Cyprian or somethin’.’
He was contrite at once.
‘I’m sorry about that, Charity.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘Do you know why he’s here?’
‘He talked all big and mysterious - you know how they do. It gives me a pain in the ass. What do they think I am, a hick or somethin’?’
‘They think you’re a hell of a lovely girl and they try to impress you.’
‘Don’t give me that. He talked like the governor was his buddy.’
‘The governor?’
‘That’s right - the governor. Maybe he’s tellin’ the truth. Says he’s dinin’ with his excellency next week. What was all that shootin’ I heard?’
Blade was a mile away, thinking. She had to ask the question again. He said: ‘A bunch of cowboys on the town.’ That seemed to satisfy her.
‘Did I help you Joe?’
‘You did fine, sweetheart. Never better.’
She looked pleased.
‘What do I get for helpin’, Joe?’
‘Name your price.’
She laughed and said: ‘Guess.’
He laughed and said: ‘I didn't eat yet. It gives me hiccups on an empty stomach.’
She came off the bed and into his arms. She had to stand on tiptoe to kiss him. Her mouth was no longer a challenge, but a blessing. It lasted quite a time, till he pulled his mouth from hers and said: ‘Quit that, woman, or I’ll be getting hiccups.’
She laughed up at him and said ‘See you tonight, Joe.’
‘Did you touch any of Shafer’s gold, girl?’
‘You know I wouldn’t do that, Joe. It’d maybe make it bad for you.’
‘That’s nice of you,’ he told her. ‘You won’t lose by it, Charity.’
‘I keep foolin’ around with you, I’ll maybe gain that baby folks say I ought to be havin’ by now. What happens if I do that, Joe?’
‘He will bear my name,’ Blade said solemnly.:
Her face brightened – ‘You mean that?’
‘Sure – you can call him Joe.’
‘You bastard,’ she told him.
He lifted her off her feet, so that she had to lower her head to kiss him. She pulled hard on his short grey hair, the hair that had lost its color when he was twenty and he saw his mother and father die.
‘I’m not sure I didn’t ought to hate you,’ she said against his mouth.
He put her down and patted her bottom in the direction of the door.
‘I’m likely moving out tomorrow,’ he said.
She pulled a face, then brightened – ‘Tonight I’ll make you wish you was stayin’.’
‘You always do that,’ he said.
Two
Lionel Binns, who was currently calling himself Manfred K. Shafer, took another drink of whiskey. It wasn’t the whiskey he was needing like hell. It was a woman. That little bitch, Charity Clayton had got him on heat and he had to have one or he would burst a blood-vessel or something. The doctor had warned him about that.
He wondered about Charity. Thought of her got his appetite raging. He could have sworn she was an easy lay. After all these years he should be able to spot an easy lay when he saw one. My God, he thought, those tits.
He rose from the bed, put on his hat and coat and left the room. He pulled himself up short in the doorway when he saw the man, Joe Blade, starting down the stairs. Then he remembered that Blade had no way of knowing who he was and went on.
Blade stopped in the lobby for a word with Hope Clayton, the owner’s wife. He turned his head and nodded affably to Binns who smiled amiably and went on out to the street.
By rights, Binns thought, the bastard should be dead.
This was a mess and he would get the blame for it. Goddammit, why couldn’t anything go right? He had come into the south-west to make his fortune, to make up for his failure in the east. Out here, he had thought, he would be a large frog in a small pond.
He would go down and call on Daffodil La Raine. The whore house was the place for his kind of business and his kind of pleasure. Daffodil knew which side her bread was buttered. Her establishment was also temporarily the headquarters of Billy Cross and his unsavory crew.
Binns halted on the far side of the street and glanced back. Blade was leaving the Clayton house and turning in the direction Binns was taking. Binns pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it to give Blade time to get ahead.
Binns found Daffodil in her parlor drinking bad whiskey. This did not surprise him because Daffodil was usually in her parlor drinking bad whiskey when she wasn’t in her bed. The name La Raine with its French flavor made folks think she was probably from New York or Minneapolis, but she was not. She was a burly peasant of Polish-Jewish origins who had fled with her parents from persecution in Ruthenia some twenty years before.
Daffodil was a survivor. And she had survived. More, she was ahead of the game and showing a profit, even though her drinking was playing hell with her liver. She had been wise to come west, for it was doubtful if her looks would have gotten her a living in the big cities. Here in Crewsville she may not have rated socially, but she was an economic force and a social necessity. She looked after her eight girls well, but she saw to it that they earned their keep.
‘Why, Mr Binns,’ she cried in her harsh voice as he walked in on her, ‘back so soon. My, we are a healthy feller, ain’t we? Put that down you, sweetheart.’
Binns took the whiskey and shot it down his thick throat.
‘Billy Cross around, Daff?’ he asked.
‘Sure.’
Her eyes snapped with interest. Billy had slipped in the rear door not ten minutes back. She didn’t know that Binns knew Billy. What then was the connection between the two of them? Such information was always of interest to Daffodil. You never knew when it was worth money. Loyalty, she had decided long ago, was no part of a survival plan.
‘You want to talk business with Billy, Mr Binns?’ she asked, playing the obliging madam. ‘I’d take it as a favour if yo
u used my room.’
‘That’s kindly of you, my dear.’ He found a rare smile. ‘Business first and then a short bout of pleasure. How about that high yellow gal? She sure has admirable stamina.’
Daffodil rose and said with crisp efficiency: ‘Lally. She’ll be ready an’ waitin’ for you, Mr Binns. I’ll tell Billy you want him.’
He raised a forefinger – ‘Just five minutes privacy, Daff.’
‘Sure.’
‘I appreciate it, Daff.’
‘My pleasure, darlin’.’
She left the room with the natural grace of an Irish plate layer. Binns took a seat and studied on the situation. The less Billy Gross knew, the better. Maybe he knew of the failed attempt on Blade’s life, maybe he did not.
Five minutes passed. Binns started to show impatience. Being kept waiting was a slight. Binns was on his way up in the world and men did not climb the ladder to success by accepting slights from underlings.
He started to sweat and he didn’t like sweating. Only the common herd sweated. He eased his collar around his swelling neck.
The door opened and without knocking Billy Cross walked in. He was small and he looked like a little strutting rooster. Which, in a manner of speaking, he was. He had just proven himself in a corner of a commercial barnyard.
He wore a braided Mexican chaqueta of good quality. His California pants bore a broad stripe and had not been slept in for too long. In a fine Mexican holster on his right hip, he carried a fine Colt 1861 converted from cap-and-ball to cartridge. It was an old out-dated gun, but it was a very beautiful one. It had been decorated with silver and the butt-plates were of ivory.
Cross was thirty-five years old and from the age of six had been of little obvious use to the human race. He had killed his first man (an old Mohave Indian) at the age of fifteen. That had given him a taste for the business and he had never looked back.
The son of an English emigrant, he had been born in the slums of New York. Orphaned early, he had drifted West. He had taken to horse-stealing, cattle-stealing, throat-cutting and occasionally raiding below the Border like a man with a natural talent for violence. He had nasty personal habits, an unpleasant personal appearance and looked like a cross between a ferocious rabbit and a cornered wolverine.
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