Sioux Uprising (Edge series Book 11)

by George G. Gilman

  Edge guessed he was at least sixty and thought he could possibly be a decade older than that. “Don’t let an empty gun worry you, feller,” the half-breed replied softly.

  The old man smacked his lips, showing toothless gums. “I got to be as old as I am by worrying about every little thing that didn’t seem right,” he croaked. “And a guy on his own in this forest don’t seem right. Specially with the Sioux on the warpath. If that there Winchester really is empty, seems even wronger.”

  “You’re on your own,” Edge pointed out easily.

  “I got used to me,” the old man shot back. “What you want in these parts, mister?”

  “Looking for a wife.”

  The old man didn’t even blink. The arrow continued to be aimed at Edge’s heart from a range of less than ten feet. “Acting loco might make the Injuns leave you be, mister. But I’ll kill you easier than spittin’ you don’t start talking sense.”

  “My wife,” Edge went on in the same casual tone. “Raiding party of Sioux hit my farm and took her.”

  The old man made a sound of disgust deep in his throat. “Man wants to marry, ought to stay closer to civilization,” he philosophized. “This ain’t no country for women.”

  Edge had not moved since turning in the saddle to look towards the man. His muscles were beginning to ache from holding the same position for so long. But the unwavering aim of the arrow was a warning against trying to alleviate his discomfort.

  “Obliged for the advice,” the half-breed muttered. “Got anymore?”

  “Turn around and head back where you come from,” came the reply. “If you find your missus, which ain’t likely, you won’t like what you see.”

  Edge shook his head. “Wrong kind, feller. Bunch of braves came through here awhile back, headed north. Where you reckon they’re bound for?”

  “Big war council up at—”

  There was a scuttling among the brush and the old man swung around with lightning speed. He lowered the angle of the bow and released the string. The arrow took the jack rabbit in mid-leap, the needle-sharp point thudding into its neck and bursting through on the other side. Even before the animal’s body hit the ground, the old man had jerked a fresh arrow from his back pouch and fitted it to the taut bow. But, as he whirled to cover Edge again, the half-breed was bringing the Winchester clear of the boot, pumping the action as he did so. Both men got their weapons into a killing position at the same instant. The old man blinked now, and it was the only sign his confidence had been shaken.

  “Force of habit. Never could resist the chance of a snap shot.”

  Edge curled back his lips in a cold grin. “Bad habit,” he said. “Could get you killed.”

  The old man made the throaty sound again. “With an empty gun?”

  “You believed that you wouldn’t be just pointing that sticker at me, feller,” Edge said. He kicked his left foot free of the stirrup and hoisted his leg over the horse’s neck. Then his right foot came loose and he slid to the ground. The aim of the rifle did not leave the old man’s heart. Likewise, the point of the arrow continued to be trained on Edge’s chest, left of centre.

  “Ain’t this what they call a stand-off?” the old man asked.

  “I call it crazy,” Edge replied. “I got no reason to kill you. And I reckon you aimed to hit the tree instead of me.”

  The old man considered the situation for long moments, then nodded and removed the arrow end from the string. He pushed the arrow back into the pouch, lowered the bow and thrust out his right hand.

  “Name’s Rubin,” he said, stepping forward and showing his gums in the closest he could get to a smile. “Been trappin’ in these woods for best part of thirty years.”

  Edge slanted the Winchester across his left shoulder and leaned forward, as if to accept the handshake. Instead, his hand swiveled into a palm upwards gesture, with fingers curled. He swung his arm and the old man gave a cry of alarm and staggered back. But not before the half-breed’s fingers had curled under the eyeglasses and snatched them from the old man’s head.

  “Hell, I can’t see hardly a thing without my glasses! he yelled, gazing myopically about him.

  Edge tossed the spectacles to the side, so that they landed on a patch of soft grass and remained in one piece. As Rubin reached over his shoulder for an arrow, Edge yanked the bow from the bony hand. He thrust one end into the ground and leaned hard on the other. The wood was bent almost double before it snapped with a dry crack. Rubin’s expression twisted, almost as if he felt a physical pain.

  “You stinking, rotten bastard!” he hissed.

  “The lying kind,” Edge replied evenly.

  Rubin’s face showed anger. “Gun weren’t loaded?”

  “But I am,” Edge told him, his voice hardening so that each word was spat out like a chip of jagged rock. “Chock full with hate.” He reached out with his free hand and fastened a tight grip on Rubin’s scrawny neck. “Most of it I’m saving up for the braves who took my wife. But I’ve got enough spare to spend a little on you.”

  “Jesus, what did I do?” Rubin croaked, his voice more rasping than ever now that it had to be forced from his constricted throat.

  “You showed me the wrong end of an arrow,” Edge snarled. “But people who don’t know me get once chance to do something like that. If you ever get the drop on me again, kill me.”

  He tightened his grip and the old man was certain he was about to be throttled. He gasped and brought up his thin hands to try to wrench himself free. But before the almost fleshless fingers could fasten on Edge’s wrist, the half-breed lifted him clear of the ground and flung him backwards. Rubin hit the ground flat-footed, staggered and tumbled backwards. He sat down hard and cracked the back of his hairless head against a tree root.

  “Real tough guy!” Rubin taunted. “Laying into a near-blind man more than twice your age.”

  “Easiest kind,” Edge replied coldly. “Where’s the war council, feller?”

  “I only help friends,” Rubin growled, rubbing his throat. “And one of them you ain’t.”

  Edge sighed and side-stepped to where he had thrown the eyeglasses. “Not good at winning friends,” he admitted. “But I sure can influence people.”

  Rubin was afflicted with acute short-sightedness. Without his eyeglasses he could see only colors and blurred shapes. His eyes bulged and his head craned forward as he followed Edge’s movements. “I don’t scare easy!” he snapped, but the tremor in his voice undermined the boast.

  “That’s okay,” Edge told him easily. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

  The half-breed looked around him, and saw a shaft of sunlight which pierced the foliage and struck the ground six feet from where Rubin was sitting. The old man yelled in alarm as one of his legs was grasped and he was dragged into the patch of sunlight. Edge plucked an arrow from the pouch and held the point hard against Rubin’s throat, a fraction short of breaking the skin. Then he placed a knee on the narrow chest of his victim and thrust the eyeglasses into the bright shaft of sunlight.

  Rubin was forced to remain inert on the ground, with the arrow point threatening death and the concentrated intensity of the sun’s rays through the lens giving a warm promise of agony on the centre of his forehead.

  “Same burning question,” Edge said softly.

  Rubin gulped. His Adam’s apple bobbed and the needle-sharp arrow point punctured his skin. Warm blood trickled from the tiny wound. Rubin’s face was twisted by agony, but not from the cut. The unwavering dot of stark white light on his forehead exploded a searing pain inside his skull.

  “The Peaks!” he shrieked.

  Edge pulled the eyeglasses out of the sunlight. He could smell the charred flesh beneath the black spot on the brown skin. The arrow stayed within a fraction of bringing death to the old man.

  “Far away, feller?”

  “Thirty miles, north.” Each word he spoke raised the lips of the small wound around the arrow point. Sometimes higher than others, to squeeze o
ut fresh blood.

  “Whole bunch of them going to be there?” Edge asked.

  “Every brave in the territory old or young enough to fight,” Rubin answered.

  Edge nodded his satisfaction, then stood up. Rubin remained where he was, one hand massaging the burn on his head while the other fingered the wound at his throat. Edge crossed to pick up the coon-skin hat which had been thrown off when he first hurled Rubin to the ground. He returned to the old man and handed him back his property. Rubin saw him clearly again, and his eyes, enlarged to almost twice their size by the lenses, regarded the half-breed with a mixture of revulsion and fear.

  “One more thing,” Edge asked as he watched Rubin get to his feet.

  “Yeah?”

  “How come you know so much about what the Sioux have planned?”

  Rubin stared hard at Edge, and now his magnified eyes showed only fear. For the half-breed’s expression had become as hard as granite, with his slitted eyes glinting like precious gems through rock faults. The look was one of harsh suspicion, backed by the menace of swift and sure retribution if it was proved correct.

  “Because I pay him to find out!”

  The reply came from behind Edge and was punctuated by the dry clicks of a revolver as it was cocked. Birdsong had been absent for so long that the silence had been no warning this time. Rubin craned to peer around Edge’s tall frame and he showed his gums in a wide grin.

  “Howdy, Mr. Barker!” he yelled, with no attempt to conceal his relief.

  “Drop it!” Rubin’s rescuer demanded.

  Edge let the Winchester fall. “It shouldn’t happen to a dog,” he muttered as he turned around.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Heard voices so I held the boys back and came on ahead,” Barker explained, eyeing Edge as if he considered him some strange specimen of tree but had no interest in natural history. “You want me to blast him?”

  Barker was a well-built man of about thirty, with a two-day growth of grey beard sprouting from his jaw. But the hair on his head and that showing through his unbuttoned shirt front was jet black. He had easy good looks, overlaid with the negligent expression of the casual killer.

  Edge readied himself to dive beneath the aim of the Colt clutched in the man’s steady fist. But Rubin temporarily extracted the tension from the situation.

  “Nah,” the old man rasped. “He busted my bow and I reckon I deserve to give him what he’s got comin’.”

  Barker shrugged. “Sure thing, doc. Okay if the boys bring up the wagon?”

  Rubin chortled. “No offence, Mr. Barker, but it ain’t been just you I was waiting for all week.”

  Barker displayed tobacco-stained teeth. He raised his voice to a shout. “Okay, bring it up here!”

  There were a few moments of silence, during which Rubin circled around Edge and went to stand beside the man with the gun. He looked at the half-breed with relish, like a hungry man anticipating a beef steak. Edge ignored both of them, turning his attention towards the sound of an approaching wagon.

  It was a flatbed drawn by a two horse team, heavily laden and with the freight covered by securely lashed canvas. The driver had to take a zigzagged route, picking out gaps in the trees wide enough to allow the wagon through. Two other men rode atop the concealed freight. When it stopped, all three leapt down, their hands hovering close to their guns as they looked curiously at Edge. They were younger than Barker. In their early twenties or even late teens. Each bore the same signs of long travel as the eldest man - embryo beards and crumpled, slept-in clothing.

  “Trouble?” the man who had been driving the wagon asked.

  “Nothin’ I wouldn’t have been able to handle myself,” Rubin answered confidently, shooting a glance at Barker and receiving a wink of assurance that his secret was safe.

  The trio of youngsters saw the blood on the old man’s throat and the burn mark on his forehead. Then they looked at the unmarked Edge with the broken bow and Winchester at his feet. But none of them showed any interest in pursuing the matter.

  “When will they get here?” the driver asked.

  “Nightfall, I reckon,” Rubin answered.

  “You trust them for the money, doc?”

  Rubin’s chortling laughter was aimed directly at Edge and his enlarged eyes were brim full of joy. “Raidin’ party stole this here feller’s wife. But I hear the braves have been hitting folks all over the territory. Reckon most of them finished the women on the spot and just took the money.”

  Edge marked down the anguish-raising taunt as one more score to settle with Rubin, and re-examined the bulky freight aboard the wagon. It was crated and there was no way to see the contents. But he guessed it was a load of guns and ammunition, with maybe some whiskey.

  “So they got money,” Barker said, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. “But will they hand it over or try to take the merchandise without paying the bill?”

  Rubin rubbed his jaw reflectively. “I know a lot of Injuns better than I know any white man,” he said. “And I wouldn’t trust not one of them further than I can see without my eyeglasses.”

  Barker spat contemptuously. “That’s just dandy,” he growled. “I sunk my whole bankroll into this merchandise. Now you ain’t sure you can swing a deal with the Sioux.”

  His impatience was swelling into anger, and he seemed about to concentrate it upon the old man. But his sense for danger prevented him from making the mistake and he kept his eyes and gun on Edge. The cold indifference of the half-breed was worrying him and contributing to his testiness.

  “Hold on now!” Rubin said hurriedly. “I didn’t say I couldn’t swing the deal, Mr. Barker. Ain’t you never dickered with a guy you didn’t trust?” He looked at Barker for confirmation, but drew no response. The gunman, despite his advantage, seemed to be held in the power of Edge’s steady, hooded-eyed gaze. “Course you have,” Rubin went on. “So you know you have to take precautions. It’s what I’ve done.”

  Barker jerked the gun forward. “There’s a guy I don’t trust,” he growled. “Even though he’s standing there without a hope in hell. If you want to do something about him do it now. Or I’ll blast him for just looking at me like that.”

  The other three gunrunners looked at Barker strangely, then scrutinized Edge. And in his lean frame and inscrutable face they caught something of the aura of evil which had got to Barker.

  Rubin shook his head emphatically. “Nah, Mr. Barker,” he croaked. “I figured the plan I had in mind was pretty safe. But with this feller, we got us a seal on the bargain.”

  The driver cracked a personable grin. “Sounds kinda fishy to me,” he muttered.

  “He might carp about it,” his blond-headed companion put in.

  “Reckon not,” the kid with a mole on his cheek supplemented. “Looks like a good-natured soul.”

  Barker thrust his left hip towards Rubin, offering him the holstered Colt. “You want him, you keep him on the hook,” he instructed.

  The old man hooked out the Colt and pointed it gleefully at Edge as Barker holstered his other gun. “Sure, Mr. Barker,” he said with another chortle. “He won’t get away from me.” His eyes behind the thick lenses became vitriolic. “Ain’t that right, big feller?”

  Edge shrugged easily. “You got the rod, old man,” he answered evenly. “And you can sure shoot a great line.”

  “Turn around and walk!” Rubin snarled.

  Edge did so, but first threw a cold grin towards Barker. “Reckon he’s scared I might blow the gaff?” he asked easily.

  Rubin, with mounting anger, closed in behind Edge, but was careful to stay at better than arm’s length from him.

  “Where we going?” Barker wanted to know.

  “Camped about a quarter of a mile from here,” Rubin replied.

  “Place we’re going to meet with the Sioux?”

  “Reckon they’ll find us there,” the old man told him.

  Cursing, the driver climbed back on to the wagon and had to ste
er another crazy, corkscrewing course through the trees. Barker and the other two men, one of them leading Edge’s horse, followed Rubin’s path.

  The old man had set up his camp at the side of a natural clearing in the forest. There were the ashes of a cooking fire, some dirty pots, a filthy bedroll and a sorry looking horse scattered on an area of level ground which would be shaded at midday. Now, late afternoon sunlight, robbed of intensity, sloped over the tops of the trees on the ridge to the west, casting long, individual shadows. The even ground stretched some forty feet from the trees bounding the south side of the clearing. Then it fell away in a gentle grade, about a hundred and fifty feet long and thirty feet wide.

  “See?” Rubin announced excitedly after ordering Edge to halt. “My idea was to unhitch the team from the wagon and park it at the top of the slope. Then one of the braves would have come up with the money. Soon as we got it we’d shove the wagon down to them.”

  Barker and his men regarded the surrounding timber with distaste. In the still bright light of afternoon the forest held no menace. But each of them knew that at night, even with a moon, they would not be able to see beyond the first ring of trees. The driver brought the wagon into the clearing and sensed that Barker was considering the situation. He spoke a final curse, wiped sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and waited in silence like the others.

  “They could bring up five thousand braves and we wouldn’t know about it,” he said at length.