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

by George G. Gilman

  He didn’t give a damn and, after a while, he ceased to think about her as a means of filling the long hours under the hot sun. And, a little later, he admitted to himself just why, in truth, he had forced the woman out of his mind. That he didn’t give a damn was only part of the reason. The major share was because, in thinking about Muriel Tree, he kept conjuring up a mental image of her naked. And not an image of the reality he had seen at the railroad watering stop. Instead, a vivid imaginary picture of the naked body without the marks of her assaulter’s savagery.

  Like honesty, a strong sexual drive was one of the few other facets of a man which had survived the dehumanizing effects of an evil war and a cruel peace. But, unlike honesty, there was a time and a place to indulge lust. And neither condition existed out here in the wilderness.

  He called a halt early, when there was still plenty of light left, and neither woman made any objection. Aunt Matty was obviously relieved that her aged bones and stiffened joints were to be given a break from the jolting and bouncing of the wagon. Muriel seemed to have withdrawn into a private world in which she had become little more than an automaton: she needed to be told what to do, and she did it silently and absently.

  But when, after they had eaten, Edge explained what he had in mind, the younger woman responded with an eager smile that held more than a touch of evil.

  ‘It’s about time we did something,’ she rasped, and caressed the butt of the Remington. ‘Today it’s been like we were out on a Sunday picnic ride.’

  ‘Had you figured wrong, young feller,’ Aunt Matty said without enthusiasm. ‘Reckoned you intended for Evans and his men to have the trouble of that bull until we was almost at journey’s end.’

  Edge nodded and lit a cigarette. ‘Thought about it, ma’am. But journey’s end is a long way off. And, like you pointed out, we’ve got to cross Apacheria to get there. I’ll ride easier knowing I’m taking care of my own investment.’

  They bedded down before the sun slipped from sight behind the western mountain range, and rose many hours before it was due to make a reappearance in the east. The two periods of rest with the easy travel in between had eased the strain on the women and they woke with less trouble this time. With a full day’s supplies in his saddle-bags and both canteens filled with water, Edge galloped the gelding into the darkness of the early hours while Aunt Matty and Muriel were still breaking camp.

  He didn’t think he would need the supplies, for the signs he had seen during the previous day’s ride looked quite fresh. Whether from confidence they were not being followed or another reason, Evans and his men were not setting a fast pace. Edge rode as hard as was possible without exhausting the gelding, and stopped often, but not to rest. Instead he was marking his trail with short lengths of brightly colored thread which he had taken from Aunt Matty’s work-basket.

  He had been travelling for about two and a half hours when he saw the glow of a fire ahead. It was no more than a faint tinge of orange that formed an aura above the crest of a humped hill, about two miles away when he first saw it. He kept the gelding to a gallop over the first mile, then halted and dumped a whole bundle of threads on the ground. He walked the horse over the final stretch, and along a broad gully that emerged at the base of the hill.

  He hitched the reins around a branch of mesquite and slid the Winchester from the saddle-boot as he dismounted. He gave the horse a drink from his hat and then started to climb the hill. It was steep and rocky on this side, but there were adequate hand and footholds and he reached the hundred and fifty feet high crest in less than thirty minutes. He glanced back over the moonlit landscape of rocks and sparse vegetation but failed to see any trace of the Trees’ wagon.

  Turning back, he went down on his stomach and squirmed his way up and over the smooth hump of the hill crest. On the south side, the hill fell away in a gentle slope for perhaps a quarter of a mile. At the base was a sheltered oasis: a flat area of tough grass with a small stream running across it. The stream appeared from a hole in the base of a low cliff on the right, flowed smoothly across the level area and became noisy and white as it entered an expanse of grotesquely shaped rocks on the left. A half mile beyond where the hillside leveled out, there were two more high cliffs, split at the centre by the mouth of a canyon.

  The fire was on the bank of the stream, midway between where it made its appearance and where it rushed into the forest of rocky pinnacles. The men slept in a half circle to one side of the fire. Edge counted nine elongated humps, which meant no one was standing guard. The horses were ground-hobbled twenty yards from the fire, on the low cliff side. The bull, tied to a stake driven into the ground and with its back legs shackled by an iron chain, was on the same side of the fire, but a lot farther away - immediately under the cliff.

  Having studied all this for a few seconds, Edge looked elsewhere. First eastwards, but as yet there was not the faintest trace of the grey of dawn to relieve the star-pricked darkness of night on the skyline. Then, for longer, he peered into the north. And was rewarded with the sight of a single dot of black that moved among the larger, immobile areas of darkness on darkness. The women were at least two miles away, but closing with every second that passed.

  He checked that the men below were still soundly asleep, and started to move to his right, still on his belly. The hump of the hill, polished smooth by a million years of weather, began to slope downwards. But not all the way to the level of the night camp. It merged with the face of the low cliff and became a sheer drop itself, directly opposite where the horses were hobbled. It was a drop of thirty feet, and Edge cursed as he peered over the rim and failed to see any holes or ledges.

  A horse raised his head, froze, and then whinnied. The others caught Edge’s scent and joined in raising the alarm. The bull also looked around with a baleful eye but kept his peace.

  ‘Mr. Evans!’ A harsh whisper.

  Edge pressed himself against the ground after pulling back from the rim.

  ‘What the friggin’ hell, Clint?’ a man groaned.

  ‘Tell Mr. Evans somethin’s stirred the horses. And keep your lousy voice down!’

  The man lowered his voice, but his tone remained just as disgruntled as before. ‘So go check on it, mule head. You wanna wake everyone to go lookin’ for a gopher or somethin’?’

  Edge could see the men at the camp-fire clearly. Two of them were sitting up while the others continued breathing heavily or snoring. Then one of them slammed down flat again with a noisy sigh. The second remained sitting upright, body rigid and head swinging slowly from side to side. The horses by now had accepted Edge’s presence, and had calmed down. Then a coyote howled in the far distance and the horses shuffled and snorted again.

  ‘Yellow nags!’ Clint snarled as he lay down.

  ‘Brave as you, mule head!’ the other man muttered sleepily.

  Edge counted the seconds until two minutes had passed and then started back up the slope. When he reached the top, he froze. Nothing visible moved against the northern panorama now, but he could hear the beat of hooves - subdued, but distinctly audible. He snatched a look down at the camp and vented a low grunt of satisfaction. The bulk of the hill would effectively stop the sound from reaching the ears of the sleeping men.

  But he couldn’t risk taking the easy way down the gentle slope. It would just need a loose pebble rolling to rouse Evans and his hands and they would spot the intruder immediately on the exposed hillside.

  So he started down the slope on the opposite side to the first one he had tried. This time he got lucky. The decline was steeper and rougher, but it went all the way down to the level he wanted and petered out at the edge of the cluster of rocks. He could walk upright over the final few yards. And back-tracking towards the camp-site, he could make a noise without attracting attention, for the rushing white water of the stream acted as a cover.

  Time was running out, for either the arrival of dawn or the appearance of the women could ruin the part of the plan he had not told Aunt M
atty and Muriel about. As far as they knew, he intended to trap Evans and his men and hold them prisoner, to be put at the mercy of the women. He had not said this in so many words, but the women had inferred it. Muriel had gleefully expressed what her intentions would be in such a situation.

  But it was the bull that Edge was after. The men who had stolen it were not his concern because they had not heisted it from him.

  At the edge of the rocks, he turned off the direct route to the camp-site, swinging wide to go around it from the south. Halfway round, far from cover, he glanced over his shoulder and quickened his pace. A faint, but clearly perceptible lightening of the sky was visible above the cluster of rocks. The ground underfoot was hard and he didn’t risk running. He merely lengthened the stride of his rangy legs, setting his boots down cautiously as though he were walking on broken glass.

  He reached the shadows at the base of the low cliff and moved in on his objective. The shadows would not last for long. The eastern sky was now a definite grey color which was advancing to lighten the entire dome of the heavens. Mucus dripped from the flared nostrils of the bull who winked a dark eye at the man who drew near to him. The horses shuffled and tugged at their tethers, impatient to start another day’s work. The men at the side of the fire breathed regularly or snored and grunted. Edge inched around to the back of the bull. The animal turned his head, eyes no longer blinking. He swished his tail and pawed at the ground with a fore hoof.

  ‘Bastard!’ the half-breed breathed. Then, the harshness gone from his tone, he matched the baleful look in the animal’s eyes. ‘Not you, feller.’

  The shackles were fancy ones. A length of stout chain about eighteen inches long, with a ring at each end which were snapped around the animal’s hind legs. Snapped, and fixed securely in position with a padlock on each. There was no way to move the bull unless the padlocks were unfastened to free the rings.

  Edge backed away from the rear of the bull so that he was able to look round the group of horses at the sleeping men. It didn’t need the firelight to illuminate them now. Dawn had broken. With their boss present, the half-breed wasn’t prepared to risk trying to cover them all with a single gun while he demanded the release of the bull. He knew the Tree women had to be close by now, but how they would act, he could not tell.

  He altered his plan and went down into a crouch, heading for the horses and keeping them between himself and the camp. The animals were not disturbed by his nearness. Even when he drew the razor, they continued to eye him trustingly. Silently, with constant glances towards the sleeping men, he sliced through each of the nine tethers. Then he swung away, went around the back of the bull, and headed towards the exit of the underground water course.

  Once, long ago, or perhaps even now after a thunderstorm of torrential rain, the mild flowing stream was a raging river that gushed from under the cliff. Thus, the exit of the tunnel was a lot higher than the present water level. The half-breed could step inside by going down into a squat. But the stream was as wide as the tunnel and the water washed around his rump and legs as he backed into the shadows. His hat was crushed against the roof. He halted four feet from the opening and rested the Winchester across his thighs. Then he drew the Colt, held it out at full arm’s length, and emptied it towards the horses.

  Three shots low, to spurt divots of earth; and three high, to crack close to the heads of the animals. Each bullet discharged from the muzzle in quick succession behind the last as the thumb cocked the hammer and the finger squeezed the trigger. Only the first shot was an isolated sound. All the others were accompanied by the cries of frightened horses and the stamp of their hooves as they were panicked and bolted. Then the yells of alarm of the rudely awakened men. The bull merely swished his tail and stood with a superior look on its face.

  By the time the horses had charged away from their cut tethers, Edge had a clear view of the men leaping to their feet, had jerked the Colt out of sight and was spinning the cylinder to drop the expended shell cases into the water. Every man who listed sleep from his eyes had either a rifle or a revolver in his hand. But the angry and apprehensive eyes saw no target at which to aim although they looked everywhere. The only change in their surroundings from when they bedded down was that it was now daylight and their formerly quiet horses were bolting away from them in all directions.

  Those damn women!’ Hollis Millard yelled, twisting this way and that for a sight of Aunt Matty and Muriel.

  ‘Kill ’em this time!’ Vic Evans roared, and lunged into a lumbering run towards the bull. He went down on to one knee on the far side of the animal from where Edge was crouched uncomfortably in the river tunnel.

  Like his men, he raked his eyes and his gun along the skyline above the low cliff and the humped hill, and towards the forest of rocks into which the stream plunged at the far side of the camp-site. One of the bolting horses had gone splashing along the water course while the others raced across the open ground towards the canyon entrance. But, when there were no more shots and the men ceased to shout, the bolting animals slowed their pace.

  Edge slotted fresh shells into the chambers of his Colt and holstered the hand-gun. He steadied the Winchester where it rested across his thighs. Under the belly of the stationary bull he had a perfect shot at the tensely held form of Evans. But he could also see the eight other men, easing upright, as the sun sent its first shaft of yellow light across the jagged tops of the cluster of rocks. The thud of hoof-beats petered out as the runaway horses calmed, and lowered their heads to graze on scattered patches of tough grass.

  ‘What the hell’s happenin’, Mr. Evans?’ Clint yelled, a tremor of nervousness in his voice. ‘I don’t see nobody.’

  The big man with the bushy moustache straightened and did a complete turnabout to make a final survey of the high ground on three sides. His face was grim at first, but then he showed a grin.

  ‘So killin’ ain’t in your bellies, ladies?’ he bellowed. ‘Well, you ain’t got no chance of trickin’ me away from this bull.’

  He did another turn as he shouted, then stared at his men. ‘We’re movin’ out. Roy, Dale, attend to the bull. You others, pick up your gear and theirs.’

  The two men he had named approached him and he stooped to release the padlocks on the shackles. The animal submitted placidly to having the two lariats noosed around his neck. Evans crossed to join the other men who were hefting their bedrolls and saddles. But every man ensured he had a hand free to hold a gun. And eyes constantly raked the surroundings as the group moved towards the scattered horses.

  Edge watched the departure with no sense of failure. He had tried and he had lost. But there would be another time.

  ‘Hey, you’re goin’ the wrong way, Walt!’ Clint said. ‘I saw your nag head into the rocks.’

  Edge had inched forward to keep the men in his range of vision. He saw one man stop and look back apprehensively towards the high, slender pillars of rough-sided rocks. He was a tall, thin man with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes.

  ‘The women could be in there!’ he rasped, and the half-breed recognized the voice. It was the man Clint had roused in the pre-dawn darkness. He shot a pleading look at Evans.

  ‘We’re moving out, I said,’ Evans told him harshly. ‘That was a trick to get us away from the bull, that’s all. Go get your horses, Walt. They ain’t got the guts for no killin’.’

  ‘Ed?’ Walt said, addressing himself to another man with the same build and similar features. ‘You wanna give me a hand?’

  Ed looked at Evans. ‘All right I give my brother some cover, sir?’

  The mouth beneath the moustache formed the line of a scornful sneer. ‘Sure, if he’s that scared of a couple of females. But as soon as we’re saddled up we’re ridin’. You’ll have to catch us up.’

  Walt and Ed dropped their gear and carried only their rifles as they made their way back to the camp-site. The others moved to their horses, which were now quiet, and began to saddle them. Edge remained in the damp hiding pl
ace, his expression impassive as he watched the two brothers halt at the point where the stream ran noisily into the rocky area. Walt and Ed entered into a low-voiced argument and the man whose horse was missing lost his point. He moved reluctantly into the rocks while his brother remained in the open, pumping the action of his repeater and stiffening as he listened hard.

  ‘Shuddup the lot of you!’ Evans snarled, silencing a murmur of disgruntled conversation that had erupted among the men saddling the horses. ‘We still got the bull, and that’s all that damn well matters.’

  Evans was scared. It sounded in his voice for his anger was not strong enough to shield it. Before going through his initial reaction to the menace, he had been too busy to think about what might lie behind the dawn disturbance. Now, with time for his imagination to work, his mind had filled with dread.

  ‘You okay in there, Walt?’ Ed shouted.

  ‘Okay, Ed!’ Walt responded, his tone a lot lighter than before. ‘I see him.’

  ‘What’d I say?’ Evans demanded happily. ‘Just a trick. Them Tree women ain’t got the guts for no killin’.’

  Edge shifted slightly to see the main body of men. They were mounted now. Evans, grinning contemptuously at the others, gave his horse a slap on the rump and slammed in his heels to order a gallop. The others chased after him, Roy and Dale trailing with the ropes from the bull lashed around their saddle-horns.

  Walt Quincy’s horse stood quietly at the side of the rushing water where the stream channeled between two pinnacles of rock. He was chomping on a patch of green, sweet-looking grass. The tall, thin man approached the animal slowly, muttering soft words. The horse continued to graze, and submitted meekly when his owner folded a hand around the bridle.