Edge: The Loner

EDGE

Without doubt, he is the meanest,

most vicious man you’ll ever meet.

He’s a man of violence, driven

by revenge.

You won’t forget him.

To L.J.

who thought of the name.

FOREWORD

Foreword by Malcolm Davey AKA Western Writer, Cody Wells

First, I would like to say what an honor and a privilege it is for me to have the opportunity to be a part of the rebirth of this great legend.

I believe I speak for every ‘Edge’ fan there is, has ever been, and also the many new fans that will follow, when I simply say, Terry… Thank you! Thank you so much for giving us, George G. Gilman and Edge!

In my humble opinion of all the westerns I’ve ever read or watched on the big screen and TV, no one could hold a candle to this author and his creation.

The series was written with such zeal and finesse, it’s as fresh today as it was back when it first appeared on the shelves of our favorite bookstores. And the reason is … Edge was written well before its time.

Malcolm Davey - November 2011.

INTRODUCTION

Introduction: George G. Gilman (Terry Harknett)

In July 2010 a first e-book edition of this first title in the Edge series was published by a company called Solstice. For a variety of reasons which I do not intend to go into here I chose to withdraw this.

This new edition with its new cover, both produced by fellow Western writer Malcolm Davey AKA Cody Wells, perhaps needs the same introduction as the one that appeared back in 2010, so here it is for readers new to Edge on Kindle:

Almost 50 years ago (1952 to be precise) my first book was published. A rather pedestrian mystery featuring a London based private eye. Nine more followed, none of which sold more than a handful of copies in the UK and Argentina - the only overseas country to launch foreign editions.

And after some ten years the flames of my burning ambition to become a professional writer were beginning to gutter towards extinction. But my day job as a trade press journalist brought me into contact with all the London paperback publishers and an editor working for one of these suggested I might like to try my hand at writing novels based upon original screenplays.

These happened to be Westerns - a genre I knew little about except from the cinema and television, for my early years were in the l940s and 50s which was something of a golden age for the oaters on the large and small screen. So with some trepidation I agreed to the project.

I wrote a small clutch of these books based upon films and the publisher concerned was sufficiently impressed to ask me to try an original novel set in the West. And since at the time the spaghetti Westerns were doing such tremendous box office business and no publishers were printing books that were anything like such movies it was suggested I fill this gap in the market.

The rest, as they say, is history, which came to a premature end in 1989 when I decided I had written my final Edge adventure.

Now all these years later Edge has entered the digital age.

Long may he continue in readers’ imaginations to ride the bloody trails through hostile territory between violent towns in books that will be revisited by loyal long time fans and read by newcomers to the Wild West. A locale peopled by characters that on the printed page - and now on the digital screen - which has to be very different from that created by other writers in the genre since George G. Gilman had never read a Western before he started to write them.

Terry Harknett AKA George G. Gilman - November 2011.

CHAPTER ONE

JAMIE Hedges counted six riders and there should have been only one. But Joe was surely among them and so he didn’t worry for he would willingly shout aloud his happiness to the whole re-united USA if that were the way it had to be. His brother was coming back home after more than five years away at the war and Jamie didn’t care whether five men or five million were there to witness his jubilation at the event.

It was the evening of a beautiful Iowa day in June 1865 and on the farmstead where Jamie waited with mounted excitement there was not one single sign of a war that had torn a nation in two and claimed the lives of six hundred thousand young Americans. There was just the small wooden house, the bigger grain barn and the corral with its eight horses, neatly fenced off with white picket from the yellowing fields of wheat that stretched out on three sides. On the fourth side virgin country diminished into the distance, bisected by the trail along which the six riders were coming. The gate which gave access to the farmstead was open for Joe to ride through and Jamie and his mongrel dog Patch waited in the gateway, in the shade of the big old live oak that rustled its leaves in the same cooling breeze which turned the wheat fields into a huge yellow lake.

The wind came from the east, from behind the approaching riders and soon the horses in the corral picked up the scent of their own kind and began to move restlessly, keening the edge of anticipation that Jamie seemed to feel in the very air. Not yet nineteen, the boy was tall, with sandy hair and a handsome face the color of well tanned leather from long hours working in the harsh sun. He was dressed in a store-bought check shirt and homemade Levis. He wore no shoes nor did he carry a gun. His build was broad for his age and appeared to be completely sound until he walked, when he had a pronounced limp in his right leg to the extent that he had to grasp his thigh with both hands and swing it forward with each pace he took.

“Joe’s coming home, boy,” he said to the dog for perhaps the hundredth time that day and the animal, sensing his master’s excitement gave a subdued bark and wagged his tail in the dust.

The group moved slowly up the trail and at first, Jamie experienced a sense of disappointment for he thought that once in sight of home, Joe would have come at a gallop, anxious to see his young brother again, to taste the fresh coffee and pork and beans he must know would be ready on the stove for him. But Joe had been at the Appomattox peace signing and it was a long ride from Virginia to Iowa: Joe was sure to be tired.

They were close enough now for Jamie to see they were still in uniform and he was glad about this. The north had been victorious and Joe was sure to be proud that he had been a captain in the Federal cavalry. But then Jamie saw something which clouded his face, caused him to reach down and press Patch’s head against his leg, giving or seeking assurance.

“There’s a sergeant leading them,” he muttered, puzzled, and the dog looked up at the boy, hearing a note of concern in his voice. “Joe’s a captain. He ought to be at the head.”

The group was not a hundred yards down the trail now, close enough for Jamie to discern clearly the triple chevron on the arm of the leading rider. The boy moved forward a few paces, manhandling his lame leg, then halted, all excitement draining from his features to be replaced by a deep worry. Now that the riders were a mere stone’s throw away his anxious eyes fastened upon each face in turn and he knew Joe was not among them.

They reined in their horses just short of the gateway where the boy waited and the sergeant looked down at him wearily, and then dismounted. Like the others he had an unkempt beard many days old and red-rimmed eyes from riding into the sun all afternoon.

“Hi there, boy,” he said. “You must be Joe’s little brother Jamie.”

He was big and mean-looking and, even though he smiled as he spoke, his crooked and tobacco-browned teeth gave his face an evil cast. But Jamie was old enough to know not to trust first impressions: and the mention of his brother’s name raised the flame of excitement again.

“You know Joe? I’m expecting him. Where is he?”

One of the riders still mounted let out a sound that could have been a snigger, but Jamie’s entire attention was riveted upon the sergeant.

The smile was gone now and the man looked grave. He glanced over Jamie’s shoulder, at the house and barn and backdrop of waving wheat. He spat into the dust and Patch growled.

“Well boy,” he drawled, shuffling his feet. “Hell, when you got bad news to give, tell it quick is how I look at things. Joe won’t be coming home today. Not any day. He’s dead, boy.”

Jamie fought back the tears that threatened to humiliate him in front of the newcomers. He screwed up his eyes and when he opened them again the air seemed to be tinged with a dark mist. But then Patch growled again and launched himself at the sergeant’s legs and Jamie saw with perfect clarity the vicious kick which sent the senseless dog several yards across the dusty yard.

“One thing I can’t stand is unfriendly dogs,” the sergeant said flatly. “Ought to train him so he don’t act like that, boy.”

Jamie’s mind was in turmoil, but he saw a movement among the riders, and realized too late what was happening. “Don’t,” he yelled as the Springfield came clear of its boot and in a single fluid action was aimed and fired, the big .58 caliber bullet almost lifted the injured dog into the air.

“Oh, Billy,” the sergeant said. “You didn’t ought to have done that to the boy’s dog.”

The marksman commenced to reload the musket, showing no sign of remorse. “That little old dog most likely had a broken back,” he drawled. “Been cruel to let him live.”

The snigger came again and the sergeant spoke quickly, as if trying to conceal the man’s amusement. “Like I said, boy. Joe caught one. War was all but over when a damn Louisiana sharpshooter shot poor old Joe right between the eyes. Me and Billy Seward here, why we filled him so full lead they had to get a horse to drag him to his grave. But weren’t no good as far as Joe was concerned. We buried your brother in a fitting manner, boy.”

There were murmurs of agreement from the others, which to Jamie sounded even less sincere than the words of the sergeant. He felt numb with shock, wanted the men to turn and ride away so that he could go into the house and give vent to his emotions in private.

“Hey, Frank. Let’s get on with it.” The words had an impatient ring to them, as did further murmurings of agreement with the comment.

“We didn’t only come here to give you the news, boy,” the sergeant said. “Hardly like to bring up another matter, but you’re almost a man now. Probably are a man in everything except years—living out here alone in the wilderness like you do. It’s money, boy.”

For the first time since he had seen the riders as a cloud of dust on the horizon, Jamie experienced real fear. It gripped him like an icy hand, freezing the sweat of the day to his body. There was a Starr rifle and a pair of Colts in the house, with any number of knives. But a boy did not go armed to meet his only brother. Jamie’s hands shook as much from frustration as fear.

“Money,” he said and the word emerged as a hoarse whisper.

The sergeant nodded, spat again and looked his gaze on the boy’s. “Yeah. Joe died in debt, you see. He didn’t play much poker, but when he did there was no stopping him.”

Liar, Jamie wanted to scream at them. Filthy rotten liar.

“Night before he died,” the sergeant continued. “Joe owed me five hundred dollars. Right boys?” He looked behind and was rewarded with a great nodding of heads. “Right. He wanted to play me double or nothing. I didn’t want to, but your brother was certainly a stubborn cuss when he wanted to be.”

Joe never gambled. Ma and Pa taught us both good.

“So we played a hand and Joe was unlucky. Three aces don’t beat a flush, not in poker nor any game I know.” His gaze continued to be locked on Jamie’s, while he discolored teeth were shown in another parody of a smile. “I wasn’t worried none about the debt, boy. See Joe told me he’s been sending money home to you regular like. And you know what your brother’s dying words were, boy?”

Jamie did not mean to shake his head, but he did so, felt compelled by the insistent stare of the sergeant.

“He said to me, go and see my kid brother out in Iowa and he’ll give you the money, Frank. That’s my name. Frank. Frank Forrest. So if you’d just get me the money, boy. A thousand is what Joe died owing me and I’m sure he won’t rest easy in his grave until the debt is cleared.”

Jamie felt stunned, rendered speechless by the soft tones of Sergeant Frank Forrest. But he was finally able to drag his eyes from the other’s face, and he saw the inert form of Patch, a swarm of flies already covering the congealed blood of the dead animal. His anger exploded as a red mist before his eyes and the words poured in a torrent as he limped awkwardly over to his dog.

“There ain’t no money in this place and you’re a lying son-of-a-bitch. Joe never gambled. Every cent he earned went straight into the bank so we could do things with this place. Big things. I don’t even believe Joe’s dead. Get off our land.”

He knelt down beside Patch, turning his face away from the men so they could not see the tears of sadness and anger on his cheeks as he swiped a hand at the flies.

“Hey, Frank,” the rider named Seward called. “You ain’t going to let a kid talk to you like that, are you?”

Another of the men, a stripped corporal with a lighter patch on his sleeve where the chevrons had been, dismounted and looked at Jamie with a steely glint in his eyes as he licked his dry lips.

“Specially a lame kid with only one good leg, Frank,” he urged. “Kid like that shouldn’t talk back to a man.”

“Which leg’s the lame one,” Forrest asked flatly.

“His right one.”

“Stand up, boy,” Forrest demanded, raising his voice a mere shade. “And then turn to face me.”

Jamie wiped the back of his sleeve across his face and he rose and turned around. Defiance was a sheen in his eyes and a firmness in his mouth line. The expression did not alter when he saw Forrest draw an Army issue .44 Colt from its holster, to hang it loosely by his side.

He spat into the dust. “I’ve tried to do this nice and peaceful, boy. A thousand would have been enough. Where do you keep the money?”

“It’s in the bank. I don’t think Joe’s dead.”

“Joe’s dead and he didn’t trust banks. Once more. Where is it?”

Jamie shook his head.

“Walk over here, boy.”

Jamie was certain he was going to be gunned down, knew there was not a chance of making a run for it, and anyway decided it was best to be shot from the front than to take a bullet in the back. As he took a pace forward, towards the big sergeant, there were suddenly six gun muzzles trained upon him as the other men aimed muskets and revolvers, their expressions as menacing as the man who led them. But only one report sounded as Jamie reached down to swing forward his crippled leg and for an instant he stared in mute surprise at the blue smoke curling up from Forrest’s Colt, his brain striving to figure out why he was not dead. But the instant was gone and a scream of agony burst from his lips as the pain made itself felt and he pitched forward, his good leg folding under him like a straw as the smashed kneecap gushed more blood for hungry flies.

“Which leg did you say, Harry?” Forrest said.

“I figured it was the only one,” came the reply, and all except Forrest laughed uproariously.

CHAPTER TWO

THE loss of consciousness that had come mercifully to Jamie when the agony of the smashed kneecap drove home his total incapacity was abruptly ended as a bucket of cold water was sloshed into his face and an open handed slap stung his cheek.

“Wake up,” Forrest demanded harshly. “You got something to tell me and the boys.”

Jamie opened his eyes and looked into the ugly face of the sergeant, who was studying him with a grim expression of evil intent. Behind Forrest Jamie could see the house and barn, corral and white picket fence with the wheat field beyond. But it was not the same as before. Every window pane was broken, the barn doors were open and of the eight horses that had been in the corral there was now only the old plough mare and a young foal. But it was the dead body of Patch, his blooded eye staring sightlessly at the same scene, that suddenly gave Jamie total recall of the events since the six soldiers had ridden up to the farmstead.

And now he saw the other men, near the barn, transferring their saddles and bedrolls from their own mounts to the backs of fresh stock from the corral. But then, in the next instant, as the breeze gusted a cloud of dust across the parched ground, other sensations crowded into Jamie’s awareness. He was held direct against the live oak, secured by a single length of rope that bound him tightly at ankles, thighs, stomach, chest and throat: except for his right arm left free of the bonds so it could be raised out and the hands fastened, fingers splayed over the tree trunk by nails driven between them and bent over. The pressure of the nails and the bruises on his hands where the revolver butt had missed their mark and even more agonizing cause of pain than the shattered kneecap. But Jamie gritted his teeth and looked back at Forrest defiantly, trying desperately to conceal the twisted terror that reached his very nerve ends.

“All right, boy,” Forrest said. “You can see the position you’re in. While you were taking your rest me and the others searched the place. But we couldn’t find no money. Now, if you just tell us where you’ve salted it away, we’ll cut you loose, make you right comfortable in the house and send a doctor out from town.”

The others had finished saddling the fresh horses now and moved into an expectant bunch over to the tree. Jamie saw it as a mere disconnected movement from the corner of his eye, for he was riveting his attention on the face of Forrest, channeling all the hate he could muster in his continued effort to hide his pain and fear. But beads of sweat coursed down his forehead to sting his eyes, making him blink.

“There’s no money here,” he tried to yell at the man, but what came out a rasping whisper, which Forrest ignored without a flicker of interest.

“There had better be, boy,” he answered. “Or you’re dead. Back up.”

The final demand was directed at the five other soldiers, who did as instructed, giving Forrest space enough to put ten feet between himself and Jamie. The boy saw that while Forrest looked at him with odd mixture of impatience and indifference, the others appeared excited at the prospect of imminent entertainment. One of them, a tall, lean man who had discarded his forage cap for a black Stetson, was taking fast swigs at an almost empty whisky bottle.

“You got four fingers and a thumb on that right hand, boy,” Forrest said softy. “You also got another hand and we got a lot of nails. I’ll start with the thumb. I’m good. That’s why they made me platoon sergeant. Your brother recommended me, boy. I don’t miss. Where’s the money?”

The world went a strange color for Jamie and he saw it out of perspective. Forrest seemed to diminish in size while the gun in his right hand grew to gigantic proportions. And the grinning faces of the other five men seemed to rush forward in stark clarity. The boy realized he was close to hysteria and he tried with all his weakened strength to tear his hands free of the nails.

Then the enormous gun roared and Jamie could no longer feel anything in his right hand. But Forrest aim was true and when the boy looked down it was just his thumb that lay in the dust, the shattered bone gleaming white against the scarlet blood pumping from the still warm flesh. Then the numbness went and white-hot pain engulfed his entire arm as he screamed.

“You tell me where the money is hid, boy,” Forrest said, having to raise his voice to make himself heard above the sounds of agony, but still empty of emotion.

Jamie knew where it was. Had carefully over the years of the war carried each slim package from the stage station to the farm and hidden it with the others, counting it each time and keeping a tally. Two thousand dollars in all. Joe and he could really do things with the farm on two thousand dollars. Another barn, some new equipment: might fence off some pasture land to the north and get a few head of cattle. That would be nice.

The gun exploded into sound again and this time there was no moment of numbness as Jamie forefinger fell to the ground, on top of the thumb, disturbing the flies at their feast. The agony reverberated throughout his entire body and this time his scream emerged as a mere croaking sound from deep in his throat. He knew he was in a hairs breadth of telling Forrest of the moneys hiding place, but he didn’t, but he was hanging onto the belief that Joe was not dead, and so would need the money. To Jamie it did not matter, for he would surely be killed whether he talked or not. But he had to keep faith with Joe.

“Don’t hog it all to yourself, Frank,” Billy Seward shouted, drawing his revolver, “You weren’t the only crack shot in the whole damn war.”

He drew a bead on his target and Jamie watched him through a red sea of pain that blurred his vision, set him apart from what was happening. The crack of the revolver had a distant sound and this time there was hardly any new pain, merely a sting on the cheek as the bullet missed its mark, dug splinters from the trunk, which flew into the face of the boy. Jamie suddenly loved Billy Seward and felt a warm wetness in his trousers as the relief relaxed his muscles.

“You stupid bastard,” Forrest yelled as he spun around. “Don’t kill him ...”

Every other man had drawn his gun and all but one lowered their weapons, their wills bent to the fury of Forrest. But the man with the whisky bottle suddenly flung it from him, his eyes bleary and his hand unsteady from the pint of hard liquor he had drunk during the search of the house. He fired from the hip, the bullet whining past Forrest’s shoulder to hit Jamie squarely between the eyes, the blood spurting from the fatal wound like red mud to mask the boy’s death agony. The gasp of the other men told Forrest it was over and he did not turn round to look. His Colt spoke for the fourth time that evening, the bullet smashing into the drunken man’s groin. He went down hard into a sitting position, dropping his gun, splaying his legs, his hands clenching his lower abdomen as if he thought he could staunch the flow of crimson that spread a widening stain across his filthy uniform pants. He looked around imploringly as those around him, his mouth working but emitting no sound, and nobody moved to help him. Then, without speaking, Forrest walked across and scooped up the fallen gun, jammed it into his belt as he holstered his own revolver.

“Help me, Frank,” the man finally managed to force out. “My guts are running out. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“But you did,” Forrest said, spat full into his face and brought up his foot to kick the injured man savagely on the jaw, sending him sprawling onto his back. He looked around at the others, their faces depicting fear, they holstered their guns. “Burn the place to the ground,” he ordered with low key fury. “If we can’t get the money, Captain Josiah C. Hedges ain’t gonna find it, either.”

As Forrest stood, unmoving between the dead boy tied to the tree and an unconscious man sprawled in the dust, the four men fanned out across the farmstead, one to the house, a second to the barn, and the other two going to the wheat fields. The crops caught first, their tinder dryness easily magnified the tiny blazes started by the men. But the buildings, too, were soon providing fuel for the fires after they had been splashed with kerosene. As they smelled the smoke and saw the flames the loose horses moved restlessly, whinnying their fright before bolting, some through the gateway, others smashing down the fence.

“All right,” Forrest yelled, suddenly moving, breaking into a run for the tethered animals. “Let’s go before we roast.”

The others raced to join him as the sound of roaring mingled with the stench of burning to add its own kind of terror to the awe-inspiring sight of the blazing flames. They mounted quickly and galloped in the wake of Forrest as he wheeled his horse through the gateway and onto the trail away from the fire. One horse remained—that which would have been the man’s who killed Jamie—still tethered by the barn. It kicked and struggled against its rope, terror injecting enormous strength into his muscles so that it finally tore free. But in the panic of its fright the beast galloped full pelt into the blazing barn, its death cries lost in the crash of falling timber as the roof collapsed.

Down the trail the five soldiers slowed their horses and looked back, saw the flames leap high, the smoke curling into the sky, black and dense enough to blot out the bright red of the setting sun.

Forrest suddenly laughed. “Anyone fools with Frank Forrest is likely to get his fingers burned,” he said as he spurred his horse forward.

CHAPTER THREE

JOSIAH Hedges was thirty years old, stood six feet three inches tall and weighed a solid one hundred and ninety pounds, some of it bone, most muscle. Many women considered him handsome, many others thought him ugly: he had that kind of face. Eyes that were light blue and piercing from his Swedish mother, a hawk like nose, high cheekbones and firm jaw line from his Mexican father. A mouth that was narrow and set in a firm, cruel line which was not hereditary but born out of too many years of war. His hair was black, long and thick to below his collar. He had personally killed fifty-six men who were his enemies and been directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds more, friend and foe alike, for an army captain must give an order in terms of winning the battle with the safety of his men of secondary consideration. Certainly that was the opinion of Captain Josiah Hedges and he had fought the war on the principle: sufficiently well to earn a commendation from General Grant himself.

But now it was ex-Captain and if he had ever cared about the honor, it meant nothing to him as he rode homewards towards the flatland of Iowa. He had had a job to do and the fact that the job had been largely a matter of killing his fellow-countrymen had not affected the way he did it. He had fought his war well, for he tried to do everything well. Just as he had worked the farmstead before the war and would continue to do so now that the fighting was over.

If anything concerned him as he rose past the oddly formed stand of trees beside a bend in the stream that marked a distance of two miles from the farm, it was that he had derived a certain enjoyment from the war and a deep sense of satisfaction as he saw each man fall at his hand. The simplicity of farming could never produce such a feeling.

But, he was certain the influence of young Jamie, the boy’s faith in his elder brother, would be stronger than the most vivid memories of smoke shrouded battlefields, musket cracks, flashing steel and blood. With these thoughts running on such lines, Joe caught his first sign of the farm and was sure it was a trick of the imagination that painted the picture hanging before his eyes. But then the gentle breeze that had been coming from the south suddenly veered and he caught the acrid stench of smoke in his nostrils, confirming that the black smudges rising lazily upwards from the wide area of darkened country ahead was actual evidence of a fire.

Letting an animal sound escape his throat, Joe dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and she replied to his command with a turn of speed that told of an early hour in a new day after a good night’s rest. As he galloped towards what was now the charred remains of the Hedges’ farmstead, Joe looked down at the trail, recognizing in the thick dust of a long hot summer signs of the recent passage of many horses—horses with shod hoofs. As he thundered up the final length of trail Joe saw only two areas of movement, one around the big old oak and another some yards distant, towards the smoldering ruins of the house and as he reined his horse at the gateway he slid the twelve shot Henry repeater from its boot and leapt to the ground, began firing from hip level, squeezing the trigger and working the trigger guard with a fast wrist action that pumped three .44 caliber shells at each target within four seconds and dropped the gleaming cases around his feet. Only one of the evil buzzards that had been tearing ferociously at dead human flesh escaped, lumbering with incensed screeches into the acrid air.

For perhaps a minute Joe stood unmoving upon the spot from which he had fired, looking at Jamie bound to the tree. He knew it was his brother, even though his face was unrecognizable where the scavengers had ripped the flesh to the bone, their hooked bills gouging out the eyes, ripping great strips of flesh from mouth to ears. He saw the right hand picked almost completely clean of flesh, as a three fingered skeleton of what it had been, still securely nailed to the tree. He looked at the gaping wound at the knee of what had been Jamie’s good leg, the Levis having been torn down to the cuff so the birds would have easy access to their meal.

Then Joe moved, salty moisture stinging his eyes, aware that he was crying for the first time since he was 18 years old and had let off his father’s Hall flintlock to turn Jamie into a cripple. He dropped the rifle to the ground and took two strides at first, then broke into a loping run which ended with a vicious kick to one of the dead birds, sending it arcing away, dead wings spreading to thud into the ground fifteen yards away. Sobs exploded from his throat, he kicked another bird clear, picked up a third by its neck and hefted it after its evil companions. Then he took hold of Jamie’s shirt front and ripped it, pressed his lips against the cold, waxy flesh of his brother’s chest, letting his grief escape, not moving until his throat was pained by dry sobs and his tears were exhausted. Not until then did he reach under his uniform coat and take from its sheath at the small of his back a bone handled hunting knife, honed to perfection on both edges and needle pointed. The blade gleamed dully in the shade of his body, flashed brilliantly in the early morning sun as it slashed through the ropes. There mere bones which were all that remained of Jamie’s right hand slid easily from the nails and Joe laid his brother reverently on the ground.

All emotion drained from him, Joe moved quickly and efficiently now, going to the remains of the barn and searching among the charred timber, unconcerned with the stench of the carcass of the horse that had panicked and burned to death. He found a spade, twisted by intense heat, its wooden handle burned from it, but still serviceable and carried it back to the tree. There, on the far side from where Jamie had died, Joe stripped to the waist and started to dig, finding the ground hard and unwilling to be marred by the crude tool. But, as the sun grew higher and grew hotter, drawing sweat from every pore of his body, Joe’s bulging muscles won the battle. Working with strength of will he never suspected he possessed, Joe scraped out a grave seven feet long and four feet deep without once stopping to rest. Then he went to get Jamie and in stooping to pick up the body saw the thumb and forefinger, which had been shot from the hand and overlooked by the buzzards. He picked these up, hard and stiff with the texture of twigs and when he had lowered the body into the grave, dropped them in, too. It took only a few minutes to shovel the earth back into the hole. And form a slight mound with the excess displaced by Jamie.

He made a cross with two pieces of wood from a section of the fence which had escaped the fire and used the point of his knife to etch Jamie’s full name and yesterday’s date in the cross member. He drove it into the soft earth at the head of the grave, then put his uniform back on, carefully looping around his neck a length of cord with a long, slim pouch attached, arranging it so that the pouch hung at his back, pointing down the length of his spine. His jacket, buttoned to the throat, hid both cord and pouch. Then he stood beside the grave, holding his hat by the brim in both hands, and looked down at the mound. His voice faltered as he searched for the words, but was strong and resonant when he spoke them.

“Jamie, our Ma and Pa taught us a lot out of the Good Book, but it’s a long time since I felt the need to know about such things. I guess you’d know better than me what to say at a time like this. Rest easy, brother. I’ll settle your score. Whoever they are and wherever they run, I’ll find them and I’ll kill them. I’ve learned some special ways of killing people and I’ll avenge you good.” Now Joe looked up at the sky, a bright sheet of azure cleared of smoke. “Take care of my kid brother, Lord,” he said softly, and put on his hat with a gesture of finality, marking the end of his moments of reverence.

Picking up the spade he went to where he had discarded his rifle, recovered it and wiped the dust from it on his pants leg before replenishing the tubular magazine so that it was loaded with a full compliment of twelve cartridges. He slid the Henry back into its boot at the rear of the saddle on the horse which had been grazing quietly on a patch of grass besides the gatepost. Then he went to the pile of blackened timber which was the house and although it was impossible to see what the layout had once been, moved with confidence through the wreckage, halting close to where the north wall had stood, at the rear. The floorboards had been burned clear through but a square of timber beneath, in the corner of what had been Jamie’s bedroom, was merely scorched and Joe used the edge of the spade to pries it up, clear of its wooden frame. Beneath was a tin box containing every cent of the two thousand dollars Joe had sent home from the war, stacked neatly in piles of one, five and ten dollar bills. He had no need to count it, although he had told Jamie to make use of whatever money he needed, Joe knew that his brother would not touch a dollar. There would be two thousand. He scooped the money out, dropped the spade into the hole and returned to his horse, stashed the bills into one of his two saddlebags.

Only now, more than two hours since he had returned to the farmstead, did Joe cross to look at the second dead man and in this case there was no necessity to rely on instinct to make an identification. For the scavenging birds had once again made their feast at the man-made source of blood. The dead man lay on his back, arms and legs splayed. Above the waist and below the thighs he was unmarked, the birds content to tear away his genitals and rip a gaping hole in his stomach, their talons and bills delving inside to drag out the intestines, the uneaten portions of which now trailed in the dust, attracting the inevitable swarm of black flies whose incessant buzzing of greed provided the only sound in the great silence that seemed to emanate from the razed farmstead to spread out in all directions across the almost featureless surrounding country.

Then Joe looked at the face of the dead man and his cold eyes narrowed, only this slight gesture revealing his recognition, his certain knowledge of his quarry. The man was Rhett. Bob Rhett, he recalled, a New England dandy from a rich family who had cut him off without a cent when he got drunk once too often and raped the daughter of an English earl on the night their engagement was announced. He had fought a drunken, coward’s war, his many failings covered by his platoon sergeant Frank Forrest and Forrest’s four henchmen who suffered Rhett because his high class manners and educated talk amused them.

Joe did not stay long, looking down at the face of the dead man, contorted into a mask of ugliness by the agony of his ending. Nothing more could hurt him and it was therefore pointless to hate him. There were five more men who must die and each moment that went by before their ends came would hang heavy on Joe. Frank Forrest, Billy Seward, John Scott, Hal Douglas and Roger Bell. They were inseparable throughout the war and despite Rhett, comprised the best small fighting unit under Joe’s command. And they had ridden out of camp as a group, honorable discharge papers in their pockets, three weeks previously.

“Captain,” Forrest had called. “It’s been a pleasure fighting with you. Now me and the boys are riding west. Army pay ain’t enough for our plans. We got real money to make.”

Joe had even waved to them.

Now he lashed out with his foot once more, but this time it was the body of Rhett that stirred the dust, the two buzzards allowed to rest where the bullets had dropped them. Then Joe walked to his horse and mounted, drew his rifle and knife and made five light score marks on the Henry’s stock before urging the animal through the gateway. He immediately left the trail, turning south west, across the black stubble of a wheat field, hoofs crackling and rising puffs of soot. He had not gone fifty yards before the buzzard whose breakfast had been interrupted seemed to materialize over the farm, circled twice and then swooped. Joe turned in the saddle just in time to see the bird stagger backwards as it tugged at something that suddenly came free. Then it rose into the air with an ungainly flapping of wings, to find a safer place to enjoy its prize. As it wheeled away Joe saw that swinging from its bill were the entrails of Bob Rhett.

Joe grinned for the first time that day, his expression of cold slit eyes and bared teeth that utterly lacked humor. “You never did have any guts, Rhett,” he said aloud.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE sun was an hour past its peak when Joe saw his first living human beings of the day. He was still In Iowa, but close to the Kansas state line and he was hungry. He had been riding through open country all morning, only occasionally crossing a trail to indicate that the whole nation was not wilderness. But he had chosen to cross them rather than follow them because none of them took the southwestern direction he was headed: and he had no wish to court trouble in a uniform. For although the war was over, the grievances that had caused it would continue to divide Americans for some time to come and state lines were no guarantee of allegiance to the beliefs of either north or south.

He would meet trouble as it came and deal with it, but there was only one brand he was seeking and that was not due yet. It was certainly not represented by the covered wagon drawn up at the side of a trail that cut a path in a north-west direction, paralleling the course of a strain which rushed clear and cool over a runs of rocks close to the campsite. Two bays had been freed from the wagon shafts and were tethered close to the edge of the stream. A fire, recently started, blazed under a large pot of something, which smelled appetizingly good a few yards from the horses. The wagon was old and decrepit, with sagging timber, wheels that had been repaired too often and patched canvas. Upon the canvas side was the faded lettering, in shaky capitals: GOD HAS COME TO YOUR TOWN. Beneath this was a badly painted representation of the Bible and below this, in smaller letters: HEAR REVEREND ELIAS SPEED PREACH THE WORD OF THE LORD.

Joe dismounted twenty yards short of the wagon and, taking the Henry, moved silently forward. He was wary only of the wagon, for there was no other cover in rifle shot of the campsite. He trod carefully, avoiding loose rocks that would rattle across the ground if dislodged. Then, just as he was about to spring to the rear, bringing his rifle up to cover the inside of the wagon, a voice froze him.

“Don’t move, my darling. I want to look at you just like that.”

It was a man’s voice, laden with passion and Joe’s breath came out in a rasp as a woman laughed.

“Now you want to look …” she whispered, and the sentence was lopped in half as Joe moved forward and spoke a single word: “Freeze.”

A bed was set clockwise at the front of the wagon and upon it, stretched full length was an apparently almost naked man. A filthy blanket covered his legs and lower stomach and above his black hair sprouted, growing thicker as it reached his chest. At his throat was a stiff, once white cleric’s collar. His head was raised, elbows bent for support, jaw resting on his palm. He was about fifty with a round, almost cherubic face with eyes that were too small and were now filled with shock as he looked at the wrong end of a Henry repeater. His face was drained of color and the wanness extended over his completely bald head.

The woman squatted on a low stool in front of a miniature rococo dressing table, complete with cracked mirror in a hinged frame. She was a half-breed, with perhaps Sioux blood mixing with Caucasian. Her nose was too broad, with flaring nostrils, to give her beauty but her dark eyes, even though afraid, held a deep sensuousness. Her body, completely naked, was firmly voluptuous with the muscle control of perhaps twenty-five years. She was brushing her thick, dark hair that reached to the middle of her back, posing with thrusting breasts and sucked in stomach for the man who had obviously just possessed her. It was she who recovered first, slamming down the brush and folding her arms across the breasts.

“What’s cooking?” Joe asked.

The woman said one word, the sound of which meant nothing to Joe, but her tone and the fury which leapt into her eyes made the meaning clear. But he refused to be provoked by the obvious insult.

“It’s not what you think,” the man said, jerking into movement, pulling the blanket higher as he wriggled into a sitting position.

“What isn’t?”

“Virtue is my sister.” His voice was high, reedy.

“Virtue?”

The man nodded to the woman at the dressing table. “The young lady is my sister, Virtue. We … we are somewhat late risers, as you can see.”

Joe made a clucking sound of impatience. “I don’t care if she’s your great-grandmother, reverend,” he said dryly. “I’m talking about the pot. What’s in it?”

The man grinned, suddenly anxious to be of help. “Stew, young man. Beef stew. Our last from the store, but the Good Lord will provide. You are most welcome to share it with us. I see from your uniform you fought on behalf of a just cause. God was on your side.”

The man’s tone placed him south enough to have root beside the Gulf of Mexico, but Joe would not have trusted him even if he could prove himself to be a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee. He motioned to the woman with the rifle.

“Tell her to fix the food.”

“I talk English good as you, soldier boy,” the woman said. “I’m not going to get dressed in front of your leering eyes.”

Her voice, too, told of a Southern upbringing.

Joe squeezed the trigger and the rifle barked, the woman scream and the man yelled with fear as the bullet shattered the mirror, tore through the canvas of the wagon and whined to the end of its trajectory somewhere in the wilds.

“Then you’ll have to be careful you don’t spill any of that hot stew on your pure, soft body, honey child,” he said evenly, mimicking a Deep South drawl.

The woman reached hurriedly for her dress, which hung from a peg near the man’s cassock. She pulled it on without haste, unmindful of her nakedness as she stood in the center of the wagon.

“Can I get dressed too?” the man wanted to know, smiling nervously.

Joe was about to nod his assent, but then he looked at the build of the man and at the cassock, his mouth forming a slight smile.

“Take off your dog collar, Elias,” he ordered.

The man blinked, as if unsure that he had heard correctly, then took a long time removing the collar, his trembling fingers fumbling with the fastening. The woman watched, the sneer on her face conveying contempt for her lover and hatred for the man with the gun.

“I’m naked,” the man said unnecessarily as he finished the task.

“Your sister won’t mind,” Joe said but made no complaint when the man draped the blanket around himself as he stood.

He motioned with the rifle. “Both outside.”

The woman came first, proud and defiant, the man behind, smiling ingratiatingly, stumbling over the tailgate and almost falling headlong. He recovered and handed the cleric’s collar to Joe. In the strong sunlight, despite his bulk, the man looked even more spineless and Joe found it hard to visualize him as a hot-gospeller preaching fire and damnation to the one-horse towns in this part of the country.

“Over there and get the food ready,” he ordered them. “I’ll be watching and I see anything I don’t like you get to have a personal interview with the man upstairs.”

“When my time comes, I’ll be ready, the man said, but scuttled across to the fire with a haste that erased the confidence from his words.

Joe watched the pair for a moment, then hoisted himself aboard the wagon, drew his knife and made a slit in the canvas side facing the fire. As he peered through he saw the woman called Virtue edging towards his horse while the man made a frantic beckoning mime to call her back. Joe sighed and rested the rifle barrel in the slit, loosed off a shot that glanced off the rounded side of the cooking pot, then ricocheted at a tangent to kick up dust inches from the woman’s feet.

“I think you’ve got less reason to want to see the Lord than your brother,” Joe called and grinned as she threw the profanity at him again, but turned and went to the pot, began to stir it with the speed of vengeance in turmoil.

With quick movements, interrupted for an occasional look out through the torn canvas, Joe stripped off his uniform and dressed in the cassock and reverse collar, wearing his knife belt and army issue leather belt with holstered Remington .44 below the engulfing garment. He had to make a large slit in the seams at each side to make for easy access to his weapons. But it was merely a matter of leaving the cassock unfastened at the top to give him ease of movement to the neck pouch. He found the wide brimmed, low crowned hat that matched his attire and placed it on his head, picked up a large piece of looking glass from the smashed mirror and examined his appearance. He looked the most unlikely priest he had ever seen, but he was well enough satisfied with the results to grin.

When he jumped clear of the wagon he saw the man and woman whispering together in conspiratorial motioning of their head towards the wagon as she ladled stew into bowls he held. They came guiltily upright at the sound of his approach. She looked at Joe with petulance, the man shook his head in mute disapproval.

“I don’t aim to steal your show, reverend,” Joe said. “Just your clothes.”

“It is a grave sin to impersonate a man of the cloth, sir,” came the reply. “The Lord will surely punish you for it.”

“I’ve got a feeling screwing your sister is a worse sin,” Joe came back, taking a bowl of stew from the man’s hand, relishing the great hunks of meat in the thick brown gravy.

“I ain’t his sister,” the woman snapped, squatting down with her plate, snatching a spoon from the ground and wiping it on her dress.

“Nor his wife either,” Joe put in, getting the only other spoon, retreating a few yards before he began to eat, discovering the food tasted as good as it smelled and looked. “And I’m betting he ain’t even an ordained minister of the church.”

Without a spoon, the man was squatting and picking up the meat with his fingers, raising the bowl to his lips to suck at the gravy.

“You are condemning yourself with every word you mutter, sir,” the man said and now his tone was truly that of an evangelical Bible-puncher. “The Lord is taking note of all you do and all you say and I, His humble servant, an prepared to allow Him to act on my behalf when the time is nigh. I will not …”

“Shut your damn mouth, you old fake,” the woman slung at him with deep-seated anger. “You are not impressing him and I know you are the biggest sinner east of California.”

Her words froze the man into shock, his mouth hanging open, eyes staring in disbelief. The woman, unconcerned with the reaction she had produced, stood and moved to the pot, began to ladle a second helping of stew on to her bowl.

“More?” she asked of Joe.

He nodded and stood, moved towards the fire, experiencing a stirring in his loins at the sight of the woman bent over the pot, the thin material of her dress clung by sweat to the lines of her body. Then she made her play, in a blur of lightening movement, throwing forward the bowl of scalding stew, its steaming contents streaming towards Joe’s face.

He went sideways, falling, hurling his own bowl clear as his hand snaked under the cassock to the knife at his back. It came out with a fluid movement and streaked from his hand, all as part of one continuous reflex action. But the woman dived low, under it, in a desperate attempt to reach the Henry on the ground. The man screamed in terror and pain and it could have been this sound, or the sight of the Remington in Joe’s other hand that turned the woman to stone.

Joe backed up quickly, snatched his rifle from the ground and looked at the man, saw him still squatting in front of the fire, clutching his bowl, the handle of the knife protruding beneath his left cheek, the point and an inch of blade gleaming out from the right, a trickle of blood running down on each side.

“Holy Mother of God,” the woman said hoarsely as the man’s eyes grew wide, then snapped closed before he toppled forward, the fire sending up a shower of wood as his head fell into the seat of the flames.

He screamed once as the intense heat brought him out of the faint and made one feeble attempt to drag himself clear before he died, and the sweet stench of burning flesh filled the air. The woman started to scream, writhing her body across the ground, her dress riding up over her thighs and stomach as she went into convulsions of hysteria, the power of her horror causing the veins to stand out starkly in her throat, her eyes widening to an incredible degree, foam bubbling in her mouth and then spilling over to run down her jaw.

Joe ignored her and bent to the man, drew him clear of the flames just as the blanket caught. He glanced momentarily and without emotion at the darkened, mutilated flesh which moments ago had been a face, then pulled his knife clear, wiping it clean of blood and soot on the blanket.

“I guess your time came, Reverend,” he muttered to the corpse against the backdrop of the woman’s screams. “And hell can’t be hotter than that.”

He moved to where the woman was reaching the climax of her fit of apoplexy and watched idly for a moment to see if it would end. When it didn’t he reversed rifle and swung it in a short arc. The stock caught her squarely on the jaw and her final scream ended in a whimper, as her body was suddenly limp. He did not even look to see if he had killed her, but moved back to the fire, retrieved his bowl and spoon and helped himself to more stew. He went to sit on the wagon tailgate to eat it, then rolled a cigarette and smoked it leisurely, all out of sight of the Reverend Elias Speed and the woman called Virtue.

Not until he had finished, and strode across the campsite to reach his horse, drinking from the rushing stream, did he glance at the woman, now visibly breathing, and realize it was the first time he had ever so much as raised a hand in anger to a woman. And that now, as he mounted, returning the Henry to its boot, he felt not a shred of remorse. The killing of his kid brother had drained Josiah Hedges of everything that is good and decent in the human spirit.

He was now a killer of the worse kind.

A man alone.

CHAPTER FIVE

NIGHT was beginning to cool the heat of the day as Joe crossed the Smoky Hill River and his mount stumbled twice, almost pitching the rider into the fast moving water. The animal was a brave hearted beast, and had willingly kept up the fast pace Joe had demanded throughout the afternoon and evening, as if sensing the desire for quick vengeance. But it was not sympathy for his horse that caused Joe to call a halt on the south bank of the river. The animal had a limit and to push her beyond this would render her useless. It was a long walk from western Kansas to the Arizona Territory.

Mounted, Joe had felt confident he could have ridden through the night without tiring, but as soon as his feet touched the ground fatigue hit him like an invisible blow, weakening his legs and dragging down his eyelids. He followed the example of his horse, going to the edge of the river and sucking in the cool, refreshing water, immediately felt revitalized as its iciness filled his throat and stomach. Some yards from the river’s edge was a small stand of trees with a patch of lush green grass beneath their branches and he tethered the horse, there, unsaddled her and collected the makings of a fire. He set a pot of river water on the flames and while it was boiling stripped off his preacher’s cassock, his weapons and underwear and made a naked dash for the river, stubbed his toe on a submerged rock and fell headlong into the water’s freezing grip. The coldness knocked the wind from him and he surfaced fighting for breath as his teeth chattered and cramp threatened his right leg. He waded quickly out to find a deep patch of water, then launched himself into a smooth, well-practiced crawl stroke, the exertion pumping blood through his veins, providing his body with a warm defense against the river’s low temperature.

When he returned to dry land a sky full of stars and a three-quarter moon made the droplets of water gleam like jewels against the even brown of his skin with, at the right hip, close to the left shoulder blade and at a halfway point on his left thigh patches of milky whiteness that were the scars of wartime bullet wounds which refused to heal to the old color.

As he sat before the fire to let its heat dry him, drinking a mug of strong coffee and watching the split peas boiling in the remainder of the water, Joe felt the last remnants of the bone deep fatigue drained out him, to be replaced by a soft, pleasant sensation of tiredness that he knew from experience would give him a deep, restful sleep of five hours and leave him completely fresh when he awoke.

“Don’t he look beautiful in his birthday suit?”

Joe didn’t move a muscle at the sound of the voice, crystal clear in its mocking tone as it carried on the silent night air. He knew it came from his left and that the man was no more than ten yards away. It proved to Joe just how tired he was, for when he was fresh nobody could get this close to him without him being aware of their approach.

“If I was a female I would go real crazy with desire for such a hombre. He is magnificent.”

This one was a Mexican, over on the right, but forward of the other so there would be no direct crossfire.

“You ought to see him from where I am. The firelight flickering on him and all that crap.”

An older man. From the trees. Joe knew he should have paid attention to the restlessness of his horse during the few minutes before the newcomers announced their presence.

“Don’t you move now or you won’t have a head.”

Immediately behind him, accompanied by the cracking of a twig under a boot and then the gentle prod of a large bore muzzle in the neck. A series of clicking sounds cut through the night, more than four, as the guns ringing Joe were cocked. He knew he could quite easily grab the gun of the man behind him, but there were too many imponderables in what might happen then, so Joe continued to remain immobile.

“Any of you fellers want to stay for supper, you’re welcome,” he said and the man behind him gave a small gasp. He sounded nervous, and that worried Joe. The muzzle felt large enough to be that of an old fashioned blunderbuss, unpredictable but devastating at such close range, “I figure six of you.”

“Seven.” The man in the trees.

Joe carefully lifted his mug and sipped at the coffee. “That’ll be about a mouthful of peas for each of us.”

The man came out of the trees, appearing as a shadow, lighter against the dark background.

“Divided by eight?”

“Yeah.”

“You may not be around.”

“You’ve got to have a better reason to kill me than a spoonful of peas.”

“We’ve been killing men for less reason than that,” came the reply as the man stepped forward into the light of the fire and Joe was able to see the long blue coat and the tarnished buttons of the Federal infantry uniform. He held a Colt loosely in his left hand, pointed idly at the fire.

The others came in then, including the man who had been behind Joe and all were ex-Federal infantrymen, travel stained and weary-eyed. They were privates, all armed with revolvers except the one from behind. He had an ancient blunderbuss. The man from the trees was in command, perhaps because he was the oldest. Close on fifty, Joe guessed. The others looked about twenty as they tried to appear tough, fighting a losing battle against fatigue.

“You said seven,” Joe said when he had glanced around the ring of six, stubble covered faces.

“Ed’s holding the horses,” the oldest man replied, raised his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle.

Within moments hoofs rattled and another young soldier appeared, holding four sets of reins in one hand, three in the other.

“What’s your name, hombre?” the Mexican asked, coming closer, peering with great interest across the fire into Joe’s face.

“I didn’t know there were any Mexicans in the war,” Joe countered.

The man grinned and shrugged, “A few. I was the best.”

Joe’s eyes narrowed and glinted dangerously in the firelight as he watched the man finished tethering their horses and move across to poke among the saddle and bedroll at the foot of the tree. But he looked no further than the clothes piled on top of the heap, gave a startled yell of surprise that could not have communicated greater pleasure had he discovered the two thousand dollars in the saddlebags.

“He’s a priest,” the man said excitedly, and the others glanced at him briefly before returning their attention to Joe, eyeing him with renewed interest.

“Well what do you know,” the man in command said, and the Mexican crossed himself.

“Put away your guns,” the one who had found the clothes said sharply. “A priest will not harm us and we have no right to treat him so.”

The rest of the men looked towards their leader and after a moment’s hesitation, he struck his own gun in his belt and the others lowered their weapons. Joe saw the tension escape from their expressions, but he remained keyed up.

“You are a Catholic, father?” the Mexican asked reverently.

Joe shook his head.

The Mexican shook his head. “It does not matter. I think you can get dressed now.”

Joe looked at the older man, received a nod and stood, finished his coffee unembarrassed by his nakedness and crossed to where the man still stood holding the cassock. Actually, he was a boy, no more than seventeen, his beard a mere white down that gave his face a vulnerable look. But in his eyes was mirrored a multitude of pain and brutality.

“We are sorry, padre,” he said. “If we had known …”

Joe had seen many such men during the war, tender in years but aged in bitter experience, often more frightened by the authority of an officer’s uniform than the guns of the enemy.

“But you didn’t know, son,” Joe said, feeling nothing for him but injecting softness into his voice.

Out of respect the boy turned his back while Joe dressed, and he acted as a screen for the others, who had squatted around the fire, all apparently discomfited by their elaborate precautions and disrespectful behavior towards a harmless man of the cloth. He was thus able to put on his concealed weapons without arousing any suspicion. Fully dressed, including his hat, he moved back to the fire, accompanied by the boy, who seemed to feel some kind of profound rapport with Joe.

“Mind if we use your fire to boil up some coffee ...?” the older man asked, letting the sentence hang in the air as if unsure of how he should address Joe.

“Certainly,” Joe said and one of the men got hurriedly to his feet, went to the horses for a pot and carried it to the rivers edge to fill.

“Have you ridden far?” Joe asked to end a lengthy silence during which they all glanced furtively at him, except the boy who appeared constantly on the point of posing a request but lacked the gall.

“Twenty miles or so,” the Mexican replied. “We are going home from the war.”

The older man nodded. “That’s right. Jose here to Baja California for some more fighting in the Mex army and the rest of us out to Salt Lake country. We figure to start ranching there. Seems some people can’t get killing out of their systems.”

The man had returned with the water filled pot now and set it alongside Joe’s pot of peas. He wore a puzzled expression, but refused to meet Joe’s eyes.

“How do you mean?”

“Ran into a bunch of five cavalrymen this afternoon,” came the disgruntled reply. “Raiding a stage station. Wearing the same uniforms as us and killing innocent people for a few lousy dollars.”

“We were only fooling when we crept up on you,” the Mexican put in hastily and the older man was suddenly embarrassed.

“Yeah,” he said, “that’s right. Wanna get to a nice part of the country and live peaceful like.”

Joe hardly heard what he was saying. “Five cavalrymen?” His tone was sharp and seven pairs of eyes examined him. He fought a smile on to his face. “I am sorry. I have been a long time riding alone. News is scarce and I am interested.”

It satisfied all save the one who found Joe a constant form of bemusement.

“Real tough, mean bastards … Pardon me. Led by a sergeant. And one was a busted corporal. We chased them out of there, I can tell you. But not before they killed the liveryman and raped a woman waiting for a stage.”

“Which way did they go?” Joe asked, forcing his voice to maintain an even tone. “I wouldn’t like to run into them.”

“This way,” the man answered as the Mexican shoveled coffee into the pot and stirred it with a knife. “They had fresher horses than us and there was nothing in chasing them. Probably came through this part of the country. Heading southwest. Just got killing in their blood, I guess.”

The men dipped mugs into the pot and sat silently drinking coffee for several moments.

“Padre?” It was the boy, finally finding the courage to pose his question.

Joe looked at him quizzically.

“I wish to take communion.”

Joe was thinking about Frank Forrest, a sergeant; Hal Douglas who was busted from corporal after he looted a widow woman’s house in Tennessee; and three other men. He was thinking about Jamie and what these men had done to him. He was thinking he had guessed their moved right. He was certain he had narrowed the distance between himself and them.

The suddenness and subject of the boy’s question almost caused Joe to curse aloud.

“Well ...” he said and faltered.

“After supper, boy,” the older man put in, giving Joe a time leeway. “Eat first, padre.”

Joe took the offered opportunity, munching slowly at the meager meal. Realizing that at the end of it he would have to make his play and that getting the drop on seven men, even though they were unsuspecting, was not going to be easy.

Then the time for planning was virtually non existent.

“You’re Captain Josiah Hedges.”

The words came fast, with the speed of abrupt realization after long pondering, from the man who had cast so many puzzled glances in Joe’s direction.

“I knew you were familiar. You ain’t no priest. I seen you at Five Forks, Virginia on April one this year after we beat the gray-coats, strutting around in your captain’s uniform like you’d done it all yourself.” He spat into the fire. “Christ, I hate officers.”

Before the man’s spittle had ceased its hissing, while the other six men were still recovering from the shock of the revelation, Joe was on his feet and his left hand had streaked under the cassock, emerged holding the ready cocked Remington. The pent up tension that had coiled Joe’s nerves into a tight ball ever since the first voice had come out of the night was released through the trigger finger and the mighty roar of the Remington exploded like a crack of thunder. The man who had spoken made no sound of pain as the heavy caliber bullet crashed through his skull. There was a creak of his bones as he toppled sideways under the impact and a greater hissing that before as a fountain of blood mixed with gray particles of brain tissue gushed on to the fire.

“And I hate privates with long memories,” Joe said, swinging the revolver around the heads of the others, ensuring they realized they were covered.

“He said, Edge,” the Mexican mispronounced. “I want to remember that name.”

“That’s close enough,” Joe told the ring of shocked faces. “And you might all have some years left to remember it if you do like I say.”

Five of the six recovered from the shock of sudden violence and from their expressions Joe was sure he had nothing to fear from them unless he gave them a wide even opportunity to draw on him. But the boy was still stunned, his mind refusing to accept the fact that a man dressed in such garb could kill in cold blood. He rose, as if in a trance, and reached out a hand towards Joe, perhaps to feel if this was a real living man and not some terrible component of an obscene nightmare. But Joe mistook the gesture and his right hand flew to the back of his neck, shot forward again as if to hit the boy open handed across the cheek. But there was no smack of flesh against flesh and for a moment the boy was as surprised as the others. Then a hairline of blood appeared at each corner of his mouth, extended an inch on either side and the boy gave a terrible scream as his lower lip and bottom of each cheek flapped forward and down, revealing a perfect set of milk white lower teeth seeming to float in a sea of bubbling blood.

Oh my dear God,” the older man exclaimed hoarsely.

“Guns in the fire,” Joe said coldly as the boy collapsed into a heap on the ground, both hands going to his lower face, the sounds of pain and terror reduced to pitiful gurgling noises as his throat filled with blood. “Clockwise, one at a time. You first.”

He nodded to the Mexican who hesitated for only a second before inching the gun from his holster and tossing it into the flames. The other followed suit, automatically, unable to take their wide, horror-filled eyes from the boy as he writhed before them, moaning in agony. Joe stooped and freed the boy’s gun, tossed it after the others, then moved quickly towards his gear. Without weapons, still numbed by the speed and viciousness of the last shattering seconds, the men went to the aid of the injured boy, paying no heed to Joe as he saddled up, tied on his bedroll and mounted.

“What the hell did you use on him?” the older man said, shaking his head as he looked up from the boy who was holding the great flap of flesh in place with his hand, as if waiting for it to heal back to the rest of his face.

Joe, still covering the group with his Remington, flashed his free hand to his neck and back again, and showed them his open palm. The handle of an open razor lay along the center of his hand with the blade, gleaming silver in the moonlight, clamped between his two middle fingers.

“This kid shouldn’t have moved,” he said flatly. “Pity, he’s hardly old enough to start shaving.”

As Joe returned the razor to his neck pouch the first gun on the fire exploded and after he had wheeled his horse and set her at a gallop flames reached the cartridges in the others and the men dived for cover as lead and burning wood were thrown across the campsite.

“I’ll remember you, Edge,” the Mexican called after the escaping rider.

CHAPTER SIX

THE cluster of buildings called itself Anson City, proclaiming its status on a clapboard sign at the side of the trail which suddenly became Main Street as it ran between the church and the schoolhouse, the bank and the hotel, the sheriff’s office and the saloon, the dry goods store and the livery stable, the stage line headquarters and the restaurant before fanning out in several directions to become roads evidently named for the farms to which they led. It looked like a nice, peaceful place to rest up for a few hours, to have a decent breakfast and a bath with soap and hot water in the hotel before a sleep in a soft bed until maybe noon.

That was what Joe thought as he rode in just as the sun was dragging itself above the horizon behind him, pale and anemic but heading into an unblemished sky which promised another hot and dusty day. It was too early for many town dwellers to be awake and Joe might have been the only living being in the country as he rode his horse slowly down the center of the street, hoofs raising tiny puffs of dust. But the double doors of the restaurant were open and a column of gray wood smoke rose lazily up from the chimney at the rear of the building. The smoke told of ham and eggs, grits and fresh coffee, great hunks of still warm bread with butter direct from the churn.

Hunger became a stronger desire than vengeance and Joe justified the change in priority by pointing out to himself that the five men he had swore to kill also had to rest from time to time. And he had as many years as life allowed him to avenge the death of Jamie.

So he jerked on the reins, heading across the street towards the livery stable with its big FEED sign, intending to take care of the animal before tending to his own needs. But then another door on the street came open, thumping back against the front of a building and Joe turned quickly in the saddle to see a man standing in the doorway of the sheriff’s office, aiming one of the new .52 caliber rim-fire Starr rifles at him. The man, a five-pointed tin star on his chest, had the rifle raised to shoulder level and Joe could see the steely glint of his eyes behind the back-sight.

“I ain’t never shot no parson,” the lawman said evenly, “but then you ain’t no more a man of religion than I am. You get off that horse real slow and easy and you keep your hands way out at your sides.”

Joe knew better than to draw against a man with a rifle aimed at him from less than ten yards away, so he did as instructed, dropping easily to the ground. But then his horse gave a sudden nervous jump and her hindquarter caught Joe in the back, sending him stumbling across the street. A rifle cracked and a hunk of leather was bitten from Joe’s right boot toe, went bouncing off into the dust. He froze and glanced across the street, saw a man perched on the roof of the bank, in the same stance as the sheriff, blue smoke curling away from his rifle muzzle.

“My deputy,” the sheriff said evenly. “He didn’t miss. If he had known that wasn’t just a stumble you’d have a bullet where your brains are. We heard about you shooting a feller and then cutting up another one. Mex came through here early on and told us. Wouldn’t stay around so I guess we’ll have to put you in the cooler until we can find him as a witness. Plenty of time. Circuit judge ain’t due for a month or more.” He glanced down at the bank. “Okay Hank,” he called. “Come on down here and get his guns.” Then back at Joe. “Hank’s been up there and me waiting here for a couple of hours. Figured you might be through this way. Man’s got to eat and the way the Mex told it you ain’t been doing too well in that respect.”

The shot and raised voices had brought the whole town awake now and several doors and windows were opened on both sides of the street. But nobody came down off the sidewalks except the deputy, who approached wearily, rifle at the ready. He had one the new Starrs too, which he now carried at hip level, finger ready on the trigger.

“He’s got a handgun under the cloak and some kind of razor tucked in at the back of his neck someplace, Hank,” the sheriff called.

Joe felt a hand go under the cassock from the rear, remove the Remington, then there was a movement at his neck as the razor was withdrawn from its pouch.

“Got em, Mr. Hammond,” he said with deep satisfaction in his tone. “Guess he ain’t so tough now.”

“You ain’t standing where I am and looking in his face, Hank,” Sheriff Hammond warned. “I wouldn’t trust that cuss if I had the whole US army backing me up. Over here, feller. Slow and easy, like you were walking on fresh laid eggs and you didn’t want to break not one of them.”

Joe moved. “Sheriff,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call the Mexican a Mex. My pa was Mexican and it’s kind of derogatory to use that term.”

“What do you know,” the sheriff said wryly. “A half-breed Mex using four dollar words.”

Joe was at the sidewalk now and stepped up, his boots resounding hollowly on the planking. The deputy named Hank clanked up behind him, as the sheriff backed into the office.

“Hi there fellow man in trouble,” somebody said and Joe peered towards the rear of the room, across the desk top with the chair and rack of rifles behind it, saw the bars of two cells, one with the door open and empty, the other closed and padlocked, behind which a middle aged man sat on the edge of the bunk and grinned out at the activity in the office.

“Shuddup, Stupid,” the sheriff snapped, motioning with the Starr for Joe to enter the vacant cell.

The man’s grin stayed as bright as ever. “That’s not my name,” he said conversationally to Joe. “Sheriff’s sore ‘cause I won’t tell him who I am, so he calls me Stupid all the time. I don’t mind. I’m easy.”

The cell door clanged closed behind Joe and the key clicked dryly in the padlock. Joe sat on the edge of the bunk.

“We know who he is,” the sheriff said with a sigh of relief as he returned his rifle to the rack and sat down behind his desk. “He’s a half Mex man called Edge.”

Joe’s fellow prisoner shook his head in disapproval. “Never tell ‘em your name, buddy.”

“I didn’t.”

“Go and stable his horse, Hank,” Sheriff Hammond told his deputy as his rifle and Joe’s razor were placed on the desk. “And bring his stuff in here.”

The deputy nodded and went out of the office, looking pleased with his part in the capture.

“Any chance of some breakfast?” Joe asked.

Hammond sighed and went to the door to call after the departing deputy. “Go and see Annie at the restaurant, Hank. Get her to bring breakfast for four.”

Joe raised his feet from the floor and stretched out on the bunk. It was hard and the blanket smelled of damp, vomited whiskey and urine, but it would do.

The man called Stupid started to chatter, as if he had been alone for too long and company excited him. “The boys and me did the bank last night. Got away with close on five thousand, I reckon. Not me, of course, sheriff there netted me with a lucky shot at my horse. Real mean of a man to shoot a horse but lawmen are mean. So here I am. Not for long, though. Boy’s will be back soon to get me out. We’d have got clean away if a punk hadn’t fed info to the sheriff here. When I get out I’m going to hang him myself, personal like.”

Joe had closed his eyes, heard the man rambling on without listening, discounting his hope of being busted out of the jail. Joe put his faith in the knife the deputy had overlooked, which was now pressed uncomfortably into the small of his back, yet at the same time feeding comfort into his mind.

“You ain’t really a priest, are you?” Stupid asked, trying a direct question in order to get the other man interested.

“No he ain’t and if you don’t shut your overflowing mouth I’ll tie you up and stick a gun cleaning rag down your throat,” Hammond said with impatience.

Then the deputy returned, hefted Joe’s saddlebags and bedroll on the desk, laid the booted Henry down beside them. Stupid watched with great interest as the sheriff emptied out the bags, spilling out the money.

“Hell, he’s a bank robber himself,” he said with awe. “There must be a fortune there.”

“Count it,” Hammond ordered his deputy.

Joe was still flat on his back, eyes closed. “No need,” he said. “There’s two thousand there.”

“Stolen?” Hammond asked.

“Earned.”

“I bet.”

“Four breakfasts,” a woman’s voice said and now Joe opened his eyes, hoisted himself into a sitting position and looked at a tall girl of perhaps twenty five who stood in the doorway, a hard smile on her harshly attractive face. “Fifty cents a piece.” She saw the money and made a circle with her voluptuous lips, almost dropped the tray upon which the plates were set.

Hammond picked up a five-dollar bill from the pile and held it out. “They’re on Edge. He won’t mind if you keep the change.”

None of the men looked at Joe for approval, and he made neither a negative nor affirmative sign. His eyes were locked upon those of Annie, who had given a start of recognition when she heard Hammond speak the name Edge.

“Down here,” Hammond said, indicating a spare corner of the desk, and the moment ended as Annie set down the tray, took the five dollars and with a final glance into the cells, went out. There was room under the cell doors for the plates to pass and this is how they were given to the prisoners, the deputy placing them on the floor and skating them through with his boot. No eating tools were provided for those on the wrong side of the door and Joe and Stupid had to pick up the food with their fingers as Hammond and Hank ate with knives and forks.

There was a small safe in one corner of the room and, after his meal, Hammond took the money across to it and locked it inside with a key on the same bunch as the one he had used to fasten the cell door padlock.

Joe skated his empty plate back outside and again stretched full length on the evil smelling blanket. It was not exactly the kind of rest and comfort he had figured to be his in Anson City, but it was unlikely to improve and so he decided to make the best of it.

“That Annie’s sure got a fine pair of titties, and I know what ...” the man in the next cell began just as Joe started to doze.

“Shuddup, Stupid,” he said softly. “Or you won’t have any throat for Hammond to stuff that rag down.”

The sheriff grinned and withdrew the razor from its pouch, made a flicking movement through the fetid air of the office and looked at Stupid.

“Don’t think it couldn’t happen,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

WHOOOOOOSH!

The man who had become to be known as Edge was literally exploded out of his sleep in the jailhouse of Anson City. A keg of gunpowder on a short fuse placed at the foot of the rear adobe wall of the sheriff’s office went off with an almighty roar, gouging a large, ragged hole. Edge was blasted off the stinking bed, flung across the cell to slam into the bars. But in the split second transition from sleep to waking a reflex action bred from long experience of mortal danger caused him to draw up his legs and lower his head, cover his skull with his hands and tuck in his elbow so that his forearms protected his face. He hit the bars like a large human ball, and dropped to the stone floor bruised and temporarily stunned, but with no bones broken. As he got painfully to his feet, coughing upon the dust laden, cordite thick air he saw a shaft of sunlight stabbing through the rear wall.

“Those bastards have done it,” he heard Sheriff Hammond yell in anger, then the rattle of a key in a lock as the bar on the rifle rack was released.

Edge sprinted four paces, lowered his head and pushed his arms out in front of him to launch into a dive through the hole in the wall. His palms found solid ground outside and he twisted his body sideways, pushed against his hands a moment after contact and landed on his feet in a half crouch. His eyes stung with dust, but he saw the blurred shapes of three mounted riders and one spare, saddled horse.

“You ain’t Pete,” one of the riders said with surprise.

“Gun,” Edge demanded. There was a moment’s hesitation and Edge launched himself at the closest horseman. “I said gun,” he shouted and jerked the rifle from its boot behind the saddle, spun round and ran down the alley between the sheriff’s office and the hotel.

Clear of the dust cloud, the street was blindingly brilliant in the clear, hot strength of the noonday sun. In the shade of doorways several frightened faces were looking towards Edge, but a threatening shot with the ancient, single shot muzzleloader was enough to make them withdraw.

Edge leapt to the sidewalk and reached the office door in three long strides, looked inside to see the sheriff crouched near the right hand cell bars, looking at the inert form of the man called Stupid. But he heard Edge’s final footfall into the office and spun his head around, fear etched deep in his features.

“Your friends?” he asked.

Edge watched him inch up the rifle.

“I don’t have any,” he answered. “Those clucks blew the wrong cell.”

He aimed for the man’s heart but the ancient weapon didn’t have the accuracy of a Henry and pulled to the right, the bullet smashing into the sheriff’s shoulder. But it packed punch and the impact of the bullet knocked the man sideways, his rifle dropped from lifeless fingers.

Edge tossed the gun away and crossed the office quickly, tore the key bunch from the sheriff’s belt and took it to the safe. There was only his money and an almost empty bottle of whiskey inside. The liquor seemed to burn the dust off his throat as it went down.

He stuffed the money in the saddlebags, picked up his bedroll and weapons from beside the desk.

“You coming Pete?” a voice sounded from out back.

“Yeah!”

Edge shot a glance at the cell, saw Stupid getting shakily to his feet. He was grinning out between the bars.

“They know I’m alive now. You don’t take me with you. They won’t help you.”

Edge wasted no time thinking about it. He went to the cell door and used another key from the bunch to swing it open.

“You’re a fool, Mex,” the sheriff said, his voice weak. “The Brady gang ain’t got no time for strangers.” He groaned, but fought for more words. “They’ll kill you, Mex.”

Edge’s eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. He thrust the Henry into Stupid’s arms.

“Watch the street,” he demanded.

The man was surprised. “What?”

“Watch the goddamn street,” Edge snapped, and gave the man a shove towards the door just as a fusillade of shots rattled outside and bullets dug chunks of wood from the door.

“What are you going to do?” the sheriff asked in terror as Edge knelt down besides him, looped the pouch around his neck and withdrew his razor.

Edge’s face was still set in an ugly sneer as he whispered: “If I’m a Mex, you’re something else, sheriff.”

The sheriff began to moan as the razor point but into the tight skin of his forehead and more bullets reined into the office. Then there was another shot, much closer and Stupid yelled with delight.

“Hey, I just plugged Hank.”

Edge finished his work with a grunt of satisfaction and stood up as the sheriff continued his low moaning.

“Come on,” he said quietly.

Stupid let off another shot and backed away from the door, looked down with distaste at the blood-drenched face of the lawman.

“What have you done to him?” he gasped.

Edge stooped and used the sheriff’s kerchief to wipe off the excess blood, leaving six roughly carved but legible letters visible on the man’s forehead before more blood pumped out to thicken the strokes into a mere scrawl.

“I marked him with a word.”

“I don’t read to well,” Stupid said.

Edge took the rifle from the man and picked up the rest of his gear.

“For the rest of his life, he’s marked GRINGO,” Edge said. “Come on.”

More shots poured into the office as Edge went quickly out through the hole in the rear wall, Stupid scuttling after him.

“You took your damn time,” one of the three waiting riders said, his anger edged with nervousness.

“There was something I had to do,” Edge said, going to the spare horse, throwing on his saddlebags, booting the Henry and swinging up into the saddle.

“We brought that horse for Pete.”

“You blew the wrong cell,” Edge snarled. “I got Pete out.”

“I’ll ride with you, Chuck,” Pete said, hurriedly, scuttling over to one of the riders, as if afraid an argument might wind up with him being left behind to face the town. Mounted behind the reluctant rider, he looked over his shoulder. “You’re coming with us ain’t you, Edge?”

“He’d better,” somebody said. “That’s Brady’s horse, and nobody steals Brady’s horse.”

A man fired from inside the cell, through the blasted hole and another from the mouth of the alley. Both bullets caught the rider to whose waits Pete was clinging. The first sliced his nose from his face, leaving two black nostril holes in a triangle of scarlet. The second drilled a hole through his ear and up into his brain before crashing out from the top of his skull.

“I’m coming,” Edge said, kicking his horse into action, the flying hoofs leaping over the body of the dead man as Pete shoved him clear and slid into the saddle.

A few wild shots were pumped after the escaping riders, but with neither Sheriff Hammond nor his deputy able to lead a posse, no citizen of Anson City saddled up to give chase.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE Brady gang was holed up in a deep gully cut by some great primeval river through low hill country. The four riders were challenged by a lookout concealed behind a boulder at the mouth of the gully, his warning shot whining through the still air and the bullet thwacking into a tree trunk before the crack of the rifle reached the riders. They reined in their horses with great neighing and sliding of hoofs on loose shale.

“Hold on you stupid bastard,” the leading rider flung at the sharpshooter. “It’s us. We sprung Pete from Anson jail.”

“You ain’t carrying no sign,” came a shout of response. “How’d I know?”

The man at the head of the column curses softly and set his horse trotting down into the gully. Edge allowed the others to follow, then brought up the rear. He had carefully retained his position at the back of the furious five-mile ride from Anson City, very much aware of Pete’s knowledge of the two thousand dollars (less five for Annie) stashed in the saddlebags. The gully made two sharp curves, one to the right, the next left, before broadening into a wide bowl with a shale bottom and curved rocky sides, as if an enormous shovel had been used to scoop a massive indentation out of the gully. At the other side, it narrowed again.

There was a crude wooden shack in the center of the bowl, with a hitching rail along the side to which a dozen horses were tethered. Bales of hay were stacked on the other side of the shack. Other bales were being used as seats for a group of men who lounged in front of the shack, four playing cards, two apparently sleeping, another idly picking at his nails with a curved blade knife while three more talked, their heads close together. On a horse count that meant two more in the shack, Edge figured, maybe only one if the lookout and not rode to his position.

The Brady Gang was a big one.

All the men outside looked up with interest at the approach of the horsemen and one or two shouted ribald remarks of welcome to Pete, who waved back at them like a visiting dignitary, enjoying the limelight enormously. But when the men realized the fourth rider was not a member of the gang the banter ended abruptly.

“Brady,” one of the card players shouted as the newcomers dismounted two figures emerged from the shack, a man and a woman.

He was of indeterminate age, anything from twenty-five to thirty-five, vastly overweight with arms that threatened the seams of his shirt, thighs that made his pants skin-tight and an enormous body that overhangs his gun belt, drooping over to conceal his buckle. His face was round with cheeks that ballooned out as if stuffed with uneaten food and above these he had small, round, pig-like eyes, which warned the world that weight was not all he had an excess of. They were the eyes of a man whose middle name was HATE.

Beside him the woman was almost girl-like: slim and frail looking, with a mere hint of feminine curves under the dirty, once white dress. But when Edge looked again at her face, dull-eyed and etched with lines of bitterness, framed by long matted, greasy black hair, he could see she would be at least forty on her next birthday.

“Hi Brady,” Pete said, excitedly.

“Who’s the new critter?” Brady said, ignoring the rescued gang member and locking his mean eyes upon those of Edge, who returned the gaze without blinking.

“Name’s Edge,” Pete said, refusing to have his mood of jubilation quelled. “Hadn’t been for him I might not have broken out. Carved some foreign word on the sheriff’s face. Real mean cuss.” There was a tone of respect in Pete’s voice as he spoke his last.

“What happened to Chuck?” Brady demanded, and it was he who now lost out in the staring match.

“Somebody blasted him out of the saddle back at Anson City,” Edge answered. “Obliged for the loan of your horse.”

He led the animal to the hitching rail and lopped the reins over it, removed his gear and the Henry. All eyes were on him, and several hands went to guns as they saw the rifle held loosely in Edge’s hand.

“Don’t let the priest’s outfit fool you none,” Pete said, his voice cutting across the moment of tension like a keen edge through soft cheese. “He ain’t no priest. Why he’s got ...”

Edge poised himself to loose of a shot and leap back upon the horse as he realized Pete was about to shoot off his mouth about the money in the saddlebags. But it was not fear of Edge that caused Peter to halt the flow of words. The expression that flitted across his face told of a thought that had suddenly struck him. And Edge knew what that thought was.

But nobody else in front of the shack showed any suspicion at what had happened. Truth was, Edge suspected, Pete always talked too much and the rest of the gang had learned to ignore most of what he said; probably didn’t listen half the time.

“Let’s get to Linmann,” the woman said suddenly, her voice gruff, almost as deep as that of a man. “We waited long enough.”

Brady made a sound from deep inside him, causing his mass of flesh to shake like jelly and it took Edge a moment to realize the big man was laughing.

“You really itching to have some sport with that bastard, ain’t you, Stella?” he said between chortles.

“Ain’t we all itching to see it?” Pete said with glee, grinning at everybody, and triggering them all into gusts of laughter. Then Pete looked at Edge who was standing in stony silence, gear in one arm, Henry held loosely in his other hand. “Linmann’s the guy I told you about. Sold us out to Hammond.”

Brady stopped laughing and his dark eyes found Edge’s face again. “Like you to stick around for awhile, Mr. Edge. Might be we have a spare horse to sell you later. Don’t figure Linmann will be wanting it anymore.”

His laughter exploded the excess of flesh into a paroxysm of movement again as he put a meaty arm about the woman’s thin shoulders and urged her around to the back of the shack. The rest of the gang, noisy with eager anticipation, rose to their feet to follow. Again, Edge held back so that he could bring up the rear.

At the back of the shack was a broken down float bed wagon from which several planks of wood had been torn, to be fashioned into a roughly made gallows and driven into the hard ground nearby. Two bales of hay were placed directly beneath the hanging noose of stout rope. More hay was stacked untidily a few feet away, and these burst into immediate flame as Stella ignited them. A man of thirty or so years lay in the shade beneath the sagging wagon, his body arched by a length of rope that bound his ankles together and was pulled tight to bind his hands behind his back. The lower half of his face was concealed by a wide gag that cut deeply into his cheeks and above this his pain-filled eyes watched with naked terror as the flames and black smoke rose from the newly lit fire.

“Tie that rat to the post,” Stella commanded, snatching up a branding iron from the bed of the wagon as two of the men dragged the prisoner from beneath.

They cut the rope at his back, leaving his hands and feet still securely tied and dragged him to the gallows, used another length of rope to tie him to the upright, binding him at ankles, knees, chest and throat so that his weakened legs did not have to support his weight. Standing, watching as the gang lowered themselves to the ground, making themselves comfortable for the show, Edge was reminded of Jamie, of how his young body had been secured to the live oak back at the farmstead in Iowa. But his disinterested expression revealed nothing of his thoughts.

Stella thrust the branding iron deep into the flaming heart of the burning hay bales, crossed to where the prisoner was held and reached up to jerk off his gag, her eyes blazing with the lust for violence. Linmann’s lower face was stark white and waxy looking where the tightness of the gag had interrupted his circulation.

“It wasn’t me, Brady,” Linmann screamed as soon as the gag came free. “Honest to God it wasn’t. I don’t want to die.”

Brady, sitting on the wagon, swinging his bulky legs, did not alter the small smile that played at the corners of his mouth.

Stella lashed out a hand, her palm cracking on Linmann’s cheek. “You talk to me, rat. Not Brady. I’m handling this.”

The man’s eyes implored a hearing. “Stella, I never said anything to Hammond.”

She raised her hand again and he flinched, but there was no blow. Instead her filthy fingers hooked over the collar his shirt and jerked down, ripping the whole front of the garment from him. His chest was matted with dark hair.

“You’re going to confess, Linmann, and then we’re going to hang you,” she hissed, moving over to the fire and withdrawing the iron, the reverse S brand glowing red hot.

Edge wondered if the S stood for Stella.

“Tell it,” she said, standing before her prisoner, her feet apart, right hand raised, inching the glowing brand towards his flesh.

“Dear God, why don’t you believe me,” he moaned, his wide eyes fastened on the iron as if hypnotized by it.

His prayer was punctuated by a high pitched scream as the brand was pressed home, flames flickering momentarily in the matted hair before the red hot iron hissed up steam, vaporizing the moisture of the flesh.

“Tell it,” Stella demanded once more, pulling back the iron and stabbing it forward again, directly onto his right nipple.

Linmann’s agonized scream faded into a gurgle as the blessed relief of unconsciousness swamped him.

“Damn,” Stella exploded, stamping her foot in a rage. “Somebody get a bucket of water.”

“I’ll get it,” Pete exclaimed gratefully, leaping to his feet and running around to the front of the shack as the woman returned the iron to the fire.

“Don’t turn your stomach none, Mr. Edge?” Brady asked conversationally as they waited for the lull in the entertainment to finish.

Edge bit a hangnail from his little finger and spat it out with distaste.

“He ain’t no friend of mine.”

Brady commenced to roll a cigarette in brown paper. He shrugged.

“Figured he’d have told it before Stella branded him,” he said.

“She’d have gone ahead anyway.”

He nodded. “Guess she would have. Gets her fun from hurting people. Especially men.”

He lit the cigarette and eyed Edge speculatively.

“Figured it.”

Pete came on the run with the water, slopping it over the edge of the bucket in his haste.

“Can I do it?” he implored.

Stella nodded and he sloshed the water into Linmann’s face, the shock of it having the desired effect. He jerked his head up and shook water from his eyes as he looked about, disorientated for a moment, so that time passed before the terror returned to his expression.

“He ain’t going to confess under no hot iron, Stella,” one of the gang called out. “He’s just going to keep throwing faints like some Eastern lady in a hot New York dancehall.”

Stella glared hatred at the speaker, but she realized the truth of his assertion. The iron she had withdrawn from the fire she now tossed back in and when she turned there was a cruel smile on her ugly face.

“Hey a rat ain’t no man, is that right?” she demanded.

The men nodded their agreement.

“It ain’t wrong,” Brady said, looking at her with a quizzical expression.

Silence settled over the group as they watched the woman approach Linmann, completely ignorant of her intention, deeply interested in the outcome. They saw the smile on her face but only Brady recognized it for what it was. Not until she stopped in front of the prisoner and started to unbuckle her belt did Edge realize Stella was stimulating her impression of feminine sexual invitation.

A great cheer went up from the gang as Stella unfastened the belt, hooked her fingers on each side of Linmann’s pant waistband and jerked downwards, so that all the buttons popped and the man’s genitals were exposed. Then silence settled upon the watchers as Stella began to murmur softly, her face nuzzling Linmann’s cheek.

“You’ve never had me, have you, Linmann,” she whispered as the gang strained their ears to pick up the words. “Nobody has except Brady. But you can. If you confess. Look I’ll show you.”

Several of the men, including Linmann, emitted low gasps of amazement as the woman stepped back and ripped open her dress from neck to waist, allowing the top half to fall from her shoulders. Her body was grimed with dirt, the neck and small conical breasts a mess of teeth marks from countless congresses with Brady. And her manlike voice aroused no stirring in Edge’s loins. But the members of the gang were less fastidious and watched the women with unconcealed lust in their eyes as their mouths worked silently.

“Tell it,” Stella commanded softly, stepping forward, sinking to her knees and moving her body from side to side, her breasts caressing Linmann’s body. “That’s it, my darling,” she encouraged.

Pain and lust can be part of the same sensation and despite his agony and his fear, his discomfort and his distrust, Linmann was reacting, albeit involuntarily, to the overtures of the woman. Looking on, feeling not a part of what was happening, Edge knew that the sweat standing out on Linmann’s twisted face was not all from the heat of the day which was trapped in the bowl of the gully and turning it into an oven.

“That’s it,” Stella murmured once more, then suddenly sprang to her feet, her hand going inside her skirt to emerge a moment later clutching a knife which she brought down in a savage sweep. The glinting blade sliced through Linmann’s flesh as if it were rotten rope.

“Christ,” Pete uttered, turned away from the sight and sound of the screaming man and vomited his jailhouse breakfast.

“String him up,” Stella yelled in fury above the screams of agony as she shrugged her dress back onto her shoulders, raised her skirt to thrust her knife back into the sheath strapped to her thigh. “Move. You and you.”

She pointed at two of the gang members closest to the gallows and they sprung out of their shock to do her bidding, slicing through the ropes of the man whose body lay still with the blood still jutting from his groin. They heaved him up on to the bales and put the noose around his neck, moving gingerly, careful not to brush against him.

When they backed away Stella moved forward and looked up at the man, who was now held upright by the rope at his neck, which was threatening to choke him before he could be hung.

“You want to confess and clear your soul?” she asked.

Stella realized that the spark of life had almost left Linmann’s tortured body so she kicked the bales clear. His body jerked down. His legs kicked convulsively once. His neck snapped with a dry sound. He was dead.

“I don’t think he did it,” Edge said to Brady.

The fat man shrugged. “Neither do I.”

“Why’d you let her do it?”

He grinned evilly. “The man who ratted on us ain’t likely to do it again. Not after seeing that.”

“Yeah,” Edge agreed with the logic. “I like to buy Linmann’s horse.”

Brady grinned as Stella sidled over to him, wearing the same expression with which she had coaxed Linmann into excitement.

“Later, feller,” the fat man said with a lascivious wink. “Sight of blood always gives my girl the hots. I’ve got some pleasure to attend to ‘fore I can talk business.”

Edge looked on coldly as Stella led Brady coquettishly into the shack. He, too, had a date with a girl, but it would have to wait.

CHAPTER NINE

BRADY did not hurry over his pleasures, or if he did, he liked to sleep off his exertions for a very long time afterwards. Outside the shack, in front away from the sight of the man hanging limply from the gallows, the remainder of the gang also took their rest, satiated by the violence rather than sex, sleeping in the attitudes of exhaustion across the scattered hay bales.

Edge sat in the shade at the side of the shack, resting his back against the wooden wall and awaiting the moment to make his move. For men like Brady never sold anything, just as they never bought anything. Edge’s offer to purchase the horse had told the gang he had some money. Peter knew how much and wanted to keep that secret for himself–for which there could only be one reason. But as soon as he saw how things were going to shape up, he would begin to run off at the mouth again and even a twelve-shot Henry repeater was no match for fifteen armed men.

So Edge merely sat and waited, his eyes glinting through the slit lids, glancing from time to time around the corner of the shack at the sleeping men whose snores provided the only sound in the over heated bowl. As he knew it was bound to happen, one of the men began to move, sitting up carefully and feigning the rubbing of grit from his eyes as he looked around, checking that the others were all soundly asleep. Then he stood and walked slowly between the inert figures, having to make several detours to avoid throwing telltale shadows across eyes likely to snap open.

It was Pete, of course, his face no longer set in the idiotic grin, which had caused Sheriff Hammond to christen him stupid. Now his face personified greed, narrowing his eyes and twisting his mouth into an uneven line. As he reached the corner of the shack he forced the familiar smile back onto his features and assumed a relaxed pose, so as not to alert Edge should he be awake. But Edge appeared to be fast asleep, legs splayed out in front of him, back against the wall, hands behind his neck, fingers interlocked. There was even a fly crawling across his cheek and the flesh did not even twitch.

Pete’s breath came out between clenched teeth in a low whistle as he drew a knife from his belt and stepped closer, stooping, greedy eyes fastened upon the section of that priest’s cassock covering Edge’s left chest.

“Two grand divided by one is best, eh Pete?” Edge said, low and fast, eyes snapping open, both hands coming away from his neck. One was empty and grasped the shocked Pete around the back of the head, pulling him down further into the stoop as the other flashed up and across. The razor’s edge went deep, slicing through soft flesh, jugular vein, windpipe and vocal chords. Pete’s dying sound was a mere gurgle as his throat was cut from ear to ear and Edge lowered his body softly to the ground, dragged the feet out of sight around the corner of the shack.

Edge got to his feet, froze for several seconds after one of the sleeping gang moaned and rolled from his back onto his side. Then he moved, long, silent strides taking him along the side of the shack, around the back and to the other side where the horses were hitched. He carried his gear with ease, as if it were weightless. The saddles were piled nearby and he dragged the two hay bales used for the hanging over to them. Linmann’s body hung perfectly still, beginning to smell, his dead eyes watching Edge with disinterest.

“I sure hope they’ve got good surgeons where you’ve gone,” Edge said, evenly, and went back to the horses. He saddled the one he had ridden from town–Brady’s–and swung his gear on her. Then he used his knife to slice through the reins of all the others.

Only one took advantage of the offered freedom, moving quietly away, as if a conspirator in Edge’s plan. It took him only a few seconds to set the hay burning and then he unhitched the horse, climbed into the saddle and directed her between the hitching rail and the other animals, letting out a mighty roar: “Whoooaaaa!”

The horses bolted, their thundering hoofs on the shale competing with the startled shouts of the rudely awakened men. They stood and then dived for ground as Edge galloped the mare across the front of the shack among them. As soon as he was clear he wheeled the horse and bolted up the gully, the way he had entered, staying low in the saddle as small arms cracked and bullets whined around him. And by the time the men had reached their rifles Edge was out of range. Behind him, as the naked Brady shouted enraged command from the shack doorway the members of his gang milled about in confusion, chasing terrified horses, yelling their anger as they found the dead Pete and their burning saddles.

Edge did not even look back over his shoulder, but concentrated on what was ahead, rounded the first turn in the gully and then the next, slowing the horse to a trot and then a walk. The winding course of the rock sided valley effectively blanketed all sound from the area of the shack and the look-out, vulnerable from this side of his post, showed no overt sign of hostility as he looked down at the lone rider.

Edge halted his mount.

“Name’s Edge,” he called up, easily, eyeing the man carefully, studying his build. “Brady says I’m in. I’m relieving you.”

The lookout rose, his movements suggesting he was cramped from long hours in the same position. He whistled and a horse emerged from around a knoll. The man caught the reins, booted his rifle and started down the slope. Edge gave a grunt of satisfaction that his estimate about the man’s size had been more or less accurate.

“They hung Linmann yet?” the man asked as he got close enough to talk at normal conversational level.

Edge nodded.

The man spat with disappointment. “Why am I always stuck out here at point whenever anything interesting happens?”

He turned his back on Edge and put a boot in the stirrup. Edge whipped the Remington from under the cassock, spun it by the trigger and laid it with force along the back of the man’s neck.

“Guess you just been unlucky,” he said wryly, sliding to the ground as the unconscious man collapsed.

He stripped himself and the lookout; pleased the man was a conservative dresser. Grey pants, black shirt, white kerchief. And gray hat.

Nice quiet clothes to go visiting a girl.

CHAPTER TEN

EDGE took his time going back to town, safe from pursuit and unwilling to reach his destination before nightfall. So he rode slowly and easily, pacing his mount at an even walk, the beast proving herself obedient and eager to respond to the demands of her rider. Probably, Edge considered idly, she was grateful to be carrying a normal size man after her stint under the barrel named Brady.

After the trapped heat of the bowl in the gully, that poured down by the afternoon sun felt almost fresh. Edge breathed deeply of the fresh air and experienced a renewal of energy as the final shred of tension was eased from his mind and body. When he had been in danger, physically and mentally alert to the hostility of those around him, he had been unaware of the strain building up within him. There had been no time, let alone inclination, for him to sense the harsh coiling of nerve ends. Not until he was alone, able to relax from constant watchfulness, did the reaction set in. But immediately, as he realized his own invincibility to objective and subjective violence; the utter lack of emotion he felt towards it; his cool ability to deal with it, the after effects diminished, then disappeared.

He did not attempt to analyze the new character that had been born with the new name, Edge. He had seen and experienced much during the war between the States which had set a pattern for his future philosophy, but he had returned from the fighting with a firm intention to take up at the farmstead where he had left off. But then he had found Jamie and seen what they had done to his kid brother and the horror of the discovery had shattered the pattern, spreading it wide. What had been a frame of mind, malleable and capable of being influenced by extraneous circumstances was suddenly a physical force communicated to every part of his body, like the very blood in his veins.

But Edge’s thoughts were not running along those lines as he dawdled into Anson City. He simply knew that he felt hard and dangerous, as deadly and unemotional as his Henry repeater; and as capable, whatever the odds, of avenging Jamie’s killing. That was all he needed to know. Whatever component parts made up the whole were irrelevant. The utter completeness of the whole was what was important.

When he halted to drink from a stream and replenish his water bottles he caught site of his face in the rippling water, and ran a hand over his two-day-old stubble, contemplating his unsteady image for several moments. The horse, neck and head bent to drink besides him, looked at Edge with jaundiced eyes.

Edge grinned, the glinting eyes and bared teeth, crinkled skin of the cheeks and rippling of the water-beaded beard made him look meaner than when his features were in repose.

“So maybe I ain’t the most handsome man in the West,” he told the horse. “But it ain’t that kind of a date.”

The horse snorted and shook her head violently, as if making a comment on Edge’s remark. He laughed, took hold of the bridle and walked for a while, so that the pace was even slower than before. Edge began to think the sun would never complete its slow slide down below the western horizon. But it did, finally, as Edge sat at the foot of a bank off the trail leading into Anson City, chewing on a stale, many days old piece of biscuit he had found in the bottom of one of the saddlebags.

Twilight was short lived, the grayness dissolving into the black of true night with its normal accompaniment of fast cooling air. When he stood, Edge could see directly down the trail to the twinkling lights of Anson City, looking beguilingly friendly in the wilderness surrounding the settlement. A light breeze sprung up and the horse, catching a scent of other animals, perhaps even picking up the smell of feed from the livery stable, was anxious to press on. But Edge held her back, cutting off the trail to the north, swinging a wide arc, skirting a tract of wooded countryside, halting when he drew level with the rear of the restaurant. Edge was upwind of the town now and his horse had lost interest, content to rely upon the rider for guidance. Edge slid off the saddle, led his mount into the wood and tethered her to some brush.

He took the Henry and set out on foot, heading down a grassy slope that canted towards town from the north, offering no cover whatever. But the moon was not yet high enough to prove a great deal of light and anybody below would have to be on lookout for an interloper to have a chance to spot Edge as he zigzagged downwards. But nobody was.

Edge figured it was not yet eight-o’clock, but Anson City was as quiet as a ghost town, the kerosene lamps in the saloon and hotel and restaurant providing the only sign of human habitation. There was not a soul moving on the street and the silence was absolute. But Edge senses no danger in the stillness. The town was the center of a farming community, and such folk maintained the philosophy of early to bed, early to rise.

The restaurant was the last building in town, on the opposite side of the street from where Edge stood, before it split and split again to give access to the farmstead on higher ground. As Edge peered across and in through the lighted windows, he saw a movement inside. It was Annie, tall and blonde, more attractive, in the flattering artificial light than she had been in the sheriff’s office. As she moved from a doorway at the rear of the restaurant, walked between the dozen or so tables, her hands went behind her and she shrugged out of her apron, tossed it over the back of a chair.

Edge smiled as he realized the woman was preparing to end her day’s work. But then he made a sound of annoyance, for she was not alone. Her lips moved in words which were silent to Edge, but not to another man, who had been waiting, perhaps sitting at a table, to the left of the doorway. Now he appeared, tall and broad, his right arm folded across his chest, held there by the white material of a sling. The woman smiled, the man laughed and turned his head slightly. Edge recognized Hank the deputy. Pete hadn’t plugged him very positively during the sheriff’s office shoot-out.

Annie and Hank shared the chores of snuffing out the lamps and after darkness blanketed the restaurant windows there was a time lapse that seemed to elongate into hours. But when the door finally opened Edge realized they had taken only a few moments to exchange a short kiss. Annie locked the door with a key, which she then dropped down the front of her low cut dress, between the twin swells of her breasts, which seemed to gleam white in the moonlight. Hank leaned close to here ear to whisper something and Annie gave a short laugh.

“Later,” she said, very clearly.

She linked her arm through Hank’s free arm and they stepped down off the end of the sidewalk, strolled unhurriedly out of town, he murmuring words to her which caused her to laugh a great deal. Edge gave them a twenty yard start, then set off after them, getting well clear of town before crossing the trail to move directly behind them. When they took one of the spur trails that had been cut through a stand of elms and silver birches he quickened his pace, treading carefully on the uneven ground. The couple, feeling no necessity for stealth of any kind, continued to talk and laugh, their careless feet rattling pebbles and cracking dry twigs.

Edge got close enough in the trees to see the light splash out of the woman’s white dress against the variated blackness, saw the point at which she led Hank off the trail. He quacked his step still more, and then halted, peered around a thick tree trunk to look into a natural glade, grass carpeted and ringed by brush and birches, the silvery trunks refracting the stray beams of moonlight to provide a soft, romantic illumination. The couple were on the far side, Annie leaning her back against a tree as Hank stood in front of her, free arm encircling her shoulders as he kissed her.

Edge watched indifferently for a few moments, as their passion increased, and the two bodies began to grind together. Then he moved to the left, skirting the glade, catching glimpse of the couple as the glade came into view between the trees. Once he saw them come up for air, Hank’s breath rasping with desire, Annie giving a deep sigh. Then he was behind them, with just the thickness of a tree trunk between.

“I have to go, Hank,” he heard Annie whisper.

“Aw not yet, honey.”

“Hank, my Dad will tear the hide off me if I keep getting back to the farm late.”

“He don’t suspect, does he?”

She paused. “I think he knows there’s a man in my life, darling. But he don’t know it’s a married man.”

Edge cocked the Henry and stepped out into the glade. “Could be he’ll know now, Annie,” he said.

Hank sprang back and went for his gun. But he was right handed and that hand was trapped in a sling. He looked down at his helplessness with the shock of sudden realization while Annie gasped.

Edge grinned an expression that offered the couple no comfort. “No trouble, folks,” he said flatly. “I just want a little information.”

“You!” the woman said.

“Me,” Edge answered.

“You got gall, coming back here after what you did to the sheriff,” Hank was a brave man. His voice was strong and he did not flinch as Edge stepped quickly up to him. Annie gasped again, but Edge merely removed the Colt from the man’s holster. He took his time emptying the shells. He tossed them in one direction, the gun in the other, into the trees.

“Sheriff, ought to be more polite,” he said. He looked at Annie. “You recognized my name.”

“What?”

“Back in the jailhouse this morning. When Hammond said I was called Edge it meant something to you.”

“Don’t tell him anything,” Hank commanded.

“Shut your mouth,” Edge said, stabbing forward with the Henry, aiming the jab at where a spot of blood showed on the sling, just above the elbow.

“Don’t,” the woman cried in alarm as Hank staggered back with a pained grunt as the ache of his wound was reawakened.

“So answer,” Edge said evenly.

“Five soldiers ...” she said.

“Yeah?”

“In the saloon last night.”

“What kind of soldiers?”

“In blue. Yankees.”

“Any rank?”

“What?” Puzzled.

“Chevrons on their arms,” Edge made a motion with his hand: three times.

“Right. Yes. One was a sergeant. The others called him Frank.”

“What happened?”

She couldn’t hold Edge’s steady gaze, looked at Hank who stood red faced with frustrated anger.

“I went to the saloon to get some beer. We don’t stock it, but when a customer wants a drink with his meal ...”

“I ain’t interested in how you run your hash house,” Edge said with impatience.

“No,” she said, biting her lower lip. “I went to the saloon and while the barkeep was drawing the beer I heard the soldiers talking. I thought I heard the name Hedge but it could have been Edge.”

“Close enough,” Edge told her. “What did they say?”

“I didn’t hear much,” she said, anxious to please, afraid her information would not be sufficient to avert harm for her and Hank.

“I don’t want it word for word,” Edge told her.

“They were saying something ...” her face screwed up as her frightened mind struggled to recollect with accuracy. “... something: they wondered what Edge would do when he found … Johnny, would it be?”

Edge’s face now twisted, but in his case it was because he recollected only too well. “Close enough, “he said softly. “What else?”

“The one they called Frank said he didn’t give a damn one way of the other.”

“What do you want from Annie?” Hank demanded, trying words as an outlet for his frustration.

“You don’t shut up, deputy, I’ll pull the trigger the next time I aim,” Edge told him.

“Please, Hank,” Annie said desperately. She looked again at Edge. “One of them said you wouldn’t dare follow them to Arizona Territory. Not with all five of them stuck together as they were.”

“Anything else?” She had told him nothing he had not already suspected. Forrest had talked a lot about the years before the war in Arizona.”

“Something about bounty hunting,” Annie said hopefully.

That was how he had made his living—collecting bounties for capturing fugitives heading for the Mexican border: dead or alive—always dead when Forrest brought them in.

“Anything else?”

“What else?”

“Arizona’s a big territory. They mention any place in particular? Any town?”

She thought deeply, suddenly smiled. “Yes Frank mentioned a place called Warlock.”

Edge had never heard of it, but knew Annie had not pulled the name out of the air. She was too scared to have any creative ideas.

He sighed: “Okay. Obliged for your help.”

“What are you going to do with us?” Annie asked nervously.

“Now he’s going to kill us,” Hank answered.

“Christ, deputy,” Edge said softly. “You really do run off at the mouth all the time, don’t you? Why should I kill you? Way things were going before I broke in you and the lady showed all signs of having the hots for each other. Way I figure it, if your wife or Annie’s pa finds out about that, well, neither of your lives are going to be worth living. Whereas, if we make a deal ...”

“What kind of deal?” Hank demanded.

“You keep your overflowing mouth shut about me and I’ll hold my peace about what I saw.”

“I’m a lawman ...” Hank started, but Annie cut him off.

“We won’t say a word, Mr. Edge,” she said. “Hank’s angry just now, but I’ll talk sense into him.”

Edge looked from the enraged Hank to the anxious Annie and nodded his satisfaction. He turned as if to leave, then back to face the woman again.

“Almost forgot. You have five dollars that belongs to me, Miss Annie.”

“I don’t know ...” Another memory flooded back into her mind.”

Edge nodded. “The breakfasts. Way I see it, I was a guest of the State and the State ought to pay for my board and lodging.”

“I … I don’t have any money on me,” she said.

Edge grinned and stepped up close to her. He grasped her arm and swung her around, placing her between himself and Hank, so that he was able to watch them both with ease.

“I’ve seen where you keep your valuables, Miss Annie,” he said slyly and suddenly thrust his hand down the front of her dress, stirred by the firm, warm pleasures of her breasts against each side of his wrist. His fingers found a roll of bills and he withdrew his hand as the woman gasped in indignation and clutched at the top of her dress—too late.”

“You ...” she started to say but got no further when she saw the meanness in Edge’s expression.

“And you shouldn’t tell lies,” he said, glancing down at the money. There were two five-dollar bills and some ones. He took what was his and held out the rest to her.

She seemed reluctant, afraid to take it, but after a moment, did so, glanced at it with disbelief and put it back from whence it came.

“And honorable thief,” Hank said with disgust.

“Who keeps his word,” Edge said evenly. “You keep yours or I’ll cut your tongue out and nail it to the door at the lady’s pa’s house.”

Then he made a sudden movement, leaning forward from the waist and brushing his lips gently against Annie’s mouth. The woman gasped as Hank stepped forward, pulled up sharp when the muzzle of the Henry swung up to cover him.

Edge grinned. “I could envy you,” he said. “She tastes as good as she feels.”

Then he spun and vanished into the trees around the glade, as Hank made a deep-throated sound of fury and Annie raised a hand gently to her mouth. Her eyes shone and a sense of shame engulfed her, pricking her soul with accusation for the involuntary flush of desire that infused her entire body.

“That Edge is quite a man,” she murmured.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EDGE had an uneventful journey across the remainder of the Plains land, pacing himself and his horse to achieve a fast rate without inviting fatigue. He was taking a southwestern route, slashing across the southeastern corner of the Colorado Territory, and in not many days the horizon ahead became a dark line between the sun-baked ground and the azure sky as the Front Rage of the southern Rockies emerged over the earth’s curvature. He rode from early morning till close to noon, rested in whatever shade was available while the sun arced over its peak, then moved on till nightfall.

He was in Indian country now. Cheyenne to the south, Pawnee to the north and Ute, Navaho and Apache ahead of him. White settlements were thin on the ground and those he saw he skirted. He decided he had taken his full share of unwanted trouble and the itch to find Forrest and the others was getting stronger. What Annie had told him about Jamie’s killers, their utter lack of remorse and confidence in their apparent immunity had caused Edge to re-assess his earlier line of thought. Now, although he was prepared to search for the rest of his life for vengeance, the earlier he reaped it the better.

But then fate took a hand again. It was afternoon and the ground he was riding along was on the rise. He was following a wagon route up through the foothills towards the mountains, staying on the trail because he knew it would take him though by the easiest route: had been blazed by settlers heading west for California. And he followed the track for another reason. It bore signs of a passage by a wagon train in the not too distant past. A wagon train meant people, but for the most part good, decent people unlikely to create trouble unless provoked. More important, it meant good food, well cooked by town-bred women: an attractive prospect for Edge’s appetite, jaded by underdone jack rabbit and coffee made insipid by the need to conserve his diminishing supply.

The first sign of trouble ahead was a column of black smoke some that rose above the crest of the hill, looking black and oily as it marred the clear blueness of the sky. The trail cut a course around the base of the hill, rising only gently so that heavily laden wagons could be hauled up with relative ease. But Edge chose to cut off the trail, heeling his horse up the side of the hill towards the smoke. He started at a gallop, but as the incline steepened the animal slowed and Edge had to adopt a zigzagged course, finally dismounted and led the animal by its bridle the final few yards to the crest.

On the other side the ground sloped away on a shallow incline and Edge looked down at the source of the smoke. A wagon lay on its side, terrified grays still trapped in its shafts as its canvas and timbers blazed. Then, as Edge looked on flames found a keg of gunpowder and the wagon went up with a roar, showering debris and sparks, the blast killing the horses.

Some hundred yards further up the trail were seven more covered wagons, drawn up in an irregular rectangle, the heavy work horses still between their shafts. People, men, women and children, crouched in the center of the hurriedly organized, inadequate barrier, waiting in almost utter silence. Not complete silence, for when the roar of the exploding wagon had diminished Edge could hear a woman sobbing. Edge looked back down the trail and thought he knew the reason for her grief-stricken wails. The body of a man lay about twenty yards from the burning heap of rubble that had once been a wagon.

He surveyed the scene as a whole again, narrowed eyes looking across the trail and up the rising slope on the other side that formed the ground before him into a small valley. Whereas on Edge’s side the hill was unmarked except for tall, gently waving grass, on the other it was littered with rocks and boulders, with clumps of brush providing additional pockets of cover. With just a cursory glance over the terrain Edge spotted three braves, their naked upper bodies devoid of war-paint. He figured them for part of an Apache hunting party, probably as surprised by their find as the people in the wagon train were by the attack. Another, more intense search of the hillside, enabled Edge to pinpoint two more braves and he heard a faint whinnying from behind a large clump of trees near the crest of the rise, indicating where the Apaches’ horses were concealed.

After a full minute had gone by and the braves had made no hostile move, Edge knew that they were waiting for help: that a brave had been ordered back to camp for reinforcements. It wasn’t Edge’s fight: he had his own problems and it would be easy to circle the ambushed wagons by keeping below the hill crest, out of sight of both white men and Indians. But a decent meal, with maybe provisions enough to get him to Warlock without further need to make human contact was what swung Edge’s decision.

He stood from his half crouched position, yanked on the bridle to bring his horse to the crest of the hill and mounted. Then he dug his heels and charged down the slope, drawing the Henry from its boot and waving it in the air, his deep throated yell throwing the wagon train defenders into confusion for several seconds. Not so the Apache braves, two of whom rose from cover to aim at the descending rider, one with a bow, the other a rifle. But Edge was out of range and both arrow and bullet thudded into the ground harmless yards away from the hoofs of the horse. Then one of the men at the wagon train defenses recovered and loosed off a rifle shot. The brave with the bow tossed his weapon high into air as he screamed and toppled over a rock that had been his cover, his body twisting and turning like a rag doll to end as an ungainly heap at the side of the trail.

Other braves opened up with a fusillade of shots and a shower of arrows, to be replied to with rifle and handgun fire from the defenders as Edge galloped his horse into the protective cover of the wagons, skidding her to a halt as he leapt from the saddle. A ring of frightened faces looked at the newcomer, then one or two of them glanced back up the hill over which he had come, in hopeless search for more help.

“There ain’t no US cavalry, ma’am,” Edge said to one of the women whose fear-filled disappointment was the most obvious. “Just me.”

“Every new gun’s a help, son,” an old timer said, loosing off another shot at the face of the hill where there was not now a sign of the braves.

The woman who had been crying burst into a fresh spasm of sobs.

“Husband was on the end wagon,” a man said as if he felt Edge was owed an explanation. “Arrow got him in the head. Horses tried to bolt up the hill and turned the wagon over. Smoked a goddamn stinking pipe, did Jess. Must have fell clean out of his mouth and poured sparks in the back. Powder went up just fore you got here.”

Edge hardly listened to the man as he looked around; saw six adult men, couple of boys in their early teens, three girls of the same age and seven women. Their armaments comprised a dozen single shot muzzle-loaders, a Spencer repeater and a revolver to each man. Plus a pitchfork that the old-timer clutched menacingly. If they waited around to make a stand against the rest of the Apaches from camp, they wouldn’t have a chance. He moved to the wagon closest the foot of the hill and looked around it, judged the nearest rock to be ten yards away. The next cover large enough to hide him was fifteen yards beyond: a patch of brush. After that it would be easy, the choice wide. Only a matter of deciding which cover concealed the braves.

“You’ve got all those guns loaded?” he asked without looking behind him.

“What you gonna’ do?” a man asked.

“There ain’t no more than half a dozen of those red men on the hill right now,” he answered. “But pretty soon the whole tribe is going to be there and we’ll be like fish in a barrel for them. I want you to cover the whole area with lead ‘til I reach that patch of brush there.” He pointed. “Then you move out every wagon excepting for one. You move them fast, like the whole Indian nation was on your tail. If you don’t, then that’s what it’s going to feel like. One man on the last wagon stays to pick me up.”

“I’ll stay,” the old-timer volunteered with enthusiasm. “My wagon’s last anyway.”

Edge nodded his agreement.

“How’ll I know the Injuns ain’t got you?” the old-timer asked as Edge prepared to go between the wagons.

“We all got our problems,” Edge told him coldly. “Put it this way, I get back here and find you’ve chickened and run, I’ll have to catch up with the train by myself. And I won’t be none too happy.”

Edge turned on his icy grin and watched with the enthusiasm drain from the old man’s bewhiskered face. “Okay pour it on,” he said and dashed from the protection of the wagons as the settler opened up a barrage. Not a single shot was fired in retaliation, until the fusillade ceased abruptly, then bullets thudded into the rock behind which Edge was crouched, spitting chips into his face. He gave the settlers time to reload, and at the sound of the first shot made his crouched, fast run to the brush, pumping off two bullets from the Henry and seeing dust puffs close to his feet as the Apaches fired widely. The brush offered concealment, but little protection from bullets. He saw a cluster of boulders above him to the left and he knew an Apache was hiding behind it.

The settlers opened up again and Edge rolled over twice, clear of the brush and saw an arrow bury its head into the ground at a spot where his body had been a moment ago. Then he was on his feet and running, breathing hard from the exertion needed for speed on the sharply rising ground. He carried the Henry low on his hip, grasping the barrel with one hand as he squeezed the trigger and worked the breech mechanism with the other, seeing the bullets thud into the rock. The redskin rose from behind the rocks and loosed off a shot that tugged at Edge’s sleeve. The brave tossed away his empty rifle and leapt, legs apart on top of the rock, bringing back his arm, preparing to launch the tomahawk, its blade flashing in the sunlight. One bullet from the Henry took him in the jaw, smashing upwards so that when he screamed his death agony he sprayed jagged pieces of broken teeth before him. The second got him plumb through the heart, its impact sending his body crashing backwards over the rocks. Edge dived to the side of them, hearing the whoosh of an arrow pass his ear.

Then as if divine influence had pressed a switch, the world went silent. Below, on the trail, even the woman had ceased her vocal mourning. Edge remained still, listening, knowing that there was at least four more pair of ears on the hillside doing the same thing. Then sounds came to him from below. He looked for their source and saw the settlers climbing up onto their wagons. When everyone was aboard male voices encouraged their horses forward and as soon as the line was straight the whips crackled and galloping hoofs and spinning wheels churned up dust. A lone wagon remained, the horses between the shafts quietly chomping on the long grass besides the trail.

Before the covering sounds of the speeding wagon had diminished into the distance, Edge moved forward, crawling around the rocks, drew in his breath sharply when he came face to face with an Apache. But the brave’s jaw was a mess of blood and shattered bone and his eyes stared sightlessly at Edge. It was the Indian he had killed. But in the moment the tension abated Edge heard a sound and kicked himself on his back, raised his rifle and squeezed the trigger by reflex at the figure which seemed to be carved out against the sky. It was a brave, atop the boulders, victory glowing in his eyes as he drew back the bowstring the final fraction of an inch. The unaided bullet smashed through the bow, altering its direction so that it entered the brave’s eye which a split second ago had been sighting the arrow at Edge’s heart. Also off target, the arrow whistled through a short space of air and its metal tip carved a furrow across the back of Edge’s hand. His numbed fingers released the grip on the Henry, which clattered to the ground as he snapped his head around to face the source of another sound. It was a blood curdling war cry of another brave as he launched himself at Edge’s spread-eagled body, tomahawk in one hand, knife in the other. Edge, his mind operating as coolly as a well oiled machine, brought up his right leg as the brave leapt forward. The toe of his boot caught the redskin full in the groin and the extra momentum sent him spinning over the head of Edge, who sprung to his feet and turned to face his adversary. The brave was getting to his feet, the knife gone as he clutched the source of his pain. He saw Edge’s injured arm go to his revolver, saw it drop as the finger muscles again refused to maintain a grip. The scent of victory made him forget his pain and he came forward at a run, teeth bared in triumph, tomahawk on high for a downward death blow.

Edge waited, timing his move to the split second. He sidestepped, his good hand going to the back of his neck, flashing out with the open razor. He ducked, going below the arc of the tomahawk, and slashed out. The razor point dug into the brave’s right eye, gouged a river of blood across the bridge of his nose, and sank into his left eye. The blinded man howled and sank to his knees, the tomahawk thudding into the ground. Edge snatched it up, swung it high and brought it down with all his might, splitting the brave’s head open as if it were a soft boiled egg.

As the brave pitched forward a gun exploded close at hand and Edge spun around, clenching his injured fist to bring life into it. He was in time to see an Apache looking at him in surprise, as he dropped his smoking rifle. He said one word in his native tongue and toppled forward as his knees gave way. As he fell, Edge saw the shaft of a pitchfork growing from his back, its three tines buried deep in the flesh.

The old-timer stood behind him, showing brown stained teeth in a proud grin. He spat dark juice to the ground.

“Didn’t like your deal much,” he said. “Sitting down there, man’s mind can play tricks. Wouldn’t like to run out on you and have a man like you mad at me. Less time to think up here.”

Edge nodded, began to retrieve his fallen weapons. “Obliged to you,” he said.

The old man looked around. “Reckon that’s the lot of them?”

“Yeah,” Edge said.

The old man spat more tobacco juice. “Enjoyed it,” he looked at the other fallen braves. “You had more fun, though.”

“Reckon.”

He nodded, strolled up to the brave he had killed and put a boot on his neck to give him leverage to withdraw the pitchfork. It came free with an ugly sucking sound.

“Darn fools neglected to leave me a shooting iron.”

“You didn’t need one.”

“Guess, I didn’t either.” His laughter was a high pitched cackle. He looked around again. “Reckon their buddies will be along soon?”

“Reckon.”

“Then let’s go, son.”

They went.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE rest of the Apaches did not follow in the wake of the wagon train, perhaps scared off by the scene they discovered on the blood soaked hillside, or merely unwilling to stray far from their familiar hunting grounds. Whatever the reason, the settlers were grateful for it, and deeply indebted to Edge for delivering them from what they knew would have been a massacre. Although he had intended to ask only for one meal and some supplies, Edge allowed himself to be persuaded to stay with the train for several days, eating high off the hog and receiving more feminine nursing than the minor wound on his hand needed.

The train was heading in the same general direction Edge wanted to go, but once across the San Juan Mountains the trail turned north, and this marked the end of Edge’s period of wagon comfort. He cut south with a full belly, replenished stock of ammunition and a pack-horse heavy with supplies. Not once had anybody on the train asked his name and he had volunteered no information. And when he left, the settlers waved him off into the distance with no knowledge of his destination or reason for making the journey.

It was eight days later, as he traveled through the surrealist landscape at the eastern edge of the Painted Desert in the north of the Arizona Territory that he saw the stage, heading in the same southerly direction as himself, but maybe a half mile to the east of him. It was going hell for leather, the hoofs of the four horses and rumbling wheels disturbing great heaps of dust that billowed out behind it like some from some kind of racing engine. At first Edge thought the small cracks which carried across the intervening desert land came from a whip wielded by a driver in a hurry. But then he saw the three horsemen spread out behind the stage, just clear of the billowing dust cloud.

“Hell,” Edge muttered to the horse. “Now a stage hold-up.

But he made no move to go to the aid of the pursued stage, holding his steady trot towards the south, glancing from time to time to his left, seeing on each occasion that the hold-up men were gaining on their quarry. Then the crackle of gunfire got louder and Edge sighed deeply as he saw the stage veer towards him, maybe following the trail, maybe seeking aid from him. As it drew closer, Edge could make out the driver, crouched low on the box-seat, slapping the reins to urge more speed from his horses: and besides him the guard, twisted in his seat, elbow bent on the roof to support his rifle. He was firing rapidly with a repeater, exhausted the magazine and turned to reload. As he did so the gun flew from his hands and he went sideways, tipping off the stage to thud to the ground. The driver seemed unaware of what had happened for several moments, the pulled on his breaks and yanked on the reins. The wheels locked with a show of sparks and smoke: the lead horse stumbled and the stage slewed round, rocking precariously, then tipped over onto its side with incredible slowness. The driver was pitched out of his seat as the shafts broke and the horses bolted clear, still fastened together by their harnesses.

Edge watched with complete detachment as the driver got shakily to his feet, going for a sidearm just when the three hold-up men rode in through the settling dust. Two fired at the driver and he dropped like a sack of potatoes as the third raider rode up to the overturned stage and fired a shot inside. A scream, high pitched enough to have come from a woman, pierced the air. The men, all masked, worked quickly, two leaping to the ground while the third held the horses. The pair who had dismounted climbed onto the side of the crippled stage and one pulled open the door and went inside, handed out a wooden box. The other took and threw it to the ground. They both climbed down and one drew a revolver and shot off the lock. As they bent down to scoop up the moneybags, the man who was still astride his horse glanced around and saw Edge watching. He snapped off a quick warning to the others and they sprang erect. A command was barked and the mounted man drew his rifle and fired. Cursing, Edge, ducked, felt a sudden jerk on his saddle horn and looked behind him, saw the pack-horse on its side, going through its death throes as the bullet settled in its brain.

Snarling, Edge whipped the knife from his back sheath and slashed through the rope. The knife was returned to its resting place and then Henry un-booted almost as part of one fluid movement as he wheeled the horse and started to gallop towards the men.

The dismounted raiders hurriedly scooped up the moneybags and leapt onto their horses as Edge thundered towards them, firing as he came. The pair with the money went like the wind, one of them trailing a shower of gold coins as a bullet from the Henry ripped through a moneybag. But the third man’s horse was slow to turn and even at a gallop Edge was able to take a careful aim and place his shot. The bullet drilled him neatly through the heart and he fell cleanly from the saddle, dead long before he hit the hard floor of the desert.

Edge brought his horse to a standstill as the raiders mount took flight.

“Like somebody once told me, it’s mean cuss that would shoot a man’s horse,” Edge said to the dead man, spun around as he heard a sound from the stage.

But the Henry’s muzzle found nothing to shoot at and Edge strained forward he heard the sound again, recognizing it as a low whimper, maybe of pain, maybe something else.

“Anybody inside there?” Edge called recollecting the scream when one of the holdup men had fired into the stage.

“Go away,” he heard a hoarse whisper. A woman. “Don’t look at me.”

Edge approached the stage, hauled himself up onto it.

“I ain’t one of them that held you up.” He said. “I’m here to help.”

“You can’t help me.”

He was on top now, looking in through the door the raiders had left open. The woman was hunched up in the corner, between the seat and the side of the stage, which was now on the floor. She was young, with pretty blonde hair and was well dressed. Edge could not tell much more about her, as she stared at her reflection in the mirror affixed to the inside of the lid of her vanity case, whimpering painfully. She might have been pretty–once, before the high caliber bullet had ripped through her cheek and exited through her nose, blowing half of it away, leaving what remained a soggy red mess of shapeless pulp.

“I told you not to look,” she tried to scream at Edge, but her voice could not rise above a whisper.

“I’ve seen worse sights,” he answered.

She slapped the case shut and raised both hands to mask her injury. Above her clasped fingers her eyes were big and beautiful.

“You said you were here to help,” the beautiful eyes questioned him.

“I ain’t got no time to be no nurse-maid,” he said flatly.

“I don’t want ...”

“Nor to tote any sick woman to the nearest sawbones,” he interrupted.

“How long would it take you to put a bullet in my brain, mister!” she asked without emotion.

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” she said, managing to inject annoyance into her tone.

He guessed she was still in shock. The initial searing pain of the wound would have gone and she had the relief of a period of numbness before the real agony set in.

“You ain’t gonna’ die from that,” Edge told her.

“I know,” she answered. “That’s why I want you to kill me.”

Edge shook his head, more a bewildered than a negative gesture. “I don’t follow.”

“I’m a dance hall girl, mister,” she told him and now her eyes showed a moment of stabbing pain and her body jerked. “Christ, it’s starting to hurt. It’s the only way I know how to make a living. It’s the only way I want. Not anymore, though.”

“Uh?”

The eyes showed more pain, then a flare of anger. “You dumb cluck, what man’s gonna’ want a dance hall girl with no nose?”

The insult dug deep into Edge, but he made allowances for the woman’s condition. His face became pensive.

“I’ve shot a lot of people,” he said slowly, “but always with reason.”

“I’m giving you a reason,” she came back quickly. “There’s no gun in here or I’d try it myself. But I’m scared I might miss if you give me one. I want to be stone cold dead. One bullet. Finish.”

She closed her eyes and groaned as a more intense stab of pain caught her. When she opened them again Edge was no longer at the door of the stage. She heard his feet thunder on the ground as he jumped down. “Don’t leave me,” she called, showing her first sign of fear.

“That would be slow. You couldn’t live with that. Get it over. A quick bullet is all it will take.”

She heard him moving about outside, held her breath to pick up sounds of him remounting and riding off. It went quiet.

“Where you headed?” she heard him call.

“New job. Big money.”

“Where at?”

“South, near the border. Lots of rich bounty hunters. Town called Warlock.”

Silence again. Footfalls, the scrape of metal against leather. Silence.

CRACK.

The revolver shot was magnified within the close confines of the stage and still rang in Edge’s ears as he looked down coldly from the opposite side of the door from where he had been at first. The bullet had drilled a neat hole in the center of the woman’s forehead.

“It’s better when you don’t know it’s coming,” he said, jumped back down and walked across to push the revolver back into the dead raider’s holster.

He looked around, shading his eyes from the sun, searching for the pack horse, spotting it directly below a bunch of circling buzzards. He mounted and cantered over to it, transferred as many of the supplies as he could comfortably carry. Then he returned to the stage trail, to follow it to the town called Warlock.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THE sign was newly painted, the fresh white lettering shining in the moonlight against the dark wooden plank supported by two poles at the side of the trail.

WELCOME TO PEACEVILLE

Population 314

Fastest growing town in the territory.

Edge was close to the American-Mexican border now, having circled two townships and a way station since he shot the woman heading for Warlock. Three days had passed and he was starting to feel the fatigue of the search, knew he would have to rest up before he despaired of ever finding that for which he was looking.

The name Peaceville had a restful ring to it: inappropriate to its position on the map, maybe. But it showed the citizens of the town had faith in the future. Edge made his decision and urged his horse forward, moving with no haste in front of the sign and into the town.

It was considerably bigger than Anson City, and didn’t roll up its sidewalks when the sun went down. It was built on two cross streets, intersecting at midway points and effectively dividing into an uptown and downtown sections. Entering from the north, Edge passed through Peaceville’s residential area of shacks and cabins and a few building large enough to be called houses. Some even had fenced off gardens, too parched to grown anything except cacti. There was a church, its lines suggesting it had begun life as a tiny mansion and been extended as the settlement grew around it. Across the street was a schoolhouse and this was also an odd mixture of Mexican influenced design with later, pioneer built additions.

The town was quiet here. Edge saw one couple strolling, taking in the night air. They glanced at the stranger with curiosity, but no suspicion. The man seemed on the point of greeting him, but turned away and hurried the woman along the street when he saw Edge’s bitter, weary expression. He saw other people, too, sitting in their homes by the lights of candles or kerosene lamps. One family was eating the evening meal, another grouped around a man who read from a large book, The Bible, Edge figured. In others women sewed as men dozed.

The town came alive on the other side of and on the western spur from the intersection. For here was the Rocky Mountain Saloon, and the Sanora Cantina; the New York Hotel and Harry’s Dry Goods Store; the Covered Wagon Dancehall and Frank’s Friendly Pool Hall; the Feed and Grain Livery Stable and Honey’s Restaurant. Here, too, was the office of the sheriff and that of Peaceville and Territory Star.

And people. A different breed of people from the other side of the intersection. Men mostly, of all ages, but a good amount of women, all young or doing their best to look that way. Edge could see them walking down the sidewalks or sitting and talking on chairs outside the places of entertainment. And inside there were more of them, all with something in common—seeming hell bent upon enjoying themselves. Pianos thumped out music, girls sang and danced, men drank whisky and beer and tequila. There was an air of festival about the place, added to by the streamers that draped most of the buildings, some stretching across the width of the street. But if it was a festival, Edge had arrived late to it, for the decorations were dirty and torn: had obviously been in place for a long time.

As on the other side of town, there was no suspicion directed towards Edge as he rode through. Precious little curiosity, either. Peaceville had apparently thrown open house, all welcome, no questions asked. Except for one man.

“Hey you?”

Edge had halted his horse in front of the wide sidewalk fronting the New York Hotel, was preparing to dismount. He turned in the direction from which the man had spoken, his voice cutting clear and resonant across the noise. He was on the other side of the street, sitting on the opposite sidewalk, in a large rocking chair, feet hoisted up on to a barrel. A lamp was hung above the doorway behind him and Edge could see him clearly: around sixty, lean faced with leathery skin; clear bright blue eyes that did not blink; drooping moustache the same gray peppered with black as his long hair. He wore a check-shirt, black pants, gun belt with two holsters tied down. He wore no hat. He did wear a tin star.

Edge sighed. “Me?”

“Yeah,”

Edge slid off his horse, took his time hitching her to the rail. Then he crossed the street, hands loosely at his sides, not inviting trouble but ready if it came. He stopped before he reached the sidewalk, so that his face was on a level with the sheriff’s despite the fact that the other man was sitting down.

“You’re new around here?” he asked.

Edge nodded. “First time.”

The sheriff sniffed: a wet sound. “Any money you make. I take ten per cent.”

“Yeah?” Edge said evenly, his gaze not flickering.

“The town can’t afford a sheriff,” the lawman told him. “But if it didn’t have one it would be a real wild place. We got some decent citizens here who wouldn’t like that.”

“So they got to content themselves with a crooked lawman,” Edge tossed out.

The sheriff had been insulted before had had learned to ride with it. The sniff again. “Takes a lot to rile me, son,” he returned. “I know I ain’t crooked and you calling me names don’t alter that. We get a lot of wanted men trying to sneak through this part of the country to get across the border. I could get a few of them, but not enough. So I let you bounty hunters operate from here.”

Being mistaken for a bounty hunter took no skin of Edge’s nose. “Bounty hunting ain’t against the law,” he said, flatly.

“But it ain’t nice, neither,” the sheriff answered with a sniff. “And Peaceville’s a nice town. You guys pay ten per cent for the privilege of dirtying it up some.”

“Don’t you have any trouble with that?”

“A mite, sometimes.” The lawman’s eyes seemed to turn to chips of ice. “From strangers. But I limit the numbers, see. Too many hunters going after too few fugitives ain’t good for business. Most of you guys get to see that sooner or later. Since the war ended I’ve shot three that didn’t take to the idea. You guys got five more. Get it?”

Edge shrugged. “Got it. Now can I go get a hotel room for the night?”

“Sure son,” the sheriff said and now he looked disappointed. “Just the one night? We got room for one more bounty hunter. You look like the kind of man who’d make a lot of money at the game.”

“Less ten per cent,” Edge pointed out.

The longest, wettest sniff yet. “Why son, in my office I got posters on wanted men offering close on fifteen thousand dollars. My cut’s chicken feed.”

Edge turned with a cold grin. “When the gravy runs out, chickenfeed can keep a man alive,” he said. “I’m in the wrong town anyway, Sheriff.”

“Ain’t a better one in the territory, “came the reply. “Where you headed?”

“Warlock,” Edge said, and began to walk away.

But he came up short as the sheriff started to chortle.

“What’s so funny about Warlock?” he demanded.

It took the man a few moments to control his laughter. “You ain’t got far to go, son,” he told Edge. “No siree. Not far. Only Warlock don’t exist anymore.”

Edge turned to face the sheriff, resting his hand on the butt of the Remington. He face was a mask of bitter determination. It was a pose and an expression that wiped every trace of good humor from the lawman’s features.

“You’re sitting and I’m standing,” Edge told him, his voice low but dangerous. “I’ve got the drop on you and I don’t like jokes about Warlock. Just what the hell do you mean, sheriff? Or do I plug you and go and find someone who ain’t a comedian.”

“Mite touchy, ain’t you son?” the Sheriff answered. “Can’t you see the streamers? Didn’t you see the newly painted sign outside town? We had to rename the weekly newspaper on account of the Civil War ending, like Citizen’s Committee voted to change things. Warlock don’t exist no more ‘cause we re-named it Peaceville.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

EDGE didn’t ask the sheriff any more questions. One, because the man was not well disposed towards him after being on the receiving end of a threat; and two, because Edge did not want the lawman to know his reason for coming to town. The sheriff made the great part of his living from bounty hunters and thus would take exception to a stranger whose intention was to kill five such men.

Edge went back across the street with more weariness than he had shown when the sheriff had called him. He looked briefly, but with great care, into the face of every man he saw, but not one looked even vaguely like Frank Forrest, or his four partners in murder.

The hotel lobby was sparsely furnished and deserted except for a drunk who snored peacefully on a wooden bench and a hawkish looking man of middle years who leaned against the business side of the desk, leafing through a newspaper. He wore a white shirt against which gold ornaments glowed with the dull sheen of real metal–links, armbands, tie pin, belt buckle and watch-chain. His smile was much brighter in his insincere warmth as he looked at Edge, who carried his saddlebags, bedroll and repeater in through the doorway.

“Welcome sir,” the man said in a high falsetto. “The New York Hotel is the best resting place in town.” He reached beneath the counter top and pulled out a bulky register, slapped it down. “For how long will we have the pleasure of your company?”

“Long as it takes,” Edge said, dumping his gear on the floor.

The man was temporarily perturbed by the flatness of the response, the complete lack of emotion in Edge’s voice or expression

“Ah ... yes ...Yes, very well, sir. Name?”

“Edge.”

The hotel man seemed relieved. At least he had got one answer he wanted. He wrote in the register.

“Christian names? Given names?”

“Just Edge.”

“Just Edge?”

“Right.”

“Dollar and a half a night. No meals.”

Edge nodded.

“In advance.” Apologetic. Relieved again as the stranger reached into his saddlebags on the floor and brought out six dollars.”

“I’ll get some back if it don’t take that long.”

The man’s hand, heavily ringed with gold bands, closed over the bills with a greedy strength.

“Of course, sir. Back or front?”

“Front. I like to look at the street.”

“Number three, sir. Nice position. Right over the entrance on the second floor. Balcony outside to sit on when the sun isn’t too hot.”

“Sounds like a piece of heaven,” Edge said and the man snapped a glance at him, to see if he was expected to laugh. But Edge continued to show the face of a man who hated the world.

“And we can provide company for guests at a light extra charge, sir.” He leered knowingly, trying for a different reaction from the new guest. “Only a dollar. You pay the girl what she requires, of course. If you have a preference, we can offer Mexican girls from the cantina, or good clean American ladies from the saloon.”

The man suddenly gasped as he found himself yanked halfway across the counter as Edge’s hand shot out, his fist bunching around the stingy throat. The edge of the counter dug painfully into the front of his thighs and the hand at his throat was cutting off his air supply. But the pain took second place to terror as he stared on a level into the flaming slits of his attacker’s eyes, saw the lips draw back over teeth that were almost canine in their snarling threat.

“You saying Mexican girls ain’t good or clean or ladies?” Edge demanded.

The man tried to speak, but the grip on his throat held the words in him. He shook his head frantically as his face went bright red, took on the undertones of blue. Edge grunted and tossed him back as if the man was a long piece of cloth. He crashed into the wall behind the desk, retching dryly as he fought for breath.

“I don’t buy my women,” Edge said and now grinned with the merest hint of humor at the crinkled corners of his mouth. “And if I hear you make any more remarks about Mexicans—male or female—I’ll melt down all that fancy gold you’re wearing and pour it down your throat.”

“Yes sir,” the man said, fearfully, believing wholeheartedly that Edge meant what he said. He reached for the register to put it away; sprung back in fright at Edge slammed his hand down on the book.

“Who else is staying at the hotel?”

“Who ... who else?” His voice was trembling now.

Edge sighed, spun the register around and flipped it open, ran a finger down the list of names. There was none that he recognized. He crooked a finger at the cowering clerk, who stepped forward with great reluctance.

“Him,” Edge said, pointing to the name at the top of the column. “Harris. Describe him.”

The clerk did so, faltering at first, but regaining his composure as Edge indicated other names and demanded descriptions. There were ten men staying at the hotel, none of them sounded like Edge’s quarry. Edge revealed no reaction to this, picked up his gear and went up the stairs to his room. They key was in the lock. Inside was a double bed with freshly washed but still dirty sheets; a dressed with a cracked mirror, a hip tub and a bureau scarred with many knife initials and dates. From the window which he opened Edge could see directly across the street to where the sheriff continued his detached vigil, the darkened facade of the newspaper office and dry good store, and got an oblique view of the interior of the Rocky Mountain Saloon where a line of girls kicked naked legs along the counter top to the drunken delight of a crowded audience. The noise of the street was diminished as it rose, but would still not be conducive to peaceful sleep.

The balcony to which the clerk had referred was merely the plank roofing of the sidewalk in front of the hotel. Edge had to climb out of the window to get on to it and to lean over the unprotected side to get an upside down view of the street buildings on his side of the street. There was another floor of the hotel above and Edge discovered a loose shingle to the right of the window and over it. He went back into room three, took the money from his saddlebags and counted off ten dollars in ones which he put into his pants’ pocket. He was able to lean out of the window and reach up and put the rest behind the loose board and thumped it back into place with his clenched fist. He stashed the Henry under the bed, shut the window and left the room, locked the door behind him and pocketing the key.

Down in the lobby the drunk continued to enjoy his stentorious sleep. The clerk looked up from his study of the paper at the sound of his footfalls on the stairway, went hastily back to concentrated reading when he recognized Edge.

“Where’s the best place to eat?” Edge demanded.

The clerk swallowed hard. “Honey’s, Mr. Edge. Good food, friendly service. Cheaper in the saloon but the food’s hash and grease.”

“Obliged,” Edge said and went outside.

He saw the sheriff watching him with distrustful interest, but ignored him and set off slowly down the street towards the restaurant, again glancing into the face of each man he came across. The kid jumped him as he crossed the mouth of an alleyway between two buildings. He had been coming from the opposite direction, strolling casually, hands in his pockets, lips pursed into a soundless whistle: fresh faced and innocent looking, not worth a second glance in terms of what Edge was searching for. But as the kid came level with Edge, he transformed into a fast ball of action. His young features took on a cruel twist, his hands came out of his pockets and he went sideways with tremendous force.

Edge was in mid-stride, unprepared for the attack and as the boy crashed into him, stumbled into the inky mouth of the alley, unbalanced. And outstretched leg caught him on the shinbone and Edge went over, reaching for his gun only to find his hand trapped between his fallen body and the hard ground. His free hand snaked across to the small of his back but a pair of eyes, unaccustomed to the darkness saw the movement and a foot stamped the forearm, sending searing pain up to the shoulder and down to the fingertips.

“Get the bastard’s head,” he heard a voice shout and from the light from the street, saw the kid who had shoved him launch himself forward.

Edge heard a sound and twisted his head clear, felt the rush of air cross his ear as a heavy foot missed its mark by a hairsbreadth. Then the kid thudded on top of him, a fist crashing into his jaw. The foot came off his arm and Edge reached up, flipping on to his back. His big hand formed into a claw, he grabbed at the white blur that was the kid’s face and closed the grip. The kid, bringing up his arm to start another blow, screamed in pain and terror as he felt the fingers dig into the flesh on his face like talons before they were drawn downwards. The skin ripped in two places, beneath the eyes, came off in matching strips down each cheek. His body went stiff with horror of what had happened and sailed through the air like a log of wood as Edge jerked him off with hand and a knee in his crotch.

There were two others and one leapt upon Edge’s back as he came up into a crouch, throwing arms around the victim’s neck, locking his feet around the front of his waist as his legs encircled the body in a vice like grip. Edge grunted and blinked, found he was now on equal terms with his attackers in the matter of picking out shapes in the darkness. The kid with the ripped face sill lay on the ground, moaning, his body now bent double to seek relief from the agony in his groin. The kid on his back was breathing hot and fast into his ear as he forced the grip on with more viciousness and the third kid was coming at Edge with something that glinted faintly in his right hand.

A fast glance over his shoulder showed Edge a vertical row of rusty iron brackets climbing the wall of the building forming a crude means of access to the roof. Despite the weight of the kid on his back, the pain of his grip and the fact that he had his arms pinned to his sides, Edge broke into an awkward backward run, Retreating from the advance of the kid with a knife. The kid, mistaking the reason for the retreat, took time to savor his imminent triumph. A grin flicked across his features, froze in the instant he saw what was happening. Edge judged his distance and launched into a short backwards jump to increase the power with which he slammed his burden against the wall. The kid cried out once as his spine snapped in three places as it met the solid obstacles of the brackets. His arms and legs went limp and he slid to the ground in a heap behind Edge, who in the next moment had sprung forward, hand flashing from his neck, holding the razor in its accustomed, concealed position.

“You killed him,” the third kid said in shocked rage as he came forward, certain that he was going up against a man who was going to defend himself only with bare hands.

“He died for ten dollars you ain’t going to get either,” Edge said as he sidestepped the knife thrust with ease and chopped down with his hand, the razor sliding forward, to be gripped by the handle with the blade fully exposed. Its keen edge made a faint hissing sound as it sliced off the kid’s right ear.

The kid dropped the knife, his hands flying to where his ear had been. “Oh my God,” he whispered hoarsely.

“He wasn’t on your side.” Edge told him.

The kid blinked, gasped, stopped and snatched up the useless lump of severed flesh. Then he spun and ran back down the alley, away from the street. Edge picked up his hat, dusted it off, donned it and continued his stroll towards the restaurant.

“Real nice town, sheriff,” he muttered.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HER name was Gail. It was said in neatly formed red letters, stitched with thread on the left side of her white blouse where the material started its slope to her neck after cresting the high, pointed peaked swell of her breast. She was a tall redhead, the skin of her face tanned a pretty brown, throwing the whites of her large eyes with blue centers into an attractive contrast. Although her breasts were large her build was slim, with a narrow waist and promisingly curved hips. Her walk was graceful as she threaded between the tables of the small restaurant and her movements agile as she dispensed the plates heaped with fine smelling food cooked by a grinning Mexican who occasionally popped his head through the door from the kitchen to see how business was progressing.

It was good but beginning to fall off as the hours slid towards midnight. When Edge had entered there had been perhaps twenty men and women scattered around the fifteen tables. But he took his time, relishing the inch thick steak, the beans and deep fried potatoes, savoring the apple pie with thick fresh cream, only sipping the hot, sweet coffee. Gradually the diners finished their meals, paid their checks and left, treating the waitress named Gail with courtesy, which she acknowledged with gentle smiles and invitations to return to Honey’s.

The restaurant was situated in mid-town Peaceville and appeared to draw its custom from both areas. But there was something about the standard of the food, the friendliness of its service, the eastern decor of checkered tablecloths, elegant cutlery and fine china that created an atmosphere in which good manners became a matter of course to all those that entered.

“Who’s Honey?” Edge asked as Gail closed the door behind a departing, middle-aged couple, and he and the waitress were alone in the dining room.

She flashed her gentle smile. “The cook and the owner,” she answered brightly, nodding towards the kitchen door. “He has some unpronounceable Mexican name that has a bit in the middle that sounds like Honey. People started to call him that and it stuck. You new in town?”

She arched her eyebrows and looked at Edge with unashamed interest. He wondered momentarily if he should feel flattered, decided she was the kind of woman who would be interested in everybody and everything.

“New tonight. Heading for Warlock and didn’t know I’d arrived ‘til the Sheriff told me you’d changed the name.”

She laughed, a light, tinkling sound. “Nice thought, wasn’t it? The war being over like it is. Trouble is, not much has changed except some signs. Most of the people just used it as an excuse to throw a weeklong celebration. You’ve arrived for the tail end.” Her expression dulled into distaste. “You missed three shootings and an attempted lynching and so many fights nobody kept tally.”

“Add one more,” Edge told her, handed her his cup and indicated more coffee.

She filled the cup to the brim from a jug, unsurprised by his revelation. The meal had calmed Edge, the good food nudging him into a mood of quietude that relaxed his body and face, so the girl saw him simply as a tired, travel stained man with nothing on his mind but the prospect of a long rest, with time for maybe a little conversation. She sat down at an adjacent table.

“It’s a good town,” she said with feeling. “There are a lot of decent, hard working people in Peaceville who hope it will live up to its name. And at this end, it mostly does.”

She sighed and Edge felt a stirring of desire as he watched her breasts rise and fall.

“But you get the trouble makers in here as well as peaceable folk?”

She nodded and smiled again. “Yes, we do. But they behave themselves in the restaurant. Sheriff Peacock sees to that.”

Now it was Edge’s turn to show surprise, and it drew another smile, lighting up Gail’s regular features.”

“I take it you’ve met him. He tries to have a word with every stranger who rides in. He may seem a bad choice for authority, but he’s right for this town. He recognizes the need for what’s downtown and so he lets it be. Any trouble up this end and he shows how mean he can be. We respect him and they fear him–most of them.” Gail yawned. “Excuse me,” she said as the cook peered outside again and heaved a sigh when he saw the restaurant was almost empty.

“We close after this gentleman has left, Honey,” he said.

Edge finished his coffee at a swallow and stood. “How much do I owe?”

“Dollar, sir.”

Edge gave her two. “Obliged. It was worth double, so I’ll pay double.”

“You don’t have to ...” she began, but Edge had put on his hat and reached the door in three long strides.

“That’s a mean looking man,” Honey said as the door banged shut.

“Oh no!” Gail exclaimed, staring at where the lace frill on the door still swayed from the sudden movement. “That’s a man, Honey.”

Honey shrugged as he untied his apron, muttering: “Women.”

Out on the street the subject of this short disagreement was heading towards where Peaceville was showing no sign at all of giving into the thickening darkness of night, the noise and light raucous and blazing, as if throwing out challenges to the insistent demands of the passing of time. Edge sensed the steely stare of Sheriff Peacock upon him as he unhitched his horse from in front of the New York Hotel and led her along to the livery stable.

The man inside was very old, perhaps as much as eighty years, which was a considerable achievement in that part of the country. He sat cross legged on the straw littered floor, using a hay bale as a table on which he was playing himself a two-handed game of five card draw. All the stalls seemed taken and he looked up without enthusiasm at the prospect of new business.

“Filled right up, mister,” he said, showing a toothless mouth, the loose skin of his cheeks rippling as he spoke.

“How much do you charge?” Edge asked.

“Fifty cents a night, feed and water. When I got room. I ain’t though.”

“I figure you can find it for two dollars,” came the reply.

“He, he,” the man giggled, getting to his feet with remarkable agility for one so old. “Rich men I like.”

He held out a hand for the reins and Edge gave them to him. The man stood quietly as Edge removed the saddle, swung it over a peg on the wall. Then the horse was led to the back of the stable, persuaded gently into a vacant stall. The man returned and held out a hand again, this time for money. Edge slapped a dollar bill into it. The man’s expression showed irritation.

“You said two dollars, mister.”

Edge grinned his icy grin. “And you said fifty cents when you got room. You got room. I want my change.”

The man’s expression became ugly with rage. “I could lame that horse of your, mister,” he spat out.

Edge’s hand flashed to his back appeared brandishing the knife. His voice hissed low. “If that horse ain’t fed and watered and fit to ride when I want it, you won’t have any hands to play poker with.”

The man’s rage withered under Edge’s steady gaze and he suddenly dug a hand into his pocket, came out with some loose change and dropped a great deal through fumbling fingers as he counted out fifty cents.”

Edge put the money away and slid the knife into its sheath. “Obliged,” he said, and moved to the rear of the stable.

“What you doing?” the man demanded, failing to get any authority into his voice.

“Looking,” Edge said.

He had to investigate six stalls before a grunt of discovery revealed his success. Then he went into four more and each time found what he expected to. Each of the five horses stood quietly, calmed by the gentle touch of Edge’s hand on their backs as he stooped to examine the brands seared into their hind quarters. In each case it was identical, a simple, ‘J&J’ with no border.

“You recognize that, mister?” the old man asked nervously as Edge peered over the wall of a stall at the last horse Edge had examined.

Edge nodded. “Stands for Josiah and Jamie,” he said absently, hardly realizing he had spoken aloud as his expression seemed to melt from pensiveness to nothing and then reform into a look of terrible hatred.

The man shrunk back into the shadows as Edge pushed out of the stall, a directness of purpose in his long strides as he made for the door. There was just the sound of his footfalls on the ground, and the jingle of spilt change as his boots trod among it, scattering it. But then a volley of shots rang out and Edge’s hand streaked to his holster, came up with the Remington leveled.

As the old man gasped at the speed of the draw Edge took a final stride to the door and stuck his head out. He saw Gail and Honey turn from fastening the restaurant door and stare down the street. He followed the direction of their claimed attention and saw a crowd milling in front of the hotel, the numbers swelling as he watched. The saloon piano belted out a few more notes, sounding far in the distance, then the player hesitated, struck another chord and stopped.

“They got the sheriff,” a man called excitedly and Gail and Honey started to run towards the activity.

Edge took off after them.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THERE was upwards of fifty people outside the hotel when Edge got there, formed into a wide half-circle facing the sheriff’s office. Mean-faced bounty hunters, frightened saloon and dancehall girls, grim-faced citizens of stature and their shocked wives. There was even a group of three children, two boys and a girl who looked on in wide-eyed amazement. All attention was focused on the sheriff’s office, its windows smashed, door swinging open. The only sound as the audience held its breath in anticipation of what was the come was the faint, regular creaking of the sheriff’s rocker as, empty, it dipped and tipped with the momentum of its recent occupant.

Then the crowd let out its breath in a single rush of escape, the sound magnified by the silence to the height of a sudden gust of prairie wind. Sheriff Peacock had appeared in the doorway of his office, legs apart, arms stretched out so that he could rest his hands around the doorframe to either side. His elderly face, etched with the experience of so many hard, bitter years in the far west, seemed to be set in a position of repose. It was an expression, which took no account of a big patch of blood in the center of his shirt-front, which spread wider as he stood there, like an orator wondering how to begin his address to the waiting, expectant audience.

“Sheriff,” somebody said from the rear of the crowd and the wounded man seemed to recognize the voice, accept it as an invitation to emerge.

He took three normal strides across the sidewalk, but as he stared directly ahead, seeming to search above the heads of the crowd for the man who had spoken his name, he was unaware that he had reached the edge. His foot at the end of the fourth stride found only thin air and he seemed to hang, unmoving in the off-balance position for several seconds before falling forward to land in a heap at the side of the dusty street.

Not a soul moved to his aid as their horror-stricken attention was captured by a new movement. But one pair of eyes in the crowd stared with deeper intensity than all the others: saw the doorway of the sheriff’s office in much stark clarity that it might have been the noonday sun beating down upon the scene rather than the dull flickering light of a kerosene lamp. Edge’s eyes were narrowed to the merest slits and his teeth gleamed between lips pulled so tightly back that they seemed not to exist at all. His fingers gripped the butt of the Remington so hard that his knuckles showed white and his arm ached clear up to the shoulder socket.

Frank Forrest came out first, Colt revolver in his left hand, Spencer repeater rifle in his right. Then came Billy Seward, went to the left, next Hal Douglas to join him on that side. John Scott and Roger Bell emerged to stand on the right. They no longer wore their cavalrymen’s uniform and their faces were as overgrown with week old beards as was Edge’s. But Edge recognized each and every one as easily as if he had seen them on parade, as neatly dressed and cleanly turned out as his brand of discipline had demanded of soldiers serving under his command. Each was armed in the same way as Forrest, except for Seward, who brandished his army saber instead of a rifle.

“Frank Forrest her has got an announcement to make to the people of Peaceville,” Seward said suddenly. “You all better listen and listen good.”

“Right,” agreed Hal Douglas, his eyes roving the ring of faces. “Anyone tries to interrupt, likely he gets his head blown off.”

“We ain’t fooling,” Bell enjoined. “Listen good.”

“Good,” Scott emphasized.

Forrest waved the rifle, telling his men they had said enough and it was his turn.

“Sheriff Peacock there ...” He jabbed at the injured man with the rifle. “… he was a stupid man. He thought he had this town and this part of the country sewed up nice and neat. But he was wrong. He scared a lot of people, but he didn’t scare me.”

“Nor us,” Seward put in, the held his silence under Forrest’s stony gaze.

“He had nothing to back him up expecting all you people’s fear of him. You see what good that does him when his time came.”

At the rear of the crowd, standing between Gail and Honey and the old man from the livery stable, Edge watched and listened, his mind floating in a sea of hot, liquid hate that he knew would have to cool and subside before he made his move. Fury was a weapon that was unreliable, could backfire on a man and leave him easy meat in the sight of another man armed with a cool brain.

“That’s by and by,” Forrest went on, his voice dropping to an almost conversational level. “Sheriff Peacock ain’t the law in Peaceville any more. I am, and these are my deputies.” He spat onto the sidewalk. “Won’t be many changed made, far as citizens of the town is concerned. All they got to do is vote me a higher salary than Peacock had, and salaries for my deputies, of course. And any bounty hunters among you the sheriff’s take got to be higher. With all these deputies, the cost of law enforcement has gone up considerably. Ten per cent for me and five per cent each for my boys. Makes a nice round thirty per cent.”

“Screw you,” a man in the crowd said, his voice very clear.

“Too clear,” Forrest said. “Blast him.”

It was Bell who fired and it was as if the bullet had physically pushed a gap into the circle of people. In fact, they had drawn away in horror as the complaint’s forehead cracked open to gush blood in a fountain as he pitched forward. Besides Edge, Gail turned away, a hand flying to her throat as she retched, but failed to raise moisture.

“They’re tough,” the old man on the other side said with admiration.

“Like Rodge here said awhile back, we ain’t fooling,” Forrest went on easily. “So do like we say, and Peaceville will be a fun town to live in.” He transferred both guns to his left hand and held his right aloft. “I, Frank Forrest,” he intoned, “hereby appoint myself new Sheriff of Peaceville, Arizona Territory. I swear to protect its citizens and uphold the law.” He grinned around the crowd. “I ain’t sure of what the right words is but I guess that will have to do.”

“Hey Frank,” Seward yelled. “You can’t appoint yourself the new sheriff. The old one’s still around.”

Forrest sighed, aimed his rifle and squeezed the trigger. The sheriff arched his back once and died. “He ain’t now,” Forrest said.

Seward gave a shout of glee and leapt down from the sidewalk, flipped the dead Peacock over onto his back with a vicious kick. He stopped, ripped the star from the man’s shirt. Then his saber went high, made a swishing sound as it fell and drew a deep seated gasp of horror from the watching crowd as the blade slashed cleanly through Peacock’s neck, severing his head from his body.

“That makes it for sure,” Seward said, tossing the star to Forrest who caught it and pinned it to his own shirt-front.

At the rear of the crowd, unmoved by the horror of what had taken place outside the sheriff’s office, Edge judged that the time was right. He felt cold and calculating, his muscles relaxed, his mind and body ready to act like a machine, obeying the spur to vengeance but open to the caution for self-preservation. He drew the Remington, his hand curling around the cold hardness of its butt. Then, like a released coil spring he sprung as fingers clawed into his arm. The muzzle of his revolver was an inch from Gail’s horrified face and Edge’s finger was within a split instant of squeezing the trigger.

“What are you doing?” she demanded sharply, her voice lost to all others in the buzz of startled conversation that had sprung around the crowd.

“Attending to my business,” Edge snapped, lowering the gun, shaking free of the girl’s grasp.

“There’s innocent people here,” she urged. “Women and children. They’ll get hurt.”

“That ain’t nothing to do with my business,” he came back, looking across the crowd, seeing that all but Bell and Seward and gone into the sheriff’s office. These two stood a menacing guard outside.

“You’ll fail,” Gail pressed on. “You can’t hope to go up against their rifles with a revolver.”

Edge stared down at the Remington snuggled in his hand and realized the truth of the girl’s words. He’d been wrong. He wasn’t ready. He had acted on an impulse, taking no account of a primary factor that loaded the odds overwhelmingly against him.

“Don’t listen to her,” the toothless old man encouraged, anxious for more action. “Go and get ‘em son. They’re tough but you’re tougher. Go blast them out of the office.”

Edge looked at him and from the expression on his face, the old man was sure his words had convinced Edge not to wait.

“Go get my horse ready, feller,” he said easily. “Feed him, water him, rub him down till his coat shines like a mirror, and saddle him. If he ain’t ready by the time I want to ride out of here you’ll have three minutes to make your peace with whatever kind of God makes scum like you.”

The old man turned and scuttled away, and the rest of the crowd began to break up, only two men having the stomach to cross and pick up the headless body of Sheriff Peacock under the menacing guns of Bell and Seward. But even they turned away from the displaced head, white faces twisted by terror.

“Thank you,” Gail whispered, and took Honey’s arm for support as the couple moved away.

Edge cast one more glance at the sheriff’s office before using the cover of what remained of the crowd to go into the hotel.

The gold-studded clerk eyed him fearfully. The drunk slept on. No longer snoring. The only sound in the lobby was the heavy tick of a large clock above the door. Its hands pointed to the hour of two o’clock. Peaceville was suddenly quiet.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN