Apache Death

by George G. Gilman

"They don't allow certain moves," the Englishman answered and launched himself forward so that the top of his head thudded into Edges stomach. "That, for instance," the Englishman went on as Edge began to double up, hot breath burning through his throat.

  "I get it," Edge gasped as he started to fall backward and suddenly accelerated the action and kicked upward with both feet. The toes of his boots found contact with the other man's groin so that the Englishman was lifted bodily from the floor and was forced to let out a roar of agony. "The Bastards' Rules?"

  "We both know them," the Englishman croaked as both men climbed to their feet and faced each other, bodies slightly bent to ease their respective pains.

  The Englishman came in low and feigned a right cross, sent a left jab hard into Edges already injured portion. The fresh wave of pain only added more power to the uppercut which Edge smashed into the others jaw, knocking him backward across the bed. He sprang forward, hands clawed, and made contact with fingernails on the cheeks of the man beneath them, drawing blood. But a powerful thrust of the Englishman's body, followed by an upward movement of his leg into the American's crotch sent Edge sliding forward to crash into the floor on the far side of the bed. Edge was only halfway to his feet and beginning to turn when the Englishman sprang on to his back and crossed his arms around his throat. Edges legs buckled under the weight and he had to struggle to breathe through his constricted windpipe. But he summoned enough energy to turn and move across the room in an ungainly run, heading for the window. Then he stopped abruptly and bent, sharply so that the forward momentum was enough to somersault the Englishman off his back and feet first through the window in a shower of splintered glass.

  Edge stood inside the room, gasping for breath and rubbing his stomach but managing to curl back his lips in a grin, watching carefully as the other man got painfully to his feet. "You had enough, feller?" he called out.

  The Englishman, his face running with blood from the wounds opened by Edges fingernails, answered with a gentle smile as, with the arrogance of a victor, he brushed pillow down from his suit. "You haven't got enough time to make me throw in the towel, Edge," he said lightly. "Not if you live to be a hundred."

  Carefully, he removed his well-cut jacket and seemed about to drape it over the balcony rail. But in the next moment he had exploded into movement as he pivoted and threw the coat through the window. It wrapped itself around Edge's head and before the American could fight it clear the coat's owner had dived back through the window to land with a mid-air head butt into the stomach. Edge was slammed against the bureau, its comer digging into the small of his back to generate a fresh wave of agony from a different source.

  Edge howled with pain and stood swaying for a few moments, seemingly finished, as the Englishman advanced, the look of a killer shining in his eyes. Edge allowed him to close the gap to three feet, then clasped both hands together and swung up his arms in a fast, powerful action so that the two fists merged. into one caught his opponent squarely under the jaw. The Englishman's howl was not bogus as he was lifted clean off his feet and then crumpled to the floor, trying to roll himself into a tight ball. But his back was exposed and Edge landed two crashing blows to the kidneys with the toe of his boot before the Englishman uncurled and stretched out flat on his back, holding his hands aloft in surrender.

  "You win," he gasped. But as Edge stepped back the upraised arms suddenly shot out and locked around his legs. A sudden jerk and Edge was falling, heard his teeth jar together and tasted bile in his mouth as the back of his head crashed into the tallboy. "The first' round," he heard the Englishman say.

  Edge was stunned by the head blow and heard the voice from far off. The weight of the Englishman thudding, on top of him and the crunch of blows smashing into his face also reached Edge as if from a great distance and they numbed rather than hurt him. But he knew that to give in to the continuous hail of punches would be to admit defeat and he tried desperately to force unwilling muscles to obey the command of a weary brain. His efforts were feeble, easily countered by the Englishman, until Edge felt the warmth of his own blood on his face and the sharp sting of open wounds galvinated him into a fresh attack. He rolled slightly to the left and then with force to the right. Taken by surprise at the sudden new-found power, the Englishman was unbalanced and thrown clear, to receive a crack on his own head from a leg of the bed.

  Breathing deeply, the air rattling in their throats, both men pulled themselves up into a squatting position and looked at each other's bruised and bloodied faces.

  ''This is ruining my suit," the Englishman panted.

  "Ain't doing your face much good," Edge pointed out.

  "You don't exactly look like a lady killer yourself, old boy," came the reply.

  Edge spat and saw blood in the spittle, realizing the stinging in his mouth was from where he had bitten his tongue. "Anytime you want to tell me what the map means, I’ll listen.”

  "Not even if you live to be two hundred years old."

  Edge sighed and pulled himself erect, felt himself sway and struggled to contain it. The Englishman had to use the bed to help him get to his feet.

  "I might just make it," Edge came back. "But if you don't learn to handle yourself better than this you won't see another birthday."

  The Englishman shook his head, trying to clear it of dizziness. "You talk like a man, but you fight like a woman who deep down wants to be raped."

  "How would a fairy know anything about raping women?" Edge flung at his opponent.

  "Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman sneered. "I heard you Yankees try to talk your way out of everything, Why don't you put your fists where your mouth is?"

  They took a step toward each other, raising their fists, much slower than before, the Englishman's smile and Edge's grin just visible through the blood on their battered faces.

  "One of you guys called Fallowfield?" The voice from the doorway brought both of them up short and each turned to look at the man who stood there, covering them with a revolver in each hand.

  "He is," the Englishman snapped and pointed at Edge.

  "He is," Edge said a moment later, and pointed a finger of his own.

  The man's confused eyes swept from one battered face to the other, his expression showing the frantic workings of his, mind. Edge, sensing possible death rather than a beating, found the energy to take advantage of the gunman's discomposure. His left hand snaked to his belt, drew the wooden-handled knife and with a powerful wrist action he sent it spinning, underarm, toward the man in the doorway. The blade sank deep into the man's stomach and he looked down at it in surprise for a moment before the agony hit him and he dropped both guns as he reached to tug at the handle.

  "Rude to come in without knocking," Edge said, moving toward the man as he supported himself against the doorframe.

  But the Englishman got there first, smiled at the gunman, knocked his hands away and jerked the knife as the injured man screamed and spouted blood on to the floor. "Stomach ache?" he asked conversationally.

  The man was whimpering now as he clutched at his stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His legs began to bow as he nodded in reply to the Englishman's question.

  The Englishman made his smile into a sympathetic expression and rested a hand on the gunman’s shoulder. "I have the perfect cure," he said and lifted the knife in a high, wide arc, slashing open the man’s throat from ear to ear. "Wonder why he wanted me?" he asked as he stepped back, avoiding the spray of blood from the falling body.

  "Thought he was your fight trainer," Edge said, holding out his hand for the return of the knife.

  The Englishman stooped to wipe the blood from the knife on the shirt of the dead man before handing it to Edge, handle first. Then he shrugged. "Seemed rather a dim-witted chap. Might almost have been a relative of yours."

  Edge slid the knife back into its sheath and squared up once more before the Englishman, but again a voice came between them, this time from the street in front of the Pot of Gold. />
  "Fallowfield! You in there, Fallowfield?"

  "Popular tonight," Edge said dryly.

  "It's the title that gets you Yankees," the Englishman said. "It's the aristocracy's good breeding that impresses the natives."

  "Ain't a trace of blue blood on your face," Edge said softly. "Same color as mine except maybe it’s a little watered down."

  "You hear me Fallowfield," the voice from the street called.

  Edge went to the pile of bedclothes, picked up his Colt and tossed the small double-barreled gun to the Englishman. Then he went to the window, picked up the Spencer and stepped through the shattered pane on to the balcony.

  "You have a thing about roofs?" the Englishman asked as he fitted his gun back in the spring loaded gun holster.

  "High ground's always best," Edge answered, climbing on to the balcony rail and hoisting himself up to the sloping roof.

  "Fallowfield, this is Wyatt Drucker. You killed my son."

  "Oh dear!" The Englishman said with a sigh as he followed Edge up on to the roof. "It appears the only Gospel to reach this continent is that according to St. Matthew."

  "How's that?" Edge asked as he crawled up the slant of the roof, the Englishman beside him.

  "Five, thirty-eight," came the reply. "An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth."

  "Not so," Edge returned. "They know the Ten Commandments. Thou shalt not kill. But they only apply it to the other feller."

  They had reached the apex of the roof and could look down the opposite slope into the street where they saw three mounted riders staring at the front of the building.

  "My fight," the Englishman whispered.

  "You won't get close enough to Use your peashooter," Edge pointed out. "And you've only got two shots anyway. I'll sell you my rifle."

  "Fallowfield, come out here you yellow skunk," Wyatt Drucker yelled.

  "Impatient cove," the Englishman said, eyeing Edge speculatively. "How much?"

  "Fifty per cent of whatever's at the place marked with a cross."

  "You set a high price," the Englishman said with a smile.

  Edge shrugged his shoulders. "It's a seller's market."

  "Chap who had the stomach ache has two guns downstairs," the Englishman pointed out.

  Edge shook his head. "No good. You need two of those guys out before you hit the street. Never do it with a revolver at this range."

  The Englishman thought about it for several moments, then nodded. "Throw in your gunbelt and it's a deal"

  "Minus the knife?"

  "All right."

  Edge rolled on to his back and unbuckled and untied his belt, withdrawing the knife from its sheath before allowing the Englishman to pull the belt from his back as he rolled over once more.

  "Fallowfield, we're coming in!" Drucker called, but neither he nor his men made a move as the Englishman buckled the belt at his hips, then tied down the holster.

  "Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman said with a sigh. "Bloody Yankees all over." Then he pulled himself into position astride the ridge member of the roof and raised the Spencer to his shoulder. "Drucker!"

  As the name was shouted aloud the three men in the street turned their faces skyward and went for their guns. The rifle cracked twice, a split second and a slight movement of the muzzle separating the two shots. But the men flanking Drucker toppled from their horses at the same moment, ugly red stains spreading across their shirt fronts. Before their bodies had hit the ground a third shot exploded in the night air and Drucker's hat skimmed from his head. The rancher withdrew his hand from his gun as if the butt had been red hot.

  "Fancy—like your clothes," Edge said with derision as he began to scrape at his nails with the point of the knife, removing pieces of the Englishman's skin. "That fast, you could have plugged Drucker too."

  The Englishman swung one leg over the roof apex and began to inch down the slope on his backside, carefully keeping the rifle trained on Drucker.

  "Talk, and no sense of honor," he murmured.

  "But a better sense of priorities," Edge replied, glancing along the street and seeing that the fires had been put out: that the three shots had drawn attention toward the Pot of Gold. "Self preservation comes first."

  The Englishman dropped from sight, down on to the balcony, but from Drucker's expression of half hate and half fear, Edge knew the Spencer was still aimed at a target.

  "Get off your horse, Mr. Drucker," the Englishman instructed as Edge began to slide down the roof slope. By the time the rancher had complied and the Englishman had moved out into the center of the street, facing his adversary over a distance of some twenty feet, Edge was on the balcony, leaning casually on the rail as a detached spectator with a grandstand view.

  Drucker was a tall man, and broad, but he realized the disadvantage of such bulk in a showdown and turned sideways-on to the Englishman, reducing the size of the target. And now that both men were facing each other with Edge obviously taking no part in the fight, the rancher had regained his courage. He even smiled when the Englishman lowered the rifle butt to the ground and then let the weapon fall into the dust.

  "Careful with that rifle," Edge called as Drucker began to move sideways and the Englishman stepped in the opposite direction.

  "I'll clean it for you," the Englishman answered, not taking his eyes off Drucker's still smiling face as the two men completed a quarter circle.

  "You ain't gonna be alive to do anything," Drucker chided.

  "Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman, muttered.

  A movement on the roof of a building diagonally across the street abruptly captured Edge's attention, dragging his eyes away from the gunfight. It had been a mere flicker on the periphery of his vision and as he now concentrated on the area, the building appeared as a solid dark mass in the night, as immobile as rock. A man less attuned to respect for danger would have marked down the suspicion to imagination, but Edge did not allow himself to be dissuaded from the study. For up to ten seconds his narrowed eyes raked back and forth along the roof line and when the near-naked figure appeared in silhouette, first in a crouch and then standing erect, bow held in the firing position, Edge was ready.

  He had time to curse once at the fact of his rifle lying in the dust of the street before he drew back the knife and sent it zinging across the balcony rail. Traveling at the greatest speed the power of Edge's arm could generate, the knife flashed once in the light of a lamp and then entered the shadow. It found its mark with the softest of thuds and the Apache on the opposite roof appeared to perform a delicate, almost artistic ballet leap before falling backward. The sound of his body hitting the roof was lost in the noise from along the street as a troop of soldiers approached. Edge glanced back at the drama below him and saw the two men still circling each other, waiting for openings, and realized they had been unaware of the Indian's presence and his death.

  "You men!" a voice shouted from among the soldiers and Edge turned to see Colonel Murray riding at their head with his rifle leveled.

  "It's a private fight, Colonel," the Englishman said as the troop halted outside the line of the circle. Again he spoke without taking his steady gaze off Drucker, who was no longer smiling. Drucker recognized the killer look in the other's face and knew the moment for drawing was close at hand. The bodies of the two dead cowboys were sprawled in the center of the circle as mute testimony to the fate of the loser.

  "Who killed those men?" Murray barked.

  "It was them or English," Edge called down, gaining the attention of Murray and his men. "Another one inside the hotel English had to even up the odds."

  "I can do my own talking, Edge," the Englishman put in with an angry tone.

  "And you'll have to if you kill another white man," Colonel Murray said gravely. "That goes for you, too, Mr. Drucker. I'm placing Rainbow under martial law. The fort is undermanned and the Apaches won't let it rest at one attack. We need every able-bodied man we've got. If you continue with this, I'll try whoever survives and he'll be
executed by firing squad the moment I know we're safe from Indian attack."

  He heeled his horse forward, halting directly between the Englishman and Drucker and looking from one to the other.

  "Looks like the army came between you and your man," Edge called down sardonically then flashed his right hand toward a non-existent holster as the Englishman drew and fired. The killer instinct was etched deep into the blood-streaked face of the Englishman and Edge was certain this final jibe had ripped through the tough hide of the man's coolness. But the bullet went high and to the left. A scream sounded on the roof and the body of a brave plummeted down, hit the balcony rail close to Edge and thudded on to the street.

  "You looked scared for a moment, Edge," the Englishman called, the innocent smile back on his face as he holstered the still-smoking gun.

  Edge parted his lips in a cold grin, swung a leg over the balcony, hung for a moment and dropped to the street. He picked up the Spencer and dusted it off. "Figured you might shoot low and wide," he said, holding out his hands for the gunbelt as the Englishman began to unbuckle it. "Colt's a big gun for a runt like you."

  "Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman muttered yet again as Edge took the gunbelt and headed across the street as he buckled it.

  As Edge entered the alley to go behind the building in search of the brave and his knife, Nelson Mortimer came down the street aboard a flatbed wagon loaded with two pine coffins.

  "You're one short, Nelson," Edge told him.

  Confusion showed on the grave face of the little man in his funeral garb. "I only heard two shots, Mr. Edge," he said.

  "There are subtler ways to skin a cat," Edge told him.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  THE town of Rainbow slept uneasily, the recent violence of the Apache attack fresh in the memory to trigger the imagination into nightmares of what could happen when the braves returned in greater number. Most of the civilian population were barricaded in the unsubstantial safety of their homes or hotel rooms, untrusting of the single army patrol which Colonel Murray had detailed for sentry duty around the limits of the town. The bulk of his men were inside the gates of the fort and the army commander had made no secret of the fact that he valued the consignment of weapons higher than the lives of the townspeople. Edge did not even try to sleep, but sat on the bed with the Englishman's map spread across his knees, his lean face, washed clean of blood but still bearing traces of the fight, set in an expression of deep thought. He was recalling the old miner, Zeb Hanson, and his fruitless search for a legendary mountain of silver. Zeb had not had a map and Edge was toying with the idea that perhaps the old timer had been digging for twelve years in the wrong mountain.