‘Horses don’t count he said,’ Edge reminded softly.
‘Evans horses do, bud,’ Brad countered.
‘What the hell is this about, Brad?’ Jeb demanded. ‘There weren’t supposed to be no killin’.’
‘Ain’t been, yet.’ His gimlet eyes were fixed on Edge’s face.
‘About to be?’ the half-breed asked.
‘Same as back there, bud. Drop the rifle and no one gets hurt.’
Edge switched his attention to Brad’s tense face and knew he was no killer. A ranch-hand, maybe. Like Jeb and the other men who took orders from Vic Evans. A bunch of cowboys pressed into doing unaccustomed work for their boss. The kind who could handle guns but who would never use them to kill, unless in self-defense. He looked away from the man and back towards the fire lit shelf at the south end of the valley. Gusts of laughter, whoops of glee and yells of encouragement sounded from there. But no sounds of anybody getting killed.
‘I don’t want no part in any shootin’ play!’ Jeb whined.
Edge loosened his grip around the frame of the Winchester and the rifle clattered to the hard ground. ‘I’m with him,’ he told Brad. ‘Dying ain’t my scene.’
Brad showed a grin that was largely of relief. ‘Smart, bud.’
Edge grimaced. ‘Most times I get that way quicker, feller.’
Up on the shelf of rock, Mathilda Tree stood naked in the flickering light of the fire. The watching men had become suddenly quiet, to the extent that they held their breath for long moments. Apart from the crackle of flames attacking the wood, the only sound beneath the towering cliff face came from Muriel. As the disrobing woman removed the final garment, Muriel had covered her face with her hands and began to sob into her palms.
It was the final act of the enforced strip which had silenced the eager men. The woman at whom they stared in tacit awe had worn a one-piece undergarment. As she slid the straps off her shoulders, it fell down the length of her body to settle around her ankles. She did not step out of it. She did not move at all. Instead, she gazed along the darkness-shrouded valley, every part of her face and body flushing to a deep scarlet as she submitted to the dumbfounded scrutiny of the men watching her. And, although she did not look at one of the surprised faces, she sensed their mood change yet again. First there had been wild hilarity - then awe. Now lust was created deep within the men and began to implant the glint of desire in their eyes. For Mathilda Tree’s body was all she claimed it to be.
Smooth and firm, with high, small, conical breasts; a narrow waist that needed no foundation garment to maintain its line; a flat stomach between the flare of hips; and finely-shaped, slender thighs surmounted by a rich growth of dark hair at her pubes. There was not a blue vein, a wrinkle or the trace of loose flesh anywhere. It was, indeed, the body of a young girl under the face of an aging harridan.
‘Jesus, will you look at that!’ the skinny youngster breathed.
‘I’m lookin’, I’m lookin’,’ George squeaked.
‘Mr. Evans?’ the man with the harelip said, and there was a tone of pleading in his voice.
Other men muttered, to themselves and to their neighbors. It was as if Evans was the final man to regain his composure. He had to clear his throat.
‘Mathilda, you surely got compensated,’ he said huskily. ‘When I used to see you parading around town like a girl fresh out of school, I figured it was all done with stays and such.’
‘Have you seen enough?’ Aunt Matty asked, still staring into infinity. Her voice was reedy with pent-up emotion.
‘Oh, yes!’ Muriel moaned, still hiding her face in her hands. ‘Yes. Please say yes. Please go and leave us alone!’
‘Seen enough!’ Evans snarled, his voice back to a normal pitch. ‘But I ain’t done enough.’
‘No, sir!’ the skinny youngster rasped.
‘Clint?’ Vic Evans snapped.
‘I get first crack?’ the boy asked in high excitement.
‘See if there’s a sack in the wagon,’ somebody suggested. ‘Put over that lousy face.’
Evans trapped Aunt Matty’s gaze to his by the sheer willpower he generated in his eyes. The woman looked from infinity to the man and reacted to the shouts of the others. Tears welled up in her eyes and coursed down the scored flesh of her cheeks.
‘Shuddup!’ Evans bellowed, and the order clamped silence over the campsite. Even Muriel stopped weeping and peered out through the cracks between her fingers. ‘We ain’t no depraved rapists!’ he roared, swinging his head from side to side to glower at the abruptly contrite men. Then he looked back at Aunt Matty. ‘You want to apologies for those names you called me, Mathilda?’
Aunt Matty swallowed hard. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
‘Louder!’
‘I’m sorry!’
The man nodded and showed a grin of pure pleasure. ‘That’s good, Mathilda,’ he complimented. ‘But to be really sorry you ought to wear sackcloth and ashes.’ He laughed. ‘You already did the ashes, though, didn’t you?’
‘That’s a hot one, Mr. Evans,’ somebody called.
But no one laughed. Having humiliated Mathilda Tree, the men were now suffering self-contempt for what they had taken part in - and what they had intended to do before Evans pulled them back from the brink.
‘But I got this other idea, Mathilda. Clint?’
‘Yes, sir, Mr. Evans?’
‘There’s a bucket hung under the wagon son. Get it and take it over to the bull. See if the animal got anything off his mind, you know what I mean?’
‘I guess so, Mr. Evans,’ the youngster replied miserably, moving to obey the order. -
There was silence again, as Clint did what was asked of him. As he carried the half-filled bucket back to Evans, he kept his face averted from the foul stench rising from its contents. He set his burden down beside his boss and hurriedly withdrew. Evans made small clicking sounds with his tongue on the roof of his mouth as he put down his rifle and lifted the bucket. He took two paces which put him immediately in front of the naked woman. She became rigid, clenching her fists and screwing her eyes tight closed. He raised the bucket high, stretching forward so that it was held directly above the naked woman. Then, turning it away from himself so that he wasn’t splashed by the fresh, moist bull excrement, Evans up-ended the bucket.
With a cruel grin deforming his lips beneath the bushy moustache, Evans watched the evil-smelling mess cling amid the dyed hair and crawl over the aged face to drop on to the smooth shoulders.
‘Now you’re really what I always said you were, Mathilda!’ Aunt Matty’s tormentor growled. ‘Nothin’ but a shithead.’
Clint giggled.
‘Lets’ get outta here, Mr. Evans,’ the fat George whined.
Some of the other men nodded or made sounds of agreement. Others looked with admiration at the stoic dignity with which the naked old woman suffered her defilation. She continued to stand erect. And now she was immobile to the extent that she did not breathe.
‘Think about it, Mathilda!’ Evans said, angry at the lack of response from the woman he had humiliated. ‘In private!’
These last two words were snarled at Aunt Matty as he slammed the bucket down over her head. Then he whirled away from her and stooped to snatch up his Winchester.
‘Clint, take their guns!’ he ordered.
The skinny youngster scampered forward and gathered up the two fancy-grip Colts and the Winchester. Overpowered by the stench and lack of air, Aunt Matty surrendered to a faint and corkscrewed to the ground. Muriel vented a cry of despair.
‘Kill me if you want!’ she screamed at Evans, and lunged to Aunt Matty’s side, to wrench off the bucket.
‘No killin’, Mrs. Tree,’ the grim-faced Evans reminded. ‘But that only goes for this time. Me and the boys are goin’ to deliver my bull to the man who wants him. You and Mathilda try to steal him again, and I’ll blast you into the same hell Barnaby’s at. You hear me, woman?’
Muriel was using Aunt Matty’s
discarded dress to wipe the mess from the ugly face. The thunderous tone with which the question was put forced her to look up at the tall man towering above her. ‘I hear you,’ she whispered.
Evans nodded and strode to the lip of the shelf. He cupped his hands around his mouth. ‘Brad! You taken care of that saddle tramp?’
His voice powered along the dark valley. ‘He ain’t gonna be no trouble!’ came the response. Evans glanced around at his men and nodded his head towards the gap in the rocks that was the start of the way down. Then he strode purposefully into the gap and his men followed, the two with the lariats urging the big bull into movement. Only the stricken-faced George held back, taking a curved course to pass close by the two women. Muriel had covered Aunt Matty’s nakedness with the long coat.
‘I’m sorry this happened, Mrs. Tree,’ George said softly. ‘Tell Mathilda I said it.’
‘She don’t have to,’ Aunt Matty growled, surprising both Muriel and George - by the fact of her return to awareness and by the venom in her tone. ‘Go and join the rest of the skunks, George Frimley. You smell worse than I do.’
George looked at the hatred in the face under the filth. Then he turned and lunged into a lumbering run to catch up with the others.
Down under the rocky overhang where the horses were gathered, Edge was seated on the ground in reasonable comfort. His back was resting against the smooth curve of a boulder. His ankles were tied together and his wrists were bound in front of his body. He wore an impassive expression as he watched the group of men approach.
‘Not so tough as he looks, uh?’ Evans asked with a tight grin.
‘Easy meat,’ Brad answered, smiling proudly.
The overweight Jeb swallowed hard. He held two Winchesters - his own and Edge’s - and had the half-breed’s gun-belt with its holstered Colt draped over his shoulder. ‘I don’t think so, Mr. Evans,’ he countered nervously, darting out a tongue to lick his lips. ‘Reckons he’s gonna kill Brad for takin’ his guns. And reckons he’ll kill any of the rest of us who aims a gun at him a second time.’
‘Talks up a storm, don’t he?’ Brad taunted.
Evans grimaced as he approached Edge. A flicker of doubt showed on his face as he met the steady gaze of the ice-blue eyes. But he was able to lose it by turning his attention to the loose knots in the rope holding the wrists together. He grunted his approval and turned to go to the horses.
‘Mount up,’ he instructed. As the men complied, Evans looked back at Edge. From long range, the intensity of the half-breed’s stare was not so effective. ‘Can understand how you feel, mister,’ he called. ‘You’re what they call an innocent bystander. Got caught up in other folk’s business. But count your blessin’s. Lost a horse and a couple of guns. Can’t give you one of these horses on account of me and the boys have got a long ride ahead of us. We’ll check your guns with the sheriff at the next town south. Keepin’ them so you don’t get any ideas about trailin’ us for revenge or somethin’ like that. Brad’s tied you so it won’t be too hard to get loose. Yes, sir. Count your blessin’s I’m a man only takes what’s his.’
‘Figure you’ll get yours, feller,’ Edge answered wryly as Evans heeled his horse forward and his men fell in behind him. The two who brought up the rear were leading the fifty thousand dollar bull.
Dust rose under the hooves and drifted in the air towards Edge. A lot of it settled on to him. Veiled from any backward glances by the southbound riders, Edge raised his wrists which had been tied together and leaned forward to push his head through the vee of his arms. His long fingers probed between his hair and under his shirt collar, As he straightened, knocking off his hat, an open straight razor was gripped between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He moved the razor towards his face and clenched the wooden handle between his teeth. The finely honed blade sliced through his wrist bonds as though the rope was no stronger than rotted thread. The rope at his ankles parted just as easily and he stood up, retrieving his hat and pushing the razor back into the leather pouch that hung on a beaded cord at the nape of his neck.
He could no longer see the riders after the dust had settled, but he could hear their progress through the rock-strewn southern exit of the valley. They were moving at a canter. He wasted no time staring southwards for a futile glimpse of them. Instead, using his neckerchief to wipe the dust from his face, he ambled in the wake of the men. Then he veered towards the west, heading up the slope which led to the campsite on the shelf. The position of the night camp was not so clearly marked any longer, now that the fire had burned low. But, on the shelf, the glowing embers gave adequate light to show the wagon, the four horses and the tent. The women were nowhere to be seen. The dead horse was.
‘Hey!’ he called into the hard silence which had clamped down now that the sound of hoof-beats had faded. ‘We’ve already done the bit with the guns, right ladies?’
‘Edge?’ From inside the tent. The voice of Aunt Matty.
‘Yeah.’
‘Go away and leave us alone!’ the younger woman wailed. She sounded close to hysteria.
‘No!’ Aunt Matty called quickly. The tent flap was flung aside and she crawled out and rose erect, holding her long coat tightly around her. Below the hem her ankles and feet were bare. Her garishly blonde hair was limp and stringy with wetness. It framed a face set in rigid lines of grim determination.
Edge strolled casually into the diminished glow of the fire. ‘Like to buy one of your horses and one of your guns, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Lousy skunks took our guns, too,’ the old woman answered flatly. ‘And our horses ain’t for sale.’
Edge pursed his lips, noting that in at least one respect, Mathilda Tree and Vic Evans were alike. When they were riled, their veneers of genteelness were shed and they talked like barflies. ‘Pay you a high price.’
‘No deal!’ Aunt Matty snapped. ‘I already paid a high price to keep what that bastard left me. And I aim to use it to see him and the skunks he rides with pay higher than me.’
‘No!’ Muriel cried, crawling from the tent and pulling herself erect. Her face was puffy from crying, and misery sharpened her terror. ‘We’re going home.’
Edge dropped to his haunches at the side of his dead gelding and began to unfasten the cinch and bridle. Although the fire was almost out, he welcomed the warmth of the embers.
‘Mr. Edge?’ Aunt Matty snapped.
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘What would you do if a man filled a bucket with cow dung and tipped it over your head?’ she demanded. ‘After first stripping you naked?’
‘Kill him, first chance I got.’
Aunt Matty nodded emphatically. ‘That is precisely what I intend to do.’
Edge stood up, dragging the saddle out from under the carcass of the horse. ‘He’s yours ma’am,’ he allowed.
‘And the others. They have equal guilt.’
Edge shook his head. ‘Not the feller called Brad. He stole my guns.’
Aunt Matty seemed ready to argue. But then she gave an unladylike grunt. ‘Very well. Since we share a common goal, you may ride on the wagon with us.’
Muriel looked from Edge to Aunt Matty and back again. Her shoulders drooped as she conceded defeat to their argument. ‘Like one big, revenge-bent family,’ she rasped, soft and sour.
Edge spat as he turned to carry his saddle and bridle towards the wagon. Then he looked back over his shoulder and showed a cold grin. ‘We all came from Adam and Eve, so could be we’re kissing-cousins,’ he drawled.
‘I don’t want to travel with him!’ Muriel pleaded. ‘Well, you’re gonna!’ Aunt Matty countered severely. Edge made the grin broader and colder. ‘Damn right. A family that slays together stays together.’
Chapter Three
‘I ain’t really Muriel’s aunt,’ Mathilda Tree said as Edge drove the wagon out on to a stage trail. ‘Just calls me Aunt Matty on account of I’m a lot older than she is.’
They had been rolling for an hour after bre
aking camp. The going had been hard and slow, the broken terrain dictating the pace; unless they were prepared to risk a horse snapping a leg, or a busted axle. Neither of the women had objected to Edge taking the reins. The only argument was between the women: about which of them should take the limited space inside and which rode up on the seat with the half-breed. Edge settled it by flipping the dime which had been returned to him. Aunt Matty won and ordered the sullen Muriel to climb into the rear and try to get some rest on a broken-up hay bale.
Then the grim-faced older woman had climbed up beside Edge and watched him closely over the first mile or so. The half-breed was conscious of her silent scrutiny of him, but he did not allow this to affect the way he drove. He handled the team and wagon expertly, making the best time possible and sticking steadfastly to the clear tracks left by the bunch of horsemen and the bull. This was what the woman was checking on: ensuring that Edge did not act recklessly in his eagerness to catch up with the quarry.
He was aware when she gave him her approval, even though no word was spoken. For the rigidity went out of her slender body and her ugly face relaxed slightly. But then, with nothing to occupy her mind, it became obvious that the verbal silence was beginning to irk her. And, as soon as they cut on to the trail that curved south east across a broad plateau featured with outcrops and clumps of mesquite and cactus plants, she could hold her peace no longer.
That so?’ Edge replied indifferently, after he had raked his narrow-eyed gaze over the country ahead and failed to spot any sign of movement. But disturbed dust told him he was rolling the rig in the right direction. A flick of the reins spurred the team from a walk to a canter and the horses obeyed without reluctance. A fast pace would help to combat the increasing chill of the night air.
‘Sure is, mister. We’re really sisters-in-law. She married my kid brother Barnaby. I was married to my last husband at the time. My fifth. You married?’
‘No.’’
‘Was once. I can tell. I know men.’ She sniffed. ‘Remember how I told you not to trust Evans?’
‘Sure.’ He spat over the side of the seat. ‘I was married. Forget it. I have.’ His gaze became colder than the night as he stared ahead over the bouncing backs of the team. ‘Few days ago a guy brought back the memory.’
EDGE: Ten Tombstones to Texas (Edge series Book 18) Page 3