EDGE: Sullivan's Law (Edge series Book 20)

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Yeah,’ Edge agreed. ‘Matter of who can cut it when it comes to a live one.’

  Chapter Four

  THE Apaches had no reason to expect that trouble lurked in the rubble of Fort Waycross. And Grunting Bear, who led the five braves towards the open gates of the north wall, was far less cautious than he had been the previous night. He had the Cold .45 in his right hand and had ordered the braves to prime their bows. Beyond this, he relied on his keen eyesight to guard the band against a surprise attack.

  As the Mescaleros closed with the fort, the sub-chief saw the buzzards perched on the distant ridge. But he chose to disregard them as a warning sign. The scavengers sensed the proximity of the living as keenly as the dead. And Grunting Bear chose to believe that it was the approach of himself and his braves which had put the birds to flight

  He had not seen them lumber up into the sky. But the heat shimmer of the broiling day would have veiled their retreat. Also, the eyesight of Grunting Bear and that of the braves was not so sharp as usual. For these rescue of Black Cloud had been celebrated with a night of drunken revelry in a high mountain hideout and all the Apaches who rode slowly in through the gateway were suffering the after-effects of too much cheap liquor. But the sub-chief did not take impaired faculties into consideration. The day he had dreamed about for so long had dawned. Euphoria swamped discomfort and overruled good sense.

  Sullivan’s men watched the mounted Indians ride slowly in through the gateway. Crouched in fire-ravaged cover, each sweating man expressed grimacing revulsion. Not for the Apaches. It was their silent response to the nauseating stench of the rotting dead sprawled all around. Some could see where the fat man squatted, to one side of the doorway of the married quarters. But none allowed his attention to wander from the gateway once the Apaches had moved into view.

  Two men were apart from the main force of ambushers. One of them, Garcia, was an integral part of the plan which Sullivan had hurriedly outlined to his men and was now squatting on the walkway were it crossed the arch of the gate. And Edge, who had not been a party to the plan, had resumed his position at the top of the wall at the fort’s northeastern corner, cooperating to the extent of staying in a crouch, out of sight of the Indians.

  Grunting Bear raised his free hand and the braves moved up to flank him and all the ponies halted. The unburdened pack ponies were as obedient as the mounted animals. Every equine nostril was flared nervously to the scent of old death. Apache eyes and weapons scanned the ruins. The sub-chief sighed and showed a quietly triumphant smile.

  He spoke two deeply pitched words of a guttural Apache sentence as he started to dismount.

  Sullivan pressed his obese frame into the doorway. The muzzle flash of his rifle was paled by the brightness of the sun. The sharp crack of the report was the signal to the other ambushers.

  Grunting Bear’s sentence was curtailed by a scream. His pants leg blossomed with a crimson stain as his kneecap was shattered. He thudded back into his Apache saddle and the pony reared.

  A volley of gunfire cut across the yells of the braves and the scream of the sub-chief. Bullets, with the spraying effect of a Gatling gun, kicked out of the rubble and tore deep into quivering flesh.

  Garcia powered off the walkway, the Winchester clutched in both hands and thrust out in front of him.

  Not a single arrow was loosed. Those braves who managed to get the bows off their backs never had time to fit shafts to strings. With crippling lead buried inside them and blood gushing from wounds, they were thrown from their mounts. The ponies wheeled, reared and bolted. One stumbled on the writhing form of a brave with a massive bloodstain at his crotch. The pony’s forelegs folded and the animal smashed down on to its side. Its weight crushed a brave who had suffered only a shoulder wound.

  Garcia’s feet hit the ground. The Mexican absorbed the impact skillfully and retained his balance. Then he leaned forward, arms dropping to brush the shoulders of the wounded sub-chief. Grunting Bear was in the process of going to the ground as he fell from his pony and his shattered kneecap failed to support him. With a yell of triumph, Garcia dropped to his knees and jerked both hands towards his own shoulders. The frame of the Winchester was a bar beneath the sub-chief’s jaw. The Apache was wrenched into a sitting posture, threatened with strangulation as his head and back were forced against the Mexican’s chest.

  ‘I have him, Senor Sullivan!’ Garcia bellowed.

  Grunting Bear clawed his hands and hooked them over Garcia’s. The gunfire continued to crack from the rubble, the men killing for the pure joy of it now. Victory was theirs, but the victors would not let up. They stepped into plain sight and triggered futile shots towards the panicked ponies.

  Animals were stopped in their bolting tracks by one or more bullets. Pumping blood, they reared, keeled over or started to drop on dead legs.

  Edge eased himself erect and looked down unemotionally on the new carnage which had erupted at Fort Waycross. There was nothing in the lines of his lean and burnished face to betray the memories which the scene had triggered in his mind.

  Sullivan stepped from the doorway, leaned his rifle against the blackened wall and used both pudgy hands to scratch inside his shirt. His tiny teeth gleamed in a grin of evil relish as his flesh-crowded eyes stared fixedly at the captured Apache.

  More bullets were exploded wastefully into the collapsing ponies. And near-silence only returned to the fort after the animals were as inert as the five braves slumped in the gateway. Not complete silence, for Grunting Bear gasped and groaned as he struggled against his captor. The noises became weaker and his struggles diminished. By the same degree, Garcia’s hold tightened and his smile broadened.

  ‘He figures to die easy, feller!’ Edge called down.

  Sullivan had ambled clear of the rubble. His men were picking their way out behind him. The fat man halted and his grin ended as he snapped a look towards Edge, then back at the sub-chief.

  ‘Garcia! I want that bastard alive!’

  The Mexican had been too intent upon containing the struggles of Grunting Bear. He had not heard Edge’s warning. But the fat man’s bellowed demand got through to him. He swayed backwards and wrenched up the rifle. As it came clear of the Apache’s weakened grip, Garcia threw himself to the side.

  The brave was stretched full-length on the body-strewn ground. Only for a moment, as he sucked in life-giving air. But a single breath into starved lungs was not enough to unfuzz his clouded vision. He saw only shadowy forms against dazzling brightness. The rolling figure of Garcia was closest to him. Grunting Bear forced himself into a roll, drawing the Colt as he did so.

  The fat man wanted him alive. Which could only mean he intended a harsher death than by a bullet. So Grunting Bear invited a fatal bullet.

  ‘Don’t friggin’ kill him!’ Sullivan shrieked.

  The fat man launched into a lumbering run towards the Apache. He flailed his arms at either side - warning his men not to risk a shot. But no man on the ground had even started to raise his gun to the aim. Garcia was unbalanced and disorientated by his roll away from the Apache. As Grunting Bear’s Colt drew a wavering bead on its target, no man in the Sullivan bunch was prepared to squeeze a trigger to save the threatened Mexican.

  Garcia stared into the muzzle of the Colt and his face became frozen in a mask of terror. He saw the knuckle of the Apache’s finger become taut across the trigger.

  A rifle shot masked the Mexican’s scream. The thumb of Grunting Bear’s gun hand was blasted from its root. The displaced length of blood-dripping flesh flopped to the ground. The bullet smashed into the Colt’s cylinder and the revolver was sent in a spinning arc out of the injured hand. All eyes except those of Sullivan and Garcia moved to look at the tall and lean figure of Edge at the head of the stairway.

  The half-breed still had the stock of the smoking Winchester to his shoulder. His cheek continued to be pressed against the side of the stock. The sliver of blue that was his left eye remained behind the back-sight.
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  Sullivan’s immense weight crashed down on to Grunting Bear - squeezing the precious air out of the brave’s lungs and trapping the good hand in the process of reaching for the sheathed knife.

  Garcia left his rifle on the ground as he stumbled to his feet.

  Edge’s right hand moved. The empty shell case was ejected in a sun-glinting arc. A fresh cartridge clicked into the breech.

  ‘Senor!’ the Mexican yelled hoarsely. ‘I owe you my life!’

  Edge turned his body and the rifle fractionally. ‘Big of you to admit the debt, feller.’

  ‘Don’t kill him!’

  As the fat man snarled the demand, Garcia realized the rifle was aimed at him. Fear etched instantly into his handsome face again. But the coldness in the pit of his stomach merely sharpened his reflexes. He went for his matched handguns with smooth speed. The right one was clear of the holster first.

  The half-breed’s Winchester cracked. The bullet tore into Garcia’s right elbow and exited behind. The man spun with the impact, blood and bone shards gushing. The ivory-handled gun slipped from pain-paralyzed fingers. But the matching revolver was clear of the leather. Not aimed, though, for the spin had unbalanced the Mexican. And, before he could halt it and drag the gun to cover Edge, the half-breed had pumped the rifle action and squeezed the trigger.

  The silver-decorated shirt of Garcia blossomed blood at the front of the left elbow. A match for that at the right. And, as the injured man sagged and almost fell, more crimson gushed from the second exit wound. His arms flopped limply at his sides as his head rocked back and forth, pain-filled eyes staring in horror at the spreading stains.

  ‘You got what you wanted, feller,’ Edge pointed out as he pumped the action of the Winchester again, and slanted it across his chest. His finger remained curled around the trigger. ‘I didn’t kill your boy,’

  Nobody smiled. But the expressions on the faces of some of the men looking at Garcia were close to satisfaction.

  Grunting Bear was almost unconscious beneath the great weight of Sullivan. The fat man checked that the Apache was not faking, then looked up at the half-breed again.

  ‘You got as much as you friggin’ need, mister?’ he snarled.

  Edge nodded. ‘The dude’s working for you. Don’t figure he deserves more than he got.’

  ‘I might just as well be dead!’ Garcia rasped, as tears squeezed from his eyes and coursed down his cheeks. Maybe forced out by pain. More likely by self-pity. ‘What use am I like this?’

  His tear-veiled eyes swept from Edge to Sullivan and back again. Hatred, despair and hatred again.

  ‘I will perhaps never be able to fire a gun again!’

  As the full realization of this hit him, he dropped to his knees, then went sideways to sit on his hip.

  ‘Have to get by shooting off your mouth, feller,’ Edge told him.

  ‘Shuddup the both of you!’ the fat man roared. ‘Sonny Boy!’

  The Negro ran forward.

  ‘Patch up Garcia! Couple of you others! Tie this friggin’ Apache to the gallows!’

  The redheaded twins were first off the mark. Grunting Bear’s knife and tomahawk were taken from his belt and hurled away. Then Sullivan rose and the sub-chief was dragged by the ankles. His head rolled from side to side and he flailed his arms in token defense.

  The fat man took the time to sweep a warning glance between Edge and Garcia. ‘Your business is friggin’ over! Get me? Either one of you tries to friggin’ start it up again, I’ll kill the both of you!’

  The big Negro had forced Garcia to sprawl out full length and was using a knife to cut away the shirt from around the wounds. New waves of pain erupted groans from the Mexican and locked him in a private world of misery.

  ‘Never do start trouble, feller,’ the half-breed replied. ‘Just finish it if I have to.’

  Sullivan acknowledged this with a curt nod. Then whirled and headed towards the gallows. The blond, Evers, had led a horse from behind the rubble. Edge saw that it was not his grey gelding and relaxed. A lariat was unhooked from the saddle and tossed to Jesse. The twin with the mole on his jaw lashed the limp Apache to the gallows upright while his brother held him in place. The fat man watched patiently, but scratched his belly vigorously. Sonny Boy asked for the horse to be brought to the gateway. He placed the bedroll under Garcia’s head then moistened wadded-up pieces of cut-away shirt and bathed the bullet wounds.

  Edge rolled and lit a cigarette. And continued to rake his narrow-eyed gaze over the scene below him. His object in remaining at Fort Waycross after eating had been achieved. He now knew that the attack on the post was not an isolated incident. The Apaches in this part of the territory were stirred up and ready to launch a big assault against the whites. This known, it was also important to be aware of the approximate location where the war party was holed up.

  And this he knew, too. Somewhere in the hills to the northeast. But he could not yet follow up on his intention to head in the opposite direction. The fat man had a nagging bee in his bonnet - a reason other than the lieutenant for coming to Fort Waycross. But it was likely he could ignore this prime need for a moment - as long as it took to kill the half-breed. For, despite his own and the other men’s feelings about Juan Garcia, the Mexican was a member of the group. Bettered by a stranger. And Sullivan’s leadership - no matter how strong it was - would suffer an irreparable erosion if he allowed the situation to rest as it was.

  So Edge remained up on the walkway, unshaded now, for the sun had advanced into its afternoon slide and the roof shadow fell beyond the wall. From this vantage point, he could watch Sullivan and all his men - except one.

  After Jesse had taken the Apache’s weight with the rope, the other twin had moved away from the gallows. And, while Sonny Boy attended to Garcia and the remainder of the men formed an audience for the torture to come, the lone man ambled across to the wreckage of the fort buildings.

  When that happened, the half-breed divided his attention between the main body of men and the crumbled buildings. But, whatever the redhead had on his mind, it was not a plan to sharp-shoot Edge. He reappeared less than two minutes after going from sight. In time to see Sullivan climb up on to the gallows platform and lash a backhanded slap at the cheek of the Apache.

  ‘Wake up, you friggin’ savage!’ the fat man snarled. ‘Ray Sullivan wants to talk to you.’

  Grunting Bear groaned and shook his head. Sullivan moved in close to him, grabbed a fistful of the greasy black hair, and crashed the back of the Apache’s head against the post.

  ‘You friggin’ hear me, savage?’

  The brave snapped open his eyes. They were glazed by concussion. He blinked and saw clearly the evil in the sweating face of the fat man. He recalled all that had occurred before he lost consciousness. And groaned again. A sound of helpless despair.

  ‘Talk friggin’ English!’ Sullivan snarled. His free hand crashed against the same cheek.

  ‘That wasn’t a word of any language, Mr. Sullivan,’ Jesse pointed out, staring up avidly at the helpless Apache.

  ‘Shuddup, Jesse!’ his brother warned.

  ‘Yeah, friggin’ shuddup, Carpenter!’ Sullivan augmented. He released the hair and drew his knife. This bastard don’t answer me in English, I’m gonna cut off his friggin’ balls. And stuff ’em down his friggin’ throat!’

  Grunting Bear’s reaction to the threat revealed that he understood what had been said. Fear made him rigid within the restraints of the tight ropes. Stark terror became etched into his face. ‘I speak your tongue!’ he shrieked as the knife moved towards his crotch.

  Sullivan’s thick lips curled back to reveal his tiny teeth. ‘That’s a good friggin’ start, savage! All you gotta do now is say the right words!’

  ‘What you do to Grunting Bear?’

  Every man who looked at and heard the sub-chief, recognized the change that had suddenly come over him. His heavily accented voice was calm. And there was a strange kind of strong serenity in his swea
t-run face and the way he held himself in his bonds. The disorientation which had followed his return to consciousness was gone. He now knew who, what and where he was. Grunting Bear, an Apache sub-chief, facing unspeakable death at the hands of a White Eyes. Such a man, though he be nothing but the jelly of fear inside, must show a brave exterior to his enemies.

  ‘Gonna friggin’ kill you!’ the fat man answered, still grinning. He raised the knife and pressed the point into the sparse flesh below the brave’s right eye. Grunting Bear held his head high and straight as the blood ran. The audience around the gallows shuffled in closer. Lips were licked and saliva was sent to the ground. The knife moved. Down the right cheek, under the jaw, and up the left cheek. Not cutting deep. Piercing the ochre-hued skin just enough to release a slow run of blood. From Edge’s distant and elevated viewpoint, the trickling crimson half-circle looked like a careful daubing of war paint. ‘Hard, or easy,’ Sullivan said as he stepped back and grinned at his vicious handiwork.

  Grunting Bear merely winced - as beads of salty sweat stung the long cut. Sullivan scratched himself with his free hand.

  ‘You and some other friggin’ savages hit this place last night? That so?’

  ‘It is so,’ the sub-chief answered.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘My brother, Black Cloud. He was prisoner here. Falsely accused.’ He smiled at a memory. ‘We did not let horse soldiers hang him.’

  Sullivan turned his head to grin up at Edge. ‘You ain’t the only one can call things right, mister!’

  The half-breed flicked his cigarette over his shoulder and across the top of the wall. He eyed the bloodied face of the Apache coldly. ‘And he’s got the scar to prove it,’ he answered evenly.

  They say Black Cloud kill White Eyes settler family,’ Grunting Bear supplied quickly as Sullivan turned to face him again. ‘Called Liddell. Half-day ride from this place. South. Rape wife and girl child. Not true.’