EDGE: The Killing Claim

by George G. Gilman

  He needed to talk louder now, to make himself heard above the din of the strengthening storm, the rain that beat against the walls and roof of the livery sometimes masking the sounds of the wind that drove it.

  "Obliged," Edge answered and nodded that he was ready as he took hold of the gelding's bridle.

  Frank Benson turned, raised the latch, and leaned forward, head ducked, to fight the door open wide enough for the horse to be led outside.

  A man shouted, "Now, damnit!"

  Hoofbeats hit the street, just discernible through the storm sounds and the splashing of puddled rainwater kicked up by the pumping legs of the galloping horses.

  Sheet lightning flashed and the thunder cracked without a measurable period of time between. Murk that was close to night dark was for a split second changed into a brightness the sun could never match. To show Lester, Rico, and Elmer in stark clarity, crouched low in their sad­dles as they raced their mounts in a single file along the center of the street. West to east. Each with his right arm held across the front of his chest, hand fisted around the butt of a revolver.

  "Benson!" Edge shouted, letting go of the bri­dle of his horse to turn and reach for the scab-barded Winchester.

  The liveryman started to bring up his head, but there was no time for any other voluntary move. For the lightning flash was gone and he could see nothing but lancing drops of rain for the moment before muzzle flashes—mere short-lived streaks through the sodden gloom—signaled the ap­proach of bullets toward him. "It ain't—"

  Benson was hit and cried out more in surprise than pain. The gelding took a bullet—gave a body-shuddering snort as the half-breed slid the rifle from the scabbard.

  "Shit!"

  "Keep shootin', he's gotta be—"

  Many other voices were raised to roar through the sounds of the storm and the racing horses. To merge with and make incomprehensible what the trio of riders were snarling.

  But Lester's order was heard by Rico and El­mer. And all three exploded shots toward the liv­ery doorway again, the spurts of the muzzle flashes showing as Edge thumbed back the ham­mer of the Winchester.

  But the half-breed was not able to trigger the ri­fle. Needed to leap to the side as the gelding went down on the knees of his forelegs and rolled over. This at the same time as Frank Benson toppled to the muddy street—and the wind took control of the door to slam it violently closed—knocking the man's feet clear of its arcing path on the way.

  And so it was into the door timbers that the sec­ond volley of bullets buried themselves. To the accompaniment of a chorus of snarled oaths from the trio of gunmen. Until their voices were drowned by a fusillade of gunfire from west of the livery stable. The bullets blasting from perhaps half a dozen guns—revolvers triggered blindly into a lashing curtain of wind-driven rain. The shooting ended in moments by a man who roared an order that this should be so.

  Then there followed a pause of stretched sec­onds during which the wind and the rain seemed to be the only sounds in the world.

  The horse sighed and Edge vented a soft curse as he rose from where he had thrown himself to avoid being crushed by the toppling gelding.

  Running feet splashed across the liquid mud of the street surface. And several voices were raised, competing to be heard by all and failing to be understood by any.

  Edge moved around to the other side of the horse, which was sprawled out on his side. And stooped down to peer at the bloody hole just be­low the point of the left shoulder. Said softly to the easily breathing animal, "Maybe it's no big thing, feller."

  The running had stopped and most of the voices were silent out on the street. Then a fist banged on the livery door and the Lakeview lawman yelled:

  "It's Sheriff Herman, Edge! You hurt?"

  "No, feller."

  "Frank Benson's dead. I'm comin' in, okay?"

  "Better if you bring the veterinary in with you, feller. Bastards shot my horse."

  The door was fought open against the wind and Herman showed his scowling face in the gap. "One of Lakeview's most popular men is dead and you complain about a shot horse!"

  Edge was down on his hands and knees, peering into the blood-weeping wound to see if the bullet that made the hole was visible. He shifted the gaze of his slitted blue eyes for just a moment to look up at the lawman. Then returned his atten­tion to the wound as he replied: "I paid him the two bucks I owed him, feller. Like to repay this horse for what he's done for me. Now, you got a veterinary in this town, or do I have to start dig­ging for the lead myself?"

  He failed to see the bullet and ran a hand con­solingly over the side of the horse's head before he rose to his feet, the Winchester canted to his shoulder.

  Herman called out into the rain-lashed street: "Somebody go bring John Payne here. Got a horse with a bullet in him!"

  "Animal doc's out at the sawmill checkin' com­pany stock!" a man answered.

  "Obliged, sheriff," Edge said.

  "Eddie, ain't you gonna raise a posse and go after them murderin' sonsofbitches?" a second man demanded from outside.

  Herman looked over his shoulder again to snarl, "Just do like I said and get Frank's remains down to the mortician, uh?" Then he stepped into the livery and the wind slammed the door behind him. And he asked grimly, "They just gotta be buddies of the guy you earned bounty on, don't they?"

  "If I riled them over something else, I don't know what it could be, sheriff."

  A nod. "Haven't got a hope in hell's chance of trackin' men in this storm." He paused as light­ning flashed and waited for the thunder to crack before he went on: "And won't be easy to pick up on their signs after this weather has blown out. But I don't reckon on the need to go out after them now or later."

  He eyed the impassive-faced Edge with a quiz­zical light in his eyes and the half-breed returned the questioning gaze levelly as he rasped the back of a hand over the bristles on his jaw.

  "Maybe they saw me go down and thought I'd been hit. Didn't know I was just getting out from under the falling horse. Whichever, they can't be sure if I'm dead or alive. Only thing they can be sure of is that Benson wasn't me."

  "And they'll need to be certain, mister. After takin' so much trouble."

  "Guess so, sheriff."

  "You always pay your way, mister. You also re­turn favors?"

  "I owe you one?"

  "They were set to blast you at Joel Marten's res­taurant when I showed up. And they'd have got you—three to one like it was. So I reckon I saved your skin, Edge. Least you can do is help me put the arm on them for murderin' Frank Benson."

  Edge nodded. "Figure I’ll stay around, sher­iff."

  Herman was curious. "As easy as that?"

  "I told them they had to kill me if they aimed guns at me. And they shot my horse while they were trying to do that. They're also to blame for me having to stay in Lakeview and I told you what I'd do to anyone who did that. So your itch to get that three ain't nothing to the one I got, feller."

  The scowl spread across the face of the lawman again and the rasping tone returned to his voice.

  "I intend to do it legal, mister. You step across the line for revenge and it'll go bad for you."

  Lightning flashed and the pause before the thunder cracked was longer than the last time. But the wind gusted just as strongly and the rain lashed just as hard at the livery.

  "Tell you something, sheriff," the half-breed answered as he dropped down to his haunches and began to caress the neck of the shot horse. "If I was the worrying kind, I'd only start to get anx­ious when things went good for me."

  The Lakeview lawman vented a harsh snort of disgust as he reached for the door latch and growled, "Savin' my sympathy for Frank Benson's widow, mister."

  He went out then and allowed the wind to slam the door closed. While Edge expressed perplex­ity for stretched seconds as he continued to stroke the gelding and asked:

  "Shit, did that sound like I was fishing for pity, feller?"

  The horse paid
no attention and the man shook his head reflectively. Then, just for a moment, there was a deep sadness in the set of the cruel mouth line and the glinting slits of the ice-blue eyes. When he glanced at the crack where the two doors met. And saw in his mind's eye a vivid image of the German shepherd when he lunged out of the livery. Then grinned, with an infre­quent warmth in his eyes, when he heard a famil­iar whine.

  Rose from comforting the unresponsive horse to go to the door and inch it open. But there was no dog out in the teeming rain. And he realized the sound he thought had been made by an un­easy dog was in fact the squeak from the swinging sign that jutted out above the livery stable en­trance.

  A voice said from the right: "Men have come in from the lumber camps, mister. So the animal doc should be here soon."

  Edge cracked the door wider to get his head through the gap. And saw a tall man leaning against the closed door. Wearing hooded black oilskins that the wind pressed hard to his body, contouring his muscular frame. He held a rifle canted across his chest—gripping it very tightly.

  "Thought I heard the dog out here."

  "Nah," the man assured. "Scared dog runs for home. I bet that dog's gone all the way back to old Barney Galton's claim. I bet you."

  "Obliged."

  "I know dogs, mister. Kept them all my life. And I know what that animal belonged to old Barney Galton is like."

  "Obliged," Edge told him again. "You stand­ing guard out there?"

  Sheet lightning hit the teeming murk and the half-breed was able in the moment of brilliant il­lumination to see that the man in the black oil­skins was not alone on the street. For outside every building there was at least one other man posted as a sentry—some in the pouring rain and others standing in the shelter of sidewalk or stoop awnings. Some armed with rifles at the ready. Others with gunbelts slung around their waists.

  "Me and the whole town, mister," the man out front of the livery said after the thunder had rolled far in the distant west. "Like I said, most men are in from the lumber camps, on account of the storm callin' an early halt to the day's work. Them that didn't see Frank Benson with the two holes in his head, they heard about it. And every­one's real eager to help out when a good man like Frank Benson gets dead that way."

  "The sheriff say anything to you and the others about me, feller?"

  "Just that you're the bait, mister."

  "Obliged."

  "You're welcome."

  Edge withdrew into the stable and allowed the wind to slam the door closed. The wounded geld­ing, which did not seem to be in too much dis­comfort, looked dolefully up at the man after he had dropped to his haunches again—but this time to take a carton of shells for the Winchester out of a saddlebag. And to fix the roll of bills from his hip pocket under the bridle noseband.

  "Help's on its way to you, feller," the half-breed told the animal in a soothing tone. "Need to go get that storm-crazy dog before he gets his head blown off by that Galton woman."

  He rose and checked over the other horses in the livery, and selected a big chestnut mare. Took the gear off a peg at the front of her stall and saddled and bridled her. Then led her to the sta­ble entrance, needing to carry his rifle because there was no scabbard fixed to the saddle.

  He pushed the door wide open and hooked it to remain so, head ducked into the rain-soaked wind and ignoring the man in the black oilskins. Who seemed too startled to speak as he watched Edge fix open the door. Then demanded, "What the hell, mister?"

  "You're the man I saw about a dog, feller. Need to go see the dog now."

  "But—"

  "Don't aim the rifle at him or he'll kill you, Joe," Sheriff Herman growled as he came out of the bil­lowing curtain of rain with another man at his side.

  This just as the lightning flashed once more, to illuminate the scene out front of the livery. Which caused a number of the men on both sides of the street to advance from their sentry positions.

  "This is John Payne, the vet who'll take a look at your horse, Edge," the sheriff said as a dozen or so men closed in on the front of the stable. This as the thunder crackled and rolled.

  All, save for Herman and Payne, fingered their guns. The sheriff had his hands deep in the pock­ets of his sodden duster, while the overcoated vet­erinarian held a heavy bag with both hands.

  "Glad he’ll be in good hands, feller," the half-breed said with a nod to the young and nervous-looking animal doctor, as he led the mare out into the slightly easing storm.

  "That's Frank Benson's horse you're stealin', mister," Herman growled as Payne went quickly and with a sigh of relief into the shelter of the liv­ery.

  "Nah, it's the mare, Eddie," Joe pointed out. "Mary's horse."

  "Reckon stealin' from a new widow is maybe even worse them stealin' from the new dead," Her­man answered.

  "Hey, there's a whole bundle of money in here," Payne called. "Has to be two hundred dollars at least, I'd say."

  "For your services," Edge said into the stable. Then looked toward the lawman as he swung up astride the mare. "And a deposit against me bringing the horse back."

  There were some growls of discontent among the group of armed lumbermen, which were cur­tailed when the sheriff snapped:

  "You've got one heck of a nerve, Edge!"

  "Yeah, feller."

  "You said you'd stick around."

  "After I've found the dog, I'll be back."

  "I told him the dog'd be back at old Barney Gal­ton's claim, Eddie," Joe explained, ready to be apologetic if it was the wrong thing to have said.

  "I'm gettin' to be friggin' weary of you and that animal, mister!" Herman snarled.

  "So why don't you go and bed down for a while, sheriff," the half-breed answered evenly as he heeled the mare slowly forward and with a tug of the reins headed him eastward. "Best thing for a man that's dog tired."

  Chapter Thirteen

  Edge was grim faced as he rode the chestnut mare along the storm-lashed street. Not because he was aware of the possibility that the Lakeview lawman might feel an irresistible impulse to try to stop the departure. Instead, his dour mood was dictated by his feelings for the big German shepherd as he visualized the dog—sodden and shiv­ering with cold and fear—arriving on the familiar territory of the claim across the lake in search of a comforting place to shelter from the storm. Per­haps so crazed with irrational terror of the thun­der that his canine brain was unable to retain memories of the recent past. So he would prowl the claim in search of Barney Galton, who —during many other storms—had maybe known how to calm the dog.

  Scratching and howling at the door of the cabin. Which was thrown open to reveal the substantial form of Janet Galton standing on the threshold. Her brain swamped by a vivid memory of the dog when it was poised to attack. This as she aimed the double-barrel shotgun at the pathetically afraid animal. And squeezed both trig­gers.

  Edge was off the end of the street and riding along the spur that joined the main trail out of Lakeview. Out of sight of Eddie Herman and the lumbermen who were determined to avenge the tragic killing of Frank Benson. The half-breed made a conscious effort to rid his mind of the image of the dog's death, and to concentrate his at­tention on following the trail in the near dark of the stormy afternoon.

  It could well be that the three revenge-eager gunmen were waiting in the timber somewhere just off the trail he rode. Expecting a posse to come after them despite the bad weather. With or without Edge along. Ready to ambush the group if he was among the riders, or to let them pass and backtrack to Lakeview if he wasn't. Hardly able to believe his stupidity and their luck when he ap­peared entirely alone.

  The pace had to be slow along the trail turned by the rain into an unmoving river of mud, and the half-breed needed constantly to check his an­ger and frustration. He found it increasingly diffi­cult to keep his mind uncluttered by futile imag­inings concerning the fate of the dog who had shared his life for so short a time.

  Perhaps the German shepherd had never made it back to
the claim. Was off the trail behind Edge now. Shot dead or worse—injured and dying—by the three friends of Al Falcon who had mistaken his fear of the storm for an intent to attack as the dog sprang out of the night.

  Or had reached the claim. Where Janet Galton and her husband were no longer the only poten­tial dangers. Lee Galton was over there on the other side of Mirror Lake now. With Max Webster and the two old-timers and two kids who Galton had managed to get to ride with him around to the claim. Any one of them might mistake the dog's intent and blast a bullet into the animal.

  Difficult to stem the rising tide of such useless thoughts, but not impossible. And he was alert enough to know when he was nearing the point where the track leading to the claim cut off the main trail. He steered the mare to the right side of the trail, peering through the slanting rain in search of the gap in the timber with the ancient sign that warned strangers to keep away.

  Full night was clamped over this area of the Montana Rockies by then and the electric storm was long gone beyond the high ridges to the west. But the wind blew just as hard as ever, veering and gusting, bitingly cold and heavy with icy raindrops.

  When Edge reached the cutoff track to the south side of the lake, though, he felt no colder or wetter than when he rode out of town. For over just the block or so from the livery to the open trail, without him being aware of it, the storm had unleashed the full weight of its discomfort on him. And he continued to be oblivious to the sodden touch of his clothing to his skin and the chill blast of needling rain against his face and hands as he paused beside the leaning sign with the burnt let­tering along the cross member. This as he be­came tensed to meet potential danger—sensing the proximity of somebody else on the trail he had just covered. Turning his horse to face back that way, narrowed eyes straining to see who was there. Knowing that he would fail to hear any­thing short of a gunshot against the beat of rain and the swish of the wind through the timber.

  A horse and rider. The rider hunched in the saddle, head bent to protect the face from the lash of the wind-driven rain. The sides of the head protected by a scarf that came out from under the brim of a Stetson to be tied under his chin. A black oilskin slicker draping the frame. No gun in sight, so Edge kept the barrel of the Winchester resting lightly across the horn of his saddle, aimed into the trees, as he allowed the tension to drain out of him.