Edge: The Loner

“There’s some trees outside of town,” the kid replied to Edge’s impassive back.

“They were lynchings,” Gail put in with repugnance. “This is going to be done correctly.”

Edge withdrew his head, closed the window and went back to the bed, stretched out full length on it. His hat was on the floor below and he picked it up, set it upon his forehead so that it covered his face except for the stubble jaw line.

“Wake me up before sunrise,” he said from underneath the brim. “I wouldn’t want to miss the show.”

No-one answered him and within a few minutes he was breathing deeply and evenly, like a man in a sound sleep.

“Christ that’s a relief,” the kid said with a sigh. “I don’t mind admitting it, Miss Gail. That feller makes me nervous by just looking at me. D’you see what he did to those people in the saloon?”

“They told me,” Gail answered, looking at Edge with an odd mixture of concern and disgust in her dark eyes. “I suppose he did what he felt he had to do. He has his own values and nobody in Peaceville can in any honesty despise him for what he did. We paid him for doing our dirty work and we didn’t make any conditions.” Her voice was tinged with sadness. Then she sighed and moved to the door. “He seems harmless enough now, Jesse,” she said. “I think that’s the first time he’s had any real rest in ages. But keep an eye on him. Honey will send up somebody to help you take Edge out if he really does want to see the hanging.”

“Right, Miss Gail,” the kid said with the confidence of Edge’s sleep as he opened the door, then closed it again when the woman had left the room.

But Edge was not asleep. He had kept his breathing deep and evenly paced by a conscious effort as he listened to the conversation, quelling his impatience as the seconds ticked away and the voices droned on. He knew he could handle both the woman and the kid. But he would have to take the kid first, to disarm him, and while he was doing that the woman would have enough time to raise a ruckus loud enough to wake the whole town. There was no point to that, if it could be done quietly without trouble. So Edge curbed his itch for action until the woman had gone out.

The kid was nervous, and that was bad. A brave man might think he could handle Edge alone and could be pushed into making a mistake. The kid would either shout for help or, worse, start blasting at the first flicker of trouble. So Edge had to wait for him to make the first move. It wasn’t a long wait. He had been standing by the door for a considerable time and at first the monotony of sentry duty had been counteracted by watching the woman at her nursing, then by conversation. Alone, except for the apparently sleeping man the boredom set in. The sounds of building across the street reached the room, faint but without competition, sufficient to catch his interest.

He tiptoed across the room, keeping his eyes and the gun trained upon the bed, holding his breath and clamping his teeth on to his lower lip with each tiny sound of his movement. Edge followed his progress with ease, grinned into the darkness of the hat when he heard the faint swish of the window rising, the sounds from outside suddenly amplified. Edge counted the beat of his own breathing, got to ten and reached up to raise the hat, swiveling his eyes to look at the window. He saw the kid’s rump folded over the sill, the slope his back angled out into the gray of dawn as he craned forward for a better view of the activity that held his attention.

Careful to keep his breathing pitched at the same regular beat, Edge sat up, put on his hat and turned his body so he could throw his legs off the bed. He held the pose for a second, waiting for the kid to sense trouble and swing the gun onto a target. The kid stayed as still as Edge.

Edge’s mouth cracked open and his teeth gleamed in contest with the glint of his narrowed eyes. Winter north of the Artic Circle had never been so cold as the expression. His boots were still in the room above the saloon, and his stockinged feet moved soundlessly across the floorboards. He had not spent much time in the room, but he was well aware of those sections on the floor that creaked. He avoided them.

They had found his knife, taken it with the Remington and Henry, but the razor in its pouch had escaped their attention. He came up behind the kid and drew the razor. The kid’s sixth sense delivered a late warning and he started to turn. But Edge’s fingers were already curled over the kid’s belt and the kid was being hauled in from the window with great force and speed. The side of the kid’s head smashed into the window frame, stunning him. Then Edge smashed him against the wall and pressed his body against him, bringing up his hand to hold the razor against his throat, just nicking the skin. The kid felt the sting of the wound and looked down with distended eyes at the object of his pain as warm blood oozed.

“You all right, Jesse?” somebody called from below.

“Answer him while you can still talk,” Edge hissed.