EDGE: Ten Tombstones to Texas (Edge series Book 18)

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Coming Soon!

  Ten Tombstones to Texas

  By George G. Gilman

  First Published by Kindle 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by George G. Gilman

  First Kindle Edition June 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.

  Cover Illustration by Cody Wells.

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

  For F. B.

  who co-operated in selling a book or two!

  Chapter One

  A HALF-MOON hung low and bright in the cloudless sky to spread deep shadows among the ridges and gorges of the Sierra Nevada range. But Muriel and Mathilda Tree had long ago learned it was foolish to be afraid of the dark. Thus, it was something less tenuous than rock shade and pools of darkness among the rugged terrain of the high country that caused the two women to remain alert to danger as they made camp.

  The site they had chosen was a good one: on a broad shelf of level ground at the base of a towering cliff. The high rock wall protected them to the south. Looking north, they could see the entire length of a wide valley through which they had approached this place. There was the cover of broken ground down there and one man might have been able to get close if he was careful. But not a whole bunch of men: there were just too many areas of moon-bright open ground between the dark dips and the scattered outcrops of rock. To the east and the west there was enough cover to conceal a small army until it was within two hundred feet of the campsite. But, in addition to learning how to pick the best places to rest up each night, the women had also adjusted to the fact that they could never expect perfection. In the wide and wild country of the western United States, travelers had to take what the terrain offered and adapt to it. The land was a niggardly giver and those who accepted its terms had to compromise.

  This and much else had not been easily learned, for the school was that of experience, gained as the women made the grueling journey south from the now distant border of the United States with the Dominion of Canada,

  ‘You agree this is a good place to stop for the night, Aunt Matty?’ the younger woman asked after she had made a thorough survey from the seat of the covered wagon,

  ‘I think it’s a fine place, my dear,’ Mathilda Tree answered, stifling a yawn and raising herself a little off the seat to massage her rump. ‘And I think it’s certainly time that we called a halt.’

  ‘If you ate more, like I’m always telling you, this rig wouldn’t feel so hard to you, Aunt Matty,’ Muriel said with a smile as she coiled the reins around the brake lever and expertly swung down to the ground.

  The older woman was slower in her movements, grimacing as stiff joints were forced into painful action. ‘And like I’m always telling you, when a girl has got a homely face and a fine body, she’d be a fool not to take care of her figure.’

  Muriel, with her back to her aunt, smiled again as she made a reappraisal of the approaches to the campsite. At sixty-two, Aunt Matty was by no stretch of the imagination a girl. But, by rigorous attention to what she ate, she did have a figure which many girls would envy. And she carried it better than most girls less than half her age. Mathilda Tree was a slender five feet nine inches tall and she always stood and moved at her full height, often having to hide the pain she experienced from the rheumatics that were apt to bother her. Unfortunately, her features were no match for the well-preserved lines of her body. In a framework of wiry dyed blonde hair, her face was little short of ugly. Her forehead was too low, her brown eyes were too small and too far apart; her nose was too big and her mouth was too wide, the lips too thin. In addition, her skin was lined and toughened by the passage of hard-lived years and she had a cluster of hair-sprouting moles on the side of her jaw. Once during her younger days before her complexion deteriorated, she had tried to improve her facial looks with paint and powder. But no longer. The men who she constantly sought to attract had to accept her in the way nature had fashioned her. Five of them had done so to the ultimate extent of marrying her.

  ‘My turn for the feeding, Mu?’ Aunt Matty called meekly from the other side of the wagon.

  Muriel completed her second, searching surveillance of the surrounding terrain and knew she was as satisfied as she was ever going to be that they were alone in this piece of country.

  ‘You know very well it is,’ she replied with a sigh. ‘And you ought to know by now that he won’t hurt you.’

  ‘That’s something I’m never going to be sure about, my dear,’ Aunt Matty muttered sourly. ‘He’s got the evil eye and he hates me, I know.’

  The object of the woman’s apprehension was a pure white bull that was hitched to the tailgate of the wagon. He was an enormous beast weighing more than three and a half thousand pounds with small, pricked ears and curved horns that were only slightly larger. He stood motionless and docile behind the parked wagon and only his dark, flat, unblinking eyes moved as the woman appeared.

  ‘Steady, feller,’ Aunt Matty soothed as she gingerly reached out to release the peg and lower the tailgate. ‘Nice bull. Time for grub. Good old Aunt Matty’s going to feed you.’

  The bull flared his nostrils and swished his tail. He maintained his unblinking stare. There was a set of steps hung at the side of the wagon and the woman used these to climb up into the back. Three-quarters of the freight space was thickly packed with animal fodder and it was necessary to unfasten the wire of a new bale. While she did this, Aunt Matty did not take her fearful eyes off the placid bull. For his part, the animal did not move. She tore at the fodder with her long-nailed fingers and scattered almost half the bale on the hard-packed dirt behind the wagon. Then, with an easy strength, she climbed down the steps carrying the remains of the bale. She backed away from the bull, who lowered his massive head and began to feed.

  ‘You’re an evil-minded hunk of beefsteak on legs, that’s what you are!’ the woman taunted softly from a safe distance.

  ‘Still in one piece, Aunt Matty?’ Muriel called lightly.

  ‘He’s saving himself,’ the older woman answered as she returned to the front of the wagon. She bent her head to wipe her brow free of the sweat of fear on her coat sleeve. ‘For the time when I’m not looking at him and he can surprise me. He hates me, I tell you.’

  She had no fear of horses and her actions as she unhitched the four stallions comprising the team were deft and confident. But she continued to mutter with soft venom about the bull’s evil eye and crafty mind. Muriel freshened her smile, then began to hum melodiously to herself as she pitched the tent and set and lit a fire.

  Muriel Tree was thirty years old and in no way at all like Aunt Matty in appearance. She had a f
ine figure, but her breasts and hips were fuller and her waist was thicker. Also she was a head shorter. Although not beautiful, her face had a certain mature prettiness - with big green eyes, a finely chiseled nose between high cheekbones, a full mouth and a dimpled chin. It was a round face free from blemishes with an evenly tanned complexion that provided a vivid contrast with her lightly spun, short cut, naturally blonde hair. The quiet smile sat well upon such features as she went about her chores, attending to the sleeping quarters and preparing a meal while Aunt Matty saw to it that the animals were provided with food and water.

  They did these routine duties on a rota basis, exchanging chores each night. How many nights had it been now, Muriel wondered idly as she pared vegetables and dropped them into the pot with the diced beef. She couldn’t remember. There had been so many since she had driven the wagon out of the yard and taken Aunt Matty’s advice.

  ‘Don’t look back, my dear. It won’t help the way you feel. Afterwards, if you think it’s wise, you can come back.’

  ‘Your heart’s on your sleeve again, Muriel!’ Aunt Matty said sharply, speaking in reality instead of imagination.

  Muriel looked up, startled. She discovered the stew was only half prepared and she hurried to finish it, no longer smiling or humming. Aunt Matty lowered herself sedately to the ground beside the fire and extended her splayed hands towards the flames. Not until she felt the warmth, did she realize how cold the night air had become.

  ‘Do I have to give you my time heals all things lecture again?’ she asked after a long pause in which the crackle of the fire was the only sound.

  No, Aunt Matty,’ Muriel replied solemnly. ‘I know it off by heart now. I just hope everything you’ve told me about Barnaby’s memory turns out to be true.’

  The older woman sighed and pursed her lips. ‘Texas is still a long way off, my dear. I told you that maybe it’d take the whole trip to work.’

  Muriel dropped the final piece of carrot into the stew and hung the pot on the tripod. Then she managed a wan smile. ‘At least I didn’t cry this time, did I?’

  Aunt Matty’s grin was a lot broader. ‘So it’s starting to work already. I been called an old witch more times than I care to recall. Maybe that’s what I am. I reckon I’ve got the powers.’

  The younger woman’s smile developed into a husky laugh. ‘But you can’t cast a spell on the bull.’

  Aunt Matty stroked the hairs growing from the group of moles and formed her unattractive features into the lines of a mock frown. ‘Never thought about that, Mu. It’s one hell of an idea.’

  They both laughed then and the sounds of their happiness echoed off the wall of rock towering above them. Soon, the water in the pot began to give off steam and the vapor carried an appetizing aroma of the cooking meat and vegetables. There was some mending to do and Aunt Matty attended to this, putting on a pair of wire-framed spectacles before she took out her workbox from behind the seat of the wagon. Then Muriel went to the wagon and climbed aboard to reach inside. She brought out two ivory-gripped Colt .44 revolvers and a brass-framed Winchester rifle. The older woman looked severely over the tops of her spectacles at the weapons, but said nothing. She hated firearms, but acknowledged they were necessary out here in the wilderness. Even if Vic Evans and his men did not show up - and with each day that passed this seemed less likely - there were other dangers which could strike at women trekking an unescorted trail.

  Muriel placed one of the Colts on the ground close to Aunt Matty. She pushed the other revolver into the belt of her long coat. The Winchester she held by its frame as she moved away from the fire, going to the lip of the shelf to peer northwards along the valley. Aunt Matty concentrated on her needlework and did not look up until Muriel returned - by way of the tent from which she took plates and cutlery.

  ‘You know, I really think Evans was all talk.’

  The older woman nodded her satisfaction. ‘Which goes to show I was right again, doesn’t it, my dear?’

  ‘You’re always right,’ was the happy reply. ‘And I love you very much indeed.’

  ‘I been wrong sometimes,’ Aunt Matty admitted. ‘But never about men.’

  A comfortable silence settled between the two women. The older one continued with the darning while the younger peered into the fire - pensive, but not sad. Then, when the stew was cooked, they ate. Coffee was made and, while they drank it, they studied a torn and creased map, endeavoring to pinpoint their position. They were content and relaxed.

  Then a pebble rattled amid the rocks to the west.

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Muriel cried, and snatched up the Winchester. She toppled out of a squat on to her side and then rolled. Prone, she aimed the rifle towards the rocks. Fear blurred her vision.

  ‘Just a jackrabbit, maybe!’ Aunt Matty rasped. But she picked up the Colt.

  ‘Who’s there?’ Muriel called, her voice reedy. She realized suddenly that there was no bullet in the breech of the Winchester, She worked the action. The heavy rifle wavered in its aim.

  The response to her demand was the whinny of a horse. Not from any of the stallions though, and the sound brought Aunt Matty’s fear out from concealment.

  ‘Answer her or we start shooting!’ she yelled. She remained seated, resting the barrel of the revolver in the small vee of her pressed-together knees, gripping the butt with both hands.

  ‘Obliged if you wouldn’t do that,’ a man replied, his voice an evenly pitched drawl.

  Both women raked their guns to the left. But there was just a wall of darkness from where the voice came - solid rock indistinguishable from intangible shadow. No man or horse showed.

  ‘You with Evans?’ Muriel demanded, and her fear was less apparent in her voice.

  ‘I’m with me, lady.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘First off I want you to stop pointing those guns at me. I don’t like it.’

  ‘Something you can do about that,’ Aunt Matty offered sourly. ‘Get the hell out of here.’

  ‘That’s the second thing I want,’ the man in the rocks answered. ‘But you’re in my way.’

  The two women looked briefly at each other, then snapped their attention back towards the rocks.

  ‘You can pass, mister!’ Aunt Matty allowed.

  ‘Aim to.’

  ‘So show yourself, dammit!’

  ‘Point the guns someplace else.’ There was a note of weary impatience in the voice now. ‘Normally only give folks the one warning.’

  ‘And then what do you do?’ Aunt Matty taunted with a sneer.

  The women saw the muzzle flash an instant before they heard the crack of the rifle shot. He had moved silently from where he had stood when he last spoke. But neither Muriel nor Mathilda Tree was able to adjust the aim of her gun. For the shot had shocked them into rigid immobility. They stared in wide-eyed horror at the coffee mug, which the bullet had lifted from the ground and hurled into the centre of the fire. The stallions snorted fearfully. The big bull went backwards, dragging the wagon several yards on locked wheels.

  It was this that vented a scream from Muriel. She sprang erect, leaving the Winchester on the ground, and sprinted towards the spooked bull.

  ‘Muriel!’ the older woman cried, forcing herself upright and grimacing at the pain in her back and legs.

  But Muriel reached the rear of the wagon without more shots being fired. She began to talk softly and placatingly to the bull, which soon became calmed, pawing at the ground for a few moments.

  ‘You crazy fool!’ Aunt Matty snarled, glaring at the darkness shrouded rocks. ‘Look what you nearly did!’

  ‘Yes, you could have injured him!’ Muriel snapped over her shoulder as she stroked the thick neck of the bull.

  ‘Could have done a lot of things,’ the man replied, and his voice came from the right of where the muzzle flash had stabbed the darkness. There were the metallic sounds of a repeating rifle as the action was pumped. ‘Put a hole in a mug is all. Tell the old biddy to point the gun some
place else.’

  ‘Old biddy!’ Aunt Matty shrieked, swinging the Colt towards the new position of the man.

  ‘Mathilda!’ Muriel snapped, whirling away from the now placid bull. She lunged into a run, curving around the side of the wagon to skid to a halt - directly in the firing line of the Colt, and facing the woman who held it. Aunt Matty was trembling from head to foot with rage. ‘Lower the gun, please!’ she requested firmly.

  There were tears poised to spill from the older woman’s dark eyes, showing how deeply the insult had struck. Muriel expressed tacit sympathy and then gave a curt nod. Aunt Matty fought against her emotions and allowed her arm to drop limply to her side. Muriel stepped away so that the man in the rocks could see that the Colt was no longer aimed at him. A clucking sound came from the darkness, then the clop of hooves.

  ‘Mister, you ain’t no gentleman to address a lady so!’ Aunt Matty snarled, channeling all her rage into her voice.

  The visitor to the night camp stepped out from the rocks into the open moonlight. At first, the women saw just his silhouette as he led his horse closer. A tall man rising to at least three inches above six feet. A rangy, loose-limbed frame that he carried with a natural grace. Carrying a rifle that was canted across his left shoulder, a hand wrapped around the frame so that he could snap the gun down to level it at the first hint of trouble. Then he moved into the circle of light thrown by the fire and the two half frightened - half-angry women saw him more clearly.

  The tall frame, which weighed probably two hundred pounds and was certainly possessed of a great deal of easy strength, was clothed in black; riding boots, Levis, shirt and neckerchief. But a lot of grey trail dust clung to the ill-used garb to make his wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat almost a match. The hat was tilted slightly forward on top of a head of long, thick black hair that reached down to brush his shoulders with its ends. The face beneath the hat was as leanly suggestive of power as the body. A face with light, piercing blue eyes that surveyed the world from under hooded lids; above a hawkish nose flanked by high cheekbones: a narrow mouth fashioned to a cruel line, and a firm jaw. His skin was dark, from long exposure to weather or by heritage. Probably the latter or a combination of the two, the women decided. For the form of his features suggested he had a recent ancestry that was a mixture of the Latin and the Aryan. Putting an accurate age to him was difficult. He wore a full day’s growth of bristle, that grew thickest along the top and at the corners of his mouth to indicate he wore a moustache. And his skin was deeply scored. But the lines could have been inscribed by hardship rather than mere years. He was somewhere in his thirties, the women decided. For the way he moved was younger than his countenance suggested.