Up at the top of the canyon wall Edge drew his fingertips along the harsh stubble of his beard and pursed his lips as he saw two more mounted Apaches approach the tormented Englishman, one from each direction, drawing knives as they came. They crossed on different sides of the prisoner and released their knives in unison, drawing the first blood. The points buried themselves in the ground but the finely honed blades streaked through the skin at each side of the Englishman's waist. Blood oozed from the wounds to trickle down the blades and spread in the dust. The watching Apaches were delirious with delight which was heightened as the Englishman issued a diatribe of obscenity, laced with screams of horror.
"Stop it, stop it, stop it!" Lorna Fawcett shrieked and it took the Englishman several moments to realize she was addressing him.
"Christ, help me!" he croaked, jerking his head so that he could look across the intervening ground at her.
"Can't you see they're playing with you?" she shrieked, "They're savages. They only recognize two traits in a man—bravery and cowardice. If they know you're afraid they’ll only prolong it."
"I'm no bloody hero!" he screamed back.
The audience had become silent as they listened without comprehension to the exchange, many of them looking at Cochise with eyes which challenged him to take action against his babbling squaw. For several long moments it seemed as if the chief intended to ignore Lorna's new-found eloquence and her interference with the test of valor he had set. But Cochise was in fact allowing his rage to reach full flood, his face running the gamut of expressional change from ice-cold impassivity to boiling virulence.
From high overhead it seemed to Edge almost as if the whole canyon floor had been petrified. He had heard the voices of the Englishman and the white woman as scratches on the silence which had descended over the assembly of Apaches and had then seen utter immobility grip the entire encampment. But then, abruptly, there was a flurry of movement before the chief’s tepee. Cochise put the whole weight of his body into another sideways, back-handed slap across the woman's face which sent her crashing full length on the ground. And before she could even recover her senses the Apache chief had thrown himself upon her sprawled body with his hand streaking to his breechcloth to draw his knife. The blade Hashed once, then again in the sunlight and Lorna Fawcett wasn't beautiful anymore as deep gashes opened up in each cheek, from the eye to the jawline, spreading a warm stickiness which was much redder than her hair.
"Now it's your turn to be brave," the Englishman croaked through his own pain as realization hit the woman and she began to scream with all the power in her lungs.
Looking down from his vantage point, Edge sighed and began to draw back from the lip of the canyon, conscious of a stirring of what he recognized as anger at what he had witnessed, but unwilling to involve himself in a problem which did not concern him. But then the crackling of a twig under a moccasin sent him into an evasive rolling movement that put him on his back, staring up at two Apache sentries who had heard the whinny of his horse and come to investigate. They were intent upon capture rather than a kill and brandished knives, their bows over their shoulders, strings across the chest, wood slanting down their backs.
"Shouldn't creep up on a guy like that," he yelled as he swiveled the Colt on his belt and shot one of the braves through the open foot of the holster.
The big caliber bullet entered the braves throat and blew a larger hole as it exited through his cheek, spinning and crumpling him into a writhing heap on the ground. As every Apache in the canyon looked up in the direction from which the shot had come the second sentry was on Edge, anxious now for a kill as his quarry was forced to abandon all thoughts of using the revolver a second time. The knife arm was raised and brought crashing down, the full swing curtailed by a hard, edge-of-the-hand chop to the wrist. The brave yelled his pain but retained his grip on the knife and drew back for a second thrust. Edge was pinned to the ground by the straddled legs of the Apache and had no time to reach for his razor—the only accessible weapon as the knife point descended again. This time the swing came at a different angle and Edge's chop merely deflected the blow, so that the knife dug into the ground close to his ear. In the time it took the brave to withdraw the blade Edge had snatched out his razor, the handle slotting snugly along his fingers and palm, the fine blade extending three inches. As the brave raised his hand Edge slashed with the razor, gouging a river of blood from wrist to elbow on the inner arm. A second, sideways slash, severed a nerve and the knife dropped from lifeless fingers as the brave's eyes grew wide with terror at the ghastly wound on his arm.
"Looks like you ain't got it anymore," Edge said, throwing his body up into a sudden arch which tossed the brave clear of him. The man rolled once and then disappeared from sight over the lip of the canyon. He screamed, but the sound maintained an even pitch, without diminishing and Edge crawled forward and peered down, his features forming into a cruel grin. The screaming brave was suspended in mid-air, hanging on with his good arm to the bow, the other end of which was hooked over a patch of brush growing out of the side of the canyon wall.
"Quit hanging around," Edge muttered as he reached down and slashed through the bowstring, sending the brave plummeting to the floor of the canyon to enraged whoops from the Apaches who watched from below. Then he turned to the other brave, who was still writhing on the ground as he cradled the side of his face in bloodstained hands.
"Pity you ain't a horse," he told the unhearing man. "Could shoot you then. Guess you'll just have to suffer."
He took one final glance down at the Apache camp and saw the braves hurrying toward their ponies, then moved quickly to where his army mount was ground hobbled. He heeled him into a fast gallop, heading toward the natural trail he had come up by, even though he knew it led to only one place. But he considered the high walls of Fort Rainbow were better protection than unfamiliar foothills when the Apache nation was on the warpath.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The evening sun was changing color from dull, yellow to vivid red as Edge rode at full gallop down Rainbow’s main street toward the gates of the fort. The hanks of his horse were lathered white and his own body was running with sweat which pasted, his shirt to his back. It had been a long, hard ride with the leading group of Apaches close on his heels all the way from the canyon to the, crest of the northern ridge. Only a small party had ventured after him on the frantic, half-running-half-sliding descent down the face and it was the group of' braves who thundered in his wake as he entered the town. But a change came over the Indians as he led them closer to the fort. Their enraged yelps and horrendous-whooping warcries faltered and then ended and as Edge glanced over his shoulder he saw the braves were dropping back. But Edge continued to ask his mount for everything the animal's stout heart could produce and as the fort gates were flung wide he went through at a full gallop, wheeling in a tight turn as they were slammed closed behind him. A volley of rifle fire rang out from the top of the wall, halting the pursuing braves who spent a few moments venting their frustrated rage before turning to leave.
As Edge dismounted, drawing in deep breaths, he stroked the neck of his exhausted horse and watched the approach of Colonel Murray who strode across the compound from his quarters.
The officer regarded Edge with small pleasure. "You decided to come back."
Edge turned on his cold grin, "It was a joint decision. Me and a few hundred Apaches."