Apache Death (11 page)

"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."

"JUST how, old boy, do you propose to get the gold without the 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.

"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 country 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.