EDGE: The Day Democracy Died

by George G. Gilman

  The Warrens were grateful for the respite, rubbing their faces and hugging themselves. But this had little effect on the bone-deep cold of the night, aggravated by clothing sodden with icy water.

  ‘If the Indians don’t get us, we could freeze to death,’ the woman muttered through chattering teeth.

  Just as he did back at the abandoned way station when the situation was at its most critical, Dan Warren became the dominant partner again. ‘If we’d stayed in the tepee, been only one way,’ he pointed out.

  Edge ignored them, as the man put an arm around the shoulders of his wife to try to impart some strength of will rather than body heat. The half-breed scanned the country to the south and the west, seeking to pin-point the position of the sentries. There were no longer any sound clues, for ever since the Sioux camp had erupted with noise at the conclusion of the council, the birdcall signals had been curtailed.

  He saw three shadowy forms to the south and chose to ignore them. Because they were positioned far enough out to be beyond earshot of any noise Edge intended to make.

  ‘Stay put,’ he said at length, placing the Winchester on the ground. ‘And be ready to move fast. Bring this.’

  Laura was set to ask a question, but Edge was already moving: erect but in the deep moon shadow of the bluff. There were eight sentries watching the western approach to the campsite. For cover, they were using rocks, brush and small hollows. With the bluff between themselves and the camp, they had no reason to look behind them. Unless a noise aroused their suspicion - and the half-breed put his feet to the ground as silently as a stalking animal closing in for the kill.

  The braves were positioned at intervals of about twenty yards, hidden from an enemy in front of them. But vulnerable from the rear.

  The moon was as bright as it had ever been that night. Any eye looking in the right direction would have seen Edge clearly as he left the cover of the bluff shadow and approached a patch of brush. He was on his hands and knees again. But instead of the Winchester he was holding the razor, ready opened.

  The brave was sitting cross-legged, a blanket draped around him, absently picking his nose as he peered through the brush at the empty landscape. He was just about to eat what his probing finger had found when the brown skinned fist appeared in front of his face. He started to snap his head around, but his eyes had travelled only as far as the crook of the half-breed’s elbow when the fist was jerked sideways. The blade of the razor slit the throat neatly, from one side to the other. And Edge’s other hand slammed over the gaping mouth to trap a possible scream inside.

  ‘Feeding time’s over, feller,’ Edge drawled softly, as he wiped the razor blade clean of more blood and drew the brave’s knife from its sheath. ‘Pretty soon your belly’ll know your throat’s been cut.’

  He put the razor back in the sheath and approached the second sentry on all fours again, curving out and then in, to make his attack from the rear. It was simple. The brave was asleep, sprawled out on his back under a blanket. A rifle was close at hand, but had rolled out of the palm. Edge rose up on to his knees, and brought both hands down at once. The right buried the knife blade to the hilt in the chest of the sleeping Indian, left of centre. The other clamped over the mouth to cut off a dying sound.

  ‘Asleep is the best way to go,’ the half-breed rasped, his lips curled back and his teeth clenched in a grin of ice-cold evil.

  He was a long way from finishing what he had started and correcting the error which had led him into becoming involved with the troubles of Democracy. But the process of restitution was underway. The greed-blinded citizens of the town, apathetic to everything except their own selfishness, might yet be saved from the worst kind of trouble.

  But the half-breed did not even think about the town and the people in it as he plunged the knife into the vulnerable flesh of two more unsuspecting Sioux braves. In the act of cold-bloodedly killing the enemy, he was concerned solely with the survive or perish aspect of the moment.

  That was another lesson of war which had served him well, in uniform and out of it. The overall strategy, the wider implications, were immaterial when one man faced another in mortal combat.

  When he had first learned this lesson - to concentrate mentally and physically on the immediate kill or be killed situation - he had relished the knowledge. Had reveled in his ability to survive. Indeed, he had fought his first full-scale battles in a kind of euphoric exhilaration. But that had passed. For he had come to take his killing skills for granted. And the taut-faced grin he now displayed at the moment of killing was an expression of triumph. An officer of higher rank, a man who hired him to do a job, or his own decision to follow a course of action: whatever or whoever it was put his life on the line, had no place in his mind as he defended that life.

  He did what was necessary, accepted the result with a grin, and moved to the next confrontation.

  A brave stood up and whirled, reacting to the crack of a bone. There was a rifle in the Indian’s hands, but neither the muzzle nor the brave’s eyes sought out the approaching half-breed.

  The brave grunted and pumped the lever action of the Winchester. Edge pushed himself up on to his haunches, drew back his right arm, then threw it forward. The knife spun in the cold air.

  Moonlight glinted on another blade turning end over end.

  Edge’s knife sank deep into the Indian’s neck, just beneath the ear. The second blade buried itself in the brave’s heart. The groan might have become a strident scream of terror, agony or warning. But there was not time. The Indian died with his mouth gaping wide. He dropped the rifle, staggered backwards, hit the rocks which had been his cover, and collapsed in front of them.

  ‘That John Elk ain’t the only son ever learned things from his old man,’ Dan Warren growled, rising from a clump of brush. ‘Kinda rusty on some things. But I’m brushin’ up fast.’

  The fleshy, dirt-streaked, heavily bristled face of the rancher showed a grin of its own.

  ‘The other three?’ Edge asked.

  ‘Stalkin’ whatever kinda game they have up in the happy huntin’ ground,’ Warren reported happily, as he stooped to claim the dead brave’s discarded rifle. ‘Buffalo with wings I reckon.’

  ‘So that’s where they’ve gone,’ the half-breed growled.

  ‘Took Elk’s knife before we left the tepee. Came in real useful. Easier than slaughterin’ beef.’

  ‘Don’t boast, Dan,’ Laura said, emerging from out of the shadow of the bluff. She extended the Winchester towards Edge. ‘Pride led to the downfall of John Elk.’

  Warren replaced the grin with a scowl and nodded towards Edge. ‘At least he could say thanks for the help I give him.’

  The half-breed was temporarily out of danger. He didn’t have to think about killing and there was room in his mind to consider why it had been necessary to kill, and would probably be necessary to kill again.

  ‘Edge didn’t ask you to help,’ Laura pointed out quickly. ‘At the start of it, it was the other way around.’

  The husband and wife both looked at the half-breed expectantly. Obviously hoping to get a more precise reason for his involvement than he had given back at the tepee. But, if he had an answer for their steady gazes and the question they posed, it was too complex to explain in the cold of a pre-dawn hour close to an encampment of hostile Sioux Indians.

  ‘Was it the money, Edge?’ Dan blurted out suddenly.

  Laura rested a restraining hand on his arm. Then cocked her head on one side, looked harder at the tall, lean half-breed, and sighed. ‘If we live through this,’ she said, ‘will we talk about our part in starting it to others?’

  ‘Guess not,’ her husband allowed, bewildered.

  Laura nodded. ‘Precisely. No one likes admitting their mistakes.’

  ‘Sure, Laura. But it’s only human to make them.’

  ‘And divine to forgive,’ the woman said softly. ‘As the old proverb goes. But to forgive oneself ... that can be the hardest thing of all. Is that not so
, Mr. Edge?’

  That’s too damn deep for me!’ her husband growled. ‘All I know is that we should get the hell outta here before them Indians wake outta their drunk sleeps.’

  ‘But it makes sense to you, Mr. Edge?’ Laura Warren insisted.

  ‘Could be, ma’am,’ Edge allowed, and touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgement. ‘But I figure your husband ain’t exactly talking out of the back of his head.’

  ‘Just anxious not to get a hole in it - or any place else.’

  ‘I’m sorry we got you into this!’ Laura called as Edge started around the heap of rocks.

  ‘No sweat, lady,’ the half-breed rasped. ‘If I figured it was your fault, you’d have known before now.’

  ‘Hey, that sounds like he meant he’d have…’

  ‘Shut up, Dan!’ Laura cut in, and gave him a shove in the wake of the departing Edge. ‘If he wasn’t the way he is, perhaps neither of us would be here now.’

  With all the sentries on the west of the camp dead, the trio made good time to the stand of timber where the tethered horses and the hog-tied Conrad Power had been forced to wait.

  ‘Edge, that you?’ the pained and frightened voice of the Negro called as he heard the footfalls of the two men and woman coming close.

  ‘Guess you could say that,’ the half-breed answered cryptically, drawing the razor from its pouch as he approached the bound man and stooped at his side.

  Power shot a surprised look at the Warrens, then glared at Edge. ‘Could be better for you if you get my shotgun outta reach before you untie me, mister,’ he warned. ‘I been workin’ up a lotta hate for you while you been gone.’

  ‘Didn’t expect a warm welcome,’ Edge answered, stepping back and watching as the black man got unsteadily to his feet. Power stamped his feet and massaged his wrists, to get the circulation restarted and to warm himself.

  The Warrens were more surprised to see Power than he was at their presence.

  ‘You were better off here, Conrad, believe me,’ Dan Warren assured him. ‘The Sioux are fixin’ to hit town on their own account. Laura and me, we made one big mistake.’

  For a few moments, the handsome black face continued to express cold-pinched disgust. But it was all directed towards the Warrens. When he snapped his head around to watch the half-breed swinging up into the saddle of the mare, there was a mixture of fear and helplessness in his features.

  ‘Ain’t there anythin’ we can do, mister?’ he pleaded.

  ‘Head for town before the Sioux win it, feller. Election or not. And I guess we don’t need to take no opinion poll to decide it had better be at a gallop.’

  Chapter Eleven

  They rode tandem, Laura up behind Edge and her husband on the Negro’s gelding to distribute the weight evenly between the two horses. But the animals suffered anyway from the additional load and the pace at which they were ridden.

  At first the horses and riders welcomed the speed which set the blood racing through their veins to create body heat. Inevitably, though, as dawn spread a dull grey light across the sky from the east, weariness and the threat of exhaustion to the horses became a greater discomfort than the cold.

  So, as the gap between the escapers and the Sioux camp widened, rest periods were called more often. Sometimes they were actual halts. More often the riders dismounted and walked for several hundred yards, leading the mare and the gelding by the reins.

  During the initial respites from the frenetic race against time, Dan and Laura Warren tried to convey the extent of their remorse to the Negro. But Power was indifferent to them. He made it plain, with snarling words, that his sole concern for the moment was to get to Democracy before the Sioux.

  Edge never spoke at all. It was he who set the pace, called the rest periods and indicated when they were over. And the others accepted his command by following his examples.

  They rode or walked the horses along the old stage trail, between the derelict farmsteads and then, past the abandoned way station, swung on to the Laramie-Democracy trail. When they were beyond the halfway point - further from the camp than town - the Warrens and Power began to show more interest in what lay ahead than looking for the threat that was behind them. The half-breed continued to scan the terrain on every side with narrowed eyes whose glinting intensity was the only clue to the extent of his watchfulness in a bristled face which otherwise looked relaxed.

  The sky was blue now, the sun a perfect sphere of bright yellow above the distant horizon. But the air felt as cold as it had been at the darkest hour of the night. Nothing was moving on the vast landscape, except the two horses and four riders, when Democracy came in sight. The chiming of the town clock, marking the hour of nine, seemed this morning to have the tone of a death knell.

  Dark pillars of smoke stood up from many chimneys above the town. But the quartet had to ride much closer before they could smell the burning wood. And by that time they could see the people. Men and women in a large group gathered on the intersection: and men positioned on rooftops tracking the approach of the newcomers with rifles.

  Everyone was dressed warmly, their breath misting as it was expelled. News that four riders astride two horses were approaching town had been spread and every pair of eyes in Democracy was turned towards the slow moving group.

  Laura tightened her grip around the waist of Edge.

  ‘We oughta yell,’ Power rasped. ‘They’ll likely just start blastin’ at us.’

  As he spoke the final word, a rifle shot cracked out. A divot of dirt was dug from the mud, six feet in front of the two horses. Both animals were too weary to do anything but snort and toss their heads at the abrupt disturbance.

  ‘Kerwin, we said to let them through!’ the familiar voice of Sheriff Stanton roared from out of the crowd on the intersection.

  Edge and Power had both reined in their horses. But neither made a move to reach for the Winchester or shotgun. Up on the roofs of the business premises lining the north section of Main Street, the Kerwin gang maintained a steady aim with their rifles. Gun barrels and the five pointed stars pinned to their chests glinted in the morning sunlight.

  ‘No trouble, you don’t make it,’ a man called down in a voice thick with a Southern drawl. ‘Just need your attention for a while.’

  ‘That’s Nathan Kerwin,’ Power whispered from the side of his mouth. ‘Cass on his right and Tim the other side.’

  ‘You fellers are hard to ignore,’ Edge called back to Nate Kerwin and his brothers, who were standing on the flat roof of the Democracy Bank, across the street from the law office.

  ‘So’s a fat whore name of Fay Reeves, mister. If you ever see her. You seen her since she left this town?’

  None of the brothers was tall. Nate was the tallest. And the oldest. About thirty-five. Tim was a year or so younger. Cass was still in his mid-twenties. All were stockily built with faces which bore a family resemblance. Over a distance, they were quite good looking.

  Edge jerked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Place called Whitehead Crossing.’

  Nate grinned. His brothers and some of the other hired guns on different rooftops grimaced their dislike of the information.

  ‘Whorin’?’

  ‘Dead.’

  Anger replaced the grin on Nate’s face and suddenly he looked ugly. Elsewhere on the rooftops there was relief.

  ‘How?’

  ‘The Sioux,’ Edge answered, sensing Power staring at his profile in awe. Nobody had told the Negro about the death of Fay Reeves. ‘She didn’t die easy.’

  The news took some of the fire out of the gunman’s anger. ‘Just for the hell of it, mister?’

  Edge shook his head. ‘A brave thought he could have her for free. She castrated him. Should have cut off his legs instead. He was still man enough to catch her.’

  Nate turned his face to the bright blue sky. And vented a harsh roar of laughter. ‘Always said it about that bitch. She had balls.’

  During the exchange, Edge had divided his attention b
etween the men on the roof and the crowd at the intersection. The entire population of Democracy, with the exception of children, seemed to be gathered in front of the Palace Hotel. Before the newcomers rode into sight of town, a raised wooden platform before the hotel porch had been the centre of attraction. The platform was long and broad enough to accommodate a dozen chairs and a table. A brightly painted banner was hung above the platform, supported by a pole at each end. Every chair beneath the banner had been occupied. But now the men were standing, leaning forward over the table to peer along the north section of Main Street.

  Gene Stanton had been one of those on the platform. But he had climbed down hurriedly when the shot exploded - and the crowd had parted to allow him through. He stood now, in isolation, at the point where the street ran between the town meeting hall and the stage line depot to enter the intersection. His long coat was unbuttoned and his right hand draped over the ornate butt of his Beaumont-Adams revolver.

  ‘Let them through!’ he yelled. ‘But keep them covered!’

  Nate Kerwin gestured with his Winchester. ‘It’s us and our boys he’s payin’. But I guess you better follow his orders, too, uh?’

  ‘And remember,’ Tim warned. ‘No trouble from you and no trouble from us.’

  ‘We’ll be watchin’ you,’ the young Cass added.

  Edge jerked his thumb over his shoulder again as he heeled his mare forward. ‘Couple of you fellers better watch that way,’ he advised as Powers moved the gelding to follow him.

  The Sioux are fixin’ to attack!’ Dan Warren added, his voice croaky.

  Every rooftop gunman snapped his head around to peer into the north. And there was a grimace back on every face.

  ‘He didn’t say we’d have to fight Injuns, Nate!’ Tom complained.

  ‘Gotta be a higher rate for that job,’ the eldest brother growled as the four riders on two horses moved slowly past the bank.

  ‘You hear that, Frank?’ Stanton called, his voice raised to be heard above the swell of nervous talk. The Sioux are stirred up!’