EDGE: Eve of Evil (Edge series Book 28)

by George G. Gilman

  ‘Who can say that those who lit the fire mean us any harm?’ O’Keefe asked. And looked anxiously at the half-breed, his tiny green eyes pleading for a reassuring answer.

  ‘It’s been that kind of day,’ Craig growled. ‘No reason to figure it’s gonna get better.’

  ‘Place your trust in the Lord your God,’ the priest advised, his voice sounding less forceful than he had intended as Edge heeled his gelding forward to start down into the valley.

  ‘Amen,’ Angel North added and even her one-word contribution lacked its previous fervor.

  ‘What d’you reckon, son?’ Owen Craig posed softly, his worried gaze fixed upon the smoke that rose slowly from out back of the saloon at the western end of the town’s single street.

  Edge looked from the frost-sprinkled face and form of the sheepman to rake his impassive gaze over the white wilderness of the snow covered valley. That it looks like hell’s froze over, feller,’ he answered flatly. ‘And on the day that happens, ain’t the impossible supposed to be possible?’

  Whoever was tending the fire behind the saloon in the abandoned town had reached the shelter before the last blizzard ravaged the Wind River Mountains. Or at least before the last flakes of snow had fallen. For there was no sign to show the direction of approach.

  The sheepmen, the priest and the woman eased their pace a little as the group closed with the town, by common and unspoken consent allowing the half-breed to move slightly ahead.

  Edge approached the familiar buildings on the same line by which he had left that morning, the gelding carrying him out on to the street between the two houses diagonally across from the saloon. The big one-piece door of the building which had provided him with shelter last night was still open. The batwings were closed and unmoving. The doorway of the store across the alley in which Buel and Young had waited was also open to the elements.

  The corpses of the two Lassiter hands might still have been on the street, buried by the new snowfall. And, as he dismounted, Edge recalled the undisturbed snow on the fringe of the timber and realized that the bodies of three other cowhands might have been moved. There had been no way to tell there, either.

  He withdrew the Winchester from the boot before he started across the street, flexing his fingers to start the circulation flowing: the memory of what had happened at the line shack fleetingly but vividly crossing his mind. At the mouth of the alley he halted and listened, the smell of wood-smoke strong in his nostrils. The only sounds he heard came from behind him and he glanced over his shoulder. Craig, Bassett and Smith were trailing him, stepping carefully into the depressions his own booted feet had made in the snow. The sheepmen were carrying their rifles.

  The priest and his woman remained in their saddles. They seemed to be praying.

  ‘The Almighty helps them that helps themselves, ain’t that so, son?’ Craig whispered, hoarse and frightened.

  ‘Fire’s in the stove in the livery,’ the half-breed murmured.

  ‘We can’t go in shootin’,’ Smith said. ‘We don’t know who they are. We ain’t on Lassiter range no more.’

  ‘The three of you want to go along the other side of the saloon?’ Edge suggested.

  Bassett licked his cold-roughened lips and his tongue seemed to make a rasping sound. ‘What then?’

  ‘Son?’ Craig posed to the half-breed.

  ‘It’s polite to knock on a door when you know somebody’s on the other side.’

  He started into the alley without giving the sheepmen a chance to respond, briefly conscious of their fear and confusion. Behind him, the three old men hesitated, unsure of how seriously to take Edge’s words. Then Craig took the lead, across the front of the saloon and around the corner.

  Most men have some kind of sixth sense which warns them when watching eyes are upon them. And Edge had developed this sensitivity to a higher degree than most during the war and its aftermath. But experience had taught him that it was not something to entirely trust. Thus, as he moved along the alley through the snow and fast falling dusk, his muscles were poised for instant response to the actions of others—be they good or evil. Even though he had failed to detect any intangible signs of being watched as he rode into town and then advanced on foot. For, as he had discovered already today, he was not always in control of the workings of his mind: at a conscious level and below.

  The livery was directly behind the saloon, across a small yard once enclosed by a fence which had rotted and crumpled. A large door, now firmly shut against the approaching night, faced the rear of the saloon. It had been open when Edge had led the gelding down the alley and out on to the street much earlier in the day.

  He could recall clearly what lay on the other side of the door. An aisle down the centre from front to rear, with six stalls on either side. Against the back wall a pot bellied stove with the stack still in place.

  As he used a water butt to climb up on to the roof of the saloon, smoke continued to spiral up from the visible portion of the stack at the rear of the livery’s roof. The heat of the fire in the stove below had melted some of the snow on the roof, but the freezing frost had arrested the process and laid a hard crust on the depleted layer which remained.

  The snow on the saloon roof was twice as thick.

  No lamp light or even fire glow showed at any of the cracks in the warped timber of the stable walls.

  He had made fast time, moving as quietly as the frosted snow would allow. The three men walking on a similar surface on the other side of the saloon were slower and, necessarily, noisier. Each time their feet lowered into the snow the sound of the crunching frost and compacting flakes seemed loud enough to rouse the long ago dead. When the white-sprinkled forms of the trio appeared below him, they looked like ghostly apparitions.

  Edge remained silent as the men peered around, searching for him. Eventually, some inexplicable mechanism in their minds drew their puzzled gazes up toward him. He still failed to sense any other eyes surveying the yard and its surroundings.

  Bassett opened his mouth to speak, but stayed silent when Edge pressed a stiff finger to his own lips. Despite the failing light, the fear was clear to see on the sheepmen’s faces when the half-breed gestured for them to approach the livery door. Again he did not wait for their agreement or otherwise. Instead, stretched out full length on the roof, behind the insubstantial cover of the line of undisturbed snow above the eaves.

  ‘Hell, this is friggin’ stupid!’ Craig said, loud and harsh.

  And above and behind the old man, Edge uttered a low grunt that could perhaps have indicated qualified agreement with the words.

  More snow was crunched underfoot as Craig led the reluctant Bassett and Smith toward the livery.

  ‘Hey, you inside! Got room for some real cold folks?’

  Even had there been a friendly invitation to enter, the half-breed would not have felt foolish or humiliated by his overreaction of caution. For it was his way and he had escaped death on countless occasions by guarding against danger in an apparently innocent situation. Often, as now, by putting the lives of others on the line.

  No welcoming words were called from inside the livery. No words of any kind. No sound.

  Edge grunted again, the small sound totally non-committal now. He took a firmer grip on the Winchester, his index finger squeezing first pressure against the trigger. It was impossible to ignore the intense cold. All he could do was will his mind to remain detached from the possibility of frostbite and concentrate on the potentially much greater danger which threatened from below.

  For he was certain now that the men on the other side of the livery door were not friendly. Men or man?

  Soon he would find out, for Craig, Bassett and Smith were at the door. Craig stood back a little with his Winchester aimed from the hip. The other two had their rifles in the crooks of their arms as they lifted the big iron latch.

  Their minds would be working on the same line as the half-breed’s.

  The smoke had been rising from the st
ack at a constant rate since it had first been seen from the ridge of the valley side. So somebody had been feeding fuel to the flames.

  Even if no watch had been maintained, the presence of newcomers was now a known fact. For, even if those inside had been sleeping, Craig’s shouts would have awakened them.

  Those shouts had committed the sheepmen to a course of overt action.

  Bassett and Smith snapped up the latch and lunged backwards, dragging the door open. The snow at its base was ploughed into a higher pile and they got the door halfway open before further progress was blocked. The two men sat down hard.

  Warm air tainted with the scent of tobacco smoke wafted out into the evening and was immediately cooled. The murky light of the dying day spread inside.

  The only man it showed wore a deep cut expression of great pain. He had to make a great effort to force out the words: ‘Kill me, Craig, and you’ll be doin’ me a favor!’

  ‘Lassiter!’ Craig gasped.

  He was an old man, made to look considerably older by recent pain and suffering. Tall and thin, like a starving giant. His face was long and gaunt with deep eye sockets and sunken cheeks. His hair was white and sparse, except where it grew as a well trimmed goatee beard from the point of his long jaw. He was at the rear of the stable, sprawled limply, almost lifelessly, on a bed of many blankets in front of the stove.

  ‘And you’ll be dead right after,’ another man threatened.

  ‘All three of you,’ another added.

  ‘Them that are with you.’

  ‘If that’s the way they want it.’

  The warnings, called flatly from many points inside the stable, froze Bassett and Smith in the process of struggling to get double handed grips on their rifles.

  ‘Kill them now!’ Cole Lassiter snarled. ‘Kill those murderin’, sheep screwin’ bastards!’

  ‘No, sir. That ain’t our way.’

  This from the man who had first threatened to avenge the old man’s death. He spoke from one of the stalls on the left. Just his head and shoulders showed above the timber partition. He was aiming a rifle from his left shoulder. Other men showed themselves in a similar fashion in other stalls. A dozen in all.

  ‘Frig you, I’m givin’ you an order!’ Lassiter roared.

  Eleven of the riflemen stood like mute statues. The twelfth moved only his lips. ‘We ain’t killers. Unless we gotta defend ourselves. Could’ve blasted you men long before you got this close.’

  ‘C.B.’s right,’ Craig rasped to his partners, and allowed the muzzle of his Winchester to dip toward the snow. ‘And he was always fair with us.’

  Cole Lassiter moved only his head, swinging it frantically to left and right to direct the enraged stare of his blazing eyes toward the unresponsive backs of his men. Watching him and seeing the limpness of the man’s limbs and body, Edge got the impression that—even had he wanted to—Lassiter could not have moved any other muscles except those which controlled his neck.

  ‘You double crossin’ bastards!’ the helpless man by the stove roared.

  He continued to be ignored.

  ‘We seen six of you ridin’ into the valley, Craig,’ the man called C.B. said evenly. ‘If the other three are givin’ you cover...’

  Footfalls crunched snow in the alley between the saloon and the store, the sound curtailing the man’s new warning. Some of the Bar-M hands craned forward, Winchesters swinging toward the new targets.

  ‘It’s a woman!’ somebody yelled.

  ‘Maria?’ Lassiter gasped.

  ‘No, sir,’ C.B. replied, after a cursory survey of O’Keefe and Angel North.

  ‘We are not welcome here?’ the priest asked nervously. ‘We heard voices but no gunfire and…’

  ‘One more, Craig,’ C.B. cut in on the explanation.

  ‘Don’t trust them!’ Lassiter snarled. ‘They killed your buddies. Van Dorn and Raven and Starr. Maybe Wes Young and Ben Buel for all we know! You can’t—’

  ‘We can, sir,’ C.B. interrupted calmly. ‘It’s you who can’t … do anythin’. Except talk and maybe that’s bad for you.’ His voice became harsher: ‘Well, Craig? You’re one short. And you can see there’s twelve of us.’

  ‘Edge!’ Craig yelled and his partners took their cue from him in not turning to look up at the saloon roof. ‘If they wanted us dead, son, we’d already be that way.’

  The half-breed scowled his reluctant acceptance that he had no alternative but to surrender once more to Bar-M cowhands. And turned his rifle to toss it two handed down into the snow. A dozen Winchesters and as many tense faces swung toward the spot where it thudded. Daylight was almost exhausted now and the men in the stable were unable to judge precisely the position from which the rifle had been thrown.

  Snow crunched as Edge got to his feet, drawing the cautious eyes and menacing rifle muzzles toward him. They tracked him as he stepped off the roof and dropped sure footed to the soft ground.

  ‘Aim the guns someplace else and never point them at me again,’ he said evenly. ‘Or squeeze the triggers now. Try to give folks the warning.’

  ‘You ain’t in no position to be givin’ orders, mister!’ a man in the same stall as C.B. barked

  ‘Shut up, Hardin’!’ C.B. snapped, and shouldered his rifle. Then, to Edge: ‘All right, mister. You’re a real hard sonofabitch. We ain’t no soft pricks, neither. But we reckon there’s been enough killin’ for one day.’ His eyes shifted in their sockets to direct his words at everyone outside. ‘So you folks wanna come in? Warm yourselves and maybe eat somethin’ hot. We don’t want no trouble with you, unless you start it’

  He and two other Bar-M hands seemed relieved that the sentiment had been spoken. The rest remained rigid with tension. Cole Lassiter’s eyes stared at C.B. from out of a bottomless pit of hatred.

  ‘You won’t get no trouble from me and Lonny and Doug,’ Craig responded and started into the livery, still carrying his rifle.

  His two partners followed him.

  ‘God is good and shares his goodness among many of his creatures,’ the priest blurted and took the woman’s arm to guide her across the yard.

  ‘Amen,’ she agreed gratefully and her perfect teeth added radiance to her smile again.

  ‘Come on in, mister,’ C.B. invited. ‘I’ll have a couple of the guys take care of your horses. Put them in the church with ours. This stable’s the only place in town with a stove that still works.’

  ‘Obliged,’ Edge said, and stooped to pick up his rifle, holding it one handed around the frame.

  Some of the Winchesters which had wandered off target as the men holding them peered through the darkness at Angel North were abruptly brought back to the aim.

  ‘Relax, you guys!’ C.B. urged. ‘Hardin’, Turner, go fix up their horses.’

  The two men designated for the chore resented it. But C.B. was firmly in command and they trudged out into the snow. Edge held back for them to emerge, then stepped over the threshold and pulled the door closed.

  ‘Daughter!’ the priest rasped.

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘Don’t you see? It’s a stable! We have come from the west to the east to find ourselves in a stable!’

  Somebody struck a match to light a lamp. Then another. They were hung on hooks designed to support harness. Looks of carnal interest which had been directed through the murk at the woman were abruptly transformed into quizzical frowns as attention was diverted to the priest.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ the woman agreed, a little breathlessly. She gazed about her with bright, excited eyes. ‘It will be here, I feel it.’

  ‘What the frig are they yakkin’ about?’ a man croaked.

  ‘What kinda people you ridin’ with, Craig?’ C.B. asked.

  ‘Well, you see, it’s Christmas…’ the eldest sheepman started.

  ‘And,’ Edge drawled as he advanced on the rear of the stable, ‘we got us some nuts.’

  Chapter Seven

  THERE was a pile of recently cut and split logs behin
d the stove. As the half-breed moved closer to the helpless Lassiter, the sardonic words he spoke captured suspicious attention. But, once he had leaned his rifle against the wall and started to stoke the fire in the stove, the eyes of all the Bar-M men returned hurriedly to locate O’Keefe and Angel North.

  For what seemed a long time—was perhaps little more than a minute—the priest held his entire new audience as he launched into an amplification of his reference to the Nativity.

  During this time, the half-breed continued to add logs to the stove and draw flames from the embers. And the sheepmen came deeper into the livery to share in the benefit of the heat. But then interest began to wane, as most of the hard-bitten cowhands scowled their scorn for what O’Keefe was saying, and moved out of the stalls to form a group in front of the stove.

  Cole Lassiter was among those who continued to be enthralled by the priest’s words—cursing and glowering at any of his men who wandered across his restricted line of vision to O’Keefe. Four cowhands maintained an equally high level of interest. One of them crossed himself when O’Keefe unfastened his topcoat to reveal the clerical garb beneath.

  Edge listened to the earnestly spoken words—without appearing to show any interest—for just long enough to ensure that the priest had the presence of mind not to refer to the killings.

  ‘C.B. Wilder, foreman of the Bar-M,’ a voice cut in on the half-breed’s thoughts. ‘Your name’s Edge?’

  He spoke the name as if he were not entirely certain he had got it correct

  ‘Sure.’

  The half-breed looked at the man who had dropped to his haunches beside him. He was in his mid-forties with a darkly tanned, rough hewn face cut with many lines that all curved downward. He was a sad looking man. Short but broadly built with a suggestion of great physical strength. Little natural intelligence was visible in his dark eyes.

  ‘Don’t guess you know anythin’ about doctorin’?’ the melancholic man asked morosely.

  ‘No, feller. But I figure your boss is in a bad way.’

  ‘We know that!’ another man growled.