Edge: Apache Death

Murray didn't answer him. "Take a detail and break out the new guns, sergeant," he ordered tightly. "Issue one to each man. Then release the prisoners and see they are armed in the same way."

Home saluted and moved off, barking orders which sent' six men after him. The others held their positions, needing no command from Murray to warn them that the Apaches could attack without warning at any moment.

"You think it will be a full-scale attack, sir?" Sawyer asked when the silence had lengthened to proportions he found difficult to endure.

"Maybe," was all Murray would allow as he rubbed a hand along his unshaven jaw.

Few of the men on the wall were shaved and completely dressed, having been ordered directly from their bunks to the fort's defense at the start of the attack. It. had been cold in the first rays of dawn, but now the sun had gained height and the men did not attempt to button their tunics and shirts. The heat and the fear caused their bodies to run freely with, sweat.

"Smarten up those men!" Murray barked suddenly, glaring at Sawyer.

The lieutenant sprang forward, moving along the line to ensure that the disgruntled troopers obeyed the order. Murray turned away to watch as Edge and the Englishman strolled across the compound and started up the wooden steps to the top of the wall. He resented both men with a degree of emotion which can only be experienced by a lifelong soldier for civilian indiscipline. But he respected their fighting skills and suspected he would soon need to call upon them.

"Good morning, Colonel," the Englishman said brightly. "Not the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in, but it was peaceful until our red visitors arrived."

Edge looked down on Rainbow impassively, hooded eyes taking in the vista of death and destruction. He spat into the dust before the gate.

"Looks like the Apaches mean business this time," he muttered. "Where they gone?"

"Hiding," Murray answered, "Regrouping for an all-out attack this time, I'd say."

His tone and expression invited a comment from Edge, but the tall, lean man continued his survey of the town.

"Appears you were not a lot of help, old boy," the Englishman said.

"I lost an eight man patrol out there someplace," the Colonel answered angrily. "That's eight more than I can afford to lose."

"Touchy," the Englishman murmured as the detail of men led by Sergeant Home began to haul crates of rifles and ammunition up the stairway.

At a nod from the fort commander the detail began to distribute the guns and shells. Edge had already been given back his own Spencer, but chose to rest this against the wall as he tested the action of the Winchester. The issue of the new weapons caused an interested Hurry of conversation all along the line of defenders.

"Everyone out there killed?" Edge asked when he had finished his examination of the gun and began to feed shells into it.

"As far as we can tell," Murray answered. "Drucker may have escaped. He made a run for it on your wagon."

"I'll be damned," the Englishman said. "Map, Edge?"

Edge spat again. "He took it." 

"What map?" Murray demanded as Sawyer returned to the group,

"Our business," Edge answered, resting the rifle and checking the action and load of his Colt.

"Bastard," the Englishman muttered.

"Colonel," a voice called from along the line. "It's starting."

Every pair of eyes turned to look down at the town to see a line of white men, women and children snaking out on to the street, roped together by their necks. There were twenty of them, spread out across the width of the street and they began to advance slowly toward the gates of the fort. As the line moved down the street, Apache braves began to appear behind the prisoners led by an elderly, garishly daubed shaman who intoned a low-keyed monologue to the accompaniment of a beat supplied by two drum-toting braves who ambled along in his wake. The beat of the drum and wailing of the shaman did not drown out the sobbing of several women in the human shield. Behind their spiritual guide, the braves, mounted and on foot, paced themselves to the drumbeat. Their bows and lances were at the ready.

"It doesn't compare with the Lord Mayor's Show form spectacle," the Englishman said.

"Shuddup," Edge told him softly, "You ain't funny anymore."

"Christ, sir," Sawyer said "What can we do?"

"Try praying," the Englishman said and glared at Edge, throwing down a tacit challenge.

But Edge had his attention focused on the ghastly parade, which now had swelled to perhaps a hundred and fifty war-painted Apaches; one central group bunched closely around a handsome young brave who carried a decorated lance.

"Chief?" Edge asked of anyone who knew the answer.

"Little Cochise," Murray replied. "Sub-chief. His brother Cochise is big man of the local tribes. They're both troublemakers."

"And this one's smart," Edge said, thinking aloud. "You're going to have to open the gates, Colonel."

Murray's expression hardened. "Those people aren't my responsibility. This fort, the men and their supplies are."