EDGE: The Big Gold (Edge series Book 15) Read online

  Table of Contents

  COPYRIGHT

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  DON’T MISS THE NEXT EXCITING EPISODE

  The Big Gold

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition March 2013

  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 and illustrations by West World Designs © 2013.

  This is a High Plains Western for Lobo Publications.

  Visit the author at: www.gggandpcs.proboards.com

  For

  J. A. who adds it up

  CHAPTER ONE

  “HEY, mister! You wanna see me throw knives at this pretty little girl?”

  The knife thrower was doing his own spieling and he wasn’t too successful at it. He was almost naked, dressed only in a stained and dirty loincloth knotted at his bulging belly. But he sweated a lot, from the blazing sun of noon and the effort of attracting the crowd to go into his tent and see his entertainment. Sweated so much that the brown dye coating his thin face and stockily-built, flaccid body was streaked pale in a lot of places where the salty moisture had trickled down the flesh. One potential viewer of the show waited before the wooden platform set up in front of the elongated wedge tent. He was a scrawny boy of about fifteen with hungry eyes which stared unblinkingly out of a face made ugly by massed groups of ugly red and yellow pustules. The fingers of one hand constantly explored the poisoned swellings on his face while his other hand moved rhythmically in a pocket of his patched Levis.

  “What’d she do to deserve that?” the tall man astride the big black stallion asked wryly. He eyed the girl with cool appraisal.

  She was about twenty, which was half the age of the man who shared the platform with her, and at six feet she stood a head taller than him. A blue-eyed blonde, her face had a certain shallow prettiness. Her body was a little too full-blown but her legs were good—long and slender. Her clothing was scanty. A short-length, brightly colored tunic of red and blue, cut low to swell her breasts above the neckline; and black net hose. The hose had been repaired with various shades of yarn in several places.

  A sign over the entrance of the tent proclaimed her name as Jo Jo Lamont. Her partner was billed as Eagle-eyed Turk.

  Turk swiped away a runnel of sweat from his brow before it could course into his eye. Anger twisted his thin mouth-line. “Jokes I don’t need,” he growled. “Not in this heat with business this bad.”

  “Things are tough all round,” the tall man answered, licking trail dust from his lips.

  Jo Jo Lamont had thrust out her breasts and spread a bright smile across her face when the man halted his horse. Now that it was obvious he had no intention of becoming a paying customer, her body took on weary sag and she stared malevolently at the horny teenager.

  “You got the five cents admission money, sonny?” she demanded harshly.

  “Ain’t got nothin’,” he boy told her dully, eyes raking her legs and body as his hands maintained their constant busy movements.

  “So butt out!” the girl snarled. “This ain’t no free peep show!”

  She leaned forward as she spoke, her prettiness suffering under the hardening lines of anger. The boy took a step backwards, a broad grin creasing his pustulous features as his avid eyes captured a long-awaited view down Jo Jo’s deep cleavage.

  “Didn’t cost me nothin’, lady!” he taunted in delight, then whirled around and sprinted along the carny’s midway.

  “And how about you, mister?” Jo Jo demanded. “You just hanging around for a free show?”

  Her anger was still high, her cheeks flushed a deeper red than the rouge which decorated them. The dye-run face of her partner showed dejection.

  “Just looking for a job is all, ma’am.” The tall man touched his heels against the flanks of the horse. “But even if you were paying, you’ve got nothing that interests me.”

  “Turk!” Jo Jo shrieked. “You hear what that saddle tramp said to me?”

  “Yeah, I heard,” Turk said tensely. Then he raised his voice. “Roll up, folks! Roll up and see the beautiful Jo Jo Lamont dice with sudden death. See the flashing knife blades and watch them sink into the wood a hairsbreadth from the frail flesh of this lovely young girl.”

  He was talking to the hot air, for with the boy and the rider gone there was nobody to hear him. His tent was set up in a bad position, but that wasn’t the only reason why business was slow. All of the spielers fronting the sideshows on the midway, even those close to town, were shouting themselves hoarse to no avail.

  Riding unhurriedly down the midway, which was in fact the final stretch of trail leading into the eastern end of Seascape, Oregon, the tall man astride the black stallion was barraged with competing voices. Invitations, challenges, urgings and pleadings were hurled against his inattentive ears by spielers fronting a dozen different kinds of show. Vividly lettered signs, many showing pictorial exaggerations, decorated the tents to back up the verbal exhortations.

  Among the attractions was an Oriental fire-eater who doubled with an exotic dancer; an acrobatic clown; a dark-skinned animal trainer with two tigers; a fortune-teller; a fat lady; a bearded lady; and a rubber man.

  The tall man rode impassively past all of these and there was just the merest flicker of interest in his eyes as he approached the tent which had been pitched in the very best position, immediately at the end of Seascape’s main street. This was the show that had cornered all the business. Despite the fact that it had no front man to drum up custom. Instead there was a quartet of bulky-bodied, hard-eyed men: two each side of the tent entrance through which a long line of paying customers were shuffling. Another man—slight of stature, pale of face and dressed like an Eastern dude—sat behind a small table set up in the tent entrance. There was a tin box on the table and into this he dropped the money paid over by each eager customer.

  The sign above the entrance was simply a plain wooden plank crudely painted with black lettering: SEE THE BIGGOLD WORTH $1,000,000. 50 cents men, women and children.

  The tall man halted his horse opposite the tent entrance and took out the makings of a cigarette from the pocket of his sweat-stained, dusty shirt. The four guards flanking the man taking the money worked the actions of the Winchesters canted across the fronts of their bodies. Their eyes raked the rider in a cool, fast appraisal.

  “You wanna see the big gold, join the end of the line,” the eldest of the guards growled. “Otherwise, move outta the way.”

  The tall man concentrated upon rolling the cigarette, sticking down the paper and then hanging it at the corner of his mouth to light it. Only then did he give any sign of having heard what was said to him. With a steady, blank-eyed gaze, he looked at each of the four in turn. The one who had spoken was about forty, with knotted muscles that bulged his shirt and a prominent belly that looked soft. He had a small-eyed, wide-mouthed,
deeply-scored face. The other three were all in their mid-twenties. They were smooth faced under their stubble. Their tall, wide builds matched that of the eldest man, without the soft gut.

  “You own the trail, feller?” the rider asked.

  The dude behind the table looked up. The line of customers stopped shuffling forward. Everyone eyed the rider. Expressions varied from arrogance on the faces of the guards, through mild curiosity and irritation among the customers, to a hint of nervousness on the countenance of the dude.

  They saw a man in his thirties, but it was difficult to tell how many years before he reached forty. A man who was at least three inches taller than six feet and maybe weighed two hundred pounds. A lot of weight, but evenly distributed over a lean frame so that, even while sitting easily in the saddle, there was a suggestion he could move fast and with power. His face was composed of features which were a mixture of the Aryan and the Latin: light blue eyes, a hawkish nose, high cheekbones, a narrow mouth and a firm jaw. Spare features, with burnished, weathered skin crisscrossed by the lines of suffering and framed by thick, jet black hair that fell to brush his shoulders. A half-breed, certainly, everybody decided. Whether handsome or ugly, it depended—upon how the beholder regarded the quality of harshness which had played a part in molding the man’s appearance. Did it arouse sympathy because here was a man who had obviously undergone great hardship: or did it stir a degree of revulsion because in him was the capability to make others suffer as much as he had?

  It took a second look at the man to decipher these alternative conclusions: and to meet his piercing, ice-cold gaze was to realize the truth. If evil and cruelty were ugly, then this man could become a walking nightmare.

  “Me and my partners are paid to do a job,” the eldest of the guards said flatly.

  “A warning,” the rider replied. “Don’t point those guns at me—unless you intend to use them.”

  “Grainger!” the dude rasped. “We don’t want trouble of our making.”

  Abruptly, there was renewed shuffling in the line. But in the opposite direction, as those close to the tent entrance backed away. The cries of the spielers had died away as soon as the rider had passed by and halted before the crowd-pulling sideshow.

  “Me and the boys are doin’ our job, Mr. Case,” Grainger answered. “I don’t like the way he’s lookin’ the tent over.”

  “Looking’s a habit with him! He done it to me back down the midway! Like I was some kind of prize steer or something!”

  Turk and Jo Jo Lamont had called it a day. They had hauled the platform inside the tent, collected their knives, fastened the flap and were ambling wearily towards town. The girl’s voice was strident with ill-tempered frustration. Her eyes were blazing as they met the steady gaze of the rider when he turned in the saddle.

  “Saw enough to know you weren’t a steer, ma’am,” he said quietly, and his thin lips curled back to show his even teeth in a cold grin. “Close, but I’d say the resemblance was more to the udder sex.”

  “Turk!” Jo Jo screamed, “This drifter just called me a cow!”

  The man was fast and he was accurate. Even when gripped by a sudden rage. He had not needed his partner’s explanation. The dozen throwing knives were slotted into sheaths along a leather bandolier strung from his shoulder to waist. He had drawn one before Jo Jo screamed his name. And it was spinning through the hot air long before she translated the insult. But the tall man put his latent speed into lightning action. He crouched forward, against the neck of the stallion. The knife, aimed for a hit between the shoulder blades, sliced into the underside of his hat brim. It had enough power behind it to lift the hat from his head and scale it down into the dust of the midway.

  The watchers held their collective breath. Except for Grainger and his three fellow guards. Used to sudden violence, they stood relaxed and grinning: waiting for the next move. But there was no fast follow-up to Turk’s attack, or a whiplash response from the rider.

  “Christ, I could have killed him!” Turk said, aghast as he looked from his splayed throwing hand to where the low-crowned black hat lay with the knife blade piercing the brim. “My stinkin’ temper!”

  The rider’s attitude became almost lazily slow again as he swung down from the saddle. Some sweat beads oozed up from the dirt-grimed pores of his forehead, but that was the only change the close call with death had brought about in his appearance.

  “Mister, am I glad you ducked!” Turk called, his voice shaking with emotion. Then he whirled towards Jo Jo. “One day I’m gonna hang on account of you!” he snarled.

  “Kind of glad I ducked myself,” the tall half-breed answered, flicking his cigarette out ahead of him and treading out its fire as he stooped to pick up the hat. His voice was as unassuming as his gait.

  “Move back up again, folks!” Grainger yelled, his harsh tones shattering the final layer of lifting tension. “See the big gold worth a million bucks. It’s gotta be better than watchin’ a tough-talkin’ saddle tramp get cut down to size.”

  The slightly built, dude-dressed Case resumed his chore of collecting the admission money. But without the enthusiasm he had shown previously. A great deal of his attention was still on the tall half-breed. Not nervously, though. He was intrigued. The guards expressed taunting amusement.

  The half-breed drew the knife from the brim and put the hat on his head without brushing off the dust. He ambled over to where the contrite-looking Turk stood beside the shocked Jo Jo. Now, the rouge stood out in garish contrast against her pallor.

  “Gee, mister,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean for him to try to kill you.” She tried a smile and it looked a little sick. “Still no harm done, was there? No hard feelings?”

  “Not against you,” the tall man replied quietly. “But if you’re that way inclined, the kid may still be feeling cocky.”

  Her jolted mind was still busy with the memory of the lightning knife attack. It took time for her to read the double-meaning into the words. And then there was no time to scream at her partner. The half-breed smiled with his mouth at Turk and extended his right arm for a handshake. Turk was still staring at his own right hand, which had launched the knife. He looked up and saw the pleasant expression formed by the half-breed’s mouth. It was impossible to see anything except a glittering blueness between the narrowed lids of the eyes.

  The two men clasped hands.

  “Glad you see it—”

  The rest of the words were caught in Turk’s throat. The grip of the long-fingered, brown-skinned hand of the half-breed was too hard. He applied strength far beyond that required for the mere firmness of friendship.

  “Turk, don’t trust!—” Jo Jo managed to shriek.

  The warning came too late for her partner. But it did swing every eye on the midway towards the two men—just as the half-breed powered into a crouch and lunged his left arm up from his side. The speed he had showed in ducking under the lethal aim of the spinning knife now came into play again. In going down for the crouch, he also leaned backwards and jerked Turk towards him. The smaller man’s natural instinct was to try to regain his balance as a cry of alarm ripped from his sweat-run lips. The action wrenched his arm ramrod stiff.

  The knife was fisted in the half-breed’s left hand. Sunlight glinted on the four inches of polished steel probing up from the encirclement of thumb and index finger. But only for an instant, as it swung in a blur of speed. The point dug into the scrawny flesh of Turk’s armpit, on the outside of the humerus bone. It kept on going, slashing through muscle and tissue and veins, until it burst clear of the skin on the other side. Blood sprayed out ahead of the steel.

  Turk screamed, the high-pitched sound swamping the gasps of horror which rippled through the crowd of watchers. And he continued to scream, coming close to soprano before his voice cracked. By then the knife had finished its slicing work. As soon as the point showed at the exit wound, the half-breed had drawn the knife towards him, along the arm. Spraying blood trailed it
s awesome course now: arcing into the dust as the finely honed metal slashed through the flesh from shoulder to elbow. There, it scraped against a knot of bone and glanced off course. It burst through a final layer of tissue and cut clear of the skin.

  Pain, or perhaps the ghastly sight of his own mutilation, had already dropped the merciful blackness of unconsciousness over Turk’s mind and he was starting to corkscrew to the ground. A long flap of blood-dripping flesh, broad at the shoulder and tapering to a point at the elbow, swung away from the parent arm. The half-breed released the limp hand of the terribly injured Turk and the man crumpled into a heap. The gruesome flap of skin and flesh exhausted its store of blood. But the long, meaty wound exposed by the slash continued to pump with sticky crimson. The thirsty ground sucked at it avidly. Flies swarmed in for a ravenous feast.

  With the abrupt curtailment of the scream, a vast silence had clamped down over the carny. The droning of the hungry flies was eerily loud against the stillness. Massed shock seemed to have a physical presence, vibrating in the dry heat of the Oregon afternoon. Even Grainger and his three partners were shaken by the callous brutality of the lightning attack.

  The half-breed was the first to move. The flick of his wrist was smooth and easy. But it sent the knife spinning with enough power to sink the blade through the flap of flesh and pin it to the ground. Then he did a slow pivot and ambled over to where the stallion stood, nostrils twitching at the scent of blood. Every man, woman and child on the midway followed his progress, with a single exception, their eyes expressed revulsion. Case, the dude, had recovered from his shock and watched the half-breed with excited interest as the tall man remounted his horse.

  Jo Jo Lamont emitted a shuddering sob, then rushed to where Turk lay and fell to her knees beside him. But she couldn’t look at the awesome wound. Still on her knees, she swung her body around to stare malevolently up at the mounted man.

  “You stinking sonofabitch!” she shrieked at him. “Turk was my meal ticket. How’s he gonna throw knives now?”