EDGE: BLOODY SUMMER (Edge series Book 9) Read online

  Table of Contents

  TITLE

  DEDICATION

  CREDITS

  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

  For V.B. a man from out of the Northlands

  CHAPTER ONE

  COLONEL George P. Haven of the 5th United States Cavalry ran a dirt-grimed finger under the leather chin-strap of his forage cap and rubbed off the sweat with his thumb. Then he raised his ample rump from the non-regulation Sioux frame saddle and massaged the chafed area. Neither act did much to relieve the discomfort of the long ride but a man could not ignore his own distress.

  He pulled the cap peak lower on his broad forehead and screwed up the heavily scored skin around his eyes to stare ahead. He saw nothing more than the vista which had been present for the past many hours. Just the buttes, canyons and multi-colored rock formations of clay and sand washed from the Black Hills to the north. Perhaps the structure of the barren landscape had altered over the miles and the shadows had lengthened with the sun’s slide towards the western horizon: but there was nothing more definite than this. No sudden coming upon a landmark which would tell a man he had achieved the target of a hard day’s travel.

  Haven sighed and settled back into the saddle. He had been told about the Badlands of Dakota but had never imagined the vast scale of the country. He checked the time shown by his gold watch and then glanced ahead again, fixing his sights upon the mouth of a canyon which seemed to slant south-west from the route he was taking. His evenly tanned, clean-shaven face became set in a resolute expression as he determined to reach the canyon before the leading arc of the sun touched the ragged top of a butte south of his target.

  He glanced over his shoulder, at the short column of wagons and mounted escort. His voice, rich with the brogue of Boston-Irish, rang out clearly across the creaking of the wagons and scraping of hooves against the sun-baked ground. “Step it up, men. A bottle of claret for every third man if we reach sheltered ground before the sun touches the horizon.”

  He raised and massaged himself once more before clucking encouragement to his chestnut mare and urging the horse into a trot.

  The detachment of nine troopers - six riding as mounted escorts and three driving the covered wagons - matched the officer’s pace, making sure Haven did not see the reluctance with which they followed his order. It was the driver of the last wagon in the column, out of earshot of the Colonel, who voiced the feelings of many of the men.

  “I hope that Indian saddle scrapes every bit of rich hide off his smart ass,” the hawk-faced youngster growled to the mounted escort on his left.

  The soured veteran spat into the rising dust. “Good chance it will,” he answered. “Haven ain’t been sitting in anything but nice soft armchairs since he was passed out of West Point.”

  This was not true. The Colonel had, as a captain, seen active duty in several major campaigns during the War Between the States and was promoted to higher ranking after the bitter Battle for Atlanta. But he was not given to boasting and in the post-war years it was inevitable that the safe and easy commands he was allotted and the comfortable life-style he adopted should give rise to a reputation he made no attempt to dispel.

  He had never seen a shot fired in anger since before Appomattox. Promoted to Colonel, he had commanded a number of forts throughout the Department of the West and it was through no fault of his that Indian trouble always broke out either before he arrived in a new area or after he left. This reflected well upon him in far off Washington where luck was ruled out and he was regarded as an officer who could be trusted to keep any situation under control.

  But to the men serving under him he was known as a desk-bound spit-and-polish officer. Because of .Haven’s innate good fortune which kept trouble constantly at bay the soldiers in his command were virtually denied the justification for their existence. With no active duties to perform, and stationed in remote outposts where the monotony was only ever broken by the arrival of new supplies, the men failed to spot a dangerous enemy. But Haven recognized boredom for what it was and used the only method available to him to combat it.

  Thus, the forts and men under Haven’s command became models of army discipline. The routine of patrols, parades, inspections and fatigue duties were carried out strictly by the book: but were ordered with a far greater frequency than regulations specified. This meant that men who had every reason to expect an easy tour of duty away from the rigors of a front line unit found themselves caught up in a round of daily chores superintended with a harsher eye for detail than they had ever experienced before - even at training camp.

  It was little wonder that George P. Haven was one of the most detested officers in the United States army. And the way in which he surrounded himself with the luxuries of life even at the most remote fort in the territories did little to salve the men’s resentment towards him.

  Nor did he forego his creature comforts on the trail so that, as soon as the small wagon train reached the cool interior of the canyon and he had selected a suitable campsite, two men were immediately detailed to attend to Colonel Haven’s needs.

  While the remainder of the troopers took care of the horses and prepared a cooking fire, these two off-loaded several pieces of furniture from the lead wagon. First there was a rosewood dresser, complete with three mirrors and an inset enamel washbasin. Then an oval topped, carved oak table and matching chair from England. Finally a deep-seated fireside chair and velvet covered footstool which had been imported from France.

  Haven overseed the unloading, urging care and roaring abuse whenever a piece of furniture seemed in danger of being knocked or scratched. It Was all placed carefully into the pattern of a makeshift room setting with the sides of the wagons serving as three walls. The fire was built in the downwind opening.

  “Haven at the Badlands Ritz,” an ageing busted sergeant rasped as he lowered a wickerwork basket to the ground at one side of the fire.

  The Colonel, stripped to his under vest and light blue uniform pants, was bent over the basin in the dresser, washing his face. He was probably aware of the kind of comments passed about him and sensed the hostility of his men. But he had long ago learned to accept his self-appointed role of hard taskmaster and to ignore the hatred it engendered. He even went to the lengths of turning a blind eye or a deaf ear towards the more careless taunts and punished only the most blatant acts of insubordination. For it was his philosophy that a soldier was only a good one if he had something to hate. Usually, it was a conventional enemy. So to keep his men on their mettle, in readiness for an actual enemy, he created a bogus one.

  The train had reached the objective in the time set by Haven, but it was not yet sundown. Before the sun dipped into a distant range of mountains and poured a more mellow light across the Badlands outside the canyon, the camp was fully established. Haven had washed, shaved and donned a fresh uniform before the sandstone slopes of the vast wasteland were turned into myriad shades of pink and purple and brown as the day ended.

  He waited, patient and lonely, at the carefully set table, smoking a cheroot and sipping sherry from a crystal glass as the salt beef stew bubbled over the fire. The troopers who had arranged his comforts, returned to their companions and sank down to the rocky ground with sighs of relief. The younger one stretched out full length and rested the back
of his head into his interlocked hands as he stared up at the clear grayness of the darkening sky.

  “He’s as nutty as a one-eyed loon!” the boy pronounced.

  The corporal who had helped the boy attend to Haven’s evening needs for the three nights out from Fort Abercrombie, nodded his agreement The busted sergeant who was the detachment’s cook on the trip, gave the stew a final stir and glared through the smoke at the officer.

  “He ain’t nutty,” he hissed. “He’s in this man’s army because he knows he can get what he likes out of it.” He swung round to face the others, all lying or squatting on the ground, clothes still dusty and faces grimed with the dried sweat of the trail. “Why are we in it?” he demanded.

  “I dunno,” the hawk-faced driver of the last wagon admitted, and shot a glance over his shoulder, out of the mouth of the canyon towards the suddenly cold darkness of rolling barrenness. “But I figure to stay in a while longer. That ain’t friendly country out there. Sioux land.”

  “Gotta be a better place to take off than in Indian Territory,” a trooper with a scar over his nose pointed out

  “Proves what I said,” the boy put in. “Man’s just got to be crazy to go riding through Sioux country with his ass smoothing the hide of an Indian saddle.”

  The men’s conversation reached Haven as a low murmuring and he made no effort to pick out and isolate any particular phrases. He was content to pour himself a second glass of sherry and finish the cheroot; to gaze at the silver place setting reflecting the flickering firelight; to feel the crispness of the starched white linen tablecloth beneath his scrubbed fingers: to enjoy the fruits of a life earned in part by intelligent work but mostly showered upon him under the terms of his father’s will.

  The meal did not reach the high standards of his preparation for it. But although he expected the best from his men he did not demand miracles. A stew cooked over a campfire was the same whether served on a plate of bone china or in a mess tin. When it had been served and a bottle of French white wine was uncorked for him, he told the boy to open a case of claret and pass out three bottles to be shared among the men.

  The boy thanked the Colonel on behalf of his companions and, although the men would have preferred a single bottle of the Napoleon brandy with which Haven finished his meal, they enjoyed the gift But since it was a small enough return for the many disagreeable, tasks involved in the journey, none of the men regretted that he had spat into the tureen from which the Colonel’s stew was served.

  Haven took his brandy, and another cheroot, relaxing in the winged chair, his booted feet resting comfortably on the stool. Eventually he would fall asleep there, lulled by the quietness of the night or perhaps by the playing of the busted sergeant’s mouth organ. For as long as he stayed in the chair - maybe right through to dawn - it was necessary for the posted sentry to keep the fire blazing so that the Colonel would not wake cold. Only if something roused him and he decided to retire to his bed in one of the wagons was it permitted to let the fire die down.

  Colonel Haven did not go to bed that night and it was the roaring fire, lighting up the mouth of the canyon like a yellow signal beacon, which drew the attention of Tom and Ed Ball and the four men who rode with the brothers.

  The Ball gang was two days hard riding out of Deadwood and had been able to make good time because they were not weighed down by the rich proceeds of an express office robbery that went wrong. For half the first day they had been glad they were travelling light: the gap which their speed opened up between themselves and the sheriff’s posse dissuading the lawman and his deputies from continuing the fruitless chase.

  But even when the gang was out of the Black Hills, Tom Ball kept the pace hot. It was a long way home and after the Deadwood job going wrong he was not anxious to pull anything else without careful planning. He found it much easier to work things out when he was holed up in the safety of the gang’s permanent hide out: and from the mood of his brother and the others it was apparent that he would have to stage something soon if he wanted to stay the top man. ,

  So he pushed them hard and he was so intent upon considering the possibilities of the horses being run out before the end of the trip that he failed to see the firelight of the camp before the others spotted it. The six men reached the top of a smooth crested rise in a group and Tom, in the lead, was several yards down the other side before he realized the others had reined in their horses.

  He halted his own mount and stared back up the slope anxiously. Then he forced his stubbled features to form a snarl and his voice was as hard as the rock beneath him. “We’ll do the moonlight sightseeing tour another time!”

  “Company ahead, Tom,” Ed answered, pointing.

  Tom had to heel his horse back up the slope to see over the brow of the next rise to where the wagon trains’ fire sent suffused light from out of the canyon’s mouth: He halted beside his brother and it was only at such times, when the two men were close together, that the family connection was evident. At thirty-two, Tom was the senior by ten years. His stature of six feet made him the taller by half a foot. Both had pale green eyes beneath low foreheads and a line of mouth which suggested a generosity betrayed by their natures. But these common features were not predominantly apparent when the two were apart and the leanness of Tom’s face was in marked contrast to the bloated cheeks and double chins of his brother. This difference - slimness against obesity - extended to the contrasting builds of the two men and was caused by Ed’s sweet-tooth for candy.

  “Could be Indians,” Tom said after a few moments for thought, blowing on his hands and turning up the collar of his fur-lined jacket. “We’ll give ’em a wide berth.”

  Grant Kelton shook his head and stroked his drooping moustache. “Ain’t nothing for the Sioux in these parts. Ain’t hunted this part of back of beyond for years.”

  Sam Lambert and Pete Bean nodded their agreement Lee Bolan slid his Winchester from its boot and pumped a shell into the breech. Then he put it back and rubbed his hands together.

  “Cold night,” the poker-faced Bolan commented. “Even if the horses kept stood up for the rest of it, don’t reckon we’ll get where we’re going by morning.”

  “Fire sure does look good, Tom,” Ed said, giving his brother a sidelong glance, a half smile turning up the corners of his mouth.

  “We can light our own fire,” Tom shot back, sensing the eyes of the other four men were upon the brothers. None of the quartet was capable, or even inclined, to take over leadership of the gang. They were prepared to follow whoever made the plans that kept the loot coming. But Tom had slipped up on the Deadwood robbery and that left him wide open to be dethroned. They all knew Ed had been itching for a long time to do things his way.

  “Ain’t never so warm as one somebody else lit,” Ed pressed, his tone easy. “I reckon we ought to go take a look.”

  “So why don’t you,” Tom rasped. “But if that’s a Sioux fire and you get too close, you just might find out how warm it really is.”

  “I’m with Ed,” Kelton said as the younger brother heeled his horse down the incline.

  “Me, too,” Lambert put in, moving forward and checking the action of his Colt .45 as he fell into line behind the others.

  “Don’t reckon them’s Injuns, Tom,” Pete Bean said thoughtfully. “And if they ain’t, they might just be able to help cut our losses on the Deadwood foul up.”

  Bolan moved up alongside Bean without a word and both heeled their mounts to catch up with the others.

  Tom felt the anger building up inside him and his right hand dropped to the butt of the holstered Remington .36 five-shot which jutted out from under his jacket But rage was as futile as the revolver against these men unless he was prepared to use it effectively. So he steeled himself against his impulse and heeled his horse savagely to drive the animal down towards the others. The five had bunched up into a group again and they eyed Tom with cool indifference as he forced a way through them.

  “Okay,” he yell
ed. “You want to make a dumb move, I’ll go along. But somebody else is going to do the figuring. It blows up in your faces, it’s nothing to do with me.”

  His angry outburst was greeted with an uncaring silence which was punctured at length by a snort from Bean’s horse.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself, Tom,” Ed said softly, his fleshy face set in a self-satisfied smirk.

  Tom glared at him but held his peace, suddenly aware of the possible consequences of handing over the initiative to his brother. All Ed needed was a lucky break and he would have proved himself. It was something he had wanted to try for a long time and if he once tasted success, there would be no holding him. The streak of viciousness that Tom had always suspected was in Ed would come to the surface and lash out. And if the kid’s luck held it could set the territory alight and keep it burning for as long as the breaks stayed with him.

  When the group crested the next rise they were much closer to the glow but still far enough away to fail to distinguish any figures within range of the firelight.

  “Sioux wouldn’t light a fire big as that,” Kelton said with soft-voiced conviction. “Injuns might be crazy in the head, but they know better than to tell everyone within a hundred miles where they’re resting up for the night.”

  Although he did not voice it, Tom Ball agreed with Kelton. He had known from the very moment he saw the fire that it had not been lit by Sioux. But it had been worth trying to scare the men away. The ruse had failed and now Tom found himself involved in an impulsive non-plan to move in on whoever was camped in the canyon mouth. It was so much against his nature - and against his methods which had always worked perfectly until Deadwood - that Tom had to hold himself back from angling his horse away from the group. It was only the long-ago promise to a dying father that he would take care of his kid brother that kept Tom in his place, to the left and slightly behind Ed.

  So much of his concentration was directed inwardly, Tom failed to catch the first part of what Ed was saying. But the kid captured the attention of the hard-eyed men, who listened like deeply engrossed children to a new teacher yet to prove himself. But Tom heard enough to realize exactly what the plan entailed. He swung his eyes along the faces of the men, desperate to spot some sign that they would not go through with it. But he saw only tacit approval of what Ed wanted: and in some cases the glinting of an eye or the licking of a lip betrayed a mounting excitement held in check.