Edge kicked dirt into the embers of the fire and swung up into the saddle. “I’m sure gonna do more than clip his wings, ma’am,” he said softly.
The woman struggled upright and staggered out of the stream, unmindful of her total nudity as the remnants of her underwear dropped away. She fell to her knees beside the mounted half-breed and leaned back, spreading her arms in an attitude of wanton submission.
“Please?” she begged. “I came to ask for your help. Not for nothing. To tell you there is twenty-five thousand dollars in the cathedral fund. It’s all yours if you’ll rid our town of the sinners. But please—do not return to Paradise to kill Angel Francis. Please, I beg you. Take me. Take my body. Do whatever you want with me. But spare him.”
The half-breed had not shaved in three days. The bristles made an ugly rasping sound as he dragged the back of his hand across his jaw. He eyed the arched body of the woman, the swells and indentations of her pale flesh running with sun-sparkling beads of stream water. Abruptly, she trembled again. But it was short and sharp and he knew from the way her lips parted and her eyes took on a misty sheen that it was not a spasm of fear this time. He recalled the appraising glances the woman had given him back in town and realized she was tremulously excited: uncontrollably aroused as she committed herself to sexual fulfillment after long years of disciplined frustration.
“Please, give me your answer,” she begged, her voice a hoarse whisper.
“You’ve got a deal—”
A sound that was half a laugh, half a sob, choked from her throat. Her body sagged and then she fell back, splaying her naked thighs wide apart. Her breasts flattened, and rose and fell rapidly with her gasp-like breathing.
“On the money,” the half-breed continued, surveying the submissive body coolly. “But not on the other.”
“You … you … you … beast!” Sarah screamed at him as she struggled to her feet. She glared at him, her fury as naked as her body. “Don’t you have any feelings?”
“Sure do, ma’am,” Edge replied easily, as unmoved by her anger as he had been by her passion. “Right now I’ve got an urge to kill a man and an itch to collect twenty-five grand.”
The softly spoken words penetrated the confusion of lust and rage clouding her mind. And she suddenly recalled her reason for seeking out Edge. She looked down at her nakedness, hoping it had all been a ghastly daydream. Then she gave a shriek of horror and scampered to snatch up her mutilated clothing. She held the razor-slashed gown and undergarments in front of her. Above the drab black of the material, her blonde hair framed a face that was vivid crimson.
“Dear Lord, how horrible!” she gasped with a tremor of revulsion. “Did it really happen?”
The half-breed clucked the stallion forward, heading him towards the trees. “Just like you remember it,” he told her.
She shook her head, as if to clear it. Then she hastily discarded the tattered underwear and shrugged into the dress, coat-fashion, clutching it with her hands at waist and breasts. She ran awkwardly for her horse.
“Wait, I’m coming!” she called after the half-breed as he steered the stallion into the timber.
His tone was sardonic as the words emerged from the trees: “Figured you would after all that hard breathing.”
CHAPTER SIX
THERE were no frigates lurking on the far side of the bluff around the bend in the river. The Southern Glory with John Scott at the wheel churned through the morning brightness unmolested, putting Richmond further behind her with each turn of the big stern wheel. The trooper enjoyed the novelty of steering the slow-moving ironclad along the sun-sparkling river with the pleasant, peaceful countryside of Virginia spread out on either side. He yawned a great deal.
Standing their watches at bow and stern, Rhett and Bell felt the tensions of the past few days, climaxed by the blood run out of Richmond, ebb from their weary bodies as they basked in the warm sunlight. Their eyelids drooped.
In the engine room, Douglas had come to realize that the old-timer could be trusted as long as he was allowed to relive his past. The heat from the furnace hastened the corporal’s drowsiness.
Inside the citadel, Myron watched with hollow eyes as Forrest used the razor to prise the bullet from Hedges’ shoulder. Seward watched the Rebel deserter. The Captain remained unconscious.
“Ricochet,” Forrest said pensively as he examined the misshapen bullet, rolling it between a bloodied thumb and finger. “Didn’t have enough speed left to go in deep. Made a mess of a few veins which is why the bastard bled like a stuck pig.
“Maybe the mortification will set in and the bastard’ll die,” Myron muttered dully.
Forrest used the slight flexibility of the razor’s blade to flick the bullet across the citadel deck. Then he indicated the medical supplies chest which had been found in a locker. “Pour some antiseptic in the hole and bandage him up, Billy,” he instructed wearily. “Somethin’ I gotta do.”
Seward went to the chore reluctantly and far from gently. A high scream of pain from Myron interrupted him. He whirled and his youthful face was suddenly split by a grin. Myron had been squatting on his haunches, but a vicious kick from Forrest had sent him sprawling out, flat on his back. The damaging boot was now pressing down on his throat, trapping him. The sergeant, his face contorted by a snarl, stooped down, brandishing the razor in front of Myron’s terrified eyes.
“You said something bad about our poor, wounded Captain,” Forrest rasped.
“Jesus, you been cursin’ him ever since you started diggin’ out the bullet,” Myron protested, his voice squeaky with pain.
“But I ain’t a Reb, Reb,” the sergeant countered. “Makes a difference.”
“He killed my brother! He killed Floyd!”
“He makes mistakes sometimes.” Forrest had moderated his voice to a tone of mock regret. “One day one of them is going to get him killed. But not today. Because the mistake of only killing one Reb when he could have killed two lets me have a crack of the whip—so to speak.”
“Please, sergeant?” Myron forced around the solid lump of fear that had risen into his already constricted throat.
“Fresh out of favors, Reb,” Forrest said evenly. “All I got left is unkind cuts.”
Myron screamed again and screwed his eyes tight shut as the blade plunged towards him. The steel point pierced his eyelid, penetrated the ball and then, by a flick of Forrest’s wrist, was angled into his brain. The emaciated body twitched once as the nerves spasmed into death. Then Myron lay utterly still.
“Terrific, Frank!” Seward gasped as Forrest straightened up, wiping the blood from the razor on his pants leg. “What did it feel like, pushing the blade in him.”
The sergeant spat on to the dead body. “What did it feel like when you put a mortar shell into those Rebs on the dock, Billy?”
“Good, Frank. Real good.” Grinning at the memory, Seward turned to finish dressing Hedges’ wound. The good humor evaporated and he swallowed hard.
The Captain was sitting up, hooded eyes flicking from the bloodied-faced dead man to the scowling Forrest. “And blasting cannon shells into a stone wall didn’t have the same charge, uh, sergeant?” he said softly. His face was still deathly pale beneath the heavy stubble.
Forrest seemed near hurling an angry retort, but brought himself under control. He ambled over to where Hedges sat and handed him the razor. “I joined this man’s army to kill the enemy, sir,” he replied. “He was a yellow-belly Johnnie Reb figurin’ to get brave on account of what you done to his brother. He was the enemy and it was gettin’ to be a long time since I killed any like him.”
Rhett pushed his head through one of the gun ports at the forward end of the citadel. “Won’t be so long before you get another chance, Frank!” he called, a tremor of nervousness in his voice. “There’s a frigging great steamship heading for us.”
“You want me to handle it, Captain?” Forrest asked.
Hedges wiped the razor again, ensuring every trace of
blood was off the blade, and thrust it into the pouch. Then he hauled himself to his feet, using Seward for support. “Check the situation, sergeant,” he ordered tersely. “I’ll be on deck as soon as I’m patched up.”
He turned his back on Seward, presenting the wound to him for attention. Forrest grunted, picked up his Spencer from where it leaned against a stores bin and headed for the hatchway to the outer deck. Seward had already treated the bullet wound with antiseptic. Now he applied a dressing pad and began to wind bandage around the injured shoulder.
“The Reb was makin’ threatenin’ noises, Captain,” the trooper explained. “If one of us didn’t get him, he’d have creamed you first chance he got, that’s for sure.”
“It’s a great comfort to know I’m surrounded by men who take such care of me,” Hedges rasped, gingerly pulling on his bloodstained shirt after the bandage was tied.
“Billy, get up here soon as you can!” Forrest yelled. “Bell and Rhett, get out of sight, for Christ sake. This is supposed to be a Reb navy tub! You look like friggin’ hobos!”
Seward grinned, “Sounds like slippin’ it to Myron did Frank a power of good, sir. He’s his old self again.”
“Yeah, surprising how a quick killing enriches a man,” Hedges replied softly as Rhett and Bell squeezed into the citadel through gun ports. “He gave you an order, trooper.”
“Yes, sir!” Seward snapped, grabbing his rifle and doubling out through the hatchway.
Hedges trailed him, more slowly, careful to keep his upper body still, for the slightest movement set off a fireball of pain in the injured shoulder. Before he stepped out into the bright sunlight he was sweating from the effort of forcing one weak step after another. He went down on one knee in the angle between the aft bulkhead of the citadel and the smokestack. From this position he could survey the river ahead, rest, and be in reasonable cover.
The ship plowing upriver towards the Southern Glory was still some way off. A mile at least. But close enough to be recognized as a powered clipper. Her sails were furled and black wood smoke wafted from her aft-mounted smokestack.
“What you reckon, Frank?” John Scott called back.
He and Seward had stationed themselves forward of the citadel and held their Spencers canted across the front of their bodies. The copy Colts jutted from the waistbands of their uniform pants. They were close enough to the forward gunports to duck into the cover of the armor plating if it proved necessary.
“Wait for the friggin’ order, trooper!” Forrest roared in his rank-pulling voice. Then he leaned through a side port in the pilothouse. There was a red indentation around his right eye from where he had held the telescope pressed tight against his flesh. “I figure they got river defenses someplace up ahead, Captain,” he said calmly. “Forts, maybe. That’s why they ain’t come after us or brought up some artillery pieces to blast us.”
“Been kind of quiet,” Hedges agreed. “What d’you read through the eyeglass, sergeant?”
“Cargo vessel, sir. Flying the British flag. Blockade runner. Armed with the same kind of guns we got. Looks quiet. Like they don’t expect us to be anything ‘cepting a Reb ironclad makin’ for sea.”
“So let’s give them a surprise,” Hedges said. “If you’re still in the mood, sergeant?”
“What do you think, Captain?” Forrest answered, splitting his lips for a grin. “Myron was just an appetite whetter, like they say. I’m about ready for a decent meal.”
“You’re a glutton for other men’s punishment, sergeant.” He returned the grin and at once re-established the familiar rapport that existed under battle conditions. “Whistle Douglas up into the citadel and tell the old man to keep stoking.” He raised his voice. “You troopers forward—inside.”
“Move it!” Forrest roared, letting every man within earshot know that he was with the Captain all the way—and that they had better be likewise.
“Anything special you want me to do?” the sergeant asked as Hedges ducked in through the hatchway.
“Just be ready to abandon ship damn fast,” Hedges answered.
“You mean jump over the side and start walkin’?” Forrest yelled.
“You’re only a cavalry sergeant,” Hedges called. “You ain’t got that much pull. Just swim like hell, or get blasted there.”
* * *
EDGE inched out on to execution rock, sliding along on his belly. Behind him, Angel Sarah used one hand to hold the dress together and with the other kept a tight grip on the reins of the two horses. She was well back from the rock overhang, safe from being skylined.
“What did they burn?” she rasped in a harsh whisper.
They had seen the pall of black smoke from several miles off—an ominous sign against the blue sky which marked the location of the valley. As they drew nearer, the smoke disintegrated as the fire burned out. But the smell of it was strong in their nostrils all the way to the crest of the valley’s western slope. Now, as Edge stretched out on the rocky vantage point, he saw the blackened remains of the field fire, no longer wisping with smoke but still emanating the dry, musky scent of charred crops.
“The fields,” he answered, taking in at a single glance the entire fire-razed area from the river to the edge of the town. “Slaughtered the beef, too. Cathedral got a little sooted up.”
Then his nostrils picked up another odor that was more cloying. A little from the dead cows, he guessed. But mostly from the bodies of the townspeople who had been left in the fields where they fell.
“The people?” she asked in a hoarse whisper, fearful of the answer. “The Earthly Angels?”
Edge had inched forward and was staring directly down upon the town, now in patchy shadow as the afternoon sun dipped behind the trees at the top of the valley slope. The scene was horrifying, but the clear blue eyes of the half-breed surveyed the tableau of human suffering with the same unemotional expression as when he had looked at the burned fields.
“Maybe fifteen or twenty have got their wings,” he reported as he wriggled back off the rock and stood up. “Too far off to see whether Francis is one of the high fliers.” He took the reins of the stallion from her and swung into the saddle.
“I’m praying that you may pull back from the brink of murder of Angel Francis,” she said earnestly as she mounted the gelding.
“But blasting the trappers and the Indians is okay, uh?” He moved towards the downward path by which he had left Paradise earlier.
“An eye for an eye,” Angel Sarah countered. “They are murderers themselves.”
“And it’s the Lord’s will,” he boomed in imitation of Arch Angel Luke’s sermonizing tones.
“You are right, but I fear you mock, sinner.”
The woman’s voice and attitude had changed, reverting to the stylized speech and earnestness that was common to the Earthly Angels. The naked woman, begging to be taken, back at the hollow could have been another person. It was as if the return to Paradise had a physical and emotional influence on her.
Two more Earthly Angels died as Edge steered the stallion down through the trees. They died hard, like the others before them: with high, thin, tremulous screams of agony that rose up the valley side and silenced the sounds of nature in the timber. Riding behind the half-breed, the woman became rigidly tense at each audible sign of suffering. But she said nothing, aware that Edge had his own good reasons for wanting to reach the town: that he was negotiating the steeply sloping ground as fast as was possible.
Just once, as they drew near to the cemetery in the grove, she interrupted a short space of calm between a dying scream and a burst of insane laughter. “All Indians are savages!” she hissed with low venom.
“Just a different color is all,” Edge muttered in reply, recalling a montage of savagery from the past: of brutal atrocities committed by men of many colors and creeds. One of the meanest killers he had known was a Quaker.*
(*See—Edge: Blood on Silver.)
He reined the stallion to a halt at the fringes of t
he grove, dismounted and hitched the animal to a tree.
“I will accompany you all the way,” the woman announced firmly as she dismounted and Edge slid the Winchester from the boot.
He loaded three shells to make up for those fired at the hollow. “I was counting on it,” he told her. “I may need a diversion.”
The spring air was chill where the sun did not reach, but not as cold as the tall, lean half-breed as he skirted the marker-featured grove to reach the town side. He was like a stalking animal, still carrying a hard ball of anger inside him, but controlling it. Early in his violent life he had learned that the heat of anger powers desire but ruins performance. Coldly, he had killed many men whose judgments were clouded by hot ire.
“Dear Lord, we have sinned much to merit this retribution,” the woman murmured, her words no louder than the breaking of grass blades beneath their feet as they crouched at the edge of the punishment area.
Although he was within a few yards of where the dead lay, Edge was still unable to see whether Francis was amongst them, or to make an accurate estimate of how many there were. For they were piled in a ghastly heap of naked, blood-run white flesh at the rear of the area. And even as he watched, peering through a patch of brush and between the splayed legs of a swaying Indian, another limp, naked form was released from the pillory and flung on to the charnel pile.
He heard a faint rustling sound behind him and swung his head round. But it was only the woman crawling away, struggling to control her nausea until she could find a place to throw up in safety. The half-breed turned his impassive eyes back to the torture scene as a woman screamed and men laughed. The loudest sounds of mirth came from Gabb and Mackinlay who were sprawled on the ground in front of the house at the top of the street. Each had a bottle of whiskey in one hand, and an arm around the naked body of a terrified woman. Gabb had claimed the younger Edith, who was as nubile and statuesque as Sarah. Mackinlay was cupping the sagging breast of a much older woman. The white men’s faces were contorted and colored by liquor. The women’s fear-twisted features and pathetically exposed bodies were bruised and scratched.
EDGE: Blood Run (Edge series Book 14) Page 10
