Edge: The Loner

The wind came from the east, from behind the approaching riders and soon the horses in the corral picked up the scent of their own kind and began to move restlessly, keening the edge of anticipation that Jamie seemed to feel in the very air. Not yet nineteen, the boy was tall, with sandy hair and a handsome face the color of well tanned leather from long hours working in the harsh sun. He was dressed in a store-bought check shirt and homemade Levis. He wore no shoes nor did he carry a gun. His build was broad for his age and appeared to be completely sound until he walked, when he had a pronounced limp in his right leg to the extent that he had to grasp his thigh with both hands and swing it forward with each pace he took.

“Joe’s coming home, boy,” he said to the dog for perhaps the hundredth time that day and the animal, sensing his master’s excitement gave a subdued bark and wagged his tail in the dust.

The group moved slowly up the trail and at first, Jamie experienced a sense of disappointment for he thought that once in sight of home, Joe would have come at a gallop, anxious to see his young brother again, to taste the fresh coffee and pork and beans he must know would be ready on the stove for him. But Joe had been at the Appomattox peace signing and it was a long ride from Virginia to Iowa: Joe was sure to be tired.

They were close enough now for Jamie to see they were still in uniform and he was glad about this. The north had been victorious and Joe was sure to be proud that he had been a captain in the Federal cavalry. But then Jamie saw something which clouded his face, caused him to reach down and press Patch’s head against his leg, giving or seeking assurance.

“There’s a sergeant leading them,” he muttered, puzzled, and the dog looked up at the boy, hearing a note of concern in his voice. “Joe’s a captain. He ought to be at the head.”

The group was not a hundred yards down the trail now, close enough for Jamie to discern clearly the triple chevron on the arm of the leading rider. The boy moved forward a few paces, manhandling his lame leg, then halted, all excitement draining from his features to be replaced by a deep worry. Now that the riders were a mere stone’s throw away his anxious eyes fastened upon each face in turn and he knew Joe was not among them.

They reined in their horses just short of the gateway where the boy waited and the sergeant looked down at him wearily, and then dismounted. Like the others he had an unkempt beard many days old and red-rimmed eyes from riding into the sun all afternoon.

“Hi there, boy,” he said. “You must be Joe’s little brother Jamie.”

He was big and mean-looking and, even though he smiled as he spoke, his crooked and tobacco-browned teeth gave his face an evil cast. But Jamie was old enough to know not to trust first impressions: and the mention of his brother’s name raised the flame of excitement again.

“You know Joe? I’m expecting him. Where is he?”

One of the riders still mounted let out a sound that could have been a snigger, but Jamie’s entire attention was riveted upon the sergeant.

The smile was gone now and the man looked grave. He glanced over Jamie’s shoulder, at the house and barn and backdrop of waving wheat. He spat into the dust and Patch growled.

“Well boy,” he drawled, shuffling his feet. “Hell, when you got bad news to give, tell it quick is how I look at things. Joe won’t be coming home today. Not any day. He’s dead, boy.”

Jamie fought back the tears that threatened to humiliate him in front of the newcomers. He screwed up his eyes and when he opened them again the air seemed to be tinged with a dark mist. But then Patch growled again and launched himself at the sergeant’s legs and Jamie saw with perfect clarity the vicious kick which sent the senseless dog several yards across the dusty yard.

“One thing I can’t stand is unfriendly dogs,” the sergeant said flatly. “Ought to train him so he don’t act like that, boy.”

Jamie’s mind was in turmoil, but he saw a movement among the riders, and realized too late what was happening. “Don’t,” he yelled as the Springfield came clear of its boot and in a single fluid action was aimed and fired, the big .58 caliber bullet almost lifted the injured dog into the air.

“Oh, Billy,” the sergeant said. “You didn’t ought to have done that to the boy’s dog.”

The marksman commenced to reload the musket, showing no sign of remorse. “That little old dog most likely had a broken back,” he drawled. “Been cruel to let him live.”

The snigger came again and the sergeant spoke quickly, as if trying to conceal the man’s amusement. “Like I said, boy. Joe caught one. War was all but over when a damn Louisiana sharpshooter shot poor old Joe right between the eyes. Me and Billy Seward here, why we filled him so full lead they had to get a horse to drag him to his grave. But weren’t no good as far as Joe was concerned. We buried your brother in a fitting manner, boy.”