Then Edge picked up the revolver, grimaced his distaste that it was a .44 Starr single action; like his own Remington in appearance but vastly inferior in performance. But it fitted snugly into his holster. Better than his feet fitted into the kid’s boots, which pinched at the toes but would serve his purpose.
He went out of the room as the sound of hammering was abruptly halted and the man below the window spoke to a companion. “Reckon it’s almost time for the hanging.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
FRANK Forrest did not want to die but was not afraid of death. He had faced it a thousand times during the war and before, bounty hunting in the territory around Peaceville. Most times he could figure the odds and if they were not in his favor could choose to take the risk and wait for a more propitious time. But now, as he was led from the jailhouse behind the sheriff’s office in the cold, early light of a new day his death was inevitable and he was in no position to either delay or avoid it. His hands were tied behind his back and two ropes had been looped around his chest and pulled tight. A man held the end of each, forcing Forrest to walk a line equidistant between the two. Another man was behind him, prodding him with the muzzle of a rifle in the small of his back.
But Forrest walked to meet his fate with something akin to dignity, holding his head high, his face pale and drawn from lack of sleep, set in an expression of calm acceptance. The large gathering of people grouped around the gallows ahead of him along the street held no menace for Forrest and although the sight of the noose swinging gently from the gallows caused his throat to become dry, he knew it meant a quick, clean end to life. He had seen a lot of men die far worse deaths. A great many he had dispatched personally.
They were passing the hotel now and a head appeared at a second floor window, caused the men on the ropes to stop, jerking Forrest to a halt.
“Hey, Edge has escaped,” the kid at the window shouted, a hand going to his throat and coming away covered in blood.
The name wasn’t the one Forrest knew the man by, but it was close enough. All Forrest’s calmness and quiet acceptance of fate drained from him with the words of the kid and his body was shaking with a cold that had no relevance to the chill of the morning air.
“Let’s go,” he implored his captors, moving forward, jerking on the ropes. “You ‘gotta protect me ‘till we get there.”
The men on the ropes and the men at the back with the rifle moved with Forrest, took several steps on the run before regaining the upper hand and forcing down the pace. Four pairs of eyes raked the street on either side, searching facades and roofs, alleys and sidewalks for a tell-tale movement that would betray Edge’s position. Each man showed naked fear in his face, but by far the greatest terror was evident in the roving eyes and trembling lips of Forrest, for whom death had suddenly become awe-inspiring.
“Don’t let him get me,” he muttered, and kept repeating the claim on a rising tone.
“Shut up,” the man behind him barked, jabbing the rifle muzzle forcefully into his back.
“If you see him, shoot me before you try for him.”
“Shut up,” the man said again, ineffectually, knowing there was nothing with which he could threaten Forrest to outweigh the terror of the stranger named Edge.
The cause of Forrest’s abject fear watched the scene from a place of concealment behind the angles roof of the church at the north-west corner of the intersection. He could see clearly over the heads of the waiting crowd, across the top of the gallows its raised platform and down the length of the street. He had heard the muffled shout from the hotel, seen Forrest’s panic and the captors’ actions to control it. The crowd had heard and seen this, too, and from the obvious agitation Edge knew they had reached the same conclusion he had. The atmosphere grew more tense with each yard that was covered by the approaching prisoner and escorts.
Although the scene before him was a panorama that invited his examination of every detail, Edge concentrated his entire attention upon the object of his hate, fastening his hooded eyes upon the quivering face of Forrest, seeing every blind, each nervous tic of the cheek, counting the flicking of the tongue over dry lips. When the group reached the foot of the steps leading up to the gallows platform Forrest’s knees began to buckle as the fear turned his muscles to jelly. The men who held the ropes dropped them and moved quickly to the prisoner to support him, push him up the steps to where Honey waited – the elected hangman.
Beneath the gallows, the hanging rope brushing the side of his face, Forrest found new strength, made an almost enthusiastic attempt to push his head into the noose. He missed and Honey reached out and completed the job. The silence then was so complete it was as if the world had stood still.
“You killed Jamie!”
The accusation hurled down through the silence from the roof of the church seemed to have physical force that stunned everybody who heard it so that there was a pregnant time lapse before every head was turned to look at Edge. They saw him sitting astride the angle of the roof, aiming the Starr, barrel resting on the wrist of the crooked arm.
“Rhett killed him,” Forrest screamed back. “That’s why I blasted him. You must have seen him.”
“I saw him,” Edge replied. “Move out of the way.”
The last was addressed to Honey, who had stepped in front of the condemned man, interrupting Edge’s line of fire. The two men who had led the prisoner to the gallows crowded in on each side.
“It’s going to be a legal execution,” Honey said as the first ray of sunshine of the new day angled down the street, released between the twin peaks of a mountain range to the east.
“I’m taking Forrest,” Edge said evenly. “I take a few more with him, makes no difference to me.”
He squeezed the trigger and the slug zinged downwards. The man on the right yelled in pain and went sideways, clutching his shoulder. Edge grunted as he noted the gun pulled to the right, made allowances for this in taking aim again. But the man on the other side of Forrest saw he was next and went off the gallows in a shallow dive, hitting the dirt just as the bullet struck the wood where he had been standing. Several men in the crowd went for their guns, but not one drew. There was something about the man on the roof, about his voice and the way he held himself, about his utter coolness in leaving himself exposed that threw fear into every one of them.
Honey saw the barrel of the Starr swing in an arc on to him and hesitated only a moment. He ducked, turned and launched himself around the side of Forrest, stretched fingers clutched for the lever to open the trap door. Completely exposed, Forrest was frozen into an attitude of stiff terror as he looked at the figure silhouetted against the skyline.
Squeeze, crack, cock: squeeze, crack, cock–the motions and sounds were repeated four times as Edge emptied the gun. The first slug took out Forrest’s right eye, the second entered just below the left, the third pierced his throat and the fourth went over his head. Honey’s hands found the lever and Forrest dropped, the movement robbing Edge of a final hit.
Edge sighed, lowered the gun as smoke curled from its muzzle and surveyed the shocked faces of the crowd below him. He held the gun out, cocked it and squeezed the trigger.
All heard the dry click that told of an empty cartridge. Edge tossed the gun down to the ground, swung his legs off his perch and slid down the roof, leapt the final six feet to the ground from the eaves.
The crowd divided, allowing him passage and he walked through the space, looking to neither left nor right, his expression showed nothing of what he felt. He halted in front of the gallows, looked up dispassionately at the body of Forrest, twisting slowly on the end if the rope. He eyed the bloodied face and made a throaty sound of satisfaction.
“Figure he was dead before he dropped,” he said.
Honey seemed about to argue the point, but the evil glint in Edge’s eyes warned him off. He reached out and swung Forrest around so he could see his face. He grimaced at the sight, nodded.
“Be obliged to have my weapons
back,” Edge requested.
“They’re in the sheriff’s office,” Honey said, licking his lips. Then he was reminded, reached out and ripped the star from the unresisting Forrest.
Edge gave a cold grin of approval, turned and started down the street. He stopped off at the hotel first, his too-tight boots echoing hollowly in the empty lobby. Everybody had been at the hanging. He found the cash box under the desktop and removed four dollars fifty. Then he went to his room, from which the kid had disappeared, crossed to the window and leaned out to take his capital from behind the loose shingle. Rather than go back through the hotel he stepped out of the window and swung down to the sidewalk from the porch. As he crossed towards the sheriff’s office he looked back down towards the intersection, saw the crowd still grouped around the gallows, from which Honey appeared to be making a speech. Edge spat and went inside as the sun raised clear of the mountain range and began to make its warmth felt.
His rifle, revolver and knife were neatly arranged on the desk and he stowed the smaller weapons in their appropriate places. Then he sat behind the desk and felt the full weight of his weariness settle upon him like a heavy, warm blanket. He did not think he had ever felt so tired in his life before. He could quite easily have allowed his chin to drop forward to his chest and invited sleep to claim him.
But he refused to acknowledge his fatigue, stood and moved to a rough-hewn bureau in one corner of the office, upon which rested a piece of broken mirror and a basin of stale water. He splashed the water on to his face, experienced a slight freshening up. One of the bureau drawers was jutting open a few inches and a word on a paper he could see caught his attention. He jerked open the drawer to its full extent and saw a collection of wanted posters. The top one showed a fresh faced cleanly shaven young man in a captain’s uniform, above the badly printed:
WANTED
FOR THE MURDER OF WAR VETERAN
ELLIOT THOMBS
former captain J. C. Hedges.
Edge snatched up the piece of mirror and looked at his reflection: at the cruel, hooded eyes, thin mouth line, the water-beaded beard that sprouted from sun-toughened skin. He grinned. The army picture, completed on the day he was commissioned, bore not the slightest resemblance to the man he was now. A laugh ripped from his lips as he tossed the wanted poster back, slammed the drawer shut.
When he turned, he again became aware of the depth of his tiredness. For had not the lack of rest dulled the edges of his alertness, Gail and Honey could not have got within yards of the office doorway without him knowing of their approach. As it was, they were even inside the office.
“We would like you to stick around for a while, señor,” Honey said.
Edge saw that they were both unarmed. A glance at the windows both left and right revealed an empty street. If he had read an implied threat into the words, he was wrong.
“What?”
“I think you heard, Mr. Edge,” Gail said. “The Citizen’s Committee held another meeting.”
“Who else do you want me to kill?” Edge snapped.
Gail shook her head. “Nobody. The town needs a peace officer until we can send for a regularly appointed lawman. And ...”
“And you want me to take the job?” Edge asked with a flicker of surprise.
“Were you aiming to go someplace special?” Honey asked.
“Mr. Edge doesn’t like personal questions, Honey,” Gail put in hurriedly, and looked expectantly at Edge. “Well?”
“How much? No place special.”
“Two dollars a day, free board here and all you can eat at the restaurant.”
“Four dollars,” Edge said. “And I leave whenever I’m ready.”
“Three and we want to know a week before you leave.”
The woman’s eyes were locked onto Edge’s and she showed no sign of weakening in her resolution.
“Badge?” Edge asked and held out his hand.
Honey tossed the star and saw it caught easily, pinned to the new sheriff’s shirt-front. Edge looked up and grinned and Gail thought there might have been just a twinkle of humor in the narrowed eyes.
“Let’s go and get that first free breakfast,” Edge said, hefting the Henry. “All this killing gives a man an appetite.”
Honey and Gail stood aside to allow him through the doorway, and followed in his wake. Both cannoned into him when the sound of hoof beats on hard ground froze Edge into a posture of readiness. He eyes swept up the street, searching for the source of the sound, suddenly saw two riders swing into view around the corner of a building at the end of town.
“Inside,” Edge barked, and heard Gail and Honey scamper into the cover of the sheriff’s office.
Edge himself took the final step that brought him to the limit of the sidewalk and stood waiting. He recognized the riders as two of the three kids who had jumped him in the alley: one with a wad of dressing where his right ear should be, the other with his face scarred by the marks of Edge’s fingers.
“You bastard, you broke Eddie’s back,” the one-eared kid yelled as he raised his revolver, but needed to be closer before opening fire.
Edge squeezed the trigger of the Henry and the bullet caught the kid clean between the eyes, knocked the kid sideways out of the saddle, to be dragged along for several yards before his foot came free of the stirrup. The other kid, shocked by what had happened to his friend, tried to wheel his horse away from Edge, dropping his gun as he pulled at the reins. Edge waited until the kid was level with him and not three yards from the muzzle of the rifle. Then he squeezed the trigger twice, his hand a mere blur of movement as he ejected the first shell. The large caliber bullets took the top of the kid’s head off like it was a breakfast egg and he fell alongside his partner in crime, both their young faces looking up at Edge until the pumping blood obliterated their features.
Edge heard a gasp behind him and turned to find Gail holding onto Honey’s arm for support after she had looked at the youngsters.
The new sheriff of Peaceville spat into the street. “I think I just solved the town’s juvenile crime problem,” he said, then narrowed his eyes, puzzled. “Or ain’t that fashionable here yet?”
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