Had it not been for the conversation with Oscar Taggart in central Colorado the half-breed might not have continued his unhurried progress along the trail. But his new orders had been plain enough and they had not been countermanded following the furious quarrel between the father and son at the night camp north of Pueblo.
So Edge rode on, certain of only two things about the stake like forms which materialized into the figures of men astride horses as he drew closer: that there were too many of them to be hired guns and that their overt presence signaled a desire to avoid a violent confrontation.
Nobody said anything until Edge halted his gelding, raked his gaze along the entire line and then fixed his glinting eyes on Saxby to issue the menacing invitation.
‘We don’t want anyone else killed, Edge,’ the man replied, as calm as the half-breed.
Some of his allies sat their saddles easily, with composed expressions and relaxed muscles. Others were nervously tense as they surveyed the recently bathed and shaved man astride the travel-weary gelding, perhaps recognizing the latent evil in him or maybe simply recalling what Saxby had told them about him. A few exuded aggression, resenting his arrogance in the face of such impossible odds.
All the men were cast from the same mould as those who had ridden over the hill behind the Big-T ranch house on the day before the drive north began. Young to middle-aged, strongly built for their trade and weathered by exposure to the elements. They sat tough cow ponies laden with the tools necessary to those who worked with cattle. Their rifles were mostly 73 Winchesters, their holstered handguns Frontier Colts. They were the kind of men who would kill in self-defense or for a cause in which they believed. It was unlikely that any one of them was a killer by instinct.
Saxby certainly was not. He had pumped the action of his rifle and leveled it towards the target while Edge was still two hundred feet away. But in such a situation as this the Winchester was merely a symbol of his authority rather than an instrument of death.
‘You changed your mind, too?’ the half-breed said, draping both his hands over his saddlehorn.
‘Too?’ Saxby was perplexed.
‘Taggart, The old man. He figures he’s been wrong for a long time.’
‘How many men had to die to make him see that?’ Saxby was genuinely interested.
‘All you sent, feller. Minus one. A vaquero and one of your buddies from Laredo.’
‘What you mean, mister?’ a solidly built, squint-eyed cowhand in his forties called from the line. ‘About the boss of the Big-T changin’ his mind?’
‘Who’s asking?’
Saxby spoke first, his aim still rock steady to keep the rifle muzzle trained on Edge’s chest, left of centre, ‘Names aren’t important. These are cowhands from all over. Denver, Greeley, Cheyenne, Laramie. Couple from Dodge City even. Three from Abilene. Some have worked for the Big-T. Most for outfits that pay almost as badly as Oscar Taggart.’
That eleven! hundred dollars you had left must be spread pretty thin, feller,’ Edge drawled with a slow look along the line.
‘No cash, mister!’ Saxby growled with sudden anger. ‘I guess that must be hard for a man like you to understand. These men are just ready to fight the Big-T to set an example.’
‘I asked what you meant, mister!’ the squint-eyed man demanded.
Taggart is ready to give Saxby what he wants,’ Edge supplied.
‘In a friggin’ pig’s eye!’ a gray bearded man snarled. ‘Not as easy as that! I reckon this guy’s tryin’ to trick us!’
‘It ain’t being called a liar that bothers me, feller,’ Edge said to the man with the beard. ‘But I already told this do-gooder I’d kill him if he pointed a gun at me.’
The half-breed was still sure of himself. The men were suspicious of him, but there was no physical evidence of danger: nor could there be a surprise attack on such open terrain.
‘Let’s not be hasty,’ the bearded man was placated by a man with eye glasses next to him. ‘I reckon we oughta hear what his boss has to say before we start any rough stuff.’
‘Yeah, that’s what I say!’ another man agreed. ‘We got nothin’ to lose by waitin’ for Taggart to show up with the herd.’
Several other voices were raised in assent.
‘Come to think of it,’ the bearded man growled when the noise subsided, ‘there ain’t a lot else we friggin’ well can do.’
‘So put up the rifle, Matt,’ the bespectacled cowhand advised, The Big-T outfit sees us with a gun on their man, they’ll maybe figure we plan to make a fight of it.’
‘Obliged, feller,’ Edge muttered. And drew, cocked and triggered his Remington.
There were two periods of shocked silence so intense they seemed to have a palpable presence in the cool, bright air of the Wyoming morning. The initial reaction of the men lasted for less than a second—as Matt Saxby started a sigh and began to swing the threat of the Winchester away from the half-breed.: And Edge’s right hand streaked to his holstered revolver, leveled, and fired it.
Then came the report of the exploded powder, a tiny sound on the vastness of the plain, but almost deafeningly loud in the ears of men who stared in horror at the killer. Which still beat against their drums in memory as they snapped their heads around to see the victim.
The bullet took Matt Saxby in the heart and it was on his handsome features that horror was most deeply etched, as he lived for part of a second and then tipped backwards out of his saddle. His left foot slid from the stirrup, but his right was trapped in the tapadero until his falling weight tore it free and he thudded into an inert heap on the centre of the trail.
Only the sounds of his fall scratched the second, longer period of shocked silence after the shot.
Then men gasped, groaned and cursed. And Edge experienced an ice-cold fear of death as all eyes returned to him. It was not a new sensation and he had endured it so many times he was able to remain outwardly composed to all who looked at him. In fact, the men’s shock was deepened by the total lack of change in him. His Remington was back in its holster and both his hands were draped over the saddlehorn. It was as if nothing had happened—that there was no blood seeping corpse crumpled on the ground at a midway point along the line of mounted men.
‘It was personal,’ the glinting, eyed, narrow lipped, dark skinned man said.
‘You friggin’ killed him!’ the squint-eyed man accused, his voice a croak.
He, like most of the others, had made to level his rifle at Edge. But stayed the move when he saw the revolver had been holstered.
A nod. ‘When a man holds a gun on me while he chews the fat, there’s always a cover charge, feller. He paid.’
‘But…’
Edge was still aware of ice-cold fear at the pit of his stomach. He moved his hands slowly to ensure his actions could not be misinterpreted by nervous eyes: lifting the reins from the saddle horn and tugging them to one side as he touched his heels to the flanks of his mount.
‘Other folks’ business,’ he said as the gelding turned. ‘His and mine. You fellers want to get in on that kind of trade, I guess I’m through.’
He put his back to them as the hooves of his horse disturbed the signs of his approach on the trail. His fear had lessened now, for his judgment of the men as a group had been correct. Had they been expecting such cold-blooded murder, they would have gunned him down without a qualm in instinctive defense of one of their own. But their shock in response to his brutality had lasted too long, and any man who blasted him after that would have been fully aware of what he was doing. And here the size of the group was to Edge’s advantage. On his own, any individual in the line might have acted impulsively to trigger a shot to avenge Saxby’s death. But no one was on his own and they all used up more time in self-conscious consideration of what the others might feel.
By then it was too late, for Edge had his broad back to them, which was the ultimate deterrent against being shot by men whose code extended far beyond the simple bounds of keeping a p
romise—for good or ill.
‘Hey! Hey, you! What about Taggart?’
The half-breed did not turn his head. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. What happens then is your business. And his.’
There was a muttering behind him, but that was all. No crash of a rifle shot to sooth for all time the nagging itch which attacked his skin between his shoulder blades.
Then the lead steer wandered out of the draw to the south and showed at the side of the cottonwood grove. Two riders appeared next, followed by the first group of longhorns in back of their leader.
‘Hold up, mister!’
Edge recognized the harsh voice of the bearded man and he reined in his horse. And turned just his head to look back at the cowhands. The earlier low-toned talk had achieved something—the election of a new spokesman now that Saxby had been silenced forever. All the men were holding their rifles in the same manner as when the half-breed had first closed in on them.
‘You want something?’
‘Yeah! Whatever it was Taggart was gonna give Saxby! You tell him that!’
‘I already said you won’t get no argument from him.’
There were still some anxious faces in the line. But not so many as before. Now, most of the group were infected with a brand of grim determination.
‘We got no reason to believe what you say, mister!’
Edge pursed his lips. ‘A man can only learn by experience, feller. Saxby took his lesson to heart the hard way.’
He faced front again and heeled his horse forward.
The two point riders kept the herd moving at a steady pace along the trail and grassland spread out on either side, and did not angle in to halt the lead animal until Edge was only yards away. The riders were Tait and Lacalle who divided their nervous attention between the half-breed and the line of riflemen who had begun to advance on the stalled herd.
‘He got a whole friggin’ army now?’ the Big-T foreman growled, unmindful of the familiar irritation of flies winging across his bristled face.
‘Saxby ain’t got anything any more,’ Edge answered, looking along the strung out and grazing herd.
Almost five thousand head of longhorn steers which for the first time since they left the Big-T ranch were being ignored by their drovers. For, like Tait and Lacalle, the vaqueros, Zeke Taggart, and Oscar Taggart and Pancho aboard the chuck wagon were exclusively concerned with the half-breed and the line of riders moving inexorably across the plain at his back.
‘He’s dead?’ Tait rasped.
‘You kill him, señor,’ Lacalle asked.
‘It was his decision,’ Edge answered, watching at long range another quarrel between the two Taggarts as the father climbed down off the chuck wagon and unhitched his horse from the rear.
‘Just now?’ Tait demanded and waved a hand towards the approaching riflemen. ‘With all those guys around?’
‘It was personal. In that kind of shoot out three’s a crowd. That many’s an audience.’
‘You are very sure of yourself, señor,’ Lacalle growled.
‘It comes and goes,’ Edge answered, as Oscar Taggart started to gallop alongside the grazing herd, leaving his angry son at the rear. ‘It’s been coming good since the day before we crossed the Pecos.’
There was no more talk between the trio as Taggart raced towards the front of the herd from one direction and the line of rifle toting cowhands rode towards the same point at an unhurried pace.
Above the opposing groups anxious for a peaceful end to the death drive from Texas, the sun remained pale yellow behind the filtering effect of the streaky, dirty white clouds. The air was still and cool. But men sweated, the stink of the steers masking human odors. To the north, the crumpled body of Matt Saxby looked like a pile of something dark on the distant yellow trail.
The forty or so cowhands brought their mounts to a halt in a straggled line fifty feet away from where Edge, Tait and Lacalle were grouped.
Oscar Taggart slowed his mount and sucked in deep breaths of morning-cool air.
‘Who are they?’ he gasped.
‘Men who want to talk your language,’ Edge replied.
‘Not hired guns?’ His anxious green eyes were searching the line for a familiar face.
‘Hired hands is all.’
‘Saxby?’
‘Gone to heaven or hell. Like all of us, I figure he’s got friends in both places.’
‘If you’re Taggart,’ the bearded man yelled, ‘it’s us you’re supposed to be yakkin’ to.’
The old man stared quizzically at Edge for a full second more. Then scowled his dissatisfaction and heeled his stallion out across the intervening ground between the head of the herd and the line of impatient cowhands. There were no signs of nervousness in their attitudes now. Some even grinned their confidence as they surveyed the trail-weary drovers, small in number, who would be the enemy in the event of trouble.
‘You men can put away your rifles!’ Oscar Taggart opened as he halted his stallion and swung his head from side to side to sweep his eyes over every face. With his mind made up and in the grip of a determination to have his way, he no longer looked so exhausted and gaunt. His voice was strong. The killing is all done and I’m here to tell you that those who gave their lives did not die in vain.
‘I understand Matthew Saxby was among them and I regret that most deeply. Because it was his ideas and actions which forced me to see the error of my ways. So I’m fully aware of what he wanted, not for himself as such, but for men like you, And I intend to ensure that his ideals will be realized. Not only as regards pay and conditions for the Big-T outfit and other Taggart operations. I shall also exert whatever influence I have on my business colleagues in many areas of trade and commerce to...’
A rifle shot exploded. Then another. And another. Not loud sounds to the ears of the men at the head of the herd because the reports came from far off, but awesome because each man knew what would follow the fusillade.
Perhaps there were more shots but, if there were, the sounds were masked by the thunder of many thousand hooves against the Wyoming grassland.
The massive herd lunged into a stampede as a single unit, horned heads down and hides stretched taut over bone and muscle as natural instinct drove each steer away from the cause of its panic.
For long moments there was no ordained leader of the fear-crazed animals as those at the rear—closest to the cracking rifle—began the charge. These slammed into the longhorns in front of them and thus was the terror transmitted through the herd.
In the space of three fast-fired rifle shots the entire Big-T herd was charging forward: intent on nothing except headlong speed which blinded every animal to any obstacles in its path.
‘Friggin’ stupid, sonofabitchin’ little shit!’ Barney Tait roared as he wheeled his horse and drew his Colt.
Luis Lacalle cursed once in his native tongue as he performed the same actions as the trail boss.
Oscar Taggart had time only to look back over his shoulder and express an ageing frown of despair before his mount was panicked by the thunder of hooves and the vibration of the ground. His horse bolted.
The line of American cowhands was as fast as the vaqueros to respond to the stampede: commanding their horses with reins and spurs as they drew their revolvers.
Edge experienced a mixture of cold fear and angry uselessness. Then, as his gelding signaled a move to panic into a bolt, he responded positively.
Gunfire crackled and his gelding was more attuned to this sound than were the two ponies of men whose business was cattle. Perhaps the animal beneath the half-breed was even comforted to some extent by the familiar roar of guns. But whether this was so or not, the rider regained control of his mount, using the speed of the bolt but commanding its direction.
And Edge was carried across the front of the first wave of charging longhorns on a diagonal line, retreating from a danger which others knew better than him how to handle.
Oscar Taggart’s life depended upon shee
r luck for good or ill. With neither the youthful strength nor the skill to impose his will on the bolting stallion, he could do nothing except try to stay in the saddle as the horse was gripped by the same blind panic as the steers. And had the animal galloped straight ahead or swerved to the right, the old man would have survived
But something in the terrified brain of the stallion dictated a turn to the left. And that was the direction in which the enraged but coolly working cowhands had elected to swing the herd, taking their cue from the cursing Barney Tait.
The turn had already been made by the time Edge had ridden clear of the stampede, brought his gelding to a skidding halt and wheeled him.
Tait’s Colt had exploded first, sending a bullet high into the clear morning air. Lacalle was just part of a second later in firing his revolver. Tait matched the shot with a hand signal which vaqueros and American cowmen alike recognized and acted upon. And many spurred their mounts into hurried but ordered movement while others held their positions and exploded their handguns skywards.
Thus the massive herd, which had been triggered by gunfire from a docile standstill into a terrified charge, was veered to one side by another barrage from a different direction.
Every man saw Oscar Taggart fall to inevitable death, but none was in a position to witness what happened after he had been shaken free of his racing mount. Nor to hear the thud and snap of his dying as unfeeling hooves burst open his flesh and cracked his bones.
His mouth was gaping wide as he toppled sideways from his saddle, screaming in terror, rage or frustration. And perhaps it was this shrill sound which drew a response from the stallion, this or the abrupt shedding of a rider. Whichever, the big horse swerved to the right and was suddenly a lone animal racing across open country with nothing to fear but the memory of a danger which no longer existed.
EDGE: Death Drive (Edge series Book 27) Page 13