The Englishman thought about it for several moments, then nodded. "Throw in your gunbelt and it's a deal"
"Minus the knife?"
"All right."
Edge rolled on to his back and unbuckled and untied his belt, withdrawing the knife from its sheath before allowing the Englishman to pull the belt from his back as he rolled over once more.
"Fallowfield, we're coming in!" Drucker called, but neither he nor his men made a move as the Englishman buckled the belt at his hips, then tied down the holster.
"Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman said with a sigh. "Bloody Yankees all over." Then he pulled himself into position astride the ridge member of the roof and raised the Spencer to his shoulder. "Drucker!"
As the name was shouted aloud the three men in the street turned their faces skyward and went for their guns. The rifle cracked twice, a split second and a slight movement of the muzzle separating the two shots. But the men flanking Drucker toppled from their horses at the same moment, ugly red stains spreading across their shirt fronts. Before their bodies had hit the ground a third shot exploded in the night air and Drucker's hat skimmed from his head. The rancher withdrew his hand from his gun as if the butt had been red hot.
"Fancy—like your clothes," Edge said with derision as he began to scrape at his nails with the point of the knife, removing pieces of the Englishman's skin. "That fast, you could have plugged Drucker too."
The Englishman swung one leg over the roof apex and began to inch down the slope on his backside, carefully keeping the rifle trained on Drucker.
"Talk, and no sense of honor," he murmured.
"But a better sense of priorities," Edge replied, glancing along the street and seeing that the fires had been put out: that the three shots had drawn attention toward the Pot of Gold. "Self preservation comes first."
The Englishman dropped from sight, down on to the balcony, but from Drucker's expression of half hate and half fear, Edge knew the Spencer was still aimed at a target.
"Get off your horse, Mr. Drucker," the Englishman instructed as Edge began to slide down the roof slope. By the time the rancher had complied and the Englishman had moved out into the center of the street, facing his adversary over a distance of some twenty feet, Edge was on the balcony, leaning casually on the rail as a detached spectator with a grandstand view.
Drucker was a tall man, and broad, but he realized the disadvantage of such bulk in a showdown and turned sideways-on to the Englishman, reducing the size of the target. And now that both men were facing each other with Edge obviously taking no part in the fight, the rancher had regained his courage. He even smiled when the Englishman lowered the rifle butt to the ground and then let the weapon fall into the dust.
"Careful with that rifle," Edge called as Drucker began to move sideways and the Englishman stepped in the opposite direction.
"I'll clean it for you," the Englishman answered, not taking his eyes off Drucker's still smiling face as the two men completed a quarter circle.
"You ain't gonna be alive to do anything," Drucker chided.
"Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman, muttered.
A movement on the roof of a building diagonally across the street abruptly captured Edge's attention, dragging his eyes away from the gunfight. It had been a mere flicker on the periphery of his vision and as he now concentrated on the area, the building appeared as a solid dark mass in the night, as immobile as rock. A man less attuned to respect for danger would have marked down the suspicion to imagination, but Edge did not allow himself to be dissuaded from the study. For up to ten seconds his narrowed eyes raked back and forth along the roof line and when the near-naked figure appeared in silhouette, first in a crouch and then standing erect, bow held in the firing position, Edge was ready.
He had time to curse once at the fact of his rifle lying in the dust of the street before he drew back the knife and sent it zinging across the balcony rail. Traveling at the greatest speed the power of Edge's arm could generate, the knife flashed once in the light of a lamp and then entered the shadow. It found its mark with the softest of thuds and the Apache on the opposite roof appeared to perform a delicate, almost artistic ballet leap before falling backward. The sound of his body hitting the roof was lost in the noise from along the street as a troop of soldiers approached. Edge glanced back at the drama below him and saw the two men still circling each other, waiting for openings, and realized they had been unaware of the Indian's presence and his death.
"You men!" a voice shouted from among the soldiers and Edge turned to see Colonel Murray riding at their head with his rifle leveled.
"It's a private fight, Colonel," the Englishman said as the troop halted outside the line of the circle. Again he spoke without taking his steady gaze off Drucker, who was no longer smiling. Drucker recognized the killer look in the other's face and knew the moment for drawing was close at hand. The bodies of the two dead cowboys were sprawled in the center of the circle as mute testimony to the fate of the loser.
"Who killed those men?" Murray barked.
"It was them or English," Edge called down, gaining the attention of Murray and his men. "Another one inside the hotel English had to even up the odds."
"I can do my own talking, Edge," the Englishman put in with an angry tone.
"And you'll have to if you kill another white man," Colonel Murray said gravely. "That goes for you, too, Mr. Drucker. I'm placing Rainbow under martial law. The fort is undermanned and the Apaches won't let it rest at one attack. We need every able-bodied man we've got. If you continue with this, I'll try whoever survives and he'll be executed by firing squad the moment I know we're safe from Indian attack."
He heeled his horse forward, halting directly between the Englishman and Drucker and looking from one to the other.
"Looks like the army came between you and your man," Edge called down sardonically then flashed his right hand toward a non-existent holster as the Englishman drew and fired. The killer instinct was etched deep into the blood-streaked face of the Englishman and Edge was certain this final jibe had ripped through the tough hide of the man's coolness. But the bullet went high and to the left. A scream sounded on the roof and the body of a brave plummeted down, hit the balcony rail close to Edge and thudded on to the street.
"You looked scared for a moment, Edge," the Englishman called, the innocent smile back on his face as he holstered the still-smoking gun.
Edge parted his lips in a cold grin, swung a leg over the balcony, hung for a moment and dropped to the street. He picked up the Spencer and dusted it off. "Figured you might shoot low and wide," he said, holding out his hands for the gunbelt as the Englishman began to unbuckle it. "Colt's a big gun for a runt like you."
"Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman muttered yet again as Edge took the gunbelt and headed across the street as he buckled it.
As Edge entered the alley to go behind the building in search of the brave and his knife, Nelson Mortimer came down the street aboard a flatbed wagon loaded with two pine coffins.
"You're one short, Nelson," Edge told him.
Confusion showed on the grave face of the little man in his funeral garb. "I only heard two shots, Mr. Edge," he said.
"There are subtler ways to skin a cat," Edge told him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE town of Rainbow slept uneasily, the recent violence of the Apache attack fresh in the memory to trigger the imagination into nightmares of what could happen when the braves returned in greater number. Most of the civilian population were barricaded in the unsubstantial safety of their homes or hotel rooms, untrusting of the single army patrol which Colonel Murray had detailed for sentry duty around the limits of the town. The bulk of his men were inside the gates of the fort and the army commander had made no secret of the fact that he valued the consignment of weapons higher than the lives of the townspeople. Edge did not even try to sleep, but sat on the bed with the Englishman's map spread across his knees, his lean face, washed clean of blood but still bearing traces of the fight, set in an expression of deep thought. He was recalling the old miner, Zeb Hanson, and his fruitless search for a legendary mountain of silver. Zeb had not had a map and Edge was toying with the idea that perhaps the old timer had been digging for twelve years in the wrong mountain.