Seven Out of Hell (16 page)

Authors: George G. Gilman

Tags: #General Fiction

It was a long way, across the south-east corner of Wyoming and the north-west segment of Nebraska. For no better reason than it was a place to aim for, Edge went with the runaways.

At first they walked but then, with the tacit approval of Alvin and Beth, Edge stole a wagon and two horses from a farm. Edge waited impatiently while the conscience-stricken Alvin scrawled an unsigned IOU in the dirt outside the barn door.

Food and water were plentiful along the route and they made good time. But in the malicious emptiness of the Dakota Badlands their luck ran out. One of the horses broke a leg in a gopher hole. The following morning, as the second of the pair was grazing, it was spooked by a snake and bolted.

After a full morning’s walk, fighting a biting north wind the whole way, they entered a small village peopled by dirt farmers. Strangers were not common in the area and always viewed with suspicion.

The dour-faced saloon keeper, who had rooms for rent, demanded payment in advance and backed them out with a shotgun when their poverty became obvious.

“What now?” Alvin asked wearily as they moved down the only street in the village.

He was holding the arm of Beth, but she was giving him more support than he to her. Both were tired, hungry and struggling against a depression which threatened to drop them in their tracks.

Edge’s hooded eyes raked the street on both sides, unwilling to berate the whim that had brought him to this God forsaken spot. Instead, he reasoned that he had chosen to come, and all that mattered was finding an answer to his immediate problem.

He spotted a shack on the edge of the village, crudely built and badly maintained. A wooden sign on the roof proclaimed: SHERIFF. But it was not this lettering which attracted him; caused him to alter direction and angle across to the decrepit law office.

To one side of the door was a board nailed to the wall, and a half dozen wanted notices were thumb-tacked to it. All of them were yellowed by age and weather and one of the oldest showed a picture of a young man in the uniform of an army captain. The faded lettering beneath was as familiar to him as the face depicted on the poster:

WANTED

FOR THE MURDER OF WAR

VETERAN ELLIOT THOMBS

former Captain J. C. Hedges

Beneath this, scrawled in charcoal, was the additional information:

$100 REWARD

Edge moved along to the window and a grin spread across his face as he peered inside and saw a bearded, pot-bellied man in his fifties sleeping soundly in a swivel chair at the desk.

Alvin and Beth looked at him oddly as he returned to them, unable to comprehend the reason for the cold grin. He spoke softly to them and Alvin seemed to greet every word with an emphatic shake of his head. But, after a dispirited glance around at the unfriendly cluster of buildings and the harshness of the surrounding countryside, Beth gave a nod of approval.

Out-voted, anxious to please the woman, Alvin fell in with the plan. He bunched his fist in his jacket pocket, simulating the bulge of a gun, and followed Edge back across the street towards the law office. Beth hurried ahead, tore down the wanted poster and pushed open the door. The sound of footfalls in the office jerked the sheriff from sleep.

“What—?”

Beth held out the poster and dropped it on the dusty desk. “It says a hundred dollars for him,” she cut in. “He’s the one.”

The sheriff stood up, squinting at Edge, obviously not connecting the leathery-faced prisoner with the youthful reproduction on the poster. But he drew one of the two six-guns bolstered at his hips.

“That’s Hedges?” he asked.

“Lot of blood’s flowed since I looked like that,” Edge said easily, his narrowed eyes moving from the perplexed face of the sheriff, to the safe in one corner, the barred door of an empty cell in the other.

Alvin was nervous, trembling before his own conscience. Not so Beth. She was experienced in the harsh realities of life on the wrong side of the tracks. She smiled beguilingly at the lawman.

“Hundred dollars, sheriff,” she reminded softly. “Then my fiancé will help you lock him up.” She looked at Edge venomously. “He’s a real mean bastard.”

Alvin gasped at the profanity as Beth tried to bite back the word. The sheriff looked from Edge to the swells of Beth’s breasts.

“Yes ma’am. You did your duty and you’re entitled to the reward.”

He came out from behind the desk and moved sideways to the safe.

“You keep him covered now, young feller,” he urged, then turned and fitted a key into the lock on the safe. He swung the door wide. Then he began to count out a wad of five dollar bills, still holding the Remington revolver in one hand.

Edge moved on the balls of his feet and reached the sheriff in three strides. A floorboard creaked just as Edge’s hand grasped the butt of the holstered gun.

Beth gasped and the sheriff whirled. His face was painted with fear. His finger tightened on the trigger and the Remington leapt, spitting flame. The woman did not live long enough to scream. The bullet angled in through her jaw and tunneled the roof of her mouth up to her brain. Alvin darted forward and caught her dead body in his arms.

“Drop it, sheriff!” Edge rasped, pressing the Remington against the lawman’s temple.

The matching weapon clattered to the floor as the sheriff straightened, staring at the dead woman with dazed eyes. Edge scooped up the gun and snatched the sheaf of bills from the limp hand.

Alvin looked with wide, tear-bloated eyes at the blood coursing down Beth’s chest to channel into the valley between her breasts. Horror etched deep lines in his young face.

“She’s dead,” he said incredulously, as if he had to convince himself of this truth.

Edge looked at the sheriff through narrowed eyes. “Where’d they bury whores around here?” he asked.

All along the street, doors and windows were slammed closed. The inhabitants of the village were learning once more that you could not trust strangers in the Badlands.

The sheriff was deeply afraid, aware he could expect no help from the citizens, who paid him to protect them.

“She wasn’t a whore,” Alvin challenged with a sob, cradling her head. “That was all behind her.”

“Sheriff?” Edge insisted.

The man gulped. “Everyone gets buried out of town aways. Out in the hills. Place called Wounded Knee.”

Edge nodded and peeled two five dollar bills from the roll. He held them out towards the kid. “Here.”

Alvin accepted the money unthinkingly, then came out of his daze with a start. His eyes were full of hurt as he watched Edge go to the door. “This won’t get me far,” he accused.

“Ain’t for you,” Edge told him. “It’ll get her where she’s goin’. Six feet - straight down. Ought to cover it.”

“For the funeral!” the kid exclaimed as realization hit him and he began to shed tears on to the dead face of the woman.

“Right,” Edge confirmed. “To bury your tart at Wounded Knee.”