EDGE: The Final Shot (Edge series Book 16)

by George G. Gilman

  It was a bright, warm day and he was sprawled out under the north-facing wall of the monastery, stripped to the waist and dozing. It was noon and the day was progressing much like any other since he had imposed his routine on the religious retreat. He, Scott and Bell were off-duty. Douglas and Seward were up on a wooden look-out platform in the north-west corner of the quadrangle, from which they could see all over the fertile basin of land in which the monastery was situated. Rhett and Forrest patrolled the cloisters and cells, the chapel and communal rooms to ensure that the monks did only what they were supposed to do. The men on duty wore monks’ habits and cowls and were armed with Spencer rifles and Confederate Colts. The off-duty men carried only holstered revolvers - with the exception of Hedges who also had the razor in his neck pouch.

  Bob Rhett triggered the incident that was destined to plunge the Union troopers back into the war. A tall, thin New Englander, Rhett was the one bad apple in the fighting unit composed of the seven men: bad in the sense that he was a gold-bricker and a coward. The fact that he was also a homosexual was immaterial, except when his preference caused trouble.

  He saw the naked monk as he used the muzzle of his Spencer to push open the door of the bath-house in the south-east corner of the monastery. So far, he had undertaken his patrol duties of the morning with bored indifference. Not enjoying the aimless wandering along flagged corridors and through gloom-shrouded rooms, but accepting the dull routine as better than the terrifying prospect of returning to a battle zone.

  Then, as the heavy door swung away from him, a lustful grin spread across his shallowly handsome face. The monk, who was in his early twenties - a little younger than Rhett - had just stepped from the tub and was stooped over, tipping the dirty water into a gutter. He had his naked back towards the doorway and the splash of water masked the sound of Rhett’s advance into the room. It was a long room, but narrow: the excited New Englander reached the unsuspecting monk in three strides. He stood for a long moment, swallowing hard and licking his lips as he feasted his hungry eyes on the twin curves of firm, white flesh presented before him.

  Then: ‘Oh, brother, have you got what I want,’ he rasped.

  The monk dropped the tin bath-tub with a clang and whirled around. He was shocked to see the hooded head, then terrified as he glimpsed the rifle and realized he was faced by one of the Union soldiers. He gasped and took a step backwards. His bare foot sunk into the gutter and he tripped and fell heavily to the floor. Rhett laughed and sent the cowl down his back with a toss of his head.

  ‘Please!’ the young monk begged. ‘Your officer has promised we will not be harmed if we co-operate.’

  Rhett surveyed the youthful face with approval, then raked his glinting eyes down over the matted chest, rapidly rising and falling stomach and finally fixed his gaze on the hirsute tangle between the trembling thighs.

  ‘That’s what I want,’ Rhett said softly, as he rested the Spencer on the bottom of the overturned bath-tub and began to work on the fastenings of the habit. ‘Co-operation. And it won’t harm you. I’m the most gentle of partners.’

  ‘It’s bestial!’ the monk shrieked. ‘I have forsaken all pleasures of the flesh. Even before I joined the order I never—’

  Rhett shrugged his shoulders and the habit slid off him. His thin torso was clothed only in an under vest. He took off his gun belt and laid it across the rifle before starting to jerk the undergarment over his head.

  ‘Don’t knock it until you try it, sweetheart,’ the New Englander urged throatily. He dropped the under vest on top of the habit and started on the fastenings of his pants. The front of them bulged in a more powerful show of lust than was displayed on his sweating face.

  ‘Please!’ the monk begged more fervently. ‘Don’t do this thing. It will be a most heinous violation of my vows.’

  Rhett giggled as his belt slid free of the buckle. ‘So what, sweetheart?’ he challenged in a taunting tone. ‘You’re a religious man.’ He made a circling motion with a finger. ‘So do what the Good Book teaches you. Roll over, my handsome, strong friend. Turn the other cheeks.’

  The monk, his entire body and all limbs trembling, started to comply with Rhett’s demand. His lips moved in a silent prayer and these signs of terror served to heighten the pitch of the New Englander’s excitement. For as a coward Rhett relished having a man at his mercy: and as a sexually aroused animal he anticipated meek submission with greater delight than having to commit rape.

  But, a second later, his ecstatic excitement became icy terror. He crouched down to push off his pants and Long Johns and they snagged on his boots. The monk was getting to his feet, pressing himself against the rough stone wall. Rhett looked down at the disarray of clothing around his feet and delved his hands into it to jerk off his boots. The monk, his lips still moving in the frantic, silent prayer, lunged away from the wall. Rhett caught a glimpse of fast movement and snapped up his head. The lust drained from his eyes and his mouth gaped wide.

  ‘No!’ he screamed at the top of his voice, powering upright.

  He should have thrown himself forward - towards the overturned bath-tub at which the monk was diving. But, from a swaggering bully, the New Englander switched to a craven coward. He tried to whirl and run. One of the monk’s hands held the holster against the bath-tub as the other drew the Colt.

  ‘Help!’ Rhett shrieked as he half-turned and then was thrown to the flagged floor by the tangle of clothes around his feet. A high-pitched cry of pain exploded from him as his hip and shoulder slammed into the paving. ‘Captain! Frank!’ He rolled over on his back and stared with terror-filled eyes at the naked monk. The man was aiming the revolver at him, gripping it with both hands and with two fingers hooked around the trigger. Rhett’s voice became a hoarse whisper as he forced out the words from his constricted throat. ‘Hey, I was kiddin’, monk. Foolin’ around, you know? I only come for a bath, that’s all.’ As fear contorted his face, so the throbbing physical effect of his lust shriveled.

  ‘Bob, you couldn’t come no way with a little thing like that,’ a harsh voice rasped from the open doorway of the bath house.

  The monk was still praying. His eyes flicked up and saw another habit-garbed form in the doorway, aiming a Spencer rifle at him. The cowl was hung down the man’s back to reveal the mean-eyed, sour-mouthed features of Frank Forrest.

  ‘God, forgive me,’ the monk said aloud, and jerked both fingers against the trigger.

  There was no movement and no report.

  Rhett gasped back the nausea that had risen into his throat. Then a high giggle burst from his trembling lips.

  The monk stared in horror at the gun.

  ‘He didn’t cock the friggin’ thing!’ the New Englander yelled.

  Forrest showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a grin of evil enjoyment. ‘These religious nuts ain’t like you, Bob,’ the sergeant rasped. ‘They got their minds on higher things than cock.’

  He squeezed the trigger of the Spencer. He was aiming it casually from the hip, confident of his skill. The report resounded within the bare stone walls of the bathhouse, swamping the muted scream vented from the monk’s mouth. He took the .30 caliber bullet in the centre of his heart. The impact slammed him back against the wall, an arc of spraying crimson gushing from the hole in his chest. Then he crumpled to the floor and fell forward, bridging the gutter. The blood continued to flow, emptying down the waste hole in the corner of the room.

  Outside in the sunlit quadrangle voices were raised and running footsteps sounded. Men raced into the corridor leading to the bathhouse and the sound effects of excited confusion were amplified by echo.

  The Colt had dropped from the hands of the dead man and Forrest reached it in four long strides. He steadied the gun with a boot on the barrel as he stooped down to cock the hammer.

  Men skidded to a halt in the doorway and Forrest looked into their shocked faces gravely. Rhett forced himself to sit up and struggled to hoist his Long Johns and pants.

 
‘Let us through, you bastards!’ a voice yelled.

  Violent movement among the monks opened up a gap and John Scott burst into the room, followed by Roger Bell. Both were heavy eyed from many hours of sleep. They looked from the fully-clothed, rifle-toting Forrest to the hurriedly dressing Rhett and then at the naked body of the monk.

  ‘What we miss, Frank?’ Scott asked excitedly.

  There was another disturbance out in the corridor and Hedges forced a way into the room. The narrow strips of his eyes took in the scene at a glance and the impassiveness of his expression hardened as he stared at the sergeant. The elderly father abbot moved into the space at the doorway left by Hedges. He muttered a blessing for the dead man and the other monks chanted in response. Then silence descended upon the murky room, disturbed only by the small sounds of Rhett clothing his body.

  ‘Well, sergeant?’ the Captain demanded.

  The officer and the non-com stared coldly at each other, eyes locked together. For the first time since the unit of Union cavalry men had arrived at the monastery, the question of command rose to the surface. It was not a new question. Ever since Hedges had been joined by these six troopers at the opening of the Shenandoah Valley Campaign he had only been able to retain command by proving himself to be smarter, harder and tougher than Forrest.

  The sergeant was the oldest member of the group and had entered the war with a long experience of bounty-hunting in the south-west and Mexico behind him. Hedges was an Iowa farm boy who had to learn to kill. The others, with the exception of Rhett, had had to learn the same lessons. And they learned fast and well. But none of them possessed the quality of leadership. Only Hedges and Forrest could claim this. It had been apparent from the start that the other five were prepared to follow either the Captain or the sergeant. And rank did not matter, for they regarded the military chain of command and the same lack of respect as every other aspect of army discipline and order. They were soldiers only because they had once been issued with uniforms and the army paid them. In essence they were born killers granted legal carte blanche to indulge their pleasure. And this made them into the ideal fighting unit for the kind of war they had been forced to fight - excepting only that they were inclined to resent Hedges for his officer ranking and give their allegiance to Forrest. Thus, the Captain was only able to retain tenuous command over the men by constantly winning battles of wits and will against the sergeant.

  Forrest rasped the back of a hand over the morning growth of stubble on his jaw. ‘It was the monk or Rhett, sir,’ he said and his tone and the use of the courtesy title were good signs. He shifted his boot behind the Colt and sent it skittering across the floor towards Hedges. ‘Heard some yellin’ in here and come runnin’. The monk had the iron aimed at Rhett. So I blasted the monk before he could blast Rhett.’

  Hedges swung his hard-eyed stare towards the New Englander, who was standing up now and pulling the under vest over his head. ‘How’d he get your gun, trooper?’ he growled.

  Rhett was trapped by the cold, ice-blue eyes under the hooded lids and he swallowed hard. ‘Gee, Captain. It’s kinda hot today. A guy sweats a lot in these habits. I figured to take a bath, that’s all. I thought these guys didn’t go for shootin’ and stuff like that.’

  ‘They don’t go for stuff like that!’ Scott put in lightly.

  Bell laughed.

  Rhett looked away from Hedges to treat the two troopers to a withering glare. Then he swallowed again. ‘So I just started to undress, sir. Next thing I knew the monk had grabbed my gun and was pointin’ at me. Lucky that Fra ... Sergeant Forrest happened to be outside.’

  ‘A brother would not do such a thing unless provoked!’ the father abbot said angrily.

  ‘Shut up!’ Hedges barked at him, then fixed Rhett with another hard-eyed stare. ‘You lie the way you do everything else, trooper,’ he snarled. ‘Lousy.’

  Rhett draped the habit around his shoulders, pulled the cowl over his head and picked up the Spencer and gun belt from the overturned bath-tub. Hedges crouched down, scooped up the Confederate Colt and arched it underarm at Rhett. The New Englander caught it. The silence became leaden in the bath house again.

  Hedges half turned and looked about him. At the monks crowded in the doorway, whose horror was giving way to anger. At Rhett, who avoided meeting the appraisal with his eyes by concentrating on refitting the gun belt around his waist. At Scott and Bell, who were gazing at the slumped body with unconcealed excitement. Finally, at Forrest, who responded with a quizzical look in his eyes. Then the mean-faced non-com exhibited his ability to read the way Hedges’ mind worked.

  ‘Time to call a halt to the furlough, Captain? Rhett lit the fuse and the whole joint is liable to explode. Them and us.’

  Hedges parted his thin lips to show his teeth in an icy smile. ‘I reckon, sergeant,’ he agreed and captured Rhett’s fearful gaze. ‘No matter how often you take a bath, trooper, you’ll still stink!’

  ‘Hey, Frank!’

  All attention was focused upon a slit window high in the wall. Billy Seward was stretched out flat on the roof, hanging over the edge to peer upside-down into the bathhouse. The good eating and abundance of rest he had experienced over the past few months had fattened his features. He looked more deceptively baby-faced than ever. In fact, he was probably the most vicious killer among the group of Union troopers.

  ‘Get back to your post, soldier!’ Forrest snarled. ‘And you and Douglas be ready to pull out any time!’

  ‘Yeah, man!’ Seward yelled in high excitement. ‘What brought this on?’

  ‘Gonna be a blow up, Billy,’ John Scott called to the trooper on the roof.

  ‘The monks are burnin’,’ Bell added.

  ‘Beat it, I said!’ Forrest yelled.

  Seward’s grinning face disappeared from the window. Scott and Bell grinned at each other.

  ‘Bob wanted a bang,’ Scott said.

  Bell laughed. ‘And he didn’t even make a little poof.’

  * * *

  BECAUSE hard experience had proved that survival could depend upon it, Edge had learned to be a light sleeper. Thus, when the stage rounded a distant outcrop of rock and broadcast the sound of its approach ahead of it, he came awake to instant awareness and automatically fisted a hand around his revolver butt. But then he recognized the intrusion of sound for what it was and gathered up his gear. He stepped out on to the porch to wait for the stage. It came fast, trailing a long cloud of dust from under its rolling wheel rims and the pumping hooves of lathered horses. The dust rose higher and was thicker as the ageing driver hauled on the reins and brake lever to skid the swaying Concord and its bulging-eyed team to a halt. Edge cracked his eyes against the irritating dust and stepped out of the shadowed porch way. The driver and the much younger guard eyed the tall, heavily-laden half-breed anxiously. The latter tightened his grip on the Winchester resting across his lap.

  ‘Don’t do it, feller,’ Edge warned softly.

  ‘Do what?’ the driver asked as he licked dust off his lips.

  Edge sensed eyes watching him from within the stage. Nervous eyes. ‘Not you,’ he said. ‘The other one. Don’t point that gun at me.’

  The guard laughed nervously. ‘Gee, mister. You startled me, stepping out into the light like that. Where’s Dan Hochman?’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Old guy who manages the way station,’ the driver explained.

  Edge approached the stage. ‘He’s gone to Monksville.’

  ‘He’s got no right!’ the driver growled.

  ‘He had no choice,’ Edge answered, pulling open the door. ‘Sheriff took him in. Morning to you.’

  This last was addressed to the elderly woman and two middle-aged men comprising the stage’s passengers to the Funeral Mountains Way Station.

  ‘Good morning, young man,’ the woman said brightly. She was about seventy and had lived too long to be afraid of anything.

  Both the men wore the suits and hats and carried the black valises of d
rummers. They glanced at each other, reached a tacit agreement and confined their response to curt nods. The stage rocked as Edge settled into a corner seat and dumped his gear on the floor, the saddle resting in such a way that the stock of the Winchester jutted conveniently up from the boot. There was a lesser creaking of the springs as the driver and guard shifted their weight down to the ground. The driver appeared at the open door.

  ‘What you mean, the sheriff took him in?’ he wanted to know. ‘What’d Hochman do?’

  ‘His job, and got a pitchfork in his belly for taking the trouble.’

  The old lady gasped. The drummers paled beneath their newly-acquired tans.

  ‘Hochman’s dead?’ the driver said and gulped as he turned to look at the guard. ‘Dan Hochman’s dead?’

  Edge didn’t reply.

  ‘How’d it happen?’ the guard wanted to know. ‘Who killed him?’

  Edge sighed, and took out his billfold. ‘For you folks, the same as me,’ he said softly. ‘None of our business. Mine is in Monksville.’ He flicked his cold-eyed gaze between the driver and the guard. ‘Yours is to get me there.’ He took a ten dollar bill from the fold and thrust it across the stage. ‘Be obliged if you’d attend to yours.’

  The driver took the bill like an automaton, still staggered by the news of Hochman’s death. He gulped again. ‘You can’t just leave it in the air like that, mister,’ he protested.