Apache Death (Edge series Book 3)

by George G. Gilman

  "I wish you would let me. know when you're going to make any sudden moves like that, Edge," the Englishman said breathlessly when he had finally matched the pace of his mount with that of the casually expert Edge.

  "You can always go back and wait for the stage," Edge told him as they came up against the sheer wall of the ridge face and began to ride along the foot of the cliff.

  "You'd like that, wouldn't you?" came the resentful reply.

  "Half-a-million dollarsworth," Edge countered with a cold grin.

  The two men lapsed into silence, Edge having no desire for conversation, the Englishman because, he found it necessary to concentrate his entire attention on riding the recalcitrant animal between his legs. Once Edge reined to a sudden halt to examine the cliff face and taken unaware, the Englishman had to swing in a wide circle to rejoin him. But immediately Edge started forward again, still following the wagon tracks. Edge was recalling the crudely drawn map and trying to place the starting point of the dotted line which wound up to the hiding place of the Mexican government gold. Although the plan had obviously not been drawn to scale, it seemed to Edge that the start of the plotted route had not been very far east of town—certainly not the distance of some five miles which was where the cliff had crumbled sufficiently for the north-bound spur of the stage trail to find an access. The face was already getting less steep and at the point where Edge had called a halt there had seemed a chance of getting a horse halfway up. But then an overhang of rock barred further progress.

  So Edge rode on, and did not stop again until he saw signs that Drucker had halted the wagon and four.

  "Drucker with an F stopped here," the Englishman said.

  "You're learning," Edge answered, raking his eyes up the face of the ridge side which now had a cant too shallow to be called a cliff.

  "But he went on."

  Edge spat. "He had a wagon. We ain't. Come on."

  "Not on your life," the Englishman said quickly as. He saw Edge start his horse up the sharp incline. "This isn't exactly a mountain goat I'm riding."

  "So go and find a million-dollar poker game," Edge told him, but halted his horse abruptly when he heard a dry, clicking sound, unmistakably the noise of a rifle being cocked. He didn't turn around, but lowered his right hand so that it was close to the butt of the Colt. "You stupid as well as yellow?" he asked quietly.

  "I've been dying to use one of these new Winchesters," the Englishman said with quiet menace.

  "You'll die if you do," Edge answered, maintaining his calm tone. "Even if I haven't got enough strength left to pump you full of lead myself, there are a hell of a lot of Apaches in these hills itching for more killing. One shot and they'll come running."

  "They must be miles away by now," the Englishman replied, but his tone implied that he doubted the truth of his own statement.

  Edge sighed. "Cochise is the big chief. Little Cochise is his brother. The chief knows Murray won't kill his kid brother because he's too good a hostage. So he's figuring a way right now to spring him. And he ain't likely to be doing his figuring in California."

  Now Edge turned in the saddle to look down upon the Englishman who was still drawing a bead on him with the Winchester: but there was little threat in the pose.

  "Drucker must think he can reach the place by another route," he said, his handsome face showing something close to desperation.

  "Drucker's got a few hours start and the map," Edge pointed out. "He must figure he can pick up the trail from the other side of the hills—the way the Mexicans took the wagon. The guy who made the map came down this side, on a horse or on foot. We backtrack him."

  The Englishman made one more try. "You can't remember every twist and turn of the route."

  Convinced he had made his point, Edge urged his horse forward and upward. "I got a nose for money in any form," he said, with more conviction than he felt. "I also got a phobia about sitting in the sun passing the time of day when the whole Apache nation is probably camped a sp1t away."

  Then he Started to speak softly to his horse, urging the big stallion up the natural pathway, and heard the action of the Winchester as the Englishman slid the shell out of the breech. Then there was a string of ungentlemanly curses, interspersed with cries of alarm as the inexpert rider berated his mount up the slope. The route was by turns difficult and comparatively easy, sometimes cutting diagonally across pocked expanses of rock and at others following ledges cut by eons of wind and weather. For a time the Englishman fell further and further back, until Edge—irritated by the constant stream of disgruntled abuse and nervous cries which was disturbing his own mount—yelled at the man to relax and let his horse have free rein.

  The Englishman complied and the horse, well versed in forming a part of a cavalry column, picked his way skillfully in the wake of Edge's mount. It took two hours to reach the top of the ridge, more than three hundred feet above the floor of the valley and both men and animals were sweating freely from the exertion in the hot sun which had beaten down unmercifully as they made the climb with no shade. At their backs the valley was spread out in miniature, the curves of the river gleaming, the town and fort of Rainbow appearing as children's toys. It all looked tranquil, almost idyllic, except for the pall of ugly black smoke which was still suspended over the buildings, witnessing the ferociousness of the Apache attack. Ahead, the ridge fell gently away before losing itself ill a series of undulating hills featured with craggy buttes and grotesque outcrops, dotted with dry, unfriendly patches of vegetation all the way to the first uplands of the high Rockies. So clear was the air that in the far distance both men could see the snow-capped peaks of the highest mountains, gleaming like jewels in the sun which was approaching the crest of its own peak. There was another gleaming patch closer than the mountains, less than a mile away.

  "This animal's in a hurry," the Englishman said, struggling to restrain his horse while he patted at his sweat-sheened face with a handkerchief.

  "He can smell the water," Edge said, pointing ahead, but not concentrating his own attention in that direction. His hooded eyes roved over every square inch of the terrain spread before him, realizing the impossibility of their task and searching for signs of Indian trouble.

  "So let's go and get some, old boy," the Englishman suggested. "My own canteen is almost empty and fresh water is a delightful prospect."

  Edge seemed to ignore him as he continued his study, then grunted to indicate that he was reasonably certain the way ahead was safe. He heeled his horse onward. The waterhole, when they reached it, was an inviting circle of coolness in an indentation which suggested it was much larger after a rainfall. Edge halted on the rim of the bowl and stood in the stirrups to glance around the area of rough, ravaged terrain.

  "Now what are we waiting for?" the Englishman demanded with unconcealed impatience; unable to take his eyes off the crystal-clear water spread below him.

  "You go first," Edge told him. "When you and your horse are watered, come back and keep watch while I go down."

  The Englishman laughed harshly. "I think you're imagining an Indian behind every rock."

  Edge fixed him with a steely eyed stare. "You better hope it's only imagination," he warned.

  The gravity of Edge's tone caused the Englishman to glance around nervously and his thirst was forgotten for a few moments as he realized that the surrounding countryside did, in fact, offer sufficient cover for almost as many Indians as the dollars the two men had come to get. And when he looked down the smooth slopes of the sides of the waterhole he saw that to be trapped down there would be to invite certain death.

  "I bow to your better judgment," he said, trying to force lightness into his tone and failing miserably.

  "Get!" Edge snapped continuing with his suspicious survey.

  "I'm getting," the Englishman returned and urged his horse down toward the water's edge.

  There were not a million of them and, they were not spread around. Just a hunting party of six who rode into open co
untry from around a rocky crag with no expectation of seeing a white man standing guard on a waterhole for which they were obviously heading. They were no more than a quarter of a mile away, close enough for Edge to see them break stride as they spotted him.

  "You taking a bath down there, English?" he called without taking his eyes off the Apaches who had now pulled their ponies to a halt.

  The Englishman had drunk his fill, and was in the process of recharging his canteens as his horse continued to suck at the refreshing water. The Apaches made up their minds and urged their ponies into a gallop, trailing dust as they charged toward Edge.

  "Almost through," the Englishman called.

  "Well, don't drink it all," Edge called down, turning his horse. "There's six guys heading this way who look mighty thirsty."

  With this he dug in his heels and the stallion sprang forward, carrying his rider toward a small rise liberally scattered with rocks. The Englishman yelled in alarm, dropped the canteens and hauled at the reins of his horse to drag him at the run up the slope of the waterhole. But at the top he skidded to a halt and went into a crouch as he saw the Apaches wheeling away, streaming toward where Edge, was leaping from his horse behind the cover of an' enormous boulder. The Englishman snatched the Winchester from his saddle boot and slapped the hindquarters of his horse, sending the animal willingly back to the water's edge.

  As Edge leaped from his horse at the run, withdrawing his own rifle, he caught a glimpse of the Englishman appearing at the lip of the waterhole and then rapidly ducking back out of sight. Then he himself had to take evasive action as three arrows snapped their shafts against the rock and the braves began to whoop their warcries. He pressed himself hard against the boulder, worked the action of the Winchester as another wave of arrows fell about him: then jerked erect and began to fire. His eye, narrowed behind the backsight, saw the Indians no more than a hundred feet away approaching in a phalanx, their previous preoccupation evident from the jack rabbits slung around the ponies’ necks. But now they were hunting bigger prey and their faces were set in expressions of ecstatic hatred as they rushed up the slope, priming their bows for the kill. The sight of Edge, rising like an apparition from behind the boulder, seemed to surprise them and the tall, lean man took full advantage of the moment of indecision. He aimed first at a brave who was riding slightly ahead of the others, over-anxious for a scalp. The bullet took him high in the shoulder, knocking him sideways from his pony into the path of the next rider, whose mount stumbled over the injured brave and almost threw its rider. A second bullet drilled a gaping hole in the forehead of another brave and Edge had time for a third shot, smashing the fingers of a fourth Apache before the other two let fly arrows which forced him to duck back behind the boulder. The three braves who were still mounted veered away to the left as two loose ponies galloped around the rock.

  "About time," Edge muttered as he heard a rifle shot from the area of the waterhole and chanced a look around the rock to see the three mounted braves make a sudden change of direction to take them toward where the Englishman was positioned. Then he saw the Englishman stand, making a target of the top half of his body above the lip of the waterhole: saw him go through the action of firing the rifle. But there was no puff of telltale smoke and no report. He saw the wrist movement that should have ejected an empty case and fed a fresh round into the breech and although he was too far away to see it, Edge knew the kind of expression of fear and frustration which would be pasted upon the Englishman's face. "New gun's got him into a jam," Edge muttered as he saw his erstwhile partner fling the Winchester away and jerk his arm to release the tiny, double-barreled pistol.

  But in the next moment the Englishman's problems with a jammed rifle were of secondary importance as Edge spun to face the source of a sound and found himself confronted by two snarling braves. They were only ten feet away; the one with a smashed hand preparing to launch a knife at Edge as the other—who had a gaping wound in his shoulder—wielded a tomahawk which he obviously intended to use at close quarters.

  "Still a mite too handy," Edge murmured and sent a bullet crashing through the good wrist of the knife-thrower who dropped his weapon and folded to the ground screaming his pain.

  The other brave took the gun report as a signal to leap forward, tomahawk raised. He was already behind the gun muzzle as Edge tried to swing the Winchester for a second shot. But there wasn't time and he could only fall sideways, out of the line of the descending blade. The Apache landed full length on the ground and immediately sprang to all fours and was beginning to come erect and turn as Edge swung the Winchester again.

  "The axeman goeth," Edge murmured as he squeezed the trigger and the brave sat down hard, dropping his weapon and staring at the large hole in his naked right thigh. "One for the Chinaman," Edge continued easily, and fired again, ripping a gaping wound in the brave's other thigh. "One for the woman at the end of the line." Again he worked the action of the Winchester and sent a third bullet smashing into the brave's good shoulder. "That one's for the kid," he said, unmoved by the brave's screams and the look in his brown eyes which begged for mercy. "Last time," he said with an icy grin as the brave's belly grew a hole at its center. "Guess English would call that one for the pot," he concluded.

  "Edge!" The Englishman yelled the name at the top of his voice and the monosyllable rang with both pain and terror. Edge turned to look toward the waterhole and saw the Englishman in full view, staggering like a drunken man as he struggled to yank an arrow from the front of his shoulder. One of the braves who had attacked him was sprawled nearby in an attitude of death while the others, having obviously already made one pass, were thundering toward him again.

  "Not a hope," Edge said to himself as he surveyed the range, but he began to fire and continued even when he saw the puffs of dust kicked up short of the galloping ponies. The two Apaches had their bows slung across their backs and Edge could see no flashes of knife or tomahawk blades as they closed in on the helpless Englishman. They were riding close together and it seemed as if they were intent upon trampling the white man beneath the flying hoofs. But, at the last moment as the Englishman turned to try to run from them, the braves sheered away from each other to pass on each side of their victim. Then, with a smoothness and skill circus performers would envy, the braves leaned away from their mounts and lifted the Englishman clear of the ground. A tomahawk was drawn then raised and brought down. But it was the flat side of the blade that made contact and unconsciousness rather than death which brought an end to the Englishman's struggles. The man who had delivered the blow relinquished his hold and the other brave threw the unconscious form of Lord Fallowfield across the neck of his pony.

  "You ain't no maiden," Edge muttered as the two Apaches headed for the rocks from which they had emerged, "but maybe you're the closest they can find."

  He heard a groan behind him and turned to see the brave with the useless hands trying to haul himself erect against the large boulder. When the man realized he had been seen he froze into a half standing position, trying to force agony from his face and replace it with a scowl. But his pain was too harsh. Two fingers had been blown from one hand and there was a mushy red hole drilled through the opposite wrist.

  "Cochise?" Edge demanded, pointing after the retreating Apaches, but looking into the eyes of the wounded brave.

  The man flinched at the snapped word, but held Edge's stare without altering his expression.

  "Cochise?" Edge tried again, with the same tone and still pointing. The brave held his silence. "English don't like talk," he continued after a moment. "Maybe you'll be meeting him in the happy hunting ground in the sky. You can have long silences together. But keep your back against a cloud."

  Then he shot the Indian, firing from the hip with the Colt, grouping three bullets in the area of a silver dollar on the man's heart. After that he went to find the Englishman's, Winchester, unjammed it and fed the unused ammunition into his own gun. He took Lord Fallowfield's horse, too, because
it was closest and had already been watered.

  He rode north.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LORNA Fawcett was a beautiful woman. Even dressed in shapeless, undecorated squaw's garb, her hair matted and unbrushed, her face smudged by dirt and devoid of lipstick and rouge, the natural beauty of face and figure were evident. Her hair was the color of newly rusted metal and hung long to the middle of her back, the crowning glory of a face with green eyes, a rich, full mouth, and an unmarked complexion on skin sculptured by a fine bone structure. It was the face of a woman of twenty-five which until a few days ago had shown no marks of a single experience which could be termed bitter. But then Chief Cochise and a band of braves had attacked her father's farm. Now as she stood close to the slit opening of Cochise's tepee, looking across the Apache encampment set in the mouth of a wooded canyon, the horror of what she had seen and experienced that terrible day was like a dulling stigma on her every feature, emblazoning her mental anguish but unable to detract from the classic lines of her beauty.

  They had come in the morning, as her mother was preparing breakfast. Her sister Rachel was still in bed and her father was feeding the livestock. The Apaches had approached stealthily and killed her father at the wire fence before he could do more than wing one of them. Lorna had been by the window and seen the arrow thud into his chest, then started to scream as a brave leaped from his pony to claim the scalp. Even before her mother had time to rush to Lorna's side twenty more braves, led by the tall, arrogantly handsome Cochise, had sprung into the house through doors and windows, whooping their triumph and brandishing knives dripping with the blood of slaughtered livestock. Two of them emerged from the bedroom carrying the screaming Rachel, their hands exploring her nakedness as lust contorted grotesquely daubed faces. As Lorna and her mother tried to rush across the room to Rachel's aid, Cochise restrained Lorna with an arm around her waist, while her mother was felled by a vicious slap across the face. Lorna began to struggle frantically, fear and rage exploding from her throat in a continuous, high-pitched wail which was drowned by the demonic laughter of Cochise and the jubilant whooping of the braves as they staked out Rachel on the floor and bound the girls’ mother to a chair.