"When I get out of this man's army, I'm for the easy life. Gonna find me a rich woman with a big house in New York where there ain't no Injuns. And I'm gonna eat and sleep and count her money all day and every day."
The speaker was an old sweat, a busted sergeant who made a new plan each day and talked about it every waking moment. His companion was much younger, a soldier for sixty days with a fresh face as yet unshaven and a determination to become the best trooper in the United States Cavalry.
"No screwing?" he asked with a shy smile. The profanities, which were as much a part of a soldier's life as saluting officers and griping at the food, did not roll off his well-schooled tongue and he seldom ventured beyond the outer threshold of profanity.
The older man grinned at him. "Rich women ain't ever fair of face, son," he said. "And I ain't about to go feeding my meat to no other pussies so me rich wife gets riled and tells me to go to hell."
"Hell, isn't any reason ..." The young soldier broke off the sentence and sighed softly as the Apache brave gently encircled his throat with the crook of an arm and sank the knife into his left breast. The old sweat died with a low croaking sound, curtailed by cold steel digging deep into the side of his neck and penetrating his jugular vein.
The braves withdrew their knives and lowered the two bodies into the pools of blood already forming on the staging. The third Apache whistled softly and within seconds the whole group were crouching at the top of the wall, peering down across the compound to where unsuspecting townspeople and off-duty soldiers were forming a line outside the cookhouse. The raiders were all young, with powerful, supple bodies and intent strongly featured faces. With bodies crouched and faces set in expressions of resolute determination, eighteen of the braves watched patiently as the two who had made the kills sliced off the scalps of their victims. Then all twenty filed down the stairway into the compound, their moccasined feet padding silently on the treads. The fort's arsenal was adjacent to the stables and was locked but unguarded because Murray considered Fort Rainbow impregnable to anything except a full-scale frontal attack. The stockade, which was patrolled, was at the opposite comer of the fort from where the raiders had gained access and the party split into two groups, one of five and the other of fifteen. The smaller group moved off first, stealing one at a time through the shadows, keeping out of the cones of flickering light thrown by the oil lamps, ever watchful for a sign of alarm from the men and women filing into the cookhouse. Then, as soon as the last man had reached the comer of the stockade, the rest of the braves set off from the foot of the stairway, ducking into the open door of the stables.
The unarmed hostler had just finished attending to Edge's horse and his eyes and mouth snapped wide in terrified surprise as he turned and saw a half circle of grim-faced Apaches ranged, about him. "Keeeerist!" he exclaimed, and fell sideways, reaching for a pitchfork leaning against one of the stalls.
Fifteen braves snaked knives from their breechcloths and released them simultaneously. Fifteen blades buried their points into his body, their handles bristling from his flesh in two lines from neck to groin. The man went backward into a water trough, the blood from his multiple wounds staining the contents crimson. His death was signaled by a low moan and a loud splash, neither of which attracted attention from outside. Brown, grimed hands drove into the bloodied water to withdraw the instruments of death and as five of the braves went into the stalls and began to systematically slash the throat of the trapped animals, the other ten , moved to the arsenal side of the stables arid started to pry loose the boards of the dividing wall. One came free, then another. The blood-stained knives dug into the wood and more boards were lifted clear until a large hole, some five feet by four, had been ripped in the wall. Then five of the braves ducked inside.
Not a word had been spoken since the raiders had reached the outside foot of the wall and they continued in silence as the five braves scrambled through the hole and moments later began to pass cases of Winchester rifles and boxes of ammunition out into the eager arms of those who had stayed in the stables.
Out in the compound one of the guard’s on the stockade reached the comer around which the other five Apaches were hiding. The man began to swing his body into an about-turn but was suddenly jerked backward, into the shadows, by a hand which grasped the edge of his tunic jacket. His yell of surprise was curtailed by an evil-smelling hand which fastened over his mouth and nose. His arms and legs were pinned to the ground by other strong hands and he was held so firmly that only his eyes could move, flicking to left and right in naked fear as he saw the shadowed figures bending over him. But within moments his vision was blurred as the air trapped in his lungs went stale. In a last desperate attempt to cheat death he willed his muscles to turn his limbs to jelly. But the Apaches were not fooled. They knew how long it took a man to suffocate to death and did not release their hold until the soldier was asphyxiated. Then nimble fingers unfastened his tunic buttons and unbuckled his belt. In less than a minute since he died, his uniform had been stripped from him and donned by one of the raiders. Then the brave elected to carry out the impersonation shouldered the guard's rifle and ambled out from the shadows to start along the front of the stockade.
Edge emerged from Colonel Murray's quarters and breathed in deeply of the cool evening air. Freshly bathed and shaved, he felt relaxed and pleasantly weary, with only the gnawing stomach cramp of hunger forcing itself to the forefront of his priorities above the need for sleep. But a man who lives with danger must, if he is to survive, have an built-in physical mechanism which swamps all other considerations when the mental faculty of his sixth sense signals trouble.
Colonel Murray was coming across the compound from the cookhouse, carrying a tin mug of steaming coffee and looking less tense after the sedative effect of a good dinner. He was about to call a greeting to Edge but no sound emerged as his mouth dropped open, and he came to an abrupt halt, spilling the scalding coffee down his pants leg. For, with an almost hunting animal movement, Edge had swiveled his head, stared toward the stockade for an instant and then thrown his rifle up to his shoulder. The shot cut across the silence of the, compound with an ear-splitting report that drew the shocked attention of every person in a position to witness the result. It was followed by the scream of the bogus soldier as the bullet smashed into the side of his head, and a round of startled gasps from the watchers.
"What the hell …?" Murray exploded, tossing away his mug and starting to run toward where Edge was now in a crouch, raking his eyes across the facades of all the buildings at the rear of the fort.
"I was in the same army you are," Edge snapped at him without relaxing his vigil. "Never, did see a soldier wearing moccasins on guard duty."
Then the four other braves broke from the cover at the corner of the stockade and another shot from Edge's Winchester signaled a fusillade from the soldiers on the wall. Two braves dropped dead from a run and a third stumbled as a bullet ripped into his shoulder, recovered, and was lifted and smashed against the arsenal wall by four more bullets tearing into his stomach. The fourth man dived into the stables doorway.
"Hold It!" Edge yelled as Lieutenant Sawyer emerged from the men's quarters, trailing a pack of cards behind him and followed by Sergeant Horne and a group of ten enlisted men, all clutching rifles, all dressed only in pants and under-vests. "There's got to be more of them."