CHAPTER ELEVEN

Edge had an uneventful journey across the remainder of the

Plains-land, pacing himself and his horse to achieve a fast

rate without inviting fatigue. He was taking a south-western

route, slashing across the south-eastern corner of the

Colorado Territory, and in not many days the horizon ahead

became a dark line between the sun-baked ground and the

azure sky as the Front Rage of the southern Rockies

emerged across the earth"s curvature. He rode from early

morning till close to noon, rested in whatever shade was

available while the sun arced over its peak, then moved on

till nightfall.

He was in Indian country now. Cheyenne to the south,

Pawnee to the north and Ute, Navaho and Apache ahead of

him. White settlements were thin on the ground and those

he saw he skirted. He decided he had taken his full share of

unwanted trouble and the itch to find Forrest and the others

was getting stronger. What Annie had told him about

Jamie"s killers, their utter lack of remorse and confidence

in their apparent immunity had caused Edge to re-assess his

earlier line of thought. Now, although he was prepared to

search for the rest of his life for vengeance, the earlier he

reaped it the better.

But then fate took a hand again. It was afternoon and

the ground he was riding along was on the rise. He was

following a wagon route up through the foothills towards

the mountains, staying on the trail because he knew it

would take him though by the easiest route: had been

blazed by settlers heading west for California. And he

followed the track for another reason. It bore signs of a

passage by a wagon train in the not too distant past. A

wagon train meant people, but for the most part good,

decent people unlikely to create trouble unless provoked.

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More important, it meant good food, well cooked by town

bred women: an attractive prospect for Edge"s appetite,

jaded by underdone jack rabbit and coffee made insipid by

the need to conserve his diminishing supply.

The first sign of trouble ahead was a column of black

smoke that rose above the crest of the hill, looking black

and oily as it marred the clear blueness of the sky. The trail

cut a course around the base of the hill, rising only gently

so that heavily laden wagons could be hauled up with

relative ease. But Edge chose to cut off the trail, heeling his

horse up the side of the hill towards the smoke. He started

at a gallop, but as the incline steepened the animal slowed

and Edge had to adopt a zigzagged course, finally

dismounted and led the animal by its bridle the final few

yards to the crest.

On the other side the ground sloped away on a

shallow incline and Edge looked down at the source of the

smoke. A wagon lay on its side, terrified grays still trapped

in its shafts as its canvas and timbers blazed. Then, as Edge

looked on flames found a keg of gunpowder and the wagon

went up with a roar, showering debris and sparks, the blast

killing the horses.

Some hundred yards further up the trail were seven

more covered wagons, drawn up in an irregular rectangle,

the heavy work horses still between their shafts. People,

men, women and children, crouched in the center of the

hurriedly organized, inadequate barrier, waiting in almost

utter silence. Not complete silence, for when the roar of the

exploding wagon had diminished Edge could hear a woman

sobbing. Edge looked back down the trail and thought he

knew the reason for her grief-stricken wails. The body of a

man lay about twenty yards from the burning heap of

rubble that had once been a wagon.

He surveyed the scene as a whole again, narrowed

eyes looking across the trail and up the rising slope on the

other side that formed the ground before him into a small

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valley. Whereas on Edge"s side the hill was unmarked

except for tall, gently waving grass, on the other it was

littered with rocks and boulders, with clumps of brush

providing additional pockets of cover. With just a cursory

glance over the terrain Edge spotted three braves, their

naked upper bodies devoid of war-paint. He figured them

for part of an Apache hunting party, probably as surprised

by their find as the people in the wagon train were by the

attack. Another, more intense search of the hillside, enabled

Edge to pinpoint two more braves and he heard a faint

whinnying from behind a large clump of trees near the crest

of the rise, indicating where the Apaches" horses were

concealed.

After a full minute had gone by and the braves had

made no hostile move, Edge knew that they were waiting

for help: that a brave had been ordered back to camp for

reinforcements. It wasn"t Edge"s fight: he had his own

problems and it would be easy to circle the ambushed

wagons by keeping below the hill crest, out of sight of both

white men and Indians. But a decent meal, with maybe

provisions enough to get him to Warlock without further

need to make human contact was what swung Edge"s

decision.

He stood from his half crouched position, yanked on

the bridle to bring his horse to the crest of the hill and

mounted. Then he dug in his heels and charged down the

slope, drawing the Henry from its boot and waving it in the

air, his deep throated yell throwing the wagon train

defenders into confusion for several seconds. Not so the

Apache braves, two of whom rose from cover to aim at the

descending rider, one with a bow, the other a rifle. But

Edge was out of range and both arrow and bullet thudded

into the ground harmless yards away from the hoofs of the

horse. Then one of the men at the wagon train defenses

recovered and loosed off a rifle shot. The brave with the

bow tossed his weapon high into air as he screamed and

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toppled over a rock that had been his cover, his body

twisting and turning like a rag doll to end as an ungainly

heap at the side of the trail.

Other braves opened up with a fusillade of shots and a

shower of arrows, to be replied to with rifle and handgun

fire from the defenders as Edge galloped his horse into the

protective cover of the wagons, skidding her to a halt as he

leapt from the saddle. A ring of frightened faces looked at

the newcomer, then one or two of them glanced back up the

hill over which he had come, in hopeless search for more

help.

“There ain"t no US cavalry, ma"am,” Edge said to one

of the women whose fear-filled disappointment was the

most obvious. “Just me.”

“Every new gun"s a help, son,” an old timer said,

loosing off another shot at the face of the hill where there

was not now a sign of the braves.

The woman who had been crying burst into a fresh

spasm of sobs.

“Husband was on the end wagon,” a man said as if he

felt Edge was owed an explanation. “Arrow got him in the

head. Horses tried to bolt up the hill and turned the wagon

over. Smoked a goddamn stinking pipe, did Jess. Must have

fell clean out of his mouth and poured sparks in the back.

Powder went up just fore you got here.”

Edge hardly listened to the man as he looked around;

saw six adult men, couple of boys in their early teens, three

girls of the same age and seven women. Their armaments

comprised a dozen single shot muzzle-loaders, a Spencer

repeater and a revolver to each man. Plus a pitchfork that

the old-timer clutched menacingly. If they waited around to

make a stand against the rest of the Apaches from camp,

they wouldn"t have a chance. He moved to the wagon

closest the foot of the hill and looked around it, judged the

nearest rock to be ten yards away. The next cover large

enough to hide him was fifteen yards beyond: a patch of

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brush. After that it would be easy, the choice wide. Only a

matter of deciding which cover concealed the braves.

“You"ve got all those guns loaded?” he asked without

looking behind him.

“What you gonna" do?” a man asked.

“There ain"t no more than half a dozen of those red

men on the hill right now,” he answered. “But pretty soon

the whole tribe is going to be there and we"ll be like fish in

a barrel for them. I want you to cover the whole area with

lead „til I reach that patch of brush there.” He pointed.

“Then you move out every wagon excepting for one. You

move them fast, like the whole Indian nation was on your

tail. If you don"t, then that"s what it"s going to feel like.

One man on the last wagon stays to pick me up.”

“I"ll stay,” the old-timer volunteered with enthusiasm.

“My wagon"s last anyway.”

Edge nodded his agreement.

“How"ll I know the Injuns ain"t got you?” the old-

timer asked as Edge prepared to go between the wagons.

“We all got our problems,” Edge told him coldly.

“Put it this way, I get back here and find you"ve chickened

and run, I"ll have to catch up with the train by myself. And

I won"t be none too happy.”

Edge turned on his icy grin and watched with the

enthusiasm drain from the old man"s be-whiskered face.

“Okay pour it on,” he said and dashed from the protection

of the wagons as the settler opened up a barrage. Not a

single shot was fired in retaliation, until the fusillade ceased

abruptly, then bullets thudded into the rock behind which

Edge was crouched, spitting chips into his face. He gave

the settlers time to reload, and at the sound of the first shot

made his crouched, fast run to the brush, pumping off two

bullets from the Henry and seeing dust puffs close to his

feet as the Apaches fired wildly. The brush offered

concealment, but little protection from bullets. He saw a

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cluster of boulders above him to the left and he knew an

Apache was hiding behind it.

The settlers opened up again and Edge rolled over

twice, clear of the brush and saw an arrow bury its head

into the ground at a spot where his body had been a

moment ago. Then he was on his feet and running,

breathing hard from the exertion needed for speed on the

sharply rising ground. He carried the Henry low on his hip,

grasping the barrel with one hand as he squeezed the trigger

and worked the breech mechanism with the other, seeing

the bullets thud into the rock. The redskin rose from behind

the rocks and loosed off a shot that tugged at Edge"s sleeve.

The brave tossed away his empty rifle and leapt, legs apart

on top of the rock, bringing back his arm, preparing to

launch the tomahawk, its blade flashing in the sunlight.

One bullet from the Henry took him in the jaw, smashing

upwards so that when he screamed his death agony he

sprayed jagged pieces of broken teeth before him. The

second got him plumb through the heart, its impact sending

his body crashing backwards over the rocks. Edge dived to

the side of them, hearing the whoosh of an arrow pass his

ear.

Then as if divine influence had pressed a switch, the

world went silent. Below, on the trail, even the woman had

ceased her vocal mourning. Edge remained still, listening,

knowing that there was at least four more pair of ears on

the hillside doing the same thing. Then sounds came to him

from below. He looked for their source and saw the settlers

climbing up onto their wagons. When everyone was aboard

male voices encouraged their horses forward and as soon as

the line was straight the whips crackled and galloping hoofs

and spinning wheels churned up dust. A lone wagon

remained, the horses between the shafts quietly chomping

on the long grass besides the trail.

Before the covering sounds of the speeding wagon

had diminished into the distance, Edge moved forward,

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crawling around the rocks, drew in his breath sharply when

he came face to face with an Apache. But the brave"s jaw

was a mess of blood and shattered bone and his eyes stared

sightlessly at Edge. It was the Indian he had killed. But in

the moment the tension abated Edge heard a sound and

kicked himself on his back, raised his rifle and squeezed

the trigger by reflex at the figure which seemed to be

carved out against the sky. It was a brave, atop the

boulders, victory glowing in his eyes as he drew back the

bowstring the final fraction of an inch. The unaimed bullet

smashed through the bow, altering its direction so that it

entered the brave"s eye which a split second ago had been

sighting the arrow at Edge"s heart. Also off target, the

arrow whistled through a short space of air and its metal tip

carved a furrow across the back of Edge"s hand. His

numbed fingers released the grip on the Henry, which

clattered to the ground as he snapped his head around to

face the source of another sound. It was a blood curdling

war cry of another brave as he launched himself at Edge"s

spread-eagled body, tomahawk in one hand, knife in the

other. Edge, his mind operating as coolly as a well oiled

machine, brought up his right leg as the brave leapt

forward. The toe of his boot caught the redskin full in the

groin and the extra momentum sent him spinning over the

head of Edge, who sprung to his feet and turned to face his

adversary. The brave was getting to his feet, the knife gone

as he clutched the source of his pain. He saw Edge"s

injured arm go to his revolver, saw it drop as the finger

muscles again refused to maintain a grip. The scent of

victory made him forget his pain and he came forward at a

run, teeth bared in triumph, tomahawk on high for a

downward death blow.

Edge waited, timing his move to the split second. He

sidestepped, his good hand going to the back of his neck,

flashing out with the open razor. He ducked, going below

the arc of the tomahawk, and slashed out. The razor point

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dug into the brave"s right eye, gouged a river of blood

across the bridge of his nose, and sank into his left eye. The

blinded man howled and sank to his knees, the tomahawk

thudding into the ground. Edge snatched it up, swung it

high and brought it down with all his might, splitting the

brave"s head open as if it were a soft boiled egg.

As the brave pitched forward a gun exploded close at

hand and Edge spun around, clenching his injured fist to

bring life into it. He was in time to see an Apache looking

at him in surprise, as he dropped his smoking rifle. He said

one word in his native tongue and toppled forward as his

knees gave way. As he fell, Edge saw the shaft of a

pitchfork growing from his back, its three tines buried deep

in the flesh.

The old-timer stood behind him, showing brown

stained teeth in a proud grin. He spat dark juice to the

ground.

“Didn"t like your deal much,” he said. “Sitting down

there, man"s mind can play tricks. Wouldn"t like to run out

on you and have a man like you mad at me. Less time to

think up here.”

Edge nodded, began to retrieve his fallen weapons.

“Obliged to you,” he said.

The old man looked around. “Reckon that"s the lot of

them?”

“Yeah,” Edge said.

The old man spat more tobacco juice. “Enjoyed it,” he

looked at the other fallen braves. “You had more fun,

though.”

“Reckon.”

He nodded, strolled up to the brave he had killed and

put a boot on his neck to give him leverage to withdraw the

pitchfork. It came free with an ugly sucking sound.

“Darn fools neglected to leave me a shooting iron.”

“You didn"t need one.”

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“Guess, I don"t either.” His laughter was a high

pitched cackle. He looked around again. “Reckon their

buddies will be along soon?”

“Reckon.”

“Then let"s go, son.”

They went.

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