Edge: The Loner

THE sun was an hour past its peak when Joe saw his first living human beings of the day. He was still In Iowa, but close to the Kansas state line and he was hungry. He had been riding through open country all morning, only occasionally crossing a trail to indicate that the whole nation was not wilderness. But he had chosen to cross them rather than follow them because none of them took the southwestern direction he was headed: and he had no wish to court trouble in a uniform. For although the war was over, the grievances that had caused it would continue to divide Americans for some time to come and state lines were no guarantee of allegiance to the beliefs of either north or south.

He would meet trouble as it came and deal with it, but there was only one brand he was seeking and that was not due yet. It was certainly not represented by the covered wagon drawn up at the side of a trail that cut a path in a north-west direction, paralleling the course of a strain which rushed clear and cool over a runs of rocks close to the campsite. Two bays had been freed from the wagon shafts and were tethered close to the edge of the stream. A fire, recently started, blazed under a large pot of something, which smelled appetizingly good a few yards from the horses. The wagon was old and decrepit, with sagging timber, wheels that had been repaired too often and patched canvas. Upon the canvas side was the faded lettering, in shaky capitals: GOD HAS COME TO YOUR TOWN. Beneath this was a badly painted representation of the Bible and below this, in smaller letters: HEAR REVEREND ELIAS SPEED PREACH THE WORD OF THE LORD.

Joe dismounted twenty yards short of the wagon and, taking the Henry, moved silently forward. He was wary only of the wagon, for there was no other cover in rifle shot of the campsite. He trod carefully, avoiding loose rocks that would rattle across the ground if dislodged. Then, just as he was about to spring to the rear, bringing his rifle up to cover the inside of the wagon, a voice froze him.

“Don’t move, my darling. I want to look at you just like that.”

It was a man’s voice, laden with passion and Joe’s breath came out in a rasp as a woman laughed.

“Now you want to look …” she whispered, and the sentence was lopped in half as Joe moved forward and spoke a single word: “Freeze.”

A bed was set clockwise at the front of the wagon and upon it, stretched full length was an apparently almost naked man. A filthy blanket covered his legs and lower stomach and above his black hair sprouted, growing thicker as it reached his chest. At his throat was a stiff, once white cleric’s collar. His head was raised, elbows bent for support, jaw resting on his palm. He was about fifty with a round, almost cherubic face with eyes that were too small and were now filled with shock as he looked at the wrong end of a Henry repeater. His face was drained of color and the wanness extended over his completely bald head.

The woman squatted on a low stool in front of a miniature rococo dressing table, complete with cracked mirror in a hinged frame.  She was a half-breed, with perhaps Sioux blood mixing with Caucasian. Her nose was too broad, with flaring nostrils, to give her beauty but her dark eyes, even though afraid, held a deep sensuousness. Her body, completely naked, was firmly voluptuous with the muscle control of perhaps twenty-five years. She was brushing her thick, dark hair that reached to the middle of her back, posing with thrusting breasts and sucked in stomach for the man who had obviously just possessed her. It was she who recovered first, slamming down the brush and folding her arms across the breasts.

“What’s cooking?” Joe asked.

The woman said one word, the sound of which meant nothing to Joe, but her tone and the fury which leapt into her eyes made the meaning clear. But he refused to be provoked by the obvious insult.

“It’s not what you think,” the man said, jerking into movement, pulling the blanket higher as he wriggled into a sitting position.

“What isn’t?”

“Virtue is my sister.” His voice was high, reedy.

“Virtue?”

The man nodded to the woman at the dressing table. “The young lady is my sister, Virtue. We … we are somewhat late risers, as you can see.”

Joe made a clucking sound of impatience. “I don’t care if she’s your great-grandmother, reverend,” he said dryly. “I’m talking about the pot. What’s in it?”

The man grinned, suddenly anxious to be of help. “Stew, young man. Beef stew. Our last from the store, but the Good Lord will provide. You are most welcome to share it with us. I see from your uniform you fought on behalf of a just cause. God was on your side.”

The man’s tone placed him south enough to have root beside the Gulf of Mexico, but Joe would not have trusted him even if he could prove himself to be a dyed-in-the-wool Yankee. He motioned to the woman with the rifle.

“Tell her to fix the food.”

“I talk English good as you, soldier boy,” the woman said. “I’m not going to get dressed in front of your leering eyes.”