Edge: The Loner

Then the enormous gun roared and Jamie could no longer feel anything in his right hand. But Forrest aim was true and when the boy looked down it was just his thumb that lay in the dust, the shattered bone gleaming white against the scarlet blood pumping from the still warm flesh. Then the numbness went and white-hot pain engulfed his entire arm as he screamed.

“You tell me where the money is hid, boy,” Forrest said, having to raise his voice to make himself heard above the sounds of agony, but still empty of emotion.

Jamie knew where it was. Had carefully over the years of the war carried each slim package from the stage station to the farm and hidden it with the others, counting it each time and keeping a tally. Two thousand dollars in all. Joe and he could really do things with the farm on two thousand dollars. Another barn, some new equipment: might fence off some pasture land to the north and get a few head of cattle. That would be nice.

The gun exploded into sound again and this time there was no moment of numbness as Jamie forefinger fell to the ground, on top of the thumb, disturbing the flies at their feast. The agony reverberated throughout his entire body and this time his scream emerged as a mere croaking sound from deep in his throat. He knew he was in a hairs breadth of telling Forrest of the moneys hiding place, but he didn’t, but he was hanging onto the belief that Joe was not dead, and so would need the money. To Jamie it did not matter, for he would surely be killed whether he talked or not. But he had to keep faith with Joe.

“Don’t hog it all to yourself, Frank,” Billy Seward shouted, drawing his revolver, “You weren’t the only crack shot in the whole damn war.”

He drew a bead on his target and Jamie watched him through a red sea of pain that blurred his vision, set him apart from what was happening. The crack of the revolver had a distant sound and this time there was hardly any new pain, merely a sting on the cheek as the bullet missed its mark, dug splinters from the trunk, which flew into the face of the boy. Jamie suddenly loved Billy Seward and felt a warm wetness in his trousers as the relief relaxed his muscles.

“You stupid bastard,” Forrest yelled as he spun around. “Don’t kill him ...”

Every other man had drawn his gun and all but one lowered their weapons, their wills bent to the fury of Forrest. But the man with the whisky bottle suddenly flung it from him, his eyes bleary and his hand unsteady from the pint of hard liquor he had drunk during the search of the house. He fired from the hip, the bullet whining past Forrest’s shoulder to hit Jamie squarely between the eyes, the blood spurting from the fatal wound like red mud to mask the boy’s death agony. The gasp of the other men told Forrest it was over and he did not turn round to look. His Colt spoke for the fourth time that evening, the bullet smashing into the drunken man’s groin. He went down hard into a sitting position, dropping his gun, splaying his legs, his hands clenching his lower abdomen as if he thought he could staunch the flow of crimson that spread a widening stain across his filthy uniform pants. He looked around imploringly as those around him, his mouth working but emitting no sound, and nobody moved to help him. Then, without speaking, Forrest walked across and scooped up the fallen gun, jammed it into his belt as he holstered his own revolver.

“Help me, Frank,” the man finally managed to force out. “My guts are running out. I didn’t mean to kill him.”

“But you did,” Forrest said, spat full into his face and brought up his foot to kick the injured man savagely on the jaw, sending him sprawling onto his back. He looked around at the others, their faces depicting fear, they holstered their guns. “Burn the place to the ground,” he ordered with low key fury. “If we can’t get the money, Captain Josiah C. Hedges ain’t gonna find it, either.”

As Forrest stood, unmoving between the dead boy tied to the tree and an unconscious man sprawled in the dust, the four men fanned out across the farmstead, one to the house, a second to the barn, and the other two going to the wheat fields. The crops caught first, their tinder dryness easily magnified the tiny blazes started by the men. But the buildings, too, were soon providing fuel for the fires after they had been splashed with kerosene. As they smelled the smoke and saw the flames the loose horses moved restlessly, whinnying their fright before bolting, some through the gateway, others smashing down the fence.

“All right,” Forrest yelled, suddenly moving, breaking into a run for the tethered animals. “Let’s go before we roast.”