California Killing (Edge series Book 7)

by George G. Gilman

  Edge moved back to his mount, untied her and climbed into the saddle. He urged her forward and into the valley, holding the Winchester across the front of his body, finger crooked around the trigger; barrel resting on his forearm. The old woman had her back to the rider and she continued to sing in her cracked voice, unaware of his approach until he halted the horse in the dusty, unfenced yard before the house. Then she sensed his presence, broke off the song and whirled to look at him. Fear leapt across her slack, wrinkled features when she saw the impassive set of his cruel face.

  "We'll go, mister," she rasped. "We'll go. Didn't know the place belonged to nobody no more."

  "Squatters?" Edge asked softly, squinting in through. the house windows and seeing, from close up, that the rooms were empty of furniture, the walls cracked and crumbling from lack of attention.

  The crone nodded rapidly. "Yeah. Didn't mean no harm. We'll go. No trouble."

  "Who's we?" He looked back at her now, the sixth sense of the professional survivor telling him there was no immediate danger.

  "Me and me husband .Mr. Marvin."

  Edge spat into the dust. "Where's Marvin now?"

  "Out back. Painting the wagon."

  "He sing as well?"

  The woman licked her lips, her fear undiminished by the lightness in Edge's tone. "He tries."

  Edge slid from the saddle.

  "You want us to go?"

  He pursed his lips and led the roan towards the doorway of the house. "You seem so all-fired bent on it, I reckon you'd better."

  "Sure, mister. Sure. We'll go. No trouble."

  She turned to the line and began to snatch down the wash, so nervous her ancient fingers dropped many freshly-laundered garments into the dust. Edge ignored her and led his horse into the disused hallway, grimacing as his nostrils caught the stale odor of over-heated decay. Most of the stairway to the first floor had collapsed, but there was still part of a support post sturdy enough to hold the horse and Edge hitched the reins around it. The canteen slung over the saddle-horn made a half-full sound when he shook it and he took it with him into a large room which looked as if it had once been the parlor.

  The window of the room commanded a clear view of the approach on the trail and he was able to prize loose a square cut block of rock from the fireplace and drag it across the room to use as a seat. He glanced up at the sun and judged the time to be close to ten-thirty.

  Then the sound of a wagon's lumbering progress captured his attention and he looked to his right as an ancient prairie schooner came around the comer of the house. Three of its wheels were freshly painted a bright' red: the fourth one was still in its natural state. The crone and a grey-bearded man of similar age rode high on the box seat.

  "Hey," Edge called, and the wagon rolled to a halt. Both looked in his direction, the woman nervously, the man sourly.

  "You see any riders on the trail, I ain't been here. I learn any different, they'll bury you where I find you."

  The man spat. "You'd be obliging me, mister," he croaked. "Be a pleasure to rest someplace without a gunsel moving us on."

  Edge grinned and motioned with the gun for the wagon to roll. "Fate," he called after the couple. "Some of us just got born under a wanderin' star."

  Chapter Eleven

  AFTER the covered wagon had rumbled out of sight and hearing around the turn in the trail, the dust from its churning wheels settling to obliterate signs of its passing and the hoof marks of Edge's mount, the half-breed took a long drink from the canteen and settled down to wait. And the sun had not inched much further towards its zenith before the object of his stay appeared at the valley, entrance. Edge held his position, knowing that the newcomer would be unable to penetrate the dark behind the windows until he was much closer to the buildings. He studied the man, riding easily astride a chestnut mare, and as the distance between them narrowed, Edge recognized the newcomer as the sharpshooting Kilroy.

  The man was dressed in the same dull-colored garb he had worn for the stage hold-up, but had added a grey, low-crowned hat to shade his stubbled, deeply tanned face from the direct heat of the sun. He toted a handgun in a tied-down holster and a rifle in the saddle boot, fixed forward. He did not look to left nor right, and kept his watchful eyes fastened upon the facade of the ranch house. He reined his horse to a halt on the far side of the yard, some twenty yards away from the window. His movements were nonchalant as he swung a foot clear of the stirrup and booked his leg around the saddlehorn, resting his elbows on his knee.

  "Know you're in there, Edge," he called easily. "Guy wasn't gonna tell me - 'til I started to carve my mark in his old lady's belly."

  Edge pushed the Winchester forward, resting the barrel on the window sill. Its metal gleamed with a dull sheen in the strong sunlight. The sound of a shell being pumped into the breech was very loud. "You got my money?"

  Edge drew a bead on his target and Kilroy's thin face twisted into a parody of a smile and a harsh laugh gurgled in his throat.

  "You ain't gonna know 'til you come out here in the open and show me the picture. Course, you could blast me, but I might not have the money. No sense in that. Might have hid it."

  "Hot out there," Edge answered. "Get off your ass and move over here."

  Kilroy shook his head, still masking his true feelings with the imitation smile. "No deal. I came to California for a tan. And I ain't much for walking. Meet you halfway, though. You come out where I can see you and I'll step down."

  "Deal," Edge agreed, and swung himself up and over the window sill, not wavering the aim of the Winchester.

  Kilroy urged his horse gently forward and the two men faced each other across four feet of space at the center of the dusty yard. When Kilroy tried to sidle his mount in a quarter circle arc to put his back to the sun, Edge thrust the Winchester forward and shook his head.

  "You're looking fine as you are," Edge hissed. "Where's the money?"

  Kilroy was still, sitting with one leg hooked loosely around the saddlehorn, still wearing the false smile. "Picture?" he countered softly.

  Edge took an easy stride towards him, raising the aim of the rifle in a one-handed grip as he reached his free hand to the back of his neck. Kilroy stopped smiling. He saw the blur of Edge's swinging arm and the glint of naked steel at the end of it. The chestnut mare began to rear in fright, then bolted in panic as the blade sliced through the girth and Kilroy, the saddle still between his legs, thudded heavily to the ground. Edge brought his other foot forward and his boot stomped down on Kilroy's neck, pinning him to the ground and pulling his mouth wide in a gasp of pain.

  His body began to writhe in an attempt to jerk free of the compelling grip. It went still as Edge stabbed. The Winchester muzzle between his teeth.

  "Where's the money?" Edge asked, not relieving the pressure of either boot or gun.

  Kilroy's pain-filled eyes swiveled frantically in their sockets. He saw a saddlebag to his right and pointed at it. Edge nodded, replaced the razor in its pouch and stooped to hook the helpless man's pistol from its holster. He tossed the weapon several yards away, then reached for the saddlebag. He undid it one-handed and the ice-cold slits that were his eyes showed nothing of what he felt as he brought out the stack of bills.

  "Reckon I should count it?" he asked conversationally.

  Kilroy's teeth rattled on the Winchester barrel and his agonized eyes fought to stay open against the unremitting glare of the sun.

  "Later, Edge," a man called.

  Edge turned his head and saw two men standing at each side of the house, both aiming cocked rifles at him. He recognized them as members of the vigilante committee who had invaded his room last night.

  A shout from the head of the valley attracted his attention in that direction and he saw a group of riders cantering down the trail. He ignored the gagging sounds escaping from Kilroy's throat as he watched the approaching riders, recognizing Mayer with an empty left shirt sleeve pinned across his chest. He was trailed by Scott and Wayne wi
th heavily bandaged feet hanging clear of stirrups. Elmer Dexter and John Stricklyn ate their dust at the rear.

  The group skidded to a halt at the side of the yard and Mayer glared hatefully at Edge.

  "Pull that trigger and I'll have legal reason to kill you," the tall, one-armed man warned in his booming voice.

  He looked weak, his face a white, waxy, bloodless mask. But there was no doubting he meant the words. The men at the house began to close in and the expressions worn by Wayne and Scott as they caressed the butts of their revolvers told of an anxiety for Edge to call Mayer's bluff. The half-breed tucked the regained bankroll inside his shirt front, lifted his foot from Kilroy's throat and twisted the rifle muzzle as he jerked it from his mouth. The foresight hooked under a top tooth and Kilroy roared his pain as the root tore free and he spat blood.

  "Now back off," Mayer demanded as he and the, other riders, with the exception of Wayne and Scott, dismounted.

  "He ain't much, but he's all yours," Edge offered, turning from the bloody-mouthed Kilroy and moving towards the house as the riflemen closed in to surround the sprawled figure.

  Mayer stopped short of the group and fastened his steady gaze on Kilroy's scowling face. "I did you no favor, mister," he boomed. "If you don't answer my questions you'll die slower than if you'd swallowed a bullet."

  Kilroy clamped his lips tight shut. Four rifles hovered over him. "I've only got two," Mayer said. "Where's the Hood gang holed up and what defenses have they got?"

  Edge ignored what was happening at the center of the yard as with the Winchester slung carelessly over his shoulder, he entered the shade of the house and went into, the parlor. He sat down on the block of stone, drank thirstily from the canteen and then took the money from his shirt.

  "Don't kill him, Mayer!" Elmer Dexter warned, dragging his foot as he moved in closer.

  "Remember what you promised," Stricklyn put in.

  Mayer appeared not to hear either caution. He continued to glower down at Kilroy, receiving only a tacit, hard-faced stare in return. "You scared of what Hood might do if you talked?" he boomed.

  Kilroy cracked his mouth to show the blood-stained gap in his teeth. "Ain't nothing you could do to me Sam couldn't make ten times worse," he rasped.

  Mayer showed his prisoner an evil grin, glanced around the ranch buildings, then back at the prisoner. "Sounds to me like a challenge, mister. And I'm a man who’s never been able to say no to a challenge." He glanced at the two men on his right. "Bronson, Elam: if he makes a move, shoot off his feet!' Then he showed his angry eyes to the riflemen on his left. "Stewart, Crawford, cut down the wash line and bring it here."

  "I'll get it, Mr. Mayer," Wayne offered and heeled his horse over to the barn.

  "Careful, Mayer," Dexter urged.

  The one-armed man sighed and when he turned to face the rancher, Dexter knew there was no reasoning with him. Mayer was sensing victory after a long series of defeats and he was determined to see it through to the end in his own way. His funeral features were set in starkly cruel lines, animated only by the light of menace in his black eyes.

  "You're a good customer, Dexter," Mayer said evenly. "But I've got a lot of good customers. And none of them is any use to me until Hood and his gang are wiped out." Wayne had cut down the rope and rode with it into the center of the yard, the hooves of his mount kicking dust into Kilroy's face. "One end around his feet," Mayer ordered and as the vigilante named Elam stooped to do this, the one-armed man returned his steady stare to Dexter. ''That being so," he continued, "what this bastard has to tell me is more important than anything. And that being so, if you, or Stricklyn, interrupt again, Duke will just have to make sure it's the last time."

  Scott grinned his pleasure at being offered a useful part to play. He drew his Colt and aimed it in the general direction of his charges. Dexter and Stricklyn looked at the gunman, then at each other. Stricklyn seemed about to protest, but a quick, stem-faced shake of the head from Dexter held him in silence.

  At the house, Edge finished counting the money and emitted a grunt of satisfaction that the amount was correct. Then he looked impassively out of the window as, at a soft-spoken order from Mayer, Bronson and Elam caught hold of the free end of the rope and began to drag Kilroy across the yard towards the gaping doorway of a bam.

  The barn was diagonally across the yard from the parlor window, facing the full, glaring heat of the sun as the southern peak of midday approached.

  "String him up," Mayer boomed, and Wayne urged his horse forward, took the rope and tossed it over the lintel beam.

  "How high, Mr. Mayer?" he asked conversationally as he steered his mount into the barn.

  Mayer stepped forward and extended his arm so that his hand was about three feet from the ground. "And hold him there, Randy."

  Naked fear sprang vividly across the face of Kilroy. But he kept his lips clamped tight, emitting no sound as Wayne moved to take up the slack, hitched the rope around his saddlehorn and went deeper into the barn, beyond the reach of the sun's rays. The full length of Kilroy's body dragged up dust for a few inches, then, by degrees, his bound feet, his legs, his hips, his torso and his head were raised from the ground. The lintel beam creaked but held.

  "That'll do it!" Mayer boomed when Kilroy's outstretched fingertips came three inches clear of the ground.

  The four riflemen took up positions, two each side of the inverted Kilroy.

  "Plenty of room up front," Scott urged, motioning with his Colt for Dexter and Stricklyn to move in closer for a better view.

  The men complied reluctantly.

  Edge, apparently forgotten by everybody out in the yard, sipped water from the diminishing supply in the canteen and raked his eyes over the group at the barn with seeming disinterest.

  "Last chance," Mayer said softly, but in the silence which clung to the ranch buildings, his voice seemed to have the tone of a high mountain echo.

  Kilroy, his face mottled by his inverted position, waited in mute terror, swinging gently to and fro.

  "What you gonna do, Mr. Mayer?" Bronson asked nervously, wiping sweat from his face with the back of a hand.

  "Hurt him!" Mayer boomed, and lashed out with his right foot. Every ounce of his angry strength was behind the vicious kick. The toe of his boot smashed savagely into Kilroy's face. The nose was crushed with a moist, squelching sound. Kilroy's body jerked away and then came back, a spout of blood gushing down to inscribe a scarlet line in the dust. Kilroy's scream was a high-pitched, thin sound that caused Stricklyn to press his hands over his ears.

  "Like that," Mayer announced, standing back with an expression of satisfaction, to allow the captive's body a free swing.

  The blood escaping from Kilroy's smashed nose lost its impetus and began to merge with his sweat and trickle into his eyes. After the scream, he made no other sound.

  "I didn't figure on nothing like this, Mr. Mayer," Elam muttered, backing away.

  "Nor me," Stewart croaked. "I figured just to bring him in."

  Mayer seemed not to hear the men as he looked at Kilroy's agonized, blood-run face. "Convinced yet?"

  Kilroy opened his mouth, but he did not speak. Instead, he spat at his tormentor. The blob of moisture splashed on to the dusty toe of Mayer's boot.

  In a split-second, every trace of the man's characteristic solemnity drained from Mayer's thin face. His mouth worked in a frenzy of dumb rage and the fires of momentary insanity blazed in his coal, black eyes. He seemed to grow two inches in height as he tensed his body.

  Kilroy saw the mounting fury and every man in the group at the barn were awed into silence as they sensed the evil power being generated in Mayer. Elam and Stewart, already backing away, were able to keep moving, but the rest were rooted to where they stood.

  "Okay!" Kilroy croaked.

  But it was too late. Mayer was lost, deep inside his madness. And nothing short of death could have stopped him lashing out his foot towards the helpless man. This time the toe of his spittle
-stained boot crashed into the top of Kilroy's skull with enough force to bend the man almost double and feed slack into the restraining rope.

  Inside the bam, Wayne heeled his mount forward, picking up the slack. Kilroy's body unfolded and danced limply in mid-air. Rope, beam and horse held fast. The man was held two feet higher than before.

  "Jesus!" Bronson whispered, backing away. But he, like the others, was unable to tear his eyes away from the lifeless man.

  Kilroy's skull had been cracked wide by the blow and now there was a deluge of blood and lighter colored stickiness pouring from the fracture to gush into the dust.

  In the parlor of the ranch house, Edge sighed and stood up, pushing the money into the front of his shirt. He went out into the decaying hallway, unhitched the mare and led her outside to mount up. He rode slowly over to the group before the barn and looked coldly into the drained face of the one-armed man. Mayer swayed, his shoulders drooping, seemingly unaware of the other's presence.

  The vigilante named Crawford moved anxiously away to join the other three, heading for the rear of the ranch house where their horses were tethered. Scott seemed not to know what to do with his Colt and finally holstered it.

  Edge extended the Winchester, one-handed, and rested the muzzle against the rope. He squeezed the trigger and the weight of the dead man's body parted those strands untouched by the bullet. Kilroy dropped into the mud of his own blood and brain tissue. Both Dexter and Stricklyn quivered at the sharp crack of the rifle. In the barn, Wayne struggled to calm his spooked horse.

  "You're a fool, Mayer," Edge spat at the wretched one-armed man. "It was your goddamn head I should have blasted off. Dead men tell no ta1es. Kilroy would have talked. But Kilroy ain't here no more."