Edge: Ten Grand

Edge sprang into movement just as the tall man stepped over him, forcing himself up from the ground with all the power in his arms so that his hard skull smashed into Luke’s crotch. As Luke’s cry of pain followed Chuck’s yell, Edge continued the fast rise to his feet. The tall man grew taller, his legs straddling Edge’s shoulder, then went crashing sideways as Edge turned, his outstretched hands clawing for Chuck to break his fall as his rifle dropped to the ground. But Chuck wasn’t there.  He went over backwards, stumbling against the dead horse as Edge released the jagged rock, sent it with a crunch of breaking bone into the little man’s nose.

Luke hit solid earth with a great force that knocked the wind out of him, but he was tougher than he looked and he bounced to his feet, turning as he came up, facing Edge.

“Hundred dollars is all,” Edge said as Luke went for his Colt, never made it. Even without a backswing, Edge’s leg shot forward with incredible speed and force, the toe of his boot finding the exact spot where his head had landed moments before. Both Luke’s hands streaked to his nether region as his knees buckled and his face took on if mask of pain.  “Figure I’m worth more,” Edge droned softly, hand snaking to his back, flashing out with the knife.  Luke had sunk to his knees now, his mouth working to fight out words, failing.  Edge held the knife low, pointing towards the injured man.  Luke, eyes wide with horror, unable to tear his hands away from the source of his agony, rocked once and fell forward, his own weight carrying him on to the knife’s needle point.  It penetrated to great depth, just below his Adam’s apple. “Hey, don’t get cut up about it,” Edge said as he withdrew the knife and pushed the dead body sideways, turned to find Chuck.

The little man was just getting to his feet, staring in pained surprise at the blood on his palm as he pulled his hand away from his mashed nose. His other hand was gripping the Henry by its barrel, which was the wrong place.  He realized this when Edge spoke to him and he found himself looking into the muzzle of the Remington.  They faced each other across the dead body of the horse.

“Chuck.”

“You was awake all the time?”

“Yeah, Chuck. That’s my rifle you’ve got.”

“You killed Luke?”

“Luke killed my horse.”

Sweat mingled with blood. The moon face implored mercy. His voice trembled.

“You a bounty hunter?”

“No.”

“Outlaw?”

“Hundred dollars worth.  My girl gave me that horse.”

He shot Chuck in the hand holding the Henry.  The rifle clattered to the ground as Chuck screamed, his other hand going to nurse the injury.  Edge shot that, too. Twice, blowing off two fingers and drilling a neat hole through the palm.

“Oh, God!” Chuck pleaded, and fell to his knees.

“Don’t know how my girl felt about the horse, but I kind of liked it,” Edge said and emptied the revolver in a series of closely grouped shots where Chuck had once had a heart. The little man went backwards in a great deal of blood. “Be happy on that great bounty hunt in the sky,” Edge said wryly, and spat into the dust.

“You’re empty, mister. This ain’t.”

Edge froze as the woman’s voice spat out the words from behind him.  Close, but not close enough to make a grab.

“You been counting,” he said chidingly.

“And I didn’t need my fingers,” she answered.  “Drop the gun and turn around to look at me, mister.  I wanna see what I’ve caught myself that’s worth a hundred dollars.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIX

 

 

 

SHE wasn’t pretty.  Examining her through his narrowed eyes, grinding his teeth in an expression of anger at allowing the woman to get the drop on him, Edge thought she was downright ugly. She was tall, with a haggard, dirt-streaked face from which large, red-rimmed dark eyes looked at him with greedy interest.  Her mouth was a mere thin line, pale pink against her sun-darkened skin and her long hair, the color of dirty straw, hung limp and matted over her shoulders.  Her dress was nothing more than a shapeless piece of gray rag that fell from the neck to ankles offering no hint at the form it covered.  Only where it hugged the length of her long arms to be fastened at the wrists did it show her bone leanness. And the filthy hands below, curled around the gun she pointed at Edge, were just-skin-covered bones. She looked tired and weak, but her gun more than compensated for this at the distance she stood from Edge. It was one of the old Roland White Harmonica Rifles: a percussion repeater with a vertical sliding magazine.   A sporting gun, but as effective against a man as an animal.  And the woman held it like one not reluctant to use it. She stood beside a boulder behind which she had been concealed, lower down the slope from the point where Luke and Chuck had made their attack.  Edge guessed she had moved down during the fight.

“Like what you see?” he asked.