EDGE: A Ride In The Sun (Edge series Book 34)

by George G. Gilman

  Rhett was the odd man out in the group for a num­ber of reasons. A tall, lean, shallowly handsome man with bright eyes set in clean-cut features; he spoke with a cultured Bostonian accent and had the foppish man­ner of an undoubted homosexual. He was also a craven coward—the other members of the troop could never be accused of being this—who, as is so often the case with such men, became a brutal monster whenever he had a helpless victim at his mercy.

  The column rode at an easy pace through the lightly falling rain, their tunics protected by regulation water­proof capes draped over their shoulders. Under the slickers they were garbed in regulation uniforms and, except for Hedges, carried army-issue Colt revolvers and knives in their belts and Spencer carbines in the boots slung from their saddles.

  The captain had a Remington sixgun and a Henry re­peater, a knife and a sabre. He also carried a straight razor in a pouch at the nape of his neck.

  Because they had seen no action throughout this day as they scouted ahead of the Union advance on Rebels retreating from Petersburg, the troopers were smartly turned out. The horses were a little muddy from the wet ground and the men had a twelve-hour growth of stub­ble on their faces but, although Captain Hedges insisted on a high standard of smartness, he did not demand the impossible. And so, as he cast a backward glance over this nucleus of men whom he had commanded through­out almost the entire war, he vented a low grunt of sat­isfaction.

  If General Robert E. Lee should appear in front of him now and offer to surrender the army of Northern Virginia, Hedges considered that he and his men were in a fit state to accept the capitulation with suitable dig­nity.

  "Frig this stinkin' rain!" Roger Bell snarled to Scott at his side, as the troop approached an extensive stand of timber through which the railroad plunged as if into a tunnel.

  Scott spat at the already-sodden ground.

  "Certainly does get a man down," Rhett added. "I'm wet through."

  "How do you know what gets a man down?" Bell countered harshly.

  "Specially wet between your legs, Bob," Scott growled. "Comes from ridin' behind so many good-lookin' fellers."

  "Hey, I bet he's been comin' all the lousy day!" Sew­ard put in shrilly, giggled and drew guffaws from Bell and Scott.

  "You crazy lunkheads want somebody to blow a friggin' bugle as well?" Forrest snarled and raked his small, mean eyes from Seward to the other men who had con­tributed to the boredom-relieving exchange.

  "What's the matter, Frank?" the youngest trooper asked, petulant at the rebuke from the only man in the world he admired and respected.

  "He means there could be half the Reb army in these woods, that's what!" Corporal Douglas snapped. "If we had a bugler he could sound the advance and make real sure every last one of the bastards knew we was close by."

  As a vocal silence descended over the men behind him. Hedges allowed himself a brief and tight smile into the darkness of the trees ahead.

  Frank Forrest had many drawbacks as a sergeant. Of most concern throughout the war had been the constant danger that he might choose to kill his commanding of­ficer instead of the enemy he was sworn to fight. And for most of the time it was clearly apparent that it had been a mistake to promote Douglas to possibly the worst corporal in the entire Union army. But when the situation called for it, Forrest was able to call upon his innate qualities of leadership and, taking his cue from the sergeant, Douglas was able to exert authority over the men.

  Now the troopers, lulled into a false sense of security by a day without danger, were abruptly tense and watchful, ignoring the discomforts of the weather and their weariness. Too keyed up, maybe.

  "Please, sirs, will you help my ma?"

  Before the plea was half-completed, every man had reined his gelding to a halt and fisted a hand around the frame of a booted rifle. By the time it was completed, Rhett, Douglas and Seward had slid the weapons out, cocked and leveled them. At a target who stepped out from the pitch darkness of the dripping trees to stand between the faintly gleaming rails of the railroad track. It was a boy of about twelve, tall and emaciated, his skinny frame clad in a white shirt and dark pants. He was hatless and shoeless, a Negro, the water-sheened blackness of his face emphasizing the stark whiteness of his eyes and teeth displayed in terror as the three rifle muzzles swung toward him.

  "Don't kill me, sirs!" he begged, pushing both arms out in front of him, palms tilted upwards and fingers splayed. "My ma's in real bad trouble."

  "Nigger, your troubles were almost all over," Seward rasped and slid the Spencer back in the boot.

  "Tell it, boy!" Hedges instructed, retaining his grip on the booted Henry as his narrowed eyes swung in their sockets, trying to penetrate the darkness of the timber, not yet trusting the youngster's opening plea.

  The boy lowered his right arm and arced his left to point northward. "The soldiers came to Peatville, sirs. This afternoon. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands —I ain't good at stuff like that. The soldiers of the South. They killed my pa. All the other Negroes. Except for Ma and me. Told the whites to go. That the soldiers of the North was comin'. My ma, she was shot here." He interrupted his fast-spoken words to indicate that his mother had a stomach wound. Then continued, faster than before so that he stammered with some words and ran others together. "But we hid in the cellar until they was all gone away. I stayed with my ma for a long time, 'cause I thought she was gonna die and I wouldn't want to leave her alone. But then I got to thinkin' she'd be all right. If she was helped. So I come to look for help. Stop a train, maybe. You sirs are sol­diers who know about wounds, maybe?"

  "Where the frig's Peatville, Captain?" Forrest asked.

  Hedges, satisfied that if the young black boy was part of a Rebel trap it was not yet ready to be sprung, did not have to refer to his map to supply the answer. "Two miles north of the railroad."

  "That puts it about on the line Lieutenant Henderson and his boys are scoutin', don't it?" the sergeant growled.

  "Some soldiers like you already been through, sirs," the boy put in hurriedly. "I was too scared to talk to them. But when I saw you comin' . . . well, Ma needs help real bad."

  He was still terrified, his big eyes shifting constantly from the grim set face of one cavalryman to the next. Always they lingered longest on the lean features of the officer.

  "What's a nigra woman to us?" Rhett called from the rear of the column. "It's our job to patrol the railroad."

  "But we have to rest up at the end of the day, trooper," Hedges countered. "And in weather like this, I'm not about to turn down the chance of having a roof over my head."

  "Then you'll come to look at my ma?" the boy asked anxiously.

  "Sure, boy."

  The kid started to turn. "This way."

  "Hold it." The captain swung in his saddle to look along the column. "You're right, Trooper Rhett. This patrol is assigned to the railroad. You'll take the first two-hour sentry duty."

  "Me, on my own, sir?"

  "That's right," Hedges answered and, turning his gelding sideways-on to the boy, then extended a hand. "Here, you'll ride with me."

  He was reluctant, his relief at getting what he wanted temporarily subdued. But then he approached the horse and allowed himself to be lifted and set astride the sad­dle in front of the man.

  "You'll stay here on the fringe of the timber, trooper," Hedges instructed the nervous Rhett levelly. "If the Rebs decide to backtrack on their retreat they'll do it in force and you'll hear them way off. Should that happen, you ride back along the railroad and make the report to—"

  "I think you should leave another man with me, sir," Rhett complained.

  "In the woods at night, alone with you, Bob?" Sew­ard countered with mock trepidation, injecting a tone of feminine shrillness into his voice.

  "If you know where this town is, sir, why don't you leave Bob the nigger kid?" Roger Bell suggested.

  "Yeah, Captain," John Scott added with a terse laugh. "Rhett ain't never really been one of us. Leave him the k
id and he's sure to get black-balled."

  "Shut up and move out," Hedges snapped. Then, over his shoulder to the disconsolate New Englander, "In two hours, I'll have Douglas spell you, trooper."

  "Why not right now?" the corporal growled quietly as he heeled his horse in the wake of the others across the railroad tracks. "Y-E-L-L-O-W B-A-S-T-A-R-D."

  Rhett scowled and Scott and Bell who were also close enough to hear Douglas laughed.

  "The captain said to shut up!" Forrest snarled as he and then the others were infected by Hedges' suspicion of the thick cover which enclosed them as they entered the timber.

  They rode in single file now, zigzagging among the trunks in the wake of Hedges who steered his horse in response to the monosyllable directions given by the boy who shared his saddle. Although the spread of the trees' branches provided shelter from the fine rain, from time to time the water-filled leaves would sag and spill their contents down on the men passing beneath.

  Lips often opened to form the shape of a curse, but no words were spoken. Only the boy's voice, instructing left or right, sounded against the steady thud of hooves on sodden ground and the less regular splashes of water drops on hats, capes and horseflesh.

  As the timber began to thin out, there was no longer any need for the boy to give directions. For a glimmer of light in the distance acted as a beacon, shining through the darkness which a few moments later was devoid of rain.

  "I didn't know if I would get back, sir," the young­ster explained in the same low whisper he had used since entering the timber. "I could have found soldiers different from you. In case I was killed, I left the lamp alight in the house. Perhaps men like you would've seen it."

  "You're real smart, son," Hedges answered absently as he concentrated his attention on the small town which was becoming more clearly defined with each yard they covered.

  It was not much of a town. A cluster of crudely built frame shacks facing each other across the narrow width of a trail which ran from east to west along the northern fringe of the timber. About twenty in all, evenly divided between each side of the trail. Beyond the single street town of Peatville was the vast acreage of a tobacco plantation. The big house could not be seen, concealed behind a screen of timber about a mile to the north and reached by an arrow-straight drive which cut between the fields from the eastern end of town.

  The light shone from the front window of a shack on the north side of the street, laying a wedge of yellow across the street and into the gap between two facing shacks. Hedges peered at the section of illuminated trail from the cover of the trees over a distance of a quarter mile as he held up a hand to halt the men behind him and reined in his own horse.

  "Don't look like a fun place, Frank," Seward mut­tered.

  "Your mouth, Billy," Forrest said evenly, and watched as Hedges lifted the skinny boy out of the saddle and lowered him gently to the ground.

  "What's wrong with it?" Seward asked, puzzled.

  "Nothin', when it ain't open."

  "Ain't you gonna come take a look at Ma, sir?" the boy asked, abruptly as afraid as he was when he first showed himself at the railroad.

  "Sure, son," Hedges told him with a brief smile of reassurance as he swung down into the long grass. "But we'll leave the horses here. Wouldn't want a Rebel pa­trol to see them bunched on the street. Go tell your ma help's on the way, uh?"

  The young Negro nodded vigorously, his mind free of doubt as he heard the softly spoken words and saw the smile, but was unaware that the warmth show along the mouthline did not reach up into the slitted eyes which continued to survey the town. "I'll sure do that, sir. Ma and me'll be real grateful for—"

  "Go to her, boy!" Forrest growled as he dismounted and signaled the others to do likewise. Then, as the boy turned and moved out of the cover of the timber, the sergeant lowered his voice and proved once again that he had an uncanny ability to sense what Hedges was thinking. "What smells, Captain?"

  The well-schooled cavalry mounts remained where they stood, reins hanging toward the ground under their necks, as the tense-faced men gathered around the officer and non-com.

  "The grass, but not enough," Hedges answered. Then explained, "Rain ain't been any heavier in this area than back along the railroad."

  "So what?" Seward muttered. "It rained hard enough to soak us all and them houses over there—"

  "The street in the light, lunkhead!" Forrest cut in, voice low but harsh. "The nigger brat said hundreds or maybe thousands of men came through this crap town. Take a real heavy rain storm to wash out the sign that many would leave."

  "I never trusted that little black bastard from the start," Hal Douglas rasped, and unbuttoned his holster flap.

  "Leave it be!" Hedges hissed, now shifting his narrow-eyed gaze away from the single-street town toward which the boy was moving at a fast walk through the two-foot-high grass and weeds.

  "Plan, Captain?" Forrest asked.

  "You, Seward and Douglas come in from the east. South side of the street. I'll take Scott and Bell and ad­vance from the west. North side if we can make it. Move."

  He went to his horse, draped his cape over the saddle and slid the Henry from the boot. The others took their cue from him in more than mere physical actions. Their expressions were a match for the impressive set of his own and he knew from experience that the men's men­tal processes during the immediate future would follow a similar line to his own. For they were of the same killer's breed as he.

  Frank Forrest had gotten a head start on all of them while killing for bounty money out west. But the cap­tain and the troopers had proved to be adept students at the lessons of war. Adept and eager, enjoying the ner­vous tension of the build-up to slaughter and then rel­ishing the fighting and the killing.

  So Hedges paid scant attention to the men who trailed him along the fringe of the timber, then went down behind him and bellied in his wake out into the grass and weeds. And he spared no thoughts for For­rest, Seward and Douglas. In any other situation he would not have trusted any of them with a dud penny, let alone his life. But in such a situation as this, with a chance of a kill-or-be-killed battle in the offing, they trusted his leadership. And he therefore had faith in them as the meanest bunch of killers that ever wore Union blue.

  The cover of grass and weed ran out some twenty feet behind the crudely built shacks on the southern side of the street. It had been cut down by plantation slaves so that they could use their back lots to grow vegetables. For at least one summer and winter the patches had been neglected, but wild vegetation had been re-established only in scattered clumps.

  At the edge of the thick cover, the captain halted his snaking progress and Scott and Bell moved forward to flank him.

  "That little nigger is sure actin' like all ain't well, sir," Scott hissed.

  The closer the boy got to the single-street town, the more nervous he became. He shortened his stride and dragged his feet. Constantly clenched and unclenched his fists. And his head was never still as he switched his attention from the house with the lamp in the window to the timber behind him and back again. His mouth remained firmly closed now, but even across a distance of half the street's length, Hedges and the two troopers were able to see the whites of his eyes at each backward glance.

  Then, just before he was about to go from sight be­tween the two shacks into the gap illuminated by the lamp, he halted, turned, and raised both hands to cup them around his lower face. There was a quiver and a shrillness of terror in his voice when he shouted:

  "Hey, ain't you soldiers comin'."

  "Floyd!" a woman screamed. "No!"

  The young Negro's bare feet seemed rooted to the spot. But he turned from the waist to stare toward the house across the street as the lamp was suddenly doused.

  "You was right, Mr. Hedges," Roger Bell rasped be­tween teeth bared in a grin of evil anticipation.

  The words were punctuated by a fusillade of gunshots accompanied by the shattering of glass. And for per­haps two seco
nds the night was lit by muzzle flashes like sheet lightning coming from the earth instead of the sky.

  One such flash had its source at the edge of the un­dergrowth at the eastern end of town. The shot was fired by Forrest, or by Seward or Douglas on the order of the sergeant. For neither the trooper nor the corporal would have had the nerve or intelligence to act without instruction.

  But upwards of a dozen rifles were exploded from the other side of the street. Whether with the intention of blasting the young Negro to death or not, it was im­possible to say. Whichever, it was not just a single bul­let from a Union Spencer that tunneled through his scrawny body. Many more smashed through his flesh, sinews, muscles, bones and organs with enough impact to lift him off his feet and hurl him at least a yard from the spot where he had been standing, and fling him to the ground, the jolt of his landing causing the already-flowing blood to spurt from his many wounds.

  He would have felt nothing after the touch of the first lethal bullet. Certainly he had no time to scream before he died.

  Hedges, Scott and Bell did not waste precious time in watching yet another fellow human being die. For even before the boy, now a corpse, started to collapse, the captain was up and running and the two troopers were hard on his heels. All of them moved in a half-crouch, rifles held two-handed with the hammers cocked, eyes fixed upon the initial objective of the last house on the south side of the street's western end.

  The trio took advantage of the covering fire provided by the three Union cavalrymen at the eastern end of town. Forrest, Seward and Douglas were all blasting shots along the street now, responding to the fusillade aimed at them from the men in the house which had once had a lamp in the window, these men now aware that their plan had gone wrong. Their enemies were no longer in the trees where the boy's shouted words had seemed to pinpoint them.

  A glance to the right just before he achieved the cover of the frame house showed Hedges that Forrest, Seward and Douglas were also making fast time across a back lot, firing wildly on the run. Because of the angle and the intervening buildings, the three Union troopers were in little danger of being hit, and for the same reasons had scant chance of their own bullets finding the house where the abortive trap had been laid.