Edge: Apache Death

Out in the compound one of the guard’s on the stockade reached the comer around which the other five Apaches were hiding. The man began to swing his body into an about-turn but was suddenly jerked backward, into the shadows, by a hand which grasped the edge of his tunic jacket. His yell of surprise was curtailed by an evil-smelling hand which fastened over his mouth and nose. His arms and legs were pinned to the ground by other strong hands and he was held so firmly that only his eyes could move, flicking to left and right in naked fear as he saw the shadowed figures bending over him. But within moments his vision was blurred as the air trapped in his lungs went stale. In a last desperate attempt to cheat death he willed his muscles to turn his limbs to jelly. But the Apaches were not fooled. They knew how long it took a man to suffocate to death and did not release their hold until the soldier was asphyxiated. Then nimble fingers unfastened his tunic buttons and unbuckled his belt. In less than a minute since he died, his uniform had been stripped from him and donned by one of the raiders. Then the brave elected to carry out the impersonation shouldered the guard's rifle and ambled out from the shadows to start along the front of the stockade.

Edge emerged from Colonel Murray's quarters and breathed in deeply of the cool evening air. Freshly bathed and shaved, he felt relaxed and pleasantly weary, with only the gnawing stomach cramp of hunger forcing itself to the forefront of his priorities above the need for sleep. But a man who lives with danger must, if he is to survive, have an built-in physical mechanism which swamps all other considerations when the mental faculty of his sixth sense signals trouble.

Colonel Murray was coming across the compound from the cookhouse, carrying a tin mug of steaming coffee and looking less tense after the sedative effect of a good dinner. He was about to call a greeting to Edge but no sound emerged as his mouth dropped open, and he came to an abrupt halt, spilling the scalding coffee down his  pants leg. For, with an almost hunting animal movement, Edge had swiveled his head, stared toward the stockade for an instant and then thrown his rifle up to his shoulder. The shot cut across the silence of the, compound with an ear-splitting report that drew the shocked attention of every person in a position to witness the result. It was followed by the scream of the bogus soldier as the bullet smashed into the side of his head, and a round of startled gasps from the watchers.

"What the hell …?" Murray exploded, tossing away his mug and starting to run toward where Edge was now in a crouch, raking his eyes across the facades of all the buildings at the rear of the fort.

"I was in the same army you are," Edge snapped at him without relaxing his vigil. "Never, did see a soldier wearing moccasins on guard duty."

Then the four other braves broke from the cover at the corner of the stockade and another shot from Edge's Winchester signaled a fusillade from the soldiers on the wall. Two braves dropped dead from a run and a third stumbled as a bullet ripped into his shoulder, recovered, and was lifted and smashed against the arsenal wall by four more bullets tearing into his stomach. The fourth man dived into the stables doorway.

"Hold It!" Edge yelled as Lieutenant Sawyer emerged from the men's quarters, trailing a pack of cards behind him and followed by Sergeant Horne and a group of ten enlisted men, all clutching rifles, all dressed only in pants and under-vests. "There's got to be more of them."

"Advance," Murray countermanded. "Those savages only had knives."

"That's all they came with," Edge muttered, speaking to himself and not moving from his own position a few feet from the door of Murrays quarters.

The men went at the run, spreading out in a V formation with Sawyer in the lead and Horne on his right side. It was Home who fell first, his chest exploding into a great swathe of mangled flesh and shattered bone fragments as a half dozen shells ripped into him from the hayloft above the stables.

"They've got the Winchesters!" Murray yelled incredulously as more rifle fire exploded within the stables and two of the enlisted men collapsed, one gushing blood from a head wound, the other clawing at his stomach. The soldiers began to fire now, those who were backing Sawyer and the sentries on the wall, joined by others who emerged from the cookhouse on the run. A hail of bullets poured into the stables doorway and through the opening in the hayloft above. One brave ran screaming from the doorway, clutching at his shattered jaw as two more pitched forward from above. More heavy slugs tore into their bodies, confirming their deaths with great spouts of blood. Another soldier went down with redness blossoming on his chest and his shriek drowned by the barrage of rifle fire.