Edge: The Loner

Jamie was certain he was going to be gunned down, knew there was not a chance of making a run for it, and anyway decided it was best to be shot from the front than to take a bullet in the back. As he took a pace forward, towards the big sergeant, there were suddenly six gun muzzles trained upon him as the other men aimed muskets and revolvers, their expressions as menacing as the man who led them. But only one report sounded as Jamie reached down to swing forward his crippled leg and for an instant he stared in mute surprise at the blue smoke curling up from Forrest’s Colt, his brain striving to figure out why he was not dead. But the instant was gone and a scream of agony burst from his lips as the pain made itself felt and he pitched forward, his good leg folding under him like a straw as the smashed kneecap gushed more blood for hungry flies.

“Which leg did you say, Harry?” Forrest said.

“I figured it was the only one,” came the reply, and all except Forrest laughed uproariously.

CHAPTER TWO

THE loss of consciousness that had come mercifully to Jamie when the agony of the smashed kneecap drove home his total incapacity was abruptly ended as a bucket of cold water was sloshed into his face and an open handed slap stung his cheek.

“Wake up,” Forrest demanded harshly. “You got something to tell me and the boys.”

Jamie opened his eyes and looked into the ugly face of the sergeant, who was studying him with a grim expression of evil intent. Behind Forrest Jamie could see the house and barn, corral and white picket fence with the wheat field beyond. But it was not the same as before. Every window pane was broken, the barn doors were open and of the eight horses that had been in the corral there was now only the old plough mare and a young foal. But it was the dead body of Patch, his blooded eye staring sightlessly at the same scene, that suddenly gave Jamie total recall of the events since the six soldiers had ridden up to the farmstead.

And now he saw the other men, near the barn, transferring their saddles and bedrolls from their own mounts to the backs of fresh stock from the corral. But then, in the next instant, as the breeze gusted a cloud of dust across the parched ground, other sensations crowded into Jamie’s awareness. He was held direct against the live oak, secured by a single length of rope that bound him tightly at ankles, thighs, stomach, chest and throat: except for his right arm left free of the bonds so it could be raised out and the hands fastened, fingers splayed over the tree trunk by nails driven between them and bent over. The pressure of the nails and the bruises on his hands where the revolver butt had missed their mark and even more agonizing cause of pain than the shattered kneecap. But Jamie gritted his teeth and looked back at Forrest defiantly, trying desperately to conceal the twisted terror that reached his very nerve ends.

“All right, boy,” Forrest said. “You can see the position you’re in. While you were taking your rest me and the others searched the place. But we couldn’t find no money. Now, if you just tell us where you’ve salted it away, we’ll cut you loose, make you right comfortable in the house and send a doctor out from town.”

The others had finished saddling the fresh horses now and moved into an expectant bunch over to the tree. Jamie saw it as a mere disconnected movement from the corner of his eye, for he was riveting his attention on the face of Forrest, channeling all the hate he could muster in his continued effort to hide his pain and fear. But beads of sweat coursed down his forehead to sting his eyes, making him blink.

“There’s no money here,” he tried to yell at the man, but what came out a rasping whisper, which Forrest ignored without a flicker of interest.

“There had better be, boy,” he answered. “Or you’re dead. Back up.”

The final demand was directed at the five other soldiers, who did as instructed, giving Forrest space enough to put ten feet between himself and Jamie. The boy saw that while Forrest looked at him with odd mixture of impatience and indifference, the others appeared excited at the prospect of imminent entertainment. One of them, a tall, lean man who had discarded his forage cap for a black Stetson, was taking fast swigs at an almost empty whisky bottle.

“You got four fingers and a thumb on that right hand, boy,” Forrest said softy. “You also got another hand and we got a lot of nails. I’ll start with the thumb. I’m good. That’s why they made me platoon sergeant. Your brother recommended me, boy. I don’t miss. Where’s the money?”

The world went a strange color for Jamie and he saw it out of perspective. Forrest seemed to diminish in size while the gun in his right hand grew to gigantic proportions. And the grinning faces of the other five men seemed to rush forward in stark clarity. The boy realized he was close to hysteria and he tried with all his weakened strength to tear his hands free of the nails.