Seven Out of Hell

by George G. Gilman

  “Faster!” Shin demanded, and began to clap his hands. The others joined him, matching his cadence: measured at first, but getting faster by the moment. The incessant sound seemed to induce a near-trance in the women and they flung themselves about wildly to keep time.

  A shadowy figure moved lithely across the doorway of the prison cabin and the two bolts grated out of their brackets. A round face, which might have been pretty had the eyes shown intelligence, looked in at Edge through the bars. He had to lip-read against the clapping which was now a continuous tumult.

  “You no say I set free.”

  Edge nodded and the girl ducked out of sight and flitted away to go behind the circle of cabins. He turned to look into the pale faces of the hostages.

  “What is it?” Alvin asked.

  “Chink dames figure they got the entertainment franchise up here. Door’s open.”

  Alvin pressed forward. “Let’s rush the bastards.”

  Edge’s right hand streaked to the back of his neck and moved down, flashing metal: Alvin gulped as the point of the razor pricked his throat. His body became rigid. The other prisoners backed away.

  “Kill yourself some other time, Alvin,” Edge hissed. “Right now, listen - and listen good.”

  The noise of the clapping hands was driving the women close to the point of exhaustion and even Beth had lost her rhythm. Their heads rolled from side to side, their arms flapped limply and their legs bowed and buckled.

  But as the humiliating dance grew more grotesque, so the excitement of the drunken Chinese was heightened.

  The thin woman collapsed first, and at once a man threw himself upon her, his hands clawing at her meager breasts. She screamed and found strength to rain blows upon him. He laughed and hit her back-handed across the cheek.

  Edge pushed open the door of the cabin and slid out, pressing himself against the wall. Alvin followed him, then the other prisoners. Edge and Alvin stayed where they were while the rest worked their way around to the rear of the cabin and then moved off towards the other buildings surrounding the compound.

  Mrs. White sank to the ground, tried to raise herself, but toppled sideways. The Wong brothers scuttled away from the group and leered down at the quivering women. Each raised his robe and the woman screamed in terror as she saw their naked readiness beneath.

  Edge and Alvin moved forward, into the area illuminated by the firelight. But no eye was turned in their direction. The attention of every Chinese was torn between the two remaining dancers and the women writhing on the ground. Alvin held back, two feet behind one of the guards. Edge closed in and halted, his body a fraction of an inch from that of the second guard. The razor handle nestled along the centre of his palm, the blade concealed by his fingers. He raised his arm and his shirt cuff brushed the shoulder of the Chinese. The man’s head snapped around, his eyes widening. Edge’s free hand curved around the other side of the man and closed over the stock of the shotgun. Edge grinned at him and drew the blade across his throat. He jerked the shotgun from the dead grip. The barrels were shiny with blood that had gushed from the slashed jugular vein.

  The other guard heard the thud of the body and started to turn. He froze when he saw the tall half-breed covering him with the shotgun. He did not resist when Alvin stepped up to him and pulled his own weapon from his grasp.

  Beth and the girl crumpled to the ground and the clapping stopped instantly. Edge nodded to Alvin. The boy hesitated but a moment, then thrust his gun into the belly of the guard and squeezed the trigger. The man screamed and was flipped over backwards. Blood spurted like a muddy spring from his ghastly wound.

  “Party’s over!” Edge yelled, his voice cutting across the sudden babble of Chinese, silencing it. He aimed the shotgun at Mao. Other hostages emerged from the cabins, encircling the men around the fire. Each held a shotgun. The only Chinese to move were those who had claimed the exhausted women. They backed away from their prizes.

  Shin forced a grin to his face. “We let you go now,” he said.

  “Obliged,” Edge said. “Get dressed now, ladies. You did okay but these guys don’t feel up to it no more.”

  The women scrambled on to all fours and scuttled to pick up their clothes and dress. Relief undammed fresh tears. They hurried to move outside the circle of freed hostages.

  Mao unloosed a rapid fire rattle of Chinese. Shin nodded and looked across at Edge.

  “Mr. Mao wishes to know how you escape?”

  “We had help from the green-eyed monster. A fink among the Chinks.”

  Shin was confused. “I no understand.”

  “Tell your boss and let him work it out. He’s the big thinker around here. Now tell these guys to get in the pokey.” He motioned with the shotgun towards the prison cabin.

  “You have permission to go,” Mao said. “No need lock us up.”

  “One,” Edge said easily.

  Shin received the message immediately. He passed it on to the men in their own language, then started towards the cabin with the barred door. Some of the men rose to follow him.

  “Two,” Edge counted.

  “It going to be tight squeeze for us,” Shin complained.

  “I feel for you,” Edge told him. “Three.”

  Shin hurried into the cabin. Ten of the men followed him. The remainder continued to squat on the ground, looking to Mao for guidance.

  “Off your butt, crud,” Edge spat at the gang’s leader.

  Mao bowed from his sitting posture, then began to rise, slowly. The others unfolded their legs. Abruptly, Mao shot out a hand, grasped a burning log from the fire and whirled. Edge squeezed one of the shotgun triggers and the load turned the man’s head into a crimson pulp. But the log was already spinning through the air and even before the dead man had hit the ground it had sailed into the open doorway of his cabin.

  “Lock ’em in!” Edge yelled to Alvin as the Chinese in the compound exploded into movement, hands jerking knives from beneath their robes.

  The boy shoulder the door closed and shot home the bolts. Knives spun through the firelight and three of the hostages screamed their death cries as honed steel penetrated vital organs. Then the moment of shock was gone and shotguns blazed. Robed bodies crumpled, spraying blood and torn flesh into the fire. The fire sizzled and gave off tiny puffs of steam.

  An eerie, post-violence hush fell upon the compound. A shout shattered it.

  “The money!”

  Some of the freed hostages dropped their empty shotguns and ran towards Mao’s cabin. But an orange glow from within emitted a fierce heat to drive them back. Alvin rushed to Beth’s side and gripped both her hands, babbling incoherently.

  “Hey, we could die in here if you leave us,” Shin called softly through the bars.

  “You’re one smart Chink,” Edge told him. “You catch on fast.” He glanced around at his fellow hostages. “You ready to pull out?”

  They took a final look at the blazing cabin and moved dispiritedly across the compound to join the half-breed, Each of the hurriedly-dressed women was supported by a man. Some of the men, deeply shocked by the carnage they left behind, looked ready to keel over themselves.

  “What about burying them?” a grey-haired man asked, “At least the three we lost.”

  “Reckon it’ll make ’em feel any better?” Edge asked.

  “It’ll make me feel better,” the man responded.

  Edge shrugged and started up the slope away from the compound. The others fell in behind him and the grey-haired man held back for only a few moments before joining the rear of the column. They moved silently until they went between the gap in the ridge over-looking the campsite. Then Mrs. White found it impossible to check her emotions further and her body-wracking sobs punctured the stillness.

  “What the hell’s wrong now?” Edge snarled.

  “How can you ask that?” Beth retorted. “You saw what she went through back there.”

  “Sure,” Edge told her. “Mrs. White had a rough time, but a
ll she lost was a little dignity.”

  “A little dignity!” Beth raged. “Those two Chinese…”

  “Showed her the goods but didn’t deliver,” Edge cut in. He bared his teeth in a grin. “Two Wongs didn’t get to make a White.”

  Chapter Seven

  FED but not rested, their morale boosted by a surfeit of sex and killing, the six troopers rode hard in the wake of the injured Hedges. Steeling himself against the rising tide of pain, the Captain led them north along the turnpike for several miles, before swinging to the west across untilled countryside. He rode with only one foot in the stirrup, the injured leg hanging free to prevent the crusting of congealed blood from cracking and opening the wound to dust.

  Not until mid-afternoon did he call a halt, when he judged they had put fifteen miles between themselves and the town without men. He chose the spot because clear, cold water bubbled up from a spring and a screen of trees provided both shade and cover to the south and east. To the west the terrain was open and undulating, offering them a broad vista in which to spot movement To the north a line of verdant hills dominated the horizon.

  “We gonna get some sleep at last?” Forrest asked as he slid from his mount. He stretched out on the lush grass and pressed his mouth into the spring water.

  The other men dismounted and waited their turn. Nobody offered to help Hedges from his horse. He slid out of the saddle clumsily and his injured leg thudded to the ground. The blackened blood began to ooze with fresh scarlet. His lean face was twisted by an agony he fought against voicing.

  “After you’ve earned it,” he croaked as Forrest finished drinking his fill and rolled over on to his back.

  “How’s that, Captain?” the sergeant asked.

  “First you’re gonna dig this slug out of my leg.”

  Forrest sat up, an evil grin pasted on his features. “Be a pleasure, sir,” he said.

  “Figured you’d enjoy it,” Hedges replied, unfastening his tunic, then his belt. “You ever done it before?”

  Forrest nodded. “Down on the border. Buddy of my caught a lawman’s bullet in his shoulder.”

  “Didn’t know you had any friends,” Hedges said, grimacing as he lifted himself and rolled his pants down. When he came to the area of the wound he wrenched the material away from the dried blood.

  “He was the only one,” Forrest replied easily, taking the neckerchief Hedges handed him and pushing Rhett away from the spring so he could soak it. “But then he turned against me. Wound turned septic and he had to have his arm off.”

  Hedges pressed his hands hard against the ground and stared up into the unmarred blueness of the sky as Forrest cleaned off the congealed blood. The wound was in the fleshy part of the thigh, out of line with any bone. Cleaned of blood, it was just a neat hole puffed with an angry-looking red surround.

  “I’m gonna need your blade, Captain,” Forrest said.

  Hedges leaned his head forward. “Take it.”

  The sergeant slid the razor from its pouch and tested its sharpness against his thumb. “Ain’t honed like it should be,” he said.

  “Oughta make it more fun for you,” Hedges hissed. “Just make sure it’s clean - and your hands.”

  Forrest held Hedges pain-filled stare for a moment, then nodded and moved to the spring. The men had drunk their fill and looked down at Hedges with an utter lack of compassion.

  “Give me all the matches you got then unsaddle the horses,” Forrest barked.

  The troopers surrendered their matches and then attended to the horses. Forrest wrung his hands in the spring water then crouched down beside Hedges. He pulled the Captain’s belt out of his pants and gave it to him.

  “To bite on,” he said, and struck a match on Hedges boot sole, then ran the blade through the flame. “I’ll make it quick as I can.”

  “Just make it good,” Hedges countered.

  Forrest shook out the match and moved to strike another. But instead, he whirled to face Hedges and smashed a right cross into the Captain’s jaw. Hedges’ body stretched its full length across the grass.

  “Jesus,” Rhett exclaimed.

  “Billy!” Forrest snapped. “Stand over him. He looks like coming out of it before I finish, let him have another one.”

  The youngster giggled and squatted beside Hedges, opposite Forrest. He balled his fist, ready. Forrest used one more match then inserted the blade into the wound. Fresh blood spurted. New sweat broke out on the faces of Forrest and his audience. The sergeant moved the razor back and forth, exploring the hole. He grunted as his probing located the bullet.

  “Ain’t deep,” he murmured.

  The wound was now erupting dark blood like red lava and he was working blind. His wrist suddenly moved and the bullet was flipped out on to the grass.

  “How about that,” Seward said in awe.

  “Clean him up,” Forrest ordered. “And bind it.”

  The sergeant sat down under a tree and lit a cigarette, watching impassively as Seward and Rhett attended to the wound. The hole was now twice as large as it had been. Rhett surrendered his under vest without argument and this was rinsed and torn into strips to form a bandage.

  Hedges regained consciousness with a low groan and his hands clawed towards his thigh, which felt as though it were on fire. He was fully dressed again, the razor was back in the neck pouch and Seward was grinning at him, holding out the damaging bullet between finger and thumb.

  “Momento, Captain?” he asked.

  Pain coated Hedges’ face with sweat that immediately crusted in the heat and streaked the stubbled skin with salt lines.

  “Get rid of it, Billy,” Forrest rasped. “He don’t need reminding.”

  They remained beside the spring until the heat had gone from the afternoon and the level of the Captain’s agony had subsided. All were aware - but did not voice an opinion - that Hedges’ wound was still dangerous and would remain so until it had received medical attention. And, as the one most deeply concerned, it was Hedges himself who gave the order to mount up and continue the ride north.

  The pain returned to its full intensity as Scott and Rhett helped him up on to his horse and subsided hardly at all as he led the troopers at an easy canter across the open country. They rode throughout the rest of the afternoon and into evening, on a curved course that took them to the west and then north, swinging wide of Atlanta. Water was plentiful, and so was food in the many small settlements dotting the foothills of the Blue Mountain range. But Hedges kept the men hungry until nightfall. Then he organized, but took no part in, a raid on a grocery and feed store of a hamlet straddling the Coosa River.

  Forrest handled the foray with the skill of an expert thief and the men were able to clatter out of town across the north-bound river bridge without pursuit. They carried with them a sufficient horde of supplies to last them for two days. But Hedges could not meet the schedule. As they made camp and ate their newly acquired rations some five miles north of the river, the Captain became aware of a numbness in his injured leg. The lack of feeling provided a moment of sweet relief, but Hedges did not allow himself to be deluded by the sudden cessation of pain. For he was experienced in the results of untreated wounds. Thus, as he removed the dressing, he was prepared for the nauseating odor of decayed flesh and the sight of swollen green-tinged pus that told of gangrene.

  “You knew I weren’t no sawbones,” Forrest defended as he saw the festering wound in the blue moonlight.

  “I ain’t making no complaint,” Hedges answered. He pointed into the darkness. “North’s that way, over the mountains. Union ought to have Tennessee buttoned up by now. But don’t forget you got on Confederate threads.”

  The troopers eyed the Captain in confusion. Forrest was the first to see the light.

  “You asking us to leave you here, Captain?”

  “Bother you?”

  Forrest nodded. “Maybe it does. I ain’t never known you give up on anything till now.”

  “I ain’t giving up,” Hedges
replied. “I figure to find me a doctor and keep my leg from rotting off. That’ll take time. By then you could be back in blue and fighting the war again.”

  The troopers were neutrals and none spoke in an attempt to influence Forrest as the sergeant pondered the decision. Only crickets disturbed the silence as he thought. Finally he shook his head.

  “You ain’t no friend of mine, Captain,” he said softly. “I figure I’ve had good reason to kill you a dozen times. But I didn’t. And you know why. I need you. I hate your cruddy guts and I’d like to put a bullet in your other leg. But I ain’t sure I could get where I’m goin’ without you.”

  He looked around at the impassive faces of the troopers, “Billy, scout ahead in the hills. See if you can find a town big enough to have a sawbones. Rog - rip up your underwear and make a new bandage for the Captain.”

  Seward mounted and rode off. Bell started to unbutton his tunic. Hedges showed Forrest a cold grin.

  “You’re making a bad decision, Forrest,” he said softly.

  “Maybe,” the sergeant replied without looking at the wounded man. “But I need you around to keep making the right ones.”

  Hedges’ expression revealed nothing of what he was thinking as he allowed Bell to rebind the wound and he held his silence as he was lifted up into the saddle. They had travelled less than half a mile when Seward approached them at the gallop.

  “You find a place?” Forrest demanded as the youngster drew in deep breaths.

  “Sure thing,” Seward shot back, pointing to a ridge in the north east. “Big enough for a dozen medics, I reckon.”

  “Ain’t nothin’ that big till Chattanooga,” Hedges said coldly, glancing at the star dotted sky, checking his bearings.

  “But this ain’t no town, sir,” Seward replied with a grin.

  “You said big,” Forrest snarled.

  “Yeah,” Seward answered, whirling his horse and heeling it forward. “Big on trouble, maybe. Come take a look.”