EDGE: Vengeance at Ventura

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Beat it, old man!’ the Arizona Marshal snarled. ‘This is law business. And the law can’t wait for the man upstairs to clean the world of this kinda scum.’

  He fired another shot and Edge vented a groan of pain.

  Roche laughed and muttered: ‘Got the bastard.’

  Edge hooked both hands over the top of the counter and started to pull himself up.

  ‘Take me in, mister!’ the old timer implored. ‘I’m the real bad killer! I stuck a knife in my own son! And before that I—’

  Roche came to a halt, Winchester barrel elevating a little as the half-breed clawed himself high enough for his face to show between his hooked fingers.

  Milly reached the doorway of the store and screamed as she got a double handed grip on the old timer and dragged him outside.

  Roche grinned broadly.

  The reason for his joy and the girl’s horror was the sight of the half-breed’s face and hands above the countertop. For his forehead, right cheek and the right side of his jaw were smeared with bright crimson. Like the fingers of both his hands. And on the side of his face that was unmarked he showed an expression of depth-less hatred for the man with the aimed rifle. Which abruptly changed to dread of the time that follows death. Which lasted just a moment before the glinting eye that was open squeezed closed. And the half-breed lost his grip on the counter to sink from sight and thud to the floor behind it.

  ‘I got him!’ Roche roared in triumph. ‘I killed the gunslinger!’

  The news curtailed the shouting from outside. And in the hard silence that gripped Ventura a bright shaft of sunlight punched a hole in the clouds to bathe the whole town with yellow warmth. And the lawman lunged forward to see and gloat over his victim.

  He was still carrying the Winchester in a double handed grip, ready to explode a final shot should Edge be not quite dead. And it was around the wrist of Roche’s right hand - fisted to the barrel - that the half-breed wrapped his crimson stained left hand: and wrenched it downwards.

  ‘Just ain’t your day, feller,’ Edge rasped against the high-pitched wail of shock and fear that was vented by Roche.

  This as the marshal was hauled up from the floor in front of the counter, across its top and headfirst down behind it. The rifle exploded a shot, but the bullet went wild to the side and buried itself in a sack of flour. For by that time the half breed had a hold of Roche’s left wrist. Having half-sat up to reach, then folded flat to the floor again: this motion adding power to the wrenching action that brought the lawman from one side of the counter to the other.

  Roche’s head hit the floor and Edge rolled up on to his side, using a shoulder into the other man’s chest to send him crashing out full-length on his back through the arch and along the hallway that connected the store with the saloon. Roche shrieked his pain at the impact and then fought to regain the breath which had been knocked from his body.

  Edge powered up on to one and then both knees. Tore the rifle from the hands of the shocked and numbed Roche. Straightened to almost his full height. With one booted foot either side of the lawman’s ribcage. While he accomplished this series of moves, he worked the lever action of the Winchester. And when they were completed the rifle had a shell in the breech and the muzzle was aimed at the area of Roche’s throat where the man’s Adam’s apple was frantically pumping.

  The helpless man moved only those involuntary muscles that were keeping him alive. Thus, he breathed and his heart beat. For the rest he was absolutely still. Even his eyelids did not quiver and the pupils of his eyes were static as he stared his terror up the length of the rifle, the single hand that held it, the arm - and into the crimson sheened face of the man he had been certain was dead.

  The sun continued to shine. Brighter and warmer by the moment. The fresh explosion of violent sounds inside the store had attracted other shouted questions from outside. But now the voices had dried up again and an even more tense and uneasy silence was insinuated through the town.

  Roche worked his mouth and uttered nonsense. Then managed to choke out: ‘I thought I’d…’

  Edge used his free hand to wipe some of the crimson off his jaw and then with a whiplash action of his wrist spattered droplets down on to the lawman’s face. Roche closed his eyes by reflex action and compressed his lips in horror. Some of the drops adhered to his moustache and after a moment his nostrils twitched.

  ‘Like it ain’t always gold that glistens, feller,’ Edge said evenly.

  Roche tentatively eased his tongue out through his lips and touched its tip to his moustache. Then craned his head around and moved his eyes to the extent of their sockets to see if he could confirm what he suspected. And misery became mixed with the fear on his face when he saw the overturned and uncapped bottle under the counter.

  He looked back up at the impassive face of Edge and blurted hoarsely: ‘Tomato ketchup?’

  ‘Ain’t much of a breakfast for a condemned man,’ the half-breed allowed.

  Roche gaped his mouth wide. Perhaps to scream his fear, to curse in rage or to plead for mercy. But the rifle muzzle was moved and the trigger was squeezed before the lawman could make a sound. To explode a bullet between the lips, drilling a hole through the underside of the tongue and into the roof of the mouth: killing the brain and therefore the whole being, before it smashed out through the skull and came to rest imbedded in the floor. The shocked nervous system caused the body to convulse. Then the remains of Roche were still.

  ‘Something with a little more substance, feller,’ Edge said as he swung out of his straddle of the corpse and placed the rifle on the counter top. ‘But seems it went up the wrong way.’

  He went along the back of the counter and then out to the front of it. Crossed to the doorway and stepped over the threshold into the sunlight. Where, as he stooped to pick up his Colt from the drying mud beside the body of Pat Regan, Milly said huskily:

  ‘Mr. Edge ... I thought for sure he’d shot you dead.’

  She stood at the rear corner of the building, pale and shocked. But not trembling to the same frenetic extent as old man Attinger who she was embracing, pressing his bearded face to her breasts.

  The half-breed glanced in through the doorway, to where a group of men advanced along the hall from the saloon and halted to stare down at the corpse with the bullet-shattered head. And he rubbed ketchup off his face with a shirt sleeve as he rose and answered: ‘So did he, lady,’ he answered evenly. ‘But I had a surprise in store for him.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  MANY questions were asked and answered. All of them concerned with the reason for the two new violent deaths in Ventura.

  But Edge heard none of the talk, which took place in the saloon of the dead Regan. For he was back on the patch of sloping ground which served as the town cemetery. Digging a two-man grave this time, while Telly Attinger overcame what had been bothering him by satisfying the curiosity of miners and railroadmen who had not been in a position to see and hear everything that happened in and out front of the store.

  The half-breed sweated a great deal as he dug the hole, dragged the bodies into it and then shoveled the earth on top of them. For the well risen sun was now completely clear of the clouds that had broken up, changed color from grey to fluffy white and scattered far and wide across the blue of infinity: blazing down to dry the sodden ground and erupt moisture from pores at the least exertion.

  Frequently while he worked, he shifted his glinting-eyed gaze northward. But all that moved out there was the rising vapor of rain water turned to steam by the heat.

  Closer at hand, man-made steam hissed more strongly from the locomotive and billowed skyward to be neutralized at roof level between Regan’s Place and the railroad depot.

  His second burial chore of the day completed, Edge swung up astride the stallion and rode down to the street, the saddlebags bulging against his legs with the supplies he had retrieved from where he had been forced to discard them in front of the store.

  A voice sound
ed against the hiss of escaping steam as he rode along the side wall of Regan’s Place. A man’s voice, intoning rather than speaking: in the regular, uninterrupted cadence of one reading aloud from a book.

  ‘. . . through Jesus Christ our Lord, amen,’ the moon-faced, solidly built Grimes said as the half-breed rode around the corner of the building and reined his horse to a halt on the street.

  Many voices joined in with the final word of the prayer.

  Grimes snapped a book closed and grinned as he said: ‘Congratulations. The groom may kiss the bride.’

  The marriage had been conducted on the decaying stoop of Regan’s Place: Grimes with his back to the batwing doors, facing the young couple. These three shaded by the stoop awning. The miners, railroadmen and Telly Attinger were grouped in a half-circle on the street: all of them except the old timer wearing hats to keep the heat and glare of the sun off their heads and faces.

  Vince embraced and kissed Milly and many of the men hurled their hats in the air as they cheered. Others simply cheered. Then all save the railroadmen and old man Attinger surged forward.

  Crane dug the watch from his vest pocket, flipped open the cover and yelled: ‘Train time! All aboard!’

  Then he nodded to the crew and the brakeman headed for the caboose and the engineer and fireman started for the locomotive.

  This while some of the miners paused to kiss the bride as others hurried straight into the saloon.

  Telly Attinger made no move beyond tilting back his head, to gaze disconsolately up at the small and widely scattered patches of white cloud which were all that was left of the storm front that had covered this area of Utah for so long.

  “Wait for us!’ the new Mrs. Attinger called to Crane. ‘We just have to get our things!’

  She and Vince scuttled in through the batwings.

  Edge heeled his mount slowly forward and reined him in close to where the wizened, raggedly attired old man stood - searching for something that was no longer there with eyes more watery than usual.

  ‘Could be you kept me from getting killed, old timer,’ the half-breed said.

  Attinger shifted his gaze to Edge and for a stretched second did not recognize him. Then: ‘What’s that you said to me, son?’

  ‘Usually, I’d kill a man who stole my horse.’

  The old man’s face above the untidy grey beard became more deeply lined than ever as he struggled to find meaning in the words of the man astride the horse.

  Then: ‘That was yours, son? It was just the first that come to hand. He’s in the corral out back of my place again. No harm come to him. I ain’t knowingly harmed no livin’ thing in my life.’

  ‘Obliged to you for trying. When Roche had me covered.’

  Attinger squinted up at Edge. ‘I don’t reckon you’re a good man. But from what I’ve seen and heard you done around here, you didn’t deserve to get killed like Regan and that stranger was figurin’ to do.’

  Crane shouted something and the engineer sounded the locomotive whistle. The lively talk and laughter of the wedding celebration inside the saloon was abruptly diminished by an angry outburst.

  ‘Waitin’ for your lady friend?’ the old man asked.

  ‘She was a lady I made, feller.’ He curled back his lips to display his teeth in a grin of bitterness that did not reach his narrowed eyes. ‘Friends I don’t make.’

  Then he and Telly Attinger snapped their heads around to look at the front of Regan’s Place: as the batwings crashed open and bounced hard off the wall to either side. But Vince and Milly were on the stoop and clear of the doors before they flapped closed. Their only luggage was a pair of familiar saddlebags which the girl carried draped over a forearm. Vince had his Remington drawn and cocked, leveled at his grandfather. Rage contorted his face. While his new wife expressed a desperate plea for help, her wide eyes switching back and forth between the youngster at her side and the stoic man astride the gelding.

  ‘Don’t you mess in this time, Edge!’ the younger Attinger snarled.

  ‘Best you take care where you aim that gun, kid,’ the half-breed responded flatly, and revealed no outward sign of the sudden tension that had built up inside of him.

  ‘Why, boy?’ the old man asked dully, as inquisitive faces appeared above the batwings and the four railroadmen peered intently at the scene from the other side of the street. ‘You said you’d let bygones be…’

  The money!’ Vince snarled and stepped down off the stoop, his boots cracking the sun-dried crust on the mud. ‘You used your share to build that crazy boat in the desert! Why the hell—’

  ‘I was told to by the good Lord in the vision,’ the youngster’s grandfather countered.

  ‘All right, you crazy old fool!’ Vince allowed shrilly as he continued to close the gap between himself and the old man. ‘But that’s done already! Why’d you take the other money? What d’you want it for? Where is it?’

  ‘Money?’ The old timer was confused and tore his gaze away from Vince to look at Edge, Milly, the miners in the saloon and over his shoulder at the crew on the locomotive footplate.

  ‘Vince, it don’t matter!’ the girl cried and shook the saddle bags. There’s enough left here to give us a good start!’

  ‘I ain’t taken no money!’ Tears spilled from the old man’s eyes as he blurted the denial and backed away from the youngster bearing down on him. ‘Honest to the good Lord, I ain’t never touched none of—’

  His back came up against the side of a freight car and as he was jerked to a halt the words dried up in his throat. His grandson took two more steps and stopped with the muzzle of the Remington pressed to the flat belly of the old man.

  The elder Attinger tilted his head back to stare at the sky.

  Vince said tautly: ‘Ten thousand dollars! Where is it?’

  Only Edge looked away from the two men beside the railroad freight car. To peer for a stretched second along the north trail. But, of course, Crystal Dickens was far out of sight beyond the shimmering mist and the rugged hill country it hid. Riding for home with precisely the same amount of money she had brought out to the west. But she had genuinely believed the first ten grand belonged to . . .

  Edge swung his head to look back at the Attinger grandfather and grandson. And was on the point of speaking up to save the old timer’s life. But the man had decided to be in command of his own fate.

  He had looked at the sky for longer than Edge surveyed the trail. And the few flat-bottomed white clouds he saw were as devoid of the threat of rain as the mist that uncompromisingly veiled the long gone Crystal Dickens. There had seemed to be Divine intervention in the life of Attinger. While there had certainly been a worldly influence over the half-breed of late.

  The shrunken old man did not have what it took to face up to his failure.

  ‘All right, boy!’ he snarled at Vince. ‘You wanna know the truth? Yeah, I took that money! I would’ve took it all if I could’ve carried it! And I’ve hid it in a place you’ll never find it! Took it and hid it so you won’t be able to throw it away on that whore you just got wed to!’

  ‘No, Vince!’ Milly shrieked and powered down off the stoop.

  The youngster thrust the Remington harder into the old man’s belly, his fist clutched to the butt as white as his face had suddenly become.

  ‘But you got no call to have money worries, boy!’ Telly Attinger goaded further, the force of his words causing a spray of spittle to fly into Vince’s face. ‘Anytime you get short, that whore only has to lay on her back and open her legs and…’

  The kid had squeezed his eyes tight shut. Now he snapped them open, vented an animalistic roar and squeezed the trigger of the gun.

  His grandfather was silenced and became rigid against the side of the freight car.

  ‘No!’ Milly screamed. And was brought to a sudden halt from her run when Edge heeled his horse into her path.

  Vince cocked the hammer and fired a second shot: the report muffled because the muzzle was sunk into the woun
d made by the first bullet.

  The old man fought his pain to smile, then died. His body became limp and Vince stepped back from the crumpling corpse. A choked sound of horror was vented from his throat as he jerked the blood-dripping muzzle of the Remington out of his grandfather’s belly.

  ‘Easy, lady,’ Edge rasped at the girl. ‘Something you should know. So it won’t make sleeping nights so hard.’

  She was anxious to get around the horse and rider but something about his icy tone and the earnestness of his demeanor held her rooted to the spot, looking quizzically up at him.

  ‘It was an accident,’ the half-breed told her. ‘But the old man your husband just shot killed those folks of yours you came out here looking for.’

  The news stunned her and she swayed a little: as if she were about to faint.

  ‘They’re buried decent, out behind his shack,’ Edge augmented. ‘But I figure there’s no point in going there to take a look. Not if you really do want to forget everything about your old life.’

  ‘Train time!’ the depot manager yelled. ‘Get this thing rollin’, you guys!’

  The locomotive came to louder life in response to the engineer’s movements of controls.

  Milly Attinger continued to stare up at Edge’s face for a moment more. Then pumped her head in acknowledgement of what he had told her, lunged to the side and ran toward Vince.

  The train whistle shrilled and masked whatever the girl said to the kid. The drive wheels of the locomotive spun, gained traction and the whole train jolted forward. Milly tugged at Vince’s arm. Vince shot a puzzled glance at Edge, then holstered his gun and allowed himself to be pulled in the wake of his wife. Next took charge of her, helping the brakeman to get her aboard the platform of the caboose before clambering on to the moving car himself.

  Smoke and steam hung in the wake of the departing train. Then was gone, with only the smell of it lingering.

  Edge moved his horse over to the side of the track where the inert form of Aristotle Attinger lay, curled in a ball and covering the stain of spilled blood. He drew a five dollar bill from his saddlebag and let it fall through the unmoving air. It came to rest on the bony hip of the old man.