EDGE: The Killing Claim

by George G. Gilman

  "This is a pretty good place here, feller."

  The dog closed his eyes but his ears remained pricked.

  "Maybe a better place to rest up than in that town on the other side of the lake." The dog yawned.

  "That's a good idea, I guess. To sleep on it be­fore making any decision." He grinned after tak­ing a swallow of coffee. "Though I figure you've already made yours, far as I'm concerned."

  The sleepy canine eyes were briefly opened again to direct a doleful gaze into the room as final light of the old day faded.

  Edge allowed: "Yeah, you'd rather the poor bastard that died than me. But we've made pretty good start, wouldn't you say?"

  The dog sighed again and then pulled himself wearily up on to his haunches. Bent and turned his head, then raised a hind paw to claw vigorously for several seconds at an itch behind his ear before he settled down to try again to get to sleep.

  When Edge said on a stream of tobacco smoke: "That's right, feller. A damn good start, considering it was from scratch."

  Chapter Four

  Edge worked on Barney Galton's claim for the next five days, and never once during the waking hours did he fail to be content with what he was doing. He slept long and deeply between sundowns and dawns, untroubled by dreams and nightmares of what had been and what might have been.

  What had been was a man alone who rode violent country in a vain search for that which he knew was unattainable. While what might have been was the kind of simple happiness he was now enjoying on this piece of desolate and beau­tiful Montana terrain.

  The War Between the States had started his ride on the violence trail. A war he entered as an Iowa farm boy named Josiah C. Hedges, and fin­ished as a battle-hardened killer, but eager to shed this part of what he had become along with the uniform of a Union cavalry captain.

  But events on the small Midwestern farmstead and his reaction to them—dictated by much else that he had become in war—made it impossible for him to put aside the ways of a killer. For the crippled kid brother he had left to run the place while he was away was dead. Mutilated, mur­dered, and left for buzzard meat out front of the burning house. Along with Patch, the dog who had died easier, with just one bullet in him. And one of the murderers who was himself dead.

  There were five more men involved in the kill­ing of young Jamie Hedges and the burning of the farmstead and its crops. And the elder brother felt compelled to use all the skills so harshly learned in war to track down the killers and make them pay for what they had done. But the country was at uneasy peace by then and a man who took the law into his own hands was guilty of stepping outside the law. And thus did Josiah C. Hedges, late of the Federal army, become a wanted civil­ian. And thus did he become the man called Edge, who, he was convinced for a long time, was destined by his cruel ruling fates to ride the vio­lence trail as a form of punishment that was harsher than any the human mind could conceive and implement.

  Never allowed to keep anything he treasured and doomed to lose, in a welter of spilled blood and the sound of agonized screams, anyone who came to mean more to him than a mere passing face in a crowd.

  Self-pity and even an occasional notion of sui­cide had started to visit his mind then. And anger at the entire world for the position he was forced to adopt in it.

  But then came too many of the closest kind of calls with death. Not always on the best of days or in the most idyllic of places, but invariably the experiences made Edge realize that if life was all he had, then he would do whatever was necessary to keep it. On the dangerous trails he traveled, indulgence in emotion contributed nothing to survival. And could even add to the danger.

  This realization altered little in the way he lived the life he was now determined to preserve at all costs against all enemies save old age. Merely made him more alert to potential threats and hardened his attitudes toward his fellow human beings. Which meant he was constantly on his guard in even the most outwardly innocuous sur­roundings, and that if any man or woman sought to be to him more than that mere passing face in the crowd, he remained emotionally detached.

  By living his life this way—decided now that it was by personal choice and not at the whim of some ethereal ruling destiny—he was still on the violence trail, and in surviving the frequent ex­plosions of lethal trouble he sometimes suffered physical pain. But not for a very long time had he experienced more than a twinge of anguish.

  Here in Montana at the fall of the year, it would have been easy for a man less resolved to facing a bleak future with indifference to have been tempted to change his philosophy. Or, if not that, to have indulged in self-pity that such a pleasant circumstance could not last for very long.

  But during those five days Edge did not once plan beyond the end of whatever chore occupied him. Though the Frontier Colt was always ready in the tied-down holster during the day and the Winchester shared his bedroll at night. And he never once felt foolish after work or sleep the area of the mine and the cabin had remained peaceful. The German shepherd had never needed to growl a warning that an intruder was approaching.

  Then, on the evening of the fifth full day Barney Galton's claim at the landward end of promontory that jutted out into the water of Mirror Lake, there was just enough food left for one more meal—for the dog.

  The old-timer had been almost totally out meat when he died and Edge had eked out what was in his saddlebags to insure the dog had meal a day; if not largely of meat, then flavor; with the juices of meat cooked earlier. While for day and a half Edge ate from the meager harvest of the vegetable plot on the north side of the clearing.

  So, after eating a breakfast of beans and feeding the dog a plate of hardtack and sourdough bread soaked in gravy at the dawning of the sixth day, Edge took his saddle from a corner of the sleeping area of the cabin where it had been stored since that first night and cinched it to the back of the bay gelding. The German shepherd which had been free to roam but had never more than a few yards from the man, sat down close by and thrust his head toward the rising sun to vent a howl. That was perhaps a more melancholy sound than those he uttered to mark the dying of his former master.

  "You're as frigging crazy as I am, you know that, feller?" the half-breed muttered. "A dog supposed to howl at the moon, not the sun. And you had the sense to go off and catch yourself a rabbit or squirrel or whatever, I wouldn't need to ride over to Lakeview."

  The man had talked to the dog a lot during the preceding days in a variety of different tones of voice, depending upon the location and the pro­gress being made with whatever chore was engaging him. Now, as on all those other occasions, the dog paid close attention to what was being said to him. Gave no indication that he understood anything, but moved off in the wake of the half-breed. And all that was different was that today the man was sitting astride a horse. A change of circumstances not so extreme that the dog failed to remain on guard as he followed the horse and rider across the clearing toward the start of the trail down the east side of the high ground. And, likewise, Edge was not overly concerned that whether the dog should accompany him on the trip to be oblivious to extraneous factors. And thus did his sharply honed sixth sense for impending menace sound a warning signal in his mind at precisely the same moment that the dog growled.

  Which was a moment before a man ordered: “Hold it right there, you lousy claim jumper! Or we'll blow your conniving head right off your shoulders."

  They were halfway across the side of the clearing between the front corner of the cabin and the start of the trail, with the vegetable patch in be­tween.

  Edge reined in the gelding immediately, just before he was about to steer the horse around the depleted rows of crops. The dog imitated halting action of the horse in the same way he acted instantly when following Edge on foot, he continued to growl softly and ominously his hackles up and his body tensed for a forward bound.

  "Easy, feller," Edge soothed, and this served to quiet the dog just as a man stepped into sight the top of the trail on the
other side of the vegetable patch. A short, thin, sandy-haired man wearing wire-framed spectacles that probably made him look older than he was. So, somewhere between forty-five and fifty-five. Soft looking dressed in a city-style suit with a caped Ulster coat unbuttoned all the way. The suit dark blue the topcoat cream. He was holding a gray, stiff-brimmed Stetson in his left hand, like he thought it would be more acceptable to kill somebody with the revolver in his right if he were bare headed.

  Fear showed in every plane of his hollow cheeked, pointed-jawed, gray-and-purple colored face. And in his splay-legged, leaning forward stance with his gun hand stretched out from his shoulder to the limit.

  "Guess you have to be either Ralph or Lee. the half-breed said evenly, his glittering ice blue eyes moving without haste back and forth along the narrow track between their lids in a vain search for somebody else.

  "Ralph Galton, damnit!" the frightened man snapped. "But I'll ask the questions—"

  "Lee the other one?"

  "Lee's my brother, damnit!" The dudishly dressed man who looked so totally out of place in the Montana timber country seemed to respond automatically to what Edge asked—and then instantly resented what he had done. "And you bet­ter do like I said and give me the answers I want!"

  "Right at the start you talked about we, feller," the half-breed said in the same even tone as be­fore, which contrasted starkly with the nervous excitement of the other man's attitude. "Your pa mentioned there were the two sons and I was won­dering if the other one was with you? Hiding, but with you."

  A woman said from in the timber to Ralph Galton's right: "Lee ain't no place around here, claim jumper! My husband meant me! But don't you get no idea that I won't back him up if needs be—just because I'm a weak woman!"

  She made more noise coming out of her hiding place in the trees than when she went into it. And when the half-breed saw her emerge on to the trail to stand beside her husband, he was briefly intrigued at how she had managed to move so secretively to get so close to the cabin in the clearing.

  "This is my wife, Janet," Ralph Galton intro­duced formally, and seemed to be greatly relieved that she was beside him.

  "Ralph, you're a damn fool!" she accused him with a sigh as she continued to glare menacingly at Edge.

  She was a match for his five-and-a-half-foot height, but weighed considerably more than he did. Was almost obese, with a build that probably meant she measured the same around her chest, waist, and hips. Her legs, too, were unfemininely over sized. Like her arms. And the garb she wore served to emphasize rather than disguise bulk—black denim pants and a white silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows skin-tight. Her short neck was circled by a black kerchief knotted on the side and she wore a white Stetson to almost complete an outfit that had probably been purchased far to the east under the impression that it was just what all the women on the frontier were wearing. Only her work-spurred black riding boots looked hardwearing enough be entirely suitable for the kind of country she was in.

  Between hat brim and kerchief she had an extremely pretty face for a woman who was in her forties. Round and smooth skinned, with a flawless cream and pink complexion, big green eyes and a rosebud mouth. A snub nose and dimpled cheeks. Flanked by ringlets of sheeny black hair

  Also sheeny were the twin barrels of the sawed-off shotgun she aimed at Edge, rock-steady in her fleshy hands.

  "You and Ralph both, ma'am," the half-breed said. "For showing up this way and pointing guns at me. After you've stopped doing that, don't ever do it again unless you're ready to fire them. Because I'll sure as hell be doing my best to kill you. Give folks the one warning if I'm able. Name Edge."

  He looked from one to the other and back again while he spoke, nodding to each in turn after introducing himself. Saw that his soft-spoken words had expanded the fear of the man with the

  Tranter, while the woman with the twin-barrel Purdy shotgun was driven into a deeper rage, which left her speechless for a second or so when he was through.

  In which time Edge tapped his heels to the flanks of the gelding and started to make his farewells with a touch of his left index finger to the brim of his hat.

  "Place is all yours now. You'll see where I buried—"

  "Just a goddamn minute there!" Ralph Galton blurted. And dropped his hat so that he could bring up the hand to help the other one steady the wavering aim of the revolver.

  "You ain't goin' no place until you explain to us—oh, my God!"

  The woman wrenched her head to the side, to peer into the brush among the trees. And dragged the shotgun around to aim at something that brought her to the same degree of fear that her husband was experiencing.

  The cause of the abrupt and drastic change in Janet Galton was a low but highly threatening an­imal growl.

  Despite being certain of which animal made the sound, Edge felt compelled to look down, to the side and rear of where he sat the gelding. He rasped, "Doggone."

  Chapter Five

  The half-breed had been so used to having German shepherd almost as close to him as shadow during the days at the claim, that he was surprised as the Galtons when the animal announced his presence in the timber.

  First he was angry at himself for not having seen the dog move stealthily away, under cover the crops and then the brush among the trees, the next instant felt something akin to pride in the dog for his cunning and intelligent initiative. Next, fear for the life of the animal.

  All this in a part of a second. With no time to question why he felt these compassionate emotional responses from a store that was supposed be devoid of them, he reacted physically to dictates of instinct—in the same way as if it we his life that was threatened.

  He jerked the Winchester out of the scabbard with his right hand. And needed simply to thumb back the hammer because there was already bullet in the breech. This as he brought the right up to his shoulder and his left hand moved in a blur of speed across his body to grip the barrel.

  The range was about fifty feet across the vege­table patch and, because he was astride the geld­ing, the trajectory was downward, more so than if his target was the fat woman or her husband. In­stead, it was the Purdy, which was already canted at an angle to locate the dog but was not yet swung on to the target.

  Edge squeezed the trigger of the rifle.

  Janet Galton shrieked in terror and perhaps some pain as the shotgun jerked in her hands, violently moved by the impact of the Winchester's bullet hitting the tops of the barrels about three inches back from the muzzles.

  The gun slammed hard against the ground. The dull thud of the ricochet penetrating a tree trunk preceded, by part of a second, the crack of Ralph Galton's revolver. The bullet went low and wide to explode rock splinters from the outcrop at the far corner of the clearing.

  Edge worked the lever action of the Winchester and raked the rifle to the side to align the sights on the thick torso of the woman. This as her hus­band used both thumbs to cock the Tranter; but the hammer was stiff and the barrel tilted toward the sky that was brightening with the light of the just-rising sun.

  The dog continued to growl.

  "Tell you people like it is," Edge said, his tone of voice the same as before the exchange of gun­fire. And perhaps this served better than a com­manding snarl to capture the attention of the Physically ill-matched couple at the start of the trail. "The lady don't break open the gun and

  empty out the cartridges, I'll kill her where she stands. You feller, you ease the hammer of the revolver forward and you put the thing away. If you don't do that, it'll be another fated mistake."

  "What about this damn dog?" the woman asked huskily while her husband was struggling to swallow the constricting fear in his throat.

  "Why would I want to kill him, ma'am?"

  "Call him off, damnit!"

  "Janet, do like he tells you!" Ralph blurted. And did not follow the instructions Edge had given him. Instead, released his grip on the revolver with one hand and with the other hurl
ed the Tranter off into the timber at his side of the trail.

  Janet Galton looked from the German shep­herd to Edge and back again. The fear mixed with anger gradually ebbed from her round and pretty face, to be replaced by a brand of defiance in defeat. But then she did as her husband urged—directing a fixed, sneering look at the half-breed as she broke open the shotgun and extracted the cartridges by feel. She pushed them into a pocket of her shirt and lodged the broken-open Purdy in the crook of an arm as she chal­lenged:

  "Just to ease Ralph's mind, claim jumper. He worries about me and that gives him acid in the stomach. I think you and your mutt are both the same—all damn noise."

  Edge had already eased the hammer of the rifle to the rest and replaced it in its scabbard. Now! took up the reins and heeled the gelding into an easy walk around the vegetable patch.

  "Easy, feller," he said to silence the growling dog just before he halted his mount on the trail, ten feet from where the Galtons stood: the husband still afraid and the wife continuing to wear the challenging look. The dog circled back out of e timber and came to sit on his haunches beside the gelding's left hind leg.

  "Now what, big talker?" the woman sneered.

  "Janet, don't provoke him!" her husband urged. "You'll have to excuse Janet, Mr. Edge, see, I got this letter from my father telling how he'd struck it rich on his claim. About how he was old and wanted to see his sons before he passed away. Hoping that by bringing us together—Lee and me—and sharing the inheritance between us, we'd forget our differences and be friends. Well, Janet and me, we near run ourselves rag­ed making fast time out here to Montana Territory from Buffalo, New York State, and I guess Janet just couldn't take any more without blowing her—"

  "Shut up, you damn fool!" his wife cut in after listening with mounting impatience to his splutering explanation. "Sure, I'm ready to blow up! On account of you makin' such a hash of this. If it had been you the mutt looked like settin' on and that guy took a shot at you, I wouldn't have missed blowin' him outta his damn saddle!"