The Blue, the Grey and the Red

by George G. Gilman

  Edge nodded. "Maybe two."

  Ryan looked at the confused Heffner. "Get off the stand," he instructed.

  "Objection!" the prosecuting counsel yelled as Lydia Eden dug him hard in the ribs with a bony elbow.

  "What grounds?" Ryan snapped, crooking a finger to beckon Emmeline Greer and Paxton to the floor of the court.

  The lawyer's red face became lined with a frown of thought. "Defense didn't inform the state of intention to call witnesses," he blurted out.

  "You ask defense?" Ryan posed.

  The prosecutor swallowed hard and sat down suddenly. Beside him the woman rested clenched fists on the table and stared straight ahead, her eyes glassy. The men of the jury began to whisper to each other, unsettled by this new turn of events.

  "Silence!"Ryan roared at them, then looked back at Edge. "Which one you calling first?"

  "Let's be polite," Edge said. "Emmeline Greer."

  Ryan nodded and, waved the whore onto the witness stand. As she took the oath, Paxton moved to stand beside Edge, carefully taking a wide circle around the taut bulk of Railston, who followed his progress with hate-filled eyes.

  "Kept her holed up at my place last night," the young deputy whispered close to Edge's ear. "She was okay till we got to court."

  "How'd you make her open up?"

  "Stuck my Colt up her butt. Told her she could have two and a half grand in the bank or lead in her pants."

  "Generous with my money," Edge muttered as the court officer took the Bible away from the woman.

  "Proceed," Ryan said.

  "Tell it like it was," Edge said evenly, his blue eyes meeting hers and locking on them. They looked at each other across the hushed silence and it was as if the woman was hypnotized by the power of the man's steady stare. Her pale lips moved silently for a few moments before she found her voice. "Shelby and Heffner were cheating at cards," she said suddenly, continuing to concentrate upon Edge, knowing that if once she lashed eyes with Lydia Eden or Railston, she would dry up. "They took Chadwick for a lot of money." She cleared her throat and seemed to gain confidence. "The stranger told Chad he'd been taken. Chad got angry and Shelby pulled a gun. He made to shoot Chad, but then turned it onto the stranger. The stranger saw it coming and drew. He plugged Shelby. Shelby's gun went off and the bullet hit the lamp. Then it hit Chad. The stranger fired in self-defense. Chad died because of an accident—a wild slug."

  "She's a liar," Lydia Eden screamed, leaping to her feet. "She's a whore and a liar. She wasn't even there. Chad never consorted with whores."

  Ryan gaveled the courtroom into silence. "Any reason the jury should believe your witness, son?" he asked Edge.

  "You got anything else to say, Emmeline?" Edge asked the woman. "About how you came to be in the back room of the Royal F1ush?"

  She sucked the inside of her cheek and took time to reach a decision. "Okay, I'm a whore," she said suddenly, "But I'm not allowed to keep a quarter of what I make. I work in a plush place. We get rich clients. Shelby and Heffner paid me good to steer loaded suckers to their games."

  Noise erupted again, but died instantly as Ryan raked his angry eyes across the excited and enraged faces. Heffner was seated at the front of the public section, staring down at his hands clasped in his lap. Attention was divided between him and the woman on the witness stand.

  "What about after the shooting?" Edge asked

  Her teeth found her lower lip now and her eyes showed a more specific fear. But there was no menace in Edge's expression. "I got scared," she said.

  "Of who? Heffner? Me?"

  She shook her head. "Mrs. Eden. Scared of what she'd do if she found out I'd steered her son to the Royal Flush. I slugged you with a bottle, scooped up as much money as I Could and got out of there. I figured to stay undercover until things had blown over. But Mrs. Eden sent a buggy for me. A couple of strong-arm guys hustled me into it and took me to the Garden of Eden. They said I had to stay there until the trial was over. But Vic Paxton came to get me. That's it."

  "Any questions?" Ryan demanded of the prosecuting lawyer. The man looked at Lydia Eden, but the old woman seemed to be in a trance, her hooded eyes held in an unwavering stare ahead of her.

  "No questions," the counselor replied.

  "Go say your piece, Deputy," Edge said to Paxton. There were no interruptions now as the spectators waited anxiously for new excitements. Paxton was sworn in and at a nod from Edge, gave his evidence, telling how Railston had taken two guns from the Royal Flush, of the dented lamp suggesting a ricochet and of finding Emmeline Greer under guard in the Garden of Eden.

  "Somebody's got to die!" Lydia Eden screamed, her voice shrill and vibrant in the silence which followed Paxton's final words. Her hand came up and she pointed an accusing finger to where Emmeline Greer stood, pressed against the wall beside the defense table. "The harlot. If she took my little boy there, she is responsible for his death. She must hang."

  The prosecutor reached out a hand to try to restrain the woman, but she knocked it away with a violent sweep of her arm.

  "This court don't work that way, Mrs. Eden," Ryan said.

  "Someone has to die!" the old woman screamed. "Chadwick must be avenged!" Railston had backed away from the front of the court and was standing in the aisle which divided the public section into two. He was sweating freely and a nervous tic was sending spasms of movement across his left cheek.

  "Getting too hot for you, Red?" Edge said suddenly.

  "No witness leaves this court till I say so!" Ryan snapped.

  Railston wasn't the fastest man in San Francisco, but his two gun draw was adequate for the occasion.

  "You'll never make it," Edge hissed at the court offlcers as their hands moved to holstered revolvers.

  "I've got the drop, Judge," Railston snarled, backing up the aisle.

  The spectators looked on in shocked silence, none wishing to get involved in a fight they had no part of. Ryan showed no fear as he turned his eyes towards the jury, commanding their attention by sheer power of character.

  "You boys want to retire to consider your verdict?" he asked easily. The twelve men sought tacit advice from Lydia Eden, but the old woman was still venting silent hatred upon Emmeline Greer, completely detached for her surroundings. The foreman cleared his throat. "Don't rightly know," he said, and flicked frightened eyes towards the back of the court, where Ballston had reached the door.

  "Well, I'll tell you, boys," Ryan said slowly. "Way I see it, certain people have conspired to pervert the course of true justice here today." His head moved and his cold eyes hovered momentarily upon a succession of individuals before him. "Namely a rich woman full of spite; a cardsharp, a coroner and a marshal. Now I reckon those others did it for a piece of the rich woman's fortune. They committed perjury for gain is how I see it. And whether you stay in here or go out to talk it over, there better be only one verdict. If it's the wrong one, I won't be able to think anything else but that you’ve been bought, too."

  "Objection!" the prosecutor barked.

  "Shut your damn mouth," Ryan told him as the jurymen put their heads together. Ryan allowed them less than half a minute. "Well?"

  The foreman blinked. "We say he's innocent, Judge," he said hoarsely.

  "Set the prisoner free," Ryan said as Railston back-heeled the door, crashing it wide.

  But nobody moved, held in frozen attitudes by the menace of Railston's guns. The tic in the marshal's cheek began to work more frantically as a hundred pairs of eyes fastened upon him.

  "It wasn't such a good day after all," Edge rasped across the stillness.

  "Somebody has to die!" Lydia Eden screamed.

  "Paxton's gun exploded and wood splinters flew from the front of the witness stand as he fired through it. The bullet thudded into the wall above the doorway and showered plaster on to the marshal. As women screamed, Railston spun on his heels and vanished from the doorway. Those closest to the door waited until the sound of his footsteps had diminished and leapt
forward, staring after the retreating figure.

  Ryan got to his feet and snapped orders at Paxton, demanding the arrest of Lydia Eden and her conspirators. The old woman began to scream for vengeance and could not be silenced until one of the court officers clamped a hand over her mouth. The second man unlocked Edge's handcuffs. "Obliged," he said, rubbing the red marks left by the circles of metal. When he stood up and looked towards the windows he could see the gallows in a shaft of sunlight at the center of the yard beside the courthouse. Somewhere across the city a clock began to strike noon. He turned his eyes towards where Emmeline Greer was still pressed against the wall, looking exhausted by the strain and fear she had experienced. He stepped in front of her. "I ought to kill you," he said softly.

  "She put a hand to her throat. "You told the deputy I could keep the money."

  He showed his teeth in a cold grin. "You saying you took a bribe to give evidence?' She looked away from him, to where Paxton and the court officers were shepherding their prisoners through to the jailhouse under the steely-eyed gaze of the judge. "I hid it in my room," she told him softly.

  Paxton halted beside them, looking at each in turn. "You sure don't look like a man just saved from the gallows," he said.

  "I'm happy inside," Edge told him without emotion. "Obliged for your help."

  "If Railston hadn't cracked, it could have gone the other way."

  The remainder of the spectators had filed out of the courtroom, disappointed that the excitement was over and there was to be no hanging as a climax.

  Edge grinned. "Only the good die young. I figure I'm immortal. You going after Railston?"

  Paxton's mouth tightened. "The judge said to arrest him."

  Edge nodded. "You got as long as it takes me to collect my bankroll and find him.

  "The young deputy toughened his expression, but his tiredness still showed through. "I'm the law now. It's my job."

  Edge took hold of the woman's arm and steered her towards the door which led to the jailhouse. "Guess we all got to do our own thing," he muttered. "I need my guns."

  Paxton followed him into the marshal's office and gave him his gunbelt with the Colt in the holster, and his Winchester. From a cell, Lydia Eden stared with seemingly sightless eyes at Emmeline Greer. Heffner and the coroner were in the cell vacated by Edge. Mint Julep was sleeping off the effects of the wine Paxton had given him.

  "I did you a big favor," Paxton said to Edge. "Return it. Leave Railston to me."

  Edge regarded him coldly. "I said I was obliged."

  "That's all your life's worth?"

  "Some would say less than that," Edge replied, hustling Emmeline Greer out into the hot California sun, breathing deeply of the free air.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The morning dawned damp and misty and in the grey light the dead wagon seemed more funereal than usual as it rolled in through the north gate. Forrest and Seward heard it before they saw it, straining their eyes towards the sound of creaking harness and springs, the squeak of an ungreased axle. Twice men shouted and the wagon halted. There was the sound of the driver and his companion jumping down and then low-voiced conversation punctuated by the thud of a body heaved over the tailgate.

  The dead wagon always entered the stockade unescorted, manned by two Confederate soldiers who were not armed. By tacit agreement, it had immunity to harassment, for the prisoners did not relish the sight of decomposing bodies littering the camp and co-operated in their removal.

  "We got us a stiff," Forrest called as the wagon rolled out of the mist, bringing with it the sickly odor of the many bodies which had ridden in it.

  "Don't sound so goddam happy about it," Hedges hissed from within the shelter. The driver and the man beside him on the box seat had faces to match their job, the sallow flesh drooping in melancholy arcs under their eyes and around their mouths. Even the two-horse team looked sad.

  "Where is he?" the driver asked, dropping to the ground with a sigh.

  "Inside," Seward said, jerking his head towards the shelter.

  "Regulations state you got to bring him out," the second man said.

  Forrest shook his head. "He don't smell good. We're not touching him."

  Seward glanced around. Visibility was down to about a hundred feet and nothing moved in front of the encircling curtain of mist. It was just as they had expected, for unless prisoners had a cadaver to be rid of, they stayed well clear of the dead wagon, many believing it emanated ill-luck, others fearful that it was disease ridden.

  "We could leave him," the driver said to his partner. "Let the maggots start on him. Couple of days maybe he'll crawl out on his own." He laughed harshly.

  "Worth half a pound of tobacco if you go in and get him," Forrest offered.

  Both the driver and his partner took on expressions of greed. "You buy it off Olsen?" the second man asked.

  "He got his cut," Forrest confirmed.

  "It's a deal," the driver said. "Come on, Chuck."

  He stooped and went in through the hole, his partner close behind him. Hedges was stripped to his underwear but the driver didn't see him, for his attention was upon the sprawled body of Olsen. When he did realize something was wrong, it was too late. Hedges grasped him around the neck and tightened his long fingers, forcing his thumbs hard against the man's windpipe. The man's eyes grew wide and he tried to struggle, but Douglas, who was also without his top clothes, sank a fist hard into the heaving stomach, knocking the fight out of the driver. The second man had time to emit a gasp of surprise before Scott silenced him with an edge of the hand chop to the back of his neck. As the man pitched forward, Bell let go a mighty kick, the toe of his boot smashing into the face and throwing back the head with a sharp crack of breaking bone. Hedges released his grip on the driver and the stale air trapped in the dead man's lungs hissed out as his limp form sank to the dirt floor.

  "Okay out there?" Hedges called in a hushed whisper as Rhett and Scott began to strip the rebels of their uniforms.

  "Sun won't be long showing, sir," Forrest answered quickly. "Mist won't stay long."

  "We're not going to make it," Rhett said in trembling tones as he jerked the driver's pants down.

  "At least you're getting your fun," Douglas said, shrugging into a grey tunic.

  "Cut out the gab," Hedges ordered, pulling on the driver's pants, snatching a glance at West Point, still deep in the arms of a drugged sleep.

  "It's clearing already," Seward said urgently. "Hurry it up, for Christ sake."

  Hedges finished buttoning the tight-fitting tunic, hoisted West Point and struggled with, him out through the hole in the, wall. The mist had not retreated, but its color was noticeably brightening by the moment. Beyond the walls of the stockade a bugle sounded.

  "Get it in the wagon," he ordered, moving to the rear and tossing West Point over the tailboard without ceremony. Forrest and Seward took a final glance around and hoisted themselves up and into the back, looking with distaste at the crumpled forms of the two dead bodies sprawled there.

  "Move it," Hedges snapped into the shelter and hauled himself up on to the box seat of the wagon as Rhett, Bell and Scott crawled out and ran to the back, scrambling aboard. Douglas brought up the rear, still buttoning his tunic and Hedges had set the team moving so that the bogus rebel had to throw himself up at the seat.

  Hedges brought the team around in a tight turn and checked a desire to slap them into a gallop towards the gate at the end of the street.

  "I feel like a duck in a shooting gallery," Douglas said out of the corner of his mouth as he peered ahead, trying to pierce the thinning grayness of the mist.

  "You can get off any time you like," Hedges told him.

  All around them, the camp was waking up, the prisoners moving out of their stinking shebangs to relieve themselves and contemplate a new day of misery that could not be eased so conveniently.

  "I guess a sitting duck's got a chance," Douglas answered.

  "Better than these guys," Hedges ag
reed, watching the prisoners scurry away from the dead wagon.

  "You weren't long," a guard called from a sentry shack atop the wall at the side of the gate.

  Both Hedges and Douglas kept their heads down as the gate was swung open by the fumbling Mint Julep.

  "Dying ain't what it used to be," the captain drawled in reply as he clucked the horses forward, through the gateway.

  "How many you got?' Mint Julep called as the wagon rolled by him.

  "Two we're sure of and six that could be playing possum," Hedges answered.

  Douglas gasped and Hedges grinned at him as the drunken guard giggled with glee. "Don't get nervous, Douglas," Hedges said through pursed lips; "Crew of the dead wagon always crack one with him. It gives old Mint Julep a kick."

  In the rear of the wagon, Forrest risked a glance over the tailgate and an involuntary grin spread across his pared face as he saw the gate slammed closed. Another bugle split the air. The mist seemed to hear it as retreat and began to lift. On the seat of the wagon Hedges and Douglas looked to their left, between the cookhouse and the bakery, across the swamp to where the dead house took on solid shape in the clearing air of the new day. Ahead, the track that was Main Street grew longer, curving towards the railroad depot at the center of Anderson. On each side of the street were the camps of Confederate soldiers, each dominated by a fort.

  "I itch all over, Captain," Douglas said. "We must be surrounded by at least two thousand Johnnie Rebs. And it feels like every one of them bastards is pointing a carbine at me."

  But the soldiers treated the dead wagon with the same degree of repugnance as the prisoners and stayed well clear of it. Ahead of the wagon, a track spurred off to the left, leading across the swamp and bridging the Sweetwater towards South Street and the route to the dead house. Hedges was aware of the geography because many of the roads surrounding the stockade had been built with prison labor and West Point had done his share of the work.