Edge: The Loner

Edge sat in the shade at the side of the shack, resting his back against the wooden wall and awaiting the moment to make his move. For men like Brady never sold anything, just as they never bought anything. Edge’s offer to purchase the horse had told the gang he had some money. Peter knew how much and wanted to keep that secret for himself–for which there could only be one reason. But as soon as he saw how things were going to shape up, he would begin to run off at the mouth again and even a twelve-shot Henry repeater was no match for fifteen armed men.

So Edge merely sat and waited, his eyes glinting through the slit lids, glancing from time to time around the corner of the shack at the sleeping men whose snores provided the only sound in the over heated bowl. As he knew it was bound to happen, one of the men began to move, sitting up carefully and feigning the rubbing of grit from his eyes as he looked around, checking that the others were all soundly asleep. Then he stood and walked slowly between the inert figures, having to make several detours to avoid throwing telltale shadows across eyes likely to snap open.

It was Pete, of course, his face no longer set in the idiotic grin, which had caused Sheriff Hammond to christen him stupid. Now his face personified greed, narrowing his eyes and twisting his mouth into an uneven line. As he reached the corner of the shack he forced the familiar smile back onto his features and assumed a relaxed pose, so as not to alert Edge should he be awake. But Edge appeared to be fast asleep, legs splayed out in front of him, back against the wall, hands behind his neck, fingers interlocked. There was even a fly crawling across his cheek and the flesh did not even twitch.

Pete’s breath came out between clenched teeth in a low whistle as he drew a knife from his belt and stepped closer, stooping, greedy eyes fastened upon the section of that priest’s cassock covering Edge’s left chest.

“Two grand divided by one is best, eh Pete?” Edge said, low and fast, eyes snapping open, both hands coming away from his neck. One was empty and grasped the shocked Pete around the back of the head, pulling him down further into the stoop as the other flashed up and across. The razor’s edge went deep, slicing through soft flesh, jugular vein, windpipe and vocal chords. Pete’s dying sound was a mere gurgle as his throat was cut from ear to ear and Edge lowered his body softly to the ground, dragged the feet out of sight around the corner of the shack.

Edge got to his feet, froze for several seconds after one of the sleeping gang moaned and rolled from his back onto his side. Then he moved, long, silent strides taking him along the side of the shack, around the back and to the other side where the horses were hitched. He carried his gear with ease, as if it were weightless. The saddles were piled nearby and he dragged the two hay bales used for the hanging over to them. Linmann’s body hung perfectly still, beginning to smell, his dead eyes watching Edge with disinterest.

“I sure hope they’ve got good surgeons where you’ve gone,” Edge said, evenly, and went back to the horses. He saddled the one he had ridden from town–Brady’s–and swung his gear on her. Then he used his knife to slice through the reins of all the others.

Only one took advantage of the offered freedom, moving quietly away, as if a conspirator in Edge’s plan. It took him only a few seconds to set the hay burning and then he unhitched the horse, climbed into the saddle and directed her between the hitching rail and the other animals, letting out a mighty roar: “Whoooaaaa!”

The horses bolted, their thundering hoofs on the shale competing with the startled shouts of the rudely awakened men. They stood and then dived for ground as Edge galloped the mare across the front of the shack among them. As soon as he was clear he wheeled the horse and bolted up the gully, the way he had entered, staying low in the saddle as small arms cracked and bullets whined around him. And by the time the men had reached their rifles Edge was out of range. Behind him, as the naked Brady shouted enraged command from the shack doorway the members of his gang milled about in confusion, chasing terrified horses, yelling their anger as they found the dead Pete and their burning saddles.

Edge did not even look back over his shoulder, but concentrated on what was ahead, rounded the first turn in the gully and then the next, slowing the horse to a trot and then a walk. The winding course of the rock sided valley effectively blanketed all sound from the area of the shack and the look-out, vulnerable from this side of his post, showed no overt sign of hostility as he looked down at the lone rider.

Edge halted his mount.

“Name’s Edge,” he called up, easily, eyeing the man carefully, studying his build. “Brady says I’m in. I’m relieving you.”