CHAPTER THREE
THEY crested the ridge at first light, as the grayness of the false dawn was pushing back the darkness from the east and night was preparing to retreat under the first threat of the onslaught of a new day. They were high, perhaps two thousand feet up on the first-step toward the Rockies and it was cold. Zeb Hanson was riding bare-back now, the horse blanket hung about his shoulders. Edge was draped in a blanket, too, and had been chain-smoking cigarettes, drawing hard against them in cupped hands to try to get warmth into his fingers.
“That there's Rainbow,” Hanson said, pointing as Edge rode up alongside him.
They were on one side of a wide valley and the ground fell away in a gentle, boulder-strewn slope. Then there was a broad expanse of open country with a river cutting a zig-zagged course across it, west to east. The far side .of the valley was a sheer cliff face, rising upwards of a thousand feet higher than the ridge where the two, men had halted. Where the river angled toward the cliff and then swung around in a wide arc was the town toward which Hanson’s shivering finger was pointing.
The fort was built against the cliff, the solid rock face forming its rear defense. On the other three sides it was defended by a high retaining wall, rock to first story level and wood above. Spread out in front of the fort, on a street which intersected it, were the buildings of the town of Rainbow.
"I can see how the fort was there first," Edge said, more to himself than to Hanson.
"Yeah," the old man said. "Ain't much defense' for the town, is it? But that ain't its purpose. Built as headquarters for the Thirteenth Cavalry. Lot of country for the soldier boys to cover. They didn't want no town there to add to their troubles. But, once it started, hard to stop." He sniffed. "Soldier boys and townspeople ain't none too friendly toward each other."
Edge continued his survey of the town and its surroundings. He decided it looked like a good, safe spot. The floor of the valley was mostly open country, offering little cover for attackers and once within four hundred feet of the edge of the town, there was the obstacle of the river to cross, a hundred feet wide and perhaps deep. Thus, to north and south, Rainbow had good natural defenses. To the west, too, it looked good, because the open, almost featureless ground continued from the river to the foot of the cliff. East was the weak spot, for in this direction there had been rock falls and the floor of the valley was at this point littered with enormous chunks of the former cliff face. The face itself grew gradually less sheer, providing an easy downward ride. The stage trail went in this direction, curving between the fallen rocks and then forking, one spur stretching off eastward into the distance, the other snaking into a gully for northbound travelers.
"Look good to you, mister?" Hanson asked when he was sure Edge had finished his surveillance,
The first ray of sunlight of the new day stabbed over the eastern horizon, lighting up the valley floor like a spotlight on a theatrical set. Edge grunted and didn't reply as he rolled two cigarettes, put one in his mouth and handed the other to Hanson. The old man smiled.
"Obliged to you, mister."
Edge struck a match and lit his own cigarette, then held out the match toward Hanson. The old man leaned forward, screamed and continued the movement, the cigarette still stuck to his bottom lip.
“I thought the third light was the unlucky one," Edge muttered as he glanced at the arrow which had caught Hanson squarely between the shoulder blades.
He ducked instinctively as he turned in the saddle and felt the draught of a speeding arrow rush over the top of his head. There were four of them, sitting astride ponies at the edge of a grotesquely shaped outcrop of rock just below the crest of the ridge, about two hundred feet from Edge. Apaches weren't red, of course. These four, like all in the six tribes which made up the Apache nation, were coppery brown. They were dressed and painted for war, in animal hide breechcloths and long-sleeved shirts open at the front to reveal the white daubing on their chests. Other white markings were splashed above their dark eyes, on their high cheekbones and outlined their receding chins. Their long, thick black hair hung unbraided around their faces; held out of their eyes by buckskin strips with just one dark feather at the back for decoration.
Even as Edge was drawing his Colt the two who had not yet joined the attack loosed off barbed arrows from their three foot long bows. Edge dug his heels into the flanks of the horse and the animal jerked forward. Both arrows twanged harmlessly into the ground as Edge fired and grunted in satisfaction at the sight of one of the braves pitching from his horse clutching at the bullet hole in his throat.
The other three began to howl in anger as they fitted more arrows into their bows, kicking their pones into a rushing advance toward Edge. Edge fired one shot for effect and dropped from his moving horse, sliding the Spencer from its boot. The three arrows were in mid-flight as Edge hit the ground and rolled over, coming to rest in a prone position, the rifle leveled and cocked, forefinger of his right hand curled around the trigger, barrel steady in the cupped palm of his left hand, left elbow firmly planted on the ground. The Apaches were, rearming their bows at the gallop and Edge took the center brave first, the bullet catching him in the heart.
The other two were close enough then for Edge to see the mixture of rage and fear on their painted faces: to see death glaze the eyes of the Indian on the right as a bullet' from the Spencer drilled a deep hole in his forehead.
The remaining Indian had time to get off an arrow and Edge had to jerk himself away in a fast roll to avoid it, only saw his attacker again as the Apache launched himself from his pony, snatching a tomahawk from his breechcloth. The Spencer exploded into sound once more and the brave's whoop of triumph became a blood-choked cry of agony as the bullet punctured his right lung. Edge jerked himself clear of the falling body and went up on one knee, snapping his head around to search the area for other Indians. But there were none. He stood up and looked at the brave, writhing in agony on the dusty ground, spitting blood and clawing at his wound.
Then the man sensed his death throes were the object of an impassive stare and he looked up at the tall white man who was regarding him with mute dispassion. He reached out a hand and grasped the muzzle of the loosely held rifle, tugged at it weakly until it was resting on his chest, left of center. The dark, deep-set eyes of the wounded man communicated a tacit plea for the ending of pain.
Edge showed his teeth in a grin of evil intent and shook his head as he jerked the rifle from the feeble grasp.
"You boys started this shindig. You already cost me more shells than four Indians ought to need and shells are expensive. See it out on your own."
Edge's horse was standing placidly near where Zeb Hanson's body was sprawled and the animal sidled across, stepping delicately clear of the dead Indians, when Edge clucked his tongue. He slid the rifle back in its boot, then drew his knife from the rear of his belt. He went to the most distant of the Apaches first and stepped over him, tearing off the buckskin strip and clutching at a tuft of hair on the crown of the man's head. The point of the knife penetrated the skin of the dead Indian's scalp and the edge sliced easily and quickly in a circle until the tuft came free. Edge's expression, as he performed this operation on the three dead braves was set in lines of calm passivity. It did not change as he approached the fourth man, who was still alive, and was watching him with uncritical acceptance. Edge crouched in front of him and let the three scalps swing before the injured man's face.