Brady made a sound from deep inside him, causing his mass of flesh to shake like jelly and it took Edge a moment to realize the big man was laughing.
“You really itching to have some sport with that bastard, ain’t you, Stella?” he said between chortles.
“Ain’t we all itching to see it?” Pete said with glee, grinning at everybody, and triggering them all into gusts of laughter. Then Pete looked at Edge who was standing in stony silence, gear in one arm, Henry held loosely in his other hand. “Linmann’s the guy I told you about. Sold us out to Hammond.”
Brady stopped laughing and his dark eyes found Edge’s face again. “Like you to stick around for awhile, Mr. Edge. Might be we have a spare horse to sell you later. Don’t figure Linmann will be wanting it anymore.”
His laughter exploded the excess of flesh into a paroxysm of movement again as he put a meaty arm about the woman’s thin shoulders and urged her around to the back of the shack. The rest of the gang, noisy with eager anticipation, rose to their feet to follow. Again, Edge held back so that he could bring up the rear.
At the back of the shack was a broken down float bed wagon from which several planks of wood had been torn, to be fashioned into a roughly made gallows and driven into the hard ground nearby. Two bales of hay were placed directly beneath the hanging noose of stout rope. More hay was stacked untidily a few feet away, and these burst into immediate flame as Stella ignited them. A man of thirty or so years lay in the shade beneath the sagging wagon, his body arched by a length of rope that bound his ankles together and was pulled tight to bind his hands behind his back. The lower half of his face was concealed by a wide gag that cut deeply into his cheeks and above this his pain-filled eyes watched with naked terror as the flames and black smoke rose from the newly lit fire.
“Tie that rat to the post,” Stella commanded, snatching up a branding iron from the bed of the wagon as two of the men dragged the prisoner from beneath.
They cut the rope at his back, leaving his hands and feet still securely tied and dragged him to the gallows, used another length of rope to tie him to the upright, binding him at ankles, knees, chest and throat so that his weakened legs did not have to support his weight. Standing, watching as the gang lowered themselves to the ground, making themselves comfortable for the show, Edge was reminded of Jamie, of how his young body had been secured to the live oak back at the farmstead in Iowa. But his disinterested expression revealed nothing of his thoughts.
Stella thrust the branding iron deep into the flaming heart of the burning hay bales, crossed to where the prisoner was held and reached up to jerk off his gag, her eyes blazing with the lust for violence. Linmann’s lower face was stark white and waxy looking where the tightness of the gag had interrupted his circulation.
“It wasn’t me, Brady,” Linmann screamed as soon as the gag came free. “Honest to God it wasn’t. I don’t want to die.”
Brady, sitting on the wagon, swinging his bulky legs, did not alter the small smile that played at the corners of his mouth.
Stella lashed out a hand, her palm cracking on Linmann’s cheek. “You talk to me, rat. Not Brady. I’m handling this.”
The man’s eyes implored a hearing. “Stella, I never said anything to Hammond.”
She raised her hand again and he flinched, but there was no blow. Instead her filthy fingers hooked over the collar his shirt and jerked down, ripping the whole front of the garment from him. His chest was matted with dark hair.
“You’re going to confess, Linmann, and then we’re going to hang you,” she hissed, moving over to the fire and withdrawing the iron, the reverse S brand glowing red hot.
Edge wondered if the S stood for Stella.
“Tell it,” she said, standing before her prisoner, her feet apart, right hand raised, inching the glowing brand towards his flesh.
“Dear God, why don’t you believe me,” he moaned, his wide eyes fastened on the iron as if hypnotized by it.
His prayer was punctuated by a high pitched scream as the brand was pressed home, flames flickering momentarily in the matted hair before the red hot iron hissed up steam, vaporizing the moisture of the flesh.
“Tell it,” Stella demanded once more, pulling back the iron and stabbing it forward again, directly onto his right nipple.
Linmann’s agonized scream faded into a gurgle as the blessed relief of unconsciousness swamped him.
“Damn,” Stella exploded, stamping her foot in a rage. “Somebody get a bucket of water.”
“I’ll get it,” Pete exclaimed gratefully, leaping to his feet and running around to the front of the shack as the woman returned the iron to the fire.
“Don’t turn your stomach none, Mr. Edge?” Brady asked conversationally as they waited for the lull in the entertainment to finish.
Edge bit a hangnail from his little finger and spat it out with distaste.
“He ain’t no friend of mine.”
Brady commenced to roll a cigarette in brown paper. He shrugged.
“Figured he’d have told it before Stella branded him,” he said.
“She’d have gone ahead anyway.”
He nodded. “Guess she would have. Gets her fun from hurting people. Especially men.”
He lit the cigarette and eyed Edge speculatively.
“Figured it.”
Pete came on the run with the water, slopping it over the edge of the bucket in his haste.
“Can I do it?” he implored.
Stella nodded and he sloshed the water into Linmann’s face, the shock of it having the desired effect. He jerked his head up and shook water from his eyes as he looked about, disorientated for a moment, so that time passed before the terror returned to his expression.
“He ain’t going to confess under no hot iron, Stella,” one of the gang called out. “He’s just going to keep throwing faints like some Eastern lady in a hot New York dancehall.”
Stella glared hatred at the speaker, but she realized the truth of his assertion. The iron she had withdrawn from the fire she now tossed back in and when she turned there was a cruel smile on her ugly face.
“Hey a rat ain’t no man, is that right?” she demanded.
The men nodded their agreement.
“It ain’t wrong,” Brady said, looking at her with a quizzical expression.
Silence settled over the group as they watched the woman approach Linmann, completely ignorant of her intention, deeply interested in the outcome. They saw the smile on her face but only Brady recognized it for what it was. Not until she stopped in front of the prisoner and started to unbuckle her belt did Edge realize Stella was stimulating her impression of feminine sexual invitation.
A great cheer went up from the gang as Stella unfastened the belt, hooked her fingers on each side of Linmann’s pant waistband and jerked downwards, so that all the buttons popped and the man’s genitals were exposed. Then silence settled upon the watchers as Stella began to murmur softly, her face nuzzling Linmann’s cheek.
“You’ve never had me, have you, Linmann,” she whispered as the gang strained their ears to pick up the words. “Nobody has except Brady. But you can. If you confess. Look I’ll show you.”
Several of the men, including Linmann, emitted low gasps of amazement as the woman stepped back and ripped open her dress from neck to waist, allowing the top half to fall from her shoulders. Her body was grimed with dirt, the neck and small conical breasts a mess of teeth marks from countless congresses with Brady. And her manlike voice aroused no stirring in Edge’s loins. But the members of the gang were less fastidious and watched the women with unconcealed lust in their eyes as their mouths worked silently.
“Tell it,” Stella commanded softly, stepping forward, sinking to her knees and moving her body from side to side, her breasts caressing Linmann’s body. “That’s it, my darling,” she encouraged.
Pain and lust can be part of the same sensation and despite his agony and his fear, his discomfort and his distrust, Linmann was reacting
, albeit involuntarily, to the overtures of the woman. Looking on, feeling not a part of what was happening, Edge knew that the sweat standing out on Linmann’s twisted face was not all from the heat of the day which was trapped in the bowl of the gully and turning it into an oven.
“That’s it,” Stella murmured once more, then suddenly sprang to her feet, her hand going inside her skirt to emerge a moment later clutching a knife which she brought down in a savage sweep. The glinting blade sliced through Linmann’s flesh as if it were rotten rope.
“Christ,” Pete uttered, turned away from the sight and sound of the screaming man and vomited his jailhouse breakfast.
“String him up,” Stella yelled in fury above the screams of agony as she shrugged her dress back onto her shoulders, raised her skirt to thrust her knife back into the sheath strapped to her thigh. “Move. You and you.”
She pointed at two of the gang members closest to the gallows and they sprung out of their shock to do her bidding, slicing through the ropes of the man whose body lay still with the blood still jutting from his groin. They heaved him up on to the bales and put the noose around his neck, moving gingerly, careful not to brush against him.
When they backed away Stella moved forward and looked up at the man, who was now held upright by the rope at his neck, which was threatening to choke him before he could be hung.
“You want to confess and clear your soul?” she asked.
Stella realized that the spark of life had almost left Linmann’s tortured body so she kicked the bales clear. His body jerked down. His legs kicked convulsively once. His neck snapped with a dry sound. He was dead.
“I don’t think he did it,” Edge said to Brady.
The fat man shrugged. “Neither do I.”
“Why’d you let her do it?”
He grinned evilly. “The man who ratted on us ain’t likely to do it again. Not after seeing that.”
“Yeah,” Edge agreed with the logic. “I like to buy Linmann’s horse.”
Brady grinned as Stella sidled over to him, wearing the same expression with which she had coaxed Linmann into excitement.
“Later, feller,” the fat man said with a lascivious wink. “Sight of blood always gives my girl the hots. I’ve got some pleasure to attend to ‘fore I can talk business.”
Edge looked on coldly as Stella led Brady coquettishly into the shack. He, too, had a date with a girl, but it would have to wait.
CHAPTER NINE
BRADY did not hurry over his pleasures, or if he did, he liked to sleep off his exertions for a very long time afterwards. Outside the shack, in front away from the sight of the man hanging limply from the gallows, the remainder of the gang also took their rest, satiated by the violence rather than sex, sleeping in the attitudes of exhaustion across the scattered hay bales.
Edge sat in the shade at the side of the shack, resting his back against the wooden wall and awaiting the moment to make his move. For men like Brady never sold anything, just as they never bought anything. Edge’s offer to purchase the horse had told the gang he had some money. Peter knew how much and wanted to keep that secret for himself–for which there could only be one reason. But as soon as he saw how things were going to shape up, he would begin to run off at the mouth again and even a twelve-shot Henry repeater was no match for fifteen armed men.
So Edge merely sat and waited, his eyes glinting through the slit lids, glancing from time to time around the corner of the shack at the sleeping men whose snores provided the only sound in the over heated bowl. As he knew it was bound to happen, one of the men began to move, sitting up carefully and feigning the rubbing of grit from his eyes as he looked around, checking that the others were all soundly asleep. Then he stood and walked slowly between the inert figures, having to make several detours to avoid throwing telltale shadows across eyes likely to snap open.
It was Pete, of course, his face no longer set in the idiotic grin, which had caused Sheriff Hammond to christen him stupid. Now his face personified greed, narrowing his eyes and twisting his mouth into an uneven line. As he reached the corner of the shack he forced the familiar smile back onto his features and assumed a relaxed pose, so as not to alert Edge should he be awake. But Edge appeared to be fast asleep, legs splayed out in front of him, back against the wall, hands behind his neck, fingers interlocked. There was even a fly crawling across his cheek and the flesh did not even twitch.
Pete’s breath came out between clenched teeth in a low whistle as he drew a knife from his belt and stepped closer, stooping, greedy eyes fastened upon the section of that priest’s cassock covering Edge’s left chest.
“Two grand divided by one is best, eh Pete?” Edge said, low and fast, eyes snapping open, both hands coming away from his neck. One was empty and grasped the shocked Pete around the back of the head, pulling him down further into the stoop as the other flashed up and across. The razor’s edge went deep, slicing through soft flesh, jugular vein, windpipe and vocal chords. Pete’s dying sound was a mere gurgle as his throat was cut from ear to ear and Edge lowered his body softly to the ground, dragged the feet out of sight around the corner of the shack.
Edge got to his feet, froze for several seconds after one of the sleeping gang moaned and rolled from his back onto his side. Then he moved, long, silent strides taking him along the side of the shack, around the back and to the other side where the horses were hitched. He carried his gear with ease, as if it were weightless. The saddles were piled nearby and he dragged the two hay bales used for the hanging over to them. Linmann’s body hung perfectly still, beginning to smell, his dead eyes watching Edge with disinterest.
“I sure hope they’ve got good surgeons where you’ve gone,” Edge said, evenly, and went back to the horses. He saddled the one he had ridden from town–Brady’s–and swung his gear on her. Then he used his knife to slice through the reins of all the others.
Only one took advantage of the offered freedom, moving quietly away, as if a conspirator in Edge’s plan. It took him only a few seconds to set the hay burning and then he unhitched the horse, climbed into the saddle and directed her between the hitching rail and the other animals, letting out a mighty roar: “Whoooaaaa!”
The horses bolted, their thundering hoofs on the shale competing with the startled shouts of the rudely awakened men. They stood and then dived for ground as Edge galloped the mare across the front of the shack among them. As soon as he was clear he wheeled the horse and bolted up the gully, the way he had entered, staying low in the saddle as small arms cracked and bullets whined around him. And by the time the men had reached their rifles Edge was out of range. Behind him, as the naked Brady shouted enraged command from the shack doorway the members of his gang milled about in confusion, chasing terrified horses, yelling their anger as they found the dead Pete and their burning saddles.
Edge did not even look back over his shoulder, but concentrated on what was ahead, rounded the first turn in the gully and then the next, slowing the horse to a trot and then a walk. The winding course of the rock sided valley effectively blanketed all sound from the area of the shack and the look-out, vulnerable from this side of his post, showed no overt sign of hostility as he looked down at the lone rider.
Edge halted his mount.
“Name’s Edge,” he called up, easily, eyeing the man carefully, studying his build. “Brady says I’m in. I’m relieving you.”
The lookout rose, his movements suggesting he was cramped from long hours in the same position. He whistled and a horse emerged from around a knoll. The man caught the reins, booted his rifle and started down the slope. Edge gave a grunt of satisfaction that his estimate about the man’s size had been more or less accurate.
“They hung Linmann yet?” the man asked as he got close enough to talk at normal conversational level.
Edge nodded.
The man spat with disappointment. “Why am I always stuck out here at point whenever anything interesting happens?”
He turned his back on
Edge and put a boot in the stirrup. Edge whipped the Remington from under the cassock, spun it by the trigger and laid it with force along the back of the man’s neck.
“Guess you just been unlucky,” he said wryly, sliding to the ground as the unconscious man collapsed.
He stripped himself and the lookout; pleased the man was a conservative dresser. Grey pants, black shirt, white kerchief. And gray hat.
Nice quiet clothes to go visiting a girl.
CHAPTER TEN
EDGE took his time going back to town, safe from pursuit and unwilling to reach his destination before nightfall. So he rode slowly and easily, pacing his mount at an even walk, the beast proving herself obedient and eager to respond to the demands of her rider. Probably, Edge considered idly, she was grateful to be carrying a normal size man after her stint under the barrel named Brady.
After the trapped heat of the bowl in the gully, that poured down by the afternoon sun felt almost fresh. Edge breathed deeply of the fresh air and experienced a renewal of energy as the final shred of tension was eased from his mind and body. When he had been in danger, physically and mentally alert to the hostility of those around him, he had been unaware of the strain building up within him. There had been no time, let alone inclination, for him to sense the harsh coiling of nerve ends. Not until he was alone, able to relax from constant watchfulness, did the reaction set in. But immediately, as he realized his own invincibility to objective and subjective violence; the utter lack of emotion he felt towards it; his cool ability to deal with it, the after effects diminished, then disappeared.
He did not attempt to analyze the new character that had been born with the new name, Edge. He had seen and experienced much during the war between the States which had set a pattern for his future philosophy, but he had returned from the fighting with a firm intention to take up at the farmstead where he had left off. But then he had found Jamie and seen what they had done to his kid brother and the horror of the discovery had shattered the pattern, spreading it wide. What had been a frame of mind, malleable and capable of being influenced by extraneous circumstances was suddenly a physical force communicated to every part of his body, like the very blood in his veins.
Edge: The Loner (Edge series Book 1) Page 6
