Apache Death (13 page)

High on the top of the canyon wall to the southwest Edge looked down at the Apache encampment and although he was too far distant to make a visual identification, he knew in his mind that the prisoner staked out between the lances was the Englishman. He had not followed the braves from any altruistic motives, but rather had taken the same route as they did because it followed the easiest course through the foothills of the northern mountain range and he surmised that the survivor of the bullion wagon escort would have taken the simplest way through. But when the braves had been challenged by two-more of their tribe and allowed to pass, Edge had, swung wide, guessing that the Apache camp was nearby and ringed by sentries.

He had missed the arrival of the braves and their captive at the camp, but had dismounted and crawled forward to the lip of the canyon in time to see the Apaches assemble in what was obviously the preparation for some ritual. Then the prisoner had been man-handled from the largest tepee in the camp and tied down to await his fate. At first Edge had been too impassively intent upon watching the Englishman to take note of anything else happening on the canyon floor, but then he did a double take at the woman who was violently dragged into a sitting position beside the chief. She was a red-head and in Edge's limited knowledge of the American Indian such a coloration was unknown. So he studied her more intently and even from a height of more than three hundred feet he decided that her skin tone was too light for an Apache. He recalled the sweet smelling nightgown at the Fawcett farmstead and his mind fastened upon a theory.

But then a shout from below captured his attention from the past and thrust it into the present as his hooded eyes raked across the canyon floor with its hundreds of lightly-garbed Apaches and the regular, conical shapes of the tepees. He saw a dust cloud moving fast between the tepees and then two mounted ponies emerged from it, ridden by braves who clasped decorated lances. While still more than a hundred feet from the captive Englishman they released the lances and the weapons slithered through the clear afternoon air, thudding, to an explosion of whooping, into the ground on each side of the prisoner's head with no more than an inch of space separating them from the vulnerable flesh. He saw the Englishman's body writhe up into an arch, but the ropes held firm.

While the sounds of appreciation were still echoing along the canyon two more riders approached at speed, this time from the opposite direction and twirling tomahawks above their heads. They rode close together, their legs almost brushing each other, until the final yard when they separated to go to each side of the spread-eagled man, The tomahawks were raised aloft and then sent spinning downward, burying their heads into the earth only a fraction of an inch from the hirsute armpits of the Englishman.

Much closer than Edge, Lorna Fawcett could see each movement made by the Englishman. She could see that every muscle in his sweat-soaked body was trembling; that as unshod hoofs again pounded the iron hard ground, the man contorted his face into a mask of terror, abandoning any attempt to meet death bravely. This time there was a lone rider who galloped directly toward the splayed V of the prisoner's legs, sliding an arrow from the quiver on his back and fitting it to his bowstring as he rode. The whooping rose to a crescendo as the brave urged his pony into a leap, lengthwise over the Englishman, and brought down his bow to send the arrow point-blank a half-inch from the prisoner's crotch. Although unharmed, the Englishman emitted a shriek and Lorna, fearing he had been hit, screamed. But her cry became a yelp as Cochise lashed out at her and smashed her back-handed across the mouth, drawing blood from a split lip.

Up at the top of the canyon wall Edge drew his fingertips along the harsh stubble of his beard and pursed his lips as he saw two more mounted Apaches approach the tormented Englishman, one from each direction, drawing knives as they came. They crossed on different sides of the prisoner and released their knives in unison, drawing the first blood. The points buried themselves in the ground but the finely honed blades streaked through the skin at each side of the Englishman's waist. Blood oozed from the wounds to trickle down the blades and spread in the dust. The watching Apaches were delirious with delight which was heightened as the Englishman issued a diatribe of obscenity, laced with screams of horror.

"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Lorna Fawcett shrieked and it took the Englishman several moments to realize she was addressing him.

"Christ, help me!" he croaked, jerking his head so that he could look across the intervening ground at her.

"Can't you see they're playing with you?" she shrieked, "They're savages. They only recognize two traits in a man—bravery and cowardice. If they know you're afraid they’ll only prolong it."

"I'm no bloody hero!" he screamed back.

The audience had become silent as they listened without comprehension to the exchange, many of them looking at Cochise with eyes which challenged him to take action against his babbling squaw. For several long moments it seemed as if the chief intended to ignore Lorna's new-found eloquence and her interference with the test of valor he had set. But Cochise was in fact allowing his rage to reach full flood
,
his face running the gamut of expressional change from ice-cold impassivity to boiling virulence.

From high overhead it seemed to Edge almost as if the whole canyon floor had been petrified. He had heard the voices of the Englishman and the white woman as scratches on the silence which had descended over the assembly of Apaches and had then seen utter immobility grip the entire encampment. But then, abruptly, there was a flurry of movement before the chief’s tepee. Cochise put the whole weight of his body into another sideways, back-handed slap across the woman's face which sent her crashing full length on the ground. And before she could even recover her senses the Apache chief had thrown himself upon her sprawled body with his hand streaking to his breechcloth to draw his knife. The blade Hashed once, then again in the sunlight and Lorna Fawcett wasn't beautiful anymore as deep gashes opened up in each cheek, from the eye to the jawline, spreading a warm stickiness which was much redder than her hair.

"Now it's your turn to be brave," the Englishman croaked through his own pain as realization hit the woman and she began to scream with all the power in her lungs.

Looking down from his vantage point, Edge sighed and began to draw back from the lip of the canyon, conscious of a stirring of what he recognized as anger at what he had witnessed, but unwilling to involve himself in a problem which did not concern him. But then the crackling of a twig under a moccasin sent him into an evasive rolling movement that put him on his back, staring up at two Apache sentries who had heard the whinny of his horse and come to investigate. They were intent upon capture rather than a kill and brandished knives, their bows over their shoulders, strings across the chest, wood slanting down their backs.

"Shouldn't creep up on a guy like that," he yelled as he swiveled the Colt on his belt and shot one of the braves through the open foot of the holster.

The big caliber bullet entered the braves throat and blew a larger hole as it exited through his cheek, spinning and crumpling him into a writhing heap on the ground. As
every Apache in the canyon looked up in the direction from which the shot had come the second sentry was on Edge, anxious now for a kill as his quarry was forced to abandon all thoughts of using the revolver a second time. The knife arm was raised and brought crashing down, the full swing curtailed by a hard, edge-of-the-hand chop to the wrist. The brave yelled his pain but retained his grip on the knife and drew back for a second thrust. Edge was pinned to the ground by the straddled legs of the Apache and had no time to reach for his razor—the only accessible weapon as the knife point descended again. This time the swing came at a different angle and Edge's chop merely deflected the blow, so that the knife dug into the ground close to his ear. In the time it took the brave to withdraw the blade Edge had snatched out his razor, the handle slotting snugly along his fingers and palm, the fine blade extending three inches. As
the brave raised his hand Edge slashed with the razor, gouging a river of blood from wrist to elbow on the inner arm. A second, sideways slash, severed a nerve and the knife dropped from lifeless fingers as the brave's eyes grew wide with terror at the ghastly wound on his arm. 

"Looks like you ain't got it anymore," Edge said, throwing his body up into a sudden arch which tossed the brave clear of him. The man rolled once and then disappeared from sight over the lip of the canyon. He screamed, but the sound maintained an even pitch, without diminishing and Edge crawled forward and peered down, his features forming into a cruel grin. The screaming brave was suspended in mid-air, hanging on with his good arm to the bow, the other end of which was hooked over a patch of brush growing out of the side of the canyon wall.

"Quit hanging around," Edge muttered as he reached down and slashed through the bowstring, sending the brave plummeting to the floor of the canyon to enraged whoops from the Apaches who watched from below. Then he turned to the other brave, who was still writhing on the ground as he cradled the side of his face in bloodstained hands.

"Pity you ain't a horse," he told the unhearing man. "Could shoot you then. Guess you'll just have to suffer."

He took one final glance down at the Apache camp and saw the braves hurrying toward their ponies, then moved quickly to where his army mount was ground hobbled. He heeled him into a fast gallop, heading toward the natural trail he had come up by, even though he knew it led to only one place. But he considered the high walls of Fort Rainbow were better protection than unfamiliar foothills when the Apache nation was on the warpath.

The evening sun was changing color from dull, yellow to vivid red as Edge rode at full gallop down Rainbow’s main street toward the gates of the fort. The hanks of his horse were lathered white and his own body was running with sweat which pasted, his shirt to his back. It had been a long, hard ride with the leading group of Apaches close on his heels all the way from the canyon to the, crest of the northern ridge. Only a small party had ventured after him on the frantic, half-running-half-sliding descent down the face and it was the group of' braves who thundered in his wake as he entered the town. But a change came over the Indians as he led them closer to the fort. Their enraged yelps and horrendous-whooping warcries faltered and then ended and as Edge glanced over his shoulder he saw the braves were dropping back. But Edge continued to ask his mount for everything the animal's stout heart could produce and as the fort gates were flung wide he went through at a full gallop, wheeling in a tight turn as they were slammed closed behind him. A volley of rifle fire rang out from the top of the wall, halting the pursuing braves who spent a few moments venting their frustrated rage before turning to leave.

As Edge dismounted, drawing in deep breaths, he stroked the neck of his exhausted horse and watched the approach of Colonel Murray who strode across the compound from his quarters.

The officer regarded Edge with small pleasure. "You decided to come back."

Edge turned on his cold grin, "It was a joint decision. Me and a few hundred Apaches."

"We have better uses
for our ammunition than to protect reckless adventurers," Murray snapped. Edge studied him more closely and recognized in the haunted eyes and drawn lines of his pallid face the sign of a man nearing the end of a short tether. Then he glanced around the fort lit by the fading light of a dying day and saw a variety of similar expressions upon the faces of both soldiers and civilian townspeople as they moved about the compound. And not only was it in the faces of the men and women that their fear was evident. It was apparent in the cautious manner they moved and the quick, suspicious turning of heads and reaching for guns that was triggered by each sound not immediately recognizable.

"You expecting it to hit the fan soon?" Edge asked when he had finished his survey.

Murray suddenly developed a nervous tic in his right cheek and he quickly raised a hand to try to conceal it. He looked up and over the western wall of the fort and drew in his breath for a long sigh. "My guess is tonight. Fort Lawrence—twenty miles north of here—was overrun last night and every man was slaughtered. Then at dawn today the town of Rocky Haven was wiped out—that's the next town east on the stage trail. The army has been put on to a war footing. Where did you have your run-in with the Apaches, Mr. Edge?"

Edge ran a finger down the flank of his horse and brought it away cloaked in a sweat foam. "Two hours hard riding from here. Don't reckon anybody could do it in less."

"How many of them?"

Edge picked up the reins and began to lead the animal across the compound toward the stables. Murray fell in beside him.

"Three hundred and maybe more. Not less."

"Any rifles?"

Edge spat. "They weren't using them on English."

Murray looked at him sharply. ''The Apaches captured Fallowfield?"

"Yeah. And they've got a white girl as well. Seems she was the girl of the chief s dreams until she got out of line. Now she's a kind, of nightmare with big boobs."

"Weren't they killed?" Murray asked, then snapped a command to a nearby soldier who sprang forward to take care of Edge's mount.

Edge relinquished the responsibility gratefully. "Maybe."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Edge shrugged and nodded toward the stockade in one comer of the compound, its spiked topped fence and substantial gate patrolled by two armed guards. "Little Cochise still in the pokey, Colonel?"

"Of course. He's our insurance. What do you mean; maybe?"

"Indians were playing some kind of Apache roulette with English and then the girl riled them. I tangled with a couple of braves and that sort of interrupted the proceedings. I had to beat it. English and the white squaw weren't very healthy when I left, but they were still breathing. My guess would be that English, at least, is still alive. But I bet he's not making with the smart lip anymore."

Murray's haggard face took on a thoughtful frown. "Was Chief Cochise at the camp?"

'Wasn't close enough to ask him who he was," Edge answered. "But the braves who jumped me tried to take me alive and kicking."

''They want hostages?"

"Exchange is no robbery," Edge pointed out.

Murray scowled. "I'm not about to give up an Apache sub-chief for a no-good British gambler."

Edge grinned at him without humor. ''If you want the rank you got to
be prepared to make the decisions, Colonel," he muttered. "Any chance of a bed and a bath?"

"Use my washroom," Murray allowed without enthusiasm. "You can sleep in the men's quarters. There's plenty of room. We’re at less than half strength."

"What about the townspeople?"

"You saw what was left of them," Murray reminded. "We also found a man with only half an arm left and another with his eyes gouged out."

Edge spat into the dust. "They say there's worse trouble at sea."

Murray eyed him with abject bitterness. "Don't you have any feelings, mister?" he asked scornfully.  

"Yeah," Edge replied, moving away toward the Colonel's quarters. "I feel dirty and tired."

The rooms in which the fort's commanding officer lived were austere and impersonal, fitted out to army regulations. Like the man who lived in them, they were cold, hard and lacking anything not dictated by the book. But Edge took no note of the decor or furnishings and did not concern himself with their function as a pointer to the psychological make-up of Colonel Murray. He moved directly through the quarters to the small washroom and chose to, take his bath in cold water rather than go to the trouble of heating it. After he had soaped the dried sweat from his body he luxuriated in the water for a long time, allowing its cool caress to ease the tension out of him. Then, when he felt fully relaxed, he was able to apply a cool and analytical brain to the million dollars-worth of Mexican gold and how to get it. And, he soon came to realize, in such ideal circumstances, the answer to the problem was ludicrously simple.

Wyatt Drucker was reputed to be the richest rancher in southern Arizona Territory. All Edge had to do, therefore, was locate Drucker's ranch and wait patiently for its owner to return with his illegal fortune. Or maybe Drucker had already found his prize and was back at his spread counting the take. Whatever the timing, the method of getting the gold would be the same—painful for Drucker. Very painful: for in Edge's experience, the richer the man, the more resolute was he to keep his money.

As Edge enjoyed his bath and considered his ridiculously simple plan the sun was completely swallowed up by the western horizon and the final crimson rays of its light were extinguished by the stealthy hand of a moonless night. The sentries on the high walls tightened their grips on the new Winchesters and struggled to adjust their tired eyes to the darkness as they stared out across the ruins of the ravaged town which still gave off a nauseous odor of death and burning.

But the soldiers were looking in the wrong direction. As their eyes raked the empty street and deserted buildings and their brain struggled to quell vivid mind-pictures of Apache braves flitting among the deep blacks and grays which patterned the town, the raiders crept along the foot of the towering ridge and gathered in the angle where the sheer rock face met the three foot thick adobe wall of the fort's eastern defenses. There were twenty of them, on foot and with faces and naked upper bodies devoid of war paint which might show up against the black cloak of night. They had approached in pairs, carrying between them ten trunks of young trees, each some twelve feet long; and one member of each two man team had a length of rope coiled around his shoulder. Working quickly and silently, two of the trunks were lashed together, end to end. These were rested against the wall of the fort and then slid carefully upwards so that a third trunk could be upended and lashed into position. With the addition of each new trunk the lengthening prop grew heavier and more braves were required to inch it up the wall.

Although Murray expected a frontal attack and had concentrated the main guard to watch at the town side, the flanks of the fort had not been left completely unprotected and at regular intervals the braves had to interrupt their task as the two man patrol sauntered toward the section of wall under which they were positioned. The Apaches needed only eight of the ten trunks to reach to just below the top of the wall, the long, crudely formed ladder canting at a thirty degree angle and bowing at its center. With a speed and order that told of careful planning, the braves began to shin up the trunks in parties of three, finding easy hand and footholds on the trunks which had not been stripped of their bark. At the top of the trunks the advance trio snaked over the wall and crouched in the inky darkness, looking along the wooden staging toward where the two sentries were turning for the return of their guard patrol.

A low whistle warned the other raiders to hold their position but did not reach the two soldiers who were talking in soft tones, glancing only occasionally out into the sea of darkness which stretched out eastwards from the fort. More often, they looked down into the compound which was a comforting oasis of light supplied by spluttering kerosene lamps.

"When I get out of this man's army, I'm for the easy life. Gonna find me a rich woman with a big house in New York where there ain't no Injuns. And I'm gonna eat and sleep and count her money all day and every day."

The speaker was an old sweat, a busted sergeant who made a new plan each day and talked about it every waking moment. His companion was much younger, a soldier for sixty days with a fresh face as yet unshaven and a determination to become the best trooper in the United States Cavalry.

"No screwing?" he asked with a shy smile. The profanities, which were as much a part of a soldier's life as saluting officers and griping at the food, did not roll off his well-schooled tongue and he seldom ventured beyond the outer threshold of profanity.

The older man grinned at him. "Rich women ain't ever fair of face, son," he said. "And I ain't about to go feeding my meat to no other pussies so me rich wife gets riled and tells me to go to hell."

"Hell, isn't any reason ..." The young soldier broke off the sentence and sighed softly as the Apache brave gently encircled his throat with the crook of an arm and sank the knife into his left breast. The old sweat died with a low croaking sound, curtailed by cold steel digging deep into the side of his neck and penetrating his jugular vein.

The braves withdrew their knives and lowered the two bodies into the pools of blood already forming on the staging. The third Apache whistled softly and within seconds the whole group were crouching at the top of the wall, peering down across the compound to where unsuspecting townspeople and off-duty soldiers were forming a line outside the cookhouse. The raiders were all young, with powerful, supple bodies and intent strongly featured faces. With bodies crouched and faces set in expressions of resolute determination, eighteen of the braves watched patiently as the two who had made the kills sliced off the scalps of their victims. Then all twenty filed down the stairway into the compound, their moccasined feet padding silently on the treads. The fort's arsenal was adjacent to the stables and was locked but unguarded because Murray considered Fort Rainbow impregnable to anything except a full-scale frontal attack. The stockade, which was patrolled, was at the opposite comer of the fort from where the raiders had gained access and the party split into two groups, one of five and the other of fifteen. The smaller group moved off first, stealing one at a time through the shadows, keeping out of the cones of flickering light thrown by the oil lamps, ever watchful for a sign of alarm from the men and women filing into the cookhouse. Then, as soon as the last man had reached the comer of the stockade, the rest of the braves set off from the foot of the stairway, ducking into the open door of the stables.