EDGE: Massacre Mission Read online

  The head, shoulders and arms of a man showed at the opening high in the tower. A second gunshot sounded. From the plaza this time and close to where Edge stood. Adobe chips flew away from a hole halfway up the tower.

  Edge squeezed the trigger of the Winchester and the crack of the rifle’s firing curtailed the German curse which von Scheel had started when the bullet from his handgun went so wide of the mark.

  The glinting slits of the half breed’s ice-blue eyes were obscured momentarily as he blinked in reaction to the gunshot. But his thin lips remained slightly drawn back to display his teeth in a cruel smile as he fired the shot with confidence and watched its result with satisfaction.

  The bullet went into the head of the man in the tower and he was jerked backwards and upwards from his crouch. His hands loosened their grip on his rifle and it dropped, bounced on the ledge of the aperture and off, spinning and turning as it fell down the outside wall to thud to the ground beneath. By which time the man with a bullet in his head was on his feet and on the brink of death. By flailing his arms he managed to keep from tottering backwards. But then he died and the final movement of his arms caused his limp corpse to go forward. He folded over the ledge, teetered there for a moment, and then followed his rifle. Only now was it possible to see for certain that he was an Apache brave.

  The silence lengthened in the wake of the dull thud of the unfeeling body crashing to the ground in the shadow of the church. Until Edge broke it by pumping the lever action of the repeater, ejecting the spent cartridge case and jacking a fresh round into the breech.

  And he asked of von Scheel, ‘Which one of us, feller?’

  ‘Vhy you, of course,’ the fat German answered. ‘I had no chance at all with this.’

  He displayed the small Smith and Wesson .32 revolver with which he had tried to shoot the Apache over such an impossible range.

  ‘I mean which one of us was the brave trying to kill?’ Edge expanded, nodding toward the bullet hole in the ground.

  Von Scheel shrugged his shoulders, but the disinterested gesture was counteracted by the nervous way in which he licked his lips and shot a glance toward the crowd - some of whom were Apaches - gathering around the dead brave. rVhy should an Indian vish to kill me, mein herr? An innocent salesman of perfumes and such to vomen?’

  He moved forward, pushing the small revolver into a shoulder holster and stooping to help the old lady to her feet.

  Edge took a bullet from a loop on his gunbelt and pushed it through the loading gate of the Winchester. ‘Indians are kind of superstitious. Maybe that one didn’t like the trick you do.’

  ‘Trick, mein herr?’

  The half breed canted the rifle to his shoulder and picked up the rest of his gear. Turning scents into dollars.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ONE OF the recently built adobe houses was still vacant and the grey haired old lady Edge had knocked to the ground assured the newcomers it would be all right for them to spend the night there. She was recovered from the shock and the fall and eager to thank the half breed for his good intentions. Although the majority of the fifty or so people who had been hiding in the church were obviously resentful in the wake of the killing, most of them unaware of exactly what had caused the sudden explosion of violence in this idyllic setting.

  Edge said, ‘No sweat, ma’am and I’m obliged.’ Then angled back across the plaza to the house on the south east corner. While Fritz von Scheel went with the woman to help in explaining to the ignorant that it was the Apache brave who fired the first shot.

  He went up a walkway of crushed rock between the two flower bedded rectangles of lawn and through a doorway into a small parlor that was bare of furnishings and filled with the smells of fresh construction. To either side of the fireplace was a door: the one on the right giving on to a kitchen and that on the left to a bedroom. The bedroom was as bare as the parlor, but in the kitchen were some closets, a stove and a sink with a pump behind it. The water from the pump was cool, clear and sweet tasting. Edge drank at least a quart and, after so many days of sipping from canteens, it went down better than any beer could have.

  Outside, as the leading arc of the sun touched the ridges to the southwest, the voices became fewer and less shrill. The half breed went to the glassless window beside the front door of the house and grunted in approval when he saw that the German was in process of taking the two horse team from the traces of the wagon. Elsewhere, people were moving toward other houses, leaving a group of half a dozen in low voiced conversation in front of the church. Five Apaches went from sight around the side of the church, two of them carrying the dead brave by ankles and armpits.

  Of the white citizens of Santa Luiz, none was less than fifty and most appeared to be in the sixty-to-eighty age group. White haired or bald. Slight of frame and with time lined faces. Many of them pained by the simple exertion of walking. Some able bodied but pale and haggard from the symptoms of a sickness that attacked internal organs rather than muscles. The men attired in sweat stained shirts, battered hats, creased and dirty pants and scuffed boots. The women in shapeless, drab colored dresses as stained and dirt streaked as the men’s clothing, their hair hanging limply around their wearied faces.

  Some of these women eagerly eyed the sign painted on the side of the German’s wagon. A few of the men looked with animosity toward the house on the south east corner of the plaza. And of these only those with failing eyesight did not spot Edge’s impassive figure at the window, and so did not look hurriedly away.

  Then, from the rear of the church, came the sound of unshod hooves. A confusion of sound for a few moments, until a gallop was called for. And Edge saw six ponies streaming up the northwest slope. Five with riders astride them and the one at the rear, on a lead line, with the dead Indian draped over his back.

  After the sounds of the Apaches’ leaving had faded from earshot, the group of oldsters moved away from the front of the church. One of them veered away, to go to talk with von Scheel, who nodded, clicked his heels and surrendered his horses to the man. The animals were led toward the rear of the church and their owner hurried to get to the once vacant house ahead of the group.

  Edge had rolled and lit a cigarette by this time.

  ‘The men vish to speak vith us, Herr Edge,’ the German announced as he entered the house, where the air within the adobe walls was pleasantly cool relative to that out on the plaza.

  ‘Always have been a better listener than a talker, feller,’ the half breed answered, and turned to rest his rump on the window ledge as the deputation of oldsters came across the threshold.

  The gimpy legged Lloyd was among them, the shortest of the group and at about sixty the youngest.

  ‘This here’s Lloyd DeHart,’ the tall, thin man who had offered a welcome with reservations when the newcomers arrived said with a wave of a skinny, misshapen hand. ‘I’m Phil Frazier. John Newman over there. Arnie Prescott and Elmer Randall. Elmer’s the husband of Amelia Randall who you knocked over out there awhile back.’

  ‘You done it to keep Amelia from danger. I know that,’ the stoop shouldered, thickly moustached, morose eyed Randall said quickly.

  One of Frazier’s coal black eyes was so bright it had to be made of glass. And its lid never blinked.

  Newman had a grey goatee beard and features that were almost skeletal.

  Prescott’s skin coloration was unhealthily crimson and he needed a stick to compensate for a club right foot.

  With the exception of Randall, each man gave a curt nod as he was named. Von Scheel made one click of his heels serve as a response to all of the introductions.

  Edge said, ‘Should I be as glad to know you as you are me?’

  Only Elmer Randall was morose. The other four expressed degrees of sourness.

  The German frowned at the half breed and then smiled at the five old timers when he said, ‘Fritz von Scheel at your service, gentlemen. This is Herr Edge. Ve met on the trail.’

  DeHart ignored the drumm
er and was impatient with him to be done. He massaged the thigh of his left leg as if it pained him and growled, ‘Without ’Pache labor, we ain’t got a cat’s chance in a dog pound to get this place finished.’

  ‘Ve vere forced to defend ourselves against an unprovoked attack, mein herr!’ Von Scheel protested.

  ‘Quit it, Lloyd,’ Frazier muttered, and his single natural eye shared a look of resignation equally between Edge and the drummer. ‘Ain’t no doubt the Injun took a potshot at you men. And ain’t no way we’re ever gonna find out the reason he done that unless some of his buddies knows it and fix to tell us.’

  ‘If I can buy a horse, I’ll be on my way, feller,’ Edge offered.

  ‘We ain’t got no horses, mister,’ John Newman said. ‘On account of no one hereabouts is fit enough to ride.’

  Frazier shook his head. ‘Ain’t no rush for you men to leave Santa Luiz. Them live Injuns’ll be takin’ the dead one to bury up on the Gallo Rancheria. Twelve hours there and twelve hours back. So you’ll be okay restin’ up here for the night. Advise you to leave in the mornin’ though. For your own good. On account that I don’t reckon Chief Ahone is gonna take too kindly to one of his braves gettin’ shot by a white.’

  ‘Ain’t the army riding herd on the Rancheria, feller?’ Edge asked,

  Frazier shrugged.

  DeHart growled, ‘A bunch of boys in blue ride up there from Fort McRae every once in awhile. Have a smoke on the peace pipe and—’

  ‘Things have been fine with the Indians for a long time,’ Arnie Prescott interrupted. ‘The Rancheria’s on good land and there’s an honest agent up there. Ahone’s a good chief. Got vision. Knows reds and whites have got to get along together. Happy to have his braves work for us.’

  ‘Indians is Indians,’ DeHart muttered sourly. ‘Especially ’Paches.’

  ‘We going to put that to the vote?’ Edge asked, and tossed the remains of his cigarette out of the window.

  Frazier sighed and shared a glare between DeHart and Prescott. ‘Yeah, you men quit it, uh? The meetin’s already been held out front of the church and we carried the motion.’ Now he directed his attention at the two newcomers. ‘And I guess you folks have got the drift of what the town council decided. Lousy thing that happened out there just now. But the milk’s been spilt and everyone’s got to make the best of it. And we reckon it’s best if you folks take off soon as you’re rested up. Santa Luiz. folks gotta stay in Santa Luiz and hope Ahone’s as good a chief as Arnie claims. Understands the killin’ of one of his braves was nothin’ to do with us.’

  ‘That is fair,’ von Scheel agreed.

  ‘Be horses for sale at Thunderhead?’ Edge asked.

  ‘Them gold grubbers over there bought our animals,’ John Newman answered, and was gripped by a racking fit of coughing that seemed to rattle the bones of his emaciated frame.

  ‘Most likely ate them by now,’ the soured Lloyd DeHart added.

  ‘Reckon you’ll be able to get what you need, mister,’ Phil Frazier told Edge as he signaled for the old timers to leave the house. ‘But they’re hard folks at Thunderhead. Drive hard bargains.’

  ‘No sweat, feller. I’ll do the trading. Him the paying.’

  After the rest of the town councilors had left, Frazier held back to look with his good eye at the impassive Edge and then the piqued von Scheel ‘Appears you folks don’t get along too well together. Surely would appreciate it if any differences you got to settle can wait until you leave Santa Luiz. It’s the peace and quiet as well as the clean air and the fine spring water us old folks come here for. And there’s some among us liable to keel over and die iffen they get too agitated. You folks know what I mean?’

  ‘I understand,’ the German said. ‘It is painfully known to many that old age does not come alone, mein herr.’

  Edge straightened up from the window ledge and rasped the back of a hand over the bristles on his jawline, ‘To others it doesn’t come at all.’

  Frazier limped out of the house and his shadow was cast long by the final rays of the almost set sun. By the time he and the other members of the town council had gone into various houses on both sides of the plaza, the darkness had gathered to almost full night. The mingled aromas of woodsmoke, cooking food and bubbling coffee were appetizingly discernible in the cooling air. Lamplight began to show at many windows. Myriad stars gleamed hard and bright against the black sky. A quarter moon hung like half a question mark above the jagged ridges to the north.

  Von Scheel stood in the doorway as he watched night fall. Edge unfurled his bedroll in a corner of the parlor, then sat on the blankets and unfastened the saddlebag. The German heard the small sounds he made and turned to look across the wanly moonlit room at him.

  ‘The man who attended to my horses said ve vould be given hot food, Herr Edge.’

  ‘Jake Donabie said what I told him to,’ Amelia Randall announced as her footfalls sounded on the crushed rock walkway. The Lord knows that Santa Luiz folks don’t have much, but it’d be a sad day when some of us weren’t ready to share what we have with the needy.’

  She bustled into the house bearing a cloth-draped tray and surrendered it to von Scheel.

  ‘Danke.’

  ‘Obliged.’

  ‘Just last night’s mutton stew warmed up. More beans than meat but there oughta be enough to fill you folks’ bellies. Eat hearty now.’

  She turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. No longer so effusive, as she looked to where the German had set down the tray on the floor and pulled off the cover to reveal two deep bowls filled to their brims with steaming aromatic stew.

  ‘There is something you vish from us?’ Von Scheel asked as he rose with a bowl and a spoon.

  ‘Me and some of my neighbors been talkin’, mister. About the line you travel in.’

  A bright smile spread over the German’s face and in the low level of light the undertones of avariciousness could not be seen.

  Edge claimed the tray and returned to his bedroll, to sit cross-legged while he began to eat the good tasting stew.

  ‘It vill be a great pleasure for me to show my vares to the ladies.’

  The elderly woman’s uneasiness increased. She cast an apprehensive glance out at the empty plaza, allowing her attention to linger on the wagon parked beside the aspen grove. She asked softly, ‘Guess what you got to sell costs a lot?’

  ‘My price range is vide, mein frau,’ the drummer answered. ‘But I vill make special concessions for you and your neighbors. Bargain prices for anything you vish to buy. In return for the hospitality vhich has been given to me and my travelling companion.’

  He no longer seemed hungry as he launched into his initial sales pitch. Then was disconcerted by Mrs. Randall’s lack of enthusiastic reaction.

  ‘A good deal, this I promise you,’ he pressed on.

  ‘It ain’t that,’ the woman assured. ‘I ain’t thinkin’ you’d cheat us or nothin’ like that. It’s just that if the menfolk hereabouts found out about it, they wouldn’t allow it. Us women spendin’ money on what they figure as foolishness. So we’d have to do it real late in the night when the men’s all asleep and snorin’. And be real quiet about it.’

  The smile reappeared on the drummer’s fleshy features.

  ‘I am at your service. Vhen you say the time is right for us to do business, you come here again. And ve vill be as quiet as the mice, Ja?’

  Now the woman smiled. And nodded, glanced again at the wagon as a giggle bubbled up from deep inside her. If her age wearied legs would allow it, she should doubtless have skipped down the walkway.

  Von Scheel began to eat the stew, still standing, and when he was finished the sigh of satisfaction he vented probably owed as much to the prospect of making money as to the warm fullness of his belly.

  ‘Did I not say it, mein Herr Edge?’ he murmured with subdued delight. ‘The older the voman, the more she yearns for beauty.’

  Edge set the tray down on the floor and pushed it away. T
hen, forming his folded topcoat into a pillow, he got under his bedroll blankets and tipped his hat forward over his face. And muttered into the sweat smelling darkness of its crown, ‘Yeah, feller. Figure it’s in their make up.’

  For a few minutes he was conscious of sounds and movements both within the adobe house and outside. Knew that von Scheel gathered up the dirty dishes and placed them on the tray by the door. Then left to go to his wagon and returned with a burden which he carried into the bedroom. It was his bedroll, which he unfurled. When the German went into the kitchen and started to wash up, whistling softly through his teeth, the half breed drifted into an easy sleep. Which was briefly disturbed when his sharply honed subconscious warned of an intruder. But he came only to the threshold of waking, the fingers of his left hand tightening around the frame of the Winchester that shared his bedding. A woman was speaking with the German drummer. The talk was brief and low-keyed, but in tones of pent up excitement. Then the two moved softly out of the house, closing the door behind them. The half breed sank into his brand of shallow but restful sleep again, against a background of more whispered talk and padding footfalls which entered from the plaza through the glassless window.

  A loud and urgent shout jerked the sleeping man into full consciousness and he was instantly in control of his reflexes and commanded total recall of where he was and why he was there.

  Leather cracked. Horses snorted. The half breed recognized the voice of Fritz von Scheel shouting again. Hooves beat on the ground and timbers creaked.

  Edge had folded upright by then, but did not hurry to get to his feet and move to the window, hat back squarely on his head and rifle canted casually to his shoulder.

  The leaves of the aspens were trembling. A dust cloud was billowing. The windows of many houses became squared with yellow lamplight. Men and women shouted questions which for the most part went unanswered. Except by the sight of the city style wagon being driven in a tight, listing turn around the grove of trees, then heading out on to the trail which led up the eastern slope toward the ravine.