Edge: The Loner

Seward gave a shout of glee and leapt down from the sidewalk, flipped the dead Peacock over onto his back with a vicious kick. He stopped, ripped the star from the man’s shirt. Then his saber went high, made a swishing sound as it fell and drew a deep seated gasp of horror from the watching crowd as the blade slashed cleanly through Peacock’s neck, severing his head from his body.

“That makes it for sure,” Seward said, tossing the star to Forrest who caught it and pinned it to his own shirt-front.

At the rear of the crowd, unmoved by the horror of what had taken place outside the sheriff’s office, Edge judged that the time was right. He felt cold and calculating, his muscles relaxed, his mind and body ready to act like a machine, obeying the spur to vengeance but open to the caution for self-preservation. He drew the Remington, his hand curling around the cold hardness of its butt. Then, like a released coil spring he sprung as fingers clawed into his arm. The muzzle of his revolver was an inch from Gail’s horrified face and Edge’s finger was within a split instant of squeezing the trigger.

“What are you doing?” she demanded sharply, her voice lost to all others in the buzz of startled conversation that had sprung around the crowd.

“Attending to my business,” Edge snapped, lowering the gun, shaking free of the girl’s grasp.

“There’s innocent people here,” she urged. “Women and children. They’ll get hurt.”

“That ain’t nothing to do with my business,” he came back, looking across the crowd, seeing that all but Bell and Seward and gone into the sheriff’s office. These two stood a menacing guard outside.

“You’ll fail,” Gail pressed on. “You can’t hope to go up against their rifles with a revolver.”

Edge stared down at the Remington snuggled in his hand and realized the truth of the girl’s words. He’d been wrong. He wasn’t ready. He had acted on an impulse, taking no account of a primary factor that loaded the odds overwhelmingly against him.

“Don’t listen to her,” the toothless old man encouraged, anxious for more action. “Go and get ‘em son. They’re tough but you’re tougher. Go blast them out of the office.”

Edge looked at him and from the expression on his face, the old man was sure his words had convinced Edge not to wait.

“Go get my horse ready, feller,” he said easily. “Feed him, water him, rub him down till his coat shines like a mirror, and saddle him. If he ain’t ready by the time I want to ride out of here you’ll have three minutes to make your peace with whatever kind of God makes scum like you.”

The old man turned and scuttled away, and the rest of the crowd began to break up, only two men having the stomach to cross and pick up the headless body of Sheriff Peacock under the menacing guns of Bell and Seward. But even they turned away from the displaced head, white faces twisted by terror.

“Thank you,” Gail whispered, and took Honey’s arm for support as the couple moved away.

Edge cast one more glance at the sheriff’s office before using the cover of what remained of the crowd to go into the hotel.

The gold-studded clerk eyed him fearfully. The drunk slept on. No longer snoring. The only sound in the lobby was the heavy tick of a large clock above the door. Its hands pointed to the hour of two o’clock. Peaceville was suddenly quiet.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

THOSE who considered themselves the good citizens if Peaceville didn’t go to bed after witnessing the scene in front of the sheriff’s office. Edge, stretched out on his own bed in the hotel room, awake and fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking out a plan of campaign, neither knew nor cared what the townspeople were doing. He had stood at the window for several minutes after returning to the hotel room, watched as the street cleared of people save for Bell and Seward on sentry duty up on the sidewalk: and the grisly severed head, tipped over on its right side in the dust. But that couldn’t count because no part of Sheriff Peacock could be considered people any more.

There was a period of activity a few moments later when Forrest, Douglas and Scott emerged from the office and swaggered across the street to the Rocky Mountain Saloon. Bringing up the rear, Seward could not resist a sadistic kick at the head, which arced clumsily over the sidewalk to smash a window on the side of the street Edge had only a restricted view of. When the five had entered the swinging doors of the saloon, Edge could hear some shouts, a woman’s response and then some laughter. Then peace returned to Peaceville, apparently for the duration of the night if its citizens were prepared to allow it to be so.

Edge wasn’t.

So he lay on the bed, contemplating the ceiling, deciding how the murderers of Jamie were going to die. Then the rap of knuckles on the door sent his hand to the floor to snatch up the Henry and he was suddenly sitting up, rifle aimed, finger on the trigger.