Edge: The Loner (Edge series Book 1)

  Table of Contents

  FOREWORD

  INTRODUCTION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  EDGE

  Without doubt, he is the meanest,

  most vicious man you’ll ever meet.

  He’s a man of violence, driven

  by revenge.

  You won’t forget him.

  To L.J.

  who thought of the name.

  THE LONER

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition: November 2011

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover design by West World Designs © 2011

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications

  Visit the author at:

  www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  FOREWORD

  Foreword by Malcolm Davey AKA Western Writer, Cody Wells

  First, I would like to say what an honor and a privilege it is for me to have the opportunity to be a part of the rebirth of this great legend.

  I believe I speak for every ‘Edge’ fan there is, has ever been, and also the many new fans that will follow, when I simply say, Terry… Thank you! Thank you so much for giving us, George G. Gilman and Edge!

  In my humble opinion of all the westerns I’ve ever read or watched on the big screen and TV, no one could hold a candle to this author and his creation.

  The series was written with such zeal and finesse, it’s as fresh today as it was back when it first appeared on the shelves of our favorite bookstores. And the reason is … Edge was written well before its time.

  Malcolm Davey - November 2011.

  INTRODUCTION

  Introduction: George G. Gilman (Terry Harknett)

  In July 2010 a first e-book edition of this first title in the Edge series was published by a company called Solstice. For a variety of reasons which I do not intend to go into here I chose to withdraw this.

  This new edition with its new cover, both produced by fellow Western writer Malcolm Davey AKA Cody Wells, perhaps needs the same introduction as the one that appeared back in 2010, so here it is for readers new to Edge on Kindle:

  Almost 50 years ago (1952 to be precise) my first book was published. A rather pedestrian mystery featuring a London based private eye. Nine more followed, none of which sold more than a handful of copies in the UK and Argentina - the only overseas country to launch foreign editions.

  And after some ten years the flames of my burning ambition to become a professional writer were beginning to gutter towards extinction. But my day job as a trade press journalist brought me into contact with all the London paperback publishers and an editor working for one of these suggested I might like to try my hand at writing novels based upon original screenplays.

  These happened to be Westerns - a genre I knew little about except from the cinema and television, for my early years were in the l940s and 50s which was something of a golden age for the oaters on the large and small screen. So with some trepidation I agreed to the project.

  I wrote a small clutch of these books based upon films and the publisher concerned was sufficiently impressed to ask me to try an original novel set in the West. And since at the time the spaghetti Westerns were doing such tremendous box office business and no publishers were printing books that were anything like such movies it was suggested I fill this gap in the market.

  The rest, as they say, is history, which came to a premature end in 1989 when I decided I had written my final Edge adventure.

  Now all these years later Edge has entered the digital age.

  Long may he continue in readers’ imaginations to ride the bloody trails through hostile territory between violent towns in books that will be revisited by loyal long time fans and read by newcomers to the Wild West. A locale peopled by characters that on the printed page - and now on the digital screen - which has to be very different from that created by other writers in the genre since George G. Gilman had never read a Western before he started to write them.

  Terry Harknett AKA George G. Gilman - November 2011.

  CHAPTER ONE

  JAMIE Hedges counted six riders and there should have been only one. But Joe was surely among them and so he didn’t worry for he would willingly shout aloud his happiness to the whole re-united USA if that were the way it had to be. His brother was coming back home after more than five years away at the war and Jamie didn’t care whether five men or five million were there to witness his jubilation at the event.

  It was the evening of a beautiful Iowa day in June 1865 and on the farmstead where Jamie waited with mounted excitement there was not one single sign of a war that had torn a nation in two and claimed the lives of six hundred thousand young Americans. There was just the small wooden house, the bigger grain barn and the corral with its eight horses, neatly fenced off with white picket from the yellowing fields of wheat that stretched out on three sides. On the fourth side virgin country diminished into the distance, bisected by the trail along which the six riders were coming. The gate which gave access to the farmstead was open for Joe to ride through and Jamie and his mongrel dog Patch waited in the gateway, in the shade of the big old live oak that rustled its leaves in the same cooling breeze which turned the wheat fields into a huge yellow lake.

  The wind came from the east, from behind the approaching riders and soon the horses in the corral picked up the scent of their own kind and began to move restlessly, keening the edge of anticipation that Jamie seemed to feel in the very air. Not yet nineteen, the boy was tall, with sandy hair and a handsome face the color of well tanned leather from long hours working in the harsh sun. He was dressed in a store-bought check shirt and homemade Levis. He wore no shoes nor did he carry a gun. His build was broad for his age and appeared to be completely sound until he walked, when he had a pronounced limp in his right leg to the extent that he had to grasp his thigh with both hands and swing it forward with each pace he took.

  “Joe’s coming home, boy,” he said to the dog for perhaps the hundredth time that day and the animal, sensing his master’s excitement gave a subdued bark and wagged his tail in the dust.

  The group moved slowly up the trail and at first, Jamie experienced a sense of disappointment for he thought that once in sight of home, Joe would have come at a gallop, anxious to see his young brother again, to taste the fresh coffee and pork and beans he must know would be ready on the stove for him. But Joe had been at the Appomattox peace signing and it was a long ride from Virginia to Iowa: Joe was sure to be tired.

  They were close enough now for Jamie to see they were still in uniform and he was glad about this. The north had been v
ictorious and Joe was sure to be proud that he had been a captain in the Federal cavalry. But then Jamie saw something which clouded his face, caused him to reach down and press Patch’s head against his leg, giving or seeking assurance.

  “There’s a sergeant leading them,” he muttered, puzzled, and the dog looked up at the boy, hearing a note of concern in his voice. “Joe’s a captain. He ought to be at the head.”

  The group was not a hundred yards down the trail now, close enough for Jamie to discern clearly the triple chevron on the arm of the leading rider. The boy moved forward a few paces, manhandling his lame leg, then halted, all excitement draining from his features to be replaced by a deep worry. Now that the riders were a mere stone’s throw away his anxious eyes fastened upon each face in turn and he knew Joe was not among them.

  They reined in their horses just short of the gateway where the boy waited and the sergeant looked down at him wearily, and then dismounted. Like the others he had an unkempt beard many days old and red-rimmed eyes from riding into the sun all afternoon.

  “Hi there, boy,” he said. “You must be Joe’s little brother Jamie.”

  He was big and mean-looking and, even though he smiled as he spoke, his crooked and tobacco-browned teeth gave his face an evil cast. But Jamie was old enough to know not to trust first impressions: and the mention of his brother’s name raised the flame of excitement again.

  “You know Joe? I’m expecting him. Where is he?”

  One of the riders still mounted let out a sound that could have been a snigger, but Jamie’s entire attention was riveted upon the sergeant.

  The smile was gone now and the man looked grave. He glanced over Jamie’s shoulder, at the house and barn and backdrop of waving wheat. He spat into the dust and Patch growled.

  “Well boy,” he drawled, shuffling his feet. “Hell, when you got bad news to give, tell it quick is how I look at things. Joe won’t be coming home today. Not any day. He’s dead, boy.”

  Jamie fought back the tears that threatened to humiliate him in front of the newcomers. He screwed up his eyes and when he opened them again the air seemed to be tinged with a dark mist. But then Patch growled again and launched himself at the sergeant’s legs and Jamie saw with perfect clarity the vicious kick which sent the senseless dog several yards across the dusty yard.

  “One thing I can’t stand is unfriendly dogs,” the sergeant said flatly. “Ought to train him so he don’t act like that, boy.”

  Jamie’s mind was in turmoil, but he saw a movement among the riders, and realized too late what was happening. “Don’t,” he yelled as the Springfield came clear of its boot and in a single fluid action was aimed and fired, the big .58 caliber bullet almost lifted the injured dog into the air.

  “Oh, Billy,” the sergeant said. “You didn’t ought to have done that to the boy’s dog.”

  The marksman commenced to reload the musket, showing no sign of remorse. “That little old dog most likely had a broken back,” he drawled. “Been cruel to let him live.”

  The snigger came again and the sergeant spoke quickly, as if trying to conceal the man’s amusement. “Like I said, boy. Joe caught one. War was all but over when a damn Louisiana sharpshooter shot poor old Joe right between the eyes. Me and Billy Seward here, why we filled him so full lead they had to get a horse to drag him to his grave. But weren’t no good as far as Joe was concerned. We buried your brother in a fitting manner, boy.”

  There were murmurs of agreement from the others, which to Jamie sounded even less sincere than the words of the sergeant. He felt numb with shock, wanted the men to turn and ride away so that he could go into the house and give vent to his emotions in private.

  “Hey, Frank. Let’s get on with it.” The words had an impatient ring to them, as did further murmurings of agreement with the comment.

  “We didn’t only come here to give you the news, boy,” the sergeant said. “Hardly like to bring up another matter, but you’re almost a man now. Probably are a man in everything except years—living out here alone in the wilderness like you do. It’s money, boy.”

  For the first time since he had seen the riders as a cloud of dust on the horizon, Jamie experienced real fear. It gripped him like an icy hand, freezing the sweat of the day to his body. There was a Starr rifle and a pair of Colts in the house, with any number of knives. But a boy did not go armed to meet his only brother. Jamie’s hands shook as much from frustration as fear.

  “Money,” he said and the word emerged as a hoarse whisper.

  The sergeant nodded, spat again and looked his gaze on the boy’s. “Yeah. Joe died in debt, you see. He didn’t play much poker, but when he did there was no stopping him.”

  Liar, Jamie wanted to scream at them. Filthy rotten liar.

  “Night before he died,” the sergeant continued. “Joe owed me five hundred dollars. Right boys?” He looked behind and was rewarded with a great nodding of heads. “Right. He wanted to play me double or nothing. I didn’t want to, but your brother was certainly a stubborn cuss when he wanted to be.”

  Joe never gambled. Ma and Pa taught us both good.

  “So we played a hand and Joe was unlucky. Three aces don’t beat a flush, not in poker nor any game I know.” His gaze continued to be locked on Jamie’s, while he discolored teeth were shown in another parody of a smile. “I wasn’t worried none about the debt, boy. See Joe told me he’s been sending money home to you regular like. And you know what your brother’s dying words were, boy?”

  Jamie did not mean to shake his head, but he did so, felt compelled by the insistent stare of the sergeant.

  “He said to me, go and see my kid brother out in Iowa and he’ll give you the money, Frank. That’s my name. Frank. Frank Forrest. So if you’d just get me the money, boy. A thousand is what Joe died owing me and I’m sure he won’t rest easy in his grave until the debt is cleared.”

  Jamie felt stunned, rendered speechless by the soft tones of Sergeant Frank Forrest. But he was finally able to drag his eyes from the other’s face, and he saw the inert form of Patch, a swarm of flies already covering the congealed blood of the dead animal. His anger exploded as a red mist before his eyes and the words poured in a torrent as he limped awkwardly over to his dog.

  “There ain’t no money in this place and you’re a lying son-of-a-bitch. Joe never gambled. Every cent he earned went straight into the bank so we could do things with this place. Big things. I don’t even believe Joe’s dead. Get off our land.”

  He knelt down beside Patch, turning his face away from the men so they could not see the tears of sadness and anger on his cheeks as he swiped a hand at the flies.

  “Hey, Frank,” the rider named Seward called. “You ain’t going to let a kid talk to you like that, are you?”

  Another of the men, a stripped corporal with a lighter patch on his sleeve where the chevrons had been, dismounted and looked at Jamie with a steely glint in his eyes as he licked his dry lips.

  “Specially a lame kid with only one good leg, Frank,” he urged. “Kid like that shouldn’t talk back to a man.”

  “Which leg’s the lame one,” Forrest asked flatly.

  “His right one.”

  “Stand up, boy,” Forrest demanded, raising his voice a mere shade. “And then turn to face me.”

  Jamie wiped the back of his sleeve across his face and he rose and turned around. Defiance was a sheen in his eyes and a firmness in his mouth line. The expression did not alter when he saw Forrest draw an Army issue .44 Colt from its holster, to hang it loosely by his side.

  He spat into the dust. “I’ve tried to do this nice and peaceful, boy. A thousand would have been enough. Where do you keep the money?”

  “It’s in the bank. I don’t think Joe’s dead.”

  “Joe’s dead and he didn’t trust banks. Once more. Where is it?”

  Jamie shook his head.

  “Walk over here, boy.”

  Jamie was certain he was going to be gunned down, knew there was not
a chance of making a run for it, and anyway decided it was best to be shot from the front than to take a bullet in the back. As he took a pace forward, towards the big sergeant, there were suddenly six gun muzzles trained upon him as the other men aimed muskets and revolvers, their expressions as menacing as the man who led them. But only one report sounded as Jamie reached down to swing forward his crippled leg and for an instant he stared in mute surprise at the blue smoke curling up from Forrest’s Colt, his brain striving to figure out why he was not dead. But the instant was gone and a scream of agony burst from his lips as the pain made itself felt and he pitched forward, his good leg folding under him like a straw as the smashed kneecap gushed more blood for hungry flies.

  “Which leg did you say, Harry?” Forrest said.

  “I figured it was the only one,” came the reply, and all except Forrest laughed uproariously.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE loss of consciousness that had come mercifully to Jamie when the agony of the smashed kneecap drove home his total incapacity was abruptly ended as a bucket of cold water was sloshed into his face and an open handed slap stung his cheek.

  “Wake up,” Forrest demanded harshly. “You got something to tell me and the boys.”

  Jamie opened his eyes and looked into the ugly face of the sergeant, who was studying him with a grim expression of evil intent. Behind Forrest Jamie could see the house and barn, corral and white picket fence with the wheat field beyond. But it was not the same as before. Every window pane was broken, the barn doors were open and of the eight horses that had been in the corral there was now only the old plough mare and a young foal. But it was the dead body of Patch, his blooded eye staring sightlessly at the same scene, that suddenly gave Jamie total recall of the events since the six soldiers had ridden up to the farmstead.