California Killing (Edge series Book 7)

by George G. Gilman

  Table of Contents

  Credits

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  For H.P.T.

  who ate breakfast “in the next town down the trail.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Hollywood has created many myths

  About the old west. The Town With

  No Name in this Western is a myth.

  Chapter One

  THE sun-baked California earth drank thirstily from the million pricks of storm rain that needled out of a low sky which was the color of twilight, even-though the time was not yet noon. At some points the trail through the valley was crossed by fat running washes as water sought escape from the hills and at others it dipped into near-morasses of mud. But the stage driver kept the team racing ahead at full gallop as he peered through the murk. Beside him the guard maintained a constant surveillance of the surrounding country, the barrel of his shotgun following the direction of his frightened gaze as he searched for something he hoped not to see.

  There was a third man atop the rattling, swaying stage and the manner in which he rode, clinging frantically to the baggage straps and holding himself stiff so that he took the full impact of every jolt, showed he was not in his element. Dressed like the others, in a black slicker and hat held on by a chin lace, he wore the same brand of fear. But it was the dangers inherent in the headlong dash of the stage rather than any potential threat from beyond the curtain of the downpour which sparked the glint in his eyes and pulled his mouth into the line of grimace.

  "You guys fearful lightning's goin' to strike you or something?" he yelled as the guard peered back down the trail for the tenth time in under half a minute. The scar-faced guard bared his teeth in a snarl as he cocked both hammers of the double-barreled shotgun and then jerked his hat brim lower on his forehead. "We're in the valley, Judd." His reedy voice was whipped away by the slipstream and lost in the hiss of teeming rain.

  The trail took a curve around a grotesque cluster of saguaro and the driver had to whip even more speed from the snorting team. Judd watched in horror as the spinning wheels spewed up mud and the stage canted over the lip of a sharp incline with an expanse of shattered boulders at the bottom. But then the rims found adhesion and came out of the side-slip to gain forward momentum.

  "Hood's valley?"

  "That's what local folk call it," the guard yelled, unmoved by the close call as he continued to survey the terrain all around. Now another pair of eyes became watchful as Judd stared ahead, then to left and right, finally back down the muddy trail where the storm obliterated all sign of the stage's passing moments after it had gone. He was a short, stockily-built man of middle years with the burnished skin and gnarled hands of a manual worker. While one of those roughened hands continued to retain its strong grip on the baggage strap, the other reached beneath the slicker and curled around the butt of a double-action Remington holstered at his left hip.

  "How far to the waystation?" he shouted.

  The guard was leaning forward, concentrating on a point where the trail dipped and then rose to enter the narrow mouth of a gully. He didn't turn around as he answered. "Scheduled an hour from here. J.T.'s aiming to clip fifteen minutes off the run."

  "There's ten dollars in it if he picks up twenty minutes," a man growled from inside the stage.

  "Waystation ain't no Fort Laramie, the guard muttered. But the driver was encouraged by the pledge and cracked the whip across the backs of the straining team to send them, plunging at a terrified dash into the gully.

  The sheer walls of rack on either side threw back and magnified the hoofbeats and creaks of the stage's progress: but the sharp crack of the rifle shot had a crystal clarity that for a stretched moment appeared to deaden all other sound. Then, as the guard spun in his seat, tossed his shotgun high in the air and fell sideways, corkscrewing to the sodden earth, his scream of agony had a frail tone against the background tumult. Judd began to draw the Remington, then let it rest in its holster. He saw the gaping hole where the guard's nose had been and in the next instant was blinded by the liquid warmth of the dead man's blood splashing into his eyes. Revulsion overcame him and he scrubbed frantically at his eyes with the heel of his hand, unable to concern himself with the implications of the sudden violence as he strove to overcome his horror at its touch.

  The driver blinked, rain from his eyes and emitted a strangled gasp as he hauled on the brake, spotting the barrier of felled cactus stacked across the trail. The team, conditioned over many miles to haul their burden at the limit of their strength, took long seconds to adjust to the new demand. But the drag of locked wheels pulled them out of the gallop and the steady check of the reins finally bought them to a snorting, lathered standstill.

  Six men, hatless and aiming rifles from the shoulder position, rose in unison from behind the prickly barricade, unmindful of the rain that plastered their hair across their brows and their shirts to their thick torsos. The driver began to raise his arms in surrender. Judd peered around him and drew in his breath. His left hand moved beneath his slicker.

  "You got about one chance in a thousand, mister," a voice taunted, heavy with threat in the wet silence. "And I'm takin' side bets."

  Judd snapped a glance to his left and saw two men approaching the stage with rifles aimed, one at him, the other at the window.

  "Gamblin's a sin," another voice called, and there was a snort of laughter.

  Judd looked to his right in time to see two more hold-up men close in. He clawed his hands into the air.

  "Murder's a worse one," the driver hurled, turning to face the men on the left, one of whom was dressed in a stained frock-coat with brass buttons.

  "You criticizing me, mister?" the frock-coated man demanded. He was not tall, but he was broad and appeared to have no neck so that his bald head, creased like old leather, with features which were dominated by protruding eyes, seemed to teeter at the center of his broad shoulders.

  "You didn't have to blast Gus," the slack-faced driver insisted.

  The aim of the frock-coated man's Spencer swung from Judd to the driver, whose raised hands began to tremble.

  "You know who I am, mister?"

  "You're Sam Hood. Gus was my partner. You didn't have to blast him."

  "I don't know who you are, mister."

  "Edson."

  "Guy who used to ride the Pony Express?"

  "What's it to you?" The driver continued to quake, but he kept his voice firm.

  Hood nodded. "You and the other guy were real good partners?"

  "The best."

  "Best partners should be together," Hood said evenly and squeezed the trigger.

  The driver screamed, taking the .54 caliber bullet in his bulbous stomach. As his body pitched out of the seat, blood erupting from the wound, Hood fired again and a bullet in the head killed the man before he hit the ground.

  "Anybody else reckon to tell me how to pull a stickup?" he asked conversationally. He glanced first up at Judd and then into the stage. He drew only silence for reply and bobbed his head in satisfaction.

  "Don't seem to be no women aboard, Sam," one of the men on the far side of the stage said, his voice a complaining whine.

  Hood sighed and ran a splayed hand across his naked do
me, as if straightening the long-gone hair.

  "Maybe' there's compensation," he drawled. "If there ain't, somebody's in trouble. Let's move. Damn weather's playing hell with my rheumatics. Shoo 'em out from your side, Dayton. Any argument, give 'em a boost."

  He and his beefy companion left no doubt what was meant by this, each stepping to the side, out of the line of fire should a barrage of shells crash through the stage.

  "Out gents," Dayton instructed, stepping up close to the stage. He was a thin, gangling man of about thirty with sunken cheeks and hollow eyes flecked with glints of evil. His partner a youthful Mexican, came up beside him and both rested rifle muzzles on the window sills.

  "All right, all right;" a man agreed nervously. "Nothing's worth getting killed for."

  The left hand door of the stage opened and a short, very thin man clutching a bulky valise came out quickly, stumbled on the steps and almost sprawled into the mud. But he managed to remain upright and came to an abrupt halt as Hood's rifle prodded into his middle. He stood transfixed, his mouth working soundlessly as, he stared into the cold, unwavering bug-eyes of Hood.

  "Bad trip from first to last, drummer," Hood drawled. "Just go and stand to the left."

  The man, dressed in a grey business suit and matching derby already stained dark by the teeming rain, shook his head.

  "Photographer," he corrected.

  "What?"

  The passenger stepped to the left and raised his valise. "Camera equipment, Mr. Hood. Photographer. Not a salesman."

  Hood sneered and motioned with the Spencer. "Don't reckon I like 'em any better than salesmen. Back up, punk."

  As the trembling photographer took up the position demanded and stared hypnotically down at the dead driver, another man emerged from the stage, slow and cautious in his movements. His right leg was stiff and it swung out to the side as he walked. He was about sixty well and expensively dressed in a pale blue suit, red vest and bootlace tie. He carried a folded topcoat.

  "All right if I put this on?" he asked evenly as the six men from the barricade moved in to form a half circle around the side of the stage.

  "What's the length?" Hood demanded.

  The man laid the edge of his hand against his knee. "About there."

  "Nice coat," Hood said. "Ain't my style, though. Too short. Wear it if you want. Over there." He waved the rifle and the man limped across to join the photographer, who seemed grateful for the company.

  "Sorry, sir," Judd called from atop the stage. "Wasn't nothin' I could do."

  "It's all right, Mike," the lame man answered calmly as he shrugged into the coat, turning up the collar. He had a rough-hewn face and crinkled eyes. His grey eyebrows matched the color of his sparse hair.

  A snarl erupted from Hood. "Nobody says nothin' unless I tell 'em. You, king of the goddamn castle. Get down here. Odds are the same."

  Judd began to climb down, keeping his left arm raised. "Last one on the way, Senor Sam," the Mexican called as a third passenger emerged from the stage.

  He was taller than any other man in the rain-washed gully, reaching a height of six feet three inches. On such a frame his near two hundred pounds looked almost spare. His face was lean with the structure and complexion of a part Mexican: at odds with the clear, light blue eyes. Framed by thick black hair hanging to the shoulders, it was a face that might be considered either handsome or ugly - but always exuding a threat of potential cruelty. He was dressed all in black, from low-heeled shoes to shallow crowned hat, his clothes old and ill cared for. By contrast, the Colt.44 in a tied-down holster on his right hip had the dull sheen of loving care. For several moments nothing was said as the third passenger stepped down from the stage and moved across to stand beside his fellow travelers. But there was an almost tangible tension in the air and the eyes of every hold-up man followed him, sensing an affinity with evil.

  "Okay, let's move!" Hood barked suddenly, the words sending Judd scuttling the final few yards to stand beside Dexter. "Kilroy, get their guns. Dayton, see about the rate for the job."

  As Dayton climbed into the stage, the Mexican youngster scrambled up to unfasten the baggage from the roof. Four men moved in close to the passengers and pressed rifle muzzles against their backs. The beefy man moved away from Hood's side and passed in front of the captives like a reviewing general, confiscating weapons. The half-breed and Judd turned their holstered hips towards Kilroy. Dexter unbuttoned his topcoat and jacket and offered an ivory-gripped derringer from his vest pocket: the photographer claimed he had no gun, but Kilroy frisked him quickly and expertly to make sure.

  Hood watched operations closely, his bulging eyes flicking from passengers to stage and back again, like those of a predatory bird. As baggage began to thud into the sodden ground, he nodded to three men who moved forward quickly and started to open the pieces. There was a mailbag, two valises belonging to Dexter and one to the photographer. Their contents were emptied out into the mud and caked boots drove into the piles.

  "Ain't nothing but threads, Sam," a man with a cast in his left eye reported angrily.

  "And none too clean, neither," Hood replied with a scowl. "Drummer's holding his bag real tight."

  "My equipment," the photographer exclaimed, jerking back his valise as Kilroy reached for it.

  The beefy man snapped up his rifle and rested the muzzle In the V of the photographer's jacket lapels. "Blast him, Sam?" he asked laconically.

  "I warned you, drummer," Hood roared.

  "I'm sorry!" the photographer whined, and thrust the valise forward.

  Dexter and Judd eyed the trembling man sadly. The half-breed shook his head and made a clicking noise in the back of his throat.

  "Man apologized," Hood muttered, "Give him a chance. But he so much as breathes too loud, give it to him. Low down. What's in the bag?"

  Kilroy sighed his disappointment and lowered the rifle. He took the valise, set it down in the mud and snapped open the clasp. The photographer looked on in melancholy resignation as rain poured into the valise. Kilroy stooped and rummaged inside.

  "Nothing but junk," he reported. "Black box and some paper and some glass squares."

  "Hell, this looks like a real bust!" Hood snarled in disgust and spun towards the stage. "Hey, Dayton? You sure there ain't a broad in there? Or you just keeping out of the rain?"

  "Pay dirt!" Dayton exclaimed in high excitement as he emerged from the doorway and leapt to the ground. He clutched an open satchel. "Hid under the seat, Sam. Ain't nothing else in there, but I don't reckon it's needed."

  Hood did not drop his scowl until he had accepted the satchel from Dayton and peered inside it. Then a broken-toothed grin spread across his features and set light to his eyes for a moment. But then this was gone and suspicion replaced it as he glared across at the passengers.

  "Which one?"

  "It's mine," the one with the limp said, his lips hardly moving.

  "How much?"

  "Fifty thousand."

  This response drew whistles and hoots of delight from among the hold-up men. Hood's face remained wooden. He looked back at Dayton, whose happiness at his find had taken on a frozen quality.

  "I opened it to see, Sam," he stammered: "Just to see. I didn't take nothin' out."

  Hood nodded. "I went to school. I can count. I will count."

  "What about the pocket money, Sam?" Kilroy asked as Hood fastened the satchel.

  "Make 'em shell out," Hood instructed. "You figure anyone's holdin' back, strip him. You find anythin', blast him. Low down. Rest of you men, clear the trail. Damn rain's killin' me. I need a stage ride to dry off."

  As some of the men moved to the front of the stage, Hood went to sit on the steps, clutching the satchel to his chest and grimacing as he rubbed his right thigh. Kilroy tucked his rifle into the crook of his arm, picked up one of the emptied valises and held it open in front of the photographer.

  "All donations gratefully received," he said brightly.

  "But not anonymously,
" Hood called as the photographer began to empty his pockets of money and personal effects to drop into the bag.

  "Names."

  "Justin Wood," the photographer murmured as Kilroy moved on to the next man.

  A few crumbled bills, some loose change and a tobacco pouch went into the valise. "Mike Judd." The voice held just a hint of defiance.

  "Elmer Dexter," the well-dressed man announced after depositing a fat bill-fold, a gold watch and a cigarette case in the bag.

  The fourth passenger unbuttoned his shirt and delved inside to bring out a block of bills. His eyes, cold and steady, caught and held those of Kilroy as he let the money fall into the valise. "I'd like to keep my tobacco and matches," he said softly.

  "Generosity's my middle name," Kilroy said as he turned away.

  "Obliged."

  "Name?" Hood demanded as he accepted the valise from Kilroy.

  "They call me Edge."

  The protruding eyes were caught and captured by Edge's stare. "Funny kind of name."

  "Funny kind of world," came the easy response. "My bankroll was two and a half grand."

  The cold blue eyes, narrowed to slits, flicked from Hood to Kilroy. The latter realized the inference and snapped up his rifle to the aim.

  "Hold it!" Hood growled. "He's funning. Funny man with a funny name in a funny world. I like that."

  "He's a barrel-load of laughs," Kilroy muttered, lowering the rifle. The four men who had been covering the passengers now moved away to help remove the cacti from the trail. Kilroy, Dayton, and the Mexican watched Hood as the thick-set little man sorted through the contents of the valise, his bug eyes alight with greed.

  "Don't be a fool, Mike!"

  Chapter Two

  DEXTER'S high-pitched warning, scythed through the silence. Every man in the gully whirled to stare at Judd, in time to see him drag a long-bladed, short-handled knife from inside his left boot. For the next instant, Judd was the only man to move - bringing up his arm and throwing it forward in one smooth action, to send the knife spinning towards Hood.

  But then Kilroy was galvanized into action, swinging the rifle to his shoulder, squinting along the barrel and squeezing the trigger. The crack of the shot and the clash of the bullet hitting the blade were one inseparable sound. The knife angled to the side and then down. A moment later it was buried to the hilt in the soft earth.