She spooned the meat into her mouth and chewed on it with obvious enjoyment—but whether she was relishing the taste of the food or the feeling that she had scored another point against the man, it was impossible to tell.
"Not that, girl," he said, a little brusquely. "When I know there's a bunch of Indians in the country I'm crossing, I also like to know whether or not they're hostile."
She considered this for a few moments, until she had swallowed the first mouthful of food. Then she nodded and allowed, still pensive: "Yes, I can understand that." She continued eating, but abruptly had a thought that spread a frown across her face and injected a hardness into her tone. And she accused: "You bastard son of a bitch white eyes pig! You are not doing any of this to help me! It is all for yourself! You have brought me with you so that you may bargain for your life should my people threaten it! Is that not so, white eyes?"
"I don't recall I ever claimed that I was—"
"That is just it!" the Arapaho girl cut in, so angry she forgot about her wound and the plate of food. Grimaced as she swung too fast to face him but then ignored the stab of pain in the same way as she paid no attention to the fact that the food had slid off the tilting plate.
"You say hardly anything at all! You let me think what I do and make a fool of myself out of gratitude! And all the time I have nothing to be grateful to you for! Because you do what you do for selfish reasons!"
The silence that followed her diatribe was on this occasion obviously bothersome to the girl while the man appeared totally at his ease as he took the makings from his pocket and began to slowly roll a cigarette.
"You have nothing to say?" she demanded finally.
"I'm not looking for an argument," he replied evenly. "Because you know what I say is true?"
"Only lie I ever accused you of was the one when you said you wanted to die, Nalin."
He rolled the tobacco in the paper, licked the paper, smoothed the join and hung the cigarette at the side of his mouth. This time he used a length of wood, alight at one end, to fire the cigarette. While the Arapaho girl stared fiercely at him, her mind racing to find some form of words that would stir him out of his apparent indifference to her opinion of him. But she failed, and could manage only to taunt:
"Damn you for being always right!"
"Nobody's that perfect."
"True, white eyes," she retorted and a glint of triumph entered her dark eyes. "If you knew you were that, you would have trusted yourself to attend to my wound—certain that to see and caress such an intimate part of my body would not inflame your lust!"
Edge said: "You want more to eat?"
"Yes, yes I do," she answered quickly, enjoying her victory. And took care to favor her injured side as she moved to replace from the cooking pot the food that had slid off her plate. Then continued to be tacitly content while she finished the meal and the half-breed drank more coffee—afterwards as he cleaned the dirty dishes and she stretched out in the single blanket but close enough to the fire to be kept warm by it. But he sensed a change in her attitude while he stoked the fire with fresh fuel so that it would burn for several hours. Felt that her dark eyes, expressing something close to pathos, followed his every move until he bedded down on the other side of the steadily burning fire. When, through the flickering flames and shimmering smoke, she called softly: "Edge?"
"Yeah?"
"I have benefited from your selfishness. So if we should meet with Yellow Shirt and you are in danger, I will do what I can to help you."
"It's a shame you're an Indian, Nalin," the half-breed replied.
"Why is that? You would treat me differently if I were of your race?"
"I'd be able to say that's real white of you, girl."
Chapter Six
WHETHER HE bedded down in open country on the ground or at a city hotel in a bed, Edge always slept with either his rifle or revolver close at hand. And at times when he felt particularly threatened he shared his bedding with a gun. Tonight in the ravine with the trees on one side and the bluff on the other, he slept with his right hand fisted around the Winchester that he kept pressed against his side. The rifle entirely hidden and his frame draped from chest to ankles by the sheepskin coat spread sideways over him—this after he had covered the Arapaho girl with a second blanket when she was deeply asleep and did not stir nor murmur at his approach and while he ensured she would be warm throughout the night.
Nalin, mentally and physically weary from the anguish and pain-filled day, took just a few minutes to sink into such a sound sleep. And, back under the sheepskin with his head resting on his saddle, the half-breed was just as effortlessly quick to get to sleep. But he was far from being exhausted in mind or body and the level of unconsciousness into which he drifted was much shallower.
It was natural for him to sleep this way at times such as this. In a kind of doze, just short of being awake, that was refreshing and restorative while some animal-like sense of self-preservation remained alert. Ready to warn him of danger nearby, so that he could come awake from such a light sleep with total recall of his situation and instant readiness to respond to whatever had changed. Like so many other aspects of this man's character and ability, this way in which he slept had been developed during the long ago war. When it had been the gray uniformed soldiers of the Confederate army he needed to be on his guard against when awake or asleep. And when the weir was over, the continual uncertainties of Edge's violent peace had led to the honing of such hard-learned skills taught by such harsh conditions. And on numerous occasions it had been hostile Indians who posed the threat to the sleeping man. Who more than once would have died had he not slept so lightly, or come instantly awake in full command of his responses to the menace.
Tonight when he was roused abruptly to awareness of an alien presence, there was an immediate visual image to confirm the warning which was triggered by the inexplicable sense. Of a man astride a horse, both unmoving, seen in dark silhouette against the star-pricked and moon-lightened sky. But, Edge knew, this was not the only stranger nearby. And, maintaining the same rate of breathing as while he slept, he shifted only his eyes between their cracked open lids as he searched for the rider's companions.
The camp was much closer to the pines than to the face of the bluff some three hundred feet away. The Arapaho girl was bedded down on the fringe of brush at the foot of the trees to one side of the fire that had by now burned down to a heap of powdery gray ash and glowing wood embers. Edge was stretched out on the grass and his saddle under the sheepskin coat on the directly opposite side of the fire, between it and the buckboard to the rear of which the mules were hitched on long lines.
He could hear the animals as they breathed, undoubtedly aware of strange horses and men close by but not in the least disturbed by this. He could not see the mules, though, nor any other features of the ravine between the camp and the river some half mile away. For he had bedded down with his feet toward the southern end of the ravine and without shifting his head on the pillow of his saddle his view was restricted to the top of the rise where the immobile man sat on his unmoving horse, the trees and the bluff to either side and the open ground within these confines.
The breathing of the mules, the softer sounds made by the sleeping girl and the intake and exhalation as he breathed—this loudest of all to his own ears—were the only intrusions into an otherwise total silence. This as Edge, having recognized the man astride the horse as an Indian brave, still failed to see or hear signs of the others he was certain were very close. Closer, probably, than the lone rider halted between the trees and the end of the bluff on the crest of the high ground some five hundred feet distant. Who presented such an easy target for the man with the Winchester under the sheepskin coat. But who would not have moved into so exposed a position unless he felt safe from a surprise panic shot.
For perhaps a half minute the scene before the half-breed and the sounds that went with it remained unchanged. A
nd it would be easy for him to think that during this period only his cracked open eyes and the smoke from the subdued fire, his own chest and that of the Indian, the rider's eyes and the eyes and chest of the horse moved. But it was seldom that the mind of the man called Edge concerned itself with inconsequential. And in those thirty or so seconds, it was unnecessary for him to make any conscious effort to keep his mind a blank.
Then the Indian on the horse at the crest of the rise thrust a clenched fist into the night sky. And Edge became abruptly as taut as a drum skin, but without even a stray wisp of pre-conceived half thought entering his mind. Until a bullet plunged into the center of the fire with a minor explosion of ash and sparks. At the same instant as the crack of the rifle was heard, a moment before the girl awoke with a choked cry of fear. Only then did Edge allow himself to guess that he was not going to be killed immediately—unless he did something to panic the Indians. Because the single shots had hit the target it was aimed at, he knew. Fired by a brave regarded as the most skilled with a rifle. If his sudden death had been the intention, his body and not the fire would have taken the bullet. Or, the man on the horse would not have shown himself and a whole hail of gunfire would have poured down on the camp in the ravine.
"Nalin!" Edge rasped against the echo of the shot, her cry and the sounds of fear made by the mules.
"What is the—" she started to ask in a rasping whisper.
"Do something stupid and you could get to die among your own people," he replied flatly. "Feller on the pony to the south is somebody you know, I figure?"
The soft spoken words in the exchange served a secondary purpose—calmed the mules from their snorting, scraping at the ground and jerking on the hitching lines. There was a sound of utter silence and then the Arapaho girl vented another sound of shock.
"If you know him, tell him hello," Edge instructed, and there was a trace of tension in his voice now.
Nalin shouted something in her own language, apparently made a false start and began again. Warmed quickly to the subject and rose to her feet. She grimaced in response to the discomfort she felt but did not allow the pain to be heard in her voice as she continued to direct the fast-spoken stream of Arapaho words up the rise toward the mounted brave. She as unmoving as he after she had gained her feet, both hands clutching the blanket to her throat so not gesturing.
While Edge remained equally still under the coat, right hand sweating a little where it was fisted to the Winchester. And left hand taut to streak up and out from hiding—to grasp the gunbelt with its holstered Colt that was hooked over the horn of his saddle to the left of his head. This as part of the same move that powered him into a roll—between the offside wheels of the buckboard and into the insubstantial cover of the neglected rig. From where he was confident he could blast the brave on the horse. And maybe trigger shots into a few more Indians before the inevitable happened and his time was up.
But, if nothing in life is inevitable except for death, the timing of the end always remains a mystery. And Edge waited with easy equanimity for the solution, which in this instance, depended upon the responses of the brave astride the pony to whatever the squaw beside the fire was saying to him.
Nalin addressed the brave for perhaps a full minute while Edge watched the only intruder in sight and listened for sounds that others were closing in. When she was through, a silence fell and its duration was stretched in imagination by high tension. This ended when the mounted brave spoke fast and briefly to the girl, then shifted his attention to the top of the bluff that formed the western wall of the ravine. And spoke for longer, with less urgency.
"It will be all right, I think," Nalin whispered tensely to Edge as he kept his narrow-eyed gaze fixed on the rim of the ravine. "I have told Yellow Shirt you are friend of the Arapaho."
"And he told you?" Edge asked as a dozen or so braves moved forward to be skylined on the high ground. Each with a rifle in one hand and leading a pony by the reins with the other. Then the thud of unshod hooves drew the half-breed's attention back to the southern end of the ravine. In time to see Yellow Shirt start his mount down the slope, followed by a group of other braves astride ponies.
"That if you wish to die, you will know what to do. I think it unnecessary to tell you this, unless you ask."
The braves on the rim of the ravine swung up astride their ponies and began to file forward to join the group led by the chief. As Edge released his grip on the Winchester, eased both his hands slowly out from under the coat and came cautiously to his feet.
"I have told of the killings at the camp beside the source of the river," Nalin said, her nervousness increasing as the large band of rifle toting Indians came closer. "Yellow Shirt's wife and baby son and his parents are among the dead. So his temper will not be good toward a white eyes."
"I can understand that," Edge answered as he stooped to pick up his hat and the sheepskin coat. And put them on, the sweat suddenly cold against his flesh, as Yellow Shirt rasped another burst of harshly spoken words toward the girl. Who waited in a servile attitude for the chief to finish and allowed time to pass to be sure he was through before she replied in a tone of voice that was as subservient as her manner.
The Arapaho band had ridden close enough now to be seen clearly in the moonlight that reached to the bottom of the ravine. About thirty of them, spanning in age from a boy of eighteen or so to an upper limit of perhaps forty five. A morose and grim-faced bunch of braves as they experienced the shock of learning about the massacre of the elders, squaws and children. All of them ill dressed for the coldness of this pre-winter night in fabric leggings, breechcloths and shirts of waistcoats. All with feathered headbands but few with any other form of ornamentation. There were probably more who were bare foot than there were who wore moccasins.
The chief was one of the few who had a revolver on his weapons belt along with a knife and tomahawk. And he also had a saddle on his pony, with a boot into which his rifle was lodged. All the others had straps on their rifles so that the guns could be carried across their backs.
Just before Yellow Shirt made a hand gesture to halt the party, Nalin told Edge: "I am the only Arapaho here who speaks your language. But take care. Many will understand what you say."
Then the newcomers stopped their advance, some twenty feet away, with Yellow Shirt slightly ahead of the rest. Empty handed while they all sat their ponies with the stocks of their rifles resting on their thighs and the muzzles aimed at the night sky. Here and there a single shot model, but mostly repeaters. All of the weapons quite old.
Every pair of dark eyes in unmoving faces directed a hostile glower toward Edge, until Yellow Shirt alone looked away from him to speak to Nalin. To ask, in a voice that became less harsh as time past, a series of apparently straightforward questions to which the girl gave concise and unhesitating responses. Sometimes, one of her answers would cause a brave or a group of them to scowl or frown or even wince. But the countenance of the chief never altered from its impassiveness that was a match for the look on the lean face of Edge.
Yellow Shirt was of an age with the half-breed, too. But in appearance, they had nothing else in common. The Arapaho was a head shorter and his frame was stocky rather than spare. His hair was more gray than black and worn shorter. While his face was round with slightly squashed features to create a look that was neither handsome nor ugly but was somehow commanding.
He did not shift his dark eyes back to Edge until the full horror of the massacre had been drawn from the girl. Then Yellow Shirt looked long and hard at the half-breed, the rifle at his feet where he had bedded down, the saddle which had been his pillow and the gunbelt hooked over the saddle horn. And, after this five second survey, spoke in a questioning tone. There was a pause, then a snarling rebuke for Nalin accompanied by a scornful glance.
The girl appeared to apologize to the leader of the Indians and quickly translated for Edge: "Chief Yellow Shirt asks me to tell you he compliments you on not tr
ying to make use of your weapons after the warning shot was fired."
The half-breed continued to hold the level gaze of the Arapaho chief while the girl spoke. Now nodded briefly and answered: "Tell him I appreciate getting the warning. Better in the heart of the fire than mine."
Nalin did the reverse translation and Yellow Shirt nodded. Then hardened his expression and voice to speak again to Edge. Speaking a sentiment with which his braves agreed—all of them equally as determined as the chief as they nodded their endorsement of his words, sat more rigidly in their saddles and took a firmer grip around the frames of their rifles. While this was happening, the girl's beautiful face with the single blemish of the scar on the jaw showed an expression that was a mixture of anxiety and sadness. And she listened intently to Yellow Shirt, to make certain of when he was through so that he could not bawl her out again for being laggard with the translation.
"Chief Yellow Shirt asks me to tell you, Edge," she said quickly, "that neither you nor any other white eyes will ever again be dealt with so mercifully as this. We go now, to bury our dead according to the Arapaho custom. And when the burial is complete, Chief Yellow Shirt will take his braves on the warpath. Until the white eyes who killed our people are themselves killed. You are told this so that you may leave this part of the country with all speed. In return for the care you have taken of me. Even though I am more than ever unworthy as an Arapaho squaw for asking help of a white eyes."
Edge: Arapaho Revenge Page 6
