EDGE: Violence Trail (Edge series Book 25)

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Señor Ree, you are a very bad poet,’ Isabella muttered.

  The stocky Siamese gave a shrug of resignation. ‘Or perhaps it is the time that is bad for my poems, madam?’

  She seemed not to hear him in her intent concentration upon the curving trail stretched out ahead of the slow moving wagon. The Oriental face, wearing an expression of gentle sadness, swung towards Edge. The half-breed spat again into the dust.

  Ree sighed once more. ‘So you think as madam does.’ Then he smiled again. ‘For you, such agreement is a start.’

  Edge pursed his lips. ‘A coming together of minds ain’t what interests me, feller.’

  The girl snorted, much as her brother was prone to do. Then there was a new silence, until the wagon had covered the curve in the trail and was rolling through a pass.

  ‘Pedro?’ Isabella called suddenly.

  The boy, still astride his horse, was halted at the other end of the pass, which was a narrow cleft between towering pinnacles. He beckoned with an arm gesture but did not turn around. Edge heeled the black mare into an easy canter, pulling ahead of the wagon.

  ‘Men,’ the youngster announced as the half-breed stopped beside him. ‘A dozen or perhaps more. Not Indians. Beyond the mesa, hombre’

  The terrain fell gently away to the south of the pass. Into a broad and shallow valley that extended a long way until an east-west line of ridges blocked it. The intervening ground was featured with countless mesas and steep-sided bluffs, isolated hulks of rock and arm-like promontories which reached out from the valley sides. The trail twisted and turned between these obstacles. Stands of spruce shrouded the slopes. On the valley floor the soil looked sandy and supported only mesquite, greasewood and cactus. Nothing moved down there, in the harsh sunlight and deep, west-pointing shadows, until two horsemen showed on the trail where it snaked into view at the side of a red rock mesa. A mile and a half from where Ree halted the wagon behind Edge and Pedro in the pass.

  ‘Soldiers!’ the boy croaked, and jutted out his lower lip to send a stream of cool air up over his sweat-beaded face. ‘We have nothing to fear from them, eh, hombre?’

  ‘I’m getting to think you’re afraid of your own shadow, kid,’ Edge answered, counting fourteen blue uniformed riders down in the valley riding double file.

  ‘Hombre, we have reason—’

  ‘They are hunting the renegade Indians, no doubt!’ Isabella said quickly. ‘On such a mission, soldiers would carry medicine, I think.’

  ‘Among that many troopers, good and bad, lady,’ Edge supplied, blinking as sunlight glinted on the lenses of a pair of field glasses which was trained on the pass by one of the men heading up the column.

  He heeled the mare into a walk down the slope. Pedro moved up alongside him and Ree set the wagon rolling behind.

  ‘I have never had any reason to distrust the army of the United States, hombre,’ Pedro said, less easy in his mind than he had been before.

  ‘You handle a rope good, kid,’ Edge told him. ‘And throw a knife real well. You can handle a horse. Maybe you’ll get better with a gun.’

  ‘You talk in riddles, hombre?’

  ‘Matter of what you get used to. Your Pa never let you fool with guns, uh?’

  The boy snorted. Then seemed to be ashamed of the thought which caused the sound. ‘We came north from San Parral to make money, hombre. Not spend it. Bullets cost money.’

  ‘And save lives, kid. If you know how to shoot them straight’

  Pedro spat now. ‘I learn fast. I shot that Indian, too.’

  Edge nodded. ‘Sure you did. Now learn something about the army. On account you ain’t never had reason to distrust it.’

  He and the boy, with the wagon close behind, had reached the foot of the slope. The patrol of troopers had been out of sight behind a bluff. Now they rode into sight again, in the same formation and at the same easy pace. Still too far off to be seen in detail. But the man with the field glasses continued to use them on the approaching civilians.

  ‘You trust nobody, señor?’ Isabella said flatly.

  ‘Which gives us something else in common,’ the half-breed countered, and turned to show her a flinty grin.

  ‘But the army is the protector of the people!’ Pedro snapped.

  ‘The army is made up of men, kid. All kinds. Good and bad and them that swing from one side to the other. Uncle Sam don’t issue no halo along with a uniform.’

  ‘Distrust of all men is a burdensome travelling companion,’ Ree intoned.

  ‘It’s real light, feller,’ Edge answered, reining his mare to a halt. ‘And keeps me from being a dead weight.’

  The Siamese stopped the ox team. Pedro had ridden on, peering intently at the patrol. When he realized he was moving on alone, he snorted, jerked on the reins and backed the gelding to a position alongside the half-breed again.

  The soldiers closed the gap on the halted horsemen and wagon. A lieutenant of about forty was in command, riding next to a sergeant ten years his senior. Both men were overweight and unfit. Behind them were a dozen enlisted men spanning an age range from about eighteen to close to sixty. They were as weary, sweaty, dirty, unshaven and disheveled as the officer and non-com.

  It had obviously been a long, hard, exhausting patrol with little or nothing to relieve the monotony and frustration. Until the red-rimmed eyes of some of the men saw the near beautiful face and full-figured body of Isabella Montez; then the attention of the less observant troopers was noisily directed towards her.

  ‘Keep your stinkin’ mouths shut!’ the sergeant snarled, silencing the murmur of talk from the column as he surveyed the girl with as much keen, masculine interest as the troopers.

  The green hills of Ireland could be heard in his voice. But he had last seen them a long and harsh time ago. He had a round, ugly, ruddy face with tiny eyes, a disjointed nose and heavy cheeks that sagged and pushed his mouth into a pout. He raised an arm to halt the column, the head of which was ten feet in front of Edge and Pedro.

  ‘Good morning,’ the officer greeted, his voice an unfriendly growl. He did not touch the peak of his uniform cap. His face was cut on square lines. He had dull gray eyes, iron gray hair and a bushy moustache that was black. He had either gained a lot of weight since his uniform was issued, or he had drawn one that was two sizes too small. For the tarnished buttons of his tunic were put under great strain every time he took a breath. ‘Lieutenant Shotter commanding a patrol from Fort King. Tracking redskin renegades that busted out from the Lincoln Reservation. You people seen any redskins on your travels?’

  He gave the same jaundiced look to Isabella as to the rest of the civilians.

  Pedro nodded enthusiastically. ‘Si, lieutenant. Last night, south of the town of Amity Falls. And yesterday, in the morning. They attacked us then. Shoot my father. But we killed—’

  ‘My father is very sick,’ Isabella interrupted. ‘He has a bad wound. Do you have a doctor with you? Or medicines, perhaps?’

  She was uncomfortably aware of the lustful interest she was attracting from the troopers. And kept her anxious eyes fixed on the soured face of the officer. The news that he was at least a full night behind his quarry did not please Shotter.

  ‘Many redskins?’

  ‘Not so many now,’ Edge supplied.

  ‘Si, we killed four. In the morning of yesterday. Last night, the hombre here says that others were—’

  ‘Please, my father!’ Isabella insisted.

  Senalda pushed her head out through the canvas flaps. The first glance at a second woman created more murmuring among the troopers. But the sergeant did not need to yell at the men this time. For a longer look at the aged, haggard and anxiety-riddled face of the girl’s mother soon quelled the excitement.

  ‘Where was he hit?’ Shotter growled.

  ‘In the gut, and the bullet’s still buried,’ Edge said.

  ‘Since yesterday morning?’ The officer grimaced. ‘I’m just a cavalry lieutenant, ma’am. Miracles have to c
ome from a higher authority. Sergeant O’Keefe, move out the troop.’

  ‘Least we can take a look at the little lady’s old man, lieutenant!’ one of the back markers of the column called. ‘Might be somethin’ in our little old bag of medical tricks that’ll help!’

  He was tall and skinny. About forty, with sunken eyes that smiled easily, hollow cheeks and a deeply grooved chin. His tunic sleeves still carried the marks of when he had been stripped of his sergeant’s chevrons.

  ‘I ain’t warnin’ you no more times, Sheldon!’ O’Keefe snarled. ‘You’re on the fort commander’s report for sure.’

  ‘That ain’t nothin’ new for Dan, sarge!’ the man beside Sheldon taunted. ‘Nor me. And I reckon we should help these people.’

  There were nods and more vocal sounds of agreement with the two back markers. Apparently disinterested in the Scene, Edge watched the soldiers carefully. And saw that none allowed his attention to wander away from Isabella for more than a moment.

  ‘You’ll obey orders, damnit!’ the non-com roared, his color turning a deeper shade of crimson as his anger rose. Lieutenant Shotter revealed fear for an instant. Then masked it behind a false front of weary resignation. ‘All right, sergeant!’ he cut in, and silenced the troopers’ noisy response to O’Keefe’s bluster. ‘We’ll take a look at the injured man.’

  He transmitted a tacit message to the non-com, then gestured that they should both dismount.

  ‘Stay in your saddles and behave respectful!’ the sergeant ordered, then turned to follow Shotter to the rear of the wagon.

  Senalda Montez smiled for the first time since Edge had met her. Then the troopers showed a mixture of grins and leers, with a great deal of lip-licking, when Isabella turned on the wagon seat and climbed through the flaps: presenting the trail-weary men with an uninterrupted view of her buttocks and thighs in the tight-fitting pants. ‘Man, the end’s in sight!’ a grizzled veteran rasped. ‘Don’t it look good!’ the youngest trooper muttered, pursing his lips to vent a low whistle. ‘From every angle,’ another agreed. ‘More curves than angles, seems to me,’ the emaciated Dan Sheldon growled.

  The girl was hidden now, under the canvas top of the wagon. Ree was alone on the seat, smiling gently and foolishly, obviously afraid. Pedro Montez looked nervously from the Oriental, to the excited soldiers, to the impassive Edge.

  ‘Hombre,’ he whispered. ‘There could be trouble, I think.’

  ‘Ain’t what you’re thinking that bothers me, kid,’ the half-breed muttered.

  Despite the fact that Sheldon was no longer a sergeant, he still had a degree of authority over the other troopers. They all looked towards him, and did not dismount until he swung out of the saddle. Each man left his Spencer rifle in the boot. But all carried a Colt in a buttoned-down holster.

  ‘You folks headin’ back home to old Mexico?’ the thin man asked as he sauntered along the double row of horses, his eyes smiling merrily.

  ‘Guy in the flat hat and dress ain’t Mexican, Dan,’ the youngest trooper pointed out as Sheldon emerged at the front of the dismounted soldiers. ‘He’s a Chink.’

  ‘I am Siamese if you please,’ Ree corrected, folding his arms and hiding his hands in the capacious sleeves of his smock.

  ‘All you slit-eyed cats from across the ocean look the same to me,’ the young trooper replied with an indifferent shrug.

  Sheldon laughed. ‘What you’re ridin’ with, Mr. Siamese sure has some tail. But it ain’t no dog.’

  ‘A lady,’ Edge pointed out. ‘Who ain’t no tramp.’

  ‘My sister!’ Pedro snapped.

  Isabella had held the attention of the men when she was in sight since she went into the wagon, they had been intrigued by Ree. Only now did they look closely at Pedro and Edge - and saw the Mexican as a callow and frightened youth, and the half-breed as a full-grown man with more than mere bluff behind his cool and calm facade.

  Sheldon glanced over his shoulder, perhaps to renew his confidence with the sight of the other troopers. Then: ‘Your word, mister.’

  ‘But your look, feller.’

  ‘What’s the harm in lookin’? You another brother?’

  ‘Looks can kill, feller. And thinking can end up being bad for a man. So best you get your mind off relations with the lady.’

  Sheldon laughed again and moved closer, the men crowding him from behind. Edge sat easy astride the black mare, his brown-skinned hands draped over the saddle horn. Abruptly, the trooper’s emaciated face expressed snarling hatred. His tone was a match.

  ‘I have enough of friggin’ officers tellin’ me what to do, mister! And I sure ain’t takin’ no orders from a stinkin’ civilian!’

  ‘Wasn’t an order, feller,’ the half-breed replied evenly. ‘Just a suggestion.’

  The smile was back in the dark eyes of Sheldon. And the men, who had become nervously expectant when his anger flared, showed smiles of their own.

  Pedro snorted.

  ‘Well, I guess that’s all right then,’ Sheldon allowed, ambling past the two mounted men, trailed by the others.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Edge added, turning in the saddle to watch as the men gathered at the side of the wagon. ‘You don’t follow it, I’ll kill you.’

  His right hand had moved from the saddlehorn to drape the butt of his holstered Colt. In the moment of shocked silence, when every face was turned towards him, this slight alteration in his casual posture was seen by all.

  There was more than mere nervousness among the troopers now. Deep-seated fear that they had not been mistaken in seeing something mean and evil behind the nonchalant shell of Edge. They looked towards Sheldon again, and he responded with a glower of contempt.

  That’s easy for a man with a gun in his hand to say.’

  ‘And do, feller. You and your buddies want to mount up?’

  ‘Sheldon!’ O’Keefe yelled. ‘What’s goin’ on out there?’

  The scowl on the hollow-cheeked face became a leer. His eyes stayed fixed upon the impassive face of Edge, but his sneering words were directed at the sergeant. ‘Like to know what’s goin’ on in there, sarge! With you and the lieutenant and a couple of—’

  Edge pulled both his feet clear of the stirrups. He lifted his left leg high, folding it and swinging it over the horse’s neck as he turned and slid clear of the saddle. The Colt was drawn while he was in mid-air. And leveled as he landed, perfectly balanced, on the ground, ready cocked.

  ‘Holy—’ the youngest trooper started.

  The gun bucked in the half-breed’s hand. Blue smoke wisped from the muzzle. The range was no more than ten feet and produced a freak hit as Sheldon turned away in terror, bobbing down at the same time. The bullet intended for his heart took him in the side of the neck, closer to the front than the rear. It bored a hole through flesh, tore into his windpipe, and ripped a tunnel through more flesh before bursting clear on the other side. And still had enough velocity to reach the side of the wagon seat and ricochet off metalwork to the ground.

  Something glinted brightly in the strong morning sunlight. Just a tiny splash of color against drabness.

  Many throats voiced shock. Sheldon’s spilled blood tried to find a low point. But his dying breath forced it up and out. As if he was ashamed of the mess he had made, Sheldon dropped to his knees, then fell forward across the blood. The death rattle had a moist sound. Then he was silent and still.

  ‘You fellers see how easy?’ Edge asked evenly, sliding the Colt back into the holster but keeping his hand fisted around the butt.

  ‘—cow!’ the youngest trooper finished.

  ‘What the— sergeant!’ Shorter roared.

  O’Keefe lunged from the rear of the wagon, Colt drawn. The lieutenant was right behind him, but stumbled in his haste.

  ‘Gold!’ a trooper exclaimed shrilly. ‘Look! The damn wagon’s made of friggin’ gold!’

  The men had scuttled away from the collapsing body of Sheldon. Now they surged closer, unconcerned that they were trampling
on a corpse, to look at the area of metalwork where the bullet had ricocheted. Edge had just a moment to see again the glint of gold which had caught his eye at the instant of Sheldon’s dying, where lead had scratched the paint to reveal what was beneath. Then the heads and shoulders of excited troopers blocked his view.

  ‘Reach, all three of you guys!’

  The trooper who gave the order had a knife scar on his forehead and one eye that opened wider than the other. He broke from the cluster of excited men with his Colt drawn and leveled at Edge.

  ‘Do it, and no one gets hurt!’ he snapped. ‘Don’t, and Dan Sheldon has company.’

  ‘That’s a feller I wouldn’t want to be seen dead with,’ Edge said, pushing his arms above his head. Only the growl in his tone hinted at the degree of anger he felt. Self-anger at not being ready, gun drawn again, for the new move. For he had allowed his mind to wander into the past, and fasten momentarily upon a memory that served no useful purpose. Of a time in the timberland of the North West when he had used a similar ruse to disguise the precious freight of a wagon.

  ‘Madre de Dios!’ Pedro croaked, and reached for the old Griswold in his holster.

  ‘You ready to go see her?’ the youngest trooper, of an age with Pedro, growled.

  He had come clear of the group now. Gun out of the holster and angled up at the Mexican.

  ‘In death, nothing is gained. All lost.’ As he intoned this philosophy, Ree unfolded his arms and raised them.

  Pedro’s eyes, ablaze with anger and then dulling to helplessness, moved from the Siamese, to Edge, to the troopers. All the soldiers were unbuttoning their holster flaps and pulling out Colts. His shoulders sagged, then were forced up again as he clawed his hands into the air.

  ‘What the friggin’ hell is goin’ on, you men?’ O’Keefe demanded.

  One of the troopers swung a gun to cover the sergeant. A second drew a bead on Lieutenant Shotter.

  ‘Pedro? Señor Edge?’ There was a note close to panic in the voice of Isabella.

  ‘Shut up!’ the scar-faced trooper shrieked. ‘Shut up, the stinkin’ lot of you crud! And friggin’ listen!’