Edge: Arapaho Revenge

by George G. Gilman

  Neighbors were inclined to say that the kid had the worst of it. Having to work the place all on his own at such a tender age and with a game leg—shattered by a bullet fired accident­ally by his elder brother several years earlier. And, maybe if he had been pressed on the point, Joe Hedges would have allowed those neighbors could well be right. For there could have been few occasions during the years of war when Jamie enjoyed himself, toiling for long and lonely day after day to beat nature and his infirmity just to keep the place going until his brother returned—or the Department of War letter arrived to say it had all been for nothing. While on the blood-soaked, explosion-shattered, black powder smoke-cloaked battlegrounds of the east, Joe came to relish evading the death that would have caused such a letter to be mailed to Iowa—and to revel in the count­less acts of killing before he was killed.

  The first half of the eighteen sixties was a time of terror and anguish, pain and despair, hatred and tears—for almost every man, woman and child touched directly or at a dis­tance by the bloody Civil War. And, in truth, Lieutenant and later Captain Josiah C. Hedges experienced his share of the darker human feel­ings at the very outset. Before the first founda­tion stone of the man he was to become was laid and quickly built upon.

  Then the war was ended and like hundreds of thousands of other youngsters become men in the worst of all worlds, Joe Hedges was in­structed to abandon the values he had been set and to pick up where he left off before he answered his country's call to arms. And, he had always maintained, he was prepared to do this when he turned his back on the uneasily peaceful east and rode toward the Midwest—where the elements and an occasional band of renegade Indians should have been the only enemies. But he arrived home to find Jamie dead and the farmstead a burned-out ruin. And vengeance had to be exacted before life without resort to the gun could be recommenced.

  And vengeance was exacted, Joe Hedges using all his war-taught skills to achieve this. But in killing Jamie's killers, he stepped across a line that had not existed in time of war. And became a wanted murderer with a price on his head. And also, by the mispronunciation of his name, he came to be the man named Edge.

  He was no longer a wanted murderer. He was no more certain that, even had Jamie been alive and the farmstead was a halcyon haven, he could have stayed on the place and worked it. Married and raised some kids, maybe.

  He did get married. And tried to revert to being Josiah C. Hedges. In the Dakotas rather than in Iowa. But on a place of similar size and potential. Had known, he could lately acknow­ledge, that the life he had sought to make for himself and for Beth was as doomed as that it had been in his mind to live when he rode back home from the war.

  He used to blame fate for all the hardships and deprivations he was forced to endure. Then himself for creating the situations in which he 1 grasped what he wanted only to have it snatched away from him.

  Until he came to realize that if life was the total of what he wanted, he could never again be made to suffer the anguish of losing what was near and dear. Unless there was life after death, which was an area he had no wish to theorize upon.

  "White eyes?" the Arapaho girl called in a weary tone when they were halfway to the top of the valley's southern slope, moving at a measured pace over the sign left by the four-wheeled rig and four-horse team.

  "Yeah?"

  "You do not look the kind of man who does good deeds out of the kindness of a heart he does not have."

  "I told you I wasn't noted for that, Nalin."

  "I think you do not do anything for nothing."

  "I do what I do."

  "That says nothing."

  "You're the one wants to talk."

  "For many hours I lay where I had fallen at our camp, white eyes. At first pretending I was dead while the murderers stole from the lodges and the bodies and then made the fires of the lodges. Hardly daring to breathe for fear they would see the movement and kill me. You know this?"

  "Only way for you to survive, Nalin."

  "That is why you say I lie when I claim I wish to die among my people?"

  "No."

  She had begun to sound confident. Now a timbre of irritation was in her tone again when she snapped:

  "That you are old and ugly I will not argue, white eyes! But that does not give you right to tell me what to think."

  "You're seventeen, Nalin. Or maybe eigh­teen?"

  "In my eighteenth summer, but that does not make any difference."

  "Girl of seventeen should only have to decide how to wear her hair or what color dress to put on. Worry how far to let her beau go. Stuff like that."

  "White eyes girls in safe white eyes towns, Perhaps!" the Arapaho squaw snarled. "But I am Indian! More foolish than any of your white eyes girls perhaps. Who by her foolishness is to be blamed for the slaughter of so many of her people!

  “Everybody's done things they wished they hadn’t. But there’s no way to turn back the clock. And if there were, somebody else would probably have done the same wrong thing."

  "Then I would be among the dead!" she countered in a triumphant tone. "As I wish to be now."

  "And maybe I'd have a quieter passenger to haul, girl. And a more grateful one."

  "Grateful, you white eyes bastard son of a bitch pig?" she hurled up at his broad back. "What do you mean? I did not ask to be here! I tell you all the time I wish to be left with my people! It is for yourself that you have brought me with you! Although you say it is not! If I was dead at the encampment and an ugly old squaw or an elder of the band was alive, I do not think you would be going to this trouble!"

  They had reached the southern ridge and Edge reined in the gelding on the rocky and almost barren high point. Turned from the waist to rake his narrow-eyed gaze in every direction, seeking a sign other than that of the wagon and the Arapaho encampment that there was human presence beyond himself and the girl in this piece of country. And in the clear, sunlit, air of late afternoon saw nothing of the band of Arapaho braves nor the treacherous white traders who had wrought such carnage at their camp.

  To the east, the unwatered stretch of valley petered out on to a high plain of sand ridges, rock outcrops and sagebrush thickets. While the western length of valley, with the spring fed creek become a river, swung to the south and then the east in a gigantic half circle. And although it was not possible to see the glint of sun sparkling water because of the intervening country, it seemed likely that the trail and the river came close to each other again in the far distance. The nature of this country spread to the south was predominantly rocky. Not rug­ged, though—the rises and outcrops and small mesas smoothly surfaced, and curved rather than angled. Close to the ridge that was his vantage point, the terrain was almost totally lacking in vegetation. But gradually, as the half-breed's gaze raked closer toward the far off return curve of the river valley, he saw the land become increasingly verdant and timber clad.

  "This isn't Arapaho country, Nalin," he said when he was certain they were alone for as far as any human eye could see.

  She was momentarily confused by his sud­den change of subject and answered without pause for thought: "Yellow Shirt and his band have been dispossessed by the white eyes and—"

  "You were all just passing through," Edge put in.

  "In search of a place to live in peace," she answered, on the defensive. "You come across Calendar?"

  “Calendar?"

  "It's a town. The next one along this trail a trapper told me awhile ago."

  "We do not go to the white eyes towns. We know we will not be welcome there."

  "Crazy old trapper likewise. He'd just heard of the place and couldn't say how far away it was."

  He started the gelding moving again, at the same slow pace as before. And the girl, who had begun to appreciate the relief of the short stop­over, took perhaps a whole minute to get used to the discomfort of being on the move again. Before she asked dejectedly:

  "Why you take me to this place, white eyes?"

  "Becau
se you're with me and I need to visit town, Nalin. Buy some fresh supplies."

  She was silent again, for less time and for a different reason. Blurted out the accusation at the end of pause for thought:

  "To buy what you need with money from sell­ing me? There is a house of pleasure in this town of Calendar and you will sell me to the people there! I will be forced to—"

  "Nalin," Edge cut in evenly on the girl as her voice began to rise in pitch and volume toward the point of hysteria.

  "—be used by white eyes men for money that will be paid to—"

  "Nalin!" the half-breed snarled, as he reined in the gelding and swung fast in the saddle, the sudden stop and his abrupt change in tone startling her into frightened silence. He nodded shortly as he fixed his gaze on that from the much bigger and darker eyes—each seeing the other upside-down because of their relative positions. "You're young, you're beautiful and when that gunshot wound heals you could be the best thing that ever happened in any cat house. Especially since you appear to have the kind of mind that's so concerned with screw­ing."

  "I do not—" she started to protest.

  "Just shut up for awhile and listen, uh? If you weren't hurt and I went with whores and you were up for screwing at a bordello, I'd maybe pick you. Same as if you weren't hurt and you made yourself available to me because you liked my looks, I wouldn't kick you out of my bedroll, Nalin. But none of that is here nor there. You had a bad time this morning. Saw a lot of your people slaughtered and blame your­self for what happened to them. Had to play dead for God knows how long to keep from get­ting finished off yourself. Then couldn't move for a whole lot longer, out of fear of pain until I—"

  "Neither fear nor pain, white eyes!" she chal­lenged. "I was ashamed and filled with re­morse. I remained where I had fallen among my dead and rotting people, entreating the Great Spirits to end my life, too. I must be punished for what I did."

  "Okay, Nalin," Edge allowed, facing front mid starting the gelding forward again. "Not only are you a beautiful and screwable young lady, you're real brave and you can take pain without cracking."

  "White eyes bastard son of a bitch pig," she rasped softly.

  "And you have a guilty conscience," he went on, unperturbed by the latest interruption.

  "You have no conscience, I think!"

  "Maybe, maybe not. But I've got certain rules I live by, Nalin. Not too many, but enough so I can sleep easy when there's no other reason to stay awake. And I figure I'd wind up real weary if I sold a woman to a cat house."

  She did not reply for a very long time now. Over a period during which the sun dipped low enough down the south western dome of the sky for the air to get noticeably cooler. While the only sounds were the clop of the gelding's hooves, the creak of the saddle leather and the slithering of the travois poles over the dusty ground.

  Then she said, in a strangely subdued tone: "I am not new to the ways of the white eyes."

  "You didn't learn to speak our language out of an old primer," Edge acknowledged as he worked his sheepskin coat free of the bedroll. "It's getting cold. You want some more blan­kets around you?"

  "No. Thank you. I was orphaned by a sick­ness when I was very young. And was taken and raised by an Indian agent and his wife. Mr. Hart did not remain Indian agent. Went to Kansas City and bought dry goods store. I went to school in Kansas City and lived almost like a white eyes. Until I can no longer endure being almost like a white eyes. And run away.

  Three summers ago. With sorrow for Mr. and Mrs. Hart who had helped me so much. But I think they, too, were suffering much that I was just almost like a white eyes."

  Edge had on the topcoat now, the collar turn­ed up to brush the underside of his hat brim and the buttons fastened to the waist. The sun was changing hue from yellow toward crimson and he made full use of the light as it faded to survey their distant surroundings. But the only living things to be seen were birds. None of them buzzards.

  "You sure you don't need extra warmth, Nalin?"

  "No. Mr. Hart, he was something like you, Mr. Edge." It was the first time she had spoken his name, but she used it without any inhibition. "And many other white eyes men, I know. He would not have allowed me to make up my own mind and do what I decided, either. Because I am young." Her voice had begun to take on an embittered tone and now she paused to compose herself, as if afraid she would lose his attention if she did not retain her self-con­trol. "I am sorry. I was wrong to accuse that you are helping me only because I am a female who is pleasing for a man to look upon. But I do not think I was wrong to say that if it was an old squaw left alive, you would not encum­ber yourself with her. And delay your arrival in this town of Calendar to which you go? If she asked you to leave her there to die? An old squaw or an elder of the band? Even a young brave, perhaps?"

  "Maybe, maybe not," Edge said again.

  She made a sound of disgust deep in her throat, like she was gathering saliva into her mouth to spit. But she did not spit and nor did she have anything more to say as evening came with its gloom to replace the light of day in the wake of the setting sun. And just the sounds of the horse, the saddle and the travois disturbed the massive silence. A stillness, beyond the slow moving group to which the half-breed list­ened as intently as he had watched his sur­roundings before darkness dropped over them.

  But he heard nothing that caused him to move a hand away from the reins toward re­volver or rifle. And it was his eyes which picked up the first sign that Nalin and he were no longer alone within the confines of their hori­zons—limits on all sides reduced by the coming of night. And then, to the south, extended by a pinprick of light. A light that glinted, coming and going so that it resembled the effect of a star in the distant haze. But too low to be this, beneath the black on black of the uneven sky­line.

  The Arapaho girl sensed the sudden rise and fall of tension in Edge and asked, a little fear­fully: "Something is wrong?"

  "Light ahead. Long way off."

  "Fire?"

  "More like a lamp."

  "Not moving?"

  "That's right. From a window." Nalin gasped. "Or the cover of a wagon, per­haps?"

  "See how much fun staying alive can be, girl? When you maybe have the chance to hurt who­ever hurt you?"

  She gasped again, then retorted in bitter tones: "It is not for my sake I am here!"

  "You asked, I told you."

  "Not a wagon, you think?"

  "I'd bet on a lamp in back of a window, Nalin."

  She sighed. "You are a white eyes and so are they. I am Arapaho. You are a man and they are men. I am hurt and unarmed. It would not matter if those two murderers of my people were behind the light ahead."

  Edge made no reply as he rode the horse trailing the travois down a sloping length of the trail that put the glimmer of light out of his angle of vision. And he was content with the silence between them, while sensing that she was sullenly resentful. Some fifteen minutes later, after the lamplit window had come and gone from sight a number of times, and the man in the saddle had rolled and lit a cigarette, the girl riding uncomfortably behind said in a melancholic tone:

  "I am sorry, white eyes."

  "What did you do now?"

  "You are right."

  "I try to be."

  "Please let me finish! You are right concern­ing the eagerness I felt when I thought the murderers of my people might be close by. It is perhaps worth the humiliation of my position to know that I might have the chance to make them pay for what they did."

  "No charge, Nalin."

  "This I do not believe, white eyes."

  "You don't?"

  "It has already been said. A man like you, he does nothing for nothing."

  "That's fine."

  "What is?"

  "That since you've gotten over being so mad at me, you figure I did you some kind of favor."

  "Ah," she exclaimed, triumphant again. "And since you do nothing for nothing, you will expect to be repaid—in some way?"


  "Something else has already been said. No charge."

  "Not in money, of course, white eyes. And you have no use for my body. But there will be something you will need from me. And when the time comes for me to make the decision, I will not feel it necessary to explain to you why I do as I do."

  Her silence was expectant now, and when he failed to fill it with the explanation she had invited, she vented a sound of exasperation and demanded: "You heard what I say, white eyes?"

  "Sure."

  "And have nothing to say?"

  "If I had something worth saying, I guess there's nobody better suited to it, Nalin," he drawled past the cigarette bobbing at the side of his mouth.

  "I do not know what you mean," she answer­ed, intrigued.

  "Getting a word in Edgewise."

  Chapter Four

  THE LIGHT which appeared and went from sight very many times during the next two hours was at a window in a building on the north bank of the river that had its source in the valley where the slaughter of the Arapaho had taken place.

  The valley existed as no more than a broad indentation in the landscape at the point where the trail reached the half mile wide, slow rolling river—was really an expansive plain between the low and increasingly gentle area of hill country through which the half-breed and the girl had come and a range of jagged ridged mountains perhaps as much as a hundred miles to the south, the flatland not commencing until the far side of the river.

  Nalin said nothing during the slow trek through the hills until Edge reined in the horse and swung down from the saddle. After which, the soft sounds made by the gently flowing river could be heard. And the girl asked, in a tense and nervous whisper: "What is it?"

  "A house. At a ferry. You want to take a look?"

  "I would."

  Edge moved to the rear of the gelding and looked closely at the Arapaho girl for the first time since he had loaded her on the travois. She looked sicker and weaker and in more pain-perhaps because of the bluish tinge that the moonlight gave to her skin. But after he had got her out of the travois, asking for and receiv­ing no help from the girl, she was able to stand unaided. Gripping the blanket around her shoulders like a shawl as she peered toward the house, a hundred yards along the trail.