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

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Obliged to you.’

  ‘My pleasure, sir.’

  The sound of the beer passing down the half-breed’s throat was the only sound in the saloon after Clint and Frimley had pushed out through the batwings. The old-timers began to whisper their calls and antes. The bartender worked industriously at polishing glasses. Some of Evans’s men shuffled their feet.

  ‘Whatever them women are payin’ you I’ll double it if you’ll leave them to—’

  ‘You can’t afford it feller,’ Edge cut in evenly on the blurting voice of Evans. ‘Getting half that beef on the hoof.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Hollis Millard gasped.

  ‘That’s crazy,’ said Ray Irwin, the man with the broken nose.

  Evans recovered his composure after the shock. ‘Twenty-five grand?’ he sneered. ‘Sounds cheap for killin’ ten men.’

  ‘Another one, bartender,’ Edge called, pushing his empty glass away from him. ‘Women do their own killing, feller. That thing back at Railton - that was personal’

  ‘So what the hell’s worth twenty-five thousand?’ Evans demanded.

  ‘Half the bull.’ The beer was drawn and set down in front of Edge. The bartender counted some coins from the pile of change on the counter top.

  ‘My bull!’ Evans roared, and drew his Colt.

  He was three men away from Edge and hidden from the half-breed by them. Edge saw just Evans’s face crimson with anger as he leaned forward to stare along the burned and gouged counter top. The three men hurriedly backed up. And those behind followed suit. Edge remained bellied up to the counter and turned just his head to look at the man with the moustache. Evans’s complexion as he pivoted, shaded into purple.

  ‘You figure to steal my bull?’ His voice was thick and spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

  He was trembling with rage but his gun-hand, which rested on the counter top, was as steady as a rock. He squeezed the trigger and a bullet exploded from the gun. The lead shattered the glass in front of Edge, spraying shards along the scarred wood and spilling beer in every direction. The half-breed remained where he was, as unmoving as a stone carving. His hooded eyes, which did not blink at the sound of the shot, directed a look of sneering scorn at Evans.

  ‘Another beer, bartender,’ he said evenly. ‘Better have a fresh glass. This feller will pay.’

  Nobody moved for long seconds. Then, as heavy footfalls hit the sidewalk outside, the bartender unfroze.

  ‘Comin’ right up, sir.’

  The old-timers and Evans’s men stared in expectant silence, awaiting the next explosive move.

  ‘Whatever them women told you, it was lies!’ Evans snarled. ‘I got legal entitlement to that animal.’

  The batwings crashed open and the sheriff led his trio of deputies into the saloon at a run. They pulled up short, in a menacing line, with right hands close to gun butts.

  ‘Who fired that gun?’ the sheriff demanded.

  Evans was still resting his hand on the counter top, palm wrapped round the Colt butt. Edge accepted the replacement beer and raised it to his lips. He eyed his reflection in the mirror and spoke over the rim of the glass.

  ‘Possession’s nine points of the law, sheriff,’ he said. ‘That feller happens to be holding the bull and the gun.’

  ‘I warned you guys!’ the lawman snarled. ‘All of you!’

  ‘No harm done!’ the bartender said quickly. ‘A glass got broke, that’s all.’

  ‘Peace got broke,’ the sheriff countered. ‘I ought to throw the whole bunch of you in the jailhouse, that’s what I ought to do.’

  His grim-faced deputies nodded their approval.

  ‘But I ain’t gonna do that.’

  The younger lawmen expressed their disapproval.

  ‘Gonna ask you to leave Mission Creek.’ He sighed. ‘And if you don’t do like I ask - right quick - gonna run you out.’

  Edge finished his drink and lowered the glass. ‘Only here for the beer,’ he said as he turned and strolled towards the door.

  The sheriff, wearing a look of suspicion, waited until the last moment before he stepped aside. As the doors swung closed behind the tall, lean figure, Evans thrust the Colt back into his holster and got a stricken look on to his face.

  ‘The bull!’ he exclaimed, raking his eyes along the faces of his men, then started forward. His men made to move in behind him. But the whole group pulled up short as the sheriff stepped back into the line of deputies.

  ‘No more trouble!’

  Evans spat on to the sawdust-covered floor. ‘Not in this jerkwater town, unless they start it.’

  The sheriff nodded, and stepped aside gesturing for his fellow lawmen to do likewise. Evans led his men out on to the street with the peace officers hard on their heels.

  ‘Hey,’ one of the old-timers called to the bartender. ‘You didn’t collect for that other beer, Matt’

  Matt looked relieved as he started to pick shards of splinters off his counter top. ‘Happy to lose just the price of a beer in the kinda trouble that’s brewin’ there,’ he answered.

  ‘Already been brewed, I’m thinkin’,’ another of the old-timers said reflectively. ‘Bein’ stirred now. Deal the cards, Augie.’

  Edge had mounted the gelding and was riding him back west along the street at an easy walk as the men burst from the saloon behind him. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of their footfalls on the sidewalk, but they did not come after him. Instead, as the four lawmen halted at the centre of the intersection, Evans and his hands streamed along the northbound street.

  ‘Clint!’ Evans yelled. ‘Everythin’ all right?’

  The half-breed felt eyes watching him as he rode between the lamp-lit windows of the houses. But he didn’t respond to the half fearful, half curious examination. Instead, he concentrated upon the crest of the hill, where the wagon was silhouetted against the dark sky, the team motionless in the traces. A small group of people stood at the side of the wagon - two women and two men. Over such a distance in a low light level, it was impossible to discern more than the dark forms of the quartet. But Edge had only to know the number to know their identities. Muriel Tree had taken his advice about doing more than merely waiting on the hill top.

  ‘Hey, mister!’ Clint yelled in terror as Edge started up the hillside.

  ‘Tell ’em to stop this!’ George Frimley shrieked. ‘It’s coldblooded murder!’

  Edge did not reply.

  ‘What the hell’s happenin’?’ the sheriff of Mission Creek demanded, breaking into a lumbering run in the wake of Edge. His deputies chased after him.

  ‘Evans!’ It was Muriel’s voice, shrill and piercing. ‘Evans, you murdering bastard!’

  Edge reined the gelding to a halt on the lower slope. The lawmen skidded to a breathless stop a few yards behind him. Windows were thrown open and heads poked out. Doors creaked and figures stepped into the wedges of light.

  ‘You are with the women!’ the sheriff accused.

  The half-breed continued to look up at the hill crest. ‘I break any town ordinances, feller?’ he asked.

  ‘You sure as hell kept them guys busy while the women snuck into Mission Creek.’

  ‘And stole the bull, I’m thinkin’,’ a deputy added.

  ‘Evans show you proof he owns the bull?’ Edge wanted to know.

  ‘I didn’t ask, stranger. But you called it about possession being nine points of the law.’

  ‘Mr. Evans, help us?’ Clint pleaded, full-throated.

  Edge nodded. ‘So if the women have got possession…?’

  ‘They ain’t!’

  The deputy’s response caused Edge to swing in the saddle and look over the lawmen’s turned heads, back along the street to the intersection. Evans, Hollis Millard, Jeb, Ray and Dale had moved back into sight. Ray and Dale had assumed their familiar roles of being in charge of the stud bull.

  Sheriff, there’s gonna be murder done if you don’t stop it!’ Evans yelled.

  A cold an
ger glinted in Edge’s eyes as he returned his attention to the top of the hill.

  ‘He right?’ the lawman asked to the half-breed’s rigidly set back.

  ‘So you can see what’s comin’ to you, Vic Evans!’ Aunt Matty bellowed.

  ‘Move, you bastards!’ From Muriel.

  ‘Run, skunks!’ From her sister-in-law.

  The skinny Clint and the overweight George Frimley were helped on their way with a prod in the back from their own rifles. They stumbled forward, found their strides and broke into a balanced run. They screamed their terror. The fat man ran in a straight line. Clint began to zigzag. Frimley was hit first, a dozen yards from his murderer. A bullet from the rifle in Aunt Matty’s hands smashed into the back of his skull and ripped through his left eye, trailing gore that gleamed in the moonlight. Clint took a bullet in the right hip and spun to the ground. He fell lengthwise across the slope and started to roll. Muriel pumped the repeater’s action and squeezed the trigger. The second shot missed and she tried again. And again; and a fourth time. There were no more misses. Clint was hit in the back once and the stomach twice. Three trails of blood linked where he had tumbled to where he came to rest.

  ‘Looks like,’ Edge muttered in reply to the lawman’s question.

  There were gasps and grunts of horror from the watching citizens of Mission Creek.

  ‘Arrest ’em, sheriff!’ Evans shrieked. ‘Them women and Edge! You saw it! Two unarmed men gunned down in the back!’

  The half-breed had his cold rage under control as he turned again in his saddle to survey the lawmen. Three of them expressed dumbstruck contempt. The other looked as if he was going to be sick.

  ‘For stealing a bull?’ a deputy managed to rasp.

  ‘That was after they killed a husband and brother.’

  ‘Where?’ the sheriff asked.

  ‘Up north. Far as you can go before you’re in a foreign country.’

  ‘Sheriff!’ Hollis Millard yelled. ‘You gonna do like Mr. Evans said?’

  He, Evans and Jeb started along the street from the intersection. Ray and Dale held back, the bull trapped between them on two lines.

  ‘Women won’t be no trouble,’ a deputy pointed out, nodding up the hill.

  His words and gesture called all attention back to Aunt Matty and Muriel. The two women had set down the rifles and were starting over the crest, each carrying a shovel and a tombstone.

  ‘They gonna bury them guys?’ the sheriff demanded, incredulously.

  Edge took out the makings and watched the approach of Evans and his two men as he rolled a cigarette. ‘Provide everything except a preacher,’ he answered.

  ‘Well?’ Evans demanded. Millard and Jeb flanked him. All three held their right hands low, poised for the draw. ‘You do anythin’ ’cept talk about keepin’ peace in this town?’

  Edge lit the cigarette and hung it at the corner of his mouth. He hooked the thumb of his right hand over his gun belt, an inch or so in front of the jutting Colt butt. And he eased his feet from the stirrups.

  ‘This town ends just about where you guys are standing,’ the lawman answered frowning after a few moments thought. ‘And I’m town law. Not county.’

  The women had reached the slumped body of George Frimley. They set down the tombstone and began to thud their shovels into the hillside.

  ‘You mean you’re goin’ to let these three killers get away with what you just saw?’ Evans snarled.

  Edge and the lawmen were some ten yards away from the trio of incensed men. The sheriff moved first, but his deputies were quick to follow. They halted behind Evans and his two hands.

  ‘Asked you to leave Mission Creek,’ the sheriff reminded. ‘One more step the way you’re facin’ and what happens then ain’t none of my business. Or you can head the other way and pick up your horses as you pass through.’

  Evans swung his angry eyes away from the detached expression on the sheriff’s face, glared at the women engaged in their grave-digging, then fixed them on Edge.

  ‘You said killin’ ain’t part of your deal, right?’ he rasped.

  Edge nodded. ‘Right feller.’

  Evans took the single step over the imaginary town line and drew his gun. But Edge drew at the same time and fired while the man on the ground was still cocking his weapon. The bullet gouged across the top of Evans’s thumb and cut a furrow along his hand from the knuckle to the wrist. The Colt fell through the spray of blood. Millard and the other men had started to reach for their guns, but they snatched their hands away.

  Aunt Matty and Muriel glanced up from their chore, then resumed it. There were some more gasps from the watchers. Evans sucked at his bleeding wound and glared up at the mounted, half-turned half-breed with pain and rage.

  ‘Just friggin’ woundin’!’ he croaked, spitting out blood.

  ‘No part of the deal, feller. You spilled my beer.’

  Evans began to shake with frustration. He shifted his stare from Edge to the grave digging women. Then he swung his head from one side to the other, glowering at his men. ‘Hollis, Jeb, he ain’t got nothing against you. Blast them females before they get us all.’

  The fat Jeb eyed the women and licked his lips. But then he glanced at Hollis Millard for a lead and found the man was nervously appraising Edge.

  ‘Not me,’ Millard said. ‘No, sir, Mr. Evans. He might figure I looked at him the wrong way some time.’

  He swung around and moved hurriedly along the street. Jeb paused only a moment before following him. Evans was shaking so badly now he seemed on the point of collapse. But he brought himself under control. Enough to stoop, snatch up his Colt in his left hand and storm away in the wake of his men.

  Edge pushed his Colt back into the holster and took the cigarette from his mouth, spitting a piece of loose tobacco off his lip.

  The sheriff let out his breath in a noisy sigh. ‘You got anything against those other two guys?’ he asked curiously.

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘So they could’ve blasted the women?’ the sick-looking deputy croaked.

  ‘Same as Evans, if he can shoot left-handed,’ Edge answered, dropping the half-smoked cigarette.

  ‘You’re a real generous guy,’ another deputy said sourly. ‘Only shoot a man once for spillin’ your beer.’

  ‘Real fancy shootin’ though,’ a watching citizen called. ‘Pow!’ He struck the heel of one hand across the back of another in imitation of a bullet furrowing Evans’s flesh.

  ‘Comes of being brought up in a poor family,’ Edge muttered, and clucked his horse forward as he turned in the saddle. ‘Always looking for a hand out.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘ONLY five of the skunks left now,’ Aunt Matty said with a sigh of satisfaction, between digging shovelfuls of earth out of the grave.

  Edge had halted the gelding a few feet short of where the women were working. He had been watching silently for long moments, as the audience at the foot of the hillside dispersed. He still said nothing.

  ‘And we got to thank you again, young feller. Evans would have come gunning for us if you hadn’t blasted the pistol out of his hand.’

  ‘I bet you he didn’t do that for us, Aunt Matty,’ Muriel said, panting; not interrupting her work with the shovel.

  ‘Right,’ Edge said sourly. ‘How’d you get those two out of town?’

  The older woman grinned. ‘By pointing the shotgun at them, that’s how. Came like lambs.’

  ‘Couldn’t scare the bull though, uh?’

  Hoof beats sounded from below and they all looked down upon Mission Creek. All the citizens and the four lawmen were off the streets now. Evans and his diminished bunch of men were heading out of town towards the trail stretching out into the east.

  Muriel rested her shovel for a moment and spat on her hands. ‘You’re in for half, mister,’ she reminded grimly. ‘But you got to do more to earn it than drink beer while Aunt Matty and me go hunting. You made the deal. We do the killing. Seems to us you ou
ght to get the bull.’

  She went to work again.

  ‘Besides which,’ Aunt Matty added. ‘We couldn’t handle the men and that ornery critter all at once.’

  ‘’Specially not when you’re frightened to go near him.’ Muriel accused.

  ‘He’s out to get me, I tell you,’ the older woman countered. ‘He hates me, I know it.’

  Edge dismounted and led the gelding up to the wagon. Behind him, the women ended their mild quarrel almost as soon as it began and devoted all their energies to the grave digging. The half-breed fed and watered the team and his own horse, then set a fire and made coffee. He ate from his supplies and climbed into the rear of the wagon to bed down on the scattered hay.

  He was jolted awake when the wagon jerked into motion, canting over the crest of the hill and starting down, with the wheels skidding as the brake stayed locked on. He peered over the tail-gate and saw that his unsaddled gelding was hitched to the wagon. The fire had been doused. Lower down, he saw the two mounds with the familiar tombstones positioned on top. The wagon slithered on to a diagonal course, angling towards the north-east. He peered around the side and saw they were heading on a route to by-pass Mission Creek.

  ‘We figured they wouldn’t give us no welcome if we rolled through, young feller.’

  Aunt Matty’s ugly face was visible as she leaned away from the seat to look back along the side of the wagon. Even in the pale light of the moon it was possible to see how much the digging chore had taken out of her pain-wracked body. Her face was haggard, the eyes sunken and, as she grinned, her features took on the aspect of a death mask.

  ‘Only feller who would thank you is the town drunk,’ Edge said, and withdrew into the wagon. He checked that the booted Winchester on the saddle was within reach, and lay back, tipping his hat over his face. He had slept in more discomfort than aboard a rolling wagon, and it took just a couple of minutes to sink into shallow unconsciousness again.

  The wagon reached the Colorado river, reduced by drought to a mild trickle of muddy water. On the far bank, the trail swung south-west across a desert plain towards the point where the Gila Bend and the Big Horn Mountain ranges formed a broad valley. Edge continued to sleep. Muriel Tree drove the team while her sister-in-law watched the ground ahead for signs left by their quarry. Midnight was a half-hour gone when the lead horse on the left went lame.