Edge: Killer's Breed

In those few moments, as he watched the brutal slaughter of the trooper and listened to the sardonic accusation from behind him, Hedges experienced a vital adjustment taking place within his mind. He felt it physically in a dulling of the pain in his side, as mental anguish became too powerful to accommodate outside influence, and in a sudden cessation of the nervous tics which had been causing his body to quake ever since the attack on Philippi was launched. It was visible to the troopers as he turned to look at them, in a face that seemed to age as they stared at Hedges. The narrowed eyes, ever cold, were now icy enough to chill the very air that had been humid in the fetid room. And the flesh of the face seemed to be stretched more taut over the high cheekbones, emphasizing the natural leanness, giving the man an almost animalistic look. Hedges, who a few moments before had been a disillusioned farm boy scared by a war that contained none of the glory he had been seeking, was suddenly a man who had recognized the reality of a situation he had chosen to become involved in. Not one of the men who met his steady gaze understood what was happening, but they did recognize the flicker of fear that flared in themselves.

He continued to look around the half circle of faces, wanting to explain, but not, having discovered this new facet of his character, acknowledging the necessity. It was enough that he understood his own actions. That in killing Indians and land grabbers he had been protecting what was his, thereby justifying his violence. But in attacking the town he had been the aggressor and his gun barrels had stayed cold because, whatever the Rebels rights were to the town, there was nothing of his there. Now he knew there was—he was there and it was his life he had to protect. Mitchell had probably been aware of that fact in relation to his life—and all the other troopers who had been killed in the attack. But it had taken Hedges this long to reach the realization. It was not, he thought, how a soldier was supposed to think, but if he held any respect for patriotism of beliefs in abstract ideals of liberty and human rights, they had gone the way of his hopes for glory. He was fighting for his life and the surest way to win was to take the lives of the enemy.

"That's the last crack I'll take from any of you men," he barked and each word was like a chip of rock splitting from his narrowed mouth. "We all came into this war as amateurs and some of us have paid the price of our own and Washington's stupidity. I got some gold braid that means I've got to accept some of the responsibility for those men getting killed." He spat into the agonized expression on the face of one of the dead Confederate soldiers. "I accept it. Also, I'll personally kill any man who smart-talks me or don't do exactly what I tell him when 1 tell him."

The men shuffled their feet as their eyes retreated from the lieutenant's penetrating stare. Every one of them believed what Hedges had said.

"Okay," he announced when he had completed his study. "Morgan, you and you,"—he pointed to two other men—"stay by these windows and keep blasting the rebs. The rest of you come with me. Let's see if there's any spare whiskey in the saloon."

He received some puzzled looks, but no one questioned his comment.

"You all right, sir?" a trooper asked as Hedges hobbled towards the rear of the office, the pain flooding back through his body.

"Am I complaining?" he snapped.

"No, sir."

"When I fall down and don't get up; ask me again."

As the men by the windows started to fire, he led the way through the storeroom and out of the open door by which Morgan and his men had entered. The saloon was the biggest building they had reached so far, twice as long as it was wide, stretching more than two hundred feet back from the street. The livery stable was on the other side and the Rebels were deployed at the front and side of the saloon, covering the street and alleyway to prevent Leaman's escape, So Hedges was able to lead his men to the back without interference as the sergeant, Leaman and Morgan and their men engaged the enemy. The same gunfire that distracted attention from their progress also covered the sound of the forced entry through the rear door.

It gave on to a small bedroom, untidy and smelling. The source of the odor was a man in middle years who was squatting on the bed, his eyes wide with fear and a finger pressed to his lips.

"I'll keep quiet," he whispered hoarsely.

"Owner?" Hedges asked as he approached the bed, aiming the Spencer at the man. He shook his head.

"I just clean up the place. Don't like those Johnnie Rebs no more than you do. You gonna kill them?"

Hedges nodded.

The man grinned. "I'll keep quiet."

"I know," Hedges said and smashed the rifle barrel across his temple.

The man toppled sideways with a gentle sigh. Another doorway gave on to a storeroom, stacked high with bottles, most of them filled with whiskey.