EDGE: Vengeance at Ventura

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Heard that whores make fine wives, kid,’ Edge said evenly.

  And caused anger to flare in the boy’s bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes. ‘Last night, after Milly said she’d marry me, I promised her I’d kill any man who called her a whore.’

  ‘I’ve been warned,’ the half-breed said, with a nod as a door opened and closed in the facade of the railroad depot building on the other side of the silent train.

  Then he stepped out from under the stoop awning, sinking ankle deep into the mud as he angled across the street toward the caboose end of the train: the direction in which the footfalls on the boarding were headed.

  ‘You want somethin’?’ the fireman asked truculently when he saw the half-breed beside the track behind the caboose. He looked as if he had taken his share of celebratory drinks the previous night.

  ‘Anyone checked on the flooded section of line yet, feller?’

  ‘That’s what I’m gonna do now, soon as I’ve got Mr. Crane’s horse saddled.’ He turned to go around the side of the depot building.

  ‘Obliged,’ Edge called after him.

  The fireman cursed and the half-breed felt a stir of cold anger in the pit of his belly. But he curbed it and swung around to re-cross the street as Attinger turned to go inside the saloon.

  Out back in the stable he saddled one of the dead men’s geldings and took the corpses from the stall where they had been dumped, to tie them to the back of the horse. The bodies were starting to stiffen but had not yet begun to smell. He found a long handled spade, and with this canted to his shoulder he led the heavily burdened animal out of the stable and up the slight incline to the patch of muddy ground featured with crudely fashioned crosses.

  He relieved the gelding of the corpses before he began to use the spade on the soft and yielding earth. By that time the constant drizzle had soaked his clothing as thoroughly as the downpour of the previous night. And then his pores began to ooze with sweat for it was hard work to dig the hole large enough to accommodate three bodies. And eventually it was perhaps twice as large as necessary - crater shaped because the sides kept collapsing and spilling the near liquid mud toward the centre. But finally he had a large enough area four feet deep into which he could drag the corpses and arrange them side by side. And then it was a matter, requiring little effort, of merely spading the displaced mud back into the hole.

  It took the best part of two hours to complete the burial and then he marked the three-man grave by thrusting the spade into the ground directly above where the corpses lay.

  And was content with the outcome of the thoughts which had occupied his mind while he was engaged in the self-imposed chore. That if there was room in his life for a woman, Crystal Dickens was not the one. Vince Attinger was young. He was resilient enough and sufficiently lacking in firmly held and deep rooted convictions to excuse what his bride had been. Maybe he could even forget it. But in the half-breed’s mind, no matter what else he felt for her, Crystal Dickens would forever be a thief and a liar. And this knowledge was no foundation upon which to build a lasting relationship.

  He added a stream of saliva to the sodden ground then rolled and lit a cigarette before he swung up astride the gelding. Lasting relationship, hell! There never had been any chance of that. The cruel fate that ruled the man called Edge had steered his mind to the decision that was made while he buried the trio of men. And it was lucky for the woman this was so - unless she really did have the death wish she had spoken of in anger the previous night. She was lucky to have survived this long in the company of Edge: with just a few bruises, some aching limbs and a bad attack of sunburn as physical evidence of the experience.

  The sooner she was aboard the train heading north, while he was riding back south, the better and the safer it would be for her. But how could he tell her that in words she would allow herself to understand? After she had constantly refused to accept the much more potent signs of impending doom which had cast an ever present shadow over them from the first moment of their meeting?

  Gunshots exploded. A fusillade of fast triggered rifle fire that jerked the half-breed out of his morose reverie. He raised his cupped hands from his lower face and took up the reins of the horse. And immediately the half-smoked cigarette disintegrated between his lips. He spat out the mess of tobacco and paper and snapped his head around to seek the cause of the gunfire.

  But there was nothing to see. While he had been sitting astride the docile gelding, deep in thought and detached from his surroundings, the drizzle had built steadily in intensity. And now the rain was needling down from an invisible sky in a deluge that matched the storm of the previous night. So the slitted blue eyes gazing out from under the hooded lids could see nothing that was more than ten feet away from them.

  The gunfire ceased after perhaps ten shots had been exploded. South of the two buildings which marked the end of Ventura’s single street. On the open slope across which the trail from old man Attinger’s shack and ark came.

  There was no cover out there, except the teeming rain in which a man could hide, but that would not stop wildly fired bullets. So Edge thudded his heels into the flanks of the gelding to send the animal plunging down the slippery slope, pumping hooves exploding great sprays of mud: heading for the rear of Regan’s Place.

  Now that the burst of repeater rifle fire was over, the hiss of the teeming rain masked out every other sound except that of the horse galloping over sodden ground.

  When the building loomed ahead, the half-breed reined the gelding to a rearing halt, swung from the saddle and left the horse to find his own way into the stable.

  Two more shots were fired and, as in the opening fusillade, there were no follow up sounds of the bullets crashing into solid objects.

  Edge drew his Colt as he ran along the side of Regan’s Place, cursing himself as a fool. For having reached his decision while he buried the men, there was no valid reason for him to involve himself further with Ventura, anybody who was rained in there and whatever troubled the town or the people. And now, having instinctively reacted to the burst of rifle fire, he took the time to consider the nature of the shooting: realized it was not aggressive. Somebody, moving fast off the slope south of town and racing on to the street, had emptied a repeater rifle at the pouring sky.

  He slowed and stepped from the side of the saloon up on to the stoop. And halted there with a sigh in time to see a flatbed wagon slide through a forty-five degree turn, as the slightly built driver leaned far back across the seat, feet pressed to the running board and hands hauling on the reins. A familiar looking wagon and a man who was unmistakable from his shriveled, ill clad body, grey hair and beard and toothless mouth. This last gaping wide to vent a roar of joy as the wagon rocked to a half and the man jumped up bare footed on the seat.

  Then: ‘All right you unbelievers!’ Telly Attinger yelled in his seventy-year-old, reedy voice. ‘I forgive you! You laughed in my face and called me crazy! Now it’s happenin’! It’s comin’ true! Just like I said it would be! Just like the good Lord told me it would come! Come on! Come with me to the ark! Before the flood waters burst from the mountains to engulf the world and all its wickedness! I waited for you! But you wouldn’t come! Come now, before it’s too late! Hear me! I forgive you! Come with me and be saved! You are the chosen ones! The good Lord directed me to come to…’

  He swung his head to left and right as he ranted, his voice penetrating the hiss of the rain to draw people from beyond the teeming curtain of the downpour.

  On the street at the side of the slewed around wagon a group of bedraggled miners had trudged into view. Behind it, having climbed over the couplings of freight cars stood Crane, the engineer and Charlie the brakeman off the train. On the stoop in front of the batwinged saloon doorway was Pat Regan, Marshal Roche and Crystal Dickens.

  All the men looked hungover, sour faced and irritable. An ill-tempered audience for the religious fanatic: resenting the fervid old timer who had brought them hurrying out into the torrential
rain by sounding off with a rifle. Only to shriek his madness at their rudely awakened, liquor-sodden brains.

  ‘Don’t Vincent!’ another voice screamed. Milly, from inside the saloon.

  The old man on the wagon seat continued to rave of his crazed belief that the end of the world was imminent. But his head was tilted back now, contorted face turned to the full force of the beating rain as he gave thanks to heaven for deliverance. Totally detached from his surroundings.

  For stretched seconds, before the young girl’s shrill voice spoke, Edge had also been preoccupied: as he gazed along the stoop at the slender bodied, temporarily disfigured Crystal Dickens. Who had sensed his presence and looked toward him: an expression of remorse and deep melancholy on her scarred face.

  Then the girl shouted, footfalls beat on the floor of the saloon, the batwings were flung open and Vince Attinger lunged outside. The kid’s right arm was thrust forward, the hand fisted around the butt of his Remington.

  Crystal, Regan and Roche scuttled clear of the boy. And shouted at him. But his enraged words rang out clearly over what they said and the maniacal oration of the old timer.

  ‘You killed my Pa, you crazy old man!’

  He leapt down into the mud beyond the stoop and the revolver in his hand exploded a shot. The bullet cracked through the rain and the boy’s grandfather took it in the left upper arm. The old man was cut off in mid-sentence and his slightly built frame was twisted into a half-turn by the impact of the bullet.

  He stared down at the blood oozing from the wound, to be immediately diluted by the rain, felt the pain and raised his eyes to stare at the gunman. Sanity returned and he recognized his grandson. Obviously recalled the events which had triggered the murderous rage inside the boy. And began to weep as he extended both arms toward Vince: in a gesture that was of submission and a plea for understanding.

  Vince took a step forward, but his booted feet slid in the sucking mud and he dropped to his knees. He gripped the Remington in both hands, used both thumbs to click back the hammer and took careful, silent aim at the old man.

  Aristotle Attinger began to sway. And moved his feet to retain his balance on the wagon seat.

  Milly pushed through the batwings and came to an abrupt halt, mouth open to vent another plea to the boy. But no sound emerged and she was as dumbstruck by horror as everybody else who stared through the rain at this prelude to cold blooded murder. Save one.

  Edge had not holstered his Colt. So needed simply to twist his wrist and thumb back the hammer. Squeeze the trigger to fire a shot from the hip. Over a range of twenty-five feet. Too long for most men. Even men with average experience of firing a handgun.

  The bullet drilled through the back of Vince Attinger’s left hand to make a neat, red rimmed hole. Then impacted with the butt of the Remington, was instantly deformed and so tore a ragged exit wound in the palm of the boy’s hand.

  He screamed and the revolver flew from his grip as he half-turned on his knees, pitched forward and rolled over on to his back. Clutching at his bloodied hand with his good one.

  This as his grandfather lost his balance, took one staggering step and toppled over the back of the seat into the bed of the wagon.

  Edge was suddenly the centre of attention. Eyes sweeping to look at him as he tilted the gun skyward, half-cooked the hammer and turned the cylinder until the chamber containing the exploded shell was in position to allow for ejection. The case dropped to the stoop between his feet and he took a fresh round from his gunbelt and reloaded the Colt. Which he then holstered.

  ‘Thank you, mister!’ Milly blurted as she jerked forward, half-fell off the stoop while looking at Edge and dropped to her knees beside Vince. ‘Oh, thank you!’

  She embraced the injured boy and hugged his head to her breasts: began to speak fast and low to him.

  But he broke free and shoved her roughly away as he struggled to his feet, his eyes blazing with hatred for Edge.

  “Damn you, mister!’ he snarled. ‘He murdered his own son! My Pa! He had it comin’ to him!’

  Today you’re going to get a wife, kid,’ the half-breed answered evenly. “You’ve got some time to think now. Use it to figure out what’s the most important - relatively.’

  Chapter Eleven

  THE railroadmen returned to the depot and the miners trudged back to their tents. Vince allowed his soon-to-be bride to help him into the saloon and up the stairs to her room. Crystal Dickens, Pat Regan and Roche watched Edge angle across the street to the wagon, pick up the unconscious old timer and bring him - slumped over a shoulder- into the shelter of the stoop awning. Then they moved out of the way to allow him access to the batwings and followed him inside. Where he lowered his burden on to the nearest chair and turned to go outside again.

  ‘What’s the idea? the owner of the place snapped. ‘Dumpin’ that crazy old coot here to bleed all over my floor. What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Make sure the kid doesn’t make another try at him, feller. Until I’ve taken care of the wagon team. He gave them a hard time getting to town.’

  It took about five minutes for Edge to drive the wagon around to the rear of the place, take the near-exhausted horses from the traces and put them in the stable. He left the empty Winchester with which the old timer had announced his approach to Ventura in the back of the wagon. And as he walked around to the front of the saloon was aware that the rain had started to slacken.

  Inside, the fat Regan and the tall, heavily mustached Roche were standing on respective sides of the bar counter, drinking coffee. While Crystal Dickens was stooped over the slumped form of old man Attinger, bathing the flesh wound in his arm with a piece of rag and steaming water.

  ‘Still out, uh?’ he asked.

  ‘Perhaps forever,’ the woman answered. ‘Being shot this way could kill a man as old as he is.’

  ‘Mister, that was some fine shootin’ you did at the kid,’ Roche said with pursed lips. ‘I don’t reckon I’ve ever seen a niftier shot than that. Over that range.’

  ‘Don’t they say practice makes perfect, feller?’ Edge answered as he sat down across the table from Telly Attinger.

  ‘Max Sawyer and his boys couldn’t have stood a chance against you. Real easy money you made.’ He banged down his mug on the bartop. ‘Here, Mr. Regan, lace that with some rye.’

  ‘I didn’t know I was in line for the bonus,’ Edge answered. ‘So it came real easy.’

  ‘But you had good reason for killing them, Edge,’ Crystal said softly. ‘Same as you have for anything you do. I can’t understand why you kept the boy from avenging his father’s death, though.’

  ‘Was young myself once, lady,’ he told her evenly. ‘Before I had too much time to practice. Had to learn by my mistakes. Never did get to kill my grandfather on my wedding day. But if there’d been a chance of that happening, I think maybe I’d have been obliged to whoever kept me from doing it.’

  The old man groaned and shuddered as the woman looked long and hard at Edge. And after stretched seconds shook her head as she said: ‘Guess you must know why it’s so hard for me to realize that it’s you talking?’

  The half-breed glanced toward the doorway. Out to where the light of early morning was brightening as the rain became less incessant.

  ‘Pretty soon this weather will break, lady,’ he said. ‘And before long you’ll be heading out of here on the train.’

  ‘That’s no answer,’ she complained.

  ‘Long way home for you. You’ll have plenty of time to think of one,’ The old man groaned again, and smacked his lips. Edge reached out a hand, grabbed a fistful of the grey hair and lifted his head up off the tabletop. Said to the crinkled face: ‘You’re going to be fine, old timer.’

  Crystal gasped, then scowled as she picked up the bowl of red tinted water. Said: ‘I’ll get some fresh and see if I can help upstairs.’

  The old man’s watery eyes opened and closed several times. Then stayed open and peered hard into the impassive face of th
e half-breed. Next, as in the moments after he was shot, vivid memories crowded into his mind and recognition took the glaze from his eyes. Strength returned to his muscles and he straightened on the chair when Edge let go of his hair. He turned his head one way and then the other, taking in his surroundings, Regan and Roche at the bar counter and the woman going out of sight through the archway. He looked down at the wound in his arm and grimaced. Then did a double take at the doorway and the flanking windows.

  ‘The rain? What’s happenin’?’ His eyes pleaded with Edge to give him a reassuring answer.

  ‘World’s as dirty a place as it ever was, feller. But seems the man upstairs ain’t ready to make a new start yet.’

  ‘Crazy as a coot!’ Pat Regan growled.

  This as Attinger’s face expressed depthless misery before he rested both elbows on the table and covered his features with both hands. His scrawny body shook, but he made no sounds. Until he groaned: ‘The boy said I killed Augie.’

  ‘He didn’t lie.’

  ‘He tried to steal from me. The money was still in the house, but he didn’t know that. He was fixin’ to take it.’

  ‘He figured you stole it from him and his boy,’ Edge said as he rolled a cigarette.

  ‘No. I had to do what I did. I saw the vision and I had to follow the signs the good Lord gave me. Augie was a fool. Like all those others who wouldn’t believe me. I killed him. But I couldn’t be sure it was what the good Lord wanted me to do. So I made off into the hills. To pray. To ask Him for another sign. And He gave it. After a night and day of prayer, He answered me. With the rain.’