Return to Massacre Mesa - Edge Series 5 (16 page)

‘I’m sorry, Mr Edge,’ Lucy said dejectedly as she fell in alongside him.

‘For what?’

‘I’ve never known Rose to be like this. So . . . So, oh, I don’t know what! So not like herself I guess.’

‘So like an angry woman with a gun in her hand, maybe?’

‘I suppose.’ She shook her head and shrugged. ‘But, I mean, Rose has always 107

been so meek and mild before. Goodness, she often acted like she was afraid of her own shadow, afraid to say anything out of turn.’

‘That was when she was in our territory, lady.’ Edge gestured with his free hand in a sweeping motion that encompassed their surroundings. ‘Out here is her country it’s a different - ’

‘It used to be my country – the land of my people.’ Rose had stopped at the campsite and turned abruptly to face the couple as they reached the bottom of the hollow. There was a low burning anger in her dark, glittering eyes and the set of her mouth line as she rasped the words in the tone of an accusation. ‘It never can be that again, now I am an outcast of my people. So all I can do is adopt the ways of the White Eyes. And try to be better than they are in all things that I can. Because I am not a White Eyes.’

‘One way is to be richer than they are, Rose?’ Edge suggested.

‘I have thought much since we last talked, Mr Edge,’ she said and sighed deeply.

‘And with greater riches I can perhaps buy a little respect. And for taking care of the dying man who is now dead, I think I earned more than just a small share of the money meant for my people those many years ago?’

‘Of course that is what you have the right to deserve, Rose.’ Lucy went to the side of the fire, hunkered down and began to stir flames from the grey ash around the blackened pot. She said earnestly: ‘But surely there’s money enough to share some with somebody who helps you to find it?’ She swept her gaze away from the stoic figure of the squaw to peer at Edge and promised: ‘I want no part of any money, Mr Edge: not a single cent. I only want to find the remains of my fiancé and see they have a Christian burial.’

Edge looked at the squaw. ‘And all I need are two thousand of those dollars, lady.’

Rose Bigheart made a growling sound of contempt, shared a harsh look between the man and the woman on opposite sides of the rekindled fire and challenged: ‘That is

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what both of you say now. But when there is so much money that is yours for the taking, I think you will have a different opinion. The greed for money is the root of much evil. This is a true White Eyes saying.’

‘Well, I’m certainly in no danger from that kind of evil Rose,’ Lucy countered.

‘Once I have Glenn’s remains and can prove he never – ‘

‘And you?’ Edge asked of the squaw. ‘How much of the government money have you decided you want?’

Rose expressed pride and stood straighter in a posture meant to emphasise her honourable intent. ‘Just a few dollars for myself: for tending to the dying man and for the knowledge that I possess. But I also want much more: the money that is due to my people. This is the respect I need: for my people, for all Comanche. What they would already have had if it were not for the greed of certain White Eyes many years ago.’

‘No sweat,’ Edge allowed evenly as he took a tin cup from the centre of his blanket roll then held it out for Lucy to fill from the pot that had aromatic steam curling out of the spout. ‘Ain’t that right, Miss Russell?’

‘I’ll tell you both again: as long as Glenn’s grave is where Rose has said it is, I don’t care what happens to the money.’

Edge directed a wan grin at the squaw. ‘So there you are, lady, it’s agreed by all. We think you should get the largest share for knowing where the body is buried.’

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CHAPTER • 10

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THEY MADE good time throughout the morning, paused briefly to eat cold
beans and jerked beef at midday then pressed on during the afternoon at the same steady pace that did not overtax the animals nor themselves. As dusk began to fall they rode into sight of a distant Indian encampment precisely where and just about the time when Rose Bigheart had predicted they would.

She had surprised Edge and Lucy by the way she abruptly raised the subject out of the blue when they were breaking their noon camp. Then the squaw refused to answer any questions about the Indians she planned to meet: would do no more than assure Lucy that the group would be friendly toward her and whoever was with her provided all three of them showed respect toward the Comanche. Now as they reined in their horses a quarter of a mile away from a dozen or so wickiups on the fringe of a large stand of timber at the mouth of a low-sided valley, Rose instructed firmly: ‘You two must wait here. I will go to the village and tell my people what they need to know about you.’

‘Can you be absolutely certain they are not hostile, Rose?’ As she spoke the anxiously frowning Lucy peered fixedly at the huddle of lodges seen in the light of two cooking fires and the near full moon. Then she began to chew on her lower lip and tried to swallow her fear with a series of gulps.

‘There is very little fight left in most of my people, Miss Lucy,’ the older woman answered grimly, her eyes as she looked toward the village filled with the same brand of despondency that caused a tremor in her voice. ‘But they do not trust a White Eyes on first meeting. And there are still some hotheads who are likely to act without thinking if they suspect either of you means them harm.’ She looked at Edge to seek his approval of her plan to approach the Comanche encampment on her own. He nodded as he lit a freshly rolled cigarette, his face impassive in the flickering light of the match. ‘They’re your people and we’re in your country, so you go ahead, 110

lady.’

She heeled her pony forward and Edge dismounted. Lucy followed his example and was about to say something as he took her reins to hitch both sets of a clump of thorny brush. But he spoke first:

‘Tell me something, Miss Russell?’

‘If I can.’

‘Back in my room at the Wild Dog – when all we did was talk – you said you could help me to find the stolen government money?’

She nodded that she understood his implication, swallowed hard and expressed mild shame. ‘It wasn’t a lie exactly, Edge. Rose and I have always got along well because I guess I’ve treated her better than most other people in Lakewood. So I just thought I’d be able to persuade her to help you find what you were looking for. While she was helping me to find what I want so desperately.’

‘No sweat: now it’s your turn to ask me.’ He eyed her quizzically.

‘Did my father truly try to kill you?’

‘His gun was maybe aimed at me when he started to squeeze the trigger but I’d say he was too mad to fire anything but a wild shot. He smashed a couple of bottles of liquor, that’s all.’

‘And then the poor man shot himself. Was he very badly hurt?’

‘Only his pride seriously, I guess. Like I said, he shot himself in the foot: which means he’ll need to use his cane more than he normally does for a while.’

She shifted her apprehensive gaze toward the Indian encampment where low-key noise and activity had been triggered by the arrival of Rose Bigheart. Then cast a more anxious look back the way they had come from Lakewood and asked: ‘Do you really think my father will send somebody after us?

‘He was real steamed up at the time, lady. You’re his daughter so you’d know 111

better than me what he’s like after he’s calmed down from being that mad.’

She chewed on the inside of her slightly sunken right cheek and switched her dark eyed attention several times toward the far off town, hidden by time and distance in the moonlit darkness. ‘I really don’t know. My pa thinks so highly of me, as I’m certain you must have heard. It’s something of a joke around Lakewood. He still treats me as if I’m a sixteen years old girl. I’ve never left him like this before.’

‘I’ve had men gunning for me a time or two before, lady.’ Edge showed her a sardonic grin. ‘Though most of those times I’d probably done something to deserve it.’

A rider who clearly was not Rose Bigheart came out from the cluster of wickiups at a fast gallop and Lucy Russell nodded absently. Then she spread an earnest frown across her travel-wearied face as she promised: ‘All I can say is that at the first opportunity I’ll surely tell my pa that he has no just cause to be mad at you. Edge.’

‘That’s real nice of you, lady.’ His tone was sardonic again. She accepted the response with equanimity and they waited in silence for the Comanche rider to reach them. He was a young buck of thirteen or fourteen who would have been immaturely handsome in a smooth skinned Comanche way except that his right eye was frozen in a permanent stare to the half right. He was a little over five feet tall and seemed to have the makings of a fine physique beneath denim pants and a check-patterned shirt that was much darned and patched. This store bought clothing contrasted with the single eagle’s feather held to the back of his head by a dirty white band and the home made moccasins on his feet.

After he reined in his piebald pony the boy switched the gaze of his good eye rapidly between Edge and Lucy as he explained in good English: ‘Chief White Eagle and the braves are out hunting. So just the old men and the women and the children – of which I am the oldest – are left. My name is Crooked Eye and I am sent to invite you to our village?’ There was an implication in his apologetic tone and uneasy expression that he expected them to be insulted by having a mere boy bring them the message.

‘That really is very kind of you, your man.’ Lucy was tense, obviously perturbed to 112

be this close to a male Comanche, even one of his tender years. Edge prompted with a hand gesture: ‘Fine, so you want to lead the way kid?’

He unhitched the horses and swung up into his saddle. Then the woman climbed astride her mount in the usual awkward, inexpert manner. The young Comanche set a more sedate pace on his return ride to the encampment beside the timber stand that was in better shape than many Indian settlements Edge had seen in the distant past. The wickiups looked to be in a good state of repair and the scattering of Comanche squaws and youngsters out in the open seemed to be well fed and adequately clothed in a mixture of home made and store bought garments. They all exuded varying degrees of latent suspicion mixed with curiosity that caused Lucy Russell to steer her mount closer to Edge’s horse: increasingly ill at ease in what she thought of as ominous surroundings that were totally alien to her.

Edge gave her a reassuring wink and said: ‘If you think this is nerve wracking, wait until the hunting braves get back home, lady.’

But she was not reassured by his attempt to poke gentle fun at her as the boy reined in his pony out front of a centrally sited wickiup and signalled they should do likewise. When they had all dismounted Crooked Eye said:

‘I will take the horses to the remuda? Rose Bigheart is inside this lodge with the old chiefs. You will go in to talk with them?’ Much of what the young buck said seemed to be couched in the tone of an apprehensive query.

‘We’re obliged, kid.’ Edge surrendered his reins and nodded to Lucy that she should do the same.

She tried to smile warmly but realised her expression lacked any conviction and reverted to an anxious frown when Edge signalled for her to move ahead of him into the Comanche dwelling. Inside three aged, stoic faced chiefs were seated in a line facing the entrance, all of them sucking on pipes that gave off evil smelling tobacco smoke. The one in the centre looked like he could be close to a hundred years old, his facial skin and that of his neck heavily wrinkled and his features shrivelled. The other two 113

were at least eighty and were garbed in robes less elaborately patterned to signal they were of a lower rank in the tribe hierarchy.

‘This is Chief White Eagle.’ Rose Bigheart introduced. ‘There beside him is Chief Wild Pony and there to the left is Chief Big Bear.’

She gestured with a hand to each Comanche in turn: beginning with the one in the centre. The trio, who no longer had any physical attributes to match their names, gave no sign they had understood what she said: they simply shifted their blank eyed gazes from Lucy to Edge and after they had studied each of them for several seconds looked quizzically at the squaw.

Because he could not speak English or maybe he could but wished to stress he was a high-ranking Comanche on his own territory and Edge and Lucy were no-account foreigners in his domain, White Eagle asked a laconic question in his native tongue. Rose Bigheart was either instructed or felt it better to reply in the same guttural language. Whatever the reason, her response was much lengthier than his query had been. And from the way the old chief sometimes looked at Edge and occasionally at Lucy, but more often at the squaw, it seemed she gave an explanation of how the three of them came to be travelling together in this part of the country. Neither White Eagle nor the chiefs who flanked him revealed on their implacable faces anything of what they thought of what was being told to them. When Rose was through, Lucy started to ask in a nervous whisper: