EDGE: Seven Out Of Hell (Edge series Book 8)

by George G. Gilman

  Edge spat on to a tie. “Thirsty,” he corrected. “He ran out of whiskey.”

  “That’s no reason,” the woman responded angrily as Rose staggered out of the bank and waved cheerfully towards the trio before entering the saloon.

  The train came to a grinding halt, the big cow-catcher at the front of the locomotive nudging the dead roan mare.

  “Dry town’s no use to a man like him,” Edge said, and started along the side of the locomotive, noisy with pent-up power.

  “What’s going on here?” the engineer shouted, his sweating face purple with anger. “Who put that animal on the track?”

  Edge halted and stared up at the footplate, narrowing his eyes and curling back his lips. “I heard you didn’t figure to stop at Big Valley.”

  “Damn right,” the engineer shot back. “You coulda killed people.”

  Edge shifted the Winchester from his shoulder and held it across the front of his body, the gesture just short of a threat. “I ain’t lost the chance,” he said easily.

  “Hey, Lou, the whole town’s on fire!” the crewman yelled excitedly.

  As the two men stared around them, seeing smoke and flames billowing from the buildings on three sides of the plaza, Edge moved casually away, along the side of the train. Beth walked sedately behind him as Alvin struggled to keep up, panting from the strain of carrying the baggage.

  Cursing, half in anger and half in tear, the crewmen leapt down from the footplate and struggled to haul the dead horse off the track, A broad spectrum of expressions showed upon the faces of the passengers as they looked out through the car windows on to the trio seeking seats. They ranged from irritation at the delay of the unscheduled halt, through curiosity and indifference to a series of broad grins. These last decorated the round, sallow faces of about a dozen Chinese who occupied a car in the centre of the line.

  “Bye, folks!” Rose yelled from the front of the train as he came out of the depot amid a cloud of smoke. “Have yourselves a good trip.”

  “Utterly mad,” Beth muttered as Edge stepped up on to the car platform.

  “As a March Hare,” Alvin agreed, glaring at Edge’s back as he was forced to set down the valises in order to help the woman up the steps.

  Flames were supplementing the heat of the sun from all four sides of the plaza now and sparks, with no wind to carry them, began to float down over the train. The breathless crewmen had to concede defeat as the dead weight of the carcass refused to shift an inch.

  “Come on,” the engineer rasped at length. “Have to try and shunt the damn thing outta the way.”

  He raced back to the footplate and climbed aboard, the fireman hard at his heels.

  Back in the centre car, Edge lowered himself on to an aisle seat beside one grinning Chinese and facing two more. Alvin and Beth had to go to the far end of the car to locate two seats together. The train strained, jerked, rattled and inched forward. The dead horse was pushed along on the track for a few feet, then canted to the side and rolled clear. The train picked up speed and the passengers stared out in amazement at the raging flames which had now taken a strong grip on the tinder dry buildings.

  “Big Valley a good town to be leaving, sir.”

  Edge looked at the man sitting directly opposite him. Like all the other Chinese positioned throughout the car, he was in his mid-twenties, small of stature, with a smooth, clean-shaven face and blank eyes untouched by his smile. Also in common with his fellow countrymen, he wore a straw coolie hat and a loose-fitting, ankle-length robe the color of a thundercloud with capacious sleeves concealing his hands on his lap.

  “I think things get too hot for the gentleman,” the man beside Edge said.

  Laughter rattled in the throat of the third Oriental. Edge remained impassive.

  “Look, Miss Gertrude!” a man exclaimed in the seat behind Edge, pointing a trembling finger across the plaza. “There’s a man on the church roof.”

  Edge joined all the other passengers in turning his eyes towards the stumpy, half-finished tower of the church. The figure of Rose could be seen amid the billowing black smoke as the old-timer clung to a support strut and waved at the departing train with his free hand.

  “My God, Mr. Stein!” a woman shrieked. “He’s going to jump.”

  A series of gasps rippled through the car as the man who had built Big Valley took a final look around at its destruction and plunged head-first into the blazing church.

  “Whatever makes a man do such a thing?” the woman’s companion asked.

  “He was one of a generation that lost out,” Edge muttered as he moved into a more comfortable position in the seat and pulled his hat brim low over his eyes. “Rose ain’t Rose ain’t Rose no more.”

  The train steamed out of the town and picked up speed, racing away from the angry flames and the listless plumes of smoke. And as the wheels settled into a regular rhythm of noise and the cars began to sway smoothly, Edge allowed his mind to rove back into time again.

  Chapter Three

  THE section of Georgia through which the engineer led Hedges and the troopers had never been densely populated but now, at the height of the war, the country was almost deserted. The group had to move in a wide circle to avoid a tiny hamlet but was able to cut straight across a number of farmsteads and plantations which had been abandoned by women whose men folk had gone away to fight and been reported missing or killed.

  It was at one of these sadly derelict farms that the Captain called a halt. The sun was nearing its noon peak and the men were tired and irritable after an arduous march which had taken them far away from the blood-soaked wreckage at the railroad. Added to the strain of starved bodies forced to press forward at a fast pace through the harsh heat was the necessity, constantly stressed by Hedges, for the men to cover their tracks. Thus, each twig that was broken and every footprint made in a patch of soft earth had to be systematically concealed or obliterated. And hunger was a further contributing factor to the men’s exhaustion as they collapsed in the shaded coolness of the bare living room in the tiny farmhouse.

  Of the group, the overweight engineer should have finished the trek with a degree of freshness, but his ever-present fear of the escaped prisoners-of-war served to reduce him to the same level of weariness as the others.

  “Jesus!” Seward breathed as he sank to the floor in one corner, resting his back into the angle of the walls. “And some crazy coot had the nerve to write a song about marching through Georgia.”

  Forrest leaned against the high mantel above the crumbling brick fireplace and scowled at the men as they sank to the floor, some of them taking off their boots and massaging aching feet.

  “Just look at the cruds, Captain,” he snarled. “Spend months sitting on their asses and keel over soon as they take a little stroll.”

  Hedges was at the window, looking out through the cracked pane at the flat landscape stretching westwards at the front of the house. “You’re so fresh, sergeant, you stand first watch at this window,” he replied. They had approached the house from the rear and he knew that the terrain in that area was slightly broken, featured with a few stands of oak and pine trees. He jerked his rifle towards the open door to the kitchen. “Seward, take the window at the back. Wake Douglas and me after two hours. After us, Bell and Scott will take over.”

  Seward groaned. “Aw, what about Bob, Captain?” he whined.

  “Guess Rhett’s excused duty,” Scott muttered. “Maybe he’s feeling queer.”

  The men’s laughter had a hollow ring, as if indulgence in humor required as much effort as anything else. Hedges’ face was impassive as he regarded the facile handsomeness of the New Englander.

  “I don’t want him screaming like a stuck pig if he so much as sees a jack rabbit move outside,” the Captain said flatly. “Rhett, you’ll make sure Casey Jones don’t get itchy feet.”

  Rhett was insulted, then anxious. “How will I do that and get some sleep?” he pleaded, looking from Hedges to the nervous engineer a
nd back again.

  Hedges stretched out on the bare boards of the floor close to the door and closed his eyes. But although his posture suggested relaxation, his right hand maintained a tight grip on the Spencer repeater. His voice was already drowsy as he replied: “You had a college education, Rhett. Use your initiative.”

  The men not detailed for duty lost no time in following Hedges’ example and within a minute the sounds of ragged breathing and heavy snoring filled the room. During this time, Rhett treated the engineer to a steady, hateful stare which drove the fat little man closer and closer to the brink of babbling terror. Then, for a few moments, the man had time to gather his wits as Rhett rose and wandered about the room, opening and closing doors. When the New Englander found one which opened on to the room he wanted, he jerked his Colt at the engineer. “Into the kitchen, bastard,” he hissed. The engineer began to quake again as he stepped over the sleeping men to comply with the order.

  Forrest did not turn away from his surveillance of the sunlit countryside. His voice was a weary drone. “If you’re gonna cook him, Rhett, don’t give me no cuts off the rump.”

  “What you gonna do?” the engineer stuttered.

  Like the worst cowards, Rhett was able to put on a veneer of toughness when he had a victim at his mercy. His right hand rammed forward and the engineer bent double, the breath whooshing out of him as the Colt muzzle stabbed into his bulbous stomach.

  “Ask no questions and you’ll get told no lies,” Rhett said harshly, holding a slim hand around the man’s thick neck and jerking him forward into the kitchen. He went in after him and closed the door.

  The only movement within the range of vision of either Forrest or Seward was the almost imperceptible slide of the sun down the western blue of the sky. For the heat level did not fall and seemed to induce a lethargy even in the creatures whose natural habitat was in the overgrown fields around the house.

  Hedges and Douglas stood their guard in identical circumstances and not until Bell and Scott were halfway through their duty did a cooling breeze waft in from the east. Stirred up by the rustling of leaves, small animals began to scurry through the long, parched grass and crickets started an incessant commentary on their presence.

  At six o’clock, when a bank of grey cloud had formed along the western horizon and began to spread across the sky by the minute, heralding an early twilight, Hedges woke up and roused the other three men who had been sleeping.

  During each changeover of sentry duty, nobody had asked the whereabouts of Rhett and his charge. But as the men licked dry lips with parched tongues and made no effort to staunch the rumbling of empty stomachs, Hedges voiced the question.

  “In there,” Forrest replied, jerking a thumb towards the kitchen door.

  Hedges nodded to Douglas who used the stock of his rifle to push open the door. The Union corporal in Confederate grey grinned.

  “Got another song for you, Billy. Homo on the range.”

  The men crowded around the doorway and looked with amusement across the stone floor of the kitchen, to where Rhett was stretched out on the wide stove with his head resting on the edge of the sink. He was snoring gently. Then their attention was captured by a series of muffled grunts and they saw the engineer. He was hanging in a closet, his feet some eighteen inches above the ground, with a meat hook piercing each shoulder of his denim ©overalls and sunk into a beam. His hands were tied behind his back and his mouth was gagged. His round eyes seemed to bulge from his head in a silent plea for release.

  “Guy looks hung up over Rhett,” Seward said.

  “Get him off the hook,” Hedges ordered, and scowled at the sleeping man. “And wake up dreaming boy.”

  As Scott and Bell moved across to release the engineer, Seward closed in on Rhett. He leaned down to place his mouth against the ear of the sleeping man.

  “Boo!” he said harshly.

  Rhett came awake in a cold sweat and started to quake.

  “Company, sir!” Forrest hissed from the living room.

  “Keep him gagged,” Hedges snapped, pointing to the engineer then turning and creeping along the wall to where Forrest was crouched by the front window.

  The Captain ducked low and scuttled to the other side of the aperture. He peered out into the gathering early dusk and clicked his tongue against the back of his teeth as he saw the group of horsemen in a cautious approach to the house.

  “At least ten,” Hedges said.

  “Add two more,” Forrest answered, bringing up his rifle. “But they ain’t got a brain between ‘em. First saw ‘em, they were fanned out real good. Closer they come, more they bunched. First shot into the middle ought to take, out at least four of ‘em.”

  “And make holes in their uniforms,” Hedges said with a shake of his head. “Maybe scare off the horses, too.” He looked back into the room, at the men crouched there. Rhett had re-assumed responsibility for the engineer and was pressing a Colt into the side of the man’s neck. “Douglas, cover the rear. Nobody get trigger happy.” He returned his attention to the Rebel cavalry patrol. “What’s their ranking?” he asked of Forrest.

  The sergeant showed the Captain his crooked grin. “You wanna stay a Johnnie Reb, sir, you get demoted. Top man’s a lieutenant. Then there’s two sergeants and a corporal. Rest are enlisted men.”

  Hedges’ hooded eyes examined the enemy soldiers as they halted their horses some three hundred feet in front of the house. Their faces were mere areas of paleness against the dark grey of their uniforms and caps. But the apprehension of some of the group could be seen in the way rifle barrels were leveled and hands dropped to holstered side arms.

  “Anybody in there?” a man at the head of the group called. His voice was young, holding a timbre of nervousness.

  “Come in and find out, why don’t you,” Seward breathed.

  “I reckon we oughta pour some lead in there, lieutenant,” an older voice growled.

  “The man’s a sadist,” Rhett said softly.

  More voices sounded from the group, but too low to carry as far as the house. Then two men slid from their saddles and, with rifles leveled at the ready, moved cautiously forward. Hedges ducked back under the window and stabbed a finger at Forrest, Seward and Scott - finally at the bedroom door. The men moved forward to join Douglas who was guarding the window in there. Then the Captain indicated that the rest of the men should go into the kitchen.

  “All we want is the drop on them,” he hissed as he crossed the threshold.

  Both doors were pushed almost closed. The two Confederate cavalrymen had covered half the distance to the house, their eyes and ears straining to pick up a sign of danger. In the bedroom Douglas continued to crouch by the window as Forrest, Seward and Scott stood in an arc to one side of the door. In the kitchen, taking his cue from Hedges, Bell helped to hoist the quaking engineer back on to the hooks in the closet.

  Because of his tallness, Hedges’ head was on almost the same level as that of the hanging man. He leaned close to him. “Soon as they come in, make a racket,” he whispered.

  The man’s eyes grew wider, as if in disbelief. Hedges treated him to a cold grin and nodded. Then, with three silent strides, he reached the rear door and pulled in open. He jerked his head and Bell and Rhett followed him outside. He closed the door and pressed his finger against his thin lips as Douglas looked at him in amazement from the bedroom window. Then he motioned for Bell to go to one corner of the house before leading the anxious Rhett to the other.

  The two Rebel soldiers, sweating from the strain, reached the house and flattened themselves against the wall on each side of the front door. They paused a moment, then one of them lifted his foot and launched a back-heeled kick at the door. It crashed open. They leapt into the opening, bringing up their rifles. Their sighs of relief echoed in the empty room.

  Then fear clawed cold fingers around their throats again as the engineer began to moan through his gag and kick his feet against the sides of the closet. The men rushed acr
oss the room and adopted the same tactics as they employed at the front door.

  “Jesus, will you look at that!” the taller of the two exclaimed as he saw the frantically struggling form of the engineer.

  “They must have been here,” the other shot back. “Them’s railroad man’s threads. Get him down while I call the lieutenant.”

  The engineer began to struggle with greater vigor and the veins stood out in his face and neck as he tried to warn his rescuers of dangers. But the tall cavalrymen chose to set him free of the hooks before taking off the gag. And the second man hurried out to the front door.

  “They been, but they’ve gone, lieutenant!” he yelled. “Left the engineer here, though.”

  The rest of the patrol heeled their horses forward, still bunched together, heading for the house. Hedges waited until the enemy soldiers were lost to sight around the angle of the house and, after beckoning to Bell, led Rhett along the wall. At the front corner he held back, listening to the sounds of the men dismounting and going inside. Then, after a glance around the angle, he motioned for Rhett to hold the horses. He signaled to Bell at the other corner and both men crept towards the open front door, Bell having to duck below the level of the window sill. They paused, Hedges nodded: they stepped into the opening and across the threshold, rifles cocked and leveled.

  “They’re here!” the engineer screamed from the kitchen.

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Hedges said evenly into the shocked silence which followed the shout.

  The eleven men trying to crowd into the kitchen doorway whirled around, jostling each other to draw a bead on the two Union men. Hedges raised the Spencer and squeezed the trigger. The roar of the shot had a freezing effect on the Rebels. The man who’s head was showered with wood splinters and plaster from the ceiling did not even blink.

  “There’s only two of ‘em, sir,” an old sweat growled.

  Hedges shook his head, his lips curling back to show his teeth in an evil grin. “Wrong,” he chided. “Count them.”

  The frightened eyes of the Rebels swiveled to the bedroom door as it creaked open and Forrest came into view, followed by Seward, Douglas and Scott, each with a rifle cocked and aimed. And each with a brittle grin veneering his emaciated features. The six Union men formed a half circle around the cluster of Rebels.