EDGE: Massacre Mission

by George G. Gilman

  Edge was rolling a cigarette. He finished licking the paper and spat a shred of tobacco off his upper lip. ‘Makes sense, I guess.’

  ‘That is good. What is your name, white eyes?’

  The half breed lit the cigarette and then both men heeled their ponies forward. ‘Edge.’

  Poco Oso vented his short laugh. ‘You pretty sharp one. To know tracker good as me is watching you.’

  ‘You ain’t bad,’ Edge allowed.

  After an easy silence of several minutes while they rode along the ravine, the Apache said: ‘I think you are a white who does not hate Indians only because they are Indians.’

  ‘Just.’

  ‘What you mean?’

  ‘You mean, feller. You mean just because, not only because.’

  The brave’s handsome face showed a frown. ‘My American, it is not so good as I would like.’

  Edge spat sweat off his lips. ‘Hell of a lot better than my Apache.’

  There was another pause in the talk, until Poco Oso said suddenly: ‘I think we get along, Edge. Even if I am son of Chief Ahone who forces you to hunt one of your own kind.’

  ‘We’re all of a kind, feller. Under the $kin.’ He bared his teeth in a cold grin. ‘Do things differently is all. Say this about you. You got a habit of coming over the tops of rocks. Not crawling out from under them.’

  The brave’s grin had some warmth in it. ‘So Poco Oso, son of Chief Ahone, and the white eyes Edge can be friends?’

  The half breed’s expression was briefly marred by a grimace of anger as he recalled the vivid image of the tension charged scene before the bench by the aspen grove, when Ahone was making his demands.

  Then he became impassive as the growled: ‘I stood for your Pa, feller. Figure for awhile I can stand you.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  IT TOOK two hours to ride the rest of the way through the ravines, then the best part of another hour along a curving canyon to reach Thunderhead. So much for Amelia Randall’s claim that the cross country route from Santa Luiz was shorter than over the trails. Only for crows.

  There was little talk between Poco Oso and Edge, and what they did say to each other was confined to a disjointed resum6 of the details of the crime of Fritz von Scheel by the Indian, and grunted or terse acknowledgements by the half breed. As they drew closer to their objective the less the Apache volunteered, withdrawing into a taciturn shell and attempting to conceal the reason behind a mask of impassivity.

  When he first became aware of the change in the brave, Edge thought he was merely tense at the prospect of finding the German in town. But by the time the buildings of Thunderhead began to take shape in the shimmering heat haze of noon, the half breed had changed his opinion, Poco Oso was one scared Apache.

  The whites in this place ain’t so unprejudiced as me, uh?’

  ‘What you mean?’ The Indian continued to gaze fixedly at the buildings clustered in a fold between two low rises, about a mile south west of the mouth of the curved canyon.

  ‘Apaches are Apaches and they don’t like them?’

  ‘I have heard stories,’ the Indian answered. ‘But words do not frighten me.’ Having said this, he gave every appearance of beating his fear. Certainly there was sincerity in his tone and expression when he looked at Edge to add: ‘I will come into the settlement of the white eyes with you. But it is important you know this is to help you in the task my father demands of you. Not because I do not trust you to do it.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ the half breed told him as they angled their ponies on to the trail, a few yards away from the crudely made and lettered town marker that proclaimed the name of the community.

  The rough hewn marker with its sun-faded lettering was in keeping with the unimposing town. The single street curved on an upgrade between two barren hills at the base of a much higher and steeper incline, which formed the outline of an arrowhead pointed to the south. That it was a mining town could be seen from the many claims which had been staked on the rugged slopes in back of Thunderhead. There were holes laboriously sunk into the rocky ground all over the slopes. Some miners had crude shacks nearby, others lived in tents and a few in derelict covered wagons. There were gallows frames, sluices and rockers on a few of the claims. On others just shovels and forks and pails and pans. Much of the equipment was now discarded, left to rot on the sun baked mountainside. Less than a quarter of the more than a hundred claims were still being worked, the smoke from cooking fires providing a ready reference to those shafts owned by miners who were still hitting paydirt.

  Because of a downdraught caused by the formation of the high ground, this smoke drifted across the slopes and merged with that from the chimneys of many of the buildings which flanked the fifty feet wide street, to form an acrid tasting, eye stinging haze.

  There were no sidewalks on the street and just a few of the buildings which were stepped up its sloping curve had stoops. Like the claims which were the reason for the existence of the town of Thunderhead, some of the single storey, timber or adobe built business premises had been abandoned. Opened doors and smoking chimneys distinguished those which were occupied from those which were not.

  Few owners took the time and trouble to combat the ravages of the elements that patiently and relentlessly took their toll of anything man-made in country such as this. Paint was peeled or bubbled. Cracked windows went unrepaired and broken ones were fixed with boarding. Roof eaves sagged and shingles were askew. Metal rusted and timber warped. Dust was piled like drifted snow wherever the wind had driven it. Bottles, cans, cartons, crates, paper, old clothing, building materials and leftover food littered the street and the areas between the buildings.

  ‘They are like the beasts of the fields, depositing their waste wherever it pleases them,’ the Apache muttered as they started up the street, which for as far as they could see to the curve was deserted.

  ‘It ain’t bullshit you’re talking, feller,’ Edge growled.

  The drug store and the bakery were still in business on this lower end of the street. A loan agency and a fruit store were not. A man named Macdonald who was a carpenter no longer worked in a small adobe building shared with a printer who had also left town.

  A bank across from a shuttered paint store was still in operation. A tailor had left Thunderhead. Likewise an attorney at law named Baldwin, a dentist called Overbay, one Joseph Wilde who claimed to be the best photographer in the west and Miss Carter a music teacher. All had made their livings from tiny timber shacks which were little more than booths.

  From the centre of the curve to where the street petered out and became a track at the base of the steeper ground, from which many spurs branched off towards the claims, there were fewer failed businesses. The signs were painted along the fronts of buildings or on shingles jutting out over doorways. In their mixtures of colors and varied styles of lettering as untidy and ugly as everything else about Thunderhead. The smells of cooking, burning tobacco, horses, stale liquor, sweat and other human wastes almost masked the taint of woodsmoke in this section of town.

  A dog sprawled out on its side in the hot shade of the stoop roof in front of The Fresh Meat Market was the only living thing the newcomers had seen since reaching town. But both were aware of watching eyes. Many pairs of them, following their progress with hostility.

  The only sound which reached out into the street from any of the buildings was that of an out-of-tune piano playing a mournful tune behind the frosted glass windows of the dancehall.

  The only building in this area of town that was obviously abandoned, with the window empty of glass, the door off its hinges and a roof partially collapsed, was the goal and law office. Several bullet holes in the facade and areas of fire scorching around the window and doorway indicated there had been violent trouble before Thunderhead lost its lawman.

  ‘Need something with more taste than water to lay the trail dust in my throat,’ Edge said as he tugged on the reins to head for the hitching rail out front of The Mother L
ode Saloon.

  ‘I will wait outside with the horses,’ Poco Oso answered, continuing to look suspiciously around.

  ‘Ain’t you thirsty, feller?’

  The both of them dismounted and hitched the reins to the rail.

  ‘From the stories I hear, my kind can do the bad work in this town. But they not allowed in the white eyes places.’

  ‘A man can never be sure of anything until he’s tried it for himself,’ Edge growled. ‘But stay thirsty if you want.’

  He turned his back on the Apache who was obviously in two minds and a while away from reaching a decision, and pushed through the batwings which opened directly into the saloon off the street.

  The place was deeper than it was wide, with a fifty feet long bar running down the left hand side. There was sawdust on the floor in front of the bar. A dozen and a half chairs ringed tables and half as many spittoons. Ceiling hung kerosene lamps. Walls of natural colored adobe and an untreated timber roof. Four large mirrors with glass and bottle-lined shelves in front of them at the back of the bar. The furniture was solid and of good quality but time and uncaring customers had mistreated it.

  The Mother Lode smelled like every saloon Edge had ever been in. And it would have been easy to think that he had seen the two bartenders and ten customers many times before.

  The two leather-aproned men behind the counter were in their fifties and as much alike to be brothers: tall and broad with fat bellies. Their black hair was receding from the foreheads and their mean-eyed, wan colored and heavily joweled faces were unshaven.

  A quartet of their customers were seated at a table, playing cards and pretending to show no interest in the newcomer. They were also in their fifties and were cleanly dressed, freshly shaved that morning, and with soft hands. Storekeepers or clerks.

  Three tougher and younger looking men sat at a nearby table, sharing a bottle of rye and making no attempt to hide their curiosity about the half breed. Like the beer drinking card players, they carried no guns that showed. Miners, maybe.

  A tall, thin man with the complexion of a sot was leaning on the bar counter at the very back of the saloon. He was at least seventy and he wore a suit that was too large for him and a Stetson that was too small. He was concerned only with the half empty glass of flat beer in front of him. Perhaps trying to work out if he would fall over should he raise an elbow from the bartop to drink the beer.

  The other two customers also stood at the bar. They were in their forties, tall and broad and muscular. Dressed in work clothes and with knives in sheaths hung on their belts, the dirt of many years hard work ingrained into the pores of their flesh. Maybe a week since they had shaved.

  More men off the claims, perhaps. Drinking beer and watching Edge in one of the mirrors.

  ‘How are you, stranger? What can I get you?’ the bartender with a wart on the point of his jaw greeted, unsmiling.

  ‘Dry, and a beer to ease that,’ the half breed answered.

  ‘You like Apaches, mister?’

  This from the slightly taller, red-headed man at the bar, who was five feet away and closest to where Edge stood.

  ‘Don’t stir the shit, Earl,’ the bartender growled as he drew the beer and set it down in front of his new customer.

  ‘Earl just asked a plain and simple question, Jordan,’ the other man at the bar put in. He had been hurt in a knife fight. The scar was livid and puckered, running three inches across his left cheek.

  ‘And the stranger ain’t givin’ me no answer, Jesse,’ Earl complained in the same dull tone as before.

  Edge continued to drink his beer, allowing the cool liquid to run slowly down his dusty throat.

  ‘And you two ain’t bought but the one shot each since you come in. Hour ago.’ He put the half breed’s money in a pocket of his apron and exchanged a sour look with the other bartender.

  Edge emptied his glass and set it down. Said to Jordan: ‘Took care of my dryness, feller. Like a drink now. Rye.’

  ‘Don’t reckon you’re hard of hearin’, mister,’ Earl said.

  Edge allowed his eyes to meet those of the man in the mirror. ‘You talking to me?’

  ‘I seed you ride in. On an Apache pony. Along with an Apache on an Apache pony.’

  ‘You know I ain’t deaf and now I know you ain’t blind, feller,’ Edge answered, and paid for the drink Jordan had poured. ‘Anything else we should know about each other before we go our separate ways?’

  ‘Sassy sonofabitch, ain’t he, Earl?’ Jesse growled.

  ‘Take care you guys,’ one of the miners at the table warned, sounding a little nervous. ‘He packs a gun and looks like the kind of guy knows how to use it.’

  ‘I saw that,’ Jordan put in quickly. ‘And I told them not to stir the shit, didn’t I?’

  The card game came to a sudden end and chair legs scraped on the floor. Beer was hurriedly tossed against the backs of throats.

  ‘Afternoon, Jordan. George.’

  The other three storekeepers muttered their goodbyes and then all four hustled out of the saloon.

  ‘Great, ain’t it, George?’ Jordan snarled. ‘They ain’t drinkin’ themselves and now they stir the shit to drive out the customers that are.’

  ‘If you ain’t deaf, you heard my question, mister?’

  Edge threw the rye down his throat and relished the glow it left in its wake. Asked: ‘Did they hang your Pa for horse stealing and was your Ma a buck-an-a-half whore in Virginia City?’

  ‘Son of a friggin’ bitch.’ Jesse spoke the words very clearly.

  The piano played softly in the distance, the music still mournful. Then the batwings flapped. Footfalls sounded softly on the sawdust layered floor. Edge saw rage spread across the reflected face of Earl in the mirror. Then glimpsed an image of Poco Oso coming toward him.

  ‘Oh, this is gonna do it,’ Jesse added.

  ‘Get that stinkin’ Indian out of this place!’ Earl roared, whirling away from the bar.

  Edge did not fall into the trap of the distraction. Kept his narrowed eyed gaze fixed upon Earl. First in the mirror, then in the flesh. So he was aware of the knife being drawn from the sheath before he turned to face the big man. And had the Frontier Colt drawn and cocked by the time Earl lunged toward him, left hand reaching to grab the front of his shirt and right fisted around the knife handle for an upward thrust at the crotch.

  The brown skinned hand wrapped around the butt of the revolver moved only fractionally. The trigger finger squeezed.

  Gasps of shock accompanied the gunshot. Earl halted his move and dropped both arms to his side, looking down at his big booted feet. There was a hole neatly drilled in the cap of the left boot and blood oozed up out of it, darkening in hue as it was stained by dust.

  ‘I don’t friggin’ believe it,’ Earl rasped He leaned heavily against the bar counter, weakened by shock rather than pain.

  Edge tracked the Colt slightly to the side and thumbed back the hammer. Squeezed the trigger a second time.

  Earl groaned and swung to face the counter, holding on to it with both hands - one of them still fisted the knife. His stance was twisted and awkward for his feet, both now bleeding, did not move.

  ‘Once maybe,’ Edge said evenly. ‘But there ain’t no denying twice, I figure.’

  ‘Jesus!’ one of the seated miners hissed.

  Earl started to slide down the front of the bar. But Jesse stepped quickly forward and supported him with a thick arm across his shoulder blades, hand under an armpit. His knife scarred face expressed horror and revulsion as he stared over his partner’s sagging head at the half breed.

  ‘You gotta be the meanest sonofabitch I ever did lay eyes on, mister,’ he tried to snarl. But he sounded only husky.

  ‘Figure you ain’t been around much.’

  ‘Damnit, I’m startin’ to hurt, Jesse,’ Earl growled. ‘Get me to a chair, why don’t you.’

  ‘Sure, old buddy.’

  Jesse exhibited his obvious strength by lifting Earl
with a smooth easiness, carrying him to a chair vacated by one of the storekeepers and lowering him into it.

  Edge extracted the spent shell cases from his Colt and reloaded the gun while he watched the three miners at the table recover from their shock and start to stoke their anger.

  ‘Mister,’ Jordan said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘You’re a stranger hereabouts and it don’t appear Earl and you know each other from some other place.’

  ‘I don’t have to know a man to shoot him, feller.’

  ‘But how’d you know the way to rile Earl the way you did? How’d you know his Ma and Pa back on the farm in Pennsylvania are the only folks he gives anythin’ close to a damn about?’

  ‘Didn’t. Used them to make a point. What he thinks of his folks is the same as my opinion of Apaches. Our own business.’ He holstered the Colt and glanced to where the brave had been standing, midway between the batwings and the bar, since Earl launched his ill-fated attack. Asked: ‘What’s your poison feller?’

  ‘I like whisky,’ Poco Oso answered, his readiness to meet more trouble far more obvious than the tension within Edge.

  ‘Then you buy it someplace else, redskin!’ Jordan growled.

  ‘Attaboy!’ Earl snarled through teeth clenched in an evil grin.

  ‘He ain’t buying,’ Edge said, and placed a dollar bill on the bartop beside his empty glass. ‘I am. Owe him.’

  Jesse moved away from the chair in which the helpless Earl sat with the blood starting to congeal on the toecaps of his boots. Chair legs scraped on the floor, one of the chairs tipping over backwards, as the three men who had been seated at the next table got to their feet. George moved up alongside Jordan. Each man wore an expression of depthless hatred for the Apache, and in his stance was an unshakable determination to uphold the racially prejudiced rule of the house.

  Earl continued with his evil grin, anticipating revenge for his treatment by Edge.

  The old timer with the ill-fitting clothes who had shown only mild interest in events after the two shots, was back contemplating his flat beer.