Edge: Ten Grand

Edge sat down, back against a rock and tipped his hat forward over his eyes, just enough so that he could see the lower half of her body, would know if she went for any of the dead men’s guns or her own Harmonica which was resting across the back of the dead horse. 

“Back up your claim to be a cook,” he told her. “I don’t like what you pull out of the pot, I’ll slice off those hard little titties of yours and see if they tender in the cooking.”

He watched her ground tether the horses, then collect brush and make a fire. She got the makings of a meal from the saddlebags of the bay and water from the bottles on the piebald. Then she crouched down beside the pot and began to sing softly as she stirred its contents.  Her speaking voice was harsh, with a rasp to it, but when she sang. it took on a sweetness and clarity that caused Edge to raise his hat brim, look at her face.  But he dropped it again, for she was still as ugly as ever.

 

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,

As I walked out in Laredo one day,

I spied a poor cowboy all wrapped in white linen.

All wrapped in white linen,

As cold as the clay.

I see by your outfit that . . .

 

“You from Texas?”  Edge asked, cutting off the woman in mid-song.

“No. Why?”

“That’s where Laredo is.”

“I just like the song,” she answered, continuing to stir the pot, which was now giving off an appetizing aroma that stirred Edge’s taste buds. “I’m from the state of Maine. How about you?”

“My business,” he answered and the woman bent over her cooking, choosing to hum rather than sing. Edge found himself almost hypnotized by the gentleness of the sound, felt his lids lowering and fought them up again several times before allowing the tune and the heat of the day to lull him into a shallow sleep.

He came out of it with the speed of a whip lash when fingers raised the brim of his hat, his hand streaking out to grip a thin wrist as his other hand flashed to the back of his neck, stayed there without drawing the razor when he heard the cry of half surprise, half pain, saw Amy’s gaping mouth and wide eyes. 

“Oh, lady ...” he breathed.

“I got you unawares again,” she said. “You want to hit me?”

He let go of her wrist, saw that in her other hand she held a metal bowl that steamed and gave off an aroma that raised saliva to his dry mouth.

“What is it?”

“Beef stew and potatoes,” she told him, thrusting the bowl forward. The spoon was already in it.

He took the food and began to eat as she straightened, hands on her hips. “Well?” she asked in a tone that indicated she already knew the verdict.

Edge grimaced. “Not bad. Get away from me. Your ugly mug is spoiling my appetite.”

It was delicious.

The woman ate little, Edge scraping the pot clean.  Then he mounted and set off, leaving her to rush the task of cleaning the campsite, gallop in his wake before she lost sight of him. When she did catch up with him, he on the bay, she astride the piebald, she rode alongside, keeping a distance of several feet between the two horses.

The heat did not seem to get any less as the afternoon lengthened, and the stew had been highly seasoned.  Edge drank long and often from the canteens hung on the bay’s saddle, emptied one and was halfway through the other before he noticed Amy’s dry lips. He glanced at her canteens.

“Don’t you get thirsty?”

“No,” she said, the word’s rattling in her parched throat.

Edge wheeled his horse and tugged on the reins, bringing him close to the woman. He reached out and under the dull, watchful eyes of Amy hooked her canteens clear, shook them one at a time and heard no sound from within. With a snort of rage he hurled them away and lashed out with his hand, his wrist chopping at the woman’s throat. She gasped and fell backwards out of the saddle, feet coming clear of the stirrups so that she slid easily over the rump of the animal and thudded to the ground. He vaulted from his own mount and reached down for her, pulled her to her feet as her hands went too her throat and she gasped for breath.

“You stupid cow,” he hurled at her, and drove a fist into her stomach, doubling her over. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I . . . I . . . thought . . .” she gasped, then went over sideways as Edge punched her on the side of the head.

“I’ve been guzzling my water like there was a lake round every turn,” he yelled, launching a kick into the small of her back. “I thought you had two full canteens.”

Amy looked up at him with the eyes of a faithful dog who knows the master’s anger is well-deserved.

“I used my last for the stew,” she managed to force out through her pain. “I didn’t tell you. I thought you might leave me.”