Edge: The Loner

The others raced to join him as the sound of roaring mingled with the stench of burning to add its own kind of terror to the awe-inspiring sight of the blazing flames. They mounted quickly and galloped in the wake of Forrest as he wheeled his horse through the gateway and onto the trail away from the fire. One horse remained—that which would have been the man’s who killed Jamie—still tethered by the barn. It kicked and struggled against its rope, terror injecting enormous strength into his muscles so that it finally tore free. But in the panic of its fright the beast galloped full pelt into the blazing barn, its death cries lost in the crash of falling timber as the roof collapsed.

Down the trail the five soldiers slowed their horses and looked back, saw the flames leap high, the smoke curling into the sky, black and dense enough to blot out the bright red of the setting sun.

Forrest suddenly laughed. “Anyone fools with Frank Forrest is likely to get his fingers burned,” he said as he spurred his horse forward.

CHAPTER THREE

JOSIAH Hedges was thirty years old, stood six feet three inches tall and weighed a solid one hundred and ninety pounds, some of it bone, most muscle. Many women considered him handsome, many others thought him ugly: he had that kind of face. Eyes that were light blue and piercing from his Swedish mother, a hawk like nose, high cheekbones and firm jaw line from his Mexican father. A mouth that was narrow and set in a firm, cruel line which was not hereditary but born out of too many years of war. His hair was black, long and thick to below his collar. He had personally killed fifty-six men who were his enemies and been directly responsible for the deaths of hundreds more, friend and foe alike, for an army captain must give an order in terms of winning the battle with the safety of his men of secondary consideration. Certainly that was the opinion of Captain Josiah Hedges and he had fought the war on the principle: sufficiently well to earn a commendation from General Grant himself.

But now it was ex-Captain and if he had ever cared about the honor, it meant nothing to him as he rode homewards towards the flatland of Iowa. He had had a job to do and the fact that the job had been largely a matter of killing his fellow-countrymen had not affected the way he did it. He had fought his war well, for he tried to do everything well. Just as he had worked the farmstead before the war and would continue to do so now that the fighting was over.

If anything concerned him as he rose past the oddly formed stand of trees beside a bend in the stream that marked a distance of two miles from the farm, it was that he had derived a certain enjoyment from the war and a deep sense of satisfaction as he saw each man fall at his hand. The simplicity of farming could never produce such a feeling.

But, he was certain the influence of young Jamie, the boy’s faith in his elder brother, would be stronger than the most vivid memories of smoke shrouded battlefields, musket cracks, flashing steel and blood. With these thoughts running on such lines, Joe caught his first sign of the farm and was sure it was a trick of the imagination that painted the picture hanging before his eyes. But then the gentle breeze that had been coming from the south suddenly veered and he caught the acrid stench of smoke in his nostrils, confirming that the black smudges rising lazily upwards from the wide area of darkened country ahead was actual evidence of a fire.

Letting an animal sound escape his throat, Joe dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and she replied to his command with a turn of speed that told of an early hour in a new day after a good night’s rest. As he galloped towards what was now the charred remains of the Hedges’ farmstead, Joe looked down at the trail, recognizing in the thick dust of a long hot summer signs of the recent passage of many horses—horses with shod hoofs. As he thundered up the final length of trail Joe saw only two areas of movement, one around the big old oak and another some yards distant, towards the smoldering ruins of the house and as he reined his horse at the gateway he slid the twelve shot Henry repeater from its boot and leapt to the ground, began firing from hip level, squeezing the trigger and working the trigger guard with a fast wrist action that pumped three .44 caliber shells at each target within four seconds and dropped the gleaming cases around his feet. Only one of the evil buzzards that had been tearing ferociously at dead human flesh escaped, lumbering with incensed screeches into the acrid air.