EDGE: Violence Trail (Edge series Book 25)

by George G. Gilman

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘STOP them!’ the only able-bodied man left in the saloon shrieked. ‘They killed Barney Conners and Doc Vincent! Stop them murdering bastards!’

  Pedro Montez was hurrying his sister towards the stalled wagon. The Oriental was hard on their heels, gaining on them despite the handicap of his long and capacious gown.

  There was one other man on the broad street as Edge unhitched the reins of the mare from around the rail and swung up into the saddle. A rotund, bald-headed man in an apron on the threshold of the City General Store. The lamplight against which he was silhouetted seemed much brighter than before. Just as the squares and wedges of yellow, marking the windows and now open doors of the houses spread out from either side of the street, appeared more intense. The effect caused by the advance of evening towards full night now that the sun was set. Between the widely spaced buildings flanking the street, shadowy figures could be seen running. The questions the townspeople yelled were merged into a confused din that made all but one indistinct.

  ‘What the hell’s happenin’,’ the storekeeper demanded.

  ‘Mexicans killing Americans!’ Fred bellowed from the doorway of the saloon.

  Pedro and Isabella Montez climbed up on to the seat of the wagon as the Oriental clambered over the tailgate. The front-runners of the people from the houses burst out on to the street as the ox team were whipped into movement and Edge backed the mare away from the hitching rail.

  ‘Race trouble!’ the half-breed muttered through clenched teeth, wrenching on the reins to turn his mount, then thudding in his heels to demand a gallop in the wake of the wagon. ‘And seems like the minority are winning.’

  A short-lived volley of gunshots exploded bullets along the street. But it was small arms fire, and triggered by men who, like the bartender of the Dragonara Hotel, were unwilling to shoot to kill unless there was a good reason. And no man with a gun in his hand could discern from the bedlam of shouting and shrieking voices just why the wagon and horseman were making such a hurried retreat from Amity Falls. So the shots were fired out of excitement or for effect. And the escapers reached the safety of the trail across the western slope without being hit.

  Edge slowed the mare to remain behind the bucking, rolling wagon, lips compressed and eyes cracked against the dust from under hooves and wheels, until they were beyond the ridge and out of sight of the town. He saw no sign that a posse was to be formed. He did see, vaguely in the darkness of the covered Studebaker, Senalda Montez and the new passenger flailing their arms at each other.

  Then he swung to the side and passed the speeding wagon and glimpsed the rigid form of Pedro crouched on the seat, the girl clinging desperately to her brother as the wagon bucked beneath them.

  He made no sign to them. Nor looked back over his shoulder. But, from the sounds of the frantic retreat assaulting his ears, he knew Pedro had turned the team to follow when he veered the mare on to a south heading fork of the trail beyond the ridge.

  And the boy continued to take his cue from the half-breed, curtailing his snarling entreaties to the oxen and setting aside the whip as Edge reduced the speed of the mare. They were about a mile south-west of Amity Falls then, moving at a walking pace under the hard, bright light of a three-quarters moon. The chill of evening dried the sweat of exertion on every face as the rider adjusted the step of his mount to fall back alongside the front of the wagon.

  Senalda Montez was venting a stream of harsh-toned Spanish and the Oriental was yelling back at her in his own tongue.

  ‘So it’s true about Mexicans and Chinese hating each other’s guts,’ Edge said with a sigh.

  Isabella snapped at her mother to be quiet and the woman’s voice subsided to a low, ill-tempered muttering.

  ‘Sir, in this instance you are only half right,’ the Oriental announced, thrusting his head out from the canvas flaps between the two Montez youngsters.

  ‘Maybe because I’m only half Mexican, feller,’ Edge answered absently, glancing back and failing to see any sign of pursuit.

  ‘For I am not Chinese. My name is Ree Maung. Mr. Ree. And I am from country of Siam, town of Chiengmai. Poet, philosopher and man of peace. Mostly poet.’

  ‘Not a doctor in there anyplace?’ Edge wanted to know.

  Isabella and Pedro had been as resentful of the passenger as their mother, but too breathless to voice their complaints. Abruptly, their mood changed.

  He says Antonio can be saved by pushing needles into him!’ Senalda moaned.

  Mr. Ree may have been any age from mid-twenties to late forties. He had that kind of face. Round and smooth skinned. His complexion was sallow and he was clean shaven - perhaps he never had to shave, like an Indian. It was a pleasant face with almond shaped eyes that expressed gentleness no matter which other mood the rest of his features showed. His build was short, almost squat. He looked well fed. He was totally bald.

  Pedro snorted and Isabella scowled.

  ‘I’ve heard tell it works in China,’ Edge said evenly.

  Mr. Ree nodded vigorously. ‘I have travelled widely in Asia, sir. Learned many things. Wherever I travel, I learn.’ His mouth suddenly looked sad. ‘But so many skills require implements, sir. It was necessary for me to leave Amity Falls in great hast. No time for me to gather my belongings.’

  Edge sighed. ‘You left your little black bag behind, uh?’

  Mr. Ree shook his head, but remained sad. ‘Big red bag, sir.’

  ‘But you brought what you know and you’ve got your feet, feller,’ the half-breed pointed out, checking the moonlight bathed terrain spread out behind the wagon again.

  ‘Sir?’ Ree posed, perplexed.

  ‘Do what you can for him. And it better be more than anyone else. Or you get to use your feet. A poet, philosopher and man of peace is just so much excess baggage.’

  The little man from Siam showed anxiety now. Then he nodded and withdrew into the wagon.

  ‘What happened, Pedro?’ Isabella demanded.

  The boy was staring ahead. After a brief experience of tacit anger when he learned Ree was of little use to them, he had withdrawn into a private world of misery. If his sister’s words penetrated it, he chose to pretend they did not. The girl swung her head to look pleadingly at Edge.

  ‘The kid shot an unarmed man in the back,’ the half-breed supplied evenly, digging out the makings. ‘Back of the neck.’

  Isabella snapped her head around to stare in horror at Pedro. The boy remained rigid, moving only with the motion of the wagon.

  ‘Lost his temper and your Pa a doctor,’ Edge went on, rolling the cigarette.

  Isabella’s head moved from side to side, transferring her gaze from Pedro to Edge and back again. The horror stayed etched deep into her lovely face. ‘You did not prevent this?’ she gasped into the silence as Edge struck a match on the side of the wagon seat and lit his cigarette.

  ‘He was busy,’ Pedro supplied dully, announcing his awareness of the conversation. He raised a hand from the reins to trail a finger across his left cheek to the corner of his mouth. ‘Cutting a man’s face, clean through. From here to here.’

  ‘Madre de Dios!’ Isabella groaned.

  ‘Ain’t complaining about you blasting him, kid,’ Edge said. ‘Figured to do something about him myself, on account of that greaser talk. But your timing was way off.’

  Pedro nodded, his handsome young face still a mask of anguished remorse. ‘I understand, hombre. You had your drink before you used your razor against the man who served you.’

  ‘So that is how you justify your presence with us, señor,’ Isabella snapped. ‘To teach evil to my brother by example?’

  Edge shook his head. ‘You folks are heading in the same direction as I am, lady.’ His narrowed eyes beneath their hooded lids seemed to glint more brightly in the moonlight than they had in the sun as he made another overtly carnal survey of the girl’s body. ‘So I’m just along for the ride.’

  The obvious meaning of his look and wo
rds did not embarrass her this time. They merely caused her disgust to deepen.

  ‘You are an example of the kind of man I loathe and despise, señor,’ she rasped through clenched teeth, wrenching her head around to stare along the trail as intently as her brother.

  Edge arced his cigarette away into the night and maintained his concentration for a moment longer on the profile of Isabella’s hard set face and rigid body.

  ‘And you’re an example of a fine woman,’ he muttered softly, heeling the mare into a canter. ‘Which is the only example I’m really interested in making.’

  Behind him, he heard Pedro urge greater speed from the ox team. But Isabella spoke sharply to him and the boy complied with her order. Edge rode no faster than an easy canter along a trail that rose and dipped, curved and switch-backed on the barren rockiness of the Continental Divide.

  The lumbering wagon was long out of sight and earshot when he veered off the trail to the right, following the course of a shallow stream into a broad canyon. There was grass in the canyon, and scattered stands of spruce. The stream was slow running, but its water was sweet. He checked that there was a steep, but negotiable exit from the far end of the canyon. Then he hobbled the mare and climbed up to the northern rim. From the highest point on the canyon wall he could see the moon-lighted landscape in sharp clarity over a distance of many miles.

  He ignored the slow moving wagon for he had known it would be there. No other sign of life could be seen. Intervening ridges and rock outcrops caused many blind spots, but the half-breed was as satisfied as he could be with the canyon as a night camp when he climbed down again to the floor.

  His horse was unsaddled and he had a pot of coffee bubbling on a small fire when the wagon came to a halt in the moon shadow of a rock overhang where he had established the camp. Isabella, tight-lipped and sullen, had the reins.

  Ree, looking around with keen interest, was beside her. ‘Having a change of heart?’ Edge posed with mild irony, lifting the pot from the flames and pouring coffee into a mug.

  He was seated on his saddle, the Winchester out of the boot and resting against his thigh.

  ‘I followed the tracks of your horse, señor,’ the girl admitted, not looking at him. ‘A man like you would know where it is best and safe to camp for the night.’

  ‘The enemies of the night/They are darker than those of day/So put aside your differences/Those with common cause/In the night.’ the little Siamese intoned, rather than spoke the words. Then he grinned and jumped to the ground with graceful agility. ‘A poem I have composed for this occasion. All my poetry is in the form of blank verse.’

  ‘Now is not the time for poetry, señor,’ Isabella berated. ‘Deeds are required. Words are useless.’

  Ree executed a formal bow, a chastened expression on his round, smooth face. The gesture appeared perfectly natural to him, with no hint of patronization in his manner. ‘Of course, madam. I am yours to command.’

  He unhitched the oxen while Pedro attended to the saddle horse. Without asking permission, Isabella boiled up a pan of water on Edge’s fire and gave it to Ree, who took it into the wagon. Lamplight glowed behind the canvas. Pedro gathered fresh kindling for the fire and his sister prepared and cooked a meal of beef stew.

  There was no talk, except in low tones between Senalda Montez and Ree, until Isabella acknowledged one debt to Edge by thrusting a plate of stew at him.

  ‘Obliged,’ the half-breed responded.

  Pedro, looking even younger in his misery, sat on a rock and ate the food with the actions of an automaton.

  ‘And we would be once more grateful to you, señor?’ Isabella replied, squatting on her haunches beside the wheel to which Edge had once been tied, ‘if you will look at my father’s injury. You have seen many men with bad wounds, I am sure.’

  ‘Enough,’ the half-breed answered. And eyed the girl with an expression as close as he could get to sympathy, ‘to know that a bullet in the belly is the worst kind. Short of a killing shot, if there’s a doctor who knows his trade around. It’s been inside him close to ten hours now. And he ain’t woke up at all?’

  ‘Not even for a moment. His breathing is bad and the wound - it smells.’

  ‘So me looking at it won’t help, Isabella. Same as splashing water on it won’t help.’

  ‘So there is nothing we can do, señor.’ She put down her plate, the food untouched, and crossed herself. ‘Except pray.’

  ‘That could help the way you feel,’ Edge allowed, spooning a final mouthful of stew and standing up, hoisting the rifle. ‘And if you figure the prayer’ll be heard, make it that your Pa dies before he wakes up. Give you grief, but save him a lot of pain.’

  A sudden anxiety held back her threatened tears as she watched him take a calf-length black coat from his bedroll and shrug into it. ‘You are really going to leave us?’

  ‘Be back,’ he answered. ‘And if you douse the fire maybe I’ll find you all still alive. Keep warm with blankets.’

  Before he had reached the mouth of the canyon the flames of the campfire had been smothered with dirt. He turned left and made fast time back tracking along the trail. His expelled breath turned to gray vapor in the cold air of night. But the unaccustomed exercise of brisk walking kept him warm.

  The small box canyon he had checked out when passing earlier was about a mile back towards Amity Falls. When he reached it, he spent about five minutes obliterating old signs and creating new, using his feet and the stock of the rifle to make it appear the wagon had turned off the trail and into the canyon. To a cautious tracker, the ruse would be obvious. But next, Edge went into the canyon to build and light a large fire, counting on pursuers to see the blaze and pay only scant attention to the disturbed dust at the entrance.

  From the rim of this canyon his view of the surrounding country was more restricted than at the other. Except to the north-west, where he could see long stretches of the trail almost all the way back to the hill beyond which Amity Falls was sited.

  Sitting down on a rock, hands thrust deep into his pockets and Winchester resting across his thighs, he began to feel the full discomfort of the moon-bright night. But he endured it without futile complaint and his mind was free of equally useless wishful thoughts of being close to the fire which created a tantalizingly warm glow within the canyon.

  He had made his decision and put a plan of action to the test. And, as always, accepted the consequences with a stoic resolve. Perhaps he was wasting time and effort. Perhaps there would be no posse riding out from the grim and Spartan town. Perhaps the claim of Isabella Montez that she despised him had not been merely a vocal outlet of anger to be regretted later.

  Only time would tell. And the man called Edge was rich in time.

  Fate had ordained that he should meet the girl. And the same fate had elected that he should feel about her in a way he had never felt about a woman before, not even Beth Day. Beth had happened over a period. With Isabella, it was immediate.

  Because of the harshness of his experience, which had brutally fashioned the kind of man he was, it was impossible for him to express himself to her, or look at her, in the manner such a young and impressionable girl would expect. Maybe welcome. For she doubtless had romantic notions about love. And there was no romance in the soul of Edge: although his feeling for her went far deeper than the brand of animal lust which was all he was able to show.

  Perhaps love. But he would never acknowledge it as such, even in his own mind. For everything and everybody he had ever loved had been cruelly taken from him.

  Far off across the cold and barren mountain ridges, a coyote howled. It sounded like the obscene laughter of a wicked destiny, relishing a preconceived triumph over an adversary doomed to lose.

  And the six riders showed on the trail, galloping their horses around a curve at the centre of a cloud of dust.

  Edge was in cover, not silhouetted against the sky or the fire’s glow. He did not move. He thought he knew why the sheriff of Amity Falls h
ad delayed the departure of the posse. The lawman resisted impulsive action to avenge the death and injury of two of his fellow citizens. He knew those who had brought violence to his town were travelling by wagon, and probably that their progress was hampered further by the burden of a sick man. So he had elected to bide his time, to give his quarry a false sense of security, before setting out on an easy to follow track. And hit them when they were resting, thinking they were free and clear.

  The posse was by turns in sight on the open trail or hidden by dips or rocky outcrops. Then, when the men comprising it saw the glow of the fire, the pace was slowed. A halt was called and conversation was exchanged. Moments later, the advance began again. Slowly, still on horseback. A quarter of a mile off, the men dismounted, tethered their animals to a thicket of brush, and covered the final stretch on foot.

  Only then did the half-breed allow himself a tight, brief smile. He dropped forward on to his hands and knees and crawled away from the canyon rim.

  The fire was low now, just as one would be after being left for several hours by people asleep. The posse from Amity Falls approached its light with cautious slowness. Edge was just as wary about making a noise, but he moved faster, having to cover a greater distance as he reached the same level as the men, swinging wide of them.

  Only the howls of the coyote, sounding intermittently and at a greater distance each time, marred the mountain silence. Until the tethered horses whinnied at the approach of a stranger. And Edge spoke softly to them, calming them in the gentle manner of a man who fully understood their nervousness.

  The beat of the slow moving hooves sounded loud to the ears of the half-breed as he unhitched the six geldings and led them away, but there were no shouts of alarm from the direction of the box canyon.

  In a hollow two hundred feet off the trail, he used the razor from the neck pouch to cut through the cinch leather of each saddle so that a slight push tipped it to the ground. Next he cut the bridles and reins from the horses, and headed all of them back towards Amity Falls before slapping two on the rump.