‘It’s her job,’ Edge muttered, cracking his eyes to moon-glinting slits as he watched Sullivan and his men facing the old chief.
‘Senor?’ Garcia asked quizzically.
‘Getting men mounted.’
‘Very damn funny!’ the whore retorted.
‘What the hell are those civilians doing?’ Kirk muttered impatiently.
The fat man and the others were astride the ponies. All five aimed rifles at Chief Rainbird, Sullivan one-handed while he spoke softly and scratched himself on the thigh.
‘Mister!’ Kelly yelled.
‘Mr. Sullivan wants to know something,’ Evers shouted back.
‘Me, too!’ the whore muttered, wriggling inside the blankets. ‘Why’s that fat man always scratching himself?’
Edge spat. ‘Maybe because he’s the only one knows where he itches,’ he suggested.
‘Very damn—’
‘You’re a friggin’ liar!’ Sullivan roared, cutting across the whore’s cynical comment and something the old chief had been saying.
The fat man suddenly brought up his hand to grip and swing the Winchester. The rifle exploded and blood splashed from the head of a squaw. The Mescalero woman staggered backwards through the entrance of her wickiup. Children screamed as the body of their mother crashed down amongst them.
‘What the—!’Kirk snarled.
‘I’ll kill every bastard here!’ Sullivan roared. ‘Friggin’ young, old and in-between.’
‘Yes!’ the chief shrieked, and dropped to his knees, clasping his hands in front of him. ‘Black Cloud has them.’ He lapsed into his native tongue, then dragged his panicked mind back to thoughts of a foreign language. ‘They remained here when the first raid was made. Then Black Cloud and his warriors returned. The White Eyes women were taken then.’
‘Where?’ Sullivan demanded.
‘Please! Black Cloud and I are still of the same Mescalero blood. I cannot betray him, even though he—’
‘One apiece!’ Sullivan ordered.
The rifles raked away from the kneeling chief. Five triggers were squeezed. Two old men and three squaws were sent reeling under the impact of bullets. They hit the frost-hard ground, spurting blood from fatal wounds.
‘Stop this!’ Kirk bellowed, thudding in his heels to drive his pony out of the corral.
Kelly and his men drove their mounts after him.
‘I’ll friggin’ kill you!’ the fat man snarled, whirling to draw a bead on the young officer.
The cavalrymen reined their mounts to a skidding halt. Then there was a stretched second of silence. Sullivan, rigid with fury, did not waver in his aim at Kirk. The soldiers were equally as unmoving as marble statues. Only Sullivan’s men moved, raking their rifles back and forth.
Then there was movement among the wickiups of the rancheria. Small children came, or were urged out into the open. Those old men and squaws who had been too timid to show themselves before, shuffled from the shadows into the moonlight. None was armed. All were fearful, but at the same time expressed defiant determination in the face of deadly threat.
Kirk looked away from the aimed rifle, to sweep his wide eyes across the rancheria. Then he got a sneer on to his face as he looked at Sullivan.
‘You’ll have to kill every last one of them, mister!’ he rasped. ‘And you won’t learn a thing.’
‘You ain’t seen the ways I got to friggin’ kill, soldier boy!’ Sullivan snarled.
‘Hey, Edge is leavin’!’ Meg Richards yelled.
All eyes swept in the same direction - to look towards where the half-breed and Garcia were riding their ponies out of the corral. After shouting the news, the whore was undecided. Then she jerked on the rope reins to wheel her mount. She went in the wake of the half-breed and the Mexican.
‘Sir?’ Kelly posed.
‘Mr. Sullivan, I reckon the soldier boy is right,’ the Negro said, a little nervously.
There was more movement across the rancheria. Sullivan swung his head to look. As did the cavalrymen. Six Apaches had been gunned down. But many more than this had appeared. Now, as Chief Rainbird got painfully to his feet, the old men, the squaws and the children advanced among the wickiups. They moved slowly, but relentlessly, converging upon a point behind where the ancient chief stood.
‘Your fight, mister!’ Kirk snapped. ‘The army will save its bullets for an enemy that can fight back.’
He pulled himself erect, gave the correct military signal, and led his diminished command into a wheel and gallop aimed at catching up with the walking ponies of Edge, Garcia and Meg Richards.
‘We’ll wait to see the outcome!’ the young officer ordered as he slowed his pony to match the pace set by the half-breed. Edge sighed and reined to a halt. The ponies and their riders breathed white vapor through flared nostrils after their gallop.
‘It sure would be good to know where the hostiles went, sir,’ a young trooper said, staring hopefully back towards the point where the large force of unarmed Apaches faced five leveled rifles.
‘It surely would, soldier,’ Kirk allowed, and peered at the impassive Edge. ‘You think he’ll get what he wants?’
‘Sullivan’s law is like all the others, captain,’ the half-breed drawled. ‘Made to be broken.’
‘You are right yet again, senor? Garcia muttered.
Across at the side of the rancheria, the five white men were backing their ponies away from the crowd of Apaches. Then, when they turned their mounts, they twisted to keep their rifles trained on the massed targets. Not until they were a hundred yards away did they turn to face front and spurt to join the waiting group.
‘Thanks for friggin’ backin’ us up!’ Sullivan snarled. ‘One friggin’ shot and the bastards would’ve swarmed over us like friggin’ hornets round a—’
‘You got a horse, feller,’ Edge cut in. ‘And you know Black Cloud’s still got your woman.’
‘With some friggin’ help, I could’ve friggin’ got more!’
‘Greed didn’t make you fat, feller. It could make you a fat corpse.’
‘There sure are a hell of a lot of ’em, Mr. Sullivan,’ the blond-haired Evers muttered, shooting a glance back at where the Apaches were still massed in a silent group.
The fat man scratched himself vigorously. ‘Six friggin’ less than when that old bastard crossed Ray Sullivan!’
He laughed harshly at his own boast, endeavoring to re-erect his deflated vanity.
‘Six of the best kind of Indian there is, I think,’ the skinny Pedro said, and his laughter rang with nervousness.
‘Dead kind,’ Bassett augmented.
He, Evers and Sonny Boy joined in the ego-boosting laughter.
‘We gonna move on, Edge?’ the whore asked. “It ain’t no warmer sittin’ still on a horse than on the ground.’
‘Captain Kirk’s still in command, lady!’ Kelly barked.
‘So damn command!’ Meg Richards growled, breathing on her cupped hands and glowering at Kirk.
‘Yeah, let’s friggin’ move out!’ Sullivan snarled.
‘In a hurry all of a sudden, ain’t you?’ the sergeant taunted.
‘Move out!’ Kirk yelled.
The well-schooled Indian ponies responded to the touch of heels and the group formed into a column again. Garcia found himself as the odd man trailing at the rear of twin lines. Edge and the whore were riding immediately in front of him.
‘The fat guy must really have somethin’ for this woman he’s lookin’ for,’ Meg Richards said softly.
‘A bullet,’ Edge answered.
Garcia spoke over the whore’s gasp of surprise. “Then he will relieve himself upon her dead body, senorita.’
Edge glanced back, and saw that the group of Apaches had broken up. Most to return to their wickiups. A few to attend to the dead. The only sounds from the rancheria were the distant, eerie wails of the bereaved.
‘He got close to dying for a leak back there,’ the half-breed put in wryly.
The
whore vented a low, fearful laugh. ‘Most people use a latrine. The fat guy sure is a strange one.’
‘Yeah,’ the half-breed muttered, and spat to the open side. ‘Guess you could call him uncanny.’
Chapter Eleven
THEY found the corpses at mid-morning on their second day out of Vintonville. In a high pass where a trail crossed a barren ridge, east to west. Scattered baggage, a cut-open mail sack and wheel ruts in the dust indicated a stage ambush. A confusion of hoof prints - shod and unshod - and the manner in which the dead had died, revealed that the ambushers had been Apaches.
There were six bodies slumped in the dust, and as the group of travelers formed a half circle to one side of the dead, no one expressed shock at the sight. There was just a grimace on the face of Kirk. And a mild groan from Meg Richards.
‘What do you think, sergeant?’ the young captain asked, running a hand along his jaw.
The motion produced a rasping sound. All the men were unshaven, and the only moisture which had touched anyone’s flesh since leaving Vintonville had been in the form of sweat oozed from wide-open pores. The contents of the canteens were too valuable to waste on unnecessary cleanliness. For, in the total absence of a stream or water-hole on their long trek north, every drop was needed to keep thirst at bay for ponies and riders.
“Hostiles hit a stage, sir,’ Kelly answered. His beard was grey with dust and motes floated downwards as his jaw moved.
‘Friggin’ brilliant!’ Sullivan snarled, but his sarcastic anger was subdued.
Everyone was as filthy as the non-com. And, like the fat man, nobody had energy to spare on futile emotions. The effects of the grueling journey - with broiling heat during the day and chilling cold at night - combined with strictly rationed water and rest periods and little food, had taken their toll on all to a varying extent.
‘This guy’s the expert, ain’t he?’ the whore suggested irritably, nodding towards Edge.
Like the rest, the half-breed had remained astride his pony as the halt was called in the pass. He licked dust from his lips and raked his hooded eyes over the scene of carnage. There were four dead men and two female corpses. All had been scalped. Two of the men were fully dressed, the fronts of their shirts smeared with blood. The other four corpses were naked except for hose and boots. The two men had been castrated and the women’s breasts had been hacked off. Blood crusted many lesser knife wounds. Buzzards had not yet been drawn to the pass.
‘Ain’t making no claim,’ Edge said wearily. ‘Anyway, it don’t need an expert. Like the sergeant said, a bunch of Apaches hit the stage. Riding Indian ponies and stolen horses. Maybe the ones they got at Vintonville. Driver and guard were lucky. Shot and died fast. Passengers had a hard time. Apaches took the stage.’
Sullivan stopped scratching. ‘Ain’t no one gonna friggin’ argue with that, soldier boy. All you gotta do is put it more friggin’ fancy when you write your report. Let’s friggin’ move on.’
Kirk ignored him. ‘Not too long ago, mister?’ he suggested to the half-breed. ‘The stink at Waycross was a lot worse.’
‘This morning,’ Edge allowed. Two, maybe three, hours.’
‘About right, I’d say, sir,’ Kelly put in, irritably anxious not to be left out of the discussion.
‘Anything else?’ Kirk insisted, giving his sergeant the same treatment as Sullivan.
Edge took a sip of water and showed the officer a quiet, humorless smile. ‘No offence, feller, but that don’t need an expert either.’
‘What the hell is this all about?’ Bassett demanded.
‘Listen to find out, senor,’ Garcia advised. His wounds had weakened him more than the others. Through the grimed-in dirt of travel, his naturally dark skin hue appeared several shades paler. And there seemed to be no flesh between the skin and facial bone structure. His voice was a croaking whisper.
‘You saw the tracks, mister?’
‘What tracks, frig it!’ the fat man growled.
‘The ones that told us what the old chief wouldn’t tell you!’ Kirk snarled at him. ‘Maybe half a dozen times during the past day and night. The hostiles are swinging every which way. But it all adds up to the fact they’re heading in the same general direction we are!’
‘So let’s get the friggin’ hell after them!’
In the same way that Garcia was the weakest of the riders because of the additional onus of his wounds, Sullivan’s mount was suffering more than the other ponies. Both from the burden of the gross man, and ill-treatment. But the animal had learned to accept an order immediately and thus reduce further harshness.
So, it staggered into movement at the vicious kick of heels into its flanks. Then, with a whinny of relief, slowed its gait at the sharp tug on the reins. Sullivan’s men moved out after him, then the troopers, then Edge, Garcia and the whore.
‘It was seeing the tracks kept you with us, I think, senor,’ Garcia croaked. Then amplified the comment. ‘Learning from them that the Apaches are going north too?’
‘You think better than you look, feller,’ Edge muttered.
‘You mean you’d go up against the whole damn war party on your own?’ Meg Richards asked, frowning.
‘It is a matter of doing what is best in the circumstances, senoritas,’ Garcia countered when the half-breed remained silent. ‘One man alone, he can sometimes succeed where … where a group of this size will fail. He can move more stealthily. Or more quickly if it is necessary. On the other hand, senorita, if a group such as this can join, up with many soldiers.’ He shrugged, and winced at the pain the motion caused.
He was the only man wearing a top coat in the blazing heat of day. The shrug allowed the rancid stench of gangrene to escape for a moment. It smelt like old death and Edge and the woman were used to this. There was no expression of revulsion.
‘Six of one and half a dozen of the other,’ Meg Richards suggested.
‘A man makes a choice, if he has one,’ Garcia allowed.
The whore vented a short laugh. ‘Hey. Six of one and a half dozen of the other. It was like Black Cloud and his braves knew how many the fat guy knocked off at Dry Wash. Six Apaches. So the Apaches knocked off six whites.’
She was ignored, and lapsed into the same brand of exhausted silence as the others. The half-breed was just as weary as the rest. Whatever advantage he had gained by resting in Vintonville had been lost during the harsh trip north. But, even in such a group of violent-tempered troopers and bounty-hunters, he was still supreme in the qualities necessary to survive. For he had a vast storehouse of past experience to draw upon. He had travelled longer over harder terrain, with less to eat and drink. He had been in more dangerous situations than at Waycross, Vintonville or the Dry Wash Rancheria. He had witnessed tortures more cruel than Sullivan had inflicted upon Grunting Bear. He had seen death in larger quantity and more obscene forms than over the past three days.
And he had learned to experience and to witness such things objectively, coldly and dispassionately. To ignore his own suffering and the anguish of others. To remain as sharply alert as he was able until the ultimate objective was achieved.
Thus, as the straggling column pushed northwards, the half-breed was a part of it, but apart from it. While the others rode with chins resting on chests, only sometimes raising their eyes to peer into the heat shimmer, Edge kept constant watch in all directions. While the others held their rifles loosely, his long-fingered, brown skinned right hand maintained a firm grip around the Winchester's frame.
Of the others, Kirk and Kelly came closest to matching Edge's alertness. They had moved to the head of the column again, the young officer conscious of the responsibility of his rank; the bearded non-com calling upon his own experience of surviving the worst that this kind of country could offer. But both were hampered by their uniforms and their consciences. Despite their personal feelings towards the civilians in the group, the captain and the sergeant felt themselves charged with the safe passage of every man and the woman they led. So
, anxiety added to their exhaustion and dulled even further the keenness of their senses.
‘You want to speed things up some, captain!’ the half-breed called.
His voice broke a long verbal silence, that had lasted all the way from the pass. At least an hour had passed and the sun was close to its noon peak. Men jerked out of lethargy. Some had probably been dozing.
‘I was about to order a rest, mister!’ Kirk croaked.
The column had halted as the two troopers reined in their ponies. Edge veered his mount to the side to ride past the stalled group. Inevitably, Garcia and the whore moved in his tracks.
‘Up to you, feller,’ the half-breed drawled. ‘I aim to get aboard that train.’
His choice of phrase was picked up by the men. Necks were stretched and heads were cocked. Smiles became etched into dirt-grimed faces. For, from far beyond the close sounds of the moving ponies, came the distant clatter of a speeding train.
‘Frig it, we made it!’ Sullivan yelled.
‘But what happened to the bastard Indians?’ Evers growled.
His comment blanketed the mounting delight. Heads swung back and forth, weary but now wide eyes scanning the country on all sides. They were in a broad valley of broken rock and sand ridges. The sun-baked ground sloped gently away in front of them, then appeared to reach the lip of a precipice. Heat shimmer veiled what lay beyond the end of the valley. But, on the bright, barren landscape that could be seen, nothing moved except the half-breed, the Mexican and the whore. And the only sounds were the clop of shoeless hooves and - coming from the east - the noise of a train.
‘Why don’t you keep your friggin’ mouth shut!’ Sullivan bellowed at the blond-haired man.
Then he vented a whoop of delight, thudded in his heels and lunged his pony forward.
‘Gallop!’ Kirk commanded, spurting himself and his men into the dust cloud raised by the ponies of Sullivan and the others.
A few moments later, as the labouring ponies drew level with the trio held to a walk, a new sound shattered the heat-broiling air. Masking the train’s clatter, the beating hooves and the yells of the excited men, it was a massive explosive report.
EDGE: Sullivan's Law (Edge series Book 20) Page 12