“Ed, that’s –” Tom started.
“I know what it is,” Ed snapped, his voice filled with a sudden cold anger. “It’s my way. You struck out back there and now it’s my turn. Only the game’s changed. If you don’t like it, the ball park’s due east from here. But we been away a long time and it’ll be cold. We figure to warm us before we make a home run.”
Again, the five riders moved on ahead of Tom, angling away to the side so that they would not approach the canyon mouth from the exposed front. Tom held back for only a few moments before going forward to rejoin them.
Following Ed’s instructions, they dismounted a hundred yards from their objective and drew the Winchesters and Springfields from their saddle boots.
“We need someone to hold the horses,” Ed whispered, looking pointedly at his brother.
The others glanced in the same direction and when Tom failed to reply, each man passed his reins to the deposed leader. Tom accepted them and cleared his throat. “Anything could happen in there.”
Ed’s puffy face showed a grin but his whispered voice was charged with evil. “Right, Tom. But be sure you hang around to find out what we have to leave in a hurry, we want to find the horses ready and waiting.”
The others treated Tom to a series of steady, hard-eyed stares before moving off in the wake of Ed, the group becoming silhouetted against the fire’s glow for a few moments. Then they were lost against the deep shadows of the canyon wall.
Colonel Haven snored gently in the deep-seated armchair, his smooth-shaven face ruddy from the heat of the fire. He was not armed. Eight of his men were sprawled out under blankets on the far side of the fire. The ninth trooper - the boy who was so convinced his commanding officer was mad - sat hugging his knees, a blanket draped over his shoulders. He had only recently fed fresh brush to the fire, which was consuming the kindling with an angry crackling sound. The noise covered the occasional careless footfall of the approaching men.
Occasionally the boy looked up, glancing across the sleeping troopers with their rifles, still in the shoulder belts, resting nearby. Then he would” stare out of the canyon into the darkness of the desolate wastes beyond. He did this merely to prevent himself dozing: nobody expected trouble but the Colonel was not the kind of officer to forego the tradition of posting sentry duties.
“Evening, soldier boy,” a voice called softly.
The young trooper snapped up his head and gasped, reaching for the Sharps carbine laid out between his feet But he stayed his hand, every muscle in his body frozen by fear.
The five men stood in a line, with Ed Ball at the centre. It was he who had spoken and now he raised a finger to his lips, urging quiet. The muzzle of Ed’s Winchester was aimed at the boy’s head. The other men covered the sleeping troopers.
“Where you headed, soldier boy?” Ed asked, his voice a whisper.
The sentry made a harsh, low gurgling sound in his throat, then managed to force out the words. “Fort Bridger, Department of Utah.”
“Payroll in the wagons?” Ed asked.
“With our luck?” Bolan muttered.
The trooper shook his head and dragged his eyes away from the intruders to glance at the cavalrymen. Not one of them even stirred in his sleep. He wondered if he would be court-martialed. “Personal stuff for the Colonel,” he said. “Being shipped to a new posting.”
“Valuable?” Ed asked, his eyes greedy.
“I don’t know about stuff like that,” the trooper replied.
“We’re wasting time,” Pete Bean said anxiously. “Let’s do it.”
The young trooper began to sweat. Drops ran into his eyes and stung. He wanted to wipe the sweat away but couldn’t. He didn’t want the men to think he was crying.
“I don’t go for messing around with the army,” Bolan said.
“Who’ll know it was us?” Ed asked easily and shot the boy. The 44/40 bullet drilled through the youngster’s right eye and spewed blood from the side of his head as he was flipped over backwards.
The eight men who had been sleeping were jerked into awareness and four died a split-second after waking, the bullets drilling into their defenseless bodies before they could move. Another trooper - a veteran of countless surprise attacks - rolled away as a reflex action and scooped up his rifle. He had a fleeting impression of a figure leaping towards him and fired. The busted sergeant took the bullet in his throat and coughed blood into the veteran’s face as he fell. Kelton, Bean and Ed Ball fired simultaneously and the veteran’s head exploded into fragments of blood-dripping flesh.
The eighth man died in screaming agony, a bullet from Lambert taking him in the shoulder and spinning him as he got to his feet: then Bolan’s Springfield sent a non-fatal bullet into the trooper’s thigh. The man, calling his wife’s name, toppled into the fire, his hair and uniform bursting into flames.
The trooper with a scar over his nose drew a bead on Ed and pulled the trigger a moment after the man in the fire screamed his final breath. The metallic click was very loud in the sudden silence. Even the fire had ceased to crackle, as if content with the new taste of human flesh. The trooper stared down in horror at his useless rifle and then clawed at it with trembling fingers.
“No use, soldier,” Ed said.
The man was on his knees. He dropped the rifle and clasped his hands together. His lips moved in a silent prayer. Five rifles cracked in unison. The left side of the trooper’s chest became shiny with blossoming patches of blood which merged into one enormous stain as he toppled over.
“Who’ll know it was us?” Ed asked again as the men, still formed into a line, raked their eyes across the sprawled bodies of the dead troopers.
Kelton wrinkled his nose against the sweet odor of charred flesh and the biting stench of drifting gunsmoke. “It was fun,” he said. “But we didn’t come out here for the hunting. Let’s see what we got ourselves.”
He stepped forward, the heel of his boot cracking the bones in the outstretched hand of a dead trooper. Ed, anxious to assert his authority over the older men, moved quickly across the blood-soaked, body-strewn campsite and beat Kelton to the far side of the fire. He pulled up short, staring incredulously.
“Holy cow, will you look at that!” he exclaimed.
The others matched his expression as they saw the Colonel sitting amid his alfresco luxury. But he was no longer enjoying it. A stray bullet had passed through the leaping flames of the fire and angled into Haven’s neck. Blood was still trickling from the jagged wound to stain the stiff collar of his jacket.
“Must be the guy who owns the stuff in the wagons,” Kelton growled. “Don’t reckon he needs it anymore.”
Ed’s fleshy face broke out into a grin “Right, Grant,” he said, moving forward and using the stock of his Winchester to lever the inert form from the chair. He dropped down into the still warm seat. “I guess we inherit it, uh?”
Kelton nodded and eyed the overweight youngster sourly. “It just better be worth having, Ed,” he warned.
Bolan and Lambert had already climbed up into the rear of one of the wagons. “Well, it sure is different,” Bolan yelled.
CHAPTER TWO
THE piebald picked his weary way among the fallen rocks at the foot of a towering butte, avoiding the patches of frozen snow which glittered in early morning sunlight. He was a game animal but worth no more than the two dollars his rider paid for him. A horse of that age could not be expected to carry a full-grown man over long stretches of winter Badlands without frequent stops for rest.
The rider realized this and was aware that the time was fast approaching when he must allow his mount another respite. He could hear the rushing sound of fast-flowing water ahead and he ran an olive skinned hand down the animal’s neck: a sign that he understood his mount’s distress and intended to do something about it.
The gesture was out of keeping with the appearance of the man in the saddle. He had a tall, deceptively lean frame, for his body was packed with more than two hundred po
unds of weight. Of the powerful kind, with muscle allowing no room for excess fat. His face was long with the high cheekbones, flared nostrils and burnished skin-tones of a Latin ancestry. These features, together with the shoulder-length jet black hair which framed them were, in fact, the unmistakable signs of a half Mexican parentage. They had come from his father. But the eyes which surveyed the world with cool detachment from between narrowed lids were ice-blue, like arctic water in sunlight. These revealed the Scandinavian forebears of his mother. The mouth line, too, was modeled upon a European pattern, but the way in which the lips were held in a thin, straight line - ready to curl back and show gleaming teeth in an animalistic snarl -was a product of the man’s own life.
For this man was the one who had come to be called Edge. And Edge was the kind of man who might show placid gentleness to his horse one moment and in the next cold-bloodedly kill a man - or woman.
He saw the woman as he rounded the butte, and reined in the horse, his right hand dropping to grip the butt of his holstered Remington. It was a reflex action at coming upon the unexpected and his coolness of mind enabled him to halt the draw. His hooded eyes raked to left and right, taking in every detail of the river bank scene, eager for a sign of danger. It looked innocent enough.
The woman was a redhead in her mid-twenties, with a pretty face still retaining the fresh bloom of youth. She was standing towards the middle of the shallow river with the crystal clear water rushing around her legs at a mid-thigh level. Her slender, high-breasted body was blue tinged with the cold for she was stark naked. As Edge watched her, from a sideways on position, the firm swells of her brown crested breasts abruptly expanded with an intake of breath. Then she thrust herself down into a crouch and emitted a cry of half pain, half pleasure. The frothing water tugged at her long hair as if trying to drag her head under the surface.
The river, curving around in an arc to follow the foot of the butte before widening to meander across an undulating area of time-smoothed rock, was about twenty feet across at the point where the woman was bathing. On the far bank from where Edge watched there was a small fire with a steaming pot set amid the red embers. It gave off an appetizing aroma of boiling coffee into the clear, frosty air. A horse was hobbled nearby and, closer to the fire, was a saddle and blanket roll and a heap of clothes.
A splashing sound from the river drew Edge’s attention back to the woman and he saw her try to stand up. She was almost knocked over by the swift current, but flailed her arms and managed to retain her balance.
“Can’t understand why they call these the Badlands,’ he said easily as he heeled his horse forward to the edge of the bank. “Look pretty good from where I am.”
The woman swung around to face him, her eyes wide with shock. Her mouth dropped open as if she intended to scream, but no sound emerged. She was too stunned to move for a moment, but then she tried to cover herself. One hand went between her legs as she folded the other arm across her breasts.
“You –” she screamed and struggled to think of a suitable name for him.
Edge showed his teeth in an appreciative grin. “Your arms didn’t develop so well as some other parts of you, ma’am,” he pointed out.
She put both arms across her chest, realized what this meant and crouched down in the freezing water. “Peeping Tom!” she managed to fling at him.
Edge heeled his horse forward into the river, angling across to where the woman was crouching. She gasped and thrust herself deeper, until just her head was above the surface again. He halted and grinned down at her. “You ain’t really mad at me, ma’am,” he teased. “If you were really angry you’d go red, or maybe even purple. Fact is, you’re turning blue.”
“Oh, you beast!” she screamed. “You get away from me. And you keep your back turned this way.”
“There’s one thing I’d do that for,” he told her.
Her teeth were chattering and the cold was now merely painful. It showed in the green depths of her large eyes. “I’ve ... I’ve got … no mon-money,” she stuttered.
Edge nodded. “Always nice to meet a pretty woman and find out there’s common ground,” he said. “But I was thinking that right now I’d rather have a cup of hot coffee than a thousand dames with no clothes on.”
“Help your ... yourself, mister,” she said, the anger leaving her as she had to concentrate against fainting with the cold.
“Obliged,” Edge said and continued on across the river.
As he dismounted and loosened his saddle cinch, then hobbled his horse on the patch of tough grass beside the woman’s mount, he heard the redhead wading ashore. He was careful to keep his back to her as he squatted close to the fire and poured the strong coffee into one of two mugs.
“I don’t like being called a dame,” the woman complained suddenly, between bouts of shivering as she toweled herself down.
Edge sipped the steaming coffee, enjoying the warmth it suffused throughout his body. His hooded eyes studied the ground, close to the edge of the river where there were patches of mud. More than one horse had crossed at this point and he decided the right number was two.
“Politest name I know for a female who takes off her clothes in a public place,” he said absently, hearing the rustle of silk against skin as she pulled on her petticoats.
He looked up but within his range of vision in this direction there was only the bleak terrain of gentle rises and slopes that offered no cover in rifle range. So he turned around. The woman was in the process of putting on her dress, but she was already decently covered.
“Public place, my eye!” she shot back. “You must be the only man within fifty miles of here. How was I to know you’d come lumbering by just as I was taking a bath?”
“Man’s got to have some good luck sometimes,” he answered, surveying the countryside to the west.
It was much more rugged in that direction. Cliffs and outcrops of rock, with some thick brush growing in close to the river on both banks. And the morning shadow thrown by the towering butte would further aid somebody who wanted to get in close to the campsite without being seen.
“Your good luck was my bad,” she answered with a spiteful glance at him as she shrugged into a buckskin jacket, the color matching her eyes and contrasting with the vivid red of her dress.
Edge looked at her left hand and saw no rings or marks where rings had been. “Saving the view for someone special?” he asked.
“That’s none of your business,” she snapped, and moved towards him. She crouched down and snatched up the second mug.
“Maybe,” Edge allowed, and shot a glance away from the campsite again. “Just making conversation.”
“Well make it about something else,” she retorted, pouring herself a mug of coffee. “My personal life’s my own.”
Edge shrugged. “Okay. But I didn’t think you’d mind telling me the secrets of your life.” He grinned. “Considering I’ve seen some pretty private parts already.”
“You beast!” she shrieked, and suddenly hurled the mug of scalding coffee at him as she burst into tears.
Edge ducked to the side and heard the sizzle of liquid in the fire. The viciousness which a violent life had injected into his bloodstream welled up inside him. The woman was rooted to the spot by fear as she saw the slitted eyes and the thin gleam of his teeth between drawn back lips.
“I’m sorry!” she rasped, clasping her throat with both hands.
The mean streak that was always just below the surface shell of Edge broke through into an act of hate as he raised his hand to launch a powerful blow that might have broken the woman’s neck. But the sharp crack of the rifle shot blasted a hole in Edge’s anger. Sparks showered up from where the bullet penetrated the embers.
“John!” the woman breathed, relief flooding strength into her muscles so that she was able to scamper away from Edge.
“He the one?” Edge asked softly, turning his head to pick out the sharpshooter.
“No,” the woman gasped. “My br
other.”
Edge, his anger dead, his brain working coolly again, clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “A brother can be worse,” he murmured.
The rifleman emerged from the deep shadow of the butte. He sat astride a tall chestnut stallion which he guided across the river with his knees. Both hands were occupied with a bolt-action Remington-Keene repeater which was aimed steadily at Edge’s chest as the half-breed rose to his feet.
“Do I have reason to kill him, Elizabeth?” the rifleman asked as he came clear of the river and slid smoothly from the saddle, without using his hands or allowing his aim to waver.
“My goodness, no!” the woman said hurriedly.
The two men surveyed each other across ten feet of clear morning air. Edge saw a man of about his own age, but a good three inches shorter and more slightly built. The woman had collected all the good looks in the family and her brother had a homely, long-nosed, sunken-cheeked face. His eyes were the same attractive color as his sister’s, but spaced too closely together and were too small. He was dressed, like Edge, in a fur-lined jacket and denim pants tucked into riding boots. But instead of a low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat he wore an old fashioned trapper’s hat of fur. Thin red hair poked out over his ears. His smooth hands and pale complexion marked him as a man away from his element out here in the wilderness of the Dakotas. But his skilled horsemanship, accuracy with a rifle and the firmness with which he kept Edge covered warned the half-breed that this was no tenderfoot.
“What do you want here, mister?” he asked.
“Rest up my horse and have a cup of coffee,” Edge replied easily. “Seems you and your sister staked first claim to this spot. She invited me to stay.”
Bloody Summer Page 2
