EDGE: Sullivan's Law (Edge series Book 20)

by George G. Gilman

  Then the group of thirteen men and one woman moved out of Vintonville, striking to the west at first, to by-pass the tunnel-riddled bluff that towered over the town.

  After the Apache attack, Kirk had confined his orders to the troopers. Sullivan and his men, and Edge, had remained in town by choice, reaching their decision by the same process of logical thought as the young officer. Now, as the group rounded the bluff and started to climb a slope, there was a tacit understanding of the chain of command - evidenced by its formation,

  Meg Richards - as dirty and disheveled as the men after her long trek back to town - was between Kirk and Kelly at the head of the ill-assorted column. Next in line were the four troopers, moving two-abreast. The already panting fat man and the loose-limbed Sonny Boy walked side-by-side. Evers, Bassett and the Mexican named Pedro were behind them. Edge and Garcia brought up the rear.

  But every member of the uneasy alliance knew the column was merely a convenient formation of travel. That, except by the troopers, the young captain was regarded as merely a figurehead. If danger threatened, an invisible spin of a non-existent coin would decide if he commanded a cohesive unit or just a part of a fragmented whole. His first order would spin the coin and if it came down heads for Sullivan, it might well be tails for Edge.

  ‘You were like me, senor?’ Garcia asked as the slope abruptly steepened. ‘A soldier?’

  The half-breed had to consciously slow his pace to match that of the column. For he was the only one who had rested naturally during the heat of the day. Sullivan and his men were cursing the discomfort of their hangovers. The soldiers and the whore suffered in silence as the tension and exertion of the day caught up with them. Garcia’s bone-deep weariness and pain showed in his drawn features and could be heard in his voice.

  ‘Yeah,’ Edge answered shortly, momentarily recalling yet again the grueling years of war when he had been in a virtually identical position to Kirk. But he felt no sympathy for the young captain. Just as he experienced no contempt for the Mexican as the wounded man tried again to ingratiate himself with a one-time enemy. For every part of the half-breed’s conscious thought was concerned with regaining possession of his money. Fate had dictated these men should be his companions for a while. In such a group, he was still a total loner. And, if he was to feel anything for any of them, it would hinge on how he could use them to achieve his aim.

  The moon was bright with the coming of full darkness, its light seemingly increased by the biting cold of the high-country air. Horizons were a vast distance away and the features of the barren terrain stood out sharply and cast deep shadows. There was an eerie, unreal quality to the landscape, against which nothing moved except the group of survivors from Vintonville, the men huddled inside top coats and the woman wrapped in two Apache blankets. But all knew that the weather-sculptured rocks and their shadows could hide an army - and that only an army of Apaches would feel the need to hide. So, fearful eyes and moon-gleaming rifle barrels constantly raked the apparently empty land.

  ‘You were an officer, senor?’ Garcia asked as they reached the top of the slope and started down the easy incline at the side of a broad valley.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I, too. But I could not lead such men as these - even were I not wounded.’

  With the going easier, Edge took out the makings and canted the Winchester to his shoulder as he rolled a cigarette. The column was inevitably exposed on such a moon bright night. The flare of the match and the smell of tobacco smoke placed them in no more danger.

  ‘Kirk’s doing fine,’ the half-breed said on a cloud of expelled smoke.

  ‘He did not do well to be ambushed by the Mescaleros of Black Cloud, senor.’

  Edge bared his teeth in a wry grin. ‘That wasn’t my trouble, feller.’

  Garcia swung his head from side to side, dark eyes peering across the patternless design of dark shadow and moon brightness. ‘It waits for us now, senor. And we look for it.’

  ‘All I’m looking for is a horse, feller.’

  ‘And if you do not find it, senor?’

  ‘Then I look for the man who took it.’

  ‘And kill him?’

  Edge flicked the cigarette ahead of him, and shortened his stride to step on the glowing ash. ‘My law, feller. You’ve seen how it works.’

  Garcia nodded and lapsed into a long silence. The conversation had been low-keyed, masked to other ears by the scrape of boot leather against rock and the cursing of Sullivan and his men. When they had crossed the valley floor and began to climb again, the hoarse-voiced obscenities stopped. The slope was not steep, but for those who had not prepared themselves for the trek, every upward step dug hard into diminished reserves of energy. Panting breath condensed to white vapor in the icy air.

  ‘Friggin’ hell!’ Sullivan gasped as he stumbled. Only the strong arms of the Negro kept him from falling. ‘It’s friggin’ cold enough to freeze off a man’s balls. But I’m sweatin’ like a friggin’ pig.’

  ‘You do everything like a pig,’ Garcia hissed between clenched teeth, loud enough for only Edge to hear.

  ‘We’ll rest at the top of the rise,’ Kirk called back, his voice sounding like that of a man in pain.

  ‘Pigs don’t make money until they’re dead and sliced for bacon,’ Edge muttered.

  ‘He made much for us, senor’ the Mexican answered softly. ‘I resign my commission when I saw how much he and his men made. For doing the same work as I.’ Stooped and filthy, Garcia was able to spit without the act seeming uncharacteristic. ‘Then he decides he must return for his woman!’

  ‘What Sullivan wants…’ Edge growled, now beginning to feel an initial attack of weariness himself.

  ‘Si, senor. And we came north with him. To get his woman and to go to San Francisco where our money will buy women for all of us. And many other fine things.’ He looked about him again, but his weary eyes, glazed by pain, saw nothing clearly. ‘This is a very long way from San Francisco. And many of us have not reached this far.’

  ‘You worry too much about other fellers,’ Edge growled.

  Garcia gritted his teeth against the pain. ‘A man must learn such lessons the hard way, senor. Especially this is so when a man starts with good intentions.’

  The column had become broken and spread out. The steep ground was rugged close to the ridge and individuals and groups chose the route that appeared easiest to reach the top.

  ‘Frig it, I’m takin’ a rest here!’ Sullivan rasped, and sagged against a rock.

  The bearded sergeant looked on the point of snarling an order at the fat man. But Kirk, with a sigh of relief that somebody else had taken the initiative, sank gratefully to the frost-sparkled ground. There were other sighs, and some groans and gasps, as the rest sank to their haunches or leaned against rocks.

  ‘I thought there was good in Senor Sullivan,’ Garcia hissed, staring out across the valley they had crossed. ‘In my country, he worked for money. But he killed only bandits who preyed on the peons. Then we come to his country and he preys on the peons - the poor settlers.’

  The Mexican rested against a rock. Edge squatted close to him, narrowed eyes raking the country in every direction as he rolled a cigarette. He showed no sign that he was listening to Garcia, while the Mexican seemed not to care.

  ‘He takes what he wants without payment. Sometimes, he does not even ask. Most allow this, fearful of our strength.

  But the family named Liddell. We needed feed for our horses. They have not enough for themselves...’ His dark eyes, deep-sunk by suffering, found those of Edge. ‘They died hard for breaking Sullivan’s law. And because I followed Sullivan, I am equally responsible. For what happened to the women. For the murders. For placing the blame on the Apaches. It is from this your trouble started, senor. If any should die, it is Sullivan and those who follow him.’

  ‘You hurt that bad, uh?’ Edge asked.

  Garcia looked down at himself, his injured arms hidden by the drape of the top coat
around his shoulders. ‘Death is already with me, senor. I feel the fire in my wounds. And I smell the poison that spreads from them. You have already killed me. I pray for salvation, but this is not enough. If I were able, I would kill the man who led me towards damnation. I cannot do this, so I ask you to—’

  The half-breed leaned forward and pointed the Winchester close to the Mexican. The man flinched, then became rigid - his haggard face expressing acceptance of death. But Edge merely used the rifle muzzle to raise one side of the draped top coat. The stench of gangrene wafted out, was strong for a moment, then became neutralized by the biting cold.

  ‘You sure smell pretty bad, feller,’ he said, allowing the coat to fall back into place. ‘But keep on praying and maybe you’ll still get to heaven.’

  Garcia accepted the refusal as stoically as he had been prepared to take death. ‘And Sullivan?’

  ‘I might need him, feller.’

  ‘And when you do not?’

  Edge glanced up the slope, to where the fat man had found fresh energy to resume scratching himself, at crotch and neck. ‘He figures he might need me, feller. When that isn’t so anymore, I figure he’ll get the itch to kill me again.’

  Garcia’s lips curled back to show a grin. ‘I will pray to be spared so that I may see this, senor. So that I may spit upon his gross corpse.’

  Edge stood up, taking his cue from Kirk. ‘You fellers got a thing about wetting the dead,’ he growled.

  The cold was harder to take when a man stood still, and there were no complaints because the rest period had ended.

  The group became close-knit again to resume the grueling climb. Then, as Kirk, Kelly and the whore crested the rise, there came an abrupt halt. The three of them sank down to the crouch.

  ‘Indian camp!’ Kelly rasped over his shoulder.

  The men behind them scrambled forward, ducking down to avoid being seen against the skyline.

  ‘Dry Wash Rancheria,’ Kirk muttered.

  His words, and the exclamations that followed, were faint ripples against the massive silence. But the voices were subdued by instinct rather than necessity. The wickiup encampment was at least half a mile away, at the centre of a high plain. There were about a hundred mud and timber wickiups, arranged in an outward spiral from a circular open area at the centre. The embers of a large fire glowed in the open area. Wisps of black smoke rose from the red ashes. A few ponies moved lethargically in a roped corral on the eastern side of the rancheria. Everything else was as still as the barren country spread around the encampment.

  ‘You talk like a guy who knows what he’s friggin’ sayin’, soldier boy,’ Sullivan rasped, gripping his Winchester tightly in one hand as he stroked his moustache with the other.

  ‘I was briefed on the area before I came, mister!’ Kirk hissed. ‘I knew it was somewhere north of Vintonville.’

  ‘Could have told you exactly,’ Meg Richards supplied.

  ‘So why the hell didn’t you?’ Kelly snarled. ‘Cause you didn’t damn well ask me!’ the whore hurled back.

  Sullivan spat. ‘Big fire. Reckon the bastards had a friggin’ war dance. What you figure, Edge? Hey, where the hell you friggin’ goin’?’

  The half-breed was bellying forward, taking care not to silhouette himself against the night sky. When he was on the other side of the ridge, he raised himself on to his haunches.

  ‘Get me one of those ponies, feller,’ he answered.

  ‘We’re all sick of walking, mister!’ Kirk snapped. ‘One man’s need is no greater than the others.’

  Sullivan’s flesh-squeezed green eyes peered intently down at the rancheria, then moved towards Edge without changing their expression. ‘What d’you friggin’ know about this place?’ he rasped.

  The half-breed glanced towards the encampment and pursed his lips. ‘Hot heads had their shindig. Long gone now.’

  ‘You mean it’s as deserted as it looks?’ Kirk asked.

  ‘No, sir,’ Kelly growled, with a glare at Edge. There’ll be old men down there. And squaws and youngsters. All of them that can’t fight.’

  The half-breed nodded his agreement when Kirk looked at him.

  ‘The hostiles must have posted sentries to protect their families?’

  ‘We wouldn’t have got this close if they had, sir,’ the bearded non-com responded.

  ‘And we can just walk in and take the animals?’ The captain’s mood was changing from disbelief to low-keyed delight.

  ‘Savages are savages, sir. Can’t never tell what they’ll do till they do it. Old, young, brave or squaw.’

  Anxiety clawed the deep line back into Kirk’s stubbled face again. His eyes, the same stagnant-water color as the fat man’s sought Edge’s face.

  The half-breed gave another curt nod of agreement. ‘Only one thing’s sure captain.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Won’t do any friggin’ thing if we sit up here yakkin’ while our asses freeze off!’ Sullivan rasped, scratching the back of his hand.

  Edge expressed agreement this time by moving further down the slope on his haunches, then rising to his full height. His actions, although not designed with such an end in view, gave him automatic command on the approach to the Dry Wash Rancheria. The rest of the group snaked over the ridge and hurried to catch up with him. Despite Garcia’s disability, the wounded Mexican was first to get close to the half-breed.

  The slope was long and shallow. Cover was sparse and Edge made no use of it. The flat land to the south of the rancheria was also dangerously open. But, although he remained at his full height and apparently ignored the infrequent rocks and hollows, Edge was aware of the cover. His course - diagonal to the south-east rim of the camp - was a meandering one, designed to place a pocket of cover within easy reach should the silent rancheria suddenly erupt.

  Fear was a cold ball in the pit of his stomach. He sensed the tension emanating from those moving close to him, their fast breathing a counterpoint to the crunch of frost crystals under boot leather. He also sensed the same brand of fear in the invisible eyes that peered out from among the wickiups.

  ‘I don’t like this, Mr. Sullivan,’ the broken-nosed Bassett growled.

  ‘So frig off and do it your friggin’ way,’ the fat man snapped.

  ‘Quiet, you lunkheads!’ Kelly rasped.

  ‘Jesus!’ one of the young troopers exclaimed, high-pitched.

  Edge halted abruptly, swinging his rifle. The other armed men did likewise. Garcia stepped behind the half-breed. The whore darted for the protection of Kelly’s bulky frame.

  An aged and stooped Mescalero had shuffled from the entrance of a wickiup. Every rifle was aimed at him. Then the barrels raked this way and that as more Apaches showed themselves beside and in front of other wickiups. Fifty or more. A dozen ancient warriors and the rest squaws. A small boy tried to come outside, but was thrust back by his mother.

  ‘Hold your fire!’ Kirk croaked. He cleared his throat. ‘What’s happening, Edge?’

  ‘Your sergeant gave you the score on Apaches, captain,’ the half-breed answered, and canted the Winchester to his shoulder. His hooded eyes continued to rake the rancheria. He knew there were many more Apaches than had shown themselves. But, maybe, they were all children, squaws and old men.

  ‘I am Chief Rainbird and want only peace.’

  The words were spoken by the old man who had been first to show himself. His voice was strong from such a frail frame. His English was guttural with a heavy accent.

  ‘We need horses,’ Kirk replied.

  ‘Take them,’ the old Mescalero invited. ‘There are no warriors here to prevent this.’

  ‘On account they’re all off killin’ and robbin’!’ Evers snarled.

  ‘Quiet, civilian!’ Kelly demanded.

  Chief Rainbird lifted his shoulders, then sank them with the weight of a deep sigh. ‘For the young braves, the time of peace is gone. The elders can only give counsel. They have not the strength to exert their will when the cou
nsel is ignored. Take what you want, White Eyes. But take it in peace.’

  ‘Obliged,’ Edge said, and swung to continue on his way towards the rope coral.

  Like a second shadow cast by the bright moon, Garcia went with him.

  ‘We trustin’ ’em, Mr. Sullivan?’ Sonny Boy growled.

  ‘Keep the old bastard covered!’ the fat man rasped, swinging to encompass all his men with the order. ‘One wrong move from any of ’em, and you know what to do.’

  The whore spurted in the wake of Edge and Garcia. The troopers looked anxiously at Kirk and Kelly. Kirk shot a questioning glance at his sergeant.

  ‘The tall guy knows ’em maybe better than me, sir,’ Kelly rasped. ‘But keep watchin’ ’em.’

  Sonny Boy, Evers, Bassett and Pedro remained in a line, rifles aimed at the stooped form of Chief Rainbird. Edge was first into the corral, and selected the best of a bad bunch of ponies. The war party had taken the strongest mounts. All the animals wore rope bridles and reins. There were no saddles. The whore took the pony closest to her.

  ‘I need help to mount,’ Garcia pleaded, in the tone of one who expected to be ignored.

  ‘You ain’t no friggin’ use to me no more, dude!’ Sullivan snapped, gathering five ponies by the reins. He led them past the soldiers, who were backing into the corral, rifles leveled across the wickiups.

  ‘Hell,’ Meg Richards hissed, steering her animal towards where Garcia stood helplessly beside a small dappled grey. ‘You were the only one of the bunch didn’t rape me.’

  As the soldiers claimed ponies the whore slid to the ground and stooped, clasping her hands together with interlocked fingers. Gritting his teeth against the pain, Garcia struggled to get astride the pony.

  ‘Thank you, senorita,’ he sighed gratefully.

  ‘Don’t mention it, mister,’ she growled, and re-seated herself on her own pony as the soldiers mounted up.