Edge: The Loner (Edge series Book 1)

by George G. Gilman

  And now he saw the other men, near the barn, transferring their saddles and bedrolls from their own mounts to the backs of fresh stock from the corral. But then, in the next instant, as the breeze gusted a cloud of dust across the parched ground, other sensations crowded into Jamie’s awareness. He was held direct against the live oak, secured by a single length of rope that bound him tightly at ankles, thighs, stomach, chest and throat: except for his right arm left free of the bonds so it could be raised out and the hands fastened, fingers splayed over the tree trunk by nails driven between them and bent over. The pressure of the nails and the bruises on his hands where the revolver butt had missed their mark and even more agonizing cause of pain than the shattered kneecap. But Jamie gritted his teeth and looked back at Forrest defiantly, trying desperately to conceal the twisted terror that reached his very nerve ends.

  “All right, boy,” Forrest said. “You can see the position you’re in. While you were taking your rest me and the others searched the place. But we couldn’t find no money. Now, if you just tell us where you’ve salted it away, we’ll cut you loose, make you right comfortable in the house and send a doctor out from town.”

  The others had finished saddling the fresh horses now and moved into an expectant bunch over to the tree. Jamie saw it as a mere disconnected movement from the corner of his eye, for he was riveting his attention on the face of Forrest, channeling all the hate he could muster in his continued effort to hide his pain and fear. But beads of sweat coursed down his forehead to sting his eyes, making him blink.

  “There’s no money here,” he tried to yell at the man, but what came out a rasping whisper, which Forrest ignored without a flicker of interest.

  “There had better be, boy,” he answered. “Or you’re dead. Back up.”

  The final demand was directed at the five other soldiers, who did as instructed, giving Forrest space enough to put ten feet between himself and Jamie. The boy saw that while Forrest looked at him with odd mixture of impatience and indifference, the others appeared excited at the prospect of imminent entertainment. One of them, a tall, lean man who had discarded his forage cap for a black Stetson, was taking fast swigs at an almost empty whisky bottle.

  “You got four fingers and a thumb on that right hand, boy,” Forrest said softy. “You also got another hand and we got a lot of nails. I’ll start with the thumb. I’m good. That’s why they made me platoon sergeant. Your brother recommended me, boy. I don’t miss. Where’s the money?”

  The world went a strange color for Jamie and he saw it out of perspective. Forrest seemed to diminish in size while the gun in his right hand grew to gigantic proportions. And the grinning faces of the other five men seemed to rush forward in stark clarity. The boy realized he was close to hysteria and he tried with all his weakened strength to tear his hands free of the nails.

  Then the enormous gun roared and Jamie could no longer feel anything in his right hand. But Forrest aim was true and when the boy looked down it was just his thumb that lay in the dust, the shattered bone gleaming white against the scarlet blood pumping from the still warm flesh. Then the numbness went and white-hot pain engulfed his entire arm as he screamed.

  “You tell me where the money is hid, boy,” Forrest said, having to raise his voice to make himself heard above the sounds of agony, but still empty of emotion.

  Jamie knew where it was. Had carefully over the years of the war carried each slim package from the stage station to the farm and hidden it with the others, counting it each time and keeping a tally. Two thousand dollars in all. Joe and he could really do things with the farm on two thousand dollars. Another barn, some new equipment: might fence off some pasture land to the north and get a few head of cattle. That would be nice.

  The gun exploded into sound again and this time there was no moment of numbness as Jamie forefinger fell to the ground, on top of the thumb, disturbing the flies at their feast. The agony reverberated throughout his entire body and this time his scream emerged as a mere croaking sound from deep in his throat. He knew he was in a hairs breadth of telling Forrest of the moneys hiding place, but he didn’t, but he was hanging onto the belief that Joe was not dead, and so would need the money. To Jamie it did not matter, for he would surely be killed whether he talked or not. But he had to keep faith with Joe.

  “Don’t hog it all to yourself, Frank,” Billy Seward shouted, drawing his revolver, “You weren’t the only crack shot in the whole damn war.”

  He drew a bead on his target and Jamie watched him through a red sea of pain that blurred his vision, set him apart from what was happening. The crack of the revolver had a distant sound and this time there was hardly any new pain, merely a sting on the cheek as the bullet missed its mark, dug splinters from the trunk, which flew into the face of the boy. Jamie suddenly loved Billy Seward and felt a warm wetness in his trousers as the relief relaxed his muscles.

  “You stupid bastard,” Forrest yelled as he spun around. “Don’t kill him ...”

  Every other man had drawn his gun and all but one lowered their weapons, their wills bent to the fury of Forrest. But the man with the whisky bottle suddenly flung it from him, his eyes bleary and his hand unsteady from the pint of hard liquor he had drunk during the search of the house. He fired from the hip, the bullet whining past Forrest’s shoulder to hit Jamie squarely between the eyes, the blood spurting from the fatal wound like red mud to mask the boy’s death agony. The gasp of the other men told Forrest it was over and he did not turn round to look. His Colt spoke for the fourth time that evening, the bullet smashing into the drunken man’s groin. He went down hard into a sitting position, dropping his gun, splaying his legs, his hands clenching his lower abdomen as if he thought he could staunch the flow of crimson that spread a widening stain across his filthy uniform pants. He looked around imploringly as those around him, his mouth working but emitting no sound, and nobody moved to help him. Then, without speaking, Forrest walked across and scooped up the fallen gun, jammed it into his belt as he holstered his own revolver.

  “Help me, Frank,” the man finally managed to force out. “My guts are running out. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

  “But you did,” Forrest said, spat full into his face and brought up his foot to kick the injured man savagely on the jaw, sending him sprawling onto his back. He looked around at the others, their faces depicting fear, they holstered their guns. “Burn the place to the ground,” he ordered with low key fury. “If we can’t get the money, Captain Josiah C. Hedges ain’t gonna find it, either.”

  As Forrest stood, unmoving between the dead boy tied to the tree and an unconscious man sprawled in the dust, the four men fanned out across the farmstead, one to the house, a second to the barn, and the other two going to the wheat fields. The crops caught first, their tinder dryness easily magnified the tiny blazes started by the men. But the buildings, too, were soon providing fuel for the fires after they had been splashed with kerosene. As they smelled the smoke and saw the flames the loose horses moved restlessly, whinnying their fright before bolting, some through the gateway, others smashing down the fence.

  “All right,” Forrest yelled, suddenly moving, breaking into a run for the tethered animals. “Let’s go before we roast.”

  The others raced to join him as the sound of roaring mingled with the stench of burning to add its own kind of terror to the awe-inspiring sight of the blazing flames. They mounted quickly and galloped in the wake of Forrest as he wheeled his horse through the gateway and onto the trail away from the fire. One horse remained—that which would have been the man’s who killed Jamie—still tethered by the barn. It kicked and struggled against its rope, terror injecting enormous strength into his muscles so that it finally tore free. But in the panic of its fright the beast galloped full pelt into the blazing barn, its death cries lost in the crash of falling timber as the roof collapsed.

  Down the trail the five soldiers slowed their horses and looked back, saw the flames leap high, the smoke curling in
to the sky, black and dense enough to blot out the bright red of the setting sun.

  Forrest suddenly laughed. “Anyone fools with Frank Forrest is likely to get his fingers burned,” he said as he spurred his horse forward.

  CHAPTER THREE

  JOSIAH Hedges was thirty years old, stood six feet three inches tall and weighed a solid one hundred and ninety pounds, some of it bone, most muscle. Many women considered him handsome, many others thought him ugly: he had that kind of face. Eyes that were light blue and piercing from his Swedish mother, a hawk like nose, high cheekbones and firm jaw line from his Mexican father. A mouth that was narrow and set in a firm, cruel line which was not hereditary but born out of too many years of war. His hair was black, long and thick to below his collar. He had personally killed fifty-six men who were his enemies and been directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds more, friend and foe alike, for an army captain must give an order in terms of winning the battle with the safety of his men of secondary consideration. Certainly that was the opinion of Captain Josiah Hedges and he had fought the war on the principle: sufficiently well to earn a commendation from General Grant himself.

  But now it was ex-Captain and if he had ever cared about the honor, it meant nothing to him as he rode homewards towards the flatland of Iowa. He had had a job to do and the fact that the job had been largely a matter of killing his fellow-countrymen had not affected the way he did it. He had fought his war well, for he tried to do everything well. Just as he had worked the farmstead before the war and would continue to do so now that the fighting was over.

  If anything concerned him as he rose past the oddly formed stand of trees beside a bend in the stream that marked a distance of two miles from the farm, it was that he had derived a certain enjoyment from the war and a deep sense of satisfaction as he saw each man fall at his hand. The simplicity of farming could never produce such a feeling.

  But, he was certain the influence of young Jamie, the boy’s faith in his elder brother, would be stronger than the most vivid memories of smoke shrouded battlefields, musket cracks, flashing steel and blood. With these thoughts running on such lines, Joe caught his first sign of the farm and was sure it was a trick of the imagination that painted the picture hanging before his eyes. But then the gentle breeze that had been coming from the south suddenly veered and he caught the acrid stench of smoke in his nostrils, confirming that the black smudges rising lazily upwards from the wide area of darkened country ahead was actual evidence of a fire.

  Letting an animal sound escape his throat, Joe dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and she replied to his command with a turn of speed that told of an early hour in a new day after a good night’s rest. As he galloped towards what was now the charred remains of the Hedges’ farmstead, Joe looked down at the trail, recognizing in the thick dust of a long hot summer signs of the recent passage of many horses—horses with shod hoofs. As he thundered up the final length of trail Joe saw only two areas of movement, one around the big old oak and another some yards distant, towards the smoldering ruins of the house and as he reined his horse at the gateway he slid the twelve shot Henry repeater from its boot and leapt to the ground, began firing from hip level, squeezing the trigger and working the trigger guard with a fast wrist action that pumped three .44 caliber shells at each target within four seconds and dropped the gleaming cases around his feet. Only one of the evil buzzards that had been tearing ferociously at dead human flesh escaped, lumbering with incensed screeches into the acrid air.

  For perhaps a minute Joe stood unmoving upon the spot from which he had fired, looking at Jamie bound to the tree. He knew it was his brother, even though his face was unrecognizable where the scavengers had ripped the flesh to the bone, their hooked bills gouging out the eyes, ripping great strips of flesh from mouth to ears. He saw the right hand picked almost completely clean of flesh, as a three fingered skeleton of what it had been, still securely nailed to the tree. He looked at the gaping wound at the knee of what had been Jamie’s good leg, the Levis having been torn down to the cuff so the birds would have easy access to their meal.

  Then Joe moved, salty moisture stinging his eyes, aware that he was crying for the first time since he was 18 years old and had let off his father’s Hall flintlock to turn Jamie into a cripple. He dropped the rifle to the ground and took two strides at first, then broke into a loping run which ended with a vicious kick to one of the dead birds, sending it arcing away, dead wings spreading to thud into the ground fifteen yards away. Sobs exploded from his throat, he kicked another bird clear, picked up a third by its neck and hefted it after its evil companions. Then he took hold of Jamie’s shirt front and ripped it, pressed his lips against the cold, waxy flesh of his brother’s chest, letting his grief escape, not moving until his throat was pained by dry sobs and his tears were exhausted. Not until then did he reach under his uniform coat and take from its sheath at the small of his back a bone handled hunting knife, honed to perfection on both edges and needle pointed. The blade gleamed dully in the shade of his body, flashed brilliantly in the early morning sun as it slashed through the ropes. There mere bones which were all that remained of Jamie’s right hand slid easily from the nails and Joe laid his brother reverently on the ground.

  All emotion drained from him, Joe moved quickly and efficiently now, going to the remains of the barn and searching among the charred timber, unconcerned with the stench of the carcass of the horse that had panicked and burned to death. He found a spade, twisted by intense heat, its wooden handle burned from it, but still serviceable and carried it back to the tree. There, on the far side from where Jamie had died, Joe stripped to the waist and started to dig, finding the ground hard and unwilling to be marred by the crude tool. But, as the sun grew higher and grew hotter, drawing sweat from every pore of his body, Joe’s bulging muscles won the battle. Working with strength of will he never suspected he possessed, Joe scraped out a grave seven feet long and four feet deep without once stopping to rest. Then he went to get Jamie and in stooping to pick up the body saw the thumb and forefinger, which had been shot from the hand and overlooked by the buzzards. He picked these up, hard and stiff with the texture of twigs and when he had lowered the body into the grave, dropped them in, too. It took only a few minutes to shovel the earth back into the hole. And form a slight mound with the excess displaced by Jamie.

  He made a cross with two pieces of wood from a section of the fence which had escaped the fire and used the point of his knife to etch Jamie’s full name and yesterday’s date in the cross member. He drove it into the soft earth at the head of the grave, then put his uniform back on, carefully looping around his neck a length of cord with a long, slim pouch attached, arranging it so that the pouch hung at his back, pointing down the length of his spine. His jacket, buttoned to the throat, hid both cord and pouch. Then he stood beside the grave, holding his hat by the brim in both hands, and looked down at the mound. His voice faltered as he searched for the words, but was strong and resonant when he spoke them.

  “Jamie, our Ma and Pa taught us a lot out of the Good Book, but it’s a long time since I felt the need to know about such things. I guess you’d know better than me what to say at a time like this. Rest easy, brother. I’ll settle your score. Whoever they are and wherever they run, I’ll find them and I’ll kill them. I’ve learned some special ways of killing people and I’ll avenge you good.” Now Joe looked up at the sky, a bright sheet of azure cleared of smoke. “Take care of my kid brother, Lord,” he said softly, and put on his hat with a gesture of finality, marking the end of his moments of reverence.

  Picking up the spade he went to where he had discarded his rifle, recovered it and wiped the dust from it on his pants leg before replenishing the tubular magazine so that it was loaded with a full compliment of twelve cartridges. He slid the Henry back into its boot at the rear of the saddle on the horse which had been grazing quietly on a patch of grass besides the gatepost. Then he went to the pile of blackened timber which
was the house and although it was impossible to see what the layout had once been, moved with confidence through the wreckage, halting close to where the north wall had stood, at the rear. The floorboards had been burned clear through but a square of timber beneath, in the corner of what had been Jamie’s bedroom, was merely scorched and Joe used the edge of the spade to pries it up, clear of its wooden frame. Beneath was a tin box containing every cent of the two thousand dollars Joe had sent home from the war, stacked neatly in piles of one, five and ten dollar bills. He had no need to count it, although he had told Jamie to make use of whatever money he needed, Joe knew that his brother would not touch a dollar. There would be two thousand. He scooped the money out, dropped the spade into the hole and returned to his horse, stashed the bills into one of his two saddlebags.

  Only now, more than two hours since he had returned to the farmstead, did Joe cross to look at the second dead man and in this case there was no necessity to rely on instinct to make an identification. For the scavenging birds had once again made their feast at the man-made source of blood. The dead man lay on his back, arms and legs splayed. Above the waist and below the thighs he was unmarked, the birds content to tear away his genitals and rip a gaping hole in his stomach, their talons and bills delving inside to drag out the intestines, the uneaten portions of which now trailed in the dust, attracting the inevitable swarm of black flies whose incessant buzzing of greed provided the only sound in the great silence that seemed to emanate from the razed farmstead to spread out in all directions across the almost featureless surrounding country.

  Then Joe looked at the face of the dead man and his cold eyes narrowed, only this slight gesture revealing his recognition, his certain knowledge of his quarry. The man was Rhett. Bob Rhett, he recalled, a New England dandy from a rich family who had cut him off without a cent when he got drunk once too often and raped the daughter of an English earl on the night their engagement was announced. He had fought a drunken, coward’s war, his many failings covered by his platoon sergeant Frank Forrest and Forrest’s four henchmen who suffered Rhett because his high class manners and educated talk amused them.