Silver in the Blood

by George G. Gilman

  Edge was sure he detected a trace of jealousy in the woman's voice and face. "Whatever it was, he didn't get to sample it," he answered with a grin. "Not unless she said okay before the preacher said it was okay."

  "Chilton Firman had enough money to buy up every saloon in Virginia City," Martha sneered. "All it took with Adele was the price of a beer."

  Edge sighed and stretched out along the floor of the wagon beside the stack of crates, resting his head on the folded blanket. "Obliged for the story, Miss Wilder," he said. "I got the price of a good few beers, but there ain't a saloon handy. Don't have the inclination, anyway."

  "You disgust me," she spat at him.

  He closed his eyes, his lips parted in a grin. "Sleep on it, Miss Wilder," he advised. "Maybe you'll come up with a few endearing qualities."

  "There's little chance of that," she said frostily.

  "And none of the other," he muttered.

  Chapter Ten

  THE Indians were Shoshonis, about twenty-five of them, far away from their normal hunting grounds in central Nevada. Edge had slept undisturbed throughout the entire night and came awake in an instant, hand streaking towards the Winchester as Anatali tugged at his bare feet. He was immediately aware that the rain had stopped and that the darkness of night, had been replaced by the murky grey of morning without sunlight. The Zulu's face, beneath his spiky hair and its ridiculously inadequate covering of the derby, looked tired and nervous.

  "I said first watch," Edge snapped.

  "You didn't say how long," Anatali answered.

  The woman groaned, smacked her lips as if at a bad taste, and came awake. "What time is it?" she asked in a voice heavy with sleep. Then she groaned, again, with more feeling, as she came to full consciousness and recalled where she was and whom she was with.

  "Time for you to fix breakfast," Edge told her sourly.

  "We don't have enough food," Anatali put in as the woman glared at Edge. "Visitors."

  He stepped back to peer along the side of the wagon, his big eyes wide. Edge crawled out of his makeshift bed and stared outside. His grip tightened on the Winchester. All the Indians were men, mounted on sorry-looking ponies. They were dressed in skin breechcloths, leggings, rabbit-skin ropes and fiber sandals. The sub-chief wore a feathered headdress, drooping from the storm. Their armaments were a few rifles, some bows, knives, lances and tomahawks. There was no warpaint on their faces.

  "Oh, my God," Martha gasped at the sight.

  Edge drew back to pull on his pants. "He ain't much of an Indian-fighter," he told her, plunging his feet into his boots. "And if He was on your side He'd have steered those redskins in another direction."

  He didn't bother with his shirt, but fixed his gunbelt before jumping down to stand beside the nervous Anatali. The Shoshonis had not moved and still sat stoically astride their ponies, regarding the parked wagon with a silent scrutiny. They were holding their weapons in a casual manner that suggested no overt aggressiveness.

  "Friendly, you think?" Anatali asked, speaking out of the corner of his mouth.

  "In this part of the country it pays to take nothing for granted," Edge answered, inching up the Winchester until it was aimed at the sub-chief. "Those braves are interested in something and it sure as hell ain't the silver. They can't eat that."

  A wave of agitation suddenly swept through the group of Indians and he knew it wasn't the Winchester that was causing the excitement: by the time he had got off one shot a half-dozen others would have replied. He snapped a glance to the side and saw Martha Wilder standing there, white-faced with fear, her ample body quivering beguilingly in the eyes of any man who preferred a woman well built.

  Edge's voice was a snarl. "Why don't I whistle and you take off your clothes in time with the tune, Miss Wilder? Those Indians have probably been wandering around in these mountains so long they'd get horny from looking at a female coyote."

  She, gasped and stepped back behind the wagon. But the excitement of the braves did not diminish. They'd seen the goods on display and they were urging their leader for permission to visit the candy store.

  "Come and stand on my right," Edge told the Zulu. "Stroll nice and easy. If our visitors run out of patience, grab my side iron and start blasting."

  "I have assegai and knobkerry," Anatali answered. "I better with them than with gun."

  "Suit yourself," Edge said. "Miss Wilder, can you use a revolver?"

  "Of course I can." She was insulted.

  Edge moved closer to her. "I figure the dude here will get one brave with his sticker before he goes down. I'll try to take out a half-dozen more with the rifle. You do the best you can with the Colt. After that it looks like we'll have to trust to luck and your God to defend your honor."

  The Shoshonis were in a group about thirty feet away, still chattering amongst themselves, but holding their position. Then the sub-chief urged his pony forward a few paces, his cruel mouth coming open in a cunning smile. He raised his right hand, palm forward, in the universal gesture of goodwill.

  "White men no fear us," he said in a guttural tone. "We hunting meat. Need fresh water."

  Edge kept the Winchester pointing at him, and showed his own teeth in a grin as mirthless as the Indian's expression. "This white man has no fear of you," he replied. "He tells you to turn around and ride out of here."

  "Water."

  The rocky ground was still awash with tiny streams rushing down from the mountains.

  "Don't come any fresher than out of the sky," Edge said easily.

  The sub-chief was not shaken from his confidence by the uncovering of his lie. He gestured with his rifle towards the big Zulu, whose suit seemed to, be even more tight fitting this morning" perhaps shrunken by the rain.

  "Him funny man."

  "He's a barrelful of laughs," Edge answered.

  "Look strong."

  "Believe what you see. He likes his meat red and he ain't had breakfast yet."

  "Running Bear strong," the sub-chief said, broadening his grin. "I think he beat black man in fight."

  Anatali grunted his disagreement.

  "We ain't got the time for any prize fight," Edge snapped and pumped the action of the Winchester. "Go do your promoting someplace else."

  The sub-chief didn't move. "I bad leader," he said. "My braves not care if I die. But tribal custom means they kill whoever kill me." He slid from the back of the pony now and stood with an easy nonchalance. "There will be fight. Running Bear win, we take your woman. Black man win, we leave you unharmed."

  Edge replied over the gasp of Martha Wilder. "She ain't my woman, feller. But I got an interest in her. A financial one."

  The sub-chief shook his head. "I no understand. Woman look good to me. Big woman—warm to keep out mountain cold." He leered.

  "Do something." Martha said shrilly.

  "I fight," Anatali said with quiet determination.

  "You're as stupid as you look," Edge told him. "His word is only as good as the fire in his belly. And that won't be put out until he's shown Miss Wilder the meaning of untrue love. Him and the rest of them."

  Anatali was unmoved by this. "I strong and you smart," he said taking a step forward. "So I fight and you figure out a way to escape after I kill Indian."

  The sub-chief caught the drift of Zulu's statement and called out something in his native tongue. One of the Shoshoni sprang from his pony and stepped forward. He was taller than the others, but a head shorter than Anatali. And although he was also broad across the shoulder, his build was dwarfed by the bulk of the Zulu. But his step was light and there was a confident wiliness about the way he flexed himself in front of Anatali's frank stare. It was obvious he was unafraid, perhaps counting on speed to compensate for his weight disadvantage.

  "No weapons!" the sub-chief ordered and the brave immediately flung his bow to one side, and followed this with his quiver of arrows and the knife from the waistband of his breechcloth. Then he untied the thongs which held his robe at the throat an
d dropped the garment on top of the discarded weapons. He began an arrogant series of limbering-up exercises, bending at the knees and swinging his arms.

  Anatali watched him with contempt, then thrust his spear into the ground and carefully hung the club over it. He took off his jacket and hat and draped those over the spear.

  "This is awful," Martha said in a hoarse whisper as the rest of the braves slid from their ponies and spread out in a half circle.

  "You can stop it," Edge pointed out.

  "You mean…?" Disgust rang in her voice and revulsion showed in her expression.

  "Sure," Edge said, his narrowed eyes raking the line of Indians. "All you got to lose is something you could break by falling off a horse."

  "It is apparent that you are not a woman," Martha Wilder said, almost choking.

  Edge showed his teeth in a cruel grin to conceal the anger and apprehension he felt at the formation adopted by the braves. "You must have peeked under my Long Johns while I was sleeping," he taunted.

  "You make me feel sick just to be near you," she retorted. But she didn't move away, as the encircling braves divided their attention between the combatants and the ample curves of the woman's body.

  "So crawl under the wagon and throw up," Edge snapped at her. "These guys might figure you've got the cholera and hightail it out of here."

  The sub-chief backed away into the half circle and rattled off a command in his native tongue to the preening Running Bear. Then he turned his grinning face towards Anatali. "It is to the death," he said. "I will kill the man who reaches for a weapon."

  As the sub-chief finished speaking, Running Bear attacked, showing his speed with an agile, two-footed kick into Anatali's throat. Taken by surprise, the Zulu was unbalanced and fell backwards, his massive body thudding to the hard ground amid blood-curdling cries of enthusiasm from the watching braves. The triumphant Running Bear flipped his body into a neat backward somersault so that he bounced down onto his feet, facing the black man sprawled on the ground. But the Indian did not pause to take breath, Instead he lunged on top of Anatali, who took the full weight of the flying body as he shook his head to clear it of the effects of the fall. The brave's hands were formed into claws which were aimed directly towards the Zulu's glazed, staring eyes. But in the last instant before the jagged fingernails found their mark, Anatali recovered his strength and brought up both legs in a vicious, knee-bending blow that hit the brave squarely between his splayed legs and rocketed him forward, ripping a scream of agony from his lips.

  The braves groaned their disappointment and Edge felt an involuntary smile turn up the corners of his mouth. He swamped an urge to shout encouragement to the Zulu as he heard the woman's breathing close to his ear—deep and excited. Anatali scrambled to his feet and spun to face Running Bear, who was also standing, hatred mingling with the pain on his face. Despite the chill of the grey morning that misted like smoke from the mouths of the watchers, both the contestants were sweating, the beads of perspiration standing out on their flesh like raindrops on a polished window.

  Running Bear emitted a high-pitched war-cry that drew an excited response from his supporters as he lunged again at Anatali, leading with both hands open wide to grip at the column of the Zulu's neck. Anatali stood waiting, hands hanging loosely by his sides, as if willing to allow his attacker to find the target. But at the last moment, he brought both arms up in a tremendous swing that made the movement a mere blur to the watching eyes. Each balled fist sank into an armpit and there was a ghastly snapping sound as both the Indian's arms jumped clear of their sockets. The injured man's scream cut like a knife of sound across the thick layer of war-cries, slicing them into slivers of silence. Running Bear's body shot three feet clear of the ground, as straight as a lance. It seemed almost to hover at the zenith of its rise, as if on exhibition before the stupefied braves. Then it came down, falling as a rock. Like another rock, fixed by a million years into the ground, the Zulu stood, his face exuding a terrible power. His arms were still stretched out in front of him and as the brave's body fell between them his hands turned inwards, his fingers and thumbs ready. He clutched at flesh and used Running Bear's weight to supplement his own strength, wrenching off both the Indian's ears.

  "’Ere comes the crunch," Edge muttered as a second scream shrieked from Running Bear's mouth, to be silenced at once as Anatali brought up his right leg. The Indian's jaw smashed into the Zulu's knee with sufficient force to snap his teeth together, hard enough to bite off the end of his tongue.

  But there was no more sound from the brave. He collapsed into a heap on the ground, his head hung at the awkward angle that told of a broken neck. Blood spurted from the jagged wound on each side of it. Anatali looked down at his victim for a few moments, then dropped the two pieces of bloodied flesh he was holding.

  "Man should keep his ear to the ground," he said. Martha screamed and Edge turned to berate her for her squeamishness. But then he cursed. Two braves had taken advantage of the fight to back away from the circle of spectators and were both now holding the woman. Each had pushed an arm high up her back and were resting knives against the thrusting breasts.

  Out of the comer of his eye, Edge saw the Zulu take a fast pace forward. He squeezed the trigger of the Winchester and a bullet spurted dirt an inch in front of Anatali's leading foot.

  "You proved a point, feller," he yelled. "Keep coming and the woman loses two."

  "You one heap wise white man," the sub-chief complimented, the-cunning grin back on his face.

  Edge's hooded eyes narrowed and his teeth glinted between pulled-back lips. "I know what you're one heap of," he answered. "But I hadn't realized they, stacked it that high."

  "Now who stupid?" Anatali demanded, his, face blazing with trapped rage.

  Edge sighed and allowed the Winchester to clatter to the ground. "Some you win and some you lose," he muttered, looking around at the half-circle of rifles and lances aimed at him. "It's all a matter of, battles and wars. I figure we lost this skirmish."

  Two braves c1osed in on Edge, one snatching up his rifle, the other holstering the Colt. Four of the Shoshonis surrounded Anatali. Neither man offered resistance to their capture.

  "Do something!" Martha Wilder shrieked, struggling against the restraining hands and only succeeding in causing herself greater pain.

  "I am," Edge answered as he was prodded back towards a wheel of the wagon.

  "What?" the Zulu snapped scornfully.

  Edge allowed himself to be forced into a sitting position with his back against the wheel. "Surviving," he muttered.

  Chapter Eleven

  THEY didn't remove the twisted body of Running Bear and the dead brave lay crumpled on the ground at the center of the gently sloping area of the campsite—a reminder of Shoshoni defeat that demanded revenge. Edge was in an enforced sitting position with his back to the front wheel of the wagon, his arms pushed between the spokes and lashed together by a leather thong. He was able to look at Running Bear with complete dispassion. Martha Wilder was still in the grip of the two braves who continued to rest their knives against the swells of her breasts as an incentive for good behavior to Anatali. Her expression was a mixture of her pain from the hammer locks on her arms and deep horror which could have been generated by the sight of the mutilated brave or fear of what was about to happen. The Zulu showed his contempt for his dead victim by not looking at the body. Instead, he gazed towards the foot of a towering pine tree with something close to mild interest as a pair of Shoshoni braves stood back, aimed and then launched two lances at the trunk. They thudded into the bark about ten feet from the ground, two feet apart.

  "What are you going to do?" Martha implored at length, the words wailing through the clear morning air and punctuated by a sob.

  The sub-chief was sitting astride his pony, his face still wreathed by the cunning grin that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his aquiline features. Martha gasped when he turned to look at her, for the lust was like a raging fire
behind each of his eyes. "White squaw will hold tongue," he pronounced.

  Martha wrenched her head around to look at Edge. He raised a parody of a grin but hid his teeth at once as they began to chatter. Although the sky had brightened considerably, and the most distant peaks shone with a lacquered gloss as the snow caps reflected sunlight, it was still very cold. His red under-vest was worn thin and had many holes in it, offering little protection against the bite of the air.

  "Initiation," he answered her question; "They figure our buddy's a brave man and now they want to find, out how brave. If he comes through maybe they'll offer him a job mucking out the pony corral."

  "White man hold tongue!" the sub-chief snapped. Edge sighed and glanced at Anatali with an expression that might have communicated compassion: or perhaps it was merely the visible sign of a sense of relief that it was the Zulu and not he who had captured the imagination of the Shoshonis.

  As the braves examined the depth of penetration of the lances into the pine trunk, the sub-chief slid from his mount and crossed to carry out his own inspection. He grunted his satisfaction but considered it necessary to spring up and hang suspended by his arms around the imbedded lances before he felt able to signal the commencement of the rite. While the four braves tightened their grip on the massive Zulu, two others approached and cut open his velvet vest and his white shirt along the top of the shoulders. Two other knives increased their pressure against the flesh of Martha Wilder, their blades slicing through the material of her dress. The woman emitted a cry at the touch of cold steel and this warned Anatali to confine his reaction to a tacit defiance that spread scorn from his eyes over the heads of the surrounding braves.

  "Yell out and you're dead,'" Edge called, then shrugged as the sub-chief spun to face him, glaring. "He's playing away from home," Edge pointed out. "He ought to know the rules."

  "I know, fool," the Zulu answered Edge as the knife-wielding braves reached out and grabbed a handful of black flesh on each of Anatali's shoulders. Then their knives stabbed forward, entering the knots of flesh and emerging at the other side.