Apache Death (Edge series Book 3)

by George G. Gilman

  “Speak, you bastard!”

  It was enough to cover the faint click as Edge eased back the hammer.

  “'I couldn't have killed him,” the miner said softly, to himself, the words magnified by the confined space of the mine tunnel. “But maybe I got in a lucky shot. Jesus, I hope if I killed him, he was after me claim.”

  Edge raised his arm and Hung the revolver high and wide. It clunked to the ground a hundred feet down the trail, bounced twice and exploded into sound when it hit a third time.

  “Holy cow!” the miner yelled and stepped out of the mine, raising his rifle to shoulder level and going into a half crouch.

  Edge jumped forward off the ledge, left hand streaking to the back of his neck. The man squeezed the trigger of the rifle and his high-pitched shriek of alarm was lost in the report as the dead weight of Edge hit him. Edge locked his legs around the man and with one hand jerked his head back as the other, fingers curled around the handle of the razor, snaked to the miner's throat. The man pitched forward under the weight and power of the lunge, the rifle clattering away. His knees hit first and his scream of pain was cut off as he went full-length, with the wind knocked out of him. The sharp edge of the razor merely nicked the grizzled, slack skin of his throat.

  “'You didn't get in no lucky shot,” Edge whispered, close to his ear.

  The man was gasping for breath, the effect of the fall and the continuing weight of Edge on his back demanding his entire strength to force air into his lungs. Edge let him suffer like that for perhaps half a minute before he eased his weight off. But he left the razor close against the throat. Then, with his free hand, he grasped the man's hair and yanked him to his feet, still not removing the razor. The man was a head shorter than Edge, and would have fallen to the ground again had not Edge held him erect by the hair. They stood like that for several more moments, the man's rasping breath the only sound. Then his breathing became less pained and his body began to tremble.

  “You wouldn't kill an old man, mister?” His teeth were clattering.

  Edge let go of his hair and the man stood unaided, forced upright by the threat of the razor under his jaw.

  “They ain't no different from-young men,” Edge told him evenly. “Skin's a little tougher to carve through, but they bleed just as much. How old are you, feller?”

  “Seventy-two,” the man said quickly, as if he regarded his age as a plea for leniency.

  Edge showed his teeth in a grin the man could not see. "Three score, years and ten, the Good Book says," he whispered with mock reverence. “You’ve been living on borrowed time for the past two years, old timer. Could be I'm the debt collector.”

  The old man drew in his breath sharply? “Please, mister. Take half in the Silver Seam. We split down the middle. Fifty-fifty.”

  “How much you dug out so far?”

  “Nothing, not yet,” came the fast reply. “But it's there. Richest seam in the whole territory. Famous legend about a mountain of silver in these parts and I know this is it. I've been a miner all me life. I can recognize the sign of a silver lode.”

  “How long you been working this mine?” Edge asked.

  “Ain't nothing to go by,” the miner said, the confidence oozing out of his voice. “Takes time.”

  "How long?”

  “Be twelve years come spring,” the man said and now his, tone was devoid of all hope.

  “Hell, you're dead already,” Edge said, releasing him and returning the razor to its neck pouch.

  The old man turned to face him and he saw the miner carried his age well. The leathery skin was lined and wrinkled beneath the gray stubble of several days’ growth of beard, but the blue eyes were bright and there was strength of character in the leanness of his features. His gray hair, with just a trace here and there of its former dark color, was long and thick. His spare frame also hinted at a latent strength and there was just a slight thickening of excess weight around the middle. Twelve years of tearing at the heart of a mountain had kept the old man fit and a determination to find what he sought had fed a hope which in turn had nurtured his spirit.

  “So you ain't going to kill me?”

  Hope had sprung up again. Edge walked across and picked up the miner's rifle, an early muzzle-loading Springfield as clean as the day it had left the factory.

  “What's your name?” he demanded.

  “Zeb Hanson.”

  “Let's go for a walk.”

  Hanson squinted. “A walk?”

  Edge grinned, “I've got to find a few things that belong to me and I'd prefer to have you where I can see you while I'm looking for them.”

  Hanson shrugged and fell in beside Edge. He found his Colt first and dusted it off and replaced the expended shell with a fresh round before putting it back in the holster. The old man waited docilely at the foot of the mesa wall while Edge climbed up and retrieved the Spencer.

  “You're a damn cool customer,” Hanson said with a note of admiration when Edge rejoined him. “You got the drop on me, and good.”

  Edge grimaced at him. "You were easy. I'm still missing a horse.”

  This news and the tone with which it was delivered raised fear within the old man again. “Got a burro in back of the mine,” he offered. “She ain't very fast, but she's steady,”

  “I like my horse.”

  “Could have lit off clear to Mexico,” the old man whined.

  Edge grinned. “You speak passable Mexican, Zeb. You find any peons, you ask them if they've seen a big black stallion with a Mexican army brand on him."

  CHAPTER THREE

  THEY crested the ridge at first light, as the grayness of the false dawn was pushing back the darkness from the east and night was preparing to retreat under the first threat of the onslaught of a new day. They were high, perhaps two thousand feet up on the first-step toward the Rockies and it was cold. Zeb Hanson was riding bare-back now, the horse blanket hung about his shoulders. Edge was draped in a blanket, too, and had been chain-smoking cigarettes, drawing hard against them in cupped hands to try to get warmth into his fingers.

  “That there's Rainbow,” Hanson said, pointing as Edge rode up alongside him.

  They were on one side of a wide valley and the ground fell away in a gentle, boulder-strewn slope. Then there was a broad expanse of open country with a river cutting a zig-zagged course across it, west to east. The far side .of the valley was a sheer cliff face, rising upwards of a thousand feet higher than the ridge where the two, men had halted. Where the river angled toward the cliff and then swung around in a wide arc was the town toward which Hanson’s shivering finger was pointing.

  The fort was built against the cliff, the solid rock face forming its rear defense. On the other three sides it was defended by a high retaining wall, rock to first story level and wood above. Spread out in front of the fort, on a street which intersected it, were the buildings of the town of Rainbow.

  "I can see how the fort was there first," Edge said, more to himself than to Hanson.

  "Yeah," the old man said. "Ain't much defense' for the town, is it? But that ain't its purpose. Built as headquarters for the Thirteenth Cavalry. Lot of country for the soldier boys to cover. They didn't want no town there to add to their troubles. But, once it started, hard to stop." He sniffed. "Soldier boys and townspeople ain't none too friendly toward each other."

  Edge continued his survey of the town and its surroundings. He decided it looked like a good, safe spot. The floor of the valley was mostly open country, offering little cover for attackers and once within four hundred feet of the edge of the town, there was the obstacle of the river to cross, a hundred feet wide and perhaps deep. Thus, to north and south, Rainbow had good natural defenses. To the west, too, it looked good, because the open, almost featureless ground continued from the river to the foot of the cliff. East was the weak spot, for in this direction there had been rock falls and the floor of the valley was at this point littered with enormous chunks of the former cliff face. The face itself
grew gradually less sheer, providing an easy downward ride. The stage trail went in this direction, curving between the fallen rocks and then forking, one spur stretching off eastward into the distance, the other snaking into a gully for northbound travelers.

  "Look good to you, mister?" Hanson asked when he was sure Edge had finished his surveillance,

  The first ray of sunlight of the new day stabbed over the eastern horizon, lighting up the valley floor like a spotlight on a theatrical set. Edge grunted and didn't reply as he rolled two cigarettes, put one in his mouth and handed the other to Hanson. The old man smiled.

  "Obliged to you, mister."

  Edge struck a match and lit his own cigarette, then held out the match toward Hanson. The old man leaned forward, screamed and continued the movement, the cigarette still stuck to his bottom lip.

  “I thought the third light was the unlucky one," Edge muttered as he glanced at the arrow which had caught Hanson squarely between the shoulder blades.

  He ducked instinctively as he turned in the saddle and felt the draught of a speeding arrow rush over the top of his head. There were four of them, sitting astride ponies at the edge of a grotesquely shaped outcrop of rock just below the crest of the ridge, about two hundred feet from Edge. Apaches weren't red, of course. These four, like all in the six tribes which made up the Apache nation, were coppery brown. They were dressed and painted for war, in animal hide breechcloths and long-sleeved shirts open at the front to reveal the white daubing on their chests. Other white markings were splashed above their dark eyes, on their high cheekbones and outlined their receding chins. Their long, thick black hair hung unbraided around their faces; held out of their eyes by buckskin strips with just one dark feather at the back for decoration.

  Even as Edge was drawing his Colt the two who had not yet joined the attack loosed off barbed arrows from their three foot long bows. Edge dug his heels into the flanks of the horse and the animal jerked forward. Both arrows twanged harmlessly into the ground as Edge fired and grunted in satisfaction at the sight of one of the braves pitching from his horse clutching at the bullet hole in his throat.

  The other three began to howl in anger as they fitted more arrows into their bows, kicking their pones into a rushing advance toward Edge. Edge fired one shot for effect and dropped from his moving horse, sliding the Spencer from its boot. The three arrows were in mid-flight as Edge hit the ground and rolled over, coming to rest in a prone position, the rifle leveled and cocked, forefinger of his right hand curled around the trigger, barrel steady in the cupped palm of his left hand, left elbow firmly planted on the ground. The Apaches were, rearming their bows at the gallop and Edge took the center brave first, the bullet catching him in the heart.

  The other two were close enough then for Edge to see the mixture of rage and fear on their painted faces: to see death glaze the eyes of the Indian on the right as a bullet' from the Spencer drilled a deep hole in his forehead.

  The remaining Indian had time to get off an arrow and Edge had to jerk himself away in a fast roll to avoid it, only saw his attacker again as the Apache launched himself from his pony, snatching a tomahawk from his breechcloth. The Spencer exploded into sound once more and the brave's whoop of triumph became a blood-choked cry of agony as the bullet punctured his right lung. Edge jerked himself clear of the falling body and went up on one knee, snapping his head around to search the area for other Indians. But there were none. He stood up and looked at the brave, writhing in agony on the dusty ground, spitting blood and clawing at his wound.

  Then the man sensed his death throes were the object of an impassive stare and he looked up at the tall white man who was regarding him with mute dispassion. He reached out a hand and grasped the muzzle of the loosely held rifle, tugged at it weakly until it was resting on his chest, left of center. The dark, deep-set eyes of the wounded man communicated a tacit plea for the ending of pain.

  Edge showed his teeth in a grin of evil intent and shook his head as he jerked the rifle from the feeble grasp.

  "You boys started this shindig. You already cost me more shells than four Indians ought to need and shells are expensive. See it out on your own."

  Edge's horse was standing placidly near where Zeb Hanson's body was sprawled and the animal sidled across, stepping delicately clear of the dead Indians, when Edge clucked his tongue. He slid the rifle back in its boot, then drew his knife from the rear of his belt. He went to the most distant of the Apaches first and stepped over him, tearing off the buckskin strip and clutching at a tuft of hair on the crown of the man's head. The point of the knife penetrated the skin of the dead Indian's scalp and the edge sliced easily and quickly in a circle until the tuft came free. Edge's expression, as he performed this operation on the three dead braves was set in lines of calm passivity. It did not change as he approached the fourth man, who was still alive, and was watching him with uncritical acceptance. Edge crouched in front of him and let the three scalps swing before the injured man's face.

  "This you understand, don't you? You figured to get Zeb's and mine. You lost, so the honor's mine. But it ain't an honor, feller. Don't reckon I'll get too much for these, but maybe enough to replace the shells I used up." The man struggled to understand this foreign tongue, to discover whether his tormentor intended to take his prize before life ran out. But he died before there was time to provide an alternative, the blood bubbling up in his throat and frothing out over his chin. Edge waited for the final spasm of death to complete its course and then cut free the scalp.

  He moved quickly then, in the warm early rays of the sun, slinging Hanson's body over the back of the burro and tying the four scalps to his saddle horn. Then he reloaded the Spencer and the Colt, mounted and, leading the burro by the reins, started down the slope toward Rainbow. After a while the heat of the sun made the blanket unnecessary and he drew the burro up alongside the stallion and threw the cover over the body. The first of the inevitable flies buzzed angrily at this interruption of their feast.

  He was on the flat floor of the valley before he halted again, squinting into the sun as a line of dust rose some three miles away, big enough to be created by a fairly large group of riders. Rainbow was still just a distant huddle of buildings, too far off to offer a chance to outrun the horsemen in the east. So Edge pulled his hat lower and continued to narrow his eyes toward the east as he rolled a cigarette, then smoked it, waiting for the riders to come close enough to be recognized. Finally, his lips curled back in a grin, he urged his horse forward: he had seen the Stars and Stripes flying from a pole amid the rising dust. Then the riders saw him, slowing their pace and as the dust cloud grew less Edge saw a troop of a dozen cavalrymen headed by a lieutenant. They wheeled toward him and halted some three hundred feet in front of him.

  "Hurry up there, man!" the officer yelled. "This isn't the kind of country for casual, early morning rides." The lieutenant was young; a fresh-faced" blue-eyed blond, handsome enough to be featured on recruiting posters. His men were older, wearing the expressions of veteran enlisted men who resented military discipline but accepted it because aggravation was as much a part of army life as parades and guard duty. Thus, while the lieutenant eyed Edge with growing impatience, the men regarded him with indifference.

  "I was waiting to see who you were," Edge said at length when he was close enough so that he didn't have to shout. "If you were wearing feathers and moccasins I didn't want to be caught in the open. Better chance on the hill."

  "Is that a body on the mule?" the lieutenant demanded.

  Edge drew hard against his cigarette and threw it away with a sigh. "He ain't just sleeping, lieutenant," he answered. "He was one didn't stand a chance even on the hill."

  The officer's expression became grim as he looked beyond Edge, up toward the ridge. "Apaches get him?"

  Edge nodded.

  "Far away?"

  Edge turned in his saddle to look back at the tracks of the horse and burro, marking his course down from the ridge.

/>   "Reckon if the wind was behind you, you could spit to where it happened."

  One of the men laughed at this, but his amusement was curtailed as the officer glowered at the troop.

  "That close?" he said to Edge, who nodded. "You were involved?"

  "Guess you could say that."

  "How many of them?"

  Edge reached down, unhooked the scalps and held them aloft. "That many."

  The lieutenant gasped and there was a stir of conversation among the men.

  "You can throw them away," the officer said in disgust "Unless you want them to decorate your mantelshelf, We're trying to make peace with the Indians. The Government isn't paying scalp bounty anymore."

  Edge shrugged and tossed the hair tufts away from him. "I don't think anyone's told the Apaches about the peace making," he said softly.

  "Let's go," the lieutenant instructed. "Colonel Murray will want to know about the Apaches being this close to Rainbow." He wheeled his horse, raised his arm and dropped it. "Forward!" he yelled and the troop of cavalrymen fell in behind him at a steady trot.

  Edge matched their pace, but moved out to the left flank so that he would not be eating their dust. As they neared the river the lieutenant angled toward the west, as if he wasn't heading for town at all and Edge realized the rushing, swirling water was indeed a good defensive line for the town. It was fast flowing and deep, except for the fording point which the lieutenant found without hesitation and plunged in. His men went in behind him; single file and Edge brought up the rear, taking care to keep immediately behind the man ahead of him. The water was muddy and impenetrable and he spoke softly to his horse, urging the animal forward, looking ahead and noting the two landmarks that pointed out the diagonal course of the ford, between a wide crack in the cliff face behind the town and the wooden steeple of a church in Rainbow.