EDGE: Ten Tombstones to Texas (Edge series Book 18)

by George G. Gilman

  In addition to the Winchester rifle, he carried a single Frontier Colt, which jutted from a holster tied down to his right thigh. The horse he led was a black gelding.

  ‘I said you ain’t no gentleman!’ Aunt Matty repeated after she and Muriel had been subjected to an insolent scrutiny by the blue eyes, as cold as mid-winter ice. The women were dressed warmly for the mountain night, their clothes topped by thick coats that enveloped them from throats to midway down their high boots. But both of them had the disconcerting impression that the raking eyes had been able to penetrate clear through to their flesh.

  ‘Wasn’t for your soprano voices, wouldn’t be able to be so certain about you, ma’am,’ the man said. And now there was a faint trace of humor in the set of his thin lips. It robbed his mouth line of its cruelty, but failed to take the ice from his eyes - eyes that looked incapable of expressing any emotion, unless it be hatred.

  He had halted close to the fire, on the opposite side to where the women stood. The light was brighter there and they could see traces of blueness through the bristles and ingrained dirt on his face. He slid the Winchester into the saddle boot and dropped the reins so that he was able to extend both hands towards the warmth of the blaze.

  ‘We dress according to the weather, mister!’ Aunt Matty replied sternly and there was no longer anger in her voice or expression. She was studying the man with the same brand of arrogance he had shown when appraising her.

  ‘Wise, ma’am,’ the man allowed with a nod. He dropped down on to his haunches so that he could put his face closer to the heat.

  ‘You’re mighty polite all of a sudden.’

  ‘Ain’t polite to point a gun at a man, ma’am. I treat folks the way they treat me.’ He rubbed his long-fingered, dark-skinned hands together, relishing the warmth.

  Aunt Matty made a sound of disgust deep in her throat. ‘What do you expect us to do?’ she demanded. ‘Two women alone in camp when a strange man approaches?’

  ‘I ain’t two women,’ he replied evenly.

  Muriel trusted herself to speak at last. ‘I don’t care who or what you are,’ she said, still angry but keeping her voice under control. ‘All I know is that you aren’t welcome here. You said you wanted to pass, why don’t you?’

  The man swung his attention from the old woman to the young one and his impassive expression gave no indication that he was impressed by her green-eyed prettiness. He nodded. ‘No sweat, ladies. Obliged you let me use your fire this long.’

  He straightened.

  ‘Seems to me you helped yourself, mister,’ Aunt Matty snapped, and made another throaty sound of disgust.

  The man’s mouth line tightened again. He dipped a hand into a pocket of his pants, took out a dime and flicked it across the fire. It dropped between the two women. ‘For the kindling I used,’ he growled, and swung to slide a boot into a stirrup. ‘I always pay my way.’

  ‘We didn’t mean for you to...’ Muriel started.

  ‘Muriel!’ Aunt Matty cut in severely as the man swung astride the gelding. ‘Don’t you go apologizing to this drifter. Not after he insulted me without saying he was sorry.’

  ‘Still the same old tough egg, Mathilda!’

  The words were shouted from the lip of the shelf. The man astride the gelding saw horror leap across the faces of the women as he swung his head to look back over his shoulder.

  ‘Evans!’ Muriel screamed.

  Aunt Matty started to bring up the Colt. Four men appeared at the lip of the shelf, rifles aimed from their shoulders. From the corner of his eye, the man on the gelding saw two more men lunge out of the rocks from where he had approached the campsite. But they carried lariats instead of rifles. The ropes were whirled high and released.

  ‘No killin’!’ a man yelled. The same voice as before.

  Four rifles exploded a fusillade of shots. Three bullets smashed into the heart of the fire and sprayed burning embers out the far side. The fourth clanged against the cooking pot and ricocheted. It spun end-over-end into the panic-widened right eye of the gelding. The horse leapt backwards and toppled to the side. The man’s expression hardened but he made no sound as he kicked his feet clear of the stirrups and lunged clear of the saddle, sliding the Winchester from the boot as he hit the ground. But there were plenty of other sounds to echo off the cliff face in the wake of the rifle shots.

  The bull, spooked for the second time within a few minutes, was snorting wildly as he struggled against the pull of his tether and the two lariats which were noosed around his thick neck. The stallions were venting their own fear as they reared against the restraint of hobbling lines. And the two women were screaming. Aunt Matty with pain as she beat at the flames which had erupted as the hot embers fell on her coat and in her hair; Muriel with horror as she dragged the older woman to the ground and flung herself on top of the struggling form.

  ‘Drop the friggin’ gun, tall man!’

  The voice of another attacker, came from the rocky area to the east as the man whirled beside his dead horse to rake his Winchester along the line of four riflemen. He froze his body, but turned his head. Three more men with rifles had stepped into open moonlight.

  ‘Do like he says, mister.’ This was from the one Muriel had called Evans. ‘Or I’ll change what I said about no killin’!’

  The narrow blue eyes, glittering between their narrowed lids, returned their level gaze to the obvious boss of the bunch. ‘There’s already been killing,’ he said icily. ‘My horse ain’t going to get up.’

  The flames which had threatened Mathilda Tree were out and the only sounds to come from the two women now were sobs. The horses had quietened and the bull’s anger had calmed to a point where he merely breathed heavily through his flared dripping nostrils.

  ‘Horses don’t count!’ Evans snarled.

  He was close to six feet tall, with broad shoulders, a wide chest and a bulbous stomach. He had a good-looking face decorated with a bushy black moustache. He was about fifty. Like his men, who were all younger, he was dressed in a sheepskin jacket, low-crowned hat, Levis and riding boots. But he also wore earmuffs. All the men looked well fed and well rested.

  ‘I can, feller. I only had but the one horse. Now I don’t have any.’

  Evans advanced, ignoring the Winchester which was aimed at him: confident of his cover. ‘You’ve only got but the one life, too,’ he pointed out. He halted and injected a heavier tone into his voice. ‘Drop the rifle and keep it.’

  The Winchester remained in a rock-steady aim on his chest, left of centre. But Evans was not looking at the gun. Instead, he found his deep-set eyes trapped by the level stare of the man behind the gun. And, in the icy blueness of the stare, he saw a readiness to kill him. Fear made subtle inroads into his confidence. The men behind him moved forward. The three at the side shuffled closer. Those who had roped the bull dropped their free hands to drape the butts of the holstered revolvers jutting from under their coats.

  ‘Don’t provoke him, stranger!” Aunt Matty advised, nodding to Muriel that she was all right as she sat up. ‘Vic Evans is nothing but a mean, murdering skunk!’

  Evans started to express anger, but then a quizzical look became set on his face. ‘Stranger? You mean you ain’t here to protect these two females?’

  The man beside the dead horse maintained the steady stare and the unwavering aim. ‘If I was, feller, you and your bunch wouldn’t have got within a half mile of here.’

  ‘Talks up a storm, don’t he?’ one of the men behind Evans said harshly.

  ‘Shuddup!’ Evans snarled. Then he worked a personable smile on to his face and lowered his rifle until it pointed at the ground. ‘Puts a different complexion on things, mister...?’

  ‘Edge,’ came the soft-spoken reply.

  ‘Edge? Just that?’

  ‘It’s gotten to be enough for me.’

  Evans shrugged, then waved his free hand, palm down. All the leveled rifles were lowered. ‘Like I was saying, Mr. Edge. That makes a differ
ence. My quarrel’s with the Tree women, See, they stole that there bull from me and—’

  ‘It was Barnaby’s bull!’ Muriel snapped.

  ‘Damn right!’ the older woman agreed.

  Edge tipped the Winchester to cant it across his left shoulder. He spat and the globule of moisture hit the ground midway between himself and Evans. ‘Ain’t one for talking bull,’ he growled. ‘Right now, it’s horse talk interests me.’

  Evans glowered at the women, then smiled at Edge. ‘Just so, sir. What happened to your mount was an unfortunate accident. Made more regrettable since you are nothing but an innocent bystander. Two of my men will ride double and you may take the pick of our horses. How does that suit?’

  ‘Don’t trust the bastards, mister!’ Aunt Matty warned.

  ‘We could have a deal,’ Edge allowed, ignoring the women as Evans glared at her.

  ‘Brad!’ the big man called, still smarting with anger at the insult. ‘Take Mr. Edge down to where Jeb’s got the horses. And see he gets what he wants.’

  ‘Sure, Mr. Evans,’ one of the men behind the big man acknowledged. He stepped forward and jerked a thumb. ‘This way, bud.’

  ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you!’ Aunt Matty growled.

  ‘What does it matter?’ Muriel asked sullenly. ‘Forget him, Mathilda. He wouldn’t help us.’

  ‘You’re right,’ the older woman agreed with resignation. Then she glared hatred at Edge as he followed the man named Brad. ‘Just helps himself.’

  ‘To a little warmth is all,’ Edge responded lightly. ‘And I paid.’

  ‘Hope you had your ten cents worth,’ Aunt Matty muttered, brushing a lock of singed hair from in front of her eyes.

  Edge showed a wry grin as he glanced around at the riflemen. ‘Good value,’ he said. ‘When a dime buys this much heat.’

  Chapter Two

  THE slender, gimlet-eyed Brad led Edge around the three men who had covered the east flank of the campsite, and through a gap in the rocks on to a natural trail by which the rig had been hauled up on to the shelf.

  ‘You got any more nasty names you want to call me, Mathilda?’ the two men heard Evans snarl.

  ‘Please!’ Muriel said shrilly. ‘Just take what you came for and go. Leave us alone.’

  Edge saw Brad glance suspiciously at him as he drew level with his designated guide.

  ‘Mr. Evans won’t leave it at that, bud.’

  Edge rasped his free hand over his stubbled jaw, noting that Brad had his right hand draped over the butt of his holstered Remington. ‘So?’

  ‘So I sure hope you’re as cold and mean as you look, bud. Ain’t your trouble.’

  Edge sighed, raking his narrow eyes over the side of the rocky valley into which they were strolling. He spotted a bunch of horses standing placidly under an overhang of rock about a half-mile distant. ‘Only got the one problem, feller,’ he said softly.

  ‘What’s that?’ Brad asked, fast and suspicious.

  ‘Making sure I get me a good horse.’

  Up at the campsite, the two men with the lariats moved in close to the bull, talking softly to the animal to keep him calm. Evans approached the women with a cruel smiling turning up the corners of his mouth beneath his mustache. The five riflemen ambled over to block escape to the side. The cliff face barred the way behind Aunt Matty and Muriel. But neither woman showed any inclination to run. They were frightened, but there was a certain dignity in the way they held their ground.

  ‘Names won’t hurt you, Evans!’ Aunt Matty taunted, her face made uglier by the yellow blisters which the flames had raised on the wrinkled flesh. ‘And anyway, there’s nothing I can call you which you don’t already know you are.’

  Evans halted three feet in front of the women, his stare fixed on Aunt Matty. His eyes smiled to match his mouth. ‘You’ve always had a nasty tongue, Mathilda,’ he accused softly ‘Always speaking ugly words. On account of that apology for a face, I guess.’

  ‘She sure ain’t no beauty, Mr. Evans,’ a pasty-faced boy of about eighteen said with a high-pitched laugh.

  ‘A mule’s ass is better lookin’ than she is,’ another man said.

  Evans broadened his smile as the men voiced their appreciation of the comment. Then he held up a hand and the sounds of the humor were immediately curtailed. Muriel saw the evil lurking behind the smile and she swallowed hard.

  ‘Go!’ she implored. ‘Take the bull and go. Please.’

  Evans swung his head towards her and the latent evil sprang to the surface as rage suffused his features with a dark red, shading into purple at the centers of his cheeks. ‘Hold your damn tongue, woman!’ he snarled. ‘You got grief for an excuse, but I ain’t allowin’ you no more leeway on that.’

  He brought up his Winchester until it was aimed at Muriel’s belly. She paled until the smoke smudges on her cheek, jaw and forehead looked almost three dimensional against the bloodless background.

  ‘You goin’ to kill us like you did Barnaby?’ Aunt Matty taunted.

  ‘Mr. Evans!’ another man with a moustache put in nervously. He was short and fat, with a round face and prominent teeth.

  ‘Shuddup, George!’ Evans told him, without taking his eyes off Muriel, whose fear had expanded to the brink of terror. Then he moderated his tone. ‘No, I don’t figure to do any killin’ - unless I have to. But I’ll surely blast the grievin’ widow here if you don’t do like I say, Mathilda.’

  Muriel gasped and reached out a trembling hand. It was taken in the firm grasp of the older woman.

  ‘What’s that, Evans?’ Aunt Matty asked her voice still strong.

  Evans smiled again, maintaining his concentration on the younger woman. ‘Always felt sickened just looking at that apology for a face you’ve got, Mathilda. Ever since I known you, and that’s been a long time.’

  ‘You ain’t never improved in all the years!’ she retorted.

  Evans went on as if the interruption had never happened. ‘But I always did have a hankerin’ to see how Mother Nature made it up to you.’

  Disgust spread across the ugly features.

  ‘Please leave?’ Muriel begged.

  ‘Strip!’ Evans barked.

  ‘Yiippppeee!’ the skinny youngster yelled gleefully.

  ‘I’ll go along with that, Mr. Evans,’ George said eagerly, shedding his former nervousness. ‘She got five men to the preacher with that body of hers.’

  ‘Must really be somethin’,’ a man with a hare-lip put in. ‘All of ‘em died with the heart attack.’

  ‘Yeah!’ exclaimed a man with a broken nose. ‘And all in bed at that!’

  ‘Now we don’t know if it really was while they was at that!’ one of the men in charge of the bull yelled.

  ‘Get your damn clothes off!’ Evans bellowed across the burst of laughter.

  ‘No!’ Muriel shrieked.

  She made to lunge at their tormentor, but Aunt Matty jerked her back. Evans snarled and thrust the Winchester forward. The muzzle jabbed Muriel hard in the stomach and she sat down, the air rasping out of her.

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ the older woman disagreed as she released Muriel’s hand and raised her arms to start to unfasten her coat buttons. Utter contempt showed in her dark eyes as she stared at Evans. ‘If it will save our lives.’

  Edge and Brad were almost at the horses. But, because the cliff face prevented the noise escaping the valley, they were able to hear the raucous laughter and the loudest of the shouting voices.

  ‘Seems we’re missin’ all the fun,’ the slightly built Brad muttered discontentedly. The old bitch sure riled up Vic Evans.’

  ‘Ain’t hard to do, I’d guess.’

  Brad nodded. ‘How’d you feel if a couple of women stole a fifty thousand dollar bull off you, bud?’ he asked rhetorically.

  Only by a fractional narrowing of his already slitted eyes did Edge betray his surprise at the statement. ‘Guess I’d feel I had something to beef about,’ he admitted.

  ‘Who’s there?’ a
man called sharply.

  Brad groaned. ‘President friggin’ Grant come to give you a friggin’ medal for friggin’ bravery!’ he snarled.

  ‘Brad?’

  Edge’s guide spat. ‘Yeah, Jeb. And a guy who’s gonna take one of our nags. If we let him!’

  The half-breed was looking at a fat man who had stepped from out of the shadows, a rifle leveled from the hip but aimed wide. As the final four words were snapped out, he half-turned, whipping down the Winchester and poised to power into a crouch.

  ‘No chance, bud!’

  Somewhere along the line, as they had covered the final stretch from the shelf to the place where the horses were waiting. Brad had eased his Remington from its holster. He had kept the drawn gun hidden at the side of his body. Now it was in full sight, after he had pivoted slightly and raised it to the aim, cocking it in the same smooth series of actions.

  Edge froze, his lean face impassive. His eyes stared fixedly at the hand fisted around the Remington. It was here that the first sign of a shot would show. Jeb was an unknown quantity, beyond the fact that he was nervy. He could be panicked into firing: or simply be too scared to do anything unless he had specific instructions. A single second seemed to be stretched into a long, tense minute. No guns exploded sound. Up at the campsite on the shelf, the firelight glowed red in reflection on the cliff face. Gigantic shadows moved against the splash of dull crimson.