EDGE: Montana Melodrama

by George G. Gilman

  The half-breed dropped his cigarette and ground out its fire under a boot heel. "I didn't like that it happened, feller. But into every fife a little rain must fall."

  The smile unsteadily lodged itself on the pale face of the elderly actor. And something of the familiar boom returned to his voice as he asked, "And you do not attach any blame to me for the accident of you being knocked out by the drunken liveryman two nights ago?"

  Edge had swung up astride the mare as Hamil­ton Linn asked this. Now he shook his head slowly from side to side, a head that if it still ached did not cause great discomfort—or no more than all the other areas of pain over his torso and limbs. From the vantage point on his horse, he grimaced down the long, steep slope at the end of the ravine. And growled, "Seems I've been getting rained on a hell of a lot these past couple of days."

  Hamilton Linn was on the point of becoming anxious again. But then he realized the half-reed was simply thinking aloud. "You'll return a Ridgeville with us, Mr. Edge? We are camped just a half-mile or so to the north. We'll start back just as soon as we have had breakfast."

  "A half-mile away?" Now Edge was brought out of a period of private reflection—and the actor's anxiety increased when the glittering blue eyes fixed him with an untrusting stare. "How come you happened by this way in time to—"

  "It was most fortuitous, that is all," Linn hastened to explain, and the smile was back, full of his happiness at being able to supply such a ready explanation. "We made camp very late last night totally unaware that there were others in this area. This morning, before we could light our own fire, we saw the smoke of another. And we came to investigate, Mr. Edge. Reached the campsite of the Lynch woman and the two men just as they were preparing to leave.

  "Of course, we had no idea who she was at that time. Then, lo and behold, everybody heard you coming up out of the ravine. Although, again, we had no idea it was you. If we had, we would have intervened earlier." He shrugged. "But we did not realize until later that this was any of our business. A point of view which you fully understand?"

  Edge arched his eyebrows. "Sure, feller."

  "You will return with us to Ridgeville?"

  "No, feller. I still have business out here in the mountains."

  Linn was puzzled. "But surely…" he began, then thought he saw the light. "Ah, you received a commission to recover the stolen money, Mr. Edge? Of the kind I proposed to offer you before the drunken James hit you with the bottle? And you will not be able to earn your reward unless you personally—"

  "That ain't it, feller," the half-breed interrupt­ed. "Like I said awhile back, I don't like to be robbed. And I was robbed while I was out cold in the livery the other night."

  "Oh, dear," Linn said softly, and gulped.

  "Seems the liveryman is the prime suspect."

  "And he left town claiming he intended to avenge the murder of the sheriff."

  "You got it, feller."

  "But if that is what he truly intended, he would hardly have stolen your money, Mr. Edge. And if lie did steal your money, he will be far from here by now."

  "Where?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Where would JJ be if he stole my money?"

  Hamilton Linn shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, eyeing the half-breed with a puzzled frown. "I can hardly be expected to know that." Now he nodded. "Nor can anybody else who does not know the man well."

  "And the only friend he had got shot dead in the bank raid. I'm just like anybody else, feller."

  Linn nodded wisely this time. "So you are unin­terested in the Campbells as such? Except as a magnet drawing the man James? And if you find him, you will then need to look elsewhere for the thief?"

  "In which case I’ll see you back in town, later," Edge answered and touched the brim of his hat as he heeled the mare forward.

  "Me? Why me? Surely the fact that I came out here and risked my life to recover our money is proof that—"

  "Easy, feller," Edge cut in evenly on the unusually shrill voice of the elderly actor. "Didn't mean anything personal. Just a manner of speaking." He saw a smile of relief spread across Linn's face then turned to gaze over the corpses of John and Arnie to the natural track between the trees.

  "Break a leg, Mr. Edge!" Even as he called this after the half-breed, Hamilton Linn realized it would probably be misunderstood. So he hastened to add, "It's a theatrical expression! A manner in which we thespians convey good wishes for a performance!"

  Edge continued to ride on by the dead bodies and did not turn in the saddle as he murmured, "Won't bother to say obliged, feller. Way bad manners are on the increase."

  Chapter Eight

  FAY Lynch and her two hapless escorts had been camped at a spot where the track turned to run due west. Edge picked it up in this direction and remained astride the mare, rolling and lighting a cigarette, as he surveyed the site. A pile of ashes with a few embers still glowing: the morning fire whose smoke the Linn Players had spotted. Drop­pings and signs to show where three horses had been hobbled during the night. And three elon­gated indentations in the soft ground—two on one side of the fire and one on the other—to reveal where the trio had slept in their bedrolls.

  The three had struck camp, which required no more than to douse the glowing ashes of the fire, when they were disturbed by the sounds of the half-breed's approach. They had gone to check who was coming—unaware that they were them­selves under surveillance by six members of the Linn Players company of actors.

  By the time he had smoked half the cigarette, Edge had seen enough to visualize the actions and reactions of the Lynch woman and her es­corts and to corroborate Hamilton Linn's account of what happened. He needed to do this because he was not prepared to accept the coincidence at face value.

  Then, convinced that the elderly actor and his troupe were on the level, his thoughts turned to the lesser coincidence of his run-in with the members of the Campbell bunch, who had to know the country between here and Cloud Pass better than a stranger. Before John and Amie made the mistake that got them killed, it was clear that they were escorting the woman back to Craig Campbell. And after Edge dismounted and squatted down on his haunches, his slitted eyes spotted the necessary clues amid pine needles that showed that the three riders had reached the campsite from the southeast. He also saw old signs leading away from the other side of the trampled area.

  These caused a wintry smile to flit across the thickly bristled features of Edge as he dropped his cigarette butt on the fire ashes, kicked dirt over the red glow, and then gingerly mounted the mare. For they meant that the spot where the track swerved from northwest to due west and where the three travelers had made their camp was well-used route through the forest on the valley side.

  He was quietly satisfied with the result of his brief investigation and confident that he would be able to follow this regular trail which members of the Campbell bunch apparently used to journey between their bolt-hole at the pass and the outside world. Hence he would not need to do anymore backtracking and could be sure that in making detours to the left or right he was still on the right path.

  Because of the thick foliage of the towering trees, the atmosphere on the floor of the forest remained cool and damp throughout the long morn­ing as the lone rider moved slowly through the timber. Across spongy ground that was constantly sloping upward. The light was always green and a little misty, stray shafts of warm sunshine occa­sionally locating a patch of dampness to vaporize.

  Perhaps thirty minutes after Edge and Hamil­ton Linn parted company, the creatures of the forest grew accustomed to the presence of the half-breed astride the mare and began to go about their daily business with the same sounds and pace as usual. The birds and animals ceased to fear the quiet intruder who progressed without haste but with resolute determination toward an objective that was none of their concern. And, of course, because it is the way of nature, it so hap­pened that some creatures that ignored the lone rider were intent upon killing other inhab
itants of the forest. But this parallel did not occur to Edge as he pressed steadily toward Cloud Pass. For he did not have that kind of philosophical streak in his character. He was simply aware of the calls and the cries and the scurries and the scratchings as audible signs that all was well. And listened to them in the knowledge that an abrupt cessation of the chorus could well signal that he was no longer the only human intruder in this section of timber.

  The muted barrage of sound continued un­abated throughout the morning and into afternoon while the rider allowed his mount to make the pace. The sun had moved more than halfway down the south-western dome of the almost obscured sky before he called a rest and meal halt. He did so at the crest of a rise on the valley slope from which he could see for the first time today| the twin peaks which flanked Cloud Pass. He saw too, that in locating the way by which the Campbell bunch moved to and from their headquarters, he had considerably cut down on the traveling time the giant of a lumberman had said it would take. He guessed he could reach the eastern start of Cloud Pass in less than three hours without go­ing any faster than before.

  When he looked back down the valley slope he could see several columns and smudges of smoke against the mostly pine-green backdrop of the far side of the valley. He picked out two as coming from the stacks of the company sawmill. North of these, there was a layer which he guessed was composed of smoke from many chimneys in Ridgeville—it was thick enough to blot out the sheer face of Indian Bluff behind the town. Else­where, the scattered lumber camps were marked by the smoke which rose from heaps of burning tree trimmings.

  The creek could not be seen, nor the town, nor the lumber-company installations. Just the many smoke signs that there were people in the dense forest below.

  Edge sat on a small knoll and ate a cold meal of stale biscuits and hard cheese washed down with canteen water. Smoked a cigarette and waited for another fire to be lit—his back to the valley bottom so that he could watch the wooded gap between the twin peaks, which was about a mile wide at the bases of the ridges.

  After almost two hours, when the northeasterly pointing shadows had grown long and the air had chilled enough for him to don his sheepskin coat, he saw the smoke of the suppertime fire of which Fred Caxton at the timber company sawmill office had spoken. It rose from a point a little left of center about midway through the pass.

  Edge mounted the mare and followed the well-trodden way until twilight and then full night clamped down over the mountains. He had gone half the distance between the knoll and the fire in the pass. Then he swung down from the saddle and led the horse by the reins, angling away from the direct route to the camp to head for the base of the ridge to the south. He did not go all the way to the moonlight-reflecting rock, though. Instead he halted and hitched the mare to a low-hanging branch, slid the Winchester out of the boot, and followed his nose-having begun this final leg of his approach when he was close enough to smell the smoke of the fire in the cold night air. The acrid scent of burning wood was mixed with a faint aroma of coffee. There was no longer any smell of food, for that had been cooked and eaten during the time it had taken Edge to get this close.

  Since darkness had fallen, the sounds of the forest had changed as the nocturnal creatures came out into the open. They did not run and skulk at his passing since they were familiar with having man as a neighbor in the pass—man in the sense of mankind, since they were also familiar with women. Indeed it was a woman who shrieked with laughter no more than forty feet

  from Edge, who abruptly froze in mid-stride, hands fisting tighter around the frame and barrel of the Winchester.

  Then came a guffaw from a man.

  "Quit it!"

  "What's so damn funny?"

  These two men sounded irritable and both seemed to get what they wanted. For the sound of good humor were curtailed and a man said something in low tones that Edge was unable to hear. Whatever it was, it struck nobody else as humorous and silence descended again.

  Edge backed up to a tree and dropped to his haunches, resting against the trunk, the rifle laid across his thighs. The faint smell of coffee made his mouth water and he swallowed the saliva rather than spitting it out.

  From time to time there were short, soft-spoke exchanges. Between men, among women, between men and women. Perfunctory and desultory on most occasions. He could tell this from the tone of their voices and the intervals between the snatches of talk. As if the unseen group—he could not guess at how many were in it—was waiting for something to happen. Were already bored from a very long wait and expecting it to be some time yet before it was over.

  Edge himself waited with stoic patience. Mov­ing very little in order to keep his muscles from stiffening up and only to blow warm breath into the cupped palms of his hands. Puzzled by the situation beyond the timber ahead of him, but not willing to move blindly toward a group of people obviously prepared for a long-awaited and not welcome event. He certainly was not it, but in the dark night which would suddenly be taut with high tension, it would probably not be safe even for the mother of any man or woman at the camp to show herself much less a stranger.

  His elbows and kneecaps smarted from where they had been skinned in his slide down and climb up the shale slope of the ravine. But there was no ache in his head anymore. And he felt only slightly abrasive skin on his temple where the bottle had been smashed. He could recall being in worse shape than this on many other oc­casions.

  He had been just as flat broke, too.

  But, with a scowl that involuntarily drew back the thin lips from his teeth, he could not remem­ber ever following such a long-shot lead to get something he needed.

  "Shit, this is friggin' crazy!" a man snarled. "That sonofabitch ain't out there no more, Craig!"

  A rifle shot cracked. It seemed to come from a long way to the right of where Edge suddenly straightened against the tree, thumbing back the hammer of his own Winchester. But this was an illusion created by the echo effect in Cloud Pass, for the gun had been fired within effective range of the impatient man who had just spoken. The man—or somebody close by him—cursed and then groaned.

  "The bastard got Roy, Craig!" a woman an­nounced in a tone of awe. "Right through his heart, goddammit!"

  "Serves the big-mouthed dimwit right!" came the rasping reply. "Anybody see anything?"

  "Frig it, no!"

  "Wasn't expectin' nothin."

  "He's to the north, that's for sure."

  "Maybe Ewan and the boys got a line on hi this time."

  Edge had been closing the distance on the group, taking short and probing strides, testing the ground for dry twigs before he set his foot down fully. But now he froze again, at the whispered relevation that some of the Campbell bunch were out stalking the timber of the pass, hunting the rifleman who had apparently struck before. The grin which had replaced the scowl on the face of the half-breed faded as he considered this danger that he did not know had existed until now.

  "Don't count on it. Whoever it is out there, he's smart. I just hope that the two men fetching Fay are smart enough not to come riding in here large as life if they've heard that shot."

  Edge moved forward again, under cover of the rasping, anxious-toned voice of the man he assumed to be Craig Campbell. Grinning quietly, again. For two reasons now.

  Firstly, he was too close to the camp to be in danger from the men hunting the timber; he had run that risk without knowing anything about it. Secondly, John James was alive and well and doing exactly what he had told the people back a Ridgeville he intended to do.

  Which meant that JJ, who was the only citizen, of the town he had any respect or liking for, was not a thief. Which maybe Edge had never considered him to be from the outset. Which in turn maybe meant that he had known that every yard he traveled away from Ridgeville put him that much farther away from his bankroll and the thief he intended to kill. But it also got him closer to where he would be able to lend JJ a hand. Even if JJ had not asked for help—JJ being the kind who never asked
for help.

  Edge knew that kind very well.

  He was about to step around a double-trunked tree when another shot exploded in the north sec­tion of the pass. It was the less powerful crack of a revolver. And no bullet thudded to rest in the area where Craig Campbell and the others were waiting.

  "Hey, you think that was—"

  "Shut up," a man snarled at a suddenly excited woman.

  Edge jerked back behind the double trunk.

  From the area where the revolver shot had sounded, a man bellowed, "We got him, Craig! And you ain't never gonna guess who it is!"

  "I ain't in no mood for guessing-games, Ewan!" the second Campbell brother roared. "Not with three dead boys down here!"

  Ewan sounded at the peak of excitement. Craig was in a trough of dark rage.

  "Okay, we're bringing him down!" Ewan called and now he sounded sullen. _

  "Hope the bastard is still alive," a woman rasped. There were some grunts of agreement with this.

  "Where the hell is Fay and them two boys who were supposed to fetch her?" Craig Campbell snapped.

  Ever since the news had been shouted that the man with the deadly rifle had been captured, the previously tense group at the camp began to relax. Matches were struck and tobacco smoke was now drifting through the trees and mixing with the pine scent that filled the half-breed's nostrils. Then he smelled wood smoke and saw a flickering light as the ashes of a fire were stirred into life and fresh fuel was added to crackle and spit sparks. Next he saw a steadier light—the yellow glow of more than one kerosene lamp. And as the time, the group was dispersing over what seemed to be a large area—an intriguing fact which Edge did not move forward to investigate until Ewan Campbell shouted, "See, you people! Look at who it is, will you? Old drunk JJ from the livery at Ridgeville! What do you think of that?" This drew some low-toned responses and Edge heard the voices but not the words as he stepped out from behind the double trunk and crossed the final few yards to reach his objective.

  As he did this, the rasp of many voices was curtailed by the shrillness of one.