EDGE: BLOODY SUMMER (Edge series Book 9)

by George G. Gilman

  The old woman looked up without surprise, and fixed Edge with a vacant stare. “My last kin are dead,” she said in a croaky voice. “My nephew Frank and his brother-in-law. I’m alone in the world now.”

  She went through the jerky series of movements that led to her taking a drink. Edge felt the intense cold of the room - worse than outside. And smelt the evil fragrance of cheap whiskey and the unwashed body of the women. He moved around to each of the three doors leading off the living room. Two gave on to bare boards and walls. A third opened to show him a rancid kitchen with an evil-smelling mattress on the floor in one corner. Whiskey bottles, some full but most empty, littered the room.

  “You farm the place yourself?” Edge asked, recalling the well-tended fields and the patched up barn.

  “Frank sent out men,” she croaked. “He was a good boy.” She took a shot. “More like a son than a nephew. Made sure I always had plenty of medicine.” She held up the bottle.

  “Rich man, uh?” Edge asked, leaning against the doorframe, able to watch the approach to the farm and to breath in the cold, fresh air from outside.

  The old woman nodded. “Did well for himself in Summer. Owned the Last Rose restaurant and the livery. Few stores as well. Now he’s dead and it’s all over.”

  “How’d he get to be so rich?” Edge wanted to know as he cradled the Winchester in the crook of his arm and took out the makings.

  “He had friends that helped him. Just to get started. But he repaid them, many times over.”

  Edge nodded. “Real couple of swingers,” he muttered,

  The old lady took a drink. “I didn’t catch that?”

  “The Balls,” Edge supplemented as he lit the cigarette.

  The crone narrowed her eyes and a mild suspicion was injected into them. But then she shrugged her thin shoulders. “Don’t matter now Frank’s dead. Nobody’s supposed to know about Frank and Brad supplying the Ball boys and their men.” She sighed. “Mr. Bolan’s due in with the wagon tonight. I’ll have to tell him what happened - that it’s all over.”

  “My condolences, ma’am,” Edge said and stepped out over the threshold.

  He returned to his horse the way he had come, moving along the line of the fence, his narrowed eyes scanning the surrounding country. But when the wagon rolled down the track towards the Chandler farm it came with a complete lack of stealth and with no advance scouts.

  It figured, Edge reasoned as he stroked the horse’s neck to keep the animal quiet and watched the covered wagon roll past and go through the sagging gateway. Chandler had been repaying the Balls for their backing for a long time and the farm of the drunken old lady had been a supply drop for the gang for many years. The gang had good reason to consider the arrangement a safe one.

  But Silas Hyman had been close to uncovering the scheme - had perhaps seen Brad Rivers on one of his wagon trips from town, loaded with supplies drawn from Chandler’s stores. Whatever had aroused his suspicion, he had questioned the priest about Rivers and been told of his relationship to Chandler and of the existence of the farm and its elderly owner.

  But he had died following another lead and it wasn’t until Pike mentioned the name of the liveryman that Edge realized the tortured man’s final word was a name rather than a location.

  Edge moved forward for a better view of the farm as the poker-faced Bolan turned the wagon and backed it up to the front of the patched barn. Then he froze, hearing a slight sound behind him. But before he could whirl and level the Winchester, the needle point of Pike’s stiletto was pressed against the small of his back. It pierced his clothes and pricked the skin in the area of his kidneys. He sighed. “What’s up, doc?” he rasped softly.

  “I could have killed you,” Pike hissed.

  “That’s what bugs me,” Edge said. “Why didn’t you?”

  “Big gang,” Pike answered. “Haven thinks six at least. Two of us makes better sense than one. Even division of labor and a like arrangement with the reward. Do we have a deal?”

  Edge looked across at the farm as Bolan jumped down from the wagon and went to the barn doors, ignoring the house. He had a key to fit the padlock and the doors swung wide.

  “Seems like I’m stuck with it,” Edge growled.

  Pike withdrew the knife and showed his crooked smile as the half-breed turned to look at him. “It was just to stop you making any noise,” he said as he slid the weapon into the sheath inside his boot.

  Edge’s hooded eyes looked along the gully behind Pike and saw the man’s horse tethered a hundred feet off. “How many others did you lead out here?” he asked scornfully.

  The smile dropped from the smaller man’s face and his eyes became hard as they locked upon Edge’s rebuking gaze. “I never make the same mistake twice,” he rasped.

  “Once is often enough to get a man killed,” Edge answered, turning away to survey the farm again as Bolan began to load cartons, sacks and barrels on to the wagon.

  Pike moved up beside him and they watched in silence for several seconds. Then he asked: “Supplies for the gang?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Know how far off they’re holed up?”

  Edge pursed his thin lips. “Unless that guy drove the team hard, more than a couple of city blocks. His horses are pretty beat.”

  “He doesn’t intend to rest them,” Pike pointed out as Bolan closed and locked the barn doors then hurried to the front of the wagon and hoisted himself up on to the seat.

  “All done, Annie!” Bolan yelled, his voice carrying clearly through the night silence to where Edge and Pike were hidden.

  “It’s all over,” the old woman responded from inside the rancid house, her voice thick with too much whiskey.

  “Yeah,” Bolan answered, reading a question into her words. “Be back in a couple of months.”

  He slapped the reins against the team and the wagon jerked forward into a wide turn which took it through the gateway on to the trail. The old crone shouted something, but it was lost amid the stamp of hooves and rumble of wheels. She staggered out through the open door and sagged against the frame as she saw the wagon rolling away from her. She lifted the bottle in a beckoning gesture, but then shrugged and poured herself another drink. She took it at a gulp and shuffled back inside.

  “Let’s go,” Edge said as the wagon trundled past on the track and he swung up on to his horse.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” Pike answered, turning to head back towards his own mount.

  “Good place to be when the shooting starts,” Edge muttered.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BOLAN had not driven the wagon team hard on the trip to the farm. It was a long haul from the hide-out which the gang called the ballpark to their supply point and the route lay across rugged terrain.

  Bolan, unaware of the two men on his trail, left the rutted spur road and angled northwards, deep into the heart of the barren foothills. There was no clearly defined track to follow and he steered the wagon team by landmarks memorized from many previous trips.

  Because the horses were already wearied by the outward trip the going was slow, through narrow ravines and along the floors of broad valleys; crossing shallow streams and by-passing deeper, more turbulent water courses.

  As the heavily laden wagon creaked higher into the hills and the night reached towards a new day, it got colder. Expelled air from the lungs of men and animals showed up as white plumes of mist against the deep shadows cast by cliffs and outcrops in the silvery moon glow.

  Then, as the temperatures plunged lower, the false dawn splashed grayness across the eastern sky. A few snowflakes drifted ineffectually down and the unsuspecting Bolan and his pursuers saw the higher range of mountains ahead of them, coated with the dark green vegetation that gave the Black Hills their name;

  The inclines steepened, slowing progress still further and it was full dawn, with a cold red sun clear of the horizon when Bolan brought the team around into a turn, angling towards a stand of lush pine
trees. He steered the team along a natural track among the trees and died just as he was about to enter a narrow ravine.

  The two Teton Dakota braves had been poised on the lower branches of trees which flanked the entrance to the ravine. They could see each other through the scented foliage and used hand signals to start their attack.

  Bolan heard a gentle swishing sound and looked up in alarm. Horror sprang into his eyes and he fumbled with the buttons of his heavy coat, vainly trying to reach his Colt But he knew instantly that he would fail and his mouth opened to start a scream.

  The brave who dropped on to the seat on the left gave a savage thrust with his knife, burying it to the hilt in the white man’s chest. The scream emerged as a pained gasp and then the brave on the right swung his tomahawk. As the first brave withdrew his knife to undam a spout of arterial blood, the curved blade of the decorated hatchet sliced through the flesh and bone of the dead man’s neck. Bolan’s head rolled into the rear of the wagon as his body was kicked sideways from the seat by the braves.

  The brave who had used the knife grasped the reins and the second attacker lashed at the team with a bull whip. The pain of the viciously wielded leather drove a final reserve of strength into the legs of the exhausted horses and they raced down the ravine in a panicked, headlong gallop, their hoof beats thunderously resounding off the steep walk.

  Edge and Pike reined their mounts to a skidding halt as the forward surge of the wagon signaled the appearance of more than twenty Sioux riders from out of the trees. Edge whisked the Winchester from the saddle boot and Pike drew an elegantly made, ornately decorated English rifle. But neither man fired, content merely to aim their weapons at the backs of the buckskin-clad Indians until they disappeared into the ravine.

  “Seems we have competition,” Pike said softly as the noise from the unshod ponies diminished.

  “Indians bother you?” Edge asked easily, his eyes raking across the wooded vista for signs of stragglers.

  “Not while I’ve got this,” Pike replied, slapping the silver embossed stock of the rifle.

  Edge glanced at the rifle scornfully. “Pretty fancy.”

  “Martini-Henry,” Pike explained. “Bought it in England.”

  “You didn’t have it this morning,” Edge said, satisfied that the whole party of braves had gone into the ravine and heeling his mount forward.

  “Didn’t think you’d be so touchy,” Pike replied easily. “I only use this to kill people.”

  “What about the blade?”

  Pike showed his crooked smile. “Like your razor, Edge. For close in stuff.”

  Edge jerked the Winchester towards the headless corpse of Bolan, already stiffening in the bitter cold. “They can get pretty close, Pike,” he warned.

  “I’ll take my chances,” Pike said evenly. “I need that money.”

  “I’m not doing this because I like Haven,” Edge said as they entered the ravine and heard a burst of gunfire ahead.

  “Nor only for yourself anymore,” Pike answered.

  Edge stared hard at Pike as they rode, side by side, holding their horses down to a walk. “She tell you why she took it into her head to make a try for the reward?” he asked.

  “For her brother’s defense,” Pike answered. “Lawyers come higher than stabling or hotel rooms in Summer. No need now, though.”

  The gunfire channeled along the ravine between the high walls was now interspersed with war cries as the Sioux closed on their target.

  “I’ve still got reason to want it,” Edge said.

  He dug in his heels and the horse leapt forward as if anxious to get to the scene of the shooting. Pike urged his mount into a gallop only inches to the rear.

  The ravine, cold and shadowed by its walls, opened out suddenly into the ballpark. This was abroad area of grass land surrounded by ragged ridged hills, like enormous prehistoric animals at rest It was divided into two unequal sections by a ten feet wide river running east to west and as Edge and Pike emerged into the sunlight the Sioux raiders were on the point of rushing into the water behind the hi-jacked wagon.

  Two hundred feet back from the far bank was a towering tongue of yellow sandstone that curled away from a hill like a crescent-shaped promontory in a dried up ocean. The face of the rock was pocked with dozens of caves and it was from one of the larger openings that answering fire was directed at the attacking Indians. The mouth of the cave was flanked by two wagons identical to the one that now splashed clear of the river and angled away from the defenders’ guns.

  The gang’s horses, which had been grazing in a loose group some way from the cave mouth, snorted at the gunshots and bolted, streaming into the crossfire. Two of the panicked animals took bullets in their chests and rolled, sliding across the frosted ground into the path of the wagon team. The horses in the shafts veered sharply to the side and the wagon tipped, tossing the two braves clear. One of them thudded to the ground with such force that the wooden handle of his tomahawk burst into his stomach to spill the first Indian blood of the attack.

  His companion landed on his feet but the impact broke both his legs and the brilliant white of jagged thighbones ripped through his flesh and leggings. The brave turned his knife against himself but a shot into his heart killed him before he could cut his throat. His chief, who had fired the fatal shot, spat on the dead brave as he leapt his pony over the sprawled form. Then he screamed a shrill battle cry and led his braves in a vee formation towards the cave mouth, raining a hail of lead at the opening.

  One brave, whirling a scalp decorated lance, saw Bolan’s severed head among the debris scattered by the overturned wagon and broke away from the attack. The point of the lance stabbed into raw meat of the neck and the brave whooped with delight as he thrust the lance skywards with his gruesome prize.

  “Bastards got Bolan!” Ed Ball bellowed as he crouched in the cave mouth, the Winchester bucking in his hands. His fleshy face wore a mask of horror and his obese frame was trembling, spoiling his aim.

  Beside him, his elder brother was less moved by the bloodied head atop the lance than by the fierce-faced line of Indians pounding towards him. “Serves him right for leading them here,” he rasped, taking careful aim and lifting three braves from their ponies with six shots.

  Kelton, Bean and Lambert were prone on the dusty ground in the cave, firing wildly with two Springfields and a Winchester. Bullets whistled over their heads to chip at the rock inside the cave, or kicked up spurts of dirt around their bodies. A shot from Kelton gouged into the eye of a pony and its rider leapt clear and started to run. Bean and Lambert fired at the same time and the top of the brave’s head exploded with a surge of blood and bone fragments.

  The gunfire, echoing off the walls of the cave, was deafening, drowning out the whoops and cries of the attackers. Nobody heard Pete Bean scream as a bullet ploughed a furrow across his forehead. But the injured man’s blood sprayed into the face of Kelton, who looked around in anger and took two bullets in the cheek. Two more Indians were blasted from their ponies by shots from the brothers as the chief veered away less than twenty feet from the cave mouth.

  The lance carrier flicked his weapon and Bolan’s head bounced against the hard ground and rolled into the cave mouth. Lambert saw it coming towards him and scrambled on to all fours to get away from it. The lance swished through the gunsmoke thickened air and penetrated the man’s chest. He screamed and toppled backwards, struggling to pull the weapon free. But it burst out of his back with a gush of blood and ripped flesh. His dead body was impaled against the ground.

  “They’re leaving!” Ed cried in trembling delight, a harsh laugh spilling through his thick lips as he hauled himself upright

  “They’ll be back,” Tom said coldly as he watched the braves ride out of rifle range, then scanned the area in front of the cave. He counted a half dozen Sioux dead, then surveyed the men in the cave. Ed was unhurt, but his heavily fleshed body was still gripped by a fit of trembling that could signal hysteria. Lambert was d
ead. Kelton soon would be as he groaned away his strength, blood from the awful wounds in his face pumping out to form a pool in which his dislodged right eye was floating. The whole of Bean’s head and front of his shirt were soaked with blood from his forehead wound. But he was conscious.

  “Let the bastards take what they want!” Bean pleaded, trying to stem the flow of blood with one hand as he wiped at his eyes with the other.

  “All they want is us,” Tom growled, feeding shells into his Springfield as he peered out at the Indians. They were gathered in a group around the chief, listening to what he was saying but looking with piercing eyes towards the cave mouth. “Won’t be satisfied with nothing less.”

  Bean stared hatefully at Ed. “It’s his fault,” he snarled, pointing an accusing finger. “Sioux didn’t get stirred up ’til after we hit that army train and Haven brought in the bounty hunters. It’s all those saddle tramps on Sioux land that put them on the warpath. And for what?”

  Ed’s small eyes gleamed dangerously through their layers of fat. “Didn’t hear you complaining none at how we been living!” he bellowed.

  A full-throated war cry captured the men’s attention and they whirled to see the braves bearing down upon them again, a fusillade of arrows backing up the hail of lead that was directed at the cave.

  “Get them inside!” Tom barked, pumping off two shots before backing away into the depths of the cave.

  The others did not hold back, but scrambled after the elder Ball brother without firing at the galloping braves. There were three tunnels leading out of the cave and the trio went into the centre one, disappearing from sight a moment before the leading brave sprang from his racing pony and ran into the shadowed interior. The others were only moments behind him, hitting the ground lightly, balanced, with rifles and bows at the ready.

  Disappointment rumbled in their throats and their paint-daubed faces were contorted by anger. Then the chief saw the tunnels at the rear of the cave and emitted a triumphant roar. A trail of blood from Beans’ forehead wound showed which way the white men had gone.