Edge: Apache Death

Edge was stunned by the head blow and heard the voice from far off. The weight of the Englishman thudding, on top of him and the crunch of blows smashing into his face also reached Edge as if from a great distance and they numbed rather than hurt him. But he knew that to give in to the continuous hail of punches would be to admit defeat and he tried desperately to force unwilling muscles to obey the command of a weary brain. His efforts were feeble, easily countered by the Englishman, until Edge felt the warmth of his own blood on his face and the sharp sting of open wounds galvinated him into a fresh attack. He rolled slightly to the left and then with force to the right. Taken by surprise at the sudden new-found power, the Englishman was unbalanced and thrown clear, to receive a crack on his own head from a leg of the bed.

Breathing deeply, the air rattling in their throats, both men pulled themselves up into a squatting position and looked at each other's bruised and bloodied faces.

''This is ruining my suit," the Englishman panted.

"Ain't doing your face much good," Edge pointed out.

"You don't exactly look like a lady killer yourself, old boy," came the reply.

Edge spat and saw blood in the spittle, realizing the stinging in his mouth was from where he had bitten his tongue. "Anytime you want to tell me what the map means, I’ll listen.”

"Not even if you live to be two hundred years old."

Edge sighed and pulled himself erect, felt himself sway and struggled to contain it. The Englishman had to use the bed to help him get to his feet.

"I might just make it," Edge came back. "But if you don't learn to handle yourself better than this you won't see another birthday."

The Englishman shook his head, trying to clear it of dizziness. "You talk like a man, but you fight like a woman who deep down wants to be raped."

"How would a fairy know anything about raping women?" Edge flung at his opponent.

"Talk, talk, talk," the Englishman sneered. "I heard you Yankees try to talk your way out of everything, Why don't you put your fists where your mouth is?"

They took a step toward each other, raising their fists, much slower than before, the Englishman's smile and Edge's grin just visible through the blood on their battered faces.

"One of you guys called Fallowfield?" The voice from the doorway brought both of them up short and each turned to look at the man who stood there, covering them with a revolver in each hand.

"He is," the Englishman snapped and pointed at Edge.

"He is," Edge said a moment later, and pointed a finger of his own.

The man's confused eyes swept from one battered face to the other, his expression showing the frantic workings of his, mind. Edge, sensing possible death rather than a beating, found the energy to take advantage of the gunman's discomposure.  His left hand snaked to his belt, drew the wooden-handled knife and with a powerful wrist action he sent it spinning, underarm, toward the man in the doorway. The blade sank deep into the man's stomach and he looked down at it in surprise for a moment before the agony hit him and he dropped both guns as he reached to tug at the handle.

"Rude to come in without knocking," Edge said, moving toward the man as he supported himself against the doorframe.

But the Englishman got there first, smiled at the gunman, knocked his hands away and jerked the knife as the injured man screamed and spouted blood on to the floor. "Stomach ache?" he asked conversationally.

The man was whimpering now as he clutched at his stomach, trying to staunch the flow of blood. His legs began to bow as he nodded in reply to the Englishman's question.

The Englishman made his smile into a sympathetic expression and rested a hand on the gunman’s shoulder. "I have the perfect cure," he said and lifted the knife in a high, wide arc, slashing open the man’s throat from ear to ear. "Wonder why he wanted me?" he asked as he stepped back, avoiding the spray of blood from the falling body.

"Thought he was your fight trainer," Edge said, holding out his hand for the return of the knife.

The Englishman stooped to wipe the blood from the knife on the shirt of the dead man before handing it to Edge, handle first. Then he shrugged. "Seemed rather a dim-witted chap. Might almost have been a relative of yours."

Edge slid the knife back into its sheath and squared up once more before the Englishman, but again a voice came between them, this time from the street in front of the Pot of Gold.

"Fallowfield! You in there, Fallowfield?"

"Popular tonight," Edge said dryly.

"It's the title that gets you Yankees," the Englishman said. "It's the aristocracy's good breeding that impresses the natives."

"Ain't a trace of blue blood on your face," Edge said softly. "Same color as mine except maybe it’s a little watered down."

"You hear me Fallowfield," the voice from the street called.