EDGE: Montana Melodrama

by George G. Gilman

  There were no signs of violence here either. Both the camp and the sawmill had simply been deserted by the lumbermen at the end of yester­day's work. And, Edge reflected as he heeled the mare forward and angled her across the yard of the mill, both places doubtless looked like this ev­ery Sunday morning. And on public holidays. But on such occasions there would not be a sense of evil clinging to the atmosphere and seeming to cast a pall over areas that should have been vi­brant with activity and noise.

  Edge sensed it—almost smelt it—but was not af­fected by it. Ever since he had left Cloud Pass to return to Ridgeville, he had known there was a better than even chance that deadly danger was waiting at journey's end. He was almost at the end of the ride now and it was only to be expect­ed that he should feel the tension start to build as what he suspected began to be confirmed. But he could take no more precaution than he was al­ready doing, so he remained as impassive and as apparently relaxed as before.

  At the bank of the creek at the north end of the sawmill's main building he swung out of the saddle and allowed the horse to drink from the fast-flowing water which sparkled with warm morning sunlight. Then he led the mare by the bridle toward Ridgeville, staying as close to the creek as the timber and brush allowed. Not trying to mask the sounds of his progress but poised to draw the Colt from his holster if he was heard and challenged. Leading the horse with his left hand on the bridle, walking to the right of the mare so that the booted rifle was easily accessible. In the event that somebody up on the heights of Indian Bluff made the mistake of taking a shot at the half-breed, missing, and then showing himself. For Edge was in a killing mood. "What on earth are you doing back here, Mr. Edge?" Fred Caxton asked in a nervous tone.

  If the half-breed had not instantly recognized the voice of the lanky young man with sandy hair and ink-stained fingers who was the timber com­pany clerk at the sawmill, it was likely Caxton would have died before he finished the query. Likely or even certain, Edge thought as he forced himself to untense after the effort of staying the move to draw the Colt. He halted and froze to stare at a ten-foot-high clump of brush ahead and slightly to his left. "Still looking for the money that was stolen from me, feller."

  Caxton made a lot of noise trying to break through the brush to get to where Edge stood with his horse on the bank of the creek. But not enough to keep the half-breed from catching a sound from another direction.

  "Stay there and I'll come out to you. Shit, damn thorns! Mr. Edge, have things been happening since you left! Ouch! The people of this town ar finally making a stand . . . Oh, sweet Jesus, no...!

  There had been a rustling noise in another area of brush. Edge backed along the side of his horse and slid the Winchester from the boot. The sounds were made by one or maybe two men clos­ing furtively with Fred Caxton and the half-breed. The excited youngster had not heard them because he was making too much noise himself. But suddenly he saw them. Before Edge could get an accurate bearing on the source of the danger beyond the green and brown wall of brush and tree trunks.

  Two of them. One blasting revolver shots at the suddenly terrified young man who was trapped in the tangle of thorny brush. The second firing blindly with a handgun in the general direction of Edge. Firing so fast he had to be fanning his revolver.

  The mare was hit and snorted as she pivoted on her hind legs and tossed her head in the air. Her right hindquarter slammed in the chest of Edge and sent him staggering backward, a curse rip­ping from his clenched teeth. The killer urge threatened to expand the ice-cold ball of anger from the pit of his stomach to his entire being. He could feel it turning white hot.

  But then he lost his footing and toppled onto his back. He knew he was going to splash down into the creek. And he also knew at the moment of impact, as the water sprayed up about him, that the mare had probably saved his life. For a second revolver was spitting out potential death at his falling form as the man who had taken care of the hapless Fred Caxton joined the attack on Edge.

  The half-breed sucked in a deep breath and dived. But his head was under the surface for only a second or so since the creek here was shal­low. Drowning was not a danger here, but being trapped by the tacky silt on the bed was. If his moves were slowed by the grasping mud, the two men would have the time to reload their empty guns. Or maybe plunge out of the brush with rifles ready to pour bullets into another hapless victim.

  The mare was down on her side, flailing all four legs. Her coat lathered with sweat as she tried to reach the closest of two bloody wounds in her flank with her bared teeth.

  Edge caught just a glimpse of this and fought the hot rage it sparked as he turned to the side and used his heels in the silt to propel himself up­stream. He had to reach the nearest cover, a rot­ting log imbedded in the creek bank. Once there, he turned again and rolled over onto his belly just as the two men burst into sight. One held a rifle and one a revolver, its loading gate snapping closed as he emerged on to the creek bank near the suffering mare.

  Edge had to expose himself above the log to get clear shots at the two men. The one with the rifle saw him immediately. "Shit, we only plugged his horse," he growled. Very fast.

  Fast enough to have uttered the whole sentence before Edge squeezed the trigger of his Winches­ter and drilled a bullet into his heart. The man stared at him in horror and frantically tried to rake his Winchester to the aim.

  The man with the revolver wrenched his gaze from the struggling horse, his expression altering from anger to terror. He started to search for the falling form of his partner, but realized it was more important to locate the half-breed. But in the time it took for his change of mind to commu­nicate itself to his muscles and for them to respond, Edge had worked the lever action of his repeater, shifted the aim of the rifle, and squeezed the trigger.

  A belly shot this time, because this was the first area of the new target to present itself. The man was knocked backward.

  "Sonofabitch!" he said, then brought up his revolver and tracked it toward Edge. Squeezed the trigger.

  Edge hurled himself onto his back again, work­ing the action of the rifle. His lips draw back from his teeth as another curse rasped out.

  The bullet smacked into the rotten wood of the log and spattered slimy pieces of it in all direc­tions.

  "Sonofabitch!" the man said again.

  Edge raised himself to a sitting posture in the running water of the creek, the cocked Winches­ter aimed from his shoulder. He saw the man on the bank holding his revolver in both hands and struggling hard to thumb back the hammer. But his coordination was gone and he could not man­age the simple task.

  He looked up from the Colt and at Edge seated in the water. He giggled and said, "I bet it's cold in there."

  "Enough to give an old man rheumatics," Edge told him. And shot him. Aiming for and hitting the man in the throat, the bullet entering his flesh on a rising trajectory. From close enough range to have the velocity to explode into the open again just below the crown of his head. The mess of gore that sprayed from the bullet's exit inscribed an ugly stain across the creek bank.

  From a distance came the shouts of men, then the crackle of gunfire. To the north and the west, in and to one side of Ridgeville.

  No bullets rustled through the brush or im­pacted with the trees in the area of the creek bank where three men were dead and one rose and struggled out of the clinging mud and fast-moving water.

  Edge made no assumptions. He merely contin­ued to watch and listen. His field of vision was very limited on three sides, but extended far up and down the creek and to the top of the bluff.

  But the bluff was totally clear. It appeared that the townspeople had posted just the one sentry on the bank to the south of Ridgeville and just two of the Campbell bunch had come to cover the same area.

  The shooting subsided after the initial volley to a desultory exchange. This lasted until Edge was out of the water and squatting beside the now quiet and unmoving mare. Water dripped from his sodden clothing as he la
y his rifle on the ground and examined the two wounds in the flesh of the horse, then explored them with his fingers. She had been hit in the withers, just ahead of the saddle's front jockey, and in the thigh. She had bled profusely but was not bleeding now. Nor was she still in great pain, as could be inferred from the way the animal lay trustingly calm.

  He guessed that since they were revolver shots, fired over a range of several feet, they had not drilled into the mare very deeply. And he knew; there were no vital organs in direct line with the wounds.

  "If you can get up and make it as far as town, I figure you can pull through. Long as there's a vet in Ridgeville."

  He fisted a hand around the rifle and stood up. The mare vented a low snort and eyed him wistfully. "Up to you, horse," he said. "You've carried me a lot of miles. But I can't return the favor even as far as town. And that has nothing to do with me not being so young as I used to be."

  The mare snorted louder, made a nodding mo­tion with her head, and tried to rise. She failed with a sigh that quivered through her whole body| and caused fresh blood to trickle from the bullet holes.

  Edge stooped and gripped her bridle. He tried to offer encouragement. "You can do it."

  He tugged gently and for long moments thought the animal's spirit was broken. But suddenly the mare flailed all her legs, rocked from side to side, and lifted her head. Edge had move fast to get clear of her, but he maintained his hold on the bridle. Seconds later she was on her hind legs and foreknees. It seemed that every; tendon in her body was bulging and that she did not possess that final ounce of strength necessary to get herself four-footed.

  Edge cursed at her through clenched teeth, but held on to the bridle and resisted the temptation to tug, for fear it might upset her delicate balance as she gathered herself for a final effort. Then the set of his lips changed from a grimace to a grin and a terse laugh burst out of his throat as the mare delved deep into her reserves and pushed herself fully upright.

  "Easy," he said soothingly and stroked her neck for a few moments while she looked like she might collapse. But this weakness passed and she was sure-footed again. Weak from shock and loss of blood but willing to go on.

  "Least I can carry the freight," he muttered, and uncinched the saddle. When he had it and his bedroll slung over one shoulder and the rifle canted to the other, he grinned again as he sur­veyed the horse, the two dead men on the bank, and the bullet-riddled corpse of Fred Caxton slumped but held partially erect within the tangle of brush. "Surprising what we can do when we have to, horse," he said lightly and felt too good to let the smile fade as the discomfort of water­logged clothes began to make itself clammily ap­parent. "In your case when you're shot. And in mine when I only thought I was."

  Chapter Thirteen

  HAVING found out the hard way that the creek was shallow close to its west bank, Edge utilized the knowledge and waded back into the water! With both hands full, he could do no more than cluck to the mare and beckon with his head for her to follow him as he started upstream.

  And the horse followed, maybe relishing the feel of the cold mountain water that came no higher than her knees but perhaps communicated its coolness to every part of her pain and fear-heated body.

  Edge was only vaguely aware of the tempera­ture of the water as he trudged against the current and set his feet down carefully to test for any sudden change of depth. All the while he continued his watching and listening surveillance over his immediate and more distant surroundings! The horse kept pace with him, blood dripping: steadily from both wounds momentarily staining the water of the creek and being quickly eddied away.

  For perhaps five hundred feet man and animal waded around the curving water course and Edge knew they had to be getting close to town. At any moment he expected to see the rear of the JJ Livery Stables at the southeastern end of Pine Street.

  But it was a group of men who showed them­selves in the timber on the creek bank before he was close enough to Ridgeville to see any of its frame buildings. Rifle and axe-toting men who were as much a part of the town as its buildings.

  Drawing close to the silent and grim-faced group, Edge recognized the tall and thin Doc Hunter, the redheaded Moss Tracy, who ran the town saloon, and two of the lumbermen who had come to the assistance of Fred Caxton at the saw­mill the day he left to go to Cloud Pass. One of these was Quinn, who had been prepared to gun down Edge with the half-breed's own rifle. He was armed with just a broadax now, which he held across his chest with both hands as he glowered at the newcomer more grimly than any of the other five men.

  "You get to kill the kid this time, stranger?" Quinn asked and stepped forward, brandishing the ax as Edge made to come out of the creek and up on to the bank.

  "Get out of my way, feller," Edge answered.

  "Quinn, let the man out of the water first," the Ridgeville doctor instructed in a tone that lacked authority and sounded a little afraid.

  "I still ain't so sure this guy ain't with the Campbells," Quinn growled, and glanced at the rest of the group as if seeking signals that some of them agreed with him.

  Then he froze, except for his head, which turned slowly and tilted so that he could look down at Edge again, no longer grim-faced. His attention recaptured by the half-breed, who had swung the Winchester away from his shoulder to rest the muzzle lightly against the lumberman’s denim-contoured crotch.

  Edge did not thumb back the hammer until the fear-filled eyes of Quinn had shifted from the rifle to his face. Then he said, "If you don't follow doctor's orders, feller, you're going to end up a very sick man. Or something that used to be man."

  "Do like he says, Quinn," Moss Tracy snapped impatiently. "If he's a wrong one, what can he do alone against the whole friggin' town?"

  The lumberman expressed a tacit question with his eyes and Edge acknowledged this with a nod. And the moment Quinn backed off, the half-breed shouldered the Winchester, tossed his gear onto the bank, and extended his free hand. Quinn took it, and when Edge found a foothold in the bank heaved to help him out of the creek.

  "Obliged," Edge told the again scowling lumberman. "Caxton's dead. Shot by a couple of men from the pass when he got over excited at seein’ me and gave away his position to them."

  Most of the men snapped their heads around to peer downstream as Edge rested the rifle against his saddle and began to coax the mare to the bank.

  "What happened to them?" somebody asked. "I killed them. They shot my horse." "Didn't friggin' matter they killed Fred Caxton," Quinn growled.

  "The kid acted like a fool," Edge answered, and managed to get a hold on the mare's bridle. "My horse was just doing like I told her."

  "Caxton was doing what he volunteered for, Edge!" Hunter snarled. "The same as we all are! And who knows how many others were killed in the shooting that started because you—"

  Edge seemed not to be listening to the embit­tered doctor as he murmured soft words of en­couragement to the weak mare and tugged gently on her bridle. Then Hunter was forced to curtail what he was saying as Edge yelled at the horse and the animal snorted and reared, forehooves beating at the side of the bank while the hind legs thrashed the creek water into white spume.

  Quinn hurled down his ax and lunged toward to take hold of the bridle. And it was possible that his strength made the difference between success and failure. The horse came up out of the water and both men released their hold so she could toss and shake her head, pain and weakness mo­mentarily forgotten as she experienced a sense of triumph.

  "Obliged to you again, feller," Edge said.

  Quinn retrieved his ax and growled: "I got no quarrel with your horse, stranger."

  "So you'll tell me if there's a veterinary in Ridgeville?"

  "I attend to the ills of animals as well as people," Doc Hunter said with some reluctance. He went over to the horse after thrusting his rifle at Tracy. He looked briefly at the eyes and mouth and a little longer at the still-bleeding bullet wounds.

  "This is friggin' crazy!"
a lumberman snarled. "Wastin’ time with a sick horse when we ought be doin' somethin'."

  "Doin' what, Groves?" Tracy asked.

  "Hell, I don't know. Somethin', that's all."

  Hunter backed off from the mare and retrieved his Winchester. "That's a fine animal you got there," he told Edge.

  The half-breed had his own rifle canted to one shoulder again and his gear draped over the other. "Can you tell me anything I don't know, feller?"

  "The bullets have to be dug out, of course. Af­ter that, it'll be a week or two before we can tell if she'll mend good as she was."

  "You'll get the bullets out of her?"

  "He has more important—" the man eager to be doing something started to say.

  "If you’ll lend a hand with what's happening in town," Hunter offered.

  "Shit, we still can't be sure he ain't one of them!" Quinn complained. "Sneaked in before the time limit to—"

  "Goddammit to hell!" Moss Tracy roared, his cheeks almost as red as his hair, his nerves seemingly snapping from tension and suppressed rage. "What the frig have we got to lose by trustin' one man? Time's runnin' out and ain't anybody got any idea what to do when—"

  "Okay, okay!" Quinn snarled across the ranting voice of the saloon keeper. "Do what the friggin' hell you want! But if it turns out he's with them, you guys remember what I—"

  "Sure, Jack," another lumberman cut in. "We'll have Harry Bellinger carve it on your grave marker, JACK QUIN, THE MAN WHO KNEWE IT ALL!”

  "If there's any room for him in the cemetery."

  "If Bellinger's still around to carve markers and bury people."

  The rangy and distinguished-looking Hunter had taken hold of the mare's bridle and started to lead the horse along the bank toward town. Edge followed after glancing at the faces of the five men who were staying behind to guard against an attack on Ridgeville from this direction.

  Groves spotted this survey and mistook the lack of expression on the half-breed's lean face for con­tempt. He snarled to Edge's back, "Well, mister, can you get a two-hundred-fifty-foot-high Douglas fir to fall the exact place you want her to?’