Edge: The Loner

“You are condemning yourself with every word you mutter, sir,” the man said and now his tone was truly that of an evangelical Bible-puncher. “The Lord is taking note of all you do and all you say and I, His humble servant, an prepared to allow Him to act on my behalf when the time is nigh. I will not …”

“Shut your damn mouth, you old fake,” the woman slung at him with deep-seated anger. “You are not impressing him and I know you are the biggest sinner east of California.”

Her words froze the man into shock, his mouth hanging open, eyes staring in disbelief. The woman, unconcerned with the reaction she had produced, stood and moved to the pot, began to ladle a second helping of stew on to her bowl.

“More?” she asked of Joe.

He nodded and stood, moved towards the fire, experiencing a stirring in his loins at the sight of the woman bent over the pot, the thin material of her dress clung by sweat to the lines of her body. Then she made her play, in a blur of lightening movement, throwing forward the bowl of scalding stew, its steaming contents streaming towards Joe’s face.

He went sideways, falling, hurling his own bowl clear as his hand snaked under the cassock to the knife at his back. It came out with a fluid movement and streaked from his hand, all as part of one continuous reflex action. But the woman dived low, under it, in a desperate attempt to reach the Henry on the ground. The man screamed in terror and pain and it could have been this sound, or the sight of the Remington in Joe’s other hand that turned the woman to stone.

Joe backed up quickly, snatched his rifle from the ground and looked at the man, saw him still squatting in front of the fire, clutching his bowl, the handle of the knife protruding beneath his left cheek, the point and an inch of blade gleaming out from the right, a trickle of blood running down on each side.

“Holy Mother of God,” the woman said hoarsely as the man’s eyes grew wide, then snapped closed before he toppled forward, the fire sending up a shower of wood as his head fell into the seat of the flames.

He screamed once as the intense heat brought him out of the faint and made one feeble attempt to drag himself clear before he died, and the sweet stench of burning flesh filled the air. The woman started to scream, writhing her body across the ground, her dress riding up over her thighs and stomach as she went into convulsions of hysteria, the power of her horror causing the veins to stand out starkly in her throat, her eyes widening to an incredible degree, foam bubbling in her mouth and then spilling over to run down her jaw.

Joe ignored her and bent to the man, drew him clear of the flames just as the blanket caught. He glanced momentarily and without emotion at the darkened, mutilated flesh which moments ago had been a face, then pulled his knife clear, wiping it clean of blood and soot on the blanket.

“I guess your time came, Reverend,” he muttered to the corpse against the backdrop of the woman’s screams. “And hell can’t be hotter than that.”

He moved to where the woman was reaching the climax of her fit of apoplexy and watched idly for a moment to see if it would end. When it didn’t he reversed rifle and swung it in a short arc. The stock caught her squarely on the jaw and her final scream ended in a whimper, as her body was suddenly limp. He did not even look to see if he had killed her, but moved back to the fire, retrieved his bowl and spoon and helped himself to more stew. He went to sit on the wagon tailgate to eat it, then rolled a cigarette and smoked it leisurely, all out of sight of the Reverend Elias Speed and the woman called Virtue.

Not until he had finished, and strode across the campsite to reach his horse, drinking from the rushing stream, did he glance at the woman, now visibly breathing, and realize it was the first time he had ever so much as raised a hand in anger to a woman. And that now, as he mounted, returning the Henry to its boot, he felt not a shred of remorse. The killing of his kid brother had drained Josiah Hedges of everything that is good and decent in the human spirit.

He was now a killer of the worse kind.

A man alone.

CHAPTER FIVE

NIGHT was beginning to cool the heat of the day as Joe crossed the Smoky Hill River and his mount stumbled twice, almost pitching the rider into the fast moving water. The animal was a brave hearted beast, and had willingly kept up the fast pace Joe had demanded throughout the afternoon and evening, as if sensing the desire for quick vengeance. But it was not sympathy for his horse that caused Joe to call a halt on the south bank of the river. The animal had a limit and to push her beyond this would render her useless. It was a long walk from western Kansas to the Arizona Territory.