“You ain’t standing where I am and looking in his face, Hank,” Sheriff Hammond warned. “I wouldn’t trust that cuss if I had the whole US army backing me up. Over here, feller. Slow and easy, like you were walking on fresh laid eggs and you didn’t want to break not one of them.”
Joe moved. “Sheriff,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call the Mexican a Mex. My pa was Mexican and it’s kind of derogatory to use that term.”
“What do you know,” the sheriff said wryly. “A half-breed Mex using four dollar words.”
Joe was at the sidewalk now and stepped up, his boots resounding hollowly on the planking. The deputy named Hank clanked up behind him, as the sheriff backed into the office.
“Hi there fellow man in trouble,” somebody said and Joe peered towards the rear of the room, across the desk top with the chair and rack of rifles behind it, saw the bars of two cells, one with the door open and empty, the other closed and padlocked, behind which a middle aged man sat on the edge of the bunk and grinned out at the activity in the office.
“Shuddup, Stupid,” the sheriff snapped, motioning with the Starr for Joe to enter the vacant cell.
The man’s grin stayed as bright as ever. “That’s not my name,” he said conversationally to Joe. “Sheriff’s sore ‘cause I won’t tell him who I am, so he calls me Stupid all the time. I don’t mind. I’m easy.”
The cell door clanged closed behind Joe and the key clicked dryly in the padlock. Joe sat on the edge of the bunk.
“We know who he is,” the sheriff said with a sigh of relief as he returned his rifle to the rack and sat down behind his desk. “He’s a half Mex man called Edge.”
Joe’s fellow prisoner shook his head in disapproval. “Never tell ‘em your name, buddy.”
“I didn’t.”
“Go and stable his horse, Hank,” Sheriff Hammond told his deputy as his rifle and Joe’s razor were placed on the desk. “And bring his stuff in here.”
The deputy nodded and went out of the office, looking pleased with his part in the capture.
“Any chance of some breakfast?” Joe asked.
Hammond sighed and went to the door to call after the departing deputy. “Go and see Annie at the restaurant, Hank. Get her to bring breakfast for four.”
Joe raised his feet from the floor and stretched out on the bunk. It was hard and the blanket smelled of damp, vomited whiskey and urine, but it would do.
The man called Stupid started to chatter, as if he had been alone for too long and company excited him. “The boys and me did the bank last night. Got away with close on five thousand, I reckon. Not me, of course, sheriff there netted me with a lucky shot at my horse. Real mean of a man to shoot a horse but lawmen are mean. So here I am. Not for long, though. Boy’s will be back soon to get me out. We’d have got clean away if a punk hadn’t fed info to the sheriff here. When I get out I’m going to hang him myself, personal like.”
Joe had closed his eyes, heard the man rambling on without listening, discounting his hope of being busted out of the jail. Joe put his faith in the knife the deputy had overlooked, which was now pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back, yet at the same time feeding comfort into his mind.
“You ain’t really a priest, are you?” Stupid asked, trying a direct question in order to get the other man interested.
“No he ain’t and if you don’t shut your overflowing mouth I’ll tie you up and stick a gun cleaning rag down your throat,” Hammond said with impatience.
Then the deputy returned, hefted Joe’s saddlebags and bedroll on the desk, laid the booted Henry down beside them. Stupid watched with great interest as the sheriff emptied out the bags, spilling out the money.
“Hell, he’s a bank robber himself,” he said with awe. “There must be a fortune there.”
“Count it,” Hammond ordered his deputy.
Joe was still flat on his back, eyes closed. “No need,” he said. “There’s two thousand there.”
“Stolen?” Hammond asked.
“Earned.”
“I bet.”
“Four breakfasts,” a woman’s voice said and now Joe opened his eyes, hoisted himself into a sitting position and looked at a tall girl of perhaps twenty five who stood in the doorway, a hard smile on her harshly attractive face. “Fifty cents a piece.” She saw the money and made a circle with her voluptuous lips, almost dropped the tray upon which the plates were set.
Hammond picked up a five-dollar bill from the pile and held it out. “They’re on Edge. He won’t mind if you keep the change.”
None of the men looked at Joe for approval, and he made neither a negative nor affirmative sign. His eyes were locked upon those of Annie, who had given a start of recognition when she heard Hammond speak the name Edge.
“Down here,” Hammond said, indicating a spare corner of the desk, and the moment ended as Annie set down the tray, took the five dollars and with a final glance into the cells, went out. There was room under the cell doors for the plates to pass and this is how they were given to the prisoners, the deputy placing them on the floor and skating them through with his boot. No eating tools were provided for those on the wrong side of the door and Joe and Stupid had to pick up the food with their fingers as Hammond and Hank ate with knives and forks.
There was a small safe in one corner of the room and, after his meal, Hammond took the money across to it and locked it inside with a key on the same bunch as the one he had used to fasten the cell door padlock.
Joe skated his empty plate back outside and again stretched full length on the evil smelling blanket. It was not exactly the kind of rest and comfort he had figured to be his in Anson City, but it was unlikely to improve and so he decided to make the best of it.
“That Annie’s sure got a fine pair of titties, and I know what ...” the man in the next cell began just as Joe started to doze.
“Shuddup, Stupid,” he said softly. “Or you won’t have any throat for Hammond to stuff that rag down.”
The sheriff grinned and withdrew the razor from its pouch, made a flicking movement through the fetid air of the office and looked at Stupid.
“Don’t think it couldn’t happen,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHOOOOOOSH!
The man who had become to be known as Edge was literally exploded out of his sleep in the jailhouse of Anson City. A keg of gunpowder on a short fuse placed at the foot of the rear adobe wall of the sheriff’s office went off with an almighty roar, gouging a large, ragged hole. Edge was blasted off the stinking bed, flung across the cell to slam into the bars. But in the split second transition from sleep to waking a reflex action bred from long experience of mortal danger caused him to draw up his legs and lower his head, cover his skull with his hands and tuck in his elbow so that his forearms protected his face. He hit the bars like a large human ball, and dropped to the stone floor bruised and temporarily stunned, but with no bones broken. As he got painfully to his feet, coughing upon the dust laden, cordite thick air he saw a shaft of sunlight stabbing through the rear wall.
“Those bastards have done it,” he heard Sheriff Hammond yell in anger, then the rattle of a key in a lock as the bar on the rifle rack was released.
Edge sprinted four paces, lowered his head and pushed his arms out in front of him to launch into a dive through the hole in the wall. His palms found solid ground outside and he twisted his body sideways, pushed against his hands a moment after contact and landed on his feet in a half crouch. His eyes stung with dust, but he saw the blurred shapes of three mounted riders and one spare, saddled horse.
“You ain’t Pete,” one of the riders said with surprise.
“Gun,” Edge demanded. There was a moment’s hesitation and Edge launched himself at the closest horseman. “I said gun,” he shouted and jerked the rifle from its boot behind the saddle, spun round and ran down the alley between the sheriff’s office and the hotel.
&n
bsp; Clear of the dust cloud, the street was blindingly brilliant in the clear, hot strength of the noonday sun. In the shade of doorways several frightened faces were looking towards Edge, but a threatening shot with the ancient, single shot muzzleloader was enough to make them withdraw.
Edge leapt to the sidewalk and reached the office door in three long strides, looked inside to see the sheriff crouched near the right hand cell bars, looking at the inert form of the man called Stupid. But he heard Edge’s final footfall into the office and spun his head around, fear etched deep in his features.
“Your friends?” he asked.
Edge watched him inch up the rifle.
“I don’t have any,” he answered. “Those clucks blew the wrong cell.”
He aimed for the man’s heart but the ancient weapon didn’t have the accuracy of a Henry and pulled to the right, the bullet smashing into the sheriff’s shoulder. But it packed punch and the impact of the bullet knocked the man sideways, his rifle dropped from lifeless fingers.
Edge tossed the gun away and crossed the office quickly, tore the key bunch from the sheriff’s belt and took it to the safe. There was only his money and an almost empty bottle of whiskey inside. The liquor seemed to burn the dust off his throat as it went down.
He stuffed the money in the saddlebags, picked up his bedroll and weapons from beside the desk.
“You coming Pete?” a voice sounded from out back.
“Yeah!”
Edge shot a glance at the cell, saw Stupid getting shakily to his feet. He was grinning out between the bars.
“They know I’m alive now. You don’t take me with you. They won’t help you.”
Edge wasted no time thinking about it. He went to the cell door and used another key from the bunch to swing it open.
“You’re a fool, Mex,” the sheriff said, his voice weak. “The Brady gang ain’t got no time for strangers.” He groaned, but fought for more words. “They’ll kill you, Mex.”
Edge’s eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. He thrust the Henry into Stupid’s arms.
“Watch the street,” he demanded.
The man was surprised. “What?”
“Watch the goddamn street,” Edge snapped, and gave the man a shove towards the door just as a fusillade of shots rattled outside and bullets dug chunks of wood from the door.
“What are you going to do?” the sheriff asked in terror as Edge knelt down besides him, looped the pouch around his neck and withdrew his razor.
Edge’s face was still set in an ugly sneer as he whispered: “If I’m a Mex, you’re something else, sheriff.”
The sheriff began to moan as the razor point but into the tight skin of his forehead and more bullets reined into the office. Then there was another shot, much closer and Stupid yelled with delight.
“Hey, I just plugged Hank.”
Edge finished his work with a grunt of satisfaction and stood up as the sheriff continued his low moaning.
“Come on,” he said quietly.
Stupid let off another shot and backed away from the door, looked down with distaste at the blood-drenched face of the lawman.
“What have you done to him?” he gasped.
Edge stooped and used the sheriff’s kerchief to wipe off the excess blood, leaving six roughly carved but legible letters visible on the man’s forehead before more blood pumped out to thicken the strokes into a mere scrawl.
“I marked him with a word.”
“I don’t read to well,” Stupid said.
Edge took the rifle from the man and picked up the rest of his gear.
“For the rest of his life, he’s marked GRINGO,” Edge said. “Come on.”
More shots poured into the office as Edge went quickly out through the hole in the rear wall, Stupid scuttling after him.
“You took your damn time,” one of the three waiting riders said, his anger edged with nervousness.
“There was something I had to do,” Edge said, going to the spare horse, throwing on his saddlebags, booting the Henry and swinging up into the saddle.
“We brought that horse for Pete.”
“You blew the wrong cell,” Edge snarled. “I got Pete out.”
“I’ll ride with you, Chuck,” Pete said, hurriedly, scuttling over to one of the riders, as if afraid an argument might wind up with him being left behind to face the town. Mounted behind the reluctant rider, he looked over his shoulder. “You’re coming with us ain’t you, Edge?”
“He’d better,” somebody said. “That’s Brady’s horse, and nobody steals Brady’s horse.”
A man fired from inside the cell, through the blasted hole and another from the mouth of the alley. Both bullets caught the rider to whose waits Pete was clinging. The first sliced his nose from his face, leaving two black nostril holes in a triangle of scarlet. The second drilled a hole through his ear and up into his brain before crashing out from the top of his skull.
“I’m coming,” Edge said, kicking his horse into action, the flying hoofs leaping over the body of the dead man as Pete shoved him clear and slid into the saddle.
A few wild shots were pumped after the escaping riders, but with neither Sheriff Hammond nor his deputy able to lead a posse, no citizen of Anson City saddled up to give chase.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE Brady gang was holed up in a deep gully cut by some great primeval river through low hill country. The four riders were challenged by a lookout concealed behind a boulder at the mouth of the gully, his warning shot whining through the still air and the bullet thwacking into a tree trunk before the crack of the rifle reached the riders. They reined in their horses with great neighing and sliding of hoofs on loose shale.
“Hold on you stupid bastard,” the leading rider flung at the sharpshooter. “It’s us. We sprung Pete from Anson jail.”
“You ain’t carrying no sign,” came a shout of response. “How’d I know?”
The man at the head of the column curses softly and set his horse trotting down into the gully. Edge allowed the others to follow, then brought up the rear. He had carefully retained his position at the back of the furious five-mile ride from Anson City, very much aware of Pete’s knowledge of the two thousand dollars (less five for Annie) stashed in the saddlebags. The gully made two sharp curves, one to the right, the next left, before broadening into a wide bowl with a shale bottom and curved rocky sides, as if an enormous shovel had been used to scoop a massive indentation out of the gully. At the other side, it narrowed again.
There was a crude wooden shack in the center of the bowl, with a hitching rail along the side to which a dozen horses were tethered. Bales of hay were stacked on the other side of the shack. Other bales were being used as seats for a group of men who lounged in front of the shack, four playing cards, two apparently sleeping, another idly picking at his nails with a curved blade knife while three more talked, their heads close together. On a horse count that meant two more in the shack, Edge figured, maybe only one if the lookout and not rode to his position.
The Brady Gang was a big one.
All the men outside looked up with interest at the approach of the horsemen and one or two shouted ribald remarks of welcome to Pete, who waved back at them like a visiting dignitary, enjoying the limelight enormously. But when the men realized the fourth rider was not a member of the gang the banter ended abruptly.
“Brady,” one of the card players shouted as the newcomers dismounted two figures emerged from the shack, a man and a woman.
He was of indeterminate age, anything from twenty-five to thirty-five, vastly overweight with arms that threatened the seams of his shirt, thighs that made his pants skin-tight and an enormous body that overhangs his gun belt, drooping over to conceal his buckle. His face was round with cheeks that ballooned out as if stuffed with uneaten food and above these he had small, round, pig-like eyes, which warned the world that weight was not all he had an excess of. They were the eyes of a man whose middle name was HATE.
Beside him the woman was almost girl-like: slim and frail looking, with a mere hint of feminine curves under the dirty, once white dress. But when Edge looked again at her face, dull-eyed and etched with lines of bitterness, framed by long matted, greasy black hair, he could see she would be at least forty on her next birthday.
“Hi Brady,” Pete said, excitedly.
“Who’s the new critter?” Brady said, ignoring the rescued gang member and locking his mean eyes upon those of Edge, who returned the gaze without blinking.
“Name’s Edge,” Pete said, refusing to have his mood of jubilation quelled. “Hadn’t been for him I might not have broken out. Carved some foreign word on the sheriff’s face. Real mean cuss.” There was a tone of respect in Pete’s voice as he spoke his last.
“What happened to Chuck?” Brady demanded, and it was he who now lost out in the staring match.
“Somebody blasted him out of the saddle back at Anson City,” Edge answered. “Obliged for the loan of your horse.”
He led the animal to the hitching rail and lopped the reins over it, removed his gear and the Henry. All eyes were on him, and several hands went to guns as they saw the rifle held loosely in Edge’s hand.
“Don’t let the priest’s outfit fool you none,” Pete said, his voice cutting across the moment of tension like a keen edge through soft cheese. “He ain’t no priest. Why he’s got ...”
Edge poised himself to loose of a shot and leap back upon the horse as he realized Pete was about to shoot off his mouth about the money in the saddlebags. But it was not fear of Edge that caused Peter to halt the flow of words. The expression that flitted across his face told of a thought that had suddenly struck him. And Edge knew what that thought was.
But nobody else in front of the shack showed any suspicion at what had happened. Truth was, Edge suspected, Pete always talked too much and the rest of the gang had learned to ignore most of what he said; probably didn’t listen half the time.
“Let’s get to Linmann,” the woman said suddenly, her voice gruff, almost as deep as that of a man. “We waited long enough.”
Edge: The Loner (Edge series Book 1) Page 5
