The Living, the Dying, and the Dead

by George G. Gilman

  Impulse—perhaps insanity?—had possessed him then. And he rode away from the farmstead determined to avenge the brutal murder of his brother. Fully aware of the identities of the men for whom he searched. Five of the most vicious troopers who had fought for the Union—who had ridden under his command for most of the war. He found them and, using his war-taught skills, killed them. But in his reckless thirst for revenge he also killed a man who did not, perhaps, deserve to die. And the Kansas authorities issued flyers which stated that former Captain Josiah C. Hedges was wanted for the murder of Elliot Thombs.

  Thus had Hedges become Edge, unpunished by the law but made to suffer harshly by a destiny that dictated he must be a drifter, a loner and a loser. Riding the trails of the Western states and territories with no other aim than to simply stay alive.

  At first he had attempted to beat his fate—to put down roots, form friendships and grasp some of the good things of life. But always such efforts were doomed to failure, inevitably to the brutal accompaniment of violent death and wanton destruction.

  It was during that post-war period that he had been made to suffer most. For he had grown to like, and in one case love, some of those who died. And to consider that he had a right to own that which he so fleetingly possessed.

  But in the aftermath of the death of his wife—had he been insane to marry Beth?—he came to terms with his destiny. By realizing that if he desired nothing or no one, owned nothing and formed no attachment to anyone then he could not be made to endure grief or even a sense of loss.

  He had adjusted to the terrors and horrors of war by hardening himself into such an attitude, and it was relatively easy to do so again after the tragic way in which Beth died.

  So, although violence continued to dog his back trail or to lay in wait for him, he was almost always on his guard against it, and could deal with it without the need to consider anything except his own survival. Almost always, because even in the time since Beth died he had been tempted on occasions to feel other than the most base of human emotions. Most recently up in the Wind River Range when he had allowed himself to be infected by the mass hysteria— madness?—generated by the birth of a baby.

  But even when such a thing happened and the inevitable end resulted, the man called Edge emerged mentally unscathed. Feeling only self-anger that he had allowed himself to become involved emotionally with other people. For to be so enmeshed in the lives of others meant he was not totally devoted to his personal survival. And because of the narrow line he was forced to walk this was dangerous.

  Without going into detail about the surrounding events, Edge told the granite-featured police chief how the trio of Japanese had maybe saved his life. How they had asked questions about a man named Silas Martin. How he had last seen the three brightly attired men riding south. How he had ridden south, to reach Denver just ahead of the big snow.

  When he named Silas Martin he saw that his hunch had been correct. For the old man accompanied a curt nod with a fleeting smile. Then the half-breed told one more truth and embroidered it with lies.

  “It seemed to me that those three fellers weren’t looking for Martin to ask about his state of health. And when I saw them hide out in the boxcar just before the wagon showed up with freight I figured I might get a job with more prospects than shoveling snow.”

  The old man’s nod was more emphatic this time. He was almost excited.

  “There’s not much prospects at the end of a rope, mister,” the police chief growled, and looked as if he wanted to spit in disgust. “The foreigner you killed was up to no good, that’s for sure. But you also knocked off Brad Sinclair. He was with the Denver Security Express Company. Working for Mr. Martin here.”

  “His mistake, Chief,” Edge answered. “I owed those Orientals for saving my life up in Wyoming. Sinclair and his partner were too nervous and nervous men carrying shotguns are dangerous. So I refereed a truce situation at the boxcar. When the fellers in the fancy clothes came back shooting, Sinclair figured I was with them. It was him or me, with no time for talk.”

  There was something else that had a bearing on the killing of Brad Sinclair—the fact that he had aimed a gun at Edge after being told not to. One of the halfbreed’s few idiosyncrasies, stemming from that terrible day in his youth when he had pointed what he thought was an unloaded Starr rifle at Jamie and crippled his younger brother for the rest of his short life.

  Edge did not add this.

  “You satisfied, Chief Sorrel?"

  Silas Martin demanded into the hard, lengthening silence. “It’s like I told you. And like at least twenty other witnesses will tell you. This man drew against the Japanese but had to defend himself against Sinclair.”

  Sorrel sighed wearily as he shoved himself off the table and went to clear a patch of mist off the window to peer out across the depot. “I ain’t never satisfied after there’s been killin’s in my city, mister,” he replied sourly. “Especially when some fast-gun, trigger-happy stranger is involved. And it’s a law-abiding local citizen that’s spilled his blood on Denver soil. But I guess I’m gonna have to let this one stay stuck in my craw and go out after them fancy-threaded foreigners.”

  He turned away from the window to scowl his disgust at Edge, who met the expression with a flat, empty gaze.

  “But there’s a condition to that, mister. Martin here will leave with his crate just as soon as we get word the line east is open. You got to be aboard the first train out as well.”

  “Figured to be, Chief,” the half-breed said.

  Silas Martin slid off the high stool on which he had been perched. His face was not such a vivid color now. “Of course he will, Chief Sorrel. How can he stand guard over my poor wife unless he is with her?” Edges usually impassive eyes showed a flicker of surprise. “Your wife, feller?”

  “Didn’t you know?” His surprise was more expressive. “Yes, the crate delivered to the depot by the express company contains a casket in which are the remains of my poor wife.”

  “Havin’ second thoughts, Edge?” Sorrel asked sardonically as he made for the door and the young constables vied for the privilege of opening it for him. “Standin’ sentry duty over a corpse?”

  The half-breed shrugged his broad shoulders as a train whistle screeched to the east of the city. “No sweat, Chief. What’s wrong with being a bodyguard?”

  Chapter Three

  SILAS MARTIN was aged between sixty-five and seventy and carried his years well. He stood little more than five-feet three-inches tall but made the most of it by keeping his back straight and his head held high. His belly bulged and his face was fleshy but he was not grossly overweight. The gray hair on his head was thin, but the sideburns he wore down to each side of his jaws grew bushy. His eyes under jutting brows were brown with clear surrounds. His nose was too broad and his mouth did not seem wide enough. His looks were pleasantly avuncular.

  He was dressed in a mourning suit which had seen better days, the pants shiny on the seat and the jacket frayed at the cuffs. He suffered from a compulsion to talk all the time.

  “You’re a fast-thinking young man, I like that,” he said the moment they were out of the main depot building, their expelled breath forming white vapor in the bitter cold of early afternoon. “I’ve been a fast thinker all my life. A man has to keep one step ahead of the opposition. But it’s no good doing anything until you’ve thought about it.”

  Edge blew into cupped hands, feeling the cold worse than before after enjoying the warmth of the dispatcher’s office. The frost-covered depot was no longer deserted and many others who had emerged from the heated buildings were also fighting the chill air—blowing in their hands, stamping their feet and slapping their arms in front of them. But they endured the discomfort gladly, eager to learn as soon as possible about snow conditions east of Denver.

  A few people were held inside against their will, as Chief Sorrel and the two constables questioned them, going through the motions of confirming that Edge had shot Brad Sin
clair in self-defense. But they were released from their obligations sis eyewitnesses in time to hurry outside and watch the return of the train.

  It was comprised of a locomotive with a Buckner snowplow fitted to the front, hauling four boxcars filled with men and equipment, and a caboose. The train reversed into the depot on the main track and was switched to a side line, so it was the brakeman who was the first of the crew to be seen. And his broad grin and the way he held both hands clasped above his head revealed that the line to the east was open.

  Passengers cheered and then rounded on harassed Union Pacific officials to fire questions about departure times.

  Edge clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and started out across the tracks toward the shack to collect his gear. Silas Martin was talking again, as fast as ever, and did not realize the halfbreed was moving until he was several feet away. He had to run to catch up with the taller, younger man.

  “Hey, you meant what you said about wanting to work for me, didn’t you?” he asked, his color high again from anxiety rather than exertion.

  “Sure, feller. I travel light, but not this light”

  “Of course. Your baggage. What about payment? How would five dollars a day suit?”

  “I'm going east anyway. Nobody was going to pay me for it until I ran into you.”

  “All the way to New York?”

  “It’s a place I’ve never been.”

  “Then we have a deal?”

  The half-breed’s voice took on a tone of irritation. "You want it in writing, feller?”

  Martin shook his head. “No. No, Mr. Edge. It’s just that I can hardly believe my luck. Meeting up with a man like you.”

  “Don’t count on it holding.”

  Martin’s flushed and fleshy face showed anxiety. “You mean . . . ?”

  “Just that Nobody wins them all.”

  Now the old man smiled, showing teeth that were too perfect to be natural. “You perhaps have good reason to be a pessimist Edge. But throughout my life I have lost little of consequence.”

  “Except a wife?” the half-breed suggested evenly as they stepped across the last pair of rails and closed in on the shack.

  Martin ceased to smile but his tone of voice did not indicate depression. “A fatal disease is not a matter of luck. Simply a process of natural selection.”

  There was a great deal of noise throughout the depot as freight was trundled toward waiting trains, passengers boarded, and crewmen worked eagerly to build up heads of steam in their locomotives. So it was not until Edge stepped across the threshold of the shack that the two men inside became aware of him— and he of them. He halted abruptly and Silas Martin collided with him and vented a short cry of alarm.

  “Damnit, it’s him!” the old man who smelled bad rasped.

  “So what?” a much younger man with red hair and a beard muttered.

  “They had been down on their haunches close to the half-breed’s gear. The old man unfurling the bedroll and the younger one delving into a saddlebag.

  “What’s going on?” Martin demanded, suddenly perturbed.

  “Daylight robbery,” Edge answered flatly. And stepped into the shack, back-kicking the door closed in Martin’s face.

  The malodorous old man slammed hard on to his rump in his haste to rise from his haunches. His partner, as ill-clothed and bad-smelling, had the youthful agility to power smoothly up into an aggressive crouch. His right hand went from sight behind his back, and reappeared fisted around the handle of a slim-bladed knife. He held his well-balanced stance for a fraction of a second. Then formed his hirsute face into a snarl and lunged forward.

  Edge could have drawn the Remington and blasted a bullet into his attacker. But he did not trust the granite-faced Chief Sorrel to accept attempted robbery as mitigation for the result of a gunshot against a knife. So he streaked his own right hand into the hair at the nape of his neck. He also raised his left hand at the same time.

  Which disconcerted the man with the knife, who perhaps saw the raised hands as a sign of surrender. Until the half-breed’s right hand came down and forward, clutching the open straight razor.

  The knife was on target for a vicious underarm stab into Edge’s belly. But the man’s eyes, puzzled and then angry, were focused on the gleaming blade of the razor.

  The half-breed remained with his back to the closed door for a stretched second, his dark-skinned face showing nothing of what he felt as the bearded man closed with him. Then he snapped from defense to counter-attack without a sound or look of warning, as composed as a man mildly irritated at the belligerence of a spoiled child. But the punishment he dealt out was harsher.

  He swung sideways-on as the point of the knife came within three inches of his exposed stomach. Crouched down to avoid the man’s left hand which clutched at his right wrist. And shot forward his own left hand to grasp a great turf of the red beard.

  His assailant, who was short but solidly built, vented a roar of rage that became tinged with pain as his facial hair was yanked. He came to a halt and tried to back off, arcing his knife hand away to start a new stabbing movement.

  But Edge had no need to change his tactics. His right hand was in position to begin an upward swing, between his own and his attacker’s bodies—under his left forearm to sink the blade of the razor deep into the armpit of the other man.

  The bearded man grunted as he felt a mild discomfort in the area of the wound. Then screamed, in realization of what was happening rather than in pain, as the blade was withdrawn for half its length, to be slashed downward from armpit to elbow before it came free of his blood gushing flesh.

  The knife slipped from his swinging hand and suddenly he was sent staggering backward, to crash across the long table, driven into helpless retreat by the half-breed’s left hand, which released the beard only to claw at the upper face and shove at it. With enough force to slide the wounded man over the table and hard to the floor on the other side.

  “It was Clyde’s idea, sir!” the evil-smelling old man whined. “Clyde figured you might have some liquor.” He started out talking to Silas Martin, who was aiming a tiny gun at him through the shattered window of the shack. But finished up directing his fear-filled gaze and quivering words at Edge as the impassive half-breed stepped toward him.

  “On your belly, feller,” the tall, lean man said flatly. “Right arm out to the side.”

  The old-timer swallowed hard and a tear swelled at the comer of each eye to spill down his cheeks. “What you gonna do to me?”

  “What I told you I would.”

  The terrified man was still down on his rump, where he had been held by the threat of Martin’s gun.

  “Oh, my God, I’m Weedin’ to death,” Clyde groaned as he pulled himself up on to a chair and flopped his bloodsoaked arm across the table top. His beard no longer looked so vividly colored. Beneath the dirt ingrained into his cheeks and forehead his skin was waxen and white.

  “So best you make your peace with Him, feller,” the half-breed growled. “Right now I’ve got a bone to pick with your partner.”

  The old-timer trembled as the razor was lowered toward him. But Edge simply wiped both sides of the crimson-dripping blade on the man’s coat shoulder before replacing the weapon in the neck pouch. Then the man screamed, and screamed again. First when he was gripped by the coat lapels and dragged up and flung down, his chin crashing against the floor-boards of the shack. The second time when Edge broke his right arm—by setting a foot on the elbow and jerking the wrist up. The bone snapped with a sickening crack, creating enough pain to sink the old man into a faint, curtailing his scream.

  “Was that necessary?” Silas Martin asked, as a straightforward question with no criticism implied in his expression or tone of voice.

  “He got a warning,” Edge replied, as he crouched to refurl his bedroll and fasten the straps on his saddlebags.

  “We figured you’d be on your way to the city jail,” Clyde rasped through teeth clenched aga
inst pain.

  “Lots of people make mistakes,” the half-breed replied.

  The injured man managed to sneer with his mouth and hate with his eyes. “But not you, I bet.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.” He hefted his bedroll under one arm and his saddle under the other.

  Silas Martin opened the door for him from the outside, the tiny gun back in its concealed holster. The sounds of the depot’s bustle flowed into the shack on a stream of fresh, ice-cold air. The stink of the injured men’s bodies and clothing was immediately neutralized. Then the dampness of steam and the acrid taint of woodsmoke became prominent.

  “The one with the beard I can understand,” Martin said, showing shock now, as he and the half-breed began crossing the tracks. “He would have killed you for sure. But the old man . . .” He shook his head. . . The way you snapped his arm like it was a dead match. I think that’s the most cold-blooded thing I ever did see.”

  “Nobody asked you to watch, feller,” the glinting-eyed half-breed replied.

  “All he wanted was a drink.” '

  “The both of them did. Now they’re a little smashed. Least they didn’t die from thirst.”

  Chapter Four

  THE train with the crated coffin aboard was not the first to leave the depot. Instead, the two passenger trains were dispatched with an hour separating their departures. Then the freight train made up of heavily laden flatcars. And it was close to five o’clock, when the sky was growing dark with evening, by the time the big locomotive at the head of the line of boxcars spun its wheels on the track, gained traction and finally inched into straining motion. Hauling more freight than originally intended because of a belated decision that two carloads of army supplies should be shipped to Fort Leavenworth.

  With each train that pulled out of Denver the noise around the depot grew less and the bustle subsided.

  Throughout the busy afternoon during which the temperature never rose above freezing, Edge stayed in or close to the boxcar containing the crate he was hired to guard. Silas Martin had kept him silent company at first, until they received news of the rescheduling of train departures when the red-faced old man had returned to the warmth of the main depot building. Twice lie had brought out steaming mugs of coffee and handed them to Edge with the query, “Everything’s all right?”