"The Englishman's buddy!" Drucker exclaimed.
"I ain't got no buddies," Edge told him.
"And I ain't got no ranch," came the reply. "Apaches burned it and run off my stock."
"Tough," Edge answered. "Means you ain't got nothing to live for anymore."
"I got a million reasons to live," Drucker shouted and squeezed the trigger of his rifle.
Edge went sideways, reaching out a hand for the crank of the Gatling. Lead spat from the six barrels, kicking up a wide arc of dust puffs as Edge raked the gun around toward the wagon. Drucker got off one more shot with the Winchester, standing for a better angle but still firing high. Then the deadly spray from the Gatling's revolving barrels tattooed a pattern of holes on his broad chest. He tossed the Winchester high into the air as he screamed and his knees bent, bringing his head down into the trajectory of the flying bullets. They tore the flesh to shreds, and Drucker's cheekbones shone white in the sunlight as his body pitched forward into the dust and Edge stopped cranking the handle. The horses reared once and then became quiet.
Edge Stood up, moved to the side of the roof and lowered himself gently to the ground, careful not to jerk his neck and so activate fresh waves of pain from the wound. He walked slowly across to Drucker's body and looked down at the bloody pulp which had once been on a set of features.
"Looks like I win," he muttered. "You just can't face up to things anymore."
He found the handkerchief with which the small boy had tried to surrender and used it to wipe Drucker's blood from the box' seat of the wagon. He had just finished and was stooping to pick up the dead man's Winchester when he froze, hearing a distant sound. He straightened slowly and looked out through the gateway, across the dead Apaches and ponies, past the gruesome, hanging head of the Englishman, toward a swirling cloud of dust which was moving relentlessly along the valley floor on the far side of the river. The sound rang out again: a frenetic bugle call. And as the dust cloud drew near he saw the Stars and Stripes and the company pennant streaming in the slipstream. He sighed, rested the rifle against the wagon and took the makings of a cigarette from his shirt pocket.
"Guess everything's got to start someplace," he muttered. "It's the goddamn Seventh Cavalry. They just ain't got no sense' of timing."
Don’t Miss:
EDGE: #4 KILLER’S BREED
COMING SOON!
