"Where the hell they gone?" the man at the window said, a tremor in his voice.
"Not home for breakfast, that's for sure," his companion answered, sweating freely from fear but not revealing the terror in his tone as he stood squarely in front of the closed door, aiming his rifle.
The man at the window poked his head outside, trying to spot a sign of stealthy attack and as the woman under the bedclothes began to sob, the soldier died. A brown hand reached down from the roof, grasped the soldier's hair and jerked on it as another hand swung a tomahawk, sheering cleanly through the neck. The head fell into the street and the body back into the room as the brave on the roof emitted a tremendous roar of victory. At the same instant the flimsy panel door was split lengthwise as a lance penetrated it and had enough momentum to strike deep into the chest of the last soldier. Then the door crashed off its hinges and Little Cochise led a dozen braves into the room. They dragged the bed away from the wall and began to dance around it, whooping into the terrified ears of their whimpering victim, priming their bows as they did so. At a signal from the chief twelve arrows were fired at point-blank range and the whimpering ended as a dozen broadening red stains spread across the coverlet.
Similar orgies of barbaric killing were taking place in houses throughout the town as wave after wave of Apache braves circled their objectives, then dismounted at the run for the final assault.
At the Pot of Gold ten braves poured whisky down their throats before smashing the bottles and setting light to the contents. One man tried to run through the flames and emerged with his clothes blazing. The braves ignored him as he rolled in agony burning to death. They were content to surround the building and pour arrows at anyone who tried to escape through upper story windows. The aging madam thought she had got clear down the outside stairway, but came face to face with a young brave. She fought back her terror and raised the hem of her nightgown, exhibiting the entire length of her naked body, wrinkled and flaccid. The brave leered through his warpaint, and reached out to grasp one of the sagging breasts. The woman cried out at the tightness of the grip then shrieked in agony as a knife slashed down to sever the breast. On the roof a naked whore knelt in prayer a moment before a blazing beam collapsed and she fell screaming into the searing heat of the fire.
The empty stage depot and the sheriff's office were fired and sparks showered the nearby livery stable, setting light to the hay loft above. As terrified horses lashed out their hoofs, Wyatt Drucker climbed on to the seat of the wagon and whipped the hindquarters of the two lead grays which thundered away from the flames. Three braves met a pounding death beneath the galloping hoofs of the horses as Drucker emerged from the alley in a screaming turn and he made no attempt to swerve as Nelson Mortimer crawled into his path, the undertaker holding up the bloody stumps of his wrists in a plea for help. The hoofs trampled him and the wheels almost cut him in half. Drucker got clear of the town with the wagon bristling with arrows, but without a scratch on himself.
But the Apache rampage through the town was merely a diversionary tactic, designed to draw the soldiers from the fort. It failed. The big gate stayed closed and the uniformed figures remained at their posts high on the walls, rifles aimed and ready for when the braves came within range. Many of the acts of butchery and destruction were committed in full view of the men and, a ripple of angry conversation spread along the line.
"Save your energy!" Colonel Murray barked, his face wan behind the weathered exterior, his expression forced into a scowl of anger to mask the horror he felt.
He was standing on the platform above the gates, flanked by Lieutenant Sawyer and Sergeant Home. The lieutenant fumed away and retched dryly as a barman ran out of one of the saloons with blood gushing from gaping wounds where his ears had been.
"Don't you think, sir, that …" Home began.
"I’ve done my thinking, sergeant," Murray snapped coldly. "We didn't 'ask those people to build their town out there. My God!"
This last was hissed as a mounted brave turned into the street dragging a naked girl by the hair. A soldier at the fort loosed off a shot that kicked up dust yards short of the Indian.
"Put that man on report!" Murray barked as he saw the girl released, only to die under a hail of falling arrows, some of them carrying burning rags.
Then, as the sweet, nauseating stench of her burning flesh rose to the nostrils of the soldiers, the town became quiet and the street was suddenly devoid of movement. The silence was matched by that from within the fort
"What's happening, sir?" the lieutenant asked at length, his voice a hushed whisper as if afraid the words might carry to the Apaches.
"They know the plan's come unstuck," Murray replied, not taking his eyes off the scene of blazing buildings and a street littered with dead whites and Indians. "They wanted us to move out and we didn't. Little Cochise has to figure out something else."
"What else is there, sir?" Home asked, his tone implying that he already knew the answer.
Murray didn't answer him. "Take a detail and break out the new guns, sergeant," he ordered tightly. "Issue one to each man. Then release the prisoners and see they are armed in the same way."
Home saluted and moved off, barking orders which sent' six men after him. The others held their positions, needing no command from Murray to warn them that the Apaches could attack without warning at any moment.
"You think it will be a full-scale attack, sir?" Sawyer asked when the silence had lengthened to proportions he found difficult to endure.
"Maybe," was all Murray would allow as he rubbed a hand along his unshaven jaw.
Few of the men on the wall were shaved and completely dressed, having been ordered directly from their bunks to the fort's defense at the start of the attack. It. had been cold in the first rays of dawn, but now the sun had gained height and the men did not attempt to button their tunics and shirts. The heat and the fear caused their bodies to run freely with, sweat.
"Smarten up those men!" Murray barked suddenly, glaring at Sawyer.
The lieutenant sprang forward, moving along the line to ensure that the disgruntled troopers obeyed the order. Murray turned away to watch as Edge and the Englishman strolled across the compound and started up the wooden steps to the top of the wall. He resented both men with a degree of emotion which can only be experienced by a lifelong soldier for civilian indiscipline. But he respected their fighting skills and suspected he would soon need to call upon them.
"Good morning, Colonel," the Englishman said brightly. "Not the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in, but it was peaceful until our red visitors arrived."
Edge looked down on Rainbow impassively, hooded eyes taking in the vista of death and destruction. He spat into the dust before the gate.
"Looks like the Apaches mean business this time," he muttered. "Where they gone?"
"Hiding," Murray answered, "Regrouping for an all-out attack this time, I'd say."
His tone and expression invited a comment from Edge, but the tall, lean man continued his survey of the town.
"Appears you were not a lot of help, old boy," the Englishman said.
"I lost an eight man patrol out there someplace," the Colonel answered angrily. "That's eight more than I can afford to lose."
"Touchy," the Englishman murmured as the detail of men led by Sergeant Home began to haul crates of rifles and ammunition up the stairway.
At a nod from the fort commander the detail began to distribute the guns and shells. Edge had already been given back his own Spencer, but chose to rest this against the wall as he tested the action of the Winchester. The issue of the new weapons caused an interested Hurry of conversation all along the line of defenders.
"Everyone out there killed?" Edge asked when he had finished his examination of the gun and began to feed shells into it.
"As far as we can tell," Murray answered. "Drucker may have escaped. He made a run for it on your wagon."
"I'll be damned," the Englishman said. "Map, Edge?
"
Edge spat again. "He took it."
"What map?" Murray demanded as Sawyer returned to the group,
"Our business," Edge answered, resting the rifle and checking the action and load of his Colt.
"Bastard," the Englishman muttered.
"Colonel," a voice called from along the line. "It's starting."
Every pair of eyes turned to look down at the town to see a line of white men, women and children snaking out on to the street, roped together by their necks. There were twenty of them, spread out across the width of the street and they began to advance slowly toward the gates of the fort. As the line moved down the street, Apache braves began to appear behind the prisoners led by an elderly, garishly daubed shaman who intoned a low-keyed monologue to the accompaniment of a beat supplied by two drum-toting braves who ambled along in his wake. The beat of the drum and wailing of the shaman did not drown out the sobbing of several women in the human shield. Behind their spiritual guide, the braves, mounted and on foot, paced themselves to the drumbeat. Their bows and lances were at the ready.
"It doesn't compare with the Lord Mayor's Show form spectacle," the Englishman said.
"Shuddup," Edge told him softly, "You ain't funny anymore."
"Christ, sir," Sawyer said "What can we do?"
"Try praying," the Englishman said and glared at Edge, throwing down a tacit challenge.
But Edge had his attention focused on the ghastly parade, which now had swelled to perhaps a hundred and fifty war-painted Apaches; one central group bunched closely around a handsome young brave who carried a decorated lance.
"Chief?" Edge asked of anyone who knew the answer.
"Little Cochise," Murray replied. "Sub-chief. His brother Cochise is big man of the local tribes. They're both troublemakers."
"And this one's smart," Edge said, thinking aloud. "You're going to have to open the gates, Colonel."
Murray's expression hardened. "Those people aren't my responsibility. This fort, the men and their supplies are."
"There are kids in that line."
"People had no right to bring kids into this wilderness," Murray shot back.
Edge lapsed into silence. It was an opinion with which he agreed. One of the leading braves released an arrow. It struck home between the shoulder blades of one of the three Chinese laundrymen in the center of the line of prisoners. His body slumped, dragging against the ropes around the necks of the men at each side of him. The line hesitated, but moved on again as the drum beat continued, uninterrupted, the other Chinese having to carry their dead companion.
"They don't speak our language, but they sure make their meaning clear," Edge said softly.
"And then there were nineteen," the Englishman said lyrically. "One at a time until we open up, sir," Sawyer said in horror.
Murray's young face revealed the same kind of horror, but it was evident to a greater extent, as he struggled with the agony of decision. An arrow swished, through the pregnant air and all at the fort could see the point burst through a woman's throat a moment before she fell, to be immediately scooped up by the man beside her. The line of prisoners was close enough now for the desperation on their faces to be vividly displayed for the defenders.
"Open the goddamn gate, you sonofabitch," a voice called from a turreted position at a comer of the fort.
"Put that man …" Murray began.
"No, sir!" Sawyer cut in, his tone as hard as rock, his eyes shining with defiance.
Murray's face suddenly blossomed purple with rage and Sawyer stepped back a pace in full expectation of a blow.
"You may live through this, Colonel," the Englishman said softly. "But not for long. Man's got to have sleep."
The familiar, awesome sound of the swishing arrow cut across the verbal silence and a boy of no more than ten years was lifted off the ground by the shaft piercing his back.
"Sergeant Home!" Murray rapped out sharply.
"Sir!"
"Open the gates."
"Not that I think any of us are going to live through it," the Englishman muttered as Sawyer ran down the stairs with Home behind him and both men hurriedly withdrew the big wooden bolts securing the gates.
"Run, out of funny lines, English?' Edge said as he moved to the inside lip of the platform over the opening gates.
"There's a time and a place for everything, Edge," came the reply.
Edge nodded as the gates came wide and the line of prisoners was formed into a V-formation to bring them and their dead inside the opening. The shaman and his drummers held back as the braves closed in, primed bows at the ready to prevent a double-cross.
"It’s almost the time," Edge said, hooded eyes looking down at the heads of the braves as they streamed into the fort. "And this must be the place," he said, launching himself off the platform.
There were gasps from the soldiers on the wall and howls of fury from the braves below as Edge, his legs splayed, thudded on to the back of the horse behind Little Cochise. His razor had been drawn in mid-air and as he made contact with the horse he thrust one arm around the sub-chiefs middle as his other hand went to the throat, pressing the blade against the vulnerable flesh. In the moment it took the Apaches to recover from the shock, Edge had slid over the hindquarters of the pony, jerking Little Cochise with him. Then he did a fast pivot on his heels, dragging the Indian with him, to ensure that both the close guard and their fellows were fully aware of the danger. The slightest movement of Edge's wrist would prevent Little Cochise from becoming any bigger.
The braves began to babble and some offered threatening gestures, but made no move as the Apache in Edge's grasp screamed an order.
"Anyone here talk the same kind of crap as these guys?" Edge shouted.
"Wasn't' on the curriculum at Oxford, old boy," the Englishman called down. "I have trouble understanding some of you Yankees."
But there was no need of an interpreter, for the handsome, young sub-chief with the cruel eyes had already got the message and was shouting orders to his braves. Some moved at once, others hesitated but within a minute of the capture, every Apache except for Little Cochise, had gone back out through the gates.
"Now you can close the gates, Colonel," Edge said easily, still retaining a firm grip on the Apache sub-chief, who submitted without struggle to his indignity.
But Lieutenant Sawyer and Sergeant Home did not wait for the order and slammed the gates hard as soon as the final Indian had gone through.
"Really, Edge," the Englishman said as he descended the stairway from the wall. "If you stand there much longer holding that savage, people will start to talk about you."
"I’ll take him, sir," Sawyer said, drawing his revolver and holding it on Little Cochise.
Murray remained on the wall, watching the slow, reluctant retreat of the Apaches as they headed in a column through the ravaged town. Not until he was sure they were gone, heading east at a gallop, did he detail a platoon to cut free the prisoners.
"Mr. Edge," he called down.
Edge squinted up at him.
"My compliments and thanks."
"Keep them," Edge said coldly. "What I need is a horse. Mine's just well-done steak in the livery right now."
"Not without me he isn't," the Englishman put in hurriedly.
"That's what I figured," Edge said with a sigh.
"You'll be supplied with horses and saddles," Murray told them.
"Obliged," Edge answered.
"You earned them.
"In spades," Edge said and spat into the dust.
The Englishman smiled. '"I didn't see any niggers. Thought they were all Indians."
"You'll die laughing," Edge told him as he headed across the compound toward the stables.
"And you'll bury me face down, I suppose?" the Englishman came back," simulating a mincing gait as he joined Edge.
"Yeah, and plant pansies on the mound."
CHAPTER TEN
"JUST how, old boy, do you propose to get the gold without t
he map?" the Englishman asked as he rode down the street of carnage, picking their way between the sprawled bodies and the detail of soldiers who had been ordered to bury the dead.
He had taken the time to wash and shave and to give his suit yet another brushing so that he presented a model of well-groomed cleanliness as he jogged along beside his disheveled companion. Edge’s hard face was patterned by a dark beard line and his clothes were crumpled and crusted with the sweat and dirt of battle. He merely grunted in response to the others question as he turned to head along the cross street which left Rainbow in an easterly direction.
The sun had completed a quarter of its morning climb, shining hot and hard into their eyes, giving discomfort to the Englishman whose narrow-brimmed Derby offered little shade. Edge rode with the wider brim of his black hat pulled low and for the most part looked down at the dusty, potted surface of the street, concentrating on the parallel lines which came into view at intervals among the confusion of signs left in the churned-up dust layer.
"Ah, the bloodhound technique," the Englishman said at length. "Drucker has the-map so we follow Drucker."
"Can you figure anything better?" Edge asked without looking at him.
The other shrugged. "Excellent plan, old boy. Until the tracks fade out, as they are sure to do when we get up in the mountains."
"Then it will be your turn to get smart," Edge told him, favoring him with a mirthless grin. "I've started us off."
"With a pure stroke of genius," the Englishman answered with heavy sarcasm as they rode clear of the edge of town, passing the house of Fred Olsen with the decapitated head of a soldier lying in front of it. "Rather a drastic method of scalping, don't you' think?"
In the open country of the valley the wagon tracks became clearer, veering northward toward the rearing face of the ridge, while the Indian sign continued on a straight course, following the line of the stage trail. Edge urged his horse into a canter and, taken by surprise, the Englishman had to race forward at a gallop for several yards in order to catch up. He was not a good horseman and his well-schooled, army-trained mount knew this and resented it, giving the Englishman an uncomfortable ride.
Apache Death Page 8