EDGE: Violence Trail (Edge series Book 25)

by George G. Gilman

  There was a water hole on the high ground and they rested there, on the sign left by the passing wagon and animals. Everyone knew there had been water closer at hand among the timber growing on both sides of the valley. But there had been a tacit agreement to stay on the trail of the quarry.

  The respite was a short one and, as they prepared to move on again, Ree said, ‘Would it not be better for the madams to stay here with the casualty. We could travel faster. And should we meet with the soldiers, the madams, they will not be of—’

  ‘No!’ Pedro and Isabella replied in unison.

  Ree looked at Edge for support.

  ‘Guess Señora Montez agrees with them, feller,’ the half-breed said. ‘And with one silent partner in the company, we’re outvoted.’

  The Siamese sighed wearily as he stooped to take hold of Antonio’s ankles. ‘It was just a suggestion.’

  ‘They’re really set against folks being suggestive,’ Edge muttered, moving out from under the shade of the trees around the water hole.

  It was necessary to rest more often throughout the remainder of the hot afternoon and during the cool evening. Water was plentiful, but they had all been without food since the dawn breakfast. And the effects of the exhausting walk were cumulative.

  When it was full night, the moon seeming to radiate intense cold in the same manner the sun had clamped blistering heat over the country, they reached a point where the tracks left by the wagon and horses led off the trail to the west. Into another valley, much longer, deeper and with steeper sides than the one where they had met the army patrol.

  Antonio Montez died there.

  Whatever subconscious effort of will had caused him to cling on to life for so many grueling hours was abruptly extinguished. As the tall, lean half-breed lowered the Mexican gently to the hard ground, there was a soft sigh. The man’s chest sank and did not rise again. His mouth fell open and his eyes remained closed. The stench emanating from beneath the crude and filthy dressing bandaged to his belly seemed much stronger for a moment. Then a cutting breeze wafted along the valley and masked the pungent odor.

  ‘Antonio is dead,’ Senalda said dully, without stooping to look more closely. ‘Your father has gone to rest.’

  ‘It was to be,’ Pedro murmured.

  Isabella made to place an arm around her mother’s shoulders. But the woman shook her head.

  ‘It is all right. I am cried dry of tears.’

  Ree drew in a deep breath. ‘When a life is closed/When the final—’

  Edge reached out, gripped the brim of the Oriental’s coolie hat and wrenched it down over the gently melancholy face of the man. ‘They’ve got their own words for this, feller,’ he said, as the Montez family crossed themselves and Sank to their knees.

  Then he moved away, out of earshot of the murmured prayer and with his back to the group. Ree joined him, after setting his hat back squarely on his head. Edge rolled and lit a cigarette, gazing down the length of the valley.

  ‘You think we have a chance to find the soldiers, sir?’ Ree asked after a while.

  ‘Better now we’re travelling light, feller.’

  ‘He has been death, waiting to die, for a long time. A relief to everyone.’

  ‘What are you waiting for, feller?’

  ‘I do not understand, sir.’

  ‘You were in Amity Falls a month. You know the stage schedules, I guess. Was Fontaine telling it straight about one coming north tomorrow?’

  ‘Oh, yes. There is one every day, sir. From Leadville and Mountain City to Amity Falls and then on to Denver. A journey of many days, but mostly the stage is on time.’

  ‘So why didn’t you wait for it, feller? Fontaine and his buddies didn’t take anything that belonged to you.’

  ‘To go back to Amity Falls?’ Ree exclaimed.

  ‘You didn’t kill anyone there. But you been working real hard to keep from going back.’

  ‘There is nothing more to say.’ It was Pedro Montez who called this, drawing the attention of Edge and Ree. He and his mother and sister were up off their knees. Standing close together and gazing at the two men and beyond them along the valley.

  ‘Just to do,’ Isabella added.

  And the trio moved away from the body. The corpse was far enough off the trail and into the valley not to be visible to any passing stage passenger or horse rider.

  ‘The buzzards will take care of what is left of my father now that his soul has departed the shell,’ the girl explained to the shocked and puzzled Siamese. ‘Or the coyotes. He would not much care, if he knew it was not possible that he could be laid to rest beside the church in San Parral.’

  ‘And you care not at all, eh, hombre?’ Pedro growled, stepping slightly ahead of his mother and sister in passing the stationary half-breed and Siamese. ‘What becomes of the dead is even less important than what happens to the living.’

  ‘Figure a funeral is a family affair, kid,’ Edge replied evenly, no hint of criticism in his tone as he crushed the cigarette out under his boot heel. ‘Always did bury my own dead.’

  He moved off after the Montez group and Ree hurried to catch up with him.

  ‘In troubled, but less brutal times, señor, we too behaved in a more civilized manner,’ Isabella said flatly, without turning her head. ‘But we have come to accept that we must act according to the standard set for us.’

  Edge spat at the ground ahead of him, and muttered: ‘In this case, the gold standard.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘THEY are stupid!’ Pedro rasped between clenched teeth. ‘Very stupid to leave us alive and very stupid to waste time in sleep.’

  ‘Learn from other men’s mistakes and you could get to live to be very old, kid,’ Edge answered softly.

  ‘If he is to become as embittered and brutal as you by such lessons, I would prefer my son be dead before his next cumpleaños? Senalda Montez snapped, but kept her voice low.

  ‘Your daughter has a lot of faith in providence, señora? Edge muttered. ‘For your son’s sake, best you don’t tempt if—’

  They had found the stolen wagon and the deserters who had taken it - at the end of another grueling walk - the length of the valley, then southwards again across a wide plateau and around a lake which was the source of many streams.

  Had they still been burdened by the dying Antonio, they could not have made it. Even without this difficulty, they were close to complete exhaustion as they sank to the ground and peered at their reward for the effort. Hunger was not so bad now. But every muscle in everybody ached for prolonged rest. And the cold of the mountain air, compounded by the soakings they had received crossing fast-running icy streams, created a different kind of pain.

  ‘You knew we would find them tonight, didn’t you, señor?’ Isabella asked.

  They were on the southwestern shore of the moon-silvered lake, on the fringe of a stand of mixed spruce, cottonwood and aspen. The wagon was parked in a glade two hundred feet away, the oxen and horses tethered to tree branches, the men under blankets on the ground. There had been a cooking fire, but it had been doused before the deserters bedded down.

  Edge re-checked his count of eleven sleeping men and looked at the girl. She had fallen full-length into the last stream they crossed. Her hair was plastered tight to her head and her shirt clung so close to her upper body that it outlined the cold-distended nipples of her full breasts. She had to clench her teeth to keep them from rattling. But her eyes expressed something close to gratitude.

  Without the half-breed, the Montez family and Mr. Ree would have been indulging their weariness with rest, far from the timber stand beside the lake. For the discomfort and physical pain of the long walk through the night had quickly drained the Mexicans of the determination sparked by the death of Antonio. And the Siamese had always been quick to agree when the suggestion that they should halt was voiced.

  Edge had never argued - had merely continued to move at the same even pace, lips set in a firm line and cracked, glintin
g eyes fixed on the easy-to-follow sign of a heavy wagon and sixteen horses, nine of them with riders in the saddle.

  ‘Figured there was a good chance,’ he answered, conscious of the effort it took, even in these circumstances, for him to hold his gaze on her face. ‘On account of while they keep the wagon in one piece, they can’t travel much faster than folks on foot. Slower even, across this kind of country.’

  ‘And you knew, sir, they would not expect to be apprehended so soon,’ Ree whispered.

  ‘As I said, very stupid,’ Pedro growled. Eleven. The same number who stole our wagon. All asleep, like untroubled babies.’

  He spat into the lush grass that grew long and thick among the tree trunks.

  Edge sighed. ‘You reckon you can hold back on the spitting and snorting for a while, kid?’ he asked.

  ‘You have a plan, hombre?’

  ‘Nothing special. And ain’t worth nothing if there’s any noise before the right time.’

  The boy scowled. ‘In Montana, hombre, I once got within ten feet of a bull moose before he knew I was there. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘Keep in mind that silence is golden. And stay this far away from those fellers until I get back.’

  Pedro got set to protest, but Isabella clamped a hand over his mouth. Ree sighed his relief that he had no part in the half-breed’s plan. Then expressed gentle nervousness when Senalda Montez asked:

  ‘What if you do not come back, señor?’

  Edge showed his teeth in a grin that drew nothing from his glittering eyes. ‘Dead men tell no tales, señora. And make no plans.’ He started to move off, then held back for a moment. ‘Maybe your boy could do some more spitting. Drown those fellers.’

  He went then. Quickly and silently, on a semi-circular course through the timber around the glade. And did not turn to move closer to the sleeping men until he was at the furthest point from the tethered animals and nearest to the wagon. He remained upright until he lost the cover and moon shadow of the trees. Then went down on his hands and knees to crawl out into the glade and under the wagon.

  The trampled grass was sopping wet with dew. But it was easy to disregard physical discomfort now. For he was within a few feet of eleven men, all of whom would kill him if he gave them the opportunity. All of them sleeping soundly, but with a rifle and revolver close by. The half-breed had only the razor in the neck pouch and the element of surprise.

  So his life was on the line again. As it had been countless times since that first Indian attack on the Iowa farmstead long ago. But never before had he maneuvered himself into such a precarious position for such a vacuous - perhaps fatuous - reason. For the discovery of the wagon’s secret had not changed his motivation in staying with the Montez family. He had no selfish designs on the gold and cared nothing for the Mexican peons of San Parral it was intended to help. No, it was simply the need to satisfy his carnal lust for the body of a young girl - little more than a child with the fullness of a woman - which had triggered his responses since he first saw her.

  Pausing for a moment under the wagon, this involuntary thought entered his mind and held fast. And he almost vented a groan of disbelieving self-anger as he considered it, recalling what somebody had said of him. Senalda? Pedro? Mr. Ree? He could not remember which one. Just the words: A man such as this. If he wanted a woman. He would take her.

  It should have been true. So many of the finer qualities of humanity had been brutally stripped from him by harsh and bitter experience. He could take the life of a man without compunction. Why could not such a man take the body of a woman without consideration for the object of his desire?

  ‘Guess it just ain’t your idea of a good time, feller,’ he told himself under his breath as he started to belly forward. ‘You just won’t come unless you’re invited.’

  It was the elderly Mason who was stretched out under his blankets closest to the wagon. Ned Fontaine and the youngster, Hardy, were nearby. Hardy was snoring loudly through a wide open mouth. The other two breathed softly. Fontaine was smiling at a pleasant dream.

  Edge eased up on to his haunches and raked his narrowed eyes over the camp site. He failed to spot his Winchester and guessed it was among the heap of saddles piled beside the quiet animals. The sleeping men had only the army issue Spencers close by where they lay.

  He claimed the veteran’s single-shot rifle without trouble. But Mason grunted and moved a hand as the Army Colt was slid from his holster, Edge probing under the blankets. Then the man settled back into peaceful sleep again.

  The beaded sweat of tension became like pinpricks of icy needles against Edge’s flesh. His pent-up breath was let out silently. The hammers of the two guns made sounds like shots as he cocked them. But only to his ears. No one else stirred.

  He straightened to his full height and sidestepped around the group of sleeping men. Colt in his left hand and Spencer in his right, the stock of the rifle pressed against his side by an elbow.

  Some of the horses whinnied as he neared them. A trooper moaned and rolled over on to his side. Edge swung the Colt, but the man did not wake.

  Movement in another direction caught his eye. He halted and tracked both guns, poised to fire and lunge for the cover of the heap of gear.

  But he was covering Pedro Montez as the boy crawled out from the trees on the far side of the glade. The youngster froze and the moonlight showed the scowl on his face. Then there were other movements, ten feet to either side of the boy. His sister on the right and his mother on the left. They did not halt, but continued to inch towards the troopers. Pedro went with them.

  Edge covered the final yard to the dumped saddles and crouched beyond them. The guns in his hands shifted on the same back-and-forth shuttle as his eyes, watching for the first sign that the advance of the Montez family had been discovered.

  There was sweat on his flesh again. The wife, son and daughter of a blacksmith from a Mexican dirt farm village had no business closing in, unarmed, on a bunch of army deserters. They did not have what it took to succeed. Unless the will to win was enough.

  They moved as silently as Edge had, like shadows in the moonlight. And disarmed three sleeping men with the same ease as if they were robbing corpses. Then they withdrew back to the cover of the trees.

  The horses, having accepted the presence of Edge, made further sounds of nervousness. The half-breed looked over his shoulder and saw the gowned figure of Ree crawling between the animals’ legs. There was no trace of gentleness on his smooth-skinned face now. Just naked terror, which did not abate as he crouched beside Edge.

  ‘Sir,’ he whispered, ‘the boy says he wishes to owe you nothing. Now that his father is dead, the wagon is his responsibility.’

  The half-breed nodded without expression and thrust the Colt at Ree. The Siamese took it by reflex action, but stared at it fearfully as Edge reached into the heap of gear and drew his Winchester from his own saddle boot.

  ‘But I am man of peace, sir,’ the Oriental gasped. ‘I do not believe in violence.’

  ‘More than your illusion’s about to be shattered, feller,’ Edge rasped.

  Three rifle shots exploded against the mountain silence. The horses snorted and reared, flailing at their tethers. The oxen pawed at the grass. The sleeping forms of two men rolled and were still. In death. Nine others screamed and cursed into awareness. All these reached for guns. Four failed to find them. Blankets were hurled aside and figures rose.

  Three revolver shots cracked. Less powerful than the opening volley and almost muted by the sounds of fury and panic vented from the gaping mouths of the deserters. Two more of them went to the ground and became inert. One was hit in the right kneecap and gave shrill, obscene voice to his agony.

  ‘Over there!’ Fontaine roared, and snapped off a shot into the trees, aiming wildly at the general area where all the survivors had seen the muzzle flashes of the Colts. ‘Charge the bastards!’

  ‘You already took us for all we had, feller,’ Edge snarled, and explode
d a bullet across the saddles.

  The men with rifles fired them into the trees. Then hurled them away and drew their Colts. Those whose guns had been stolen threw themselves to the ground and scampered towards the wagon.

  One of those who tried this was hit in the side of the head by Edge’s shot.

  Those who had moved to obey Fontaine’s order pulled up short and turned.

  The half-breed fired again.

  Two gunshots cracked out from the trees. Another trooper died, hit in the stomach and chest.

  Five of the deserters were left alive and one of these was writhing in agony, clutching at his blasted kneecap with both hands.

  ‘Hold it!’ Fontaine roared. ‘Friggin’ hold the cruddin’ shootin’!’

  He and Hardy had their right hands fisted around the butts of Colts. The two other uninjured troopers had no guns. All four were in half crouches, fear and anger etched deep into their bristled faces as they swung their heads from the trees to the heap of saddles and back again. No man had had time to move more than six feet from the place where he had been sleeping.

  The youthful Hardy got off one more shot after Edge and the Montez family had held their fire.

  ‘I said to quit it, you crud!’ Fontaine snarled, crashing down his free hand on the youngster’s wrist.

  As Hardy yelled in pain and the gun dropped from his hand, Fontaine tossed away his own Colt. Then he thrust his hands high into the air. The other three imitated him.

  ‘And you can quit the stinkin’ yellin’, Dorcas!’ the scar-faced man yelled.

  The injured trooper moderated his sounds of agony to a low moaning.

  ‘It’s you people we took the lousy wagon from, ain’t it?’ Fontaine demanded, licking his lips between every second word. ‘Okay, we surrender! You can have it back!’ He waved an arm to encompass the inert dead. ‘Didn’t do these guys any good! We don’t wanna finish up as bad as they are!’

  Edge eased upright and stepped out from behind the heap of gear. Ree stayed crouched and trembling in cover.

  ‘Hey, man!’ Fontaine said, a tremulous smile on his lips as he saw the move. And also saw the half-breed cant the Winchester to his shoulder. ‘We didn’t kill you, did we? We could’ve, but we didn’t. Some wanted to, but I didn’t let ’em, did I?’