Edge: The Loner (Edge series Book 1)

by George G. Gilman

  After a full minute had gone by and the braves had made no hostile move, Edge knew that they were waiting for help: that a brave had been ordered back to camp for reinforcements. It wasn’t Edge’s fight: he had his own problems and it would be easy to circle the ambushed wagons by keeping below the hill crest, out of sight of both white men and Indians. But a decent meal, with maybe provisions enough to get him to Warlock without further need to make human contact was what swung Edge’s decision.

  He stood from his half crouched position, yanked on the bridle to bring his horse to the crest of the hill and mounted. Then he dug his heels and charged down the slope, drawing the Henry from its boot and waving it in the air, his deep throated yell throwing the wagon train defenders into confusion for several seconds. Not so the Apache braves, two of whom rose from cover to aim at the descending rider, one with a bow, the other a rifle. But Edge was out of range and both arrow and bullet thudded into the ground harmless yards away from the hoofs of the horse. Then one of the men at the wagon train defenses recovered and loosed off a rifle shot. The brave with the bow tossed his weapon high into air as he screamed and toppled over a rock that had been his cover, his body twisting and turning like a rag doll to end as an ungainly heap at the side of the trail.

  Other braves opened up with a fusillade of shots and a shower of arrows, to be replied to with rifle and handgun fire from the defenders as Edge galloped his horse into the protective cover of the wagons, skidding her to a halt as he leapt from the saddle. A ring of frightened faces looked at the newcomer, then one or two of them glanced back up the hill over which he had come, in hopeless search for more help.

  “There ain’t no US cavalry, ma’am,” Edge said to one of the women whose fear-filled disappointment was the most obvious. “Just me.”

  “Every new gun’s a help, son,” an old timer said, loosing off another shot at the face of the hill where there was not now a sign of the braves.

  The woman who had been crying burst into a fresh spasm of sobs.

  “Husband was on the end wagon,” a man said as if he felt Edge was owed an explanation. “Arrow got him in the head. Horses tried to bolt up the hill and turned the wagon over. Smoked a goddamn stinking pipe, did Jess. Must have fell clean out of his mouth and poured sparks in the back. Powder went up just fore you got here.”

  Edge hardly listened to the man as he looked around; saw six adult men, couple of boys in their early teens, three girls of the same age and seven women. Their armaments comprised a dozen single shot muzzle-loaders, a Spencer repeater and a revolver to each man. Plus a pitchfork that the old-timer clutched menacingly. If they waited around to make a stand against the rest of the Apaches from camp, they wouldn’t have a chance. He moved to the wagon closest the foot of the hill and looked around it, judged the nearest rock to be ten yards away. The next cover large enough to hide him was fifteen yards beyond: a patch of brush. After that it would be easy, the choice wide. Only a matter of deciding which cover concealed the braves.

  “You’ve got all those guns loaded?” he asked without looking behind him.

  “What you gonna’ do?” a man asked.

  “There ain’t no more than half a dozen of those red men on the hill right now,” he answered. “But pretty soon the whole tribe is going to be there and we’ll be like fish in a barrel for them. I want you to cover the whole area with lead ‘til I reach that patch of brush there.” He pointed. “Then you move out every wagon excepting for one. You move them fast, like the whole Indian nation was on your tail. If you don’t, then that’s what it’s going to feel like. One man on the last wagon stays to pick me up.”

  “I’ll stay,” the old-timer volunteered with enthusiasm. “My wagon’s last anyway.”

  Edge nodded his agreement.

  “How’ll I know the Injuns ain’t got you?” the old-timer asked as Edge prepared to go between the wagons.

  “We all got our problems,” Edge told him coldly. “Put it this way, I get back here and find you’ve chickened and run, I’ll have to catch up with the train by myself. And I won’t be none too happy.”

  Edge turned on his icy grin and watched with the enthusiasm drain from the old man’s bewhiskered face. “Okay pour it on,” he said and dashed from the protection of the wagons as the settler opened up a barrage. Not a single shot was fired in retaliation, until the fusillade ceased abruptly, then bullets thudded into the rock behind which Edge was crouched, spitting chips into his face. He gave the settlers time to reload, and at the sound of the first shot made his crouched, fast run to the brush, pumping off two bullets from the Henry and seeing dust puffs close to his feet as the Apaches fired widely. The brush offered concealment, but little protection from bullets. He saw a cluster of boulders above him to the left and he knew an Apache was hiding behind it.

  The settlers opened up again and Edge rolled over twice, clear of the brush and saw an arrow bury its head into the ground at a spot where his body had been a moment ago. Then he was on his feet and running, breathing hard from the exertion needed for speed on the sharply rising ground. He carried the Henry low on his hip, grasping the barrel with one hand as he squeezed the trigger and worked the breech mechanism with the other, seeing the bullets thud into the rock. The redskin rose from behind the rocks and loosed off a shot that tugged at Edge’s sleeve. The brave tossed away his empty rifle and leapt, legs apart on top of the rock, bringing back his arm, preparing to launch the tomahawk, its blade flashing in the sunlight. One bullet from the Henry took him in the jaw, smashing upwards so that when he screamed his death agony he sprayed jagged pieces of broken teeth before him. The second got him plumb through the heart, its impact sending his body crashing backwards over the rocks. Edge dived to the side of them, hearing the whoosh of an arrow pass his ear.

  Then as if divine influence had pressed a switch, the world went silent. Below, on the trail, even the woman had ceased her vocal mourning. Edge remained still, listening, knowing that there was at least four more pair of ears on the hillside doing the same thing. Then sounds came to him from below. He looked for their source and saw the settlers climbing up onto their wagons. When everyone was aboard male voices encouraged their horses forward and as soon as the line was straight the whips crackled and galloping hoofs and spinning wheels churned up dust. A lone wagon remained, the horses between the shafts quietly chomping on the long grass besides the trail.

  Before the covering sounds of the speeding wagon had diminished into the distance, Edge moved forward, crawling around the rocks, drew in his breath sharply when he came face to face with an Apache. But the brave’s jaw was a mess of blood and shattered bone and his eyes stared sightlessly at Edge. It was the Indian he had killed. But in the moment the tension abated Edge heard a sound and kicked himself on his back, raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger by reflex at the figure which seemed to be carved out against the sky. It was a brave, atop the boulders, victory glowing in his eyes as he drew back the bowstring the final fraction of an inch. The unaided bullet smashed through the bow, altering its direction so that it entered the brave’s eye which a split second ago had been sighting the arrow at Edge’s heart. Also off target, the arrow whistled through a short space of air and its metal tip carved a furrow across the back of Edge’s hand. His numbed fingers released the grip on the Henry, which clattered to the ground as he snapped his head around to face the source of another sound. It was a blood curdling war cry of another brave as he launched himself at Edge’s spread-eagled body, tomahawk in one hand, knife in the other. Edge, his mind operating as coolly as a well oiled machine, brought up his right leg as the brave leapt forward. The toe of his boot caught the redskin full in the groin and the extra momentum sent him spinning over the head of Edge, who sprung to his feet and turned to face his adversary. The brave was getting to his feet, the knife gone as he clutched the source of his pain. He saw Edge’s injured arm go to his revolver, saw it drop as the finger muscles again refused to maintain a grip. The scent of victory m
ade him forget his pain and he came forward at a run, teeth bared in triumph, tomahawk on high for a downward death blow.

  Edge waited, timing his move to the split second. He sidestepped, his good hand going to the back of his neck, flashing out with the open razor. He ducked, going below the arc of the tomahawk, and slashed out. The razor point dug into the brave’s right eye, gouged a river of blood across the bridge of his nose, and sank into his left eye. The blinded man howled and sank to his knees, the tomahawk thudding into the ground. Edge snatched it up, swung it high and brought it down with all his might, splitting the brave’s head open as if it were a soft boiled egg.

  As the brave pitched forward a gun exploded close at hand and Edge spun around, clenching his injured fist to bring life into it. He was in time to see an Apache looking at him in surprise, as he dropped his smoking rifle. He said one word in his native tongue and toppled forward as his knees gave way. As he fell, Edge saw the shaft of a pitchfork growing from his back, its three tines buried deep in the flesh.

  The old-timer stood behind him, showing brown stained teeth in a proud grin. He spat dark juice to the ground.

  “Didn’t like your deal much,” he said. “Sitting down there, man’s mind can play tricks. Wouldn’t like to run out on you and have a man like you mad at me. Less time to think up here.”

  Edge nodded, began to retrieve his fallen weapons. “Obliged to you,” he said.

  The old man looked around. “Reckon that’s the lot of them?”

  “Yeah,” Edge said.

  The old man spat more tobacco juice. “Enjoyed it,” he looked at the other fallen braves. “You had more fun, though.”

  “Reckon.”

  He nodded, strolled up to the brave he had killed and put a boot on his neck to give him leverage to withdraw the pitchfork. It came free with an ugly sucking sound.

  “Darn fools neglected to leave me a shooting iron.”

  “You didn’t need one.”

  “Guess, I didn’t either.” His laughter was a high pitched cackle. He looked around again. “Reckon their buddies will be along soon?”

  “Reckon.”

  “Then let’s go, son.”

  They went.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE rest of the Apaches did not follow in the wake of the wagon train, perhaps scared off by the scene they discovered on the blood soaked hillside, or merely unwilling to stray far from their familiar hunting grounds. Whatever the reason, the settlers were grateful for it, and deeply indebted to Edge for delivering them from what they knew would have been a massacre. Although he had intended to ask only for one meal and some supplies, Edge allowed himself to be persuaded to stay with the train for several days, eating high off the hog and receiving more feminine nursing than the minor wound on his hand needed.

  The train was heading in the same general direction Edge wanted to go, but once across the San Juan Mountains the trail turned north, and this marked the end of Edge’s period of wagon comfort. He cut south with a full belly, replenished stock of ammunition and a pack-horse heavy with supplies. Not once had anybody on the train asked his name and he had volunteered no information. And when he left, the settlers waved him off into the distance with no knowledge of his destination or reason for making the journey.

  It was eight days later, as he traveled through the surrealist landscape at the eastern edge of the Painted Desert in the north of the Arizona Territory that he saw the stage, heading in the same southerly direction as himself, but maybe a half mile to the east of him. It was going hell for leather, the hoofs of the four horses and rumbling wheels disturbing great heaps of dust that billowed out behind it like some from some kind of racing engine. At first Edge thought the small cracks which carried across the intervening desert land came from a whip wielded by a driver in a hurry. But then he saw the three horsemen spread out behind the stage, just clear of the billowing dust cloud.

  “Hell,” Edge muttered to the horse. “Now a stage hold-up.

  But he made no move to go to the aid of the pursued stage, holding his steady trot towards the south, glancing from time to time to his left, seeing on each occasion that the hold-up men were gaining on their quarry. Then the crackle of gunfire got louder and Edge sighed deeply as he saw the stage veer towards him, maybe following the trail, maybe seeking aid from him. As it drew closer, Edge could make out the driver, crouched low on the box-seat, slapping the reins to urge more speed from his horses: and besides him the guard, twisted in his seat, elbow bent on the roof to support his rifle. He was firing rapidly with a repeater, exhausted the magazine and turned to reload. As he did so the gun flew from his hands and he went sideways, tipping off the stage to thud to the ground. The driver seemed unaware of what had happened for several moments, the pulled on his breaks and yanked on the reins. The wheels locked with a show of sparks and smoke: the lead horse stumbled and the stage slewed round, rocking precariously, then tipped over onto its side with incredible slowness. The driver was pitched out of his seat as the shafts broke and the horses bolted clear, still fastened together by their harnesses.

  Edge watched with complete detachment as the driver got shakily to his feet, going for a sidearm just when the three hold-up men rode in through the settling dust. Two fired at the driver and he dropped like a sack of potatoes as the third raider rode up to the overturned stage and fired a shot inside. A scream, high pitched enough to have come from a woman, pierced the air. The men, all masked, worked quickly, two leaping to the ground while the third held the horses. The pair who had dismounted climbed onto the side of the crippled stage and one pulled open the door and went inside, handed out a wooden box. The other took and threw it to the ground. They both climbed down and one drew a revolver and shot off the lock. As they bent down to scoop up the moneybags, the man who was still astride his horse glanced around and saw Edge watching. He snapped off a quick warning to the others and they sprang erect. A command was barked and the mounted man drew his rifle and fired. Cursing, Edge, ducked, felt a sudden jerk on his saddle horn and looked behind him, saw the pack-horse on its side, going through its death throes as the bullet settled in its brain.

  Snarling, Edge whipped the knife from his back sheath and slashed through the rope. The knife was returned to its resting place and then Henry un-booted almost as part of one fluid movement as he wheeled the horse and started to gallop towards the men.

  The dismounted raiders hurriedly scooped up the moneybags and leapt onto their horses as Edge thundered towards them, firing as he came. The pair with the money went like the wind, one of them trailing a shower of gold coins as a bullet from the Henry ripped through a moneybag. But the third man’s horse was slow to turn and even at a gallop Edge was able to take a careful aim and place his shot. The bullet drilled him neatly through the heart and he fell cleanly from the saddle, dead long before he hit the hard floor of the desert.

  Edge brought his horse to a standstill as the raiders mount took flight.

  “Like somebody once told me, it’s mean cuss that would shoot a man’s horse,” Edge said to the dead man, spun around as he heard a sound from the stage.

  But the Henry’s muzzle found nothing to shoot at and Edge strained forward he heard the sound again, recognizing it as a low whimper, maybe of pain, maybe something else.

  “Anybody inside there?” Edge called recollecting the scream when one of the holdup men had fired into the stage.

  “Go away,” he heard a hoarse whisper. A woman. “Don’t look at me.”

  Edge approached the stage, hauled himself up onto it.

  “I ain’t one of them that held you up.” He said. “I’m here to help.”

  “You can’t help me.”

  He was on top now, looking in through the door the raiders had left open. The woman was hunched up in the corner, between the seat and the side of the stage, which was now on the floor. She was young, with pretty blonde hair and was well dressed. Edge could not tell much more about her, as she stared at her reflection
in the mirror affixed to the inside of the lid of her vanity case, whimpering painfully. She might have been pretty–once, before the high caliber bullet had ripped through her cheek and exited through her nose, blowing half of it away, leaving what remained a soggy red mess of shapeless pulp.

  “I told you not to look,” she tried to scream at Edge, but her voice could not rise above a whisper.

  “I’ve seen worse sights,” he answered.

  She slapped the case shut and raised both hands to mask her injury. Above her clasped fingers her eyes were big and beautiful.

  “You said you were here to help,” the beautiful eyes questioned him.

  “I ain’t got no time to be no nurse-maid,” he said flatly.

  “I don’t want ...”

  “Nor to tote any sick woman to the nearest sawbones,” he interrupted.

  “How long would it take you to put a bullet in my brain, mister!” she asked without emotion.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not,” she said, managing to inject annoyance into her tone.

  He guessed she was still in shock. The initial searing pain of the wound would have gone and she had the relief of a period of numbness before the real agony set in.

  “You ain’t gonna’ die from that,” Edge told her.

  “I know,” she answered. “That’s why I want you to kill me.”

  Edge shook his head, more a bewildered than a negative gesture. “I don’t follow.”

  “I’m a dance hall girl, mister,” she told him and now her eyes showed a moment of stabbing pain and her body jerked. “Christ, it’s starting to hurt. It’s the only way I know how to make a living. It’s the only way I want. Not anymore, though.”