Edge: Killer's Breed

"That weren't no six-shooter," Seward yelled when a mortar shell whistled through the trees and decapitated a young trooper.

"So let's go see what those rebs are using," Forrest came back, and looked at Hedges.

Hedges nodded and broke into a run. The others lumbered after him up the sharply inclining slope, as another man went down, taking a mortar shell full in his middle. His entrails spilled put on to the mossy ground beneath a tree and two men vomited violently as they trotted through the squelchy pulp.

"Some fellers got no stomach for fighting," Forrest shouted.

Seward giggled.

Hedges retched, but fought down the bile. His hip was hurting again but his mind was able to overcome the pain as he saw a severed arm fly in front of his face and looked into the surprised eyes of the man who had been maimed. The scream of agony rang in his ears as he continued up the slope at a run, struggling to rid himself of the frightening image of Jamie with a bloodied stump where his arm had been.

*****

JAMIE!"

It was morning and still raining. Margaret Hope was in the barn milking the two cows after having changed the dressing on the stranger's neck wound. He had been quiet and unmoving when she left to do the chores while Grace washed the breakfast dishes and swept the living room floor.

He had been like that since dawn had changed the rain's backdrop from black to grey and the women had considered it safe to leave him alone and wise not to try to force food into his unresponsive mouth. Margaret suspected that he was nearing the crisis point of his fever and knew that when that came there would be little time to spare for the farm. So she and Grace hurried through what needed to be done and allowed wishful thoughts to conjure signs that the rain was letting up.

As Edge shouted the name of his brother, Grace ran into the bedroom, wiping wet hands on her apron and calling for her mother. She found he had rolled onto his side and was in danger of falling out of the bed and on to the floor as his legs and arms continued to thrash at the restricting covers.

"Christ. Your arm. Jamie, your arm."

"Hush," Grace whispered, placing a cool hand on the man's burning forehead, feeling the sweat warm and sticky under her fingers. 

"Get that mortar, Forrest."

"Shush, you're safe, mister." As she spoke Grace placed her free hand on the man's hip and urged him gently on to his back in the center of the bed.

"What's wrong, Grace?" her mother demanded as she entered the house, quickly set down the pails and rushed into the bedroom.

"Gotta stop them getting Jamie," Edge yelled, thrashing his head from side to side on the sweat-soaked pillow, breaking free of the girl's tender caress.

"He's having a nightmare," Grace said, a helpless look in her beautiful eyes. "He won't be quiet."  

"Delirious," her mother diagnosed. "Let him tire himself. He has little enough strength. It won't last long."

Grace drew back and both women watched anxiously as his body continued to writhe and fresh beads of perspiration stood out on his forehead with each new flood of words, which grew gradually less comprehensible until they were little more than rasping, disjointed phrases with no meaning. And as this inane rambling diminished into mere movements of the almost colorless lips, tired muscles gave up their struggle and his body became limp again.

"Was that the crisis?" Grace asked, not taking her eyes from the wan face of the stranger.

Margaret shook her head. "No, girl. Seems this feller has some bad memories. He was just fighting them. Reckon he won."

"Could we try him with some broth, now?"

The elder woman nodded. "Reckon so. Man like him is bound to have a lot in the past he'd rather forget. He'll have to be strong to keep winning."

Her daughter nodded and went into the other room, where a pot was already steaming on the fire. "Mother," she called as she ladled the thin soup into a bowl.

"Yes?"

"He kept calling out the name Jamie," Grace answered pensively.

"So what?"

"Maybe that's why he came here, him being so sick."

"Now it's you who are rambling, child," her mother accused. Grace carried the bowl of steaming broth into the bedroom.

"The name on the grave marker in the yard, mother," she said softly. "Its Jamie."

Margaret Hope caught her breath and stared hard into the lean face of the man on the bed. She swallowed hard. "It could be a different Jamie," she said without conviction.

"Perhaps," her daughter answered in a similar tone.

The eider woman continued to stare at the stranger for another few seconds, then shrugged and took the bowl from her daughter. "Well, even if this is Josiah Hedges and he's wanted for murder, that don't make him any less of a sick man. We gotta keep helping him, child."

"But I'll be glad when father and Allen get back," Grace said, shuddering as she recalled her shameless, night-time thoughts about the man.

"Amen to that," her mother replied.

CHAPTER FIVE