Edge: Bloody Sunrise

by George G. Gilman

  Table of Contents

  JAGGED EDGE

  Dedications

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  JAGGED EDGE

  Edge gets caught in a crossfire when he arrives in Elgin City, Wyoming. Mayor Earl Gray rules the town with an iron fist, and his law is enforced by hired gunslingers, the fastest draws money can buy. Gray wants Edge to be his num­ber one henchman—and he won't take no for an answer.

  The rebellious townspeople want the dic­tator, Gray, out of the county, and they try to enlist Edge to their cause. Both sides push Edge a little too far, and when the bloodshed finally comes, Edge stands alone—the deadliest enemy that either side faces.

  For:

  B.L. who rode for a lot of other

  outfits before he joined this one.

  Chapter One

  THE slow-riding lone horseman first saw the two figures on the south bank of the Sweet­water when he was still several miles to the north of the river. Then lost sight of them and had them in view again by irregular turns as he allowed the bay gelding to make his own pace down through the foothills of the Green Mountains in central Wyoming Territory. Following a trail that had been well used long ago but lately was little travelled.

  For Abetter than an hour after the initial sighting, the pair in the river valley made no move that was visible over such a distance as they lay sprawled on their backs at the base of a grassy knoll. Apparently asleep in the bright, warm sunlight of early afternoon. Then one of the men spotted the approaching rider sky lined against the cloudless blue on a high granite ridge and folded up off his back, stared and fisted grit from his eyes and stared again. Only when he was certain of what he saw did he reach out to shake his partner awake. This man started to go through the same series of actions to verify that somebody was riding down out of the mountains, but before his sleep blurred vision cleared, the horseman had moved off the ridge and his silhouette was lost in a patch of deep shade. Still following the tortuous foothills trail that nobody else had found reason to use for a very long time.

  The rider, whose name was Edge, murmured to his mount who had no name: "You figure those two fellers are the reason nobody comes this way anymore?"

  He spoke his thought aloud to the unre­sponsive horse as the two men rose stiffly from where they had been sleeping in the sun and ambled into a small timber shack on the other side of the trail that curved around and ran from sight beyond the grassy knoll: closed the door and did not re-emerge. But perhaps con­tinued to seek another glimpse of the man in the foothills from the glassless window in the river facing side-wall of the shack. But such a sighting could not be made for close to thirty minutes, for man and mount were down behind an elongated rise for that long before they came through a curved ravine to start across the gentle slope on the western side of the river valley.

  And Edge knew he was under close observa­tion as he rode down the grade pasture toward the river crossing point about a mile and a half away—saw the glint of sunlight against the lens of a telescope that was trained upon him from out of the shadow behind the window of the shack.

  This effect of bright light striking a polished surface may be as sharp as the glint in the eyes of the man called Edge. Ice blue eyes that were permanently narrowed under hooded lids. In a lean face with high cheekbones, a hawk-like nose, a thin lipped mouth and a firm jaw. The skin stained darkly by heritage and the ele­ments, and inscribed with deep lines that were caused as much by the harsh experiences of his years as by their number, which was almost forty. Framing his face that might be con­sidered handsome or ugly—determined by how people regarded the stamp of latent cruelty suggested by the narrow eyes and set of the lips—was a mane of jet black hair worn long enough to brush the shoulders. Mostly black, too, with just a sprinkling of grey, was the more than half a day of stubble that sprouted on his lower face and neck. This grew just a little thicker and longer in the shape of a Mex­ican-style moustache, which was the only adornment affected by Edge: whose face without it would anyway blatantly advertise the fact that there was Latin blood in his veins.

  It was his father who was Mexican. His mother was from Scandinavia.

  Anyone who did not know Edge could as­sume that the circlet of dull colored wooden beads threaded on a leather thong and worn around his neck was an ornament. Whereas it served the purpose of holding in place, between his shoulders at the nape of his neck, a sheath in which was carried a straight razor: more often than not the constantly sharply honed blade used simply for shaving.

  The rest of what the six-feet three-inches tall half-breed wore amounted to a conventional outfit of a man riding Western trails. A black Stetson, a gray shirt, blue denim pants with the cuffs hanging outside spurless black boots. Around his waist a brown leather gunbelt with a Frontier Colt in the holster tied down to his right thigh. A bullet in every belt loop.

  He sat astride a Western saddle hung with two bags and two canteens. A Winchester jut­ted from the forward slung boot. Tied on be­hind the saddle was a bedroll packed with cooking and eating utensils and with a sheepskin coat lashed to the top.

  All his clothing and his gear had seen better days. His mount too, which was a bay gelding with a recently healed bullet wound just below the point of the left shoulder. But the animal was patently well cared for by a rider who knew how to pace a horse over a long trail.

  A trail which was now interrupted by the fifty foot width of the Sweetwater. A river that, swollen by melted snow in spring, could be a much wider and deeper torrenting obstacle judging by the tree and rock debris scattered over a wide strip to either side. But today the river flowed slowly and smoothly, with the rocky bed visible for most of its width through the crystal clear water: from where Edge sat his reined in mount, allowing the horse to dip his head and drink while he directed his narrow eyed gaze across the sun sparkled surface toward the shack. There was not a sign of life from the cabin, and had not been ever since he was far enough advanced across the open slope for the watchers to see him clearly without need of the spyglass.

  Then he shifted his attention to left and right, scanning the river and checking for movement on the less open eastern slope of the valley. But a flock of birds, very high and fly­ing in a south west direction was the only ac­tivity in the immediate area: until the gelding was through drinking and Edge heeled him into the river. Like before, letting the horse set his own pace and also, like before, maintaining an apparently nonchalant attitude in the saddle while in fact he was prepared to respond in an instant should the situation become dan­gerous—to draw the Colt or slide the Win­chester from the boot, turn or stop the gelding, remain astride the saddle or power out of it, kill a man—or two—if that was what was required to protect himself.

  In midstream for ten feet or so, the water was deep enough to wet his boots and a few inches of his pants legs: soaked through the fabric to cool his skin which acted to dry the sweat of tension that had erupted at the small of his back.

  The sun, on its decline toward the Rockies, was not hot enough to open a man's pores unless he was exerting himself, but Edge felt no sense of shame that fear drew beads of salt moisture from him again as he neared the far bank of the river. For a man who lived as he did without experiencing fear would have to be an imbecile. Whereas this man accepted it readily and controlled it so that it could be used to heighten his readiness.
/>   "Hold it, stranger!"

  "You ride up outta that river and you'll be trespassin'! Unless you got the five dollar price of admission, that is?"

  The shack was some forty feet back from the riverside where Edge reined in the geld­ing—above and beyond the debris marked flood line of the Sweetwater. The man who ordered him to halt swung into view from the left of the glassless window and aimed a Winchester rifle from the shoulder. A hatless, check-shirted man with red curly hair and a round face with black button eyes and a smooth, deeply tanned skin. About twenty-five-years-old, lacking confidence and sweating a great deal more than Edge.

  A head shorter than his six feet tall partner who opened the shack door without haste to step outside and offer the explanation. This man of an age with Edge, with a lanky build and a mournful face. Blond haired and pale skinned, the lightness of his coloring empha­sized by the all black clothing he wore—re­cently laundered and pressed clothing, styled for smartness rather than durability. Cut on Western lines but only for effect. He aimed his Winchester from the waist which had no gun-belt around it—holding it out to the side as if he was afraid the rifle was oily and might stain his shirt. But he was not afraid of anything else at this time. Met and held the steady gaze of Edge with an unblinking stare that indicated the man was totally indifferent about the outcome of this situation.

  "Admission to what?" the half-breed asked in an even tone that matched that of the man out front of the shack.

  "Elgin County, mister. Property of Mr. Earl Gray who don't like to have strangers roamin' his land unless they've paid for the privilege."

  Edge nodded. "Something I don't like, feller, is to have guns aimed at me."

  The man all in black raised his shoulders about a half inch and dropped them. Asked: "Who does?"

  "Give folks the one warning. If anybody points a gun at me after I've told them not to, they either kill me with it or I kill them."

  Now the man in black nodded. "Guess every­body has somethin' that gets their backs up, mister. My buddy at the window there, Bob Lowell, he just hates roaches. Can't abide them things. Me, I get itchy skin whenever I come up against tough talkin' saddletramps who figure I'm easy meat just because I take care over the way I look."

  "That's Gabe Millard, stranger!" Lowell said quickly. "The gunfighter from Dodge City! Gabe's killed more men than anyone else works for Mr. Gray!"

  "I'm not of a boastful nature myself, mister," Millard explained. "Not much of a talker on any subject, really. Runnin' out of things to say now as a matter of fact." He altered his expression slightly from indif­ference to boredom as he motioned with the rifle to left and right. Went on: "Elgin County stretches twenty miles to north and south of this trail, mister. And you can ride the detour in either direction if you want. Or go back the way you came if you ain't got anythin' much to do in Elgin or beyond. Or you can pay the five dollar toll and have the run of the county."

  "Or you can try to ride on through without payin' the money!" Lowell put in eagerly, much more confident now, "and pay with your life!"

  "Don't pay no mind to Bob, mister," Millard said. "He reads a lot."

  Edge heeled the gelding forward from the river side and on to the start of the trail that was heavily imprinted with signs of wagons and teams that had come down the east slope of the valley, turned between the grassy knoll and the shack, and gone back up the grade again.

  The black clad man continued to keep his rifle aimed with a mixture of indifference for the target and fastidious concern that the gun should not dirty his clothes.

  While his younger partner thrust his Win­chester further through the window in an attitude of aggression. And demanded:

  "You gonna pay, stranger?"

  Edge delved into a pocket of his shirt as he rode along the center of the trail, the gelding dripping water that was immediately soaked up by the dusty covering and hard packed soil beneath. Brought out the papers and waited until he reined in the horse again, still in a position to be covered by both repeaters, before he started to roll the cigarette. Then asked:

  "The five bucks buy me anything other than a short cut, Millard?"

  "No, mister."

  "So if I run into more of Gray's hired guns in Elgin County I can get shaken down again?"

  "No, you just have to pay the once," Lowell answered quickly and withdrew from the window. His footfalls rapped on the boarding of the single room shack and the man in black motioned with his head to indicate that they should wait for him to come outside. Which he did, with a roll of two-inch-wide tickets, minus his rifle. "You get one of these stranger. Which'11 show anyone that asks that you paid the toll to cross Mr. Gray's land."

  He extended the roll forward in one hand and prepared to tear off one of the four-inch-long, white-colored tickets, an enquiring look on his youthful face. Edge angled the cigarette from the side of his mouth and nodded as he reached into a hip pocket, withdrew a roll of bills and found a five spot among them. Replaced the roll and extended the bill.

  "I’ll take one, feller."

  "Hot damn, that's the first sale been made on this route for best part of two months, I reckon," Lowell blurted as he came forward with a broad grin splitting his round face.

  Millard scowled and rasped a soft voiced ob­scenity as he side stepped to keep the younger man out of the line of fire.

  Edge smiled with his mouth—his ice blue eyes totally devoid of warmth—as he allowed the bill to be taken from his brown skinned hand and accepted the ticket in exchange. Briefly shifted his gaze from the now grimac­ing face of Gabe Millard to read the legend printed on the ticket:

  Paid the amount of $5 which allows bearer to travel freely in Elgin County, Wyoming. By order of Mayor Earl Gray, Elgin City, Elgin County.

  "It's a shit job anyway, on this friggin' trail," the disconcerted Millard growled, seeking to mask his lapse into nervousness. "Ain't nothin' up in them mountains for anybody to use the trail. Hey, what the hell, mister?"

  He had allowed the Winchester to drop so that it was aimed at the ground after the ticket was purchased: as he motioned with his head toward the rugged high ground west of the lush river valley, he froze and showed an ex­pression of shock that was as wide eyed as that on the face of Lowell. This sudden change brought about by the sight of Edge setting fire to the folded ticket.

  The ticket flared in his left hand as the match was dropped from his right—which streaked to drape the butt of the holstered Colt when Mil­lard made to pull his rifle up and around. The man froze again, as Lowell merely looked down at his holstered revolver, not daring to even twitch a finger toward it.

  "That's fine, fellers," the half-breed said evenly. And touched the flaming ticket to his cigarette. Then blew it out before letting go of it. "One more time and somebody dies."

  "So okay," Millard countered in an in­different tone with a matching expression and the slight shrug of his shoulders again.

  "I'll give you another pass," Lowell sug­gested. "Or else nobody'll know you paid the toll and-" "I'll know, feller," Edge cut in.

  "Uh?"

  "Got respect for other people's property and if Gray has title to Elgin County I figure he has a right to charge strangers who want to cross his land. And I figure it's worth five bucks to me to avoid having to make the kind of detour this feller spoke of."

  Lowell was impatient for the half-breed to be through. And spoke quickly when he had finished.

  "But how will anybody know you paid unless you show the pass?"

  "Have to take my word," Edge answered, moving his right hand away from the butt of the Colt to join the left on the reins. Then tapped his heels to the flanks of the gelding.

  "Shit, Gabe," Lowell said bitterly. "The first pass been sold on this route for all that time and it has to be to a troublemaker!"

  "He ain't made no trouble for us, Bob," the man in black pointed out as the both of them gazed after the slow riding half-breed. "We done what we was supposed to."

  The younger ma
n remained anxious. Then abruptly pressed the roll of tickets to his chest with a forearm as he cupped his hands to his mouth to form a bullhorn. And yelled: "Hey, stranger?"

  Edge halted the gelding and turned in the saddle to look back to where Lowell stood out front of the shack while Millard went inside, growling that he was going to fix some coffee.

  "They're gonna love you in Elgin City!" the young man warned bitterly after he failed to think of any kind of plea that might appeal to the half-breed.

  The rider faced front again and set the geld­ing moving. Was too far off for his wryly spoken words to carry back to the shack when he murmured:

  "Yeah, I wow them in Peoria, too."

  Chapter Two

  THE eastern side of the river valley was formed of a mixture of grassland, rock outcrops and timber stands; and its incline was steeper than the opposite slope. So the trail made many looping turns toward the crest of the rise to take account of the grade and to get by obstacles. Its line planned so that wagons could negotiate the valley side without too much difficulty. A horse and rider could have halved the time and distance to the top by taking cut-offs between the switchback turns, but Edge elected to steer the gelding along the trail all the way from the river to the tree clad ridge. In no rush to get there—or to anywhere beyond.

  Below, smoke began to curl from the chimney of the shack beside the Sweetwater. And above, a wagon with a two-horse team in the traces showed briefly on the ridge before the intervening terrain hid it.

  The only bird in the sky now was a hawk, soaring very high against the infinite of dark­ening blue—totally free of all strictures save those imposed by natural instincts and not yet hungry enough to descend and hover in search of food. Edge smoked the cigarette and sat easy in the saddle, contented with his lot as he remained effortlessly alert to his surroundings: his posture and impassive features revealing nothing about what he was thinking.

  Which was how the two men on a freshly var­nished buckboard saw him as they came down a curving slope on the fringe of a stand of pine and the half-breed rode up the incline. Men who looked much more like tough line riders for a powerful and over-possessive landowner than did Gabe Millard and Bob Lowell. Both of them about thirty-five, tall and broad-shouldered-soft in the area of their beer bellies maybe but nowhere else. Hard, square cut faces set with small, mean eyes and mouths shaped by the al­most permanent scowls that seemed to be part of the uniform of such hired guns: along with the dark garb that was the worse for wear and the holstered revolvers that were never new and were the objects of greater attention than anything else in the restricted lives of such men. These two gunmen were recently washed up and shaved and the lack of bristles and dirt on their faces acted somehow to emphasize the mood of sullenness in which they were both sunk.