Edge: Apache Death

Edge's expression became thoughtful again, but he maintained his careful vigilance. "Why'd you waste time hanging around Rainbow, English?" he asked at length.

The Englishman grinned and it was almost an apologetic expression. "Money, old boy. A wagon loaded with a million dollars worth of gold isn't exactly a buggy with a fringe on top. Luck didn't ride with me on the stage west and I reached Rainbow with three dollars and the clothes you see me in now. I had to win enough to buy a team and a wagon. The one up in the cave might have rotted down to its axles by now. It's more than thirty years old, you know."

''You get them?"

He nodded. "Bought and paid for. Waiting at Olsen's livery stables. The team inside and the wagon out the back."

"So what are we waiting for?" Edge asked.

The gentle smile taunted Edge. "Perhaps for you to summon enough courage to go out into Indian country?"

"Ain't the Indians that worry me," Edge answered.

The smile continued. "You have nothing to fear from me, old boy," the Englishman said. "With the Apaches on the warpath, two guns will be better than one. And if the gold has to be transshipped, two pairs of hands will be better. But …" His expression darkened suddenly and his tone became heavy with menace. "I still don't like the split."

"Then neither do I," Edge countered, matching the other's threat. "And I know your opinion of talk, English."

Silence settled upon the room, interrupted only by the spluttering of the kerosene lamp, as both men attempted to outstare each other. They finally called it quits with emphatic nods which spoke tacitly of an agreement that the deal was one of all or nothing. Then the Englishman turned and pulled open the door, waiting patiently to usher Edge through. But although Edge stood up from the bed, he did not move forward. "Only the guy I shave," he said softly.

"And that's a hard man," the Englishman said as he went out into the hallway.

"As your heart," Edge countered, following him.

The Pot of Cold was strictly a hotel that, night and there were no creaking bedsprings or muted cries of passion as the two men went along the hallway, down the stairs and across the saloon area. Lust could not compare with the stronger, more passionate, fear of further Indian attack. Out on the street there was the same aura of deserted desolation with not a light showing anywhere, and no sound but the footfalls of the two men to disturb the absolute stillness. But both men knew about the army patrol, and both were aware of the lone braves who had stalked the rooftops earlier. So they moved with caution, keeping to the shadowed sidewalk and only darting across the width of the street to Olsen's Livery Stables when they were sure their passage would be unseen. For a few seconds the low, cold looking moon threw their shadows long across the gray dust, then they were swallowed up by the darkness of the opposite sidewalk.

There was an alley between the livery and the neighboring lawyer's office and the Englishman entered this with Edge hard on his heels. Only the stabled horses heard their approach and started up a nervous whinnying.

"You intend trying to run the Apache gauntlet with only your peashooter?" Edge whispered as they emerged into a pool of moonlight at the rear of the livery.

The Englishman's, teeth shone in a smile and he pointed to where a flatbed wagon was standing. "Take a look under the seat of the wagon, old boy. While I get the team."

" Edge waited a few seconds to watch his partner go to work on the padlock securing the rear doors of Olsen's Livery and saw him picking at it with a short length of twisted wire. The lock fell open with a satisfying click.

"Very damn subtle," Edge said sardonically. 

The teeth shone again. "But effective, old boy. Very damn effective."

As the Englishman pulled open the doors Edge crossed to the wagon and lifted the hinged seat to look into the box beneath. And now it was his turn to grin as he, reached inside and lifted out an elegant repeater rifle. He stood for a few moments, admiring the lines of the weapon, then began to run his, fingertips along the smoothness of the stock and over the soft sheen of the brass frame.

"What do you think, old boy?" the Englishman said softly as he led two strong-looking work grays out of the stable.

"It looks like an old friend of mine called Henry," Edge answered.

The Englishman soothed the horses into the wagon shafts and began to harness them. "Close relation," he explained. "Same breed, but different fathers, if that's possible. Both of the New Haven Arms Company. B. Tyler Henry fathered the Henry rim-fire .44 repeater. Has a steel or bronze frame. A tubular magazine of 15 rounds and you feed in the shells from the front after drawing' the spring up into the muzzle section of the mag."