Apache Death (9 page)

THE town of Rainbow slept uneasily, the recent violence of the Apache attack fresh in the memory to trigger the imagination into nightmares of what could happen when the braves returned in greater number. Most of the civilian population were barricaded in the unsubstantial safety of their homes or hotel rooms, untrusting of the single army patrol which Colonel Murray had detailed for sentry duty around the limits of the town. The bulk of his men were inside the gates of the fort and the army commander had made no secret of the fact that he valued the consignment of weapons higher than the lives of the townspeople. Edge did not even try to sleep, but sat on the bed with the Englishman's map spread across his knees, his lean face, washed clean of blood but still bearing traces of the fight, set in an expression of deep thought. He was recalling the old miner, Zeb Hanson, and his fruitless search for a legendary mountain of silver. Zeb had not had a map and Edge was toying with the idea that perhaps the old timer had been digging for twelve years in the wrong mountain.

A discreet rapping of knuckles on the door interrupted Edge's line of thought and he quickly folded the map and tucked it into his shirt, then pulled the rifle out from under the bed. "Yeah?"

"Your partner, old boy," came the response in the familiar, cultured English tone. "We need to talk."

"Thought you didn't like talking?"

"You've stolen my means of action, old boy. Can I come in?"

"I been expecting you," Edge told him. "Door's not locked."

The Englishman entered and sighed when he found himself looking down the length of the Spencer's barrel. "You really are the most nervous chap, Mr. Edge," he said as he closed the door and leaned against it, "Isn't there anybody you trust?"

"Yeah, the guy I shave," Edge answered.

"What's the spot marked with a cross?"

The Englishman shrugged and Edge noticed that he,
I
too: had' cleaned up his face. And his suit looked as if he had just picked it up from the tailor. "Perhaps nothing, old boy. The man who offered me the map in payment of a debt said it was worth a million dollars,"

"How much did he owe you?" Edge asked.

"Fifty dollars. He thought his aces arid kings were good but my low flush was better."

Edge made a sound of disgust from deep within his throat. ''You can't be that stupid—a million, bucks for fifty."

"I'm not, old boy," he answered with the gentle smile. "I was within a second of killing him before he, offered me the map. That made me consider the story as feasible. Then I did have to kill him, when he tried to steal the map back again. He talked a little before I ended his agony. It happened in Wichita, Kansas. I took the next stage west."

"What did he tell you?" Edge was still pointing the rifle, apparently in a casual attitude. But his narrowed eyes studied the Englishman closely, the memory of the man's speed with the trick holster warning against a moment's inattention.

"You wouldn't reconsider our arrangement, old boy?" the Englishman asked without conviction,. "A readjustment of the percentages?"

Edge grinned coldly. "Don't push it, English," he said with a shake of his head. "I've got the map now. Could be that if we change the split you'll get the small end. What is it, a silver mine?"

"Oh, dear, you really are completely lacking in information, old boy. You only know the legend. I have the facts. "

"And, I repeat, I have the map."

The Englishman put his hands in his pants pockets, but Edge did not allow himself to be lulled into a sense of security by the casual attitude, and continued to direct the Spencer toward the door.

"It's gold, old boy. A whole wagon load of gold ingots with no identifying marks. The gold was refined in Mexico and shipped north under the protection of the Mexican army in 1835."

"What did they get for it?"

"Not a thing, old boy. What they wanted was help from the Indians in this area—the Apaches, Papago, Pima, Maricopa, Hopi and Navaho."

"To do what?"

The Englishman shook his head. ''If you knew your history, old boy, the answer would be obvious. In 1835 Texas was fighting for her independence from Mexico and the Mexicans were very reluctant to relinquish such a large portion of land. But they were losing and they were prepared to try anything—even a deal with the Indians. Then something went wrong and there are several versions of what it was. I'm inclined to believe the story that the army escort tried to steal the shipment and then fought among themselves—lack of trust again, old boy."

"Who drew the map?" Edge demanded, ignoring the final comment.

"The only survivor from the escort. He left the wagon where it was, hidden in a cave on the other side of the northern ridge and plotted the way out, intending to return when he considered it safe to make use of the cargo. What happened to the map from then until it came into the possession of my card-playing chum is anybody's guess."

Edge's expression became thoughtful again, but he maintained his careful vigilance. "Why'd you waste time hanging around Rainbow, English?" he asked at length.

The Englishman grinned and it was almost an apologetic expression. "Money, old boy. A wagon loaded with a million dollars worth of gold isn't exactly a buggy with a fringe on top. Luck didn't ride with me on the stage west and I reached Rainbow with three dollars and the clothes you see me in now. I had to win enough to buy a team and a wagon. The one up in the cave might have rotted down to its axles by now. It's more than thirty years old, you know."

''You get them?"

He nodded. "Bought and paid for. Waiting at Olsen's livery stables. The team inside and the wagon out the back."

"So what are we waiting for?" Edge asked.

The gentle smile taunted Edge. "Perhaps for you to summon enough courage to go out into Indian country?"

"Ain't the Indians that worry me," Edge answered.

The smile continued. "You have nothing to fear from me, old boy," the Englishman said. "With the Apaches on the warpath, two guns will be better than one. And if the gold has to be transshipped, two pairs of hands will be better. But …" His expression darkened suddenly and his tone became heavy with menace. "I still don't like the split."

"Then neither do I," Edge countered, matching the other's threat. "And I know your opinion of talk, English."

Silence settled upon the room, interrupted only by the spluttering of the kerosene lamp, as both men attempted to outstare each other. They finally called it quits with emphatic nods which spoke tacitly of an agreement that the deal was one of all or nothing. Then the Englishman turned and pulled open the door, waiting patiently to usher Edge through. But although Edge stood up from the bed, he did not move forward. "Only the guy I shave," he said softly.

"And that's a hard man," the Englishman said as he went out into the hallway.

"As your heart," Edge countered, following him.

The Pot of Cold was strictly a hotel that, night and there were no creaking bedsprings or muted cries of passion as the two men went along the hallway, down the stairs and across the saloon area. Lust could not compare with the stronger, more passionate, fear of further Indian attack. Out on the street there was the same aura of deserted desolation with not a light showing anywhere, and no sound but the footfalls of the two men to disturb the absolute stillness. But both men knew about the army patrol, and both were aware of the lone braves who had stalked the rooftops earlier. So they moved with caution, keeping to the shadowed sidewalk and only darting across the width of the street to Olsen's Livery Stables when they were sure their passage would be unseen. For a few seconds the low, cold looking moon threw their shadows long across the gray dust, then they were swallowed up by the darkness of the opposite sidewalk.

There was an alley between the livery and the neighboring lawyer's office and the Englishman entered this with Edge hard on his heels. Only the stabled horses heard their approach and started up a nervous whinnying.

"You intend trying to run the Apache gauntlet with only your peashooter?" Edge whispered as they emerged into a pool of moonlight at the rear of the livery.

The Englishman's, teeth shone in a smile and he pointed to where a flatbed wagon was standing. "Take a look under the seat of the wagon, old boy. While I get the team."

" Edge waited a few seconds to watch his partner go to work on the padlock securing the rear doors of Olsen's Livery and saw him picking at it with a short length of twisted wire. The lock fell open with a satisfying click.

"Very damn subtle," Edge said sardonically. 

The teeth shone again. "But effective, old boy. Very damn effective."

As the Englishman pulled open the doors Edge crossed to the wagon and lifted the hinged seat to look into the box beneath. And now it was his turn to grin as he, reached inside and lifted out an elegant repeater rifle. He stood for a few moments, admiring the lines of the weapon, then began to run his, fingertips along the smoothness of the stock and over the soft sheen of the brass frame.

"What do you think, old boy?" the Englishman said softly as he led two strong-looking work grays out of the stable.

"It looks like an old friend of mine called Henry," Edge answered.

The Englishman soothed the horses into the wagon shafts and began to harness them. "Close relation," he explained. "Same breed, but different fathers, if that's possible. Both of the New Haven Arms Company. B. Tyler Henry fathered the Henry rim-fire .44 repeater. Has a steel or bronze frame. A tubular magazine of 15 rounds and you feed in the shells from the front after drawing' the spring up into the muzzle section of the mag."

"You've been going to night school," Edge put in. The Englishman was unmoved by the sarcasm. "What you're holding, old boy, is a brass-framed 1866 Winchester one of the first models of its kind to come from New Haven Anus. You load it from the rear, so you can feed in the shells a damn sight faster than a Henry."

"Same cocking action?" Edge asked and jerked the trigger guard down and forward to test it for himself.

"The same," the Englishman confirmed as he finished harnessing the horses and started back toward the stable. "Gun's named for Oliver F. Winchester who runs New Haven Arms."

"As fast?"

"A shot every two and a half seconds it says in the specifications. You could be faster,"

"I am," Edge said softly to the retreating figure, and replaced the rifle in the box seat as he waited for the Englishman to return with another two work horses.

"Would it Interest you to know that Colonel Murray is guarding ten thousand of those rifles?" the Englishman asked when he did reappear.

"I heard about an arms shipment," Edge answered. "Why don't he break them out and issue them?"

"Murray's a soldier by the book, old boy," came the reply as the Englishman coaxed the two lead animals between the shafts. "Rainbow's a supply fort. His job is to distribute the new Winchesters to other forts throughout the territory. And the whole army's been told they can't use the guns against the Indians until Washington decides the uprisings can't be contained by talking. Like I said about the Yankees, talk, talk, talk."

"How d'you know all this; English?" Edge asked.

The gentle smile was highlighted by the moon. "I know a man who knows a man. Played poker with him and he lost." He checked the tension of the bits and sighed with satisfaction.

"Ready to roll?"

"Think so, old boy. If you still have the map."

"I've got it," Edge answered and hoisted himself up on to the box seat, holding out a hand to help the Englishman aboard. But he withdrew it quickly as a rifle shot rang out and wood splintered from the edge of the seat. Before the splinters hit the ground Edge had cocked the Spencer and the Englishman had spun around the double-barreled pistol nestling in his hand.