‘That’s right,’ Blade agreed.
‘So you should know the road to the old mine, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So go ahead, do it. Lead us there.’
‘You’re too far east,’ Blade said.
‘Like hell we are,’ said the man.
‘Do you want me to lead you there or not?’ Blade demanded.
‘Don’t get sassy, you son-of-a-bitch,’ said the man, ‘or I’ll clean your goddam plough for you.’
Blade said ‘If I don’t lead you to it you’ll clean my plough all right, right?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then leave me to lead you the way I know,’ said Blade.
‘All right,’ said the man, ‘go ahead. Only you get smart and get ideas in your head, Blade, an’ I knock seven different kinds of shit outa you, hear?’
‘Your privilege,’ said Blade and took the lead, guiding his horse as best he could with his knees and continuing to work on the rawhide that held his wrists to the saddlehorn.
They made their way up a dry wash, then began to pick their way through a rocky terrain, but very soon they were on Don Sebastian’s winter graze and the lush grass was rustling at their stirrup-irons. Blade spied the tell-tale line of cottonwoods against the night sky. They pushed on for another twenty minutes, came up out of the dell, pushing their way through brush and suddenly there were the lights of the don’s headquarters winking at them beyond the cottonwoods.
The leading rider pulled up abruptly. Swinging around in the saddle, he shouted with alarm heavy in his voice: ‘Hey, Blade, what the hell is this?’
‘What the hell is what?’ Blade demanded back.
‘Them lights,’ the man shouted. ‘There’s a house up ahead.’
‘That must be the line-camp,’ Blade replied. His hands were free of the rawhide at last, but they were almost powerless through lack of blood. The lead rider was turning his horse back towards Blade. There was another rider coming up from the rear, riding his horse past the girl.
The lead man bellowed: ‘That ain’t no line-camp, you lyin’ son-of-a-bitch.’
Blade knew that it was now or never. He was not going to get closer than this to the Espada house without some lead flying. He kicked his horse in the slats and yelled to it as he turned it abruptly. It reared and came around at the same time, narrowly missing the girl’s mount. As his own horse cannoned into the rider behind, the man tried to rein his horse aside. The shoulder of Blade’s horse went into it and it went down with a squeal of fright. Blade lashed at the rump of the girl’s mount with the rawhide bonds. It jumped forward and side-swiped the horse of the rider turning back. The night was full of the sound of horses getting on the move and the alarmed shouts of men.
Blade had the impression of the girl riding in the direction of the house, but he was not sure. The whole untidy action was a desperate gamble. A rider appeared almost immediately in front of him and a gun went off almost in his face. He swerved his mount and dodged around the man, then he was turning the animal in as tight a turn as he could. The next moment, he was urging the animal in the direction of the lights. He heard a man roaring at the top of his voice: ‘Cut ’em down, for crissake.’
A gun banged and lead sang past his head. Blade got his head down and rode. After a couple of minutes, he saw the girl, or what he thought to be the girl, ahead of him in the moonlight. Glancing back, he could vaguely make out the shapes of the riders coming after them.
He now discovered that the horse under him was by no means a bad one. It certainly ran with a will and he could only pray that neither his nor the girl’s mount stuck its foot in any kind of a hole. A few minutes later they were through and beyond the cottonwoods and the lights of the house were perceptibly nearer. Hope began to rise in him, though he could tell from the sound of the hoofbeats that their pursuers were rapidly drawing closer.
The head of his mount passed the rump of the girl’s and he shouted: ‘Keep going.’
The men behind continued to fire as they rode.
Now the house started to come rapidly nearer and Blade sang out at the top of his voice: ‘Espada ... Espada .. .’
Suddenly, they were at the corner of the great adobe corral, built with high walls like a fort so that not even the Apaches could steal horses from it. Blade rammed his horse sideways, pushing the girl’s mount around the corner and there was the great sprawling house in front of them. Blade continued to shout the family name. He saw doors open and men silhouetted in the lamplight. In the next moment, he knew there were no longer any men behind them.
He and the girl brought their horses to a halt and there was the brown face of Don Sebastian’s tough old caporal, Luis Donoso.
Blade slipped from the saddle and said: ‘Quick, Luis, free the lady. Where is the don?’
‘The don is here,’ said a voice and turning, Blade saw his uncle.
‘Uncle,’ Blade said, ‘I beg shelter and protection for this lady.’
The don’s eyes were angry, but he managed to say politely: ‘They are always ready in my house for a lady.’
‘And I beg a fresh horse for myself,’ Blade added.
The don looked even madder, but he managed to say: ‘I never refused a request for a horse. Luis, find a good horse for the señorita.’
The girl was trembling when they helped her down from the saddle and Blade could not blame her after what she had been through. He introduced her to his uncle. When the old man heard her name, he raised his eyebrows half in surprise and half in alarm. But he took her hand politely and murmured that he was honoured. For the sake of his long friendship with her father, the marshal, she was more than welcome to the protection of his house. ‘Nephew,’ he asked, ‘who was it who pursued you?’ Working on absolutely no basis whatsoever, Blade instinctively said: ‘Milton Draper’s men.’
If he had struck the old man in the face he could not have shaken him more. With a kind of regretful curiosity he saw Don Sebastian shoot an uneasy glance around at the faces of his men gathered there.
Luis Donoso was giving orders for a good horse to be brought for Blade. He went himself into his small house at the side of the corral and came back with his own gun and a pocketful of ammunition. As he thrust it into Blade’s hands, he said: ‘It is old, but it is a good gun, patrón.’ Blade thanked him.
‘Where do you ride so urgently, José?’ the don asked.
‘To Crewsville,’ Blade replied untruthfully. The girl gave him a quick glance, for she knew that he had been on the road to Tucson when they had been taken. Blade knew that Don Sebastian would question her later and learn that she and Blade had been on the Tucson stage. From Blade’s lie, he would know that his nephew no longer trusted him. Let the old rascal stew in his own juice, thought Blade.
A vaquero came up leading a fine blue roan horse. The don said: ‘It will take you to wherever you may go and back, hijo. He is among my best. There is little else I can do for you.’
Blade thanked him, feeling a little guilty at having lied to the old man, but he knew the don was somehow tied in with Draper even though he might be so unwillingly. But Espadas did not part with land unless they were going broke or were scared. He was pretty sure the old man was not going broke.
As he stepped into the saddle, Blade said to his uncle: ‘As Miss Dunfield will tell you, uncle, she recognized one of the men who murdered her father. That was why Draper wanted her out of the way.
‘And why,’ asked the don, ‘did he want you out of the way, hijo?’
‘Because he is afraid of me, uncle,’ Blade told him and he was turning the horse.
‘How could a powerful man like Draper be afraid of you?’ the old man demanded.
‘Because he knows I’m going to cut him down to size,’ Blade said. ‘In fact, I’m going to whittle away until he disappears.’
The old man looked shocked, but Blade did not wait to see any more. He kicked the horse into a run and headed through the night for the Tucson road, wondering
whether he would arrive in time for his appointment with the governor, or even reach the town alive.
Eight
General Bogart Dimsdale was a fine-looking man, no two ways about it. Some said that it was his looks that had gotten him ahead in life and maybe there was some truth in that. During the late war between the states he had risen rapidly at a very early age to the rank of brigadier-general and along with the more famous Custer had been called “the boy general” in the national press. The general opinion of Dimsdale was that he might not be the smartest man in the world, but he was straight. He was one of those men who are referred to, in any historical age, as the older generation. Men said such things about him as “you don’t see that kind around any more.” The truth of the matter was that he had a strong sense of honour and duty. Being a man of considerable private means there was little temptation to him in bribery or corruption.
He had been given the appointment of governor of the territory of Arizona by the President of the United States, who knew him as a man to be trusted. The appointment was also some repayment for many kindnesses on Dimsdale’s part.
The governor had enjoyed the first few months of his appointment immensely. Society in the extreme southwest of the States was simple and unpretentious. To his surprise, Dimsdale found that there were no more people in Arizona than in a small New England village. Almost everybody knew anybody. Ten years ago such was not the case, but the perpetual Apache raids on settlements and ranches had emptied vast areas of the territory. Tucson itself was said to be safe from the Indian threat, but cattle and horses had been stolen within a few miles of the town. It was now guarded by out-of-town volunteer soldiers mostly from nearby California. They were billeted all over town and Dimsdale was not at all sure that there were not more troops than inhabitants in the place. Supplies were short in town and hard liquor scarcer. The soldiers were drinking the place dry. Dimsdale remarked ironically to his wife that, if the Apaches did not attack in force soon, the army would ruin Tucson beyond recovery.
Rose Mary Dimsdale, his wife, sitting opposite him at the dinner table, looking as beautiful as ever in the lamplight, smiled her cool aloof smile and said: ‘You’d better not allow the good colonel hear you saying things like that, Bogart.’
Miley Alpert, the territorial secretary, who was the only other person present said: ‘The colonel only looks for an opportunity to declare martial law. I have a feeling that we’re on a knife edge, general.’
‘Oh, you men,’ said Rose Mary, ‘you see plots wherever you look. I can’t see that a handful of savages can be any danger to us here. And why would Colonel Rally want to declare martial law? He’s too lazy to want such power.’ The governor said ‘Maybe he’s being pushed by somebody we don’t know about.’
Alpert shot him a glance which the woman did not miss.
‘Oh, politics,’ he said. ‘It might not be a bad thing to have martial law at that. It might get the army out of town patrolling the roads. The stages and the freight trains are not only being attacked by Indians. Most of the hold-ups are carried out by white rogues. If we could collect taxes and pay peace officers we would all sleep better nights.’
The governor looked at his territorial secretary and wished he could trust him.
After dinner most evenings, it was the custom for Dimsdale to invite Alpert into his office for a drink and talk. This way they settled the business of the day in an easy atmosphere. Tonight, however, when the governor pushed back his chair and said to his wife: ‘Excuse me, my dear,’ he added to Alpert: ‘We’ll have to forego our drink tonight, Alpert. I have some papers I must go through.’ He rose and said to his wife: ‘Please see that I’m not disturbed for an hour at least.’
Alpert rose and said: ‘I understand, general, but there are one or two matters which I feel should be discussed tonight.’
The governor waved them aside with an imperious hand – ‘Not tonight.’
‘But, general, I fear I must insist—’
The governor’s tone was so unusually chilled that his wife looked at him in surprise – ‘You can insist all you want, Alpert, but I’m afraid I must insist on choosing my own priorities.’ With that, he walked from the room.
The secretary turned to Mrs Dimsdale in dismay.
‘Mrs Dimsdale,’ he protested, ‘is there no way you can make the general change his mind? There are really some important matters which—’
Rose Mary Dimsdale rose gracefully from the table and said: ‘My dear Mr Alpert, I can assure you that when the general’s mind is made up there is no altering it. I am sure that any matters of urgency which can wait until now can safely wait until morning.’
When the territorial secretary left the governor’s residence that night he was more than understandably upset by being brushed off by his superior, he was shaking with fury. When he burst in on Milton Draper some five minutes later, his rage was still high.
‘My God,’ he cried, ‘has someone betrayed us?’
Milton Draper rose from behind his desk.
‘Such emotion, Alpert,’ he said. ‘Why, I took you for a cool man.’
‘This whole damned business is risky enough, heaven only knows,’ cried Alpert. ‘But that fool Dimsdale has ruined the whole plan.’
‘In what way?’ Draper demanded.
‘He must know, he must have spies in our ranks,’ wailed Alpert.
Hardening his voice, Draper said: ‘What has he done, man? Get a grip on yourself.’
‘Our plan involved me taking a drink with Dimsdale,’ Alpert said. ‘How else can we work the switch? We have to have somebody in the palace.’
Draper smiled coolly.
‘It would have been more convenient with you inside, I agree,’ he said. ‘But it is not essential to our plan. You are still territorial secretary. If you were to demand admittance with several other gentlemen, I doubt you would be refused.’
There was something so reassuring about Draper’s vast bulk, something so steady and unwavering in those cold blue eyes, that Alpert’s alarm and rage began to subside.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’re right. I apologise, Milton. It’s just that I’ve never played in such a risky game before. If it goes wrong we could be ruined men.’
Draper crossed the floor to him and laid a powerful hand on his shoulder. Alpert could almost feel Drapers strength flowing into him. The man was magical. There couldn’t be a nerve in his body.
‘But it if goes right,’ Draper said in his deep rumble of a voice, ‘we shall all be wealthy beyond the dreams of Croesus. That I solemnly promise you. The whole of Arizona will be ours. Who knows that the next governor of Arizona, the state governor, will not be your good self?’
‘You’re very kind, Milton.’
Draper chuckled – ‘The Arizona Ring looks after its own. Did you know they referred to us as the Arizona Ring, Alpert? They have named us, the good general public of Arizona. But you will notice that nobody has dared to actually state who is a member of the Ring. They live in fear. Which is a good thing.’
Nine
General Bogart Dimsdale was a worried man. He paced the patio of the governor’s residence and for the tenth time that night glanced at his watch. Blade was overdue by a half-hour. The governor told himself that if he were coming at all, he would have been here by now. He slowly strode the length of the patio, then strolled with a studied carelessness to the trees and shrubs that grew along the north wall. All the other walls were those of the house which formed a U-shape. This wall was the side of a narrow alleyway.
Dimsdale was not the cleverest man in the world, but he was a straight one and he thought he knew where his duty lay. There was something wrong in Arizona, and two months before, he had hired Blade privately to find out what it was. The thought that he had maybe caused the death of his old friend’s son was painful to him. This world on the frontier was not one to which he and Rose Mary were used. Sure, there was violence in all parts of the nation, but here in the far south-west death w
as commonplace and life treated with a nonchalance which took his breath away.
He had brought Joe Blade in to solve some of his problems after the territorial marshal, Samson Rule, had laid out a report on robbery with violence in the territory and told him that there was nothing much he could do about it. County sheriffs were amateurs, their deputies as often as not gunmen who hired out cheap and made what they could on the side. There were a number of territorial lawmen appointed but they were few and far between. Arizona was mighty short on funds. It was also mighty thin on population. Who wanted to live in a territory where, if you weren’t wiped out by Indians, you were robbed by cowboys?
It was natural that Dimsdale should think of a man like Joe Blade who knew the country like the back of his hand and had connections all over.
He heard a faint scraping sound on the other side of the shrubbery near the wall. He peered into the deep shadow there. Leaves rustled.
‘Who is this?’ he demanded in a whisper.
‘Blade.’
‘Thank God,’ Dimsdale said. He stepped into the shadow and the two men shook hands. ‘I thought something must have happened to you, Joe. I was never more pleased to see a man.’
Blade said: ‘That goes for me too, governor.’
Dimsdale said: ‘You’ll have to make it short, Joe. I’ve already been out here too long.’
Blade talked. Briskly, he gave Dimsdale a run-down of all that had happened in Crewsville. His report took maybe five minutes.
Dimsdale said: ‘You haven’t come up with all the answers, Joe, but I think you’ve made a big start. This Lionel Binns, for example, who goes under the name of Manfred Shafer. He’s tied in with a trader and landowner named Milton Draper. So that connects Crewsville to Tucson. And you say Draper has acquired some of your uncle’s land. It looks like we’re up against what is commonly referred to as the Tucson Ring. I don’t doubt you’ve heard of them.’
‘I’ve heard of ’em,’ said Blade.
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