Edge: The Loner

“Quiet,” the kid said. “Stubbed my toe. You’ll wake him.”

Edge grunted his satisfaction.

“Don’t kill me, mister,” the kid pleaded.

“Stoop down,” Edge told him, relaxing the pressure of his body a little, but keeping the blade tight against the other’s throat. “Lay the gun on the floor. Make a sound and you’ll be at the gates to welcome Frank Forrest.”

The kid tried to nod, felt the blade dig deeper and made a low noise of horror. As Edge’s full weight was removed, he slid down the wall, bending his knees, stretching down his arm to let the gun rest on the floor. When Edge glanced down and saw the kid’s fingers come free of the revolver he stepped back a pace, taking the blade away from the flesh. The kid’s sigh of relief was curtailed by a soft groan as Edge’s knee snapped up, caught him on the point of the jaw. His eyes glazed, closed and he fell forward, to be caught by Edge, who lowered the inert form quietly to the floor.

Then Edge picked up the revolver, grimaced his distaste that it was a .44 Starr single action; like his own Remington in appearance but vastly inferior in performance. But it fitted snugly into his holster. Better than his feet fitted into the kid’s boots, which pinched at the toes but would serve his purpose.

He went out of the room as the sound of hammering was abruptly halted and the man below the window spoke to a companion. “Reckon it’s almost time for the hanging.”

CHAPTER TWENTY

FRANK Forrest did not want to die but was not afraid of death. He had faced it a thousand times during the war and before, bounty hunting in the territory around Peaceville. Most times he could figure the odds and if they were not in his favor could choose to take the risk and wait for a more propitious time. But now, as he was led from the jailhouse behind the sheriff’s office in the cold, early light of a new day his death was inevitable and he was in no position to either delay or avoid it. His hands were tied behind his back and two ropes had been looped around his chest and pulled tight. A man held the end of each, forcing Forrest to walk a line equidistant between the two. Another man was behind him, prodding him with the muzzle of a rifle in the small of his back.

But Forrest walked to meet his fate with something akin to dignity, holding his head high, his face pale and drawn from lack of sleep, set in an expression of calm acceptance.  The large gathering of people grouped around the gallows ahead of him along the street held no menace for Forrest and although the sight of the noose swinging gently from the gallows caused his throat to become dry, he knew it meant a quick, clean end to life. He had seen a lot of men die far worse deaths. A great many he had dispatched personally.

They were passing the hotel now and a head appeared at a second floor window, caused the men on the ropes to stop, jerking Forrest to a halt.

“Hey, Edge has escaped,” the kid at the window shouted, a hand going to his throat and coming away covered in blood.

The name wasn’t the one Forrest knew the man by, but it was close enough. All Forrest’s calmness and quiet acceptance of fate drained from him with the words of the kid and his body was shaking with a cold that had no relevance to the chill of the morning air.

“Let’s go,” he implored his captors, moving forward, jerking on the ropes. “You ‘gotta protect me ‘till we get there.”

 The men on the ropes and the men at the back with the rifle moved with Forrest, took several steps on the run before regaining the upper hand and forcing down the pace. Four pairs of eyes raked the street on either side, searching facades and roofs, alleys and sidewalks for a tell-tale movement that would betray Edge’s position. Each man showed naked fear in his face, but by far the greatest terror was evident in the roving eyes and trembling lips of Forrest, for whom death had suddenly become awe-inspiring.

“Don’t let him get me,” he muttered, and kept repeating the claim on a rising tone.

“Shut up,” the man behind him barked, jabbing the rifle muzzle forcefully into his back.

“If you see him, shoot me before you try for him.”

“Shut up,” the man said again, ineffectually, knowing there was nothing with which he could threaten Forrest to outweigh the terror of the stranger named Edge.

The cause of Forrest’s abject fear watched the scene from a place of concealment behind the angles roof of the church at the north-west corner of the intersection. He could see clearly over the heads of the waiting crowd, across the top of the gallows its raised platform and down the length of the street. He had heard the muffled shout from the hotel, seen Forrest’s panic and the captors’ actions to control it. The crowd had heard and seen this, too, and from the obvious agitation Edge knew they had reached the same conclusion he had. The atmosphere grew more tense with each yard that was covered by the approaching prisoner and escorts.