Apache Death (2 page)

DESERT country had given way to low, bleak hills featured with mesas and smaller outcrops of rock so that sometimes, as Edge followed the little-used trail which had brought him all the way from the ravaged farmstead, it was as if he rode over the scarred bed of a canyon, with deep ravines cutting off at frequent intervals. As night fell, he rode with caution sitting on his shoulder, prodding upright the short hairs on the nape of his neck. For there was no longer any Indian sign on the trail. Once out of the flat desert territory the braves had split up from the bunch and scattered to left and right. It had always been a cold trail and the pace set by the lone rider had not been fast enough to make it any fresher. He had no wish to close in on the raiding party, for whatever had led to the uprising—whether an isolated incident or part of a territory-wide campaign by the Chiricahua Apaches—it was none of his business. At least, it wasn't until he found out the going rate, in dollars, for dead Apaches.

But he couldn't guarantee the Apaches felt the same way about any white man who happened along, and the country he was in might have been ordered and built for the purpose of ambush. So Edge was wary, his narrowed eyes constantly raking the ground ahead, one hand curled around the stock and trigger of the Spencer which was resting across his saddle-horn, beneath the blanket he had wrapped around his body to keep out the night cold.  

The moon was low and in only its first quarter, its meager light throwing great areas of terrain into shadows of grey, blue, purple and dark, impenetrable black. The silence, whenever Edge halted his horse to peer ahead at a possible hiding place, was absolute. Then, just as the trail took on a steeper incline, starting to rise toward the ridge of a high bluff which cut across the northern horizon, Edge saw the flash. He felt the rush of icy air close to his ear and was falling toward the ground before he heard the crack of the rifle. He was rolling, the Spencer held high and away from his body as the echo of the shot was still diminishing into the distance down the funnel of the surrounding rock faces, the sound counterpointed by the thud of hoofs from the escaping horse.  

Edge lay absolutely still, ignoring the pain of the bruises raised by the fall, slitting his eyes to stare ahead, searching for a landmark with which to pinpoint, the rifleman's position. But his viewpoint was different; perhaps ten feet lower than when he had seen the flash and the profile of the skyline had altered. He waited, knowing that shadow provided his only cover that the merest movement could give the marksman a target. 

“You out there!”

The voice was distorted by echo and offered no clue to where the speaker was located. But it did tell Edge he wasn't involved in Indian trouble. He also got from the voice the fact that he was dealing with a man, probably quite old, certainly not afraid. Edge didn't answer.

“I know you ain't no redskin,” the man continued, slowly and evenly. “Not unless you stole a shod horse and a white man's hat. I know, too, I didn't plug you. I could have, but I didn't. I don't kill, not unless I have to.”

The words bounced between the sheer cliff faces and rebounded over Edge's head and back down the trail. Up ahead, on the left, Edge thought. Then changed his mind: the right. “You understand what I'm saying. Or you a Mex, maybe?” The man paused, then in bad Mexican Spanish: “You're not hit. This is my mountain. I don't allow no trespassing.”

Something was digging into Edge's stomach and he raised his body slightly and reached a hand underneath, his fingers closing over a weather-smoothed piece of rock. He pulled it out and with the slightest of wrist actions tossed it in a shallow arc some thirty feet across the other side of the trail. It clattered noisily and the rifle flashed, the sound of the shot cannoning like a minor thunderclap. Before it had been swallowed up by distance Edge was on his feet and pressed against the outward sloping wall of a high mesa that bordered the trail on this side. He let out his breath in a long, slow sigh of satisfaction. The rifleman had been as disorientated as he, but the telltale flash of the exploding rifle had, swung the advantage over to Edge. The man was two hundred feet ahead, in an area of black shadow on Edge's side of the trail—with no dangerous, open ground between them.  

“I didn't hit you then, either,” the man shouted, and Edge used the sound of his voice as a cover for any noise he might make in moving forward. “Why don't you just back off and catch your horse, mister?” He was speaking English again and now, despite the distortion of echo, Edge could detect a change of tone: the man was beginning to get nervous. “You go back down the trail about half a mile. There's a gully goes off to the east. Another trail through there'll take you into Rainbow. Easier ride than this way—and you won't be trespassing none.”   

Moving with cautious speed, Edge had closed the gap by almost half.

“Unless, of course, you've come to jump my claim, which is what I first figured.” He laughed and tried to inject confidence into the sound. But it was as hollow as the most distinct echo. “Some others have tried it, mister. But Silver Seam is mine. This whole damn mountain is mine, so you just get the hell out of here.” There was a smaller patch of darker shadow in the area of blackness and Edge realized it was the entrance of a mine tunnel sunk into the side of the sharply rising ground.

“Now you answer me, mister,” the jealous miner yelled on the edge of a scream, “If you don't say something I'll know what you've come for and I'll plug you good next time.”

The mesa wall had reversed its slope as it became part of the bluff proper, which the old miner maintained was his mountain. It was steep, but its surface was roughened by centuries of weathering and Edge was able to find more hand and footholds than he needed to climb up the face. But the Spencer was an encumbrance and he lodged it in a narrow cleft before beginning to work his way along the cliff face, aiming for a narrow ledge some four feet above the mine ad-it

“I didn't hit you, did I?” the miner said after a long pause, “I never mean to hit nobody unless they've come to rob me. If you're hit, mister, you yell and I’ll come out and fix you up.”

There was a tremor in his voice now, clearly audible from this distance and Edge allowed his lips to curl back in a grin. The old man repeated his instructions in Mexican and the trembling words provided enough cover for Edge to cross the final few feet and reach his objective. He had made the trip with his face toward the cliff, but the ledge was wide enough to allow him to turn around and for several moments he pressed his back against the rough surface, taking time to recover from the exertion of the climb as he peered down the long length of his body toward the area immediately in front of the mine entrance. The miner was not in sight, but when Edge held his own breath he could just discern the rapid, frightened panting of the man below him. Edge eased the Colt from its holster and waited for his adversary to start shouting again.

“Speak, you bastard!”

It was enough to cover the faint click as Edge eased back the hammer.

“'I couldn't have killed him,” the miner said softly, to himself, the words magnified by the confined space of the mine tunnel. “But maybe I got in a lucky shot. Jesus, I hope if I killed him, he was after me claim.”

Edge raised his arm and Hung the revolver high and wide. It clunked to the ground a hundred feet down the trail, bounced twice and exploded into sound when it hit a third time.

“Holy cow!” the miner yelled and stepped out of the mine, raising his rifle to shoulder level and going into a half crouch.   

Edge jumped forward off the ledge, left hand streaking to the back of his neck. The man squeezed the trigger of the rifle and his high-pitched shriek of alarm was lost in the report as the dead weight of Edge hit him. Edge locked his legs around the man and with one hand jerked his head back as the other, fingers curled around the handle of the razor, snaked to the miner's throat. The man pitched forward under the weight and power of the lunge, the rifle clattering away. His knees hit first and his scream of pain was cut off as he went full-length, with the wind knocked out of him. The sharp edge of the razor merely nicked the grizzled, slack skin of his throat.

“'You didn't get in no lucky shot,” Edge whispered, close to his ear.  

The man was gasping for breath, the effect of the fall and the continuing weight of Edge on his back demanding his entire strength to force air into his lungs. Edge let him suffer like that for perhaps half a minute before he eased his weight off. But he left the razor close against the throat. Then, with his free hand, he grasped the man's hair and yanked him to his feet, still not removing the razor. The man was a head shorter than Edge, and would have fallen to the ground again had not Edge held him erect by the hair. They stood like that for several more moments, the man's rasping breath the only sound. Then his breathing became less pained and his body began to tremble.

“You wouldn't kill an old man, mister?” His teeth were clattering.

Edge let go of his hair and the man stood unaided, forced upright by the threat of the razor under his jaw.

“They ain't no different from-young men,” Edge told him evenly. “Skin's a little tougher to carve through, but they bleed just as much. How old are you, feller?”

“Seventy-two,” the man said quickly, as if he regarded his age as a plea for leniency.

Edge showed his teeth in a grin the man could not see. "Three score, years and ten, the Good Book says," he whispered with mock reverence. “You’ve been living on borrowed time for the past two years, old timer. Could be I'm the debt collector.”

The old man drew in his breath sharply? “Please, mister. Take half in the Silver Seam. We split down the middle. Fifty-fifty.”

“How much you dug out so far?”

“Nothing, not yet,” came the fast reply. “But it's there. Richest seam in the whole territory. Famous legend about a mountain of silver in these parts and I know this is it. I've been a miner all me life. I can recognize the sign of a silver lode.”

“How long you been working this mine?” Edge asked.

“Ain't nothing to go by,” the miner said, the confidence oozing out of his voice. “Takes time.”

"How long?”

“Be twelve years come spring,” the man said and now his, tone was devoid of all hope.

“Hell, you're dead already,” Edge said, releasing him and returning the razor to its neck pouch.

The old man turned to face him and he saw the miner carried his age well. The leathery skin was lined and wrinkled beneath the gray stubble of several days’ growth of beard, but the blue eyes were bright and there was strength of character in the leanness of his features. His gray hair, with just a trace here and there of its former dark color, was long and thick. His spare frame also hinted at a latent strength and there was just a slight thickening of excess weight around the middle. Twelve years of tearing at the heart of a mountain had kept the old man fit and a determination to find what he sought had fed a hope which in turn had nurtured his spirit.

“So you ain't going to kill me?”

Hope had sprung up again. Edge walked across and picked up the miner's rifle, an early muzzle-loading Springfield as clean as the day it had left the factory.

“What's your name?” he demanded.

“Zeb Hanson.”

“Let's go for a walk.”

Hanson squinted. “A walk?”

Edge grinned, “I've got to find a few things that belong to me and I'd prefer to have you where I can see you while I'm looking for them.”

Hanson shrugged and fell in beside Edge. He found his Colt first and dusted it off and replaced the expended shell with a fresh round before putting it back in the holster. The old man waited docilely at the foot of the mesa wall while Edge climbed up and retrieved the Spencer.

“You're a damn cool customer,” Hanson said with a note of admiration when Edge rejoined him. “You got the drop on me, and good.”

Edge grimaced at him. "You were easy. I'm still missing a horse.”

This news and the tone with which it was delivered raised fear within the old man again. “Got a burro in back of the mine,” he offered. “She ain't very fast, but she's steady,”

“I like my horse.”