Edge: The Loner

Mounted, Joe had felt confident he could have ridden through the night without tiring, but as soon as his feet touched the ground fatigue hit him like an invisible blow, weakening his legs and dragging down his eyelids.  He followed the example of his horse, going to the edge of the river and sucking in the cool, refreshing water, immediately felt revitalized as its iciness filled his throat and stomach. Some yards from the river’s edge was a small stand of trees with a patch of lush green grass beneath their branches and he tethered the horse, there, unsaddled her and collected the makings of a fire. He set a pot of river water on the flames and while it was boiling stripped off his preacher’s cassock, his weapons and underwear and made a naked dash for the river, stubbed his toe on a submerged rock and fell headlong into the water’s freezing grip. The coldness knocked the wind from him and he surfaced fighting for breath as his teeth chattered and cramp threatened his right leg. He waded quickly out to find a deep patch of water, then launched himself into a smooth, well-practiced crawl stroke, the exertion pumping blood through his veins, providing his body with a warm defense against the river’s low temperature.

When he returned to dry land a sky full of stars and a three-quarter moon made the droplets of water gleam like jewels against the even brown of his skin with, at the right hip, close to the left shoulder blade and at a halfway point on his left thigh patches of milky whiteness that were the scars of wartime bullet wounds which refused to heal to the old color.

As he sat before the fire to let its heat dry him, drinking a mug of strong coffee and watching the split peas boiling in the remainder of the water, Joe felt the last remnants of the bone deep fatigue drained out him, to be replaced by a soft, pleasant sensation of tiredness that he knew from experience would give him a deep, restful sleep of five hours and leave him completely fresh when he awoke.

“Don’t he look beautiful in his birthday suit?”

Joe didn’t move a muscle at the sound of the voice, crystal clear in its mocking tone as it carried on the silent night air. He knew it came from his left and that the man was no more than ten yards away. It proved to Joe just how tired he was, for when he was fresh nobody could get this close to him without him being aware of their approach.

“If I was a female I would go real crazy with desire for such a hombre. He is magnificent.”

This one was a Mexican, over on the right, but forward of the other so there would be no direct crossfire.

“You ought to see him from where I am. The firelight flickering on him and all that crap.”

An older man. From the trees. Joe knew he should have paid attention to the restlessness of his horse during the few minutes before the newcomers announced their presence.

“Don’t you move now or you won’t have a head.”

Immediately behind him, accompanied by the cracking of a twig under a boot and then the gentle prod of a large bore muzzle in the neck. A series of clicking sounds cut through the night, more than four, as the guns ringing Joe were cocked. He knew he could quite easily grab the gun of the man behind him, but there were too many imponderables in what might happen then, so Joe continued to remain immobile.

“Any of you fellers want to stay for supper, you’re welcome,” he said and the man behind him gave a small gasp. He sounded nervous, and that worried Joe. The muzzle felt large enough to be that of an old fashioned blunderbuss, unpredictable but devastating at such close range, “I figure six of you.”

“Seven.” The man in the trees.

Joe carefully lifted his mug and sipped at the coffee. “That’ll be about a mouthful of peas for each of us.”

The man came out of the trees, appearing as a shadow, lighter against the dark background.

“Divided by eight?”

“Yeah.”

“You may not be around.”

“You’ve got to have a better reason to kill me than a spoonful of peas.”

“We’ve been killing men for less reason than that,” came the reply as the man stepped forward into the light of the fire and Joe was able to see the long blue coat and the tarnished buttons of the Federal infantry uniform. He held a Colt loosely in his left hand, pointed idly at the fire.

The others came in then, including the man who had been behind Joe and all were ex-Federal infantrymen, travel stained and weary-eyed. They were privates, all armed with revolvers except the one from behind. He had an ancient blunderbuss. The man from the trees was in command, perhaps because he was the oldest. Close on fifty, Joe guessed. The others looked about twenty as they tried to appear tough, fighting a losing battle against fatigue.

“You said seven,” Joe said when he had glanced around the ring of six, stubble covered faces.

“Ed’s holding the horses,” the oldest man replied, raised his fingers to his lips and let out a piercing whistle.