"Al Falcon?" Craig snarled, suddenly angry. And within a fraction of a second of lashing out at anything or anybody within range.
But for once—perhaps the only time it ever happened—Ewan was the steadying influence on Craig. "Easy, brother!" the Campbell without the mustache advised. "Falcon ain't hereabouts right now!
"Craig, Ewan!" Phil Fry yelled from behind the batwings of the saloon entrance.
The usually dominant brother was calm again, but only for a moment. The turbulent emotion aroused within him by the name of Al Falcon was still there, held back by an insecure dam. "Yeah, Fry?" he responded, without shifting his unblinking gaze from the face of the man who had triggered his rage.
"You and your brother ain't got no white rag tied to a rifle this time, Craig. But we given you the benefit of the doubt. You wanna get said what you come to say? Or you gonna draw them six-guns and start blastin'? To hell with the deadline and Fay Lynch?"
Craig Campbell turned his head slowly to the side, looked briefly toward the entrance of the saloon, and spat pointedly into the dust of the intersection. Then he returned his gaze to the face of Edge, raising his right hand off the saddlehorn to level the index finger at Hamilton Linn. "He was the town's mouthpiece the first time. Been any change since then?"
There was a pause during which the actor seemed to pray for somebody to speak in his place. When no one did, he answered, "You may address your remarks to me, sir. And I will be pleased to relay them to anybody not within earshot who needs to know."
Edge heard the scratch of fear only vaguely in the booming tone of Linn.
"You talk fancy, mister," Craig said. "And some of us have been gettin' to thinkin' that you might be pullin' somethin' fancy. Like bringin' in a gunfighter. Like this one too shy to say who he is. You are a gunfighter, ain't you, stranger?"
"When I have to be, feller."
"And you had to be—down by the creek awhile ago? When you killed Kendrick and Ed Fletcher?"
"They shot my horse, feller."
"You did not respect the truce!" Linn accused. "You used the time to bring men—"
"And some of them been usin' their times with me, Craig!" a woman shrieked from Miss Emma's boardinghouse. "Seven of the sonsofbitches have had their way with me! And all you can do is yak! Let go of me, you . . . Oh, no! Don't! Please don't..."
"Not just a woman. The identifiable voice of a particular woman. Who everybody within earshot except the Campbell brothers knew to be dead. With a single exception, all heads turned in, shocked attention toward the shaded stoop of the boardinghouse, where they heard running footfalls accompanied by the shouted, terror-filled pleas. Edge alone kept his attention riveted upon the two Campbells as the door of the boardinghouse was wrenched open, a gunshot exploded, the woman screamed and covered her face with her hands as she crashed down across the threshold.
"But she's dead alread—" Hamilton Li boomed in disbelief.
Then, for the second time, he was sent sprawling to the ground as the half-breed lunge into him. On this occasion, though, it was Edge who fired the shot as he snarled, "And Jesus Christ was the only one who ever did an encore of that act."
Chapter Fifteen
IT was the half-breed's Winchester that cracked a bullet toward Ewan Campbell, as the faster-on-the-draw brother streaked a hand to reach for his Colt before Elizabeth Miles hit the stoop.
He took it in the chest, left of center, and the impact of the lead tearing through his flesh and into his heart caused him to half-turn in the saddle before he toppled over his bedroll and off the rump of his suddenly spooked mount.
Craig Campbell's rage burst through the veneer of composure he had managed to cloak it in for the past few minutes—but it did not blind him to the percentages. Despite seeing the woman he thought was Fay Lynch blasted to death and part of a second later witnessing at even closer quarters the killing of his brother, he was able to react with great speed, and without panic. He elected to go for cover instead of a gun. For the moment.
He wrenched on the reins to wheel his mount away from the Ewan's rearing horse and spurred the animal to an instant gallop toward the alley between the Lone Pine Saloon and a dry-goods store. He had his Colt clear of the holster midway to his objective and fired it at the first target that came to hand.
It was Phil Fry, who had lunged through the batwing doors of the saloon when Edge triggered the rifle shot-second only to the half-breed in realizing the woman on the boarding house stoop could not be Fay Lynch.
Despite his realization, he was shocked by what had appeared to happen and surprised by his own reaction to the half-breed's shot. The speed with which Craig Campbell turned and raced his horse for cover only disoriented him further.
Because his business was timber, not guns. So he had his rifle aimed at where Craig Campbell had been instead of where he was. While Campbell's Colt was pointed directly at him when the trigger was squeezed. Phil Fry died on his feet with an expression of confusion on his face. The bullet drilled into the center of his forehead, halting the forward momentum of his upper half while his leading leg continued forward. With the result that his feet were brought out from under him and he crashed heavily down on to his back.
The shot that killed the lumberman sounded in unison with one fired by Edge, the half-breed having drawn a dead man's Colt from his holster, thumbed the hammer back, tracked the barrel after Campbell, and squeezed the trigger. All this took less time than was necessary to work the action and fire the Winchester.
Campbell expected to be shot at and he instinctively swayed from side to side in the saddle. Even though Edge had allowed for this, a curse ripped from his bared teeth as his bullet went low and to its left—to smash the glass of the dry-goods store's display window.
Then the mounted man was out of sight, having plunged into the alley. Eddies of rising dust marked his passing.
These explosions of violence took place in the space of a few seconds. No more than five. And in no less time the rage which had powered the curse from deep within Edge was gone. He felt ice-cold in the warmth of the late morning, while everyone around him was seized by fury.
Riders came plunging out of the trees on three sides of Ridgeville and spurred their horses at a full gallop into town. It was the hard men and some of their women. Thieves and killers, starved for the luxuries they'd been unable to enjoy at derelict fort in Cloud Pass. Led to Ridgeville in sure and certain hope of getting free access to everything the town had to offer. Only to be held back after two of their number had been killed. Now they were unable to contain themselves after seeing another of their kind and one of their women—they thought—gunned down.
They came shrieking curses, yelling the battle cries of the Civil War, and firing their guns for cover, for effect, and for sheer pleasure. Soon would have targets to aim at, and they were expert marksmen. As expert as Ewan Campbell had been—and Craig Campbell still was.
And Edge.
The half-breed, his Colt back in his holster and the now cocked Winchester in a two-handed grip across his chest, went into the alley after Campbell. He'd seen the riders on the trail and heard their rage. He'd seen Hamilton Linn scramble up from the ground and start to run toward the boarding house. Where the grinning and uninjured Elizabeth Miles tugged a wig of black hair off her head as she was helped to her feet by a satisfied-looking Miss Emma Roche. And he'd sensed the enmity, which had been like a physical presence in town all morning, suddenly expand. But it was directed with enraged venom at targets other than Edge. Shocked eyes which had failed to see the bullet-shattered corpse of Fred Caxton saw what was left of Phil Fry. One of their kind. And now they would see a mass attack by men of the same kind as the one who blasted the bullet into Fry.
The gunfire of the invaders began to be returned by the defenders.
In the alley between the windowless walls of the saloon and the store Edge and Craig Campbell stood alone. The tall half-breed in damp, wrinkle
d clothing came to a splayed-legged halt at the front end, teeth still bared and rifle still held in a diagonal line across his chest. While the slightly shorter but more broadly built Campbell remained in his saddle as he wheeled his horse at the other end, the Colt still in his left hand.
There was fifty feet between them, and expert that he was, Campbell knew this was too long a range for a handgun unless his luck was running well. And experts did not rely on luck, he realized, as he recovered from the shock of seeing the half-breed. For it had been his intention to spring a surprise by the sudden about-face. He held still, the Colt low down and aimed at the ground, answering Edge's killer grin with a silent snarl. The half-breed started to walk along the alley.
"You have to wipe out the whole of the Campbell family, huh?" he asked.
"Your brother was faster than me, feller. Had to get him first."
"Poor guy never knew what hit him, you sneaky bastard."
"I did something to make him look the other way?"
Campbell's ruggedly handsome face briefly clouded over with grief, while Edge halted ten feet in front of the black gelding. The horse seemed as unruffled by the gunfire and the shouting of the battle as the two men who shared the relative peace of the narrow alley with him. Then the soundless snarl was back in place on the face of the mounted man. He spoke as if each word tasted sour and he was glad to spit it out o his mouth.
"Fay should have trusted me, mister. She'd still have been alive. And so would Ewan, Phil Fry, and all these people who are getting theirs now."
Riders were galloping along the street; some loose horses, too; and some men on foot. And were intent upon unleashing their fury.
"Was going to pay the ransom, mister." He patted one of his saddlebags with his free hand. "Don't know how much was taken from the bank, but there's a hundred thousand and better on this horse."
Edge nodded. "Your life savings? Not the kind of money you leave lying around when you leave home."
"Not so much left home as moved house, mister And I reckon we could've done it peaceable if we'd been allowed."
"And got back your down payment soon as you had your feet under the table?"
"Only right. Since we didn't rob the bank here. You said something about Al Falcon?"
Edge knew it would soon be time to kill Craig Campbell or die in the attempt. He had moved up close enough for the mounted man to be sine of a killing shot with the handgun. Now, however, before trying for the kill, the man simply wanted to have his curiosity satisfied.
"Old enemy of yours I figure."
"From way back in our Frisco days. Can't be certain who double-crossed who, but Al finished up with his face on the wanted flyers. Hid him out up at the pass last year. Seemed like forgive and forget time. But I figured then he was real jealous of the sweet setup me and Ewan had goin' for us." He spat over the head of his horse and the globule of saliva hit the ground a few feet in front of Edge. "You gonna tell me what you know about him now, mister?"
"That he screwed up your sweet deal. Robbed the town bank after Bill Sheldon told him the right day to do it. Then double-crossed Sheldon in the worst way. Hanged him from a tree on your regular route between the pass and town. But it was dark when you came down and you rode right under him. Didn't see the message that was tied to his body. Boasting about how much smarter he is than a Campbell. Guess he must have meant you, feller."
The battle continued uninterrupted in the streets and buildings of Ridgeville, the raucous noise of the fighting and dying entering the alley where a side issue was being contested. The noise and just a faint odor of gun-smoke. Faint because the pine scent from the surrounding timber quickly overpowered it. And the stink of fear did not carry this far.
“Ewan never claimed to be smart, mister.” Craig Campbell said as he and Edge locked gazes. “Just the fastest there is in a fair gunfight. As a lot of men found out in the last second of their lives. Me, I’m nowhere near as fast. But I’m smarter than you, you bas … no, Leo, he’s mine.
The calm voice suddenly rose half an octave and the steely gaze shifted from the bristle face of Edge to the entrance of the alley behind him. The Colt in his left hand swung upward.
Edge had a brief glimpse of Oliver Strange on the saloon roof. He did not believe the redheaded man named Leo was behind him. He dropped to a half-crouch and brought the Winchester around to the aim when he heard a gunshot and felt the grim become a scowl on his features. He wondered why he did not feel thud and then searing heat of a bullet entering his flesh.
But Campbell’s Colt was unfired in his hand. Then the fingers opened and allowed the revolver to drop to the ground. And Edge saw it was the man astride the gelding who had taken the bullet. It had drilled a blood blossoming hole in his chest.
Still down in the crouch, Edge whirled to make sure that Craig Campbell had not tried to make the oldest trick in the book and was stunned to hear the man named Leo was standing in the mouth of the alley. In his mind was the single shot Spencer he had fired at the back of Edge a fraction of a second after the half-breed bobbed out of the line of the bullet—which had instead found the heart of Campbell.
Edge had heard Campbell’s corpse thud to the ground. The horse snorted. Leo recovered from the shock of killing the wrong man, hurled down the rifle, and clawed for the Colt in his holster.
Once more Edge took first pressure against the trigger of his rifle. The grin began to spread across his face again. Only to freeze back into the scowl when the sharpshooting Marybelle Melton leaned out of the doorway of the drugstore across the street and triggered a bullet from her long-barrel Colt. It took Leo in the center of the back and sent him sprawling along with alley before his own gun was out of the holster. Edge controlled a fresh wave of white-hot fury, contenting himself with shaking his fist and looking daggers at the female sharpshooter.
Marybelle Melton looked surprised, then disappointed, and scurried back inside the drugstore. Her smile of pleasure had abruptly disappeared when the man she had hoped would now forgive her for having shot a gun from his hand was instead glaring at her with depthless hatred.
But then he succeeded in making his emotions as ice cold as the look in his glittering eyes as he moved to the mouth of the alley. The sounds of battle were diminishing. Which meant that the time for proving something to himself was running out.
He stepped out from the alley with the rifle canted to his shoulder and his gun hand hanging close to the holstered Colt. He was risking his life on his own terms because unless he could prove himself, he was likely to die elsewhere on somebody else's. But it was too late.
The shooting abruptly ceased and the attackers were in full retreat, astride horses and on foot, across the intersection. Too anxious to escape the wrath of the people of Ridgeville to waste precious seconds with covering fire.
And some paid dearly for this haste, meeting their end in pools of blood on Pine and Douglas streets at high noon in this Montana town. The blades of broadaxes, the sharply pointed heads of pickaxes, and even the honed metal of four-foot hafted falling axes sunk into their flesh with sickening thuds that seemed to sound in awesome isolation from the thud of galloping hooves and the screams of terror and agony.
These workaday tools of the lumberman's trade were hurled down from rooftops or out of doorways with great skill and accuracy, driving with massive strength deep into backs, chests, bellies, and even necks. Often the blood was stemmed by the tight fit of the metal in the wound—until the victims fell and rolled and the axes and picaroons were torn free. Then great gushing torrents of dark crimson splashed across the street surface.
Men and women alike had fallen and were still falling victim to this lethal barrage, which was as effective and more terrifying than any firearms could have been. Those who succeeded in escaping the axes had to run or gallop their mounts through a hail of cross fire that exploded from both sides of the upper length of Pine Street. And many made it through, for the people of Ridgeville were
not experts with guns. Nor, with the single exception of Marybelle Melton, were the Linn Players.
Edge watched with a bleak-eyed look but took no part in this picking off of the remnants of the Campbell bunch. The final shot was fired after the last man to stagger out of town. The bullet missed the intended target and the man made it safely into the cover of the trees to one side of the trail.
Gunsmoke drifted and soon disintegrated in the air of early afternoon. But its taint clung to the atmosphere and masked the stink of fear that emanated from those attackers and defenders who were badly wounded enough to sense the approach of death. The cries of the wounded and the wails of the bereaved continued for a long time, but reached the ears of Edge in muted form once he turned his back on the body-littered and bloodstained intersection and pushed through the batwing doors of the saloon.
Which was empty.
He checked the clock on the wall behind the bar to see if it really was past midday before he took a bottle of rye and a glass off a shelf and started to drink. And to smoke. Both slowly, but constantly.
While he reflected upon the violent events of the recent past and his part in them, he decided that he would have played a different role had he been younger. But, he asked himself, so what? Circumstances altered things in the lives of everybody. And no matter how different a man considered himself to be, all had much in common.
Certainly getting old was an inescapable penalty for staying alive. And there were inevitable consequences of the aging process. Like getting testy and getting forgetful. For a man who lived like Edge such consequences could only mean that the sands of his living were starting to run out fast. And lately he had allowed dangerous anger to trigger many of his actions. Even worse, there had been a glaring example of forgetfulness: when he had overlooked the need to test-fire the gun he had confiscated from a dead man. He himself could have died when he discovered in a gun-fight that the Colt fired low and to the left
EDGE: Montana Melodrama Page 13