Name On The Bullet - Edge Series 6 (28 page)

‘John, I told you not to trust them, didn’t I tell you that?’ Loretta reminded bitterly. Steele rasped: ‘Storekeeper, I’ve got the same problem you had a few seconds ago!’

‘What are you frigging talking about, you crazy - ’

‘You didn’t want to risk the lady getting killed,’ Steele cut in. ‘Now it’s the Southern gentleman that I am who doesn’t want to see her get hurt.’

‘John, what – ‘

Steele took a firmer grip around the slender waist of the mulatto woman and she groaned with the constricting pain as he added through clenched teeth: ‘Anymore than is necessary to keep her from butting in on men’s business.’

Edge said conversationally: ‘Women sure do like to talk, don’t they, feller?’

‘I ain’t gonna – ‘ Smith started.

‘I guess you’ve got the storekeeper covered, Edge?’ Steele cut in.

‘I can drop the sonofabitch with just one shot. Or it maybe could take a couple to finish him off, big as the feller is.’

Once more there was a tacit understanding communicated between the two men, this time in the form of words they used rather than in an exchange of glances. Steele had signalled they needed to make their play soon. And Edge allowed that the Virginian had made the running from the start and was agreeable for this to continue until events dictated otherwise.

Steele said: ‘Killing lawmen is my speciality. And he’s not wearing a tin star. So if Mr Smith doesn’t drop that shotgun of his, I’ll let you put a bullet through one of his knees for starters. And then I’ll break one of the lady’s arms.’ He tightened his hold on Loretta and she vented another strangled groan of pain before he added in the same ice-cold tone: ‘For starters.’

‘John, please do what they want?’ the woman pleaded.

‘Best that you drop the scattergun and move away from it, feller,’ Edge advised as he pushed the Colt further out through the hole in the window and tilted it downwards. Smith snarled a curse, dropped the weapon at his feet and backed off three paces. And during a brief period of tense silence in the immediate area of the law office no sound intruded from elsewhere in Pine River Junction.

‘All right, it’s done: so now what?’ Smith attempted and failed to generate any degree of harsh toned defiance into his challenge. ‘You two killers are still in the jailhouse and there’s a whole town full of people out here ready to shoot you down like lousy stinking coyotes if you try to make a run for it!’

‘Do all of the local folks think so highly of your lady friend as you do?’ Steele asked.

‘You go get the horses, feller.’ Edge gestured with the Colt toward where his and Steele’s geldings had come to an uneasy halt after they wheeled and retreated from the violence out front of the building.

‘I can tell you that no one else in Pine River Junction gives a wooden nickel about me, mister!’ Loretta answered bitterly for Smith who seemed momentarily confused by the Virginian’s query and Edge’s demand. ‘So it you plan on using me to bargain your way out of town, you best think it through again, mister.’

Smith, who had not moved, predicted sourly: ‘And with ten grand on your heads I’d guess there’ll be more than a few hereabouts who won’t stop short of killing all of us if that’s what it takes!’

Edge said: ‘Let me and him worry about that. You go bring the horses like I told you, feller.’

The resentful storekeeper moved grudgingly off while Edge backed away from the window and stooped to retrieve his Winchester and Colt Hartford from the floor behind where Steele continued to keep a forceful hold on the woman in the doorway. Then after he had put the weapons on the desk he retrieved Steele’s rifle and set it down alongside the other guns.

‘Do you know something that I ought to about the rest of the local townspeople?’

Steele asked.

Edge shrugged as he buckled on his gun belt and met Loretta’s blank eyed gaze in the meagre moonlight that filtered into the building as he answered: ‘All of them are country folks accustomed to minding their own business, I’d guess. Any of them willing to kill for a piece of the bounty money would have gone with Haydon. Or stayed around because they don’t want to get involved - or they knew where we were hid?’

‘Just two of that kind showed up,’ Steele pointed out.

‘Right, so I figure the storekeeper’s talking through his ass. Or trying to scare us with a heap of bullshit.’

Loretta said miserably: ‘A lot of what John Smith says can be called that some of the time. But I believe he’s a decent man at heart. He always has been with me, anyway.’

The disgruntled storekeeper managed to gather up the reins of the two horses without the animals giving him any serious trouble and now he led them back by their bridles toward the law office. The clop of the slow moving hooves was all that sounded in the town. While inside the building the harsh breathing of two men and a woman gradually became less loud as the tension eased. When the big built Smith, closely watched by Edge and Steele, came to a halt two paces short of where this shotgun lay on the dusty, hard packed ground he growled:

‘Okay, so what now?’

‘Edge, do you want to bring along the weapons while I keep a firm hold on this lady for a while longer?’ Steele asked.

‘No sweat, feller.’

Steele stepped out through the doorway, forcing Loretta to move ahead of him, her face set in a grimly defiant expression that was given the lie by how she trembled with fear in the Virginian’s powerful grip. At the same time, Edge collected the three rifles from the desk. And canted the two Colt Hartfords upside down to his left shoulder. Then carried the Winchester level with his hip, a thumb hooked to the hammer while a forefinger was curled around the trigger and the muzzle was aimed at the big man who stood nervously between the two horses, a meaty hand fisted tightly on each bridle.

When Steele released his hold on Loretta she vented a low groan and swayed as if she was on the verge of collapsing. And he said: ‘Fine, so now let’s all of us go about our business.’

He side-stepped around the tremulous woman and advanced inexorably on Smith who immediately released the horses and backed hurriedly off from between them. And Edge moved forward as he slid the Winchester into the boot hung from his saddle then pushed the Colt Hartford under the strap holding his bedroll in place as he reminded:

‘Separate ways, feller: like we agreed? And I figure it’ll best if we never meet up again?

Steele nodded impassively, reached forward to take the Colt Hartford that Edge thrust toward him and said: ‘I don’t suppose it’ll keep us out of violent trouble, but I reckon we have to give it a try. Stay dumb lucky, uh?’

Edge said: ‘No sweat.’

John Smith had cautiously circled wide of the two quietly talking men and their horses and reached Loretta’s side in time to curl an arm around her back. To hold her upright when her knees threatened to buckle and she began to wail with the released tension of terror. The high pitched sound spooked the two horses into flailing rears as Steele made to slide the Colt Hartford into the boot and Edge swung up into his saddle. And at that precise moment the sound of a rifle shot exploded across the vacant lot between the law office and the laundry. Sparked further whinnying fear in the animals and erupted roars of rage and shock from many throats.

Edge cursed and brought his mount under control while he managed to stay firmly in the saddle as he wrenched his head from side to side, struggling to read the suddenly altered situation. Instantly recognised the new components of the radically changed scene - the line of men that had moved out from the moon shadow of the laundry and come to a halt: six of them, each firmly gripping a levelled rifle aimed toward the front of the law office. They were Sheriff Slim Haydon, George Guthrie, the Whitney father and son, Jack Ross, the telegraph man and somebody who was a stranger to Edge. No muzzle smoke could be seen in the moonlit darkness but from the way the others all glowered for a stretched second at the farmer, it was clear Guthrie was the man who had fired the shot.

Steele murmured as he let go of his reins: ‘I reckon it has just about all run out for us.’

His horse wheeled and galloped away as Edge answered: ‘We’ve got us another point of agreement, feller.’

‘I said no shooting unless – ‘ The angered man who directed his snarling rage at Guthrie was the one unknown to Edge: a tall and skinny, thin faced, individual in a grey duster coat and a black derby hat.

Guthrie ignored the embittered reprimand as he glared along the line of rifle toting men who were all staring fixedly at him with glares of deep contempt. Which goaded him into snarling defensively: ‘You people just keep it in mind that me and Fred Whitney collared one of these killers first!’

For stretched seconds Edge remained unmoving in his saddle as he peered down at Steele, who stood with both arms hanging limply at his sides, the Colt Hartford loosely gripped in one gloved hands, its barrel tilted toward the ground. And groaned when he saw there was a dark stain getting larger by the moment on the Virginian’s jacket front. Then he made to dismount: intent upon going to the aid of the gunshot man to keep him from crumpling to the dirt. But Haydon commanded as he lunged forward with long strides:

‘You just stay put on that horse, mister!’

Steele swayed, muttered something incoherent and brought up the Colt Hartford to level it from the hip: then began to swing his free hand up and across, cupped to take hold of the barrel.

‘Slim!’ the telegraph man warned fearfully.

The rifles of the posse and the stranger in the duster and the derby hat, who Edge had guessed was the State Justice Department Marshal from Sacramento, swung toward the Virginian. But if any man came within a hairsbreadth of squeezing a trigger, concern about hitting the nearby Haydon froze his intended action.

‘Want you . . . I want you to know . . . sheriff.’ Steele’s voice was slurred and barely audible as the local lawman came to a halt six feet in front of him. ‘ . . . It was just me. I shot and killed Al Strachen. With no help from anyone else. The same as I killed the . . . my good friend Jim Bishop all those years ago.’

The muzzle of the Colt Hartford arced unsteadily back and forth. Momentarily aimed at point blank range into the belly of the grim faced lawman but mostly it posed a threat to the line of men who had inched forward to within twenty feet of Haydon’s back.

‘Sheriff, there has to be a doctor in a town like this?’ Edge rasped huskily.

‘I’ll go bring him.’ Loretta attempted to jerk away from Smith but the storekeeper’s grip on the mulatto woman was too powerful for her to break.

Smith growled: ‘Doc Turner ain’t no miracle worker. And a miracle is sure what this guy needs, is my guess.’

‘The man’s right, Edge,’ Steele said through gritted teeth. ‘I’m beyond patching up. Sheriff, just tell me - did you take note of what I said? Edge didn’t have anything to do with killing that US marshal back Broadwater way? We met up after I got loose from Strachen, you have to believe that?’

‘Okay, I hear what you’re saying, mister,’ Haydon confirmed flatly and directed a quizzical glance toward the still mounted Edge. Who continued to peer fixedly down at Steele, rock hard impassivity carved into his face and seen in his glittering narrowed eyes and the thin, hard set of his mouth line.

‘The hell with that crap!’ Guthrie snapped. ‘There’s a five grand price tag attached to each of these murdering sonsofbitches!’

The sound of the shrilly spoken words drew all attention to the angrily excited man at the end of the line: so it was Guthrie alone who saw Steele make his move. But the farmer had neglected to pump the action of his Winchester after he fired the shot at Steele. And now he only managed to half complete the jacking of a fresh shell into the breech when the Colt Hartford exploded a bullet.

But the shot went inches high and wide of the terrified Guthrie. And did the wounded Steele more harm than its intended target: because the recoil jerked the weakened man backwards and into a half turn. And he tripped over his own feet and sat down hard. Needed to let go of the rifle as he struggled clumsily to break his fall.

‘No!’ Fred Whitney shrieked, spun around and brought his rifle barrel crashing down on that of the Winchester in the hands of the man who stood beside him. The sound of clashing metal was almost as loud as the report that cracked out of Guthrie’s rifle to blast a bullet into the dirt three feet in front of where the shocked and shuddering farmer stood. ‘Enough!’ the skinny kid snarled and backed off a pace: swung his rifle to level it at the quaking man beside him.

‘That’s damn right!’ Haydon snarled and snapped his head around to look at where Edge slid smoothly out of the saddle. ‘It’s damn well over, mister!’

Edge made no response as he moved purposefully away from his horse, holding both hands clear of his sides, halted and extended his right hip toward Haydon. The sheriff hesitated for just a moment, then let go of his rifle with one hand and reached to ease the Frontier Colt out of the other man’s holster. Then Edge angled to where Steele was sitting on the ground with his legs splayed, his upper body rocking back and forth in much the same way as Loretta had moved when she was on the brink of fainting a few moments ago. But Edge instinctively knew it was not unconsciousness that threatened to topple the struggling to breathe Steele.

What seemed to keep the Virginian from toppling and sprawling out on to his back was the way he stared almost hypnotically at the Colt Hartford. The weapon that lay in the dust some four feet away from his right leg, moonlight gleaming on the gold plate screwed to the butt: a butt that was not scorched by fire.