Edge: The Loner

Edge hardly listened to the man as he looked around; saw six adult men, couple of boys in their early teens, three girls of the same age and seven women. Their armaments comprised a dozen single shot muzzle-loaders, a Spencer repeater and a revolver to each man. Plus a pitchfork that the old-timer clutched menacingly. If they waited around to make a stand against the rest of the Apaches from camp, they wouldn’t have a chance. He moved to the wagon closest the foot of the hill and looked around it, judged the nearest rock to be ten yards away. The next cover large enough to hide him was fifteen yards beyond: a patch of brush. After that it would be easy, the choice wide. Only a matter of deciding which cover concealed the braves.

“You’ve got all those guns loaded?” he asked without looking behind him.

“What you gonna’ do?” a man asked.

“There ain’t no more than half a dozen of those red men on the hill right now,” he answered. “But pretty soon the whole tribe is going to be there and we’ll be like fish in a barrel for them. I want you to cover the whole area with lead ‘til I reach that patch of brush there.” He pointed. “Then you move out every wagon excepting for one. You move them fast, like the whole Indian nation was on your tail. If you don’t, then that’s what it’s going to feel like. One man on the last wagon stays to pick me up.”

“I’ll stay,” the old-timer volunteered with enthusiasm. “My wagon’s last anyway.”

Edge nodded his agreement.

“How’ll I know the Injuns ain’t got you?” the old-timer asked as Edge prepared to go between the wagons.

“We all got our problems,” Edge told him coldly. “Put it this way, I get back here and find you’ve chickened and run, I’ll have to catch up with the train by myself. And I won’t be none too happy.”

Edge turned on his icy grin and watched with the enthusiasm drain from the old man’s bewhiskered face. “Okay pour it on,” he said and dashed from the protection of the wagons as the settler opened up a barrage. Not a single shot was fired in retaliation, until the fusillade ceased abruptly, then bullets thudded into the rock behind which Edge was crouched, spitting chips into his face. He gave the settlers time to reload, and at the sound of the first shot made his crouched, fast run to the brush, pumping off two bullets from the Henry and seeing dust puffs close to his feet as the Apaches fired widely. The brush offered concealment, but little protection from bullets. He saw a cluster of boulders above him to the left and he knew an Apache was hiding behind it.

The settlers opened up again and Edge rolled over twice, clear of the brush and saw an arrow bury its head into the ground at a spot where his body had been a moment ago. Then he was on his feet and running, breathing hard from the exertion needed for speed on the sharply rising ground. He carried the Henry low on his hip, grasping the barrel with one hand as he squeezed the trigger and worked the breech mechanism with the other, seeing the bullets thud into the rock. The redskin rose from behind the rocks and loosed off a shot that tugged at Edge’s sleeve. The brave tossed away his empty rifle and leapt, legs apart on top of the rock, bringing back his arm, preparing to launch the tomahawk, its blade flashing in the sunlight. One bullet from the Henry took him in the jaw, smashing upwards so that when he screamed his death agony he sprayed jagged pieces of broken teeth before him. The second got him plumb through the heart, its impact sending his body crashing backwards over the rocks. Edge dived to the side of them, hearing the whoosh of an arrow pass his ear.

Then as if divine influence had pressed a switch, the world went silent. Below, on the trail, even the woman had ceased her vocal mourning. Edge remained still, listening, knowing that there was at least four more pair of ears on the hillside doing the same thing. Then sounds came to him from below. He looked for their source and saw the settlers climbing up onto their wagons. When everyone was aboard male voices encouraged their horses forward and as soon as the line was straight the whips crackled and galloping hoofs and spinning wheels churned up dust. A lone wagon remained, the horses between the shafts quietly chomping on the long grass besides the trail.