Edge: The Loner

Joe, still covering the group with his Remington, flashed his free hand to his neck and back again, and showed them his open palm. The handle of an open razor lay along the center of his hand with the blade, gleaming silver in the moonlight, clamped between his two middle fingers.

“This kid shouldn’t have moved,” he said flatly. “Pity, he’s hardly old enough to start shaving.”

As Joe returned the razor to his neck pouch the first gun on the fire exploded and after he had wheeled his horse and set her at a gallop flames reached the cartridges in the others and the men dived for cover as lead and burning wood were thrown across the campsite.

“I’ll remember you, Edge,” the Mexican called after the escaping rider.

CHAPTER SIX

THE cluster of buildings called itself Anson City, proclaiming its status on a clapboard sign at the side of the trail which suddenly became Main Street as it ran between the church and the schoolhouse, the bank and the hotel, the sheriff’s office and the saloon, the dry goods store and the livery stable, the stage line headquarters and the restaurant before fanning out in several directions to become roads evidently named for the farms to which they led. It looked like a nice, peaceful place to rest up for a few hours, to have a decent breakfast and a bath with soap and hot water in the hotel before a sleep in a soft bed until maybe noon.

That was what Joe thought as he rode in just as the sun was dragging itself above the horizon behind him, pale and anemic but heading into an unblemished sky which promised another hot and dusty day. It was too early for many town dwellers to be awake and Joe might have been the only living being in the country as he rode his horse slowly down the center of the street, hoofs raising tiny puffs of dust. But the double doors of the restaurant were open and a column of gray wood smoke rose lazily up from the chimney at the rear of the building. The smoke told of ham and eggs, grits and fresh coffee, great hunks of still warm bread with butter direct from the churn.

Hunger became a stronger desire than vengeance and Joe justified the change in priority by pointing out to himself that the five men he had swore to kill also had to rest from time to time. And he had as many years as life allowed him to avenge the death of Jamie.

So he jerked on the reins, heading across the street towards the livery stable with its big FEED sign, intending to take care of the animal before tending to his own needs. But then another door on the street came open, thumping back against the front of a building and Joe turned quickly in the saddle to see a man standing in the doorway of the sheriff’s office, aiming one of the new .52 caliber rim-fire Starr rifles at him. The man, a five-pointed tin star on his chest, had the rifle raised to shoulder level and Joe could see the steely glint of his eyes behind the back-sight.

“I ain’t never shot no parson,” the lawman said evenly, “but then you ain’t no more a man of religion than I am. You get off that horse real slow and easy and you keep your hands way out at your sides.”

Joe knew better than to draw against a man with a rifle aimed at him from less than ten yards away, so he did as instructed, dropping easily to the ground. But then his horse gave a sudden nervous jump and her hindquarter caught Joe in the back, sending him stumbling across the street. A rifle cracked and a hunk of leather was bitten from Joe’s right boot toe, went bouncing off into the dust. He froze and glanced across the street, saw a man perched on the roof of the bank, in the same stance as the sheriff, blue smoke curling away from his rifle muzzle.

“My deputy,” the sheriff said evenly. “He didn’t miss. If he had known that wasn’t just a stumble you’d have a bullet where your brains are. We heard about you shooting a feller and then cutting up another one. Mex came through here early on and told us. Wouldn’t stay around so I guess we’ll have to put you in the cooler until we can find him as a witness. Plenty of time. Circuit judge ain’t due for a month or more.” He glanced down at the bank. “Okay Hank,” he called. “Come on down here and get his guns.” Then back at Joe. “Hank’s been up there and me waiting here for a couple of hours. Figured you might be through this way. Man’s got to eat and the way the Mex told it you ain’t been doing too well in that respect.”

The shot and raised voices had brought the whole town awake now and several doors and windows were opened on both sides of the street. But nobody came down off the sidewalks except the deputy, who approached wearily, rifle at the ready. He had one the new Starrs too, which he now carried at hip level, finger ready on the trigger.

“He’s got a handgun under the cloak and some kind of razor tucked in at the back of his neck someplace, Hank,” the sheriff called.