Silver in the Blood (7 page)

"I am," Wilder said, indicating the girl should rest the tray on his desk. His unequal eyes looked hard into Edge's face. "But he's a greenhorn in the West. I won him off an English cardsharp. The gambler mistreated him. I don't. So he likes and respects me. He couldn't find his way through the mountains. But he'll keep a damn sharp eye on the man I choose to take the wagons."

There was a silver ashtray on Wilder's desk and Edge used it to stub out his cigarette. He looked at Anatali. "I could draw faster than you could pick up  that Whitney, Mr. Wilder," he said slowly. "That way I'd have two-and-a-half grand, and no sweat for it."

"A greenhorn, but a good tracker. He'd catch up with you."

"That right," the Zulu put in. "Then you be like the man in the mountains."

"A messy bleeder?" Edge asked.

"Bleeding awful," Anatali replied and smiled for the first time. He showed a lot of teeth when he smiled, dazzlingly white against his black skin.

"That's all, Sue," Wilder said and the girt left the office, seeming relieved to be out of it. Wilder lifted the coffee pot. "How about it?"

"When is it planned to leave?"

"Sooner the better. Tomorrow morning?"

"I'll sleep on it."

Wilder grinned, sure they had a deal. "How do you like your coffee, Mr. Edge?"

Edge locked eyes with Anatali who was still smiling at his British joke.

"Like him," Edge said.  

"Sorry?"

"Pour it as it comes, Mr. Wilder," Edge replied, aware of the enormous power of the man who looked so stupid when he smiled. "Black and strong."

THEY set out at ten o'clock the next morning, from a yard behind the Ritz Hotel. Each covered wagon was, driven by an old-timer. The silver bars were in the first, crated in six unmarked wooden boxes. Martha Wilder rode in the second one which was fitted out as a travelling boudoir complete with commode and bathtub. Edge and Anatali rode their horses. It was a bright, clear day, the air seeming to sparkle in the frosted sunlight that portended sub-zero temperatures amid the glistening snow-capped peaks that stretched across their route. Despite his tropical heritage, Anatali did not seem to feel the cold and the only addition to his inappropriate garb was a ridiculous black derby hat which nested at a jaunty angle amid his frizzy hair. Not so Edge, who had delayed the start of the journey long enough to visit two stores and spend some of his newly acquired wealth on a quilted parka jacket and a pair of fur-lined boots.  

They left Virginia City clinging to its hillside and crossed the Washoe Valley on one of the half dozen stage trails heading west, Edge selecting the one which followed the route of the Virginia City-San Francisco telegraph line. He set a medium fast pace designed to cover the greatest possible amount of country in the shortest time without tiring the two-horse teams which hauled the wagons. At first the going was easy. And safe—because the valley was thick with optimistic prospectors working their claims, unwilling to admit the Comstock was a big company mining lode requiring heavy machinery and the most modem techniques to reach its rich veins through the soft, dangerous rock formations. No outlaw with an iota of commonsense would attempt a hold-up in broad daylight under such circumstances.

But by late afternoon after a short stop to eat a meal cooked passably well by Martha Wilder, the valley and its scenes of hectic activity were a dim memory, no longer even in sight. The sun had disappeared behind cloud at midday and a heavy blanket of cumulonimbus was soon drawn completely across the dome of the sky, seeming almost to touch the razor-backed  ridge of the crest for which the wagons were heading. The wind had held off but the cold did not need it to make itself felt.

Throughout the day Anatali had stayed close to Edge, riding to the left of the lead wagon when Edge was on the right, falling back when Edge did so, then appearing at the rear of Martha's wagon when he checked that. He spoke only when he had a question and Edge quickly tired of explaining that he was inspecting the wheels and springs for signs of weakness from the trip, or scanning the barren countryside on each side for plumes of smoke, campfire ashes or tracks that could betray strangers in the vicinity of the trail. But the Zulu was a zealous pupil who always politely thanked Edge for information and refused to acknowledge his reluctant tutor's impatience.

"You know, feller," Edge said at length as they led the wagons into a pass, "you are beginning to be a pain in the ass. Your boss didn't say anything about me having to educate you. For that I charge extra."

Anatali's face brightened with his idiot's grin. "Talk don't cost anything," he pointed out.

"With me, everything's get a price," Edge answered.

The Zulu looked at the tall man with the lean face, studying the hard lines of his rugged profile. Then he shook his head slowly with a sad expression in his large eyes, admitting that he would never understand such a man. He adjusted the spear into a more comfortable position in his right hand and as he moved slightly in the saddle, the club which was held to a belt by a thong under his jacket rubbed comfortably against his leg.

The two rifle shots were synchronized but the driver of the second wagon screamed longer. than the old-timer who died in his seat in front of his bullion load.  Other rifles cracked, spitting orange powder flashes out of the late afternoon murk and sending bullets whining around the wagons like raging hornets.

"Get the girl!" Edge yelled, as he jerked his horse to a stop, wrenched the Winchester from the boot and leaped onto the box of the passing wagon, kicking the dead driver to the trail. With a high-pitched wail of urgent command, he lashed the team with the reins to drive the wagon into a sudden burst of swaying speed. The Zulu's reaction to the attack was no slower. He had nothing to learn about horsemanship and he had stopped his mount in an instant. A moment before Martha's wagon drew level with him, a second bullet slammed into the driver, ending his screams and flipping him off the seat. Anatali had jumped into his place, the seat of his pants slithering in a pool of spilled blood, and was urging the team after the bullion wagon almost before the dead man had hit the ground.

The gunfire of many weapons was like hail on a tin roof in the confines of the pass, the flashes bursting through the gloom on both sides of the trail. In the rear of the second wagon Martha Wilder's normal composure was shattered to pieces by the noise and the  headlong rush. Her soured face was pale with terror as she peered over the tailgate at the rushing trail receding behind. A bullet ricocheted off a rock and smashed splinters from the framework an inch from her cheek. She screamed in horror and jumped to her feet, preparing to dive towards the front of the wagon. But at that moment the trail took a sharp curve arid as Anatali steered the team into the turn, the rear wheels slithered and one of them crunched into a hardened rut. The wagon swayed, teetered and almost went over onto its side. But at the same moment the woman catapulted over the top of the tailgate, balance was regained and the wagon rumbled off with all four wheels taking the weight.

Martha's body thudded to the hard ground, knocking her senseless and curtailing her scream of anguish. It rolled over and over several times, amid little spurts of dirt which were bullets hitting the ground. Not until it lay still did the sound of the speeding wagons recede to the extent that the thundering voice of a man could be heard.

"I said hold thy fire, thee crazy fools!"

The gunshots fizzled out like a spluttering firecracker and a large group of shadows, which might have been boulders clinging to the sloping sides of the pass, suddenly moved and took shape as human forms. 'Slowly, they started down towards the crumpled figure of the woman on the trail, rifles at the ready as if she represented some great potential threat.

"She alive?" one of the men asked.

"Bruised is all," came the response as the men gathered around.

"That's just fine," said a third with deep pleasure. "Seems we're in a position to trade. She's not much to look at but I know a man who'd pay a million dollars worth of silver for her."

He laughed and after a moment's hesitation all the others joined him. There were twenty-one of them.

Up the trail Edge could not hear the laughter above the beating of hoofs and rumble of wheels, but he knew he was still close enough to the pass for the sound of gunfire to carry. He didn't hear any and hauled gently on the reins, bringing the team to a gradual halt. A moment later his own horse and that of the Zulu cantered up on one side; then Anatali drew the second wagon alongside.

"Hear any horses?" Edge asked.

The Zulu held his head in the manner of an animal straining to catch a sound. After a while he shook his head in dissatisfaction, leaped down from the wagon and pressed his ear to the ground. He stood up. "No horses close by except these here."

"Five thousand dollars isn't this easy to earn," Edge said, his brow creased in thought, his left cheek moving as he sucked at the inside of it. "They ought to be hot on our tracks."

The Zulu looked up at him with a blank stare, unable to contribute any constructive suggestion. Edge studied him dispassionately for a moment, then jumped down to the ground and moved between the wagons. He peered into the darkness of the rear of the one Anatali had been driving and sighed when he saw the disarray wrought by the madcap dash.

"The lady will need a refund on her ticket," he said as he stepped back. "Maybe she didn't like the new driver. She got off someplace."

Anxiety swept across the shiny face of the Zulu. Then it was replaced with anger. A second went by and the two merged. The result was an awesome expression of mute rage only a sliver away from exploding. The big man unhooked his club, hefted his spear and made to start off back down the trail. Edge sighed and leaned against the wagon.

"Where’d you think you're going?" he asked evenly.

"Get Miss Martha," Anatali answered. "She might be hurt."

"Committing suicide won't improve her condition any," Edge told him.

When the Zulu turned, he saw the white man was running his hand over the canvas at the side of the wagon, prodding a finger through each hole as he came to it. There were more than twenty holes.

"Me not such a big target," Anatali retorted, but stayed where he was.

"You ain't no dwarf," Edge answered softly, as, he glanced around into the gathering gloom of evening. The trail continued ahead across the pass, but the slopes up to the crests on each side were no longer steep. The ambushers had picked a good place. On this side there was no cover. Edge moved back between the wagons, caught the reins of the two loose horses and hitched them to the rear of the bullion wagon.

"What you going to do?" Anatali asked, showing surprise as Edge climbed up into his seat.

Edge drew a hand across the stubble of his jaw. "Whether the woman's dead or alive, I reckon they'll try for a trade. You know Wilder. If he had to choose, which would he take?"

The Zulu had followed Edge to the front of the wagons. Now he looked up at him, a deep frown on his face. "He like money very much. But I think he pay every penny he got to keep Miss Martha safe."

"That's how I figured it," Edge said. "It puts the advantage with them."

"So what you do?"

"Get an advantage of my own. They've got choice of weapons. I'll pick the turf. Let's go, feller." He clucked the horses forward and Anatali hesitated only a moment before hoisting himself aboard the second wagon to follow. There was no rush this time, as Edge surveyed the surrounding terrain and kept his ears attuned for sounds of pursuit. The trail rounded another curve and spurred a narrower track going off to the right and disappearing between high outcrops of rock. Edge pondered the decision for only a moment, then jerked on the reins to take the secondary trail, the top of the wagon scraping under the telegraph line which followed the main route down into a shallow valley. Through the natural gateposts of rock, the ground suddenly leveled out and Edge took the wagon only a few yards further, until he knew it was out of sight from the trail below. He leaned out to wave Anatali alongside. Then he jumped down and looked at the dilapidated shack in the center of the compound-like area of mountain shelf. It was a small single-story building of un-planed timber, warped and rotting, with a hole in the dirt roof.

"Miner's place?" Edge posed as he crossed to the closed door.

"When man discover silver in Comstock people start to dig holes all over Sierras," Anatali answered.

"Don't see no hole," Edge said, using the barrel of the Winchester to unhook the latch and then pries open the door. The top hinge came loose and the door fell, tearing free at the bottom. The failing light entering through the doorway and the hole in the roof showed the interior as mere-shadows on shadow. Edge struck a match and saw the mine entrance—a gaping hole in the dirt floor at the center of the shack. A dank smell rose out of it, causing both men to grimace as it attacked their nostrils.

"I think this whole mountain range filled with water," Anatali muttered.

Edge struck a second match and held it high as his narrowed eyes examined the contents of the shanty crude bunk spread with rotted blankets, a table but no chair, a shelf lined with label-less cans, shaving gear and a fragment of mirror with the silver peeling, and a canvas covered pile of something in a comer. He needed to strike a third match to discover what was beneath the cover. And when he saw it he blew the match out quickly. Anatali peered through the gloom at Edge, puzzled by the cold grin-he saw.

"Some tools and boxes," the Zulu said with a shrug.

"You didn't look close enough," 'Edge said, throwing the damp canvas info the mine entrance. "The guy who worked this claim may not have been the smartest miner in the world, but he knew he had to keep his powder dry. The boxes were round, feller."

"Powder kegs?"

"Right. Bring them outside."

"Miner gone a long time," the Zulu said without enthusiasm. "Blasting powder probably no good."

"Everyone's got to have a little luck," Edge told him as he went out of the shack. "Maybe the wheel's spun our way. Got any better ideas?"

"I don't 'even know what yours is," the Zulu answered.

"Talk ain't cheap anymore," Edge said from the doorway. "Waste time using it and the woman could pay with her life."

Anatali lifted two of the kegs and followed Edge across to where the wagons were parked. As they reached them, they heard hoofbeats on the trail.

"Go get the others," Edge urged as Anatali set the kegs down. The canvas had not offered complete protection. The iron hoops were rusted and the wood was spongy. One of the kegs burst open at a single blow from the stock of the Winchester. Edge grinned his satisfaction. The outer ring of powder inside was darkened by damp and speckled with the white spots of mildew. But at the center the powder looked good and dangerous. Below, the horsemen rode by as Anatali returned with two more kegs. Edge broke open another one and saw its contents were in the same condition as the first.