EDGE: Montana Melodrama

by George G. Gilman

  "Damn you to hell, you Campbell sonsofbitches! Damn you for killin' my best buddy! And; for gettin' me before I made you pay!"

  "Sittin' up on a rock outcrop large as life and twice as ugly. Drunk and crazy both, I figure." Ewan spoke with venomous scorn.

  And his brother answered with the same brand of contempt—but directed at Ewan and all who agreed with him. "Why's it always me has to do the friggin' thinkin' around here? A man that's drunk and crazy don't shoot good as that!"

  Edge was in a position to see what was happening now. He was in a fringe of trees that encircled what had once been an army fort, built with the timber that was felled to make the initial clearing for the fort. Fire had ravaged the place a long time ago so that now there was just a single build­ing left standing amid the charred and weed-cov­ered ruins of others and the stockade wall that had surrounded all of them.

  Lamplight shafted from the four glassless win­dows and open doorway of the long and low building that had probably been a barrack in the former fort. And additional illumination was pro­vided by the cooking fire in the center of the one­time drill square.

  The glow of the moon was barred from this area of the pass by the ridge to the south. In the artificial light, Edge saw more than a score of men and women in two groups. Craig Campbell was at the front of one group, and as he spoke he ges­tured with a wave of a hand toward a line of three corpses on the ground at one end of the building. He did so as the last one to die was briefly displayed, then draped with a blanket like the other two.

  Ewan Campbell stood a little apart from the second group which was comprised of just himself and five other members of the Campbell bunch— two of them flanking the defiantly scowling John James and holding him by the upper arms and wrists.

  The successful search party had come over the weed-choked base of the former stockade wall and into the fringe of lamp and firelight before they stopped to show their prisoner to an audience of a half-dozen women and twice as many men. An audience that viewed the short and ro­und figure of the Ridgeville liveryman with a fixture of emotions—varying from hatred to anger, and curiosity to indifference.

  But nobody looked elsewhere after Craig Campbell's gesture. And JJ himself divided his scowling attention between the Campbells. Thus the woman who had covered the corpse of the man named Roy was unseen as she crossed herself, kneeling on the ground, and ran the back of a hand across both her eyes to wipe away the tears.

  Craig Campbell asked, a little absently, "Why are you ramblin' on about JJ?" Then a thought occurred to him and he took a step toward the prisoner and snarled, "You do any fancy sharpshootin' before you got here?"

  "I'm talkin' about you people shootin' down Bart Bolt when you hit the Trasks' bank, that’s what!"

  "What's he..."

  "I said did you use your rifle…"

  A man behind Craig Campbell started to pose the first question. Then Campbell interrupted and a gunshot interrupted Campbell. It was fired from a revolver in the double-handed grip of the weeping woman who had covered the corpse of Roy. From the dead man's gun, which she slid from his holster as she rose from her knees and turned to stare and aim at JJ.

  The bullet took the liveryman in the chest, high and to the right, and he grunted with surprise and looked down at the blossoming stain on his jacket. He felt the pain and sagged, but he was held up on his feet by the men who flanked him.

  Every head wrenched around to locate the person who had fired the bullet. Everyone saw the woman with the tear-stained, anguish-contorted face as she staggered toward JJ, thumbing back the hammer.

  "You killed my Boy, you rotten old man! You shot him down like a dog, you coward! From out there where nobody could—"

  "Aw, shit!" Craig Campbell snarled, and shot the woman in the side of the head at point-blank range.

  Edge, dropping to his haunches behind a screen of low-growing brush, murmured, "Something smells worse than that about this, feller."

  Chapter Nine

  THE killing was a totally cold-blooded one.

  Like every other man within the confines of the derelict army post, Craig Campbell was dressed western style. Hats varied in shape and color and coats, shirts, pants, and spurred boots likewise; some outfits well-fitting and others too large or too small. But every man carried a revolver in a way best suited to him.

  Craig Campbell drew his army Colt from a hip holster on the left side of his gunbelt. Without undue speed, but with a certain deliberation that did not extend to slowness. Then he brought it swiftly to the aim and squeezed the trigger. This while the woman grieving for Roy was still closing with the sagging JJ, too intent upon abusing him and finishing him off to be aware of anything else.

  When the .45-caliber bullet smashed into her head she pulled up short and became rigid, dead on her feet for part of a second. Then she dropped her man's gun and collapsed limply to the ground, an area of darkness rapidly spreading in her blond hair.

  It was as if she were forgotten the moment after she was dead. And no one moved to align her with the other three corpses. All attention was di­rected at her killer as he holstered the Colt and stepped forward, motioning for the still-conscious JJ to be lowered to the ground.

  This was done and the Campbell brothers hunkered down to either side-of the softly cursing liveryman. Nobody else closed in on the three of them. Some backed off a pace or so, as if made nervous by the brutal killing of the distraught woman.

  "You sayin' the Ridgeville bank was hit, JJ?" Craig Campbell asked.

  "You friggin' know it, you—"

  The back of Craig's hand cracked hard against one of JJ's flabby cheeks. "I ain't talkin' because I like the sound of my own voice, stupid!"

  "Nor yours!" Ewan snarled, like a man eager to show he was as hard as another.

  From his secret vantage point, the now impas­sive half-breed could see the Campbell brothers were big men. As big as any lumberman back in Ridgeville—except for the giant named George— but he could make out little else about them. At the distance from which he watched the harsh in­terrogation, figures were no more than dark forms on the fringe of the fire and lamplight.

  "And you friggin' killed Bart Bolt and the Trasks!" JJ countered. His head wrenched to the side with the blow, but he refused to cry out in Pain. "You or some of this crud you run with up here!"

  "Crud, are we!" Ewan roared, and brought hack an arm to throw a punch into JJ's fearless

  face.

  Craig said, "Quit it, Ewan," in an even voice and it was sufficient to cause his brother to halt the move. Then he drew his Colt again. The click of its hammer had the impact of thunder in the stillness of the army post. Everyone present momentarily froze, as if under a spell. Then a burning log on the fire cracked and the spell was broken.

  And Craig said coldly, "You're known as a talker, JJ. And that's what I'm tellin' you to do. Tell it plain and simple, what brought you up here to gun for me and my brother. Do that now, JJ. In the same way as usual. Or do it later, like a girl."

  "Soprano," a man among the watchers growled. "Yeah, soprano," Craig echoed, and thrust the muzzle of his gun harder into the groin of the liveryman.

  And John James did as he was ordered. But not because he was afraid of being emasculated by a bullet from Craig Campbell's Colt. For there was no quiver of terror in his voice, weak thought it was from the effect of the bullet in his chest. Yet he spoke in somewhat of a puzzled tone at first, and later in a tone of misery. This tone was heard after he'd told of the bank raid and triple murder at Ridgeville. "I frigged it up, ain't I," he said bitterly. "You kept your word? It wasn't you Campbells nor any of your bunch?"

  "You're damn right it wasn't," Craig answered in a rasping tone. Now at last he drew a gasp of pain from the wounded man as he thrust the Colt harder into his crotch. "Now tell me what I asked awhile back? You see anybody while you was comin' up to the pass?"

  "Just them crazy theatricals in their wagon, Craig. But they won't ever get that heavy rig—
"

  "Theatricals?"

  "Yeah. Bunch of folks come to town to put on shows for the people there. Seems they'd deposited their money in the Trasks' bank. Bill Sheldon, he said he'd bring cash from Casper to replace what was took of the lumbermen's pay. But them theatricals weren't gonna get any of that. So they figured to come up here and ..."

  JJ had become eager to please now. He was talking fast, leaving no pauses. As if he considered he would be safe for as long as he kept Craig Campbell interested in what he had to say, and did not allow the importunate brother to question him further.

  But the man with the revolver in his fist had heard enough. And he made this known by squeezing the trigger of the Colt.

  The resulting shot was muffled because the muzzle blast was partially absorbed by the inverted vee of JJ's thighs. The shock of the second bul­let tearing into the flesh either killed or drove the liveryman into instant unconsciousness. And he ut­tered no sound as his body shook with a single vio­lent spasm.

  Craig was on his feet by then, the revolver back in his hip holster. As he turned to survey the bulk of his audience—along with his brother—Edge saw their faces for the first time. Ruggedly good-look­ing faces, alike enough to be twins, although only Craig sported a narrow mustache. Lean faces with prominent cheekbones, the flesh darkened by sun and wind and the eyes and teeth showing up brightly in the lamp and firelight. He guessed they were in their early thirties.

  "Okay," Craig said coldly. Ewan watched him speak, continually altering his expression and the set of his eyes to try to copy the look of his brother. "Nobody owes nobody anythin' around here. So I'm askin' a favor. As many of you as are willin' to help me find my woman?"

  He raked his eyes over the faces of the men and women in front of him, his body and limbs in a lazy attitude designed to convey the fact that he was ready to cope with any response he drew. His brother's attempt to imitate this stance was child-like.

  "If they got her in that town down there, Craig?" a man asked.

  "Then that's where we go, Leo."

  "And we don't leave until we had our fill?" an­other man asked.

  "What d'you think?" Ewan put in before his brother could reply—and his tone of voice was as bombastic as his stance was swaggering.

  "Terrific, Craig."

  "Let's get movin'."

  "The women, too?"

  "That'll be like takin' snow to Alaska, dammit!"

  "Shut your mouth, Daniel Grover!"

  "Yeah, we wanna have a little fun, too."

  There was a great deal of argument, all of it good-humored, as the bulk of the crowd moved away from the unmoving spread-eagled form of John James.

  Ewan grinned triumphantly at the success of Craig's call for help, while Craig frowned as he watched the crowd disperse, some going into the fort's one remaining building, most heading for the forest. "Go get our horses, Ewan," Craig in­structed.

  Ewan moved to comply with the order, and his grin became a scowl as he raked his gaze over the three men and one woman who remained. When they ignored him, he spat in the fire to show how he felt about this.

  "What happened to Roy, that was just dumb had luck," one of the three men said dully, and touched the toe of a booted foot to the corpse of the dead woman. "But you didn't have to do that to Dotty, Craig. You could've knocked the crazy dame down. Or shot her some place that didn't kill her."

  "I could've sure enough," Craig allowed. With­out the slightest trace of emotion in his voice or his expression.

  "They were with us, Roy and Dotty," another of the three men said. "We were together a long time, dammit."

  "So?" Ewan countered in a rasping tone.

  "So it ain't right!" the woman came back shrilly. "We come up here to this asshole of a place because the law and bounty hunters was gunning for us. And what friggin' happens? It ain't safe like it's supposed to be. It ain't no safer than—”

  "Today's been exceptional," Craig cut in.

  "What?" the woman snapped.

  "Ain't no one never dared to come in here shootin'," Ewan answered and gave his calm and quiet brother a nervous sidelong look. "That what you mean, Craig?"

  "Quit it, Ewan," Craig said evenly. He slightly altered his posture so that he squarely faced Roy and Dotty's four friends, his gun hand hanging close to the butt of the Colt in the hip holster, an afterthought, he spread a grim scowl cross face, then asked, "You want to do more about this than gripe?"

  At his secret vantage place, Edge vented a low grunt and smiled, pleased that Craig Campbell’s stand suited his own ends and feeling a sneaking admiration for the man.

  Ewan was pleased, too, his face lit up with a broad grin of anticipated pleasure as he adopted a gunfighter's stance alongside his brother. People began to appear from around the rear of the building leading saddled horses by the bridle or reins. The initial surprise on their faces changed to curiosity or eagerness or, in a few instances^ brand of impatient boredom.

  "Hell, we're just sayin' it don't seem right that we—”

  "Jesus Christ, you yellow bellies!" the woman cut in on the apologetic man. "What we're sayin’ is that this asshole of a place ain't worth one stinkin' cent of the big money we paid. And you guys gotta do somethin' about it! If not for us, goddammit, then for Dotty and Roy!" She moved her head from one side to the other, glaring scornfully at all three of her male companions in turn.

  "What you want us to do?" the apologetic man asked of her. As he spoke, the man who had brought the subject up to begin with went for his holstered gun.

  In this situation Ewan did not need to defer to Craig. He knew exactly what to do and was able to do it a fraction of a second faster than his brother.

  Both were quick-draw specialists, but neither sacrificed accuracy for speed. Ewan shot the man who was first to go for his gun and Craig blasted a bullet into the man who moved instinctively to respond—stopping him before his revolver was halfway out of the holster. Two heart shots across a range of perhaps ten feet, the impact of the lead in the chests thrusting the men toward the left be­fore they crumpled to the ground.

  The woman carried no gun, but she was not un­armed. As she vented a high-pitched scream and lunged toward the brothers she brought her right hand away from her waist fisted around the handle of a knife. Her left was curled into a claw, the long nails aimed at the grinning face of Ewan Campbell.

  The brothers saw that the surviving male mem­ber of the disgruntled quartet was frozen by shock, and therefore no danger to them for the moment. So both raked their Colts an inch or so to the side and fired simultaneously—when the point of the knife was no more than a foot away from Craig's throat and the talon-like hand had come almost as close to the gleefully shining eyes of Ewan.

  Heart shots again, the two .45-caliber bullets tore through her body from such short range that they stopped her in her tracks. She stood tautly erect for a moment. Then she toppled backward like a felled tree, her arms raised in the attitude of attack until she was halfway to the ground. Then she went limp and hit the ground flat on her back. This jolt caused gouts of crimson to spurt from the two holes below the mound of her left breast.

  "You?" Craig asked of the no longer rigid man who was flanked by the corpses of his companion and looked to be on the verge of collapsing with terror as he stared down at the woman with the massive bloodstain on her shirt.

  The man jerked his head up to look at the two brothers. His entire body seemed to move like a marionette with the strings tangled. If the Campbells had taken the time to notice the expression of pathetic helplessness on the man's face, they would have realized there was no aggressive intent in the way his hands traveled toward his gunbelt.

  But they were the kind of gunfighters what judged a situation by deeds rather than moods. And again, before the smoke from their last double killing had dissipated in the night air of the derelict fort, they squeezed their triggers in unison.

  The victim screamed, "No!" And started to stretch his arms into the ai
r as a sign that he did not intend what the Campbells thought. But it was too late and the monosyllabic denial completed itself as a croaking groan of despair. He took one backward step, dropped his head forward to look down at the bloody holes left of center in his chest, then fell to his knees and went into a sprawl on his belly.

  No one reacted to these killings. They remained either curious or eager or bored while they waited for what was to happen next.

  "Like I said," Craig growled as he began to extract the spent shellcases from his revolver. "Go get our horses."

  "Sure thing." Ewan again had to check what expression his brother was wearing, and adopt it himself, before he could swagger away to do as he was told.

  Craig reloaded the Colt and pushed it back into his hip holster before he addressed the qui­etly waiting group. "Never happened before and I intend to see it never happens again. The trouble with the crazy liveryman from Ridgeville, I mean. With this bunch . . ." He waved a hand to encompass the three men and two women he and Ewan had gunned down. ". . . and their kind of trouble, it never got to be this much of a prob­lem before. But it can always happen again."

  "Sure, Craig," said a redheaded man with bushy side whiskers whose name was Leo. "Wasn't nobody's fault but their own."

  "That's right," another man agreed. "They knew the setup here. Same as all of us. And they heard what JJ said about the bank raid and killin's in Ridgeville."

  "You don't have to prove nothin' to us."

  "I never liked them high-nosed Texans."

  "Some Texans is all right, Brodie." While the eager and the curious contributed to a babble of talk, Craig Campbell briefly smiled his satisfaction that the recent slaughter had not un­dermined his authority over the fugitives at Cloud Pass. Then he went into the remaining building to fetch out two saddles. The others got their gear and prepared their mounts for riding.

  Not until Ewan came around a corner of the building leading two horses by the reins did a Woman ask: "Shouldn't we do somethin' with the dead?"