EDGE: Death Deal (Edge series Book 35)

by George G. Gilman

  Table of Contents

  DOUBLE EDGE

  CREDITS

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  DOUBLE EDGE

  To wheedle a substantial sum of money out of her wealthy but miserly father, a young, beautiful hot-head arranges to be kidnapped by a pack of trigger-happy Mexican bandits—who can't keep a promise.

  Kane Worthington, the most detested man in town, will stop at nothing to get his wayward daughter back, and he hires Edge to do just that. But Edge soon dis­covers that there is more than one daughter involved as the situation erupts into a violent game of death and double crossing, culminating in a bloodbath that not even Edge can prevent.

  DEATH DEAL

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2015

  Copyright © 2015 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition JAN 2015

  Names, Characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and

  any resemblance to actual events locales, organizations, or

  persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

  or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system,

  without the written permission of the author, except where permitted

  by law.

  Cover Design and illustrations by West World Designs © 2015.

  http://westworlddesigns.webs.com

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications.

  Cover Illustration by Cody Wells.

  Visit the author at: www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  For D.M. who with a name like his

  must know the code.

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE stand of thirty-foot high pinyon pine trees pro­vided welcome shade from the glare of the early after­noon Arizona Territory sun, and the man called Edge relished this more than the chunk of jerked beef he chewed on as he sat on the sandy ground, his back leaning against the reddish bark of one of the crooked trunks.

  Likewise, his gray gelding appreciated the rest after a long morning's ride, but cropped without enthusiasm at a patch of arid scrub grass a few feet from where the man sat.

  The man was some six foot three inches tall, solidly built with his close to two hundred pounds evenly dis­tributed over a lean frame. Perhaps his face was hand­some, or maybe it was ugly—opinions varied. It was made up of features drawn from a Mexican father and a northern European mother. The skin was dark from heritage and long exposure to the elements, deeply lined by the passing of almost forty years and by the harshness of his life during much of this time. The fore­head was broad, the eyes ice-blue and permanently par-rowed beneath hooded lids. The nose was hawklike, and below a Mexican-style moustache the mouth was thin and long. He had shaved at dawn but already the bristles sprouted thickly on his lean cheeks and along his firm jaw. Here and there among the stubble were traces of gray, although his hair, which he wore long enough to brush his shoulders, was still jet black.

  He was dressed in a gray Stetson, low-crowned and wide-brimmed, a shirt and kerchief of the same color, and black pants and spurless riding boots. There was an old leather gunbelt around his waist holding a Frontier Colt in the holster that was tied down to his right thigh. Encircling his throat, just visible above the sweat-stained kerchief, was a necklet of wooden beads which was not worn as an ornament. For the leather thong on which the beads were strung held, at the nape of his neck, a pouch into which was slotted a straight razor.

  The man called Edge did not use this razor solely for shaving.

  After he had chewed and swallowed the last of the dried beef, he rose from the base of the tree and moved across to the gelding. Where he unhooked one of the two canteens from the horn of the Western saddle and drank a little of the warm water. Then, as he re-capped the canteen and fixed it back on the saddle, he cocked his head, listening. At the same time the gelding stopped feeding and pricked his ears.

  Hoofbeats sounded in the distance: several horses moving at a measured, unhurried pace. Then, a few moments later, other sounds revealed that the horses were a team hauling a rig of some sort. Coming down the north trail which intersected with the east-to-west trail beside which the pinyon stand grew.

  Edge unhitched the gelding's reins from a saltbush and swung up into the saddle. But made no move to heel the horse out of the timber which concealed him from the trails.

  "Buenos tardes!'" a man shouted.

  "Friggin' hell!" another roared.

  A whip cracked in the hot air. And the cadence of hoofbeats and rolling wheels increased.

  A fusillade of rifle-shots exploded and, against the diminishing echoes of the reports among the rock faces surrounding the intersection of the trails, the team-horses were given a counterorder to the gallop. And snorted as they brought the rig to a skidding halt.

  "Is good!" the Mexican yelled in English above the final sounds of the frenetic stop. "Everybody do like they are told and nobody get hurt! You understand this what I tell you?"

  Edge, his lean features as impassive as when he was eating and drinking, had heeled his mount forward when the gunshots cracked. And was in a position to look down upon the scene at the trail intersection when the Concord of the Wells Fargo stage-line came to a rocking, dust-raising stop.

  For the timber was clumped some two hundred feet up a gentle slope to the south of the east-west trail, di­rectly opposite the gully from which the north trail emerged. At the mouth of the gully the soft sandstone cliff faces had crumbled to scatter boulders—some as large as two-storey houses—across the sandy ground on all sides of the meeting of the trails. And it was from the cover of some of these larger rocks that the six men wearing sombreros, dark-hued shirts and pants and kerchief-masks had stepped. To trigger warning shots from their Winchesters which were now aimed at the stalled stagecoach.

  With the sun glaring harshly down from behind and to the west of the timber, the unmoving half-breed was as one with the deep shade cast by the pinyon pine. He reflected briefly as he watched the Mexicans close in on the stage from the front and either side, that they must have been in their ambush positions when he rode into the timber from the south.

  "We ain't carryin' nothin' of value," the stage driver complained as his gloved hands opened and closed on the reins.

  "You insult the Señorita Grace Worthington, cuz!" the obvious leader of the Mexicans snarled.

  And shot the middle-aged, overweight driver. It was an apparently casual shot, triggered from the hip. But the bullet drilled through the man's heart and exploded out of his back in a welter of crimson droplets. The driver's grimace altered to an expression of surprise as he dropped the reins and half rose on the running­ board. Then his bulky frame twisted and he pitched headfirst off the side of the stage.

  A woman screamed as dust motes rose from around the corpse and settled on it.

  The expended shell-case from the Winchester glinted in the sunlight as it spun through the hot air after the Mexican had pumped the action of the rifle. Then he fired a third shot, in unison with those exploded by the other five masked men. All of them responding to the suicidal move of the suddenly te
rrified guard. He was of an age with the driver, but taller and thinner. But nobody missed the narrower target of his chest when he made to snatch up a rifle from the seat at his side and leap to the ground. He had the hammer cocked and was in mid-air when the six bullets ripped through his body. His mouth remained wide open, without having uttered a sound of terror, when he died and became limp. Then he hit the ground and was still. The blood that oozed from the entry and exit wounds was absorbed thirstily by the arid ground on which he lay.

  The woman's scream was curtailed by a choked sob.

  "Are you going to kill all of us?" a man called shak­ily from inside the Concord.

  "What you do about it if I tell you yes?" the leader of the Mexicans answered. And vented a harsh laugh. "You pray, perhaps? Then you pray to me, gringo. Pray to Satanas! For it is I who have your life in my hands! Get out! All of you!"

  He and one of his men had approached the stage from the front. Now he moved to join the two on the right of the Concord while the other man broke into a run along the west trail.

  "The other door!" one of the men who had closed in on the left of the coach barked in Spanish.

  And if his language was not understood, a menacing gesture with the rifle made the point. For the door on the right side of the Concord swung open and a short, fat man in his early sixties stepped nervously out into the sunlight. His hands shook with fear as he reached up to assist a trembling woman from the coach. She was in the same age-group and was a match for his height. But very thin. Had the man not supported her when she was outside, she would have fallen: seemed to come within a hair's-breadth of fainting before he turned her to wrench her fixed stare away from the bullet-shattered body of the guard.

  "You're well named, Satanas," another woman said from inside the coach, then emerged into the sunlight, the frown on her face deepening as she shifted her gaze from the corpse to the line of three rifle-toting Mexi­cans.

  She was a tall, statuesque redhead, her lush hair long enough to reach midway down her back. Her face was classically beautiful, her complexion flawless in the shade of her broad hat-brim. It was a very feminine hat with a lot of lacy trimming on it. While her well-developed body and long legs were attired in a man's check shirt and Levis. The kerchief around her throat was knotted at the side. She was in her late twenties.

  Her appearance caused the impassive half-breed in the trees to halt in the act of rolling a cigarette. Then, as Satanas vented another of his harsh laughs, Edge ran the paper across the tip of his tongue, twisted the ciga­rette once more between fingers and thumbs, and hung it unlit from a corner of his mouth. Growled, "Careful, lady, there could be the Devil to pay."

  "Si, Señorita! I name myself this and everything I do, I do well."

  "Except keep your word," Grace Worthington coun­tered dully as she glanced again at the dead guard.

  This as hoofbeats sounded and the two men on the other side of the Concord went to help their partner with the seven horses he had brought from where they were concealed around a curve of the west trail.

  Satanas shrugged. "One gringo insulted you by say­ing you were of no value. The other tried to shoot us."

  His tone of voice was dull now and he had begun to massage an area above his right eye with the tips of his fingers.

  "Amigo, the horses, they are here," the Mexican on his right said in Spanish.

  "Take her," he answered in the same language. Then, to Grace Worthington, "You will come with us, señorita."

  "Why?" She sounded defiant rather than afraid.

  The man to Satanas' left countered, "Because if you do not, we will kill these old people. It will not be hard for us and you will come anyway."

  "Oh, Miss Worthington," the frail elderly woman cried.

  "Don't worry, Mrs. Benteen," the redhead said. "I don't think they intend to harm me."

  She complied with the tacit command of two gestur­ing rifles and moved to where the group of seven horses had been halted. The men who waved the Winchesters went with her.

  "You!" Satanas growled, glaring at the fat man.

  "Yes?" As Mrs. Benteen clung to him.

  "You are not a doctor, are you? I keep getting a bad pain in my head. If you are a doctor perhaps you can give me something."

  A shake of the head. "I'm Cyrus Benteen. The law­yer in Indian Hill."

  Satanas snorted. Then, "Lawyer, uh? Hey, I like that. Lawyers, they are supposed to be honorable men. This makes you perfect man to carry message to Mr. Kane Worthington of the Indian Hill Ranch, I think."

  "Oh dear," Mrs. Benteen gasped.

  "You tell Mr. Kane Worthington that Satanas has his firstborn daughter, uh. And you tell him not to worry about her. He will hear from me soon. And still he will not need to worry. For he will have no trouble getting the money I will need to bring his daughter back to him. You tell him, uh?"

  Both Mr. and Mrs. Benteen, faces fixed with shock, were shifting their eyes from Satanas to the now mounted Grace Worthington and back again. The leader of the Mexicans, still troubled by a nagging ache in his head, lost patience, and exploded a shot into the ground a few feet in front of the couple.

  "You tell him, uh!" His voice was an angry bellow.

  "Yes, yes, I'll tell Mr. Worthington," Benteen an­swered.

  "Is good, gringo."

  He swung away from them, strode to the horses and joined his men in the saddle. All of them booted their rifles. Then, with one of the men gripping the bridle of the horse carrying the captive woman, the whole bunch heeled their mounts into a gallop. Heading along the east trail, then veering to the side to ride up the slope beyond the timber in which Edge was concealed. Their dust settled and the sound of hoofbeats faded from ear­shot.

  Edge struck a match on the stock of the booted Win­chester and heeled his horse out of the timber. And such was the intensity of the silence after the Mexicans had gone that Mrs. Benteen heard the scrape of match head on rifle stock and snapped her eyes toward the pinyon stand, saw the half-breed the moment he emerged from the shade. She gasped, clung more tightly to her husband and infected him with her new fear.

  The half-breed rode slowly down the slope as Ben­teen joined his wife in watching the approach. Like his hearing, the eyesight of the city-suited lawyer had de­cayed faster than that of the woman and he was ob­viously straining to see why she was so perturbed by the appearance of the stranger. And when Edge came into sharp focus, Benteen's own concern was negated. For the tall, lean man astride the gray gelding touched the brim of his hat and parted his thin lips to show white teeth in a smile of greeting.

  "Mrs. Benteen. Mr. Benteen."

  "You know Amelia and me, sir?"

  A shake of the head as Edge reined his horse to a halt, close enough to the elderly couple for them to see that there was not a degree of warmth in the narrowed eyes of the man. "Saw what happened here. Heard the names mentioned."

  "You saw what happened? And made no attempt to intervene?" There was shock and anger in the woman's voice and quivering on her thin features.

  Edge swung down from the saddle. "You tired of liv­ing, ma'am?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The gentleman means we are still alive, my dear," Cyrus Benteen said. "There were six of them and if he had moved against them there would undoubtedly have been further bloodshed."

  His wife was unimpressed and expressed tacit con­tempt as Edge checked the stage team and the wheels of the Concord.

  "Indian Hill far from here?"

  "Five miles." Benteen pointed the short finger of a pudgy hand along the west trail. "Can you handle the stage?"

  "Aren't you going to help us, young man?" the woman blurted.

  "Figure there's someone else needs help more than you, ma'am."

  "Of course. Grace." She was shamefaced.

  "Her, too," Edge allowed as he grabbed the body of the guard under the armpits and backed up the step and into the stage, dragging the burden aboard. Then he got out the other side and loaded the corp
se of the driver in a similar manner.

  "Who else?" Mrs. Benteen asked as Edge got off the stage, closed the door and flicked away his half-smoked cigarette.

  "Me, ma'am."

  The woman snorted her disgust. While her husband grunted and scowled.

  "If you think you can make capital out of this trou­ble, sir, you are doubtless correct," the lawyer growled.

  "Kane Worthington is a wealthy man who will pay highly for the safe return of his daughter."

  With the corpses riding inside the Concord, the woman elected to climb up onto the box-seat.

  "My ma used to tell me the Lord helps those who help themselves," the half-breed said as he swung astride the gelding and Cyrus Benteen sat on the driver's seat beside his wife. "Does Grace have a mother still?"

  "Gertrude died some ten years ago," Amelia Benteen replied tautly while her husband cautiously released the brake lever and nervously took up the reins.

  "Explains it, maybe."

  "Explains what?"

  "No Mrs. Worthington to tell her daughter not to go on the stage."

  CHAPTER TWO

  TRACKING Satanas, his men and their kidnap victim was easy over the first five miles. For the Mexicans had no reason to assume they were being followed as they rode at a casual pace out of the Quijotoa Valley of Ari­zona Territory toward the border with Sonora, Mexico. And perhaps they were confident, too, that the message to be delivered by Cyrus Benteen to Kane Worthington would ensure no search would be mounted later.

  Certainly the kidnappers made no attempt to cover their backtracks for those first few minutes. And Edge needed merely to glance at the soft, hoofprinted ground every now and then to check that he was still on the trail of his quarry.

  So, for most of the time, he was able to maintain a careful watch on the rugged terrain which spread out on all sides of him. He rode easy in the saddle, his casual attitude offering no clue to the degree of caution with which his slitted eyes made their survey from out of the deep shade of his hat-brim. Or that, just beneath the surface of his relaxed posture, he was keyed up and ready to respond instantly to the first sign that danger threatened.