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

by George G. Gilman

  Out west the crowds would not have been so large and there would not have been so many lawmen. They were the only differences. The attraction was precisely the same. Men were trying to kill each other - were killing each other - and such violence was a big draw.

  Like the First Battle of Bull Run. The man called Edge had been there, too.

  He and Lincoln reached the far side of Park Avenue after elbowing and shouldering their way through the press of people who scowled and snarled at the men who momentarily blocked their view. And the half-breed put thoughts of the past out of his mind.

  ‘Where we going?’ the government man wanted to know, breathless again after the struggle to force a way through the crowd.

  ‘I figure to even a score,’ Edge rasped as he quickened his pace now that he was free of the rubbernecks. And used alleyways again to reach the rear of the partially constructed building where Black’s men were positioned.

  Lincoln tried to voice his objections as soon as he realized where the tall, lean, impassive faced man was headed. But Edge always stayed in front, obviously not listening to the fast-spoken, anxious words. And then, as they drew closer to the half-breed’s objective, the volume of gunfire got louder and Lincoln gave up his attempts. Even considered turning away and hurrying off into the rain filled darkness, leaving the westerner to get himself killed if that was what he wanted.

  But Lincoln did not do this. And was not sure why until the question was posed, totally unexpectedly, as Edge came to a halt at a glassless rear window of the building under construction.

  ‘You got a reason for tagging after me, feller?’

  The half-breed had paused to eject the empty shell case from the Remington’s cylinder and replace it with a fresh bullet from his gun-belt.

  Lincoln replied without having to think about it. ‘You could have killed me, Edge!’ he yelled above the gunfire. It was much louder on this side of the avenue. For Black’s men were using rifles, their cracks resounding within the bare stone walls of the roofless shell of the building in the making. ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘You don’t owe me a thing!’ the half-breed yelled as he swung a leg up and over the window sill.

  ‘Surely you want an explanation?’

  ‘All I want is out of this,’ Edge replied, but he spoke without shouting, and with his back to Lincoln as he drew his other leg over the sill and advanced closer to the centre of the battle.

  He spoke the truth. The same kind of truth he had traded with Emilio Marlon. There was only one kind and Edge tried to live by it. But it was not always possible. Not when other people messed with his business and he was forced to admit they had right on their side.

  It didn’t happen often because for most of the time Edge did not give a shit about the difference between right and wrong, not when his life was on the line.

  The last time it had happened was in the War Between the States, when he wore a uniform which bound him to the cause of the Union. That bloody period in his life had been one long series of compromises between his personal views of right and wrong, truth and lies.

  And now he was caught up in a similar situation. More complex, perhaps, since this was a three-way war. Between Emilio Marlon and Boss Black, with the US government - the Union - determined to drive both factions into retreat.

  There was no uniform on his powerful frame now. No captain’s insignia on his shoulders and hat. No measly army pay to buy his allegiance. Just a sudden realization, which almost hit him too late, that the amoral, conniving government man with the illustrious name had right on his side.

  And in that instant Edge had broken his word. Gunned down Emilio Marlon - a man he admired and for whom he felt an affinity - rather than put a bullet into Lincoln. Just as, many years previously, it had been necessary to kill countless fine men simply because they wore uniforms of Confederate grey. When all the time the half-breed knew of at least six Union troopers who were more deserving of bullets.

  There were no men at the rear of the building, so Edge was able to climb to an elevated vantage point without being seen, in danger only from stray bullets that cracked out from the many broken windows in the facade of the whorehouse to find lucky entrance to this building through windows with no glass to shatter. He climbed up ladders which bowed under his weight, each of them lashed securely to iron girders which would eventually support the floors and ceilings of upper storeys. The walls to partition the rooms of the first and second floor of the building were already in place and it was these which provided cover for the half-breed as he ascended the steeply pitched ladders.

  Then he was above their level, crouched on a girder at the rear of the building, unprotected from the drizzle which soaked his clothes and formed pools on his hat brim to drip down in front of his face. Temporarily away from the danger of the occasional bullet which not only found its way in through a front window but also hissed between the gaps which formed interior doorways. Most of the bullets had not made it that far. Fired wildly and blindly, angrily and fearfully, they deformed themselves against the facade of the building and lodged in the stonework or dropped to the sidewalk. But a few which did gain entrance found human targets and when he had been down at first floor level, Edge had heard the screams and groans and curses of the wounded and dying, these sounds of human suffering counterpointing the constant barrage of rifle and revolver fire. Up here amid the falling rain and the rising gunsmoke only the loudest sounds could be heard.

  He interrupted his climbing and instead moved forward, in a crouch at first and then down on his belly as he neared the front of the building, glancing across the street at the facade of the whorehouse but mostly peering downward to either side of the girder atop the dividing walls on which he was balanced. Then he climbed again, up another bowing ladder to the third floor level. And cursed softly when he discovered he had to go up to the fourth floor: only then was able to see over the dividing walls into every front facing room of the building. Five of them, two rooms proper to either side of the entrance hall. Occupied by up to forty men, most of them either blasting out through the windows with Winchester repeaters or crouched down in the process of reloading. Seven were out of the fight, sprawled on the cement floor, two of these gripped by the inertness of death, the other five agonizingly conscious of their blood-spurting wounds.

  Edge’s narrowed, glinting eyes located the man he had come here to kill and then glanced again across Park Avenue. Behind the bullet pocked facade of the whorehouse there would be similar scenes in each room. Dead and wounded on the floors, while at each shattered window the survivors would empty their guns toward the unseen enemy and then withdraw to reload as other men continued the gunfire.

  But it would not go on like this for much longer. Eventually one group of gunmen would run out of ammunition and their opposition would move in for the kill. Or perhaps patience would be expended before bullets and a decision would be taken for a reckless advance across the avenue. Certainly it was too late now for anything more subtle than this: as the half-breed could see as he lengthened the focus of his hooded eyes and raked them over the surrounding rooftops. For there were men crouched at chimney stacks and behind signs and low walls at the eaves. Men with rifles, the wet barrels of which did not gleam so brightly as the polished buttons on their uniform tunics. Municipal policemen who watched and waited for the right time to mop up what was left of the opposing factions. In positions where they could prevent any attempt at flanking moves by either Black’s or Marlon’s men. Perfectly placed to contain the raucous gun battle to the whorehouse and the partially finished building.

  ‘Now you can see why the law didn’t bother with you, Edge,’ Lincoln said, breathless again after his exertion of climbing the ladders.

  The sound of the familiar voice did not surprise the half-breed this time, for he had been aware of the government man’s cautious progress up to the fourth floor and then Lincoln’s slow crawl out along the girders to the point where he now lay, six feet away from w
here Edge was squatting on his haunches.

  ‘They had bigger fish to fry.’

  ‘First they had to get them in the net, feller. And I was the bait, uh?’

  ‘Thought you would fire the first shot, Mr. Edge,’ Lincoln answered, his expression mournful again. ‘After you made your deal with Marlon at his house I had to think of something else. You see, there’s a kind of unwritten code between Black and Marlon. Their men kill each other all the time. But the Bosses themselves, they’re immune to that kind of thing. But if one of them were to get killed and it looked like the other one gave the order. Well...’

  He waved a hand to indicate the battle that was being fought below his high perch.

  ‘I didn’t fire the first shot,’ Edge reminded, looking down to where Boss Black stood in the cover of a stout wall, smoking a cigar and apparently content with the way the fight was going.

  Lincoln moved up off his belly to straddle the girder, his legs dangling in the air each side.

  ‘I set up the meet. Used two of my own men who’d infiltrated the groups. Both Black and Marlon thought it was on the level, but being the kind of men they are, I knew they’d be suspicious of each other’s motives. But it would all have fizzled out to nothing if you hadn’t shown up, Mr. Edge.’

  ‘Kirkby?’

  ‘Used my man who was in Marlon’s group. Had him tell Kirkby that Marlon really did want you killed. A private job. Very secret because the old man didn’t want it known he’d broken his word of honor. These Italian people are very strong on the honor thing.’

  ‘Not like Uncle Sam.’

  ‘Ends justify means,’ Lincoln replied simply.

  ‘You had me covered in case Kirkby got the drop on me?’

  The government man smiled wanly. And shook his head. ‘You’re a born survivor, Mr. Edge. I knew you’d be able to handle Kirkby. And you did. And then you did exactly what I thought you’d do. Came hell for leather after Marlon. Because that’s your way. But then you got to talking with him again. Instead of doing what I thought you would.’

  ‘Nobody knows anybody else completely, feller.’

  A nod of agreement. ‘But as it turned out, it didn’t matter. You showing up made Marlon more nervous than ever. And it had the same effect on Black and his men. One of them got nervous enough to fire the first shot.’

  ‘Which might have happened anyway,’ the half-breed muttered sourly. ‘Without Dickens getting killed and me having to kill Kirkby. Hell, feller, you could have climbed up here and thrown some lead across the street yourself.’

  Another nod of agreement. Accompanied by the familiar expression of regret. ‘You’re right. What can I say?’

  ‘Just that it seemed like a good idea at the time.’

  ‘Sure. That can cover a lot of mistakes.’

  ‘We all make them.’

  There was a long silence on the high girder as the two men perched upon it looked down at the scene of the battle. The intensity of the shooting had eased now and Edge guessed that a tactical change was about to take place. Shots were still being exchanged, but it was as if the men behind the guns had lost their enthusiasm for what they were doing. If they hit a human target, they did not have the satisfaction of seeing their opponent fall, nor even hearing his vocal response to having lead tearing into his flesh. All they could see was the damage they were doing to the buildings housing their enemies. And hear unfeeling stone and brick.

  Then, with a shocking suddenness, all shooting ceased and for perhaps two stretched seconds there was complete silence clamped down over this area of the city. Not even a single sound invaded this stillness from a distance, as if the softly falling, mist-like rain acted as a solid barrier to such intrusions.

  ‘Black!’

  It was Luigi Orlando who yelled the name of the obese Negro boss. And his shout caused a mumbling of talk to sound among the two crowds of police controlled watchers.

  The cigar smoking fat man advanced across the hallway toward the front door. Sheldon and another man moved to flank him. None of the three showed themselves in the opening.

  ‘What you want, punk?’ Black shouted, having to take the cigar from between his teeth to give his voice volume.

  ‘Talk!’

  ‘I don’t talk with the monkey, punk! Only the organ grinder!’

  ‘My godfather’s dead! Murdered by that sneaky bastard calls himself Edge!’

  There was a ripple of talk among Black’s men. Which was immediately curtailed when the Negro rasped an order that was passed from room to room.

  ‘That mean you’re the boss now?’

  ‘Yeah. And what we’re doing is stupid! ‘

  ‘What you wanna do instead, punk?’

  ‘Have another meet! A proper one! Not like this! We were tricked! You and us! By that Edge bastard!’

  Black was talking at the same time as Orlando. But only for the ears of Sheldon and the other man who was close to him. And when he was through, these two withdrew to pass on what they had heard.

  ‘What do you say, Black?’ Orlando demanded.

  ‘You’re talkin’, punk! I’m listenin’!’

  ‘Look, there has to be half the city law out on the street! Waitin’ for us to kill each other! You and your men leave! And we’ll fix a meet. Face to face! Man to man!’

  The man’s dead, punk! Just leaves you! And I got nothin’ I want to talk to a punk about!’

  ‘Black, listen!’ Orlando’s confidence had gradually been ebbing as the Negro shouted answers he did not want to hear. Now the Italian sounded close to panic.

  And the overweight Negro was smart enough to guess at the reason for this. He nodded to Sheldon, who aimed his Winchester into the air and squeezed the trigger. Perhaps saw Edge and Lincoln silhouetted against the cloudy sky just as he fired the shot. Or perhaps not until a split second afterwards. But certainly the weakly handsome expert knife-thrower did not have time to alter the direction of the shot and make it more than a signal that was exploded from its muzzle.

  Black’s men poured out of the building: through the doorway and the glassless windows. Across the sidewalk and over the avenue: blasting covering fire at the whorehouse and trusting the Negro’s judgment that Luigi Orlando wanted the truce because his men were out of ammunition.

  Sheldon shouted a warning against the bedlam of noise from rifles and throats, but only Black was close enough to hear it. Both men gazed up at the half-breed and Lincoln and Sheldon pumped the lever action of his rifle.

  But the man who was so skilled with a knife was not fast enough with the Winchester. Edge had drawn the Elemington, cocked the hammer and squeezed the trigger before Sheldon had completed jacking a shell into the rifle’s breech.

  The revolver bullet drilled into the centre of the forehead of the upturned face, a perfect match for the wound which had ended the life of Emilio Marlon.

  As the man collapsed into a heap on the floor, Black looked desperately around him, swinging his body from the waist, searching for a weapon or a means of escape.

  ‘The Bosses are never armed!’ Lincoln yelled at Edge as the half-breed’s thumb cocked the hammer back and the cylinder clicked round.

  It was escape the Negro had been seeking. Now that he saw none was possible, he spread his arms to the side, hands splayed. As if he had heard the government man’s comment and was showing proof of it.

  ‘They got a lot of sonsofbitches working for them,’ the half-breed answered. ‘Men like that don’t need to do the barking and biting themselves.’

  Black had miscalculated the abilities of the godson who had inherited the empire of the godfather. Orlando had been putting on an act of fear - to draw the opposition out into the open and within effective range of his men’s revolvers. For, just as the men with the more powerful rifles reached the sidewalk in front of the whorehouse, death was rained down upon them. As, from every window in the front of the building, men who had been holding fire thrust out their short barrel Frontier Colts and fanned the hammer
s.

  Half of Black’s men fell on to the sidewalk and into the gutter, blood gushing from wounds in heads, bodies and limbs. The rest turned to run, but there was no cover within reach and they were back shot, to pitch and roll on the paved surface of Park Avenue. Any of them who revealed he was merely wounded by screaming his agony or writhing to try to ease the pain, drew a barrage of fire that instantly silenced and stilled him.

  While Edge’s attention was apparently distracted by the brutal slaughter out on the street, Boss Black thought he saw a chance to escape. And he moved into a waddling run through the bleak shells which would one day be rooms of the completed building. Heading for the rear.

  The half-breed was aware of the Negro’s retreat, but it was Lincoln who shot the running fat man. It needed two bullets to bring the boss down. Both in the back. After the first one, he was still able to stagger a few steps, out of one room and into another. The second knocked him down on to his face and the weight of his falling body caused something like clods of thick mud to spray up on either side. He lay utterly still.

  The killing shots had been lost amid the final barrage of gunfire from the whorehouse across the street. Moments before another solid silence dropped, blanket-like, over the scene of the Park Avenue battle. To be broken by shouts across the surrounding rooftops as the uniformed lawmen with rifles were ordered to climb down and move in. The police officers already on the avenue had to struggle harder to hold back the crowds of watchers who grew more anxious to indulge their ghoulish curiosity at close quarters.