EDGE: The Prisoners

by George G. Gilman

  He tilted back his head and raised the bottle, sucking in the liquor with the greed of a dehydrated man getting his first drink of water after long days in an arid desert, while the tears coursed down his cheeks unchecked.

  And it had the inevitable effect - the bottle was not quite drained dry before this fresh intake of raw whiskey attacked his brain already dulled by earlier indulgence - he passed out. Would have crashed backwards off the seat and on to the floor had not Edge reached across the table with both hands. One to fist around the bottle and the other to catch hold of one side of the Comanche waistcoat.

  He set the bottle down on the table and eased the unconscious man gently forward to prevent him falling: slumped his head, torso and good arm across the table.

  ‘He sounds like he’s ashamed of havin’ decent feelin’s, mister,’ Fred Ford muttered with a shake of his head. ‘And yet proud of sellin’ his own mother.’

  ‘Everybody’s different, feller,’ Edge answered as he rose to go around to the other side of the table. ‘No matter how much they try to be like somebody else.’

  The pipe smoking way-station manager caught his breath when he saw Edge take the straight razor from the neck pouch. Then was merely intrigued as he watched the man use it to cut away the blanket binding around Straw’s upper left arm.

  The half breed Comanche was lucky. The entry and exit wounds were clean of poison and the arm was not swollen to suggest internal infection from dirt or a dislodged piece of bone. The punctured flesh was puckered and looked sore, that was all.

  4We got salve and bandages in stock, mister.’

  ‘He’ll be okay without.’

  Edge got his Winchester from where it leaned against the wall and went to the doorway. Ford backed out in front of him.

  ‘Sellin’ your own mother. That’s terrible.’ Ford’s fleshy face Wore an expression that came close to physical pain. ‘God, he deserves to be hanged for that.’

  Edge arced his cigarette into the water trough. ‘That’s what he thinks I think, feller.’

  ‘And don’t you, mister?’

  ‘No. I figure it’s the only thing he ever did in his life that’s in keeping with the kind of feller he’d like to be.’

  ‘Like you?’ Ford swallowed hard and gazed apprehensively at Edge, afraid he may have overstepped the mark.

  ‘Maybe,’ was the quiet, evenly spoken response.

  ‘You mean you would . . .’ The way-station manager decided not to finish the query. Even though Edge’s impassive expression did not alter to warn him against it.

  ‘A man does what he has to. Even when I know all the circumstances, I never judge him. Unless he’s planning to keep me from doing what I have to.’

  Ford shook his head. ‘That don’t add up, mister. If he’s done all you and him says he has, he deserves to be strung up, like I said. And you ain’t the judge, nor the jury nor the hangman. Not even a lawman, way I heard it. Yet you’re takin’ him back to be hung. And doin’ your best to keep him alive so he’ll swing, seems to me.’

  Edge sat down on the stoop, feet on the hard packed area fronting the way-station. In such a position that he could glance over his shoulder and see where the deeply breathing Joe Straw was sprawled across the table at the rear of the room.

  ‘There’s a price on his head. What I have to do is collect it.’

  Ford blew out a stream of smoke with a sigh, then knocked the ash from his pipe on one of the hitching rail support posts.

  ‘There’s a whole lot better ways of makin’ a dollar, mister. And seems to me you don’t much enjoy the line of work you’re in.’

  Kate Ford spoke from behind the counter, and revealed she had been there for some time. ‘Now you’re makin’ judgments, Fred. On a man who saved us from God knows what.’

  Her husband shook his head. ‘Ain’t no denyin’ that he done that, Kate. But it was just our good fortune them four drunks started to rile him. It wasn’t on purpose he helped us. Right, mister?’

  Edge was gazing out along the southern stretch of the trail into the mountains. Grunted softly when he was sure it was the stage he could see in the distance. Answered: ‘Didn’t have anything here I haven’t paid for.’

  ‘With blood money, I’ll be bound.’

  ‘You’re bound to take it. It’s the only kind I’ve got.’

  Now the older man saw the stage to the south and growled: ‘Here she comes, Kate. I’ll go get the fresh team.’

  There was angry contempt in his gait as he headed across the gateway of the corral and swung into the stable.

  ‘I don’t care what Fred says, mister,’ the woman said vehemently as Edge rose to his feet and she crossed to stir the pots of simmering food. ‘I give you full credit for - ’

  ‘Don’t need it, Mrs. Ford,’ he interrupted. ‘Like I just told him. I’ve paid for everything I’ve had.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE ancient and worse-for-wear Concord was hauled off the trail and on to the area fronting the way-station by a team of four weary horses. And rolled to a halt with little raising of dust.

  ‘You’re real late today Charlie!’ Fred Ford called after the horses had stopped snorting and the timber and harness ceased to creak.

  ‘On account of the dead we had to bury, Fred,’ the bearded, wrinkled old-timer holding the reins answered sourly, and directed a stream of dust stained saliva at the ground.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Right, Fred,’ the clean shaven, equally old man riding shotgun supplied as he eased himself down from the seat ahead of the driver. ‘Three of them. Young sheriff with a knife in his belly and two guys looked like they was pros - ’

  ‘After seeing for myself, Mr. Dodds, I have no wish to listen to you relate the gory details, if you please.’ She was perhaps ten years older than the driver and shotgun, who were in their early sixties. Her hair was greyer and her skin was more heavily marked with wrinkles. The scowl that was on her face as she peered through wire frame spectacles and out of the open window of the stage door looked like it was a more or less permanent fixture on her angular features. ‘Kindly let me out of this coach so that I may rest and refresh myself.’

  Dodds muttered something under his breath that was probably a curse, but opened the door and offered a hand to help the old lady down from the Concord.

  She was on the ground and two middle-aged, soft looking men were emerging behind her when she caught sight of the figures at the way-station doorway and gave vent to a squeal of alarm.

  ‘Dear God in Heaven, another one!’ she exclaimed shrilly as Dodds, the driver and her two fellow passengers saw what it was that had upset her.

  Edge, with the Winchester canted to his left shoulder and the unconscious Joe Straw slumped face down over the right one.

  ‘Dead drunk is all he is, ma’am,’ came the even voiced reply as Edge stepped off the threshold, down from the stoop and carried his burden toward the stage.

  The group blocking the way to the open door divided to allow him through.

  ‘And he is to be allowed to ride on the coach?’

  The driver and shotgun shuffled off in response to an urgent beckoning gesture from Fred Ford, while the two male passengers hurriedly made for the way-station. The old lady stayed where she was, head cocked to catch a glimpse of Straw’s face.

  ‘I’ll be along to see he causes no trouble, ma’am,’ Edge told her as he half entered the Concord to deposit the oblivious Straw on a comer seat.

  ‘I thought so! From the way he is dressed! That man is an Indian!’

  ‘You’re half right, ma’am. His Pa was Irish. You have something against Indians?’

  ‘Certainly not! I am chairwoman of the Tucson Branch of the Red and White Association, young man. An organization founded to promote mutual understanding between the Indians and ourselves. And those of mixed blood are of special concern to us because they attract mistrust from both . . .’ She broke off and stared hard at Edge. Then demanded shrilly: ‘What are you doing t
o him?’

  Edge had taken from a pants pocket a ball of twine borrowed from Kate Ford. Next climbed aboard the Concord and sat down opposite Straw. Now leaned across and began to bind the hands of the unconscious man together.

  ‘I’m tying him up, ma’am.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s due to be hung, so he’s anxious to escape.’

  ‘He’s a criminal?’

  ‘A killer.’

  ‘You are not a lawman?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  She was perturbed by the revelations about Straw. And tried to look more closely at the face of the half breed Comanche - as if she felt it might show confirmation that what Edge said was true. But she glimpsed just his profile while his chin was slumped down on to his chest. So she gazed quizzically at Edge.

  ‘You do not look like an officer of the courts. And such a man would hardly allow a prisoner to get passing out drunk.’ She nodded as the facts supplied the obvious answers to her rhetorical questions. Then spoke more firmly. ‘That man has not been tried and convicted, has he? You are in process of delivering him to the locality where he is alleged to have committed the crimes? For financial reward, no doubt?’

  Edge had tied the knots. Now sat back in his seat, took out a ready rolled cigarette and struck a match. Used the flame to burn through the twine before he lit the cigarette. Then replied: ‘That’s exactly right, ma’am.’

  The woman nodded again, and uttered a throaty grunt. ‘We have to deal with many cases of mistreatment to Indians by whites while the poor wretches are awaiting court proceedings, young man. ’

  ‘It was his idea to get this drunk,’ Edge said as he climbed out of the stage and closed the door.

  She grimaced. ‘If the man chooses to get into such a state, that is up to him. But for as long as we are to share this journey, I would ask that you observe his human rights. You should not prejudge the outcome of his trial and therefore you should treat him with dignity and - ’

  Edge, the Winchester canted to his shoulder, swung away from her and headed for the stable. Where Fred Ford was leading out the fresh team while Charlie and Dodds were putting the trail weary horses into stalls.

  The woman snorted her disgust, picked up the skirts of her severe black dress and hurried into the way-station, muttering under her breath.

  ‘That’s Mrs. Dora Naulty, mister,’ Charlie growled. ‘Always figured my wife for a talker, but that one . . . ’

  ‘She can run off at the mouth all she likes, so long as she ain’t spoutin’ orders at me,’ Dodds said sourly while Charlie was shaking his head.

  ‘How long before stage time?’ Edge asked.

  ‘Fifteen minutes at the most, mister,’ the bearded driver answered. And shot a sidelong glance at Edge. ‘We lost a lot of time buryin’ those dead fellers because Mrs. Naulty told us we had to.’

  Edge was easing the black gelding and mare out of their stalls.

  ‘Fred told me and Harry the half breed killed the lawman.’

  ‘Wasn’t much of him left to put in the ground,’ the shotgun added. ‘Pretty tom up by the buzzards. Him and the horse both. The two old guys at the bottom of the cliff this side of the pass, they wasn’t too - ’

  ‘I killed them,’ Edge supplied after checking the saddlebag to see that the stolen money was still there.

  ‘You did?’ Charlie said nervously.

  ‘Them or me.’

  ‘Come on, Harry. Let’s go grab a bite of Kate’s grub.’

  They left the stable with several surreptitious glances at Edge, who ignored them as he put the reins on the two horses and then draped the saddles over their backs. But did not fasten the cinches.

  He led them out into the bright sunlight, hitched the reins to the rear of the Concord and heaved the saddles and bedrolls up on to the roof, among the baggage of the other three passengers. Then he climbed back into the stage and sat down opposite the still oblivious Straw. He rested the stock of the Winchester on the floor and gripped the barrel between his thighs. He smoked the cigarette and waited patiently, listening to the deep and regular breathing of his prisoner and to the buzz of talk that filtered out through the way-station doorway - this accompanied by the scraping of eating irons on tin plates. And allowed his mind free rein: was impassively content when memories of Crystal Dickens filled it.

  She had been so unlike Beth, yet of all the women he had known since the death of his wife, she had impressed him the most. Impressed him as a possible replacement for Beth? Certainly for a long time she saw herself as such. At Irving, Texas. And Ventura, Utah. At both places and on the trail between them she had constantly tested him and made one compromise after another to become what she considered the kind of woman he wanted.

  While he gave not an inch: and in the process of losing her made her into a thief.

  He had thought about her not at all as he rode south from Ventura and she headed north - he going nowhere and she intent upon returning to the familiar surroundings she left to search for him. Did she get there? he wondered. Was she able to spend the stolen money without any pangs of guilt? Thinking.of it as no more than she deserved after what she had suffered by doing right by the wrong man.

  There had been ample time to think about her as he rode the trail south, to the Mission of Santa Luiz. Where Apache violence erupted and there was little opportunity to reflect upon the past if a man wanted to stay alive and have a future.

  From the mission to the head of the valley where he caught sight of Joe Straw? Another long, lone time when he could have done what he was doing now. And maybe he had. Perhaps as he rode to Tucson and then out of town in another direction, his mind had been open to the vast store of his memories. But none had entered. Until Joe Straw questioned the kind of man he was. And the two prospectors triggered the memory of the woman by whom Edge judged all others.

  Beth was gone forever and now that the time for grief was past he could experience only a dull ache of emptiness whenever he thought of her. Which was self punishing and futile.

  But should he not feel the same about Crystal? She was not dead, but the possibility of him ever seeing her again was very remote: as remote as the prospect of him ever changing from the man he had become. The kind of man that Joe Straw - a hapless killer by force of circumstances - seemed to admire.

  Why did it matter? Why could he not sit aboard this stage with the same peace of mind he had between Ventura and the head of the valley in the Santa Rosa Mountains? As emotionally untroubled as his implacable features suggested he was.

  From the moment they met, Crystal Dickens was left in no doubt of the kind of man he was. And if she chose to become a thief in the final minutes before they parted that should not be his concern, provided she did not steal from him.

  And the half breed Comanche who was slumped in the seat across the Concord from him? He was just goods for sale. Money on the hoof. And his price tag was the same whether he was delivered fresh for hanging or a stinking carcass for burial.

  So he ought to be able to consign the woman to that compartment of his mind reserved for memories of those who came before and after Beth. While Joe Straw should mean no more to him than the two Scotsmen whom he blasted to death and then tossed off the top of the cliff.

  ‘All aboard, folks!’ the bearded driver yelled as he emerged from the way-station, and then bit off a wad of tobacco. Chewed some juice out of it before he shouted: ‘Stage time!’

  He crossed to the Concord and kept his watery eyes averted from the passengers already inside as he climbed up on to the seat.

  The two soft looking men were first to respond to the call. Both were in their fifties, dressed in city suits complete with vests: their sole concession to the heat of the day seen in the way their bootlace ties were loosened beneath the unfastened top buttons of their shirts. One had grey hair showing under the brim of his Stetson while the other, who wore a Derby, had jet black hair. Both were clean shaven and were overweight for their five and a ha
lf feet tall frames.

  They had not only eaten in the way-station, but had taken the time to wash up and brush the trail dust from their clothing.

  ‘Good day to you, sir,’ the grey haired man greeted as he swung open the door and squeezed between the knees of Edge and Joe Straw. ‘I’m Dwight Tait. My partner is Franklin Carver. We are in the restaurant business in Phoenix. If you intend to hold over there, perhaps you will favor us with your custom?’

  He sat down on the other end of the same seat as Edge, his back to the front of the stage. Carver nodded nervously to Edge and took the seat facing his partner.

  Edge touched the brim of his hat and asked: ‘How long until we reach Phoenix?’

  ‘Barring accidents, we should reach there by sundown tomorrow, sir.’

  ‘I never make plans that far ahead.’

  Harry Dodds and Dora Naulty came out of the way-station, he staying close by her side and looking like he was ready to support her if she should stumble. She was pale faced, but looked able bodied enough to get to the stage and climb aboard unaided. Dodds helped her up the steps anyway.

  ‘Mr. Straw is in my seat, young man,’ she complained as the door was closed behind her. And the stage tilted slightly as Dodds clambered up beside the driver.

  ‘I’ll move him, lady.’

  ‘That will not be necessary.’ She folded her slight frame on the seat between Carver and the half breed Comanche, removed her wide brimmed hat and set it on her lap. ‘I am quite prepared to suffer discomfort if this poor wretch is to benefit.’

  Charlie creaked off the brakes, yelled at the team and cracked his whip above their backs. The horses, fresh from the confines of the stable and eager to take advantage of their limited freedom, responded at once and the stage jerked from its standstill.

  On the way-station stoop, Fred and Kate Ford raised their hands in farewell. The pipe smoking man expressed relief. His slim but solidly built wife directed her gaze solely at Edge and there was a degree of melancholy in her eyes.