Blade 2

by Matt Chisholm

Then had come the events of last night …

  First his nephew, José, had asked him to join against the Ring and he had refused, for it would have been madness to fight so powerful an organisation. Then that same nephew had brought him the daughter of the murdered marshal for protection. Then had come George McMasters, and in José’s name McMasters had left the girl Charity Clayton in his care.

  Easier said than done.

  Last night the men had come riding out of the night. There must have been a dozen or more, their faces hidden by their bandannas, rifles and revolvers in their hands. They had thundered in like lords of the whole world. One of the younger vaqueros had been foolish enough to draw a gun. He had been knocked down and dragged to his death on the end of a rope. Don Sebastian shuddered now as he remembered it. A terrible way to die. But then any way to die was terrible.

  The more he thought about last night, the greater was his shame.

  The riders had taken the two girls with them, thrown them across horses and ridden away with them into the night. And with them had gone all of the old man’s pride. This was a final defeat, to have two fine young women taken from his care without him selling his life for them.

  When Don Sebastian came to his decision, he did it so suddenly that he might have been young again. He was sitting in the cool of his patio sipping Californian wine. Some vaquero sat in the far corner of the patio playing a sad Sonoran air on the guitar. He stopped playing when the old man leapt to his feet and shouted ‘Por Dios, I shall do it.’

  ‘Do what, patrón?’ the astonished man asked.

  The old man turned and glared at him balefully.

  ‘Do what, you fool?’ he cried. ‘I shall get the two young gringos back, that’s what. Luis, Luis – where is that idiot Donoso who boastfully claims to be my caporal?’

  Somebody in the house heard the demand and the cry for Luis Donoso went up. Soon every man, woman and child on Espada was yelling for the don’s foreman. Presently, the unfortunate Luis came running.

  ‘What is it, Don Sebastian?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you deaf or lazy, hombre?’ the don demanded of him. ‘What is the matter? Don’t you like working for the Espadas? Do you wish us to part company, you offspring of a third class Tucson thief?’

  The foreman smiled. It was good to see the patrón in form again.

  ‘Weeping mother of God,’ exclaimed Espada, ‘why do you grin? Are you happy that the house of Espada is dragged in the dust?’

  ‘I await your command, señor? Donoso said calmly.

  Don Sebastian sobered a little – ‘Here is my command, then.’ His manner changed. Suddenly he was all gentleness. He put his arm around his caporal’s shoulder. ‘Tell me, my dear Luis, have I not heard you claim that you are the best tracker in Arizona? Did I not hear you even claim, when in drink, that you were the best tracker west of the Missouri?’

  Luis nodded – ‘It is possible, señor. For I would be a liar to claim otherwise.’

  ‘Here, then, is your chance to prove yourself. You will saddle a good horse and you will ride as you have never ridden before and you will discover where those bandits have taken the two young American ladies. Is that understood?’

  Luis asked: ‘It is your intention to rescue them?’

  ‘In the first place. So you will return to me rapidly so that I may attack at the soonest possible time. It does not sit well with me that such beautiful young ladies should be in the hands of such ruffians.’

  Luis cocked one eyebrow – ‘And in the second place, señor?’

  ‘I have not advanced so far as that,’ said the old man. T am toying with the idea of cleaning this land of the scum that is spreading all over its fair face.’

  That was said very solemnly and Luis was moved to say: ‘This is the patrón we have all respected.’

  The old man said: ‘Fire the cannon, Luis, so that all our people may know they are needed.’

  Luis laughed with excitement and cried: ‘Instantly, señor.’ He raised his voice to the man in the tower. From there a sentry could see clear down the valley. There had been a man up there night and day ever since the new rash of Apache raids had begun. ‘Fire the cannon, Manuel.’

  ‘Why, Luis?’

  ‘Because you are commanded to, you dolt.’

  Then Luis was in front of the house, yelling hoarsely for a mount. He wanted to know if the men were deaf or just plain idle. Por Dios, did there have to be an earthquake to get some action around this place? Once mounted on a fine claybank horse, he rode into the patio and bawled out to his patrón: ‘Do not waste time, señor. I shall leave a plain trail for you. Follow me speedily in the name of God.’

  Don Sebastian looked as if he would bellow with rage at such impertinence, but he thought better of it and merely said: ‘Go ahead, my friend, we shall follow immediately.’

  Luis whirled his horse on the spot and hit it with the gads. It went out of the patio through the archway at a flat run. As Luis raised the dust into the south-east, the old brass cannon boomed out its summons to the riders of Espada.

  They brought the old man his fine blood-bay stallion and he took his place at the head of the nine riders like a general taking command of his army. He left orders that any other rider that came in response to the cannon shot should be sent after him. He smiled to himself as he rode. His little force was truly representative of the south-west, a polyglot mixture of Anglos, Mexicans and one man of mixed Navaho blood. There was not a man there who thought that the don’s quarrel was none of their business. They ate his food and took his money for pay, therefore it was right and proper that they ride behind him with guns in their hands. Beside this, they knew why they were riding. In a country so short on women, women were valuable commodities. It was up to every man to protect them.

  They had travelled no more than an hour at an easy trot, to save the horses for harder work later, when a cowboy riding in the van called out that there was a rider coming. They halted and watched his dust. As he came nearer, they recognized the horse. This was Luis Donoso reporting back. He pulled his horse up in a cloud, calling out ‘I have no need to ride further, patr6n. They are going to the old mines. There is nowhere else they could go.’

  ‘Good,’ said the don. ‘That is country we all know well. Better than those strangers will. Pepe—’ He named the youngest member of the corrida – ‘ride back to the house and leave word that all the men who come in should ride for the old mines.’

  The boy whirled his horse and rode away into the northwest.

  ‘So,’ said Don Sebastian, ‘let us go on and finish this business.’

  They all lifted their lines and rode.

  Thirteen

  Blade felt like hell.

  He felt as any man would who had taken one too many knocks on the head. Between him and the floor of the wagon bed in which he lay was a small hard object which stuck into him every time the wagon jolted on the rough surface of the trail. He raised his head and found that there were others like himself lying bound hand and foot in the lurching vehicle. A man sat on the tail-gate, a dark silhouette against the early morning sky. There was something familiar about the shape, but Blade could not put a name to it.

  There were two men on the driving seat, one of them holding a carbine in his hands and occasionally turning his head to check on the prisoners.

  It was some time before Blade realized that one of the inert bodies in the wagon was dead. It was rolled tightly in a tarpaulin and lashed with rawhide. The other form lay with its head on Blade’s legs. From his position, he thought it was a woman.

  The man sitting on the tail-gate said: ‘So you decided to wake up, eh, Joe?’

  It was Billy Cross.

  The little gunman rose and picked his way down the wagon-bed to squat by Blade’s side.

  Blade smiled and said: ‘Well, you wanted me dead, Billy. Looks like you’re going to have your way.’

  ‘Nothing personal, Joe,’ said Billy. ‘It’s just the pay’s good and there
ain’t too much work around in my line of business.’

  ‘Who’s the stiff?’ Blade asked.

  ‘Aw, that’s the feller they put in place of the governor,’ said Cross. ‘It was kinda queer. I never saw two fellers more alike. Peas in a pod, they were. Somebody got into his office and knocked him off. So we put the real governor back in his place. He’ll do just like Draper says because we have his lady right here.’

  Blade jerked his head in the direction of the head lying against his leg – ‘Is this her?’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘So we’re headed for the deep hole Draper mentioned,’ Blade said.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Cross told him. ‘Draper doesn’t aim to have no evidence left around.’

  ‘What about the Mexican boy?’

  ‘He walked into a forty-five slug goin’ in his direction.’

  That silenced Blade. He thought of the young man who had risked his life for him.

  Blade said: ‘I’m going to kill you, Billy. But this Draper I’m going to save for the hangman.’

  Billy Cross laughed.

  ‘If you’re a religious man, Joe, I’d make my peace with God. You ain’t goin’ to kill nobody an’ you ain’t goin’ to hang nobody either. All I can do for you is make the end quick an’ clean.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Blade said.

  ‘My pleasure,’ Cross said politely.

  The little gunman moved to the rear of the wagon again.

  ‘Mr Blade.’

  Blade lifted his head and saw the pale orb of the woman’s face. Her hair was awry and there was a dark bruise on her left cheekbone. Her eyes were large and haunted.

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’

  ‘Are they going to kill us? Was that awful man telling the truth. They wouldn’t dare kill a woman, would they?’

  ‘This bunch would dare anything, ma’am,’ Blade told her. ‘But I’ll get you out of this.’

  The words seemed empty even as he spoke them. He faced the fact that he felt helpless and defeated. But he knew, just the same, that while he still breathed he would continue to try to escape and stop these madmen.

  As he lay there he did what he could fully to assess the situation. There were three men on this wagon. From the sounds outside, he reckoned there was another wagon up ahead and one or two horseback riders. At the mine, if that was where they were heading, there would probably be more men. His best chance was to get away going through the hills. But the man who had tied the bonds of rawhide that held him knew what he was about. The stout thongs were so tight that they bit deeply into his flesh.

  He did not doubt that he would be murdered when they reached their destination. The general’s wife, he thought, would be kept alive as a threat to Dimsdale. At some later date probably both Dimsdale and his wife would be killed, because they would be a danger to the Ring alive. If he could escape himself and also free Mrs Dimsdale, the Ring would lose the most powerful lever they had. The general was no coward and would be willing to take risks if he knew his wife were safe.

  But it was going to be hard enough to get away himself. It seemed impossible to free the woman.

  He tried to get his hands freed.

  ‘Billy, this rawhide is nigh cutting my hands off. How about untying my hands for a while?’

  But Cross was not having any of that. ‘Not a chance, ole timer. A couple of hours and there’ll be no more pain for you.’

  With his back against the side of the wagon-bed, Blade searched with his hands for anything against which he could chafe the rawhide in two. He edged himself down the wagon-bed a little, as if he had been helplessly jogged along by the motion of the vehicle. This brought his head nearer to that of Mrs Dimsdale. It also brought his fingers in contact with a piece of metal. His heart beat excitedly. His fingers explored. It was an angle bracket and a screw had come out of the top part of it. He strained until he had managed to get one strand of the rawhide over it. At once he began to work it up and down, all the time keeping an eye on Billy Cross.

  After a while, he managed to whisper to Mrs Dimsdale, ‘Are you bound hand and foot, ma’am?’

  ‘No,’ came the reply, ‘only my hands.’

  That, Blade told himself, was better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish.

  The edge of the angle bracket was fairly sharp. The rawhide that held his wrists was old. Within a short while he had severed a strand of his bonds. His hopes started to rise.

  Abruptly, with the driver cursing, the wagon came to a halt. Billy Cross called out: ‘What’s up?’

  The man beside the driver said: ‘Looks like the other wagon bust a goddam wheel.’

  Billy Cross threw a leg over the tail-gate and disappeared as he jumped down. The man beside the driver also swung down. The driver was having trouble with his mule-team. His language was something to hear. Blade got to work on the rawhide. He heard a horseman clatter by. Men’s voices were raised at a distance and he could not hear their words.

  The driver said in some disgust: ‘Christ, them bastards can’t even handle a goddam wheel.’ He tied off the mules’ lines around the brake-handle and climbed down from the driving seat. Blade started to saw like mad on his bonds. Mrs Dimsdale’s startled voice sounded almost in his ear – ‘Are you trying to get free, Mr Blade.’

  ‘That’s the general idea, ma’am. I’m through one string.’

  She said: ‘I think we could save some time if I rolled over your legs and then lay with my back to you. I have strong fingers and I could most likely have you free in no time at all.’

  ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  The general’s lady promptly rolled herself over his legs, Blade rolled once across the bed of the wagon, she shifted herself up towards the driving seat and at once her fingers were at work on Blade’s bonds.

  They both lay still, tense and anxious, when two men came walking back to the wagon, arguing. It seemed that the wheel had to be held together with rawhide. To be at all effective, the rawhide had to be wet. The nearest water was a mile off. One man was ordering the other to go fetch some water. The man so ordered was arguing that the whole wheel should be soaked in water so that the wood would expand and the spokes fit snugly on a tight rim. The man who wanted a bucket of water finally won the day and the other man, bucket in hand, went cursing and sulking down the rough trail. The other man climbed up on the tail-gate to see that the two prisoners were still secure. Apparently satisfied, he jumped down to the ground and walked along the trail to the other wagon.

  Blade could now hear another argument going on. This time it was Billy Cross wanting to take the wagon with the prisoners on up to the old mine. There was no reason why all of them should fry in this goddam heat.

  ‘Oh, their language,’ said Mrs Dimsdale. ‘There, how’s that, Mr Blade?’

  Blade could scarcely believe it – his hands were free. Hastily, he started on his ankles. This was not easy for the tightness of the bonds on his wrists had rendered his hands almost helpless. As the blood started to circulate again, the pain was almost intolerable. But the situation was too desperate for any allowances to be made for pain. He just gritted his teeth and went on again.

  ‘What do you intend to do?’ the woman asked.

  ‘Get you away from these men,’ Blade replied. ‘While they have you, the general is helpless. I’m going to try and get you into the hills. It’ll be rough for you and maybe we shall be pushed to survive. There’s also Indians often in this area. So I’m not offering you a vacation.’

  ‘I am a soldier’s wife, Mr Blade,’ she said.

  ‘Listen,’ he whispered.

  They listened. Billy Cross had made up his mind to go on without the other wagon. He was walking back down the trail towards them. Blade fought desperately to get his ankles free. He started breaking nails, his fingers bled. Cross was now alongside the wagon. The thong of rawhide was suddenly free in Blade’s hands. He rearranged it around his ankles and re-tied it loosely. He heard Billy Cross’s boots scrape the re
ar of the wagon as he climbed aboard. The driver climbed on to his seat and took up the lines.

  ‘Gere-dap,’ he yelled at his mules and cracked his whip.

  Billy Cross sat on the tail-gate like an ugly little gargoyle. Blade’s hopes were high now. The situation was tricky, but at least he had one less enemy on board the wagon. Almost at once they met an even rougher patch of trail and the wagon rocked and bucked like a wild thing.

  There was a shout from beside the trail and a third man climbed aboard and sat beside the driver. Blade cursed silently to himself.

  Assess the situation afresh, he told himself. What advantage does the third man give you?

  He rolled up his eyes so he could see the two men behind the mules. The only things either men offered were the butts of their guns. For a more comfortable seat and so the guns would not fall out of their holsters, the two men had pushed their guns around behind them. The butts of both guns were within touching distance of Blade. How to get his hands on them without Cross seeing him was another matter.

  The next time they hit a bump in the trail, Blade allowed himself to be thrown around and nearer to Mrs Dimsdale. With his mouth near her ear, he whispered: ‘Call out. You’re hurt. Get Cross’s attention.’ Luckily, the little gunman was more than occupied in staying on his precarious seat and he seemed not to notice.

  Several minutes passed and then Mrs Dimsdale gave the performance of her life. Her cry of distress was so real that, for a moment, Blade was taken in.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she cried. ‘Oh, it hurts so. Stop the wagon. STOP THE WAGON. Oh, the pain.’

  The two men on the driving seat turned their heads, which was something Blade did not want. Billy Cross came off the tail-gate and dropped on one knee beside her.

  ‘What is it, missis?’ he demanded.

  ‘It’s the pain,’ she said. ‘Every time we go over a bump, it’s the pain. I can’t bear it any more.’

  ‘Do I stop?’ the driver asked.

  ‘No, go ahead,’ said Billy Cross.

  ‘Please stop,’ Mrs Dimsdale pleaded.

  The driver reined in.