Sioux Uprising (Edge series Book 11)

by George G. Gilman

  Some of Rubin’s excitement drained away. “Hell, Mr. Barker,” he complained. “We’re dealin’ with Sioux Injuns. You ain’t never goin’ to get no cast iron guarantees when you do that. You gotta take risks.”

  Barker spat, then jerked his head towards Edge. “Where does this joker fit in?”

  Rubin’s gums showed in a new grin as he met the cold, indifferent eyes of the lean half-breed. “For my first plan, one of us would have had to stay out in the open to dicker with the Injuns. But now we got us a front man.”

  “Lay it out, doc,” Barker invited.

  The old man did so, his scratchy voice tremulous as he enjoyed the pleasure of holding an audience. Barker responded to the plan with a nod, acquiescing without enthusiasm.

  “Guess it’ll have to do,” he said, and glanced at Edge. “Hate to be in your boots, feller.”

  Edge shrugged. “Be too big for a punk like you.”

  Barker’s expression darkened with anger and he took a step towards Edge, hand curling around the butt of his Colt.

  “Hey!” Rubin shouted a warning. “We gotta keep him in one piece.”

  Barker brought himself under control, and swung towards the expectant trio of youngsters. “Light the fire and fix some grub and coffee!” he rapped out. “Might be a long wait.”

  “It’ll seem like a lifetime to him,” Rubin said with a chortle, jerking the revolver in Edge’s direction.

  Aware of his importance to the gun-runners, Edge turned his back on the men and ambled over to the shady side of the trees behind the campsite. Rubin opened his toothless mouth to halt him, but realized his mistake in allowing the half-breed to overhear the plan. So all he could do was follow him. Edge ignored the old man and sat down, taking out the makings and rolling a cigarette. Rubin squatted down ten feet away and pointed the Colt.

  While the driver relit the fire, the two other youngsters unloaded a sack of supplies and four Winchesters from behind the wagon seat. Barker stretched out in the shade under the wagon, the worried frown on his face revealing his lack of faith in Rubin’s plan.

  “Tell me something,” Edge said casually when he had smoked half the cigarette in silence.

  “Why do folks call me doc?” Rubin anticipated, the gummy grin splitting his face again.

  Edge nodded. “Can’t be because you fix up great operations. This one stinks.”

  Rubin’s good humor expanded into a chortle. “Can’t expect you to figure anythin’ else,” he allowed. “No, I’m called doc ’cause I end people’s sufferin’, feller. Lived in Injun land for a long time, so I’ve found more than enough folk dyin’ slow deaths. I finish them off - quick like.”

  Edge saw the relish on the old man’s face as his twisted mind recalled the countless tortured men he had killed.

  As the meal was cooked and eaten - with Edge being offered nothing since Rubin maintained it was a waste to give food to a man due to die - the sun sank below the far side of the ridge. The light turned from yellow, through orange, into red. The moon appeared, almost full, as a pale white blob against the blueness of the sky. Then evening reached into night, as the gunrunners slept and Rubin continued his vigil over the prisoner.

  There was no breeze to rustle the leaves of the surrounding trees. A crow winged overhead, croaking raucously, and settled on to its nest. Barker belched himself awake and blinked against the moonlight. An owl hooted, close at hand. Edge’s horse stamped. The trees seemed to close in around the clearing, like an enveloping curtain of funereal black.

  “Hey, doc!” Barker called.

  “Yeah, it’s time,” Rubin replied, getting to his feet and gesturing for Edge to stand.

  Barker rolled out from under the wagon and went to each of his men in turn, nudging them awake with the toe of his boot. Then, while Rubin continued to keep a close watch on Edge, Barker and his companions man-handled the wagon to the top of the slope, with its front wheels only an inch away from the start of the incline. This done, they picked up their rifles and moved off into the trees in back of the camp. Grunts and curses exploded from their lips as they climbed the gnarled trunks and settled into vantage points among the branches.

  “You got him covered?” Rubin asked when stillness returned to the clearing.

  “Like he was an apple in a barrel,” Barker answered.

  The others grunted to indicate that they had the half-breed in their rifle sights. Rubin pursed his lips in a silent whistle and thrust the Colt into the waistband of his pants. His eyeglasses gleamed dully in the blue-tinted moonlight.

  “You know what you gotta do, feller?” the old man asked.

  “Know what I’m going to do,” Edge answered, curling back his lips in a cruel grin.

  Anger made Rubin’s face uglier than ever. “You got the choice, mister. Do like I told you and die easy. Cross me up and it’ll be slow. And you’ll have no reason to call me doc while I watch you die.”

  “Let’s see which of us turns out to be the patient one, doc,” Edge answered.

  Rubin seemed about to issue another warning, but the snort of a horse far off in the trees halted him. “Get up there!” he hissed.

  Edge fixed Rubin with a glinting stare, held it for a few moments, then hauled himself up on to the seat of the precariously parked buckboard. The old man gave a curt nod of satisfaction, then turned and loped off into the trees. When the sound of his climbing was done, the noise of the approaching Sioux Indians kept silence at bay.

  Edge peered down the slope, conscious of the rifles trained upon him: and of the equally clear target he would present to the Indians when they sighted him. He ignored Rubin’s threat and the danger of the white men’s rifles. If he should step out of line, they could not fire: because that was the plan - to let the Sioux take and torture him. He would only be shot, and thus die quickly, if he carried off the deal.

  So the Indian braves - he counted eight of them, mounted on ponies - who had broken into the open and halted at the foot of the slope, were the immediate danger. They had white warpaint daubed on their faces, but wore no head feathers. Their clothing comprised fringed buckskin pants and sleeveless tunics fastened with thongs down the front. Two carried lances and the others had bows hooked over their shoulders.

  Edge could see the whites of their eyes as they stared up the slope, picking out his form and the shape of the wagon against the less solid shadow of the trees in which the white men were concealed. He heard the murmur of the conversation as the braves discussed the situation. Although he could not understand a single word of the dialect, he detected a tone of apprehension in their soft chatter.

  Then: “You got the guns for us?” one of the lance-bearers called, speaking English with a guttural accent.

  Edge remained silent and the seconds stretched.

  “You hear me?” the Indian demanded.

  Edge held his peace.

  “Answer him?” A voice hissed from the trees and Edge recognized the speaker as Barker.

  Some of the Indian ponies scratched at the ground. The horses tethered at the campsite whinnied nervously. Edge raised a hand to his face, put a finger in his mouth and blew out his cheek. Then he bent back his wrist and the finger sprang out of the corner of his lips. The action produced a sharp pop.

  “Ain’t that clever?” he called, pitching his voice at a falsetto level. Then he emitted a cackle of laughter and sprang up into a half crouch on the running board.

  “What’s he doin’?” the blond-headed kid rasped.

  Edge curled his fingers inside his shirt front and yanked downwards. Cloth ripped and buttons burst free. He threw himself up to his full height, expanded his bared chest and beat at his flesh with clenched fists.

  “Howdy, Sioux?” he yelled. “Show us your muscles.”

  Down at the foot of the slope, the braves stared at each other, dumb-founded. Then, more nervous chatter erupted from the group. It swelled in volume as Edge continued with his antics, this time tearing at his long hair and screaming in apparen
t agony.

  “He’s gone crazy!” Barker hissed, glancing fearfully from the writhing figure of Edge to the confounded Indians.

  “They say I’m loco!” Edge yelled, and began to pump his arms in imitation of steam pistons. “Choo, choo, choo. Woooooooooo-oo.”

  “Bastard wants ‘em to think that!” Rubin growled as the realization of Edge’s plan hit him. “Injuns won’t kill a crazy man. Figure he’s got an evil spirit in him that’ll haunt them.”

  Edge did not hear Rubin’s verdict, but knew it would not take the old man - who had lived so many years in close proximity to Indians - long to spot the ploy. And there was no telling what he would do then.

  “Stand clear! Stand clear!” he yelled. “Here comes the express. Choo, choo, choo! Woo-oooo-oooo-oooooo!”

  As he shrieked out the warning at the top of his voice, he began to jump up and down on the running board. For a seeming eternity, the buckboard remained stationary, as if imbedded in the ground. But then, with a series of creaks, the front wheels slithered to the lip of the incline. Edge jumped higher and thudded down harder. The front wheels rolled on to the slope. The buckboard canted and thrust downwards. The heavy crates of arms slid towards the front, adding impetus to the rolling free wheels.

  “Ready or not, here I come!” Edge yelled. Then he flung himself down into a low crouch, fastening a grip on the hand rail of the seat as the buckboard juddered downhill, the speed increasing by the moment.

  The braves were transfixed for several seconds, staring in horror at the buckboard hurtling towards them, out of control of the raving madman clinging to it. Then a rifle shot cracked against the creaking of strained wood and clatter of iron rims spinning over rocks.

  It was Barker who fired, anger ousting confusion from his mind: an anger he was unable to contain as he saw several thousand dollars’ worth of guns and ammunition racing away from him. And directly towards the Indians who were supposed to pay him three times what the merchandise was worth.

  But the Indians wanted no part of what was on the wagon. And it was terror of the crazy man, rather than fear of a crushing death, which broke through their own confusion and scattered them back into the trees.

  Barker’s bullet ricocheted off a wildly spinning wheel rim and zoomed high into the air. Rubin screamed for the men to hold their fire, but Barker pumped off another shot, and the three youngsters followed his example in ignoring the old man’s plea.

  Bullets smacked into the rear of the trundling buckboard, and then into the side as it veered off a straight course. Edge, his eyes slitted against the rush of air, saw the tense backs of the retreating Indians, then the dark curtain of the trees - deceptively soft looking. A stray bullet snagged at his tattered shirt and spurred him into making his move. He sucked in a deep breath, pushed himself up into a crouch, then leapt from the running board, lunging towards the upward slope of the ground.

  He curled his long body into a tight ball, with knees tucked up to his stomach and hands clutched to his face, held low towards his chest. He hit grass with his left shoulder, rolled and smashed his feet into a tree root. A sound, like the breaking of every bone in his body, exploded in his head, heralding a searing agony that knifed through him from head to toe.

  But he held on to his consciousness, and as his vision cleared he saw it was not his impact which had caused the noise. The buckboard had hit a jagged piece of rock and started to tip a moment before it smashed into the trees. Thus, as its forward momentum was abruptly halted, it began to roll over sideways. The ropes holding the covering in place snapped and the crates were hurled dear, smashing to the ground and bursting open. So that, as the buckboard rolled over and over to the foot of the slope, tearing itself to destruction, it left behind a trail of splintered wood, broken spokes, and spilled rifles and ammunition.

  Shouts and rifle shots from the top of the slope left Edge no time to check himself for injuries. Summoning all his strength to fight a thousand and one areas of pain attacking him, he forced himself on to all fours, then threw himself into a half-standing position.

  “Bastard!” Barker screamed down at him, backing the word with a shot.

  The bullet, and three more, spurted dirt and wood chips close to Edge. Gritting his teeth against the agony, the half-breed forced himself into a staggering run. Gasps rattled from his throat as he stooped twice, one hand snatching up a brand new Winchester rifle and the other a box of shells -broken open but still better than half full.

  Bullets whined about him, one of them grazing his shoulder. But the pain of this was like a mosquito bite compared with the bolts of agony being driven into his brain from the body-jarring fall. He reached the foot of the slope and threw himself into the cover of what remained of the buckboard, crazily tilted on its side. More bullets smashed into the wreck and he pressed himself against the ground. There was blood on the backs of his hands, oozing from deep grazes. But his instinct for self-preservation made his fingers work nimbly, pushing shells into the Winchester’s loading gate.

  The gunrunners kept up their rifle fire, crouched at the top of the slope and pumping lead at the overturned buck-board with the seeming intent of blasting it to tiny pieces.

  Edge bided his time, knowing that anger and frustration were combining to blind the men to good sense: they were all firing at once so that only seconds would separate the emptying of one rifle from the others. And when this happened, he was ready. There was a final shot, then the click of firing pins prodding into vacant breeches. A series of curses ended the moment of silence which followed. Edge leapt to his feet and snapped the rifle to his shoulder. Five crouched figures were silhouetted along the top of the slope and he heard the gasps which signaled the men had seen him.

  He squeezed the trigger and pumped the lever action as he swung to a second target. The first shot took the blond-headed kid through his top lip, blasted away his middle teeth and burrowed into the back of his mouth. Edge’s next snap target happened to be Rubin, who turned to look at the dead kid at the moment the half-breed fired. The slug entered his side and was buried deep in his intestines. He was knocked on to his side and curled up his legs against the agony. But it didn’t stop and he began to scream.

  Barker and the others scampered back behind the cover of the incline’s brow, fumbling fresh bullets into their rifles.

  Edge launched himself out from behind the wreck and burst into the trees. Rubin’s high-pitched screaming accompanied by Barker’s string of curses, masked the slight sounds the half-breed made as he moved up the slope, just beyond the tree line. Then, when the trio had re-loaded their rifles to capacity, they stretched out full length on the ground and bellied forward.

  “Give it to the bastard good!” Barker hissed, and all three tilted the Winchester barrels over the top of the slope and sent a fusillade of shots towards the buckboard.

  Edge reached the top of the slope to find them still engaged in this rage-motivated process. Their prone bodies were spread out for him like targets in a shooting gallery. The driver was the furthest away and the half-breed shot him first, killing him instantly with a shot that entered his head above the ear and tore a hole through his brain. Barker also died believing that Edge was still behind the buckboard. He took a bullet in the neck, which severed his jugular vein. The final kid saw the fountain of blood gush from Barker’s throat and snapped his head around to look at Edge. He dropped the Winchester as if it had suddenly become red hot and rolled over on his back, thrusting his hands high into the air.

  “Don’t mister!” he implored, his voice silencing Rubin’s screams and drawing the old man’s attention to Edge.

  The half-breed trained the rifle on the kid. One eye was closed. The other, behind the back sight, was narrowed to the width of a strand of spider’s web, silvered by moonlight. The teeth, bared by curled lips in an evil grin, seemed not to be part of the burnished face that was their background.

  The kid was the one with the mole on his cheek, who had made the crack about Edg
e being a good-natured soul. Now his wide eyes pleaded for the comment to have a slender thread of truth to it. His lower lip trembled and the front of his pants grew dark with a growing stain. He looked incredibly young and pathetically helpless.

  “It’s not true what they say,” Edge muttered, and squeezed the trigger. The bullet went in under the kid’s jaw, drilled a hole through his tongue and burrowed into his brain from below. His final breath sprayed droplets of blood, which spat back down on to his face like rusty rain. “Ain’t just the good that die young.” Then he looked into the magnified, pain-clouded eyes of Rubin. “But then you’re living proof if it is so, ain’t you?” he said.

  “Finish me off, mister,” Rubin begged, clutching his stomach tightly, so that more blood was squeezed from the hole in his naked side. “I deserve that much. I helped a lot of guys out of the spot I’m in.” He gasped. “I could last for hours like this.”

  “Days, maybe,” Edge suggested easily.

  He began to move about the body-littered campsite, picking up the guns of the dead men and tossing them down the slope. The Colt revolver Barker had given to Rubin was the last to go. Then he turned free all the horses except the one he had taken from the blazing Hayhurst spread. He slapped the animals hard on the rump and they galloped fast into the forest. Rubin screwed his head around, watching the half-breed’s actions with mounting fear.

  “You just gonna leave me here to die?” he gasped as Edge swung up into the saddle.

  “You figure yourself for some kind of doctor,” the half-breed reminded him. “Know you’re a sick man. Rest up for awhile.”

  “I’m dying, for Christsake!” Rubin groaned, pulling his bony knees in closer to his stomach. “Finish me off.”

  Edge walked his horse across the campsite, checking that there were no weapons close at hand for Rubin to end his agony. When he was satisfied, he showed a cruel grin to the old man. “Reckon you’ll live long enough.”

  “For what?”

  “Those Sioux braves to decide the loco guy was killed in all that shooting and come back to get the guns they wanted.”