Edge: Echoes of War (Edge series Book 23)

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Not unnecessary, Mr. Ferris,’ Charity corrected. ‘Edge was in the right place at the right time when a second attempt was made on your life. And I feel no shame for what I did.’ ‘You sure didn’t while you were doing it, ma’am,’ Edge muttered, as he turned and reached the door in three strides.

  ‘You will not help your country, sir?’ Ferris called tightly.

  ‘I already did, once,’ Edge answered as Rhett stepped out of his path. ‘It won and I lost. I ain’t about to go back for more after that happened.’

  ‘Can we at least rely upon your neutrality?’ Ferris asked. ‘Now that the Rebels know I’m aboard the Delta Dawn, there will be more attempts on my life.’

  ‘Ain’t nobody’s business mine unless they make it so, feller.’ As he reached for the door handle, he smiled wryly at Charity across a hand rasping his jaw bristles. ‘Sure was a pleasure doing business with you, ma’am. Anything else is just bound to be an anticlimax.’

  ‘Go to hell, Edge!’ she snapped.

  ‘Sorry you won’t join us, Captain,’ Rhett said as Edge opened the door. ‘But I guess we can get along without you. That stuff with Manx isn’t like me at all. Like Bob in the war, I can hold my own.’

  ‘Yeah, he could hold his own all right,’ the half-breed allowed with a wry curling back of his thin lips. ‘But he liked it better when another feller held it for him.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  The cloudbank in the northeast had tumbled to spread a thick blanket of low, dark nimbostratus across the entire sky. Every star was masked and there was not even a faint glow to mark the position of the moon. The decking was slippery under Edge’s boots as he went forward to the stairway. From time to time, the bow of the stern-wheeler rose and the whole boat juddered as she cracked the larger ice floes. She was making only half speed through the dark night, veering from one side of the river to the other to avoid hitting the largest floes and the dangerous snags of uprooted tree-trunks which either floated free on the currents or were imbedded in the mud.

  The twin stacks smoked and the paired engines rumbled. The big stern-wheel turned.

  Edge moved down the stairway from the Hurricane Deck and started aft, the biting chill of the early hours’ air causing him no regret that he had relinquished the opportunity to share Charity Meagher’s bed. For his mind was concerned with the pros and cons of the offer Ferris had made him. Pondering the question of whether he had been right or wrong to turn down five thousand dollars simply because Ferris and the woman had injured his pride. Deciding that, in truth, he had allowed himself to be suckered: had chosen to ignore the facts of adjacent cabins and not so secret exchanges of looks that linked Ferris and Charity Meagher together. Had ignored the signs, and therefore allowed his guard to drop, for the simple reason that he felt the need of a woman.

  The conclusion angered him, for experience had taught him time and time again that his ruling destiny did not allow him the luxury of human relationships that were more than wafer thin. Or, if they were allowed, it was only so that fate could take a cruel twist and cause him more suffering.

  He was on the companionway of the main deck now. Something limp and heavy dropped through the cold air on the periphery of his vision. He turned his head fast, in time to see the doubled-up corpse of the Englishman splash into the icy river. The once human piece of detritus was immediately sucked down under the surface, to be sent southwards and tossed up to float far behind the Delta Dawn.

  Edge grinned, his period of self-anger finished. It had been good with the woman and perhaps, had she been simply what she claimed, he might still have been enjoying her. But circumstances made this purely academic. She had used him and he, in turn, had used her. On his part, lust and its release had no depth. He felt nothing for her, so in losing her he had lost nothing which could not be replaced should the need arise again. Except the comfort and warmth of her bed. And even at the best times in his life - when Josiah C. Hedges or Edge - comfort had never been high in his priorities.

  He reached the hatchway, closed against the night, which gave on to the hold where his stinking bedding waited for him. He pushed it open and looked at a man standing just inside the threshold. It was the roustabout the Negro had called Irish. The man was holding a shotgun with its double barrels sawn off short. The base of the stock was braced against his bulbous belly, his left hand steadying the barrels and his right folded around the frame, a finger curled to both triggers.

  ‘You can just disappear in mysterious circumstances, mister,’ the roustabout said softly. ‘Or we can tell McBride how we caught you stealin’ from Mr. Wren. We can do that while we’re hosin’ what’s left of you off the deck, mister.’

  ‘Just the two choices?’ Edge asked, sensing that a man was approaching along the deck from the stern.

  ‘And two men to make sure that’s all there is, Edge.’

  The other man was the mate, the Colt drawn from his belt and aimed at the half-breed.

  There was a great deal of snoring and deep breathing in the darkness of the hold behind Irish.

  ‘Make up your mind,’ Wren insisted.

  Edge eyed the twin muzzles of the shotgun ruefully. ‘Figure this isn’t the time to go to pieces,’ he muttered and turned towards Wren.

  The mate backed off two steps and thrust the Colt out in front of him, gripping it two handed, arms up level with his shoulders.

  ‘Open your coat and let Irish take your gun.’

  Edge did as he was told, his posture casual but beneath the surface poised to power into movement should the opportunity arise. But the Colt did not waver in its aim and Irish confiscated the Remington with smooth speed. There was a splash as the gun was tossed over the side. Then the shotgun nudged the small of his back.

  ‘Move aft, mister.’ The hatch to the hold was quietly closed. ‘If I have to blast your guts out, that’ll be the place where Mr. Wren and me caught up with you. You’ll have Mr. Wren’s gold watch in your pocket. You understand, mister?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Edge replied, starting forward as Wren backed away from him. ‘I don’t even have to take the time.’

  There were no obstructions on the deck until the aft port cleat was reached. Wren knew this and halted short, never having to look over his shoulder, and keeping his aim constant. When he stopped, Edge halted and the pressure of the shotgun muzzles was relieved from the base of his spine.

  Beyond the bulkhead beside which they stood, the port engine rumbled, drawing steam power from the forward boilers and turning it into energy to rotate the stern-wheel. The wheel thrashed at the water and the overhead steam-escape pipe hissed.

  ‘I do something to you fellers?’ Edge asked, having to raise his voice to be heard above the frenetic noise.

  He was ready to make his move now, fear of death and ambition to survive having brought his muscles to the peak of hair-trigger tension. He knew his initial target was going to be Irish, who could not fail to do him damage with the spreading double load of the shotgun. Should he get the chance to fire it.

  ‘Joined the opposition, Edge!’ Wren yelled, altering the aim of the Colt to draw a bead on the half-breed’s chest. ‘I was outside the cabin door when Ferris hired you.’

  Edge leaned backwards from the waist: just a fraction of an inch. The twin muzzles nudged him again.

  Wren smiled his confidence. ‘Any consolation to you, Rhett, the dame and Ferris won’t be long in feeding the fish. Same as you and Manx.’

  ‘No consolation for me. Only interested in first prize.’

  His arms were down at his sides, apparently limp in surrender to the inevitable.

  Wren’s finger became taut around the Colt trigger, the smile broadening on his heavily stubbled, deeply weathered face.

  Irish’s boots scraped on the decking and the shotgun was withdrawn from resting against the half-breed’s back.

  Edge whirled, his right arm swinging ahead of his body, stir! and away from his side. At the same time, he powered into a half crouch. And i
t was the back of his elbow that hit the shotgun.

  Instinctively, Irish tightened his grip on the weapon: so that the force of Edge’s arm impacting with the barrels sent the man into the start of a spin. Irish began an obscenity, which became a shriek of alarm.

  Edge thought this was because the roustabout feared an impulsive shot from Wren’s Colt could tear into his flesh.

  But no gun exploded.

  The half-breed had his back towards Wren, his right hand curving up to fasten on the twin barrels of the shotgun.

  Irish fought him, going into a crouch of his own and then trying to lunge backwards and wrench the weapon from Edge’s grasp.

  Edge’s left hand swung up to the nape of his neck, delved under the collar and his hair: then streaked into view again, fisted around the handle of the razor.

  For an instant, he submitted to the strength of Irish, allowing the snarling roustabout to think he was on the verge of snatching the gun free.

  But it was only a feint. When the roustabout yanked on the gun, Edge maintained his grip and went with the power of the pull. Then up on his toes to add to the momentum.

  Arching his body to stay clear of the barrels, he lunged forward, and pulled on the gun again.

  Irish was forced into a half turn and Edge seemed to glide around him, with the shotgun as a rotating lever and the roustabout as an axis.

  Over the broad shoulder of Irish, Edge saw the reason for the man’s earlier cry of alarm - and the reason why Wren had not blasted a bullet into his back.

  For the mate was trapped in a vicious bear hug, applied from behind by the Negro named Linn. Wren still held the Colt in a double-handed grip and his finger continued to be curled around the trigger. But one of Linn’s hands was also wrapped around the butt, forcing the barrel deep into the flesh beneath the mate’s jaw. Stark terror was inscribed into the leathery skin.

  ‘Some dance you’re doin’, man,’ the Negro called. ‘Got a name to it?’

  The roustabout tried again to jerk the shotgun free and swing it on to target. Edge swiveled sideways on to the barrel, sucked in his belly and leapt towards the river man. His left arm came up and slashed crossways. The point of the razor followed the contours of the man’s upper face - digging fractionally below the surface. Into the sparse flesh at the right temple, through the membrane of the right eye, over the bridge of the nose and sliced the lid which closed by reflex over the left eye. The river man was screaming then, the sound rising to a high pitch of shrillness when Edge applied more pressure to the razor: to sink it through the lid and deep into the eye.

  He released his hold on the shotgun and Edge let go a split second later. As the weapon clattered to the deck, the roustabout threw his hands up to his face, a moment after the half-breed withdrew the wounding blade.

  ‘My eyes!’ he screamed, staggered to the rail, bounced off and spun in blind circles to bang into the bulkhead.

  ‘Irish reel?’ Edge suggested to the Negro.

  Linn laughed, his white teeth gleaming in the faint light from the distant wheelhouse.

  ‘Help me?’ the Irish roustabout pleaded, flinging his arms to the sides, then ahead of him. From his forehead to his jaw, his face was dark and slick with fresh blood.

  The icy dampness of a new blizzard began to drop through the darkness.

  Irish staggered to the rail. Edge went with him, ducked under the flailing arms and slashed the razor up between them. The blade sank into the base of the blinded man’s throat and cut upwards until the jawbone forced a withdrawal. Irish started a new scream of agony, but it became a gurgle as blood flooded into his sliced-open windpipe. Crimson spittle sprayed from his gaping mouth.

  ‘You the only man-allowed to cut in?’ Linn yelled gleefully.

  Irish made to topple backwards, but Edge used his free hand to grasp the scruff of the dying man’s neck. He bent him forward over the rail, then hooked a boot in front of Irish’s ankles and raised the spasming legs. Irish died, bent double over the rail. Edge tipped him into the river.

  ‘Guess he only had eyes for me,’ the half-breed growled, and stooped to pick up the discarded shotgun. It was a once ornate and now well-used centre-fire Daw’s which broke open for loading. He eased the hammers back to the rest. ‘I owe you, feller? Or you have a personal interest?’

  Wren was unconscious, either from having his breathing stopped by the strength of Linn’s grasp or because he had fainted from fear.

  ‘Saw that Irish sonofabitch get the drop on you, man. Came out the hold on the starboard side to take a look-see. When this bastard showed, I evened up the odds. No real favor man. I owe him. Nothin’ good.’

  ‘Be obliged if he could live awhile longer,’ the half-breed said with a nod.

  Linn opened his arms and Wren slid to the deck. The boarding was crusted with a layer of frozen snow. But the fall had been short. The cloud cover stayed low and solid but the wind held off. Wren’s unfeeling hands continued to grip the Colt until Linn plucked the gun from between the stiff fingers.

  ‘You want me to back off while you do your business with him, man?’ the Negro asked, his excitement gone: replaced by resolute patience. ‘Just like to be in at the death, if that’s all right?’

  Edge crouched down beside the inert Wren and wiped the razor clean of blood on the mate’s uniform coat. ‘Anything you like about the South?’ he asked. ‘Back in the early sixties?’

  Linn gathered saliva into his mouth and spat it at the bulkhead. It instantly froze. ‘Was pickin’ cotton in South Carolina early on. Got outta that fast and joined the Union’s 107th Colored Infantry. I ain’t never been south of the old Mason-Dixon since, man.’ He directed his gaze and his newly acquired Colt along the deck towards the bow. ‘Company. The feminine kind.’

  Edge looked over his shoulder and saw the familiar silhouette of Charity Meagher. The woman was advancing tentatively across the Main Deck, the bulkiness of her clothing showing she now wore more than just the top coat.

  ‘Edge?’ she called, shrill and nervous.

  ‘In one, ma’am,’ he answered.

  She quickened her pace, almost slipping over on the icy boarding. Then halted short, moving fast glances between the towering Linn and the unconscious Wren.

  The Negro showed a shy smile and pushed the Colt into his belt.

  ‘He’s on your side,’ Edge growled, pointing. His hand moved to indicate the mate. ‘He ain’t.’

  Charity swallowed hard, unsure of her emotions and the expression she should wear on her pretty face. ‘I came to find you,’ she blurted out. To explain about … how it was … that it wasn’t—’

  Wren groaned, in response to a new judder of the boat as she hit another ice floe.

  ‘Another time and a better place, Charity,’ the half-breed interrupted, and his use of her name again inspired surprise, then something close to a smile.

  ‘What happened?’

  Wren groaned again and his eyelids flickered.

  ‘He and another feller made your business my business. The other feller’s all through with regret about it.’

  He used the razor to scrape up some frozen snow, pulled Wren’s jaw down and dropped the ice into the mouth. The mate choked back to full awareness.

  ‘Him?’ Charity asked, with an anxious glance at Linn.

  ‘No. His black looks, are all for the other side,’ Edge answered, and shifted his narrow-eyed gaze towards the Negro. ‘You can stick around.’ Then, to Wren as the mate’s expression altered from confusion to terror: ‘They got anybody better than you lined up, feller?’

  A few more flakes of snow fell. They clung to the clothing, faces and hair of the quartet grouped beside the engine-room bulkhead.

  ‘I don’t know nothin’,’ Wren rasped.

  Edge rested the shotgun on the deck, clamped his left hand over Wren’s mouth and moved the razor. His action and his expression were as chillingly cold as the dark night. Wren’s outward gust of breath was burning hot against his palm - the scream
which it powered like a distant bird cry. The mate’s left ear lay on the frozen snow, blood from it and the side of his head looking black and ugly against the whiteness.

  Charity gasped and backed away.

  Linn vented a short laugh.

  The woman slipped and crashed hard to her rump.

  Edge leaned close to Wren’s remaining ear as the woman struggled to her feet and retreated more carefully. ‘Don’t have a lot of time for fellers who try to kill me. Take you long to convince me it’s the truth?’

  He lifted his hand from the man’s mouth and Wren moaned, his eyes swiveling far over to seek out the hacked-off portion of his flesh. He didn’t like the view and stared up into the face of Edge. The snowflakes clinging to the dark stubble of the half-breed gave the lean features with the glinting eyes and curled-back lips a look of almost demonic evil.

  They won’t give up,’ he rasped. ‘I didn’t know about the poker game. Only about Manx comin’ aboard. When that didn’t work, Irish and me decided to make things easier. That’s the truth. Gospel honest.’

  ‘The Lord don’t mean nothin’ to you, white trash!’ Linn snarled.

  Wren’s eyes moved again, while his head stayed immobile. He saw the Negro and was gripped by an even greater terror: becoming aware for the first time that it was Linn who had bear hugged him.

  ‘I swear it, Edge!’ the mate pleaded. They’ll keep tryin’ until they do it! But it ain’t gotta look like it really is. They don’t want the stuff to start flyin’ yet. I can’t tell you no more.’

  ‘Obliged,’ Edge said, wiping the razor on Wren’s coat again before he slid it back into the neck pouch. Then he picked up the shotgun and straightened. ‘All through.’ he told Linn.

  Wren was no longer feeling pain. For the bitter cold had numbed the blood-caked wound at the side of his head. Then a new wave of terror froze him into total paralysis as the Negro advanced to assume the half-breed’s previous position - squatting down beside him. He could only work his lower lip, and even then no sound came out.