The woman screamed and it was the only sound, Anatali's face contorted by the agony of the steel in his body, the big eyes seeming on the point of popping from his head, the once smooth face creased into a million tiny lines. But the enormous lips of the man were pressed tightly together, as if merged into one as he fought against the need to give voice to his torment. Blood oozed from around the hilts of the knives and trickled down to spread two stains, a darker color, across the red velvet vest.
"You're doing fine, feller," Edge whispered to himself. "Stick with it. It gets worse before it gets better."
The sub-chief nodded his approval of the Zulu's powers of endurance, then snapped a command in his native tongue. The two braves stepped forward and wrenched the knives free. Two more moved into their place as the others backed away. Another synchronized plunging motion brought a second piercing scream from the woman and carved a greater agony on Anatali's face as two short lengths of wood skewered through the flesh in the paths hacked by the knives.
"Oh, dear God, end it!" Martha shrieked. "Let him die now!"
Without turning, the sub-chief barked a command. Each of Martha's captors hooked a hand over the neckline of her dress and ripped it down the front. Her entire upper body was exposed, the large breasts becoming pendulous without support. Delight shone in the eyes of the two braves holding her as they altered the angle of their knives, prepared for an upward cutting movement. Martha hung her head in shame, the long golden hair covering her body.
Confident in the knowledge that the pleasures of the woman's naked flesh were to come, the other braves concentrated their attention on the Zulu as lengths of rope were tied to the skewers at the front of his shoulders. The appalling agony of suffering was still carved upon his features, but Anatali was resolute in his silence as the ropes were tossed up and over the firmly planted lances. Sweat was a dull sheen across his skin and his eyes seemed incredibly bright by comparison, filmed by a glaze. Edge grinned again, seeing in the expression a possible reason for the black man's fortitude—Anatali had apparently withdrawn behind the protective barrier of a self-induced trance. As six Shoshoni lifted him clear of the ground, two others were held aloft to tie the loose ends of ropes around the bloodied skewers protruding from the back. The Zulu's body was as stiff as a tree trunk, his muscles locked hard.
The sub-chief gave his order in a quiet tone now, and the supporting braves reacted with an incongruous gentleness at the climax of such a pitiless torture. They lowered the massive body slowly and carefully, only releasing their grip when the ropes took the full strain, the Zulu's weight causing the flesh of his skewered shoulders to stretch like thick lengths of black rubber. For long moments Edge thought the man was dead, for he seemed to be hanging in a state of utter immobility, his legs and arms unmoving in the still air, the agony etched on his face giving his features the quality of inanimate ebony, the eyes staring directly ahead, unblinking. But then he realized the head was held upright by living muscles and he detected the faint rise and fall of the barrel chest.
"You are indeed a brave man," the sub-chief said with feeling, his tone low. "To show such courage your people, like mine, must have suffered at the hand of the white man."
"It's a goddamn equal rights convention," Edge muttered and leaned his head back against the wagon wheel, feeling the sheathed razor press against his neck, taunting him with its inaccessibility.
Then the sub-chief turned away from his victim and the cruel lust that shone in his eyes was mirrored in the faces of his braves as they, too, looked at the helpless woman. She sensed that she had now become the center of attention and raised her head. Edge saw that there was still pain in her expression, but it was of a different nature, arising from mental anguish rather than the physical force applied by her captors. And the element of horror had deserted her. Now she was looking fully into the face of the inevitable and she was prepared for it, her strength of character manifested in the form of an arrogant contempt that spoke volumes of hatred towards the advancing braves.
But, if the Shoshonis understood the subtleties of silent emotion they chose to ignore such abstracts as the powerful desires of the flesh filtered into their savage minds and emerged as a face-contorting craving for the physical fact of naked flesh.
"You will see and then you will die," the sub-chief tossed at Edge, then formed his hands into claws and stretched his arms out in front of him, reaching for the weight of the heavy breasts.
He died a happy man, probably not feeling the mildest sensation of pain to mar the throbbing heat of his concupiscence’s a split-second before his anxious fingers found their goal. The large caliber bullet drilled a neat hole in the center of his forehead which an instant later gushed a great spout of blood into the face of Martha Wilder. As Edge raked his eyes across the surrounding terrain, his, lips formed into a silent curse at his own helplessness, a fusillade of shots rang out and he saw the puffs of smoke marking the positions of the attackers. Three braves screamed their pain and sprawled across the ground as the others yelled in alarm and scattered, fumbling with their weapons. One of the Shoshoni who had been holding the woman made a bolt for the wagon and got off one wild shot before he took a bullet in the back and pitched forward, spilling his blood into one of the rivulets which was suddenly running red.
"Cut me loose!" Edge yelled to the woman, who had gone into a crouch, her hands clawing at the wreckage of her dress to hide her body.
Martha's white face turned towards him, her eyes staring in non-comprehension, her body trembling at each new burst of gunfire. "I'll keep my goddamn eyes shut, but cut me loose!" Edge barked.
Bullets kicked up spurts of dirt all over the campsite as the attackers subjected the Shoshonis to a murderous barrage of gunfire, immune behind rocky cover from the wildly aimed arrows and rifle shots offered in panicked retaliation. One brave drew his bow taut and then collapsed as a bullet gouged into his stomach. As he folded, the primed arrow was released and thudded wildly off course into the ground an inch from the woman's right foot. The nearness of the escape galvanized her into action and she scampered on all fours towards Edge, her breasts swinging unhampered beneath her as all modesty was forgotten.
"Razor, behind my neck!" Edge snapped, leaning his head forward, exposing the pouch.
Her fingers were ice cold and moved in a continuous quiver as she touched him. "Who are they?" she asked hoarsely as she went full length beneath the wagon and began to saw at the binding which held his wrists.
"Don't let the rescue bit fool you," he told her as he saw a brave leap for his pony and then start to cartwheel, pouring blood from two head wounds. "It has to be Tabor still hankering for the silver. He could have plugged you out there in the shooting gallery."
"What do you mean?" she gasped, as the binding came free and Edge withdrew his arms from the spokes, beginning to flex them to work the circulation back into stiffened tissue.
He snatched the razor from her unprotesting hand and looked at her with hooded eyes. "With the redskins it was torture business before pleasure. Tabor's in the silver business…."
Another brave rushed towards the cover of the wagon and Edge recognized his Winchester clutched in the man's hand. The Indian's panic blinded him to any danger ahead as he fled from the deadly barrage which filled the air behind him with flying lead. As the woman continued to crouch in terror beneath the wagon. Edge timed his move and sprang to his feet, bringing up his right hand and turning the blade of the razor towards the running brave. The man saw him too late and his attempt to bring up the rifle was curtailed in an instant as the naked steel slashed across his throat. Arterial blood gushed, swamping the man's death cry. Edge lifted the Winchester from the dead hand.
"No charge for the loan," he said, as the brave fell to start more rivers of blood.
Edge pivoted, turning his back upon the slaughter of the Shoshonis, and diving to the rear of the wagon. He leaned inside and snatched up the hooded parka and a box of shells. Then he turned again,
and moved along the foot of the cliff at a fast run. Behind him a half-dozen surviving Shoshonis were still answering the gunfire of the attackers, using dead ponies and the bodies of their fallen brothers for cover. If the men among the rocks saw Edge escape, none would risk breaking into the open to follow him.
Martha Wilder did see him go and screamed at him to wait as she struggled to crawl from under the wagon and give chase. But her foot hooked between two spokes or a wheel and she pitched headlong into a puddle of blood-clouded water, screaming again as the pain of a twisted ankle shot up the length of her leg.
Edge didn't turn, but maintained his speed, drawing renewed hope with each foot of ground he covered as the clamor of the battle diminished behind him. And soon, as the cliff face took on a curve and he followed it, the terrain falling away in a gentle slope, the gunfire and screams of the dying diminished as if into the far distance, for the solid barrier of rock and. earth came between him and the scene of the carnage.
He didn't stop running until a small underground stream emerged from the cliff and began to cut a deepening course down the slope. For a moment he stood, feet spread apart, breathing deeply as his chest heaved. Then he went to his knees and fell forward, plunging his face into the refreshing iciness of the stream water, sucking great mouthfuls of it into his stomach. When he had drunk his fill he rolled over on to his back and waited patiently for his breathing rate to return to normal.
Not until then did he put on his parka and check the magazine of the Winchester, feeding shells into it until it was full. Next he emptied his gunbelt of the Colt ammunition and replaced it with bullets for the Winchester. He threw the box away, got to his feet and patted the thick wad of bills in his hip pocket. Then he set off back up the slope, wiping the drips of water from his jaw, harsh stubble grazing the back of his hand.
The last brave died with six bullet holes peppering his back as he tried to run away and was flipped into a blood-soaked heap beneath the dangling feet of the hanging Zulu. Silence descended over the body-littered campsite like an invisible cloak, almost reverent in its intensity. It endured for no more than five seconds, to be broken by the rattle of small pebbles sent scuttling from beneath the feet of Jake Tabor and the remnants of his gang as they rose from cover and started towards the wagon. As if she had been afraid to be the first desecrator of the silent wake, Martha Wilder looked up at the advancing line of men and moaned her wretchedness.
"Thee will show thy gratitude to us, woman," Tabor thundered, stroking his flowing red beard. "We saved thee from obscene fornication with these heathen."
Keene chuckled, showing his uneven gums. "But we ain't heathen, Miss Wilder," he yelled. "We know how to treat a lady."
Martha hunched her shoulders and crossed her arms in front of her nakedness, concealing her body from the lecherous eyes of the gang gathering around her.
"I still say she ain't much to look at," one of the men said with a sneer.
Another, named Hyman, poked a sharp elbow into the man's ribs. "You: been going with pretty boys for so long you forgot where a woman has it, Luke. You just keep your eyes closed and we'll guide you."
Martha cowered before their laughter, which ended abruptly as Tabor barked an order. "Hitch the wagon!"
Luke and Hyman moved towards the tethered team, the latter with reluctance.
"On your feet," Keene ordered, as Tabor went to the rear of the wagon and peered inside, his eyes gleaming at the sight of the silver bars in the opened crates.
"I think my ankle's broken," Martha complained, a tremor in her voice.
Keene showed his gums again. "How about that," he chortled, stooping over her and pushing his rifle towards the man with two fingers missing from one of his hands. "I'll sure get a boost out of giving you a boost, Miss Wilder."
His small frame struggled with the weight of the solidly built woman, but he gained consolation from his exertions as a hand found the curved firmness of one or her breasts. He tipped her unceremoniously into the wagon and the activity broke Tabor's trancelike concentration upon the prize of silver. He eyed the woman with disdain.
"The other man with thee?" he demanded. "Where did he go?"
Martha Wilder's bitterness was deep felt, generated almost entirely by the absence of Edge. "He ran out on me," she answered. "He's no better than you are."
"He can't have got far, Jake," Keene put in. "Not without a horse. Shall we go get him?"
Tabor pondered the suggestion for several long seconds, as Hyman and Luke coaxed the team between the shafts. Then he shook his head, his eyes burning with a slow fire. "First the silver, then the man," he pronounced. "He is a stranger to these mountains or we would have known of him. He will not get away from me."
Keene hoisted himself over the tailgate of the wagon, then held still as he met the stern, unblinking gaze of Jake Tabor. "I'll just make sure she don't fall off again, Jake," Keene said quickly, and swallowed hard.
"Treat her as thee would the silver," Tabor warned.
"Sure, Jake. Sure." The words tumbled over his lack lower lip in a rush. "No divvying up till you give the word."
Tabor nodded in acknowledgement and strode along the side of the wagon to check that the team had been harnessed securely. The man with two fingers missing appeared, leading the gang's horses.
"Bring the other two," Tabor ordered, nodding to where the mounts of Edge and Anatali stood. Then he hauled himself up on to the driver's seat. The rest of the gang mounted, taking the reins of spare horses. Tabor released the brake on the wagon and flicked the reins to urge the team into motion.
The hooves stepped, delicately over the crumpled forms of the dead Indians, but the iron rims of the heavily laden wheels had only Tabor's firm hands to guide them. They rolled inanimately over the sprawled bodies without the mildest of bumps, tearing through cooling flesh and crushing dead bone to splinters, leaving patches of pulpy redness in the ruts. Tabor halted the wagon in front of the tall pine upon which the Zulu's body hung, the flesh of his shoulders now stretched to such an extent that it was possible to see daylight through the enlarged holes beneath the wooden skewers.
"Bet that hurts worse than the rheumatism," Luke said sourly, rubbing his own shoulder as if recalling a familiar ache.
"He don't look properly dead," Hyman opined, looking hard into Anatali's tormented face which was continuing to ooze moisture through wide open pores. "Still sweating, though."
"Then he must be alive, stupid," Keene called from the rear of the wagon.
Martha Wilder began to sob her sympathy for the Zulu's suffering.
"Quiet the woman!" Tabor barked and Keene grinned with sadistic pleasure as he hit her a vicious backhanded slap across the cheek. Tabor nodded and continued to look at Anatali. "He's still alive. Not for long, though." His face darkened with tacit rage. "His pain is nothing to that which Miller's murderer will suffer."
He flicked the reins again and the wagon rolled forward on its bloody path across the litter of dead Shoshonis. From his hiding place in a niche in the cliff face, Miller Tabor's killer watched the departure of the wagon and its escort of gunmen. His narrowed eyes, glinting between their slits, scanned the dead bodies, some of them cut in half by the passage of the heavily-laden wagon, oozing blood and gore. Then he looked into the far distance, at the sunlight dancing in silent beauty upon the white covered peaks. "Snow fits the pattern," he said: "It's turning into one hell of a silver sleigh ride."
Chapter Twelve
WHEN the wagon and its attendant riders were out of sight, disappearing over the jagged crest of a rise about a mile to the west, Edge came out from his cover and moved among the dead bodies towards the pine and its gruesome appendage. He sensed Anatali's eyes following his progress but realized this could be a trick of the imagination. So he halted in front of the hanging man and scrutinized the pain-wracked face for a sign of movement. "Hey," he called softly. "You still part of this wicked world or are you striding that, great green Veldt in the sky?"
> The Zulu's lips cracked open, moved soundlessly for several moments, then allowed the words to gain exit. "All right I yell now?" His voice was a whispered croak.
"Rather you didn't," Edge told him, glancing towards the high ground over which the Tabor gang had disappeared. "Mountains have a strange effect on sound."
The lips moved again. "You cut me down, please?"
Edge glanced about him. "Wondering how long you figured to hang around," he cracked, and moved forward when he spotted three Shoshoni ponies standing nervously some yards off. Beyond them, high on a ridge, a group of coyotes had gathered, pushing their snouts into the blood-scented air. Edge moved slowly, whispering softly to the ponies in a language they didn't understand. But one of them was attracted to the gentle tones and held his ground while the others bolted. The animal allowed Edge to take up the rope bridle and lead him across to where the Zulu was continuing to endure his torture in determined silence.
"Easy does it," Edge said softly, offering the advice to himself, Anatali, and the pony as he swung astride the animal, drawing his razor.
The pony stood absolutely still with the patience of harsh training as Edge reached up, accepting the Zulu's weight with one arm around him as he used his free hand to slash through the restraining ropes. After having suffered so long and so cruelly, Anatali was forced to give out a groan of relief as the strain was relaxed on his shoulders. It took every ounce of Edge's considerable strength to maintain a grip around the Zulu's body and lower him gently to the ground. Then he kept his grip as he slid from the animal and allowed the massive body of Anatali to sink back against the tree trunk.
Working quickly but with cautious gentleness, Edge cut through the knots in the ropes around the skewers at the back, then took a firm grip on each from the front. "This'll hurt you more than it does me," he said in a rush and ended by jerking the skewers from the flesh.
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