And the threat of danger was always with this man called Edge. It had been so for many years—had started when his name was Josiah C. Hedges and he rode away from the Iowa farm where he was born and raised, to enlist in the Union army and fight in the War Between the States.
During that long and brutal war, tens of thousands of men had endured the rigors of constant danger. This man more than most, perhaps, because of circumstances which as a lieutenant of cavalry and then a captain caused him to be in command of six men who were often as eager to kill him as the enemy. Then the war came to an end and Hedges rode back to the farm, anxious to forget the awful lessons in the art of killing he had been forced to learn, and to enjoy the rewards of peace with his young and crippled brother.
But the farm had been burned and Jamie was dead—brutally tortured and murdered by the six men who had survived the war because of their captain's leadership. Every fiber of Hedges' body demanded vengeance and he took it—using the war-taught skills to track down and punish the murderers of his kid brother. And it was during this bitter process that he changed his name to Edge. Much else was changed, too. The man himself and his aims. Not by design. Instead, by the hand of his cruel, ruling fate.
And he became a loner and a drifter, doomed to ride countless trails across dangerous ground, each new experience with violence hardening him both physically and emotionally and driving deeper into him the certain knowledge that there could be no other way of life for him.
For a long time he had sought to defy such a destiny. To establish something—somewhere and somehow— close to the peaceful and prosperous life which the farm in Iowa had promised. But always such hopes were violently dashed and he was left with only grief and survival as his rewards. And thus he learned the hardest lesson of all. That it was necessary for him to admit defeat, to offer unconditional surrender to his ruling fate. To give up hope for anything other than continued survival. To form no deep relationship with anybody. To meet trouble head on, deal with it and ride away. To earn money wherever and whenever he could. To kill or be killed with total lack of concern for the innocent victims of the violence, with the full knowledge that none of them cared about him.
And abiding by just one rule—that he dealt fairly with those who were fair to him and took no more than he considered he was owed from those who sought to cheat him.
Which was why he had shot the horse of a man named Adam Steele.* (* Edge and Steele: Two of a Kind.)
His thin lips drew back from his teeth as he recalled the incident in the town of Southfields. And of the violent events which preceded it. Pleased that he had not killed the Virginian dude before setting off on the new trail which had led him here. For Steele and he, so dissimilar in many ways, shared a great deal of common ground. Dangerous ground. And the half-breed found it strangely comforting to be aware that he was not unique, that there was at least one other man riding the western states and territories in the same emotional void as he.
No other man of any kind showed himself against the sun-parched, almost lifeless terrain across which Edge traveled on the trail of the Mexicans and their prisoners. But, as he neared the border, he did not consider his careful surveillance a futile waste of effort. And when the trail became more difficult to follow he did not abandon his watchfulness in every direction to concentrate entirely on the harder-to-find sign.
It was a change of terrain rather than any decision by the Mexicans which meant Edge had to take more care in his pursuit. For the ground became rocky as it sloped upwards toward the Sierra Madres of Sonora, with just scattered and infrequent pockets of sandy soil in which cactus plants, mesquite and greasewood clumps maintained a tenuous grip on existence. Here and there a hoofprint showed, but for the most part the tangible signs of the group's progress took the form of horse-droppings, used matches and cheroot stubs. But when these were not in evidence, the half-breed worked on the logical assumption that, insurmountable obstacles apart, Satanas was taking his prisoner in the same direction as at the start: due south.
In the late afternoon Edge was able to increase his pace from the walk to which he had held the gelding until now. For he saw signs which led into a deep canyon: broad at the mouth but quickly narrowing until its hundred-foot-high walls came to within two hundred feet of each other. There could be no deviation from the canyon and with deep shade thrown by the western rock face, it was cool enough on the smooth floor for the gelding to be cantered for short lengths of time.
He covered perhaps two miles with alternate canters and walks. Then dismounted and led the horse by the reins along snake-like twists in the canyon where it was at its narrowest. Beyond this area, the walls drew apart again and lost height and steepness on a broad, rock-littered and crater-pocked slope. At the crest of the rise the skyline was jagged, featured with rocky high points and clumps of wind-bent desert brush, where far more than a half-dozen riflemen could stand secret guard and command an unobstructed view of anyone moving out of the canyon and up the grade.
The sun was low by then, but still at least an hour away from setting behind a distant ridge. So Edge rested for the time it took, unsaddling his horse and hobbling him in a pocket of cover a few yards in from the canyon's end. Animal and man drank sparingly, but neither ate.
As he sat with his hat tipped forward over his stub-bled face, back leaning against the canyon wall, Edge felt no sense of wasting the time that was slipping away as afternoon retreated from evening. Perhaps the camp of Satanas and his men was many miles from here. And even if it were just beyond the jagged ridge of the hill, maybe no guards had been posted to watch the canyon. But man and mount needed to rest after a long day's ride, so time spent thus was not wasted.
He chose twilight to check on the ridge, leaving his horse hobbled but taking his Winchester from the boot. And used the shadowed cover of the west wall until it ran out halfway up the six-hundred-foot-long slope. Then zigzagged between rocks and hollows to attain his objective. The gloom of twilight in such country as this was short-lived and he was only three-quarters of the way to the top when the near full moon spread glittering, blue light across the high desert terrain. But no one challenged him as he cast a long, moving shadow among the unmoving areas of blackness on the white rocky surface.
Then his shadow became as one with many overlapping patches of darkness at the top of the slope. And he dropped onto his haunches, drew in a deep breath and smelled smoke. He breathed out and sucked in more air, this time through his nose. Mixed in with the woodsmoke was an appetizing aroma of cooking food.
He started forward again, moving in a half-crouch, around rocks and between patches of vegetation, toward a thin column of gray smoke that rose straight as a flagstaff in the rapidly cooling air. And the closer he got to the source of the smoke, the more sounds were picked up by his straining ears.
Fifty feet from where he had entered the cover, he went down onto his belly and inched forward: came to a halt at the top of a sheer drop. And looked down upon the camp of Satanas, his lean features arranged in their habitual impassive set as he saw that Grace Worthington was a long way from being an unwilling prisoner of the Mexicans.
The red-headed woman was seated in a padded armchair on the stoop of a single-storey adobe building. And spilled some liquid from a glass clutched in her hand as she threw back her head and laughed at something Satanas had said. The Mexican bandit chief was sprawled in a matching chair on the other side of a low table from the woman. And topped up her glass, then refilled his own, from a bottle on the table. A heap of salt in a bowl beside the bottle indicated it was tequila they were drinking.
There had once been a half-dozen buildings on the floor of the east-to-west canyon into which Edge looked down. But all that remained of the others were the foundations. While here and there were signs that a wall had at one time enclosed the buildings, so this had probably been a Federale post in the past.
Now it was the stronghold of Satanas and his twen
ty or so bandits—along with half as many women—who would have ample room to bed down in the long, low building on the stoop of which the chief and the American woman were sharing a bottle and a joke. While the Mexican women prepared a meal on the recently lit fire at the center of the former compound and carried trestle tables and chairs from out of the building.
A half-dozen men sat on the ground or their saddles, drinking and smoking. But Edge estimated the strength of Satanas' band from the twenty horses enclosed in a rope corral out back of the building.
The canyon was perhaps forty feet deep and two hundred feet wide at this point. To the east it appeared to come to a dead end, while to the west it ran for about a half-mile before it curved southwards. The camp where preparations were being made for a feast was sited at a midway point between the canyon walls, well lit by the fire and the moon.
Taking care to ensure that a clump of brush prevented him from being skylined, Edge thrust himself forward to peer over the rim of the canyon wall. And saw that a narrow pathway angled steeply down its otherwise sheer face—wide enough for a man to lead a horse. Or ride if he trusted the surefootedness of his mount. The top of the pathway was twenty feet to the right of where the half-breed drew back into solid cover. But continued to watch and listen to the scene below him.
The good-humored mood of Satanas and the American woman seemed to be shared by everyone else in the camp and even those engaged in the chores of preparing the meal were in high spirits. The women laughing and giggling and submitting willingly to the intimate caresses of some of the men whenever they strayed within reach of eager hands.
The sounds of merriment reached up to Edge as a discordant body of noise, with just the occasional shrieked word ringing out clearly. In Spanish. Mixed in with exclamations which had no single nationality.
"Vaya a ..." '
"Ooch!"
"... comida ..."
"... vaca ..."
"Aaaaah . . ."
"Esto me gusta."
Once, from Satanas, "... dinero."
Followed by shrill laughter from Grace Worthington—intermingled with words, one of which was ". . . father ..."
Then, some ten minutes after the half-breed had reached his vantage-point, the rest of the men emerged from the building—stretching their arms and legs and yawning as if just roused from sleep. There was a period of good-natured trading of insults while, on the stoop, Satanas seemed to be naming many of his men for the eager-to-learn Grace Worthington. For their part, the newly awakened bandits paid scant attention to the American woman and, like every other man except for the chief, seemed interested only on the forthcoming meal.
But the huge cuts of beef were not yet spit-roasted and the chili beans had only just been poured in the cooking pot. So more bottles of tequila were brought from the building, along with two guitars. And while the food was cooking the darkly clad bandits and their women garbed in shapeless white dresses filled the time with drinking, singing and dancing.
Santanas watched all this with the air of a benevolent family patriarch, occasionally pouring fresh drinks for himself and Grace Worthington and every now and then replying to a question she posed.
Edge continued to hear the sounds of the alfresco party but he now only glanced from time to time at the happy Mexicans and their American "prisoner." This as he crawled on hands and knees down the steep and narrow pathway which canted across the canyon's north wall—keeping low to avoid being seen in dark silhouette against the moon-lighted rock face.
He moved slowly for two reasons. It was an additional safeguard against his being spotted. And passing time was an ally—the more the bandits had to drink, the better his chances of success.
As he reached the canyon floor and bellied into the cover of a clump of mesquite, the drinking was interrupted and the music was curtailed.
"We eat now, my friends!" Satanas yelled after stamping a foot on the stoop-boarding to get the attention of the revelers. "The food will be good! The wine, too! But it will be as fodder for the burro of the poorest peon in all Mexico compared with the feast we will enjoy after the outcome of today's events!"
He made the announcement in his native language and as he escorted Grace Worthington toward the head of the trestle-table he seemed to be giving her a translation in English—while his men and their women cheered a gleeful response to his speech.
Then the eating began, the Mexicans attacking the food like ravenous animals, washing down each mouthful with wine which they drank from the bottle. Only now did the beautiful red-headed woman reveal a sign of being disconcerted in this company; wore an expression of disdain for a few moments as she watched the Mexicans scoop up meat and beans in their fingers and thrust the food into their mouths. Then pass wine bottles one to the other, with the neck still sticky from the contents of the last mouth to suck from it. She even wrinkled her nose and started to form her lips into the line of a sneer when she saw that Satanas had abandoned his former good-mannered attitude and was behaving as crudely as the rest.
Edge heard the unmistakable click of a gun hammer being thumbed back. At the same moment as the muzzle was pressed into the small of his back.
"What you think, gringo," a man said quietly. "The señorita who is our guest seems no longer to be enjoying the party, uh?"
The half-breed subdued the rising self-anger that he had allowed the man to get the drop on him so easily. Continued to direct his narrow-eyed gaze at Grace Worthington as she submitted to the laughing encouragement of the bandit chief and entered into the debauched spirit of the feast.
"Tell you, feller," he muttered with a sigh. "For a while there she sure looked like she was going to throw up from the rotten smell of excess."
CHAPTER THREE
"YOU will release the rifle, raise your hands above your head and stand up, gringo. If you do not do these things, I will kill you."
Edge believed the soft-spoken, young-sounding Mexican and he complied with the orders, rising from behind the mesquite, his hands up, level with his shoulders.
"You've been there a long time, I figure?"
There was a low sound of splashing water behind the half-breed and he realized the man was urinating. The light pressure of the gun muzzle against his back had not altered from the time he first felt it.
"I watch you from canyon rim to here. From the cave where I live. But I could wait no longer to see what you planned."
"There are times when a man's got to do what a man's got to do, feller. Only natural."
"We go to Satanas now," the Mexican ordered, as he finished emptying his bladder and smoothly transferred his hand to the butt of the half-breed's Colt, slid the revolver from the holster.
Without aggression, Edge glanced to the side as he stepped around the mesquite. And saw one of the areas of dark shadow at the base of the canyon wall was not just another shallow cleft in the rock, was deep enough to be termed a cave. The ground between its mouth and the clump of mesquite was soft sand.
The gun muzzle was no longer tight to his back and he heard the clink of metal on metal as his captor stooped to pick up the Winchester with the same hand that held the confiscated Colt.
"Keep walking, gringo. To kill you will be no hardship."
"Matter of opinion, feller," Edge growled wryly.
This as the sounds of merriment at the long table faltered and died with the turning of heads toward the approaching prisoner and his gun-toting escort. The smiles on the faces of the Mexicans were displaced by scowls, frowns, grimaces and expressions of perplexed curiosity. Only Grace Worthington showed dumbstruck fear as she stared at the unexpected intruder.
"What is this we have here?" Satanas demanded to end the silence which the half-breed's sudden appearance had heralded.
"I capture him for you, Satanas!" the man in back of Edge supplied, sounding younger than ever as his voice grew shrill with excitement. "I see him watching the feast and I capture him! I
do this myself!"
Hands which had moved to drape the butts of holstered revolvers were withdrawn. And smiles returned to many faces. And shouts of "Bravo" and "Bueno, Nino!" rang out the half-breed's rifle and revolver were tossed onto the table.
Still in the grip of fear, Grace Worthington tugged at the shirt sleeve of Satanas and pleaded to be told what Nino had reported.
"The kid's very proud of putting the arm on me all by himself, lady," Edge said, as he halted close to the head of the table, across from where she sat on the right of the chief.
"You understand the language, uh?" Satanas growled into another brief silence which had followed the half-breed's terse explanation. And he stared hard into the lean, dark-skinned face. Nodded. "Si, I think you are not all gringo, uh?"
Another nod, accompanied by a grin. "That will be no trouble. We are close to the border here. So we can bury you so that you rest half in Mexico and half in the United States, uh?"
He vented a harsh laugh and many of his men echoed the sound.
Satanas was about forty and was a handsome man, with a solidly built frame a fraction under six feet tall. Like most of his men, who were in the thirty-to-forty age-group, he wore a Mexican-style moustache which was clearly defined despite the day-long stubble which sprouted on every face. There was a glint of innate cunning in the bandit chiefs small and dark eyes. But, Edge was prepared to admit, under different circumstances he would probably have termed it intelligence.
"Which part of you, you want where, uh?"
"It's my funeral, but I guess I'll leave the arrangements up to you, feller."
Satanas laughed again.
"Let me kill him, please," Nino asked in Spanish. "I can do it, I know I can!"
Edge shifted his bleak-eyed gaze to Nino, who was a short, skinny boy of sixteen or so with hollow cheeks and a wide, slack mouth. His skin was blotched by acne. He was barefoot and dressed in ragged white pants and shirt. His right hand was fisted around the butt of an old Navy Colt with the front sight bent and the tip of the hammer broken off.
EDGE: Death Deal (Edge series Book 35) Page 2