EDGE: Vengeance at Ventura

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Which didn’t drown nobody, old man!’ Regan snarled.

  Attinger dropped his hands to the table and if the movement triggered pain from his wounded arm, he did not show it. For he was again in the grip of religious fervor that made him insensible to all but the thoughts in his crazed mind.

  ‘But it will! After I got back to the ark there was a pause in the deluge! Just a short time ago! While the good Lord tested the strength of my belief and offered the unbelievers another chance! And now he is doin’ so again! Not to test me! But to give all of you time to come back with me! Before the new rains start! And be saved when the waters of the flood torrent across the face of the earth!’

  ‘Shit, why didn’t you let the kid finish the old bastard!’ Regan snarled. ‘So we wouldn’t have to listen to all this crazy crap.’ He glowered at the disconsolate Roche. ‘You’re a friggin’ lawman. Ain’t there some law that says you gotta protect ordinary folks from guys that are outta their minds?’

  ‘I’m just a lawman in Arizona Territory,’ the marshal answered. ‘Unless I’m issued with a special warrant.’

  Regan scowled at him, at Edge and Attinger and then toward the doorway. And growled: ‘Look, you old fool! There ain’t no rain no more. No time at all the sun’ll be out and it’ll be as hot as Hades around here. Come sundown it’ll be like no drop of rain ever fell on this Godforsaken piece of territory.’

  ‘No!’ Attinger denied forcefully. And snapped his head around. Then moaned like a man enduring unbearable agony when he had to crack his eyes against the sudden brightness of the morning light.

  Edge lit his cigarette, got to his feet and stepped out through the batwings as a horse came splashing along the muddy street, under a sky that was visible again - higher than the last time it could be seen, the grayness of the clouds several tones lighter.

  ‘What does it look like out at the cuttin’?’ Crane called from the railroad depot as the fireman reined in his mount.

  ‘The bed held up fine,’ the youngster answered breathlessly. ‘We oughta take it slow, just in case. But I reckon we can roll just as soon as we’ve built up a head of steam.

  ‘Get to work, son,’ the depot manager instructed.

  Edge stepped down off the stoop and trudged through the mud of the street. Behind him, an upper storey window of Regan’s Place was banged open. And Vince Attinger called: ‘Like for you to hold the train until after the weddin’, sir! Ain’t no one more anxious than Milly and me to get out of this place as fast as we can!’

  Crane jerked a watch out of his vest pocket and flicked open the cover. ‘Sixty minutes is what you’ve got, son!’ he yelled. ‘Train time will be ten o’clock.’

  ‘Mr. Edge!’ the kid added and the half-breed halted and looked up at the window. To see Attinger flanked by Milly and Crystal. The youngster wore a sheepish expression, his wife was smiling happily and Crystal’s sun-punished face showed dejection.

  ‘You want something, kid?’

  Attinger held up his left hand to exhibit the fact that it was neatly bandaged. ‘I went crazy and I’m lucky this is all that happened to me. I want you to know . . . hell, I’m glad you stopped me from killin’ him.’

  Milly clung to his right arm and blurted: ‘What he’s tryin’ to say, mister, is thanks!’

  He nodded vigorously and began to laugh. She laughed too, and it did not require any effort now.

  ‘No sweat,’ he told them as he turned to continue across the street. And murmured: ‘Call it a wedding present for the happy couple.’

  Charlie the brakeman had taken charge of the horse and was leading it out back to the stable behind the railroad depot. Leave the young fireman and the engineer to go to the locomotive and prepare it for rolling.

  Crane stood on the threshold of his living quarters, smoking a pipe and relishing what was left of a cup of coffee.

  ‘Goin’ to be a real fine day soon as that cloud breaks up,’ the depot manager said, and squinted toward the brightening sky.

  ‘Like to buy that one-way ticket to Colorado Junction, feller.’

  Crane sighed and turned to set down his cup inside the room. ‘Ain’t much for talkin’ chitchat are you, mister?’ he growled, as he dug out a pencil and a pad of tickets from an inside pocket of his uniform jacket.

  ‘No,’ Edge answered. And had the dollar and a half ready to hand over when the ticket was made out and torn from the pad. Said: ‘Obliged,’ when the transaction was completed.

  Then he went back around the rear of the train and angled across the street to Regan’s Place. But he did not have to go inside, for Crystal came through the batwings as he was about to step up on to the stoop. And dropped his saddle and bedroll on the rotting boarding. Then held out the paper sack containing his finder’s fee.

  ‘Took out only enough to pay Mr. Regan for renting the room,’ she said, her voice as lackluster as her expression.

  “Here’s your train ticket,’ he responded and stooped to open a saddlebag and put the money inside.

  She shook her head and kept her hands down at her sides as he straightened up. ‘I guess you’ll be able to get a refund.’

  ‘Why should I do that, lady?’ His tone and expression had a matching coldness.

  ‘You don’t have to worry, Edge. I’m still going home. But not by train. As far as Colorado Junction anyway. Marshall Roche said it would be all right if I took one of the dead men’s horses. You can have mine until you find—’

  ‘Fine,’ Edge told her. ‘What about train fare and eating money from the junction to—’

  ‘I’ll manage.’ She became grimly tight-lipped.

  ‘If you say so.’

  She turned and strode along the stoop. And before she turned to go along the side of Regan’s Place toward the stable, paused at the corner to tell him: Thanks for taking care of me when I was in need.’ She didn’t look at him as she said this and then could not control the first of her sobs until after she hurried out of earshot of the half-breed.

  The batwings flapped open and Milly came through them, a brand of sorrowful anger in her eyes and twisting her mouthline.

  ‘You don’t even know why she’s leavin’, do you?’ she said in a tone of accusation.

  ‘She’s going home,’ he answered and stepped up out of the mud on to the stoop. There began to roll a cigarette.

  ‘I mean leavin’ early. Not on the train. It’s because she can’t stand to be here when Vince and me are married. And then have to ride with us in the same railroad car after we’ve been married.’

  She was set to continue in the same manner, but then looked long and hard into his narrow-eyed, impassive face as he struck a match on the stoop awning support and lit the cigarette. And said wearily: ‘Yeah, of course you know.’ She raised a small hand in front of his face and clicked the thumb and forefinger. ‘And you don’t give that much for how she feels.’

  Hoofbeats in mud captured their attention and they both looked along the street where it ran alongside the railroad between the scattering of tents. To watch Crystal Dickens riding at a trot away from them. She did not acknowledge whatever it was Vince Attinger said to her as he and the erstwhile minister named Grimes emerged from a tent on one of the claims. And both of them had to jump back to get clear of the mud spray when the woman demanded a gallop from her mount.

  ‘She’s the saddest person I think I’ve ever met, mister!’ Milly rasped bitterly. Then, as the half-breed stooped and picked up his saddle and bedroll. ‘You’re leavin’ now?’

  The cigarette continued to slant from a corner of his mouth when he growled: ‘Yeah. It seems there won’t be anybody to cry at your wedding.’

  Chapter Twelve

  EDGE moved slowly along the stoop of Regan’s Place, through the mud at the side and went into the stable at the rear. Where he saddled the black stallion and lashed his bedroll into place. Then led the horse outside and hitched him to the rail adjacent to the entrance of the store section of Regan’s. All the time allowing h
is mind the freedom to consider a reaction to Crystal Dickens’ decision. But his mind remained as blank as his expression.

  The jangle of the bell on the door brought the hung-over Pat Regan shuffling into the small and overcrowded store.

  ‘Yeah?’

  The half-breed gave his order for supplies for the trail and the bald headed fat man filled it without enthusiasm, laboriously listed the prices, added the column of figures and growled the total. Then, after he had pocketed the money and Edge was gathering up the purchases, Regan asked: ‘You ain’t stayin for the weddin’ then?’

  ‘No, feller. My presence ain’t needed.’

  The bell jangled as he opened the door.

  And Marshal Roche waited for the sound to stop before he demanded: ‘Drop the supplies and reach, killer.’

  The lawman was at the rear corner of Regan’s Place, aiming a cocked Winchester from the right hip.

  ‘Object to having a gun pointed at me, feller,’ the half-breed drawled evenly.

  ‘No countin’ to three or any of that crap, Edge,’ Roche said coldly. ‘Just tell you that if you ain’t done what I ordered before I stop talkin’, I’m gonna blast…’ The half-breed allowed the packs and cans to fall around his feet and raised his hands to shoulder height. ‘. . .you to kingdom come. Wise man.’

  Edge heard footfalls behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see the suddenly nervous Pat Regan advancing on the store doorway.

  ‘Careful of that razor you say he carries!’ Roche warned.

  The half-breed returned his attention to the lawman and felt Regan snatch the Frontier Colt from his holster. He did not hear the series of metallic clicks that would have signaled the hammer being cocked.

  ‘You’re under arrest,’ Roche said and came closer to Edge.

  ‘You got one of those special warrants to show me, feller?’

  Roche halted with the muzzle of the Winchester held rock steady ten feet away from Edge. ‘Don’t need one. What’s called a citizen’s arrest.’

  ‘For what?’ the half-breed asked and half-turned. Facing Roche and able to see the still nervous Regan just inside the store out of the corner of his eye.

  ‘Murder of Gerald MacArthur.’

  Edge shifted his slit-eyed gaze to look directly and coldly at Regan now. And the man back stepped as if there was a physical pressure emanated by the slivers of ice-blue beneath the hooded lids.

  ‘What kind of deal did he offer you, feller?’

  ‘I done my duty is all, stranger,’ the owner of the place responded, quickly and nervously. ‘Just wish I was young enough to have done what the marshal is. Gerry wasn’t much, but he didn’t deserve to get gunned down by a pro killer like you.’

  He kept backing off as he spoke, until he came to a halt up against the store counter. The impact startled him and he gasped.

  ‘And that’s what you are, I reckon,’ Roche said. ‘Heard secondhand how you sent Max Sawyer and his sidekicks to the promised land. But folks often build up them kind of stories. Saw with my own eyes how you shot the gun out of the kid’s hand.’

  Edge glanced just briefly at the lawman while he was speaking. For the rest of the time concentrated his gaze upon Regan: and when Roche was through, addressed the frightened fat man.

  ‘How’s it going to be, feller? After I’m dead, he’ll write another letter and you’ll take it to Tucson? Collect the reward and split it with him?’

  ‘Ain’t no one else gonna get killed!’ Regan blurted. ‘The marshal’s gonna take you prisoner and ride with you up to Colorado Junction on the train. There’s a Utah Territorial Marshal’s office there and he’ll hand you over.’

  ‘That’s if you come peaceable, Edge,’ Roche added menacingly, his forefinger caressing the trigger of the Winchester. ‘If you don’t, you’ll still get the train ride. Only you won’t know anythin’ about it. So best you lower those hands and put them behind your back. So Mr. Regan can tie them.’

  The half-breed was tensely afraid without showing it. For he knew the lawman from Arizona intended to kill him. Roche had put in a lot of hard time tracking down the three men who robbed the bank in Tucson. And had probably done so as a dutiful lawman honoring the trust placed in him. No doubt had been relieved to learn his quarry were safely dead, so that he did not have to risk his own life in capturing them and escorting them on the long haul back to Arizona.

  But the rainstorm had trapped him in Ventura and he had begun to brood about the injustice of abiding by the law: his line of thought colored by liquor and its after effects. Four months of hard riding on rough trails for a marshal’s pay. And when the job was done, not even the satisfaction of knowing he had done it well. What he did know was that another man had unwittingly finished it for him. And in the process put himself in line to collect a fifteen hundred dollar reward.

  Thus he was in the right mood to listen to Pat Regan’s bitter words about Edge. His mind a fertile bed into which were planted the seeds of an idea. To kill Edge and make a deal with a third party to collect the reward money and share in it. And as part of the deal, the third party was required to assist in the capture. For Roche was obviously afraid of Edge’s deadly skills - would not have dared to brace the half-breed alone.

  Edge lowered his hands and swung them behind his back. Slowly. Apparently relaxed, but with every muscle tensed to power himself into a countermove should Roche’s finger tighten on the Winchester’s trigger.

  ‘He has to kill me, Regan,’ he drawled, hearing the fat man’s tread on the floor of the store but watching the marshal closely enough to see beads of sweat squeeze from individual pores. ‘You’re right and he’s right. I’m a killer. And he ain’t about to hand me over to some hick town lawman he doesn’t know.’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ Roche snarled, and licked some sweat off his moustache.

  ‘He’ll be afraid I’ll beat this lousy rap. Or maybe I’ll bust out of whatever kind of gaolhouse they have at the other end of this railroad spur. And in either event I won’t forget about this.’

  ‘I said to shut up!’ the lawman spat. ‘Get his hands tied, Regan. He’s tryin’ to scare you and there ain’t no reason for you to be scared.’ He took a step closer to Edge. ‘He’s just confessed he’s a killer. And if we have to blast him for resistin’ arrest, we’re within our rights!’

  Regan was breathing hard and fast behind the half-breed. Through his nose, as if terror was constricting his throat. He made a choking sound to clear the blockage before he could say: ‘Don’t do nothin’ to get yourself shot, stranger. That ain’t my style.’

  The hand he used to press Edge’s wrists together was greasy with sweat. The amount of planning which had gone on was evidenced by the fact that Regan had a ready prepared length of rope with a loop and running knot in it. He slipped it up over Edge’s fingers and the backs of his hands. And as Edge’s glinting eyes met the glassy stare in those of the lawman, he knew he was only a fraction of time away from seeing the muzzle flash of the Winchester and feeling the impact of a bullet in his chest. Left of centre.

  Because Roche knew the tall, lean, brown-skinned man in front of the rifle would not allow himself to be gunned down without an attempt to escape. And an attempt to turn the tables would be sufficient justification - to himself and to Regan - for the fatal shot to be fired.

  ‘You saved my life, mister!’ Aristotle Attinger said in his reedy voice: as he swung into view around the rear corner of the building. And squeezed the trigger of the Winchester leveled at Roche’s back.

  The hammer fell forward and the firing pin stabbed into an empty breech.

  Roche had begun to turn his head when the old timer spoke the first word, but without altering the aim of his own rifle. Then, on his face, the birth of mortal terror was aborted and the first lines of a triumphant grin began to be cut from the corners of his mouth and eyes. This as he heard the series of metallic clicks and recognized the sounds for what they were.

  And he squeezed the trigger of his
Winchester to a more dramatic effect. But not the one he had intended. For in the time it took for the message of his desire to be transmitted from his brain to his trigger finger, the positions of Edge and Regan on the threshold of the store had been reversed.

  The half-breed went through the doorway, starting the move the instant Roche began to turn his head. And as the loop tightened around his wrists he made a jerking action with his torso and arms. Which had a whiplash effect on the spare length of rope. And the startled Pat Regan did not release his grip on this rope until it was too late.

  He yelled his alarm.

  Old man Attinger cursed at the rifle he had forgotten was emptied when he made his fervid entry into town earlier.

  A bullet cracked from the muzzle of Roche’s Winchester. To drill through Regan’s left temple and exit from his right, boring a lethal tunnel in his frontal lobes in the process. Then causing a long red stain, littered with tiny bone fragments, to be laid across the mud close to where the corpse fell.

  Once Regan had released his hold on the end of the rope, Edge threw his arms apart and the encircling loop dropped away from his wrists. He did this as he ran, footfalls thudding on the floor of the store. And was free of the bond in time to use his hands to steer his leap over the counter.

  ‘You crazy old fool!’ Roche shrieked, and blasted a shot into the doorway. ‘He’s a murderer!’

  Other voices were raised, demanding to know what was happening. In the saloon section of the building and out on the street.

  The lawman-turned-bad worked the action of the repeater and exploded another shot as he stepped across the threshold. Like the previous bullet, this one slammed into the front of the counter which he could see provided the only substantial cover in the store. Wood splinters flew and the acrid smell of burnt powder masked the odors of foodstuffs which had earlier permeated the atmosphere.

  Roche advanced across the store, the floorboards creaking under his booted feet.

  ‘No more killin’!’ Telly Attinger yelled. ‘There’s been too much fightin’ and dyin’! That’s why the good Lord is gonna drown the wicked world in a new deluge!’