EDGE: The Big Gold (Edge series Book 15)
Page 13
“Do like they say,” Sheriff de Cruz yelled from the far side of the carny.
The white gelding drew the buggy across the intersection and lamplight shafted into its interior to reveal the obese form of Clarence French.
“You sure don’t give up easy,” the half-breed rasped softly as he backed away from the corner of the tent. He turned and moved forward in a crouching run, then changed course and ducked into the shadows of a building. He slowed his pace now that there was hard-packed dirt beneath his feet instead of the muffling sand of the beach.
“Gent’s comin’ down the friggin’ street,” the man yelled from the roof top. “Gonna park his friggin’ buggy and wait awhile. He don’t like waitin’.” He spat. “So you, sheriff, and a couple of other guys better be friggin’ quick in hitchin’ up a team to that big gold wagon. Get me?”
“You can’t let them do it!” Case bellowed.
“Shuddup!” de Cruz snarled. “Harley, Church! Get a team for the wagon!”
Case, the crimson of anger spreading to swamp his pale complexion, reached into his coat for the pepperbox. As the two designated men moved to the remuda for the horses, another man emerged from the tent and slammed a vicious chop across the dude’s wrist. The multi-barreled handgun thudded to the ground.
“I got a wife and four kids out there in front of the guns,” the attacker snarled.
Edge looked down a narrow alley between a bank and a hardware store. He had a clear shot of the fat man as French reined the gelding to a halt on the opposite side of the street.
“We ain’t friggin kiddin’, de Cruz!” the man on the roof warned.
“Know you ain’t!” the sheriff answered. “I’ll hang any man starts trouble.”
French was smiling as he put down the reins and caressed the ivory butts of his matched revolvers. “The young lady,” he called up to the roof of office building outside which he was parked.
“Oh, yeah,” the man transmitting his orders muttered, then raised his voice. “Somethin’ else, de Cruz. Like the dame to stay inside the cage.”
Edge moved on, parallel with the street, across the rear of the buildings on the north side. Once across the side street forming the downtown intersection, he went faster. He halted just once, at the rear of the livery. From inside came the soft purring of Singh’s tigers. Then they caught his scent and gave low growls. Edge scooped up a coil of rope and continued towards the mid town intersection.
The man who had knocked the pepperbox from Case’s hand now held a revolver against the dude’s back. Seething with impotent anger, Case watched while de Cruz, Harley and Church tore down the tent from over the wagon.
“Goodness gracious me, this is most unfortunate,” Singh muttered as the gold cage aboard the wagon was exposed to the frightened eyes of the non-paying audience.
“Get off the top of the wagon, nigger,” de Cruz ordered.
“I am not nigger, sahib!” the Nepalese protested. “Colored.”
“You’ll be red-spotted, you don’t do like I say,” the lawman snarled.
Singh leapt down to the sand.
“Please?” was all Jo Jo was able to force out through her terror-dried mouth as a four horse team was backed up to the wagon.
“You’re a stranger in town, lady,” de Cruz growled. “My first duty is to protect the local folk.”
The girl turned her fear-filled eyes away from the shocked watchers. She saw the massive Clarence French step out of his buggy and start to waddle across the beach. She recalled what had been in her mind two nights ago and she shuddered. For the fat man’s good humor took the form of a leer now: an evil expression coveting the gold and the woman. Jo Jo sank to the floor of the cage and tried to cover herself.
Oozing confidence, French waddled through the space left by the crowd and hauled his bulk up on the wagon. “I thank you, sheriff,” he said. “Apologies to you, Case. Very pleased you expressed a wish to accompany me, Miss Lamont. Craig, are you coming?”
The clown, with a red nose and a whitened face and dressed in a baggy, multi-colored costume, emerged from the press of people. His mouth, enlarged out of proportion by carefully applied greasepaint, showed a broad grin as he hefted himself into a sitting posture on the rear of the wagon.
“You!” Case accused.
“Funny, ain’t it?” the clown said, and giggled.
“My men will retire as soon as I am clear,” French promised, his bulbous features continuing to express good humor. “I should be most happy if there was no further bloodshed on account of the gold.”
“There won’t be!” de Cruz said emphatically, glaring at Case.
Jo Jo began to sob. French flicked the reins across the backs of the team and the wagon rolled forward. Slow on the beach, but picking up speed as the hooves and wheels found the firmer ground of the street surface. The large crowd on the sand watched its departure. The men on the roof tops watched the crowd on the sand. The wagon gathered more speed, hurtling across the lighted intersection.
“Where the hell is Edge?” Case snarled, raking his eyes across the faces of the crowd as French galloped the team along the darkened stretch of street.
“They’re leavin’!” a woman shouted.
Staring eyes switched direction from the street to the rooftops. The woman was half right. The men on the top of the hardware store were climbing down—on to the stoop roof and then leaping to the street. They ran across to disappear along the side of office building. The nine other men remained on the roof covering the retreat of those below. Then they whirled, raced to the rear of the building and thudded down the outside stairway to where their horses were waiting.
“Get after them!” Case shrieked.
The gun dug harder into his back.
“Shuddup!” the sheriff snarled, anxious eyes searching for a sight of the men while his ears strained to catch the hoof-beats of their flight. But, the moment the men yelled at their mounts to urge them into speed, another explosion of noise erupted.
Edge was crouched on the stoop roof of a house beyond the uptown intersection, directly opposite The Ocean Spray Restaurant. The house and the restaurant were both darkened and empty. Just below him, one end of the rope was lashed to a pole supporting the stoop roof. The rope stretched tautly away from him, the other end secured to a post supporting the sidewalk awning outside the restaurant. The distance between the rope and street surface was about eight feet: chest high to the fat man on the seat of the wagon.
The half-breed was unaware of events at the beach end of the street. After setting up the rope barrier, he had concentrated his entire attention upon the wagon. Now, as French continued to lash and yell at the team, racing across the last intersection, Edge leveled the Winchester, swinging it to keep aim on the fat man.
He saw the evil joy change abruptly to fear on the bulbous, sheened features. And he knew French had seen the black line of the rope. Only forty feet separated the wagon from the rope. The fat man hauled on the reins and reached for the brake lever, a scream of terror venting from his gaping mouth. Then he saw there was not a chance. He hefted his bulky body, swinging to the side to leap from the hurtling wagon. Edge squeezed the trigger. Then he powered into a leap of his own.
It was over in a matter of stretched seconds. The bullet drove into French’s massive body, tunneling through layers of fat to tear into his heart. The man sat down hard on the seat, his back crashing into the golden bars. Jo Jo Lamont screamed. The clown only had time to turn his head at the shot. Then the team galloped under the rope, which hooked beneath French’s neck as the fat man slumped into death. The horses were still racing at full speed. Posts, rope and human flesh and bone—something had to give. The posts creaked and the rope stretched. The fat man’s head and shoulders were forced against the golden bars.
The cage slid backwards. The clown and Jo Jo screamed. The cage gathered speed. The clown was swept off the rear of the wagon and his scream ended. He hit the street hard with his skull and a sharp crack
as his neck broke. The floor of the golden cage fouled the hinges of the tailgate. Then tore through them. Both the posts snapped and the rope parted at the same time. The cage shot off the rear of the wagon, the soft metal crumpling as it crashed to the street. The wagon hurtled onwards. The fat man toppled off the seat and bounced to the ground, his head half-severed by the no-longer taut rope. Something red, blue and flesh-colored was tossed through the crumpled bars of the gold cage. It sailed through the air and thudded to a soft landing on the inert form of the clown.
Then there was just the sound of racing wheels and thudding hoof beats. After the cacophony of creaking, tearing, screaming, crashing, wrenching and cracking sounds, the diminishing noise of the racing wagon was almost restful. But more than four horses were pumping their hooves into the Oregon ground.
Edge, still in a crouch from the jump just before the stoop roof collapsed with the snapping of the support, powered forward. He pitched out full-length behind the large heap of French’s dead body. He rested the Winchester on the bulging belly, aiming towards the inland end of the street.
French’s men had galloped their mounts in a half circle around the southern side of Yellowtown. They reined the snorting animals to a halt as the bolting, driverless team hauled the empty wagon clear of the street and on to the trail.
The Winchester exploded and a man left his saddle, pouring blood from a wound in the side of his head. The rifle cracked again as the horsemen snapped their attention from the wagon to stare down the street. A second man hit the ground, screaming and clutching at his stomach. The men saw the crumpled golden cage and the three slumped, unmoving forms. Then they saw the muzzle flash of the Winchester as it fired a third shot from the cover of the fat man. Death struck a third time, the victim taking the bullet in the heart. He slumped forward, staying in the saddle.
“We’re bein’ slaughtered!” somebody yelled, and swung his rifle.
His shot was the first of a barrage. Edge pressed his face into the sandy ground. Bullets thudded into the unfeeling flesh of the fat man and buried into the gold.
“Let’s rope her and drag her!”
“It’s an idea, I reckon we . . .”
The voice faded as an explosion of noise sounded at the far end of the street. Shouting and then a barrage of gunfire. Bullets whined over Edge’s head.
“No friggin’ chance!”
“Let’s get!”
The half-breed raised his head and sighted the rifle as the men wheeled their horses. He got off two more shots and saw crimson blossom on toppling forms. Then the men were out of sight, hidden by the row of buildings on the south side of the street. The sound of their retreat faded, then was swamped by the thudding of massed footfalls. Edge picked himself up. He dusted the sand off his shirt and pants as he looked coldly at the dead men sprawled where the street met the open trail. Then he turned to give the same impassive examination to French, the clown and Jo Jo Lamont, sprawled at either side of the crumpled cage, the twisted gold bars glinting in the moonlight. Finally, he surveyed the crowd, which had halted and become silent on the fringe of the scene of carnage.
“Oh dear, dear me!” Singh muttered, shaking his head, his brown face wreathed by sadness. “The desire for riches can indeed have most unfortunate consequences.”
Sheriff de Cruz was standing beside the little Nepalese, dwarfing him. He glowered meanly at Edge. “If just one local citizen had been killed, you’d have hung, mister!” he rasped.
The half-breed was reloading the Winchester. He didn’t have enough shells to completely fill the magazine. “You had your job to do, feller,” he said softly. “Mine was to keep the gold from being stole.”
The dudishly attired Case stood on the other side of the lawman, his smallness of stature also made blatant by de Cruz’s bulk. He seemed to shrink even more as he moved away from the forefront of silent, shocked crowd. He went to where the near-naked girl was draped over the broken body of the painted clown. Edge moved around the golden cage to stand on the other side of the slumped forms.
“She’s still breathing!” Case gasped.
The hooded eyes of the half-breed showed no emotion as they watched the almost imperceptible rise and fall of Jo Jo’s half-exposed breasts.
“Nothing’s ever all bad,” he said.
“Except my ideas,” Case groaned.
“Next time, see an investment broker,” the half-breed suggested wryly.
“Like my brother did,” Case murmured. “My father gave us a quarter of a million dollars each. Whichever of us gets the highest return on capital over six months will get the balance of his estate. Ten million dollars. I was doing fine.”
“From now on, you do it without me, feller,” Edge told him. “Job’s ended as far as I’m concerned. The whole thing was crazy from the start. The fat man getting killed won’t stop them. They’re gonna try for the gold every inch of the way. I ain’t pushing my luck no further.”
Case straightened up, pulling some bills from inside his expensive jacket. Tears gleamed in the corners of his eyes and he kept the lids far apart, as if afraid to squeeze the wetness out. He thrust the money at Edge.
“You’re right. Take the full hundred. You earned it. I never thought all this would happen.”
The half-breed accepted the sheaf of money, counted off fifty dollars and handed the remainder back to Case. “Two nights and a day,” he said. “Whatever that adds up to plus my expenses. I’ve used a lot of shells.”
Case took the bills automatically and looked at them for a long time, as if trying to decide what they were. Then his tear-filled eyes met the cool stare of the half-breed. “I was right about you. You are an honest man. And you aren’t greedy either.”
Edge showed a cold grin. “If I ever need a reference, I’ll know who to come to.” He glanced down at the bodies of Jo Jo and the clown. The girl had stopped breathing now and her face showed a serene innocence in death.
Case looked at the girl and recognized the meaning of her utter stillness. “All for this,” he said, clenching his fist around the bills. A single tear squeezed from each eye and coursed down his wan cheeks. “So many people have died just because I wanted a lot of this.” More tears now, of mixed anger and sorrow as he released the money and the bills fluttered to the street. “It’s mad!”
“Lots of people die,” Edge said. “All the time. A lot of them for this.” He held up his own money, then pushed it into a shirt pocket.
“Mad!” the dude croaked. “It was a crazy thing to do.”
“Yeah,” the half-breed agreed, glancing down a final time at the innocent girl sprawled across the grotesquely dressed and painted clown. “Virgin on the ridiculous.”
DON’T MISS THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE
OF
GEORGE G. GILMAN’S
BEST SELLING SERIES ABOUT THE MAN KNOWN AS…
EDGE
COMING SOON!
Other titles in the EDGE series from Lobo Publications
#1 The Loner
#2 Ten Grand
#3 Apache Death
#4 Killer’s Breed
#5 Blood On Silver
#6 The Blue, The Grey And The Red
#7 California Kill
#8 Seven Out Of Hell
#9 Bloody Summer
#10 Vengeance Is Black
#11 Sioux Uprising
#12 The Biggest Bounty
#13 A Town Called Hate
#14 Blood Run
#15 The Big Gold
And More to Come…
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