‘Edge,’ the half-breed responded.
Garcia gave another, less formal bow. The man called Edge dug the makings from a shirt pocket and began to roll a cigarette.
‘I admire a man of principle, Senor Edge. Which is why I am in the service of Senor Sullivan.’
The twin named Jesse spat. ‘Not half as much as you admire your fancy self, Garcia!’ he growled.
The taunt erupted more laughter from the men, emphasizing that their respect for the fat man’s leadership left none to spare for his dudish second-in-command. Garcia scowled at them, then returned his dark-eyed gaze towards the half-breed.
‘A man such as you, Senor Edge? He does not cloud his judgment with petty jealousy. He can recognize and admire fine marksmanship, uh?’
Edge hung the cigarette at a corner of his mouth. Then turned to strike a match on the boot sole of one of the dead sentries. ‘Fancy shooting at something couldn’t shoot back,’ he allowed. ‘Guess it got what it deserved.’
‘I do not understand, senor? Garcia said, his expression puzzled and a little distrustful.
Edge blew smoke towards the gallows platform on which the twisted carcass of the buzzard lay. The fetid air claimed the blue haze and disintegrated it. He showed a wry grin. ‘The bird.’
Chapter Three
GARCIA’S handsome face was again flushed by developing anger as the men around him exploded with new laughter. The dudish Mexican glared at Edge and then snapped his head from side to side. He dropped both his well-manicured hands to drape the ivory butts of his matching Starr single-action revolvers.
‘Senor! We know of each other that I shoot fast and straight - and that you have a smooth tongue. When the time comes...’
He allowed the threat to hang, unfinished, in the fetid air of noon. The laughter faltered and died, but not from the effect of the Mexican’s words. The men were disinterested in Edge and indifferent towards Garcia. Threats had been exchanged and only a buzzard had died. The men sat hunched in their saddles, smoking and wiping sweat off their faces, peering expectantly at the crumbled buildings.
Edge turned his back on the whole bunch and stepped up on to the roofed area of walkway. With the Winchester held easily across his middle, he made another survey of the surrounding country. It was empty all the way to the shimmer-shrouded horizon.
‘Bassett! Evers! Romanez! Get off your friggin’ butts and over here!’
Edge leaned his rump against the timber wall and looked down into the corpse-littered wreckage of Fort Waycross. The three tallest and broadest men dismounted hurriedly, then loped across the compound. Two Americans in their early twenties and a Mexican close to forty. Sullivan came waddling out of the blackened shell of the married quarters. The dirt of travel on his hands, face and clothing was overlaid with smears of soot.
His right hand was fisted around the handle of a short-bladed throwing knife.
The trio of men skidded to a halt in front of him.
‘You found ’em, Mr. Sullivan?’ the American with a broken nose asked, excited, but deferential.
‘I found the friggin’ shave tail lieutenant!’ the fat man snarled. He held up the knife. ‘You’ll know which one. Dig him out.’ His green eyes glinted evilly as he raked an intense glare from one side of the compound to the other. Then his tiny teeth were displayed in a grin. ‘And string the friggin’ bastard up!’
He drew his right arm back, then launched it forward. Fast and hard. The knife left his hand and spun in a shallow arc. Excitement and anger powered the throw. But deft skill fixed the trajectory and direction. The blade bit deep into the gallows’ upright. The three men obeyed Sullivan’s law without question, barging into each other in their eagerness to be first through the fire-ravaged doorway.
Sullivan, his flabby face trembling with each step he took, ignored the expectant looks of the rest of his men. He swung around the gallows and made a beeline for the foot of the stairway below Edge.
‘Hey, you! Whatever you call yourself!’
‘He says his name is Edge, Senor Sullivan,’ Garcia supplied as the fat man halted with a foot on the lowermost step, squinting up and seeing the half-breed in dark silhouette against the dazzling blue of the sky.
‘Like to talk with you, Edge.’
‘We got nothing to talk about, feller.’
‘You know anythin’ about what happened here?’
‘Apaches hit the fort.’
Sullivan spat. ‘I ain’t friggin’ blind, mister. Army was fixin’ to hang somebody. Apache looks like. Some of his buddies come to get him out. Army wasn’t expectin’ no trouble. That, or the Apaches were a friggin’ smart bunch. I seen all that for myself.’
Edge nodded. ‘Like I said, we got nothing to talk about. You know as much as I do.’
‘Exceptin’ where you fit into this thing, mister!’ the fat man countered.
Edge tossed the butt of the cigarette over his shoulder and across the top of the wall. ‘I fit wherever I happen to be, feller.’
Sullivan made a sound of disgust. ‘You can always get taken outta the friggin’ picture, mister!’
The half-breed sighed. ‘We’ve already been through that bit.’
He looked as relaxed as ever, but Sullivan had the experience to see through the nonchalant facade. Under a wafer-thin outer shell, the tall man at the head of the stairway was tautly primed for action. Now that their leader was back in sight, the mounted men on the threshold of the fort took their attitudes from Sullivan. The stretched seconds of sweating tension were ended abruptly by a short, harsh laugh from Sullivan.
‘You’re right, mister!’ He reached both hands inside his shirt and scratched frenetically. This time at the bulbous flesh of his belly. ‘Don’t cost nothin’ to be polite, does it? Guess I got outta the wrong side of the friggin’ blanket this mornin’.’
Edge showed a wry grin as he sloped the Winchester against his shoulder. ‘Kind of a rude awakening, feller?’ he suggested.
The fat man laughed again.
‘We got him, Mr. Sullivan!’
The shout came from the doorway of the married quarters, as the man with the broken nose emerged. Behind him were the other two men, the corpse of a soldier slumped between them.
‘Bassett!’ Garcia bellowed. ‘Senor Sullivan has told you what to do with him!’
The fat man ignored the exchange. ‘Maybe later you’ll satisfy my friggin’ curiosity, mister? If I ask civil. Why you’re all the time up on that wall - lookin’ all around like you’re expectin’ somebody?’
‘No sweat, feller.’
Sullivan nodded curtly and swung away from the stairs. He waddled to the gallows and watched patiently as the corpse was carried up on to the platform. Rigor mortis had come and gone. The body, clothed in a white nightshirt that was torn and scorched, was as limp as a rag doll with most of the stuffing spilled out. The three men sweated and cursed as they forced their uncooperative burden upright and tightened the noose around the neck. When the dead weight was transferred from the men to the rope, the corpse hung in a straight line from neck to hips. His head was tilted to his right shoulder by the knot in the rope. His legs curved in the opposite direction, feet caught behind the carcass of the buzzard.
‘Like this is all right, sir?’ the blond-headed Evers asked.
‘You hear me friggin’ complainin’?’ Sullivan snapped.
‘No, sir, I don’t!’ Evers answered quickly, then jumped to the ground on the far side of the gallows. The other two men followed him. As Sullivan started up the four steps to the platform, Garcia led the slow advance of the mounted men to form a circle around the central attraction. From his elevated viewpoint, the half-breed was able to see over the heads of the other watchers.
Under the padding of fat, Sullivan possessed more than a modicum of strength. He wrenched out the deeply buried knife blade with a single tug.
Then he turned to the corpse and hooked a pudgy hand over the neckline of the nightshirt. He tore it to the waist,
then flicked it off the shoulders. The loose-fitting garment slid freely to the ankles of the dead legs. There was an expression of cold anger showing through the sweat beads on the flabby face. And the fat man’s actions were stiffly controlled. Only once did he display his inner frenzy - as he launched a vicious kick at the buzzard carcass to send it crashing off the platform. Then he removed the nightshirt from the naked corpse, and carefully splayed the legs - one foot on either side of the trapdoor. His exertions produced heavy breathing and, in the surrounding silence, this wheezing sounded eerily loud.
He tipped the lever.
The trapdoor thudded open. The rope was already taut with the weight of the corpse. Sullivan moved to stand on the lip of the square hole left by the open trapdoor. His back was towards Edge, so the half-breed was unable to see the fat man’s expression. But the trembling of the flesh beneath the tight-fitting clothes provided a tacit description of inner rage on the point of explosion.
The soldier’s body had survived the blast and fire in one piece, but a great deal of crusted black blood embossed ugly patterns on his flesh. It was obvious he had been buried by falling debris, with his head visible through the rubble. There was a neatly inscribed cross on his forehead. Livid and with no seepage of blood.
It was the mark Sullivan had made to indicate which of the rotting corpses he wanted removed from the ruin. Now he used the knife again, in the full view of an audience on a stage setting lit by the dazzling glare of the sun. The knife stabbed and slashed and gouged. First at the head, then the torso and finally at the crotch and thighs. The positioning of the corpse, strung from the noose and with the legs splayed, placed every part of it within easy reach of the fat man.
Sullivan sighed, groaned, grunted and roared obscenities. Each new wound was as lacking in blood spillage as the original cross he had carved. And the corpse’s dehydration added to the attacker’s rage.
Buried beneath the rubble, the body had been protected from the talons and beaks of scavenging buzzards. Now, totally exposed, it suffered more mutilation than any other corpse littering the ruined fort. Eyes were dug savagely from their sockets. The cheeks were slit from mouth to ears. The tongue was split in two and cut from its root. Massive chunks of flesh were sliced from the chest and belly.
To several of the watching men, the senselessness of such an attack upon an unfeeling corpse made the act more obscene than if the soldier had been alive at the start of it. One man was sick while he sat on his horse. Two more climbed from their saddles and dropped on to all fours to vomit their response.
But Sullivan knew nothing of this. Hatred for his dead victim enclosed him in a private world from which all else was excluded. There was just the corpse, the knife and his will to destroy that which could suffer no more. Displaced eyes, strips of flesh entrails and - finally - the genitals, fell from the body and dropped through the trapdoor opening. The pitch of Sullivan’s voice rose, until the profane words were little more than screams. It was almost as if the attacker was also playing the part of the victim.
Then, after the final cut into the arid flesh, there was just one more act to expunge the fat man’s hatred. He sheathed the knife, exposed himself, and urinated over the bloodless wounds. He did this in utter silence, and rebuttoned his pants before turning. His face was still crimson with the hangover of anger, but his green eyes were calm as he raked a gaze over his men and then looked up at Edge. He sucked in a deep breath.
‘No one breaks Sullivan’s law and gets away with friggin’ doin’ it!’ he roared.
‘Si, senor,’ Garcia acknowledged. ‘This is a fine example of that.’
Sullivan ignored the ingratiating words of the Mexican. And continued to hold the impassive gaze of the half-breed. He started to scratch again. ‘Man who makes his own laws, he has to have his own justice. Okay?’
‘A man does what he has to,’ Edge allowed evenly.
‘And I had to, mister!’
‘It showed,’ Edge answered.
Sullivan nodded curtly and started down the short flight of steps from the gallows platform. His waddling gait had something of the quality of a swagger now.
‘How’d it be if I asked you again what you’re friggin’ lookin’ for up there?’
‘Senor Sullivan wants to know this!’ Garcia augmented.
‘Shut your friggin’ mouth,’ the fat man told him evenly. ‘This guy already knows the law when I’m around. How about it, mister? I’m askin’ civil.’
‘No sweat,’ Edge replied. ‘Figure there are still Apaches out there someplace.’
The circle of men had formed a break for Sullivan to pass through. He halted in the gap and looked puzzled.
‘And you figure they’ll come back?’
‘Maybe.’
‘That is a loco idea!’ Garcia growled. ‘The savages will be far away from—’
‘Garcia!’ the fat man cut in.
‘Si, Senor Sullivan?’ A little nervously.
‘I want for you to keep your friggin’ mouth friggin’ shut,’ Sullivan replied with quiet menace.
Garcia swallowed hard as the men around him smirked with pleasure. ‘Si, Senor Sullivan.’
‘This guy only talks when he’s got somethin’ to say. What for, mister?’
Edge rested the rifle against the wall and turned his back on the watching men. He picked up the telescope and examined the distant horizon, ‘Like you said, feller,’ he replied at length. ‘You ain’t blind. But you were only looking for something you wanted to find. Like the Apaches that hit this place.’
‘What we miss?’
‘Guns and shells in the arms store.’
The flabby face of the fat man expressed deep thought. Then: ‘Check it out, Sonny Boy.’
The only Negro in the bunch slid from his saddle. He was tall, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted. He wore cross-bandoliers, Mexican-style.
‘If they didn’t see the friggin’ weapons, how’d they know to come back?’
Sonny Boy was fast for his build. He sprinted athletically across the compound and into the rubble.
Edge’s narrowed eyes against the telescope swept the heat-shimmered distance again. Slowly and without pausing. Then he lowered the telescope and retrieved his rifle. ‘Why don’t you ask them?’ he suggested as he started down the stairway.
Sullivan was still deep in thought. Then he blinked. ‘You friggin’ spotted them?’
‘Heading in on the same trail you used, feller!
‘Check it, Garcia!’ Sullivan ordered.
Edge reached the foot of the stairway. The Mexican thudded in his heels to lunge his horse forward. His riding was as expert as his shooting. He set his galloping mount on to a curved course, kicked free of a stirrup, and leapt from the saddle. His Winchester slid smoothly from the boot and he hit the ground in a well-balanced run. He didn’t have to break stride to make the first step of the stairway. He ran lightly up to the top.
The rest of Sullivan’s men watched this with resentment. Edge brushed the dust of the gallop off his shirt and pursed his lips. The fat man grinned.
‘He ain’t just a friggin’ dandified yes-man, mister.’
‘Nobody’s perfect,’ the half-breed answered, and started to unhitch his gelding.
Garcia didn’t have to use the telescope. The Apaches were closer than the heat haze and could be easily seen with the naked eye.
‘Six of them, Senor Sullivan,’ he reported, crouching down so that just his head showed above the top of the wall. ‘Mounted and with spare ponies on lead ropes. Coming from the northeast.’
‘Where the friggin’ hell you think you’re goin’, mister?’ the fat man rasped as Edge swung into the saddle.
‘Southwest sounds good,’ the half-breed answered.
Sullivan grinned and nodded. ‘I get the point, mister. But ain’t no friggin’ point to it now we’re here. We can handle a half-dozen friggin’ Apaches.’
He scratched at his crotch. Edge nodded. ‘Fine, so you don’t n
eed me.’
He booted the Winchester.
The fat man’s expression became grim. ‘What I don’t need is for you to spoil my play, mister. Apaches see you leave, could spook ’em.’
‘Hey, Mr. Sullivan!’ the Negro yelled as he emerged from the rubble of the arms store. ‘Maybe a couple of hundred rifles not busted. And more than twenty crates of shells.’
‘I like a man who keeps callin’ it right the way you do, Edge,’ the fat man advised.
‘Senor Sullivan wants you to remain here. And you have no gun in your hand now.’
The half-breed glanced upwards. Garcia was crouched on the top two steps of the stairway. The Winchester stock was hard against his shoulder and the muzzle drew a bead on Edge’s chest.
‘I got business to do with the Apaches that hit this place,’ Sullivan said. ‘When it’s done—’
He broke off as Edge slid slowly from the saddle, easing the rifle from the boot and holding it with just one hand.
The fat man grinned. ‘Figured you for a smart guy.’ He spun to face his men ‘Okay, let’s get the buggy and horses outta sight! And clear that mess off the gallows! Gotta look the way it was when the friggin’ Apaches pulled out!’
The men hurried to comply with the orders. Edge led his horse out from under the walkway, as Garcia descended the stairs. Both men had their Winchesters canted to their shoulders. The smiling Mexican caught up with the impassive half-breed.
‘I think you have business of your own here now. Is that not so, senor?’
‘You heard the warning, feller.’
‘Si, Senor. And after Senor Sullivan gets what he wants, you will endeavor to conclude your business?’
They were passing the gallows. The redheaded twins were taking the mutilated corpse down from the noose. The broken-nosed Bassett and the black Sonny Boy were using a handleless spade to scrape the cut-off pieces of stinking human meat into a burlap sack.
‘Your boss ain’t the only one likes to get what he wants, fella.’
Garcia broadened his grin. ‘I would wish this, too.’ He nodded towards the mess entering the sack. ‘It only remains to see which of us obtains his pound of flesh.’
EDGE: Sullivan's Law (Edge series Book 20) Page 4