Silver in the Blood (11 page)

Two braves c1osed in on Edge, one snatching up his rifle, the other holstering the Colt. Four of the Shoshonis surrounded Anatali. Neither man offered resistance to their capture.

"Do something!" Martha Wilder shrieked, struggling against the restraining hands and only succeeding in causing herself greater pain.

"I am," Edge answered as he was prodded back towards a wheel of the wagon.

"What?" the Zulu snapped scornfully.

Edge allowed himself to be forced into a sitting position  with his back against the wheel. "Surviving," he muttered.

THEY didn't remove the twisted body of Running Bear and the dead brave lay crumpled on the ground at the center of the gently sloping area of the campsite—a reminder of Shoshoni defeat that demanded revenge. Edge was in an enforced sitting position with his back to the front wheel of the wagon, his arms pushed between the spokes and lashed together by a leather thong. He was able to look at Running Bear with complete dispassion. Martha Wilder was still in the grip of the two braves who continued to rest their knives against the swells of her breasts as an incentive for good behavior to Anatali. Her expression was a mixture of her pain from the hammer locks on her arms and deep horror which could have been generated by the sight of the mutilated brave or fear of what was about to happen. The Zulu showed his contempt for his dead victim by not looking at the body. Instead, he gazed towards the foot of a towering pine tree with something close to mild interest as a pair of Shoshoni braves stood back, aimed and then launched two lances at the trunk. They thudded into the bark about ten feet from the ground, two feet apart.

"What are you going to do?" Martha implored at length, the words wailing through the clear morning air and punctuated by a sob.

The sub-chief was sitting astride his pony, his face still wreathed by the cunning grin that seemed to be a permanent fixture on his aquiline features. Martha gasped when he turned to look at her, for the lust was like a raging fire behind each of his eyes. "White squaw will hold tongue," he pronounced.

Martha wrenched her head around to look at Edge. He raised a parody of a grin but hid his teeth at once as they began to chatter. Although the sky had brightened considerably, and the most distant peaks shone with a lacquered gloss as the snow caps reflected sunlight, it was still very cold. His red under-vest was worn thin and had many holes in it, offering little protection against the bite of the air.

"Initiation," he answered her question; "They figure our buddy's a brave man and now they want to find, out how brave. If he comes through maybe they'll offer him a job mucking out the pony corral."

"White man hold tongue!" the sub-chief snapped. Edge sighed and glanced at Anatali with an expression that might have communicated compassion: or perhaps it was merely the visible sign of a sense of relief that it was the Zulu and not he who had captured the imagination of the Shoshonis.

As the braves examined the depth of penetration of the lances into the pine trunk, the sub-chief slid from his mount and crossed to carry out his own inspection. He grunted his satisfaction but considered it necessary to spring up and hang suspended by his arms around the imbedded lances before he felt able to signal the commencement of the rite. While the four braves tightened their grip on the massive Zulu, two others approached and cut open his velvet vest and his white shirt along the top of the shoulders. Two other knives increased their pressure against the flesh of Martha Wilder, their blades slicing through the material of her dress. The woman emitted a cry at the touch of cold steel and this warned Anatali to confine his reaction to a tacit defiance that spread scorn from his eyes over the heads of the surrounding braves.

"Yell out and you're dead,'" Edge called, then shrugged as the sub-chief spun to face him, glaring. "He's playing away from home," Edge pointed out. "He ought to know the rules."

"I know, fool," the Zulu answered Edge as the knife-wielding braves reached out and grabbed a handful of black flesh on each of Anatali's shoulders. Then their knives stabbed forward, entering the knots of flesh and emerging at the other side.

The woman screamed and it was the only sound, Anatali's face contorted by the agony of the steel in his body, the big eyes seeming on the point of popping from his head, the once smooth face creased into a million tiny lines. But the enormous lips of the man were pressed tightly together, as if merged into one as he fought against the need to give voice to his torment. Blood oozed from around the hilts of the knives and trickled down to spread two stains, a darker color, across the red velvet vest.

"You're doing fine, feller," Edge whispered to himself. "Stick with it. It gets worse before it gets better."

The sub-chief nodded his approval of the Zulu's powers of endurance, then snapped a command in his native tongue. The two braves stepped forward and wrenched the knives free. Two more moved into their place as the others backed away. Another synchronized plunging motion brought a second piercing scream from the woman and carved a greater agony on Anatali's face as two short lengths of wood skewered through the flesh in the paths hacked by the knives.

"Oh, dear God, end it!" Martha shrieked. "Let him die now!"

Without turning, the sub-chief barked a command. Each of Martha's captors hooked a hand over the neckline of her dress and ripped it down the front. Her entire upper body was exposed, the large breasts becoming pendulous without support. Delight shone in the eyes of the two braves holding her as they altered the angle of their knives, prepared for an upward cutting movement. Martha hung her head in shame, the long golden hair covering her body.

Confident in the knowledge that the pleasures of the woman's naked flesh were to come, the other braves concentrated their attention on the Zulu as lengths of rope were tied to the skewers at the front of his shoulders. The appalling agony of suffering was still carved upon his features, but Anatali was resolute in his silence as the ropes were tossed up and over the firmly planted lances. Sweat was a dull sheen across his skin and his eyes seemed incredibly bright by comparison, filmed by a glaze. Edge grinned again, seeing in the expression a possible reason for the black man's fortitude—Anatali had apparently withdrawn behind the protective barrier of a self-induced trance. As six Shoshoni lifted him clear of the ground, two others were held aloft to tie the loose ends of ropes around the bloodied skewers protruding from the back. The Zulu's body was as stiff as a tree trunk, his muscles locked hard.

The sub-chief gave his order in a quiet tone now, and the supporting braves reacted with an incongruous gentleness at the climax of such a pitiless torture. They lowered the massive body slowly and carefully, only releasing their grip when the ropes took the full strain, the Zulu's weight causing the flesh of his skewered shoulders to stretch like thick lengths of black rubber. For long moments Edge thought the man was dead, for he seemed to be hanging in a state of utter immobility, his legs and arms unmoving in the still air, the agony etched on his face giving his features the quality of inanimate ebony, the eyes staring directly ahead, unblinking. But then he realized the head was held upright by living muscles and he detected the faint rise and fall of the barrel chest.

"You are indeed a brave man," the sub-chief said with feeling, his tone low. "To show such courage your people, like mine, must have suffered at the hand of the white man."

"It's a goddamn equal rights convention," Edge muttered and leaned his head back against the wagon wheel, feeling the sheathed razor press against his neck, taunting him with its inaccessibility.

Then the sub-chief turned away from his victim and the cruel lust that shone in his eyes was mirrored in the faces of his braves as they, too, looked at the helpless woman. She sensed that she had now become the center of attention and raised her head. Edge saw that there was still pain in her expression, but it was of a different nature, arising from mental anguish rather than the physical force applied by her captors. And the element of horror had deserted her. Now she was looking fully into the face of the inevitable and she was prepared for it, her strength of character manifested in the form of an arrogant contempt that spoke volumes of hatred towards the advancing braves.

But, if the Shoshonis understood the subtleties of silent emotion they chose to ignore such abstracts as the powerful desires of the flesh filtered into their savage minds and emerged as a face-contorting craving for the physical fact of naked flesh.

"You will see and then you will die," the sub-chief tossed at Edge, then formed his hands into claws and stretched his arms out in front of him, reaching for the weight of the heavy breasts.

He died a happy man, probably not feeling the mildest sensation of pain to mar the throbbing heat of his concupiscence’s a split-second before his anxious fingers found their goal. The large caliber bullet drilled a neat hole in the center of his forehead which an instant later gushed a great spout of blood into the face of Martha Wilder. As Edge raked his eyes across the surrounding terrain, his, lips formed into a silent curse at his own helplessness, a fusillade of shots rang out and he saw the puffs of smoke marking the positions of the attackers. Three braves screamed their pain and sprawled across the ground as the others yelled in alarm and scattered, fumbling with their weapons. One of the Shoshoni who had been holding the woman made a bolt for the wagon and got off one wild shot before he took a bullet in the back and pitched forward, spilling his blood into one of the rivulets which was suddenly running red.

"Cut me loose!" Edge yelled to the woman, who had gone into a crouch, her hands clawing at the wreckage of her dress to hide her body.

Martha's white face turned towards him, her eyes staring in non-comprehension, her body trembling at each new burst of gunfire. "I'll keep my goddamn eyes shut, but cut me loose!" Edge barked.

Bullets kicked up spurts of dirt all over the campsite as the attackers subjected the Shoshonis to a murderous barrage of gunfire, immune behind rocky cover from the wildly aimed arrows and rifle shots offered in panicked retaliation. One brave drew his bow taut and then collapsed as a bullet gouged into his stomach. As he folded, the primed arrow was released and thudded wildly off course into the ground an inch from the woman's right foot. The nearness of the escape galvanized her into action and she scampered on all fours towards Edge, her breasts swinging unhampered beneath her as all modesty was forgotten.

"Razor, behind my neck!" Edge snapped, leaning his head forward, exposing the pouch.

Her fingers were ice cold and moved in a continuous quiver as she touched him. "Who are they?" she asked hoarsely as she went full length beneath the wagon and began to saw at the binding which held his wrists.

"Don't let the rescue bit fool you," he told her as he saw a brave leap for his pony and then start to cartwheel, pouring blood from two head wounds. "It has to be Tabor still hankering for the silver. He could have plugged you out there in the shooting gallery."

"What do you mean?" she gasped, as the binding came free and Edge withdrew his arms from the spokes, beginning to flex them to work the circulation back into stiffened tissue.

He snatched the razor from her unprotesting hand and looked at her with hooded eyes. "With the redskins it was torture business before pleasure. Tabor's in the silver business…."

Another brave rushed towards the cover of the wagon and Edge recognized his Winchester clutched in the man's hand. The Indian's panic blinded him to any danger ahead as he fled from the deadly barrage which filled the air behind him with flying lead. As the woman continued to crouch in terror beneath the wagon. Edge timed his move and sprang to his feet, bringing up his right hand and turning the blade of the razor towards the running brave. The man saw him too late and his attempt to bring up the rifle was curtailed in an instant as the naked steel slashed across his throat. Arterial blood gushed, swamping the man's death cry. Edge lifted the Winchester from the dead hand.

"No charge for the loan," he said, as the brave fell to start more rivers of blood.

Edge pivoted, turning his back upon the slaughter of the Shoshonis, and diving to the rear of the wagon. He leaned inside and snatched up the hooded parka and a box of shells. Then he turned again, and moved along the foot of the cliff at a fast run. Behind him a half-dozen surviving Shoshonis were still answering the gunfire of the attackers, using dead ponies and the bodies of their fallen brothers for cover. If the men among the rocks saw Edge escape, none would risk breaking into the open to follow him.

Martha Wilder did see him go and screamed at him to wait as she struggled to crawl from under the wagon and give chase. But her foot hooked between two spokes or a wheel and she pitched headlong into a puddle of blood-clouded water, screaming again as the pain of a twisted ankle shot up the length of her leg.

Edge didn't turn, but maintained his speed, drawing renewed hope with each foot of ground he covered as the clamor of the battle diminished behind him. And soon, as the cliff face took on a curve and he followed it, the terrain falling away in a gentle slope, the gunfire and screams of the dying diminished as if into the far distance, for the solid barrier of rock and. earth came between him and the scene of the carnage.

He didn't stop running until a small underground stream emerged from the cliff and began to cut a deepening course down the slope. For a moment he stood, feet spread apart, breathing deeply as his chest heaved. Then he went to his knees and fell forward, plunging his face into the refreshing iciness of the stream water, sucking great mouthfuls of it into his stomach. When he had drunk his fill he rolled over on to his back and waited patiently for his breathing rate to return to normal.

Not until then did he put on his parka and check the magazine of the Winchester, feeding shells into it until it was full. Next he emptied his gunbelt of the Colt ammunition and replaced it with bullets for the Winchester. He threw the box away, got to his feet and patted the thick wad of bills in his hip pocket. Then he set off back up the slope, wiping the drips of water from his jaw, harsh stubble grazing the back of his hand.