In the few seconds the explosion took to spread, its havoc, the bullion wagon rocketed away, the noise forcing even greater speed from the team than Anatali's voice and whip had produced. Edge, his ears ringing with the mighty crash of exploding powder, his body pressed forward by the blast, drew his razor and slashed through the reins holding his horse at a gallop behind the wagon. Then, using the two cut ends of the reins, he swung away and then past the speeding wagon, getting ahead of it to lead the way, catching a glimpse of Martha Wilder's sob-wracked body as she clung with both hands to the enormous Zulu.
After they had put two miles between themselves and the scene of the explosion, Edge held up his hand and brought it down slowly. Anatali understood the message and hauled back on the team, bringing them to a gradual halt. When they had finally stopped, the horses snorted, eyes still big and round and red with fear as steam rose from their sweating backs and they began to feel the pain of lather stinging in the wounds opened by the whip. Anatali put a gentle, protective arm around the shoulders of the sobbing woman. Edge looked up at her with distaste.
"You like Jake Tabor or something, Miss Wilder?" he snapped.
The harshness of his tone cut through her emotions and she turned her tear-swollen face toward him, showing pain and bewilderment.
"So stop making noises like you're missin’ him," Edge told her. "We got enough problems without a wailing woman to add to them."
She sniffed back her sobs and sneered at him. "What kind of an animal on two legs are you?" she demanded.
What she lacked in physical attractions, she made up for in spirit. Her thick body was quivering with rage towards Edge.
"The kind your Pa figured could get you and this wagon-load of trouble to San Francisco," Edge answered evenly. "I don't count on no help from you. But the black bouncer there has his uses. I'd be obliged if you'd leave off spooning with him so he can concentrate on his job."
Shock leapt into the woman's small eyes and she sprang away from the Zulu as if he had bitten her. Anatali's face broke out in an expression of ugly rage.
"You treat Miss Martha with respect, Mr. Edge!" he commanded.
Edge eyed him with contempt as he rested a loose hand on the butt of the Colt. "Respect has to be earned, feller," he said. "Another free lesson. Now, let's move again. Off the trail. Tabor won't let it lay like it fell. We've got to throw him."
As Edge heeled his horse forward, shoulder blades itchy in anticipation of the Zulu's spear, Martha Wilder bit her lip against the urge to expel the residue of her emotion and slid to the far end of the wagon seat. And Anatali fought the anger back into his belly and jerked the reins for the team to follow the white man's tracks off the trail on to a diagonal course across the floor of the valley.
Back at the pass, Jake Tabor surveyed the scene of destruction and gave vent to his feelings with a stream of profanity that called upon every force for good and evil in heaven and hell to bring down vengeance upon the man who had tricked him. He alone had escaped injury, save for a grazed elbow resulting from his fall. All the seven men still alive on the trail were either cut or bruised on the face and body, some with minor burns as well. They waited in nervous silence, huddled in a group as the cursing man with the red beard led his horse down the slope towards them, a single bar of silver in one hand.
"We were tricked," he said unnecessarily as he halted before them, glowering.
One of the gang members cleared his throat, then shuffled his feet. The graze across his high forehead and his singed eyebrows were not the sole signs of injury. An earlier wound was marked by a bandage on his, right hand: a grubby dressing covering the bloodied stumps of two fingers.
"I am in no mood for conversation, Murray," Tabor thundered in warning, his face a mask of furious hate. "Least of all with thee who survived when my son was killed in an ambush."
Murray's nervousness intensified but he steeled himself to have his say as Tabor turned the silver ingot slowly in his hands, then suddenly peered closely at its stamped marking "I recognized the guy!" Murray stammered. "The one who blew us up, Jake."
Tabor's eyes were gleaming as he looked up from the silver. "And I recognize the silver," he whispered hoarsely, speaking to himself. "I had wondered why Mason Wilder kept it hidden in Virginia City so long after he mined it." He looked up into the bewildered faces of his men, raising his voice to a shout. "Adele did not know where the silver went because it was stolen from the man Warner. This is that metal!"
He held the ingot aloft.
"The guy who…"
"Hold thy peace, Murray!" Tabor roared, swinging up into his saddle. "His name is of no consequence. To catch and kill him is all that concerns me."
He wheeled his horse.
"I don't know his name." Murray insisted, ignoring the pitying glances of Keene and the other men who knew he was courting disaster by ignoring Tabor's warning. "But I know he's the man that shot Miller."
Jake Tabor swung in the saddle, his face a dark tableau of smoldering hatred and rage that seemed to drive Murray back from him with a kind of invisible energy. With the stench of death drifting around him in the twilight of the day, Murray sensed his own doom and his lips moved in a silent prayer recalled from childhood. But he did not die. For Tabor looked along the trail into the darkness that had swallowed up the silver and the killer of his son. And the hate he had shown to Murray spread from his face to taint every fiber of his powerful body, every fragment of it directed towards Edge.
"If any of thee kill that man, so will thee die, suffering the full weight of the revenge I have in my heart for my son's murderer."
He punctuated this thunderous promise with a mighty smack on the flank of his mount which sent the horse galloping away like a cannonball. His men streamed after him. Their forgotten comrades watched them with dead eyes.
Chapter Nine
EDGE led the wagon across one valley and into the next as night fell, bringing with it the intense cold of mountain weather. Away from the trail the terrain was rugged, with steep upward slopes and sometimes sheer drops that forced wide detours. When the rain came, stinging exposed flesh and taking only moments to soak through clothing to plaster it against the body, it formed myriad small rivulets that sucked the wheels of the wagon eagerly into their muddy beds whenever they stopped turning for an instant. Edge rode with the hood of his parka held around his face so that there was just a small gap for his narrowed eyes to peer ahead. Anatali sat upright on the box seat, unmindful of the viciousness of the storm, his expressionless face tilted slightly upwards as if taunting the elements to do their worst to him. When the sheets of lightning began to burst from the leaden heavens, making grotesque, instantaneous shapes out of every feature of the terrain, bringing with it the enraged crash of thunder, the woman bit at her lips hard enough to raise blood, but refused the Zulu's pleas for her to get inside the wagon. For just as Anatali was pitting himself against the weather, she felt she had to prove herself strong in the eyes of Edge's resentment. But when, after crossing the state line into California, Edge called a halt to make camp, Martha immediately grasped the opportunity to scramble into the wagon and search for the ingredients for a meal. They were high in the mountains now and, in the instant of each lightning flash, could see the perfect whiteness of year-round snow capping the surrounding peaks.
Edge had halted the wagon in the lee of a cliff that rose sheer at the foot of a peak and offered a number of niches in which a fire could be built. He climbed up into the wagon and began to pries open the crates. The woman watched him suspiciously and he was aware of the terror that gripped her each time the lightning illuminated the canvas top of the wagon. But he ignored her as if she were an inanimate object.
"What do you think you are doing, Mr. Edge?" she demanded at length, her knuckles white as she held two cans of meat in a terrified grip.
"Surviving," he answered, cracking the lengths of wood across his knee to make kindling. "It's dry and it'll burn."
Martha
looked to AnataIi for help, but the Zulu avoided her plea and started to rip apart a second crate. Then, when Edge had torn the cardboard carton containing the supplies into shreds, Anatali took off his suit jacket and protected the niche from the teeming rain while Edge nursed the flames towards a firm grip on the wood. Then he climbed up into the driver's seat and with Edge as his guide, backed the wagon up so that its rear end was close enough to the fire to benefit the interior with warmth. Edge jerked down the tailboard and stared levelly at Martha.
"Out," he ordered.
"I beg your pardon?" her anger subjugated her fear.
"We did the man's work," Edge answered. "That makes it your turn."
The woman's eyes roved, searching for Anatali, but he was busy unhitching his horse from the wagon and then he went quickly to the front to take the team out of the shafts. It was obvious he wanted no part of this argument.
"I am not used to being spoken to in that tone," she retorted, her voice rising. "Nor to doing menial tasks. I prepared the meal earlier because the conditions were pleasant and I was anxious to maintain harmony for the journey. Since you are apparently set upon being as unpleasant as possible I do not propose to undertake any more favors."
She sat down abruptly and adopted a formal pose of determination, trying to look immovable. Rain glued the fabric of her dress to her ample curves and several strands of hair had been worked loose from the bun and were plastered across her face. She looked uncomfortable and slightly ridiculous.
Edge shrugged and touched the parka hood in a gesture of mock politeness. "Good-bye, Miss Wilder," he said and moved away.
The woman shot to her feet and scrambled over the crates to the rear of the wagon, fear etching across her features. "Where are you going to?" she wailed after him.
He halted and turned to look at her, ignoring the impassive form of Anatali who had interrupted his attention to the horses. "I been paid half," Edge said. "I figure we're about halfway to where we were going. Few hours hard riding and I reckon I can be eating breakfast at a civilized restaurant. Might even take a bath while somebody's unspoilt daughter is cooking my ham and eggs."
"Bastard!" Martha screamed and Edge grinned as he saw the look of shock jump into the Zulu's eyes.
"Some lady," Edge said to Anatali.
"I'll cook for you," she yelled, jumped down from the wagon, lost her footing and pitched into a stream of muddy water.
"Don't rush so," Edge chided. "I ain't all that hungry."
He attended to his own horse, taking off the saddle and bedroll and ground hobbling it with the other three animals on a patch of ground short on both shelter and grazing, but the best available close at hand. Then he climbed into the dryness of the wagon and the Zulu joined him, looking on sadly as Martha worked over the fire. The lightning flashed and the accompanying cracks of thunder no longer seemed to bother her. It was obvious she was in the grip of a deep-seated, rage she had to fight to keep from exploding. The rain had completely destroyed her severe hairstyle now and the yellow tresses hanging down to her shoulders had a softening effect on her angular features. Edge watched her for a few moments and decided that if she lost some weight and made the most of what an unkind nature had given her, she could be an almost handsome woman. Not his type, but then he had high ideals.
"Women in my country have to work," Anatali said suddenly, as Edge began to remove his parka.
He looked at the Zulu and saw his smooth, black face was set in a reflective expression. "What about the rich ones?"
Anatali nodded sadly. "Suppose they are the same the world over. In my country, first the Boers, then the British. Some of them had women like Miss Martha. They should stay in the cities, I think."
"They're a pain in the ass wherever they are," Edge' answered bitterly as he began to unbutton his shirt. "After we eat, you take first watch, feller."
Anatali nodded, a man used to taking orders whether from a superior he hated or respected. Edge thought idly, as he unbuckled his belt, that in his case it was a little of both.
When Martha Wilder turned from the fire, holding a pan of sizzling slices of meat and bubbling beans, she almost dropped it at the sight of Edge stripped down to his red underwear. "Mr. Edge!" she exclaimed.
"I'm wet, Miss Wilder," he replied evenly. "I intend to get as dry as I can. You don't like looking at what a man's got under his clothes, you just close your eyes. But hand up that food before the rain turns it into cold stew."
She did as he said, keeping her eyes averted. She left the pot of coffee brewing amid the flames and accepted the assistance of the Zulu to clamber up into the wagon. She sat down to share in the meal, making sure that Anatali's massive body was between herself and Edge. The three of them ate in silence, as the lightning flashes became more intermittent and the thunder rolls moved north into the distance. But the beating of the rain against the canvas showed no sign of relenting in intensity. Anatali went out to get the coffee as Edge broke up more wood. As the woman poured the steaming black liquid into mugs, Edge scaled the wood through the slanting rain and on to the fire. The heat given off by the flames was negligible by the time it penetrated the wagon's interior, but the very fact of its glow in the darkness had a warming effect.
"Where'd your father get this silver, Miss Wilder?" Edge asked at length.
She was trying to dry her hair by rubbing it between her hands, "Out of a mine, of course," she snapped in reply, not looking at him.
"Not one of his own?"
She ruined her head to glare at him. "What are you insinuating?"
Anatali seemed to be embarrassed. "I go keep guard now," he said and without waiting for an acknowledgement, leapt down from the rear of the wagon, keeping a tight hold on his spear as the club swung at his waist. Martha. Wilder watched his departure fearfully.
"Guard against what?" she asked, beginning to worry her blood-caked lip again.
"Maybe Jake Tabor," Edge said as he checked the Winchester, using a corner of his blanket to wipe off the moisture. "The guy who sort of blew up when he couldn't get his hands on this shipment."
"You know him?" She was surprised.
Edge grinned coldly. "Well enough to know he won't give up on this silver till he either gets it or dies in the attempt. I watched him gun down a whole wedding reception trying to get a line to where it was. They hadn't even cut the cake."
The woman looked horrified, "The Firman wedding," she whispered.
"Right," Edge answered, as he finished with the rifle and started on the Colt. "It has to be this silver. The Comstock mines have been filled with water for too long for there to be more than one batch of bullion this big in the area. And a freight line would have hauled the shipment at a lower rate and with more protection—if your Pa had the right kind of papers."
Her dark eyes examined Edge closely in the flickering light of the hissing flames. "Father told me about you. If something is stolen, you don't consider it wrong to steal it again."
Edge shook his, head. "I'm lazy, Miss Wilder," he said softly. "A million dollars worth of silver just ain't worth the trouble when I can get five thousand of folding green instead. But I'm curious. My life is on the line protecting this stuff. I'd just like to know who it really belongs to, that's all."
"A dead man," Martha Wilder answered without hesitation. "The Comstock Lode is rich beyond imagination, but it can't be tapped by any known methods. Not to any great extent. They tried them all and then invented new ones: Millions of dollars were invested in equipment to hold up the tunnel roofs, pump out the water and siphon off the poisonous gases. And for a time the investment began to pay off. But it was only possible to merely scratch at the veins. Three years of the Comstock's discovery, the big mines closed down and now there are only the grub-stake prospectors digging in the mountains."
"Your Pa closed down his operations?" Edge asked.
Her expression became bitter. "He was one of the last to admit defeat. He built the Ritz early on with his first profits and now
that's mortgaged to the hilt because he needed money to buy new equipment."
"So he's pulling out? All the way to the other side of the world?"
"There's nothing left for us here," she retorted.
"Except stolen silver."
She glanced at the bars of precious metal exposed in their crates. They glittered expensively in the firelight. "He'd never be allowed to turn it into cash in this country," she said. "Too many people know he's penniless."
"He gave me two-and-a-half thousand and he'd better have at least that much in the bank in San Francisco." Edge's voice spoke a threat in every word.
"Passage money," Martha answered. "That's why father was so anxious to get it back when it was stolen. Now we're going to have to persuade the clipper captain to accept payment in silver."
"Who's the dead man who's changed the Wilder fortunes?" Edge asked, throwing more splintered wood towards the fire.
"A mine owner who brought up the ore, had it refined and smelted, then hid it away as insurance against future misfortune."
"It wasn't a life policy," Edge muttered.
"A gang of outlaws led by a man named Warner shot him and stole the silver."
Edge grinned again. "So your Pa and me think alike. He stole the stolen silver and figured that made it his?"
Martha pouted and it was an expression that didn't suit her. She was too old for it. "A desperate man must take desperate measures, Mr. Edge. You can understand that."
"Sure," he answered. "He ought to have killed Warner's girlfriend as well, though. She had a hard time trying to convince Jake Tabor she didn't know what happened to the silver."
Martha snorted this time and it seemed more in keeping with her character. "Adele Wyatt was a slut," she snapped, "I can't think what Chilton Firman saw in her."
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