Edge: Apache Death

Edge seemed to ignore him as he continued his study, then grunted to indicate that he was reasonably certain the way ahead was safe. He heeled his horse onward. The waterhole, when they reached it, was an inviting circle of coolness in an indentation which suggested it was much larger after a rainfall. Edge halted on the rim of the bowl and stood in the stirrups to glance around the area of rough, ravaged terrain.

"Now what are we waiting for?" the Englishman demanded with unconcealed impatience; unable to take his eyes off the crystal-clear water spread below him.

"You go first," Edge told him. "When you and your horse are watered, come back and keep watch while I go down."

The Englishman laughed harshly. "I think you're imagining an Indian behind every rock."

Edge fixed him with a steely eyed stare. "You better hope it's only imagination," he warned.

The gravity of Edge's tone caused the Englishman to glance around nervously and his thirst was forgotten for a few moments as he realized that the surrounding countryside did, in fact, offer sufficient cover for almost as many Indians as the dollars the two men had come to get. And when he looked down the smooth slopes of the sides of the waterhole he saw that to be trapped down there would be to invite certain death.

"I bow to your better judgment," he said, trying to force lightness into his tone and failing miserably.

"Get!" Edge snapped continuing with his suspicious survey.

"I'm getting," the Englishman returned and urged his horse down toward the water's edge.

There were not a million of them and, they were not spread around. Just a hunting party of six who rode into open country from around a rocky crag with no expectation of seeing a white man standing guard on a waterhole for which they were obviously heading. They were no more than a quarter of a mile away, close enough for Edge to see them break stride as they spotted him.

"You taking a bath down there, English?" he called without taking his eyes off the Apaches who had now pulled their ponies to a halt.

The Englishman had drunk his fill, and was in the process of recharging his canteens as his horse continued to suck at the refreshing water. The Apaches made up their minds and urged their ponies into a gallop, trailing dust as they charged toward Edge.

"Almost through," the Englishman called.

"Well, don't drink it all," Edge called down, turning his horse. "There's six guys heading this way who look mighty thirsty."

With this he dug in his heels and the stallion sprang forward, carrying his rider toward a small rise liberally scattered with rocks. The Englishman yelled in alarm, dropped the canteens and hauled at the reins of his horse to drag him at the run up the slope of the waterhole. But at the top he skidded to a halt and went into a crouch as he saw the Apaches wheeling away, streaming toward where Edge, was leaping from his horse behind the cover of an' enormous boulder. The Englishman snatched the Winchester from his saddle boot and slapped the hindquarters of his horse, sending the animal willingly back to the water's edge.

As Edge leaped from his horse at the run, withdrawing his own rifle, he caught a glimpse of the Englishman appearing at the lip of the waterhole and then rapidly ducking back out of sight. Then he himself had to take evasive action as three arrows snapped their shafts against the rock and the braves began to whoop their warcries. He pressed himself hard against the boulder, worked the action of the Winchester as another wave of arrows fell about him: then jerked erect and began to fire. His eye, narrowed behind the backsight, saw the Indians no more than a hundred feet away approaching in a phalanx, their previous preoccupation evident from the jack rabbits slung around the ponies’ necks. But now they were hunting bigger prey and their faces were set in expressions of ecstatic hatred as they rushed up the slope, priming their bows for the kill. The sight of Edge, rising like an apparition from behind the boulder, seemed to surprise them and the tall, lean man took full advantage of the moment of indecision. He aimed first at a brave who was riding slightly ahead of the others, over-anxious for a scalp. The bullet took him high in the shoulder, knocking him sideways from his pony into the path of the next rider, whose mount stumbled over the injured brave and almost threw its rider. A second bullet drilled a gaping hole in the forehead of another brave and Edge had time for a third shot, smashing the fingers of a fourth Apache before the other two let fly arrows which forced him to duck back behind the boulder. The three braves who were still mounted veered away to the left as two loose ponies galloped around the rock.