EDGE: Red Fury (Edge series Book 33) Read online

  ‘Why didn’t you make that choice back in the Hatchet Mountains, mister?’ he asked flatly.

  ‘Now the next part, Calvin.’

  The youngster turned his back on the half-breed and used the hand of his uninjured arm and his boot heels to propel himself across the blankets.

  Edge picked up the time-ravaged handgun with its folding trigger and cylinder chambered for only five .38 shells. ‘On account of when there’s life there’s hope, feller,’ he replied. ‘But this ain’t living.’

  He transferred his grip from the butt to the barrel of the gun.

  ‘You ain’t breakin’ your rule, mister,’ Butler said, his voice heavy with despair. ‘Acoti will give me to the squaws and it’ll be your fault. So you’ll be killin’ me for aimin’ a gun at you twice. Reason I’m doin’ what you tell me is so that you got no call to harm Little Fawn anymore.’

  The sandy-haired youngster sat with his legs splayed, good arm resting across the front of his body, back rigidly straight and neck pressed down between his shoulders in expectation of the blow. Staring directly ahead, out of the doorway at a restricted view of the rear of a neighboring wickiup beyond the smoldering ashes of the cooking fire.

  ‘You want me to cave in your skull, Calvin?’ Edge asked softly. ‘Easier way to go than by Apache squaw torture.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Like I said, Calvin, where there’s life there’s hope.’

  ‘Come on, get it over with, damn you!’

  The half-breed waited for stretched seconds, as Calvin became even tenser. Then injected a despairing tone into his voice to say, ‘Forget it, I can’t do this to you, feller.’

  Butler sighed and his shoulders sagged as he saw the brown-skinned hand pull the razor away from the bulged belly of Little Fawn.

  ‘You done right, mister and—’

  Edge cracked the flat of the revolver butt hard against the matting of hair on the back of the youngster’s head. And the abruptly unconscious form folded forward and then tipped to the side - away from the girl. Calvin Butler’s breathing matched that of Little Fawn in rate and shallowness. The blow had split the skin and the hair began to stain with crimson. But it had done less damage than if the gun butt had assaulted Calvin while he was in a state of mental and physical hypertension.

  Edge gripped the revolver by the butt and folded down the trigger, rose into a half-crouch and turned to go to the curve of the wickiup opposite the entrance. He used the razor to cut a three foot long split in the matting, put it back in the neck pouch and pressed an eye to the slit.

  The cold anger was gone now - or, at least, was trapped into a tiny hard ball at the pit of his belly. But it was not replaced by remorse or pity or shame for what he had done to the pregnant Little Fawn and her husband who saved his life. Neither satisfaction that the first and easiest part of his plan had been successful. His mind was concerned solely with what he had to do next. From the slit in the matting he could see the large gathering of horseflesh in the corral with the towering face of Black Bear Bluff beyond. There were no Apaches in sight. He guessed there would be sentries posted on the top of the bluff, but it was not their job to keep watch on the encampment below. From the low murmur of sound among the circles of wickiups he could visualize the squaws preparing the midday meal while the braves rested in the shade of their lodges. Acoti, Thundercloud and the other sub-chiefs perhaps discussing battle strategy in the chief’s lodge.

  But whatever the Apaches in camp were doing, none of them would have the specific duty of watching the wickiup of the white eyes and his half-white squaw. Not in the broad daylight of noon. Later, maybe, when darkness descended and the war council commenced. Perhaps then the tall, hard-eyed and soft-bodied chief might post guards on the wickiup of Calvin and Little Fawn to pre-empt a possible escape bid by the white eyes stranger under cover of night while the majority of braves were concerned with matters of war.

  Which was why Edge had chosen to make his move now, taking the latest of many calculated risks in the dangerous life his ruling fate forced him to live.

  He snaked out through the slit and lay absolutely still for stretched seconds as the nearest group of ponies eyed him with interest. Then, when the animals dipped their heads to tear again at one of the many bales of hay scattered across the corral, he bellied forward - dust clinging to his sweat-tacky palms and floating up to adhere to his bristled face. The sun beat down upon his back and the backs of his legs: and he felt as if it were scorching the skin - like there was no protective layer of shirt and pants fabric between.

  He went under the two strands of rope strung taut between lances which took him out of the cover the wickiup had provided. His breathing sounded thunderously loud to his own ears and he could feel the short hairs on the nape of his neck standing erect.

  He was already on dust-covered, hard-packed hay and horse-droppings littered ground that sloped up towards the base of the bluff. His objective of the boulder-strewn, broken strip of ground below the towering red face of sandstone was something over a hundred and fifty feet away. And the higher he moved on the gentle slope, the more exposed he would be to a chance glance from any of the Apaches below. If that should happen, an outcry would erupt and he determined he would empty the virtually useless handgun towards the camp - and thus invite a fusillade of shots from the Spencers. Die in the corral rather than make a doomed run for the base of the bluff.

  He reached this decision as he inched across the slope on a diagonal line - lengthening the distance to the bluff but aiming for, then gaining the unreliable cover of a group of a dozen more ponies. He began to move faster then, without wasting any time to check on the many Apaches in a position to be able to see him when he was above the cover of the horses, bellying catty-cornered in another direction. Towards a bunch of other animals, one of which was his own mare. If she noticed the man snaking across the ground to get behind her, she was too busy feeding to recognize him.

  Sweating tension stretched or compressed time. It seemed to his tortured mind to take an hour to cross the corral, and the next moment it was as if only a few moments had elapsed. Then in brief periods of rational thinking he realized it was something between the two - had to hope he would soon be able to make better time. For the longer it took to get clear of the encampment, the greater the chance of recapture. For when he regained consciousness, Cal Butler would surely raise the alarm, hopeful of earning mercy from Chief Acoti.

  Edge snaked under the corral ropes and bellied down into a hollow. Rolled over on to his back and closed his eyes against the glare of the sun. He sucked in a great lungful of air and allowed it to whistle out softly through clenched teeth.

  The most dangerous ground had been crossed, but he was a long way from freedom. Fear continued to squeeze sweat beads from his pores and tie his muscles in hard knots. Not the fear of dying - it was many years since he had experienced this. But fear of the process of dying. And Apache women were mistresses of the art of giving pain.

  He rested for less than half a minute, and then rolled over on to his belly again to begin moving south, intent upon swinging around half the camp in the cover of the hills and back-tracking on the path along which he had been brought there. For he knew where the sentries were positioned in that direction.

  From time to time he peered down at the camp. The slow-moving layer of smoke above the depression was thicker now, permeated with fresher smells of cooking food. Squaws sat by the fires, occasionally stirring the contents of the steaming pots. Here and there a lone brave sat at the entrance of his wickiup, watching his woman prepare the meal. Elsewhere, the menfolk stood in small groups, talking. It was a tranquil scene, the single sour note struck by the absence of children.

  It was at least thirty minutes since he left the wickiup through the slit in the matting and the half-breed was suddenly aware that he could have killed the young couple. It was a long time for anyone to be unconscious. And the longer they remained so, the worse their chances of recovery.
>
  But he put this line of thinking out of his mind. And it was replaced, unbidden, by a vivid image of the full-bodied Lorna Butler in the tight-fitting shirt and pants. He cursed softly as a bolt of almost painful sexual lust surged through him.

  He had reached a point then, where he was able to rise to his feet. And he cursed again at the bulge in the crotch of his pants. But then the sensation was gone, as he looked along a defile and saw an Apache sentry crouched at the far end - a Colt, tomahawk and knife in the right side of his weapons belt and a Spencer rifle resting across his thighs. The brave had his elbows dug into his thighs and his chin cupped in both hands as he stared out at the terrain spread before the end of the defile.

  In the cover of some brush, the half-breed took off his boots, tied them together and hung them around his neck. Then, with the Colt Paterson aimed in his left hand and the razor clutched in his right, he took long, silent strides down the narrow defile. Thirty feet, twenty, ten, six. He was holding his own breath and could hear the brave breathing. He fixed his glinting eyes on the single eagle’s feather which jutted from the back of the Apache’s headband. Except, just for a moment, he lengthened the focus of his eyes and saw another sentry. Four hundred feet in front of this one and maybe fifty feet lower. Standing on a ledge, rifle leaning against a rock, back to the mouth of the defile as he peered towards the most distantly placed sentry.

  Then, as the half-breed devoted his full concentration upon the closer brave, the man sneezed.

  ‘Gesundheit,’ Edge rasped, and cracked the underside of the gun barrel against the left side of the brave’s head.

  Then caught hold of the long hair and jerked the unconscious Apache backwards along the defile - out of sight of the brave on the ledge if he should chance to turn around. And, as part of the same smooth action, he slashed the razor across the exposed throat - pulling his hand clear as the arterial blood spurted.

  ‘Did you just catch a cold, feller,’ he murmured as he took the Army Colt from the weapons belt and thrust it into his holster.

  He wiped the blood off the blade of the razor on the vest of the dead brave and replaced it in the neck pouch. Then pushed Cal Butler’s gun into the waistband of his pants and crouched low to claim the fallen Spencer, at the same time as he checked that the brave on the ledge was ignorant of what had occurred.

  The ledge was cut into the face of a thirty foot high escarpment, ten feet from the top. The only way to get close to the brave without being exposed to a chance glance for a dangerously long time was to approach him from above. Which involved a circuitous route and a difficult climb.

  Another thirty minutes slid into history and there was still no sign or sound to reveal that his escape from the camp under Black Bear Bluff had been discovered. And the half-breed now spent as much time looking backwards as forwards. Aware that Chief Acoti might well reject a hue and cry in favor of a more subtle attempt at recapture.

  As he moved on hands and knees towards the lip of the escarpment, Edge could see - over a distance of about a mile - the sentry perched upon the rim of the low canyon. But, because of the way the ground fell away, into the desert valley between the Cedars and the Apache Hills, he was hidden from the brave, as long as he pressed himself close to the ground.

  He took off his boots again and left them with the Spencer some twenty feet in from the lip of the escarpment. And he let the two revolvers and the razor be as he bellied forward, picked up a rock of some ten pounds weight and turned over onto his back. Then levered himself along with his heels, carrying the rock on his chest. Only when he was within inches of the lip did he turn over. Then, taking the risk of being seen by the forward sentry, he rose up onto his knees, lifting the rock chest high. Leaned forward.

  The sun cast his shadow down across the ledge and into the gully below. The brave saw this and vented an exclamation of alarm, looked up and behind. Reached clawed hands for his leaning rifle.

  Edge had misjudged the brave’s position by some four feet. So had to throw the heavy rock to the side rather than merely add power to a straight fall.

  If the brave, terror etched deep into the flesh of his face, had chosen to duck back rather than place his faith in reclaiming his rifle, the rock might have missed him. But he sought to evade it simply by craning his neck. So that it smashed into the top of his shoulder.

  A bone snapped with a dry and sickening sound. The rock dropped to the ledge, bounced and plummeted into the gully. The brave, his mouth gaping but not uttering any sound, teetered on the ledge, flailing an arm and snaking his legs and body rhythmically in an effort to regain his balance.

  ‘This ain’t no time for an Apache dance,’ the half-breed rasped. As he dropped down prone again, drew the razor from the pouch and reached out to slash with the sun-glinting blade in mid-air. Knowing there was no chance of making contact with the terrified brave over a distance of some six feet.

  But the gesture of attack served its purpose. The Indian instinctively leaned away from the razor. And overbalanced to topple off the ledge. He found his voice then, and vented a shrill scream that resounded across the barren terrain, seemingly powerful enough to reach to the ends of the earth. Then the dull thud of the fall’s ending cut off the scream. Followed by an irregular slapping noise.

  The half-breed held the same position and saw the brave come into view again, that the sound was caused by the limply flapping arms and legs of the Indian as he tumbled over and over down the final few feet of sloping ground into the bottom of the gully. Until this rolling motion was in turn ended, as the lifeless body with a caved-in head became inert beside the chunk of sandstone which had sealed the fate of the Apache brave.

  Edge spat out saliva, pushed the razor back in the pouch and spoke through a wry grin, ‘Rock and roll goes down better, feller.’

  Chapter Nine

  Another high-pitched scream shattered the mountain stillness. From a distance. Too far removed in time and space to be some trick echo of the Apache’s final utterance.

  It came from the east - the direction of Black Bear Bluff. And by reflex action Edge looked towards the unseen source of the sound as he backed away from the lip of the escarpment and began to put on his boots.

  Then he snapped his head around to peer westward. In response to a rifle shot. And was in time to see the forward sentry on the canyon rim throw his arms to the sides and take a few staggering steps. Then the rifle slipped from the brave’s hand. So clear was the mountain light, the half-breed was able to see one of his feet kick a rock which cause him to pitch to the ground. Where he lay still, a dark stain blossoming across the centre of his back.

  A second scream from the vicinity of the Apache encampment under the bluff reverberated through the air.

  And Edge snatched up the Spencer. Did not hesitate before starting back east towards the camp, without waiting to see who had shot the forward sentry and how many other men were with him. Only after he was well advanced over his back track did he consider the possibility that the rifleman at the canyon was alone. And he immediately dismissed this line of thought from his mind. But had to struggle harder to keep at bay mental images of the suffering Calvin Butler was enduring, these conjured up by the screams which were now sounding with increasing frequency.

  It could be no one else venting such strident responses to brutal pain, each scream urging Edge to greater speed and drawing a bitter curse from his cracked-open lips.

  The sandy-haired youngster or his half-Apache wife had regained consciousness and raised the alarm. But Chief Acoti and his warriors had bigger fish to fry than a lone white eyes stranger whose only misdeeds were to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and to abuse the trust placed in him. So recapture was not attempted - the Apaches contented themselves by punishing the young Cal Butler who had in good faith vouched for Edge. A cruel exercise which would whet their appetite for the slaughter to come when they attacked San Lucas.

  Or was the half-breed underrating the cunning of Acoti? Had he order
ed the immediate torture of the youngster in hope that the escaped prisoner would hear the screams and be moved to do exactly what he was doing? Had another circle of sentries been posted to wait and watch, close to the camp, for the escaper to return as a rescuer?

  The rifle shot would surely have been heard at Black Bear Bluff. Would it be assumed an Apache sentry had fired it? Or Edge after killing a brave and claiming his rifle? Or the truth - that a third party was involved?

  All of this was speculation, racing through his mind much faster than his booted feet were pumping at the ground and the hot afternoon air was being sucked into and expelled from his lungs.

  Then he slowed down, his narrowed eyes under their hooded lids which had been constantly searching for signs of an ambush now lighting on landmarks which showed that he was close to the half-circle of low rises which enclosed the encampment on three sides.

  For at least two minutes there had been no screams to give him a sound bearing on his position in relation to the camp. He dismissed the explanation that Cal Butler was dead. For in such circumstances as this, the Apaches would not be so merciful.

  Bringing his breathing rate under control and setting his booted feet to the ground silently, he moved at a crouch up the slope to the crest of a rise. The Spencer hammer was cocked behind a breech which contained one of the rifle’s load of seven bullets. His glinting eyes raked the top of the bluff and the rocky terrain to either side. For sentries would still be posted in those directions.

  He came to a halt, stretched out on his belly, and peered down through the dusty foliage of a clump of squawbush onto the familiar scene in the bottom of the depression.

  Familiar in terms of the concentric rings of wickiups and the scattered groups of horses in the rope corral with the layer of smoke cloud hanging overhead. But now there was just a small open area at the centre of the encampment. For all the squaws and every brave who was not on guard were gathered there. Most of them in a horseshoe-shaped crowd opposite the chief’s lodge, in front of which stood Acoti, Thundercloud and two other sub-chiefs. Between the large and small audiences, a hole had been dug. And close to the heap of displaced dry earth lay Calvin Butler. He was naked and temporarily unconscious from the loss of blood caused by countless knife cuts in the flesh of his body and limbs. His face was not marked.