At infrequent intervals, big money or a warm friendship with a fellow human being appeared to offer him respite from the danger and death that otherwise seemed to be his cruel lot. But he had learned to mistrust such promises. For money, whether hard earned or easily come by, was always taken from him. And, in the grim past, almost every man or woman who offered more than fleeting friendship had been doomed to die.
Once, there had even been love. Strong enough to lead to marriage and—they had both thought—to cheat fate. But Beth had died and the manner of her death had caused Edge more suffering than any other tragedy in his life.
Which was why, ever since he met Isabella Montez, he had struggled with his emotions: to lust for her body rather than to love her as a woman. Aware, each moment, that it was an inner conflict he was certain to lose.
Father Vega, who was the only citizen of San Parral to possess a watch, was still engaged in the cabildo session when the sun slid into its one o’clock position against the otherwise unblemished blueness of the sky. So there was no single note from the bell in the church tower. A few minutes later sounds stirred the hot air redolent with the aromas of fire smoke and cooking. The opening and closing of the gates at the Federale post and the clop of slow-moving hooves against hard-packed ground.
Others in the village heard this activity and Edge saw figures move into the doorways of the houses and faces appear at the windows.
The half-breed continued to sit on the hard wooden bench, a half-smoked cigarette angled from the corner of his mouth and his hat tipped forward low on his forehead. Aware that soon he would either kill or be killed. Not yet feeling in the pit of his stomach the hard, cold ball of fear that would help to speed and guide his actions at the critical moment.
They rounded the curve in front of the church, all six in the saddle and riding in line abreast. The tall and slim Parker at one end with the fat Gibbon alongside him. Wayne at the other end. All of them had their hats hanging down their backs on lanyards now, as if to purposely display their expressions of happy confidence to face up to whatever the world chose to throw at them.
At close to forty, Parker was handsome, with well-chiseled features and bright green, clear eyes. Gibbon may have had good looks once, but there had been too much easy living during the later of his thirty years. The excess flesh which had been layered on his belly had also attacked his face so that his cheeks bulged to an extent where they crowded his eyes.
The trio of men whose names Edge did not know were between twenty and thirty. The youngest was short and wiry, his bristles still having a downy look. A man a couple of years older had sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. But his build was solid and muscular. The one who rode immediately beside Wayne was in his late twenties. Despite the grime and bristles which told of a long ride under hot sun, his complexion was pale, like fresh made dough. He had a squint in his right eye and the lobe of his right ear was missing. He was tall and skinny and there was a suggestion of nervousness in his demeanor.
It was this man who reined in his horse and rasped: ‘There he is, Bruce!’
His voice was as fearful as his attitude.
Nobody else made to stop and the anxious man heeled his horse forward to catch up with the line again. Attention was divided between the seated Edge and the mounted Tim Parker.
Moving his left hand slowly, Edge removed the cigarette from his mouth and flicked it out ahead of him. It hit the ground in a shower of sparks, all of which immediately went out. Only Wayne and the nervous man had dropped their grins when Edge was spotted.
The line closed to the edge of the plaza before Parker halted his horse. The others came to a stop by turns, to produce a staggered line across the street where it broadened into the square.
‘Something you should know, my man,’ the dudish rider offered. He wore expensive riding boots, well-cut pants that looked part of a suit, a shirt with a ruffled front and a Stetson with a tooled leather band. His kerchief had the knot at the front and a gold-headed pin to hold it in place. His gun belt had probably cost far more than the silver-plated Remington in its holster.
‘Something you should know, feller,’ the half-breed countered. ‘I’m nobody’s man. Name’s Edge. Never have insisted on any mister handle.’
Parker gave a dignified nod of acknowledgment. Tim Parker, late of the United States army. Bounty hunter under unwritten contract with the Mexican government.’ He raked his bright green eyes along the row of mounted men. ‘Al Gibbon. Red Tyree. Amos Hawkins. Jack Burton. I understand Bruce Wayne has already introduced himself?’
‘Right, feller. We got us an understanding.’
‘But hear this, Edge!’ Parker said gravely. We’re new in this neck of the woods. We have not heard of you and I would guess you have never heard of us.’
‘Your names are enough, feller. The priest here likes to have names to put on the markers.’
Wayne made a lot of noise spitting his contempt for the threat. There was some lip tightening and jaw movement among the others. Parker remained earnest.
‘Words seldom impress me, my ... Edge.’ A trace of a smile appeared for a moment. ‘Unless they offer ample reward for my skills. Wayne’s proficiency with a gun has impressed me on numerous occasions. I tell you this as a warning: and whether it impresses you or not is entirely for you to decide. I would add ...’
‘Hell, Tim, let’s get this over and done with,’ Wayne growled, swinging down from the saddle. ‘I need me a drink real bad.’
‘But if you are going to die in this town, it won’t be from thirst,’ Parker snapped.
Wayne’s scar-faced countenance became chastened.
Parker nodded again and returned his attention to the apparently nonchalant Edge. Something in the back of his green eyes suggested he did not entirely believe the half-breed was as relaxed as he looked.
‘My men and I ride together,’ he went on. ‘At work, we are a single unit. Personal problems are a different matter. Therefore, should you settle your quarrel with Wayne, you have no trouble with the rest of us?’ He cleared his throat. ‘As far as I am aware.’
‘Just so long as the rest of you remember what I said about pointing guns at me,’ Edge allowed, easing to his feet.
Wayne showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a broad grin and angled out to the centre of the street. For a few moments, the men behind him continued to be as impressed by Wayne’s past performances as Parker had claimed to be. Then the hollow-eyed Amos Hawkins sidled his horse out of the line of fire. This caused Parker and Gibbon to move to one side of the street. The young Tyree held his position for a moment longer, then moved his horse to the other side, crowding the nervous Burton, who had taken up the reins of Wayne’s mount.
The activity disturbed Wayne, who glanced quickly over each shoulder. ‘You might manage to get off a wild shot, man,’ he snarled at Edge. That’s why they shifted. If they figured you could plug me, be no reason for them to move.’
There was logic in the claim. But Wayne’s mind was in a strong grip of fear: too tortured to think logically. For, when he looked back at Edge after the glances to either side, he saw that the half-breed had raised a forefinger to push the brim of his hat up from his forehead. And had swung slightly sideways on to him.
An experienced gunfighter, Wayne recognized the stance designed to reduce the vital target area. He also saw, unshadowed, the look of the killer glinting in the narrow blue eyes and gleaming from the teeth just visible between parted lips. There were sweat beads on the dark-stained face, coursing down the lines which scored the firm flesh. But no more than could be expected under the blazing Mexican sun.
Wayne’s own face was drenched with salt moisture. And the staining at the armpits of his shirt expanded with each passing moment.
Edge saw this, heard the boast that was spoken too fast, and felt more confident. For, since listening to Parker, he had been prepared to allow that the scar-faced Wayne was a more skilled gunfighter than he was. Perhaps the kind who practiced en
dlessly and put his expertise to the practical test often. For financial gain or personal satisfaction.
The half-breed was not that kind of killer. He killed only when there was no alternative in his code, adopting whatever weapon and method was closest to hand. Using physical fitness, experience, controlled fear and something extra to pit against his opponent.
That ‘something extra’ had already been sensed by Wayne’s five companions. Now Wayne himself saw it. For whatever reason, Edge was not afraid to die—which might be a disadvantage if such an attitude triggered reckless bravery. But there was nothing in the stance or expression of the half-breed to even hint at recklessness.
Wayne shook his head, as if to try physically to shake his mind clear of its insistence that he had made a mistake. Then took three easy strides forward and sought to goad Edge out of impassiveness.
‘You talk pure American, man. But by the looks of you, I’d say you’ve got some Mexican in you.’
‘Ain’t no one who’s wrong all the time,’ Edge allowed, aware of the tactic Wayne was employing. But he had long ago learned to control and use anger in the same way as fear. ‘My father was Mexican.’
Wayne transformed his grin into a sneer by a slight down turn at the corners of his mouth. He was fifteen feet from Edge and content with this distance. He adopted the same sideways-on stance as the half-breed and hooked the thumbs of both hands over his belt buckle. Then raised his voice to try to reach the whole town. ‘Like all you folks to know somethin’! I ain’t gonna kill this guy on account of him bein’ Mexican! I like Mexicans! One time I had Mexican families livin’ each side of me! It was fine! They kept the flies outta my house!’
He vented a harsh laugh. And went for his gun. While his left thumb remained hooked over the belt buckle, his right hand streaked backwards in a close curve to fist around the butt of the Remington.
Edge heard a scream of dismay from behind him. For a long time, he had sensed the eyes of Isabella and the rest of the cabildo watching the scene with intense anxiety. Just as he sensed the rest of the Mexican villagers staring at him from the shade of their houses. An angry growl from Tim Parker accompanied the movement of Wayne’s hand: expressing the dude’s disapproval of the man’s insult to the Mexican people.
Edge smelled burning grease and wood smoke. The sweat of his own body. Exploded cordite. From two guns.
A split second separated the two shots and he knew Wayne had fired first. Even though Edge had less distance to move his hand up from his right thigh to grip, cock and squeeze the trigger.
But Wayne had a reputation to maintain and, probably, material possessions to lose. And he was still experiencing the strange mixture of emotions of fear and humor at his own sarcasm.
Edge had nothing to lose but a life filled with nothing. And experienced solely a desire to survive by killing Wayne.
He threw himself to the left with greater speed than Wayne had drawn the gun. And Wayne was a fraction of a second late in correcting his aim. Edge had always been able to compensate for slowness of draw by accuracy.
Wayne’s bullet drilled into the bark of the live oak. The tree lived on.
Edge’s shot took the scar-faced man in the chest, left of centre. Wayne was surprised, then angry. He looked down at Edge, lying full length on his left side, gun hand thrust forward. Then managed to track his own gun back on the target. Edge cocked the hammer of the Colt. Then Wayne readied the Remington for a second shot. But the action of his thumb drained his last reserve of strength. His eyes, the whites totally bloodshot, remained open as he died and crumpled to the dusty street. The gun stayed tightly gripped in his right hand.
‘Viva Señor Edge!’ Jesus Vega yelled excitedly from the arched doorway of the church.
The only other sound in the village was like that of a far distant wind. Massed sighs of relief from the watching villagers. Then Jack Burton hurriedly dismounted and moved quickly across to crouch beside Wayne. He now looked sad instead of nervous.
‘How is he, Jack?’ Hawkins drawled with a Deep South accent.
‘He ain’t,’ Burton answered laconically.
Edge had eased to his feet, the gun still in his hand and cocked.
‘The word of the Parkers of Boston is their bond,’ the grimy and sweat-ran dude announced as flies swooped in a concerted attack at the bloodstain which had blossomed on Wayne’s shirtfront. ‘And something else you should know. Neither I nor any of my men share Wayne’s racist views.’
‘’Ceptin’ where niggers are concerned,’ Hawkins drawled. ‘You ain’t got no strong feelin’s about niggers, have you, mister?’
Edge slid the Colt back into his holster, after first ejecting the empty shell case and pushing a fresh bullet into the chamber. ‘Not unless they point guns at me, feller,’ he answered evenly.
‘That crazy bastard,’ Burton muttered as he straightened up from checking for a sign of life in Wayne. ‘He always figured he was so damn smart.’
Edge eyed the voracious black mass feeding on the spilled blood of the corpse. ‘Hell of a lot of flies on him now.’
Chapter Three
‘MAJOR ALFARO said there was a place at this end of the street where we could have our horses attended to,’ Parker posed as he dismounted and led his black gelding forward.
Edge nodded towards the dilapidated building, set at right angles to the cantina, with the faded Caballeriza sign above the sagging double doors.
‘Si, Señors,’ Francisco Sorrano yelled excitedly as he loped out of the packing station and across the plaza towards his premises. ‘I look after your horses very good. Price very cheap.’
Sorrano was past sixty—how many years, he did not know. Just an extra inch of height prevented him from being a dwarf. He was very fat and had a round, completely hairless head. He did not even have to shave. He never had a hat of any kind and his skin was unwrinkled and an even nut brown. He constantly wore a much-patched and dirt-and-sweat stiffened serape.
Dust from moving feet and hooves settled on the abandoned corpse of Bruce Wayne.
The priest will need paying for burying him and saying the prayer,’ Edge said, taking out the makings.
Four of the surviving bounty hunters looked set to contest the claim, but Parker spoke first. ‘His horse and gear will be in the livery. And there’s the clothing he’s wearing. That should all pay for a fine funeral, Edge.’
‘Living and dying is simple around here,’ the half-breed answered, striking a match on his holster and lighting the cigarette. ‘And most people are honest. The priest will only take what he figures he’s owed.’
‘Then what is left, I donate to the church,’ Parker said, smiling broadly again. ‘With the vein of gold we have just struck, we can afford to be generous.’
Edge turned his back on the newcomers to look towards the group in the doorway of the packing station. He had made his point, which had been acknowledged. So, unless events changed the circumstances, his business with the bounty hunters was concluded.
Jesus Vega had moved from his father’s house to the church for a good reason. And, as Edge trapped the anxious gaze of Isabella with a demanding look of his hooded eyes, the bell in the tower began to ring out. Furiously and joyously as the young boy broadcast far and wide his appreciation of Edge’s victory.
The short and fat Sorrano was also content as he gathered up the reins of the six strong geldings, profuse in his promises that he would do a good job with them. The much taller, slimmer, younger and meaner Julio Melendez experienced his share of happiness as he hurried catty-cornered across the plaza to reach his crude cantina ahead of the thirsty customers.
The priest was more grim-faced than usual as he stared along the street towards his church. Then he spoke fast to the three grove owners before striding away from the packing station.
‘I think I will have quite enough men to bury without...’
He glared angrily at Edge and the rest of what he said was lost to the half-breed as the lanky priest c
ontinued his fast progress towards the church.
The trio of grove owners seemed unsure of how to regard Edge and avoided looking at him as they crossed the plaza, raised the corpse and carried it in the wake of Father Vega.
The bell ceased to ring. There was an outburst of indistinct Spanish, chastising joy in the presence of death, then the sound of a flat-handed blow and a child’s squeal of pain.
Isabella Montez reached the shade of the live oak, on the other side of the bench from Edge. The town became quiet again and the smells of cooking grew stronger in the hot air.
‘I will accept that he provoked the fight and that you were forced to kill him or die,’ the woman allowed flatly.
She was twenty years old with a dark-skinned, simple prettiness which someday soon would expand to Latin beauty. In the frame of sheened, jet-black hair which fell down below her shoulders in a series of long waves, her features were perfectly molded and matched. A high forehead, eyes that were dark and large with long lashes, a petite nose and a full mouth that was permanently pouted without hinting at petulance.
Dressed as she was in the dirt-streaked white dress, loose fitting from the throat to hem except where it was belted at the waist, there was little indication of the fine, firm figure and long legs which could make her appear taller than her five feet three inches. A build which had stirred Edge from that first, dangerous moment he had seen her beside the wagon with a broken wheel.
But their joint experiences on the brutal trail south had forged—for Edge—a bond that transcended sexual want. And he had decided that her fiancé had been violently dead for long enough now for her to know if he could take the place of Luis Porrero.
‘Like for you to marry me, Isabella,’ he said.
She had not yet recovered from the shock of all that had happened since Tim Parker put a bullet into the foot of the woman prisoner. And now a new shock widened her eyes and caused her jaw to drop. Afraid of making a wrong guess at what her answer would be by misjudging her expression, Edge dropped his partially smoked cigarette and looked down, taking great pains to ensure that all the fire was crushed under his boot.
EDGE: Savage Dawn (Edge series Book 26) Page 3