Apache Death (10 page)

"Move another inch and you'll both take a step into hell," a voice barked out from the roof of the stage depot, the tone leaving no doubt that the speaker meant what he said.

Edge and the Englishman did as they were told, moving only their narrowed eyes as they saw a line of uniformed figures come erect on the roof. They heard scrabbling sounds on the roof of the lawyer's office behind them and knew they were covered from both directions.

"I think some bastard figured us," Edge said out of the corner of his mouth.

"Spell Drucker with an F," the Englishman answered as the rancher stepped from the alley, beside Colonel Murray.

"Drop your weapons," Murray commanded as Drucker struggled to contain an evil grin of triumph.

They complied and at another command from the army man Edge climbed down easily from the wagon. It was Drucker who came forward, his own guns holstered but confident of the cover provided by the soldiers. He halted first before the Englishman and ran his hands expertly over the elegant suit, searching for other concealed weapons. The bulk of the man seemed to dwarf the Englishman.

"You don't ought to talk so loud in hotels," Drucker taunted.

"I didn't know there were worms in the woodwork," the Englishman retorted with a soft, venomous tone.

The insult failed to provoke Drucker, who moved over to Edge and removed his Colt and the knife but missed the razor. Edge could see the rancher was immune to words so held his peace and fixed the man, with a slit-eyed stare which spoke a thousand threats. But this did not prevent Drucker delving his hand inside Edge's shirt and quickly withdrawing the map, which he transferred to his own shirt while his back was toward the colonel. "Hear there's gold in them there hills," he murmured with a grin.

''I'll arrange for your coffin to be lined with it," the Englishman said as Drucker backed away to stand beside Murray again.

"Mr. Drucker here reported you planned to desert  Rainbow," Murray said gravely. "I've told you already that we can't afford to lose any men, with the Apaches sitting on our doorstep," He glanced up at the stage' depot roof. "Sergeant Horne!" he shouted. "March these men to the stockade and detail a guard. They're to be shot if they attempt to escape."

"Doesn't that rather defeat the object, Colonel?" the Englishman asked as some of the soldiers climbed down from the roof.

"Cowards aren't any use to me," came the response and then the colonel's expression became pensive as he studied both men. "But 1 know you aren't yellow."

"But we just abhor killing," the Englishman said, emphasizing his cultured tones.

"There are exceptions," Edge said, fixing Drucker with a steady stare.

"Let's go," Sergeant Horne ordered, jerking a gun muzzle into Edge's back. He moved forward under the insistence of the pressure.

"I hate jails," the Englishman said, falling in alongside him as the heavily armed escort brought up the rear. "They're always full of bums."

"Then you ought to enjoy it," Edge answered.

The Englishman sighed deeply. "I keep telling you: just a little odd, that's all."

Edge spat. "Just the same, I'm having the top bunk."

THE Apaches attacked at dawn, riding into the town from the east with the harsh glare of the sun at their backs, dazzling the frantic eyes of Rainbow's defenders as they came awake to the sound of blood-curdling warcries. The eight-man army patrol met the first assault, caught outside the last house at the eastern end of the cross street by fifty braves led by Little Cochise, brother of the tribe's chief. The patrol was headed by a tough sergeant, a veteran of the Civil War who immediately ordered his men toward the cover of the house as the first hail of arrows thudded into the ground several yards short. Six of the men did as ordered but the seventh, a young man, brave as he was reckless, knelt down on one knee and began to loose off rifle fire at the galloping braves. Two fell from their ponies with mortal wounds and a third went sideways with a hole in his shoulder but managed to stay mounted as he wheeled away. Then Little Cochise released his decorated lance with enormous power and howled his triumph as the barbed head thudded into the soldier's stomach and emerged dripping blood at the back. As the remainder of the patrol dived head-long through the windows of the house, Little Cochise grasped the shaft of the lance and dragged the dead soldier behind him, circling the house with the braves howling at his heels. The second wave of Apaches streamed into the town, loosing arrows toward houses from which rifle and small arms fire was beginning to sound.

Inside the house, as Fred Olsen struggled into his pants and his elderly wife hid beneath the bedclothes, the sergeant ordered each of his men to a window on both floors
and then went down with an arrow through his throat as he cracked open the back door. A fountain of blood sprayed into the eyes of a corporal at the window and the man was still trying to wipe it clear when an Indian rode in through the open doorway, daubed face a mask of hatred. The brave released his tomahawk in a spinning throw and the soldier screamed as the blade buried itself in his chest. The brave howled with triumph and leaped from his horse, drawing his knife to claim two scalps. But in the next moment his head was no more than a crimson pulp clinging to gleaming bone as the half-dressed Fred Olson fired both loads in a double-barreled shotgun, aiming from the top of the stairs.

Outside, the dead soldier came free of the killing lance and his best friend, firing from an upstairs window leaned out for a better shot at Little Cochise. His aim was wide and an arrow thudded into his back. He fell headfirst from the window and was struck by six more arrows before his dead body smashed to the ground.  The braves continued to circle the house, closing the gaps as injured and dead riders fell from their horses; gripping their ponies with their legs so that they had both hands free to prime and fire their bows. They rode outside their ponies, offering less of a target, sometimes leaning forward and down to fire from below the animals' necks. Then, at a howled command from Little Cochise, the braves wheeled in toward the house in a rushed attack from all directions. Four Apaches fell as they attempted to dismount, but the remainder got through, three swinging up on to the porch to enter the upper floors. Two soldiers positioned in the sitting room at the front killed three painted braves as they dived in through already shattered windows but were themselves killed by other braves, one taking a tomahawk in his skull, the other  having his throat cut by a slashing knife blade. At the rear of the house Fred Olsen obliterated the faces of two Apaches and, then swung the empty shotgun around his head, cracking the skulls of three more before six overpowered him and scalped him alive before plunging a knife into his mouth opened in a scream.

The house became suddenly quiet, a nerve-rending haven of false peace against the distant gunfire and howls as the main fight moved to the center of town. Upstairs in the main bedroom the woman whimpered beneath the bedclothes as one soldier guarded the window, another the door. They were all that remained of the patrol and they sensed, in the silence, their impending doom.

"Where the hell they gone?" the man at the window said, a tremor in his voice.

"Not home for breakfast, that's for sure," his companion answered, sweating freely from fear but not revealing the terror in his tone as he stood squarely in front of the closed door, aiming his rifle.

The man at the window poked his head outside, trying to spot a sign of stealthy attack and as the woman under the bedclothes began to sob, the soldier died. A brown hand reached down from the roof, grasped the soldier's hair and jerked on it as another hand swung a tomahawk, sheering cleanly through the neck. The head fell into the street and the body back into the room as the brave on the roof emitted a tremendous roar of victory. At the same instant the flimsy panel door was split lengthwise as a lance penetrated it and had enough momentum to strike deep into the chest of the last soldier. Then the door crashed off its hinges and Little Cochise led a dozen braves into the room. They dragged the bed away from the wall and began to dance around it, whooping into the terrified ears of their whimpering victim, priming their bows as they did so. At a signal from the chief twelve arrows were fired at point-blank range and the whimpering ended as a dozen broadening red stains spread across the coverlet.

Similar orgies of barbaric killing were taking place in houses throughout the town as wave after wave of Apache braves circled their objectives, then dismounted at the run for the final assault.

At the Pot of Gold ten braves poured whisky down their throats before smashing the bottles and setting light to the contents. One man tried to run through the flames and emerged with his clothes blazing. The braves ignored him as he rolled in agony burning to death. They were content to surround the building and pour arrows at anyone who tried to escape through upper story windows. The aging madam thought she had got clear down the outside stairway, but came face to face with a young brave. She fought back her terror and raised the hem of her nightgown, exhibiting the entire length of her naked body, wrinkled and flaccid. The brave leered through his warpaint, and reached out to grasp one of the sagging breasts. The woman cried out at the tightness of the grip then shrieked in agony as a knife slashed down to sever the breast. On the roof a naked whore knelt in prayer a moment before a blazing beam collapsed and she fell screaming into the searing heat of the fire.

The empty stage depot and the sheriff's office were fired and sparks showered the nearby livery stable, setting light to the hay loft above. As terrified horses lashed out their hoofs, Wyatt Drucker climbed on to the seat of the wagon and whipped the hindquarters of the two lead grays which thundered away from the flames. Three braves met a pounding death beneath the galloping hoofs of the horses as Drucker emerged from the alley in a screaming turn and he made no attempt to swerve as Nelson Mortimer crawled into his path, the undertaker holding up the bloody stumps of his wrists in a plea for help. The hoofs trampled him and the wheels almost cut him in half. Drucker got clear of the town with the wagon bristling with arrows, but without a scratch on himself.

But the Apache rampage through the town was merely a diversionary tactic, designed to draw the soldiers from the fort. It failed. The big gate stayed closed and the uniformed figures remained at their posts high on the walls, rifles aimed and ready for when the braves came within range. Many of the acts of butchery and destruction were committed in full view of the men and, a ripple of angry conversation spread along the line.

"Save your energy!" Colonel Murray barked, his face wan behind the weathered exterior, his expression forced into a scowl of anger to mask the horror he felt.

He was standing on the platform above the gates, flanked by Lieutenant Sawyer and Sergeant Home. The lieutenant fumed away and retched dryly as a barman ran out of one of the saloons with blood gushing from gaping wounds where his ears had been.

"Don't you think, sir, that …"
Home began.

"I’ve done my thinking, sergeant," Murray snapped coldly. "We didn't 'ask those people to build their town out there. My God!"

This last was hissed as a mounted brave turned into the street dragging a naked girl by the hair. A soldier at the fort loosed off a shot that kicked up dust yards short of the Indian.

"Put that man on report!" Murray barked as he saw the girl released, only to die under a hail of falling arrows, some of them carrying burning rags.

Then, as the sweet, nauseating stench of her burning flesh rose to the nostrils of the soldiers, the town became quiet and the street was suddenly devoid of movement. The silence was matched by that from within the fort

"What's happening, sir?" the lieutenant asked at length, his voice a hushed whisper as if afraid the words might carry to the Apaches.

"They know the plan's come unstuck," Murray replied, not taking his eyes off the scene of blazing buildings and a street littered with dead whites and Indians. "They wanted us to move out and we didn't. Little Cochise has to figure out something else."

"What else is there, sir?" Home asked, his tone implying that he already knew the answer.

Murray didn't answer him. "Take a detail and break out the new guns, sergeant," he ordered tightly. "Issue one to each man. Then release the prisoners and see they are armed in the same way."

Home saluted and moved off, barking orders which sent' six men after him. The others held their positions, needing no command from Murray to warn them that the Apaches could attack without warning at any moment.

"You think it will be a full-scale attack, sir?" Sawyer asked when the silence had lengthened to proportions he found difficult to endure.

"Maybe," was all Murray would allow as he rubbed a hand along his unshaven jaw.

Few of the men on the wall were shaved and completely dressed, having been ordered directly from their bunks to the fort's defense at the start of the attack. It. had been cold in the first rays of dawn, but now the sun had gained height and the men did not attempt to button their tunics and shirts. The heat and the fear caused their bodies to run freely with, sweat.

"Smarten up those men!" Murray barked suddenly, glaring at Sawyer.

The lieutenant sprang forward, moving along the line to ensure that the disgruntled troopers obeyed the order. Murray turned away to watch as Edge and the Englishman strolled across the compound and started up the wooden steps to the top of the wall. He resented both men with a degree of emotion which can only be experienced by a lifelong soldier for civilian indiscipline. But he respected their fighting skills and suspected he would soon need to call upon them.

"Good morning, Colonel," the Englishman said brightly. "Not the most comfortable bed I've ever slept in, but it was peaceful until our red visitors arrived."

Edge looked down on Rainbow impassively, hooded eyes taking in the vista of death and destruction. He spat into the dust before the gate.

"Looks like the Apaches mean business this time," he muttered. "Where they gone?"

"Hiding," Murray answered, "Regrouping for an all-out attack this time, I'd say."

His tone and expression invited a comment from Edge, but the tall, lean man continued his survey of the town.

"Appears you were not a lot of help, old boy," the Englishman said.

"I lost an eight man patrol out there someplace," the Colonel answered angrily. "That's eight more than I can afford to lose."

"Touchy," the Englishman murmured as the detail of men led by Sergeant Home began to haul crates of rifles and ammunition up the stairway.

At a nod from the fort commander the detail began to distribute the guns and shells. Edge had already been given back his own Spencer, but chose to rest this against the wall as he tested the action of the Winchester. The issue of the new weapons caused an interested Hurry of conversation all along the line of defenders.

"Everyone out there killed?" Edge asked when he had finished his examination of the gun and began to feed shells into it.

"As far as we can tell," Murray answered. "Drucker may have escaped. He made a run for it on your wagon."

"I'll be damned," the Englishman said. "Map, Edge?"

Edge spat again. "He took it." 

"What map?" Murray demanded as Sawyer returned to the group,

"Our business," Edge answered, resting the rifle and checking the action and load of his Colt.

"Bastard," the Englishman muttered.