The fat man laughed, his bulbous flesh beneath the tight-fitting clothes jiggling and bobbing. The men around the gallows joined in the glee. Grunting Bear’s facade cracked for a few moments. And there was confusion in his eyes as he snapped his head from side to side, staring at the laughing men.
‘Well, what d’you friggin’ know?’ Sullivan bellowed. Another gust of body-trembling laughter exploded from him as he leaned forward. And cut off the Apache’s right ear.
The sub-chief was off guard. Still confused by the laughter his words had caused to erupt. He felt Sullivan’s grip at the top of his ear. Then experienced a warmth - not from the blazing sun - at the side of his head. But he did not scream until Sullivan rocked back - and held up the gristly trophy. The scream was powered by shock. Then agony sent it to a shriller plane.
The fat man suddenly dropped the severed ear and turned sharply to left and right. All humor had drained from his face, and the puffy flesh was dark purple with rage. ‘It ain’t friggin’ funny!’ he shrieked. ‘It ain’t friggin’ funny at all! What we friggin’ done to them homesteaders… That’s what got that bastard Orme killed! And what led to this savage and his friggin’ buddies to take Coralie outta this place!’
His words drove the men into grim-faced silence. And caused the sub-chief to grind his teeth against the pain. To become as silent as the men and to set his brain racing. Despite the agony and fear that possessed him, Grunting Bear was still capable of logical thought. He did not resent the fat White Eyes and his companions for committing the crime of which Black Cloud had been accused. In different circumstances, he would have thanked them - for triggering the uprising against those who had stolen Mescalero land and made his people virtual prisoners on the Dry Wash Rancheria.
But the circumstances were as they were and only his death would change them.
‘All right, you friggin’ savage!’ Sullivan snarled, directing all his rage towards Grunting Bear. ‘It wasn’t only your lousy, friggin’ brother you took outta this place! You took some women! Right?’
His voice was lower pitched now. Almost calm. But there could be no comfort for the Apache in this. Grunting Bear compressed his lips into a tight line. The fat man was looking for one of the women Black Cloud had ordered taken. The one named Coralie. To reveal where the women were would also betray the hiding place of Black Cloud and the war party.
Up on the walkway, Edge had reached the same conclusion. And expressed his disinterest with a silent sigh. But there was, in the set of his lean face, a hint of impatience. For he knew Sullivan was wasting his time. The Apache was aware he was doomed and therefore had nothing to gain by talking. Except for a fast death instead of a slow one. But the price demanded for the preferable alternative was too high. No pureblood Apache would betray his brother braves for any kind of reward. And such an Apache had the necessary capacity for endurance - drawn from his heritage and gained by the harsh experiences of tribal ritual - to withstand the most brutal coercion.
But Edge curbed his impatience, in the knowledge that his life was also on the line, and that by waiting, his chance of survival would be increased.
‘Answer me, frig you!’ Sullivan snarled. His arm swung and he landed a crashing backhanded blow against the Apache’s cheek.
Grunting Bear’s head rocked to the side. Blood, caked black by the blazing sun, cracked. The cut widened and fresh crimson spilled.
‘I don’t give a sweet friggin’ damn about no friggin’ savages! You hear me, bastard?’
Grunting Bear had dragged his head upright again. Sullivan transferred the knife to his left hand and smashed a blow into the other cheek.
‘I just want that woman, hear me? Ray Sullivan wants that woman, savage! And what Sullivan wants, Sullivan gets!’
Grunting Bear had straightened once more, and closed his eyes against the barrage of spittle-spraying words. Now he snapped them open and bared his teeth. ‘Sullivan fat hog who can go roll in own slime!’ he rasped.
Edge showed a fleeting smile of approval as the insult froze Sullivan into stretched seconds of enraged immobility.
‘Mr. Sullivan, he’s sayin’ that to make you mad so—’
‘Shuddup, Jesse!’ one of the twins yelled at the other.
It was probable that every man on the ground had recognized the Apache’s ploy. And that all, with the exception of Jesse Carpenter, welcomed the prospect of the fast end it invited. Though not out of any compassion for the Indian’s suffering. Like Edge, they had minds unclouded by fury and could see the torture was a waste of time. Merely prolonging their stay in the heat and stench of Fort Waycross - to no ultimate gain. Only Jesse Carpenter continued to enjoy a vicarious thrill from watching the brutality.
The fat man had not heard the shouted warning. The insult still filled his ears - like a constant echo - blocking out all other sounds. And his flesh-crowded eyes saw only the punished face of the Apache who had spoken the words.
He erupted out of paralysis with a bellow like that from a dying bull. Then lashed out with his right hand. The clenched fist smashed against Grunting Bear’s eye. And, as he realized the knife was still in his other hand, an even more powerful roar was vented by Sullivan. He slapped the knife back into his right hand and lashed out again.
Grunting Bear was standing rigid, head held high. The blade pierced his eyelid and sliced through the ball beneath. He screamed and sagged against the ropes.
‘You friggin’, stinkin’, sonofabitchin’ savage!’ Sullivan snarled, grabbing a fistful of hair and jerking the brave’s head erect. ‘I’ll teach you to friggin’—’
He wrenched out the knife and thrust it forward again. Grunting Bear’s other eye suffered the same fate. Blood gushed from the two new wounds so that the entire lower half of his face shone with flowing crimson. Then the knife began to attack the helpless body. Sullivan’s rapid breathing had cut off the flow of his words. But, as when he had mutilated the corpse of Lieutenant Orme, the fat man was able to shriek unconnected obscenities as he reaped vengeance against the Apache.
And, after a half-dozen wounds had been inflicted upon Grunting Bear’s torso, it was another corpse which was being attacked. For the point of the knife had punctured the heart. But, if Sullivan realized his victim was dead, the fact did not satisfy him. There were no more screams or groans or spasms. But there was still blood. Oozing, blossoming, gushing and splashing.
Nobody counted how many times the knife was plunged into the flesh of Grunting Bear. All the watchers knew was that, when the fat man finally backed off, every square inch of the Apache’s tattered clothing and bared flesh was soaked with bright crimson. Except where the blazing sun was crusting the blood black over earlier wounds.
Gasping from the exertion, his own clothes spattered with spilled blood, Sullivan seemed near the point of collapse. His men watched him expectantly, resigned to being victims of whatever remnants of vocal rage remained in the fat man. Even Garcia, whose wounds had been dressed and who got painfully to his feet with the aid of the Negro.
‘So we gotta find her without this bastard’s help!’ Sullivan rasped, and sheathed the bloodstained knife. ‘Get my buggy out here and mount up!’
Tacit relief was expressed by the men as they saw the fat man expose himself and exhaust the last reserve of fury in a yellow stream directed at the brutalized corpse. Then, as the men moved to do his bidding, Sullivan swung around to smile up at Edge. He did not refasten his fly until he was facing the half-breed, and his words turned to delay into a threat.
‘Always finish up peein’ on people who break Sullivan’s law, mister.’ He bared his tiny teeth in a grin of pride. ‘What’s called symbolic. My own idea.’
Edge showed a wry grin. ‘Real flash of inspiration, feller.’
Then his narrow-eyed gaze shifted from the fat man. And raked the fort as the men disappeared, and then came back into view, leading horses. Bassett brought the tandem gig into the compound. The springs of the vehicle creaked as Sullivan hauled his enormous weigh
t aboard.
There was a delay while Garcia, his bare torso draped with a jacket, was helped into his saddle. Sullivan, relaxed in the shade of the buggy’s canopy, scratched himself contentedly. Edge watched carefully from behind his shell of nonchalance. The cocked Winchester was still slanted across his chest. But everyone knew the rifle could blast a shot into the fat man at the least hint of an overt threat.
‘Only one thin’ makes me madder than not gettin’ what I want, Edge,’ Sullivan called conversationally. ‘And that’s when somebody insults my size. On account of I can’t help it. Ain’t ’cause I eat a lot. Just that I got this gland problem, see.’
‘Hard to miss,’ the half-breed answered.
The fat man’s mouth line tightened at the double-barreled barb of a mild insult and an implied threat. But then Garcia was seated in his saddle. And Sonny Boy swung up to the mount and caught hold of the reins of the Mexican’s horse.
‘No contest, mister!’ the fat man snarled as he snatched the buggy reins from around the brake lever. ‘For now! I want somethin’ else even more than I wanna see you cut down to friggin’ size. But we’ll meet up again, mister. And you’ll get yours!’
‘Bravo, Senor Sullivan!’ Garcia exclaimed, turning in his saddle and wincing as the movement erupted pain in his shattered elbows. ‘My suffering will be halved in the knowledge he will pay for what he did to me.’
The fat man re-emphasized another of his dislikes - that of being interrupted when he was holding forth. He scowled out from the shade of the canopy as he scratched vigorously at his stubbled jaw. ‘So it oughta be twice as easy to do your sufferin’ in friggin’ silence, uh?’
‘No sweat for a feller that carries a couple of single-action Starrs,’ the half-breed called as Sullivan took up his crop.
‘What is the meaning of what you say, senor?’ Garcia demanded with a grimace.
The other mounted men eyed the half-breed quizzically.
‘Worst six-shooter ever made. Means you’re used to bearing bad arms.’
Chapter Five
EDGE remained on the wall, watching the men until they had been swallowed up by the heat shimmer from which they had appeared. They were backtracking on their approach to the ruined fort - along the northeast trail that cut through the mountains towards Silver City. The Apaches had come in from that direction.
At first, Sullivan ordered a gallop, his men having to eat the dust spewed up from the wheel rims of his buggy. But then reason prevailed over the anger of frustration. The day was exhaustingly hot and, somewhere in the mountains, an Apache war party awaited the return of the arms foragers. Sullivan slowed the pace to conserve the strength of both men and animals. Then sent two scouts ahead and positioned other men at point, flank and drag to give himself further protection against ambush.
The half-breed did not start down the stairway until the buzzards on the distant ridge were the only living things in sight. Crossing the compound, where the stench of death in the air was like a sticky, physical presence, his lean features were set in their usual expression of inscrutable impassiveness. But, behind the hooded, ice blue eyes, his mind was filled with a thousand fleeting memories.
‘Never do start trouble.’ he had told the fat man. ‘Just finish it if I have to.’ Whatever else he had become, he had never lost his respect for truth, and honesty was perhaps the sole virtue he had retained throughout his life. The others - and there had been many inherited from, and instilled in him, by his parents - had been torn out of him or voluntarily abandoned in the harshly dehumanizing process of finishing the trouble that destiny thrust upon him.
And, encapsulated in the cruel events of this single morning were countless parallels to trigger off those thousand memories. Which supported the truth he had spoken and explained - if it did not excuse - the kind of man he had become.
But he did not dwell on the happenings of the past as he ambled across the compound and went through the rubble to where his horse was tethered in concealment.
In the war he had seen far more dead soldiers than were at Fort Waycross, and like Juan Garcia, he had been required to take orders from above and see they were carried out by men who respected him only for his skill as a killer. Those men - especially the six who had survived with him to Appomattox - were tougher, deadlier and far more vicious than the fat Sullivan or any of his bunch.
War had turned more than just a single Iowa farm boy into a killing machine. When peace came, most of the survivors returned to their homes and reverted to older and wiser versions of what they had been. But destiny had a different plan for ex-Captain Josiah C. Hedges.
Like the freed Apache waiting somewhere out in the mountains, the man who was now called Edge had had a brother. And Jamie had died. As badly and as lacking in dignity as the Indian slumped and unmoving on the gallows. In tracking down Jamie’s murderers, to take the ultimate revenge against them, Josiah C. Hedges became Edge. And became himself a murderer without a cause or a uniform to justify his acts to the law. Possessing only hatred - and his war-taught skills to do what he considered he had to do.
And, while farm and city boys were making peaceful lives for themselves as men, Edge was committed by cruel fate to a life of near-constant violence. Which, like the war and the death of Jamie, was not of his making. For, after his thirst for vengeance was slaked, there could be no turning back. Once, after many years of drifting across the country with survival as his only aim, he had attempted to put down roots. Not in the Iowa farm belt with a brother. Instead, in the Dakotas with a wife. And fate had punished him - more cruelly than ever before.
Beth had died and her death, in its own way, had been more horrific than that of any suffered by the women now rotting under the blazing sun in the compound of Fort Waycross. And, by a vicious twist of the evil fate that ruled his life, Edge was made to feel the responsibility for her end.
So, after he discovered the body of his wife, Edge had once again surrendered to the dictates of a compelling control outside his own being. He left the Dakotas to continue drifting: his aim once more simply to survive. And violence dogged his tracks or waited with evil menace on the trail he rode.
Now he was ready to try again. Survival was not enough. Although he did not dwell on the memories which flipped involuntarily into his mind, he could not ignore them. They were as much a part of him as his hands and feet.
The gelding was nervous, still smelling the scent of death, and suffering the after-effects of the one-sided battle with the Apaches. But he calmed as the rider mounted. Then he had to be held on a tight rein as he was headed towards the promise of unsullied air beyond the open gateway in the fort’s northern wall.
Survival in isolation was meaningless, except that it meant victory over the palpable enemy of the moment - and a score against the relentless fate that put Edge and his enemies on a collision course. But what was achieved by a man who had won too many such victories to enjoy triumph for its own sake? Nothing, save freedom to drift along another aimless trail, where Sullivan - in one guise or another - would follow or be waiting.
Beyond the gateway, Edge reined his mount to a stop and eyed the signpost with its four pointing arms. Then he turned the gelding on to the trail which led ultimately to Huachuca. Not that he wanted to go to the Mexican town named on the signpost. It just happened to lie in the opposite direction from where trouble was waiting. And, just maybe, somewhere along the way, there might be a place where ten thousand dollars would insulate him against every other brand of trouble that was brewing.
Afternoon had given way to evening and the heat of the day was cooling when he found an ideal place for night camp. An outcrop of sandstone with an overhang provided shelter. There was a water hole, grass for the gelding to forage on and a cottonwood grove for fire kindling. But, as the sun sank into crimson hiding beyond the western horizon and the darkness of night advanced across the empty land, another presence insinuated itself into the proposed camp.
The half-breed had halte
d his horse at the side of the water hole, and the animal was drinking as he climbed wearily to the ground and prepared to unfasten the saddle. Abruptly, the horse jerked up his head. Not reacting to a threat of danger. Instead, sensing a sudden change that had come over the man.
‘Easy,’ Edge said softly, the gentleness of tone in the single word at odds with the depthless rage glinting in his eyes.
His actions unhurried, he raised his hands from the cinch buckle to the saddlebag. There was nothing about the appearance of the bag to arouse his suspicion. It was just that the ethereal presence, creeping up on him under the unnecessary cover of darkness, had triggered a disconcerting thought into his mind.
He unfastened the saddlebag and delved a hand inside to bring out the wax paper package of meager food. He had to go too deep, so there was no need to look inside to know that the second package - wrapped in doeskin - was missing.
But the fury remained inside him, and was short-lived. No more than ten seconds had passed since the gelding stopped drinking, when Edge vented a long, low sigh. A bitter smile curled back his thin lips as he glanced around, at the shadowed country and the star-pricked sky.
‘Okay,’ he allowed softly. ‘I never did have anything in the bag.’
His quiet voice settled the gelding and the animal began to suck up water again, as Edge returned to unfastening the cinch. As he unsaddled the horse, ground-hobbled him and built a cooking fire, the tall half-breed spoke no more. Neither to the animal nor to his ruling fate. One a dumb beast and the other a conjured up figment of his own bitterness.
He should have checked the saddlebag earlier. It should have been his first consideration after the revenge-bent fat man had moved his bunch out of the fort. And it would have been, had not his mind been filled with unwelcome memories and his judgment clouded by vain hopes.
The short-lived rage did not die. It simply shrank into a tight ball at the pit of his stomach and remained dormant. As the gelding cropped at the grass after drinking his fill, Edge cooked and ate supper. Then bedded down, the fire and blanket combating the biting cold of night.
EDGE: Sullivan's Law (Edge series Book 20) Page 6
