Table of Contents
Biting Edge
Credits
Dedications
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
BITING EDGE
Ridin’ high through the Montana mountains, Edge comes across Barney Galton, a dying miner, and his vicious German Shepherd. Galton strikes a bargain with Edge: for a proper burial and caring for the dog, the fortune in the old man’s mine will be his. The old man dies and Edge is left with a canine who has a taste for human flesh. The trouble has just begun…looking for the gold, Edge finds out that a lot of people want a piece of Galton’s legendary fortune. Edge begins to wonder if he is digging for gold—or digging his own grave.
For:
S. an inspiration of a different color.
Chapter One
The man called Edge continued to sit astride the bay gelding while the horse drank from the cool, crystal-clear water of Mirror Lake. Rolled a cigarette with the makings taken from a pocket of his shirt and lit it with a match struck on the butt of the Frontier Colt that jutted from the holster tied down to his right thigh. Through the smoke that curled up from the cigarette angled from a corner of his mouth, he peered dispassionately across the mile-wide lake to the community on the north shore. Then, turning his narrow-eyed gaze to the left and to the right, he surveyed the shoreline on this side of the lake, in search of the best route around the expanse of water sparkling in the sun of noon to the town on the far side.
To both the west and the east the lake curved out of sight beyond timber-clad hills, the kind of fir-covered rises he had ridden around or over for more than a week. And much the same as those which half circled the town of Lakeview that was so close as the crow flies, but untold hours or maybe even days away on a swing to the west or east. Depending upon what kind of terrain was concealed by the timber that crowded the lake-shore.
He took a dime from a pocket of his pants, flipped it, and caught it, pressed it with the palm of his right hand against the back of his left.
"Heads west," he muttered.
The gelding finished drinking and the man in the saddle raised his right hand to see that the dime had come down to show tails. The horse vented a snort and Edge took the cigarette from his mouth and drew back his lips to show his teeth in a grin that did not inject any warmth into the slits of his eyes.
"If that was a horselaugh, feller," he growled softly, "maybe you've forgotten the joke's on you. And there's no way to make light of that."
He replaced the cigarette between his lips and tugged gently on the reins to turn the horse towards the east. A two-hundred-pound burden to the gelding that had carried him a lot of miles on this trip from Stormville in the new state of Colorado to within sight of Lakeview, Territory of Montana. By way of Denver and then Cheyenne. On stage or freight trails for some of the way. But mostly cutting across the rugged country of the Continental Divide's eastern flank when the trails swung too wide of the direction he had in mind to go.
Two hundred pounds of weight stacked six feet three inches high in a manner that gave Edge a lean build that matched the cut of his features. Features that offered more than a subtle suggestion that their form was the result of the mingling of two racial bloodlines—the Hispanic of his Mexican father and the Aryan of his Swedish mother. Into the flesh that was stained as much by heritage as exposure to the elements was set a pair of eyes that were ice blue. And framing the face with its high cheekbones, hawk-like nose, thin-lipped mouth, and firm jaw was a growth of thick, jet black hair that hung down to brush his shoulders.
It was a face that had been inscribed with many deep lines during the almost forty years of the man's life, some put there by the aging process but as many by the harsh experiences of living the kind of life his ruling fates had decreed for him.
In total, it was a face that could be regarded as either handsome or ugly, depending upon how one viewed the coldly penetrating gaze of the always narrowed eyes, and the more than vague hint of cruelty suggested by the thin lips when in repose. This truthful indication of one of the man's character traits emphasized by the way he wore a just discernible Mexican-style moustache, which this late in the day was almost impossible to see against the morning's growth of dark bristles on his lower face.
He was dressed for the kind of country through which he rode and for the chill of the fall air up here in the Rockies just to the south of the international border with Canada. Wore a black Stetson, a gray shirt, blue denim pants with the cuffs outside the spurless black riding boots, and a knee-length sheepskin coat that was not fastened—and thus did not impede access to the holstered Colt.
Nor to the open straight razor that he carried in a sheath held at the nape of his neck by a beaded thong encircling his throat.
While, should danger threaten from longer range, his right hand resting on the saddlehorn to hold the reins was only inches away from the stock of a Winchester rifle that jutted from the forward-hung scabbard.
Moving along a twenty-foot-wide strip of soft, dry sand that caved into the indentations each time the gelding raised a hoof for a new stride, the man called Edge seemed only superficially interested in the surroundings as occasionally he shifted his attention from the way ahead to glance in other directions. For he revealed no sign by his apparently relaxed manner that he was prepared at a split second's notice to respond to a threat from any quarter. He relied as much on his well-honed sixth sense as on the evidence of his eyes and ears to warn him of imminent danger.
Was prepared by countless brushes with death to be ready to face and defeat any new menace that might be waiting to attack him on this sun-bright, fall-cold day. He heard the sound while he was still a quarter-mile short of where the sandy lakeshore disappeared beyond the steep shoulder of a hill. And shifted his eyes lazily along the narrowest of slits to look in the direction from which the howl had come. Which was close to the top of the rise, in the thick of the Douglas fir trees that cloaked the slope. This as he reined the gelding to a halt and removed the nearly smoked cigarette from his lips to arc it out into the lake.
The horse stood quietly, but Edge was aware of the rigidity of the animal's stance, and he sought to calm him by running a hand down the stretched neck as another howl reverberated from the timber. It continued for much longer than before, the variable pitch emphasizing that it was a distress call.
"You figure a wolf, feller?" Edge said to his mount, speaking softly and using the tone of his voice to augment the calming effect of his stroking hand. But then the howl was curtailed and was followed by severed sharp barks. And Edge added, "Or a hound, maybe?"
The gelding snorted and tossed his head, obviously eager to start moving again and get out of earshot of a fellow creature in distress.
The half-breed, still speaking to ease the anxiety of the horse, said: "You're right, feller. Whatever his problem is, it ain't ours."
He gently heeled the horse into movement, but needed to ride with a tight rein to keep him from choosing a gallop.
The dog continued to howl and bark by turns; the sounds made the more insistent in the ears of Edge because they came constantly from the same spot on the timbered slope. Edge grimaced and concentrated solely on the way ahead, struggling to bar from his mind the nagging thought that the dog was pleading for help because it was injured
and in pain.
Then he was carried around the shoulder of the hill and the gelding came to a halt of his own accord. A wall of rock jutted out of the trees, across the strip of sand, and reached some thirty feet into the lake in the form of a twenty-foot high, timber-topped promontory. Around the base of which the water rippled soothingly, in dramatic contrast to the sounds being vented by the distressed dog.
Edge surveyed the barrier with a cold-eyed gaze but with the trace of a smile turning up the corners of his lips as he stroked the neck of his horse and drawled, "Seems like the spin of the coin had us barking up the wrong tree, feller."
He tugged on the reins to command a slow wheel and, as he rode back around the shoulder of the hill, he glanced across at the community which hugged a half-mile length of shoreline on the north side of the lake. The howling of the dog had stirred up no noticeable activity on the waterfront street with its two piers to which a half dozen small boats were moored. But then neither had his appearance on the shore at this side of the lake caused any disturbance in the town, short of a barely perceptible interruption in the mundane daily activity along the lakeside street when he was first spotted riding out of the timber.
He turned his back on Lakeview to return to the cold shade of the trees at the start of the climb toward the dog, which had begun to whimper and whine rather than howl and bark. The difference in temperature between sunlight and shade was marked, so he buttoned his coat and turned up its collar after first transferring the Colt from the holster to a pocket.
For most of the time he was able to ride in an almost direct line from the lake toward the dog, veering only slightly from one side to the other to go between the towering trunks of the Douglas firs. On just three occasions needed to go off at an acute tangent across the steeply rising ground to get past an impenetrable clump of brush and two lichen-covered granite crags.
He remained in the saddle, even though the going would have been easier had he dismounted. The extra concentration this demanded from the gelding helped to keep his equine mind off the less frequent but still disturbing cries of the dog. Which grew louder by degrees as the distance to the troubled animal narrowed.
Then, fifteen cold minutes after the climb had started, the dog heard the sounds of the horse and rider approaching. Curtailed a whine and, after a few stretched seconds of silence, vented a low-pitched growl. That grew into a snarl.
Edge stopped the horse and, pushing his right hand into his coat pocket, fisted it around the butt of the Colt. He tilted his head back to look up at the rim of a thirty-foot-high granite escarpment, above which he could see only sky. From beyond came the sound of the dog's fear-charged aggression.
The sheer face of the cliff was the most severe obstacle he had yet come up against. But at least there was no choice to be made about direction. To the north was a complete barrier, since it was the promontory that jutted out into the lake. So he turned the nervous gelding toward the south, maintaining for as long as he was able an impassive watch on the cliff top, and not relaxing his grip on the Colt until the dog became silent and timber once again concealed the escarpment.
Gradually, as the ground Edge rode over rose, the two levels merged and he was able to steer the horse around a clump of evergreen brush and head back north again. To close with the now silent dog. Riding with his hand on the gun in his pocket once more, his narrowed eyes peered ahead, seeking a break in the trees that would offer him first sight of the animal which continued to remain ominously quiet.
Rounding a small outcrop of rock, Edge saw the dog. Abandoned the Colt and reached to slide the Winchester from the scabbard as the gelding wheeled and reared in terror.
It was the largest German shepherd the half-breed had ever seen. At one instant down in a quivering crouch, silent and staring. The next galvanized into a run that was planned to power a leap at both man and horse, unwelcome strangers in the clearing on the top of the escarpment. A clearing perhaps a hundred feet long by forty wide. Half circled by the trunks of the firs to the north and the east. Concealed from the west by the tops of the trees growing on a slope at the base of the cliff. With just a very narrow access from the south between the outcrop and the rim of the sheer drop. At its center a small, crude log cabin that had doubtless been built with the lumber of the trees felled to form the clearing.
All this glimpsed between two blinks of the slitted, glittering blue eyes. The backdrop to the dog's vicious attack checked to insure that the animal was the only danger. Between the last and the next brief coming together of eyelids, the situation seen in its entirety. And the priorities for survival were altered.
The big dog with the bared fangs and the iridescent eyes sprang up from the ground, body and legs at full stretch and on course for the exposed neck of the rearing horse.
The gelding, his snort of fear masking the snarl of the attacking dog, beat at the air with his forelegs and struggled to turn on the strained rear ones.
Edge thrust the rifle back into the scabbard before it was halfway out and took hold of the reins in both hands. Using his heels and elbows in concert with the reins, he brought the horse down four footed again, wrenching his head and body around in the opposite direction from the way he wanted to turn—which would have plunged himself and his rider over the rim of the escarpment. The gelding responded to the commands of the man astride him and came down hard and heavy on his forelegs.
The German shepherd leaped, but the powerful forward momentum was abruptly halted in midair as the rope that tethered him to the hook on the cabin wall pulled taut. The dog slammed to the ground, yelping with pain and frustration, less than six feet from the now rearing forehooves of the panicked gelding.
Snickering and moving his head up and down in a pumping action, the horse backed and sidled away from the dog. In danger now of losing his footing with his shaking hindlegs.
Edge rasped a curse and kicked free of one stirrup. To swing across and out of the saddle. This as he arced a hand wide, to take the reins forward to the animal's head during a dipping motion. And, as soon as he was on the ground, he dropped into a crouch and braced himself. The reins gripped in both hands now—to haul the gelding back from the top of the cliff.
The dog sprang up snarling and, the saliva of boundless rage flying from his jaws, commanded the total attention of the larger animal. Which, with pricked ears, flared nostrils, wide lips, and bulged eyes, moved inexorably toward the sheer drop.
The man's booted feet slithered across the lush turf at the base of the outcrop.
The gelding's hooves scraped on the bare rock at the very top of the cliff.
The German shepherd, at full stretch as he strained at the tether, dug the claws of all four paws into the hard-packed dirt of the clearing.
Curses, snarls, and snorts were loud in the surrounding silence.
The half-breed experienced the cold sweat of fear beading his every pore as he faced his dilemma: whether to take a hand off the reins to draw the Colt and put a bullet through the head of the rage-maddened dog, or to keep wrenching with both hands in the hope that brute strength would eventually have an effect.
The sight of the dog twitching into death amid a spray of blood could perhaps expand the gelding's panic. But the relentless way in which the terrified horse was moving toward the top of the drop seemed to make it certain that Edge had no chance of holding him. So there was nothing to lose in trying to save the horse by blasting the dog.
A fresh sound made itself heard through the cursing, the snarling, and the snorting. A piercingly shrill whistle that had an instant effect on the dog, which sat down on his haunches and began to whine pathetically as he licked the saliva off his jaws.
The half-breed curtailed his soft venting of obscenities as he retightened his grip on the reins and leaned back harder with his heels digging deep into the turf.
The horse became motionless, although still ignoring the man to stare down at the dog—fear giving way to
confusion.
A second short whistle, less shrill, brought the dog to his feet. He strolled back to the front of the cabin, where, below an open window to the right of the closed door, he whimpered once before he turned around three times and lay down, body curled and legs tucked under him. Jaws free of saliva now, eyes an appealing brown, and ears back along his head. Utterly docile.
The gelding vented a low snort and a quiver went through him.
Edge straightened and stroked the neck of the horse as he tugged gently on the reins to ease the animal back from the brink of the drop. But took care not to put himself or the calming animal within range of the tethered dog. While all the time he kept close watch on the partially opened sash window from which the two command whistles had been emitted.
Then a man who sounded old and weak called from the shade-darkened interior of the cabin: "Don't reckon this is my lucky day, is it? That ain't you, Ralph? Or Lee? Or the both of you?"
The dog was panting after his exertions, tongue lolling out at the side. At the sound of the man's voice he pricked his ears, raised his head, and cocked it, to look with longing expectancy up at the window.
"That's right, feller!" Edge called back. "It ain't Ralph or Lee!"
"Then best you don't come no closer to the place, stranger! Or I'll set the hound on you!"
He still sounded old and sickly weak, but there was determination in his voice. His dog discerned the change of tone—snapped his head down and around to watch the intruders. Prepared to attack again.
"No sweat!" Edge answered and led the calm but wary horse along the fringe of the clearing beyond the rock outcrop. Needing to move into the danger area of the dog's range for several yards. So kept one hand in his pocket, the palm greasy with sweat, on the butt of the uncocked revolver.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"For you not to sweat, I guess, feller! Figure I'm doing enough for the both of us!"
"Hey, you've moved. Ain't no use you tryin' to get in the back of the place, stranger! Hound can't get at you back there, but there ain't no door or windows!"
EDGE: The Killing Claim Page 1
