Vengeance Is Black

by George G. Gilman

  The two groups met at the four corners of the stage depot. Their number had been reduced to less than thirty and the discarded weapons of the dead had been gathered so that all were armed with rifles.

  “Any white bastards inside there?” the head man demanded, running a hand over his forehead where blood oozed from a crease.

  “Hey, Manfred, the wagon!” a Negro yelled, pointing down the alley.

  The bald-headed man back-stepped a couple of paces to peer into the alley. His teeth flashed in a grin. “Soldier boys, you in there?” he shouted.

  Hedges worked the action of the Spencer and the other troopers did the same. The silence was heavy over the town, as if the souls of the massacred citizens were a physical weight in the air. The metallic scraping of bullets being fed into breeches was very loud. Hedges stepped forward to the edge of the roof. The troopers moved up to flank him. Rifles were canted towards them.

  “We’re on top,” Hedges answered quietly.

  “But outnumbered, mister,” Manfred pointed out.

  The men who had been ringing the building crowded out into the street in front of the Union troopers, emphasizing the truth of their head man’s words.

  “You want to try pushing that advantage?” Hedges asked easily.

  “Christ, they look tough,” Rhett murmured, sweat stinging his eyes. But he was unwilling to take a hand from his gun to wipe them.

  Manfred lowered his rifle. “Hell, mister, you’re all on our side. We owe you.”

  The other liberated slaves allowed their rifles to fall from the aim.

  “You murdering madmen, there was no need...”

  Bound had stepped forward, his face purple with rage as he took in the sight of the body-littered street. A rifle snapped up and exploded into sound. The bullet burrowed into the flesh beneath Bound’s quivering double chins and streaked into his brain. He started to fall backwards, but his feet slid off the edge of the roof and he thudded down to the sidewalk.

  Hedges sighed. “He was on our side, too.”

  “George!” the bald-headed Manfred roared in rebuke. “Why’d you do that?”

  “I didn’t know,” the man who had killed Bound said thickly. He hung his head in remorse. “I figured... Honest, I’m sorry I done for him.”

  Manfred accepted the apology with a nod and turned with a defiant look towards the soldiers on the roof. “An accident, soldier boys,” he said with a shrug, sunlight bouncing off his sweat-sheened baldness. “When a feller like George finds out he ain’t small fry no longer, he can’t handle it. Things can go wrong.”

  Hedges gazed ruefully across the blood-run street towards the sign over a shop: Saltzman and Broccoli—Picture Framers. He gave an easy shrug of his own. “Bound finally ran out of luck,” he said dropping his gaze to the crumpled form of the man who mixed spying with birds. “He had his share, and more.”

  “You only live once,” Forrest agreed. “Even in Allan Pinkerton’s Secret Service.”

  *****

  Dawn was breaking across the barren beauty of the Black Hills as Edge regained consciousness a second time. His initial awareness was of pain from his fractured arm. Then he cracked open his eyes and the dazzling rays of first sunlight shocked his mind into total recall of what had happened to him.

  He was stretched out on his back among the brush of the ledge. The Winchester was within reach of his good hand and he grasped it and used it to lever himself into a sitting position. From this new angle he could see over the lip of the ledge into the ravine. Night had not yet fully retreated from the deep floor, but he could make out the matchwood remains of the stage cluttered about the broken and burst bodies of horses and humans. A faint smell rose, adding and evil taint to the morning freshness of the air. His muscles were stiff and, when he had struggled to his feet, he realized their weakness. He leaned against the cliff face which reached up to the trail and now discovered how cold he was. After resting a few moments, he began to walk slowly up and down the ledge, steadying himself with the Winchester as the vine-like branches of the brush snagged at his ankles. The exercise set the blood circulating, warming him and alleviating the knotted muscles.

  After some fifteen minutes had gone by and the sun had hauled itself clear of the ridge on the eastern skyline, he halted and surveyed the cliff-face. It was not quite sheer and the soft sandstone of its structure had been roughened and scored by countless centuries of wild weather. Thus, there were numerous foot and hand holds and the cant of the incline was slightly in Edge’s favor. But the useless left arm, hanging loosely at his side, multiplied the risks of the climb a hundredfold. And the higher he reached, the greater would be the danger—of falling to the ledge and breaking another limb, or even bouncing off the brush down to the floor of the ravine.

  But the alternative was to stay on the ledge and die of starvation or exposure: and the man called Edge had survived too many of life’s rigors to concede to death in such a way.

  One-handed, clumsily, he took the razor pouch from his neck and used its leather thong to tie the saddle-ring of the rifle to his belt. Then, his stubbled, dark-skinned face set into lines of dispassion, he began the climb. It was even more difficult than it had looked. Niches and clefts which had seemed numerous from the ledge were suddenly less so in terms of those which were accessible to him. He was forced to adopt a long, zigzag route up the cliff face, swinging to the left and right in moves dictated by holds within reach of his good hand. His body, which had been ice cold a few minutes earlier, became bathed with sweat as the sun’s warmth increased to suck greedily at his moisture. It combined with physical effort to drain the energy from him and he had to rest often, flat against the burning sandstone, his mouth wide to suck hot air into pumping lungs. Pain sent Shockwaves through him each time his broken arm was dragged across the ragged rock face. The rifle barrel continually jarred against his ankles as he hauled himself upwards. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the image of the cruel rock only inches in front of them.

  The vertical distance was about thirty feet but the route he was forced to take made the climb almost half as much again. It was an hour before ragged-nailed fingers clawed over the lip of the trail. He looked up and a blurred silhouette blocked out the sun. There was an ugly, metallic, scratching sound which he recognized instantly. He blinked and beads of sweat were flung from his eyelids. He smelted oil and his vision cleared. His eyes brought into sharp focus a single-action Remington .36 five-shot revolver.

  “Reach for the sky, mister,” a man said nervously.

  “It feels like I already did,” Edge replied wearily and looked up into the face of the man holding the gun.

  He was in his early twenties, with fresh good-looks marred by the moustache he was in process of growing. It was turning out to be black, matching his widely-spaced eyes instead of the neatly trimmed blondness of his hair. From Edge’s viewpoint, he seemed exceptionally tall and strong. He was dressed in a light gray eastern suit with a hand-tooled gun belt worn over the jacket, cut-away holster tied down at his right thigh.

  “Give me a hand up, feller,” Edge said.

  The young man was confused. “Who are you?” he asked. His voice wavered, but the gun’s aim remained steady. “What are you doing here?”

  “Trying to get there,” Edge answered, clenching his teeth as the shoulder of his good arm gave a painful warning that it could not take the strain for much longer. “Name’s Edge. Remember it. You may have to put it on a marker if you don’t give me a lift up.”

  The youngster stepped closer to the lip of the cliff and looked down the length of Edge’s body. He saw the limp arm and dangling Winchester; the empty holster. He nodded abruptly, slid the Remington into his holster and crouched down. He took a two-handed grip on Edge’s wrist and hauled the half-breed up on to the trail.

  It took a lot out of him. But as soon as Edge was safely at the top, stretched out on the dusty ground, taking great gulps of air, the youngster stood up and backed away. He did some deep brea
thing of his own, his hand resting on the butt of the bolstered revolver. Edge glanced up at him and saw his rescuer was not so tall as he had at first looked. Under five and a half feet. And his frame was spare, almost dainty.

  “Obliged,” Edge said, looking beyond the youngster to where a smart-looking buggy was parked, drawn by a wary looking mare.

  He nodded, unsure whether he had done the right thing. As Edge climbed unsteadily to his feet, the youngster’s nervousness increased. Exhaustion and pain showed in the face and stance of the tall half-breed, but a hard core of meanness and evil lurked just beneath the surface. “Edge, did you say?”

  Edge nodded. “Heard of me?”

  “No. I’m Cyril Miles.”

  He hesitated a moment, then lifted his right hand from the gun butt and extended it in a gesture of friendship. Edge stepped forward and completed the handshake. As the half-breed’s grip tightened and held, Miles realized his mistake. He was jerked abruptly up close to Edge, whose narrowed eyes stared down into his frightened face.

  Edge’s voice turned the weather suddenly cold. “Next time you point a gun at me, feller, kill me,” he said. “You’ll get the chance to do it again because I owe you.”

  He shoved the youngster violently away from him and Miles staggered back against his buggy. He licked his lips and struggled to control the fit of trembling which had gripped his body. Edge ignored him, unbuckling his gun belt and letting it drop to the trail. He stooped, untied the Winchester and replaced the pouched razor around his neck. When he straightened, lifting the Winchester, Miles caught his breath.

  “Relax, Cyril,” Edge urged softly. “Like I said, I owe you.”

  “Forget it,” Miles answered with a gulp.

  Edge was examining the weathered surface of the trail. He noted the fresh tracks of miles’ buggy and team superimposed on those made the previous evening by the stage and hold-up men. Pools of spilled blood had turned brown in the dust. With the youngster’s nervous eyes watching his every move, Edge climbed up and over the felled pine. The trail on that side continued to climb steadily up into the hills. The sign showed that three shod horses had followed it.

  “What you doing travelling this piece of territory, Cyril?” Edge asked as he climbed back over the fallen timber.

  Miles had been fingering his gun butt. He pulled his hand away fast. “I’m a reporter, Mr. Edge,” he answered quickly. “New York Record. I’ve been assigned to do some articles on life in the West.”

  Edge nodded and strolled around the buggy. He grunted in satisfaction, then turned his attention to the wooded slope above the trail. He saw a mound of rotting pine needles up the slope a few feet. There was a trench around it, where the needles had been scooped up to form the mound.

  “Any particular aspect?” Edge asked, a sudden tightness in his voice.

  Miles heard the new tone, and moved so that he could see Edge on the other side of the buggy, surveying the heap of dead foliage through eyes narrowed to glinting slits. Edge looked much as he had when he grabbed Miles and the youngster was plunged back into the depths of his fear again.

  “I buried them the best I could,” he said in a trembling voice. “Did I do right?”

  “Men or women?” Edge asked softly, not looking at the reporter.

  Miles swallowed hard. “One man, one woman.”

  “Describe the woman?”

  “Quite young, blonde—”

  “It’s enough,” Edge snapped, turning away from the shallow grave. “You did okay, Cyril.”

  “What happened here?” the reporter asked as Edge climbed up into the buggy.

  “Regular part of life in the West,” Edge answered, looking down at the smartly dressed youngster. “Stage hold-up. Tell you about it while we drive, Cyril.”

  From the buggy seat he could see down into the ravine, but the angle wasn’t wide enough to bring the smashed stage and broken bodies into view. As he watched Miles hoist himself up on to the seat beside him, Edge wondered if it would be better for Elizabeth to be down there in the ravine or with the men who had held up the stage.

  “How will we get by?” Miles wanted to know, nodding towards the tree stretched across their path.

  “Up and around,” Edge replied, pointing to the slope.

  “Hell, that looks dangerous,” Miles said.

  “Thought the press was supposed to be fearless,” Edge answered.

  The tone implied no threat, and the lean face of the half-breed was impassive. But Miles knew that if he refused to drive up and around the felled tree, Edge would forget the debt he owed. So the reporter flicked the reins and clucked his tongue at the horse. The rig angled up the slope, leaning over at a sharp angle, the legs of the horse and the wheels of the buggy sinking deep into the thick covering of pine needles.

  As Miles sweated and strained, Edge sat back in an attitude of near relaxation. “How’d you like the story of a black guy who spouts bad poetry when he’s got folks backed into a corner, Cyril?” the half-breed asked.

  The reporter did not answer for several moments, as he urged the struggling horses into a turn. The buggy came side-on to the slope and one wheel lifted clear of the springy ground. The roof scraped against the tree, preventing the rig from tipping. Then they were angling down towards the trail on the far side of the barrier.

  “Sounds great,” Miles said, with a big sigh of relief.

  “He thinks he is,” Edge replied, leaning out to spit over the edge of the trail.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  JONESVILLE sweltered in the hot stillness of afternoon. Not a single man, woman or child was left alive. Some dogs moved listlessly on the body-littered streets, sniffing at the gaping wounds of the recent dead. A few chickens wandered in and out of open doorways, scratching and pecking at sightless, unfeeling eyes. Flies gathered, swarmed and settled to gorge oh congealed blood. Dust drifted across the empty buildings from the turnpike which began at the flour mill and snaked north towards the Georgia/Tennessee Stateline. It was raised by a train of six wagons with a dozen outriders lumbering slowly in the direction of Chattanooga.

  The lead wagon was driven by the nattily dressed Rhett, who hummed in contentment at being able to travel in comparative comfort. His wagon was the one stolen from the Rebel supply depot, its load augmented by a further supply of arms confiscated from the murdered town. The other five wagons were also spoils of war, taken from the dead merchants of Jonesville. Each was driven by a liberated slave with at least four other Negroes riding in the back, every man armed to the teeth with looted weapons.

  Captain Hedges and the five troopers in Confederate gray rode out ahead of the train, while two mounted Negroes jogged along at each side and two more brought up the rear.

  “I still say it’s crazy, Captain,” Forrest muttered after taking a look over his shoulder then glancing suspiciously in every other direction.

  The buildings of Jonesville had slid from sight and they were riding through an emptiness of undulating countryside of wooded slopes and grassy valleys. The heat of the sun was intense and the higher ground of the Appalachians, promising better cover and cooler temperatures, was still a mirage-like shadow on the northern horizon.

  Hedges did not turn in the saddle to look at the man riding beside him. “You made your point, sergeant,” he said softly. “But you didn’t offer any constructive suggestions for an alternative to my plan.”

  Seward, Bell, Scott and Douglas urged their mounts to close up on the front markers, each sensing the prelude to another confrontation between the officer and the non-com.

  “I still say we could have tricked ’em,” Forrest growled. “Got ’em to pile all their irons into one wagon and then beat it outa town fast. Any that took after us, we coulda blasted easy.”

  “Not constructive, sergeant,” Hedges replied in the same even tone.

  Forrest spat in disgust “You said that already, back in that tank town. But we’re whites and those guys are niggers. You got their backs up when you told
’em to get lost. Suits their purpose, I reckon they’ll blast us just like we was real Rebs in these uniforms.”

  Hedges sighed and looked at the sergeant at last, his slitted eyes glowing with the fire of a controlled anger. “You’re a stupid bastard, Forrest,” he hissed, his hand curling around the butt of his bolstered Colt as he saw the sergeant stiffen. “If you’ve got any brains at all, they’re all in your trigger finger.”

  He shot a quick glance over his shoulders to ensure the troopers could hear him and his expression implied that what he said was meant for them as well as Forrest.

  “You had your chance to be rid of me, but you were too scared—or maybe too smart—to take it. So I’m still top man in this outfit. And I ain’t in any mind to back down now. Anyone wants my job, he’s going to have to take it.”

  His narrowed eyes bore into Forrest’s angry face. He lifted the hand holding the reins and pointed down the turnpike.

  “To take it, that man is going to have to kill me,” he went on, his voice still low: still heavy with menace. “So for the sake of anybody who might not have a hand in killing me, I’ll tell you the Union lines are that way. All you have to-do to reach them is crash through a few thousand men of the Army of Tennessee. And I mean crash through. After that, all you have to do then is reach Old Rosy’s positions.”

  “We know that, for Chrissake!” Seward muttered, loud enough for Hedges to hear.

  The captain did not make the mistake of relaxing his vigilance on Forrest. “Sure Billy,” he said, holding the sergeant’s angry stare. “You won’t have any problem with the Rebs. You’re one of them. But who’s going to tell the Union sharpshooters that ain’t really so? You going to climb on a rock between the lines and make a speech explaining that nice gray uniform you’re wearing?”

  The troopers, outside the range of Hedges’ penetrating stare, could show confusion without losing face. Forrest was not so fortunate. He blinked, but it was the only sign of a possible back-down he made. Then, suddenly, he curled back his lips and revealed his tobacco-stained teeth in a cold grin.