Edge: Apache Death

Edge squinted up at him.

"My compliments and thanks."

"Keep them," Edge said coldly. "What I need is a horse. Mine's just well-done steak in the livery right now."

"Not without me he isn't," the Englishman put in hurriedly.

"That's what I figured," Edge said with a sigh.

"You'll be supplied with horses and saddles," Murray told them.

"Obliged," Edge answered.

"You earned them.

"In spades," Edge said and spat into the dust.

The Englishman smiled. '"I didn't see any niggers. Thought they were all Indians."

"You'll die laughing," Edge told him as he headed across the compound toward the stables.

"And you'll bury me face down, I suppose?" the Englishman came back," simulating a mincing gait as he joined Edge.

"Yeah, and plant pansies on the mound."

CHAPTER TEN

"JUST how, old boy, do you propose to get the gold without the map?" the Englishman asked as he rode down the street of carnage, picking their way between the sprawled bodies and the detail of soldiers who had been ordered to bury the dead.

He had taken the time to wash and shave and to give his suit yet another brushing so that he presented a model of well-groomed cleanliness as he jogged along beside his disheveled companion. Edge’s hard face was patterned by a dark beard line and his clothes were crumpled and crusted with the sweat and dirt of battle. He merely grunted in response to the others question as he turned to head along the cross street which left Rainbow in an easterly direction.

The sun had completed a quarter of its morning climb, shining hot and hard into their eyes, giving discomfort to the Englishman whose narrow-brimmed Derby offered little shade. Edge rode with the wider brim of his black hat pulled low and for the most part looked down at the dusty, potted surface of the street, concentrating on the parallel lines which came into view at intervals among the confusion of signs left in the churned-up dust layer.

"Ah, the bloodhound technique," the Englishman said at length. "Drucker has the-map so we follow Drucker."

"Can you figure anything better?" Edge asked without looking at him.

The other shrugged. "Excellent plan, old boy. Until the tracks fade out, as they are sure to do when we get up in the mountains."

"Then it will be your turn to get smart," Edge told him, favoring him with a mirthless grin. "I've started us off."

"With a pure stroke of genius," the Englishman answered with heavy sarcasm as they rode clear of the edge of town, passing the house of Fred Olsen with the decapitated head of a soldier lying in front of it. "Rather a drastic method of scalping, don't you' think?"

In the open country of the valley the wagon tracks became clearer, veering northward toward the rearing face of the ridge, while the Indian sign continued on a straight course, following the line of the stage trail. Edge urged his horse into a canter and, taken by surprise, the Englishman had to race forward at a gallop for several yards in order to catch up. He was not a good horseman and his well-schooled, army-trained mount knew this and resented it, giving the Englishman an uncomfortable ride.

"I wish you would let me. know when you're going to make any sudden moves like that, Edge," the Englishman said breathlessly when he had finally matched the pace of his mount with that of the casually expert Edge.

"You can always go back and wait for the stage," Edge told him as they came up against the sheer wall of the ridge face and began to ride along the foot of the cliff.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" came the resentful reply.

"Half-a-million dollarsworth," Edge countered with a cold grin.

The two men lapsed into silence, Edge having no desire for conversation, the Englishman because, he found it necessary to concentrate his entire attention on riding the recalcitrant animal between his legs. Once Edge reined to a sudden halt to examine the cliff face and taken unaware, the Englishman had to swing in a wide circle to rejoin him. But immediately Edge started forward again, still following the wagon tracks. Edge was recalling the crudely drawn map and trying to place the starting point of the dotted line which wound up to the hiding place of the Mexican government gold. Although the plan had obviously not been drawn to scale, it seemed to Edge that the start of the plotted route had not been very far east of town—certainly not the distance of some five miles which was where the cliff had crumbled sufficiently for the north-bound spur of the stage trail to find an access. The face was already getting less steep and at the point where Edge had called a halt there had seemed a chance of getting a horse halfway up. But then an overhang of rock barred further progress.

So Edge rode on, and did not stop again until he saw signs that Drucker had halted the wagon and four.

"Drucker with an F stopped here," the Englishman said.

"You're learning," Edge answered, raking his eyes up the face of the ridge side which now had a cant too shallow to be called a cliff.

"But he went on."