Edge: Killer's Breed

As if fearing that her mother might act hastily with the rifle, Grace hurried to be first outside and then ran again through the mud with a warning to take care ringing in her ears. Edge had not moved from the position in which he had fallen, prone with his head on one side. But the washing action of the rain had run the mud from his back .now and the two women could see his black shirt and pants and the gun belt with a holster tied down to the right thigh and a knife pouch at the back, both empty.

"Big feller, ain't he?" Margaret Hope pronounced.

"Please, mother," Grace pleaded. "Let's get him in the house. He's on fire with the fever."

Her mother nodded. "You're right, gir1. He ain't likely to cause no trouble in his condition."

She rested the Spencer against the trunk of the oak, then spotted Edge's muddy Winchester and placed it beside her own gun. "He carries a lot of weight as well," she opined as she rolled Edge over on to his back and lifted his shoulders while Grace took hold of his ankles. "And not an ounce of fat, either." They started to struggle through the mud with their burden. "Sickness hits a man like this harder than it does the runts. Ain't used to feeling puny, see."

Grace didn't answer. The shock of the man's appearance from under the tree, the rush to and from the house and now the exertion of carrying the dead weight had drained her and she began to pant before the journey was half completed. Margaret, too, began to feel the strain and fell silent. It was a blessed relief when they had struggled through the doorway into the dry of the house and were able to set the man down on the rug in front of the hearth.

"Shouldn't we put him in bed?" Grace asked breathlessly.

"Not before he's cleaned up some and we get those wet clothes off him," her mother said, picking up two logs from an alcove and tossing them on to the embers in the fireplace. "Fill three kettles, girl."

As Grace went to comply, her mother lit the two kerosene lamps which supplied light for the room. When Grace returned to set the kettles on the hob she saw that her mother had already removed the stranger's shirt and was beginning to unbuckle his gunbelt.

She drew in her breath sharply. "It doesn't seem decent," she said.

"When somebody's sick, it ain't a matter of decency," Margaret Hope snapped. "Seems they taught you to talk and act like a lady at that Eastern school you went to, but your education was lacking in other things. When a man's hurting he don't care much who looks at him, as long, as they're helping him." She smiled suddenly. "And you're twenty-three years old now, Grace. 'Bout time you learned a man ain't only different from a woman 'cause he shaves. Holy Mother of God, look at that?"

Edge had groaned and rolled his head to one side, so that the light from one of the lamps shone directly on to the ugly, pus-filled swelling at the back of his neck. The girl's mouth fell open in horror.

"What is it?" she shrieked.

"He's been cut with a knife, or shot," her mother answered with a grimace. "He ain't just sick, girl. He's dying. He needs a doctor. A good one."

"I'll go for Doctor Patterson," Grace, said, turning towards the door.

"No!" her mother snapped, "You ain't riding no ten miles to town, in weather like this. Stranger landed himself on us and he'll have to take his chances with us. Maybe if there ain't no bullet in the wound, he might make it. Can't tell until we drain off the poison. Put some more logs on the fire, girl. We need hot water fast, and a lot of it."