Edge: Killer's Breed

"Light it," Hedges told him, reaching out a hand. He took the bottle with its flaring fuse, leaned out over the depot sign and tossed it down among the still and writhing bodies in front of the saloon as a murderous barrage of gunfire continued to emit from the house across the street. The flames from burning gray uniforms rose high. The screams of the victims went higher, and then diminished as the frantic note of a bugle cut through the acrid, smoke laden air.

"Think that's the general calling," Hedges said.

"Lieutenant?" a voice called from below,

"What is it?"

"You all through burning things?"

"I reckon," he answered as he watched the sergeant lead five men from the house across the street, then looked in the other direction to see Leaman emerge from the smoke with three men behind him. Edge had only seven men left. He didn't do the subtraction. Men had died and he knew a lot more would meet the same end before this war was over. It was not his job to tally. The smell of burning flesh stressed that, in terms of war, the men had not died in vain.

The pain in his hip seemed to bum hotter than any of the fires raging around him.

*****

EDGE spent a restless night. Although he was unconscious his body reacted involuntarily to the pain of the neck wound and the burning heat of the raging fever. His muscles twitched and his limbs thrashed and sometimes his nostrils flared and his mouth came wide in a silent scream.

Margaret Hope and Grace took two-hourly turns at watching over him, to ensure that the fire was maintained at a roaring pitch and each bedcover was replaced on his naked body after he had kicked or pulled it clear.

Outside the warmth of the farmhouse the rain continued to lash from low cloud, sometimes smashing at the stout walls and shuttered windows like an attacking force as a gust of cold wind sprang across the prairie.

Although the mother and daughter shared the night nursing duty, neither of them slept during the two hourly rest periods for in addition to their anxiety over the injured stranger, they were deeply concerned about the progress of Thomas and Allen Hope.

"How's he been?" Margaret asked as she emerged from her daughter's bedroom, rubbing her reddened yes.

"Restless," Grace answered. "Most of the time he thrashes about. I think he's dreaming."

"Wish I could," her mother answered, going to the fire and pouring a cup of coffee from the pot kept warm by the flames. "Bad enough for men to have to look after themselves on a night like this. Fifty head of steer won't make it easier none."

"I don't feel tired," Grace said, and her own tired eyes gave the lie to the statement. "You go back to bed and try to sleep."

The elder woman smiled and sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at the pallor of the injured man's face. "Wouldn't be fair on me, daughter," she said. "In here the stranger helps to keep the mind off other things." She sipped at the hot coffee. "Not a bad looking feller when you see him from here."

"I think he's handsome," Grace said quickly, then blushed.

"In a mean sort of way, I guess," her mother answered thoughtfully, then smiled again as she looked at Grace. "Handsome as that young deputy in town?"

The blush deepened in color. "They're different types. I wish you wouldn't keep talking about Billy West, mother."

"You're a young woman now, Grace. Time you started to encourage somebody like Billy."

"Please, mother," Grace pleaded as she got to her feet. "If you're going to go on like that, I'm going to bed."

"It's your turn," her mother answered gently. "It'll be light soon. I'll make breakfast later and then we'll change the dressing and try to get some broth down his throat."

Grace nodded and went through to her bedroom, feeling her face still suffused by a flush. For a long time, as she lay in the bed, her thoughts were distracted from worry about her father and brother as she compared the physical attractions of Billy West and the stranger. And the knowledge that it was the stranger who set her heart beating faster sent the warm glow from her cheeks to every part of her body.

CHAPTER FOUR

THEY were crossing the Appalachians now and morale was high; Reports of the small victory at Philippi had reached Washington and had there been magnified by a jubilant press into a colossal triumph over the Confederacy. McClellan and a large proportion of his men were pleased to believe the wild stories and found it easy to forget the twisted and blood-spattered bodies of their comrades who fell during the battle as they pushed on eagerly towards the next confrontation with the rebels.