A discreet rapping of knuckles on the door interrupted Edge's line of thought and he quickly folded the map and tucked it into his shirt, then pulled the rifle out from under the bed. "Yeah?"
"Your partner, old boy," came the response in the familiar, cultured English tone. "We need to talk."
"Thought you didn't like talking?"
"You've stolen my means of action, old boy. Can I come in?"
"I been expecting you," Edge told him. "Door's not locked."
The Englishman entered and sighed when he found himself looking down the length of the Spencer's barrel. "You really are the most nervous chap, Mr. Edge," he said as he closed the door and leaned against it, "Isn't there anybody you trust?"
"Yeah, the guy I shave," Edge answered.
"What's the spot marked with a cross?"
The Englishman shrugged and Edge noticed that he, I too: had' cleaned up his face. And his suit looked as if he had just picked it up from the tailor. "Perhaps nothing, old boy. The man who offered me the map in payment of a debt said it was worth a million dollars,"
"How much did he owe you?" Edge asked.
"Fifty dollars. He thought his aces arid kings were good but my low flush was better."
Edge made a sound of disgust from deep within his throat. ''You can't be that stupid—a million, bucks for fifty."
"I'm not, old boy," he answered with the gentle smile. "I was within a second of killing him before he, offered me the map. That made me consider the story as feasible. Then I did have to kill him, when he tried to steal the map back again. He talked a little before I ended his agony. It happened in Wichita, Kansas. I took the next stage west."
"What did he tell you?" Edge was still pointing the rifle, apparently in a casual attitude. But his narrowed eyes studied the Englishman closely, the memory of the man's speed with the trick holster warning against a moment's inattention.
"You wouldn't reconsider our arrangement, old boy?" the Englishman asked without conviction,. "A readjustment of the percentages?"
Edge grinned coldly. "Don't push it, English," he said with a shake of his head. "I've got the map now. Could be that if we change the split you'll get the small end. What is it, a silver mine?"
"Oh, dear, you really are completely lacking in information, old boy. You only know the legend. I have the facts. "
"And, I repeat, I have the map."
The Englishman put his hands in his pants pockets, but Edge did not allow himself to be lulled into a sense of security by the casual attitude, and continued to direct the Spencer toward the door.
"It's gold, old boy. A whole wagon load of gold ingots with no identifying marks. The gold was refined in Mexico and shipped north under the protection of the Mexican army in 1835."
"What did they get for it?"
"Not a thing, old boy. What they wanted was help from the Indians in this area—the Apaches, Papago, Pima, Maricopa, Hopi and Navaho."
"To do what?"
The Englishman shook his head. ''If you knew your history, old boy, the answer would be obvious. In 1835 Texas was fighting for her independence from Mexico and the Mexicans were very reluctant to relinquish such a large portion of land. But they were losing and they were prepared to try anything—even a deal with the Indians. Then something went wrong and there are several versions of what it was. I'm inclined to believe the story that the army escort tried to steal the shipment and then fought among themselves—lack of trust again, old boy."
"Who drew the map?" Edge demanded, ignoring the final comment.
"The only survivor from the escort. He left the wagon where it was, hidden in a cave on the other side of the northern ridge and plotted the way out, intending to return when he considered it safe to make use of the cargo. What happened to the map from then until it came into the possession of my card-playing chum is anybody's guess."
Edge's expression became thoughtful again, but he maintained his careful vigilance. "Why'd you waste time hanging around Rainbow, English?" he asked at length.
The Englishman grinned and it was almost an apologetic expression. "Money, old boy. A wagon loaded with a million dollars worth of gold isn't exactly a buggy with a fringe on top. Luck didn't ride with me on the stage west and I reached Rainbow with three dollars and the clothes you see me in now. I had to win enough to buy a team and a wagon. The one up in the cave might have rotted down to its axles by now. It's more than thirty years old, you know."
''You get them?"
He nodded. "Bought and paid for. Waiting at Olsen's livery stables. The team inside and the wagon out the back."
"So what are we waiting for?" Edge asked.
The gentle smile taunted Edge. "Perhaps for you to summon enough courage to go out into Indian country?"
"Ain't the Indians that worry me," Edge answered.
The smile continued. "You have nothing to fear from me, old boy," the Englishman said. "With the Apaches on the warpath, two guns will be better than one. And if the gold has to be transshipped, two pairs of hands will be better. But …" His expression darkened suddenly and his tone became heavy with menace. "I still don't like the split."
"Then neither do I," Edge countered, matching the other's threat. "And I know your opinion of talk, English."
Silence settled upon the room, interrupted only by the spluttering of the kerosene lamp, as both men attempted to outstare each other. They finally called it quits with emphatic nods which spoke tacitly of an agreement that the deal was one of all or nothing. Then the Englishman turned and pulled open the door, waiting patiently to usher Edge through. But although Edge stood up from the bed, he did not move forward. "Only the guy I shave," he said softly.
"And that's a hard man," the Englishman said as he went out into the hallway.
"As your heart," Edge countered, following him.
The Pot of Cold was strictly a hotel that, night and there were no creaking bedsprings or muted cries of passion as the two men went along the hallway, down the stairs and across the saloon area. Lust could not compare with the stronger, more passionate, fear of further Indian attack. Out on the street there was the same aura of deserted desolation with not a light showing anywhere, and no sound but the footfalls of the two men to disturb the absolute stillness. But both men knew about the army patrol, and both were aware of the lone braves who had stalked the rooftops earlier. So they moved with caution, keeping to the shadowed sidewalk and only darting across the width of the street to Olsen's Livery Stables when they were sure their passage would be unseen. For a few seconds the low, cold looking moon threw their shadows long across the gray dust, then they were swallowed up by the darkness of the opposite sidewalk.
There was an alley between the livery and the neighboring lawyer's office and the Englishman entered this with Edge hard on his heels. Only the stabled horses heard their approach and started up a nervous whinnying.
"You intend trying to run the Apache gauntlet with only your peashooter?" Edge whispered as they emerged into a pool of moonlight at the rear of the livery.
The Englishman's, teeth shone in a smile and he pointed to where a flatbed wagon was standing. "Take a look under the seat of the wagon, old boy. While I get the team."
" Edge waited a few seconds to watch his partner go to work on the padlock securing the rear doors of Olsen's Livery and saw him picking at it with a short length of twisted wire. The lock fell open with a satisfying click.
"Very damn subtle," Edge said sardonically.
The teeth shone again. "But effective, old boy. Very damn effective."
As the Englishman pulled open the doors Edge crossed to the wagon and lifted the hinged seat to look into the box beneath. And now it was his turn to grin as he, reached inside and lifted out an elegant repeater rifle. He stood for a few moments, admiring the lines of the weapon, then began to run his, fingertips along the smoothness of the stock and over the soft sheen of the brass frame.
"What do you think, old boy?" the Englishman said softly as he led t
wo strong-looking work grays out of the stable.
"It looks like an old friend of mine called Henry," Edge answered.
The Englishman soothed the horses into the wagon shafts and began to harness them. "Close relation," he explained. "Same breed, but different fathers, if that's possible. Both of the New Haven Arms Company. B. Tyler Henry fathered the Henry rim-fire .44 repeater. Has a steel or bronze frame. A tubular magazine of 15 rounds and you feed in the shells from the front after drawing' the spring up into the muzzle section of the mag."
"You've been going to night school," Edge put in. The Englishman was unmoved by the sarcasm. "What you're holding, old boy, is a brass-framed 1866 Winchester one of the first models of its kind to come from New Haven Anus. You load it from the rear, so you can feed in the shells a damn sight faster than a Henry."
"Same cocking action?" Edge asked and jerked the trigger guard down and forward to test it for himself.
"The same," the Englishman confirmed as he finished harnessing the horses and started back toward the stable. "Gun's named for Oliver F. Winchester who runs New Haven Arms."
"As fast?"
"A shot every two and a half seconds it says in the specifications. You could be faster,"
"I am," Edge said softly to the retreating figure, and replaced the rifle in the box seat as he waited for the Englishman to return with another two work horses.
"Would it Interest you to know that Colonel Murray is guarding ten thousand of those rifles?" the Englishman asked when he did reappear.
"I heard about an arms shipment," Edge answered. "Why don't he break them out and issue them?"
"Murray's a soldier by the book, old boy," came the reply as the Englishman coaxed the two lead animals between the shafts. "Rainbow's a supply fort. His job is to distribute the new Winchesters to other forts throughout the territory. And the whole army's been told they can't use the guns against the Indians until Washington decides the uprisings can't be contained by talking. Like I said about the Yankees, talk, talk, talk."
"How d'you know all this; English?" Edge asked.
The gentle smile was highlighted by the moon. "I know a man who knows a man. Played poker with him and he lost." He checked the tension of the bits and sighed with satisfaction.
"Ready to roll?"
"Think so, old boy. If you still have the map."
"I've got it," Edge answered and hoisted himself up on to the box seat, holding out a hand to help the Englishman aboard. But he withdrew it quickly as a rifle shot rang out and wood splintered from the edge of the seat. Before the splinters hit the ground Edge had cocked the Spencer and the Englishman had spun around the double-barreled pistol nestling in his hand.
"Move another inch and you'll both take a step into hell," a voice barked out from the roof of the stage depot, the tone leaving no doubt that the speaker meant what he said.
Edge and the Englishman did as they were told, moving only their narrowed eyes as they saw a line of uniformed figures come erect on the roof. They heard scrabbling sounds on the roof of the lawyer's office behind them and knew they were covered from both directions.
"I think some bastard figured us," Edge said out of the corner of his mouth.
"Spell Drucker with an F," the Englishman answered as the rancher stepped from the alley, beside Colonel Murray.
"Drop your weapons," Murray commanded as Drucker struggled to contain an evil grin of triumph.
They complied and at another command from the army man Edge climbed down easily from the wagon. It was Drucker who came forward, his own guns holstered but confident of the cover provided by the soldiers. He halted first before the Englishman and ran his hands expertly over the elegant suit, searching for other concealed weapons. The bulk of the man seemed to dwarf the Englishman.
"You don't ought to talk so loud in hotels," Drucker taunted.
"I didn't know there were worms in the woodwork," the Englishman retorted with a soft, venomous tone.
The insult failed to provoke Drucker, who moved over to Edge and removed his Colt and the knife but missed the razor. Edge could see the rancher was immune to words so held his peace and fixed the man, with a slit-eyed stare which spoke a thousand threats. But this did not prevent Drucker delving his hand inside Edge's shirt and quickly withdrawing the map, which he transferred to his own shirt while his back was toward the colonel. "Hear there's gold in them there hills," he murmured with a grin.
''I'll arrange for your coffin to be lined with it," the Englishman said as Drucker backed away to stand beside Murray again.
"Mr. Drucker here reported you planned to desert Rainbow," Murray said gravely. "I've told you already that we can't afford to lose any men, with the Apaches sitting on our doorstep," He glanced up at the stage' depot roof. "Sergeant Horne!" he shouted. "March these men to the stockade and detail a guard. They're to be shot if they attempt to escape."
"Doesn't that rather defeat the object, Colonel?" the Englishman asked as some of the soldiers climbed down from the roof.
"Cowards aren't any use to me," came the response and then the colonel's expression became pensive as he studied both men. "But 1 know you aren't yellow."
"But we just abhor killing," the Englishman said, emphasizing his cultured tones.
"There are exceptions," Edge said, fixing Drucker with a steady stare.
"Let's go," Sergeant Horne ordered, jerking a gun muzzle into Edge's back. He moved forward under the insistence of the pressure.
"I hate jails," the Englishman said, falling in alongside him as the heavily armed escort brought up the rear. "They're always full of bums."
"Then you ought to enjoy it," Edge answered.
The Englishman sighed deeply. "I keep telling you: just a little odd, that's all."
Edge spat. "Just the same, I'm having the top bunk."
CHAPTER NINE
THE Apaches attacked at dawn, riding into the town from the east with the harsh glare of the sun at their backs, dazzling the frantic eyes of Rainbow's defenders as they came awake to the sound of blood-curdling warcries. The eight-man army patrol met the first assault, caught outside the last house at the eastern end of the cross street by fifty braves led by Little Cochise, brother of the tribe's chief. The patrol was headed by a tough sergeant, a veteran of the Civil War who immediately ordered his men toward the cover of the house as the first hail of arrows thudded into the ground several yards short. Six of the men did as ordered but the seventh, a young man, brave as he was reckless, knelt down on one knee and began to loose off rifle fire at the galloping braves. Two fell from their ponies with mortal wounds and a third went sideways with a hole in his shoulder but managed to stay mounted as he wheeled away. Then Little Cochise released his decorated lance with enormous power and howled his triumph as the barbed head thudded into the soldier's stomach and emerged dripping blood at the back. As the remainder of the patrol dived head-long through the windows of the house, Little Cochise grasped the shaft of the lance and dragged the dead soldier behind him, circling the house with the braves howling at his heels. The second wave of Apaches streamed into the town, loosing arrows toward houses from which rifle and small arms fire was beginning to sound.
Inside the house, as Fred Olsen struggled into his pants and his elderly wife hid beneath the bedclothes, the sergeant ordered each of his men to a window on both floors and then went down with an arrow through his throat as he cracked open the back door. A fountain of blood sprayed into the eyes of a corporal at the window and the man was still trying to wipe it clear when an Indian rode in through the open doorway, daubed face a mask of hatred. The brave released his tomahawk in a spinning throw and the soldier screamed as the blade buried itself in his chest. The brave howled with triumph and leaped from his horse, drawing his knife to claim two scalps. But in the next moment his head was no more than a crimson pulp clinging to gleaming bone as the half-dressed Fred Olson fired both loads in a double-barreled shotgun, aiming from the top of the stairs.
Outside
, the dead soldier came free of the killing lance and his best friend, firing from an upstairs window leaned out for a better shot at Little Cochise. His aim was wide and an arrow thudded into his back. He fell headfirst from the window and was struck by six more arrows before his dead body smashed to the ground. The braves continued to circle the house, closing the gaps as injured and dead riders fell from their horses; gripping their ponies with their legs so that they had both hands free to prime and fire their bows. They rode outside their ponies, offering less of a target, sometimes leaning forward and down to fire from below the animals' necks. Then, at a howled command from Little Cochise, the braves wheeled in toward the house in a rushed attack from all directions. Four Apaches fell as they attempted to dismount, but the remainder got through, three swinging up on to the porch to enter the upper floors. Two soldiers positioned in the sitting room at the front killed three painted braves as they dived in through already shattered windows but were themselves killed by other braves, one taking a tomahawk in his skull, the other having his throat cut by a slashing knife blade. At the rear of the house Fred Olsen obliterated the faces of two Apaches and, then swung the empty shotgun around his head, cracking the skulls of three more before six overpowered him and scalped him alive before plunging a knife into his mouth opened in a scream.
The house became suddenly quiet, a nerve-rending haven of false peace against the distant gunfire and howls as the main fight moved to the center of town. Upstairs in the main bedroom the woman whimpered beneath the bedclothes as one soldier guarded the window, another the door. They were all that remained of the patrol and they sensed, in the silence, their impending doom.
Apache Death (Edge series Book 3) Page 7
