‘Please?’ Florin added as he caught a glimpse of the half-breed through tear-misted eyes.
But Edge ignored both pleas as he continued the movement he had started. He had already picked up the pitchfork in both hands and pushed it high above his head. Now he took two steps forward and drove it downwards. Emma pulled up short with a dry sob. Florin became petrified by terror. His mouth gaped wide, but no sound emerged. The pitchfork made a soft, hissing noise as it approached his head, still firmly gripped by the half-breed.
There was no glint from the rusted points of the tines. A dull thud as they drove home, burying themselves deeply into the dirt floor of the stable.
Emma listened for the man’s dying scream and failed to hear it. She snapped open her eyes and let out her breath in a body-shuddering gasp. Florin coughed. It expanded his throat, and the flesh at the nape of his neck and beneath his jaw touched the cold metal of the two tines trapping him to the floor.
‘Say what you mean, feller,’ Edge repeated softly, and there was no trace of anger in his voice or attitude as he released his grip on the pitchfork and dropped to his haunches beside the trapped head of Florin.
‘What’d I say?’ the liveryman croaked. He was only able to raise his head an inch off the floor.
‘That’s Mexican land across the river, feller,’ Edge supplied. ‘My Pa was a Mexican. Also happens he married my Ma before he did what was necessary for her to have me.’
‘Gee, mister,’ Florin croaked. ‘How was I supposed to know you were so touchy?’
‘You know now?’
Florin gave a necessarily restricted nod.
Edge raked a fingernail along one of the tines. ‘Made my pitch about what he didn’t know of my family, ma’am. What is he supposed to know about yours?’
The woman was breathing deeply as she struggled to recover from the shock of the sudden eruption of violence. ‘There was a man here,’ she replied in a rasping voice. ‘With a withered left arm. That’s all the elderly gentleman told me. Will you ask Mr. Florin about him, please?’
‘You heard her,’ Edge said.
Florin gulped. ‘Vic’s crazy, mister. Everyone in Dream Creek knows that. You give him any money, Miss Diamond?’
‘I’ll allow I gave him five dollars,’ the woman admitted. ‘But I—’
‘Then that explains it,’ Florin cut in, massaging his crotch and wincing. ‘Vic’ll do most anythin’ for a couple of bucks.’
‘You mention a withered arm to the old-timer?’ Edge asked the woman.
‘No. No, I didn’t, but I know—’
Edge drew the razor from its neck pouch and Emma caught her breath again. Florin watched in horrified fascination as the half-breed ran a finger along the gleaming blade.
‘Five is more than a couple, feller. But even the extra three wouldn’t give the old-timer an imagination. He didn’t pull a man with a withered arm out of nowhere.’
‘Ask him about it, for Christsake!’ Florin defended.
‘Teller’s busy,’ Edge countered, and rested the point of the blade gently in Florin’s uppermost ear. ‘Be even busier if I have to talk to him.’
‘I won’t countenance further brutality, Mr. Edge!’ Emma snapped. ‘I’d rather do things my way!’
‘You tried your way, ma’am,’ Edge reminded.
There was a pause, then the woman came forward and squatted down alongside Edge. ‘Please tell him, Mr. Florin,’ she begged. ‘It is the most important thing in life to me.’
‘Hell!’ Florin rasped sourly. ‘I ain’t gonna die just ’cause Burt Schabar’s a worrier. The guy with the bum arm rode into Dream Creek three days ago. He was hungry and he was broke and I gave him a job cleanin’ up for me. And let him sleep up in the loft.’
‘Name?’ Edge asked, maintaining the threat with the razor.
‘Tom was all he said.’
The half-breed glanced at Emma, but the name drew no reaction from her. She was still looking disgusted at taking part in the interrogation. Edge nodded for the suffering liveryman to continue.
‘Then, this mornin’, the six other strangers come in.’
‘After Father Donovan and I and the men I hired left with my father’s body?’ Emma asked.
‘Right, ma’am. And before most folks was up and about.’ He was not sweating so much now: seemed relieved that he could ease his mind with talking. ‘But me, I’ve always been an early riser. Came outta the hotel and saw my stable door was open. Inside - in here - the six guys were drinkin’ coffee Tom made for them. And their nags were havin’ breakfast on my hay.’
‘Scared?’ Edge asked.
‘Sure was, mister. Mean-lookin’ bunch. Specially the tall guy - taller than you and me, even. And a fat Jap.’
Emma shuddered, but bit her lower lip to hold in a vocal response.
‘Them?’
‘Nervous, I’d guess you’d say,’ Florin answered the half-breed. ‘Give me fifty dollars, though. Said it was for the coffee and feed - and to forget I’d seen them. Then they left. Walked their nags out beyond town. Real quiet like.’
‘What about Tom?’ Emma asked.
‘He stayed,’ Edge said.
‘How’d you know that?’ Florin wanted to know.
‘They had to have some reason to come back to Dream Creek. To pick him up?’
Florin nodded, banging his chin against the pitchfork tine. They did that, all right. Come in as quiet and easy as they went out. Tom had his broken down old mare saddled and ready to ride. He’d been watchin’ for them better than a couple of hours. He saw them comin’ and he was out on the street, mounted and waitin’. And they left together.’
‘A number of people saw them, Mr. Edge,’ Emma supplied. ‘But that’s all they would say. They saw them come into Dream Creek and then leave again - going in a southerly direction.’
She straightened up and a small bone in her leg cracked after being under prolonged tension in one position.
‘Burt Schabar told them to say that, ma’am,’ Florin said quickly as Edge continued to squat and hold the razor against the prisoner’s ear. ‘But it was west they rode. Out along the Pecos Trail’
‘Obliged, feller,’ Edge said as he rose and returned the razor to its neck pouch.
‘Why?’ Emma asked as the half-breed fisted his hands around the shaft of the pitchfork and withdrew the tines from the dirt floor.
Florin eased himself up into a sitting position. Despite the curious stare of the woman, he continued to massage his injured crotch. But his hands worked under cover of his apron.
‘He had his reason, Miss Diamond. See, he recognized Conrad Andrews. That’s the big guy - the tall one. Wanted posters out on him. Seems he’s a real mean guy who don’t care who he kills to get what he wants. But Andrews didn’t do nothin’ here in town. And what was done to you and Donovan, Miss Diamond . . . well, that was outside Burt Schabar’s jurisdiction. Well, he said the best way to keep Andrews and his gang from doin’ nothin’ in town was not to help you, ma’am. On account that, if we did, Andrews would find out about it and come back to Dream Creek.’
‘That’s a terrible attitude for a peace officer to take!’ Emma exclaimed. ‘And you and the rest of the people here are no better, Mr. Florin!’
The liveryman showed an expression of hurt that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. Then he eyed Edge curiously as he defended himself and his fellow-citizens.
‘You got to see it from our point of view, Miss Diamond. And, you being from the east and all, I guess it ain’t easy...’
Edge was moving about the stable, checking the beat-up desk in the corner, looking into stalls and tapping the walls with his knuckles.
‘…But we got us a nice, quiet town. Which wasn’t easy to come by for folks that deal in sheep. And we went through a lot of trouble before we got it—’
‘I know all about that, Mr. Florin!’ Emma cut in. ‘Everyone in Dream Creek has had a terrible time in the past. But you just can’t say you’ve
had enough and surrender to law-breakers and murderers. Why, if everyone did that, there would never be any places like Dream Creek and—’
‘What the hell you lookin’ for, Edge?’ Florin demanded.
‘Place you keep your money,’ the half-breed answered.
Anger colored Florin’s face and he hauled himself painfully to his feet. He had to bend slightly from the waist to quell the full impact of the pain from his crotch. ‘You gonna rob me, too?’ he demanded.
‘That, I will not condone!’ Emma flung at Edge.
He ignored both of them as he returned to the battered desk. He noticed that there was bare dirt at one side of it, whereas the rest of the floor was covered with strewn straw. He laid his Winchester across the desktop, hooked his fingers under the edge and pulled. The desk slid over the floor area free of straw - to expose a shallow hole sunk into the dirt. A rusted tin cashbox lay in the bottom of the hole.
‘Mr. Edge!’ Emma snapped in high anger.
Florin glanced towards the discarded pitchfork, but immediately dismissed it. Then he glared helplessly at his rifle held by brackets to the wall above the desk.
‘You figure to ride with me, ma’am?’ the half-breed asked as he flipped open the lid of the unlocked box.
‘I had intended to,’ Emma allowed. ‘But I am now having second thoughts about our arrangement.’
The box held a mixture of bills and coinage. Edge estimated there was no more than five hundred dollars in all. He took out two twenties and a ten, returned the box to the hole and slid the desk back into its accustomed position. The anger of both the watchers ebbed a little. He picked up his Winchester, went to the gelding and slid the rifle into the saddle boot.
‘Doing you a favor, feller,’ he told Florin. ‘You keep this fifty bucks and you’re guilty of aiding and abetting the commission of grave-robbery and murder.’
‘Some damn favor!’ the liveryman snarled. ‘You’re the one that gains from it!’
‘You having any third thoughts about our arrangement, ma’am?’ Edge asked Emma.
She attempted to hide her helplessness behind a shield of tight-lipped silence. Edge waited for only a second, then shrugged and allowed the three bills to flutter to the floor as he took hold of the gelding’s reins and led the animal towards the door.
‘I’ll be on the Pecos Trail,’ he supplied. ‘Riding west. You’ll need a horse.’ He nodded towards a row of three occupied stalls at the rear of the stables. ‘The black gelding is the best if he’s for sale. Some clothes that are more hardwearing than the dress. And supplies. Canned and dried.’
‘I have my own money to pay my own way!’ Emma replied stiffly.
‘It’s all right, Miss Diamond!’ Florin said quickly. “You use that fifty. Now I know what Andrews and his bunch done, I wouldn’t feel right keepin’ it for nothin’.’
‘Please wait for me, Mr. Edge,’ Emma called as the half-breed opened the door to admit a further blast of icy air from the north. It swayed the single lamp, caused the stove to roar, and stirred up the fallen bills.
‘But I’ll take the fifty for the black geldin’,’ Florin offered, trapping the money under his foot.
‘Time’s wasting,’ Edge said. ‘And knowing you’ve got to catch up with me will maybe hurry you some. Changing their minds ain’t all that women are noted for.’
He swung up into the saddle on the livery stable threshold.
‘How about the nag for fifty, Miss Diamond?’ Florin urged.
‘No reflection upon your parents, Mr. Edge!’ Emma said harshly. ‘But you are what Mr. Florin called you.’
‘Gelding’s worth twenty at the most,’ Edge said evenly as he heeled his horse into the wind.
‘You’re right, Miss Diamond!’ Florin snarled, stuffing a twenty into his apron pocket and offering Emma the other two bills. ‘And he’s a mean one, too.’
Chapter Six
EDGE sensed watching eyes as he rode north along Lone Star Street and then swung the gelding on to the Pecos Trail. But there was no allied feeling of being in danger. Perhaps many citizens of Dream Creek were following his progress until he made the turn on to the open trail and was lost to sight beyond the slaughter-house: but something more than a hunch told him that one secret observer would be the sullen lawman.
Few lights were burning in town: and even fewer winked at him across the grazing land to pinpoint the position of the scattered sheep farms. But nature showed the lone rider the country spread out ahead of him: a pale half-moon shedding a diffused glow through a high layer of scudding white clouds. It was low foothill country, the land folding rather than rearing up to the north; and falling gently down to the river in the south. Most of it covered with short grass. But there was plenty of cover in the shallow dips, among widely spaced stands of timber and behind the occasional rock-sided mesa.
And the tall half-breed’s eyes, narrowed against the wind cutting in from his right, surveyed each possible hiding place with a deceptive nonchalance. This attentiveness to his surroundings was involuntary, for his violence-bred sense of danger lay dormant. Sheriff Schabar, the sole threat from Dream Creek, had watched him leave town and had not followed. Conrad Andrews and the men he rode with were far ahead.
But constant vigilance for the first sign of unexpected attack - too easily maintained to be regarded as fear - had become an unbreakable habit for the man called Edge.
A habit which had begun to be formed six years before he adopted such a clipped name. At the start of a long war when, often, he had to be on his guard against the men he fought with as well as those he fought against. During each battle and skirmish of that war, he had developed and nurtured this ability to the same extent that he built up his fighting skills. And, as much as speed and efficiency with handgun, rifle and the deadly razor, it had enabled him to survive the war.
He had planned then to forget such hard and bloodily learned lessons: to return to the Iowa farm and live at peace like the sheep men on the quiet homesteads outside Dream Creek. But fate had decreed otherwise. The farm to which he returned was a charred ruin and the invalid brother who had waited so long for him to come back was dead.
War had dehumanized Josiah C. Hedges. The bitter rewards of war had made a dehumanized animal out of Edge. A straying animal who had once sought to put down roots - under the gentle influence of a woman. But fate had again struck a cruel blow. Even more brutal than the first. For he had been able to track down and claim his revenge against the killers of his brother. Although he did not lift a hand against her, he blamed himself for the ghastly death of his wife.
And so now he rode a constant and aimless trail, reluctant and perhaps even afraid to put down roots - or even make the attempt. His sole purpose was to survive, because life was all he possessed. And to lose this would be to submit to the fate that had become the most powerful of all his enemies.
He rode throughout the entire night, low-crowned hat pulled over his forehead and the collar of his black, hip-length jacket turned up around his neck. Even when the wind dropped an hour before dawn, the air stayed bitterly cold. But the clouds had been driven south into Mexico and the half-moon was brighter, its light augmented by a skyful of brilliant stars.
The pocket of good grazing land claimed by the sheep men was far behind him and the terrain was harsher. Semi-desert country of bare rock, the sand of erosion, and vegetation that was mostly scrub-grass and mesquite.
But the Pecos Trail was still clearly defined, swinging northwards, away from the Rio Grande towards a joining with the San Antonio-El Paso trail. That was what Edge guessed it would do, anyway, from the direction it was taking. And he knew that when the two trails met, he would be on recently familiar territory. For, not many weeks previously, he had ridden out of El Paso, striking eastwards for San Antonio. That had been shortly after he finished a job of work for another woman. The job had panned out badly for both the woman and himself: but he had made a little money and he had survived. He rode eastwards for the s
imple reason that he left in the afternoon and this direction kept the sun out of his eyes.
Now he was close to backtracking on himself, cold and as watchful as ever: on the slim chance another woman would make up her mind and hire him - and the even slimmer chance he could recover her dead father’s hundred thousand dollars.
But all that mattered was that he was alive and he was moving. The man called Edge never expected, and seldom demanded, more than this. For this was his way. Or the way it had to be.
He made camp in an arroyo under a high bluff as the first light of dawn showed at his back. A clump of mesquite supplied kindling for a fire and the gelding was able to feed and water himself on scrub grass and at a brackish water hole. Edge breakfasted on fried salt pork and coffee.
The sun was clear of the horizon and a distant rider showed as a lone speck beneath its trailing arc when Edge doused the fire’s embers and remounted. He moved off along the trail at the same energy-conserving pace he had maintained throughout the hours of darkness. His eyes, narrowed to slits of ice-blue, constantly altered their focus and direction of gaze. And, each time he glanced over his shoulder, the rider behind him was either a little closer or lost to sight beyond an intervening feature of terrain.
‘Mr. Edge!’ Emma Diamond yelled breathlessly, an hour after the half-breed had broken camp. ‘Please wait for me!’
He reined his horse to a halt and took off his coat. He draped it over his saddle horn, unhooked a canteen and drank from it, turning in the saddle to watch her approach. He had heard the hoof beats of her mount slow from a flat-out gallop just before she shouted the plea. Now, as the gelding approached at a winded walk, the woman brushed frantically at her clothing to rid it of trail dust. Then she used a handkerchief to wipe away the grimy sweat from her face.
Nonetheless, she looked hot, dirty and weary as she drew her gelding to a halt alongside Edge’s horse. Anger lurked close to the surface of her green eyes. But she chewed hard on her lower lip and controlled the emotion from exploding.
‘You must have seen me when I was miles away, Mr. Edge,’ she accused, having to suck in some more air after every couple of words.
EDGE: Ashes And Dust (Edge series Book 19) Page 6
