Edge: The Loner

The train was heading in the same general direction Edge wanted to go, but once across the San Juan Mountains the trail turned north, and this marked the end of Edge’s period of wagon comfort. He cut south with a full belly, replenished stock of ammunition and a pack-horse heavy with supplies. Not once had anybody on the train asked his name and he had volunteered no information. And when he left, the settlers waved him off into the distance with no knowledge of his destination or reason for making the journey.

It was eight days later, as he traveled through the surrealist landscape at the eastern edge of the Painted Desert in the north of the Arizona Territory that he saw the stage, heading in the same southerly direction as himself, but maybe a half mile to the east of him. It was going hell for leather, the hoofs of the four horses and rumbling wheels disturbing great heaps of dust that billowed out behind it like some from some kind of racing engine. At first Edge thought the small cracks which carried across the intervening desert land came from a whip wielded by a driver in a hurry. But then he saw the three horsemen spread out behind the stage, just clear of the billowing dust cloud.

“Hell,” Edge muttered to the horse. “Now a stage hold-up.

But he made no move to go to the aid of the pursued stage, holding his steady trot towards the south, glancing from time to time to his left, seeing on each occasion that the hold-up men were gaining on their quarry. Then the crackle of gunfire got louder and Edge sighed deeply as he saw the stage veer towards him, maybe following the trail, maybe seeking aid from him. As it drew closer, Edge could make out the driver, crouched low on the box-seat, slapping the reins to urge more speed from his horses: and besides him the guard, twisted in his seat, elbow bent on the roof to support his rifle. He was firing rapidly with a repeater, exhausted the magazine and turned to reload. As he did so the gun flew from his hands and he went sideways, tipping off the stage to thud to the ground. The driver seemed unaware of what had happened for several moments, the pulled on his breaks and yanked on the reins. The wheels locked with a show of sparks and smoke: the lead horse stumbled and the stage slewed round, rocking precariously, then tipped over onto its side with incredible slowness. The driver was pitched out of his seat as the shafts broke and the horses bolted clear, still fastened together by their harnesses.

Edge watched with complete detachment as the driver got shakily to his feet, going for a sidearm just when the three hold-up men rode in through the settling dust. Two fired at the driver and he dropped like a sack of potatoes as the third raider rode up to the overturned stage and fired a shot inside. A scream, high pitched enough to have come from a woman, pierced the air. The men, all masked, worked quickly, two leaping to the ground while the third held the horses. The pair who had dismounted climbed onto the side of the crippled stage and one pulled open the door and went inside, handed out a wooden box. The other took and threw it to the ground. They both climbed down and one drew a revolver and shot off the lock. As they bent down to scoop up the moneybags, the man who was still astride his horse glanced around and saw Edge watching. He snapped off a quick warning to the others and they sprang erect. A command was barked and the mounted man drew his rifle and fired. Cursing, Edge, ducked, felt a sudden jerk on his saddle horn and looked behind him, saw the pack-horse on its side, going through its death throes as the bullet settled in its brain.

Snarling, Edge whipped the knife from his back sheath and slashed through the rope. The knife was returned to its resting place and then Henry un-booted almost as part of one fluid movement as he wheeled the horse and started to gallop towards the men.

The dismounted raiders hurriedly scooped up the moneybags and leapt onto their horses as Edge thundered towards them, firing as he came. The pair with the money went like the wind, one of them trailing a shower of gold coins as a bullet from the Henry ripped through a moneybag. But the third man’s horse was slow to turn and even at a gallop Edge was able to take a careful aim and place his shot. The bullet drilled him neatly through the heart and he fell cleanly from the saddle, dead long before he hit the hard floor of the desert.

Edge brought his horse to a standstill as the raiders mount took flight.

“Like somebody once told me, it’s mean cuss that would shoot a man’s horse,” Edge said to the dead man, spun around as he heard a sound from the stage.

But the Henry’s muzzle found nothing to shoot at and Edge strained forward he heard the sound again, recognizing it as a low whimper, maybe of pain, maybe something else.

“Anybody inside there?” Edge called recollecting the scream when one of the holdup men had fired into the stage.