Edge: The Loner

“You’re a fool, Mex,” the sheriff said, his voice weak. “The Brady gang ain’t got no time for strangers.” He groaned, but fought for more words. “They’ll kill you, Mex.”

Edge’s eyes narrowed and his lips pulled back over his teeth in a snarl. He thrust the Henry into Stupid’s arms.

“Watch the street,” he demanded.

The man was surprised. “What?”

“Watch the goddamn street,” Edge snapped, and gave the man a shove towards the door just as a fusillade of shots rattled outside and bullets dug chunks of wood from the door.

“What are you going to do?” the sheriff asked in terror as Edge knelt down besides him, looped the pouch around his neck and withdrew his razor.

Edge’s face was still set in an ugly sneer as he whispered: “If I’m a Mex, you’re something else, sheriff.”

The sheriff began to moan as the razor point but into the tight skin of his forehead and more bullets reined into the office. Then there was another shot, much closer and Stupid yelled with delight.

“Hey, I just plugged Hank.”

Edge finished his work with a grunt of satisfaction and stood up as the sheriff continued his low moaning.

“Come on,” he said quietly.

Stupid let off another shot and backed away from the door, looked down with distaste at the blood-drenched face of the lawman.

“What have you done to him?” he gasped.

Edge stooped and used the sheriff’s kerchief to wipe off the excess blood, leaving six roughly carved but legible letters visible on the man’s forehead before more blood pumped out to thicken the strokes into a mere scrawl.

“I marked him with a word.”

“I don’t read to well,” Stupid said.

Edge took the rifle from the man and picked up the rest of his gear.

“For the rest of his life, he’s marked GRINGO,” Edge said. “Come on.”

More shots poured into the office as Edge went quickly out through the hole in the rear wall, Stupid scuttling after him.

“You took your damn time,” one of the three waiting riders said, his anger edged with nervousness.

“There was something I had to do,” Edge said, going to the spare horse, throwing on his saddlebags, booting the Henry and swinging up into the saddle.

“We brought that horse for Pete.”

“You blew the wrong cell,” Edge snarled. “I got Pete out.”

“I’ll ride with you, Chuck,” Pete said, hurriedly, scuttling over to one of the riders, as if afraid an argument might wind up with him being left behind to face the town. Mounted behind the reluctant rider, he looked over his shoulder. “You’re coming with us ain’t you, Edge?”

“He’d better,” somebody said. “That’s Brady’s horse, and nobody steals Brady’s horse.”

A man fired from inside the cell, through the blasted hole and another from the mouth of the alley. Both bullets caught the rider to whose waits Pete was clinging. The first sliced his nose from his face, leaving two black nostril holes in a triangle of scarlet. The second drilled a hole through his ear and up into his brain before crashing out from the top of his skull.

“I’m coming,” Edge said, kicking his horse into action, the flying hoofs leaping over the body of the dead man as Pete shoved him clear and slid into the saddle.

A few wild shots were pumped after the escaping riders, but with neither Sheriff Hammond nor his deputy able to lead a posse, no citizen of Anson City saddled up to give chase.

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE Brady gang was holed up in a deep gully cut by some great primeval river through low hill country. The four riders were challenged by a lookout concealed behind a boulder at the mouth of the gully, his warning shot whining through the still air and the bullet thwacking into a tree trunk before the crack of the rifle reached the riders. They reined in their horses with great neighing and sliding of hoofs on loose shale.

“Hold on you stupid bastard,” the leading rider flung at the sharpshooter. “It’s us. We sprung Pete from Anson jail.”

“You ain’t carrying no sign,” came a shout of response. “How’d I know?”

The man at the head of the column curses softly and set his horse trotting down into the gully. Edge allowed the others to follow, then brought up the rear. He had carefully retained his position at the back of the furious five-mile ride from Anson City, very much aware of Pete’s knowledge of the two thousand dollars (less five for Annie) stashed in the saddlebags. The gully made two sharp curves, one to the right, the next left, before broadening into a wide bowl with a shale bottom and curved rocky sides, as if an enormous shovel had been used to scoop a massive indentation out of the gully. At the other side, it narrowed again.