Edge: Apache Death

"About time," Edge muttered as he heard a rifle shot from the area of the waterhole and chanced a look around the rock to see the three mounted braves make a sudden change of direction to take them toward where the Englishman was positioned. Then he saw the Englishman stand, making a target of the top half of his body above the lip of the waterhole: saw him go through the action of firing the rifle. But there was no puff of telltale smoke and no report. He saw the wrist movement that should have ejected an empty case and fed a fresh round into the breech and although he was too far away to see it, Edge knew the kind of expression of fear and frustration which would be pasted upon the Englishman's face. "New gun's got him into a jam," Edge muttered as he saw his erstwhile partner fling the Winchester away and jerk his arm to release the tiny, double-barreled pistol. 

But in the next moment the Englishman's problems with a jammed rifle were of secondary importance as Edge spun to face the source of a sound and found himself confronted by two snarling braves. They were only ten feet away; the one with a smashed hand preparing to launch a knife at Edge as the other—who had a gaping wound in his shoulder—wielded a tomahawk which he obviously intended to use at close quarters.

"Still a mite too handy," Edge murmured and sent a bullet crashing through the good wrist of the knife-thrower who dropped his weapon and folded to the ground screaming his pain.

The other brave took the gun report as a signal to leap forward, tomahawk raised. He was already behind the gun muzzle as Edge tried to swing the Winchester for a second shot. But there wasn't time and he could only fall sideways, out of the line of the descending blade. The Apache landed full length on the ground and immediately sprang to all fours and was beginning to come erect and turn as Edge swung the Winchester again.

"The axeman goeth," Edge murmured as he squeezed the trigger and the brave sat down hard, dropping his weapon and staring at the large hole in his naked right thigh. "One for the Chinaman," Edge continued easily, and fired again, ripping a gaping wound in the brave's other thigh. "One for the woman at the end of the line." Again he worked the action of the Winchester and sent a third bullet smashing into the brave's good shoulder. "That one's for the kid," he said, unmoved by the brave's screams and the look in his brown eyes which begged for mercy. "Last time," he said with an icy grin as the brave's belly grew a hole at its center. "Guess English would call that one for the pot," he concluded.

"Edge!" The Englishman yelled the name at the top of his voice and the monosyllable rang with both pain and terror. Edge turned to look toward the waterhole and saw the Englishman in full view, staggering like a drunken man as he struggled to yank an arrow from the front of his shoulder. One of the braves who had attacked him was sprawled nearby in an attitude of death while the others, having obviously already made one pass, were thundering toward him again.

"Not a hope," Edge said to himself as he surveyed the range, but he began to fire and continued even when he saw the puffs of dust kicked up short of the galloping ponies.  The two Apaches had their bows slung across their backs and Edge could see no flashes of knife or tomahawk blades as they closed in on the helpless Englishman. They were riding close together and it seemed as if they were intent upon trampling the white man beneath the flying hoofs. But, at the last moment as the Englishman turned to try to run from them, the braves sheered away from each other to pass on each side of their victim. Then, with a smoothness and skill circus performers would envy, the braves leaned away from their mounts and lifted the Englishman clear of the ground. A tomahawk was drawn then raised and brought down. But it was the flat side of the blade that made contact and unconsciousness rather than death which brought an end to the Englishman's struggles. The man who had delivered the blow relinquished his hold and the other brave threw the unconscious form of Lord Fallowfield across the neck of his pony.

"You ain't no maiden," Edge muttered as the two Apaches headed for the rocks from which they had emerged, "but maybe you're the closest they can find."

He heard a groan behind him and turned to see the brave with the useless hands trying to haul himself erect against the large boulder. When the man realized he had been seen he froze into a half standing position, trying to force agony from his face and replace it with a scowl. But his pain was too harsh. Two fingers had been blown from one hand and there was a mushy red hole drilled through the opposite wrist.

"Cochise?" Edge demanded, pointing after the retreating Apaches, but looking into the eyes of the wounded brave.

The man flinched at the snapped word, but held Edge's stare without altering his expression.