Ten Grand

by George G. Gilman

  “I don’t see you shedding tears.”

  “Weeping women have no right in this part of the country,” she came back. “Will anybody cry for you if I shoot you?”

  Edge liked the word if. He thought fleetingly of Gail back in Peaceville, felt an odd kind of resentment that she would mourn him. She was a link with the past and he was a man for whom the past was a dead thing. It did not exist, so therefore must be dead-unless there were memories to keep it alive. The thought of Gail triggered off other recollections and Edge suddenly shut his mind to them. Now was what mattered: this woman with this gun discussing his death.

  “Nobody,” he answered.

  She nodded, happy with his answer. Perhaps feeling less alone because there was at least one other fellow human being on earth in similar circumstances. She raised the rifle and her finger whitened on the trigger as she drew a bead on the star. Edge prepared his muscles for a sideways leap, but suddenly the muzzle dropped and the rifle crack sent a bullet thudding into the ground between his spread feet.

  “That’s to show I could have plugged you good,” she told him, holding the rifle in one hand, low at her side, offering no threat.

  Edge holstered the Remington and moved slowly across to her, grinning. Not until he stopped immediately in front of her, his head at the same height as her own, did she recognize the expression as a parody, see the viciousness shining in the eyes. As one of his hands ripped the rifle from her grasp the other moved as a blur, back and forth, knuckles and palm slapping with force into each of her cheeks. She accepted the beating without flinching, her eyes dull, lips set in a firm line that barred any sound of pain. Finally, Edge stopped, breathing deeply from the exertion, watching the bruises rise on her thin face.

  “I met men like you before,” she said without emotion. “They done worse than that to me.”

  Edge nodded, acknowledging his belief of her words. A beating was not a new experience for this woman. Edge thought she had taken so many that she would miss them if they stopped.

  “I get better as I go along,” Edge said wryly.

  The woman shrugged her thin shoulders. “I’m a woman and I got the better of you, a man. You couldn’t let it rest. Where you headed, mister?”

  The shot and the beating might never have happened. The words were spoken in a conversational tone, as if they were strangers who had met accidentally and were passing the time of day.

  “My business,” Edge replied.

  “I got no money and only a few supplies,” she answered. “It’s a bad country for a woman alone.”

  Edge spat, and reached up his hand again, gently this time. His exploring fingers felt her scrawny neck, travelled down over her narrow shoulders, formed a cup over one small, hard breast, traversed the protrusions of her rib cage and halted on the taut flatness of her belly. She submitted tacitly to the assault of his hand. Like the beating, it was something she had been forced to accept many times before. Edge stepped back.

  “I got delicate skin,” he said sardonically, “I could cut myself on you.”

  It got no reaction. “I got other uses,” she said. “I cook good and whenever you get mad at anything, you can beat me. You were going south when Luke made his play. I’m heading for Mexico.”

  “I travel light.”

  “I won’t be no trouble.” For the first time the woman revealed a positive emotion, her features forming a tacit plea. “Just to the next town.”

  “What if there ain’t no man there so hard-up he’d take you in?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  “Go and get the horses,” Edge told her. “Just the best two.”

  She had been holding her breath for his decision, and let it out with a small gasp as she turned and started back up the slope, towards a craggy column of rock. Edge went over to the dead horse, unfastened her girth and dragged off his saddle and bedroll. He dusted off the Henry and was reloading the Remington when the woman emerged from around the rock, started down the slope leading two stallions, a big bay and a smaller piebald. They were both saddled, but carried no bedrolls.

  “What’s your name?” Edge asked as the woman approached.

  “Amy,” she answered.

  “Pretty,” he said, holstering the Remington. “Don’t match your looks.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “They call me Edge.”

  “It suits,” she told him shortly.

  Edge sat down, back against a rock and tipped his hat forward over his eyes, just enough so that he could see the lower half of her body, would know if she went for any of the dead men’s guns or her own Harmonica which was resting across the back of the dead horse.

  “Back up your claim to be a cook,” he told her. “I don’t like what you pull out of the pot, I’ll slice off those hard little titties of yours and see if they tender in the cooking.”

  He watched her ground tether the horses, then collect brush and make a fire. She got the makings of a meal from the saddlebags of the bay and water from the bottles on the piebald. Then she crouched down beside the pot and began to sing softly as she stirred its contents. Her speaking voice was harsh, with a rasp to it, but when she sang. it took on a sweetness and clarity that caused Edge to raise his hat brim, look at her face. But he dropped it again, for she was still as ugly as ever.

  As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,

  As I walked out in Laredo one day,

  I spied a poor cowboy all wrapped in white linen.

  All wrapped in white linen,

  As cold as the clay.

  I see by your outfit that …

  “You from Texas?” Edge asked, cutting off the woman in mid-song.

  “No. Why?”

  “That’s where Laredo is.”

  “I just like the song,” she answered, continuing to stir the pot, which was now giving off an appetizing aroma that stirred Edge’s taste buds. “I’m from the state of Maine. How about you?”

  “My business,” he answered and the woman bent over her cooking, choosing to hum rather than sing. Edge found himself almost hypnotized by the gentleness of the sound, felt his lids lowering and fought them up again several times before allowing the tune and the heat of the day to lull him into a shallow sleep.

  He came out of it with the speed of a whip lash when fingers raised the brim of his hat, his hand streaking out to grip a thin wrist as his other hand flashed to the back of his neck, stayed there without drawing the razor when he heard the cry of half surprise, half pain, saw Amy’s gaping mouth and wide eyes.

  “Oh, lady …” he breathed.

  “I got you unawares again,” she said. “You want to hit me?”

  He let go of her wrist, saw that in her other hand she held a metal bowl that steamed and gave off an aroma that raised saliva to his dry mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “Beef stew and potatoes,” she told him, thrusting the bowl forward. The spoon was already in it.

  He took the food and began to eat as she straightened, hands on her hips. “Well?” she asked in a tone that indicated she already knew the verdict.

  Edge grimaced. “Not bad. Get away from me. Your ugly mug is spoiling my appetite.”

  It was delicious.

  The woman ate little, Edge scraping the pot clean. Then he mounted and set off, leaving her to rush the task of cleaning the campsite, gallop in his wake before she lost sight of him. When she did catch up with him, he on the bay, she astride the piebald, she rode alongside, keeping a distance of several feet between the two horses.

  The heat did not seem to get any less as the afternoon lengthened, and the stew had been highly seasoned. Edge drank long and often from the canteens hung on the bay’s saddle, emptied one and was halfway through the other before he noticed Amy’s dry lips. He glanced at her canteens.

  “Don’t you get thirsty?”

  “No,” she said, the word’s rattling in her parched throat.

  Edge wheeled his horse and tugged on the rein
s, bringing him close to the woman. He reached out and under the dull, watchful eyes of Amy hooked her canteens clear, shook them one at a time and heard no sound from within. With a snort of rage he hurled them away and lashed out with his hand, his wrist chopping at the woman’s throat. She gasped and fell backwards out of the saddle, feet coming clear of the stirrups so that she slid easily over the rump of the animal and thudded to the ground. He vaulted from his own mount and reached down for her, pulled her to her feet as her hands went too her throat and she gasped for breath.

  “You stupid cow,” he hurled at her, and drove a fist into her stomach, doubling her over. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I … I … thought …” she gasped, then went over sideways as Edge punched her on the side of the head.

  “I’ve been guzzling my water like there was a lake round every turn,” he yelled, launching a kick into the small of her back. “I thought you had two full canteens.”

  Amy looked up at him with the eyes of a faithful dog who knows the master’s anger is well-deserved.

  “I used my last for the stew,” she managed to force out through her pain. “I didn’t tell you. I thought you might leave me.”

  “Lady, you thought right,” he told her and prepared to kick her again, held off when he saw she made no attempt to defend herself. He turned in disgust and walked to where his horse waited, climbed into the saddle. He shook his canteen, sighed when he heard the meager sloshing of the short supply inside.

  “I don’t want no water,” Amy called, pulling herself to her feet, still half doubled, one hand on her stomach, the other at her throat.

  “You ain’t getting any,” Edge spat at her, and heeled his mount forward into a fast gallop.

  By the time the woman was able to haul her aching body up into the saddle of the piebald and encourage him forward, every step he took sending a fresh sweep of pain through her, Edge was just a dot in the distance, a black speck at the head of a long cloud of grey dust. She followed, noticing for the first time that Edge was following a trail, leaving single fresh tracks on top of the older sign of many horses.

  Soon, the ground began to rise, become rockier, the old and new tracks more difficult to see. The figure in the distance was raising less dust and often went from sight as the terrain dipped and rose. With each mile Amy covered, her pain lessened, her ill-used body calling upon the experience of many past mistreatments to fight the effects of the latest onslaught. She was able to move faster and since the man ahead knew better than to push his mount at the limit for more than short stretches of country, she narrowed the distance that separated them. But she did not get too close. She endeavored to maintain a gap just outside the rifle range and often she saw Edge turn in the saddle to look back at her but he made no move to come back or race ahead.

  Once, she muttered, “You bastard,” the words rasping out over her parched lips when she saw him raise the canteen to his mouth to drink in a gesture of torment.

  But the afternoon was drawing to a close and the cool promise of evening offered her some relief. So she held her distance, afraid of facing a night alone in the desolate country, hating the man ahead but at the same time drawing comfort from his impassive back.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  NIGHT pounced suddenly, like a thief to steal the light from the day, and toss it back as a pale luminescence which gave the terrain a freakish appearance, turning rock formations into frightening giants and the sparse vegetation into shapes of evil intent. Edge, a man with no imagination, found in the night only another difficult: the tracks of the Mexican bandits already faint were even harder to see in the pale moonlight. But he kept moving, heading along a broad gully which he knew the men would have had to travel to continue their trek south.

  It was cold now, the dry cold of the desert night which cuts through the thin clothes of those who travel with attire suitable only for the heat of the day. So Edge halted his horse near a cleft the gully wall and untied his bedroll, took out a heavy blanket to drape around his shoulders. He had re-packed the roll when he heard the hoof beats coming up the gully, tossed it back across his mount when the woman’s shout rang out. He grinned wryly, figuring the darkness scared her more than he did: that she was prepared to take anything he handed out just so long as she could be near him.

  He waited, saw the white of the piebald’s marking, then the paleness of the woman’s face. The horse’s shoes sent sparks flying as she reined him into a sliding, crabwise halt in front of Edge.

  “We got company,” she said breathlessly, sliding from the saddle, showing no sign of her former pain.

  Edge’s eyes became hooded. “How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Men?”

  “Men.”

  “How close?”

  “Half a mile,” she answered sharply, then shrugged. “Maybe less. Damn moonlight plays tricks with your eyes.”

  “Riding fast?”

  “Slow at first,” she breathed. “Spotting our tracks. Then they saw me. Coming like bats out of hell now.”

  Edge glanced around, saw the cleft. “In here,” he commanded and led his own horse into the opening.

  The woman came in close behind. Edge took the reins from her, unbooted the Henry and slid her rifle from his bedroll, tossed it to her. He beckoned for her to follow him and went out of the cleft, broke into a run to the opposite side of the gully, started to climb as the sound of thundering hoofs announced the approach of the newcomers. He reached a shelf of rock and stretched down a hand for the woman, hauled her up beside him.

  “You’re going to beat me again,” she said in a hushed whisper as the two riders appeared, galloped on down the gully then reined to a rearing halt as they realized the fresh tracks had disappeared. One of the horses in the cleft whinnied and stamped a foot, the riders taking this as a signal to slide hurriedly from their saddles, unbooting their rifles with practiced skill.

  Edge watched them dive into shadow. “Why so?” he asked in low tones.

  “This gun,” she answered, laying it on the ground. “The slug I put between your feet. It was the last one.”

  Edge sighed. “You’re right.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to beat you again.”

  He had not moved his eyes off the patch of shadow where the men had taken refuge, saw movement now as one of them edged forward, going back towards the cleft where the horses now held their silence. He saw a glint of silver, high up. When the second man joined the first, a stray moonbeam produced the same effect.

  “Somebody fingered me,” Edge muttered.

  “What?” Amy asked.

  “Those guys are marshals,” he answered absently. “Wearing their tin on their hats.”

  “You ain’t the law then?”

  “Not any more I ain’t,” he told her, and ripped the badge from his shirt, pressed it into her hand. “Here, have a souvenir.”

  “Thanks a bunch.” She sneered. “I’ll treasure it and your memory ‘til my dying day.”

  “Maybe your day has come,” he said and squeezed the Henry’s trigger.

  The bullet spat chips from it rock close to the first marshal’s face and he went into a crouch as his partner dived for the ground.

  “Who’s up there?” a voice called.

  “Santa Claus come early this year,” Edge answered. “Figure you won’t be around come Christmas.”

  “Funny,” Amy said drily.

  “Shut up,” Edge told her.

  “We’re US territorial marshals,” the spokesman from below called. “Your name Edge?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Throw down your gun and surrender,” came the response. “We got a warrant for you. You’ll get a fair trial. You’ll have a better chance with us than with the bounty hunters.”

  “You pass a couple of guys up north aways?” Edge asked.

  There was a pause. “You?”

  “I ain’t admitting nothing, but they didn’t die of pneumonia.”


  “You kill me,” Amy said.

  “How long you been telling fortunes?” he hissed from the side of his mouth.

  Amy glanced at him, huddled beneath the blanket and refrained from further comment. His bitter humor was a mere surface veneer, a transparent cover for the brutal killer beneath.

  “Give yourself up, Edge?” the marshal shouted.

  Edge’s answer was another rifle shot that drew a grunt of pain from below as it nicked skin from a creased brow. But the minor wound did not interfere with the man’s aim as a hail of bullets whistled upwards, chipping rock from above and below the shelf, causing Edge to draw back, the woman to roll herself into a ball. When the fusillade of firing died and Edge chanced a glance down he could no longer catch a glimpse of the lawmen. They had fired on the run, going for more secure places of concealment. A rifle cracked once and a flash from the cleft showed where it came from as Edge ducked back.

  He decided they had split up and that he would not see or hear from one of them until he was in a position to make a kill. Edge looked to his left and right, saw that the shelf upon which he and the woman were crouched narrowed away to nothing in one direction, continued flat and broad in the other. He looked up and saw a sheer face. Over to his right the incline got less steep, became potted with indentations, was host to some thick clumps of brush. Below, the marshal in the cleft opened up again and a hail of bullets forced Edge to interrupt his surveillance, draw back to the rear of the protective shelf. When the marshal had emptied his gun, took time to reload, Edge glanced to his right again, saw the second lawman running at a crouch up the slope, duck behind some brush.

  “I ain’t been smart,” he muttered.

  “We trapped?” the woman asked.

  “They know their jobs,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “I ain’t wanted by the law,” she said.

  “I’m fresh out of sympathy,” Edge told her and pressed the Remington into her hand, not taking his eyes off the brush where the marshal was hiding. “When I give the signal, pour lead down on to that guy below. Don’t stop until the gun’s empty.”