Edge: The Loner

Before the covering sounds of the speeding wagon had diminished into the distance, Edge moved forward, crawling around the rocks, drew in his breath sharply when he came face to face with an Apache. But the brave’s jaw was a mess of blood and shattered bone and his eyes stared sightlessly at Edge. It was the Indian he had killed. But in the moment the tension abated Edge heard a sound and kicked himself on his back, raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger by reflex at the figure which seemed to be carved out against the sky. It was a brave, atop the boulders, victory glowing in his eyes as he drew back the bowstring the final fraction of an inch. The unaided bullet smashed through the bow, altering its direction so that it entered the brave’s eye which a split second ago had been sighting the arrow at Edge’s heart. Also off target, the arrow whistled through a short space of air and its metal tip carved a furrow across the back of Edge’s hand. His numbed fingers released the grip on the Henry, which clattered to the ground as he snapped his head around to face the source of another sound. It was a blood curdling war cry of another brave as he launched himself at Edge’s spread-eagled body, tomahawk in one hand, knife in the other. Edge, his mind operating as coolly as a well oiled machine, brought up his right leg as the brave leapt forward. The toe of his boot caught the redskin full in the groin and the extra momentum sent him spinning over the head of Edge, who sprung to his feet and turned to face his adversary. The brave was getting to his feet, the knife gone as he clutched the source of his pain. He saw Edge’s injured arm go to his revolver, saw it drop as the finger muscles again refused to maintain a grip. The scent of victory made him forget his pain and he came forward at a run, teeth bared in triumph, tomahawk on high for a downward death blow.

Edge waited, timing his move to the split second. He sidestepped, his good hand going to the back of his neck, flashing out with the open razor. He ducked, going below the arc of the tomahawk, and slashed out. The razor point dug into the brave’s right eye, gouged a river of blood across the bridge of his nose, and sank into his left eye. The blinded man howled and sank to his knees, the tomahawk thudding into the ground. Edge snatched it up, swung it high and brought it down with all his might, splitting the brave’s head open as if it were a soft boiled egg.

As the brave pitched forward a gun exploded close at hand and Edge spun around, clenching his injured fist to bring life into it. He was in time to see an Apache looking at him in surprise, as he dropped his smoking rifle. He said one word in his native tongue and toppled forward as his knees gave way. As he fell, Edge saw the shaft of a pitchfork growing from his back, its three tines buried deep in the flesh.

The old-timer stood behind him, showing brown stained teeth in a proud grin. He spat dark juice to the ground.

“Didn’t like your deal much,” he said. “Sitting down there, man’s mind can play tricks. Wouldn’t like to run out on you and have a man like you mad at me. Less time to think up here.”

Edge nodded, began to retrieve his fallen weapons. “Obliged to you,” he said.

The old man looked around. “Reckon that’s the lot of them?”

“Yeah,” Edge said.

The old man spat more tobacco juice. “Enjoyed it,” he looked at the other fallen braves. “You had more fun, though.”

“Reckon.”

He nodded, strolled up to the brave he had killed and put a boot on his neck to give him leverage to withdraw the pitchfork. It came free with an ugly sucking sound.

“Darn fools neglected to leave me a shooting iron.”

“You didn’t need one.”

“Guess, I didn’t either.” His laughter was a high pitched cackle. He looked around again. “Reckon their buddies will be along soon?”

“Reckon.”

“Then let’s go, son.”

They went.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE rest of the Apaches did not follow in the wake of the wagon train, perhaps scared off by the scene they discovered on the blood soaked hillside, or merely unwilling to stray far from their familiar hunting grounds. Whatever the reason, the settlers were grateful for it, and deeply indebted to Edge for delivering them from what they knew would have been a massacre. Although he had intended to ask only for one meal and some supplies, Edge allowed himself to be persuaded to stay with the train for several days, eating high off the hog and receiving more feminine nursing than the minor wound on his hand needed.