EDGE: Eve of Evil (Edge series Book 28)

by George G. Gilman

  Table of Contents

  Cold Edge

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Other Titles

  Cold Edge

  Christmas in the Wind River Mountains of Wyoming.

  A man named Joseph and a pregnant girl named Maria. Three sheepmen and a star in east. The strangest priest who ever came to the frontier and his “daughter,” who used to be a whore named Angel.

  And Edge. A loner who became a part of this scenario for a miracle without understanding why.

  And whose presence inevitably triggered a chain reaction of violence that was to leave a ghastly trail of dead men’s blood on the snow.

  EVE OF EVIL

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition February 2014

  Names, Characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Design and illustrations by West World Designs © 2014. http://westworlddesigns.webs.com

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications.

  Cover Illustration by Cody Wells.

  Visit the author at: www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  For J.C.

  who had a drink or two

  in my favorite saloon

  Chapter One

  THE man called Edge eased open the door of the Three Horseshoes Saloon and looked out from the almost pitch darkness at a world of bright color. White and green and yellow and blue. He blinked just once against the dazzle of sunrise across the snow-covered mountainscape, then pulled the door fully open and stretched his arms as he arched his back. These actions dispelled the final remnants of sleep from his brain and muscles. The biting chill of the outside air had no effect, for it could not have been more than a degree colder than the atmosphere inside.

  For long moments his narrowed eyes raked to left and right and back again, surveying the distant wilderness and the closer evidence of civilization’s coming and going. Then he worked saliva into his mouth, swilled it around with his tongue and spat it out in a long stream to mar the perfect whiteness of the night’s snowfall. His expression revealed nothing of what he felt—whether he had tried to rid himself of the aftertaste of yesterday’s cigarettes or had registered a tacit comment on the view his eyes had so carefully studied.

  He turned and went back into the depths of the saloon, leaving the door open so that the bleak sunlight could penetrate. The brightness emphasized the squalor of the setting and the conformity of the man’s appearance with his surroundings. For the saloon was cold and neglected and had been empty of all signs of life for a very long time before Edge sought its shelter from last night’s blizzard.

  It was a square, high-ceilinged room with a bar counter stretching almost the whole length of the rear wall. There were no longer any bottles and glasses on the shelf in back of the counter. Nor were there any tables and chairs in front of it. A single music stand stood on a small platform, like a soot-blackened skeleton. Rusted hooks on the walls showed where lamps had once hung. The pot-bellied stove remained bolted to the floor in the centre of the saloon but its smoke stack was gone. The hole this had left in the roof had been boarded up. Like the two windows facing the street. The big one-piece door which supplemented the bat-wings had also been securely fastened until Edge had levered off the barring plank with the barrel of his Winchester.

  It had been abandoned and left empty of all that had once given it life and character. But secured against all but the most determined intruder—perhaps in the hope that one day it would re-open and become re-established for its original purpose.

  But the decay of neglect had made such a hope falser with each day that elapsed. Termites and damp had attacked the timbers of the walls. And rats had chewed up through the flooring to forage for whatever scraps of food had been left in the wake of the long ago departure. And the outside fabric of the building had been ravaged by the worst weapons the high country Wyoming climate could command.

  So that the place was dank with the rancid odor of perpetual damp and constantly chilled by draughts through countless cracks and holes which nobody had been on hand to plug.

  The fire which the man started in the stackless stove offered little warmth to ease the discomfort of the cold. But it provided sufficient heat to simmer and then boil a pot of water, liberally laced with coffee grounds.

  To avoid the smoke, which issued from the stove to fill the saloon and mask the smell of damp rottenness, Edge moved again to the door and peered out across the mountainscape spread south from the decaying ghost town which had been his refuge from the night’s storm.

  He was a tall, lean, solidly built man—three inches above six feet and weighing close to two hundred pounds: the flesh hard packed and evenly distributed over his frame. His features and their coloring marked him as a man with a dual nationality heritage—drawn from a Mexican father and a Scandinavian mother. It was a lean but not a thin face, with high cheekbones beneath permanently narrowed eyes under heavily hooded lids. The pupils of the eyes were of the lightest blue and when they lacked expression—which was for most of the time—this coloration gave them the look of ice slivers caught by the first rays of the morning sun.

  Between the cheekbones and the firm jaw line the skin was pulled taut, flanking a hawk like nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. The skin was darkened by his Mexican bloodline, this natural pigmentation shaded still more by exposure to the extremes of weather. And was deeply scored by countless lines cut into its every surface. The aging process to his late thirties had inscribed some of these lines. Burning sun and biting winds had also contributed. But many more—the deepest that spread from the corners of his eyes and mouth—were obviously the physical marks of mental suffering. Less subtle than the scar tissue of old bullet wounds on his body, but in their own way just as readable. Especially when seen as an intrinsic part of the whole: giving reason for the coldness of the slitted blue eyes and the latent cruelty in the set of the lips.

  Even though the face bathed by early morning sunlight was unwashed and unshaven—a thickening of the bristles along the top lip and to either side of the mouth indicating a sparse moustache—there was nevertheless an indication of handsomeness about the features. But this was contradicted by the slightest movement of the head which at once transformed the face into a mask of ugliness. Thus it was that Edge’s countenance, framed by jet-black hair which fell to a length so that it brushed his shoulders, could be viewed as either handsome or ugly: the opinion formed entirely within the mind of the beholder.

  His clothing was as unkempt as the man it fitted. A black, low-crowned, wide-brimmed Stetson. A grey shirt and a kerchief of the same color, loosely knotted so that it did not quite conceal the dull beads which he wore around his throat on a leather thong. Black denim pants with the cuffs worn outside spurless riding boots. Around his waist there was a gun belt with a shell in every loop, a holster hanging from the right side and tied down
to his thigh, housing a Remington revolver. Caped over his shoulders—not yet properly worn after serving as an additional blanket while he slept—was a thick, knee-length jacket of black leather.

  All the clothing was stained and rumpled and torn: ill-used and long past its prime. Like the saddle and unfurled bedroll in the corner of the saloon behind him which had been free of most of the night’s draughts.

  When he back-tracked to the stove, claimed the coffee pot, urinated on the flames to extinguish them and took a mug from his pile of gear, his skin and clothing were stained darker and made to smell staler by the smoke. And, after he had returned to the doorway, poured a mug of coffee and begun to sip the strong brew, he was fleetingly and vaguely aware that he and his immediate surroundings were even more starkly contrasted with the purity of the panorama he looked at.

  The white of the snow, the green of the firs, the blue of the sky and the yellow of the sun. All of this clean and unsullied. Component parts of a newborn day in the Wind River range of mountains. Mint new and innocently awaiting the outcome of a man’s intrusion.

  Edge drank his coffee and gave no further consideration to the image of himself as a crude invader upon a chaste landscape, for it was not in his nature to waste time with contemplation of the abstracts of life. Last night’s snowstorm had forced him to find shelter and providence had supplied the abandoned buildings of a ghost town. This morning, his bleak-eyed surveys of the broad valley stretching to the south were not concerned with the unproductive appreciation of natural beauty. Rather, he was checking the terrain for signs that other men were close by. And planning the easiest route away from the town and saloon which had served a purpose.

  He had been heading north west across the Continental Divide when the dark clouds delivered on their daylong threat and began to shed their snow. But, as was so often the case with the man named Edge, there had been no specific destination in mind. The future had been in the hands of his destiny, more uncertain perhaps than that of any other man. The present he controlled more tightly than most. Like all, the past was a memory with—freshest in his mind—the cattle drive from south Texas to Laramie and the lone ride across the high plains and up into the mountains.

  Thus, as he finished the second mug of coffee it was of no consequence to him that the terrain of the Wind River range suggested that his new course lay south. For he was as likely to have a new experience with evil in this direction as in any other.

  Then, just as he was about to empty the coffee grounds from the pot on to the snow marked only by spittle, he saw the two riders. And immediately breathed a low sigh of resignation to expect the worst.

  They were heading for the ghost town from the southwest, coming down the slope of the valley side with slow-paced relentlessness: sure of their ground as they steered their mounts along a curving course through knee-deep snow. Following a known trail, Edge guessed. Which offered him the possibility of an alternative way out of the valley.

  He watched them from the ridge to a clump of timber, then withdrew into the saloon which was still tainted with old smoke. He emptied the contents of the coffee pot on to the already dead ashes in the stove and then continued his preparations to leave by rolling up his bedding and taking it and his saddle over to the door. The saddle was so placed that the stock of the booted Winchester jutted upwards. After he had donned the leather coat he did not fasten the buttons. This allowed him easy access to the butt of the holstered Remington low on his right side.

  Then he looked outside again, but with more caution now, taking trouble to see without being seen.

  The tracks left by the mounts of the men emerged from the stand of firs and inscribed another curve through the snow, this time in the opposite direction. They went from sight behind a rearing outcrop of rock, swinging away from the town. But, when the men reappeared, it was to make a right angle turn at the end of the outcrop and head in a straight line up the gentle slope toward the spot where Edge waited.

  The Mexican-Scandinavian half-breed released the catches on the batwings and the half doors swung across the saloon entrance. Then he stepped back and to the side, into the shadows not yet penetrated by the shafting sunlight from the southeast. He adjusted the saddle into the angle of wall and floor so that the stock of the booted rifle was even more accessible to his left hand.

  Not that there was anything in the appearance or demeanor of the approaching men to indicate they were intent upon making trouble. One was six feet tall, the other a head shorter. They were suitably dressed for winter in the mountains. Stetson hats with scarves wrapped around their heads to protect their ears and jaws from the cold. Snow goggles to diminish the glare to their eyes. Fur jackets cut to mid-calf length. Sheepskin chaps supplementing their pants. They rode big, strong looking stallions saddled Western style and laden with the gear and accoutrements of cowhands. Line riders, maybe. There was a rifle in each boot. With the goggles and wrap-around scarves concealing so much of their faces the men may have appeared a little menacing to anyone with a nervous disposition. Edge was not nervous. Merely cautious. For he had survived for the greater part of his life by assuming that every stranger was a deadly enemy until events proved otherwise.

  The trail which the riders knew to be beneath the two-feet-deep layer of crisp snow turned them away from the Three Horseshoes Saloon and brought them into town midway along the only street. This took them out of sight of Edge again. But he could hear them after a while—the muted crunching of snow being compacted under hooves and the creak of ungreased harness leather.

  As these sounds grew louder—the riders moving west along the street—Edge moved closer to the batwings and raised his right hand to drape it over the butt of the holstered Remington.

  Then the horses were reined to a halt.

  ‘Store’ll be as good a place as any, Ben?’ one of them suggested, a subservient inflection adding the query.

  ‘Why not?’ the other replied, disgruntled.

  They dismounted in front of the building next door to the saloon. There was a flapping sound as one of the men beat his arms to his chest, seeking warmth from exercise.

  ‘Put the horses in the stable out back of the saloon, Ben?’

  The half-breed tightened his grip around the butt of the Remington, curling a finger to the trigger and resting a thumb to the hammer. His own black gelding was cold and hungry in the saloon’s livery.

  ‘The hell with that, Wes!’ Ben growled. ‘Hitch ’em out here. We left sign can be seen from friggin’ miles away.’

  ‘Guess you’re right.’

  ‘Ain’t I always? Open up the door, Wes.’

  Booted feet crunched snow, then there was the tortured sound of rusted nails being wrenched from timber as the board across the store door was levered free. After Ben and Wes had creaked open the door and stepped across the threshold, cold and empty silence became re-established in the ghost town.

  The silence half lied, of course. Bitterly cold it certainly was, the bright sunlight emphasizing the lack of warmth. But hidden just beneath the pretense were the tiny sounds of living things—the breathing and the heart beats of three men and three horses.

  Edge leaned forward to look out over the batwings and along the street. During the night blizzard which had forced him to seek shelter he had received only a fleeting impression of the town—its buildings seen only as blurred shadows through the slanting, wind-driven flakes.

  Now he saw them with stark clarity, ugly man-made and man-abandoned scars on the beautiful, snow whitened body of the mountainside.

  The saloon stood in a sort of aloof isolation on the north side of the street’s western end. Across a vacant lot was the store with the stallions hitched outside and the men inside. Beyond this were other business premises—a bank, a stage depot, a barbershop, another store and a law office. Across from these was a row of houses with, at the far end, a small church.

  All the buildings were of single storey, frame construction, abandoned and dilapidated. The
blizzard had piled snow into deep drifts against rotting and warped north facing walls. Two sets of tracks in the snow marked the route of Ben and Wes from between two houses, along the street and up to the front of the store.

  A broader pattern of disturbed snow started to show on the southeast slope of the valley—following precisely the same route Edge had taken to reach the town. This new ugliness on nature’s post-blizzard beauty was caused by a roofed buggy with a single horse in the shafts—as yet over a mile distant from town.

  With a low grunt of mild dissatisfaction, Edge withdrew his head into cover and stepped to the other side of the saloon entrance. And pulled his hat brim low down to shade his eyes from the direct glare of the unwarm sun which hung above the ridge behind the approaching buggy.

  Then he became infinitely patient again, resigned to, rather than content with, the decree of his ruling fate which had caused him to be in this place at this time. Certain of only one thing—that he would not make the first move to involve himself in whatever was about to happen here.

  ‘…still say we should’ve stayed inside, Ben!’ Wes complained above the crunching of snow beneath their feet.

  Ben spat forcefully. ‘They seen our sign,’ he countered with a sigh. ‘They seen our horses. They know there ain’t no way they can get away from us in that rig. And they got no reason to expect we’re gonna…’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Wes surrendered morosely. ‘You know what you’re doin’.’

  ‘Don’t I always?’

  They had come to a halt at the centre of the street, their backs toward the saloon as they gazed across the narrowing distance between town and the buggy. The only difference in their appearance since Edge had last seen them was that they had unfastened the buttons of their long coats.

  ‘This is a hell of a thin’ to have to do, Ben.’

  ‘Ain’t it though.’ The taller man’s tone was sardonic in contrast to Wes’s deep-seated anxiety.