EDGE: Massacre Mission

by George G. Gilman

  He gave a grunt of satisfaction and became less rigid in his stance when the three revolvers sailed across the office and came to rest at his feet, and three pairs of arms were again thrust into the hot air.

  ‘What’s with this, Hoy?’ Larsen asked as the town began to feed sounds into the law office. The voices of men, the snorts of horses. Footfalls and hooves on the street. Doors opening and closing. Some laughter.

  ‘Our business, mister. And when it’s done, you can get on with your own. Right now, herd yourself into the other cell.’

  Edge was the first of the trio to comply with the order, his lean face betraying no clue to what he was thinking. Larsen mouthed a curse as he followed the half breed’s example. The Apache looked like he was determined not to do as he was told.

  ‘He lied about you,’ Edge said to the Indian as he swung open the cell door and shot a glance at Poco Oso. ‘You he’d love to kill.’

  ‘Damn right.’

  The Apache, a silent snarl fixed on his face, joined the two white men in the cell. Hoy came into the law office, kicked the barred door closed, turned the key that was already in the lock and withdrew it. His shotgun had wavered a little when he held it in one hand, but the twin muzzles were a constant threat.

  ‘Thank Christ,’ George muttered.

  Hoy opened a drawer of the desk, dropped the key inside and closed the drawer. This as Jordan and George withdrew from the window.

  ‘You heard it all?’ Larsen asked bitterly.

  ‘Enough after I come down from the claim to find out what the shootin’ was about. And Jesse Pardoe filled me in about the gunslinger and the Apache causin’ trouble.’

  ‘You’re goin’ about this the wrong way, Hoy. You people are so full of hate for the Apaches you ain’t takin’ the time to think out how—’

  ‘Didn’t take much thinkin’,’ Hoy cut in. ‘After I heard about the Apaches bein’ up at Santa Luiz ready to slaughter the old folks there. Knew right off what I was gonna do. Sent Jesse to tell folks to get ready and have the Woodin brothers bring their guns to give me a hand and put you men on ice. Then when I heard this here stinkin’ Indian say he was the son of the chief. Well, shit, I don’t see no way we can go wrong.’

  He went to the doorway and glanced out on to the street where the dust raised by restless horses floated in the smoke haze.

  ‘Looks like we’re about ready to leave,’ he told the prisoners. ‘Be back to turn you folks loose soon as it’s done.’

  He swung out of the doorway, yelling for somebody to bring him his horse. One animal’s hooves clopped on the surface of the sloping street. Then Hoy yelled: ‘Let’s go get them, boys!’

  It was impossible to tell how many horses were heeled into a gallop down the curving street. Some of the dust disturbed by the pumping hooves drifted into the law office, and settled before the sounds of the departing riders had faded from earshot.

  Nobody was playing the piano anymore.

  ‘Damnit to hell!’ Larsen snarled, smashing his right fist into the palm of his left hand.

  Von Scheel, who had curtailed his silent sobs after hearing Hoy’s plan, laughed harshly as he got awkwardly to his feet. He picked up his hat and placed it on his head. ‘I am saved from the Apache Indians,’ he murmured gratefully.

  Now he was able to return the hate filled gaze of Poco Oso with a stare of triumphant defiance.

  ‘Chief Ahone will care nothing that his son is a hostage of Apache hating white eyes,’ the brave said coldly, interrupting his concentration on the German to share an intense look between Edge and Larsen. ‘There will be much blood spilled at the Mission of Santa Luiz so that he may live long enough to be hanged.’

  The marshal nodded, grimacing around his cheroot. ‘You don’t have to tell me, Indian. I know Apaches well enough. And locked up in this gaol, there ain’t a damn thing we can do to stop a massacre at the mission.’ He eyed Edge balefully, as if he felt the half breed was entirely to blame for what had happened.

  ‘Something you want, feller?’

  ‘Yeah, mister. I want outta here.’ He gripped the bars of the door and rattled them. ‘But when folks hit this place it wasn’t hard enough. Cells are as secure as they ever were. Ain’t no way out but through the friggm’ door.’

  Edge had been rolling a cigarette. He pushed it into a corner of his mouth and said: ‘So I figure that’s our only chance.’

  ‘Terrific!’ Larsen snarled as he whirled angrily to face the half breed. ‘How we gonna do it? Kick the damn door down?’

  Edge raised a hand and Larsen rocked his head back, as if expecting to be hit. But the brown skinned hand merely pulled the cheroot from his mouth, to place its burning end to the cigarette. A gentle intake of breath caused the fresh tobacco to catch light from the glowing ash and then Edge handed the cheroot back.

  ‘Obliged.’

  Larsen replaced the cheroot in his mouth and demanded: ‘Well, mister, you gonna answer me?’

  ‘Seems to me,’ Edge said evenly, ‘that since you locked a prisoner in that other cell, you could have the key to our problem.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘HOT DAMN!’ the lawman exclaimed and delved a hand into a pocket of his pants. ‘Why the hell didn’t I remember that?’

  ‘Because you worry too much about other people and not enough about yourself,’ the half breed replied as Larsen drew out a key.

  ‘Your kind always puts number one first,’ the marshal growled swinging toward the door and reaching through the bars to push the key into the lock.

  Edge moved casually across the cell to the row of bars that divided it from the one in which von Scheel was held. The German was close by on the other side, staring in horror as the black-clad lawman struggled to turn the key in the lock.

  ‘In this number, feller, I’m the one the old timers at the mission are relying on.’

  ‘Damn, it don’t fit!’ Larsen groaned.

  Edge took a final half stride forward, powered his right arm through the bars of the partition. A cry of alarm escaped the German as Edge fastened a grip on his fleshy left wrist. Then the hapless mass-killer screamed in pain as Edge wrenched him hard and fast against the bars.

  ‘Figured it wouldn’t,’ he said evenly. ‘Seeing as how the key Hoy used to keep us here was already in the lock.’

  Von Scheel tried to pull away, but Edge forced the man’s arm hard against the bars, threatening to snap it at the elbow. Pain showed in beads of sweat and the veins which stood out like blue cords at the man’s temples and neck.

  ‘What the hell, mister?’ Larsen demanded.

  ‘I vill shout for help,’ von Scheel rasped. ‘There vill be people left in this town to make sure ve do not escape.’

  Edge reached up his left hand as if to scratch his neck under the long black hair. But when it emerged it was fisted around the handle of the straight razor.

  Von Scheel whispered something in German as the flat of the blade was rested on the bulge of his cheek between two bars, the point no more than a quarter of an inch below a wide, green eye.

  ‘You’re nothing to nobody, here or anywhere else,’ the half breed reminded softly. ‘Except a corpse on the hoof. If you’re ready for the slaughter now, start yelling. Or don’t do what I’m going to tell you. I don’t figure whoever comes running will love me any the less for seeing you with your brains trickling out of your eye socket.’

  ‘Ja, ja,’ the fat drummer rasped. ‘I vill do vhat you say, You tell me.’

  ‘Edge, damn it, let us in on—’

  ‘Out is what you said you wanted,’ the half breed interrupted Larsen. ‘Reach through and unhook the lariat off your saddle.’

  The confused and angry lawman was slow to respond. But the Apache was quick to go down on his haunches and do the half breed’s bidding.

  ‘Fine,’ Edge said and altered his grip on the German, to take hold of the forearm. ‘Now tie an end around his wrist. Real tight. Not a slipknot.’

  Poco Oso did
this, while von Scheel trembled and began again to mutter a prayer in his native language. And Larsen watched what was happening with a frown of puzzlement creasing his brow. The Apache wrenched hard on the rope to check the knot was secure and the German’s plea to a higher authority was curtailed by a groan of pain.

  Edge grinned as he released his hold on the man and transferred it to the rope, ‘Reason I didn’t have him tie it around your neck, feller.’ He replaced the razor in the neck pouch. ‘Larsen, gave him the key of his cell.’

  What?’

  Again the Apache responded fast while the lawman was hampered by doubt. He reached out, plucked the key from Larsen’s hand and gave it to Edge. Who pushed it through the bars, but kept hold of it when von Scheel gripped it.

  ‘Here’s what you’re going to do,’ the half breed said evenly. ‘Go to the door and open it. Walk across to the desk, get the key from the drawer and bring it back here. Give it to me.’

  Edge let go of the key. It dropped from von Scheel’s trembling, sweat greasy fingers.

  ‘I’ll make allowances for mistakes, feller,’ Edge went on. ‘But if you try to do anything to queer this, you’re good as dead. Pick up the key and start.’

  ‘I am good as dead vhatever I do,’ von Scheel said in despair.

  ‘While there’s life there’s hope,’ the half breed pointed out. Toco Oso.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Show him your knife.’

  The Apache did so, drawing the weapon from the sheath on his weapons belt. Von Scheel swallowed hard.

  ‘I’ll just do the hauling back, feller. Then tie you to these bars. Facing us. Be up to the Apache Indian here to finish it then. And with no place to go, I guess he won’t be in any hurry.’

  Edge had his back to Poco Oso, but the German could see the brave and he nodded vigorously.

  ‘I vill do as you ask.’

  The half breed gave the rope some slack and von Scheel stooped to retrieve the key. Then moved shakily across the cell to the door, where he reached between the bars with his untethered hand and inserted the key in the lock. It turned smoothly. He hesitated, leaning against the bars.

  ‘The Indian is lookin’ real eager for you to try somethin’, mister!’ Larsen rasped.

  The German groaned and used his free hand to wipe sweat from his face.

  ‘Shut up, Marshal,’ Edge murmured, low voiced but menacing. ‘He ain’t no use to us passed out from fear.’

  Von Scheel swung open the door and stepped across the threshold, starting toward the desk after just a yearning glance at the doorway and sun bright street beyond.

  Edge allowed him only the slack comprised of the natural sag of the lariat rope.

  The German reached the desk and looked back at the trio of men in the locked cell. There was hatred showing through the fear on his fleshy face now.

  Poco Oso reached forward with the knife, running the flat of the blade fast along four bars. Then back again. Terror to the exclusion of all other emotions reasserted its hold on every line of von ScheeFs face. Then, with a German curse, he yanked open the drawer, reached inside with his free hand and came out with the key. But now he deviated from the instructions Edge had given him. Instead of returning the way he went, he came directly toward the door of the locked cell. He stopped short and held the key up for all to see.

  ‘Come on, you bastard,’ Larsen urged grimly.

  ‘I ask for your vord,’ the German said to Edge.

  ‘Or what?’ the half breed countered.

  ‘I vill throw the key out of the vindow and begin to scream for help. As you have said, I am nothing to the people here. But they vould not allow me to suffer slow death by an Apache Indian.’

  He ignored Larsen’s rasped curse and continued to gaze at the impassive face of Edge. ‘So you make me promise, Mein Herr?’

  Edge nodded. ‘I’ll kill you myself rather than hand you over to Ahone and his braves, feller.’

  Poco Oso grunted his displeasure and again rattled his knife back and forth along the bars. Which drew the German’s fear filled green eyes to him. But the hapless mass killer soon returned his attention to the half breed, reached a decision and inserted the key in the lock. Then backed off.

  Larsen turned the key and swung open the door. Said to the angered brave: ‘Loan me your knife, Indian.’

  Poco Oso growled a single word of his native language.

  ‘Do it, feller,’ Edge instructed, still gripping the rope. This ain’t the time or place to argue out our differences.’

  In a blur of speed, the Apache surrendered his knife. But ignored Larsen’s outstretched hand to send the weapon spinning through the open doorway. The marshal cursed and threw himself against the wall. The blade sank an inch into the side of the desk and the handle quivered with the force of the impact.

  There was contempt in the brave’s voice when he said: ‘If I had wanted to kill you, white eyes lawman, you could not have moved fast enough.’

  ‘Sonofabitch!’ Larsen rasped.

  ‘Attend to your prisoner,’ Edge snapped.

  And the marshal did so: going to the desk, withdrawing the knife from the wood, using it to cut the rope a foot short of where it was tied around one of von ScheePs wrists. Then, as Edge coiled the lariat, Larsen bound both wrists of the submissive German.

  Poco Oso went out of the cell, reclaimed his knife, dropped to his hands and knees and approached the glassless window.

  ‘Our ponies are gone,’ he reported.

  Edge rehooked the lariat on the saddle as he left the cell. Asked of Larsen: ‘Where’s the drummer’s wagon and team?’

  ‘Down at the livery stable.’

  ‘You see anybody watching this place, Poco Oso?’

  ‘No. But that does not mean nobody is on guard.’

  Edge remained upright, but moved fast to press himself against the wall at one side of the doorway. On the threshold the revolvers surrendered to Hoy still lay where they had fallen. From this position he had a restricted view of a section of the broad street and a line of buildings on the far side. The Mother Lode Saloon, Canning’s Dry Goods Store, the barber’s parlor and Charlie’s Livery Stables.

  This area of Thunderhead looked as empty as it was silent in the smoke hazed heat of afternoon. But the half breed doubted it was what it seemed. And in a brief exchange of glances with the crouching Poco Oso he knew that the Apache also sensed the front of the battle ravaged law office was under surveillance.

  ‘We ain’t locked up any more, but we’re still prisoners, uh?’ Larsen asked.

  ‘We know of one feller who was in no condition to ride,’ Edge muttered.

  ‘And that Earl Smithson will be itchin’ to make you and the Indian pay.’

  ‘We have to figure he ain’t on his toes,’ the half breed growled, interrupting his concentration on the broad, deserted street and the blank facade of the buildings on the far side, to direct his slit eyed gaze first at Poco Oso and then Larsen who was still gripping the rope which bound von Scheel’s wrists. ‘The saloon is where we have to get to. I’ll go first, to the right. You go to the left soon as I’m clear of the doorway. You get over here fast and give us covering fire if there’s any shooting.’

  ‘Damnit, there could be a dozen sharp-shooters in positions to start blastin’ at this place in the event any of us shows ourselves,’ Larsen pointed out sourly.

  ‘You got anything in mind except worry about what could be, feller?’

  The marshal scowled.

  ‘I’m ready, white eyes,’ the Apache said.

  Edge dropped into a crouch as the brave moved from the window to the opposite side of the doorway. Both shot a glance at Larsen who held the scowl, but nodded as he let go of von Scheel. The German backed into a corner where he would be safe from any stray bullets that found entrance through doorway or window. With his hands bound at his back, he had to try to blink the sweat beads from his eyes.

  ‘Move!’

  The half breed powered forwar
d, snatching up his Frontier Colt and lunging out into the brilliant sunlight. Heading for the dry goods store to the right of the saloon.

  The Apache was a half second behind him, grabbing his ancient Navy Colt and making a dash for the Chinese laundry which was across an alley to the left of The Mother Lode.

  A moment later the lawman showed himself briefly in the doorway to claim his fancy handled Remington, then ducked back to stand in the place Edge had vacated.

  The half breed was tensely aware of the risk that he and the others were running, but calculated it was a lot less than Larsen’s anxious estimate. For those citizens of Thunderhead who carried grudges against the Apaches would be riding for Santa Luiz. And of those who remained in town, how many cared one way or the other about the four men no longer locked in the cells? While of those who felt Hoy and his followers were doing the right thing, what number were prepared to kill and risk being killed in a gunfight with the escapers? He guessed there would be few ready to take a hand in a dangerous situation that was none of their concern.

  He and the Apache were a quarter way across the street towards their objectives. When a man shrieked:

  ‘Shit, they’re loose!’

  It was Earl Smithson, his voice revealing his position behind a window of the saloon, before the glass was holed and shattered in a sun glinting spray across the street as he blasted a bullet through it. The shot from the rifle was reflex, exploded wildly by a surprised man.

  Edge had no idea where it went, felt no rush of air or thud of impact as he veered from the straight to begin a zig-zagging course toward his objective. And on the periphery of his vision saw the Apache adopt the same tactic.

  The man with the bullet-holed feet had a repeater: against the thud of footfalls on the dusty street Edge heard the series of metallic clicks as a spent shell was ejected and a fresh round jacked into the breech.

  He and Poco Oso were three-quarters of the way across the street by then. And they both fired their revolvers at the shattered window. The range was too long for a handgun and as they were running in crouches the chances of accuracy were further reduced.