Edge: Apache Death

“I know you ain't no redskin,” the man continued, slowly and evenly. “Not unless you stole a shod horse and a white man's hat. I know, too, I didn't plug you. I could have, but I didn't. I don't kill, not unless I have to.”

The words bounced between the sheer cliff faces and rebounded over Edge's head and back down the trail. Up ahead, on the left, Edge thought. Then changed his mind: the right. “You understand what I'm saying. Or you a Mex, maybe?” The man paused, then in bad Mexican Spanish: “You're not hit. This is my mountain. I don't allow no trespassing.”

Something was digging into Edge's stomach and he raised his body slightly and reached a hand underneath, his fingers closing over a weather-smoothed piece of rock. He pulled it out and with the slightest of wrist actions tossed it in a shallow arc some thirty feet across the other side of the trail. It clattered noisily and the rifle flashed, the sound of the shot cannoning like a minor thunderclap. Before it had been swallowed up by distance Edge was on his feet and pressed against the outward sloping wall of a high mesa that bordered the trail on this side. He let out his breath in a long, slow sigh of satisfaction. The rifleman had been as disorientated as he, but the telltale flash of the exploding rifle had, swung the advantage over to Edge. The man was two hundred feet ahead, in an area of black shadow on Edge's side of the trail—with no dangerous, open ground between them.  

“I didn't hit you then, either,” the man shouted, and Edge used the sound of his voice as a cover for any noise he might make in moving forward. “Why don't you just back off and catch your horse, mister?” He was speaking English again and now, despite the distortion of echo, Edge could detect a change of tone: the man was beginning to get nervous. “You go back down the trail about half a mile. There's a gully goes off to the east. Another trail through there'll take you into Rainbow. Easier ride than this way—and you won't be trespassing none.”   

Moving with cautious speed, Edge had closed the gap by almost half.

“Unless, of course, you've come to jump my claim, which is what I first figured.” He laughed and tried to inject confidence into the sound. But it was as hollow as the most distinct echo. “Some others have tried it, mister. But Silver Seam is mine. This whole damn mountain is mine, so you just get the hell out of here.” There was a smaller patch of darker shadow in the area of blackness and Edge realized it was the entrance of a mine tunnel sunk into the side of the sharply rising ground.

“Now you answer me, mister,” the jealous miner yelled on the edge of a scream, “If you don't say something I'll know what you've come for and I'll plug you good next time.”

The mesa wall had reversed its slope as it became part of the bluff proper, which the old miner maintained was his mountain. It was steep, but its surface was roughened by centuries of weathering and Edge was able to find more hand and footholds than he needed to climb up the face. But the Spencer was an encumbrance and he lodged it in a narrow cleft before beginning to work his way along the cliff face, aiming for a narrow ledge some four feet above the mine ad-it

“I didn't hit you, did I?” the miner said after a long pause, “I never mean to hit nobody unless they've come to rob me. If you're hit, mister, you yell and I’ll come out and fix you up.”

There was a tremor in his voice now, clearly audible from this distance and Edge allowed his lips to curl back in a grin. The old man repeated his instructions in Mexican and the trembling words provided enough cover for Edge to cross the final few feet and reach his objective. He had made the trip with his face toward the cliff, but the ledge was wide enough to allow him to turn around and for several moments he pressed his back against the rough surface, taking time to recover from the exertion of the climb as he peered down the long length of his body toward the area immediately in front of the mine entrance. The miner was not in sight, but when Edge held his own breath he could just discern the rapid, frightened panting of the man below him. Edge eased the Colt from its holster and waited for his adversary to start shouting again.

“Speak, you bastard!”

It was enough to cover the faint click as Edge eased back the hammer.

“'I couldn't have killed him,” the miner said softly, to himself, the words magnified by the confined space of the mine tunnel. “But maybe I got in a lucky shot. Jesus, I hope if I killed him, he was after me claim.”

Edge raised his arm and Hung the revolver high and wide. It clunked to the ground a hundred feet down the trail, bounced twice and exploded into sound when it hit a third time.

“Holy cow!” the miner yelled and stepped out of the mine, raising his rifle to shoulder level and going into a half crouch.