EDGE: Blood Run (Edge series Book 14)

by George G. Gilman

  The scream had come from another woman of perhaps sixty-five. She had been dragged from the barn by two bottle-toting Indians who hauled her along the roughened street by her wrists. The laughter had erupted from the white men and the other drunken Spokanes as the old woman’s captors began to run—too fast for the captive to remain erect. When she was flung down in front of the pillory, her dress had been torn to shreds on the street. Two more Indians dashed forward with whoops of delight, brandishing knives. The clothing was slashed from the frail, wrinkled body. Blood splashed from beneath the honed edges and points of carelessly-wielded blades.

  The old woman was praying and sobbing as she was forced upright. Her neck and wrists were fitted into the cut-outs in the pillory and the hinged top was slammed down. The excited laughter faltered and faded. Raddle-faced Indians sucked from bottles. Gabb and Mackinlay drank one-handed while the fingers of their other hands roved across female flesh, probing and kneading: drawing moans of pain from the women they had claimed. The old woman had no more prayers to offer and her trapped body shook with sobs. A knife hissed through the chill air, then another. A thud ... a scream . . . another thud ... another scream. The gnarled, bony hands of the prisoner had hung limply in front of the pillory board. Suddenly they were pinned there, the quivering hilts of the knives seeming to grow from their backs. Blood trickled down the stiffened fingers.

  A drunken Indian dropped his breechcloth, took a final swig from his bottle and then moved towards the woman from the back. His readiness was cheered by the glittering-eyed watchers as he reeled and steadied himself. Another Indian approached the woman from the front, drawing a knife and clutching a handful of her thin white hair. The knife point was pressed against her pulsing throat.

  Edge drew back from the fringe of the punishment area. He stood up, turned and looked into the gaunt, hollow-eyed face of Angel Sarah. Yellow, brown and red signs of her nausea were caking on her jaw. The cheering rose in raucous volume, then subsided to gasps of release, punctuated by hoarse-voiced obscenities as Gabb encouraged the two Spokanes in their assault.

  “Has there ever been anything more vile?” Sarah hissed.

  “The Apaches and the Sioux know a few tricks they could teach this bunch,” Edge muttered, moving away down the slope behind the row of houses on the barn side of the street.

  Uppermost in his mind, flashed the Sioux uprising in which his wife had died. But there had been other run-ins with Indians—both Sioux* and the even more cruel Apaches.Ϯ

  (* See—Edge: Bloody Summer, Ϯ See—Edge: Apache Death.)

  Sarah crept along at his heels, uncaring about the slit dress anymore. It gaped wide, exposing her from neck to thighs as she held the low skirt hem clear of her feet to avoid tripping.

  She halted and crouched down beside the apparently relaxed half-breed at one corner of the barn. From inside came the low murmurings of many voices engaged in ardent, soft-voiced prayer. Far off, from the punishment area at the top of the street, came the shrill sound of the old’ woman’s dying scream. Sarah shuddered.

  “What are you going to do?” she rasped, then followed the direction of the narrow-eyed gaze.

  She saw the wagon, still with the team hitched, parked between the barn and the stable across the street. She read the faded sign on the side: OREGON MINING COMPANY. She saw the freight it carried, revealed now that the burlap cover had been folded back. Cases of rye whiskey, two of them broken open and almost empty. And crates, all firmly sealed, marked OREGON MINING COMPANY—BLASTING POWDER.

  “May the Lord have mercy on the soul of departed Angel Amelia,” Arch Angel Luke said loudly from within the barn.

  “I see deliverance from this evil!” the high voice of Prophet Thomas proclaimed.

  Edge glanced up at the window under which he and Sarah were crouched. The button nose of the round-faced little man was pressed against the pane, his tiny eyes gleaming. “I think that feller’s a fake, ma’am,” he said.

  “What are you going to do?” the woman insisted as running feet thudded against the street.

  “Lot of other people having fun,” the half-breed murmured, eyeing the wagon again. “We might as well get a bang out of it.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  RHETT went over the side of the ironclad first, his boots hung around his neck, kicking wildly to swim clear of the thrashing stern wheel. Then Douglas, Seward, Bell and Scott. Crouched behind the citadel at the side of the pilothouse, Hedges watched the five troopers move away from the Southern Glory; ensuring that they followed his orders and maintained a course which kept the bulk of the ironclad between themselves and the approaching clipper.

  “Reckon we’re close enough to start it now, sir,” Forrest reported from above and Hedges swung around to look along the length of the boat.

  The clipper loomed large off the starboard bow, keeping firmly in the upriver channel. Forrest, sweating and with lips drawn back, eyes gleaming, held the ironclad steadily on a passing course. The clipper was named Stanstead and she was running easily under power. Few of the crew members on deck had any duties to perform and they lounged idly against spars, deck cargo and unprimed cannon, watching the approach of the Southern Glory.

  Sunlight bounced on the lens of a telescope and Hedges ducked below the level of the citadel, striking a match.

  “Ahoy there, Southern Glory” a British voice hailed, amplified by a bullhorn.

  “Frig off, you lousy limey,” Forrest muttered as the bows of the two vessels drew level, disturbed water clashing between them.

  “What you got against the British, sergeant?” Hedges asked smoothly as he touched the match to the end of the powder fuse.

  “Picked the wrong side, that’s all,” Forrest answered.

  “Reason enough,” the Captain allowed as he watched the sparking fire flare along the fuse. Then raised his eyes to peer through the gloom of the citadel to where the troopers had stacked cases of powder around the forward cannon. The bodies of Myron and the four Confederate seamen were propped against the cases. Their dead eyes stared back at Hedges in mute accusation.

  “Haven’t you got a word of welcome for your allies?” the British ship’s officer demanded, riled.

  Grinning, Forrest spun the wheel, then jammed the telescope through the spokes and against the binnacle. The ironclad swung into a lazy turn to starboard: held on the arcing course by the firmly snagged wheel.

  “How about goodbye!” the sergeant roared, lunging from the pilothouse and leaping to the citadel deck.

  Cries of alarm and fear rang out from the British clipper. Sharp orders cut across the babble. The helmsman spun the wheel to try to sheer away from the collision. The telegraph clanged for full speed ahead. Seamen, jerked out of idleness, sprinted to reach their weapons. The fire hissed along the fuse, consuming fresh powder and leaving a snakelike trail of blackened remains behind it. The blunt prow of the Southern Glory closed for a midships collision with the Stanstead. A burst of rifle fire cracked. Bullets clanged against the ironclad’s armor plating. The troopers in the water angled towards the river’s northern bank.

  Forrest hit the deck and bellied behind the pilothouse. He dragged out a wooden raft with the Spencers, Confederate Colts and cartons of ammunition lashed to it. “You can have that Captain last to leave his ship routine,” he yelled above the crack, whine and clang of bullets.

  He went over the side, hauling on a rope that splashed the raft into the water after him. Hedges was only a moment behind him, kicking out with his legs and reaching forward with his good arm to grip a rope trailing from the raft. Some of the troopers were already wading ashore, flinging themselves into the reeds as bullets whined towards them. With all need for subterfuge passed, Forrest struck out strongly for the bank. His strength was more than a match for his burdens over a short distance.

  The prow of the ironclad crunched into the side of the clipper. The sound of splintering wood was almost swamped by the rumble of two engines and bedlam of shouting voices. The
n the fire reached the climactic end of its snaking course. The roar of the explosion took the form of a deafening crack, the searing blast hammering the sound waves against the eardrums. For a split-second even the light of the sun seemed to dim as a mighty crimson and orange flame licked into the sky. Then a pall of dense, oil-black smoke billowed up around it. Debris was rocketed through the smoke, some of it comprised of the torn-apart sections of men, all of it blackened and dripping flames. As it rained down, the men on the bank dived low into the reeds. Those in the water forced themselves under. Then, as their ears recovered from the punishing blast of the first explosion, another burst from the holds of the clipper.

  It was louder than the first, ripping the Stanstead in two, rearing the sections away and thrusting the sinking ironclad across the river. Flames shot sideways as well as skywards and unrecognizable pieces of ship and men were hurled in every direction.

  “She must have been carrying explosives!” Bell yelled, pressing his face into the mud of the bank as the second blast-driven shower of debris pelted down all round.

  “Sure enough wasn’t no popcorn,” Douglas muttered.

  A blasted-off hand thudded into the reeds where Seward was sprawled. The index finger pointed accusingly at the youngster. “I just did what the officer told me, buddy,” he said with a giggle. Enough of the flesh had been seared from the bones so that he was able to remove the two gold rings easily before tossing the hand into the water.

  It bounced off Forrest’s head as the sergeant surfaced, towing the raft. “What the hell?” he snarled.

  “Figured you might need a hand,” Seward giggled.

  Forrest spat and staggered upright, dragging his feet through the silt of the riverbed as he waded into the reeds. The others rose, gathering around the raft to claim weapons. Hedges struggled through the reeds and flopped down wearily on the lush grass of the bank. His shoulder was throbbing and his ears still rang from the double explosion. He looked out over the river, now calm again. The sunlight was still dimmed by the dense cloud of black smoke which hung in the unmoving air. Nothing stirred on either of the wrecked ships except for tongues of flame in isolated pockets of fire. The front section of the ironclad had disintegrated and her no longer turning stern wheel hung in midair. She rested partly on the riverbed, as did both halves of the clipper.

  “A rifle and a revolver, sir,” Forrest said, thrusting the two guns towards Hedges. “I guess you didn’t just forget about the old-timer in the engine room?”

  “We had to have maximum speed to the end,” the Captain answered. “At least he died happy.”

  He looked around at the troopers squatting on the bank. Now that the job was over, their weariness was creeping back. But it was encroaching more strongly now, taking toll of the long hours without sleep or food. Something akin to sheer exhaustion held their eyelids low, distorted their mouth lines and etched deep scores into the grimed skin beneath their stubble.

  “Gotta admit I clean forgot about the old coot,” Douglas confessed. “But you’re right, sir. He was like a kid with his first whore, messing with that engine.”

  “Gave him a hot time,” Scott said, thrusting the stock of his Spencer into the river.

  Many bodies were drifting down river on the ebbing tide. The one he had trapped by hooking the rifle stock under the crotch was burnt to a cinder in human form. But the facial features were still recognizable, molded in pitch black into the form of Robert Chivers’ face. Minus the beard of course. Hedges eyed the grisly sight pensively, wondering if it was a smile of pleasure or grimace of agony that held the lips wide over toothless gums. He guessed the furnace had burst and spewed flaming fuel when the ironclad exploded.

  “Damn shame,” Douglas said. “Don’t reckon he was happy.” Then he guffawed. “Looks pretty burned up about it.”

  Hedges used the Spencer to help him to his feet. “There’s a war on,” he said. “We’ve all got to make sacrifices. Let’s move out.”

  Seward eyed Forrest hopefully, searching for support in an argument against moving before the men had rested. But Forrest was tight-lipped and grim-faced. The youngster looked at the others and found them surveying their surroundings with the same scrutiny that Hedges and the sergeant had already shown. Safety lay to the north, beyond a wide area where danger might lurk at every turn. So it was in this direction that the tired eyes peered. Across swampy meadowland to a road. And then further, over fields of wheat ripening in the spring sunshine. Further still, to the distant hump of a hill. There was not a trace of human habitation for as far as the eye could see. But this very emptiness of the landscape presented an eerie prospect to the other troopers, which quickly infected Seward.

  “I’m with you, sir,” the youngster said enthusiastically, clutching his Spencer tightly as he rose. “Reckon every Reb within twenty miles of here heard us bust up their boats.”

  “You ain’t a bright kid, Billy,” Forrest rasped. “But just sometimes you show you’ve got an ounce of sense someplace in that lunkhead of yours.”

  Hedges led the way, swinging his injured arm gingerly to keep the circulation flowing. He set a fast walking pace across the springy turf and over the hard-packed dirt of the road. Then, in the wheat, growing tall enough to give them cover if they should need to dive to the ground, he slowed. The troopers were anxious to put distance between themselves and the scene of the river wreckage, but the Captain knew that neither the men nor himself could maintain a hot pace for long. Fear of mass pursuit, although a strong motivating factor, could not supplement flagging physical stamina. Exhaustion was an enemy equally as dangerous as Rebel troops.

  “We’re leavin’ a trail a blind idiot could follow,” Forest pointed out as they emerged from the wheat field, crossed a dry ditch and moved into barley. Behind them a path of trampled crops, two men wide, cut back arrow-straight to the road.

  “Ain’t blind idiots leaving it, sergeant,” Hedges muttered, gritting his teeth as the constant movement of his arm kept the pain hot in his shoulder. “I can see a whole mess of cornfields that had to be ploughed and seeded and some time will have to be harvested.”

  “You sure ain’t blind,” Forrest allowed sarcastically.

  Hedges ignored the sergeant’s tone as he tramped into the barley. “So where’s the damn farm buildings?” he asked softly.

  Forrest grinned. “With food and horses?”

  Hedges nodded. “I’m sure hungry. And I seem to remember being a cavalryman one time.”

  Ten minutes later he saw what he was searching for. The ground dipped suddenly, sloping away into a shallow basin that had not been visible from the river. The cultivated fields ended at a row of trees beyond which a grassy meadow stretched gently downwards. Sheep grazed peacefully on the turf in the foreground. Cows chewed the cud lower down.

  “Lamb chops,” Seward muttered with relish.

  “Holy cow!” Rhett countered, licking his lips.

  Beyond the feeding animals, set amid a grove of more trees, was a walled monastery. From their position on high ground, the weary troopers were able to see over the wall. Hooded monks, their habits trailing on the ground, glided across a large square of trimmed lawn, hands clasped in prayer. Two tended vegetable patch in a shaded corner. Another drew water from a well to fill a pitcher.

  “You figure heaven’s on our side, Captain?” Bell asked.

  They had all instinctively sunk to the ground when they spotted the monastic retreat. Now, as the enlisted men eyed the prospect of food and rest with eager anticipation, Hedges and Forrest held aside prickly brush to survey the entire basin.

  “Luck that we found it,” Scott growled, suddenly infected by the mood of caution which had gripped the Captain and sergeant. “Good or bad?”

  “One way to find out,” Douglas muttered. “Will you look at those sweet little old potatoes that holy guy is diggin’.”

  “Corporal!” Hedges snapped.

  It was too quiet—the peaceful calm of the monastery eerily out of co
ntext after the massive explosions which had thundered less than a mile away and no more than twenty minutes ago. And suddenly the off-key serenity was shattered. Douglas was out in the open, taking his first long stride across the turf, when Hedges’ warning pulled him up short. The single word probably saved his life. But didn’t prevent a bullet boring into his flesh and cracking his right forearm.

  “Jesus Christ, the bastards!” he said in bewilderment as half a dozen other bullets whined past his head or spurted divots from the turf around him. Then he saw the blood streaming from the hole in his shirt sleeve. “I’ve been hit!” he screamed. Then he whirled and powered into a dive that crashed him back among the flattened troopers in the brush.

  “Should have been in your friggin’ head!” Forrest snarled at him, and sent a shot cracking towards the corner of the monastery wall from which the fusillade of rifle fire had come.

  Hedges and Seward snapped off shots a moment later, the bullets whining across the backs of panicked sheep and cattle. All three shells dug chips of stone out of the wall angle.

  “That ain’t damn religious!” Seward rasped, levering a new round into the breach as he watched the monks within the walls scatter for cover. “Shootin’ at people.”

  “Ain’t the holy men blasted at us,” Forrest muttered.

  “Not unless there’s an order got the same grey threads and brass buttons as Rebel infantry,” Hedges supplemented, drawing a bead on the wall angle again. A rifle barrel was thrust into sight. A head followed it.

  Forrest and Hedges fired in unison. The pale flesh of the Rebel’s face was pitted by two ugly holes. Crimson splashed a pair of zigzag lines across the green turf. The Rebel reeled backwards, out of sight.

  “Don’t give a shit who done it!” Douglas whined. “I got hit!” He groaned. “Help me, somebody?”

  “Billy?” Forrest said.