Edge: The Loner

The men dipped mugs into the pot and sat silently drinking coffee for several moments.

“Padre?” It was the boy, finally finding the courage to pose his question.

Joe looked at him quizzically.

“I wish to take communion.”

Joe was thinking about Frank Forrest, a sergeant; Hal Douglas who was busted from corporal after he looted a widow woman’s house in Tennessee; and three other men. He was thinking about Jamie and what these men had done to him. He was thinking he had guessed their moved right. He was certain he had narrowed the distance between himself and them.

The suddenness and subject of the boy’s question almost caused Joe to curse aloud.

“Well ...” he said and faltered.

“After supper, boy,” the older man put in, giving Joe a time leeway. “Eat first, padre.”

Joe took the offered opportunity, munching slowly at the meager meal. Realizing that at the end of it he would have to make his play and that getting the drop on seven men, even though they were unsuspecting, was not going to be easy.

Then the time for planning was virtually non existent.

“You’re Captain Josiah Hedges.”

The words came fast, with the speed of abrupt realization after long pondering, from the man who had cast so many puzzled glances in Joe’s direction.

“I knew you were familiar. You ain’t no priest. I seen you at Five Forks, Virginia on April one this year after we beat the gray-coats, strutting around in your captain’s uniform like you’d done it all yourself.” He spat into the fire. “Christ, I hate officers.”

Before the man’s spittle had ceased its hissing, while the other six men were still recovering from the shock of the revelation, Joe was on his feet and his left hand had streaked under the cassock, emerged holding the ready cocked Remington. The pent up tension that had coiled Joe’s nerves into a tight ball ever since the first voice had come out of the night was released through the trigger finger and the mighty roar of the Remington exploded like a crack of thunder. The man who had spoken made no sound of pain as the heavy caliber bullet crashed through his skull. There was a creak of his bones as he toppled sideways under the impact and a greater hissing that before as a fountain of blood mixed with gray particles of brain tissue gushed on to the fire.

“And I hate privates with long memories,” Joe said, swinging the revolver around the heads of the others, ensuring they realized they were covered.

“He said, Edge,” the Mexican mispronounced. “I want to remember that name.”

“That’s close enough,” Joe told the ring of shocked faces. “And you might all have some years left to remember it if you do like I say.”

Five of the six recovered from the shock of sudden violence and from their expressions Joe was sure he had nothing to fear from them unless he gave them a wide even opportunity to draw on him. But the boy was still stunned, his mind refusing to accept the fact that a man dressed in such garb could kill in cold blood. He rose, as if in a trance, and reached out a hand towards Joe, perhaps to feel if this was a real living man and not some terrible component of an obscene nightmare. But Joe mistook the gesture and his right hand flew to the back of his neck, shot forward again as if to hit the boy open handed across the cheek. But there was no smack of flesh against flesh and for a moment the boy was as surprised as the others. Then a hairline of blood appeared at each corner of his mouth, extended an inch on either side and the boy gave a terrible scream as his lower lip and bottom of each cheek flapped forward and down, revealing a perfect set of milk white lower teeth seeming to float in a sea of bubbling blood.

 Oh my dear God,” the older man exclaimed hoarsely.

“Guns in the fire,” Joe said coldly as the boy collapsed into a heap on the ground, both hands going to his lower face, the sounds of pain and terror reduced to pitiful gurgling noises as his throat filled with blood. “Clockwise, one at a time. You first.”

He nodded to the Mexican who hesitated for only a second before inching the gun from his holster and tossing it into the flames. The other followed suit, automatically, unable to take their wide, horror-filled eyes from the boy as he writhed before them, moaning in agony. Joe stooped and freed the boy’s gun, tossed it after the others, then moved quickly towards his gear. Without weapons, still numbed by the speed and viciousness of the last shattering seconds, the men went to the aid of the injured boy, paying no heed to Joe as he saddled up, tied on his bedroll and mounted.

“What the hell did you use on him?” the older man said, shaking his head as he looked up from the boy who was holding the great flap of flesh in place with his hand, as if waiting for it to heal back to the rest of his face.