Edge: The Loner

At the back of the shack was a broken down float bed wagon from which several planks of wood had been torn, to be fashioned into a roughly made gallows and driven into the hard ground nearby. Two bales of hay were placed directly beneath the hanging noose of stout rope. More hay was stacked untidily a few feet away, and these burst into immediate flame as Stella ignited them. A man of thirty or so years lay in the shade beneath the sagging wagon, his body arched by a length of rope that bound his ankles together and was pulled tight to bind his hands behind his back. The lower half of his face was concealed by a wide gag that cut deeply into his cheeks and above this his pain-filled eyes watched with naked terror as the flames and black smoke rose from the newly lit fire.

“Tie that rat to the post,” Stella commanded, snatching up a branding iron from the bed of the wagon as two of the men dragged the prisoner from beneath.

They cut the rope at his back, leaving his hands and feet still securely tied and dragged him to the gallows, used another length of rope to tie him to the upright, binding him at ankles, knees, chest and throat so that his weakened legs did not have to support his weight. Standing, watching as the gang lowered themselves to the ground, making themselves comfortable for the show, Edge was reminded of Jamie, of how his young body had been secured to the live oak back at the farmstead in Iowa. But his disinterested expression revealed nothing of his thoughts.

Stella thrust the branding iron deep into the flaming heart of the burning hay bales, crossed to where the prisoner was held and reached up to jerk off his gag, her eyes blazing with the lust for violence. Linmann’s lower face was stark white and waxy looking where the tightness of the gag had interrupted his circulation.

“It wasn’t me, Brady,” Linmann screamed as soon as the gag came free. “Honest to God it wasn’t. I don’t want to die.”

Brady, sitting on the wagon, swinging his bulky legs, did not alter the small smile that played at the corners of his mouth.

Stella lashed out a hand, her palm cracking on Linmann’s cheek. “You talk to me, rat. Not Brady. I’m handling this.”

The man’s eyes implored a hearing. “Stella, I never said anything to Hammond.”

She raised her hand again and he flinched, but there was no blow. Instead her filthy fingers hooked over the collar his shirt and jerked down, ripping the whole front of the garment from him. His chest was matted with dark hair.

“You’re going to confess, Linmann, and then we’re going to hang you,” she hissed, moving over to the fire and withdrawing the iron, the reverse S brand glowing red hot.

Edge wondered if the S stood for Stella.

“Tell it,” she said, standing before her prisoner, her feet apart, right hand raised, inching the glowing brand towards his flesh.

“Dear God, why don’t you believe me,” he moaned, his wide eyes fastened on the iron as if hypnotized by it.

His prayer was punctuated by a high pitched scream as the brand was pressed home, flames flickering momentarily in the matted hair before the red hot iron hissed up steam, vaporizing the moisture of the flesh.

“Tell it,” Stella demanded once more, pulling back the iron and stabbing it forward again, directly onto his right nipple.

Linmann’s agonized scream faded into a gurgle as the blessed relief of unconsciousness swamped him.

“Damn,” Stella exploded, stamping her foot in a rage. “Somebody get a bucket of water.”

“I’ll get it,” Pete exclaimed gratefully, leaping to his feet and running around to the front of the shack as the woman returned the iron to the fire.

“Don’t turn your stomach none, Mr. Edge?” Brady asked conversationally as they waited for the lull in the entertainment to finish.

Edge bit a hangnail from his little finger and spat it out with distaste.

“He ain’t no friend of mine.”

Brady commenced to roll a cigarette in brown paper. He shrugged.

“Figured he’d have told it before Stella branded him,” he said.

“She’d have gone ahead anyway.”

He nodded. “Guess she would have. Gets her fun from hurting people. Especially men.”

He lit the cigarette and eyed Edge speculatively.

“Figured it.”

Pete came on the run with the water, slopping it over the edge of the bucket in his haste.

“Can I do it?” he implored.

Stella nodded and he sloshed the water into Linmann’s face, the shock of it having the desired effect. He jerked his head up and shook water from his eyes as he looked about, disorientated for a moment, so that time passed before the terror returned to his expression.

“He ain’t going to confess under no hot iron, Stella,” one of the gang called out. “He’s just going to keep throwing faints like some Eastern lady in a hot New York dancehall.”

Stella glared hatred at the speaker, but she realized the truth of his assertion. The iron she had withdrawn from the fire she now tossed back in and when she turned there was a cruel smile on her ugly face.

“Hey a rat ain’t no man, is that right?” she demanded.

The men nodded their agreement.