Edge: The Loner

Edge looked from the enraged Hank to the anxious Annie and nodded his satisfaction. He turned as if to leave, then back to face the woman again.

“Almost forgot. You have five dollars that belongs to me, Miss Annie.”

“I don’t know ...” Another memory flooded back into her mind.”

Edge nodded. “The breakfasts. Way I see it, I was a guest of the State and the State ought to pay for my board and lodging.”

“I … I don’t have any money on me,” she said.

Edge grinned and stepped up close to her. He grasped her arm and swung her around, placing her between himself and Hank, so that he was able to watch them both with ease.

“I’ve seen where you keep your valuables, Miss Annie,” he said slyly and suddenly thrust his hand down the front of her dress, stirred by the firm, warm pleasures of her breasts against each side of his wrist. His fingers found a roll of bills and he withdrew his hand as the woman gasped in indignation and clutched at the top of her dress—too late.”

“You ...” she started to say but got no further when she saw the meanness in Edge’s expression.

“And you shouldn’t tell lies,” he said, glancing down at the money. There were two five-dollar bills and some ones. He took what was his and held out the rest to her.

She seemed reluctant, afraid to take it, but after a moment, did so, glanced at it with disbelief and put it back from whence it came.

“And honorable thief,” Hank said with disgust.

“Who keeps his word,” Edge said evenly. “You keep yours or I’ll cut your tongue out and nail it to the door at the lady’s pa’s house.”

Then he made a sudden movement, leaning forward from the waist and brushing his lips gently against Annie’s mouth. The woman gasped as Hank stepped forward, pulled up sharp when the muzzle of the Henry swung up to cover him.

Edge grinned. “I could envy you,” he said. “She tastes as good as she feels.”

Then he spun and vanished into the trees around the glade, as Hank made a deep-throated sound of fury and Annie raised a hand gently to her mouth. Her eyes shone and a sense of shame engulfed her, pricking her soul with accusation for the involuntary flush of desire that infused her entire body.

“That Edge is quite a man,” she murmured.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EDGE had an uneventful journey across the remainder of the Plains land, pacing himself and his horse to achieve a fast rate without inviting fatigue. He was taking a southwestern route, slashing across the southeastern corner of the Colorado Territory, and in not many days the horizon ahead became a dark line between the sun-baked ground and the azure sky as the Front Rage of the southern Rockies emerged over the earth’s curvature. He rode from early morning till close to noon, rested in whatever shade was available while the sun arced over its peak, then moved on till nightfall.

He was in Indian country now. Cheyenne to the south, Pawnee to the north and Ute, Navaho and Apache ahead of him. White settlements were thin on the ground and those he saw he skirted. He decided he had taken his full share of unwanted trouble and the itch to find Forrest and the others was getting stronger. What Annie had told him about Jamie’s killers, their utter lack of remorse and confidence in their apparent immunity had caused Edge to re-assess his earlier line of thought. Now, although he was prepared to search for the rest of his life for vengeance, the earlier he reaped it the better.

But then fate took a hand again. It was afternoon and the ground he was riding along was on the rise. He was following a wagon route up through the foothills towards the mountains, staying on the trail because he knew it would take him though by the easiest route: had been blazed by settlers heading west for California. And he followed the track for another reason. It bore signs of a passage by a wagon train in the not too distant past. A wagon train meant people, but for the most part good, decent people unlikely to create trouble unless provoked. More important, it meant good food, well cooked by town-bred women: an attractive prospect for Edge’s appetite, jaded by underdone jack rabbit and coffee made insipid by the need to conserve his diminishing supply.

The first sign of trouble ahead was a column of black smoke some that rose above the crest of the hill, looking black and oily as it marred the clear blueness of the sky. The trail cut a course around the base of the hill, rising only gently so that heavily laden wagons could be hauled up with relative ease. But Edge chose to cut off the trail, heeling his horse up the side of the hill towards the smoke. He started at a gallop, but as the incline steepened the animal slowed and Edge had to adopt a zigzagged course, finally dismounted and led the animal by its bridle the final few yards to the crest.