Blade 2

by Matt Chisholm

She slid into his arms and lifted herself on tip-toe.

  ‘Blade,’ she said, leaning back in the circle of his arms, her intelligent eyes very soft, ‘wouldn’t it be a fine thing if you and me could work together more often? I mean isn’t it possible that two people with our experience could operate together on a kind of permanent basis?’

  ‘I always said you were smart.’

  ‘I mean – hell, Joe, we work well together.’

  ‘No denying it.’

  ‘So what’s against it?’

  ‘The risk,’ he said. ‘I don’t enjoy putting you at risk, Charity.’

  ‘No more risk than me working on my lonesome.’

  He pulled her to him.

  The window fell in with a deafening crash and the shards of glass struck them like sharp angry hail.

  In that first startling second, Blade was aware of just one thing – the girl had been violently torn from his arms.

  Four

  Charity had been flung half on the floor and half against the bed. The light from the lamp that still burned steadily on the table showed the bright splash of her blood on her nightdress and the bed-covering.

  Blade kicked the chair from the door, tore open the door and roared his alarm. Then he was beside the girl, urgently trying to stop the bleeding on her head.

  By the time they pushed into the room, he had her on the bed and his hands were scarlet with her blood. He looked up to see Charlie’s scared face and Hope’s alarm.

  Charlie was asking questions. Charlie was always asking questions. Nobody told him anything.

  ‘Charlie,’ Blade told him, ‘you get the doc. You get him here in two minutes flat even if you have to stick a gun in his face, hear?’

  Charlie dithered. Somebody behind him said: ‘I’ll go.’ Booted feet thudded down the hall and on down the stairs.

  Hope watched Blade’s face. She had never seen him look desperate before.

  Charlie said: ‘For God’s sake, what happened? Christ, you didn’t shoot Charity, Joe?’

  ‘She was shot through the window, Charlie.’

  They turned their eyes to the window and saw the curtain hanging in shreds.

  Charlie said: ‘What was Charity doin’ in here, Joe?’

  ‘Hope,’ said Blade, ‘you see where I have my thumbs. You come and hold on to her just like this.’

  Hope came over by the bed and slipped her thumbs into position without a word.

  Charlie looked at Hope and said: ‘What in tamation’re you all dressed up like that for, woman?’

  Blade said: ‘You hold the bleeding, Hope, till the doc gets here.’

  ‘All right,’ Hope said. She gave him a small tight smile.

  He stood up and the men crowding into the room watched him. There were maybe six or seven of them now. His eyes went to the far wall where the bullet had hit, knocking a foot square of plaster loose. He shouldered through the men and walked down the hall. He met more men on the stairs and ignored their questions. On the shadowed sidewalk outside, he walked into McMasters who asked:’What the hell goes?’

  ‘They shot Charity,’ Blade told him. ‘The bullet was meant for me.’

  The halfbreed muttered a curse – ‘How bad?’

  ‘God knows,’ Blade said. ‘Maybe creased, maybe her skull’s busted. There’s a lot of blood.’

  ‘So where you headed?’

  Blade jerked his head across the street – ‘I guess there was a man with a rifle on the feed store roof. I’ll take a look.’

  McMasters’ hand on his arm restrained him – ‘You’re all wound up, boy. Stay with Charity. I’ll look into this.’

  ‘No,’ said Blade.

  ‘This has put you off balance,’ McMasters persisted. ‘You’re liable to do something crazy.’ Blade knew his friend was right, but he wouldn’t recognize it. ‘There’s too much at stake here. Why, you don’t even have a gun.’

  Blade looked down in astonishment and saw that McMasters was right. He must be out of his mind.

  ‘Loan me a gun, George.’

  McMasters sighed, slipped a hand inside his coat and produced a pocket Colt. Blade took it without a word and tucked it in the top of his pants. He could still see the girl’s bloody face against the blanket. He started to cross the street and McMasters said: ‘Maybe they know they didn’t hit you. They could be waiting for you.’

  Blade said: ‘Then my luck’s in for once,’ and went on.

  The opposite side of the street was deserted. The feed store looked dark and deserted. He walked around the side of the building and found an external staircase. There was a shingle on the wall which informed that somebody called K. Kenneth Larsen, an attomey-at-law, occupied an office above. Blade walked up the stairs and found the door at the top locked firmly against him. He knocked several times, but there was no reply.

  He was standing on a platform about twenty feet from the ground. The flat roof of the building was about eight feet above him. The only openings near him were the door and a window. The roof was concealed from the street by the false front of the building. He climbed up on the hand-rail around the platform and reached the roof without effort. It took him no more than minutes to be certain that the shot had not been fired from the roof. There was no opening in the false front through which the marksman could have fired.

  Blade thought: They made their first mistake. And maybe they only need to make one.

  He dropped down onto the platform and inspected the door. It was secured with a simple lock. He wondered briefly if there was still a man inside and occupied the next few minutes in picking the lock. Lying flat on the floor, he gently swung the door open. The movement was greeted by silence. Pocket Colt in hand, he eased himself into the office of the lawyer. Shutting the door behind him, he struck a match, found a lamp and lit it.

  The lamplight revealed not much of an office. It belonged to a not too successful lawyer in a town that boasted a little silver and a few cows. The lamplight also revealed the fact that the window was open a couple of feet at the bottom. It also caught the soft gleam of a brass cartridge case. Blade picked it up, noted that it was a thirty-thirty and slipped it into his pocket.

  He sat himself behind the desk, found a bottle of whiskey in a drawer and helped himself to a generous slug. It was not long before he heard footsteps on the stairs outside. A moment later, two men walked into the office. The first was a fair-haired youngish man of medium height and a pleasant face. The second was a few years older, wearing a brown derby hat and a rumpled store suit. They both held revolvers in their hands.

  The three of them were silent for a moment until Blade said: ‘You will be K. Kenneth Larsen, attorney-at-law.’

  The fair-haired young man nodded.

  ‘And who might you be?’ he asked.

  ‘Joseph Santiago Blade.’

  The older man jerked his gun hand slightly and said: ‘Well, Joseph Santiago Blade, you’re under arrest. Get up off your ass and walk ahead of us down to the sheriff’s office.’

  ‘And who might you be?’ Blade said.

  ‘The name’s Milton Draper,’ the man replied. ‘I’m a town councillor. I’m a county committee man and if the folks in this burg know their business, this Fall I shall be mayor of Crewsville. The feed store below belongs to me and I own half the Diamond D spread. I’m also a member of the territorial delegation to Washington. From that you can gather, my friend, that this is a pretty solid citizen’s arrest.’

  Blade said: ‘Which makes a man wonder why we have not yet heard the sheriff’s well-known bellow on the streets yet.’

  Larsen said: ‘Sheriff Barnes was called away on a fishing trip one hour after sunset.’

  ‘No doubt into the foothills where twice during the past week bands of Apache have been sighted,’ Blade said.

  ‘Our sheriff is boldness itself when it comes to fish.’

  Blade said: ‘If I were you, gentlemen, I would put my guns away. My reasons – first, I have a gun underneath this desk which is di
rected at the navel of one of you. Guess who? Second, Miss Charity Clayton was shot in the hotel not ten minutes back. She was shot by a man with a rifle standing in this very office at that window yonder. And I can prove it.’

  Larsen and Draper looked at the window and back at Blade again.

  ‘What the hell’re you givin’ us, Blade?’ Draper demanded.

  ‘First the guns,’ said Blade.

  For the sake of appearances they fooled around with a show of hesitation, but neither liked the thought of the hidden gun. Larsen thrust his away into a pocket; Draper used a shoulder holster.

  ‘The man who shot Miss Charity had a key to this office,’ Blade went on.

  Draper exploded – ‘If you are suggesting that—’

  ‘I’m suggesting,’ said Blade. ‘Which means I’m going to be asking questions in the next few days.’

  ‘Who the hell are you? What right do you have to—’

  Blade rose.

  ‘Those are questions I don’t intend to answer,’ he said. ‘The two of you can sweat.’

  He headed for the door and they drew back from him.

  Draper said: ‘Blade, stay and hear what we have to say. You’re going off half-cock. You look like an intelligent man who knows about the facts of life.’

  Blade halted and turned to stare at him.

  The young lawyer said: ‘Don’t say anything you’ll regret, Draper.’

  ‘I’ll say what I damn well please,’ Draper said. ‘Blade obviously has no idea what he’s up against.’

  Blade said: ‘I’m up against something, am I? Look, mister, what I’m up against is men who try to kill me on the streets, men who nearly kill a girl while the sheriff conveniently absents himself on a fishing trip.’

  Draper said: ‘Ask yourself why these men’re trying to kill you, Blade. Use your head, man. Clear out while you’re still alive.’

  Larsen’s temper reached the end of its line and he shouted: ‘Hold your tongue, you damn fool.’

  Draper bellowed back: ‘Why, you little jumped-up pen-pushing son-of-a-bitch—’

  Blade walked to the door and said: ‘I have the feeling I’ve ruined a beautiful friendship. Just remember – the girl was shot from your office, Larsen. You’re going to have to answer some awkward questions sooner or later.’

  Men were gathered outside the Clayton House, talking. They eyed him when he came up. Blade halted when he found himself face to face with a young Mexican vaquero. They lifted their hands in salutation. Blade had known this man since he was a dusty-footed little peon in cotton pants. Now he was a tough square-cut rider garbed in the leather of the cowhand.

  In Spanish, Blade said: ‘Will you take word for me quickly to my uncle tonight, Juan?’

  The man nodded – ‘Seguramente.’

  ‘I shall bring you a letter in no more than a few minutes.’

  ‘Always at your service, señor,’ the man told him.

  Up in his room, Blade found that there were no more than a few people in there now. The doctor was there, bent over the bed, face flushed with drink and concentration. He had neatly bandaged Charity’s head. He was now feeling her pulse. When he looked up and saw Blade, he said: ‘To all appearances, she’s no more than creased. Head wounds always look bad, as you know. Pulse is strong. But she’s unconscious, so I can only conclude there’s some internal damage to the brain. I wouldn’t know about that. I ain’t no more’n a cow-country horse-doctor.’

  Hope was on the far side of her sister-in-law. She had shed some tears, but she looked as if she had a grip on herself now. Charlie was pacing softly in the background as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  The doctor started putting instruments away in his bag, saying – ‘Best leave her where she’s at. Watch for fever. I’ll be here at dawn. Christ, who’d be a doctor in this hell of a country? And folks wonder why I live on whiskey.’

  ‘What are her chances, doc?’ Blade asked.

  ‘The wound’ll give us no trouble. I’m good with wounds. But it looks to me there’s more than the wound to fret about.’ The doctor hefted his bag and hurried out without another word.

  ‘What I want to know,’ said Charlie, ‘is what was she doing in your room, Joe?’

  Hope said: ‘Yes – why was she here, Joe?’

  Blade said: ‘The gunman didn’t give me a chance to find out.’

  Hope said: ‘There’s an empty room at the end of the hall, Joe. You had best sleep there.’

  Blade said: ‘I’ll stay with Charity if that’s all right with you two. I’ll doze in the chair there.’

  Charlie said: ‘I’ll, find the men that did this if it’s the last thing I do.’

  Hope said: ‘You do that and it’ll be the last thing you do all right.’

  Charlie wandered to the door muttering about how he couldn’t see why Hope was all dressed up like that. Blade said softly: ‘Why are you dressed up like that, Hope.’ Hope said: ‘A fat lot of good it did me. You sure you’ll be all right here, Joe?’

  ‘Sure. You take over from me in the morning.’

  She smiled and left the room. Blade glanced at Charity’s still face and then found pen, ink and paper. He sat at the table and wrote his uncle a short note, in his best Spanish.

  ‘Dear Uncle Sebastian

  Juan will relate to you what has happened in town here. You will not be surprised to hear also that I am in need of assistance. This will most usefully take the form of advice in person from yourself which means that I would be grateful if you could inconvenience yourself by coming into town. In addition, the services of two trustworthy men well-mounted would be a great help.

  With greatest respect and deepest affection

  José Santiago Espada

  He addressed the letter with a flourish to Don Sebastian Ruiz y Espada at Santa Barbara de Tres Soldados. The old don liked a flourish. He had, he complained, not much more left him at seventy beyond a Spanish grant as big as a county, ten thousand head of cattle, as many sheep, more human souls than he had ever counted and more illegitimate children than he cared to own.

  Blade’s mother’s elder brother was usually referred to in the family as the ‘old devil of Santa Barbara’ or ‘Don Sebastian Goat’. Blade had a great affection for the old man and was never quite sure how far he was to be trusted. Sebastian played politics in the old Spanish way – which could be subtle and, if you were on the wrong side, extremely dangerous. The don’s hole card was the fact that he never let you know for sure which side you were on.

  The short note written, Blade took it downstairs and gave it to the vaquero who swore that it would be with the señorita before dawn.

  Blade told him: ‘I have asked my uncle for a couple of riders. I hope that one of them will be you, Juan.’

  The young Mexican flashed him a smile and said: ‘I hope so too, patrón.’ He turned and walked away to the music of his spurs. Blade went back into the hotel and mounted the stairs. He was thinking of the girl on his bed, the young girl who had taken so much risk for him. I’m a bastard, he told himself. A tenth rate half-Mexican bastard. And he knew that his mind should be concentrating on what he should be doing and planning.

  His room was empty except for the girl. As he stood looking down at her he was surprised to see the color in her cheeks as if she were healthy and normal. The long dark lashes lay softly on the velvet skin. He didn’t know when he’d seen a lovelier girl. She was too young, too lovely and too damn good all-around for a bum like him.: Why did decent women like Charity go for no-good sons-a bitches like him? What if she died? Remorse and regret are the most unbearable pains because time is the only healer, and never heals entirely. If this child died ...

  He was about to turn away when his heart seemed to miss a beat.

  For a full count of ten, he held his breath and stared at her in utter disbelief.

  One of her eyes was open.

  What in God’s name ...? The corners of her mouth were curving up ever so slightly.
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br />   She lay there smiling with one eye closed in a wink. ‘Charity,’ he said in gentle accusation, ‘Charity, this is not so goddam funny.’

  The other eye opened. Her generous mouth opened to show her fine white teeth.

  ‘I’m smiling bravely,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure you would have me smile bravely through my pain, Blade. I have the most godawful headache.’

  He found that he was shaking. He sat on the bed beside her and took her hand in his.

  ‘How the hell can you do a thing like this to me?’ he demanded.

  ‘It seemed like a good idea,’ she replied. ‘You think about it and see if you don’t think it’s a good idea. The fellers that did this, they shot a woman who’s like to die. If they stay around this neck of the woods after maybe killing a woman, I’ll be pretty surprised.’

  He smiled.

  ‘You’re smart,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s not a bad idea at that. How long have you been conscious.’

  ‘Well, I fooled the doctor that’s for sure.’ She giggled. ‘And I heard a lot of mighty interesting talk around my bed of pain. Maybe I’ll hear more.’

  ‘How long can you keep a thing like this secret?’ he demanded. ‘We’ll have to tell Hope.’

  ‘Like hell you tell Hope.’

  ‘Keep your voice down.’

  ‘You tell Hope and it’ll be all around town in no time at all. I’ll keep this up for a day, then maybe I’ll come around just the littlest bit.’

  ‘Meanwhile …’ he said.

  ‘Meanwhile,’ she said, ‘fix the door. I’m lonely, I hurt and I need comforting.’

  He kissed her, said: ‘Comfort coming up. You sure earned it,’ and went to fix the door.

  Five

  The don came into town in style. He sat upright in his coach and two Mexican guards grandstanded into town on spirited matching bays. They carried Winchesters across their saddle bows. There were rumors of Apaches in the neighborhood and the old man was not taking any chances. Blade waited for him on the street, took one look at his uncle’s face and knew that he was in for a rough time.

  Don Sebastian Ruiz y Espada made a small and imperious gesture with a small and elegant left hand and Blade entered the carriage. Uncle and nephew embraced after the Mexican manner. Don Sebastian made it clear that on this morning there was no more than a cold formality between them. Having gone through the small ritual the older man leaned back against the cowhide seat. When he spoke it was in the sonorous lisping Castillian speech for which he was famous. The Mexicans laughed at him behind his back for what they considered to be his mincing manner of speaking.