EDGE: The Prisoners

by George G. Gilman

  The softly spoken words drew every pair of eyes toward the speaker. Then they shifted to look at the point in the room which held the unemotional attention of Edge. Were staring fixedly at the archway behind the counter as Kate Ford stepped slowly through it, an old 54-bore Tranter percussion revolver held rock steady in front of her face in a double handed grip. Aimed at Clyde’s head over a range of six feet, that closed to three before she halted.

  Clyde was abruptly like a carved statue. But unlike a statue, he had pores in his suddenly haggard face that oozed sweat beads.

  Dave, Ward and Sonny had frozen just as rigidly at the side of the rocker in which Straw sat. The right hand of each man held close to his holstered Colt Army Model, fingers bent at the start of a curl for a draw.

  ‘You better give me a good reason not to, mister,’ the savagely grimacing woman said, her tone as hard as granite.

  ‘Nice sunny day outside, ma’am. And I figure it would make it for you to blow out his brains. But there’ll be a whole lot of dark nights when it won’t be the fault of the cold you’ll wake up shivering.’

  ‘The man’s right, Kate,’ her husband forced out hoarsely between quaking lips.

  Clyde turned his head to stare along the barrel of the big old Tranter and into the face of the woman behind the gun. To his terror filled eyes it seemed that the oiled gun metal and the sweat tacky flesh were constructed of materials of equal hardness.

  ‘Please, ma’am,’ he croaked.

  ‘Clyde, tell us!’ Dave pleaded helplessly as he raked his eyes from his friend at the counter, to those at his sides, to Edge.

  ‘Get out,’ Clyde ordered, intending it to be a snarled order. But the words emerged from his fear constricted throat as an imploring whisper. ‘Get out and don’t try nothin’.’

  ‘Sure, Clyde. Sure. Come on, you guys.’ This from Ward, who started across the threshold, tugging at Sonny’s shirt sleeve.

  Sonny submitted to the urging, but Dave remained where he was, his right hand still close to the holstered gun. Doubt was deeply inscribed into the tanned flesh of his face.

  ‘The lady’s still making up her mind, feller,’ Edge said. ‘My decision’s made. Two steps’ll take you through the doorway. After three seconds you’ll have to be carried out.’

  Dave raked his gaze towards Edge and saw the aim of the Winchester had been altered. The stock plate of the rifle was resting against the base of the man’s flat belly and the barrel was angled upwards: the muzzle in line with Dave’s heart.

  The frightened Joe Straw was leaning far to the side of the rocker on which he sat, green eyes constantly flicking along their sockets to glance at Edge and Dave, sweatingly conscious of being trapped in crossfire. Safe from Edge’s steadily aimed rifle. But what if the cowpuncher got his gun clear of the holster and cocked before he was hit?

  ‘Do it, for God’s sake!’ Clyde rasped.

  ‘Or you both get dead together!’ Kate Ford snarled.

  Dave did not so much stride from the way-station as leap. The thud of his booted feet on the stoop sounding in unison with a curse of frustrated rage.

  Straw straightened in his chair and jutted out his lower lip to direct a draught of cool air up over his face. ‘Man, oh man,’ he sighed.

  ‘They done like you wanted,’ Clyde said.

  His left hand was still extended, proffering the ten spot.

  With a grin of relief mixed with triumph, Ford snatched it from the hand. Dropped the bill on the counter top and reached cautiously forward to ease the Colt out of Clyde’s holster.

  ‘Didn’t appreciate your custom, mister, so ain’t gonna say come back.’

  It was as if Clyde was oblivious to everything in his fear filled world except the unblinking, unflinching, blank eyed face of the woman.

  She said: ‘I oughta have you strip yourself naked, boy. Then make you sing. Soprano. After I’ve cut off your balls.’

  ‘Kate!’ her husband blurted, the grin wiped from his fleshy face.

  ‘Don’t worry, Fred. I’m still thinkin’ about them long, dark nights the stranger spoke of. Go join your friends, boy.’

  Clyde seemed incapable of moving for a stretched second. Then, slowly, he turned and started toward the doorway. For three quarters of the way, he kept his head screwed around, holding his breath as he stared at the woman who tracked him with the gun in the double handed grip.

  Then Straw said bitterly: ‘If you hadn’t run off at the mouth about breeds, man, I could maybe have helped to end this differently.’

  Clyde allowed the pent up breath to rush from between his teeth. His dark eyes lost their look of fear and he directed a hate-filled stare at Edge, after just a momentary glance at the half breed Comanche.

  ‘I’ll remember you, mister,’ he spat.

  ‘Lot of people say I’m the most unforgettable character they ever met, feller.’

  Edge came up from the chair and in two strides was on the threshold a second after Clyde crossed it: out of the line of fire of the woman’s Tranter.

  The Winchester was canted to his left shoulder and his right hand hovered close to the butt of the Colt jutting from the holster.

  Dave, Ward and Sonny were standing in a disconsolate group by the water trough. Their eyes raked from the glowering Clyde to the man in the doorway. They were ready to be afraid again. But Clyde, when he joined them and started to unhitch his horse, was merely smoulderingly defiant.

  ‘Mount up,’ he growled.

  He swung into his saddle and waited for the other three to follow his example. Each man had a Winchester jutting from a forward hung boot.

  ‘If nothin’ else, you sonofabitch,’ Clyde hissed, ‘you done us outta ridin’ the stage. And after four months range ridin’ with these friggin’ nags under us, we’re gonna hate you more every time we got a new blister on our asses.’

  ‘Give you a chance to find out what kind of buddies you are to each other.’

  ‘Ain’t none closer,’ Ward said vehemently.

  Edge nodded. ‘When a feller needs tending in that area, he finds out who his real friends are.’

  They thudded their spurs into the flanks of their mounts and galloped out on to the trail: to ride north ahead of a long cloud of dust. And the mule set off after them.

  Edge swung around on the threshold of the way-station and saw that Joe Straw had risen from the rocker. Gone to the counter and picked up the full shot glasses left there by Ward and Sonny.

  His good looking face was spread with a broad grin while he ignored the less menacingly aimed gun in Kate Ford’s grip and the uneasy Fred Ford.

  ‘They been bought and paid for, man,’ the half breed Comanche reminded. ‘I figure enough good liquor’s been wasted already. One each, uh?’

  Edge approached him and took one of the glasses from Straw as the man flinched away from him. ‘Never do drink hard liquor before noon, Joe.’

  Behind the grin, Straw was nervously unsure of what his captor’s reaction would be. And he quickly raised the hand of his good arm to toss the rye against the back of his throat. Then set the glass down on the counter.

  Edge handed him back the other one. And he sipped this drink, relishing the taste of the whiskey. Certain now that this privilege was not part of some cruel trick.

  With a sigh of relief, Kate Ford set the revolver down on the counter top as the tension drained out of her.

  Her husband snatched up the gun and stowed it under the counter, out of reach of Straw. Then looked at Edge with an expression of heart felt gratitude.

  ‘Is there anythin’ I can get you, mister? If there is, it’s on the house. But it won’t be enough to thank you for gettin’ rid of them drunken bums before somethin’ really bad happened to me and Kate.’

  Edge shook his head.

  ‘He don’t take kindly to being thanked, man. But if it wasn’t for me, he wouldn’t have been here most likely. And I sure as hell wouldn’t say no to a bottle of this fine whiskey.’ Straw looked eagerly from Ford
to Edge and back again.

  Edge placed a dollar bill on the counter top. ‘Two plates of whatever’s cooking, feller. I’ll buy it.’ He jerked a thumb at Straw. ‘If you want to give him a bottle of rye, that’s up to you.’

  With a shrug, Ford moved along behind the counter to the bar section, took a bottle from the shelf there and brought it back to set it down in front of the half breed Comanche.

  Straw swallowed what remained in his glass and then sprayed some of the liquor out again as a short laugh exploded from his throat when he fisted a hand around the bottle.

  ‘Man, we’re friends for life!’ he blurted.

  Edge pursed his lips, then drew them back to display a thin line of his teeth in an ice cold smile. ‘That’s fine with me, Joe,’ he drawled. ‘It’s the only kind of friendships I get into.’

  ‘What’s that, man?’ Straw asked happily as he poured himself a fresh drink.

  ‘Short ones.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  JOE Straw did not want any of the stew and potatoes that Kate Ford ladled on to plates and set down on the trestle table between the two men seated opposite each other.

  So Edge ate two helpings while his prisoner drank glass after glass of rye whiskey. And the woman completed cleaning up the mess made by the broken bottles before going back into the way-station’s private quarters.

  Fred Ford was out in the stable, feeding and currying the mare and the gelding. From time to time he cast anxious glances along the north trail: fearful the four cowpunchers might return to seek revenge for their humiliation. But they had been swallowed up by the shimmering heat haze and not a living thing could be seen moving out on the desert. After awhile, the overweight way-station manager began to make frequent surveys on the trail that ran out of the Santa Rosa Mountains. Eager for the delayed stage to arrive so that he could be rid of the taciturn half breed Mexican and his volatile part Indian prisoner. He was sure, now that he had time for calm thinking, they were a highly dangerous combination. Not intending any harm to Kate and himself, maybe. But if the fuse happened to be lit, there was no guarantee that innocent bystanders would not be hurt in the inevitable explosion. So best they be aboard the stage lost in the heat shimmer or even further away from here.

  In the way-station, Joe Straw said with an air of profundity: ‘You’re not such a bad guy, you know that, man? That kid sheriff wouldn’t have allowed me no whiskey, that’s for sure.’

  He was halfway into the bottle and had now dispensed with the glass: sucked the whiskey from the neck. Already a lot drunker than the cowpunchers had been. A fixed grin on his face. But this was abruptly curtailed and replaced by a look of bitterness.

  ‘I should’ve killed that bastard when I had the chance.’

  ‘You did, Joe.’

  He shook his head. ‘No, when I got away from him. I tell you how I did that already?’

  ‘No, feller.’

  ‘Middle of the night it was, man. We was camped by this arroyo. Him snorin’ like a hog. Me with my ankles tied and my hands tied behind my back. Hurtin’ like hell from bein’ trussed up that way for so long. But figurin’ how to get loose. Then a stick fell outta the fire. Red, glowin’ hot. Swung my legs around and put the rope to the stick. Had to kick a few more sticks loose before the rope was burned through.’

  He grinned at the remembered pleasure of success and took a long swallow of whiskey.

  ‘Lot harder to bum through the rope around my wrists, man. Had to work blind. And it cost me.’ He turned his hand holding the bottle so that Edge was able to see the scars of recent burning on the inside of his wrist. ‘Same on the other one, man. And I couldn’t even yell out in case it woke Hackman.’

  ‘Brave and smart both, Joe.’

  Straw shook his head. ‘It was smart to figure out the idea with the sticks. But then I acted dumb. Instead of sneakin’ up on Hackman and gettin’ his rifle or revolver, I went the other way to where the horses were hitched. Saddled mine and led him away real quiet. Two miles maybe before I mounted up and rode like a bat outta hell.’

  Another hefty slug from the bottle gave a slur to his voice. ‘Should’ve got one of his guns and killed him, Edge. Instead of runnin’ off the way I did. Leavin’ him alive to come after me. Real dumb, man.’

  Edge waited until more whiskey tipped down his throat before saying: ‘Or stuck him with the knife, Joe.’

  The liquor glazed and bloodshot eyes blinked across the table. ‘What, man?’

  ‘The knife you had hidden in the crease of your ass, feller.’

  The eyes briefly revealed that the half breed Comanche was troubled by the comment, which had not so much reminded him of anything - instead had brought to the surface something he preferred to remain buried. Then the tell-tale expression was gone and he took the heftiest yet drink from the bottle. Left just a quarter inch of whiskey in the bottom.

  Now'directed a challenging look into the impassive face of his captor. ‘So all right, man! And I wouldn’t’ve had to get close to do that! I could throw that knife better than most guys can shoot a pistol!’

  He drained the bottle dry and waved it in the air. ‘You figure we helped them enough to deserve another?’

  ‘I know you did,’ Kate Ford announced on cue, as she emerged from the archway, her face freshly washed and her hair neatly combed, wearing a white dress that hugged her torso more closely than the previous one. ‘And it’s after midday now.’

  She raised the central flap to bring the bottle out from behind the counter, her made-up eyes asking tacit permission of Edge.

  He nodded and as she set the bottle down on the table, he laid a five dollar bill beside it.

  Straw grabbed the bottle and removed the stopper with his teeth.

  ‘You really are a most difficult man to express gratitude to, Mr. Edge,’ she accused reproachfully.

  ‘You got the drop on him, ma’am. I just happened to be around.’

  ‘That’s not the point, surely. Fred and me would have been in bad trouble if you had not been around. All I want to do is to show my appreciation.’

  ‘You wanna drink, man?’ Straw slurred after taking his first long swallow from the new bottle.

  ‘No, Joe.’ He shifted his gaze briefly to Kate Ford as the woman picked up the two dirty plates and eating irons. Her once pretty face had been hardened and aged by her time living on the harsh frontier, but there was a basic sensuality about the cast of her features that was more carnally attractive than mere feminine good looks. And she had taken care of her lithe, high breasted body. She sensed his glancing survey and met his eyes: glinting slits of blue under hooded lids. ‘If it wasn’t for Fred, maybe you could, ma’am,’ he said.

  Now she smiled. Without coyness. With something close to pride. And appreciation of his unveiled compliment.

  Then her husband re-entered the way-station’s public room by the front door and she blushed guiltily and kept her face averted from him when she hurried back through the arch with the dirty dishes.

  ‘No sign of the northbound yet,’ Fred announced. And remained on the threshold, his back to the room, as he filled and lit a pipe.

  Edge rolled and lit a cigarette, reflecting without regret upon all his women before Beth and after her. There had not been many for a man of his age who had drifted over such vast distances. But then there had been more than a grain of truth in his earlier cynical comment to Joe Straw about preferring short friendships.

  Preferring them, hell. He had to curtail any relationship that involved love for a woman or regard for a man. Or have it blasted asunder by the violent actions of others.

  ‘You’ve figured me out, ain’t you, man?’ the half breed Comanche slurred in a maudlin tone, cutting into Edge’s fresh memories of a woman named Crystal Dickens. ‘You’ve filled me up with liquor to find out the friggin’ truth about me.’ Straw was swaying gently from side to side, his green eyes half closed and his mouth slack.

  ‘I have, Joe?’

  ‘Sure you ha
ve, you rotten shit. But I don’t give a frig. In a pig’s ass do I give a shit. But there’s somethin’ I want you to know, man. I sure as hell did sell my squaw of a mother down in Sonora.’

  Fred Ford snapped his head around to stare with shock, then contempt at the drunken half breed Comanche who was hunched on the bench seat, his back to the room.

  ‘Did I hear him right, mister?’

  Despite his liquor dulled senses, Straw heard the man. He made to swing around to grin at him, but was in danger of toppling to the floor, so he abandoned the attempt.

  ‘You sure did, man. And you know what I think? I think this bounty hunter here is set on seein’ me hung because of that. And you know why I think that, man?’ He paused, looking puzzled, as he lost the thread of what he was saying. Took another swig from the bottle and grinned again. ‘Now I remember! He’s hard like rock on the outside, but toasted marshmallow inside, man. He don’t give a shit that I held up the stage and blasted the dumb driver’s head off. And stuck that kid lawman with a knife. On account of he knows it was their own stupid fault they got dead.’

  ‘He makin’ the kinda sense I think he is with all this crazy talk, mister?’ Ford asked.

  ‘They say a drunk man always tells the truth, feller,’ Edge answered. ‘Know he killed two men. Way he keeps telling about selling his Ma, I figure it happened like he tells it.’

  Straw refused to release his hold around the neck of the bottle. So lowered it gently to the table and unfolded his

  forefinger to point at Edge as his grin became one of triumph. ‘Ah, but I ain’t no natural bom killer like somebody I know, man! Am I? I ain’t never killed nobody before. Old man Hackman, it was him or me.’

  Abruptly his green eyes clouded over and a tear squeezed from the comer of each and ran down his sweat greasy cheeks. ‘And it was a bad time for me afterwards, man. What you said to the woman here is right. Somebody who ain’t a killer, they pay real bad . . .’ Still gripping the bottle, he used the back of his hand to wipe the tears from his cheeks. ‘And that kid sheriff, man. That was self defense, too. It was either the knife in his guts or a rope around my neck. And the sonofabitch kept comin’ after me, didn’t he? If I was a natural bom killer, I’d have stuck him when I got away from him, wouldn’t I? Or sneaked one of his guns and shot him while he was asleep. But I couldn’t friggin’ do that. And look where it’s got me?’