The farm had been in Iowa, at the end of an exhausting journey from Appomattox: a journey during which hopes for the future had begun to mask recollections of the five horror-filled years which had preceded the peace signing.
But there was to be little peace in the future for the man who was not then called Edge. For he returned to a home that was a burned-out ruin, its blackened timbers crumbling amid charred crop fields. And the buzzards were feeding upon two bodies—one of them the remains of Jamie Hedges, a boy no older than the rich dude who now rode with Edge atop the swaying Concord.
Despite the ravages caused by the rapacious birds, the other body was also recognizable: as that of one of the men who had served under the captain during the War Between the States—one of a group of six troopers who had been inseparable throughout the long struggle between North and South. But, in the first spring of peace, death had set Bob Rhett apart from the others.
Both Jamie and the ex-trooper had been killed by Frank Forrest. Or Billy Seward. Or Scott or Douglas or Bell. But the name of the man who had fired the fatal bullet into his kid brother did not concern the half-breed. Six men had ridden up to the farm and five had moved out.
All five had to pay for the brutal murder, and the lessons of war had taught Josiah Hedges how to extract payment in the only way that would satisfy him. And the five had paid, at the end of another long journey during which the half-breed became known as Edge. They died in a holocaustic torrent of blood-drenched violence that was to set the pattern for his future life. Because afterwards there would be no going back to what might have been. For the vengeance hunt had borne too close a resemblance to events of the war. And, although he killed for a cause much stronger than that which had excused such violence before Appomattox, the law accepted no justification for his actions.
And Edge was branded a murderer.
Not, by a quirk of cruel fate, for slaughtering those who had ended his brother’s life. Instead, he was wanted for killing a man who got in his way as he searched for revenge. And, since then, many other men had become buzzard meat because they had blocked the half-breed’s path.
Once, he had made an attempt to recapture a semblance of what might have been: and he had almost paid for the murder he had forgotten. But he had been sick then. Riding from a town called Rainbow with a bullet wound in his body, stinking of the same odor of gangrene that had clung to the carcass of the mountain lion. And, his mind burning with the effects of the poison, it had been instinct rather than a clearly formed plan which had turned him away from violence towards a remembered promise of home and peace.
But fate, in the guise of favouring him, had twisted to snatch him away from the posse sent to capture him—only to plunge him back into a constant blood bath of new death and destruction.
And he had accepted it and dealt with it, surviving each time to face a future that offered nothing good. Until his aimless trail took him to the Dakotas, where he married Beth Day. But those few short weeks of peace and happiness in the Badlands proved as much a false promise as his journey away from the war had been. Both died, more cruelly than Jamie had done. And, because the finer human emotions aroused in him by his wife forced him to bear the responsibility for the way she died, her death had dehumanized him more than any other single event in his harsh life.
He left the Dakotas with violence dogging his tracks and lying in wait for him, resigned to existing as the complete loner—bitterly aware that anything he should choose to love, or even desire, was destined to be put into his grasp then brutally snatched away. He was a loser as well as a loner, insulating himself against the world with an almost impenetrable barrier of bitter cynicism, backing this with brutal action when necessary.
A trained killer who honed his animalistic skills almost as frequently as he sharpened the blade of the razor carried in the neck pouch, he never gained anything—except survival to face the challenges of future violence.
Just once more, as he drifted from state to territory, zigzagging from the Middle West to the Pacific Coast and from Mexico to Oregon, a link with the past had appeared outside of the bitter dreams. A man had come looking for him—to arrest him for that ancient murder and to gain revenge for what had happened to Beth Day. The man died and another quirk of turn-tail fate had made his death an accident.
But that was long in the past now, like so many other deaths (none of which had been accidents) which marked the aimless trail ridden by the tall half-breed since he buried his brother on the Iowa farmstead. Because of the kind of man he had become, he remembered only Jamie, the troopers, Beth, and his challenger for her love; those who, by their living and their dying, had forged his cruel destiny. The others who had spilled their life’s blood across the wastelands of time between were faceless ghosts, lacking substance even when sleep unlocked his memory.
They were there, of course. The people, the places they had died, and the manner and reasons they had died. For everything a man experiences is stored in his subconscious. But in the mind of a man like Edge, the death of another human being registered no more vividly than the passing of a wounded mountain lion—unless he had loved or felt respect for the victim.
He could remember Sullivan and the fat man’s bunch of killers, who had also seen the buzzards at Waycross: and who had all died on the grueling trek across Arizona towards Fort Hope. But their blood was still fresh on the ground.
“You don’t look like somebody interested in music, partner.”
Edge had slept as much as he needed. And no danger had threatened while sleep eased the weariness of a long ride out of his mind and body. For when he slept, dreamless or otherwise, he remained just below the level of consciousness and could be triggered awake to instant awareness and total recall by the first hint of a threat—the result of a lesson of war that had proved as invaluable as his killing skills during the blood-run aftermath.
But he awoke to relaxation now, easing his eyes open to the darkness of the inside of his hat. And knew at once that he was sharing the uncomfortable roof of a stage with a talkative and impulsive rich kid from an Eastern city.
It was as he stretched sleep-stiffened limbs that the young dude addressed the half-breed.
“You ain’t going to sing to me, are you, kid?” Edge growled as he pushed his hat back on to his skull.
Instinctively he checked that the Winchester was close at hand and that the Colt was still in his holster. He could feel the slight pressure of the pouched razor against his back. Then he raked his narrowed eyes over the terrain on all sides.
“Landsakes, no! Just wondered why you were heading for High Mountain, partner.”
The Concord was still rolling along an old trail, a lot higher up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains now. It was late afternoon and the sun was hidden behind a line of ragged ridges to the west. The rocky ground curled up higher still in the east to form a deep valley. The trail, which showed few signs of recent use, ran arrow straight through the center of the valley floor, rising gently to go from sight over a crest. Beyond the top of the long rise, the snow-capped peaks of the highest mountains seemed as far off as they had from the fringe of the dune country.
The lack of sun and the high altitude put a fresh chill in the air that dried sweat and raised goose bumps. And there was no longer any heat shimmer, so unshaded features of the barren landscape stood out in stark clarity.
“Son!” Augie snarled without turning around. “Didn’t them dime novels teach you not to ask questions of a man?”
Luke did glance over his shoulder: and grimaced as his injured hand complained at the sudden movement. He was pallid beneath the bristles and trail dust, and pain had dulled his eyes. But enmity towards the half-breed showed a flicker of fire for a moment.
“He already made it plain he ain’t a talker,” the guard rasped before turning gingerly to face front again.
“You were tired then,” the boy said hurriedly, his eyes still bright with excitement as he gazed with fascinated interest at E
dge. “I ain’t holding it against you, what you said. But if a man don’t feel like talking, that’s all right with me, mister.”
The half-breed finished making his survey of the surrounding country and started to roll a cigarette. “Like that better, kid.” He lit the smoke.
“What?”
“Mister. Or Edge if you want. Partner of mine you’re not.”
The kid was not offended. He nodded vigorously and a broad grin wreathed his unblemished face. “Sure. Edge.” He paused. “That sounds fine. Yeah, I reckon I’ll call you Edge. You’re the first feller I seen that’s got them.”
Edge was in the process of ejecting the spent shell from his revolver and pushing a fresh round into the chamber. “This is the West, kid,” he reminded wryly. “Where men are men and the sheep are nervous. We all got them.”
The youngster blinked, then shrugged his lack of understanding. “I mean those eyes of yours, Edge. The kind that’s filled with far horizons.”
“Filled with what?” the half-breed muttered.
“He’s a big reader,” Augie said sourly, and bit off a chew of tobacco.
“My name’s Rydell,” the kid said. “Hiram Rydell, dang it. But my Pa has the same given name, so I mostly get called Junior by my folks. I don’t mind that so much, on account of Hiram ain’t got no ring, has it?”
“Long as Mrs. Hiram Rydell’s got one,” Edge answered with a hint of a smile.
Augie spat some juice. “One word of encouragement and he goes on for hours.”
“Don’t bother the man, Junior!” Hiram’s aunt cautioned. “And don’t say ain’t.”
Hiram ignored both interruptions. “Was born and raised in New York City. Over on the plush West Side. But I’ve wanted to come out here to the frontier lands for as long as I can recall.”
“Seems you’re the only one happy you made it, kid.”
The youngster’s mood was deflated a little and he scowled. “That sure is right. Edge. Tenderfoot like me, I—”
“Tender what, Hiram?”
“Tenderfoot, Edge. A tinhorn.” He looked puzzled.
“He’s puttin’ you on, son,” Augie growled, and spat more tobacco juice. “He knows what you mean.”
The kid shrugged, then grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, all right. I guess I have to get used to being ribbed all the time, dang it. That or being bawled out. On account of I ask questions. But how’s a feller to learn things if he doesn’t ask questions?”
“Doing things is the best way I know,” the half-breed told him.
Hiram sighed. “I try all the time. But I keep doing the wrong things, dang it. They work out mighty fine in the dime magazine stories. Out here in the real West, though ... Landsakes, it ain’t nothing like it’s made out to be in the books.” Abruptly his handsome young face brightened with a beaming smile. “Leastways, it wasn’t until I ran into you, Edge.”
Luke turned his wan face toward the roof passengers again. “Kid, he sure don’t seem like no Western-novel hero to me,” he rasped.
“You ain’t read a book in years, Luke,” Augie accused, with another spit of juice.
Edge arced the cigarette over the side of the coach. “Maybe I’m a new kind,” he suggested evenly, curling back his lips to show a cold grin.
“That stuff about not calling you partner, Edge,” Rydell hurried on. “That’s the kind of thing I have to learn. Landsakes, everyone that’s on the same side calls everyone else partner in the dime novels.”
“Figure most of them say landsakes and dang it all the time, too, huh?”
The kid showed another sheepish grin and for a long time there was just the creak and rattle of the big Concord to disturb the high-country silence.
Far ahead, the snowy peaks became veiled in the broiling mist of a storm, and the darkening blue of the sky retreated before the advance of a spreading cloudbank.
“You just drifting up to High Mountain, huh?”
Edge, Augie and Luke had donned sheepskin coats as the wind scudding the clouds dropped lower and cut along the valley. Hiram had merely tightened the cords holding the big hat on his head.
“No, Hiram. Riding a stage.”
The half-breed continued to scour the ridges and rock outcrops. He had trusted his instinct for imminent trouble while he slept, backed by the knowledge that Augie and Luke were keeping watch over country they distrusted. The driver and guard were still as alert as ever, but Edge never relied on others unless he had to. Vigilance was an unbreakable habit.
“Looking for work?”
“First for a horse, kid.”
“Come far?”
Edge fixed him with an icy gaze that caused Hiram to swallow hard. “You won’t learn nothing worthwhile from my past.”
He had come a long way: from the isolated Fort Hope in Arizona to this bleak range of mountains in Colorado. And the ride had been trouble free until he was mistaken for a hold-up man. There had not been any trouble at the army post either, where he worked for two weeks busting mustangs into cavalry mounts. It had not been the kind of work he liked doing, but it was the only kind available and he needed the pay to buy a horse, gear, and supplies—to replace what he had lost because Sullivan had wanted to kill a woman.
Some renegade Apaches killed her before Sullivan had the chance, but Edge considered he had lost more: and not just a horse, gear, and supplies. A ten-thousand-dollar bankroll which he had planned to use for yet another attempt to put down peaceful roots. But the banshee laughter of the cruel fate which ruled his destiny had once more been drowned by the crashing of gunfire and the screams of the dying. And the bitterness of defeat in all things save survival had hardened the half-breed still more.
“Okay, Edge,” Hiram allowed. “I won’t ask you no questions about that. But I reckon you’ll get work at High Mountain, what with the Music Festival happening there.”
Edge recalled the canvas signs hung from each side of the Concord, and what the kid had said when he saw the half-breed was awake. “Poker’s the only thing I play, Hiram.”
“Aw shoot, you’re putting me on again,” the youngster groaned.
“I hear they ain’t relyin’ on the local sheriff, Edge,” Augie offered as the team hauled the Concord close to the top of the long rise. “And you got what it takes to make a guard, I reckon.”
“Quit it, Augie!” Luke snarled. “We don’t owe him no favors.”
The half-breed felt a vague stirring of interest, but not sufficient to pursue the matter.
“Unfriendly critter, ain’t he?” Hiram muttered, probably quoting an entire line from his favorite reading matter. Then he grinned. “But I guess you don’t give a damn about him?”
“Junior!” his aunt shrieked as the coach crested the rise, to enter a low-sided gorge at the foot of the downgrade beyond. “That is a cuss word!”
“Under a bad influence, I feel,” the Britisher added, his voice more slurred than ever.
The Concord tilted to one side as the heavily built woman thrust her head and shoulders out of the window and craned her neck to stare up at the roof.
The kid grimaced, but flinched away from the powerful glare of his accuser. “Aw, shoot!” he muttered.
“Ain’t all crap you talk,” Edge rasped. And reached for his booted Winchester.
Two other rifles spat death, and the Concord was suddenly filled with screams of terror.
Aunt Emma’s bleached blond hair was abruptly splashed with dark crimson. Her mouth was still open to express shock at Hiram’s bad language—and the bullet that had shattered her skull broke her dentures as it crashed through the roof of her mouth, then was ejected amid a spray of blood and fragments of enamel as a dying breath was powered from her lungs.
The second shot ended Luke’s life as Edge pumped the action of the Winchester. He was hit in the chest, the impact of the bullet flinging him backwards across the roof of the coach.
“She’s dead!” Hiram shrieked, and half-rose to go for his fast draw.
Luke
’s body slammed into him and the kid was pitched hard to the boot of the coach.
“Surrender!” the Britisher yelled.
The boulder slammed to the trail just ten feet in front of the lead pair of the team and the horses reared in terror.
“Bastards!” Augie snarled, the wad of soggy tobacco rocketing from his mouth.
The searching eyes of Edge had spotted the man using a rifle to lever the boulder off the cliff. And he blasted a bullet into the heart of the masked man as the Concord came to an abrupt halt.
Luke’s body was hurled forward, to crash down onto the draw pole between the back pair of horses. It hung there for a moment, then slammed to the ground. Both animals reared, and the guard’s unfeeling head was burst open by a flailing hoof.
The half-breed powered to the side, knocking aside baggage as he rolled over the rail and dropped to the ground.
A fusillade of shots exploded as he tumbled, bouncing off the dead woman slumped out of the window.
“Jesus!”
“You friggers!”
“It’s gone wrong!”
Icy needles of sleet joined the assault of the wind rushing down the gorge.
“Bastards, bastards, bastards!”
Edge hit the rocky ground in a crouch and powered into a head-over-heels roll. As his vision was blurred by the speed of motion, he recognized Hiram’s voice yelling above the crash of gunfire and the screams of the passengers. He came to a bone-crunching halt against the base of the rock wall and swung the Winchester—to explode a shot toward the stab of a muzzle flash.
A bullet blasted rock splinters an inch to the left of his head. But as his glinting eyes found focus again, he saw his shot penetrate the face of a masked man. The man hurled away his rifle, threw his hands to his face, and corkscrewed to the ground with a shrill scream.
Edge swung his head and rifle in another direction: in time to see Hiram Rydell kill his first man. The ambusher had been hit already and was sitting on the ground. His rifle was gone and he was using both hands to try to stem the blood oozing from a stomach wound. Hiram was drawing himself up to his full height from where he had fallen at the rear of the Concord. He was silent now, with both silver guns aimed rock steady at the injured man.
EDGE: Rhapsody in Red (Edge series Book 21) Page 3
