Edge: Apache Death

Edge spat. "He had a wagon. We ain't. Come on."

"Not on your life," the Englishman said quickly as. He saw Edge start his horse up the sharp incline. "This isn't exactly a mountain goat I'm riding."

"So go and find a million-dollar poker game," Edge told him, but halted his horse abruptly when he heard a dry, clicking sound, unmistakably the noise of a rifle being cocked. He didn't turn around, but lowered his right hand so that it was close to the butt of the Colt. "You stupid as well as yellow?" he asked quietly.

"I've been dying to use one of these new Winchesters," the Englishman said with quiet menace.

"You'll die if you do," Edge answered, maintaining his calm tone. "Even if I haven't got enough strength left to pump you full of lead myself, there are a hell of a lot of Apaches in these hills itching for more killing. One shot and they'll come running."

"They must be miles away by now," the Englishman replied, but his tone implied that he doubted the truth of his own statement.

Edge sighed. "Cochise is the big chief. Little Cochise is his brother. The chief knows Murray won't kill his kid brother because he's too good a hostage. So he's figuring a way right now to spring him. And he ain't likely to be doing his figuring in California."

Now Edge turned in the saddle to look down upon the Englishman who was still drawing a bead on him with the Winchester: but there was little threat in the pose.

"Drucker must think he can reach the place by another route," he said, his handsome face showing something close to desperation.

"Drucker's got a few hours start and the map," Edge pointed out. "He must figure he can pick up the trail from the other side of the hills—the way the Mexicans took the wagon. The guy who made the map came down this side, on a horse or on foot. We backtrack him."

The Englishman made one more try. "You can't remember every twist and turn of the route."

Convinced he had made his point, Edge urged his horse forward and upward. "I got a nose for money in any form," he said, with more conviction than he felt. "I also got a phobia about sitting in the sun passing the time of day when the whole Apache nation is probably camped a sp1t away."

Then he Started to speak softly to his horse, urging the big stallion up the natural pathway, and heard the action of the Winchester as the Englishman slid the shell out of the breech. Then there was a string of ungentlemanly curses, interspersed with cries of alarm as the inexpert rider berated his mount up the slope. The route was by turns difficult and comparatively easy, sometimes cutting diagonally across pocked expanses of rock and at others following ledges cut by eons of wind and weather. For a time the Englishman fell further and further back, until Edge—irritated by the constant stream of disgruntled abuse and nervous cries which was disturbing his own mount—yelled at the man to relax and let his horse have free rein.

The Englishman complied and the horse, well versed in forming a part of a cavalry column, picked his way skillfully in the wake of Edge's mount. It took two hours to reach the top of the ridge, more than three hundred feet above the floor of the valley and both men and animals were sweating freely from the exertion in the hot sun which had beaten down unmercifully as they made the climb with no shade. At their backs the valley was spread out in miniature, the curves of the river gleaming, the town and fort of Rainbow appearing as children's toys. It all looked tranquil, almost idyllic, except for the pall of ugly black smoke which was still suspended over the buildings, witnessing the ferociousness of the Apache attack. Ahead, the ridge fell gently away before losing itself ill a series of undulating hills featured with craggy buttes and grotesque outcrops, dotted with dry, unfriendly patches of vegetation all the way to the first uplands of the high Rockies. So clear was the air that in the far distance both men could see the snow-capped peaks of the highest mountains, gleaming like jewels in the sun which was approaching the crest of its own peak. There was another gleaming patch closer than the mountains, less than a mile away.

"This animal's in a hurry," the Englishman said, struggling to restrain his horse while he patted at his sweat-sheened face with a handkerchief.

"He can smell the water," Edge said, pointing ahead, but not concentrating his own attention in that direction. His hooded eyes roved over every square inch of the terrain spread before him, realizing the impossibility of their task and searching for signs of Indian trouble.

"So let's go and get some, old boy," the Englishman suggested. "My own canteen is almost empty and fresh water is a delightful prospect."