EDGE: WAITING FOR A TRAIN (Edge series Book 30)

by George G. Gilman

  The men moved tentatively forward, easing their guns further from the holsters but not bringing them into view. Their attitudes remained tense as their heads swung from left to right, eyes peering out from under the narrow brims of the derby hats. At the point where the deck broadened to arch out over the vehicle and livestock section, they exchanged hand signals and one continued to move forward while the other quickened his pace to check the port area of the aft deck.

  Edge saw this and pulled himself upright against the duct, pressing his back hard to the curving metal. He continued to maintain a light grip on the gun butt with his right hand while his left rasped softly against the six hour growth of dark bristles on his jaw, only inches from where the straight razor nestled in the neck pouch. As was almost always the case, his lean face betrayed no hint of what concerned his mind, which at this time was self anger.

  He could overlook the fact that he had failed to be aware that he was under surveillance by Federal agents ever since the carnage at the small railroad town in eastern Kansas. It was the specialized job of such men to merge secretly into the background and if they were all like Lincoln it was understandable why he had been unable to detect their presence. A source of mild irritation, but understandable - particularly since they had posed no threat.

  But Marlon’s men? They were something else. Totally different from the blond haired kid with crooked teeth and the two knife experts. But, as he had told Lincoln, cut from the same pattern as the bunch which had died in Kansas. He should have spotted them for what they were before he boarded the ferry and forced them into a move against which he could retaliate then. Not waited until the boat was far out into the bay and allowed them to make the first move.

  He heard the slow footfalls of the man closest to him and redirected his anger, apportioning it equally between the men who wanted to kill him and the city in which he seemed unable to do anything right.

  He eased around the curve of the duct, to a point where he would be in plain sight of the man on the open deck should that man look back over his shoulder. But the smartly dressed Italian with a gun under his coat either had great confidence in his partner or was tensely convinced Edge was on the area of deck that was his province.

  The half-breed did a complete circuit of the duct, which placed him behind the closest man who had angled to the side, gun drawn now, to take a look at the tarp covered interior of the lifeboat, the man’s interest drawn by the fact that a section of the cord holding the tarp in place had been cut. He had to climb up on to the deck rail and had one foot on the top and one in mid-air when he either sensed or heard Edge move up behind him. He snapped his head around, then the arm of his gun hand. Which meant he had to release his hold on the davit. He was unbalanced and started to fall back toward the deck. Edge thrust out both arms, hands empty, fingers splayed. His hands curled around the narrow waist of the man, supported his full falling weight, lifted it and then lost it, as the would-be killer swung back up on to the top of the rail, then over it.

  ‘Franco!’ he shrieked, and the name lengthened to become a scream of terror as he toppled off the side of the ferry and plunged toward the dark, white-spumed water rushing along the hull.

  Edge had gone over the rail in the wake of the falling man, but in a voluntary controlled leap, throwing his legs high and grasping at the top of the rail with both hands. A faint splash below him curtailed the scream. His chest hit the outside of the three bar rail and his legs cracked against the hull. His arms felt as if they were on the point of being wrenched from their sockets. A grunt of pain forced its way between his clenched teeth. Spray from waves that broke against the side of the ferry drenched him with saline water as he lowered himself, hand over hand, until both sets of clawed fingers were hooked over the lower rims of two scuppers. The constant barrage of white water that was flung at him served to warn him, if such a warning was necessary, of the fate that awaited him should he lose his grip. He knew it was too risky to raise himself so that he could see what Franco was doing in response to the calling of his name. And the thudding of the engines and rushing of sea water blanketed all the small sounds.

  Franco gave nothing away by shouting out to his partner. He had heard his name but not the diminishing sound of the scream. Had whirled, drawing his gun, and peered tensely at an apparently deserted section of aft deck. Fear raced his heart beats and erupted sweat beads on his face which were immediately dried by the wind blowing in from the ocean. But he was in a dangerous business, experienced enough in it to have learned to control fear, so he did not panic.

  He was exposed on open deck, midway between the port and starboard side. There was a good chance his partner had been taken by the tall Westerner who was causing so much trouble. Less of a chance that the clumsy fool had fallen overboard by accident. He elected to believe the former and chose counter attack rather than retreat. So, eyes darting to left and right in their sockets, the gun thrust out in front of him, Franco moved slowly and silently across the deck, convinced that if the man called Edge was in front of him, he had either to be in the lifeboat or behind the ventilator duct. There was nowhere else for him to hide. If he was there...

  Franco was as anxious as Edge not to attract the attention of the passengers and crew aboard the ferry, which was why he did not try to flush out his quarry with a shot. He allowed himself a sigh of relief when he reached the cover of the duct, and took time to run the back of his free hand over his sweating brow. Then he sucked in a deep breath and swung fast around the duct, the air rushing out of his lungs when he failed to see the half-breed.

  His lips formed into a vicious smile line as he advanced the final few feet to where the lifeboat was slung, rocking gently on the ropes that held it to davits. And the smile broadened when he saw the cords which had been cut by the half-breed’s razor. But he was both more cautious and more ingenious than his partner.

  He slid the gun back into the holster under his suit jacket and took from a pocket a knife with a blade folded into the handle. He pulled out the blade and began to saw at one of the ropes which held the lifeboat in place, his gaze fixed upon the area of the severed fastenings. This placed him just too far back to look directly over the side of the lumbering ferry.

  But even had he been closer, he would not have been able to see Edge. For the half-breed, refusing to indulge in the agony of his self-punished arms, had used the scuppers to work his way to the stern. Then, as Franco started to saw at the rope, the chore engaging his entire attention, the half-breed had reached up with first one hand and then the other, and hauled himself, snake-like, under the lower rail to achieve the relative safety of the deck.

  Relative because nowhere aboard the ferry would be safe while two of Marlon’s men were fellow passengers.

  For perhaps ten seconds Edge stayed down, sucking in deep breaths of salty air and resting his aching muscles. Then he rose into a half crouch and stalked toward the Italian, who was muttering softly to himself, anticipating the prospect of seeing the lifeboat crash end-on towards the water - perhaps to snap the other rope and fall upside down into the sea or maybe to simply spill its occupant out through the hole he had himself cut.

  The half-breed left his gun in the holster and drew the razor, wrapping his fist around the handle and gripping the blade between thumb and forefinger just in front of the pivot. To guard against snapping the slender, finely honed length of metal as he stepped up behind Franco and sank the blade into the man’s back, low down and left of centre.

  The shock of the wound caused Franco to stretch to his full height as his hands fell away from the rope, the knife slipping from his fingers.

  ‘Too late to launch the lifeboat, feller,’ Edge said softly as he wrenched the blade out of the flesh. ‘Your buddy’s past saving.’

  He used his free hand to shove Franco away from him. Paralyzed, the almost dead man was forced to go forward, hit the three bar rails with his legs and folded his head and torso over the top. His feet came up from the deck and
, like his partner, he did not start to scream until he was falling through the salt water spray.

  Edge kicked the knife over the side in the wake of its owner and then wiped both sides of the razor’s blade on the partially severed rope, used it to cut a few more strands before starting to work on the other rope. Then, as he heard the damaged lines begin to creak under the weight of the swaying lifeboat, he started out on an almost complete circuit of the ferry. Across the arch of the stern deck, through the other cabin which was even less crowded than the one he had been in, back over the arch of the forward deck and into the familiar surroundings where Lincoln had approached him.

  The government man was still in the same seat, sitting as rigidly upright as the derby-hatted Italian at his side. Both of them had their backs toward the half-breed as Edge moved casually down the aisle. Only the adolescent girls took any notice of him, but pretended not to when he drew close and passed them: perhaps already in possession of the intuition claimed by full grown women and sensing that this man was one to beware of.

  The seat behind the one on which Lincoln and the Italian sat was vacant and neither of them were aware that it abruptly had an occupant. A man they both had cause to know, who removed his hat as he sat down. If anyone saw this, nobody saw a more surreptitious move, as he slid the Remington from its holster and held it under the hat.

  As he made his circuit of the ferry Edge had seen the brightly lit slipway at the St George dock drawing closer. And as he sat calmly now, aiming the revolver through the back of the seat at the back of a man, he began to wonder if he had misjudged the strength of the damaged ropes which now held the lifeboat in place. For the ferry’s engines were suddenly disconnected from the drive, then howled as they were thrown into reverse to slow the boat’s momentum.

  The Italian growled: ‘Where the hell are they?’

  ‘How should I know, friend?’ Lincoln replied.

  Because he was listening for the sound, Edge heard the snap of a rope, then another. And recognized both cracks for what they were. But nobody else in the cabin was aware anything was wrong until the much louder noise of the big lifeboat crashing into the sea. And crewmen began to shout.

  Anxious looks were exchanged. Questions were asked and not answered. A few people rose and started for the aft door of the cabin. Others were quick to follow.

  The Italian was among the first to start to rise. But dropped quickly back to his seat when Edge leaned forward and said into his ear:

  ‘I’ve got a gun aimed at your backbone, feller.’

  The mass exodus streamed past within two feet of where the three-man group sat, the crowd too intent upon finding out the reason for the worrying sounds from beyond the cabin to be concerned with what was happening inside.

  The Italian half turned his head, not surprised to recognize the lean face of the man who threatened him. ‘This man isn’t sitting beside me because he enjoys my company, mister,’ he countered, unafraid.

  The three were left alone in the cabin, the door swinging open and closed with the motion of the ferry. A great many voices were yelling, but not enough and not loud enough. Then a crewman on the bridge decided to sound the siren. Edge raised his gun and removed the Stetson, so not to put a hole through the hat. He fired the shot into the back of the Italian’s neck from a range of no more than two inches. And reached out with his free hand to grip the dead man’s throat and keep him from being jerked forward off the seat by the impact of the bullet.

  ‘Yeah, as company he’s a dead loss, isn’t he, feller?’ the half-breed muttered as he stood up, turned up the collar of the Italian’s coat to conceal the blood oozing wound and tipped the derby forward. So that, to a casual observer, it would look as if the man was slumped low in the seat because he was sleeping peacefully.

  ‘Damn it, Edge,’ the shocked Lincoln gasped. ‘You can’t just shoot a man dead on a ferry in New York Harbor.’

  He took a part in the subterfuge by lifting the discarded gun from the seat and pushing it back into the holster under the dead man’s suit jacket.

  ‘I just did,’ the half-breed replied flatly as he turned and started easily down the aisle toward the forward door of the cabin.

  Lincoln had to take a few steps at a waddling run to catch up with the taller, leaner man. Outside, they saw that the ferry’s master had decided he was too close to the St George slipway to worry about the lost lifeboat until he had docked his craft.

  The government man took several long breaths of the saline smelling night air and this seemed to help calm his jangling nerves. He waited until Edge had rolled and lit a cigarette before he asked, ‘What happened outside? To the other two men?’

  The half-breed glanced out at the choppy water where the Narrows met Upper Bay and spat a loose leaf of tobacco off his thin lower lip. ‘They went looking for trouble and found it. Now they’re in real deep.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  EDGE and Lincoln were the first foot passengers to disembark from the ferry and, long before a roustabout had tried to shake awake the Italian and discovered the man was dead, the half-breed had rented a horse from a St. George livery stable.

  The government man waited outside for him, having given up trying to continue their conversation while he had to half run to match the pace of the striding Edge. Not only the strenuous progress through the streets of the waterfront town dissuaded Lincoln, he was also discouraged by the fact that the half-breed’s attention was directed elsewhere. Everywhere that one or more men might be lying in wait, eager to succeed at a task which had defeated six others.

  When Edge led a big black gelding out of the stable and swung easily up into the saddle, Lincoln rose from where he had been sitting on the end of a water trough. The pale skinned man with the bushy red moustache had been growing progressively more irritated during the breathless pursuit of the half-breed across town. And this mood had not been soothed as he rested on the stone trough while Edge used up time selecting a horse, taciturn in face of the liveryman’s barrage of sales talk.

  ‘You ready to talk turkey now?’ Lincoln growled when the half-breed was in the saddle.

  ‘Talking ain’t what I do best, feller.’

  By contrast with Lincoln, Edge seemed totally at ease as he sat astride the big mount on the south side of a small town with a dark night sky overhead and open, rolling country on three sides of him. A man in his element, or as close to his element as he was ever likely to get on the country’s eastern seaboard. Despite his ill-temper, Lincoln had the presence of mind and perception to recognize this and his tone remained hard when he said,

  ‘So that old killing in Kansas hasn’t bothered you too much, uh? Well, that could turn out to be like a pinprick to a blast from a double-barrel shotgun if you don’t get some kind of official backing for what you’re doing here in New York!’

  Although the liveryman had doused the kerosene lamp, the door of the stable was still open. He nodded to indicate they should move away from a possible eavesdropper. And allowed the mounted man to choose the direction, which was down the side of the livery and out beyond the corral in back of it. To a point where the paved street petered out to become a dirt road. The horse made better time than the man on foot, but Edge reined the gelding to a halt and waited patiently for Lincoln.

  ‘I already made a deal tonight.’

  Lincoln was abruptly interested. ‘While you were taking the ride with Boss Black?’

  Edge pursed his lips. ‘How many pairs of eyes you got working for you, feller?’

  ‘Not as many as I’d like. But good men.’

  ‘Black wanted to pay me for what I planned to do anyway. Sometimes I take that kind of work. When I can’t afford to do anything else. So happens my train ticket out of here is bought and paid for.’

  ‘So the deal has to be with the newspaper guy. Dickens? What kind of protection can he give you?’ Lincoln scowled.

  ‘It ain’t that sort of deal. He gives me the cards to play.’

  Edge gue
ssed the gelding had not been rented out for some time and that probably the only recent exercise he’d had was the run of the corral. For the animal flared his nostrils to suck in night air with its fresh smells of open country. As he scraped at the ground with his forehooves and his flesh quivered, eager to be given a free rein.

  Lincoln nodded. ‘A newspaperman could probably do that. If you took the time to listen to him. But you got a little headstrong after the ride with Black, didn’t you? Killed two of Lu Orlando’s men and roughed up his woman to get what? An address your tame newspaperman could have given you, for Christ’s sake!’

  Scorn was mixed in with anger now as Lincoln glared up at the mounted man.

  ‘Washington give a shit about two faggots and a whorehouse keeper, feller?’

  The evenly spoken response needled the government man even more. ‘Washington doesn’t condone wanton slaughter, mister!’ He moderated his tone to add, ‘Unless it’s necessary.’

  ‘Like on the boat? When one of its own was at the wrong end of a Colt?’

  Lincoln sighed. ‘This is getting us nowhere.’

  Edge stroked the neck of his eager mount. ‘The horse knows that.’

  The government man spoke fast to get to his point. ‘New York City’s on the brink of a civil war all of its own. Because two rival gang bosses each wants the city for himself. Black and Marlon. And one of them it going to get it because of certain municipal police chiefs who stand to gain by it. With a quiet life and knowing which boss to go to for their graft.’

  ‘It happens all over. Big towns and small ones. Open range, too. Never is room enough for two top...’

  ‘Sure, sure!’ Lincoln snapped. ‘You’re not the only man around who knows something about human nature. It’s bound to happen that either Black or Marlon comes out the winner. But how long is it going to take? And how many innocent people are going to be hurt or killed in the meantime? And what kind of reputation is the city going to have at the end of it? It’s not going to be like some range war, mister. With only rocks, trees and the occasional cow being hit by a ricochet. And with only the winner interested in the tract of real estate that’s his prize. In the city whenever Black’s and Marlon’s men shoot it out, people are liable to get caught in the crossfire. And the city’s a business and industrial centre. As well as being a tourist attraction. But are people going to invest money and tourists going to come and visit in a city that’s nothing more than a battleground for power hungry gang bosses?’