Return to Massacre Mesa - Edge Series 5 (31 page)

rifles of the attacking Indians.

Even if they had the experience to recognise what was happening, the squaw and the young buck would maybe have been oblivious to this and everything else outside of their own dual existence as the tightly-bound and helpless woman shrieked uselessly at the struck dumb boy. Who took one more pace to reach her, sank down on to his haunches alongside the woman and started to saw at the ropes that held her ankles.

‘You sure had me worried for awhile, kid,’ Edge rasped softly then angled the rifle across his chest again and used the nearby rocks for an entirely different purpose than before. The incessant chatter of the Gatling gun was briefly interrupted and the sounds of intermittent rifle fire interspersed with the thud of galloping hooves could be heard as he scrambled up and over the rocks. And reached the vantage point he sought as he recognised amid the awesome tumult of gunfire that the screams of wounded men had replaced Comanche war cries.

‘Please, Mr Edge, what is happening?’

Edge spared a glance down at where the young buck stood beside the squaw who was still seated on the ground, her back pressed hard against the rock, looking many years older than he remembered her. She seemed unable to move a muscle: maybe because the paralysing fear of death at the hands of Crooked Eye had not yet diminished even though he had freed her and now pushed his knife back into its sheath. The boy supplied the answer to his own question while latent tears of remorse glinted in his dark eyes.

‘I think my people have been lured into a terrible trap?’

‘What you’re hearing is that happening, kid.’ Edge’s rasped confirmation was totally drowned out by the louder than ever chattering of two Gatling guns now. From where he was balanced unsteadily on the uneven surface of a lopsided sandstone boulder he could see clearly across the area beyond the fringe of the scattered rocks. In which the Comanche had earlier been hidden, waiting for the right time to spring a surprise attack on the seemingly unsuspecting cavalrymen. But there 216

never could have been a right time for Mountain Lion and his braves to launch an onslaught. Because the soldiers had not been as unaware of the enemy presence as they had seemed to be: were all the time poised to unleash a violent surprise of their own - their apparent state of careless lethargy a carefully staged ploy. Already, bloody carnage was spread across the dust, gun smoke and heat shimmer shrouded area between the heights of the mesa to the north and the surrounding bluffs elsewhere. Gruesome evidence of how the Comanche had galloped their ponies out from cover, shrieking war cries and blasting rifle fire at the army encampment. Relishing the victory they scented as strongly as the acrid taint of black powder smoke that filled their flared nostrils. But then the uniformed figures, that moments before had seemed to be taking their ease, powered into instant action: lunged to snatch up weapons.

And Edge knew there would have been an element of blind panic in the minds of many troopers when they saw for the first time the shrieking, war painted Comanche braves galloping flat out toward them. For no matter how well disciplined were a body of fighting men – how much warning they had of an impending enemy attack – he recalled from long ago experience how the terror of imminent violent death or a maiming wound inflicted in the heat of battle could take control of the mind. But such deep-rooted fear could be utilised: to give extra impetus to a man’s determination to defend himself and kill the enemy before the enemy killed him. Especially when, after the initial panic was ended, he realised he formed just one part of a carefully prepared plan: and had confidence in his own ability and that of the men fighting alongside him to carry it through. Especially when he knew he had vastly superior firepower on his side.

And Edge could see how this must have happened with smooth precision in the face of the Comanche attack. When, as the Indians galloped into range, the rear doors of the enclosed wagon at either side of the bivouac had been thrown open and a pair of Gatling guns was revealed. And first one and then the other began to spray death as soon as those troopers in the line of fire hurled themselves to the ground and slithered with ungainly haste back to relative safety.

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Then between the flanking machine guns other men with repeater rifles stood to their full height, knelt on one knee or sprawled prone to pick off the suddenly terrified braves with carefully aimed single shots. And Comanche corpses slumped to the ground among dead and wounded ponies, for the Gatling guns sprayed their bullets indiscriminately, cutting down any living thing within their arc and range of fire. In a little over a minute there were just two riders still astride their mounts and three braves who had been unseated and were up and running.

As Edge impassively watched, the murderous chatter of the Gatlings abruptly ceased and riflemen cold-bloodedly shot down the survivors. Each doomed brave taking a bullet in the back as he struggled in vain to outrun the carnage and reach the refuge of the area of rocks: all of them dying with the sounds of gunshots and the groaning of their wounded blood brothers filling their ears. Maybe each was aware, too, of the harsh, contemptuous laughter of the man who gunned him down. One of a group who now all came erect, yelling in triumph as they thrust their arms, kepis or rifles high in the air: the volume of exhilaration rising to demented proportions each time a paint daubed brave pitch bloodily to the ground. Soon just a few ponies were left alive and unscathed, bolting in terror toward the heat-hazed desert to the west with the scent of blood and gun smoke in their snorting nostrils. The sounds of euphoria and their echoes bouncing off the surrounding high ground began to diminish and Edge became suddenly aware that somebody else had climbed up on to the rock and stood precariously beside him. He turned and saw the slight figure of Crooked Eye, who was peering out over the scattered rocks toward the scene of the second massacre at Mesa Desolado. Where the only movements beneath the drifting gun smoke, shimmering heat haze and settling dust was the writhing forms of wounded men and animals.

The young buck vented a loud sniffing sound and Edge did a double take at him and saw he was struggling to hold back fresh tears: did not trust himself to speak for fear the words would un-dam a bout of weeping.

‘There are times when we whites ain’t ashamed to show our feeling that way, kid,’

Edge encouraged evenly.

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Crooked Eye shook his head, compressed his lips into a firm line, screwed his eyes tightly closed and forced out in a stained whisper: ‘No matter how hard I try, I can never be a White Eyes.’

Rose Bigheart asked hoarsely: ‘Is it all finished now?’

She had managed to haul herself up over the rocks and now stood beside the white man and the Comanche boy, studying them impassively as if she, too, was afraid to reveal her innermost feelings because they would shame her.

‘I reckon so, lady.’

Then, at the sound of a gunshot and a cry from Crooked Eye, Edge wrenched his head around. And saw a corporal and three enlisted men had moved out among the victims of the carnage. And first one now another, then another of the uniformed figures fired a bullet at point blank range. To put injured ponies out of their misery: and in the same brutal manner ended the lives of wounded braves. The cry of the young buck expanded to a shriek and he half jumped-half threw himself down from the rocks. Landed badly and groaned with pain as he stooped and clutched at an ankle. Began an ungainly run among the scattered boulders, intent upon making it out on to the open ground: maybe to plead for mercy for his fellow Comanche, or maybe with no idea of why he was doing as he did.

Edge cursed and got down from the rock with greater care, sacrificing speed for a safer landing than the boy. So he could overhaul the limping young Comanche who was sure to invite a killing bullet as soon as he showed himself in the open. He heard Rose Bigheart call something after him, but paid her no attention. Ran breathlessly, dripping sweat again, as the isolated shots of the executioners rang out. The shouting and laughter was ended, perhaps because the men had little stomach for this final act in the one sided battle. More likely, Edge thought, because they discovered they were too drained to feel anything but exhausted after the tension of waiting for the attack, the high excitement and quaking fear of the onslaught and the bitter taste of a hollow victory over a doomed enemy.

A final killing shot resounded among the rock faces on three sides and then an 219

eerie, brightly sunlit silence descended over the scene of the battle. Each passing second of the almost palpable quiet was marked by the thud of one of Edge’s booted feet. Until he emerged from between two massive boulders into an area scattered with smaller fragments of rock and was abruptly fully visible to any soldier who was looking in this direction. And four of them were, their rapt attention drawn toward the slight form of Crooked Eye: who had staggered to a breathless halt some twenty feet out in the open. Where he was waving his arms frantically, the fists clenched, in a futile gesture of frustrated hatred for the men who had committed this carnage against his people.

Edge saw him from behind and thought that perhaps his mouth was yet again uselessly opening and closing as he struggled in vain to hurl a stream of Comanche invectives at the four uniformed figures who were closest to him. The men spread across a broad area among the dead braves and ponies, the stunted mesquite and prickly cholla. Or maybe he chose to hold his silence, fearful of spilling more tears at this, the worst possible time for him to be seen as anything but a stoic Indian buck on the brink of becoming a brave. For stretched seconds none of the three enlisted men nearby moved a muscle while the corporal’s startled gaze remained fixed on the boy with Edge standing behind him. Then the young non-com brought his rifle hurriedly up to aim it from the shoulder.

Edge levelled his Winchester from the hip and rasped: ‘He dies then so do you, corporal!’ When he moved forward, sliding his feet carefully among the small rocks he could not see while he concentrated his unblinking attention on the perplexed corporal threatening the boy, he was uneasily aware that any of the other troopers could just as readily gun down him. Or Crooked Eye or both of them.

‘Damnit, don’t any of you men – ‘ the corporal began to snarl and suddenly lost his voice that was tremulous with renewed fear.

Edge said as he came to a halt alongside the young Comanche: ‘And you, kid –

best you don’t make a move to get these fellers riled up at us.’

‘Just what’s going – ‘ one of the non-plus troopers started to demanded and then 220

like everyone else suddenly found his uncomprehending gaze drawn to the side.

‘He’s a Comanche savage, the same as all the rest of them!’ Chester Conners screamed the words at a high pitch as he rose unsteadily from among the rocks to the left. His expression showed anguish and there was dried blood at his temple and fresh oozing through the fingers of his left hand where he clutched at a wound high in his chest to the right.

Edge glanced at him fleetingly to check he was unarmed before he returned his attention to the frightened corporal. And saw the man had regained enough composure to allow the rifle to dip away from where it had been aimed at the trembling Crooked Eye. When he shifted his narrow eyed gaze to the other uniformed men he saw that now they were all more intrigued by the wounded Conners than by him and the young Comanche.

‘I ain’t never been so scared in my entire damn life!’ Conners babbled as he started to stagger forward. But he tripped and fell, struggled to pick himself up and advance closer to Edge and Crooked Eye, the pain becoming more deeply ingrained into his heavily bristled features as he was weakened further by the moment by blood loss.

‘And every lousy Comanche I ever come up against is going to pay for how this bunch of savages treated me so bad!’

‘We’ve done our jobs, men,’ the corporal said wearily, blatantly indifferent to the suffering Conners as he swung around to put his back to the wounded man, Edge and Crooked Eye. ‘Let’s get on back.’

‘Yeah,’ the oldest trooper agreed. ‘All done. I’m sure sick of all this killing.’

Edge canted the Winchester to a shoulder, double-checked that all the uniformed men were trudging sluggishly back among the slumped Comanche corpses and inert pony carcasses to where a newly mounted officer had been about to gallop his horse out from the bivouac toward them. By now Conners seemed to have exhausted his capability to express anger. And he stumbled, fell full length, uttered a cry of pain and tried to get up again. But this time he could make it only to his knees. He sucked in a deep breath and rasped:

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‘Hey, did you people see what those savages forced me to do? Did you see them make me run out in front of them? The bastards figured that would keep the army from shooting! And it damn well didn’t! And if I hadn’t dove for the deck the way I did the bullet some scared-out-of-his-head trooper fired at me would have blown my damn head off - instead of drilling a hole into me where it did! And you, you Injun sonofabitch, you’re one of them savages and I plan to – ‘

Once again the enormity of his feelings strangled his vocal chords. And he stretched out his left arm while the other hung loosely at his side. And in his delirium it seemed as if he thought he could reach forward far enough to touch Crooked Eye, grasp him around the neck and with one hand squeeze the life out of the young Comanche. A chorus of shouts sounded from the army encampment and Edge and Crooked Eye peered in that direction: saw all attention was now centred on the northern end of the bluff. Where Tree, Dingle, Slade and Lucy Russell had found the easy route down and were staggering with eager haste toward where the cavalry waited for them: with the food and water of which every civilian was in desperate need.