Edge turned on his icy grin and watched with the enthusiasm drain from the old man’s bewhiskered face. “Okay pour it on,” he said and dashed from the protection of the wagons as the settler opened up a barrage. Not a single shot was fired in retaliation, until the fusillade ceased abruptly, then bullets thudded into the rock behind which Edge was crouched, spitting chips into his face. He gave the settlers time to reload, and at the sound of the first shot made his crouched, fast run to the brush, pumping off two bullets from the Henry and seeing dust puffs close to his feet as the Apaches fired widely. The brush offered concealment, but little protection from bullets. He saw a cluster of boulders above him to the left and he knew an Apache was hiding behind it.
The settlers opened up again and Edge rolled over twice, clear of the brush and saw an arrow bury its head into the ground at a spot where his body had been a moment ago. Then he was on his feet and running, breathing hard from the exertion needed for speed on the sharply rising ground. He carried the Henry low on his hip, grasping the barrel with one hand as he squeezed the trigger and worked the breech mechanism with the other, seeing the bullets thud into the rock. The redskin rose from behind the rocks and loosed off a shot that tugged at Edge’s sleeve. The brave tossed away his empty rifle and leapt, legs apart on top of the rock, bringing back his arm, preparing to launch the tomahawk, its blade flashing in the sunlight. One bullet from the Henry took him in the jaw, smashing upwards so that when he screamed his death agony he sprayed jagged pieces of broken teeth before him. The second got him plumb through the heart, its impact sending his body crashing backwards over the rocks. Edge dived to the side of them, hearing the whoosh of an arrow pass his ear.
Then as if divine influence had pressed a switch, the world went silent. Below, on the trail, even the woman had ceased her vocal mourning. Edge remained still, listening, knowing that there was at least four more pair of ears on the hillside doing the same thing. Then sounds came to him from below. He looked for their source and saw the settlers climbing up onto their wagons. When everyone was aboard male voices encouraged their horses forward and as soon as the line was straight the whips crackled and galloping hoofs and spinning wheels churned up dust. A lone wagon remained, the horses between the shafts quietly chomping on the long grass besides the trail.
Before the covering sounds of the speeding wagon had diminished into the distance, Edge moved forward, crawling around the rocks, drew in his breath sharply when he came face to face with an Apache. But the brave’s jaw was a mess of blood and shattered bone and his eyes stared sightlessly at Edge. It was the Indian he had killed. But in the moment the tension abated Edge heard a sound and kicked himself on his back, raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger by reflex at the figure which seemed to be carved out against the sky. It was a brave, atop the boulders, victory glowing in his eyes as he drew back the bowstring the final fraction of an inch. The unaided bullet smashed through the bow, altering its direction so that it entered the brave’s eye which a split second ago had been sighting the arrow at Edge’s heart. Also off target, the arrow whistled through a short space of air and its metal tip carved a furrow across the back of Edge’s hand. His numbed fingers released the grip on the Henry, which clattered to the ground as he snapped his head around to face the source of another sound. It was a blood curdling war cry of another brave as he launched himself at Edge’s spread-eagled body, tomahawk in one hand, knife in the other. Edge, his mind operating as coolly as a well oiled machine, brought up his right leg as the brave leapt forward. The toe of his boot caught the redskin full in the groin and the extra momentum sent him spinning over the head of Edge, who sprung to his feet and turned to face his adversary. The brave was getting to his feet, the knife gone as he clutched the source of his pain. He saw Edge’s injured arm go to his revolver, saw it drop as the finger muscles again refused to maintain a grip. The scent of victory made him forget his pain and he came forward at a run, teeth bared in triumph, tomahawk on high for a downward death blow.
Edge waited, timing his move to the split second. He sidestepped, his good hand going to the back of his neck, flashing out with the open razor. He ducked, going below the arc of the tomahawk, and slashed out. The razor point dug into the brave’s right eye, gouged a river of blood across the bridge of his nose, and sank into his left eye. The blinded man howled and sank to his knees, the tomahawk thudding into the ground. Edge snatched it up, swung it high and brought it down with all his might, splitting the brave’s head open as if it were a soft boiled egg.
As the brave pitched forward a gun exploded close at hand and Edge spun around, clenching his injured fist to bring life into it. He was in time to see an Apache looking at him in surprise, as he dropped his smoking rifle. He said one word in his native tongue and toppled forward as his knees gave way. As he fell, Edge saw the shaft of a pitchfork growing from his back, its three tines buried deep in the flesh.
The old-timer stood behind him, showing brown stained teeth in a proud grin. He spat dark juice to the ground.
“Didn’t like your deal much,” he said. “Sitting down there, man’s mind can play tricks. Wouldn’t like to run out on you and have a man like you mad at me. Less time to think up here.”
Edge nodded, began to retrieve his fallen weapons. “Obliged to you,” he said.
The old man looked around. “Reckon that’s the lot of them?”
“Yeah,” Edge said.
The old man spat more tobacco juice. “Enjoyed it,” he looked at the other fallen braves. “You had more fun, though.”
“Reckon.”
He nodded, strolled up to the brave he had killed and put a boot on his neck to give him leverage to withdraw the pitchfork. It came free with an ugly sucking sound.
“Darn fools neglected to leave me a shooting iron.”
“You didn’t need one.”
“Guess, I didn’t either.” His laughter was a high pitched cackle. He looked around again. “Reckon their buddies will be along soon?”
“Reckon.”
“Then let’s go, son.”
They went.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE rest of the Apaches did not follow in the wake of the wagon train, perhaps scared off by the scene they discovered on the blood soaked hillside, or merely unwilling to stray far from their familiar hunting grounds. Whatever the reason, the settlers were grateful for it, and deeply indebted to Edge for delivering them from what they knew would have been a massacre. Although he had intended to ask only for one meal and some supplies, Edge allowed himself to be persuaded to stay with the train for several days, eating high off the hog and receiving more feminine nursing than the minor wound on his hand needed.
The train was heading in the same general direction Edge wanted to go, but once across the San Juan Mountains the trail turned north, and this marked the end of Edge’s period of wagon comfort. He cut south with a full belly, replenished stock of ammunition and a pack-horse heavy with supplies. Not once had anybody on the train asked his name and he had volunteered no information. And when he left, the settlers waved him off into the distance with no knowledge of his destination or reason for making the journey.
It was eight days later, as he traveled through the surrealist landscape at the eastern edge of the Painted Desert in the north of the Arizona Territory that he saw the stage, heading in the same southerly direction as himself, but maybe a half mile to the east of him. It was going hell for leather, the hoofs of the four horses and rumbling wheels disturbing great heaps of dust that billowed out behind it like some from some kind of racing engine. At first Edge thought the small cracks which carried across the intervening desert land came from a whip wielded by a driver in a hurry. But then he saw the three horsemen spread out behind the stage, just clear of the billowing dust cloud.