EDGE: Sullivan's Law (Edge series Book 20) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Other titles in the EDGE series.

  Sullivan’s Law

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition June 2013

  Names, Characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Design and illustrations by West World Designs © 2013.

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications.

  Cover Illustration by Cody Wells.

  Visit the author at: www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  For D.A.B.J.

  who came from the East to lend a helping hand

  Chapter One

  STORM clouds scudded across the bright face of the almost full moon, and near full darkness dropped a dangerous veil over the jagged ridges and broken slopes of the Dragoon Mountains.

  But the dozen Mescalero Apaches crouched in the boulder-strewn hollow did not move. They remained like statues, save for the gentle rise and fall of their chests as they breathed the chill high-country air of southeast Arizona Territory. And, even when their eyes had adjusted to the new, low level of light, they continued to delay the carefully planned attack.

  One warrior - the sub-chief who had carried his first name of Grunting Bear into adulthood - held a fixed stare on the blurred shape of Fort Waycross, a hundred yards away down the slope. The eleven braves under his leadership gazed intently at him. Their impassive faces betrayed no hint of what they were thinking.

  The dress of all the Apaches was identical - a headband, loose shirt gathered at the waist by a weapons belt, pants and knee-length boots. Rawhide, cotton and buckskin dyed to a uniform, somber hue: almost as black as their shoulder-length hair, darker than the milk-coffee color of their faces, which were not daubed with war paint. Each warrior carried an elm-wood bow and deerskin quiver of iron-tipped arrows. From the weapons belt of each brave hung a sheathed factory-made knife and a tomahawk. Grunting Bear carried a knife, too. But, pushed under his belt at the other hip, was an army model Colt .45.

  It had been many years since the Mescaleros of Dry Wash had gone on the warpath, but the members of the small party surveying Fort Waycross were old enough to recall past battles, and yet were still young enough to possess the strength to utilize the hard-learned skills of killing.

  Thus, the braves who watched Grunting Bear so closely did not have to be told why he was waiting. The storm clouds had been gathering for more than an hour, driven across the sky from the north by a wind that lifted dust to sting cold-pinched, exposed flesh. But life for an Apache had always been harsh, even before the White Eyes came to stake their claim to Indian land.

  So there had been no complaints as the braves left the wickiups of the Dry Wash Rancheria and rode their ponies through the mountains. The ponies were hobbled in a small box canyon a mile away from the fort, any noise they might make covered by the whine and howl of the wind cutting between ridges and curling around peaks.

  Partially sheltered from the swirling dust and biting wind, the braves crouching in the hollow knew that the time to start was fast approaching. For they smelt moisture in the air. Soon, the racing storm clouds would deliver their promised downpour of needling rain.

  Without breaking his concentration upon the dark bulk of Fort Waycross, seen as a fuzzy silhouette against the pale-colored rocks and sand below, Grunting Bear knew the warriors flanking him and behind him were reaching the peak of readiness. He sensed it. He also sensed that, like himself, they were confident of victory. The imminent storm was a sign from the Great Spirit that victory would be theirs.

  Below him, at the foot of a rock featured and hollow pitted declivity, the adobe and timber built army post stood sentinel at the meeting point of four trails. From such an elevated position, he was able to see over the spiked top of the twelve foot high timber fence which had a guard tower at each corner. Inside was the hard-packed compound, squared on three sides by single-storey, flat-roofed adobe buildings. Bunkhouses for the enlisted men, married and officers’ quarters, mess hall, command office, stables, arms store and magazine - and guardhouse.

  Black Cloud was a prisoner in the guardhouse. Black Cloud, brother of Grunting Bear and named as the next chief of the Mescaleros living on the Dry Wash Rancheria had been falsely accused of a heinous crime against a family of White Eyes settlers, dragged from his wickiup by the horse soldiers and humiliated before the assembled braves and squaws. Now, perhaps, he was gazing through the bars of a guardhouse window towards the gallows set up at the centre of the compound. Feeling hatred - certainly not fear - as he contemplated his execution which was fixed for two hours after sunrise.

  Thus, he had to be freed tonight. And the Great Spirit had given his blessing by sending the storm. To have attacked the well-guarded fort in the bright light of the near full moon would have been suicidal for such a small war party. But the braves would have made the attempt.

  Now, as the first big raindrops splashed to the arid ground and spattered the faces of the crouching Apaches, the sparks of the fires of potential victory were ignited in their bellies.

  Abruptly, the downpour was unleashed, the individual beads of moisture merging into sheets. Fort Waycross and its surrounding terrain, for a long time blurred by wind-swirled dust and deep darkness, were suddenly completely lost beyond the lashing curtain of rain.

  ‘Now, we go!’ Grunting Bear ordered, his gravel-toned voice revealing why his childhood name had remained with him.

  The braves acknowledged the command by rising to their full heights - not one standing more than five-and-a-half feet high and all stockily built. Details of the plan of attack, and the part which each brave had to play, had been given back in the darkened wickiup on the rancheria. Now, as they climbed out of the hollow and started down the slope - the wind-driven rain lashing at them from behind - they sub-divided into four groups of three.

  Three of them had helped to build Fort Waycross - virtually as slave laborers - when they were young bucks. Two others had done menial work there more recently. This knowledge had been pooled and shared so that all were as familiar as necessary with the layout, strength and night routine of the post.

  Although the storm both concealed the advance and masked all other sounds, the Mescaleros nevertheless moved stealthily. For this was their way when approaching an enemy, inbred into them and learned from experience. Each warrior measured the passing of time by counting silently. ‘Eleven pairs of hands,’ Grunting Bear rasped softly as he and the two braves with him reached the high double gates of the fort.

  Nods confirmed that the braves agreed with the tally. They waited and continued to count, erect and impassive in the face of the driving wind and hissing rain that seemed intent upon smashing them against the north-facing gates. When the fingers of three more pairs of hands had been counted, the other braves of the war p
arty should have reached their allotted positions.

  There would be no verbal signal that all was well. Above, patrolling the walkways at the top of the fence - or perhaps sheltering in the guard towers from the weather - were eight sentries. Two assigned to each of the two lengths of walkways. They would not be expecting trouble, even though there was a condemned Apache sub-chief in the guardhouse, for the Mescaleros of the Dry Wash Rancheria had lived in peaceful misery for a very long time. It had been many years since Apache raiders had attacked the scattered homesteads in the area, or hindered traffic on the trails that met in front of the post. There was even talk of abandoning Fort Waycross now that the fight appeared to have been ground out of the Indians.

  But this raid was too important to Grunting Bear for him to run unnecessary risks. It would end with the freeing of Black Cloud but, knowing his brother like he did, he had bright hopes that it would be the start of a different kind of freedom - for every Indian in the whole of Apacheria.

  ‘Now it is time,’ he said, and there were no nods. As he drew his own knife from its sheath, the others took their cue. They waited until he had thudded the blade of his weapon into the gate, then handed him theirs.

  Grunting Bear had stood on his toes and reached high above his head to sink the blade into the wood. He accepted the other two knives, stepped into the cupped hands of one brave and climbed on to the shoulders of the other.

  At the rear and sides of the fort, the other groups of braves were carrying out the same maneuver, confident that the low-pitched thud of metal biting into wood could not be heard by the sentries above. A whistle or imitation bird cry would have been heard. And, although not expecting trouble, the soldiers would have been spooked into alertness, especially on such a storm-lashed night when a man’s imagination was likely to be heightened.

  Grunting Bear placed one knife between his teeth, and reached high to sink the other into the gate. As he tested his weight on the lower knife and gripped the handle of the one high up, distant thunder rolled. But the lightning was hidden by cloud, rain and mountain peaks.

  The storm had always been a fickle ally, and he realized this. While the driving rain concealed the advance, there had always been the latent menace of brilliant blue flashes which would illuminate the attackers even more vividly than the noonday sun could have done.

  The knives held for the sub-chief and for the other three Apaches. Each reached up with his free hand and hooked an arm into a vee between the tapered tops of the fencing poles. Feet were raised off the lower knives and there were just low grunts of exertion as each Apache hauled himself high enough to peer along the walkways.

  The fence offered some protection against the storm and the wind was forced into twisted currents around the buildings and across the compound. Shapes appeared and then disappeared through the teeming rain. There was a second distant clap of thunder. But again, no flash of lightning.

  Nothing moved on the walkways until the four Mescaleros hauled themselves aloft and swung over the viciously sharpened fence poles. As they sank into tense crouches, they pulled the knives from between their teeth. No uniformed figures loomed out of the wet darkness. No shouts of alarm were raised.

  At the gates, and the sides and rear of the fort, other braves were boosted up on to the firmly sunk knives. The Apaches already on the walkways leaned down to grip their tribal brothers. The third man in each group - the youngest, strongest and most agile - hauled himself, hand-over-hand, up the human rope ladder. Once on the walkway, he helped the first brave aloft to haul up the last.

  Within less than sixty seconds of the first four knives biting into the wood, all twelve Mescaleros were crouched on the walkway. No group could see any other through the sheets of rain, but each trio knew the initial objective had been reached successfully. The guards were armed with Spencer repeating rifles and Colt revolvers. The hiss of rain, howl of wind and claps of distant thunder combined into a tumultuous sound screen, but not so loud that it would not be pierced by a gunshot, or even a shriek of alarm.

  Grunting Bear and the two braves with him paused only momentarily to gulp in a deep breath of rain-sodden air. Then, in a half-crouch and with eyes peering intently ahead, he led the way towards the guard tower at the northeast comer of the fort.

  Visibility was never more than six feet, sometimes shortening to less than half this when the erratic wind veered to billow the torrential curtain of rain. Grunting Bear was slightly ahead of the two braves. He glimpsed the tower and halted. Those behind him touched him and stopped. They slid the tomahawks from their belts. The storm blotted out the guard tower.

  Grunting Bear already knew what it looked like. Merely a flat wooden roof supported by four uprights. Just a four-foot square area of walkway with a cover: designed to protect the sentries from blazing sun rather than infrequent rain. But any form of shelter was better than nothing on a night such as this. And the sub-chief had experienced a moment of high excitement when he saw the two sentries were making the best of what was available. One was tall and thin and the other stocky. Huddled in their top coats, with hands thrust deep into pockets. Collars turned up and cap peaks pulled low. Their holstered revolvers would be under the top coats, and their hands which were out of sight were far from their rifles.

  The sub-chief quelled his excitement, forcing the threat of a war whoop back down his throat. But he did not chide himself for the lapse. It was so long since he had been able to indulge his feelings for the White Eyes beyond whispered words of hatred, vicious thoughts and insulting looks. Thus, his reaction to the impending kill was natural. The braves with him, and the other nine on the walkways, had certainly felt the same impulse. His thin lips curled back in a momentary smile. For the silence beneath the sounds of the storm meant that his followers had also willed themselves back to icy calm.

  He raised his left arm, two ringers curled against the palm and two extended. Both braves went to his left flank, knowing that the sentry on that side was their kill.

  All three started forward, going down into deeper crouches. They seemed to glide in the ungainly posture, loose-limbed and yet rigid against the howling, buffeting wind.

  ‘My Pa wanted me to be a locomotive engineer, you know that, Baker,’ the stocky sentry growled.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that, Whelen,’ the other soldier answered dully. “You know somethin’?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t give a friggin’ damn.’

  Whelen spat. ‘Pardon me for friggin’ livin’.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  Whelen had turned to his right, to avoid the globule of his own saliva as the wind picked it up and flung it back into the tower. Grunting Bear was lunging up from his crouch, right arm stretched out in front of him. That spit, still warm, spattered into Whelen’s left ear. His hands were only half withdrawn from his coat pockets. The knife went through the gap in his upturned collar and plunged into his throat. His mouth was still open from his last word. Grunting Bear’s free hand clamped over it.

  The sentry staggered backwards, the terror of dying twitching every nerve ending in his body. He felt the wet warmth of salt-tasting blood fill his mouth. He came to a hard stop against one of the roof supports. His eyes bulged as he stared at the sneering face of his attacker. The Apache’s hand, fisted around the knife handle, punched him on the jaw as the blade was wrenched from the flesh. Whelen’s eyes snapped shut. His teeth crunched together. Blood from his severed jugular vein poured into his punctured windpipe. His death rattle became a gargle against the assault of the slick, crimson torrent.

  Grunting Bear released the corpse and it slid to a crumpled heap on the walkway. Then he whirled, knife blade and free hand dripping blood. Something thudded to his feet, bounced against his ankles and rolled. He crouched, grasped a fistful of hair, and stood erect. Baker’s eyes, still open, stared out of the severed head. The wind tugged at the gristly trophy, swaying it. Narrowing his eyes against the stinging rain, Grunting Bear looked beyond t
he head. One brave was holding the decapitated corpse against a roof support. The blade of his tomahawk was buried in the chest. The second brave was jerking his weapon out of the timber. It made a squelching sound as it came free and dragged across the meaty wound of the neck. The other tomahawk was wrenched from the flesh amid a welter of crimson, and the corpse was released to fold to the walkway.

  The three Mescaleros bared their teeth against the wind and rain in grins of evil triumph. A moment later, Grunting Bear was grim-faced, head cocked in an attitude of listening. Far to the north, a sheet of lightning silhouetted the mountain peaks. Just for an instant, and too distant for the blue brightness to touch the fort. Thunder rolled. Rain hissed. The howl of the wind seemed to take on a mournful note as if the Great Spirit of the White Eyes was expressing regret for the deaths of eight of his flock.

  No other sounds.

  Grunting Bear gave a curt nod, then dropped into a crouch. Blood continued to ooze from the soldier’s head as he gripped it between his knees. The sharply honed point of the knife blade was drawn across the top of the forehead. Just a thin line of crimson showed. He made another cut on the sparse flesh at the crown of the skull. The sub-chief dropped lower, on to his haunches. Then, steadying the head with the knife blade in the mouth and down the back of the throat, he wrenched on the hair. That most prized trophy for an Apache warrior - the scalp of a White Eyes horse soldier - was ripped from the head. The subdued sound was like that of a piece of stout cardboard being torn into two.

  ‘For he who struck killing blow,’ Grunting Bear announced, tossing the scalp into the air.

  The brave who had thudded his tomahawk into Baker’s heart reached out a hand, and plucked the scalp to him before the wind snatched it. Grunting Bear rose and let the mutilated head drop to the walkway. With the same quick ease, he lifted the scalp of Whelen and wedged it under his belt.

  The sentries’ Spencers were leaning in the angle where the north and east fences met. The two braves claimed them, pumped shells into the breeches, and followed Grunting Bear down the stairway. There were other steps canting down from the guard towers at the other corners of the fort. Triumphant braves filed down them, two in each group carrying the scalps of the dead. And all eager new owners of rifles or revolvers.