Silver in the Blood (3 page)

Keene giggled. "That sure is one hot piece of woman," he said.

Again the others waited for a signal from Tabor before showing their own amusement. Then the bearded man stepped back. "Get the horses," he ordered.

"I don't think she's dead yet, Jake."

"But she is ignorant of what we wish to know," he barked in retort. "Get the horses."

They moved quickly, only a few casting reluctant glances over their shoulders as they went to a corner of the house. Tabor stayed by the well, looking grimly at the slow turning, inverted body of the naked woman, and when the men returned to the yard, leading their horses, Keene had two. He handed the reins to Tabor and as the bearded man mounted, the others hoisted themselves into their saddles.

"She knows we did all this," Keene pointed out waving a limp hand over the scene of carnage.

"I made her a promise about Hell," Tabor said, and raised his Henry to his shoulder. He was only ten yards from the well, but he sighted carefully. The three shots were snapped off with great skill, each finding its mark, cutting through strands of the rope and thudding into the front of the stable. The body of Adele Firman fell like a log and smashed into the water before the crack of the final rifle shot had faded into the distance.

"She is there now," Tabor said as he slid the Henry into the saddle boot with a flourish.

"Ding, dong, dell," Keene sang as the riders wheeled their horses forward.

"Pussy's in the well," another finished.

Once clear of the yard, Tabor urged his horse into a gallop and the men streamed after him, eating his dust and raising a great deal more which took a long time to settle on the rich land of The Lucky Lady. Edge waited until they had gone from sight around the bluff before he rose from his vantage point and went down into the yard to eat.

AFTER a meal of cold meats and apple pie washed down with two glasses of flat champagne, Edge felt moved to do something. Unlike Jake Tabor, he could not reconcile a belief in the abstracts of heaven and hell with the harsh reality of the world in which he lived. The strict teachings of his mother and father would not allow him to completely renounce the feasibility of such other existences, but the violence and evil which had been his companions for so long had filled him with a great doubt. So he went to the pump organ and lifted the body of the little bridesmaid with the blood spattered ringlets. She seemed almost weightless in death and he carried her across to the tables and laid her gently down beside her mother.

"You said you wanted to be with her, kid," he murmured, and then went into the stable to get his horse. The animal smelled death in the air and was skittish, anxious to get away from the scene of so much slaughter and agony. But Edge held him at a nervous standstill beside the well and looked down to where an opaque whiteness showed through the inky blackness of the water far below. "If there is such a place, ma'am, you were heading in the right direction," he said and gave his mount a vicious kick in the flanks, jerking the reins to head in a southwest direction aiming to swing wide of Virginia City
towards his ultimate destination of San Francisco.

He had to ride more than three miles, through the rich land of the Sierra foothills, over productive pastures and through fields of young wheat, past widely scattered houses of the dead men and women back at the ranch yard before he reached the boundary fence. And because everyone who had worked so hard to maintain The Lucky Lady in such a fine condition was dead, it seemed less of an act of vandalism to tear a way through the barrier.

Dusk was fast approaching now, bringing with it fading light the chillness of mountain air. Almost directly ahead of him Edge could see the sun turning from yellow to red as it reached its leading arc toward the jagged ridges of the high Sierras, but it did
not remind him of the bloodbath he had witnessed. For just as evil and violence were parts of his life, so was sudden death. And there had been so much of it that his mind had grown immune to its tragedy: his memory involuntarily drawing a veil across each passing instant of time, refusing to accept the burden of the past. But inevitably a man's experiences cannot be completely forgotten, for there is no mechanism to protect the sub conscious. Thus, in the torment of nightmare, did the events which changed the course of this man's life re-enact themselves. * (* See:
Edge: Killer's Breed
  ) And just as he was able to ignore the past when he was in control of his own mental processes, he chose to evade the promise of the future—because to such a man the time ahead could be only as far as the next turn on the lonely trail.

He waited until the last rays of the sun had faded before he made camp, choosing a narrow gully which offered protection from the threat of a north wind following the line of the mountains and fresh water from a stream of melted snow that issued from a thick growth of brush. There was ample kindling for a fire and since he had eaten a meal amid the gruesome surroundings of The Lucky Lady he needed only coffee, more to help keep out the mountain cold than to satisfy a thirst. He set the water to boil and then attended to his horse, ground-hobbling the animal close to the edge of the stream. He unsaddled him and carried the bedroll and Winchester over to the fire. He undressed to the extent of removing his boots, noting with philosophical reluctance that the right one had a hole in the sole, almost the size of a silver dollar. Then he draped a blanket around his shoulders and poured a mug of coffee, black as coal and strong enough to make him grimace at the first sip. The mug was warm in his strong hands and soon, as the fire blazed hungrily in the frosty air, throwing out an angry heat, he began to feel pleasantly drowsy and almost luxuriously comfortable.

But when his horse scraped a thin shoe at the ground and snorted out a great gust of misted breath, he was instantly alert in response to the equine warning. A thousand and one innocent sounds of nature might have spooked the horse, but a professional survivor such as Edge knew better than to take anything for granted. So, carefully, with an air of casual slowness, he lowered the mug to the ground between his feet and inched his right hand along the slack of the blanket towards the Winchester. Under the cover of his apparent negligence, his body was wound up like a spring ready for instant release, his ears were attuned far the tiniest of sounds and his deep set eyes swiveled from side to side of their slits, searching for the merest movement. 

"Hold still, mister," a voice called from out of the night, soft and. easy, gentle with the accent of a hillbilly background. "You ain't got but one chance in a million of making it."

Edge froze, knowing the man was behind him, slightly to the right, maybe twenty feet away. That meant he was pressed against the wall of the gully, invisible against the darkness unless he was wearing light colored gear.

"Odds too high," Edge said, closing his eyes against the bright blaze of the fire.

"I'll fold my hand." The man laughed shortly. "So the pot's mine?"

"Unless there's a third hand someplace."

"Sure is, mister."

The second man was also behind Edge, to the left this time. He also had origins in Kentucky or Tennessee.

"That makes it two million to one?"

"Fats ain't such a good shot as me."

"I won't bet on that either," Edge answered, his eyes still tightly screwed up. But his lips were cracked open, showing his teeth gleaming in the firelight. The constantly moving shadows gave his lean face the appearance of a shiny skull. "Take the pot. There's enough coffee for two more."

"We didn't ante our single shots against that Winchester for no coffee, mister." This was the one on the right and although his voice was still soft, a threat had entered his tone.

Edge knew his life depended upon a mere whim of the bushwhacker. "Should have guessed it," he answered. "You picked the wrong man."

"He saying he ain't got no money, Blue?" Fats said, with a whine in his voice.

"Don't they all say that?"

"Yeah. Make a deal with you, Blue. You have his money and, I'll take that fine looking Winchester rifle."

There was the wet sound of an angry spit. "You'll have what I choose to give you, Fats."

"Aw, you always take the plums," Fats said with disgust.

"Shut, up," Blue snapped at him. "Hey, mister? Stand up nice and slow and turn around. I wouldn't like it to get knowed that I'd shoot a man in the back."

Edge's body was stiff with the strain of sitting in one position for so long. A joint in his leg cracked as he eased himself on to his haunches. As he straightened up he heard the two men's boots crunching on the ground as they advanced towards him.

"Hold it!" Blue barked "You drop that there blanket, mister."

"Good thinking; Blue," Fats said excitedly. "He could be hiding a cannon under that there blanket."

The blanket was draped around Edge's shoulders poncho fashion, concealing the gunbelt and holstered Colt. He shrugged out of it and it fell to the ground at his feet.

"Hands behind the neck, mister," Blue instructed. 

"He's got a side iron, Blue!" Fats exclaimed as Edge complied with the instruction.

"I got eyes to see it," Blue said with disgust. "Turn around, mister."

The forefinger and thumb of Edge's left hand fastened upon the end of the handle of the razor as he completed the turn and snapped open his eyes to look at his visitors. His pupils immediately dilated to the half darkness and he saw, two men attired for mountain living, in fur-lined topcoats that extended from hood around their heads to just below the knees. It was obvious which was Fats—a medium tall man with an enormous girth, the slope into his rotund stomach seeming to begin where his series of double chins left off. He had a round face with bulbous cheeks in which, a snub nose looked ridiculous. His eyes were small and set close together and gleamed like tiny beads over the mounds of his cheeks and under the unruly fringe of greasy looking hair that hid his forehead.

Blue was the antithesis of his companion—tall and painfully thin with the emaciated features of a man who hadn't eaten for three months. His face was a mass of angles, with deep set eyes, prominent cheekbones, Roman nose and a mouth so straight and thin it seemed almost lipless. They were both in the late twenties and each carried an old Springfield flintlock muzzleloader.

Fats held his pointed to the front, aimed at the center of Edge's chest and the weapon quivered slightly in his nervous grip. The rifle in Blue's hands was slung easily across his flat stomach.

"Big feller, ain't he, Blue?" Fats said. A trickle of saliva oozed from his mouth and cut a course down the steps of his many chins.

"Harder they fall," Blue answered wryly, his steady gaze unblinking as he scrutinized Edge's face. "You keep me covered, Fats, you hear?"

"Why don't we just plug him?" Fats asked nervously.

Blue spat, seeming to take no effort to send the blob of moisture angling out of the comer of his mouth to hit the ground some three yards away. "That's a point six nine ball you got in the rifle, that's why," he said. "It'd send him plumb across the fire. I don't want that nice gunbelt to come to no harm."

"Get him to move, Blue."

Fats had halted, ten feet in front of where Edge stood, turning slightly side on. He wasn't a very intelligent man, but he understood the techniques of reducing the size of a target. Edge allowed a cruel smile to turn up the comers of his mouth, as he saw that no matter which way Fats turned, his girth stayed the same. Blue kept coming, a slow pace at a time, taking care not to step between the muzzle of his companion's rifle and Edge.

"This ain't no ordinary man," the obvious leader of the two replied. "Chance to move is maybe all he'd need to draw."

"How'd you know, Blue?"

"Cause I can see his eyes and the way he stands. Man, I can almost hear his crafty little brain clicking through the chances. Don't you even blink now, Fats."

Edge liked the way Blue was playing it. If Fats had come in to take the Colt it wouldn't have been any good, because Blue would not have hesitated to explode a shot into the fat gut. So it had to be Blue if Edge was to live. The man was level with him now, to his left. He heard him go around behind him, beyond the fire, and saw him as he appeared on the right, holding the rifle in one hand now, reaching towards the holstered Colt with the other. Edge waited for the fingers to close over the butt of the revolver and then fell sideways, towards Blue, changing his grip on the razor and flashing it clear of the sheath in his right hand.

"Holy cow!" Fats yelled, swinging the Springfield but not squeezing the trigger as the silhouettes of Edge and Blue merged into a single writhing shadow against the firelight.

Blue had the Colt in one hand, the, rifle in the other and he had an instant in which to bring them up to a firing position. But his amazement at the speed of Edge caused his reflexes a moment's hesitation. By then it was too late, Edge's left arm had tightened around the back of his waist and he found himself pressed close against his former victim, staring into the slits of his eyes, terrifyingly aware of the sharp edge of metal resting against his throat.

"In Mexico, they call this a standoff," Edge muttered.

"What do I do, Blue?" Fats yelled. "What do I do?"

Blue's adams apple bobbed, pressing the razor deeper into the scrawny flesh of his throat. He stared  hatred into Edge's eyes.

"I'm getting a queer feeling standing here like this," Edge urged.

"Toss the damn rifle away, stupid!" Blue yelled.

"But..."

"Your partner won't tell you again," Edge warned. "Because he won't have nothing to tell you with."

"Aw, hell!" Fats said, deflated, and threw his Springfield to one side. It hit a rock with a clang and then splashed into the stream.

"Shit!" he yelled in a temper. "It went in the water."

"Things are tough all round," Edge muttered, and tightened his grip on Blue. "Now you, feller."

He let go of the Springfield immediately but held on to the Colt for a moment. Edge could see the intention shining in his eyes. He showed Blue a grin.

"It's all a matter of the time it takes," he whispered. "The way that piece is pointing now I figure you could plug me in the foot before I slit your throat. I got two feet."

The Colt thudded to the ground. Edge nodded almost imperceptibly, then began to pull the razor away. But at the same moment he jacknifed his right leg. The knee travelled up beneath the drape of the long topcoat and smashed into Blue's groin. A shriek of agony ripped from the hillbilly's slash of a mouth and he leapt into the air and crumpled to a heap on the ground as Edge released him. Edge ignored him long enough to fall backwards himself, into a sitting position, and scoop up the Winchester. Then he sprang to his feet again and swung the rifle between the two men. Fats was standing absolutely still, open-mouthed with awe at what had happened. Blue was curled up in a ball, hands under his coat massaging his injured part.

The fat man recovered first. "Weren't no call to hurt Blue down there," he said with petulance. "You had the drop on us. You could have ruined him for life doing that, Mister."