EDGE: Massacre Mission

by George G. Gilman

  Table of Contents

  OVER THE EDGE

  CREDITS

  DEDICATIONS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  OVER THE EDGE

  While riding the stark desert of New Mexico – the heart of Apache territory – Edge falls in with what looks like a harmless perfume peddler, but as soon as the two men enter the sleepy town of San Luiz the streets explode with violence. As a murderous Apache begins to shoot, Edge realizes he’s run smack into a local crisis.

  Things look fishy when Edge’s new companion disappears overnight, leaving Edge to face a pack of hostile Apaches demanding the peddler’s scalp.

  For G.D.,

  who once aimed at a very vulnerable spot.

  CHAPTER ONE

  IT HAD been a long ride from Ventura, Territory of Utah to this spot on the bank of an arroyo in western New Mexico Territory which the man had chosen for a night camp. Not a hard ride for he was in no particular hurry to get where he was headed, which was still a long way from here.

  He stirred the ashes of the fire into life. The water in the pot was hot enough for shaving and to draw flavor from the coffee grounds before the false dawn was succeeded by sunrise. He was shaved, relishing a second cup of coffee and smoking the first cigarette of the day by the time the bright, hot sun was completely clear of the San Mateo Mountain ridges, some seventy miles away on the far side of the San Agustin Plains which had taken him two days to cross.

  He drank the coffee and smoked the cigarette sitting on his saddle, boots off but hat on. Unused to luxury the man enjoyed such small comforts in the early morning before the sun began its relentless climb toward unleashing the full punishing power of its summer heat.

  Not that he showed any sign of pleasure for he had the kind of face which in repose was totally impassive. A long, lean face stained dark brown by heritage and a close to forty-year exposure to the elements, deeply lined by the process of ageing and the hardships he had survived during so many of those years. A face regarded by some as handsome but by many more as ugly. High cheekbones and a firm jawline flanked a hawk-like nose, and the narrow lipped mouth could, by the merest movement, indicate the latent brutality within the man - and with another move could express a smile that most times was either cynical or sardonic, seldom warm. A smile that hardly ever touched the eyes - which during the waking hours were permanently narrowed under hooded lids - light blue in color, cold and penetrating in the way they viewed his surroundings.

  Framing this face of a man who had obviously experienced more than his fair share of the harsh realities of life, was a mop of unkempt jet black hair that concealed most of his forehead and grew long enough to brush his shoulders and veil the nape of his neck. Matching its color, but not its thickness, were the bristles he allowed to remain along his top lip and to either side of his mouth as little more than a suggestion of a moustache.

  After pulling on his scuffed black riding boots, he unfolded his six feet three inch, close to two hundred pound frame from the saddle and began his preparations to break the night camp. A man adequately attired and supplied for a lone ride over the empty, sun-baked landscape of the south western territories. Between the grey Stetson and the spurless boots he wore a small-checked shirt and dark blue denim pants, with a grey kerchief not quite concealing the beaded thong that encircled his throat. It was from a pouch, held to the nape of his neck by this thong that he had drawn the straight razor with which he had shaved. A razor that had often been used for purposes other than scraping the stubble from his face.

  A more conventional weapon was the Frontier Colt which nestled in a holster hung low from the right side of his gunbelt and tied down to his thigh. Likewise the Winchester rifle, which jutted from a forward slung boot on the Western-style saddle that he cinched to the back of his black gelding. The saddle was also supplied with a lariat, two canteens and a pair of bags that contained enough water and food to last for a week. To the rear he lashed his bedroll with his eating utensils wrapped inside and a knee-length topcoat and rain slicker tidily stowed on top.

  He used a foot to scrape dusty soil over the last glowing embers of the fire and asked of the big, solidly built gelding:

  ‘You ready, horse?’

  The animal scratched at the ground with a forehoof and tossed his head, venting a low snort. The man swung easily up astride the mount and ran the fingers of a brown skinned hand down the smoothness of the neck, heeled him gently in the flanks and tugged on the reins to veer him across the arid, pebble strewn bed of the arroyo. Today and for a few more days the going would be harder for the gelding: the man’s destination of Tucson lay across the high ground of the Continental Divide.

  During the morning the rider allowed his mount a loose rein, only commanding a turn to left or right in order to take the easiest route around or over a natural obstacle, the animal setting his own pace in the steadily mounting heat.

  Rest stops were made at hourly intervals and at the steepest inclines or those composed of loose shale, the man dismounted to lead the animal by the reins. Every now and then as he rode, the man took the makings from a pocket of his shirt and rolled a cigarette which he smoked in a leisurely, almost lazy manner - the way in which he appeared to do everything. But his apparent nonchalance as he rode, walked or rested in this vast tract of outwardly empty rugged country was no more than a wafer thin veneer cloaking his true attitude of constant vigilance. His slitted, glinting eyes maintained a distrustful watch on rocky ridges, dusty hollows and widely scattered clumps of brush, while his lean but powerfully built frame was poised to react in an instant should danger strike. As it had so often struck at the half-Mexican/half-Scandinavian man called Edge.

  But the morning passed as quietly as every other morning, afternoon and night since he had ridden away from the violence at Ventura, to reclaim this horse which had been stolen from him, and then head for Tucson, Arizona Territory where he was in line to collect a reward of fifteen hundred dollars for a job he did not know he was going to get paid for. Killing three men.

  At midday he found a patch of hot shade under an overhanging cliff face and ate a meal of cold beans and jerked beef washed down with tepid water. He watered his horse from his hat and when the sun was a half hour into its slow slide down the south western dome of the cloudless sky, he rose from where he had been squatting against the base of the cliff and drawled:

  ‘Set to move again?’

  This time the horse waved his head from side to side.

  ‘Now don’t you start to be a disagreeable animal, feller,’ the half breed muttered. He spat out the taste of the stale water before getting astride the gelding and striking a match on his Colt butt to light the cigarette angled from a corner of his mouth.

  A long detour north westward was necessary to reach the high ground above the cliff to where a section of the sandstone face had crumbled and left a boulder strewn slope that offered a way to the top, provided the horse was not burdened with a rider.

  Halfway up the three hundred feet long, obstacle laden grade, the gelding snorted his dislike for the climb as one of his hindhooves slid to the side sending a shower of tiny rock fragments skittering downwards.

  ‘Easy, feller,’ Edge said soothingly. He drew his lips into a grimace as he coaxed the animal between two jagged boulders and saw that they had to negotiate some fifteen feet of s
teeply sloping, slightly curved ground surfaced with crushed rock that was virtually shingle. ‘Real easy,’ he murmured, testing the treacherous ground with his own weight before gently tugging on the reins.

  Minor avalanches were triggered by the setting down of booted feet and shod hooves, but man and horse slid not at all. And as they moved cautiously upwards the animal gained confidence, while tension rather than the heat of the sun beating down on his back squeezed beads of sweat from every pore in the half breed’s skin.

  Then, as he reached out a hand to grip a projection of rock and began to haul himself up on to solid ground, he smiled fleetingly and jutted out his lower lip to blow a cooling draught of expelled breath over his moisture run face.

  ‘You vant some help, mein herr?’

  There was still some seventy-five feet to the end of the climb when the foreign accented voice shouted the offer. Perhaps the man at the top of the slope had not intended the words to be so loud, but they echoed between the rugged rock faces of the sloping gully gaining both volume and stridency.

  The gelding threw up his head. Edge swamped his initial impulse to snarl a curse. He realized it was too late to attempt soothing words to the horse: by bringing up his head, the gelding had altered the distribution of weight on the unfirm ground. His hind legs slid and in struggling to get surefooted again more crushed rock was disturbed. His hind legs splayed and he snorted his panic as his forehooves sought to maintain a grip on the ground. And failed, causing more rock fragments to shower down the slope.

  Nostrils wide and eyes bulging, the gelding attempted to rear as he brought his hind legs together on apparently firm ground. He half rose and the reins were snatched from Edge’s hand.

  ‘Come on, feller, come on!’ Edge rasped through gritted teeth, the words masked by the sounds of the animal’s terror and the clatter of rocks hurtling down the slope.

  For a stretched second as dust from among the skittering rocks billowed into the air, it seemed the gelding would save himself. But then the ground beneath his left hindhoof crumbled and he swung to the left with all his weight on his right leg.

  Edge heard the man at the top of the gully shouting. His voice was muffled. The snapping of a bone in the leg of the horse was as clear as a gunshot in the dead of night. The animal gave a shrill cry of agony as a point of starkly white cannon-bone pierced the flesh behind the fetlock and then was hidden by a gush of bright crimson.

  The animal ceased to flail at the air with his forelegs and crashed to the ground on his right side. He slid down the slope amid more falling rocks and came to rest between the two boulders where the treacherous surface began and ended.

  There was silence except for the deep breathing of the horse interspersed with low keyed whimpers. The dust settled and subdued the brightness of the trail of blood across the small rocks. There was no longer terror or even pain in the eyes of the stricken animal as he lay, head on the ground, gazing up at Edge. He seemed at once to be pleading for help and expressing equine apology for failing the man who had cared for him so well until now.

  ‘Mein Gott, vhat a terrible thing for the horse!’ the man at the top of the gully gasped, the words little more than a whisper.

  ‘Do something for me, feller?’ Edge asked evenly, without looking towards the man.

  ‘Anything, mein herr, that I can do to help you I—’

  ‘This is to help yourself, feller. Keep your mouth shut. Less chance of you talking yourself to death.’

  He started down the slightly curved slope as carefully as he had come up, anxious not to cause the injured horse more discomfort by kicking rocks against his head. Behind and above him the foreigner was muttering softly in his native language. His tone was plainly aggrieved.

  Edge went down on his haunches beside the horse and merely glanced at the bloodstained bone protruding from the flesh of the leg. He reached out his left hand and the gelding pressed his lips against the palm, pushing out his rough textured tongue as if seeking a tidbit of food. The half breed’s right hand trembled for part of a second as he drew the Frontier Colt from its holster. There was implicit trust in the one eye Edge could see as he rested the muzzle of the revolver on the animal’s head after thumbing back the hammer.

  ‘Guess you’re ready to go now, feller?’ the half breed asked softly.

  The gelding merely blinked his eye.

  Edge squeezed the trigger and his hand moved not at all under the recoil. His whole body trembled with the jerk of the animal’s dying.

  ‘You are blaming me for vhat has happened?’ the man at the top of the gully called, nervously angry.

  Edge said nothing. He slid the Colt back into the holster and knew at a glance there was no chance of taking the saddle off the gelding’s carcass: it was wedged between the animal’s back and one of the jagged rocks. But he was able to withdraw the Winchester from the boot, free the bedroll and use the razor to cut loose one saddlebag and a canteen. Then, with his gear gathered under one arm, he turned and started back up the slope of the rock fall, needing to take the same care as before over the precarious stretch.

  The man he had only so far glimpsed at the top of the gully was no longer there. But Edge could hear the sounds of his presence as he neared the end of the climb. Mutterings in a foreign language, heavy footfalls and noises of a man in a great hurry to complete a chore. Close to the cliff top, just before he was in a position to see, Edge recognized the noises: the man was making haste to put a two horse team into the traces of a wagon.

  ‘You figuring to take off and leave me stranded out here in the hills, feller?’ the half breed asked evenly when he achieved the level ground, some twenty feet from where the man was struggling clumsily to untangle harness.

  The man whirled and made a move to delve his right hand toward something hidden by the left side of his suit jacket. But the sight of the tall, lean, glinting eyed Edge with the Winchester canted to his shoulder, caused the man to freeze like a figure carved from rock.

  ‘Mein Herr, mister ... sir ... I think you are—’ Sweat like raindrops beaded on the skin of his pale face.

  ‘Just plain Edge, feller.’

  The man blinked several times, then dropped the reaching hand to his side. He was about fifty, five and a half feet tall and probably weighed close to a hundred and fifty pounds, the excess flesh evenly distributed over his rotund frame and thick limbs. His round, heavily jowled face was in keeping with this build. The pale green eyes, snub nose and almost rosebud mouth all seemed too small for their setting. He was clean shaven and had a smooth, blemish free complexion. The hair that showed below the brim of his grey derby hat was black in the process of graying. The hat, dark grey city suit, shirt of pure white with a starched collar, red cravat and patent leather black shoes had all cost a lot of money in a smart store far back from the frontier.

  While Edge advanced slowly toward him, the man’s shirt collar became limper and began to grey with the salt moisture that dripped on to it from his fleshy jawline.

  ‘Herr Edge, you made me afraid,’ the fat foreigner said quickly, gulping some hot afternoon air into his lungs. ‘I did not mean to cause . . . You threatened my life, did you not?’

  Edge shifted his eyes along their narrowed sockets to glance at the man’s rig. It was a timber-bodied merchant’s delivery wagon with the seat covered by a forward projection of the roof of the enclosed rear. As city style as the man’s garb, but showing more signs of being ravaged by the terrain and climate of the south western trails. But the expertly painted lettering on the side looked to be brand-new: FRITZ VON SCHEEL PURVEYOR OF BEAUTY TO LADIES.

  ‘You’re a long way from home, I figure,’ he said.

  Von Scheel attempted an amiable smile that did not entirely conceal his nervousness. Ja, I am from Germany You will ride with me to Santa Luiz, Herr Edge?’

  The half breed went to the side of the wagon and tossed the bedroll, saddlebag and canteen up on to the seat. He spat on to a front wheel rim and the saliva sizzl
ed on the sun heated metal. He kept the Winchester canted to his shoulder, but shifted his thumb to rest it on the rifle’s hammer.

  ‘The choice is yours, feller,’ he said.

  Confusion became mixed with the German’s apprehension.

  ‘Whether to go for whatever kind of gun you’ve got under your coat,’ Edge explained. ‘I either ride with you, or I ride alone. On account of how things are right now, you’ve got no way of making me walk.’

  CHAPTER TWO

  FRITZ VON SCHEEL started to protest that he had no intention of trying to abandon Edge. That he had been frightened by Edge’s manner in the wake of the accident. Had been prepared to defend himself against an attack

  ‘Just hitch the team,’ the half breed interrupted as he climbed up on to the seat of the wagon, without interrupting his apparently casual watch on the fat German. ‘And there’s no rush. Far as I’m concerned.’

  Von Scheel smiled more brightly and used a red handkerchief to mop the sweat from his face before setting about untangling the harness, a man abruptly relieved of a great burden of doubt.

  Edge watched him for a few moments as he started to roll a cigarette. Then became aware of the cloyingly sweet smell emanating from behind him and peered through a glassless aperture into the wagon’s body. In the light which filtered through a crack between the two rear doors, he saw that the freight was composed of many white cardboard cartons, all labeled in a language he thought was French rather than German. A square of stout paper, folded several times, was wedged between two of the cartons close to the aperture. He pulled it free and unfolded it.

  A military map, printed for the US Army Department of New Mexico and rubber stamped as the property of Department Headquarters, Fort Marcy, Santa Fe. The map was creased, torn and stained from a great deal of use since its date of issue which was December 1865. Just as the recently painted sign on the side of the wagon stood out starkly against its drab and time worn background, so a line of dashes in red ink contrasted with the printed matter on the map. The marks followed a trail from Albuquerque to a point marked Mission of Santa Luiz in the vicinity of Fort West.