Edge: Apache Death

EDGE slept alone in one of the big bunkhouses which comprised a dormity for forty troopers. The men who normally had their quarters there, and the others-who bunked in a similar long room next door, were all on the wall, covering every square inch of ground around the fort. The last remnants of the town's population, numbering seven men, six women and two young boys, chose to spend the night in each other's company in the cookhouse, sharing their fear and thus reducing it.

The soldiers heard the drums first, then the civilians. A near-hysterical scream from a woman roused Edge to instant alertness and he, too, heard the steady, ominous beating of clenched fists upon taut hide. He had been stretched out, fully clothed, on a bunk and he came erect with a sigh and moved outside. He breathed in deeply of the clear, cool air and glanced up at the sky. The cloud which during the night had obscured the half moon was already rolling away toward the west, as if afraid of the first rays of the new sun that were search-lighting up from the eastern lip of the world.

Edge stretched again and strolled across the empty compound toward the well, glancing up at the line of blue-coated troopers ranged along the wall. The steady beat of the drums was growing louder, getting nearer. There was already a half-filled bucket standing on the lip of the well and he bent over it, splashing the cool water on to his face. Then he took off his hat and used the dipper to pour water on to his head. He heard a whimper behind him and turned to see a woman framed through the holes and tied to the sides of the litter, forcing him to look ahead. To stare ahead now, into the first harsh rays of the morning sun with eyes that had lost their means of protection: the Apaches had sliced off the Englishman's eyelids.

"That's just a foretaste," Edge said as he lowered the telescope and handed it back to Murray.

"What do they hope to gain," the Colonel muttered as the drummers abruptly ceased their constant beat and the plaintive whimpering croaks of the tortured prisoner became audible to the men ranged along the top of the 'wall. The Apaches gazed at the fort with mute menace but made no overtly threatening move.

"Is that Cochise?" Edge asked.

Murray raised the glass again to examine the face of the taciturn chief. He nodded.

"Then I figure he's come for his kid brother," Edge said: "He either gets him or the Englishman fries his eyes out. Then they'll try a few more Apache fun things until they kill him. It'll take a long time. Then it will be the woman's turn."

"Thought you wasn't an Indian fighter, Edge," Murray accused.

"I ain't."

"So how do you know so much about Apaches?"

Edge spat and took the makings of a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He built the cigarette with measured slowness. "They're men," he answered. "And if they want something bad enough they’ll go to any length to get it. If I was out there and you had my kid brother in here, I'd do exactly what old Cochise is trying."

"That makes you no better than them," Murray said with repugnance.

Edge licked the paper and sealed the cylinder around the tobacco. "I ain't making no claims," he said.

Murray turned away with distaste. "Go and get the prisoner, Lieutenant," he ordered. "Bring him up here. At the double."

Sawyer picked out three men and they went down the stairway, at a run and increased their speed across the compound toward the stockade. The civilians bunched in the doorway of the cookhouse watched them with fear-filled eyes. Out on Rainbow's main street the Apaches, remained silent and unmoving, like rock-carved figures. The Englishman moaned his agony.

"Bet English is cursing Yankees under his breath," Edge said softly. "Hates the way they talk so much."

"I've given the order," Murray cut in, the softness of his tone not diminishing the anger of the words.

"I'm amazed by your decisiveness, Colonel," Edge said with heavy sarcasm and turned to watch as the arrogant Little Cochise was hurried across the compound and herded up the stairway. His eyes blazed hate at every man who looked at him as he reached the staging. Murray unbuttoned his holster and drew an army issue Colt. Little Cochise was pushed forward in full view of the waiting Apaches, and Murray raised the revolver and pressed the muzzle against the temple of the sub-chief.

"Your move makes it a stalemate," Edge said.

"This isn't a game of chess," came the hissed reply.