The Outrage - Edge Series 3 (36 page)

He dropped fast on to his haunches, arms loose at his sides and curled knuckles resting on the grass. Every sinew in his aching body felt knotted. While, primed to launch into his hurriedly thought out and dangerous counter move, he needed to make a conscious effort not to reach for the razor stowed in the neck pouch. Because it was not that kind of close combat: yet!

Heard against the raucous pounding sound in his ears generated by the intensity of his emotion, it seemed to him that the tenor of the cries from the throats of his tormentors had changed. That their shouts were more viciously strident as they spurred their horses to greater speed in the frenetic circle. Like the level of their excitement had risen because they sensed the murderous end was near. Perhaps thought the way Edge was hunkered down signalled he had already surrendered to inevitably being knocked to the ground by the horse of this rider. Who remained grimly silent as he prepared to be the first to deliver more than a glancing blow to this despised Yankee circumstances had brought to the Texas town where a bunch of homicidal bigots were not prepared to accept the Civil War was over and their cause was lost.

Out of inbred equine instinct the horse swerved to avoid colliding with the crouching man in its path. And the rider suddenly lurched to the side as he reached out a claw hand. It seemed to Edge that this man’s kerchief covered more of his face than the masks of the others who had come in this close and that his Stetson was pulled down much lower over his brow. Then he reasoned these details he had noticed in the heat of the tense moments of high concentration were totally irrelevant and relegated them to the back of his mind. And from frozen immobility, seemingly accepting his fate, Edge powered into lightning fast action. Vented an animalistic snarl that was louder than any sound voiced by the riders: triggered in part by a sharp stab of pain that seared through his punished body but mostly by a mixture of rage and hopelessness.

He reached his full height when the horse was six feet away. Which was when the masked rider saw the danger and jerked upright in his saddle. Clenched both hands back to the reins as he swerved his already turning mount further away from the man in his path.

Every muscle in Edge’s no longer agile body protested the impossibility of what he was doing as he powered up off the ground. Hooked an arm around the belly of the rider and knew he was at the critical split second in his move born out of desperation. Now, if the horseman was not firmly seated in his saddle, his feet thrust hard into the stirrups and his grip tight on the reins, he was certain to be dislodged and both men and would crash violently to the ground. Edge had not thought beyond this point for more than a moment. Knew only that if he were to take such a bone-crunching fall from a speeding horse he would be at the mercy of his tormentors. But if he made it – if the reckless plan formed so impulsively were to succeed against all the odds then . . .

He swung up and twisted in mid-air. Then thudded down astride the horse behind the rider. And the man and his mount were suddenly panic-stricken. The horse snorted and bolted as the man vented a shriek that reached feminine pitch. And a moment later Edge fastened both arms around the waist of the terrified rider and vented a yell of triumph that doubled as an outlet for the pain that assaulted every nerve ending in his body. Then he put his pursed lips close to the ear of the man be clung to and rasped: ‘Right, you sonofabitch! I bet you never figured to ride this close to the Edge!’

CHAPTER • 22

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THE NEXT instant the man lost control of his spooked horse and Edge realised that if
he was as terrified as he had every right to be then he would be blind to where the animal was bolting. There were no gunshots and no shouts: not sight nor sound of the other horsemen as moments amassed into what seemed like many minutes. While the snorting horse raced flat out in a straight line, seeming not to veered by an inch to the left or the right.

But in a situation so dangerous as this Edge did not trust his sense of passing time nor his fleeting impression about the unwavering direction of the animal’s bolt. When he did become aware of the reality of what was happening around him he saw they were off the undulating pasture. Now were being carried through night shrouded timber as the animal’s instinct for self-preservation made it swerve one way and then the other among the menacing trunks of the towering trees. But the horse had no innate concern for the safety of the two men it carried. So that any moment a low branch could slam into and unseat them: at a speed and with a force that could maybe kill the front rider on impact and Edge when he crashed to the ground.

The masked rider’s panic held him rigidly erect while for stretched seconds Edge bent his head behind the man’s sheltering shoulder. Until he jerked it up to snarl a warning.

‘You crazy bastard, you’d better – ‘ But it looked to be too late. For the trees suddenly thinned and through the fringe of the timber the light of the crescent moon showed a strip of open ground and then a yawning chasm directly ahead. ‘Shit, it’s where Jordan went over and

– ‘ Once again Edge broke off in mid-sentence but not of his own volition this time. For the horse saw or sensed the danger ahead: and swung into a tight turn at such headlong speed that both men were caught by the power of centrifugal force and wrenched helplessly to the side. Then the animal was suddenly no longer underneath them. And in the grip of a power far greater than he could match Edge had to release his hold on the other man: recognised he was literally on the brink of death as he was hurled toward the cliff top.
It’s one hell of a way to die,
he thought.
After the kind of dangerous life he had led for
so many violent years. When the odds were invariably on a bullet killing him. Fired by an
Indian attacking the family farm in Iowa when he was a kid. By a Confederate soldier in the
War Between the States. In a showdown gunfight on the dusty street of some godforsaken
frontier town. Or by bushwhackers along any one of the countless dangerous trails he had
ridden until he took the decision to turn over a new leaf and change his way of life . . .
He laughed at the irony of this thought: which must have come to him in some kind of dream. For the hollow sound was elongated and altered into a harsh toned groan of pain as he became aware of a hurt in every area of his body. So knew he had not died in the pointless manner that had threatened at the end of the frenetic ride through the night. He was certain only of this fact and had no conception of how much time elapsed before he was able to recall the entire chain of events that had brought him to this painful awakening. For sure he was not dead, but this was no cause for elation until he had tested the ability to move his head and then each limb in turn. Discovered pain was there in plenty and that, he reasoned, was a good sign: because it meant crippling paralysis was not numbing his muscles. Nor was he in the kind of excruciating pain he guessed would signal he had suffered any broken bones or ruptured organs.

He opened his eyes and eased himself cautiously up into a sitting position. And felt his facial muscles form into a tooth-baring, eye-narrowing grimace. But from stupid pride he steeled himself not to give voice to the effects of the punishment: just in case his enemies were watching and listening. But there was nobody in front of him. Nor to either side. Or behind. He established this while he remained on the ground: made a cautious survey of his immediate surroundings and noted he was fifteen feet back from the brink of the chasm he had glimpsed in the moments before he and the other rider had parted company with the horse. On a grassy bank that inclined slightly upwards toward the top of the cliff. A slope that had saved his life because the luxuriant grass into which he was thrown had cushioned the impact and the gradient was sufficient to arrest his rolling momentum after he hit the ground at such high speed.

He became conscious of his harsh breathing and forced himself to trap air in his lungs for stretched seconds while he listened to the silence that filled the sparsely moonlit night. He breathed again then and made a second, more thorough survey of the terrain on all sides. Saw no sign of the horse or masked rider on the open stretch of ground between the trees to one side and the precipice to the other. So maybe they had disappeared into the timber but, more likely, they went over the cliff to meet the same end as Robert Jordan and his mount. He struggled awkwardly to get to his feet, succeeded at the third attempt and had the presence of mind to ensure that as he staggered to maintain his balance he veered toward the trees instead of the top of the cliff. When he came to a halt, his legs splayed and feet planted firmly on the ground, his arms angled out to his sides, he groaned. Heard an echo from beyond the lip of the cliff as he ran exploratory fingertips over his head and face. Felt no prominent bruise or crusting of dried blood and told himself: ‘You sure are one hell of a lucky sonofabitch!’

There was no echo of the words from below: but there was another groan. And with his wits about him now he knew he was not mistaken. He was not yet ready to trust his sense of balance for more than a few seconds at a time so he dropped on to all fours. And inched carefully forward to a point where he was able to peer safely over the lip of the bank and down into the moon shadowed interior of the primeval crater. And saw that the second man thrown from the bolting horse had also drawn his fair share of luck tonight. He had plunged no more than ten feet down the cliff face and came to rest on a narrow ledge where a clump of mesquite had kept him from plummeting further into the chasm. Now he lay face down, his head positioned so that if he was conscious enough to be aware of what had happened he was peering at a sixty feet sheer drop that ended at a scattering of threatening boulders strewn at the base.

Edge warned cynically. ‘Best you stay alert or you could drop off, feller.’

‘Oh God!’ He screwed his head around to stare fixedly up at Edge.

‘I’m not Him. You ain’t died and gone to heaven. Not yet.’

Although he had lost his hat, the kerchief was still in place to mask his lower face but despite this the wavy blond hair and familiar voice gave a name to the young man sprawled on the ledge.

‘Please, mister, I – ‘ Matthew Colman started to implore.

Edge stretched out as comfortably as he was able at full length so that just his head showed at the top of the cliff as he broke in: ‘But I’d guess they’ve got a rule that means you’ll never get in there anyway. Anytime.’

‘Hell, mister, I think I’ve broke my arm. And maybe busted some ribs as well. You got to help me!’

Edge continued to ignore the injured boy’s pleas while he pressed ahead with his sardonic opening premise. ‘I don’t reckon good old Saint Peter lets rapists and killers in through those pearly gates I hear they’ve got up there,’

‘What?’ He shook his head and vented a choked sob. ‘Look, like I already told you – ‘

‘I’m looking and I’ve seen enough to know who you are, kid.’

The frightened young man gingerly moved a hand to ease down the mask and reveal his face in pale profile against the dark rock surface on which he lay. A grimace of pain disfigured his usually handsome features as he admitted morosely: ‘It’s me sure enough, Mr Edge. And I know there’s no use in me denying I had a hand in that crazy business of trying to scare the crap out of you.’

‘I’ve got recent and painful memories of the event,’ Edge said sourly.

‘We did that because you helped Alvin Ivers get away from the posse! You doing that made everyone real mad at you. And I got caught up in the – ‘

‘Right and now you’re caught up in that brush that saved your hide. Wouldn’t take much for me to break off a piece of tree branch and reach down there to tip you off.’

‘You wouldn’t do that!’ He gulped and sounded like he was fighting the threat of nausea.

‘Nick Quinn’s letter that offered the reward didn’t specify dead or alive, kid.’

‘Please!’ It was almost a shriek. ‘You can’t say that! How can you say that I killed them! Because it isn’t true! What did that lying bastard Ivers tell you to make you – ?’

‘He said that him and Hooper didn’t rape Nancy and then kill her and her ma. And I believe what he told me.’

‘Just because he said – ‘

‘He threw a rock at me and if it had smashed into my head it maybe could’ve killed me. But Alvin didn’t know who it was he could’ve killed. And at the time he was terrified of being lynched for a couple of murders he didn’t do.’ Edge slightly altered his position on the grassy lip of the drop so he was able to reach into a shirt pocket and take out the makings. ‘Whereas you knew who I was sure enough. And you were hell bent on killing me.’