The Living, the Dying, and the Dead

by George G. Gilman

  “Three for one, feller. But let’s not get into counting heads.”

  “If we did, there weren’t any more than one aboard the boat, sir,” the scarred Japanese countered.

  “Only one that mattered,” Edge responded as he turned away from the boxcar and wagon. “To me.”

  He retraced his footsteps back across die rails and ties toward the shack and sensed three pairs of eyes watching him from behind.

  “Okay, get down out of that carl” Luke demanded. “And beat it!”

  “Can we not come to some arrangement, sir? We are prepared to pay a reasonable price to have returned to us that which is ours.”

  “You don’t get outta here damn fast, we’ll blast you!” Brad warned, his anger powered by remembered fear. “And the law’ll be on our side.”

  The brakeman had completed his chore of checking couplings on the far side of the depot. The engineer had run out of brass to polish. And, like the old-timer, they had gone to join the group of trainmen watching for the return of the locomotive and four cars dispatched earlier to check if the eastbound track was open. If anyone but Edge was aware of the leveled shotguns at the boxcar, they were watching from cover.

  By the time the half-breed got back to his vantage point at the doorway of the shack, the Orientals had submitted to the threat of the guns. They were down off the train and moving away from the rear of the wagon. They did not look back or at Edge. Instead, straight ahead. At the end of the train they altered course and went toward the main depot building. But they did not enter it—went from sight around one side of it. Both Luke and Brad watched them all the way, crouching down on their haunches so that they could see the lower halves of the Orientals’ robes under the stalled cars of the trains. Only when they were certain the trio had left the depot did they spare a hostile glance for Edge, and spotted him in process of lighting a freshly rolled cigarette as he leaned against the doorframe of the shack.

  Brad said something which drew a shrug from Luke. Then they got to work, still carrying the shotguns as they tugged at harness and cursed at the horses—maneuvering the wagon so that its open rear was hard against the doorway of the boxcar. There was a gap at the side and they climbed up through it The tailgate banged against the floor of the car and after this whatever sounds the two men made were not loud enough to carry to Edge. But he did see the wagon rise on its springs as something heavy was dragged into the car.

  A clock across the street from the main depot building began to strike the midday hour. The two men jumped down from the car before the final chime sounded. While Brad climbed up on the seat and eased the wagon forward a few yards, Luke raked his eyes around the depot, going down on his haunches again to peer beneath the cars. Then, satisfied that Edge was the only man watching him, he slid the boxcar door closed and shuttered the rear of the wagon.

  He thudded the stock of his shotgun on a side panel and Brad started the horses forward. The wagon had to be driven a hundred yards out ahead of the locomotive coupled to the line of boxcars before Brad found a crossing where he could get over the many sidetracks. Luke watched his partner for a few moments, then used the iron rung ladder at the rear of the boxcar to climb up on the roof. Bright sunlight, still not warm enough to melt the frost, glinted on the oiled barrels of the shotgun as he swung this way and that, maintaining a hard-eyed vigil over the white-layered depot.

  The wagon’s route to the gateway took it immediately across the front of the shack where Edge stood, his thumbs hooked over the buckle of his gunbelt now that the cigarette was finished. He watched the approaching wagon with complete indifference. But the city-suited young man on the seat did not trust this attitude and drove with one hand on the reins and the other fisted around the frame of the cocked shotgun. There was a slight sheen of nervous sweat on his cheeks and hat-shaded forehead. His eyes were constantly shifting, moving to the full extent of their sockets as he divided his fearful attention between the relaxed half-breed and the tense figure of Luke atop the boxcar.

  Until the beat of galloping hooves filled the crisp, midday air. abruptly masking the creak and clop of the wagon and team’s progress.

  Brad, Luke and Edge all swung their heads toward the source of the new sound. In time to see the riders wheel their mounts in through the gateway at the western end of the depot. The three Japanese, as perfectly aligned astride their horses as thev had been standing in the boxcar, Each controlling his animal with reins held in one hand while the other was fastened around the frame of a repeater rifle.

  Puffs of white smoke spurted from the muzzles.

  Brad yelled, “You sneaky bastard!”

  Luke squeezed both barrels of his shotgun.

  The roar of both barrels exploding their loads masked the sharper cracks of the rifles.

  Bystanders shouted their shock at the abrupt outbreak of unexpected violence. Some in the group at the start of the eastbound track hurled themselves to the ground. Doors of many buildings were flung open. Faces appeared at several windows.

  Luke did not see the scattering shot from his twin-barreled gun fall far short of the moving targets. For two rifle bullets had hit him. One in the stomach, the other in the center of his forehead. Blood soaked his suit jacket from the lower wound, gushed out to drench his eyes with liquid crimson from the upper one. He staggered backward for several drunken paces, dropping the empty gun. Then became limp in death and fell hard between two boxcars, his corpse folding over the coupling.

  Brad was dead before his partners body came to rest.

  His accusation had been hurled at Edge as the halfbreed had drawn the Remington—the move an instinctive one to the sound of gunfire. Brad dropped the reins as he shouted, and got two hands on the shotgun. Edge was in a gunfighter’s crouch, sideways on to the galloping Japanese and in the process of aiming from the hip. The two-horse team continued to maintain the easy pace. The rifle bullet intended for Brad missed his head by less than an inch as he leaned to the side to draw a bead on Edge.

  The half-breed turned his head at the sound of Brads voice. Just as the front of the wagon came level with him. The twin muzzles of the shotgun were made to appear enormous by the fear which gripped Edge. A very real fear of being ripped apart by a double load of shot. But a cold, controlled fear. Far removed from terror. A fear that acted to hone his mental and physical reflexes. Speeded them to assure that he would be the winner in this latest kill-or-be-kiUed contest.

  The swing of his gun-hand was almost as fast as the rake of his eyes. And skill took up where reflex ended. He knew precisely at which point in the arc to halt his hand. Then his index finger squeezed the trigger. He made just the right allowances for the recoil of the Remington. Then hurled himself to the ground to the side.

  He did not see the gory hole appear where Brad’s right eye had been. Nor the blast of acrid smoke from the twin muzzles of the shotgun as a dying nerve caused the man’s finger to pull against the triggers. Merely heard the explosion and the impact of the shot against the front of the timber shack.

  The two horses in the traces continued on their way, apparently impervious to the blast.

  Edge had hit the frost layered ground on his belly. He rolled onto his back and sat up. He saw Brad had dropped the shotgun off the wagon and that the man’s arms, head and shoulders were hanging over the side. Droplets of blood splashed down to mark a parallel course with the tracks of the wheels.

  Peering beneath the wagon and then around it as it ceased to be an obstacle, he saw that the three Japanese were still racing their mounts across the treacherous rails and ties. Heading for the boxcar where Luke had died.

  Men were shouting and women were screaming. The group which had been watching for the return of the first train out had scattered in frantic search of cover.

  The scar-faced Oriental looked briefly toward Edge and nodded curtly, much as the half-breed had done earlier as a sign of recognition.

  The wagon bounced over a hump in the ground and the corpse of Brad was
shaken loose. The man’s arms remained above his head and the rear wheels of the vehicle bounced again, accompanied by a double crack as both wrists were crushed between iron rims and frozen soil.

  Edge showed a fleeting scowl. Then was impassive as he powered to his feet. The three Japanese were almost at the boxcar, reining their horses to a halt. They were beyond effective revolver range, but the half-breed squeezed off three shots. Two of the bullets ricocheted off rails and the third imbedded itself in a tie. The gunfire and its following sounds were enough to freeze the Japanese as they prepared to dismount. Shock at the apparent turnabout in Edge’s loyalty caused them to hesitate. Gave the half-breed time to achieve the cover of the side of the shack.

  Then the scar-faced man shouted an order in his native language. And the other two exploded rifle fire at the shack, still in their saddles as the man who had given the command leapt to the ground and lunged toward the boxcar door.

  Edge’s bedroll and saddle, with a Winchester rifle in the boot, was leaning against the wall just inside the doorway of the shack. He pulled the rifle clear and stayed flat on the floor until the fusillade of shots ended. Then rose behind the window.

  His face had been impassive when he killed Brad—a true facial image of his feelings. For the shot he fired then had been an act of self-defense. This was different. He had returned a favor and his intentions had been misconstrued. As a result of which he had been required to gun down a man who meant nothing to him, in front of countless witnesses. So now he had to even the score. The code by which he lived demanded it

  There was unmistakable ugliness in his face now, as he thrust forward the Winchester to smash the window at the same instant as he squeezed the trigger. The ugliness of brutal cruelty in the way his lips curled back from his teeth, the skin stretched drum-taut across his bone-structure and his eyes narrowed to threads of glinting blueness beneath the hooded lids. Evil emanated from every pore and line in his face.

  And a Japanese died. One of those who were mounted. He was hit in the throat, by a bullet which had enough velocity to penetrate tissue and bone, emerging at the back in a ghastly spray of blood and gristle chips.

  The dead man was flung off his saddle, crashed against the side of the boxcar and slammed to the ground. His horse reared in response and the animal’s flailing forehooves struck the mount of the other man who had remained in the saddle. The horse snorted and bolted. The man released his rifle in his anxiety to grasp the reins and stay astride the animal.

  The scar-faced'Japanese had slid the door of the boxcar half open when the killing shot was fired. He saw its effect and wasted what could have been a fa-> tal stretched second in staring at the man standing behind the shattered window. If he expected to die, his expression showed no fear of it Then there was only bemusement on his face as he saw Edge make a sideways gesture with the rifle. It was intended, and taken, as a sign of dismissal. His own horse had remained calm, and responded in a well-schooled manner when the man swung smoothly up into the saddle and demanded an immediate gallop.

  The bolting horse had carried its rider to the start of the eastbound track before the man regained control. This was the direction the second surviving Oriental took, Winchester clear of the boot against the possibility that other men in the depot might not be so accommodating as Edge.

  Even after the two riders had gone from sight beyond a.thick stand of timber which bordered the eastern side of the Union Pacific depot, nobody stepped out into the open. Until Edge showed himself. Empty handed, the rifle back in the boot and the revolver in its holster.

  Then they advanced from their cover. Men mostly, but a few women emerged from the main building. Some shock was expressed, in looks and words; but mostly the crowds which gathered by the boxcar and around the slumped form of Brad were morbidly curious.

  Only the rancid-smelling old-timer ventured to approach Edge. “Gee, mister,” he croaked. “Whose side are you on?”

  “Mine,” the half-breed answered as some uniformed figures showed at a door in the main depot building— not all of them in Union Pacific livery. In the center of the group was a red-faced man of advanced years who gestured a great deal with his hands as he talked fast to those around him. But nobody seemed to be listening to him.

  The group halted briefly at the boxcar with one body at the side of it and another folded over the coupling, then continued across the tracks toward Edge. The old-timer backed hurriedly away in the face of advancing officialdom.

  Four of the men were Union Pacific employees, expressing anxiety. Three more were attired in the uniforms of the Denver City Police Department. As they came to a halt in front of the shack, the policeman with most braid on his jacket waved the talkative old man into silence. And the two junior men matched the glowering look which he directed at Edge.

  “Figure you fellers want to know what happened?” the half-breed asked evenly.

  “I know what happened, mister!” the senior man snarled., bending a thumb and stabbing it against his chest. “Three men just got shot dead. But you can bet your ass I want to know what kinda game you think you’re playin’!”

  Edge curled back his lips to show a grin that might have been warm if the expression had spread high enough to melt the coldness in his narrowed eyes. “Guess it’s more than mv ass that’s on the line, Chief,” he growled between his clenched teeth. “On account that this is something bigger than a crap game.”

  Chapter Two

  EDGE told his story in the stove-heated, tobacco smoke-smelling office of the dispatcher. His audience was comprised of the granite-featured Denver police chief, the two young constables, the agitated depot manager and the red-faced old man who had been driven into resentful silence with a warning that he would have to stay outside unless he kept quiet. His face—the color of boiled lobster—was the only one which did not express some degree of hostility as the half-breed folded his long, lean frame into the dispatchers padded chair and waited for the others to settle themselves.

  For a reason he could not even guess at, Edge had been allowed to keep the Remington. The two constables either did not know the reason, or mistrusted it, for both draped hands over the butts of their own holstered Colts.

  Outside the breath-misted window of the office, the depot was almost deserted again, the groups of curious bystanders having dispersed after the corpses were moved into the temporary mortuary of an unheated locomotive shed.

  There was no sign yet of the train which had been sent out to check on snow conditions to the east of the dty.

  “All right, Mr. . . .” the chief looked at the depot manager, who had given Edge a job on the snow-clearance crew.

  “Edge,” the nervous, somewhat effeminate man supplied. “That’s the only name he gave.”

  The police chief nodded and returned his attention to Edge.

  “Impress me, mister,” he invited sourly.

  The old man looked anxious, then seemed for a few moments to be trying to express some tacit message across the small, over-crowded office. But Edge met his eyes only fleetingly and gave no indication that he was drawing any conclusions from the faces pulled at him. And he was not, for he had already had a strong hunch of just where the old man fitted into this situation.

  Instead, he devoted his empty-eyed attention to the uniformed police chief, who seemed about as easy to impress as he was himself.

  “It starts with an unbom baby a lot of people thought was going to be Jesus Christ,” he opened, and succeeded even in jolting the hard-faced man out of his cynical composure.

  But the police chief recovered fast. He shifted his rump into a more comfortable position on a cluttered side table and growled, “You figurin’ to plead insanity, mister?”

  “Guess I did go a little crazy up there,” Edge admitted absently as his mind brought forward recollections of events a few short weeks ago amid the snow-covered peaks of Wyoming’s Wind River Mountains.

  It was there that he had first seen the three strangely dresse
d Japanese, at a time when he and several other people were affected by a series of happenings that paralleled those of the Nativity. At the dangerous crossing of a swollen river in flood. When those aboard the helpless ferry might well have died had the trio of Orientals not appeared, to throw them a lifeline.

  For a while, the whole episode over that Christmas Eve and Christmas Day had profoundly affected the man called Edge, and in retrospect he found it reassuring to consider that he took part in the strange affair of the never-to-be Second Coming as a result of some inexplicable mental aberration. Reassuring because it was totally alien to his nature to be influenced by the fervor of a bunch of religious fanatics. Alien—and dangerous—for a man like Edge to be affected by any influence outside his own desire for survival. For he was a man destined to exist always on the narrow line between harsh life and violent death.

  Perhaps it had always been like that, even as a child. Although there had been nothing unique about his family circumstances. He was the elder of two brothers who lived with their parents on a small farmstead in Iowa. His name then had been Josiah Carl Hedges and he spent his early years under threat of crop failure at best and Plains Indian attack at worst.

  He and his brother, Jamie, had survived and after the deaths of their mother and father there had seemed no reason why they should not have continued to make a good living on the Iowa prairie. Even though the younger Hedges boy was crippled as the result of a gunshot accident for which Josiah was responsible.

  But war came and it was mutually decided that the able-bodied brother should leave to fight for the Union army against the rebels of the south. He entered the long and bloody War Between the States as little more than a callow youth and was discharged as a man. A man who had learned to hate and to kill—and to kill even if there was no reason to hate.

  But, like many others, he rode away from the battlegrounds of the east toward the unscarred fields of the west firmly resolved to forget the past and make a golden future. Until he found the farm a charred ruin and the tortured body of Jamie in the yard.