Apache Death (5 page)

Sleep insinuated itself Into his body like a soothing balm on an ache and it seemed only a few moments later when its pleasure was snatched away by an insistent rapping of knuckles on the door. But when Edge snapped open his eyes it was to see the room lit with the blood red light of the sun almost at the end of its daytime arc. There was a lot of noise as a background to the knocking: a blend of piano playing and singing, laughter and talk, hoofbeats and wagon wheels rolling, glasses clinking and feet stamping which seemed to come from a long way off but which was all just outside the room's window. The noise of Rainbow heading into another night-time orgy that would lead toward, another morning of late waking.

"Who's there?" Edge demanded, snatching up the Spencer and-leveling it at the door.

"Nelson Mortimer, the undertaker, Mr. Edge," the recognizable whine, called through the door. "I've got a problem, sir."

Edge glanced at the foot of the door, saw a strip of light which told of lamps in the hallway outside. He eased himself off the bed and looked along the floor, saw that there were two pairs of boots in the hall. "Just a minute," he called back, going up into a crouch, then moving on tip-toe to the door. The key was still in the lock and he turned it a fraction of an inch at a time, prepared to leap away at the first sound it made. It made no sound. He backed away, still moving silently, until he stood in the doorway of the bathroom. "Okay, Nelson," he called. "It’s open. You can come in now."

The door was opened and showed just the undertaker standing there, looking smaller than ever in his fear.

"Mr. Edge!" he stuttered, taking a step into the room, his eyes searching desperately for an occupant. "It was just that I … Mr. Edge … I think …"

He suddenly shrieked in alarm and went over sideways, knocked out of the way by a hulking, barrel-chested gunman who rushed into the room, a revolver in each hand, covering every inch of space in front of him. Edge allowed the man three seconds to express his astonishment at the empty-room, then stepped out from the doorway.

"You got two," he said and shot the man in the left eye, knocking him around and spraying blood on the wall, "But my one's bigger," he completed as the dead man crumpled.

"Oh, my God," Nelson Mortimer gasped, pressing his trembling body against the wall, as if trying to force his way through.

Edge looked at the terrified man, swinging the rifle around to cover him. "You pose a problem, Nelson," he said softly.

The man swallowed hard as a girl with a startled expression appeared in the doorway. Edge, ignored his nakedness and her presence, "Why … what … what do you mean, Mr. Edge?"

A man appeared in the doorway now and surveyed the scene with cool interest. Edge ignored him, too.

"Who's going to make the arrangements for the undertaker?" Edge asked rhetorically.

 Every trace of color left Nelson Mortimer's face and he suddenly clasped his hands in front of his chest and sank to his knees. "Please, Mr. Edge. Beale made me do it. He said he'd run me out of town if I didn't get that man into your room. I didn't know he wanted to kill you. Mr. Beale deputized him. They told me he was just going to arrest you. Honest to God; Mr. Edge. I'm innocent." 

"My goodness me, a mortified mortician," the man in the doorway said, in a cultured English accent. "And a wanted man as a deputy. I really don't know what Rainbow is coming to."

Edge glanced at the Englishman now, seeing that he was smiling. He was tall and slim, about thirty-five with a fresh, clean-shaven face. His features were regular with a youthful innocence about them, open and honest. He was dressed in a gray, Eastern suit complete with matching vest which had a gold watch-chain slung across the front. He wore a white shirt and gray tie, and a gray Derby over his black hair neatly trimmed. His shoes were white and very shiny and there were white spats above.

"Wanted?" Edge snapped, and the tone did not disturb the open smile.

"Billy Kramer, no less," the Englishman answered. "There's two hundred and fifty dollars on his head. There was in Santa Fe anyway, old boy."

Edge nodded. "Obliged."

"Pleasure;" the Englishman answered, broadening his smile and raised a hand which was delicate and long-fingered, extremely clean and showing no signs of ever having been engaged in hard work. "Must toddle off now. There's a hot deck waiting for me down the street."

He turned and tipped his hat to the girl who was no longer startled. She was eyeing Edge's naked body with undisguised estimation.

"Please, Mr. Edge," Nelson Mortimer pleaded, still on his knees, hands clasped in an attitude of prayer.

The Englishman hesitated a moment longer. "Old boy?"

"Yeah?"Edge asked.

"Don't shoot the undertaker, he's doing his best." Then he was gone.

Edge curled back his lips in a cold grin and lowered the rifle. "You just, brought me two hundred and fifty bucks, Nelson," he said softly. "I'm not about to kill you for that. Stick around."

THEY were the center of a great deal of interest as they walked down the sidewalk toward the sheriff's office. The evening had completely swallowed up the day now and kerosene lamps from windows and hanging on posts provided light for the citizens of Rainbow to find their pleasure. But they all had time to spare to look at Nelson Mortimer, back bowed under the weight of the dead Billy Kramer, as he staggered out of the Pot of Cold, Edge immediately at his heels, prodding him forward with the muzzle of the Spencer.

"Don't you usually put them in a box first, Nelson?" a woman called amid raucous laughter.

Kramer should have gone to hell a long time ago," a man rejoined.

"Sad night for Beale," another man said. "He's goin~ to have to shell out some money."

Violent death was not taken very seriously in Rainbow. Edge ignored the comments and merely glanced at the faces of the bystanders: not from curiosity but to make sure Kramer had no friends prepared to take a chance on avenging his death. Beale's door was open and the undertaker hesitated a moment, suddenly shot forward into the sheriff’s office with a pained yell as the rifle muzzle whipped up into his crotch. Beale was seated behind his desk, much of the color gone from his florid face; Edge knew he had been told the bad news already.

"Get him out of here,"· Beale snapped, venting his anger on the defenseless Mortimer. "I know who he is and how much he's worth."

"Can't I rest for awhile?" the little man pleaded breathlessly.

"You got a chapel of-rest across the street," Beale yelled.

Mortimer groaned, turned and panted out through the  doorway as Beale attempted to hold Edge's steely stare. But he couldn't do it and looked away, his lower lip trembling. The Safe was in a comer of the office, but Beale had already been there. He pulled open a drawer of his desk and took out a stack of five dollar bills and a rolled up wanted poster. He unfurled the poster, and held it up, showing Edge a crude drawing of Kramer and, the big lettering offering a two hundred and fifty dollar reward for the man, dead or alive.

Edge didn't say anything.

"Bounty, hunters' ain't popular around here, stranger;" he said, injecting hardness into his tone. "There's a few others in town who ain't about to let you live and pick up their tabs."

Edge spat on the clean floor. Beale kept his office as neat as his attire and he grimaced at the gesture. Edge stepped up to the desk and Beale flinched away from him. Edge picked up the money and clucked his tongue. The sound startled Beale.

"You can't kill a lawman," Beale yelled, his tone pitched high.

"Not one with a safe stuffed with bounty money," Edge agreed softly. "Such a lawman is allowed one chance," He 'grinned. "Just one, sheriff. So you better put the word out. Any other gunslinger makes a try for me, I’ll be back. I'll come in here and hang you up by the thumbs and then I’ll shoot off bits of you with your own fancy guns. Get it?"

Beale swallowed hard, started to shake his head, changed it to a nod.

"Nice to do business with you, sheriff," Edge said, turned and strode out of the office.

Nobody paid any attention to him now as he sauntered down the street, tying to decide which of the many saloons offered the most attractions. For everybody else seemed to be engaged in the same activity, and doing it with a singleness of purpose that allowed for no distractions. They moved quickly, wearing intense expressions, talking too loudly, laughing too much and appearing altogether in Edges mind, on the verge of a kind of nervous hysteria. It was as if few of them were actually enjoying themselves, rather they were desperately trying to hide their true emotions with a false sheen of lightheadedness.

Edge saw a group of cavalry mounts hitched in front of a saloon called The Lucky Ace and halted outside, peering over the swing doors into the smoky, noisy interior. At, the far end a sweating pianist was thumping out a tune as half a dozen dancing girls performed high kicks for the delight of a large group of yelling men in front of them.  

At several tables near the doors other men were hunched over spread hands of cards. The long bar was clear in the center, with one end crowded by hard-drinking civilians while at the other the cavalry lieutenant, an officer with major's insignia and four sergeants sipped at beer. Edge made one further, quick survey of the room, spotting the Englishman at one of the card tables, then pushed in through the doors and headed for the vacuum at the center of the bar. He sensed that the lieutenant had spotted him and was whispering to his superior, but did not look in their direction.

"Beer," he told, the bartender who was all protruding teeth and bright eyes with a welcoming smile.

"Yes, sir!'" the man said enthusiastically, drawing the drink. "First one’s always on the house at The Lucky Ace."

"So put a whisky in it," Edge said.

The man's face clouded and he did a double take to make sure the newcomer wasn't joking. When he saw his first impression had been correct he upended a whisky bottle over the beer glass and didn't stop pouring until there was a puddle on the bar.

"This section of the bar got the plague?" Edge asked, when he had taken a long draught at the drink

The bartender tried to replace his grin, but it was lopsided. "On account of the army," he answered. "Civilians don't like the army."

"Why?"

"There's been some Apache trouble round, here of late."

Edge narrowed his eyes, "Seems to me the town ought to be' happy to have the army around then,"

The bartender shook his head and no 'longer tried for the pretense of a smile. His face was suddenly long with gravity and his eyes became nervous. "Ain't as simple as that. Rumors got around that the army is being issued with a new kind of gun. Best repeating rifle that's ever been made. Apaches heard the rumor too. And, they figure them new guns is going to be used against them."

Edge sipped his beer and eyed the man over the rim of the glass. "I saw a few Apaches in action. I figure the guns must be more than just a rumor."

The bartender nodded. "Well, couple of weeks ago an army wagon train rolled into Fort Rainbow and those wagons were riding real low on their springs, mister. And ever since that train came in, Apache attacks have increased. And they're getting closer to Rainbow. Another rumor is that Chief Cochise and his brother have ordered the whole Apache nation into the territory for an attack on Rainbow."

Edge nodded and narrowed his eyes, creasing his brow in thought, He turned to lean his back against the bar and survey the saloon again, He saw something he hadn't noted before. Almost every man in the room was armed, not only with holstered handguns, but, like Edge himself, with a rifle. And he recalled that the people out on the street had also been carrying more arms than were strictly necessary for a stroll downtown. Edge sensed somebody standing at his side and, turned to see the colonel there, in the same attitude of reflective study.

“I think you're a man of some perception, sir," the officer said softly. "You can see these people are shit scared and trying to hide it by pretending they're having fun."

The colonel was as tall as Edge, but a good deal thinner. His age could have been anything from thirty-five to forty-five, because his clipped hair was gray far beyond his years and his sallow, spare features were marked by too many lines of hard experience and deep worry. He had a look of bone-hard fatigue which even the intelligent brightness of his eyes could not conceal. During his service in the Civil War, Edge had seen many such men, promoted before their time because they showed ability far beyond the mean, but not mature enough to handle the responsibilities of command.

"With good reason, I hear," Edge, answered.

"And you saw, Lieutenant Sawyer tells me," the colonel said. "He said you had a run-in with four braves up on the south ridge."

"Four more good Indians?"

"I don't hold with that sentiment," Colonel Murray came back quickly. "Washington wants peace with the, Chiricahua Apaches in this part of the territory. But Cochise doesn't trust Washington and I'm the buffer in between. If the Indians attack, it's my duty to defend the fort and for my sins, the people of this town."

Edge sipped his beer and spoke without looking at the army man. "You ain't talking for the pleasure of my company, colonel," he said.

Murray cleared his throat. "You met some Apaches on the south ridge this morning. I lost a patrol, except for one man, in the west this afternoon. This evening I got a telegraph report that a war party of fifty braves wiped out a settlement fifteen miles east of Rainbow."

Edge grinned coldly. "They're closing in on Rainbow, uh?"

"And fast," Murray said with a sigh. "I've got less than a hundred men at the fort,"

"Town's full of men," Edge pointed out.

Murray grimaced. "Scared and undisciplined. There's probably only one Indian fighter amongst them."

"I ain't an Indian fighter," Edge answered. "I kill anybody who tries to kill me—Indians, Americans or guys with green spots and horns growing out their heads."

Murray eyed Edge with distaste. "You take care of yourself and nobody else matters?" he said contemptuously.

Edge eyed him coldly. "To me, nobody else does, colonel."

The army man seemed about to hurl a rebuke at Edge, but caught the dangerous glint in the other's expression and spun on his heels to return to his men.

"Beer!" Edge called and the bartender moved quickly up to him with a bottle.

"You cheating bastard!"

The insult, high-pitched and angry, cut across the noise in the saloon like a whiplash, diminishing and then suddenly silencing it. A chair crashed over backwards and every eye in the room was drawn toward one of the card tables near the door. A young man, no more than eighteen, was standing between his fallen chair and the table, glaring in rage at the seated figure of the Englishman. The latter lounged nonchalantly in his seat, the innocent smile highlighting his good looks.

"Carl," one of the other card players said placating reaching out a hand, which was angrily shrugged away. "I been watching him. Those last two cards came off the bottom."

"Beer," Edge repeated and for a moment his voice drew the attention of the saloon. But as soon as the bartender began to refill his glass, all eyes turned back to the card table.

"Come now, old boy." The Englishman's cultured voice was in violent contrast to the angered tones of the other. "I only cheated a little."

"He admits it!" the accuser yelled, startled by the Englishman's reply. "He's got the gall to cheat and then admit it like a thousand bucks is a few nickels."

"But I only cheated a little," the Englishman insisted, still smiling, not moving from his comfortable position.

Watching with a detached interest, Edge decided the young man named Carl was signing his own death warrant with each word he spoke. For he was angry and would telegraph every move while the Englishman was just too placid: too nonchalant under the onslaught not to have something with which to back up his composure.

"Give me back my money," the youngster said, and reached out for the pile of crumpled bills in front of the Englishman.

"Leave it!" The smile had gone, replaced by steel hard earnestness and the Englishman was suddenly sitting upright in his chair, delicate fingers curled over the edge of the table. The two words were spat out like oaths. They froze the youngster to the spot. But only for a moment. He came erect slowly and stepped back three paces, his heels knocking away the overturned chair. The silence was so complete that everyone in the saloon heard the beer pour down Edge's throat.

"You better be heeled," Carl said.   

"Try me." As the words were spoken, the youngster clawed for his holstered revolver, but had not even got a grip on the butt before the Englishman had jerked his right arm to release a tiny weapon into his palm. It made a sound like a silver dollar hitting the floor and the youngster screamed as a bloody crease was carved out of the back of his gun hand.