Edge: The Loner (Edge series Book 1)

by George G. Gilman

  But Edge’s thoughts were not running along those lines as he dawdled into Anson City. He simply knew that he felt hard and dangerous, as deadly and unemotional as his Henry repeater; and as capable, whatever the odds, of avenging Jamie’s killing. That was all he needed to know. Whatever component parts made up the whole were irrelevant. The utter completeness of the whole was what was important.

  When he halted to drink from a stream and replenish his water bottles he caught site of his face in the rippling water, and ran a hand over his two-day-old stubble, contemplating his unsteady image for several moments. The horse, neck and head bent to drink besides him, looked at Edge with jaundiced eyes.

  Edge grinned, the glinting eyes and bared teeth, crinkled skin of the cheeks and rippling of the water-beaded beard made him look meaner than when his features were in repose.

  “So maybe I ain’t the most handsome man in the West,” he told the horse. “But it ain’t that kind of a date.”

  The horse snorted and shook her head violently, as if making a comment on Edge’s remark. He laughed, took hold of the bridle and walked for a while, so that the pace was even slower than before. Edge began to think the sun would never complete its slow slide down below the western horizon. But it did, finally, as Edge sat at the foot of a bank off the trail leading into Anson City, chewing on a stale, many days old piece of biscuit he had found in the bottom of one of the saddlebags.

  Twilight was short lived, the grayness dissolving into the black of true night with its normal accompaniment of fast cooling air. When he stood, Edge could see directly down the trail to the twinkling lights of Anson City, looking beguilingly friendly in the wilderness surrounding the settlement. A light breeze sprung up and the horse, catching a scent of other animals, perhaps even picking up the smell of feed from the livery stable, was anxious to press on. But Edge held her back, cutting off the trail to the north, swinging a wide arc, skirting a tract of wooded countryside, halting when he drew level with the rear of the restaurant. Edge was upwind of the town now and his horse had lost interest, content to rely upon the rider for guidance. Edge slid off the saddle, led his mount into the wood and tethered her to some brush.

  He took the Henry and set out on foot, heading down a grassy slope that canted towards town from the north, offering no cover whatever. But the moon was not yet high enough to prove a great deal of light and anybody below would have to be on lookout for an interloper to have a chance to spot Edge as he zigzagged downwards. But nobody was.

  Edge figured it was not yet eight-o’clock, but Anson City was as quiet as a ghost town, the kerosene lamps in the saloon and hotel and restaurant providing the only sign of human habitation. There was not a soul moving on the street and the silence was absolute. But Edge senses no danger in the stillness. The town was the center of a farming community, and such folk maintained the philosophy of early to bed, early to rise.

  The restaurant was the last building in town, on the opposite side of the street from where Edge stood, before it split and split again to give access to the farmstead on higher ground. As Edge peered across and in through the lighted windows, he saw a movement inside. It was Annie, tall and blonde, more attractive, in the flattering artificial light than she had been in the sheriff’s office. As she moved from a doorway at the rear of the restaurant, walked between the dozen or so tables, her hands went behind her and she shrugged out of her apron, tossed it over the back of a chair.

  Edge smiled as he realized the woman was preparing to end her day’s work. But then he made a sound of annoyance, for she was not alone. Her lips moved in words which were silent to Edge, but not to another man, who had been waiting, perhaps sitting at a table, to the left of the doorway. Now he appeared, tall and broad, his right arm folded across his chest, held there by the white material of a sling. The woman smiled, the man laughed and turned his head slightly. Edge recognized Hank the deputy. Pete hadn’t plugged him very positively during the sheriff’s office shoot-out.

  Annie and Hank shared the chores of snuffing out the lamps and after darkness blanketed the restaurant windows there was a time lapse that seemed to elongate into hours. But when the door finally opened Edge realized they had taken only a few moments to exchange a short kiss. Annie locked the door with a key, which she then dropped down the front of her low cut dress, between the twin swells of her breasts, which seemed to gleam white in the moonlight. Hank leaned close to here ear to whisper something and Annie gave a short laugh.

  “Later,” she said, very clearly.

  She linked her arm through Hank’s free arm and they stepped down off the end of the sidewalk, strolled unhurriedly out of town, he murmuring words to her which caused her to laugh a great deal. Edge gave them a twenty yard start, then set off after them, getting well clear of town before crossing the trail to move directly behind them. When they took one of the spur trails that had been cut through a stand of elms and silver birches he quickened his pace, treading carefully on the uneven ground. The couple, feeling no necessity for stealth of any kind, continued to talk and laugh, their careless feet rattling pebbles and cracking dry twigs.

  Edge got close enough in the trees to see the light splash out of the woman’s white dress against the variated blackness, saw the point at which she led Hank off the trail. He quacked his step still more, and then halted, peered around a thick tree trunk to look into a natural glade, grass carpeted and ringed by brush and birches, the silvery trunks refracting the stray beams of moonlight to provide a soft, romantic illumination. The couple were on the far side, Annie leaning her back against a tree as Hank stood in front of her, free arm encircling her shoulders as he kissed her.

  Edge watched indifferently for a few moments, as their passion increased, and the two bodies began to grind together. Then he moved to the left, skirting the glade, catching glimpse of the couple as the glade came into view between the trees. Once he saw them come up for air, Hank’s breath rasping with desire, Annie giving a deep sigh. Then he was behind them, with just the thickness of a tree trunk between.

  “I have to go, Hank,” he heard Annie whisper.

  “Aw not yet, honey.”

  “Hank, my Dad will tear the hide off me if I keep getting back to the farm late.”

  “He don’t suspect, does he?”

  She paused. “I think he knows there’s a man in my life, darling. But he don’t know it’s a married man.”

  Edge cocked the Henry and stepped out into the glade. “Could be he’ll know now, Annie,” he said.

  Hank sprang back and went for his gun. But he was right handed and that hand was trapped in a sling. He looked down at his helplessness with the shock of sudden realization while Annie gasped.

  Edge grinned an expression that offered the couple no comfort. “No trouble, folks,” he said flatly. “I just want a little information.”

  “You!” the woman said.

  “Me,” Edge answered.

  “You got gall, coming back here after what you did to the sheriff,” Hank was a brave man. His voice was strong and he did not flinch as Edge stepped quickly up to him. Annie gasped again, but Edge merely removed the Colt from the man’s holster. He took his time emptying the shells. He tossed them in one direction, the gun in the other, into the trees.

  “Sheriff, ought to be more polite,” he said. He looked at Annie. “You recognized my name.”

  “What?”

  “Back in the jailhouse this morning. When Hammond said I was called Edge it meant something to you.”

  “Don’t tell him anything,” Hank commanded.

  “Shut your mouth,” Edge said, stabbing forward with the Henry, aiming the jab at where a spot of blood showed on the sling, just above the elbow.

  “Don’t,” the woman cried in alarm as Hank staggered back with a pained grunt as the ache of his wound was reawakened.

  “So answer,” Edge said evenly.

  “Five soldiers ...” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “In the sal
oon last night.”

  “What kind of soldiers?”

  “In blue. Yankees.”

  “Any rank?”

  “What?” Puzzled.

  “Chevrons on their arms,” Edge made a motion with his hand: three times.

  “Right. Yes. One was a sergeant. The others called him Frank.”

  “What happened?”

  She couldn’t hold Edge’s steady gaze, looked at Hank who stood red faced with frustrated anger.

  “I went to the saloon to get some beer. We don’t stock it, but when a customer wants a drink with his meal ...”

  “I ain’t interested in how you run your hash house,” Edge said with impatience.

  “No,” she said, biting her lower lip. “I went to the saloon and while the barkeep was drawing the beer I heard the soldiers talking. I thought I heard the name Hedge but it could have been Edge.”

  “Close enough,” Edge told her. “What did they say?”

  “I didn’t hear much,” she said, anxious to please, afraid her information would not be sufficient to avert harm for her and Hank.

  “I don’t want it word for word,” Edge told her.

  “They were saying something ...” her face screwed up as her frightened mind struggled to recollect with accuracy. “... something: they wondered what Edge would do when he found … Johnny, would it be?”

  Edge’s face now twisted, but in his case it was because he recollected only too well. “Close enough, “he said softly. “What else?”

  “The one they called Frank said he didn’t give a damn one way of the other.”

  “What do you want from Annie?” Hank demanded, trying words as an outlet for his frustration.

  “You don’t shut up, deputy, I’ll pull the trigger the next time I aim,” Edge told him.

  “Please, Hank,” Annie said desperately. She looked again at Edge. “One of them said you wouldn’t dare follow them to Arizona Territory. Not with all five of them stuck together as they were.”

  “Anything else?” She had told him nothing he had not already suspected. Forrest had talked a lot about the years before the war in Arizona.”

  “Something about bounty hunting,” Annie said hopefully.

  That was how he had made his living—collecting bounties for capturing fugitives heading for the Mexican border: dead or alive—always dead when Forrest brought them in.

  “Anything else?”

  “What else?”

  “Arizona’s a big territory. They mention any place in particular? Any town?”

  She thought deeply, suddenly smiled. “Yes Frank mentioned a place called Warlock.”

  Edge had never heard of it, but knew Annie had not pulled the name out of the air. She was too scared to have any creative ideas.

  He sighed: “Okay. Obliged for your help.”

  “What are you going to do with us?” Annie asked nervously.

  “Now he’s going to kill us,” Hank answered.

  “Christ, deputy,” Edge said softly. “You really do run off at the mouth all the time, don’t you? Why should I kill you? Way things were going before I broke in you and the lady showed all signs of having the hots for each other. Way I figure it, if your wife or Annie’s pa finds out about that, well, neither of your lives are going to be worth living. Whereas, if we make a deal ...”

  “What kind of deal?” Hank demanded.

  “You keep your overflowing mouth shut about me and I’ll hold my peace about what I saw.”

  “I’m a lawman ...” Hank started, but Annie cut him off.

  “We won’t say a word, Mr. Edge,” she said. “Hank’s angry just now, but I’ll talk sense into him.”

  Edge looked from the enraged Hank to the anxious Annie and nodded his satisfaction. He turned as if to leave, then back to face the woman again.

  “Almost forgot. You have five dollars that belongs to me, Miss Annie.”

  “I don’t know ...” Another memory flooded back into her mind.”

  Edge nodded. “The breakfasts. Way I see it, I was a guest of the State and the State ought to pay for my board and lodging.”

  “I … I don’t have any money on me,” she said.

  Edge grinned and stepped up close to her. He grasped her arm and swung her around, placing her between himself and Hank, so that he was able to watch them both with ease.

  “I’ve seen where you keep your valuables, Miss Annie,” he said slyly and suddenly thrust his hand down the front of her dress, stirred by the firm, warm pleasures of her breasts against each side of his wrist. His fingers found a roll of bills and he withdrew his hand as the woman gasped in indignation and clutched at the top of her dress—too late.”

  “You ...” she started to say but got no further when she saw the meanness in Edge’s expression.

  “And you shouldn’t tell lies,” he said, glancing down at the money. There were two five-dollar bills and some ones. He took what was his and held out the rest to her.

  She seemed reluctant, afraid to take it, but after a moment, did so, glanced at it with disbelief and put it back from whence it came.

  “And honorable thief,” Hank said with disgust.

  “Who keeps his word,” Edge said evenly. “You keep yours or I’ll cut your tongue out and nail it to the door at the lady’s pa’s house.”

  Then he made a sudden movement, leaning forward from the waist and brushing his lips gently against Annie’s mouth. The woman gasped as Hank stepped forward, pulled up sharp when the muzzle of the Henry swung up to cover him.

  Edge grinned. “I could envy you,” he said. “She tastes as good as she feels.”

  Then he spun and vanished into the trees around the glade, as Hank made a deep-throated sound of fury and Annie raised a hand gently to her mouth. Her eyes shone and a sense of shame engulfed her, pricking her soul with accusation for the involuntary flush of desire that infused her entire body.

  “That Edge is quite a man,” she murmured.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  EDGE had an uneventful journey across the remainder of the Plains land, pacing himself and his horse to achieve a fast rate without inviting fatigue. He was taking a southwestern route, slashing across the southeastern corner of the Colorado Territory, and in not many days the horizon ahead became a dark line between the sun-baked ground and the azure sky as the Front Rage of the southern Rockies emerged over the earth’s curvature. He rode from early morning till close to noon, rested in whatever shade was available while the sun arced over its peak, then moved on till nightfall.

  He was in Indian country now. Cheyenne to the south, Pawnee to the north and Ute, Navaho and Apache ahead of him. White settlements were thin on the ground and those he saw he skirted. He decided he had taken his full share of unwanted trouble and the itch to find Forrest and the others was getting stronger. What Annie had told him about Jamie’s killers, their utter lack of remorse and confidence in their apparent immunity had caused Edge to re-assess his earlier line of thought. Now, although he was prepared to search for the rest of his life for vengeance, the earlier he reaped it the better.

  But then fate took a hand again. It was afternoon and the ground he was riding along was on the rise. He was following a wagon route up through the foothills towards the mountains, staying on the trail because he knew it would take him though by the easiest route: had been blazed by settlers heading west for California. And he followed the track for another reason. It bore signs of a passage by a wagon train in the not too distant past. A wagon train meant people, but for the most part good, decent people unlikely to create trouble unless provoked. More important, it meant good food, well cooked by town-bred women: an attractive prospect for Edge’s appetite, jaded by underdone jack rabbit and coffee made insipid by the need to conserve his diminishing supply.

  The first sign of trouble ahead was a column of black smoke some that rose above the crest of the hill, looking black and oily as it marred the clear blueness of the sky. The trail cut a course around the base of the hill
, rising only gently so that heavily laden wagons could be hauled up with relative ease. But Edge chose to cut off the trail, heeling his horse up the side of the hill towards the smoke. He started at a gallop, but as the incline steepened the animal slowed and Edge had to adopt a zigzagged course, finally dismounted and led the animal by its bridle the final few yards to the crest.

  On the other side the ground sloped away on a shallow incline and Edge looked down at the source of the smoke. A wagon lay on its side, terrified grays still trapped in its shafts as its canvas and timbers blazed. Then, as Edge looked on flames found a keg of gunpowder and the wagon went up with a roar, showering debris and sparks, the blast killing the horses.

  Some hundred yards further up the trail were seven more covered wagons, drawn up in an irregular rectangle, the heavy work horses still between their shafts. People, men, women and children, crouched in the center of the hurriedly organized, inadequate barrier, waiting in almost utter silence. Not complete silence, for when the roar of the exploding wagon had diminished Edge could hear a woman sobbing. Edge looked back down the trail and thought he knew the reason for her grief-stricken wails. The body of a man lay about twenty yards from the burning heap of rubble that had once been a wagon.

  He surveyed the scene as a whole again, narrowed eyes looking across the trail and up the rising slope on the other side that formed the ground before him into a small valley. Whereas on Edge’s side the hill was unmarked except for tall, gently waving grass, on the other it was littered with rocks and boulders, with clumps of brush providing additional pockets of cover. With just a cursory glance over the terrain Edge spotted three braves, their naked upper bodies devoid of war-paint. He figured them for part of an Apache hunting party, probably as surprised by their find as the people in the wagon train were by the attack. Another, more intense search of the hillside, enabled Edge to pinpoint two more braves and he heard a faint whinnying from behind a large clump of trees near the crest of the rise, indicating where the Apaches’ horses were concealed.