EDGE: The Final Shot (Edge series Book 16)

by George G. Gilman

  ‘He had no cause to do that. I led him on a bit, maybe, but it was only in fun. He just suddenly went crazy, you know?’

  The half-breed recalled how Andrews had lost control of his temper out at the way station. ‘Tell the judge,’ he said dully.

  ‘I intend to,’ Melody replied with heavy emphasis. ‘But I reckon you’re a man who fights his own battles without running to the law all the time. You ought to be able to understand why I made my brothers do what they did.’

  ‘Never had a sister,’ he told her. ‘If I did…’

  ‘What?’ Melody asked anxiously.

  ‘I’d maybe be like your brothers.’

  ‘Willing to take revenge on the man who dishonored her, sheriff?’

  ‘Be able to sleep through her yapping.’

  ‘You bastard!’ she snarled.

  Edge grinned to himself at the sudden change of tone.

  ‘Sheriff!’ a man yelled out in the square, his tone high with fear. ‘Sheriff, the Andrews kid has gone!’

  Edge swept his feet off the desk and slammed them to the floor to power himself erect, snatching the Winchester from where it rested.

  ‘Hey, you stay here and protect us!’ Melody shrieked. ‘Lon, Clayton!’

  He shot a glance through the archway as he took long strides towards the door. The two brothers were slumped crosswise on the cot, backs against the wall and chins resting on their chests. The woman sat between them and they came awake cursing as she clawed their shoulders and shook them. He jerked open the door and flinched at the chill air stream that hit him in the face. Moonlight was bright beyond the deep patches of shadow thrown by buildings and trees. A man, small, rotund and white-faced was angling towards the law office from the start of the street on the south side. He wore a long nightshirt and carpet slippers. Lights sprang from windows and drapes were drawn aside to allow faces to peer out. The courthouse clock began to chime the hour of nine.

  ‘Thank God!’ the small man gasped breathlessly when he saw Edge silhouetted in the law office doorway. ‘I’m Doc Hartmann.’ He halted short of the sidewalk and took in great gulps of air. ‘Taking care of the injured man at my house. He’s real sick and I sedated him. Thought he’d sleep solid the night through.’

  Doors opened and people emerged on to the streets and the square. Mostly men who had donned robes over their nightwear.

  ‘What’s that you say?’ Gerstenberg demanded, his voice booming out above the excited mutterings of the curious.

  Hartmann half-turned and began to shiver with the cold. ‘Andrews has gone, Scott!’ he gasped. ‘God knows how he had the strength.’

  The mayor halted alongside the doctor and glowered at Edge. ‘Don’t just stand there, man, go find him!’ he snarled.

  ‘Figure he’ll find me,’ the half-breed replied evenly.

  ‘For two grand a day, you do what I tell you!’ Gerstenberg bellowed.

  Edge sighed, canted the Winchester across his shoulder and used his free hand to ease the pin of the star out of his shirt. Gerstenberg and Hartmann, with the crowd gathered behind them, stared in horrified awe as the half-breed flipped the badge across the sidewalk and into the dust of the square.

  ‘What you doin’?’ the mayor demanded, his voice suddenly croaky.

  Edge drew out his billfold. ‘Deal was, I handled the job my way, feller. Did that for about four hours. At the daily rate you’re paying, I figure I’ve earned three-thirty give or take a few bucks. You got some money coming back to—’

  ‘Okay!’ Gerstenberg yelled. ‘Your way.’

  ‘Sheriff!’ Melody Devine screamed.

  ‘No, don’t!’ one of her brothers pleaded.

  Edge scowled at the mayor and whirled. Two shots rang out as he turned and a third blasted lead into the cell as he slammed the Winchester stock to his shoulder and pumped the action. The haggard, deathly-pale face of Andrews framed in the barred cell window was abruptly splashed with vivid red as the rifle exploded. The gush of blood came from the hole above his right eye. Then the youngster was thrown backwards by the impact of the killing bullet. His dead hand released the Deane-Harding 54 bore double-action revolver and it hit the cement floor of the cell as his body thudded to the ground outside.

  Edge crossed the law office in long strides and peered coldly into the cell.

  ‘I was goin’ to tell you he took my gun!’ Hartmann wailed.

  The three prisoners had been lined up at the cell bars, anxious to hear what was being said out in the square. But Andrews had blasted them to the floor. Three head shots that had spilled a lot of blood which even now widened its massive pool around the slumped bodies. Lon and Clayton had taken the bullets squarely in the skull and the only movement from their crumpled forms was the oozing trickle of escaping blood from the hair-covered wounds. Melody was slumped between her brothers, an ugly gouge across her neck, and the lower half of her right ear hanging from the upper section by a mere tendon. The bullet had smashed into a cell bar and bounced back. It lay, a misshapen wad of lead, beside the revolver under the window. The woman breathed raggedly in unconsciousness.

  Footfalls thudded on the law office floor.

  ‘Are they dead?’ the mayor gasped.

  ‘Her brothers have joined the heavenly chorus,’ the half-breed muttered. ‘But Melody lingers on.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  THE seven Union troopers re-crossed the river on captured Rebel horses and re-armed with confiscated weapons and spare ammunition. Flushed with success and with the adrenalin pumping forcefully through their bodies, all but one were looking for new trouble. Only Hedges controlled a tendency towards over-confidence and, because of the way in which he had handled the ambush and its aftermath, he was able to exert a firm influence over the men. He was in complete command again and knew they would follow wherever he chose to lead them. All he had to do was keep them on the move and anticipate the threat of trouble which the terrain ahead of them might hold.

  For the massacre at the gorge would not remain undiscovered for long and the strength of the forces sent in pursuit of the ambushers would be as large as if Douglas had named them as Union troopers. So, strategically, the slaughter had been no more than a delaying tactic. Thus did Hedges drive the men hard, every horse stride taking them away from the pursuit that would inevitably begin.

  Trouble - even a minor skirmish - would be to the advantage of the pursuers. Thus did Hedges maintain a constant watch into the far, moonlit distance and swing wide whenever a sign of habitation showed: be it an isolated farmstead or a Virginian town. Always he made the detour to the west, knowing that the broad lower reaches of the Potomac River barred the south-eastern approach to Washington but ignorant of whether or not the Federal Army was in possession of both banks.

  As the night wore on, weariness and hunger began to dampen the men’s spirits. It was nothing they said, for the rapid pace set by Hedges allowed little time for talk. But the Captain sensed the mood change, aided by the fact that the long trek and lack of food since leaving the monastery had started to have an adverse effect on his concentration. And concentration was important, for he had no personal knowledge of the country they were travelling and no maps. He broke the trail by following the stars and relying on dim recollections of plans and charts he had seen years before.

  Then, as the first light of the false dawn streaked the eastern skyline, he could only make a half-educated guess that the large town far to the right was Fredericksburg. Make the guess and curse his ignorance of how the war had progressed during the many months he and the men had been behind enemy lines. For Fredericksburg could well be in Union hands, because they had seen no Rebel uniforms since the gorge: but neither had they seen a Federal soldier.

  He dropped the pace to an easy canter up a long incline of broken ground and heard Rhett’s complaining tones.

  ‘Ought to start gettin’ cold soon, you guys. We must be close to the friggin’ North Pole by this time.’

  ‘Sure hope that ain’t s
o, Bob,’ Scott answered wearily. ‘For your sake.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bell countered. ‘I hear the weather’s so bad up there it can freeze a man’s ass off.’

  ‘Then how will you make it after this war’s over?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘Have to stick to being a handyman,’ Seward said with a giggle.

  ‘For cryin’ out loud, lay off me for once,’ Rhett groaned.

  ‘Hey, the fruit’s turned sour,’ Scott growled.

  Hedges reined his horse to a half at the top of the rise. ‘That look like the North Pole?’ he asked as the men stopped their horses at either side of him.

  ‘Hey, he’s right,’ Seward said. ‘Should have knowed the Captain wouldn’t snow us.’

  What the men saw spread before them was an old battlefield; what was left of a vast area of what had once been dense woodland snaked with a few roads connecting small farmsteads. Occasional patches of timber still stood strong and tall but, for the most part, the country had been ravaged by heavy artillery and forest fire. Dead trees leaned at crazy angles or lay on the ground, stripped of the last vestiges of foliage. Once thick underbrush had been reduced to grey ash and black soot. Half a dozen scattered farmsteads could be seen in the brightening dawn, surrounded by fields which were either burnt out or choked with weeds. Old bullet scars marked some of the walls and shell holes gaped in the roofs. As the morning dew began to evaporate, it released the familiar odors of expended gunpowder, burned wood, human excrement and decayed flesh. All the troopers had fought in their share of battles and had they smelled this scene before they saw it, they would have known what had taken place here.

  ‘Looks like they been carrying on the war without us,’ Forrest said, and spat as if he resented the fact.

  The men had spent a long time surveying the arena in which the bloody and vicious Battle of The Wilderness had been fought, some six weeks earlier. Perhaps a full minute, and then the abrupt intrusion of Forrest’s bitter-toned voice emphasized the utter silence clamped over the battlefield. Not even from the unscathed clumps of timber did a single bird attempt a plaintive note of the dawn chorus.

  ‘We’ve eaten in worse places than that,’ Hedges said, pointing to the closest farmstead, a mile distant and due north. Its barn was a heap of charred planks and there were bullet and shell holes in the roof and walls of the house, but the surrounding fields had escaped the torch.

  Forrest looked up into the brightening sky, where not a hint of cloud showed. ‘And it ain’t gonna rain, Captain.’

  Both men heeled their horses forward and the troopers were only a moment behind them. The ground fell away as gently as it had risen on the far side. Then they were in The Wilderness, even more desolate after the battle than it had been before. For half a mile the hooves of the horses kicked up a dust of ash and soot. Then the men rode along a narrow trail which curved around to sweep across the front of the farmstead property.

  The fencing had been torn down and trampled in the ebb and flow of the battle, and the men leapt their horses across the line of splintered wood and galloped them across a field.

  ‘And we’ve eaten worse things than turnips,’ Seward called, recognizing the crop struggling to survive amid the thriving weeds.

  They slowed and reined their horses to a halt in the small yard before the single-storey frame-built house. The door was firmly closed, but entry would be easy for there was not a single pane of unbroken glass in any of the windows. While the men sat and looked at the house, Hedges eased his horse over to a well. The rope was played out down into the murky depths and he began to wind the handle.

  ‘Ain’t we people suffered enough?’ a woman called.

  A gunshot punctuated the reedy-voiced complaint and Hedges released the winding handle. The bullet bit dust out of the circle of bricks surrounding the well. Hedges heard the bucket at the end of the rope splash into water as he dived from the saddle, sliding the Spencer from the boot.

  ‘Could’ve killed you iffen I was of a mind,’ the woman went on in the same tone. ‘I’ll kill any man as tries anythin’.’

  Hedges was crouched on the far side of the well from the house. He peered under his horse’s belly into a glassless window. But it was too murky inside the house for him to see anything. He glanced at the group of mounted men. Every one was holding a leveled rifle or handgun.

  ‘Sounds like an old biddy, sir!’ Forrest called.

  ‘Old of limb but keen of eye, you trespassing varmints!’ the woman snapped in reply.

  Hedges waved a hand, palm down, towards the men. ‘Place looked deserted, ma’am,’ he shouted.

  ‘Things ain’t always what they look. Get back on your horse and ride out of here. Battle’s over and we want some peace.’

  Seward ignored Hedges’ signal to hold still. He hooked up a leg, intent upon sliding from the saddle and making a run for the side of the house. A second shot blasted out of the house - from the window on the other side of the door.

  ‘Friggin’ hell!’ the baby-faced youngster yelled, and re-sat his saddle as the bullet cracked past his head.

  ‘Do like my grandma told you!’ This from another woman, who was much younger and sounded a great deal more afraid.

  Hedges scowled at Seward, then looked back at the house. ‘Who won the battle?’

  ‘Don’t know and don’t care. Me and Betsy ain’t in the war.’

  ‘Is this Federal or Confederate territory?’ Hedges tried again.

  ‘Don’t know or care. Just happy neither the Yankees nor the Rebs tried to stop me and Betsy comin’ back here last night. Be happier still if fen you bunch move on out.’

  Hedges knew he had to take a risk and that all he had going for him was the fact that neither woman had shot to kill. He had to put the men’s lives on the line too, but Forrest - if none of the others - would recognize that he was taking the larger risk. And the Sergeant would hold the men in check. So he stood up and moved out of the cover of the well and his horse.

  ‘What the—’ Scott rasped.

  ‘We mean you no harm, ma’am,’ Hedges said, and allowed the Spencer to drop to the ground. ‘Only need some food, water and rest.’ He unbuckled his gun belt and allowed this to fall atop the rifle. ‘Going to come up to the door and knock. You open the door, the others will drop their guns. No objection to you and Betsy keeping yours.’

  He started to walk forward, squinting in the first rays of the sun shafting across the burnt out country from the east.

  ‘I can plug you right in the heart, young feller!’ the old woman warned.

  But she didn’t, and then he was at the door and he let out his pent-up breath. There was no stoop. He clenched a fist and thudded his knuckles on the bullet-pitted wood. He sensed the men staring at his back, searching for a signal.

  ‘They drop the guns before I open up!’ the old woman said to end the long, tense pause which followed the knock.

  ‘Do it, Forrest,’ Hedges said, not turning around.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ the Sergeant growled.

  ‘What do you like?’ Hedges answered.

  Then he got support from an unlikely quarter.

  ‘I’m with the Captain,’ Rhett said suddenly, letting fall his Colt and hooking the Spencer from the boot to drop it to the ground. ‘Two women ain’t gonna gun down seven unarmed men.’

  Forrest spat. ‘What we got to lose except our friggin’ lives?’ he snarled, and tossed away his guns.

  ‘One thing, young feller!’ the old woman called as the other men discarded their weapons.

  ‘What’s that?’ Hedges replied as footfalls creaked floorboard inside.

  Then the door swung open and he looked at a frailly-built, sunken-cheeked, hard-eyed woman who was in her seventies at least. But she was far from senile. The Starr rifle she aimed at his heart was rock steady.

  ‘I don’t allow no foul language in my house,’ she warned.

  ‘They’ll act seemly, ma’am,’ Hedges promised, reaching out to grasp the barrel of the
Starr.

  ‘That’s an oath if even I friggin’ heard one,’ Rhett said with a guffaw.

  ‘What you doin’?’ Betsy said as the old woman tried to jerk the rifle away from Hedges.

  She was in her late teens and had the basis of prettiness, spoiled by her painful thinness. A shapeless denim dress with many stains atop its original blue color suggested that her body was as sparse as her face. She thrust a matching Starr rifle at the doorway.

  ‘Just don’t like guns aimed at me,’ Hedges said evenly as the men moved up behind him.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ Betsy menaced, the flush of anger adding color to her hollow cheeks.

  ‘Aw, he knows,’ the old lady moaned, and surrendered the gun.

  Hedges showed his cold grin. ‘Got a gun just like these two back home in Iowa. Single shot. Know how long it takes to reload and the kind of noise you make doing it’

  ‘Well, how about that?’ Seward rasped.

  ‘All yours if you want it, Billy,’ Forrest allowed. ‘One’s too skinny and the other’s too old.’

  ‘I didn’t—’ Seward started.

  The young girl delved a hand into a pocket of her shapeless dress and snatched out a shell. Hedges reached her before she had even got the breech open. She screamed as he jerked the rifle away from her.

  ‘Don’t you—’ This time it was the old lady who started a sentence that was stillborn. But it was the Captain’s words, rather than his actions, which curtailed the protest.

  ‘No cussin’ or anything else in this house - except what I tell you to do!’ he snarled. His narrowed blue eyes raked the grizzled faces of the men. Then he moderated his tone, but the quiet words had more menace than if he had bellowed them. ‘Unless the Rebs have got Washington, we’re a spit from home and dry.’

  ‘I just meant how about these dames gettin’ us to toss away our guns with empty rifles, for Chris ... for goodness sake,’ Seward complained, cutting in on the Captain.

  ‘Could’ve been worse, Billy,’ Forrest muttered with a grin. ‘Could’ve used their feminine charm.’

  Although his mouth showed humor, his eyes swung between the women with a glint of contempt for them. Patiently, Hedges controlled his ice-cold anger.