Edge: Arapaho Revenge

by George G. Gilman

  Now the power of her gaze was suddenly stronger than that of the chief and Edge felt drawn to shift his attention to Nalin. To read in her lovely face a tacit but forceful plea that he should not take issue with what she said— either her lie to Yellow Shirt or the way in which she faithfully reported his low opinion of her.

  "Tell him it was no sweat," he replied. "And that I'm the last feller to stand in the way of somebody doing what they want, unless—"

  He broke off what he was saying as the Ara­paho chief uttered a sound of impatience and heeled his pony forward—jerked on the rope reins to steer the animal toward where the slight-figured, beautiful-faced and abruptly very frightened girl stood.

  "It's all right!" she snapped at Edge as she sensed the sudden upsurge of tension in the at­mosphere of the camp site.

  Many of the braves sensed the same change, that seemed for stretched seconds to heat up the chill air of the night. And at least a dozen rifles were shifted from where they rested and came to bear on the single target of the sheep­skin-coated, Stetson-hatted man standing be­tween the almost dead fire and the near derelict buckboard. But Edge did no more than direct his ice cold, slit-eyed gaze at Yellow Shirt and draw back his lips fractionally to expose his teeth in a silent snarl.

  And then the chief halted his mount and ex­tended a hand at a position and in a gesture that invited the girl to share his pony. And, with a soft spoken word that was probably of gratitude, Nalin clasped his hand with one of her own, placed a foot in the stirrup he freed for her and swung up to sit on the cantle behind him. The agony this caused her was clear to see—showed in a grimace that came close to turn­ing her beauty into ugliness. But she was able to hide this from Yellow Shirt and the braves by hanging her head. And if any of the Ara­paho heard the soft cry of pain she vented, they ignored it. Perhaps for Nalin's benefit.

  Then the chief replaced his foot in the stirrup and spoke tense words to Edge as all the braves' rifles once more were shifted to cant their barrels at the sky.

  "Unless what he wants and what I want is the same thing," Edge concluded.

  "Chief Yellow Shirt asks me to tell you good­bye, white eyes," Nalin translated, with a glower in response to what the half-breed had said, as the pony with two riders started along the ravine toward the river. And the rest of the braves urged their mounts forward—following the same line between the almost dead fire and the band of timber. Only the most suspicious, or the Arapaho who were more deeply affected by news of the massacre, directed hatred filled stares at the white man they would patently rather not have left alive.

  But none of them looked back over their shoulders once they had ridden away from the campsite. And Edge ignored the large band of Indians as he squatted by the fire and used an unburnt length of tree branch to stir the flames from the ashes. Then put a pot of coffee on the fire and rolled and smoked a cigarette as he waited for it to boil—and dawn stretched dirty fingers of half light into the night sky. By which time the Arapaho were gone from the ravine and perhaps had even crossed the river. Certainly they were nowhere to be seen when, his gunbelt slung around his waist and the rifle canted to his shoulder, he ambled down to the river. Which was two mugs of coffee later. There, at the inlet, he washed up and shaved in the cold water under the unwarm rays of the rising sun, and refilled his canteens. While all that moved within his sight on the north side of the slow flowing river were a half dozen buz­zards, scavenging those portions of the Frenchman's body and the gelding's carcass that had been shunned by the coyotes.

  Back at the night camp he drank a third mug of coffee and then doused the fire, put the animals in the traces and loaded the buckboard with his few possessions—including the one blanket that Nalin had left on the ground when she swung astride Yellow Shirt's mount. More than an hour ago, so that whatever warmth it felt of was from the weak sun rather than her youthful body. And it smelled only of its owner's old sweat, the smoke of many campfires and of a horse that was now dead.

  Up on the seat, with the brake lever released, he snapped the reins and ordered: "Okay you mules, take off. This ain't no time to think about putting my feet up."

  Chapter Seven

  IT WAS mid-afternoon when Edge saw a smudge of smoke against a distant horizon again. Far to the south east across the prairie­-like plain that had few prominent features until the ground began to rise with the foothills of the rugged mountains that had never appeared to be any closer to the buckboard since he had driven it out of the ravine an hour after dawn.

  But there was no omen of trouble in the smoke this time as he saw that its source did not remain in one place and that the cloud it formed was elongated. And guessed that it was streaming from the stack of a locomotive, head­ing from the east into the west along a track that, unless it curved, would intersect with the trail he was on some ten miles or so due south. In the vicinity of an extensive mesa which was the only outcrop of rock of any size between the river and the mountain range. A towering, three-sided mass of sandstone that the trapper who had told Edge about it said was called Trio Bluff. Under the south west facing side of which was the town of Calendar, Territory of New Mexico. The old trapper had made no mention of a railroad passing through town, but he did say it was more than seven years since he was last through there himself.

  Much more recent callers, if the tracks on the dusty trail ran all the way into Calendar, were the two men who had committed the carnage at the Arapaho encampment. Since getting onto the trail stretching between the ferry and the town, Edge had paid no particular attention to the sign left by the wagon and horses of the murdering Indian traders. Except to note that the hoof and wheel tracks were the freshest on the trail surface by several days. Which per­haps, accounted, he had mused indifferently while driving across the vast flatland, for the run down condition of the ferryman, his house, his raft and his wagon. Because so few pas­sengers came by to use his river crossing anymore and money was therefore short. Maybe the railroad ultimately and more rapidly reach­ed the same destination as the trail, the half-breed reflected as he saw the moving cloud of smoke make for Trio Bluff and the freight and the passengers that had once needed the ferry of Maziol now made use of the train.

  It was not only money the Frenchman was no longer getting, Edge allowed as the last traces of cordwood smoke disappeared in the afternoon air when the locomotive and cars were beyond one of the bluff's three corners, to explain his improvised state. He also lacked the human contact of more prosperous days—and was not the first man the half-breed had met at an isolated frontier outpost who had been driven crazy by loneliness.

  Abruptly, Edge spoke an obscenity, spat over the side of the seat and dug out the mak­ings to roll a cigarette. Was totally ignored by the pair of mules which plodded along the arrow straight trail at the same pace as they always had done—would stop and start immed­iately to the dictates of the man with the reins but move only at the single speed they chose. Which was slow and energy conserving and suited Edge.

  What did not suit him was this unbidden line of thought from indifferent reflections upon the material conditions surrounding the Frenchman to his state of mental health and a possible reason for it. Because that struck too close to where Edge was living at present and there was a danger he would, involuntarily again, start to draw parallels to try to explain his own feelings to himself.

  So he took deliberate pains with the making and smoking of the cigarette. And paid far closer attention than was necessary to his sur­roundings. Next made a careful check of both the Frontier Colt and the Winchester, like he expected to have to use the guns soon. Which was always a strong possibility. But there was certainly no immediate danger, for the terrain was such that until night fell he was able to gaze over a distance of many miles in every direction and saw no sign of any threat. But, by indulging in such mild physical activity and consciously considering what he was doing, he was able to bar the unwelcome thought process from his mind.

  Then night came and, as always, the
troubled mind was more vulnerable to further attack in the encapsulating darkness when the alone are never more lonely…

  Abruptly again, Edge uttered another ob­scenity. But in a snarling tone of self anger this time, that caused the mules to prick their ears. But the animals immediately became easy again when no further sound was vented by their driver and no command was given through the reins. For if, as many animals are thought to, these were able to sense the mood of the man in charge of them, they elected with the stubbornness of their kind to ignore it. Ob­stinately content to go their own way in their own fashion until an outside influence made de­mands on them—when they were more likely to want to do the opposite of what was pressed upon them…

  Edge, his anger subdued only moments after the accusation of being lonely sparked it, now remained coldly calm as he checked this new unwelcome musing that would have him consider himself not only as crazy as the French ferryman but also as unreasonably ob­durate as a mule!

  Then he showed a brief half grin that bared the tops of his teeth but failed to inject warmth into the glittering slits of his eyes as he mur­mured: "Well, maybe you fellers and me have something in common. Maybe all half-breeds are stubborn bastards, you figure?"

  The pair of mules did not even prick their ears at the sound of his soft spoken words as they hauled the buckboard around the north east corner of Trio Bluff and started along the final stretch of trail into Calendar. And Edge was able to keep his mind free of disturbing thoughts as he looked toward the town that was seen in ever increasing detail as he closed with it.

  The trail was running in a south west direc­tion now, staying close to the base of the more than a mile long and one hundred and fifty feet high wall of weather-eroded sandstone. Beyond the southern tip of the wedge-shaped mesa the trail continued in the same direction, alongside the single track of the railroad that curved to avoid Trio Bluff and paralleled the trail for three-quarters of a mile or so until the single street of town had its start at the train station. Halfway between the mesa's southern tip and the depot there was a plank crossing of the trail over the railroad and a switchgear where another track swung away from the Calendar spur to head out to the west.

  The train that Edge had seen approaching from the east in the afternoon was still at the station. Comprised of an eight-wheeled locomo­tive with a high stack and a cowcatcher, its tender, three day cars, a sleeper and a caboose. The engine was silent and no smoke rose from its stack nor steam hissed from its valves. And all the cars were darkened—looked as deserted as the depot platform did for most of its length. Also in darkness was the steeply pitched roof­ed, many gabled, frame-constructed station building sited midway along the platform. But a number of lamps were alight in the vicinity of the locomotive and its cabin was also well lit. While two men worked on the engine and more stood grouped on the platform beside it.

  Once he had gone over the crossing and roll­ed the buckboard by the caboose, Edge was on the blind side of the train from the platform and able to look down the length of Calendar's only street beyond the sand-filled box that served as a substantial buffer at the end of the railroad track. A street that was a half mile or so in length and flanked by buildings which with a few exceptions were single story, of timber and a good deal older than the station. The usual stores and other commercial prem­ises for business or pleasure, a church and a school, a meeting hall and a law office. While as new as the depot building was the Railroad Hotel which had a frame second story above a stone first, a row of four small houses and the Restawhile Restaurant. These at the north end of the street. While at the southern end there was an area of stockyards and attendant build­ings of recent construction.

  With the exception of the deserted section down at the stockyards, the town was well enough lit to negate the effect of the moon and stars and the broad, unsidewalked street was quietly lively with people. But only one other wagon moved on it. Emerged from an alley be­tween two buildings close to the southern end and turned to come northward. A solid topped freight wagon with shiny paintwork and ornately lettered signs on the side panels, drawn by a team of four horses. With the driver and another man up on the high seat, both of them city-suited, neck-tied and Derby-hatted. The passenger holding a cone-shaped object in both hands, the wider end resting on his thighs.

  The wagon was driven up the right side of the street for most of its length, then angled across toward the front of the hotel which was on the left side. And, as Edge drove the buck-board past the locomotive of the stalled train, he was able to glimpse the lettering on one side of the freight wagon, painted gold blocked blue on bright red:

  NOTIONS & NOVELTIES

  WE SELL EVERYTHING

  MARX & SPENSER

  VALUE & QUALITY

  GUARANTEED

  On the footplate of the locomotive, a man with a strong Irish accent exclaimed: "Holy saints, Michael, will you look at that!"

  "So it's the chain stored up trouble for old number five-oh-one, Sean!" another Irishman answered.

  "Can you fix it?" a harassed and impatient man with no pronounced accent called from the platform.

  "Looks to have been the wrong size when it was new, sir," Sean answered. "Reckon we'd best change it."

  "Do it then!"

  "Surely, sir."

  The buckboard with the stranger driving it was beyond the out-of-commission locomotive now. And in a railroad town where strangers were a regular occurrence he was spared no more than a cursory glance by the railroad men at the depot. Who had no time to offer a greet­ing. While, with a few exceptions, the people on the street who were converging into a group at the traders' wagon were equally indifferent to his arrival at Calendar. Townspeople and temp­orarily stranded train passengers alike, who probably would have failed to give him a second glance even if their attention were not in process of being captured by the freight wagon.

  A man with a peace officer's badge pinned to the left pocket of his shirt kept a cautious eye on Edge as he steered the buckboard carefully around the rear of the throng gathered at the freight wagon parked out front of the hotel. A much older man with an unshaven face, almost no teeth and no hair at all divided his distrust­ful attention between the buckboard and its driver. While less overt in their slightly nervous interest—but clearly seen by the nar­rowed, ice blue eyes of the half-breed—were the two men who were the big attraction in town this clear, chill evening.

  "Thank you, thank you, thank you, fine people of this fine little town and you folks who have been forced to stopover here in Calendar while the train engine is repaired! And let me tell you right now, you'll all be thanking me and my partner before very long! And those of you off the train who've been a little peeved by the delay, you'll have reason to rejoice!"

  It was the man who rode as passenger on the freight wagon who made the enthusiastic an­nouncement, standing up on the seat and using the tin megaphone to amplify his voice, swing­ing it from left to right so that his words carried to every part of the small town. And he seemed now to be ignoring Edge as his partner started to climb down from the wagon, smiling nervously as he requested the pressing crowd to ease back while he shot occasional glances over their heads toward the newly arrived buckboard.

  "I'm Eddie Marx, folks!" the spokesman for the drummers went on. "And the gent stepping down to show you our wares is Jason Spenser! And like it says right there on the sides of our vehicle, we sell everything and we guarantee everything we sell! But we just have the one vehicle—at present—and so Jason and I have to restrict the range of merchandise we bring out on the road with us. . . ."

  Marx went on with his spiel, expertly holding the interest of the crowd he already had while the less quick to respond now started along the street to swell his audience. Glibly delivering a speech he had obviously spouted many times before, but in such a way that it seemed to sound as fresh to himself as to the citizens and enforced visitors to Calendar.

  He was about thirty. Not five and a half feet tall and stoc
kily built so that he looked to have a strong physique. He had blond hair that was neatly clipped and he was clean shaven, his round and chubby face red and shiny from where he had recently washed up. His clothing was also neat and clean, conservative in style and colors to contrast with the garishly paint­ed wagon.

  Spenser was ten years older. Six feet tall and broadly built, with pudgy hands and a flabby face that suggested that equally well cut busi­ness suit was hung on a large frame that owed more to excess fat than to muscular develop­ment. He had brown hair and a thick mustache of the same hue that did not droop at each side of his full-lipped mouth. His eyes were brown and as soft looking as the rest of his appear­ance—so that even when he smiled he seemed to harbor sadness in back of the expression. He wore an expensive looking jeweled ring on the third finger of each hand and a pearl headed stickpin in his necktie. The first and second finger of his left hand were darkly stained from holding countless cigars or cigarettes. Perhaps he was naturally clumsy, or maybe it was his nervousness at seeing Edge that caused him to be so awkward in removing the side and rear panels of the wagon, the half-breed reflected as the mules came to a halt of their own accord outside of the Cottonwood Saloon, diagonally across the street from the hotel.

  "Evenin' to you, stranger," the man leaning against the wall to one side of the saloon's bat-winged entrance greeted, speaking around the live match that angled from a corner of his mouth. He was the man with the badge. Any­thing from fifty to sixty years old, with a burnished and deeply lined face and a broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted and slender-hipped build. Gray haired and dark eyed. In need of a shave and wearing Western style clothing that had seen better days and probably would have to endure some worse ones before he consider­ed changing for new. He was the only other man on the street who carried a gun that showed—a Smith and Wesson .44 caliber Rus­sian with a barrel longer than the usual six and a half inches. Slid into a tied down holster on the right side of his gunbelt—the toe of the hol­ster cut to allow the extra length barrel to pro­trude.