EDGE: The Frightened Gun (Edge series Book 32)

by George G. Gilman

  Table of Contents

  RAZOR EDGE

  Copyright

  Dedications

  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

  RAZOR EDGE

  In Virginia City, Edge encounters a nervous magician named Willard, whose magic show attracts his attention. Deciding to stop, Edge gets caught between two drunken cowhands in the middle of a shootout. Edge saves a woman’s life, becomes the town hero and good buddies with Billings, owner of the Four aces.

  But Edge doesn’t know the history of Billings, an outlaw with a string of henchmen in his service, who killed Willard’s father ten years before. Abbie, Willard’s beautiful young sister, tries to seduce Edge and win him over to her brother’s cause – to wipe out Billings. Indifferent to Abbie and to her brother’s hatred, Edge, nevertheless, is forced to take a stand – and to play his deadly hand.

  THE FRIGHTENED GUN

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2014

  Copyright © 2014 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition Aug 2014

  Names, Characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover Design and illustrations by West World Designs © 2014.

  http://westworlddesigns.webs.com

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications.

  Cover Illustration by Cody Wells.

  Visit the author at: www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  For: E.R.C.

  Who came through with essential supplies

  on a very wet day,

  Chapter One

  A hot wind had been blowing down out of the Sierras all morning and the man riding south across the Sarcobatus Flats towards the California state line was as grey as the mare under him. With the dust which the mountain wind stirred up and pasted to his sweating face and lodged in the fibres of his clothing.

  Then, at midday, the air became still hotter than it had ever been, but at least the man and his mount could open their mouths without feeling the searing bite of grit against their throats. For a while the horizon was veiled by curtains of moving dust-clouds but soon these were swept aside and the vastness of the dry, baked-hard country could be seen to the full extent of the far distant encircling sandstone and limestone mountain ranges. With, here and there on the flats, an occasional clump of brush, a scattering of saguaro, cholla and prickly pear and - beyond the fringes of the flats - groups of low mesas and buttes.

  As he reined in the mare, unhooked one of the canteens from the saddle horn and took a small drink of tepid water, the man looked in every direction. Carefully and without haste, checking that he was alone and that he had not veered off his chosen course during the dust storm. Then, his mind and thirst satisfied, he swung down to the ground, poured a little water in his sweat-smelling hat and allowed the horse to drink. This done, he beat the hat against his thigh a few times, dusted off his clothes with his hands, used his kerchief to wipe the sweat and dirt from his face and remounted to continue his ride southward. As slowly as before. Almost as slowly, it seemed, as the sun moved along its afternoon course towards the far off ridges in the west.

  The horse had no name the man knew of. The man had for many years been called Edge.

  He was tall and deceptively lean-looking, with not an ounce of excess flesh on his rangy frame which tipped the scales close to two hundred pounds. He was dressed in sombre hues – the low-crowned and wide-brimmed hat grey, as was his cotton shirt and the kerchief which was loosely knotted at the front, his denim pants and spurless riding boots black. There was a brown leather gunbelt around his waist with a standard Remington revolver in the holster tied down to his right thigh. Even the coloured wooden beads on the thong around his neck had faded to lustreless imitations of the bright shades they once had been.

  All his clothing was scuffed and worn, stained and torn, badly repaired or not repaired at all. Long used, also, was the Western saddle and its accoutrements – the Winchester jutting from the forward canting boot on the right side as impersonal and lacking in fancy refinements as the revolver in the holster.

  Thus, from the broad shoulders down he looked like any one of a thousand or more lone riders who might this day be drifting across the seemingly limitless parched country of the American south-west. With or without a specific destination in mind. Leaving a job or looking for one. Recalling the past or reviewing the future. But for the most part uncaring because here in the present there was a fit horse to ride and supplies enough in the saddlebags to provide for immediate needs.

  But, of course, above the shoulders was what made every drifter – every man – different from all the others. In the set of his features and in the mysterious darkness of the inside of his head.

  The man called Edge had the kind of face which could be regarded as either handsome or ugly. It did not matter what expression he wore, it depended upon how the beholder responded to the unmistakable signs in it of latent cruelty. In the eyes mostly, which were the lightest of blue and permanently narrowed under hooded lids. Eyes which looked as cold as slivers of ice but much harder. Also in the thinness and length of the lips. But sometimes the lips would part, drawing back from the evenly matched, white teeth to display a smile. And sometimes there would be warmth in the smile. Never, though, did this expression melt the chill from the eyes.

  Beneath the mouth his jawline was firm, the skin drawn taut from the high cheekbones which flanked a rather hawk-like nose. This skin was stained to the colour of his gunbelt and saddle by more than just continual exposure to the elements, and was engraved with deep-cut lines which were not caused solely by the passing of close to forty years. For he had always been dark-skinned, this coloration deriving from the Mexican blood-line of his father – just as the ice-blueness of his eyes was inherited from his Scandinavian mother. While many of the cracks in his skin had been caused by the physical suffering and mental anguish he had endured during more recent years.

  A morning’s bristles grew on his cheeks, jaw and neck as he rode south through the furnace heat of the afternoon, more thickly along his top lip and down towards his jaw at either side of his mouth to indicate a bandito-type moustache. Black, like the thick hair which he wore long enough to brush his shoulders at either side and conceal the collar of his shirt at the back, this because he preferred to wear his hair long, rather than to cover the handle of a straight razor which jutted at the nape of his neck from a pouch held in place by the beaded thong.

  As he rode south at an easy pace that conserved his own energy and that of the horse, his sweat-sheened features were in repose and impassive, revealing no visible sign of any discomfort or weariness. Which did not, of course, make him unique. For any man who chose the life of a drifting loner – or had it thrust upon him – soon learned to accept without complaint the worst with which the country and its elements could assault him. For if a man did not experience the worst, how was he to appreciate the best
?

  But what did make the man called Edge different from most – whatever their mode of living – was the way he remained constantly alert and always poised to respond should his ever-watching eyes see a sign of potential danger.

  His vigilance was obvious, to the close observer, from the way his eyes moved in their sockets and from the number of times he cast backward glances over either shoulder. But far more subtle was the way he held the reins, the manner in which his feet rested in the stirrups and how he sat astride the saddle, isolated clues to the fact that this man, while appearing to be totally at ease on the vast and apparently deserted stretch of terrain, was prepared to react instantly should the need arise. And, if the clue to his latent cruel streak were also seen, the perceptive observer would guess that the reaction was likely to be a harsh one.

  But for most of the scorchingly hot afternoon the slow riding half-breed saw nothing to give him even pause for thought. However, he never relaxed his vigilance for a moment, maintaining it with effortless ease. Without having to think about it – in the same manner as he took out the makings of a cigarette from time to time, rolled the tobacco in the paper, lit it and smoked it. Both sets of actions were habits which had been developed over many years. One a self-indulgent luxury. The other an often-proved necessity in staying alive.

  The day was ageing towards evening and the low sun was casting his shadow long across the arid ground to his left when he saw a patch of white smoke smudge the dark blue sky directly ahead of him. He took mental note of this new element of his surroundings and continued to scan the country in every direction as he maintained the unhurried walking pace towards the eastern end of the low mesa above which the smoke hung.

  He was perhaps a mile and a half away from the mesa when he first saw the sign of a fire, riding along the side of a rock littered arroyo that cut a broad, shallow curve across the flats and went from sight beyond the forty-feet-high sandstone formation. Fifteen minutes later, when he was close enough to smell the burning brush, the smoke was rising as an uninterrupted column.

  To the south of the mesa the curve of the dry wash sharpened to cut down the steepest strip of a shallow drop into a wide hollow in the lee of the sandstone escarpment. It was at the bottom of this hollow that the fire burned. Small and controlled – the cooking fire of a camp. Out of sight of Edge who had halted the mare on the lip of the hollow: for there was a dense growth of mesquite and juniper which obscured his view – except where the waters of infrequent flash storms had rushed down to carve a course through the brush and timber. On the downgrade the wash was much narrower and deeper than out on the flats north of the mesa. Smoothly and silently, the half-breed slid from his saddle and led the horse down to the timber, where he hitched the reins around a juniper branch.

  He could now smell the appetising aroma of coffee grounds boiling in a pot as well as wood smoke. And he could hear the crackle of brushwood attacked by flames. So he stepped very carefully down into the dry wash and watched where he was putting his feet so that he did not set any of the bed rocks skittering along the water course.

  The mesa was formed in a curved shape, like half a horseshoe around the north and west rims of the hollow, so that the ground below was in deep evening shadow. The hungry flames sent constantly moving tongues of firelight through the darkening dusk. When, therefore, Edge reached the lower fringe of the twenty feet wide band of timber he was able to see the component parts of the campsite quite distinctly.

  The cooking fire with a coffee pot standing in the flames was some fifty feet from where he stood, and twenty feet back from the bank of the dry wash. Beyond this, a city-style delivery wagon was parked, the two-horse team still in the traces. Beside the fire, his back to where the half-breed stood watching, a man sat, cross-legged and with shoulders hunched – in an attitude which suggested that as he gazed into the heart of the flames, his expression would be morose. A short-of-stature, slight-of-build man wearing a black frock coat and a grey, Montana-peak cowhand’s hat. The hat fit him well enough but looked incongruous on such a short, thin man and in combination with the coat.

  Having seen this much – that the man was alone and the least likely source of trouble he had come across on his long ride out of the Middle-West – Edge opened his mouth to speak and prepared to step up from the dry wash. But kept his brown-skinned right hand close to the jutting butt of the holstered Remington, aware that his first impression could be proved wrong.

  ‘One,’ the man at the fire said, hissing the word through clenched teeth as he straightened his back and raised his shoulders.

  Edge held still and remained silent, his forehead creasing in a frown of perplexity.

  Two ... three!’ the man added quickly.

  Then unfolded his arms, powered into a turn, drew a revolver from a holster at the centre of his belt, hurled himself full length across the dusty ground and blasted a shot towards the half-breed.

  Instead of an even-voiced call of greeting, a rasping curse escaped from Edge’s partly opened mouth as he dived to the bed of the dry wash. And he followed it with a more forceful obscenity as he felt the pain of impact against dozens of misshapen rocks which dug into him from knees to chest. But fear of dying from a stranger’s bullet together with ice-cold anger at the man behind the gun transcended the jarring effect on his nervous system. So that the Remington, hammer cocked, remained firmly held in his right fist as he pushed himself up on to all fours, taking care to ensure that the line of his back stayed below the level of the arroyo bank.

  ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’ the man at the fire shrieked, the first word in unison with the thud of the revolver bullet into a juniper trunk. ‘Dear God in heaven! Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to ... I was just tryin’ to hit the ... Please, mister, it wasn’t supposed to be aimed at...’

  Edge had long ago learned to control his fear and anger in life or death situations. And he was clear-headed, all his senses totally receptive as he started to rise. So that he heard the man’s words distinctly and was able to recognise the dread which caused his voice to quaver. Thus, as he came erect, his movements were slow and although his finger was tight against the trigger of the Remington, he was able without any mental effort to prevent it from squeezing the final fraction of an inch.

  The man by the fire was still on the ground. But he had screwed himself around so that he was entirely face forward towards the stranger he had almost killed – but he was lying awkwardly for both his arms were thrust into the air, the hands empty.

  Despite his self-control, Edge could feel that his lips were still curled back and his skin was stretched tauter than ever to display the cold-eyed killer grin that had been the last human expression many men had seen. In the moving light of the fire’s flames the look was perhaps more terrifying than in other circumstances. Certainly it caused the final vestiges of colour to drain from the man’s face, pulled his eyes to their widest extent and constricted his throat so that the single-word plea which he was able to voice was just a tiny scratch on the surrounding silence.

  ‘Please...?

  ‘I do something bad to you sometime, kid?’ the half-breed asked. ‘Or was it I just scared the shit out of you?’

  He was about twenty. Youthfully good-looking, with clear skin and blond hair. In a vague sort of way, he resembled Jamie. Except that Jamie had never been so afraid. Not that the half-breed had ever seen Jamie afraid. Maybe when the troopers had started to...

  ‘I ain’t never seen you before, mister!’ the youngster said quickly, to interrupt Edge’s futile line of thought that led so far back into the distant past. ‘And it was me scared myself when I thought I’d shot you for sure. You gotta believe me. You must’ve heard me countin’. See! Look, the can I put in the tree. I was practisin’ my shootin’. I ain’t much good and I wanna be. Good, that is. Look, can you see it?’

  One of his raised arms moved and a finger was extended from a fist to point. Edge looked in the direction indicated and saw the can lodged in a tangle
of mesquite branches. High and to the left of where he had been standing when the boy fired.

  ‘Looks like you’re in real need of some practice, kid,’ the half-breed growled. He eased the hammer to the rest and slid the Remington into its holster.

  ‘Yeah, I know it!’ the boy said fast. ‘I have to be the world’s worst shot, but I’m real eager to learn. Every chance I get, I set up targets and try to hit them. But I know it’s gonna take time. But I’m so damn anxious to be good, I just don’t...’ He lowered his arms, sat up and shook his head, his face showing a mournful expression. ‘Gee, I’m so sorry, mister. I didn’t see you until it was too late. My folks always said I was like a bull in a china shop when I wanted to do somethin’ real bad.’

  ‘And you sure shoot real bad,’ Edge muttered, moving to stand on the spot where he had been when the bullet exploded from the boy’s gun.

  ‘Never can curb my enthusiasm is how Pa used to put it,’ the boy moaned, continuing to shake his head.

  ‘Yeah,’ the half-breed drawled, as he checked that the bullet scar in the juniper bark was on a line and level with his chest. ‘That can be the way of things. For a moment there, I almost died hole-heartedly.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘Name’s Clayton, Mr...?’

  ‘Edge,’ the half-breed supplied as he climbed with a grimace out of the dry wash and the boy got to his feet.

  ‘Mr Edge. Willard Clayton. Name on the wagon, that’s just to impress the payin’ customers. Least I can do after what happened is to offer you a cup of coffee. Or pull a tooth free, if any’s botherin’ you?’

  He grinned and his features were even more reminiscent of Jamie.

  ‘Coffee and my rump on something that ain’t moving for awhile will be fine, kid,’ Edge replied. ‘I’ve been riding so long, when I’m in the saddle it feels like I’m sitting on a toothache.’

  ‘You got a horse, Mr Edge? I didn’t hear no animal close by. If I’d heard you ridin’ up I wouldn’t have —’