Apache Death Read Online Free

long-sleeved shirts open at the front to reveal the white daubing on their chests. Other white markings were splashed above their dark eyes, on their high cheekbones and outlined their receding chins. Their long, thick black hair hung unbraided around their faces; held out of their eyes by buckskin strips with just one dark feather at the back for decoration.
    Even as Edge was drawing his Colt the two who had not yet joined the attack loosed off barbed arrows from their three foot long bows. Edge dug his heels into the flanks of the horse and the animal jerked forward. Both arrows twanged harmlessly into the ground as Edge fired and grunted in satisfaction at the sight of one of the braves pitching from his horse clutching at the bullet hole in his throat.
    The other three began to howl in anger as they fitted more arrows into their bows, kicking their pones into a rushing advance toward Edge. Edge fired one shot for effect and dropped from his moving horse, sliding the Spencer from its boot. The three arrows were in mid-flight as Edge hit the ground and rolled over, coming to rest in a prone position, the rifle leveled and cocked,  forefinger of his right hand curled around the trigger, barrel steady in the cupped palm of his left hand, left elbow firmly planted on the ground. The Apaches were, rearming their bows at the gallop and Edge took the center brave first, the bullet catching him in the heart.
    The other two were close enough then for Edge to see the mixture of rage and fear on their painted faces: to see death glaze the eyes of the Indian on the right as a bullet' from the Spencer drilled a deep hole in his forehead.
    The remaining Indian had time to get off an arrow and Edge had to jerk himself away in a fast roll to avoid it, only saw his attacker again as the Apache launched himself from his pony, snatching a tomahawk from his breechcloth. The Spencer exploded into sound once more and the brave's whoop of triumph became a blood-choked cry of agony as the bullet punctured his right lung. Edge jerked himself clear of the falling body and went up on one knee, snapping his head around to search the area for other Indians. But there were none. He stood up and looked at the brave, writhing in agony on the dusty ground, spitting blood and clawing at his wound.
    Then the man sensed his death throes were the object of an impassive stare and he looked up at the tall white man who was regarding him with mute dispassion. He reached out a hand and grasped the muzzle of the loosely held rifle, tugged at it weakly until it was resting on his chest, left of center. The dark, deep-set eyes of the wounded man communicated a tacit plea for the ending of pain.
    Edge showed his teeth in a grin of evil intent and shook his head as he jerked the rifle from the feeble grasp.
    "You boys started this shindig. You already cost me more shells than four Indians ought to need and shells are expensive. See it out on your own."
    Edge's horse was standing placidly near where Zeb Hanson's body was sprawled and the animal sidled across, stepping delicately clear of the dead Indians, when Edge clucked his tongue. He slid the rifle back in its boot, then drew his knife from the rear of his belt. He went to the most distant of the Apaches first and stepped over him, tearing off the buckskin strip and clutching at a tuft of hair on the crown of the man's head. The point of the knife penetrated the skin of the dead Indian's scalp and the edge sliced easily and quickly in a circle until the tuft came free. Edge's expression, as he performed this operation on the three dead braves was set in lines of calm passivity. It did not change as he approached the fourth man, who was still alive, and was watching him with uncritical acceptance. Edge crouched in front of him and let the three scalps swing before the injured man's face.
    "This you understand, don't you? You figured to get Zeb's and mine. You lost, so the honor's mine. But it ain't an honor, feller.