EDGE: The Day Democracy Died

by George G. Gilman

  The obese Frank Snyder was in the place of honor at the centre of the row of politicians on the platform. He said something to those on either side of him and they resumed their seats with reluctance, all but one craning forward to try to look along Main Street - beyond the approaching riders and the men on the rooftops and out across open country. The exception was the schoolteacher, Tillson, who was more afraid of something already in town.

  ‘People of Democracy!’ Snyder roared, throwing his hands high in the air, a broad smile on his pale, fleshy features. ‘This morning you have been to the polls and by your unanimous vote put your faith in me and what I stand for!’

  The tall and thin Stanton was still standing with a hand draped over his gun butt. His dead looking eyes never wandered from the newcomers as the horses were angled to the hitching rail outside the stage line depot and the riders began to dismount.

  ‘You were stupid to come back here,’ the elderly lawman accused. ‘If you try to reach that rifle and shotgun you’ll find out quick just how stupid.’

  Neither the half-breed nor the Negro had attempted to touch their weapons.

  ‘Mr. Stanton!’ Laura said urgently. The Sioux. We have to get ready to...’

  ‘We’ve delivered the message,’ her husband cut in sourly. ‘What we came back here to do.’

  ‘And to be hanged,’ Stanton reminded, curling back his lips in a scowling grin.

  ‘Having done that,’ Snyder continued, speaking to a now quiet audience and talking above the exchange between Stanton and the newcomers, ‘I ask you to show that faith. The sheriff has a fine band of able deputies. They have already warned us that one group of enemies of Democracy were approaching.’

  ‘And have spiked their guns, as it were. They are in a position to give us ample warning of any new threat. And we will be prepared...’

  The elderly, sandy-haired Jethro Lovejoy was up on the platform. So was the stout Maggie Woodward. Silas McQuigg, a white patch on his forehead, his partner Harry Grant and the rat-faced Jay Bailey. The mortician, Meek and the Reverend Flint. Young, the town druggist, Thomas Waters who ran the newspaper and Swan, the banker. The old mayor and town councilors showing that they had joined forces with those newly elected to the offices. All of them neatly dressed in fine clothes.

  ‘Frank is my name and honest is my character!’ the new mayor went on. ‘Frank and Honest Snyder! Who won your confidence by promising fair shares for all in Democracy! Equal rights and equal wealth!’

  Edge had rolled a cigarette and was smoking it, seemingly detached from all that was going on about him. The Warrens were peering anxiously northwards. Conrad Power scowled at the boasting figure standing on the platform.

  ‘Seems like some of them coyotes are more equal than others,’ the Negro growled, looking along the row of finely-clad figures, then eyeing the big audience, all of them dressed ready for work. ‘Look at them … like animals. Friggin’ sheep!’ He spat at the ground. ‘But greedy as pigs.’

  ‘Shut your mouth, nigger!’ Stanton ordered. ‘That sounds like a farmful of animals, Conrad,’ Edge muttered.

  ‘You shut up, too!’ Stanton snarled, fisting his hand around the gun butt.

  ‘What’ll you do, watchful big brother?’ the Negro challenged. ‘Shut all your mouths!’ Stanton half drew the Beaumont-Adams. ‘Or we’ll...’

  ‘Kill those who are already condemned to death?’ Laura Warren posed, still looking for the first sign of the Indian attack.

  ‘For the first time since this town was built, the people are going to own it!’ Snyder shouted, warming to his subject. ‘It’s going to be just what this banner proclaims!’

  He half turned and gestured with a hand to the sign strung above the platform.

  ‘Big wheels!’ Power muttered venomously. ‘They make me sick!’

  Edge dropped his cigarette and crushed out the fire under a heel. ‘Seems they also make big revolutions, feller,’ he muttered.

  The grin on Snyder’s face as he turned fully towards his audience again became an evil smirk.

  ‘Friends!’ he roared, adding stridency to his voice as anxiety about the threat of a Sioux attack took a firmer hold over the gathering. ‘Comrades! Most of those who at first opposed the will of the people have been won over. Some have not. Up here on this platform is a man who refuses to stand aside from the path of progress.’

  He half turned again, but looked down instead of up. At the slightly built Tillson seated immediately to his left. He dropped a hand to cup the bony shoulder of the schoolteacher.

  This man! A man with whom we entrusted the education of our children. Who has shown himself to be an enemy unwilling to accept the offer of friendship from the majority.’

  The fat Snyder had recaptured the attention of his audience. And there was a tense expectancy emanating from the crowd during an interlude of silence in which Snyder tightened his grip on Tillson’s shoulder and forced the man to his feet.

  The schoolteacher was unshaven and shabby. Perhaps fear had stamped the haggard look on his thin face. Or perhaps it was the result of his experiences since he had surrendered to the lawman on the roof of the stage line depot.

  Still holding the man’s shoulder, Snyder used his other hand to turn Tillson’s head and force it around and upwards - to direct the eyes at the vividly painted banner.

  ‘Read it!’ the new mayor ordered. ‘Loud, for everyone to hear.’

  Tillson looked wretchedly defeated. But his voice was loud in the taut silence. ‘No.’

  Snyder injected more evil into his grin as he released his hold on the man. He reached under his expensively tailored suit jacket and drew out a tiny under-and-over Derringer. Lovejoy and the Reverend Flint half rose, ready to protest. But then, as the twin barrels of the small gun were pressed against the side of Tillson’s head, they realized the futility of what they planned. ‘Read it, or I’ll kill you!’ Snyder rasped. Every eye was directed towards the two men standing at the centre of the platform. The menace of a potential Indian attack was temporarily forgotten as a more imminent threat of sudden death presented itself. Even the Kerwin gang on the rooftops, and the Warrens, found their attention drawn towards Snyder and Tillson.

  ‘I mean it, mister! One last chance! Read it or die!’ There was a moment of silence. Beads of sweat could be seen on the faces of the threatened man and the one who posed the threat.

  Tillson’s throat worked. ‘No, damn you!’

  Snyder’s smirk became a scowl and he squeezed a trigger. A single bullet crashed through the side of Tillson’s skull, behind his right ear. The charge was not powerful enough to drive the shell completely through his head. But it reached his brain and he died on his feet, then corkscrewed to the platform. The report from the small caliber gun was just a scratch on the silence. The crash as the crumpling body knocked over a chair was much louder.

  ‘So will we purge ourselves of all who dare to stand in our way!’ Snyder thundered, silencing the first mumblings of vocal shock. He waved the tiny gun to indicate the sign again, but did not have to turn to read the luridly painted words. ‘And it is your way. Because you voted my ticket. The right way. For, as our banner proudly proclaims: This Is Now The People’s Democracy!’

  That poor Mr. Tillson!’ Laura blurted out tearfully, as Snyder glowered his rage at receiving only a smattering of applause - most of it from those on the platform. What a stupid reason to die!’

  Edge pursed his lips. ‘Guess he figured better dead than read, ma’am.’

  Then Cass Kerwin’s voice robbed Snyder of his audience. With a single word, bellowed loud: ‘Indians!’

  Chapter Twelve

  The two ridden-out horses snorted and reared against their tethers as Edge whirled and lunged between them. With one hand he drew the Winchester from the boot on the mare and the other snatched at the shotgun hung from the saddle horn on the gelding.

  ‘Edge!’ Power snapped.

  The half-breed turned and saw that Stanton had his re
volver out and aimed. The dead eyes were as dangerous as the black muzzle of the Beaumont-Adams.

  ‘The people in this town been warned about pointing guns at me, feller,’ Edge said, loud above the barrage of noise which Kerwin’s warning had triggered. ‘But I figure personal business can wait awhile?’

  The victory rally of Snyder and his fellow politicians was totally disrupted. He and some of the others on the platform attempted to bring back order, but it was useless. People were racing away from the intersection in every direction, panic in their haste, their expressions and their voices. Then, when some of his colleagues scrambled to the ground, calling for their wives and children, Snyder admitted defeat.

  And there was fear on his face as he forced his way through the scattering crowd towards Stanton. The three Kerwin brothers, who approached the sheriff from another direction, were cool and calm.

  ‘Gene!’ Snyder shrieked. ‘You’d better give everyone his gun back. We’re gonna need every...’

  ‘You figure you need us, mister?’ Nate Kerwin cut in.

  Suddenly, there was indecision in the lawman’s eyes. His stare wavered, but his gun stayed pointed at Edge.

  ‘Indians weren’t part of the deal,’ Tim Kerwin added. ‘Nate and us figure double what we been given.’

  We’ll pay, we’ll pay!’ Snyder agreed, licking sweat from his lips and mopping it from his forehead as he peered fearfully along the north stretch of Main Street. ‘Anything you want. Take it. The guns, Gene. Give people back their...’

  ‘What about the prisoners?’ Stanton interrupted.

  ‘Where they gonna escape to?’ Nate Kerwin growled. ‘And you people need every gun hand you got.’

  ‘Right, right!’ Snyder concurred, more agitated by the second. ‘Let’s move. We have to organize.’

  Stanton fixed his dead eyes on Edge. ‘You’ll keep, stranger!’ he snarled.

  The half-breed nodded. ‘Best way to keep anything is put it on ice, feller.’

  The lawman thrust the revolver back into his holster and broke into a run towards his office. Snyder waddled in his wake, yelling out for men to follow and get their guns. Dan Warren, steering his wife with him, was among the first to comply.

  Edge tossed the shotgun to Power, who caught it and then delved into a saddlebag for extra shells.

  ‘You guys!’ the eldest Kerwin called as the half-breed and the Negro started across the intersection towards the hotel. ‘Me and the boys’ve got scores to settle with you. After.’

  ‘Didn’t expect nothin’ else, mister,’ Power yelled back.

  ‘Over to the right!’ a man up on the roof of the church roared. ‘The red bastards are comin’ in from the right!’

  ‘But that sure is a twist,’ Edge growled, breaking into a run and leaping up on to the sidewalk to push through the batswing doors into the saloon.

  He led the way, Power trailing, into the lobby and up the stairway. Then through his old room, out of the broken window and on to the sidewalk roof. He tossed the Winchester up on to the roof of the hotel and hauled himself after it.

  Below, the streets were rapidly emptying, men running into the law office and then emerging with guns. All over town, figures appeared on roofs to reinforce the Kerwin gang already in position at high points. Other defenders crouched behind windows and in doorways.

  ‘We should’ve made them listen!’ Power snarled. ‘We should’ve shouted down that fat slob and made them get ready for this! They’re every which where, Edge! Ain’t nobody in charge and ...’

  ‘Warren told them, feller,’ Edge answered evenly, pumping the action of the Winchester as he looked across the town towards the advancing Indians. ‘But it seems the people of Democracy only listen to what they want to hear - until it’s too late.’

  It was not only the effects of too much liquor which had delayed the Sioux. They had held back at Whitehead Crossing for a stronger reason.

  Reinforcements.

  There had been less than fifty Indians at the camp when Edge and the Warrens made their escape. Some of them squaws. There were more than double that number now, all warriors - all wearing feathered war bonnets and with paint daubed on their faces.

  They advanced slowly, holding their ponies to a walk. Their rifle barrels glinted in the morning sunlight. So did the tips of the lances some of them carried. But arrow heads were covered where they protruded from the pouches - by balls of rag tied in place.

  The Sioux moved towards their target from the north east, in five rows twenty braves wide. Chief Blue Moon rode slightly ahead of the first row, at the centre.

  The town, its streets now totally deserted, became as silent as the advance of the war band.

  The braves rode erect on the backs of their ponies.

  Men on the roofs of the town buildings and in the doorways and windows crouched lower.

  ‘You see the Kerwin brothers any place, Conrad?’ Edge asked.

  ‘Frig them!’ the Negro muttered. ‘Enough I can see the friggin’ Indians.’

  ‘The bastards!’ Gene Stanton roared into the silence. ‘It’s the Warrens’ doin’! Them Injuns are the help the bastard and his wife went to get!’

  ‘He thinks slower than you do,’ Power said. ‘Sure hope he’s as rusty on the draw as he says.’

  The sheriff’s enraged voicing of his realization drew a response of more angry words - swelling in volume as the revelation was spread throughout the frightened town.

  ‘Sure hope Dan and Laura are some place safe,’ the Negro rasped.

  Blue Moon thrust a hand high above his head.

  ‘Like to know where it is,’ Edge answered.

  The chief’s hand fell forward. Heels thudded into horse flesh and the thunder of unshod hooves against hard packed dirt was almost masked by howling war whoops from massed throats.

  The anger of the townspeople was directed away from the Warrens towards the advancing Sioux.

  The galloping riders crossed into effective rifle fire and a barrage of gunfire exploded. Cordite smoke drifted above the town and trailed out behind the attackers.

  Edge and Power both went out full length on their bellies, canting their guns over the lip of the hotel roof. They held their fire.

  But others traded bullets with the attackers. Braves were flung from ponies, pumping blood from their wounds. Or ponies were hit and spilled their riders beneath the hooves of other ponies.

  Sioux shells shattered windows, splintered timber or pocked brickwork. Some found flesh and the defenders of Democracy suffered their first casualties.

  ‘Hey!’ Power yelled in delight. ‘The stupid bastards have come to their senses. We’re murderin’ them. They’re standin’ up for themselves and we’re slaughterin’ them redskins. They must still be drunk or somethin’!’

  Elsewhere, on rooftops and at street level, the tone of the shouting changed from fear to glee. For anyone who had a clear view of what was happening could see the Sioux were losing at least three braves to every one white man who was hit.

  Edge remained silent. In the law office, Stanton also held his peace. The members of the Kerwin gang on the roofs concentrated on picking off the attackers without voicing their thoughts. But all these men, experienced in gun battles of one sort or another, realized that the full frontal assault on the town was just one aspect of the Sioux’s strategy.

  And this was proved as the front runners of the Indian attack reached the cover of the buildings. For they, and most of the braves behind them, skidded their ponies to a rearing halt and leapt to the ground.

  Painted and feathered figures, inert and writhing, featured the final stretch of the Sioux advance on the town. For those who had been hit by flesh-tearing lead, it had been a suicidal assault. And others continued to invite certain death - staying astride their ponies to gallop flat out along the street, firing into the buildings on either side. Some hit nothing but blank walls before bullets from the defenders’ guns knocked their bleeding bodies to the ground. Others took life
before giving up their own.

  One war-whooping brave got as far as the intersection, and was knocked into a backward somersault from his horse. It was a shell from Edge’s Winchester which had exploded pulp and bone splinters from the Indian’s skull.

  The Indian died with a triumphant war cry on his lips. Sacrificing his life in the same altruistic manner as those who had already fallen: dying in the way every Indian warrior dreamed of. Honorably, on the field of battle with a hated enemy.

  But others still lived. On the ground and out of sight in the cover of the buildings as the second stage of the Sioux attack was put into action.

  ‘This friggin’ thing’s no damn good at this range!’ Power snarled, banging the twin barrels of his shotgun against the roof.

  ‘Don’t knock it until you get a chance to try it, Conrad,’ the half-breed advised, nodding along the north section of Main Street.

  It was crowded with riderless ponies: some halted, some rearing and scratching at the ground, some still galloping flat out. The Negro looked, and saw that the only braves in sight were either sprawled in bullet-riddled death or struggling to drag their pain-wracked bodies into cover. Rifle and revolver fire cracked out and the wounded spurted more blood and became still. Other guns exploded from other sources and the killers of the wounded were hit.

  ‘How many made it, you reckon?’ Power asked.

  ‘It matter, feller?’

  ‘Enough of them,’ Power groaned.

  ‘So it matters, Conrad. Enough of them to finish this town if somebody doesn’t take command.’

  A hail of fire arrows was arched high and long across the roofs. They emerged from billowing black smoke already rising from buildings on either side at the end of Main Street.

  ‘You got what it takes, Edge,’ Power yelled, watching as some arrows fell harmlessly to the ground, while others thudded into timber walls and roofs.

  ‘I had what it took to warn these people, feller. It ain’t my town.’

  Smoke began to wisp up from other buildings on Main Street, as evidence of the attackers’ progress deeper into town. Most of the rooftops were deserted of men now. Except for those who could not come down: lay dead or dying as they waited to be incinerated.