Edge: Apache Death

THE town of Rainbow slept uneasily, the recent violence of the Apache attack fresh in the memory to trigger the imagination into nightmares of what could happen when the braves returned in greater number. Most of the civilian population were barricaded in the unsubstantial safety of their homes or hotel rooms, untrusting of the single army patrol which Colonel Murray had detailed for sentry duty around the limits of the town. The bulk of his men were inside the gates of the fort and the army commander had made no secret of the fact that he valued the consignment of weapons higher than the lives of the townspeople. Edge did not even try to sleep, but sat on the bed with the Englishman's map spread across his knees, his lean face, washed clean of blood but still bearing traces of the fight, set in an expression of deep thought. He was recalling the old miner, Zeb Hanson, and his fruitless search for a legendary mountain of silver. Zeb had not had a map and Edge was toying with the idea that perhaps the old timer had been digging for twelve years in the wrong mountain.

A discreet rapping of knuckles on the door interrupted Edge's line of thought and he quickly folded the map and tucked it into his shirt, then pulled the rifle out from under the bed. "Yeah?"

"Your partner, old boy," came the response in the familiar, cultured English tone. "We need to talk."

"Thought you didn't like talking?"

"You've stolen my means of action, old boy. Can I come in?"

"I been expecting you," Edge told him. "Door's not locked."

The Englishman entered and sighed when he found himself looking down the length of the Spencer's barrel. "You really are the most nervous chap, Mr. Edge," he said as he closed the door and leaned against it, "Isn't there anybody you trust?"

"Yeah, the guy I shave," Edge answered.

"What's the spot marked with a cross?"

The Englishman shrugged and Edge noticed that he, I too: had' cleaned up his face. And his suit looked as if he had just picked it up from the tailor. "Perhaps nothing, old boy. The man who offered me the map in payment of a debt said it was worth a million dollars,"

"How much did he owe you?" Edge asked.

"Fifty dollars. He thought his aces arid kings were good but my low flush was better."

Edge made a sound of disgust from deep within his throat. ''You can't be that stupid—a million, bucks for fifty."

"I'm not, old boy," he answered with the gentle smile. "I was within a second of killing him before he, offered me the map. That made me consider the story as feasible. Then I did have to kill him, when he tried to steal the map back again. He talked a little before I ended his agony. It happened in Wichita, Kansas. I took the next stage west."

"What did he tell you?" Edge was still pointing the rifle, apparently in a casual attitude. But his narrowed eyes studied the Englishman closely, the memory of the man's speed with the trick holster warning against a moment's inattention.

"You wouldn't reconsider our arrangement, old boy?" the Englishman asked without conviction,. "A readjustment of the percentages?"

Edge grinned coldly. "Don't push it, English," he said with a shake of his head. "I've got the map now. Could be that if we change the split you'll get the small end. What is it, a silver mine?"

"Oh, dear, you really are completely lacking in information, old boy. You only know the legend. I have the facts. "

"And, I repeat, I have the map."

The Englishman put his hands in his pants pockets, but Edge did not allow himself to be lulled into a sense of security by the casual attitude, and continued to direct the Spencer toward the door.

"It's gold, old boy. A whole wagon load of gold ingots with no identifying marks. The gold was refined in Mexico and shipped north under the protection of the Mexican army in 1835."

"What did they get for it?"

"Not a thing, old boy. What they wanted was help from the Indians in this area—the Apaches, Papago, Pima, Maricopa, Hopi and Navaho."

"To do what?"

The Englishman shook his head. ''If you knew your history, old boy, the answer would be obvious. In 1835 Texas was fighting for her independence from Mexico and the Mexicans were very reluctant to relinquish such a large portion of land. But they were losing and they were prepared to try anything—even a deal with the Indians. Then something went wrong and there are several versions of what it was. I'm inclined to believe the story that the army escort tried to steal the shipment and then fought among themselves—lack of trust again, old boy."

"Who drew the map?" Edge demanded, ignoring the final comment.

"The only survivor from the escort. He left the wagon where it was, hidden in a cave on the other side of the northern ridge and plotted the way out, intending to return when he considered it safe to make use of the cargo. What happened to the map from then until it came into the possession of my card-playing chum is anybody's guess."