EDGE: The Prisoners

by George G. Gilman

  ‘No, feller.’

  ‘Right. That’s right. And I can’t see the sense in what you’re doin’, man.’ Another backward glance, and this time Straw expressed bewilderment with a shake of his head. ‘You know what I’d do if I was you and you was me?’

  ‘Kill me and haul my carcass to the nearest town where the sheriff had a wanted flyer on me. Keep the stolen money and swear I’d spent it before you found me.’

  Another grin, which expanded to a short laugh, until the unblinking coldness in the eyes of Edge sparked renewed fear within the man. Straw swallowed hard and tried to force humor back into his voice and across his face.

  ‘Shit, man. I sure hope I ain’t given you the idea to do that?’

  ‘You ain’t given me anything but a well paid reason to ride this trail.’

  Straw did a hard double take at Edge and decided he was telling the truth. The man would not hesitate to kill him if the circumstances were right for that. But he would not do so in cold blood.

  ‘You got me wrong, man. I wouldn’t do that at all. I’d just dump you and take off with both horses and the money from the hold up. To hell with goin’ all the way up to Crater for a lousy thousand bucks when I already got near two grand. And I wouldn’t kill you. Old man Hackman and his boy? Hell, man, it was them or me. I ain’t the kind that kills people without no good reason.’

  ‘Gives us some common ground, feller. So best you don’t give me any reason to put you six feet under it.’

  ‘Here or in Potter’s Field at Crater, man,’ Straw countered morosely. ‘What’s the friggin’ difference?’

  ‘Just where you die. And how.’

  ‘You’d haul my stinkin’ corpse all the way up into Colorado, man?’

  ‘Only way I could be certain of getting the thousand dollars for you.’

  ‘You must be friggin’ hard up for a buck, man!’

  ‘Ain’t that.’

  Straw turned in the saddle to direct scorn at Edge: ‘So you lied to that dumb cluck of a sheriff? You do feel bad about givin’ me the chance to stick the bastard!’

  ‘No, feller. Feel bad that he didn’t get to do what he most wanted before he died.’

  ‘What the frig, man?’ Straw snarled. ‘You never did see him nor me until today. What’s it matter to you what he

  wanted? He’s buzzard meat now! What about what I want?’ ‘Lost a kid brother once. Then a wife- ’

  ‘Friggin’ careless of you, man!’

  ‘Yeah, it was,’ Edge came back evenly, accepting Straw’s embittered black humor as a serious comment. ‘Both times I could have done something to keep them from dying. Got the men who killed Jamie. Way it turned out, I killed Beth myself. Ran into a lot of Indian trouble and I could have wound up dead. If I had, never was anybody around to take care of my unfinished business.’

  ‘That’s crazy, you know that?’

  Having snarled this, Straw remained silent and facing front for several minutes. Then he abruptly whirled in the saddle again.

  ‘Stark ravin’ friggin’ crazy, man! If it was you killed your wife, all you got to do is bite on the muzzle of a gun and pull the friggin’ trigger!’

  ‘I thought about it once, feller.’

  Again the half breed Comanche stared silently at the trail ahead in deep thought. Then said with less intensity: ‘But you ain’t got the guts to do it. So you ride around the friggin’ country settin’ yourself up for some other guy to give you what you figure you got cornin’ to you?’

  ‘You could be right.’

  ‘Could be nothin’, man. Well, you just got lucky. The hangin’ rope waitin’ for me at the end of the line is reason enough for me to kill you. All I need now is the same kinda chance you give me to put that blade into Hackman’s guts. And I’ll be real happy to oblige you.’

  On this occasion, Joe Straw had set the mind of Edge on a train of thought. Concerning the magnetic-like force that drew him relentlessly toward the violent troubles of other people.

  Fate had nothing to do with it. Instead, a deep seated guilt ordained his destiny. He was as much to blame for the way in which Jamie died as he was for the manner of Beth’s end. And he had always known this. But had sought to make excuses for what he did in the wake of the tragedies - claimed to himself that he was being punished by some ethereal power over which he had no control. While all the time he was motivated by the need to commit suicide by proxy. Which meant the sole reason for his life was to seek death.

  But if that was so why did he, after embroiling himself in each new kill or be killed situation, do his lethal best to survive at the expense of other people’s lives?

  ‘Set you to thinkin’, uh, man?’ Joe Straw growled sneeringly. ‘Common ground, shit! You and me ain’t no way alike. Live for the day is what I do. And never have no regrets about what I had to do to get through each one of them.’

  He looked back for a response, but drew none from the silent and implacable man riding behind him.

  ‘Got you pegged, Edge. Hard as friggin’ granite on the outside. But soft as marshmallow underneath. And that makes you dumb, man. Dumber even than that kid sheriff. Least he had good reason to want to bring me to Crater alive. So he could see me kickin’ at the end of a rope in front of all his buddies. And the buddies of his old man who I killed. I can understand that. Even respect him for it. But you, you mixed-up sonofabitch, you’re just usin’ me to prove somethin’ to yourself.’

  Edge drew back his lips to show the fast talking half breed Comanche a cold smile that caused, a puzzled frown to spread across Straw’s face.

  ‘You through testing me, feller?’

  ‘What, man?’

  ‘Like you said awhile back, me or the Crater hangman. You’ve got nothing to lose. Now you know you can’t rile me into a move against you. So you’ll have to figure out something different for when the time is right.’

  ‘Don’t you think I friggin’ won’t!’

  He turned to face front again with the speed of anger, and his injured arm swung with the momentum, forcing a groan of pain from between his gritted teeth.

  ‘Seems you rile real easy, Joe.’

  The silence was of a different kind now. Sullen on the part of the half breed Comanche. Easy from the point of view of Edge who, having reached the conclusion of a question at the end of the line of thought started by Straw, was content to let events provide the answer.

  The afternoon ran its course and the heat shimmer lifted its sheened veil from the long valley. In the twilight that heralded the evening the riders could see where the trail swung eastwards to curve up the slope toward a gap between two jagged ridges.

  At the point where the trail left the valley floor Straw broke the silence. ‘We gonna ride all friggin9 night, man?9

  The sun had sunk behind the high ground to the south west but the sky was still lit by the glow of its setting.

  ‘We’ll find a place to bed down up on the high ground, feller.’

  Then looked harder and longer at the gap between the ridges: saw a patch of grey smoke smudging the darkening sky.

  Straw peered in the same direction and said: ‘Seems we could have company up there.’ Looked back at Edge and asked with a grin: ‘Gonna change your mind, man?’

  ‘Keep riding. Why should I do that?9

  ‘On account that whoever’s just started that fire could be more ready to make deals than you are.9

  ‘Tell you something, Joe.’

  ‘What’s that, man?’

  ‘Easier to rile me than to scare me.’

  Straw did not look around again: kept his attention fixed upon the pass as full night closed in over the mountains so that the smoke could no longer be seen. The fire, if it was out in the open, was not large enough to give off a glow that could be seen from this distance.

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ the half breed Comanche said at length, the apprehensiveness - visible in his rigid posture astride the saddle - sounding in his tense voice. ‘You’re armed and beh
ind me. They could be dry-gulchers up there. The kind that shoot first and then find out what kinda people it is they’ve shot.’

  ‘For a feller that claims to live for the day, you sure are a worrier, Joe,’ Edge drawled.

  ‘I got friggin’ cause, ain’t I? Ridin’ with a crazy man who’s got a death wish. And me with nothin’ to protect myself with.’

  Still he concentrated his anxious attention on the gap in the high ground which was starting to be illuminated by the light of the rising new moon. And now he kept his voice to a hoarse whisper, as if afraid his protest would carry the half a mile to the pass.

  ‘You’re wrong, feller.’

  ‘Keep your damn voice down,’ Straw snarled softly.

  ‘You got me to protect you,’ Edge said at the same level as before.

  The half breed Comanche whirled in the saddle again, his face contorted by a scowl that was part fear, part rage and part derision.

  ‘Shit, man!’ he rasped.

  ‘I ain’t got the need, feller. But unless you want them to smell us before they hear us, best you keep a tight ass.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  STRAW remained in a state of high tension until he and Edge rode to the top of the grade and reined in their horses. Were able to look along the trail that ran northwards on a slight downslope with a sheer rock escarpment rising to fifty feet on the left and an equally steep drop of twice this much to the right. This ledge was two trail widths wide and ran for perhaps a quarter mile before it broadened out into an expansive hillside littered with countless chunks of rock, falling away to reach down to the narrow stream that hugged the base of the cliff and fed a pool at the lowest point of the rocky hill.

  The fire was built in an arc of rocks where the ledge broadened on to the hill and in its glow Edge and Joe Straw could see two men and a mule.

  The animal had been relieved of its burden of packs and was hobbled. One of the men was in process of pouring two cups of coffee and the other was stirring the contents of a cooking pot over the fire when the riders at the pass first saw them. Both of them were short of stature, with beards and stooped shoulders. And the slowness of their movements further suggested that they were old timers.

  ‘Prospectors, looks like,’ Straw said, still whispering. ‘Their kind can be real unfriendly sonsofbitches.’

  Edge made a one handed bullhorn around his mouth and yelled: ‘Hey, you fellers welcome strangers?’

  Both men were drinking coffee by this time. And they hurled down their cups and dropped hands to drape holstered revolvers as they wrenched their heads around to peer up at the pass.

  This as Joe Straw vented a cry of alarm at Edge’s shout and the men’s response: then made to jerk at his reins and turn his mount. Edge had drawn up alongside his prisoner to the left. And swung his right arm up and across, fingers of the hand stretched out straight and stiff. To land a sharp, edge-of-the-hand blow against the poisoned and blood- crusted area of Straw’s swollen upper arm.

  The half breed Comanche’s shrill scream of agony was amplified by the echo effect between the rock faces flanking the pass. Then there was the wet sound of vomit as the fear and pain erupted in an evil smelling stream of half digested food from the man’s stomach and spewed out of his gaping mouth. He pitched sideways off the horse and was unconscious before he crashed to the ground and rolled over on to his side.

  By which time the hand which delivered the blow had streaked forward to grip the reins released by Straw. And the turn of the gelding was halted.

  ‘What the hell is going on up there?’ one of the men among the rocks roared, his voice broad with a Scottish accent.

  ‘Nothing for you fellers to worry about!’ Edge called back. ‘Long as you don’t draw those handguns against me!’

  ‘Talk sense, Yank,’ the other prospector countered, his accent revealing the same Scottish nationality.

  Both voices confirmed the initial impressions that the men bathed in fireglow and moonlight were not young.

  ‘Listen and it has to make sense to you! You can aim those revolvers at me, but you won’t have any chance of dropping me at this range! And anyone aims a gun at me after I’ve told him not to, I kill him!’

  While Edge’s shouted words were still resounding between the cliff faces to either side, the two men exchanged brief words of their own, not loud enough to carry up the trail to the pass.

  Then: ‘What it is you want of us, stranger?’

  ‘A share of your fire is all! Or if we ain’t welcome, no trouble!’

  ‘What’d you do to the man with you, stranger?’

  ‘You fellers scared him! I calmed him down!’

  There was another brief, low-voiced exchange between the pair of prospectors while Straw breathed regularly and Edge waited patiently.

  ‘All right, Yank! You can visit with us and be welcome! Angus and I have no desire for trouble! But we are not without experience of dealing with it if it comes unbidden!’

  ‘Obliged!’ Edge responded, and swung out of his saddle. Then hefted the limp form of Joe Straw up from the ground and draped him face down over the saddle of the gelding. Took hold of the reins of both horses in his left hand and started to lead them along the trail on the ledge.

  His right hand swung slightly at his side, never more than a few inches from the butt of the Frontier Colt jutting from his holster.

  Neither Scotsman was touching his revolver now, but both were obviously tense and ready to draw should the approaching stranger do so.

  The hooves of the horses thudded on the trail, the fire crackled and, down at the foot of the sheer drop, the stream made muted trickling noises.

  The tension increased as each man realized the gap was reduced to effective revolver range.

  Edge saw that Angus and his partner were past sixty years of age. Angus was a head shorter at about five feet. Slightly built but with a suggestion of wiry strength in his frame which was clothed in a ragged checked shirt, a suit jacket and unmatched pants tucked into knee high boots. On his head was an ancient army forage cap with the insignia missing.

  The taller Scot was powerfully built and the muscles of his chest bulged the undershirt which was all he wore beneath a sheepskin coat. The cuffs of his pants were worn outside his boots. His hat was of the Texas style.

  The men’s flesh was as filthy as their clothing and the grey beards that left only their upper cheeks, eyes and brows exposed were matted and unkempt. They smelled bad, but no worse than the half breed Comanche.

  Edge raised his right hand away from the holstered gun and touched the brim of his hat. ‘Evening to you,’ he greeted evenly.

  ‘And you, Yank. This is Angus Stewart and I am called Robert McBride.’

  ‘Edge. The one sleeping is Joe Straw.’

  He had led the two horses into the circle of firelight within the arc of rocks. Now halted and released the reins, turned to lift the unconscious man down from the saddle.

  ‘It’s an Indian, Robert!’ Stewart exclaimed with unpleasant surprise.

  ‘Half breed,’ Edge corrected as he lowered Straw gently to the ground, on his back.

  ‘We offer no hospitality to any variety of Indian,’ McBride said grimly.

  Edge straightened up. ‘He killed the driver of a stage. I’m taking him back to where it happened so he can be hanged.’

  McBride shot a questioning glance at Stewart and received a shrug.

  ‘In that case, Mr. Edge, we will make an exception. We have coffee to share. It would be better for us if you have your own food to add to the cooking pot.’

  ‘No sweat.’

  Edge led the horses over to where the mule was hobbled and removed their saddles. He hobbled them and carried both sets of gear back to the side of the fire, where the two Scots were seated on the mule packs, drinking coffee and dividing their curious attention between Edge and Straw.

  ‘What’s in the pot?’

  ‘Beans and black eyed peas,’ Stewart answered.

  Edg
e dropped the gear and unfastened one of his own saddlebags. ‘Let’s live it up a little,’ he said and tossed some cubes of dried meat into the steaming pot of vegetables. Then, watched with increasing curiosity by the prospectors, he took out his own cooking pot, filled it with water from a canteen and set it on the fire.

  ‘You will not drink our coffee?’ McBride asked sourly.

  ‘Be a pleasure,’ Edge told him, and filled his own cup from the pot on the fringe of the fire. He sat on the rock hard ground and leaned gratefully against the pile of gear, taking a sip of the strong, black coffee before explaining with a wave of his free hand: ‘He’s got a bullet hole in his arm. Past time when it should have been cleaned up.’

  McBride nodded after a longer look at the prostrate Straw. ‘That explains how you felled him with a single blow up there.’

  ‘You are a lawman, Mr. Edge?’ Stewart asked.

  ‘No, feller.’

  ‘But you said you were taking him back to face the gallows?’

  ‘As a favour to a lawman he killed.’

  ‘There is a bounty on him,’ McBride guessed.

  ‘That, too.’

  ‘A large bounty?’ Stewart asked quickly, and received a glowering glance from his partner.

  Edge showed a cold grin that caused his eyes and teeth to glitter in the firelight. ‘No gold in these here hills?’

  Stewart hastened to place a different interpretation on his query. ‘Do not misunderstand me, laddie. I have good cause to hate Indians. When Robert and I came here from Edinburgh my wife was with us. In the Dakotas Black Hills our claim was raided by Indians. A year ago almost to the day. Elizabeth was no longer young. But that did not prevent the savages from taking her by turns. It was of shame that she died, not a week later.’

  ‘We were away from the claim, hunting food, when it happened,’ McBride added quickly as he saw the cold grin leave Edge’s features, displaced by a tight lipped, narrow eyed expression of deeply felt bitterness.

  ‘They were full blooded Sioux in that part of the country,’ he rasped. ‘I told you fellers Straw’s a half breed. Indian half Comanche or maybe Apache.’