EDGE: The Big Gold (Edge series Book 15)

by George G. Gilman

  “My beautiful beasts most amenable. If there is rope in wagon of fire eater, be no trouble. If no rope, only a little trouble. What I tell Case? He most certainly be most angry to hear his big gold stolen.”

  The half-breed finished loading the rifle and showed Singh a cold grin. “If he bad mouths you, set the cats on to him. Then tell him to expect me in Yellowtown, gold and all.”

  “He bound to ask when, sahib?”

  Edge was already starting down the rock face, more conscious of the tigers’ curious stares than the anxious look in their trainer’s eyes. He took great care not to get directly beneath the ledge where the cats were perched, flanking Singh.

  “Carny’s got a fortune teller.”

  “I wish you great good luck, sahib,” the Nepalese called after him. “Eight dollar a day is more than I earn with my beautiful tigers.”

  “And it doesn’t cost you anything for feed,” Edge muttered as he reached the floor of the ravine and broke into a run.

  The tracks were easy to follow at first through the loose dust of the ravine and then east over the turf of the meadow-land at the foot of the cliff. The half-breed never ran at the limit of his capabilities, and at intervals slowed from the loping gait to a fast walk. He had no canteen, but the hill country abounded with streams. He paused at each one, to replenish his body with moisture which the blazing afternoon sun sweated out of him.

  He was heading inland, but the blue line of the ocean was always in sight when he glanced over his shoulder. For the terrain rose steadily towards the peaks of the Cascade Mountains. When the strip of grassland petered out, the ground became hard-packed dirt and rock. But, because of the heavy freight it carried, the wagon was never able to travel very far without leaving some sign of its passage, be it the hoof beat of a straining horse or the narrow rut engraved by a turning wheel. The weight and the almost constant upgrade kept its speed low. But the terrain, combined with the heat, also slowed the half-breed. And lack of food made itself felt after the advance of the evening had extracted the fierceness from the reddening sun.

  There was game in the mountain foothills, but he didn’t try to shoot any. Firstly he was reluctant to use time in lighting a fire and cooking the meat. Secondly, a shot could well alert the gold stealers. Although he was on foot, he knew there was a good chance he had closed up on his quarry. He was hungry, but he had been fresh at the start of the chase. The team had hauled the heavy wagon along the trail all morning, then been forced to gallop at full stretch across rugged country. They had to be rested at intervals, and for longer periods than it took Edge to suck up water from the streams he had used.

  The terrain was much more rugged now, as a brightly moonlit night closed in on the mountains. Rock faces rose all around and the isolated stands of redwoods had been replaced by extensive swathes of firs. The wagon could be rolling or halted, beyond every rise or turn that Edge made. And if Walter Peat and Arabella were unaware they were being followed, he didn’t want to alert them.

  He saw them when the night had advanced far enough for every vestige of the day’s heat to have been sucked away. At a time when the sweat holding his clothes to his body had dried and become cold. And when he was having wishful thoughts about the fur-lined coat strapped to his bedroll on the dead stallion. He picked his way through a scattering of boulders in the deep moon shadow of a grotesquely shaped rocky outcrop and saw he had been right not to follow the sign the long way around. For he emerged at the top of a sharp drop surfaced with loose shale. Spread out from the base was a broad area of dusty flatness. The moonlight showed clearly the tracks of the wagon and team, curving across this area from the far side of the outcrop to the cluster of buildings huddled on the bank of a stream where the ground began to rise again.

  The town, if the dozen or so buildings could be called such, was laid out around a square. A few shacks dotted the far slope, each beside the mouth of a tunnel driven into the hillside. The rusted rails of a narrow gauge track, broken in many places and twisted in others, linked each abandoned mine working and ran down into the town. It, too, had apparently been deserted by its citizens. For, as the half-breed raked his hooded eyes over the scene, across a distance of a thousand feet or so, he saw the larger buildings were as dilapidated as the shacks on the slope above. The moon found few panes of glass to shine on. Porches sagged, doors hung open and roofs were holed. Spring and summer winds had drifted dust into great piles against timber walls and the detritus of rocks and tree branches from the winter-flooded stream scattered across the central square. The wagon was parked close in to the side of a building at the entry to the square. The team was ground hobbled on a patch of grass at the bank of the stream. The flickering red of firelight rather than the steady glow of yellow lamplight was a square beacon at one glassless window. There was no sound except for the rippling of the slow running stream which curled around the rise, swung across in front of the town and then continued on a northern course.

  Edge worked the lever action of the Winchester and the metallic scraping seemed to resound between the shale covered slope and the less steep gradient behind the town. But the horses on the bank of the stream did not even prick their ears. No shadows moved across the firelit window. He tested the shale, setting down a booted foot lightly. Fragments of rock spilled away from beneath his heel. To his own ears the noise of tumbling stones sounded like a full-scale avalanche shattering the peace surrounding the derelict town. He withdrew his foot hurriedly and crouched down, pushing the Winchester into the dust and covering his gun-belt with his arms. When a man moved to the window to stare out, the form of Edge was just another shadow among the boulders at the top of the shale slope. Neither guns nor shells reflected a tell-tale glint of moonlight.

  Edge heard words, too distant to be distinct. A short exchange of conversation. All he could be sure of was that two men had spoken to each other. There had definitely not been a woman’s voice. The man retreated into the room from the window, and Edge rose and backed off from the top of the slope. Recalling what Harvey Hill had said in response to his question about Clarence French, the half-breed wondered if he had tied the fat man in with the wrong gold-stealers. The buggy and the white gelding could well be down there at the abandoned town, hidden to him by the group of buildings.

  Because of the risks presented by the loose shale, he had to follow the tracks of the wagon which swung wide of the outcrop at the top of the rise. This added almost thirty minutes to the final leg of the pursuit, but he didn’t hurry. Peat, or whoever else had come to the window, had seemed to be convinced an animal or bird had disturbed the shale. Edge wanted the gold stealers to settle down completely before running the risk of attracting their attention again.

  Beyond the rock pinnacle, he emerged on to an overgrown trail, as disused as the mine workings and the town. When he saw it, a tight grin folded back his lips, for it twisted through the rugged terrain in a south-western direction. If Yellowtown was the only community of any size in the area, there was a good chance the trail led down to there from the mountains. The slope down into the dish of land cradling the ghost town, now host to the living, was at this point firm with hard-packed earth. But he didn’t start to descend yet. It was too open, and bathed with pale moonlight. Anything moving against the sun bleached ground would be clearly visible from below. So he moved around on the rim of the bowl, careful not to skyline himself in the gaps between the peaks and ridges of higher ground. He did not start to go downwards until he was behind the town, on the rise pitted with mine tunnels. From the cover of one of the shacks, which had been weathered to no more than four walls surrounding the collapsed roof, he looked at the town from a new vantage point. He saw there was no buggy or white horse down there. A sign above the doorway of the broken down shack caught his narrowed eyes. The faded lettering was just discernible: SILVER CITY NO. 6 SHAFT.

  Because of the way in which the tunnels had been driven into the hillside, each with its adjacent shack, he took a zigzagging route
down to the town. He reached level ground beside a bank of earth surrounded by timber at the end of the narrow gauge railroad track. There was a long platform here, with another faded sign: SILVER CITY DEPOT. Two rusted iron trucks were canted on their sides, leaning against the platform. Rusted picks, spades and pails had spilled from the trucks and lay scattered around. He moved around the platform to avoid treading on the rotted timbers and went between a two and a one storey building. The horses whinnied and pricked their ears. Then they quietened. His footfalls were silent on the accumulated dust of neglect. The larger building—the only two storey one in Silver City—was a saloon and hotel. On the other side of the gap was a livery stable. Stores, an assay office, a warehouse, a blacksmith’s forge and a church with a collapsed steeple comprised the remainder of Silver City. Walter Peat, Arabella and at least one other man were in the assay office. The acrid smell of their fire could not quite mask the dank odor of rotted timber that emanated from every other building.

  Smoke from the chimney and a strip of red light at the foot of the door told Edge where his quarry were located, over at the north west corner of the square. He was on the east side. There was adequate cover from boulders and tree stumps to invite him into an approach across the square. But the buildings offered more secure protection.

  “Drop the rifle!”

  He recognized the voice of Arabella, rasping out the words from behind him just as he started to swing around. He froze, half-turned. The Winchester was held low down on his left side. His right hand was at his jaw, the fingers having just run over the twenty-four hour growth of stubble. There was a chance that, as he released the rifle, he could turn, draw the Colt and fire. But maybe it wasn’t necessary to take chances. The girl had spoken to him instead of blasting a bullet into his back. He let the Winchester fall into the dust His hands maintained their positions.

  “Now unbuckle the gun belt.” Her voice sounded less dangerously nervous. “Use your left hand.”

  He had her exactly placed now. Behind him and to the left. She must have been waiting, her breath held inside the bursting lungs, beyond the doorless doorway of the saloon’s side entrance. It was awkward, working with his weaker hand on the belt-buckle. It took a long time to get the leather free of the clasp. Perhaps a full minute. The girl breathed hard all the while. Then she gave a sigh of relief as the long, brown fingers loosened the cord at the inside of the thigh and the belt and holstered thudded into the dust.

  “You do his shooting and his guarding for him,” Edge said softly. “I guess he washes the dishes, uh?”

  “Walk out into the square,” Arabella instructed. “Towards the doorway with the light showing at the bottom.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “Then I’ll shoot you.”

  Edge turned his head slowly, to look over his shoulder. She was standing precisely where he had visualized her, framed in the doorway. A long, thick coat was worn, cape-fashion, over her shoulders, reaching three-quarters of the way down her flared dress. Her face was very pale against the dark coloring of her hair. Fear lit her eyes.

  “I think I believe you, ma’am,” he said.

  “You’d better.” The Winchester jerked, beckoning him to move forward. But the muzzle never wavered wide of the target.

  “Saw me coming, uh?” Edge asked, turning his head to face forward and starting to go in the direction she had ordered.

  “Walt thought it was a rabbit made those stones start to roll,” she answered. Eagerly, as though she welcomed the chance to talk—to calm her nerves. “He always takes things for granted.”

  The half-breed spat. “Reckon he took the gold for profit.”

  “He didn’t think you’d follow us. But he had too much on his mind in the Seascape saloon to be watching you very closely, Mr. Edge. I watched you. And I saw what kind of man you were.”

  “What kind’s that, ma’am.” He picked his way through the debris of old floods. They were out of the shadows of the buildings now, the silvered moonlight stretching their own shadows long across the littered square.

  “The hard kind. The kind that doesn’t quit easy. I kept telling him that when he reckoned it was easy to get the gold after it only had but the one guard.”

  “Turned out he was right there, though.”

  “Sure, so when I told him that keeping it was going to be tough, he wasn’t about to listen to me.”

  “Should have blasted me back at the ravine, ma’am.”

  “That’s what Walt wanted me to do. But I ain’t never killed anybody before. You don’t just turn into a murderer at the drop of a hat.”

  “Not even with a solid gold reason?”

  “Stop right there!” she said, her voice hardening. “And don’t get any ideas. I tried to hit you in the leg at the ravine. From this range, I can’t miss.”

  They were halfway across the square.

  “Haven’t got an idea in my head,” Edge told her as he halted, and watched her shadow.

  She closed in on him, narrowing the gap from six feet to three: between his back and the muzzle of the rifle. “Walt!” she yelled. “I told you Walt. Look what I found!”

  “Watched me all the way down, uh?” the half-breed asked evenly.

  “From the crest of the rise where you crossed the old trail,” she replied.

  The windows of the assay office were covered with black paint, and squares of boarding where the panes were broken. The door opened fast and a shaft of firelight fell into the square. Then Peat’s shadow interrupted it. For a moment, as he stared out into the lower light level, he showed fear. But then, as he saw Arabella holding the Winchester on the tail half-breed, a broad grin spread across his youth face. He was holding a short-length, brass-barreled blunderbuss.

  Emerging from the office he had been tense and ready to point the gun in any direction. Now he relaxed, and let the muzzle sag to aim at the ground.

  “Stay inside, old man,” he tossed over his shoulder, and advanced down from the sidewalk that fronted the buildings along that section of the square.

  “I told you that was no rabbit!” Arabella said with a note of scorn in her voice.

  “Who is it?”

  Approaching the half-breed, he slowed his pace and brought up the stumpy-looking gun to cover him.

  “Edge.”

  “Expecting somebody else?” the half-breed asked evenly, appearing to look towards the advancing fire-eater. But his narrowed eyes were gazing to the left, capturing every movement made by the girl: each of them communicated via her shadow.

  “What about the Nep and his cats?” Peat asked.

  The query triggered the action which Edge had been poised and waiting for. The even-voiced reminder that two man-eating tigers were loose somewhere in the territory suddenly resurrected fear in the girl. He heard her catch her breath, and saw the flitting of her shadow as she turned to rake terror-filled eyes over the shadowed facades of the buildings and the rising ground beyond.

  “Watch it!” Peat screamed. And Edge knew he had called it right. The young fire-eater was less than eight feet in front of him, with the blunderbuss leveled and primed to explode. But Peat didn’t only want the gold. He wanted the girl as well. So he wasn’t prepared to send a scattering charge of shot towards Edge while Arabella was positioned to get ripped apart by the fringe of the spray.

  Edge whirled, folding at the knees and thrusting his arms out to their fullest extent in front of him. He turned in the same direction as the girl. And was facing her as Peat’s warning powered her into bringing the gun to bear again. The half-breed ignored the rifle. As his feet pivoted, he raised up on to his toes and lunged at the girl. He went under the arc of the rifle as it swung towards him, his left arm curling around her waist. As he half straightened, the barrel was slanted up towards the night sky.

  “Throw the gun!” Peat screamed.

  Edge’s right hand streaked to the nape of his neck. A shriek of terror and pain ripped from Arabella’s lips. Anguish augmented h
er strength. As the half-breed took a long, swinging stride to step behind her, crushing her sideways on to him, she threw the rifle. Her left hand unfolded from around the mechanism and her right cupped under the base of the stock. She pushed upwards and the Winchester sailed through the air like a misshapen spear.

  Peat tried to grab it before it hit the ground, but he missed. He stooped to pick it up, still holding the blunderbuss. The girl’s shriek became a sob as the crushing grip around her waist was relaxed. But only for a moment. As she tried to lunge free of Edge’s encircling arm, he stepped behind her and tightened his hold again. His hand jerked away from the back of his neck. Moonlight glinted on the blade of the open razor. She felt its cold metal against her cheek, the point resting just under her right eye. Peat straightened up, a weapon held uselessly in each hand. And the futility of being so heavily armed was emphasized when he saw the girl’s utter helplessness. Edge tilted the blade so that it no longer lay flat to the soft flesh of the girl. A tiny droplet of blood oozed from a small puncture of the skin.

  “Walt!” she gasped.

  Peat was too shocked to speak or move for long moments. In that time the bead of blood had spent itself leaving a crimson trail down to Arabella’s chin. Then he dropped the ancient blunderbuss and took a two-handed grip on the repeater.

  “You kill her, you’re dead!” He sounded very young and very scared. Which was the way he looked. The girl trembled, but not so much as the boy. The Winchester was canted up from the hip. If he had squeezed the trigger the bullet may or may not have bored into the half-breed’s bronzed face visible above Arabella’s wan one.

  Edge’s eyes were slitted. His teeth glinted the brighter when he curled back his lips. The words hissed. “So you got two lives in your hands, feller. Less chance of losing the one you care about if you keep your hands free.”

  “Please, Walt!” the girl begged. “Drop the gun.”

  Peat shook his head. “No, honey. He won’t hurt you while I’ve got it.”