Silver in the Blood (14 page)

THE man's beard was no longer red, for like his face and his tattered clothing it was coated with the grey dust that had been raised by the destruction of the building. But his hands were colored a deeper hue than ever his hair had been for they were shapeless extensions on the ends of his arms, dripping blood on the rocky ground before him from between the gleaming bones of the fleshless fingers. Resting across his extended arms was the Henry rifle that had claimed so many lives. Edge moved towards the man, carrying the empty Winchester easily in his right hand, hanging low. Martha Wilder fell in behind him, as if anxious to keep the lean body between her and the ghastly figure of Tabor. Edge halted two yards in front of Tabor and was able to see what had saved the other man from the rockfall—a sofa had been overturned, trapping Tabor beneath its thick padding. But it was obvious his hands had been left beyond this protection. His curiosity satisfied, he regarded Tabor impassively.

"Being a Quaker entitles you to the odd miracle now and then?" he asked easily.

"I do not question the ways of the Lord," Tabor answered, his voice still having something of the tone of an evangelical preacher. "I am content that he has delivered thee to me."

"What do you plan to do about it?" Edge taunted.

"Kill a murderer and a thief," Tabor thundered.

Edge grinned coldly. "Seems like He'll have to give you a hand, feller. Maybe two."

"Thee are a blasphemer as well as a murderer and a thief." His voice was still strong, but his eyes betrayed his sense of helplessness as he looked at the crushed hands.

"It was your silver, wasn't it?" Edge asked, taking the makings of a cigarette from his pocket.

"No!" Martha Wilder cried.

"Yes!" roared Tabor. "My son and I dug it out of the ground ourselves to build a church to the glory of God. Warner and his gunmen stole it from us and this woman's father stole it from them."

Edge turned his hooded eyes towards Martha. "Figured that was why you wouldn't name the miner who brought up the ore in the first place, Miss Wilder," he said softly.

"Then why...?" she started.

"No difference to me who owned it," he answered. "Your Pa paid me to freight it. I work for the man, who picks up the tab."

He lit the cigarette and returned his attention to Tabor as the bearded man began to tremble with frustrated rage. He aimed the Winchester into the air and squeezed the trigger. The hammer clicked against an empty breech and he handed the rifle to the woman. Tabor allowed his arms to fall to his side and the Henry clattered down on to the rocks.

"I have to kill you, Tabor," Edge said, going down into a crouch and bunching his hands into fists. He pushed them under the fallen rifle until it was resting across his forearms. Then he spat out the cigarette. "I killed your boy and you wouldn't stop coming after me until I was dead."

He looked, up from his crouching position, squinting towards Tabor's head which was silhouetted against the rain-heavy cloud. The head bobbed in agreement.

"What I figured," Edge said easily.

"He's defenseless!" Martha implored.

Edge scowled. "So was a girl named Adele and the people who came to see her get married." His eyes searched the ground until he saw a narrow length of wood splintered from a piece of furniture. "I'm giving him a real chance. He can't use his hands, so I won't use mine." He caught hold of one end in his teeth and straightened up.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Jake Tabor showed fear in his eyes and he began to move, walking backwards in an ungainly gait. Each heel of his boots explored the uneven scattering of rubble before he set down a foot. Edge moved forward, maintaining the distance between himself' and the man of God turned killer. Finally Tabor was forced to halt as the back of his legs came up against a low section of wall that had once formed part of the side of the building.

Edge carefully maneuvered the Henry until the stock was nestling against his hunched shoulder and the barrel pointed across the opposite forearm towards Tabor's chest.

"No, Edge!" Martha screamed, running forward as Edge bent his neck, rested the length of wood against the trigger and jerked sideways with his head.

The recoil caused the rifle to aim high. Instead of taking the bullet in the heart, Tabor died with the lead ripping through his beard into his throat. He was flipped backwards over the wall and disappeared with a splash that sent evil-smelling liquid spraying high into the air. With utter dispassion, Edge moved forward and looked over the wall, not even altering his expression as he glanced down at Tabor's long beard floating on the rancid surface of the cesspool.

"Murderer!" Martha screamed in accusation.

"So was he," Edge replied, turning away and taking the Winchester from, her unprotesting grasp. "Now he's only going through the motions."

He threw the Henry aside and began to reload the Winchester as he walked through the rubble, heading for the trail curving away at the side of the lake. Martha looked around her in desperation, caught sight of the dismembered arm of one of Tabor's gang lying amid the rocks and suddenly broke into a run to catch up with Edge. She held her tattered dress tightly against her upper body.

"Where are you going?" she asked suddenly after limping out at his side for several moments without speaking.

"San Francisco." He didn't look at her, but took one rueful glance in the direction of the lake before starting on the downward path.

Silence went with them again, until they rounded one of the many twists in the trail and saw a horse, ready saddled, chopping at a patch of grass. Edge coaxed it near with soft words, recognizing the animal.

"It's Anatali's," the woman said as Edge swung up into the saddle.

"He wasn't a bad guy," Edge answered. "I figure he'd like us to have it."

He reached out a hand and after a moment's hesitation she accepted it and he hauled her up behind him. As they jogged down the sloping trail he was warmly aware of her naked breasts pressing against his back through the parka.

"What happened to your bad ankle?" he asked after awhile.

"It still hurts," she snapped back. "But with so many men dying so horribly a bruised bone isn't that important." 

The afternoon dimmed towards evening as they dropped down into the valley and on the final stretch Edge spotted a westbound stage making speed along the trail. He heeled the horse into a fast gallop and did not halt until they came to the side of the trail, a quarter of a mile in front of the stage.

"This is where you transfer," he said, sliding from the saddle and holding out his arms to help her dismount.

She looked at him angrily. "The deal was San Francisco, Mr. Edge."

"That's where the stage will be going," he pointed out.

"What about you?"

"I'll make my own way, Miss Wilder."

"Why were you going to San Francisco anyway?" She sounded as if she genuinely wanted to know.

He sighed and looked down the trail towards the fast approaching stage. "Places to me are like mountains to climbers," he said quietly. "I go to them because they're there." He raised a hand and the stage driver hauled on the reins. The guard snatched up the shotgun which had been resting across his knees. Martha renewed her efforts to cover herself with the remains of her dress.

"Take the lady to San Francisco?" Edge asked.

"I think you're a bastard, Edge," Martha snapped, wrenching open the stage door.

"Even if she ain't no lady?" Edge asked. 

"That's where we're going," the driver answered.

"Holy cow!" the lone passenger on the stage exclaimed, a nervous tongue darting out to moisten dry lips as he stared at Edge. "I thought you was a holdup man."

Edge swung into the saddle of the big black horse. "Carrying much?"

"Ten thousand in silver, I heard," the man answered.

"Not interested," Edge came back with an easy grin hovering on the fringe of a sneer.

The woman laughed harshly without humor as she slammed the door. "He knows where there's a hundred times that much."

The passenger gulped. "I find that very difficult to believe, ma'am."

Edge shrugged ruefully as he wheeled the horse and the stage driver whipped his team into motion.

"Yeah," he muttered. "It sure as hell is all wet."

EDGE

Red River & California Kill

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