‘Yeah!’ Sonny agreed. ‘We done what we wanted.’
Clyde ended his gloating and curtailed the grin. Looked around at his friends and the tense witnesses to what had happened.
He nodded: ‘That’s right, old buddies.’ Now he showed a personable smile to the old lady and the men aboard the Concord. ‘Like to thank you people for not interferin’. We said we didn’t wanna kill nobody, and we didn’t. Paid a debt is all.’
He stooped to retrieve his discarded Winchester and his friends followed his example. Ward and Sonny eagerly, Dave with embittered reluctance.
‘Okay, lady,’ Clyde told Mrs. Naulty. ‘You wanna take care of the Mex, you can do it now.’
The woman came slowly to Edge, casting apprehensive glances at the glowering Dave. But the man denied his fair share of vengeance responded to the jerk of Clyde’s head and followed Ward and Sonny. Clyde brought up the rear of the line that went across the trail between the stalled stage and the dead mule. Then out of sight into the rocks toward the place where their horses were tethered.
Edge had never lost consciousness. He came close when the short lived elation left him and the barrier against pain was lifted. And he was assaulted by waves of agony from every part of his body: the most hard to bear being concentrated at his belly. When this hit him, there was an almost overwhelming desire to jerk up his legs, roll on to his side and fold himself double in the hope such actions would ease the pain.
But this would have betrayed the false impression of unconsciousness - maybe invited an instinctive assault from Dave. More brutal punches, a vicious kick or even a gunshot. And he could take no further punishment and remain awake. But by enduring the effects of existing pain to prevent being subjected to a second beating, he came within a heartbeat of defeating his aim. For the effort required to suffer without any attempt to gain ease drained him of all but the final iota of will-power that kept him from sinking into oblivion.
Nobody saw the fresh beads of sweat that oozed from his pores while he was engaged in this inner combat. Nor heard the soft sigh that emerged between his blood stained teeth when he won the fight to cling on to awareness.
He heard Clyde speak to Mrs. Dora Naulty. Then the footfalls of the four cowpunchers as they moved away from him. Waited until Charlie spat. And Harry Dodds growled:
‘I gotta take a leak, Charlie. I ain’t never been so scared in my life before.’
The sounds he made climbing down from the Concord masked the footfalls of the men heading for their horses.
The woman kneeling beside Edge took a sharp intake of breath when she saw his lids crack open and the slivers of his eyes glinting in the moonlight.
‘Don’t move, young man,’ she said in a soft, rasping tone.
Now Edge did draw up his legs and roll on to his side. But not to ease his pain. Simply because it provided the only series of actions by which he could rise to his feet. Uncaring that his movements caused him to collide with the kneeling woman and sent her toppling to the ground with a choked cry of alarm.
Edge was totally ignorant of her proximity. Did not know that the small sound she made had drawn every pair of eyes to stare at him.
Harry Dodds from behind a rock, his head wrenched around as he relieved himself.
Charlie, tobacco juice running down his chin while he sat transfixed on the high seat of the Concord.
Tait and Carver, rooted to where they stood flanking the open door of the stage from which they had just climbed down.
Only Joe Straw did not gaze with shocked incredulity at Edge: remained in the same posture of feigned drunken sleep that he had held since he first recovered from the * stupor - an hour before the stage was forced to halt. Waiting for an opportunity to escape the man who was taking him to face the hanging rope.
Edge was unable to unfold completely upright, the fire in his belly forcing him to remain in a half stoop as he made a complete turn to get his bearings. He saw his revolver first, lying on the trail, its oiled surface gleaming softly in the moonlight. But he ignored this and finally saw the Concord - with the Winchester leaning against the rear wheel.
He almost toppled to the ground when he made the shuffling turn. Which warned him to be wary of falling as he took short, painful steps toward his objective. Clutching at his belly with both hands and rocking from side to side at each pace.
‘What you going to do?’ the woman rasped as she made it on to her hands and knees.
‘Whatever, he sure as hell ain’t gonna let anyone stop him doin’t it, lady,’ Charlie growled.
Tait and Carver stumbled in their hurry to get away from the side of the stage.
Despite the bruised and smeared condition of his face, it was impossible not to see the depth of hatred transcending the pain that was expressed upon it.
The teeth were clenched together and a grunt of triumph hissed through them as one hand came away from his belly and fisted around the night cooled barrel of the Winchester.
He rested for a stretched second, his hate filled eyes fastened upon the slumped form of Joe Straw.
The half breed Comanche heard his labored breathing and sensed the degree of powerful emotion that was keeping Edge on his feet. And for that fleeting time while the man was little more than the thickness of a window pane from him, Straw was in the grip of terror. Certain he was to be blamed for what had happened.
But then Edge turned and moved painfully but relentlessly away. And the cold air dried the sweat of fear that covered Straw from head to toe.
Dodds was out from behind the rock and the woman was on her feet again. But they remained as still as Charlie, Tait and Carver. Everyone staring at Edge, certain that with every dragging step he took he would slump to the ground.
But he did not. He made it along the side of the Concord and then to the front of the team. Where he came to a halt, between the two lead horses and the dead mule. All the watchers held their breath - sure the final step had drained him and they were about to see him pitch unconscious across the carcass.
But this, too, was not to be.
He turned, legs splayed so that his feet were placed a little wider than his shoulders: facing out along the trail that cut across the spartanly featured desert. And the rifle, which he had dragged wearily behind him, was raised and held in a double handed grip across the base of his belly.
He did not straighten up.
‘Charlie, he’s gonna -’ Dodds started.
‘What he ain’t gonna do is get me killed!’ the driver cut in, the forcefully spoken words ejecting the wad of tobacco from his mouth: this as he scrambled to get down off the high seat of the Concord.
When he was in the position he had struggled so hard to attain, Edge squeezed his eyes tightly closed. Concentrated his entire being on summoning the strength to straighten up. Could not prevent a grunt escaping from his throat.
He clearly heard the exchange between the driver and shotgun. And for the first time in a long while tasted blood in his mouth.
Fresh fires roared in his left shoulder and at the pit of his stomach. His head felt twice the normal size. For long moments he was unaware of anything outside of his own agony. Knew he did not dare to open his eyes yet: that nothing he saw would be in focus and this would threaten his sense of balance. And if he fell, he would be finished.
He smelled his vomit. Then the stink of the dead mule.
He heard one of the team horses snort. Then the beat of hooves from further away. Bile negated the taste of blood in his mouth.
He became aware of the grease of sweat on his hands fisted around the barrel and frame of the Winchester.
Hatred began a fresh attack on pain.
He opened his eyes and blinked once to rid the lashes of sweat. He was gripped by the sensation that never before had he been able to see so clearly at night.
The hoofbeats rose to the cadence of a gallop, but the sound was receding. The blood caked along his top lip cracked as he formed his mouth into the line of a grimace.
>
He turned his head slightly to the left and saw with perfect definition the jagged line which the last of the scattering of rocks inscribed against the background of the desert.
When he raised the rifle to nestle the stock against his left shoulder, a bone in his right one made a clicking sound that triggered the most powerful bolt of pain yet.
He thumbed back the hammer as he rested his cheek against the cool wood of the stock. His vision blurred once more and he experienced a split second of despair that he no longer had the will-power to resist the demands of agony.
Then Mrs. Dora Naulty shrieked: ‘They’ll kill you, you fool!’
She was a closer target of hate. And the rock still, glowering, unbreathing and unblinking Edge abruptly felt physically weighed down with venomous malevolence for her. Might well have whirled and blasted every bullet in the rifle at her.
Had not the four men ridden into his sight from beyond the rocks. And his hatred was immediately transferred to those who had earned it.
All sensation of pain was gone and he was seeing clearly again - over a range of some three hundred yards.
He triggered a shot.
Behind him, Tait, Carver and Charlie threw themselves to the ground. While Harry Dodds ran to Mrs. Naulty and curled an arm around her thin waist so that they went down together.
Joe Straw hunched lower in his seat and raised his hands, beginning to gnaw at the twine which bound his wrists. His head felt leaden and ached from the liquor and the long sleep.
Sonny threw his arms in the air and pitched sideways from his saddle, a blood stain blossoming on his chest.
The cry that was vented by Edge was partly of triumph, partly of pain. Then lengthened and was entirely powered by pain as he pumped the lever action of the Winchester.
The riders had been angling out of the rocks to get on the trail, glancing back at the stalled stage. But none of them saw the man with the leveled rifle in front of the head of the team until the sound of the shot cracked against the thud of galloping hooves.
Then there was a moment of shock as they saw one of their number fall.
The animalistic sound coming from the throat of Edge took on the tone of a battlecry as he squeezed the trigger again. And saw with perfect clarity in the bright moonlight the splash of dark blood that arched away from the head of Dave.
The cowpuncher tried desperately to cling to his saddlehom but the strength drained from him and he tumbled through the dust raised by the galloping horses.
Edge was like a machine in the precise way in which he jacked a fresh shell into the breech as the empty case was ejected. While the constant pitch sound shrieking from his mouth could have been some alarm device to warn that the mechanism was nearing the overload breaking point.
Clyde and Ward wheeled to the left - intent upon turning and racing for the cover of the rocks.
A third shot took Clyde in the back, sent him crashing into the neck of his mount. Then he bounced off and did a half corkscrew turn over the rear of the horse.
The expended portion of the bullet that killed him hit the ground before he did: and the rifle had been tracked to the side to draw a bead on Ward. Who had completed the turn and was frantically drawing his rifle from the boot, just a few yards from gaining the safety of the rocks.
A fourth shot and another hit: the bullet drilling into the side of the man’s neck. The rifle he had drawn was sent sailing through the air and the cowpuncher went off the side of his mount. But one foot was trapped in a stirrup and the horse veered off course, trying to get free of the drag. Needed to run several yards before he succeeded.
By which time Edge had emptied the Winchester. In a rhythmic series of actions jacked bullets into the breech and squeezed the trigger to blast them from the muzzle. Tracking the barrel to left and right, aiming at the sprawled bodies clearly visible now that the dust of pumping hooves had settled. Seeing the twitch of movement as each bullet drilled into unfeeling flesh.
He drew no distinction between the four young men. It did not matter who had beaten him, who had held him, who had called him a Mex and a greaser, who had aimed a gun at him. They were four, but they were as one: each sharing in the responsibility of what the others did. And what they did to one man ... a man who had finally figured out that he could be but one man. . . .
The battlecry had become a gasping sound now.
The firing pin fell into an empty breech with a dry click.
The beat of hooves faded as the riderless horses raced into the distance.
Edge was unaware that the empty rifle had fallen from his hands. He did know that the night could not, in reality, have darkened to an inky blackness so quickly.
With the prime objects of his all-consuming hatred having spilled their lifeblood on the arid desert, he had nothing left with which he could combat the torrent of pain that was abruptly undammed. He gaped his mouth wide to give vent to a vocal response, but no sound emerged. He dropped hard to his knees and it was as if the impact detonated a bolt of iron that blasted up through his body to explode against the inside of his skull. He toppled forward and sprawled across the long dead carcass of the hapless mule, the putrefying flesh of the animal breaking his fall which he did not feel.
Charlie came to him first. Then Tait followed by Carver. Harry Dodds who needed to support Mrs. Dora Naulty with a hand cupped under one of her elbows.
While they were forming into an arcing line around the unconscious man, Joe Straw eased himself out of the Concord: still drunk and with his hands tightly bound at the wrists. He cursed silently at the effort required to keep from staggering. But he managed to untie the reins of the gelding from the rear of the stage.
‘Did you ever see anythin’ like that in your life before, Charlie?’ Dodds asked huskily.
The bearded old timer bit off a chew of tobacco and extracted some juice from it before he answered. ‘Never did, Harry. Reckon it’s what they call mind over matter. He ought never have been able to get on his feet. Let alone walk over here and shoot down them four guys easy as apples in a barrel.’
Joe Straw climbed up on to the rear wheel of the Concord and tugged on the reins to bring the gelding level with him. Nobody who stood surveying the man sprawled across the mule paid any attention to the clop of hooves as the horse moved into the required position.
But they did whirl around when Straw slammed astride the animal’s back and lunged him into a gallop with a yell and a thud of spurred heels.
‘Because the sonofabitch is as mule-headed as that animal he fell on!’ the half breed Comanche shrieked as he raced his mount around the group of shocked people and out on to the trail beyond: clinging to both the reins and the gelding’s mane with his bound hands.
Dodds instinctively reached for his holstered revolver. But looked relieved when his partner shot forward a hand to check the move.
‘This guy seems to have what’s needed to take care of his own problems, Harry,’ the bearded old timer growled.
Franklin Carver had to clear his throat before he could speak. ‘He’s not going to be very pleased when he wakes up and discovers we allowed his prisoner to escape, wouldn’t you say?’
They all stared out along the trail to where Joe Straw was still holding the gelding to a high speed gallop.
‘Perhaps we should be far away from here when he does wake up,’ Dwight Tait suggested.
‘No, I will not allow you to abandon him out here in the wilderness!’ the woman snapped.
‘I ain’t gonna, Mrs. Naulty,’ Charlie said sourly.
‘It’s pleasing to know one of you men has the milk of human kindness running through him,’ she hissed, with a look of contempt shared equally among Carver, Tait and Dodds, from whom she stepped away with a wrench of her arm.
Charlie spat and shook his head. ‘Just blood. And after I seen what he’s capable of when he oughta be kickin’ around in the dust and screamin’, I’d hate to have him lookin’ for me to spill it when he’s fit and well.’<
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Carver swallowed hard. ‘Makes sense, Dwight.’
Dodds nodded his agreement.
‘So all right,’ the driver muttered grimly. ‘You two fellers get him aboard the stage while Harry and me use his horse to drag the mule outta our way. We should reach Way- Station Number Two in a couple of hours and if he’s still out, we can leave him there.’ He look levelly at the woman. ‘And this time, we ain’t gonna bury his dead.’
‘If you won’t, you won’t. But while you attend to what must be done, I will pray for their departed souls. They were some mothers’ sons.’
She went to the side of the trail, faced out to where the four dead men were humped on the desert, clasped her hands under her chin and bowed her head.
Carver dropped to his haunches beside Edge and muttered with admiration: ‘He’s some kind of tough egg, wouldn’t you say, Dwight?’
The aged driver and shotgun moved toward the mare tied to the rear of the stage.
‘Hard boiled as they come,’ Tait said as he stooped to take a grip on the shoulders of the prone man. Then could not suppress a shrill and nervous giggle.
‘What’s so funny, Dwight?’ his partner wanted to know with a start.
‘Egg, Franklin. Hard boiled most of the time, there’s no doubt.’ He gently raised one shoulder of the unconscious man as Carver gripped the ankles. ‘But in the event he happens to wake up right at this moment, we better see that for him it’s over easy.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
EDGE did not wake up until sunrise the next morning and for several seconds after he cracked open his eyes at the insistence of the bright yellow light he was totally disorientated.
He knew that he was in a bed in a small room with a window that faced east. Knew also that he was naked under the covers. And that his head felt fuzzy, as after a long drinking jag followed by a much longer period of drunken sleep.
Then he attempted to sit up against the headboard so that he could see more than just the sun bright ceiling of the room. And the pain hit him. Exploded white heat in his belly, his right shoulder and in every part of his head. He gagged but only air retched up from his stomach to rattle in his parched throat.
EDGE: The Prisoners Page 11