‘The bastard!’ Smith rasped.
‘Sure,’ Craig said, not necessarily in conscious agreement with his fleshy partner. ‘Couple of days later they started to put up the fence posts and string the barbed wire. But they put it too far south, son. Enclosed open range me and Lonny and Doug had been settled on for almost two years. Didn’t own it, course. But Lassiter hadn’t never laid claim to it before.’
The first flakes of new snow began to slant out of the low, sullen sky and settle on the hats, coats and horses of the men. Behind them the northern extent of visibility had already closed considerably.
‘You put up a fight?’ Edge asked, his tone suggesting he had no great interest in the answer.
Craig grimaced as Smith and Bassett took the long cold pipes from between their teeth and pressed them into coat pockets. ‘Van Dorn showed us papers and he said they proved Lassiter had title to the land. And we couldn’t argue with that on account none of us can read. So we just moved our sheep south of the fence line. Grazin’ was just as good at the new place.’
His expression hardened as the falling snow thickened, the strengthening wind widening the downward angle. ‘But the bastards didn’t give us the time to move our shack. And once the wire was up they said all hell would break loose if we tried to cross it.’
The tone of his voice acted to spit out each word like a malevolent missile directed at the man’s unseen enemies. ‘But we shifted that shack, son. A little piece at a time in the nights between when the Bar-M line riders came by. All the inside stuff first so Lassiter hands couldn’t see what was happenin’. Then, last night, when it was snowin’ so hard a man couldn’t see his hand in front of his face, we took off the damn roof, unfixed the walls and hauled all that lumber through the fence. It was one hell of a chore, I can tell you, son.’
‘You sure you moved it in the right direction, feller?’ Edge asked.
‘How’s that, son?’
The half-breed raised an arm to point ahead and to the right—toward a building in the distance which was suddenly hidden behind driving snow. ‘Was hoping that might be home.’
‘A Bar-M line shack, maybe,’ Craig supplied morosely. They’re all over the place. Most of them not used any more.’
‘Lassiter started small and got bigger,’ Bassett said from behind, having to shout through the blanketing sound of the snow and the whine of its powering wind. ‘Every time he claimed more land he built a new ring of shacks.’
‘Figure to use this one,’ Edge growled, veering his gelding to the right.
Craig’s grimace became more deeply etched into the wrinkled flesh of his thin face. ‘Any port in a storm,’ he rasped.
‘Always found whiskey better when it’s this cold,’ the half-breed murmured. The joke meant only for his own ears, intended to lighten his mood which was still dictated by the violence-triggered coincidences of this Christmas Eve. The plan did not work.
The driving force of the blizzard struck them harder as they angled south west across the powerful norther: the snowflakes smashing at the sides of their faces and not melting—clinging to their eyelashes and bristles which sprouted in flesh as cold as that of corpses.
When they halted their horses in front of the timber-walled, tin-roofed shack they discovered to what extent the icy cold of the blizzard had debilitated them. They had spent too long hunched in their saddles and it was as if their limbs and bodies had been as exposed as their hands and faces to the biting, white laden wind. It was a slow and painful process to dismount, the aged muscles of the sheepmen protesting more than those of Edge.
It was the half-breed who first made to draw his Winchester from the boot, his narrowed eyes blinking away snowflakes as they raked the blank glass windows and firmly closed door of the shack.
The sheepmen made to follow his example, suddenly affected by the younger man’s infectious caution.
‘Leave ’em where they be!’ a voice shouted from the right hand corner of the shack.
A man weighed down by a white mantel as heavy as that cloaking the four newcomers stepped into sight. He was sighting along a rifle with the stock plate pressed to his left shoulder.
As all eyes located this man, the door of the shack was wrenched open and a second stepped on to the threshold. There was no snow on his clothing, but it was wet from where the flakes had melted into water and soaked the material. He also aimed a rifle, but from the hip.
‘Unless you guys are tired of livin’,’ the man in the doorway added. ‘Dead tired, if you know what I mean.’
‘They know, Al.’
‘What’ll we do, son?’ Craig whispered hoarsely.
Edge had his right hand touching the booted Winchester, the palm to the metal of the frame but the fingers not yet started to curl into a clasping fist. He knew it was the physical effect of the harsh weather rather than fear which caused the hand to feel frozen in this useless attitude.
‘Give up,’ he replied evenly. ‘They got us cold.’
Chapter Four
THEY were ordered to step away from the horses with the rifle stocks jutting invitingly from the boots. Then, while the man at the corner of the shack kept them covered, his partner went inside and lit a lamp. The captives were then directed across the threshold by a gesture with the rifle. And, despite the circumstances, all of them entered the shack without reluctance: anxious to escape the driving snow for the false promise of warmth offered by the glow of the kerosene lamp.
When the rifleman who had been outside kicked the door closed behind him, the emptiness of the lamp’s bright promise was revealed. The very stillness of the atmosphere inside the shack seemed to emphasize its bitter coldness. And when both Winchesters were aimed at the prisoners from close range, their threat of blasting death and the endless, depthless cold of the grave created a mental sensation to augment the physical.
‘Jim Denby and Al Reece,’ Craig rasped through teeth clenched against the humiliating effect of chattering. ‘Lassiter hands.’
‘Figured that much,’ Edge replied, temporarily disinterested in the two thick-set, middle-thirties men who wore the Bar-M winter trade mark of snow goggles pushed up on to their foreheads.
His slitted eyes under the hooded lids, glinting in the lamp light, no longer needed to blink as he surveyed his surroundings. It was a single room shack, twenty by twenty. Against the rear wall were four bunks, two above two. There was a cold stove near the side wall to the right. Some shelving with closets under them covered the opposite wall. In front of these was a scarred table, leaning drunkenly down on a broken leg. That was all. All bed blankets, provisions and the other essentials and luxuries for isolated one night stopovers had long since been taken away. But the shack had been well built of fine materials and it was still weatherproof even after a protracted period of disuse.
‘You done the honors just the one way, sheep-puncher,’ Denby growled, as the water of melting snow began to drip off his own clothing and that of the prisoners aligned along the front wall of the shack. ‘Who’s your new buddy?’
‘Name’s Edge,’ the half-breed supplied, speaking between his hands which he had raised slowly to his mouth. He blew warm breath into the cupped palms.
‘You don’t look like no sheep-puncher, Edge.’
‘And you don’t look like you’re fixing to kill us right off, feller. So maybe somebody should light a fire in that stove before the weather takes its time with us.’
The lamp was of the hurricane type, primarily for use in the open air. It was hung from a hook at the end of one of the higher bunks. Behind the two riflemen. But its light was sufficient for Edge to see the signs of the captors’ anxiety. It was easier because of the efforts they were making to conceal their feelings.
‘He’s got a friggin’ nerve, Jim,’ the shorter and thicker set Reece sneered.
‘And he’s also got a point,’ Denby countered.
‘Like the rest of me, damn cold,’ Edge said through his cupped hands. ‘You want me to light
the fire?’
‘Want you to turn around and face the wall, wise guy,’ Denby answered, sensing the half-breed’s impression of him and hardening his tone and gaze. ‘Likewise the sheep-punchers. All of you with your hands behind your backs. Anyone tries anythin’ stupid the whole lot of you’ll go to a real hot place. You know what I mean?’
‘Like hell?’ Edge said evenly, and did as Denby had instructed.
‘That’s where all sheepmen are bound,’ Al Reece growled, and vented a short, harsh laugh as Craig, Bassett and Smith imitated the half-breed’s actions.
‘You gonna shoot us in the back?’ Bassett asked miserably.
‘Could have killed us outside,’ Edge reminded.
Smith released a long, pent-up breath in a sigh of relief. ‘Hey, that’s right.’
‘Just keep hoping all that luck you’ve been having holds out, feller,’ the half-breed told him.
Their approach to the line shack had been seen from a distance, giving the Lassiter hands time to prepare for the unwelcome guests. For lengths of rope cut from a lariat were immediately available to tie the prisoners’ wrists behind their backs. And a fire was already laid in the stove—required just the striking of a match by Denby to bring it to warm life after the four newcomers had been tied up.
‘Turn around now,’ Denby ordered. ‘Get their guns, Al.’
The two men in command were still ill at ease. And remained so even after Reece had unfastened the prisoners’ coats and taken revolvers from the exposed holsters. Three Colts and Edge’s Remington. Reece held the surfeit of guns awkwardly, unsure what to do with them. His hands trembled a little.
‘Good,’ Denby said, but his sourly anxious expression suggested he thought things could be much better. ‘Each of you take a bunk and get on to it. Lay down.’
Reece scuttled out of the way as Edge moved and the sheepmen again took their cue from the half-breed. Reece dropped the revolvers heavily to the boarded floor of the shack and reclaimed his Winchester. His jangling nerves even showed in the clumsy way he gripped the rifle.
Edge and Craig took the two lower bunks leaving Bassett and Smith the difficult task of reaching the upper ones without the use of their hands. Reece, on the instructions of the more composed Denby, gave the two men a boost. All four prisoners lay on their sides, their discomfort and disenchantment with the overall situation eased a little by the act of resting in shelter from the storm. And, already, the heat from the recently lit stove had warmed the air and was causing steam to rise from snow dampened clothing.
‘What’s this all about, Denby?’ Owen Craig asked, trying to inject hardness into his tone and failing dismally.
Now that his prisoners were helpless, Denby’s fear was gone. But he continued to be a worried man.
‘I don’t know, and that’s the trouble,’ he answered. ‘Only thing I’m sure about is that you sheep-punchers ain’t got any right to be on Bar-M range. And I guess you ain’t gonna tell me why you are?’
‘We could beat it outta ’em, Jim!’ Reece suggested and now he was feeling better about the situation than his partner, his attitude that of a cowardly bully relishing the prospect of an easy triumph. ‘Maybe kill one of ’em to show we mean business.’
Denby eyed his partner with grim-faced distaste. ‘You wanna do that, Al? Then you wanna tell Mr. Lassiter what you done?’
Outside, the norther howled and whined around the angles of the shack’s walls. Snow slanted like a solid mass across the windows, turning midday into the depths of night and making the hurricane lamp essential.
‘I reckon the boss would be happy to hear it, Jim,’ Reece said, but his tone lacked force and his bristled face showed an expression revealing the full extent of his doubt.
‘Well, you’re gonna get the chance, Al,’ Denby offered, the menace of the words drawing low sounds of alarm from Bassett and Smith. Reece was perplexed for long moments, then became morose as his partner continued, addressing himself to the four men stretched out uncomfortably on the uncovered boards of the bunks. ‘Me and Al been out fixin’ the west boundary fence for more than a week. Which means we’re kinda outta touch with what’s been happenin’.
‘I guess you guys could fill me in. But I ain’t about to ask. On account of you’d lie if you’ve been rubbin’ Mr. Lassiter up the wrong way. And I wouldn’t believe you if you told me everythin’ was hunky-dory between you and the boss.’
‘So what we gonna do with ’em, Jim?’ Reece muttered.
‘Keep them here, Al. Soon as this shitty weather stops I’ll ride for the big house and tell the boss what we got. You’ll stay with them. Be up to you then—if you want to do any beatin’ up or killin’ before I get back with the real word.’
‘Sounds like one hell of a waste of time, Jim,’ Reece growled.
‘Time’s somethin’ we got plenty of, Al.’
‘Our horses ain’t,’ Edge said flatly. ‘Unless they get put under cover.’
‘Do that thing, Al.’
‘Shit, why me?’
‘Because I don’t want you to get trigger happy while I’m still around here, that’s why,’ Denby rasped. ‘Do like you’re told, Al.’
Reece complied, muttering curses to himself as he went to the door, turning up his coat collar and jamming his hat harder on his head. Wind curled through the momentarily open door, scattering short lived snowflakes across the floor and belching a billow of black, acrid smoke from under the lid of the stove.
Edge pushed his bound wrists to the right side of his body and rolled on to his back. He scraped the back of his head against the bunk boards to tip the brim of his hat down over his face. His narrowed eyes peered into the self-imposed darkness and he contemplated death, feeling no bitterness that a decision taken without a practical reason had triggered the events which had brought him to the line shack. In his new position on the bunk, the pouched straight razor which he wore from the beaded thong around his neck pressed uncomfortably against the top of his spine, as useless to him now as the Remington on the floor and the Winchester in the boot outside.
‘You still won’t be able to sleep nights, Denby,’ Owen Craig accused.
‘What’s that, sheep-puncher?’ the Lassiter hand rasped.
‘You know there’s a good chance Reece’ll kill us all after you’re gone. He ain’t got all his marbles and he hates sheepmen more than anyone else on the Bar-M.’
‘Sure I know Al ain’t so bright,’ Denby allowed. ‘Which is why I can’t send him up to the big house. He’ll likely take a wrong turn and end up in El Paso before he figures it.’
‘So you’ll leave him here to have his crazy fun with us. But you’ll be just as much to blame for what happens as him.’
‘Shuddup, sheep-puncher,’ Denby ordered harshly, his tone springing from the raw nerve that had been touched. ‘And all three of you can quit givin’ me the evil eye the way you are. Turn over and go to sleep like the big guy, why don’t you?’
‘Not sleeping, feller,’ Edge corrected evenly. ‘Just thinking.’
‘Best you start to prayin’, son,’ Craig advised. ‘Makin’ your peace with the Almighty before that maniac Reece runs you outta time.’
‘Maybe the bastard got kicked in the head by a horse and is freezin’ to death,’ Bassett offered miserably from the bunk above where Edge was sprawled.
‘That’s what’s called wishful, thinkin’, Lonny,’ Craig growled. ‘Guess that ain’t the kind that our new buddy’s doin’, right son?’
‘Right, feller,’ the half-breed confirmed. ‘Was just thinking that this Christmas would have been better with less shepherds and more wise men.’
Outside, a woman screamed and a man yelled a curse. The voices seemed to come from a long way off. But all the men in the line shack were familiar with the tricks which falling snow could play with sound.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Denby blurted, and swung his rifle to cover the door.
‘No, feller,’ Edge rasped, and moved his head more violently
to tip the hat off his face. ‘That was no heavenly choir.’
His glinting gaze found the door just as it was kicked open by a booted foot. And, like the others, he saw just swirling flakes of snow filling the doorway and scattering inside for a stretched second. Then a man materialized, stepping across the threshold to sweep fear-filled eyes over the faces of the men staring at him. A rotund, red-faced, fifty-year-old man, ill-clothed for the blizzard in the cassock, turned around collar and low crowned hat of a priest. His protruding lips quivered and his weak looking dark eyes seemed on the point of shedding tears as he gasped:
‘I knew we’d come the wrong way.’
‘No sweat, father,’ Edge muttered. ‘No one ever got killed for making a clerical error.’
Chapter Five
HE stumbled further into the shack and almost fell, an un-Godly curse ripping from his fat lips. The cause of his near headlong entrance was a woman, shoved hard from behind to crash into him.
‘Inside, I told you!’ Al Reece snarled. And stepped across the threshold, kicking the door closed as violently as he had opened it.
‘Just what in hell is goin’ on here?’ Denby demanded, sharing his angry and puzzled gaze between his partner and the two unexpected newcomers. ‘You wanna tell me that, Al?’
The woman still retained something of her former beauty, but living a hard life in tough places had robbed her of more than she had been allowed to keep. She was probably not yet thirty but looked close to being used up. A dyed blonde with brown eyes not quite so dark as the half circles of sagging flesh beneath them. It was in her bone structure that traces of facial beauty still lingered, and also in the regular shape of her nose and the swell without complete fullness of her lips. Her sallow complexion would quickly improve with a few long days in the southern sun.
Despite the ravages which time had wrought, she still possessed a striking body vividly shown by the tight-bodiced, low-necklined dress of stained white which she wore—more unsuited to the weather than the garb of her unlikely companion. The priest looked even shorter than at first, as he stood beside her six feet tall, sensually statuesque frame, his head reaching just above the half-exposed semi-orbs of her wet, goose-bumped breasts.
EDGE: Eve of Evil (Edge series Book 28) Page 5
