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

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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 side-arm 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

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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 the 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.

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“Anybody inside there?” Edge called recollecting the

scream when one of the hold-up 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.”

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“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.”

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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 packhorse, 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.

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