The Zulu screamed his agony for the first time, the pain surging power to his limp arms so that he was able to bring his hands up to the shoulders and grasp at the wounds. Edge left him to go to the center of the campsite and pick up a torn remnant of Martha Wilder's dress. Then he found a run of water not stained with blood and soaked the material. The Zulu kept his eyes tight shut and his teeth grinding together as Edge bathed the wounds back and front. He had to return to the water several times to wash the material. Finally he tore the piece of dress into two and instructed Anatali to hold them in place over the wounds while he went to get the pin-stripe suit jacket and derby. Anatali held back the groans as Edge forced his arms into the jacket and then buttoned it down the front.
"Ought to be tight enough to hold," Edge said at length, bending the Zulu into a sitting position and placing the hat on his wiry black hair. "Reckon you can ride?"
Again Anatali had to get his lips working several moments before he could speak. "You going after them?"
"I got two hip pockets," Edge answered. "Having only one of them stuffed full with money spoils the hang of my pants."
"Money all you care about?" Anatali asked, struggling to get to his feet. He had to have the aid of the pine trunk and Edge to achieve his objective.
"It don't buy happiness," Edge allowed, and grinned. "But it makes being miserable easier."
"You get my assegai and knob kerry?" the Zulu asked.
"Sure," Edge replied. "You don't look right without them."
He turned and moved over to the scene of the first killing. The dead eyes of the earless Running Bear watched him with blank disinterest. When he started back with the Zulu's weapons he saw hauled himself astride the Shoshoni pony.
"You got a horse?" the-black man asked.
Edge grinned. "They always run-out on me," he answered. "Let's go, feller."
He took hold of the pony's bridle and led the animal and its pain-wracked rider in the wake of the wagon. Their progress was watched with hungry interest by the coyote pack on the ridge and as soon as the men had passed over the rise to the west the slavering animals descended upon their inert prey; snarling and snapping at each other for the most tender morsels.
As they crested the rise, Edge and Anatali saw that the ground fell away in a series of rocky steps into a deep valley. High up where they were, the ground was rocky with only a few patches of earth offering nourishment to coarse grass, razor sharp at the edges. But as the valley got deeper so the terrain became more green, with clumps of brush giving way to stands of timber. Far below, like a length of discarded white thread, they could see the stage trail winding across the floor of the valley, rising at the far end towards the last pass in the mountains before the long run down to the shores of the Pacific.
"There!" Anatali said suddenly, pointing.
Edge followed the direction of his accusing finger and saw the wagon and its escort, like a large white bug and a number of small black ones crawling down the banks of a rushing stream towards a broad shelf hewn in the side of the valley. On the slope down to the shelf was the tiny box of a cabin and below this on the shelf itself was a grey sheet of water, fed by the stream the Tabor gang were following.
"Looks like its got rooms with views," Edge said.
"Merriman's Folly," the Zulu said.
"Come again?" Edge didn't take his eyes off the slow progress of the wagon on the steep downgrade.
"It famous," Anatali explained, his voice stronger now, as if sight of the outlaws had refreshed him. "When men got rich from Comstock many spend their money foolishly. Some shoe their horses with silver. Others make beautiful silver furniture for their houses. Mr. Merriman decided to guild hotel overlooking Bottomless Lake."
"Don't look much of a hotel," Edge put in.
"Big snow come," Anatali continued. "It sweep down valley in avalanche. You see all that left. Hotel go into lake."
"What about Merriman?"
"He in hotel. It said Bottomless Lake go deep to center of the world. Fifty people staying at hotel go with Mr. Merriman to find out."
"Looks like Tabor and his men either haven't heard the story or don't care. They seem intent on checking in."
"We follow?" Anatall asked.
"What do you think?"
Incredibly, the Zulu found it within himself to favor Edge with a grin that had a glimmer of humor backing it up. "I don't. I brawn. You brains."
Edge glanced at the terrain above the last remaining structure of the hotel and recognized how it was the ideal line of least resistance for a winter slide of snow. There was just one obstruction: a natural monolith of rock, so top heavy it seemed to be teetering on a finely balanced point.
"If I was really smart I'd head straight down to the stage trail and hightail it for San Francisco," he murmured.
"With only half your money?" the Zulu posed.
"You read me like a book," Edge said sourly, as he jerked on the bridle and set the pony on the downward path.
AnataIi grinned again. "I ignorant," he said. "Books I can't read. But men easy."
"I should have left you swinging," Edge snarled. "Then you wouldn't have given me a pain."
Anatali was bewildered. "I give you pain?"
"Yeah. In the ass!"
Chapter Thirteen
ALL that remained of Merriman's Folly was the private suite of the man who had financed the building of the hotel. This was in fact, a stone and timber, one-story house which had been detached from the main structure in all but it covered walkway that had led to it like an umbilical cord. Most of this had been swept away in the snow-slide that claimed the remainder of the hotel and what was left served as a sagging, arched portico offering scant protection to the door of the building.
Tabor halted the wagon at the side of the house and looked ruefully at the glassless windows and the slanting roof which was holed in a number of places. The rest of the gang eyed the building with an equal lack of enthusiasm, but it was left to Keene, peering out of the rear of the wagon to voice their feelings.
"I been thrown out of a lot better places than this," he groaned.
"If thee desires greater comfort, thee may take thy horse and leave," Tabor said in a voice of soft thunder.
Keene swallowed hard and forced a chuckle. "It's a good place to hole up, Jake," he said hurriedly.
Tabor applied the brake on the wagon and climbed down. "Wrong," he proclaimed. "We are not in hiding here. It is merely shelter for myself while you seek out my son's murderer and bring him to me."
Several of the men grimaced at the prospect presented by this statement, but hurriedly turned their faces away from the penetrating gaze of Jake Tabor as he searched for signs of disapproval.
"Sure, Jake," Luke agreed.
"But first we will eat," the bearded man commanded, striding towards the sagging door of the building. "Fetch the supplies and bring the woman, She will prepare our meal."
"And be the dessert," Keene whispered into Martha's ear as he dragged her to her feet and shoved her out of the rear of the wagon.
Martha's ankle bent under her again and three of the gang rushed, forward as she screamed. But before their anxious hands could find her body Keene had jumped down and claimed her. He chortled in triumph as he carried her inside the building.
It was comprised of three rooms—a sitting-room, bedroom and bathroom—which had once been furnished and decorated in the luxurious manner befitting a silver baron. But now the expensive wallpaper was peeling and patched with damp; the carved ceiling was, pocked by holes and sagged in several places; the sodden carpets were chewed by rats; the furniture warped and broken. Many intricately carved grooves on the doors, walls and ceiling showed where silver had once been inlaid, but the looters had long ago prized the precious metal from its seating. The whole building smelled musty from non-use, and in the bathroom a sunken marble tub was filled to the brim with stagnant water that gave off another odor. A stronger stench still drifted in through a broken window
in one wall of the bathroom and Tabor pinched his nose with forefinger and thumb as he peered outside. He grimaced and drew back. Outside was a cesspool connected by a pipe with the ornate commode in the bathroom. The covering of the pit had long since rotted or been swept away. As Tabor turned from the window he could see through a doorway into the bedroom where Keene had dropped the woman on to the rat-eaten covering of a gigantic bed. The ugly little man was making a pretence of massaging Martha Wilder's injured ankle as she struggled to keep him from uncovering the entire length of her leg.
"Keene!" Tabor thundered.
Keene looked up, fear leaping into his eyes as the big bearded man strode into the room and towered over the bed. "Just trying to help the lady," he whined.
Tabor brought down his arm in a vicious sweep, a bunched hand catching Keene on the side of the neck and knocking him half-way across the room. Keene whimpered under the glowering stare of the evil eyes. "Thee are a fool who thinks with what thee has between thy legs," Tabor thundered.
The woman was almost as terrified as the little man, for the strength of Tabor's anger was an awe-inspiring threat to the whole world, seeming to vibrate in the rancid air. Blood trickled down the line of her jaw as her teeth opened up her lower lip once more.
"She hurt her ankle, Jake," Keene pleaded, still pinned to the floor by the glaring eyes.
Tabor released him from the invisible force by transferring his gaze to Martha, who cringed away from him. "I will attend to her needs while thee and the rest are searching for Miller's murderer," he said, his tone low but his face still cast in a Satanic mould.
"Sure, Jake!" Keene agreed in an ingratiating manner as he scrambled to his, feet. "We'll get that bastard for you and bring him back alive."
Tabor nodded and a parody of a smile spread across his hirsute features. "The man who succeeds will have the woman to do with as he pleases." He stooped down and reached out a hand. Martha, suddenly transfixed as Keene had been, watched with detached horror as the age-wrinkled fingers closed over her left breast and tightened in a grip of agony. But it was as if she were cut off from the pain as well as the action and she could not scream. Tabor suddenly released her and a bolt of laughter exploded from his cruel mouth. "She will not be unspoiled, but to the richest man must go the highest prize."
Keene laughed harshly, forcing the humor, and the rest of the gang who had clustered in the bedroom doorway gave vent to raucous sound.
"I figure women to be like horses," Hyman shouted. "I like someone else to break them in for me."
Tabor turned on the men, rage coming to the fore again so that his dark expression commanded them to silence. "We are wasting time. Thee have seen the prize. Thee will now eat and then go to hunt the man I want."
"Ain't the girl going to cook for us, Jake?" Luke wanted to know, his voice and manner surly.
"I had overlooked her injury," Tabor answered. "If thee will lift her about her chore, she may prepare the meal."
All eyes turned towards Luke, who swallowed hard and backed up a step. "Don't make me do that, Jake," he pleaded.
The men waited for Tabor's face to crinkle in humor and broke into laughter again. "Thee is an unnatural creature, Luke," Tabor's voice cut across the sound."That is why I have decided on a special prize for thee if thee brings me Miller's murderer. Thee will be rewarded with an extra share of silver—enough to buy thee the sweetest smelling young man in all of San Francisco!"
As the laughter burst out anew, Luke took a vicious swing at his nearest taunter and strode out of the building.
Tabor turned to Keene. "Tie her to the bed," he demanded. "Thee knows in what position. If thee touches her privately again thee will answer to me." He strode out, in' the living room as one of the men tossed a lariat to Keene.
"Hyman, you will cook," Tabor ordered. "A good hot meal. The mountains get cold with evening."
Hyman went about his task with reluctance, building a fire under the largest hole in the roof and preparing a stew with rations taken from the supplies of each man. Tabor threw a blanket over a damp sofa and sat down to clean and reload his rifle and revolver. The others lounged on the floor, smoking or trying to sleep. Nobody considered it necessary to wash away the dried blood and streaked soot that darkened their faces from the explosion. It was Keene who broke the verbal silence, as he emerged from the bedroom after tying up Martha Wilder.
"When we going to divvy up the silver, Jake?"
Tabor was immediately aware, from the sudden alertness of the other members of the gang, that the ugly little man had voiced a question they had all wanted to ask. He finished loading the Remington and allowed the butt to nestle lightly in the palm of his hand. It pointed at nobody but his finger was curled around the trigger. He dominated his men by fear but knew that greed could sometimes be a stronger force, capable of overriding all other considerations in the mind.
His smile was a paper-thin veneer and his voice trembled with the effort required to keep it even. "We lost a lot of men back at the pass. Their shares in the silver will be divided amongst thee."
"When, Jake?" Keene insisted, failing to recognize the danger signals flashing behind the benign mask.
"After I have dealt with Miller's..."
"I was meaning to ask you about that, Jake," the man with the bandaged hand interrupted. "It was Miller and me and the other two who found out about, Mason Wilder having the silver—when we took him for the money. I told you where to look for it."
A mere slight downward turn at the comers of his mouth evidenced Tabor's anguish at being reminded of the circumstances of his son's death. But he maintained his cool tone. "Thee survived while Miller died," he said. "Thee would be wise not to continue to recall that fact." The man tore his eyes away from Tabor's face, suddenly aware of the dangerous ground he had stepped on.
"Chow's almost ready," Hyman called, relieving the tension that was like a tight band around the room, compressing the walls. "Go get Luke, somebody."
Keene spat on the floor and reached down into his bedroll for a bowl. "Let him stay out there," he sneered. "That way we don't have to eat with our backs against the wall."
Outside, Luke heard the burst of fresh laughter and his face twisted into a grimace for he sensed he was the victim of the men's humor. He was leaning against the wagon, chin resting on his hands on the tailboard as he stared at the exposed bars of silver. He wanted no part of the man hunt that Tabor considered so important. That was a private war. The men had earned their share of the bullion and should take it and get back to civilization to enjoy what it could buy. Luke suddenly had an idea that lit his craggy face with delight: his share of what was in the wagon was a mere pittance compared with the entire load. He glanced back at the building and saw the smoke rising from the roof; smelt the greasy odor of badly-cooked stew. Then he looked over to where the horses were tethered. Finally, his eyes turned to the slope, seeing the grey surface of the lake, with the trail down into the valley curving around the right-hand side of the expanse of water.
He thrust his hands into his pockets and ambled with studied casualness towards the horses, his mind racing. Tabor and the others would not rest until they had avenged such a double-cross, of course. But with a million dollars worth of silver at his disposal, Luke knew he could hire enough guns to blast the gang off the face of the earth. The horses stirred nervously as Luke moved in among them and stooped to cut their tethers.
"Hey, you there!" a voice called softly. Luke looked up guiltily. "That dishonest."
An instant before he died Luke saw a ridiculously clad figure rising up from behind a boulder, a black face contorted by an effort large enough to generate a great agony. Then the spear, powered by that effort, buried itself deeply into Luke's chest, left of center. He sank backwards without a sound among the restless hooves of the skittish horses.
"Maybe I not smart, but I sure as hell make my point," the Zulu muttered with a grin breaking through his pained expression as he went among the horses, wrench
ed the assegai out of Luke's body and started at a loping run towards the wagon.
Chapter Fourteen
MARTHA WILDER'S eyes came wide and her mouth fell open in a gasp when she saw the lithe form of Edge snake over the window sill to stand as unmoving as a rock inside the bedroom. When he heard the sound, Edge snapped a narrow-eyed glare in her direction and raised his forefinger to his thin lips. He glanced at the area between himself and the bed, saw no obstructing furniture and moved over the open space on long, silent strides, keeping his eyes and the muzzle of the Winchester towards the open doorway into the living-room.
Keene had tied the woman to the bed in a spread-eagled position, arms splayed above her head, legs held wide in a posture of submission. An evil smell not decay rose from the covering beneath her imprisoned body as Edge drew his razor and with four silent slashes cut through the cords at her wrists and ankles. From the next room came sounds of spoons scraping bowls and the wet noises of hastily swallowed food.
"As a cook, you stink worse than this dump," somebody said.
"You going to feed the woman?" another asked.
"She's suffering bad enough as it is," said a third to laughter.
"I can't walk," Martha mouthed to Edge, pointing to her swollen ankle a moment before he turned away towards the window. He gave a silent sigh, thrust the Winchester into her hands and put both arms beneath her body to lift her. The bed creaked as it was relieved of her weight.
"She'll get fed something better than stew before long." More laughter covered any sounds Edge made getting to the window. He put the woman out first, leaning low to place her gently on the ground. A final glance at the doorway showed it was still empty and he stepped over the sill. As he lifted her again and started to move quickly away from the building he caught a glimpse of Anatali rising from behind the boulder and, flinging the spear, the cruelly injured shoulders apparently having no effect on his deadliness with the weapon.
EDGE: Blood on Silver (Edge series Book 5) Page 11