The Quiet Gun - Edge Series 1 (16 page)

No more than a few moments were allowed for a response before the man in command uttered a Spanish obscenity: suddenly strode purposefully forward and launched a booted foot to kick open the door.

He stepped into the house as confidently as he had approached it over the final few paces. Needed just a moment to confirm the single room was empty, then whirled, sloped his rifle to a shoulder and issued a stream of orders that acted to drain nervous tension from men eager to do as they were instructed.

Two went hurriedly into the house with the top man, three scuttled into the barn and a man who had been left up on the trail now loped into Edge’s view on the track, leading seven horses by the reins.

There was some shouting back and forth, the tone angry: with a different kind of apprehension than before. The Mexicans were no longer afraid of being shot down from out of hiding by an unknown and unseen enemy. Instead were agitated at not finding what they had come for.

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Then Edge became uneasily aware of the man with the horses – as unshaven and ill dressed as the others – gazing hard into the growing corn. Saw an expression come to his face that signalled the birth of a worrying idea.

The Mexican raised a hand to point as he yelled: ‘The maize, a
migos!
Is that not a fine hiding place?’

Edge cursed under his breath as the warning drew the other men toward the one holding the horses. And amid the excited talk they converged on the field: their weapons aimed.

And as Edge made to carefully back away from his vantage point, he reached a hand into the carpetbag to fist it around the butt of the Colt. He was aware that stalks of corn moving around him on an evening as still as this, without a breath of wind stirring the air, was as likely to betray his presence as any sound he made. Then he froze as a man started to shout. From further away than the yard side of the field: inside the house or the barn. And he realised he had miscalculated – one of the men had not come out to join the others to search the high growing maize.

‘Here,
compadres.
In the barn! Blood.
Madre de Dios
there is so much blood!’

A chorus of other voices was raised, then faded as the men whirled and hurried away from where Edge waited in a muscle straining, sinew stretching half crouch. Moments later there was just a babble of hushed whispering from within the barn as he considered the option to escape from amid the crop while the Mexicans were occupied with the gory evidence of Drayton’s death.

But what good would it do him to trade the deep cover of the corn for the open country on all sides of the hollow? His presence here was unknown to the Mexicans and the best way for it to remain that way was to stay silently still until after they moved out. Unless they elected to spend the night on the spread. Or resumed the search of the corn. Then he would have to think again.

So he stayed in the moon shadowed darkness of the corn, then withdrew from his observation point as a lamp in the barn was doused and the men shuffled out of the building. Not much was said now, all of it in subdued tones of controlled anger.

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Edge felt a grin come unbidden to his sweat beaded features when he heard sounds of the men getting astride their mounts. And, once in the saddles, they did not waste any time before they wheeled the animals: started to canter up the track toward the trail. He remained crouched in the corn for several more minutes, the involuntary grin of relief displaced by an equally spontaneous grimace as he considered this latest development in relation to much else that had happened since Fred Drayton took delivery of the wagon from Tucson – the flatbed certainly not laden with farm implements. Then, when the brightly moonlit night was filled with a massive unbroken silence after the Mexicans had ridden from earshot, he emerged from hiding. Paused on the yard to crouch and delve into the carpetbag.

He drew out the pouched razor hung from the string of Indian beads and fastened it around his neck. Then the gunbelt, which he buckled around his waist, tied down the toe of the holster and slid the Colt inside.

He slung the bedroll over his left shoulder and clutched the carpetbag in his left hand as he rose, moved up the track and started out along the trail toward Dalton Springs. Glanced briefly back down into the hollow as a stray breeze rippled the crop in the field and formed his thin mouth-line into a wry grin as he shook his head and growled: ‘You shouldn’t be amazed
you got away with it, feller. Corn always was your strong point.’

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CHAPTER • 12

_________________________________________________________________________

THE SPRINGS from which the town drew its name and the fresh water that
ensured
its continued existence were in the area of high ground to the south west of town: a scattering of hills that were no more than a dozen or so unspectacular hummocks featured with sandstone boulders and meagre patches of ragged brush. The trail along which Edge was getting sick of trudging cut a gentle curve through the low hills. But on this occasion he did not stay on it for the final mile or so into town: instead used the scant cover of the contoured ground to keep out of sight of any sentries Luke Shannon may have posted.

Which extended his journey in distance and time through the early hours of this Monday morning. And hardened his resolve to abide by a newly made decision – that, given any kind of freedom of choice, he would never walk anywhere ever again. As soon as feasible he intended to acquire a horse for himself, then let the world at large know that if a hand was placed upon the animal with intent to steal it – or even borrow it - without permission – he would exercise his right to kill the man, woman or child responsible.

But, reflecting upon the kind of situation in which he had got himself enmeshed when he accepted the apparently straightforward teamster’s job in Tucson, he considered he could count himself lucky to be no more than weary and footsore when he came within sight of the intersection of the trail with the main street of Dalton Springs: the Raine house directly ahead, Jake Slocum’s premises to the left, a feed and seed store across from the undertaker’s parlour and workshop.

From here he could see no sign of sentries in the town where not a glimmer of light showed, but he did not trust the community to be filled with blissfully slumbering people. For despite a first impression to the contrary, even decent and law abiding citizens of town must surely be ill at ease tonight.

Troubled by regret or remorse or grief or the nagging query:
Why did this have to
happen to us?
And if one such frightened individual was startled into an over-reaction by a glimpse of Edge in the darkness, it could turn out to be just as dangerous as being spotted by one of the Shannon bunch.

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As he stepped into the moon shadow cast by Cassidy’s Feed and Seed Store, this thought caused him to raise his right hand to touch the butt of the Colt jutting from the tied down holster.

And he became disconcertingly conscious of a tautness across his chest and in his hands: not so much a painful cramp as a threat of paralysing stiffness that urged him to flex his fingers, sometimes raise a hand to massage the opposite shoulder. He abandoned the bedroll in a cluttered area out back of the store, called himself crazy for toting it so far. But the blankets were not his property and it was only right he should take care of them for Ephraim Rider.

Yeah, crazy!
He told himself again as he reached a front corner of the store which smelled strongly of animal feed: peered up the street to where a wagon was parked outside the Lucky Break Saloon. Over the distance he was unable to see if it was the familiar flatbed: but he could clearly discern it was heavily laden, low on its springs, with the freight securely hidden under a tarp.

He swept his narrow eyed gaze over other features of the broad street and the buildings flanking it, paying particular attention to doorways, the mouths of alleys and rooftops. Satisfied himself as far as he was able from here that from one end of Dalton Springs to the other, movement was as absent as sound.

He returned to the back yard of the store and crossed to the rear of Slocum’s premises, covering the open ground where the trail became a street with long, silent strides. Then, as he had done the night before on the other side of the street, he moved through town by way of the back lots of the buildings.

His first priority still was to locate sentries and he soon spotted one. A man who betrayed his position by smoking: the embers of tobacco glowing dull red from time to time as he drew against the cigar or cigarette.

The man was positioned on the flat roof of the two story stage line depot. Closer to the north end of town than the south but as good a place as any from which to keep watch over the moonlit country spread out on all sides of Dalton Springs. Then, sure as he could be there were no other watchers, Edge retraced his steps until he was out back of the saloon: moved cautiously along the alley between it and the dry goods store next door. Reached the front corner of the Lucky Break and heard rather than 106

saw the first signs of other people in town – the snoring and raucous breathing of several men sleeping soundly inside the building.

There was deep moon shadow beneath the porch roof but the timber boarding threatened to creak with every footfall should he step up on to it. So he risked the side of the open street, which should be safe if there really was just the single sentry posted on the stage depot roof some way along on the same side as the saloon. The sounds made by the sleeping men got louder as he drew nearer to the batwinged entrance, opposite the front of the parked wagon which had no horses in the traces. Then he came to an abrupt, nerve tingling halt – when he saw the batwings were held open by a chair on which a man sat, facing outwards.

Edge remained unmoving for perhaps three seconds, waiting for the guard to challenge him. Then moved his right hand slowly to fist it around the butt of the holstered Colt. Ready to draw the gun and trigger a shot before he spun around and lunged into the cover of the alley.

But the man in the chair vented a moist, throaty sound and straightened both skinny legs so they were no longer bent at the knees. And Edge relaxed his taunt muscles as he realised the sound and movement did not signal aggression: the man had merely snored in deep sleep and shifted involuntarily into a more comfortable position on the chair. He dropped his hand away from the revolver and jutted out his lower lip to blow a stream of cooling air up over his sweat run features. Started forward again, his gaze sweeping between the rear of the wagon and the man in the open doorway of the saloon. A few seconds later he saw the sleeping guard completely, but as no more than a dark shape on the moon shadowed porch: long legs stretched fully out, balding head tipped forward so his chin rested on his chest, elbows on the arms of the chair, both hands curled loosely around the stock and barrel of a Winchester.

A Mexican who looked and sounded serenely content, breathing evenly while from within the saloon behind him came the snores, grunts and grinding of teeth of the rest of the men sleeping just as deeply.

There were both advantages and disadvantages for Edge in the minor barrage of noise. For although it would mask any slight sounds he made as he put the most dangerous element of his plan into effect, it would also cover any from somebody watching 107

him. And he could not check a powerful impulse to look away from the guard, swing his head around and peer along the open street, narrowed eyes checking its shadowed flanking buildings. But he kept his imagination under control: saw nothing – and nobody - not there.

All remained quiet and nothing moved except for Edge himself as he came within arm’s reach of the rear of the wagon: close enough to ease up the tarp and recognise familiar crates.

He realised he had to remove one of these because it would be suicidal to try to prise open a lid this close to the sleeping men. It was easiest to take a smaller crate and his luck held: for he was able to slide one of these off the top with little effort and no screeching of wood against wood.

Then he backed away from the wagon as the tarp dropped down into place. Carried the two feet square by six inches deep box beneath his left arm while his right hand remained close to the butt of the holstered Colt, his gaze fixed on the sleeping man in the chair in the doorway.