Edge: Apache Death

A low whistle warned the other raiders to hold their position but did not reach the two soldiers who were talking in soft tones, glancing only occasionally out into the sea of darkness which stretched out eastwards from the fort. More often, they looked down into the compound which was a comforting oasis of light supplied by spluttering kerosene lamps.

"When I get out of this man's army, I'm for the easy life. Gonna find me a rich woman with a big house in New York where there ain't no Injuns. And I'm gonna eat and sleep and count her money all day and every day."

The speaker was an old sweat, a busted sergeant who made a new plan each day and talked about it every waking moment. His companion was much younger, a soldier for sixty days with a fresh face as yet unshaven and a determination to become the best trooper in the United States Cavalry.

"No screwing?" he asked with a shy smile. The profanities, which were as much a part of a soldier's life as saluting officers and griping at the food, did not roll off his well-schooled tongue and he seldom ventured beyond the outer threshold of profanity.

The older man grinned at him. "Rich women ain't ever fair of face, son," he said. "And I ain't about to go feeding my meat to no other pussies so me rich wife gets riled and tells me to go to hell."

"Hell, isn't any reason ..." The young soldier broke off the sentence and sighed softly as the Apache brave gently encircled his throat with the crook of an arm and sank the knife into his left breast. The old sweat died with a low croaking sound, curtailed by cold steel digging deep into the side of his neck and penetrating his jugular vein.

The braves withdrew their knives and lowered the two bodies into the pools of blood already forming on the staging. The third Apache whistled softly and within seconds the whole group were crouching at the top of the wall, peering down across the compound to where unsuspecting townspeople and off-duty soldiers were forming a line outside the cookhouse. The raiders were all young, with powerful, supple bodies and intent strongly featured faces. With bodies crouched and faces set in expressions of resolute determination, eighteen of the braves watched patiently as the two who had made the kills sliced off the scalps of their victims. Then all twenty filed down the stairway into the compound, their moccasined feet padding silently on the treads. The fort's arsenal was adjacent to the stables and was locked but unguarded because Murray considered Fort Rainbow impregnable to anything except a full-scale frontal attack. The stockade, which was patrolled, was at the opposite comer of the fort from where the raiders had gained access and the party split into two groups, one of five and the other of fifteen. The smaller group moved off first, stealing one at a time through the shadows, keeping out of the cones of flickering light thrown by the oil lamps, ever watchful for a sign of alarm from the men and women filing into the cookhouse. Then, as soon as the last man had reached the comer of the stockade, the rest of the braves set off from the foot of the stairway, ducking into the open door of the stables.

The unarmed hostler had just finished attending to Edge's horse and his eyes and mouth snapped wide in terrified surprise as he turned and saw a half circle of grim-faced Apaches ranged, about him. "Keeeerist!" he exclaimed, and fell sideways, reaching for a pitchfork leaning against one of the stalls.

Fifteen braves snaked knives from their breechcloths and released them simultaneously. Fifteen blades buried their points into his body, their handles bristling from his flesh in two lines from neck to groin. The man went backward into a water trough, the blood from his multiple wounds staining the contents crimson. His death was signaled by a low moan and a loud splash, neither of which attracted attention from outside. Brown, grimed hands drove into the bloodied water to withdraw the instruments of death and as five of the braves went into the stalls and began to systematically slash the throat of the trapped animals, the other ten , moved to the arsenal side of the stables arid started to pry loose the boards of the dividing wall. One came free, then another. The blood-stained knives dug into the wood and more boards were lifted clear until a large hole, some five feet by four, had been ripped in the wall. Then five of the braves ducked inside.

Not a word had been spoken since the raiders had reached the outside foot of the wall and they continued in silence as the five braves scrambled through the hole and moments later began to pass cases of Winchester rifles and boxes of ammunition out into the eager arms of those who had stayed in the stables.