A discreet rapping of knuckles on the door interrupted Edge's line of thought and he quickly folded the map and tucked it into his shirt, then pulled the rifle out from under the bed. "Yeah?"
"Your partner, old boy," came the response in the familiar, cultured English tone. "We need to talk."
"Thought you didn't like talking?"
"You've stolen my means of action, old boy. Can I come in?"
"I been expecting you," Edge told him. "Door's not locked."
The Englishman entered and sighed when he found himself looking down the length of the Spencer's barrel. "You really are the most nervous chap, Mr. Edge," he said as he closed the door and leaned against it, "Isn't there anybody you trust?"
"Yeah, the guy I shave," Edge answered.
"What's the spot marked with a cross?"
The Englishman shrugged and Edge noticed that he, I too: had' cleaned up his face. And his suit looked as if he had just picked it up from the tailor. "Perhaps nothing, old boy. The man who offered me the map in payment of a debt said it was worth a million dollars,"
"How much did he owe you?" Edge asked.
"Fifty dollars. He thought his aces arid kings were good but my low flush was better."
Edge made a sound of disgust from deep within his throat. ''You can't be that stupid—a million, bucks for fifty."
"I'm not, old boy," he answered with the gentle smile. "I was within a second of killing him before he, offered me the map. That made me consider the story as feasible. Then I did have to kill him, when he tried to steal the map back again. He talked a little before I ended his agony. It happened in Wichita, Kansas. I took the next stage west."
"What did he tell you?" Edge was still pointing the rifle, apparently in a casual attitude. But his narrowed eyes studied the Englishman closely, the memory of the man's speed with the trick holster warning against a moment's inattention.
"You wouldn't reconsider our arrangement, old boy?" the Englishman asked without conviction,. "A readjustment of the percentages?"
Edge grinned coldly. "Don't push it, English," he said with a shake of his head. "I've got the map now. Could be that if we change the split you'll get the small end. What is it, a silver mine?"
"Oh, dear, you really are completely lacking in information, old boy. You only know the legend. I have the facts. "
"And, I repeat, I have the map."
The Englishman put his hands in his pants pockets, but Edge did not allow himself to be lulled into a sense of security by the casual attitude, and continued to direct the Spencer toward the door.
"It's gold, old boy. A whole wagon load of gold ingots with no identifying marks. The gold was refined in Mexico and shipped north under the protection of the Mexican army in 1835."
"What did they get for it?"
"Not a thing, old boy. What they wanted was help from the Indians in this area—the Apaches, Papago, Pima, Maricopa, Hopi and Navaho."
"To do what?"
The Englishman shook his head. ''If you knew your history, old boy, the answer would be obvious. In 1835 Texas was fighting for her independence from Mexico and the Mexicans were very reluctant to relinquish such a large portion of land. But they were losing and they were prepared to try anything—even a deal with the Indians. Then something went wrong and there are several versions of what it was. I'm inclined to believe the story that the army escort tried to steal the shipment and then fought among themselves—lack of trust again, old boy."
"Who drew the map?" Edge demanded, ignoring the final comment.
"The only survivor from the escort. He left the wagon where it was, hidden in a cave on the other side of the northern ridge and plotted the way out, intending to return when he considered it safe to make use of the cargo. What happened to the map from then until it came into the possession of my card-playing chum is anybody's guess."
Edge's expression became thoughtful again, but he maintained his careful vigilance. "Why'd you waste time hanging around Rainbow, English?" he asked at length.
The Englishman grinned and it was almost an apologetic expression. "Money, old boy. A wagon loaded with a million dollars worth of gold isn't exactly a buggy with a fringe on top. Luck didn't ride with me on the stage west and I reached Rainbow with three dollars and the clothes you see me in now. I had to win enough to buy a team and a wagon. The one up in the cave might have rotted down to its axles by now. It's more than thirty years old, you know."
''You get them?"
He nodded. "Bought and paid for. Waiting at Olsen's livery stables. The team inside and the wagon out the back."
"So what are we waiting for?" Edge asked.
The gentle smile taunted Edge. "Perhaps for you to summon enough courage to go out into Indian country?"
"Ain't the Indians that worry me," Edge answered.
The smile continued. "You have nothing to fear from me, old boy," the Englishman said. "With the Apaches on the warpath, two guns will be better than one. And if the gold has to be transshipped, two pairs of hands will be better. But …" His expression darkened suddenly and his tone became heavy with menace. "I still don't like the split."
"Then neither do I," Edge countered, matching the other's threat. "And I know your opinion of talk, English."
Silence settled upon the room, interrupted only by the spluttering of the kerosene lamp, as both men attempted to outstare each other. They finally called it quits with emphatic nods which spoke tacitly of an agreement that the deal was one of all or nothing. Then the Englishman turned and pulled open the door, waiting patiently to usher Edge through. But although Edge stood up from the bed, he did not move forward. "Only the guy I shave," he said softly.
"And that's a hard man," the Englishman said as he went out into the hallway.
"As your heart," Edge countered, following him.
The Pot of Cold was strictly a hotel that, night and there were no creaking bedsprings or muted cries of passion as the two men went along the hallway, down the stairs and across the saloon area. Lust could not compare with the stronger, more passionate, fear of further Indian attack. Out on the street there was the same aura of deserted desolation with not a light showing anywhere, and no sound but the footfalls of the two men to disturb the absolute stillness. But both men knew about the army patrol, and both were aware of the lone braves who had stalked the rooftops earlier. So they moved with caution, keeping to the shadowed sidewalk and only darting across the width of the street to Olsen's Livery Stables when they were sure their passage would be unseen. For a few seconds the low, cold looking moon threw their shadows long across the gray dust, then they were swallowed up by the darkness of the opposite sidewalk.
There was an alley between the livery and the neighboring lawyer's office and the Englishman entered this with Edge hard on his heels. Only the stabled horses heard their approach and started up a nervous whinnying.
"You intend trying to run the Apache gauntlet with only your peashooter?" Edge whispered as they emerged into a pool of moonlight at the rear of the livery.