Hedges nodded. “We’ve got the kid, though. I reckon we can get him to tell us where his buddies hole up.”
“You got more faith in Bob Rhett than I have,” Forrest said with a grimace, making a gesture for the troopers to wheel their horses and start back down the gully.
Hedges’ expression grew hard as his narrowed eyes raked over the men. He only now realized that the troop’s coward had been left to guard the prisoner. But, as he led the column on a back-track at an energy-conserving trot, he subdued an urge to reprimand. He turned his anger inwards, knowing that he should have designated a man by name.
As the head of the column swung around the long curve of the gully and the mouth came into view, Hedges’ fears were realized.
“Oh, Christ!” Forrest rasped.
A group of three loose horses grazed on a patch of grass in the shelter of the gully wall. A few yards away, as many men were slumped on the rocky ground – one of them dressed in Union blue.
“Bob’s gone to that great big fairyland in the sky,” Seward whispered to Scott. “He ain’t that lucky,” Scott corrected, craning forward to peer around Douglas riding ahead of him. “He’s still breathing.”
The rest of the men remained mounted while Hedges and Forrest slid from their saddles and glared down at Rhett. The New Englander was sprawled out on his back. His forage cap had come off and his blond hair was matted with blood which had now ceased to flow from an ugly wound on the left side of his forehead. Two flies were working voraciously on the wound. Three more dined on the blood coating the damaging rock. The Colt had been taken from the unconscious man’s holster and his Henry repeater was nowhere to be seen. The escaping prisoner had taken the horse of a dead raider and Rhett’s mount was one of the grazing animals.
“I ought to put a bullet in him!” Hedges muttered with soft venom.
“Why a hole in his head didn’t kill him,” Roger Bell put in.
“Toss the crud over his horse and bring him along,” Hedges said with a sigh, swinging up into his saddle.
Forrest carried out the order, lifting the tall Rhett and draping him over the saddle with no concessions towards his injury. The head wound opened up again and dripped a trail of blood as the troopers moved towards the stalled wagon train.
The wind was still strong and bitingly cold in the open country beyond the gully. The men sloped their bodies into it while the horses veered to left and right on wearied legs.
“I been thinking, Captain,” Forrest said suddenly, after using the toe of his boot in Rhett’s groin to keep the unconscious man from sliding to the ground.
“Figured you might,” Hedges replied.
“About that wagon train.”
“And why Rebel raiders took a chance of hitting it in Federal territory,” Hedges suggested.
The sergeant’s brown teeth showed in a grin. “Natural, ain’t it?”
Hedges had known he would be unable to keep the nature of the freight a secret once the troop had taken over escort duty. He narrowed his eyes to slits and curled back his lips in a cold grin Forrest had come to know so well. “It’s too big for you, sergeant. Two million dollars worth.”
Forrest pursed his lips in a whistle as he looked towards the wagons, now only a hundred feet away. A thoughtful frown spread across his life-scarred features. “Of what, Captain?”
“Gold.”
The sergeant nodded. “How about that,” he mused.
“Forget it,” Hedges told him, his tone even.
“Sure, Captain,” Forrest said. “That’s too heavy for me. What’s it for?”
Hedges reined his horse to a stop beside the lead wagon and slid from the saddle. “I didn’t ask and I wasn’t told,” he replied as Forrest used his boot again, to tip the groaning Rhett to the ground. “Just that it was supposed to go to France to pay for guns.”
“You ought to have told me, sir,” the sergeant said with just a hint of bitterness. “I wouldn’t have done nothing about it.”
There was the trace of an implication that in these circumstances he might change his intentions. But then the wagon drivers and survivors of the escort detail crowded around, eager for news of the raiders. Hedges outranked the two lieutenants and a corporal, so could afford to ignore the inquiries.
He stooped, grasped the groaning Rhett under the armpits and dragged him into a sitting position, leaning against a wagon wheel. The injured man opened his eyes and took several seconds to adjust to his surroundings. The men became silent and Rhett found himself the object of contempt under their unwavering stares. He raised a hand to his weeping wound and his eyes widened with horror.
“I’m bleeding!” he exclaimed.
“Only in one place,” Hedges snarled. “For now.”
Rhett gulped. “Jesus, Captain, I thought he’d killed me.”
“He’s lost the opportunity,” Hedges pointed out with heavy stress.
“He tricked me, sir,” Rhett blubbered. “He was only a kid and he was hurt. I didn’t think he had it in him.”
Seward giggled, but curbed the dirty crack when he caught sight of Hedges’ glinting anger.
“He pretended to pass out, Captain Hedges,” Rhett went on, the words running into each other in his haste to excuse himself. “When I went to check him, he came up like lightning. He had a rock in his hand. I didn’t stand a chance.”
Hedges clenched his brown-skinned hands into tight fists and regarded the trembling Rhett with blatant contempt. But for a second time he held back his emotions by turning them against himself.
“You’re a sniveling excuse for a man, trooper,” was all he allowed himself to say as he turned from the wagon.
“I got some information out of him, sir,” Rhett blurted, recapturing Hedges’ attention.
“Where’s their hide out?” the Captain demanded sharply.
Rhett’s expression showed his misery. “Not that, sir. But he told me what they call themselves. Quantrill’s Raiders.”
“Big help,” Forrest snarled.
“Let’s get this train rolling!” Hedges yelled and the drivers, intimidated by the remnants of anger still visible in his face, hurried to return to their seats.
“And his name’s Jesse James,” Rhett shouted effusively at the men as they turned away, anxious to offer something which would lessen their contempt for him.
But they ignored him and his information, turning their backs on him to swing up into their saddles. Rhett climbed unsteadily to his feet.
“Christ, anyone would think I’d let someone important escape,” he mumbled bitterly. “He’ll probably get caught and hung before he’s old enough to amount to anything.”
“I wouldn’t bank on it,” Hedges rasped.
*****
“What you gonna do with the ugly lady, Clay?” Marshall cackled as the handsome young black man tossed the branding iron into the stream.
Will’s body had not taken all the heat from the metal and it hissed softly as it entered the ice cold water. Gay skirted the fire, ignoring the retching Henry and surveyed the terrified girl with detached indifference.
“Sure is a pity/She once was quite pretty,” he chanted. Then he sighed. “I ain’t got the time to wait for her to heal up, Marshal Marshall,” he said. “But I still got the urge. Reckon me and Henry'll ride up to Deadwood and buy us some high-priced whores with our new-found fortune.”
“You mean...?” the old man began, the saliva of excitement coursing down his grizzled jaw.
“Guy gets to your age, he can’t afford to be choosy,” Gay said. “Bury Will for me, and she’s your payment”
“Yiiipeeee!” Marshall roared and his delight struck new terror into the heart of Elizabeth Day.
She steeled herself for the intimate grasp of the old man’s bony hands. But instead, Marshall broke into a staggering run, heading for the dead body of Will. She sensed Gay’s eyes on her, smiling now.
“You ain’t got long to wait, ugly lady,” he taunted. “We bury our dead by tos
sing them into the back of one of the old mine tunnels.”
Elizabeth caught her breath and raked her eyes across the street to where Marshall was sawing at Will’s bonds with a knife. He did shuffling, dance-like movements around the body, his mouth open to emit a continuous cackle of glee. The sound of his joy and the subdued noise of the dying fire served to mask the approach of the buggy until it had passed the town marker.
Henry was the first to hear the stamp of hooves and crunch of turning wheels. He slapped the revolver from his holster and peered intently into the curtain of darkness.
“Company, Gay!” he hissed.
“Hold it, Marshall!” Gay snapped, silencing the old man’s inane laughter.
Marshall looked across the fire in time to see Gay complete a fast draw. He lumbered forward, Winchester leveled, to take up a position between the two outlaws. Elizabeth snapped her head around, as anxious as the men to see who was approaching. From the depths of her pain, a tiny ray of hope emerged. But she refused to acknowledge it, unable to face the prospect of having it dashed.
The buggy entered the circle of light thrown by the fire. The face of Cyril Miles was a pale blob against the dark interior. As he steered the buggy closer, the watchers could see the beads of perspiration standing out on his forehead beneath the narrow brim of the derby. He was alone in the slow moving rig.
“Reckon you can slow your heart beat, ugly lady,” Clay said from the corner of his smiling mouth. “This guy ain’t the maiden in distress saving type.” He pushed forward the gun and raised his voice. “We ain’t buying nothing today, mister!” he called.
Elizabeth slumped back against the wall of the shack and screwed her eyes tight shut, sure the newcomer was heading for a violent death. Now that the fire had burned low, the air struck chill. Frost sparkled on the ground at the far reaches of the glow.
“I’m not a salesman,” Cyril Miles replied, making no motion to halt the slow-moving buggy. “A newspaperman.”
“No comment,” Clay called.
“Marshal Marshall and the ugly lady’s just good friends,” Henry put in, fully recovered from his nausea.
“Yet,” Clay added.
“Go!” Miles roared at the mare in the shaft’s slapping the reins across the animal’s back as he flung himself to the floorboards.
The horse lunged into a gallop, swerving to one side to avoid the fire. The two blacks and the old man leapt out of its path, firing wildly in reflex actions. Elizabeth Day snapped open her shock-filled eyes as the panicked horse raced in front of her. She saw Miles in a crouch, with a gun in his hand. He sprang towards her and she was certain he would thud into her aching body.
But he had timed the leap perfectly. He thumped to the ground beside her and sprawled full length. A bullet thwacked into the door of the shack. Miles rolled over, sat up and pointed the Remington in a two handed grip. He squeezed the trigger and a circle of blood showed on Marshall’s chest – in the exact spot he would have worn a badge had he been a genuine lawman.
“Oh, my, watch out!” Elizabeth screamed as Clay and Henry whirled, guns coming up to the aim.
But a rifle shot punctuated her warning and a line of blood inscribed itself across Henry’s face, the bullet gouging his eyes and furrowing the bridge of his nose. As his high-pitched scream echoed among the wretched shacks of the town, Clay spun around.
He saw Edge. For an instant, the half-breed seemed glued to the rear of the buggy. His back was pressed against the wooden paneling and his long legs were splayed, feet braced on the rear sections of the curving springs. His useless left arm hung at his side. His right arm was crooked, elbow holding the rifle stock against his hip as his hand pumped the lever action to drive another shell into the breech.
Clay fired, the bullet smashing through the buggy’s rear panel. But Edge was no longer there. He hit the ground hard, the momentum knocking the feet from under him and pitching him headlong.
Miles’ Remington bucked, but Clay dived under the bullet’s trajectory. Edge rolled, his vision blurring as his tortured arm was crushed beneath him, squeezing tears of agony into his eyes. Clay fired again and the heel of Edge’s right boot was blasted away. The strain of holding the Winchester’s weight in a one-handed grip was beginning to take its toll. Edge’s right arm felt as weak as his left. But he was on his stomach and summoned the energy to raise the rifle the fraction of an inch necessary. He squeezed the trigger.
Clay took the bullet in his stomach and folded forward, dropping his gun. The Remington bucked in the newspaperman’s hands and Clay was no longer handsome. The bullet blasted a hole in his cheek and exploded his nose as it exited. He dropped to the ground and began to writhe in agony. Henry continued to scream.
Edge and Miles got to their feet.
“You!” Elizabeth croaked. “Oh my, I thought you’d been killed.”
Edge grinned down at her, concealing his true reaction to her awesome injuries. He let the Winchester fall to the ground and patted his bulging pockets. “They didn’t get my money or my life,” he said.
Clay was scrabbling at the dirt of the street. Henry lay flat on his back, his screams becoming hoarse as the flood continued to cascade down the length of his face.
“God, what a mess,” Miles said, his sallow face twisted by horror.
Edge took a step to the side, his good hand flashing to the back of his neck. He went into a crouch as his arm came down, the razor flashing in the firelight. The blade sliced deep into Henry’s throat, silencing his pitiful sounds of agony.
“Sorry?” Edge asked, wiping the blade on Henry’s shirt. “Didn’t hear what you said. Quieter now.”
“Holy Mother of God!” Miles gasped, Edge becoming the prime reason for his horror. He leapt in front of Clay, but did not make the mistake of pointing the Remington at Edge. “No, not him!” he implored.
Elizabeth seemed to have been plunged into a trance by the half-breed’s act. “I had to do that to the boy,” she whispered. “To stop him from being... being...”
She could not bring herself to describe the threat to the boy. She wanted desperately to give way to sobs, but it was as if there was not a drop of moisture in her.
Edge shrugged, ignoring the pale-faced Miles. “Guess sometimes a woman has to do what a woman has to do,” he said simply. “Help if I bury him, Miss Day?”
She nodded, grimacing against the pain in her stomach as she hauled herself upright against the door of the shack. “Not much, but some.”
“Hard going, with only one good arm,” Edge said. “But I’ll do it.”
A trace of curiosity was just visible through the awful bruises on the girl’s face and Edge knew she sensed it was not in his nature to do anybody a favor. But he realized it was neither the time nor the place for her to reveal whether she was prepared to be somebody.
“Then I’d like to leave this place,” she whispered.
Edge glanced over his shoulder and saw the driverless buggy had stopped, the horse waiting patiently on the far side of the almost burned out fire. The animal snorted when the shot rang out Edge whirled.
Miles was staring at him with dead eyes. Elizabeth had no more screams left in her. The newspaperman swayed for what seemed an eternity, then fell forward. Scarlet blossomed from a black hole in his back. Beyond him, death caught up with Clay. The black man had squeezed the trigger of his retrieved Colt with the final reserve of his energy. It fell to the street and his forehead clunked on top of it.
“Pity,” Edge said softly. “It was a good story and now he’ll never write it”
“What?” Elizabeth asked as she sagged against the door.
Edge reached her and caught her crumpling body in his good arm. She felt good to hold.
“Kind of like a man biting a dog,” he whispered in her unhearing ear. “Cyril came West to get local color. Local color got him.”
Don’t miss George G. Gilman’s EDGE: Sioux Uprising and the first in a new series,
THE UNDERTAKER: Black
as Death.
COMING SOON!
Vengeance is Black (Edge series Book 10) Page 12